A/n: Ever since I rejoined this site in 2019, writing fanfics has been a nightmare. My quest to write a good story has been a spectacular failure, and the quality of my writing has plummeted.
But I don't just want to give up and dismiss myself as a talentless hack. If I did that, it would mean the last five years have been for nothing. Besides, competent writing isn't reserved for the gifted, and it's not an accident or a feat of magic. It's something anyone can do, and you do it taking basic mechanics (spelling, grammar, punctuation), basic tools (plot, structure, characters), and a pinch of magic (read: things you care about), and mixing it all together with thoughtful and diligent work.
Anyone can learn how to communicate clearly and purposefully; even if they may not have a gift (I certainly don't have a gift) or sound like the writers they admire (I certainly don't), they can at least be competent.
I can, too.
So for the last several months, I've been reading my fanfics and asking myself some questions, including the biggest and most nagging one of all: "Why does my writing feel so broken?"
A few months later, I've finally figured it out. My writing is broken, not because I'm doing one thing wrong, but because I'm doing many things wrong.
(1) I'm not doing enough groundwork.
When I rejoined this site, I wrote almost completely spontaneously. Instead of developing my plots, characters, and story arcs, I just wrote whatever came to me. Even though it was like solving a math problem and going where the calculations led me, I can't take a mathematical approach to writing. I need to know what I'm doing; otherwise, I'm dooming my story to literary disaster.
And take a look at a few things I've written, and tell me what you see. Details disrupting the flow of the narration? Check. Things happen for seemingly no reason? Check. Characters being silly and irrational? Check. Lines of prose and dialogue that come out of left field with no context to give them any significance? Check.
What you're seeing is the result of my not knowing what I'm doing or what I want to say. My body of work is overwhelming proof that I need to think things through and decide what to write before I actually write it. Otherwise, I'm trying to plot, develop characters, and wordsmith all at once, and the end result is a heap of verbal rubble.
("Verbal rubble." Quite an apt way to describe my fanfics, don't you think?)
Without developing my plot and deciding my themes ahead of time, I'm subsequently committing another huge error:
(2) I've had no focus.
In almost everything I've written, I've played the role of the journalist: reporting what I'm seeing, and letting the reader make sense out of it. This is another a fatal mistake. I know my story better than anyone else does, which means I need to guide them into it and enchant them so that they care enough to keep reading.
The clearest and most compelling writing has a goal: to make the reader listen, care, and feel. In other words, it makes them active, not passive. All the best writers on here have substantial critical acclaim because they know how to make passive readers active, and they seem to do that by (1) knowing what they want to say, (2) how they want the audience to react, (3) writing what will get that reaction, and (4) getting rid of anything, even a single word, that weakens or prevents that reaction.
To put it much more succinctly: They're in complete control. They have authority, they have power, and they're not afraid to get people to react. They rule their words and everything they write, and they hold their audiences spellbound. I have that power, authority, and some of that ability, and dammit, I'm going to use it.
Alas, there's another reason I've had no focus, and it's this:
(3) I'm detached.
Except for a handful of characters and a smattering of story arcs, I have no passion for the fandoms I write in. Part of me hates getting emotionally connected with fictional characters, because it's always felt empty and pointless, and the rest of me is afraid to get attached to a story, spend months working on it, and watch it turn out to be an unreadable mess.
This is yet another fatal mistake, because a lack of passion and attachment kills a story. But it's not a mistake I need to keep making.
First, I can find things I care about. I'm not a Christian anymore, and I have enormous issues with the theology of Narnia, but I can still write fanfics about things I'm strongly attached to: overcoming fears, fighting for justice, taking responsibility for one's actions, and plot twists out the wazoo.
Second, I need to get inside my characters' heads. I need to feel what they feel, experience what they experience, and write about those. Characters, like real people, have wants and needs and goals and obstacles; that's what makes them fun to read about, and that's what makes them fun to relate with.
But there's another problem, and it goes to the very basics of writing:
(4) My stories have no basic structure.
Most stories go like this: Hero wants something, Hero can't get it, Hero strives for it and gets it.
Unfortunately, my stories have had none of this. They've been a collection of events without much of a plot tying them together. The end result is a bunch of events happening for no reason, characters acting and speaking strangely, and a narrative that dryly comments on what's going on. But with a structure, I'll know what I'm writing about, when I want it to happen, and how I'll make it happen.
But the last four things aren't enough to make a good story. I need to do one more thing, and I haven't done it.
(5) I haven't been respecting my audience, and I haven't been respecting myself.
Ever since I rejoined this site, I've dreaded the idea of losing a single reader, so I've tried everything I can think of to keep their attention. Shorter sentences, longer sentences, mainstream ideas, new ideas, elaborate vocabulary, simple vocabulary, word play, no-nonsense writing—whatever I can do in my desperate attempt to make them care.
If I care about what I'm saying, and I present it to you in a clear, compelling, smooth narrative, I stand a higher chance of keeping your eyes on the screen, even if my writing style and plot lines may not be your cup of tea. Great writers can make you care about pretty much anything, no matter what it is. That's sort of what I do as a math professor (hundreds of teaching evaluations attest to that), but I want to write that way, too.
With all that said, here's how I'll start fixing my writing philosophy:
(1) Plan the story so you know what it's about. Start simple; add on as needed.
(2) Give your story a structure (and simpler is better).
(3) Care about what you're saying.
(4) Write a smooth, clear, compelling narrative. Few things are more important than that.
(5) Be the boss. Use each word, idea, paragraph, character, and plot for a reason.
Whether or not I'm succeeding, I'll let you be the judge. Any suggestions for improvement and observations of what I'm doing right and what could be further improved will be highly appreciated; after all, inasmuch as I'm doing this for myself, I'm doing it for you, too.
Before we dive in, I take no credit for the world C.S. Lewis created, just for the stories I tell in it. Or, as fellow author treehugger00 so splendidly wrote: "The Chronicles of Narnia are the intellectual property of C.S. Lewis. We come here just to play in his garden."
(Dammit, I wish I'd come up with that line.)
Thanks for reading, y'all,
John
Chapter 1: The Beginning of Faraji's Troubles
The cheetah trotted up the steps of his master's house and took his stand on the front porch, posing majestically between the pillars and gazing smugly into the azure afternoon. The hottest part of the day was done, the family was gone for the afternoon, his errands had transpired with nary a problem, and all he had to do was sit between the pillars of the front porch and keep watch in the breezy shade, and the men and women and Talking Beasts carried on down the road below and lifted their eyes to him, bidding him "Good day, mehan!" and "Greetings, mighty warrior!" and "How fare you, splendid cat?" And of course, being the noble and lofty creature he was, he would give them no reply nor courtesy in return, but merely sit on the porch, holding his head high and being right pleased with himself. It was, after all, the proper thing to do.
Faraji was no ordinary creature, after all. He was a warrior in the Order of the Red Diamond. Only the best of Erizad's soldiers were worthy of wearing the necklace with that illustrious gem, and only a few received it every fifty years. It was the sort of thing given after the most illustrious military conquests had been completed with extraordinary valor and skill and yielded tremendous results to show for it, and when a cheetah can traverse the thoroughfare of Barát in twenty seconds when the best horse can do it in thirty, then rescue a school full of children and teachers from Calormenes who had just broken through the city wall, and slash all fifty marauders and leave them bleeding and lifeless with the help of none, all while a city of a twenty thousand has no idea what is happening? The Sarazen would be a fool not to bestow it upon him. It was, after all, the proper thing to do.
Faraji waited for the passers-by to dwindle before turning his attention and his thirsty mouth to the alabaster bowl sitting at his paws, and he bent down and lapped at the water, his red diamond necklace clacking against the rim of the bowl. He hated to hide it from everyone's sight; he wanted everyone to see it and keep bestowing their praises upon him. Everyone in that school was in the cheetah's debt, and the city didn't even know what was happening until he saw it and went into the thick. Wasn't it enough that he should be adored and fawned over?
He lifted his head from the bowl and licked away the last sparkling drops from his whiskers as a tiger turned off the street and padded up the stairs, and Faraji started to smile in cold delight. Sabír was the epitome of envy and indignation, always working long hours for the city's army and never getting into the thick of things, while Faraji kept finding trouble before it had a chance to happen, and winning baubles and accolades to turn the heads of a Tarkaan. Better yet, Sabír was like a mouse in his sight. The tiger was majestic and strong and had an impressive build, certainly enough to turn the heads of everyone around and stir the hearts of all the females of his race, but whenever he got around Faraji, he always seemed to be looking for a corner in which to hide, and if the cheetah uttered a word in his melodious and lyrical voice, the tiger would go all wobbly and spill down the stairs in a heap. The cheetah felt like a cat toying with a mouse, and he started to smile and get a word out to send the tiger tumbling, but he saw a letter dangling from necklace bobbing against the tiger's breast, and he saw a seal that looked like a bush with a face and a fire waving all around it. A vague unease went up and down Faraji's spine, and the hints of a smile fell away, so he sat straight up and tried to look unperturbed. It was, after all, the proper thing to do.
The tiger tried to look official and dignified, as if he had reason to be proud of what he was doing, and as he padded up onto the porch and looked Faraji in the face, the tiger's eyes wandered down to the red diamond dangling from his neck. A look of envy and admiration crossed the tiger's face, but he gathered himself and gave Faraji nod that was halfway like a bow. It was, after all, the proper thing to do.
"Good afternoon, mehan," said the tiger in an unsteady voice. "A-Are you well?"
"Of course I am," said the cheetah, making no indication that he would reciprocate.
"I'm glad to hear that, surely," said the tiger awkwardly. "Er...I'm doing quite well, too, in case you wondered..."
"It's no concern of mine," said Faraji. "And your welfare is no mystery to me, anyway; you wouldn't have made it out of that school if it hadn't been for me."
"And I am forever grateful to you, O mighty one, surely." The tiger paused and fidgeted in place, waiting for Faraji to look at him, but the cheetah kept sitting there as if he hadn't noticed a thing. "At any rate, I have a letter of urgent business for the Marashah."
"I'm well aware of that, Sabír, I'm not blind."
"Yes, yes, of course. Erm...shall I open it for you?"
"Was it addressed to me?"
"Well...no, but—"
"Then go to the back of the house and deliver it to the service entrance. The Marashah will collect it when he returns."
"...But mehan, the seal belongs to—"
"Irrelevant, Sabír. You have no excuse opening my master's mail. I should think you'd learn that by now, after you got caught opening it the last time."
The tiger didn't reply. He kept looking agog and embarrassed, and he wished he could find a hole big enough to fit him.
"What was on that seal, Sabír?"
"It was a most peculiar thing," said the tiger. "It seemed to be a face, somewhat like yours or mine, and it had fire waving all around it."
Faraji lifted the spots above one of his eyes. "Well, that is peculiar. Certainly nothing I should be worried about, I shouldn't wonder."
"Mehan, I know you hear things. You'll promise me you'll tell me if anything is wrong."
"If anything concerns you, I will personally send Kalil to ease your mind. Now carry on about your duties."
"Yes, mehan, surely. By the Man Aslan, I will carry it out and bring glory and honor to his name."
"Of course you will," Faraji muttered under his breath. "Oh, and send my command to your brother. He still owes me that book, and a recipient of the Red Diamond cannot be kept waiting another two months for such a tome as that. Now be off."
The tiger squinted at him in curiosity. "...What book, mehan?"
Faraji's voice rose to a growl. "Be off."
The tiger let out a sigh as he turned and trundled down the stairs. And as he disappeared around one of the sandstone buildings, the cheetah lifted his head and gazed into the road below, letting a smirk lift his whiskers. It was good to be in control: Not even a fly would loop over his head without his permission. And such was life for all Erizadi; it was proper that way.
Calormene refugees settled the low desert five centuries ago, three thousand men, women and talking beasts who fled the army and slave trade of the Tisroc (may he drop dead, if that's not being wildly optimistic). Calormen kept vowing to level Erizad and all its cities and towns, but Erizad learned how to fight for itself, and Calormen remembered it vividly when their forces were cut down by the thousands in a single day.
But tidings with strange seals were another thing. Letters like this always came out of the North, a land of strange magic and uncanny beasts. Terrible things happened up there, and rumors were not far from the truth. If the Erizadi ever felt any twinge of curiosity about matters of the North, they were always rid of it. No one opened letters from the North
I refuse to open my master's mail, said the cheetah uneasily. But the longer he's gone, the more I'm tempted...
The Marashah was a Son of Adam with swarthy skin and a plethora of medals that would turn the heads of the Tarkaans, but the resemblance between him and his Calormene ancestors ended there. Unlike the turban-headed red-bearded mouth-breathers, the man's head was uncovered, his salt-and-pepper hair was neatly cut, his face cleanly shaven and unadorned with ink or dye. And his face, like most men in Erizad, was dour and stern—the only fitting expression for a man living under the Man Aslan—but as he stared at the letter in his hands and read it aloud while Faraji lapped gleefully at the water, his face grew sad and solemn.
To His Excellency, Marashah Reza al-Baráti of Erizad:
It has come to our attention that your elder son has been ill for quite some time and your medicines can no longer relieve his suffering. Instead of giving you mere condolences, we are giving you good tidings. It is by the Lion's good will that we have obtained medicine, one of extraordinary efficiency and power, that we are certain it will will heal your son of his illness.
However, we must impose a condition on Your Excellency. Although we will part with it gladly, we cannot part with it freely. The medicine is made of fireflower juice, and the flowers are difficult to procure. In exchange for the medicine, we summon your cheetah, Faraji, to Cair Paravel. Once he has arrived in Narnia and has agreed to our terms, one of our birds will deliver the medicine to your son, and he will stay in Narnia to make the debt good.
In the name of Aslan,
High King Peter the Magnificent
As Reza folded the letter shut, Faraji rose up in wide-eyed horror. "Is this a joke?!"
"It's no joke," said Reza gravely. "They'll cure my son if you go to Narnia."
"Why couldn't they give us the medicine? If the Man Aslan was beneficent enough to give us his laws and show us the wonders of our world, why couldn't he spare a drop of medicine for a little child?!"
"You know it's not our place to speculate. The Man Aslan does what he wills, however he will it, and our duty is to obey or suffer the consequences."
"Consequences be damned!" said Faraji as he slammed his paw on the floor. "I would rather die than go up there!"
"You don't have a choice!"
"Damn it, mehan, I'm not going!"
"You will, Faraji! You must!" said Reza weepily. "My son has been at the edge of death for two years. He can't sleep, he can't think, he cries out in pain, and it takes all his strength to breathe. The King is ordering you to Narnia and the North, and I can't refuse his request. As the man who saved your life twelve years ago, I am ordering you—"
Without warning, the man turned away and waved a hand through the air, his face going a different shade of miserable. "I can't," he said in a whisper. "You've given so much to this country, we have no right to order you about."
And with a trembly sigh, he gathered himself and turned back to the cheetah. "Faraji, my son loves you. He lights up whenever you're near him. I want his face to light up again, and I want you to see it light up again, too. And you want to see it. I know you do. As someone who loves my boy, I am asking you: Help him."
Faraji gazed into the man's pitiful face, and the cat started to feel the portents of a mocking smile rising up. What incomparable cheek, that he should call Faraji a friend. The man was a master and Faraji was a slave, nothing more! The man rescued Faraji twelve years ago, but that meant he had to repay that debt to the whole country, which meant he became a citizen with all the duties and privileges therein (and there were more duties than he wished to admit); he went to their academy, their military school, their university, all fearful and miserable institutions, the sort where everyone was stern and strict and the slightest infractions were punished by paddles; and then he was forced into the army, where everyone was ruthless and cold and the slightest infractions were punished by whips. To his own surprise, Faraji came out of it a lofty and magnificent creature: He held a post at university, he was a soldier in the Order of the Red Diamond (the crown jewel of the Man Aslan), and was the animal bondservant of Reza (making him the second most powerful male in Barát), so he could strut about and hear everyone call him mehan, but in exchange, he had to enforce the laws of the Man Aslan, and of course, had no room for error, and even the slightest infraction was punishable by death.
But then Faraji looked into Reza's miserable eyes, and the the cheetah fell quiet and still. "Very well, mehan. I will go."
The Marashah let out a grateful sigh, then rose up from the chair and resumed his dignified posture. "Go to the fortress and speak with Kalil. He will outfit you for the journey. I will inform my wife and son of your departure. You will receive my blessings and wishes for a speedy return."
And nothing more was said. He simply turned about and walked out through the archway, leaving Faraji alone in the room.
"Well, anyway," said the cheetah with an uneasy voice, "it is the proper thing to do..."