On the Ridiculous Idea that You Can Steal an Idea

Stop me when you know what famous book this is:

A young kid growing up in an oppressive family situation suddenly learns that he is one of a special class of children with special abilities, who are to be educated in a remote training facility where student life is dominated by an intense game played by teams flying in midair, at which this kid turns out to be exceptionally talented and a natural leader. He trains other kids in unauthorized extra sessions, which enrages his enemies, who attack him with the intention of killing him; but he is protected by his loyal, brilliant friends and gains strength from the love of some of his family members. He is given special guidance by an older man of legendary accomplishments who previously kept the enemy at bay. He goes on to become the crucial figure in a struggle against an unseen enemy who threatens the whole world.

If you said Harry Potter, you're right. But if you said Ender's Game . . . you're also right. This quote is from an article Orson Scott Card wrote, berating J.K. Rowling for this one time she got mad at someone for "stealing" her ideas.

Guys, you can't NOT steal ideas.

Don't believe me? Visit TV Tropes for like two seconds (if you dare). Such a site wouldn't even exist if the tropes listed there hadn't been done time and time again. Not because people are unoriginal, but because we are original, but that does not mean what you think it means.

Being original means we all take the same raw materials -- life -- and turn it into something unique. But it's because of those common raw materials that we all come up with chosen ones and special powers and wise old mentors and unlikely leaders. Because those are the things that move us.

Don't worry about someone stealing your idea, and don't worry about stealing someone else's. Ideas cannot be copyrighted and no one can win a lawsuit because you also made references to the Bible. If they could, the Tolkien estate would own Hasbro by now, and C.S. Lewis's benefactors would have a number of things to say to that guy who tried to sue Assassin's Creed.

Keep moving forward, taking people's ideas and letting people take yours. It's all good, and it'll come back around anyway. Because the goal is not originality or even money. The goal is to show people old things in a new way.

Your way.

An Open Love Letter to Joss Whedon

Dear Mr. Whedon,

Thank you, thank you for the Avengers movie. And thank you for doing everything right. There are so many ways this movie could've been screwed up, and you did none of them.

You could have unbalanced the cast. I mean, shoot, there were like seven heroes, five of whom have (or deserve) their own movies. By all normal screenplay calculations, the cast should have been unbalanced! Ironman should've stolen the show, or Thor should've been relegated to some kind of adviser role, or at the VERY LEAST Black Widow and Hawkeye should've been ignored entirely (I would even forgive you for that last one).

But they weren't! Everyone had their moments. Every character was believably, realistically involved. Thor and Loki had brother issues. Black Widow and Hawkeye had a freaking non-romantic relationship. Captain America was still dealing with the fallout from his last movie (heck, they all were). I love them all!

You could have revealed something lame that demeaned or flat out broke the original movies. You wouldn't have been the first. I mean, how do you explain why there are billionaires and WW2 super soldiers fighting alongside gods? To save the planet from alien invasion?

Dang, man, you actually made the prequels better at some points. The Thor movie didn't make me stand up and cheer, but you made Thor and Loki's characters deeper. You gave Captain America a reason for his ridiculously patriotic uniform. Thor quipped about how Asgardians always seem to beat each other up when they come to Earth (even though they're supposed to be more civilized).

You took the holes in the character's backstories and said, "Ha! Hey guys, look! A hole!" and then moved on. I love you for that.

You could have made Black Widow into an object. Every other screenwriter would've done it, and nobody would've blamed you. Heck, it's what they did with her character in Ironman 2.

And yet, in this movie, Natasha acted sexy or weak only twice, and both times she was totally messing with someone to get what she needed. So. Awesome.

You could have written cheesy, cliche dialog. I mean you couldn't have, Joss, because you're not like that. But Hollywood could've put someone in there who left the "This is just like Budapest" line as is, or who didn't understand how Tony Stark's ultra-clever Disregard for Everything works.

You could have made the Hulk into a dumb tank. It would've worked. I mean, that's what he is. And you did make him into a tank, but a super awesome one.

We didn't even see the big guy until halfway through the film, but two minutes into Mark Ruffalo's first scene (who, by the way, I might have to write another love letter to; he is now my favorite Bruce Banner of all time) you made sure we knew how scary the Hulk is. Not by telling us, not even with dialog, but by showing it on Black Widow's face when she was too afraid to put her gun down.

You could have done any of this. It's what's Hollywood has done with most superhero movies. And I forgive them, because the stories are fun and the heroes are awesome. But you? You made me fall in love with Thor and Hawkeye, characters I used to make fun of.

You have already had a significant influence over the novel that got me an agent. But now I'm going to watch everything of yours I can get my hands on. Thank you for influencing everything.

Sincerely,
Another Fan

Santa and the Siege of Barad-dûr

From Anthdrawlogy's Elves week. As far as I'm concerned there is only one kind of elf, though I'm more flexible with who their boss is.

Books I Read: The Alloy of Law

Title: The Alloy of Law
Author: Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Steampunk Fantasy
Published: 2011
Content Rating: R for action violence

Three hundred years after the events of the Mistborn trilogy, the world has been reborn and is in the midst of an industrial revolution, with trains and guns, skyscrapers and electricity -- and outlaws and the lawmen who bring them to justice.

Wax Ladrian is one such lawman, retired after his last job ended in the death of the girl he loved. He's just getting used to the noble life he had abandoned long ago, when his fiancee is kidnapped by a notorious band of criminals, led by a man whose Allomantic powers render him nigh immortal. As Wax gets more involved in the investigation, he learns that the city can be even more dangerous than the outskirts he used to protect.

You may recall I loved the original trilogy, and I love this. It's not as epic; Sanderson admits that he wrote it for fun, basically, and it totally is. It's a classic Western story wrapped up in a world where the kind of metal you wear (or eat) determines whether you launch yourself into the air, heal yourself, or stop time.

I have to admit the occasional character or plot event felt too . . . straightforward to me. But I love the mystery and detective work. I love the way Allomancy (and Feruchemy, which we didn't see as much of in the trilogy) interact with this new industrialized world. And I LOVED the banter between Wax and his deputy Wayne (who reminded me an awful lot of a certain pilot of a Firefly-class vessel).

Wax and Wayne. Heh, I just got that.

Differences Between Querying and Submissions

You may or may not know by now that Air Pirates is out there on submission. Meaning honest to God editors are reading it. Submitting to editors this way is very similar to querying, but there are some differences I've noticed.

Disclaimer: This is based on my limited submissions experience so far. Your mileage may vary.

DIFFERENCE #1: Responses. I get them.
For better or worse, "no response means no" seems to be more and more common among agents. But on submissions, so far I get answers. Even better, I get semi-personalized answers (or, to be more accurate, my agent gets them and disseminates them to me). They may not tell me exactly what's wrong with the story (see SIMILARITY #2), but they give me a lot more information than form rejections.

DIFFERENCE #2: My agent does all the work.
I'm sure you all remember the scads of data I kept on my querying journey. On submissions? I keep track of nothing. I don't have to write the pitch, keep track of where I sent it and when, or follow up when responses are slow. And I like it that way.

Though I admit, I kinda miss my chart.

DIFFERENCE #3: Thinking long term.
In the query trenches, I had one focus: get an agent. But on submission, I find myself thinking more long term. For example, before I found Tricia, I had a handful of agents say they'd be interested in seeing future queries from me. That's neat, but now that I have an agent, I don't need to remember that information.*

But when an editor says something like that, it matters even if I get a book deal on Air Pirates. Why? Because this is my career now (potentially). Air Pirates will run its course someday, and even now, I need to be thinking about what comes next and where it might go.

* Though you can be sure that if, in some twisted alternate universe, Tricia and I part ways, I will be scouring my Gmail archives in search of those agents.


So there are some differences, but whether you're querying agents or submitting to editors, some things never change.

SIMILARITY #1: The waiting.
Oh, God, the waiting.

SIMILARITY #2: The content of the responses.
Writing is subjective. One agent thought revising to YA was a mistake, another said it was the right way to go. And you know what? They're both right. Turns out editors have the same sorts of opinions.

SIMILARITY #3: My job.
I still write. Through all the waiting and all the responses and all the excitement and the let downs: I. Still. Write.

In Which I (Yet Again) Discover Why I Don't Self-Publish

[Some of the links below go to TV Tropes. You have been warned.]

These days, there is no end of people who say, "Why are you still putting yourself through the misery of traditional publishing?" Some folks say it nicer. Some are meaner and use words like "broken," "obsolete," and "dinosaur". I've talked about my reasons before, but I've come to realize that the thing behind it all is an illogical personality quirk.

I am trying to get the best ending.

Before I go on, understand that I don't think either path -- self-publishing or traditional -- is better than the other. They are both means to reach readers, and to that end, both sometimes work and sometimes don't.

I'm talking about video games. The RPGs and graphic adventures that form the core of my childhood often gave you multiple paths to complete the game, and often different endings. Sometimes there was a "best" ending; sometimes the endings were just different.

The thing about me is, whether there was a "best" ending or not, I always tried to get it. I'm the kind of guy who will spend hours leveling up the most useless Pokemon in existence, trusting he'll become something awesome (spoiler: he does). I'll choose the Smash Bros. character everyone hates and spend weeks figuring out how to beat the crap out of people with him. I once stopped playing Riven for 5 years because I refused to look up the solution to the puzzle I was stuck on.

The point is I'm stubborn, and I've been conditioned to believe that the path of most resistance will yield the best rewards.

Again, before all you self-pubbers stab me with your pitchforks: I don't believe traditional publishing is better, not in a money-and-success way. It's only my subconscious that's convinced me there's some kind of unlockable bonus item.

But if my intellect says both paths are viable, why am I still doing the hard one?

Because the other part of my personality quirk is this: even if the ending is the same, I want to be able to say I finished the game on the hardest setting. To say I beat Super Mario Bros. without warping (I did), I caught all 151 Pokemon (I didn't), I finished Contra without losing a single life (did).

For me, getting traditionally published isn't about making more money or even reaching more readers. Neither path outdoes the other in that sense. Getting traditionally published is about being able to say I did it.

What about you? What's your path and why?

The Secret to World Building

"Part of the attraction of the Lord of the Rings is, I think, due to the glimpses of a large history in the background: an attraction like that of viewing far off an unvisited island, or seeing the towers of a distant city gleaming in a sunlit mist. To go there is to destroy the magic, unless new unattainable vistas are again revealed."

                               -- J. R. R. Tolkien, Godfather of World Building

The secret to creating a compelling world is to maintain the illusion that there is always more.

The second biggest mistake amateur world-builders make when showing off their world is to explore all of it. The worst is when they let the narrator or the protagonist or, God forbid, some professor character infodump all over the reader about their beautiful world -- all its countries and cultures, its languages and latitudes.

But even those that avoid the infodump -- who take their protagonist through the world so the reader can experience it -- will sometimes make the mistake of showing everything.

As the author, you need to know everything about your world, precisely because of what Tolkien says above. The reader wants hints that the world is much bigger than what they see. And if you always "go there," if you tell them all about it, you destroy the magic.

The Hunger Games still has districts we know nothing about. Mistborn implies the existence of undiscovered metals, with undiscovered powers. Even if you've read everything the Tolkien estate has ever published, there are still places in Middle Earth that you've only heard about. That is what will make your world compelling.

What are your favorite fictional worlds? What parts do you wish you could see more of?