The Great Novel Rebrand

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All,

First, don't forget to read my review of Cinders that was posted earlier this weekend. I don't want my talking about my own book to distract from thoughtful consideration of a book I strongly recommend.

That said, I do want to talk about my own book.

I have been focusing a lot of my energy lately on Real Stakes, because I have been more confident of its market-readiness. I believe in Ennui and Malaise, but at this stage of its development I am not sure yet how to best pigeonhole it for sale. Real Stakes, I have believed, slides neatly into the thriller genre.

Anyone who has been reading my blog for a while knows that I have been perplexed by the question of genre. Ultimately, I have decided that the best home for my writing is psychological suspense, which allows me to brush up against horror and to embrace a somewhat more literary style than a traditional thriller. That's good because my interest is really in the intersection of psychology and philosophy within the dynamic sphere of character, not really in gun play and adrenaline -- though I use both to a high degree.

And that's the rub.

I am facing down what I think of as the Elektra factor. If you haven't seen it, Elektra was a 2005 Jennifer Garner vehicle slash Marvel Comics splash. It has a lot of action, a lot of special effects, a lot of comic book villainry, and a fair amount of Jennifer Garner in revealing costumes. Needless to say, all of the above are what the critics focused on. I'm not here to recommend the movie, nor to claim it as an all-time great. But I have always felt that critics allowed themselves to get distracted by the flash and they missed a nice redemption arc told through simple dialog and solid acting.

My writing is vulnerable to the same sort of thing. If you've read much of my writing, you know that in addition to a lot of voice, there tends to be a lot of evil and fair amount of violence. In other words, a whole lot of stuff that is eye-catching and can easily distract readers away from the heart of my stories. More than I'd care to admit, my writing had been heavily influenced by the music and imagery of Pink Floyd and the story-telling style of Japanese pop culture. There is a lot of philosophy, a lot of psychology, a lot of individual angst, and it's all expressed through often exaggerated evils, both literal and symbolically represented.

What I'm now facing is the realization that Real Stakes is sitting right in that spot. It has all the trappings of a thriller, but is really exploring the philosophies of evil and obedience and how they interact with the psychologies of three very different individuals. One happens to be something of a secret agent. One happens to get pulled into a conspiracy that threatens the United States, and perhaps the world. One happens to be a criminal with a broken childhood. There is plenty of action. Plenty of subterfuge. Plenty of adrenaline.

But I have now realized that I need to make sure that what I'm actually trying to do does not get lost in that. Domey Malasarn helped remind me of that when he remarked that he'd appreciated the philosophical digressions in my other things he'd read. That really brought it home for me, "Yeah, that's what I do." And I need to make sure that I still do that.

As such, I am re-branding Real Stakes. It is now Sublimation. It is still a thriller, but by tweaking the focus of the title I can situate the book in the appropriate context: a thriller that, when the adrenaline lets down, you're thinking about what else was going on between the lines and in the background. The real story of this book is not of gamblers and spies. The real story is about good, evil, and (to borrow a phrase from Jeeves) the psychology of the individual.

Now, I just need to rebrand the opening of the book, of which I am fond, but which I believe sets the focus in the wrong place...

.Nevets.

*** *** *** ***

Excerpt from, Sublimation, (c) 2010.

I'm not a poetic man, and while I have my attachments, I'm not given to sentimentality. Even so, if any night in history has deserved to be regarded as remarkable, it is that one. Without even knowing it, seven billion people rode into the jaws of death, into the mouths of hell.

It was a cool spring night in Denver. Overhead, a shooting star pierced the belly of a descending Orion. All about, the wind was crisp with the fresh potential of a coming summer. And in an abandoned pickle warehouse, the final battle of godlike men was about to begin. The men would not carry weapons, control armies, or conduct experiments. They would play cards, throw dice, and spin colored wheels. And their names would be Smith and Jones. I'm Alec Smith.

“Keep moving, god-man!”

“Keep on your on your feet!”

The two tuxedo-wearing gorillas were enamored of the word keep. Everything they said amounted to nonsense, but I could not escape the jarring cadence their words were given by the inclusion of that simple word in every sentence they uttered.

“Keep your eyes forward!”

“Keep going straight, god-man!”

They kept calling me that, too. It was insensible to me. It was an insult on their lips, like when you turn a self-acclamation back on someone. Way to go, Number One Dad. Tell us again how to win games, Captain of the Plant Softball Team. Smooth moves, Astaire. But god-man?

“Keep walking, god-man!”

“Keep your head about you.”

Easier said than done. I hadn't head my head about me all evening.