Intrepid Earth: A Series Overview

When I first put pen to paper and spawned what would become the first character sketch of Avatar nearly 14 years ago, I had no idea that the scene of a tan-skinned wood elf standing in a forest clearing watching the sunrise with an outstretched palm would evolve into a novel. And after completing chapter upon chapter (skipping over the more difficult ones because I was too scared to write them) I had no idea that my novel would evolve into a series. And that series into a universe. I've always had stories to tell, but it has also been about something more than that.

"It's not about money. It's about sending a message."

The more I wrote, the more the characters and their world came alive. I'm not the kind of author who writes with much of an outline (if any), and so the situations my characters get into often surprise me. Strangely enough, they often find themselves facing similar moral and emotional dilemmas as myself. When I realized this, I had a difficult time trying to determine what was actually going on. Do I vent and work out my internal frustrations through fictitious means, or are these extensions of my subconscious trying desperately to show me how to overcome them? Are these stories simple expression . . . or a lesson for myself and, hopefully, the readers?

Since well before the completion of Book 1 in 2009, I've known that I wanted to devote a whole book to each elemental. This would make for a total of seven books, with Of Avatars and Elementals serving as my introductory gathering ground for all six primary elements and the characters they embody. While I've designed each book to be enjoyed individually and without the need to be read in any particular order despite the chronology, there is a natural progression to the moral themes involved. That aside, Book 1 is the best way to discern which character's element a reader would like to explore further.

The progression of moral themes is as follows:

In Book 1: Of Avatars and Elementals, we introduce Avatar to a brand new world of humanity, society, and technology. Much like the infantile hermit, we know very little about the world in which these characters live. We get a quick glimpse, and what we see isn't at all pleasant. The civilized world is corrupt, and an outside force threatens to destroy it. When I wrote this story, I was on the fence about humanity. But the more I lived, the more bleak my outlook became. The difficulty was not in convincing the hero to save the world, but rather . . . how to convince the hero that saving the world might not be the right choice?

I had to show Avatar, a full-grown child, the ugly side of humankind. I had to show him violence and cruelty. Ambivalence and ignorance. Lies and betrayals. And I had to blow these things up so big and so fast that they became more ominous than an immediate, physical, worldwide threat of obliteration. I had to ask myself two very difficult questions: "Is there any hope left for humanity?" and "If I had the power to redeem this world . . . would I?"

Let us assume that the answer to both is, "Yes." How, then, should a hero go about this redemption? Perhaps vigilantism is the answer . . . 

In Book 2: Of Shadow and Dissonance, we follow Yamini and explore a darker alternative to salvation while getting better acquainted with the dystopian Rhevisean capitol. Our young rogue's solution is aggressive but rational: Remove the bad seeds of society by way of assassination and manipulate the system until it operates justly. While I've often contemplated this exact same method, Yamini demonstrates the emotional difficulties of putting it to practice.

Most people are beings of conscience and conduct themselves with strict standards of right and wrong. Yamini is not most people. Her boundaries are a bit skewed. Faced with many evil players, she is able to take them out of the game without much initial hesitation. But dealing in death takes a toll over time, and she struggles to answer yet another difficult question: "Does killing, even when clear of mind and emotion and for all the right reasons, invariably cause more harm than good and serve to perpetuate chaos . . . rather than reestablishing order?"

Yamini's call to action seems to yield results ostensibly but costs several innocent lives in the process. What about another approach? Perhaps inaction is the answer . . .

In Book 3: Of Wind and Vigilance, the ranger Marik Keingel and his wolf companion give us a closer look at the empire's military--which is supposed to be the last legitimate method of keeping the peace. He is also the first of my deeply religious characters. Both of these things play into his reasons for enlisting to fight under Epson's command as well as for laying down his halberd in defiance of it. An act of utmost treason.

We try to conquer so much through violence in this day and age. How many lives are destroyed because decorated "warriors" issue orders? How many men and women succumb to corruption of mind and soul when they follow these orders without questioning them? How many have fought and died over money, gods, country and resources--all things that we simply cannot take with us, things that have no value outside of that which we bestow upon them? Too many.

While doing nothing is often the right thing to do, Marik shows us that refusal to oblige villainy is often met with replacement. Heroism is seldom fairly matched. Or rewarded.

In Book 4: Of Water and Malice, we explore a different approach via alternating storylines portraying Asche DeBrei as both protagonist and antagonist. As a young man, Asche struggles to provide for himself and his blind brother after a tragic bombing claims their mother's life. As a water demigod, he enacts a vengeful plot against Xearo and Avatar for stealing his powers and sentencing his mortal body to death. In order to neutralize Asche, Xearo must unlock his rival's memories buried deep within the seas.

Like the plot of this story, its moral focus is also twofold. The first is a study of using loss and anguish for manipulation, essentially transforming a well-intentioned but misguided youth into an instrument of evil and a bringer of chaos. The second is a study of bypassing what appears to be malicious action on the surface and instead perceiving the origin of the deeds: pain. To tip someone on the verge of self-destruction into darkness requires little effort, while bringing them back requires an immense, almost superhuman amount of understanding and compassion.

So, how does one achieve these things? Through patience and experience? Through sympathy and sensitivity? Can these bring about world-changing revolution? Maybe so . . .

In Book 5: Of Earth and Resilience, we learn what Aeria was up to for the duration of Book 4's events. Taking up her grandfather's mantle, she becomes swept up in political controversy alongside Yamini and Councilman Turnbase in efforts to eradicate the martial law that has suffocated the empire and remove all emigration restrictions from the borders. But a charming newcomer, who woos Aeria with his knowledge of nature, would see Rhevise leveled rather than reformed.

Equipped with the aforementioned traits, Aeria appeals to the population's suppressed, gentle inclination in order to mend a broken government while also coming to terms with Yamini's involvement in her own grandfather's assassination. She believes that love, rather than violence, will be their key to salvation. In order for this to occur, the people must shift away from their current devotion to a vengeful goddess and instead move toward the earth- and sun-based deities of old. An act that requires healing the planet itself.

Environmentalism was always an inevitable issue for this society, and it requires trust and faith for it to work, just as love requires an open heart. Some lack all of the above . . .

In Book 6: Of Fire and Vigor, our occasionally obnoxious anti-hero Xearo Ta'Lorence takes no time to rest following back to back battles with the water demigod and Aeria's earthen golem. Exhaustion renders him more rash than usual, and his mind has become wracked with bloodlust due to DeBrei's malicious imprint. Teetering on the brink of madness, Xearo unwittingly threatens to destroy half the city during his quest to rectify the past and settle the score with everyone who has wronged him.

We see the old Xearo resurface after more than a year of non-violence. We see a cynical world view challenge all the elementals' hard work and hopeful outlooks. And we see the terrifying results of acting without forethought. The goal of this is to question: "Is Xearo the protagonist or the antagonist of his own story?" In life we are often victims of self-sabotage and project our inner demons onto others. When the desire to seek scapegoats outweighs good intentions, the merit of a person's character is indeed called to trial.

This is a story about forgiving ourselves and our enemies. Are we our own protagonist or antagonist? The only conclusive answers lie in extensive introspection and soul-searching . . .

In Book 7: Of Light and Glass, Avatar D'Kemvi reclaims the spotlight after being mostly absent for the entire series. The spirit of light has found a new body by fusing with the mana statue that Xearo scuplted in Avatar's likeness. Immune to the elements individually and encased in a form comprised of pure magic essence, he is able to tap into the power of oblivion and uses it to travel through time restoring order. While having the power to manipulate time and solve the world's problems seems grand, it is bound to come at a price.

Departing from timid, naive origins, Avatar's understanding of the world has increased dramatically. As has ours. Though his ability to empathize is still intact, he is now a harsh but fair judge of humanity. Every minute detail of the events in which he decides to intervene is scrutinized. No one is given the benefit of the doubt. When dire circumstances reunite him with his elemental friends, even they no longer recognize him. The innocent, sensitive forest dweller has been replaced by an emotionally numb--albeit altruistic--worldly protector.

This is the conclusion I myself have reached--that it is possible to do good without being emotionally invested in the results, that being supercharged with feelings is not always the way to go, and that both action and inaction are situationally appropriate.

I can't claim to be the most creative or ground-breaking author. There's a good chance that any sci-fi or fantasy veteran won't see many elements in my stories that haven't been thought of before. But that's not necessarily the point. I draw from the things I know and love and use them to explore my own subconscious. My stories are essentially extended character studies aimed at provoking thought as much as (if not more than) entertaining. Because I'm not an entertainer. I'm a pseudo-philosopher with a hero complex just trying to do my part to save the world. A quest that often involves helping people to open their eyes so that they can save themselves.

So, what is the path to redemption? I don't know. Maybe there is no universal guide, but if I had to boil down the philosophies of each book into single-sentence steps that I intend to follow, it might look something like this:

1. Acknowledge the discord in society.

2. Lash out against tyranny and injustice.

3. Recognize evil players and refuse to do their bidding.

4. Seek to understand and rectify the suffering in others, including enemies.

5. Seek to understand and restore the world around us.

6. Seek to understand and realign ourselves.

7. Achieve balance and determine when (and when not) to intervene.

The Art of a Prequel

As time progresses and the entertainment industry slowly runs out of ideas, the notion of prequels has begun losing consumer appeal. What was once a creative alternative to sequels, spin-offs and...well...brand new stories with unique characters is becoming a surefire last resort for those wishing to cash in on established success. While prequels have much to offer when done well, more often than not they are carelessly put together and the end result is lackluster. This is partially due to heavy reliance on fan knowledge and support, and largely due to writing backwards being less forgiving than writing forwards. To write a good prequel, one must be talented in all the ways he or she would write any engaging story. However, they must do so with even more limitations, awareness, and demand for surprise.

Time is the writer's primary confines. Care must be taken to maintain accuracy and continuity with previous lore (future events) without threatening to alter thresholds in the timeline. The timelines themselves can pose a problem if significant historical events that were previously alluded to are neglected, or if such events are created for the sake of current plot and are then, chronologically, wiped from future lore via character ignorance.

Another issue of time is settling on the start of it. Going backward from a point, the writer only has so large a window to create a compelling tale (assuming the character is human) before an overlap or parallel occurs. The focus, then, is locating the exact moment in a character's life wherein she becomes interesting. From here it is a matter of creating a series of events to aid in a reverse-arc. The original character is dissected, mangled, and ran through the gamut (figuratively, and at times, literally!) to make sure it undergoes enough change to be considered dynamic and interesting...yet winds up in exactly the same state her future self. In essence, we have to uncreate a character backward.

New characters must also be introduced with caution and their influence monitored. Importance must be such that their existence is crucial to current story progression, but not so much that their absence in future events would go unnoticed or unmentioned by the main character. There are obvious solutions for characters who fail to make appearances later on, solutions which many readers and viewers see coming a mile away. This is an inevitable technical flaw. Concerns should lie in two places specifically: allowing new characters to have an impact in the current story, and making their impact resound in future events. This could be adopted vernacular or mannerisms, skill sets, scars, trinkets and items, or memories. For these reasons, it is a good idea to have every character's history in mind—where they've been, who they've known, what they've done—despite in what order said character appears in the chronology.

Perhaps the biggest technical flaw of all is regard (or lack thereof) for the main character's safety. The audience already knows our character survives to take place in future events. Why, therefore, should they be concerned at all for her health and well-being? For all intents and purposes, the character is immune from death and her success, in one form or another, is guaranteed. This is where strong character building and storytelling come into play, and also where many prequels fall short.

Rather than manifesting a literal theme park and throwing beloved characters on a series of rides to thrill the audience, the writer cannot be lazy and forsake one of the most important rules: Make the reader CARE. To do this, sometimes the character has to be reinvented from the ground up. Her path to the state of mind in future exploits must consist of more than petty action sequences and memorable (or not-so-memorable) dialogue. It must consist of very real emotional struggles, impossible decisions, forged friendships and severed bonds. The audience must be forced to forget that our character survives her obstacles...and one of the best ways to do this is by reminding them of that character's humanity through loss, suffering, and physical pain.

So long as we can relate to and feel something for a character, the mere fact that they survive becomes a moot point before long. By that time, it will become clear that the character does not arrive at her future incarnation physically or emotionally unscathed.

On "Dumbing it Down"

I don't do it so often anymore, but occasionally I will look back at my old short stories, poems, and the first draft of A&E and marvel at how far my writing has come over the last decade. With age, experience and reading I have managed to improve upon many things that have strengthened me as a writer while coming into my own personal style. Learning new words, new techniques, experimentation. All of these are a part of development. And thanks to a few courses in creative writing, I learned how to trim down my prose when I became too wordy. I've finally reached a point where I am confident in my abilities as a writer, yet I still struggle with one aspect of feedback that I receive constantly: the issue of dumbing it down.

Like most commentary, my initial reaction is to take it with a grain of salt. When someone says that something doesn't make sense, I have to balance the possibility of my not having explained it thoroughly against an individual's capacity to solve, interpret or deduce. Additionally, personal opinions and tastes play a large role in a reader's feedback. As a result, suggestions are not always objective, neutral critiques. What flags a comment in my mind is having heard the same complaint or suggestion several times before. This says to me, "Hey Sean, maybe you're doing something wrong!" To which I reply, "Perhaps I should take a closer look." And so I do. This has also made me a stronger writer.

But I seem to have hit a wall where I am unable or unwilling to compromise.

After a bit of research I have learned that most publications, be them magazines, newspapers or novels, are written between a fifth- and eighth-grade level because it maximizes readability by the widest margin of people. Obviously, the easier something is to read, the more people in theory can and will read it. (Movies focus on the PG-13 rating for this same reason.) It makes sense, of course. But I also have to consider the publications that do not subscribe to this philosophy. I have to consider the literary geniuses throughout history who didn't care about "maximizing sales" but instead focused on being original and creating a masterpiece. Even if it meant only a precious few would understand or appreciate it. Even if it meant that they would be long dead before their genius became fully realized.

My concern: How is an author's style defined, and at what point does an oversimplification of prose infringe upon this? I worry because I have worked hard to get my writing where it is. I work hard to write elegantly and intelligently without seeming pretentious or verbose. Yet still, most of my work goes over people's heads. And I know it's not my stories because the incident isn't limited to fiction. My articles, blogs and essays have all had the same effect. I want more than anything to be read and understood and appreciated by the masses, but is establishing myself as an author worth putting on hold the heart and soul of my writing? Are the words I choose and the order in which I use them not the very things that set me apart from another writer? By changing these words to smaller ones or using fewer of them solely for the purpose of increasing their readability, am I...really strengthening my writing, or am I just conforming to the modern paradigm that entertainment should be easily--nigh mindlessly absorbed?

Don't get me wrong. I value ease just as much as the next person. But I also value having the option of various levels or types or degrees of difficulty in whatever I'm doing. (Video games get this right. There is a reason why developers often include hard or outright ridiculous modes to play through.) People--gamers, at least--enjoy challenge. Ergo, being as my target audience largely consists of gamers anyway, I have to believe that people want this same choice when it comes to literature. I mean, do people really want to read 300 pages of sentences consisting of five one- or two-syllable words ALL the time? "John ran to the kitchen. He picked up the phone." /headdesk

Again, nothing wrong with the format, or even the level of writing. What has begun to irk me, however, is the intolerance shown toward writing above the average level of readability. At one point it was acceptable to have varying degrees of difficulty when it came to literature. Now, everyone seems to want easy, easy, easy. On the off-chance that someone tells me why they cannot read my writing through to the end, they usually say something like, "It's too hard," or "I don't want to have to think." Well, why not? Has thinking become so difficult that we can no longer bear the thought of it? What happened to challenging ourselves? What happened to broadening our vocabulary and strengthening our grasp of the English language? Tabloids happened. Reality TV happened. The desire to absorb rather than interpret happened. And the editors, publishers and producers let it happen. We demanded, and they supplied.

And it is possible, too, that the artists, the musicians, the writers are to blame as well. It is possible that when faced with the ultimatum of "dumb it down so we can sell it, or get out" that we commonly take the former option in favor of getting published, finding fame, reaping riches, and so on. The latter option is an exercise in faith, but it is also a stance of principle. To walk away from a surefire deal to preserve one's creative doctrines shows a confidence beyond the money-centric ideology that seems to have afflicted most forms of personal expression. We sacrifice ourselves all too often because we equate the deal, the job, the gig, the contract, the check, to success. We allow those things to validate us despite having diluted who we are and what we create. The proverbial endgame, therefore, has become more a matter of winning favoritism and less one of having something unique or inspiring to offer.

Do we cheapen our methods of self expression by selling them? Of course not. There's nothing wrong with putting a pricetag on one's work. But I do believe that whatever message we are trying to convey as artists is weakened by manipulating and distorting and fine-tuning it to fit inside the perfectly average box so that everyone can perceive it the exact same way. Requisites for interpretive skills, for drawing conclusions, for questioning what we take in, have been relegated into virtual non-existence because everything is constantly spelled out for us! There is little room to inquire, "What about those things?" before someone replies, "There are no other things, save for what we have presented. Nothing exists outside of the box we have drawn for you."

We are supposed to accept this. And I believe most are so conditioned to soaking up like a sponge whatever is poured into their entertainment bowls that they've forgotten how to demand more and instead settle for shallow things...not out of preference, but out of a lack of any other choice! So I'm here to give it to them. And if it takes winning over readers, agents, editors and publishers one by one, then sobeit. The world has plenty of mindless garbage to absorb. But whatever the case, I have absolutely no intention of selling out.

Do I speak from experience? Have I refused a year's salary or more because I'm too stubborn to write "can't" instead of "cannot"? No. My decree, as it were, is one of intent...and it states that my creative integrity will not buckle beneath the pressure of corporate demand and monetary incentive! It will not cater to indifference, to a lack of curiosity or initiative, to those wishing to keep one eye on the prose and the other on the television. My work is not meant to be read on autopilot; as such, I cannot expect everyone to enjoy it. Even those with an affinity for harder and heavier reading won't enjoy it. And that's okay. I still subscribe to the notion that literature is more than a frivolous means of entertaining. It is also an artform. Art...is subject to interpretation, and that's precisely what we could be doing more often. Interpreting...

Instead of absorbing.

On Love in Fiction

I realize that most popular works of fiction these days are imbued with romantic themes to accompany whatever story the author chooses to tell. And rightfully so! Love (or the desire for it, at any rate) is a relatively universal quality. Following a heartless character is difficult, but following one during his or her reckless pursuit of another human being? We can often relate to that. And in doing so, we come to care for these characters even more. Under the proper circumstances.

One could argue that any great story worth telling involves some elements of love. If this is indeed the case, why not implement a love arc in every story written? As an author, would it not help place your story that much closer to being one of the greats? Would it not instantly gain that much more of an audience and thus produce more sales? Probably. So then why is love, a crucial hook and determining factor for a novel's success, something I downplay in my own writing? The answer, much like love itself, is simple . . . and it is not.

I have thought long and hard on love in fiction, its uses, advantages and drawbacks. One of my best friends, perhaps the most die-hard fan of love and hopeless romantic to a fault, often laments my methods. While I can understand his disappointment by taking a look at my own life, I also have to consider a broader perspective of the world itself. There are many great stories to tell right here, in present day, on our own planet--none of which involve romance. Heroic deeds are committed daily by perfectly average people for reasons other than love, reasons like altruism, stupidity, misguided pride, or simply because it is their job. When we read about these heroes in the paper or see them interviewed on the evening news, rarely will he or she say, "I went through this incredibly courageous act in the name of love!" It just does not happen, and that probably plays a part in why fiction is ridden with romantic heroes.

Taking a slightly less realistic perspective, consider all the fictitious heroes who are driven by love. Perhaps more often than it grants determination or motivation, love in many ways hinders their abilities. Desire for their object of affection serves as a distraction, spawns faulty and reckless logic, and gives the antagonist an obscene amount of emotional leverage. These sorts of elements pave the way to overly generic conflicts. And conclusions. Plots and endings become predictable to the point that our capacity to care about the hero's fate becomes stifled because we have already guessed it! Simply put, in my opinion, a character so intensely driven by love in any genre other than romance is a character equipped with more weaknesses than strengths.

This is not to say that I admonish love in literature completely, for it is nevertheless a vital part of our humanity. Failing to incorporate it at all would be akin to committing an ultimate literary blasphemy and do most works a grave injustice! I embrace love and the humanity it bestows upon fictitious characters, but I choose to remain subtle in doing so:

• Xearo's love for Aeria is strong enough to redeem his soul from eternal darkness and grant humanity a final chance to right itself, yet he never breathes a word of it to her. He pushes his emotions aside, for love takes a back seat to defending his homeworld, allowing himself to focus without distraction.
• Yamini comes to care a great deal for Henrik, the one guildmate who shows her compassion, but in being so young and inexperienced she constantly dismisses her feelings. Her love for a mere boy is easily overshadowed by her dedication to her work and her cause, and its positive aura is negated by a lifetime of dissonance.
• Jadera slowly falls for Tristan, her benefactor and Soulcrafter. But due to circumstances, the two must work together to dethrone the master of dreams before plans of a worldwide spiritual domination can take hold. By the time their mutual affections become realized, irreparable tragedy has already befallen the star-crossed couple.

These are three of my biggest characters, and in all cases life wins out over love. One might say that I take an unfortunate, cynical and subdued approach to love in fiction. But in that regard, have I not also taken a small step toward realism? My characters feel as we feel, and are thus similarly denied or else forced to relegate their feelings to a degree of lesser importance in order to tackle whatever adversity their respective universes throw at them. We often find ourselves at a crossroads of sorts where we must decide between emotional pursuits and dire circumstances; why should they get off easy?

As authors, we govern the choices of our characters in order to tell a story. And share a piece of ourselves. Many authors take a very whimsical approach to romance, commonly making it both the conflict and the resolution in a "love conquers all" motif. My hardly revolutionary philosophy is to show that love, while an interesting dynamic between characters, does not always cut it, and that when the consequences of life push hard enough, it must sometimes be disregarded altogether for the greater good. Fate chooses who is worthy, and she chooses who is not. Like a delicate flower, love is not meant to bloom eternal in all places. Or within all people, for that matter.

My characters and myself . . . we are no exception.