Two quick answers: 1) I don't read Card because I don't approve of his stand on censorship (he's all in favor--as long as the Mormons get to do the censoring). 2) I have no objection of any kind to fanart, or to comics (online or otherwise), regardless of how they treat my books. I'm just not particularly interested. And yet I do seem to have my own peculiar taste in parody. For example, I really enjoy "Heatherly and Julie's Fantasy Bedtime Hour". <grin> (12/01/2004)

On an unconscious level, of course, drawing on personal experience (in all of its guises) is impossible to avoid. Nor should it be avoided: without personal experience, the writer can't grow. But on a conscious level, as I've said a number of times, I do *not* draw on "real life" (and certainly not on current events). The exceptions are (very) few: the information on and examples of leprosy in "Lord Foul's Bane," the description of Haven Farm, the game of hop-board (checkers) in "Mordant's Need," the karate tournament and martial arts information in "The Man Who Fought Alone." As a general rule, if I don't feel like I'm inventing EVerything, I can't write at all. (12/01/2004)

Bizarre--and yet strangely inappropriate (despite the obvious parallels). Just another demonstration that there's nothing as literal minded as a computer. On the other hand, if Mel would agree to fly me around in his private jet.... <grin> (12/01/2004)

The technological changes since 1977 are as obvious to me as they are to you. And in one specific way, I have been consciously affected in the way I write. I rewrite more now because--thanks to computers and word processing software--rewriting is just plain *easier* than it once was. All that retyping I used to do! Looking back, I'm amazed I got as much done as I did. But in terms of my relationship with my audience: well, for example, the fact that my readers can so readily make their concerns known to me (via this interview) does make me--almost involuntarily--more sensitive to what they want or expect. This, as you can imagine, has its advantages and disadvantages. But the undeniable fact that we've all been trained to pay attention "shorter"? That has no *conscious* affect on me (except to the extent that my editor thinks I take far too long to do and say everything). And yet it *must* have an affect on some level: I'm a product of my culture, just like everyone else. I certainly don't live in a cave, cut off from mainstream society. <grin> And I'm very aware of things like: I seldom enjoy old movies, even ones I once loved, because they seem so ^#$%# *slow*. So it follows that there has to be a change in my writing. I just don't notice it myself. The changes *I* notice revolve around my shifting priorities as a storyteller, not around my writing itself. (12/08/2004)

Merciful Heavens! I *never*--by which I mean NEVER--decide that anything I've done is 'great'! I lack the arrogance, the ego, or the simple stupidity for that. I desperately *hope* that what I write is 'great': I try very hard to *make* it 'great'. But I'm painfully aware of my human limitations--and of my very human talent for screwing up. So I don't confuse myself with questions about 'greatness'. When I write, I give myself permission to write badly (because movement is more important than quality at that stage). And when I rewrite, I chew over every sentence, character, scene, or description until I can't think of a way to make it better. Then I shrug and move on. And when I rewrite *again,* I repeat the process. And when I rewrite AGAIN, I repeat the process. And when I reach the point where I'm in danger of merely shuffling words without making an obvious improvement, I declare the job done. Not because it's 'great,' but because it's the best I can do with what I have and who I am. (12/08/2004)

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I'm sorry to say that the best answer I can give you is: I was young. From my present perspective, "Lord Foul the Despiser" seems like a crude and overly-obvious choice. But at the time, way back in the early 1970's when I was first planning the story and characters (more than half my life ago), I particularly wanted to emphasize the archetypal nature of the character. I didn't want to go the Tolkien route: pick a name like "Sauron" and *pretend* he isn't Evil Personified. Because of the themes around which the first trilogy in particular revolves, I felt I had something to gain by--in a manner of speaking--putting my cards face-up on the table. After all, Milton wrote about Satan explicitly. Why shouldn't I be equally daring, since my ambitions were certainly comparable to Milton's? Nowadays, of course, I'm used to the name, so it doesn't bother me. But if I were starting the first "Chronicles" today, I would take a more subtle approach. (12/09/2004)

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I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Writers don't choose to have their stories made into movies. Unless the writer happens to be someone like Stephen King or Tom Clancy, with all the clout in the known universe. <grin> Movie people make those decisions, for reasons entirely their own--but usually involving money. Writers can hope or not hope, as they see fit. But the only real power the writer has is to say yes or no IF he/she is approached by movie people. (12/09/2004)

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As I've said before, I don't read Jordan. And since his books were published after the first six "Covenant" books, I think we can safely say that I haven't been influenced by him. <grin> Naturally I would have no idea what influences may have affected him. (12/15/2004)

I doesn't seem bizarre to me. My own taste in music tends toward the "dark": tragedy instead of comedy; articulation of pain rather than expression of pleasure. I discussed this somewhere earlier in the GI; but briefly-- As an extremely broad generalization, I think there are two types of readers: those who are repelled by expressions of pain; and those who feel a sense of recognition. Everybody is familiar with pain. But some people manage their own pain by denial, or by some other form of self-absorption (narcissism; a sense of victimization; etc.), and so they--in effect--have no patience for alternative approaches to pain. However, other people manage their own pain by every technique imaginable *except* denial and self-absorption, and so they feel recognition and even empathy when they encounter open expressions of pain from sources outside themselves. Well, with occasional exceptions, Donaldson stories are pretty much all about pain. So it seems natural that people who respond to pain in other art forms would also respond to Donaldson stories. (12/17/2004)

1) My own experience of radio and tv suggests that they aren't worth listening to on those very rare occasions when they do occur. It was not always thus. Back in the early '80s, I encountered a couple of extraordinary radio interviewers who got more out of me than I would have believed possible. But nothing like that has happened since. 2) I consider my political convictions--like my religious convictions--irrelevant to the purposes of this interview. Only the stories themselves matter. However, a number of valid inferences can be drawn from the established fact that I was a conscientious objector during the Vietnam war. (12/17/2004)

<sigh> Sometimes it's the simple questions that really get you. The effect of working at the Ghost Ranch Writers Workshops is difficult to explain. I got the job without a credential to my name (except my MA in English lit) by attending one of those workshops, learning a vast amount of crucial information (mostly of a practical kind which eventually played a vital role in helping me get published), and impressing the hell out of the man who ran the workshops (Roland Tapp, a former editor turned freelance editor/agent). Roland and I became friends (in part because we actually lived quite near each other); and he saw in me someone who could fill a useful role at his workshops: a teacher of writing mechanics and theory (a job which didn't particularly interest him), and a reader who could and would tell his students that their writing was *bad* (by nature Roland preferred to encourage *everyone*, whether they had ability or not, but he recognized that doing so was a disservice to the bad writers in his workshops). So there I was, a rather young man with passion, education, and intelligence, but no particular credibility, facing students who were without exception significantly older than I was and trying to explain to them why their writing was demonstrably bad. This, as you may perhaps be able to imagine, was not easy. It certainly "put grit in my soul," as the missionaries used to say. On the plus side, it forced me to clarify and codify my beliefs about writing in a way that has served me well ever since. On the minus side, it made me into a bit of a pedant (and sometimes a brutal one); a judgmental True Believer in the cause of skillful, honest, non-manipulative, empathetic writing. Naturally, all of the untalented (or unserious) students hated me. After every workshop, someone tried to get me fired. And eventually I learned another lesson: I'm really not wise enough to tell other people what they're doing wrong--even when what they're doing wrong is screamingly obvious (I vividly recall one student who could not be bothered to remember the *genders* of his own characters). Which is why I no longer teach writing to anyone, or read anyone else's manuscripts. Now I *have* credibility--which only makes the True Believer in me more dangerous. Sure, teaching those workshops took time away from writing. But what I learned was well worth it. (12/17/2004)

To the extent that "talent" can be defined as "a desire to do x, y, or z, where the desire is strong enough to overcome natural inertia and/or indolence," it's probably true that "the ability to use Earthpower [is] relatively uncommon." (G. K. Chesterton once wrote, "Anything worth doing is worth doing badly." But even *that* isn't permission enough for most people. Under pressure, most people seem to consider very few things "worth doing.") But *could* they use Earthpower if they wanted to hard enough, or in the right way? I like to think they could: in my view, the Land was created to be the kind of place where health, beauty, and effectiveness are accessible to everyone. Therefore--by extension--it is also a place where it's OK for anyone to *not* use Earthpower if that decision suits his/her natural inclination. (12/17/2004)

I've said it before: I'll say it again. I can't tell the future. But I don't foresee any future stories in the Angus-Morn-Amnion "universe" because I simply don't have any ideas which would enable me to write such stories. (12/17/2004)

Easy answer: I don't know what a "Cyberpunk novel" *is*. And I don't choose my stories: they choose me. (12/17/2004)

I'm taking this question as an opportunity to say that the only *accurate* source of information about possible movies is the "news" page on this site. But I'll go further here: the people who are seriously interested in making a "Covenant" movie have assured me in no uncertain terms that there will be no "evils from Saturn". That uniquely bizarre bit of misinformation was fabricated out of pure stupidity. On a much more positive note, I'm glad you've found so much to enjoy in the Kevin's Watch e-community. (12/20/2004)

These matters are all so intuitively, well, obvious to me that I find it difficult to actually explain them. <sigh> Let's start with Law (structure, rules, governing principles) and Earthpower (energy, vital substance). Think of our solar system. If the planets weren't in furious motion (energy), they would fall into the sun and burn up: if the planets weren't tethered by gravity (structure), they would simply sail away. Without that balance between energy and constraint, nothing could exist. (Of course, to a physicist, it's all energy in one form of another. But still the energy of gravity has to balance the energy of motion, or else nothing could exist.) Now. The Staff of Law was created as a means to wield the energy of Earthpower safely--i.e. without violating the various constraints of Law. But because this is magic rather than technology (because it deals in symbolic unities rather than in discrete mechanisms), the Staff cannot be inherently separate from the forces and rules which it exerts. It's not a light switch, essentially distinct from the flow of electricity which it enables. In a certain sense, the Staff *is* both Law and Earthpower, just as white gold *is* wild magic. In fantasy, in magic, the tool cannot be distinguished from what the tool does. So. Even though the Staff was never essential to the original existence of either Law or Earthpower, the simple fact of its creation means that it participates in both, and can therefore: a) strengthen both, or b) weaken both (by being destroyed). So yes, the destruction of the original Staff weakened the structure of Law. But. This is does *not* imply that Linden's creation of a new Staff *automatically* restores the structure of Law to its original form. A tool has to be used to be effective; and the person using the tool has to know what he/she is doing. Linden, and then Sunder and Hollian, clearly have the spirit and the heart to use the Staff effectively; but they don't necessarily have the lore, the knowledge, to accomplish everything that the Staff is capable of doing. (The absence of runes on the new Staff is not an accident.) Also the new Staff is profoundly different than Berek's original creation. It was formed, not from the wood of the One Tree, but from one sentient (Findail) and one quasi-sentient (Vain) being, each of whose nature affects the inherent qualities of both the new Staff and what the new Staff can do. (And then there's the interesting question of whether Sunder and Hollian would actually *want* to heal the broken Law of Life, since by doing so they might undo themselves.) And in addition: when the new Staff was created, it became an inherent participant in both Law and Earthpower, just as Berek's did; BUT the *condition* of Law and Earthpower when Linden created her Staff was different than it was when Berek created his; and therefore the *condition* of the new Staff is also different. So. The creation of the new Staff did not *in itself* restore the broken Laws of Death and Life. Presumably it *could*. If the right wielder used it in the right way. But that hasn't happened yet. <whew> (12/20/2004)

And thank you! I don't think you realize how much readers like you give back to me. For me, at least, writing is a necessarily isolated occupation. One reason I've put so much time and effort into this interview is that contact like this with readers like you helps me feel less alone. To your question. I don't want to give anything away. And my thinking about some aspects of this story, especially in the middle volumes, is still in flux. But with those warnings in mind: I don't foresee leaving the Land at any point during "The Last Chronicles." I think you can count on seeing a fair amount of it. <grin> (12/20/2004)

My methods vary from situation to situation, according to whatever aspect of the story in front of me is giving me the most trouble. I've been known to write essays about particular characters entirely for my own benefit, so that I'll know where they come from and where they're going as characters. But in general it's fair to say that I design my stories first, and then discover my characters while I'm writing what I've designed. It's also fair to say--as I've said before--that there is no *right* way to plan and carry out stories. Every good storyteller is different. The only *right* way is the way that works for the particular individual who is creating the story. (12/20/2004)

I've already discussed vocabulary in this interview. The short answer: I compile word lists when I read; then I look those words up and try to become familiar with them. Recently Tennyson's "Idylls of the King" has been a rich source. How did I learn despair? And how do I hold it at bay? Gosh, we could spend days on such topics without necessarily shedding any light. I'll be cryptically brief. "When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you." Well, I'm too bright, and I've experienced too much abuse, to be able to avoid looking into the abyss. Regularly. But when the abyss looks into me, it sees a fighter. The fact that this is *not* what most people see when they look at me is irrelevant. Or approaching the question from a different direction: I think there are basically two kinds of people in the world, those who are diminished by their pains, problems, and losses, and those who learn and grow because of what they suffer. Long ago I chose to be one of the latter. Not because I possess any particular wisdom, courage, or strength, but because I found the sense of helplessness that I felt when I looked into the abyss intolerable--and I disliked my only obvious alternative (suicide). So I decided to believe that there are no conditions under which it is impossible to give battle. This is not a statement about "conditions" (many of which might legitimately be described as hopeless): it's a statement about *me*. If a situation appears hopeless to me, that simply means I need to learn how to perceive it differently: as an opportunity rather than as a blank wall. This ain't easy, and I don't do it gracefully. Nevertheless my theme song is Simon and Garfunkle's "The Boxer," the last verse of which (if memory serves) goes like this: "In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade; and he carries the reminder of every glove that put him down or cut him 'til he cried out in his anger and his shame, 'I am leaving, I am leaving!' But the fighter still remains." And *that*, my friends, is more personal revelation than I usually allow myself. (12/21/2004)

Well, "Penance" doesn't seem all that unique to me. Writers like Chelsea Quinn Yarbro and Fred Saberhagen have written about sympathetic vampires for years. And vampires have become stock erotic figures in certain kinds of "romance" novels. But I do find that stereotypes paralyze creativity; and I never seem to get story ideas that don't in some form involve discarding preconceptions, prior expectations, and stereotypes. In other words, discarding stereotypes isn't so much a conscious choice as a creative necessity. (12/21/2004)

If reading these books is a pleasure, then I say, Why wait? A pleasure deferred is a pleasure missed. I follow this method myself: Steven Erikson's "Malazan" books are a case in point. After all, what's the worst that can happen? Increased impatience--which can be salved by re-reading the previous book before the next one comes out (more pleasure, presumably). How do I like to be addressed? What's that old joke? You can call me anything you want as long as you don't call me late for dinner. I'm not keeping score here. (12/21/2004)

To be known *only* as "the guy who wrote the Thomas Covenant books" would sadden me. I'm proud of all my books, and would like, in a manner of speaking, to "get credit" for all of them. But when people ask me where to start reading Donaldson, I always suggest one of my short story collections. As I like to say, "That way you can find out if you like what I do without making it your life's work." (12/21/2004)

In various forms, I've already discussed how my beliefs, experiences, and personality influence my work. And I keep repeating that my political views, like my religious convictions, are essentially irrelevant to the purposes of this interview. But since the question of politics keeps coming up.... In general, I think that anyone who wants to hold political power should be automatically disqualified from public office. Only people who distrust power profoundly, and who have no desire to wield it, should be entrusted with running the country. Doubtless this is completely unworkable. But as a step in the right direction, I think we should all try to give up our enthusiasm for electing people who we know *in advance* will betray the ideals of this country, and who feel no qualms at all about lying through their teeth. Just my opinion. (12/22/2004)

Sadly, I can't comment on this. I've heard the "there are only seven basic plots" idea put forward in various contexts; but I've never seen or heard a discussion of what those "seven basic plots" are. Which is probably a good thing. In my view, the essence of storytelling is particularity: very specific people with very specific emotions in very specific situations. If I knew that everything I want to write is "just another example of x, y, or z basic plot," the information might have a negative effect on my concentration. In addition, there's the very real possibility that the whole idea is bogus. Just because musicians in the West only have 12 basic notes to work with doesn't mean that all compositions are basically the same--or even basically comparable. Theoreticians love to "deconstruct" acts of communication into various components, and then generalize about those components. Which is, I suppose, a valid use of intellect, and (at least potentially) a useful aid to the comprehension of particular stories, of storytelling in general, and of the functions of the human mind. But I suspect (fear?) that such an approach leads people to lose sight of what makes particular stories worth reading in the first place. (12/22/2004)

As matters stand, I'm not popular or successful enough for any publisher to contemplate such a project. "The Atlas of the Land" sold dismally, and quickly went out of print; and nothing has happened since then to convince anyone that I'm "worth the risk" (art books, after all, are very expensive to produce). Putnams has already gone out on a limb by releasing an audio version of "Runes". They aren't likely to go farther. A "Covenant" movie could change the situation, of course. But that's in the Department of Don't Believe It Until You See It With Your Own Eyes. (12/22/2004)

I was never asked to do the reading for the audio version of "Runes"--and I had no say in Scott Brick's selection for the job. But if I *had* been asked, I would have refused. Never mind the fact that I lack the time. I lack the skill. Much as I might question some of the cadences of Brick's reading, I can assure you absolutely that his work is more clear, comprehensible, consistent, and generally professional than anything I could have done. (12/22/2004)

There are a fair number of tips scattered throughout this interview; but the most important of them is this: you have to figure it out for yourself. (God knows *I* did.) There are as many different approaches as there are writers, and all of them are only as good as their "fit" for the specific writer using them. I know it's hard; but you'll never get where you want to go if you don't figure out how to get there for yourself. (12/22/2004)

Well, it isn't exactly a coincidence; but I wouldn't be in a hurry to ascribe meaning to it. I liked the way "Maxim Isengard" sounded; but I knew I couldn't use "Isengard"; so instead of throwing the sounds away I juggled them until I came up with a combination that pleased me. The result was definitely *not* an intentional reference to LOTR. (12/22/2004)

1) There are no inconsistencies. In the US, I'm always "Stephen R. Donaldson": in the UK, I'm always "Stephen Donaldson". But since *I* always use the "R," the question is: why did the Brits drop it? Apparently that's their standard usage. (William R. Shakespeare? Joseph R. Conrad? Charles R. Dickens?) Unless the author uses *only* initials (J. R. R. Tolkien; G. K. Chesterton; C. S. Lewis), the Brits never use the middle initial. 2) The pseudonym for my mystery novels was forced on me--the original publisher, Ballantine, refused to publish the books without it--and I always hated using it. If the decision had been left to me (or if I had believed that I had the power to make the decision), I never would have invented "Reed Stephens." And I'll always be grateful to Tom Doherty and Tor Books (not to mention Malcolm Edwards and Orion) for giving me the chance to "come out of the closet." (12/22/2004)