I’m not certain of much, but I do believe this: Stories Matter.

I think that in such uncertain times, our stories matter more than ever.

Right now, the stories circulating between friends and family and over the news and internet are having a profound effect on each of us. 

The world no longer has enough toilet paper, and it’s probably worth fighting over what little remains on shelves. Mother Nature is taking a deep breath thanks to the sudden and rapid decrease in human economic activity. The virus is nothing more than a common cold blown out of proportion by media outlets. We are facing the greatest challenge of our generation, a foe that will unite us and make us stronger.

All of these and more are stories I’ve come across in the past few weeks. Any could be backed up by no shortage of articles, opinions, facts, life coach gurus, and more.

I’m a firm believer that we need balance in our stories, just as we need balance in so many other aspects of our lives.

It’s never been easier to get sucked into a vicious whirlpool of negative stories. And I don’t think we should hide from them, either. It’s important to remember those who have lost their jobs, or worse, their loved ones. As inconsequential as it seems, I think it’s even important for us to tell stories of toilet paper shortages. Because even that story helps us understand ourselves and our world.

But it’s never been more important to remember the lights in our world. I think of the ER doctors, nurses, and staff reporting to work knowing the risks, not just to themselves but potentially to their loved ones. I think of my neighbors, checking in on one another to make sure everyone is safe and healthy. I think of my three year old daughter, who has no clue what is happening and is simply delighted that her mother is home more.

We also have the ability to write our own stories. Many of us are now having more family time than we are used to. While it comes with new stresses, it also brings opportunity. Today I enjoyed an hour of playing with play-dough with my daughter. I’ve met (at appropriate distances) more of my neighbors in the last week than I have in the last year.

Our stories matter.

The world is a terrible place.

And it’s a beautiful one.

Let’s not forget to tell stories that reflect both aspects.

I’ve been thinking a lot about grimdark fantasy for the past few months.

I’ll start off by saying I’m not really a fan of the label. Like most identifiers, it tries to reduce something complex into a simple label that we can fling around.

So let’s start with at least a vague definition: When I talk about grimdark fantasy, I’m talking about stories in which good and evil isn’t necessarily easily delineated. Characters aren’t champions of light and darkness, but are complex characters. But more than anything, I’m talking about stories that embrace a darker tone, willing to pull back the curtain on horrible violence and brutality.

In the past few decades, we’ve seen an explosion in works that are classified as grimdark. From A Song of Ice and Fire to Malazan and The First Law, there are no shortage of books that fall somewhere on the grimdark scale.

I find that I have really mixed feelings about grimdark.

First, let’s look at the bright side of grimdark:

I think the greatest contribution of the subgenre (if it can even be called that), is the more ready acceptance of rogues and morally complex characters. Such characters have existed for a long time, of course, but grimdark has brought them to the forefront, and I believe complex, morally ambiguous characters are more interesting and lead to better stories. I appreciate stories in which protagonists struggle against their character, and I appreciate that sometimes they fail.

Likewise, grimdark allows for more complex conflicts. It’s not just good vs evil or light vs darkness. Grimdark more accurately reflects the world we live in, which I think makes the works more impactful.

But, as with all things, the pendulum can swing too far in one direction. I read a book last year in which I could almost hear the author asking himself, “What’s the worst thing that I could do here?”

Ooh, let’s have the protagonist protect a young orphan.

Except the orphan has a fatal disease.

And the orphan gets possessed by a demon.

And the orphan gets enslaved, starved, and beaten.

Then when the hero tries to rescue the orphan, the orphan is brutally tortured and killed.

I exaggerate a little, but not by as much as I wish I was.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with highlighting the darkness that lives side by side with us. I actually think it’s important.

But darkness for darkness’ sake creates a weaker story and numbs the reader.

Which is why grimdark is hard to do well.

Every year is a great year for reading, right?

I was just looking over my reading list for the year on goodreads, and it made me smile.

First, let’s look at some trends:

This was the year of fantasy for me. Ironically, even though I’m a predominately a fantasy writer, I haven’t historically read a lot of it. Part of this is a numbers game: most of the fantasy I do read ends up being really, really long (like Wheel of Time), so I don’t make it through fantasy books as fast as I do shorter books.

But this year was a bit of a change. I predominately read fantasy and loved almost every minute of it.

Additionally, I’ve found that my average rating for books was pretty high this year. On goodreads, it tells me that my average rating is four stars, which seems a little high to me. I think there’s a few things happening. First, I’m looking at my public author profile. I typically only rate and review books that I enjoyed. Not every book is for me, and I don’t really have any desire to publicly declare my disdain for some of the books I didn’t like. However, I was comparing my public and private ratings, and my private ratings are only a little lower. Which means, I think, that I’m also mostly reading a lot of books that I really enjoy. Looking back through my list, I can only see maybe a half-dozen books I didn’t really like. Out of more than fifty, that’s pretty great.

This year was also the year I started reading Malazan. In January, I fully anticipated finishing the series, but that turned out to be false. I’m currently on number six, and happy with my progress. It’s a series that deserves to be savored.

Let’s do some favorites, with the caveat that these are really hard to claim – there’s a ton of books I really, really loved, and picking just two seems arbitrary, but here goes anyway:

Favorite nonfiction: Sex at Dawn and Stillness is the Key

Favorite Fantasy: Deadhouse Gates and Beyond the Shadows

Favorite Sci-Fi: Cibola Burn and Altered Carbon

Here’s to 2020!

In the past few weeks I’ve had several encounters now with an idea that has really wormed its way into my thoughts. It’s the idea of just how alien alien could actually be. It seems to me that in so much of our sci-fi, aliens are remarkably human.

Before a few weeks ago, I’d never really given much thought to the idea. From the Romulans, Klingons, and Borg in Star Trek to the Wookies, Ewoks, and Bothans in Star Wars, I never thought to question just how similarly we pictured alien species. But in so many ways, they are so similar to us (in deeper ways than is even implied by the “forehead alien” term) from the desire for love and community to the goals they live with. Even species that aren’t humanoid, like the alien from Alien, or the Arachnids from Starship Troopers, possess the (we believe) universal desires to conquer and reproduce.

Recently, I’ve read two stories: Annihilation and Speaker for the Dead, in which the sheer alienness of what is happening feeds directly into the plot of the story. Of the two, I think Annihilation captures the sensation better. For most, if not all of the story, it’s almost impossible for the reader to understand exactly what is going on.  We are on a perpetual journey of confusion and uncertainty. The simple reason is because it’s simply that different. As humans, we have enough trouble trying to understand someone who votes differently than us – how likely is it we would understand anything truly alien?

I’ve been fascinated by this idea in fantasy as well. For the most part, fantasy stories allow us to play with societies that are mirror images, or shattered reflections, of the society we live in. But in a world where magic actually is possible, how deep might the effects on society be? If a world exists that contains multiple species that grew up in dramatically different circumstances, just how much would they be able to relate to one another, if at all? They are fascinating questions that make me think about all the unexplored possibilities.