Lament #0018 - It's NOT Tom, Dick or Harry! Try harder!

My second rant of the day stems from a conversation with my sister last night, in which I was very heatedly lamenting a very strong pet-peeve of mine. It pertains to many fantasy novels, including those written by very prominent and respected names within the writing community. Before I proceed, I need to make it very clear that I admire and ardently respect these individuals, and that this is purely a personal preference--and that my own preference just makes more logical sense.

I will list four novels to use in reference to my pet-peeve, which is actually sort of a two-parter. Ready? Here they are:

• Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth series.
• Tad William's Memory, Sorrow and Thorn trilogy
  
• Christopher Paolini's Inheritance cycle
• Mercedes Lackey and James Mallory's Enduring Flame trilogy

What do these four different series of epic fantasy novels have in common? Setting aside a whole lot, they are all novels depicting worlds separate from our own. First, I'm going to focus on the first three.

Richard, Simon and Angela. Oooh, what do these characters have in common? Well, names like ours of course! Something wrong with that? No, not precisely. But let's try three other names, each from a respective series: Kahlan, Miriamele and Eragon. What's the difference here? Well, they aren't names like ours. Oh, sure. Each author has an explanation in the form of different parts of the world, yada yada. But that's sort of stretching the truth, don't you think? Again, I'm not disrespecting the genius of the stories (nor am I placing these three books on the same level, by any means) but it seems quite a stretch that the only names from our own world are commonplace English names. I don't see a Shao, Maria or Akira within the pages of these works.

Now, we take the fourth example, the Enduring Flame Trilogy, where there isn't a single "English" name to be found. "Great!" says I, "A real other world with no laziness attached." Quite the contrary, in fact. They went so far as to rename coffee, camals and oranges! But, now, here's a different kind of trouble altogether. It takes reading about shotors several times before we have a clear understanding that these are camals, in effect; not something utterly different and found in Star Wars. This isn't always a bad thing, but here's my point.

Take my world B'korba, in contrast to these other books (again, not comparing genius, don't take offense). There are no characters within my fantasy world called Harry, Tom and Mary. Only Sai, Fayne and Mikena. On the other hand, there are horses, apples and raspberry tarts. How can this be? Here's how.

A fantasy work is generally regarded by fans, myself included, as chronicled histories (while fictional) of other worlds. As such, it is an unspoken rule that these works are "translated" into English for our enjoyment. It's like taking a Japanese manga and putting English in place of Japanese in the speech bubbles.

There's a series, referred to as Detective Conan in Japan, called Case Closed in America. It's an early translation job in which all the characters (like Shinichi Kudo) are given different, American names for "easy remembering," (Jimmy Kudo?!) although it takes away the authenticity of the Japan-based work. Since, manga translations have been much more accurate (although far from perfect).

So, looking at a fantasy novel as a historical, translated work, is the translator seriously going to take the time to rename Sai, Sam; Fayne, Frank; and Mikena, MaryAnne? However, if what the characters are, in essence, riding are horses, is the translator going to call them naafari because in Sai's language that's how the same creature is referred? I highly doubt it.

My point: It's a different world. Don't be lazy, make it real! Take time. If a character is called Richard, don't call his significant other Kahlan--call her Kate! Or, better still, call him something closer to Kahlan's name.

Even if the author can come up with an explanation for why half the characters have English names and the other half don't, it comes across to me as laziness. You can do better, novelists. We expect you're brilliant enough.

Lament #0017 - Where did all the support go?

All growing up, we hear the words of our families and teachers, all saying the same thing: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" They don't laugh when we answer "Astronaut", "Famous Singer", or "Princess." They only smile and reply, "You can be anything you want to be."

Then we hit our teenage years. We realize that princesses don't live in America, singers live poor lifestyles, and astronauts rarely make it into space. So we become rather cynical, or we jump to different dreams. As we decide on something a little closer to home, we share these new dreams with friends and family, and of course everyone is supportive (although their smiles may be a little less genuine, what does it matter? we'll show them).

When a teenager, I was asked what I wanted to be. My reply was always, "An author." "Of what?" "Fantasy." That answer was either followed by a badly guarded expression and a stiff, "Oh," or an excited, if disbelieving glint in their eye and, "Oh, really? When you're famous, I want to read it!" "Sure," I'd reply, beaming, absolutely certain that it would happen, and wouldn't they be surprised?

Then it was time to grow up. I moved out and my friends moved on. Upon occasion I would run into one of these long-ago friends and they'd ask, "How's your book? I still want to read it when your famous."

"I could give you a copy now," I offered.

"Oh, sure. That'd be great. I don't have a lot of time, but, ya know, I'd love to read it."

Naively, happily, I'd send them a copy. Six months later I had heard no response, and upon our next encounter:

"Have you had a chance to read my book?"

"Er, no. I've been busy, but I'll get to it soon. And hey, I still want a signed copy."

"Of course," I'd say, and after several such encounters with different people, I learned my lesson. Never again would I share my unpublished work with fair-weather friends. No doubt these same people, upon my actual published work, would reappear in my life with every claim that they, "read it before it was published!" (ha ha) and "She's my best friend."

"Right," I'd say. "After those who believed in me."

It seems that when we're small we can do anything, be anyone, and go anywhere. But when we're adults we're expected to change, become something ordinary and practical, or we just "won't go anywhere." How disheartening, how pathetic. That we set aside the dreams of our youth because no one really cares. Oh, certainly, I have a lot of dear supporters, especially within my own family. But of those friends who grew up with me, knowing my dreams, conversing with me about my story, I can count on one hand those who still actually believe in my ability enough to help me now, by reading a manuscript in their spare time.

One good thing, at least it's a means of knowing who really cares, and who only indulges in the moment. I will not forget the people who have supported me when there may be no national recognition; only a dear memory etched in my own heart, forever.

Here's to you, foul-weather friends. Those who believe in me now, before the future becomes our present.

Lament #0016 - Written words paint too!

With March almost gone, I realized that my rants have been few and far between. This isn't because I'm suddenly taking anger management classes. It's only because I have had so many rants lately, I haven't known where to start. But today--! Today I have a few rants.

I belong to a creative arts community on the web, and I've attended classes offline as well. I've conversed with people many times on the definition of art, and heard it defined by "professionals". These people all agree, in general, that writing is among the Great Arts.

Really?

Then what's wrong with everyone? There is no regard for writers, where there is an abundant amount of support for charcoal or water-color artists.

Why? I wish I knew. Certainly it's not for lack of books in the world.

"What are you talking about? People recognize novels as art!"

As well they should. But here's the thing-- NO ONE wants to read a novel. Granted, viewing a painting or wood carving is much less time-consuming than, say, reading a five-hundred page manuscript. But think about it: THAT'S WHY READING IS GOING OUT. People are lazy. NOT busy, but LAZY. They lack both the drive and the focus to devour a book, yet they spend countless hours pursuing other somehow more fulfilling endeavors.

Then there are those who hear a writer's dream to become a novelist, and dare to scoff because, "At least I went to school, where I learned a respectable career as a dentist." How dare they? It sickens me to hear that in order to be good at something you must always and only attend a school where someone else, someone older, teaches you THEIR methods of doing something, claiming it is the only right way. (This one paragraph is a premise for a whole new rant, I think.)

A considerable amount of my anger is fueled toward those silly artists in particular who paint a picture, then turn around and say to writing artists, "Ha! Here's real artwork." The sheer ARROGANCE of these people is unbelievable! I'd like to see them TRY to write a five-hundred-page novel! (Do, indulge me!)

Can people not realize that writing is as much career as pulling teeth? That it is as much an art as cinematography, or anything you might find in an art gallery? That it is as much a hobby as quilting, scrapbooking or photography?

Considering that it falls under three distinctive categories, how can it not make sense that writing is a wonderful thing? Career, Art, Hobby. Hmmm.

If you have issues with writers, take them up with God. He wrote the first book.

Lament #0015 - The Golden Rule, simple as that.

I admire and respect those with opinions which defer from my own.

That said, there is one particular crowd of people which, more than anything, perplex me. Those who once believed in God, and who now, for various "tragic" reasons, deny His existence yet hate Him all the same. That's very oxymoronic.

Allow me to truly lament for a moment, by recounting a few of the more eventful moments of my life over the past two years:

1. My then-twelve year old sister contracted an auto-immune disease called "juvenile bacterial arthritis" which caused her to lose most of her hair and grow a type of fungus on her skin as her muscles deteriorated and she was reduced to being pushed in a wheelchair. My family was turned into the state by a doctor for "child abuse", though the doctor knew the circumstances behind my sister's brittle appearance. I almost lost my younger siblings; luckily we could prove there was no abuse going on. We took my sister to specialists in a large hospital who declared "there is no cure." My mom refused to believe it, and took her far away from people who constantly talked about my sister's "impending death." For one year my sister struggled to survive. One day, a light came on and she realized she wanted to live. Pleading with God, she fought to make it through, and now my sister looks as though she was never ill for a second. She runs around, boundless energy coursing through her healthy bones. There are no remains of scars from the fungus, and her hair has grown back as lush and thick as before.

2. With the economy's struggles, my dad was laid off work. His van was repossessed by the bank.

3. My car's transmission just died; I had no warranty, and so the money must come from my own pocket. I still don't have the means to pay it.

4. This last December my parents' home burned to the ground. My family lost everything within it, and several precious pets died in its intense flames. Something told my parents to leave my younger brother with me, rather than alone in their home. He was spared from death.

I don't hate God. Tragedy isn't a good enough reason for that. We can't blame someone else for life's surprises--we certainly don't hate God when something good happens.

You may choose not to believe in God. That is your right. Personally I choose to believe in a divine power. I don't go around attacking other people simply because they have different beliefs from my own. I would appreciate the same courtesy from those around me.

Life is too short to spend it pointing fingers and attacking others. Try kindness. When it comes back to you, it's not so bad as other repercussions might be

Lament #0014 - Ah! pain.

There was an early critique for the prologue of my novel Paradise?, which said "you seem to be alienating the 'masochist' audience," referring to the line, "...up until the part where one actually crashed into the ocean. That might not be so enjoyable. Unless of course one is a masochist, which, I hope, one is not. Or was not, seeing as how one is dead now."

An interesting thought, to be sure, and I appreciated the feedback. But here's the thing.

A true masochist would be grateful. Why, you ask? Simple. If the line from Paradise? singles out the masochist audience, and they are hurt by the reference, doesn't that help them, as they enjoy pain so much?

Honestly. I'm doing them a service.

You're welcome.