Michael Swanwick's Blog, page 179

Voting Day

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This is what democracy looks like.  Marianne and I got up this morning, walked over to the Knights of Columbus hall, voted, and then went over to Crossroads Coffee House for breakfast.  It wasn't very dramatic.

But that's the whole point, innit?  More times than not, I've seen my favored candidate go down in flames and somebody I despised (Richard Nixon and George W. Bush come to mind) elected president.  But I've never, even when I was young and hotheaded, been tempted to pick up a gun afterward.

Brilliant invention, the vote is.  We had a good turnout too.  I was number 62 and the polls had only been open some forty minutes.

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Small Worlds

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I'm working on a secret project, so Saturday i went to a miniatures show in Cherry Hill.  And what's that all about?  Dollhouses, basically, and dollhouse accessories.  There were things there would make even the most hardened non-collector feel a twinge of desire -- such as the detailed miniature, shown above, of Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater.

But there were also things that would confirm you in your opinion that here was an opportunity to spend far too much money.  Such as a $350 cut crystal bowl, small enough to balance on a fingertip.  It was exquisitely crafted, of course.  But buying enough crystal to make your miniature china cabinet look respectable would cost you several thousand dollars.  And then there'd be the rest of the room and house to furnish.

"There's your desk!" I said to Marianne, knowing she'd always wanted a nicely complicated rolltop.

 "For that money," she replied, eying the price tag, "I could buy a real one."

What struck me most strongly, though, was that these people were engaged in creating small, imaginary worlds -- fantasies, if you will -- and yet there was almost no overlap with the worlds of fantasy and science fiction.  No Baba Yaga chicken legged dollhouse or Moominhouse or 1950s Moon Base or Lothlorien elven tree-house  . . .  There wasn't even any overlap with the the ship-model building community, though the commonality would seem obvious.

My son is a shrewd social observer, so I asked him about this phenomenon.  "When a sub-culture is shrinking, the boundaries are patrolled more rigorously and the purity of the core defended more passionately," he said, adding that the sub-cultures shrink when the avenues to bring young people in disappear.  Model trains are a good example of this, because children aren't given train sets anymore.  Nor, apparently, doll houses.

Which explained why almost everyone at the show was old.  It wasn't just that so much of what was for sale was pricey -- there were lots of small and cunning creations without reach of a modest pocketbook.   It was that this small world was steadily growing smaller.

I asked about comic books, which you used to be able to buy in every drugstore and (remember these?) magazine kiosk.  "There are still two routes into them," he said, "the movies and Saturday morning cartoons."

I didn't ask about genre fantasy, which I already knew was safe for the moment.  Fandom may be getting grayer and less welcoming to the young, but there are still lots of ways for young readers to discover fantasy and science fiction.  Still, it was a sobering reminder of what could easily happen . . . a dystopian future in which the readers grow steadily older and fewer and the books become increasingly more like themselves, predictable and stereotypical.  It confirmed me in my resolve to write some very, very strange fiction.




Immediately above:  Elements for the secret project.

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Bid Early and Often!

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The Halloween story is finished, but the auction for the original typescript has just begun.  The four by six inch typescript, printed in small text so the entire story fits on one page, has been signed, placed in a contemporary frame, and is now up on Ebay.

This is being done for the benefit of Clarion West Writers Workshop.  Not a penny of the proceeds will go to me.  In fact, I'll be paying for the postage myself.   So if you're a collector or need a present for a collector and or just think this would be a cool thing to have hanging on your wall, you can bid with a clean conscience.  Your money will be going straight back into the sf/fantasy/horror community.

You can find it here.  Or go to Ebay and type in "autographed" and "Michael Swanwick." 

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Air Lothlorien

  and aLast
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Last night was Halloween and, for a miracle, we had lots of trick-or-treaters.  There aren't a lot of children on our street and only a few of us make an effort to be generous with the candy, so normally we don't get many visitors.

But last night we ran out of candy. It wasn't easy, either.

And above . . .

Just how big a deal are the Lord of the Rings and now The Hobbit movies to New Zealand?  Pretty darned big, apparently.

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It's Halloween!!!!

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .

That year summer lasted halfway to forever.  The dog days of August stretched into September and beyond.  It was only in late October that a storm front finally swept through Winooski and brought in cooler weather.  When the rain ended, Kenny ran out the back door of his house and through the dying woods at the edge of town, into a meadow that crunched underfoot.  Looking up, he saw a bat struggle across a sky that storm and sunset working together had turned an eerie green.  For the first time Halloween felt near.

Out of nowhere, a skeletal hand clutched his shoulder and spun him around.  Kenny found himself staring into the ivory face of an impossibly lean man.  The face had no eyes, only blank skin over the sockets where eyes should be. The mouth, when it opened, was full of pointed teeth.  Kenny's heart hammered.  He tried to pull away, but those bony fingers held him like shackles.

"We are leaving, boy, all of us," the pale man said. Kenny didn't have to ask who me meant.  Kenny had spent the afternoon drawing monsters in his math workbook:  vampires, ghouls, giant spiders, frankensteins, werewolves.  Everything that people feared even though they knew better.  Everything that kids loved even though they knew they shouldn't. Maybe that was what had drawn this creature to him.  "Your kind has ruined this world. Soon you will be extinct.  So we are opening a passage elsewhere."  Then he added, "But we will not go alone."

“Where are you going?” Kenny asked.

The pale man raised his blind face to stare up into infinity.  "Far, far away."  Then he added, "But we will not go alone.  We are gathering the most sensitive and imaginative mortals to accompany us on our long, dark trek.”

“You’re taking me with you?”   Kenny was terrified at the prospect, but also a little thrilled.   He could not deny that.  But neither could he keep himself from asking, “Why?”

“Humanity has always had a symbiotic relationship with its monsters.  We give shape to the fears you dare not face. And you– ”  The hand on Kenny’s shoulder did not weaken, struggle against it though he did.  But the other hand now stroked Kenny’s hair gently, almost lovingly.  That terrifying mouth twisted into a near-smile.   “Think of yourself as a brown bag lunch for the voyage.”

* And my commentary . . .

So it concludes, as it pretty much had to, a breath before the plunge into the long, dark spaces between the stars.  Today I make arrangements to put the original typescript of the story (pictured above) up on auction.  All proceeds go to the Clarion West Writers Workshop.  Obviously, I'm hoping that the auction will bring them oodles and oodles of money.  But it's equally possible that it will go for a pittance.  In which case, you might wind up with something cool for your wall at far below the market rate.

For those who are reading these things in hope of getting tips on how to write:  I came up with the final sentence before writing the first one.  That way, as I was writing, every sentence was aimed straight at the ending.  This not only meant I never had to go back and excise passages that led nowhere but that the ending (ideally) has the feeling of inevitability.  This is a trick that will not work for every story or for every writer -- I know writers who write only to discover the ending, for whom this technique would simply prevent them from ever starting a story -- but it's worth your trying.
If you want to link to the final story without my commentary, you can find it here.

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Of Ghoulies and Storms

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .                                                                               (Part 36)

That terrifying mouth twisted into a near-smile.
(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .
We've arrived at the penultimate sentence and, as you'll have noticed, I'm still stalling, putting off the conclusion, cranking up the suspense.  This could go on halfway to forever.  In my time, I've written stories that really milked the moose.  But I am not a cruel man, whatever others may say.  Tomorrow, all will be revealed.

You can read all of the story to date here.
And don't forget . . .

The day after tomorrow, the original typescript of this story, signed, dated, and gothically framed, goes up on auction.   All proceeds will go to the Clarion West Writers Workshop.  Even the postage will be covered by me.

Why?  Because I honestly believe we need fiction.  And to have fiction requires writers.  And CW shortens the process for them.  A good deal all around.
And speaking of monsters . . . 

 Having seen those photos of lower Manhattan, I won't belittle "Frankenstorm."  But it definitely gave us a pass.  I went into the back yard this morning to discover that leaves had been torn from the trees, and one of the lawn chairs had been toppled by the wind.  Oh, and the ground was wet.  That was it.   Even the basement was dry.

So I was fortunate and I'm feeling happy and grateful for it and I wish the same for you.


Above:  Poor Miss Hope was so looking forward to being a refugee!

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Of Ghoulies and Costumes

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .                                                                               (Part 35)


But the other hand now stroked Kenny’s hair gently, almost lovingly.  
(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .
Okay, that's creepy.  The erotic just-barely-subtext is deliberate.  Real horror exists just slightly over the edge of what we can admit to out loud.  Once it's been brought out into the open (as Ann Rice's admittedly briliant Interview With the Vampire did), it's not a long trip to Twilight , and a hop-skip-and-a-jump from there to Count Chocula breakfast cereal.  But, as I said before, our relationship with our monsters has always been a tangled one.
You can read all of the story to date here.
And don't forget . . .

Only two more days of story!  After which the typescript goes up on auction.  Bid early and often, because the recipient of any money it brings -- Clarion West Writers Workshop -- is that worthiest of causes, one which ensure we'll have good stories when those writers currently at work falter and fall back into the relentless wastes of history.
And . . .
Saturday I went to a Halloween party where everybody had to come dressed as something beginning with the letter H.   That's me in my costume up above.  You got it immediately, right?  The toga . . . the baseball bat . . . who else could I be but Homer?
Let us pause now to remember the immortal poet's single best work, the Caseyad :

Sing, goddess, of the wrath of CaseyHero of MudvilleThat brought countless ills upon his fans . . .
Many a pitch he did ignoreFor liking not its styleHis Myrmidons cried, "Kill the ump!"He stopped them with a smile . . .
O'er wine-dark sea and green oasisRosy-fingered dawn doth shoutSwift-footed Casey runs no basesAlas, he hath struck out

Someday I'm going to have to write out the whole thing.
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Ghoulies

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .                                                                               (Part 34)

The hand on Kenny’s shoulder did not weaken, struggle against it though he did.  

(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .
This sentence serves more than one purpose.  It establishes that Kenny has caught on to the implications of what the pale man is saying and is now genuinely afraid -- he'd run away if he could.  Also that the pale man intends to do more than just frighten him, or he'd simply let him go.  Most importantly, it delays the revelation again, cranking up the suspense ever so slightly.

Note that I wrote "though he did," rather than "though he might."  The unused phrasing comes to the tongue, the hand, the mind, more easily and thus would make the sentence flow faster.  Normally that would be good.  But here, I want to slow down the reader. 
You can read all of the story to date here.

And since this is Sunday . . .
Today is a Day of Rest.  So I won't be doing any work at all.  Except for battening down the house and laying in supplies against the unspeakable horrors of Frankenstormageddon.  They're expecting huge portions of the East Coast to be reduced to cannibalism by Wednesday with the possible emergence of zombies by the weekend.  So I'd better run out and buy several bags of chips before the storm hits.

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Ghoulies and Another Halloween Story

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .                                                                               (Part 33)

And you – ”     


(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .
Here it comes.  The payoff, the climax, the explanation of exactly what's going on here!   We're almost there.
Which is why, right on the brink of revelation, I pause.  As Tom Stoppard put it, "There is an art to the building up of suspense."
You can read all of the story to date here.

And speaking of storytelling . . .
There really ought to be a holiday for storytellers.  And there is -- Halloween!  Charles Dickens owns Christmas.  Groundhog Day has one movie and that's pretty much it.  But Halloween is an occasion to bring out Hwthorne, Bradbury, King, Angela Carter, James  . . . oh, far, far too many writers to name!  
So I hope I won't be accused of modesty when I acknowledge that I'm not the only writer working the free-story-for-a-worthy cause grift.  Over at Audible, they're giving away a free download of Click-Clack the Rattlebag , written and read by Neil Gaiman.  But only now through Halloween, so you'll have to hurry.
What makes this particularly cool is that for every free download, Audible will give a dollar to education charity DonorsChoose.  They're prepared to give away up to one hundred thousand dollars, which I think is an eminently doable number. 
I just can't find a downside to this arrangement.
You can get the audio download here.
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Of Ghoulies and Janis Ian

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .                                                                                (Part 32)

We give shape to the fears you dare not face. 


(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .
Also true.  This is why, with familiarity, monsters like Dracula and Cthulhu become lovable (can Cthulhu Crunch breakfast cereal be far away?), while death and an empty, meaningless universe do not.

Halloween is coming fast!  And so is the end of the story.  Don't forget that the typescript, framed and suitable for hanging on your wall, goes up on auction afterwards.  Tell any collectors you may know.  Because if it goes for a pittance, it might as well go for a pittance to somebody you like.
You can read all of the story to date here.

And last night . . . 

Marianne and I went to the Sellersville Theater last night, to see our friend Janis Ian in concert.  I like Janis personally, and I value our friendship.  But I have one small, special connection with her that I don't have with most of my friends -- she gave me a story.

Several years ago, Janis edited Stars , an anthology of science fiction stories based on her songs.  I was invited to participate and knew immediately which song I wanted to use.  When she wrote it, Janis thought she was writing about Mary Black.  But anybody with any Irish in them at all will recognize her Mary as an incarnation of Deirdre of the Sorrows, who is in turn the great symbol of the Irish soul.  There are very few songs that can make me cry, and they're all about the Irish experience.  This is one of them.

Not bad for a Jewish kid from New Jersey.

As it turned out, I didn't make the anthology.  The story was too intensely personal and too difficult to find for that.  But the years passed and the story at last came of age and I was so intensely pleased with how it came out that I took Janis's lines "We are ships without a harbor/We are sailors on dry land" and put them, slightly altered, into the mind of someone who's leaving Earth never to return -- a damaged man and a failure, but sustained by just enough hope to keep on going.

Those words are hers forever.  But now an echo of them is mine.


Oh, and . . . 

I learned last night that the audiobook version of Society's Child , Janis Ian's autobiography, is up for a Grammy.  I read the text version and was immensely happy with it.  Janis really can write and, yes, she did have an extremely varied and interesting life.

I haven't yet heard the audio version but I will, because Janis mentioned that in it she not only does all the narration but also sings the songs that the printed book could only quote.  So this may be that rarest of literary animals, the audiobook that's better than the original.  I'll find out soon.

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