I have a simple rule.  If people start complaining about set design or CGI, they’re usually just expressing a strong hostility toward the film they’re watching.  It’s not that I think there isn’t such a thing as good and bad set design, subtle or sloppy CGI.  I just think that complaints about these elements come from a complete lack of cooperation from the audience.  I don’t care what story you’re telling or how well you tell it.  If the audience doesn’t want to like it, you can’t make them.  Conversely, the opposite is often true.  If someone is determined to enjoy something, they can usually dig out a positive nugget or two.

I’m not out to tackle all the elements of Green Lantern, but I will go ahead and talk about one complaint that always bugs me.  There’s a bunch of people who just can’t seem to accept the fact that CGI is here to stay.  And they also can’t seem to accept the fact that it won’t always be seamless.  These complaints seem so frivolous to me that I almost hate addressing them.  But it comes up again and again, so let’s just do this.

CGI isn’t going away.  It will remain a vital part of modern filmmaking and will only grow more important in the future.  An even more important observation is that CGI isn’t going to fool you into believing the unbelievable.  The job of FX is not to be invisible.  Most of the time, they can’t be.  If there’s a giant monster or a laser or a spaceship, you will know it is fake.  The job of an FX isn’t to convince us these things are real.  It’s to allow us to pretend (along with the film) that they are.

Some of my favorite movies have lousy FX.  The original King Kong, Clash of the Titans, and many others use extensive stop-motion animation.  These FX are actually astonishingly good, but they are “bad” if your definition is that they are clearly FX.  The Muppets are terrific, but they’re clearly puppets.  But what kind of asshole is going to poke a kid watching Sesame Street and constantly remind him of that?

So it is too in Green Lantern that there’s really just no way to make an utterly convincing alien planet populated by thousands of strange life forms and make it completely convincing.  And when Hal Jordan flies through space or fights a giant yellow fear monster, we know it’s mostly special FX.  If we didn’t, we’d be delusional.

Yeah, it’s fake.  We all get it.  The people that can play along aren’t being dumb.  They’re just allowing themselves to enjoy the experience.  And, no, it’s not dumb.  It’s fun and cool and completely ridiculous, but what part of magic green space cop made you think realism was the goal?

Which brings me to my final point.  I know that, even in the world of comic books, fun, outrageous adventure is looked down upon.  People will praise The Dark Knight and X-Men: First Class for being “intelligent” superhero flicks.  They’ll heap compliments on Kick-Ass and Watchmen fore being elaborate deconstructions, kind of.  (Although neither of those films really qualify as deconstructions because they’re very much traditional superhero films, just with more blood and swearing than usual.  But that’s a subject for another time.)  What people don’t seem to be able to do anymore is enjoy a good ol’ fashion fantasy adventure.

The superhero “genre”, however you want to define it, is pretty damn diverse by its very nature.  It’s impossible to compare characters like Batman and the Punisher to characters like Superman and Green Lantern.  Or Green Arrow.  Or Spider-Man.  Or just about any other character.  Not all superheroes are meant to be dark and gritty.  They’re not all meant to be brightness and hope, either.  They are all these things and more.  When I loved superhero comics (though it’s been a while), I loved their diversity most of all.  I could read about the Punisher fighting crime on the streets and the Silver Surfer flying through space.  It was a world where mole people could attack a city, or street thugs with colorful gimmicks could commit crimes.  In short, superheroes work best when they’re treated not as uniform category of fiction but as a sprawling category.

It’s unfair, even downright silly, to expect the same thing from Green Lantern as you would from Batman or X-Men.  Because Green Lantern isn’t that character.  His powers are completely outlandish.  His universe is utterly fantastic sci fi.  It’s not a lack of “sophistication” to write a Green Lantern movie where our hero gets his heroic mantle then saves the day by destroying a giant yellow fear monster.  It’s not “childish” for a film to have a good guy who is obviously good and a bad guy who is obviously bad.  And it’s perfectly fine for some stories to be about kicking ass in the name of justice.

Also, it’s okay to say that Green Lantern has some very strange powers that are goofy if taken at face value.  Sure, he makes catapults and race cars and swords out of pure willpower.  That’s what makes him unique and interesting as both a superhero.  It’s the kind of silly conceit that makes no apologies.  (Which is another thing that always irks me.  I hate apologetic fantasy, especially apologetic superheroes.  But again, another topic for another day.)

It occurs to me that I haven’t discussed the specifics of Green Lantern much.  Possibly because I was less annoyed by the critics of the film than by the flimsiness of these recurring criticisms.  So let’s talk about the film itself.

Green Lantern will no doubt have the same problem Thor has.  It crosses an invisible line that most superhero films avoid.  While Iron Man and Batman Begins are both about superheroes, they’re largely grounded in the real world.  And even characters like the Hulk and Superman, while incredibly powerful, are human and human-like.  They also live and work on Earth.

But Green Lantern (like Thor) is a very sci fi character.  While Hal Jordon lives on Earth and mostly hangs around there, he still has a link to a much grander universe.  But where Thor is built on established Norse mythology (admittedly loosely), Green Lantern is an entirely original mythology.  And it’s probably even a bit stranger than Thor’s.  After all, millions of years ago, immortal aliens created a bunch of magic rings that they hand out to worthy beings to act as cosmic law enforcement officers.  At least the Asgardians (and their foes) are human and human-like.

There’s a scene that encapsulates everything great about Green Lantern and everything wrong with Green Lantern, depending on your point of view.  It’s when Hal Jordan is on Oa, surrounded by countless other Green Lanterns.  The movie could’ve played it safe and avoided anything too weird.  Just slap a few rubber forehead aliens in the scene and keep it simple.  Instead, we see an incredibly diverse group of creatures.  There’s a giant bug lantern, a rock lantern, a robot lantern, and so on.  (Side note:  If DC decides to make the robot lantern an official character and is looking for someone to write the story, I happily volunteer.)

Your reaction to this scene will probably tell you everything you need to know about the movie.  If you think it’s “cheesy”, “silly”, or “dumb”, then you are not the kind of person who should go to see a movie about a magic green space cop.  If you (like me) think this is awesome, then you should go ahead and ignore the negative reviews.

Really.  That’s all you need to know.

The acting is good.  The story is fine.  The FX are more than solid.  There are thrills, fun, and at one point, a giant yellow fear monster gets punched in the face by a huge green energy fist.  And if that doesn’t convince you that this is everything a sci fi superhero spectacular should be, then save us all the trouble and don’t bother.  Some of us are here to have a good time, and we don’t need you harshing our mellow.

Oh, and one last thing.  The movie isn’t dumb just because it’s fun.  If being smart always has to equal depressing and dull, then it’s no wonder we take such a dim view of intelligence.

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

It’s well-established that I don’t consider myself a “comic” fantasy writer.  There’s many reasons for that.  Primarily, I don’t try to write “funny”.  Secondarily, I don’t enjoy much comic fantasy myself.  Especially comic fantasy novels, which I tend to find unsatisfying.  My opinion is largely irrelevent, of course.  Most of my fans will describe my books as “funny”.  If it’s not the first thing they mention, it’ll probably be the second or third.  Never further than fourth or fifth.  And I am funny, so it’s hard to take offense at it.

So let’s just just assume I am a “funny” writer.  Being funny is serious business.  Being funny takes work.

Most people think they’re funny.  And they usually are when they’re among the right group of people.  We tend to hang out with people like us, who share our attitudes and sense of humor.  And the standard of everyday humor is pretty simple.  A funny voice.  An inside joke.  A clever remark.  A strange observation.  These are the mark of everyday humor, and they work.

But there’s a galaxy of difference between being casually funny and professionally funny.  If I am a humorist, even if it is somewhat unintentionally, then I am professionally funny.  And professionally funny means being funny is part of my job.  Believe it or not (and sometimes even I forget this) I take this job seriously.  I’m an artist, sure.  I write stories I like.  But I also write stories I want people to enjoy.  And part of enjoying those stories is enjoying the humorous elements.

This weekend, when I was at ConDFW (or when I’m at any convention really), I was funny.  I was entertaining.  I was “on”, so to speak.  I wasn’t phony.  But I was certainly friendly, and I was there to make a good impression.  If I’m not there to get people to like me, then why am I?  Yes, I have a good time, but I could have a good time staying at home playing World of Warcraft.  I’m there to work.  And part of that job is being personable, being funny.

One of the things that annoys me about being classified as a “humor” writer is this notion that humor is easy.  That it’s just a matter of personality.  That I don’t have to work to be funny.  And I don’t.  Not to be everyday funny.  But to be professionally funny…that’s work.  To be engaging all day while meeting fans and colleagues at conventions, that’s a job.  I know it’s a job because I come away from these things exhausted.  Being professionally funny is tiring.

I don’t know if comedy is really harder than drama.  I don’t care to try to quantify it that way.  But I do know that being funny is a lot of work.

I don’t think I’ll ever consider myself a comedic writer.  I never write a story with intent to be funny.  I write stories intended to be fun, engaging, and strange.  I doubt I’ll ever write a “serious” novel by any traditional definition.  My tendency to throw in slime monsters will probably put the kibosh on that.  By my own count, I have slime and slime-like monsters in six of my nine novels, including my current project.  And I have tentacles on four covers.  The odd thing is how I didn’t even notice this until fairly recently.

But being funny is more than just something I do.  It’s a big part of my job, and if I do it well (or even adequately) then I do it well because I take it serously.

Yep.  I’m a professional.  Considering I’m working on my ninth novel, I guess it shouldn’t be strange, but there are times I’m still surprised by it.  And I guess it shouldn’t be odd to be considered a funny guy when I’ve been funny pretty much all my life.

But being a professional reluctantly funny novelologist…that’s weird.  But it’s my job.

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

If you read reviews online (and, really, there’s no reason you should), I’m usually classified as a funny writer, a humor writer, wacky, zany, kooky.  It used to bother me, but I’m getting over that.  Still, the thing that comes up a lot is that I am not a terribly poetic writer.

I don’t know how to respond to that.  I’m certainly not the kind of writer to pour over ever sentence and milk it for maximum writerly effect.  I think I have my poetic moments.  I think I can write some truly crackerjack passages here and there, have terrific moments of subtle characterization, and the occasional clever turn of phrase.  But I also don’t mind a sentence that just gets the job done or a paragraph that bridges the action without impressing.

It feels weird admitting that.  I know writers are supposed to obsess over ever word, every detail.  And I do obsess over those moments in the story that really matter.  I care about the characters.  I care about the action.  I don’t even mind a little fantasy world-building as long as it doesn’t become an exercise in itself.  But I’m not like a lot of writers.  I don’t usually bother building a cosmology.  I don’t generally bother creating deeply detailed profiles of my characters’ childhoods.  And I am not devoted to impressing the reader with my ability to describe every leaf on every tree with literary beauty.

I feel guilty when I admit this.  There are so many people who are writers.  So many people who take this so much more seriously than I do.  So many who treat it as a calling.  And maybe they’re lying about it.  Maybe they’re just towing the line to help create the illusion that what we writers do is magical and inspired and a gift from the Mighty Robot King himself.  Something that elevates us beyond mere mortals.  And maybe they believe it themselves because, when you get right down to it, making up stories is a strange way to make a living.

I’m not saying it doesn’t take talent.  It does.  I tell a story better than most people, and I do take my job seriously.  I know that people are paying good money to have me tell them those stories, and I want those stories to be satisfying, fun, and, with a little luck, something they can take away with them that stays with them a long, long time.

And it’s not as if I’m in this entirely for the money.  If I was, I’m sure I’d be on my sixth sequel to Gil’s All Fright Diner by now, and doubtlessly have a much stronger publishing career than I do.  (Not that I’m complaining about my career, which has so far been more rewarding and fruitful than I had any right to expect.)  While I think there are some definite rewards from breaking The Series Rule of modern publishing, there have also been some wonderful rewards from breaking that rule.  So it’s not as if I’m taking a stand even to the detriment of my career.

So how do I define myself?  I guess I don’t.  Definitions only serve to box things in, and if you ask me, we’re already too boxed in as it is.  Maybe that’s the real trap.  Perhaps we don’t have to define ourselves.  Perhaps it’s a waste of time and energy to try to.  People will slap labels on us just fine without us helping them.  I’m only really comfortable with the Fantasy Novelist label at this point, and even that I approach in the broadest of strokes.

That’s what annoys me about the Comic Fantasy label.  It comes with too many expectations and eliminates too many others.  If I wasn’t a comic fantasy writer, I’d be allowed to have somber moments in my stories.  It might not be assumed that I can’t have deeper thoughts or that I’m a merely another competitor to the thrones of Adams, Pratchett, or Moore.  As if there is only room in this world for so many Comic Fantasy Writers.  As if we are all writing in the same mold rather than I our own distinctive styles.

So forget the labels.  We’d all be a lot better off without them, I think.  What do boxes like Republican and Democrat, Comedy and Tragedy, Trekkies and Brown Coats do but help keep us apart, put walls between us?  They’re tools, but only tools.  We should feel free to throw them aside when they get in the way.

So what kind of writer am I?  A good one.

What kind of writer do I want to be?  A better one.  Always.

And that’s just fine by me.

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

Recently, I read a pair of articles.  The first article was about how the writer didn’t like Doctor Who.  The second article suggested that people who don’t like Doctor Who should just not watch it and stop complaining about it.

But complaining is an important thing.  Complaining is what makes the exchange of ideas possible.  Bitching and moaning is what free speech is all about.

I don’t like Doctor Who either.  I find it highly overrated, dull, a rather clumsy mix of pretentiousness and humor.  And did I mention how unintentionally silly I find the “science” in this science fiction show?  It’s not a bad show.  Certainly not even in the top 10 of unexceptional sci fi shows.  But it’s just not that good, and if there were actually more good sci fi shows on television and if you subtract the nostalgia factor, I think it would’ve came and went and been quickly forgotten by now.  (I call this The Dollhouse Effect.)

Maybe you disagree.  Fair enough.  I don’t deny you your right to like (or even love) Doctor Who.  Just don’t deny me my right to disagree.

Of course, the question that so often comes up after that is “Why do you care?”  And I’m going to go ahead and tell you why I do care.

I care because a bad sci fi show leads to more bad sci fi shows.  And if everyone who disliked bad sci fi shows just sat down and kept quiet, then the trend will just continue.  Doctor Who is an unexceptional sci fi show, but Torchwood is absolutely dreadful.  And there would be no Torchwood without Doctor Who.  And I’m sure whatever spinoff Torchwood manages to spawn will be even worse.  (I call this The Stargate Effect.)

But perhaps “bad” is the wrong word to use.  “Bad” implies badness, and since all of this is a matter of opinion, I’m just suggesting that there are qualities to these shows that I do not enjoy or appreciate.  And if someone else does, good for them.   But this won’t stop me from speaking up every now and then, just to register a blip of disagreement, just to let someone out there know that if they don’t like Doctor Who either that they are not alone.  And to suggest that we don’t offer that opinion is just wrong.

To be sure, there is such a thing as expressing an opinion in an obnoxious and insulting way.  While I don’t like Doctor Who, to suggest that people who do are “stupid” or “foolish” or “morons” would be both over the top and ridiculous.  Such virulent opinions are worthy of derision.  But if someone expresses themselves thoughtfully then we should at least respect their right to do so.

Every bit of progress the terran species has ever made has come from a dissenting opinion.  If the people who disagreed with the majority were always silenced, then new ideas would never develop.  There’s no guarantee that a dissenting opinion will be worth hearing.  Most aren’t.  But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t let people voice them.

So in the interest of dissent, I offer the following opinons:

I don’t like Battlestar: Galactica.  I found it dull, preachy, and way too complicated for its own good.  And I’m pretty sure I’ll like Caprica even less because it looks like BSG if you removed the spaceships and added some Gossip Girl to the mix.  Someone once suggested to me that Syfy’s ultimate goal is to remove all the sci fi from itself, just as Cartoon Network is slowly cutting away all of its cartoons.  And Caprica is just another step in that direction.

I thought Firefly was okay.  But it wasn’t on very long, and it isn’t worthy of the cult of personality around it.

Dollhouse was just dumb.  Dumb from top to bottom.  A bad idea from its inception that just kept getting worse.

Warehouse 13 was kind of cool until it was forced to fit in the generic Syfy mold.

Sanctuary isn’t good.  Worse, it’ s not cool, and no matter how often they try to tell me it is, I’m waiting to be convinced.  And the virtual sets just succeed in making the show seem like something filmed in front of a blue screen.

I kind of like Eureka.  Not a big fan, but I can enjoy it sometimes.

I don’t read series fantasy books.  There are plenty of great series fantasy books, but I just can’t get into them.  It’s nothing personal, but I really like standalone fantasy novels and feel there should be more of them.

Up is the best movie of the year.  It’s also the best fantasy movie of the year.  Avatar was good (much better than I expected), but it can’t touch Up for sheer genius, beauty, and subtle characterization.  Although Avatar did have things fighting other things, and I do love when different things fight.  Still, gotta go with Up on this.

You might disagree with these opinions.  That’s just fine with me.  Am I the dissenting genius?  Or just a loonie?  Time will tell.  But I just wanted to put that out there.

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

I’ve decided to be inspirational today because I love it when I hear that something I’ve written has given an aspiring writer hope.  If I can do that, then I figure that this isn’t a waste of time because, as I’ve pointed out before, I was an aspiring writer not so long ago.

What’s my inspirational message today?

You can be a professional writer.

Yes, you.

I say this without hesitation, without even knowing anything about you.  I say this not even knowing if you want to be a professional writer.  I say this assuming that many of you reading this are, in point of fact, very, very bad writers.  Most importantly, I say that because it’s true.

Anybody can be a professional writer.  It’s one of the great things about the job.  It’s why so many people want to do it.  Think about it.  How many aspiring football players do you meet?  Plumbers?  Astronauts?  Hairstylists?  Go go dancers?  That’s because these jobs take talent.  You have to be able to catch a ball to be a pro football player.  You have to not throw up in your spacesuit to be an astronaut.  Cutting hair may not be rocket science, but I’ll admit that I can’t figure it out.  Although in my defense, I haven’t actually tried.

Still, the thing about writing, even in comparison to so many other jobs in this world (including other artistic-type professions) is that talent is probably the least important part of the job.  There.  I said it.  And I don’t deny it.

Time for an aside.  I’m not implying that there aren’t many talented and wonderful writers out there.  Plenty of them.  And I’m not suggesting that bad writers get rewarded more consistently than good writers.  I’m just saying that writing is a pretty simple job.  All you really need to do is understand how a sentence works, and you’ve accomplished 90 percent of the job.  The other 10 percent can be a killer.  I’ll admit this.  But it isn’t really necessary to be a talented writer to be a professional writer.

I know this because I read a lot of really, really bad books.  Popular books by popular writers.  No, I’m not going to name names so don’t bother asking.  I also read a lot of good books.  And there is, as far as I’m concerned, little correlation between success and talent in any way, good or bad.

Of course, there are untalented folks in all fields of human endeavor.  I’m sure you can find a lazy astronaut, an unattractive soap opera star, a clumsy ballerina if you look hard enough.  But these are the exceptions, not the rule.

Writing fiction is probably the most subjective art form there is.  It may be the most abstract job there is.  (Okay, there’s ghost hunting, which involves pretending to see spirits in absurdly trivial events, but I’d rather not open that door again.)  For every fan who likes my books, there are probably dozens who don’t.  Maybe they don’t like the swearing in some of them.  Maybe they think my books are too short.  Maybe they prefer books about pirates.  There are a million reasons to like or dislike anything I (or anyone else) writes.

So my inspirational words to all aspiring writers who might be reading this is that anybody can become a professional novelologist.  They might not make a fortune.  They might not set the publishing world on fire.  But, with hard work, determination, and a whole hell of a lot of luck, any aspiring writer (who knows how a sentence work) can one day sell their novel.

So keep writing.  Keep submitting.  Do endeavor to improve your writing.  It might help.  It can’t hurt.  But always remember that you can do it. 

Probably.

Of course, none of this pep talk actually applies to me.  As we all know, I am a tremendously talented, charismatic individual destined for greatness.  My success was dictated by The Mighty Robot King himself (with a little backup from The Jade Panda Emperor thrown in for good measure).  But every rule has its exception.

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

Honestly, I don’t know the answer to any of those questions.  Writing is weird like that.  I write things.  I get paid.  Even if it doesn’t prove I’m good at it, proves that at least I can keep a roof over my head doing it.  And I get positive feedback on this blogging stuff.  Of course, that’s kind of a self-selecting audience.  Very few people take the time to post a comment telling me how obnoxious I am although I’m sure those folks are out there, too.

But ignoring those people and going by the checks that go into my bank account and the positive comments on my blogs and even the occasional real life person who says they read something of mine and liked it, I’ve got something going on here.  Some, dare I say it, talent.  (I dared.)

I hate that word though because it takes my job and makes it seem magical.  When really all I do is sit down in front of a computer and make up stories.  Anybody can do it.  Not anybody can do it well, but that doesn’t prevent a lot of bad writers from getting paid and getting paid well.  (Insert your favorite successful, untalented writer of choice here.)

That’s something I never forget.  No matter how good a writer I think I am, no matter how many people adore me (and while it’s not really that many people, it sure is a lot more than I ever expected), I could stink on ice.  I could be one of those bad but financially viable writers I make fun of.  Irony can be a real pain in the ass, huh?

Oh, and don’t bother telling me how great I am.  While it’s nice to hear, I’m not fishing for compliments.  Also, you might be one of those people with really bad taste that help encourage bad writers.  Either way, I thank you for indulging me because I’m a great writer, an adequate juggler, and a generally cool dude, but I’d probably be loading boxes on the night shift at UPS right now if it wasn’t for you.

Moving on . . .

So in addition to being a (disgruntled) comic book fan.  I’m also a game player.  I don’t know exactly when it happened, but somewhere, I crossed the line from hobbyist to full-blown enthusiast.  I know game companies the same way people know car manufacturers.  I even follow some game designers the same way movie afficianados follow directors.

(FYI:  Bruno Faidutti has yet to make a bad game.  Ad Astra is a current favorite among my small gaming group.)

If such a thing is even possible, game designers are even more obscure than novelologists.  While everyone has heard of Stephen King and Daniel Steele, who knows the name of the guy who designed Sorry?

Even the hobby is difficult to explain.  When people find out that you play games, they usually get this perplexed look on their face and say “Like Monopoly?”  Then I close my eyes and shake my head.

“Kinda. . . ”

I’ve pretty much given up on trying to explain it because unless you’ve experienced the joy of Heroscape, Monsterpocalypse, or Citadels, you just ain’t gonna get it.

And finally . . .

Godzilla would totally kick King Kong’s ass.  Don’t try denying it.  One is a huge, city destroying, radiaoctive, fire-breathing dinosaur.  The other is a big ape that couldn’t even climb a single building without getting shot down like a chump.

Biplanes?  Seriously?  That’s weak.  So until you get laser vision or the power to regenerate, Kong, you should probably stay out of the big leagues.  Just a suggestion.

And on that controversial note, I bid you all a good night.

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee