Lines I Will Not Cross

As a writer of new Sherlock Holmes stories, the best kind of compliment I can receive from a reader is to be told that my stories capture the feeling of the originals by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or that they would, as one reviewer said, “fit right into the canon.” That is precisely my intent every time I sit down to write a new one. I want to bring readers to that same comfortable place they go when reading Doyle’s work. What I do not want to do is reinvent the carriage wheel that rolls down Baker Street by revising, adjusting, or otherwise trying to make the legend of the world’s greatest fictional detective too much MINE rather than Doyle’s. Holmes belongs to his original author and to the generations of readers who have thrilled to his exploits. I’m just borrowing him (with the gracious permission of my editor and publisher, the public domain state of the character, and the readers who actually—and I still have a hard time wrapping my head around this fact—pay a bit of their hard-earned money to read my Holmes stories). The last thing I want to do is go too far and fundamentally alter Holmes and his cast of fellow characters in any way that drastically strays from canon. As I consider this state of mind today, I’ve thought of a list of some (but probably not all) the things I will never do within my Holmes stories.

 

I will never resurrect Moriarty. Doyle killed him off, so he stays dead. Yes, I might make postmortem references to him or even have Holmes involved in a plot of the evil professor’s devising if the story takes place before “The Final Problem,” but I will not have the Napoleon of Crime crawl out of his grave (I know he wasn’t given a proper burial; it’s a figure of speech).

I will never reveal what “really” happened in any of Doyle’s stories. I am not a Holmes revisionist and I have enough of my own stories to tell without having to mutilate the work of the original writer. 

I will never insert explicit sexual details into my Holmes stories. Yes, I might hint at things or include light innuendo, but full-blown (accidental pun, there) erotica has no place in that world. If sex plays a role in a story, I will write of it as Watson would have written of it: discreetly.   

I will never kill off one of Doyle’s major characters within one of my stories. This includes Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, the main inspectors like Lestrade, Gregson, and Bradstreet, and probably a few others that don’t come to mind at the moment. That would smack of me going for shock value and I just won’t go there. Of course, any character I create for a story is fair game and is never safe! I did write a story (featuring my 1930s British intelligence agent Hound-Dog Harker) in which an elderly Holmes appears and mention is made of Watson having passed away at some point in the past, but the death of the dear doctor is not a major plot point and does not happen during the events of the story itself. That story is also not part of my intentionally canon-like Holmes series.

I will never have Holmes face a supernatural threat in a story that is specifically about him. To do so would defeat the entire purpose of Holmes’ character and methods. He will not meet Dracula, werewolves, or zombies, or fight black magic or ancient gods! Yes, my novel Season of Madness hinted at the supernatural, but that book was about Watson without Holmes. Within my Holmes tales, events may seem to be supernatural, but will always have a logical, realistic explanation by the end of the mystery. Other characters may believe in the supernatural, but Holmes can distinguish between the improbable and the impossible. It is, after all, what he does best.  

  

I will never reunite Holmes with Irene Adler. Their story begins and ends with “A Scandal in Bohemia.” If Doyle had wanted Miss Adler to be a recurring character, he would have brought her back. The whole point of her character is that she makes such an impression on Holmes that he henceforth refers to her as the woman. She is the one example to which he (either consciously or otherwise) compares all others. Irene Adler, post-Scandal, is an idea that lives on in the minds and memories of Holmes, Watson, and the readers. She must remain a ghost of the past to retain the potency of what she means to the lore of the canon.    

I will never reveal how Watson’s wife Mary died. Doyle tells us that Watson met her during “The Sign of Four,” that they married, and that she died sometime later. That’s all we need to know.

 Those seven items are the rules I’ve thought of today while pondering my personal philosophy for writing Sherlock Holmes. But I’m far from the only modern Holmes writer. Some others choose to do the things I’ve decided not to do, and that’s fine. If it works for them and their readers, it’s not my place to judge.

Now, back to my regularly scheduled Baker Street scribblings. I’ve recently finished my eight Holmes story, and I’m now working on a play featuring the Great Detective.  

My Sherlock Holmes stories appear in volumes 1, 3, 4, 5, and 7 of Airship 27 Productions' anthology series Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective, all of which can be found on my Amazon page. 

    

Please Don't Ask Writers for Free Books

Recently, a coworker of mine (at my day job) learned that I’m a published writer. Several times since then, he’s asked me if I could give him some of my books for free. I refused. I made a simple suggestion that should have solved the issue right then and there if he was truly interested in reading my work. For every one of my books that’s available online, whether in print or e-book format or both, Amazon offers some sample pages. It would be the easiest thing in the world for a curious person to go to my Amazon page, choose a book, click on the “Look inside” feature, and read those sample pages to see if it grabs his attention tightly enough to make him want to buy it.   

            There; problem solved. But apparently it isn’t. He seems almost insulted and unable to understand why I won’t give him books for free.            

            Truthfully, I do occasionally give books away. But those occasions are rare and have good reasons behind them. I sometimes give copies to my very few, very closest friends. The reason for that should be self-explanatory. I’ve also been known to give copies to those who are somehow connected to the story coming into existence in the first place. For example, my grandfather introduced me to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories when I was a kid, so I sometimes give him free (free to him, but I have to pay for them!) copies of the anthologies in which my Holmes stories appear. Other than those exceptions, I really don’t give my books away for nothing, and most of my friends and acquaintances, and even my relatives, are fine with that fact.

            So yes, I’m beginning to get seriously annoyed at this coworker’s begging for freebies. But, to be fair, it occurs to me that there are certain factors involved here that he may not be aware of. After all, unless you’re part of a particular profession, you can never really understand what a certain kind of work involves.

            So here are a handful of good reasons writers should be paid for their work and should never feel obligated to give it away for free.

Writing is Work!

            Yes, we sit down while we’re doing it, so maybe it looks easy. Sometimes it feels easy too, but it’s never as easy as it might appear to be. Writing a novel or short story can take days, weeks, or months, and that’s even if we only count the actual time spent typing. Ideas take time to form, manuscripts have to be revised, edited, and proofread many times before going to an editor who isn’t the writer, and then, once that outside editor has had his or her way with it, the writer has to go back and make the suggested changes (or produce some damn good reasons why he won’t change things). Writing a story takes a lot longer than reading it. The handful of hours of enjoyment you get from reading a novel is just a fraction of the time it took the writer, editor, publisher, proofreaders, and various others to prepare it for your consumption.

            Also—and this is something non-writers might not realize—we’re not just writing when we’re physically sitting down to work on our stories. Writers’ minds are going every waking moment, churning ideas around, trying to memorize sections of prose at times when we can’t stop whatever else we’re doing to jot notes down, and even groping for a pen and paper in the middle of the night when an idea pops up in a dream or in that strange, wonderful zone of consciousness between fully awake and fully asleep. We’re never truly “off the clock.” Divide the money we make from our books by 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and figure out what we’re really paid!  

            And, on top of all that, there really is a substantial amount of work we don’t make any money from. Not every story we write gets published. Things get rejected no matter how good a writer is, and some projects that do get published just don’t, for whatever reason, successfully make a profit. So it’s even more vital that we do make some money from those stories people really want to read.    

Even the Writer Doesn’t Always Get His Own Books for Free

            Sure, I often get comp or contributor’s copies of the books I write or have work included in, but I certainly don’t receive box after box of unlimited supplies of them. I get a few, keep one or two for my personal bookshelf, maybe give one or two away as gifts, and then, if I need more for any reason, I usually have to buy them.! In this day and age of technology allowing books to be produced by many publishers, some of them quite small, which gives readers a much greater variety of stories to choose from than back in the days of just a few major publishers, smaller presses just can’t afford to give authors dozens or hundreds of comp copies, and that’s just fine. But readers, especially those who personally know the authors, have to understand this fact.

Sales Numbers Count

If you want to support an author whose work you enjoy, or an author who you consider a friend (even if you haven’t yet tried his work), the best ways to do that are to buy the books and leave a review on Amazon or another venue. By purchasing his books on Amazon or Barnes & Noble or wherever, you not only make sure the writer is paid for the work, you also, without any further effort on your part, give the book a boost in sales rank. Potential buyers, some of them at least, do look at such statistics. The more successful a book is, the more successful it might continue to be.

The Writer is Not the Only Person Who Needs Sales from that Book

So let’s say you want to read, for example, one of my Sherlock Holmes anthologies. And instead of buying it off Amazon or from the publisher, you want me to give you one of my copies. Even if I’m willing to forego my royalties from that copy so you can read it, let’s think about what else is happening here. Guess who’s not being paid for their work on that copy of the book. How about the editor’s royalties? Or the illustrator? What about the other three or four authors whose work appears in that volume?

            And even if it’s one of my novels we’re talking about, I still didn’t do it alone. The publisher wants his share, as does the editor, and whoever drew the cover illustration. Don’t these fine creative folks deserve to be paid for their hard work in making my story available to you, the reader?

It’s Just Wrong to Expect Something for Nothing

Would you walk into your dentist’s office and expect a free filling? Would you demand a free oil change from your mechanic? Do you go into the local Dunkin’ Donuts and think it’s likely they’ll just hand you a coffee and say there’s no charge? Of course not, because that mechanic and dentist and barista (yes, I know, that’s more of a Starbucks-style term) are people doing jobs to earn a living. Well so are writers! Try to keep that in mind.  

An Open Letter to the Woman Who Wants SANDMAN Banned From Her College

Last night I signed onto Facebook to find that a friend had posted this article: http://robot6.comicbookresources.com/2015/06/student-parents-want-college-to-ban-sandman-persepolis-more/

 I read it and I’ve been furious ever since. It seems a 20 year old woman named Tara Shultz, a student at Crafton Hills College in Yucaipa, California took an English course focused on graphic novels (the modern term for comic books, in case anyone isn’t familiar), a course which included in its material Neil Gaiman’s wonderful series Sandman, which was originally published under DC Comics’ Vertigo line (a line aimed at adult comics readers) from 1989 to 1996. Poor Miss Shultz was absolutely shocked to learn that the graphic novels which were the subject of the course, including Persepolis, which is, after all, a memoir of growing up during the Iranian revolution (which means it contains—gasp!—depictions of violence which are based on real events), feature graphic illustrations and plot elements she found upsetting and disturbing, which was probably exactly what the creators of the works in question intended (not in a malicious way, but because that's how effective stories are told). And now she’s feeling traumatized, and, as so often happens in today’s far too easily offended world, this young woman, with the help of her parents, is protesting the teaching of these books at her college. Yes, that’s right, instead of simply avoiding something she doesn’t like, she wants to prevent the teacher from teaching about them and her fellow students from learning about them. What a great example of someone missing the point of education!

So here I sit, fuming over this because it’s just so very, very wrong. I need to express my feelings about this. I really need to let it out. To do that, I’m writing an open letter to Tara Shultz and posting it here on my blog. Chances are she won’t see it. And, if through some twist of the wonderfully connected internet age, it does find its way to her attention, it probably won’t do any good, considering what she’s already doing. But I’m posting it anyway because I’m so tired of people thinking being offended gives them the right to rob other human beings of potential knowledge or entertainment or experience. Here goes.    

     

Dear Miss Shultz,

That didn’t work out the way you thought it would, did it? You took a college course in comic books (and yes, they’re all comic books whether you also use the term ‘graphic novel’ or not.) And you were expecting, as you said, “Batman and Robin.” But that’s not what you found because, as you now know, this amazing art form that combines words and illustrations to form a unique type of narrative is not, by any means, limited to the superhero genre or other subjects originally intended for children. Why would it be? It’s just another form of storytelling, and, as with film or prose or theatre or opera, there’s no built-in limit on what sort of tales can or cannot be told using it. So what really happened here? An experience at an institute of education took an assumption you had and shattered it, revealing the truth about the subject you’d signed on to study. The last time I checked, that’s what’s supposed to happen when one takes a class. Otherwise, what’s the point? So you should be happy to have learned something and been shown that comics, like any other art form, have an infinite number of possible uses as an outlet for artistic expression. Now, to be honest, I haven’t read Y: The Last Man or Persepolis, although I would like to at some point (there’s never enough time for a reader to read all the good stuff!), so most of what I’m saying here is my reaction to your attempt to hissy-fit your way into Sandman being, as you so mercilessly put it, eradicated from the system.

I’ve read Sandman, all of it, and most of the related material that came after the original series, and many of the other works by its writer, Neil Gaiman, and I can honestly say it’s one of the most amazing, awe-inspiring works of storytelling I’ve ever encountered, comics or not. It can make you laugh, cry, fear, smile, think, hope, cringe, and nearly burst with the sheer volume of wonder Mr. Gaiman managed to stuff into the series (with help from many of the best artists in the comics industry). Sandman has won a World Fantasy Award and been praised by people with names like Harlan Ellison (does his work offend you too?). It is certainly not, as you said in what the article about you makes me think is your usual ineloquent, judgmental manner, “garbage.” No, it’s far, far from garbage. Sandman is a beautiful tapestry of stories that touch upon all the essential elements of the human experience as the author masterfully wraps his metaphors in a richly imagined fantasy universe. Sandman examines dreams and their relationship to the human soul and tells the tale of Dream (or Sandman or Morpheus), who is, along with his siblings, Death, Despair, Destiny, Desire, Destruction, and Delirium (who used to be Delight, one of the Endless, who are all, to put it one way, incarnations of some of the basic conditions of human life and thoughts. They’re sort of like a pantheon of gods, but not quite. It’s been a few years since I’ve reread Sandman, but the mere thought of that masterpiece of storytelling fills my mind with a pageant of its best points, like its portrayal of Death as a comforting, witty, sympathetic, lovely character; the perfection of the story “Ramadan,” which appeared in the series’ fiftieth issue and was beautifully drawn by the great P. Craig Russell; the breathtaking moment when the enormous sea serpent appears, brilliantly timed at a page turn (one of those neat little tricks that the masters of the comics medium know how to use) in “Hob’s Leviathan; the Shakespeare-related tales scattered throughout the book’s run; and so many other memorable moments that have stuck with readers for years after they’ve read them. Yes, Sandman is good, so good, in fact, that I’d put it on the list of the greatest storytelling feats of the late twentieth century, in all media, not just comics! This is an important work that should probably be taught in every college in one course or another.            

So here we are, with you upset by something you read (I hate to tell you this, but upsetting things happen. Just wait till you get out into the adult world. Trust me, it will make being offended by a comic book the least of your worries), and now you’re hell-bent on changing the options other people have about what to read, what to teach, what to experience. You’re acting like a spoiled child.

You have no idea how the world works, and you have no idea of your proper place in it. How dare you try to decide what others get to read, what others get to learn, how artists and writers should express themselves, and what audiences should get from the works of those writers and artists? How dare you assume your personal dislike of something and your readiness to be offended by art and literature (which Sandman certainly is, and thousands, perhaps millions, of those who have been affected and inspired by it will attest to that fact) gives you the right to expect that your tantrum will result in the opportunity being taken away from others to read such works and maybe, hopefully, be changed by the experience? Who are you to attempt to limit the experiences of your fellow students, your fellow explorers of this life we all live together? These are human beings—curious, motivated, creative, living, breathing, important, wonderful, unique human beings who are spending time and money to gain the best education they can. Many of them wish to broaden their view of the world, and understanding the art that flows from the minds of writers and artists is a part—a very important and precious part—of that education, of that noble attempt to appreciate every aspect of this world and those who inhabit it. And you think you have the right to place limitations on how and when and what those people are allowed to learn? Are you really trying to do something on that level of evil? Yes, I called it evil, and I stand by that statement. Demanding that books be pushed out of the reach of those who wish to read them, for no other reason than that YOU find them offensive and upsetting is, at the very least, selfish and arrogant, and, at worst, an act of unspeakably foul intellectual terrorism that has no place on a college campus, no place in a nation that values freedom, and certainly no place among any group of human beings who respect each other and the right of all of us to experience the fruits of creativity and learn from each others’ artistic endeavors.   

When good, honorable, open-minded people don’t like something, they make a choice to avoid it. And they allow others to make their own choices. Nobody’s forcing you to read those books. You have all the freedom in the world to drop the class and take a different one. You don’t like the contents of the materials? Fine, it’s your right to dislike something. Then CHOOSE to have nothing to do with Sandman or any of the other books in question. Walk away. But don’t try to force your choice, your taste in literature, your personal opinions (and that’s all they are, opinions) onto everyone else. You want to get upset and offended over a book? Nobody will stop you. You want to go home and cry to your parents about words and pictures on pages making you feel uneasy? Go right ahead. But DO NOT come charging back to school, assisted by your Mom and Dad, and demand that those books, those experiences, that part of an education, be taken away from your fellow students as if those books were not worthwhile expressions of human creativity but matches that must be kept out of the reach of children.     

Maybe in the world you WISH existed, books (and comics, movies, plays, etc.) would contain nothing but sunshine and joy and happy endings. But there aren’t too many stories out there in any form (at least the ones adults read) that don’t contain some sort of conflict or problem, and, yes, those conflicts and problems can often involve upsetting events and ideas, and violence, and sex (and I absolutely hate that we live in a world where sex and violence get mentioned together so frequently, as if an act needed to assure the continuation of the human race is somehow as bad as acts that involve us destroying each other), and pain, and heartbreak, and confusion. Now here’s the great secret you may have missed along the road to college if your life has been as sheltered and sanitized as it seems it must have been if you think you can just wish some great books out of the curriculum. Are you ready for this? I hope so, because it’s important. Stories contain unpleasantness because art is a reflection of life (dressed up in fantastic details, of course, but inspired by life nonetheless), and LIFE itself contains all the conflicts and pains and horrors that so upset you in the art it inspired.

So how about this for an idea? Instead of running around screaming and trying to ban books, why don’t you look at life and reality. I mean really, really look at it, and find things that are truly worth being offended by! Don’t protest the stories; protest the realities that inspire the darkness therein. Wars are being fought and blood being spilled right now in dozens of nations. Diseases are ravaging people and need to be cured. Children are being abused and people are living in slavery and poverty. Religious fanatics are blowing up people who don’t call an invisible being, for whose existence they have no solid evidence, by the same name. We have racism, sexism, homophobia, and bullying. Yes, it’s a cruel and nasty world sometimes. And that cruelty and nastiness is, as is only natural, often reflected in our art. What you need to learn to do is embrace the creative products of humanity’s minds and hearts, both its light and its darkness, and laugh because of it or cry because of it, but, by all means, embrace it, enjoy it, cherish it. And balance your awareness of that with your awareness of the world’s real problems. And once you see both sides of the coin, find a problem that really needs solving. If you so desperately want a worthwhile cause to fight for, then stop trying to ban books and go do something useful that will really make the world a better place.

Good luck in life, and may your future be a more open-minded one.

Aaron Smith

P.S.  And to Neil Gaiman, if you happen to read this somewhere on the internet, you have my sincere gratitude for all your stories. 

Origins

“Where did you grow up?”

It’s a common enough question, one I’ve been asked many times in casual conversation. The mundane answer would be, “Paterson, New Jersey.” Yes, Paterson, once a great industrial city, birthplace of Lou Costello, now a decaying, crime-ridden mess. But Paterson is only part of the answer. I was born there, lived there until I was nineteen, so yes, I grew up there, but a man whose best feature is his imagination (and it must be, ‘cause it sure ain’t my looks or personality!), has many homes encountered in many ways. So here’s the rest of the answer, the facts that go beyond the easy answer of Paterson, New Jersey:

I grew up on Baker Street, where the client comes panicked and tells a terrible tale while Watson packs his revolver and the game is suddenly, joyously afoot.

And I grew up in the 23^rd century, on a great ship where the captain is brave and confident, the first officer logical, and the doctor is the real McCoy (not an Urban legend).

And I grew up in a very specific New York City, selling selfies to finance my webs and hiding the wonderful, terrible truth from dear old Aunt May, and I could see the Baxter Building towering over us and I knew that even the streets of Hell’s Kitchen were safe because justice is blind.

And I grew up in Gotham, waiting for a signal that outshines the moon, a call to arms, for the hour to don cloak and cowl and chase down clowns, cats, and others of that superstitious, cowardly lot.

And I grew up in Cimmeria, surviving on sword and wits and wanderlust.

And I grew up in Innsmouth, where the air smells of fish and strangers are most unwelcome.

And I grew up in the Carpathians, where the children of the night make sweet music and the dead travel fast.

And I grew up on Tattooine, and flew off across the stars with an old hermit and a master pilot and his loyal, furry first mate.

And I grew up in the October Country, where a saint named Ray showed me how mood and essence are just as vital as plot.

And I grew up in London and a plethora of other places, where my face often changed while my name and number stayed the same and the gun never left my hand except when my arms were around an exotic beauty, and the world was always better shaken than it was stirred.

And I grew up in Middle Earth and traveled far and wide and back again in the company of wizards, dwarves, and elves.

And I grew up in jungles and battlefields and on pirate ships and in Sherwood Forest and Ancient Egypt and Rome in the days of Caesar, and Camelot and ‘Salem’s Lot.

And I grew up under an opera house where the Phantom silently terrified the world with a simple revelation of what waits beneath his mask.

And I grew up in a strange neighborhood where a family of monsters lived down the street from a witch, a Martian, and a talking horse.

And I grew up in the ‘40s flashing a whip, punching Nazis, and fearing snakes.

 And I regenerated in a blue box that’s bigger on the inside and can take you anywhere and any-when and safely home again or onward farther and deeper than imagination itself.

And I grew up in a hundred other places that etched their echoes into my mind and dreams and ideas and made me who I am today.

Paterson was only an ingredient.