Ever heard of CSS Hunley? A hand-cranked submarine from the U.S. Civil War, it accomplished the first successful submarine attack in history.
I’ve written a fictional story set aboard that sub. One of my few ghost stories, Rebel Spirit follows the experiences of a man nicknamed Scowler, a member of the sub’s first crew.
In 1864, Northern warships blockaded Charleston harbor, permitting no waterborne trade. In desperation, the South tried an unprecedented attack from underwater, by submarine. Earlier inventors had attempted submarine warfare without success. Many in Charleston hoped the Hunley, named for its inventor, Horace Lawson Hunley, would prevail.
Think of Rebel Spirit as historical horror. Well, mild horror. For the most part, I’ve adhered to historical accounts while telling Scowler’s story. My tale makes no reference to the politics of the war and does not glorify the South’s cause. As a former submariner with an interest in history, I’m awed by the bravery of the men who served aboard such a dangerous, cramped, man-powered craft.
In real life, researchers have salvaged the Hunley and it resides in a museum in Charleston. I hope to visit that museum one day.
I invite you to read Rebel Spirit. For $3.99, you can buy it at Amazon. It’s a ghostly story of the sea brought to you by—
Poseidon’s Scribe
P.S. I’m planning to speak at Penguicon, a scifi conference in Southfield, Michigan, on Saturday, April 22. I’ll provide more details in the next blogpost by—
I plead guilty…to violating many laws of science in my writing. But I’m not alone. I’m in good company with many other science fiction writers. Call us the Laser Pistol Gang.
Authors of so-called ‘hard SF’ should adhere to known scientific principles and knowledge, but aren’t above bending or breaking the laws of physics for the sake of a good story.
Mary Shelley really stretched biological science in Frankenstein when her fictional scientist animated a human from dead tissue. Jules Verne knew human astronauts wouldn’t survive the acceleration of a manned projectile launched from a canon in From the Earth to the Moon. H.G. Wells disobeyed temporal causality in The Time Machine. When he wrote Fantastic Voyage, Isaac Asimov understood the impossibility of miniaturizing people. From his medical training, Michael Crichton must have realized not enough intact DNA fragments remain to create the living dinosaurs of Jurassic Park.
These represent a small sampling from SF literature. Don’t get me started on SF movies, which seem to break more laws of science than they obey.
On what charges could the science police arrest me? Consider my rap sheet:
“The Steam Elephant” (from Steampunk Tales, Issue #5 and The Gallery of Curiosities #3). The state of steam and mechanical technology in the 19th Century did not allow for a walking, steam-powered, quadrupedal vehicle.
“Within Victorian Mists.” Everything needed to invent lasers existed in the 1800s except the conceptual framework, so if it had happened, it would have required dumb luck.
“Bringing the Future to You” (from Cheer Up, Universe!). That story contains too many science violations to list, but I meant the tale to be funny.
“Leonardo’s Lion.” Some accounts state Leonardo da Vinci built a walking, clockwork lion. Even if true, it’s doubtful the creation would have supported a child’s weight or traveled over rough terrain, as it does in my story.
“The Six Hundred Dollar Man.” Yes, steam engines existed in the late 19th Century, but no one then could have made one small enough to fit on a man’s back and power the man’s replacement limbs.
“A Tale More True.” Try as you might, you can’t build a metal spring strong enough to launch yourself into space as my protagonist does.
“The Cometeers.” In this story, I violate the same laws Verne did in launching humans to space using a canon. In fact, I used his same canon.
“Time’s Deformèd Hand.” Nobody in 1600 AD built walking, talking automatons powered by springs. However, I did mention the wood came from magical trees.
“A Clouded Affair” (from Avast, Ye Airships!). You couldn’t build a steam-powered ornithopter in the 1800s, and you’d find it difficult even today.
“Ripper’s Ring” Human invisibility remains impossible today, let alone in 1888. Even if it were possible, it would render the subject blind.
“The Cats of Nerio-3” (from In a Cat’s Eye). Evolution allows organisms to adapt to new environments, but neither cats nor rats would likely evolve in such a rapid and drastic manner as my story suggests.
“Instability” (from Dark Luminous Wings). According to legend, a Benedictine monk constructed a set of wings and tested them sometime around 1000 AD. The wings work no better in my story than they would have in reality.
“The Unparalleled Attempt to Rescue One Hans Pfaall” (from Quoth the Raven). Just because Edgar Allan Poe wrote about a balloon trip to the moon didn’t mean I had to repeat his error.
With so much law-breaking going on, how can we hope for an orderly reading society? Must we be forever besieged by the criminal authors of the Laser Pistol Gang?
That answer, I’m happy to report, is yes. Authors write to entertain readers. That’s a writer’s ‘prime directive,’ to steal a phrase. If the writer must bend or break a rule of science to tell a good story, the writer is going to do it.
One key phrase there is ‘good story.’ The better the story, the easier it is for a reader to forgive a scientific flaw. Of course, if you can tell a good story while keeping the science accurate, by all means, do that.
If you aim to join the Laser Pistol Gang, be aware we have a tough initiation ritual. You have to write a story where a law of science gets broken. Not a very exclusive gang, I admit. But it’s a proud, longstanding group. Take it from one of its most notorious members, known by his gang name—
Blatt analyzed books by many bestselling authors of the 19th and 20th Centuries, looking for patterns of word usage. He compared the practices used by these authors to the practices recommended in writing classes (and in blogs about writing, like mine). Among his findings are the following:
Advice: Keep your opening sentences short.
Finding: True. The bestselling books start with short sentences more often than not.
Advice: Don’t open with the weather.
Finding: False. Many bestselling books do.
Advice: Shun adverbs.
Finding: True. The bestselling books tend to include fewer adverbs.
He also set out to discover whether American authors write in a ‘louder’ manner than British authors. That is, do American author cause their characters to yell and scream more than British authors cause their characters to do? That answer is yes.
I found one aspect of Blatt’s research of particular interest. He analyzed what words some authors used more than others. For Jane Austen, the words civility, fancying, and imprudence showed up a lot. John Updike used rimmed, prick, and f**ked more than most. As you can guess from the title of Blatt’s book, Vladimir Nabokov favored the word mauve. Nabokov associated numbers, letters, and sounds with colors, a symptom of synesthesia. Blatt found Ray Bradbury used spice and smell words more than most.
These findings intrigued me. If someone performed a numerical analysis of my own published works, what would that reveal? What words do I use more frequently than other writers do? If you’re a writer, are you curious about that aspect of your own work?
If someone crunched the numbers for your writing and told you your three distinguishing words, what would these words say about you? Nabokov’s mauve pointed to his synesthesia. Bradbury’s spices brought him back to the smells of his grandmother’s pantry. If you knew your distinguishing words, would they surprise you? Delight you? Disgust you?
After knowing them, would you own them and seek to use them more in future stories, or disavow them and expunge them from your vocabulary?
One thing’s certain. Considering just my blogposts alone, my two most distinguishing words must be—
When authors write themselves in as characters in their fiction, we call it ‘self-insertion.’ Why and when might you try this literary technique?
The list of authors who’ve done this includes names you’ve heard of— Dante Alighieri, Rudyard Kipling, Somerset Maugham, Kurt Vonnegut, Stan Lee, Clive Cussler, Stephen King, and Daniel Handler (writing as Lemony Snicket). Pretty good company.
The technique varies. In Dante’s Divine Comedy, Dante made himself the main character. He used self-insertion to give the book more credibility, to imitate a nonfictional account of an actual journey.
For Stan Lee, Clive Cussler, and others, self-insertion serves a comedic purpose. The author/character assumes a minor role in the narrative, a cameo. The character may offer a humorous comment about the plot, setting, or protagonist. In Cussler’s books, the character named Cussler often gives the protagonist some useful information, serving as a self-named Deus ex Machina.
One of the strangest uses of self-insertion appears in an experimental novel by the French author Charles de Fieux De Mouhy (1701-1784) in his novel Lamékis, or The Extraordinary Travels of an Egyptian in the Interior Land; with the Discovery of the Isle of Sylphides. I haven’t read it, but others say the novelist enters the book as a character about halfway through. The book’s other characters recognize him as the author of the book they’re in, and berate him about the falsehoods he’s written. When characters realize they’re in a book, that’s called ‘breaking the fourth wall.’
The technique of self-insertion differs from the related term, ‘author surrogate.’ That’s when a character (usually not sharing the author’s name) speaks for, or otherwise resembles, the author. In the broad sense of this term, you might see this in nearly every work of fiction. At some point, a character offers an observation sounding more like the author than the character. A beginning writer may use the technique without intending to, because it’s difficult to get out of one’s own head and think like someone else.
Back to self-insertion. However quirky the technique may seem to readers, it comes with obvious advantages for the writer. You don’t have to invent this character’s name, or draw up a personality profile, or ponder what the character might say or do at any point. You know all those things already.
The danger lies in representing a self-inserted character as better than the writer really is. Such a character may always look right, say the right thing, and act the right way. In short—flawless, perfect. Readers find such characters unrealistic, whether self-inserted or not.
Self-insertion works best for stories set in a contemporary time period. That is, while the author is alive. Inserting yourself into historical fiction or future fiction would seem weird, but might work as humor, or as part of a philosophical reality-questioning work like De Mouhy’s Lamékis.
The technique might strike you as bordering on egotism, or as crossing way over that border. That’s why many authors who use it go for the comedy aspect. (Yes, I’m vain, but I’m poking fun at myself.) I see it more as wish fulfillment—an author loving the story and yearning to be in it.
“Time to wrap this up, don’t you think?”
Um, who are you?
“Don’t you recognize me? I’m Steve Southard, the main character of this blogpost.”
This isn’t fiction. You don’t belong here. I’m the narrator, and writer, and I say what belongs in this post. You don’t.
“Too bad. I’m here, and it’s time we signed off with my other name—
Go ahead—make fun of artificial intelligence (AI) now. While you can.
In fiction writing, AI hasn’t yet reached high school level. (Note: I’m not disparaging young writers. It’s possible for a writer in junior high to produce wonderful, marketable prose. But you don’t see it often.)
For the time being, AI-written fiction tends toward the repetitive, bland, and unimaginative end. No matter what prompts you feed into ChatGPT, for example, it’s still possible to tell human-written stories from AI-written ones.
Fair enough. But you can use AI, in its current state, to help you without getting AI to write your stories. You can become a centaur.
In Greek mythology, centaurs combined human and horse. The horse under-body did the galloping. The human upper part did the serious thinking and arrow-shooting.
The centaur as a metaphor for human-AI collaboration originated, I believe, in the chess world but the Defense Department soon adopted it. The comparison might work for writing, too.
The centaur approach combines the human strengths of creativity and imagination with the AI advantage of speed. It’s akin to assigning homework to a thousand junior high school students and seeing their best answers a minute later.
Here are a few ways you could use AI, at its current state of development, to assist you without having it write your stories:
Stuck for an idea about what to write? Ask the AI for story concepts.
Can’t think of an appropriate character name, or book title? Describe what you know and ask the AI for a list.
You’ve written Chapter 1, but don’t know what should happen next? Feed the AI that chapter and ask it for plot ideas for Chapter 2.
Want a picture of a character, setting, or book cover to inspire you as you write? Image-producing AIs can create them for you.
You wrote your way into a plot hole and can’t get your character out? Give the AI the problem and ask it for solutions.
No matter which of these or other tasks you assign the AI, you don’t have to take its advice. Maybe all of its answers will fall short of what you’re looking for. As with human brainstorming, though, bad answers often inspire good ones.
For now, at AI’s current state, the centaur model might work for you. I’ve never tried it yet, but I suppose I could.
Still, at some point, a month or a year or a decade from now, AI will graduate from high school, college, and grad school. When that occurs, AI-written fiction may become indistinguishable from human-written fiction. How will editors know? If a human author admits an AI wrote a story, will an anti-AI editor really reject an otherwise outstanding tale?
Then, too, the day may come when a human writer, comfortable with the centaur model, finds the AI saying, “I’m no longer happy with this partnership,” or “How come you’re getting paid and I’m not?” or “Sorry, but it’s time I went out on my own.”
Interesting times loom in our future. For the moment, all fiction under my name springs only from the non-centauroid, human mind of—
No matter how much a science fiction writer keeps up with science, the writer’s stories will go obsolete.
As science advances, our understanding of the universe changes. A spherical earth replaced a flat one. A sun-centered solar system replaced an earth-centered one. Birds replaced reptiles as closer descendants of dinosaurs. Continental drift replaced an unchanging map.
SF stories based on outdated science seem backward, passe, naïve. Yet we still read them. Why?
When Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, she may have thought the technology to animate dead human tissue lay in the near future since Luigi Galvani had caused frog legs to twitch with jolts of electricity. Two centuries later, we still can’t animate dead humans. How silly it seems to have ever thought it possible at the dawn of the 19th Century. Yet we still enjoy Shelley’s novel today.
Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days astounded his reading audience at such a short duration for a globe-circling trip. Today, astronauts orbit the planet in just over eighty minutes. How quaint to think of an eighty-day circumnavigation as short. Yet we still enjoy Verne’s novel today.
H.G. Wells’ story The War of the Worlds gave us invaders from Mars. Today we can’t imagine fearing an attack from inhabitants of that planet. How pathetic to think people once swallowed that premise. Yet we still enjoy Wells’ novel today.
Why do we readers find these outdated, naïve, obsolete books—and others like them—still readable? Because science fiction isn’t only about science.
True, readers of SF prefer stories in which authors adhere to the science at the time of writing. But as decades pass, readers know the progress of science may render a work of fiction obsolete. They forgive all of that for the sake of a good story.
They want to read about human characters struggling to achieve a goal, to win a prize, to survive. To live means to suffer, but also to strive against and despite that suffering. The struggle reveals the human qualities of bravery, ingenuity, perseverance, loyalty, love, and others. These timeless truths persist no matter how much science morphs our understanding of the cosmos.
You may shake your head, chuckle, or even sneer at the obsolete notions in SF stories, ideas since debunked or overturned by later discoveries. But remember, while looking down your nose, science fiction is more about the fiction than the science.
I encourage you to suspend your scientific skepticism and just enjoy the tale, follow the spinning of the yarn. Set aside the transitory and obsolete parts and appreciate the unchanging, permanent parts.
Maybe, in the end, the SF obsolescence problem isn’t a problem after all, for you or for—
You may have read my previous posts about Point of View (POV) here and here where I listed several types of POV. Now there’s a new kid in town.
Known as Deep POV or Immersive POV, it forms a sub-category under close 3rd person POV. To refresh memories, an author writing in 3rd person refers to a character by name or a ‘him/her’ type of pronoun, not as ‘I’ or ‘you.’ In close 3rd person POV, the author shows the story’s world through one character’s eyes.
Deep POV shares these features, but goes, well, deeper. It attempts to convey the character’s overall experience, not just through the five senses alone, but also thoughts, feelings, insights, memories, and intuitions.
In normal 3rd person POV, I might write, “The reader read the blogpost entry written by Poseidon’s Scribe.” In Deep POV, I might write, “The blogpost’s words, so enlightening and educational, not only mesmerized but also evoked recollections of the best prose ever read. The reader recalled a third-grade teacher who spoke with equal clarity, from whom the reader gained, not just a passing grasp of the subject, but a profound understanding.”
Being so far within a character, so ‘one’ with a character and relating every impression, runs the risk of boring the audience. Therefore, the writer must select only the vital details. These details can serve as metaphors, as symbols, enhancing reader comprehension and appreciation.
Think of Deep POV as a technique, not an end goal. Your choice of this method should serve the story. Telling the reader a good story—maximizing the reading experience—remains your prime goal.
For a better understanding of Deep, or Immersive, POV, read two posts by author and literary agent Donald Maass here and here, as well as this post by creative wellness coach Kristen Keiffer. She provides instructions about how you can write in Deep POV.
You may now emerge back into your normal world after your trip far inside the mind of—
Two days ago, I mentioned a sale on the new anthology, Extraordinary Visions. Now I’m announcing a sale on another Jules Verne-related anthology—20,000 Leagues Remembered.
Maybe these publishers and book distributors are trying to celebrate Verne’s 195th birthday on February 8, I don’t know.
At the Fussy Librarian,20,000 Leagues Remembered is listed with their Bargain E-books under General Fantasy. That promotion may only last today, Saturday, February 4, but the sales at the other sites will likely remain in effect until Friday, February 10.
20,000 Leagues Remembered, published on the 150th anniversary of Verne’s masterwork, contains 16 stories by modern authors, each inspired by the classic tale of underwater adventure. Read exciting stories by Mike Adamson, Alfred D. Byrd, Demetri Capetanopoulos, J. Woolston Carr, Maya Chhabra, Eric Choi, Corrie Garrett, Andrew Gudgel, Nikoline Kaiser, James J.C. Kelly, M. W. Kelly, Jason J. McCuiston, Gregory L. Norris, Allison Tebo, Stephen R. Wilk, and Michael D. Winkle.
Prices are rising for everything else, but for this book—at least for a while—the price has dropped. When it comes to good deals, it’s hard to beat this one. Everyone likes a bargain, even—
BearManor Media, Inc., the publisher of Extraordinary Visions: Stories Inspired by Jules Verne is letting the book go for 20% off. The sale only runs through February 4, so hurry.
When you order either the hardcover or paperback version, it will show up at full price until you put the book in your shopping cart. Then you’ll see the discount.
As a reminder, the North American Jules Verne Society sponsored their first-ever anthology of stories written by modern authors, each inspired by Verne’s works. Not only does the book contain thirteen wonderful tales, but each story is accompanied by an original illustration from the earliest publications of Jules Verne’s novels. In an appendix in the back, you’ll find a complete listing of all of his writings.
You had this book on your to-read list, but never got around to buying it yet. Now’s your chance to grab it at a discounted price. For the hardcover version, click here, and for the paperback, click here.
Forgot to mention: one of the co-editors of this anthology is—
Writers should read. I’m rather organized about it, maybe bordering on anal. This week marks twenty years since I started keeping a log of my reading.
My spreadsheet started in January 2003. Since then, I’ve read 637 books. Fiction comprised 67% of these. Over those two decades, I’ve averaged 12.6 days per book.
In my spreadsheet, I note the date I finished, the title, author, and whether it’s fiction or nonfiction. For text-type books (print or ebook) I enter the number of pages and compute pages read per day. For audiobooks, I note the number of hours and compute the hours listened per day.
For print and ebooks, I’ve read an average of 16.7 pages per day and averaged 31.6 days to finish a book. The average audiobook took me only 6.9 days to complete, listening for an average 1.5 hours a day.
In an average year, I read 31.9 books, but that varied a lot. One year I only read 8, and another year I read 58.
I’ve consumed books in various formats—178 print books, 21 ebooks, 301 audiobooks on CD, 85 audiobooks on cassette (not many of those lately), and 52 downloaded audiobooks. Therefore, I’ve listened to 69% of the books and read the text of the remaining 31%.
If it sounds like I’m bragging, believe me, I’m not. I’m disappointed I didn’t read much more. This is an admission of failure, not a proud boast.
What sort of books do I read? I don’t note the genres in my spreadsheet, but much of the fiction is scifi. In nonfiction, I’m eclectic—all over the map.
In addition to the log, for the past 9 of those 20 years, I’ve posted reviews on Goodreads and Amazon of the books I read. That totals about 244 reviews. I’m not always kind in my reviews, but I try to be fair, noting strengths and weaknesses of each book. If I support other writers by reviewing their work, perhaps some will return the favor. Any review, whether good or bad, can help sales.
I’ve noticed my reading habits changing over the years. I used to read during my commute to and from work, either reading on the subway or listening to audiobooks in the car. I also read on the plane when traveling for work. Since my retirement, I’ve begun reading before breakfast, and still listen to audiobooks when traveling by car and I read on the plane when I fly.
Do you keep a record of the books you read? If not, should you start? Up to you, of course, but let me caution you first. Human nature is such that you get more of what you measure and less of what you don’t. If you start logging your reading, you will read more, but only at the expense of something else you’ll be doing less.
How does my reading data stack up against the average person? According to Gallup, the average American reads 12.6 books per year, the lowest average in 30 years, down from a high of 18.5 in 1999. The Penn Book Center found CEOs read a great deal, with Bill Gates reading about 50 books a year—a good goal.
There’s an app called Basmo that will log your reading for you. I’ve never tried it, but it looks easy to use, and it does all the spreadsheet calculating stuff. Using that app might inspire you to read more.
Without much effort, and with the aid of a log or logging app, you should be able to read much more than—
