Fiction and Viktor Frankl, by Eric Witchey

Label_Developed(image source: Alan M. Clark, cover artist)

Fiction and Viktor Frankl, by Eric Witchey

In my small way, I try to continually expand my awareness of the experiences of others. I do this because I’m curious by nature and because to do so improves my ability to tell a story. Because I have been working on a fantasy story to support the marketing efforts of Dungeon Solitaire, I found myself researching death rites and rituals from various parts of the world. I also decided to reread Viktor E. Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning.

For any human being capable of compassion, reading Viktor Frankl is always a heady experience. However, my immersion in death rites and rituals somehow brought me to a moment where I was struck by how fully universal to the human experience his accounts of life and core integrity are. Perhaps I should have felt this before, and I certainly understood it before, but this time it hit me more deeply in both the heart and mind.

In my travels in the writing life, I have met some pretty rabid Zionists, a few really terrifying Palestinian poets, escaped hostages from the Palestinian hostage crisis, survivors of Guatemalan genocide, Serbs, Iranian ex-pats, righteous American ex-pats, escaped cold war Ukrainians, Holocaust survivors, Turkish intellectual Muslims, a Greek freedom fighter (against the Germans and carrying huge hatred of all Germans and Turks), a Catholic monk who fought on the German side in WWI and the American side in WWII, and all manner of extreme Christians who, more than the others, scared the hell out of me personally. That last one included a mercenary I met on his way to South Africa to fight for the Christian white-right to bring Apartheid back. I won’t add more to this list. It’s already long enough to make my point.

During my interactions with various people who held aggressive/defensive positions that made me nervous, I have tried to keep my fear in check and truly listen to their (sometimes insane and irrational) personal positions in order to seek some understanding of what motivates actions I cannot understand from the context of my white-boy, Midwestern, multi-religion upbringing.

Those extreme souls I met who had a sense of history, even if only from their own agenda-driven point of view or other-interpreted oral traditions, had one thing in common. They deeply felt, and were sometimes motivated solely by, their fear for their families and their futures. Often, that fear was grounded in their sense of history, and their sense of history was based entirely on which side of the experiences they were on.

Here’s an example. I was in a village in central Mexico, and the man I was staying with casually described how he really liked the new mayor because she was not corrupt. I asked how he knew she was not corrupt, and he said, “Because the cartel has tried to kill her twice.”

Well, that caught my attention.

I asked about the cartel and whether we were safe. He laughed and told me that of course we were safe. He said, “If you were in one of your cities, there would places you knew not to go at night, right?” I nodded. “Us, too,” he said. “We just don’t go to the wrong places at the wrong times.”

The casual conversation moved on, and he eventually described to me how the cartels weren’t really a problem to the people of the village. From his perspective, the American gun dealers were the real problem.

I kept listening. He kept talking. From his perspective, the cartels were like the weather, but the Americans sold death. From his perspective, the cartels were God-fearing people doing the best they could in terrible economic circumstances. They brought products in from the South, moved the products through the area, and passed them on across the border to the North. However, it was the Godless, money-hungry Americans who created the market for the drugs and who fueled the destruction of families by selling guns to both the government and the cartels.

The above is a very short description of an off-and-on conversation that went on for more than a week, but I hope you get the idea. Everything he said was true for him and his family in their lives in their world.

The flip-side of that story is also equally true. The DEA agent I met in Pima, Arizona who had lost two members of her family, one to addiction and one to gunfire, hated the Mexican government and the Mexican people for allowing the cartels, for trafficking across the border, and for making poison available on the streets in a way that killed her brother. She believed that the Pope at that time supported the trafficking and that Catholic confession was part of the reason the smugglers could do what they did without remorse. She was also correct from within her context.

Both people were deeply moved because of their connection to family history, family safety, and possible futures. Both essentially hated the other for what they considered to be good reasons. Both supported their positions from a combination of personal experience, family history, speculation, and verifiable fact.

An aside: Personally, the more I learned about the illegal gun trade and the multi-billion dollar flow of firearms from the U.S. to Mexico, the more disgusted I got with the whole situation. So, I wrote a story, “The Tequila Volcano.” It appeared in a literary journal last year, Timberline Review. It’s very short, and I recommend both the story and the journal.

When Viktor Frankl described both the deterioration of prisoners, whom one would expect to be supportive of one another, into brutal behavior toward one another and concentration camp guards, whom one would expect to be brutal but a few of whom engaged in acts of compassion and kindness, I was struck once more with the sad truth that no group has a lock on reality.

No person or group is entitled to perfect righteousness.

Frankl broke both the prisoners and the guards of the concentration camps into two essential groups: those who have core decency and those who do not. Neither guards nor prisoners were a homogenous front of virtue or brutality.

My life has exposed me to people from many traditions, to multiple holy texts, to people who have survived race and religion-motivated traumas, and to amazing acts of kindness and human decency from all regions, races, and holy traditions.

I do my very best to support the growth of the human heart. I do my best to find the commonality of experience and to avoid becoming bogged down in the destructive, isolating interpretations of ideology that are often used to fuel fear and justify destructive behavior. I cannot ever truly understand the devastation that is part of some family histories and historical identities. I can only do my best to dampen and block the perpetuation of fear and hatred in all its forms. I hope that my fiction explores mutual understanding, expands the development of compassion, and creates some sense of common ground in the human condition.

I believe that stories can help to heal the world. They lead the way to new thoughts, to expanded awareness, to a smaller sense of “I” and a greater sense of “we.”

So, I tell another story.

Our Stories Can Save Us, by Eric Witchey

Label_Developed

Our Stories Can Save Us, by Eric Witchey

Human survival depends on how we manage our relationship with four, fundamental variables. The variables aren’t really in dispute, but the amount of time we have in which to change our relationship to them is. Simply put, the four variables are as follows:

  1. We live in a fragile, closed system, a little blue marble called Earth.
  2. Earth has finite resources: biodiversity, air, water, minerals, fossil fuels, etc.
  3. We have unchecked population growth.
  4. We rely on growth-based economies.

Yes, yes… I know. Solar radiation enters the system. There’s some hope there. However, we aren’t making new materials. We aren’t adding iron ore to our planet. We aren’t increasing the amount of natural gas and oil in the ground. We aren’t somehow magically manufacturing more water to add to the poisoned water and water ecosystems in a way that will fundamentally change the direction of the deterioration arrow.

The four variables stand, but we argue endlessly about what we should do to lengthen the time we have before those four variables result in an extinction level crash.

Note that I say extinction level crash and not the end of the world. As my astute Physicist brother once told me, “Human beings aren’t going to end the world. We will only end ourselves. The planet was here long before we were, and it will be here long after we are gone.”

And now you’re wondering how the four variables relate to writing.

Well, it’s like this. Telling stories is an ancient tradition that goes all the way back to the beginnings of language use. We erect monkeys have always told stories. We tell them to ourselves to justify stealing bananas from one another. We tell them to our friends and family to create bonding in social systems. We tell them to one another to make sure mistakes aren’t repeated and to ensure that our tribe thrives. One of the most common themes in the stories we have told throughout time is the theme of our village being better than their village. Every hero has a nemesis.

Want to see that theme playing out in a modern social context in America? Go to any Friday or Saturday night high school football game in the country. Observe the cheering, the colors, and the parking lot fights.

Harmless, right? Maybe. The value of team sports debate isn’t what this little blog is about. The point is that the “us vs. them” story is there to see. You can even observe the symbolic battle over land resources playing out on the field.

Don’t get me wrong, here. I love a good game. That’s really not the point. The purpose and value of story is the point.

Story telling is the easiest thing we do. It is also the most complex thing we do as human beings. Putting together a solid narrative, especially on paper, has more in common with interacting wave forms on the surface of the Pacific Ocean than it does with the linear, deceptive advice given to creative writing students. We put the little black squiggles in a row, and that creates an illusion of linear activity; however, the squiggles are just the medium of transfer for the story. The story in one mind is transferred through the little black squiggles into the mind of another person. Minds, unfortunately, are not so linear. They are messy places. They are endless impulses layered and ever changing, arranging, and rearranging into patterns that somehow magically become mind—thought, personality, memory, dreams, hopes, beliefs, learning, and maybe even soul.

Okay, I’m not all that sure about the last one. I have some opinions on what soul is, but I won’t go there in this blog entry. Maybe another time.

Story is, however, the human mind generating a dream-like experience based on sensory input. No two people read the same story quite the same way. No two people write a story quite the same way. Let’s just set aside the fact that no two people have the same life experiences. That, by itself, is enough to prove the last point. However, the endless shifts in levels of neurotransmitters, the organization of dendritic networks, the infinitesimal distances between axons and dendrites, the hormonal and electrical potentials, and the endless layering of all of these things and many more means that it is impossible for each of us to experience what any other person is experiencing when we hear or read a story.

Yes, we all tell stories. We all know that stories are essential to our survival. We all know that we are alive today because someone, somewhere way back in the dim past figured out how to tell a story that included the idea that a sharp stick held at the dull end can keep you alive a little longer than no stick at all.

We told stories to keep our families alive. We told stories to keep our tribes alive. We told stories to make sure everyone in our tribe knew how to behave to ensure that we would thrive. We told stories to explain things that made us uncomfortable because worrying too much about the bright lights in the sky meant we weren’t planting and reaping and breeding. We told stories to make sure that members of our tribe didn’t kill other members of our tribe, but it was totally okay to kill members of any other tribe trying to kill our mammoths.

These stories are part of who we are. They must change if we want to survive.

Every person on Earth lives in a closed system with finite resources, unchecked population growth, and growth-based economies. Any decision, personal or political, that does not mitigate or eliminate one or more of those four variables is a tacit agreement to genocide.

Sadly, we still tell ourselves stories that reinforce tribal behaviors like breeding means healthy tribes, acquisition of resources means more for us, control of territory means we are strong, and us vs. them.

Yet, as there has always been, there is some hope because of story tellers, shamans of the written word, wizards of the wave form and the mind.

If a corporation, government, or individual is telling a story that supports the use of growth-based economy in an ever-shrinking world, they are telling a story that asks millions of people to sacrifice their futures for short-term profit. If any organization tells a tale of policy that will increase population growth without providing compensating increases in resources for the new human beings, they are telling a tale of death for others. If we see a story on the news or on our feeds and it talks of the terrible crimes of protestors attempting to stop pollution, then we are seeing mercenary story-tellers attempt to shorten the time of humanity on this little rock.

For those of us who tell stories for entertainment and edification, fiction writers, we have an obligation to create stories that become viral in a way that suggests new modes of survival.

Heroism has at times been described as the successful search for the grail, and the grail has always been associated with healing and abundance. The stories of today, no less than the stick-holding stories of ten thousand years ago, are about creating visions for survival of the tribe. The only real difference is that the tribe is larger and more complex than it has ever been. We are one tribe that spans the entire Earth.

Story telling and story receiving are more complex than the interaction of wave forms on the surface of the Pacific Ocean. However, human beings have always been built to do this amazing thing—to share tales that will help us all survive. Those of us who tell the tales must step up and tell the stories that lead the imaginations of the members of our tribe to an understanding that holding the blunt end of the new pointy stick means having the ability to embrace people who don’t, and physiologically should never be expected to, think the way we do. We must tell the tales that show that every drop of water on this planet is sacred, that every hole we dig hurts us, that every child we force into the world must be fed, and that taking in order to have more means hurting people who will, by direct causal effect, have less.

Look carefully at every story produced and presented. Find the four variables in each tale. Does that story help slow population growth? Does that story reduce our dependence on the market growth that drives economies? Does that story slow the rate of use of nonrenewable resources? Does that story open the world to distant horizons so that our system, and the minds within it, are no longer closed?

-End-

An Exhibit for Writing by Cheryl Owen-Wilson

I enjoy visual art in every form. It feeds an energy within me like food fuels the body. So when I’m visiting a new town the first thing I search out are the art venues. I recently visited Austin, Texas and toured The Blanton Museum of Art. I had two glorious hours to roam before being confined in a hotel conference room for the remainder of my stay. I play a game with myself when viewing art installations. First I visualize what the piece is saying to me. Only after I hear it speak do I read the artists statement to see what the artist wished to convey. Two of the installations spoke loudly, causing me to pause and view my chosen forms of creative expression in a new light. Each form of expression I use is tangible; however, until I was exposed to these particular art pieces I had not realized how much one (painting) was more so than the other (writing).

In my home, in the time it takes me to walk from the entryway and turn right into the living room I can view the progress I’ve made as an artist. Paintings from my early endeavors, to current day, hang side by side. If you were to enter my home and turn left from the entryway and walk down the hallway, you’d be in my studio where it’s quite apparent an artist is in residence. In the studio other than the usual paint spattered easel, paint tubes and paint brushes, you’ll find vertical stacks of framed, not framed, wrapped and not wrapped canvases. Some are complete, some are in progress, some are stark white just waiting for a vision to be created; and finally some would better serve the world if they became kindling for a nice campfire. Yes, from the visuals to the smell of oil paint and turpentine you and I would both know I’ve spent many, many hours painting. And if I so chose, I could display my art in an exhibit to a much broader audience. Thus my painting is a very tangible part of my home.

On the flip side, my other creative outlet of writing is not evident when entering my home or as I walk around searching for a muse to suit my current story. The only tangible evidence would be if you or I spent hours sorting through the many books on my bookshelves. There we would find Shadowspinners, A Collection of Dark Tales. Within its covers is a short story with my name as author. I do have many notebooks hidden in drawers, stories packed in plastic bins and of course my computer holds file upon file of the imaginary lives I’ve woven into short-stores, poems and even a half-finished novel or two. Don’t you as well? But as I said they are not evident, not hanging from walls. Even in the homes of my prolific, and well-published writer friends, while they have their books scattered amongst others on shelves, there is little evidence of the months and years they’ve spent stringing word after word together to create story. And now in this era of e-books and e-zines, holding your printed story as it sits between two covers is even less likely to occur. So instead of a pile of published books you have an inventory of e-books on sites such as Amazon. I’ve spent just as many hours placing black words on white paper as I’ve spent brushing paint on a white canvas. I realize writers can have an exhibit of sorts , when they publish a new book and they have a book signing. If you are lucky enough to have printed copies what a wonderful feeling of accomplishment it must be to sit at a table surrounded by your creations. But the realization that writing is not a tangible presence I can view as I walk through my home struck me as quite unfair.

The art exhibits I alluded to at the beginning of this blog led me to ponder how to exhibit, in my home, the many hours I spend writing. As I mentioned, the thing I most love about art is how each of our interpretations is filtered through our own view and lives. I’ve listed the artists name and gallery below each photo as I’m only giving you my interpretation of the piece. Each of these artists have a much more profound statement they wish you to understand when viewing their art. The deeper meanings revolve around their own unique time, political atmosphere and country in which they originated. I encourage you to view the artist’s statement of each piece.

In the first exhibit the artist marks the passage of time by creating one-inch thick plaster tablets each day. The number of tablets created each day varied depending on how much time the artist had available to create them. Each tablet is stamped with the date it was produced and organized into stacks recording each day’s labor.

DSC05094

2244 Modules” Isabel Del Rio                  The Blanton Museum of Art

         While viewing this piece I was a voyeur into writers workspaces prior to the computer age. It reminded me of the photos I’ve seen of mounds of paper surrounding infamous writers in the offices or closets where they created life-altering works of fiction. After viewing this piece, in my mind, I was pulling all those stories that lay hidden in bins and drawers and printed pages from my computer. I could see them stacked in towers based on year or month created. I may actually take the time to do this someday, but for now just the image floating across my brain makes me smile. What an exhibit it would make! How many rooms would your stories fill? How many homes?

In the second exhibit the 600,000 coins on the ground represent for me each word placed on a page or typed on a screen. The 2000 suspended cattle bones represent each story agonized over until it’s finally sent out into the world for acceptance or rejection. This gave me the idea for a small exhibit I can actually display in my home. I will place a coin in a beautiful glass bowl for each page I write in the year 2016. Perhaps I will place a penny for a page or a nickel for a short story or a quarter for a chapter. It matters not what my final decision is what does matter is the visual it will represent. It also doesn’t matter if an hour later I delete the entire paragraph or chapter. What does matter is it existed and is a part of my journey as a writer. Unfortunately I don’t think I can find enough bones for the agony portion of my exhibit. But, I am most pleased that I will now have something tangible to represent writing in my life. Each time I add a coin to my bowl the mere sound will reflect another page in a story. And as I walk through my home and reflect on the paintings covering its walls and by the ever-increasing bowl of coins I will know I am progressing, not just as a painter, but as a writer as well.

DSC05097

“How to Build Cathedrals” Cildo Meireles             The Blanton Museum of Art

          I’ll happily share a photo of my overflowing bowl at years end. What will the exhibit for your writing be?

DSC05121

 

OMG! Stories are Fractal, by Eric Witchey

Fractal Star

Computer Generated Image – A Mathematical Fractal Structure. Source: ClaudeLux from iStockPhoto.

OMG! Stories are Fractal

by Eric Witchey

One of the amazing things the human brain does is follow complex stories and derive satisfying meaning from them. The mind perceives and matches patterns, and it conflates those patterns into ever larger patterns.

Walter Kintsch, a researcher working in text recognition, understanding, and cognitive science long before his department decided to call him a professor of psychology and neuroscience, described this conflation as “chunking.” We now take the term for granted and abuse it in many incorrect contexts, but that’s another story.

Human beings can, in effect, see both the forest and the tree at the same time or separately. We can see “those three trees over there” even though they are in the forest. We can see “that stand of Cedars and Douglas Fir.” We can also see all of the above as the forest as a whole. We can even see a whole bunch of forests as the Pacific Northwest conifer biome.

On the language side of things, the same concept means we can see a little black squiggle and think, “letter.” We can see three letters as a syllable. A couple of syllables become a word. The words become phrases. We collect phrases into clauses, clauses into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into scenes.

This goes on and on: scenes to sequences; sequences to movements (acts); movements to stories (novels). We can even accumulate a satisfying group of novels into a series we can hold in our minds (Please, George R. R. Martin, finish yours. You once made me write a novella overnight. I know you can do it. Okay, I know it’s not the same, but please do finish).

This week, an interesting meme has been making the rounds. A group of mathematicians did a statistical text analysis of famous stories. They concluded that stories contain fractal and multifractal patterns.

Article title: The World’s Greatest Literature Reveals Multifractals and Cascades of Consciousness.

I read the article because I like linguistics and cognitive science. When these things touch on story, it always catches my eye. You see, as a writer I’m a little bit broken. It’s not enough for me to just tell the story. I have a financially unhealthy obsession with understanding how and why the story worked to create an experience in the heart and mind of the reader.

So, I read the article.

Then, I started laughing out loud.

Here’s why. Story tellers from the dawn of time have not only known what the mathematicians just discovered, they have been manipulating it and making use of it consciously since the first Shaman told the first instructional hunting tale by the light of a campfire.

A good story is made up of smaller, interwoven good stories. Additionally, a good story depends on the reader’s experiences to work.

I’ll explain further by first providing a couple of definitions of the term “fractal.”

Google definition: a curve or geometric figure, each part of which has the same statistical character as the whole. Fractals are useful in modeling structures (such as eroded coastlines or snowflakes) in which similar patterns recur at progressively smaller scales, and in describing partly random or chaotic phenomena such as crystal growth, fluid turbulence, and galaxy formation.

From the Fractal Foundation: A fractal is a never-ending pattern. Fractals are infinitely complex patterns that are self-similar across different scales. They are created by repeating a simple process over and over in an ongoing feedback loop.

Now, a multifractal is, in essence, groups of fractals that interact (are woven together). I’ll add that any use of the term fractal in our current cultural zeitgeist must include a reference to recursion and to the Mandelbrot Set, which is a set of numbers that, when applied through a function, can be placed in an algorithm that calls instances of itself in order to create an infinite geometric pattern made up of instances of itself.

Google the two terms: “fractal” and “Mandelbrot Set.”

You find millions of hits that include graphics of the classic example of fractal geometry. For the lazy geeks among you, here is the Wikipedia description of the Mandelbrot Set.

The Mandelbrot set is the set of complex numbers c for which the function f(z)=z²+c does not diverge when iterated, i.e., for which the sequence f(0), f(f(0)), etc., remains bounded.

My first exposure to the idea was in Jeffery D. Yetter’s basement in the 1980s. Jeff was an accomplished microchip engineer at Hewlett Packard in Ft. Collins, Co, and for fun in his spare time he explored various computational concepts. One, and this was around ’82 or ‘83, was the new fractal geometry that scientific computers, of the type to which he had access, could demonstrate by plotting out the Mandelbrot Set. I won’t go deeper into that experience in this blog post. It is important only in that it had a strong impact on my understanding of human pattern recognition.

For now, I’m just saying that the human pattern matching brain’s fascination with the construct is not new. Review M. C. Escher. Chase the concept of the chambered nautilus through art and geometric history. Hell, just read up on Dante’s cosmology, the Rosicrucian Rose, Free Masonry, or the Knights Templar. You can follow the history of the fractal rabbit hole all the way down into the next rabbit hole, ad nausea. Go for it.

The point here is that this “discovery” amused me on two levels. First, the scientists didn’t discover anything. They merely found a new way to plot a known phenomenon. Second, they speculated that their plotting method might be used to automatically categorize stories into genres.

That second one really cracked me up. It might end up as fodder for a whole series of articles on the nature of genre and the mathematicians’ misunderstanding of the concept.

Here, I’m more interested in exploring the idea that a story is an instance of stories, which are in turn interwoven instances of stories.

One of my many teachers, and in some ways one of the more influential, is a man named James N. Frey. Jim introduced me to many important things. One of them was Lajos Egri’s seminal work on play writing, The Art of Dramatic Writing. In that book, Egri suggests a concept he calls “premise,” which he goes on to show can be used as a controlling tool to help determine the course of a story.

Frey demonstrated the use of this tool to me over and over. I was pretty thick. It took me a while. Even so, he probably saved me ten years of failed trial and error as a writer. I’m not as smart as some of my peers, so I had to consciously learn things they took for granted—like how to tell a story.

My early understanding of the concept let me work it as a sort of statement of purpose for a story. For example, the entire play of Romeo and Juliet could be characterized in a premise of the form: X leads to Y. The form is important. A premise, in this context, is not just a concept or idea. It is more of a conclusion that is proven by the story.

Yes, we could come up with a dozen possible arbitrary fillers for X and Y.

Examples:

  • Love leads to suicide.
  • Romance leads to death.
  • Early adolescent romantic obsession amid family rivalry leads to rebellion, despair, and suicide.

Hopefully, you can see why the last one is more useful as a tool for describing what might and might not belong in the play—and that is what the tool is for.

By either defining or coming to understand a “premise” of this type for a specific story, the writer can test the contents of a story to determine if elements in a draft belong, should be revised, or should be cut.

Yes, that’s a simplistic description. A more robust explanation is not the point of this post. As did Jim, I teach week long seminars just to show people how to use this apparently simple tool quickly and effectively while engaging in story development or revision.

The fun part today is that this form of “X leads to Y” is one characterized aspect of the fractal geometry of story.

Each movement of the story (often called an act) is made up of an instance of the formula. If not, the reader has trouble tracking and conflating the myriad details of the story in a way that allows them to grasp the overall power of the experience.

So, Romeo and Juliet breaks down into movements (acts) like this:

Note: I use the term movements for novel writing reasons I won’t go into here. Romeo and Juliet is a play. Textual stories and plays to be acted on a stage are different in important ways when a writer is thinking in terms of development. For example, a play does not have, strictly speaking, a point of view character. The audience views all the characters on stage simultaneously rather than viewing the staged story through the internal, filtered experience of one character.

  • The premise for the overall story: Early adolescent romantic obsession amid family rivalry leads to rebellion, despair, and suicide.
  • Act I Premise: Early adolescent romantic obsession leads to frustration, anger, and new obsession.
  • Act II: Frustration, anger, and new obsession leads to romantic connection and joy.
  • Act III: Romantic connection and joy leads to fear, frustration, near despair, and slight hope.
  • Act IV: Fear, frustration, near despair, and slight hope leads to anxiety, concern, and grief.
  • Act V: Anxiety, concern, and grief leads to despair and suicide.

The five premises combine to demonstrate, complete, or build the overarching premise.

Inside each act are scenes. The scenes can also be characterized in the same way. One act is made up of a list of “X leads to Y” statements that allow testing of scene content to see if the scenes cumulative add up to the premise statement for the act.

In writing short stories or novels, movements are made up of scene sequences. A scene sequence is a group of scenes that culminate and an emotional/psychological shift in character from which recovery to a previous state is not possible.

Now, because story is emotionally and dramatically fractal, an instance of story can be made up of instances of stories. That is, Romeo and Juliet is made up of five acts, each of which is dramatically similar in form to the overall story. Each act is made up of sequences, each of which is dramatically similar in form. Each sequence is made up of scenes, each of which…

I hope you get the idea.

The article talks about multifractals. That is, they describe a sort of tangled fractal geometry. Consider for a second that a piece of flash fiction can be one small scene. At the same time, it can be a full story. It can be a complete set of conflicts and results. It is both forest and tree. Now, consider that multiple flash pieces can be combined to create sequences, movements, and even novels. Each piece can stand alone. Each piece can interact with other pieces on various levels. All can combine, be chunked, in ways that cause the reader to experience layered (multifractal) story. Writers just haven’t been calling the structures they work with by that name.

Ah, but we aren’t done quite yet. The thing that the mathematicians, statisticians, computer scientists, and cognitive scientists who discovered this new method of plotting out the multifractal organization of story content right down to the sentence level have missed is that the textual patterns they are plotting are actually the presentation of “chunks” that trigger the reader’s emotional reaction to content.

Notice that the act level premise statements for Romeo and Juliet are of the “X leads to Y” form, but X and Y are emotional states rather that events or actions.

Stories are about how people change and the consequences of those changes for the characters (or lack of changes in the case of tragedies). The reader automatically compares and contrasts the consequences in the story against their experiences in the real world. From that, the reader creates their sense of the significance they take away from the experience of reading the tale. In fact, the reader is constantly subconsciously testing their world against the world of the characters.

Nobody gets goosebumps, tears, or an ear-to-ear grin from reading a story they can’t compare their experience to on some level.

Over the years of practicing craft and teaching, I’ve marveled at this relationship between character emotional change and reader emotional states. I’ve also had to come up with a way of describing it in order to help writers develop and control stories. In 2005, I published a concept in an article in Writer’s Digest. It’s the ED ACE concept. The emotionally fractal nature of story really begins to pop out when examining story through the ED ACE filter.

The idea is that ED ACE characterizes the emotional logic the reader must be able to follow in order for a story to maintain dramatic continuity. All the elements of ED ACE must always be available to the reader either explicitly or through implication by the text. ED ACE works like this:

  • Emotion drives
  • Decision, which drives
  • Action (including speaking), which generates
  • Conflict (the opposition of wills), which results in a new
  • Emotion

The interesting part to me as both a writer and a teacher is that this pattern recurs in direct correlation with possible premise statements. It also recurs as instances of itself. That is, you can describe an entire novel with it. The C in that one novel-level ED ACE cycle then expands into ED ACE cycles that describe the movements. The C in each of those ED ACE cycles then expand into ED ACE cycles that describe the scene sequences that make up a movement. The C then expands into…

The sequence continues, as you would expect of a fractal tool.

While a pyramid graphic would be a better presentation because each level has an increase in the number of elements that make up the level above it, here’s what it looks like in a list. Each of the following elements can be captured by use of an ED ACE description:

  • Book Series
  • Novels inside a series
  • Movements inside a novel
  • Scene Sequences inside a movement
  • Scenes inside a sequence
  • Conflict sets inside a scene
  • Conflict inside conflict sets
  • Dialectic sets (emotional tactical changes (a.k.a. beats)) inside conflicts
  • Dialectic pairs inside dialectic sets
  • Sentences inside dialectic sets (though this is not always applicable).
  • Syntactic/pragmatic tension inside sentences

Generally speaking, development or analysis of story is a little more emotionally messy. After all, we are talking multifractals. I’m fond of pointing to the opening scene of Snow Falling on Cedars for an example of how these structures can be nested (entangled) effectively. However, selling a story doesn’t require that such nesting take place.

Also, the usefulness of the tool is limited once you get below the Dialect Pair level. However, the dynamic can be demonstrated, though not always, below that level. At that point, it is more useful to think of the patterns in terms of emotional resonance and contrasts rather than actual, full ED ACE cycles. Of course, if the ED ACE cycle is understood down to the dialectic pairs level, then the emotional/psychological states of the characters are also known. Word choice, setting decisions, background content, and even sounds can then be chosen based on those known emotions and what the writer wants the reader to feel.

At this point, people tend to think I’m nuts.

Well, yes.

Still, look up the Poe’s 1846 essay, “The Philosophy of Composition,” in which he describes the development of “The Raven” and having starting with sounds of grief and despair before building upward to the completion of the poem.

I’m nuts in a good way. Once you’ve finished reading this, try out the tools described below on “The Raven.”

The point here is that scientists have “discovered” a relationship between the reader’s experience and the dramatically fractal nature of story that writers have been aware of and taking advantage of for, literally, thousands and thousands of years.

Still not sure they have rediscovered one of the spokes of the wheel? Google “Fractal Storytelling.” The term, fractal, arrived on the scene in the early 80s, but the concept in story development is ancient. The spokes of the wheel have been repackaged and rebranded, but they still contribute to its roll.

Yeah, sure, Eric. Whatever. But what does that mean in terms of writing my story?

It means that many hours of trial and error can be managed in a way that lets us take advantage of the reader’s mode of organizing story in their mind. It means we can look at how story is processed by the reader, how emotional change is critical to that processing, and how the logic of emotional change is managed dramatically and collapsed into layers of ever larger generalizations.

With that knowledge, we can determine whether a line, a dialectic pair, a set, a … are contributing to the reader’s process of understanding emotional change within story.

So, what did the statistical analysis described in the meme article discover? Nothing? No. They discovered a method of demonstrating mathematically that these structures exist. They showed that stream of consciousness writing includes “idea cascades” that demonstrate a sort of fractal domino effect the write engages in while writing. They demonstrated that mathematicians can have fun thinking deeply about story structure. Now, they need to hook up a few folks to an EEG or tuck them into an MRI machine and read to them to see if they can find a correlation between emotional responses and the multifractal peaks and troughs their graphs show.

I’m running out of time and space, so I’ll demonstrate the above by providing an excerpt from a handout from a class I teach. The excerpt describes two layers of a silly little father’s day story I sold to Daily Science Fiction in 2014. The following example was written up for a seminar I taught at the WordCrafters in Eugene conference in 2015.

Here’s the gratuitous plug link for good folks doing good work:

http://wordcraftersineugene.org/

Try out the following techniques. Play with them. Break them. Let me know how it goes. My apologies in advance for the incomplete nature of the instructions below. Please keep in mind that the text was pulled from a 300 page book that accompanied the on-site lecture and exercises from a week-long seminar.

While the excerpt below describes prototyping a short story, the tool becomes much more useful as the tale becomes larger. For convenience, I have also included the actual short story at the end of this post. I’m not claiming it is a great story. In fact, its simplicity lets you see the patterns functioning. In a great work of literature, the patterns might (or might not) be intertwined at a level that would require computer statistical analysis for discovery and exposition.

Note: The except below includes a concept from an article I did for Writer’s Digest Magazine, the Irreconcilable Self. That’s a topic for another day.

Nested ED ACE Paradigm for Fast Prototyping

No two stories start at the same point in a writer’s process. Sometimes, we see an image. Story grows from that. Sometimes, we feel a character’s problems. Story grows from that. Sometimes, we know the climax, and story grows from that. Sometimes, we suddenly understand a climactic moment or a darkest moment or the emotional power of a turn of phrase that haunts us for days before we sit down to write. Story can grow from any of those.

The interesting thing, at least to me, is that no matter where a story starts, stories end up containing textual and dramatic patterns of success that readers rely on in order to draw meaning and emotional impact from the words on the page. Those patterns of success tend to appear in many, many stories.

While not all stories include the same textual and dramatic patterns of success, some patterns of success appear so often that they have value as planning tools. One, three, five, and seven act structures are patterns that appear over and over and receive conscious attention during story development. The concept of an act is a pattern of success. Christopher Vogler’s characterization of The Hero’s Journey is a dramatic pattern of success that is made up of many smaller patterns of success. The characterization of story structure as status quo conflict, inciting incident, rising action, climax, and dénouement is a useful, dramatic pattern of success. Another pattern of dramatic success is basic scene structure described as an establishing moment that displays scene agendas and is followed by interaction of opposing wills that lead to one of four possible dramatic outcomes (Jack Bickham’s Scene and Structure) such that the outcome ends the story or drives the next scene. Dramatic dialectic in dialog is a pattern of success. These patterns of success can be descriptive, but they can also be used as tools during development.

All of these meta descriptions are patterns of success that we can point to over and over in the stories we love. In and of themselves, they don’t cause a story to be good. However, ignoring the fact that they repeatedly appear in successful stories is a mistake. They contribute even if they don’t guarantee success in the mind and heart of the reader.

So it is with ED ACE.

If ED ACE is a functioning, fractal dramatic meta description tool and story drives the hidden irreconcilable self to climax/resolution, then it should be possible to describe traditional story dramatic development as a recursive exposition of ED ACE. In other words, if I can describe a story at many levels by using ED ACE, I should be able to design a story at many levels by using ED ACE.

Before trying to develop a new story, test ED ACE against an existing story to see if it is truly descriptive on many levels. In the “Describing a Story” section of this document, the process has been applied to a short, short story.

Describing a Story

The following is a description of a short story that sold to one of the more popular online science fiction magazines. Each table represents an ED ACE cycle in the story. The level numbers designate layers.

The nature of a project will change the way the numbers are used. For example, a piece of flash fiction may only use level 0 because the entire story is one, short conflict set. A short, short might have three conflict sets in one scene, like “Vincent’s First Bass.” In that case, 0 represents the overall story, which is only one scene. 1 represents the conflict sets within the scene. No additional layers are really needed. However, a novel might use all of the following:

  • 0 overall story.
  • 1 movements
  • 2 scene sequences inside a movement
  • 3 scenes inside a sequence
  • 4 conflict sets inside a scene
  • 5 conflicts inside a conflict set
  • 6 dialectics inside a conflict

The following sequence of tables represent a set of descriptive tests for “Vincent’ First Bass.” The level 0 table is a shorthand description of the overall story. The level 1 tables represent the conflict sets.

In the case of “Vincent’s First Bass,” the theme connected to Vincent’s Irreconcilable Self (IS) is self-acceptance. Vincent does not know he needs to reconcile his belief that he is loveable with his belief that he is isolated from love. He does know that he wants to please his rarely seen father. His efforts to please create greater strain on these irreconcilable belief positions. The strain grows until he is forced to resolve this irreconcilable self (I.S.) by fully embracing an aspect of self he has denied. That resolution provides solution and delivers the acceptance he craves.

In essence, Vincent’s distress forces him to discover a suppressed superpower. For me, that makes the story easier to write than a story demonstrating a more subtle development of IS. However, the descriptive process is the same regardless. This story just makes it very easy to demonstate.

The Lajos Egri overarching premise might be, “Confusion, anxiety, uncertainty, and a desire to please lead to family connection, confidence, love and respect.

0 (Level) Label: Vincent’s First Bass.

Overall Story.

Emotion Confusion, anxiety, uncertainty, desire to please
Decision To fish with Dad.
Action Fishes.
Conflict V vs. E.; V vs. Dad.; V vs. self.
Emotion Confidence, love, respect.

 

1 Vincent’s First Bass.

Conflict 1

Standing.

Emotion Confusion, anxiety, uncertainty, desire to please
Decision To stand.
Action Stands.
Conflict V vs. E.; V vs. self.
Emotion Uncertainty. Insecurity. Fear of embarrassment.

 

1 Vincent’s First Bass.

Conflict 2

First Cast.

Emotion Uncertainty. Insecurity. Fear of embarrassment.
Decision To Cast.
Action Casts. Fails.
Conflict V vs. E.; V vs. self.
Emotion Worse Frustration. Embarrassment. Insecurity. Certain of judgment by others.

 

1 Vincent’s First Bass.

Conflict 3

Second Cast.

Emotion Worse Frustration. Embarrassment. Insecurity. Certain of judgment by others.
Decision To try again.
Action Tries again. Fails
Conflict V vs. E.; V vs. self.
Emotion Even worse Frustration. Embarrassment. Insecurity.

 

1 Vincent’s First Bass.

Conflict 4

Third Cast.

Emotion Worse Frustration. Embarrassment. Insecurity. Humiliation.
Decision To try again.
Action Tries again. Succeeds.
Conflict V vs. E.; V vs. self.
Emotion Relief. Renewed confidence.

 

1 Vincent’s First Bass.

Conflict 5

Reasoning.

Emotion Renewed confidence.
Decision Share with Father.
Action Shares with Father.
Conflict V vs. Dad.
Emotion Confusion. Uncertainty.

 

1 Vincent’s First Bass.

Conflict 6

Retrieval.

Emotion Confusion. Uncertainty
Decision Reel.
Action Reels. Follows instructions. Invents term.
Conflict V vs. E.; V vs. Dad. V vs. self.
Emotion Relief. Acceptance. Pleasure.

 

1 Vincent’s First Bass.

Conflict 7

Fight Fish.

Emotion Relief. Acceptance. Pleasure.
Decision Fight fish.
Action Fights fish.
Conflict V vs. Fish (E).; V vs. self.
Emotion Fear. Insecurity. Frustration.

 

1 Vincent’s First Bass.

Climax/Resolution

Climax Catch.

Emotion Fear. Insecurity. Frustration. Fear of embarrassment.
Decision Fight.
Action Fights.
Conflict V vs. Fish (E).; V vs. self. Revelation.
Emotion Confidence, love, respect.

Finer levels of expansion are possible but not as useful for prototyping such a short story. For example, it is possible to describe dialectic pairs and beats in terms of ED ACE, but that level of detailed analysis is rarely useful during early prototyping.

If the tool is descriptive as an analysis tool, then perhaps it can be used as a design tool. Consider your story. If you can fill out the ED ACE paradigm at any level, then you can begin to imagine and manage the relationship of that level to other levels.

Note, however, that it is important to be sure of the level at which you are working. Crossing levels during use of this tool will result in confusion. The tool functions horizontally but not vertically across levels. That is, apply it to the novel as a whole or to the movements in order, but don’t attempt to apply it in a way that includes both the novel as a whole and the movements at the same time.

Before Beginning

Before beginning an ED ACE fast prototyping session, the author needs to know the answer to a key question. The level of depth at which the question is answered isn’t as important at the beginning. Later, as the process of development continues, the author will either create or discover finer and finer levels of detail. It is, however, important that the author answer the following two questions before trying to prototype the story:

  1. Who is the story about?
  2. What is the deep personal identity issue of which that character is at least partially unaware that will change (or not change if a tragedy) and allow them to experience life differently?

Often but not always, the main character, the person the story is about, is the character that:

  • changes the most,
  • has the most to lose on a personal (and identity) level,
  • is in the position of decision that will cause the greatest impact on others, and
  • represents the thematic heart of the story in terms of success or failure within the structure of the tale.

When fast prototyping, the author does not need to know how the character connects to the above list of dramatic functions. The author needs to know on some level that the character does connect to some, or all, of the dramatic functions in the list. The author also needs to know the character’s name, the expected core theme, and the character’s deepest internal limitations—their Irreconcilable Self. The irreconcilable self is the answer to the second question posed above.

It is possible to engage in this type of fast development without knowing the theme and IS. The prototyping process can be useful in finding the theme and IS. Once they are found, the process often begins again.

Fast Prototyping Process

While this process can be used as an analysis and diagnostic tool during revision, the purpose of this document is to present it as a development tool. The process described below presents a normal sequence for quickly developing core story elements prior to composition. That said, there is absolutely no reason that the process could not apply after composition of a discovery draft. In that case, it would be a tool for clarifying the discoveries in order to determine which bits of spontaneously composed text serve, or do not serve, the story.

  1. Start anywhere, but define Character until IS is clear.
  2. Once IS is clear, define top level ED ACE for whole story (See Romeo and Juliet example).
  3. Note that linear design is not the goal. Departure and return to tool is acceptable at any time for any reason.
  4. Define I.S. and the climax that results in or from I.S. resolution. Answer these questions:
    1. Does I.S. resolution drive the climax (death and rebirth followed by renewed focus and directed behavior)?
    2. Does the climax result in I.S. resolution?
  5. Brainstorm E steps by largest structure to smallest. Book before act; Act before movement; movement before scene sequence; sequence before scene. Feel free to fill in D, A, C notes as you go, but the real juice here is the E steps because they will let you brainstorm cooler D, A, and C content later.
    1. A Note on Emotional Anchor Points: Once the IS has become clear, it can be very useful to identify key changes to the character’s psychological and emotional makeup that must take place in order for the character to arrive at their moment of transformation. If climax comes either as a result of transformation or at the moment of transformation, then knowing these key moments of emotional change allows the writer to manage the emotional logic of the story and the construction of the scenes that will lead to the changes in a manner that appears to be organic to the reader.
  6. Evaluate each scene-level E step for veracity and power for intended audience.
  7. Find core moments (from whatever paradigm you prefer or from any mix you prefer: Hero’s Journey, Screenplay Structure, Darkest Moment, etc.).
  8. Brainstorm compelling scene moments that create and exploit the E elements of those moments.
  9. Brainstorm and fill in D, A, and C for all scenes.
  10. Speed write anchor scenes without revision.
  11. Reconsider scenes and test for believability of character emotional states and choices.
  12. Throw away material that does not work.
  13. Reimagine new material (brainstorm again).
  14. Fast writing.
  15. Repeat any steps at any time as needed. Normally, steps 4-14 are revisited a number of times. Steps 8-14 are revisited more often. Steps 12-14 are revisited most often.
  16. Once “finished,” the same process can be used to address flaws after beta-reader feedback or while in editorial cycle.

Vincent’s First Bass

Eric Witchey

Sold to Daily Science Fiction in February of 2014. Printed as a Father’s Day Story

 

“Go ahead,” his father said. “Stand up.”

Vince was a Vanderpender ninth-grader, and he’d seen flat-bottomed punts in his art history courses. Not that he liked art history. He was a math boy, but he’d seen pictures of men fishing from boats like his dad’s.

He and his dad had started rowing before sunrise. Now, they floated on glassy water in a back bay of Oleanta Lake in the rolling hill country near the Ohio river. Wisps of steam rose off the water, and a bird somewhere made a really spooky cry. At least his father told him it was a bird. A loon, he’d said. Vince wasn’t sure if the name was a joke or not. The cry sounded crazy, and he supposed someone might have named a bird that made that sound the loon.

“It’s safe,” his father said.

He nodded. The boat moved if Vince moved. He could feel it. It was action-reaction—simple Newtonian physics. He should be able to compensate. The variables were known: his weight, height, angle of lean, center of mass, the friction coefficient of the surface area of the bottom of the boat against the lake water.

“Fish are waiting,” his father said. “Daylight’s-a-wastin’, and they won’t wait forever for us to pluck ’em out’a the lake.”

His father? Vince barely remembered the man. He was weather-tanned and tall, broad like a weight-lifter but dressed in his olive green game warden’s uniform. He was a myth, a wild country legend that Vince’s mother despised.

Feet braced wide for a better center of gravity, he slipped his blue-jeaned butt forward off the front bench of the punt. Knees bent to create springs to absorb movement, he managed to stand.

“Good.” His father sat, hands on oars, making casual, micro-movements to steady the boat. “It’s really just physics,” he said. “I hear from the school you’re really good at that stuff.” His father handed him a fishing rod.

Vince managed to nod without falling out of the boat.

“The reel goes on the bottom,” his father said. “Open faced-reels hang down below the rod for balance.”

Vince let the reel drop low. The stem that held the reel to the rod slipped in between his fingers.

“Don’t worry, son,” his father said. He let go of an oar and adjusted his cap. “I’ll teach you what you need to know.”

Vince was sure he looked like a rank beginner. He hated looking like a beginner in front of this man, which was pretty silly since they’d only just met. But his father was a Fish and Wildlife warden, and for the first time he could remember, he was spending time with his father like other kids. Of course, he’d seen the look in his father’s eyes in the eyes of kids at school and in the eyes of other kids’ fathers. The look said it all. Vince was a geek.

“The rod is a spring,” his father said.

“Cool.” Vince heard the shake in his voice. A spring, he thought. Knowable variables. Algebra. No worries. He measured the length and taper with his mind’s eye. He bounced the tip to test material tensioning against the weight of the bulbous gold and fluorescent gold lure at the rod tip.

“Let a little line out,” his father said.

He bounced the tip again. The bright lure bounced. The silver, oval plate spinning on its side tinkled and flashed in the morning sun. No line came out. He tried to pull the line out.

“No,” his father said. “Throw the bale, Son.”

“The what?”

“The wire around the edge of the spool.”

Vince nodded. “Oh.” There was a rigid chrome wire around the edge of the reel. The line left the spool and slipped under a little guide on that wire. “Do I throw the whole rod?”

His father laughed at him.

Not good. Hot embarrassment burned his face. He should have said no when the lawyer came to Vanderpender for him. It was a moment of decision. He had created the wrong universe with his decision. He should have picked the universe in which he went to the chess tournament in New Mexico, but some other Vince was in that universe now.

“Sorry,” his father said. “You’ll learn. Try to relax. Hold the rod in your right hand and lift the bale away from the face of the reel until it clicks.

He listened. He did exactly what he’d been told. The bale clicked open, and the lure dropped like the lead weight it mostly was. It hit the bottom of the punt and made a metallic clank. Vince wanted to melt away and hide from the steady eyes of his father. “Sorry,” he said.

“No need,” his father said. “That’s supposed to happen.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

He searched the tanned lines of his father’s face for signs of suppressed ridicule or judgment. All he saw was joy and confidence.

His game warden dad said, “Now, crank the handle with your left hand.”

He did. The bale snapped back over the reel face and picked up the line. The spool turned, and the lure lifted from the bottom of the boat.

“Stop.” his father said.

Vince did. The lure hung a foot or so off the rod tip. Vince started to feel a little confidence. He thought he was getting it. A counterweighted lever: reel underslung, fulcrum at his wrist, tapered fiberglass spring, eighteen inches of eight-pound test monofilament with plus or minus 3 percent elasticity and a two ounce weight dangling like a pendulum.

Manageable variables.

The boat rocked.

Vince almost lost his balance. It was a lot to keep track of: rod, reel, line, boat, balance. . . The equations danced in his head, but he managed to keep the numbers clean and ordered.

“It’s okay,” his father said. “My fault. We were drifting near a submerged stump.”

“We could crash?” Vince asked. “And sink?”

His father laughed again. The laugh echoed off the Ohio hills. The weird bird trilled it’s eerie response. “Bump and maybe rock,” his father said. “Even if we had a hole the size of a basketball in the bottom, the boat would float. The seats are full of buoyant foam.”

“Do I cast now?” Vince had once seen a guy cast while clicking through YouTube channels. The title of the video had been, “Surface Tension,” and Vince had thought the video was about molecular cohesion. Instead, it was about a man who went fishing after a fight with his wife.

“Yeah,” his father said. “There’s big bass in these stumps. With a little luck, you’ll pick one up.”

He swung the rod tip back and let the pendulum weight ride its arc. He felt the rod-spring load. He calculated the rate of load and the point of maximum arc. He pushed the rod forward against the maximum loading to increase the loading. He snapped his arm forward and let the rod tip unload.

The weighted lure came forward, swung fast around the rod tip, and spun in a fast eighteen inch circle around the whipping tip. The lure went nowhere.

This sucked. He was sure he had done the calculations right. The weight should have pulled line out and gone approximately thirty yards in a rising twenty degree arc over the plane of the water’s surface.

“Try again,” his father said. “This time get ready for your cast by hooking and holding the line with your index finger then throwing the bale.”

Vince nodded. He considered tossing the whole rod into the lake. He could probably get away with it. His father wouldn’t know it wasn’t just a stupid kid’s accident. Instead, he opened the chrome wire covering the face of his spin-caster. It rotated out and clicked into place. The gold and fluorescent lure dropped to the punt bottom again.

His father chuckled.

Vince’s face warmed. He avoided his father’s gaze, instead he looked away and off across the misty pond. Cold, wet air filled his nostrils with the smell of algae, muck banks, and the surrounding forest. This wasn’t his world. It was all wrong. He sniffed and blinked back tears. He’d made the same mistake twice.

“I’m sorry, son. I should have said to pull your finger in tight. Like this.” His father reached up and wrapped a large, calloused hand around Vince’s small, pale hand. He positioned Vince’s hand and finger. “Like you’re squeezing a trigger so the line doesn’t fall away.”

Vince reeled in his line. He pulled his finger tight against the line. He threw the bale again.

“We need to get out together more,” his father said. “Too much time in those math books makes you forget how to explore possibilities. If everything is by the numbers—all formulas and figures, physics and calculations—you start thinking you have to have a right answer every time. It’s just not true, Son. Some things don’t have right answers. Some things, you have just have to feel to really understand.”

Vince set the tip of the rod back. He flipped it forward. He pointed his finger at his target. The line released, and the lure arced out over the lake. He said, “Twenty degrees. Three meters of rise. Sixty meters of travel.” The lure splashed down.

“Perfect!” his father said. “That was perfect. You’ve been practicing.”

“Conservation of angular momentum augmented by the spring loading of the fiberglass tip resulting from momentum. The lure weighs 2.5 ounces, according to the package. The tensile strength of the line is 8 lbs. The thickness is negligible. Elasticity is maybe 3% over three meters. The coil friction in unwinding is a primary variable in achievable distance and must be weighed in a function against the acceleration imparted by unloading the fiberglass spring.”

His father stared at him, his olive green cap high on his forehead. “What?”

“Formulas and figures, Dad. A right answer.”

“Uh-huh.” His father recovered a bit. “Maybe there’s math for that cast, but there’s no math for the brain of a fish.”

“The Rule of Very Large Numbers. Chaos Theory and I suspect a certain amount of quantum synchronicity could be applied.” Vince grinned. Fishing was starting to make sense.

“You’re saying you can tell how to catch a fish using math?”

“I’m saying that if a person really needed to, he could probably figure out where the fish are and when they would bite by knowing a lot about where the fish aren’t and when they don’t bite.”

“I have to get you away from your mother and her damn boarding schools before you’re ruined,” his father said.

Vince was confused. He thought he’d done it right. He cranked his reel, and the bale locked shut. The rod tip dipped, and Vince jerked his arm up.

“Easy, boy. Take it easy. That’s just the lure hitting bottom. Water’s not deep here. Only about ten feet. Just reel the lure in.”

He nodded. He reeled. The line cut a V-shaped wake in the water.

“Feel the tip bumping? That’s the lure action, son. You want that. Reel too slow, the rod tip gets quiet. Reel too fast, and the lure spins differently. You need to get the lure to look like a fish moving along with a gimp fin.”

“Point five revolutions of the crank per second. Spindle rotation is 3.5 RPS. Tip bob at 2 BPS.”

“BPS?”

Vince grinned. “Bobs per second. I made it up.”

His father actually laughed at his joke.

The rod tip pulled hard. It went down almost to the water.

“Lift the tip.” his father said.

Vince lifted the tip of the rod over his head. He felt the deep drag of something heavy on the line.

“Okay, now reel enough to keep the line taught but not enough to drag the fish in.”

“How big is the fish?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do I know how hard to reel?”

“Feel it in your hands.”

“How?” Vince was frantic. He had no math for this. His numbers left him, and the line was darting to one side, the tip following. He tried to reel, but the rod bucked in his hand. He lost his grip on the crank.

The V slipped sideways one way, then the other. The bent rod tip followed like it was alive.

“Feel that?” his father asked. “You have to feel the fish now. Keep the tip high. Lead him.”

“How!? Where!?”

“It’s a big fish, boy. A damn big one.”

Vince recovered the crank. He reeled. He felt the pull of the fish, but it didn’t mean anything. It was just pull. His reel clicked. Line dragged out against the gears of the reel.

“I’m reeling, but the line goes out.”

“Good. That’s good. Just keep tension on the line.”

“The line’s still going out.”

“The drag is set to let a big fish pull without breaking the line.”

“How strong is the drag?”

“I don’t know.”

Vince didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. There were too many variables, too many possibilities. If he lost a big fish, his father would laugh at him again. He couldn’t lose the fish. Couldn’t!

The fish darted left hard.

“Keep him out of the logs!” his father called. He pulled on the oars. Vince almost fell. He lifted the tip to the right as high as he could. His mind raced. He wanted to see the fish, to know what he had hooked.

The answer came to him in a blinding flash, a white hot thought born of the need to see his father smile. It wasn’t Newtonian at all. It was a probability alignment problem. Quantum geometry. He had to force the correct configuration of line, rod tension, and fish movement. He might be able to create a synchronous probability point and access universal potentials.

He lead the fish with the rod tip. He didn’t have time to crunch the numbers. A perfectly correct answer would take years and computers he didn’t have. He had to approximate, to find the configuration. Odds were stacked badly against him. The dark energy rip expansion death of the universe had better numbers than him landing this fish.

He had to try.

“Feel it,” his father yelled.

Of course, he thought. His father understood fishing—could feel it. So could he.

The rod tip dipped. The fish turned. The boat twisted. The line made a sound like a piano wire breaking.

A universe Vince did not want to live in was about to be spawned by his failure. Vince’s mind raced, searching for the feel of the thing, the way of it, the moment of solution.

He found it in a white-hot flash of understanding, and the sound of the loon bird stopped. The tiny lapping of waves against the side of the boat went silent. He and his father stood on the still deck of the punt. The line went out from the tip of the rod to the surface of the water. Tendrils of motionless mist hovered in the silent air. Breeze-driven ripples stood in long wave lines, motionless, even where interference effects cancelled or amplified the intersecting wave forms. Fifty feet from the boat, a large-mouth bass hung in the air, frozen, surrounded by motionless water spray and refraction rainbows.

“What the Hell?” his father said.

“Hold this,” Vince said. He handed his father the rod. “Keep the line tight. Don’t let the rod tip dip.”

His father’s mouth gaped. Still, he nodded and took the rod.

Vince stepped out of the boat and walked across the surface of the lake to the fish. He carefully unhooked the bass then walked back to the boat. He put the bass in the five-gallon paint bucket they had brought for their catch.

“Okay,” he said, “Give me the rod.”

Silent, eyes wide, his father gave the rod back.

Vince gave the reel a sharp crank. The rod tip snapped upward. The line streaked up out of the water, slicing a line of spray across the surface of the lake. The lure shot back toward the boat, a steaming red-hot streak. It hooked his father’s cap and dragged it right across the boat and into the lake. Hat, lure, and lake boiled and steamed.

“What in Sam Hill?!” His father put a hand to his bare head.

“Sorry, Dad.” Vince reeled in the cap.

“Holy Mary and Joseph!” his father said.

Vince unhooked the warm, wet hat and handed it to his father.

The mist twisted. The ripples rolled. The weird bird called out across the empty lake.

He’d done it. Vince inhaled a lung full of the fresh, lake air. He’d caught his first fish, and his father seemed impressed. Finally, he looked in the bucket at his fish. It was a big one. Maybe six pounds. The fish thrashed it’s tail and splashed water up out of the bucket.

“You got it,” his father said. “It’s real.”

“Did I do it right?” Vince asked.

“You walked out there and got the fish.” His father pointed out over the water.

“I did okay?”

“How?”

“I didn’t do it right?”

“What did you do?”

“Are you mad at me?”

Vince’s father dropped his oars and let them float free in their oar locks. He twisted his cap to get the water out. He put the wet hat back on his head. “No, Vince. I’m not mad. I just don’t understand what you did. It all happened so fast. The sun must have gotten to me. I could have sworn you walked out on the water and picked up the fish. Hell, it looked like the fish just waited in mid-jump for you to come and get it.”

“I was afraid it would get away,” Vince said.

“So you walked out and got it?”

Vince nodded. Embarrassed that he hadn’t done what his father had wanted. “How was I supposed to do it?”

His father looked at the fish in the bucket. Then he looked at his son. “Boy,” he said, “You did it exactly the way you were supposed to. I just didn’t know you had it in you. I’ve never been more impressed by anyone or anything in my whole life.”

Vince beamed. He reached in the bucket to touch his fish.

“Can we let it go, Dad?”

His father grinned at him and nodded.

Shocked, Vince looked at his father. “If you like. I mean, I just did what you told me. I was afraid I’d lose him. You told me to just feel it.”

“Son, you’ve got a feel for it you didn’t learn from your old man, and if you’re willing, I’d sure love to learn it.”

“Sure, Dad.” Vince lifted the bucket and let the bass slip back into the lake.

-END-

The Mercy of Magic: Inspiration

by Christina Lay

My post this week is inspired by Matt Lowe’s article last week regarding the many inspirations for his story A Darkquick Sky. He got me to thinking about my story The Mercy of Magic. Both stories are included in ShadowSpinners: A Collection of Dark Tales. Both qualify as dark fiction, and I think it’s fair to say that both arose out of long, tangled love affairs with the fantastic.

My story is high fantasy, and its evolution is really the story of a novel and an entire world I’ve been crafting for several years

. The Mercy of Magic is one of those off-shoots which are so much fun to write once you’ve built a fictional universe in your head, populated it, built up buildings, torn down reality and let your imagination run amok.

Many winding, burrowing roots extend beneath the short story. I could talk about my grandmother’s escape from Czechoslovakia just ahead of Russian tanks. I could ruminate on the peccadillos of working in a Victorian House museum. I could mention my partner’s suicide and how it lead to the long dark winter when I took refuge deep in the comforting world of this fantastic universe emerging from my subconscious. I could laude the benefits of attending weekend getaways with other writers in which we all write a fantasy story in 24 hrs.

All those things laid the foundation, pushed and pulled me toward writing The Mercy of Magic. Even the words, Mercy and Magic, have great weight for me, and the dream of being saved, or at least guided, by a benign spiritual force resides deep in my psyche, even though I “know better”.

But truly, if I had to pick one trigger for this rather bizarre story, I’d have to say “Prague.”

The fictional world, the novel and the short story all sprang from a dream. My heritage is Czech, and as my mom and I discussed visiting the Czech Republic, I had a very vivid dream about wandering, lost, along the streets of a strange, obviously European city. When we finally made it to Prague and were wandering, lost, down a rather nondescript side street, I had an incredible sense of déjà vu. The reality of the city exactly matched the images from the long-ago dream.

As a writer, I can’t help but observe myself observing things. How American of me, I thought, how naïve and tourist-y, to lay any claim on this incredible city with its thousands of years of history, history which extends far beyond the picturesque steeples, imposing castle complex and quaint cobblestoned streets. There’s this rather looming presence in the Czech Republic called The Remains of Communism. Ugly utilitarian industry crowds the middle-aged jewel. And that sprawling, unlovely city is where most natives live and work. The heart of the city is a dream. A dream we all help maintain even while we pummel it to dust with our Nikes and our delusions.

This insight into my own longing for a mystical city to call home was the key to the workings behind the story. The shared dream we maintain, parallel to, beneath and entwined with reality. Thus was born “The Dark Side of Dreaming”, my epic fantasy novel. The epicenter is a medieval city lovingly maintained by a group of dreamers, down through the centuries, where magic and fantasy exist, invisible to the “real” world.

The Mercy of Magic takes place in The City, which is divided and dissected into worlds and realities of its own. The world of reason up in the castle, and down in the muck, the world of magic. Belief and non-belief, glory and horror, fear and hope. mercy and cruelty.

It’s a lot of weight to put on one little fantasy story, and I certainly never planned it. I started with a cool setting, a character’s whispering voice and an inkling of how we create reality through our individual perspective. Add to that a generous helping of Bohemophilia, a fascination with medieval history and the relentless pursuit of evidence to support my new-age theories of ancestral memory, and voila, a story appears.

Matt listed several fictional inspirations for A Darkquick Sky. I have to say most of my influences, beyond the groundbreaking fantasy works of Charles de Lint, are nonfiction. Or, maybe the nonfictional view of how we as a species create and maintain our stories. Below are a few of them.

Prague Mystical CityAlchemy and alchemists

Medieval Reader

Book Launches and Kismet

IMG_5025By Lisa Alber

Some things are kismet. That I would meet a wonderful group of writers and bond with them, that we’d collaborate on a group blog, that we’d contribute stories to a collection, that we’d come together for a fantastic book launch.

Last week Christina Lay, our fearless leader, announced the publication of Shadow Spinners, A Collection of Dark Tales. This week I get to provide pictures of the launch party, which was held at the historic Shelton-McMurphey-Johnson House. As the website says, the house “… with its carved and turned exterior woodwork, polygonal tower, ornate open porches, and large bay windows – remains Eugene’s most elaborate example of late-Victorian Queen Anne Revival style architecture.”

The best part? It’s surely haunted. Some people are sure that Curtis Johnson, a World War I and II doctor, presides over the attic turret room, where he used to hole up and play solitaire.

12185035_10201236154382321_3817246118262997830_o

Standing room only! Guests spilled into the entry hall and the dining room. That’s Cheryl Owen-Wilson reading her Southern gothic story.

IMG_5029

Ringleader (in the best way) Christina Lay emcee’d the event.

IMG_5028

And here are Cindy Coate Ray, Sarina Dorie, Matthew Lowe, and Stephen Vessels reading from their stories. The collection features a variety genres, from horror to literary to fantasy, and more.

11036487_10154293462138272_3767596026345521611_oIMG_5034IMG_5036IMG_5037

Lots of books were sold, food and wine consumed, and hugs shared. It was a great night, and I’m so honored that I got to participate with my fellow Shadow Spinners!

12189229_10154293463313272_5707514797718905504_o

12191352_10201236155662353_1974356572263224987_o

IMG_5030

IMG_5026

It’s Alive!

This week’s post is a little different than usual, because I finally get to announce the release of ShadowSpinners: A Collection of Dark Tales.  What started out as a flickering idea in this writer’s fevered imagination is now an actual physical thing! (We’ll save arguments regarding wether or not an ebook is an actual thing for later.)  For yes, we do have a print version, and it is truly a lovely thing to hold and fondle.  With the invaluable aid of ebook wizard Pamela Herber and print formatting genius Matt Lowes, ShadowSpinners can now offer up some of the fiction we’ve been ranting about for the past two years.  Thank you also to Cheryl Owen-Wilson for the gorgeous artwork.

frontCover1666x2517

I am profoundly grateful to be part of such an amazing group of writers.This has most definitely been a labor of love and I hope our enthusiasm for the project will warm your soul even as our stories chill your spine.

And now, so you’ll know what I’m raving about, here’s my introduction to the collection:

The tag line for the ShadowSpinners blog is “when nice people write bad things.” The writers whose works are included in this collection are nice people, mostly, in the daylight. But get us alone with our characters and bad things tend to happen. We’ve all written stories that have scared the wits out of friends and have earned us the question, often asked with a nervous chuckle, “Where on earth do you get these ideas?”

That is indeed an excellent question. Several of us have addressed it on the blog, (here, here and here) but while pondering how to introduce this rather eclectic collection, it came to me once again. Why do nice people write bad things? And what exactly makes a tale dark, anyway?

Within this volume you’ll find a broad compendium of styles, ranging from humorous to thoughtful to outright horrific. Yet there is a common thread, a dark undertow that explores the mysterious depths of the human psyche. The description “dark” can mean so many things, but in this volume the sense of something obscured, veiled by shadow, underlies each story, whether we are hearing the whispers of ghosts over the phone line, pondering the weight of a hollow existence, saving young souls from Satan or battling terrifying alien forces in the void of space.

Often, the darkness, the ghost, resides in our own minds. And when faced with an outside force of evil, an equal and opposing force may arise from within. Whether our characters will meet evil with evil or with an overcoming, triumphant strength is the question at the heart of many of these stories.

If you’re the sort of reader who likes to know what to expect, this might not be the volume for you. However, if you enjoy a rousing good yarn populated by fascinating characters in challenging situations, prepare to enjoy yourself.

The print version on Amazon

The eBook on Amazon