MCM's Blog, page 19

Chapter 1p4 – Gloria!

Lady Libden was the last person Tic wanted to see right now. He'd held some vain hope that he might be able to take on some cargo and get off Crux before she even knew he'd arrived on the planet, but so much for that. He rapidly formulated and abandoned half a dozen desperate escape plans, but each was less viable than the last. He was trapped.

Steeling his resolve, Tic glued his brightest, bravest smile onto his face and jogged down the ramp with his arms held wide in welcome. "Gloria!" he beamed.

"BOLTER!" screeched Lady Libden.

Tic almost thought he could feel his cheeks ripple as the tsunami-like force of her voice washed over him. Libden was a short, round, blue-haired, red-faced old bat with a set of lungs that would make a fog horn jealous. Today, in supplement to the white cane she always wielded, she was dressed in a garish outfit made of feathers, fur, and sequins that seemed designed to offend both the senses and the sensibilities. She was surrounded by eight armed guards in crisp white uniforms and top hats wearing black half-masks. Tic shivered involuntarily, like he did every time he saw the Liberati.

"Mak, have you ever met Lady Gloria Libden?" he said to Overard.

"I, uh… No," said Overard.

"Perfect," said Tic, taking Overard by the elbow and propelling him out of the docking bay. "Best to keep it that way. Don't forget to send me those forms!" As Overard confusedly walked away, looking back over his shoulder, Tic considered making a run for it.

"YOU'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE, BOLTER!" commanded Lady Libden, anticipating him. "YOU'RE GOING TO STAY RIGHT HERE AND TELL ME WHERE MY VINTAGE ADAM ASTROBOT ACTION FIGURE IS."

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Chapter 1p3 – A Bit of a Character

Tic led Mr. Overard around to the back of the ship and up the ramp into the hold.

"Where have you been, Mr. Bolter?" said a matronly electronic voice. "Not getting yourself into any trouble, I hope!"

"Told you she was a bit of a character," said Tic to Overard out of the side of his mouth.

"I heard that!" said the AI.

Tic ignored the AI and turned back to his prospective client. "So, this is the hold. Plenty of space, lots of tie-downs. It's even got temperature and humidity control."

"Well it would," chimed in Pelly, "if you'd go out and get the replacement parts I need!"

"Shut up," said Tic. To Overard, he said, "What exactly do you need moved?"

"A few pieces of heavy machinery and about a dozen crates of parts," said Overard. "We're setting up a new factory on Entulov 5, trying to get the jump on an emerging market, you know. Our usual shippers only go to the Entu system monthly, and we can't wait that long."

"It'll take me three days," said Tic. "I can leave right away, but I'll want half of my pay up-front."

"We can accommodate that." Overard held out his hand, and Tic shook it. "I'll email you the appropriate forms and contracts when I get back to the office. The crates will be delivered when those have been signed." Overard took out his PAI and started tapping at the screen as he headed down the ramp.

Tic did a tiny, surreptitious fist-pump.

"Don't get too excited," said Pelly. "You have another visitor."

A banshee-like shriek assailed Overard as he stepped onto the deck of Bay 48: "YOU! WHERE'S BOLTER!?"

Tic ground his teeth. A voice that loud could only be coming from one person: Lady Libden.

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Chapter 1p2 – Takes Too Much Paperwork

Tic led Mr. Overard out of the food court, through the spaceport's bustling retail area, and into an elevator that carried them up to the mid-size docking bays, where all kinds of different makes and models of ships were being noisily loaded, unloaded, fueled, serviced, and even bought and sold.

"I've never been to this area of the spaceport," said Overard over the din, his head swivelling back and forth to take in all the sights. "Normally we're dealing with much larger shipments, so I just sign some papers and tell them where to do the pick-up."

"Sounds pretty impersonal," said Tic. "When you're working with me, you get—hey, watch out!" He reached back and pulled Overard out of the way of an oncoming service cart carrying a massive, sparking booster block.

"Oops!" said Overard.

"Gotta be careful up here, Mak," said Tic.

"Thank you," said Overard.

Tic shrugged off the thanks. "Tough to hire me if you're dead."

When they reached Bay 48, Tic entered a code into the bay door controls. "This is my ship, the Galactic Pelican."

Overard eyed Tic curiously. "The Galactic Pelican?"

"The previous owner was a bit of a screwball," explained Tic. "Takes too much paperwork to change it. I just call her Pelly most of the time."

The bay door rose vertically into the ceiling, revealing a stocky silver freighter with a tapered nose and four cylindrical booster turbines built above and below the stubby wings.

"That's a pretty, um, 'unique' design, isn't it?" said Overard.

"It's a Gyrian import," said Tic. "Very reliable, these Gyrian ships, but the designers have some unusual ideas now and then. Strange sense of humour, too. You should see how they programmed Pelly's AI…"

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PRAISE for PURPLE

 

 

"They were featureless and telic, like lambent gangrene."

This line is one of the best known by lovers and haters of Stephen Donaldson's writings. As a collection of unfamiliar words it is by no means alone in his stories, but the guardians of good did find it early. It was seized upon by one, and as is the wont of critics everywhere, the jeers have since been proudly echoed and the words giggled and sneered at behind hands.

"He was, I trowe, a twenty wynter oold,
And I was fourty, if I shal seye sooth;
But yet I hadde alwey a coltes tooth.
Gat-tothed I was, and that bicam me weel,
I hadde the prente of seïnte Venus seel.
As help me God, I was a lusty oon,
And faire and riche, and yong, and wel bigon,
And trewely, as myne housbondes tolde me,
I hadde the beste quonyam myghte be.
For certes, I am al Venerien
In feelynge, and myn herte is Marcien." 1390

That's okay, not everyone likes multisyllabic prose. Most like it less when they do not understand it. Some even suggest no one could understand the text it comes from.  And yet the Covenant series remains beloved, as much for its purple tones as for its plotlines or the philosophy it espouses.

I love it. I love reading it as much as soaking in a warm tub. I love to see the story unfolding more than to read words on a page, as each paragraph creates intense and emotive images.

"Like to the Pontic sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontic and the Hellespont,
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love,
Til that capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up." 1600

Of course, purple is not new. It is only in the days since literacy became irrelevant that it has become unacceptable. It was a startlingly brief period in English history where the language was set in stone. Or should I say periods. Words come and go; other languages impact speech; spellings change as once relevant letters become superfluous; phrasing takes on new, and passes over old meanings. And during each period, defined by the professional life of the loudest or most persistent orators, written English is deemed good or bad, acceptable or not.

"Jerusalem remembered in the days of her affliction and of her miseries all her pleasant things that she had in the days of old, when her people fell into the hand of the enemy, and none did help her: the adversaries saw her, and did mock at her sabbaths. Jerusalem hath grievously sinned; therefore she is removed: all that honoured her despise her, because they have seen her nakedness: yea, she sigheth, and turneth backward. Her filthiness is in her skirts; she remembereth not her last end; therefore she came down wonderfully: she had no comforter.

O LORD, behold my affliction: for the enemy hath magnified himself. The adversary hath spread out his hand upon all her pleasant things: for she hath seen that the heathen entered into her sanctuary, whom thou didst command that they should not enter into thy congregation. All her people sigh, they seek bread; they have given their pleasant things for meat to relieve the soul: see, O LORD, and consider; for I am become vile." 1611

But the attack on complexity does bug me.

"These temporary apprehensions, so vague but so awful, derived wondrous potency from the contrasting serenity of the weather, in which, beneath all its blue blandness, some thought there lurked a devilish charm, as for days and days we voyaged along through seas so wearily, lonesomely mild, that all space, in repugnance to our vengeful errand, seemed vacating itself of life before our urnlike prow.

But, at last, when turning to the eastward, the Cape winds began howling around us, and we rose and fell upon the long, troubled seas that are there; when the ivory tusked Pequod sharply bowed to the blast and gored the dark waves in her madness, till, like showers of silver chips, the foam-flakes flew over her bulwarks; then all this desolate vacuity of life went away, but gave place to sights more dismal than before.

Close to our bows, strange forms in the water darted hither and thither before us; while thick in our rear flew the inscrutable sea-ravens, and every morning perched on our stays, rows of these birds were seen; and spite of our hootings, for a long time obstinately clung to the hemp, as though they deemed our ship some drifting, uninhabited craft; a thing appointed to desolation, and therefore fit roosting-place for their homeless selves. And heaved and heaved, still unresting heaved the black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great mundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering it had bred." 1851

Language changes; I accept that. But as a young adult I preferred reading Dr Seuss – loved the plays on words and sounds, and the fact that made-up words drew images – when I was supposed to enjoy reading Young Adult fiction. I still do.

"Yet as of late the Sperm Whale fishery had been marked by various and not infrequent instances of great ferocity, cunning and malice in the monster attacked; therefore it was, that those who, by accident, ignorantly gave battle to Moby Dick; such hunters, perhaps, for the most part, were content to ascribe the particular terror he bred, more, as it were, to the perils of the Sperm Whale fishery at large, than to the individual cause." 1851

Short sentences. One idea to a line. Seventeen words max. Banish commas, banish adverbs, banish adjectives, banish hyperbole and alliteration. KISS!

"They thereupon stopped. Bloom looked at the head of the horse not worth anything like sixtyfive guineas, suddenly in evidence in the dark quite near, so that it seemed new, a different grouping of bones and even flesh, because palpably it was a fourwalker, a hipshaker, a blackbuttocker, a taildangler, a headbanger, putting his hindfoot foremost while the lord of his creation sat on the perch, busy with his thoughts. But such a good poor brute, he was sorry he hadn't a lump of sugar but, as he wisely reflected, you could scarcely be prepared for every emergency that might crop up. He was just a big foolish nervous noodly kind of horse, without a second care in the world. But even a dog, he reflected, take that mongrel in Barney Kiernen's, of the same size, would be a holy horror to face. But it was no animal's fault in particular if he was built that way like the camel, ship of the desert, distilling grapes into potheen in its hump. Nine tenths of them could be caged or trained, nothing beyond the art of man barring bees; whale with harpoon hairpin, alligator, tickle the small of his back and he sees the joke; chalk a circle for a rooster; tiger, my eagle eye. These timely reflections anent the brutes of the field occupied his mind, somewhat distracted from Stephen's words, while the ship of the street was manoeuvring and Stephen went on about the highly interesting old…" 1920

I do enjoy reading simpler prose. I enjoy reading words that I do not see, because they flow together like a stream that becomes something I am immersed in rather than an endless slogging chore: stop, check, nearly at the end, must be almost finished now! I do not want it to be my only choice.

"Her gray organdie dress, with its cherry-colored satin sash, disguised with its billows and ruffles how childishly undeveloped her body was, and the yellow hat with long cherry streamers made her creamy skin glow. Her heavy earbobs with their long gold fringe hung down from loops of tidily netted hair, swinging close to her brown eyes, eyes that had the still gleam of a forest pool in winter when brown leaves shine up through quiet water." 1936

Complexity doesn't make anything worthy of ridicule. Complexity doesn't confer excellence.  Simplicity does not make it clean, it makes it simple. Divorced from skill, simplicity and complexity are only words. Break every rule at least once.

"Run Dick, run. See Dick run. Nip will run.
Nip sees Fluff. Run Fluff, run!" 1958

I like purple prose, well done and beautifully crafted. I like wordy and convoluted. I like words, and sounds, and images, and emotions. I'd rather purple than black and white and grey and beige.

Paint it all red and blue.

——————————————-

Lord Foul's Bane – Stephen R Donaldson

1390 – The Wyves Tale of Bathe, Canterbury Tales – Geoffrey Chaucer

1600 Othello Act3, Sc3 – William Shakespeare

1611 Lamentations King James Bible

1851 Moby Dick – Herman Melville

1920 Ulysses – James Joyce

1936 Gone With the Wind – Margaret Mitchell

1958 Happy Venture Readers 

Chapter 1p1 – I Am Bolter Freightage

Tic Bolter fidgeted with his empty glass and wished the chairs in this food court could swivel. He never quite felt comfortable in a chair that couldn't swivel.

He inspected his reflection in his glass, disapprovingly examining his mussed-up blond hair, which desperately needed trimming; his bloodshot blue eyes, which desperately needed sleep; and his rounded, ruddy cheeks, which desperately needed an exercise regimen. And a shave, actually.

Across the table from Tic was a young, thin businessman wearing digital glasses and a sportcoat. His card had introduced him as Mak Overard, a junior officer for one of the numerous local plastic manufacturing companies.

"So," said Overard, "you represent Bolter Freightage?"

"I am Bolter Freightage," said Tic.

"Oh?" said Overard. "No employees, then?"

Tic shrugged. "Nope. Just me and my ship. Simpler that way."

"Mm. I see," said Overard, looking down at the screen of his palm-sized Personal Assistive Interface device and wrinkling his forehead.

Tic rolled his eyes. He hated when people pulled out their PAIs in the middle of a conversation. "I can get your shipment where it needs to go faster than any of the big guys," he said. "I don't have to juggle a whole fleet's worth of logistics, or make extra stops to drop other customers' cargo."

Overard flicked through a spreadsheet on his PAI, apparently unimpressed.

"And," said Tic, "aaaand… Since you're a first-time customer, you can get an extra, um, 20% off the listed rate."

Overard perked up his eyebrows. "Interesting."

Dang, thought Tic. I should've said 10%.

Overard put down his PAI and stroked his chin. "How reliable are your services?"

"How reliable?" said Tic, grinning. "Wanna see my ship?"

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Love, Passion, and Poetry: An 1889 Labs Gadfly Interview

 

 

 

In July of 2011, I interviewed Gabriel Gadfly for the release of his book, Bone Fragments, a poetry collection revolving around war, love and loss. After much success since then, his newest book, Ventricle, Atrium has just hit stores, available in both print and e-book.

 

Love is in the details.

In the fingers finding a hand in the dark. In the stretch and curve of a spine. In goosebumped shoulders and the taste of skin.

Gabriel Gadfly's much anticipated second anthology is a vivid and tender tribute to the life cycle of love — the sex, the laughter, the pain, the sweetness, the fear, the vacancy. Filled with yearning, this arresting collection finds beauty in all that love has to offer, from the mundane to the abstract.

With Ventricle, Atrium, Gabriel Gadfly explores love at all its junctures, through sickness and health, in good times and in bad, offering sharp and remarkably precise observations on the tiny, all-important details of love.

To honor his newest poetry anthology, I had another sit down with Gadfly to discuss the book, his experiences with love and writing, and even some of the featured poems in his latest book.

 

TW: So, to delve right in, I've noted your immense success with your first book, Bone Fragments. How did it feel to have your first book published? What kind of experience was it, and what have you been doing since then?

GG: It felt fantastic. It's great holding a copy of a book that you wrote yourself — I hate to be predictable about it, but it's a very validating thing as an artist to know that someone took interest in your work and wanted to put it together in a form that can be read and shared.

Since then (which really hasn't been that long, of course — Bone Fragments came out in August), I've continued publishing poems on my website. I'm over 340 at this point. I'm thinking of doing something special at #365, since you'll conceivably be able to read one poem a day on my website and fill up an entire year.

TW: So how exactly did you go about writing themed poems? Since you have a website dedicated to posting your poems, did you decide to do specific themes for however many days or months at a time; and when you were finished, did you then compile them into a book? Or did you just happen to have enough poems that fit the specific theme, and you just compiled it that way?

GG: I don't really write thematically very much. I tend to write whichever type of poem just strikes my fancy, so one day I'll write a love poem and another day I'll write a poem about something historical and the next I'll write about a story I heard on the news. I do like thematic poetry collections, so there's a singular idea tying all the poems in a collection together, but I don't really set out saying "I'm only going to write love poems this week, and next week is war poems."

Both of my books contain a handful of poems that were originally published on my website. Those poems help me figure out the tone of the book, and the rest of the poems are original work that helps flesh out the overall idea.

(Well, it's all original work. New work that hasn't been seen before is a better phrase to describe it.)

TW: So you pretty much compiled all the poems written on war for Bone Fragments, and love for Ventricle, Atrium that you'd just happenend to write previously?

GG: In Bone Fragments, yes. I'd only written a handful of war poems before working on that book. But I do write quite a few love poems, so I had to pick and choose which already-published works would be included in Ventricle, Atrium.

If I'd included all of my love poems that appear on the site, the book will be nothing but work that's already been seen.

TW: War and Love — those are both powerful words and subjects. What exactly is your belief on 'love'? Is it real? Some say that love is a superficial feeling that confuses lust and more natural, biological feelings. Others say that it's a feeling only humans are capable of, in a passionate sense. What are your thoughts?

GG: I think love comes in many forms. I've loved different people in different ways, for different reasons, but it was all genuine feeling. The reason love is so fascinating to us is that is so very hard to pin down what exactly it feels like, and even if it feels different at different times, I don't think there's a reason to say it's not still love. Ventricle, Atrium deals with several kinds of romantic love — lust, certainly, in poems like Throb or Areola, but also comfort, longing, endurance, and grief, which I think it very much a type of love, if you think about it. As for only humans being capable of love — I think you'd have to ask someone who wasn't human to know the answer to that.

TW: This is sort of random, but after reading your poetry, I have to ask: what's your favorite music genre? Who are some of your favorite bands/groups?

GG: Oh man. I listen to a crazy eclectic mix of music. I don't know that I really have a favorite genre. My playlist includes hip-hop, dubstep, R&B, rock, techno, folk, classical, video game themes, you name it. When I'm writing, I listen to a lot of instrumental or nonlyrical work — Johann Johannsson's Fordlandia album is a favorite, as is Break of Reality's Spectrum of the Sky, and bands like God is an Astronaut and E.S. Posthumus. Some days I'll jam out to remixes of Castlevania songs, then switch off to Flobots or Astronautalis or Dub FX, or something I've picked up from the many talented indie musicians on Newgrounds' audio portal.

TW: Since we've already mentioned the significant change in tone between Bone Fragments and Ventricle, Atrium, what challenges (if any) arose when writing on the topic of love?

GG: Well, it's a common topic, for sure. Every poet in the world has written love poems, so there's the challenge of making sure they don't just end up rehashing the same stories over and over again. I found myself looking for new stories to tell. There's one poem in the book, Mistakes, which is a particular favorite of mine. It concerns two lovers in which one party is in prison and the only way they can be together is in the prison visitation room, separated by a pane of glass and forced to speak through a poorly maintained telephone. Although I think society would like to pretend they don't, convicts fall in love just the same as the rest of us do, and I wanted to write a poem about these figures.

TW: What do you wish to happen when someone opens your anthology and begins reading? What message do you hope readers take away from your poetry?

GG: You know, I try not to let my wishes get in the way. Everyone who reads the book will take something different from the poems inside it and it's not really my place to say one interpretation or another is wrong. That said, the back cover says the book contains "poems for your heart." There's a reason for that and for why it doesn't say "poems for lovers," or "poems not for single people." Even though Ventricle, Atrium is a book of love poems, I think it's a book that anyone can enjoy — not just those currently in romantic relationships.

TW: So, what's next for you? Any more thematic poetry collections in the near future?

GG: I'm fairly certain I'll have a third book in the works within a year, although I don't have anything definite in progress right now. In the meantime, I'll be focusing my efforts on the website and on bringing more of my poems into alternative formats like video and audio. I'd also like to try my hand at editing, so maybe I'll see about putting together an anthology or a limited-run journal.

 

Ventricle, Atrium is currently available on Kindle for only $0.99. Purchase your copy HERE.

And, I'll now leave you with some of Gadfly's most impacting poems, all found in Ventricle, Atrium:

MISTAKES

You make mistakes

and then you pay for them.

You pay for them with an inch

of safety glass, wire-reinforced,

still greased with the fingerprints

of the last pair of people it divided.

You pay for them with the static

chewing at her voice through

a black telephone, with I miss you,

I miss you, just a few more months,

I miss you, and you pay for them

every time you can't remember

what her skin tastes like.

You pay for them with her eyes,

quiet and enduring and large.

You pay for them with every minute

you spend searching her eyes

for the doubts she's never voiced,

for the I can't do this she never says,

for any lie behind her don't worry baby

I love you I love you.

You never find one.

You never find one, and you go

back to your cell to nurse the ribs

your heart keeps punching.

 

THE LILY AND THE LOAM

In the garden,

you bend at the waist:

your hair falls free from

your shoulder, wisps

down against the loam,

and your nose, small slope,

nestles into the blushing bell

of a lily, stargazer, straining

up to meet you.

My god, to be the loam;

to be the lily that caught your eye.

 

NAKED ORANGES

Like two naked oranges,

we stripped off our rinds:

yours, one perfect spiral;

mine, a mound of small wet scraps.

Writers Write What They Write

 

 

Everyone's heard the joke about pressing the button harder when the remote control won't work. Everyone knows a sad irony of humanity is that when something isn't working,

we do it again but with more determination. It has even been said, quite rightly, that the definition of madness is to keep doing the same thing and expecting a different result.

I was thinking about that point as I worked on an essay about the relationship between cumulative workplace stresses and post traumatic stress disorder for a friend. I was midparagraph when I thought – I mustn't forget to go through [another friend]'s paper on obesity and jot the odd editorial comment as promised. It would mean I could put off the mountain of paperwork involved in arranging tertiary education for young adults in this country. I should also have been giving some attention to the three [snail mail] letters I needed to write at the end of last year, [before Dec 15th, actually.] Plus, I have a number of arrangements with various social and medical support organizations that I really should be getting written up….

That's when I decided to write this column.

Despite appearances, it isn't about procrastination. It's about writing.

Writers write. I've always written, but my dream dream, the really big one I've always had from the time I was four, was to be on the stage. I even did some amateur leads as a youngster. The trouble is I'm not much of a self-starter. I'm always doing things, nonstop in fact, but rarely ever because I wake up and say, "I'm going to do THIS today." I'm more like the Buddhist pebble that doesn't move, and yet is carried across the country by the water rushing around it.

I wrote what and when we were told to write at school. Compositions, they were called initially. Then they were Creative Writing. Various teachers in various years took various pieces and submitted them to school magazines and local, small-town goings-on. Only one teacher, in my senior year, said, "I'm casting the senior play, and I want you for this role."  Fate took the lead; I said no. Another teacher recommended a writing course at college, just part-time, a time-filler. The tutor on that first course, said, "Pssst. XYZ Publishers are looking for new authors, 95000 words. I've given them your name. Can you get a manuscript to them before February?"  Yes, of course I could, and so it began.

I formed and followed a sound rationalization from that point on. I'd get a significant publishing history behind me and then I could write exactly what I wanted to write. No more guidelines. No more formulas. No more OTT submissions. And sound it is. You can make money from the ephemera at the edges of the acceptable literary world. Sometimes you can even give up your day job, but that's only so you can write what has been requested. It's a living as long as you keep writing dimestore novellas to specification. I was still just writing what and when I was told to.

But one day, one fine day, boy oh boy, one day, there'd be time and money enough to do the research and weave the threads of the Great Work-of-Art Novel into reality. One day I'd have the freedom to write the trilogy that I've kept in my head: meticulously researched, beautifully crafted, and artfully literary; a good yarn with a soul-deep resonance for the as yet unmet masses.

One day.

I spoke to an agent about the project, prematurely I must admit. It was still only forty-five chapters of synopsis, with a one hundred page opening. I suddenly realized I was on the spot, but the spot was more than a little bit shaky. See, as I had to sheepishly explain to her, there was easily two years in research and writing to get up a decent first draft of the first book. Not good.

She had an idea. What if I cut the anthropological detail; what if all the myth cycles and local dialects and seasonal nuances were just sort of smudged over? Just write the story without the depth I had imagined. Maybe even as one book? Three hundred thousand words, not a million.

Luckily, I was having a break from the world at the time and doing something I thought I'd never do – I was reviewing some novels. One had enormous potential. It was really well written, it was a huge apocalyptic tale, but the author had been lazy or rushed or something. He'd brushed over important details. He'd made excuses for his characters and used low plot devices to save himself the effort of actually knowing his story.  In my view he'd taken all the potential of his great and glorious story and pissed them against a wall – for reasons of his own. Maybe he'd been advised to cut it down?

Seeing that wasted potential, seeing more and more brilliance being written online, much of it being totally ignored, seeing myself still tumbling down the riverbed under the impetus of some blind goddesses, recognizing the 'there but by the grace of God go I' in the novel I'd reviewed, all made me realize the awful truth about writing. Writers write.

Yes, we all know that. This was more profound still.

Writers write what they write.

I don't care what they write. I say that all the time, I know. I don't believe genre or category fiction is a poor cousin cast outside the wall'ed city of literature. Storytelling is the fundamental art; whether it's done through poetry, epic or haiku; or poetic prose, with well turned phrases and cryptic insider nods to classic references; or in graphic ink slashes or calm and beautiful watercolours; or in simplistic Dick and Dora text that speaks to the less literary focused readers. I just don't care. The art is in getting the art right.

What I think matters is that I deceived myself. I told myself that if I spent thirty years writing the sort of stories that are published through the pulp mills and magazines, then the day would come when I'd suddenly stop doing that and become a different kind of writer all together. Okay, maybe I never thought I'd still be whistling with my hands in my pockets and going wherever the wind or the spirit took me all this time later, but I'm not sure it matters. You learn to do what you practice doing.

Writers write what they write.

If you have a vision of where you want to be and what you want from your writing, you had better also critically evaluate what it is that you write. If you are not writing what you love – however sound your reasoning is – you had better also critically evaluate where all your practice is going to lead you. I know I am not alone in my misapprehension. Most of you will know someone who speaks of their work as if they are Nureyev crossing the stage on point, when clearly they are Chuck Norris walking nonchalantly away from the Big Bang.

Also, I find a dichotomy in the writing world. I meet those who are infinitely self assured, convinced of their aptitude and brilliance and able to ignore any suggestion to the contrary, and I meet those who have no confidence in what they put forward, and no amount of praise will fill the anxious pit in their stomachs. Simple relativism tells us a large percentage of both groups will be wrong. Are you critically aware of what it is you write? Do you hold yourself to a standard?

There is an enormous freedom in writing and marketing on the WWW. I don't think it is working particularly well for most writers for reasons I have discussed before on this blog. Do you want to make money? Do you want most to be read? Do you want to make it specifically to the New York lists? There are regional bestsellers that no one in NY has ever even heard of. Do you want to be famous? Develop a cult following, maybe?

There isn't a right or wrong choice, but my warning is to step out confidently – knowing that the road you choose to walk on will take you to the end of that road. It will not take you somewhere else. One day never comes, or at least, one road never turns out to be another road several blocks away.

The good news is the lovely editors at 1889 Labs – who I can highly recommend as discerning souls of great taste and ability – suggested another course for my magnificent octopus [nod to Baldric]. Serial. And why not? Well then. Maybe. If I start writing again.

Writers write, or they're hobbyists.

Writers write what they write.

Smart writers write what they love.

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Please ignore.

Copyright Has More Flaws Than a Three Dollar Diamond

 

 

I had tweeted about this Center for the Study of the Public Domain article on what might have entered the public domain in 2012 if copyright law had not been altered by the 1976 Copyright Act. The act extended the lifetime of copyright on a given work from a maximum of fifty-six years to a maximum of author's life plus fifty years.

Then in 1998 another act extended the copyright protection to the author's life plus seventy years.

These protections privilege many media conglomerates and estates while disrupting derivative, valuable cultural work. The problem is, of course, that the latter is not easily demonstrable. I can't prove that if The Seven Year Itch had entered the public domain this year that next year its logical sequel, Eight Minutes then an Itch, would be up for an Academy Award. Nor can I muster any evidence to support my assertion that we're culturally poorer for never having read Elves Staring Wistfully into Mist, the best-selling sequel to the Return of the King.

The only thing that I can prove is that at least one Real Live Author thinks that the current copyright terms are too long, don't do me much good, but sure screw over the culture that my children and grandchildren will be living and creating.

If you are a publishing house that is so scared of material over fifty years old (under the original fifty-six year copyright term) appearing on Project Gutenberg, maybe you should pull some resources away from re-issuing Moby Dick ad infinitum and try signing a new author?

And, at least as I understand it, even after the author has transferred copyright to a publisher, the term is still seventy years after the author's death.

Publishers should be lobbying for better health care.

Imagine if I, Greg, dropped dead tomorrow of an emu blasting me in the chest with one of its evil emu feet. I'm young. My estate (what a terrible word to call your wife) will need the cash. Especially because my will has several provisions that include diamond statues of me being dusted daily with a fresh piece of golden fleece. Fifty-six years is still fifty-six years. Those statues would shine until 2068 under the older rule.

That's plenty of time. Because in 2055 the statues will be harvested to supply focusing lenses for lasers in order to repel the lizardmen from Pluto.

Interview with Book Blogger Lauren Smith from Violin in a Void

 

 

 

Violin in a Void is run by South African book blogger Lauren Smith. She's well known among the book blogging community, spending her free time writing reviews for both larger publishing houses and independent presses alike. She'd been generous enough to review several 1889 Labs books (Hungry for You, The Antithesis), and has also hosted giveaways (Bears, Recycling and Confusing Time Paradoxes) on her blog.

Her reviews are often extremely insightful and give readers an excellent idea of the conceptual elements and premises of each book. One can tell she spends a lot of time doing this, so I would like nothing better than to return the favor.

And pick her brain.

 

TW: How long have you been a book reviewer/blogger? What made you become one, and what initially generated your passion for fiction?

LS: I started blogging in July 2010. Before that, I'd joined LibraryThing, and later Goodreads, in search of a space to chat about books. I don't have any real-world friends who read the same books I do, or as much as I do, so I went online to have those conversations. Eventually I started writing reviews to post on LibraryThing and Goodreads. Most of them were fairly casual – short pieces that were simply a quick write-up of my immediate thoughts. However, I also started writing more serious reviews. I'd take notes while reading, mark important passages, make a list of topics or issues I wanted to discuss, write up a draft or two, and then revise it a few times before posting. Because I was putting in that much effort, spending several days reading and then several days writing (I'm an easily distracted, procrastinating perfectionist) I wanted a much better platform for my reviews than Goodreads or LibraryThing could offer.

Blogging seemed intimidating, but I was encouraged by the fact that loads of people had taken it up as a hobby, and many weren't afraid to blog about random, everyday things, or to just pour out their unstructured, unedited thoughts on anything from current affairs and religion to movies and books. If they could do it, so could I, especially since I felt I was taking the task relatively seriously and trying to provide people with information and opinions I hoped they would find useful. I looked to professional and well-established blogs as role models for what I wanted, but the more casual blogs put me at ease about putting my writing out there for the world to see.

Finding a name for the blog was the hardest part – I just couldn't come up with anything I liked. Eventually I stumbled across the phrase "violin in a void" in Vladimir Nabokov's prologue to his novel Invitation to a Beheading. It's such a beautiful image, and I thought that that's what the best books feel like once you've finished reading them – this singularly exquisite thing in a world that seems to have faded, briefly, to insignificance.

My passion for fiction is something I've had for as long as I can remember. As a child I was a voracious reader, making frequent visits to the library and dipping into my parents' novels once I'd worked my way through all the children's books in the house. It's not something I can analyse in search of a source – I just love reading stories, and I'm incapable of imagining how I could not.

 

TW: If you absolutely had to pick one, what is your favorite genre? Sub-genre? Why?

LS: Oh god, I'm the most indecisive person I know. Questions like this fill me with anguish. Umm… My favourite genre is probably science fiction. This is a relatively recent development. As a kid, I'd read almost anything. I remember mostly reading fantasy and then a lot of horror as I got older, but I never really thought of myself as preferring any particular genre. There were stories, and some were more interesting than others.

I did a course in my second year at the University of Cape Town called the Victorian Fancy, about Victorian genre fiction (sf, fantasy, horror, and nonsense literature). The next year I signed up for Postmodernism and Science Fiction, which sort of sealed sf as my favourite genre. The lecturer, Jessica Tiffin, was a major genre fan herself, and she really gave me an appreciation for sf as the genre of ideas. In addition, the books and short stories prescribed for the course must have been the most enjoyable works I've ever read for educational purposes. Literary + Entertaining = Awesome

Favourite sub-genre is probably weird/dark fantasy (you didn't explicitly say they had to be linked…). I don't have a particularly good explanation for why I like it. I just like weird things…

 

TW: What are the most important components of a good story, in your opinion? 

LS: I wouldn't single out any particular component of a story as the most important. Ideally, a story should be strong all-round, but a good story might just excel in one or two areas. The plot might be so entertaining that it doesn't matter that the characters are a bit flat. On the other hand great characters can carry a simple or barely-existent plot. A story might be good because of its ideas, its satire, its social commentary, or its depiction of a particular place or time. As long as the story can engage the reader, it doesn't really matter which aspect of it manages to achieve that.

However, I will say that it's essential that the writing is sound at the very least. The words you choose and the way you use them are the most basic component of a book. They are the means through which the characters, plot, dialogue, ideas, etc. exist, and as a result they define the existence of those things. I don't know if a story can be great based on writing alone, but I will definitely say that, for me, a badly written book is a bad book, period.

 

TW: Who are some of your favorite authors? Why?

LS:

Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams

They write in different genres, but I'm putting these two together because I love them for the same reasons – their whit, satirical observations, wonderfully bizarre characters, and endlessly re-readable stories.

China Miéville

As I said earlier, I like weird things and China Miéville's novels are definitively weird. They're also incredibly cerebral, exploring brilliantly bizarre, intellectual ideas. In doing so, Miéville plays around with language in ways that revitalises it or creates new meaning. All this is found within wonderfully inventive cities, among strange and fascinating creatures and characters. For all these reasons – as well as a few rather superficial ones – he's the only author I have a serious crush on.

James Tiptree jr.

I'm not a big short story reader, but Tiptree's stories leave in me in awe. Her writing is a beautiful landscape of exquisite, subtle details. Her stories are a combination of boldness and tragedy that I've never experienced with any other writer. Her titles are sublime. She portrays gender as a complex tangle of influences to the extent that there's an award named after her, for works that best explore gender and gender roles. Hers is the only biography I've ever been interested in reading, and it revealed an amazing life full of adventure, tragedy, contradiction and passion.

Her story, The Last Flight of Dr Ain is my favourite short story, ever.

Iain M. Banks

Elegant, cerebral sci fi that's also loads of fun. I discovered Iain M. Banks in that sci fi course I mentioned before and I loved his sci fi from then on. If I could choose any fictional society to live in, Banks's Culture would be it – endless resources, mind-blowingly advanced technology including sentient machines that are basically considered people in their own right, cool biological modifications, no government, no crime, no need for money or a job. You spend your life doing what you find most fulfilling, and die when you choose to. How awesome is that? I also love the odd personalities that the drones have, and the ships' quirky names.

Banks's novels also have intense conflicts, often based on the ethical and physical clash between the utopian Culture and a dystopian society. I'm less enthusiastic about Banks's mainstream fiction, with the exception of his debut The Wasp Factory – one of the best, darkest novels I've ever read.

Margaret Atwood

Or at least, I love her sci fi (and it is sci fi, even though she refuses to call it that). Beautifully written, her sf deals with two issues that are particularly important to me – gender and ecology. Her mainstream fiction tends to be hit or miss, but I thought Cat's Eye and The Robber Bride were brilliant, and thus she has a solid spot in my list of favourite authors. I'm not crazy about her short stories, but her short short stories, found in collections like The Tent and Bones and Murder, are delightful, punchy little things.

 

TW: Fiction has been one of the most profound elements of all societies, dating as far back as early human civilization. The Epic of Gilgamesh, for example, was one of the first written works, created in the Sumerian/Babylonian Era. What do you think story-telling, and books in general, contribute to our world? What is it about fiction that humans crave? 

LS: Oh god, where to begin? I feel like just answering "everything". Without storytelling I think humanity might as well just curl up and die because who'd want to live as a piece of flesh carting around an emotionless void?

Storytelling is perhaps the most entertaining, meaningful and memorable form of communication. In telling stories we explore concepts that are important or valuable to us. Let's take the Epic of Gilgamesh as an example, since you mentioned it. A story about a man going on a journey to find the secret to immortality is so much more powerful and meaningful than simply saying how great it would be to live forever. Of course Gilgamesh fails: his cure is stolen by a snake and he's forced to accept that he will one day die, but he can at least take comfort in the thought that he will live on through his works. As a story, that's far more elegant than blunt facts stating that you will die but you might be able to create something to be remembered by.

In telling stories we indulge our creative impulses and, especially in social forms of storytelling, we tell people things about who we are or want to be. Stories are particularly efficient at doing this; their details convey a thousand things that, if you were to list them all individually, would be way too long, pretty boring, and easily forgotten. And stories, quite simply, can be these wonderful, thoroughly pleasurable things.

Fiction is necessary to do the job when life fails to be entertaining, meaningful or even 'lifelike' enough. Anyone who likes telling anecdotes knows how sometimes they're better if you tweak the truth here and there to make it a little funnier, a little more ironic, a little more meaningful. Fiction is a means of making the most out of a story, or conjuring up the story that hasn't or couldn't occur. It gives you what life has led you to ponder or long for, but which it cannot deliver on its own.