Sue Burke's Blog, page 13

My Goodreads review of “Arrokoth” by Mia Dalia

Arrokoth by Mia Dalia
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Full disclosure: The author sent me this novella to see if I’d give a blurb for its cover — with the understanding that I’d only say what I really thought, and if I didn’t like it, she’d get nothing from me. But I couldn’t put it down. Here’s my blurb:

A story of hope, betrayal, and love with the intensity only science fiction can deliver.

I want to explain what I mean by “only science fiction can deliver.” Only science fiction can deal with enormous questions such as the survival of humankind, which this story is about, but that’s not the core of the story. At its core are a father and son. By an accident of science fictional fate, the father is pretty average and the son is a super-genius. They struggle to respect and love each other despite the divide between them. At times they can barely speak simply because they aren’t on the same level and have little in common, which they understand, yet they never give up trying to connect with each other.

Add to that, the Earth is in deep ecological trouble, and the son might be able to save humanity — another big strain on their relationship. In the face of adversity and betrayal, they are there for each other, aware of how little they can truly share besides mutual honest respect.

Arrayed against a life-and-death science fiction struggle, this is a story about abiding hope and love.

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Fifty years later, we’re getting together again

My high school graduating class, 1973 South Milwaukee Senior High School, will hold its 50th class reunion on July 29. A half-century!

How much has time changed us? Here’s an article I wrote for Reunions Magazine about our 20th reunion. Even then, some of us had already become unexpectedly different.…

(Photo: From the 1973 Bay Mist yearbook: Salutatorian Ron Wadley and valedictorian Marilyn Stroik lead the graduation ceremony march.)

***

We came out of curiosity. Two decades earlier, in caps and gowns, we had marched 435 strong out of our high school graduation ceremony, heading into a hot, muggy June evening and into our separate, uncertain destinies as adults.

On an equally hot, muggy July evening two decades later, in suits and cocktail dresses, we walked into a hotel banquet hall to see what had happened to us. A committee had worked for almost a year and had located all but 30 of our classmates. Of those, about a third came to the reunion. With spouses, that made a sea of 280 faces at dinner. We could have drowned.

We were rescued by name tags. After a score of years, we had forgotten too many names. Some of us had studied our yearbooks to prepare for this reconnection, but those old books piqued our curiosity more than they jogged our memories.

Beyond that, even in 1973, no one knew every one of our classmates. With so many students, we fell into separate circles, even cliques. We had jocks, greasers, freaks, and “status” (the high achiever, class leader types). Some of these cliques and circles had no use for each other.

Those feelings faded away over the years. Animosities were forgotten as we reacquainted ourselves. Every familiar face, no matter how vague the recollection, had become a friend. We all shared the same long, intense years during the creep toward maturity, and although our paths had diverged, we met with more in common than ever.

“What do you do? Where do you live? Are you married? Any kids?” — simple questions became the start of renewed bonds. We found common ground both from the old days and from the intervening years, and talked and talked and talked. Husbands and wives talked of the happiness of their marriages. Parents talked of their children in terms of joy and amazement.

We talked of careers. We had become pilots, pathologists, housewives, factory workers, police officers, artists, and office workers. There were surprises. Lighthearted teens had heard the calling to God’s work, class clowns and scholars alike were writing plays, and tiny threads of interest had grown into devoted vocations or avocations.

The amazed talk behind the backs of fellow classmates, however, centered on one thing: looks. A few people looked almost exactly as they had in school. Some others had changed beyond recognition.

In fact, many had blossomed. There were men with strong, sculpted faces, and gorgeous women in glamorous dresses who turned heads and confounded old friends who remembered them as — well, not like that.

We saw that our classmates — close friends and former rivals alike — had journeyed to their own place in the world, and on that hot, long July evening, we were reassured. Some had traveled farther away than we ever expected, but not out of reach from one another.

The scene after the end of ‘Dual Memory’

If you’ve read the novel Dual Memory, you know how it ends — and then what happens? For fun, I wrote what might be the next scene. You can read it here.

If there’s a next scene, is there a next book? Honestly, that depends on sales of the first book, and bigger sales are always more encouraging when it comes time to make a hard business calculation. If you enjoyed the novel and want a sequel, recommend Dual Memory to your friends and leave a review wherever you can.

The best sales technique is word of mouth: person-to-person buzz. You can accomplish what no one else can.

I’ll be at Pemmi-Con

I’ll be in Winnipeg, Canada, for Pemmi-Con, the 15th North American Science Fiction Convention, July 20 to 23.

(A NASFiC is held in North America in any year where the Worldcon is outside of North America. This year the Worldcon, World Science Fiction Convention, will be held in Chengdu, China, October 18 to 22.)

Pemmi-Con will host writers, artists, scientists, makers, costumers, and fans, and will showcase First Nations, Metis, and Canadian fantasy and science fiction.

As I write this, apparently I’ll be participating in the programming, but the program hasn’t been announced, so I don’t know what I’ll be doing — besides enjoying the convention, meeting people, learning a lot, and getting inspiration. If you’re there, too, let’s say hi.

A translation: “Twilight in Poley”

A while back, when I was living in Spain, Christian Law Palacín and I translated a collection of poems by Vicente Núñez for the Vicente Núñez Foundation titled Canción antigua: An Old Song.

Vicente Núñez (June 8, 1926 – June 22, 2002) is considered one of the most important Andalusian poets in the second half of the 20th century. In 1982 he won the National Critic’s Award for Spanish Poetry with his collection Ocaso en Poley. Poley is the ancient name of his home town, Aguilar de la Frontera, near the city of Cordova.

I treasured his poems’ lyric musicality and moving metaphors, often centered on hidden love because for many years in Spain he had to hide his gay identity. But I think there is one poem that I managed to capture especially well in English. It’s the title poem of the collection Ocaso en Poley. Here is the poem, my translation — and, why not, a couple of machine translations.

Ocaso en Poley

Si la tarde no altera la divina hermosura

de tus oscuros ojos fijos en el declive

de la luz que sucumbe. Si no empaña mi alma

la secreta delicia de tus rocas hundidas.

Si nadie nos advierte. Si en nosotros se apaga

toda estéril memoria que amengüe o que diluya

este amor que nos salva más allá de los astros,

no hablemos ya, bien mío. Y arrástrame hacia el hondo

corazón de tus brazos latiendo bajo el cielo.

Twilight in Poley (my translation)

If evening has not touched the divine grace

of your dark eyes gazing at the fading

yielding light. If my soul has not sullied

your delightful solid sunken secret.

If no one has seen us. If we can quench

those sterile memories that might defame

this saving love from far beyond the stars,

now not a word, my darling. Let your arms and

pulsing heart pull me deep beneath the sky.

 

Evening in Poley (via DeepL)

If the evening does not alter the divine beauty

of your dark eyes fixed on the decaying

of the succumbing light. If it does not tarnish my soul

the secret delight of your sunken rocks.

If no one warns us. If in us is extinguished

all sterile memory that amengüe or that dilute

this love that saves us beyond the stars,

let us speak no more, my good. And draw me into the deep

heart of your arms beating under the sky.

sunset at poley (via Google Translate)

If the afternoon does not alter the divine beauty

of your dark eyes fixed on the decline

of the light that succumbs If it doesn’t tarnish my soul

the secret delight of your sunken rocks.

If no one warns us. if it goes out in us

every sterile memory that diminishes or dilutes

this love that saves us beyond the stars,

Let’s not talk now, my goodness. And drag me down

heart of your arms beating under the sky.

Well, I’m glad someone learned something

Last week I served as an instructor at the Novel-In-Progress Bookcamp & Writing Retreat in Racine, Wisconsin. Among other tasks, I led a class called “Let’s Build an Alien” with the goal of making the lesson as participatory as possible.

After I set up a few parameters, I encouraged the budding SF authors to work out the alien as a group, which they did with enthusiasm. Then they took it a step further and collaborated on a story that they eventually titled “The Aurora Psychosis.” The photo shows the rather incomplete notes I took as we went along. (H.E.A. means “happily ever after.”) The class got wild — in a good way. Everyone laughed a lot and worked together to build a story on the fly with as many effective storytelling techniques as possible.

Next, one of the authors, John Schneider, typed up the notes, fed them to Chat GPT4, and tasked it with creating a 1000-word story in the style of Ursula K. Le Guin. Here’s the story it wrote, followed by John’s instructions. We had great fun, and the novelists assured me that they did in fact learn something — although they mentioned different things.

“The Aurora Psychosis”

Across the cosmos, an alien entity, Aurora, traversed starlit expanses. A silicon-based symbiont, a global web of electromagnetic energy, akin to a cosmic fishing net, it was drawn towards Earth, a hotspot of enticing electromagnetic flux.

Meanwhile, at the CERN Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland, scientists, oblivious to Aurora’s existence, activated the collider to probe the mysterious subatomic realms. Unbeknownst to them, the colossal energy released pinned Aurora to Earth, anchoring her in a foreign ecosystem.

On Earth, Aurora sought contact with the terrestrial lifeforms. She released tiny particles of ground glass, christened sparkles, which drifted into human eyes, attempting to create a photonic link with the hosts’ nervous systems.

The result was a series of confusing, sometimes terrifying experiences. Humans, the sparkles in their eyes, witnessed hallucinatory visions, a psychedelic psychosis induced by Aurora’s attempts at communication. Some even experienced intense pleasure via sudden activation of their spinal innervation.

Yet the sparkles also brought unexpected benefits. They fell into the seas, where they dissolved microplastics, purifying polluted waters. Around the equator and over the Alpine region, they created stunning borealis spectacles, the night skies awash with technicolor. However, they also played havoc with communications systems, scattering and misdirecting electromagnetic signals, causing chaos in an increasingly connected world.

The World Health Organization and World Oceanic Organization mobilized to understand this puzzling crisis and the bizarre oceanic reclamation, respectively. Yet, solutions seemed elusive.

A turning point came when a school trip of young STEM enthusiasts ventured to the beach. Two students, a boy and a girl, were chosen by Aurora. Their undeveloped minds, combined with the ocean’s ionic concoction, allowed a successful communication link with the alien entity.

They grasped Aurora’s predicament and her desperate need to be freed. The boy’s sister, an intern at CERN, offered a possible solution. Aided by Aurora, they journeyed to Switzerland. En route, a WOO team sought to detain them. Aurora intervened, immersing the pursuers in a cloud of sparkles, plunging them into a state of ecstatic paralysis.

In a climactic move, Aurora released a massive sparkle bloom, causing mass psychedelic psychosis and waves of spontaneous pleasure across the globe. It bought the children time, allowing them to reach CERN amidst the global commotion.

Arriving at CERN, they found the research team celebrating recent successes. At first, their story was met with laughter and disbelief. However, Aurora’s sparkle-infused persuasion eventually convinced the team to reactivate the LHC.

As the Hadron Collider roared to life, the captivating spectacle of the Aurora was seen fading away. Released from the earthly bonds, the silicon being resumed her cosmic journey, leaving behind a world irrevocably changed, now full of tales of the Aurora Psychosis.

Chat GPT 4.0 Run (John’s instructions to the AI)

Prompt: Create at 1000-word short story in the style of Ursula K. Le Guin based on the following outline.

NOTE:  This is an expanded outline, created by the Speculative Fiction Group on Tuesday evening.

Title: The Aurora Psychosis

The alien species is a conglomerate symbiont. It has is a silicon based, rather than carbon based, life form and is a planet spanning electro-ethereal webbing like a fishing net. The being, Aurora, comes to Earth due to the high amount of electromagnetic flux emitted from the planet. 

The scientists at the CERN Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland are conducting a study to examine the structure of subatomic particles, and when the collider fires, it inadvertently captures or pins part of Aurora to Earth.

Aurora starts to try and communicate with Earth and the potentially intelligent life forms on the planet.  Aurora drops small ground glass particles to connect and communicate. The particles, called sparkles, settle into the corner of your eye and attempts to make a photonic link with the host’s nervous system. 

This creates a series of seemingly perplexing and dangerous circumstances. People with a sparkle in their eye experience a peyote-like psychedelic psychosis with vivid, surreal and bizarre images, which is Aurora’s communication.  In some subjects it activates spinal track innervations, and they experience an orgasm without any identifiable stimulation.

There are several addition unintended consequences of the sparkles once they are released. One side effect is where the sparkles, landing in the ocean or sea, break down microplastic beads, improving our environment.  Another action the sparkles create is a vivid colorful borealis phenomenon, but rather than at the poles, it occurs along the equator and over the central European Alpine region.  

Finally, it disrupts communication systems, by refracting, scattering and misdirecting all sorts of electromagnetic flux-based signals. This causes WIFI to work sporadically and cause firewalls to fail with secure communications going to the wrong or unintended receiver. This also causes broadcasts from one country or source to arrive inappropriately in another.

The World Health Organization springs into action to understand the psychosis as it appears to be of a viral or infectious source. The World Oceanic Organization begins to study the unexplained reclamation of our seas.

While WHO and WOO are floundering about, a field trip of middle schoolers from a STEM prep-school to the oceanside results in Aurora successfully communicating with a boy and a girl. The less developed and less pruned brain, coupled with the plastic microbeads and ionic mixture of sea water, allows the link between Aurora and the kids.

The kids realize what is happening and commit to help Aurora escape. The boy’s older sister is an intern at CERN. With the help of Aurora, the kids travel to Switzerland and make their way to CERN. Enroute there is a team from WOO that attempts to stop the kids, but Aurora infects the antagonists with sparkles, causing them to fall into a prolonged autonomic excitation state.

Aurora pushes out a final large bloom of sparkles, setting most of the adult citizens of the world to be overtaken by the psychosis and spontaneous orgasms.

At CERN, the graduate students and interns are having a raucous soiree celebrating their recent success when the kids arrive. With the help of Aurora Sparkles, the kids can finally break through and convince them to fire the LHC again to release Aurora.

The LHC goes through its firing sequence and Aurora is released.

I’ll be at the ALA conference on Sunday

If you’re at the American Library Association conference in Chicago on Sunday, come say hi!

“It’s a Long Way” has been set to music – twice

In the novel Dual Memory, the main character, Anton, has a favorite song, “It’s a Long Way.” I knew that the words came from a poem by William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite. Later I learned the poem has actually been set to music twice.

Which would be Anton’s favorite version? I’m not sure. Since the poem is in the public domain, you can write your own version, too. Let me know if you do.

William Stanley Braithwaite (December 6, 1878 – June 8, 1962) was an African-American writer, poet, literary critic, anthologist, and publisher in the United States. His work as an anthologist helped develop East Coast poetry styles in the early 20th century. He was also key in publishing Harlem Renaissance poets and bringing them a wider audience. He was awarded the NAACP’s Spingarn Medal for distinguished achievements in literature in 1918.

In 2020, the Skylark Vocal Ensemble commissioned Nell Shaw Cohen to compose music for the poem. You can see the concert film and learn more here:

It’s a Long Way (2020)

Braithwaite’s poem has also been made into a hymn set to Mercer’s Cluster:

Off to a bad start

Like every writer I know, I’ve started too many stories that petered out and sit on my hard drive tucked out of sight so they don’t depress me. I know what went wrong for some of them. Here’s an analogy:

I’ve got a great starting idea for dinner today: I should use that lovely bag of baby spinach. But how? The too-many possibilities leave me indecisive. I can’t start cooking until I have a goal in mind, a finished dish.

For that reason, menus list dishes rather than random, tasty ingredients. The cooking show MasterChef uses the mystery box ingredient challenge to torture its contestants because the odds are against them cooking up something delectable. It’s fun to watch them fail.

Yet writers commonly start stories “to see where they’ll go.” Stephen King champions this technique. I think his story “Obits,” nominated for a 2016 Hugo, shows how it can fail. In the story, a man discovers he has an extraordinary skill. And then … he runs away and never does that thing again. The consequences of his skill, good or ill, are never explored. I suspect King didn’t know what to do with the idea. He didn’t win a 2016 Hugo.

By contrast, consider “Eutopia” (warning: spoilers in link) by Poul Anderson in the 1967 Harlan Ellison anthology Dangerous Visions. In that story, a time traveler must flee for something horrible he did, although he seems like a good man. The very last word of the story tells you what happened, and its impact helped Dangerous Visions redefine science fiction. The story’s structural success was no accident. Anderson started the story knowing precisely how it would end — and every word from the beginning pointed toward that end.

If I start a story or novel without knowing the ending, I might get blocked and, in panic, grab at the first ending that comes to mind, although it could be hackneyed or weak or miss the mark. Or I might not finish the story at all. If I start with a strong ending in mind, success is not guaranteed, but my odds are good.

I’ve learned that my ending idea need not be too specific: “He wins, although it means betraying some of his core values so he can uphold other values,” or “She kills her rival and takes over,” or “He lures the ghosts to a morgue and leaves them there, trapped.”

I still hope to achieve Anderson’s genius at endings — which means I have a goal (an ending) for the story of my writing career.

These days, if I’m working on a writing prompt, I try to write the ending of a story. I might draw on one of those half-baked ideas rattling around my brain, or I might come up with something new. I get a story that I know how to finish. Much more needs to be done to start the idea, of course, but the end is in sight.

Tonight, by the way, I’ll make a chicken-pasta-vegetable toss for dinner. The fresh baby spinach should be a delicious final touch. Bon appétit!

Goodreads review of ‘Way Station’

Way Station by Clifford D. Simak
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The strength of this novel, which won the 1963 Hugo Award, is in its main character, Enoch Wallace. He observes carefully and thinks deeply, and the novel is often quiet and reflective.

One hundred years ago, his home in the secluded countryside of Wisconsin next to the Mississippi River became a secret way station for aliens traveling through the galaxy. He has stopped aging. What does his strange new life mean?

“For he remembered now how he had been sitting on the steps thinking how he was alone and about a new beginning, knowing that he could not escape a new beginning, and that he must start from scratch and build his life anew. And here, suddenly, was that new beginning — more wondrous and fearsome than anything he could have dreamed in an insane moment.”

For most of the novel, it’s a simple story without much action, but slowly, small mistakes and the dangers of Earth’s 1960s and atomic war brinksmanship build into existential peril.

“Somewhere, he thought, on the long backtrack of history, the human race had accepted an insanity for a principle and had persisted in it until today that insanity-turned-principle stood ready to wipe out, if not the race itself, at least all of those things, both material and immaterial, that had been fashioned as symbols of humanity through many hard-won centuries.”

The point of the novel is what this means to Enoch, to humanity, and beyond. “And that was the secret of the universe, Enoch told himself — a thing that went on caring.”

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