In the interview, I talk a bit about Baldairn Motte, and a little bit about why I think vanilla is better than chocolate, and about many other things as well.  If you haven’t already checked it out, you can go there now by clicking this link.

I know that Harry Potter was big. (Hell, even my bubble isn’t that effective.)  I read the first book when it came out, and was underwhelmed. I never read anymore, though I saw one of the movies. (But I digress: the problems with Harry Potter are well-documented, and neither here nor there.)

Of course, I had my favorites as a kid: the Hobbit, A Wrinkle in Time, The Phoenix and the Carpet, A Horse and His Boy, A Wizard of Earthsea, Kidnapped, SuperFudge, Julie of the Wolves, and such.  Good books all, and I occasionally reread some of them.

But I don’t understand how YA has currently gotten so big with adults now.  It’s hard for me as an adult to read much YA now, for a trio of reasons.

1. The Gargamel Problem.

The problem with the villain in YA (especially spec fic) is that he isn’t very capable. If he was, the teen boy/perky girl/carebear would die and the story would be over. I can suspend my disbelief about magic and monsters, but in those worlds I can’t believe that evil overlords can’t summon the power to defeat a sullen teenager.

2. Teen Trauma.

One of the central conceits of YA is that is in a position to deal with the problem of coming of age.  This theme is one of the all-time greats, of course, but has to be handled with finesse.

I’m not a psychologist, but I am aware of many studies dealing with the modern invention of the teenager.  What’s more, there can be a tendency to dip into angst and melodrama.

What’s worse, while I don’t deny that teens have large challenges (moreso now than when I went to high school in the 90′s), the idea that a genre of books needs to pander to a group that, at its worth, can be entitled and not have perspective .  In fact, there probably aren’t too many problems that teens have that adults don’t. Ostracism, depression, body image issues are part of the modern (western) human condition.

3. Lazy as a Sloth.

YA writing is, like all writing, widely variable and not easily categorized. I’m going to anyway: it’s lazy. The best status your prose can achieve is “effective.” Probably the best-written YA prose I’ve seen is from Susan Cooper’s Dark is Rising. Her writing is effective, but never beautiful.

Even the difference between the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings is telling, though those books belong to another era.

Don’t take my word for it, but the prose of Rothfuss, Kafka, Borge, Wolfe, Bakker,Valente, Meivelle, and Vandermeer. and Guy Gavriel Kay, Peake, Ford, and Zafón (as translated by Graves) is all considered exceptional.  I don’t think there are any YA writers in that conversation.  (The Giver is quite good, but its not comparable.)

I recently read the first Percy Jackson by Rick Riordan.  It was clever at times, and engaging, but very light.  I’ve taken a look at the three books I have (I’m not in a place in the world with a lot of book collections)  and compared the second paragraph on page 23.

I’ll begin with Percy Jackson.

The only person I dreaded saying good-bye to was Grover, but as it turned out, I didn’t have to. He’d booked a ticket to Manhattan on the same Greyhound as I had, so there we were, together again, heading into the city.

It’s not bad writing, but the second sentence is close to a run-on.  Compare that to Guy Gavriel Kay’s The Summer Tree.

“You are too quick to renounce friendship, Dave Martynuik,” Marcus snapped back.  ”But,” he went on, more gently, after a frozen instant, “it doesn’t matter here–and to make you see why, I must try to explain.  Which is harder than it would have been once.”  He hesitated, hand at his beard again.

There’s some stuff going on there–nice writing, characterization, and “frozen instant” is a damned nice turn of phrase.

That is just one look at one random page, which admittedly is a small sample size.

(Unrelated to anything, here is an excerpt of the third book: Almuric by Robert E Howard.  This was written 1939; what we expect from our writing has changed.)

It is needless for me to narrate the details of the following months.  I dwelt among the hills in such suffering and peril as no man on Earth has experienced for thousands of years.  I make bold to say that only a man of extraordinary strength and ruggedness could have survived as I did.  I did more than survive.  I came at last to thrive on the existence.

Yikes.

These are three reasons why I don’t think writing something specifically YA is as good as writing a book that applies to everyone.  I over-generalized some generalizations, and I’m happy to be corrected with any specific examples.  Let me know what your thoughts are.

While 2010 was a high-point for me (selling one story to an anthology, getting my novel published) 2011 has been consisted of a few steps back.

Although I sold one story to Eschatology early on, my track record otherwise was a bit rough. I submitted a variety of stories for a total of 26 times. 23 of them were rejected, with varying degrees of acceptance. Furthermore, 2 of the three acceptances were for travel writing as guest articles.

So my acceptances are down. The good news is that I’ve written more this year than ever before. Almost 100,000 total. I have a 5000 word steampunk story that might be a start of a novel, and I think it’s one of the best short stories I’ve ever written. I have a couple of other stories plotted and I think they have some real promise.

Most importantly is Lifeless. I had a thousand or two words written in 2010, but now I’ve got 80,000 and it’s almost done. I aim to finish it before Lunar New Years (mid-January). It’s been a pain to write–many POV’s, lots of research, and covering a span of time that could kindly be described as ill-advised. It’s not like anything I’ve written before, nor is it like anything I’ve read before.

What’s more, though there haven’t been very many reviews, they’ve all been great. (I’ve linked to most of them on this blog if you’re interested.) Therefore, while this year has not been replete with successes, I think I’m poised for a good 2012. At the very least, I should have a novel and 3 or 4 decent stories to shop.

What are your goals for 2012? How much have you written this year?

Lament for Gandalf by Colin Rudd
This one speaks for itself. I believe it was written between Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers.

Marvin I Love you
This one is unique, as Douglas Adams was directly responsible for it. It’s still a pretty catchy song.
Long ago, in another galaxy
There lived a gloomy robot
His name was Marvin
He was getting old and a bit rusty
And nobody liked him

Ramble On – Led Zeppelin
To be precise, Led Zeppelin has several songs that reference Lord of the Rings (including Stairway to Heaven) and, famously, they have odes to Vikings and Achilles as well. But a look at the lyrics below will make it clear why I think Ramble On is the nerdiest of their songs.
Mine’s a tale that can’t be told, my freedom I hold dear.
How years ago in days of old, when magic filled the air.
T’was in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair.
But Gollum, and the evil one crept up and slipped away with her, her, her….yeah.

White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane
This is probably more an ode to mind-altering substances than to literature, but Grace Slick has stated she was a big fan of Lewis Carrol.
And if you go chasing rabbits
And you know you’re going to fall
Tell ‘em a hookah smoking caterpillar
Has given you the call

Don’t Wear the Ring by Flight of the Concords
Bret was, of course, infamous in his small role in Fellowship. He and Jemaine submitted this song to Peter Jackson as a possible theme for the films. But they will explain it in the clip:
I don’t rap about bitches and hoes, I rap about witches and trolls
Just passing on the words of the Elven king,
Wisdom to all
Frodo! Don’t wear the ring!

A Cloak of Elvenkind by Marcy Playground
These one-hit wonders seemingly found plenty of time to play Dungeons and Dragons. They also had a song called The Ballad of Aslan, which is worth a listen.
Sixteen books of magic spells
Stacked below the cloak of elves
And sixteen books on magic spells
So elegantly bound
And I know I could not say why

In the Garage by Weezer
Long-time the poster children for nerds, Weezer never put it better.
I’ve got the Dungeon Master’s Guide.
I’ve got a 12-sided die.
I’ve got Kitty Pryde
And Nightcrawler too
Waiting there for me.
Yes I do, I do.

Circus Maximus by Clutch
Lead singer Neil Fallon was an English major, and is a voracious reader. This song is chock full of references to the AD&D Monster Manual.
Now may I present to you the basilisk?
Please dawn your goggles if you wish to resist.
From the fiery depths of the planet’s core
The never sleeping for wont of eating unholy stench of the manticore.

Narnia by Steve Hackett
You might not expect a collaboration between members of Genesis and Kansas ending up with lyrics like this:
With a queen cold as ice
You’d best take my advice
To steer clear of her charm
She’s easily annoyed
What’s that sound, you turn around
It just happens there are bells
And reindeer drawing a sleigh

Honorable Mention: Hobbit on the Rocks by Marcy playground
It doesn’t have a youtube clip, and the lyrics aren’t that inspirational, but you’d be surprised how edgy it was to sing about hobbits in the early 1995.

As he says:

It’s a month of horror.

And so I feel like the first flash challenge (and maybe all of ‘em, who knows) should focus on horror. Right? Right. Or, at least, monsters. Here, then, is your task: I want to see a brand new monster. Something you’ve never seen before. Not a vampire. Fuck the zombies. No werewolves or ghouls or ghosts or demons or witches or Snookis. I want you to the best of your ability write a story featuring a Brand New Monster of your own creation.

It cannot be longer than 1000 words. Those are the rules. Here is my entry, about a desert-dwelling ghoulish succubus. This story is probably Not Safe for Work.

The Wasteland

Aranth disgustedly spat sand out of his mouth. It was hot and dry and sandy and hot. The landscape was a parody of all that was right. Deserts of stony flint stretched before him, dry salt lakes perched beneath lofty sand dunes, and there was no water anywhere.

The Wasteland. He knew that as hot as it was now, the nights would cool to dangerously low temperatures. There were few animals other than the occasional reptile he saw submerged beneath the sand. In short, it was as deadly and inhospitable a landscape that could be imagined.

The land was not featureless, but neither did the assorted stones, dunes and gulleys make it easy to get one’s bearings. Particularly in the daytime, when there were no stars to guide him.

Aranth was lost–lost without food, water, or friends. There was not much time for self-pity, as it took all of his concentration to survive. When he had awoken on the fringe of the wasteland, he had had nothing save the clothes on his back. He was beyond hungry–had not eaten since, three nights ago, as best he could reckon. But he knew he could survive for weeks without food, if need be. It was the lack of water that was his biggest danger. He had been hoping to find a stream—to drink from surely, but also to soak his clothing in. But there was nothing.

The sun was setting as his shoes scuffed softly over the dry terrain. This was the best time to walk, as it was neither too hot or too cold. Exhaustion, however, threatened to overtake him, and when he saw the smooth shaded side of a dune a few minutes later he stopped and instantly fell asleep.

***

He awoke, tense and adrenaline flowing. The stars lit up the dark sky and he realized he must have slept for several hours. It seemed though that something was wrong.

Something had changed in the night air. Instead of the earthy, desert scent was a sweeter and more subtle aroma. It smelled of perfume. The kind of perfume worn by the most beautiful woman in the world. Aranth could practically see her, so evocative was her scent. Long, lithe legs that stretched seemingly forever. Beautiful dark tresses, covering her smiling face. Eyes of the lightest blue, the color of the sky on summer days of the past. ‘

She was there, suddenly. Exactly like he had pictured, and naked; her supple body hairless. And she started kissing Aranth. He kissed her back, kissed her with a longing he had never felt. He felt like he was complete, that his life had only now truly started. She pushed him down to the sandy ground, and bestrode him, her long legs stretching to either side of his body. Her nude body rubbed against his waist and for an instant he hated his clothing, that it could hinder him in such a manner
She kissed him more, her tongue attacking in little, flicking gestures. His hands found themselves stroking her breasts. They were large, but round and soft in his hands. Her nipples hardened instantly at his touch and she began, ever so softly, to pant.

Her soft perfumed skin was everywhere, and his eyes closed as he breathed in the fragrance. His mind spun, as if it could not truly comprehend the beauty before him. He knew with utter conviction that he would do anything for this woman. His eyes would not open again, though he knew that his tunic had been lifted up. The woman urgently rubbed her wet groin over his body, her panting louder and more desperate. She lifted her hips up ever so slightly and descended upon his hardness with a wet embrace. Her fingernails scraped from his chest down to his stomach, and lower. He had never had a pleasure that could match that delectable pain.

The darkness began to overwhelm him and he realized he was dying. It was surprising, but not alarming. Perhaps, he mused, it was too much sensory stimulation. As the last fragments of his self began to scatter, he felt … sad. His own sadness was part of it, but a small part. He felt the grief of the world descend upon him….

A slap sent the darkness fleeing away, and the shadows abandoned him. A second brought his eyes open again. The naked woman who had nearly killed him was beside him, ferally stretched and hissing. Not at him.

At the woman who had appeared next to him. At the woman who had slapped his would-be lover away.

“Leave this one. He is too young to suffer the fate you offer.”

The naked woman, her face racked with beautiful hatred, raised her hands up. In the waning light, her fingers looked more like talons. She said nothing, but her face echoed an anger that spanned eons. She turned then and was gone.

“You had best clean yourself up, boy.”

He looked down and realized he was still quite naked. And aroused. His chest had deep red trenches already scabbing up. With a start he pulled his tunic on and stood up.

“Who—what was she?”

“They call her Lamia. You do not wish to know more about her.”

The woman before him was nothing like the one who had just left, but in a more earthly way was equally beautiful. Her reddish-brown hair was short, her body small but muscled in the way of a dancer or warrior. She wore clothing he had not seen before, but her legs and arms were completely bare. Dozens of multi-colored bracelets jangled about her calves and ankles.

“Thank you. I owe my life to you. I am Aranth.”

She looked at him, surprise flashing in her green eyes. “I suppose you do. How unfortunate.”

The End.