Now that we’ve talked about sticking points, let’s return to Chapter Four, and talk about where I believe I’m currently encountering sticking points. But there’s one thing we should probably discuss first:
Every novel has varying degrees of verisimilitude, or the appearance of reality, a concept distinct from realism, which is more about the portrayal of real life, and also different from mimesis, which is the practice of imitating of reality. When we focus on verisimilitude, we are trying to build a world that might be very different from our reality, but still follows consistent rules and logic. It’s fairly common for science fiction and fantasy stories to start with something implausible to set up an interesting scenario, but then make an effort to stay within the established boundaries of that world.
I believe most people go through life with rough caricatures in their mind, crude models formed of a composite of things they’ve seen in real life or read in popular media. When we ask someone to imagine a beat cop, their mind will immediately flash to badges, traffic tickets, flashing lights, handcuffs, billy clubs, gun fights, and saying “watch your head” before making a perp hit their head.
But if you go on a ridealong, your perception changes: you start thinking about about command presence, drunks, domestic abuse, car trunks, coffee, overtime, and endless, endless paperwork. The original model isn’t wrong, necessarily, but the ratios are off, and there’s a good deal missing as well.
For Razors, my primary objective is to improve my own model of the world and use it to create a more convincing and compelling fictional universe. When I write a character, I ask “what are real people with this occupation like in the real world?” When I write about Serafin dealing with the bureaucracy, I ask “what are similar snafus that have actually occurred in the past?” I don’t mind making concessions in the name of narrative expediency, but generally I strive for an informed mental model of the real world before I try to imagine its fictional equivalent.
With this in mind, let’s return to the concept of Writing Tracks. These are particularly helpful in this case because they allow me to see areas where my knowledge of the real world is lacking. I don’t necessarily want to become an expert every area I write about, but I do make an effort to achieve what I would describe as a competent layman’s understanding, a decent grasp of the fundamentals.
As I mentioned previously, I am still fleshing the family out, and trying to understand the details surrounding the disappearance of Othman.
The “man hired to find a wayward child” plot is a pretty standard one that goes all the way back to The Ambassadors by Henry James and appears in modified form in The Testament by John Grisham (it’s also amusingly subverted in The Talented Mr. Ripley). The basic beats are there, but there’s still work here that needs to be done.
The basic stock version of this story goes something like this:
This is perfectly serviceable, but in its most basic form, is not particularly compelling. Some of these are already locked in by my larger narrative – the man hired must be Serafin, the location must be Collins – but there’s still plenty of opportunities to add, remove, or change details:
I am also doing a survey of the existing literature with similar plots, looking for recurring motifs and ideas. I’ve noticed, for example, some anxiety about class – I think there’s often tension when someone has to be in close proximity to a family as part of their job; there are entire British novels devoted entirely to this tension. Drivers, bodyguards, nannies, and tutors all have to contend with this to some degree. How does Serafin feel about running errands for the elite?
There’s also the question of identity: how can we know people are who we say they are? My first instinct is to say that this is mostly a dead issue in the science fiction future, but it’s worth adding to the mix, just in case.
But returning to the issue of verisimilitude, I also want to ask questions about the real world:
Currently, I believe the Bennett track is the most important one for Chapter Four, and everything else should revolve around it. The decisions Serafin makes throughout the story will all change depending on the answers to the questions above, and would likely also impact some of the other tracks as well.
In the past, I’ve noticed similar vital tracks that I didn’t proper nail down before I started writing, and I found that it harmed my work. I found myself constantly having to go back and make revisions each time the track changed, or dancing around plot points when I wasn’t sure about the details. This time, I’m making an effort to try to nail down something rough from the start. I don’t want to make it perfect, however, since these things tend to evolve as you work on them, but I do want a decent foundation I can start to build on.
As someone who lacks wealth and influence, I am unfortunately unable to write from first-hand experience here. But I’m not starting entirely from zero – I have had some exposure to wealth at various points in my life, and have researched the topic in the past for other work, but for the conference specifically, my mental model is hazier than I would like.
I can make some educated guesses, but I wonder:
And so on.
My first instinct at this stage is always to check fiction, but my initial research suggests there aren’t too many novels or short stories set at these elite events1, not even from someone like Tom Wolfe, who you’d think would find such a gathering irresistable.
Looking to the real world, I see several opportunities: first, the World Economic Forum, which is extensively documented – in addition to journalistic accounts, there will be recordings of speeches and no shortage of documents to peruse, as well as some first-hand acccounts.
I know that Davos brings in artists on occasion; I believe Paolo Coelho has attended at least once – has he written about his experience? I should chase that down.
Can I attend myself? No. Even if I could score an invite, I wouldn’t be able to afford it. They do offer a monthly online membership that seems to provide access to recordings of seminars, which might be worth it, although it obviously wouldn’t compare to the real thing.2
Some other major real world examples would be the Council on Foreign Relations and the Chatham House. I might be inclined to lean toward history here, perhaps studying World War II accounts. The CFR is of particular interest, since I know Allen Dulles was a regular attendee and wrote articles for Foreign Affairs.
So, while I have a broad sense of what should happen at Aphelion, I am reluctant to dig too far into how it happens until the model appears more clearly in my head.
I know a decent amount about the intelligence world at this point, but I still know very little about mercenaries and PMCs.
In a lot of contemporary fiction, mercenaries are typically portrayed as honorable lone wolves or small units who serve as valiant knights-errant or master assassins. If they are antagonists, they are often faceless goons, working for madmen with plans for world domination.
I’m sure there are people like that out their in the real world, but my initial research leads me to believe mercenaries are more likely to serve in larger organizations, providing training, security, serving as auxiliary units, and engaging in operations for governments that lack the popular support or military strength to carry our their desired objectives.
I don’t have the clearest sense of what individual mercenaries are like – their histories, their personalities, their strengths and weaknesses. I know some people signed up for Blackwater during the Iraq War because it meant doing the same work for better pay; there are also a handful of cases where people joined because they couldn’t hack it in the real military.
I could certainly wing it. But I see this as the difference between drawing someone from memory versus drawing someone from a photographic reference. Getting the reference might take some effort, but it will ultimately lead to far better results.
There might also be some value in a brief historical survey, given Serafin’s inclinations.
Thus, more reading is key.
Collins Station is a grim place, one of the places hit hardest in the Iblis Conflict, and one where the least reconstruction has occurred.
It’s going to be bad, yes, but how is it going to be bad?
I’ve read a lot of fiction and non-fiction about wars, but I realized fairly early in my initial preparation for Chapter Four that I’ve actually read very little about anything that happened post-war, outside of a little bit about the Reconstruction era, which doesn’t feel particularly relevant, the Nuremberg Trials, and some material on the occupation of Iraq, which is more helpful, but I’ll need to go back and check my old notes.
Fortunately, I’ve found a few books that dig into the occupation of Germany and Japan, which should help me improve my model a great deal.
I also feel there might be some value in taking an expedition into science fiction horror, which is not a genre where I spend much time. There are some very creative people who have spent considerable time thinking about how technology could be used to make people suffer, and I should do at least a cursory review of this material, even if I only wind up alluding it obliquely during Serafin’s time on the station.
As I mentioned last time, Jabbar appeared to me as a nearly complete character; I could see him moving and talking in my head. That said, I’m not wild about his final appearance in Chapter Four. I may feel differently when I see it on the page, but the sooner I recognize a problem, the more time I have to think of a solution.
There are other sticking points, and I’m sure more will arise in the future, but I think this provides a good overview of my current approach and where I’m focusing most of my attention at the moment.
Next week, we’ll start to explore Collins in greater depth.