Nate Intolubbe

Author: Nate Intolubbe Page 2 of 4

To close out this month’s topic, I will go over traits common in poorly done sequels, and how to avoid them.

Some people say that a second book or movie cannot be better than the first. Some go further to say that the sequel is never better than the original.

Of course, this is demonstrably untrue, and subject to a lot of confirmation bias. The Empire Strikes Back is better than A New Hope. Angels and Demons is better than The Da Vinci Code. The Odyssey is better than The Iliad. Captain America: The Winter Soldier is better than The First Avenger. Spider Man 2 is better than the first of the Raimi films. Series like The Inheritance Cycle improve with each installment.

The reason why is tied to why sequels often fail: these works were intended to be part of a series. They were written with future installments in mind.

Many works are not meant to have sequels. They conclude their plot and character arcs to the point that creating new ones can be tricky. They are meant to be self-contained, a whole story, with little need to expand.

And, additionally, some works don’t leave enough loose ends to warrant writing a full new story.

For context: the movie Open Season deals with a bear raised among humans struggling to adapt to the wild, while fleeing from hunters. It has a good degree of heart, while creating decent comedy and mixing in legitimate threats.

Its sequel is about rescuing a dachshund from a pet camp.

I shit you not.

This is one main reason why later installments fail: adding on to the original is not necessary. Other causes stem from patterns that break my rules on sequel writing (at least, not in justifiable rule breakage):

A sequel should maintain a critical balance, one part honoring the traits that made the original good, and the other part creating a new story with its own identity.
A sequel should demonstrate the reasonable consequences of what happened in the previous installment.
A sequel should reinforce the messages and spirit of the original, while also expanding it and showing new challenges.
A sequel should learn from the shortcomings of their predecessors, so that the following works and the series itself improve.
The first three rules can be broken if doing so improves the work. (The fourth rule cannot be broken with this justification; refusing to improve the work cannot improve the work, that’s a paradox.)

Works that become too distant from the benefits from the original, such as Batman Forever and Batman and Robin. Works that try too hard to be the original, that they do not become their own story, like many direct-to-video Disney sequels. Works that do not show the realistic consequences of what came before, like Jurassic Park 2. All bad sequels break the fourth rule by their very nature.

Rules in writing literature are almost always flexible, and function more like guidelines (as a wise undead pirate once said something along the lines of). But never. Ever. Break the fourth rule.

Speaking of Pirates of the Caribbean, there are additional instances of stories that mess with characters the audience holds dear. Like, how Jack Sparrow experienced decline after each movie. By Dead Men Tell No Tales, he’s practically undergone character development in the opposite direction, a parody of himself.

As Sun Tzu did not quite say, “Know your characters, know yourself, and you need not fear the reviews of a thousand critics.” (Beyond a thousand, though, you are on your own.)

Other factors in this are reader/audience expectations. Legend of Korra was a great series that followed up ATLA very well. But some people wanted it to be exactly like its predecessor, which caused them to be disappointed when it decided to, you know. Tell its own story.

Sequels can be as good as the original. Sequels can even do better. But, they often do not, because people sometimes forget the main reason they are written in the first place: to continue the story in a satisfying way.

What are the best or worst sequels you’ve encountered? What aspects made them succeed or suck?

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Sequel September: Huckleberry Finn

By Nate Intolubbe

On September 21, 2020

In Literature, Reviews

So far, I have shared examples of a sequel that mostly lives up to the original, and another that was worse. This week, I will go over a third scenario: where the follow-up surpasses its predecessor. This takes us to a legend who put American literature on the map: Mark Twain.

The book of Tom Sawyer is an adventure novel about the shenanigans of its titular character and his friends. There isn’t much of a deeper meaning, nor is there meant to be. It’s an overall fun read.

Huckleberry Finn provides a story with a better adventure, a more likable protagonist in the picaresque style, and a greater deal of meaning. Remember my four principles of sequel writing? Refresher:

A sequel should maintain a critical balance, one part honoring the traits that made the original good, and the other part creating a new story with its own identity.
A sequel should demonstrate the reasonable consequences of what happened in the previous installment.
A sequel should reinforce the messages and spirit of the original, while also expanding it and showing new challenges.
A sequel should learn from the shortcomings of their predecessors, so that the following works and the series itself improve.

And now, the fifth rule: The first three rules can be broken if doing so improves the work. (The fourth rule cannot be broken with this justification; refusing to improve the work cannot improve the work, that’s a paradox.)

If the author believes that a subsequent installment should not carry on the spirit of the original, or mimic the traits of its predecessor, then it does not have to. For instance, if a different direction or message is desired, or if the work is meant to stand more independently.

Which leads us to Huck Finn. A story with a different protagonist. Meant to engage in a larger number of subject matters, such as alcoholism, neglect, bloody feuds, and slavery. The carefree spirit of Tom Sawyer would not be appropriate, nor would honoring the traits of romanticism, nor would reinforcing the message (or lack thereof).

This is what differentiates the two. Huck Finn is so much of a u-turn of the original, it actively works against it. Especially with Tom Sawyer’s behavior at the ending, showing how his romanticized views of the world are childish at best, and impeding sense and goodness at worst. The first book is meant to show an idyllic view of the Antebellum South, and the sequel is meant to slap you out of the daydream and scream, “No, this place and time sucks!”

Great literature knows how to subvert the expected. In this case, the book subverts its own predecessor, a ballsy move. A sequel going against the original should have a good reason for doing so – and Huck Finn did. Making a stronger story, with higher quality character development and meaning.

The eponymous character learns the foolish ways of the adult world, and how easy it is to trick people (like with the preacher), pulling off cons that put Tom’s stunt with the fence to shame. He witnesses violence that disillusions the games of playing pirates and robbers, finding the grim reality behind it in a way that the murder in the first book does not cover. He undergoes internal conflict about his friendship with Jim, and the prejudices of the time, juxtaposed with Tom’s terrible companionship.

Some say this sequel ruined the original in its portrayal of Tom Sawyer, and to that I say: the character was not a good-hearted person even in his own novel. He let his aunt believe he drowned, putting her through torment as a prank. His book only seems favorable to him because it is from his perspective, and changing the focus to Huck shows the outside view of how he really is.

Tom Sawyer is a good book, Huck Finn is better. This duology serves as an exemplary case of the fourth and fifth principles.

	Tom Sawyer	Huckleberry Finn
Plot:	3/4	4/4
Characters:	2/4	3/4
World-building	3/4	3/4
Details:	3/4	3/4
Misc:	4/4	4/4
Total:	15/20	17/20

Which of these novels do you prefer? Are there other cases you can think of where the sequel was better than its predecessor?

Sequel September: Star Wars

By Nate Intolubbe

On September 14, 2020

In Literature, Reviews

With everything from Legend of Korra in mind, we continue with our September dive into the art of the sequel. Next on the list: Star Wars.

This franchise has had more ups and downs than the tidal cycle. The original trilogy, The Clone Wars and Mandalorian shows, many of the video games, and several books have had strong positive feedback. On the other hand, the prequels, sequels, other books, and a certain holiday special that shall not be named (lest we summon the Force-Ghosts of Life Day Past, Present, and Future) faced negativity.

For the sake of this post, I will restrict this analysis to the nine main movies, of the prequels, originals, and sequels. For, they are most relevant to this subject.

I would say that the prequels and sequels are the equal but opposite reactions to the other; what one trilogy did poorly, the other did a one-eighty for, and vice versa. Sometimes, the reversal is for the better; other times, it creates something equivalently bad albeit from a different direction.

Which brings me to the fourth principle of sequel writing: subsequent installments should learn from the shortcomings of their predecessors, so that the series itself improves.

Or, as a wise man once said: “R2, we need to be going up, not down.”

Speaking of prequels memes, that’s the next point on this. Meme-ability, and memorability. The dialogue in that trilogy is cringey and cheesy, but it sticks in the mind, with many quotes being iconic from a comedic perspective.

Compare to the sequel trilogy, whose dialogue was adequate, but mostly forgettable. It is like pouring a truckload of concrete on a dumpster fire; you extinguish it, but now the dumpster has a concrete brick filling it up and making it unusable.

Then, there is the matter of the short versus long term storytelling. The prequels had lower quality films, but the overarching plot is well done and even is a haunting statement on how easily tyranny arises. The sequels had mostly better movies, but the story across installments was disjointed and inconsistent. Many positive qualities of these trilogies carry a major caveat.

The prequel protagonist, Anakin Skywalker, is whiny, annoying, and rarely behaves in a manner befitting the man who becomes the iconic Darth Vader. Yet, his skills are more realistic, where he loses against more skilled opponents, and has to train to use the Force and a lightsaber. And, he has a more definitive arc around his relationship with Jedi principles and those close to him.

Rey has no unlikable personality traits (though that could simply be a byproduct of having minimal personality traits), making her more agreeable on-screen. Yet the way she becomes an instant expert in Jedi skills with no training is a drawback, because she is robbed of character growth. A hero needs to not begin their journey at full power, so we can see them develop their capabilities alongside their mentality and learn from mistakes.

In other words, one protagonist is largely unlikable and an embarrassment to the franchise, but has clear character traits and a cohesive story. The other is more amiable, but is not a full enough character to invest in, and lacks development.

So, how do the recent films stack up with my other rules of sequel-writing? As listed below:

A sequel should maintain a critical balance, one part honoring the traits that made the original good, and the other part creating a new story with its own identity.
A sequel should demonstrate the reasonable consequences of what happened in the previous installment.
A sequel should reinforce the messages and spirit of the original, while also expanding it and showing new challenges.

The Force Awakens did these to an extent. It went back to basics, telling a story similar in structure to A New Hope. Some of the characters did have their own identity (Kylo Ren and Finn), giving enough promise. The events leading up to it (reestablishment of the Republic, the First Order a reactionary attempt to reestablish the Empire, the collapse of the New Jedi Order) all were plausible consequences. It kept the spirit of A New Hope, of people fighting for liberty against the rising Snoke.

The Last Jedi then promptly attached all that potential to cinder blocks and tossed it into the river. Finn was sidelined (which his actor, John Boyega, has called out), which got worse as the trilogy progressed. Luke attempting to kill his own nephew, when the younger version of himself was willing to take lightning to redeem his father, is an unreasonable u-turn of character. The new challenge of Snoke was eliminated without any development. There are many ways that this film undid the bricks they had laid down in its predecessor, not just halting the house’s construction but tumbling it all down on their heads.

And, The Rise of Skywalker suffered as it tried to overcompensate for all this. The writing was as rushed as its plot. Palpatine’s return was unearned (but, at least they finally gave Rey character development as she struggled with the legacy she inherited). Ben Solo’s arc was rounded out well, but the other characters (Finn, Rose, Poe) were left behind.

Changing writers and directors played into the inconsistency of the series. It changed direction more times than a compass surrounded by super magnets.

But then, is the sequel trilogy not a microcosm for the Star Wars franchise itself? What is The Force Awakens but the promising start of the originals? What is The Last Jedi but a disappointing butchery of this potential like the prequels? What is The Rise of Skywalker but the sequels trying to repair the damage done, at its own expense, while still failing?

We can all learn from what the Star Wars film progression has done. A case study of how the inverse of something bad is not always good, and how learning from your mistakes should not mean forgetting the parts of your errors that did have truth in them.

And now, my ratings:

	The Force Awakens	The Last Jedi	The Rise of Skywalker
Plot:	3	2	2
Character:	3	1	2
World-building:	3	1	2
Details:	3	2	3
Misc:	3	0	3
Total:	15/20	6/20	12/20

For an average of 11/20.

What are your thoughts on the Star Wars sequels? Do they have redeeming characteristics that you enjoy?

Sequel September: Legend of Korra

By Nate Intolubbe

On September 7, 2020

In Literature, Reviews

I am currently over halfway through writing the second volume of the Cases of Inspector Marshall series. And, I have decided to return to writing blog posts. Within the past few months, I have taken many considerations in crafting the follow-up to my own story, and have been developing my ideas on sequels too.

And with the recent additions of Avatar: The Last Airbender (herein, ATLA) and sequel series The Legend of Korra (herein TLOK) to Netflix, I saw fit to give my thoughts on these shows and how they apply to this discussion.

For background, I did not watch either show as a kid. I watched ATLA in May over the course of five days, and TLOK in August within three days. Prior to then, the only exposure to these series was the first few episodes of ATLA while in college, and various posts/videos on social media. My opinions are not rooted in childhood nostalgia, but my own impressions as an adult and author.

There will be a general non-spoiler review below, then a spoiler one further down.

ATLA has long been praised as one of the best family-friendly shows out there, and I certainly agree. The story, richness of the characters, animation, choreography of the fights, approaches to philosophy; it astounded me.

And, I can then imagine how the creators would have felt trying to create to make a follow-up to that with TLOK. They must have realized that they could never make something like that again, partially from the quality, but also by making a new story that didn’t ripoff the original source material.

So they did the best thing they could do, a stroke of creative genius.

They made something completely different.

And it worked.

I was amazed with TLOK. Not to say that it lacks flaws, but like with ATLA, I’m willing to accept some of its shortcomings because of how good everything else is. I daresay, it is one of the best possible sequels they could have made.

Which brings me to the first major point on sequel writing: there is a critical balance, one part honoring the traits that made the original good, and the other part creating a new story with its own identity.

I am by no means comparing my own work to these series; rather, this is a principle I caught on to that helps me with my second volume. Drift too far from the original, and you lose the ability to create smart parallels and legacies, and the result feels like it does not adequately expand the story. Yet if you get too caught up in the past, you only create a cheap copy of the original, and are not creating a new story at all.

And there’s already too much direct-to-video sequels, bad/unnecessary remakes, and contrived fanfiction out there. Don’t fall to their level.

Yet TLOK for the most part maintains this balance. No surprise; it’s the Avatar’s job. It’s not afraid to be different. It’s not afraid to create parallels with the original, while also showing some features in a new light (if not downright subverting them). And, it’s not afraid to expand on what ATLA started.

Which brings me to the second major principle of sequel writing: it demonstrates the reasonable consequences of what happened in the previous installment.

The steampunk/gaslamp setting is visually appealing, and it makes sense. If the world nations are at peace, of course technology is going to advance. Benders of different elements coming together, infrastructure from the Hundred Year War; an industrial society is the natural progression not just from the political situation, but also the gathering of ideas and resources.

Hence, the conflicts fit the scene. Different extreme ideologies clamor for power in times of great change, all working to determine the course of the future. And it is Avatar Korra’s job to ensure that all works for the better.

The structure across seasons works to its advantage. Rather than one major threat across the entirety of the show, and most of the major villains being related to each other, TLOK provides a variety of evils to face. It demonstrates the Avatar’s constant need to quell new threats as they emerge (as the Sith say, “Peace is a lie”), and prevents it from becoming stale.

And as in its predecessor, the series is able to create a kid-appropriate story, but does not insult the intelligence of its viewers, rather supplements it.

Before I move into spoiler territory, I will give my ratings for both shows:

Avatar: The Last Airbender

Plot: 4/4

Characters: 4/4

World-building: 4/4

Details: 4/4

Misc: 4/4

Total: 20/20

The Legend of Korra

Plot: 3/4

Characters: 4/4

World-building: 4/4

Details: 4/4

Misc: 4/4

Total: 19/20

And now: **********SPOILERS**********

(Ye’ve been warned.)

I like how Korra has a nigh opposite personality to Aang, and that their development is the same path from reverse angles. Aang, the wise soul who learned to be strong, despite not wanting to be Avatar; and Korra, the natural warrior who gained wisdom as she boldly charged into being Avatar. True balance, and a fantastic use of a sequel’s advantage of hindsight.

I like how the Team Avatar has realistic implications of them being older. Whereas ATLA gave us a group of friends traveling the world together, the main characters in TLOK have a greater independence from the gang. They have jobs and responsibilities that prevent them from always being near each other, just like adult friendships, yet they retain their affection.

A common criticism of TLOK is the love triangle early on. I usually do not abide the trope myself, but I let it slide for this show because they did it right. It does not overbear the main story, and it demonstrates the emotional impact it has on the people involved. The look on Bolin’s face when he had the flowers? Mako’s own conflicting emotions, not wanting to hurt anybody’s feelings while ultimately losing them both? Asami not accepting being someone’s second choice? All understandable, and in summary a condemnation of love triangle behavior.

So, that particular criticism is unfair. Especially since ATLA had a worse-written love triangle with Sokka, Yue, and Hahn.

The villains in TLOK are well done. Each of them has a core concept they pursue, with understandable and even noble intentions. There’s nothing wrong with wanting non-benders to not be second-class citizens, seeking peace between humans and spirits, protecting against tyranny, or saving one’s country from mayhem.

Yet it is their methods, the means that contradict the very ends they desire, that makes them villainous. Being so consumed with ideology, that one loses sight of and betrays their original intent. Wanting equality, but dividing people through violence; supporting spirits, while forcing them to become dark; seeking freedom, but imprisoning an entire nation; battling for unity, through coercion and persecuting people by ethnicity. And the fact that they all show a darker version of something positive and heroic from ATLA creates another brilliant parallel that only a sequel can accomplish.

Another strange recurrence is that the third episode of each show was when I thought, “Oh yeah, this series is going to be amazing.” And I wasn’t wrong.

For TLOK, I am referencing Amon revealing his powers. Removing a person’s bending was how the first show ended the Hundred Year War, so seeing that weaponized against the heroes had me realize that the series was willing to honor something from the past while being different.

Me, I love when tropes are flipped on their heads; the light turned to dark, the heroic turned villainous, good falling to evil. I admire that so much, I made “corruption” an element in my book’s magic system. Which is why I love TLOK, for it is not afraid to show a realistically negative side of something in its predecessor.

The first time I heard of airbenders, my initial response was: “Why don’t they ever fight by taking the air from someone’s lungs?” I asked this to someone in college, who replied that the Air Nomads have a pacifist philosophy. I asked this again to someone at work last year, who said that, and added that TLOK has a villain who does just that.

An evil airbender? When the hero of the first series was an Air Nomad, who usually has peaceful ways? Demonstrating how Air Nomad philosophy can be used for evil ends? Zaheer using airbending to asphyxiate the Earth Queen and send the Earth Kingdom into anarchy? All great storytelling elements.

And the same applies to Unalaq becoming a dark Avatar, or Kuvira using Toph’s metalbending and Zuko’s legacy of a peaceful Fire Nation to advance herself. The writers were willing to go there, and that’s what makes the show legendary.

And, TLOK does the vice versa of what I mentioned above regarding trope subversion, things once seen as villainous being heroic (and so on). For instance, Mako being a heroic firebender (though his actions are not always good). Lightningbending used to fuel power plants, and war balloons from the Fire Nation assisting the protagonists.

And this adds into the third major point of sequel writing: it reinforces the messages and spirit of the original, while also expanding it and showing new challenges. The redemption of the Fire Nation is intact, and it has been reformed to a positive force in the world. And building off another takeaway, it shows the long-term effects of how much change can happen when people are willing to see other perspectives.

And the way this is challenged is also a darker version of it; each major villain has a secondary villain of opposing ideology, a hammer and anvil smacking together, with the innocent caught in between the clash. Many perspectives are seen, leading to conflict, while Korra and the others have to learn from their enemies to find the best path.

Some fans of either show try to make it a competition between the series, but I strive to discover the conversation between them. ATLA was a tough act to follow, and for them to create a sequel roughly equivalent to the predecessor’s quality is a feat of artistic skill.

What are your favorite parallels between these shows? What have they taught you on developing sequels?

Sci-Fi, If I May: The Conflict

By Nate Intolubbe

On May 28, 2020

In Literature

May reaches its conclusion, as does this observation of science fiction.

If characters are the steering wheel for a story, determining where it goes, then conflict is the engine, pushing everything forward. The engine cares not where it goes, continuing on regardless of direction (unless flying off a cliff or into a building), and it is up to the characters to decide what that direction is.

Science fiction presents unique opportunities for conflict, in both action scenes and grand scale. No other genre can have dogfights between spaceships blasting lasers at each other, or an army of robots out to annihilate humanity.

Lightsaber battles are always a joy, and the clash of people against machinery can be legendary, yet there is a common concept underlying many sci-fights:

The future of humanity.

At least, in reference to the grand scale conflicts usually at play in the genre.

It is fitting that the goal of science itself is the primary concern of science fiction. Discovery for the sake of knowledge and the betterment of people – and, in the case of the literature, the implications and application.

Sometimes, the future of humanity faces threats from the outside. Alien, Ender’s Game, Independence Day, and many other stories deal with extraterrestrials invading Earth to enslave or destroy its inhabitants. These works involve themes of imperialism, and the frightening possibilities that advanced technology bring to that.

Even with humans being the protagonists in those scenarios, it still brings up complex moral questions. If the roles were reversed, where earthlings had that technology and found other planets, humans would likely do the exact same thing. Since the inability to learn from history is a fairly common trait, the future could very much resemble the past, amplified by advancement.

And this leads into stories where the conflict is the doing of humans themselves. Clashes against AI like Terminator and The Matrix reveal that we could lead to our own undoing by creating the wrong technology at the wrong time, or without certain failsafes. Others like Star Wars (as the name implies) demonstrates people constantly cycling themselves in warfare, and weapons such as the Death Star echo the horror of the atomic bomb.

In other words, striving for a future by emulating the worst parts of the past puts the present in jeopardy. Progress is not inherently wrong, and should be encouraged on morality as much as knowledge. The latter without the former is arguably not progress at all.

And that is the heart of conflict in science fiction: simulating what could be, to guide us on what can go wrong. A sort of trial run, where we do not have to learn the negative possibilities the hard way.

The genre reaches this type of philosophy in ways that others cannot, because it creates these timelines and worlds where the ideas can be addressed. Historical fiction can show what worked from the past to bring us here, and is valuable as a result, a sort of journal on where we have been; yet sci-fi is like conflict itself, about the forward movement, and we the characters of reality steer where the future goes.

Life seldom grants second chances, so looking ahead through literature could be the next best thing.

What are some of your favorite conflicts in sci-fi? What philosophical questions from the genre have stuck with you over the years?

Sci-Fi, If I May: The Tech

By Nate Intolubbe

On May 21, 2020

In Literature

May goes on, as does my analysis of science fiction. This week will focus on the center piece of the genre: the advanced technology.

Speculating on potential developments in engineering and physics has an enormous margin for error, and inevitably, some specific devices (plot or mechanical) require just as much suspension of disbelief as magic in fantasy does. That’s not a criticism, just an observation.

Consider the films that prompted my look into the genre: Star Wars. Even if the technology exists to travel at light speed, there still is a problem when it conflicts with real physics like inertia.

Imagine being in a roller coaster with your head forward, and the ride suddenly takes off, smacking your head backward. Or, driving with something heavy in the back of your car, and you brake suddenly, causing the item to slide forward. Just because the roller coaster started moving does not mean your head did, and just because your car stopped does not mean the item did.

So is the role of inertia in regular movement, and if one were in a ship traveling at light speed, they could be sent flying backwards, likely pulverizing on impact as the wall slams into them at such high velocity. Spaceballs, as campy as it is, did point out some of the realistic implications of this technology with the “Ludicrous Speed” scene. Spaceballs, of all places.

Now, the argument could be made that while originally developing light speed technology, the engineers developed a way to account for things like inertia. If modern humans accounted for the need to stop a car by inventing brakes, then it is reasonable that sci-fi technologists found similar work-arounds.

Is the physics behind Star Wars’ light speed ever explained much in the movies? No, and that is likely for the better. Otherwise, there would be more convoluted explanations that stretch the laws of nature further, breaking immersion.

And this brings me to the first main point on sci-fi technology: more realistic technology merits more explanation of how it works, and less realistic technology should receive less explanation.

A good example of this rule comes from the granddaddy of sci-fi himself, Jules Verne, and his novel 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Captain Nemo explains that his ship, The Nautilus, receives power from electricity. How does he do this, with the Victorian emphasis on steam locomotion? Sodium batteries. How does he get sodium? By burning coal, separating sodium from sea salt.

Boom. Sci-fi technology that operates under the laws of physics, all easily explained so that it enriches the reader’s understanding, not confuses it. Jules Verne completely predicted a new advancement that is reasonable, and has been developed decades after his book.

Another example is Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. As the astronaut protagonists undergo a voyage into space, their rocket has a rotating interior that simulates gravity through centripetal force. Again, a realistic discovery that uses the laws of physics as a step ladder, not a hurdle.

Returning to Star Wars, which is far more speculative and advanced than the tamer examples I gave. For the most part, this is a good example of the second half of the rule I stated: its technology is less realistic, but that is fine, because the writing in the films does not go too in-depth on how it works.

Outside sources for the Star Wars universe are a different story, and more is developed in alamanac-type books and Wikis about how it works for curious fans. But, it does not dominate the story with the physics behind it.

Another usual rule is that if a part of technology does something that is crucial to the plot, it must be explained or demonstrated. Nobody likes Deus ex Machina. Not even the Greeks, at least not anymore.

This rule applies to literature in general, and is almost like the opposite angle of Chekhov’s Gun (if a gun is set up in the story, it should be fired at some point). To illustrate, let’s call this Chekhov’s Gunfire. If a gun is going to be fired, the story should set up that there is a gun in the first place.

There is the age-old saying that rules are meant to be broken, and for me, satire can break all the rules of literature it wants. Satires of sci-fi can explain the most convoluted of inventions with whatever strange justification is needed, as suspension of disbelief is already thrown out the window. A good example is the Babel fish in Hitchhiker’s Guide, which feeds on and releases brain waves. This allows someone wearing it in their ear to understand any language.

Is that ridiculous? Of course. Can it get away with it? Of course, and the other genres just have to mope in the corner as it flouts every rule they live by.

Sci-fi’s most unique attribute can be its greatest weakness if not used correctly, and one of the best ways to prevent it from going topside is to know what to explain and when. With that, the stars are not even the limit.

What are some of your favorite sci-fi technologies? Which ones were so elegantly detailed, and which not so much?

Sci-Fi, If I May: The Characters

By Nate Intolubbe

On May 14, 2020

In Literature

Continuing my look into science fiction for the month of May, the next part of the subject is characters in the genre.

Like any sort of character writing, the author must have a firm grasp of the environment each figure would have been in, as well as individual personality traits. Less nature vs nurture, rather considering how nature and nurture coincide to create the complexities of a person.

Is a character naturally plucky, or is their optimism a coping mechanism for living under a dystopian government? Do these experiences challenge this positivity, or give them a reason to hold on to hope?

Other important questions are how people are typically raised, which philosophies are predominant in the society, and how people with certain natural dispositions react to all this.

If the society is rigid and militaristic, someone who is naturally expressive and iconoclastic would have a very tough time (and depending on the strictness, in mortal danger), prompting a push for change. In communal and laidback areas, someone who is competitive and craves structure would be an oddball, and may go on a space-adventure to achieve that.

Relatability is another factor, one that sci-fi has its own complications with. Characters in modern-era stories are more relatable to us, because a reader from that time understands the general mentality and external factors they are going through . Works from other time periods, however, have less a generation gap, and more of a generation canyon, due to significant changes in the world.

Science fiction is temporal change on steroids, and in some cases, crystal meth. A generation Mariana trench. These characters will typically have experiences, slang, responsibilities, and culture vastly different from the current day. Part of the fun of speculative fiction is figuring many of this out, and expanding one’s worldview; however, part of the responsibility is understanding the fictional universe enough to reflect it in its characters, while presenting it in a way that readers can process and enjoy.

Especially in television or film, it is critical to have the characters relay most of the world-building. Books can get away with disembodied narration doing some of the explaining, but only so much can be said in text scrolling up the screen before a movie itself has to take over.

Thus, it depends on whether a character was separated from many of the sci-fi elements, or at least does not have the full history. Having some characters learn alongside the audience makes it more manageable.

Luke Skywalker in Star Wars was raised around the spacecraft and blasters, but his uncle avoided telling him about the Force, so he receives the information on it as the audience does. Neo from The Matrix is thrown into the high-tech future, and gets the same run-down we do. Bobby from Pendragon has lived his life in only one of ten dimensional territories, and learns about all nine others as he visits them.

And in all these cases, the characters use their prior experiences to deal with the challenges in the story. Luke piloting his speeder and bullseye-ing womp rats as a farm boy is relevant in the final battle of A New Hope. Neo being a hacker helps his understanding of the Matrix’s simulation. Bobby’s uncle taking him for skydiving, scuba diving, and other activities helps him out as the books progress.

Of course, all of this could be thrown out the window by having people in this futuristic world act and talk just like people in our time. Which is fine, as long as it fits the tone. It works well in satires like Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, because it shows how the weaknesses of people and societies carry over across the universe.

As with all writing, every factor has an interconnected relationship with the others, while still being its own piece to remove and examine.

And in a genre as up past the clouds as sci-fi, having realistic and tangible characters grounds the reader. Critics say that there is no need for realism in sci-fi because of spaceships and laser swords, but this idea forgets about suspension of disbelief.

Suspending disbelief is like a crane suspending a girder off the ground. The cable needs to be firmly attached to something solid, otherwise it will never pick it up; and there must be enough weight to prevent the girder from pulling the crane down with it.

Characters provide that counterbalance, allowing us to suspend our disbelief and enjoy the science fiction. And knowing how to engineer that crane will help build a strong, structured story.

Who are some of your favorite sci-fi characters? What makes them likable, and how does this enrich the genre?

Sci-Fi, If I May: The Genre

By Nate Intolubbe

On May 4, 2020

In Literature

Hello readers. In honor of May the Fourth, the posts for today and the rest of the month will be my take on the Sci-Fi genre and several of its aspects.

To start, we need a definition of science fiction. Lexico (a dictionary site from Oxford) defines it as “fiction based on imagined future scientific or technological advances and major social or environmental changes, frequently portraying space or time travel and life on other planets.” This is the definition I will use for the sake of my discussion.

I thought of new terms today (May 4th, 2020) to help categorize different genres: fore-genre and back-genre. It references the foreground and background of a picture.

A fore-genre is one that lays the parameters for the work’s plot, whereas a back-genre is one related to a story’s setting and world-building. A literary work has at least one fore-genre and one back-genre, and can have multiple in each category.

Fore-genres include mystery, romance, action, and horror. They relate to the events that will take place. Back-genres include fantasy, historical fiction, modern-era, and science fiction. They relate to where/when things take place.

Going back to Oxford’s definition, we see that Sci-Fi sets up much of the backdrop – but not the specific types of stories.

Hence, its status as a back-genre, and why it needs others in the foreground. Combine it with mystery, and the result is Altered Carbon. Mix it with action and you get superhero movies, and a pinch of dystopian added to that cooks up The Hunger Games. Baking with adventure yields Star Trek. Hybridize some horror for Alien and Predator. Throw some adventure and fantasy in there, and Star Wars comes out.

I bring up that final combo not just because it is the series’ special day, but also to highlight the similarities. Years ago, I always wondered why Sci-Fi and fantasy were put together in libraries and bookstores.

But then I realized, they are essentially the same genre, albeit different angles. They are both speculative about altered versions of the world (technology and magic), have a variety of strange beings (aliens and mythical creatures), and require more suspension of disbelief. The grand epic nature is also commonly shared, as well as the use of allegory and philosophy.

I would go far enough to say that Sci-Fi is fantasy for writers who do not want to use magic. Though many works combine the two aspects, as in Star Wars, World of Warcraft, and my own book, Cases of Inspector Marshall, Vol I.

And all of this builds into the appeal of the Sci-Fi genre: it speaks to the human desire to improve our lives and explore new things. It allows us to evaluate where we are going, by showing a possible future. And, since many dystopian and war stories exist in science fiction settings, it oftentimes shows that human nature does not change because technology changes.

Its ability to give us works beloved and haunting points to its versatility, a strong trait that has made it iconic in the cultural mindset.

What are some of your favorite Sci-Fi stories? What genre-combos with science fiction have you enjoyed, or would like to see more of?

Where to Start: A Character

By Nate Intolubbe

On March 30, 2020

In Miscellaneous

This week, I finish my look into literary beginnings for March. Before then, I want to remind everyone to stay safe and sensible in these trying times. My home state of Arizona has recently issued a stay at home order; so hopefully, my content here and in The Cases of Inspector Marshall: Vol. I can help entertain and stimulate the minds of those stuck in their homes.

2020 so far has been a roller coaster on a track made of glass, and my recent slew of Cthulhu dreams has me laughing nervously.

But, speaking of dreams, this final week of March, I will share some of my insight on starting a character, using Inspector Marshall as my example.

Like with previous posts, this should not be taken as an end all be all approach, rather a way to assist in brainstorming.

This all started with a literal dream – one night in my second year of college, I had a dream about a man in a bowler hat and trench coat going to a manor in a swamp, and looking into the owner’s missing husband and son. Not much else happened that I remembered upon waking, though I did take down notes not long after.

In a creative writing workshop class, I needed to submit a short story, so I decided to flesh out the detective in the dream. I already was curious of the occult monster hunter style, so this fell greatly into place.

Thus, “The Creature of Kettle Hall” was typed. And I liked what I created so much, that I started two more stories that I finished over the summer and fall. And the rest is published history.

When first crafting Inspector Marshall, I wanted a character who would make a good action star, while being relatable and engaging. His mental asides, the sarcastic thoughts he keeps to himself, helped show his wit. His skills and knowledge-base follow from the archetype of the “situational adventurer.”

A method I have found to make a character more likable, and balanced in capabilities, is to put a restraint on or take something away from them. And, the common trope of the loner monster hunter without a family gave me an idea – why not give him a family he cares about, then separate him from them?

As a mundane human, he already has a limitation compared to the things he goes up against. Thus, an emotional weight on him fulfills this role, and allows the reader to relate more to him.

More of his backstory was written in “The Haunt in the Walls,” where his past as Marine Corps Intelligence demonstrated where he gained his combat and investigative skills. The most significant part about fleshing his character and past out made the best use of the short story structure: never giving too much at once. Gradually introducing more and more of him as time went on.

This allows the reader to learn about the protagonist, without it interfering with the plot at hand.

Which leads me to suggest the following model to develop a character: know their skills and advantages, understand their disadvantages, and create a backstory that plays to both of these. This can be revealed in how they act and react in certain scenarios the work presents.

Details on personality can be brainstormed in all three of the above criteria, and can be freestyled when writing dialogue. For instance, given the traumatic nature of his job, it fits that Marshall has a dark sense of humor – as often develops in soldiers, medical personnel, and morticians. In effect, a personality trait that develops from his skills and backstory.

Thus, some of the questions you can ask about your characters to begin them include:

What are their goals, long and short term? Who are their closest relationships, and what are they willing to do for them? What skills do they have, and how did they acquire them? Where have they lived and visited, and how did this impact them? What vulnerabilities do they have, and why? Why is this character in the story at this time and place, and what impact do they have on the story?

Most of these questions should be asked for protagonists, major antagonists, and deuteragonists; minor characters and “extras” fill these in as needed.

Characters are the life of a story, and developing them often involves diving into their perspective and motivations. Knowing how they would respond, to create internal consistency. If the author cannot empathize with their characters, then the reader never will.

Writing the personalities of characters as they respond in real time is a delight; and starting them could be as simple as a dream brought to paper.

Where to Start: The World

By Nate Intolubbe

On March 22, 2020

In Literature

With yesterday as the first day of spring, I continue my look into beginning certain parts of literature. This week, I look at the basics of world-building.

Before that, I have good news for my own series. I have already finished the first major story for The Cases of Inspector Marshall, Volume II, and have made progress with a couple other ones. Plenty of new content on the way.

Returning to the subject of the post, it is important to understand that world-building is done in two methods, which often feed back into each other. The first is the broader brainstorming, the pool of information about the world and its general principles. The second is the specific application of these principles in the text or onscreen, which information is shared as is relevant.

Both are vital. The general aspect is used to determine what is used in scenes, and the specific use refines and expands the broader knowledge.

All genres rely on world-building. Fantasy, sci-fi, and alternate history are the most looked at, as there is the speculative aspect, with timelines and universes often coming from scratch. But, other genres use it in subtle ways. Hence, this is still an important skill for authors to learn.

Historical fiction uses the past as a backdrop, which needs to be constructed properly. The atmosphere and tone derive from the how the setting is established, vital for determining if a romance is bright and cheery or down to earth; whether an action film is bombastic and cinematic or jarring and gritty; and if a drama encompasses a small town or stays in one house.

If a town is your setting, it should feel rich enough to stand out and be memorable, its history or routine playing into the plot. It should feel like its own character, unique and relatable to the reader, brought to life through its denizens and events transpiring.

And if you are going for the bold move, creating your own fantasy/sci-fi world, here are some general tips I learned when crafting mine:

Water the plants, don’t drop them in the pool. Info-dumps are rarely helpful, trying to flesh the world out in such a short time with an inorganic fashion. Creating lore is fun, as is sharing it with others; and to make it better for everyone involved, giving it as needed provides a more natural way for readers to process the information.
Write as much of the lore as you want – and switch back to writing the novel when you’re stuck. And, vice versa, in whichever starting order works for you. This allows you to use ideas and events from one to craft the other, like both sides of a handcar driving themselves forward.
Don’t use the body text as your almanac. Keeping your world-building compiled in a separate file/document/section lets you record everything where you can easily access it. And, it reduces temptation to share lore where it doesn’t quite fit. The document I did this with evolved into the Appendices at the back of my book, an effective solution to establish lore while avoiding info-dumps in the body text.
You don’t need to know everything about your world to write your story. And, the world-building should not come before writing a good story. It is better for you to leave some blank spots in the lore for later works to fill in, if it prevents snags in creating the novel itself.
Show when it makes sense to. Tell when showing does not make sense. If something is told, it should weave naturally into conversation (when applicable, and considering what the participants should know as people in the world), or be narrated in a way that engages the audience.

World-building is fun, and is arguably fiction in its rawest form: creating something new, outside our current existence. And since it has the largest scope out of other writing tools, it can be unwieldy when not in capable hands.

And whether it’s a studio apartment or a cosmic war-zone of gods, the setting should be deep enough for the readers to immerse themselves – while not dragging them down to drown.

Author of the Cases of Inspector Marshall

Author: Nate Intolubbe Page 2 of 4

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Sci-Fi, If I May: The Conflict

Sci-Fi, If I May: The Tech

Sci-Fi, If I May: The Characters

Sci-Fi, If I May: The Genre

Where to Start: A Character

Where to Start: The World