Nicola Griffith's Blog, page 55

Reading March 14

A repeat of the caveats about these posts on reading. This is not meant to function as an in-depth assessment. It’s more a way to monitor what I’m reading and get a sense of where I’m being lazy. My reading can be variable, both in terms of taste and amount. It’s a mix of fiction, narrative nonfiction, and research (for essays on various topics, and for Menewood). The fiction and narrative nonfiction is a mix of not-yet published, old favourites, and what are frankly bargain backlist that I get for 99 cents from BookBub, sometimes because they’re old favourites I’d like to have in digital format, sometimes because it’s a book I’ve never read that promises to be a couple of hours of light reading that I can fall asleep over without worrying I’ve missed anything. The research is just as variable and in a variety of disciplines. Some of it is also not-yet-published, some ancient and out of date foundational reading, and almost all a combination of fascinating, difficult, annoying, and necessary.

I start many books; I don’t finish most of them. When that happens, I’m often won’t discuss them. Why? Because in terms of living writers, punching down isn’t acceptable and punching up can be counterproductive. On occasion I’ll do both but I have to feel seriously provoked in terms of either narrative choices (cripples as narrative prosthesis; women as victims of sexual violence) or a writing habit that has pissed me off once too often (the misuse of language; avoidance of specificity, particularly in matters of time and/or place–see below). Punching dead writers often feels tacky, but not always. I’ll make exceptions for a) those for upon whose reputation my comments will have little or no impact (which is, y’know, most of them) and b) if I believe my commentary might prove useful to a potential reader or a new writer.

With that warning out of the way, here’s the state of my current reading.

Finished

The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvana Headley (July 2018; MCD/FSG)

This is an unmistakably modern novel with the sensibility of now, but it excludes the appurtenances of the twenty-first century: smartphones, mobile internet, social media (though not security devices such as motion detectors and gate cameras). It is not timeless, exactly (see below for what really pisses me off about that) but it is outside this particular time. It is set in the US, northeastern commuter territory, and is about women at war, in all the ways women have always been at war. Whether army vets or suburban wives, mothers or daughters, women have always fought: with blood and bloodlines, with love, with fury and vengeance, with the armour of composure and masks, with political and social spin. You should read this book.

Here’s the paragraph I sent to the author (who, full disclosure, is a close friend) for blurbing purposes.

The Mere Wife is an astonishing reinterpretation of Beowulf: Beowulf in suburbia–epic, operatic, and razor sharp. It uses Beowulf’s three-part structure and a fascinating take on Old English traditions of animism to create a story not of a thick-thewed thegn but of women; women at war, literally and figuratively. It is Maria Dahvana Headley’s women who are the givers of grief, the dealers of doom. They are not objects but most definitely subjects whose primary allegiance is to each other. They rule and they fight. They fight as individuals and in groups (Headley brilliantly coopts another OE tradition of collective voice), as wives and warriors, mothers and matriarchs. Their chosen weapons are as likely to be swords as public relations, and they wield both fearlessly. Monstrousness is in the eyes of the beholder and these women are terrifying in defence of their people, their position, and themselves.

A Study in Honor, Claire O’Dell (July, 2018; Harper Voyager)

Fast-moving, diverse (race, sexuality, dis/ability) science-fictional Holmes and Watson reinterpretation set in near future Washington DC during a new civil war between decent America As We Know It and the white supremacist Christian fundamentalist Send-Them-Back-to-the-Shithole-Countries misogynist base who elected the tangerine trout. The narrator is Dr Janet Watson, army surgeon, a vet honourably discharged because she got a hand blown off in the war. She has a barely functioning outmoded prosthesis taken from a dead soldier and needs to get a sleek modern one in order to resume her civilian career as a surgeon. Budget cuts make that unlikely. Watson is black and she’s queer and she has had to fight her way to an education; she doesn’t give up easily. She comes to DC to get obstinate with the Veteran’s Administration and get what she needs. Sara Holmes is also black, probably also queer (though that’s never specifically nailed down), but she works for a shadowy government agency, and appears to be from a mysterious super-rich Family. For reasons that either were not made sufficiently clear or I didn’t quite believe (when I’m reading fast I tend not to worry about details), Holmes and Watson end up as roommates in a swanky apartment on Q street. And Holmes’s work and Watson’s personal mission begin to overlap…

O’Dell’s personal identity does not match that of either Holmes or Watson (O’Dell is the pseudonym of Beth Bernobich) but she has clearly done some work to make sure she gets as much right as possible, and it’s enormously satisfying to see the famous pair given a deliciously intersectional makeover. I found some of the political references a little heavy handed, but not enough to be burdensome. However, one thing that did pop me out of the book, if only briefly—I said, “Whoa!” and pushed the galley away from me for a moment—was right at the beginning, when on p.10 I came across my own name: Watson is reading one of the Aud books. Later, Watson name checks several well known SFF writers so it felt less weird. At the end, though, I developed a new concern: that the series (for clearly it’s being set up as a series) will magically ‘cure’ Janet Watson’s disability through technology or at least render her effectively nondisabled, and can then dismiss the difference—much as the Freeman/Cumberbatch TV series magically removes and then forgets Watson’s war-related disability. We’ll see. Meanwhile, this is clean, clear, competent work. I enjoyed it. Recommended.

Finding Camlann, Sean Pidgeon (2012)

When I started this book I had no idea what it was about. Now that I’ve finished it, I’m still not sure. Archaeology, Welsh myth and history, poetry, language, place—this could have been such a good book. It was a pleasant read, at first. But it gradually became frustrating. I had too many questions, and it did not reward my questions—about character motivation, fact, or, well, almost anything except the Welsh countryside, which I absolutely believed and enjoyed—with answers. One of the most distracting questions for me was the narrative era. No dates were mentioned and the character attitudes were confusing. The younger men behaved as though they were from the eighties, the women from the aughts in terms of their confidence in the outside world (but the sixties in terms of their self-determination), and the older characters from the forties. I suspect two reasons for this attempt at timelessess (and this is just speculation). One, there is a hint of expat experience in the loving descriptions of the outdoors, one I recognise from personal experience. Could I be projecting? Of course; I’m just guessing. But my guess is that Pidgeon has not lived in the UK for a while and his clearest, deepest memories of the people and places are of before cell phones. Given the social descriptions I’m guessing the book is set in the early 70s, but, again, it’s just a guess. And with a full length novel the reader should not have to guess; she should know. The attempt at timelessness reminded me of the irritation I feel at books that attempt placelessness: the lack of a firm anchor becomes too great a distraction. I wish Pidgeon (a pseudonym?) had committed fully to writing an historical novel instead of plumping for an unsatisfactory compromise. I read it because I was enjoying the tramping about outdoors, but I had to grit my teeth to finish it. For those who don’t need things to entirely make sense, it would probably be fine. For the rest of us I can’t really recommend it.

The Lost World, Michael Crichton (1995)

I loved the film of Jurassic Park. It was amazing to see those CGI dinosaurs, and I admired the infodump disguised as edutainment theme park ride—very nicely done! The acting was extremely competent, too, as was the script. The direction suffered from the Spielbergian tendency to wrap everything up in a neat, nuclear-family bow but otherwise most definitely a film to recommend. I tried the book, I think—the cover image is a stroke of genius and certainly more than fulfilled its purpose of getting me to stop and reach out—but don’t remember anything about it, even whether I actually finished it. So when I found the Jurassic Park sequel for .99c I thought it worth the risk. In fact I got more than my money’s worth; I’d say it was worth $1.99. It’s stocked with, ah, stock characters—even the dinos are stock characters by now (though probably weren’t when the book was first published; it’s like complaining that Sappho and Shakespeare are full of clichés when in fact they were the creators of those now-hackneyed metaphors)—and exposition unhindered by any disguise whatsoever: it’s just brazen infodump. For the time (1995) I’m guessing the science was cutting-edge, with much rumination on population dynamics and innovation, dinosaur group behaviour, evolution, and dinosaur physiology. I’m not a paleontologist, even in the most amateur fashion—I’m guessing many fanatical nine-year olds know more than I do—but even I know that most of those views are wrong. I’m not an evolutionary theorist, either, and I don’t know that much about complexity theory but, again, what I read here doesn’t fit with what I believe is current knowledge. So, yeah, probably fun in 1995 but, more than 20 years later, not so much. Especially when it’s clearly just a blueprint for a film, and particularly bearing in the mind the eye-rollingly clunky tech. But—and it’s a big but—I read the whole thing and did not have to grit my teeth. Because it is, essentially, fun: no real angst, no sexual violence, the good guys win, and all set outside, so not in the least claustrophobic. (Oh, oh, I feel another blog post coming on, or, hmm, maybe an essay, about the delusions of misery lit.) Worth .99c, or even $1.99. Worth the effort of a digital download from the library but not worth a trip in person if there’s something better.

The Return, Michael Gruber (2013)

I read Gruber’s Tropic of Night for the Hammett Prize 15 years ago and bullied, wheedled, and browbeat the rest of the committee into getting it shortlisted. It was the best submission I read. No one else was keen on it because there was that undercurrent of magic, also, well, zombies. Mainstream awards used to be far more leery of areality than they are now; it was a real fight. But that book deserved it. Like O’Dell, Gruber’s identity does not match that of his protagonist but, again, I believe he does a good job. So if you’re ever in the mood for anthropology, shamanism, fearless women, explorations of race, Miami Cuban culture, food, and, yes, zombies, you should read the Jimmy Paz trilogy, starting with Tropic... But today we’re here to talk about The Return. Like Tropic, this is a family story disguised as an action thriller. It relies a bit too heavily on the invincible sidekick, but it’s a thought-provoking blast, with love, guns, and the triumph of the oppressed. You’ll have to forgive the hint of white saviour stuff (Gruber does a pretty good job of handling it, but it’s impossible to ignore) but you’ll be rewarded by smart plotting, an enticing contradiction with a possibly supernatural explanation, and the occasional moment of real emotion. (I’m not entirely convinced the emotions were wholly earned, but, hey, Gruber does it so well I’m not going to quibble.) So, yes, definitely worth a read.

Miranda in Milan, Katherine Duckett (February 2019; Tor.com)

What happened to The Tempest‘s Miranda when she left the island and returned to Milan with Prospero? Duckett has the answer, which involves love and lust, masks and monsters—though which is which, exactly, is the early question. It’s all answered with great queer Shakespearean Italian Gothic panache. I was initially worried about the pacing but then realised it was a novella and relaxed. It’s turns out to be just the right length: a fun, fast read you should snap up when it’s out early next year.

In Progress

Hal, Kate Cudahy

Light and frothy secondary world duellist lesbian romance with unexpected hints of steel. We’ll see how it goes.

Still have not got to

Staring Back, Kenny Fries

Sex and Sexuality in Anglo-Saxon England, Pasternack and Weston

Women After All: Sex, Evolution, and the End of Male Supremacy, Melvin Konner

Country Dark, Chris Offutt

On the TBR pile for the coming month

Just a couple of A-S research books. No fiction. Right now I want the characters dancing in my head to be mine, not someone else’s. Spring is here; it’s time to write.

I won’t be at ICFA

A family emergency means Kelley and I have to stay right here in Seattle for the next few weeks, which in turn means neither of us can be in Orlando for ICFA this week. Sorry to all those whose plans are now out of kilter. But family comes first.

Ammonite is 25 years old today!

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Some of the editions of Ammonite: top three US publications, bottom two UK

Image description: Five different book covers for the same book: Ammonite by Nicola Griffith. The top row of three are US editions: Left is the most recent edition, still in print, that shows a semi-transparent woman draped in white overlooking a not-very-clear landscape with the suggestion of an ammonite in the sky–all in vaguely sandy colours. Middle is the original edition in bright orange, yellow and blue showing the view of an airlock opening onto space where hangs a jellybean-shaped spaceship in front of a planet with an ammonite-like cloud swirl. Right is another out-of-print edition showing a slice of a chambered nautilus you might find on a microscope slide, coloured to suggest an electron microscope image. Below are images of two UK covers: Left, the original, showing a giant, golden ammonite buried beneath a tribe of women on horseback trekking through a snowy landscape in front of standing stones; there are two moons in the sky. Right, the most recent Gollancz Masterworks edition, all in blue, of a woman standing before the lower section of a gigantic ammonite.

The exact publication date of Ammonite has always been murky. The copyright in US editions is listed as 1992 but in the UK it’s 1993, even though they’re exactly the same book, and even though the original sale was to Malcolm Edwards in the UK. (Read the story of how I came to write it.) And only then in the US to Ellen Key Harris-Braun (which is a story in its own rights).1 It was not on general sale in the US until February 1993. There were very early copies of the paperback shipped specially to Atlanta, where I lived, at the end of January 1993 so that I could do a signing on a Sunday afternoon in the driving rain in an empty store—miraculously, I sold about 10 copies that day—but it wasn’t officially released in the UK until early March, when I went over to do authorish things in Leeds and London. However, I’ve not-quite-arbitrarily chosen March 8th as its book birthday.

So today is the 25th anniversary of the publication of Ammonite! Ammonite is a quarter of a century old. A quarter of a century of different editions and languages, of being taught all over the world and the subject of arguments, dissertations, and essays. A novel written a quarter of a century ago with no male characters. Still in print from Ballantine/Del Rey (US) and Gollancz Masterworks (UK). When I wrote it, I had no idea that a quarter of a century later that would still be regarded as noteworthy. It’s been described as a Biological What-If story, Sex-romp on girlie planet, and a searing reexamination of gender. One day—sooner rather than later, I hope—I’d like to think the book will be described primarily in terms of its writing, the story and characters, rather than the fact that it’s entirely about women. Meanwhile, I’m grateful to all those who have loved the book and continue to do so. I’m very proud of it. (For a selection of reviews, links to two long and chewy fem-sf discussions of the book, a list of some of the awards it’s garnered, see the Ammonite page.)

Today, of course, is also International Women’s Day. I hope that at some point in the future we won’t need a day just for women but I no longer think it will be soon. I’ve watched the expansion and contraction of attitudes from, towards, and about feminism, and while the most recent arc might be towards justice, it’s pretty clear that the last few thousand years in general were an arcing away from equality in gender terms.

Being International Women’s Day it also means it’s the anniversary of the first performance of Janes Plane, the band I fronted back in the day. My recent return to the studio to record the audiobook of So Lucky feels oddly like a return. I miss live music performance, but reading aloud is also pretty great.

Also also, and less happily, this is the anniversary of my diagnosis with MS. As with the publication of Ammonite, I don’t remember the exact date, only that I got the diagnosis the day after I got back from that UK trip to celebrate Ammonite‘s publication 25 years ago. So I’ve always associated my diagnosis with the beginning of my career as a novelist; illness and writing are deeply entwined.

So, yeah, a big day.

1 That copyright error has cost me countless hours of (fruitless) corrections to academic bibliographies. If you happen to be an academic building such a thing, please note: first publication date of Ammonite is 1993.

March events

I’m doing several events in March as I get geared up for the May publication of So Lucky. Two of them are public.

14 March, Orlando, FL: International Conference for the Fantastic in the Arts, ICFA. Marriott Airport Hotel, Vista A, 4:30 – 6:00 pm.

This is a reading with Bryan Camp and Maria Dahvana Headley. Bryan will probably read from his forthcoming book, City of Lost Fortunes. Maria will no doubt read from The Mere Wife. And I’ll certainly read from So Lucky. It’ll be my first reading from Lucky (okay, the first live performance; recording the audio book is different). The first is always special, so I hope ICFA attendees will come. Actually, for those ICFA folk who might not be there by Wednesday afternoon, we’re plotting another opportunity for folks to get a taste of the books, this time at a party—drinks! conversation!—at the hotel, possibly Friday night, but details TBD. Watch this space!

27 March, Kirkland, WA: SFWA Reading Series, Wilde Rover Irish Pub and Restaurant, 7:00pm.

Another reading, again from Lucky, this time with Cat Rambo and Nancy Kress. We’ll be talking about the ideas behind our work, and reading, and, well, drinking because, hey, it’s a pub. I’ve done this reading series once before; it’s enormous fun. Come and hang out with a few dozen readers and writers, chat, eat, make friends. It’s pretty cool and a wholly accessible space. Also, if I recall correctly, the food’s pretty good for a pub.

I have one or two things lined up for April, which I’ll post closer to the time, and of course several things for May. For those looking ahead, see Appearances.

Goodreads So Lucky Giveaway

So Lucky is both a tense psychological thriller and a subtle character portrait… Nicola Griffith is an essential writer, and here she is at her most personal, political, and perfectly unputdownable.”  — Robin Sloan, author of Sourdough

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Hey, if you want to win a chance to to read a free copy of So Lucky, the publisher is giving away 6 copies on Goodreads. Good luck!

5 years a citizen

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I’ve now been a US citizen for five years. This country has changed a lot in that time. Am I still glad to be part of it? Yes. Would I like it to improve? Yes.

Improvement requires improved government at city, county, state, and national levels. A citizenry gets the government it deserves. If we think we deserve better, then we have to do some work.

The work is voting. It’s up to me and every other citizen who can vote to do so. If you want things to change, make sure you’re registered to vote and then vote. Ask your friends and family if they’re registered. Remind them to register. Remind them to vote. Ask your colleagues if they’re registered. Remind them to register. Remind them to vote.

There are privileges associated with citizenship but also duties. Perform your civic duty. Inform yourself. Vote.

The best bread in the world

At the end of June last year I successfully defended my PhD dissertation and afterwards wanted to celebrate with a turkey, bacon, and avocado sandwich from Julia’s in Wallingford (Seattle). I felt I deserved it: the sandwich of triumph! So at lunch time off we went to Julia’s and there, right next door, at 4405 Wallingford Ave N, was a new bakeshop: Damsel & Hopper.

I don’t eat much grain1 but the bakery smelt heavenly and, hey, I was celebrating! We went in. It was their stealth/test opening day and the owner, Rob, was eager to chat. I saw the labels of some of their loaves—einkorn, emmer, rye—and was fascinated.

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Image description: Background, shelves of various loaves advertising 100% organic grains; foreground, a basket of long baguettes. 

I’d just been talking about all things medieval and, lo, here were ancient grains for sale. Nothing would have pleased me more than to get down in the weeds and find out about Damsel & Hopper’s grain source, methods, and yields, discuss nutrition and more, but in the end I just agreed that baking with ancient grains more challenging than with other grains, bought a likely-looking loaf of emmer and rye, and promised to come back when they were officially open.

We have. Many times. And every time, we buy their emmer and rye—if we get there in time (they tend to sell out). I love this stuff. More to the point, even if I eat it three days in row, it doesn’t set off that cascading inflammatory response that so many breads seem to.

I suspect there are two reasons for this. One, due to the consistency of emmer bread, I’m able to slice the loaf super thin, so I don’t eat a vast amount in one sitting. And because that sliceability, I use it for sandwiches rather than to eat on its own.2 Most of my sandwich fillings are high-protein: home-roasted beef or chicken, home-made egg salad or very occasionally tuna mayonnaise (and so much better blood sugar wise). Two, emmer and rye seem to sit better with my system than other wheats. In other words, emmer bread isn’t like the kind of bread most people eat.

The first time I cut a slice I was struck by the texture: very stretchy and elastic. It reminded me of something. It took a while to figure it out, but one day I had a vivid sense memory of eating Ethiopian bread: that was it! This loaf wasn’t as spongy but it definitely had some of the same qualities.

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Spiked ears of emmer. Public domain via Wikipedia.

Image description: three ears of golden-coloured wheat, each showing the awns, or spike-like bristles, that grow from individual seeds.

It turns out that Ethiopian bread is traditionally made from emmer, which gives good yield from poor soil and warmer conditions (whereas rye, while also productive in more marginal soil, prefers cooler weather). Emmer is far higher in fibre than most varieties of wheat, and very high in protein, with above average amounts of niacin, magnesium, zinc, and iron. Its antioxidant qualities are fabulous. So: tasty, interesting, convenient for sandwiches and, relatively speaking, extremely healthy!

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Image description: a batch of emmer and rye loaves (at least 15) just before they go in the oven. They are pale but nicely shaped in loaf tins, with a few whole grains apparent on the surface.

That’s what the loaves look like as they’re about to go in the oven. And here’s what one looks like on our counter but before I start stuffing it in my mouth.

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Image description: An uncut beautifully-baked loaf, the colour of dark honey with a slightly darker split down the centre.

So every couple of weeks Kelley and I buy a single loaf and make it last. Because I love this fucking stuff. I suspect that if you ate it, you would too. But if you want the emmer and rye, you should call ahead and reserve some. They will put it in a bag with your initial on artistically created from masking tape and set it aside for you to collect.

While you’re there, you might want to pick up other stuff, because Damsel & Hopper also make delicious café bread, baguettes, and a few other varieties. Not to mention their pastries.

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Image description: Top, several round café loaves, with a unique, banded pattern baked into the crust and dusted with flour, cooling on a wire rack; bottom, two different kinds of shaped flaky pastries.

My favourite are the scones but alas I don’t have any pictures of those. Also, if you happen to be there around lunch time, they make delicious home made soup. They’re generally open Tuesday through Saturday, but every now and again open for a short week, Tuesday through Thursday.

If you try it, let me know what you think.

1 Years ago, I stopped eating grains completely: no bread, no pasta, no rice. It’s an MS thing. In my experience, excess carbs provoke an inflammatory response which exacerbate my MS. Wheat, particularly, seemed pretty bad. (My mother was celiac but I’ve been thoroughly I’m tested, and I’m not. So don’t take this as me saying emmer is okay for celiacs; it’s not.) I also stopped eating potatoes, and high-glycemic fruit like bananas. I lost a shit ton of weight. For a while I was wearing size 0. Gradually, cautiously, I began to add little treats here and there: a croissant with coffee every couple of months. Blini with caviar once or twice a year. Tiny bits of roti with enormous portions of Indian food. The trick is not eat bread, even a tiny bit, for more than two days in a row and at least a week in between treats. Tasty, fresh-baked white breads are like crack to me: once I slice into it, I can’t stop until it’s gone. So when we do buy bread it’s whole grain, and we cut the loaf in half to freeze.

2 Except for the heel (or, as we would say in Yorkshire, the crust), which I always claim that—for some peculiar reason Kelley is just as happy with a regular slice—and slather with butter. My favourite butter is either Danish or French: very lightly cultured.

So Lucky cover!

“Hallucinatory…disorienting, destabilizing, and game-changing. I’ve never read anything like it.”1

“Successfully disguised as a page-turning thriller…also a deep meditation on marginalization, vulnerability, and resistance.”2

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MCD x FSG Originals, 15 May 2018

cover design Boyang Xia

art direction Rodrigo Corral

Image description: Book cover in matte black with the title So Lucky, and the author’s name Nicola Griffith, in big uppercase type formed of burning paper. In smaller, brighter letters between title and author is, A novel, and, below the writer’s name, Author of Hild.

I’m very happy with this! But getting to the happy place was an interesting process.

Usually, by the time a book gets to the cover design stage I have a pretty clear idea of what I want. I don’t always get it, but I know how it should look. But Lucky came together so fast and is so unliked anything else I’ve written (or read from anyone else), that when my editor, Sean McDonald, asked me how I saw it, I said: I’m perfectly blank.

Seriously, that’s all I could see: blankness, blackness. My agent, Stephanie Cabot, said: Well, maybe the cover should be perfect black. No, I said. Black is in there, but it has to convey the irony/not irony of the title, the essential paradox at the heart of the book, the what-you-see-is-definitely-not-what-you-get Fuck You at its centre. It had to have a sense of power, of agency and urgency. I was clear about one thing: No representation of the narrator on the cover, and meant it this time. And no, absolutely zero, images of mobility devices. I had a nightmare vision of the art department falling in love with a pity-porn picture of a woman struggling sadly with crutches, or a woman in a wheelchair gazing wistfully at the outside world.

Just before Christmas I got a few covers to look at and hated them all. They were mostly white with lettering in bright and juicy iPhone X colours, and wispy young women in quarter profile: looking away; looking like objects of pity, not subjects. The only cover that was even close to acceptable to me was black, with the title and author in thin, neutral-coloured type.

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I thought it was a reasonable beginning, but it needed a visceral image, something to halt a browser in their tracks and make them reach out, intrigued.

I’d been chatting with a friend, Maria Dahvana Headley (whose novel The Mere Wife is also coming from FSG this summer) about covers (hers is great), and she sent me a picture of a sculpture by Kate MacDowell that she’d found on Pinterest. (For those too lazy to click through, it’s a  half eviscerated rabbit that shows a human skeleton underneath.) I wasn’t sure I liked it, exactly, but I found it arresting, and the sense of the hidden thing trying to break free, of the surface not being the whole story, spoke to me. If  the cover could convey that sense of a hidden thing energy bursting/burning through, then maybe this would work.

So I built a composite image and sent it back (with the skull emphasised, and some bubbles added so it looked as though the rabbit was swimming up towards the surface of a deep, dark place). I reassured everyone that, no, that’s not what I actually wanted for the cover, but that it conveyed the sense that someone was actively working to get out from  under, break free, and could the art department pretty please come up with something like that?

Then I thought some more. I kept thinking of my original notions, of flames. How about this? I said.

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Obviously the flames should be bigger and more powerful but, well, I’m not a graphic designer. Just to be helpful I also sent a folder of the kind of silkscreen images used by revolutionary and terrorist groups like Hezbollah and ETA that got their point across in crude but powerful graphics. I want something with flame that does that, I said.

A long silence. Followed, at last, by a sketch-draft of what became the cover you see today. Yes! I said. Yes, yes, and yes. Dark and dangerous and blunt, just like the book is supposed to be, something to match the blurbs that have begun to roll in:

1“This genre-violating story begins straightforwardly then slides into a hallucinatory exploration of the body, reality, and identity. It is disorienting, destabilizing, and game-changing. I have never read anything like it.” — Riva Lehrer, award-winning artist, and author of Golem Girl

2“All too often, stories glide past issues of the body…but what happens when our relation to our own body turns adversarial? Successfully disguised as a page-turning thriller, So Lucky is also a deep meditation on marginalization, vulnerability, and resistance.” — Karen Joy Fowler, author of We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves

“Nicola Griffith’s So Lucky is compelling reading, a tour de force … that describes an autobiographical experience of disability from Day One with a relentlessness that can parallel disability itself. It is intense, sad, and dramatic, combining mystery, romance, terror, and hope. Just like life itself.” — Steven E. Brown, Co-Founder: Institute on Disability Culture

“So Lucky fires a gritty, scary, wrathful, sometimes blisteringly funny broadside at the monsters of ableist culture.” — Maria Dahvana Headley, author of The Mere Wife

“So Lucky is somehow both a tense psychological thriller and a subtle character portrait… Nicola Griffith is an essential writer, and here she is at her most personal, political, and perfectly unputdownable.” — Robin Sloan, author of Sourdough

“In Nicola Griffith’s So Lucky, Mara is stalked by a phantom. The phantom threatens her work, her relationships—nothing less than her identity. This angry, funny, cleverly-written piece … ushers in a new wave of disability story.”  — Susan Nussbaum, author of Good Kings, Bad Kings

“Griffith’s lean, taut prose, and her willingness to delve deeply into Mara’s fears, transforms So Lucky into a story about what we all share: an unpredictable life filled with vulnerability and need for community.” — Kenny Fries, author of In the Province of the Gods

I am now very happy. I can’t wait for you to read it. So Lucky will hit the shelves on Tuesday, May 15, 2018. You can, of course, pre-order in print, digital, and audio formats. (Audio narrated by me—I just finished recording. More on that in a future post).

US: Indiebound | Amazon | iBooks | Barnes and Noble | Google Play
UK: Amazon | iTunes

Monster reveal coming tomorrow!

A wee taste of tomorrow’s cover reveal…

Reading February 17

This is a continuation of the conversation about reading I started in January, so take a look at that post for more info on some of the books below. Reading time has been limited the last few weeks. I had to write two unexpected things, and I’ve been trying to sort a long and complicated situation that I’ll tell you all about at some point, when it’s sorted. Also, I’ve been prepping for and recording the audio narration of So Lucky (another subject for a later date).

This is not meant to function as an in-depth assessment. It’s more a way to monitor what I’m reading and get a sense of where I’m being lazy. My reading can be variable, both in terms of taste and amount. It’s a mix of fiction, narrative nonfiction, and research (for essays on various topics, and for Menewood). The fiction and narrative nonfiction is a mix of not-yet published, old favourites, and what are frankly bargain backlist that I get for 99 cents from BookBub, sometimes because they’re old favourites I’d like to have in digital format, sometimes because it’s a book I’ve never read that promises to be a couple of hours of light reading that I can fall asleep over without worrying I’ve missed anything. The research is just as variable and in a variety of disciplines. Some of it is also not-yet-published, some ancient and out of date foundational reading, and almost all a combination of fascinating, difficult, annoying, and necessary.

With that warning out of the way, here’s the state of my current reading.

In progress:

The Best Bad Things, Katrina Carrasco

I’ve only read 5 pages but it’s very promising so far: a woman in the late 19th C Pacific NW takes physical risks; supremely visceral. I would have read more but I only have it as a bound galley, which means it’s not available across devices, which in turn means I can’t snatch ten minutes’ reading here, or five minutes there. But I’ll get to it. It’s doing something I haven’t seen before from anyone but me: showing a woman who doesn’t flinch when bone hits bone and blood spills and is quite, quite confident of herself and her physical abilities.

Finished:

Madame Zero, Sarah Hall

Her Body and Other Parties, Carmen Maria Machado

Dark State, Charles Stross

Hot Zone, Steven Konkoly

The Oracle Years, Charles Soule

The Changeling, Victor LaValle

Bruno, Chief of Police, Martin Walker

This is an unusual list for me in that only two are by women. (At least I believe it’s unusual—this is partly why I’ve started to keep this list, to find out.) But those two, both short story collections, I recommend highly. It took me a while to work out what I was initially finding unwelcoming about Hall’s collection: they are solitary. With one exception, they are about people who are wrestling with their problems essentially on their own: their lives are hard and no one offers them comfort, physically or verbally. She gives fine and closely observed descriptions of landscape, natural and built, and though the atmosphere is constantly moving (there’s a lot of wind) the stories themselves feel oddly static because of the protagonist’s essential isolation. Sarah Hall is very good. And though I prefer her fiction when there’s a sense of physical and emotional connection these stories are most definitely worth reading. Recommended.

I liked parts of Machado’s collection very much. She is a strong, clean writer. She is not afraid of depicting women as entirely and magnificently human, with all the pluses and minuses you might expect from any fully rounded human being. Her people hope, and think, and feel, and fuck, and yearn, and ignore. They are marvellously and magnificently autonomous—though not alone, like Hall’s. The one piece I really did not get on with is, I suspect, intended as the centrepiece of the book. It’s certainly the longest. “Especially Heinous” is based on episodes of Law & Order: SVU. I could tell she was building to something, going somewhere, but frankly it made me impatient, so I did not make it past the first quarter. It was the only one I skipped. But other stories have real heft and feel unexpected and quite dangerous. Go read them.

Full disclosure: I’ve known Charlie Stross a long time, nearly 30 years. He was an usher at our first wedding. So I’m predisposed to like his work. And in fact the Merchant Princes series is my favourite of his, a zesty combination of plot, economics, and alternate history/timeslip/second (third/fourth/more?) world saga. Basic premise: we are not the only reality that exists, and a vanishingly small set of people with a genetic anomaly can walk between worlds/timelines. The impact on global economics and politics (think smuggling, think idea transfer) is profound. Also, smart women protagonists. Also, lesbians (though that’s later). If they’re new to you, start with the recently-updated first omnibus volume, The Bloodline Feud. Fun, fast-moving, thought-provoking, and competent.

Hot Zone on the other hand irritated me extremely. The clumsily writing eventually really got to me. And there’s nothing that hasn’t been done before, and better, in other global pandemic leading to apocalypse stories. Most damning, it turned out to be the first in series but did not say so on the packaging. The ending was most unsatisfying. I don’t recommend it, even for free.

I read the first few pages of Soule’s The Oracle Years as part of the Buzz Books selection from Publishers Marketplace and that was enough to convince me this would be a high-concept smash hit. (And in fact about a week later, it was snapped up for the screen.) It’s about a man who wakes with 108 visions of the future clear and sharp in his head. His friend happens to be a savvy finance, marketing, and data whizz. Together with the friend’s wife, they settle in to monetise the prophecies. What could possibly go wrong? Soule mostly answers questions posed by the premise, though leaves one unaddressed, which on reflection was mildly unsatisfying. But this is not a book that most will reflect on. It’s a blast of an airplane book or beach read. Approach it in that spirit and you won’t be disappointed.

The Changeling is one of those books I’ve been meaning to get to for an age, and last week (after giving up on a bargain Tom Clancy book in utter disgust, see below) was casting about for something to Read Right Now and finally pushed the button on the LaValle. It’s set in present-day New York and follows Apollo, a rare book dealer, as he learns his trade and wrestles with what it means to be a black man, a husband, a father, a friend, son, and provider when the world is not necessarily your friend. It began very well, but I soon got the sense that something super seriously nasty lurked at the heart of this book, and I almost stopped. But I was enjoying the characterisation, the clarity and humanity, of Apollo very much. And, in fact, the book ends well. Sort of. I have some quarrels with the shape of the narrative—it felt baggy here and there; I had the impression the author may have got a little lost and wandered about a bit—or perhaps I simply prefer a tighter trajectory. But on balance I recommend it.

Bruno, Chief of Police by Martin Walker is a winning combination of stylish and cosy. Lots of food porn: loving descriptions of deliciousness like foie gras and different wines. A bit of stately sex. A real love and warmth for small-town France, la France profonde. The focus of this one is community and WWII history. There’s a whole series of Bruno novels, and I can imagine steadily consuming them, one by one. Recommended for relaxation and quiet contentment with an air of underlying melancholy.

Abandoned:

The Sum Of All Fears, Tom Clancy

Every Note Played, Lisa Genova

I’d never read Clancy but found the movies adapted from his books entertaining enough, so when I found this one for free I thought I’d give it a go. I think I made it about fifteen pages before abandoning it in disgust. It’s not a novel, it’s a blueprint for a movie. But the actual movie is much better than the blueprint. Not even worth reading for free. Go watch the film.

Genova’s prose is far superior to Clancy’s. But. The dual protagonists are Richard, a pianist who is a complete dick, gets ALS and (presumably) dies, and Karina his ex-wife who used to be a better pianist than dick but, because that made him unhappy (or something), gives it up. Although I’ve no doubt Richard’s illness trajectory is informed by Genova’s experience as  neuroscientist, and accurate, I just couldn’t bear to read yet another book written by a nondisabled author from the point of view of a disabled character. Also, I felt zero sympathy for Karina. I could not understand why the healthy, piano-playing I-sacrificed-my-career-for-my-husband’s-career ex-wife, did not just curl her lip at Dick and walk away. I’m guessing the whole point of the book was that she Found Herself Again as a result of Richard’s death. In other words, this book has Disability as narrative prosthesis written all over it.

Won’t read:

The Primeval Flood Catastrophe, because it was an interlibrary loan and I had to take it back. But I’ll be getting it out again in that mythical future When I Have More Time, at which point I’ll also read The Ark Before Noah.

Still have not yet got to:

Staring Back, Kenny Fries

Sex and Sexuality in Anglo-Saxon England, Pasternack and Weston

On the TBR pile for the coming month:

A Study in Honor, Claire O’Dell

Women After All: Sex, Evolution, and the End of Male Supremacy, Melvin Konner

The Mere Wife, Maria Dahvana Headley

Country Dark, Chris Offutt

Miranda in Milan, Katharine Duckett

Finding Camlann, Sean Pidgeon