Wizard and Glass is the fourth book in the Dark Tower Series, by Stevie. Written after a ten year hiatus from the series, it manages to capture the feel and voice of the original books; however, ten years of honed writing talent and life changes (he was hit by a car and nearly killed, for instance) really show through in this book.

The flashback to Roland’s childhood is gripping from the first word. When it concluded, five hundred pages later–yes, five hundred–I was so bent that I went back and started reading it again. It was that good. The rest of the story? Yeah…

In truth, the book is a prequel, with a little plot wrapped around it to make it book five instead of minus one. This didn’t bother me at all. He could have ex dues mechina’d and aliens in chapter fourteen’d, and I’d still have read on. It was that good.

A perfect example of building suspense and conflict, a textbook execution of climax and resolution, and a wonderful study in real, gritty characters, this one goes on the top shelf, next to Tolkein and Gorin No Sho.

Wulf Rating:      

Lady Glamis wrote an excellent series about outlines over on her blog, The Innocent Flower, which she later appended with a post titled, “It’s In the Firsts.”  Here’s a quick teaser of her provoking thoughts:

I’ve noticed more and more writers saying they just have to get out the first draft before they can do any planning, any serious mapping or thinking, or pretty much anything besides pushing through to the end of that new story.

Speaking as someone in the transition from apprentice to journeyman, I can say that, at first, there was no way I could develop an interesting story from an outline; I needed to explore the whole story on paper just to work through the immensity of it.

Now, as I’ve become more efficient, I find that many parts of the story can be worked in my head. Some parts still need to be written to flower, and, of course, the writing always takes surprising turns; this is to be expected in any creative process.

In martial arts, one learns to spar by simply getting in there and being punched in the face for a while. You make it up as you go. A journeyman in martial arts has a set of techniques and tries them when they seem appropriate, but the fight is still a mystery as it unfolds, though he recognizes patterns and can occasionally predict what will follow.

The master knows simply from how his opponent moves, what his environment is, and an intuitive sense of things, how he will attempt to impose his will and what his opponent is likely to attempt. If given the opportunity–such as in the sports arena–he will formulate deep plans and contingencies for all his opponent’s tactics and strengths. During the conflict, he will constantly be thinking far ahead: he may counter with this, if so I’ll go here, if not I’ll go there; after that I’ll be here, unless he stops this and then I’ll be there.

It might sound impossible but it’s a very real skill, and why masters of martial arts seem impossibly fast to react–they are literally a step or three ahead of each action. They are so intimate with the process that they are not consumed by what they are implementing now, but breezing through it while considering what is to come later.

In this way, as we hone our writing talents–and I can say that I’ve already noticed this progression in my own work–it becomes easier and easier to develop an idea in one’s head and requires less and less actual writing to realize an exciting character or plot.

Some exploration is part of any good story development. For the beginner that could mean writing a whole draft and picking out what works well. I think for the master, writing a couple scenes is probably sufficient to feel the arc of the story. Whether that plan manifests in an outline, a chapter synopsis, or stays in the head as the first draft unfolds is a matter of personal approach. But it does exist on some level and is an essential part of efficient writing.

One can always labor after, reworking the draft to add consistency and buildup, plot and structure–there is no unbreakable rule that says planning is essential.  But in making writing a serious career, one would learn to anticipate outcomes; learn that the stronger the first draft, the stronger the revisions will be; learn that the sooner one realizes the larger story arcs, the less months will be spent revising, allowing more energy to pour into the vitality and creativity of the work instead of fixing inconsistencies.

That is not to say that the plot should ever become a shackle for one’s creativity. As Captain Barbossa–one of my favorite villains since Dr. Evil–put it, “the code is more what you’d call ‘guidelines’ than actual rules.” And plots, like stories, like any plan, like any good execution of artistic skill, must be fluid and ready to change as vision and situation demand.

The map is not the territory. The word is not the thing.

It’s a beautiful proverb; one enjoyed by therapists and martial artists the world over. It makes a great meditation, a provoking opening for a poem, and a wise counter for pontificating intellectuals.

But what does it truly mean? Like Smee, I feel “lightning done struck my brain” when I think on it too long.

There is danger in believing we know something of this world.  We live such a short fragment of history, only a wink in the scope of things.

Consider that the phone was invented in 1876–mereley one hundred years ago–and the electric telegraph was less than fifty years its forerunner. The model T (the first combustible engine produced en masse) wasn’t born until 1908.  And computers, ah the viral digital world rivaled only by the television for its invasive hold on our lives, those didn’t arrive on the scene until the late ’50s, and the home computer is a mere thirty years old.

All of these things are possible only because of mass production of steel, an art developed by Bessemer in the mid-1800’s–Henry Bessemer, an unknown name who played a pivotal role in the second half of the industrial revolution.

Our world, as we believe ourselves intimate with it, is only a very brief flash of history. And even this is distilled, idealized, and altered by the men who recorded it. And yet, like those who came before us, we think ourselves masters of history and informed.

Know who else thought themselves informed? Doctors in the 1800’s truly believed they were helping women when they examined them during childbirth. We know now that they killed 1 in 4 because those laughable child’s fancies (i.e. germs), really weren’t so laughable; it really is important to wash one’s hands after examining that dead body and before you check a woman’s cervix for dialation.

The Aztecs firmly believed that they must murder thousands of tribes from the south american jungles in sacrifice or their gods would destroy the world with quakes and pestilence. Yet their sacrifices came to an abrupt halt and the world–even their temples–still stand.

While we cannot become stagnant for fear of our ignorances, we shouldn’t become so arrogant to think our understanding is complete; we shouldn’t think we know things for what they are.

Most all of our knowledge is pure trust; pure belief; pure fantasy — how many of us have seen a whale in the water, a seashell still in the ocean, or touched the moon? We only fabricate an understanding of them based on the preponderance of words we are offered.

It is important to humble ourselves with this epiphany daily so that our knowledge of the world can be tempered by our understanding that we only hold some of the pieces of this puzzle and only a small fragment of history.

For the word is not the thing, and the map is not the territory.