Welcome to Davidwellington.net

The home for all the latest news about the books of David Wellington/D. Nolan Clark, as well as his weekly writing blog and the occasional piece of short fiction.

David Wellington is the author of over twenty novels, ranging across horror, fantasy, thrillers and science fiction. He can be reached directly at contactmonster@hotmail.com, or you can follow him on twitter @LastTrilobite.

RIP Stephen Hawking, a Great Writer

Given the effect he had on the world of science and our ability to comprehend our universe, you’ll hear a lot on the internet about Stephen Hawking today. He was a truly great scientist, perhaps the most influential since Einstein. His contributions to the fields of physics and astronomy are legendary and immortal.

I’d like to pay tribute, however, to his abilities as a writer. Specifically to his work, A Brief History of Time. I think it may be the best work of science ever written for a popular audience. It certainly shaped me as a science fiction writer and as a global citizen.

ABHOT is wonderfully written, and it never shies away from or apologizes for its subject matter. Hawking takes the reader through some of the gnarlier bits of physics from the very large–black holes and the nature of time and gravity–to the infinitesimally small. He does so in a way that anyone can understand, with very little math involved.

His chapter on quantum spin isn’t just the best explication of the concept I’ve read. It’s the only one I’ve ever understood. He writes about black holes as if he had first hand knowledge of them, as if he’d spent years of his life living among them. It’s a wonderful book and worth your time if you haven’t already read it.

ABHOT isn’t just good, though. It’s necessary. It is vital. Starting with Einstein and Bohr, physics went through a revolution in the early twentieth century. Newtonian physics was easy for the layman to understand. It made sense, good, logical sense, and a thinking person could look at the three laws of motion and nod sagely, thinking yes, that makes sense.

The world of the quantum–and of the very large–does not. Starting with basic atom theory and wandering through the particle zoo, twentieth century scientists discovered that the world is in fact counter-intuitive. That it has definite, clear rules that you can’t work out based just on what you can see and touch.

This realization, that the universe was not designed for human senses and basic human comprehension, created a massive crisis in intellectual circles. If the world doesn’t make sense, how are we to grapple with it? How can we possibly make a place for ourselves in a universe that defies our most basic assumptions?

That tension directly led to the rise of science fiction. Writers like Asimov tried to explain the weird away. Lovecraft, on the other hand, located true horror in that gap between what we can intuit and what is real.

But it would take Hawking, and his little book, to truly bridge the gap. Only a very small number of people really understood concepts like supersymmetry, quantum entanglement, and the Casimir effect back when ABHOT was written. Today, Uncertainty and the particle/wave duality are–or at least should be–commonly known concepts. Even people with only a basic understanding of science have heard of Schrödinger’s Cat.

This is in no small part due to ABHOT. Hawking laid out the concepts in such a way that they could be understood if not easily, then at least with a little work. The reasonable reader might not nod sagely and say, yes, particle pairs make sense, but they could at least understand why they were important.

ABHOT was an immense bestseller in its day. It still sells very well and for good reason–its lessons are still (mostly) valid, and more important every day.

Science is vital to our lives at every turn, and our ignorance of its laws is no excuse for ignoring them. As we face a world with an uncertain future due to climate change, as we struggle to find sources of clean energy and better, faster computers, we rely on the hidden world constantly. The world that Stephen Hawking made manifest, the world he inhabited in a way that only genius can.

Bad Advice: Write Like Your Parents Are Already Dead

Because, of course, then you’ll be liberated from the fear of offending them. Or you can write about them, even better, right? You can write about how crazy they were or how they treated you or what they did to keep you from writing. Right?

It’s true that writers need to be a little fearless when they choose their subjects. They have to write violent or dark or–gasp–sexy scenes and if they’re worried what their families or close friends think, they’ll hold back, they’ll soft-pedal things. It’s true that the great writers are the ones who tackle subjects nobody wants to talk about. The ideas and concepts that might make them unpopular.


I don’t entirely buy it. Oh, it’s good to be a little libertine in your choices as a writer. You want drama and excitement and a little adrenaline to spice up your stories. But there are two reasons I think this is, if not terrible advice, at least worth questioning. The first is that your parents–actually, let’s open this up and say your loved ones, regardless of their legal relationship to you–are the best support staff you’re going to get. They can nurture you and be your best first readers and their stories can inform what you write. One of the best, if not the best moment of my entire career, happened at a dinner table one night while I was visiting my parents.

“Here are my five favorite David Wellington novels, and why,” my father said. Then he went on to list and describe them.

My Dad had read my books. And liked them. He’s passed, now, and I miss so much the support, encouragement, and love he gave me. While he was still alive he got to see me succeed as a writer. He was so proud. I wouldn’t trade anything for that.

Writing is a solitary activity and it can be soul-crushing. The isolation and daily discouragement you get as a writer is your worst enemy. Your loved ones are what can keep you going in the darkest moments. Don’t see them as impediments. See them as resources. If they truly love you, of course they’ll want you to use their stories, to adapt their anecdotes. You can’t write in a vacuum.

The second reason that this particular piece of advice is bad is that strictures and limitations are what make art great.

The pure, free play of the writer’s mind gave us Ulysses, and To The Lighthouse. Those are great books… but they’re rare. And they should be. Most great stories come from some kind of artificial rule, some boundary set up against the author’s progress by forces they couldn’t control.

There’s a reason why the Monty Python movies aren’t as good as the television sketches. Forced to work within arbitrary rules of censorship on state media, the Pythons were forced to go absurd–they couldn’t just make endless jokes about shit and fucking, so they had to get surreal.

Almost all pulp fiction passed through a rigorous gauntlet of editors and gate-keepers, people who either demanded the stories be less salacious–or more so. Then there’s the greatest road block of them all: the readership, in all of its strident demands and capricious wants. I would argue–and I know there are many who disagree–that Lovecraft’s greatest stories are the ones he wrote specifically for the Weird Tales audience. Not the Poe pastiches and noodly nightmares he created when nobody was watching.

Editors refine stories. Audiences push authors to find universal themes, to find why stories are important. Writing in a vacuum would ignore those tensions, pretend they don’t exist.

For the sake of your readership, and your own mental health–don’t write like your parents are already dead. Right the story that’s going to make your father (or mother, or wife, or cousin, or crazy best friend) proud of you.

Politics in Genre Writing

Short answer? Go for it.

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

You’ve probably heard someone tell you this by now. That they don’t want “politics” in science fiction, or horror, or Disney Princess fanfic. Of course we all know what they really mean. They don’t want you to write anything that disagrees with their personal politics.

It is in fact possible that if you include a strong political stance in your writing, you’ll lose a few readers. You might also gain a few more–who agree with you. Who want to support your message.

You may have been told that if you take a strong political stance in your writing, you’ll get harassed online. I’ve got news for you–you will get harassed online as soon as you put your name in the public eye. It’s something you learn to deal with as a writer. There will be angry words, and name-calling, and maybe even threats, regardless of what you say.

Politics is part of our daily life, maybe more now than at any time in the past (certainly more than any point in my lifetime). If your characters don’t have political views, they’ll feel less realistic.

And if you write in the most non-objectionable, most middle-of-the-road way, how will your story stand out?

I was told early on in my career to shy away from “controversial” subject matter. Like, for instance, having characters who weren’t straight, white, and predominantly male. I was given a very long lecture on this by someone I trust, someone with a lot of experience in the industry.

All I can tell you is–my two most successful characters were a lesbian state trooper and a Muslim schoolgirl from Somalia.

Whoever tells you to keep the politics out of writing is trying to stop you from using your voice. Don’t let them.

Bad Advice: Single Biome Worlds

It’s one of the great cliche responses to science fiction. “Earth has dozens of different biomes, but every planet in sci fi is just one thing, either it’s all desert or all frozen or…”

It’s easy to see why this bothers so many people watching science fiction movies. It’s very true that Earth has a wide range of climates and terrain, from snowswept mountains to dense, fetid swamps to arctic deserts and mist forests. When a planet in a work of science fiction is homogeneous from pole to pole, it feels like the creators are taking a shortcut. They’re being lazy.

But there are very good reasons why we keep seeing single-biome worlds in fiction. For one thing–as shortcuts go, it’s a great one. If you have multiple planets to depict, as in Star Wars, it allows you to instantly set them off from each other. You know by simple lighting cues and color palettes if a scene is set on Tattooine or Dagobah or Hoth. You don’t need to keep putting titles on the screen telling us where we are.

Furthermore it allows you to develop a landscape even if the characters move from place to place on the same planet. A consistent setting can grow and develop depth, whereas you just don’t have room to describe fifty different biomes in the same book, say.

This concern over single biome worlds didn’t start with Star Wars. It was old even when Dune was at its heyday. Arrakis is desert from pole to pole. It’s literally called the “Desert Planet”. This makes it the butt of one of the oldest tropes in sf criticism. Yet Herbert wasn’t trying to create a lushly diverse world in Dune. He was specifically trying to create a world which appears to be empty and hostile to life. What J.G. Ballard would call “psychic zero”–the same desolate landscape that is the setting for most of the Bible, a place where his zensunni warriors could test themselves both physically and spiritually. He also wanted to show the life cycle of the sandworms, which is so complex they may be the only living things on Arrakis, pre the arrival of humans. It’s funny that Dune, which is often called the first ecological science fiction novel, started this trend of worrying so much about biological diversity.

Looking outside the science fiction world, we can find a pretty solid defense of the single-biome planet as well–we need only look at the actual universe we live in. While Earth is home to multiple habitats and giant variations in its weather patterns, it turns out that it’s the exception, not the rule.

Wherever we look in our own solar system, we find nothing but single-biome worlds. Mars is cold, dry, and dusty. The polar caps are slightly different, but only slightly. Mercury is even more homogeneous, with maybe a few patches of water ice in craters at its poles–otherwise it’s nothing but sunblasted rock. Venus is shrouded in such a dense atmosphere that its entire surface is just molten rock and maybe liquid metals.

Beyond the orbit of Mars, diversity in planetary surfaces drops off considerably. The four giant planets are nothing but unitary weather patterns. Their moons are almost universally made of ice and rock in equal measure. Titan has methane lakes and deserts of electric sands, but again, it sticks out for its incredible wealth of biomes (two, maybe three). Beyond Neptune, there is nothing but an endless succession of Hoths. Worse than Hoths, because they lack the atmosphere to even have variable weather.

The criticism that worlds in science fiction are too samey, too much of a piece, is perfectly legitimate when we’re talking about planets exactly like Earth–planets with incredible genetic diversity, planets where life has sculpted the environment into biomes that favor individual species’ reproductive success. But please, when you’re creating worlds for your own sf stories, don’t feel obliged to throw rain forests onto your alpine planet. You don’t need them, and despite what anyone says, they aren’t all that realistic anyway.

Love Stories

For Valentine’s day, I thought I’d write down a few thoughts on one of the hardest things in fiction–writing effective love stories.

This is one of those things that’s so much easier to do in a screenplay. Of course Trinity falls in love with Neo–have you seen him? He looks just like Keanu Reeves! In fiction, though, you can’t just say “two pretty people met and fell for each other, and it was super hot.” In a book or a short story you actually have to show it happening. You need to give your reader actual reasons why the two people involved enjoy each others’ company–and why they want to take time out of their busy schedule of slaying dragons and surviving alien invasions to be together. I’ve put together some basic tips here that should help you avoid some of the common pitfalls of romance stories, especially as they’re deployed in genre fiction.

You may not actually need a love story. A lot of stories don’t. If your characters don’t get along, or if it feels like you’re just shoehorning in a romance subplot… try not doing that. Let the characters be happier as friends. Not every two people who meet in a book are destined to be together. If the love story is taking up too much room in your plot or if just feels forced, let them go their separate ways.

Opposites repel. If your characters have diametrically opposed goals–say, one is a hero and one is a villain–or if their personalities actively clash, why would they even want to date? I’m not saying it can’t be done, but when your characters are constantly squabbling, they’ll often come across more as obnoxious than lovable. Instead, try giving your characters something to bond over. You’ll be surprised how when two characters actually respect and like each other, feelings can just naturally blossom. It makes them want to spend more time together, and have more scenes together. Speaking of which!

Put your characters in the same room. Nothing feels more artificial than a love interest who is always away on quests or only shows up in the character’s life when it’s least convenient. This is the fictional equivalent of the significant other who lives in Canada or goes to a different high school so we can’t ever meet them. The lover who can’t be tied down may be a romantic archetype, but it always feels like a device, not a character. You want your two characters spending LOTS of time together. We need long dialogue scenes between them, and to have them go on adventures together to increase their bond. The more of them we see enjoying each other’s company, the more we’ll believe it when they have that first, awkward, tentative, beautiful kiss.

Give love time to grow. Yeah, this is important. Like any kind of plot or subplot, the love story happens over time. It has its ups and downs, its reversals and its misunderstandings. Having two characters meet in scene one and be making out in scene two only works if scene three is them realizing what a terrible mistake they just made (and scene four is them wondering if it really was a mistake after all, and scene five is…). This is a plot, which means it needs to develop. Which means you need to devote a lot of time to it. Don’t have enough room in your story for that? See tip number one, above.

A lover should never be a prize. Just because you broke up the drug cartel doesn’t mean you get the boy. Saving a woman from zombies doesn’t mean she owes you anything. This is an old, old trope from a bad time and it deserves to die. Both characters in a love story have their own feelings and their own value. They don’t exist just as motivation for the protagonist, and they don’t just fall into bed every time something dramatic happens. In fact, it’s a good general rule–never have a love scene immediately after something traumatic or violent happens. That’s just super creepy.

Love is a two-way sacrifice. Love means both parties giving up something of themselves to be with the loved one. Both of them. A character who drops their entire life just to go chasing after a pretty other isn’t a character, they’re an appendage. If your aspiring wizard stops practicing magic because he met a pretty woman at the library, he’s a dud. If a woman quits her job so she can move to Alaska to marry the salmon fisherman, her story is over. Your characters both need to make choices to be together, or their love feels like a plot detail rather than a story in itself.

When You’re Stuck: Things to Try

There are days when you just can’t write. You can have the world’s best idea, be sitting in the world’s best writing chair… and nothing comes. When it feels like every sentence you put down just takes you farther from what you wanted to say.

And you know what? Sometimes there is no solution, except to stop, walk away, and find something more constructive to do with your time. Absolutely.

But before you get to that point, there are things you can try to bring the magic back. I can’t guarantee they’ll work, but it’s better than losing an entire writing day, right?

Change Your Viewpoint: I wrote a story recently where I just couldn’t find the right voice. I had great characters in mind, but I couldn’t make them jump through the necessary hoops. They were too smart to do the dumb thing, or too weak to effect the needed change. I tried writing that story four different ways, and in the end, the answer was to write the story from the perspective of the villain. Suddenly the evil machinations all felt natural. The dialogue, which had been forced, was suddenly crackling with malice. It turned a mournful, quiet story into a fun romp–exactly what that story needed.

Write Backwards: There are some writers, I’m told, who write the middle of a story first, or the next-to-last scene, or whatever. I’ve never been one of them, myself. I need to write chronologically, both for the sake of continuity and flow. But every so often I’ll find that the answer really is to write the climax of the story first–and then write the penultimate scene, and then the antepenultimate scene, until I get to the beginning. It’s like when you’re stuck solving a maze–often just flipping the maze over and starting from the end is the best solution.

The Extended Outline: The worst way to write, typically, is to just list a series of events, as in; this happened, and then that happened, and then another thing… except when that’s exactly what you need to do. If you know the structure and plot of your story, try writing each chapter as a single sentence (as convoluted and nonsensical as it needs to be), as if you were writing a dry and clinical synopsis of the story. Then go back and fix those terrible sentences! You may find they turn into scenes because you can’t bear to leave them as knotted up and mechanical as they look on the page.

Change Act I: If the ending of a story isn’t working, if it seems hackneyed or lifeless, often times you just haven’t earned it. Your characters haven’t gone through enough trials, or the solution to their problem is just too easy or too obvious. Go back and look at how you started the story. Did you not give your protagonist enough obstacles to overcome? Did you forget to mention that your heroine is a wizard? Find some simple detail early in the story and change it. How does that affect your ending? It could unlock whole new possibilities. Of course, the opposite can be true as well–that is:

Simplify! A story that is too complicated is one of the main causes of stuck writer syndrome. The problem may be that you’re trying to do too much. Do you really need that subplot where the characters open a bakery, only to realize they actually needed to find the Jade Parrot statue before it was too late? Are you trying to create rich, multi-dimensional characters in a pulpy potboiler? Cutting out extraneous material and diversions will free you up to really explore the things that excite you about the story.

And of course the best advice you can get when you’re stuck is this: Don’t give up! Keep plugging away. Write ten bad sentences in a row and maybe the eleventh will be the one that sings. You can always go back and edit later. Remembering that is often the golden key that unlocks your creativity. Don’t be afraid to fail!

Bad Advice: Static Protagonists

Everyone knows that your characters need to go through arcs. They need to change, or grow, or learn a lesson, or discover something about themselves before the story’s over.

Don’t believe it. Plenty of great stories are led by static characters. Most writing guides will insist that every character you create needs to be dynamic and grow over time, but in fact this is a choice (like everything in writing), one you can forego under some circumstances.

There are many different kinds of characters–many varieties of protagonist–and some of them don’t benefit from deep, character driven stories.

Let’s look at a couple kind of characters that benefit from not being so three dimensional:

Aspirational characters don’t–and shouldn’t–develop over the course of a story. These are characters who are held up as paragons of a certain desirable quality. Kind, noble, smarter than the rest of us. Sherlock Holmes never changed, in the original stories. Modern attempts to recreate the character focus on giving him substance abuse problems or neurological impairments. They never improve on the original. Every time they try to make Superman more human, or flawed, the story falls apart. Why? Because Superman isn’t supposed to be human. He’s a symbol of something nobler and more pure, something we aspire to. He has weaknesses, sure, but no movie ends with him accepting that he is helpless before kryptonite, or understanding that he and Lois Lane are never going to be happy together and moving on.

Tragic characters, as well, lack arcs. They start out with a flaw and we watch as that flaw tears them apart. The only lesson they learn is that fate can’t be avoided. In fact the whole point of the story is to show that people can’t change, that they are locked into preordained paths. Think of Oedipus, bound by prophecy–his story is not improved by him learning to love himself. Jay Gatsby, who is defined by his attempts to redefine himself, ends up dead in a swimming pool, because he found that there was something in his heart he couldn’t reinvent.

Badass characters start as their best selves and end there, too. Action movie stars don’t have arcs. Oh, they may discover that they care about the orphan child being hunted by the cartel. But that soft spot in their hearts was always there–it’s never developed beyond one touching moment of recognition. I have a friend who despises the movie 300, because he feels Leonidas starts out as the ultimate warrior… and then simply lives up to his reputation. From the perspective of character-driven drama, sure, 300 is a failure… but does anyone really think it would be made better by giving Leonidas a lengthy subplot where he has to discover the Spartan within?

Static protagonists do not have self-realizations; they simply end the story better informed than they were before. They don’t grow and mature, because we are told from the beginning they’re already at their wisest and best. They may not stop at every station on the Hero’s Journey, but sometimes we don’t need them to.

It’s up to you to decide how much your character needs to develop in the course of your plot. In fact, you will often have to choose between having a more complicated external plot and telling the story of a character’s more human side.

It’s not my position here to suggest that character-driven stories are bad in any way. Simply that they are not the only way of telling a story. Of course, you can have a story about a superhero who fails, and has to learn to live with the fact they aren’t the hero they thought they were. You can have a story about a tragic character who rises above their suffering, and accomplishes something noble even as they watch their doom approach. Sure! Those can be great stories, too! The point I’m trying to make is that arcs, like everything in writing, are choices and you don’t always need them. You can write a book that’s one long character sketch or a series of farcical events with no real plot. Some of the great works of literature don’t go anywhere. There are lots of really terrible books with exquisitely engineered character arcs. As always, it’s up to the writer to choose which rules they want to follow, and which they want to ignore for the sake of the story.