Just a quick gallery today of some of my newer pictures from Space Engine. I’m looking forward to addition of accretion disks around black holes and blue stragglers in globular clusters in upcoming updates. As in the earlier post, all images are exactly as captured in Space Engine, without any post processing, cropping, etc.
Along with the Universe Sandbox, here’s another great tool for the science fiction author: SpaceEngine. This fascinating program is still in beta, and a bit buggy, but to get an idea of what it can do, take a look at these pictures, all of which are unmodified screenshots. Most are from my son’s exploration over a few hours. The first two are my own effort after about 30 minutes of playing around.
Whereas Universe Sandbox is an orbital dynamics simulator, great for playing around with solar systems and disrupting them by blowing up a planet or shooting black holes through them, SpaceEngine takes a different route. It models a huge number of known astronomical objects, from every moonlet in our solar system, to nearby stars, globular clusters, nebula, galaxies, etc.
Where it really gets interesting is the vast number of astronomical objects for which there is no known data because where current observational data runs out, it creates the rest procedurally.
Pick a galaxy and fly into it. Find a star in that galaxy and zoom to it, visit its planets and moons, search for life, exotic planet rises, there’s really no limit. I’d consider some of these for cover art for certain classes of novels.
When poking around the universe can keep you busy for days, who knows what story ideas you might find?
SpaceEngine not only creates lovely visuals, it backs it up with physical data: object mass, gravity, atmosphere, orbital period, mean temperature, even modeling presence of life. It’s fun if you just want to poke around alien worlds and its a dream come true for Science Fiction worldbuilders. Plus it has more lens-flares than the last Star Trek reboot!
Has anyone else given it a try yet? What do you think of the pictures from it?
- Universe Sandbox (wordedgamereviews.wordpress.com)
This week, as part of a critters critique, I passed on some comments I’ve received from many critters and from a few professionals as well: don’t use semi-colons in fiction. Per critters guidelines, I didn’t present it as a rule, more as a “here’s what response I get when use them.”
You see, I love semi-colons. They are a natural form of expression for me.
Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college.
Kurt was entitled to his opinions and he was no doubt on firmer ground than I am but that seems overly dismissive to me. Semi-colons have a recognized role in non-fiction. While they may not be the convention in fiction, they clearly mean “soft end of sentence, following sentence related to previous one.” Or sometimes, they are used in place of a comma between clauses if the clauses contain a lot commas for other reasons (and-lists, multiple adjectives, etc.)
After passing on my wisdom, such as it is, in my critique, I thought I’d double-check my current novel manuscript for them. Again, I’m kind of fond of them, but why buck convention? It’s a style thing that seems to rub editors the wrong way. It’s not like they are absolutely necessary (the semi-colons, not the editors).
So I fire up Scrivener and find that ‘fond’ doesn’t really begin to describe my preference for them. They were everywhere, not every scene but probably two-thirds of them, and in many scenes, multiple places. And this is after I had already made a decision to avoid them before I started my last revision. Ugh. Imagine if I hadn’t decide to purge them already 🙂
For the record, Scrivener’s global search is kind of lame: you get a folder of the scenes containing the search phrase. Within a scene, you can search for next occurrence but to go to the next scene, you need to click on it in the search results folder. Worse, if you do a ‘next’ in the search pop-up and there are no more instances in the current scene, you have to clear an annoying pop-up warning before you can do anything else.
That makes an irritating task all the more tedious because removing semi-colons is not trivial. Sometimes it is no more than replacing with a period and capitalizing the next letter, which doesn’t exactly roll off my fingers on the keyboard. But often, more substantial re-work is required to avoid the construct: turning the sentence pair into a compound sentence or even re-writing the pair entirely.
I’m about two-thirds finished after several hours. A funny thing has happened as I purge semi-colons, though. While I don’t agree with Kurt that they have no meaning, I am starting to truly appreciate why they aren’t typically used in fiction because I think my semi-colon-less prose is better than it’s predecessor. I’ve removed a few unnecessary sentences in some places. In more, I’ve reworked the sentence into something that seems more interesting to me.
Now, if I can only avoid putting them in my drafts in the first place, I’ll be all set. It’s tough: I don’t notice them any more than a comma or period these days. It’s probably a manifestation of my engineer-think.
How about you? What’s your opinion on semi-colons?
If you have a chance, catch a workshop by Donald Maass. He’s advice is cutting and he’s funny to boot. Time will tell but I think he’ll turn out to be one of the few writing coaches whose advice will prove to be formative for me. My main take-away from when I heard him earlier this year was to use contrary (unexpected) emotions. Aside from its rather important value of surprising the reader, it’s simply a fantastic way to break through writer’s doldrums: don’t feel like writing a scene? Try it from a different emotional slant.
Writer’s Digest recently posted his advice on setting: treat it like a character. It’s old advice but it is especially useful for a fantasy writer and Don Maass conveys it in his usual effective and engaging way. If you like how he puts things, WD has all his books on sale for $39 (price is all of them together and there’s no shipping) which is a good deal.
- Book Review: Writing the Breakout Novel by Donald Maass (tammysalyer.wordpress.com)
I’m talking about how to make it work in your stories, not how to build a time machine. Apologies if you are looking for engineering schematics.
Time travel has got to be one of the oldest tropes in fantasy and science fiction. Who wouldn’t want to go back and fix a mistake or just observe the past? Trouble is, basic time travel has, as we all know, fundamental paradoxes. What happens if you kill your grandfather or commit one of the endless variations? Yet, there doesn’t seem to be an end to time travel stories in sight, and, why not? They can be fun. Plus for TV shows, there’s the added bonus of getting to use all those cool historical outfits the studios have lying around.
While I usually groan at time travel, I have to confess one of my favorite Star Trek: Next Generation episodes is Yesterday’s Enterprise. And I still get a chuckle out of Back to the Future.
As with Teleporters or Lasers or the like, an author can simply ignore any issues with time travel. However, in this case, if you are too blatant with the impossibilities it is likely to kill your story with editors and agents, not to mention readers. This is one trope where some amount of hand-waving is required. Let’s look through the methods.
First off, I’m just talking about going back in time. Going forward is easy.
Don’t Pollute the Timeline
This is a favorite of Star Trek but shows up in many other places. It’s basically a way to say you are dealing with time travel paradoxes without actually dealing with them, which makes it fine for certain stories but, for me, anyway, not very satisfying.
Why doesn’t it solve the problem? Because there is truly no way to avoid polluting the timeline. Even if you avoided making contact with any sentient beings, what about that fly that changed course, causing the frog to be elsewhere when the snake wanted to eat, causing the snake to search farther afield for food, biting the naturalist causing her to spend a week in the hospital and miss meeting the man with whom she would have mothered the next Einstein? Or leave out organisms, what about changes in gravitational or electromagnetic fields? You might not think that speck of dust floating in space is all that important but maybe it’s trace as a meteor inspires a poet who writes a poem that changes the life of a person who… You get the point. History is a very chaotic system and tiny perturbations can have dramatic effect. Oh, and don’t forget the microbes time travelers will leave behind.
One way to deal with this is to take the approach that the time travel event was always part of how things were meant to be. There was never an earlier timeline where the time traveler did not appear. This sounds weird but Hawkings has noted that, so far, anyway, we don’t have a good physics reason for why time runs forward. And maybe the universe is cyclical: it runs forward to a certain point then runs backward undoing everything in exactly the same way. If we were living on the backward progressing arc, supposedly we wouldn’t even realize it (we would still think as if we were going forward). Or something like that.
This method has neither aesthetic nor intellectual appeal to me. I have to confess it doesn’t even make a lot of sense to me but I’m willing to concede that smarter people than me think it does so there you go. While your story need not posit the backward replay of the universe to make use of this method, it has similar problems: that of freewill. If things can run backwards as well as forwards, then there is nothing unpredictable in the universe. Using destiny to make your time travel work isn’t any different: something must occur, therefore the characters have no choice in what they do.
There are some physicists who think freewill may be an illusion. But do you really want your story to be about characters who can’t actually make any choices? Seems to remove the entire point of a story. If you use this one, you may want to be very sparing with it and be careful of nudging the reader into the conclusion that your characters’ desires are irrelevant to what occurs because if that’s the case, why care about what happens to them?
Time travel involves a violation of known laws of physics. This is not a problem because your time travel story is speculative fiction. But that doesn’t mean we can’t take advantage of other laws of physics: if the time travel is to a place beyond the temporal event horizon from earth, there is no possibility of a paradox, at least for a single time travel event.
As any astronomy buff knows, looking into space is looking back into time. If you look at the sun, you see the sun as it was about 500 seconds ago. Look at a star and you are looking back at least a few years, maybe thousands. Galaxies are millions of years away. So, for something that is X light seconds away, if you travel back in time less than X seconds, anything you do can’t change anything that has happened on Earth. It’s harmless.
For instance, lets say you had a 10-year-old child. Let’s also say you travel back in time 11 years. If you do that on earth, who is to say something you did might not change whether your child was even born, let alone the course of his life? But instead, let’s say you travel 10 years back in time to Gliese 832, which is 16 light years away. Now, even if the first thing you did was construct a planet-destroying death beam and fired it at earth, it would not arrive until after your ‘present.’ There is no way for your time travel to affect your child or anything else on earth, at least in the present. When that death beam pulse finally gets here, it’s another matter.
Of course, you might be wondering, what good is time travel if it can’t actually affect the past? Well, obviously, this method doesn’t allow you to change events in your local space. But it could still make an interesting story. Imagine if humans are losing a war to an alien race in 2113 but they have the ability to do this sort of time travel. They send humans back in time 10,000 years to several habitable planets 10,000 light years away with the hope that some of them proceed to the point where they can arrive at the home-world in 2113 with the technology necessary to save the world. Kind of a deus ex machina ending but there’s a story there. Or maybe there is no intent for the time traveling humans to save the present, instead, this is an ark-in-time: humanity dies on Earth but lives on, propagating through time and space.
This falls apart if your time travelers turn around and go back in time to the originating world. However, just like it takes infinite energy to go the speed of light, maybe it takes infinite energy to violate the laws of temporal observability: you can try but it won’t work. It’s hard for me to imagine a mechanism that would actually cause that to be but (a) I’m not a cosmologist and (b) this might be obscure enough that this method might satisfy most readers.
Another way to deal with time travel is to say that each time travel event “clones” a universe: when you travel back in time, you create a duplicate of the universe at the time you arrive. Anything you do occurs in a separate universe. You can still kill your grandfather but only the grandfather in this duplicate universe, not the one who sired your father who then made you. No paradox.
Of course, universes do tend to contain a fair amount of energy, as in mind-bogglingly vast amounts. But according to current theory, the universe sprang from perturbations in a vacuum so I am not sure this is a really a problem. The energy would come from outside the universe, maybe it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. Or maybe it’s the old “how many angels can dance on the head of a pin” conundrum. The answer in the middle ages was an infinite number because god could put an angel down on half of the pin, make a half-sized angel, put it down in a quarter of the remaining space, make a quarter size angel, put it down in an eighth of the remaining space, and so on without end. Maybe when you duplicate a universe through time travel you actually make two halves, like a fertilized egg dividing: same mass but now two half-sized cells. To someone in the smaller universe, things might still look the same.
The main issues with this approach for your readers is how to make the universe cloning seem plausible. Some may also wonder just what can cause a cloning event. For instance, does it have to be a sentient being, because if physical processes can cause it there would be a near infinite and ever-increasing number of universes. Even if it has to be a sentient being, you might soon have a vast number of clones out there. Of course, any person in any given clone would only be aware of his or her universe. And maybe the plethora of many universes provides a setting in itself: your characters might hop between possibilities. While they could not return to their own universe in the past, nothing says they couldn’t go from universe A to B and back to A, as long as they arrived in A later than their departure.
As a side note, you could use this for the issue of freewill instead of time travel: maybe every decision results in a universe fork. While it is true that all possible decisions exist in the set of all universes, any given individual is experiencing the results of his decisions. Not sure it really solves the freewill problem but it’s an interesting thought.
Quantum mechanics tells us that an electron in a hydrogen atom isn’t orbiting the proton like a planet around a sun. It’s actually in a probability cloud, sort of smeared out in time and space. I think QM would say even Jupiter is in a probably cloud in its orbit around the sun, just that given the mass of the sun and Jupiter, and the distances involved, the probability envelope is really tiny: i.e., for all practical purposes it inhabits a point in a space.
What if time travel works this way? Any given time travel event adds to a cloud of timelines. What happens in the now is the sum of timelines in the past. You can go back and kill your grandfather but that will either not really happen in the present because that event is improbable or you will change the now so that you aren’t present.
Maybe to change the past, you have to go back multiple times and nudges events so that the probability sum results in your desired outcome, or at least a different outcome: this sort of time travel seems rife with unintended consequences. This is actually at the core of my next short story (see, I take my own advice to heart. While I find most time travel stories paradoxical, how would I make this impossibility possible? I’m going with superposition.)
Where in the Past Art Thou?
That’s it for ways I can think of to make time travel work but before I wrap, let’s touch on the where of time travel. Let’s say you do find a way to travel back in time. Where do you go? Not only is everything moving in space, it is moving relative to other things. There isn’t a universal coordinate system. If you want to travel back to Earth one hundred years ago, how do you specify where the earth was then, both in its relationship to the sun (and remember our orbit is not perfect, it does vary due to interactions with the other planets, even with passing asteroids) and the sun’s position in the galaxy and the galaxy’s position in the local cluster, etc., etc. Not only would it be very difficult to compute where the earth was with respect to where it is now, how does your time machine spit you out in the intended spot, and at a velocity that allows you to interact with the Earth (rather than, say, impact it at relativistic speeds?)
Let’s say you can do all that: you can put your time traveler in the exact spot and with the precise velocity vector to avoid smacking into something. Do you know where the surface of the Earth was 100 years ago? Things move, not just down but up. Continents drift: 100 years ago America was about 8 feet closer to Europe. Trees grow. It would suck to appear in the middle of an oak tree, wouldn’t it? For all those reasons, time travel might be best executed in a spaceship with enough delta-v to match the destination.
It’s all handwaving
While the Observability Horizon and the Universe Forking methods avoid time travel paradoxes, they have their own problems. In the end, all of these methods simply constitute more obscure ways to explain time travel. Even so, they may satisfy many readers’ suspension of disbelief better than “avoid polluting the timeline”. And for those it doesn’t satisfy, you might get points for trying or at least amuse them as they think through the puzzle you posed.
- Very nice article on time travel on Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_travel) I must confess I didn’t think to look here before writing this but lots more ideas here.
- Time Travel Is Possible But Only To The Future, English Physicist Says (huffingtonpost.com)
- Is Time Travel Possible? (arunbabyveranakunnel.wordpress.com)
- The myth of time travel. (berdie75.wordpress.com)
Book pitches are especially challenging for me. I think it’s because I’m not someone who can quickly answer questions like “what’s your most embarrassing moment” or “what’s your favorite movie?” I don’t tend to organize my thoughts as sorted lists or even boil things down to their essentials (well, I do but I think I abstract in ways that aren’t useful for pitches). But it’s part of the business so it’s something I keep an eye on and Chuck Sambuchino’s guest blog on Writer’s Digest caught my attention as a succinct crystallization of what a pitch is all about.
You can find it at: The Writer’s Promise: How to Craft a Book’s Pitch.
One of the joys of creating a fantasy world is making your own maps. As discussed in Worldbuilding is not Mapmaking, even though maps aren’t the most important part of fantasy worldbuilding, they are iconic and our reaction, both as creators and readers, is visceral: maps are a portal into a wonderful place. They make foreign places seem real. A well-drawn map, like a well-executed cover, grabs us.
However, as with writing where one needs to watch for too many ‘shows’, flat dialogue, uninteresting characters, etc., there are pitfalls to map-making that can scream amateur and other aspects, while accepted in the genre, might be places where you could make your maps more distinctive. Here’s a list of a few I’ve come across.
Compass Point Rivers:
This is a surprisingly common feature for those making their first maps: they have their main rivers run north-south and their tributaries run east-west. While it is certainly possible and in some story might go to the core of the setting (e.g. rivers run this way because the world is built on top of a giant computer laid out in a grid), this is a rather rigid arrangement. Aesthetically, it looks forced or careless. Geographically, while many rivers in the United States tend to run north to south (Hudson, Colorado, Mississippi), many others do not (Willamette, Columbia). And if you look farther than North America, you see plenty of other examples.
Between the Nile and a North American bias for many readers, it is easy to see where this comes from. Geologically, this happens because both the Americas and Africa are moving part from each other on a east-west axis (the mid-Atlantic ridge) and mountains tend to form perpendicular to the expansion. Since rivers generally go around mountain chains, you generally get the rivers parallel to the mountains. Exceptions exist, though, such as the Columbia River, which cuts right through the Cascade mountains in the spectacular Columbia River Gorge.
In general, rivers run downhill. Or put another way, they move away from your mountains. Whether you start with the mountains and add the rivers or vice versa, is a matter of style and what your story demands. For instance, if you want your story to occur in a land where the kingdoms abut each other in a line, you might want to create two mountain chains and put the kingdoms in between. Naturally, there would be rivers draining the resulting valleys, with tributaries in the mountains and probably one or possibly two major rivers between the mountains. The mountains could be mostly straight but nothing says you can’t put some kinks into their general run, which would give you more interesting rivers to match. Or you could start with the rivers and add the necessary hills and mountains as head-waters.
This one puzzles me because I can’t think of any real-world examples of this yet it shows up in maps fairly often. It’s not braiding in a meandering river or delta that I’m referring to but a fork in a river that causes it to discharge into two different bodies of water. For example, imagine if the Mississippi split in St. Louis, with part continuing on to the Gulf and the other part heading east to the Atlantic. Absent magic, this can’t happen, at least not for very long. To me, it tells me the mapmaker really doesn’t have much of a sense for geography, which rightly or wrongly, makes me question the writer’s ability to deliver a good story.
There could be a short-lived condition where a body of water drains two different ways but it wouldn’t take very long for one of the egress points to cut deeper than the other. It’s inherently unstable. Even in the exceptions noted above where it does occur (deltas and braided rivers) it is unstable. The water channels are constantly shifting about over the course of just decades. As an example, if you are wondering why Vicksburg was so important during the Civil War, don’t look at modern maps to figure it out: the river has moved quite a bit since then.
Of course, one of the ‘foundation’ techniques of world building is to imagine how something that shouldn’t happen could actually be. Magic solves many problems: you could have a god or water spirit or college of mages who ensure the fork remains stable. Maybe this ‘unnatural’ splitting of waters is the core of your story: long ago the waters were split to flow to three different lands, maintained by a water spirit. But that spirit has disappeared and the heroes must intervene to assure that their lands do not run dry. If you do this, though, best to make sure that something on the map calls out this fork as special so that the casual reader flipping through the book knows you put the fork there on purpose. For instance, put a star there and label it “Temple of the Water Spirit”.
Note that this critique applies to lakes as much as a simple downstream fork in the river. The lake example might actually be more common on maps: it’s just as hard to have a lake with multiple egresses: sooner or later one outlet will erode lower than the other and become the only outlet.
On the other hand, at least some of the US Great Lakes once drained through the Mississippi River. For some period of time, they must have drained through both the St. Lawrence and the Mississippi. Though it probably wasn’t very long, it might have been for a few generations. But unless you have a really good story reason for multiple outlets from a body of water, best to avoid it because it looks amateurish.
This one you see even with our beloved Middle Earth: it is common to draw the forest distinct from the mountains, with a gap between them. This is not usually the case on earth because between forest and mountains, there isn’t generally a good reason for the trees to peter out. Trees actually tend to do pretty well in mountains because as the air rises over the mountains, it cools, dropping the dew point, resulting in rain. Even in deserts, you find some trees in the mountains. As an example: the Tularosa Basin in New Mexico is one of the harshest deserts in the US yet it is bordered by the fairly lush Sacramento mountains. Even the Organ mountains on the other side manage some trees, although you wouldn’t call it forested.
Mountains don’t generally form a barrier to an existing forest. The forest runs right up into the mountains. The trees may change to suit a colder or wetter climate higher up but there isn’t usually a gap. A really good example of this is the hike to Rockpile Lake from the east side of the Cascades in Oregon, where over the course only six miles, you go from dry Ponderosa pine to firs, to lichen-draped spruce and finally hemlock at the tree-line.
Mountains do form rain shadows, of course. There are almost always prevailing wind directions in a region with the mountains catching the rain on non-lee side. The lee side of the mountain chain is often dry, sometimes desert dry. How many of you realize that Oregon is mostly near-desert: it’s only the rainy west side of the cascades that are wet? So it is perfectly reasonable to have non-forested lands on one side of a mountain chain but these dry-lands tend to extend for hundreds of miles beyond the mountains, as in Oregon (until the next rain catcher: the Rocky Mountains) or the Great Plains of the US Midwest (once called the “Great American Desert” believe it or not.)
What you don’t tend to find, over short distances, are mountains then a bit of grassland, then forest, then a bit more grassland, then mountains. It’s forest -> wooded mountain slopes -> drier mountain slopes -> drier lowlands, which might be too dry for more forest.
Why do mapmakers put gaps between forest and mountain? Convenience: it’s harder to draw the forests running into the mountains. This is true if you are doing your map freehand and it is just as true if you are using something like Campaign cartographer where you might have a limited number of symbols that mix mountains and trees (if you have any at all to work with).
Forests may be a pain to draw but there is usually too little forest on most fantasy maps. This is because most fantasy settings are in a place with European-like climate and populations levels akin to early Middle Ages (or less in a world overrun with goblins and dragons). Granted, Iron Age civilizations did cut down a lot of forest land but it was nothing as severe as what you see in modern Europe or much of the Eastern US. Without human intervention, the natural state of reasonably well-watered land is forest. Below a certain rainfall you’ll get grasslands as in the Russian steppes or the African Savannah but add a bit more rain and you get vast forests. Almost all of England used to be forested. Same for most of mainland Europe or the east side of the Mississippi, places where today you find farmland with just a few forest islands.
Such scarcity of forests isn’t natural. It takes a lot of humans with reasonably advanced technology to keep the forest at bay. If we suddenly disappeared, it would all return to forest in less than a century. In most fantasy settings, there aren’t a lot of ‘civilized’ people in the world. Middle Earth is particularly sparsely inhabited, as far as I can tell: it would probably be more appropriate for the Shire to be an island in a vast forest than a green gem in a wasteland.
Worlds where humans aren’t dominate, where there are the perils of barbarian races or too many monsters for them to spread out like we did on earth, those worlds would probably have much more forest. Fields and farmlands would be little islands in a vast expanse of trees. And those dark woods would seem alien and creepy: you can get a sense of how people used to view forests from faerie tales. There’s a reason why Hansel and Gretel found a witch in the deep woods: it was a forbidden place beyond the pale.
As with the gap between mountains and forest, the tedium of drawing (or plopping down forest symbols) is one reason why there tend to be too few forests on maps. But probably a bigger reason is that we have been trained by earlier fantasy maps and by modern landscapes to expect an unforested world where the opposite is the natural order of things.
Thanks to a thousand years of land reclamation projects, we don’t tend to realize that much low-lying land used to be swampy. Glastonbury Tor used to sit in the middle of fens, not farmland. Same for east Anglia, much of the Lowlands, parts of Poland. A combination of dykes and gates to drain low land at low tide or canals to drain a higher marsh have been used over the centuries to reduce or eliminate what used to be large swampy tracks. These were never as vast as the primeval forests but they were huge, the places where kings on the run used to hide out. In fantasy settings, they are places where nature (or monsters) rule.
Swamps and marshes tend to be omitted out of oversight: large ones are less common in our modern world so we forget to add them to our fantasy world.
Curiously, if mankind disappeared, most of the swamps wouldn’t come back. Sea-dykes would rupture and flood lands at sea level but otherwise, what was once swamp would probably stay dry: the canals remain to drain them and centuries of farm use have raised the level of the land to where it might not get so soggy again, even without human intervention.
It is perfectly reasonable to have empty fantasy worlds. Populous orc tribes, dragons, ogres, giants, all these things could exert enough pressure on the civilized peoples that they cannot spread-out over nearly ever biome as humans have on earth. Therefore, there is nothing wrong with having a kingdom here and another there, a wilderness in between.
The trouble arises when your setting presupposes lots of contact with other peoples. Take the Gyre from the Thomas Covenant series. I haven’t read these books in 25 years so I’m a little hazy but I remember at the time being quite annoyed with the Gyre: it’s a large trading city at the edge of a desert. It had a harbor packed with ships from all over. These ships must have brought food because, unlike Carthage or Alexandria, there was no fertile hinterland to feed them (I think). But regardless of a hinterland, where were these other lands that the Gyre traded with? The Thomas Covenant world felt rather empty to me with implied “large populations elsewhere” that were never shown. It all felt rather sloppy.
Empty worlds are fine but the interactions the characters experience should be appropriate. For instance, there might still be trade (something like the old silk road linking civilizations across a lot of emptier space) but it would not be high volume and the distant lands would be little known and have little influence on each other. China never went to war with Europe. Neither knew much about the other, even after Marco Polo.
In your world, if you have small kingdoms separated by large wilderness, they won’t have much reason to fight with each other or even have much to do with each other. This can actually be a boon for the writer: you don’t need to flesh out the far away places until your heroes get there. But it also means you probably shouldn’t have powerful merchant families running the show.
Tolkien gets some of this right in Middle Earth: Rohan is alien to all but a few of the more traveled folk of Gondor. Lothlorien is entirely isolated, as is the Shire. But other parts don’t really ring right for me. Laketown trades with “people to the south” but on the maps there doesn’t really seem to be anyone close enough to justify such a trade oriented settlement. And while I love the imagery of Rohan and the Rohirrim, they are modeled on iron age Germanic tribes whose culture and trappings arose from tribes rubbing shoulders with other tribes. It doesn’t feel right to me for something exactly like a Germanic tribe to arise in isolation without warfare with other tribes to help shape it.
As with many tropes, most of the items above seem to be accepted by fantasy readers. They aren’t reading your opus for your ability to model trade routes in a world ravaged by dragons. And while a few do stick out as probably something better avoided (all north-south rivers, for instance), most of the rest can be overlooked because no one seems to be particularly disturbed by them. But as with momentum in teleporters or energy density in laser weapons, you can use an awareness of these elements to make your map stand apart from the countless fantasy maps we’ve all seen.
- Worldbuilding is not Mapmaking (mqallen.com)
- How to Draw a Fantasy Map, Part 1 (randyellefson.wordpress.com)
- Worldbuilding 101: Topography or How to Craft a Planet (lemedlock.com)
- Worldbuilding (towerofthearchmage.blogspot.com)
Remember the scene inside Mount Doom where Frodo and Gollum wrestle for the ring? In the movie, they are in a mostly enclosed space, on a bridge high over the lava. They were sweating but the bridge is high and the cave is large. Shouldn’t really be too hot, should it? Alas, Sam, Frodo and Gollum would have been cooked the moment they stepped into that cave, unless there was some magical protection that was unmentioned in book or movie.
As a thought experiment, imagine a magma chamber underground. Everything in that pool of molten rock will be pretty much at the same temperature (about 700 to 1200 degrees C, per Wikipedia.) This is because it’s a very hot body enclosed in a very good insulator (lots of rock). In fact, it will start altering and melting the adjacent rock, an effect you can see at the edges of granitic intrusions (plutons) that have weathered to the surface. Now, imagine a small gas cavity at the top of the magma. How hot is that pocket of gas? Why, just as hot as the magma because it will be heated by the magma and can’t dissipate much heat into the insulating rock.
Let’s expand that pocket of gas to the size of, say, the Mount Doom cave. How hot is the air above the magma? It is still the same temperature as the magma: there’s no where for the heat to go (technically, there is heat flow through the rock but it is very low.) Now, let’s cut a tiny window into this cave. In the real world, what you get is a volcanic eruption as the pressure on the magma is released and it boils away exactly as what happens in a shaken soda-can when suddenly opened. But let’s ignore that and pretend there is no pressure differential and, thus, no eruption. How hot is it in the cave? Well, it’s still the temperature of the magma, throughout the entire cave, including all rock surfaces and the air. A small hole will provide minimal heat loss. The cave isn’t going to cool.
Okay, let’s try a bigger hole, about the size of the opening to the Mount Doom chamber in the movie. Now is it cooler? Not really. Perhaps near the doorway it will be not quite so balmy but that opening still is fairly insignificant. The magma will have no trouble heating the walls, air, bridge, etc., to about its temperature. This means, enter the cave and, poof, you are suddenly exposed to 1200C (judging by the fluidity of the lava in the movie, let’s go with the higher temperature). That’s pretty much an instant burst into flames. But wait, what if cool air was being drawn into the cave? That is possible. Maybe old lava tubes provide conduits into the cave. A chimney effect might draw quite a lot of air through the cave and out the door. I’m just going to wave my hands here but at the very least the air flow would likely be immense, making it probably impossible to walk into the cave or a real danger of getting sucked into the lava tube. But regardless, it still wouldn’t solve the problem you would have in this cave because aside from convective heating of the air, the magma is radiantly heating everything in line of sight of it.
Anyone who has cooked knows a heating element can burn without making contact (think toasters, broilers, etc.): infra-red (light) can burn. Huge pools of molten rock create a lot of radiant heat.
So, Sam, Frodo and Gollum need something magical to protect them in this cave. Certainly something that could have been present, though, again, there was no mention of it.
We are used to this sort of movie physics from many action-adventure shows. How many times does the hero outrun a fireball in a tunnel, for instance? Aside from the fact that few explosions would move slow enough to be outrun, if there was a flaming ball of gas in the tunnel, all that radiant heat from the fireball would be bouncing down the tunnel at you like a big death ray. You would be badly burned long before the actual flames touched you. If you have spent any time around a fireplace or firepit, this, too, is no surprise. It’s something we all know. For me, it was really driven home when I watched a show about a fire in a large fuel tank. The tank caught fire, the fire department poured water onto it. This contained it until the water that pooled atop the oil got hot enough to boil at which point the water turned to steam which ejected the oil in a fine mist which promptly exploded like a huge fuel-air bomb. It was all rather sudden (no time to out run the fireball) and interestingly, people standing over 800 feet away were not touched by flames, were not affected much by blast (because it mostly went up) but they did suffer 3rd degree burns on exposed flesh from radiant heat. Ouch.
As always with a well established trope, this can be ignored. Only we engineers seem to groan at such things (probably fire fighters, too, but I don’t know any). But, again, you might enrich your setting or story by doing something about it. It might help the verisimilitude if your smith has to figure out how to tolerate the heat of lava as part of forging the ring of doom. Because we all know, if we stop to think about it, you can get badly burned by really hot things without actually touching or falling into them.
So let’s talk Mustafar of Star Wars fame. Here, there do appear to be shields protecting the installation from the radiant heat (good). In fact, when disabled, it appears the radiant heat can quickly melt thick metal, as when the collector bends and drops into the lava stream. Strangely, the dueling Jedi don’t seem to suffer the same effect. There must be some Jedi trick to reflect heat (not entirely implausible in that universe, I think the old KOTOR games may have had a similar affect at one point). But even so, we have radiant heat that can quickly melt metal at 100 meters or so and can cause Anakin to burst into flame while lying on the shore but don’t affect Obi-wan or Anakin while riding those little ore carts. Must be more Jedi magic that stops working once you get your legs and an arm lopped off.
But that’s the least of the implausibilities with Mustafar. Where does the breathable air come from on a lava planet? How would endemic, complex creatures evolve there? And why are they mining lava? That’s undifferentiated material and economically of little value: the important stuff is mixed in with too much unimportant stuff. On Earth, while you might quarry igneous rock as a building material, you don’t mine it until other processes have concentrated the valuable minerals and elements. Lava is almost by definition maximally undifferentiated, i.e., of the least possible mineral value. The only exception would be if you could tap a magma chamber that was mostly solidified. The remaining melt will have lots of odd elements in it that don’t play well with others and are generally of value. But in that case, you are taking advantage of differentiation in a solidifying magma body, not free running lava.
You could also ask why does Star Wars make so much use of single biome planets (Ice Planet Hoth, Lava Planet Mustafar, Forest Moon Endor, etc.)? For biomes, it doesn’t really make a lot of sense from all we know about Earth and suspect about other planets. But, while it would not have a breathable atmosphere, you could have a lava planet. We already know about planets orbiting so close to their sun they are probably molten. But in an upcoming post, I’d like to explore young planets because they will have a lot more radioactive elements and consequently be a lot hotter, which could make for interesting science fiction settings.
- Cave Of Crystals: Where To Find These 55 Ton Giants… (fox41blogs.typepad.com) Not molten but really, really hot.
- Microscope: Fire vs lava (csirohelixblog.com)
- Bizarre! Supervolcano’s Ash So Hot It Turned to Lava (livescience.com)
- Magma Can ‘Fester’ Beneath Earth’s Upper Crust For Thousands Of Years Without Triggering Eruption; When Will Yellowstone’s Volcano Go Off? (hngn.com)
- Molten magma can survive in upper crust for hundreds of millennia (sciencedaily.com)
- BLEVEs: what happens when a contained liquid heats up beyond what the containment vessel can hold.
On Earth there’s a long-held belief that some bloodlines are better than others, more noble. Today, it’s sometimes hard to appreciate why this belief captivated human society for so long. There are good reasons for the fading fascination with nobility but such reasons would not necessarily hold in a fantasy world, especially one where gods walked and ‘frolicked’ among mortals.
Much of the ready acceptance of noble lines being ‘better’ than commoners can be attributed simply to nutrition. Starve someone in childhood and they will grow up smaller and thinner. This was observed in World War II in the disparity between the average British and American soldier, it was observed in the curviness of American and post-war European women (or today, in generational differences in China as that country grows richer).
Throughout most of human history, where many ate even more poorly, it is not hard to imagine observers noting the difference between a well-fed, strapping lord-ling or lady-ling, and the scrawny peasantry, heavily taxed (by food-stuff levies) to support said lords and ladies. Layer on better training and education, social mores created, consciously or not, to distinguish the privileged from commoners and performers & artists extolling the virtues of their benefactors and for almost all of human history, there has been a manifest difference between the haves and haves-not, not just in perception but in fact.
It’s no wonder that people attributed the attributes of the nobility to “better blood.” In fact, it must have seemed obvious. And, of course, in pagan times, rulers often constructed a divine lineage. Who would dispute that gods did have better offspring, and therefore any King or Queen with such blood in their veins had to be superior.
None of this goes very far these days, with better nutrition, education and current political systems but it’s useful to remember when wondering why the vast bulk of humanity tolerated nobles for such a long time. Moreover, when crafting your own world, if you have such distinctions of rank, it wouldn’t hurt to leverage some or all of the same things that sustained a hierarchy on Earth.
But let’s go a step beyond that. Imagine that there are gods and that, like the Greek, Norse, and many others, they liked to walk among and interact with mortals, leaving progeny behind. It’s no great stretch to imagine that such off-spring would have some superior attributes. In D&D terms, they would have stat bonuses. In story terms, they might be faster, stronger, more clever than others. One doesn’t have to look far to find such traits in myths, of which Hercules is just one of many examples.
In a fantasy world, who would the gods bestow their amatory favors on? No reason to think gods would choose their mates materially different from mortals: they would seek well-formed mortals with some particular prowess or mental acuity. Where else would you find that than among the well-fed, well-lauded and well-educated (in some settings) nobility? If ever there was a time that divine blood was not in the nobility, the gods would naturally gravitate to them and seed such divinity. Over time, there would be a positive reinforcement: more divine blood would produce ‘better and better’ nobles. By better, I mean only the benefits godly blood might bestow and traits gods might favor (feminine beauty and manly handsomeness, however that might be judged in your world).
It might not take long before there was a marked difference between nobles and commoners, more than just what a pampered childhood and good food could provide. In time, whole new species might arise, depending on how long this preference persists and how genetics works in your world. Before the differences became too obvious, there might be a period where a gifted commoner might join the ranks of nobility, soon intermarrying with the divine nobles and if especially attractive, perhaps bedding a god or goddess. But once this process went on for too long, the differences between the two might be too much to bridge as commoners perhaps became (or seemed) more brutish than the nobles. Might make for an interesting origin story for an elf-like race, in fact, providing a good reason for the differences and ample reason for enmity between the favored and un-favored. (There’s a Norse myth explaining the origins of thralls, commoners and nobles that makes use of divine heritage.)
Of course, there could be many factors working against too much of a discrepancy between blooded and unblooded. Maybe the gods, consciously or not, interbred as much with commoners (due to their larger numbers maybe?) than nobles. Maybe different gods bestow different traits, some of which maybe don’t interrelate well, arising in multiple gene pools that diffuse divine blood. In D&D terms this could be something as simple as Tieflings and Aasimars, humans with demonic and angelic heritage: they probably don’t interbreed much with each other but might still intermix with ‘lesser’ humans.
There’s a lot that has been done with divine blood lines but most often the focus is on a specific lineal decent (something extremely unlikely without divine intervention as I noted in my thoughts on the Da Vinci Code‘s premise.) But divine blood might have an even bigger impact on peoples (perhaps a god or group favor a certain tribe or race, like the elves) and nobles, than a King and his progeny.
While the effect of persistent god/mortal interbreeding isn’t often considered in world building, maybe it could provide that extra bit of novelty to your world?
Sequels are one of those elements of the writing craft that I came kicking and screaming to. Here, I find a suggestion by Don Maas invaluable: build on unexpected emotions. (Here I mean sequels as in Jack Bickham’s Scene and Structure, not movie sequels.)
I’m not one to display my feelings and having my characters show emotion has been just as hard for me. But sequels solve so many problems in writing that they are one of the foundations of story telling. Are scene transitions rough, characters too distant from the reader, actions opaque, too much interior monologue cluttering up your dialogue? Put it all in a sequel following the scene and let the character first feel (react to the scene) then wonder what to do, then decide on a next step. Sequels were certainly missing from my early writing and, along with telling more than showing, absent sequels are the most common thing I notice in developing writers when I critique or judge contests.
Currently, I’m doing a major revision (3.5% so far, woohoo :)). Most of it is rephrasing, improving descriptions, purging backstory. Fortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a large amount of re-write required but one place that stands out are the sequels. Since they don’t come naturally to me, many are awkward.
Sometimes the sequel just needs some polishing. Sometimes it needs to be pitched. In the latter case, starting over on the same emotions is especially daunting. This is where Don Maas’s suggestion proves handy. I pick a different emotion to work with. Is my protagonist moping too much because he’s afraid that the signs point to the end of the world? Let’s try happy. Sound stupid? Well, it could be but it might just unlock my first chapter story.
You can’t just pull something from nothing: readers expect characters to show some rationality. Why? Because unpredictable means un-invested: why worry about what happens to a character if anything can happen? There must be some literary fiction out there that proves even this assumption is false but in mainstream fiction, it doesn’t work for me and probably won’t for 99% of your readers. (Come to think of it, this is probably why I hated The Sound and the Fury.) So, the contrary emotion must fit the story, but there’s usually a way to make it work and if there isn’t yet, go back and create a reason.
Contrary emotions work on several levels. For you, as a writer, they free you from re-visiting an emotional state in your story that no longer resonates with you, for whatever reason. For the reader, they provide something unexpected: what does it say about the character if, faced with signs of the end of the Age, he is happy? It can be bad, of course, if it says: this character is insane and the author doesn’t know what he’s doing. But it could be good if it says something like: now I know that the tangles in his childhood matter even more than impending doom, more over, here is a character that smiles in the face of adversity. Which I’ve achieved in this particular draft only future feedback will tell but I think it is worth a shot and at least it helps move the revision along. If nothing else, it turns dread at facing a problematic sequel into anticipation at a fresh challenge. And if it doesn’t work, at least when I go to revise it, I won’t be trying a 3rd attempt at the same emotion. Kind of like, rather than your teacher telling you, you failed, now write it again, you get a whole new assignment instead.
- Emotions in Structure (insideliamsbrain.wordpress.com)
- Of Story Structure and Character Development – Writing Strengths and Weaknesses (fictionalferrets.wordpress.com)
- Revise Revise Revise (patriciachats.wordpress.com)