Archive for category Reading
Speculative Fiction: some people don’t like the term. Don’t be chicken, they say. Call it science fiction, not speculative fiction, or worse, spec fic.
I’m not much for spec fix as a term; I believe we should pronounce entire words most of the time, rather than automatically shortening them. I do enjoy speculative fiction, both the term and the stuff itself, however. I’m not afraid to say I read science fiction, because I do. I also read fantasy, selected horror, mystery, and mainstream. I even read that stuff they call literature once in a while.
I divide my reading roughly between fiction its authors consider to be “real,” and fiction from authors who consciously depart from the real–in other words, speculative fiction. Speculative fiction includes science fiction, which in turn encompasses hard science fiction, anthropological, political and other fiction of the soft sciences, cyberpunk, steampunk, space opera, alternate history, new weird, utopian, dystopian, and time travel. Speculative fiction also includes fantasy, itself a term which takes in high fantasy, urban fantasy, dark fantasy, horror, and fairy tales. Then you have the stuff that’s not quite real but not quite not: magical realism, slipstream, and whatever it is that Murakami does. (I like the term “not normal.”) I read all this stuff, and I have need of a term that includes all of them, that differentiates them from that other stuff.
The other stuff also has genres. Examples: literary, historical, mystery, police procedural, political thriller, war novel, spy novel, and romance. The other stuff might go by the umbrella term of realistic, or mimetic, fiction. If I throw the term speculative fiction into the wastebasket, what is my umbrella term for all the types of fantastic fiction I enjoy? Non-mimetic fiction? I don’t like it. Non-realistic fiction? I don’t like that either, for the obvious reason that no matter how far-out my science fictional or fantasy premise is, the human element needs to be dead-on realistic.
The only purpose even to discuss genre, to categorize literature, is so that you and I can have a discussion about the stuff we read. For that discussion to be sensible, we need some agreement between us of the meaning of the terms we are using. Here we run into some trouble. I have no confusion about how I choose to sort books out, but because everyone reads a book differently, different people categorize differently. For instance, people were all over the place with China Mieville’s The City and the City. It is categorized as crime fiction, weird fiction, police procedural, and it won fantasy awards, as well as the Hugo. I call it science fiction for reasons given in a previous post:
But does it matter if we don’t always know what genre to put a work in? Isn’t part of the problem–if you want to call categorizing fiction a problem–that authors are becoming ever more inventive and interesting in the combinations of genres they choose to include in a single work, thereby making the assignment of genre that much more difficult?
Mysteries, whether cozy English, police procedural, or noir detective, fill a psychological itch for us. The police, the detective, and the justice system represent the societal order we all need to feel safe, and the moral order that allows good to triumph over evil. The protagonist outwits the criminal, and brings him or her to justice. The act cannot be undone; the murder victim cannot be restored to his or her unfinished life, and so the detective’s victory is always tempered by the reality that there is more evil out there, always.
Most readers of SF I know read the occasional mystery. I heard someone say that every SF story is at heart a mystery. That may be too sweeping a generalization for me, but the affinity between the two groups is undeniable, given that many writers of SF have also worked in the mystery genres. More than a few writers have written both in the same book.
One of the favorite combos is the mystery combined with alternate history. The alternate history usually deals with different historical political outcomes and shifts of power. Three examples come to mind: Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, Jo Walton’s Farthing, and China Mieville’s The City and the City.
Some might question my inclusion of the Mieville work as alternate history, but as a kind of alternate now, it has many of the same combination of qualities I find so appealing in the alternate history/mystery sub-genre. The mystery genre has a utopian view of justice, in which the truth outs and justice prevails. The real justice system can never measure up. The alternate history political system strives to impose order, but causes its own chaos. The marriage of the two makes for very interesting fiction.
I finished Farthing, and immediately downloaded the second and third books of the trilogy, having found the first book a page-turner the likes of which I haven’t experienced in years. It begins with a country house murder set in an England that made peace with Hitler in 1941. The investigation of the country house murder, and the Inspector’s solving of the crime, is supposed to return us to the security of a lawful society, as per the world-view of the mystery, as described above. But there’s a problem, and that problem is the corruption of a sane and orderly legal system by the madness of a British government being overcome by fascism. How does the truth-seeking Inspector Carmichael restore order, when the integrity and fundamental morality of that order has been gutted?
China Mieville’s police detective has a different problem. He is attempting to solve his murder case as a citizen of a city state that coexists with another city-state that occupies the same territory, but which he must ignore. All citizens must ignore the other city-state which is right before their eyes. Reality has been fractured, and perception cannot be trusted. How can truth be found in such a state? The detective’s own perceptions are distorted by the lifelong conditioning of his culture, of not-seeing what is right in front of him. What greater handicap can a seeker of truth have than self-blinding from what one is forbidden to see?
The existential threat to Detective Landsmen in Chabon’s alternate history is at once remote and immediate. The lease on the temporary Jewish settlement/homeland in Sitka, Alaska, is about to run out, throwing the detective and all of Alaska’s Jews into statelessness. In the meantime, crime goes on, including murder, one of which Landsmen is tasked with solving. He expects to keep doing his job, in spite of the imminent demise of the jurisdiction he works for. Talk about being a lame duck. Madcap alternate history/police procedural it is, but Chabon also points squarely at a serious dilemma we’ve all faced. Why bother to do the right thing, if no one cares, and if it seems not to matter, to make any difference to anyone?
So here are my speculations for the week: What do we do when 1) We learn the authority that comforts us, and that we depend upon, has become hopelessly compromised? 2) We learn that we have been in denial all our lives about what is true and what is not? Or, 3) Our moral and ethical best efforts are probably meaningless to the world around us?
That fashion makeover series ended recently, and it put me in mind of my own set of rules for writing, and more importantly, reading. When I pick up a book, digital or paper, I try to be flexible. I try to get into the author’s world, the world s/he has built for me.
I try very hard not to constrain the author with my expectations, even though I always have expectations. I’ve read the blurb, I’ve looked at the cover, I’ve considered previous work of the author’s I might have read, I’ve considered what I’m in the mood for, and only then will I make a judgement about whether or not I wish to dive in.
And a book is never exactly what I expect. Or hardly ever. I try to be flexible, to go along with the author’s plan. I don’t have to instantly agree one-hundred percent with every authorial decision. I am forgiving. What s/he does right is much more important than what s/he does wrong. I am picky, but not unreasonable.
That said, there are a few things that stop me cold. I may not throw the book across the room, but I may put it down and go watch TV or play Candy Crush.
I would prefer you don’t:
1) Overuse italics.
Italics are wonderful for indicating emphasis, foreign words, or a character’s internal dialogue. For pages-long backstory or flashback, they are horrible. Exposition of backstory in itself has issues, but put it in italics, and it ruins my eyes as well. It’s not easy to read. A multi-page chunk of italics signals: Here comes a bunch of stuff I somehow have to get through before I can continue with the actual story. So please just give me the actual story.
2) Let a single paragraph go on for pages and pages.
All right, maybe I don’t have that much of an attention span. Or maybe I need to rest my eyes. Or I’m sleepy and need to turn out the light. Whatever the reason, I like to stop at a logical place. If a chapter or scene break isn’t coming up soon, I’ll stop at the first paragraph at the top of the page. I don’t enjoy stopping mid-paragraph.
3) Use science fiction or fantasy tropes only as metaphor or literary device:
Many years ago, I picked up P. D. James’s The Children of Men. I kept waiting for scientists somewhere to figure out the physical cause for the worldwide male infertility at the center of the novel. Chapter after chapter passed, but scientists were barely mentioned. It seemed we were meant to believe they had given up, that somewhere, off camera, they were shrugging and saying, “Oh, well. That’s too bad.” Eventually, I understood that no cause was being offered, that the author had no interest or curiosity whatsoever in a physical cause. Universal male infertility was a literary device, a metaphor for an expression of the author’s religious views. Realizing that was a kick in the ovaries for me.
Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife uses time travel as a literary device to tell the story of a romance and marriage. Although it was enjoyable, the story as a whole fell flat for me. Time travel becomes mundane used in this fashion, reminding me more of the trials of any married person who can’t keep track of the comings and goings of a spouse, rather than the mind-blowing possibilities inherent in time travel.
4) Go on and on about whaling, to the detriment of character and relationship development:
I’m talking to you, Herman Melville.
5) Let your isms show:
Are you a communist? I’m not. But if you are, and you write as well as China Mieville, I am happy to read your work. Are you a conservative Catholic? I’m not. But if you are, and you write as well as Tim Powers, I’ll read your work, too.
Every one of us has deeply held beliefs the right of which to express are guaranteed by our Constitution, and bestowed upon us by our Creator. Those beliefs will be embedded in our fiction, but subtly, if we are good storytellers.
The foregoing is not intended to tell anyone how to write. It is intended only to express my opinion. What are your great reading gripes?
As I finished up my most recent post, I knew a reader or two was likely to tell me of restaurants in SF that I had not known about. Sure enough, a friend suggested The Vlad Taltos series from Steven Brust. Naturally, I wanted to check it out. My normal modus operandi these days in such a situation is to download it immediately. Unfortunately, I found the first novel in the series, Jhereg, was not available in digital form, although later novels in the series are.
I punched buy with one-click! on Amazon to obtain Jhereg in pb, and then wondered, what else isn’t available digitally? My first thought was to look for great, but obscure works, items that survive on my shelf through years of culling. I was a little surprised by what was there, and what was not.
The most glaring omission were the novels of Patricia Anthony. The only novels of hers available in electronic format were Brother Termite, and Flanders. Missing was my absolute fab fave, God’s Fires, as well as everything else. (If you think you might like a novel about the Inquisition with a science-fictional twist, this one should appeal to you.)
We lost Patricia Anthony a couple months ago, and as it happens, every one of her eight books was published in the nineties. Eating Memories, and Flanders, her last books, both came out in 1998. It pains me to think that because her body of work is “old,” having missed the ebook revolution, and because she is now gone, all her fine work could be forgotten. I consider Patricia Anthony to be a significant SF and mainstream author, and I urge anyone who missed her in the 90’s to look her up. Start with the ebook if you like, then, if necessary, go for the real books.
A book I did not expect to find, and yet was disappointed not to find, was Paul Park’s The Gospel of Corax. I have heard that novel was a disaster commercially, and had a negative impact on his career.
I was sorry to hear that. I loved it. Give me a thoughtful, out-there, possibly controversial version of a religion or a religious figure, and I am really, really happy. What others consider blasphemous, I consider speculative and thought-provoking. I have never believed the The Great Spirit is particularly annoyed or injured by any sincere inquiry. The Gospel of Corax is one of my favorites of these, and I also enjoyed The Three Marys, by the same author.
Beyond those two examples, I’m sure there are dozens, if not hundreds, of books missing from digital stores. Many will become available, in good time, but some may not. I suppose the same goes for music, film, and TV. This distresses me. I’m not usually the quickest to adapt to new technology, but digital culture and entertainment are different. I have become entirely accustomed to having everything that has ever been played, written, or filmed available instantly. I am willing to pay for it; I don’t expect it to be free, but I want it RIGHT NOW.
And, although Jhereg wasn’t available RIGHT NOW, it arrived within forty-eight hours.
Conflict is the heart of any story, and the driver of all plots within the story. Conflict–which many of us like to avoid in our daily lives–is what we eagerly seek out in fiction, both as writers and as consumers. Conflict can be anything from a tear in the fabric of space-time that threatens to swallow up all of reality (Dr. Who) to over-done women carrying a grudge over how someone dissed someone else (Real Housewives of Wherever, Shahs of Sunset*).
In the case of the latter, I become impatient. I want to tell the self-involved dummies to get over themselves and pay attention to what matters in life. In the case of the former, I also become impatient, because a conflict that’s too big can also become tedious. Dr. Who fell into this for a while. I mean, come on. You know reality isn’t going to go up in a puff of smoke. What would happen to the show, then? So why keep making that the arc of the season? Can’t we just have some fun adventure?
Conflict is a matter of scale. The Doctor is a Time Lord able to travel through space and time in the Tardis. He has his wits and a magic screwdriver. The most satisfying of the stories are neither to big nor too small for his persona. My favorite this season so far is “The Rings of Akhaten,” where a child is saved from sacrifice. That was lovely. On the other end of the spectrum, I became so very weary last season of the tedious and portentous story lines of the Doctor’s death, and the whole mess with Amy Pond, River Song, and Rory. I simply didn’t buy any of it.
Conflict is also a matter of perspective and depth. Generic makes my eyes glaze over. The oft-repeated advice to the writer, “Begin with a character with a problem…” makes my mind go numb. I need to begin with something specific, be it large or small. More accurately, two or three things come together, and then two or three things are added, and so forth. In the masterpiece that is Mad Men, we spend most of the first season collecting and arranging these specific pieces, i.e. characters in a quite specific time and place. I remember being unimpressed with the first episode I watched, in which Peggy starts work, Joan struts around like an office queen bee, and Don drinks and smokes and screws around. It seemed a bland period piece, until toward the end of the first season, when the real characters emerge from the carefully crafted images that era demanded. From that point on, the series has been driven seamlessly by character conflict. Twist and turn goes the plot, but it manages to both shock and be inevitable.
Conflict is a matter of quality. Does exploration of this fictional conflict somehow enlighten and inform me on the subject of the human condition? Does it seem real? If not, I see it as a waste of time. This is my general gripe against recent literary fiction, that it seems to be about nothing. (And not in the Seinfeld sense, the show the that pretended to be about nothing but in fact was about everything.) Quality conflict moves me. It makes me laugh, it makes me cry, it makes me want to talk about it to others who have watched or read it. It is highly subjective. What matters to some, doesn’t to others.
While avoiding conflict in life whenever possible, I indulge my addiction with several doses daily of the fictional variety. I’m reading two books now, The New Moon’s Arms, by Nalo Hopkinson, and Cyroburn, by Lois McMaster Bujold. On the TV front, I am watching Mad Men, Game of Thrones, Doctor Who, Parks & Recreation, Community, Mr. Selfridge, and EastEnders. I haven’t seen a movie in months, but I have seen three stage plays in recent weeks, two of which were excellent and which I will name here: The Whale, by Samuel D. Hunter, and The Parisian Woman, by Beau Willimon. I’m finding Mr. Selfridge a bit conflict-lite, a bit contrived, but I’m soldiering on with it anyway. EastEnders is a British soap opera. Many of its conflicts are stupid, but it is fun to make fun of.
I love being addicted to conflict and to have so many opportunities to get all drugged up with it every day. I love the conflict with self and family in the Hopkinson novel and the Hunter play. I love the disparate social and political commentary of Bujold, Parks & Rec, and Community. I love the very different kinds of heroism shown in Dr. Who, in Bujold, and in Game of Thrones. I love the anthropological and psychological dissection of the Willimon play and of Mad Men.
It’s a lot going on. I’ve had a bit of a problem lately in that I cannot help visualizing Peter Dinklage as Miles Vorkosigan, even though I know darned well Miles is not a little person. The wit, swagger, and toughness of the two characters of Tyrion and Miles bear comparison, somehow.
One more interesting note about fictional conflict: Even when I have real conflict in my life (and no one can avoid it completely) I still need the approximate same daily dose of the fictional variety. The difference is, during rough times, I focus on the resolution. Fiction does such a better job of resolution than real life does.
*I am treating Reality TV as fiction. Please tell me it is.
Photo: Speculative Martha
On the very fine SF Squeecast, panelists Lynne M. Thomas, Seanan McGuire, Elizabeth Bear, Paul Cornell, and Catherynne M. Valente always ask their guest some questions, one of which is, “What is the first book you read on your own as a child?”
I have plumbed my memory, but really have no idea. I was fortunate in that learning to read was like learning to walk and talk for me. I just did it. From age three, I remember asking my parents to read street signs for me. “Stop,” “Yield,” “No Left Turn.” In those ancient days, no official attempt was made to teach kids to read until first grade, after spending all of kindergarten teaching them the alphabet and how to write our first names. My memory of first grade is that I sat down in the reading group and started reading Dick, Spot, and Jane with no fuss, muss, or sweat.
I don’t remember the first book I read on my own, but I do remember the most important childhood book that I owned. That book is The Golden Book of Astronomy–A Child’s Introduction to the Wonders of Space. I still have it, the only book I have from my childhood.
The original publication date is 1955, and I have the second edition from 1958. We had not yet been to the moon. We had not yet launched a human to orbit. On page 86, in the chapter, “Man-Made Satellites,” we learn that on October 4, 1957, Russia shot Sputnik I into space. Also, “Since then, more artificial satellites have been launched by Russia and the United States. And more are coming.” (My writer’s sense is that those words were penned immediately after Sputnik, but before anything else was actually launched.)
One of my favorite chapters is on Mercury. In those days, we thought Mercury’s period of rotation was the same as the length of its year, hence, that the same side of the planet always faced the sun. The Golden Book therefore speaks of a pernament “twilight zone,” where a spaceship could land. How bummed-out I was find out Mercury’s rotation was nearly twice that of its year.
This is confusing as well as disheartening. No twilight zone. No way for humans to take a trip to Mercury.
The Golden Book goes on to present relatively appealing scenes of a desert-like Venus reminiscent of the Venus depicted in Queen of Outer Space, which I think was filmed in the Hollywood Hills.
Mars is given two pages, and gives a glowing account of the strong possibility of life, running water, and changing seasons. There is the rather hilarious sentence, “There are no mountains on Mars. If there were, their shadows would show.”
There is less information about the outer planets. The Golden Book seems not to have considered landing on any of the moons of Jupiter or Saturn, and what moons are mentioned are not all of them. Jupiter was supposed to have twelve; Saturn, nine. Uranus and Neptune share a chapter, and are moonless. Pluto, while still a planet, is only a dot in the sky. Charon had not yet been discovered.
I read and read this book until the binding was shattered. As time went on, I mourned–just a little–as reality took over my childhood fantasies.
Enter Kim Stanley Robinson and 2312. This is the book I have longed for since childhood, a sequel of sorts, to my beloved Golden Book.
Much of the novel takes place on Mercury, and this might be the greatest delight of all, for Robinson has managed to bring back my twilight zone by having Mercury’s city, Terminator, move on tracks, ever fleeing the dawn. Better yet, because the rotation is so slow, and the planet so small, bands of humans can walk around Mercury for sport, always staying just ahead of the rising sun. Oh man, this makes my nine-year-old heart beat faster.
KSR has managed to do something with hellhole Venus! Okay, it doesn’t quite look like Griffith Park, but they’re beginning the long and controversial process of terraforming. It’s not as nice as Mars, but you can walk on it.
Speaking of Mars, it is fabulous. Magnificent, and totally worthy of The Golden Book. Robinson has already terraformed the planet in his Mars trilogy, and now its citizens and civilization are thriving. Oh wow, I want to go there.
I never wanted to go to space to be a pioneer, suffer hardship, be brave, or risk death. I wanted to go once the hotels were built, and the top-tier restaurants in place. I want those mints on my pillow. That’s why 2312 is for me. I enjoyed the story and characters a lot, but the main thing for me is the setting, our magnificent solar system.
We visit as well the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. We visit asteroids. We also visit fabulous terreria constructed from small asteroids, and in some ways, these are the most fabulous worlds of all. We also see what planet Earth is up to, and Robinson does spend some time on political and social concerns, and a wild attempt to begin to put Earth’s ecology right again.
This is the trend–more space fiction taking place within our solar system, the systems of other stars being just too far away to reach in a human lifetime. But with a solar system like this, why go anywhere else?
A few weeks ago, I posted on Blueprints of the Afterlife, not once, but twice. In the second of the two posts, I suggested Cat’s Cradle as the best book of this type I’d read. It was a book I dearly loved, but then, I was in love with anything Kurt Vonnegut did. I thought he might be the reincarnation of Mark Twain, whom I also was in love with.
I have now reread Cat’s Cradle. Oh my goodness, my reaction to it now is so different than it was several decades ago. I find I can’t take it anymore.
I did not get, in my early twenties, how truly angry the book was. That Vonnegut does not appear to be joking. That the characters are despicable or stupid. That all the “harmless lies” of Bokononism amount to an odorous pile of foul cynicism. That the flat tone of the affectless narrator would someday sound in my mind’s ear like fingernails on a blackboard. I thought it was all just brash and funny, that Vonnegut was only being smart and subversive.
I don’t mind the dark, but I can’t take the hopelessness, cluelessness, and uselessness of the characters, Bokonon included. We are, in this book, frogmarched to our collective doom.
What makes the book effective is that the stupid, shortsighted, bigoted, willfully ignorant characters do have real-life counterparts. (Perhaps I shouldn’t have begun rereading this in an election season. Yes, that’s you I’m looking at, Donald Trump.) What drew me in, what made me fall in love, was Bokononism. It is a made-up religion, established for political reasons. The principals involved began by pretending to be enemies, but went on to become enmeshed in their adversarial roles.
The outlawed religion of Bokononism is false and made-up. Nonetheless, everyone believes in it. So what is not true has become, from the characters’ perspectives, true. Bokononism won’t save anyone though, and it’s all a lie anyway.
But I loved that stuff when I was twenty-something, partially by denying what the book was saying, and thinking yes, yes, but Bokononism really is true!
And here’s the thing: it is. We all know a dupress or two. We all can identify members of our karass. None of us have the least bit of trouble identifying a granfalloon. Every bit of that is true. So how can’t all of it be true? We’re better and smarter than the Hoenikkers and the other characters, so surely we can avoid killing ourselves with ice-nine, can’t we?
Not in the universe of Cat’s Cradle. We aren’t good enough, or smart enough, to pull that off. Frank Hoenikker, too willfully stupid to realize he is destroying the world, unleashes ice-nine into dying “Papa’s” body, from whence it will go and infect the entire world. But had Frank not done this, his brother, or sister, or the U.S. government, or the Soviets would most certainly have done so.
In other words, we’re doomed.
The book is brilliant. It is a masterpiece. I’m afraid don’t like it anymore.
I can’t take the futility.
Oddly, the fictional work I found myself flashing upon while rereading Cat’s Cradle was the musical, The Book of Mormon, another work that speaks of the importance of belief. The big difference is that the beliefs of our equally clueless and naive Mormon missionaries in the play allow them to win over evil–regardless of the truth or untruth of their theology–and to actually do some good, to save a few people.
I have come to a time in life when I prefer the somewhat twisted hope of The Book of Mormon musical to the cool, black despair of Cat’s Cradle.
And I’ll claim that as my spiritual journey.