[sic]

Icarus, Who Flew

Wed, 15 May 2013 13:56:17 GMT

A few years ago, Cat Valente, one of my favorite writers, posted this wonderful piece on her blog about her own obsession with the myth of Persephone. Like so many of Cat’s posts, it’s eloquent, heartfelt, and deeply personal, so much that, reading it, I can’t help feeling like a voyeur. But that’s just the way all her writing is; whether in novels, short stories, poetry, or blog entries, her heart, raw and beating, is on full display. It’s one of the many qualities I admire in her.

That post, over three years old, has stayed with me. After I’d read it, I wondered what my personal myth was, a story that tells my life and probably shows up, if wearing another face, in my writing. It didn’t take me long to figure out that I had two. One of them, the one I want to tell you about now, is Icarus.

First, background. I distinctly remember in seventh grade my class and I spent a month or two studying Greek mythology. I had no idea what it had to do with the curriculum, but I didn’t care; we were doing something in school I really liked. At some point we were all assigned individual figures from myth on whom we’d each write a report. I, to my chagrin, got Daedalus. Why did everyone else get gods or heroes and all I got was someone who built stuff? It didn’t seem fair. Surely there were enough fantastical beings that no one had to write about a mere mortal. But I didn’t contest it and I wrote that report. That’s when I first encountered the name Icarus.

It wasn’t until many years later, after Sandman renewed my interest in mythology, that I reacquainted myself with the stories of ancient Greece. I met Daedalus again and regretted my earlier resentment—it wasn’t his fault I’d gotten the assignment. And I formally met Icarus, forever remembered as the boy who, ignoring his father’s warning, flew too close to the sun and fell into the sea. His story, brief as it was, spoke to me.

I think the popular interpretation is that Icarus was reckless, too proud to listen to his father. (Ovid says that Icarus “had now begun to take delight in his audacity.”) I never felt that to be the case, even when I only knew the general outline and hadn’t read the story in full. Icarus has nothing to prove—to his father or to himself—by flying so high. He doesn’t seem to chafe under Daedalus’s cautions.

I’ve always taken the story of Icarus as one of ambition, which I realize skirts close to pride but I don’t think it ever crosses over. To my mind, Icarus doesn’t ignore his father’s warning because he believes the warning is wrong. Instead, he wants to test himself, to see just how high those wings will take him. (Bulfinch tells how Icarus, “exulting in his career, began to leave the guidance of his companion and soar upward as if to reach heaven.”) Daedalus, sensible sort that he is, urges Icarus to take the middle way. The safe route. Icarus, an idealist, aims higher. I think that, with every flap of his wings, he knows the potential for a spectacular disaster. Reaching the uppermost heights risks the farthest plunge.

I’d be a fool to say that the whole trying-despite-the-odds theme is exclusive to Icarus. But what separates him from other heroes is that he’s just an average guy. He has no magic items—just wings made out of feathers, wax, wood, and twine. He has no skills remarked upon by the gods. He’s the son of a brilliant man, but there’s no indication he takes after dear old dad. (Hell, you could argue that he’s kind of a putz; anyone born of Daedalus would get to safety and bugger all this flying for sheer joy.) He’s just a dude lucky enough to have a parent who gives him an opportunity he can’t ignore, even with death above and below.

Ursula Le Guin has a story that uses flying as a metaphor for artistic pursuits. And Ray Bradbury names the first pilot to Mars Icarus, focusing on his ascent rather than his tumble from the sky. Daedalus is an artisan, perhaps the most skilled in the entire mythological cycle; his creations have use. Icarus is an artist, though we never see him achieve that, unless you count his play with Daedalus’s materials and so getting in the way of “work.” Icarus searches out the limit of the tools given him. He chases a vantage point higher than most humans ever dared. In full knowledge of the consequences, he still tries.

That is why I identify with Icarus, broken wings and all.

A Brief History Of My Writing; Or, How I Became A Lapsed Poet

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 13:19:43 GMT

I started writing with fan fiction, though at the time I had no idea it had a specific name or devoted communities around it. I’m not in the least ashamed; I’ve had the sidebar link to my fanfic since starting [sic], and it proved key to a major project for my MFA program. Writing about characters I cared for, worlds I’d spent countless hours inhabiting—it sounded like fun. So I did. And it was fun. Even then, young as I was, I had no delusions that what I wrote was in any way useful toward establishing a reputation or a career. But it did start me on the path to writing, and for that I remain grateful. It’s been years since I’ve written any fan fiction, but I still have a few story ideas idling in my brain, waiting. There just isn’t enough time for all the stories I want to write.

Not long after I started writing fanfic, I joined my high school newspaper staff. I liked writing and wanted to take advantage of every opportunity for it I could find. I’m not sure why—it’s certainly not because I ever read the daily paper or many magazines—but I discovered I had a knack for journalism. When I got to college I entertained the idea of being a reporter or editor for two years before realizing that, one, journalism was a tough field and would only get tougher as publications died off and, two, I didn’t especially like it. I didn’t dislike it, but I had the romantic conviction that people ought to love their job. I have yet to shake that belief. In light of this epiphany, I had no idea what I would do for a career. I only knew that I wanted—needed?—it to involve writing in some substantial way.

It was about the same time I joined the newspaper staff that I started writing poetry. This despite the fact that I’d never read poetry outside of a few brief lessons in English classes, had no idea what I was doing. But like so many teenagers, I figured it was the best vehicle for my thoughts, feelings. By turns romantic and angsty, my poetry was, I’m sure, awful, but I did enjoy writing it. I carried that with me into college, joining an informal poetry group and sticking with it even through my MA. Remember that—it’ll be important later.

It wasn’t until my sophomore year in undergrad that I finally wrote my first original short story. And thereafter I took an introductory creative writing course and a fiction workshop because, as with poetry and fan fiction, I enjoyed it. And, as before, I had no real grasp of what I was doing. I just followed my instincts, which were wrong as often as right. In spite of that, I felt some kind of resonance writing short fiction that fan fiction and poetry, much as I loved them, never quite provided. I had found a creative home.

I tried other things too. I wrote a few one-act plays in college, took a creative nonfiction course early in my MA program, and somewhere along the line took a crack at two novels that, for the good of the world, I never finished. But I’ve always come back to short stories. For my MA thesis I compiled a small collection and it was only then in the writing that, after seven years of writing in earnest and nearly four writing short stories, I finally wrote a story I felt cause to be proud of, that felt authentically mine instead of a pastiche, and a poor one at that. I’ve written more stories than I’d care to count since, some for the MFA, many more just because. I’ve even had the moxie to send a few off for publication, though less frequently than I should. I love short fiction for its sharp power, its capacity for breaking conventions, its containment. Even if I ever do write a novel, I don’t expect I’ll ever stop writing short stories.

But I miss poetry, unlike personal essays or journalism. Fan fiction, too, though poetry more so. I stopped writing poetry after my MA for a number of reasons: Not having the weekly poetry group meetings meant that, to my mind, I had no permission to write poetry, even for fun. I spent more time reading and writing short fiction, so my creative horizons narrowed. My life fell into some deep ruts, which eroded any occasional impulses I had for poetry. And, upon meeting poets in my MFA program, I felt like I no longer had any claim to “poet” as a label. (This was all in my head, of course.) They were doing things with language I could only wonder at; I was just arbitrarily breaking phrases into stanzas.

I can’t remember when but soon after I really immersed myself in the world of short stories, I began telling others I was a lapsed poet—like a lapsed Catholic, I felt vaguely guilty for my distance but had no clue how to remedy it. Now, though, I find myself wanting to return to poetry, more than ever. A number of the people I’ve met here are poets; being surrounded by poetry, I’m suddenly intent on recovering that part of myself. I’m around it more in a way that I strangely wasn’t in my MFA, for whatever reason. Here, I’ve talked with some of the teachers as well as my friends and, somehow, poetry doesn’t seem quite as intimidating. I know more acutely than ever how little about poetry I know, but I’m willing and eager to learn. I’m ready to be a novice again.

One of my long-running goals of late has been to read more poetry. I’m hoping that reading poetry will pave the way for me to reacquaint myself with it through writing. I’ve missed poetry; maybe that’s all the reason I’ve ever needed to rediscover it.

AWP, The First Time

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 14:16:40 GMT

In the past I’ve recounted my visits to a number of conventions, both as a way to preserve the memory, however imperfectly, and to let other people know about cool events they might want to consider attending in the future. I recently went to my first academic conference, and while I doubt I’ll make a habit of reporting back on such experiences here, this one is, I think, relevant to enough of my friends that it’s worth sharing.

Earlier this month I went to the annual conference for the Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP), a gathering of ten thousand (give or take) creative writing students and teachers, professional authors, publishers, and others connected to the world of writing. AWP bills itself as an academic conference, probably to distinguish itself from conventions (which are by and for fans), but I think this is really just semantics. The conference brings together thousands of people with a common interest, albeit involved in different ways, to mingle, compare notes, talk shop. There’s a room full of merchandise—hundreds of booksellers and literary magazines filling three cavernous exhibit halls. And panels, some by familiar names, some not, on a host of topics from the broadly popular to obscurely niche. Sounds a lot like a convention to me.

And it is a lot like one, though not completely. I get ahead of myself. Before I got to the conference, I looked over the schedule to mark off the panels I thought were particularly interesting. I found a few on fantastical literature, some on craft issues I’m perennially fascinated by, and some odds-and-ends. Maybe it’s by virtue of being in grad school again, but I wanted to just soak up information. Not that I could resist the lure of the bookfair (read: dealer’s room)—only I already own two hundred-plus books I have yet to read, so, as much as it pains me, I’m actively resisting the urge to buy more books. (In this I was not successful.) Plus, I felt confident that I could get later whatever books were on sale at the conference, whereas panels are kind of ephemeral. If they aren’t recorded, they vanish, so catch them while/if you can.

So, panels. Despite planning to attend several, I only got to two. One and a half, actually; I ducked out of one early to attend a reading by Stonecoast faculty. It was a common dilemma: Either I wanted to go to several events during a given timeslot or none at all. I’d never been in the audience for an academic panel, but I’ve seen quite a few at conventions, and in this they markedly differ. Whereas convention panels are moderated discussions among the panelists, with a fair amount of audience participation, conference panels give each member a turn at the microphone, at which point they read a short essay (some more narrative, some more scholastic). Each panelist’s focus is distinct while still relating to the topic. That gives a survey quality to the proceedings, which is useful in a way, but they can be dramatically afield from one another. And because of that discrepancy, the whole can feel disjointed, the connections unexplored. Also, I think reading a researched essay, even a short one to an interested audience, is a tough sell.

At least, that was the case for the first (half) panel I went to. Maybe it would have gotten better had I stuck around, maybe they’d have identified some common threads toward the end, but as excited as I was for the topic, the execution disappointed me. The other panel I went to followed a similar format with a few differences. For one, the panel description explicitly described the multiple strands that would be explained. That (plus my earlier experience) helped manage my expectations. And the panelists didn’t just read from their notes; they made asides, spoke to (not at) the audience, and discussed the intersections with the other panelists’ ideas. When I met up with friends later, they’d had similar experiences, some stellar, some not. Our consensus was that the success of a panel hinges a lot on its members, a tricky thing as I know only a tiny, tiny number of the thousands at AWP. Lesson learned for next time.

When I wasn’t doing the panel circuit, I was the bookfair. Like I said, hundreds of tables and booths—publishers large and small, university presses, MFA programs, writing foundations and award organizations, and more literary magazines than you ever imagined. Given that I wasn’t shopping around a manuscript and that most of the publications present weren’t typically open to the writing I most do, I wandered through without inspecting much up close. I did have destinations, though. I had a few friends to buy books from and I saw on the exhibitor list some magazines I long knew of but never had the chance to check out in any depth. Oh, and Small Beer Press, so I finally got the chance to meet Kelly Link. My other targets: Fairy Tale Review, Conjunctions, and Unstuck. A friend of mine put FTR on my radar and, after checking out the free issues online, I added them to my submission file, especially when I write stories with folklore on their sleeve. It was nice to pick up a physical copy, talk to the staff, and meet Kate Bernheimer, FTR’s editor and the editor behind the superb anthology My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me. As for Conjunctions, I discovered it back when I was researching slipstream and related strands of spec fic, leading me to their New Wave Fabulists issue—one I didn’t pick up until a few months ago (my why-the-hell-not addition to my absurd textbook tally). I grabbed the spiritual successor to that issue for cheap and thumbed through others, to get a better sense of what they take. And then there’s Unstuck. I missed buying the first volume and so I continue kicking myself over it. (I did pick up the latest one, so as not to make the mistake again.) It was such a pleasure chatting with the managing editor, and their aesthetic is one I appreciate. Much like Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, the work they include has a subtle strangeness, or, if you like, a strange subtlety. I’m enjoying what I’ve read so far and look forward to future volumes.

Over the course of the conference there are plenty of off-site events such as readings and book launch parties. I didn’t get to attend any, sadly, but maybe next time. It’s in Seattle next year, one of my very favorite places, and all things considered, I enjoyed AWP quite a lot. I didn’t get to see everyone I wanted to, I didn’t see all the panels I’d planned to, and I didn’t get the chance to wander about Boston.

But for two days I was surrounded by writers and bibliophiles, people who care in whatever idiosyncratic way about the written word. At least, that’s what I found. It’s the same contentment I feel at science fiction conventions, bonding over a shared passion. I don’t think I could go to AWP every year, but every now and again, I think I could use the reminder of solidarity. Writing is a lonely vocation otherwise, just you and the page.

The Meaning Of Soul: Why Oasis Matters To Me

Wed, 13 Feb 2013 16:00:01 GMT

A few weeks ago at trivia, a question about Oasis came up. After the round one of my friends said, “Oasis were around a lot longer than I thought they’d be—and maybe longer than they should have been.” To which I replied, “No.” I didn’t elaborate because the game would be resuming shortly, bars aren’t the best place for any kind of lengthy conversation, and I felt certain no one wanted to hear it. But the thoughts his comment stirred continued coalescing in my mind. I think now it’s time for them to take shape. Originally I’d meant to write a post like this back in 2009 when the band’s break-up actually stuck. But time got away from me and when my life had settled enough to write on it in depth, the cultural moment had passed. While I’ve dithered in the past over writing on [sic] about untimely issues, I’ve decided—and need to occasionally remind myself—this is my journal. I should write about what’s important to me. And however much flak I get for it, Oasis is.

I still remember the first time I heard Oasis, though the memory grows hazy with age. It was sometime during eighth grade, late ’95 or early ’96. I was hanging out at a friend’s house. His dad was a DJ and had this unspeakably large music collection. We were up long into the night as my friend introduced me to songs and recorded them to cassette—burning CDs and digital files weren’t a thing yet in our world—when I found ones I liked. Then he put in another album and prefaced it with something like, “You’ve gotta listen to this.” It was “Champagne Supernova,” to this day one of my favorite songs. Fading from the distorted frenzy of the prior track into gently lapping water, it opened on a soothing note. Eased me in. Then Liam Gallagher’s voice, more melodic than usual (a later realization), asked, “How many special people change? How many lives are living strange? Where we you while we were getting high?”

As it progressed the song blossomed out; instruments came to life and the volume escalated up and up. Then that glorious crescendo of the middle eight as Liam wailed “Why?” over and over. If it turned meandering or surreal, I didn’t notice; I was entranced. Somehow, eventually, it—and I—came down from the heights it had mapped, concluding just as softly as it had started.

When I did go home, I had a copy of that song. In hindsight I probably should have asked for a dub of the whole album, but I wasn’t so forward-thinking.

On another occasion my friend played “Wonderwall” and, as if I needed any further convincing, I was an Oasis fan. I bought (What’s The Story) Morning Glory? as soon as I could (on cassette). I remember listening to it several times every day for the next few weeks. When I finally did get a CD player, the first purchase I made for my budding music collection was Definitely Maybe, which I also listened to repeatedly.

For as much as I listened to those two albums, my ears weren’t totally familiar with Oasis. When “D’You Know What I Mean?,” the first single from Be Here Now, debuted, I had no idea who the artist was. I did know that I absolutely loved it and looked forward to hearing it on the radio again. (When I knew it well enough, I sang it to my newborn brother when he got fussy, and it calmed him down. I thought that especially cool for a song that was decidedly not a lullaby.) When I discovered that it was Oasis’s latest and that a new album was a few short months away, I took it as a sign: I’d found a band that was distinctly mine.

Growing up, my family didn’t much listen to music. My mom occasionally turned on the radio, but that was rare. As far as I know, she didn’t own any albums in any format. My dad, meanwhile, was proving himself to be the world’s biggest Queen fan; if he listened to anything else, he kept it private. So I got into Queen, sure, but I knew virtually nothing of music until late in grade school when said friend-with-the-DJ-dad introduced me to the radio—Top 40 at first—and a vast range of sound I hadn’t even imagined. I had liked the stuff I heard at the time on Q102, my local Top 40 station, but I hadn’t loved any of it. Hadn’t felt some primal response from somewhere inside. When I heard Oasis, I did. They spoke to me in a way no band ever had (or has, frankly). They also provided the gateway into modern rock and alternative, genres that still make up the bulk of my listening preferences.

They also ignited a keen Anglophilia that started with seeking out every Britpop act I could and culminated in studying abroad in London while in college. I still haven’t lost my affinity for Britpop—and many of the bands that emerged from the trend—and my trip to London was, as you might expect, life-altering in a way no journal post can adequately express. And the primary force? Oasis.

The release of The Masterplan fell close to my birthday in 1998, so it wasn’t long on the store shelf before it was on my own shelf. I don’t know why, but I listened to only two tracks per day, as if to draw out the experience. I guess it worked; it took a week to hear the album in full. I must have played it as many times as Morning Glory, maybe more. It was their meatiest release at fourteen tracks and nicely showed their stylistic range—not something the band is popularly known for but not for lack of material.

I got to see them in concert the following year, and while their set was short, it was transcendent. I couldn’t remember ever being surrounded by strangers and so blissfully happy at the same time. I’ve seen them twice more, and they were consistently incredible. The sound hits like a wave, engulfing, and the atmosphere is contagious. It’s a powerful thing to be in the company of thousands of others, excited and singing the same lines. (Sports are close to this, I suppose, but this is purer, without the specter of opposing sides.)

Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants arrived months before my high school graduation, an appropriate album for transitioning, as it represented a different direction from previous efforts. There was a subdued quality to the record, echoing my own ambivalence to leave high school just as it felt like everything had finally started to click, to make sense. But move on we did, the band and I.

Heathen Chemistry was, paradoxically, a more traditional Oasis album while also plotting a trajectory that marked a turning point away from the grandiosity of early Oasis. (They were still Oasis and so still had big ambitions. Just not as big.) I can still remember a friend walking in to class one day singing “The Hindu Times” and I joined in without a second thought. It was a small moment but a joyful one, and I think that joy is what permeates Oasis’s music for me. I listen to their songs, even the sad ones, and it’s like this automatic emotional shift. I feel better instantly. It may not last, but as long as I’m hearing their music, everything seems possible.

Don’t Believe The Truth is personally significant, so much so I won’t delve into it here. But it was—and is—a terrific album with some criminally underrated songs. By then I’d finished college and was months away from grad school wrapping up. Even with the looming uncertainty of the real world, I had Oasis as an anchor.

Dig Out Your Soul, the band’s last, never quite caught on with me or the world at large. It’s uneven, sheer brilliance paired alongside uninteresting pap. I won’t whine about how it wasn’t the same. Bands change. I won’t suggest the band and I were in two different places and so could no longer communicate. Those songs (half of them, anyway) just largely didn’t do it for me. Yet Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds, the solo outfit of the elder (and better songwriter) Gallagher, put out an excellent album just last year. The Oasis magic* is still floating around, just in a new configuration.**

This sounds like a lot of pseudo-Rolling Stone rambling without getting at the heart of why I started writing this: Why is Oasis so important to me? Clearly they were, and are, hence the outpouring of words. I think the major thing is they really became a presence in my life in high school when things were tough, as it can be for many. Oasis—with their bravado and indifference to anyone else’s opinion—were avatars of the confidence I so sorely lacked. I didn’t imitate them or anything. But simply listening to them gave me something to be happy about at a time when I didn’t feel like I had much reason to be. Listening to them now is a strange kind of nostalgia, then, not because I yearn for high-school days but because they were one of the good parts of that time. Even beyond adolescence, they’ve accompanied me though some significant life events. Before I found writing and books, I had Oasis. They were a bedrock of my identity before I even realized I’d begun assembling one.

More than any of this, though, their music—and forgive me for the vagueness—speaks to me. I’m not entirely sure why. I may just lack the vocabulary to articulate when it comes to music. Maybe it’s the attitude, which can be arrogant but is at bottom often optimistic. (There’s not enough of that right now, to my mind.) Maybe it’s the intensity of their sound, the way it takes on shape and weight. Maybe it’s the fact that they’re not popular anymore so they’re like a secret, just mine. Maybe it’s all of this and more. Maybe none of it.

I only know that when I hear those Gallaghers sing, whether about living forever or rock ’n’ roll or champagne supernovas, I believe.

* The keys to Oasis success, say the critics, have always been Liam’s voice and Noel’s songs. I’m not sure how much stock I put into this formula, but I can see glimmers of truth in it.

** We won’t even talk about Beady Eye.

Books New And Used: The Dilemma Of A Bibliophile And Aspiring Professional Writer*

Thu, 17 Jan 2013 17:19:52 GMT

When I was younger and first began assembling my library, I had a strange compulsion: Every book had to be new—not simply off the shelf at Borders but pristine. If the first copy I picked up didn’t meet my approval, I’d carefully inspect the others until I found one that did. If not, I occasionally refused to buy anything, though more often than not I settled on the sharpest-looking one.

Some years later a friend introduced me to the wonder of used books. If I wasn’t paying as much for each individual book, that meant I could buy more of them. And I could find some older or more esoteric items than I could at a major chain. This was before I started also buying books online, a turning point my wallet still recalls with a twinge of pain. Even today, a grad student with little discretionary income, I gravitate toward online sellers and secondhand books over sleek new editions. I have to really want a book—or be an especially ardent fan of the author—for me to buy a book new.

Another fairly recent change in my methods of acquiring reading material is visiting the library. I always knew libraries existed and loved them, but from a distance, like a suitor who couldn’t muster up the courage to speak. But when I discovered the wealth those buildings held—and the further riches they could obtain through inter-library loan—I became a dedicated patron. I visit my local library almost weekly, and I’ve lost countless hours these past few months poring over volumes from my university library. Embracing used books and libraries both has brought me so much reading enjoyment I cannot begin to measure it.

And yet.

As someone who wants to do right by the authors I love, I wonder which course of action as a reader is most helpful to them, financially and in terms of exposure. For instance, four of my favorite writers—Cat Valente, Theodora Goss, Jeff Ford, and Chris Barzak—all became part of my pantheon by luck. I won Chris’s first novel in an online contest and, in response to a blog post of Jeff’s, received his third collection after agreeing to review it. I bought Cat’s In the Night Garden used when I drew up my reading list for the first semester of my MFA, and I bought Dora’s collection used after reading two or three stories of hers. I’d seen Cat’s novel and Chris’s in stores for a while after they were released, so I could have bought them at full retail if I’d had the mind to. I hadn’t, however, seen Dora’s collection or Jeff’s in brick-and-mortar stores, which obviously would make it harder to buy them new. There is Amazon or the publishers’ websites, the latter especially good as they prevent a middle-man from taking a cut or selling at reduced prices. The downside to shopping online (besides shipping costs) is that you can’t browse a book the same way you can in person. And with each of these books, I was taking a chance—I had no idea if they’d be any good, hence getting them used or gratis. And the books were so good they’ve joined the ranks of my favorites and the authors of them have become important enough that I’ve been doing my best to buy their entire output from here on at full price. And I’ve talked them up to almost everyone who will listen.

What, then, is the best choice for the reader wanting to sample an author’s work? Buy a book new because even if you don’t like it, you give the author a fair shake money-wise? I did that with a major science fiction author; the book of his I tried was okay but didn’t impress me terribly. I doubt I’ll buy more of his work, though I might try another if the library had any of his books. (The speculative fiction sections in most of the libraries I’ve seen are wanting.) Maybe libraries are the answer. After all, they paid for the book at what I suspect is a price that makes a difference to the author. And many people can read that one copy, whereas one you own, whether new or used, has a much more limited range. Of course, I’ve always been happy when friends have rummaged through shelves, pressed a book into my hands, and said, “You have to read this.” I feel like something would be lost in simply being told to get it from the library.

I’m assuming here that authors want to be bought, whereas I expect that many of them want to be read. My personal library is an eclectic assortment; it is a reflection, albeit an imperfect one, of my identity and tastes. Increasingly, I consider my library as a curatorial endeavor, and, as such, I’m more particular about what I include in it. Yet the books I’ve bought are also a promise to myself—I spent money on them so I must believe (or hope) they are worth the time. So I do plan to read the two hundred-plus books I own that I have yet to open. If I were to buy, say, Liz Hand’s or Charles de Lint’s entire catalogue, I would invariably, eventually, make time for those books. And I could pass them on, as loans to friends or as a legacy to family. That’s at least one advantage over the library.

Maybe this topic cannot be parsed out neatly. After all, I want to own a lot of books, which means buying them used when I can. I want to support working authors too, which may mean buying fewer total books and paying full price for them. And above all, I want to read a lot, so the library is invaluable. Maybe there is no easy solution.

If you have any thoughts on this, I’d love to hear them.

* I used to say aspiring writer, but a friend broke me of that habit. A writer, his logic went, is someone who writes. That describes me pretty well, though I still do aspire to professional status.

Introversion: A Case Study

Wed, 28 Nov 2012 14:58:48 GMT

Hey, [sic]. Sorry I’ve been neglecting you these past few months. Grad school has kept me busy. Not that you haven’t heard that before—clearly two advanced degrees beyond the bachelor’s wasn’t enough. What can I say? I’ve got a thing for financial instability.

No, I haven’t been writing. Well, okay, actually that isn’t true. I’ve been writing a lot. But it’s about academic stuff, which I have no desire to rehash even if you had the inclination to listen to it—something I very much doubt. I have a story in progress, one that has some genuine promise, if I made the time—finding time is a sham—and got some more words down. I’m still feeling the lingering fog of self-doubt, but it’s dissipating for the most part. I’m reading daily, and not just the theory stuff I have to. I’m reading for pleasure. Well, and craft; I’m at the point where my writer-brain is almost always at work, keeping tabs on what a story’s doing and how. I think I have to cut back though. Since I’m reading and writing so much for school, I’m having trouble mustering motivation to do more as a way to unwind. I can manage one of the two, maybe, so I’m planning to alternate leisure reading and writing. My end-of-the-year reading count won’t be as impressive, but there has to be a trade-off somewhere, right?

Anyway, all of that wasn’t what got me writing here again. I was on the bus today and sat next to a gent reading an Iain M. Banks novel. The bus here is open to the public, but the majority of riders are either students or employees of the university. Of my seatmate, I feel confident in guessing the former. I got an odd sense of satisfaction seeing this guy reading. For one, he was clearly reading for fun. (At least, I assume so. If there’s a course at this school where the required books are science fiction, sign me up.) That always does my heart good. If I do see people read on this bus, it’s generally textbooks. The other thing I appreciated was, of course, that his book was SF. I’ve only read a few of Banks’s short stories, so I was tempted to interrupt his reading and ask about it.

I didn’t bother him. Maybe he wouldn’t have seen it as being bothered. If it were me, I’d be annoyed at first, sure, but that would quickly fall away as I’d be excited at the prospect of talking about books with someone. This, then, is the dilemma of enjoying activities that are primarily solitary. It seems rude to break people out of their reading. (Maybe this is my own reverence for the experience.) Same thing with writing—if I see someone in the act of it, I want to talk with him/her about it. Compare notes. And yet I’d hesitate. After all, that person is clearly occupied.

The problem is that writers and readers frequently do not stand out unless they are engaged in writing and reading. They don’t wear T-shirts expressing their support (generally). They don’t share a particular fashion style—contrary to popular stereotypes. There are groups and conferences, but I’m not looking for enclaves of people enamored of the written word per se. I don’t know that I’m looking for anything, honestly. I guess I’d like to feel free to share a small commonality in passing with someone without it coming across as strange. Of course, given my tendencies, I may be overthinking this.

Just like a writer.

Thinking About Story: The Sum And Its Parts

Mon, 06 Aug 2012 14:30:50 GMT

The following has been rattling around in my head for weeks. I feel like I have a lot to say here, and so what emerges will probably be tangled. At least I can clarify my ideas later, then. I hope.

I’ve undertaken a project of sorts. In June I decided to read a story a day for the next year. I own a lot of unread collections and anthologies—thirty-two by my last count. I need to put a dent in them, especially when new ones are released more than often enough to keep me well stocked with short fiction. Also, I’ve read paltry little of the various online spec fic magazines, venues to which I plan to submit my own work. Of course, sending work blindly is as good a route to rejection as any; it helps to be familiar with what a given magazine published. (You know this already.) It’s about time I did my homework on these markets.

There is one other rationale for this endeavor: I want to be inspired. Whenever I’m regularly reading short stories, I generally find myself brimming with ideas for my own stories. I’ve read nearly fifty stories since I started this one-a-day venture; in return, I’ve landed on exactly one viable story idea. (Even the not-so-viable ideas are, sadly, in short supply.) I’m hoping that ratio improves, especially as I see more stories that subvert the traditional guidelines about what makes an effective story.

I’m sure you know the kind. They’re reproduced on plenty of websites, printed in numerous craft books, recited in writing courses formal and not. Compelling, dimensional characters, ones with distinct personalities, believable actions. A conflict that presents the protagonist with obstacles in pursuit of a goal. A conclusion that is surprising yet inevitable. And on and on.

For as many stories follow these precepts, I’m sure most people wouldn’t have much trouble thinking of exceptions. Do we have fully rendered characters in “The Lottery” or “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas?” What is the conflict of “The Rose in Twelve Petals?” Are stories with an element missing, “Hell Is the Absence of God” eschewing dialogue, inferior for their lack?

If we abandon more recent examples and look to the literary past, I feel pretty confident we’ll find many more exceptions. But, the objection begins, they were writing in different ages. You can’t apply the same principles, because those principles didn’t formally exist. Fair point. Has the process of story, then, been codified, strait-jacketed?

Not at all. For one, working within established parameters can enhance creativity. Just because an idea is outside the box doesn’t mean it’s inherently better than one inside. There are simply good ideas and bad ideas—in this case, stories. For another thing, there are still writers, publishers, and groups who support work that defies, or at least tweaks, conventions.

That’s good news. As you know (Bob), I’ve been struggling to write creatively again. Too much thinking, borne of my recent studies, not enough doing. Many writers wrestle with doubt and a sense of futility; still, that solidarity hasn’t made it any easier to pull myself out of this malaise. But I look at the stories I’m reading. Some would serve as good examples of traditional stories. Others are a far cry from the template laid out in craft books. They’re still stories, though. Right?

That is beyond my ability to answer. If it appears in the fiction section of a magazine or in a collection with other fiction, it must be a story, yes? Objects are matters of function, not form. However many types there are, a chair’s a chair by its use. It’s not a very good chair if you can’t sit on it.

This, then, raises the question of what a story does. Clearly it can’t be defined by what it contains, or does not contain. Sure, the majority of stories conform to our general idea—characters, plot, setting, and so forth. But, as Alan Jacobs, professor of English at Wheaton College, puts it, “Not all stories have to do the same things.” In so far as they need to do anything—all the examples of unconventional fiction I've come across lately are proof enough that there's no single aim for storytelling.

Again, this should be good news to me. Liberating. There is no one way to write a story. So why do I still feel afraid of writing?

In writing this, I discovered a sizable can of worms. More another time…

Why I Find The Underground New York Public Library Fascinating & Disconcerting

Mon, 23 Jul 2012 13:14:46 GMT

In On Writing, Stephen King says he carries a book with him wherever he goes. “You just never know when you’ll need an escape hatch.” Only a few years ago did I train myself to drown out the white noise of daily life to focus on reading. And nowhere have I encountered more noise—or gotten more reading done—than on public transit.

The time I’ve spent on buses, trolleys, and trains probably amounts to days, if not weeks, so having a source of entertainment in the form of a book—no batteries required—has proven to be a boon. The habit has also raised my curiosity about the reading habits of other commuters. Whenever I see people reading on the bus or subway or wherever, I feel a powerful urge to ask what they’re reading, if it’s any good, and why they’ve chosen that particular book. Introversion wins out, though, and I say nothing, instead idly speculating before returning to my own vivid and continuous dream. I’ve imagined that if I did ever work up the courage to speak, I’d put these anonymous vignettes into a book or at least online.

Ourit Ben-Haim, a New York-based photographer, had an idea along the same lines: She snaps pictures of readers on the city’s vast subway system. The result is the Underground New York Public Library.

Her project fascinates me for a few reasons. First, I’m always heartened by the sight of people reading. Yes, I understand that e-reader sales are having an impact on publishing for good (and bad), and that there’s been an apparent upswing in the popularity of reading. Yes, sites like LibraryThing and Goodreads serve as proof that reading is, in fact, not a dying pastime. But knowing something intellectually and seeing it before your eyes, even if not in person, are not the same. People reading books, whatever form those take, gives me that much more hope for the future.

Two, the photos act as implicit recommendations, and I’m always on the lookout for new titles, though I’m much more selective than I once was (eighteen pages, remember?). There are certain books that you know are being read—the New York Times bestsellers, author brands like King, Grisham, Patterson, et al., anything recommended by Oprah, to say nothing of all those classics you (supposedly) read for English class. The UNYPL is more interesting for the off-beat choices. Then, browse Amazon and see if the description of a spotted book catches your interest. The wonder of technology, huh?

Third, the site has generated a kind of loose community. Look at the feedback posted. Visitors to the site express how charmed they are by the whole endeavor; many hope to end up in a future photo. The rise of a community isn’t so shocking. Voracious readers, the kind who are likely to carry a book on the subway, tend to be on the reserved side, though that doesn’t mean they actively shun social contact. They want it in the same way the majority of others do. Book clubs, the aforementioned websites—these are just a few ways book-lovers can connect. The UNYPL is, in its own way, yet another.

Yet, as much as I like the idea of the project, I feel a definite ambivalence. An unease that comes out of my own sense of personal propriety—as warped as that may be—and my own developing ideas, as a dabbler with aspirations of more involvement, about the world of photography. Ben-Haim practices street photography, which seems to be antithetical to studio photography; street photographers incorporate prosaic settings and focus on human moments, often capturing subjects without their knowledge. Ben-Haim admits this is an ethically gray area. Myself, I’m a huge fan of candid photography, but when I’ve done it, it’s always been in the context of people I knew, and who knew I was likely to snap photos at odd moments. Plus, I don’t post those photos in a public space; they are, for the most part, a visual record for myself. I’ve posted some of those online but with privacy settings, and I’ll remove any photo upon request.

I’m not saying Ben-Haim is wrong for doing what she does. A photographer friend told me a little about the legal issues of photography, and being in a public space generally means you can’t be protected from someone’s lens. If someone gets a great photo of me, swell. I’d appreciate a heads-up, but I know that’d be unusual. For a portfolio? Fine. It’s the public use of the Internet that makes me uncomfortable. When you could only share things—be they physical, intellectual, or what have you—with people in your immediate proximity, it severely limited how far such things could spread. But now, you can (in theory anyway) reach anyone and everyone. While this has obviously been a blessing in many ways, it can also be a curse. Granted, if you don’t know your visage is somewhere online, then no harm done, right? In Ben-Haim’s case, she isn’t insulting her subjects (see various Tumblrs devoted to online dating humiliation) and she seems perfectly willing to comply with removal requests. But for every responsible photographer like her, there are many who are, well, less than noble with their intentions.

She says she continues to reflect on street photography and I will too, as her project has brought to my attention issues I’d never encountered. In the meantime, if you have an interest in books and/or street photography, do check out her site. It’s well worth browsing, whatever reservations I personally may have.

Ray Bradbury, A Part Of My Own Trinity

Wed, 13 Jun 2012 12:49:44 GMT

Whenever people find out I’m a rabid bibliophile—as they inevitably do; books are a part of any conversation with me—they often ask who my favorite authors are. This is far and away a better question than, “What’s your favorite book?” To the latter, I have no answer. But the former, authors, where to begin? The three I mention right away are Ursula K. Le Guin, Neil Gaiman, and Ray Bradbury. If these names mean anything to my interlocutor or s/he wants to follow the thread farther, I go on to talk about the less renowned, but no less talented, members of my pantheon.

The rationale behind why I make certain to identify Le Guin, Gaiman, and Bradbury is two-fold. One: As a writer, those three have had the most immediate impact on me, and I feel obligated to acknowledge their status as favorites whenever the opportunity arises. And two: While they by no means represent the entire spectrum of my reading preferences, they together do serve as a decent shorthand to communicate just what kind of fiction I best like.

I knew that Le Guin and Bradbury were both advanced in years and that when either of them passed, I’d be stricken with grief. Last week, Ray Bradbury died and I feel I must recognize my debt of gratitude to him, in the best way I know how, the way he no doubt would have appreciated—the written word.

I first met Ray Bradbury—his fiction, anyway—in my sophomore year of college, in a Science Fiction class that would forever alter the trajectory of my life. It was there I’d finally start reading science fiction, rather than getting my fix from television, movies, and video games. And that class would provide the foundation in the books I read upon which I’d build a dream to be a writer of science fiction (and fantasy), when previously I knew only that I wanted to be a writer. The books we read, that was the kind of stuff I wanted to do.

And such great books. We read The Time Machine, Frankenstein, 1984, The Left Hand of Darkness, and a smattering of short stories. A crash course in the history and evolution of the genre. We also read The Martian Chronicles. Through that book I would come to know and love Ray Bradbury.

While I enjoyed everything I encountered that semester, I knew there was something personally special in the pages of The Martian Chronicles (and The Left Hand of Darkness, too). At the time I couldn’t put my finger on it, but later I recognized the vitality, the poetry of the prose. Yes, Bradbury’s Mars was unlike any depiction I’d found up to that point—because the Martians were like us and yet alien, more attuned in some way the explorers could hardly fathom. Yes, he broke open my mind and stuffed in a new narrative trick, making a novel out of stories. More than those, however, he reignited a memory that had grown cold over time, that words could be beautiful and powerful in themselves. Transparency is fine, it lets you absorb the story seemingly unfiltered, but it is not the only technique. As a reader and a writer, I appreciated understanding the possibilities of Story. With that one book, he’d snuck in several lessons I’d become aware of only much later, and by then, those ideas were so axiomatic, I figured I’d always known them. But I hadn’t. I’d had Bradbury to teach me.

A few short years later, I came to know Bradbury much better than as a casual acquaintance. In grad school, I had to write a paper on the life and work of a contemporary author and present a brief talk to my peers as well. Initially I chose Le Guin, but I found the writing tough; I didn’t know what to say about her. I switched to Bradbury and suddenly I found I had plenty to say. In preparation for the essay, I read Fahrenheit 451 and The October Country, two books I count among my favorites even today. I love Fahrenheit for its imagery, its prose, and for all its ideas—the secret prizing of books, the unsettling prescience of Bradbury’s envisioned future strung out on technology, the conformity and intellectual stagnation. I had the pleasure of using the novel in a class I taught and found it still held up. It is one of the few books I’ve read more than once; with so much material and so little time, I feel I can scarcely afford to revisit a story. But I’ve returned to Fahrenheit’s bleak future and likely will again.

The October Country, meanwhile, is one of the finest short story collections I’ve ever read (and I’ve read a few). Bradbury evokes autumnal creepiness with ease—at least, that’s how it looks from here—and I still remember many of the stories though I only read the book once. That is testament to the power of his work.

When I did finally give my presentation, I prefaced it by asking how many people knew who Bradbury was. Every hand went up. I’m sure had I named any other SF author, I’d have gotten a very different response. On the one hand I was glad, because I believed (and do believe) everyone should read some of Bradbury’s work. A part of me was oddly disappointed, though. I had proof that other people knew him, that his stories weren’t this special secret only I knew and appreciated. That disappointment did not last long as I quickly realized stories are meant to be shared, doubly so for great stories like Bradbury’s. Like Dr. Johnson said, “The worst thing you can do to an author is to be silent as to his works.”

After our encounters in academic settings, Bradbury and I met quite often in the intervening years. I’ve picked up a few of his novels, several short story collections, and even some of his nonfiction. In terms of sheer numbers, Bradbury is third among authors I’ve read the most. (Taking comics collections out, Bradbury is top of the pile.) I’ve read everything of his I own, whereas other authors haven’t been paid the same level of attention yet. Rarely do his books languish on my shelves for more than a few weeks. There’s just some frisson of excitement that comes with getting a new Bradbury book. I’m in his thrall every time.

Excitement. Yes, that. It pervades his work. Just look at all the exclamation points he uses. Watch how his sentences unfurl, less of a labyrinth of words than one long, long corridor, a mad tumble of syllables. Read at least two collections of his and you’ll notice he returns to certain places and themes—Green Town, Illinois, space, a vague future, Ireland. The omnipresence of death, the disdain of conformity, the wonder of flight, the reverence for books in general and for certain authors in particular. While it’d be easy to see this tendency as a shortcoming (a valid criticism, I grant you), I think it illustrates which ideas really had a hold on his imagination; he wrote nothing he wasn’t genuinely excited by. That sense of excitement even comes across in his dystopias, which are dark but are always buoyed by a sense of hope and optimism. A little old-fashioned, maybe, but it’s a welcome alternative to the grim-darkness in a great deal of current spec fic.

Bradbury would once again play a role in my formal education (and I can only expect he’ll show up at some point during my PhD studies). In the course of my MFA, I did what I’d long believed unthinkable: I dissected the work of several authors I loved, Bradbury among them. And while the experience gave me new knowledge and insight in terms of writing, as a reader I was somewhat bereft—I saw the flaws more clearly in my idols’ stories. The wonder fades, as with a magic trick to which you know the workings. I was struck by the distinct lack of addressing any such flaws in Bradbury’s output while I read the tributes to him. But, obvious revelation, eulogies are not the time to air grievances with the deceased. Rather, they are an opportunity to celebrate special people, to hold close the good memories they gave us, the way our lives have been shaped by having known them.

For as much as I value and appreciate the English language, there are times I find it a bit limited. Expressing gratitude is one of those times. Whether someone holds a door open for you or raises you to be a good person, you have precious few ways of saying “Thank you.” (A similar paucity concerns love and its many permutations.) I regret that I’ve never had the chance to thank Ray Bradbury in person for the tremendous impact he had on me—almost fifteen hundred words here and I’ve barely scratched the surface. Of course, his influence does not, will not end here. There’s more of his writing out there I have yet to read. No doubt there are people who have not heard of him, and I’ll be only too eager to enlighten them. The lessons he’s taught me will continue to affect my life and my writing, until I too pass on. Thank you, Ray Bradbury, for everything you’ve done. For the stories you’ve written, for the enthusiasm you shared, for the example you’ve set. I do not know—and do not want to know—where, what, or who I’d be without you. With all the books you’ve left behind, I shall never have to find out.

'Avatar: The Last Airbender,' 'The Legend Of Korra,' And Setting The Bar For All Television

Tue, 29 May 2012 15:21:47 GMT

Sometimes you remember the first meeting. The details of time and place—the day, the hour, where you were, what you were thinking, what you were wearing—come back with striking vividness when you recollect. I remember the first time I met certain people, heard particular songs, read specific books. Other times, the first encounter becomes lost to the sieve of memory, lumped in with so much other minutiae it’s impossible to sift it out. The first time I saw Avatar: The Last Airbender falls into the latter category, sadly. I mentioned the series previously, back when anime also-rans were in vogue. Having seen nothing more than a few minutes here and there, I couldn’t comment on the show’s quality, but it was obvious the show owed its aesthetic to Japanese animation. But it didn’t have just the look; it also had the feel.

Like virtually all other anime series, Avatar followed an overarching story throughout its individual episodes. Continuity has since become much more prominent in American television, but that wasn’t the case a few years ago. Though there have long been exceptions to the episodic format of most TV and anime has been dealing in sustained story-arcs for years, I think Avatar was among the vanguard to introduce U.S. audiences to such a grand design. And rather than follow the example of anime series puffed up by filler, Avatar opted for a streamlined approach. While some episodes were more important than others, each one served to advance the plot and reveal more about the cast.

Not only that but the show exhibited a kind of maturity that is rare in programs aimed at kids. It wasn’t that Avatar trafficked in risqué or graphic content; rather, the show’s creators treated their cast and their audiences with respect and an attentiveness to craft that others would do well to emulate. There was humor to lighten the quest, but it did not dispel Aang’s burden of responsibility to bring balance to the world, a task that much more difficult for a carefree twelve-year-old than a wise centenarian. He and his friends did not always make the right choices, and for those mistakes, they faced consequences—another advantage of a cohesive storyline, rather than a clean slate by the end.

Beyond the sophistication of the characters and their struggles, the show’s craft is evident no matter which angle you view it from. The creators built a rich, consistent mythology that simultaneously felt familiar—a world governed by four elements—and fresh—distinct cultures among the Tribes, the Avatar’s reincarnations, the hybrid of martial arts and spirituality that is bending (even the word implies a loose form of control). Each type of bending is based upon a specific form of martial arts, further distinguishing one element from the next, in a way that’s deeper than aesthetics. And the cast was diverse and developed beyond stock archetypes. Literally and figuratively, Avatar peopled its world with different hues, adding to the overall texture.

Clearly, I love the series. I think it is one of television’s finest achievements, not just in animation but period. The quality of its production, the cleverness of its plot, the dimensionality of its characters, and the fullness of its setting—all of these things together make it the kind of watershed against which other shows should measure themselves. Of course, the downside to developing an attachment to one amazing story is its end. Co-creators Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko ended Avatar in July of 2008 and that was that. Or so it seemed.

Though it isn’t clear if Nickelodeon asked the duo for more or if they had it up their sleeves all along, two years later, in July 2010, fans got the news—the world would get a new Avatar in the form of Korra, a hot-head from the Water Tribe. As trailers and details trickled through various news outlets thereafter, it became obvious that The Legend of Korra would be in many ways a very different animal compared to its predecessor. For one, Korra would be a mini-series with a much more limited scope; Korra herself would start with three elements mastered, whereas Aang had only one. The setting would be different, taking place seventy years later and mostly within Republic City, a wonder of technology and (supposed) peace. And, after effectively saving the world, what does an Avatar do for an encore?

That DiMartino and Konietzko manage to address all these aspects and weave from them a smaller but no less compelling story is a testament to their craftsmanship. Elemental experience aside, Korra is not Aang; she is impulsive and occasionally reckless, an interesting contrast to the portrayal of several waterbenders in the past. Korra’s friends and foes are similarly not simple analogues of previous characters. Any attempt to duplicate too much form the original would ring false. Thankfully, the creators are smart enough to avoid that pitfall and Nick seems to give them the autonomy to tell the story as they see fit.

There’s a lot about the show to admire so far (only seven episodes have aired). For interesting write-ups, check out The AV Club and Tor.com. What I want to discuss, if only briefly, is the conflict at the heart of The Legend of Korra. Yes, she has to learn airbending, but without a compelling need to master the four elements, as Aang had to in order to confront the Fire Lord, it hardly serves as a catalyst for the plot. In the relative peace after the dismantling of Fire Nation imperialism, the world has changed. Some benders compete in a popular sport that takes advantage of their skills. Other benders have fallen in with gangs and low-level organized crime. Responding to this increased attention on benders and the resulting disparities are the Equalists, a group of counter-culturalists who want to level the playing field. Their leader is Amon, a masked man with a flair for oratory and theatrics who can, to all appearances, take away bending permanently.

This is great for several reasons. It gives Korra—and all benders—something to fear beyond death or bodily harm; it’s rooted in character, especially for Korra, who’s more apt to let loose with fire-blasts than to scour patiently for answers. It throws light on a rather sophisticated theme for children’s television—those-who-have versus those-who-have-not. And given the society the series illustrates, the Equalist argument has more than a kernel of truth to it. I think it’d be fair to criticize Avatar: The Last Airbender on the lack of moral subtlety; Ozai and Azula were crazy-evil. But here we see complexity, shades of gray. The intended audience may not understand that completely or at all times but it’s worthwhile to raise these questions, to give viewers more to think about beyond a thirty-minute distraction.

Really, if you aren’t watching The Legend of Korra yet, I encourage you to start. Nick.com has the full episodes online days after they air, so you can stay more-or-less current. And if you like it, tell other people to tune in. Great stories like this, whatever medium, need to be appreciated and shared.

Writing And The Centipede's Dilemma

Mon, 30 Apr 2012 17:53:39 GMT

Let me tell you a brief story. A fable, even. A centipede was walking along one day when a frog stopped him. “How do you move all those legs like that?” the frog asked. “I don’t know,” the centipede said. The frog hopped away and the centipede found himself unable to go on as he thought about moving each and every leg. That is the centipede’s dilemma. And that is what has prevented me from writing until recently.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a steer-by-my-headlights writer. I don’t plan ahead. I don’t outline. Before starting I usually have destination scenes—points I think the story will reach—in mind but the route I’ll take to get there is a mystery until I begin writing. That holds true for all of my writing whether it’s academic, personal, or creative. But until a few weeks ago—and even now on occasion—my fiction was stuck at an impasse.

The culprit is easy to identify: my MFA education. Over the course of those two years, reading and writing as much as I did—I’d be curious of the total word count—I learned so much about stories in general and the particular kinds of stories I write that I felt better equipped than ever to flesh out an idea. Character, setting, conflict, to say nothing of other considerations craft books mention rarely and in brief, if ever. (Frame story. Unreliable narrator. Stylistic variation. Attitude toward the fantastic. And so much more besides.)

With the story I’m currently working on, before I overcame that inertia of not-writing, I’d often sit with a notebook open and assault myself with questions: What kind of story would it be—a journal entry, a first-person reminiscence, some kind of hybrid of different forms? Who’s going to be my point of view character? What’s the conflict here? Even after I answered, or ignored, the questions, I still encountered difficulties. How well I knew my characters. Plot holes in need of addressing. The sheer struggle to make the prose decent after so long without practice.

For as much as these issues frustrated me, I didn’t—couldn’t—easily dismiss them because I knew that finding solutions would invariably make the story better. But there’s a definite threshold with writing; eventually you have to stop planning/researching/wool-gathering and just write. Otherwise, you can procrastinate endlessly. Like an object in motion without friction, it’ll keep going unless an external force acts on it. Chances are that external force is, will be, must be you.

I’m not sure how, or if, the centipede ever solved his dilemma. Nor am I sure I’ve solved mine. I expect my learning will at times bubble up to the surface and send me into a fit of doubt. But even if I don’t fix all my narrative problems up front, I’ll never get the chance to do so if I never get anything written. So that’s what I’m trying to do—silence both my inner critic and my inner writing student. They can both speak up later in the process. The story does not need to be perfect, especially not in the first draft. It does, however, need to be written.*

*Thanks to Elizabeth Bear for that bit of wisdom.

Writing Again, At Long Last

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 22:25:56 GMT

Over the weekend I wrote fiction, for the first time in nearly six months. I can’t think of so long a stretch not working on a story in some fashion; even at my most sporadic, I never went longer than two months, maximum, without scratching that particular writing itch even a little. While I was in this most recent slump, I found it fairly easy to rationalize to myself why I wasn’t writing. I’m tired. I can’t think straight. I should be doing X instead. I don’t have enough time. It’s been so long I don’t even remember how anymore.

As true as those sentiments were, they were still at bottom rationalizations. It’s always easier to not write. Writing takes effort and presence of mind in a way that surfing the Internet or watching a television program decidedly does not. In this insightful article, Nebula Award-winning writer Rachel Swirsky says she doesn’t understand the whole “I have to write” mindset many writers have bought in to. I see her point. I hadn’t written fiction—the writing I do that I most care about—since late last year; if I simply had to do it, I’d never have managed so long without.

The living in that span, though, has been…paler somehow. I found myself wondering less, questioning less, distanced from the world and the people in it in a way that was foreign. I often feel like I’m on the fringes in my daily life, but this was a more pronounced alienation. Writing, for as much as it takes me out of the flow of life, paradoxically settles me more fully into it. Writing is how I process my experiences. How I best communicate with others. How I connect with myself.

If it’s so important, then, how did I manage to put it off for so long? Besides the above rationalizations, the greatest paralysis came from fear. Which, honestly, still lurks about, waiting to pounce in a moment of doubt, of psychic vulnerability. According to writers more practiced than I, that fear doesn’t ever completely dissolve. You just get craftier at dealing with it.

Why all that doubt and anxiety now? I’ve identified myself as a writer for years, with a decent amount of experience to draw on. Why should it fail me? I’ve spent years and significant portions of my education, formal and not, enriching my understanding of writing, of stories, of the craft’s tools and techniques. Doesn’t that count for something?

As many writers will tell you, those things do count for something, of course they do, but unfortunately they’re not always enough. The blank page or Word document can feel like a fresh start in so many senses, that no matter what you’ve done in the past, none of it matters now, at this precise moment, for this story. History doesn’t so much repeat itself as it rewrites itself from the very beginning, again and again.

But none of that is new to me and likely to you either. However, bracing for the wave doesn’t guarantee it won’t topple you. Even so, the prevalence of the fear and the sheer probability of succumbing to it, briefly or for a longer duration, are not why I’d been stymied these months past. As I wrote in another post, last year I was lucky enough to read several amazing books, ones I plan to read again, that will stick with me into the future, ones that have carved out a place in my mind. Rearranged some of my neurons—this is what great writing is capable of. My own work seems lacking compared to that standard.

And I want to write fiction that gets people to think and feel differently, maybe not in huge ways, but enough to notice the change. But, so went my rationale, my work wasn’t doing that and I hadn’t the first idea how to go about achieving that goal anyway—assuming I have any say in that matter—so I might as well have quit before I wasted any more time. I’m not mining new possibilities. Not pushing boundaries. Not finding fresh language. Not doing something different enough from the scores of other writers currently working in the field.

Maybe that’s all true. Maybe only some of it is. Maybe none of it. But if I have control over how mind-blowing my writing can be, the solution to accomplishing that is not to simply give up, yes? And if I don’t have that control—if that’s up to other people to determine and my own efforts only go so far—then shouldn’t I be working on doing the best job I possibly can with each story, regardless of any overarching aspirations? In either case, it’s obvious what I have to do: I need to keep writing.

Not every story has to be exceptional. Not every story can be. But they should be as good as you can make them. Do that and you can take pride knowing that you gave it your best rather than some half-hearted attempt.

This is only a portion of my epiphany. More on the other part next time. For now, I have a story to work on.

Stumbling Toward A Definition Of Art

Wed, 21 Mar 2012 02:40:43 GMT

I have yet to meet a writer who doesn’t have a set of personal hobbyhorses, those topics that are hardly common yet remain a source of deep fascination and excitement. For myself, I think my interests in specialized subjects are fairly standard, given that I’m a writer—and, by nature, a curious sort—with a special penchant for science fiction and fantasy—the less readily explainable: the mind, death, dreams, words, outer space, folklore and mythology. I also have an abiding interest in aesthetics, though I rarely say much about it because discussing what is and is not art (or Art) usually leads into violating one of my guiding principles—“Aim to describe rather than proscribe, or prescribe.”

Yet sometimes I hear or read something that compels me to re-evaluate my thoughts on Art, not because I necessarily agree with an opinion but because I need to clarify my own thinking. The something that currently has my synapses firing is this 2010 article by Roger Ebert in which he claims “in principle, video games cannot be art.” Even though I play video games only sporadically at this point, and nothing by way of newer titles, I still feel I ought to respond. It stems from my being tired of people’s narrow-mindedness concerning the value in things I like—speculative fiction, comic books, video games.

As you might expect with someone of Ebert’s visibility voicing an opinion guaranteed to incite the legions of video game fans, his article generated a major backlash. On that entry there are nearly five thousand comments by real people, not spam-bots. Running a Google search on ‘ebert video games’ yields nearly three million hits; the first few pages of results almost exclusively address his essay. So great was the outcry—and with reasonable arguments—that Ebert later issued a sort of apology for speaking his mind without any substantial familiarity with the medium.

I don’t want to belabor the points Ebert’s critics raised. Still, I do want to consider some of the gaps in his argument that relate to my own ideas about what constitutes Art. Ebert, for his part, does not in either piece arrive at a clear definition of Art. At best, he offers a few characteristics—“usually the creation of one artist,” that which enables the audience “to learn more about the experiences, thoughts and feelings of others,” without “rules, points, objectives, and an outcome” that games, video and otherwise, typically have.

On this haziness, I can’t fault him. When it comes to Art, I find myself agreeing with subjective definitions, like Justice Potter Stewart on obscenity: “I know it when I see it.” Or, to borrow from Damon Knight, it’s what we point to when we say “Art.” I tend to label Art something that evokes what G. Christopher Williams calls the aesthetic response, “a feeling of awe (though that is a slightly inaccurate and abstract word) when recognizing a very well arranged object or idea or image or story.” But do I respond to something and call it aesthetically pleasing or is it aesthetically pleasing and thus I respond to it? Echoes of Socrates’s Euthyphro. Regardless of the origin of the aesthetic response, I still feel like some works can—should—be considered Art even if they do not in any way move me. (Modernism and I rarely get along, for instance, but I cannot make the case for excluding some works from the canon/“classic” status.)

If not the aesthetic response, then, what qualifies a work to be Art? I’ve tried to formulate some definite rationale and the one aspect I keep coming back to is skill. Not just competency but proficiency to the point of inspiring a modicum of, if not awe, then certainly appreciation. It’s for that reason I can’t wrap my head around a great deal of abstract and modern art. Anyone can inscribe a name on a urinal. Not just anyone can paint like, say, Yoshitaka Amano.

Of course maybe I, like Ebert, have defined Art in such a way that precludes what I don’t like. Maybe this isn’t such a problem. In my undergrad ethics class, I learned that a given action can be morally right or wrong depending on which philosophy you subscribe to. There are no absolutes. Maybe aesthetics is the same way.

The problem is that Ebert’s not alone in thinking this way; the wider society, particularly critics and academics who have a keen interest in what constitutes Art, does not regard video games as a serious artistic medium. Why not? I think part of it is the infancy of video games. They’ve only been around for not even fifty years. Even if video games that could earn the label of Art have been already produced, we likely won’t know that for quite some time. It seems somewhat far-fetched to ponder if the earliest humans considered their cave paintings as Art. The stories forming the backbone of the oral tradition, some of which survives today as myth and folklore? They were for entertainment, instruction, and just communication. Examinations of the past, explanations for the world and everything in it. Only later could we see early artifacts as Art (if indeed we do) because, for one, we had the concept of Art, and, two, we had enough distance to determine a piece’s cultural significance. (Another possible criterion for Art?)

Let’s go back to Ebert. Maybe it’s empathy—helping us understand the thoughts and feelings of others—that determines a work of Art. But he admits that he cannot articulate “how music or abstract art could perform those functions, and yet they were Art.” Such a definition clearly has its limits, as he points out. What about poetry, which can encompass narrative and emotion but also casts language in new lights? Some might identify that as playfulness but it’s not the play of games with points and objectives. It just is. In any case, evoking empathy, while a decent barometer, is obviously not essential for a work of Art.

What about Ebert’s belief that Art is the usually the product of a single individual? While I do see his point—we’ve moved away from community to privileging individual talent—it’s obviously weak. Authors do not work in a vacuum; at the very least they often have editors whose input influences the final published version. While film and drama have individual directors, these forms are by nature collaborative. So too video games—the final product is in some sense the vision of one person, but that vision cannot be realized alone. Art must be idea and execution. Otherwise, we ought to be revering Shakespeare’s inspirations, rather than the Bard’s work. The map is not the territory.

Even if a piece of Art were produced alone—if we strictly mean that a single individual created/arranged a specific set of words/images/sounds—it is never processed that way. Art must be received by an audience and, especially in the case of literature, those people become co-creators. Ebert overlooks this when he talks about film and stories being passive experiences. I understand he means that there is not a real explicit sense of choice or interactivity within the text. Still, to call literature (if nothing else) passive is a mistake. Granted, there is far less interactivity in a book compared with a video game. But less choice does not mean none. (Reader-response theory, anybody?) If that’s the case, it’s arbitrary what threshold of choice a work must be beneath to be considered Art.

Ebert wonders why gamers care about the medium’s status as Art and, in his apology, washes his hands of it all. “I had to be prepared to agree that gamers can have an experience that, for them, is Art.” I wish I could have the same attitude—just like what you like and ignore what anyone else thinks. But I can’t completely let it go because I can’t stand the idea of a hierarchy, that we in general see one kind of human creative endeavor as more valuable than another. I see it in the debate between literary and genre fiction. I want these arguments to be over. For this to happen, all of us have to let go of these rigid definitions. I’m not suggesting abandoning categories, which can be helpful, or individual preferences. I just wonder what would happen if we kept our personal tastes, well, personal.

The Reader, The Writer, And The Problem Of Time

Tue, 06 Mar 2012 21:43:10 GMT

One of these days I’ll get back to writing about writing—when I’m actually working on something, that is, instead of just contemplating it.

I recently happened upon this article NPR published last year about what should be strikingly obvious—no matter how much free time we have or intense our focus, we’ll never experience everything life has to offer, in this case the various media available. Linda Holmes, the author of the piece, sees this as a good thing, in fact. She reasons it’s a testament to humanity’s accomplishments that enough worthy art has been produced so no one person can cram it all into a lifetime, even a lifetime devoted to consumption of said art. I see her point; it makes perfect sense. Yet I’ve never had the impossibility of reading/seeing/hearing all I’d like spelled out so plainly before. Frankly, it’s a little disheartening.

Holmes concedes the sadness of that fact. She believes that there are only two responses to this idea: surrender (“the realization that you do not have time for everything that would be worth the time you invested in it if you had the time”) and culling (“sorting of what’s worth your time and what's not worth your time”). I don’t see the real difference between the two. For me, I’ve been trying to cull for the past few years and I’m sure that’ll continue.

If you’ve met me, you know I carry a notebook at almost all times, and what I frequently scribble in its pages are recommendations for books, movies, albums, assorted ephemera. The Word document I’d been using to record book recommendations eventually reached eighteen pages in eight-point font. I am not a particularly fast reader, nor a particularly slow one. Still, I realized that even if I got through a book a week, it’d take a significant chunk of my life just to finish that list, to say nothing of new books or ones I stumble across that for whatever reason appeal to me. I’ve since scaled that back to a much more sensible eight pages, though I do add new titles, albeit with less frequency than I used to.

This culling habit comes at an interesting time, shortly after I’ve decided to read more widely. And, perhaps after reading this essay by Roger Ebert, I’ve been considering what both reading widely and being well-read mean. If you think about books alone, there are a lot of ways to compartmentalize them. The most basic categories are obviously fiction and nonfiction. Let’s take fiction as the example. We’ll keep it simple and stick to the novel. Now, think about all the possibilities there—the classics of Literature, contemporary literary fiction, science fiction, fantasy, horror, romance, crime, thriller/suspense, mystery… How to be well-read in even one of them? Read the accepted works of the canon? (According to whom?) The award winners? Which award, then? (I met someone who planned to read all the Pulitzer Prize-winning novels.) Do you just select at random?

No matter what sources you listen to for recommendations—I’ve got a mash-up of the Western Canon/Modern Library’s 100 Best Novels/Time’s All-Time 100 Novels, important books in speculative fiction, and word-of-mouth from trusted friends and authors—it still boils down to a choice. I’m sure my education as a student of literature will be somewhat poorer for never reading Ulysses, but I refuse to embark on that venture. Likewise, I probably won’t get to read all the classic works of speculative fiction, due to a lack of access/availability in some cases, a lack of personal interest in others. I have to be okay with that. But in any event, I decide what to read and those choices, to some extent, reveal something about me.

Given the limits of time, it’s curious in a way that writers are told to read as widely as possible. “Even bad books,” as they have lessons to teach as surely as good ones. I guess we writers have to look at it as a trade-off: in reading a book that gives us little (or no) pleasure, we are developing our understanding of craft. Such is the hope, anyway. Writing is a series of trade-offs, in the choices made both on the page and off. For every moment spent writing, it’s time away from other things. And if we resent that, we might find a better use for our time.

As I near thirty, I’m more aware of how I spend my time. I try to limit my Internet use. I have no TV, so hours don’t sneak away from me like they once did. An area I haven’t been able to manage my time better is reading. I have yet to give up on a book, even when the one at my bedside has taken up the past month with still more to go. I don’t know if I should consider myself lucky I haven’t found a book so bad it made me quit or if I’m just too stubborn. I’m sure it’ll happen as I find more things worth reading and less time for them all.

Thinking about my current read has led me to ponder what’s necessary for me to continue with a story. I need at least one of three things: an interesting plot, skillful prose, and/or compelling characters. I admit, when I read Dan Brown’s Angels & Demons, I got sucked in by all the twists and turns, the brisk progression of the plot. Increasingly, I find a thrilling plot holds less interest when the writing is pedestrian and the characters are bland. But if I’m spending so many hundreds of pages, I would like some forward motion, if only incremental. Then again, I have a number of favorite stories in which little happens plot-wise. This is especially prevalent in more literary kinds of speculative fiction and here, often, prose is given prominence. The kinds of sentences you want to curl up in, the ones you read over and over because the writer arranged the words so well, chose the most sublime image. Stories with all style, though, leave me kind of cold. I can appreciate them aesthetically, but they don’t move me. Those that most resonate and generally become favorites have great characters. And I don’t mean great as a synonym for sympathetic or likeable. Some of literature’s most memorable persons are pretty loathsome. No, I want characters who are compelling—they feel real or they’re drawn with such care you can understand (if not agree with) them or their lives and problems speak to your own. When I think about the novels that have stuck with me, almost all of them have dimensional characters. Ideally, a great book has all three in decent measure. But books without any of the above, I just don’t have the time for.

That no doubt seems like a long digression, but it goes back to my earlier point about time and choice. It’s good to know what you want/need in a book to enjoy it. And if you’re not enjoying it, it’s important to realize what you’re aiming to get from the experience. Otherwise, why bother? As Holmes’s article says, there’s no shortage of great stuff out there. Even if you have to wade through some junk first, go find it.

Why Fiction Is Valuable

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 15:04:07 GMT

One of the ideas from my Intro to Journalism class that has stuck with me is journalism, generally speaking, must be timely. Thus, when I have an idea for a post but don’t get to it for weeks (or months), I refrain from writing. Well, this isn’t journalism. I already write here about whatever strikes my fancy, so why self-censor when I have no good reason? And writing fiction has proven tremendously difficult these past few weeks. I need something to keep me in practice of putting words down one after another. That something will, I hope, be [sic].

If you’re not yet reading The Guardian, may I suggest you start? Particularly the Books section—the staff routinely writes provocative articles on various literary matters. Late last year, they published this by one Zoe Williams on why reading nonfiction should take priority over fiction in times of social crisis. It’s an interesting article—followed by especially thoughtful comments—even if I wildly disagree with Ms. Williams. And here’s why.

Though she doesn’t say so explicitly, Williams sets up a dichotomy between fiction and nonfiction. Fiction is about “made-up people” and reading it feels “frivolous.” Nonfiction, meanwhile, is real and the source from which you can learn. Simply put, this is false. The amount of “factual” information in a novel can, occasionally does, outweigh that in a nonfiction book. Moreover, she implicitly privileges fact and research with only little acknowledgment that other kinds of information can be gleaned from reading, fiction included.

A great deal of her argument’s force relies on the idea of utility. She believes that “there is [also] a problem with the modern novel,” that it has “a fear of saying anything useful.” (Novels must say something useful—residue from a more orthodox view of literature?) She quotes Damian Barr, a writer and playwright, who concedes that the novel is good for informing us about “our human condition” and no more. Barr—and Williams in all likelihood—thinks “we desperately need to be informed about our times, our history.”* In their eyes, the contemporary novel isn’t doing that. Williams seems to limit her discussion to mainstream work, which obviously robs her of a wealth of possibilities. I’m not going to go on a genre rant; others have articulated some of my beliefs quite cogently and eloquently. Merely, to address a narrow sliver of published fiction and to generalize those impressions is not only inaccurate: It’s sloppy writing.

Besides which, isn’t the reason we read stories hundreds, in some cases thousands, of years old is because they do still speak to not only our common humanity but also our concerns within society? They may not be perfect analogues, but there are resonances. If the modern novel has, as she argues, become insular, there remains a long and rich literary tradition to appreciate, some of which would speak to our history and, in some way, our current situation. Then again, novels and stories are not history books or newspapers. (Let’s leave aside the whole narrative-of-history issue for now. Big can of worms there.) Their primary task is not the same, though they can learn from one another. Which, I realize, is a point in her favor. To which I say, yes, read nonfiction. And fiction. Read a lot. But we’ll return to that.

While Williams uses loaded words such as “unpatriotic” and “civic duty” to elevate nonfiction over fiction, her emphasis on fiction being frivolous is worth unpacking. At no point in her article does she suggest that other forms of recreation be sacrificed to responsible citizenship, to staying abreast of global developments. Forget sitcoms. You should only tune in for the news. Music? Public radio instead. It isn’t reasonable to stress such asceticism in only reading, one form of recreation that in general expands people’s minds in a variety of ways, not just the absorbing of facts. Even in a crisis, life continues, and life (hopefully) means finding or making time to enjoy yourself.

I admit, I can’t argue with her point that ignorance makes me feel “alienated and disempowered.” In the face of all the uncertainty and anxiety and stress the world over, it sucks to feel helpless. And knowledge is power, as the old saw goes. But realistically, how does that translate in the real world now? What can the average person, informed or not, do? I ask because I’m not sure of the answer. I’m not suggesting an embrace of the other extreme, a retreat into isolation and willful ignorance. I simply wonder what difference it makes. Maybe only minor changes are feasible. But I’ll take minor positive changes over news that only seems to get progressively worse.

Ultimately, Williams oversimplifies the issue: Readers must be either reading nonfiction (especially what’s relevant to the economic state of affairs) or risk being frivolous. Unpatriotic. Really, she may have been better served if she’d called for people to read more nonfiction, to emphasize how important it is to be informed about what’s happening today. It’s not unreasonable to ask people to read both fiction and nonfiction. I tend to ignore prescriptivist philosophies, or at least regard them with skepticism. Personally, I advocate reading widely, for a number of reasons. But read what you want. Or don’t. It’s your life. It’s your choice.

* I don’t know enough about the publishing industry to say this is true, but maybe the cycles of fiction and nonfiction are different. If nonfiction, depending on the topic, relies on its timeliness, it may be written and published in a shorter span than fiction, which rarely (not to say never) takes that into account. If that’s the case, it may be much more difficult for a novel to speak directly to modern concerns.

'How I Met Your Mother' And The Invention/Convention Spectrum

Wed, 01 Feb 2012 03:02:46 GMT

A new semester’s begun and sometimes I don’t have the energy or clarity of focus to read or write. (I feel like this will be a year of few books—a marked contrast to the previous—but I’m going to make every effort to avoid a self-fulfilling prophecy.) It’s so much easier to flip on an episode of [insert title here]. And according to a number of friends, we’re in a small golden age of television; I have no shortage of recommendations for Things I Need to See. While in Maine for the winter Stonecoast graduation, I caught an episode of How I Met Your Mother, a show friends have been raving about for years (even leaving aside the presence of Bob Saget’s voice). With one episode, I got hooked. As a young adult fast approaching the big three-oh and seeing many in my social circle getting engaged (or married or pregnant), I recognize clear parallels between myself and Ted Mosby, the series’ central character. (Mild spoilers ahead.)

But as much as those resonances interest me—and do they ever—I’m also tremendously fascinated by the narrative possibilities of the show. In case you’re not familiar with the premise, HIMYM uses a frame story: In the year 2030, Future Ted (Saget) relates to his two children “in excruciating detail” the story of how he met their mother. The series doubles back to 2005, centering on Ted and his four friends in Manhattan—Marshall and Lily, whose new engagement precipitates Ted’s search for a soul-mate; Barney, a womanizer of unspecified employment; and Robin, Ted’s unrequited love interest (natch). I’m only mid-way through the second season but so far the bulk of the episodes take place in the modern day, with Future Ted providing voice-over and maybe context. Occasionally there’ll be a cut to the future (the show’s Now) and the kids’ dwindling interest.

For every good frame story I’ve read, I can think of two more that didn’t work so well; either they’re unnecessary, uninteresting, or just a lazy way to impose structure. While HIMYM’s frame story has, so far, proven fairly bland, it does mean the writers can add a few tweaks to the traditional three-camera sitcom. Most obviously, it lets Future Ted tell us asides his past self and friends are unaware of. Often these openings are played for laughs—when he tells us a thoroughly wasted law student will become the US District Attorney, for instance. But the writers also use it for pathos, like when Future Ted diffuses a romantic prospect with an off-hand “It didn’t work out.”

That Future Ted does this throws light on an interesting choice the writers made. Throughout his monologue, Future Ted refers to his friends as Aunt Lily, Uncle Barney, Uncle Marshall, and—you guessed it—Aunt Robin. This sets my writer brain in motion. If Ted and Robin have an on-again-off-again dynamic a la Ross and Rachel, then telling the audience the resolution of that effectively deflates the romantic tension.* Or does it? Because a good number of episodes give only lip service to the frame story, it’s easy to become invested in the characters, to forget that the story’s Now is almost twenty years forward in time.

Also, a recent study demonstrated that foreknowledge of a story’s ending didn’t reduce enjoyment. In fact, readers got more pleasure from knowing how it all turned out. A similar point arises in pop culture scholar Henry Jenkins’s insightful introduction to Interfictions 2. Jenkins asserts that all works of art exist on the continuum of invention and convention. Either extreme—complete innovation or complete predictability—is alienating to an audience. The study and Jenkins both posit that in many contexts we know how a story turns out anyway. (That can be as broad as the three-act structure or the careful breakdown of, say, some romance lines.) Even so, people digest certain stories, read retellings, see adaptations: the intrigue just may be in the details. The journey, not the destination.

Personally, I’m against spoilers, so I’m not wholly convinced, however much I think Jenkins is on to something. There’s another explanation** here, one that warms my writer’s heart: Future Ted is an unreliable narrator. He does omit information (though nothing vital so far as I’ve watched), he hears about some events secondhand, and occasionally his memory fails him. These moments are few, though. After all, this is still a prime-time sitcom and the wider viewing public can only take so much meta. (Witness the plight of Community.)

Still, the series has been going for six seasons and, so far as I know, isn’t winding down just yet. When I think about the sitcoms I’m most fond of, they’re definitely different, however many familiar tropes they use—Scrubs, The Office, Flight of the Conchords, the aforementioned Community, among others. How I Met Your Mother fits in nicely with that bunch, even if it does skew a little more conventional than I usually prefer. In any case, I’ve found it worth watching. And I’ll be very interested to see if the meta aspects of the show become more prominent as it progresses.

* I didn’t see a likely place for this: If it turns out that Robin isn’t the mother, then the show has (or will have) a deus ex machina on its hands. Unless someone becomes a part of the core cast over the next few seasons, pulling a romantic interest out of the ether will, I suspect, feel like a massive cheat. And then, of course, we have to wonder what the point of so much backstory was if it isn’t Robin.

** With a tip of the hat to Jeff for telling me about this.

2011: The Year Of Magical Reading

Tue, 27 Dec 2011 19:54:41 GMT

I wanted to accomplish two major goals this year after earning my MFA: I wanted to write four new stories and I wanted to read more widely. The former I accomplished last week after a long stretch of total creative paralysis; I was convinced I wouldn’t finish that last story that gave me so much trouble. But I succeeded. And as the following list demonstrates, I’ve definitely managed to expand my reading habits beyond speculative fiction as well.

Shelf Life – Suzanne Strempek Shea
The Alchemy of Stone – Ekaterina Sedia
Grendel – John Gardner
On the Road – Jack Kerouac
Pygmy – Chuck Palahniuk
Norwegian Wood – Haruki Murakami
Rising Stars Vol. 1: Born in Fire – J. Michael Straczynski
Quarterlife Crisis – Alexandra Robbins & Abby Wilner
In the Forest of Forgetting – Theodora Goss
Mouth to Mouth – Michael Kimball
Water for Elephants – Sara Gruen
The Alchemist – Paulo Coelho
Rising Stars Vol. 2: Power – J. Michael Straczynski et al.
A Brood of Foxes – Kristin Livdahl
Blankets – Craig Thompson
Deathless – Catherynne M. Valente
The Loving Dead – Amelia Beamer
Fablehaven – Brandon Mull
Rising Stars Vol. 3: Fire and Ash – J. Michael Straczynski et al.
The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet – Reif Larsen
Fables Vol. 3: Storybook Love – Bill Willingham et al.
Fables Vol. 4: March of the Wooden Soldiers – Bill Willingham et al.
Peace Is Every Step – Thich Nhat Hanh
Trampoline – Kelly Link, ed.
Writing the Other – Nisi Shawl & Cynthia Ward
Made in America – Bill Bryson
Fantastic Mr. Fox – Roald Dahl
Year’s Best Graphic Novels, Comics & Manga – Byron Preiss & Howard Zimmerman, eds.
The Mother Tongue – Bill Bryson
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Roald Dahl
Uglies – Scott Westerfeld
Landmark Essays on Writing Centers – Christina Murphy & Joe Law, eds.
Tao Te Ching – Stephen Mitchell
The Girl in the Flammable Skirt – Aimee Bender
When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? – George Carlin
The Boy Who Couldn’t Sleep and Never Had To – D.C. Pierson
The Perks of Being a Wallflower – Stephen Chbosky
Dancing at the Edge of the World – Ursula K. Le Guin
Yume No Hon – Catherynne M. Valente
Slaughterhouse-Five – Kurt Vonnegut
Cosmos – Carl Sagan
Walden – Henry David Thoreau
My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me – Kate Bernheimer, ed.
The Grass-Cutting Sword – Catherynne M. Valente
Where the Wild Things Are – Maurice Sendak
The Giving Tree – Shel Silverstein
Boneshaker – Cherie Priest
The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat – Oliver Sacks
Ultimate Spider-Man Vol. 11 – Brian Michael Bendis & Mark Bagley
Ultimate Spider-Man Vol. 12 – Brian Michael Bendis & Mark Bagley
Ultimate Spider-Man Vol. 13 – Brian Michael Bendis & Mark Bagley
Ultimate Spider-Man Vol. 14 – Brian Michael Bendis & Mark Bagley
Ultimate Spider-Man Vol. 15 – Brian Michael Bendis & Mark Bagley
Ultimate Spider-Man Vol. 16 – Brian Michael Bendis & Mark Bagley
Ultimate Spider-Man Vol. 17 – Brian Michael Bendis & Mark Bagley
The Halloween Tree – Ray Bradbury

Ever since I started reading more, I’ve had to keep inventories of what I read in a year. I’ve posted that list before—something I picked up from Elizabeth Bear—but have fallen away for no reason whatsoever. From the list you can see I’ve read from a variety of genres—memoir, science, thriller, mainstream fiction (which I frequently enjoy as it is), psychology, academic essays, and Eastern spirituality. In reading more widely I have a renewed hunger for spec fic—I felt burnt out on the stuff post-MFA—and have encountered some truly great books, ones I’ll likely re-read in the future. I want to talk about them, even if only briefly, because they deserve to be promoted.

• While I finish, on average, about forty books a year, inevitably I find one that stands head and shoulders above the rest, that opens up new possibilities to me as a writer. This year is full of tough competition but that honor has to go to Theodora Goss’s In the Forest of Forgetting. I first read her work in Feeling Very Strange with “The Rose in Twelve Petals” then later in Interfictions 2 (“Child-Empress of Mars”). On the strength of those two stories alone, I knew I had to buy her short story collection. I am so glad I followed that impulse. Sixteen stories of elegantly precise language, vivid and fresh imagery, and real pathos. With that one book she has joined the ranks of my favorite authors whose entire oeuvre I will read. (She has a new book due out next month, and I cannot wait.) She is going to continue doing amazing work in fantasy. Just watch and see.

• It’s been a good year for off-beat love stories. I’ve already written about Murakami’s Norwegian Wood, how it allows two loves to exist in tension rather than one obliterating the other. Less complex but no less evocative is Blankets, Craig Thompson’s autobiographical graphic novel about his upbringing in a conservative Christian household and the story of his first love. The black-and-white art has a kind of power in its starkness, but the real talent on display is Thompson’s ability to fully capture the feeling of teenage love and treating it respectfully. Blankets is on a lot of best-of graphic novel lists, and it’s clear why. Not exactly a love story per se, Cat Valente’s Deathless re-imagines the story of Koschei the Deathless, a prominent figure in Russian folklore, in the era of Stalin. The novel focuses on Marya Morevna and her relationship with both Koschei, the Tsar of Life, and Ivan Nikolayevich, a naïve soldier. Valente’s prose is leaner but still rich, and her Russia bristles with detail. Occasionally I felt left behind, no doubt because I’m not overly familiar with the Koschei story or Russian history. Still, the book put me in mind of some Le Guin: Even if I didn’t always understand, I knew I was experiencing something truly special.

• I finally started seeking out work from small presses, and it paid off. I loved Trampoline from Small Beer (it got me thinking) and A Brood of Foxes from Aqueduct. Foxes is actually a novella, one steeped in the dreamy logic of fairy tales. Which means causality is less in effect. In addition to telling a fine story, the book also showed me there is a place for work that takes large risks, that goes off the beaten path. That’s not to say the big publishers never experiment, but the small presses provide a home for work that would have a hard—impossible?—time otherwise. That means more diversity, which can only be good for readers and writers.

• I’ve read far fewer short stories this year compared with the last two; I’ve been trying to tackle more novels and nonfiction. Still, the ones I did get to proved to be gems. Besides the aforementioned Goss and Trampoline, I also read Aimee Bender’s The Girl in the Flammable Skirt on a friend’s recommendation and My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me after I saw the cover proclaiming fairy tales and an impressive contributor list. Bender writes exactly the kind of work that would fit in with Small Beer’s aesthetic—stories that probe character psyches in the face of fantastic phenomena, written in a style that is both lucid and playful. (Unsurprisingly, Bender has a story in the Feeling Very Strange slipstream anthology.) Bernheimer’s book contains a slate of authors from mainstream and genre, riffing on famous and not-so-famous fairy tales. Like Bender’s, the stories in My Mother She Killed Me focus on the characters’ inner lives. Some are clearly…hmm, overwritten? But by and large it’s a gripping collection, one that expands what’s possible under the massive umbrella of fantasy and work inspired by it.

• I’ve made no secret of my penchant for young adult literature. Some of the most talented authors out there are getting their work shelved in YA. (My favorite book of last year was YA classic-in-the-making, Speak.) While not YA by some criteria, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, The Boy Who Couldn’t Sleep and Never Had To, and The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet all riveted me with their utterly convincing young narrators. To my surprise, I felt less nostalgia for the past and more recognition; in the same way these young men struggled with identity and personal relationships, I continue wrestling with the same issues. For me, I think that explains part of the appeal of YA: I have yet to feel like a completely matured adult. Maybe that feeling never actually comes. But until (if) it does, I can continue seeing facets of myself reflected in young characters, whether they’re on YA shelves or not.

• If I hadn’t gone into English, I would have declared psychology as a major. The human mind is so complex and fascinating. What we do know about it seems scant against what we don’t know. I’m surprised, actually, it’s taken me so long to read some general interest psych books, namely Quarterlife Crisis and The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. Quarterlife Crisis describes the panic that hits many twenty-somethings after college—the challenges of finding a job, maintaining a relationship, friends, independence, failure. Again, I nodded in recognition, which makes me wonder if either I’m a stunted adult or no one else is admitting the difficulties they’re facing. The Man Who shares a neurologist’s clinical stories about patients with various disorders that dramatically alter their way of being in the world. The stories, despite their brevity, are by turns upsetting, droll, and uplifting. It makes me realize how fragile we are and how much a miracle it is for any one of us to be “normal.” The stories also show how well people can cope with unusual challenges, a testament to the human ability for adaptation. Now I’m even more eager to explore the mysteries of the mind.

• I’ve read more nonfiction this year than in the last several combined, much of it well worth revisiting. Bill Bryson’s two books on the history of the English language, The Mother Tongue and Made in America, rekindled my interest in linguistics and etymology. Thich Nhat Hanh’s Peace Is Every Step encouraged me to practice mindfulness every day in every aspect of life. Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward’s Writing the Other is an important book for writers; it addresses an aspect of craft rarely covered in the popular writing texts—how to write characters far removed from you, especially in terms of race, gender, and orientation (among others). And Carl Sagan’s Cosmos simultaneously inspires in me awe at the wonder of the Universe and makes me feel insignificant. Even with that in mind, I still plan to read more of his work, as I think other people should.

I want to keep expanding my literary horizons in 2012, but specifically I’d like to dip in to magical realism, New Wave science fiction, and more poetry. What’s on your shelf for the coming year?

A Case Of Sequelitis

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 14:39:45 GMT

Take a look at this list of 2011 films. Notice a trend? Apparently, Hollywood has released more sequels this year than in any prior one, to say nothing of adaptations and reboots/remakes. Even television is following suit with remakes of The Munsters and Dallas planned for development. This has to stop.

Now I say that as someone with a keen interest in adaptation as an art-form and in retellings. I spent several months last year researching and writing a lengthy critical essay about those very topics, and retellings comprise a significant portion of my aesthetic as both a writer and a reader. So I fully understand the appeal of revisiting a story and putting your fingerprints on it, making it your own. Still, I say this as a writer. So much printed work is released in any given year that even when there are trends—paranormal vampire romance, for example—there’s enough material available in other niches to satisfy consumers. In TV and movies, the new offerings are far fewer; any pattern is that much more visible.

But just because fewer movies and TV shows are made doesn’t mean those creative teams should be denied the opportunity to re-imagine an old story, right? Fine, point taken. In any case, though, I wonder what’s causing it—if it’s a response to audience demands, a conservative strategy for the ailing big/small screen industries, or just another manifestation of the retro/nostalgia phenomenon currently permeating our culture.

Frankly, I have a hard time believing that anyone was really clamoring for a fifth Fast and Furious or Final Destination. Or that a sizable fanbase has been seriously pushing for a Munsters revival. My guess, then, is that the producers and executives are either out of ideas and/or they’re looking to play it safe with a known quantity—known property, in theory, equals some degree of commercial success. (“It worked before, didn’t it?”)

Maybe I’m being too hard on the business people. After all, it’s very likely that adaptations/sequels/remakes are plentiful in any year and I am only just now becoming aware of it. And although sequels are in greater number than in previous years, they still make up only a fraction of 2011’s total releases. If every original project is unique, then it’s harder to recognize a pattern among them than to look for a title with a number or a colon/subtitle.

Even so, I can’t help but question the choices the studios make in which projects to work on. Sometimes it makes sense—Tron: Legacy, for all its script troubles, certainly took advantage of today’s technology to create a visually impressive spectacle. Other times, it’s baffling—there was no reason for Rush Hour 3, especially when there was hardly enough justification for Rush Hour 2. Unsurprisingly, it comes down to money; if people show up in the theaters or tune in at home, the studios will crank out product aimed at making money, regardless of aesthetic considerations. If the second Transformers hadn’t raked in huge profits, it never would have gotten a third installment.

So we vote with our eyes and our wallets. If we want to see more original material, we need to stop opting for remakes and sequels. I don’t think a complete embargo is necessary or even desirable. There have been, and will be, worthwhile spins on old stories and characters. I will support those. But as I more carefully consider how I invest my time and money, I think I’m more often going to pass on remakes and sequels that only elicit a vague curiosity—wanting to see what, if anything, is different.

The Many Deaths Of 'Realms Of Fantasy'

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 14:48:09 GMT

For the third time, Realms of Fantasy is going under. I would think that, since this has happened before, I’d feel less upset by each subsequent announcement of the magazine’s demise. That’s hardly the case, though. While there are a lot of great spec fic magazines currently out there, RoF always was and always will be special to me; I’ve said as much in the past, and that’s no less true under its latest owners. And, since the magazine has been in this situation before, I’m holding my breath that someone will purchase it and give it yet another lease on life.

Still, look at any fairy tale: Three is an important number. It has undeniable significance. Collapsing thrice over is a lot to take. If this were a boxing match, RoF would be out according to the rules. TKO. Fortunately, publishing is beholden to a different set of rules, in so far as there are any.

I was talking with my friend Adam (whose blog you should read) about this and he raised a terrific point; Damnation Books, with its emphasis on dark fantasy, hardly seemed like the ideal candidate to support RoF. As John Klima of Electric Velocipede points out, they had no experience working with a periodical. The publishers also, from my perspective, had nowhere near the same visibility in the field as other small presses such as Small Beer, Prime, and Night Shade. I admit that, when I heard about Damnation picking up RoF, I was skeptical—a press I’d never heard of, even in passing, producing material that isn’t aligned well with Realms’ overall trajectory. Of course, I’m an optimist, so I’d hoped that my skepticism would prove unfounded. The Universe had other plans.

Keeping a niche print magazine afloat has never been an easy proposition, and in the last few years, it’s become increasingly precarious. That Asimov’s, Analog, and F&SF continue to publish in pulp-and-ink form is a small kind of wonder. Maybe the market can only handle so many spec fic short story magazines, especially one with the production values of RoF. I can’t help hoping that someone with both genre and commercial savvy rescues RoF once again from the maw of history. If this is its swansong, though, I will always be grateful for all that RoF did for me as a reader and a writer. And if it does return, I’ll only be too happy to welcome it back. In any case, I won’t forget Realms of Fantasy.

Books 2.0

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 13:30:22 GMT

It’s pretty obvious how much the Internet has changed our relationship to media. We can view movies and television shows instantly. We can download individual songs and stream entire albums. Until the rise of e-readers, though, the ’Net didn’t have the same kind of impact on the world of books. (The world of reading is another story entirely.) It let us order books any time from anywhere, it gave us the opportunity to contact writers, publishers, and others in the industry, and it provided access to several lifetimes’ worth of reading material. But it didn’t radically change the experience of reading.

Okay, well, if it couldn’t change the experience of reading, maybe the Internet could change the experience around reading. And so we have sites like LibraryThing and Goodreads. I’ve been using both for years now, and I’ve long had it in my head to talk about the differences between the two. Because they must be different, right? Otherwise, it’d make sense to pick one and have done with it. But, just like every social networking site has its share of pros and cons, LibraryThing and Goodreads do as well.

In attempting to gather some outside opinion on this, I asked on Facebook which book site people use more frequently and why. The four people who replied all favored Goodreads. Of those, only two said why—it’s more widely used*, its design is better, its groups are highly active, and it’s “extremely easy to work with as an author.” Let’s take a look at those points.

In terms of site design, Goodreads is definitely sleeker, embracing the philosophy of Web 2.0 (anyone know if we’re still calling it that?) with everything interconnected while still being easy to navigate. It’s clean, bright, and full of features. LibraryThing, at least in terms of overall look, is more outdated—the color scheme is meh and the site uses more static pages, which I personally like. It’s annoying when I click a “More” button only to have so much lag I need to close the browser. (This may be an issue of my computer more than anything, but not every site visitor will be running a top-of-the-line machine.) As for all the social network features such as likes, comments, blog importing, and shelf widgets, I’m indifferent. They’re useful for some people, I’m sure, but I have no need. To me, Goodreads seems like Facebook with a bibliographic focus, while LibraryThing, as I see it, is more for the lone logophile. More on that later.

No doubt because of the site’s large user-base, the groups on GR are generally active. Just clicking the “Books & Literature” tag nets 13,590 results. LT has a pretty sizable list of groups as well, but it’s nowhere near that extensive. The largest group on LT has 8300 members, whereas the GR Librarians group has 11,000—quite a discrepancy. With so many choices, sorting through would be a nightmare. GR has tags and even subcategories. When you select a tag, the results are sorted automatically by recent activity. Plus, you can search groups by title or description. LT has group tags, searching, and sorting by various criteria. Still, that can’t compete with the sheer amount and variety of activity on GR. That may mean more dross to wade through, but this is the Internet; that’s to be expected.

As for authors, GR is the better choice. In addition to the regular member features, authors on GR can list their bibliography (linked to the book’s main entry on the site), import blog posts, and include interviews and upcoming events. Also, any quotes from their work and group topics mentioning them appear on the page. Like a rough facsimile of an official site, analogous to a Facebook fan page. Unsurprisingly, LT has a similar feature but, again, it isn’t as comprehensive.

On those counts, it seems like Goodreads trumps LibraryThing. And Goodreads is a terrific site. Myself, though? I prefer LibraryThing. I already mentioned I could do without the dynamic interface, and the social media integration doesn’t particularly enhance the experience for me. What LT really has going for it is customization. On LT you can edit the information for any book in your library—cover, tags, even the physical dimensions—and it only affects your personal entry. On GR, you can only edit book information if you request to become a librarian (a simple process, really) but any changes you make apply across the entire site. If, like me, you use sites like these to inventory your library, all the options LT has make a difference. A small point but one I appreciate greatly in LT’s favor: the ability to give half-stars. Can it honestly be so difficult to code for that?

I also like LT’s tagging far more than GR’s shelf organization. To be in your GR library, a book must be on the “read,” “currently-reading,” or “to-read” pile.** No such restrictions with LT. I have a number of reference books I’ll never read fully, but on the to-read shelf they go. Their presence will cause me at least a small measure of guilt. LT’s tags are also great for writers, namely the tagmash feature. Input two tags and get results for books bearing both. This has been a boon to me as I’ve found books on very specific subjects and a keyword search on Amazon won’t suffice. It can also help find books that don’t get ordinary shelf designations, like retellings or slipstream.

LT also gives more freedom in terms of recommendations. While GR’s is based on your shelf contents, you can use LT’s Suggester for individual titles, which will give you recommendations and other relevant info. Or take the opposite route and use the Unsuggester, which yields books least likely to share a library with the title in question. (Entering The Da Vinci Code results in a lot of knitting books, for example.) Not pragmatic, exactly, but entertaining.

If LT has a major drawback in my eyes, it’s the cost. Goodreads is free, but in order to include more than two hundred books on LT, you need to pay for either a yearly ($10) or a lifetime ($25) membership. It’s not a huge fee by any means, but whenever dollars enter the equation, I know I tune out ever so slightly. Maybe I’m spoiled by having so much content online available for free, legitimately.

Clearly LibraryThing is good for those who are somewhat scrupulous about their books. Goodreads is less meticulous but it’s also snazzier; all that activity gives it a vitality LT sorely lacks. In the end, though, it’s futile to compare them. You can have your cake and eat it too; there’s no reason you can’t use both and take advantage of each site’s unique offerings. They have brought the culture of books into the twenty-first century. To me, that’s their greatest success.

* “I use it because other people do” is circular, doesn’t really get us anywhere. If more people use it, there has to be a reason. It can’t be an infinite regress.

** That the site hyphenates the shelf titles bothers me.

The Dynamics Of Influence

Fri, 26 Aug 2011 12:40:48 GMT

Ray Bradbury’s 91st birthday was on Monday. If you’ve ever spoken with me about writing, you know that he is part of my own personal trinity, uttered in the same breath as Ursula Le Guin and Neil Gaiman. Though the list of authors I love, admire, and learn from continues to grow as I read more, those three best represent the kind of writer I’d like to be—stylistically distinct, versatile, thoughtful, enthusiastic, capable of imagining terrific ideas and dimensional characters.

I previously wrote about those who had the greatest impact on me, my reading habits, and my writerly self-image. Now that I’ve gone through an MFA program and read work that’s broadened my horizons, I see my goals and how I perceive myself as a writer changing. The aforementioned trinity—and a score of other talented writers—continue to mold and shape my writing, guideposts to orient me in my journey. But currently I’m seeing the kind of work I do influenced less by specific authors and more by general movements (for lack of a better word).

First, fairy tales, and for this, I credit Mr. Gaiman. His Sandman series reignited my love of mythology. From there it was only a short jump to folklore and fairy tales. My parents never read Grimm or Andersen to me as a child; I only found them later and, unsurprisingly, had my mental landscape rearranged. What Disney taught me about those stories? Off the mark, to put it mildly.

I became fascinated with contemporary re-envisionings of fairy tales more so than the “originals.” During my first semester at Stonecoast, I read as many strands of speculative fiction as I could. To my mind, this included fairy tales. So, knowing little more about them than they came recommended, I picked up Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber and Catherynne M. Valente’s In the Night Garden. Carter rewrote the old stories from a modern perspective, infused with sexuality and female empowerment. Valente did something similar, not to say the same, playing more with the furniture of fairy tales rather than any particular ones. I thereafter became a fan of both authors and intensely interested in modern fairy tales, whether they were retellings or new tales with a familiar texture about them.

I wrote a sixty-page academic essay about retellings, including fairy tales, so there’s plenty for me to say about their appeal. For me, a few things make them stand out among the sandboxes available to play in. The fact that people know fairy tales, even if they’ve never explicitly read them, means I as a writer can work with the material already present in a reader’s mind, rather than building from scratch. And because of that familiarity, it opens up the opportunity to flout expectations—you think you know where this is going but… Fairy tales have this dreamy quality, where all things are possible and no one questions it. When you’re in a far away land a long time ago, all bets are off. And, despite the strangeness of them, fairy tales cut to the heart of things in a way so few stories can—maybe because of their classic status, or some psychological explanation. Whatever the reason, fairy tales have undeniable power—more than myth, which is related—and to harness that as a writer grants access to vast possibilities.

Fairy tales are easy to grasp for readers and writers. Decidedly thornier is slipstream, another influence pervading my writing. While a variety of definitions has been offered, the clearest one I’ve found is fiction that uses elements from mainstream and genre camps. Kelly Link is generally the vanguard but there are plenty of others—Aimee Bender, Jeffrey Ford, Kazuo Ishiguro, Jonathan Lethem, et al.

What does it mean to borrow elements from the two? Are there really mutually exclusive territories? According to Strange Horizons editor Jed Hartman, slipstream is written in unusual prose styles with unconventional structures and an attitude toward the fantastic that is less than literal—elements that, some would argue, belong to literary/mainstream fiction. Genre obviously contributes the fantastical element.

Maybe I’m simplistic but if a story contains something we’d find in spec fic, to me, it’s under the spec fic umbrella. I’ve read plenty of stories labeled as science fiction or fantasy that have deft prose, inventive narrative structures, and whatever else you’d ascribe to lit fic. To me, they’re just good examples of spec fic. I don’t have a problem with paint-by-numbers work; if that’s what you like to read and/or write, power to you. But just because a story doesn’t glorify in pulpiness or cliché? That doesn’t make it any less a spec fic story.

Still, slipstream (and the nearby branches of interstitial, New Weird, magical realism, etc.) gives readers a handy shorthand—it’s fantasy (or science fiction, possibly horror) that doesn’t read like typical examples of the type. Also, it seems to me there’s something different about the texture of slipstream stories compared to either mainstream or genre ones. I’m not sure how to articulate it, but the effect it produces is one I want to achieve—a seamless blending of the ordinary and extraordinary, where two (opposing?) worldviews can meet and, hopefully, converse.

More conventional than slipstream but less so than fairy tales is my last strain of influence, contemporary/urban fantasy. By urban fantasy, I mean precisely that—fantasy in a city setting, not the stuff of Laurell K. Hamilton or Kim Harrison where promiscuity and the paranormal go hand-in-hand. Think Holly Black, Charles de Lint, the Bordertown series. I love urban fantasy because, with a modern setting, you don’t need as much intensive world-building as, say, epic fantasy. That recognizability lends itself well to speaking about our current struggles and successes; in terms of accessibility, it’s tough to surpass. Also, while slipstream achieves some great effects, I rarely see it instill a sense of adventure and/or large-scale drama. Urban/contemporary fantasy is great for this—not to say it’s all plot at the expense of character, just more forward motion in the story. It satisfies the part of me that grew up on superheroes and video games, high stakes without resorting to melodrama.

Those three categories are broad enough that I can safely say my work falls somewhere within their bounds. Because I like to experiment, because these three distinct types of writing are so pervasive for me, I wonder if I’m doing myself—my career, really—a disservice. Readers, to varying degrees, want to know what they’re getting into. That’s why we have the sections in bookstores and the more specific subdivisions besides. If I don’t have an identifiable unity to my work, am I doomed to be esoteric? Doubtful. Some of my favorite writers—Jeff Ford, Liz Hand, Paul di Filippo, to name a few—are hard to pin down; they settle into any and every sandbox they can find. I expect to do likewise. And when Le Guin, Gaiman, and Bradbury started out, I don’t think anyone put them in a box and said, “This is where you belong.” It’s only in retrospect we can see the common threads, the trajectory they took.

In that spirit, then, I will look ahead, with an occasional glance behind to see where I’ve been and what brought me there.

Take Your Pick – Prose Or Story?

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 17:11:48 GMT

Last month my friend Jeremy, who just published his first book, posted about good writers versus good storytellers. I’ve been mulling the issue over for a while now, and I just finished Trampoline, a book that dovetails nicely with this very topic and that also begs to be discussed. So let’s do just that.

For myself as a reader, if I had to pick only one, there’s no contest as to what I prefer: I’ll take a good story—which I take to mean as a compelling plot, strong characters, and a vividly imagined world (realistic or not)—over lovely prose any day. I can’t imagine most writers would opt for good writing over a good story. Think about the stories you know well. Fairy tales, the classics you muddled through in school, even comic book heroes—many, many people know at least the silhouettes of these stories yet I’d be surprised if nearly as many could recall one line by Charles Perrault, Chaucer, or Stan Lee. The characters and the perils they face far outlive the words used to bring them into being.

Why? In the introduction* to Stories, the collection he edited with Al Sarrantonio, Neil Gaiman says that our fascination with stories comes down to four words: “And then what happened?” Makes sense. I love especially writers who do marvelous things with language, but if the reader doesn’t care about what happens, what good are all those pretty words? Like a tree falling with no one around, the stories make no sound, have no impact on another person.

When I think about what I want to do with my writing, the idea I keep returning to is that of evoking a response. Whether that means making people laugh or cry, confronting them with a new perspective, or just giving them an entertaining diversion, I want my writing to make readers feel something. Vague and New Age-y, probably, but it’s as much a distillation of my philosophy as I’ve formulated so far.

Trampoline provides an interesting case study for the writing/storytelling dichotomy. The book’s an anthology edited by Kelly Link, whose own work blurs lines of genre sensibility and literary merit.** As such, Trampoline gather stories that don’t easily fall into traditional categories. Slipstream is the best word for it, but even that is a fluid term.

Whatever their overarching label, the stories in Trampoline represent a vast range of possibilities in the realm of fiction, genre or not. See the autobiographical (or is it?) candidness of “King Rat” or the way Maureen McHugh fuses eight disparate techniques into a whole. Thing is, the stories don’t always work—for me, anyway. While I felt they were all written well, with several, I didn’t “get it.” (Which of course makes me wonder what we’re supposed to get from fiction. Another can of worms entirely.) Maybe I misread them. Maybe I missed some subtlety. I responded to them, yes, but to a few with confusion or a vaguely empty feeling.

Take Greer Gilman’s “A Crowd of Bone.” It is by no means an easy read, with its unusual dialect and structure. Still, it won the World Fantasy Award, so it must have done something right. Yet reviewer Adam Lipkin sees it as a “trite plot…with the most turgid prose on it you could imagine.” Contrast that with the Washington Post Book World’s take: “The story—complex, tangled in narrative as well as syntax, and very dark—rewards the most careful of readings.” While the latter review admits the prose’s difficulty, ultimately, this is a strength rather than a weakness. (The story’s available online. I’d love to hear your thoughts if you give it a read.)

Yet—and here I confess to being somewhat mercenary—how many people will give such close readings? How many among the book-buying public, whose ranks are growing thanks to e-books but still seem small on the whole, will have the patience or the ability to appreciate a story that is more than surface? If readers were more discriminating toward prose, Dan Brown and several bestsellers would not have the careers they do. I’m not suggesting you appeal to the lowest common denominator. I’m not saying you should dumb your work down. You know me better than that, I think. I only want to emphasize that writing is as much a communication between two people as it is an expression of one person. Sometimes, then, that means more transparency or clarity—assuming that’s the audience you want. Nothing wrong with writing for a niche either. Hell, I write spec fic; I live in niches.

If I had to judge myself as Jeremy did on the writing/storytelling spectrum, I’d say I’m a good writer but not-so-good storyteller. That’s why I spent two years formally studying fiction. Why I regularly read craft books. Why I absorb as much writing advice as I can. I work hard on my sentences, my paragraphs. That won’t change. But I want to be good at creating the stories themselves. The words, while important, can—often do—fade. Stories, though, are more than the sum of their parts. It is they, not I, not the words they contain, that will perhaps live on.

* You know you take writing seriously when you read introductions with as much interest as the actual book.

** Many people I know argue there isn’t such a line, and I agree; the attitude that this line is real hasn’t gone away, though.

Ramblings Of An Amateur Photographer

Tue, 28 Jun 2011 23:02:37 GMT

I remember reading an article on a news site a few years back that said creative/artistic types often have multiple outlets through which they express themselves. This is certainly true for me. In addition to writing, I take some modicum of pride in my drawing, singing, and photography. While it may seem like creative dilettantism, I see it as exploring abilities and affinities. How will I know if I’m good—or not—at something unless I try it? Besides, as a writer, I need as many perspectives on the world as I can gather; with each mode of artistic expression, I’m forced to look at life in different ways.

It’s photography that I’m currently thinking about, since I only recently caught up with everyone else and bought a digital camera. That, coupled with Facebook and photo-sharing sites like Flickr, has confronted me with aspects of photography—of art as a whole, really—I’d never considered. And in doing so, I’m facing a host of questions. I hope writing about it generates some discussion and, if not answers, then food for thought.

As our media—sound, image, text—has moved from analog to digital, the issue of ownership has become even more prominent. If you bought a CD, does that mean you can download digital files because you own those songs, or do you only own the analog iterations of them? Does buying a copy of a movie entitle you to burn and share it as if you were lending it?

Even beyond the idea of personal ownership, there’s the idea of creator ownership. Putting aside the collaborative aspects to certain media, we know who made movie X. Who wrote and performed which songs. Who wrote a particular book. With image-based art like photography, it becomes a little blurrier. What recourse do artists have to show they made a piece besides watermarks? And how often do people respect the copyright of work not under Creative Commons licenses?

To use an example: You take a photo of a friend, we’ll say Chris, and post it on Facebook. Chris tags herself in it. Then she puts it on her profile without attribution. Is she in the right? Is the photo yours because you took it? Or is it hers because she’s the subject? If you ask a random stranger to photograph you in front of a monument, is it yours (your camera, you as subject, your concept of the shot) or the passer-by’s? (Is it more complex and these are jointly owned, even?)

No matter the answer, it still poses a dilemma. So remove the dilemma—don’t share your work. I see the logic of this stance. To compare it with writing, I don’t make my stories available for all because I want to sell them professionally, and sharing them in any other fashion complicates that, or renders it impossible. If I don’t have the same aspirations regarding my photography work, what does it matter if anyone else sees it?

It matters because, to my mind, art is about communication as well as expression. It’s a two-way street. It’s meant to be shared. To connect us. For myself, keeping all of my art private doesn’t seem a viable option, particularly as regards photography—other people can appreciate seeing moments captured, of having memories made visible. To return to the above question, with a difference: If I don’t have professional aspirations in photography, what does it matter if someone else appropriates my work?

Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe attitudes toward ownership are changing and I’m clinging to the past. Maybe snapshots of a night out with friends aren’t comparable to artistic landscapes and portraits. Maybe we can’t control out work—or how it’s received/revised—once it’s out in the world. The answer may be in knowing there’s a risk involved with sharing and then deciding if the reward is worth that risk.

Maybe.

Experimentation, Ambition, And Being You

Thu, 26 May 2011 23:06:04 GMT

As writer Paul Jessup points out, sometimes people alight on a particular subject all at once so that an impromptu conversation develops. Conversation, though, seems to suggest that everyone is listening and responding to one another. I don’t think that’s the case necessarily. Myself, I just see it as an example of synergy in action.

And what timing that this topic, experimentation, comes to the fore of several genre blogs. It—and issues related to it—has been on my mind over the past few weeks thanks to some things I’ve recently read, seen, and been working on. Firstly, the story I’m writing aims to capture the spirit of fairy tales in how their magic worked—without clearly defined rules, in a dream-like fashion. This was very much inspired by Kristin Livdahl’s A Brood of Foxes, a brilliant novella from Aqueduct Press. In it, the author describes a world infused with magic yet doesn’t tell us much in terms of the timeframe or even how exactly the world works. While some readers would understandably get frustrated with such a narrative gap—and I fall prey to that at times too—I liked that aspect of the story. Enough that I’m trying to emulate it.

Of course, in trying a new approach, I have no idea if I’m pulling it off. Hell, even with the more conventional elements of fiction, I still can’t say I’m ever confident of when/if I’m succeeding. But what does it mean, anyway, for a story element, or a story as a whole, to be successful? Does it mean it adheres to the guidelines of good writing (whatever those are)? Provided pleasure to a reader? You the writer accomplished what you intended when you set out to write it?

I’ve been asking myself questions like these, and more besides, since I started reading Trampoline. Edited by Kelly Link, it’s an anthology of slipstream, so in the stories there’s usually a dose of the bizarre/offbeat in addition to a fantastical element—sometimes subtle, sometimes prominent. While I’ve admired many of the stories for the quality of their writing, some of them I simply didn’t get. Which leads me to wonder—What should I get from a story? My MFA program never made it seem like “desire+obstacle=conflict” is the only method to structure a story; however, we rarely talked about the other possibilities—maybe because they’re limitless?—and how/when they may be used. When stories follow the pyramid Freytag proposed, I feel like I can better understand and appreciate them because I have the proper tools. For more experimental work, it’s like wandering in a dark room, hands extended to find something solid.

So again, what are we reading for? I’m tempted to say it’s for an emotional response. A story that follows the traditional structure involves us in the protagonist’s plight: Will s/he achieve his/her goal? Will s/he overcome the obstacles? Other stories may prompt us to think, to puzzle out a whole from scant clues, to nod in recognition that “Yes, it’s just like that.” Maybe, then, stories—in addition to all their other possible abilities—aim to give us an emotional experience.

If that’s the case—pure speculation on my part—then stories should be as diverse as the emotional experiences they hope to convey. In a pair of blog posts against craft and story, Nick Mamatas exhorts writers to aim for art over craft, to try writing more than just a good story (read: a good plot). To me, it seems like he’s encouraging writers to take risks. To break rules. To be ambitious enough to aim high and possibly fail, rather than aim low and still possibly fail.

Being ambitious brings with it the potential for a more colossal faceplant, but it also brings the greatest potential reward. I watched Donnie Darko for the second time last week. The movie has its share of flaws—even putting aside the “real” explanation behind the events—but it strikes me, and others, as being deliriously ambitious. That the title hasn’t fallen into obscurity ten years after its release, especially when Hollywood’s short-term memory currently resembles a gnat’s, and provokes a range of interpretations shows it resonated, in spite of the moments its reach exceeds its grasp. If it had tried to be just another by-the-numbers project, well, let’s see where Michael Bay’s work stands in ten years.

It reminds me of a snippet of writing wisdom that’s never been clear until now: When you write, write in the way only you can. Make the pages brim with your personality, your idiosyncrasy. If that means coloring outside the lines, do it. Make bold decisions. Be courageous as a writer. Easier said than done, but all advice is.

Obviously, this is a huge issue, one I think I’ll return to again. Because really, what writer wants to follow the same worn paths? Who wants to be only good enough?

Five Things Make A Post: April 2011

Wed, 27 Apr 2011 17:48:45 GMT

I want to write here more often, and to do that I need to be less afraid. I build up the idea in my head that when I update [sic], I do it because I have something of substance to say. Usually more than a few off-the-cuff thoughts. I worry, then, that if I have only small things to share, they’re somehow less worthy. Also, though virtually all my writing is public—at least, that’s the hope—what goes on here is instantaneous, and so I (so goes my thought) have to be especially eloquent. Well, maybe so, but if Theodora Goss can write blog posts every day despite her hectic schedule, so can I. So, in case you missed it:

• By now you’ve probably seen Ginia Bellafante’s superficial review of the Game of Thrones premier in which she more than anything else makes clear her bias against the fantasy genre. Naturally, people have spoken out against the review and the mindset behind it (for just a few reactions, see here, here, and here). It’s a song genre fans have heard before, though it’s no less tiring, particularly from a publication like The New York Times. Distinctions between high and low art, between gender-appropriate interests, have been a fact of life for some time now. Maybe it’s foolish of me to hope the attitude will die sooner than later, but I hope all the same.

• Vera Nazarian, who in addition to being an author runs Norilana Books, is having some financial trouble and could use some help. Please consider linking to her post on your LJ or Twitter. And if you can spare the money, buy a book from the catalog. It’s good karma.

• While browsing the YA section of a local bookstore, I noticed several movie tie-in covers. I’m not surprised—in the wake of Harry Potter and Twilight, Hollywood has wanted to emulate the success of those franchises, with less-than-stellar results. (Remember The Seeker? Or The Golden Compass?) But it seems like now the film industry is exploring the range of YA material just a little more. Of the more recent adaptations, I noticed Beastly, I Am Number Four, and It’s Kind of a Funny Story—hardly copycats of Rowling and Meyers. While I’m glad the YA section is getting increased attention, I’m not sure the source material is receiving the proper treatment. Plus, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before I see a big-screen version of a book or series I love. Given the precedent, I’m skeptical they’ll do it justice.

• Bordertown, the shared urban fantasy setting created by Terri Windling, returns to life in a new anthology out next month, Welcome to Bordertown. A website’s been put together to refresh reader memories and to bring new fans up to speed. If you want urban fantasy in the original vein, plan to stop in Bordertown.

• The list of Hugo nominees is up, including stories from Jim Kelly and Liz Hand, two of my teachers from Stonecoast. Why yes, my program is awesome. Good luck to all the nominees.