World-Building Tip for Authors
After working with many authors, I have learned a crucial world-building tip for authors. World-building is a particular challenge in science fiction and fantasy, where the author has to balance the need to keep the plot moving with the need to give the reader a sense of context and direction in the wholly made-up world he or she has created.
Info-dumping (adding in a lot of backstory to explain what’s happening) is usually a result of an inexpert balancing act. One of the ways an author tries to fix this is to have characters talk about their world, but in a way that is stilted and unnatural (because the people involved already know the facts of their lives, they wouldn’t be telling them to each other).
When this happens, the goal is to reduce some of the telling of backstory as well as eliminating some of the “As you know, Bob,” material. What want is for the reader to have just enough information to follow along with the action of the story.
Here’s an example of an author trying too hard to shove all of the world-building into the first chapter.
The Original Manuscript
The full moon brooded in the darkness, the night air heavy and warm. Jelena inhaled the sweet smell of lilac blossoms. The Storyteller claimed that the First Born had planted the lilac bushes surrounding the main hall when they had first come out of their long sleep. Years before, when a holocaust had doomed the world, the Old Ones had hidden themselves away in a cave, putting themselves into machines that created suspended animation. The first people to wake up were called the First Born. They were important people in the hierarchy of the tribe.
The Rememberer said that the People used to fly among the stars, but no one really believed that. No one remembered it. The Rememberer did, because he had the clearest memory of all of them of the world that they had lived in before going into suspended animation. Most of the people didn’t remember very much. Everyone who was born again had to remember who they had been so they could contribute to the tribe. If you couldn’t remember, you were called UnAwakened and you were considered less valuable.
The Sentries stood a few hundred yards away, just beyond the courtyard, stationed by the split rail fence. One casually leaned his elbows against the top rail; the other stood more alertly but with one ear cocked toward the dining hall as if she didn’t want to miss anything. A third joined them as Jelena watched.
“Have you got your regulation broadswords?” he asked.
The other two looked over at him. Both carried the broadswords with their flat, sharp blades sheathed at their waists, shorter daggers strapped to their calves and probably a dirk or two up their sleeves.
“Good. The wolves will probably try to get in tonight.”
“That’s true,” one of the guards said.
The wolves did spend a lot of time trying to get inside the compound. Jelena shivered.
She felt, rather than heard, his presence behind her. He had not been there; suddenly he was there, as if the shadows by the door had merely thickened and grown substantial.
“It’s my Protector,” she said. “You never give yourself away unless you want to.”
“In a different tribe, I would probably be a Tracker,” he agreed. When people remembered who they were, they took on the duties of that former career. In addition to those duties, they also took turns taking care of the Newlyborn, who were the people just waking up from suspended animation. That was called being a Protector.
“I saw you talking with Charmaine so I took the opportunity to come out here for a break,” Jelena said. “I know Charmaine is in charge of the scouting party tomorrow. I suppose you had a lot to talk about.”
“I was talking with her for a while, I know. I’m sorry, I should have seen you. That’s me being remiss in my duties.”
“There are Sentries out here. I’m fine.”
“I suppose you are out here trying to remember something. I know you find it hard being an UnAwakened, but you just need to be patient.”
She slapped the step with her palm, angry but tired and drained. Her anger was dull black, like the logs on the gathering fire long after night had fallen. She would have preferred anger red hot and piercing or ice white and purifying.
“No one in our tribe has ever gone seven years, Michael,” she said. She had been Newlyborn seven years ago and had never remembered her past life. At some point, the Elders would say that she was UnAwakened, instead of Newlyborn, and that would change her lot in life and everything about what she could do and be and what she could expect.
“Would it be so tragic if you never Awakened?” he asked.
“Tragic?” she said. “Oh, of course not. The unAwakened are so helpful.” Her voice mimicked Elder Cara. “I don’t know what we’d do without them. They tend our gardens, look out for our children, see to the pigs.”
“It’s important work,” Michael said, but he said it without conviction and she could hear the fatigue in his voice.
“Why don’t you go?” she flung at him.
“Jelena,” he said. She did not answer. “Jelena,” he said, sharper. “Come here.” He bit back a sound of frustration when she did not respond. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, she got to her feet, turned to him. The glow from the lantern played across his face, all sharp angles and hooded eyes, which, if you looked closely enough you could see sparkled like blue crystals. Old Gregorius’ had told her stories of the gems he had collected in his Pastself, reciting names and colors for her: sapphire blue, emerald green, ruby red and the less precious stones that he still admired and loved, buttery golden topaz, sharp black onyx, pale green jade. With his tools he had carved the jewels to reveal their inner beauty and to create symbols highly prized in the world that had passed from memory not long after they were Saved.
Gregorius’ Calling was Trader, and he drove a hard bargain for the goods they gave away and the goods they sought. He had grinned and told her to look into Michael’s eyes if she ever wanted to see a sapphire. The Trader, like everyone who had Awakened to his Pastself and found his Calling, was happy and content with his life, certain he was carrying out the Makers’ intentions.
“Jelena,” Michael said, and touching her face lifted her chin. “I can’t go away. I won’t.”
She tossed her head and he dropped his hand. “The Witangamot will decide that seven years is enough,” she said. “Seven years, Michael. Seven years.”
World-Building Tip for Authors:
Set the pace of the world-building through development of the conflict.
We would help the author see how to revise this chapter by pointing out the specific areas where we are given more information than we need right now and where the characters are resorting to “As you know, Bob” conversation to convey facts about the story world.
Below is an example of how this ms would look revised (the author would do the actual revision, we would just show them how).
The Revised Manuscript
Sitting alone on the front step of the main hall, staring up at the moon, Jelena inhaled the scent of lilac blossoms nearing the end of their flowering, sweet and heavy in the warm night air. The storyteller claimed that the first born had planted these lilac bushes from shoots they had found and nurtured during the early years. Longing for home, they had been, or so the storyteller said, and no one had any reason to doubt him. For Jelena, the smell of lilac would always remind her of despair.
The stars winked on their field of dark velvet. Lifting a finger, she traced them: the Scimitar and the Rider; the Wolf and the Wolfhunter; the Protector and the Newlyborn. One could obtain a full education in the ways of the people simply by learning the stories of the constellations. Jelena had them by heart, and knew all she needed to know.
She dropped her reaching fingers and clenched her hands into fists. No, she did not know all she needed to know. Not according to them, anyway. She would never know it. Never. And then?
The iron lantern hanging from the post near the door cast shadows across the hard-packed dirt courtyard. A lizard scurried past, kicking up a puff of dust. Jelena heard the horses in the western paddock restlessly stamping their feet in the warmth of the summer night, the frogs splashing in the pond out beyond the work rooms, the occasional burst of laughter from the dining hall in the timber-and-wattle building behind her. Neolithic, the rememberer had remarked after its construction, but when pressed would not say what he meant, just shook his head and drowned the memories in more ale. By now it was a miracle he remembered anything at all. Jelena, wanting to encourage her memories, abstained from the ale. But abstinence solved nothing.
The sentries, whom she knew had marked her appearance on the front step, stood a few hundred yards away, on the other side of the courtyard, stationed by the gate in the split rail fence. The intermittent torches in their iron brackets along the fence perimeter cast twisting shadows over their figures. One sentry casually leaned his elbows against the top rail; the other stood more alertly but with one ear cocked toward the dining hall as if she didn’t want to miss anything. They both carried the regulation broadswords with their flat, sharp blades sheathed at their waists, shorter daggers strapped to their calves and no doubt a dagger or two up their sleeves. They carried no firearms. The gunsmiths, if there were any, had not awakened yet.
Jelena felt, rather than heard, his approach behind her. No: she felt his presence; she hadn’t been aware of his approach. He hadn’t been there; suddenly he was there, as if the shadows by the door had merely thickened and grown substantial. Michael never gave himself away with sound or movement unless he wanted to. In a different tribe, he might have been a tracker. He was focused, disciplined and unrelenting. Even when you thought he was distracted, he kept watch. At first she had believed his watchfulness was his purpose, a skill that he had learned through long periods of training, but after all these years she had come to recognize it was his essence, his nature.
This evening after they finished their communal meal, she’d seen him deep in conversation with Charmaine and had seized the opportunity to slip out and take a moment to herself. She needed to think and found it hard to do so in his presence. Her unspoken, inarticulate longings must be sorted out, soon. She must make a decision, and she couldn’t do it when he was so big and warm and near. But here he was anyway, her separate shadow, making it desperately impossible to think.
The crickets cried out for mates in the darkness. The urgent sound reminded her of the summer after she had been newlyborn, when a plague of insects had struck the land. The rememberer said these locusts descended every seventeen years. One of the other elders, Cara, had said, no, they were not locusts, they had another name. But Cara’s brow had furrowed, and grasping, she lost the word she sought. The locusts – or whatever they were named – had frightened the tribe. Thousands of them droning on and on so loudly they drove out all other sound. They devoured the plants in the fields and drowned in thick layers in the pond, fattened the sparrows and the robins, met untimely ends at the hands of the trueborn children. Then they had gone, leaving their translucent shed skins behind, crunching under foot until winter came and swept all signs away.
“Cicadas,” Jelena said suddenly.
The man who stood behind her remained motionless. He never interrupted a memory. Though she said the words aloud, she didn’t know if she was speaking to him or to herself. Sometimes she thought it was the same thing.
“Once, when I was a little girl . . . I lived near the water. The ocean.” She twisted her hands together, reaching for the memory, willing herself to unlock the secrets. “The ocean and the summer of the cicadas,” she said, her voice rising in excitement. The ocean, pale blue and glittering in the sun, stretching endlessly in the distance – she could see the distant waves and smell the salty tang and feel the warm breeze on her face. She could hear the sound of the cicadas and a soft voice giving her the name. “Those are cicadas.” Had that been her mother? Then the vision shimmered, and faded, and was gone.
Jelena’s shoulders slumped. She slapped the step with her palm, but there was little energy behind the action. She was more tired and drained than angry. So close, always so tantalizingly close, and then nothing came of it. Even her anger despaired. It was dull black, like the logs on the gathering fire long after night had fallen. She would have preferred anger red hot and piercing or ice white and purifying.
“No one has ever gone seven years, Michael,” she said. She knew he would understand the logic of her thoughts, the unspoken connections she made. He always did. He understood everything but the one secret she kept deep in her heart, buried far from the surface, so that no one would ever see or guess it, and it was that secret that made her despair when she thought she would never remember.
“Would it be so tragic if you never awakened?” he asked in the tone of one long resigned to participating in an argument he could never win. He was resigned; she despaired. What a pair they made.
“Tragic?” she echoed. “Oh, of course not. The unawakened are so helpful.” Her voice mimicked Elder Cara’s. “I don’t know what we’d do without them. They tend our gardens, look after our trueborn, see to the pigs.”
“It’s important work,” Michael said, but he said it without conviction and she could hear the fatigue in his voice.
“Why don’t you go?” she flung at him. She did not want resignation from him. She wanted heat and passion and action.
“Jelena,” he said. She did not answer. “Jelena,” he said, sharper. “Come here. Look at me.” Her shoulders stiffened in resistance. What would he do if she refused? Nothing, dammit. Damn him. She should refuse and then, and then –
Reluctantly, she got to her feet. Was there any other choice? Was there ever any other choice? She turned to face him. The light from the lantern played across his face, emphasizing the sharp angles and hooded eyes. Though it was dark, she knew those eyes were blue and glittered like the river in the summer sun. They were the first thing she saw the day she was newlyborn, and perhaps she had been lost even then.
She knew everything about his face, had memorized every feature, every scar and shadow and hollow. Tonight, his dark hair was pulled back with a leather thong. Sometimes, not often, he let it fall about his shoulders and she wanted to curl her fingers into it. But she never did. Unlike most of the other men, he kept his beard trimmed short. His hair was untouched with gray but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes gave away his age; he was no fledgling but a man.
“Jelena,” Michael said, and touching her face lifted her chin. “I can’t go away. I won’t.” Of course not. That would be action.
Here, because the author has reduced the info-dumping, it’s easier to see the development of the conflict and to learn more about the characters. While this is still a slow-paced story, it doesn’t feel as bogged down, and we can still follow along with what is happening with the info-dumping greatly reduced. (It also makes a difference in readability to eliminate most of those unnecessary capitals.)
