Noir for the Age of Collapse

Tag: process

  • Are We the Bad Guys?

    Are We the Bad Guys?

    Villains are interesting to me. So much so that I think I might have made one into a hero in The Silent Season. I’m not the first to do it, popular culture is full of “villain thinks they’re the hero” tropes. One could even say that a good villain is always the hero of their own story.

    Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who’s gonna do it? You? […] I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. […] You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. […] My existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don’t want the truth because, deep down, in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall.

    We use words like “honor”, “code”, “loyalty”. We use these words as the backbone of a line spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time, nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said “thank you,” and went on your way.

    The quote above is taken from the famous “You can’t handle the truth!” monologue, in “A Few Good Men”, delivered in scenery-chewing brilliance by the movie’s villain, Colonel Jessup, played by Jack Nicholson.

    The delivery is so credible that it’s difficult to say where Nicholson’s scenery chewing ends and Jessup’s begins. Besides acting talent, part of that is our almost Pavlovian expectation that a villain will monologue, often just before a key moment, or maybe even their downfall. But a more important part is the performative nature of villainy itself.

    I’ll explain.

    When executed poorly, a villain monologue provokes eye-rolls in the audience or readership, but it’s a cliché for a reason. Pop-culture conditioning aside, it’s natural for a villain to monologue because a villain doesn’t want to believe they’re wrong, despite ample evidence.

    A well-written villain will believe in an end, even if it’s not stated outright. Over the course of the story, they will employ increasingly horrific means towards this end, causing tension, conflict, and other plot mechanics.

    But mustache-twirling doesn’t come naturally to humans. So, faced with the rising moral cost of their actions, a villain will sink deeper into justification, a coping mechanism for their growing cognitive dissonance.

    So I think a lot of times we’re looking at a villain monologue cliché through the wrong lens. Maybe it’s not a plot device meant to do exposition, or give the hero time to escape. Cue the eye-roll.

    Instead, it might be a character moment, their sometimes literal confession. But it’s not for the hero or for the audience, it’s for themselves. Knowing they are in the wrong, but lacking the strength to stop, they say the things they say to resolve cognitive dissonance, to convince themselves to keep going.

    It can be the villain’s moment of vulnerability, their dwindling humanity laid bare for anyone who cares to see it. The tragedy is that we rarely do: we shrug or roll our eyes, waiting for the hero to intervene.

    By doing that, we protect ourselves against some cognitive dissonance of our own: by refusing to humanize the villain, the hero’s actions are better justified. What could have been ambiguous becomes a clean and happy ending.

    Villains are interesting because there’s a tiny villain in each of us.

  • The Trouble With Excerpts

    The Trouble With Excerpts

    With the book done, and editing well on the way, it’s smooth sailing from here. Find excerpts, post them to social media, and watch that following grow. Right? Well, do I have a plot twist for you.

    For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been staring at my manuscript, trying to find some excerpts to share. And, while finding bits of interesting writing is easy enough, I realized that they don’t work as well out-of-context.

    Normally, I rely on the fact that the reader already knows things, and already feels about things a certain way. I do this with an innovative technique I like to call “having read previous chapters”. That doesn’t translate to excerpts very well.

    And even if it did, the excerpt needs to find a middle ground between “why do I care?” and spoiling major plot points. I haven’t yet found such a middle ground, or not one I could comfortably stand on, at least.

    So where do I go from here? Well, if I can’t create interest with words, for fear of spoilers, I can maybe create it subconsciously, by setting a mood. So I’ve taken to creating an experience for each excerpt.

    In some short videos, some would call them “reels”, I combine the words with graphics and sound to create context subconsciously, via mood, because the subconscious can’t spoil plot points. Or maybe I just try to make them look cool, that can also work.

    You can see these atmospheric experiments on Instagram: @byjohnmarch. I’ll try to find a way to post them on the blog as well, but following me on social media gives me a sense of accomplishment. Really leaning into my “tortured author” persona here.

    Come for the noir, stay for the existential dread.

  • Very Meta

    Very Meta

    “Now you’re ready for battle, noble warrior,” she said, entering the makeshift shower. “I’ll clean myself under the waterfall. And then I will show you the secrets of my tribe. Terms and conditions apply.”

    I was reviewing a scene that had strong sexual undertones. Yes, the book contains sex scenes, as does the world.

    In any case, for a moment, I felt very pleased with myself for coming up with the “Terms and conditions” part.

    It’s no secret that I touch on themes of late-stage capitalism, commoditization, and other big words that say “life is getting harder for most people”.

    I ended up scrapping the line, because it didn’t really work in the scene, but the feeling of having it there still lingers.

    It brought back memories of youtubers pausing mid-essay, asking me to “please like, subscribe, and hit that bell icon”, hurting immersion and reminding me that, behind the façade, most things are revenue-driven.

    To some extent, it reminded me of maintaining a website, blog, and budding Social Media presence so that I can promote my book, sell it, and hopefully afford to write more.

    So please follow me on the platforms of your choice, share my content with friends, and stay tuned for updates. This is all very meta.

  • Everything dimmed

    Everything dimmed

    I waited to be almost 40 before starting my first novel. Having written novellas, stage plays, and short essays before, I thought I realized how daunting the scope of a full novel would be.

    I, in fact had no idea, I just thought I did.

    Still, I waited for the right time, when I’d have fewer distractions, better inspiration, and flimsier excuses.

    I started writing The Silent Season 21 years into my unrelated tech career, with my 40th birthday coming up, and a three week old newborn baby to help raise.

    Much like in the poem “Air and Light and Time and Space” by Charles Bukowski, it took me this long to realize there was no good context and that, If I was ever going to do it, I’d just have to do it.

    baby, air and light and time and space
    have nothing to do with it
    and don’t create anything
    except maybe a longer life to find
    new excuses
    for.

    I wrote at night, in between my newborn son’s requests for a bottle or diaper change, shifting my energy as I entered the nursery. I left the bullets and blood at the door and entered to make cooing and shushing noises, hoping to de-escalate the situation before his cries woke up my very tired wife.

    I wrote after coming back from the gym, way past midnight, the only time I had it to myself, my training pulling double-duty as a time to think through plot points. I hunched over the keyboard, water still dripping from my hair, hoping the baby monitor hadn’t gone off while I’d forgotten to take it with me in the shower.

    I wrote on vacation, I wrote instead of sleeping or working or eating. I wrote in the bathroom and forgot to flush. I wrote instead of going out with friends.

    I’ve tested the patience of my wife, a saint who continues to stand by me despite my failings. She more than once caught me, in the middle of our serious conversation, lost in thoughts of bullet counts and dialog mechanics. I’ve tested her patience, and it endured. She is a saint.

    I wrote on my phone, walking down the street, congratulating myself for choosing to write in English so I didn’t have to bother with special characters. I bumped against pedestrians and other obstacles, briefly glancing up as I crossed the street.

    I wrote on the subway, missing my stop. I wrote in the cab, awkwardly squeezing my laptop screen against the front seat. I wrote on the plane, reminding myself I needed to lose weight because these low-cost economy seats don’t account for a belly and a laptop.

    And however good or bad the book comes out in the end, I’m glad I did.

    Reading this blog post back, it reads like sacrifice, but I didn’t for one moment feel that was the case. When I was writing, everything else just dimmed. The baby crying, the missed subway stop, someone trying to talk to me. All of it became just background noise to the work.

    It wasn’t sacrifice, not for me. It was and is for the people around me, accepting less of me even when I’m there. And that, I’m forever grateful for.

    In The Silent Season, the protagonist says:

    I love killing people. I love it like other people love dancing, singing, or acting. It feels like making art, driven by hypnotic rhythm and absurd precision. The moment a scene obeys, I become it. Time crawls, sound mutes, and everything falls away, leaving only a canvas. Eventually, the passion you put into it is rewarded with a sense of accomplishment, the knowledge of having created excellence.

    I too loved killing people on the page, or creating new ones. Not that it’s for me to say whether I made excellence, I don’t hold myself in such high regard. But Bukowski was right, it seems. It’s surprising, if a little scary, how easily everything else can just mute.

  • Piece of Cake

    Piece of Cake

    (And other famous last words)

    I started writing The Silent Season from one idea that I found interesting: what if someone really enjoyed killing? Popular culture has a bunch of such characters, but one thing they all seem to have in common is some psychological condition that enables that. But what if that wasn’t the case?

    I believe the seed had been initially planted by Krombopulos Michael, a throwaway character in an episode of Rick and Morty, who introduces himself as: “I’m an assassin […], I just love killin’!” An exaggeration to be sure, humor through grotesque absurdity. I remember chuckling, and the concept stuck with me for some reason.

    Years later, the idea popped into my head and I started developing it. I asked myself: what if someone enjoyed killing, but in some way we haven’t seen before? Not because some urge, some higher purpose, or simply lack of empathy. What if there were no narrative crutch, no excuse for the character being the way they were? How would that even work?

    At the time, I was considering writing my first novel, and action had seemed like a good fit: I often go down rabbit holes, exploring how this or that works, why not guns, explosives, and assorted tech? And this would-be protagonist seemed to fit into the puzzle, his profession providing ample opportunity to create intriguing set pieces, as well as meditative bits in between, giving the reader time to breathe.

    OK, so now I just needed to write a flawed protagonist who channels his passion into profession. Despite being really into killing, he manages to remain at least somewhat sympathetic throughout the novel, and the reader finds themselves rooting for him despite themself. Oh, and the concept needs to not be edgy for the sake of being edgy. Piece of cake.

  • Quotes

    Quotes

    I spent half of a day procrastinating with WordPress tweaks instead of editing the book. “Let it breathe,” I told myself. Finally, my technical skills prevailed, and I was able to get my way.

    On The Silent Season page, you’ll now find random quotes from the book, chosen at random from a curated pool, freshly pulled each time the page loads. They’re meant to pique your interest, and maybe leave you with a splinter of the book’s tone.

    And some of them are meant to just look cool.

    As I continue editing and adding quotes to the pool, the challenge is to walk the fine line where the quotes make any sense, but they still don’t spoil important plot points.

  • The Bleeding Persona

    The Bleeding Persona

    As I was re-reading a chapter to tighten the dialogue, remove extra adverbs, and other general cleanup, I noticed something surprising. Which feels weird to state, considering I was reading my own writing.

    A character’s backstory, hinted at within the chapter, shared a few beats with the protagonist’s. This had happened happened organically in the writing session, without me setting out to write it that way.

    Now I’m left wondering, is this diegetic? Is the protagonist attracting like-minded individuals, or the character exposing this specific aspect of their story to build rapport?

    Or is it writerly, my own subconscious creating an echo of the protagonist, or part of his persona bleeding into other characters?

    I’ll let you know if I ever find out.