Andrew Hiller's Blog

The Long Road to a Happy Ending in Hell

About a year ago, I thought I had a book deal. The publisher provided me with their edit requests, we talked about marketing, I even had the green light to reach out to authors for blurbs. Then with no foreshadowing or reason offered, it fell apart. Now, I’ve been writing long enough to develop pretty good callouses, but this one devastated me.

Maybe it was because of how over the moon the publisher had been just a month earlier. Maybe it was the embarrassment of reapproaching authors I admire who said “yes.” Maybe it was just that this was the wolf gust that smashed up my brick house after so many other concussive blows.

Some things held. My would-be blurbing authors offered encouragement and most said they would be happy to help me when my book found its next home. My writing circle encouraged me to write and inspired me with their works and successes. New story ideas edged their noses out like groundhogs. Neither of us were ready to venture out, but the hint of floral air encouraged me that spring might return.

Out of stubbornness or habit, I worked on a few new things. Sent out a scattering of submissions. I even reworked the book a little.

Hearing positivity about my book from authors I respect helped speed the healing process. My writing group contains some really great writers. By most metrics, they are much more successful than I am.

Then one day on a Discord channel, I read a post submitted by a publisher who was celebrating a mention of their imprint in a Reactor.com article. So, I clicked the link and read the article. This publisher, Atthis Arts, was listed as one of the small presses that consistently produced high quality works.

I was tempted. My chutzpah gained control of my fingers.

I reached out and asked if we could chat. The editor said she loved talking about Atthis and so we DMed. That first conversation lasted about two pages and over an hour. It surprised me just how easily the conversation flowed. We ranged on topics far beyond the work and submission process. Like many creatives, we traded war stories and even admitted to hard times and rejections. To my delight, as we wound down, she volunteered to take a peek at what I had written.

Almost immediately, I started getting updates. If I’m being honest, most of them were apologies for not getting to my novella yet. Then, on a Saturday, she DMed that she read it, loved it, and offered a few impromptu high-level notes.

I liked what she had to say. I could see where she was leading. I asked if she would be willing to wait a little while longer out of respect to a publisher who had the book in hand. She agreed.

Today, well maybe not the today you are reading this, but the today I am writing this… I signed a contract. My silly, deep, wonderfully weird Jewish fantasy noir has found a home.

And I think it just might be the right home.

From Inkling to Inked

High in the sky, taller than the tallest buildings, lived Nimbus the Cloud.

For those of you who have read Pitter Patty Finds Another Day, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, That’s wrong. That’s not how it begins. You’re not wrong, except that really is how it began. 

This is the origin story of Pitter Patty and how it came to be published.

***

The electives offered during my senior year at John F. Kennedy High School depressed me. I had already exhausted all the art classes and I wanted at least one course in my final year to be fun. Then, I saw it. A creative writing class! This was it! This was what I wanted. The idea of spinning stories with my friends and fellow creatives sounded perfect.

Problem. The class hadn’t actually been taught for ten years. It was an artifact that no teacher had been assigned to and no other student was talking about.

I recruited a teacher who cautioned that there was just one catch, the class needed at least ten other students and we only had a week before registration. So, I approached my friends and canvassed the upcoming junior class. Between the drama club, D&Ders, and my friends, I found a handful willing to sign a petition promising interest. Okay, it wasn’t as easy as that, but by the time we lined up for class sign-up, fifteen wordsmiths signed up for the course.

I don’t remember much about that semester to be honest. I do kind of remember Mr. Holland’s idea of the class was much more structured than I hoped it would be. He even came up with a syllabus! One week, we were assigned historical fiction, the next- mystery.You get the idea.

Well, one week, we were tasked to write a children’s book. 

Groan. Picture books are for kids! I wanted to continue to work on my fantasy epic, A Crack in the Sky. (Authors Note: A Crack in the Sky was brilliant and no you can not read it.)

So, despite a mini-revolt, we succumbed and began working on the assigned project. Because while writers are Prometheus bringing fire down from the mountain, teachers are Zeus, and Zeus tends to get what he wants. So, picture books! Yay!

My absolute favorite picture book growing up was Harold and the Purple Crayon. I just adored how drawing got Harold into and out of trouble and how a shaky line could become an ocean. So like Harold, I thought and scribbled and most importantly, I doodled (which is still one of my favorite ways of story-thinking.)

For some reason, I focused on the background. In my sketches, the background surfaced as the foreground. I wasn’t interested in the people living in the houses or populating the forest. I wasn’t at all curious about who dwelled in the mountains or skyscrapers. Instead, my fingers wanted to stay in the sky.

And I started drawing this round, puffy cloud. Only, it was crying because… it was a raincloud… and one of those puffs on its back wasn’t a puff, but a hobo’s sack. Like this raincloud was running away from home.

Nimbus at age 17

I stared at my little cloud and knew I had the hero of my story. I named him Nimbus (because every cloud character must be named Nimbus) and drafted my story.

Now, the writing of Nimbus the Cloud has changed a lot over the years, but the story really hasn’t. The fact that Nimbus changed from a boy cloud to a girl cloud or that the story now rhymes hasn’t really altered the heart of the story I conceived of when I was seventeen. Nimbus is still the story of a raincloud desperate to find a place to belong, but always run off because people don’t appreciate what he brings into the world. A cloud who is finally embraced not because he changes, but because he finds a place to be loved for who and what he is.

Nimbus at age 25

This story has stayed with me. Every few years, I’d rewrite it from memory. But I didn’t really know what to do with it. How to put my cloud into the world to see if she could make any friends. Then I met Tara Moeller, editor and publisher of Dreampunk Press, at Mars Con. We were on a panel together and afterwards she asked for a copy of A Halo of Mushrooms. We became friends and every so often exchanged drafts of novels. I helped beta read some of Dreampunk’s offerings pre-publication. Then one day, she asked me if I had anything for her.

It honestly hadn’t occurred to me. We were colleagues and friends. I looked through my projects and thought, “What about…?”

There was some hesitation. Tara knew me as a fantasy author. Would she be willing to entertain a picture book? Did her publishing house even do picture books? So, those familiar butterflies fluttered when I tapped send on the email.

Tara’s edits taught me a lot about picture books. 

The draft I sent to her had many more rhymes and words. It was maybe a third longer than the final published version. Still, she accepted it, patiently explaining that the standard length of a picture book is thirty-two pages and that’s why we needed to cut and change it from a rhyming book to a book with rhymes. We went back and forth on a number of drafts. Luckily, there were no tears… Well, not until we got to the illustrations. That’s when the downpour really started.

My publisher wanted an experienced children’s book artist. Not me.

Now you have to understand, line, composition, and texture has always been a key part of who I am. I sold my first painting at the age of twelve and have had several gallery exhibitions. My drawings have been featured in pamphlets and playbills. My graphics have been good enough to fill the webpages of nationally syndicated radio shows. So, when Tara told me I was not going to be the illustrator of Pitter Patty, it came as a surprise… and a delight.

Yes, delight… seriously!

Before my radio work, my first professional writing was for the theatre and there on the New York stage, I learned about the power of collaboration. About how other perspectives, experiences, and skillsets can enhance what’s on the page.

Without Yvonne, the look of Nimbus… I mean Pitter Patty, likely would have been keyed to those first high school sketches, but by getting a different artist involved, Patty evolved past my teenaged inspiration. And yes, when I first saw my reimagined rain cloud tears welled up in my eyes. To see this dream realized was overwhelming.

But… I did have notes.

When the storyboard arrived, I studied each line drawing and looked at the expression on every face and character. I reviewed perspective, composition, use of light and dark. Sometimes, my note was “Perfect! Don’t change a thing.” Other times, I asked questions, emphasized points, and once or twice asked for a replacement sketch. Little Dreamer’s Art Director Mo Moeller and Tara did the same. Many of my ideas were adopted. Sometimes, I was wrong. Working like this is a blast. It reminded me of my musical theatre days.

Back then, when a composer set my words to music, the first hearing was often painful. Not because the music was bad, but because it was different. You see, somewhere in the back of my head, there lingered a thought of how the song should sound and it often took a listen or two before I could shake that to hear what was actually being presented.

The same process didn’t quite happen with Yvonne’s illustrations. Maybe I’ve grown up or maybe she’s that good, but that dissonance… that resistance never emerged. I was just happy. So, we worked  on what was in front of us and what was best for the story and not against my preconceived notions.

And (humble brag) the book turned out beautiful.

Next came the words. Oh, not the story, but the typeface and the design work. Don’t underestimate this. There is a subtle yet powerful effect in how the phrases are grouped, their color, their boldness, etc. It really impacts the emotional resonance of a picture book.

Thanks Mo!

And you’re right, there’s more. A lot more. A lot more that had to be done before Pitter Patty made it onto the shelf or into your hands, but much of that has to do with the business side of publishing and for Pitter Patty, I may not be the best one to share that part of the story. The important part is that after all this work, after so many drafts, and so many hands, and so much love… rain fell, seeds grew, fruit blossomed, and Pitter Patty found her day.

Shaving the Story (or How I won Escape Pod’s 2022 Flash Fiction Contest)

The goal was 500 words. That was the uncompromising ceiling Escape Pod set. Five hundred words to establish relatable characters, set a beginning, middle, and relay an ending that satisfies… Not to mention, develop conflict, stakes, and a tension that feels real. (42 words)

First step: Choosing the story.

Not all tales fit the bill. Some have questions that spill over the edge. Others require too much background info. I needed something that didn’t immediately demand subplots or play with multiple themes. At the same time, it had to be something that wasn’t trite, predictable or boring. Identifying a concept that satisfies the reader is the first and perhaps hardest trick. (109 words)

First, I checked my trunk, that spreadsheet of ideas that every writer has. Was there a seed in there? Something that fit the bill? I found this little time travel sketch whose opening lines demanded I get out of bed start typing. Yes, I thought. This is the one. (158words)

Second Step: Editing

The first draft was way too long. It was 850 words. Still, my radio work had trained me well. I knew how to write to a time slot. I cut descriptions. I cut backstory. I cut explanations of how the science worked. I cut descriptions of how the tech was powered. I added a gag or two. I cut a gag or two. I read and sanded. Read and stripped. Read and reread, parsing every phrase to see if its loss would cost the story rhythm and pace. I weighed my tale like an Egyptian God… aware that the heart of my story had to be lighter than a feather to enter heaven. (274 Words)

After five editing passes, I sent it to a friend to read. It was 498 words. The friend passed along a few notes: He asked for clarification on two bits. I added explainers then, took out the sandpaper again. Every word added meant words subtracted. Finished, I sent it to a second reader. They came up with a gag that was too great not to use. Suddenly, I had to find space for another twelve words .

I did it. Don’t ask me how. (358 words)

Third Step: The Contest

I hit submit before Escape Pod’s deadline.

The stories were judged March Madness style. To my surprise, I won the first bracket. Better, every review of the story was positive. The semi-finals went similarly. The finals, however, started poorly. I thought the journey might be over. You see, there were eight initial groups and my story was in the first batch. The finals started more than a month after most first read my story. I worried that everyone had forgotten my story (or worse that they might like the newer releases better. But day by day, votes kept trickling my way.

And… as Kermit the Frog would say, “Yaaaaayyyyy!” (465 words)

Thanks to everyone who read and voted for my story and to @EApodcasts for managing and running the contest. Thanks also to my beta readers Phil Margolies and Chris Rose. And lastly, to the Animaniacs! (500 words.)

https://escapepod.org/2022/09/08/esca...

An Oarsman on a 2021 Hugo Award Journey

On Saturday December 18, 2021, they presented the awards for the 2021 Hugo Awards. For those who don’t know, they’re sort of the Oscars for the field of science fiction and fantasy. So, for genre writers and nerds (like me) they’re a pretty big deal. The first award was presented in 1953, and together with the Nebula, the Hugos mark the highest acknowledgment an Science Fiction and fantasy (SFF) writer can get.

Yesterday, a fanzine I was a guest contributor to won one. 

What I mean by that is that I was on the team of story contributors beneath the winner. In February of 2020, Paul Weimer reached out to me and asked if I would help him on a ongoing project he was working on for the fanzine called the Mind Meld. He was looking for essays on what books modern authors would choose if they were teaching an Intro to  Science Fiction/Fantasy class. I wasn’t the only writer asked to do this, but I was excited when they included my submission and published it. It was the first work I did with Nerds of a Feather. So, when the editor thanked the writers, I felt thrilled (I even blurted out from my seat in the audience, “I won.”) After all, I may not have been the captain of the boat, but in the smallest way I was one of the crew… and maybe they would not have gotten to this port without me.

Nerds of a Feather Managing Editor Joe Sherry, me, and a 2021 Hugo Award

After the ceremony, I found Joe Sherry, the editor who accepted the reward on behalf of the publication, the writers, and team, we snapped a picture. We celebrated together because it’s amazing to discover where those rocket ship-shaped words we launch into space (or the internet) might take us.

Star Wars Writes

On Sunday, October 11, 2020, an author by the name of the Chris Rose, while reflecting on his writing, paraphrased Han Solo-

“Let’s just say we want to avoid any editorial entanglements,” he wrote.

The response to Chris’ Twitter post happened at light speed. Writers, rebels all, struck back with words, jokes, and even some wisdom. Missives were sent via droid to speak to writers of all stripes in Star Wars code.

In this period, where the dark side’s dominance makes many of us wonder whether the chance to return to normalcy is as likely as hitting a duct the size of a womp rat, writers Jeff Reynolds, Maureen Zahn, Tyler Hayes, Don Pizarro, and myself threw ourselves into the fray to offer our followers A New Hope.

I thought I should share… Help me, readers. You are an author’s only hope.

 

Each quote below was copied from Twitter with the poster’s permission.

Chris Rose:

“Let’s just say we want to avoid any editorial entanglements.” #amwriting

[eyes manuscript] “She may not look like much, but she’s got it where it counts, kid.”

 

Andrew Hiller:

“These are not the adverbs you are looking for. Move along.”
“There is no try. Only rewrites.”
“Fear is the path to the blank page…fear leads to anger…anger leads to hate…hate leads to suffering.”
“Luminous beings are we writers are…not this crude review.”
[camera pans from query letter on monitor to tight zoom of author’s shaking finger over “send” button.] Author: Never tell me the odds.
Audio Book Reader: [gasping] “Just for once, let me look on you with my own eyes.”
“Help me, beta readers. You are my only hope.”
“Luke: You know that little plot hole’s going to cause me a lot of trouble.

C-3PO: Oh, it excels at that, sir.”

When 900 rejections you reach, look this good you will not.”  

 

Jeff Reynolds:

“Help me, current WIP, you’re my only hope.”
(staring in awe) “That’s no metaphor….”
(much later) “Everything under control, situation normal. Uh, had a slight plot malfunction. But everything’s fine now. We’re all fine here. How are you?” (smashes computer) “Boring narrative anyway. Luke, we’ve got a rewrite coming!”
“Uncle Owen! This plotline has a bad motivator!”
“No. I am your main antagonist.” “No! That’s not true. That’s not possible!” “Search your outline. You know it to be true.”

 

Maureen Zahn:

“[TK add name]. You’ll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

Andrew: I almost want to go with– “Slush reader, you’ll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”


“Writers are easily startled, but they’ll soon be back — and j greater numbers.”
“I’m a red pen, I’m here to rescue you!”
*dying on Degobah* There is… another… storyline…

 

Tyler Hayes:

“I did the Kessel Run in under 12 parsecs![BETAS DIDN’T GET THE JOKE HERE, MAKE ERROR MORE LUDICROUS.]”
“These turns of phrase…too accurate for MFA Guys. Only SFF writers are this precise.”

 

John Appel:

(Agent to editor with contract redlines) “I have altered the deal. Pray I do not alter it further.”
“No, [AUTHOR], *I* am your main character.”
[Author seeing one of their friends get a starred review/nominated for an award] *Chewbacca roar at the end of A NEW HOPE*
[Author to agent after inking a deal] “I love you.” Agent: “I know.”

 

Don Pizarro:

“When 100,000 words you reach, look as good your first draft will not.”

Five Near Misses

The question of luck is one I’ve longed considered. Is one lucky because one is granted great fortune or because one avoids calamity. I’ve never really have been graced with the former, but it’s hard not to be grateful for surviving unscathed.

In my life, I have been struck by lightning, sucked into a rip tide, attacked by dogs, and, believe it or not, a car once fell on me yet I’ve never been hospitalized for any of them So, the question remains.

Am I lucky or cursed?

To tell my story of lucky misfortune, I really should begin more than thirty years before my birth. When my mother was three months old, Germany invaded Poland. My grandparents escaped Lodz before the ghetto closed. Part of the story of how they escaped two hundred miles on foot was published by the Washington Post here. As for my own lucky misfortunes, the first one happened at three years old at Miami Beach.

The Rip Tide

My family was vacationing in Miami. My grandmother, sister and I were staying with my aunt. Every day, we would walk the few blocks to the beach where we would play with beach balls, in the sand, and near the shore. I even sometimes let the water lap on my feet before screaming and running away.

One morning, my grandmother left my sister in charge of me. It was only for a short time just long enough for her to run back to the apartment and grab something she needed. My sister wasn’t really happy about being burdened with me. She was eight years old and wanted more than anything else to go rafting. I didn’t. I wanted to build and smash sandcastles. Besides, I couldn’t swim. I was only three.

The waves called to her. She looked at me and decided that my inability to swim wasn’t a good enough reason for her to have to wait.  She was there to have fun. Still, she knew she couldn’t leave me alone so she tried to convince me to ride with her. First, she told me she’d protect me. Told me, rafting is was the funnest thing ever. I refused, but she continued until she  wore me down. Eight year olds have greater will power than three year olds… well, they did in this instance.

The first ride was great. We swept down the wave, flying tandem on our rented raft. She held onto me with the weight of her body. It was like a slide. Except better.

She said, “I told you so” and asked if I wanted to go again.

I jumped up and down, screaming, yes!

The second wave crashed over us. To this day, I can feel the water pummeling me, pulling my eyelids back, feel the grit that sandpapered my irises. I remember losing any sense of up and down.  All I knew was that I was moving fast and that I was under water.

I’m not sure how far I traveled, I’m not even sure how long I was under, but I was told my sister was the one to find me.

Attacked by Dogs

At eight years old, I walked to and back from elementary school. Most days, I took a short cut. It wasn’t a real short cut through the woods, but a neighborly one with paved streets that let me avoid the crossing guards. What I didn’t know about was the german shepherd.

It was a big dog that had been teased by neighborhood kids. Its owner later claimed that bullies threw rocks at it. I didn’t know any of that. All I knew was that the route let me avoid some bossy kids. When the dog saw me it growled and jumped. It snapped the tire chain used to tie it down. I stopped in the middle of the street. I remember watching it charging towards me. I didn’t turn to run. I just stood there.

It leapt and snapped its jaws. Its weight bore me down and I crashed onto the asphalt street. Luckily, the german shepherd chose to go for my knee instead of my neck. Almost immediately, I hear a car horn. From a house, the owner runs down a hill to pull the dog off of me. She’s cursing at me and accuses me of attacking her dog. The driver leaves her car to defend me.

“I saw the whole thing. He didn’t do anything.”

It turns out the driver’s a neighbor and saw the whole thing.

The neighbor takes me into her house. She offers me cookies and milk while asking me for my phone number. She tells me that I’m very brave. This confuses me. I ask her why. She tells me, “Your knee.”

I look down and see the torn corduroy, the blood, my mangled knee. All of a sudden, I feel pain. Terrible, excruciating pain and start to cry.

When my parents collect me, I’m taken to the hospital. I require stitches, but get to go home that night. Strangely, the worst part of the incident wasn’t the attack or even the fact that I learned to fear dogs. The hardest part was when I was told that the dog had previously been involved in a biting attack. Then, and it’s hard to know if this is exactly true, but it’s how I remember it. I was given the choice of whether the dog should be destroyed.

That dog lived. I understood what it was like to be bullied and needing to strike back. I wouldn’t let it pay the price.

Lightning

My family lived at the bottom of a hill. If it rained too hard during the Fall the leaves would collect in the gutter and the house would flood. It was the kids’ job to make sure that didn’t happen. So, one night it’s raining and thundering. I open our metal basement door and am leaning down to scoop leaves and throw them up over the brickwork and stairs. Thunder crashes. I’m getting wet, but I’m a kid and don’t mind too much.

Then.

Someone strikes me in the back of the head with a two by four. I spin around and see nothing. I feel this shock running through my body, but it’s gone almost as soon as I notice it.

I wish I could tell you that as a result of being struck by lightning I gained the power of flight or that I could shoot sparks from my fingertips. None of that happened. I don’t even think I got to miss a turn cleaning the gutter.

 

A Car Fell on Me

It’s actually not as dramatic as it sounds.

I was helping a friend change a tire. I didn’t realize he didn’t know how to set the jack. The jack slipped and the car and the partly removed tire fell on my foot. I was afraid my foot would be squashed, but it only pinned me. I remember my friend screaming and me trying to extricate my foot, but being unable to. Eventually, when we managed to nudge the car up I pulled myself free.

Amazingly, my foot escaped without even a bruise.

 

In Tune with Paradise

We sat in a Wednesday circle, authors with guitars and harps when someone called out the song Yesterday. Mac agreed, but said she needed a note. I waited for a moment, an outsider, unsure of my place and then sang out the first word and held the tune.

“That’s not a note.” Mac retorted.

“Close,” Elizabeth Bear said and smiled.

 “Close is how I sing,” I admitted and the group laughed.

 It turned out Mac didn’t need the pitch, but the actual starting chord. Once that was supplied, the music began and all our troubles appeared far away.

During my week at Viable Paradise, I lived in a land of notes: notes on the business of writing, the craft of writing, on self-care, ecology, gaming, and, of course, those that pertained to my stories. When I typed them out they numbered dozens of pages. In the moment, I learned and listened and absorbed and sang harmony as well as I could.

I was rewarded with a view of stars. Layers upon layers of stars crosshatched in a sky undiluted by street lamps or houses.

Literally.

It was midweek when the authors and editors of Viable Paradise led us on a blind walk until we saw meteors. I don’t know how they choreographed that, but on our jellyfish walk, the sky was filled with shooting stars, at least one for each of us.

I hope each of us gets our wish.

In some ways, Viable Paradise is more of a boot camp than a workshop or retreat. You read until your eyes blur. You carry a pack through the wilderness that weighs more than a thousand pages. You wake up before dawn. You go to sleep after midnight. And every moment inbetween is filled.

Back to the singing because I think it’s important. I think it’s important that listeners, singers, and those who played the percussion frog were all welcomed. I think it’s important that we got to adlib some blues and make each other laugh. That lip readers (like me) got to fake it and were taught new songs on the fly.

I think breaking the illusion that writing is solitary is important because writing is community.

At Viable Paradise and afterwards, many of us attempt an impossible dream. There’s so much out of our control, but the meteor storms, bioluminescent jelly fish and instructors reinforce the message that we are not alone (Sing along break for all those who know Into the Woods or Man of La Mancha.)

So, maybe the best thing to do is to find a time to sing. Find a song in common and clap along and figure out when to blend in and when to take the lead. After all, aren’t we closest to paradise when we lose ourselves in song?

Preparing for Paradise

In four days, I’m going to paradise. I guess the first step is to get footloose. No, that can’t be right. Being footloose gets you almost to paradise. To get to a Viable Paradise, the first step requires homework. Lots of homework. After all, paradise without preparation likely leads to dystopia.

In this case, homework means reading (which  is a kind of paradise in itself.) Since learning of my upcoming trip in May, I’ve gobbled down twelve books, ranging from wonderful to amazing.

No stinkers in paradise.

Then, there’s the mundane. Applying forethought to put out fires before the first spark, meeting the family’s needs in terms of medication, meals, shopping. It also means marching on the In-Box like a D-Day army through the surf. Of course, Paradise is neither self-contained nor homogeneous, everyone has different needs and employs different  tactics. Therefore, Paradise requires hours of packing and plotting. Mind you, by packing clothes I pants as well.

There are worries.

Could I find myself sick of Paradise? (Nah, I got a flu shot.)

Am I ready to be receptive?

Can I read between the lines and digest the notes?

Do I  know what to ask and how to best contribute?

I know each of my five senses must be primed. Six, if you count the ephemeral. Seven, if you consider the ego. Paradise demands a limber spirit and the ability to cut the bungee cord that keeps propelling impostor syndrome back up to the top of consciousness.

Finally, Paradise demands communication. Somehow that means Slacking. If I feel overwhelmed, intimidated, fearful? Think back to Shakespeare in Love and know somehow “it’ll all work out.” I just need to take a deep breath, turn the ignition and believe I’m ready.

Ready for Paradise.

 

 

From October 20th-through the 26th, Andrew Hiller will be  participating in Viable Paradise 23; a writing boot camp for science fiction and fantasy writers.

Here’s to the Best Book though we may never find it

So, a general thought on the Hugos.

It’s really cool to see what the powers that be grade out as the best, but I’ve long been aware that there are many factors that influence how a book, editor, artist, or magazine is chosen. That doesn’t mean that the award winner is unworthy or less worthy, but it does mean that one should not view an award as the end of a conversation.

The best thing about art is that it is subjective. What is best for me is not best for you. Couple that with the hundreds or thousands of books, short stories, or illustrations that slip under the nominators’ radars and the ability to discover the absolute “Best Book” of 2018 is unlikely.

In my own year end reviews, I like to talk about my favorites. If I read forty books in a year I certainly can talk about which ones had a greater impact or provided me more joy, catharsis, introspection, etc.

All that said, awards can be very useful and it’s worth celebrating stories that have earned admiration across a wide spectrum of readers. Getting a Hugo is a big deal and the awards are almost always given to worthy contenders. So, let’s crack open the champagne and the pages of today’s winners, but remember, if your favorite did not win it doesn’t mean it wasn’t the best book.

Book Review: Holy Sister

Reading Mark Lawrence’s Holy Sister is a bit like wandering around in a candy shop only to realize that what you gobbled up might just have been nutritious. The characters, politics, intricate plots, well-realized world mixing science fiction and fantasy elements are all so satisfying. It gives you what you want in terms of action, but still has the capacity to narratively surprise you. It’s the kind of literary meal that provides you enough substance to sustain you and enough sugar to keep you giddy.

This final installment of Book of the Ancestor returns many characters to the frozen corridors and convent. Each gets a curtain call and a chance to take a bow. Better, their history shapes the role that they play and no one’s entrance feels coincidental or like an author checking off boxes to satisfy his audience. Rather, they return with a purpose… sometimes benign and with evil intent. Because of this, the challenges, the stakes, and the toll that the narrative has on the characters has weight.

Holy Sister provides its readers a story of war and story of species’ survival. Of understanding technologies and outwitting greed, short sighted thinking, and what drives a person and a society. It also tells a story of the individual and the advantage of our flaws. It also examines how flawed a perfect character is.

I will say I missed Abbess Glass, but was glad that in some ways she became the true hero of the story even in her absence. Nona remains a powerful protagonist, a fearful fighter, and a catalyst of action. She is not a puppet guided by a Gandalf,  but a person of will and determination.

I ought to admit that I struggled a bit with the first fifty pages, but that was mainly due to the split narrative. Also, the very last paragraph was a bit trite. In such a well-told rich story the bow tie at the end felt cheesy. Still, this has been one of my favorite series and if I had a catapult I would load it up with books to have it rain scattershot over the fields and castle walls.