You can’t swing an antique typewriter on the Internet without hitting a writer giving advice to their younger self.
But it’s not a purely pointless cliche. Writing is a skill-set as much as it is a Mysterious Talent Breathed Into Our Ears By Angels. Stick with it and you learn. What you learn is idiosyncratic but might be of use to younger writers who are stumbling in ways similar to your own hilarious youthful pratfalls.
Heck, reflecting on what you think you might have learned can actually be the moment you learn it.
So, without further ado, seven things I’d tell younger self if I met him and he let me get a word in edgeways…
Don’t wait.Second post on this blog pretty much explains this one. If you love writing, prioritize it. I chose a more “practical” route, and it vanished like a soap bubble.
Write a little every day. Don’t tell yourself you’ll put off writing until you have “enough time” to devote to it. You’ll never have much more time to write than you do right now. And you need the ongoing routine and practice to improve. So write even, a little, as often as you can.
Finish things. Again, it’s how you learn. I used to abandon a story whenever it went awry. Took me ages to learn I was mucking up my starts because I hardly ever saw them in the context of a completed story where it was more obvious that I was generally starting stories too early.
Perfect is for saps. I say “awry,” but I used to abandon stories because I knew I couldn’t make them perfect. I used to not submit stories because I knew they weren’t perfect. “Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.” You’re as good as you are, and you’ll get better if you don’t give up for want of perfection.
Don’t worry about rules.Patricia Wrede says this best on her Six Impossible Things blog.
Realize that doubt is just weather. God I’ve struggled with self doubt. Given up on writing. Given up on individual stories. I’ve gone back to stories that wracked me with so much doubt that I pitched them into the bin, and found stuff in them that was so good it surprised me. Self doubt isn’t truth: it’s weather. It will pass. Wait it out.
Mind your health. I didn’t. But writers aren’t disembodied brains, and you will eventually sabotage everything you do if you neglect your physical well-being.
In an earlier post, I used Goffman’s idea that we present ourselves differently to different audiences to suggest that characters (and people) will have a bunch of different roles and each of those roles make them act in specific ways in specific circumstances. Identity theory takes that a little bit further.
Cooley and the Looking-Glass Self
Before identity theory there was Charles Cooley and his looking-glass self.
Cooley felt that who a person was emerged from a reflective process of imagining how society saw them and feeling good or bad about it (Serpe & Stryker, 2011, p. 227).
How this impacts behaviour can be seen in Shakespeare’s magnificent Shylock, who says to those who have treated him with the contempt due an usurer, “Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a cause; But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs.” Alternatively, someone who takes pride in thinking they are known for their good works, may often be kind.
Cooley believed that how much a person or group’s perception of us contributed to who we were and how we acted depended on how significant they were to us. If we have no ties to society, if we think society doesn’t want a bar of us, we’re less likely to change our ways to please them. If we believe our wife thinks we’re fat, maybe we’ll cut down on pizza (maybe).
In identity theory, Sheldon Stryker put forward a way to understand how our relationship to society makes us act differently from the next person (Serpe & Stryker, 2011, p.233).
Why do I malinger in the break room while you do all the work? Why does she fight for worker rights while he fires ten percent of his workforce just before Christmas?
One answer is we’re none of us just a single reflection in Cooley’s looking-glass. Our “self” has as many identities as we have discrete social groups with whom we have a relationship, and each of those social groups sees us in a particular way and has particular expectations which we’ll either comply with or resist (Serpe & Stryker, 2011, p. 233). Depending on who we’re with, our identity might be Parent, Child, Worker, Sibling, Tough Guy, People Pleaser, or countless others. We contain multitudes.
Which identity pops up under what circumstances depends on the identity’s salience—its importance and relevance—in that situation (Serpe & Stryker, 2011, p. 233). It’s a no brainer that at work your Worker identity will have salience. But if you’re unexpectedly bullied at work maybe it will trigger your Tough Guy identity to salience (or your inner Child).
Stryker suggest three related factors shaping identity salience and behaviour(Serpe & Stryker, 2011, p. 234):
Commitment describes how powerfully your relationship with a social group compels you to act in a particular identity or role, identity is the pattern of behaviours and expectations making up who you are with a particular group of people, and role choice is a set of relevant behaviours (Serpe & Stryker, 2011, pp. 233-234)
Studies have shown that strong social ties to a group will increase the salience of identities associated with that group and likewise the time and energy spent performing associated roles (Serpe & Stryker, 2011, p.234). That is, we most often behave in ways consistent with the expectations of the people who are most important to us.
Just to quickly summarise:
Individuals are a mass of identities shaped by their social relationship.
Our identities come with a whole set of expectations about who we are and what we’ll do.
Which identity has salience in a particular moment is rooted in how numerous and strong our ties are to the social group associated with that identity.
Writing and Identity Theory
Characterization of Heroes
Your character motivations, then, will come down to the clearly definable groups of social relationships in their lives and the relative strength of their ties to those groups.
As a hero, chances are most of their social groups will have expectations of fairly healthy and positive behaviour from them, and that will inform the range of identities making up the hero’s self, and which of those identities might have the greatest salience in a scene or even across a large part of the plot.
If their identity as Husband, Son, Churchgoer, Citizen, all come with expectations of civic responsibility, then powerful identity salience might motivate the character to fight their city’s corruption throughout a long book. At the same time, maybe their childhood friendship with the chief figures in the corruption makes for scenes in which the identity of Friend gains salience, and motivates them to give someone a second chance who doesn’t deserve one.
From this example it’s clear that conflicting commitments and identities are great drivers of story conflict, internal and external.
Identity theory also provides an approach to plotting out a character arc. Changing your character between the beginning and end of your book can be seen as reducing the salience of one or more of their original identities and increasing the salience of one or more of their other identities. Friend to Cop, say, in the example above.
And that can be achieved by allowing events to weaken or strengthen their ties to the relevant social group. Betrayal by their corrupt friend weakens ties to friendships from the old neighbourhood. The travails of fighting corruption together strengthens ties to honest cop colleagues. Identities shift and propel the character arc with them.
An Example: The West Wing and President Jed Bartlet
My favourite example of all this is probably the character of President Jed Bartlet from television’s The West Wing.
His identities are clearly defined:
President, in relation to the people of the United States.
Husband and father, in relation to his family.
Friend, in relation to a great many people who are dear to him.
Good Roman Catholic, in relation to the Church, God, and other Christians.
Sufferer of Illness, in relation to, variously, the medical profession, his family and friends, the people, and other politicians.
As great as the salience of the President identity is, we’re shown how utterly it crumbles before the salience of family when his daughter is kidnapped. In the course of the series, we see the slow rise of the salience of his illness, and the pain that comes as it conflicts with many of his other identities.
And we’re given the superb masterwork episode Two Cathedrals, in which his identities combine and clash to create perfection. Death of a close friend brings friendship to the highest salience, and the majesty of his identity as President, his moral authority as Good Roman Catholic, and his knowledge as a Scholar all manifest. In a cathedral, God’s own house, in English and in the old language of priestly authority, the President of the United States berates God as a “feckless thug” and it is unforgettable.
It’s proof that the interplay of commitment, identity, and role choice can breath electric life into a character’s motivations.
Serpe, R., & Stryker, S. (2011). The symbolic interactionist perspective and identity theory. In S. Schwartz, K. Luyckz, & V. Vignoles (Eds.), Handbook of identity theory and research (pp. 225-248). New York: Springer.
After a long and tiring day of shoving information into my head and pulling essay out (i.e. today), only an evening curled up with US reality cooking show Top Chef will do. I’m up to season 13, so I’m clearly too committed to deflect by claiming it’s a guilty secret.
Still, I figure I can frame it as sociological. Seriously, those chefs are usually in full impression management mode. “I’m great. My food is great. Game face. Got this. Kick arse…” usually followed by them plating burned slime that makes the judges gag.
And, if I’m making delusional excuses, all that conflict’s gotta be material for characterization.
But if I’m truthful, I’m just a lapsed semi-demi-hemi-foodie who thinks Top Chef comes up with the most cunning challenges of the cooking competitions. Also, I want to spend the night without a single thought in my head…
In a weird sense, sociology sees everyone as having a slight whiff of fictionality. Which is great, because as sociologists diligently research to understand human character they teach us about who our genuinely fictional characters can be.
Erving Goffman, a foundational sociologist, wrote that behaviours in daily life have a performative character. We are social actors, perpetually onstage, presenting carefully constructed identities to multiple audiences as we perform in the many roles of our daily life (Marwick & Boyd, 2010, p. 123).
As a rule, our performances are designed to persuade—we seek to create a particular impression so we can influence the situation (Goffman, 1959). Bedside manner, for example, is how someone in a medical role persuades a patient to be calm and accept treatment. Or a group of parents may compete in various ways to persuade each other that they are good (or even the best) parents.
This makes us all sound fearsomely inauthentic, yet it’s also just common sense. In your role as a parent scolding a misbehaving child you’re going to act (hopefully) very differently than you do in your role as a friend, four drinks into a night on the town. This is a key idea of situationist theory: that your behaviour arises from context and not some implicit mental characteristic (Marwick & Boyd, 2010, p. 115).
Goffman (1959) adds to this the interesting idea that a role and its associated performance can be triggered by a situation which merely resembles the one where that role is usually most relevant. That is, if you’re a parent and you encounter an adult who is less powerful than you and seems to need protection, your parental role may pop up like a nurturing jack-in-the-box.
And what is the use of this in writing?
Well, my writing software offers a template for character development that includes the question, “What is the character’s role in the story?”
Following Goffman, it seems more useful to ask, “What are the characters roles in the story?” No one has just one role. Your character might be the antagonist, but won’t be just a villain. When not busy putting your protagonist’s feet to the fire, they’ll be someone’s friend, or parent, or business partner, or student, or all of them and more, and each role will bring out different kinds of behaviour.
A character who is determined and ruthless, for example, might be a total villain when preventing the hero from stopping their evil plan, but an admirably fierce defender if someone threatens their children. Alternatively, maybe their will to kill the hero falls apart when the hero’s helplessness invokes their parental role.
In planning a scene, it might be useful to ask:
What role will the situation provoke from each character?
What behaviours does that role bring out in them?
What are they trying to persuade their audience (the other characters) to believe or do?
What impression does that require them to create in the minds of their audience?
How do the trappings with which they’ve surrounded themselves—clothing, professional accessories, furnishings, even manners of speech—contribute to or detract from that impression?
Answering those questions may help your characters to perform in more complicated, three-dimensional ways.
(Goffman’s work on how people present themselves is a lot more substantial than I’ve covered here, so this is a subject to which I’ll likely return.)
Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. New York: Anchor.
Marwick, A., & Boyd, D. (2010). I tweet honestly, I tweet passionately: Twitter users, context collapse, and the imagined audience. New Media & Society, 13(1), 114-133.
Kai Ashante Wilson’s The Devil in America was nominated for the Nebula award, and his Tor.com novella Sorcerer of the Wildeeps picked up the 2016 Crawford award. You’d expect his newest novella from Tor.com to be pretty marvellous, and it is.
At first glance, A Taste of Honey is a fantasy story in which a young nobleman of Olurum finds first love with a Dalucan soldier, and pursues that love despite religions proscriptions against homosexuality and the violent disapproval of his family. Once the gods put in a brief appearance, and turn out to be transhumans rather than divinities, the genre shifts slightly to science fiction. And the story unfolds into a beautifully told examination of how our choices shape our lives.
The intense and risky love affair between Aqib and the foreign soldier Lucrio is skillfully handled. Tension arises from the Dalucan’s inability to fully understand the need for secrecy (coming, as he does, from a freer society) and from Aqib’s feverish, giddy surrender to first love leading him to take risks that he otherwise mightn’t. As the narrative shifts in time between younger and older Aqib, other kinds of love enter his life, and new perspectives on the romance emerge.
Wilson’s prose is lovely. His worldbuilding is relatively simple, but a novella doesn’t require the vast, sprawling world that a modern fantasy mega-tome might, and what is there is appealing. For me, the gods were a highlight—human but wonderfully strange and a little perilous in their casual power. The subplot concerning Aqib’s wife, the Blessed Femysade, makes plain how even the slightest touch of very great power can disrupt a life simply by opening up new choices.
The ending is surprising and satisfying, and you can’t ask much more than that. Highly recommended.
I read more science fiction than fantasy but write almost exclusively fantasy. The reason is embarrassing. At some point, I can’t say exactly when, I let hard SF—science fiction with a solid scientific basis—intimidate me.
When I first began to write as a young teenager, I was science fiction all the way. Isaac Asimov was my young self’s writing hero and I tried to emulate his style and approach in story after story without the slightest self-consciousness that he was a biochemist and the greatest science writer who ever lived and I was in high school and doing one science subject indifferently well. Not too many years later I was getting personal rejections from the major magazines and had a teenager’s perfect faith that it was only a matter of time until I was a fully fledged science fiction writer hammering on the door of the SFWA.
Three things then went “wrong” more or less simultaneously. I left school, got a job, and had less time and, I thought, inclination to write. My first two accepted stories were, by accident, fantasy. And the next time I paid much attention to the markets “the new space opera” had came along, your Stephen Baxters and Alastair Reynolds and Vernor Vinges and Greg Bears, telling Asimovian stories but with rigorously and brilliantly scientific cores that I didn’t believe for a moment I could emulate. My confidence went down like a ship’s sail in a gale and I never really got it back. But I did tell myself that those published fantasy stories meant that fantasy remained within my reach. Much easier to research how long it takes a horse to go from point A to point B than to suddenly realise an obscure chemical is as well-suited to be the foundation of life as carbon or that quantum physics implies a clever new space drive, I thought.
Thing is, I knew better. For some time my favourite science fiction author has been Ursula K. Leguin, whose work explores social themes rather than physics, and with luminous literary skill. But her work is often described as anthropological or sociological and I’d gotten so far inside my own head that I convinced myself that I was too ignorant of the social sciences to try that sort of thing, either.
Of course, somewhere in there I stopped writing for an eon. When I returned to it as I started university in 2014, I defaulted to fantasy as that was what I did. Only latterly have I been getting restless with my avoidance of my favourite genre. Possibly nearing graduation in a BA(sociology/criminology) has undermined my old conviction that I didn’t know enough to write science fiction. If I can’t bring the social sciences to a story by now then something has gone horribly wrong with my education!
Yet I’ve still been engaged in an anguished debate with myself. As if it were a purely binary decision, I’ve been dithering between fantasy (which I have still been writing, and was the genre of my last published story) and SF (beating myself up as too idiotic to try). My work has slowed to a crawl.
OK, obviously the lesson here is the extent to which a writer’s own fears are their worst obstacles. Do better than me.
Oddly, what broke the deadlock for me was the most recent episode of the world’s best writing podcast, Writing Excuses. In it, Brandon Sanderson, Mary Robinette Kowal, Howard Tayler, Dan Wells, and Tananrive Due repeatedly asserted that writing short stories, even if it was no longer foundational to a genre writing career, is a great way to experiment with genres and styles that you might not normally attempt.
Yes, I know, obvious to everyone but me. Hush. Low confidence produces its own special flavour of stupid.
Long story short (too late), I’ve resolved to write an unequivocally, shamelessly, even brazenly science-y science fiction short story in order to settle the matter. Spent today putting together notes for a space opera background that seems good to me. Identified a plot with a nice built-in sociological theme. Began constructing a (I hope) scientifically plausible system of planets to orbit the star Epsilon Indi. When the background’s finished, I’m writing that sucker.
Science fiction is a broad church and people who love it all love different things about it. Some go for realistic science. Some for aliens with bizarre forms and cultures. Others thrill to sprawling space opera or carefully worked out social speculation. For me, it’s planets.
I love worlds. Star Wars didn’t blow my mind because of Jedi or convincing aliens. As a kid, I sat in the cinema slack-jawed with wonder at Tatooine, Dagobah, Hoth, the Forest Moon of Endor. Doctor Who had me at Metebelis III, with its wind-swept mountains filled with blue crystals. Watching re-runs of original Star Trek, my young self considered the best part of each episode to be the moment the Enterprise slid into orbit above some new world or the first glitter of the transporter beaming Kirk and crew into a new landscape.
My point being, I’m thoroughly enraptured by NASA’s announcement today that it’s discovered not one but seven Earth-sized rocky planets orbiting the star TRAPPIST-1, a red dwarf star in Aquarius, forty light years away.
While all seven of these newly discovered worlds might have liquid water—and with it the possibility of life—the three outer worlds are all within TRAPPIST-1’s habitable zone. Because the star is so small and the system so compact, NASA says the seven worlds will blaze in each other’s night skies with the brilliance of Earth’s moon.
However improbably, it is not impossible for this system to host three or more inhabited worlds, each plainly visible to all the others, for some Galileo there to turn a primitive telescope on the sky and see the lights of an alien city.
This is real life gifting us with the sense of wonder previously only available through science fiction. One of the things that I’ve loved about NASA’s exploration of the solar system, and now the wider universe, is that each time they look somewhere new they find such wondrous and unexpected things.
In dark times, NASA shines like a good deed in a naughty world.
(Edited to add: Nuts. TRAPPIST-1 may be only 500,000,000 years old, which is a bit young to warrant dreaming of multiple civilizations on its planets. But it’s still an astounding system, tantalizingly close…)
Sociology has a lot of treasures for writers of fantasy and science fiction. One of the most useful, helping with building both worlds and characters, is the way of looking at things known as the sociological imagination.
Students of sociology encounter the idea of the sociological imagination on day one. In his 1959 book The Sociological Imagination, US sociologist C. Wright Mills asserted that sociology concerned all the ways in which humans lived in the world and therefore needed to focus more acutely on how history and social institutions impacted the daily reality of lived human experience (Dillon, 2013, p. 228). The sociological imagination was simply a way for sociologists to see and critically assess the world to help achieve this focus. In contrast to psychological approaches, which might attribute a person’s problems to behaviours originating in their mind, the sociological imagination makes an explicit link between personal problems and social structures (Eckstein, Schoenike, & Delaney, 1995, p. 335)
The sociological imagination sees a person with a problem and wonders what social structures or institutions, what histories, constrained their ability to act in order to bring them to their current straits.
A criminal might be in prison because they’re inherently criminal, because it’s the way the are. Or maybe poverty limited their legitimate opportunities. Maybe discrimination did. Maybe poor nutrition compromised their physical or mental development. Maybe they were raised with a cultural imperative to risky behaviour. The sociological imagination poses complicating questions about situations and then guides sociologists in discovering answers that illuminate the human social world.
It’s a perspective which can just as easily complicate a fantasy or science fiction writer’s worldbuilding, in a good way.
When populating a created world with social institutions—and in this context a social institution is any reasonably persistent element of social organisation that meets some need of the society, such ast family, the education system, or the system of government—the sociological imagination reminds that these institutions have context and inter-relate. It prompts you to look at your awesome invented society and ask how did things get this way? What keeps them this way? Who resists and how? A good example in fantasy is Tolkien’s Middle Earth. The War of the Ring is greatly complicated by distrust between the races. And Tolkien’s world has a long and detailed history of betrayals, moral falls, wars— usually mediated by the treachery of Morgoth or Sauron—which gave rise to racial distrust. Gimli’s distress at being asked to enter Lothlorien blindfolded is a personal problem with roots in the First Age.
Societies tend to be self-maintaining. That is, their institutions support and perpetuate their belief systems. In Western society, the education system is prone to making students fit for employment. This is actually one of the ways that pervasive capitalism reproduces itself. Truly pervasive beliefs tend to fade into the background, becoming “common sense.” Victorian determination to separate the spheres of home and work put women in the home but by the 1950s they belonged there and always had. The social imagination makes common sense visible and subjects it to critical scrutiny, often revealing its role in enforcing normality. When worldbuilding, it can be useful to ask yourself what invisible, common sense normality your social institutions are selling and who in your society is most struggling to buy in, how they resist, and how the institutions apply pressure to quell resistance. Doing so can create a richer and more internally consistent world and identify areas of natural conflict that your characters need to confront.
Sociological imagination also provides a path to work backwards from some aspect of your character to the construction of a more detailed world.
If your character is ejected from society and must become a rebel, this can be considered their personal problem. Sociological imagination suggests asking, What structural issue explains this personal problem? After all, why a rebel? There are plenty of outsiders who eke out a non-rebellious existence within their community. Perhaps something disrupts the possibility of peaceful existence for your character? If the government regularly raids poor neighbourhoods to press gang idle young people into military service and if your character refuses to fight for a government they hate, then fleeing to the rebellion makes sense. Your world will grow as you determine why the government conducts these raids, how the social institution carrying them out functions and perpetuates itself, and what “common sense” beliefs makes this acceptable to most citizens.
Sociological imagination exists to shine a light on the way individuals and the social world relate. Used to develop worlds and characters for fiction, it helps to identify your world’s naturally plot-worthy characters and to ensure that they and their conflicts become real products of their milieu.
Dillon, M. (2013). Introduction to sociological theory: Theorists, concepts, and their applicability to the twenty-first century (2nd;Second;2; ed.). Hoboken: Wiley.
Eckstein, R., Schoenike, R., & Delaney, K. (1995). The voice of sociology: Obstacles to teaching and learning the sociological imagination. Teaching Sociology, 23(4), 353–363.
McCartan, L., & Gunnison, E. (2004). The IQ/crime relationship: An extension and replication of previous research. Journal of Crime and Justice, 27(1), 61-86.
Australia’s ongoing heat wave passed by my neck of the woods today. Mercifully, the temperature only made it to 36.5 degrees celsius (though the apparent temperature reached 39.9 degrees, and it felt it).
Yesterday wasn’t much better. It’s the nature of heat waves that they continue for days without much relief at night and, as your basic poor full-time student, air conditioning is not within my budget. The resulting sleepless nights tend to gang up with the oppressive heat of the days to turn your brain to gruel. Basically, you end up like an extra from The Walking Dead, but instead of meaningless repetitive moaning you repetitively moan, “It’s sooo hot.”
Still, trying to write while sleepless did produce the typo of the day, when I realised (roughly the tenth time I re-read the sentence) that I’d typed Miss Garda stood behind a stool-lined dinette strewn with bowels and canisters, wiping her hands on her apron and regarding him through narrowed eyes… Certainly makes the scene more high-stakes than the bowls and canisters I’d meant to write…
The iconic tripods rampaging across the cover tell you fairly succinctly that The Massacre of Mankind by Stephen Baxter is an authorised sequel to H.G. Wells’s classic The War of the Worlds. I’m normally indifferent to new authors revisiting old wells (pardon the pun). Moreover, The War of the Worlds is among the first science fiction novels I read and it so thoroughly blew my mind that I re-read it until my copy disintegrated. I expected to be disappointed by The Massacre of Mankind and I doubt that I’d have bought without Stephen Baxter’s name on the cover. As it turned out, I enjoyed Baxter’s sequel.
Briefly, the novel reports the events of the second Martian invasion of Earth thirteen years after the first. The narrator of Wells’s novel is reduced to a minor character named Oliver Jenkins, while the narrator of The Massacre of Mankind is his sister-in-law, the journalist Julie Elphinstone. When the Martians return, they have adapted their biology and technology based on their first experience with Earth and this time they have their sights set on the whole planet.
Baxter does an incredible job of building the post-Martian world as an alternate 1920s inflected by humanity’s first encounter with aliens and their efforts to adapt abandoned Martian technology. There are fun cultural details such as Charlie Chaplin’s being famous for his portrayal of a character based on Wells’s Artilleryman. And there are grim historical alterations such as World War I becoming Germany’s long solo war against Russia using Martian technology acquired from their increasingly militaristic allies, the British.
If the novel has a flaw, it would have to be pacing. The early part of the book moves quite slowly as it sets everything up. An exacerbating issue throughout the novel is its nature as journalistic memoir written after the fact by Miss Elphinstone so that even impactful scenes from which she’s absent are delivered as dry reportage.
But once the Martians put in appearance, the book becomes gripping. They’re portrayed as cunning and well-prepared conquerers and some of the set piece scenes of Martian attacks on cities around the world are marvellous—particularly, for me, Constantinople and Melbourne.
I suspect the ending will divide people, but I found it acceptable. In some respects, the ending isn’t the point. The point was to revisit for the twenty-first century Well’s critique of Imperialism—that just because you believe there’s a ladder of creation it doesn’t mean you’re standing on the top rung—and he does that skillfully.