I was really into heavy metal as a teenager in the 1980s. I still am, but back then I had an encyclopaedic knowledge of bands and songs. It was my obsession, along with fantasy and science fiction books. (I was a cliche; deal with it.) Which makes it all the more peculiar that I never came across Swedish band Heavy Load back then.
It wasn’t like they were an unknown band; Phil Lynott of Thin Lizzy played on one of their tracks. But somehow I missed them.
This is 80s heavy metal of the type you might expect from Iron Maiden, Saxon, Judas Priest and the like, but with a slightly more commercial, melodic tint to their colour.
Particular highlights are the thumping Singing Swords, the catchy Stronger Than Evil, and the driving Saturday Night. But there’s not a weak track on the album.
Here’s a taster:
I bought this on vinyl, because I like writing in a room that doesn’t have any device that can connect to the internet, and it’s a nice product. The sound is also way, way better and fuller on the vinyl than you get from the YouTube track, above. It comes with some bonus tracks which, rather oddly, are on an included CD. I guess this is to save a bit of money, but it’s odd, because it’s not the cheapest vinyl out there and if I wanted stuff on CDs I would be buying the cheaper CD option. But that’s an aside, really, because the actual album is really good.
I am kind of sad I didn’t come across this in the 80s, but in fact it’s a gift to discover something this good after all this time.
I’ve been thinking quite a lot recently about the language we choose when we write fantasy novels, particularly when it comes to the last middle grade I wrote and the current adult fantasy I’m working on. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what I’m doing here, so I’m going to lay out my thinking, and you can all tell me if I’m completely wrong.
But first (and this is related), the brilliant translator Anthea Bell died recently. She translated some very important novels into English, but she will always be better known as the translator, along with Derek Hockridge, of the Asterix graphic novels from French into English.
Now, imagine you’re writing a secondary world fantasy (i.e., a fantasy novel set on another, alternative world). In your story you are, of course, writing about characters whose language is not English (I’ll keep saying English because it’s the language in which I write, but assume also any other real-world language). Now, you could write the whole thing in a made-up language (yes, we are looking at you, Tolkien). But that’s not going to get you very far.
Now, obviously the whole thing is made up. There is no fantasy world out there (*sniff*). But we’re pretending there is, and if we’re good enough at it, readers will buy into it. We will accept without having to have it spelled out that what we are reading is a ‘translation’ of whatever fantasy language your Point of View characters speak into English.
This immediately means that you have to make the same kind of choices that translator like Bell and Hockridge have to make when translating a book written in a French. How do you translate a joke or a colloquial phrase? Do you translate it word-for-word to give a feeling of the pattern of the language but risk it losing all meaning in English? Or do you choose an equivalent joke or phrase in English and lose the cultural hints and world-building that the language could otherwise give? Or do you mix it up on a case-by-case basis, dropping in a few fantasy-sounding phrases in between the standard English phrases?
And imagine you’re translating a work from a foreign language that was written in, say, 1400? Do you translate it into period English? Or do you translate it into modern English? How far do you go?
Let’s take the example of a fantasy novel that takes place in a period that is roughly equivalent to the Medieval period. (In other words, somewhere between the fifth and fifteenth centuries.) Do you choose to write it in English that would be appropriate for that period? I think the vast majority of fantasy writers would reject that choice. (Remember, Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales was published in 1387, towards the end of the Medieval period. The period was well over by the time of Shakespeare and the King James Bible.) Very few readers would be interested in fantasy novels written like that. Writing only using English words and phrases in use by the fifteenth century is out for most writers and readers.
But, at the other extreme, it would be peculiarly odd to pick up a pseudo-Medieval novel and read phrases like “hit the buffers” or “laser-like precision”. Including phrases that obviously refer to technology simply not in use in the period would be off-putting.
So let’s move on to more ambiguous examples. How about the word “okay”, which causes a degree of ear-steam from some readers. Although the origin of “okay” is contested, it was popularised in 1840. Clearly 1840 is far after the medieval period. But are you genuinely going to cut out every word or phrase popularised after 1840? That would leave you with a very dated-sounding language. Charles Dickens published The Pickwick Papers in 1836, so maybe you should use that as reference for style and language?
Again, I hope not. That just wouldn’t work for a novel written now.
Where do you draw your line?
For me, it comes down to the type of book you are writing. A funny book, like the Asterix graphic novels, lends itself to a much looser translation. Getting in jokes is far more important than reproducing the exact dialogue.
Also, if you’re writing a grittily realistic fantasy, ironically, you will probably end up using much more contemporary language, because it lends a harder edge to modern ears than more archaic language. If you’re writing a classic fantasy, like most of those published in the 1980s, you probably want to tone back your more modern phraseology, reduce contractions, avoid words that ‘feel’ modern (even if they aren’t). There are plenty of novels like that being written and published right this yea
I’m curious as to what choices others make on this, how you draw the line, what kind of language throws you out of the story, and so on.
(I’ll put a link in the comments to where I link this on Facebook if you find it easier to comment there.)
Elantris, by Brandon Sanderson, is one of those books that I started, read a few chapters, then put down, only to pick up again recently. I probably put books down too quickly when they don’t grab me, but then there are so many books.
The city of Elantris was once a magical city, inhabited by people with near godlike powers. Then, ten years ago, the magic vanished, leaving the city crumbling and those who survived the riots that followed its fall losing their minds to the pain of their accumulated injuries. They are stuck in a half life where they don’t have to eat and where pretty much nothing kills them but where they never heal. The inhabitants of Elantris always spontaneously appeared among the population, transforming overnight from ordinary people to demigods. Now, though, when they are transformed they become the same half dead men and women that Elantrians have become and are cast into the rotting city.
The book follows, for the most part, three characters: Raoden, the Crown Prince, who awakens to find himself transformed into an Elantrian and who is thrown into the ruins of Elantris, with its gangs of desperate, feral people; Sarene, a princess who was travelling to marry Raoden, but who finds herself supposedly a widow before she is even married; and Hrathen, a high priest of a fanatical religion sent to convert the country and given only three months to do it. If he can’t, the country will be invaded and the population slaughtered by the armies of his religion.
Elantris was Brandon Sanderson’s first novel, and he is a more mature and accomplished storyteller now. Nonetheless, this is an impressive debut. It is complex, satisfying, and told with a lightness and energy that many other fantasy writers would envy. Despite a few missteps, this is a very satisfying read.
You can see Sanderson developing themes and character types that he will return to in his later work, particularly in his absurdly epic Stormlight Archive series. For example, there are echoes of Raoden in the Stormlight Archive’s Kaladin. Raoden starts as a prince, falls to less than a beggar, and builds a new, loyal group from the dispirited dregs of Elantris. Kaladin begins as a doctor’s son and leader of an elite army squad, becomes a slave, and then forges a new, loyal group from the lowest of low slaves sent on suicide runs for the army. Sarene is a young woman heading to a foreign land in order to forge a political alliance through marriage to protect her country and who becomes a pivotal figure in her new country struggles. Shallan from the Stormlight Archive leaves her family to form a political alliance through marriage to save her family and, again, becomes a pivotal figure in her new country. Galladon, Raoden’s new friend and right-hand man in Elantris, certainly shares some DNA with the Stormlight Archive’s Rock. This is not to say that the characters are the same. Raoden doesn’t share Kaladin’s crippling depression, for example. But it is interesting to see how the character types have developed in Sanderson’s writing.
As I said, this is not flawless. At least one character, for example, is introduced too late on and then doesn’t really do anything, and one of the revelations near the end seems rather pointless. But it is highly entertaining, imaginative, and has enough originality to stand out from the bulk of debuts.
It also shows that I shouldn’t give up so quickly on books.
4 stars. A very impressive debut, by an author who has become one of the major stars of fantasy.
Folks, I am sad. I have run out of Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London books, and the next one isn’t due until November.
In fact, I ran out of the novels a few months back. This review is of a linked novella.
I do quite like the modern trend for publishing linked novellas or even series of novellas. Although I prefer full-length novels, there’s something to be said for a well-constructed, contained, and focused story, particularly if it bridges the wait for a new novel.
To briefly recap the Rivers of London series, which now has six novels and this novella (as well as some graphic novels that I haven’t read; more on that later): Peter Grant is a police constable in London who, having stumbled upon a supernatural murder, becomes part of a very small department of the Metropolitan Police which deals with all manner of supernatural occurrence. So far, so not out of the normal for urban fantasy. This department, the Folly, was once a large society of wizards, but has now been reduced down to a single remaining member, Nightingale, until Peter Grant comes along.
Throughout the series, Peter deals with supernatural creatures, gods and goddesses of the rivers, dark wizards, and so on, as well as carrying out his police work.
Where the Rivers of London series really steps up and what makes it, in my opinion, the best urban fantasy series out there, is in the way it lovingly and with detail incorporates its locations (mainly London). In fact, it’s arguable that London is the best and most important character in the stories. I’m not sure I’ve ever read another urban fantasy with such a rich sense of place. But the descriptions never become tedious, because they are all done with a slightly snarky humour. The books are witty, sharp, involving, and reflect the diversity of London society and culture.
It also doesn’t hurt that Peter is a geek, with a good line in science fiction and fantasy references, as well as an interest in architecture. (For example, in the last novel, The Hanging Tree, a building is described as looking “like two Star Destroyers have backed into each other during manoeuvres”.)
So, onto this particular novella, The Furthest Station. The good news is that, despite its much shorter length (maybe 1/3 – 1/4 of a full novel), Aaronovitch has kept the style and rich observations that make the other books so readable. We start the story with Peter investigating reports of a ghost harassing people on the underground. At this point in the series, we have a good cast of supporting characters to populate the stories. In The Furthest Station, Peter is joined by his teenage cousin Abigail and Jaget Kumar of the British Transport Police, both of whom have featured in earlier novels. Other series regulars, Nightingale (Peter’s boss) and Peter’s girlfriend Beverly Brook (minor river goddess), make brief appearances but aren’t significant players.
Because it is much shorter, the story is by necessity much more direct than the novels, although Aaronovitch does take time to take us on a few diversions. I don’t want to go too much into the plot, because it would give away too much of plot of the novella, but suffice to say that it proceeds neatly to a good conclusion.
If I do have a criticism it is that occasionally the story could have done with a little more explanation of how and why it got to certain places. I am not sure if that’s just down to length or because Aaronovitch is referencing and leading off events that occurred in the associated graphic novels, which, as I said, I haven’t read. He did this a little in The Hanging Tree, too. Others may have a different point of view, but I’m not a massive fan of requiring readers to have read loosely related other series to understand what is going on, and I feel requiring a knowledge of the graphic novels is a step too far.
Still, I enjoyed this novella immensely, and I just worked on the assumption that the stuff with the foxes, for instance, tied into another storyline.
I do have one more complaint, though, and this may be one that puts off more potential readers. It’s not a criticism of the author or the story, but of the publisher. The Furthest Station, as I said, is a novella and it’s not much more than a hundred pages. However, the publisher has chosen to price it at exactly the same price as the full length novels. Now, I know that many of the costs to the publisher are the same no matter what length a book is, but it’s very hard to justify such a high cost for such a short work.
I borrowed the copy I read from the library. If the cost drops in the future, I will probably buy myself a copy, but not at this price.
The Legend of Podkin One-Ear by Kieran Larwood is a high fantasy featuring rabbits. In that way, it follows a path long trodden by the likes of Redwall or The Wind in the Willows, although it has slightly more in the way of fantasy elements than either of those.
One Midwinter, an old bard arrives at the Thornwood Warren and, in exchange for food and shelter, begins to tell the story of the great hero, Podkin One-Ear, who, along with his sister, Paz, and their companions, defeated the evil Gorm. This first book in what appears to be at least a trilogy tells the story of Podkin as a young rabbit when the Gorm come to his home of Munberry Warren and Podkin, Paz, and their baby brother are forced to flee for their lives. It’s a story of survival, the gathering of a small band, and the first strike back against the Gorm, and it’s also a story about growing up, as Podkin goes from being a spoilt, lazy son of a chief to a determined young rabbit.
Initially, the bookending story of the bard seemed slightly unnecessary, but as the story progressed, it became obvious that there was more to that story too, and that it might become more important in future books.
I read this book with my nine-year-old son as his bedtime story, and we both enjoyed it enormously. You can always tell how greatly a kid is engrossed in a story from the amount of pleading for more pages when it’s time to stop, and there was plenty of pleading here.
Podkin One-Ear has a style and tone that immediately mark it out as a classic. There’s warmth – even a cosiness -, adventure, plenty of colour in the depth of detail and description, and appealing, iconic characters. It’s got terrible baddies in the Gorm, rabbits twisted by a kind of living iron and whose bodies are pierced through with metal, and heroes, such as Crom, the blind warrior, as well as a good host of supporting characters. At times, it’s gruesome and there are deaths of Podkin’s family and friends, although nothing my son couldn’t handle.
There were a couple of minor issues with the book, which both my son and I picked up on as we read it. For instance, the rabbits don’t use iron, as the Goddess hates it and it’s the metal of the evil Gorm. But at one point, one of the characters is carrying an iron key. We both expected that to have some significance, but none of the characters seemed to notice and it never came up again (at least in the first book). We also thought that the big bad, the leader of the Gorm, Scramashank, was rather too easily defeated by Podkin through what should have been a rather obvious vulnerability, which we were surprised that none of the warrior rabbits previously beaten by the Gorm had picked up on.
In fact, if I have one criticism of the book it’s that Podkin and co found it just a little too easy to escape from or beat the Gorm at various points of the book, bearing in mind just how terrible the Gorm were supposed to be.
But these are minor points that didn’t get in the way of ou8r enjoyment of the story. I always like to use as a test of how good a book is how quickly I start reading the sequel, and we jumped straight into book 2 the moment we finished this one.
The Legend of Podkin One-Ear is destined to become a classic children’s book, at least in this household. Thoroughly recommended for any child aged about eight to twelve, and for adults who enjoy traditional adventure fantasy.
Back when I was … seventeen, I guess, or maybe just eighteen, I was doing the rounds of universities to decide where I wanted to apply. (Back in those ancient times, kids did this on their own, although it now seems that kids go around with their parents, which is a shame, although I’m definitely not letting my kids do it on their own… Oh, hypocrisy.)
ANYWAY… I have this quite clear memory of being shown around Sheffield University by a postgrad student. He was wearing a Uriah Heep T-shirt (possibly the showing the cover to Demons and Wizards, although that part of my memory has probably been corrupted by too much proximity to magnets).
At one point in the tour, he stopped and pointed to his T-shirt and said, in a slightly regretful tone, “I don’t suppose any of you know who this is.” This would have been at the end of the ’80s, by which point Uriah Heep didn’t really have any profile. They had been reduced to the dubious honour of being a ‘cult band’. They were never exactly pop stars, and many would argue their best days were well behind them.
But I remember thinking, “Yes. Yes, I do know who they are.”
ANYWAY… This is just a roundabout way of saying that I’ve been a fan of Uriah Heep for over 30 years, but I don’t think I’ve ever said anything about them.
For a while I did this “Music Monday” feature on my blog, but I am as organised as a tornado and never remember to actually do it on a Monday. So, I figured, so what if it’s Wednesday? The football doesn’t start until 7pm, so I shall do it now.
Uriah Heep were an English rock band who had a good deal of success in the 1970s. Like a lot of the big rock bands of the ’70s (Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, etc.) they didn’t survive in the same way in the ’80s and beyond, but while they were at their peak, they produced some amazing songs.
Uriah Heep are still around and playing, although only one member of their original line-up remains.
Here are two of my favourite songs by them. First up, The Wizard, from 1972:
And, from 1971, Lady in Black:
I think these are great songs, and I am slightly sad that they are never remembered these days.
Tomorrow, April 30, 2018, the anthology THE UNDERWATER BALLROOM SOCIETY is being published. It includes my novella, A SPY IN THE DEEP, which is the second (standalone) story in my series THE CASEBOOK OF HARRIET GEORGE.
In honour of the release of the anthology and A SPY IN THE DEEP, I figured it was time that the first Harriet George story, THE DINOSAUR HUNTERS, received a new, shiny cover so it didn’t feel left out. With only the briefest of drum rolls, here is the new cover!
I know this because, once again, I have started trying to write a high / epic fantasy (I really don’t know the difference between those two subgenres) having forgotten exactly why I don’t normally write this kind of stuff, despite loving to read it.
The reason is simple: names.
I literally (literally literally) cannot figure out how to come up with good names for characters in a secondary world fantasy. Other writers seem to do it with no trouble. George Martin has literally (not literally) a million characters, but he mostly uses ordinary names, occasionally changing the spelling a little.
Those with a linguistic bent figure out how languages are put together and create names sensibly (although most don’t go full Tolkien and create entire languages first, the nerd).
Others just throw a bunch of syllables together and come up with what look like unlikely anagrams, but let’s face it, those tend to be pretty crappy.
Then there’s me. Who just stares at the page and can’t come up with *anything* that sounds even vaguely non-stupid.
Now I remember why I don’t write high fantasy…
* Gonna write it anyway. Just bitter about having to come up with names
** Despite the picture accompanying this blog post, there will be no elves in my book. Elves are arseholes.
In between blowing bubbles with the boys (who are off school for the Easter break) and cutting the hedge at last (gardening is not my strong suit), I’ve been thinking about the sense of place in fantasy writing.
The reason I’ve been thinking about it is that I recently read the third book in an epic fantasy trilogy. I’d read the first two about six months before, but when I opened the third one, I didn’t recognise any of the locations. I had to go back and start searching through the first two books to figure out where all these places were and what their significance was.
Now, part of this is my fault. I tend to read late at night when I’m tired and I’m sure my brain doesn’t remember everything that goes into it. Hell, even when I’m at my most awake and alert, my brain is a colander with giant holes. But it’s also true that the real sense of place for a reader is kind of lacking in many fantasy novels. Part of it is because the names are often generically fantasy and so aren’t that easy to remember or distinguish. Part of it is because there’s nothing particularly memorable about the places.
I’m not going to say what the trilogy I was reading was, because there are many other wonderful things about the series and I don’t want to pick on one author in particular, but I’m sure you can think of books that are much the same.
It made me realise that one of the things George RR Martin does superbly well is give a sense of place. The last time I read any of the A Song of Ice and Fire books was when A Dance With Dragons came out in 2011. Yet I have no problem remembering the locations in the books. Ask any fan, and they’ll easily distinguish Winterfell from Kings Landing, Slavers Bay from Riverrun, Harrenhall from The Eyrie, The Wall from Sunspear. And so on.
There are literally hundreds of named locations in Martin’s series, and dozens which are major locations. But every one is readily distinguishable from the others. This is because all the locations are iconic in some way and their names tend to give hints as to what the location is. You’re not going to mix up Dragonstone and the Summer Isles, even if the books never visit the Summer Isles.
Another author who gives a wonderful sense of place in a much smaller setting is Ben Aaronovitch in his Rivers of London series. All of these books are set in and around London, but even for those of us who only occasionally visit the touristy bits of the city, he gives an amazing feeling for even the most out-of-the-way location. He does this through series of anecdotes about each location and its history, accompanied by ironic commentary on them which gives a sharp fix on each. The locations may be more mundane, suburban, even, at times, but they are every bit as vivid as the wilder, more spectacular locations of Martin’s world.
