Oh, the Irony

Yup, I missed two posts in a row right after my anniversary post stating that I’d finally gotten better at writing regular posts. My favorite form of humor is irony. Coming back from vacation, it’s been tougher to blog than while I was on vacation, and I’m reading at a much greater rate than I can write posts.

I did a lot of heavy literary reading while on vacation, and then read Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book in my first couple days back to take a break. This book, like all of Gaiman’s work, grabs me and propels me through it, and it feels really good to read that way. When I was a kid, first falling in love with reading, all books felt that way to me. I often wonder what makes that feeling decrease.

Don’t get me wrong–I love to read. It’s just that, while all books used to totally absorb me, that now happens less often. The books that have completely absorbed me so far this year were John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War series, Sean Stewart’s Mockingbird, Margaret Ronald’s Spiral Hunt, Daryl Gregory’s Pandemonium, and the aforementioned Graveyard Book. All of these books “ruined my life,” in a good way–I didn’t want to eat, sleep, or talk to anyone until I finished them. Genre books, all of them.

I love literary fiction, and I’ve read plenty of literary fiction that made my heart pound all the way through (see, for one example, Matt Bell’s short story “An Index of How Our Family Was Killed“). But sometimes it seems that writing gets classed “literary” precisely because it isn’t a page turner. This seems unnecessary, and a losing proposition in terms of finding an audience. Does a book get classed genre anytime it has that pageturning effect? On the other hand, I sometimes feel I have to explain what I mean when I talk about the literary value of a genre work. What’s going on?

I spend a lot of time pondering the genre/literary split, and I like publications and presses that blur it (Small Beer Press, for example, and I have high hopes for Monkeybicycle). What I really want is to have it all from my fiction. I want great writing that keeps me up at night. I read and study all kinds of short stories because I want to understand how they work. But I feel weird when a journal or collection feels a little like eating flax–it’s supposedly so good for me, and yet sort of unpleasant.

There are literary journals that completely avoid the flax effect–Rosebud, for example. Others just aren’t that fun to read, and I have to ask myself, why is it that a book can be full of good stories and yet be no fun? (And, let me add that I don’t require happy endings or sunny subjects to call something fun).

This is one of the great mysteries, as far as I’m concerned. When I am reading a book that makes the rest of the world fall away, it’s such a relief. It makes me wonder why it isn’t always that way.

Happy Birthday, Blog

It’s been one year since I posted my “Hello, World!” on this site. I want to say thank you to all who’ve visited the site since then, and to the writers whose work I’ve enjoyed and tried to share with others. My consistency’s been up and down a bit, but I’m hoping that I’ve got things sorted now. Here’s to another year!

The Books of Traveling

While on vacation, we got a chance to visit The Strand bookstore in New York City. When I travel, I buy books as souvenirs, but not in an obvious way. I don’t tend to buy books about New York City, for example. Instead, I pick up books that will make me think of that particular place and time. In honor of The Strand, all my book links in this post will point to their online store.

At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I picked up The Undressed Art: Why We Draw by Peter Steinhart, after spending two hours in the drawings and prints exhibit. I’ve read the first couple chapters and am so far finding it’s exactly what I was hoping for–a nontechnical work intended for the curious layperson that explores how drawing affects a person’s life. Its focus so far seems to be on amateur artists and life drawing, and drawing as a hobby, though Steinhart does interview pro artists and models.

At The Strand, after some discussion, my husband and I picked up the following books (all the prices were great, so it’s worth checking out what The Strand is selling them for):

The Curtain by Milan Kundera–a philosophical essay on the art of the novel (my choice, enthusiastically seconded by him–he talked me out of putting this one back when we were whittling down our stack)

The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas in a new translation by Richard Pevear–we both love Dumas, and the translator and the physical beauty of the edition were what sold us on this volume, which will be our third version of this book (his choice)

A boxed set of Orhan Pamuk’s My Name Is Red, The Black Book, and Snow–I’ve been curious to read Pamuk for a long time, and when I checked out this set, I felt like the books came across as literary mysteries of a type I might like. (my choice)

Tales of H.P. Lovecraft, selected and edited by Joyce Carol Oates–you can never have too much Lovecraft (his choice)

Maps and Legends: Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands by Michael Chabon–I was sold on Chabon’s attention in these essays to the question of how genre work and literary writing fit together. He’s a credible source, particularly considering the attention that The Yiddish Policemen’s Union got from both sides of that equation, and I often wonder about things along these lines. As readers of this blog well know, my tastes run in both directions, and I often wonder if I’m losing readers by jumping from one to the other. I’m curious to see what Chabon has to say about this. (my choice)

Doctor No by Ian Fleming–This is an example of what I mean about souvenirs. I feel like The Strand has a hip, pulpy vibe in the midst of its formidable literary stacks. Getting the Fleming from there felt right. (my choice)

You may have noticed that I chose more of the books–I’m bad that way. My husband says he’s glad to have married someone who loves books more than he does, though he had not previously realized that such people existed.

Moon Above

My husband and I went to see the science fiction film Moon, and it was incredible. Sam Rockwell’s performance was incredible (trying not to give away too much, I will say that he plays the same man at two different points in life, and does an amazing job of portraying the differences in the man’s reactions while still clearly showing that this is the same person).

As a writer, the thing I loved most about this film was the moving subtlety of its script. Like all great science fiction, and perhaps all great stories, this is fundamentally a story about what it is to be human. The writers, Duncan Jones and Nathan Parker, trusted this to come through. They never beat themes over the head. Instead, they allow them to emerge. There are things that become clear about the situation and the story, and the writers trust the viewer to pick up on these things and understand them. I loved the feeling of being trusted as an audience member to understand what I was seeing. Moon is worth watching with an eye toward how powerful an effect can be when it’s allowed to just happen–when the writer resists the urge to over-explain.

The Once and Future Ending

Like most readers, I have pet peeves about stories. There are tricks that nearly always bother me when I see them. One example is an ending in the future tense. I’ll avoid picking on any specific story by making up an example. Let’s say the story’s heroine wants to go to the zoo with her boyfriend, but he’s too lazy to take her there and doesn’t seem to love her enough. In the story, she tries to go to the zoo but has a panic attack in the parking lot. She picks up her phone to call him and ask him to meet her there, but hangs up without dialing. The ending paragraph might say something like:

She sees the day when she will call him hanging on the horizon, bright above the monkey cages. He will come leaping at the sound of her voice. He will swoop down from his perch atop the stool across from the television set and fly to her like a flock of exotic birds. He will stand beside her on the asphalt, and together they will both pretend to be in Africa, to be adventurers. He will kiss her then. He will use his tongue.

An ending like this is an ending of wish. When I see it used, I typically see it contradicting the story’s true ending, maybe in an effort to explain the character’s psychology. In this imaginary story, for example, the truth is that the character is doing nothing. She tried to make a change but failed, and now nothing is going to happen. She stays with the boyfriend though because she’s still hoping for a change, as the final paragraph describes.

The reason I don’t like this style of ending is that I think it removes the impact of the lack of change. I think an ending like this overexplains. Of course, the character wishes things would become different. A good story will have explained that in all that has gone before. I suspect that this type of ending sometimes comes from an urge to end on a satisfying note. If the story’s ending is unsatisfying, however, I would rather the unsatisfying note ring pure. This type of ending often reads like a copout to me, or like the author is trying to fool the reader or herself into going into denial along with the character.

All that to say, I read a story in the Indiana Review recently that showed me how an ending in the future tense can be successful. I think it’s deployed in a subtly different way, and I wanted to describe that. The story’s not online, so you’ll have to pick up a copy of the most recent issue to see the whole thing.

The story is called “Soon, Baby, Soon,” written by Rachel May. It is the story of how a family responds to a father who returns traumatized from war. It does an exquisite job of portraying the heartbreaking uncertainties of the situation, both the hope that things will work out and the despair when his condition seems destined to worsen. This is its last paragraph:

And just like that, for a single, soft second, our old dad is back. All his stories are behind his eyes. And the whole table lets out a big, heavy breath, like we’re deflating–not in a bad way like a ball going flat but in a good way, like maybe soon our bodies will float high enough off the ground to get back to that awe wonder marvel time. I know it will happen. I know we’re gonna get there, sure as I know I can dunk one day, me a girl, not even such a tall girl. I’m gonna do it. I will raise myself up for all of us and soar so easy through the air, and dunk, and everyone will smile and feel all fine and fluttery inside.

I think the reason this works so well is that, while it’s still a wish, it’s not contradicting the truth of the story’s final note and final mood. The wish emphasizes the story’s last moment. It perhaps shows too much hope placed on a single moment, but that’s true to the moment. The story’s not undermining, or giving with one hand and taking away with the other. Instead, the future tense shows how people carry a thought forward, spinning a good moment out into a feeling that all is well in life, or the opposite. This way works much better for me. May’s future tense rings of a lovely poetry of hope. It’s not that this is a true happy ending–much is uncertain about the father in the story. It’s that this future tense is true to the moment from which it springs.

Monkeybicycle Subscription Drive

Monkeybicycle is trying to sign up 10 new subscribers this week, and, to encourage you, they’re offering super-discounted subscription rates through Friday. I’ve been reading and liking their archived stories posted online lately, but haven’t (yet) read the print issue. I am 1/10 of their goal, though–I’ve signed up. Matt Bell is having a blog contest offering to buy a back issue for a new subscriber. So far, I have a 100 percent chance of winning. You people should give me some competition

While you’re at it, don’t forget to leave a comment on this post for a chance to win a subscription to The Sun–deadline is July 13.

Giving Short Stories a Shelf Life

I stumbled across Anthology Builder recently–a new discovery for me though I think it’s been around a while. Customers can visit the site, design a custom anthology based on the short stories available there, and have it printed and mailed to them. If they like, they can put the anthology they designed into the library so that others can buy the same mix of stories.

The stories seem to be mostly works in the public domain or reprints that authors have uploaded. The site seems to have some editorial process–the requirement that stories be reprints keeps the noise-to-signal ratio from getting too high. I checked out the available stories and there’s some good stuff there, particularly in the SF/fantasy genres, with which I’m most familiar. There are a few stories from authors I’ve written about here before, including Rhonda Eudaly, Samantha Henderson, and Marsheila Rockwell. Funnily enough, I found an anthology put together by Therese Arkenberg–I’ve also written about her. Anthology Builder also has a partnership with the interesting Book View Cafe.

It’s a neat idea, but I’m a little uncertain about it. I love short fiction, and I like the idea of reading an anthology put together by people who interest me. In terms of building anthologies myself, I think I would only do it if I were intimately familiar with all the stories that went into it. The discovery aspect of the site and the anthology building aspect seem like they may not be entirely compatible. This has an almost-but-not-quite feeling to me. Still, I plan to try out some of the anthologies in the library, as well as building my own anthology. I can also see myself using the site to pick up “collected stories” of an author I like.

Authors get some small amount of royalties from the site–each book sold gives a $1.50 royalty, divided among the authors whose stories were included.

On the Difficulties of Publishing SF

This thread gives some interesting insight into the workings of publishing a line of books. It’s a summary, from Paizo’s Eric Mona, of the status of that company’s Planet Stories line. Planet Stories mostly consists of books by classic SF and fantasy writers such as Leigh Brackett and Michael Moorcock. I think the line is going for classic as in fun more than classic as in Great Books of the Western World.

Of particular interest to me:

I would breathe a lot easier if we had about twice the number of subscribers than we have at the moment (though there have been a lot of new additions in the last three weeks–thanks!). Right now we have fewer than 300 subscribers. With double that, the future of the line would be assured forever, because we would be more than halfway to profitability on each book before it even left the warehouse. This is the paradigm under which we operate for a lot (most) of our gaming lines, so the fact that Planet Stories lags behind its gaming cousins is something of a cause for concern.

And:

Ultimately a book looks like it will do better if Barnes & Noble orders it, and we tend to frown a lot when they don’t, because it means the long journey to profitability will take longer. On the other hand, with distribution to B&N comes MUCH higher returns than to other channels, so sometimes a book that posts impressive preorders will turn out to not do so hot a year or so down the road, when a lot of those copies have come back.

It’s definitely worth checking out this thread if you have an interest in publishing.

Consequences

Here’s another installment in what seems to be my occasional series on things I learn about writing from being a GM (gamemaster, for those who are less geeky than me).

I was testing a new game system on Saturday with a group of players (the Mongoose Traveller science-fiction role-playing game, for those who are interested). Our group mainly plays Dungeons and Dragons, where most of the conflict occurs when battling monsters. There are skill checks occasionally, and I run political games where the characters have to talk to people and convince them of things, but, for the most part, if something bad’s going to happen to your character, it’s going to be at the hands of some three-headed monster.

Traveller has combat, but it’s also designed to focus a lot on the skills that characters have. A number of scenes in my game required characters to do things like fly out of a crowded shuttle port under intense time pressure, or repair a collapsing tunnel, or deal with failing life support. Because I’m not used to thinking of skills in terms of life-or-death situations, I failed, at first, at giving a sense of consequence. Characters would fail a skill check and I’d say, OK, roll again. Obviously, this kills the sense of rising tension. My husband says I was doing better by the end of the session, but it got me thinking about writing.

Whether you’re writing genre fiction or not, there’s a lot that matters beyond obviously life or death moments. Every time the character does anything or opens his mouth to say anything, he’s doing that one thing instead of dozens of other possibilities, and there’s no taking it back. I’m asking myself if my stories truly reflect the consequences of these character actions. Am I portraying the characters’ choices as truly important? Or, as a writer, am I telling my characters, “Um, OK, roll again”?

In other news: I’m on vacation this week, people. I’m still going to schedule posts, but I may be slow responding to comments. Don’t forget to enter to win a subscription to The Sun. Leave a comment on this post before 11:59 p.m. Eastern on Monday, July 13. Good luck!

Interviews With Editors

Jason Sanford points to a piece in Clarkesworld that contains interviews with 10 editors of major SF and fantasy publications. Required reading.