james patrick kelly

Posts Tagged ‘james patrick kelly’

Quick Updates for 2009-12-09

Wednesday, December 9th, 2009

Resources

An article on gothic romance by SFWA member Angel McCoy at Backseat Nightmares

Member News

Fantastic interview with Mike Resnick
Shimmer magazine has audio of Jay Lake reading his story “Shedding Skin” for their Clockwork Junglebook Issue
Congratulations! James Patrick Kelly Wins NH Literary Award
Congratulations to Aliette de Bodard for her sale of “The Jaguar House, in Shadow” to Asimov’s
SFWA members: The draft of the new bylaws is up for discussion. Please read and comment.
Congratulations to SFWA members Kami Garcia & Margaret Stohl whose novel “Beautiful Creatures” debuted at #3 on New York Ttimes list.

Industry News

Victoria Strauss: More on Google Book Settlement: France’s Sarkozy challenges Google
Agent Jenny Rae Rappaport announces that she is closing The Rappaport Agency.

Tags: Aliette de Bodard, Angel McCoy, james patrick kelly, Jay Lake, Kami Garcia, Margaret Stohl, mike resnick, twitter
Posted in News, SFWA Blog | Comments Off

Murder Your Darlings

Tuesday, June 23rd, 2009

photo by Beth Gwinn

by James Patrick Kelly

What follows is not for the squeamish.

It’s the nature of writers to fall in love with words, particularly their own. Clever turns of phrase excite us; we beam like proud parents when our protagonists take on lives of their own; a shapely plot twist can turn our heads. There is nothing wrong with indulging in the occasional fling-as long as it stops in draft. When time comes to make that final revision, however, you must harden your heart, sharpen the ax and murder your darlings.

Well, maybe not all of them. Just the shiftless ones, those precious freeloaders who are too busy looking good to do any work. Once you learn how to spot them, you’ll see them everywhere, in unpublishable manuscripts and in award-winning stories, in my work and hers and yours. There are no exceptions; even Shakespeare can be profitably trimmed.

Some writers like to fix problems by addition rather than subtraction. First they layer in just a little more complexity to develop a rounder Aunt Penelope. And then they expand the garage scene, so it will foreshadow the car chase. Last they have Biff’s lawyer explain the rules of evidence to his secretary after the trial so that slow readers will get the end. If these writers worry about wordiness at all, they might tighten a few lines here and there. Drop a “he said,” on page two. Major surgery is for beginners, right?

What they don’t realize is that muscular prose alone can’t lift a narrative. Any sentence, no matter how powerful, that serves no story purpose is just so many wasted words. Obviously, adjective pileups and unnecessary clauses and clunky diction must go. However, effective cutting involves more than line editing. You can also strike whole paragraphs — pages, even! For example, toss out that extra twist and the plot might come clear. Too much costume jewelry weighs characters down so they can hardly move. Rather than reconstruct the pyramids in five paragraphs (despite that week you spent cruising the Nile last summer), pick the two best and invite readers to supply some of their own building materials.

Although I can offer some specific suggestions for what to excise, please don’t memorize my list. These skills are most useful when stored in intuition, not consciousness. The best way to prevent verbosity is to develop an instinct for cutting, which means you should practice every day. I know enough writers to realize there’s no universal technique for getting words on paper. But here’s the routine that works for me.

I write at the computer, the greatest advance in literary technology since the eraser. I spend the first hour or so paring and revising the previous day’s work. This not only promotes the proper mindset but it also helps me re-enter the world of the story. I’m rarely stuck because I always begin with these editorial warm-ups — much easier than first draft, in my opinion. In the middle part of the day I try to compose as carefully as I can. Later on, however, I may let standards slip in order to fill out the daily complement of screens. This admittedly sloppier work will either be cleaned up or pruned first thing the next morning, as the process begins again.

Although I edit daily, I rarely attempt major cuts until I finish a working draft. I like to split production of a finished manuscript into two stages, revision and deletion. In the revision stage I make sure I’ve given my readers enough of everything: plot, character, setting, theme. I search for logic flaws and continuity breaks; I run my spell checker. Revision ends once I’m satisfied that the manuscript is complete and as coherent as I can make it. Only then do I go through it one last time with an itchy finger on the delete key.

How much to trim at this point? Based on extensive reading, I estimate that the current rate of literary inflation is about 10%. I try to do my best to fight it; so should you. Thus, if the revision draft is twenty pages, the submission should be eighteen.

Two pages! How can you carve two pages of living prose from a story without killing it? Here are some things to look for.

Adjectival and adverbial leeches. Start at the sentence level, hunting for the unnecessary modifiers which drain the life out of prose. Strong verbs are the key to taut writing. Rather than, “The ungainly triceratops walked slowly away,” try “The triceratops lumbered away.”

Clumsy entrances and exits. Don’t waste time moving people around; too many doors open and close in fiction. If you want the UPS man to deliver a mysterious parcel, he doesn’t need to knock, come in, and ask Reggie to sign for it. When Janet screams at Bob that she’s sick of his catting around and wants a divorce, why must she also stalk from the house to her car and peel out of the driveway? Some writers try to punctuate emotional scenes with histrionic exits. If the scene isn’t angry enough, fix it. Don’t slam the door.

Unnecessary scene or time switches. Aristotle was wrong about physics but he was right to recommend unity of time and place. Before you board a cruise ship or skip ahead three weeks, always ask: is this trip necessary? When you change venues or let time fly, you take on an extra narrative burden. You must describe the new setting, explain what happened in the interim. Compressing these story elements can save words while shifting the focus back onto character and action.

Overpopulation. In the attempt to recreate the sweep and richness of life, some writers keep cramming characters into a story until it resembles the Marx Brothers’ stateroom in A Night At The Opera. The people you want readers to care about will be lost in a mob scene, so keep the cast to a minimum. Name as few characters as you can, describe even fewer. If you can combine two characters into one, you probably ought to.

Overdramatization. “Show, don’t tell,” can be a dangerous policy. Prolix writers think they must dramatize everything. But a story isn’t a game of charades; you’re allowed to come right out and tell the reader what’s what. Do you really need a rhapsodic paragraph about Amanda’s aquiline nose and alabaster skin and piercing blue eyes and tawny mane when all you wanted to say was that George was attracted to her? When necessary tell, don’t show.

Arriving early; staying late. Not all stories start on page one — only the good ones. If you’re the first at the party, there’s usually nothing to do until the other guests arrive except to stand around and admire the furniture. Writers who start their stories too early have the same problem. They waste time describing the china on the breakfast table, the daisies nodding in the garden. Or else they deliver a weather report. Yet the same people who chuckle at the classic howler, “It was a dark and stormy night,” don’t hesitate to play meteorologist in opening paragraphs of their own fiction. Similarly, when the story is over, stop writing. There’s no need to explain exactly what became of everyone and how they all felt and what it all meant. Memorable fiction rarely ends with the last line. By leaving some things unwritten, you empower the reader to imagine what happens next.

It is one skill to recognize potential cuts, another to make the right ones. A strategy I’ve developed is to read my work aloud in draft; it forces a fresh approach. Try it sometime and listen carefully to the expression in your voice. You may actually hear your interest level peaking and dipping.

For those who just can’t bring themselves to operate on their own fiction, I offer this advice: get a second opinion. Almost anyone can help, even your mom. In fact, if you’re dissatisfied with the criticism she’s been giving you lately, don’t ask for it next time. Instead, just hand her the manuscript and a blue pencil and tell her to prune 10%. While Mom may not have been an English major, she’ll know when she’s bored. Easier for her to remove the slow bits than to critique your subtext.

Unfortunately, the craft of cutting is undervalued in a world where writers are paid by the word. And it shows; you don’t have to look very hard to find padded work in print. Yet clearly it is precision which separates the journeyman from the master. Perhaps the way to grow as a writer is to shrink your manuscripts. Or, as Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch so memorably put it, “Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it — whole-heartedly — and delete it before sending your manuscripts to press. Murder your darlings.“

Tags: james patrick kelly, revising, revision
Posted in Information Center, The Craft of Writing, Tips for Beginners, Writing Technique | Comments Off

Writers’ Workshops

Thursday, June 18th, 2009

by James Patrick Kelly

You don’t believe in writers’ workshops — never have. Maybe you had a bad experience in college. Some reedy creative writing type sneered at sci-fi and said you probably ought to think about a career in plumbing. Or perhaps it was that incestuous little workshop in your home town, one of those adult education courses filled with achingly sincere poets and would-be Joyces who responded to criticism by saying silly things like “I only write for myself.”

You swear by writers’ workshops. You went to Clarion — lots of us did — and it changed your life. Or maybe you were one of the lucky ones, because you lived in Boston or Austin or Minneapolis or Denver or Eugene — someplace where there was an established professional workshop. Somehow you wangled an invitation and, mirabile dictu, they took your work seriously. After a while, you did too. And the rest is literary history.

There are probably thousands of writers’ workshops in the United States. The vast majority live down to their reputation, noisily proving the cliche that you can’t teach writing. About the only good they do is to provide an incentive for the neophyte to write regularly. There are a precious few, however, that work. What you learn in a good workshop is not how to write, but rather what your audience makes of what you’ve written. Forget about silver-haired authority figures handing down the ten commandments of good writing. There’s no shock quite so instructive as listening to a roomful of astute readers misconstrue your intentions, no pleasure quite so memorable as hearing a stranger speak of your work with understanding and appreciation.

How to recognize the good workshop? Almost all of the sf variety are based on the Milford model, for which the legends credit Damon Knight. This was the way Milford worked when it was the national workshop (and works today; a scaled-down Milford continues as one of the most outstanding of our many regional workshops.) This is the way Clarion works — with a few minor variations. This is the format of Sycamore Hill, the current national workshop. The problem is that most of the Milford-format workshops are either too far away or else are filled and have waiting lists. If you’re really interested, what you may need to do is start your own.

Here’s how.

The Milford model works best with between five and seventeen members. Too few and the workshop loses its necessary diversity, too many and the critique of each story drags on to excruciating lengths. The group usually gathers together in one place for some length of time: a single day or maybe a weekend for the smaller, regional workshops, five days to a week for a national workshop like the old Milford or Sycamore Hill. Clarion takes six weeks. Both Sycamore Hill and Clarion are annual events, while many of the regional workshops meet on a monthly or bimonthly schedule. Only writers with manuscripts in the workshop take part in the critique; no audience is allowed. While the furnishing of the workshop room is a matter of circumstance and taste, the optimal arrangement is for the group to sit around a large table or otherwise gather the wagons into a circle. The stories are read beforehand; the more conscientious critics read more than once. Each critic holds forth in turn, most referring to notes they’ve taken. The custom is to pass these notes to the writer at the end of the session. During critiques the writer may not respond to comments unless asked a direct “yes or no” question. No one is supposed interrupt another’s critique, although there’s often some — usually trifling — cross talk. Repetition is inevitable, although wistful sighs and vacant stares can sometimes prod repeaters to pass when they have nothing new to add. After everyone else has spoken, the writer gets the opportunity to give thanks, explain, rebut or say nothing. A free-form discussion occasionally ensues; otherwise it’s on to the next story. Some workshops enforce these simple rules as a group or the organizers may act as semi-official referees.

Describing the model doesn’t really give the sense of what a workshop is like. There’s a misapprehension that the criticism is unremittingly harsh, that the critiques are subject to personal feud and ideological debate, that some people recklessly rewrite perfectly good stories, while others offer conflicting opinions which can reduce the poor writer to total confusion. You’ve probably heard some of the horror stories, tales of crushed egos and burnt manuscripts. Well, there are no guarantees. Once in a great while, workshops stray. Nevertheless, two points need to be made.

The first is that the workshop provides the writer with a range of opinion. Unanimity is rare; it’s a big genre, folks. The reality is that some people simply hate elves, others resent metafiction, many think vampires are silly and hardware puts more than a few to sleep. It’s hardly surprising that the critics around the table tend to respond most intelligently to stories which are like the ones they themselves enjoy. While the feminist might legitimately comment that she never reads sword and sorcery and would not have finished the story under consideration had it not been in the workshop, the cyberpunk might confess a secret love of heroic fantasy and offer a connoisseur’s insight. Yet even allowing for a diversity of tastes, a consensus usually emerges. This consensus may not always solve a story’s problems or fully appreciate masterwork, but it will not settle for cliched situations, cardboard characters, off-the-shelf concepts and stale emotion, and it can easily recognize narrative drive, believable dialogue, fresh ideas and deft characterization.

The second point is that there’s no criticism quite as blunt as a fistful of rejection slips. Workshopping offers a more humane way to receive bad news — if indeed the news is bad. Not only that, but the process can give writers a new perspective on how decisions to reject or accept are made. For in a sense writers play at being editors during a workshop. They get to read for the mythical Adequate Science Fiction Magazine or the anthology Wicked New Visions, edited by (your name here). They are not, however, allowed to hide their opinions behind the cryptic “This material is not suitable for us at the present time.” They must face the writer and explain specifically and at length why the story does not suit. They must justify their readings, rationalize their aesthetic prejudices. It’s a difficult role to play, but it can be invaluable both for the writer and the editor-for-a-day. Admittedly, some people do get carried away. Sweeping rewrite syndrome is an example. Yet even this excess is much more likely to spring from enthusiasm than malice; people want more than just publishable stories, they want the writer to do his very best, every time, and no excuses, please. What’s the harm in this? The writer is free to ignore meddlesome advice, and in almost every session some particularly sympathetic critic will make at least one suggestion which can help focus or improve the story.

It’s clear, however, that some writers are uncomfortable with this notion of colleagues helping to write their stories. (Some writers are also uncomfortable with the notion of editing.) Whose story is it if you use that killer ending Kate Wilhelm suggested? Will peer pressure homogenize your work? These are fair questions, to which there are no universal answers.

Which brings us to an important caveat: workshops are not for everyone. They are definitely not for the thin-skinned; people who have difficulty separating criticism of the work from personal criticism are well advised to stay away. Nor are workshops for followers of Heinlein’s Third Rule for Success in Writing: “You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order.” There’s no point in workshopping non-negotiable stories. Of course, what you expect is a standing “O” from your colleagues, immediate sale to a top market followed by a raft of award nominations and multiple Best of the Year appearances. That’s only natural. But it’s dishonest to decide beforehand that no matter what transpires during the critique, your story is perfectly salable and you’re not changing a goddamned word. Beware as well if you have a truly idiosyncratic writing voice; the process seems to work best for stories in the mainstream of the genre — so to speak. It’s also difficult, although not impossible, to get a satisfactory critique of a novel. Especially at national workshops like Sycamore Hill, where even the strong stagger under the reading burden, there are limits placed on manuscript length. No one has time to read an entire novel. Fragments, unfortunately, tend to get fragmentary criticism. Novels-in-progress are better suited to the more frequent regional workshops where over time, chapter by chapter, the book at least has a chance to considered in its entirety. To restate: workshops are not for everyone. Some of our most gifted writers abstain for reasons of temperament and practicality. It’s simply a matter of what works for you. Some of us write in longhand, others compose at the keyboard. Some are morning people, others can’t count to three before lunch.

One workshop secret — admittedly not very well kept — is that the critiques are not, in and of themselves, sufficient justification for shelling out plane fare from San Francisco to Raleigh, North Carolina, or for leaving home and your paying job for six weeks at Clarion. There are other benefits, intangible and yet undeniable, to the attending a writers’ workshop.

Validation, for example. One bane of the beginning writers’ life is fluctuating confidence. Workshops have helped resolve many, many more confidence problems than they have caused. You know you have some talent, otherwise they wouldn’t have accepted you at Clarion. And even though you haven’t had a sale since Labor Day, the other writers in the workshop still read your latest manuscript with care and enthusiasm. A multiple award winner sits next to you; across the room is a writer who sold her first story when you were still struggling with The Cat in the Hat. They believe in you, therefore you are a writer, even if all the editors haven’t tumbled to it yet.

Community. It’s a lonely business, okay? Most people you meet have no idea what you do. You try to tell a neighbor about the magazines and he asks if you know Stephen King. At the workshop, everyone understands. When you’re making a point in casual conversation, you don’t have to explain about relativity or narrative lumps or royalties. Your colleagues have the same problems and maybe even some solutions. It’s comforting to know that you’re not necessarily crazy for writing this stuff, or at least if you are, then there are other lunatics loose too.

Influence. Sometimes you learn things at a workshop that have nothing to do with the story you brought. Since writers tend to get prickly about this, perhaps the less said the better. Nevertheless, it’s impossible to critique a manuscript without discovering both clever solutions and poor decisions. The careful writer can emulate the former and eschew the latter without violating his artistic integrity. All of us learn from our reading or we ought to. Moreover, some writers attend workshops with the announced intention of influencing their colleagues. Which leads us to …

Controversy. The genre keeps changing and people keep arguing about it at workshops — oh, how they argue! It’s fascinating to watch ideologies and styles contend in real time, as opposed to the maddeningly slow pace of publishing and the USPS. What is surprising about this clash of ideas is not that arguments occasionally get out of hand; it’s how often they remain civil and useful. People who talk to each other find common ground. Or they come to understand exactly why they disagree instead of relying on what he said she said she thought she read in a fanzine somewhere. Even for those who are not direct parties to the debate, workshop controversies provide an incentive to self-examination. The great controversialist Plato used to argue that the unexamined life is not worth living.

Ultimately, what sends writers off to workshops is ambition. It’s easier to stay home and keep plugging away, certainly cheaper. But you want something more. You want to get better. Maybe a workshop will help, maybe not. Lots of people say it’s worth a try.

Tags: critique, james patrick kelly, workshop
Posted in Information Center, Workshops and Critique Groups | Comments Off

You and Your Characters

Tuesday, January 4th, 2005

Written by James Patrick Kelly

Copyright © 1991 by Davis Publications,
First published in WRITING SCIENCE FICTION AND FANTASY,
edited by Gardner Dozois, et. al., St. Martin’s Press.

Once I admitted to myself that I had the raging hunger to write, I gobbled up every book on the subject I could find. I still have most of them; I’ve just gathered fourteen and stacked them beside my computer monitor for inspiration. Each has a chapter on characterization. If you’re looking for technical jargon, have I got some used books for you!

It seems there are all kinds of characters: developing characters, static characters, round characters, flat characters, cardboard characters (oh, are there cardboard characters!), viewpoint characters, sympathetic characters, unsympathetic characters, stock characters, confidantes, foils, spear-carriers, narrators, protagonists, antagonists. But that’s not all; characters can play many roles. There are flat, sympathetic, static confidantes, like the unnamed first person narrator in H.G. Wells “The Time Machine.” Or developing, flat, unsympathetic antagonists, like HAL in 2001, A Space Odyssey. Still with me?

I’ve recently been teaching my daughter Maura to ski, a skill described by a language every bit as arcane as that of characterization. To execute the stem turn, for example, you must learn to unweight, sideslip, and reset the edges of your uphill and downhill skis. Suppose I were to ski alongside of you as you write your next story, shrieking instructions. “Okay now, drop a little description here, shoulders downhill, unweight the uphill ski … now use your foil to set your edges, sideslip, that’s it, keep your spearcarriers nice and flat … no, no! Slow down! Tell, don’t show!” You’d get so flustered trying to follow directions that you’d end up face down in the snow. No one can tell you how to ski — or write — until you’ve already tried it and taken some falls. You should open a how-to book like this only after a hard day of doing, when you’re sitting with your feet propped in front of a crackling fire, figuring out what went wrong, how to make it better tomorrow.

Although the vocabulary of characterization is important, it can also get in your way. In fact, even if you were to memorize all the definitions, your next move would be to forget them as soon as possible. I don’t worry about who’s round and who’s flat when I’m working on a story; I’m too busy trying not to slam into the trees. The way to master technique is by writing, not reading. You need to load the fundamental concepts of the craft into your intuition, where they can do the most good, rather than into your consciousness, where they can only distract you. Internalize, internalize!

Having said that, there’s one suggestion I can offer before you launch yourselves onto fiction’s slippery slopes. Nothing startling, nothing abstruse — just a little trick that works for me. Why don’t you try it before we sort through the nomenclature?

In my opinion, the best way to write believable stories is to pretend each character is you.

The operative word here is pretend. You couldn’t possibly be your characters since you exist in different worlds. There are no wizards or vampires in your neighborhood and you’ll probably never get into orbit, more’s the pity. The life histories you create for these imaginary people will necessarily be different from your own. You’ll have to pretend to be both male and female, young and old, good and evil. Yet no matter how far a story leads away from your own experience, or even from the familiar precincts of reality, you must strive to put yourself in your character’s place.

Imagining you are your characters can help keep you from reproducing the cast of plot-driven robots that has traditionally clunked through our genre. Take, for example, the bore. Chances are you wouldn’t dream of lecturing people in a casual conversation and you look for the exits when some bore does start to pontificate. Yet characters in badly written sf are always dumping information on each other in order to advance the story. Or consider the plot convert, who spends most of the story thwarting the hero until a moment of blinding revelation. A conversion follows which makes St. Paul’s on the road to Damascus seem half-hearted, so that the writer can present us with an ending as tidy as a military school bunkroom. In my experience, people admit they’re wrong grudgingly, if at all. Yet another example is the damn fool. Why is it that when some bloodthirsty creature clearly threatens the planetary exploration team, some damn fool always wanders off and gets himself killed? Would you leave the safety of the spaceship? Of course not! However, the damn fools do every time; otherwise there’d be no story.

All right, you know better than to make such basic mistakes. So then why does every character have to be you? Can’t you draw from your circle of friends and acquaintances? Your Aunt Mary? George Bush? Yes, by all means. Many writers base characters on real people who are not themselves. I know I have. However, I do not fool myself into imagining that I’ve captured my real life models in words. Maybe I can make my characters act just like people I’ve met or read about. If I’m lucky, I might even have the benefit of having heard my models explain why they did what they did. But most people live the unexamined life that Plato warned us of; their insight into their own motivations is limited. Besides, human behavior is overdetermined. We have more than one reason for doing just about everything that we do. When the real life murderer confesses, “I killed him because of this,” he’s oversimplifying. What he should say is, “I killed him because of this and this and this and especially that, which I had no way of knowing.” Journalists report confessions; when readers want simple truth, they buy a newspaper. But readers also crave more complex truth. When they seek a literary experience that maps the often bewildering convolutions of their own inner lives, they buy Asimov’s. As a fiction writer, your job is to sift through an array of possible motivations — some logical, many not — and present only the ones that make the most story sense to you. The way to do that is not to ask, “What would make one man kill another?” Unless you’re a telepath, the answer to that question will always be unknowable. Better to ask, “What would make me kill someone?”

While I believe that this unblinking self-examination is absolutely necessary, I realize that it can be very disturbing. You want to be liked and would much prefer to present your best side to the world. However, fiction is not public relations. We all have dark impulses which we’ve been taught to hide, perhaps even to deny; to be a writer you must unlearn some of the lessons of civilization. Nobody takes seriously a story in which the good guys are all saints and the bad guys are the spawn of hell. Saints can have their bad days and even monsters love their moms. Increasing the level of moral ambiguity usually enhances a character’s believability. Only psychopaths do wrong for the fun of it. Most of the evil in the world is perpetrated by people like you and me — the very people you want to characterize. Sometimes we do it out of malice; sometimes we’re merely selfish or lazy; often as not we think we’re doing the right thing. In any event, you have to be brave enough to portray your own ugliness in order to create memorable characters.

I know that some will resist this advice. Why go to all the trouble of putting yourself into stories, stretching your moral imagination to the breaking point, perhaps scaring the hell out of yourself in the process? In the May, 1985 issue of Asimov’s, the great Isaac Asimov himself stirred up a controversy when he published a polemical essay called “The Little Tin God of Characterization.” Isaac’s thesis was that because of the unique nature of science fiction, characterization is not as important as getting the ideas right. “I do what I can, but I’ve got my limits, and if I have to settle for less than 100 percent, I just make sure that I remember where the science fictional bottom line is. Not characterization, not style, not poetic metaphor — but idea. Anything else I will skimp on if I have to. Not idea.” Throughout the history of the genre, others have made similar arguments for the supremacy of idea over characterization. In fact, if there ever was a war between the humanists and the cyberpunks of my generation (a dubious proposition), it was fought over this very issue. You’ll find any number of published, award-winning writers who will “skimp” at times on characterization while they dazzle us with the brilliance of their ideas. In fact, some writers, myself among them, have actually been taken to task for attempting to write the science fiction novel of character — an oxymoron, to some sensibilities. So whom should you believe?

First of all, as Isaac and others were quick to point out, character and idea are not mutually exclusive. Moreover, few are gifted with the extrapolative genius of an Asimov. The rest of us, beginners especially, must work as hard at characterization as we do on our ideas in order to maintain the suspension of disbelief which readers demand. When a wonky idea, a wooden character or even an incoherent sentence cause readers to realize they’re reading fiction, the writer has lost the game. And there are certain standards of characterization below which even the hardest of hard science fiction writers dare not descend. There is, however, an even more telling objection to those who maintain that brilliant ideas can carry mundane characters.

The quality of speculation is directly related to the quality of characterization. Readers presented with a new reality, whether it is a generation starship, an alien planet or a magic kingdom, apply certain tests of credibility. How long could a closed system in outer space be self-supporting? Could a world without metals support a technological civilization? What would keep the wizards from taking over everything? Although questions about infrastructure, of political and social organization may be the first to occur, readers will eventually ask another, equally crucial, question before disbelief is completely suspended. Does the fictive world support the diversity of human life that we see in the real world? It makes no difference that the shiny mag-lev trains run on time if the riders are all middle-aged white American males in three piece suits. A richly imagined world inhabited by mannequins is inherently less believable than the same world would be if it teemed with well-drawn characters who are truly citizens of their alternate reality. In my opinion, this is one reason why some of the classic writers of science fiction are now so painful to read. E.E. “Doc” Smith’s work is still chock full of intricate speculation, but who can take his characters — especially his women — seriously? It’s not only bad art, it’s bad extrapolation. The science fiction character is the readers’ guide to the ideas of the story. If she doesn’t belong, nobody will trust her; if she isn’t real, no one will believe her. Even the writer who aspires to write idea stories skimps characterization at her peril.

The problem with this whole debate is that it makes the questionable assumption that we can yank characters out of their natural environment of plot and setting to analyze them. It’s like expecting to learn something about the ethology of rainbow trout by watching the one you’ve just caught as it flops and gasps on the hot deck of your fishing boat. Or as Henry James said, “What is character but the determination of incident? What is incident but the illustration of character?” Character, plot, setting, theme, idea and style are inextricably bound; all must stand or fall together.

So yes, it’s necessary to work at characterization, no matter what your ambitions in the genre are. And since your technique will be better if it’s intuitive rather than self-conscious, it may help to try to imagine that you are your characters. However, as we’ve seen, writers and critics have developed a common language over the years so that they could talk to one another about this subject. Time now for some vocabulary drill. Don’t worry; there will be no pop quiz at the end of this chapter. You don’t have to memorize the list in order to write well. However, whether you can define these terms or not, you must eventually come to understand them.

Antagonist: a.k.a. “the bad guy” but better thought of as the opponent of the protagonist or central character. The action of a story arises from conflict between the antagonist and protagonist, as in Baum’s The Wizard of Oz with its struggle between the Wicked Witch of the West and Dorothy. The antagonist need not be a person at all but may be an animal, an inanimate object or even nature itself. For example, the antagonist of Tom Godwin’s story “The Cold Equations” is outer space.
Cardboard character: A stereotype, mannequin, drone or otherwise uninteresting simulacrum passing for a real character. Cardboard is what you use when — for whatever reason — you fail to put yourself into your characters. It is the only pejorative I’ve included in this list. The utopia of Edward Bellamy’s didactic “idea” novel Looking Backward is entirely populated with right-thinking men and women of cardboard.
Confidante: someone in whom the central character confides, thus revealing her personality. Once again, that someone need not be a person. In Robert Heinlein’s The Door Into Summer the central character, Dan Davis, continually confides his plans and feelings to his cat, Pete.
Developing character: a character who changes over the course of the story. The central character is often but not always a developing character. However, it’s crucial that the action of the story causes some character to change. When I was at Clarion, Damon Knight used to write “Who cares?” at the end of stories in which no one develops — a characteristically terse criticism which I found devastating. A tour de force of developing characterization is Louis Sacchetti, the protagonist of Thomas Disch’s Camp Concentration, who is infected with a disease that makes him a genius.
Flat character: Someone who is characterized by one or two traits. “Flat” and “round” were terms first proposed by E.M. Forster in his Aspects of the Novel and they are often misapplied by modern critics. Flat is especially corrupted when used as a synonym for cardboard; in Forster’s usage, flat is not a derogatory term. Rather, it describes a character who can be summed up in a sentence. Gollum from The Lord of the Rings is a wonderful character who is absolutely flat in that his character is determined by his obsession with the recovery of the ring, “his precious.” Every story needs some flat characters and many successful stories, for instance Charles Dickens’ Christmas Carol, have nothing but flat characters.
Foil: someone whose character contrasts to that of the protagonist, thus throwing it into sharp relief. In Connie Willis’s “The Last of the Winnebagos,” Katie Powell serves as a foil to the protagonist David McCombe. Katie chases after David to expiate her guilt over killing one of the last surviving dogs on Earth, while David runs away from Katie and from admitting to himself that he, too, is responsible for the dog’s death.
Narrator: the fictional storyteller. When the narrator is involved in the action of the story she’s called a first person narrator. The sentence “I watched the triceratops eat my purse,” is narrated in first person. When the narrator stands outside the story, she is usually taken to be the implied author. “Persephone watched as the triceratops ate her purse,” is narrated in third person, presumably by the writer. Narrators can either be reliable or unreliable. For example, in Gulliver’s Travels, Gulliver narrates his own story: “I began last week to permit my wife to sit at dinner with me, at the farthest end of a long table, and to answer (but with the utmost brevity) the few questions I ask her.” However, he is so credulous at the start and misanthropic at the end that we know enough not to take everything he tells us seriously. Since he is unreliable we must read between his lines to discover Jonathan Swift’s intent. On the other hand, we have every reason to trust the third person narration in “Nightfall”; the implied storyteller, Isaac Asimov, means exactly what he says. The vast majority of author-as-narrator stories are told reliably. Indeed, a story in which the implied writer appears to be unreliable is usually scorned as a “readercheater.” However, there have been interesting experiments in unreliable third person narration. The implied Bruce Sterling in “Dori Bangs” makes clear that he is unreliable in pursuit of higher truth. This is all very complicated, I know. We’ll more talk about narrators when we get to viewpoint characters.
Protagonist: The central character, or the one whose name comes to mind when you ask the question, “Whose story is this?” A story ought to have just one protagonist but a novel can have several, as in Kate Wilhelm’s multigenerational novel of the Sumner family, Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang.
Round character: one who is complex and perhaps even contradictory. E. M. Forster (see Flat Characters) put it succinctly, “The test of a round character is whether it is capable of surprising in a convincing way.” If a flat character can be summed up in a sentence or two, a round character would probably take an essay. For example, Genly Ai in The Left Hand of Darkness is one of the of Ursula Le Guin’s many round characters.
Spear-carriers: minor characters who provide verisimilitude. They must necessarily be flat since they are rarely named or described in any detail. They tend to run in crowds; in movies these are the folks who made up the “cast of thousands.” The dim-witted population of Earth in C. M. Kornbluth “The Marching Morons” are spear-carriers.
Static character: a character who does not develop. Most characters in a story should be static, so as not to distract from the significant changes you will be depicting in the central character. Static, however, most certainly does not mean boring. In Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” all of the characters except for the scapegoat, Tessie Hutchinson, are static.
Stock character: a.k.a. stereotype, but actually a special kind of flat character who is instantly recognizable to most readers, as in the Brave Starship Captain or the Troubled Teen or the Ruthless Businessperson. In the hands of a clumsy writer, the stock character never rises above the cardboard stereotype, which is unfortunate. Even as cliches encapsulate a kernel of truth, so do stock characters reflect aspects of real people. Courage is required of military personnel; people in business act ruthlessly at times in order to survive in the Darwinian world of business. In his collection of short stories, Fancies and Goodnights, John Collier demonstrates how to bring stock characters to life — he’s particularly good with devils.
Sympathetic character: One whose motivations readers can understand and whose feelings they can comfortably share. This is the kind of character of whom naive readers will say “I could identify with her.” The protagonist is often, but not always, sympathetic. Note that a sympathetic character need not be a good person. In George Orwell’s 1984, despite the fact that he betrays Julia and his own values by embracing Big Brother, Winston Smith remains a sympathetic character.
Unsympathetic character: One whose motivations are suspect and whose feelings make us uncomfortable. The boundary between sympathetic and unsympathetic characterization is necessarily ill-defined. The protagonist of Lucius Shepard’s “Black Coral,” an Ugly American named Prince, is definitely not sympathetic, nor is he intended to be. However once he brings destruction down on himself, we feel sorry for him. The central irony of this story is that the punishment Prince receives is to become a sympathetic character.
Viewpoint character: the focus of narration, the person or persons through whom we experience the story. One kind of viewpoint character is the first person narrator. Here’s Mitchell Courtenay, the first person viewpoint character of Pohl and Kornbluth’s The Space Merchants: “As I dressed that morning I ran over in my mind the long list of statistics, evasions and exaggerations that they would expect in my report.” When author herself acts as narrator, she usually chooses to tell the story in the third person, limiting herself to the perspective of one character. While she is in his point of view, she has access to his thoughts and memories but not to those of any one else, as in “The View From Venus” by Karen Joy Fowler:

“Linda knows, of course, that the gorgeous male waiting for her, holding the elevator door with his left hand, cannot be moving into apartment 201.”

A well-written third person viewpoint can be so seductive that it appears that the viewpoint character is, in fact, the narrator; the implied author seems to disappear. However the invisible author must continue to be reliable even if the viewpoint character is an unreliable focus on the action of the story. John Kessel’s Good News From Outer Space has several limited third person viewpoint characters — some fairly reliable, some less so. Kessel maintains consistency of point of view by switching only at the chapter breaks. It’s also possible to have no viewpoint character at all, as when an omniscient author sees through everyone’s eyes. In “Day Million,” Frederick Pohl not only tells us what all his characters think but also what his imaginary readers are thinking as they read his story!

There is one bit of advice which I most certainly will not give you. It says in some of the how-to-write books here in my collection that when you create characters you must “Show, don’t tell.” This pernicious commandment charges you always to dramatize the personalities of your characters rather than to explain or comment on them. So instead of simply informing us that “Balthazsar was a reckless man,” you must send him over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Don’t believe it!

A short story is not a play. The playwright can enter the consciousness of his characters only with great difficulty, through awkward devices like the soliloquy or the aside. Almost all fiction, however, starts inside someone’s head; readers expect to have complete access to the thoughts and feelings of at least one character. Although our inner life is not inherently dramatic, it is the stuff of superior fiction. Daniel Keyes “Flowers for Algernon” for example, is almost entirely told in the form of journal entries; there are relatively few scenes. Yet Charlie Gordon is one of the more memorable characters of science fiction. This is because, happily, telling can be showing. A character like Charley dramatizes himself when he describes what he thinks and feels or when he interprets the actions of other people.

There is also the problem of limited resources. You would be squandering precious story time were you to allow each and every member of the crew of the starship to act out his reasons for choosing space service. Showing should be reserved only for very important persons. Feel free to tell readers exactly why your spear-carriers are restless.

Finally, as a science fiction writer you usually have the dual challenge of creating both character and context. In order to place your imaginary people in their imaginary world, it may at times be necessary to come right out and explain that your heroine is a girlygirl, an underperson, “cat-derived, though human in outward shape” and that this has everything to do with the fact that she falls hopelessly in love with a human lord of the Instrumentality and then never tells him. Or at least Cordwainer Smith thought so when he wrote “The Ballad of Lost C’Mell.”

This is not to say that such tools of dramatic characterization as dialogue, action and reaction are not essential. Rather it is to warn that “Show, don’t tell” ought not be carved on the foundation stone of your house of fiction.

Before you turn the page to the next chapter, one last tip on characterization: Remember that when you make a new world, the people in it must necessarily be the crown of your creation.

Tags: Intermediate, james patrick kelly, Kelly, writing
Posted in Information Center, The Craft of Writing, Writing Technique | Comments Off

Making Monsters

Tuesday, January 4th, 2005

Written by James Patrick Kelly

Copyright © 1996 by James Patrick Kelly
First published in PARAGONS, edited by Robin Wilson, St. Martin’s Press
(You may find it helpful to read the story “Monsters” first. It’s available on the author’s webpage.

This essay isn’t turning out quite the way I expected. I was going to begin with one of my favorite anecdotes about making art but, when I checked into it, I found out the story I’d heard was a myth. Well, almost.

It’s about the film classic Casablanca. According to legend, the actors weren’t told the ending — mostly because the writers couldn’t come up with one until almost two months after shooting started. Ingrid Bergman, Humphrey Bogart and Paul Henreid had to enact their wrenching love triangle so that it made emotional sense whether Ilsa stayed with Rick in Casablanca or flew off into the fog with Victor Laslow. In other words, the actors faced the same uncertainties as do we who muddle through real life. I’ve always found the idea immensely appealing. As yet, nobody has handed me those last few pages of the Jim Kelly Story — those which reveal whether I am destined for a tragic fall or happy ever-aftering. I’m just making me up as I go along.

Unfortunately, there never was an Ilsa-stays-with-Rick option for Casablanca. Although Bergman claims in her autobiography that such an ending was discussed several times, the reality was that no censor in 1942 would pass a movie in which a woman deserted her war hero husband for her lover. Yes, the writers were still casting about for an ending late in the production, but their problem was not whether to send Ilsa off with Laslow, but just how to get her onto that plane. Does Rick persuade her to leave? Order her? Trick her? Slug her and then load her on? Why does he want her to go, anyway? And how could she ever agree?

To me, these questions point up the difficulty of discussing plot without sliding into character analysis. This is the wave/particle duality of fiction. In a story, things happen for reasons. It makes sense to say that what someone does falls for the most part in the domain of plot and why she does it is largely a matter of character, but I can’t always make a hard distinction, nor do I see the profit in it.

Some writers are assiduous planners; I am not one of them. In fact, the outline is probably the rustiest tool in my kit. Of course, different projects require different strategies. I wouldn’t launch into a novel without making notes, timelines and character sketches; complex, episodic stories sprawling over someone’s entire lifetime might require a diagram. But in general, my approach to plotting is to procrastinate. I don’t necessarily want to work out everything that’s going to happen ahead of time. Whenever possible, I prefer to wait until I can collaborate with my characters. I ruefully acknowledge that this isn’t the most efficient way to write, but it’s what works for me.

Procrastination serves two purposes. First, by keeping myself in the dark as long as possible, I’m better able to maintain my own interest in the story. The reader can sense when a writer is bored, so I try never to be. And without doubt, the most exhilarating moment in the creation of any story is when what I see on the screen surprises me. Second, I think that developing plot/character using the Casablanca model adds verisimilitude. Characters who navigate precisely through a storyline to some well known destination all too often turn out to be plot robots who never come alive on the page. Even if they do, I worry what they are missing along the way. I prefer to send my people out to discover the story. If, on the road to denouement, they chance across a cave which leads to a secret empire, I let them climb down for a look.

“Monsters” began with Henry. I wanted to write about a character on the day before he became a mass murderer. The conceit is that he feels possessed by some interior “monster,” so that the infliction of pain on others gives him intense, almost sexual pleasure. The plot arises from his struggle to contain the monster within. To help him suppress his craving for violence, I gave him a strong religious impulse. However, as I considered what might happen to Henry, I doubted God would save him. I believed he would lose the struggle with his monster in a splatterpunk explosion.

Note that I decided to tell about the day before he became a killer. This was an important structural decision, since it dictated that “Monsters” have an organic plot which observed the unities of time and, to some extent, of place. This story could have been about how Henry got to be the way he was, in which case I could have ranged through his childhood, his sad careers at school and work and his non-existent love life, picking and choosing key moments to dramatize. This would have been a longer, more episodic story, possibly more complex but less immediate and therefore less scary.

All by himself, Henry doesn’t necessarily suggest a plot. A plot arises out of conflict; the protagonist needs a strong antagonist. I wanted to put someone in Henry’s way; a final obstacle to overcome before he began his killing spree. Celeste is a character I conceived of over twenty years ago. She is an oxymoron: at once a caterpillar and a butterfly, the ugly angel. Because she has what the world perceives as a deformity, it has brutalized her. Yet, she still clings to an unlikely dream of love. I made several pages of notes on Celeste when I first thought of her, but for some reason she never seemed to throw off any plot lines. I relegated her to the idea drawer with the dozens of other half-baked characters, openings, suggestive titles and snippets of dialog I had scrawled on scrap paper over the years. (The contents of the idea drawer have since migrated to a file in my computer.) Just as I was trying to figure out what to do with Henry, Celeste popped out of the drawer and volunteered to help.

The plot flows from their interactions. In her desperate attempt to get his attention, Celeste unwittingly puts Henry under the stress that will release his monster. She thinks she’s in a romantic comedy; he’s in a horror story. My first thought was that he would kill her, only to discover, too late, that she was the angel whom his God had sent to save him. Although I did not have a firm notion of everything that was going to occur in “Monsters,” the plot did have a destination image which, when fully developed, was my intended climax: Celeste must be undressed so that her miraculous wings could unfold.

Most adults I know spend the greater part of their day on the job, yet surprisingly few genre stories take place in the workplace. Whenever possible I like to show what my characters do for a living. So Kaplan’s Cleaners becomes the setting of much of what Robin Scott Wilson calls the involution of the plot, the purpose of which is to push Henry past his breaking point. The scene in St. Sebastian’s, set outside Kaplan’s, serves as a kind of gauge on which the reader can read Henry’s rising tension. It is also a blunt foreshadowing of the violent climax I anticipated at the time I wrote it.

Foreshadowing is perhaps the most useful tool in my plot kit. It is a way to create expectations and to prepare the reader for what may come. To foreshadow is to parallel some climatic event at a strategic moment early on in the story. Foreshadowing can be as subtle as a passing, perhaps enigmatic reference; it can be as blatant as a pattern of repetition or a particularly striking image. All the monster’s appearances foreshadow its final possession of Henry. When Henry imagines Celeste in a three piece bikini, it foreshadows the scene in which she reveals her wings. While overindulgence in foreshadowing can become affectation, the careful writer can use it to make even the most improbable twist believable. Foreshadowing can also be used like a magician’s handkerchief to distract the reader from the author’s true intentions, to create a seeming inevitability where none exists. More on misdirection in a moment.

I remember getting stuck as I approached the end of Henry’s work day. This is the price one pays for plotting on the fly. Outliners have it easy; they always knows what comes next. I regard getting stuck as nature’s way of telling me that what I am about to do is wrong; the problem crops up in almost every project.

The plot point I needed was for something very bad to happen to revive Henry’s monster. But what? An obnoxious seatmate on the commute home? A fight at the bus stop? A burst pipe in the apartment? All these seemed either too tame or generic. The real problem was that I didn’t know enough about Henry at that time to write a scene powerful enough to free his monster. Such a scene would have to be deeply personal. My early plot/character decision not to delve into Henry’s psychopathology was now catching up with me. It was time to answer the question Damon Knight had taught me to ask twenty years ago at the Clarion Writer’s Workshop: what mattered most to my character?

I had long since decided that Henry’s parents would be conveniently dead; it almost always pays to economize on characters. However, if the reader was to understand my tortured loner, I needed to stage some of his history. A clumsy way to accomplish this would have been to have him gaze at a picture of himself and his dad, say standing on the dock at the lake, then cut to flashback. In fact, just such a picture was hanging in the story at the time. Or else that obnoxious seatmate on the bus might say or do something that jogged his memory … nah! Eventually I got it. Henry’s dad wasn’t dead; he was dying.

This insight remade the plot of “Monsters” in a way I could never have imagined before I started writing. The hospital scene was perfect for scraping Henry’s emotions raw — and I was able to implicate Celeste in the disaster too. But I found the old man’s rebuke so scarifying that my sympathies turned. It became clear that the emergence of the monster coincided with the onset of Roger West’s long illness and his unfair, pain-wracked censure of Henry, who was trying as hard as he could. Pardon my hubris, but the god Henry was praying to was me; what kind of universe was I running here? By the time I finished the hospital scene, I no longer wanted Henry’s monster to win, even though that had been the climax toward which I had been working for the previous 7,420 words.

Which brings us back to the craft of misdirection and the uses of the surprise. Did I now owe it to the reader to unforeshadow the murder ending? I believe I did not. After all, I hadn’t changed the actual destination image of my plot: the unfolding of Celeste’s wings. I’d simply changed its meaning. In no way had I made it impossible for Henry to beat the monster. Indeed, there are glimmerings of humanity in him. Certainly, he loves his father. He also refuses to crush Celeste emotionally when he has the chance. Building on that fragile foundation, Celeste might be able to save him. It would probably take a miracle, but then I was already committed to the miracle of Celeste’s wings. If I wasted her, literally and figuratively, “Monsters” would have ended as one more splatter fest with an ironic twist. The potential for redemption had always been there, I had just never considered it.

There are reasons why science fiction and fantasy writers try so hard to inject surprise into their plots — particularly into their endings. We’re writing popular literature here; surprise may be the most special of our effects. And it’s part of our heritage. After all, we’re the folks who gave Western Civilization Amazing and Astounding. Surprises sustain and even enhance the reader’s interest in a developing plot. Remember that when most critics use “predictable,” it is as a pejorative. Nobody wants to hear, “I guessed how it all came out on page two,” whereas a well-wrought twist ending can prolong the life of the story in the imagination. For some time after that last page is turned, the reader will still be thinking about what happened.

Surprise forms part of the philosophical underpinnings of the genre as well. If science fiction is about things that could happen but haven’t yet, and fantasy is about impossible things, then astonishment is our natural condition. We deal in the shock of the new — and the strange. Moreover, the genre has a proud history of subverting cultural assumptions and challenging the common wisdom. What if we didn’t have to die? What if we’re not the crown of creation? What if reality is a lie?

Up until the moment that Celeste undresses, “Monsters” can be read as a mainstream story; its many commonplaces invite the reader to map the real world onto it. For example, it’s entirely possible that Henry has multiple personalities and his monster is one of them. If this is a “realistic” story, the reader’s dread must soar when Celeste arrives at Henry’s apartment, because in the real world Celeste would seem to be doomed. It would take a miracle to save her, and the common wisdom is that, in reality, there are no miracles, more’s the pity. Actually, two miracles occur in the seduction scene and only one is fantastic. When Celeste kisses the monster, a disoriented Henry reappears; when Henry sees her wings, he finds the strength to banish the monster.

Which was more important?

I mentioned earlier that I attended Clarion. In the years since, I’ve become a workshop enthusiast; I’ve been to Milford, Philford, Sycamore Hill and am currently a member of the monthly Cambridge (Massachusetts) Science Fiction Workshop. While workshops are not for everyone, I find that listening to a group of very creative readers analyze and interpret my work it is always instructive. In particular, what workshops do best is scrutinize plot and character. “Monsters” was the first manuscript I put through the Cambridge Workshop. Their comments helped me fix a number of problems, most related to the midcourse plot/character correction. The remains of the splatter ending were distorting the salvation ending. Henry was at times too bloody-minded and psychotic; he did not appear to be a good candidate for redemption. In part because I had intended to kill her off, I had drawn Celeste as an annoying and superficial chatterbox; she did not seem to have enough self-insight to deliver her tirade against the deity. These flaws in characterization undermined the climax of the plot. I made what I thought were the appropriate revisions and sent the story to Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine.

Gardner Dozois and Sheila Williams have published sixteen of my stories, including much of my best work thus far. When they make suggestions, I always pay attention. They wanted to buy “Monsters” but worried that the last few pages were too rushed. After all, Henry goes from crazed blood lust to peaceful post-coital sanity in a very short span. They wondered whether I’d lurched toward the happy ending too abruptly. My recollection is that they wanted me to provide more foundation for Henry’s profound change — perhaps by means of some pillow talk right before the denouement.

As Robin Scott Wilson points out, the ending of a work of fiction consists of climax and denouement. The climax, as the turning point of the plot and the moment of highest reader interest, gets the most attention, as well it should. However, the denouement, the sorting out and sending off, all too often is treated as an afterthought. A grievous mistake, in my opinion, because it’s here the writer gets to make one last statement about the meaning of the story. It is also the perfect place to impart what politicians these days call spin.

A story I wrote once upon a time as a student at Clarion involved a woman scientist who, against her better judgment, participates in an unspeakable experiment. In the process she nearly wrecks her marriage. After much techno-mayhem, she alone is left of the research team; the experiment has succeeded but at a horrific cost. At the denouement, she retreats in a daze to her office, where she finds a dozen roses from her estranged husband — a peace offering. In the version I workshopped, she decides impulsively to take the bouquet, go to him and leave everything else behind. It was the bland conclusion to a “There Are Some Things We Are Not Meant To Know” story. In her critique Kate Wilhelm taught me the importance of the denouement. After reading my manuscript, Kate suggested a change: what if my heroine tossed all but a single flower out, stuck that one into a bud vase and sat down to write up the experiment? All it took was two sentences and one red rose to transform the piece into a chilling and powerful Scientist-Loses-Her-Soul story.

After mulling over Sheila and Gardner’s criticism of “Monsters,” what I decided was that rather than pad the climax, I’d put a new spin on the denouement. Here’s the last paragraph of the version they read:

Much later, he eased out from under the covers so as not to wake her. He realized where the monster had gone when it left him. He pulled on his jeans, padded into the living room and felt under the cushion. It was in the Beretta. He stared at the gun without comprehension. Even though it was still as hard and black and cold as ever, it didn’t seem real to him anymore. He stripped the magazine, picked the shells out one by one, and hid them under the sink. He stuffed the gun in the trash under the pizza box and went back to bed with his angel.

Compare this to the revised denouement, as published in Asimov’s. There are several ways to interpret the penultimate sentence, but at least one valid reading is that the monster is not permanently defeated. As Henry vacillates and then decides not to get rid of the Beretta, the monster may once again be insinuating itself into his psyche. Henry has not yet been completely redeemed; however, he does seem to have mastered his madness — for the time being. This is not necessarily a happy ending, although it is hopeful. Like so much of what I write, “Monsters” didn’t turn out quite the way I expected.

Which comes as no surprise.