F is for Fantasy

Don't get too excited, I'm talking about the fantasy that contains wizards and dragons and elves rather than silk and stockings and suchlike. Still here? Good.

Fantasy is my reading genre of choice, but that hasn't always been the case. I read much of it in my teenage years, then suddenly became bored with it. It may have been a case of overdosing, but all the stories began to feel the same: a youngster with a hidden past is really the son of a god/wizard/mighty warrior; his powers are nurtured through the course of the trilogy (for three is the magic number) by a wise old mentor in preparation for a final conflict with the utterly vile villian; the stakes are the world as we know it, nothing will be the same if the dark lord wins, etc etc etc.

Now that's a crass interpretation of fantasy, the bones its detractors often pick through, but that's genuinely the way I thought. I've always enjoyed fanatsy role-playing games, but that was due to being part of a great set of players, having adventures told by gifted games-masters. The books, though; all filled with cliche, right?

Not quite. I read little fantasy between 1993 and 2006, dipping into the odd David Gemmell now and again just for old times' sake, but nothing really gripped me. Then, two writers came along that changed my view of Fantasy - Joe Abercrombie and Scott Lynch. I recommended the former to a friend, based on reviews I'd seen in a magazine, and he loved it. Borrowing his copy, I loved it too; here was something fresh, exciting, vibrant, all those kind of adjectives. Characters were shades of grey, rather than black and white, there was no magic 'get out of jail free' items or spells.

While my friend went for Abercrombie, I tried Lynch's Lies of Locke Lamora and was equally impressed. the titular character is a scoundrel and a rogue, but sympathetic and amusing. His is a tale well told - even more so, I think, in the sequel Red Seas Under Red Skies - in a well-realised world.

Other writers have since came along, expanding the genre with fresh ideas as well as interesting twists on the usual tropes. The same could have been happening in my wilderness years, I'm sure, but it's only in the last few where the ante feels to have been upped. We're seeing fantasy novels on the best of best-seller lists, with fresh talent emerging, all inspired by those who have gone before them. It's a good time for the genre (in part due to the success of certain movies and TV shows), and therefore a good time for the reader. If you haven't read any or, like me, gave up on it for a while, why not pick one up and let yourself be transported to a new world?

E is for Empathy

The dictionary defines empathy as "the ability to share and understand another person's feelings". For me, successful fiction in any medium depends on the viewer/reader/listener to be able to have empathy with the main character. That doesn't mean we have to agree with what that character does or believes, but we must understand why he does it.

Take Dexter, for example; he's a serial killer, yet somehow he's the hero of the series - it's about him, his motivations, his need to control what he calls his dark passenger - and while we can't condone his actions, we can at least understand why he does them. We empathise with him so much, that when he's being chased by the police we don't want him to be caught. It's a clever switch, cheering for 'villain' rather than 'hero' (shouldn't we always want the police to catch the killer?), one of the reasons the character, and therefore the series, works so well.

Villains need to be the same, too. All too often, evil megalomaniacs want to take over the world simply because it's there and they are, err... evil megalomaniacs. Examples of this can be seen in bad Fantasy novels, where a sinister unseen dark lord presides over death and destruction simply because that seems to be his job, or he was born to do it. Good Fantasy (I'm looking at you, George RR Martin) gives the villain motivation for the lust for power, a full background that help the reader understand the character's choice of actions. In some cases (I'm looking at you, George RR Martin) the reader can even feel sympathy for the character and maybe, just maybe, have their opinion of that character turned around.

E was going to be about Early, the time I've been getting out of bed to write this blog, but I can summarise this in just a sentence. It helps to write first thing in the morning, when the mind is less clouded by the events of the day, or wearied by a busy day at work. Once it's done, it's done. (ok, that was two sentences - does this make it three? - but I'm sure you get my meaning).

D is for Doctor

Not Doctor Who - I'm sure there'll be plenty of entries to come about my favourite TV show - but rather Doctor Leonard 'Bones' McCoy from Star Trek.

I have fond memories of the original series, shown many times on BBC2, back in the day when there were only the three TV channels that later became four. Most of them come from my early teens, when it was shown as six o-clock on a Thursday night. I'd watch it with my dad (my mum, a part-time nurse, worked evenings on a Thursday), then change the channel for Top of the Pops and Tomorrow's World.

Anyway, of the three main characters in Star Trek, Doctor McCoy was, and remains, my favourite. Captain Kirk is the hero, of course, leading his crew boldly where no man has gone before. He's great, but there's something a bit too larger-than-life about him. Of course, heroes have to be this way to drive a story with their actions, so that's never been a problem. And, as we're talking about interstellar exploration here, it's fitting that Kirk is as such.

I've always felt that Spock and McCoy acted as two sides of Kirk's conscience. In the Vulcan, Kirk has rationality and logic, in McCoy there is compassion - one represents science, the other humanity. There was always an 'everyman' aura about DeForest Kelley's performance; despite being in space, McCoy held on to his down-to-earth values, never losing sight of what he and his profession represented. He was fallible - Spock would blame his emotions for this - but every hero should be.

In the new films, Karl Urban plays Bones with a voice and mannerisms that are a tribute to Kelley's earlier performances, rather than a crass imitation of them. He's still the same McCoy though; a bit gruff and grouchy, but with a heart of gold. McCoy's the hero we all could be, the man who'd rather not be there, but will stand by his friends no matter what..

Star Trek has often been derided, but it's easy to pick apart something that's been going for nigh on 50 years, to laugh at primitive effects and dialogue that can be clunky, but watching it again years later, I can help but have a respect for it. The series worked because it had great characters involved in great stories, the triumvirate of Kirk, Spock and McCoy who were the best of friends.

My favourite quote about Doctor McCoy comes from the Deep Space Nine episode Trials and Tribble-ations. The crew have travelled back to the time of the original series, and Dax recognises him as 'Leonard', recalling with a knowing smile that he 'had the hands of a surgeon'. (Or something along those lines - look it up, watch it if you can.)

And remember. He's a Doctor, not a {insert occupation here}.

C is for Concise

C may also be for controversial, as I put forward the following theory.

I'm not being sexist, or making sweeping assumptions, I don't intend to offend anyone (ok, enough disclaimers, get on with it!) but it's been my experience that men are more concise than women. A gent may say "I went shopping for brown shoes yesterday, couldn't get any so I bought black instead", while a lady may go into detail about which shops she visited, which shoes she tried on, etc. Not a bad thing (the woman's version is obviously painting a fuller picture, telling a more detailed story), just one of the differences I've noticed between lads and lasses. I'm sure it can be the other way round, too.

So, where's this going? Well, one of my favourite books on writing is Strunk and White's The Elements of Style, recommended by Stephen King in his brilliant On Writing, which is my other favourite book. Not only does it tell you where an apostrophe should slip in and how to un-split infinitives (that's the crew of the Enterprise going boldy, then...), but it also has the best advice I've ever been given when it comes to writing and editing, all about being concise (which I originally intended to be with this post). That advice?

Omit needless words.

Nuff said.

B is for Book

Books. Where would I be without them?

Ever since I can recall, I've been a voracious reader. One of my earliest memories is getting a Noggin The Nog book from my local children's library, and my mum is always proud of the fact that I used to read the newspaper to my grandad when he'd left his glasses at home. I can always seem to find solace in a library or bookshop, away from the madness of crowded streets and in-your-face consumerism.

I keep a list of books I've read each year, and when I look back, I can recall certain moments, where I was when I read it, even feelings. Those read abroad are few and far between, but always memorable. Yet, for some reason, I can't bring myself to purchase an e-reader. I know the benefits - there can't be a person who uses the internet that isn't aware of how light they are, how small and portable, even how much better they are for the environment, but I can't take myself away from a book.

Why? Well, for starters it's the whole tactile naure of a book. You hold it, feel it's weight in your hands, turn the page. Bend the spine if you want, by all means, but I like to keep mine as neat as possible; whatever I'm reading may find its way onto my 'keeper' shelves, become a book that I may return to in years to come. Those shelves aren't as big as they used to be, for I would hold onto everything I read, but now the local charity shop or friends or family benefit instead. On the other side of that, there's something wonderful about browsing a second-hand bookshop to find the exact book you're looking for, or one you'd read years ago, re-appearing like an old friend.

Covers, too. Bright and vivid - gaudy, even - yet they serve their purpose and attract potential readers like moths to a flame. Just as you shouldn't judge a person by how they look, you shouldn't judge a book by the cover, but both inevitably happen; there's something incredibly eyecatching about a table full of books waiting to be picked up, the pages flicked through, the author's writing analysed and judgement made based on that first page. I'm old-fashioned, I know, a veritable Luddite, but books don't have to be plugged in to charge, they don't crash, their batteries won't run out on you when you're just about to find that the killer is...

Yet, here I am, blogging, moving with the times. I'll get an e-reader one day, it's inevitable, but I'll still purchase a physical book now and again. Even ordering on-line, there's still that great feeling when it drops through the letterbox, that anticipation during the three-day-or-so wait for it to arrive. Strangely, I'd miss that, although the thought of something arriving instantly is very appealing.

So, I'll end up walking the line between both one day, a happy medium. As long as I'm reading, that's the main thing. I guess a book is still a book regardless of format, it's still someone telling a story, painting pictures with letters and words. In the end, isn't that all that matters?

A is for Absence...

Namely, mine.

It's been a while since I last wrote anything on here, far too long. Some time ago I likened a gap between posts as dusting off an old book from a shelf - now, it's more like hiring an intrepid archaeologist to find a lost relic. I have no excuses, there's plenty I could be ranting about, but the longer the gap, the more reluctant I seem to have become.

I haven't been sitting on my hands all these months, though. I've been writing every day, and I've completed the first draft of my second novel (hand-written, I call it Draft Zero) as well as a short story, with another short soon to following. But the blog's been neglected, which galls me somewhat. Why create something, only to put it to one side? I did enough of that with the stories I wrote in my twenties.

So, in true Alister (also beginning with A) fashion of not doing things by halves, I've signed up for the A to Z Blog Challenge. This basically means I have to write a blog EVERY DAY throughout April (except Sundays), working my way through the alphabet as I go. Simple, eh?

Knowing me, I might only make it to J or K, but it's better to have tried and failed than never to have tried at all, right? This is not an April (that A again) Fool, this is me setting myself a real challenge. The blog will be written on the day, possibly mere minutes after I've got out of bed (as this seems to have become my ideal writing time), so may prove to be utter nonsense rather than intellectual gold.

So, absent no longer. A is also for active. See you tomorrow.

Doctor In The House

Ever since I can remember, Doctor Who has been part of my life. Back then, Tom Baker was doing the honours and, despite the show’s success, there was comparatively little in the way of spin-off material. There was a Genesis of the Daleks soundtrack LP that was played to death in my house, but it was the Target novelisations kept me going when the show wasn’t on TV, books that often proved my young imagination to be better than the 1970’s BBC Special Effects department.

Yet, despite those clunky effects, the spaceships you could have made at home with an eggbox and a few loo rolls, Doctor Who always retained its charm, carried by great characters and superb storylines. Julian Glover pulling off his false head to reveal Scaroth of the Jagaroth underneath looks a bit ropey now, but it remains a chilling moment that has remained with me for nigh on thirty years now. Even now, even with that rubber head, it still packs a punch.

It’s safe to say that Doctor Who is now a phenomenally successful show, pride of place on BBC1’s Saturday night schedule, rather than sandwiched between Jim’ll Fix It and Bob’s Full House. So why do I find it so disappointing lately? Major Spoilers ahoy, shipmates!

The last five episodes were all high concept, ‘mini films’ told in the space of fifty minutes. The show’s suffered for it, I think, but I may be being bitter as I’ve missed the old-fashioned cliffhanger endings more than words can say. So, without further preamble, here are a few of my complaints.

Episode One saw the Doctor summoned by Daleks (weren’t they supposed to have forgotten about him, along with the rest of the universe?) to beam down to a planet of crazy Daleks and do something; less than two months later, I can’t remember what it was. It turns out a girl he’s been speaking to is a Dalek herself, although somehow it’s her human voice that comes through the tannoy system. Oh, and at the end the Daleks forget the Doctor exists, like they were meant to have in the beginning. I think.

Episode Two was bonkers, disjointed and utterly charming in places. Great dialogue – some funny, some dark – and moving performances made this the best of the bunch for me. The Doctor sending someone off to his death, though? Rumours abound he’ll pay for it later, but why would he do something so out of character in the first place?

Episode Three. “Ooh, lets film in America!” They did, and made a sci-fi western. The ‘bad guy’ reminded me of a cyborg from a 1990’s Red Dwarf episode, while Amy and Rory (this is their final series, remember?) are criminally underused. I say underused, but they don’t actually do anything at all. Shameful.

In Episode Four, some black boxes turn up on Earth, essentially doing nothing for a year or so, before transmitting information to a spaceship. But don’t worry, the Doctor will fix it all with the sonic screwdriver in the end. This is another episode that had some great moments – moving conversations and the suggestion of a new, improved UNIT – but fell flat plot-wise. I’d like to see a UNIT spin-off series, but it would probably just end up like Torchwood. And you don’t want to get me started on that…

Finally, we saw the end of Amy and Rory. They left to be together, it was moving, and a fitting end for the two characters. Job done. River Song returned, as did the Weeping Angels, one of which turns out to be the Statue of Liberty. This suggests that, in the city that never sleeps, there was a point where no eyes were on this world-famous landmark, and that nobody noticed it had gone. Also, why did the Angels keep a battery farm if they only feed on each victim once? I also think they missed a trick by not setting this in LA, the City Of Angels. Ah well.

Ok, so those are five flippant, slapdash reviews. To me, that reflects the content of the show. I’ve enjoyed them – of course I have, it’s Doctor Who! – but I’ve been disappointed too. I know how good the show can be; it can make me cheer, laugh out loud and cry like a baby (sometimes all three within seconds of each other), but I’ve taken nothing memorable from these five episodes, other than the thought that they could have, should have, been better. They’re chances wasted, inconsistent and – at times – sloppy.

Doctor Who is fifty years old in 2013. I hope they do better for his birthday.