Generation V by M.L. Brennan

I normally don’t read much in the way of vampire fiction, having little interest in the sub-genre long before it became the hot property following the success of Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series. But being a genre reader, especially considering the amount of urban fantasy I read, coming across vampires is unavoidable. I just rarely read a novel with a vampire as the lead character. I find the inherent cliche and unavoidable attempt to make something as antique and overdone more modern and relevant to be largely off putting. So I’d dismissed M.L. Brennan’s debut, Generation V, as not my bag, and moved on. But when Brennan contacted me directly for a review, I accepted. It’s always incredibly rewarding when an author likes your reviews of other work enough to seek out your opinion. I will admit to some trepidation before cracking the cover, but Brennan quickly set me at ease with her unconventional and quirky tale of fledgling vampire, Fortitude Scott.

Fortitude Scott is not your typical vampire. For in Brennan’s mythology, vampires are bred not made. And Fortitude has yet to embrace his sinister genetics, choosing to be a vegetarian to abate the cravings that hint at his gradual descent into full blown monster status. He lives apart from his family, who rule over a large swathe of the United States from their palatial estate in the playground of the wealthy and powerful, choosing to live an impoverished existence while working a thankless job at a local coffee shop. But try as he might to ignore his parentage and the supernatural forces moving beneath the surface of his community, Fortitude is drawn into the very world he has spent his entire life trying to avoid. When Luca, a European vampire, enters the territory controlled by Fortitude’s mother, and uses her promise of hospitality to allow him to abduct and murder young girls without fear of consequences, Fortitude cannot stand idly by and continue to think of himself as human.

Brennan does an excellent job of separating Generation V from the run of the mill vampire tale right out of the gate. Readers spend the first few chapters thoroughly immersed in the mundane aspects of Fortitude’s life. Even though Scott’s elder brother Chivalry makes an appearance, it only serves as a counter point to just how different Fortitude is from the full-fledged vampires of his family. His job is a nightmare as is his impoverished living situation and his train wreck of a relationship. Fortitude is nothing like your typical vampire protagonist, seemingly content to let life run roughshod all over him. While this approach might be a little short on action, making the story a bit of a slow starter, it is absolutely necessary to establish Fortitude’s humanity. This is the crux of his character and what drives his choices throughout the novel. Fortitude is a person first and a vampire second, and this is what gives Generation V enough legs to get past the vampire fatigue that many long term genre fans experience.

Brennan’s world building also does an excellent job of distancing the novel from others of its ilk. The nature of vampirism is very different from the age old model of each new vampire being the victim of an attack from its sire, with each new vampire being bred from human hosts in a perilous and disturbing process, which I will leave for readers to explore more fully on their own. This distances Brennan’s vampires from the tortured victims of many vampire tales of the past, and instead paints them as monsters that are more and more removed from their residual humanity as they age. Fortitude’s siblings, Chivalry and Prudence are used to demonstrate this to good effect. Chivalry is emotionally cool but still has his own code of morals, while Prudence is a chilling example of a supernatural sociopath. This is a stroke a real genius, allowing Brennan to use the familiarity of the concept to her advantage while paving the way for more original ways of approaching the trope. The contrast between Fortitude and his siblings also serves to better illustrate what Fortitude has to lose if he embraces his supernatural heritage.

Vampires aren’t the only supernatural beings in the world of Generation V. Brennan also includes the kitsune of Japanese folklore, elves, and witches in her world building. Other than the kitsune, who get major screen time due to Fortitude’s bodyguard, and seeming love interest Suzume, the other supernatural elements are mainly window dressing, though they are used to hilarious effect and defy reader expectation at almost every turn. The kitsune are an ingenious addition to Fortitude’s story, especially since the reader’s exposure is almost completely due to the presence of Suzume, who chews up the scenery with her antics and pop culture rich wise cracks as she steals almost every scene in which she appears. But Suzume is far more than comic relief and literary eye candy. She’s the catalyst that sets Fortitude in motion, not just against the novel’s antagonist but to a place where he finally begins to take charge of his life rather than letting others bully him at every turn. Suzume is rife for more exploration and I look forward to learning more of her back story as this series continues.

While the story starts at a slower pace, it really picks up a head of steam around the midpoint as Fortitude and Suzume start to get traction in their pursuit of Luca. The action sequences are pulse pounding and feel surprisingly harrowing since Fortitude is more than over matched at almost every turn. I applaud Brennan’s restraint in not turning Fortitude into a super human ass-kicking machine for her convenience. Keeping Fortitude an every man keeps the story from derailing into stereotypical territory and ups the ante for the reader in the final scenes.

Taken as a whole, Generation V is a fresh take on an old saw that benefits from Brennan’s excellent world building and the authenticity of its cast. Fans of urban fantasy who are weary of the same old, same old shouldn’t miss this engaging mix of action, humor, and coming of age tale. I’ll definitely be around for round two.

Round Table: Violence in Science Fiction and Fantasy Part 3

As this series is getting more and more attention in the blogosphere , largely due to getting posted on Redditt, I decided to once again hasten the release of the next question. Round tables are a bear to manage, both in the keeping things moving, adjusting the fluctuating schedules of a group of busy professionals who are doing this simply as a favor, and then compiling and posting the results. The authors that took part in this were a pleasure to work with and it is intensely gratifying to see their efforts draw so much attention in the genre community. When I came up with this idea, I was told by another blogger I respect that this sort of project couldn't be done. I'm glad we've managed to prove that assessment wrong. If you haven't already read the first two installments, links are provided below. 

Violence in Science Fiction and Fantasy: Part One

Violence in Science Fiction and Fantasy: Part Two

52 Reviews: Doug's point that simply throwing more blood on the page misses the point and that violence needs to pull double and often triple duty to pull its weight in the story is something I think that bears more discussion. Can each of you give an example of how you use violence in your work to accomplish more than the obvious visceral reaction?
Jeff Salyards: First, let me say that I’m honored to be a round tabler here. The answers have been fantastic and really thought provoking. Which stinks, because the bar keeps getting raised. So allow me to lower it again.

I don’t think there is anything inherently bad about a violent scene that is purely visceral, or just moves the plot along. Or even an entire book like that, really. To each their own. My dad used to read Don Pendleton novels—the ones where Mack Bolan waged a vigilante vendetta against the mob, and killed like 10,000 of their foot soldiers over the years. Formulaic, pulpy, and never mistaken for Umberto Eco or Octavia Butler. My dad was off the charts smart, but that was his mind candy. He knew it wasn’t literary fiction--he read Norman Mailer and Pendleton and chose the latter, preferring to check out and just be entertained.


And it does take skill to orchestrate exciting action sequences, to draw the reader in and make her feel the windows rattle from an explosion down the block, or shudder as she imagines what it’s like for a pike block to stand firm against a cavalry charge. It’s easy to dismiss pulpy or “cheap” violence that has no grander purpose underpinning it, and frankly, I think that’s a mistake. There’s something to be learned in a Pendleton book for instance, about crafting a page turner that resonates with the reader and keeps them hooked. It’s not as easy as it looks, and plenty of high-minded authors write muddied, confusing, inert, or otherwise crappy action scenes. And to me, that’s a bigger sin than writing a compelling bit of violence that is purely plot-driven or designed to thrill.


All that said, I do think a book is more compelling when the violence is doing double or triple duty, if it challenges the reader in some way, or reveals something more interesting than the blast radius of a pipe bomb or the best way to string a warbow.


For me, I tried to make the violence in Scourge of the Betrayer meaningful and have some weight—partly because I (hopefully) made it feel real, that no character was safe, that there were consequences, psychic and physical. There are no magic circles around anyone, and even the bad-ass main characters slip in the bloody grass, suffer injuries, and die. But beyond the realistic treatment, several of the violent encounters stand out (again, hopefully), because the narrator is a reedy scribe with no martial experience at all, and his naive and somewhat delicate sensibilities are in direct contrast to the hardened soldiers he accompanies. He signs on to record the events, thinking it will be a grand adventure, only to discover that the reality is a far different (and messier) thing.

The idea was that Arkamondos, the narrator, was in some ways a surrogate for the reader (at least the ones who aren’t exposed to violence very frequently in real life)—he’s met soldiers, but never seen them in action or traveled with them, and he’s equal parts horrified and fascinated by what he witnesses, the violence in particular. This group of covert operatives with their rough, course, and aggressive camaraderie, is so far outside his comfort zone that the conflict and tension ratchet up the longer he serves as the chronicler for the company, until there is a sort of tipping point, when he becomes less a terrified and overwhelmed observer, and more a somewhat unwilling (and pretty incompetent) participant. Arkamondos doesn’t transform into any kind of badass, but by necessity he does act and loses some objectivity in the process, questioning not only the actions of the men around him, but his own role and loyalties.

But at the very least, I hope the actions sequences at the very least succeed on the choreography/verisimilitude level, that they engage in a visceral way. If they manage to go beyond that for a reader, cool beans.


Kameron Hurley: What, where was I?

Stories. Violence in mine. Right.

There’s all sorts of tension and conflict you can build into books, especially books that aren’t explicitly about violence and what it does to people. Maybe your hero’s transformative experience happens on a fishing trip when she decides to throw back a prize-winning fish, or the first time she comes in before her mom during a race, or the day he watches his father die of cancer. In my series, starting with God’s War, I wanted to create a society of people shaped by the terrible violence of constant war, who had to do terrible things to survive, and I wanted people to *understand* them by the end of the book/series. Not like them. Just... understand why they were who they were. In a novel that’s all about violence and what it does to people – well, you’re going to end up showing a lot of violence. Because I think we forget what it means sometimes, and what perpetuating it can do to people. I wanted all of that on the page, instead of just the ride on to glory parts.

My “heroes” are incredibly damaged and complex people. Nobody survives this long in this place without doing things they regret, and paying for past choices. My protagonist's revelation that she’s chosen her path as a bloody bounty hunter for herself – and not, in truth, been forced down it by others – happens during a sword fight with her former mentor where she pops his eye out. The first book’s climax is a bloody boxing match that ends with razor blades and shotguns. It’s a match where my protagonist has to face, in the ring, the sister of a boy she killed, and know, understand, and confront what that death has done to this woman (and to my protagonist). There are certainly other ways I could have conveyed this information.... maybe, but I had explicitly set out to look at what happens to people when they’re born into and hope to survive within a society at endless war. If you want to understand these people, you need to know what it is they have to do to survive.

If you’re at war – on and off – for centuries, with this particular type of tech/magic, in a resource-strapped environment, how would people change? What would be the same? What would their moral code look like? Because everyone in the book has a moral code, just maybe not one we’d recognize as such. In a lot of traditional fantasy, you’ll find characters who commit violence without any real psychological ramifications. They still get the girl or the guy, save the world, and get the happily ever after. We all know happily ever after is kinda syrupy, but I wanted to show *why* it was so hard to swallow after you Defeat Evil. Because defeating evil means you must become evil yourself. How do you live with that? These people cannot live the lives that they do, doing the things that they do, and have what we consider “normal” human relationships afterwards. It’s not like, “Hey, we defeated the dark lord! Babies and picket fences for everyone!” You end up deeply damaged by these events.

I wanted to show that end result. But I couldn’t get there unless I showed clearly, explicitly, what types of actions these people engaged in every day. If you don’t have an idea of the atrocities they commit, it’s harder to understand why they aren’t shitting rainbows at the end.

There's this assassin in the Serenity movie who says something about how, in the perfect, peaceful society he wants to create, there will not be people like him. A perfect society won't need ruthless killers. By the time we hit the end of my series, I explore that bit as well in the last book. What happens to these bloody, broken people when peace breaks out? What do they do with their lives? Unless you'd experienced that journey with them, unless you'd seen what they'd done, it would be more difficult to empathize with them at that point, too. What happens to somebody who's done all these horrific things when the world has moved on? It becomes this grim happy tragedy of "oh yay peace" and "oh God I created a world that has no place for me in it what do I do now?"

And I find all of that stuff endlessly fascinating.

Zachary Jernigan: Well, isn't this just peachy? I started responding to this three times and could think of nothing to say. I finally though, What the hell? I'll just wait for Kameron to answer and maybe that will inspire me. If I'm really lucky, her answer will be short and kinda crappy.
Look how that worked out. What a great answer. And I have nothing to add.

Nah. I guess I'll give it a whirl.
The thing is, I'm not a huge fan of the action scene as a beast of its own, out of context. I know some folks love reading about gals and guys punching/stabbing/shooting the crap out of each other -- it may be the favorite part of a book for them -- but it ain't me. In fact, any active scene (even sex scenes) get boring to me if they're there just to show me what's occurring physically, to get the visceral reaction. I suppose some folks have a technical interest. But even though I've practiced martial arts a bit and been in a few fights, ultimately I'm not into the mechanics of violence enough to invest myself in the descriptions themselves. I can, I think, tell when most violent encounters are portrayed unrealistically, but even those will get a pass from me if it occurs in an emotionally realistic context.

In other words, I'm not interested in the fight itself. (Perhaps this is why I write pretty short fight scenes.) I am, however, very much interested in why people -- two people, three, rarely more than four -- are brought to the point of violence and, like Kameron, what having been violent means to them.

Though I'm not violent by nature and never have been, I try to place myself in context with others who are either by nature or profession. I have no own inclinations toward aggression (they just happen to not be expressed physically all that often), and I know full well how wonderful it feels to give vent to it when you feel justified. Likewise, I know how awful it feels to give vent to it -- yes, even when justified. I'd like to think this says something good about me, in that I haven't reached the place where I fully enjoy laying into someone else. There's always a wage for letting your heart pump loudly enough for your fists to follow. There's always a measure of regret, of guilt; otherwise, you've stopped being fully human.

I try to explore this fact when I write about violence -- that it can be a glorious thing, a justified thing, but it is never a good thing. Every scene of violence in No Return reflects this mindset.

Douglas Hulick: So far we've been talking about the consequences of violence--especially beyond the obvious, such as skinned knuckled and perforated spleens and defeating the baddy and Dong-Dong the Evil Lord is Dead--and the kinds of psychological toll it can take on people. With the rise of more character-based stories, this only makes sense, and I for one am glad people like Jeff and Kameron and Zachary are looking into it. Because, you see, I'm not--or at least, not to the same extent.
One of the things I wrestled with early on when creating the world of the Kin was how violence was going to be seen and reacted to by the main characters, and especially my protagonist. Since it is written in a very tight, first-person POV, what Drothe said and thought and felt was what would be presented to the reader. His attitudes and assumptions would color every aspect of the book. And, let's face it, he exists in a violent subsection of his society -- a place where people don't think so much about the consequences of violence as they think about using violence as a consequence. The knife isn't used to save the princess or defeat the monster or cast down the unjust: it's used to send a message. Did you screw up? Cheat your boss and get caught? Maybe cross the wrong line or step on the wrong toes? Then it's very possible that you'll get a visit from a couple of hard customers who will, at the very least, threaten painful consequences, if not deliver them. Violence is as much a calling card and a short-hand telegraph service as it is anything in the back streets of Ildrecca.

Where did I get this notion? Again, from research. Not just the modern mob, but also historical criminals and judicial systems. In a society where you can lose body parts for some legal transgressions, its not hard to imagine that being reflected in the criminal elements of society and their attitudes towards humanity in general. If the darker portions of a society are in some ways a bloodier, more twisted reflection of what that civilization holds up to the light, then it only makes sense that the darker corner's view towards humanity and life are appropriately (and darkly) reflected as well. In both cases, it's still about power and control and enforcing respect, be it institutional or personal--its just that the criminals don't have all the tools that law and normal society has, and so they tend to be blunter about it.
That doesn't mean different people don't have different takes on it, of course. I have two crime lords in the book who have very different managerial styles when it comes to enforcing their will and keeping their people in order. But in both cases, the threat of violence as a consequence for trespasses is still there--its just how far you have to trespass before you get the knife. In a world like that, the consequences for violence start to become much more pragmatic, and things like honor and truth and loyalty--arguably much rarer occurrences among the Kin--become worthy of reflection instead.

That's of course the macro-level take. On the micro-level, it comes down to what the violence needs to accomplish in the scene, and how it can move other elements along. Probably the simplest example, for me, is the first true fight we encounter in the book. In this instance, Drothe and his friend Bronze Degan are ambushed in an alley during a conversation. The ambush itself has nothing to do with the overall plot--it's just a street gang trying to tap a couple of easy marks--and their reaction to it says as much. But that in itself--that they see it to some degree as an interruption, that the two of them immediately evaluate and divide up the challenge in fewer words than it takes to tell, that Drothe has to strategize about and play out his fight, while Degan handles his "off camera" with far less effort--tells the reader a lot, not only about their relationship, but about who each man is. In terms of the overall story-arc, it may seem unimportant at the time, but that little alley fight introduces us to a relationship that becomes one of the key points of tension and internal conflict for Drothe in the book. Could I have done it a different way--via a conversation, or over dinner, or what have you? Of course. But in a violent world like I was planning for Drothe and the Kin, showing it in the midst of a physical conflict seemed the most appropriate. Plus, you know, I got to write a sword fight, so Yay!

Continue to Part 4

Round Table: Violence in Science Fiction and Fantasy Part 2

I know I'm a bit early with this update, but the amount of attention this round table has gotten has been far beyond anything I could have expected. Not wanting to keep anyone waiting, I decided to get the second installment up as soon as possible. In round two we have what happens when the we talk a little more about the real world vs fiction, grimdark, keeping up with the Sandersons, and a little more Game of Thrones.   

If you haven't read the first installment of the discussion, I'd suggest doing so.

Violence in Science Fiction and Fantasy: Part One

 I expect the third installment to be ready withing the next few days.

Enjoy!

52 Reviews: As mentioned today's audience is much more desensitized to violence, even to  the most graphic of examples, due to the influence of both news and entertainment media. Do you as writers feel a need to 'up the ante' in terms of the level of violence in response, to make those scenes more vivid and memorable for your readers or does your handling of violence serve only the story itself?

Zachary Jernigan: I was going to say no, and then I realized that yes, I do feel a pressure to do that -- but violence is not all that different from any other subject in that regard. There is more exposure to everything nowadays, a fact I'm forced to consider whenever I write anything. Of course, much of this exposure is vicarious, and so some things are easier to pull off. Back in the day (here I'm referencing the days when armies were larger and more people had, y'know, actually punched another person) it would be harder to pull off much of what we know take for granted in more overblown scenes of violence.

The question I always find myself asking is: Should I be more realistic and show how violence really seems to occur (and has for me on the rare occasions I've been in violent encounters), or should I push it to the max and strain credulity in an effort to blow the reader away with pure craziness? Thus far, I think I've erred toward the realistic as I see it, but I don't think it's the only way to respond.

Kameron Hurley: Ok, first, congrats to Zach for not using the word “elitist” even once in that response….

As for the “up the ante violence” question - well, you know, since the success of 50 Shades of Gray I’ve felt this need to up the ante by including more graphic S&M scenes in my fiction. I mean, what’s good fiction anymore without a mention of anal beads?

If I was in this to write what everyone else is writing I’d skip writing fiction. It pays far too little to be sitting around on your hands worrying all the time about feeding the market. I do that for my day job, and it’s soul-sucking. I want to create something different, something people haven’t seen before, and I’m not going to do that by playing “Keeping up with the Sandersons” or even “Keeping up with the Jemisins.” I’m in this to surprise myself, and hopefully a few other people along the way.

I lived in Durban, South Africa for a couple of years, in a province where one in three women would be raped in her lifetime and one in three people had AIDS, and also had, according to a quote I read around that time: “the highest crime rate in the world outside a war zone” (I think this was overstating things, but it was bandied about). You couldn’t go to a party or meet up or have a round of drinks without somebody talking about how they’d been mugged, carjacked, robbed, or knew someone who’d been knifed or killed that week. It really took a toll on your psyche. Even in the nice areas, you just didn’t go outside after dark alone if there was any alternative. People were really twitchy.  But the folks I met were also some of the kindest I’d ever encountered, and living life there felt all the more precious and brilliant to me while I was doing it, because the threat of violence was always just a heart skip away.

Yet I couldn’t help but realize, years later, that many spec fic writers looking to create a fictional society with that level of violence would only write about the violence, and would forget about the kindness, and the brilliantly joyous living folks did at the edges of it. Why? Oh, I don’t know. Likely because of that age old BS one hears from people who’ve never been anywhere or studied anything: “It’s just not realistic!”

I’ve spent a decade studying war and violence and atrocities and the truth is that what writers put on the page – everything I’ve ever read – pales in comparison to what people actually did (and do) to one another. But the real surprise is that people kept on living their everyday lives, laughing and playing with their children, writing poetry, and eating dinner together, amid all this violence. That’s where the interesting stories are, to me. It’s not the violence. It’s what happens between the bouts of violence. Because violence doesn’t matter, unless you have something worth losing.

Otherwise, you’re just writing torture porn.

Jeff Salyards: I’m not entirely convinced about the whole desensitized thing, at least not on a global scale. While it’s undeniable that between all kinds of entertainment chock full of explosions, serial killers, and garden variety sociopaths, and the nonstop media coverage of real life atrocities, people are exposed to violence (or can choose to view it) like never before, and there are plenty of people who try to use studies of the effects of violence to promote one agenda or another. I’m not going to go down that rabbit hole here. But people still read Jane Austen. And watch children play in fountains. And experience horror when they witness violence in front of them, in real life, real time.

And while there has arguably been an escalation in science fiction and fantasy genres (the whole “grimdark” debate about one novel trying to out gruesome another, which I think is specious really), as others have pointed out, violence is nothing new there, and even the depiction of it isn’t exponentially more shocking than what preceded it (Robert E. Howard had amoral antiheroes running around sticking people with the pointy end, and anyone who has seen a Shakespearean revenge tragedy knows all about buckets of blood.)

There are readers who are drawn to quiet, personal, intimate fantasies. The Long Price Quartet by Abraham immediately springs to mind. There’s plenty of character-driven conflict, and even an impressive war in the third and fourth books, but violence takes a back seat for most of the series and when it does occur, it’s potent because you’ve come to know and care for the characters, not because each set piece is bloodier than the last. Abraham’s stuff is somewhat atypical, it’s true, but even his The Dagger and the Coin series, with more traditional fantasy tropes and trappings, he still keeps action and violence secondary, and in service to the characters and stories when it happens.

It’s just a matter of taste, really—the genre is vast and offers something for any audience. Not everyone wants to see the violence ante upped.

Even in books where there is a fair amount of bloodletting, there is a way of handling it where it isn’t gratuitous or for cheap thrills. Going back to Martin for a sec, countless character arcs careen wildly and go into unexpected territory due to the violence in the story. (THERE BE MINOR SPOILERS AHEAD….) Jaime Lannister earned his Kingslayer moniker through sudden violence and begins Game of Thrones by committing a pretty heinous deed involving incest, love, and attempted murder, which in the hands of a different writer might have branded him irredeemable black-hat villain for all time. But Martin delights in challenging reader expectations, and Jaime is no exception. After he has his arrogance trimmed considerably in later books and suffers some pretty serious violence of his own, and can no longer rely on his martial skills, he has to reinvent himself. It’s the effects of the violence that are compelling, more than the act or depiction in isolation.

Same dealio with Arya, a small girl who witnesses unspeakable horrors and bloodshed, bad leading to worse, until she finds herself transformed on the road to becoming like the oh-so damaged Hound—callous, cold, revenge-driven. It’s sad and powerful and poignant and disturbing because Martin explores the consequences and reverberations of violence, makes it propel characters, change them, haunt them.

With my own work, I adopt the same sort of approach, or try to. There’s more violence than in Abraham’s books (or Jane Austen’s for that matter), but as much as I enjoy writing a visceral and engaging action sequence (and as Zack will attest, some of them are on the longish side!), and try to keep it as realistic as possible, at the end of the day I’m more interested in how it showcases something about the characters—ingenuity in concocting a clever ploy or recovering from its failure, someone overcoming or succumbing to cowardly impulses, and most especially its aftermath. What happens after the blood is spilled, and casualties and losses are seen and felt? How do the characters respond to grief? Do they compartmentalize it or succumb to its full effects?

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting totally escapist fiction or a cathartic release. But I don’t feel any pressure to outdo Abercrombie or Moorcock or Shakespeare in terms of how many buckets of blood to use either.

Kameron Hurley: Yeah, I think this exploration of "What does this violence actually *do* to people" is something that gets lost a lot in less nuanced work. Some writers make it all about the explosion, not the aftermath (Hollywood is especially guilty of this). Though I may have no interest in upping the ante when it comes to "more gore! More, more!" I do feel a need to create deeper, more complex characters than I did, say, 10 years ago. And that's all about responding to changing expectations in the sorts of protagonists that I, as a reader, am interested in. I have less patience for static, milquetoast protagonists who are just going through the motions without reacting and adapting to events - violent or otherwise.

Zachary Jernigan: Not to sound elitist or anything, buuuuuuuuut...

Just kidding. For me, Jeff's book struck me as arriving at its violent scenes in the most honest, passionate way. These are not scenes that exist to titillate: they are scenes that exist because they were what he genuinely wanted to write, and because he's a compassionate dude who's interested in the entire spectrum of experience, he also showed the aftermath. Echoing Kameron, the most disappointing scenes of violence -- for me -- are those that don't attempt to account for the violence. 

"BOOM! EXPLOSION AND FIRE! Arms and legs everywhere!" is kinda cool, I guess, but the event becomes so much more interesting when the camera sticks around to see how it impacts those left in the aftermath.

Jeff Salyards: Aww, thanks, Zack. I want to hug you. And kind of punch you. You know, to see what happens and how I feel about it later.

I agree--summer blockbusters or pulpy books can be fun, and sometimes I just like to check out. But something that has layers and depth and explores the effects of violence (or as Kameron said, all the lovely, everyday wonderful stuff that keeps on keeping on in spite of the violence) is vastly more interesting to me.

Zachary Jernigan: I want to be punched, Jeff. I'm so desensitized to violence from living vicariously through TV and movies and talk radio that being punched is the only way I can feel alive anymore.

Kameron Hurley: The acceptance of bro love only when it's expressed in terms of violence is an interesting phenomenon related to the celebration of and bonding over violence, too. But perhaps that's the subject of another roundtable...

 I'm going to start sounding like an academic paper if I don't stop.

Jeff Salyards: We could punch you, too, Kameron. Don't want you to feel excluded from the manly-man expressions of affection.

Kameron Hurley: Just over here bonding with the bros. Good times, good times.

I do think it's funny it only took two questions in a roundtable about violence before we all started punching each other.

Zachary Jernigan: I'll not be punching anyone. I make a bad enough name for myself with my words. 

Plus, I have very easily cut knuckles.

And... Now that I look back on it, I see I misinterpreted something in Matt's question. When I read, "'up the ante' in terms of the level of violence in response, to make those scenes more vivid and memorable for the readers," I thought, Well, sure I try to make those scenes more vivid and memorable. But I've never felt any need to actually make the scene more, y'know, actually violent. I think a scene of violence is exactly as violent as it needs to be for the -- uh -- violence to occur.

If someone's weak-ass knuckles get cut on somebody's hard teeth, then I'll write that. I personally wouldn't get all that into the sensation -- hell, it sometimes hurts a bit when you punch someone -- but some writers would. I try not to question why somebody chose to depict a certain act in and of its self. But violence, as we've hammered home, doesn't exist in a vacuum. It's going to say a very different thing to me if the author seems to have no awareness of this fact than if the author seems cognizant that violence is never a random occurrence. 

When something is perceived to be random, then all the stops can be pulled with no regard for the complexities of the situation. In such self-indulgent scenes, the violence begins to feel comical, ungrounded to any sense of reality.

Douglas Hulick: I find it interesting that one of the underlying assumptions in this question seems to be that writers are reactionary. That we somehow look at other work (be it literature, film, games, various other media, or even current events) and feel the need to tailor or adjust our art to "keep up with the Jones." I'm certain there are writers out there who do this--who write to market, or feel like they have to push the envelope that much more than it was just pushed, or out-whatever someone at something--inspiration and motivation come in a lot of forms, and if that's what does it for you, rock on. But that's not me, and it's not most writers I talk to.

This isn't a competition. I don't sit down and say, "By God, that Martin: I'll show HIM some blood on the page! Rawr!" Nor even, "OMG! Abercrombie just slaughtered half an army and I only have five bodies on the page. Quick, more corpses!" It's not that...I dunno, basic? Visceral? Dare I say, conscious? Because we all do react to other works, of course, and are sometimes even inspired by them--but it isn't (or rarely is) a Point A to Point B kind of thing, where I read something someone has done and then turn to the keyboard to give it my swing. Heaven knows I have enough going on in my own head when I'm writing that I don't have time to stop and worry about what George or Joe or Lynch or anyone else did last year. I've got my own problems to deal with in this damn book, ya know?

Stepping back for a moment to what Jeff said in response to the first question--that he doesn't fully buy into the whole desensitization thing when it comes to society--I think he has a point, especially with regards to this follow up question. Maybe it’s less a case of desensitization (on a societal level) and more a degree of acceptance, or even expectation, when it comes to violence in different forms of media. It's not so much "Has GRRM opened the door to darker violence in fantasy" (which, as has been pointed out, he hasn't--he's just the latest incarnation), but rather "Has the fantasy reader, on a certain level, become more open to, or even anticipatory of, this kind of depiction on the page?" Not because they don't react if it’s not there, but because, in certain types of work, they now expect it? You can argue that either way. A lot is going to depend on what you like to read and what you like to write. I know Michael Sullivan and I have, quite amicably, told each other that we have no interest in reading the other's work because what we each of us writes doesn't appeal to the other. Michael doesn't like grim or dark books, and I got tired of heart-of-gold rogue stories back in the 1980s. But each kind of writing still has an audience. And, as was said, people still read Jane Austin.

Kameron mentioned violence in real life, and how even as writers of fiction we can't get close to conveying reality on the page at some points. That's very true. I've done a lot of research on organized crime, criminals, and the like over the years for my books. Some of the stuff these guys did? I don't want to put on the page. Other things, it's more than I'm willing to put down. Not because it icks me out, but because I have to ask myself: does that really serve the story? Does it reveal something new about my characters? What does it convey besides the obvious? Yeah, I can put in something utterly heinous some guy did in Queens back in the '60s (or in Russia last month), but just because I can doesn't mean I should. If you're just throwing blood on the page to get a visceral reaction, you're shorting the reader and yourself. Everything in a story should, ideally, do double or triple duty beyond the obvious, and that's especially true of the violence. Violence is easy--its action and conflict and risk all rolled into one--but it needs to serve some deeper purpose, or its just window dressing. Even the beginnings of most James Bond movies, which inevitably start with huge amounts of action, loop back into the bigger plot later on. Sometimes you see it coming from the start, sometimes you don't, but it isn't *just* there to get your heart pumping from the word go. That pulse bump may be the most obvious reason, but it can't be all of it. Not if you're doing it right.

Continue to Part Three

Round Table: Violence in Science Fiction and Fantasy

By way of introduction, I came to the idea of a round table discussion after doing back to back interviews with two of my favorite authors. Afterwards, I was thinking how interesting it would be if I could just sit back and watch these two incredibly talented writer's just talk to one another about matters of fiction. The round table you are about to read, was sparked in that moment. 

All of the writer's gathered here are known for their expert handling of violence in their fiction no matter the specifics of the story. I've read and enjoyed them all and have reviewed almost of all of them here. 

After some biographical information for those of you who may not be familiar with the authors and their work we'll dive in with the first question. Due to the length of the discussion, I've decided to break this up by question. You can expect a new installment every other day until all the questions have been answered. I found the dialogue between these four to be very very insightful and a joy to read. Here's hoping you all feel the same. 

Kameron Hurley is the award winning author of GOD’S WAR, INFIDEL, and RAPTURE. She currently hacks out a living as a marketing and advertising writer in Ohio. She's lived in Fairbanks, 
Alaska; Durban, South Africa; and Chicago, but grew up in and around Washington State. Her personal and professional exploits have taken her all around the world. She spent much of her roaring 
20's traveling, pretending to learn how to box, and trying not to die spectacularly. Along the way, she justified her nomadic lifestyle by picking up degrees in history from the University of Alaska and the 
University of Kwa-Zulu Natal.

Douglas Hulick is author of "Among Thieves", the first book in the "Tales of the Kin" fantasy-adventure series.

When not writing, Douglas is a stay-at-home dad (or should that be: when not busy being dad, Douglas is an as-time-permits-writer?). Either way, he makes his home in the upper Midwest. He has a B.A. and M.A. in medieval history, with minors in history and anthropology. Who knew they would come in useful?

He is also a practitioner of Historical Western Martial Arts, with his main focus being on early 17th century Italian Rapier. (Primarily Capoferro, for you WMA enthusiasts and "Princess Bride" fans out there.)

Jeff Salyards grew up in a small town north of Chicago. While it wasn't Mayberry, it was quiet and sleepy, so he got started early imagining his way into other worlds that were loud, chaotic, and full of irrepressible characters. While he ultimately moved away, he never lost his fascination for the fantastic. Though his tastes have grown a bit darker and more mature over the years.

Jeff lives near Chicago with his wife and three daughters. By day, he is a book editor for the American Bar Association; by night, he will continue to crank out novels as long as there are readers willing to read them.

Zachary Jernigan is a 33-year-old, quarter-Hungarian, bald male. He has lived in Northern Arizona, with occasional forays into the wetter and colder world, since 1990. His favorite activities include: listening to 70s-00s punk and post-punk music, cooking delicious and often unhealthy foods, riding human-powered vehicles, talking and/or arguing about religion, and watching sitcoms.


During his rare periods of productivity, he writes science fiction and fantasy. NO RETURN, his first novel, comes out March 5th, 2013 from Night Shade Books. His short stories have appeared in a variety of places, including ASIMOV'S SCIENCE FICTION, CROSSED GENRES, and ESCAPE POD


52 Reviews:  Violence in fantasy is certainly in the public eye, largely due to airing of the Red Wedding episode on HBO’s Game of Thrones. Of course, most long term fantasy readers were ahead of the curve on this having a thirteen year or so head start. Do you think the level of violence we see in today's genre fiction owes to the game changing nature of Martin's series? 

Kameron Hurley: Short answer? No.

I think Martin’s influence on the current genre has more to do with subverting fantasy tropes and reader expectations than ratcheting up the violence. The writer that really turned up the violence-and-ick factor, I’d argue, is Joe Abercrombie, whose first book came ten years after Martin’s A Game of Thrones, and has spanned an incredible number of imitators. Most folks don’t have the scope or publisher support to write an epic on the scale of Thrones. When a writer’s series hits the mainstream, folks often forget that – at the time it was first published – it had an influence, but not necessarily the profound one we see when looking back on when it first came out. Robert Jordan’s work also explored war and violence (as did Hemingway’s, for that matter!), and the ramifications of such – I still remember the horrific scene of the melted people-in-stone from the prologue. I’d argue that the popularity of Jordan’s work helped bolster the success of Martin’s series.  

The trouble with focusing too heavily on Martin and Jordan, however, is also that we erase a lot of fiction that came before, fiction that may have influenced them– the hero of Gene Wolfe’s most beloved series was a torturer, Michael Moorcock’s Elric books didn’t shy away from portraying the genocide of entire peoples, Octavia Butler wrote extraordinarily creepy and quite violent stories, Alfred Bester’s The Demolished Man had a lot of violence for its time, and Joanna Russ’s The Female Man had some very angry, violent protagonists who would happily cut you in two. Her short story, We Who are About To… was all about a woman running around murdering the survivors of a spaceship crash. Then there’s Ellison’s I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream, which still gives a lot of folks nightmares.

One of the things folks told me to do when I first started writing spec fic was to go back and read the classics. It helped me understand what had come before me, and encouraged me to riff on and subvert those things. Pretending Martin suddenly appeared from a vacuum does a disservice to what’s come before. What’s changed is our willingness to portray that type of violence in mainstream television and perpetuate it in mainstream culture. In a society that has been at war for over a decade, where our media is increasingly showing us more-and-more real-life violence, I think we turn to fiction to make sense of it. To be honest, I’m still waiting for HBO to pick up Jacqueline Carey’s Kushiel books, which have all the political machinations and assassinations of Martin’s work with far more interesting and varied sexual relationships. Of course, we’re still far more comfortable showing rape and murder than interesting consensual sex on television, so it may be awhile.

Jeff Salyards: Way to set the bar high, Kameron. Thanks for nothing.

I’m with her on this one—I don’t think Martin’s particular brand of violence or action sequences has been a game changer in the genre, or really the strongest or most memorable part of his writing at all.  Watching the HBO show, you’d think that every fifteen pages someone was disemboweled, raped, beheaded, or otherwise violently dispatched. But in the books, while there are certainly awful and alarming things that happen in front of or to POV characters, actually a large chunk of the worst stuff takes place “off-screen.”

Exhibit A: Theon Greyjoy. You don’t see him or his minions kill and tar the two farmer boys, and you certainly don’t see the sadistic torture that he undergoes at the hands of Ramsay Bolton later on. Where the show revels in it for effect, on the page you get the gist of it later, and it’s all reported second-hand. So, too, some of Gregor Clegane’s most heinous acts—raping an innkeeper’s daughter, playing Scald the Weasel with his brother’s face, etc.—are all reported or referenced by someone else.  

Now, simply alluding to all these horrific things does create a pervasive atmosphere, to be certain. Martin is great at awful atmosphere. But his books are progressively bigger and more massive in scale than the last, and on a per-page metric, he spends vastly more time describing sumptuous meals, or cunning political maneuvering, or blazonry, or the after effects of awful stuff happening, than detailing battles or the often unexpected acts of violence that punctuate the books. He plays to his strengths—complex character and characterization, sprawling and immensely detailed world building, and convention subversion, as Kameron mentioned. 

Describing tactics, logistics, and visceral, pulse-pounding battles ain't really his thing. In fact, he blithely skips over some of the more significant ones that happen (e.g., Whispering Woods).

For instance, while not a fantasy writer, Bernard Cornwell (a favorite of Martin’s, btw) does actually seem to have a big set piece battle or incredibly realistic and gritty action sequence every chapter. In terms of weight in the books, his violence is front-and-center. So, too, Abercrombie, Richard Morgan, or Paul Kerney.

Zachary Jernigan: I'll be the odd one out here, probably, and begin with a massive admission of ignorance: I've never read Martin. I don't say this to be a snob. (Okay, maybe a little. I never know.) I say it because when we're talking about how something influences the genre it's very easy to over-extend that influence. As I said, I've never read his work -- in fact, most of my references in the fantasy genre are decades older than Martin, and even then I've read ten times more science fiction than fantasy -- and yet my first novel is a fairly violet fantasy. Clearly, I'm not taking direct influence from him.

But, it'd be ridiculous for me to say that I'm unaffected by his work. As a hugely bestselling author, he has altered the publishing landscape. I'd assert that, with him at the head of the table, it has become more possible to portray a certain kind of violence -- the kind of violence that requires no sentimentality, tenderness, or justice to "balance" it out -- in traditionally published fantasy. This is not to say that such violence has never been portrayed (Kameron gave some great examples, all of which you should seek out), but I view many of those as outlying examples that hardly touch the popular consciousness as Martin's does.

(If you think I'm overstating his influence, just go peruse Goodreads for fifteen minutes. A clear majority of fantasy readers have his series at the top of their favorite reads.)

The funny/sad thing about this situation? I think violence has immense potential to impact the reader in novel ways, and -- conservative though this perspective surely is -- I worry that Martin's influence may diminish the overall impact of truly extraordinary examinations of violence in fantasy literature. I don't worry overmuch about the majority of works that aim to entertain (I don't mean that as an elitist comment; it's the kind of fiction I write, after all), but there are works of great subtlety and brutality that I fear will be interpreted more simplistically because of Martin's influence.

Jeff Salyards: I knew that Zack either A) hadn't read him or B) read and hated him. I just knew it in my bones

Zachary Jernigan: Ha! I am awful, yes. But in all honesty, it's no prejudice toward Martin: it's prejudice toward huge freaking books. I'm a slow reader, and impatient as all hell, so an ongoing series of massive books has never really been in the cards for me.

Kameron Hurley: I love how every comment Zach makes about reading (or not reading) genre fiction includes the statement "I don't mean to sound elitist, but..." Zach, there must be *something* you like about genre fiction, or I suspect you would not write it! Who were your actual influences? I know you've talked before about Zelazny, who certainly also had a great influence on SF/F.

Jeff Salyards: And to stay on track, how would you describe the level/treatment of violence in those mysterious and seminal influences?

Zachary Jernigan: Well, I'm constantly hearing that my view of literature is elitist. I don't think it is -- I've always been a cranky person who dislikes most things, the vast majority of them not all that popular -- but when you happen to be fairly vocal about your views you run such a risk. I give the caveat because I'd hate people to think I'm not aware of how it sounds when I say such things. I should probably just stop qualifying my statements, but I'd rather be laughed at than cause too much anger. I do love the genre. I just happen to be a person whose love is inextricably bound up in criticism. It's who I am. I love nothing so much I don't rag on it. 

I'd say that most of my influences are individual books rather than singe authors, though I do have a few favorites: Alice Sheldon, the aforementioned Zelazny (though I hate his portrayals of women), Sean Stewart, Joanna Russ, Cordwainer Smith, and a few others that escape me. Even authors whose books I often love -- Ian McDonald, Phyllis Gotlieb, Terry Pratchett -- have volumes I really don't fancy.

As to-- 

Wait, Jeff's comment leads me to believe this will be part of the published roundtable. Seriously? I thought these were just random interactions and maybe even hazing of the new guy. Crap. Oh, well.

To answer your question, Jeff, I think for me the most powerful scenes of violence are those that come as a true shock. Rarely in my favorite books is violence all-pervasive. It's usually short, punctuated by tragedy. There are no extended fight scenes. That's not say it can't be done -- you did a great job of it in Scourge of the Betrayer, for instance -- but it's relatively rare for me to stay with those scenes. Typically, I prefer a scene like Robert Silverberg wrote in his Dangerous Visions story, "Lies":

"A swift kick in the belly might do it. Too crude, too crude. Yet Cassidy had not come armed with abortifacients, a handy ergot pill, a quick-acting spasmic inducer. So he brought his knee up sharply, deploring the crudity of it. Lureen sagged. He kicked her a second time. He remained completely tranquil as he did it, for it would be wrong to take joy in violence. A third kick seemed desirable. Then he released her."

I mean, how horrifying is that? That's the kind of scene that defines violence for me.

Douglas Hulick: What was the original question again? Something about unicorns?

Okay, seriously....

I'm going to contextualize a bit here and say that for readers who are either new to the genre, or have only been reading it for the last 10 years, Martin may very well BE a game changer. Why? Because he's quite possibly the most violent/bloody/gritty thing they've read to date. If you are defined by your early experiences, then for many readers GRRM is IT when it comes to violence in fantasy.

And that, I think, speaks more to the demographics and growth of the genre than anything. A couple years ago, when I first started actually paying attention to on-line SFF blogs and review sites (I'm a slow adopter with limited time to read and kids at home--so sue me), I happened to stumble across a number of people posting their "Bestest Fantasy/SF Books Ever" lists. And do you know what I saw? Aside from the Tolkien's LOTR and maybe a nod to Heinlein or Moorcock here or there, nearly every list I saw were comprised of books or series less than a decade old. A lot of the books listed were good (or, at least popular--I'll let Zach grandstand on that distinction ;), but to have 75% of the best examples of SFF being published in the last ten years? In a genre that extends back a century or more? Please. Yes, a lot comes down to taste, but a lot also comes down to depth, and those lists told me that a lot of people weren't digging any deeper than what they could find on the shelves of their local B&N or on their recommended reading lists on Amazon or Goodreads.

This genre has been growing for quite a while, especially lately. When I first started reading SFF, you almost had to go back to the older works because there just wasn't as much new stuff to find on the shelf. Now, it's impossible to keep up with what is coming out, let alone dig back into what has come before--at least, not without making a conscious effort. And even then, what you want you may not be able to find in print any more, let alone in e-book format. But with so much on the shelves (both real & virtual), where's the incentive for the casual genre reader to go fishing?

So is GRRM's The Shits when it comes to violence in fantasy? For many readers, yes, he is--and Ned Stark's death will always be a defining moment for them. But for us older codgers, or those who, like Kameron, make a conscious effort to dig back into our genre heritage, it’s just another step on the continuum.

Where I do think things have changed is the genre's willingness to have more violence show up on the page, both in general and on the best seller's list. In some types of books, it's almost expected now. But, as Kameron says, that has more to do with our broader desensitization as a society than any one (or several) series of books. If people weren't willing and ready to accept that much blood and rape and gore on the page, then I doubt those books would be moving quite as well as they are. Writing and story count for a lot, but there also has to be a connection with the broader audience for something to build momentum. And if the audience wasn't hungry for what is quickly becoming a (admittedly simplified) trademark for Martin's ASOIAF, then we wouldn't be here talking about it.

Round Table Part 2

The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

As a child there were few stories I loved more than those by Rudyard Kipling, especially his Just So Stories. The lyrical quality of his prose and the simple magic of his fables such as The Elephant’s Child and The Cat That Walked by Himself were the beginning of my love for fantasy. I haven’t read Kipling in years, but within pages of cracking the cover of Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane I was transported back three decades. Gaiman has penned a fable for adults, a deceptively complex alloy of mystery, magic, and truth that as just as powerful as any of his previous works and is destined to land on award ballots and “best of” lists alike.

The Ocean at the End of the Lane is the story of a nameless narrator, who upon returning to his hometown in his forties for the funeral of an equally nameless relative, finds himself drawn to the sprawling farm near his boyhood home only to relive the events of his seventh year, where he made his first and truest friend in the person of eleven year old Lettie Hempstock and experienced events both horrible and magical that left their mark on him forever.

Gaiman has said that this novel is his most personal, and I could imagine these events happening to the child that eventually grew up to give us such master works as Sandman and American Gods. That there are monsters and beings of unknown power tangled up with this story of lonely boy who escapes his loneliness in the pages of books makes no difference. Gaiman’s prose is so full of truth that the fantastic elements of the story borrow that authenticy as easily as a neighbor asking for a cup of sugar. And by leaving his narrator nameless it is far simpler to imagine that this is Gaiman’s story and by extrapolation our own.

Constant readers of Gaiman’s work will find much familiar ground here. Hints of popular themes of growing up and the transformative nature of maturing are just below the surface, as is the experience of viewing horror through the eyes of the very young. Gaiman tackles this common theme from a different perspective here, allowing us to simultaneously see the adult narrators reflection on his childhood memories, while still experiencing the simpler, dare I say more pure, perspective. It’s an inspired choice that elevated the tale above similar works such as Coraline and The Graveyard Book. Ocean at the End of the Lane has much to say about both childhood and how that formative experience shapes the persons we become, but I will leave that interpretation to the readers, as I believe each will bring their own particular perspective to this both very specific and completely universal story.

Gaiman also shows of his mastery of world building. Few authors can create such a complete mythology with so little specifics. This is a story of very specific and narrow scope, being confined to essentially just one street but Gaiman reveals glimpses of the world beyond and the forces at work just beneath the painted surface of the world. He never wastes time with exposition, allowing the characters in the know to simply state facts without the need for explanations our sever year old narrator is completely incapable of understanding. Things simply are what they are and the lack of explanation only amplifies the horror and mystery of it all, transporting the reader back to childhood where the truly wonderful and terrifying aspects of life were beyond understanding.

As expected Gaiman’s prose is elegant, effortless and reflects the decades of experience Gaiman has with crafting tales of this kind. It is next to impossible to find a page of this novel that doesn’t burst with insight and truth. Ocean at the End of the Lane, is infinitely quotable and relatable for readers at any stage in life, though I would not recommend it for children, though teenagers would likely find much to enjoy here. I would not be surprised to find this novel on a summer reading list in the future so profound is Gaiman’s mastery of the craft and insight into the human condition.

I cannot recommend Gaiman’s latest effort highly enough, and imagine that we will see his name on virtually every short list during awards season. I imagine most of my readers have already devoured The Ocean at the End of the Lane. If not, don’t waste any more time. Gaiman has delivered yet another gem of tale that all but the busiest of readers will consume in scant little time.