Gillian Polack's Blog, page 232
September 11, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-09-11T11:55:00
Despite today being very achesome, I'm halfway through my review reading and halfway through my urgent-must-chase-my-own-tail dissertation stuff.
While I washed some of my dishes* I was thinking about this latter. I've collected a lot of conversations, both online and off, concerning how people consider history in fiction and what makes a spec fic novel. It struck me just now that the vast, vast bulk of these conversations address the general things. They look for alternate worlds, presence of magic, whether the novel is didactic. It's very much big picture.
Big picture is important. Having these conversations (or similar ones) in many forae is in important. They give us a common ground to accept or argue. They give us tools for discourse. The conversation I want to have as well, however, is a continuation of the one from Leeds.
One peculiar thing about medievalists (and classicists) is that many of us have a smidgeon of training in rhetoric. I can never remember formal rhetorical terms, but the memory of learning Geoffrey of Vinsauf from Sr Frances pushes me to think "What are writers doing at the micro level? How do they influence readers? When is it intentional? When does it make up an aspect of a genre?" (Why Geoffrey of Vinsauf? That's another story.)
This insight isn't going to change the world. It isn't even going to change my dissertation. I do now, however, understand why my approach isn't like those conversations I've been on the edge of.
*never wash them all - they might come to expect it
**well, it struck me yesterday, actually, but yesterday I lacked words to it, so, really, I put words to it just now - not very good words, because words have not fully returned
While I washed some of my dishes* I was thinking about this latter. I've collected a lot of conversations, both online and off, concerning how people consider history in fiction and what makes a spec fic novel. It struck me just now that the vast, vast bulk of these conversations address the general things. They look for alternate worlds, presence of magic, whether the novel is didactic. It's very much big picture.
Big picture is important. Having these conversations (or similar ones) in many forae is in important. They give us a common ground to accept or argue. They give us tools for discourse. The conversation I want to have as well, however, is a continuation of the one from Leeds.
One peculiar thing about medievalists (and classicists) is that many of us have a smidgeon of training in rhetoric. I can never remember formal rhetorical terms, but the memory of learning Geoffrey of Vinsauf from Sr Frances pushes me to think "What are writers doing at the micro level? How do they influence readers? When is it intentional? When does it make up an aspect of a genre?" (Why Geoffrey of Vinsauf? That's another story.)
This insight isn't going to change the world. It isn't even going to change my dissertation. I do now, however, understand why my approach isn't like those conversations I've been on the edge of.
*never wash them all - they might come to expect it
**well, it struck me yesterday, actually, but yesterday I lacked words to it, so, really, I put words to it just now - not very good words, because words have not fully returned
September 10, 2011
The trailer!!!!!
The Conflux cookbook trailer: the work of the most wonderful Nicole Murphy. The first person (other than myself, any of the Conflux chairs, or Cat Sparks) to correctly identify all the people in all the photographs will win an oversized postcard* with a recipe from the cookbook. (one postcard for LJ and one for FB - the card can travel anywhere Australia Post delivers)
*Barb, this is your chance to get one, since I decided against a reprint. These are nearly the last of them.
*Barb, this is your chance to get one, since I decided against a reprint. These are nearly the last of them.
gillpolack @ 2011-09-10T20:00:00
I promised several people information on the Conflux workshops when it came out. You can find out more information here.
UPDATE: Workshops now open for booking. If the form isn't on the Conflux website, it will be very, very shortly. I want to say in a darkly looming voice "Conflux is coming" - Winter is, I think, still here, after all, and so that needs not be said.
UPDATE: Workshops now open for booking. If the form isn't on the Conflux website, it will be very, very shortly. I want to say in a darkly looming voice "Conflux is coming" - Winter is, I think, still here, after all, and so that needs not be said.
gillpolack @ 2011-09-10T16:22:00
The universe is not quite behaving today. That's why I've turned to cooking, I suspect. It's just as fast to make something for eating on a day when I have no time to cook than to find a file that's mysteriously absented itself from the three different places it ought to have been. And telling my computer that has caused the file to appear, which just goes to show that it's one of those days.
It's an important file, because it contains a bunch of notes on the relationship between history as an historian sees it and the internalised history a good novelist works with and possible ways of achieving one from the other. The trick is that most writers simply don't see the past in most of the ways historians see the past. When they do, it really shows in their writing. (When they do but haven't internalised it, it also shows in their writing - the most common way it shows is through info-dump.) Sometimes it shows in their writing even when they're not using history - James Enge has some of those characteristics. His writing is a lovely example of how a particular way of thinking can make a world come to life. One day I shall analyse his work into little shreds and demonstrate how his mind works with both his professions to create a very special kind of Enge universe and he shall hate me forever. That's what internalisation is, really - gaining a particular way of thinking.
Also in my once-were-missing notes are reminders that I need to do some reading on what other writers and thinkers have said about the techniques spec fic writers use to persuade readers that this particular novel they are reading is the one they should be referencing, and not some other novel. if anyone has any ideas, I'd be happy to hear them. Today I was thinking that writers of LOTR-derivates of all varieties (epic battle as much as small person in big landscape) especially need to use techniques to remind us that they are themselves and not JRRT. This is maybe where I will look if I need to look somewhere.
I don't know if I do need to look somewhere, yet. I do know that I want to, even if I don't need to for this project. I would love to analyse the way genre writers persuade readers to read their particular work in a particular way. What codes, what techniques are used to encourage readers to believe that this belongs to one part of the genre rather than another? This question came out of the masterclass, but it also came out of seeing what techniques editors and publishers use to persuade the wider public that this is where their work belongs (and how much we should value it). I don't know yet if it relates closely enough to my current work, though. And my mind is going in circles trying to work it out the lazy way. What I shall do in a few minutes is sit down and analyse where it fits into my argument, and then I'll know for certain. The non-lazy-way. Still, it's something I need to understand, for me, as a writer, so I'll be reading up on it and doing an analysis sometime, for someone, since that's how I think most effectively.
I've also been thinking (quite evilly) of scholarly apparatus as an aspect of rhetoric. It's there to convince more often than it's there to present an evidentiary path. This is definitely related to my dissertation. Scholarly apparatus is one of the big dividing lines between history and fiction, after all. (Mind you, having said that , without scholarly apparatus, revisiting the Beast is a real pain - work has to be re-done when there is a query of substance because I can't demonstrate I did it properly the first time - there is a definite value in footnotes and sourcing.)
All this and more is in my day (along with the reading, which is moving along nicely) largely because next weekend I have to revisit the whole Medieval Masculinities area of my dissertation and novel and prepare my presentation for the seminar at Monash. I'm somewhat behind because of the cookbook, but if I actually sit and do steady work, I'll catch up. If my files decide to allow themselves to be found, that is.
It's an important file, because it contains a bunch of notes on the relationship between history as an historian sees it and the internalised history a good novelist works with and possible ways of achieving one from the other. The trick is that most writers simply don't see the past in most of the ways historians see the past. When they do, it really shows in their writing. (When they do but haven't internalised it, it also shows in their writing - the most common way it shows is through info-dump.) Sometimes it shows in their writing even when they're not using history - James Enge has some of those characteristics. His writing is a lovely example of how a particular way of thinking can make a world come to life. One day I shall analyse his work into little shreds and demonstrate how his mind works with both his professions to create a very special kind of Enge universe and he shall hate me forever. That's what internalisation is, really - gaining a particular way of thinking.
Also in my once-were-missing notes are reminders that I need to do some reading on what other writers and thinkers have said about the techniques spec fic writers use to persuade readers that this particular novel they are reading is the one they should be referencing, and not some other novel. if anyone has any ideas, I'd be happy to hear them. Today I was thinking that writers of LOTR-derivates of all varieties (epic battle as much as small person in big landscape) especially need to use techniques to remind us that they are themselves and not JRRT. This is maybe where I will look if I need to look somewhere.
I don't know if I do need to look somewhere, yet. I do know that I want to, even if I don't need to for this project. I would love to analyse the way genre writers persuade readers to read their particular work in a particular way. What codes, what techniques are used to encourage readers to believe that this belongs to one part of the genre rather than another? This question came out of the masterclass, but it also came out of seeing what techniques editors and publishers use to persuade the wider public that this is where their work belongs (and how much we should value it). I don't know yet if it relates closely enough to my current work, though. And my mind is going in circles trying to work it out the lazy way. What I shall do in a few minutes is sit down and analyse where it fits into my argument, and then I'll know for certain. The non-lazy-way. Still, it's something I need to understand, for me, as a writer, so I'll be reading up on it and doing an analysis sometime, for someone, since that's how I think most effectively.
I've also been thinking (quite evilly) of scholarly apparatus as an aspect of rhetoric. It's there to convince more often than it's there to present an evidentiary path. This is definitely related to my dissertation. Scholarly apparatus is one of the big dividing lines between history and fiction, after all. (Mind you, having said that , without scholarly apparatus, revisiting the Beast is a real pain - work has to be re-done when there is a query of substance because I can't demonstrate I did it properly the first time - there is a definite value in footnotes and sourcing.)
All this and more is in my day (along with the reading, which is moving along nicely) largely because next weekend I have to revisit the whole Medieval Masculinities area of my dissertation and novel and prepare my presentation for the seminar at Monash. I'm somewhat behind because of the cookbook, but if I actually sit and do steady work, I'll catch up. If my files decide to allow themselves to be found, that is.
gillpolack @ 2011-09-10T15:17:00
I've always been prone to adjectivalise myself. From late primary school I'd look at the other students in despair and know, deep down and utterly miserable, that I was stodgy. All the books I read and all the TV and all the classroom comments and all the teachers' footnotes on behaviour applauded my character as dull but worthy, my looks and presence as fitting someone who was dull but worthy and got good marks and, in short, summarised me as stodgy. My school reports underlined this. All my life expectations were framed around this.
Today I realised that something has gone somewhat wrong in that. My environment might have pigeonholed me, and I might have accepted the adjective and assumed that it was forever part of my life, but gently, life has shifted*.
Today I got to see the final of the book trailer for the Conflux cookbook** and, ten minutes later, I received one of those "we need money" phonecalls from one of my previous universities. I explained why money is a bit of a thing right now and the student caller and I had a huge conversation, covering everything from cooking tips to effects of recessions on academic futures. Plus we argued about the friendliness of passers-by in Toronto. He roped me in (very willingly) to be a mentor in lieu of donating.
I don't know what adjective applies to me, but it's nice to know that the universe that was mine during primary school and early high school didn't produce the right one. I never actually wanted to be stodgy, you see. I was round and out of breath and was such a good little girl and had such big glasses and was of no interest to other kids, so I *was* stodgy. Now I'm not.
In celebration of not being stodgy (though I'm still the right shape for stodgy and still have big glasses and am still stunningly well-behaved) I marinated much feta with some very strange spices. I made myself extra-rich hot chocolate*** and found the three most escapist books from my stack for the rest of the day's reading. That and Norbert Ohler on travelling in the Middle Ages. Also, I shall write some novel. Everything about this is work - except the hot chocolate.
I wonder what the more interesting kids from back then do with their Saturday afternoons?
*note elegant understatement. Applause is really not necessary.
** WATCH THIS SPACE!!!!!!
***to fight the evil wind outside
Today I realised that something has gone somewhat wrong in that. My environment might have pigeonholed me, and I might have accepted the adjective and assumed that it was forever part of my life, but gently, life has shifted*.
Today I got to see the final of the book trailer for the Conflux cookbook** and, ten minutes later, I received one of those "we need money" phonecalls from one of my previous universities. I explained why money is a bit of a thing right now and the student caller and I had a huge conversation, covering everything from cooking tips to effects of recessions on academic futures. Plus we argued about the friendliness of passers-by in Toronto. He roped me in (very willingly) to be a mentor in lieu of donating.
I don't know what adjective applies to me, but it's nice to know that the universe that was mine during primary school and early high school didn't produce the right one. I never actually wanted to be stodgy, you see. I was round and out of breath and was such a good little girl and had such big glasses and was of no interest to other kids, so I *was* stodgy. Now I'm not.
In celebration of not being stodgy (though I'm still the right shape for stodgy and still have big glasses and am still stunningly well-behaved) I marinated much feta with some very strange spices. I made myself extra-rich hot chocolate*** and found the three most escapist books from my stack for the rest of the day's reading. That and Norbert Ohler on travelling in the Middle Ages. Also, I shall write some novel. Everything about this is work - except the hot chocolate.
I wonder what the more interesting kids from back then do with their Saturday afternoons?
*note elegant understatement. Applause is really not necessary.
** WATCH THIS SPACE!!!!!!
***to fight the evil wind outside
September 9, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-09-09T20:44:00
I now feel dreadfully intelligent. I have ordered (some from libraries and two from a bookshop) the next batch of books for the next theoretical bit of my dissertation (a bit that has nothing to do with the Middle Ages, I must inform the world - I am a reformed person) and I have worked on the Beast, and I have rested a great deal (and will be weller soonish, I'm still determined) and am making progress with review books and notes about waht I need to say concerning them ("Paul McAuley's comment on steampunk" says one note, which is very useful. A note referring to a note about a comment made the other side of the world.). Mostly, I've rested. Why rest should make me feel wildly intellectual is a great mystery.
My useful bit of information for the day (since it's been about two years since I've had a useful bit of information for the day and *someone's* life must be poorer for this lack) is that the government is burning off in the ACT. Also that I've been put back on the list of people who need information on human rights seminars in the ACT.
My useful bit of information for the day (since it's been about two years since I've had a useful bit of information for the day and *someone's* life must be poorer for this lack) is that the government is burning off in the ACT. Also that I've been put back on the list of people who need information on human rights seminars in the ACT.
gillpolack @ 2011-09-09T10:59:00
I was annoyed when my train of thought was interrupted by a phonecall. I told myself "It's family - they're the only ones who would ring partway through a Friday morning." I stopped being annoyed and answered the phone. It was a pleasant lady trying to get me to donate money.
"Do you know the wonderful work the Heart Research Foundation is doing?" she asked me.
"Yes, I know quite a bit about the wonderful work the Heart Research Foundation is doing. What I don't know is why you interrupted my work."
"I'm sorry, this is the only phone number I have. I thought it was a home number."
"I work from home."
And she beat a hasty and polite retreat. This doesn't bring back my train of thought, but at least the interruption was a short one.
In other not-really-news I have fewer review books to read than I thought. One of those days I had a high fever I had sorted books into entirely the wrong piles and two books I had finished with were included in the unread stack. The bad news is that these were the short books - the only books remaining unto me are rather large. The page count for the next three days remains the same, but the number of books is smaller. I'm now going round my flat, looking suspiciously at almost everything, wondering what other daft things I did while in the throes of fever. I do suspect, however, that stacking books badly is the worst of it.
"Do you know the wonderful work the Heart Research Foundation is doing?" she asked me.
"Yes, I know quite a bit about the wonderful work the Heart Research Foundation is doing. What I don't know is why you interrupted my work."
"I'm sorry, this is the only phone number I have. I thought it was a home number."
"I work from home."
And she beat a hasty and polite retreat. This doesn't bring back my train of thought, but at least the interruption was a short one.
In other not-really-news I have fewer review books to read than I thought. One of those days I had a high fever I had sorted books into entirely the wrong piles and two books I had finished with were included in the unread stack. The bad news is that these were the short books - the only books remaining unto me are rather large. The page count for the next three days remains the same, but the number of books is smaller. I'm now going round my flat, looking suspiciously at almost everything, wondering what other daft things I did while in the throes of fever. I do suspect, however, that stacking books badly is the worst of it.
September 8, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-09-08T23:23:00
I am making chicken soup. This is by way of terrifying away all illness.
I have sorted my review books (I only read 2 1/2 books today because I had a sudden thought about a fun article to write and that necessitated a reconsidering. If I can read a mere eight more books by Monday, then I shall have two pieces ready to go and be very pleased with myself*. In fact, I'm very pleased with myself now, because all but one of those eight books are speculative fiction. I have to read fun stuff. Oh no!
I have Real News.
The cookbook looks splendid, I'm told, and is at the printers. I have a copy of the cover and it's very elegant. I suppose someone ought to organise for it to be webbed so that we can all link to it, but every single someone involved with the cookbook is a bit busy (meaning: totally snowed under). This means that you'll have to take my word for it that it's seriously, seriously cool. Kathleen Jennings and Andrew McKiernan are a very wonderful art/design combo.
*I forgot! 8 1/4 more books and three articles, which will bring me right up to date. I forgot the 1/4 because, oddly, it overlaps with my novel and with the Beast: I'm reading it for three purposes at once. This is why I can't wash dishes - it would push my multiskilling beyond anything sane.
I have sorted my review books (I only read 2 1/2 books today because I had a sudden thought about a fun article to write and that necessitated a reconsidering. If I can read a mere eight more books by Monday, then I shall have two pieces ready to go and be very pleased with myself*. In fact, I'm very pleased with myself now, because all but one of those eight books are speculative fiction. I have to read fun stuff. Oh no!
I have Real News.
The cookbook looks splendid, I'm told, and is at the printers. I have a copy of the cover and it's very elegant. I suppose someone ought to organise for it to be webbed so that we can all link to it, but every single someone involved with the cookbook is a bit busy (meaning: totally snowed under). This means that you'll have to take my word for it that it's seriously, seriously cool. Kathleen Jennings and Andrew McKiernan are a very wonderful art/design combo.
*I forgot! 8 1/4 more books and three articles, which will bring me right up to date. I forgot the 1/4 because, oddly, it overlaps with my novel and with the Beast: I'm reading it for three purposes at once. This is why I can't wash dishes - it would push my multiskilling beyond anything sane.
September 7, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-09-07T16:16:00
Will no-one rid me of this troublesome infection? Actually, the infection's gone, but I'm still riddled with symptoms. I looked so very tired this morning that a staff member gave me a lift home from teaching and instructed me to go straight to sleep (which I did). I was saved a walk in the rain last night because a student did likewise (only this time he asked his wife if I could be dropped off).
Apparently half Canberra is down with this ailment, which means it will be gone in a week and we will look all innocent and fresh for Floriade and flowers or Conflux and matters SFnal. The bed-ridden will transmute into joggers and instead of coughs we will hear the dulcent "Aaargh!" of a tourist being swooped by magpies.
I scared a magpie today, when I put my rubbish out. I don't know if it was my demeanour, my cough, or the fact that I lobbed that bag straight into the bin it was dining from. First time I've scared a magpie, ever. I still think Daphne du Maurier met Australian magpies and that the seagull story is just a cover.
I'm not going out tonight - I'm working and resting and resting and working and sometimes trying to do both at once. Tomorrow I go to the dentist (I also need to be rid of troublesome issues in that vicinity) and read three review books. Seriously. Three. Hold me to it. I've only read one since Monday, and my books are swarming. Book swarms in my loungeroom are very dangerous and control measures must be taken.
Apparently half Canberra is down with this ailment, which means it will be gone in a week and we will look all innocent and fresh for Floriade and flowers or Conflux and matters SFnal. The bed-ridden will transmute into joggers and instead of coughs we will hear the dulcent "Aaargh!" of a tourist being swooped by magpies.
I scared a magpie today, when I put my rubbish out. I don't know if it was my demeanour, my cough, or the fact that I lobbed that bag straight into the bin it was dining from. First time I've scared a magpie, ever. I still think Daphne du Maurier met Australian magpies and that the seagull story is just a cover.
I'm not going out tonight - I'm working and resting and resting and working and sometimes trying to do both at once. Tomorrow I go to the dentist (I also need to be rid of troublesome issues in that vicinity) and read three review books. Seriously. Three. Hold me to it. I've only read one since Monday, and my books are swarming. Book swarms in my loungeroom are very dangerous and control measures must be taken.
September 6, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-09-06T15:45:00
My students are going to be so very pleased with me tonight. I found my guide to necromancy*!
*Did you all really want to know that I had a necromancer's guide? Or that it was near my Pamelius?
*Did you all really want to know that I had a necromancer's guide? Or that it was near my Pamelius?
