Ken Lizzi's Blog, page 75

More Too Late Book Reviews

I admit that I get around to reading certain influential, well-regarded, even seminal books rather late. Given finite time, the truth is many of them I’ll give a miss entirely. Better late than never, goes the axiom, a truism that’s probably circumstantial in application. In the circumstance at issue, it holds up.

“What are you babbling about,” you ask? Fair question. I’m on the cusp of sickness, and feeling a bit loopy, so it’s likely I’m meandering. This is what I’m babbling about:

I finally got around to reading Dan Simmons’ Hyperion. Man, have I been missing out all these years. Hyperion is a staggering achievement. It is dense, layered, moving, funny, even scholarly. Normally when I read a book like this, unaware that it is followed by sequels, I feel irritated at an ending that doesn’t provide answers, doesn’t tie up the loose ends. I did not feel that when I reached the end of Hyperion. That in itself is a credit to the book. I imagine the follow-ups will be disappointing. How could anything live up to this masterpiece? But Mr. Simmons has earned the benefit of the doubt.

Charles Yu’s How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe is another worthy read, though quite a different animal. It is funny and insightful. I can’t declare it in the same literary league as Hyperion, though. Not due to any particular inferiority, but because the book leans entirely upon a gimmick. It is a good gimmick, no question, but it sets it in a slightly different category than Hyperion. Additionally, it is a slight read, less than half the length of Hyperion. You could breeze through it in an afternoon. Though I recommend taking it slow, appreciating the puzzle box Mr. Yu has constructed.

So, a little late. But I got to them. I recommend both.

On another note, my wedding anniversary is tomorrow. I know My Beautiful Wife doesn’t read these scribblings of mine, but nonetheless, Happy Anniversary, Isa. I love you.

A. Merritt’s Meritorious Service to Appendix N

Abraham Merritt is one the lesser known writers of Appendix N. An example of the fickle hand of fortune, I suppose, since during his life A. Merritt (as his work was credited) was rather famous, at least so far as journalists can be famous. Big fish, small pond, let’s say.

Normally I’d accompany one of these Appendix N posts with a picture from my library. But my books and bookshelves are in storage for the next few months. So no picture of my A. Merritt paperbacks. Sorry.

Fiction represented a sideline for A. Merritt. A labor of love rather than of financial necessity. Maybe writing about the fantastic provided a needed break from the grim realities he faced in journalism. I think his journalistic background informs his style to some extent. Where Clark Ashton Smith produced lyrical fiction, A.Merritt’s output was more prosaic. Not dull, not inferior, simply less poetic. He produced descriptive, engaging stories. Workmanlike and entertaining. Though he also wrote some thought provoking tales, like Ship of Ishtar, that weren’t afraid to delve into darker, more tragic spaces than the more adventure-focused tales such as Dwellers in the Mirage.

A. Merritt is perhaps best known for The Moon Pool, which can be read as a sort of literary bridge between H. Rider Haggard and H.P. Lovecraft. I can see how the exoctic locales, quest, lost world, non-human races, and adventuring party aspects would appeal to Gary Gygax. Some or all of these elements crop up in all of Merritt’s work. Thus, A. Merritt does deserve his position in Appendix N. If you haven’t given him a chance yet, consider it. You could do worse than spend a few hours in his pulp worlds.

Accepting Praise with Grace

Perihelion Online Science Fiction Magazine likes my novel, Under Strange Suns. No, really. Check out the review. And that’s good. It warms the outer crust of my black, stony lawyer’s heart. But it also makes me squirm a bit. I don’t receive praise well.

Stupid, isn’t it? Someone likes what you do. Say thank you. Appreciate that someone appreciates your work. And move on. But I’ve never been comfortable with it. You might think it speaks to a lack of self-confidence, a deep-seated, niggling sense that nothing I produce could be that good. Could be, but I don’t think so. My well of amour-propre seldom runs dry.

I suppose it is something to work on. To learn to accept praise in the spirit in which it is offered without it leading to either a swelled-head or to a parsing of the praise, picking it apart to look for some hidden slight or suggestion of insincerity.

There are worse problems to have.

Keep the Story Moving. How Hard Could it Be?

Elmore Leonard’s “10 Rules for Good Writing” offers the sage tip “Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.” Wisdom indeed. The problem is that readers are people, and people remain stubbornly unwilling to agree on anything. Including which parts of books they tend to skip.

For example, Robert Jordan devoted copious verbiage to descriptions of apparel, detailing every dress down to every last ruffle, bodice, and pleat. One of the reasons I was able to finish the entire series — the other being sheer bullheadedness; I started the damned thing, I was going to finish it — is a willingness to skim. My eyes catch words such as “embroidered frock” and begin to bounce along the following words until a phrase indicates the story has moved on to something less mind-numbing.

But that is me. Other readers adore a deep-dive into that fine a level of granularity. And it isn’t necessarily a question of level of detail so much as what sort of detail. Some readers can’t abide “The Lord of the Rings” because of Tolkien’s painterly, loving description of the landscapes the characters pass through. This bores some readers to tears. Me, I love it. It conjures an immersive dimension I can lose myself in. It is part of what establishes the illusion of reality of the Tolkien’s secondary-world.

So what parts do people tend to skip? What should I leave out? A scene that doesn’t necessarily move the plot forward can still serve to develop the characters, or even allow a pause, or moment of comic relief. But some readers might skim past it, anxious to get on with it, see what happens next.

I suppose the trick is to have each scene accomplish more than one thing. Service the plot and reinforce a character trait. Lighten up the mood after a grim bit of business and drop in a piece of essential foreshadowing.

Simple, right? Sure.

Transition

My comfort zone is one of routine. I function best in conditions of familiarity and habit. That isn’t to say I dislike a change of pace or scene, but I think it safe to say that Vacation Ken, for example, is less efficient and sharp than Comfort Zone Ken.

My Beautiful Wife and I are selling our condo. This entails disruption of routine. MBW and I have entered a transitional period. We’re putting belongings in storage. Dealing with unfamiliar processes. Searching for temporary housing. House hunting. Performing household tasks without certain belongings that we’ve put in storage. Most familiarity remains, but habit is on shaky footing.

And all this is, of course, the basis of all fiction. This is what I put my characters through, in essence, if not in degree. Let’s face it, my life isn’t in danger and everyone I’ve dealt with so far has been human. But that’s what a story is: moving characters off of the frame that is the comfort zone, through the painting that is the transitional zone, with the goal of reaching the other side, back onto the frame.

That happy ending doesn’t always occur in fiction. Frodo, for example, is unable to reoccupy his position, comfortably ensconced in Bag End. His passage through the transition zone proved too traumatic to allow the return. Unlike Bilbo, who made it There and Back Again. I can think of characters of mine who’ve not made it either. But Bilbo’s voyage is the model, and Bilbo is the model voyager.

Perhaps that’s how I should approach these next few weeks and months. A lesson in applied fiction. Get a small taste of the crap I put my characters through. Serves me right.

Sniff, Sip, Scribble, Repeat

Once again I interrupt this web log’s regular programming to write about beer. Yesterday McMenamin’s Hillsdale Pub hosted the annual competition among the kingdoms of the McMenamin’s brewing empire. I dutifully sat down with taster trays and ballots and notepad. Below is a transcript of my tasting notes, which become inexplicably more and more illegible. Each entry is followed by my ranking on a 1-10 scale.

Yellow Tray.

Highland Brewery: Highland Wheat. Sourdough pancakes, not well served by the added citrus zest. 3.25

McMenamins on the Columbia: Cowabunga Radler. Refreshing, almost like a shandy. This is a proper use of citrus. Summer session beer. Oddly, for a big beer hop-head like myself, I like it. 7

Old St. Francis: Check Yer Coffepot Pale. Immediate whiff of coffee. Tastes like bitter iced coffee. Serve with a flavored creamer and a shot of espresso and you might have something. As a straight up beer, not so much. 5

East Vancouver: Dragon Slayer Red. By St. George and Don Bluth! Has a sour beer effect going for it. Some complexity. Very drinkable for the relatively potent, +6.7 ABV longsword it is. 7.25

Hillsdale Pub: Fuzzy Barrel. I’m not partial to fruit beers. This doesn’t shift me from that prejudice. 3.5

Crystal: Perfect Timing IPA. A chewy IPA. Balanced. Raisins and molasses. A rare sub-6 ABV IPA worth drinking. 7.25

Concordia: Kilmister’s Double IPA (RIP Lemmy.) Zero hop hit upon inhalation. Sadly, the least flavorful Double IPA I’ve ever had. In a way, impressive in its innocuous blandness. 5

Roseburg: MM. A bland mess of a Christmas beer. I’ve homebrewed more flavorful winter beers and I’m a piker. 4.5

Fulton: Corellian Porter. Not stellar. Falls into a common porter trap: overly cloying 3.75

Cornelius Pass Roadhouse: Trippin’ Billy’s Barleywine. Impressive pedigree: Double IPA plus aged barleywine. Almost lives up to it. A big, hoppy red. Reminds me of Johnny Octane. 7

Thompson: Noche Cigano Stout (Dark Gypsy.) A stout with a red infusion. Delicious. 7.5

Blue Tray.

West Linn: Cinnamon Toast Wheat. Pair with ‘Check Yer Coffeepot” for breakfast drinking. A decent gimmick beer. 5.5

Lighthouse: Abraham’s American Amber. Unpleasant. Dirt-flavored cocopuffs. 3.5

McMenamins on Monroe: Penny’s Golden. A bitter mess. Like quinine peed in Corona.

High Street: Juniper Jubilation. Subtle, drinkable. An aperitif in beer form. 6.25

Edgefield” Apricot Wild Ale. Moves the needle on fruit beers. Excellent with spicy food. 6.75

Queen Anne: Atomium Belgian Pale. Barely drinkable. Muddy. (No rating recorded.)

Wilsonville Old Church: Zesty’s Best Citrus IPA. Excellent nose. Fragrant. Refreshing after cloying fruit and malt. (Apparently a comment on the preceding beers – Ken.) Delightful IPA. Could drink a few. 7.75

John Barleycorn’s: Willamette Stone Double IPA. So close. If it had that crisp, fresh hops hit it would rule. 7.5

Oak Hills: Chaton Griffes Belgian Porter. A bridge too far. The flavor combinations do not work. 2.75

Anderson School: Fire Pit Robust Porter. Sweetly cloying. Not what I want from a porter. 3

Mill Creek: Maze Maker Imperial Stout. It is possible to be too much on point. More a shot than a beer. 4

Pacific Northwest Coastal Thoughts

Good — even great — writers develop and thrive in every climate and every locale. I’m not going to pretend they don’t. But, as I’m writing this in my hotel room on the beach in the Pacific Northwest Coast, I’m going to ignore all that pesky reality and posit reasons why the PNC matrix grows and nurtures superlative writers. N.B. I’m not counting myself among them; I’m a long time resident of Portland and its environs (soon to stretch the practical definition of ‘environs’), and not a coastal denizen.

Gloomy leaden skies threaten rain and reliably deliver on those threats. Monotonous drizzle, wind-driven sheets of icy sleet needles, torrents. Sodden evergreen forests soak up the constant precipitation, storing it up to deliver bucket loads to the fiddlehead ferns and assorted undergrowth below that turns the ground to an unbroken stretch of sponge. It’s wet, is what I’m saying. People stay indoors. Might as well write.

And what goes on in those vast tracts of rainforest? Dense, trackless. Why not Sasquatch? Elves or aliens. There’s a reason Mulder and Scully spent so much time blundering about through Pacific Northwest forests, right? Couldn’t just be the Vancouver, B.C. shooting location. Don’t be a cynic.

Over the dunes the gray expanse of the Pacific beckons. Waves pound irregularly on the rocks and sand, suggesting to the imaginative a syncopation one could grasp if one listened long enough. It is tantalizing. What is the rhythm? The off-beat drives the offbeat imagination.

The Pacific Northwest Coast restaurants abound in clam chowder, Dungeness crabs, fresh caught salmon, beer brewed not too far from that very spot. Fuel for the imagination.

The funky little towns tucked into coves and straddling headlands offer quirky antique shops and used bookstores. The kind of tiny, bric-a-brac filled establishments that seem to promise a long-forgotten magical relic or tome of lore, if one searches long enough through overlooked alcoves.

The people who wash up on the coast from inland like flotsam and jetsam offer model fictional characters. The burnouts, ex-hippies, retirees, seekers of second, third, fourth chances, the eternal optimists who think this business venture will really get traction.

Are any one or combination of the above the answer, or even an answer? I don’t know. All I know is that recent series of crashing waves had a pretty catchy hook.

Sick Day

The web log is taking a sick day.

Styles

I’ve nearly completed re-reading “The Worm Ouroboros,” E.R. Eddison’s underappreciated masterpiece. It is a mine worth delving into again, its depths not fully plumbed, its treasures still unmeasured. If I haven’t made myself clear, I love it. The villains are Shakespearean, complex and fascinating. The heros are Homeric, grandly larger than life, embodiments of virility and arete. The language is gorgeous, archaically poetic.

An aside: I know Tolkien read and appreciated “The Worm Ouroboros” despite Eddison’s philosophy, as espoused in the book, being antithetical to Tolkien’s. But I wonder how deeply “The Lord of the Rings” was inspired by “Worm,” if at all. I mention it, because while reading a description in “Worm” of a mustering of troops I was reminded of the scene in “The Fellowship of the Ring” when Pippen is watching the arrival of soldiers before the siege of Gondor, the description of the men, the naming and characterization of the leaders, their homes, etc. A side by side comparison would be interesting, I think.

I’m also in the last third of Steven Brust’s most recent Vlad Taltos novel, “Hawk.” “Hawk” is about as stylistically far away as it is possible to be from “Worm.” It is written in first-person smart ass. It is terse, sarcastic. Descriptions are sparse. The language is colloquial, contemporary. If I haven’t made myself clear (and I probably haven’t) I love it.

There are many who cannot appreciate “Worm.” The prose is too dense, too purple. The speech is stilted, unnatural. And he who requires a novel to reaffirm his socio-political convictions will not make it through the first fifty pages.

There are many who cannot appreciate the Vlad Taltos books. The prose does not conform to some readers’ notions of what period fantasy should be. It is unabashedly contemporary. He who requires immersion in faux-historical language will not make it through the first page (though this particular reader might enjoy the “Phoenix Guard” novels.)

Me, I love the gamut. I look for a good story, and I don’t care if it is vintage or modern. So I’ve got that going for me.

Westercon 69, Dude

I received an invitation to serve as a panelist at Westercon 69. Westercon is a regional science fiction convention, held in a different city west of the Rockies each year. For 2016 Portland took the honors. How convenient.

Once again I will dilute the quality of the pool of con-guests, and diminish the level of panel repartee with my ill-conceived opinions and half-baked witticisms. It should be fun. The convention occurs July 1-4. If you live in Portland, pick up a membership and join in. If you don’t live in Portland, well July is one of the best times to visit. Early summer is gorgeous here. The scenery, weather, bookstores, food, and beer will make you want to stay. Resist the temptation. Portlandia is a documentary.

I hope to see you at the con.