a moment of burnt hat

I have to apologise for the naivete of this post.  I'm stumbling my way through thinking about these things.

I used to joke that I wrote SF because I didn’t know enough about reality to write in it.  It wasn’t wholly a joke.  Eighteen years into my professional writing life, I still don’t know much about the 'real' world.  My life experience is limited and my education is somewhat sketchy, so some writers have much wider life experience than I do, and many have studied more.  Still, I suspect that  writers glean a good percentage of our working material by recycling it to some extent or another out of stories—books and movies.  By ‘recycling’ I don’t mean literally nicking things and using them (although this happens) but rather, that we digest a mix of story and real life and then it emerges in a different form in our own work. 

So what is the reality of what we have digested? Especially, of what we have digested from second-hand sources?

I constantly complain about fight scenes in books (and obviously movies too) on this basis.  Most of them are unselfconsciously ridiculous. My sister, a nursing professor, complains about medical scenes.  The phenomenon could extend in many directions depending on what it is that you know more-than-most about.  Certainly in reading the recent discussions on colonialism, globalisation, and the failure of world literature to include genuine non-Western viewpoints, I’ve been thinking a lot about the particulars of the SFF genre and my own work in this context. I’ve been thinking about a kind of self-perpetuating bullshit cycle that seems to turn up.

I’m not speaking specifically about colonialism here, which is deserving of its own space.  This more of a tangential thought about the genre: I wonder if fantasy literature, which by its definition allows us to bypass reality checks, is particularly vulnerable to allowing us to delude ourselves and therefore get away with stuff that is distortionary and prejudicial in whatever manner.  Because it’s not ‘real.’   And anything is fair game.  We wouldn’t expect to publish a political thriller without knowing the ins and outs of government and world affairs and lots of other fact-checkable nuts and bolts, but if we write that thriller in dressed-up fantasy terms, there’s a lot of fudge-space there.  I’ve used it myself. I think there could be something extra-pernicious about our genre in this department. Maybe that's not an insight to anybody but me?

Granted, it’s hard to get a reality-check on something that doesn’t exist—a theoretical projection or a proposed future, for example. But even when I’m going out there as far as I know how to do I must necessarily refer to what I do know.  I reach for some example of what I already know and try to bend or stretch it, or juxtapose it with another object so as to create an interaction that may generate something genuinely original.  I suppose in way that’s a definitional problem of writing SFF—no matter how I may try to set up a philosophical experiment, it always has to have some grounding in the concrete world.  I try to notice my real-life reference points.  I try to make some honest attempt to face up to the pitfalls of the way I’m using them, although the pitfalls aren’t always obvious to me at the time.

But what about the idea of inventing because actually learning the facts is too hard?  SFF writers are in a particularly privileged position in terms of being able to do this. What about saying, ‘I don’t know shit about how X works so I’ll just borrow a pinch of this and a dash of that and throw in some stuff that I saw this other writer do, and it’ll all be OK in the mix’?

That might not be actively harmful.  Or it might.  What if the stuff you borrow and (inevitably) distort is actually a portion of someone’s reality?  I mean, it seems obvious to say that’s uncool, but the uncoolness seems somehow unexamined, glossed-over, when in our genre it should probably be an area of mainstream writerly concern--there's no shortage of discussion on how to write an effective query letter, after all, but cultural appropriation doesn't get enough coverage at entry-level even though writers are effectively gods of our made-from-whole-cloth worlds.

The marketing machine demands fodder, of course, so it skews toward the derivative anyway.  Within the dominant culture, this skew can be very annoying.  But when you start to think about what is happening globally when Blockbuster X comes rolling into town, it seems what we can end up with is this big armoured tank of derivative untrue nonsense rolling in and crushing the original cultural ecosystem, wrecking it and replacing it with the machine’s own paradigm. Never mind what writers inside that culture produce; it's now irrelevant as far as the machine is concerned.

If it’s not my culture that’s being destroyed by globalisation, I can be upset about this overwriting and the losses it entails, on a theoretical level.  I can try to empathise with the people being silenced, and I can feel badly about it when I choose to think about it.  But I don’t have to think about it if I don’t want to.  And I can’t actually know or imagine how it feels to be in the path of that oncoming machine, how incredibly toxic the whole business is.  As a whitebread USian I’m riding more or less on top of a wave of destruction.

I need to really think about it and decide what my level of complicity with that armoured tank, or that wave, actually is.  To what extent am I OK with letting this destruction occur rather than stating up front that I prefer the complexities and disagreements and dangers of a world in which my culture might not end up in total absolute power over all things?  Because that is what it comes down to, right?  Actually giving others some space and not just coopting everything.  I don't know why that should be so hard, but apparently the capitalist model does what it does, and too bad if people don't like it on an individual level--I don't know how to stop it, personally. 

I want to say, oh nonono, this isn’t of my making, it’s not under my control, I don’t want it at all not even one tiny bit.  But I suspect that subconsciously some part of me must be a little relieved to be safely inside that tank.  I’m not proud of it, but I really need to look at that cowardice and make some changes in my head.

Fumbling, rambling.  Thinking.

I may have been absent from the internet lately, but I've got the best possible excuse: I've been working! I really don't know how writers who blog and tweet seriously manage to do both. All respect for that, but it's outta my range. I can't be online when I'm writing seriously.

Yesterday I finished off another round of Shadowboxer. I have lost track of how many times I've recrafted that book to satisfy this person or that person.  This time the changes that were suggested really made sense to me, and although I had to take out a lot of plot to make the book work, I think it does work now. I hope so.  Bloody hell. I reckon I've invested more heart in this story than in anything I've written in the last fifteen years. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing; everything to do with it feels incredibly personal and intimate, even though there's nothing autobiographical as such in the novel at all.

Of course I have a huge stack of things that need doing, and my sense of duty nearly had me plunging straight into sorting out the shed. But I remembered the wise advice of Stephanie Burgis: Celebrate, she said. So today I went into Shrewsbury, bought each of my kids a book at Waterstone's and decided to treat myself to a new notebook and new pen because I will soon resume my assault upon the untitled SF novel whose protagonist is called Pearl. Well. I normally buy the cheapest available pens and paper.  I buy big boxes of cheap biros and reams of cheap copy paper to write on. None of your £13 moleskines for me--yikes, I could fill an entire moleskine with angst about my toenails on any given day, and then where would I be?

But today was special, because Shadowboxer, w00t! I went to Paperchase and compromised my budget with a cheap moleskine knockoff that lies flat. I found a Pilot pen that writes in purple ink!  I sat down in Starbuck's to write a long-overdue card to Kaz Mahoney with the purple pen. Wrote one card. Then opened the notebook and wrote half a page. I glanced up and my friend Yumi happened to be walking past, so I leaped up, we waved at each other through the window, gesticulated a bit, and I sat back down.  THE PEN DID NOT WORK. It took me a couple of minutes to resuscitate it, in the process of which I observed that the ink had already gone down by about 10%.

Friendslist who are stationery fetishists like me, I ask you: how can this be acceptable? It was a Pilot pen, not some dinky thing from The Works. So disappointed.

Anyway, I then went for a lovely walk by the river in Shrewsbury. And as I was soaking up the genteel Shrewsbury vibe I recalled a recent trip to Chester with Steve. As we walked around the top of the old Roman walls and took in all the different perspectives on the city, I kept thinking that it all seemed too perfect. 'Steve,' I said after we'd passed about the twentieth neat thing, 'This place isn't for real.  It has to be run by vampires or something.'

So today, in Shrewsbury-which-is-architecturally-not-unlike Chester, I was thinking about this and I remembered a novel that I dashed off when Rhiannon was a baby. I had it up on my website for a while. It was a YA fantasy about a girl who can't see ghosts in a world that's ruled by ghosts.  My then-US-agent sent it out and it got a nibble from one editor, but I let it go for reasons that have no bearing on this post. I stuck the novel up on my website for a bit and then pulled it down in shame, because to be honest it wasn't very good. I'd written it hastily and without a lot of conviction.

But I always liked the idea.

Today in the car on the way home a new version of the story unrolled at my feet like a...ok, maybe not quite like a magic carpet but like something that's good.  A Twister mat?  A picnic blanket?  A fruit roll-up? It unrolled, damnit, and now that can be added to the long list of ideas that need to be fully developed, fleshed out and realised. I scrawled down some notes and a few paragraphs of narrative. We'll see if anything comes of it after I've worked it a bit more.

Then I went out and sorted the shed. There was a lot of post-flea junk out there. Steve had cut the heavy bag down to make room, so I cleared everything and we put the bag back up. I punched and kicked the bag. I love bags.  You can hit them and they don't hit you back!  How fun is that?

I'm on the last chunk of math and soon I'll be studying for the final.  I make it that I've been studying continuously since November of 2010, so having the summer off school will be heaven.

Yeah, I know this is really late.  Like I said, things went a bit pear-shaped last week…then I had to plunge back into a big pile of work…and also, I think, I may have turned a bit introverted after all the glamour and social performance over Easter weekend. I’m not feeling terribly articulate, but I will try to make this post because it’s silly late.

First of all, huge thanks to the con committee for inviting me.  I had the best time imaginable.  I didn’t see nearly enough of the many people I wanted to see and it all felt very rushed at times, and I didn’t sleep much because I was so over-stimulated.  I think my dark circles were halfway down my face by the end.

I loved it.

At the closing ceremonies I mentioned Philippa Watts, who was a brilliant guest liaison, and Zoe Sulma—without whom I’d have been lost and confused much of the time.  The Green Room folk were also lovely, and the guys from Ops were brilliant, doing some last-minute printouts for me—and huge thanks to Alex McClintock for getting my flash drive back to me when I left it in the con’s computer! Whew.

I’d never done a con before in the full-on sense.  I went to Worldcon in Winnipeg in 1994, where I knew no one but still managed to get in the same room as Anne McCaffrey and also harass poor David Brin into giving me a blurb for my first novel.  I went to Glasgow Worldcon in 1995 when LETHE came out, but I still didn’t really know anyone.  I can’t remember much about it and I don’t think I was on the program.  Last year I popped into Eastercon but couldn’t get on the programme despite having a novel on the BSFA shortlist.  In the bar I seem to recall shedding tears upon both Darren Nash and Anne Clarke over the wretched state of my ‘career’ (sorry about that, guys).

This is why Olympus 2012 was a whole new world for me, and after spending so many years surrounded by nappies and uncooperative novels, the star treatment that I got was unbelievable.  I don’t think I could possibly articulate how uplifting it was to sit in a kaffeeklastch for the first time (not only was it FULL, but  Justina Robson and Freda Warrington showed up!) and speak with readers about my work.  Massive ego boost!

I should mention that of my ten published books, nine are out of print (and yes, I know I need to do something about the e-books).  Because of this I was very surprised to find that Forbidden Planet had copies of DOUBLE VISION and someone in the Dealer’s Room had hardcovers of LETHE (with that unfortunate cover).  I went into author signings fully expecting to sign nothing while George got mobbed, but readers  brought me things to sign.  And Zoe talked to me.  It was lovely.

I was busy, but in a good way. I didn't get to attend many panels that I wanted to because I was on lots myself.  It sounds like I missed some great stuff, but I enjoyed every single panel I was on, even the scary ‘Occupy the Metaverse’ with Farah and Adam being all erudite as they are--and speaking of Farah, she really seems to have got the best out of me in her interview.  I only wish there had been space for it on the con’s ustream site. 

The one panel I was worried about (Heroism) seems to have been survived by me—it certainly wasn’t as bad as I feared; I was sweating bullets beforehand.  I’d like to thank the friends who talked to me about it beforehand (you all know who you are) and injected me with the necessary chutzpah.  I muffed some figures about warfare because I wasn’t expecting the discussion to go in that direction and was talking off the top of my head.  When I talked about battlefield studies, I managed to conflate a figure roughly estimated at 10-15% of soldiers firing with intent to kill with the quite different statistic estimating 2% of the population that are ‘natural born killers’. They are two different numbers, and the 10-15% is only a guesstimate; but the point is that armies have to train their soldiers to kill.  It doesn’t come naturally for most. 

On natural born killers https://notes.utk.edu/bio/greenberg.nsf/a80806fbebea8dd285257015006e1943/09613ff986b2a86885257599001505c1?OpenDocument

And an interesting video as well: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9Ozno7HMGE

So, lots to think about when we use the word ‘warrior’ especially the bit about a lot of the kills occurring when the enemy was running away. 

I talked about the peak shift effect.  Here’s a little bit more about that.  http://clicks.robertgenn.com/peak-shift.php

I don’t know how well my Bionicles illustrated it at long distance, but I think it’s interesting that our tendency to exaggerate obvious features in artistic representations can be pinned down with a bit of science. 

The other thing that I mentioned but didn’t get to concerns the function of the reticular activating system in how we see what we want to see.  Here’s a little bit about that. http://www.sourcetext.com/sourcebook/essays/scotoma.html

And on the line between fantasy and reality, have a look at this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-G1ApUEXcbo&sns=fb

But enough about that.  My reading is here: http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/21718512.  I read the beginning of the untitled SF novel and also the beginning of YA novel Shadowboxer, which I’m still working on.  People asked me afterward when these books were coming out.  Neither of them is under contract and at the moment I don’t have an agent, either, so! I just don’t know! What will happen! I do know that the encouragement I received at Eastercon will go a long way toward fuelling me on with my work.

To everyone I met over the weekend, to everyone who attended panels or readings with me: THANK YOU.

I am happy.

(Never fear. I’m sure normal whining will resume here before long.)

Been underwater.  As I write this I’ve just finished yet another session of calculus in which I make a variety of mistakes, and have another go, and make more mistakes, and have another go...I like to quit my work sessions on a positive note so that I’ll go back in strong, but lately I’m quitting out of mental exhaustion because there are no positive notes.  I know I will master this, but at the moment there’s no sign of that happening soon.

The only tiny bit of encouragement comes in the fact that others are struggling, too.  There are only three people who attend the local tutorials and one of them has dropped out, while the other is even farther behind than I am and confessed she had entertained thoughts of chucking it in.  We agreed that the eight-hours-per-week advertised for this course is completely ridiculous unless you’ve had prior exposure to A-levels math.

I have all the books for the physics course I’m taking in September.  I’m supposed to be studying them early, which is a hilarious thought. 

I mentioned a while back that we were having problems with the kids’ school.  After a lot of palaver & kerfuffle (downmarket Abercrombie & Fitch?) we ended up moving them.  It’s a long commute, expensive on petrol, but they are doing well so far.  Fingers crossed.  Meanwhile the Ofsted report for our old school has just been given to parents, and it is a complete disgrace from a leadership standpoint.  I feel terrible for everyone in the community, especially the kids.  There are a lot of wonderful staff members at that school, too.  So discouraging to see what’s gone on there.

I believe the word is draining.  Too many emotions, I suspect resulting in a low-level brain fog blocking my calculus-fu. I’ve had insomnia, a cold, and some work-related wrestling matches with other humans and my own demons.  No training of any kind for weeks now, and I’m sure that’s creating a vicious cycle with insomnia.  I need to knock myself out.  Sometimes the only way I can shut my head down is by sweating the darkness out of myself.

But!  There are signs of life.  Spring is coming, and it’s most welcome here.

I’m a little in love with the book I’m writing, even if it has me in that swoopy place of not knowing what the hell I’m doing and doing it anyway.  It would be impossible to overstate how grateful I am for that Scrivener file, scruffy treasure and touchstone that it is.

I’m going running now.  I need sky.