Tony Peak's Blog, page 10
January 9, 2017
Science Fiction in a Post-Truth World
For decades, science fiction has been the genre of future speculation, hope, and even warning. Though its trends have changed with the times, there remains one constant the genre never abandons: its regard for science, knowledge, and reason. Regardless of whether fans prefer space opera over social SF, or what their politics are, science fiction has remained the champion of forward-thinking in the face of ignorance and zealotry.
Can that still be true in our new, so-called ‘post-truth’ society? Where it is now fashionable, in certain circles, to proudly disregard knowledge and intellect, to give opinion the same weight as fact? When daily, we watch the frightening rise of regressive behaviors such as bigotry, assault on women’s rights, climate change denial, and even those who believe the Earth is flat? Or that we never landed on the Moon? When elected leaders freely cast doubt on what is true or false, for blatant political gain?
What worth can science fiction have in such a society? This question is more important than ever, as the general public’s main exposure to SF is the big Hollywood blockbuster: big explosions, dumbed-down plot, technology akin to magic. When people doubt we ever sent humans into space, while using a mobile phone that receives signals from orbiting satellites. Post-modern ideas claiming science (and thus critical thought) is just another religion. Worst of all, empowered racists that ask if some people can even be considered human beings.
The best way to fight this nonsense is to maintain our standard of knowledge. One that never normalizes ignorance. A standard that science fiction epitomizes.
But wait, I know what some will say: the genre itself has always been politicized. From the Libertarian-tinged works of Robert A. Heinlein, to the feminist perspectives given by Ursula K. Le Guin, science fiction has never been a stranger to controversy (in fact, what works are considered controversial is in itself a controversy). There’s nothing wrong with this; having multiple perspectives on how humans will advance (or not) is what gives the field its strength. There’s something for all tastes, all political persuasions. That doesn’t mean we should normalize racism, sexism, and otherwise hateful material when it arises. Recognizing and calling out such things doesn’t stifle creativity. But abiding them certainly stifles the SF community, and, ultimately, the rest of society.
Yet, for all the friction within SF fandom, we’ve always been united by a respect for learning. I hope this continues. As the cultural wars spill over into the SF community, I fear some authors will assume the same stubborn, ignorant, even petty stances that certain elements of society now espouse. We’ve already witnessed that in regards to the Sad/Rabid Puppies movement. Regardless of where one stands on that issue, it’s mere distraction compared to what is happening around us. What we once read about in SF books, has now, or likely will, come true:
The mass-surveillance state as shown in George Orwell’s 1984;
The rise of corporatism, as depicted in William Gibson’s Neuromancer;
Women as baby-making machines, from Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale;
The deterioration of urban, non-white neighborhoods, from Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower;
Rising sea levels, like those from JG Ballard’s The Drowned World.
There are other examples, but this list suffices to make my point. True, some of these haven’t come to pass, or aren’t as extreme as their fictional counterpart. But the signs are there, much more so than when the author in question penned said work (which is why I didn’t select recent titles). We are walking the razor’s edge, barefoot and blindfolded.
So, what can we, as science fiction writers, do?
Some will say, ‘do nothing, keep it business as usual’. I can’t condemn that. Just because we write SF, that doesn’t make us activists, prophets, or anything bent on swaying another’s thinking. That’s not my intent when I write a short story or novel. Our beliefs, hopes, prejudices, and all else that makes us individuals, will surface in our art, regardless of authorial intent. But there is one thing we can all do: maintain respect for knowledge.
Support reason, praise intellect, require facts instead of opinions. Keep these tenements in your work, subtle or no. Inspire with that sense of wonder, like Arthur C. Clarke did with his work. Foster hope that humanity can overcome these challenges, like Octavia Butler. Challenge our concepts of gender and civilization, like Ursula K. Le Guin or Samuel Delaney. Or, like George Orwell and Margaret Atwood, tell us your greatest fears, so that we might be forewarned.
Never forget that science fiction inspired some of our greatest scientists and inventors; without this genre, rockets and mobile devices might never have left the proverbial drawing board. Our knowledge sets us apart from every other lifeform we currently know; therefore, let us celebrate it, increase it, and most importantly, share it, so that the idea of a ‘post-truth’ era dies like all other ephemeral, meaningless trends. Let science fiction be a pestilence upon ignorance, a poison against irrationality, and an antidote to regressive thinking.
“There is a single light of science, and to brighten it anywhere is to brighten it everywhere.”
Isaac Asimov
Can that still be true in our new, so-called ‘post-truth’ society? Where it is now fashionable, in certain circles, to proudly disregard knowledge and intellect, to give opinion the same weight as fact? When daily, we watch the frightening rise of regressive behaviors such as bigotry, assault on women’s rights, climate change denial, and even those who believe the Earth is flat? Or that we never landed on the Moon? When elected leaders freely cast doubt on what is true or false, for blatant political gain?
What worth can science fiction have in such a society? This question is more important than ever, as the general public’s main exposure to SF is the big Hollywood blockbuster: big explosions, dumbed-down plot, technology akin to magic. When people doubt we ever sent humans into space, while using a mobile phone that receives signals from orbiting satellites. Post-modern ideas claiming science (and thus critical thought) is just another religion. Worst of all, empowered racists that ask if some people can even be considered human beings.
The best way to fight this nonsense is to maintain our standard of knowledge. One that never normalizes ignorance. A standard that science fiction epitomizes.
But wait, I know what some will say: the genre itself has always been politicized. From the Libertarian-tinged works of Robert A. Heinlein, to the feminist perspectives given by Ursula K. Le Guin, science fiction has never been a stranger to controversy (in fact, what works are considered controversial is in itself a controversy). There’s nothing wrong with this; having multiple perspectives on how humans will advance (or not) is what gives the field its strength. There’s something for all tastes, all political persuasions. That doesn’t mean we should normalize racism, sexism, and otherwise hateful material when it arises. Recognizing and calling out such things doesn’t stifle creativity. But abiding them certainly stifles the SF community, and, ultimately, the rest of society.
Yet, for all the friction within SF fandom, we’ve always been united by a respect for learning. I hope this continues. As the cultural wars spill over into the SF community, I fear some authors will assume the same stubborn, ignorant, even petty stances that certain elements of society now espouse. We’ve already witnessed that in regards to the Sad/Rabid Puppies movement. Regardless of where one stands on that issue, it’s mere distraction compared to what is happening around us. What we once read about in SF books, has now, or likely will, come true:
The mass-surveillance state as shown in George Orwell’s 1984;
The rise of corporatism, as depicted in William Gibson’s Neuromancer;
Women as baby-making machines, from Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale;
The deterioration of urban, non-white neighborhoods, from Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower;
Rising sea levels, like those from JG Ballard’s The Drowned World.
There are other examples, but this list suffices to make my point. True, some of these haven’t come to pass, or aren’t as extreme as their fictional counterpart. But the signs are there, much more so than when the author in question penned said work (which is why I didn’t select recent titles). We are walking the razor’s edge, barefoot and blindfolded.
So, what can we, as science fiction writers, do?
Some will say, ‘do nothing, keep it business as usual’. I can’t condemn that. Just because we write SF, that doesn’t make us activists, prophets, or anything bent on swaying another’s thinking. That’s not my intent when I write a short story or novel. Our beliefs, hopes, prejudices, and all else that makes us individuals, will surface in our art, regardless of authorial intent. But there is one thing we can all do: maintain respect for knowledge.
Support reason, praise intellect, require facts instead of opinions. Keep these tenements in your work, subtle or no. Inspire with that sense of wonder, like Arthur C. Clarke did with his work. Foster hope that humanity can overcome these challenges, like Octavia Butler. Challenge our concepts of gender and civilization, like Ursula K. Le Guin or Samuel Delaney. Or, like George Orwell and Margaret Atwood, tell us your greatest fears, so that we might be forewarned.
Never forget that science fiction inspired some of our greatest scientists and inventors; without this genre, rockets and mobile devices might never have left the proverbial drawing board. Our knowledge sets us apart from every other lifeform we currently know; therefore, let us celebrate it, increase it, and most importantly, share it, so that the idea of a ‘post-truth’ era dies like all other ephemeral, meaningless trends. Let science fiction be a pestilence upon ignorance, a poison against irrationality, and an antidote to regressive thinking.
“There is a single light of science, and to brighten it anywhere is to brighten it everywhere.”
Isaac Asimov
January 5, 2017
The Death of Future Memory
For a species obsessed with immortality, we are terrible in its preparation. What happens to our personal belongings, after we die? If these items aren’t discarded or sold, our friends and loved ones inherit them. But what about after everyone who knew us, on a personal level, has died? When no one remembers the nameless identities populating those photo albums, the home videos. When objects once sentimental and meaningful become merely clutter.
The easy answer, of course, is that it all gets destroyed, or disintegrates with time.
What about our digital data? All those photos and files on our cloud drives, flash drives. Much of that might not even be accessible if a loved one doesn’t know our password.
Again, the easy answer is, once that cloud subscription isn’t being paid, or those hard drives age and corrode, that data will be deleted or lost. Yet, given the ease of transporting such information—it’s easier to store thousands of photos digitally, than, say, in scores of physical albums—will the fate of such data change?
Will there be a place for ‘orphan’ data to be deposited, a communal cloud of remembrance, a digital cemetery of memories, tidbits, photos and social media posts whose owners are deceased? This is beyond a mere archiving of websites. Could the collection of such a database be the beginnings of a shared reality, where users access the memories—via pictures, videos, etc.—from the ‘orphan’ cloud? Will companies purchase digital collections from the loved ones/estates of the deceased, commodifying them? Will companies automatically obtain content ownership if its storage subscription isn’t paid?
Or will it all be deleted, leaving no trace, save for a few lines in a recycle bin log file?
All of this assumes our society continues its path into the Information Age. It’s easy to surmise that everyone will have their own cloud drives, whether people use them or not. With the ubiquity of mobile devices and networks, this is not a distant future. And as more products are embedded with microcomputers collecting data on everything we do, that information will require a storage location. There will be some pros, but many cons, under such a system. There already are. Information is currency, and I would be surprised if companies don’t take advantage of the ‘orphaned’ data I’ve described. Not only could a corporation control your present, but they would also own your past as well. Orwell’s worst fears realized, with one’s narrative and history manipulated on the fly. It’s true this could be managed without having to purchase the data of a dead person, but enabling its sale breaks down one more legal barrier.
This could have greater implications, should artificial intelligence reach sentient levels, and that intelligence is stored on a user’s cloud. It becomes a civil rights issue, which, in truth, data already falls under that sphere in a society under constant surveillance.
Regardless of benefits or dangers, this strategy might not be wise over the long term.
Physical items leave some sort of trace, even in a landfill. But digital cloud data, becoming the modern form of such ephemeral storage, will leave nothing. What will future archaeologists have to excavate, save circuit boards and magnetic cores? One could postulate that this is why long-term records does not exist/have yet to be discovered. Perhaps an ancient civilization, or an alien one, stored their data as such, and has since became inaccessible, lost, deleted, corrupted. How would we ever know?
The easy answer, of course, is that it all gets destroyed, or disintegrates with time.
What about our digital data? All those photos and files on our cloud drives, flash drives. Much of that might not even be accessible if a loved one doesn’t know our password.
Again, the easy answer is, once that cloud subscription isn’t being paid, or those hard drives age and corrode, that data will be deleted or lost. Yet, given the ease of transporting such information—it’s easier to store thousands of photos digitally, than, say, in scores of physical albums—will the fate of such data change?
Will there be a place for ‘orphan’ data to be deposited, a communal cloud of remembrance, a digital cemetery of memories, tidbits, photos and social media posts whose owners are deceased? This is beyond a mere archiving of websites. Could the collection of such a database be the beginnings of a shared reality, where users access the memories—via pictures, videos, etc.—from the ‘orphan’ cloud? Will companies purchase digital collections from the loved ones/estates of the deceased, commodifying them? Will companies automatically obtain content ownership if its storage subscription isn’t paid?
Or will it all be deleted, leaving no trace, save for a few lines in a recycle bin log file?
All of this assumes our society continues its path into the Information Age. It’s easy to surmise that everyone will have their own cloud drives, whether people use them or not. With the ubiquity of mobile devices and networks, this is not a distant future. And as more products are embedded with microcomputers collecting data on everything we do, that information will require a storage location. There will be some pros, but many cons, under such a system. There already are. Information is currency, and I would be surprised if companies don’t take advantage of the ‘orphaned’ data I’ve described. Not only could a corporation control your present, but they would also own your past as well. Orwell’s worst fears realized, with one’s narrative and history manipulated on the fly. It’s true this could be managed without having to purchase the data of a dead person, but enabling its sale breaks down one more legal barrier.
This could have greater implications, should artificial intelligence reach sentient levels, and that intelligence is stored on a user’s cloud. It becomes a civil rights issue, which, in truth, data already falls under that sphere in a society under constant surveillance.
Regardless of benefits or dangers, this strategy might not be wise over the long term.
Physical items leave some sort of trace, even in a landfill. But digital cloud data, becoming the modern form of such ephemeral storage, will leave nothing. What will future archaeologists have to excavate, save circuit boards and magnetic cores? One could postulate that this is why long-term records does not exist/have yet to be discovered. Perhaps an ancient civilization, or an alien one, stored their data as such, and has since became inaccessible, lost, deleted, corrupted. How would we ever know?
August 25, 2016
Writing in a Summer of Uncertainty
The sun outside is hot, but my passion to succeed in this endeavor is hotter. It’s consuming me, and like a phoenix who doesn’t know any better, I am reborn to try it all again tomorrow. I haven’t lost hope, nor am I giving up. But I’m in that space where my writing career could go either way: to success or obscurity. A Sargasso Sea clogged with the illusion of time and my own doubts. Now I know what it really means to be a writer.
I haven’t updated this blog for months. I’ve been busy, revising two more novels for my agent, writing a new space opera back in June, and completing a time travel novella earlier this month. I’m not patting myself on the back; I know other writers who work even harder. I see no reason to celebrate simply because I completed yet another manuscript. Celebration is for victors, and that is a table I haven’t won the right to sit at.
I know, I sound crazy. My first novel was published last year by a major house, I have an excellent New York agent in my corner, and I’m never out of ideas or inspiration. I know a few writers who would love to have these things. Once, I thought that if I amassed these accomplishments, that I too would be happy, and my writing career would simply take care of itself. All I had to do was keep working my ass off, right?
Wrong.
I’m not naïve. I realize the work and anxiety doesn’t stop. But nothing gets easier. My first book didn’t sell well, and the reviews have been mediocre, on average. Some readers liked it; others absolutely hated it. I’m still proud of Inherit the Stars, but it’s not something I can use for leverage. That’s how this industry works. Sink or swim, and there’s no do-overs.
But I keep writing. Keep plugging away at stories that might never get published. All writers deal with that. The difference now is that if I don’t get a novel published soon, I’m probably out of this business. Hell, I barely got my foot in the door to start with.
Failure at anything is tiresome, but failure in art drains something from you that is hard to replace. So much of an author’s personality, ideals, and hopes are poured into a novel. It’s hard when it doesn’t pay off. This is more than a money issue. Even with a book out there, even with an agent, I still seek validation with each work I write. It’s a never-ending popularity contest. I display the same behavior exhibited before I even got my first short story published: I don’t tell anyone that I write. I don’t mention that I have a book out there. The only place I discuss writing is on social media, and I know some people groan when they see my updates, about completing yet another manuscript, or prepping for the next one. I hardly update my Facebook Author page, and my website has as much content as a tourism pamphlet. I’m not embarrassed to be an author, nor am I embarrassed about my work. But unless you’re writing full time, with a title that won an award, or is a bestseller, most normal people don’t give a damn. So I don’t bother.
I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I despise pity. These are the realities of being a no-name genre writer in a market glutted with pros who spent years on their novels, to schmoes who didn’t even edit their book before self-pubbing on Amazon and selling it for $0.99. So I try to write something better each time. I try to correct my mistakes. I’m up to the challenge (if I doubted that, I wouldn’t write this blog). I hope I can stay in the game long enough to get another title out there, and then another. Then, maybe another.
There will be critics of this article, saying if I wrote better fiction, I wouldn’t be in this predicament, or that if I worked just a tad harder, or had the right connections, I’d be set. To these trolls I say: fuck you, you obviously aren’t a writer, or you would know better. These people love to kick someone when they are down, but kiss ass when that individual succeeds. So I ignore them.
I’ll be on vacation soon, and when I return, I’ll resume my work. Write like hell, I’ve always said, and I will. Perhaps certainty is another illusion we create, to make life bearable. Yet it’s the author’s job to give illusions flesh, if only while the book is open.
This is one illusion I intend to make real.
I haven’t updated this blog for months. I’ve been busy, revising two more novels for my agent, writing a new space opera back in June, and completing a time travel novella earlier this month. I’m not patting myself on the back; I know other writers who work even harder. I see no reason to celebrate simply because I completed yet another manuscript. Celebration is for victors, and that is a table I haven’t won the right to sit at.
I know, I sound crazy. My first novel was published last year by a major house, I have an excellent New York agent in my corner, and I’m never out of ideas or inspiration. I know a few writers who would love to have these things. Once, I thought that if I amassed these accomplishments, that I too would be happy, and my writing career would simply take care of itself. All I had to do was keep working my ass off, right?
Wrong.
I’m not naïve. I realize the work and anxiety doesn’t stop. But nothing gets easier. My first book didn’t sell well, and the reviews have been mediocre, on average. Some readers liked it; others absolutely hated it. I’m still proud of Inherit the Stars, but it’s not something I can use for leverage. That’s how this industry works. Sink or swim, and there’s no do-overs.
But I keep writing. Keep plugging away at stories that might never get published. All writers deal with that. The difference now is that if I don’t get a novel published soon, I’m probably out of this business. Hell, I barely got my foot in the door to start with.
Failure at anything is tiresome, but failure in art drains something from you that is hard to replace. So much of an author’s personality, ideals, and hopes are poured into a novel. It’s hard when it doesn’t pay off. This is more than a money issue. Even with a book out there, even with an agent, I still seek validation with each work I write. It’s a never-ending popularity contest. I display the same behavior exhibited before I even got my first short story published: I don’t tell anyone that I write. I don’t mention that I have a book out there. The only place I discuss writing is on social media, and I know some people groan when they see my updates, about completing yet another manuscript, or prepping for the next one. I hardly update my Facebook Author page, and my website has as much content as a tourism pamphlet. I’m not embarrassed to be an author, nor am I embarrassed about my work. But unless you’re writing full time, with a title that won an award, or is a bestseller, most normal people don’t give a damn. So I don’t bother.
I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I despise pity. These are the realities of being a no-name genre writer in a market glutted with pros who spent years on their novels, to schmoes who didn’t even edit their book before self-pubbing on Amazon and selling it for $0.99. So I try to write something better each time. I try to correct my mistakes. I’m up to the challenge (if I doubted that, I wouldn’t write this blog). I hope I can stay in the game long enough to get another title out there, and then another. Then, maybe another.
There will be critics of this article, saying if I wrote better fiction, I wouldn’t be in this predicament, or that if I worked just a tad harder, or had the right connections, I’d be set. To these trolls I say: fuck you, you obviously aren’t a writer, or you would know better. These people love to kick someone when they are down, but kiss ass when that individual succeeds. So I ignore them.
I’ll be on vacation soon, and when I return, I’ll resume my work. Write like hell, I’ve always said, and I will. Perhaps certainty is another illusion we create, to make life bearable. Yet it’s the author’s job to give illusions flesh, if only while the book is open.
This is one illusion I intend to make real.
February 29, 2016
My First Con: Stalking George R.R. Martin
It was a chilly February morning in Roanoke as I entered the hotel where Mysticon 2016 was being held. Dusty, one of my local writer friends, had managed to get me a pass. The rest had sold out weeks beforehand, due to the anticipated appearance of George R. R. Martin. This would be my first ‘con’, short for convention. But, as you’ll see below, it seems as if I stalked poor GRRM the whole time.
After receiving my pass and perusing the vendor displays (I purchased a book and art print by fantasy artist J.P Targete, and a book from fellow HWA member, Pamela Kinney), Dusty and I made our way to the GRRM reading. No electronic devices were allowed; if they saw you so much as check your phone or tablet, the reading would end. I found that a bit harsh, but I waited with everyone else in that crowded room. Including two infants who were most enthusiastic to see the infamous architect of the Red Wedding.
GRRM walked in, wearing that customary hat and suspenders that lend a dark Santa Clause air about him. Well, he was dressed all in black. And lots of characters die in his books. Badly.
He was going to read two chapters form his upcoming novel, The Winds of Winter. You know, the novel all fandom is waiting for, from A Song of Ice and Fire. The passages were interesting, but gave nothing away (and certainly left every mystery unanswered, all of you Jon Snow hopefuls). But that’s all I will say about his text; you’ll have to wait like everyone else to find out what we heard in that room. Though it was cool, finding out something before the rest of fandom, I was glad when GRRM finished, because I’m not fond of readings (much rather be at home, alone, reading, with tea or coffee handy). Dusty almost fell asleep, I think.
From there, we sampled a panel about colonizing Venus. After realizing these people had no idea for how they would deal with planetary surfaces reaching 800 degrees Fahrenheit, much less the massive atmospheric pressures, Dusty and I left. I wish those people luck, but I’m certain we’ll have colonized Io before they convince anyone to live on Venus. And Io’s covered in frigging volcanoes.
By this time, many more attendees had shown up. Cosplayers, fans, and even writers like myself. It felt weird and fun at the same time, knowing these people shared many of my own interests. In my Star Trek t-shirt, complete with the rainbow warp colors, I felt at home. No one realized I was trying to cosplay Neil Gaiman in that leather jacket, though.
Dusty introduced me to a favorite local writer of his, P.S. Belcher, and I purchased one of Belcher’s books to sign, The Six-Gun Tarot. He said he’d heard of my own book, and I simply smiled and said ‘cool’ (Oh shit, did he read the positive or negative reviews? Had he heard good or bad things? Hey, we writers are an insecure lot.). Dusty and I stayed for a few moments as Belcher took part in a panel on beta readers. But, alas, we had to run, to once again trail GRRM through the fan-filled halls of the hotel.
Once we finally found the signing line, our wait was relatively short. That was the good part. The bad? GRRM would only sign one item, without inscriptions, and if I wanted a photo with him, I had to have my camera out and already set to the camera app. This wouldn’t have bothered me if I hadn’t already purchased two copies of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (one for me, one for my cousin, who is a huge GRRM fan) from the Barnes & Noble vendor in the hotel. I pity anyone who bought all five volumes of A Song of Ice and Fire in the hopes of getting them signed.
But that wasn’t the best part. By the time I got to the small room where GRRM was signing, I had the single book out, the camera was ready, and I’d cleared my throat to say something. As GRRM was signing his angular scribble on the book’s title page (I’d have been pissed if he had marred the colorful, illustrated end paper), I said ‘Hello, Mr. Martin.’ Respectful, friendly, not attempting to start a conversation because the con staff wanted us to move our asses faster than a Sunsnake could kill a man. GRRM looked up and said ‘Hello, how are you today?’, and I replied, ‘I’m fine,’ as I took my signed book and retrieved my phone from the con staff member. Once I was away, I examined the picture they’d taken.
Holy shit. It was terrible. But in a way, it was hilarious.
The photo, which I uploaded to social media, shows me apparently frowning down at GRRM, and he’s looking up at me, his pen scratching over that title page. It appears confrontational, like a stare down. Of course, when I uploaded the photo, I typed in a caption: ‘I’m warning you…if Brienne dies, we riot.’ Game of Thrones fans will get it.
After we grabbed lunch at Bellacino’s (excellent toasted subs), we returned to the hotel so that we could listen to the GRRM Q&A. We attended another panel, this one with another local writer, Tiffany Trent, on it (author of The Unnaturalists), who received us warmly, and mentioned seeing my book advertised in the local newspaper. That made me happy and embarrassed at the same time; I’m not accustomed to praise or attention. The panel discussed raising children in a post-apocalyptic world, which I found quite interesting, but—yep, you guessed it—we left early to stalk GRRM one last time.
This time, Dusty and I managed to get a seat just to the left of the Q&A table, being closer to GRRM than anyone else. Yet, when the venerable slayer of favorite characters arrived, he made eye contact with me as he neared the stage. The dude probably thought I was some crazed fan, seeing me once again, but I managed to refrain myself from prostrating. I did smile, though. A Littlefinger kinda smile. Well, not really.
The Q&A was both entertaining and enlightening; GRRM came across as a down to earth guy, and, as Dusty commented, he was very generous with his answers to the audience’s questions. This was easily the highlight for me, for, as I watched and listened, I considered my own writing hopes and dreams. GRRM makes no secret of his dislike for fame, and I got the impression he just wants to enjoy fandom like the rest of us. He really cares about the genre, and about the fans. Yes, it might seem that I complained about the limitations of the book signing, but honestly, there are far less famous and accomplished celebrities out there who charge far more for the opportunity, and GRRM lacked such arrogance. I’d do it all over again. Especially for another photo like that.
I almost got in line to ask him a question, but I couldn’t think of anything worthwhile (I wanted to crack a joke about, ‘hey see you at the next Hugo Loser’s Party’, but that’ll probably never happen for me). I’m not a novice any longer, but I’m far from a master of my craft, and no doubt, there is much GRRM could fill me in on. But I found the best way to learn, in this situation, was to simply listen and observe.
Afterward, as Dusty and I passed through a Roanoke fading into twilight, I knew I would come back to Mysticon, and to other cons. My swag bag may have been filled with signed books, but my mind was filled with the possibility that, yes, I belonged there.
But I’ll try not to creep out the guest author next time.
After receiving my pass and perusing the vendor displays (I purchased a book and art print by fantasy artist J.P Targete, and a book from fellow HWA member, Pamela Kinney), Dusty and I made our way to the GRRM reading. No electronic devices were allowed; if they saw you so much as check your phone or tablet, the reading would end. I found that a bit harsh, but I waited with everyone else in that crowded room. Including two infants who were most enthusiastic to see the infamous architect of the Red Wedding.
GRRM walked in, wearing that customary hat and suspenders that lend a dark Santa Clause air about him. Well, he was dressed all in black. And lots of characters die in his books. Badly.
He was going to read two chapters form his upcoming novel, The Winds of Winter. You know, the novel all fandom is waiting for, from A Song of Ice and Fire. The passages were interesting, but gave nothing away (and certainly left every mystery unanswered, all of you Jon Snow hopefuls). But that’s all I will say about his text; you’ll have to wait like everyone else to find out what we heard in that room. Though it was cool, finding out something before the rest of fandom, I was glad when GRRM finished, because I’m not fond of readings (much rather be at home, alone, reading, with tea or coffee handy). Dusty almost fell asleep, I think.
From there, we sampled a panel about colonizing Venus. After realizing these people had no idea for how they would deal with planetary surfaces reaching 800 degrees Fahrenheit, much less the massive atmospheric pressures, Dusty and I left. I wish those people luck, but I’m certain we’ll have colonized Io before they convince anyone to live on Venus. And Io’s covered in frigging volcanoes.
By this time, many more attendees had shown up. Cosplayers, fans, and even writers like myself. It felt weird and fun at the same time, knowing these people shared many of my own interests. In my Star Trek t-shirt, complete with the rainbow warp colors, I felt at home. No one realized I was trying to cosplay Neil Gaiman in that leather jacket, though.
Dusty introduced me to a favorite local writer of his, P.S. Belcher, and I purchased one of Belcher’s books to sign, The Six-Gun Tarot. He said he’d heard of my own book, and I simply smiled and said ‘cool’ (Oh shit, did he read the positive or negative reviews? Had he heard good or bad things? Hey, we writers are an insecure lot.). Dusty and I stayed for a few moments as Belcher took part in a panel on beta readers. But, alas, we had to run, to once again trail GRRM through the fan-filled halls of the hotel.
Once we finally found the signing line, our wait was relatively short. That was the good part. The bad? GRRM would only sign one item, without inscriptions, and if I wanted a photo with him, I had to have my camera out and already set to the camera app. This wouldn’t have bothered me if I hadn’t already purchased two copies of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (one for me, one for my cousin, who is a huge GRRM fan) from the Barnes & Noble vendor in the hotel. I pity anyone who bought all five volumes of A Song of Ice and Fire in the hopes of getting them signed.
But that wasn’t the best part. By the time I got to the small room where GRRM was signing, I had the single book out, the camera was ready, and I’d cleared my throat to say something. As GRRM was signing his angular scribble on the book’s title page (I’d have been pissed if he had marred the colorful, illustrated end paper), I said ‘Hello, Mr. Martin.’ Respectful, friendly, not attempting to start a conversation because the con staff wanted us to move our asses faster than a Sunsnake could kill a man. GRRM looked up and said ‘Hello, how are you today?’, and I replied, ‘I’m fine,’ as I took my signed book and retrieved my phone from the con staff member. Once I was away, I examined the picture they’d taken.
Holy shit. It was terrible. But in a way, it was hilarious.
The photo, which I uploaded to social media, shows me apparently frowning down at GRRM, and he’s looking up at me, his pen scratching over that title page. It appears confrontational, like a stare down. Of course, when I uploaded the photo, I typed in a caption: ‘I’m warning you…if Brienne dies, we riot.’ Game of Thrones fans will get it.
After we grabbed lunch at Bellacino’s (excellent toasted subs), we returned to the hotel so that we could listen to the GRRM Q&A. We attended another panel, this one with another local writer, Tiffany Trent, on it (author of The Unnaturalists), who received us warmly, and mentioned seeing my book advertised in the local newspaper. That made me happy and embarrassed at the same time; I’m not accustomed to praise or attention. The panel discussed raising children in a post-apocalyptic world, which I found quite interesting, but—yep, you guessed it—we left early to stalk GRRM one last time.
This time, Dusty and I managed to get a seat just to the left of the Q&A table, being closer to GRRM than anyone else. Yet, when the venerable slayer of favorite characters arrived, he made eye contact with me as he neared the stage. The dude probably thought I was some crazed fan, seeing me once again, but I managed to refrain myself from prostrating. I did smile, though. A Littlefinger kinda smile. Well, not really.
The Q&A was both entertaining and enlightening; GRRM came across as a down to earth guy, and, as Dusty commented, he was very generous with his answers to the audience’s questions. This was easily the highlight for me, for, as I watched and listened, I considered my own writing hopes and dreams. GRRM makes no secret of his dislike for fame, and I got the impression he just wants to enjoy fandom like the rest of us. He really cares about the genre, and about the fans. Yes, it might seem that I complained about the limitations of the book signing, but honestly, there are far less famous and accomplished celebrities out there who charge far more for the opportunity, and GRRM lacked such arrogance. I’d do it all over again. Especially for another photo like that.
I almost got in line to ask him a question, but I couldn’t think of anything worthwhile (I wanted to crack a joke about, ‘hey see you at the next Hugo Loser’s Party’, but that’ll probably never happen for me). I’m not a novice any longer, but I’m far from a master of my craft, and no doubt, there is much GRRM could fill me in on. But I found the best way to learn, in this situation, was to simply listen and observe.
Afterward, as Dusty and I passed through a Roanoke fading into twilight, I knew I would come back to Mysticon, and to other cons. My swag bag may have been filled with signed books, but my mind was filled with the possibility that, yes, I belonged there.
But I’ll try not to creep out the guest author next time.
January 12, 2016
Goodbye, Starman: David Bowie 1947-2016
There are some people who are transcendent figures in our lives, due to their art, their influence, their ideas. Even if we never knew them personally, there is a very real emotional connection to them via their work. They are like a close friend, and when they are gone, the pain is very real. For me, one of those people was David Bowie.
As I write this, I’m listening to Bowie’s final album, Blackstar. Like all of his music, it is very much his own. Its lush jazz soundscapes are haunting and poignant, especially since, we now know, he intended it as a farewell to his fans. Damn, it’s powerful. It’s made me wipe my eyes more than once already.
I bought my first Bowie CD way back in 1996, Changes Bowie, a compilation album. It featured his hits up until Blue Jean. I fell in love with songs like Let’s Dance, Ashes to Sashes, Space Oddity, Heroes, and Changes. I played those songs over and over during a period of personal growth. My high school years were behind me, and Bowie’s music served as an introduction to a wider world. Through him I listened to other artists, other genres.
When he released Earthling in 1997, I was blown away. I wasn’t much for electronica at the time, and this album opened me up to that musical form. But more than that, Bowie’s blistering take on drum ‘n bass and jungle elements jolted my ass. I loved the lyrics, Gail Ann Dorsey’s bass playing, but especially the guitar chops of Reeves Gabrels. That guy quickly became one of my favorite guitarists. I played this album from beginning to end countless times. And I still say the piano at the end of Dead Man Walking is sheer genius.
I bought his next album, Hours, as soon as it came out, and I fell in love with its melancholy songs. The opening track, Thursday’s Child, held extra special meaning for me, as I was born on a Thursday. I really felt those lyrics of loneliness. I feel them now, seventeen years later. That’s the power of Bowie’s craft. I was hooked.
As the years went by, I bought each new release, as well as Bowie’s older work. I got both Tin Machine albums; they are very underrated, and feature some of his most kick-ass rock pieces. The depth of his genius was beginning to sink in: he used his voice in so many ways, and he owned any genre he dabbled in. Compare Under the God from the first Tin Machine album with Fantastic Voyage from The Lodger record, or Win from Young Americans. The vocal stylings, the delivery, the ambiance—all are very distinct from the other. The man could do anything; he was the ultimate artistic chameleon that changed colors to his own whim, not that of others.
I was sad when Bowie semi-retired after a heart attack in 2004. This sounds selfish, but it was like learning I’d never receive any more letters from a cherished friend. But I respected his decision, and continued to explore albums like Black Tie White Noise, Outside, Hunky Dory, and Tonight. His 2003 album, Reality, though I found it too stripped down upon its initial release, eventually became quite a favorite: I’d often find myself humming Fall Dog Bombs the Moon, or Bring Me the Disco King. Bowie’s melodies and lyrics were always at the back of my mind; I can’t tell you how many times Ashes to Ashes has entered my thoughts, or Heroes. His music was more than entertainment. It was a soundscape of life.
When he made a comeback with The Next Day in 2013, I was ecstatic. I mean, holy shit, we had new David Bowie songs! And the album did not disappoint. Where Are We Now, I’d Rather Be High, Dancing Out In Space—it was quality work from start to finish. Then there was talk of more albums, because Bowie wanted to focus on music. No tours, no interviews, just music. I was so damn excited.
When the announcement for his latest album, Blackstar, arrived last year, it came out of nowhere. I loved the title track immediately—it was surreal, enigmatic, catchy, and remained in my head up to the day the album came out earlier this year. 2016 looked to be awesome indeed.
And then, one night at work, I checked Twitter on my phone to see what was going on in the world. The small screen in my hand revealed a horrifying headline: David Bowie was dead.
I almost cried right there. I rapidly verified this awful tweet, this stab into my heart, by checking the rest of the internet and social media. Maybe it was some stupid hoax.
But no. The Disco King was no more.
He was the same age as my father, 69 years old. In so many ways, David Bowie was the father figure of my music world. Judging from the outpouring of grief from fans around the world, I’m not alone in that.
Bowie’s passing is the first celebrity death that has affected me this strongly. He was my constant companion, my friend, my champion against a world that was all too often cruel, dark, and empty. He, like so many other people have said, was a person that seemed to be from another world. A star from the firmament, sharing his light with us mortals.
I’m so glad his work will live on. His star will shine for so many others, for we need people like him. We need to see that light within ourselves, so we too can feel part of the heavens. We too can be heroes…if only for a day.
As I close this, I’m listening to The Last of the Dreamers, one of my favorite Bowie songs from the Hours album. Tears blur my screen, my keyboard. I wipe them away, to no avail. They catch the reflection of the light he left us, a tiny sparkle that resides in us all.
‘So it goes
Just a searcher
Lonely soul
The last of the dreamers’
Thank you, my good friend.
As I write this, I’m listening to Bowie’s final album, Blackstar. Like all of his music, it is very much his own. Its lush jazz soundscapes are haunting and poignant, especially since, we now know, he intended it as a farewell to his fans. Damn, it’s powerful. It’s made me wipe my eyes more than once already.
I bought my first Bowie CD way back in 1996, Changes Bowie, a compilation album. It featured his hits up until Blue Jean. I fell in love with songs like Let’s Dance, Ashes to Sashes, Space Oddity, Heroes, and Changes. I played those songs over and over during a period of personal growth. My high school years were behind me, and Bowie’s music served as an introduction to a wider world. Through him I listened to other artists, other genres.
When he released Earthling in 1997, I was blown away. I wasn’t much for electronica at the time, and this album opened me up to that musical form. But more than that, Bowie’s blistering take on drum ‘n bass and jungle elements jolted my ass. I loved the lyrics, Gail Ann Dorsey’s bass playing, but especially the guitar chops of Reeves Gabrels. That guy quickly became one of my favorite guitarists. I played this album from beginning to end countless times. And I still say the piano at the end of Dead Man Walking is sheer genius.
I bought his next album, Hours, as soon as it came out, and I fell in love with its melancholy songs. The opening track, Thursday’s Child, held extra special meaning for me, as I was born on a Thursday. I really felt those lyrics of loneliness. I feel them now, seventeen years later. That’s the power of Bowie’s craft. I was hooked.
As the years went by, I bought each new release, as well as Bowie’s older work. I got both Tin Machine albums; they are very underrated, and feature some of his most kick-ass rock pieces. The depth of his genius was beginning to sink in: he used his voice in so many ways, and he owned any genre he dabbled in. Compare Under the God from the first Tin Machine album with Fantastic Voyage from The Lodger record, or Win from Young Americans. The vocal stylings, the delivery, the ambiance—all are very distinct from the other. The man could do anything; he was the ultimate artistic chameleon that changed colors to his own whim, not that of others.
I was sad when Bowie semi-retired after a heart attack in 2004. This sounds selfish, but it was like learning I’d never receive any more letters from a cherished friend. But I respected his decision, and continued to explore albums like Black Tie White Noise, Outside, Hunky Dory, and Tonight. His 2003 album, Reality, though I found it too stripped down upon its initial release, eventually became quite a favorite: I’d often find myself humming Fall Dog Bombs the Moon, or Bring Me the Disco King. Bowie’s melodies and lyrics were always at the back of my mind; I can’t tell you how many times Ashes to Ashes has entered my thoughts, or Heroes. His music was more than entertainment. It was a soundscape of life.
When he made a comeback with The Next Day in 2013, I was ecstatic. I mean, holy shit, we had new David Bowie songs! And the album did not disappoint. Where Are We Now, I’d Rather Be High, Dancing Out In Space—it was quality work from start to finish. Then there was talk of more albums, because Bowie wanted to focus on music. No tours, no interviews, just music. I was so damn excited.
When the announcement for his latest album, Blackstar, arrived last year, it came out of nowhere. I loved the title track immediately—it was surreal, enigmatic, catchy, and remained in my head up to the day the album came out earlier this year. 2016 looked to be awesome indeed.
And then, one night at work, I checked Twitter on my phone to see what was going on in the world. The small screen in my hand revealed a horrifying headline: David Bowie was dead.
I almost cried right there. I rapidly verified this awful tweet, this stab into my heart, by checking the rest of the internet and social media. Maybe it was some stupid hoax.
But no. The Disco King was no more.
He was the same age as my father, 69 years old. In so many ways, David Bowie was the father figure of my music world. Judging from the outpouring of grief from fans around the world, I’m not alone in that.
Bowie’s passing is the first celebrity death that has affected me this strongly. He was my constant companion, my friend, my champion against a world that was all too often cruel, dark, and empty. He, like so many other people have said, was a person that seemed to be from another world. A star from the firmament, sharing his light with us mortals.
I’m so glad his work will live on. His star will shine for so many others, for we need people like him. We need to see that light within ourselves, so we too can feel part of the heavens. We too can be heroes…if only for a day.
As I close this, I’m listening to The Last of the Dreamers, one of my favorite Bowie songs from the Hours album. Tears blur my screen, my keyboard. I wipe them away, to no avail. They catch the reflection of the light he left us, a tiny sparkle that resides in us all.
‘So it goes
Just a searcher
Lonely soul
The last of the dreamers’
Thank you, my good friend.
December 23, 2015
Star Wars is Back!
WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD
Star Wars: The Force Awakens delivered an entertaining experience on many levels: the best performances in the saga since The Empire Strikes Back; special effects with more reality to them than the over-used CGI of the Prequels; real chemistry between the actors; excellent dialogue and humor; and a timeless mythology that only strengthens with the retelling. I now have full confidence in Disney’s ability to give fans a series of timeless classics that will live up to the franchise’s brand and history.
There are a few minor issues I have with the film, but I’ll save them for last.
While nostalgia definitely pulls at the heartstrings in TFA, it takes much more than that to hold an audience’s attention, not to mention break such box office records. For me, it’s all in the new characters, and how brilliantly they are portrayed by their respective actors.
First is Rey, an orphan on a desert planet, who is an excellent mechanic and knows how to take care of herself. Rey is a survivor. Some critics have complained that she’s a ‘Mary Sue’, and is too perfect, too skilled, but when I start hearing that same criticism directed at male leads in other films, then I’ll begin to care. Do you think a survivor on a desert world would be a bumbling moron or a cowardly fifth wheel? Nope, me either. Rey is strong because she has to be; else she would have perished long ago. I love that she takes Han Solo’s place in the Millennium Falcon’s cockpit, and that she is the one who seeks out Luke Skywalker at the end. That she fights Kylo Ren to a draw in a lightsaber duel only adds to her character: in that moment she was saving a friend, she was hurt by Solo’s death, and she was angry that Ren was responsible for so much pain. That made the duel one of the most personal yet in the Star Wars saga, and already among my favorites. It’s the emotional content that makes it memorable, not five minutes of balletic sword fighting meant to impress rather than further the story. She is the new Luke Skywalker, and I’m eager to see how her journey unfolds.
Second is Finn, a former Stormtrooper. He refuses to take part in the First Order’s atrocities, he rescues Poe from Kylo’s interrogation chamber, and he helps Poe steal a TIE Fighter so that they both can escape. Finn isn’t a killer. He isn’t a coward, either. He’s willing to fight to save his friends; the first time he sees Rey, she’s in trouble, and he’s willing to intercede on her behalf. Later on, he takes up Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber and battles a Stormtrooper, even though he is unskilled in its use. He repeats this near the end, when he faces Kylo Ren in a duel. That takes guts, and loyalty to one’s friends. This has always been a hallmark of the Star Wars saga, and I’m so glad they brought it back in this character, the unlikely hero due to his past. Here’s hoping that he gets his own lightsaber in the next film, and perhaps a romance with Rey?
Third is Poe Dameron, the best pilot in the Resistance, a version of the Rebel Alliance. He’s witty, confident, and loyal to the cause of freedom in the galaxy. It’s great to see the X-Wing make a comeback, especially when piloted by such a talented guy like Poe. He comes across as a genuine good guy, without being arrogant about it. The camaraderie between him and Finn is something that was lacking in the Prequels, which is why it stands out so well in TFA. I get the feeling he’s going to be a major Resistance leader in the next movie.
Kylo Ren is a complex villain: as the son of Han Solo and Leia Organa, he shares a talent for the Force. However, he wants to be like his grandfather, Darth Vader, even to the point of wearing a mask when he doesn’t have to. It’s not physical deformity he wishes to hide; he believes himself to be a new person, an heir of the Sith traditions. His temper tantrums are a throwback to Vader, and reflects his instability. He is a confused young man, tormented and unpredictable. I think he will prove to be an even greater villain in the next film.
Now, for the things that could have been better:
Starkiller Base was unnecessary. It was yet another superweapon in a long line of superweapons, if you count all of those from the Expanded Universe (and if you’re a fan like me, that stuff goes back 25 years before this film came out—so we’ve seen it too much). Plus it was easy to destroy, like all the others. The one saving grace is that if they take this concept to its logical conclusion, of a vessel that absorbs stars, then the Republic could be in real danger. But enough with blowing up planets, already.
Captain Phasma is hardly in the film, yet she’s present in so many promotional materials, you’d think she’s second only to Kylo Ren as the film’s villain. Plus Gwendoline Christie is a wonderful actress, and it was a shame she was underutilized. But I’m hoping she comes back in Episode VIII, and in a big way.
Han Solo’s death was predictable. I mean, you knew he was a dead man as soon as he set foot on that catwalk with Kylo Ren. I don’t mind the character dying—this trilogy is about passing the torch, after all—but this scene could have been presented in a different way so that Solo’s demise was an uncertainty, not a guarantee.
The film glosses over things I really want to know—what is the Resistance and how was it formed; what is the Republic’s role in the current galaxy; how did the First Order come to be; who the hell is Supreme Leader Snoke; who are the Knights of Ren named after, and was Kylo their first member; and, how did Maz Kanata find Luke’s old lightsaber, the one he lost in a duel with Vader on Cloud City? To be fair, many of these questions will most likely be answered in the next film, as well as the novelization and other related works. But they MUST be told, so we can fully understand this new Star Wars timeline.
The bottom line is, TFA breathes much-needed vitality into the Star Wars saga. It brings it fully into the 21st century, with a female lead, a multi-racial main cast, and a sense of fun and wonder that has often been missing from the cinema. I am very excited to see where the saga goes from here.
Star Wars: The Force Awakens delivered an entertaining experience on many levels: the best performances in the saga since The Empire Strikes Back; special effects with more reality to them than the over-used CGI of the Prequels; real chemistry between the actors; excellent dialogue and humor; and a timeless mythology that only strengthens with the retelling. I now have full confidence in Disney’s ability to give fans a series of timeless classics that will live up to the franchise’s brand and history.
There are a few minor issues I have with the film, but I’ll save them for last.
While nostalgia definitely pulls at the heartstrings in TFA, it takes much more than that to hold an audience’s attention, not to mention break such box office records. For me, it’s all in the new characters, and how brilliantly they are portrayed by their respective actors.
First is Rey, an orphan on a desert planet, who is an excellent mechanic and knows how to take care of herself. Rey is a survivor. Some critics have complained that she’s a ‘Mary Sue’, and is too perfect, too skilled, but when I start hearing that same criticism directed at male leads in other films, then I’ll begin to care. Do you think a survivor on a desert world would be a bumbling moron or a cowardly fifth wheel? Nope, me either. Rey is strong because she has to be; else she would have perished long ago. I love that she takes Han Solo’s place in the Millennium Falcon’s cockpit, and that she is the one who seeks out Luke Skywalker at the end. That she fights Kylo Ren to a draw in a lightsaber duel only adds to her character: in that moment she was saving a friend, she was hurt by Solo’s death, and she was angry that Ren was responsible for so much pain. That made the duel one of the most personal yet in the Star Wars saga, and already among my favorites. It’s the emotional content that makes it memorable, not five minutes of balletic sword fighting meant to impress rather than further the story. She is the new Luke Skywalker, and I’m eager to see how her journey unfolds.
Second is Finn, a former Stormtrooper. He refuses to take part in the First Order’s atrocities, he rescues Poe from Kylo’s interrogation chamber, and he helps Poe steal a TIE Fighter so that they both can escape. Finn isn’t a killer. He isn’t a coward, either. He’s willing to fight to save his friends; the first time he sees Rey, she’s in trouble, and he’s willing to intercede on her behalf. Later on, he takes up Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber and battles a Stormtrooper, even though he is unskilled in its use. He repeats this near the end, when he faces Kylo Ren in a duel. That takes guts, and loyalty to one’s friends. This has always been a hallmark of the Star Wars saga, and I’m so glad they brought it back in this character, the unlikely hero due to his past. Here’s hoping that he gets his own lightsaber in the next film, and perhaps a romance with Rey?
Third is Poe Dameron, the best pilot in the Resistance, a version of the Rebel Alliance. He’s witty, confident, and loyal to the cause of freedom in the galaxy. It’s great to see the X-Wing make a comeback, especially when piloted by such a talented guy like Poe. He comes across as a genuine good guy, without being arrogant about it. The camaraderie between him and Finn is something that was lacking in the Prequels, which is why it stands out so well in TFA. I get the feeling he’s going to be a major Resistance leader in the next movie.
Kylo Ren is a complex villain: as the son of Han Solo and Leia Organa, he shares a talent for the Force. However, he wants to be like his grandfather, Darth Vader, even to the point of wearing a mask when he doesn’t have to. It’s not physical deformity he wishes to hide; he believes himself to be a new person, an heir of the Sith traditions. His temper tantrums are a throwback to Vader, and reflects his instability. He is a confused young man, tormented and unpredictable. I think he will prove to be an even greater villain in the next film.
Now, for the things that could have been better:
Starkiller Base was unnecessary. It was yet another superweapon in a long line of superweapons, if you count all of those from the Expanded Universe (and if you’re a fan like me, that stuff goes back 25 years before this film came out—so we’ve seen it too much). Plus it was easy to destroy, like all the others. The one saving grace is that if they take this concept to its logical conclusion, of a vessel that absorbs stars, then the Republic could be in real danger. But enough with blowing up planets, already.
Captain Phasma is hardly in the film, yet she’s present in so many promotional materials, you’d think she’s second only to Kylo Ren as the film’s villain. Plus Gwendoline Christie is a wonderful actress, and it was a shame she was underutilized. But I’m hoping she comes back in Episode VIII, and in a big way.
Han Solo’s death was predictable. I mean, you knew he was a dead man as soon as he set foot on that catwalk with Kylo Ren. I don’t mind the character dying—this trilogy is about passing the torch, after all—but this scene could have been presented in a different way so that Solo’s demise was an uncertainty, not a guarantee.
The film glosses over things I really want to know—what is the Resistance and how was it formed; what is the Republic’s role in the current galaxy; how did the First Order come to be; who the hell is Supreme Leader Snoke; who are the Knights of Ren named after, and was Kylo their first member; and, how did Maz Kanata find Luke’s old lightsaber, the one he lost in a duel with Vader on Cloud City? To be fair, many of these questions will most likely be answered in the next film, as well as the novelization and other related works. But they MUST be told, so we can fully understand this new Star Wars timeline.
The bottom line is, TFA breathes much-needed vitality into the Star Wars saga. It brings it fully into the 21st century, with a female lead, a multi-racial main cast, and a sense of fun and wonder that has often been missing from the cinema. I am very excited to see where the saga goes from here.
December 22, 2015
My First Book Signing
I was nervous as I hurried across the parking lot to Barnes & Noble, wary of holiday traffic and checking to make sure my wife was still beside me. In one hand I carried a small briefcase with my business cards, pens, and tablets (electronic and paper versions). In the other hand I held a cardboard package that contained the blowup of my cover, overnighted to me the day before by my publicist at Penguin.
This was my first book signing, and damn it, I didn’t want to mess it up.
I’d managed to squeeze in a signing at the last minute, thanks to my father-in-law and the local Barnes & Noble manager. Scheduled six days before Christmas and one day after the release of the new Star Wars film, it seemed like a good time to offer my space opera novel to busy shoppers. So without fanfare, I arrived right on time to find a table prepared for me, with my books lined up, as well as a standup flyer with my name on it.
This was the moment I’d only dreamed of. Yes, that’s a cliché spoken by every writer, but it’s true. For someone like me, a book store is both exciting and sacred, a library where proven classics shares shelf space with new blood. And here I was, the new blood, daring to seat myself in the center of such a place.
The store clerk welcomed me and offered to bring me coffee from the instore café should I need it; my wife, a few relatives, and friends took photos, bought a few copies, then left to do some last minute Christmas shopping. I was lucky enough to have an extended conversation with a local author and friend, but soon, even he was gone. I was set adrift in a sea of words and the people who pay their hard-earned money to read them.
But as soon as I sat down at the table, my anxiety disappeared. I don’t know why.
I’d always heard that you should engage people, but not come across too strong or annoying. So I sat there, hemmed in by my books on one side, and my cover blowup on the other, and waited.
It was interesting to watch people pass my table. You could tell who might be interested and who wasn’t. If anyone made eye contact with me, I made sure to say hello, and ask how they were doing. Most people are friendlier than they appear. If someone paused and glanced at my books, or my blowup, then I’d greet them and ask if they like science fiction. If anyone replied in the positive, I would continue my sales pitch (because that’s what it is) and ask if they liked Star Wars or Firefly, if they had a favorite SF author, and so on. This worked almost every time, with the result that I signed a book and garnered a sale at the end of the conversation. There was no median age, gender, or ethnicity; I sold books to the young and the old, men or women, whites and African Americans.
Some were parents shopping for their teenage children, some were buying Star Wars board games and wanted an SF book to go along with it, and some were intrigued enough by my description that they bought a copy. One woman liked my explanation of Kivita and Sar’s romance in my book. A guy mentioned that he liked SyFy’s new show The Expanse, and I mentioned that I watch it too (which I do) and that I tried to follow science much like that show does, by respecting different atmospheres and gravities in my own work. He bought a copy. Then there was the young guy who arrived after I had packed everything up. Wearing a curious smile, he picked up a copy, and soon we were discussing the works of Kevin J. Anderson, Timothy Zahn, and David Brin. I complimented him on his Boba Fett shirt (yes, I like that iconic character too) and the young man finally bought a signed copy.
So yes, I was being a salesman, but I know my genre, and I know my audience. I’m a fan too, and that connection with other fans worked for me.
There’s no doubt that the current popularity of space operas helped me out. But during the signing, the store clerk came by and let me know that I was doing very well. According to her, she’d seen other authors give a signing, sit there for hours, and not sell a single copy. She said I was good an engaging people.
Later that night, as I carried my briefcase and cover blowup back across a darkened parking lot, with my wife in tow, I smiled. The event was a success: over half of the books sold, but most importantly, because I’d proven to myself that I could do it. That I really can talk to strangers, and perhaps, connect their love of science fiction with my own in such a way that they’re willing to buy and read my work. Best of all, my wife and family were very proud. You can’t put a price on that kind of support, and I thank them.
This was my first book signing, and damn it, I didn’t want to mess it up.
I’d managed to squeeze in a signing at the last minute, thanks to my father-in-law and the local Barnes & Noble manager. Scheduled six days before Christmas and one day after the release of the new Star Wars film, it seemed like a good time to offer my space opera novel to busy shoppers. So without fanfare, I arrived right on time to find a table prepared for me, with my books lined up, as well as a standup flyer with my name on it.
This was the moment I’d only dreamed of. Yes, that’s a cliché spoken by every writer, but it’s true. For someone like me, a book store is both exciting and sacred, a library where proven classics shares shelf space with new blood. And here I was, the new blood, daring to seat myself in the center of such a place.
The store clerk welcomed me and offered to bring me coffee from the instore café should I need it; my wife, a few relatives, and friends took photos, bought a few copies, then left to do some last minute Christmas shopping. I was lucky enough to have an extended conversation with a local author and friend, but soon, even he was gone. I was set adrift in a sea of words and the people who pay their hard-earned money to read them.
But as soon as I sat down at the table, my anxiety disappeared. I don’t know why.
I’d always heard that you should engage people, but not come across too strong or annoying. So I sat there, hemmed in by my books on one side, and my cover blowup on the other, and waited.
It was interesting to watch people pass my table. You could tell who might be interested and who wasn’t. If anyone made eye contact with me, I made sure to say hello, and ask how they were doing. Most people are friendlier than they appear. If someone paused and glanced at my books, or my blowup, then I’d greet them and ask if they like science fiction. If anyone replied in the positive, I would continue my sales pitch (because that’s what it is) and ask if they liked Star Wars or Firefly, if they had a favorite SF author, and so on. This worked almost every time, with the result that I signed a book and garnered a sale at the end of the conversation. There was no median age, gender, or ethnicity; I sold books to the young and the old, men or women, whites and African Americans.
Some were parents shopping for their teenage children, some were buying Star Wars board games and wanted an SF book to go along with it, and some were intrigued enough by my description that they bought a copy. One woman liked my explanation of Kivita and Sar’s romance in my book. A guy mentioned that he liked SyFy’s new show The Expanse, and I mentioned that I watch it too (which I do) and that I tried to follow science much like that show does, by respecting different atmospheres and gravities in my own work. He bought a copy. Then there was the young guy who arrived after I had packed everything up. Wearing a curious smile, he picked up a copy, and soon we were discussing the works of Kevin J. Anderson, Timothy Zahn, and David Brin. I complimented him on his Boba Fett shirt (yes, I like that iconic character too) and the young man finally bought a signed copy.
So yes, I was being a salesman, but I know my genre, and I know my audience. I’m a fan too, and that connection with other fans worked for me.
There’s no doubt that the current popularity of space operas helped me out. But during the signing, the store clerk came by and let me know that I was doing very well. According to her, she’d seen other authors give a signing, sit there for hours, and not sell a single copy. She said I was good an engaging people.
Later that night, as I carried my briefcase and cover blowup back across a darkened parking lot, with my wife in tow, I smiled. The event was a success: over half of the books sold, but most importantly, because I’d proven to myself that I could do it. That I really can talk to strangers, and perhaps, connect their love of science fiction with my own in such a way that they’re willing to buy and read my work. Best of all, my wife and family were very proud. You can’t put a price on that kind of support, and I thank them.
November 3, 2015
Inherit the Stars: Release Day!
Finally, the day has arrived: November 3rd, 2015. The day I can stop retweeting ‘preorder my book!’, the day I can start worrying about the reviews I’ll get, and the day I’m supposed to gulp down several bottles of champagne.
It’s the day I can honestly say that I am a professionally published novelist. A real science fiction author.
I can remember signing that contract like it was yesterday, wondering if the release date would ever arrive, when would I get to see the cover art, or when would the ARCs go out to interested readers and publications. Now that the big day is here, I feel I have forgotten something, or there’s another task to complete, or I neglected to meet a deadline buried somewhere in my inbox. A writer’s life isn’t filled with celebratory toasts, pats on the back, or ticker tape parades, you know.
On my debut novel’s release day, all I can think about is: what comes next?
The obvious answer is to keep writing, keep submitting. But there are other considerations now. The way people view me, and the way I view myself.
It feels great to sign a copy of my book for someone, but it’s also strange. As my pen scratches my name on the title page, I try to think of clever, meaningful things to say. My cursive is horrible, so I have to print out the message, save for my signature at the end, which, despite practice, still resembles rejected characters from a chicken alphabet. Then it hits me that I really wrote this frigging thing, and I try not to screw up my signature.
Some of my relatives now say ‘hey, I know someone famous!’, but I merely grin and shake my head. I’m not a celebrity by any stretch, but it’s nice to think that anyone would think I’m cool now. I mean, one of my nieces Googled me, so that should mean something, right? Maybe I’ll get a Wikipedia page soon—the goal of all serious novelists.
I won’t know what fellow authors think unless they read my book, but we’re all part of the same club—one in which I can hold my head high, regardless of the novel’s success.
Some people may think ‘hey, you’ve made it!’, but no—all I did was climb a hill that allows me to actually see the mountain of challenges ahead. But the important thing is…now I know that I can climb.
So really, what is next?
I’ve already written both sequels to Inherit the Stars; one is in polished form, the other was written this past August. The story was always meant to be a trilogy, though the setting itself could be expanded in a second series. I have other science fiction and fantasy novels completed that I hope to get published, and I’m gearing up to write a brand new science fiction novel this month. I’d love to pen an epic fantasy saga down the road. There’s no end to the projects I have in mind.
Plus…I have more confidence now. No one can accuse me of pursuing a ‘thankless hobby’—which writing never was to me. Since I started writing seriously, it has always been, and remains, my passion. I have succeeded where many others have failed, and I know all too well just how special any success in this business is.
Now, I have business cards to pass out. I need to schedule myself for cons. I need to book some signings. My philosophy of ‘if you don’t regard yourself as a professional, then no one else will’ is now more important than ever. The pressure doesn’t go away simply because I achieved my first success.
Yet there is still much to celebrate. If writing were always a miserable enterprise, I wouldn’t do it. I love what I do. C’mon, you can order my book from Amazon, it’s on the shelf at Barnes & Noble and Books-A-Million, and it got a nice nod from Publishers Weekly! It’s got a great cover and has the thickness of an epic. Wooo! Beyond such achievements, though, is the real release this day: it is the new me, no longer crippled by self-doubt and disillusionment. It is the start of a new chapter in my life, and my career. Inherit the Stars, indeed.
So…anyway. I can’t drink too much champagne, or sing out of tune to ‘We Are the Champions’ all night long. Remember: I’ve got another book to write.
It’s the day I can honestly say that I am a professionally published novelist. A real science fiction author.
I can remember signing that contract like it was yesterday, wondering if the release date would ever arrive, when would I get to see the cover art, or when would the ARCs go out to interested readers and publications. Now that the big day is here, I feel I have forgotten something, or there’s another task to complete, or I neglected to meet a deadline buried somewhere in my inbox. A writer’s life isn’t filled with celebratory toasts, pats on the back, or ticker tape parades, you know.
On my debut novel’s release day, all I can think about is: what comes next?
The obvious answer is to keep writing, keep submitting. But there are other considerations now. The way people view me, and the way I view myself.
It feels great to sign a copy of my book for someone, but it’s also strange. As my pen scratches my name on the title page, I try to think of clever, meaningful things to say. My cursive is horrible, so I have to print out the message, save for my signature at the end, which, despite practice, still resembles rejected characters from a chicken alphabet. Then it hits me that I really wrote this frigging thing, and I try not to screw up my signature.
Some of my relatives now say ‘hey, I know someone famous!’, but I merely grin and shake my head. I’m not a celebrity by any stretch, but it’s nice to think that anyone would think I’m cool now. I mean, one of my nieces Googled me, so that should mean something, right? Maybe I’ll get a Wikipedia page soon—the goal of all serious novelists.
I won’t know what fellow authors think unless they read my book, but we’re all part of the same club—one in which I can hold my head high, regardless of the novel’s success.
Some people may think ‘hey, you’ve made it!’, but no—all I did was climb a hill that allows me to actually see the mountain of challenges ahead. But the important thing is…now I know that I can climb.
So really, what is next?
I’ve already written both sequels to Inherit the Stars; one is in polished form, the other was written this past August. The story was always meant to be a trilogy, though the setting itself could be expanded in a second series. I have other science fiction and fantasy novels completed that I hope to get published, and I’m gearing up to write a brand new science fiction novel this month. I’d love to pen an epic fantasy saga down the road. There’s no end to the projects I have in mind.
Plus…I have more confidence now. No one can accuse me of pursuing a ‘thankless hobby’—which writing never was to me. Since I started writing seriously, it has always been, and remains, my passion. I have succeeded where many others have failed, and I know all too well just how special any success in this business is.
Now, I have business cards to pass out. I need to schedule myself for cons. I need to book some signings. My philosophy of ‘if you don’t regard yourself as a professional, then no one else will’ is now more important than ever. The pressure doesn’t go away simply because I achieved my first success.
Yet there is still much to celebrate. If writing were always a miserable enterprise, I wouldn’t do it. I love what I do. C’mon, you can order my book from Amazon, it’s on the shelf at Barnes & Noble and Books-A-Million, and it got a nice nod from Publishers Weekly! It’s got a great cover and has the thickness of an epic. Wooo! Beyond such achievements, though, is the real release this day: it is the new me, no longer crippled by self-doubt and disillusionment. It is the start of a new chapter in my life, and my career. Inherit the Stars, indeed.
So…anyway. I can’t drink too much champagne, or sing out of tune to ‘We Are the Champions’ all night long. Remember: I’ve got another book to write.
October 22, 2015
The New Face of Science Fiction
Some people fear change, especially in science fiction and fandom overall. Recent examples:
Star Wars VII accused of promoting ‘white genocide’. Gamergate. The Puppies and the Hugo Awards. The 1-star reviews for Chuck Wendig’s Star Wars novel, ‘Aftermath’. If I wait a few days, there’ll be another controversy in fandom that I can add to this list. But that isn’t necessary. I, like most other writers, readers, and fans, am moving on.
The recent conservative backlashes against changes to fandom—more people of color (writers and characters), more alternate lifestyles, more LGBT representation—shouldn’t surprise anyone. It’s easy to ask, ‘how can sci-fi fans be so racist and backward, when they love aliens, robots, and future worlds’, but really, these social issues transcend fiction. A person will cheer for Lando when he blows up the Death Star in Return of the Jedi, but then stare in distaste as another black character, Finn, removes his Stormtrooper helmet in The Force Awakens. Why?
These early decades of the new millennium are seeing many social changes, and they are coming faster and faster. There remains much to be done about equality, women’s rights, the divide between the rich and poor, the environment, and a host of other issues, but progress is being made. That a black actor can even be on screen as a key character in the new Star Wars film, or that the gaming industry is paying more attention to women after the Gamergate mess, is proof that the real world is slowly becoming more inclusive.
Some people doesn’t want that.
Their mindset reminds me of modern conservative thinking: that America should be like the Andy Griffith Show, or return to its ‘Christian roots’, or have more 1950s-style nuclear families. Reality flash: this country was never like any of those things. That is someone’s twisted, wishful thinking. Some believe this fantasy, often with a fierce, stubborn passion, but they are a minority. The world is leaving them behind. Not because it’s excluding them, but because they don’t want to live in the new one.
This was never a Christian nation. The nuclear family of the 1950s was an irrelevant societal ideal, then and now. And though I find Andy Taylor and Barney Fife’s antics entertaining, in no way would I want to live in Mayberry: everyone is white, Christian, speaks English, there’s no sex, there’s no diversity, and there’s no interest in changing these things. I’m not criticizing the actual television show, which is a classic, but rather, people’s portrayal of it as the perfect community. It isn’t.
The same is true with science fiction. Yes, white male authors and actors have long dominated the field. That too is changing. That anyone would take issue with this is simply immature and bigoted. The sheer amount of conspiracy theories, name-calling, and uncompromising rage that has surfaced reveals an inability to deal with change. Certain (but not all) Puppies during the 2015 Hugos drama exemplified this behavior. Some even had their works on the ballot, and still flung vitriol at critics, presenters, and the award itself.
I mean, damn.
The Puppies, the Gamergaters, the morons who engineered the hashtag boycotting the new Star Wars film—they’re all trying to claim something for their own, that belongs to all of us. There’s no need to be greedy, afraid, or negative. I promise you, there’s plenty of science fiction to go around. But, deep down, people like that already know it. The real issue is a darker one that has long been at the heart of our society: they fear, and thus hate, those different than themselves. Especially when they feel the big, scary, Other is encroaching on ‘their’ territory.
Excuse me, but paraphrasing what Arthur C. Clarke once said: flags don’t wave in space.
One wonders how such people would really handle first contact with aliens. My guess is that they’d react like those militaristic idiots from old UFO films: they’d shoot first, and not even ask questions later. Because if you can’t accept another human being that has a different skin color, speaks another language, believes in a different (or no) deity, or has an alternate sexual preference, then how the hell will you deal with aliens? How will your tiny mind cope with the technological changes we’ll likely see by 2050? How will you interact with the next generation, one reared with ubiquitous access to information?
Maybe these people feel betrayed by a future they didn’t want. They don’t have my sympathies. This year alone has seen the legalization of gay marriage and the Confederate flag receiving its rightful reputation as a racist anachronism. Hatred of science, of knowledge, is no longer in vogue. The public wants humans to land on Mars, it wants to preserve women’s reproductive rights, and it wants to hold civil servants accountable.
People want their entertainment to reflect that. Science fiction has always been about progress, and how we as human beings deal with it. How we ultimately make ourselves better by working with change, not fighting it. Would you cheer for a hero who hates others, derails social progress, prefers argument to discussion, and condemns any who dares challenge an unequal status quo? No, me either.
I say all of this as a straight, white, male author. I say it knowing what I will never experience, or fully understand, the challenges those different than myself face each and every day. I say it because I am cognizant enough of my world to care about the people in it.
The new face of science fiction has no color, no gender. It isn’t looking backward. It’s looking forward. And it represents all of us.
Star Wars VII accused of promoting ‘white genocide’. Gamergate. The Puppies and the Hugo Awards. The 1-star reviews for Chuck Wendig’s Star Wars novel, ‘Aftermath’. If I wait a few days, there’ll be another controversy in fandom that I can add to this list. But that isn’t necessary. I, like most other writers, readers, and fans, am moving on.
The recent conservative backlashes against changes to fandom—more people of color (writers and characters), more alternate lifestyles, more LGBT representation—shouldn’t surprise anyone. It’s easy to ask, ‘how can sci-fi fans be so racist and backward, when they love aliens, robots, and future worlds’, but really, these social issues transcend fiction. A person will cheer for Lando when he blows up the Death Star in Return of the Jedi, but then stare in distaste as another black character, Finn, removes his Stormtrooper helmet in The Force Awakens. Why?
These early decades of the new millennium are seeing many social changes, and they are coming faster and faster. There remains much to be done about equality, women’s rights, the divide between the rich and poor, the environment, and a host of other issues, but progress is being made. That a black actor can even be on screen as a key character in the new Star Wars film, or that the gaming industry is paying more attention to women after the Gamergate mess, is proof that the real world is slowly becoming more inclusive.
Some people doesn’t want that.
Their mindset reminds me of modern conservative thinking: that America should be like the Andy Griffith Show, or return to its ‘Christian roots’, or have more 1950s-style nuclear families. Reality flash: this country was never like any of those things. That is someone’s twisted, wishful thinking. Some believe this fantasy, often with a fierce, stubborn passion, but they are a minority. The world is leaving them behind. Not because it’s excluding them, but because they don’t want to live in the new one.
This was never a Christian nation. The nuclear family of the 1950s was an irrelevant societal ideal, then and now. And though I find Andy Taylor and Barney Fife’s antics entertaining, in no way would I want to live in Mayberry: everyone is white, Christian, speaks English, there’s no sex, there’s no diversity, and there’s no interest in changing these things. I’m not criticizing the actual television show, which is a classic, but rather, people’s portrayal of it as the perfect community. It isn’t.
The same is true with science fiction. Yes, white male authors and actors have long dominated the field. That too is changing. That anyone would take issue with this is simply immature and bigoted. The sheer amount of conspiracy theories, name-calling, and uncompromising rage that has surfaced reveals an inability to deal with change. Certain (but not all) Puppies during the 2015 Hugos drama exemplified this behavior. Some even had their works on the ballot, and still flung vitriol at critics, presenters, and the award itself.
I mean, damn.
The Puppies, the Gamergaters, the morons who engineered the hashtag boycotting the new Star Wars film—they’re all trying to claim something for their own, that belongs to all of us. There’s no need to be greedy, afraid, or negative. I promise you, there’s plenty of science fiction to go around. But, deep down, people like that already know it. The real issue is a darker one that has long been at the heart of our society: they fear, and thus hate, those different than themselves. Especially when they feel the big, scary, Other is encroaching on ‘their’ territory.
Excuse me, but paraphrasing what Arthur C. Clarke once said: flags don’t wave in space.
One wonders how such people would really handle first contact with aliens. My guess is that they’d react like those militaristic idiots from old UFO films: they’d shoot first, and not even ask questions later. Because if you can’t accept another human being that has a different skin color, speaks another language, believes in a different (or no) deity, or has an alternate sexual preference, then how the hell will you deal with aliens? How will your tiny mind cope with the technological changes we’ll likely see by 2050? How will you interact with the next generation, one reared with ubiquitous access to information?
Maybe these people feel betrayed by a future they didn’t want. They don’t have my sympathies. This year alone has seen the legalization of gay marriage and the Confederate flag receiving its rightful reputation as a racist anachronism. Hatred of science, of knowledge, is no longer in vogue. The public wants humans to land on Mars, it wants to preserve women’s reproductive rights, and it wants to hold civil servants accountable.
People want their entertainment to reflect that. Science fiction has always been about progress, and how we as human beings deal with it. How we ultimately make ourselves better by working with change, not fighting it. Would you cheer for a hero who hates others, derails social progress, prefers argument to discussion, and condemns any who dares challenge an unequal status quo? No, me either.
I say all of this as a straight, white, male author. I say it knowing what I will never experience, or fully understand, the challenges those different than myself face each and every day. I say it because I am cognizant enough of my world to care about the people in it.
The new face of science fiction has no color, no gender. It isn’t looking backward. It’s looking forward. And it represents all of us.
October 16, 2015
Finding My Author Brand
Discovering how I wanted to present my author persona took several years. Some writers may plan this from the beginning, but not me. I mean, I’ve always known what I wanted to write, but for the longest time I merely called it ‘speculative fiction’. There was a phase where I thought all I was good at was ‘dark fiction’. Like a headless amateur, I would change my website to reflect these allegiances to image, these silly brainstorms I allowed myself to suffer through. In the end, I finally came back to what always mattered to me the most, and what I like: science fiction.
Sounds simple, right? If only. It was only when I’d signed with a major publisher that I knew what I wanted my ‘brand’ to be. Not because ‘hey, I’ve got something people can frigging buy now!’ but because I finally had the confidence to just be myself. As any author will tell you, that first big contract is worth far more than money.
In the early days, after selling my first few short stories, I simply billed myself as a ‘speculative fiction’ writer. I wrote science fiction, fantasy, and horror, so why not? Plus, since I was an unknown, with zero presence on social media, I feared I might sound pompous trying to brand myself. So I stuck with that for a while.
After a couple of years, I focused more on darker stories, particularly in the fantasy vein. My science fiction at that point felt weak and cliché, regurgitating ideas that better authors had already explored. So I billed myself a writer of ‘dark fantasy’. Around that time, I also became a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), so I figured, hey, this might be my calling. So I launched my website with all sorts of dark imagery. Ooh, scary. But not in the way I intended. It felt lame. Like I was pretending.
This showed in my work as well. I wrote little actual horror, and most of my dark fantasy was more on the fantasy side. Still, I tried. Halloween is my favorite holiday, after all, and some of my favorite novels are Victorian Gothic fiction. I cut my literary teeth on Stoker, Poe, and Shelley. Yet this brand wasn’t satisfying. It wasn’t me.
During this time, I wrote three science fiction novels, but very few science fiction short stories. Maybe I thought I needed a larger canvas for those works; who knows. More and more, my interest in actual science experienced a resurgence, and for the first time in years, I had hope for the future. All of the things I loved that Arthur C. Clarke, Frank Herbert, and Sheila Finch wrote kept coming back to me. My personal life was changing. I got married. Started raising a child. I recalled my earlier years, when science fiction was my favorite thing to read.
I still wasn’t sure of who I was as an author.
Everything fell into place when Penguin sent me a contract for one of those science fiction novels. Above the understandable euphoria, I sensed something else. My first published book would be a work of science fiction! Not horror or dark fantasy. Not the historical fiction I wanted to write years ago. Instead, I was giving a space opera adventure to the world. And thus, I was giving of myself. My true self.
I didn’t find my author brand. It found me.
That doesn’t mean I’m limiting myself to science fiction. I still have other written works, and other works planned. But science fiction will be my flagship, the banner I carry into the literary world, the badge I’ll proudly wear among my peers. Through science fiction, I can trumpet my ideas that call for reason, for understanding one another, and for hope. So, perhaps my author brand has a positive core, not the brooding, angst-ridden one I thought it was.
Sounds simple, right? If only. It was only when I’d signed with a major publisher that I knew what I wanted my ‘brand’ to be. Not because ‘hey, I’ve got something people can frigging buy now!’ but because I finally had the confidence to just be myself. As any author will tell you, that first big contract is worth far more than money.
In the early days, after selling my first few short stories, I simply billed myself as a ‘speculative fiction’ writer. I wrote science fiction, fantasy, and horror, so why not? Plus, since I was an unknown, with zero presence on social media, I feared I might sound pompous trying to brand myself. So I stuck with that for a while.
After a couple of years, I focused more on darker stories, particularly in the fantasy vein. My science fiction at that point felt weak and cliché, regurgitating ideas that better authors had already explored. So I billed myself a writer of ‘dark fantasy’. Around that time, I also became a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), so I figured, hey, this might be my calling. So I launched my website with all sorts of dark imagery. Ooh, scary. But not in the way I intended. It felt lame. Like I was pretending.
This showed in my work as well. I wrote little actual horror, and most of my dark fantasy was more on the fantasy side. Still, I tried. Halloween is my favorite holiday, after all, and some of my favorite novels are Victorian Gothic fiction. I cut my literary teeth on Stoker, Poe, and Shelley. Yet this brand wasn’t satisfying. It wasn’t me.
During this time, I wrote three science fiction novels, but very few science fiction short stories. Maybe I thought I needed a larger canvas for those works; who knows. More and more, my interest in actual science experienced a resurgence, and for the first time in years, I had hope for the future. All of the things I loved that Arthur C. Clarke, Frank Herbert, and Sheila Finch wrote kept coming back to me. My personal life was changing. I got married. Started raising a child. I recalled my earlier years, when science fiction was my favorite thing to read.
I still wasn’t sure of who I was as an author.
Everything fell into place when Penguin sent me a contract for one of those science fiction novels. Above the understandable euphoria, I sensed something else. My first published book would be a work of science fiction! Not horror or dark fantasy. Not the historical fiction I wanted to write years ago. Instead, I was giving a space opera adventure to the world. And thus, I was giving of myself. My true self.
I didn’t find my author brand. It found me.
That doesn’t mean I’m limiting myself to science fiction. I still have other written works, and other works planned. But science fiction will be my flagship, the banner I carry into the literary world, the badge I’ll proudly wear among my peers. Through science fiction, I can trumpet my ideas that call for reason, for understanding one another, and for hope. So, perhaps my author brand has a positive core, not the brooding, angst-ridden one I thought it was.
