Quote of the day

Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.

C S Lewis

Rod Serling interview: Part 1

Quote of the day

Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.

Samuel Johnson

Review: Survivors: Genesis of a Hero

Survivors: Genesis of a Hero (1977) by John Eyers is the first and only sequel to Terry Nation's novel, Survivors and the only one of the two not based on events from the 1975-1978 BBC serial. It picks up directly where the previous book ended with Peter Grant having murdered his mother, whom he hadn't seen in five years, before he recognises her while stealing a trailer full of supplies.

The plague known as the Death left only a handful of the world's population alive and Britain half a decade later is a a land of overgrown fields and crumbling towns that is rapidly descending into tyranny and barbarism. Ironically, the teen-aged Peter's crime turns him into a cold-hearted killer ideally suited to survive and thrive in this new dark age. Deciding that the best way to remain alive is to join up with the most powerful group, Peter enlists in the army of the National Unity Force; a Communist movement led by former trade union leader Arthur Wormsley, who is bent on conquering the whole of Britain. Luckily, Peter is not only willing to kill anyone who stands in his way, but he is also a master with a throwing knife, a natural leader of men, and a tactical genius, so in short order he rises from recruit to Sergeant to Captain to General. True, he does this by crushing what remains of the independent peoples, but we're assured in the prologue that this is a story of Peter's redemption, so we're asked to be patient.

It's a good thing we have this assurance because that redemption is long in coming. The story keeps up a fair pace as we follow Peter's career, his entanglement in palace intrigues, and his involuntary affair with Lady Sarah Boyer–Wormsley's woman and self-proclaimed queen of England. Eyers presents us with a fairly straightforward story of Peter's rise to power and his increasing vulnerability as his star rises and he makes new, more powerful enemies. A nice touch is how Eyers contrasts this with the fate of Tom Price, the only other main character to carry over from the last book, whose path as a coward and congenital liar leaves him in a deepening state of uncertainty and terror.

Three quarters of the way through the book, Peter is now a general, Wormsley is assassinated, and our hero is on the run to Wales. It's at this point that Eyers throws us a plot twist that's more like falling into a completely different book. Up until now, the rules have been fairly clear, but once Peter passes into Wales, we've gone from science fiction into Tolkien. We discover that within ten years of civilisation's collapse the Welsh have reverted to an idealised Iron Age society complete with homespun clothes, bows and stone-tipped arrows. warrior princesses, mystic dwarfs filled with prophecies, stilted speech habits that include everyone speaking fluent Welsh Gaelic, and all of it coated with an ecumenical form of primitive Christianity that indicates that Eyers felt it was going too far to resurrect the Druids. It does not stop him from saying with a straight face that the Welsh have "eliminated evil".

One wonders what they did in their spare time.

It's also at this point that Eyers seems to have lost interest in his plot because with almost peremptory speed Peter murders Tom Price, manages to regain his soul, learns to fight for a cause rather than himself, defeats the NUF, wins the warrior princess and becomes warlord of Wales. The story doesn't so much end here as pause in expectation of the third novel that never came.

In all, Genesis of a Hero is a fair companion to Survivors. Eyers captures Nation's voice and he remains true to the setting and premises of the first book–at least until Tom Bombadil shows up, but it suffers along with the first novel from the problem of where to take the story next. Either it ends up as some nihilistic Lord of the Flies story where society crumbles and decays until the reader is left with a dark age romance set among the ruins of London or some order returns and it becomes a tale of slow reconstruction. Both are valid paths, but either would have meant ending one story and beginning another. Eyers tries to split the difference and marches off to the Shire. It's a problem, but it does illustrate an important fact; there are some stories that just naturally tend toward an end. If that is the case, then the author must bite the lead sinker and end the story or avoid it and turn the work into "The Adventures of So-and-So in Somewhere" with the story of a depopulated world reduced to a Mad Max backdrop. Or in the case of Eyers, Mad Hobbit.

Review: Survivors

If anyone were to ask me what was one of my favourite subgenres in science fiction, I'd have to say that it was the "quiet catastrophe". It's an end of the world story of the sort mastered by such British writers as John Wyndham, John Christopher, or the writing team of Kit Pedlar and Gerry Davis that changes one little thing in our world, something that is hardly noticed at first, but which leads to global disaster. Kill off all the grass in the world and it soon changes from brown lawns to universal famine. Create a bacteria that eats plastic and before you know it a few saggy plastic soda bottles lead to the destruction of London. We live in a complex and fragile world, these stories remind us, and our comfortable existence is threatened by the most unlikely of sources that can change our lives forever–if not end them entirely.

In Terry Nation's Survivors (1976), the small change is the removal of people from the world by a deadly virus. Abby Grant, the wife of a successful City banker, enjoys a well-off upper middle class life in the country. Her only concern at the moment is an outbreak of flu that is disrupting the natural order of things and keeps her eleven-year old son Peter at his boarding school, where the authorities are trying to prevent the boys from falling ill. At first, the problems are annoying; phone services disrupted, her housekeeper having to go off to tend to her sister, her husband hours late coming home because the train schedules are all fouled up.

Then the power goes out and Abby catches the flu so badly that she's in a near coma for days. When her fever breaks, she finds her husband lying dead in the living room and the village deserted except for corpses. In less than two weeks, humanity has been almost destroyed. Only about 10,000 people are left in Britain–not nearly enough to keep the complicated mechanisms of civilisation going.

Based on the first episodes of Nation's 1975-1978 BBC science fiction series, Survivors is more than a novelisation; it's an outline of how Nation wanted the series to progress before he left off writing it out of creative differences with the BBC. In both series and novel, Abby Grant meets would-be Communist dictator Arthur Wormsley, from whom she runs like the clappers, and teams up with Jenny, a secretary from London, and engineer Greg Preston, and tramp Tom Price. Abby and her band take over a farm and try to build some sort of normal life with what's left of the old world while Abby keeps up hope of one day finding her son alive.

It's at this point that the novel veers away from the series. On television, Abby's community goes through all manner of adventures and setbacks (not to mention character changes as actors leave the series), but for all the hardships it's acknowledged that there are attractions to their enforced bucolic existence. By the third season, they eventually reestablish trade, railways, telephones, and some sort of government, and by the last episode get part of the national electricity grid going. In the novel it's clear that Nation planned for a much bleaker future for Abby and her band. Far from making a go of the farm, the survivors toil from one shortage to the next; never able to get ahead and always a hostage to the seasons. By the time they do start to get on their feet, dictator-in-training Wormsley's brigands arrive on the first leg of their campaign to raid and subjugate the whole of Britain. With nothing left to lose, the survivors gather their few belongings and make for the coast and a better life on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. Not surprisingly, it does not end well.

Confining himself to the span of one novel, Nation is able to tell a more coherent story than the television version and he is able to pursue his darker version, but its very darkness makes it less believable. The entire plot is utterly devoid of humour; even the black variety. The old world and all its goods decay with a speed that one can scarcely credit. Instead of acting like survivors of a plague that left them heirs to the products of an entire civilisation that, with care, could last them generations, they are more like refugees from an all-destroying army. There isn't even any lamentation for what has been lost. No one bemoans the lack of cinemas or easy travel. It's one prolonged march through a wasteland that Poe would have appreciated.

All this could be forgiven if Nation had made more of an effort of his plots and characters. There's little or no dramatic reason for the deprivations they suffer and we aren't made to care much about them. Some characters are drawn so sparingly it's hard to even recall who they're supposed to be. It soon becomes a story about survival for the sake of surviving punctuated by an end that is perfunctory and unsatisfying.

The recent 2008 remake of the series claimed to be based on this novel rather than the original series. Perhaps, but that's hard to believe. If the novel soon strays from the series, then the remake treats the novel as a bran tub for a few scenes and lines of dialogue before discarding everything except the title and a few character names.

In summary, a book not as good as the series, but much better than its successor.

Keep at it

If you write a hundred short stories and they're all bad, that doesn't mean you've failed. You fail only if you stop writing. I've written about two thousand short stories; I've only published about three hundred and I feel I'm still learning. Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, consistent labor, he'll eventually make some kind of a career for himself as a writer.

Ray Bradbury

The Strange Case of Eric Frank Russell

L.O.W.F.I looks at the career of Eric Frank Russell; the man who coined the "ancient Chinese saying", May you live in interesting times.

An interview with Jack Williamson (1991)

The Golden Age Of Sci-Fi looks back at Jack Williamson's extraordinary sci-fi career.

The ghastly shrug

Jason Lee Steorts looks at Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugs. He's a lot more forgiving about her prose than I am. He sees Miss Rand as flawed. I see her as mad as a balloon.

There are other views.

Notes on Writing Weird Fiction

By H P Lovecraft (1937)

My reason for writing stories is to give myself the satisfaction of visualising more clearly and detailedly and stably the vague, elusive, fragmentary impressions of wonder, beauty, and adventurous expectancy which are conveyed to me by certain sights (scenic, architectural, atmospheric, etc.), ideas, occurrences, and images encountered in art and literature. I choose weird stories because they suit my inclination best—one of my strongest and most persistent wishes being to achieve, momentarily, the illusion of some strange suspension or violation of the galling limitations of time, space, and natural law which for ever imprison us and frustrate our curiosity about the infinite cosmic spaces beyond the radius of our sight and analysis. These stories frequently emphasise the element of horror because fear is our deepest and strongest emotion, and the one which best lends itself to the creation of nature-defying illusions. Horror and the unknown or the strange are always closely connected, so that it is hard to create a convincing picture of shattered natural law or cosmic alienage or “outsideness” without laying stress on the emotion of fear. The reason why time plays a great part in so many of my tales is that this element looms up in my mind as the most profoundly dramatic and grimly terrible thing in the universe. Conflict with time seems to me the most potent and fruitful theme in all human expression.

While my chosen form of story-writing is obviously a special and perhaps a narrow one, it is none the less a persistent and permanent type of expression, as old as literature itself. There will always be a small percentage of persons who feel a burning curiosity about unknown outer space, and a burning desire to escape from the prison-house of the known and the real into those enchanted lands of incredible adventure and infinite possibilities which dreams open up to us, and which things like deep woods, fantastic urban towers, and flaming sunsets momentarily suggest. These persons include great authors as well as insignificant amateurs like myself—Dunsany, Poe, Arthur Machen, M. R. James, Algernon Blackwood, and Walter de la Mare being typical masters in this field.

As to how I write a story—there is no one way. Each one of my tales has a different history. Once or twice I have literally written out a dream; but usually I start with a mood or idea or image which I wish to express, and revolve it in my mind until I can think of a good way of embodying it in some chain of dramatic occurrences capable of being recorded in concrete terms. I tend to run through a mental list of the basic conditions or situations best adapted to such a mood or idea or image, and then begin to speculate on logical and naturally motivated explanations of the given mood or idea or image in terms of the basic condition or situation chosen.

The actual process of writing is of course as varied as the choice of theme and initial conception; but if the history of all my tales were analysed, it is just possible that the following set of rules might be deduced from the average procedure:

1. Prepare a synopsis or scenario of events in the order of their absolute occurrence —not the order of their narration. Describe with enough fulness to cover all vital points and motivate all incidents planned. Details, comments, and estimates of consequences are sometimes desirable in this temporary framework.
2. Prepare a second synopsis or scenario of events—this one in order of narration (not actual occurrence), with ample fulness and detail, and with notes as to changing perspective, stresses, and climax. Change the original synopsis to fit if such a change will increase the dramatic force or general effectiveness of the story. Interpolate or delete incidents at will—never being bound by the original conception even if the ultimate result be a tale wholly different from that first planned. Let additions and alterations be made whenever suggested by anything in the formulating process.
3. Write out the story—rapidly, fluently, and not too critically—following the second or narrative-order synopsis. Change incidents and plot whenever the developing process seems to suggest such change, never being bound by any previous design. If the development suddenly reveals new opportunities for dramatic effect or vivid storytelling, add whatever is thought advantageous—going back and reconciling the early parts to the new plan. Insert and delete whole sections if necessary or desirable, trying different beginnings and endings until the best arrangement is found. But be sure that all references throughout the story are thoroughly reconciled with the final design. Remove all possible superfluities—words, sentences, paragraphs, or whole episodes or elements—observing the usual precautions about the reconciling of all references.
4. Revise the entire text, paying attention to vocabulary, syntax, rhythm of prose, proportioning of parts, niceties of tone, grace and convincingness or transitions (scene to scene, slow and detailed action to rapid and sketchy time-covering action and vice versa. . . . etc., etc., etc.), effectiveness of beginning, ending, climaxes, etc., dramatic suspense and interest, plausibility and atmosphere, and various other elements.
5. Prepare a neatly typed copy—not hesitating to add final revisory touches where they seem in order.

The first of these stages is often purely a mental one—a set of conditions and happenings being worked out in my head, and never set down until I am ready to prepare a detailed synopsis of events in order of narration. Then, too, I sometimes begin even the actual writing before I know how I shall develop the idea—this beginning forming a problem to be motivated and exploited.

There are, I think, four distinct types of weird story; one expressing a mood or feeling, another expressing a pictorial conception, a third expressing a general situation, condition, legend, or intellectual conception, and a fourth explaining a definite tableau or specific dramatic situation or climax. In another way, weird tales may be grouped into two rough categories—those in which the marvel or horror concerns some condition or phenomenon, and those in which it concerns some action of persons in connexion with a bizarre condition or phenomenon.

Each weird story—to speak more particularly of the horror type—seems to involve five definite elements: (a) some basic, underlying horror or abnormality—condition, entity, etc.—, (b) the general effects or bearings of the horror, (c) the mode of manifestation—object embodying the horror and phenomena observed—, (d) the types of fear-reaction pertaining to the horror, and (e) the specific effects of the horror in relation to the given set of conditions.

In writing a weird story I always try very carefully to achieve the right mood and atmosphere, and place the emphasis where it belongs. One cannot, except in immature pulp charlatan–fiction, present an account of impossible, improbable, or inconceivable phenomena as a commonplace narrative of objective acts and conventional emotions. Inconceivable events and conditions have a special handicap to overcome, and this can be accomplished only through the maintenance of a careful realism in every phase of the story except that touching on the one given marvel. This marvel must be treated very impressively and deliberately—with a careful emotional “build-up”—else it will seem flat and unconvincing. Being the principal thing in the story, its mere existence should overshadow the characters and events. But the characters and events must be consistent and natural except where they touch the single marvel. In relation to the central wonder, the characters should shew the same overwhelming emotion which similar characters would shew toward such a wonder in real life. Never have a wonder taken for granted. Even when the characters are supposed to be accustomed to the wonder I try to weave an air of awe and impressiveness corresponding to what the reader should feel. A casual style ruins any serious fantasy.

Atmosphere, not action, is the great desideratum of weird fiction. Indeed, all that a wonder story can ever be is a vivid picture of a certain type of human mood. The moment it tries to be anything else it becomes cheap, puerile, and unconvincing. Prime emphasis should be given to subtle suggestion—imperceptible hints and touches of selective associative detail which express shadings of moods and build up a vague illusion of the strange reality of the unreal. Avoid bald catalogues of incredible happenings which can have no substance or meaning apart from a sustaining cloud of colour and symbolism.

These are the rules or standards which I have followed—consciously or unconsciously—ever since I first attempted the serious writing of fantasy. That my results are successful may well be disputed—but I feel at least sure that, had I ignored the considerations mentioned in the last few paragraphs, they would have been much worse than they are.

Play writing

Movie writing

Raymond Chandler Interview

By Ian Fleming in 1958.

Into the Media Web: Selected Short Non-Fiction 1956-2006

A Spectator review of Michael Moorcock's new collection of his short non-fiction.

I've read a lot of Moorcock and I'm not surprised that the book reveals that he's a science fiction writer with a low opinion of the genre. He's not my favourite author, but I have a soft spot for any man who confesses to,

(A) morbid terror of vegetarianism.