Sunday, 21 December 2014

Handling beta feedback and edits

I was recently asked how I organise large quantities of feedback from beta readers. As some of you know, in my most recent round, I had over 20 readers. That's a lot of feedback, much of it conflicting. Many authors feel stuck when critiquers make opposing recommendations, or simply are overwhelmed by the prospect of sorting it all when they sign up for something like the Ubergroup's beta team and are slammed with hundreds of critiques and pages of debate.

This is all assuming you have gotten as many beta readers as possible. This is also assuming you have a firm idea of your own artistic goals and personal style and have no problems saying "no, thanks." I'm not saying "write by committee," I'm just saying that to understand any large group--such as a whole target reader demographic--more data means more accuracy. So, provided you are confident in throwing out obvious outliers and things you don't like emotionally and personally, it's more helpful to see if 19 out of 20 people agree, instead of having two critiquers who disagree and no other 18 to weigh in.

Assuming you want to take that route at all, here's my advice for how to sort the resulting feedback.

1.) Make everyone talk to each other.

The reason I built the Ubergroup the way I did is because I find it helpful to have everyone hang out and have a round-table discussion. It's modelled on rehearsals for any sort of performing art. Music, dance, theatre, circus, it's all the same idea. You do your thing in front of your troupe and then they all pitch ideas at you, debate and discuss.

I find that a lot of times, people who seem to being saying opposite things in their crits were actually just using different phrasings. When talking directly to each other, and one person says, "I have to disagree with your suggestion in your crit of chapter xyz, because I think..." the other person often says "Oh, yes, that would work, too. My suggestion was just another way to solve the same problem."

That takes all the stress out of going "But person A said this and person B said that!" Having person A and B hash it out directly eliminates conflicts that were simple misunderstanding. A and B are often attacking the same problem from different angles, and discussion may lead to consensus.

So, have everyone discuss together. I usually end up with something like 9 out of 10 people agreeing, and the 10th person admitting graciously they might just be the outlier. On the occasional thing where it's a split 5-5 vote, then I know I really have to look into the subject further. Knowing which topics are so divisive is also helpful.

(Also, who doesn't find it hugely flattering listening to people debate your "literary themes"?)

2.) Sort the everloving shit out of it.

I just finished sorting through the massive 20-page discussion thread from my last beta round, picking out all the salient suggestions and sorting them by general topic. I know know that sounds like a lot of work, but I find it even more work to jump around as I edit. If I change a scene based on one person's feedback, then I stumble across someone else's related suggestion on the same scene like 5 discussion pages later... guh. I hate having to re-edit a scene a dozen times because someone else made a really good point. It's far less work overall to paste all the suggestions on the same topic together, and think about it at once.

It's important to add that I do not leave any of the conceptual ideas in the crits only. As I'm reading the crits, I bring up all the suggested conceptual changes in the dedicated discussion thread, and everyone opines. If there are 10 crits per chapter over 30 chapters--300 crits--Lord help me if I'm supposed to poke through the whole unsorted pile for a vague idea somewhere. I'd much rather copy-paste each individual comment into groups organised by topic the first time I read it, and never have to go through the whole mess again.

It takes about a week, but eventually I condense all the ideas.

Here's the part I think people using the Ubergroup's beta method may find particularly helpful. I bold each general major conceptual issue so I can easily skim through in search of a topic, and then paste together everyone's ideas. For ease of reading, I don't copy parts where people are saying things like "Yes, I agree!" just the sentences containing actual suggestions.

In practice, it looks something like this:

Edmund/John conversation about death and John scolding him for holding onto the dead: "Does John secretly blame Edmund for their mother's death? Does Edmund resent John parental attitude all the more because he just lost his mother as well as his father?” (Laura R) "I think it would be pretty nifty if there's a scene somewhere in the first half where Edmund attempts to talk about their parents with John, just to kind of vent and grieve together and John's totally cold and "We must let go of the dead". " (Dahlia) "It could even be another moment where Edmund don't feel he can be good enough." (Raven) "I never connected the religious 'don't mention the names of the dead' with why their parents were never mentioned. So this talk would show there's a reason why they aren't discussing their dead parents, not just that they aren't thinking about it/don't care." (Catherine)

3.) Think about what I agree/disagree with.

With all the suggestions together, it's easy for me to consider all the opinions on one topic without fear of overlooking someone, look to see if there's any majorities, and decide whether or not I agree. That's important:this is not "writing by committee." I value all 5, 10, or 20 voices, but I'm the director and tiebreaker. So, I decide, and then implement the conceptual changes.

4.) Reread all the crits again.

After I've made all the conceptual changes, I do re-read all the crits again at the very end, looking for line edits. Skimming for highlighted typos, word choice issues, etc.

Hopefully that's helpful to some of you. It's one way of keeping track of an epic-scope project, at least.

Sunday, 14 December 2014

A Quick and Dirty Guide to Feudal Nobility

Once again, I had the honour of writing a guest article for Dan Kobodt's Fact in Fantasy, Science in Scifi series. I present to you:

A Quick And Dirty Guide To Feudal Nobility

Nothing drives me crazier than authors—or patrons at Renaissance Faires—addressing everyone and everything as “mi’loooooooord.” Firstly, no one outside of possibly a few British comedians in the 1970s has ever pronounced the word “my” that way. Secondly, not everyone is a lord; that notion defies the most basic grasp of economics. Thirdly, there are different kinds of lords, especially in different periods—the system was constantly evolving. Finally, there are specific ways to address each type depending on who you are.

Detailing every type of feudal lord that ever existed is a Herculean task already undertaken by numerous (very dry) textbooks, so today I’m going to break down the underlying reasoning behind the system. As fantasy authors, you do not need to cleave to any existing real world system, as long as yours is created with a reasonable, self-consistent logic. For this mini lesson, I’m going to focus primarily on the English system from the Norman Conquest to the War of the Roses.

Rule 1: Not Everyone Was A Lord

Let’s start with the fundaments of feudalism. As I said in my last lesson, the basic premise was that “those who could take something, did.” The Norman Conquest was exactly what it sounded like: William, Duke of Normandy, trumped up a claim to England, then sailed over from France and took it. That wasn’t the first time, either; William wasn’t French. “Norman,” or “North-man,” was the French word for the Vikings who sailed down from Scandinavia and took half of France, thus starting a long tradition of the English taking whatever the hell they wanted.

The economics functioned as follows: if you were spending all your time practising with your sword to get better at taking things, you weren’t able to grow your own food. You had to convince the farmers to give you a share of their crops, in the original form of income tax: tithe. How to accomplish that? Show up at their houses with all your sword-toting buddies and take it. By now, you’re hopefully starting to picture the king and all his peers a lot less like this: 

And a lot more like this:

Enter the concept of the landlord. Yes, this is from whence modern word originates. Technically, all the land belongs to the king. He permits the farmers to live there and work it for him in exchange for tithe. Since he can’t manage it all directly, he leases big chunks of it to his favourite armed thug buddies, known as “creating” them the Earl, Duke, etc, of a given area. They then receive tithe for their portion, and owe him military service in exchange for the hookup. A lord was functionally the local cartel boss. The Don, the Jefe, however you like it. By nature, there aren’t very many of them.

As of 1307, there was still only one type of lord below the king: an Earl, from Old Norse Jarl. And there were only eleven of them. England may not look very big on a map, but next time you visit, try walking from London to York with only the clothes on your back and as much food as you can carry. To the average person of the era, it was a serious undertaking to get beyond the borders of the Earldom in which you were born. They knew they had a Lord, theoretically, receiving all their taxes, and a king somewhere, but nothing about either of them.

Modern Americans: unless you live in the capitol and work in a relevant business… have you ever actually met the President? Or even the governor of your home state? Do you even know your governor’s name without googling it? There are literally five times as many American governors now as there were British earls in the 13th century, and you don’t walk around seriously expecting to bump into one on the street.

Rule 2: The System Keeps Changing

The fun part about things made up at the whim of a single guy is that the rules keep changing. During the reign of William I, there were exactly three types of nobility: King, Earl, and Baron. The first British duke was created in 1337, when Edward II made the Black Prince Duke of Cornwall. A duke was below the king but above an earl.

In 1385 Richard II created Robert de Vere (already the 9th Earl Oxford) the 1st Marquis of Dublin. “Marquis” is a reference to the “marches,” or borders, as he was defending a border territory. The next marquis, created 1397, refused to use the title because he felt a made-up honour carried no weight. It went unused until Henry VI revived it in 1442. No further titles came into use until the Renaissance. As of 1611, the British hierarchy went:

  • King
  • Duke
  • Marquis
  • Earl
  • Viscount
  • Baron
  • Baronet

To make things infinitely more complicated, the rest of Europe followed their own rules. For the most part the terms and hierarchy were comparable, and variations are pretty obvious in the term used: a Grand Duke, for instance, would be above a regular Duke. Making a word diminutive, such as Count/Viscount or Baron/Baronet implies the new position was just below the one from which it is derived. Count, btw, is the continental word for Earl, and Earl’s wives were still called Countess (probably because Earless sounds like something that happened to Van Gogh.)

It’s important to realize that kings were not the only type of sovereign (ruler with no one above them) nor were they necessarily the king of a particularly large area. There were—and still are—some sovereign duchies, in which the Duke is the top of the line. Pre-conquest England was divided up into dozens of small kingdoms, such as Mercia, East Anglia, and Wessex, which were eventually consolidated by the usual means of one of the kings beating up his neighbour and taking the land. (This is true throughout most of world history. The Illiad speaks of a “coalition of Greek Kings” of which Agamemnon was High King. Ramses the Great self-described as “King of Kings” as did many Persian “Shahenshah”s.)

Prince was not always a word for king’s son, either: in its broadest sense, “prince” is a generic term for a top-level ruler. One might refer to a collection of “foreign princes” as being a general mishmash of approximately ruling-class men who might have a reasonable claim to a sovereign rule of a country, including Dukes, Emirs, Shahs, and what have you. For an exhaustive list of examples to create your fantasy hierarchy from, see Wikepedia’s entry on royal and noble ranks.

Rule 3: Specific Forms of Address

A king or queen is addressed as “his/her/your Majesty,” a prince or princess as “his/her/your Highness,” and a Duke/Duchess as “his/her/your Grace.” Everything below that is “his/her/your Lordship/Ladyship.” “His/your Excellency” came much later, and was used for a chancellor or prime minister. You can invent more, but make sure they differ from ones that already exist. It’s also extremely common to refer to someone by the name of the land they own, which is NOT the same as their family name. Sir denotes knighthood.

It is a job qualification, and as such, goes with a man’s first name. Being a knight means you get to be called Sir, just as having your PhD means you get to be called Dr. Lord denotes ownership of property. It goes with the land, not a man’s name, because you are saying he owns the land, not his own name. Most Lords happen to also be knights, but that’s sort of like saying “Most of the largest properties in the world are owned by people who have graduate degrees.” It’s an interesting fact, but the degree does NOT bring the land with it. You can have “Sir so-and-so, who doesn’t own anything in particular,” just as completing your phD does not automatically give you a gargantuan estate.

Master is a last-resort polite form of address if someone is landless and not a knight, likely a younger son of petty gentry, or a tradesman. In general, use the most flattering/important title available, unless the character is purposely being familiar or rude. I’ll use examples from my own fictional world:

Teagan Chambrer, Knight Commander General, youngest (non-inheriting) son of the Thegn of Duck’s Crossing, could be addressed as:
  • Sir Teagan
  • General Teagan
  • Master Chambrer (but this would be insulting, as it ignores the fact that he is an officer)
But NOT:
  • Lord Anything (he’s not.)
  • Sir Chambrer (he, Teagan, personally, is the knight, not his entire family.)
William Huntley, 1st Earl Greenford, knight of the realm, could be addressed as:
  • Lord Greenford
  • Greenford (with no preamble)
  • Sir William (but a bit familiar/pretentious to use his personal name, as it implies that his person is more relevant to you than his status as an Earl. Might be used by friend or a woman flirting with him.)
  • Master Huntley (but again, insulting.)
But NOT:
  • Sir Huntley (he, William, personally, is the knight, not his entire family)
  • Sir Greenford (his property is not a knight.)
  • Lord Huntly (owner of his family?)
  • Lord William (owner of himself?)
Robert Caenid, 2nd Earl Nor’watch, knight of the realm, and Lord Treasurer, could be addressed as:
  • Lord Nor’watch
  • My Lord Treasurer
  • Sir Robert (again, personal)
  • Master Caenid (again, insulting)
  • Lord Robert (owner of himself?)
  • Master Robert (master of himself?)
  • Sir Treasurer (the office of treasurer is a knight?)
Stephen fitz Wheelwright (note, “fitz” means “son of” and wheelwright is a profession, such as baker, miller, smith, thatcher, fletcher, cooper, etc. This is a literal statement that his father is the town wheelwright, not a family name.) Captain of the guard, not a knight, could be addressed as:
  • Captain Stephen
  • the wheelwright’s boy (insulting now that he is an officer. Would have been his form of address formerly.)
But NOT:
  • Sir Stephen (he is not.)
  • Master Wheelwright (that’s his father.)
Use of a first name in isolation of any title or pet name is extremely personal. No one, regardless of comparable rank, addresses someone by a pet name uninvited, unless they are purposely being rude or overly familiar. It sets the tone of the situation – if my boss were to say, “Morning, Jerry!” I might reply, “Morning, Ben!” but if he were to open with “Good morning, Mr. Quinn,” I sure as hell better retreat behind, “Good morning, Mr. Stirling” unless I want to get in trouble.

Generally, all women married to a knight or better can be referred to as “my Lady,” although you would only attach a name if you would do so for her husband. A lady retains her title after being widowed as a courtesy, even if she remarries a man of lesser station. If there is a new woman who can claim the same title, the word “dowager” will be attached to specify. 

Eliza Caenid, widow of the former Earl Nor’watch, mother of Robert, the current Earl Nor’watch, could be addressed as:
  • My Lady Countess
  • the Dowager Countess Nor’watch
But NOT:
  • Lady Nor’watch (that’s her daughter-in-law.)


The biggest thing to remember when designing your own system is it’s all about the land. You only get as many lords as you get mob bosses; when too many try to exist in a given area, turf wars occur. Since the land is so important, the form of address almost always makes reference to it, and you certainly wouldn’t treat someone like he ran the place if he didn’t. (Just picture what would happen if the Godfather overheard you calling some other shmuck “boss” instead).

This is only the briefest of overviews, of course, but hopefully it gives you some keywords to plug into Google. If you really want to get into it, some very thorough (and mind you, antique) resources include: A Genealogical History of the Dormant, Abeyant, Forfeited, and Extinct Peerages of the British Empire by Sir Bernard Burke, A Directory of British Peerges by Francis Leeson, and The genealogy of the existing British peerage, with sketches of the family histories of the nobility by Edmund Lodge.