Zachary Jernigan's Science Fiction & Fantasy Blog!

Info About Me / My Bibliography / Free Reads (REGULAR ENTRIES Begin Below)

2012-12-31T11:11:00.000-05:00

Yeah, that's me on the left, in a bathtub, with a sea turtle statue clutched to my chest. I was born on the east coast of the US in 1980, but I've spent most of my 30+ years in Arizona, with shorter stints in Maine, Oregon, Utah, and Chile.

Unlike most of the authorly folks I know, I didn't start reading in earnest until my mid teens, and didn't commit to writing until my late 20s. Oh, well. I write science fiction -- or, depending on how you look at it, fantasy -- that deals a lot with religion, ethics, and identity. My stories have been published in places like Asimov's Science Fiction, Murky Depths, and Crossed Genres. I just finished a novel, No Return, that mixes space opera-like stuff with epic fantasy-like stuff. It's not published yet, but I've got my fingers crossed.

My jobs have run the general gamut, I guess. I've been a bank teller, a bookseller, a night auditor, a barista, a bearing salesman, a bartender, an editor, and -- for a week -- an organic farmer. What I really want to do is teach writing at the university level. As for education, I have a BA in religious studies from Northern Arizona University and an MFA in creative writing from University of Southern Maine's Stonecoast Program. During my MFA career, I was lucky enough to work with awesome authors such as David Anthony Durham, Elizabeth Hand, James Patrick Kelly, Scott Wolven, and Nancy Holder.

Anyway, thanks for visiting my blog, folks! It means a lot that you'd stop by to read my posts and/or some of my stories. If you're interested, here's a list of my favorite books. If you're somehow even more interested in me, here are some pictures of my workspace. Feel free to email me for any reason at all at jerniganzachary@gmail.com or visit me on facebook.

Illustration for "Mexico Needs You" (Murky Depths #17) by Lee Simpson of Shot Hot Design, 2011

Bibliography of Short Fiction

"YOUNG LIONS" appears in Crossed Genres #36, December 2011.
- Reprinted in Crossed Genres Quarterly 4, January 2012.
An expansion of the first scene of my unpublished novel, No Return, this fantasy story follows a man as he loses one of the child soldiers he is responsible for. It is a slight variation from what one will find in the novel, but (hopefully) not so much as to disconcert any readers of the longer work.
Read the story!

"THE WAR IS OVER AND EVERYONE WINS" appears in Asimov's Science Fiction, January 2012.
What if a ethnic bioweapon cleansed an entire race (~ethnicity) off the face of the earth? This, my second professional sale, paints a portrait of one family in the fearful world of the future, where people segregate themselves into walled ethnic neighborhoods.
Reviews:
Colleen Chen of Tangent

"MEXICO NEEDS YOU" appears in Murky Depths #17.
One of the hardest sales of my career, this short-short (which I sent out about 30 times until MD took it; bless their hearts) mixes body horror and border politics.
Reviews:
Sam Tomaino of SFRevu

"PAIRS" appears in Asimov's Science Fiction, August 2011.
- Recorded and reprinted on Escape Pod, January 26, 2012.
Follow ghostlike Arihant and morphing Louca, the last embodied humans in existence, as they haul the souls of mankind from star to star to be sold. A story about revenge just as much as love, my first professional sale begins a future history I hope to return to at longer length someday.
Reviews:
Mark Watson of Best SF
Lois Tilton of Locus

"THE VERB FOR CHANGE IS SEX" appears in Up For Grabs 2: Exploring More Worlds of Gender, Edited by Lauren P. Burka, Circlet Press, 2011, ISBN: 978-1-61390-001-7 ASIN: B004K1EVS2.
What would a sex-switching artist living in the radioactive wasteland of future-Dubai have to look forward to? My fourth sale of erotic science fiction.
Buy the e-anthology!

"RESISTANCE: A LOVE STORY" appears in Dark Horizons, The Journal of the British Fantasy Society #57, 2010.
he story of two robots who try to save humanity from its fat, lazy self. Kind of a mix between WALL-E and Transformers. Also contained are some not-too-well-hidden references to one of science fiction's greatest writing duos.
Read the story!

"THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA" appears in the 2009-2010 print edition of pax americana.
Thus far, the only non-speculative fiction I've written. Still, this story of a blind old man abusing an idiot-savant child (no humor in this one) is, in my opinion, one of the best things I've put my name on.
Read the story!

"MAP REF. -4.296° N 239.193° E" appears in M-Brane SF #13, M-Brane Press, January 2010.
- Reprinted in M-Brane SF Quarterly #2, M-Brane Press, March 2011.
- To be reprinted in Pink Narcissus Press's anthology, Daughters of Icarus (2012?).
What if James Tiptree, Jr. was still alive and had a relationship with Joanna Russ? On Mars? That's (kind of) the jumping off point of this erotic story, which is told mostly in dialogue.
Buy the quarterly!

"ALL MY GHOSTS" appears in Theaker's Quarterly Fiction #31, Silver Age Books, 2009, ISSN: 1746-6075 (Online), ISSN: 1746-6083 (Print).
The only outright supernatural-based story I've ever written, and also one of my favorites, "All My Ghosts" tells the story of an immortal man wrestling with a simple, horrifying decision: Whether to preserve his immortality or save his dying son.
Download the issue for free!

"STORIES DON"T WRITE THEMSELVES" appears in Fissure Magazine #7, Shadow Archer Press, October 2009.
The first story I ever wrote, and the shortest one I've ever sold, follows an assassin on his way to killing your favorite characters.
Read the story!

"HONEYMOON" appears in pax americana #12, 2009.
What if the horizons beyond home were as lifeless as the surface of the moon? Follow two kids as they steal a truck and find out the horrifying nature of their world.
Read the story!

"THE SUCCESSION OF KNOORIKIOS KHNUM" appears in Wired Hard 4: Erotica for a Gay Universe, Edited by Cecilia Tan & Lauren P. Burka, Circlet Press, 2009, ISBN: 978-1-885865-71-7, ASIN: B002U829EU (Buy the e-anthology!).

- Excerpted in Sweet Somethings: Samples from the Circlet Press Smorgasbord, Edited by Cecilia Tan, 2010 (Download the e-sampler for free!).

- Reprinted in M-Brane SF Quarterly #2, M-Brane Press, March 2011 (Buy the quarterly!).

- To be reprinted in Pink Narcissus Press's anthology, Queer Fish 2 (2012?).

Probably my favorite of the short stories I've written, this erotic science-fantasy introduces a variant on Adrash, one of the central characters in my first novel, No Return.

Shortlisted for a 2010 Gaylactic Spectrum Award!

Reviews:
Christopher Fletcher of M-BRANE SF

"ONLY FOR MYSELF: JAPAN, 2043" appears in Up For Grabs: Exploring the Worlds of Gender, Edited by Lauren P. Burka, Circlet Press, 2009, ASIN: B002CGSY8K.
My first sale tells the story of a world-weary author who just wants to spend her allotted orgasms in peace, only to be distracted by an eager fan.
Buy the e-anthology!

Bibliography of Longer Work

NO RETURN is unpublished, currently seeking an agent/publisher.
On the planet Jeroun, mankind is split between the followers of man and the followers of the god Adrash. They fight, believing the world will be destroyed by the actions of the other. On the eve of the half-millennium, three fighters set out on a journey across the continent to engage in a tournament—a tournament to determine which side will emerge victorious. Along the way, they will discover their roles have become more than mere fighters, but champions of the war against Adrash. Unbeknownst to them, two outbound mages—astronauts who use alchemy to reach orbit—are waging their own war on Adrash.

Wherein I Intend to Talk About Faith Respectfully and Fail

2012-01-26T13:04:00.000-05:00

This came up when I typed"god's beard" into
Google's image search. Awesome.

As I've grown older, talking about religion (and "spirituality"--no, I don't see a great deal of difference between the two terms) has become ever trickier. At one point in my life I was very tolerant (what a funny concept, by the way; as though "tolerating" something is a virtue) of expressions of faith, but each year finds me less willing to give way to the belief in the irrational. I can't listen to people babble on about Jesus or Buddha or Allah anymore. I groan inside, and more often than not just turn away. Because there's no point in arguing, and even less point in condemning anyone. Good people (and bad people) are found everywhere, and it makes little difference whether or not they believe in the supernatural.

(If it insults anyone that I refer to their faith as a belief in the supernatural, well tough; if I said I believe in ghosts or ghouls or fairies--assuming you don't already believe in such things--you'd say I believe in the supernatural. I just take it one step further and look at all belief in the very unlikely to be a belief in the supernatural.)

But... on the grand scale, I think religion/spirituality/faith--I'll just say "faith," ok?--has a deleterious effect on humanity. Think of it this very obvious way: If you meet some guy on the street who believes a purple dinosaur (we'll call him Barney) will someday soon harken the apocalypse, but until that point mankind must rid the world of all redheads, you'd probably just roll your eyes and go on with your day--because, let's face it, how much trouble can one lunatic cause? But if you take that one fucknut and multiply him by a million...

Okay, so that example is obvious enough to everybody, right? Belief in that kind of thing is nuts. We live in a world where seemingly everyone can agree that some things are just crazy. You wouldn't trust an adult who still believed in Santa Claus, would you? Or Zeus and his thunderbolts? Nah. That shit's patently ridiculous.

But Jesus, now he makes sense.

Clearly, I'm giving in to my urge to make fun of humanity's apparent hypocrisy and/or simple, willful blindness. (Richard Dawkins' quote comes to mind: "We are all atheists about most of the gods that societies have ever believed in ." [my emphasis]) What I'm really trying to get at is how ridiculous I find faith to be at this point in my life--how laughable. Yes, I'm disdainful, as are all people who hold strong convictions.

Now, is there a possibility that I'm wrong, that I simply lack the vision to see what is so clear to 90+% of all people on the planet? Sure, I could be wrong, but I don't think it's likely that the supernatural exists. What bugs me to no end is how people of faith--my parents, for example--cannot seem to believe that my convictions of anti-faith are as strong as theirs (yet they seem to be able to wrap their minds around a Muslim holding very strong, if flawed, convictions). No, I need something in my life, obviously--something that I'm repressing. They look at my skepticism--which pretty much guarantees a life of hard questioning--and say, "See, he's unhappy. He needs God."

I understand. I promise I do. They want me to have the kind of surety they do, the kind of happiness that comes with knowing where you're going at all times. The joy of being led down a certain path. The comfort of knowing that you won't die and just be a hunk of flesh.

Do I want to die and just be a hunk of flesh? Of course I don't. Shit, I want to live forever, but if anything, that desire is the thing that makes me most unhappy. Since I was little I've been told repeatedly about how I was going to live forever, and yet it never sunk in like it did for my little sister and brother. I couldn't make myself believe it, and yet immortality became the ultimate goal for me. No kidding, I think about living forever so often I'm sure a therapist would classify it as an unhealthy obsession.

Why is such an obsession unhealthy, you ask? Let me tell you:

I don't believe in immortality--at least not the kind that'll be brought about by God or some other supernatural process--yet I still want it. I fantasize about having a perfected body and being a god (basically the Mormon vision) so much that it makes me very unhappy. I'm like a little kid forever having dreams of all the cool toys he's going to have (I actually had dreams like this) only to wake up disappointed (this also happened). It's fucking stressful. I'd like to disavow myself of this ridiculous vision, but it persists.

Some might say this is the ultimate reason to find some form of faith, but I know that if I were to explore a religion it would be for the purpose of finding a fantasy to replace my fear. I won't do that, because only the weak take solace in their fantasies.

Yet I don't want to be unhappy for the rest of my life, obsessed with the unattainable. I want to see the beauty in my understanding of the universe, and to a great extent I do. I love the "natural" world, and take endless joy in learning about it, but for all this I have yet to find a vision to equal the concept of immortality. Maybe I never will, and that makes me very sad.

The basic answer, of course, is clear to everyone: The way to be happy in life is to be productive, not only professionally but personally. On a deeper level is the understanding that one must interact with people who share your values. It's become increasingly clear as I get older that I need to make more friends who I see on a more regular basis--the kind of friends who take joy in their naturalistic view of the universe and thus bolster my own view. I also need to keep writing about the issues that compel me, and find others who write about similar things--scholars and artists who take their anti-faith as seriously as I do.

Basically, I need a church without the supernatural bits.

I'm ever more convinced that much of what I write and try to publish is an advertisement to similar-minded people. I love the idea of some atheist or agnostic reading one of my stories and then communicating with me (or vice versa), finding common ground, and then starting a cult.

Er... Not a cult, exactly. More like a group of friends who are super cool. Super friends, I guess.

(And no, before someone brings it up, I do not believe in the surest way to achieve immortality is to have children. I'd still be dead, plus I'd have spent precious hours of my life changing diapers. Nor do I believe immortality comes through creating lasting work. I won't be around to see other people appreciating it. A Woody Allen quote comes to mind: "I don't want to achieve immortality through my work... I want to achieve it through not dying.")

Wherein I Talk About Sexism and Writing and Generally Get Dramatic

2012-01-20T19:34:00.000-05:00

Earlier Iwrote thispost, and now I need to follow up on a couple things.

First off,I kind of dropped off the ending of the story about the Epic Fantasy workshop Iattended last winter. After one of my critique partners—sorry; can't rememberher name—said, in what I took to be a very superior tone, something along thelines of, "Well, hope she's not just some damsel in distress who getssaved by a man," I did indeed get a little miffed. I don't think I let itshow too much, but I do think I looked a little defensive as I assured thewhole table that I hadn't done something that stupid. I told them that, ifanything, their—two of my other viewpoint characters'—butts woulda pretty muchbeen toast without my character Churls' guidance. I gave them more examples I can't remembernow, trying to convince them that Churls was not just some chickplaced in the story to make the guys look good.

And it was the truth. Churls is her own awesome person, anddoesn't need any more saving than anyone else in my novel. Of course, Iquestioned whether or not I was full of bullshit—and then again, as my previous postshows—but for some time I wondered why my peer's comment continued to botherme.

It was thetone, mostly—that kind of You know that men write women like that sometimes,don't you, dummy? tone, like I'm a completemoron who doesn't understand anything about literature, much less the pulpycrap she was probably referring to. It bothered me to no end, the sheerstupidity of such a remark. Here I am, sitting in an MFA-level workshop, beinglectured about such a basic thing? Am I munching on Doritos and rubbingpowdered cheese-dust all over my GIT-R-DONE T-shirt? Am I fucking drooling?What kind of moron writes such blatantly sexist shit in this day and age?

Quite afew intelligent people, it turns out.

Chalk it up to willful ignorance if youwant to, but I tend to avoid any author—respectable or not—who writesunrealistic characters, regardless of the character's gender. As a result, I haven't readan awful lot of the "canon" authors whose work would revealunderlying caveman mentalities. (Philip Dick comes to mind, though that haslittle to do with his treatment of his female characters and everything to dowith hating his writing in general.) I've missed a whole slew of seminal sexistworks simply because I couldn't stand to read such crappy characterization. Evenauthors I love for their inventiveness—Roger Zelazny, for instance—I can barelyread anymore for this very reason.

Aside#1: For years it's bothered me when someone says an author "writes [the"opposite" gender] well"—like it's some herculean feat to writesomebody (just slightly) unlike yourself. Though I take it as a compliment whensomeone says "you write women well" (I swear to god, I've had morethan a few deluded people say this to me), I think it's pretty funny. How do *I* writea female character? Well, I write a person doing person-like things, and Idon't worry too much about their sex. Sure, I have to make concessions.Sometimes a testicle or a breast gets in the way or is somehow necessary, but90% of the time I think men and women do stuff in basically the same manner...

So—tobring in my second topic of note—why did I continue reading the novel Imentioned in my previous post once I realized the female characters were littlemore than busty stereotypes? (Yes, I completed it, a fact that still surprises me.) Maybeit's because it was pretty well written overall, or perhaps I kept hoping theauthor'd pull off some amazing switch and somehow justify his egregious use offemale stereotypes. Ultimately, however, it ended up exactly where I thoughtit'd end up: The assassin's busty sidekick remains out of action for most ofthe novel, and his love interest becomes a princess (after being raped and recovering suspiciously quickly from it). Both ladies pretty muchconfess their love for the hero. The author failed to convince me that eitherwoman is truly strong—despite his narrator's insistence that they are—becauseboth of them remain content to leave the larger questions up to men. Theyresist for a while, but ultimately let a man call the shots.

I won'tlie; to a certain extent even I find such familiar tropes comforting. Whenthings seem the bleakest for our ladies—who, if the author is successful, will becharming and attractive enough to worry about—we don't have to doubt theoutcome: The man'll come-a-rescuing, just in the knick of time to save thedamsel in distress.

It's nice.It's pat. It's a Disney cartoon.

And it'sthe reason men (and women) continue to write such stupid, destructive scenarios. It's thereason the woman in my workshop asked me if I hadn't fallen into the same trapof writing the same thing in the same crappy way. It's such a huge part of whowe are in this society, and it's wrong for me to react to a "tone" awoman has when she asks me to clarify my intentions. Shit, after a lifetime ofputting up with the caveman mentality I'm surprised any women anywhere canspeak in anything less than a shout!

Aside#2: And yet, even though I understand it's the wage I must pay for all of mybrothers' and sisters' thoughtless (and thoughtful) sexism—not to mention myown—I get tired of people assuming I'm a sexist motherfucker, that I'm just oneof them because I have a cock. No, that's not even it. I get tired of theassumption that I'm fine with the way I am. Because I understand it. I do, Ipromise—I understand my subconscious prejudice as much as I can. I wish I couldcommunicate how badly I'd like to get rid of all the programming that clogs myhead. I wish I didn't look at an old picture of a thirty year-old woman andthink, Man, she looked better in her earlytwenties, or have my eyes snag on every magazine cover featuring ascantily-clad woman while I'm standing in line at the supermarket.

I wish I couldput my money where my mouth is. I wish that someday, when I write a femalecharacter, I won't reduce her to a reaction against the sexist views thatstay with me despite my attempts to banish them. I want to write a woman thatcan do what all women should be allowed to do from birth—choose her ownidentity.

My sinkingsuspicion, however, is that I won't ever be able to do that. You can'tdeprogram completely, rewrite the code. I—and you—was raised in a society thatsees a sharp division between what a woman can do and what a man can do. Despite ourbest efforts, that stain stays with me—and you—forever.

But maybe ourchildren's children...

Hoo-doggy,I didn't mean for that to get so dramatic. Simple fact is, I've been thinkingabout sexism in fiction a lot lately. I'm disgusted—though never enough—when Iread yet another Fuckable Bunny, some young (and young for a female, for thoseof you who don't know, is between the ages of 16-22) girl (never"woman") who can't make a decision without a man around. It's twothousand fucking twelve, people; at least make the attempt to write a womanwith some eggs, for Chrissake!

I'm Sexy or I'm in Trouble: A Post About Being a Stereotyped Lady in Fantasy Literature

2012-01-20T00:00:00.000-05:00

DISCLAIMER: I'm painting a pretty broad stroke when I refer to "fantasy" within this post. I'm referring to a pretty specific type of fantasy set in "medieval" settings; the type of fantasy with lots of swords and daggers and black magic wielders. It's usually, though by no means always, written by men who like to write their women with either 1.) big boobed, bodacious bodies and bad attitudes or 2.) slender frames (and big boobs) and demure dispositions. Again, a very broad stroke. If your particular brand of fantasy doesn't seem to apply to what I'm saying, it probably doesn't. And if you're not familiar with the apparent "problem" of women in epic/heroic/s&s fantasy, start somewhere like here or here.

"Help! I need a man!"

Example #1: I just started reading this fantasy/s&s book. In the firstchapter, a guy in black kills a bunch of people handily. His sarcastic, scantily cladcompanion (whose body is every man's dream) helps him escape death by givinghim directions out of a castle. In the second chapter, a young (read: attractive in a very feminine way) noblewoman—she'sonly seventeen—awaits news that her father has arranged a marriage for her.When she finds out that he hasn't in fact done so but has instead seen to itthat she will take a trip to avoid some kind of danger, she pouts about herfriend getting to get married, cries, runs to her room, realizes that poutingand crying will get her nowhere against her father's will, and then starts combingher hair while trying to think of some kind of solution.

So, here, in the first twochapters, are our "heroines"—a buxom and largely inactive sidekickand a young, self-involved priss. Compare them to the hero, who wields a pairof huge knives and assassinates people with superhuman precision. (Y'know, notthat assassinating people is exactly a kosher thing to do, but at least he'sactive...)

Example #2: During my January 2011 MFA residency, I attendeda workshop taught by David Anthony Durham. The subject: Epic Fantasy. I'dsubmitted an 18-page excerpt from my somewhat epic fantasy novel, No Return; a chapter and a half wherein I introduce Churls, afemale gladiator/mercenary haunted by the ghost of her daughter. She's myfavorite character I've ever written, bar none, and I tried very hard to makeher well rounded. (It was actually a little easier to write her than othercharacters, and it's not hard to see why. To a great extent, she's based off ofmy ex-girlfriend and best friend, Amy Martin.)

I went to great pains to put herthrough just as much a ringer as anybody else in the novel, to prove howfucking tough she was. Thus, I was a little offended to see that the women inthe workshop—who liked Churls for the most part—were somewhat bothered that I hadn'tshown her defeating her opponent at the beginning of her first chapter. Theyseemed to think I'd held back because she was a woman.

One asked, "Do you ever showher kicking butt?"

I answered, "Of course. Nearthe end of the novel she kills someone."

"Why did you wait until theend?" another woman asked. "Why not show it now?"

I went on to explain that Churlswas my favorite character, and that I wanted her display of violence to have agreater impact than the other characters' displays. I wanted her moment toreally stand out, especially after all the trials she is forced to endure."I put her through a lot in this novel," I told them.

"Well," said yet anotherof my female peers, "I hope she's not just some damsel in distress whogets saved by a man."

And that's when I got a littledefensive.

What do these two examples have to do with each another?

Well, it's because they've causedme to consider how full of shit I am. It's very easy to be disdainful of theauthor who's written the buxom sidekick and the young damsel in distress over amarital issue. (How many times have we seen women in both of these positions,appearing as only accessories to men?). But it's even easier to be offended onbehalf of womankind while ignoring my own unintentional sexism.

Why,indeed, did I wait to unleash Churls' rage? My first response as I started to write this post was, sadly, tothink that I wanted her to earn themoment, but a brief second of reflection reveals what a crappy sentiment thatis. Did I ever feel like the men had to earn their violent moments? No, I didn't. I justthought—not consciously, mind you—Well, they're dudes. Unconsciously or not, I decided that I didn't needto justify a man committing a violent act.

Andthat's fucked up. Sure, somebody might ask what's the matter with assumingwomen are not as inclined to violence as men, but other than the fact that Idon't believe that claim (if you doubt, start with a study of our closestrelatives in the animal kingdom; you'll see females are no less inclined tobackhand a neighbor than males) it continues to place woman and men inconstricting boxes.

Men do this. Women do not do this.

Wait. Hold up. Is that really what I did when I held offrevealing Churls' full capacity for violence? Did I really believe she neededto earn a traditionally male-dominated role?

I'mnot sure.

Avoice tells me that it's completely valid for me to hold off showing acharacter's traits in order to lend weight to her later actions. I didn't hideChurls' nature from anyone; when the reader first encounters her, she isstanding over the corpse of a young man she killed in a fair fight. I certainly didn't show her regret over havingkilled an opponent. That's her profession. (And I didn't at any point—as one geeky friend of mine suggested I do—describe the shape of her butt "to make the fanboys happy." Not that I even have any fanboys reading my work...)

You see, it was more important tome to show her reaction after the killing—not because she is a woman and moreprone to reflection, but because I thought the act of killing was more powerfulas a matter of reflection. I don't think it had anything to do with her sex,frankly. Instead, it had everything to do with making the scene as good as itcould be, establishing a character and situation that felt real.

I could be wrong, of course. I'mjust as prey to my culture's prejudices as anyone else. Perhaps, in my attemptto cast Churls in a complicated role—a mother, a fighter, a woman whoseattraction to a principal male character is frankly (and often explicitly)sexual—I have reduced her merely to a reaction against the "buxomaccessory/damsel in distress" stereotype so common to fantasy literature.In that case, all I'm doing is revealing how deeply that stereotype has wormedits way into my head, right?

No. I call bullshit on that assertion. Therecognition of a harmful stereotype—and the reaction against it—is fundamentalto moving forward, to fighting for a woman's right to assert herself as aprimary actor instead of an accessory to a man.

I guess what I'm saying is I'drather be the anti-stereotype, fraught as it may be with thinly disguisedconcessions to prejudice, than the stereotype that the author never examines.

Aside:

I hope all of this is not comingacross as self-indulgent. Anyone who reads this blog often knows that I wrote anovel and that I can't stop talking about it. ("Hasn't he written anythingelse?" someone might ask. And the answer is, "Kinda.") But I dothink about what I've written a lot. I examine it for hidden meanings, andcompare it to what other people have written. I get caught up in certainissues...

Recently, a friend I've had forages looked at me and said, "Wow. You're kind of a feminist, aren'tyou?" My reaction was along the lines of "Well... yeah."—as ifany other response makes sense. Standing up for the right-to-be-whatever-you-fucking-want ofslightly more than half the population of the planet needs a fucking label?

Of course I'm a"feminist." Aren't I?

Well.Confirming that would require some looking, wouldn't it? And not just into thethings I say, but into the things I do, day in, day out. What do I focus onwhen I see a woman? Do I actively turn my eyes away from images that serve onlyto hammer home the point THIS IS WHAT A WOMAN SHOULD LOOK LIKE? Do Iover-explain things to women on the assumption that they'll have a harder timeunderstanding than men?

Someof these things will take years to examine and to change. Were that I had a fewdocuments to examine, something crystallized in time...

Oh,yeah. I guess if I'm looking for an answer I should look at how I (and others) treat womenon the page.

"Of course this armor
is practical"

Okay, the aside aside: Having stated that I'd rather be thereaction against the stereotype than the stereotype itself, I think it behoovesme to explain what I think is wrong about using the stereotype at all. Ofcourse a writer can argue—as Peter Orullian has (sorry; can't find the link tothe specific interviews)—that he or she is using stereotypes so that they cansubvert them later, but I think this is kind of crappy craft. I also think itreveals a deep and abiding prejudice in the same way my "she has to earnit" thinking does.

Let'sexamine my first claim—that using a stereotype is crappy craft. What exactlydoes using a stereotype do? Well, firstoff it establishes an instant identification without having to do the legwork: Oh,he's the emotionally wounded ex-mercenary character with a troubled past.Oooooohhh, I get it. Second, it basicallyestablishes a likely character arc: That guys gonna help somebodydespite his selfish instincts. Cool.

(Now,granted, the reaction-against-said-stereotype-character-character may beequally easy to pin down: Oh, he's an emotionally grounded soldier with aknown past. I bet he's gonna fuck everybody over. Still, call me crazy but I think there's a greater range of responsesin opposition to a stereotype than there is within the stereotypical framework.)

Beyondcrappy craft, though, how does establishing a stereotype reveal underlyingprejudices if the author intends to subvert the stereotype later?

Theanswer to that is simple: The author is revealing that his or her charactersare not strong enough to stand on their own from the beginning. When it comesto (many) female characters in fantasy literature, I think authors reveal not only howlittle faith they have in their own ability to portray the full range of"femininity," but also how little faith they have in readers toimmediately comprehend a female character that is not a sex symbol or damsel indistress. No, all "atypically" female qualities must be introducedslowly.

Isay fuck slowly. (Haha.) If the readersuffers a bit of culture shock when a woman in a story farts, then I say great.Ladies fart, everybody; it's high time you knew.

Back to Example #1: The buxom and largely inactive sidekickand the young, self-involved priss.

Oh!—a bit of info I nearly forgot:I'm not using the author's name because, as I said, I'm only at the beginningof the book. The author is in fact quite a fine writer on a sentence level, andI don't want to judge him/her too harshly yet. He/she still has a chance toconvince me that his/her use of stereotypes is justified. That's never happenedbefore, yet hope springs eternal...

But assuming the author doesn'tjustify the use of his stereotypes, it becomes not a question of if you can write such characters—for clearly there arewomen who, because of societal pressure or inclination, find themselves in therole of sex object or damsel in distress; just as there are men in the samesituation—but why the authorwould write such a character in the first place. What attachment does theauthor have to these women?

It's tempting to psychoanalyze, ofcourse, but I won't. All I can say is that I don't understand it. I don't wanta woman who always needs saving from a man—not as a friend, not as a partner,not even as an acquaintance. I don't want to know any woman who is willing toact as a secondary to me.

The same applies to women infiction. Any female character better stand up for herself at some point, evenif it's just to assert she needs help, or I don't want to read too much abouther. Any author who regularly paints his women into a Disney corner (anddoesn't justify breaking her out of it) won't sell a book to me (yes, my copiesof books are usually secondhand).

As I think I made clear, there isobviously some realism in such characters, but I read (and write) fiction to beinspired. I only have so much time in this life, and I won't settle for femalecharacters who buckle under societal pressure. It's a cliché at this point, buta good one: Well-behaved women rarely make history. I wrote Churls as a way toexpress my appreciation for someone who in nearly all ways outclasses me, for awoman who is rewriting history as she lives it, and I wish more fantasy authorstook the time to do the same.

3 cool things on a lazy Saturday...

2012-01-14T12:19:00.000-05:00

This. Liz Bourke, whoever the hell she is, is not exactly one of my heroes now, but she's close. I love the discussion afterwards (yeah, I read the whole thing; a rare feat for me, reading a blog commentary), wherein a bunch of whiny losers complain about her tone, claiming that it is unprofessional. As if Strange Horizons, or any other edited site, has an obligation to ensure an "objective" review (whatever that is). Liviu Suciu of Fantasy Book Critic, whose reviews (which, admittedly, I often enjoy) typically range from an A to an A++ rating, says some very ridiculous things about Bourke's "negativity," as does some douche named Johnny (who gets banned from commentary by SH's moderator). (Seriously, you should read this shit.) The madness is levied by great commentary from E. M. Edwards and Bourke herself. I particularly like Bourke's emphasis on the female characters in Michael J. Sullivan's book, having just written my own commentary on stereotyped women in fantasy. And no, I haven't read Sullivan's work. I had little intention to, actually, and now, thanks to Bourke, I have none.

Photos this and this. Oh, god, Saturn, I love you. Your moons look so tiny, but they're not, not really; it's just that you're so fucking huge! (Look at that second image. There are two moons in it! Holy shitballs!)

This, just because it's a beautiful song:

My Recap of 2011: First you think it's just gonna be a bunch of whining and self-hate, and then it's not!

2011-12-29T11:08:00.000-05:00

Several weeks back, I read this post byCatherynne Valente: 470,000 words published in 2011 (not counting November andDecember). The other morning I was directed to Lavie Tidhar's blog, wherehe does a year-end review ofwhat he's published: 2 novels, 2 novellas, and 17 short stories. Then, thenight before last I watched Woody Allen's recent film, Midnight in Paris, whereinErnest Hemingway talks about all writers being competitive creatures (which Ihappen to agree with, mostly)...

So, what's my point? It all just fits together in my mind,really. Unless I repress the competitive part of my brain, Valente and Tidhar'saccomplishments over the past year make me feel like quite the loser. Andneither even mentioned what they'd been working on; they only mentioned whatwas published!

I'm not holding anything against them, of course. (Whatearthly justification could I have for resentment?) They're doing whatgreat writers should do, which is write like a storm. They're both greatpeople, I'm sure. (Well, I am sure where Valente is involved. She spent anafternoon with me recently - an afternoon that largely consisted of herlistening to me whine about the fact my novel wasn't selling. Anyone who canput up with my wimpy self-involvement without punching me in the face is aMother Teresa level saint.) Neither boasted of their achievements.

Still, there's this uncomfortably tight feeling in mychest when I think of their literary accomplishment. Sure, it's jealousy. Sure,it's ugly. I don't like constantly comparing myself to others - especiallythose others who are in the top tier of sff writers. Sheesh.

Oh, well; I'm gonna do it anyway. What have I done thisyear, exactly? I'll begin with fiction. Unlike Valente and Tidhar, however, I'mmore interested in what I sold (or attempted to sell) rather than what Ipublished. (Maybe this has something to do with my, uh, career being in thebeginning stages, but who knows...)

Well, I finished the first draft of my first novel, NoReturn, in early February (102,000 words). I revised it twice throughout theyear, ending up with a final count of 107,000 words. At least 15 agents haveturned the novel down, either at the query stage or after reading a portion ofthe manuscript. Still, when I can be roused to feel anything other thanfrustration and impatience, I'm incredibly excited about the whole thing. I -lazy, wimpy, sluggish me - finished a novel! And when I'm not beingself-deprecating, I can admit it's pretty damn good, sometimes for whole pages.

I've sold 6 stories this year, though 4 of them werereprints. 5 stories - 3 of which were sold in 2010 - saw print.

"The Verb for Change is Sex" appeared in Circlet Press's anthology, Up For Grabs 2 at the very beginning of the year.
"The War is Over and Everyone Wins" sold to Asimov's during my January residency of graduate school. It was published in the January 2012 issue of the magazine, which came out in November.
"Mexico Needs You" appeared in Murky Depths #17, sometime around March, I think.
"Pairs" appeared in the August issue of Asimov's.
"The Succession of Knoorikios Khnum" (which I recently discovered was shortlisted for a Spectrum Award) and "Map Ref. -4.296° N 239.193° E" are reprints that sold to Pink Narcissus Press anthologies late in the year.
Mur Lafferty then bought the audio rights to "Pairs" for Escape Pod.
"Young Lions" sold to Crossed Genres in November, and then appeared in issue #36 of the magazine in December.

OK, when I write it down it doesn't look too shabby. I'mactually pretty happy about what's happened fiction-wise this year. I should behappier about it and celebrate what I've accomplished, but it's tough tocelebrate when you're a person with issues like mine.

Speaking of which... Depression has really been an ongoingfactor this year. Reason says it's got a lot to do with having to assume theresponsibilities of being an adult. (At 31; who'd have thought!) I graduatedfrom University of Southern Maine in July with an MFA and a hefty bag of debt.I spent a lot of 2011 denying the reality of my situation, waiting around for somechange that I knew wouldn't come without work. My OCD, which has been in astate of remission (kind of) for most of my adulthood, has been an ever morepresent part of my waking life.

Despite all of the love coming my way, I couldn't find away to be happy. Ultimately, I left Maine, my home away from home, in November. My2-year relationship with my best friend, Amy Martin, ended shortly after Ileft. Even thinking that I made the right, compassionate choice, mysuperpowered guilt is very active right now. (Of course, life would be easier ifyour choices never hurt those around you. Part of being a good person isrealizing how best to help yourself and those you love, and being courageousenough to assume the responsibility for your choices.) I hope that the peopleI've hurt by leaving (Amy has a daughter, Winter; someone who I care very muchfor and constantly worry about) will someday know how hard I tried to be happy,that it wasn't anything they did that made me unhappy, and that my moving backhome (year-round) to Arizona was not an act of running away.

I hope I won't come think that last thing was a lie.Mostly, I just hope Amy and Winter will let me be a part in their lives in thefuture. I know how hard it is to accomplish such a thing after a breakup, but Istill want it.

Oh, Lord, how I hope... I hope...

But enough negativity, and enough of what I can't control.I still have my memories, and none of the above should cause anyone think that2011 was a completely bum year for me personally. Though it's difficult to viewit through the lens of my relationship ending (the brain wants to run away fromgood memories, which for the time being can cause just as much pain as the badmemories), my time in Portland, Maine held so many highlights. I had a living space,with real, compassionate people in it; a view of the ocean; and friends closeby. I had two great graduate residencies. Amy and I spent a night at Liz Hand'scottage. And the food - oh, the food.

Now that I think of it, the very best thing about NewEngland was/is the people I grew to love there. How they supported mymisguided efforts to be a real author! I can honestly say without doubt that mynovel would not have been started, much less finished, without the support ofAmy and Winter. They let me be cranky, gave me space, and just in general putup with me. And then (of course) there is Liz Hand, a mere 2 hours away, whohelped me feel like I'd written something worthwhile. And David Durham - thenonly a few hours away - made me examine what I'd done and make it better. AndJim Kelly, also but a short drive away, he called me to task. And Ben FuckingTurner (his real name), 45 minutes distant, who sat with me and talked both ofour novels through. And Scott Wolven, literally a short walk across a bridge,he has been a unfailing source of support and beer. And Asher Ellis in Vermont,who did something or other that was funny that meant a lot to me. And CatherynneValente on Peaks Island, who did what I already explained above but also haddinner with Asher and I at Anthocon...

Ah, shit, now I'm crying. I miss all those people, a lot.Even if I didn't see them often or know them well, it sucks to know they'rehalf the continent away. I lost a lot in coming back home permamnently - a fact I thinkabout every day.

Oh, how I wish more of my choices could be win/winimmediately.

So - 2012. The honest fact is that I do feel a great dealof optimism. Despite the fact that I've returned home, that I have debt and nomoney coming in, that I am only rarely communicating with the two people inMaine who mean more to me than they know, 2012 will not be a downturning year.I'll start the painfully laborious process of writing again soon, and myapplications to teaching positions will continue to go out and probably beignored. I'll keep trying to mend the fences I've broken.

Why do I feel such optimism? It seems ungrounded, even tome. But I'm a writer, more or less: A competitive creature, competing with youand you and you but most with myself. I want to be better than I was in 2011.Maybe it's because my problems have only just reached a head, or because I'mjust so sick of being negative, but right now, as I write this, a good futureseems very doable.

Getting Over the Hump, or How I Don't Cope With My OCD, or JUST HELP ME!

2011-12-23T16:54:00.000-05:00

For context:

I've never been the kind of person who loves to write. Infact, I do almost anything to distract myself from the task, because it's notpleasant. No, that's not right; not pleasant isn't descriptive enough. Writing is an Excruciatingly Odious Task.Why, then, do I do it? Well, the easy answer is that I'm mad at myself if Idon't, which is just another way of saying that having my writing done for theday is a great feeling. The bestfeeling, in fact. Getting a scene or section of exposition down just right iswhat makes me truly happy inside.

To the casual (or indeed, intimate) observer of me, however,it must be somewhat confusing when I say that I want to be an author. I imagine they look at me and think, Gee,he seems pretty fucking frustrated and unhappy a lot of the time. Why doesn'the pick some other occupation—something that doesn't eat him from the insideout? The link between writing and myhappiness appears pretty clear: Writing makes Zack really miserable.

But that equation is a bit off because most casual observers(and a surprisingly large amount of intimate observers) assume I'm actuallydoing some writing. The truth: I'm not, OK? I spend a lot of time talking aboutwriting, and an equal amount of time trying to work up the enthusiasm to write,but ultimately there's a lot of procrastinating going on. I'm not naive enoughto think I'm alone in this, of course. I hear such things from other writersall the time, but they're not me, and I'm the one dealing with my problems.

So, anyway, let's change that equation: Spending every daythinking about writing and not doing it makes Zack really miserable. I sitaround all day, almost every day, thinking intensely about writing, feelingguilty for not writing, knowing other people are writing right this goddamninstant and hating them for it. I'm apetty, lazy man.

The problem as I see it:

OK. I lied. I'm not really lazy—or I'm not as lazy as I appear. The simple truth is that writingis difficult not because it requires me to sit and type words for a long time,but because I am intimidated by the thought of getting it wrong. Other thanwhen I'm writing things like this—easy, fun things—I've never been able toproceed without editing at the same time. In other words, I'm not avomiting-on-the-page kind of guy. I like to get a sentence right before movingon.

There are reasons for this, oh, yes. As time goes on, it'sincreasingly clear that my OCD,which hasn't really crippled me since the age of 14, plays a large role in myprocess. I obsess over details in a similar way to how I obsessed over diseasesas a child. I don't exactly know what my ultimate fear is—hey, so I messed up asentence; it's not the end of the world—but it's a fear nonetheless. As aresult of this fear of messing up, I suffer from an extreme lack of desire tobegin writing. I want it to be perfect, and we all know nothing's perfect inthis life except a hot bath and a bag of Flamin' HotCheetos.

The wages of this situation are quite obvious to me. Ihaven't written a new story—that is, completely new—in over a year. Though I'vedone extensive revision to my novel, No Return, in the ten months since the completion of the first draft, I haven'tyet gotten past the first chapter of its sequel. This latter situation is mostdire, as I've got No Return outthere, in a few people's hands. If one of them—and I pray every day one of themwill—come back to me and say, I like it, where's the next one?, I'm gonna be up shit-creek. Maybe. Maybe they'lljust tell me to get started on it, and that'll be the kick in the groin Ineeded.

A solution(?):

But I don't want to rely on the possibility that they'll befine with an unwritten sequel. I'd obviously like to get started on the secondnovel, because it'd make me happier to be getting the work done. I want to getit all moving so badly it hurts, and still I don't do it for fear of fuckingup.

(Now, at this point, if we were having a live conversationsomeone would say something like this: Come on, man! You don't need to fear.You're a great writer. Just sit down and do it. And I would then try to explain the nature of OCD-related illnesses,and basically be defensive. I don't want to do that. I love the encouragement,really, but I wish people would do a little research into an illness beforethey assume it's as simple as deciding to make a change. I'm 31, been dealing with OCD since the age of ten.Give me a little credit for understanding how my misfiring brain works.)

Clearly, what needs to happen is for me to create asituation in which my enthusiasm outweighs my reticence. (Sometimes frustrationoutweighs reticence, of course, but as I get older I find the bite of frustrationis less powerful than it once was.) The truth of the matter is I'm not thrilledabout continuing the story I set up in No Return in the same style. After a whole novel's worth of it, I've grown tiredof the multiple-perspective, third-person viewpoint I used—even though I thinkit was pretty effective, ultimately. The thought of continuing it for another100,000+ pages makes me profoundly bored.

I don't wanna write about
you anymore!

This is little surprise, I guess. I tend to get awfullytired of things awfully fast. I'm always wanting new music. In general, I hateto watch movies/shows more than once. (This, you understand, discounts the manysitcoms I like to watch over and over again.) Regarding literature, it's thesame; with rare exceptions, I don't read books more than once, and seriesfiction is a tough sell for me. I get tired of the same characters, the samewriting style. I don't mean this to be any sort of insult to people who dowrite or read such things—in other words, I'm not saying that if you're notalways changing your approach you're a boring writer or reader—but we're notall built the same way.

What does get meexcited is the possibility that I might write a second novel in the voice ofone character—first-person—and still continue the storyline.

"So what's the problem?" someone might say."Just write that story."

Well, sir or madam, the problem is that people—theoretical people who might read my first theoretically published novel—have expectations for an ongoingstory, especially an ongoing story set in a somewhat epic-fantasy-ish world. Atleast, that's what everyone, including me, says. They'll get pissed right off,man, that I haven't given them what I'vepromised/contracted/led-them-to-believe was going to happen. They wantpredictability, more of the same.

"And why," someone else might very well ask,"do you give a shit what they want, Mr. Pretentious Author Person?"

Because, dummy, they're my theoretical readers, who arevery near and dear to me. I love them for theoretically picking up mytheoretically published book. Having readers for my novel, if that were tohappen, would be close to the coolest thing ever, and I would be eternallygrateful to them. I don't want to disappoint such informed folk, and believe itor not I can see where they're coming from—because, though they're unlike me inwanting the story to continue in the same style, they (like me) have honedtheir preferences after reading a few thousand books at least passingly similarto mine.

Not only this. Even if I just said fuck you to all thosereaders, what editor is going to consider a couple books if he or she knowsthat the second one will disappoint his or her customers? I mean, I'm not China Mieville, forChrist's sake (though Cat Valentesays I look like him); I can't just take whatever creative license I want atthis point in my career.

But still... I find myself wondering if it could be done,if I should just proceed and see how the cards fall.

My question for you, reader ofmy blog:

Do you think such a thing could be done? Should it be done, ever?

Understand that I've already received some input from somepretty heavy-hitters who know what the shit they're talking about. David Anthony Durham says resolutelythat I shouldn't do it, that it's a breach of contract with the reader. Liz Hand and Scott Wolventold me I should feel free to do whatever the hell I want, perhaps just to getme to stop emailing them dumbass neophyte questions.

But feel free to disagree with them. What do they know,really?

Other stuff I'd like some input on, if you've got anopinion: What kind of publishers do you think tend to take chances with more,uh, shit-I-hate-to-use-this-word,'literary' sff works? I'm in love with ChiZine.They seem to have integrity, and love beautiful books. I did send them a queryrecently (not, I insist, a breach of the simultaneous submission policy; I hope the publisher I have my novel out to will get back to me within the 6-month turnaround ChiZine seems to have), but frankly I don't know if No Return is dark fictiony enough for them. Shit, I don'teven know what dark fiction is,though ChiZine does a pretty good job of explaining their take on it here. (How I wish otherpublishers would do something similar.) Still... I have a scene where a womanrapes a guy and then rips his eyeball out of his head. I guess that's 'dark'... The thing is that I'm not looking for a huge publisher, really, but I do wantto focus on ones with pretty good distribution and—most of all—goodreputations.

Any input would be great, loveys!

The Hobbit Trailer, and How I Couldn't Care Less (Except for This One Reason): A Disorderly Rant with a Really Misleading Title

2011-12-21T14:04:00.000-05:00

Yes, like the title this picture is also mildly misleading. No, I don't mention this horrible excuse for
nerd humor in the post below, but it is kind of related. Only reading further will satisfy your curiosity!

So, you probablynoticed how 1 out of every 3 people posted TheHobbit trailer on facebook yesterday.And yes, I think it's 2 ½ minutes of stupid, but that's not saying much; Ithink nearly all movies—and movie trailers—are pretty stupid. I'm not a filmlover, obviously. And while this would seem to preclude me from making any sortof useful comment on the art form in general, the ubiquity of the trailer amongmy nerdish friends causes me to reflect a moment on my own relationship to thescience fiction and fantasy community.

Alittle context first, though: The term community is somewhat problematic, because the use of it implies a cohesion thatI don't in fact know exists. I thinkit does, of course; I have some proof; but I have only the most tangentialrelationship to it. Despite the fact that I read little other than sff—I'mserious; I haven't read a single book in the last six years that wasn't atleast marginally related to the genre—and write it, my interest doesn't extendvery far beyond the literature. Other than a few exceptions, I dislike sff moviesand TV. While liking the general concept of such things, I don't play videogames or role-playing games.

Don'tmisinterpret me, here. I'm not writing this to prove how much better I am thatI dislike what everybody else likes. I'm not 16 years old, for goodness sake.What I'm attempting to do is cast an admittedly broad net over the whole of sffnerd culture—one that seeks to account for as many types of media as possible.The reason for this is simple: In my broadening experience, I find most representativesof the culture to be quite unlike myself in that they are incredibly aware ofwhat's happening in To All Things Everywhere. They're connected in a way I'm not, invested emotionally in so manydifferent realms.

Itoften seems like they love Fucking Everything.

Now,I'm not saying that isn't frustrating sometimes to be so, uh, particular. I have a friend, one buttfaced overachiever named Ben Burgis, who has remarked on many occasionsthat I dislike everything. Oh, Zack hates Philip Dick! Big surprise. I've had people ask me before, Do you likeanything?—when they never went to thetrouble to ask me what I like. Sure, if you just keep focusing on the fact thatI loathe everything Joss Whedon's ever done—despite my very open-minded attemptto see the virtue in that pile of garbage shitfest Firefly—then obviously I'm going to seem like a careerhater. But if you ask me about literature or, heaven forbid, music, you'll findout quickly that there are many things I love intensely.

Perhapsit's the fact that I'm willing to critique even the things I love—no, that I enjoy critiquing even the things I love—that botherspeople. For so many nerds (shit; people in general) such pointed, unambiguouscriticism is tantamount to betrayal.

Oh,of course there were problems with the Lord of the Rings movies, but...

No"but," I say. Fuck but. If I think there's a problem with something,then I'll goddamn say it. Will it stop me from liking a book just because Ithink the author is a sexist dickhead? Not necessarily—not if the rest of thestory is good. What I won't do is give the work my undying recommendation,because everything in the world isflawed. The ability to love something orsomeone while noting their shortcomings is a mark of a sophisticated intellect.

Ah...Okay. I've gotten off the topic as usual. If I'm not careful, this will turninto the spiteful,I'm-better-than-you-because-I-actually-am-the-equivalent-of-a-whiny-misunderstood-16-year-old,anti-nerd culture invective I kind of want to write.

Gettingback on track: The honest fact of the matter is that The Hobbit trailer has me wondering how I can ever fit into thewhole sff scene. I would love to think that my dislike of so many things thatare generally considered to be hallmarks of the culture would not preclude mefrom inclusion into the musty, Dorito-smelling halls of nerddom. I'd like tothink the convention geeks really are as inclusive as so many claim. But Idoubt. I see how excited—okay; rabid—fansof Star Wars or Tolkein get, andI think If I'm ever famous enough as an author to be on a panel and Ihappen to say something vaguely critical of the hallowed canon, thesemotherfuckers are gonna beat me to death in the parking lot.

Ofcourse, it might not even get that far. I might not even have to open my mouth.

Littlestory for you as an example: As I've mentioned recently, I lived for abouthalf a year in Chile. It always amazed me how Chileans could pick me out as aforeigner. I mean, I have a skin tone similar to most of the nationals. I havedark hair, dark eyes. Nonetheless, I realized over time that these similaritiesbarely mattered. I walked differently. I wore a slightly different style ofclothing. For all I know, I didn't smelllike a Chilean because my diet was odd. These subtle cues, whenyou added them up, gave me away every time.

Iworry that I'll be found out in the same way, when and if I start going toconventions—when and if I start trying to promote a book I've written. I worrythat however great my desire to be a member of the sff world, my particularitywill give me away as a fraud.

Oh,how I would call Injustice! Injustice!Oh, how self-righteous I would get. I have the credentials, you swine!

(Andhere I'm gonna give in to vanity and have some fun.)

· I was accepted into University of Liverpool's Science Fiction Studies MA program, bitches! (That a situation called me back to the USbefore I could start it is irrelevant. I still applied and was so excited whenI was accepted I pooped a little in my pants.)

· None other than James Patrick Kelly has told me on atleast two separate occasions—while I was writing sff stories at the StonecoastMFA program where he teaches—that I was probably the most well read student in thescience fiction genre in the program. (Or second most well read; I don't remember. And no, I don't thinkhe's right, but still...)

· On three separate occasions in my life I haveripped—literally ripped—my underwear offmy body and used it as toilet paper. I have also used pieces of bread as toiletpaper, as well as the plastic bag the bread came in. (What this has to do withthe culture, I have little idea. No, wait... If you take the stereotype of thesff nerd as a slightly gross, socially maladjusted individual seriously, thenobviously my behavior bolsters my self-identification as an sff nerd.)

Ah,that felt good. Maybe if I can pile on a few more qualifications, I'll somedaybe able to safely show my disdain for stupid shit like 99% of anime, or The Hobbit trailer, or literally every Saturday-morning cartoonfrom the 80s. If I get famous enough for writing sff stories, perhaps I'll havecarte blanche to spraypaint the words JOSS WHEDON SUCKS AT DIALOGUE on a billboard at Dragon*Con and people will cheer.(Okay, I know: Shut up about Joss Whedon. But seriously, what is it thateveryone loves about his hellishly awful creations? It's like I'm the only manborn with the gene that allows a person to recognize his crappy crap for whatit is.)

Okay.That's it. Disordered rant over.

Where I Write: Lesley Heiser

2011-12-17T01:00:00.000-05:00

I don't entirely relate to the idea of a writing space, although I have one. I have one, but it's about as open and deconstructed as an indoor space can be. I write reclining on my couch with pillows under and around me and some kind of blanket for security. Certain substances circulate in: mostly coffee, also Diet Pepsi, also a little red wine at night. When I'm lucky, I'm really writing and Bob cleans up after me.

Bobis a presentable writer. I am not. He likes to write at Starbucks. I like towrite at home. I feel bad that we spend all this time apart writing. But a partof it is that I usually haven't showered or gotten properly dressed or doneanything I'm supposed to do before I open up my laptop. But even if I hadcleaned up, I still wouldn't be primed for Starbucks. I don't think my internalwriter's process is all that presentable, either. I get up, walk around, stareout the window like Emily Dickinson (and this is where that comparison stops).I check FB. I kiss my dog on the nose and rest beside her.

DidI mention my dog? She's the most important aspect of my writing space.She sleeps on the far end of the couch. We often hang out for an entireday and for an evening as well in our front room in the West End of Portland.During the day, it's remarkably sunny in our second floor spot.

Ifeel like my dog is listening to me as a I write. I feel like my dog, even whenshe's asleep, is co-writing. Flower was a stray. I feel like a stray whenI write. It's hard to define the help I feel that she gives me.

Outsideof these photos are my books. You really don't need to see them.Like you, I have hundreds. I'm definitely an amazon.com junky. I feel alittle bit better about this today than I usually do.

Yesterday,I went to Walden Pond; there's a bookstore there, right outside Concord thatsupposedly features the books of that Concord cohort--not only Thoreau, butalso Fuller, Hawthorne, Emerson, and the Alcotts. Anyway, I thought it would befun to buy another copy of The Scarlet Letter on Hawthorne's home turf. Lastweek, I was listening to some people talk about what a great and prescientstory that is--in terms of women's changing sensibilities, above all. Butthe bookstore didn't have one. What they did have was t-shirts, and birdfeeders, and birdseed. I came home and got my free copy of The ScarletLetter off amazon.

TheKindle seems like a good idea, and it goes with my easygoing, non-constructedwriting space. When it comes to real books, though I love them, I now feellike I buy a book in order to lose it. Reading books involves a Herculeanprocess of finding--like writing.

Lesley Heiser is a graduate of University ofSouthern Maine's Stonecoast MFA program.

RANT

2011-12-15T21:42:00.002-05:00

JUST FYI: I'm posting this largely because a friend – one ofthose typical too-kind-for-words-with-cute-accent-Welshmen types – told me heliked my more relaxed posts. Blame him.

So,I was listening to a science fiction/fantasy podcast the other day. I've had abit of vodka, and the specific thing – site, author interviewed, etc. – escapesme right now. But one thing was clear: Whoever the shit it was beinginterviewed was clearly an overachiever and a nerd. Now, I have no problem withoverachievers (okay, I lie; I'm jealous of them) or nerds (I am one), but the combinationjust makes me crazy. Here's a person who holds down a full time job, plays afuckload of video games, watches every new retard superhero or dumb 80sSaturday morning cartoon-derived TV show or movie in sight, blogs a bunch ofannoyingly pop-culture-referential bullshit 24/7, and stil manages to write like the goddamn wind.

How,I ask, is this possible? Is no one else staring at the wall for half the dayand taking two-hour naps like me? Is no one crippled by doubt and depression?Do none of these people avoid writing like it's the plague because it's justtoo hard to write something good?

No.I'm a mess, apparently.

Incase no one gets this, I'm a smidge drunk, and being (kind of) ironical-ish. Ifany of you post a Hey, buddy, it's all okay; everybody does things at adifferent pace, I swear to Thor I'll punchyou in the penis/vagina.

xox– Love you!

Being Reviewed: One Writer's Naive Take

2011-12-13T12:42:00.000-05:00

Yes. I'm like a sad goth kid when I read your
words, Lois Tilton and Sam Tomaino.

So, as many ofyou know, I have a story in the January issue of Asimov's. I'm particularlyproud of "The War is Over and Everyone Wins." I think it's one of thebetter things I've written, and not the least because it's a take on acontroversial—if not exactly groundbeaking—subject: Ethnic Bioweapons. It's thestory of a young Indian man who goes home to visit his family after hisgrandfather's death. It's about family, and racism, and American culture. Notmuch really, uh, happens, per se, but I think I got the emotion right, which iswhat counted for me on this one.

Anyway,I was actually anticipating good reviews. I don't know why—I'm not known for myoptimism, really—but for some reason I was.

Iwaited, almost giddy with anticipation, Googling my search terms daily.

(Forsome, this might be seen as pathetic. I know more than a few writers whoprofess not to give a shit about reviews, but I think most of them are eitherdouchebags or liars. I mean, think about it: If an author doesn't care whatsomeone—a person who's gone to the trouble to read his or her work and commenton it—thinks, then what does that make the author? A self-involved prick, by mymeasurement. Plus, I just don't buy it when most authors say they don't care. Ithink they're either lying to you, or they're lying to themselves.

OK,rant over, back on topic.)

Finally,the Locusreview came in: "This is primarily a story of familydysfunction, but the larger scenario is not quite clear. The setting appears tobe America, which is of course a mixed-race nation, but we know nothing of whathas happened elsewhere in the world, in more racially homogenous regions.Perhaps, elsewhere, other tribes are busy killing each other off with someother excuse. This should be depressing, but it would be more so if easier tobelieve."

Then,the SFRevu:""The War is Over and Everybody Wins" by Zachary Jernigan takesplace in a world in which white people were mostly wiped out in a plague thatstarted at the end of 2017. Mike's father, apparently, had something to do withit, but that is not made clear. The remaining races do not get along and thingsare not for the better. Mike is appalled by this world and is estranged fromhis father. His grandfather has just died of the plague which took more than 20years to kill him. This one was just a downer and did not really have much of aresolution."

Well,obviously, neither of those is a glowing review, which—to anticipate everyonepatting me on the back and telling me it's not the end of the world—I understand will happen now and then, even to goodstories. Understand: this is not me being (too) defensive. My story could,after all, be not that great to the majority of readers. Or it could be thatthese reviewers represent a minority. Who knows? I'm not writing about this expectingto get an answer.

Butif that's the case—and I'm not sure it is; perhaps I am seeking an answer—thenwhy am I bringing this to your attention? Surely, I promise, I'm not writing this post so that you, the reader, will showme some sympathy. Shit, I don't want to be pitied for getting a bad review. Atthe same time, I really want people to know that I noticed the review, that I'mnot just sitting here all smug, or conversely crying my eyes out about it.Basically, I want to be the kind of person who always confronts things,wringing events for all the worth I can get out of them, rather than justletting them pass me by. There's a lesson in a bad review beyond the obviousone, which is that you're receiving feedback about something you've written.

No,there's something else—something about the relationship between an author andhis or her audience. I'm appreciative as hell that Sheila Williams took mystory, and that it has the chance to be reviewed, but this also means I haveopened myself up to being hurt. A story—and trust me, I know it's an annoyingcliché—is kind of like your baby, and it hurts to have your baby pooped on. Istarted writing in the hope that people would read my stories and then cometalk to me about what they read.

Iwant a dialogue, always. I can imagine few greater things than talking tosomeone who has read one of my stories, hearing his or her impressions of whatI meant in writing the thing—knowing that my words were compelling enough toanalyze at all. And then, of course, the vice versa: I want intensely to showother authors how their stories fit into my life. Writing is aboutcommunication, and in my opinion the best writers are always willing to engagein the conversation. No, strike that. They are encouraging the conversation. They are intensely interested inhow their words are taken.

WhatI guess sucks about a review—especially a bad one—is that it seems so final.

Oh,you didn't like it? I failed to compel you? Well, shit.

It'snot like you can email the author of a bad review and try to start up aconversation. He or she'd be suspicious of your intentions, and rightly so; Iwouldn't want to listen to someone defend their story, nor would I want todefend my own opinion of said story. Of course, it's not the same with a goodreview. You can thank the person and strike up a dialogue based on mutual goodfeeling: You liked my story, and because of that I like you!

It'sfrustrating, and it's only the beginning. Hopefully, I'll keep publishingstories, maybe even a novel or two, thus increasing my chances of beingblindsided by a bad review. I'm a sensitive guy, I admit. Too many negativeassessments and I might just collapse in upon myself like a dying star.

Atthe same time, the more people that are exposed to your work, the moreopportunities there will be to interact with people on a meaningful basis. Ican't see any better reason to write than that.

Random Crap I've Been Thinking About: Part 3 of 3

2011-12-10T05:00:00.000-05:00

Movies and Not Being a Selfish Douche

I don't really care about movies, frankly—a fact that seemsto make my friends who love movies really upset. (Lemme just go off for twoangry seconds about that. What's the big deal if I don't like what you like?Who gives a shit? Do I get angry when you tell me you don't like to readscience fiction? No, I don't, so fuck off about me not liking movies.)

Anyway, I always get a little annoyed whenI'm hanging out with people, having a good time conversing and all, and someonesuggests we watch a movie. We werehaving fun talking—interacting!—and now you wanna sit in silence with each other! What's the goddamn point of ushanging out if we're just gonna do that?

And then I remember it's not allabout me. (Okay, it actually is, but I'ma bad solipsist. I can't convince myself the people around me are allprojections of my overconscious mind. Despite my attempts to put you all inline and like all the same shit I do, you/I obstinately refuse to make it so.)I remind myself that people—dumb people—like movies a lot, and get a great dealof pleasure sitting around in silence with a bunch of other people—not reallysharing anything, no, just watching.

Blech. Anyway, I do it sometimes.I'm a saint, really.

Random Crap I've Been Thinking About: Part 2 of 3

2011-12-09T13:19:00.000-05:00

Punk Music and Chile and the Not Living Your Dreams

It's no secret that I went through a long punk phase in mylate teens and early twenties (1999~2003)—but, hearing that, I don't wantanyone unfamiliar with this period in my life to get the wrong idea and think Iwas authentically punk: No, I did notwear "punk" clothing, go to punk shows (I've always hated liveshows), hang out with punk people, or become familiar with the roots of punk music until my mid-twenties.

See, I came to it from themetal/hardcore route after getting tired of all that goddamn negativity and noise. (By the way, in case you don't know, Vision ofDisorder's Imprint is the bestmetal/hardcore album ever. Word.) I wanted something softer, moremelodic—something I wasn't embarrassed to play loudly in my car.

So, anyway, fast-forward past thegateway drug phase—when I listened to a fair bit of screamo (*shudder*)—to theperiod when my musical taste ranged from the pop-punk of Face to Face to theGainesville rock of Hot Water Music to the post-punk of Red Animal War.

What appealed to me about themusic? If it wasn't the "scene" (annoying), or the live shows (sweatyand gross), or the general feeling of being young and angry at my parents(okay, that applied a little)—then what could it be? As I saw it, at least 50% of being a punk for most punks wasn'tabout the music at all, but for me that was the whole thing. I didn't give ashit about the other stuff. I guess, ultimately, I wasn't any kind of punk at all. I was just a person who listened to the music.

It was the speed and the melody,sure—but what it really all came down to was the way those vocalists deliveredthose lyrics: Like they really meant something, y'know? They didn't give toomuch of a damn if they were singing in key, but the passion was real. I mean,what else are you gonna be when you're barely out of adolescence and full of hormones and in a punkband? Answer: You're gonna be the embodiment of drama.

Oh, the drama. Oh, theself-righteousness.

Anyway, because I was also animmature boy, those lyrics hit me just right. They made me want to do shit—to go out and find a girlfriend, lose someweight, buy a new book, film somebody doing something weird, make endlesssoundtracks to meaningless events. In other words, they lent a sense of purposeto my otherwise purposeless life.

Fast-forward again—to the secondhalf of 2005, my last semester of college, South America. I'd gotten a prettybig scholarship to go and study in Chile, a country I'd chosen mostly because Ididn't know much about it. My then-girlfriend came with me, which was a bigmistake for a bunch of reasons I won't go into here. (I really want to, but I won't...)

Suffice it to say, I didn't likeliving in Santiago too much. I spent a lot of time on the toilet because mystomach was a mess, and it wasn't too hard to understand why my stomach was a mess. Most evenings found mebingeing on Chinese food or whatever I could scrounge up. (And I'm not talkingsmall meals. I mean meals ranging in the 5-10,000 calorie range.) The rest ofthe time, I sulked—I sulked and I wished I had brought some fucking music withme. I'd been listening to my Chilean roommates CDs, but how much BruceSpringsteen and Dire Straits can a 25 year-old guy—even a 25 year-old guys wholoves Bruce Springsteen and Dire Straits—take?

Though I'd largely stopped listeningto punk at this point, I always found myself looking for punk CDs in Chile.Maybe it was the fact that I wanted out of a relationship, or that I didn'tknow what the hell I was going to do when I got home. (Answer: I was going backto work at Bookman's, but I didn't know that then. Surprises, surprises...)Whatever it was, I needed to hear the music again.

So, I was inordinately happy when Ifound a few CDs at a market—loose term, market; they sold everything; once I saw displayed on a blanket a whole craploadof used gynecological instruments—and bought them up: Hot Water Music's Caution, Death by Stereo's Into the Valley ofDeath, and Pennywise's Land ofthe Free—despite the fact that I didn'tmuch like the latter two bands.

Pennywise was the big loser, in mymind. (Hell, they still are. Pennywise. What a crock of shit horrible band.)Nonetheless, one song on the album really resounded with me: "It's Up toYou." (I know. Inspired title.)

When the crew vocals kicked in for thetitular words—It's up to yoooouuuu-oh-oh-oh!—I found myself filled with tingles and ready to take on the wholeworld. I thought about how I was going to break out of my stale routine andgo to the University of Liverpool in the autumn of the next year and study Science Fiction Literature (no, really) and write the best stories ever writtenand...

At least, that's how it felt when Iheard the call. It all kind of fellapart after the song was over, but at least I could hit the << button andrelive it.

Andnow I wonder: If I knew then what I know now—that after coming home I wouldexperience one of the most depressed states of my life, not go to Liverpool for another year (and then leave theprogram after a week), and not commit to writing seriously until mid-2008—would Ihave just given up on punk and listened to some Simon & Garfunkel?

Random Crap I've Been Thinking About: Part 1 of 3

2011-12-08T13:38:00.001-05:00

The Bird that Flew Into My Parents' Window and theRaven that Ate It, Plus a Piece of a Burrito

I'm staying at my parents' place—in Sedona, AZ—for a fewmonths while my mother undergoes cancer treatment. If you've never been toNorthern Arizona before, here's a little factoid: The ravens can get prettyfreaking huge. If you don't know me very well, here's a little factoid: I lovecrows and ravens, because they're all black and shiny and smart as whips. No, Idon't give a shit about Poe, or Norse mythology.

Anyway,the other day a tiny little green bird flew into one of my parents' recentlywashed windows—Bam!—and broke its neck. (Actually, it was the second tinylittle bird to commit suicide in that manner in less than a week. Eerie.) For aday I thought to myself, I better go pick that up off the patio, but I kept hoping another animal would come get thefree meal. You see, I don't like things to go to waste.

(And yes, I know the carcasswouldn't really go to waste if somethinglarge didn't eat it, but the idea of bacteria and bugs getting a meal is somuch less exciting than a biganimal chomping away at it.)

So you'll imagine my excitementwhen yesterday, as I was crossing from the living room to the kitchen, a greatbig raven—like 12-14" tall—alighted on the porch railing. He spotted me through the window butkept his ground, one eye fixed on his prize and the other on me. He grawked! a few times, turning his black head this way andthat, summing up the situation. Standing stock-still, I urged him on with mythoughts—go for it! (You see, Iknew the chances were that he'd fly away. Ravens are skittish in Sedona, not atall tame.) Suddenly, he hopped down, took the tiny corpse in his mouth andflapped off.

I don't know why, but I love itwhen an animal gets a free meal.

Inevitably, perhaps, the raven cameback later in the day, grawking! foranother tasty treat. I should've expected it, but I didn't. He took off when Igot up off the couch, but I still unwrapped my uneaten burrito and put a pieceof it on the railing, hoping he'd come back. He didn't, and I woke this morningto find it still on the railing.

And now—not five minutes ago!—alongcomes this little bastard jay, one ofthose fucking hooligans who's always busting the chops of all the other birdsaround, and starts eating my raven's burrito. I watch him do it, of course—Iguess he deserves it for finding it first—but now I've got a dilemma: Do I setout another piece? I know I'll be really disappointed if my raven comes aroundlater, looking for something and finding nothing, but I'm risking becomingDoctor Doolittle here. I don't want these animals to get fat and lazy like me,dependent on the handouts of bigger animals.

Whatever. I'm gonna do it. I likeseeing birds eat burritos.

Where I Write: Adam Gallardo

2011-11-29T19:26:00.001-05:00

I'm a stay-at-home dad who is also trying to be a writer. Where and when do I write? The short answer to this is, “Wherever and whenever I can.” But, to be honest, there are three main places and times that I write.

My family lives in a small house. Tiny. It's a little over 800 square feet, so there's nothing like an office for me. Instead, my desk is crammed into a corner right next to the TV cabinet. It's a little camped and poorly-lit, but I don't really care. If I'm writing well, none of that stuff matters. One advantage is that most of my books are right around the corner so it only takes a moment to look something up.

I only write at home once both of my boys are asleep and I've completed any tasks my wife can think up for me to do – usually around 10 p.m. or so. I estimate that I only do about 30-35% of my writing here.

For a little less than an hour a day (during the work week) I write here. My wife works right next door to this coffee shop (Ike Box in downtown Salem for the curious). Every work day I bring my youngest son to her so she can nurse him. I get anywhere between 40 minutes and an hour to write. This shop has wifi, pretty good coffee and a couple of areas that are tucked away from the main dining room. On the downside, it also has a piano that people occasionally insist on playing. Time here accounts for 10-15% of my writing.

I work part-time as a projectionist at a locally owned independent theater. This job has actually been a God-send in terms of productivity. My duties for the cinema account for about forty-five minutes out of every two-to two-and-a-half hours. Once my duties are fulfilled, it's down time. Most folks read, play cards, waste time. I write. On Wednesdays and Fridays, I usually get around three hours to write. Saturdays I get four-and-a-half to five hours. On top of this, there's wifi, and all the free soda, coffee and snacks I can eat. I used to go crazy with this, but now hardly eat any candy, cookies, or popcorn.

I wrote at least half of my novel here. I wrote and even greater proportion of my new comic in this lobby, in addition to short stories, essays, blog entries, etc. I feel like I'm being paid to write. It reminds me of Raymond Carver talking about what a great job being a janitor was for him. He'd finish his duties in a couple of hours and spend the rest of his shift pounding away on his portable typewriter. Undemanding jobs are like the new patronage system.

It might seem like it would be difficult to write without a set schedule or location, but I've spent the last few years of my life de-ritualizing my writing routine. Though, to be honest, I wouldn't mind a bit more stability in my schedule. Perhaps as I gain some success in publishing, then time will free up. I wonder if I'll look back on these days with fondness...

Adam Gallardo writes comics. Star Wars: Infinities -- Return of the Jedi, 100 Girls and Gear School. http://adamgallardo.blogspot.com/

Classic Revisited: Harlan Ellison's Dangerous Visions

2011-11-26T16:54:00.001-05:00

DangerousVisions is synonymouswith The New Wave of American Science Fiction, and clearly marked a boundary inthe world of science fiction in the late 60’s: though Isaac Asimov wrote theintroduction to this anthology, Ellison clearly intended to break away from thetype of fiction writers like Asimov and Heinlein made an institution.Personally, I have always enjoyed science fiction lumped loosely into the categoryof New Wave—including its generally recognized predecessors and followers—morethan those works lumped into the traditional—read: Campbellian, “hard SF,”“that good old stuff,” etc.—category. Even if the authors fail to successfullymeld literary techniques into a good science fiction yarn, I tend to enjoy theexperiment more than a straightforward alien invasion tale.

(Thisview, I should be careful to stipulate, does not denigrate the achievements andcontributions of authors like Heinlein, Asimov, and their ilk. Fine writing isfine writing and, generally speaking, most big name science fiction authors arevery capable writers, if not major stylists.)

What struck me first about this anthologywas its language: the specific operation of words within a science fictionstory versus a mainstream story. Clearly, there is so much we take for grantedwhile reading. I read the words—“Jack pet his dog. His dog liked it.”—in amainstream story, I assume this is a normal relationship between a man and hisdog. Jack knows his dog appreciates it because the dog pants and beats his tailagainst the floor. However, if I read those words in a science fiction storywhere a character has hinted that animal intelligence has been boosted by somefantastical process, I read the sentence more liberally. I may assume that,instead of one character—Jack—I am now reading about two—Jack and his dog. I may even start to wonderabout the word his:Is it okay for Jack to possess a sentient dog? What does the dog think of this?

Inthis anthology, one story in particular set off a similar chain of thoughts inmy mind. Harlan Ellison—never one of my favorites even at his best; he’s toocynical—contributed “The Prowler in the City at the Edge of the World,” a JackThe Ripper tale wherein the serial killer travels to the future and beginshunting the remnants of humanity in an automated city. While not overlyimpressed with the story as I was reading, one line gave me pause and in factinspired me to view the story in an entirely different light: “Jack sank to hisknees. The city let him do it.” (146) This simple statement caught myattention, as its success or failure to communicate Ellison’s intention restsentirely on the reader reading it literally—on the reader’s ability to differentiate between metaphor andliteral statement. (I use the word ability because it is an acquired skill. Those not familiarwith science fiction and fantasy often cannot understand that when SpeculativeFiction Writer X writes, “the moon fell out of the sky and landed in theAtlantic,” he is quite possibly describing the actual moon falling into the actual ocean—and not using a poetic metaphor todescribe moon dropping below the horizon.) It caused me to reconsider whetherthe city itself had a role to play in Jack’s murders. Perhaps it was evenassisting him. This greatly enlivened the story for me, and opened a new avenueof interpretation.

Anotherauthor playing with the literal versus the figurative is Kris Neville, whocontributed “From the Government Printing Office”, a story about a threeyear-old boy living in a society where parents are encouraged to foster fear intheir children in order to create soldiers for an ongoing war effort. IfNeville were not such a fine writer, I doubt he would have been able to pulloff the feat of writing a three year-old. What he does is unbelievable, buttruly interesting. Take, for example, the boy’s reaction to his father’s abuse:

“You’rea filthy shit!” he screamed at me.

Iguess I am. There must be some reason they want to cut my penis off. I heardthem say, once, that all your real education takes place before you’re fouryears old: by then your character is established. I think maybe I’ll make it.It’s still such a long way off, so long, so long. But maybe I really will makeit, even if I’m a nervous wreck.

SoI don’t feel so good about myself. It could be worse. (443)

The entire story is written from thisunique perspective—a fantasy, surely (or horror, perhaps), but nonethelesscompelling. Neville is obviously aware of how far his tale strains the reader’scredulity, but that is not the point. By writing the boy’s thoughts soliterally—the child does not appear capable of metaphor, only copycattedterms—Neville achieves an effect greater than the whole. The horror of theabuse is exposed in glaring detail; the kind of literal detail and emotionalresonance a three year-old child is unable to communicate in the real world. Itis as if the reader—already used to the tropes of science fiction, fullycapable of anthropomorphizing even the most odd creatures—suddenly and fullyunderstands the vicious and heartbreaking spirit of abuse, if not the actualemotions of a child. Neville allows us to tightrope-walk between literal andfigurative landscapes, shedding light unexpectedly.

Buttruth was not all I sought while reading; I also sought beauty, and found it inan unexpected place. Dangerous Visions is filled to overflowing with interesting language and oddcomparisons, but no single story struck me in this regard as soundly as FritzLieber’s “Gonna Roll The Bones”, the story of a gambler’s encounter with Deaththat seamlessly blends Golden-Age science fiction standards with very darkfantasy and horror elements. It is a tall tale told not for laughs or thrills,but for the purpose of scaring the life out of you. I tend to shy away fromsuch stories, preferring to be uplifted rather than depressed terribly, butthis one had me from the get-go with its amazing descriptions:

“In her dirty dress,streaky as the turkey’s sides, Joe’s mother looked like a bent brown bag andher fingers were lumpy twigs.” (233)

“Thegamblers were thick and hunched down as mushrooms, all bald from agonizing overthe fall of a card or a die or the dive of an ivory ball, while the Scarlet Womenwere like fields of poinsettia.” (236)

Not only are these images creepy, much oftheir power derives from the unusual juxtaposition of images. Lieber seems tomix metaphors (brown bag / twigs, mushrooms / poinsettia), but in reality he ispainting startling pictures with all the tools available to him as a writer.Generally, he uses organic images like those above, shying from technologicaljargon even when he is in full-on science fiction mode, and this lends hisstory a uniquely anachronistic feel. At times in “Gonna Roll The Bones”, itfeels like we are wandering through some dark and gritty pocket universe shovedbetween the cracks of a more civilized world. It is not the type of world Iwould like to visit often, but it should be the goal of all writers to set themoods of their stories with Lieber’s subtlety.

Subtletyis not always called for, however; sometimes a guy bursting in with gunsblazing achieves the needed effect in a story. One of my favorite authors,Robert Silverberg, wastes no time getting to the gut wrenching in “Flies”, thestory of a man modified to transmit his emotions back to the aliens whocaptured him. As a side effect of modification, Cassidy is bleached ofcompassion, committing horrible acts without even a scintilla of revulsion. Itis therefore an atypically brutal showing from Silverberg, as evidenced here:

Howdid you abort a fetus two months from term?

A swift kick in thebelly might do it. Too crude, too crude. Yet Cassidy had not come armed withabortifacients, a handy ergot pill, a quick-acting spasmic inducer. So hebrought his knee up sharply, deploring the crudity of it. (18)

What strikes upon the second and thirdreading of this story—I read it for the first time some years ago—is theaesthetic sense Cassidy seems to have retained in spite of his modification:aborting the child of a former lover in such a mortifying manner is regrettablebecause of its crudity. The power of Silverberg’s narrator rests on the blankstatements of his narrator, the horror heightened by the casual dialogue andplain language. Silverberg does not rush into the action, or describe it in anygreat detail—nor is there a lingering moment of deliberation before the actiontakes place. Just as if the man were momentarily mulling over which sweater tobuy in the store, Cassidy asks himself how you would abort a fetus. He then, inlanguage that is sophisticated without being rarified, describes how unpreparedhe is for this horrendous act. With no great fanfare—a simple “So...”—he kneesthe woman. The apparent normalcy of his thoughts and acts send shivers down thespine.

CarolEmshwiller—for my money one of the best stylists the field of science fictionhas ever produced—contributes an eerily evocative tale to rival the beststories in Dangerous Visions. With its oddly fitting title, “Sexand/or Mr. Morrison” chronicles a very short span of time in the narrator’sday—a day during which she attempts to discover whether her neighbor, Mr.Morrison, is an alien or not. When he leaves for work, she breaks into hisapartment and begins to nose around. What transpires is truly unsettling in itsblatant sexual undertones. Through her aged female narrator, Emshwiller seemsto explore the same territory as James Tiptree, Jr. (Alice Sheldon) will trodin a few short years—namely, the everyday alienation of being a woman. Here,Emshwiller portrays her narrator as odder than odd, deftly juxtaposing herexamination of her neighbor’s apartment—ostensibly to discover his alienness—with her own highly abnormalbehavior. Here, she describes a moment hiding behind one of Mr. Morrison’sbookcases, waiting for him to arrive:

What with the dust backhere and lying in the shirts and socks before, I’m getting a certain smell anda sort of gray, animal fuzz that makes me feel safer, as though I really didbelong in this room and could actually creep around and not be noticed by Mr.Morrison at all except perhaps for a pat on the head as I pass him. (333)

There is some similarity to Silverberghere, of course. By describing the actions of exceedingly peculiar individualsin plain language, both increase the sense of strangeness exponentially—especially when compared to authors whose evocation of the weird is achievedthrough hackneyed shock-and-awe tactics. Emshwiller is the clear winner of thetwo, as her tale manages to amp the oddness factor without her protagonistdoing anything particularly violent or morally repugnant. Instead, she rollsaround on the floor and imagines the alien man she has come to seduce, all thewhile observing the world in literal terms: Readers find no ambiguity here, noplace to hide from the narrator’s disturbing quest.

Perhapsthe quietest story of the thirty-three presented in the anthology, FrederickPohl’s “The Day After The Day The Martians Came” also manages to have the mostcompelling ending. Taking place in a hotel lobby over the space of one night,the story is composed largely of the hotel manager’s quiet observations of thevarious reporters who have come to town to cover the arrival of the Martians.Downplayed is the relationship of the manager to his African Americanporters—men he tries to treat as equals but cannot resist denigrating. As thestory progresses, it becomes obvious that every joke told by the reporters isin fact a racial joke. The only difference, of course, is that theblack/yellow/brown man is replaced by the Martian as the butt of the joke. Thetruly extraordinary thing about this story, which reads for most of its lengthas an extended (and rather mundane) bull session, is the last line, spoken bythe porter Ernest in response to the manager’s claim that the arrival of theMartians will make no difference to anyone:

“Hate to disagree withyou, Mr. Mandala,” said Ernest mildly, “but I don’t think so. Going to make adifference to some people. Going to make a damn big difference to me.”(28)

Inmy opinion, Pohl achieves greatness in this closing line. Much like RaymondCarver’s “Cathedral”, “The Day After The Day The Martians Came” possesses anending that causes the entirety of the story to come into stark focus. Much ofthe effect, again, is achieved through a literal storytelling technique thathides nothing from its audience; there is no doubt that Pohl is discussingrace—no doubt that he is talking about injustice that will continue even in theface of the greatest event in human history. Men will now have the Martian tovent their racial hatred on, and even though this will allow other people tofeel a little less burdened, the overall result will be a tragedy.

Writing About Race in Science Fiction and Fantasy

2011-11-22T20:24:00.001-05:00

So, I've got a new thing going on. I'm doing a round-robin style interview with authors David Anthony Durham, Elizabeth Hand, Saladin Ahmed, Adrian Tchaikovsky, Aliette de Bodard, and Ken Liu. The subject: Writing About Race in Science Fiction and Fantasy! Hopefully, in a couple months you'll see it gracing the individual authors' blogs, and maybe even another sff site! (On that note, if you have a website/blog you'd like to display our interview on, email me at jerniganzachary@gmail.com.)

Where I Write: Allister Timms

2011-11-04T14:43:00.000-04:00

Mywriting space is tucked away in one corner of my living room. I’ve claimedit the way I imagine a pioneer once claimed land for himself to raise afew hens, maybe a goat, definitely a Welsh rarebit, and some of hisfavourite fruits, veg, and herbs. A small, solitary space.

Itlooks out over Penobscot Bay. But I see none of this when I write atnight. Which is good, because distractions are nice, but distractions canstop you from doing the one thing in life you really, really need to do….

Thespace doesn’t have a door. I have to insulate it the best way I canby writing there late at night, when everyone else in my family has goneto bed. Or, I have to use my Jedi skills and create a force field tokeep others away. Turn it into a solitary oasis in my living room.

Butwho am I kidding? I’m never that alone — ever.

Tryas I might to make this corner my solitary space, it is never a no man’sland. One of my three cats might jump into my lap. A moth might bang againstthe window like a small falling moon of white. A neighbour’s dog might bark atsome noise. The lights might flicker. A car might grumble down the dirt road. Afox might scream and scare me half to death. There may be thunder. The windmight get the leaves muttering. Rain might fall in liquid drops. The moon mightbreak free and gaze upon me. My eldest daughter might wake and wander down thestairs.

Plus,every writer (living or dead) I have read and loved is sitting on my shoulder.I can sense them. Some encouraging, some snickering, some rolling their eyes,some yawning, some picking their nails, some typing themselves, some asleep,some shouting, some wandering off, some hooting and hollering, some attentive,some whispering words of advice and praise.

Sohow can I be alone with all of this life going on around me? And it’s not adistraction. In fact, it’s a gift. All this active life around me seeps in,fills me up, alters my mood, affects my writing, changes what I write. The lifeoutside becomes the life inside the creative mind, feeding it, changing it,giving it that extra elasticity and energy to be something other than just therote practice of sitting alone in a chair and writing.

Ialso surround myself with a few trinkets: a plastic Legolas and Gimli; aplastic hare; a plastic gnome with a lovely red hat who is a mean task master;a rock my daughter painted; a small elephant; unusual shaped stones; a tinrobot; a retro green lamp I got dirt cheap from Goodwill that lights my way.They represent nothing in particular, but everything in general.

Andat my elbow I have a bookshelf. The real soul of the space.

Oneday, I’d love to have a writing shed at the bottom of the garden. But for now,this corner of my living room will do just nicely.

AllisterTimms is a Welshman who lives with his wife and two daughters in midcoastMaine. He is currently working on a novel set in the Third Reich and is an MFAstudent at Stonecoast. http://allistertimms.wordpress.com/

Where I Write: Michael Kimball

2011-10-28T19:02:00.000-04:00

This is my workshop. Used to call it an office.

View #1

View #2

This is the room I designed for reading and editing.

These are the places where I do most of my reading andediting.

Maine: Short Sands, Long Sands, Ogunquit Beach

Bessie's, Ogunquit

You're looking for this Mike Kimball, not the other, less writerly one. - ZJ

"The Succession of Knoorikios Khnum": To Be Reprinted!

2011-10-25T10:33:00.000-04:00

"The Succession of Knoorikios Khnum," which appeared in Wired Hard 4: Erotica for a Gay Universe and was shortlisted for a 2010 Gaylactic Spectrum Award, has been picked up Pink Narcissus Press for their gay-themed eclectic short story anthology, Queer Fish 2 (the first installment is shown above).

Where I Write: Adam W. Mills

2011-10-21T09:18:00.001-04:00

I wish I could say I had the one perfect writing space. Ilive out in the boondocks of the Ozarks, more or less, so it would be fun tohave a cabin or shed in the middle of the woods where I could retreat to forwriting. I live next door to a family with a teenage son who plays ArmySoldiers with live ammo, however, so that is out of the question. No, I have tomake do the best way I can. That involves the use of three separate writingspaces, scattered throughout my house.

The first space is my bedroom, where you'll find my desk.I'd like to say this is where most of the magic happens, but it's not. If itwas, I wouldn't need three writing spaces.

The various nests of folded slips of paper lying around themonitor and in the crooks of the desk are actually little ideas I've jotteddown in various locations and taken home so I don't forget them. You see, I'm alittle scatterbrained. Ideas flit in and out of my head all the time; if Idon't jot them down, it's likely I won't see them again for a month or so.Everything else is little knickknacks I've collected over the years: my Buddhafigurines, my little Mario statue, some of my brother's old ceramic artprojects, etc. Little totems, basically.

On the notion of totems, I'll bring up the most prominentfeature of Writing Space #1: my books. I won't include pictures of all my booksbecause I have upwards of 700 in my personal library, and that number grows allthe time. Here's a sampling, though.

The monkey's name is Jorge, named after one of my favoritewriters. It also sings in Spanish and dances.

I sometimes wonder if stocking up on books and surroundingmyself with them makes me a recipient of the talent and ideas of the books andtheir writers, like I'm absorbing them through osmosis, or breathing the wordsin every day. Honestly though, I just love books. I love words and I love beingaround them. It makes me feel good.

Two other key parts of Writing Space #1 are my cork boardand my dry-erase board. I bought these awhile back because I got sick of havingto wade through mountains of those little paper slips I mentioned earlier. Ispent more time sorting through the slips for the right ideas than actuallywriting from those ideas. Hence the boards.

The cork board is where I post various to-do lists andschedules of events and deadlines that I need to keep in mind. I love thefeeling of ripping a list off the board when I'm done with it. Having physicalartifacts that represent otherwise intangible goals helps me visualize what Ihave to do and keep track of my various responsibilities (again, I isscatterbrained).

As for the dry-erase board, I use that for writing downdifferent ideas for stories I come by. If I have enough details and thoughtsaccumulated around a concept, I put it to paper and see what I can get.

All of this is great, of course. There's a reason I spentthe most time writing in Writing Space #1: it's where all my stuff is. I can'talways write in there, though.

There's something I haven't mentioned yet: I have afull-time job as the manager of a bowling alley. I currently work there whileputting myself through my MFA program and teaching part-time at the localjunior college. I also live in the bowling alley. Yes, you read that right: Ilive in a bowling alley.

I spend a little more than forty hours a week working here.It's a short walk from my room, so getting to and from work isn't so bad.Still, that's forty hours a week that I'm not in my room writing, where most ofmy important materials are.

Luckily, I spend downtime at work writing, in a sense. Ioften use my forebrain for immediate work concerns while letting my backbrainmull over whatever story I'm occupied with. A lot of my “writing” actually getsdone in this manner. I'll crack some difficult aspect of my story and bring my discoverieshome to Writing Space #1 to get to work. Because of this, I've come to think ofthe bowling alley as Writing Space #2.

That's still not enough, though. These are two separatespaces, ultimately. It's not like I can go back to the owner's office behindthe counter and type away on the computer in there. I still have to be up atthe counter, doing my job. Because of this, I devised Writing Space #3. The keyfeature of this writing space is that, unlike its two big siblings, it's notstationary. It moves wherever I move. It works in conjunction with my brain,like the others do, but it can work anywhere I go, which in a way makes it mostimportant.

My personal journal. I take this with me anywhere: to workand home, on vacation, at the college, etc. It's better than the little slipsof paper because it's organized. It's better than the two boards because it canmove. It's the perfect go-between for the first two spaces. And, when usedcorrectly, the three spaces come together to form One Great Space, ever fluid.It's the best precaution for a scatterbrained writer like me. Provided, ofcourse, I remember to use it.

Adam W. Mills is due to receive his MFA in PopularFiction from the University of Southern Maine in January 2012. He teachesEnglish classes at Missouri State University – West Plains and has previouslytaught composition and creative writing classes at the university level. Adamrecently started working as an intern for Cheeky Frawg Books, an e-book companyrun by Ann and Jeff VanderMeer; his duties include copyediting and creatingpromotional materials for some of the coolest books on Earth. He spends aninordinate amount of daydreaming impossible scenarios. Other ideal writingspaces for Adam include, but are not limited to, the following: 1) anunbreakable glass dome under the sea; 2) a hot-air balloon; and 3) the moon.You can visit him at his personal blog, Caught in the Dreaming(adamwmills.wordpress.com).

Where I Write: Elizabeth Hand

2011-10-14T19:57:00.003-04:00

Yep. Stole this picture
from her facebook page.

Editor's Preface: Late this summer my girlfriend and I traveled from Portland to Lincolnville, Maine to visit Elizabeth Hand and Allister and Nitasia Timms. We spent the evening at Liz's cottage, eating fresh food, drinking wine, and talking (mostly) about writing. It was wonderful, especially for somebody like me, who often dreams of sitting around, eating and drinking with other writers. Unfortunately, eventually the evening came to a close, at which point Liz said goodnight to Amy and I, leaving us alone in the cottage.

Man, it was quiet out there—nothing like our apartment in the West End, near which the airplanes fly and the cars honk. I opened another bottle of wine and perused through Liz's cd's (maybe I wasn't supposed to, but I felt like I could). Amy and I sat and talked. We listened to Tim Buckley and Minus 5. After a while, we ascended to the bed in the loft and fell asleep. In the morning, Liz cooked us pancakes at her (other) house just down the road. Overall, we were treated far too kindly.

So, there's some personal information from the editor. I don't know why it's there, really. I guess I'm just bragging. Oh!—and expressing my thanks. It's not a small thing to be invited to stay at someone's home. And what a home it is, as you'll soon see.

Here's Liz:

This is the inside of Tooley Cottage. When I bought it in 1988, it was 300 square feet, had no running water or indoor plumbing, and had been most recently occupied by a clamdigger who was now in jail. It was basically a shack. A bunch of my friends got together for a summit meeting (I was not invited) and said, We have got to talk Liz out of this. They didn't. I moved in three weeks before my daughter was born. No plumbing, no heat except for an ancient leaky woodstove that would only hold a fire for a few hours. It was like going back in time a hundred years.

The cottage is now 400 square feet, is occupied by me, has running water pumped from the lake and a very nice composting toilet (picture E). For the first eight years it was occupied by two adults and two kids (mine)—like living on board a ship. The lake (F) is about 20 feet from the door, so we could haul in water (relatively) easily. The outhouse was out back. When we could afford to in 1999, we bought a small old house in the village here (flush toilet! shower! basement!), and the cottage became my fulltime office. This is where I write, and I love it more than anyplace on earth.

Looking into the kitchen (A), with my daughter's Imaginary Bedroom to the right. My desk (B) is in the living room. It's never this neat—I cleaned it before Zack and Amy got there. The windows overlook the lake (F), but my head is always down staring at the keyboard—I have to remind myself to look outside.

If you turn around in place, you see this (C): Ladder to tiny loft bedroom (D); assorted Stuff. Door to the right is my son's room with boat-style bunks. Door to the left is the bathroom (E). All my reference books are on various shelves. Very little fiction—too distracting!

All of my books and stories save Winterlong were written here. I never take this place for granted — I know I'm incredibly lucky to be here.

(Photos by Amy Martin/Punchy O'Guts/Punchy Martin. All three are the same person.)

On Losing Religion, Author Branding, Wanting to Open My Fat Mouth, My Mother, and Other Pressing Stuff on an Unemployed Sunday

2011-10-02T17:21:00.003-04:00

Losing Religion: Some information and some clarifications for the curious

Okay, so for those of you that don't know (maybe 1 person out of the 10 that read this blog): I was raised Mormon. My family converted when I was, what... 2 years old? I think so. Anyway, I pretty much grew up in the church. As a child, I suppose I believed in God and the other things told to me—it's tough to know, right? I was a kid. At the same time, growing up I never made a lot of Mormon friends. Other kids did; in high school, some of them were pretty tight-knit. All I can say is I didn't like the kids at church.

By the time I went off to my first year of college at 18, I was pretty much avoiding church whenever I could. In fact, at BYU I got into some trouble for missing church so much. (For those that don't know, if you go to Brigham Young University and you're Mormon—a high statistical probability if you've decided to attend the university—then you are required to attend church regularly.) What can I say? I hated church; still do, though that's largely theoretical because I don't go. Fact is, I would never have kept going for all those years if my parents had stopped making me go.

So. What happened after my two semesters at BYU? An emotional wreck—I won't go into my long history of OCD-related depression, which was exacerbated at school—I returned home, told my mother I wasn't going to church anymore (though it was still some time before I told her I no longer considered myself Mormon), and started attending a local university, where I studied, big surprise, the history of religion. At some point I quit school with another year and a half of work to go in my degree—a fact that nearly crushed my mother's heart—and started working crappy jobs. I failed at a few relationships, read a lot of science fiction (some things don't change), and became an ever less religious person.

I distinctly remember the day that it occurred to me that homosexuality wasn't—couldn't be—wrong. I sat and thought about what it meant to be a bad person, and it amounted to acting (or failing to act) with the intention to harm another person. That was it. That's all that I could definitively say about ethics.

Now this'll sound a little trite, but oh well: My world opened up with this realization. It was wonderful to realize that I didn't have to fear and dislike people so much. (Okay, okay. For those of you that know me well, this is gonna sound a little funny. So, the Zack I know now hates people less than he used to! Shit, what kind of an asshole was he before? Just stick with me here...)

Among the choices that I've made in life, quitting religion is among the top two or three. Sure, more than a decade later I still wrestle with the fear that I'll die and nothing will happen, but ultimately that's not too bad a fate. I won't be around to know about how sad it is that I'm not around. I guess the biggest holdovers of my religious upbringing are the guilt that I still feel whenever I do something wrong—not the worst thing in the world, guilt; it keeps me from being a complete butthead; but it is perhaps a little much—and my obsession with the concept of immortality.

But did I really "quit" religion? It's a funny thing, as I never really joined up in the first place. In later years when people would learn of my former "faith," they'd assume I left the church because I had grown to hate it. And sure, there are things I dislike pretty intensely about the Mormon church, but ultimately I stopped defining myself as a member because I didn't feel like there was any point to it all.

Had prayer ever done anything for me? Nope, not that I can tell anyway. On a practical level, it just didn't make sense to keep going to church once I'd already learned how to be an ethical person—and my parents were far more responsible for that than Jesus. In fact, from my current viewpoint continuing to go to church would've made me into a far less ethical person—the kind of person who fights to keep two adults from getting married, who keeps women in their place, and who forces irrational beliefs on children.

Wait a minute.

Am I saying that my parents—my sister and my younger brother—are bad people because they're Mormon? Hell, no, I'm not saying that. In fact, I think they're actually quite a bit better than I am—they're more compassionate, more willing to help others, etc. Mostly, I'm grateful to them for raising me the way I was raised. What I do think I have on my family is my naturalistic view of the universe. My mind's not clouded by a whole slew of ridiculous beliefs—or rather, my slew of ridiculous beliefs are not clouded by a slew of even more ridiculous beliefs. A professed agnostic, I don't even claim that there is no God. I just watch and wait, and try to use my brain as best I can. I'm not holding out for an afterlife (though an afterlife might be nice, and maybe there is one but I wouldn't bet on it...) and thus devaluing this life.

At the same time, I try (and often fail) not to let my own prejudices cloud me to the fact that I could be wrong. Maybe I'm just lacking the genetic trait that informs a human of the existence of God. Maybe I'm God-blind. Maybe I'm just an angry, pigheaded little monster.

Some FACTS to keep in mind, however: Though I often take an antireligious stance—and would gladly see a world where the teaching of religion to anyone but adults is considered child abuse—I do not think the belief in God (goddesses, gods, spirits, elves, etc.) makes anyone a bad person. I do not think religious/spiritual people are unintelligent. Most importantly, I do not place myself above them. Spirituality (or lack thereof) is one aspect of a person, and should not be used as a justification of condemnation. We are defined principally by our actions, one should always remember.

Author Branding: Zachary Jernigan, BAWBA (Bald, Angry, White, Blasphemous Author)

With the completion of my novel last year and my second sale to Asimov's Science Fiction in January, I began to think a little about how I might brand myself as an author. (If you don't know what author branding is, just think about what an author is and what a brand is. Or look at this.) Not real seriously, honestly; I haven't sold my novel, and two short story sales probably doesn't justify worrying too much about it. Still, it's kind of fun to think about.

By my own estimation, I haven't got much of a personality. (Don't everybody jump to defend me, okay? I mean, okay, a few of you could...) I also don't have a long list of interesting jobs—experiences, period—to talk up. I never lived in Patagonia. I was never a journalist in Afghanistan. Nor, though I risk insulting some quarter-Hungarians here, do I have an ethnic or cultural identity that stands out. (Don't let this last be interpreted as ignorance or whining. I still realize how great an advantage it is in U.S. publishing not to have a "strong" (i.e. anything other than white) ethnic identity.) When I think about the noise created by all the other interesting folks out there I get kind of depressed. I mean, is it not enough that I might write something interesting? I have to be interesting too!

Well, I've got the thing I discussed above. I was Mormon. I think Orson Scott Card gets some play on the whole being Mormon thing, so... Mightn't I be the anti-Card? I'm just as indignant as he is, just as much of a loudmouth!

Ooh. I like where this is going.

Wanting to Open My Fat Mouth: Shut your fat mouth!

The idea does have a certain appeal, even beyond the childish impulse to criticize Card. (He's got enough people doing that already, though. ...as is only proper and good.)

Assuming anyone is even interested in what I have to say, it would give me an opportunity to discuss the Mormon church (and religion in general) in the context of science fiction and fantasy literature. What's not to love? That would be an awesome discussion, and who knows?—it might do some good in the world to have another critical voice. At the very least, it would shed light—for readers as well as myself—on what influences me as an author. If I think of No Return, the novel I wrote last year, the links are so clear: Here is where I talk about immortality; here is where I talk about faith's influence on violence; and here...

All good, of course—but what negative might come with defining myself as an "ex-Moron author?" Well, for one, even at the best of times I can't keep my fat mouth shut. Lord knows what would come of my career if everyone was always asking me to offer my stupid opinion about religion. Sure, it might start off as a discussion of the Mormon church and my upbringing, but soon enough I'd be criticizing the whole damn world for believing in God. I'd compare Him/Her/It to Santa Claus (done it many times before) and insult a bunch of religious people who might otherwise have picked up one of my stories. I'd—and this an important point, I feel—say things in the heat of the moment that do not reflect the entirety of my conviction.

In other words, I'd look like the self-righteous, impetuous jerk that I often am when I get my motor running. My words would not reflect the essential humility—yeah, I said humility—of my stance (y'know, that whole not knowing part about being agnostic?). And once it's in print, it can't be taken back.

Oh, and yeah: There's the issue of my mother, too.

My Mother

I visited my family in Sedona this last June. I had a pretty great time, but a couple things weren't great at all. First off, I talked with my sister and brother about taking my name off the Mormon church's official records. I'd planned the conversation as a "testing the waters" kind of thing—a tool to gauge whether or not my mother could handle a similar conversation.

Well, it didn't turn out like I'd planned. Suffice it to say, I got somewhat defensive and really hurt my siblings' feeling by putting down their beliefs. I should've known really, and to a certain extent I wondered what other outcome there could've been. Very often, and without knowing it, my family puts down my beliefs. They assume I am missing something in my life, that a naturalistic worldview cannot account for all of a human being's emotional needs. (But that's not really right, is it? They believe there is something beyond emotional and physical needs. There is a spiritual need.)

Still, I could've been more compassionate. I am their older, smarter, better-looking brother, after all. If not me, who?

Of course, I can say all this now, but at the time I felt very angry. Reckless, in fact. Instead of waiting to talk to my mother, making sure of my feelings and what I wanted to say, I brought up the issue with her later that day.

She cried. Oh, Lord, how it hurts to see my mom cry. She really believed—believes—that bad things will occur if I take my name off the church's register—and I guess I get that. If I believed in an action's ill effect so much, wouldn't I advise my child against it?

I guess I would. I just don't believe in anything I haven't felt or seen or touched.

How can I make my mother see that my lack of belief has nothing to do with desire or anger or spite? How can I make her see how ridiculous belief in God would be for someone who has never had proof—despite much seeking—of God's existence?

The answer: I can't. I should probably stop trying.

The good thing about the Jernigans is that we never stop loving one another. I'm blessed (is blessed the word?) to have a very understanding family that does not ostracize its members for not fitting within the mold.

Nonetheless, my mother asked me not to have my name removed from the church's records. She gave me the choice to do so, but ultimately I wonder if I have a choice.

I know how much it would hurt her.

Okay, so I (probably) won't have my name taken off the records...

Where was I going with this? Oh, right:

My mother also asked me to promise not to say anything bad about the Mormon church.

I couldn't/can't promise her that, and that sucks. I'd like to be able to promise her that, but there are simply too many things I disagree with the church about. Despite the vast majority of Mormons being "nice" people—the kind of folks who'll stop to help you fix your flat—they are engaged in a war against LGBTQ (is that all the letters? I never know.) folks all over the world. And that's only one of the cultural wars they are waging. As much as it hurts to say this—because I do love my family; they are the most wonderful people—I believe Mormons (hell, religious conservatives everywhere) are not a positive force in the world. They hold back the light, keep us from progressing as a species. It would be one thing if they were small groups without political or economic power, but this is obviously not the case.

*Sigh*

Life is complicated, is it not? What a neverending joy it is.

But now you can see why it is that I can't be "the ex-Mormon author," right? If reading the above has the potential of hurting my mother even a little, how much would it hurt her to see me saying things like that (and worse) all the time? Given the opportunity, I can't be trusted not to voice my indignation at volume 11. It'll only make it worse if every question I get as an author is about religion.

Sure, I want to talk about it. Sure, I want to cause a stir. But I don't want to hurt my mom.

And that's that.

Other Pressing Stuff

So, other than "ex-Mormon author," what could my brand be? I think that I can be pretty funny—funny-ha-ha-what-a-spectacle rather than ha-ha-how-clever—when I get my rant on, but that's largely a spectator sport. I can also eat a lot of food. (If you doubt me, ask any member of my family, my girlfriend, or Justin and Brett (no gastro-slouches themselves). That, or fly out to Portland, Maine and we'll have an eat-off. No, really; I'll give you the first two plates free.)

Zachary Jernigan: Angry Loud Guy, But Only Amusing in Person!

Zachary Jernigan: He Could Bankrupt Your Bakery in One Afternoon Guy!

Crap. Both of those are terrible. I guess I'll have to keep looking.

Seriously, though: Eat-off. Anybody?

Where I Write: J M McDermott & Baron Dave Romm

2011-09-30T10:42:00.001-04:00

J M McDermott

Do you see the PS3 to the left?

Sometimes I have to play games at work... Long story.

Hope this studio works out better than the last one.)

J M McDermott's first novel was plucked from a slush pile and went on to be #6 on Amazon.com's Year's Best SF/F of 2008, shortlisted for a Crawford Prize, and on Locus Magazine's Recommended Reading List for Debuts. His short fiction has appeared in Weird Tales Magazine, Fantasy Magazine, Apex Magazine, and Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, among other places. He has a BA in Creative Writing from the University of Houston, and an MFA in Popular Fiction from the Stonecoast program of the University of Southern Maine. By night, he wanders a maze of bookshelves and empty coffee cups, and by day he wanders the streets of Atlanta, where he lives and works. He tries to write in between.

Baron Dave Romm

My writing space circa 1975. I still have the portable typer.

Today: A blow-by-blow description of the items would be Capital-W-Work.

And I'd have look at all the piles of Capital-S-Stuff."

Baron Dave Romm is a Minneapolis, MN science fiction fan, radio producer, photographer, reporter, masseur and Antarctic Exlorer.

Review of my story, "Mexico Needs You"

2011-09-26T12:59:00.001-04:00

Sam Tomaino of SFRevu has this to say about my story while reviewing Murky Depths #17: "In "Mexico Needs You" by Zachary Jernigan, art by Lee Simpson, a man has just had something that looks like a large, black flatworm removed from his rectum. Apparently, this thing caused him to move to Mexico to take up residence there. If that's weird enough for you, read the rest of the story which is quite good." Thanks, Sam!

Color and Brilliant Confusion: Elizabeth Hand's Mortal Love

2011-09-23T15:26:00.000-04:00

The experience of reading Mortal Love (Harper, 2005) is akin to continually waking from an afternoon dream. There is the same mental dislocation—and the same accompanying period of scrambling to separate reality from fantasy. The fantastical element of Mortal Love is very strong, never hidden, yet it is some time before the reader orients himself completely to Hand’s technique. As a writer who is constantly being advised to explain more (as in, “How does this laser-thingy work?”), the ways an author establishes and grounds her speculative elements is of particular interest to me. I read Mortal Love with a keen eye for the fantastic, but also an eye for the evocation of the fantastic—and how it contributes to the overall effect.

First, I will examine a fairly straight-forward concept: The mundane as extraordinary. Hand is a master at freaking the reader out with truly strange descriptions—something she does fairly often in the novel. Her historical facts about London are often grisly, barely believable. In Hand’s capable hand’s, they take on a near-supernatural force all by themselves. Take this description of a minor character, for instance, which seems to defy a rational explanation:

Her lower jaw was gone, eaten away so that a spur of soft-looking black bone remained, like a bit of charred wood. But her eyes were sly and mocking, a pellucid blue in the thin light cast by the window of the Everlasting Arms, and her voice was sweet and coaxing.

[…]

Her hands slipped back beneath her cloak; he noted that she did not wear gloves, but not that her fingernails had the deep-blue glow of a lit gas mantle. (10)

But as we discover later in the novel, this condition is known as phossy jaw, a disease contracted by matchmakers in the 19^th century from ingesting a form of phosphorous. The jaw would rot and, more often than not, the ensuing infections would eventually kill the poor soul who had contracted the disease. The truly striking feature of the condition is that due to chemical interactions with the phosphorous, the infected bones of the victim would glow! Hand obviously takes some liberties here—the glowing of the fingernails—but her description of the disease is otherwise factual. Coming as it does at the opening of the novel, however, the reader is unaware of its factuality (positing the reader is not an authority on working class Victorian diseases). This contributes much to the tone of the novel, where the mundane mixes fluidly with the fantastic.

This leads naturally to the next speculative concept in Mortal Love: The extraordinary in the perceived mundane. As Daniel is talking to Nick about his night with Larkin, he experiences something out of the ordinary with Nick, a character the reader has hitherto had no reason to suspect of supernatural abilities (and in fact does not possess them). As with the prior example, this suspension of disbelief—of finding the extraordinary in quotidian circumstances—causes the reader to question the very nature of reality in Hand’s world:

Around him the room shuddered, the way the image thrown by a jammed projector shifts, then changes. Then the room was gone. In front of him, a fire burned; he could feel the heat, near scorching, of something in his hands. He looked down and saw that he was holding a blackened iron pot with something cooking inside it: a whole fish. (145)

Nick moved forward and pressed a finger to his lower lip. Daniel’s mouth filled with the taste of scorched fish and burned honey.

Not just his mouth. His entire sensorium was flooded—burning leaves, green sap, wormwood, a blinding aureole of emerald light, the taste of anisette and salt and— (151)

What occurs in this scene is pivotal, because it establishes how permeable the line between perception and actuality really is. Nick, touched once by Larkin in the same way Daniel is touched, is able to reveal to Daniel the true nature of the woman—without recourse to the same supernatural powers as Larkin herself possesses. Instead, he reveals the magic that already exists through their shared interaction with a creature straight out of Cornish legend. In other words, both are conduits for a power greater than they can imagine alone, as “ordinary” creatures.

It is helpful also to look at this concept: The supernatural fixed into a character. Larkin—arguably the most fantastically powerful of all the characters in the novel—has a unique character arc in that her history spans eras and exhibits itself in different physical materials. By the close of the novel, the reader knows her nature intimately; yet, as seems proper for a mythological being, she remains somewhat of a mystery. Hand never explains her true motivation and, in traditional “fantasy literature” style, never explains how she affects her magic:

Because there were still more figures in the painting, hidden in the trees and leaves: all watching, all staring at the sleeper and the peeking man—but also, I realized, staring at me, Valentine, the peeking boy.

“Remember me,” said a woman’s voice. She said a word then that I did not recognize; yet it was somehow familiar to me, and I knew it was not just a word but a name. Her voice came again, a whisper, but when I whirled to look, no one was there. (24)

Thrusting from the crack in the acorn was a tiny root—bright red, pomegranate red—curling like an inchworm. A minute droplet of clear fluid clung to the root’s tip. Daniel stared at it, bemused, then, with a half smile, stuck out his tongue and touched it. The fluid had no taste, but when he swallowed, a bitter warmth spread across the back of his tongue. (65)

She tasted of honeysuckle, sweet bittergreen, and salt. Milky warmth spread beneath his fingers and tongue; when she came, warm liquid seeped not just from her labia and cunt but from the inside of her thighs, like sap sweating from split bark. (204)

Here, two contemporary characters react to the same woman, embodied in a painting, an acorn, and her physical form. The progression is fascinating, as it moves from an easily deniable—though odd—experience to an undeniably supernatural experience. A progression of this type cements Larkin’s status as a true supernatural being. What continually surprises in Hand’s narrative is the way she manages to infuse these suggestively fantastic elements into nearly every interaction between Larkin and the men infatuated with her.

Now we turn to the last concept associated with Hand’s characterization of the fantastic: The appearance of the mundane turns to supernatural. Besides Larkin, Juda Trent is the most obviously supernatural character in the novel. Her development is noteworthy because it happens at a much slower pace than Larkin’s. The reader has brief intimations of her true nature, but only comes to understand it near the end of the novel—and then only partially. Note the development and attention to color in the following scenes:

“Hey.” A voice came at his shoulder. For an instant he thought it was Larkin, and the world flared white and green; then he saw a hand with blue-painted fingernails. (261)

[…] as he watched, Daniel felt a though blazing light suddenly infused the scene: Shadows crackled and sparked like lightning, then dissolved into the grass like water into parched ground. The robin on its branch was not a bird but part of the tree. The elegantly dressed woman in the doorway was not a woman at all but something else, something— (265)

She had changed into loose cornflower-blue trousers […] She stared at him; as he stared back, he noticed that not just her nails but her fingers were the same color as her pants. (325)

She raised her arm. A flare of blue-green ran down it: beneath the skin were spikes of emerald lighting, forearm, fingers all aflame, and, where her heart should have been, a trembling green-black shadow like branching neurons, a tree. (338)

The repetition of the color blue is important, because it creates a link between all the other times in Mortal Love a character’s body parts are described as blue. By my informal count, it occurs 12 times throughout the text, and nearly always in the context of the supernatural. Thus, Juda Trent becomes a symbol of all that is fantastic in the novel. The revelation of her true nature comes as no surprise, but it does come as a fulfillment of the reader’s expectations. Only by the end of the novel does he realize just how all the elements, mundane and fantastic, break down. He can look back on the entirety of the work and orient himself.

Where I Write: Karen Bovenmeyer

2011-09-23T11:36:00.000-04:00

My husband re-arranged our home to create a "writer's room" for me last fall. My "fem-cave" contains two easy chairs (one's a recliner) donated by friends/family and two walnut de-commissioned courthouse chairs from a government sale. A six foot cherry bookshelf my dad and I built is accompanied by two oak wall-shelves from Sam's Club. We custom-built a small pine bookshelf for my Choose Your Own Adventure and Forgotten Realms paperbacks :D A walnut chest of drawers from a 1920s apothecary is in the closet for office supplies, and a cherry hope chest my dad made holds blankets and operates as a candle stand.

In the closet is a cheap white particleboard shelf holding binders from past writing classes. There's also a custom pine printer's drawer for knicknacks. The remaining wall space is taken up by a walnut bubble shelf from Lowe's filled with "inspirational objects", a Lord of the Rings poster, an oil painting by yours truly, and a plate my dad gave me with a "neat castle". I repaired, resealed, and hand-stained the woodwork in the room a dark walnut and bought curtains and a curtain rod to match. My wizard staff is behind the door with my Indiana Jones hat. Above the cherry bookshelf is a simple piece of wood loaded with stuffed animals and my toddler Star Wars toys (awesome for distracting visitors). On top of the oak shelves is my picnic basket for when the mood to write outside inspires me, the complete works of DaVinci, and various Lord of the Rings collectibles (Arwen's sword, the one ring, Minas Tirith jewlery box, Argonath bookends, etc). The Doctor Who collectables are scattered through the shelves, which currently hold my science fiction collection, my Stonecoast MFA books, and two shelves of fantasy art books. More books from my undergrad years are in the garage and will some day be either filtered inside or sold off :)

A square cherry shelf juts from the wall at desk height and holds my laptop dock. Under it is a small mobile desk from Ikea that holds a wireless keyboard and mouse. I generally sit in the reclining easy chair and keep drinks etc. on the glass table attached to my lamp. I have a frilly girly ceiling fanlight and installed a dimmer switch to set the "mood".

Visitors are generally guided into the uncomfortable walnut courtroom chairs and handed fantasy art books or my light-up Tardis to amuse them while I finish what I'm doing. I generally do my morning pages on my iPad and do all my grading and editing work on my HP media laptop for screen space. My personal "making stuff up" and revising tool is my wee HP netbook. I love that thing.

Oh, I almost forgot! I coated the closet door with a loop of butcher paper. I've got post-its stuck to it with plot points from a scifi novel I'm revising.

The cat in the closet is my muse. His name is KHAN (as in wrath of). He's the magical age of 13.

Karen Bovenmyer is a new student in the University of Southern Maine's popular fiction MFA program. She teaches science fiction literature and creative writing to honor students at Iowa State University and helps graduate students prepare for the demands of the professoriate. Her father passed away last fall, before her acceptance to USM was complete, and her writing room serves as a memorial to him and reminds Karen how very proud he would be that she's following her dream. http://facebook.com/karen.bovenmyer

Two Love Stories: Carol Emshwiller's Report to the Men's Club

2011-09-18T18:18:00.000-04:00

When she is on, Carol Emshwiller blows my mind. She has brevity and concision, a graceful simplicity that is truly enviable. She writes from a wide variety of perspectives and on a multitude of themes. Having just finished James Tiptree, Jr.’s Meet Me at Infinity, I read Emshwiller's Report to the Men's Club (Small Beer Press, 2002) in a bit of the same state—expecting semidark feminist speculative fiction—and was not greatly disappointed.

However, Emshwiller is not nearly so monomaniacal as Tiptree and approaches her work with a startling degree of emotional complexity. More often than not, her stories wind around a subject, going from doubt to brief joy to pain before winding back to joy—all the while never indulging in indulgent language.

Again unlike Tiptree, Emshwiller truly shines at writing love stories. Two stories in particular, “The Paganini of Jacob’s Gully” and “Water Master,” are short, beautiful meditations on romantic love, developing from feelings of dislike and even despair into that most compelling emotion.

In the twenty-one spare pages of “The Paganini of Jacob’s Gully,” Emshwiller describes the remarkable emotional metamorphosis of Hamish, a crippled Scottish violin virtuoso who has fled from his native country to live in the Old West. Playing in bars and shuffling from town to town on his mule, he has no experience with love and desires none. Instead, he simply tries to survive.

In one town he is accused of being the evil; men beat him and destroy his violin. He is taken in by a woman who cares for him, nursing him back to health. The treatment causes him to imagine life with her, but the fantasy is fleeting. Here, he plays for the townspeople, and the change in his thought process is evident:

I've made loose women fall in love with me through fast fingers alone. At least they seemed to for the moment. A moment is better than never. (22)

[…]

Everybody yearns for love—any kind of love. Usually I don't think about wanting to dance, but as I play I yearn to have somebody in my arms. I yearn to be listening to myself instead of playing. (23)

Emshwiller moves Hamish from pitiful boasting to deep longing in the mental space of thirty seconds, from one page to the next. Notice how she repeats key words so obviously, moving swiftly from the idea of one moment to the concept of love and the yearning for love. It is quite dizzying, this shifting mental landscape, yet it mirrors perfectly how the human mind jumps from one emotion to the next—especially when one is under a certain strain.

These shifts are fundamental to the love story in general, for what would love be without trials? When Hamish leaves town, he leaves a good woman and opportunity to destroy himself. He plays for another crowd in the same bar in which he had been beating so recently. Note how his mental state communicates this increasing desperation:

All I want is to run away and forget my whole life. I was seducing her, that was the whole purpose. I sighed, I yearned, I made love... all with my music, and she believed me. I should leave so she can forget me. Or I should have gone with her so she'd again see me shuffling. I could sit in her soft chair and then not be able to get out of it. She could ask me to reach into a high shelf. (24)

It is heartbreaking, surely, but it also seems to liberate Hamish to perform his greatest violin solo. Bloated with a sense of justice, he lifts off the floor and flies above the crowd, every bit the black magician the barmen suspected him to be.

Above the crowd, his desperation gets the best of him and he falls to the ground—and wakes to once again find himself in the care of the woman. Gradually, he realizes that she wants him around, but cannot bring himself to admit his longing. Finally:

She kneels by my chair, hugs my knees, and puts her head in my lap. I lean away and spread my arms to each side. I don't know what to do. I don't dare touch her. Then I lean forward and move my hands closer. I dare to almost touch her. (26)

The metamorphosis is thus complete. Unlike many love stories, Emshwiller, having taken us on an emotional roller coaster, gives us a quiet ending that only begins to hint at the lives following the close of the tale.

What we do have, however, is a clear understanding of the fundamental shift in Hamish’s character. In other words, the reader does not need to know everything—he simply needs to know that Hamish has achieved the capacity to love another person, and that another person can love him.

"Water Master” develops in a similar way, from feelings of dislike and near-revulsion to feelings of love and attraction. A woman in a town experiencing a drought travels up the mountain to communicate with the Water Master, a mysterious man who controls the town’s water supply. As the supposed source of the drought, a posse has formed in town; she travels to warn the Water Master, or perhaps simply to satisfy her curiosity about the man.

The reader remains unsure of the woman’s motivation—a fact that heightens the tension throughout. The reader wonders whether her compulsion is rooted in attraction or revulsion. For all the ambiguity, Emshwiller’s narrator constantly reminds us of her intense, often contradictory interest:

Now where is that wife of his, come over from the other side? I want to see if she's as ugly as he is..." (173)

[…]

It's much steeper than the climb I climbed to get up here. I'm breathless, not only from that, but from Amos Acularius right here in front of me. He's a nimble man. He'd be at the top by now if not for me, and he's not even breathing hard. He reaches back now and then to help me. When he does, I look up under his hat again. Even if I had something to say, his eyes wash the words right out of me. All I want to say is, "Your eyes are blue." (176)

This interest, heightened for the reader as it is by the romantic undertones of marriage, admiration and fixation on physical features, does much to set up the next scene, which occurs just prior to the violent confrontation between the Water Master and a man from the town:

We sit quietly again. There are so many things I want to ask, such as: Did you notice how I didn't need your water? Did you notice how I didn't need a ditch? And: What about all those scars? But what I really want to ask is if he's married, so instead I say, "Where are the children? Are they safe?"

"What children?"

Well, that's a relief. Though he could still have a wife somewhere.

[...]

"There's no wife."

But of course not. Who would marry such a countrified, sheep herder kind of man who lives in a shack with a mud floor and has stunted lupine for flowers? (177)

At this point, however, the reader is no longer convinced. She is deeply, powerfully attracted to the Water Master:

I'm already thinking (I can't help it) how I'm too old to have any little Water Master babies that would have eyes like that or V-shaped smiles. Then I'm thinking: Will he mind... about not having any children? And then I'm thinking: I'd mind. (178)

It is, then, with great fear that the reader approaches the violent end of the story. He has invested something of himself in this unfolding love.

And how does Emshwiller reward the investment? By taking a risk—by writing two simple paragraphs of emotionally charged action. The risk lies in the writer’s ability to suspend our disbelief: would a woman possibly be thinking such things as the world is coming down around her—as a bomb is exploding twenty feet away, taking the dam with it?

At the other side, he throws me face-down and himself on top of me, his arms wrapped around my head, not his own. I've always done the protecting (all those brothers and sisters). I've never, in my whole life, been protected by anybody—not that I remember—though I suppose as a baby I must have been.

I feel his body all along my back—all along where I've just been scraped and bruised, but I like the feel of him, even though I hurt. I hope we never have to get up. (181)

What Emshwiller does, in effect, is describe the unraveling of everything this woman has ever known in one fell swoop. The dam is broken, she has fallen in love with an outcast (who may be dead), and things cannot be set aright again. When she decides to leave with the Water Master, however, it is with great joy that the reader imagines her future.

Where I Write: Will Ludwigsen

2011-09-16T20:34:00.000-04:00

To me, success is being immune to assholes, and so, like many writers, I dream to one day have my modest cottage in the woods where I can write without fear or interruption. I imagine mine as a Craftsman-style bungalow, perhaps on the side of a forested mountain, maybe with a stream in the back, definitely with a trail into the wilderness for long thoughtful walks. I've seen the perfect places to build that house in Virginia, North Carolina, New Hampshire, and Maine...and maybe I'll get there.

In the meantime, I've spent an embarrassingly large amount of time trying to find the perfect writing environment. I've compared desks and tables. I've built flimsy wooden carrels to shut out distraction. I've traveled to libraries far and close; I've hijacked conference rooms at work. I've rented an office. I've written at the foot of Devil's Tower and the heights of the Appalachians.

1: Me at the New York Public Library

2: My garret office

3: Me at a conference table at the UNF library

4: My home "library"

5: My office at UNF

And you know, about the same amount of work gets done in each (sometimes a lot, sometimes a little).

I think a problem with the perfect writing lair is that it implies there will be a better time to write someday, maybe tomorrow, and today's mess absolves you of working in these primitive conditions. It's easy to believe that there's some connection between where you write and what you write, garret or vista.

But then, Stephen King balanced a typewriter on his knees in a laundry room to write Carrie, and that seemed to work out okay.

What I've discovered about myself is that the issue is focus, and ironically the less I notice the place that I'm writing, the better. It is more effective and exciting to steal time for writing anywhere I can, scrawling words at the doctor's office or a work meeting, actively cultivating the ability to fold inward in my mind wherever I am.

There are some places that make it easier than others, sure, but the perfect writing room is your own head. All you have to learn is how to shut everything else out of it.

(And to give you a sense of my progress, I'm writing this in my office at the University of North Florida because, hey, who can get anything done at home?)

Will Ludwigsen's work has appeared in Weird Tales, Cemetery Dance, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Strange Horizons, Asimov’s Science Fiction, and the second Interfictions anthology, among other places.

Art Inspired by NO RETURN

2011-09-10T18:05:00.000-04:00

Here's where I keep images that I (and hopefully others, soon) have created of the characters from my novel, No Return.

Adrash – A superhuman man who is worshipped—and sometimes damned—by the people of Jeroun. He watches from lunar orbit, where he has constructed massive ballistic weapons that visibly threaten the world below. He waits in anticipation of a sign—a reason to redeem or destroy humanity. His followers are called Adrashis; those who denounce him are called Anadrashis.

Vedas – A man of the city Dareth. A member of the Thirteenth Order of Black Suits—a militant Anadrashi sect—he engages in planned street fights in order to win converts. He is chosen by his abbey master to take part in the decennial tournament in Tchootoo. His black suit, composed of jerouni (an extinct species) skin and fabric, conforms to his body, enhancing his speed, strength, and durability.

Manshep – A constructed man possessed by the soul of his sorcerous creator, Ortur Omali. He lives in Dareth, but leaves to accompany Vedas on his journey to Tchootoo. His body is composed of thousands of brass spheres of varying sizes. Due to this composition, he is nearly impervious to anything but the most powerful magical attacks.

Churls – A mercenary haunted by the ghost of her daughter. She lives in the country of Casta, but joins with Vedas on the journey to Tchootoo. She is running from gambling debts back home, but also from her personal demons. She is the only master of the Dull Sword, a fighting technique of her own design that features the use of a short, heavy, dull sword to break bones and other blades rather than cut or stab.

Ebn – An Adrashi woman of the nation of Stol. A jeroumen, a hybrid of human and non-human stock, she possesses a body uniquely suited to magic. She is the leader of the outbound mages—a group of astronauts who uses alchemy to reach orbit. Her goal in life is to convince Adrash of the goodness of the world, and thus prevent the destruction of Jeroun.

Pol – A man of the same hybrid species as Ebn. He is also an outbound mage, junior to Ebn. Idealistic and ambitious, his goal is the same as Ebn's, but far more aggressive in nature.

Faness – Churls' deceased daughter and ambassador for the dead.

Shav - A quarterstock, a hybrid of jeroumen and human stock, who befriends Pol.

Where I Write: Jason S. Ridler

2011-09-09T09:59:00.000-04:00

Some writers can write anywhere. Sterling Silliphant, the screen writer behind ROUTE 66, traveled with the show and banged out scripts in his hotel room. Ray Bradbury used to toss quarters into a library typewriters to buy the time he need to crank out FAHRENHEIT 451 (and boy did that teach him how to write quick!). My wife, Erin Hoffman, writers anywhere and everywhere, from planes to hotel rooms.

But me? I need a place. A consistent hub, a den, a Batcave of the imagination. Surrounded by books from both my life as a writer and historian, ranging from memoirs of Filipino guerrilla fighters to the latest Trent Zelazny novella, I find I get in the zone better. There's my buddy Charlemagne on the left, a fiery winged wolf. And there's Riff, the punk ass dragon, on the right. Between these two poles, I fire up my machine gun enthusiasm and target the white door to the Twilight Zone, as well as goof off enjoying old pro wrestling matches on youtube.

I carry around a moleskin for brainstorming, writing flash fiction, outlining, and other kinds of writing tasks anywhere and everywhere, from the DMV to Trader Joe's. But when it's time to get down to it, I head to my Batcave, and no one is safe from this Ridler.

Jason S. Ridler is the author of Death Match, the first Spar Battersea thriller, and has published over forty short stories in such magazines and anthologies as Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Brain Harvest, Not One of Us, Chilling Tales, Tesseracts Thirteen, and more. His popular non-fiction has appeared inClarkesworld, Dark Scribe, and the Internet Review of Science Fiction. A former punk rock musician and cemetery groundskeeper, Mr. Ridler holds a Ph.D. in War Studies from the Royal Military College of Canada. Visit him at his writing blog, Ridlerville (www.jridler.com), on facebook, and on twitter at http://twitter.com/JayRidler.

Perhaps the nicest words anyone's ever said about a story of mine...

2011-09-06T11:07:00.000-04:00

I was looking for a high-res image of the August Issue of Asimov's when I came across a wonderful review of my story, "Pairs," on the Asimov's forum by the delightful John Thiel:

"Pairs" by Zachary Jernigan provided a good finish to my reading of the [August] issue, a very satisfactory story to end with. Here's a tour de force derived from nihilism, connotative of science fiction, and very outre at the same time, all of it expressed in an avant garde, spontaneous bop style, while existentially seeming like Camus, with Henry Miller not being left out. I think what we have more than anything is a person caught in the cycles of reincarnation, between incarnations, with an exploding karma. That makes good reading. I think it reads best as watching things pass, rather than as any form of progression. It complemented the other stories in the issue well. All in all, in giving this reader what he wants to see, it's a best issue, and I'd say "Pairs" ought to place in a possible best story category. If the reader has missed what the Evergreen crowd was once doing, it can be found condensed here in this story. And the readability is not unlike that of Thomas Wolfe.

Thank you so much, John!

Where I Write: Richard Cambridge

2011-09-02T11:05:00.001-04:00

Let clouds swarm.

Let chaos storm.

I wait for form.

- Robert Frost

Here is my writing room— a room of my own— taken on the day when Hurricane Irene arrives with the kind of ravishing rain and wind I like to feel when the Muses are being most kind to me. How to describe this? How do you prepare for making love? I gather things, love tokens— seaglass, polished stones, feathers, shells, flowerpetals— whatever carries me in the moment when I am not in this room and wandering and wondering where my Beloved has gone, the sweet one who whispers a word a phrase a cry a hummmmm and dares me sing it back. That's the way it happens. More I cannot say…

Richard Cambridge is a recent graduate of Stonecoast's MFA creative writing program in Fiction at the University of Southern Maine. He curates the Poets' Theatre in the Arts at the Armory in Somerville, MA.

Where I Write: Zachary Jernigan

2011-08-26T17:55:00.000-04:00

This is the first of a series of posts coming up in the next few months. "Where I Write" is a weekly visual presentation of my writer friends' writing spaces with (or without) words of explanation. It'll appear every Friday or thereabouts. As I haven't yet received anyone's submission, the first one will focus on my writing space:

So, here's the top of my desk where I sometimes write. (Sometimes I write while sitting on the couch, but that'd be a boring picture of a couch with a gigantic butt-groove.) You see that I'm not into having papers and shit on my desk. I have a laptop, some pens, a dry-erase board where I write down my current submission statuses, some crap on the wall... Anyway, here are some of the highlights:

My posable robot lamp. I originally saw one of these in an antique shop in Tucson, AZ for like $60 and really wanted it (but didn't want to pay $60). Then I saw the same exact lamp for sale in Bookman's, realized it was not an antique, and bought it for $15-worth of store credit. He's holding a pen in his left gripper, and in his right is this awesomeness:

Yeah, so he's masturbating, obviously. I don't know what I keep him for. I guess maybe he reminds me not to masturbate all the time, but funny thing is when I look at him I think about masturbating. Weird, I know. (Added bonus feature: In the background is the painting my girlfriend, Amy, gave me for Christmas last year. It's a reinterpretation of a famous Ed Emshwiller illustration, complete with shiny bits glued on.)

On the lamp's stand sits this fat bastard. I drilled holes in the side of his head and put a Lego spaceman visor over his face. He's kind of the cyberpunk buddha, I guess, and I love him because he reminds me to chill. My little brother, Brennan, gave him to me three or four years ago - back when I thought I was going to go teach English in China.

On the right side of my desk stands Black Panther, my favorite superhero. He reminds me that I don't work enough on my physique or my damn writing. (Little factoid: The appearance of Vedas, one of the characters from my novel No Return, is roughly based on BP. I looked at BP for inspiration every day I sat down to write the novel.)

This is one of the picture/collages that hangs above my desk. I made the four of them several years ago when I went through a crafty phase. I'm no longer in a crafty phase.

That's my workspace!

Science Fiction and Fantasy, or Science Fiction Vs. Fantasy (Part 3)

2011-08-23T11:59:00.000-04:00

Would it bother me if my work was considered fantasy by most? Or not even most, but all? If my career ended up (in some small, much less successful way) like George R. R. Martin's—in other words: marked by SF and fantasy works, but almost synonymous with epic fantasy—how great a loss would that be? To even think about it seems ridiculous, but I've been ridiculous my whole life, so why stop now?

I think it would bother me, not only because I personally prefer most things marketed as SF over most things marketed as fantasy, but also because I think what the average SF author is attempting to do is more useful to society than what the average fantasy author is trying to do.

Whoa, whoa, whoa... Whoa. Hold on there, Jernigan.

No, I'm serious. In general—in general, people, and speaking more of pre-industrial fantasy than the varieties of "urban" fantasy—I think there is more wish-fulfillment going on in fantasy literature than in SF. Beyond the implications of a genre based upon the impossible, take the usage of magic: it exists, and though great discipline is required to use it, unlike technology it is not generally founded upon the concept of development in tiny increments. Man (dwarf, centaur, elf) need do no more than discover what already exists and tap into it. In other words, while SF is predicated upon the concept of slow advancement (up until the singularity, of course), fantasy is founded upon rapid advancement.

And by this I mean: rapid advancement up to a point, where all forward motion seems to cease. Why is it that despite the great power magic affords its users, so many fantasy worlds never develop beyond a feudal/monarchical state? (For an in-depth—and to a great degree contradictory—view, read my earlier response to David Brin's "The Difference Between Science Fiction and Fantasy.") I mean, with all that juice loose you'd think somebody would use it to develop a printing press (or at least some books) and maybe cure some diseases. I find it kind of odious, how in love fantasy readers and writers are with kings queen, princes and princesses, castles and dungeons.

Sure, it's a nostalgia thing—sure it is, because everyone writing or reading fantasy knows what it's like to live in a pre-industrial society. I've personally overheard many fantasy readers—mostly men, I'll admit—tell me how they feel displaced in the modern era and would love to have lived in medieval times.

To which I think: Sure, fatso. You play WOW for ten hours, every day—and when you're not playing WOW, you're looking at porn on the internet. You live in your mother's basement. The only thing medieval about your life is the smell. You'd last about ten seconds—no; five seconds, motherfucker—in a real battle.

— None of which is to say that I would fare any better in that period of time (I'd probably die because I missed TV so much), but at least I'm aware of it.

I owe this awareness to science fiction. SF glorifies pre-industrial societies less often than fantasy—reflecting, in my honest opinion, a more realistic view of humankind in general. This may prove my immense naivety, but I think most people currently living tooth-to-claw in our world would like access to plumbing and clean water, anti-malarial drugs and antibiotics, etc. I think their women, if given the opportunity from birth, would choose to make their own decisions about their identities.

In other words, I think scientific advancement—and the cultural advancement that follows in its wake—is neato. I think technology is the one thing that can realistically change humankind for the better.

Of course, this isn't to say that "science" hasn't had a deleterious effect on the earth. Nor is it to say that the more technologically advanced peoples of the world have not subjugated the less technologically advanced. Nor, I shouldn't really have to note, is it to say that the "natural" world is inferior to the technological world. Such things are obvious. We as a species have much work to do to set our priorities aright—but increasingly we have the tools, both technological and philosophical, to do so. Anyone who says we're more evil now than we were back in the good old days is a dipshit. Read a damn history book now and then and you'll quickly see how much more compassion exists in the world today.

Of course, that's me—a guy whose prejudices are very much informed by SF books.

Shit. I'm getting off track.

Okay, so if I wrote a book and meant it to be SF—If I'd put all that stuff about looking forward rather than backward, advancing society for everyone instead of just a few, blah blah blah—but it still got published as fantasy, would this be a great loss?

Ultimately, I don't think it would be. First off, I got a book published! (Yay, me!) Second, a bunch of fantasy fans would read a SF book and maybe not know it (or at least put up with it for a while). Hopefully, they'd pick up on all the SF-ish themes I put in there and dig them. Maybe they'd even write to me and let me know what they thought, and an inter-genre dialogue would blossom. Not only would they be reading more SF, but I'd be talking to more fantasy fans who feel the way I do. Maybe I'd talk to fantasy fans who hated my book, and we could continue to hate one another—or just maybe we would find common ground despite our differences.

Win-win, right? Grumpy Me says no; there are so many more issues to discuss and get heated about. Happy Me says yes; there are so many more issues to discuss and get excited about.

Paul Jessup's "The Textual Anarchist Creed": A Point-by-point Critique

2011-08-16T15:15:00.000-04:00

Posted 8/11/11 on speculative fiction writer Paul Jessup's website (http:///pauljessup.com):

A Textual Anarchist is one that is constantly improvising, destroying, reinventing. It is someone who does not believe in rules of writing, in writing good, in being anything more than a burning flame on the page. If you want to be a textual anarchist, repeat after me-

I hereby solemnly swear to-

· Never follow any rules of writing. If I see a rule, I break it.

· Burn any how-to-write manual. Bend, spindle or mutilate any book that gives me the secret to becoming a best seller.

· I will mock anyone that gives me a rule explaining how to write. I will relentlessly tease them, dance around them, sing silly songs, and making flatulence noises with my armpits in their general direction.

· I will never repeat anything. I will always innovate. Each work is an experiment. Everything is personal. It is never the same thing.

· I will read like my house is on fire.

· There are no sacred cows. Plot? Pointless. Characters? Not necessary. The only truism is this: write. Nothing else is important.

· I will play pranks on anyone that is stuffy or takes writing seriously.

· I will throw firecrackers at anyone that thinks writing is joke.

· I will scream and it will be a novel. I will wear a mask, and dance, and the footprints on the ground will be my short story.

· I will write with emptiness. I will fill voids with my love and my hatred.

- http://pauljessup.com/2011/08/11/the-textual-anarchist-creed/

Okay, anyone who knows me well could predict my reaction to Mr. Jessup's creed. For those who don't know me so well, however, I'll go ahead and state it:

Wow. That's ridiculous.

Now, even though I don't generally like the sort of individual who writes creeds, and even though I'm using Paul Jessup's document as an example, I'm not poking at him out of personal animosity or professional disdain. I don't know Jessup; I've never read his fiction. He's probably a nice guy with some chops. He's fairly well published, and from what I gather he's well regarded in the literary community. In other words, it's not my intention to critique his craft or his character.

Instead, my intention is to critique the mindset of the above document—the "ethos" of the document, if you will: an ethos which snubs its nose at tradition because it is traditional, which subverts convention because it is conventional; an ethos which gives birth to absurd claims that (most likely) will not—indeed, cannot—be supported in effect.

Let's take an in-depth look at what Jessup's saying:

Immediately, I'm taken aback by this confident voice—yet it's not so much Jessup's confidence itself, but what he is so confident about:

· Improvising — Okay, I get that. It's good to keep an open mind to improvisation. Still, I think having a plan is okay now and then. But whatever; we've all got our own processes.

· Destroying — Uh, I guess I get that, too, but what about saving? Is it really all that wise to destroy constantly? If your building blocks are destroyed, what do you build on?

· Reinventing — This one really makes no sense. Instead of reinventing yourself, why not try to build on past successes, try to perfect some things? ... Oh, but I forgot, you already destroyed everything , so reinvention becomes the only option...

As to not believing in rules of writing or writing good (by the way, isn't it cute the little linguistic mistakes he peppers into his document?), I wonder how anyone subscribing to this creed expects to get their points across. If you aspire to nothing more than being a burning flame on the page, then why share your writing with anyone?

Already, the cracks are showing in Jessup's logic. He, after all, aspires to publish—and does so. He wants to sell books. Otherwise he wouldn't have them published. Paul Jessup... wants to communicate. Yet his creed claims no such thing.

· Never follow any rules of writing. If I see a rule, I break it.

How delightfully anarchistic! Never mind the purpose of breaking the rule, the Textual Anarchist just wants to break it! Scenario: If I were to oppose all popular music just because I didn't like that other folks liked it, without any examination of the music itself, just to be counter to popular opinion—something I did when I was, I don't know, 22 years old—what would that make me? That's right: an idiot who misses a lot of great music.

Acting just to be contrary is not intelligent. Norms have been established over thousands of years of human culture—a fact that does not make said norms correct; nonetheless one must understand why the norms were established in order to understand the value of ignoring them.

· Burn any how-to-write manual. Bend, spindle or mutilate any book that gives me the secret to becoming a best seller.

Uh... Why? Is the book going to hurt you? I'm sorry, but this is mostly a rehash of the previous point, and quite overdramatic to boot. I get that some people have no interest in publishing a bestseller, and even less interest in going by the numbers to get there, but again: wouldn't it be helpful to know how all types of writing are done? What does it hurt to educate yourself?

You know who burns books, don't you?

Ah, that one's too easy.

*wink* — Way to learn, buddy. Almost makes one of your upcoming points—I will read like my house is on fire—all the more confusing. If you're not reading to learn, to however subconsciously build a storehouse of tools (i.e. "rules" applicable to types of fiction, even if it's only the one very particular type of book that's in your hand), then why the hell are you reading?

And mockery is so passé. I feel guilty for doing it right now. But seriously, what's with the attitude? Does it hurt you so much to be offered advice? Once more, if you close your ears just because you don't like the idea of being told something, you're not getting all you could be getting out of human interaction. How about some humility? Just listen with an open mind and then make your decision whether or not to use said advice.

· I will never repeat anything. I will always innovate. Each work is an experiment. Everything is personal. It is never the same thing.

You will never repeat anything? You just used the words "I will" twice in a row. Clearly, no writer can execute this claim. Everything builds on everything else. And even when you think you are innovating, I got some news for ya: somebody else is probably—probably—doing something very similar to what you're doing. I bet this thought bothers Textual Anarchists, who are so clearly obsessed with being original, but it shouldn't.

Why shouldn't it? Because everybody repeats. They repeat themselves and they repeat others. It's how we learn. Jessup is right when he says that each work is an experiment. Of course it is. Even the most blatantly derivative work is an experiment in copying. Jessup and authors like him may not think they're copying, but they can't help it. They don't live in a vacuum. His fiction may be more original than most people's—and despite my poking at him, I sincerely hope it is—but it is still an imperfect facsimile of his (and others') previous work.

In other words, there is no destroying. Jessup has constructed the concept because it sounds nice. And as to everything being personal, I thought this was obvious. As to never creating the same work, I also thought this was obvious. Not even the most hackneyed work is a perfect copy—each has its own ratio of stagnation to innovation.

· I will read like my house is on fire.

Finally one I agree with—though I don't see how your house being on fire would make you read faster. I'd probably be throwing my books out the window or trying to help my family get out or something. Apparently, Jessup would be reading. Good for him, I guess.

· There are no sacred cows. Plot? Pointless. Characters? Not necessary. The only truism is this: write. Nothing else is important.

I agree there are no sacred cows, but plot isn't pointless. It's got a lot to recommend it, in fact. If you want to throw the plot out the window, fine, have at it, but why denigrate those who want to write a plot-based story? Seems kind of small-minded for a Textual Anarchist, hardly in line with their overarching theme of creative freedom. Here's an exercise: why not subvert your own writing rules and write something based on someone else's rules! That'd be a mind-expander.

Characters? Ah, I don't think they're so much necessary as damn near unavoidable. At the very least, the narrator is a character. But I get Jessup's point, I think. The traditional idea of character is not necessary to create a story.

I'd have to heartily disagree that writing is the only truism, though. (Frankly, I don't see how the act of writing can be a truism, but whatever; I think I get his point.) Certainly, it's important for a writer to write, but sitting and writing is far from the only important thing. Jessup knows this, even if he's saying otherwise right here. He thinks reading is important, obviously.

I'll go a step further. In my unhallowed opinion, reading is exactly as important as writing. The act of reading the words of others is fundamental, in fact, as it provides template after template for you to build upon. The book is the writer's school, just as water is the swimmer's school. I'll go ahead and say that the other aspects of the writer's life—interacting with other writers, taking a walk to loosen your back, etc.—are not necessary for everyone, but one should understand how helpful they are to others.

(Perhaps it's even helpful for Jessup to interact. Just saying, you don't create a creed and post it online unless you want others to embrace your way of thinking. What is that called? Ding, ding, ding!—Community.)

· I will play pranks on anyone that is stuffy or takes writing seriously.

· I will throw firecrackers at anyone that thinks writing is joke.

First off, make up your damn mind.

Second, I find it amusing how someone who has gone to the trouble to write up a creed can claim to not be taking himself—and writing—seriously. Seriously? You just got done saying that only writing is important. That sounds pretty serious.

And who gives a shit if someone thinks writing is a joke? Let's all cop up to the fact that we're not the only glue that holds the gears of society together. Do I think writing is important? Sure, I do. Do I think it benefits society overall? Of course. It's very good that we have people around to document our successes and failures—to dream of things as they are, once were, and can be.

Do I think, however, that the act of writing is always, or even usually, worthy of veneration? No, I sure as hell don't think that. As a human being, I reserve the right to judge the worth of whatever venture I will; writing is no exception. As a writer, I think it's my responsibility to concern myself with writerly problems, the foremost of which may well be arrogance. We as a group are a collection of people, not superheroes.

· I will scream and it will be a novel. I will wear a mask, and dance, and the footprints on the ground will be my short story.

· I will write with emptiness. I will fill voids with my love and my hatred.

Now, out of all the things Jessup has written in his creed, I find this to be the most annoying—annoying because it's not concrete. At least the other points are somewhat practical in their execution. I can mock people, burn books, read a lot, throw firecrackers, etc. if I so desire. What I definitely cannot do is scream and have a novel. I can't prance around in a mask and publish my footprints. Apparently, Jessup can, and more power to him because that's a fucking awesome skill. If subscribing to the Textual Anarchist Creed is all that needs to happen for me to have such powers, maybe I should do it.

Pft. I sincerely doubt writing with emptiness is a good idea. Sure, you may get the Buddhist crowd to go along with it as evidence of your deep transcendental state, but to the rest of us it's going to look like what it is: emptiness.

And then the inexplicable inclusion of love and hatred into this emptiness? Well, for one that means it's no longer empty. For two, with all that emotion you might start to communicate something of value—which is good for all of us. Maybe if you stopped for a second and just distilled what you've learned—read a lot, write often and with passion—and encouraged others to do so you wouldn't need a long list of divisive and impossible rules. You'd write a lot, and probably produce the kind of work you're proud of.

And that's what should make you as a writer feel good. If you feel good, you won't need to thumb your nose at everybody who doesn't think about writing the way you do.

Science Fiction and Fantasy, or Science Fiction Vs. Fantasy (Part 2)

2011-08-08T22:21:00.000-04:00

So, okay — Yes, I'd heard that fantasy outsold SF. But it didn't really sink in. Nor did it really matter to me. The books I liked were widely available, and I ignored the rest of the crap clogging bookstore shelves. The prospect that at some point authors wouldn't be able to publish their SF novels didn't really freak me out. As I said, I'm a slow reader, and there's plenty of books out there already. I'd need several lifetimes to get through even the best ones.

In fact, the reality of SF's decline in popularity didn't start to matter to me until pretty recently, when I started to write my first novel. Up until mid-2010, approximately two years after I'd decided to commit to writing, I'd been telling myself and everyone else that I had no interest in writing a novel—largely because I was intimidated by the prospect. And because I'd been hiding the desire from myself, I hadn't done any research into the market for novels. I just figured, well, if my novel was good enough somebody would buy it.

So, that was my plan: Write a good book. Sell it.

Well, it turns out there are a lot more considerations I should have taken into account. (Duh.) Only after completing No Return—or at least completing it to the point where I felt it was ready to show to an agent—and sending it out did I realize the truth: Many, many agents and publishers have little interest in a new author's SF novel, even if it's good—and I hope my novel's good. One agent went so far as to tell me the market simply didn't favor well-written, intelligent SF novels. (Which, given my fragile state after the rejection, I chose to take as something of a compliment.)

Now, I don't want to extend my experience too far. That agent could, after all, have been blowing smoke up my ass. Agents have got to say something encouraging to a new writer, right? Especially when they've held onto that manuscript for a couple months (or longer). (Of course, this isn't always true. Many agents are mean, mean people who only want to hurt me.)

Fearing that this was the case, knowing that I was giving in to a rejectomantic urge, I started doing some research. And lo and behold, many authors report similar experiences. An author friend—someone much better published than myself—went so far as to say she thought the market had never been that good for well-written, intelligent SF. I've heard several times about panels at conventions that focus on the waning of SF as a written art form. (By account, it's invariably a bunch of old white dudes on the panel, but I don't want to get too deep into that topic.) The basic take-away from all this is this: Write fantasy and you have a better chance of getting published.

Here's the funny thing, though—or not-so-funny thing if you're me: I thought I had written an epic fantasy novel. When I considered what I might write my first time around in the longer format, I decided to do something unexpected, something fun, something that didn't require messing around with all that science bullshit. A fantasy novel, full of dragons and magic armor and all that fun, fun stuff. Of course, it didn't quite end up as free-wheeling as I'd thought. The SF crept in from the very beginning, not so much in setting but in theme. Without getting too specific, I think No Return concerns itself with more traditionally SF-specific issues than most epic fantasy novels.

Sucks for me, apparently. Perhaps I should have restricted myself to the usual coming of age story. Maybe if I'd avoided all SF-related material altogether I would have sold it by now. And yet... No. That seems a rather specious and all too convenient argument to me. Good human beings don't make those kinds of excuses for themselves. Good human beings work; they exhaust all possibilities before throwing their hands up in the air and blaming other people's prejudices for their own lack of success. (Plus, who am I to denigrate the "usual" coming of age story? Some of the best stories are "usual" coming of age stories.)

So if good human beings don't make excuses for themselves, what exactly have I done? Well, first I cried a little bit about the fact that no one understood my genius, and then I changed my approach to marketing my work. Up until recently, I've called my work a "science fiction/fantasy novel"—as awkward a description as I could think up, really. Yet in my most recent query synopses and cover letters, I have not used the words "science fiction" at all. I simply call it epic fantasy. If pressed by an agent or publisher, I suppose I'd say it has "science fictional undertones."

Now let me be clear here: I am not lying to anyone. It is indeed epic fantasy that I set out to write. Leaving out the SF label in my query or cover letter is entirely appropriate, given that the overt SF elements of my novel are hidden from the reader until the second book. (And who the hell knows, I may decide to keep them hidden even in the second book. Maybe it's better without the "sciencey" explanations.) The SF label, though comforting to me because I consider myself first and foremost an SF guy, doesn't really apply that well to what's on the page. In other words, to drive the point home: It may be more SF than fantasy in my mind, but to the reader it is mostly fantasy.

Or so I hope I can convince an agent or a publisher—and eventually, a reader. It's not that crazy an idea; I did purposefully set out to meld the two genres subtly, so the reader would embrace the SF elements while digging the dragons and swords. Hopefully, someday an actual person who paid for my novel will be able to tell me if I've succeeded.

Of course, then I can complain about my readers not getting it!

...but at least I'd have readers to be complaining about. That, despite all the labeling going on, is what's important. What would I care if my novel was marketed as fantasy so long as I'm communicating something to someone—spanning that bridge from my mind to another's. That would be the truly awesome thing.

Of course I'm lying a little bit. I think it would bother me to be known forevermore as a fantasy writer more than an SF writer. So much of my identity is caught up in the concept of the future that to be branded simply a...

Simply? Simply a what? Simply a fantasy writer?

Hmm. I'll get to that problematic blunder next week.