Monday was the anniversary of the original Star Trek's premiere on TV in 1966. At the time, reviewers liked the gadgets but not the plot. By the time I was born, the show was off the air, but fandom kept it alive in other ways.
I didn't encounter a lot of Star Trek in my childhood and early teens. My first significant experience with it was reading a high school friend's books. Later on, in college, I watched the movies with friends; I can't remember if I saw V in the movie theater, but I definitely remember VI. Somewhere along the way I caught up with the other movies as well. I was in college when The Next Generation came out, and I watched episodes with my friends. Later on, when I was in grad school, I found ways to watch the original episodes. I also followed Deep Space 9 and Voyager for a while.
I'm not sure why I stopped watching Star Trek in any incarnation, but it probably had something to do with dedicating myself to writing. There just doesn't seem to be enough time to keep up with the demands of daily life, read, write, and watch TV or movies too. None the less, I still like the world of Star Trek and its thoughtful approach to science fiction--though there are a few episodes that have more fiction than science. In particular, some of the biology-based episodes, like the NG show when everyone de-evolved, make me cringe. But I always like watching Spock and Data show us what it means to be human even when they're not.
How do you feel about Star Trek? Do you have favorite versions or characters? How do you think the Original Series compares with today's science fiction?
A group of independent science fiction/fantasy authors who support each other and share their love for the genre.
Showing posts with label Star Trek. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Star Trek. Show all posts
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
How to Break the Writing Rules, Part Three: Rules that Aren't
So far, we've discussed how to use adverbs and fragments to achieve certain effects in your writing. This week, I want to talk about grammar rules that everyone knows about but aren't really rules. I will be relying heavily on this article, "7 Grammatical Errors That Aren't," but I will only focus on the first three rules, since I think those are the most interesting and general ones.
Split Infinitives--Everyone knows that only Star Trek captains get to boldly go where no one has gone before. However, the practice of inserting words between the "to" and the verb goes back to Middle English. The earliest examples of split infinitives come from poetry, where they may have been used for the sake of cadence. Even if you're writing prose, there's nothing wrong with splitting infinitives to make a sentence flow better or to emphasize a word. Many people believe (as I did before researching this article) that the reason for objecting to split infinitives has to do with applying Latin grammar to English. However, the first people to object to split infinitives didn't make this argument. Today, we are encouraged to organize our words in the order most pleasing for us--and our readers.
Ending a Sentence with a Proposition--As a Midwesterner, I will agree with Winston Churchill (even though he wasn't from the Midwest, and this quote wasn't from him anyway) that "This is the kind of arrant pedantry up with which I will not put." As above, the "rule" about not ending a sentence with a proposition is supposed to come from Latin. However, English has a lot of idiomatic expressions ending with propositions that sometimes do belong at the end of a sentence.
Starting a Sentence with a Conjunction: I did extensive research to see if this was really forbidden: in other words, I watched "Conjunction Junction" and determined that they never say you can't use a conjunction at the beginning of a sentence (two negatives make a positive, right?):
It's true that conjunctions are used to join things, and yes, you do need them when you're joining two short sentences to make a complex one. But what do you do if the next thought is closely related to what you just said, and you don't want to ramble on and on, like Tristam Shandy delivering a twelve-hour filibuster in the House of Commons (or Senate, or wherever people avoid doing the job we elected them to do)? So, start the next sentence with a conjunction already. But don't overdo it, because you know I believe in nothing in excess and everything in moderation.
What do you think about these writing rules? Do you obey them or break them? Are there any other writing rules you'd like me to discuss in this series?
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| Original cartoon found at this link: http://www.marktoon.co.uk/gags.htm |
Ending a Sentence with a Proposition--As a Midwesterner, I will agree with Winston Churchill (even though he wasn't from the Midwest, and this quote wasn't from him anyway) that "This is the kind of arrant pedantry up with which I will not put." As above, the "rule" about not ending a sentence with a proposition is supposed to come from Latin. However, English has a lot of idiomatic expressions ending with propositions that sometimes do belong at the end of a sentence.
Starting a Sentence with a Conjunction: I did extensive research to see if this was really forbidden: in other words, I watched "Conjunction Junction" and determined that they never say you can't use a conjunction at the beginning of a sentence (two negatives make a positive, right?):
It's true that conjunctions are used to join things, and yes, you do need them when you're joining two short sentences to make a complex one. But what do you do if the next thought is closely related to what you just said, and you don't want to ramble on and on, like Tristam Shandy delivering a twelve-hour filibuster in the House of Commons (or Senate, or wherever people avoid doing the job we elected them to do)? So, start the next sentence with a conjunction already. But don't overdo it, because you know I believe in nothing in excess and everything in moderation.
What do you think about these writing rules? Do you obey them or break them? Are there any other writing rules you'd like me to discuss in this series?
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Anticipating the "Why?"
"Why?"
It's one of the most dreaded questions in the world. Well, at least if you're a parent, at any rate. I mean, what business is it of your kid's to know "why?" she needs to do something, right? Or "why?" she needs to do it the way you're telling her to. Or "why?" she needs to go to bed RIGHT NOW! And, sometimes, all you're left with is "because I said so!"
Of course, teachers have the same problem. And it can be worse for them, because, often, they don't actually know the answer to "why?" All they know is that the book says so or the school board says so or whatever, but those amount to the same "I said so" to a kid, and, for a kid asking "why?", "I said so" is rarely enough.
I learned at a fairly young age to not ask "why?" No one ever had answers for me, so I learned to figure them out on my own. I didn't stop asking the question, though, which is what I think a lot of people do. When faced with inadequate answers, they just don't question, which is how I think most people like it.
And, actually, probably how most authors like it.
As an author, "why?" is the worst question ever!
"Why didn't the they just tell them what was going on?"
"Why is there only one city on the whole planet?" (Come on, Star Trek, really?)
"Why didn't he just kill him when he had the chance?" (Because he was killing everyone else, right?)
The problem with the answer is that it's usually an "out of story" answer. Like, "he didn't just kill him because, then, the story would have been over." Or "there was only one city on the whole planet because it would have been too complicated if there had been a whole planet of people to deal with." But out-of-story answers don't work for those questions within the story, which is why it's the author's job to anticipate the "why?"s and provide answers for them within the story. It's why you have so many super heroes with personal codes against killing. That provides the answer to that particular "why?"
The problem is that the "why?"s frequently have to do with a character's (or characters') motivation(s), and that, when dealing with science fiction, can often be at odds with the IDEA. So let's take Looper (you can read my review of it here) as an example:
In Looper, the premise is that the mob of the future has a time machine and they use it to dispose of pre-dead bodies.
Really? That's it. That's the best use they could come up with for a time machine? Which is the problem, because the IDEA is that a guy in the "present" is sent his future self to kill. Wouldn't that make a great story? And, as long as you don't ask "why?", it does make a great story. However, as soon as you say, "Why doesn't the mob in the future just use the time machine to take over the world?" or "Why doesn't the mob of the future use the time machine to invest in all of the right companies?" or "Why doesn't the mob of the future use the time machine to win every lottery ever?" As soon as you ask one of those questions, the story falls apart. And, sorry, the answer "they didn't think of it" just doesn't cut it.
And I'm not even going to start on the scene where the future guy loses his body parts in the present as his present self is tortured and then killed, because there's no way you can answer the "why was that guy there to begin with if he was already dead?" question. Sure, it's cool and freaky to watch as he loses his fingers and stuff, but "cool and freaky" doesn't answer "why?"
Then there's the great "why?" of the Star Trek reboot: "Why did Nero just hang around in space for a quarter of a century doing nothing?" And the obvious answer is that Abrams wanted Nero to kill Kirk's dad but had nothing else for him to do until Spock showed up, so he just had him sit and brood with his thumb up his ass for 25 or so years.
And I could go on but, really, why?
As authors, it's our job to anticipate the places where our readers (or viewers) will say "why?" and weave those answers into the story. Sure, a lot of people, maybe even most people, are not going to ever say "why?", but that "why?" will kill a good or fun idea for those of us that do ask. And, no, telling us not to ask or to "just go with it" doesn't work either. That's a cop out. And irresponsible. And, well, sloppy story telling. Be asking yourself that "why?" question all the way through while you're writing and, anytime you don't have an answer to the question, figure it out. Or take that part out. Something.
And just by the way, long ago I did tell my kids that they could always ask me "why?" I'm telling them something. Man, that's a hard thing to live up to. My daughter, most of all, really holds me to it and, when I try to wiggle out of it, she will say to me, "You said I could always ask you why." The best I can do is delay, too, by saying something like, "Right now, you just need to do what I'm telling you to do. Later, ask me again, and I'll explain it to you." And she does, too.
It's one of the most dreaded questions in the world. Well, at least if you're a parent, at any rate. I mean, what business is it of your kid's to know "why?" she needs to do something, right? Or "why?" she needs to do it the way you're telling her to. Or "why?" she needs to go to bed RIGHT NOW! And, sometimes, all you're left with is "because I said so!"
Of course, teachers have the same problem. And it can be worse for them, because, often, they don't actually know the answer to "why?" All they know is that the book says so or the school board says so or whatever, but those amount to the same "I said so" to a kid, and, for a kid asking "why?", "I said so" is rarely enough.
I learned at a fairly young age to not ask "why?" No one ever had answers for me, so I learned to figure them out on my own. I didn't stop asking the question, though, which is what I think a lot of people do. When faced with inadequate answers, they just don't question, which is how I think most people like it.
And, actually, probably how most authors like it.
As an author, "why?" is the worst question ever!
"Why didn't the they just tell them what was going on?"
"Why is there only one city on the whole planet?" (Come on, Star Trek, really?)
"Why didn't he just kill him when he had the chance?" (Because he was killing everyone else, right?)
The problem with the answer is that it's usually an "out of story" answer. Like, "he didn't just kill him because, then, the story would have been over." Or "there was only one city on the whole planet because it would have been too complicated if there had been a whole planet of people to deal with." But out-of-story answers don't work for those questions within the story, which is why it's the author's job to anticipate the "why?"s and provide answers for them within the story. It's why you have so many super heroes with personal codes against killing. That provides the answer to that particular "why?"
The problem is that the "why?"s frequently have to do with a character's (or characters') motivation(s), and that, when dealing with science fiction, can often be at odds with the IDEA. So let's take Looper (you can read my review of it here) as an example:
In Looper, the premise is that the mob of the future has a time machine and they use it to dispose of pre-dead bodies.
Really? That's it. That's the best use they could come up with for a time machine? Which is the problem, because the IDEA is that a guy in the "present" is sent his future self to kill. Wouldn't that make a great story? And, as long as you don't ask "why?", it does make a great story. However, as soon as you say, "Why doesn't the mob in the future just use the time machine to take over the world?" or "Why doesn't the mob of the future use the time machine to invest in all of the right companies?" or "Why doesn't the mob of the future use the time machine to win every lottery ever?" As soon as you ask one of those questions, the story falls apart. And, sorry, the answer "they didn't think of it" just doesn't cut it.
And I'm not even going to start on the scene where the future guy loses his body parts in the present as his present self is tortured and then killed, because there's no way you can answer the "why was that guy there to begin with if he was already dead?" question. Sure, it's cool and freaky to watch as he loses his fingers and stuff, but "cool and freaky" doesn't answer "why?"
Then there's the great "why?" of the Star Trek reboot: "Why did Nero just hang around in space for a quarter of a century doing nothing?" And the obvious answer is that Abrams wanted Nero to kill Kirk's dad but had nothing else for him to do until Spock showed up, so he just had him sit and brood with his thumb up his ass for 25 or so years.
And I could go on but, really, why?
As authors, it's our job to anticipate the places where our readers (or viewers) will say "why?" and weave those answers into the story. Sure, a lot of people, maybe even most people, are not going to ever say "why?", but that "why?" will kill a good or fun idea for those of us that do ask. And, no, telling us not to ask or to "just go with it" doesn't work either. That's a cop out. And irresponsible. And, well, sloppy story telling. Be asking yourself that "why?" question all the way through while you're writing and, anytime you don't have an answer to the question, figure it out. Or take that part out. Something.
And just by the way, long ago I did tell my kids that they could always ask me "why?" I'm telling them something. Man, that's a hard thing to live up to. My daughter, most of all, really holds me to it and, when I try to wiggle out of it, she will say to me, "You said I could always ask you why." The best I can do is delay, too, by saying something like, "Right now, you just need to do what I'm telling you to do. Later, ask me again, and I'll explain it to you." And she does, too.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Aliens and Mothering/Parenting
It's Mother's Day today in the U.S. on the planet Earth. In honor of the occasion, I've been using the hand-decorated mug my son made for me (even though the marker ink came off on my hand) and thinking about alien parents. According to the "Your Inner Monkey" episode of the documentary Your Inner Fish (more influence from my son, as he was briefly obsessed with this series), humans are born with brains that are relatively undeveloped compared to monkeys. This is a feature, not a bug, since that means we have an extended childhood that allows our brains to develop over a couple of decades, giving us time to be socialized and educated.That means human children need more intensive nurturing than other animals that mature more quickly. A lot of this nurturing comes from the child's mother, though fathers, other relatives, teachers, and other adults can influence a child as well.
Do you think sentient life forms on other planets require this much nurturing as they develop? If so, do you think it comes from their mother, or whatever the equivalent is? Other life forms may have more than two parents, or may be raised by other members of their race besides their biological parents. No matter what customs apply, I expect natural selection would still favor parents who bond with their offspring--and offspring who form an attachment to their parents would get more support as they mature.
Here's a video featuring one of my favorite alien mothers, the Horta from the original Star Trek series:
You have to feel sorry for a mother who has to care for an entire planet's worth of offspring by herself.
And if I may insert a shameless plug, you can read about a human mother in my SF Catalyst Chronicles series.
Do you think sentient life forms on other planets require this much nurturing as they develop? If so, do you think it comes from their mother, or whatever the equivalent is? Other life forms may have more than two parents, or may be raised by other members of their race besides their biological parents. No matter what customs apply, I expect natural selection would still favor parents who bond with their offspring--and offspring who form an attachment to their parents would get more support as they mature.
Here's a video featuring one of my favorite alien mothers, the Horta from the original Star Trek series:
You have to feel sorry for a mother who has to care for an entire planet's worth of offspring by herself.
And if I may insert a shameless plug, you can read about a human mother in my SF Catalyst Chronicles series.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Holding Out for a Hero(ine)
This is one of my favorite posts. It was originally published on March
9, 2010 as part of a blog chain (which seems to be defunct now, alas). The only thing I've changed is I embedded a different video of
"Holding out for a Hero." Also, since I wrote this post, Across Two Universes has been published as Twinned Universes, and "Move Over Ms. L." has been published as Lyon's Legacy.
Yep, the Blog Chain post is making its first appearance on my blog this month. Eric posed this question:
Do you create characters that are larger-than-life or are your characters more like the average Joe?
(For discussion purposes, let's use his definition of "larger-than-life" as meaning exceptionally talented. It doesn't have to be a supernatural talent--an Olympic athlete would be larger-than-life.)
In his book Characters and Viewpoint, Orson Scott Card discusses how these two types of characters go in and out of fashion. Most of my esteemed fellow Blog Chainers, from Eric to Kate, have been on the side of the average Joe or Jane. I think some of this is due to genre. A few people admit their characters have a slight supernatural twist, but for the most part, larger-than-life characters are considered too perfect, too hard to relate to, or even too cliched. We're at the end of the chain now, and there's only one person left to champion the champions: a short, overweight, almost-middle-aged speculative fiction writer. In other words, me.
Let's cue some music for our discussion:
Most of my protagonists have had some extraordinary gift. My first two books featured magicians, as does my short story "A Reptile at the Reunion." My NaNoWriMo book from 2007 had a pair of shapeshifting sisters. Paul, the hero of Across Two Universes, lives in a science fiction universe, but he has a "quantum quirk" of his own. The only protagonist who might be considered an "ordinary Jane" is Paul's mother, Joanna, in my novella "Move Over Ms. L." So, how do I avoid the previously mentioned pitfalls of larger-than-life characters?
First of all, I don't think a larger-than-life character is necessarily perfect--or should be. Many legendary characters had flaws as big as their virtues. Hercules was very strong, but he wasn't above using dirty tricks in battle. Lancelot was in love with his liege's wife. Modern-day larger-than-life athletes like Michael Phelps and Tiger Woods have shown what I'll call lapses of judgment. Even my beloved Beatles have done drugs, had affairs, made poor business decisions, and otherwise proved they're not perfect. Having an extraordinary talent doesn't mean you're invincible either; just look at Achilles and Samson. I could go on, but the point I want to make is that the larger-than-life characters may be good at what they do, but if they're too good, then the story loses any suspense factor. Struggle is at the heart of all stories, so your characters have to face challenges that force them to stretch themselves. Heck, much of the time my characters struggle just to get along with their allies!
Another concern writers have about writing larger-than-life characters is how to make sure the average reader can relate to them. It's not as if most of us turn into animals every full moon or perform magic and read others' minds. Here, I think the key is to focus on emotions or experiences that can be universal. Many larger-than-life characters in speculative fiction face problems readers can relate to; for example, Carrie Vaughn's werewolf Kitty has a mother dealing with cancer. A classic Star Trek episode, "The Devil in the Dark," features an alien that's basically a sentient rock. Yet this creature is also a mother trying to protect her young. How can any parent not relate to that? If you can relate to a rock, magicians and other larger-than-life characters ought to be easy.
As for whether or not larger-than-life characters are cliche, I think anything can become one. It's not always easy to find a unique spin on a subject, but it can be done.
Going back to Eric's question, why do I prefer larger-than-life characters? Part of the reason is escapism and wish fulfillment. I live in Midwestern suburbia, and I like taking mental breaks from it with my fiction. Having high-powered characters means you can demand more of them; they buy you a seat at the high-stakes plot table. But there are other reasons for enjoying larger-than-life characters and speculative fiction. By looking at the extremes of the human condition (or even examining non-humans), we can learn something about the ordinary parts too. And while ordinary characters in extraordinary situations can do astonishing things, extraordinary people can inspire us to transcend the commonplace and reach for something we never thought possible. Our future depends on how far we can see and our drive to try new things. If we work at it, what was once considered extreme or even impossible can become part of our mundane reality.
Yep, the Blog Chain post is making its first appearance on my blog this month. Eric posed this question:
Do you create characters that are larger-than-life or are your characters more like the average Joe?
(For discussion purposes, let's use his definition of "larger-than-life" as meaning exceptionally talented. It doesn't have to be a supernatural talent--an Olympic athlete would be larger-than-life.)
In his book Characters and Viewpoint, Orson Scott Card discusses how these two types of characters go in and out of fashion. Most of my esteemed fellow Blog Chainers, from Eric to Kate, have been on the side of the average Joe or Jane. I think some of this is due to genre. A few people admit their characters have a slight supernatural twist, but for the most part, larger-than-life characters are considered too perfect, too hard to relate to, or even too cliched. We're at the end of the chain now, and there's only one person left to champion the champions: a short, overweight, almost-middle-aged speculative fiction writer. In other words, me.
Let's cue some music for our discussion:
Most of my protagonists have had some extraordinary gift. My first two books featured magicians, as does my short story "A Reptile at the Reunion." My NaNoWriMo book from 2007 had a pair of shapeshifting sisters. Paul, the hero of Across Two Universes, lives in a science fiction universe, but he has a "quantum quirk" of his own. The only protagonist who might be considered an "ordinary Jane" is Paul's mother, Joanna, in my novella "Move Over Ms. L." So, how do I avoid the previously mentioned pitfalls of larger-than-life characters?
First of all, I don't think a larger-than-life character is necessarily perfect--or should be. Many legendary characters had flaws as big as their virtues. Hercules was very strong, but he wasn't above using dirty tricks in battle. Lancelot was in love with his liege's wife. Modern-day larger-than-life athletes like Michael Phelps and Tiger Woods have shown what I'll call lapses of judgment. Even my beloved Beatles have done drugs, had affairs, made poor business decisions, and otherwise proved they're not perfect. Having an extraordinary talent doesn't mean you're invincible either; just look at Achilles and Samson. I could go on, but the point I want to make is that the larger-than-life characters may be good at what they do, but if they're too good, then the story loses any suspense factor. Struggle is at the heart of all stories, so your characters have to face challenges that force them to stretch themselves. Heck, much of the time my characters struggle just to get along with their allies!
Another concern writers have about writing larger-than-life characters is how to make sure the average reader can relate to them. It's not as if most of us turn into animals every full moon or perform magic and read others' minds. Here, I think the key is to focus on emotions or experiences that can be universal. Many larger-than-life characters in speculative fiction face problems readers can relate to; for example, Carrie Vaughn's werewolf Kitty has a mother dealing with cancer. A classic Star Trek episode, "The Devil in the Dark," features an alien that's basically a sentient rock. Yet this creature is also a mother trying to protect her young. How can any parent not relate to that? If you can relate to a rock, magicians and other larger-than-life characters ought to be easy.
As for whether or not larger-than-life characters are cliche, I think anything can become one. It's not always easy to find a unique spin on a subject, but it can be done.
Going back to Eric's question, why do I prefer larger-than-life characters? Part of the reason is escapism and wish fulfillment. I live in Midwestern suburbia, and I like taking mental breaks from it with my fiction. Having high-powered characters means you can demand more of them; they buy you a seat at the high-stakes plot table. But there are other reasons for enjoying larger-than-life characters and speculative fiction. By looking at the extremes of the human condition (or even examining non-humans), we can learn something about the ordinary parts too. And while ordinary characters in extraordinary situations can do astonishing things, extraordinary people can inspire us to transcend the commonplace and reach for something we never thought possible. Our future depends on how far we can see and our drive to try new things. If we work at it, what was once considered extreme or even impossible can become part of our mundane reality.
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