A thought occurred to me today; almost all fantasy/ sci-fi writing seems to be either wish-fulfilment or some kind of cathartic self-help.  The former is obvious in many works; in the case of some books (which I will decline to name), it is painful to watch the Marty-Stu character bumbling around becoming a hero, while authors such as Robert E. Howard manage to draw you in, even if Conan is sometimes described with such sensual language that it could be borrowed by Mills and Boon.

One thing I need to make clear is that I do not find this wish-fulfilment to be a negative thing; read any Neil Gaiman and you can tell the man is writing the kind of thing other people love and enjoying it.  This is the essence of great fiction, that sense of camaraderie you share with the author as you fulfil your shared wishes.  Essentially, he is trying out something fun and encouraging you to come with him.  Tolkien was dark in places, but the Lord of the Rings was an English-language scholar inviting you to go off with him while he follows the Fellowship.  The films where twice the wish-fulfilment, because you had a huge geek directing the films and you could tell that he just wanted to show you what he saw in his head when he read the book.  Even the actors were getting into it, like they were players in the greatest roleplaying group of the world.

Tolkien also brings me to one of the specific issues that seem to drive fantasy writers; there are no dragons left to slay, nor dark lords to overthrow.  By writing a big opus, whether it is Dragonlance or Star Wars, the writer acts as hero and bard; they set an example, an ideal to live up to, and then deliver it to their audience.  There may be no dragons left, but writers can still remind people of the reasons why dragons need to be fought, just in case they come back.

Going back to the topic in hand, wish-fulfilment, I think nearly all fantasy writers (even me) would love to go out and live those stories with a band of adventurers, but we have typically reached an age where we are just a little too fat and a little too married-with-kids, so we can either learn to play D&D or we can take down a pen and let the readers ‘follow Obi-Wan on some damn-fool crusade’.  We don’t tend to actually own a sword (with some exceptions), but we still want to go on our own Hero’s Journey.

Now cathartic self-help…  That is something we understand better.  Take one look at Steven King’s early works, the self-destructive writers and the New England residents searching for an escape, and it is not hard to see.  Tolkien poured all his anger and hatred at the pointlessness of war into Middle Earth.  It would  not be fair to deconstruct this, as I am just a bard and not a psychologist.

So…  Conclusions?  Fantasy writers are often seeking wish-fulfilment; bad ones write about Mary-Sues, good ones let you share the wish-fulfilment. I said it was stream-of-consciousness; I was exploring, not teaching…

The first responsibility of every indie developer, even those who want to sell their indie business to a big publisher one day, is to stop thinking like an employee.  Now that I am free to think outside the box, I have a responsibility to go ahead and think outside the box.

With this in mind, I decided to put a name to this vehicle of mine.  If I am to bring in other developers (and I intend to, once I can pay them) then I need a name and a company.  Later on, it will have limited liability and insurance and HR and stuff, but all it needs now is a website and maybe a blog.

The name of that business, that vehicle, is Freya’s Aett.  Perhaps it would be best to direct you to the site for this project – An Introduction to Freya’s Aett – and let it speak for itself.  For added poetic value, I did not look up the exact translation of ‘Aett’, but it turns out to mean ‘family’, which is a good description of the kind of bond you need to have to commit yourself to making an indie game without ever knowing if it will even make any money…

As some people will know, the company I worked for laid off some staff and I was one of those selected for redundancy.  This means that I have been a little preoccupied recently, but it is not all doom and gloom.  For the foreseeable future, I will be freelancing; this means networking (it’s a pity I just missed the Develop Conference / Expo) and looking for contract work.

I also have a little something I am working on, but it’s still top-secret for now.  Sorry…

I think this needs to change, so I need a deadline and a nudge.  I get these enough at work, but let’s not get into that; I like having an income…

Lucky, Sir Terry Pratchett has put his name to a contest that fulfils those criteria [LINK]. Good start, but it needs something more.  It needs some structure and some target to aim for.  Oh look…

I recently came across the 1000 Words A Day Challenge on another blog and I did the maths; I need to do 4000 words a week to hit the deadline (even without editing) and so 1000 words a day, six days a week is not unreasonable to attempt.  I am not sure I will officially tie myself to that target, not with a day-job and a toddler also competing for my time, but it works as a target.

Okay, time to come up with a plan for making it happen…

Step one, introduce the indolent rake Mr. Bottom to the tireless taskmaster Sgt. Boot.  I have weekends when my daughter is napping and I have evenings when she is sleeping.  (usually; it was 11:30 by the time she went to bed last night)  I might have to start looking at my lunchtimes too, since Sgt. Boot might think writing is more important than Left 4 Dead.

Step two is to work out what I am writing.  I think A Prince of Shadows is going on hold, since the contest specifies ‘set on Earth’ and APoS isn’t.  My wife suggests working from one of my writing exercises, especially one like The Shining Host or Lethell’s Home-Coming, but I have seen that people also seem to like Father Leonard’s Investigation as the start of something bigger.

Step three is to get started, but my daughter is awake now, so that might have to wait…

Let’s start with a sound-bite…

“Firstly, a writer should learn to think through the structure of interactive scenes in terms of Boolean variables and secondly, they should abandon all thoughts of dialogue trees.”
- http://www.develop-online.net/features/905/The-Conversation

It would be a bit unfair to judge the whole article on that one statement, so go and read it.

First and foremost, I have to say that I got a little hot under the collar when I started reading it.  How can he possibly say these things?

After a while, I started to see where he was coming from.

Finally, I found myself nodding along.  He makes some good points and, in all fairness, I have already been doing things that way (with some small dialogue trees) for a while.  I have always favoured the non-linear, almost parallel finite-state machines, approach to storylines.

Where I differ is on his assertion that we need to kill off dialogue trees; to me, I think dialogue and storyline are two different beasts.  In my experience, they are often written by two different people.  He is saying that storylines work best with Booleans, which I agree with, but then using that as a justification for killing off a technique for dialogue.

So what do you make of it?  Do you agree, do you disagree or is he just stating the obvious?

Four indie games (Gish, Lugaru HD, Aquaria and Penumbra) recently went open source, making $1,273,613 for a coalition of developers (not all of whom went open-source) and charities.  In the end, each of these companies made $166,733.37 for their efforts and gave Child’s Play (a charity who give toys and games to children in hospitals) $188,583.92, as well as giving the Electronic Frontier Foundation (a charity who help oppose legislation and other legal threats to information) $183,607.34 just from this one act of going open-source.

I don’t know about you comrade, but I think that looks like a good capitalist venture from here…

1 INT. DAY 1

A darkened room with two doors and a television screen that shows a man sitting at a desk looking nervous. Two characters are visible; they are the PLAYER and DAVE.

PLAYER

What do we know about him?

DAVE

The Flying Squad found ‘im standing there with a gun and a body. They said he just stood there staring like a pillock until the SFOs threatened to shoot ‘im.

PLAYER

Great… Does he have a name?

DAVE

Yeah, loads. We checked his wallet and found credit cards in about ten of them. Driving licenses and passports too, all with ‘is ugly mug.

PLAYER rolls her eyes.

PLAYER

And what’s he say?

DAVE

He says ‘e wants his lawyer and ‘is mum…

PLAYER

(momentarily shocked)

His mum? How old is he? Tell me he’s not a minor…

DAVE

We didn’t find anything with a date of birth after 1990, so I reckon not.

Option 1 – “Fair enough”

PLAYER

Good enough for now, but let’s see about getting hold of his parents.

DAVE

Love to… You get ‘im to tell me a number and I’ll get on the blower…

Option 2 – “Cautious”

PLAYER

We really need to make sure.

DAVE

Well you get ‘im to tell you ‘er number an’ I’ll get mummy in to ‘old ‘is ‘and…

PLAYER

I’d better get it all on tape anyway, just in case he feels like talking.

Options end

PLAYER moves through the adjoining door into the interrogation room and sits down opposite the SUSPECT. DAVE also follows and places a tape into the interview recorder. DAVE then stands in the corner beside the door.

PLAYER

Good afternoon. My name is Inspector Leyton and this is my colleague Inspector Smith. We are here to discuss the recent murder, at the scene of which you were arrested.

SUSPECT

I ain’ saying nuffink. Nuh-fink…

OPTION 1 – “By the book”

PLAYER

(switching on the recorder)

That’s up to you… I am sure someone explained your rights. You have the right to remain silent and anything you say can and will be taken down in evidence and may be used against you if your case goes to court, however…

SUSPECT

Yeah, I don’ ‘ave to say f— all to you.

PLAYER

However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned anything which you later rely on in court. Do you understand that?

OPTION 2 – “Hard-nosed”

PLAYER

Okay, I’m sure you know the drill; you have the right to remain silent…

SUSPECT

..an’ anything I say can be written down and used against me in court.

The PLAYER shrugs and switches on the recorder. The SUSPECT continues to stare at her in mute defiance.

PLAYER

The suspect has had his rights explained and has chosen to waive his right to silence. Would you like to confirm this for the recording.

Options end

SUSPECT

Wha’ever minger, your mum…

PLAYER

(breaking in, irritated)

Isn’t relevant to this discussion. Don’t you get it? They found you standing over a body with a murder weapon.

SUSPECT

Yeah, well… Weren’t me…

Option 1 – “Threaten”

PLAYER

Who was it then, the tooth fairy? You ask me, you find someone with a gun and a body with a hole in its head…

SUSPECT

You got nuffing, or you wouldn’ even ‘ave to ask. Wasn’t even my gun, you dozy c—.

PLAYER

So you admit to the firearms offences?

SUSPECT

F— off! That was entrapment!

DAVE

(amused)

You have to love the things these muppets come out with…

Option 2 – “Sympathy”

PLAYER

Tell us who it was then, maybe we can make a deal with the judge…

SUSPECT

I can’t… I don’ know what ‘appened.

PLAYER

You have to see it from out point of view; you had a gun and the victim was shot. We need something to go on, some way of confirming your version…

SUSPECT

It wasn’ me! It wasn’ even my gun! You can check, can’t you? I tried to do somefing, but it was all over when I got there.

DAVE

So you pulled out your piece and went running to ‘elp? Fat chance.

Options end

SUSPECT

F— this for a laugh. If that w—er’s stayin’ ‘ere givin’ it, I’m waitin’ fer me lawyer…

DAVE

Sorry mate, rules say it takes two of us to in’erview a mouthy git.

SUSPECT

One more word an’ I’ll ‘ave you!

DAVE

Yeah?

The PLAYER takes DAVE by the shoulder and drags him to the door to talk.

Option 1 – “Diplomacy”

PLAYER

Dave, you might as well go talk to the labs. He says it wasn’t his gun that killed the victim, so we might as well check.

DAVE

You believe ‘im?

PLAYER

Not really, but it might help me if I can confirm it one way or the other…

Option 2 – “Kick DAVE out”

PLAYER

Dave, what’s got into you? Just take a walk. Get me a coffee if you want to feel useful.

DAVE

You sure you wanna do this? The rules…

PLAYER

The rules say I can use my discretion if the suspect agrees. I think he’s fine with you leaving.

Options end

* * * * *

Pulling his cloak about him, the slender figure stared at the great monolith called the Spear of Tempus. It truly looked like the weapon of a titanic deity, a sliver of rock that towered almost a mile above the city of Lodin. A wide-brimmed hat protected his face from the glaring sun and the chill winds of the northern city. Beneath it, he wore silks of dark blues and black tucked into leather riding boots and a silken scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose.

To his right sat a man in his middle years, prating on about how the cold had affected his milk-cows. At first, he had been grateful for the farmer’s offer. Now, he wondered if the inconvenience of walking would not have been preferable to the commoner’s incessant babble. At the very least, the exercise may have helped to ward off the chill. With the gates in sight, it was too late to change his mind. Instead, he let his mind wander.

It had begun with news of a death. To call Janeth of the White Staff a friend would have been a lie; they had been companions once, fellow adventurers in search of knowledge, but they had not been close when last they spoke. With a smile, he remembered how they had been more once. A fundamental difference of opinion had driven them apart, she said that his thirst for knowledge had overcome his respect for life. Perhaps she had been right.

He had returned to the libraries of Tithmal and Kenera, searching for knowledge, and she had set off with a band of adventurers in search of truth, justice and honour. He had suspected that she would not live long, she was reckless with her life to seek out danger as she did, yet he was still surprised and slightly pained to learn of her death.

Perhaps that was the greatest shock, that he had felt such a loss after all those years when the black card arrived. She had left funds, to purchase a proper burial if anything should happen, and her arrangements had included the sending of messengers. Thus, he arrived at the great city of Lodin.

He looked up to see that the cart he rode on sat in line behind a carriage, waiting to enter the city. The city watch seemed typical for the region, in their red surcoats and leather boots. He could hear that each wore a mail-shirt beneath the uniform but that was to be expected. He wondered what use their halberds would be against civil unrest, even if they did hold them as though skilled in their use.

Whoever occupied the carriage, they were met by mounted guardsmen in banded armour and escorted deeper into the city. Perhaps guests of Queen Sibilla; the monarch of this small region, which still thought of itself as a kingdom.

“ ‘Allo Jack,” one of the guardsmen called to the driver, “more supplies for the wench?”

“Will asked me to pick some ale up from the Payne farm for him next time I came over.”

The old man smiled and gestured to the crates and casks behind him. Then the guard turned his eyes to the stranger.

“And what of you, traveller?” asked the guard.

“I come to send off an old friend.” he answered, pulling the scarf from his face. “

“Do you have a name, Master Elf?” he asked, recognising the soft voice of one of the elder race.

“Erinēth.” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Do you come armed, Master Erineth?”

The elf grimaced at the clumsy human attempt to pronounce elven syllables. The guard’s eyes had already taken in his stout iron-shod quarterstaff and he seemed to be looking for any other weapons.

“Just this staff, the roads are a little treacherous at this time of year.”

A stiletto of dwarven steel nestled against his leg, just inside his boot but he chose not to mention it; that secret had saved his life before. Besides, most cities outlawed the easily-concealed slender daggers. The guard looked as though he might choose to search Erinēth’s pack, where certain items were hidden that may not be well-recieved. He knew that magic-users were only barely tolerated in Lodin and did not want trouble with the city watch. He stood quickly, with a smile.

“Tia mah ke’llen.” the elf said, holding one hand to his heart in an elaborate bow.

“I am sorry, I don’t speak elven.” the guard said, suddenly seeming embarassed.

“It means ‘May you walk in light and in peace’ in elven.”

For a moment, the guard seemed pleased and tried to return the greeting. He tripped over the words but said them with such conviction that the elf could see the guard had warmed to him.

“The laws of the city are simple; we do not allow bared steel, open spell-casting or thieves. I don’t care how well you try to hide it, I can see you for a fellow soldier and I just want you to know where you stand. You might want to leave that staff behind as well, just so’s people don’t get the wrong idea.”

Erinēth smiled at the guardsman as Jack drove the cart through the gates. The farmer’s verbal diarrhoeia had stopped and he muttered under his breath about ‘damned fool wizards’ and ‘speaking to the hunter’.

“Ia yaneca.” he said, smiling, as he patted the farmer on the shoulder.

The old man’s eyes glazed slightly as he stopped talking, then he turned to stare back up the road. Just for a moment, it seemed he was about to say something, then thought better of it. It was another risk but he could not let the old man run off talking to witch-hunters, the young mage had run afoul of their kind before.

“Did you say something?” the farmer asked.

“Nothing important, just talking to myself.”

“They say that is the first sign of mind sickness.” he said, smiling.

“I think I just need a little sleep, that is all.”

The farmer gestured to a sign to his left, showing a woman pouring ale onto the head of a small dark-haired human. The ‘Wench and Weasel’, according to the sign.

The aim this time was to finish a 750-word exercise with the words “…and I realised how lucky I was” by any means necessary.  The opening was actually taken from a notebook of mine.  (like any good writer / designer, I always keep one handy)  It was a line that came to me three or four years ago while waiting outside a library for my wife to finish work, but I never found a story to go with it.

* * * * *

The blossom reminds me of her, of the day we were married.

Committed to an English Spring, risking everything on a hope and a prayer, we were blessed with fine weather.

It seems almost like yesterday, but the truth is that we have seen many years and more since that day in the orchard…

It is strange… I could not say if we had ten or ten-thousand guests, proof if any were needed that time has taken its toll even on one such as myself, but I could describe to you every flower she wore in her hair, each ribbon and stitch that made up her bodice… You must think me a fool, for there is no fool like an old fool, but I suppose you shall just have to take my word; know that I am not offended, I was as young as you once.

Time passed and youth gave way to wisdom, but she never gave me reason to second guess myself or forswear my oaths to her. She would dance in the sunlight simply for the joy of dancing, sing in the night simply for the love of song. You would have liked her…

You know enough about the war of course, though I fear that the records that survived the fall misjudged us cruelly; the desert god’s followers and those like myself were called to fight and even to die by forces greater than any that remain in this world. You must understand that we had no choice; in the face of genocide, we simply surrendered to a greater will than our own.

Oh, if you could have known him, the Light-Bringer… I served another, but we all knew that our fate was bound to his and so we marched under a blood-red banner to the city on the hill and we made our camp. As far as the eye could see; there sat the tents and teepees, the shelters and bivouacs… I marched by day in a column of druids and hedge-mages, of medicine-men and wise women, of true-seers and those who knew the bear-spirit’s touch.

Do not look at me that way; these are the facts that you have been told since you were old enough to listen to the stories. Is it strange to hear them from me?

In any case, the Shining Host came as the portents said they would. Any true believer with a set of sticks or rocks could have divined their passage, so fixed were the lines of fate in those dark times. The earth itself spoke of their coming, the Raptured souls with fire in their hands and hearts. With bow and bullet they struck us down, with axe and cudgel, with knife and hammer. We fought back, but we died in our thousands. So many would not even fight back, calling forgiveness to the horde who came to tear us limb from limb, to string us high on cross or noose.

I was one of the last, lucky enough to know how to fight, honest enough to fear for my life. I and others like me forced the Host to pay for each step of progress with blood and tears, but we finally found ourselves pushed back to the pavilion of our champion, our Dux Bellorum, and we knew the fight was done.

But somehow, that was not to be our end. We followed a man who had returned from the misty isle, whose dragon helm sat upon the noblest brow and whose gauntlet closed around a blade blessed by stone and lake. We stood shoulder to shoulder with the true king, he who was and he who every one of the faithful had known would one day come again.

I was there when he laid down his sword.

I cannot speak of the torments they put him through, the things he endured to save twelve strangers who had expected to die for him, but the history books lie about every point but one; after he finally passed back to the other side, they let us go home unmolested.  They banished our gods and took our pride, but then they simply turned and left us defeated but alive.

In spite of what I saw, I truly hope that they passed on to the paradise they had fought to attain, knowing they were just pawns in the last war. The battle was done and their kind left our world forever. They had fought purely for the sake of winning and with our defeat, they had earned their reward from a cruel and faceless lord.

Strange as it might sound, when it was all over and I arrived home, I felt all of the weariness and the pain slip away. My wife waited for me, the only thing I had left in the world, and I realised how lucky I was.

The aim this time was to finish a 750-word exercise with the words “…and he watched.  What else could he do?” to help get these words (paraphrased from a children’s book my daughter loves) out of my wife’s head.  I am not sure how much help I was, but it also gave me the chance to get Jack Flint down on the page before he finished driving me crazy.  I managed to restrict myself to only 49 words over the target, but I am treating these targets as being more like guidelines than rules or limits.

* * * * *

As Jack watched her walk through his door, he knew she was going to be trouble. She was the kind of woman he used to dream of, the whole package, but he had learned his lesson. He didn’t even wait to hear what she had to say…

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t toss you back out that door.”

She just kept walking, taking the seat across his desk and lighting a cigarette like she owned the place.

“Don’t you wanna hear me out first?” she asked, knowing that he couldn’t resist.

Anyone else and the private eye would have jumped as the chance. It had been too long since his last case and she was the kind to pay in cold hard cash. He should know.

“Lemme guess… Your husband likes to spend long hours in the office and you think he’s fooling around with his secretary, you think maybe you might get some proof so you don’t feel so bad about cheating on him with the gardener…”

“You’re an asshole, Jack Flint…” she said, showing the first hint of an emotion that wasn’t amusement.

“I am what I am…”

“You’re the most stubborn asshole I know; that’s the only reason I’m here.”

“You still didn’t answer my question…”

“You think I’d marry a man I didn’t trust?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time…”

Just for a moment, Jack thought he’d gone too far…

“Not twice…” she replied finally.

It was probably a trick of the light, but he would have sworn he saw a tear run down her perfect cheek. He never could stay mad at her long.

“You know my fees.”

“No special rates for an old friend?”

“What can I say? It’s been a hard year…”

* * * * *

The streets were slick with rain when Jack left his office, like all the buildings in New York were weeping over the summer gone too soon, and Jack pulled up the collar of his coat to keep the chill September air out. He had wanted to run, to hide, to tell her where to go, but she was paying him and that was enough for him.

Out on a pier, Jack just stood and waited. It wasn’t long before he saw a nondescript brown file drop onto the wall in front of him.

“Jack… You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“No, but that never stopped me before. Not with her…”

“It’s your call, but I thought you had more sense.”

Jack listened to the footsteps as they disappeared into the distance.

“Yeah… So did I…”

The file was everything he expected; vague leads that the NYPD hadn’t even bothered chasing up, witnesses who sang the same song they always did whether they knew anything or not… Jack just decided to do what he always did, start at the bottom and dig down until he hit the truth.

* * * * *

It was a week before he found the man he was after, drugged and unconscious with a gag and blindfold just for good measure. Jack nearly walked straight out again, but he realised he owed it to the guy to take him home, no matter what the story.

“So, you gonna tell your wife what’s going on, or should I?” Jack asked.

They were sitting drinking coffee in a quiet little place out of the way. The way Jack saw it, he might as well get the poor stiff’s version before he went explaining what he had seen to his wife.

“What can I say to her?”

“I don’t know…” Jack admitted, “I guess the truth wouldn’t be too smart.”

There wasn’t much you could say, not after everything that had happened. Instead, they laughed. Jack couldn’t say who started it, but they both knew it was that or admit to themselves what they saw.

“I’ll give you a ride home.” Jack offered, figuring he owed him that much.

It was a quiet trip, up past the respectable places and out where there were still more trees that streets named after them. Neither man felt the need to talk, neither of them knew what to say. When they got to the end, they parted with a handshake and Jack sat in the car and waited.

Jack sat there while his ex-wife came out of her house, he waited quietly as she ran to the man who had stolen her from him. Maybe he should have felt something, said something, but he couldn’t say what. All he knew how to do was sit there at the end of the case, so he sat and he watched.

What else could he do?