Automata Part I of II by Joseph Ahn

The moody worldbuilding in “Automata” caught my attention this month: a muted, constantly shapeshifting story set in a postapocalyptic world trembling like a soap bubble, painted against stark, striking imagery: twisted metal against soft orange skies. However, the author’s concern about its length dovetailed with my own about its wandering, constantly-shifting plot, and so this month I’d like to talk about pacing and deciding which of a world’s many strands is the story.

There’s a lot to play with, narratively, in “Automata”: Barda and Vela’s relationship, the mystery of the automata, the broken oscillator, the missing people, the crisis of leadership in the commune. All of these questions have enough proverbial meat on them to potentially make the central plotline of a story in this world—or at least half of one.

However, since the author’s notes ask about condensing wordcount here, that profusion of questions and potential conflicts is also the first place I go when considering that issue: how are those questions interacting with each other, and is there a way to make them interact that would compress this from 10,000 words to something more manageable?

The conflicts or challenges in “Automata” string together consecutively: plots tagging in and out instead of subplots supporting or weaving through a main question or thoroughline. There’s a great deal done to set up the problem with the oscillator, which only proves to be a setup for the problem of the leadership and then the automaton murder, which only proves to be a setup for the quest to find Panu, which only sets up the problem of the dreaming queen. It’s all neatly causal—things aren’t just necessarily happening in a string but are leading into each other with a solid logic—but it takes a while for “Automata” to get where it’s actually going (Barda’s parents and being happy with where he is, with Vela) and the questions at the beginning don’t necessarily have a relationship with the questions at the end. To this reader, it feels as if they’ve (tidily) drifted toward a conclusion, rather than deliberately resolved a question that was at least implied in the first pages.

The second half almost morphs genre, into cosmic horror/grimdark from the dreamy postapocalyptic SF, and while there’s nothing wrong with being flexible, I find myself wanting at least the seeds of that world sown in the first half, so that when it shows up, it feels like a satisfying payoff, not a surprising sharp turn—so they’re in relationship.

I think there’s a way to bring everything here into alignment—and that having a story in this space isn’t atypical of early or middle drafts, where we figure out all possible universes of the story before deciding which one we want to use. The major question I’d suggest asking: What is the action of the story? What does it want to specifically explore, discuss, illuminate? It’s when we figure out what we do want to say that we can start arranging the rest to support it, reflect it, embroider it—or just see what doesn’t run in the same direction and file that for another piece.

There is some material that, I think, could probably be condensed or outright stripped out: Vela and Barda’s journey underground diverts into more standard tropes about subways, sewers, and the Fall of the World Before, which stands out strongly against the more specific, unique-feeling worldbuilding of the first half. I know the author’s notes mention this is an older story, and there was little way to tell which tropes would age in that time, but trimming with an eye to what the rest of the subgenre assumes as true—what you can just imply now and let readers do the rest—would definitely save wordcount.

Likewise, there’s a good strategy in asking what “Automata” might look like if the same questions were layered instead of tackled consecutively, one after the other. How can those conflicts inform each other and weave through each other, instead of happening one after the other? Can the questions of Barda and Vela’s relationship, of Barda’s restlessness, happen within the action of the rest of the story instead of before or after it?

There’s benefits to rethinking the pacing and structure here that’ll communicate into the line-by-line level. There’s a somewhat abrupt jump from that dreamlike narrative pace into the trapped automaton’s death scene at present—it’s something that can, I think, be sorted out by folding a little more action into Barda’s ruminating earlier, and a little more reflection into that encounter.

Likewise, the hesitancy Barda has about his own emotions early on—”Something about their endless hunt inspires a strange feeling within my heart – like pity, perhaps. Maybe it is nothing more than sadness” and “It feels somehow eerie and out of place, though I cannot explain why.”—feels as if it doesn’t quite serve a strong purpose at present, but those can be accessible sites in the story to start off clues about his restless loneliness—and present the problem being home with Vela would solve.

This is structural work—basically, editing work—but I think the positive is that the material needed to make “Automata” hum is already here. It’s a question of rearranging, layering, pruning, and shaping it to go in the direction the author would like, and form a story that says, asks, resolves what’s most satisfying.

Best of luck!

–Leah Bobet, author of Above (2012) and An Inheritance Of Ashes (2015)

The Falcon Arrives, Chapter 1 by Adrian Cross

There’s some good story-stuff here, and some interesting pointers to where it’s all going. I have a sense of the world, what level of technology it’s reached: armor and spears, but factories and pharmaceuticals. Or are the drugs made with magic? I’m sure the story will answer that as it unfolds. It seems to be a raffish sort of swords-and-sorcery underworld, with deep poverty and a good amount of brutality. I want to read more in order to get a wider picture of the world and its people.

In this Editor’s Choice I’d like to talk about language, but first, a disclaimer. There is no wrong way to write a draft. When a story is finding its way through the writer’s mind and screen, what matters most is not the specific words they use, but getting the story blocked out in whatever way works best for the writer’s process. The time to worry about finer points of language and line editing is much later. Build the framework first, get the walls and floor and ceiling in place, then concentrate on the decor and the colors.

When the revision gets to that point, I would suggest focusing closely on language and choice of words, especially figurative language. The language of the draft aims to be vivid and striking and memorable, with unusual metaphors and strong sensory and emotional images. When it succeeds, it gives us a clear and immediate sense of what it’s like to live in this world. We can feel and hear and smell and taste the action as it happens.

Right now, it’s a bit over the top. Images pile up and tumble over one another. The opening sentence pays homage to the great trope, “It was a dark and stormy night,” with striking imagery, but it loses control of itself toward the end:

The storm whipped the city with barbed nets of rain and wind, and occasionally lashes of lightning that shred the sky like the spine of a captured street rat.

Whips and nets don’t quite mesh, though there’s a raw power in the barbs. The rat’s spine seems to come out of nowhere after the image of lashing and shredding. How does a spine connect with whips and nets?

I think here, less is more. Pick a concept—whips, for example—and keep the imagery focused on that. Think about what would wrap up the image in the most effective way. It might be as simple as ending the sentence with lashed the sky, and saving the rat’s spine for another scene.

Another tendency in the draft is that words don’t quite mean what they want to mean. The rain moaned, for example: usually it’s the wind that does that. Think about what rain sounds like, what sounds it can make. Can it moan? What mechanism would make it possible? Think too about how a reader will react, whether the image will throw them out of the story while they try to figure out what it means or how it works.

Clarity of meaning is important to keep the reader in the story. In the same paragraph in which the rain moans, there’s this:

The smell of the vats was heavy, unpleasant, but comfortingly familiar. It kept people away without reason.

I’m not sure what “without reason” means. The vats smell bad, though Jay finds the stink comforting. How does that translate into keeping people away for no reason? People who don’t have the comfort of familiarity would have reason to avoid the area, because it’s unpleasant. The apparent contradiction made me stop reading, and I lost track of the story while I tried to figure it out. In revision, rethinking or rephrasing would make the meaning clearer and keep the story flowing onward without interruption.

Watch in general for contradictions and confusions. Even as Jay focuses on finding medicine for Kalp, right after he remembers the sight of the sick person and his desperate sister, he says, I had no family, no friends. What are Kalp and his sister, then? Why is he trying so hard and at such personal cost to save Kalp?

Be careful too about how characters react and interact. Think about the balance between action and reaction, provocation and response. For example when the guard materializes out of the storm, we feel the power and terror of his presence. But after he’s interrogated Jay, he shrugs and leaves. We’ve been set up for a conflict that dissipates before it really gets started.

Another line or two, a sharper conflict, maybe a scowl or a warning from the guard, might give the encounter a bit more weight while still letting Jay off. Maybe tone down or delete the garbage-hat, too. It’s a strong provocation, but the guard’s reaction is disproportionately mild. It promises but it doesn’t quite deliver.

At this stage of the draft, I would recommend focusing on the story and the characters, and making sure the overall structure is solid. Once that’s where it needs to be, then go word by word and line by line. That will bring it all together, and the story will be stronger

–Judith Tarr

The Black-Leopard Numen by Rita de Heer

— Judith Tarr

Freets, Chapter One by Tracey V. Brown

I’m going to do something here that I haven’t done for a while, and that’s to discuss a more general topic rather than offering a specific critique of the submission. It’s a good start and I like the voice and the overall level of skill quite a lot. The writing is solid, and keeps me turning the pages. I’m interested in discovering what happens.

What I’d like to talk about is the conundrum in the author’s note. There seems to be a sharp division between readers who are satisfied with a more allusive narrative style, and readers who want things spelled out up front.

This cuts rather close to the bone of my writer-self, and I’ve had some spirited discussions with editors and copy editors. I like to be allusive. Some editors, speaking on behalf of a certain demographic of readers, really would prefer that I not do that.

To a degree it’s a matter of personal taste, but it also speaks to the question of how and when to convey information so that it’s clear to the reader. Some writers put it all in, tell it step by step, explain as they go. Others hint and suggest, as this chapter does with the coffin—touching wood for luck and for protection. To me it’s clear from context what the gesture means, but as I said, I’m good with suggestions rather than plain statements.

What to do here? I believe it’s up to the author to make the final decision. It’s impossible to please every reader. There will always be one (or more) to whom a particular submission does not speak. We’re all different, we all have varying tastes and preferences, and sometimes the work just isn’t for us.

In this case, I would ask what the writer wants to accomplish. Horror by its nature tends toward the allusive—so much of it is voice and tone and atmosphere, and its effects tend to build gradually. If there are questions at the start of a story or novel, if we’re not clued in immediately to who or what the people in the hidden village are, we can be sure we’ll get at least some of the answers by the end—and if some part of the mystery remains, we’ll embrace that, too, if the author does it right.

It’s all in how the story wants to be told. Does it want the answers up front, thriller style, so that the reader runs ahead of the characters, waiting for them to figure it all out? Or does it want the reader to live through the process of discovery with the characters? Either way is valid, but the ultimate decision is the author’s.

There’s a further complication in workshopping a portion of a larger work, when what we have in front us can’t and won’t contain all the information we need in order to get the overall picture. Many times, a question is answered in a later section, or a piece of information that’s not quite fully explained in one scene or chapter is clarified as the story goes on. Maybe it needs to happen that way; the story grows and expands, and the reader’s understanding grows with it.

Again, in the end, it’s the author’s call. We do want clarity, and clarification, but sometimes we want to keep a little mystery, too; a little something for the reader to discover as they read on.

–Judith Tarr

Titaness by Billy Forshaw

I was struck by the sense of distant quiet in “Titaness” this month: a lonely image of a woman wandering across far terrain, and a conclusion that’s grief-struck, ominous, but gentle. However, the author’s notes mention a sense of something missing—and for me as a reader, in a story about relationship, that was relationship between these characters and the details of their world. So this month, I’d like to talk about integrating science fictional worldbuilding into the stories we tell.

“Titaness” starts strong: an instant situation (a woman is outside), the implication that situation is ongoing, the implication of which kind of character would see this as a problem and tension within Maria’s home. However, it immediately moves into exposition about Titan and class: a briefing on what everything is supposed to mean that sinks the interest generated by that question in technical information.

It’s four paragraphs before anything more is mentioned about that character in a situation with a problem—Maria seeing a woman outside again and something about that is wrong—and by then, the tension and interest that problem creates has already been diffused and undermined.

This is the core issue I found personally with “Titaness”. Every time there’s mention of a speculative worldbuilding element—the Skins, the idea of charmed material, Equalizers—the story immediately diverts into a technical explanation purely in service of getting readers up to speed, and breaks the thread of what it’s explicitly told us to care about in the first lines: Maria, the isolation of Titan, the woman outside. And many of those speculative worldbuilding elements aren’t helping specifically to tell the story of Maria, her marriage, the woman outside.

It might be helpful to think about this as delivering structural mixed messages: “Titaness” has told readers a certain thing is important, that it’s the thread and core of the story—but keeps dropping it in service of a whole other thing. And then it becomes hard to tell what’s actually important here.

“Titaness”, by the end, feels as if it’s trying to encompass the background worldbuilding information of a classic hard SF story—noting every bell and whistle along the way—as well as the close human-centred, emotive perspective of Bradbury, and instead of building a structure that can hold both, or funnel both through the same channels, it’s switching between the two structures—and losing readers as it does, because those structures are working at cross-purposes. They don’t complement each other well. This is what the Gap symbolizes is a less effective tool than letting the Gap be a symbol and building the kind of structure that primes readers to look for symbolism when you’re speaking in the language of an emotive Bradburyan perspective; once they had been in love is less interesting than getting to see Maria reach for him, and Julien fall short.

I think it can be easier to consider how structure works in action-packed, fast-paced stories, but a structure of action, consequence, and attentional flow is part of every story we write; it’s just a question of how we keep attention flowing, and how that structure is dressed.

Since the author’s notes mention explicitly wanting to capture that Bradburyan feeling, I’d suggest it’s worthwhile to go back to Bradbury and study what he’s doing and how he maintains a character’s internality, voice, and tone when conveying worldbuilding information. Facts like how long it rains on Venus in “All Summer in a Day” are filtered through what they mean to the story’s protagonists—their impressions and relationships with those facts. There’s a lot of hard science fictional information passed on to the reader, but it’s not directly. That information does two things: inform about the world and introduce readers to the character.

So—all that being said!—I’d suggest tackling the structural issue in “Titaness” by putting the facts about Titan, the Gap, and more into relationship with their people, instead of letting them just interrupt those relationships.

What does any of this mean to Maria, even as a fairly reserved, opaque character who’s been, it seems, helping that woman all along and didn’t just hear anything? What does the fact that she’s telling Julien this as if it’s abstract mean about her relationship with him, and what she’s trying to elicit from him? There’s a possibility to go deeper into those dynamics by filtering through her perspective more strongly; what she leaves out and when.

I’d suggest taking this approach in small ways and large: How can “her husband, Julien” read more interestingly when Maria knows Julien’s her husband, and doesn’t have to highlight that fact because it’s apparent they’re in a relationship from how they interact? What more interesting information about Julien would she notice, and can take its place?

Ultimately, that’s the question I’d put forth: What would “Titaness” look, read, and feel like if the facts about Titan were being conveyed through the lens of what they meant to Maria—what she already knows, what she feels, and what she’s interested in?

I think with the structures more integrated—a hard science fiction story about relationships and told through them, not at war with them—any issues the author’s still feeling will come clearer, and get this closer to a final draft.

Best of luck!

–Leah Bobet, author of Above (2012) and An Inheritance Of Ashes (2015)

Forged By Death by Jennifer Dawson

Infrasound by Matthew Davidson

I’m intrigued by the concept here: both science fiction and horror. This opening sequence says “hard SF” to me, with its mission-control setting and its focus on the sound coming out of space. But I do keep in mind the gothic-horror roots of the Alien franchise, not to mention the beloved trope, It Came From Outer Space. There’s a definite trend toward horror toward the end, as the sound overwhelms the characters and their setting.

The author’s note asks about pacing. That’s an important element of any story, regardless of genre. Here, with action that builds up to a crescendo of fear and dread, the pacing would tend to be rapid and escalating.

There are a few tricks of craft that can help to focus the narrative and, as a result, sharpen the reader’s sense of what’s going on.

1. Frame the scene clearly and coherently.

Make sure the setting is clearly defined and the characters move consistently within it. For example I’m not entirely sure whether David and the party are in the same room, or if he’s in mission control and the party is happening remotely via screen or hologram. I’m also not clear about why the sommelier is giving the speech. There’s some explanation about the Nobel laureate avoiding doing it, but I’m not getting the logic of having a wine steward take over the job. Would it make more sense if he were a hired master of ceremonies, someone who does this kind of thing for a living?

2. Short, concise, focused paragraphs

It’s amazing how much difference it can make to keep the paragraphs short and keep each one focused on a particular action or viewpoint. Try breaking up the paragraphs, keeping them to three sentences or so. See how that changes the way the narrative moves.

Trim the repetition, too, and notice how often words and phrases echo in consecutive or adjacent sentences. See what happens if these echoes go away, either by choosing different words or phrases, or by deleting the repetitions altogether.

3. Active voice

Like short paragraphs and concise sentences, active voice makes a significant difference to the pacing. Try shifting all the verbs to active, and getting rid of multi-word verb constructions. Though I have no personal problem with the word was, or the verb to be in general, try eliminating it as much as possible, and make sure every verb has a subject. Then see what needs to go back in. The same applies to gerunds—words ending in –ing—and clauses that connect with while and as. Break them up, make each one its own, short, active unit. And again, see what that does to the speed of the narrative.

4. Specificity

The more focused the narrative is, the more coherent it tends to be. One way to do this is to be specific. Instead of generic people acting or reacting, focus on one or two. Let us see what these particular people do and see and say. We’ll still get the sense that we’re in a room full of people, but we’ll experience the action more directly and immediately.

5. Exposition: To Be or Not to Be?

Science fiction loves its exposition, and part of worldbuilding is making sure the reader knows what’s going on and where and how. The trick is to know when to stop and explain, and when to keep things moving. Fast pacing means minimal exposition. Chunks of explanation act like speed bumps. The questions to ask are: Is this information absolutely necessary here? Does the reader need to know it right here and now in order to understand what is going on? If the answer is yes, how much information do they need at this point? How much is directly relevant to what’s happening? Can I wait to fill in the rest later, or leave it to the reader’s imagination?

This applies to both narrative exposition and dialogue. Dialogue especially is tricky because it may seem more active and direct and immediate to have a character Explain Things. It’s still exposition, and the story is still on pause. It may actually work better to toss in a line or two of exposition and then move on. The key here as elsewhere is to keep it short and keep it relevant. That helps to keep the story moving. And movement, of course, is what pacing is.

–Judith Tarr

Still There by Tracey V. Brown

While reading the opening of this novel, I alternate between feeling intrigued and feeling locked out. The moment when my excitement kicks in is with “No one’s saying we’re actually going to ‘solve the mystery of Redfers’s fate.'” At that point, I feel I finally have a solid sense of what’s going on. They’re going to try to solve the mystery of Redfers’s fate, or at least pretend to try. My feeling of excited understanding continues and builds with “Just like that horror film online campaign,” which makes me happy because I get the reference to The Blair Witch Project and now feel even more solid in my understanding and pleased because I really liked The Blair Witch Project and anticipate I will like this, too. It’s like this story was in a mystery prize bag that was handed to me, and I couldn’t get it open for a while to see what sort of prize was inside. When I finally get it open, I’m glad that I took the effort.

The next couple of paragraphs get me pretty much fully up to speed, and then the story can move ahead by revealing the path. So that second half of the second scene gets me involved and makes me want to keep reading. Prior to that, I could have stopped at any time. For me, the first scene has too much mystery and not enough to engage me. Andy is making a coffin. While I don’t know anything about making coffins, it seems odd that he’s making a tiny, final shave off a piece before bringing the pieces together. How does he know they will fit, and how can he know one tiny shave is necessary? So while I’m not sure, I feel something is strange about his process, which is mystery #1. Ruth enters with “colourful paper stuff.” I don’t know what this is or how to picture it, so this is mystery #2. The word stuff at first makes me think of confetti. Later, she “shook out three or four rolls of paper in bright colours.” I guess this is the same as the “stuff,” but it doesn’t sound the same. If they are rolls, it would be helpful to use that word rather than “stuff” the first time the paper is mentioned.

I’m now puzzled by how she can shake out a roll. I end up picturing her with rolls of colored toilet paper, and she’s holding onto the end and dropping the roll, so it unrolls across the floor. And she does this multiple times with multiple rolls. I’m sure this isn’t what you mean, but as I try to figure out what you do mean, the only other images I can come up with are rolls of paper towels or rolls of crepe paper. I have no idea why she’s shaking them out. She then says she’ll make a banner out of the paper. But a banner is generally made of a single, large sheet of sheet of material. I try to make the toilet paper into a banner in my head, but it doesn’t work. I try to change the image in my head so that there’s just one large roll, but it still doesn’t make sense to me that she would shake it out and let it roll over the dirty barn floor. Why? And why did she bring the paper here and why is she telling Andy about it? She’s not asking him to help with the banner.

Then there’s the question of who the banner is for. It seems to be for someone they both fear, since they’ll speak about that person only obliquely. My guess is that the identity of this person is the mystery you want to raise in our minds. The problem is that I’m so preoccupied trying to figure out the paper, the person has little impact. I notice that there’s a person that they seem to fear, but it just blends in with all the other mystery. I don’t think you want me to pay as much or more attention to the paper than I do to the person. If that’s true, you need to limit the mystery to the things you want to be mysterious and make everything around those things super clear. Then there’s mystery #3, about how Ruth is going to kill her grandfather by aligning his bed with the floorboards. I wonder for a while if this is some obscure mythological method of killing vampires, like arithmomania. But I couldn’t find anything about it on the Internet.

So Ruth wants to kill her grandfather and may use this strange method either because she has strange powers to kill in this way or because her grandfather is strange and requires a strange method to kill him. Either way, I’m pretty confused and am feeling overwhelmed with mysteries. The houseleek is mystery #4. Ruth’s offer to protect his house from lightning using houseleek frightens Andy, for some reason. After working at it for a while, I see two mysteries within this one. First, “using” the houseleek seems to involve some danger. I don’t know what that danger is. Second, going into the woods to get the houseleek involves another danger. Mystery #5 is what Andy knows that Ruth doesn’t know. He thinks she will “Live and learn.” But I don’t know what she’ll learn. It seems to be some sort of burden, because Andy thinks maybe it’s “cruel to keep on.” I’m really not sure if this burden is the same thing that Andy knows but Ruth doesn’t know, because Ruth does seem to know about this thing. So I’m not even sure if this is one mystery or two separate ones.

Mystery #6 is what this saying means: “Family blood is different from family took.” Mystery #7 is what this means: “he might have been tempted to say the words that went with the action.” I’m not sure what the action is; his hand is touching the coffin lid, but that seems more his position (already completed) rather than his action. And I don’t know what words go with touching a coffin lid, why he’s tempted to say them, and why he thinks he shouldn’t. There are additional smaller mysteries. The mention of a plane that “murmured past.” Why Ruth carried these papers into the barn and shook them out. Why she’s offering Andy the houseleek repeatedly. She doesn’t seem to even like him. And he doesn’t seem very friendly to her.

The scene overwhelms me with unknowns. There are too many mysteries, too much unclear, too much withheld, and too much not vividly shown. That means none of the mysteries carries much impact. I’m just kind of lost in a swirl of confusion, occasionally glimpsing something that could be interesting if it wasn’t swept away by other things. I think the scene would be much stronger if you focused it around a single mystery–for example, who lives in the woods. That seems to be the one that has the biggest impact on Andy, and he’s the POV character, so it seems the most important. If you make everything around the mystery vivid and clear, it will create the perfect setting to highlight your fascinating mystery, like a velvet cloth on which rests a glittering diamond.

I don’t know everything that happens in the novel, but if you must introduce other mysteries, they could come in other scenes. Generally, though, readers need focus. Seven mysteries are too many to focus on. One mystery, beautifully presented and developed, can draw us in. The second scene is focused on the mystery of where the trail is, and that works pretty well. The one area of the second scene that I want to discuss is the use of “As you know, Bob” (AYKB) dialogue. This type of dialogue occurs when one character tells another things they both know. This is usually a problem because people generally don’t speak this way. If the two of us both know that bananas are a fruit, it’s unlikely that I’ll say to you, “Bananas are a fruit.” All the dialogue that reveals what the characters are doing, all the dialogue that gets me excited, is “As you know, Bob” dialogue. While I’m very glad to receive this information, the method of providing the information undermines the characters. It also seems odd because the novel up to this point has bent over backwards to withhold information, to have the characters speak obtusely, and to leave readers struggling to figure things out. This explanatory AYKB dialogue then seems forced by the author, who has decided to let the reader know what the story is about.

My suggestion is to try to even out your level of mystery/explanation, so we don’t have some scenes that overwhelm us with mystery and others that force the characters to explain themselves. In the case of AYKB dialogue, often a good way is to fix it is to have the characters, rather than stating facts they all know, express opinions about the facts. The story does this a few times, as with the line I quoted earlier: “No one’s saying we’re actually going to ‘solve the mystery of Redfers’s fate.'” This would be an AYKB if she’d said, “We’re not actually going to solve the mystery of Redfers’s fate.” I would think they all know this. But instead she’s giving an opinion about the fact. The AYKB dialogue comes out after that, when Nadine says, “That’s the plan,” which they all know, and when Lennie says, “My Edgar Redfers existed, and he really did disappear in the summer of 1909 while he was researching superstitions.” Lennie might instead say, “Once we show people that Edgar Redfers really existed, and he really disappeared in the summer of 1909 while researching superstitions, they’re going to be completely sucked in.”

The situation you reveal definitely draws me in and makes me want to find out how Lennie and company will fare in their investigation. I hope my comments are helpful.

–Jeanne Cavelos, editor, author, director of The Odyssey Writing Workshops Charitable Trust

The Pistoleer Chapter 2 by Shawn Farien

–Judith Tarr

The Editors’ Choices are chosen from the submissions from the previous month that show the most potential or otherwise earn the admiration of our Resident Editors. Submissions in four categories — science fiction chapters, fantasy chapters, horror, and short stories — receive a detailed review, meant to be educational for others as well as the author.This month’s reviews are written by Resident Editors Leah Bobet, Jeanne Cavelos, and Judith Tarr. The last four months of Editors’ Choices and their editorial reviews are archived on the workshop.

The Ambassador  by William Das

The Ambassador” caught my eye this month by offering a quieter, more nuanced take on the political divide dystopian: a close-in look at the impacts of a wider science-fictional future. While its worldbuilding illustrates and extrapolates a highly partisan American future, it doesn’t quite hang together yet when examined up close. So this month, I’d like to discuss the balance between internal science-fictional cohesion and allegory, and making a piece of fiction work as both.

“The Ambassador” quickly sets out a rich world that feels nonetheless personal, and takes pains to establish the individual strains Adam and Sandra are living under (though Liam is much less carefully drawn, and I think a few more details about his own motivations early on would balance out that sense of wobble in his character). The prose works very well here; it’s clean, engaging, and accessible, and drew me in with a sprinkling of solid details. It’s also capable of rising into the poetic to underscore an emotional or significant moment—the image of two ships slowly ripping each other apart is a powerful one, and keeping that metaphoric language in reserve so it could highlight the thematic climax of the piece was a smart, effective choice. There is no mistaking what the most important sentence of this story is.

There’s a lot of work being done in inference and implication, and the brand names, the ad content, the filtering of how the same news stories are reported by differently aligned outlets are all feeding back into the central thematic concern: political symbolism overtaking the personal, partisanship as identity, and a world organized around taking sides. The worldbuilding supports the theme and plot very well: no detail is wasted. “The Ambassador” is clear about what it’s addressing through allegory, stays on point, and doesn’t flatten its characters overmuch while doing it. This still feels like a story in and of itself.

It’s when I view the world of “The Ambassador” exclusively as a constructed science-fictional society—not as allegory—that it wrinkles and decoheres.

The major worldbuilding bobbles in “The Ambassador” for me starts around the question of loss of membership. While the parallel to health insurance networks and credit scores is visible, Sandra’s out-of-network dilemma doesn’t quite fit the worldbuilding already established here. Patriot Network Services—like Justice Network later on—seems to be a closed, binary-thinking ecology. I’m left wondering why they would even offer the counter-aligned options, but still warn people about consequences when they chose to use it instead of just applying them, gotcha!-style.

Systems are designed by people for a purpose, and the uneven application of consequences here leaves me unsure what behaviours the networks are trying to produce or reinforce, what emphasis they put on actual ideological purity, and how they deal with perceived traitors.

There’s also a significant gap between what people say in “The Ambassador” and what the actual organization of this world tells us. It’s ostensibly an entrenched cultural war, polarized enough to have separate towns and economies after riots forty years ago, but is somehow still one nation, with one president, and the people who hate those policies are leaving peaceably under that person?

That contradiction between rhetoric and action extends to characterization. Everyone in “The Ambassador”, barring Liam, is significantly more flexible than they let on, or than their society seems to want them to be. Sandra has a lot of grey areas and exceptions in her politics; she talks the talk, but she bought those Nike shoes. The staff at Betty’s Garden Centre seem reluctant, even as they turn Adam down, and ultimately they take that cash.

The disconnects reach down to the town names. Friedan and Schlafly are clear references to me and they communicate in terms of allegory, but they’re a little dated politically for what they’re representing here—would people whose schism was forty years ago, ostensibly in our present, have chosen those as their symbols? Why?

The result for me is an oddly soft dystopia: one where the strings are quite visible and you get enough warnings to not have to really worry; where people had riots, tore apart families and societies, and live apart, but somehow now are reserved enough to apply all kinds of moral brakes. Where there’s an entire other system for working around the rules and the consequences are never quite brutal, just expensive and embarrassing.

While it takes enough brutality out of the situation to make “The Ambassador” feel like safer, warmer reading, once the allegory is stripped away, it also makes this world feel like it could be more strongly thought through.

So what I’d suggest for polishing “The Ambassador” up is looking at everything in it with that streak of literalism: if this was saying nothing at all about the present day and was just this other world, these people’s conflicts and choices, would each element of the story make sense and flow into the next? Would a world with these rules and habits function as a world? This can be tricky adjustment, making one set of actions work on two different levels, the literal and the allegorical. But it’s the kind of work that makes a politically allegorical story feel not just like advertising, but like story: satisfying, heartfelt, thoughtful.

My second major suggestion would be to provide a little more support through the middle of “The Ambassador” for the subthread with Adam’s father. It’s supposed to be the closing image—the closing choice—of “The Ambassador”: Adam makes a choice about reaching out. However, I’m not feeling that decision is supported by the rest of the piece: I don’t see, in this draft, why the altercation between Liam and Sandra is enough to make him choose against his father—what it has to do with his father and that strained relationship. I’m fairly certain this thought is lurking in the subtext right now: I think there’s room to strengthen the impact of that ending, though, by making the connections a little clearer, and Adam’s thoughts about his father more consistently present.

Best of luck!

–Leah Bobet, author of Above (2012) and An Inheritance of Ashes (2015)