Fallen Heroes

If you played D&D in the 1980s, you knew Dave Trampier. You might not have known his name. You might not have known his story. But his iconic illustration work was the gateway to gaming for millions of players, in the most literal sense.

In the cover of the AD&D Players Handbook, published in 1978, a fire-lit archway in a mysterious temple becomes a portal beyond which a whole world of imagination lies. On the front side of that archway, you’re the observer stepping into the aftermath of battle. You take in what lies around you. You feel the sense of events and history that brought you to this point. You linger and dream of what might lie beyond the looming darkness.

Trampier’s work — including iconic illustrations in the Monster Manual, Player’s Handbook, Dungeon Master’s Guide, and some of the game’s most memorable adventures — did more than just define D&D in its early days. It created a foundation of fantastic authenticity that defined what the game could be. A Trampier illustration captured the essence of what fantasy gaming is all about — using imagination to create a portal beyond which anything is possible. Tramp wasn’t a realist by any stretch. Especially in the black-and-white that the early rulebooks and adventures of D&D demanded, his work was often sedately stylized. But that sense of the sedate was never static. Rather, it captured the essence of a fantasy world driven by the motions of life and conflict, then flash-frozen in a single image.

Tramp extended that gift for drawing the viewer into his world when he began tell his own stories in the comic “Wormy”, which had an occasionally intermittent but eventually breathtaking run in Dragon magazine for more than ten years. “Wormy” was a strip that never bothered to even glance at the mundane in its cast of working-class trolls, sadistic ogres, sarcastic monsters, and an eponymous wisecracking dragon. But within the confines of the strip’s comic fantasy, Trampier created a compelling story and some of the most strikingly beautiful art ever put to paper.

The saddest thing about Dave Trampier’s passing — taken as a whole with his walking away not just from his RPG work but with his apparent retirement from art as a whole — is that his last days should have been filled with the knowledge of how many people his work inspired, and the degree of love that we have for that work, even after forty long years.

Trampier is gone now. Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson are gone. David Sutherland (whose art stood alongside Trampier’s in defining the look of D&D in its earliest days) and J. Eric Holmes (who edited the D&D “Blue Box” basic set that was the introduction to the game for so many players) are gone.

On some level, it’s an amazing thing to be part of a hobby and an industry still possessed of so many living legends. But the downside of that is the sadness that comes of seeing — even after only forty years — the first and greatest of those heroes slip away.


Getting Out of the House

A writer I’ve worked with a couple of times as an editor dropped me a line last week saying thanks for the work I’d done on a book, and apologizing for (his words) making me work as hard as I had. When I reminded him that he’d actually paid me for the work and that I was totally okay with that arrangement, he responded that so many of the story and technical issues I’d caught for him in the text amounted to what he called “the obvious” — things he felt he should have caught himself, given the amount of time that he’d spend on the writing and his own editing and revisions. I responded with the following, which I repeat here with his permission.

Imagine you’re at home and you find yourself in a huge mother of a windstorm. It’s a bad storm. You can feel the walls shake. You can hear the windows rattle. You can hear the groaning of the foundation and the howling of the wind as it smashes against your four walls. But then the storm thankfully ends, and all that’s left is to assess possible damage and see what needs to be fixed.

Only you can’t leave the house for some reason. Maybe the storm came with flooding, which didn’t harm the house for the purpose of this analogy, but which prevents you from going out the door. Maybe you’ve suffered some traumatic injury and are doing the Jimmy Stewart thing from Rear Window. All you can do is assess the outside of the house from inside the house, sticking your head out the window to check the siding, looking up to the roof and down to what you can see of the foundation line. And in doing so, you’ll be able to check some areas of potential damage, but there’s always going to be a whole lot of the house you can’t see.

As writers, we spend all our time inside the house. When we create story, we live inside that story. We have to. It’s an essential part of the process of telling story — or at least the process of telling good story. We need to live within the narrative worlds we create so that our narrative voice is authentic to that world. We need to live alongside our characters so those characters can become as real as any of the people we live alongside in our nominal real worlds.

A writer that does the job properly is so focused on the interior of the story that someone poking around the outside of the narrative will always be able to spot occasional bits of the obvious more clearly. A good editor does that, noting the missing roof tiles and the place where the drain spout popped free. An editor notes which shingles are truly loose and which are just weathered. An editor looks for potential weak spots in the foundation that can’t be seen from inside the house, and gives the writer suggestions on how those weak spots might best be fixed.

If you’re a writer, spend as much time on your own editing and revision as you can. But don’t get uptight or frustrated over missing the obvious when an editor points it out to you. Even writers who are also editors (gives self-conscious wave) have this same problem of being forced to see from the inside out. Living inside the story is the best well to tell the story, so don’t fret that part of the process. It doesn’t mean you’re not doing your job. It means you’re doing your job the way it’s meant to be done.


Edition Wars

An actual dream I recalled upon waking this morning.

D&D Next was about to be released to much fanfare and anticipation. Only the security around the release was so intense that Wizards of the Coast decided they needed to do the initial print run at my house, which is eight hours out of Seattle, and in another country for that added layer of obfuscation.

Chris Perkins and Rob Schwalb were both flown in to personally oversee the transfer of files for the core books and the installation of an offset press and a bindery in my garage on which those books would be produced. (Aside — I know it was just a dream, but you guys are totally welcome to stop by anytime.)

Unfortunately, midway through running the first galleys for the Player’s Handbook, we discovered that my house was secretly infested with haunts (AD&D Monster Manual II, page 74) that were intent on preventing the new edition of the game from ever being released.

I remember we were fighting the haunts with chainsaws at one point, but things get hazy after that.

I rarely remember my dreams, and based on remembering this one, I think that might be a defense mechanism.


Memos from Nirvana

Last year, I put together a short anthology called “Voices of the Dead”, which I dedicated to Harlan Ellison because Ellison’s work was a huge influence on me at several key points in my writing life (including the decision to actually take up a writing life).

Because I dedicated the book to him, I sent him a copy, with a letter saying, “I have no expectation that you’ll read this, but this book literally wouldn’t exist without your books, and it means a lot to be able to send it to you.”

Several months went by, and I thought nothing else of it.

Then I got a letter from Harlan Ellison, who said that he did read the book. And that he liked the book. And that he had added the book to his library.

So that was pretty cool.


Living the Dream

I was editing last night until just before I crashed and went to bed. So naturally, I spent all night dreaming that I was editing.

In the dream, I was still doing the editing I’d actually been doing before crashing and going to bed, so that in the dream, I had just continued to edit a little bit more without going to bed.

At one point in the dream, I looked up to see the time, and realized that I’d worked completely through the night. It was now 6:30 a.m., giving me exactly one hour to sleep before I had to get up and start editing again.

But then in the dream, I realized that I was dreaming, and that I hadn’t actually worked all night. So in the dream, I made a blog posting talking about how I’d been editing just before I crashed and went to bed, then spent all night dreaming that I was editing, then realized I was only dreaming.

I now have absolutely no idea whether I’m awake or not.