If you look at terrestrial globe, Europe is tiny compared to Asia and Africa and chock full with even tinier countries. And almost all of them have its own language and its own version of history, usually going back to the Roman Empire. The only other area which is similarly cluttered with tiny countries is Central America & the Caribbean, but that region has only three languages: Spanish, English, French. Africa is the other way around: a huge continent with vast countries, each the home of scores of languages.
Paul Kennedy’s The Rise and Fall of Great Powers argues that Europe’s balkanized political structure is a major cause for its success in dominating the world in the 19th century. Tough competition between its many countries forced the major ones to become highly skilled in macroeconomics, warfare, agriculture and technology to survive and prosper. Other regions of world, like China and the Mughal Empire of north India, did not suffer the same political “evolutionary pressure” and therefore the European great powers managed to dominate them temporarily (i.e. for a century or two).
When I look at my stories, I see these European traits. The protagonists speak many languages and frequently do not share the same mother tongue. Countries tend to be small and competitive. The power-play of nations influences the plot development in manners similar to 19th-century Europe. (When I look at American SF writers, I often see that they pay less heed to humanity’s diversity of languages. And they often have less complex international politics.)
Today the Christmas issue (#6-2011) of the Swedish gaming magazine Fenix (link >>>) arrived by snail mail. It contained a favorable review of both my novels. Big smile. The reviewer particularly praised the quality of the novels’ imaginary settings: the fantasy world Gondica and the dieselretro continent Alba.
I started writing fiction in my early teens and now, when I have reached middle age and start to summarize my authorial experiences, I see underlying patterns in my stories.
I am a son of 20th-century Europe. The Cold War was an everyday reality for the first 30 years of my life. The society told my young self stories again and again about colonialism, decolonization, two continent-wrecking World Wars, and a lethal global influenza pandemic. I learned, without really thinking about it, what it is like to be a modern European:
Our continent arrogantly conquered the world — and lost it in humiliation
Our continent created the most advanced technologies — and used them to devastate our own lands
Our continent developed sophisticated philosophies — and let them excuse genocides
Our continent gave birth to human rights and parliamentary democracy — and then became home to the vilest tyrannies
Pride and ignorance have been our doom — our shame has been self-inflicted.
And yet, we are still around, humbled by our recent past. And we are building a 21st-century Europe that we hope will not repeat the mistakes of the 20th.
And those experiences seep into my writings without me thinking about it.
I write about flawed societies, about lethal conflicts — and about hope, about building something imperfect but better out of the devastation of war.
My protagonists grapple with the contradiction of barbarism within civilization. They join the side of cultured decency — and pay a steep price for taking that stand.
When writing fiction, I am forced to review what I am doing time and time again. That makes me learn more about my creativity. A truism — certainly, but also an educational experience. Gradually I realize what themes I put into my stories.
A recurrent notion is how the protagonists master machines as tools in their struggles. This is a thoroughly modern idea, perhaps dating back to Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s novel about Frankenstein and his monster.
Most fantasy authors operate in the pre-modern paradigm, in which the protagonists strive to resist or master magic and nature. An explanatory example: The concept of the machine as a “force multiplier” is only hinted at by Tolkien in his descriptions of Saruman’s realm. The One Ring, the ultimate force multiplier, is clearly a Norse magic device granting the user superhuman perceptive abilities and charisma with non-material means. Even though Sauron used smithcraft to make it, it is not a machine.
I feel more comfortable writing in a modern paradigm. The machine, which is constructed by human skill, uses material substances from nature (iron, wood, petroleum, or its equivalents) to provide the protagonists with superhuman mobility, strength or perception. That is one reason that I have shifted my fantasy world Gondica (inter alia the stage for the Spiran och staven novel) to a post-medieval context.
That is an unusual approach in fantasy, because it lessens the importance of supernatural forces. Yes, there are such at work, like the spirits of the Direweald’s shamanistic para-reality The Endless Forest or the Dan-shi mystics’ ability to use spiritual strength to temporarily ignore constraints imposed by the laws of nature. But the mechanurgists (alchemy/artisanship magicians) use their sixth sense of perception to construct alchemical machinery by which they impose their wills on the world.
In some manner, this is the outlook of Jules Verne transferred to a world that somewhat resembles the Baroque era. Yes, whenever I take a closer look at my fantasy writings I see the recurrent shadows of this French giant. He was the first SF author I encountered, at the age of 8, and by the age of 15 I had read with great pleasure all his novels that had been translated into Swedish (a dozen or so). Somehow, his visions of the competent man mastering Nature by the clever use of technology — be it pre-industrial or Victorian — resonated with something in my soul.
I belong to a clan of engineers; its first one (my father’s mother’s father’s father) built church organs in the mid-19th century and my nephew belongs to its sixth generation. I have chosen a different professional path, currently earning my living as a tech writer. But whenever I write fiction, the engineer archetype, to borrow a Jungian notion, always enters the stage and assumes a commanding role.
When I do role-playing, the action takes place inside my head and external props are generally unnecessary. Therefore, I have never been a fan of LARP (Live-Action Role-Playing). Also, bad props would disrupt my enjoyment, like plastic swords and cars passing by the “medieval” LARP site. So I have only participated in two major LARP events since the 1990s, both meticulously staged in pseudo-modern gameworlds.
One of them — Carolus Rex in 1999 — was an outstanding dieselpunk experience. The adventure was played four times over a week. It was the same adventure, lasting 30 hours, but with new crews each time. The following photos have been contributed by Olle Sahlin, who served in crews 1 and 3. (He was a galley cook the second time. The cooks did not really play, but were charged with making sure that the “regular” crewmen did not forget to eat.) I served in crew 4.
One of the four crews and the sub
The organizers had rented an ex-Soviet Whiskey class submarine, serving as a tourist trap in the port of Norrköping. The sub was “dead”: all machinery disabled and all important portholes welded in safe open positions. So the organizers put in their own wiring and props, creating the retro-futuristic starship HMS Carolus Rex. Her future was a dystopia: we participants were subjects to an authoritarian Sweden, created out of national-romantic notions from the late 19th century with an added layer of dieselpunk-era oppression.
Two officers at work
The political officer onboard
The spaceship was equipped with a sound system, copper-wire communications, 1980s green-on-brown computer screens and lots of other small things that created a credible illusion of “Das Boot” meets Star Trek.
Interacting with the ship’s AI (i.e. the gamemasters) through the terminal
Two crewmen at work
Thirteen years have passed since those 30 hours I spent aboard HMS Carolus Rex as her science officer. (Unfortunately I have no photos of myself “at work”.) What I clearly remember is how the painstaking preparations by the organizers created a great illusion. No failed props. We were cut of from the world and surrounded by the cold steel hull, blinking machinery and an excellent sound system that created humming engines, battle noise and so many other impressions. It was a fantastic stage with an extraordinary adventure for the crew in general and me personally.
The storyline dealt with Sweden’s war against Denmark among the stars, alien beings communicating through the AI, the rescue of enemy crewmen from a blasted starship and the intrusion of a mental monster. I loved entering a truly dieselpunk world, a place in which dreams and nightmares came true. The basic plot was quite trekkish, but also full of dystopian darkness. Defeat, death and failure — there was no happy ending, neither for the ship nor for the Kingdom of Sweden.
I have to commend the organizers for providing genuine Danish LARPers for the rescued enemies. Their triumphal rendition of the Kong Christian battle song at the news of Sweden’s surrender added salt to the mix.