Guest Post: Food and Politics by Juliet Kemp

Writing games. I avoided them for years because I was short on time, not ideas. Once I lifted my head from my page, I realized my focus was all wrong. This one-hour-a-week “game” held incredible lessons I couldn’t get anywhere else.

So why the reluctance? That’s the easy part. Take a first-born, type-A personality with a novel in its final draft, multiple short stories out on rejection””oops, I mean submission, numerous other half-written stories, and a second novel that’s itching for a conclusion, then disrupt that work with “games” full of nonsensical sentence prompts, and odd pictures, and you’ll find a non-believer who prefers to focus on “real” work.

I’d occasionally pop into the session, but more often than not, I’d log out as soon as I heard it was a writing game and not the story discussion or feral writing time I’d expected. If I had a deadline to meet, anything with the word “play” was dismissed automatically. Who had time for play? For five and a half years, fun writing seemed like an oxymoron.

I remember getting a rush of rejections, one after another, on stories I’d poured my soul into. I wasn’t hitting the right notes somewhere, and it was time to figure out where. Yet I joined writing games with a casual attitude, logging less than a hundred words per challenge. I had good ideas, but I’d edit my sentences as I went, placing structure and grammar above word count. Others did four or five times my number of words in the ten to fifteen minutes per prompt, and even though I knew the writing gems appeared in unfettered prose, I couldn’t stop fixing things. It wasn’t satisfying, and soon I was back to one or two sessions a month.

For the next few years, I’d join a session if I was bored or had spare time. I still considered writing games an extra, as if writing for fun was a waste of time. Professional writers repeatedly told me, “Don’t correct your work. Let it flow.” Sure, I told them, but I didn’t mean it. I hadn’t found that crucial key that added value to prompt writing. Then one session, a brave reader shared an emotionally beautiful piece of prose inspired by a prompt I’d done little with. Hearing someone else achieve so much using the same prompt in the same length of time was inspiring. I wanted that and realized I’d handicapped myself by focusing on my own writing when I should have been listening to others.

Once my focus shifted, writing games became more than “fun.” The following week I dug in and wrote 193 words, still correcting as I wrote, but less than before. I read to the group, and people waved in appreciation. Then a more seasoned writer read her work. Her character came alive in the first sentence, and she’d given her listeners a strong sense of place, so when the plot kicked in, and things got dark, I pictured the surroundings as if I were there. I instantly saw where my work fell short. I’d drafted a plot outline””a summation. I wanted those primordial elements of life on the page, and her example showed me the way. Her skills, added to all the other things I’d done to improve my craft, lit a spark of understanding, and my writing changed at that moment.

With my resistance gone, I attended each writing-games session with a “challenge accepted” attitude, and my interest leaped from a three-four to an eight-nine. The key wasn’t in the task or the prompt but in hearing what others did with it””how they started their piece, the word choices, phrasing, character description (an area where I truly suck), and other elements handled in a way I envied. I was playing, but in a way that made sense to me.

One of the regulars at writing games is so good at drilling down on a sentence. She doesn’t just write of things normally associated with the contents in the sentence; she lists the things it’s not, then builds support for what it is. For example, the prompt: “Desire is no light thing.” She wrote that a dead body is heavier than a living one, but it should be lighter since the dead no longer have desires, and desires keep people alive””grounded with a gravity that can’t be ignored. I mean, wow! Then there’s another regular who creates the best descriptions and another who launches into crazy, off-kilter prose that shoves my logical mind aside. Taking the creative leap with him is exhilarating.

The range and variety of works are fun, and not in a candy-crush time-sucking way, but fun the way reading is fun. Everyone constructs their stories differently, and whether they focus on setting, character, plot, or a beautiful meld of all three, the creativity and flex of craft are always impressive. There are still prompts that don’t tickle my muse. Take “what are we but ten minds? this is sent with love. this paper has gone far.” I was blank on this one with a capital “B,” but others in the group produced some great pieces, and listening to the “what and how” of their prose was as important to my growth as a writer as plying my own skills to the task.

Looking back, I realized I needed those first years to understand that I was creative and could pull a story from the air using a prompt. But when I wanted more, writing games offered that too.

Beauty lies in the impulsive writing, the understanding and skill brought by the other players, and the option to listen while others read their work. Of course, reading is always optional, but it’s a supportive, safe place to share when your muse strikes. No one gives critiques here, and getting those double-hand waves for a piece that delights you feels pretty nice after writing in isolation these last few years. It’s also a great place to try new techniques, viewpoints, or styles, like poetry or second person.

After six months, I can honestly say my writing has improved. It has miles to go, but that’s the fun of it. I don’t want a skill-level ceiling. Last week, I wrote 247 words in twelve minutes””my new record. I had a character with a personality twist, a plot arc, a strong antagonist, and a good ending. I drafted a story. In twelve minutes. It needs fleshing out, and there’s no setting, but I saw people gasp when the story took an unexpected turn, so I know the bones are there.

The coolest part? I didn’t get there on my own.

Join Cat Rambo and friends on Wednesdays at 11:00 a.m. Pacific Time for Writing Games.

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I cut my SFF teeth on Star Trek, and I credit The Next Generation as setting me on the path to becoming an SFF author. But I lament the monocultures encountered on those Starfleet missions as a missed opportunity. Monocultures may catch attention as a hook, but the believability crumbles when the reader has a lengthy stay and finds that they lack real depth.

My favorite part of writing SFF is inviting the reader to explore new worlds with unearthly mechanics, magic systems, or zoology that entrance the imagination. But what imprints a story on the reader’s soul is the ability to relate to the experience. The real world contains multitudinous experiences, cultures, and viewpoints. It’s important to reflect that in our stories, even if we are zooming in on a more intimate story.

Avoiding monoculture by creating characters who have different experiences makes a story feel vibrant, more faithful, and realistic. When those characters interact, it adds conflict, tension, and opportunities to create real magic.

Building this kind of depth is not hard! It just takes more of the thoughtful and intentional world-building the author is already engaged in. It doesn’t limit the author’s imagination, it gives it more opportunity.

The first book in my Peridot Shift series is told via my airship captain and ne’er-do-well, Talis. While choosing one POV tightened up the story considerably from earlier drafts where multiple characters took center stage, it was incredibly frustrating to describe the entirety of Peridot through the lens of Talis’s biases. Even as her worldview expands through the events of the story, there’s so much she still doesn’t know she doesn’t know. I was mindful of knocking her down a notch every so often, clearing the viewport of her fog so the reader could get a better view beyond it, but still, there was so much work to be done.

When it came time to write the sequel, SALVAGE’s editor, Ryan Kelley, immediately identified that there were other crucial stories here to tell. I approached a massive revision with giddy excitement. My editor had said those magic words every author dreams of hearing: More story. Here was the chance to expand the depth of my world by featuring the other denizens of Peridot!

Talis and her crew are still central to the story, but they begin in a subterranean Rakkar city where their plot to make a triumphant return to the life they knew leaves them far from bigger machinations that are turning. Machinations that threaten consequences for more than just a rag-tag crew of smugglers.

Additional POV characters let me open the map on the world I’d created. To show more cultures, and more viewpoints, including differing positions within a single culture.

Instead of waiting for book three to shatter the stereotype Talis presented of the Vein as a race of blind seers from book one, I got to give a person, Zeela, center stage moments in book two. She observes diabolical happenings and the path to become part of Talis’s crew is clarified, but Zeela also gets to smash the mystique of her people’s uncanny observations by revealing their use of secret, high-tech assistive devices. To normalize and personalize what seems strange and unnatural to someone who doesn’t share that viewpoint.

At the opposite end of the Cutter social spectrum, we follow the twisted thoughts of Hankirk, as well as the selfless aspirations of a young empress. Both people are the same race as Talis, but they live entirely different experiences and show us different ways of seeing the subtler moments of a grand story.

SALVAGE also puts the spotlight on High Priestess Illiya, a Bone priestess struggling to comfort and protect her congregation after their goddess is made mortal. In FLOTSAM, Talis introduces Illiya as more cutthroat and sinister than a pirate. Don’t get me wrong, she is! But in SALVAGE, we also get to learn of her pride, her empathy, and her anxiety.

Every character lives their own life, and each life builds more volume into what it means to be a part of Peridot.

Filling our secondary worlds with multiple cultures and viewpoints reminds us to look outside of our own experiences in the real world, to look past our first impressions so we can understand more about each other. Maybe as we go on a grand adventure to impossible realms, we also learn to see each other, here on Earth, as characters each in our own story whose viewpoints are as worthy as our own.

About the Author
R J THEODORE (website) is hellbent on keeping herself busy. No, really, if she has two minutes to rub together at the end of the day, she invents a new project with which to occupy them.

She enjoys reading, design, illustration, video games (she will take you down in Super Puzzle Fighter II Turbo), binging on movies and streaming series, napping with her cats, and cooking. She is passionate about art and coffee.

R J Theodore lives in New England with her family. With Kaelyn Considine of Parvus Press, she co-hosts bi-weekly episodes of the We Make Books Podcast (wmbcast.com).

In 2018, Theodore made her publishing debut with her self-published novella THE BANTAM, and her novel FLOTSAM, Book One of the Peridot Shift series, published by Parvus Press. Book Two of the Peridot Shift series (Parvus Press), SALVAGE is now available in print and digital.

Follow Theodore’s writing process, find her on social media, and subscribe to her newsletter at rjtheodore.com.

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If you’re an author or other fantasy and science fiction creative, and want to do a guest blog post, please check out the guest blog post guidelines.