At the moment there seems to be a lack of good new science fiction, however I have found one excellent series known as the Sword of Truth [series], by Terry Goodkind (who, before moving to california lived thirty miles or so away from me. One of my coworkers said that she met him once at a store). That and the 'His Dark Materials' trilogy written by Phillip Pullman. The best new fantasy book in my opinion is either Fate of the Fallen or The Amber Spyglass, while for science fiction the only new book in that genre I've read so far is called 'The Stone Canal,' by an up-and-coming scifi writer who's name escapes me. The Stone Canal was good however like Bradbury's stuff it was very, very anchored in late nineties culture, the more extreme aspects like nuclear war and war on large fronts. The biggest problem I've ever found with science fiction is how the characters and humans themselves just cannot travel to other stars, other galaxies, in a meaningful amount of time. Star Trek's books don't appear to sell well or even get reviewed by the critics, however Next Generation is just an incredibly well done science fiction tv series, at the end of each episode I'm just out of breath they're done so well. I really want them to bring that series back, its just...uncivilized not to have picard and gang back on the networks (the REAL networks, not UPN, the only channel I don't get) where they belong. But in my scifi story humans and aliens can travel anywhere very quickly, from one end to the galaxy to the other in weeks . Unlike other science fiction (or the scifi I'm aware of) the 'warp drive' of mine isn't some ancient alien device that cannot be explained, its something that humans invented that uses tachyons like horses to carry ships (chariots, if you will) across the stars.
Is being plain automatically equated with being unable to write good fiction? It's not called 'not knowing how to write much', it's called being succint. It's probably the greatest attribute that a writer can have. I think Bradbury is moving; stirring. I don't read much for alleviation from day-to-day humdrums, (except if I'm reverting to my good ol' Dean Koontz collection. Nice, to say the most.) There are a few books I've found especially relelvant: 1. Geek Love, By Katherine Dunn 2. Hearts in Atlantis, By Stephen King 3. How The Dead Live, by some young British guy 4. Truck, by Katherine Dunn It's short, but those books are probably the most important ragtag collection of crusaders I have ever read. Really, I read very little scifi; I find it tedious and drawn-out. I tried to read Dune once, but it died in its own lethargy, or rather mine. However, I can understand how you could find scifi coherant, inspiring, and readable- it's like fiction squared.
Twain used plain language. I do not assault the geinius of that. There is a difference between plain language and plain ideas. He was succinct, but he was also banal. Farenheit 451 handled the destruction of knowledge in a very straight-forward matter. In that Orwell's ideas in 1984 were more subtle, they were also superior. In general his thoughts were more orderly and thought out. As I said, Bradbury is a good starting point. A few notable exceptions: Dune, Foundation, and Ringworld. They are also older pieces. Consider the limitations we understand to exist: space is large. We can't even traverse our own solar system in a manned craft, much less travel to others. The closest system is 4.2 light-years away. In order to have a sense of believability they attempt to present technologies that are not far from our current progression. Interstellar travel is not forseeable.
Although scifi and fantasy (books and movies) can, to be frank, be written badly in a majority, the minority really, really strikes gold and worms its way into our pop culture, like lord of the rings (Frodo Lives!), harry potter (priests wanting to burn the books because children read them more than the bible), 2001 (the ballet scene is repeated over and over again), Star Wars (use the force), Star Trek (He's dead, Jim). Non Fiction or more grounded fiction just doesn't do that, and it can't, because its just too linear . Scifi readers and watchers look to the words of the greats for an escape from their normal toils of everyday life that normal fiction writers exploit. Interstellar travel is forseable but not at the moment workeable. Scientists talk about wormholes and solar sails and warp drives, they know the concept, just not the bare blueprints. The case was the same back in the 1500's with that italian inventer, Michaelangelo (I think his name was), who drew out a diagram for a crude airplane, and who may have actually flown one. Up until the Wright Brothers took off in the early 1900s many different teams of scientists had, over the centuries, come up with new ways to make things fly. That is at the moment occuring now, but we have a much greater advantage than these people working in the dark: the internet. The internet will be the key to understanding everything in the near and distant future.
We have vague references to warp, hyper, or other designs of engines. The schematics of these do not offer a depth of science. They are not built on existing technology. They are 100% fiction, no science. That is completely different. Leonardo DaVinci was basing his designs on observed wing movement from birds. The diagrams were for a set of wings. The idea never took off because of the fact that humans don't have the right bone density for flight. The problem: Planes and boats navigate a breathable environment. They both go throughpockets of matter. Add the monumental distance between stars and you a quandary. Our existing technology, nor any extrapolation thereof, has the capacity to solve these problems. I have heard much about a craft filled with a self-contained ecosystem. This would require a source of infinite energy, something that is also not forseeable. Fusion is a fallousy. The sun would be a good source to harvest, from a distance. The problem then is the fact that as you travel that source will deplenish. The internet is a free exchange of ideas. Generally technologies are spoken of here. The problem: most of these are hoaxes. Even if one should prove true no one will give attention to it, much less attempt to collaberate with it. Information here is often judged with a grain of salt. Maybe some day when we are all on the same page. I generally don't enjoy Non-fiction either. I like history, though. Define "more grounded fiction".
If you could find someone that lived that long ago I bet they'd say that everyone around them thought it was near impossible to fly, while some scientists even said it was impossible. We just have to wait for a breakthrough. Anything that isn't extraordinary. Ahahaha, just kidding. Grounded fiction deals with the basics of life, soap operas that are overall just the same, people falling in love and having their sister's baby, a rebellious girl, stuff like that. science fiction is not grounded and no sky is the limit, it can go anywhere, as can fantasy. It is unlimited, therefore it is not grounded, and can fly.
Enjoy The moon, a bright ovoid of intense, wavering light, rose above a horizon of rippling ocean bathwater, the stars awakening from their slumber and brightening across the sky. In the middle of it all, and in the middle of the dark blue Zesphyran Ocean there was an isolated, tropical island called Shibale by its stranded island natives. Behind its perimeter of soft, white sand there were several small towns of huts and wooden buildings, and climbing into the moonlit sky a towering, dormant volcano formed the very center of its landmass. Caressed by the soft ocean breeze the young Salax Pluvia shook a good deal of sand out of his curly hair, moments after standing in victory from a brief battle with his friend, Élan. He stood, raising his arms into the sky. “I am king of this lonely land! None dare oppose such a frivolous ruler, such a compassionate hero, such a—” Out of the sand an arm stabbed through the air, snatching his ankle and yanking it swiftly, throwing the young man onto the soft ground. Moments after landing with a thump he lifted his face from the beach and laughed while puffing clumps of dirt out of his mouth. He chuckled and whirled around, pushing Élan away and fighting to stand up. Soon he completed the feat, trying to end his speech while his shorthaired buddy recovered. But as he spoke only muffled gibberish escaped his mouth, followed by clouds of expelled sand. Élan chuckled and crawled to his feet, running at full speed with his body hanging from his legs at Salax. They collided and hurled through the air down further toward the water before Salax sighed and shook his head while fighting not to laugh. “No—no I’ve had enough,” he said, barely, savagely cackling the whole time. “The king hath been toppled, thou girlfriend is impressed by thee, and shall be taken to thee castle at the top of thee mountain, while thou recovers from such a strenuous conflict,” said Élan with a chuckle. Hara, the gorgeous companion of Salax, stood at the top of the hill, giggling, her hair dancing wildly in the wind, white dress flailing about like the tail of a comet. “The king shall save me! I fear not—the brigand may take my body…but never my soul.” Hara continued, “The king hath better hurry, though, Hara is not excited by recent events, and the brigand Élan is getting closer.” “The king is wiped from too much activity and is in danger of falling asleep,” muttered Salax, shaking his head and breathing heavily. (care, lazy, expendable in italics) Élan was quick to respond. “Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Maybe he’s lazy. Maybe he has other girls in other towns waiting anxiously beside their doors, waiting for his familiar knock, his tall stance, his handsome features. Hara is only one of many damsels, Hara is…expendable!” “No!” Shouted Salax, darting from the bottom of the hill and yanking on Élan’s feet, pulling him down the sand while dashing up to Hara, embracing her the moment he came near enough. “Good always prevails over such immaculate evil,” he glared at Élan for only a moment before bursting out laughing and collapsing on the sand. “Come on, Salax, it’s not that funny,” muttered Hara. “You just don’t know how to have a good time!” Shouted her boyfriend. Before Hara could get angry Élan stepped in. “The king risks his relationship with such a beautiful girl like yourself…maybe he is not worthy of such treasure?” “Oh knock it off Élan,” shouted Hara, pausing as she turned to the still grinning Salax. She pushed him in the shoulder, toppling his body into the sand. “You’re lucky that I’m going to ignore such a harsh, relationship-altering comment.” “Would it alter the relationship in a good or bad way?” Asked both friends at once. Hara sighed and dropped to the sand next to Salax, whirling him around to face the ocean. The sea was black against the dark blue sky, a triangle of light marking the location of the bright moon in the heavens. Each of the stars flickered; it was a gorgeous night, one better enjoyed outside away from the school and the three towns. For hours they just sat in awe, watched the axis of the world tilt, the stars slowly climbing from one point to the other. Hara slumped in Salax’s arms, and Élan fell backwards onto the sand and began to snore. The curly-haired young man hugged his girlfriend with one of his arms, gazing deeply into the distance, peering and pondering at the same time, remembering the wonderful time at the party. About half an hour later, long past the time when Élan finally stopped snoring and began to mutter about female private parts Salax’s keen eyes picked a dim light out against the heavens. It was slowly moving across the sky, lumbering towards them. It didn’t appear to be too far off the ground, maybe a few hundred feet, but it was still amazing. The thing was flying. It was in the air, floating about. As it neared it looked like a blimp, looked like the transport that had crashed on this island centuries ago, stranding his ancestors on Shibale.
Even though there seems to be a lack of interest in my recent posts on this thread I'm announcing now that a map of 'Eastern Ociedes' is ready and will be posted at the earliest on tuesday. Comments on the exerpt, or on my current quote (Salax is latin for desire, BTW, and his last name, Volup, means fulfilled)?
Phillip Pullman is the best writer ever! His Dark materials trilogy was awe-inspiring! Best books i've ever read! Northern Lights was the best IMO.
I agree that NL was the best, and I think he's a good author, but probably not gonna read anything of his other than HDM trilogy. Anyone gonna post more of their stories? It's fun reading them. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
Ahh, the evolution of Intertwine...yes yes yes, quite an extraordinary thing, looking at it from its humble beginnings. I've written a second draft about eighty pages long now, one that goes through only about twenty pages of material from the original. It is radically different than the original, with what I believe to be improved writing and character development. (I guess this looks like I'm trying to sell something) Although the basics of the story remain the same (two planets joined by a tower, evil dictator trying to take over the world, birth of a messiah, political leaders bogged down in beurocracy--the ones on the good side), I've spent the time I was banned from my home computer developing the backdrop in several short stories, all together I call 'Prelude to the Twining,' which chronologues the period of Salax's (messiah) birth and Tertius Trantus' entire two and a half hundred year rule (the dictator). At the moment I have the feeling of a universe that really works, an ornate tower from the pile of clay I started with. Generally I plan to have the occurences in the modern world serve as some backdrop, to give more meaning behind the words and the story itself, as well as to end the story proclaiming that 'good cannot exist without evil, so stop fussing about getting rid of it you pantyhose.' Without further adieu, I present the only short story I've copied onto the computer and edited to the best of my abilities. To those of you who read it, enjoy.
Perhaps this belongs in here: The doors were huge. A mechna could easily walk through. Off to the side was a small door for people. A peeling scencil on the door stated: CARGO BAY 4. Also on the door was a plaque bearing a quote that they both recognized, he from familiarity and the old man from a physics book. "A monkey on a typewriter would hit keys at random, porducing gibberish. But, if you had an infinite number of monkeys, eventually one would randomly type an exact copy of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens." The old man noted that the quote wasn't finished. "That is the only part that matters. You will soon see why." A lock was opened, and they went inside. The old man was immediately hit by the size. The cargo bay was easily a quarter of a mile wide and at least twice that long. Then he saw what was on the enormous shelves filling the vast space. He followed the young man through the narrow isles between cases, and stared in awe at the miliions of books around him. They were divided by little markers similar to a hanging file. Teh dividers were marked in a strange language. IN each section was at least on book, often several. They were writeen in thousands of languages. Included in many of the sections were plain volumes bound in red leather. The young man stopped in front of a section of books written in English. Books by people he knew. The young man profered the ladder and he climbed slowly, his arthritus forgotten. "Eighth shelf, they should be on your left." Came the young man's voice. There, on the shelf were his books. They were written by him, an addition to the likes of Tolkien, but not so well known. Beside his books were several of the red volumes. Curious, he took one and opened it up. In English, were notes. Things about the world he had created. details he hadn't thought of. Things he han't put in his books. All written in plain English as if the author had been writing a travel log. Unbidden, the young man's voice cam up to him, "Come see how." Now they traveled again through t he labarenthine ship, coming to a small door. runes had been etched in the door and on the wall. Another plaque read "Monky in the Middle." A gesture of the youngman's hand, and the door slid into the wall. The floor walls and cieling were carved with runes. Two things stood out. One was a pool near the center of the rectangular room. The surface was about waist high. The water swirled, dropping into infinity in a whirlpool. Looking into it made him dizzy. At the far end of the room was an arch. The young man was standing in front of the arch, hands palm down out in front of it, the runes on the arch were glowing a dark blue. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he got goosebumps all over. a roaring sound filled his mind, drowning out the ship's great engines. Lighning snapped and crackled between different areas of the arch and between the arch and the young man. The glow of the runes completely enveloped the arch and spread to fill the space formed by the arch. He felt rather than heard the snap that shook his old frame and made him see spots. When his vision cleared, he saw the young man standing in front of th eportal, waiting. through the portal he could see the view from a hill seeing out over a farmers fields. Teh young man lost his patience and dragged him through. Nausea and vertigo overwhelmed him. He felt like something was trearing his body into atoms, and puting them back togather again, but somehow not quite right. Then they were standing on the hill. Teh arch was behind them, showing th einside of the room they had just left. "Now you see the source of my information. While you draem, I wander an infinite omniverse where somewhere, some persons dream is replicated on a universal scale." He laughed, and swepted his arm the indicate the countryside, and a column of men marching at the base of the hill. The old man watched with horror as the dark banner splashed with blood that was the trademark of the evil villian in his books waved above the soldiers as they marched past. "This monkey did a good job, now, didn't it? Trust me, you're not alone, though I show this to few people. You're one of the more graphic writers that I know, and it's difficult enough knowing what you write about a character's love life, and then having to talk to them. Imagine what they would think of your books." The old man's mind spun as they repeated th eprocess of traversing the portal, and the whiskey he found stopped working when he was told it was made in the universe he just saw. How's that?
