Unabashed

I love the Big Idea series John Scalzi is doing. I like reading about the genesis of an idea, how it came to be written. If I had an opportunity to show John Scalzi my Big Idea–which I don’t, since the book is not published–I might tell him that my idea has a lot to do with bringing science to fantasy. It might look something like this:

I love stories where there are invisible worlds set within the world we live in. The idea that someone is right there, standing next to you, but you can’t see them because they’re in this other place. The first time I remember thinking about that was in high school, when we were talking about the Mayan culture that just disappeared off the face of the Earth, without a trace. While everyone else was thinking drought or war or famine, I was thinking that they must have evolved into a higher state, and then transitioned into a separate reality from the physical one we can see.

Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, Neil Gaiman, Charles de Lint…there are a lot of writers who utilize the “world within a world” plot to great effect, but they always seemed to miss one important detail that I always wanted to see expounded upon: how did the invisible world come to be in the first place? Once I began wondering in that direction, the book Modern-Day Mythica wrote itself.

The story evolved from the concept of an energy mass that encircles the globe, that flows across the surface of the Earth like a river, from north to south. That energy is called the Wash. And everywhere that the Wash touches ground it forms pockets of reality within reality, some large and some small, attainable by certain doorways which are difficult to find and even more difficult to access, unless you really know what you’re doing. But to simply go that far with the idea still wouldn’t have satisfied my curiosity of how the Wash itself came to be, in order to form these pockets of reality. And that was the point where the idea became my Big Idea. The complexity of the concept is vast, but it fits perfectly within the scientific laws of the universe, if you can accept that there is one ingredient in the universal stew that remains undetected and unaccounted for: the energy of the Wash itself, which originates from a celestial body once in orbit around the Earth, when the Earth had two moons in the sky.

The implications of this are much more far-reaching than might initially be thought of: the presence of a moon that is unaccounted for, that disappeared some ten thousand years ago and is unrecorded except perhaps in some arcane hieroglyphs drawn on cave walls, could have a devastating impact on how science looks at history. With two moons, Earth’s time line could shorten considerably. Things that might take millions of years today, such as the formation of mountain ranges, might have only taken thousands of years in an environment where there was so much more gravitational pull on the planet’s surface. The tides would have been greater, earthquakes and volcanoes much more frequent…essentially, everything that science has applied to a timeline would have to be compressed into a much tighter margin, because things would have been happening so much faster than we can account for today. This is important because it enables the scenario where the ages of mammals and dinosaurs could have overlapped, and it is entirely feasible in the real world. Indeed, this is a scenario which is entirely possible, one which I do not believe can be proven incorrect. That was the essential Big Idea of the book.

But what happened to the moon, one might ask. Well, this is the point where the story leaves the plane of the real world and delves into fantasy or science fiction. The moon, a crusty, charred satellite with a surface composed primarily of slate, is the source of the energy of the Wash. Some combination of minerals and exotic materials, in an environment of intense heat (such as the core of the moon, which happens to be molten), releases the energy, which is copious enough to encompass both moons as well as Earth. This shared energy is a fuel for magic, making the impossible possible in many ways. For instance, the cocktail of energies allow for the existence of creatures on the moon in question, which could not exist in any world where magic is not possible. And furthermore, the influence of the energies allows for those creatures to migrate to Earth, lending credence to the ancient myth of dragons.

In Modern-Day Mythica, dragons are pivotal characters, striving to reach the cool blue comfort of Earth once again. But they were banished long ago, by means of a spell woven by a man, using the inherent energies of their home moon itself. For thousands of years the dragons have been seeking to undo what was done, and once were able to expose a rift between Earth and the realm to which their moon had been banished. This rift allowed the energies of the moon to once again enter Earth’s atmosphere, forming the Wash, and enabling magic within its borders.

This work is unpublished and unagented, although it is under consideration at this time. Read the first five chapters here.
Crappy cover art was contrived by myself, with a ganked photograph from here (the cover art is crappy, but the photo is pretty cool).

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: Big Idea, black moon, book, John Scalzi, legend, Modern-Day Mythica, moon, myth, mythos, story

Queries suck. At least writing them does. The entire novel-writing process has never made me feel so futile as penning these two vexing paragraphs. I could fill this page with links to query-writing suggestions and formats and information I’ve read from various outlets all over the web, all of it very helpful in its own context, but essentially worthless in applying to my own book. Why am I re-confronting my greatest fear? Because la Gringa wants to know where all the adult fiction subs are. And I have one. And I want to send it to her. I fear her rejection, yes, but this is more than some short story that I’ve labored over for a week and a half. This manuscript represents five years of my collective creative output. It represents potential success in publishing. It represents the hopes and dreams of a writer who wants to be. It represents potential for disposable income. I’ve been well aware of la Gringa’s advent into the agenting business, and I’ve had my manuscript ready for a good while now, I just don’t have the query letter right yet. If my book represents five years of creative output, this query letter represents another six months at least. No, it’s not all I’ve been working on, but I return to it regularly, and I suffer for its potential. I tweak it, and then I scrap it and start over, and then I agonize for a little while before I toil some more. But to dedicate so much time to something that can be the realization of all the dreams of a lifetime of writing is so daunting to me that I convince myself that the query must be better than the story itself, that my story depends on this little 100-word document to be successful, that if the story doesn’t get published it will be because I didn’t write the query letter well enough. And the worst of it is that great bit of advice I keep pinned to the wall by my desk:

…the writer never gets any better than the writing you see in the pitch letter.

Ack! Such pressure! To prove I’m worthy, that my story doesn’t suck, that I’m…well, you know how it is, don’t you, Mr. Query Letter. And I’ll bet you’re the most successful and wonderful story pitch there ever was–You. Sick. Bastard. You’re enjoying my pain, aren’t you? You see this blog and you look at me and think, “Heh, he’s in the gutter now!” Well, I’m done eating your scraps, Mr. Query. I’m jumping off this bus and catching a…a train. Or a hang glider.

Or a noose.

Oh, well. On to ver. 15.9…

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: author, book, Fiction, query, story, synopsis, writer, writing

Batman’s utility belt, Quasar’s quantum bands…there are tons of superheroes (and villains) out there who’ve accessorized to better enable them to perform their duties. Reed Richards has made a living out of building gadgets and machinery for his team and for the world at large. He designed unstable molecules so he and the rest of the Fantastic Four could remain clothed while using their powers. Unstable molecules might sound fanciful, but they fit right into the vein of scifi tech made real if you look over at the nanoscience industry. Unstable molecules actually sound like a precursor for nanobots if you think of it that way.

But who has the best accessory in comicdom? Captain America’s shield would get a lot of votes, as a symbol as well as a useful instrument. Some might vote for Wonder Woman’s various accoutrement: her silver bracelets, her golden lasso or her ridiculous invisible jet, but I wouldn’t. If I was voting for hottest chick in comics she’d be right in the top ten, but in my humble opinion, her gadgetry is unimaginative and lame. Ditto for Green Lantern’s ring, which is an awesomely powerful item, with the tremendous drawback that it is powerless against anything colored yellow (Damn! Beaten by a banana). Some would vote for Wolverine’s claws, but again, not me. Primarily because I don’t consider them an accessory. They are a part of his body; he can’t take them off and leave them on the bedstand when he’s sleeping. They just snict right back into his arm. So the verdict on Wolvie’s claws is: immensely cool, but not qualifying.

The list goes on and on:

These items have no power augmentation or special attributes: 

• Captain America’s shield–unbreakable, yes, but does it fire lasers? Sadly, no. 
• Elektra’s Sais
• Batman’s utility belt
• Deadpool’s swords
• Green Arrow bow and arrow
• Moon Knight’s utility belt
• Hawkeye’s bow and arrow
• Hawkman’s mace

These items are imbued with some attribute which increases their power, or the power of their wielder:

• The Infinity Gauntlet – infinitely powerful, but in the end it’s just a glove with little gemstones on the end of it; not very cool. And besides, picking this as the coolest accoutrement is kind of like picking Superman as the coolest superhero. Sure, he’s cool, but who can beat him? They defaulted his character as the most invincible being there is (at least in the DC universe). (I’d put my money on Galactus against Supes, especially if G’s just eaten a nice, fat, juicy planet).
• Thor’s hammer (Mjolnir)
• Quasar’s quantum bands
• Annihilus’s Cosmic Rod – cool and classic, but then so is…
• Silver Surfer’s board (From here on out I’m omitting anything imbued with the power cosmic on the basis that they are defaulted to be infinitely powerful and yet are too hard to define)
• Iron Man’s suit
• Wonder Woman’s lasso, bracelets, and invisible jet
• Green Lantern’s ring

I’m probably still missing some, But which is best? When it comes right down to it there are only two that really deserve to be in the conversation at all (for me, anyway):

Thor’s hammer and Iron Man’s armor, both from Marvel Comics and both awesomely powerful (but not too powerful, not infinitely powerful). Let’s break it down:

Mjolnir

• Imbues wielder with super strength and invulnerability 
• Forged by dwarven blacksmith of the mystical Asgardian metal Uru 
• Can summon the four elements: rain, wind, thunder and lightning
• Can open interdimensional portals
• When thrown, if you hold on to the strap very tightly, enables flight (basically it yanks you through the air at tremendous speed. This is probably the coolest flight adaptation in comicdom outside of Hulk’s bounding ability)
• When thrown, returns automatically to the spot from which it was hurled after it strikes the target
• Can be recalled to the hand of the wielder

Iron Man’s Armor

• Imbues wielder with super strength and near-invulnerability
• Jet boots enable supersonic flight
• Is equipped with numerous defense systems: repulsor rays, pulse beams, missile launchers, lasers, tasers, and flamethrowers
• Has a unibeam in the chest that can emit various types of light energy
• Helmet contains comm and recording devices and scanning equipment

In the end you have the ultimate gadget–Iron Man’s armor–and the ultimate mystical relic–Thor’s hammer. I think I’d be okay with either one.

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: accessories, accessorize, armor, book, Books, claws, comic, hammer, Iron Man, marvel, Mjolnir, snict, Thor, wolverine

My Iron Man post of a few weeks ago got me thinking about comics and collectibles in general and, more specifically, why I don’t buy comics any more, and a few reasons became immediately clear:

1. You can’t buy comics in the grocery store any more. When I was a kid I actually looked forward to going to the grocer with mom because I could squat on the floor at the comic book rack and pick out a few to take home with me. I could keep up with the whole Marvel or DC universe on an almost weekly basis. Today, to get comics you must go to a comic book store, of which there are very few, or a book store, which doesn’t carry many titles.
2. They’re too damned expensive. I have no problem with costs rising and prices rising. But the prices of comics have risen too much. There was a time when I could buy every comic in the Marvel Universe as they came out, but now, with so many titles which sell for over $3.25 apiece, there’s no way I can afford to keep up with more than a few.
3. Too many titles. This is especially true when there are several titles for the same group, like the X-Men. The X-Men were doing so well in the 80s that Marvel introduced several other X-titles. And it was evident that those new titles weren’t there to further explore the universe, they were only there to increase sales. It was pathetic, and it was ultimately what drove me away from comics in the first place.

The biggest mistake made, in my opinion, was that they began to market to collectors rather than their fanbase. Today if I go to a comic store to buy a comic the shop owner will ask if I want two copies, one to read and one to keep in pristine condition. This, to me, goes against all logic and reason. For starters, the reason comics were collectible in the first place was never because they were marketed to collectors, just the contrary, it was because collectors didn’t buy them until they became collectible. Comics were collectible because kids bought them, and very few of them survived being read and carried around in a back pocket and torn, ripped, and shared among other kids or traded for marbles.

When the clerk asks me if I want my comics bagged I tell him no. I read my comics and then I stick them in a box. This always is met with shock and disapproval. “How can you not bag them?” they ask. And I answer, “Because I buy them for the story. To read.” I don’t buy them for their presumed potential value in the future. And will they be valuable in the future? Hell no. Not when you’re selling two to a customer, one to be kept in pristine condition forever. Why should I keep them in baggies? The industry itself is ensuring they won’t be worth a dime as collectibles because of the way they’re marketing them.

One of the great (stupid) tactics of the comic book industry was when they began rolling off limited-print special-cover copies. They’ll do two covers, and print a bazillion copies of one but only two thousand of the other. So basically they’re guaranteeing that there will be two thousand pristine copies of that comic book enshrined in a static free, lint free, oxygen free environment for at least a thousand years. Actually, for the publisher I guess that’s a good move, but for the would-be collector it’s a stupid idea to buy them with any expectation that they’ll actually one day be worth more than the cover price.

No, a comic is collectible is when it’s fun and interesting and when only a few copies survive through the years. The one that was stuck in a box unread and forgotten is the one that’ll be worth the most money in the end. The things that are supposed to be collectible might enjoy a brief spurt of collectible frenzy, but in the end the only things that wind up collectible are those things that weren’t to begin with, the rarities of the world.

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: book, Books, comic, marvel

My book is written. Well, it’s actually my third book, but the first one is not good and neither is the second, although with the second I believe its a good story, it just needs major rewrites. So, anyway, the book is done. It’s called Modern-Day Mythica, it’s around 120k words, and the premise is this:

200,000 years ago, Earth’s second moon disappeared. The rest of the story is about the effects of that missing satellite on one Joe Copeland, modern-day regular guy. Oh, and the moon that disappeared was an enormous, black, magical energy-generating rock that was inhabited by dragons.

Once every blue moon (heh, it was actually a black moon) dragons could travel to Earth (the details on how they did this are worked out, but I won’t get into here right now) and basically terrorize everything that lived–including humans. But then this really old guy shows up and makes the black moon disappear. Of course, since the black moon was the magic generator and this old guy had been using magic to keep himself alive far beyond a normal life span, he died. And the dragons, who depended on magic for flight, fire-breathing, communication–basically everything that separated them from big, crawling lizards–were all killed off. At least the ones on Earth were. The ones still on the moon–now banished to a different reality altogether–were mighty pissed, and began working on a way to get the moon back into orbit.

They never figured it out, but they did find a way to open a portal, a rift, between the realities, and they sent one dragon back to see if they could figure out a way to get the moon back into orbit from here. Joe, of course, is the guy who’s supposed to stop this from happening.

The story, which I’ve tentatively entitled Modern-Day Mythica, incorporates a good deal more than just dragons in its mythos: there are werewolves, ghosts, magicians, an alligator that turns into a motorcycle, etc.

Now, as you may know, I’ve been populating a wiki over at Wetpaint.com with details of the mythos involved. It’s not complete yet, but there is a lot of detail already there. Whether this book ever sees the light of day or not I have no idea, but I’m hoping that if this blog can build a little following, gain a few more readers (this is Unabashed honesty for ya, folks–yes, I’m using you, but I sincerely love you, too), that, coupled with the already-built companion wiki might make an editor give me at least a second glance before he/she shoves me into the trash can and sends me the dreadful form letter rejection.

Here’s an excerpt, if you’re interested (disclaimer: This is gory).

Edgar Billies had owned the Duck ‘n’ Dolphin for twelve years when the stranger came through the door. The fellow looked ordinary enough, about six two, brownish blond hair, dark green eyes. He was dressed kind of funny, his clothes didn’t seem to fit, and he was barefoot, wet, and dirty. He was wearing a fag bag that actually said “FAG BAG” on the front of it. That didn’t speak well for folks in Ed’s mind. But then Ed thought the guy might be homeless. He almost threw him out on the spot but decided against it if the guy didn’t have any money, then he’d throw him out. But the guy just didn’t seem like a homeless person; he carried himself upright and proud, like a damn king or something. And he was smiling, like he was just coming in to shake everyone’s hand and get a vote. The rest of the guys, Dan, Bull, Todd, and Legs, all turned to look at him, but they didn’t pay him any mind. Edgar poured up a beer for Legs and asked the stranger what he could get for him.

“How about some whiskey,” the guy said, sitting down at one of the front tables.

The guy kicked his dirty feet up on the table. Before Edgar took him the whiskey he hollered, “Fellah, you wanna get your feet off the table?”

The men at the bar looked at the stranger, and the stranger complied with a wink. He was still smiling.

Edgar set the drink on the table and said, “That’ll be six fifty.” He’d jacked the price up special for this joker.

The stranger reached out to take the drink and Edgar, in his classic way, grabbed at the stranger’s wrist to tell him to pay up first. Only the stranger caught Edgar’s wrist instead, and the next thing Edgar knew his arm was twisted up behind his back painfully and the stranger downed the shot. The four men at the bar hopped to their feet.

The stranger threw the shot glass and hit Bull in the forehead, which just served to piss Bull off, and all four of them were an inch away from charging straight in and kicking the shit out of the monkey that was holding Ed’s arm. They backed off a step when they heard Ed’s arm crack, though. Then, through his grin that never wavered, the stranger jerked Ed’s arm straight up over his head, then kicked him toward the others. The arm was broken and out of socket and it flopped around like an empty shirt sleeve when he fell forward and cracked his head on the bar. Todd tried to catch him, but Edgar was too fat and went into the bar anyway, then he hit the floor like a rotten log.

Dan and Bull charged with a loud, human growl coming from each of them. But the stranger picked up the chair he’d been sitting on and right before their eyes it changed into a two-handed ax. The handle and head were both deep, dark green, metal or stone, they couldn’t tell, the color and texture were otherworldly, precious, like a rare, gigantic gem, something you’d actually want your head cut off with if it came to that, like something an archeologist would pull from a horde of treasure in a tomb in China that was as old as mankind itself. The head of the ax was inlaid with delicate lines of engraving, as fine as spider’s silk, which curled and swept like waves back from the sharpened edge. Near that edge, the head of the ax, the color of dark, luxurious jade, became paler and paler until it was almost white at the sharpened edge. It looked like it would be hot to the touch. Amazed though they were, they were already committed, and men like Dan and Bull commit to things only as a final option. The final option had been crossed when this faggot had come in here and broke Ed’s arm, as far as they were concerned. But the stranger brought the ax back with both hands and swung it hard and full, right through Bull’s left knee and into Dan’s right shin. Both big men fell in opposite directions, screaming. The stranger never stopped smiling, though; he drew up the ax like he was splitting wood and began making kindling out of Bull’s left arm. Then he turned on Dan, who was trying to get to his feet, and planted that ax right on his collar, between his neck and his shoulder. It sheered clean through the collarbone and into his breast, and Dan looked down at it with wonder as a stream of crimson blood shot up into his nostrils from his own chest wound.

Todd ran around to the other side of the bar and ran along the bar bent over, trying to find Ed’s shotgun. When he saw it he laid his hands on it, but then he felt an odd pain in his lower back and from that moment on, all he knew was that he was on his back, conscious, but unable to move anything but his eyes. He couldn’t talk, lick his lips, wiggle his toes or anything. He figured that when he bent over to get the shotgun the stranger whacked him with that ax right at the base of his spine and he was right. Gregg had sheared his lower spinal column cleanly in two, and then he left Todd to lay and think about what was coming next, as he set about chopping Dead Ed into edible-sized bites.

Todd heard every plunge of the ax; he heard Ed moan when the ax went into him, sounding like a softball hitting a catcher’s mitt in fast-pitch, or like a sack of flour when dropped onto a wooden floor. Todd heard every blow, and with mounting terror, knew his time was soon to come. Maybe he’ll forget about me, he thought, or maybe he’ll just not worry about me any more, seeing as how I’m incapacitated any way. He began to wonder if doctors could reattach a severed spine, or if he would have to spend the rest of his life unable to move, flinch or even blink his eyes. But then the stranger looked over the bar and Todd knew that he wasn’t going to be left alive. Tears began to flow from his eyes.

The stranger’s head was covered with bright red gore. Thick droplets were spattering down onto the bar Todd could see them almost as if in slow motion. The stranger spit and bloody spittle spattered the wall beside Todd. He walked slowly down to the end of the bar and then walked up to Todd, the ax up on his shoulder. He was standing over Todd’s feet, a bloody, gory mess from head to toe. And he was smiling; grinning like a maniac. He set the ax head on the floor and spit in both his hands, rubbed them together, and then hoisted the ax with both hands, bringing it back over his shoulder big smile still in place and then he brought it down in a swift, singing arc. Todd heard his thigh crunch and the ax struck the hardwood floor beneath it, pinning the leg down. The stranger had to pry the ax free, shifting the handle up and down to wrench it out of the wood floor and Todd’s leg. There was a sucking sound as the ax head finally came free of the leg. Todd’s eyes were running with tears he wasn’t feeling the pain of the blows, not exactly; he could feel each blow like a thud like when a dentist pulls a tooth when the jaw is full of novacane but there was no sharp pain as there should have been, only the bone-jarring thud that caused his vision to blur for a second and his head to rock from side to side slightly. All the worse, because without the pain to tell his mind to shut down he had to endure every swing of that ax, every sucking sound as it pulled free of every wound it inflicted, and he had to watch every time the stranger wrenched the ax free of the floor, with each thunderous blow. When the stranger cut off his left arm at the shoulder, Todd could hear the ax whistle by his ear, and he began to grow cold. When the stranger cut off his right arm at the elbow, and his stump flew up in front of his eyes, spattering blood across his face, his hearing went out and he could no longer hear the meaty thwacks of his dismemberment. When the stranger finally struck him in the belly, Todd saw a jet of blood spray up into the stranger’s face, right before his eyesight faded slowly to gray, and then he was blind. All he had left at that point was the feeling of each blow rocking his body, as if he was underwater and someone was swatting the surface above his head with a boat paddle. He could feel the reverberations, he could feel the thud, and in his mind he could hear the dull thump, but it was distant, echoing, and then he was gone.

As Gregg walked out of the Duck ‘n’ Dolphin Saloon, there was a chair extending from the chest cavity of the owner, Edgar Billies, as if it had just sprouted and grown there.

End exerpt.

So what do ya think? Do you like it (and are you willing to spread the good word about Unabashed so I can gain fame and fortune :-)? Or do you hate it and think my plan will fail and I’ll suffer the pain of self-publishing?

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: book, excerpt, Fiction, Matt Mitchell, sample, story, writing