Showing posts with label wisdom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wisdom. Show all posts

12 March 2017

The Quest for Magical Realism

The quest is everything. Each morning to arise and seek fortune in whatever form it may be found - that is a quest, is it not? To make hay while the sun shineth! That, too, is a quest. To live life in the fullest, if you can, and if not then to strive for such as best you can. For it is the quest which drives us on each day, not the petty amusements of good friends sharing jokes or poor road food we pretend is gourmet fare. Everything comes down to the quest. The quest is real. The quest for magical realism, however, takes more effort.

When I was challenged (yes, challenged, I say!) to write an epic fantasy with further stipulation that it must include dragons, my first thought was of a desert canyon where someone much like a gamekeeper in a park was tasked with culling the herd. That seemed suitable as an opening scene. 

Then, a few paragraphs down the page, my hero needed to move, so I typed 'horse' and immediately stopped. I thought to myself: 'Why does he ride a horse?' Everyone rides horses in fantasy! In fantasy worlds there must be more interesting animals to ride, so I imagined a stockier sort of beast and in my mind's eyes a hippopotamus appeared. I envisioned Mongo riding an ox from Blazing Saddles. All right, I said, let us go with that for now and see how it develops. Later, when the fantasy world that was blossoming slowly transformed into a far-futuristic America (though I would never have admitted it at that time), the hippo became the product of the "Clona Arts". There were no more horses to ride. For an epic fantasy, the stipulation to include magic was automatic.

And here our tale turns from fantasy to...well, something a bit more scientific. Is that allowed in an epic fantasy? In my less-than-humble opinion, if the persons at hand believe it is magic, then it is magic; for what is magic but science which has yet to be fully understood as science? Purists will disagree, yet allow us to inquire of a true magus. Joragus, the magus of Metta, explains how he does what he does magically by describing the nature of things in layman's jargon. Because magic nevertheless relies on rules which a magician would understand innately, it could be explained to anyone and thereby understood. It would be similar to a scientist explaining something complex to a simpleton - or a child. To whit:


“You must understand the workings of everything—everything seen and unseen in the world—before you can learn magic.” [said Joragus]
“Teach me, Joragus!” the boy shouted.
“As you wish.” The magus gave an annoyed glance at Corlan [the dragonslayer] who was happy to grin like a thief. “Everything is made of dust—very tiny dust, so small you cannot see it. The dust of the earth is solid so you can see it when it comes together in large enough piles. The dust of the air is thin so you can see through it even when it comes together in large piles. It is these tiny particles of dust which magic can move.”
“How does playing with dust stop a spear that’s thrown at you?” Corlan asked, a little more curious.
“Ah! I see your plan. You also want to know how to stop a sharp spear amidst the air.”
“That would be a good thing to know,” said Corlan with a nod at the boy. “Wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” said Tam.
“Have you ever seen lightning strike down from the sky?” asked Joragus. “That is the same fire-root that runs through every living thing. People, too.”
“If that’s true, how are we not destroyed by it?” asked Corlan.
“What is inside us is much smaller, not enough to hurt us. And yet, some people—a trained magus, for example—can draw together all of that fire within him and send it out just like lightning.”
“But I didn’t see anything like lightning when you held up your hand to stop the spear.”
“No, it is still invisible. Just as the air is invisible.”
“I think your magic is all in your words, old man,” said Corlan.
“I told you there is an ocean of tiny particles, like dust, that make up all the air around us. When I use my magic power to gather all the fire within me, I charge those particles with the fire. It’s like black and white. Everything is either black or white. The particles in the air are white—you can see through them and throw spears through them. When I send my inner fire out to those particles, they turn black—although they are still invisible to our eyes.”
“So these tiny dust specks turn colors....”
“No, it is merely a tale to explain to you what happens, to show you. A magic lesson for the boy...as you suggested.” He turned to Tam. “You follow my tale, don’t you?”
Tam nodded eagerly.
“When those particles turn black,” the magus continued, “they become tight to each other and nothing can come through them. They become like a shield, even though you cannot see it with your eyes. You must remember that our eyes do not see most of the things in the world—and what we do see is most often a mere trick of light. There is much more we do not see than what we do see.”
“So that’s what you did back there to stop the spear?”
“Yes, in brief.”
“Though not quick enough to keep the speartip from cutting your palm, eh?”
“As we say in magus school, it is better to be late than to never be ready at all.”


The goal in writing anything of the fantastic is to make it seem accurate and true, plausible at worst. The reader must believe in the possibility of the magic actually occurring. And in the extreme nature of a dragon attack, a good magus is good to have. You see, no matter how brave the dragonslayer may be, no matter how strong his will, how tight his belly, there may come a moment when nothing more can be done to ward off death. It is at this moment when a magus, even one in his fourth iteration, might step forward to save the day - and thereby be rewarded with yet another day. Another quest. For each day is a new quest, seeking forever the horizon, a new meal, and ultimately the final chapter.

For more pearls of wisdom, read on!

EPIC FANTASY *WITH DRAGONS 


The Paper Version
The Kindle Version

For a different view, check out my interview on author Connie Jasperson's blog.

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(C) Copyright 2010-2017 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

16 November 2013

Are you better at wasting time than me?

Forgive me, for I have not blogged for a couple of weeks. I did not intend to worry anyone. I assumed that you would assume that I was busy. And we both would be half-right.

No, the truth is much more glamorous than that: I have been un-busy. Slothsome, in fact. Sure, I've held up my end of the bargain at Ye Ole Day Job, so that may count as some form of recreation. I go through my paces, saying the right words, smiling at the right moments, interacting as though I live and breathe. But it may be construed by any astute observer to be a very good act, perhaps worthy of an Oscar. (That Acting 101 class finally pays off!) I confess to using more and more of my office time to see what great things are happening in the world of social media...and find myself more often than not rather disappointed in humanity.

And I've been dutiful in my duties at home, i.e., the book business. Things are progressing nicely, but I shan't explain more lest certain somebodies be tempted to rant that I am promoting again. That nasty P-word! I'm not after huge sums of cash; I only wish to share a good story or two--or three. Welcome to my [invented] world, and all that! Enjoy the ride. (You can click on links to the top-right of my page if you wish to escape reality.)

It is simply the time of year that it happens to be now. The mirth of Halloween is done, the upswing to the Thanksgiving shopping season is about to begin, and that leaves us (well, me, anyway) with not much to do. Last blog post, I waxed on waxed off about NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), lamenting how I could not participate because of my full schedule--then that full schedule never quite materialized. I look like a liar now.

So I made excuses. Sure, I've written 50,000 words in a month. No big deal. Sure, I've got papers to grade (well, those that have been turned in). Sure, I've got life issues to slap around--and, in turn, dodge the ripostes. Sure, the weather has been up and down, hot and cold, winter parkas and shirtsleeves. Sure, I avoid saying 'surely' so as not to link with that Airplane movie's tag line ("And don't call me Shirley!"). Still, they add up to no excuse, which is just a poor excuse.

However, I have been successful in one endeavor: wasting time. Of course, time is finite, and if you waste it, you don't get it back. It's a zero-sum game and you don't know the rules. Father Time is a cheater, too. (Truth be told, that time machine thing I mentioned a while back? Well, it's fictitious. I know you're shocked.) Clocks are evil, alarms like a musty foot out of hell. Calendars steal your soul. In a perfect universe time would be unmeasurable, one eternity as slick as one moment. Thus, what you waste is truly waste. And what a waste that is!

So one day last week, I found myself standing in the middle of my kitchen wondering what to do: at that moment, lost between one particular second and another particular second, wondering why it's called a 'second' when certainly there is a 'first' and a 'third' that will tick by just as blithely as the second second. Coffee, cocoa, or tea? Bagel, muffin, or oatmeal? See a movie, browse for books, or shop for groceries? Too many choices. And then it hit me: the insight I'd been waiting for:

When you turn the last page of a calendar, you're done. No more. The end.

Well, that probably was not as dramatic as it could have been, but it fulfills the goal of cranking out a crank blog post before my first sip of coffee. Notice I pasted an hour glass instead of a calendar? That's got to mean something. In the end I chose the muffin and the bookstore. I watched people come and go. Some of them stopped for a while, cracked book covers. Creepy! Others seemed as lost as me, wondering what to do between our lives, the here and now versus the whatever comes next. Some call it the weekend. End? Did someone just type 'w-e-e-k-e-n-d'?

Perhaps, I should have waited to write this until the first cup was finished. Then I would not need spellcheck. Then I could have been more verbose, more sanguine, more...whatever. I really should not blog on an empty stomach. Thanks for your patience. As always.


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(C) Copyright 2010-2013 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.