In this universe, there are only two ways to tell a story: cause and effect, or what I call:  Internal and External.  These two story types are the focus or perspective from which the story is told, and there really are no others.  Even Aristotle, the Philosopher understood this way back when, and many authors since have concurred.

Do you remember the story JAWS?  It was about a shark, an External story about a monster in the deep, and the characters struggled to deal with this threat to swimmers, everywhere.  But what if the story JAWS was about a man’s suffering and inability to deal with his mother-in-law?  What if his wife left him, and he spent a chapter in agony, and then designed plans to win her back?  This would be an Internal story.  Let me explain:

External stories focus on action, what happens, and the reader’s primary question is “What is going to happen next?”  The bookstores are full of external stories: Science fiction, Fantasy, Thrillers, Mysteries, many of the books called “mainstream,” and romance (not love stories necessarily, which like Romeo and Juliet may well be internally focused).  People love a good read, a “beach read,” and are naturally drawn to stories of effect, where one action, event or situation leads to the next in a building kind of tension that finally comes to a climax.

Consider the movies.  The blockbusters are all External: event, (action oriented) films like Star Wars, Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, Transformers, Avatar, Indiana Jones… Jaws.

Internal stories, by contrast, focus on the mind and heart of the main character (or characters) and the action, events or situations only give an opportunity to look inside and see the internal dynamics.  These are stories that academia calls “literature,” as they profess to speak not about what happens (happenings may be incidental, mere triggers) but about human nature, ideas, ideals, and ultimately the search for meaning,  The primary question the reader asks here is “Why?”

Remember JAWS, the mother-in-law.  We look for the mother’s reason for manipulating the break-up of the marriage and the man’s motivation for wanting to win back his wife.  In movieland, these stories make up the so-called “artsy” films which never do very well at the box office, but which often win awards… Go figure!

Balance:  Hopefully, no story will be entirely one way or the other.  To be successful, a story needs some balance between these two perspectives, between the entertaining External and the understanding Internal.

A purely external story would invariably have cardboard, stereotypical characters and after the third explosion or car chase would dull us to death.  Hollywood has come close, at times, but even the most blatant action-adventure story has traditionally included the “love interest” in order to at least move the characters a little.

A purely internal story, on the other hand, would be little more than a philosophical essay; contemplating the naval in the extreme.  Some authors have tried this, and some works have even been called “great works of art” by the academics.  (I won’t name any to avoid arguments, but I will say, most of us know better).  Such stories are dull, dull, Dull!

Having said a word about balance, however, I must also say that any story (told, written, novel, screenplay or whatever) will primarily focus on one perspective, approach or the other.  It will be for the most part an External story or an Internal story.

Now the question:    Which perspective is best for your story?  To make that decision, it may help to look at your purpose in telling/writing the story.  You may think you simply have a good story idea, but I will argue that every story has a purpose in being told.  “Ripley’s” I say (believe it or not), but that will have to wait until my next post…

I spent the day listening to stories.  Not unusual.  I do this every day, and so do you.  Stories are pervasive and integral to being human.  Stories are the way people convey all sorts of information, advice, suggestions, and explain love and hate; and they have been doing this since the days when we sat around the campfire and did not complain about doing dishes because dishes had not yet been invented.

Today, I heard stories about corporate indifference (regarding expense checks), boyfriends in New York (and eating Monte Christos), how one fellow lost his car (it broke down on the interstate), how another got a surprise check (and what he spent it on), etc. etc.   I even heard a retelling of the urban legend about the man who went to coke all those years ago and cut a deal for his idea.  “Put it in bottles,” the man said.  And now his descendants are multi-bazillionaires.

Stories are pandemic among us all.  How many stories stacked up in your home over the holidays?  Did you hear about Aunt Lorraine?  It is a joke, which is to say a funny stor  I heard some jokes today as well, like the underwear bomber was wearing fruit of the boom…

Everyone tells stories.  We are natural storytellers, and to those who say, “everyone has a story to tell,” I would rather say, “everyone has a thousand stories to tell.”  To do it well, though, may be a different story.  To be like a shaman or wise woman of old and tell stories “professionally” may require some study and practice.  You are on your own for the practice, but I think I can help a little with the study.

Over the next few weeks or so I want to look at what separates a good story from a bad one.  I want to dissect the whole idea of stories and examine the elements that make up the art, craft, tradition, or instinct (and I do believe storytelling is something akin to instinct).  In particular, I want to focus on that often misunderstood element called plot, because there are some, dating back to Aristotle, who claim that there are only two plots in the universe…  Next time.

-Michael

Ah, vacation!

I am back, but before I start writing about writing again, I am wondering about resolutions, or perhaps we can call them New Year’s Revolutions.

If you don’t make them, and I know some don’t, I feel sorry for you.  Resolutions can be good goals, they can offer hope, something to strive for, but they do have to be made in the right way.

If you do make them, how many have you already broken?  See, they need to be made in the right way…

My general resolutions are these:  To read something worth reading, to write and then submit until sold, followed by more reading, more writing and more submitting.  To be clear, I am resolved to the reading and writing part during the submitting part so there is no lag time.

How about you?

I also have specific resolutions, some of which are as follows:

1.         To sing a song worth singing to the end, every verse, in public.  (Think church).

2.         To accompany my wife to the Symphony.  (Something to look forward to).

3.         To hope that my blog is positive and helpful for many.  (I can always hope).

4.         To stop listening to all the negative, critical, badmouth gossips in the world.  (A worthy goal, even if I stop hearing everyone).

I think you get the idea.

So how about you?  Any resolutions?  Any revolutions?

I posted a snippet from my Time Travel Fantasy in my last post and since there was some interest, I thought I might offer another nibble. 

This is from the same book: Light in the Dark Ages, but this bit is from the tale of Gerraint, son of Erbin

Time: around 510 AD, in the days of King Arthur.

Place: The no man’s land that divided the English kingdoms from the Scottish immigrants.    

Gerraint and his crew have escaped their captors, but they are being pursued and it is snowing:

            Gerraint came back, even as Gwillim nudged him and pointed.  There was a face in the distance sticking out from behind a tree, and it seemed to be beckoning them.  “A Scot.”  Gwillim sounded afraid.

            “No.  A friend.”  Gerraint said, and Uwaine saw it, too.  They hurried as well as they could and carried poor Trevor between them.  The face appeared again, just as far away as the first time, but in a slightly different direction.  They changed course, and a third time made them change again.  At last, they came to a place where the whole world changed.  The shouts of pursuit were cut off as suddenly as if someone had closed a door.  They stood still, and listened.  Even Trevor stood up, carefully.

            There was no sound and no wind in this part of the forest.  Curiously, it was not snowing in this place, though the ground was covered in a white blanket, and more.  A mist was rising from the surface of the snow because the ground beneath was warm enough to cause some melt.  The mist obscured their sight, but it did not entirely blind them.

            “A man could get lost in here and never find his way out,” Gwillim said.  His voice sounded strange as it broke the quiet.

            “This way.”  A man’s voice echoed amongst the trees.  It was hard to tell where he was, but Gerraint started out and the others were obliged to follow.  There were lights of a sort to their left and right which seemed to flutter about, almost like floating light bugs only much bigger, and their makers always remained shrouded in the mist so they could not see exactly what they were.

            “A little further.”  The man’s voice spoke.  After a moment, it spoke again.  “Just a little more.”

            They came to see a light in front of them, much stronger than the lights that danced through the trees.  The ones around them were pale lights as white as the snowflakes.  The one before them was warm amber, the light of a warming fire well lit.  Gwillim pushed ahead, and even Trevor tried to hurry up, though he could only go as fast as Uwaine on whom he was leaning.

            It was indeed a fire, deep inside a cave, and it was warm and so home like in their hearts, it was all anyone could see at first.  Gerraint, alone, noted that the door closed behind them and shut them in as they gathered around to warm themselves.

            “Ought to find some tepid water for Trevor,” Gwillim said.  “He looks frostbitten.”

            “Already taken care of.”  The voice came from above them, but only Gerraint and Gwillim looked up.  Uwaine was watching the elf maidens who brought shallow bowls of water to soak Trevor’s extremities.  Trevor looked frightened at their appearance, but he did not resist them.

            “Macreedy.”  Gerraint named the Elf Lord who looked at him with curiosity.  “Thank you, and be sure and thank Lord Evergreen, Queen Holly, Princess Ivy and their clan for guiding us to your safe haven as well.”

            “So it is true.  You are the one.”  Lord Macreedy needed no other evidence.  He started to rise, but Gerraint waved him back to his chair.

            “Right now I am simply a man, half frozen and starving.” he said.  “But tell me.  How did you know to look for us.”

            He could see Macreedy wanted to tell some lie about the magic and mysteries of the Spirits of the world, but that would not have impressed Gerraint at all, and Macreedy knew it.  Instead, he looked aside and looked a little embarrassed.  “Runabout does tend to talk,” he said.

            “Quite all right.”  Gerraint assured him.  He went back to the warming fire while Gwillim began to look around the room.  Gerraint was sure that Gwillim was completely taken in by the glamour that surrounded him, making the cave appear like the most lavish of manor houses, with great tapestries lining jewel encrusted walls, and even glass in the windows.

            “A mighty fine home you have, my Lord, for one so deep in the wilderness and in the wilds of the North.”  Gwillim also saw Macreedy as a plain noble Chief rather than the elf he was.  For that matter, Gerraint looked over and noted that Trevor’s discomfort was because of the idea of being attended by a half dozen beautiful young women.  Gerraint was sure Trevor did not see them as elves at all.  “Are you sure the Scots won’t find us here?”  Gwillim finished on the practical note.

            “The Scots won’t come here,” Macreedy reassured him.  “In fact, would you like me to call the Slaugh to visit them in the night?”  That question was for Gerraint.

            “Heaven forbid,” Gerraint responded.  “They have two deaths now to mourn and were just trying to defend themselves, even if they don’t know that revenge is never an answer.  Let them be.”

            “Very gracious of you, my Lord,” Macreedy said.

            “Yes,” Gwillim added.  “Especially since we just avoided being whipped half to death and thrust naked into the frozen wastes.”

             Gerraint simply coughed, and there was a moment of silence.

            Macreedy stood and walked down to them.  He slipped his arm around Uwaine’s shoulder and turned him toward another part of the cave.  “You seem a man of wisdom.  You hold your tongue well,” Macreedy said.  Gerraint was simply not sure how far Uwaine was taken in by the glamour.  “I suspect, though, you may just be hungry.  What do you say we repair to the dining room.  The feast is all prepared.”

            “Food!”  Gwillim shouted, but then remembered his manners.  “With the Lord of the house’s permission, of course.”

            Macreedy stared hard at Gwillim for a moment.  Some Little Ones could be sticklers for the most miniscule bits of propriety, but then he laughed.  “Permission granted,” he said, and he waved to the ladies to make sure they did not let Trevor leave the fire.  Instead, two of the women pushed passed the men and came back with a plate full of delights.  They appeared to be thrilled with cutting and spoon feeding Trevor, and then wiping his chin with the softest elf cloth, laughing merrily most of the while, and Trevor did not mind that at all.

            “For you, my Lord, we killed the fatted calf,” Macreedy told Gerraint.  Uwaine, who had glanced at Gerraint once or twice, looked fully at his Lord when they came to their seats.  Gerraint explained.

            “The food of the light elves is normally very light and delicate, like gourmet food.  Not much substance for flesh and blood.  Macreedy is saying they cooked up some real food for us, and don’t worry, I have decided the food of the Little Ones will not affect you, Gwillim or Trevor to any harm.  So eat, and enjoy.”  That was all Uwaine needed to hear.

            “Pork loins!”  Gwillim was shouting again in his excitement.

            Gerraint certainly ate his fair share, but by then, his mind had turned once again to Cornwall, his home.  He imagined poor Enid fretting away, with no word from him to hold on to, and sweet Guimier sleeping in his place beside her mother until he could again be with them.  He stood, letting the others remain seated, and stepped to the door.  It opened without his thinking about it, though an invisible barrier remained in place so neither the wind nor cold could penetrate the cave.  Outside, it was snowing again, obliterating their tracks. 

            As Gerraint looked out on the beauty of the white upon the northern forest, his heart began to sing, and his mouth whispered at first.

                        What child is this who laid to rest,

                        on Mary’s lap is sleeping?

                        Whom angels greet with anthems sweet;

                        While shepherds watch are keeping?

                        This, this is Christ the King

                        Whom shepherds guard and angels sing.

                        Haste, haste to bring him laud,

                        The babe, the son of Mary. 

            He let his voice trail off as he found the others gathered around his back.  The elf maidens were all on their knees.  Gwillim was smiling with a serious smile.  Even Trevor was standing, staring at the beauty of the world.

            “Must be Christmas.”  Gerraint said, turning to Macreedy, who had a tear in his eye rather than the great anger he would have had with anyone but Gerraint, his Lord.  “Remember this word,” Gerraint told the elf, putting his hand gently on the Little One’s shoulder.  “That the whole world might be saved through him.”  Gerraint felt better saying that, and a little less alone.  “Remind Manannan of this, will you, when his time of sorrow and dejection comes on him because of the monks.  I worry about that boy.  And as for us, I suppose a bit of sleep would not hurt…”

Merry Christmas to all…  Michael.

A writing friend asked:

Why do secondary characters always seem more interesting than the MCs? Can someone answer than for me? And I’m not talking about someone else’s stories, I’m talking about my own. The MC should be the most important to me, right? Argh!

My 2 cents:

There is a reason why secondary characters steal the scene if not the story (book, film or stage).  It is because they are written without the restraints we put on our Main Characters.  They don’t even have to be sane! 

It is important to remember, though, that most attempts to turn Secondary Characters into Main Characters have been dismal failures.  Secondary Characters are not designed to carry a whole story.  They are only there to make the Main Character laugh or cry.

Later, in thinking about this, I decided it might help to give an example. 

This is from my time travel fantasy series:

The book: Light in the Dark Ages 

Time:  after 700 AD in the days before Charles was called “ le Martel” (The Hammer)

Place:  The border between Brittany and the Frankish Kingdom…

            Margueritte was in the barn, in the potato bins when Roland came unexpectedly.  She was in her apron.  Her hands were dirty and she even had a streak of dirt across one cheek put there by the back of the hand used to wipe away the sweat.  “Oh, Sir.”  She started to turn away 

            “Oh stop,” he said in her same tone.  “My mother and sisters sorted potatoes all the time, and likely more than enough for a lifetime.”

            “It is important, you know,” Margueritte said, agreeably.

            “Absolutely.  One rotten one can spoil the whole bin.”  Roland looked up at Grimly [imp], whom he genuinely liked, and Goldenrod [fairy] for whom he had the deepest love and affection, and Hammerhead [ogre], whom he at least respected, even if he still found it hard to look at the fellow.  They were lounging around on the hay while their mistress was sweating at her labor.  “Say, though,” he said.  “Wouldn’t it be better to let these little ones of yours sort the potatoes?  You and I could maybe walk again by the stream before your brother and father find me.”

            “Oh, I don’t know if that would be such a good idea.”  Margueritte shook her head, slowly.

            “Why sure.”  Grimly jumped up.  “We would love to sort the taters.  I’m getting bored just sitting around anyway.”

            “I can help.”  Goldenrod assured them all.

            “Er, OK.”  Hammerhead was not quite sure what was being asked.

            Margueritte explained while she wiped her hands as clean as she could on her apron.  “You just need to go through them one by one.  The good ones go here.”  She pointed to the empty bin.  “Any that are especially soft or if they are rotten, or even if you are not sure if they are good to eat, put them in the bucket.  Oh I don’t know.”  She said the last in one breath, and as she began to have second thoughts, she quickly turned to Roland and bumped into him.  He put his arm over her shoulder to steady her.

            “We can stay a minute to see that they get started,” he said.

            Margueritte reached both hands up to hold his and make sure his arm stayed around her shoulder.  She said nothing, but bit her lower lip as she watched.

            “Now, if I’ve got it, the good ones go in the bin and the rotten ones in the bucket.  Come on, then.” Grimly took charge and climbed up on the bin.  Each little one took a potato.  At least Goldenrod tried to take one, but she could not quite lift it.  Hammerhead took about six in his big hand by accident and then stared at them in utter uncertainty.  Grimly made up for the other two by instantly going from one to the next.

            “No good, no good.  Definitely no good.  Nope. No way.  Not a chance.”

            “Ungh!”  Goldenrod was tugging with all her little might.

            “Nope. No good. Ooo, this one looks like Herbert Hoover.”

            “Let me see.”  Goldenrod said, leaving off her tug of war.

            Hammerhead was still unmoved, staring at his spuds.

            “Who is Herbert Hoover?”  Goldenrod asked.

            “I don’t know, but this looks like him.”  He looked at Goldenrod and they spoke in unison. 

            “No good.”  The bucket was filling rapidly and not one was yet in the bin.

            “Nope. Nope. Nope.”  Grimly started shoveling toward the bucket and Goldenrod was back to tugging until Grimly made enough of a dent for her potato to roll and take herdown with it with a “Weee!”

            Margueritte’s sides were splitting with laughter, and Roland was laughing right with her until she turned toward him and their eyes met.  The laughter vanished in an instant and he drew her up to him and held her tight.  Their lips touched, soft and warm, and they might have remained that way for some time if Grimly had not whistled.

            “Woohoo!”

            “Whaty?”  Goldenrod said, getting her little head above the edge of the bin.

            Roland looked up and Marguerite turned, both having rather silly smiles, just as Hammerhead stuck all six potatoes in his mouth at once and chewed and announced.  “These are good to eat.”  Margueritte barely stopped him in time, before he disgorged his chewed bits into the good bin.

            She thanked the little ones and asked them to see if Luckless or Tomberlain might need their assistance.

            “Always glad to be of service.”  Grimly said, and Roland rolled up his sleeves and helped.

Tip #13

Secondary Characters should be designed for a purpose, not to carry the story, necessarily, but to help or hinder the Main Character, to “make the Main Character laugh or cry.”  Within that context, be creative, have fun, and if you enjoy them that is a good sign that the readers will probably enjoy them, too.

I don’t even pretend to be a poet, but allow me to share this thought:

No Excuses

I’ve got the kids, the dog and the cat

The TV and radio, noises like that

But I tune it all out when I sit in my chair

In order to write like there’s nobody’s there.

 

Daytimes are madness: storms on the sea

Ships in foul weather, crew mutiny.

Trains in collision, pileups with cars

Black holes of reason, exploding stars

 

Children, animals, customer kings

Workers, bosses, multi-task things

Paper and phones, gossip and news

Headaches, backaches and shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes.

 

Leaving at sunrise.  Home after dark

To blazing crescendo as soon as I park

It’s homework and talk, make sure everyone’s fed

Walk the dog, pet the cat, and put all to bed

 

Then at last there’s a moment when quiet descends

Like snow on Christmas Eve.

 

And I thank God because of that one special chair

Where I sit and I write like there’s nobody’s there.

 

The question I posed last time was why do we divide fiction into literary and genre and then divide it again into mainstream contemporary, historical romance, mystery, science fiction, fantasy, horror, and then further sub-divide it with words like paranormal, chick-lit, high, low, space opera, sword and sorcery, steampunk… sea chanteys?  God only knows!

My suggestion was to stop.  I feel that for every reader attracted to an arbitrary word like “paranormal” there are ten who are turned off.  This is not what any author wants to do, I’ll bet.

However, there is one way of dividing fiction into two camps which I am willing to do, and it stems from the fact that some people are not interested in reading anything that isn’t “real.”  This is especially true of any number of academics who are determined to maintain the illusion of literature as against all of that other “junk” fiction which is deemed “unrealistic” or worse, worthy only of children. 

Between you and me, “real” may be the most arbitrary word of all, but I am willing to go with it.  To that end, I divide stories (when necessary) into these two categories: 

There are stories about WHAT IS, that is stories that strive to be real world – “realistic.”  These would be mainstream, “literary,” historical, memoir and “based on a true story,” type of stories.  Most mysteries, some thrillers and many romances easily fall into this category, even if the larger world calls them genre.

“What is“ stories lean in the direction of non-fiction or are fictionalized accounts of real stories.

Then there are stories that are WHAT IF, and Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” falls here, even if most call it “literature.”  The Shack, the Time Traveler’s Wife, and plenty of other recent so-called literary works also fall here. 

What if stories speak closer to the truth, which is always “stranger than fiction.”

Apart from that, though, I do not find the division of fiction into all of the labels helpful.  It may be helpful to know what kind of story the group, magazine, agent, editor or publisher and ultimately the reader might be looking for, but I recommend reading works and lists to see if your story is comparable to the interests of the person or group.  Otherwise, what a paranormal, historical romantic mystery with horror elements means to any two people might be two totally different things.  The author might think the description is perfect, but on hearing the categories, an agent, editor, publisher or reader might imagine something else. 

Enough.  I do recognize that we are indeed like Adam in the Garden, determined to name everything and my rant is not going to stop anyone from categorizing writing in every imaginable way.  Clearly, I do not find the words we use helpful for a discussion about fiction, though, since each person has their own definitions.  Yet I do believe there is a way in which fiction can be divided and discussed, reasonably.  That would be by plot or theme such as competition, relationships, vice/virtue, journey, etc.  I will be looking at these classic storylines in posts to come and I look forward to discussing them with you.

We do it all the time; the obvious example being that literature and genre live in two different worlds, and according to most academics, never the  “Twain” shall meet…  But is this wise?

I have heard it said that literature is more character/relationship driven and genre is more action/story driven.  I don’t deny that there is some truth in that, but I do feel that most of the best genre stories are full of deep characters in relationship and most of the best literary works also tell a good story and deal in conflict, action and resolution.

These days, of course, it is not enough to divide the world of fiction into two camps.  There must be sub-divisions and sub-sub categories until the poor reader is left baffled and confused.  What is a paranormal, historical romantic mystery with horror elements, especially when it is deemed “literature” as opposed to “genre”?

I believe these kinds of categories might entice a few readers who might like paranormal or romance or mystery stories, but more often I believe they turn potential readers off – people who might otherwise read and enjoy your story!  Yet I hear authors themselves agonizing about how to categorize their own work.  Why?  So you can turn off some potential reader?

I don’t believe Bradbury cared where Fahrenheit 451 got put on the shelf, as long as it got on the shelf.  Kurt Vonnegut, on the other hand, always fought the “science fiction” label, even as Stephen King has worked hard to be known as more than a mere horror (genre) writer.  The reason for this is obvious.  As the cliché puts it, “they want to appeal to a larger audience.”  (Duh?)!

I truly believe we have not done ourselves a favor by dividing the written word into anything other than fiction and non-fiction.  I am not sure H. G. Wells contemplated that his books were anything other than works of fiction; and the same with Dickens’ “Christmas Carol” (horror?) and Twain’s “Connecticut Yankee” (science fiction/time travel?). 

Gulliver was political commentary, granted, but as a story it was the epitome of a fantasy story.  Why shouldn’t we call it a genre story?  How about Alice in Wonderland: a tome about language?  I could name thousands of literary works that reason says should be called “genre” stories, and I could equally name thousands of genre stories that meet the criteria of anyone’s “literary” ideal but one…  That one will have to wait until my next post.

For now, how do you feel about the divisions in fiction?

In my universe:

Since all magic is sourced in the exercise of spiritual  power over this universe of matter and energy, it is not appropriate to say all such magic is intrinsically wrong.  Such thinking led to the death of many an innocent person in the days of the witch hunts.  But simply having the power or ability to do something is not wrong anymore than to suggest that a basketball player is wrong for being able to sink baskets or a singer is wrong for singing.  Just because there was a Doctor Mengele, that does not mean we should now condemn all doctors.

The right and wrong of any situation is not in the ability, but in the use of that ability.  In short, wickedness in magic, like anywhere else, is when a person uses their ability in an inappropriate or twisted way.  In other words, it isn’t a question of talent, but one of authority.

You can read for yourself how the prophets of old were reluctant to exercise any power, even God given power, and even when God told them to do it.  God had to say, in effect, this is what I am authorizing you to do: raise the widow’s son, speak to the people of Israel, call down plagues upon Egypt.

It is no different in the New Testament and the early church.  First they prayed for authority and then they spoke boldly.  The reason the Witch of Endor is condemned is not because of what she did – she certainly had the power to do it – but because she had no authority to do it!

Authorization is a nebulous thing when the ancient Gods themselves are presumably under the guidance of the Most High God (the source) and yet exercise considerable independence in both thought and action.  The God’s, of course, could do almost anything, but they at least knew that not everything was expedient.  Most knew not to cross the line, but then the line often appeared as a large gray area.

All the more when it comes to humans with magic; humans who have a history of not listening to God.  The temptation is to do everything a person can do, and to seek ways to increase their power and abilities so they can do even more.  Wisdom speaks of restraint and seeking out the purpose for the gift.

One way to tell wicked magic is when the one with magic attempts to control events and the environment around them for their own personal benefit.  You can be sure that other people will be hurt in that process, and God is not likely to authorize damaging others for personal gain.  A good lesson for non-magical life. 

Another obvious wicked use of magic is the attempt to take power over others and shape (even possess) their minds and hearts.  Freedom of conscience is a God given liberty and it ought not to be abused.  Even non-magical tyrants should learn this.

Now, I am not going to list all the ways magic can be turned wicked.  I could not possibly list them all, so let me just reiterate that wickedness (evil) in magic is seen, not in the magic itself, but when the magic is used in inappropriate, twisted and unauthorized ways.

This is how I have conceived magic in my universe.

In my universe: 

Following the days of humanity’s fall from grace, the human race remained rudderless.  Cain killed Abel, Enoch did something right, Noah saved a few people in a gopher wood boat, and Nimrod built a tower to his own glory.  The Titans and spirits on the earth were still charged with watching over creation, and the human race was still off limits.  It was after Babel that the Gods came into their own, some by violence on their own fathers and mothers, and were given the charge of testing and trying the souls of people and, in a real sense, bearing witness to creation and the Most High God (the One True God) so that no one would have an excuse.

Unfortunately, even in those early days before Babel, the “Sons of God found the daughters of men fair…”  All the more so after the tower fell.  Spiritual power, the source of the magic, passed into the human race through the children born out of the union of God (or spirit) and mortal.  Heracles (Hercules), Achilles and Aneas are three very good examples.  Over generations, that blood and power would diminish, but it was one good way in which magic came to people.  Merlin, they say, had an incubus for a father.

THE other way magic could come into people was by gift.  The Princess, the life of my time traveler born in 228 BC was gifted by Artemis to hunt and track and was considered the best archer in her generation.  The fact that she used her skills to hunt and track down certain men is a bit of a story, but the power she had came by way of a gift, and it was found over time that such gifts often, though not always, also passed down through the generations, always diminishing, until disappearing in the general population

Even the littlest spirits could gift people in small ways.  Think of the three fairies who spoke blessings over the cradle of sleeping beauty.

Now, in all cases, the gift or blood would eventually breed out over the generations, unless people of magic married only those who also had magic.  This occurred in my stories of the Other Earth.  It is the place where many people, in particular people of magic went when the great persecutions came with the rise of the last and greatest of the ancient empires (and their collapse into dark ages) and the rise of the world’s great religions.  Of course, when a small population inbreeds, there are other dangers, like a very powerful wizard with the mind of an idiot… but that is another story.

On our earth, in our day, there isn’t much magic left – though I won’t say there is none.  Even though when Christ came the whole configuration of spiritual life, the source of the magic on earth changed.  The Gods gave up their little bit of flesh and blood and “went over to the other side.”  Most of the greater and lesser spirits did this also, and though their spiritual forces, the spirits of the Gods, still function on the earth, they are once again deaf, dumb and blind.

Into this place, the Most High (God, himself) has come to “gift” people, his own Holy Spirit coming upon  them to do, not what we call magic, but miracles.  At the same time, the angels of God are able to empower and defend his people, and good thing, because the demons are presently able to both empower some for use and attack many.  Steal, kill and destroy is what demons do best, but wickedness in magic will have to wait for the next post.