tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-176836972024-03-19T05:50:17.798-05:00The Rediscovered CountryFairy tales, bad TV, classroom ramblings, and contemporary speculative fiction ...Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.comBlogger143125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-88528341947765531072018-01-03T18:04:00.002-06:002018-01-03T18:12:20.555-06:002017 Writing Roundup or, You Like Lists? Here's A Bunch of ListsHappy 2018! New year, new goals ...<br />
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Before we move to <i>new </i>goals, though, here's what I published in 2017:<br />
<ul>
<li>In March, "<a href="http://magazine.metaphorosis.com/story/2017/the-lost-heirs-of-rose-mcalder-kate-lechler/" target="_blank">The Lost Heirs of Rose McAlder</a>" came out in <i>Metaphorosis</i>. </li>
<li>In April, "<a href="https://firesidefiction.com/the-hulders-husband-says-dont" target="_blank">The Hulder's Husband Says Don't</a>" appeared in <i>Fireside Fiction</i> (my second pro-publication and, I was informed today, Fireside's 7th-most read story of 2017!)</li>
<li>In May, my personal essay "<a href="https://superstitionreview.asu.edu/issue19/nonfiction/katelechler" target="_blank">The Breathtaking Sting of the Pull</a>" came out in <i>Superstition Review</i>.</li>
<li>And in September, my poem "<a href="http://www.liminalitypoetry.com/issue-13-autumn-2017/cthulhu-listens-to-the-beach-boys/" target="_blank">Cthulhu Listens to the Beach Boys</a>" appeared in <i>Liminality. </i></li>
</ul>
I also:<br />
<ul>
<li>Attended the Taos Toolbox Workshop (and met some great people; shout-out to my Taos crew!)</li>
<li>Edited two full-length books and a handful of short stories for my editing business, <a href="http://cephalopodediting.com/" target="_blank">Cephalopod Editing</a>.</li>
<li>Finished a first and second draft of a memoir I'm ghost-writing.</li>
<li>Started as a first-reader for <i>Liminal</i>.</li>
<li>Submitted my work 60+ times.</li>
<li>Beta-read 20+ pieces for friends/Codexians.</li>
<li>And revised about half of Jurassic Unicorn*<i> </i>in the first half of the year<i>, </i>just to start over w/ revisions in July (after Taos!) and make it through 250 pages before Dec 30. </li>
</ul>
And:<br />
<ul>
<li>Grew a bunch of beautiful flowers.</li>
<li>Taught over 400 students in 8 different classes.</li>
<li>Perfected my recipe for turkey gravy and sun-dried tomato tapenade.</li>
<li>Took good loving hospice care of Sam the Eternal Hound before he passed on to his just rewards.</li>
<li>Read around 6 million words of fanfic.</li>
<li>Went on a heckin' good solo road trip (over 3k miles) to see a bunch of amazing friends and visit places in the US I'd never been. </li>
</ul>
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So? What am I hoping for 2018? Well, in addition to my resolutions (criticize others less, make & keep a morning routine, call my representatives weekly), here's my writing goals:</div>
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<ul>
<li>Finish 2nd draft of Jurassic Unicorn and start querying it.</li>
<li>Write a zero-draft of Kraken Dick*</li>
<li>Write six new short stories</li>
<li>Get six stories revised/polished for publication</li>
<li>Submit 50 times</li>
<li>Write one academic essay</li>
<li>Beta-read 30+ pieces for friends/Codexians.</li>
</ul>
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Here's to you and your accomplishments in 2017, and your goals in 2018! We got this, friend. And even if we don't (always) get it, I'm gonna stick to my most important life-resolution--Forgive Thyself--and I hope you will too.<br />
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*Aren't code-names for novels fun?</div>
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-82142416245482334552017-08-16T18:26:00.001-05:002017-08-16T18:26:06.362-05:00Taos Toolbox workshop<br />This summer, I attended the <a href="http://www.taostoolbox.com/" target="_blank">Taos Toolbox workshop</a>, a 2-week SF/F writing workshop in Angel Fire, New Mexico, run by Walter Jon Williams and Nancy Kress.<br /><br /><div>
It was a good but tough two weeks, very busy in a beautiful location. There were 18 of us and we each got to submit two pieces--a 10k piece the first week, and a 5k piece the second. So, naturally, we spent most of our days in workshop, responding to our peers' work, and then evenings mostly reading work for the next day.</div>
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Walter and Nancy were compassionate, funny, interesting, and exacting. They didn't pussyfoot around or pat us on the back often, but they made sure we knew when we'd succeeded. I appreciated their senses of humor and their focus on problem-solving when our writing didn't meet the mark.<br /><br />We also had guest speakers throughout our time there, who came to speak about different areas of expertise and the writing life. While we were all looking forward to George R. R. Martin and I really enjoyed meeting him, the most helpful guest speaker for me was E.M. Tippetts, an indie-publishing guru with lots of practical strategies for launching a book or series as a self-published author. Her talk was so practical, so jam-packed with information, and I came away inspired to try self-publishing someday.<br /><br />Taos is also billed as a graduate workshop but I’m not sure I’d agree. I'd compare it more to technical or professional school. The workshop is more geared towards commercial writers and making your work sellable, than it is about honing a creative aesthetic. To that end, we learned a lot of very practical writerly advice, some of it truisms or plot formulas that writers have likely heard before. But what really helped was being forced to put it into practice via critiques and writing exercises. Honestly, I wish there'd been a little more writing exercises or structured time for writing, but I do feel like I've developed a more judicious eye for my own work and the work of others. The two weeks felt like learning to write from muscle memory. It was almost as if our instructors said, "Oh, you think you know this writing truism? Then do it, over and over." At the end of two weeks, I came away with specific writing maxims much more ingrained in my process than before.</div>
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The aspect that sets Taos apart from the two other big summer workshops (Clarion and Odyssey) is that it's much more novel focused. Most people in our group were workshopping the beginnings of novels, and I took the first segment of Jurassic Unicorn. While we got line edits on what we submitted, we also had a lot of chances to talk larger plot, and I even got to sit down with Walter and get his feedback on my plot revisions at the end of the two weeks. I came away feeling much stronger about the shape of the Jurassic Unicorn plot.<br /><br />Things I learned:<br /><br />I learned about letting your readers know what to expect from your work right away.<br /><br />I learned about plotting.<br /><br />I learned about making an ending as strong as a beginning.<br /><br />I learned about active, atmospheric description.<br /><br />I learned about the ups and downs of the publishing world, and strategies to adapt to a changing market.<br /><br />I learned to be tougher in my criticisms of others, and more exacting in what I demand from myself. After Taos, I can look back at stories I thought were finished and already I can see where they drag, are bloated, are convoluted.<br /><br />And I learned that the tough thing about criticism is separating taste from technique. Technique, you can change. You can improve. But if your vision doesn’t match someone else’s taste, there’s not much you can do except shrug and say “well, you’re not my audience." </div>
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This was what happened to me, with Jurassic Unicorn--it was not to several people's taste, which kinda crushed me while I was there. But I've bounced back from that now and am focused on changing the things about my technique that I can, while staying true to my original vision for the book. </div>
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Hands down the best part of Taos was making friends in the SF/F world. I'm so excited that I connected with folks there, people that I will be able to share work with and learn from for a long time. </div>
Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-86580068253323056132017-05-29T22:05:00.002-05:002017-05-31T11:05:00.088-05:00Fuck Advice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Okay, chickadees, let’s talk about writing advice and mental health.<br />
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There’s this writing bromide that you have to write every day to be successful. It’s not new; it’s been around a long time, but another article just turned up peddling this.<br />
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And, like most writing dogma, it is bullshit. Like the time my college advisor told me to never talk about my writing projects, because I’d lose my drive to write them. Not true, at least not for me. I LOVE talking about projects. Thinking aloud helps me brainstorm, and other people’s reactions help me maintain the emotional energy for a project. (Remind me to tell you sometime about how many years I’d had the idea for #JurassicUnicorn before I started writing it.)<br />
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A lot of people--<a href="https://twitter.com/seananmcguire/status/869274194197872640" target="_blank">Seanan Maguire</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/ai_valentin/status/869237892459229184" target="_blank">Aleksei Valentin</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/MaryRobinette/status/869271119253176322" target="_blank">Mary Robinette Kowal</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/djolder/status/869257033559814144" target="_blank">Daniel Jose Older</a>, <a href="http://katsudon.net/?p=5540" target="_blank">Alex Acks</a>, etc.--have torn the write-every-day advice to shreds on Twitter and elsewhere. It’s classist. It’s unnecessary. It can lead to bad writing. It's ableist.<br />
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Yep. Yep. Yep.<br />
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About a year and a half ago I was considering checking myself into a facility for a nervous breakdown. 2015 had been intense: my biological father had died, I’d gotten married, and I’d started a new job. I taught a full load of three classes across two of UM’s branch campuses, and—because I needed the money and didn’t know my limits—took an overload of two extra classes on the main UM campus. On top of all of this, I was trying to maintain my own demanding internal writing schedule, writing every day no matter what, and blaming myself for laziness and inefficiency when I didn’t meet my writing goals.<br />
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By the time Christmas break came, I told my parents I couldn’t visit them because I was too overwhelmed. In truth, I had been isolating myself from people around me because any social engagement, no matter how minor, felt impossible. One night I woke Wil up in the middle of the night to tell him that I was having fantasies about hurting myself. “I’m not going to,” I assured him. “But it scares me that I’m even thinking this. I just feel safer if you know.”<br />
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I had anxiety, brought on at least in part by pressure I was putting on myself to do everything at 100%. My body had been trying to get my attention for a while, with insomnia, stomach problems, headaches, neck and back pain, and an eye twitch. But I didn’t listen until I hit that mental wall at Christmas. <br />
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It’s taken me the last year and a half to get out of that space. I used medication, counseling, and mindfulness to treat my anxiety, but the most radical thing has been self-forgiveness. Being easy with myself. With writing, that means letting myself off the hook for the days I don’t work. And being more honest about what I call “work,” because even now I have a habit of saying “I didn’t work today” when what I mean is “I grocery shopped, e-mailed five students, read half a book for class, called the vet, cleaned the house, and went to choir practice, but I didn’t write or revise fiction today.” That other stuff—the stuff I’ve had to train myself to think of as “work”—is a vital part of my life. And I am a whole person. I am not a machine that produces words. <br />
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What’s been amazing about the process of learning self-forgiveness is how difficult it was at first, how much I resisted it because <i>what if I get soft, get lazy, don't I need the guilt to produce?</i>. I didn’t just wake up one day and say, “Okay, I’ll start forgiving myself now.” Or, I did, but the rest of me didn’t believe it for a while. I had to keep waking up, keep saying it, writing about it, reading it in tarot spreads, talking about it with my husband, my counselor, my friends. <br />
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What’s even better is how much easier it is now. You know how it feels when you’ve got the flu, and then you have your first back-to-normal day again? How bright, how easy, how lovely everything is, relative to having the flu? That’s how it feels now that self-forgiveness is a reflex. When I don’t check everything off my list and instead of internally self-flagellating, I’m more able to shrug and say “Oh well. There’s always tomorrow.” Not every time. But more than I used to be.<br />
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Which is not to say that self-forgiveness is going to be easy or learnable for every person. I want to share this story because my ability to forgive myself was hard-won, and it still feels like a miracle to me. But even this advice—is this advice?—can be damaging if you take it and feel guilty for how much guilt you feel. Maybe you have a harder time shutting off your brain than I do, because we have different brain chemistry. Maybe you lived longer with people who shamed you or told you that you were worthless, and those messages are more deeply engraved into your identity. In my experience, learning to be easy with yourself is still worth working at, but don’t use it as a stick to beat yourself with. As an old boss of mine used to say, "Don't should on yourself"--whether that <i>should </i>is writing, or self-forgiveness.<br />
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The big thing is: No advice is foolproof. Fuck advice.Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-17242194307481237512017-05-24T15:22:00.001-05:002017-05-24T15:22:22.254-05:00Me, Bertha Mason, and Trichotillomania<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A few weeks ago, my essay “<a href="https://superstitionreview.asu.edu/issue19/nonfiction/katelechler" target="_blank">The Breathtaking Sting of the Pull</a>,” about my experience with trichotillomania, came out in <a href="https://superstitionreview.asu.edu/" target="_blank">Superstition Review</a>. This is by far the piece I’ve gotten the most comments on from readers, which surprised me, though it probably shouldn’t have; more people read non-fiction than fiction. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /><br />What shocked me—and ultimately affirmed my choice to write about trich—was how many people wrote to me, both publicly and privately, to tell me that they could empathize. That they too pull their hair or pick their skin or do something else that they’ve always felt vaguely ashamed about. It feels really good to have people tell you they spent their free time reading something you wrote. It felt even better, after twenty-plus years of hiding, to have some solidarity, to have found some people who understand. <div>
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I just wish I’d written about it sooner.<br /><br />I love hair: all it can do, all it can say. Hair as symbol and signifier. This past semester, my Women in Lit class talked quite a bit about hair as we read <i>Their Eyes Were Watching God</i> and <i>Americanah</i>, both books about, among other things, the importance of hair in the lives of black women. We also talked about Bertha Mason’s hair in <i>Jane Eyre</i>. Jane describes her lover's imprisoned wife as having “a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane,” hiding her face. Wild hair could be read not only as an indicator of Bertha’s madness but also of her potential racial otherness in the book. Some scholars have read her as a multiracial woman. (For what it's worth, the book calls Bertha a “Creole,” which is a complicated and ambiguous term. As far as my research shows, at the time the term simply meant that she was the daughter of a white European settler in Jamaica. However, there is enough in <i>Jane Eyre</i> to indicate that Bertha might be intended to be multiracial—for instance, Jane talks about her “discoloured” and “black” face.)<br /><br />Women’s unbound hair has also, at various times and in many cultures, indicated similarly unbound sexuality, and Bertha is no exception. Rochester doesn’t spell it out for us, but he says that when he first met Bertha: <blockquote class="tr_bq">
she lavishly displayed for my pleasure her charms and accomplishments. All the men in her circle seemed to admire her and envy me. I was dazzled, stimulated: my senses were excited; and being ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I thought I loved her.</blockquote>
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The words "displayed," "charms," "stimulated," "senses"--all of this reads to me as the account of a man driven to lust by a woman’s sensuality. Later on, though, Rochester criticizes Bertha for her lack of modesty, calls her “perverse” and “unchaste,” a woman of “giant propensities.” Reading between the lines, I assume she had, in some way, violated Rochester’s expectations of committed female sexuality—perhaps through adultery, or by being too eager for and interested in sex in general.<br /><br />This second option is how I’ve chosen to rewrite Bertha’s backstory, in my story “<a href="http://podcastle.org/story-texts/the-beautiful-bird-sits-no-longer-singing-in-the-nest-by-kate-lechler/" target="_blank">The Beautiful Bird Sits No Longer Singing in the Nest.</a>” It’s a retelling of Rapunzel, as well, with Bertha imagining herself as the captive at the top of the tower, and Grace Poole/Jane as the witch imprisoning her. And you can’t write about Rapunzel without writing about hair, so my Bertha uses her hair as a means of escape and even revenge. But unlike Rapunzel, whose hair is most useful when it is still growing from her head, Bertha must pluck hers to braid it into rope, to use it as kindling, simultaneously erasing the very symbol of the madness and hyper-sexuality she’s been labeled with. The absence of hair, here, means as much as its presence; it gives her power. She imagines making a boat out of her hair and sailing away, saying "I would stride the waters like a bald Amazon."</div>
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I don’t think I intended all of this subtext, at least not when I started writing the story. I hadn't given much thought to what Bertha's hair might symbolize and I was still in the closet about my trich. But when I thought about my own anxiety, imagined myself in that tower room, the imagery flowed from there. I was writing about trich before I knew it. My version of the story begins with Bertha plucking her hair, in a scene that mirrors my own experiences plucking mine: </div>
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I roll each hair between my fingers like a rosary. My fingers crawl across my scalp until I find one: coarse where the others are thin, kinked where the others are smooth. I enjoy the feel of it pulling against me, tenting my skin. Then I yank it out, suck on the end, and drop it on the floor.</blockquote>
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-46938275577655557152017-03-13T11:16:00.001-05:002017-03-13T11:16:18.646-05:00In Which I Reveal That I am a Panther (and other writing things)Last month I applied for some summer writing workshops and one of them required that I send a chapter of my novel, along with a detailed (2-3 page) novel outline.<br />
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This is gonna sound like Writer 101, but I hadn't really written a detailed novel outline yet. I had been working from a three-act structure outline (a great breakdown of this, and other plot structures, on <a href="http://blog.janicehardy.com/2013/10/how-to-plot-with-three-act-structure.html" target="_blank">Janice Hardy's blog here</a>), but as far as a scene-by-scene outline ... nope. Didn't have one.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/66/Panther-mom-carries-panther-baby-big.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/66/Panther-mom-carries-panther-baby-big.jpg" width="258" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm a panther; this baby is my book.</td></tr>
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This is fine. Writers often divide into <a href="http://thewritepractice.com/plotters-pantsers/" target="_blank">plotters and pantsers</a>--people who plan ahead of time, or people who write by the seat of their pants. I'm kind of in-between. I had the major beats charted out but when it came to writing the bits that connected those beats, I was a pantser. Note: my computer wants to autocorrect that to "panther," so that is my new official writing type.<br />
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When I wrote this detailed outline, I realized a couple things.<br />
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First, SO MUCH HAPPENS IN MY BOOK. It is kind of breathtaking all the shit that goes down. Which, on the one hand, is good. Fun, action-packed, complex novel, right? On the other hand ... holy wow there are like 4 major plotlines that I need to weave together so that events, themes, motivations, etc. converge at <i>just </i>the right moment.<br />
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Second, I have so much to gain from a scene-by-scene analysis of my book that I'm stunned and slightly guilt-ridden that I didn't do it earlier. How much stronger would my book be if I knew how scene 23 connects back to what's already happened, how it moves the plotlines forward, and how it sets up for events that will happen later?<br />
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But there's no sense in beating myself up for what I didn't do yet. This is my first novel; I'm learning.<br />
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What's really exciting is that I can suddenly see, like I'm Sherlock hallucinating diagrams in mid-air, how to make my book so much better. It's already good, but I'm about to make it kick-ass. And I can't wait.<br />
<br />Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-72395371674570665402017-02-17T11:24:00.000-06:002017-02-17T11:24:06.807-06:00The Spiritual Hunger of the Young Pope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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HBO has given me two gifts in the past six months: <i>Westworld </i>and <i>The Young Pope</i>. Both totally obsessed me from the moment I started watching them, taking up space in my brain in a way that TV doesn’t usually manage to. While I thought Westworld was incredible, ultimately <i>The Young Pope</i>, created and directed by Italian filmmaker Paolo Sorrentino, was more meaningful to me. <br /><br />It made me miss believing in God.<br /><br />This may strike people as odd, given that there has been a fair amount of criticism of <i>The Young Pope</i>’s non-reverential attitude towards the church. It has been accused of being sacreligious, Christophobic, Catholic-bashing, and “a disgusting insult to Christians.” If all you watched was the first or second episode, or only saw the (many! wonderful!) online memes, I might get that. Jude Law’s titular character, Lenny Belardo or Pope Pius XIII, is not anyone’s role model. He’s vain, power-hungry, and unfeeling in the model of many other TV antiheroes—and claims not to believe in God. He is surrounded, moreover, by conniving, grasping cardinals, eager at first to cement their role in his new administration, and then later blatantly deceptive to their pontiff when they see his effect on a dwindling church.<br /><br />So, no, <i>The Young Pope</i> does not treat either the papacy, the Catholic church, or religious authority in general as beyond criticism, not by a long shot.<br /><br />But if we can separate the show <i>The Young Pope</i> from the character of the young pope, the show itself is obsessed with God—His presence and His absence—in a way that feels genuine and reverential. <br /><br />For one thing, the show is interested in exploring the idea of religious calling, the moment when a priest or nun feels as though God is telling them to pursue ministry for their life’s work. Lenny asks several of his closest friends to tell them about their calling and each story—often shown in flashback—is given the weight that such serious material demands. These callings, vividly recalled, are watershed moments in people’s lives, portrayed with subtlety, emotion, and no hint of mockery.<br /><br />The show is also fascinated with religious visions. Lenny himself has several. Granted, their content sometimes borders on hilarious. In one vision, Lenny is surrounded by his predecessors, all decked out in the specific papal garb of their time period, and he asks them for guidance. When they respond with platitudes, he asks “Do you have anything better?” But the visions are more often lovely and serious, as in Cardinal Gutierrez’s repeated vision of the Virgin Mary and Lenny's encounters with the Blessed Juana. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://nypdecider.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/young-pope-10-1.gif"><img border="0" src="https://nypdecider.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/young-pope-10-1.gif" /></a><br /><br /><br />While Sorrentino’s slow pace and lush aesthetic lends a dreamlike quality to what we watch, nothing about the lighting, the music, or the cinematography, diminishes the importance of these visions. To me, this means the show isn’t asking us to question these visions or their provenance. Instead, it asks us to accept them—whether as indicative of the character’s personal obsession (like Lenny’s repeated dreams of his parents) or an actual communication from the divine—as meaningful. <i>The Young Pope</i> doesn’t care if the visions are “real”—what it cares about is that they are real to the characters.<br /><br />Here’s where I’ll argue that Lenny himself is not as much an unbeliever as he claims. Sure, he says in the first episode that he doesn’t believe in God. But the show makes it clear that he’s not necessarily questioning the objective existence of a deity; he’s really asking whether or not God has abandoned him. God matters to Lenny, maybe more than to anyone else in the show. And that, to me, is what <i>The Young Pope</i> is about—one man’s struggle to reconnect with God. <br /><br />The fact that Lenny is not, by many definitions, a good person makes the show even stronger. It asks if someone can be unlikeable, even bad, and still be used by God? Can someone have a relationship with a God they don’t quite believe in? Is struggling to believe in God worth it?<br /><br /><a href="https://cdn0.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/AenP7a-2vcH0Ebu25zaXwjHt8ZI=/800x0/filters:no_upscale()/cdn0.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_asset/file/7803721/dealwithit.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://cdn0.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/AenP7a-2vcH0Ebu25zaXwjHt8ZI=/800x0/filters:no_upscale()/cdn0.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_asset/file/7803721/dealwithit.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Lenny seems to believe it is worth it. And he is able to access God to help the world—though his version of helping the world is fraught with casual violence, from dropping the newborn baby he helped conceive through the power of prayer, to causing the suicide of a young aspirant to the priesthood whom Lenny’s anti-gay policies excluded. There’s a lot of casualties in this show, including a kangaroo (RIP, kangaroo!), Lenny’s best friend, Cardinal Dussolier and Sister Antonia, a corrupt nun who Lenny asks God to smite. The show doesn’t let Lenny off the hook for the violence he inadvertently causes, although it does soft-pedal more than I wish it did. For instance, his punishment of serial child molester Cardinal Kurtwell was the kind of TV poetic justice that is only poetic, not actually justice. Dude needed to be kicked out of the church and subjected to criminal charges, imo.<br /><br />(And, while we’re talking about ways <i>The Young Pope</i> fails, I hated its portrayal of the character Girolamo, a young man with cerebral palsy who basically just functions as a sympathetic sounding board for the devious Cardinal Voiello. Nicole Cliffe writes very convincingly and <a href="http://www.vulture.com/2017/02/the-young-pope-recap-season-1-episode-10.html">not a whit too critically of this treatment here</a>.)<br /><br />But on the whole, this show impressed me with its treatment of spirituality. It showed a wide variety of experiences with the divine and expressions of religious devotion. It acknowledged how life-changing religious belief can be, and the pain when that belief goes away. The show’s dreamlike quality itself replicates the ambiguity of spiritual experience—you feel that something important has happened, but you can’t quite explain it. <br /><br />I can relate to that. I often felt, when I was younger, that God was speaking to me—through music, through literature, through prayer. Nature uplifted me; I used to talk to the moon, imagining it as the benevolent face of God in the sky. I’m no longer a Christian. I lost my faith in my late 20’s. But I don’t doubt the sincerity of my spiritual experiences growing up, or the fact that they shaped me into who I am today. I felt those things and they mattered. <br /><br /> And I still feel them today, although I don’t know if I believe there is a divine power motivating them. I’m comfortable with that ambiguity, though. I’m comfortable hungering for spirituality without knowing for sure if there’s a divine. And so, it seems, is Lenny Belardo. <!--EndFragment--><br />
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-58066544984785445212017-02-05T21:32:00.002-06:002017-02-06T09:36:04.012-06:00How to Grow New Ideas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I got a rejection last week that put me into a minor tailspin. "We liked this story a lot," it basically said, "but it didn't do enough new and different with X-plotline."<br />
<br />
I wasn't upset about the individual rejection. It was kind, clear, and encouraging. It was also the 101st rejection I've ever gotten so, by this time, I'm a <i>little </i>less touchy about rejection than I used to be. These days when I get a rejection, there's less obsessing*, more <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "lato" , "helveticaneue" , "helvetica neue" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">¯\_(ツ)_/¯</span> and "So it goes" and sending that piece out to a different venue.<br />
<br />
What set me back was that it tapped into my deepest neurosis as a writer: that I'm not original.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong; I have my strengths. I write beautiful setting, because setting is the first thing I notice in the real world. My first-draft prose is pretty clean, often lovely. I come up with funny names, I can structure tight scenes.<br />
<br />
This fear isn't about the mechanics of writing. It's that I'm not saying anything new.<br />
<br />
This is one of the reasons I haven't pursued writing literary criticism, although it's pretty much a requirement to progress farther in my profession. Forcing myself to write my dissertation was one of the hardest things I've ever done, partly because I don't think I have anything new to say about the writers I study. I haven't written any academic articles since then because the very idea makes me sick to my stomach: not an auspicious sign.<br />
<br />
Writing fiction is easier because I enjoy it. It's fun. It's challenging. And the stories I tell are meaningful to me. Toni Morrison said, "If there's a book that you want to read but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it." That's what I try to do.<br />
<br />
But what if the stories I want to read--and thus want to write--are boring? Derivative? Trite?<br />
<br />
(These are the words the ugly voice whispers.)<br />
<br />
The thing with a fear like this is that, no matter what anyone says, you still believe it about yourself. I've talked about it with several other writers, all of whom say "I love your stories; you're brilliant; you're beautiful; we'd follow you into Mordor, etc." Y'know, normal encouraging friend stuff. Encouragement like that is kind and necessary--in this vocation, we need all the affirmation we can get, even if it feels like a bit of an echo chamber.<br />
<br />
But it doesn't really address the fact that I can see what that rejection is talking about, and I don't know what to do about it. In my worst moments, I look at my work and all I see is lesser reflections of authors I love.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to grappling with the central conflict: how do I have better ideas? Is it possible to make your brain better at having ideas? Or is the brain you're given the one you have, and you make do with the ideas it gives you?<br />
<br />
My poet friend Molly (whose <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Virginia-State-Colony-Epileptics-Feebleminded/dp/0892554789/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">excellent book <i>The Virginia State Colony for Epileptics and Feebleminded</i> comes out in March</a>) gave me at least a partial answer over the weekend: read widely. Watch widely. Experience widely.<br />
<br />
Basically, in this model, the brain is what you feed it. If you keep feeding it the same raw material--if you watch the same kind of shows, perhaps, or read in only one genre or style, or only visit the same restaurants and stores--it will continue to churn out the same end product.<br />
<br />
Or in a different metaphor, I can learn to grow better ideas by planting different seeds. Maybe watching a documentary instead of rewatching <i>Buffy</i> for the fifth time. Reading poetry, or biography, or science journalism, instead of the umpteenth Johnlock fic. Visiting new countries, new cities, or driving a new route home.<br />
<br />
And even, as Molly suggested, trying to see the same places I always go--we both live in a small town, after all; there are only so many places--with new eyes.<br />
<br />
<br />
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*Although I still engage in a bit of <a href="http://www.sfwa.org/2015/07/in-praise-of-rejectomancy/" target="_blank">rejectomancy</a> just to see if my stats bear out my feeling that I'm getting better as a writer. And hooray--it looks like I am! My pro rejections have lately tilted towards more personal than form, with a few luscious "your submission has been shortlisted" plums to savor. It's the little things that keep us going through 101 rejections ...Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-53880094235297770132016-11-17T14:18:00.002-06:002016-11-17T14:18:18.243-06:00How to Deal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
It's been a week and some change since the 2016 US Presidential election, and it's probably not a surprise that I wasn't excited about the results. I am, specifically, sad that we have lost a potential 4+ years with HRC's experience, level-headedness, and compassion at the helm; angry at <a href="http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_slatest/2016/11/07/those_insanely_long_early_voting_lines_were_a_result_of_republican_voter.html" target="_blank">injustice in our electoral system</a>; and fearful of the future under the new administration, especially for people of color, immigrants, refugees, Muslims, LGBT+ folk, and the disabled, to name only a few. (If you want to learn more about why this election specifically threatens people of color and what you as a white person can do about it, <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1By9bUjJ78snEeZuLXNGBdlVMJgEQWMEjR-Gfx8ER7Iw/mobilebasic" target="_blank">this list of resources is incredible</a>!)<br />
<br />
These emotions are real and I want to give myself space to feel them, and to respond to them.<br />
<br />
But alongside these feelings, I've felt despair. A sense of doom. A feeling, deeper than fear, that things will never get better and that I am helpless to stop what's coming.<br />
<br />
For me, this emotion isn't helpful. It makes me want to roll over, to give in, to bury my head in books and TV and any other distractions. To turn the music up loud and scream "La la la, I'm not listening," so I don't have to deal with reality knocking at the door.<br />
<br />
Because I'm fairly privileged--it's <a href="https://www.ushmm.org/wlc/en/article.php?ModuleId=10007392" target="_blank">not my door</a> that reality will come knocking on first.<br />
<br />
But I know myself. I feel better when I make a plan. (Apparently I'm not the only one: <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/if-youre-overwhelmed-by-the-election-heres-what-you-can-do-now_us_5822c7d0e4b0e80b02cdf133" target="_blank">HuffPo</a> has a list here, as does <a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/meganbruneau/2016/11/10/post-election-survival-guide-6-steps-to-healing-and-moving-on/#9ac14f64820f" target="_blank">Forbes</a>.) What I'm doing now is thinking in circles of influence, starting with my closest circle, myself, and working outwards. The lists below represent actions I will take to help myself and others around me. And when I feel despair, I will look at this list and say "There's your action, darling: go forth."<br />
<br />
<b>For me, I will:</b><br />
Eat and drinking healthy stuff.<br />
Keep a regular sleep schedule.<br />
Exercise.<br />
Take medicines I have been prescribed.<br />
Do mindfulness exercises for 5 min. each day.<br />
Keep going to counseling.<br />
Spend time outside 3x/week.<br />
Journal.<br />
Figure out a helpful "social media diet" so I can find a balance between staying informed and educated, and <a href="http://mashable.com/2016/11/09/twitter-responds-messages-hope/#OJIExD0jlSq4" target="_blank">finding hope</a> (my friend <a href="http://www.deusexmachinatio.com/blog/2016/11/14/hope" target="_blank">Andrea's blog post</a> particularly helped with the hope part).<br />
<br />
<b>For my household, I will</b>:<br />
Spend less money so we can have more in savings, in case we have an emergency.<br />
Encourage my partner to get all his medical needs met in case ACA is overturned.<br />
Hug and cuddle my partner and pets.<br />
<br />
<b>For my close friends and family, I will:</b><br />
Reach out, ask how they are doing.<br />
Listen and not dominate the conversation with my own feelings.<br />
When changes hit them, I will support with my words, my presence, and my finances when able.<br />
When violence threatens, I will offer safety.<br />
Not let them off the hook when they make thoughtless or bigoted statements, but call them out with kindness, as the <a href="https://www.splcenter.org/20150126/speak-responding-everyday-bigotry" target="_blank">Southern Poverty Law Center has outlined here</a>.<br />
Take responsibility and apologize when I make thoughtless or bigoted statements, as <a href="https://twitter.com/MARIADAHVANA/status/799123792790491136" target="_blank">Maria Dahvana Headley urges here</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>For my students, I will:</b><br />
Require them to respond to each other with care and kindness.<br />
Teach them to read and consume media critically, and to express themselves with nuance and thoughtful language.<br />
Teach every class about t<a href="https://twitter.com/KateLechler/status/798188814392967168" target="_blank">he bystander effect</a> and its corollary, and how to get past it.<br />
Continue carrying my Black Lives Matter bag to show support for my black students and raise awareness of the movement on campus.<br />
Be a safe space, a listening ear, and an advocate for my students' concerns.<br />
<br />
<b>For my community, I will</b>:<br />
Vote in local elections.<br />
Volunteer or donate for local campaigns I believe in.<br />
Attend rallies for causes I believe in.<br />
Spend my money at locally-owned establishments.<br />
Work with my <a href="http://www.uuoxford.com/" target="_blank">Unitarian Universalist congregation</a> to promote inter-faith dialogue.<br />
<br />
<b>For the greater state/country, I will</b>:<br />
Vote.<br />
Volunteer or donate for campaigns and organizations I believe in (here's <a href="http://nymag.com/thecut/2016/11/how-to-donate-to-planned-parenthood-and-other-charities.html" target="_blank">a list of 10 </a>that are in particular need right now; and since the environment/climate change aren't on that list, <a href="http://www.theinertia.com/mountain/5-ways-to-protect-the-environment-post-election/" target="_blank">here's a few more</a>).<br />
Call my representatives about issues that matter to me (check out the <a href="https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/174f0WBSVNSdcQ5_S6rWPGB3pNCsruyyM_ZRQ6QUhGmo/htmlview?sle=true" target="_blank">"We're His Problem Now" call sheet.</a>)<br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/5DollarFridayPhilanthropy/?fref=ts" target="_blank">Donate $5 each Friday</a> to a cause that I care about.<br />
Write the best damn stories, essays, and poems that I can.<br />
Promote the voices of other writers--especially those in marginalized communities.<br />
<br />
This is my call to action. If you're feeling scared, make a list, or borrow mine. Use what works for you, and jettison what doesn't--and feel free to share.<br />
<br />
<br />Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-35840286903542112582016-03-17T12:15:00.000-05:002016-03-17T12:15:13.554-05:00WriteFest Exercise 3: Fan Fiction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For this exercise, Cassie asked us to pick a minor character or villain from a story we are familiar with, and write a scene from their point of view.<br />
<br />
I chose Terry Pratchett's <a href="http://wiki.lspace.org/mediawiki/Death_of_Rats" target="_blank">Death of Rats</a>.<br />
<br />
**<br />
<br />
The Death of Rats picked his way through the spilled corn on the floor of the granary. In some shadowed, spiderwebbed corner of his mind, he remembered corn, remembered the feel of the kernels as he sheared through them with his teeth, the sweet dribble of juice that spilled down his throat as he chewed. But Death of Rats had not eaten corn in lo these many eons. He was here on other business.<br />
<br />
Hanging from the rafters of the granary amid dusty beams of sunlight, a cage spun slowly. Three rats were inside, scurrying around. He heard their squeaks of fright, a scuffle of aggression. He examined the round structure, wondering how he’d get up there. The stuccoed walls were criss-crossed with wooden scaffolding. He slung his scythe over his shoulder, narrowed his eyes until only two slits of otherworldly blue showed beneath his hood, and began his climb. SQUEAK, he called up to the rats above, letting them know he was on his way. They lay silent and still on the floor of the cage.<br />
<div>
<br />
At first, climbing the scaffolding was enjoyable. He was able to stretch his long legs and arms in ways that his job didn’t usually require of him. A lot of standing around, it was, interspersed with moments of riding his pale white rat-sized horse. It was rare that he got to be active. It was rare that he got to scurry.<br />
<br />
He was scurrying now, though, leaping from beam to beam in an effort to make it to cage before the rats inside expired. <i>Probably poison</i>, he thought. <i>It’s usually poison</i>. He could hear their labored breathing slowing. If he didn’t make it there in time, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to guide them into the Rat Waiting room. Rats often had the mistaken impression that he was in charge of deciding whether they went into Rat Heaven, or Rat Hell. SQUEAK, he reassured them. Those decisions were made farther up the chain. He was only the guide. <br />
<br />
This scurrying was taking too long, so he decided to make use of one of his privileges as the Death of Rats and leaped out into space. He did not fall, though, but instead ascended quickly in a column of blue light until he hung just outside the door to the cage. SQUEAK? he asked, knocking gently on the wire. He liked to be polite.<br />
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-68862082050643890312016-03-14T16:58:00.000-05:002016-03-14T16:58:41.097-05:00Writing, Twitter Anxiety, and the Myth of Production<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This past fall, I became much more active in the SF/F writing community on Twitter. Almost immediately, I fell into one of the deepest and toughest bouts of anxiety I’ve ever faced.<br /><br />Anxiety is treacherous and terrifying, and it is much more than just normal, day-to-day stress. And my anxiety wasn’t just caused by Twitter; it was also caused by an aggressive and demanding schedule at work, and my own tendency to equate my self-worth with my ability to produce writing in my spare time. But Twitter certainly exacerbated it.<br /> <br />Why did I join Twitter in the first place? I wanted to follow writers I admired, to get a glimpse of what they were doing that I could imitate. It was as if writing was learning how to knit or fix a tire, and I just had to follow the steps to success. So I followed several up-and-coming writers and started to take mental notes on where they were submitting, who they were following, what conversations were dominating the field.<br /> <br />I was quickly overwhelmed by how much competition I felt. Before, I’d been writing mostly in a vacuum. Now I had the freedom to compare myself to other writers 24/7. They were selling more than me, writing more than me. How were they writing so much when they were on Twitter all the time?<br /> <br />I didn’t feel as charming or as interesting as everyone else I followed. Outside, I was all “jokes jokes jokes” and inside I felt lonely and afraid and worthless. I was afraid I’d be pushed out of the community before I really got a chance to be in it. I was afraid that I’d do something wrong or bad or stupid online; I couldn’t really tell how I was being received, and it was intimidating. I felt pressure to produce, pressure to be funny and clever and to have something to say about the movie I was watching, book I was reading, music I was listening to, burrito I was eating.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Beyond that, I felt anxious about the platform itself. I wanted to get retweets, likes, comments, and follows. Was it okay if I commented in a friendly manner on someone’s Tweet, or was I annoying them by crawling up in their mentions? If I said the wrong thing, would I be made an example of?<br /> <br />In comparison to the anxiety and tension I felt on Twitter, Facebook suddenly felt like a warm bath.<br /> <br />This all coincided with my feeling of rejection in general. I had been writing fiction for a year and a half. I wasn’t having much success selling my stories, but I was generally optimistic about the outlook. For most of that time, when I got a rejection, I told myself that my story was just one step closer to finding a home. I imagined myself as an awkward but friendly duck, and the rejection as one tiny drop of water, rolling off my back. But soon after I became active on Twitter, I didn’t see rejection as a tiny drop anymore, but as the giant lake surrounding me.<br /> <br />I developed shoulder pain, an eye twitch, and an ulcer, all before I had my first panic attack in November.<br /> <br />Once I realized that my interactions on Twitter were a source of stress, I managed it. I only let myself have three Twitter check-ins per day, and I wasn’t allowed to check in at all before I wrote my words in the morning. I also unfollowed people—some of them the very people I had come on Twitter to follow, people I liked and respected—because they were stressing me out by being so good at their jobs.<br /> <br />A reasonable person probably would have quit Twitter at this point. But I hung on for dear life, knowing that it can be a useful tool to writers. Twitter is where I hear about calls for stories, get notifications from journals about when their reading periods open, find out about current SF events and topics of conversation. I went to a workshop I heard about on Twitter, one of the best choices I’ve made for my writing. And I met people to share my work with, creating a network for smart, plugged-in beta-readers.<br /> <br />Ultimately, the problem is with me, not with Twitter.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I approach it the right way, Twitter is a great support system, a really kind and loving place. I’ve seen strangers give each other virtual hugs, tell each other that they’re wonderful, to keep writing and fighting in the face of sadness and fear and the crawling ooze of mortality. @posisailor tells her followers every day that they are worthwhile and that they can achieve their dreams. @gaileyfrey asks her followers to tell her about their successes, and then tweets affirmations. @matthaig1 writes kindly and transparently about struggles with depression. In short, I’ve seen love there.<br /> <br />And I want to be a more loving person. More loving to myself and more loving to others. I want to be a champion for others’ successes, and for my own.<br /> <br />But even with these guidelines and good intentions, Twitter can push my buttons. And the reason why comes down to the myth of productivity.<br /> <br />Let me give you an example. I posted a story of mine a couple weeks ago, and got some retweets by some authors who I *seriously* admire. And I was euphoric about it. Nothing feels quite as good as getting a compliment from someone who doesn’t know you in person. They only know you through what you produce and, in a way, these are the most powerful compliments of all—entirely merit-based (or so it feels).<br /> <br />But this is a trap I fall into too easily. Equating myself with what I produce. I’m only as valuable as what I’ve managed to accomplish in a given day—and not even that! Going to the grocery store, or a doctor’s visit, or taking a walk with my dog? None of these entirely-necessary duties contribute to my sense of productivity. Only writing-related work—writing, revising, editing, or submitting—matters to this mentality.<br /> <br />This is my bad mental habit. And it is contributing to making me sick.<br /> <br />I know I’m not alone here. I see this mentality on Twitter, among my friends who post their word-counts on good days and lament when they haven’t written anything on bad days.<br /> <br />But we are more than what we produce. I feel shitty when I don’t write, when I don’t have things out in submission, when I haven’t updated my blog in a while because those are measurable levels of “how I’m doing” as a writer. But regardless of how I'm doing as a writer, I have worth. I matter ... WE matter ... no matter what.<div class="MsoNormal">
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-42924538403254495692016-03-07T12:00:00.000-06:002016-03-07T12:00:12.751-06:00WriteFest Writing Exercise 2: Non-Human CharactersFor this exercise, Cassie let us pull 4 random characteristics that real animals have on Earth, and then combine them to create a new character. And it had to be <i>sentient</i>. My four characteristics were:<br /><br />1) Has antenna <br /><br />2) Mother can birth one litter of babies with multiple fathers <br /><br />3) Gills to breathe in water <br /><br />4) Can see clearly in the dark<br />
<br />
So welcome to the "cave-creepers."<br />
<!--EndFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
**<br />
<br />
Margarine huddles on the side of the subterranean lake, her
antenna twitching incoherently as she expels streams of goo into the water from
her mouth. Around her, seven male cave creepers flutter, their antenna brushing
hers and each others. They radiate excitement and concern. As this is the first
time they have witnessed birth, they worry about her health. Should she be this
pale, her skin this dry? As they have all just become fathers, they are
jubilant and relieved. <i>Our children</i>,
the movements of their antenna all but shout, <i>our children are healthy, and alive!</i><br />
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Silhouetted against the soft glow of the lake, twenty-two
newborn cave creepers flit in the water. Their bodies are soft, slick,
translucent. To the fathers, these babies look so vulnerable, so exposed. But
they stretch their wings and fluff their neck-ruffs of fur in pride anyways,
bragging to each other through flicks and swishes of antenna: <i>See how fast that one swims? She will be a
hunter, for sure. And the thickness of his hind legs? He will certainly win his
year’s race to the surface.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Margarine, her wide eyes bleary with exhaustion,
gazes blankly at her children. Her lovers settle around her, gently herd her up
the rocky bank to the nest they have prepared. Here she will rest, here she
will be fed and pampered through her recovery, while the seven fathers take
turns watching their young ones grow and develop in the water. When the baby
cave creepers have developed lungs and the thin membrane of their wings begins
to stretch from wrist to side, they will crawl from the lake and it will be
Margarine’s job to teach them all she knows. But for now, it’s the squish of
fat grubs and the crunch of tender minnows that she looks forward to. <i>A month or more of nothing</i>, she manages
to communicate. <i>How delightful!</i></span><!--EndFragment--><div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>**</i></span></div>
Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-84204888885598323232016-02-29T12:00:00.000-06:002016-02-29T12:00:15.136-06:00WriteFest Writing Exercise 1: SettingLast week, I went to Houston to the WriteFest conference and took a 4-day workshop on speculative fiction with Cassandra R. Clarke. Houston was great--good food, great art--and the workshop itself was a wonderful experience. Cassie's discussions of writing were down-to-earth and inspiring, and she did a great job of fostering a community within our little group. And WriteSpace Houston is full of smart, fun, supportive writers ... I now want to start something like this in Oxford.<br />
<br />
Anyways, here's my first writing exercise, based on Cassie's prompt about setting: <i>Think of a place you either liked or hated from your childhood. Describe it, being careful to include some of the emotions you associate with this place</i>.<br />
<br />
**<br />
<br />I’ve run away from my mom in J.C. Penney’s again and I’m hiding in one of those circular racks of clothes, crouching down in the middle. I turn around, glancing out the slivers of space between the baggy shirts and polyester pants. People mill around outside my hiding place; a woman drags her son, red-faced and screaming, by the arm. A man stops to consider a tie, flips it over to glance at the price, walks away.<br /><br />I am safe. Hidden. Quiet as the eye of a hurricane amid the bustle of the shoppers and the hum of the smooth jazz. Even when a middle-aged woman comes to thumb through the clothing, pulling out a hideous printed dress and holding it against her, she doesn’t notice my pale face shining in the gloom. If she did, she might shriek, or laugh—it’s happened before. But not this time. I press against the side of the metal frame, letting my head sink back into the clothing until it covers everything but the tip of my nose, the way I like to pretend I’m drowning in the tub.<br /><br /> I can see my mom over in the corner; she hasn’t noticed I’m gone yet. She will, though; when she does, my pleasure will be diminished by a spark of anxiety and guilt, pressing up from under my skin until the only recourse is to duck between the hangers and reveal myself to her, hugging her legs tightly and smiling up at her so she’ll forgive me and still buy me an Orange Julius later. But for now, I am a tiny god huddling in a dark circle, watching the world go by, gleeful in my invisibility.<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">**</span>Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-34778881971748420792016-02-26T12:37:00.000-06:002016-02-26T12:37:10.789-06:00The Wild Girl: A moving novel about the literary history of fairy tales<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00ZYGH0MG/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00ZYGH0MG&linkCode=as2&tag=fantasylitera-20&linkId=OJ46RMHJE26HNXPB" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51s%2B9GMWrfL._SL250_.jpg" /></a><br />
<br /><br /><a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/forsythkate/">Kate Forsyth</a>’s book, <b><i>The Wild Girl</i></b>, was published in Australia in 2013 but has recently been released in the United States in both hardback, Kindle, and audio versions. It tells the story of an unsung hero of the history of fairy-tales: Dortchen Wild, the sweetheart and eventual wife of Wilhelm Grimm and the origin of many of the Grimm’s tales.<br /><br />Dortchen grows up with six sisters and an invalid mother under the authoritarian rule of her apothecary father, Herr Wild, near Hesse-Kassel (part of what is known today as Germany). Their next-door neighbors, the Grimms, fascinate Dortchen, who befriends the youngest Grimm, Lotte. At a very young age, Dortchen develops a crush on Lotte’s older brother, Wilhelm, who has returned from university. She assists Wilhelm and his brother, Jacob, as they work on their project to collect German folktales. Along the way, Dortchen and Wilhelm fall in love (this isn’t a spoiler, as you learn about their relationship in the first chapter). But war, poverty, and family trauma keeps them apart, even as the stories they share draw them closer together.<br /><br />Forsyth incorporates a lot of historical research into <b><i>The Wild Girl</i></b>, describing daily German life as well as providing the larger context of the Napoleonic wars. What I found most fascinating was the ways the Grimms researched and wrote their story collections. Fairy-tale nerds like me will appreciate the behind-the-scenes look at how 19th century fairy-tale scholarship worked — and how it sometimes didn’t work, as we see when Jacob and Wilhelm’s collections do not initially sell. And I am grateful to Forsyth for another book that draws attention to the unknown female storytellers of these famous tales. Her book <b><i><a href="http://therediscoveredcountry.blogspot.com/2014/09/bitter-greens-gorgeous-historical-novel.html" target="_blank">Bitter Greens</a></i></b> performs this task for the women behind the “Rapunzel” tale; in <b><i>The Wild Girl</i></b>, we have Dortchen Wild’s legacy as a consummate storyteller unearthed and preserved. That alone is reason to celebrate this book.<br /><br />But Forsyth’s own storytelling is beautiful and heartbreaking on its own. Reading <b><i>The Wild Girl</i></b> was, at times, hard to continue because of what a painful story Forsyth has pieced together — some details imagined, I’m sure — for Dortchen. I had to take a couple of breaks from the book because of how sad Dortchen’s life became. Some of her experiences, particularly those with her father, are visceral and traumatic. But Forsyth manages to weave them together with the fairy tales (probably worthy of trigger warnings themselves) that Dortchen tells Wilhelm, creating a frame narrative in which Dortchen expresses her own grief and horror through her storytelling. I was reminded again of Bitter Greens, and the ways in which the women claim their own voices in the face of oppression and abuse.<br /><br />In the face of Dortchen’s suffering, I broke down and wept when Wilhelm presented her with a new copy of the Grimm collection. He has re-written the tale “All Kinds of Fur” to shape it into a joyful tale rather than a horrific one. He tells her that “the whole reason for telling the fairy tales is to awaken the heart. To help people believe that misfortune can be overcome and evil can be conquered.” In <b><i>The Wild Girl</i></b>, Forsyth has created a powerful novel espousing the idea that stories can bring hope and healing.<br /><br />The audiobook was read by Kate Reading, whom I know best as the female narrator of <b>THE WHEEL OF TIME</b> series. Her voice, warm and cultured, conveyed Dortchen’s vulnerability perfectly, while also capturing the gravitas of other characters.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
*This review first appeared on FantasyLiterature.com, where I gave the book 4 stars.</div>
Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-1944136911990727392016-02-23T12:46:00.000-06:002016-02-23T18:34:05.847-06:00Hugo Nomination #5: Austin Grossman's Crooked<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B011SFJGI2/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B011SFJGI2&linkCode=as2&tag=fantasylitera-20&linkId=2FBJ7FNX2UNT76VD" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/41tqT5Am9HL._SL250_.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Austin Grossman’s <b><i>Crooked</i></b> is my favorite book I read in 2015*. I expected good things from <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/grossmanlev/">Lev Grossman</a>’s twin brother, but not much otherwise as I am not — was not — a big fan of Nixon or, indeed, of American history in general**. But by the end of the first chapter, I was breathless, thrilled, entertained and excited beyond my wildest expectations. Also, obsessed with Richard Nixon.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Crooked </i></b>tells the story of Richard Milhous Nixon’s rise to power, complete with childhood in Yorba Linda, fight against the Communists as a young senator, Vice Presidency under Eisenhower, and his infamous Presidency. It’s all there: the Cold War, Vietnam, his visit to China, the moon landing, Watergate. And it’s no surprise that Watergate should be the linchpin for a novel about Nixon, but the secrets Grossman uses Watergate to cover up for are a surprise. Because Nixon isn’t the scowling jowls and flashing victory-sign you’re familiar with. Well, he is those things — but he’s not just those things. This Nixon is a sorcerer.<br />
<br />
In Grossman’s alternate history of the mid-twentieth century, the faceless Communist threat is much more insidious than creeping ideology. Instead of restricting their arsenal to nuclear warhead, the Russians are developing supernatural weaponry. Invoking Lovecraftian forces both ancient and futuristic, they plan to infiltrate the American government with a man possessed. Senator Nixon is the unwitting victim of their first attempt and witnesses the horrific fallout. After this, the Russians have him in their pocket; he works as a mole, trying to ascertain what kinds of supernatural weapons the American government has developed.<br />
<br />
Which, as it turns out, is quite a lot. And we get to watch Nixon as he unravels the mysterious origins of the American Presidency and the dark powers that come with it.<br />
<br />
This by itself is all well and good. In the right hands, it might make for a book along the lines of <b><i>Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Slayer</i></b>, or <b><i>Pride and Prejudice and Zombies</i></b>. Take serious history/literature, mix with a dash of chthonic forces, and bam! You’ve got yourself an entertaining novel! And how else can I describe a book that includes a horror scene set in the Pirates of the Caribbean ride in Disney World?<br />
<br />
Only that, despite how fabulous and over-the-top (in all the best ways) the plot sounds, the writing is even better.<br />
<br />
Not that plot is separate from writing. It’s easy to think about it as something apart, that a story just “comes to us” and then it’s our job to set it down on paper, to make it pretty, to make it sing. Well, that’s not how it works, and Grossman has carefully plotted this novel, weaving his narrative of the dark forces behind national powers seamlessly into the events of Nixon’s presidency, and using the inciting event not only to set Nixon down his path towards power and the Presidency, but also to set up the book’s greatest antagonist. The sheer believability of <b><i>Crooked</i></b> in reference to American history is one of its greatest strengths; it takes the familiar and makes it strange and wondrous again. For instance, as Nixon drives across the country, “past the great slumbering presence below the Grand Canyon,” he comments on the Eisenhower interstate system, calling the highways “a runic inscription right across the country,” that managed to bind “the things that lived in the in-between places, strange survivors of long-vanished primeval forests.”<br />
<br />
But my favorite part is Nixon. His voice dominates <b><i>Crooked</i></b>. You thought nobody could capture your attention, your imagination, quite like Cthulhu? Wait till you meet Grossman’s Nixon, a sneaky sonofabitch with no illusions about himself and yet all the illusions of power imaginable. He’s flawed, tortured, and completely compelling, managing to be self-deprecating, self-aggrandizing, and slyly hilarious at the same time. At times, he loathes himself so much that he dreams of getting away from Richard Nixon; when he’s given false passports, he sees them as “million-dollar bills, like the Count of Monte Cristo’s treasure chest,” a way out of the sham of a life he’s created.<br />
<br />
As the mysteries behind government pile up, he quickly gets in over his head. Despite this, Nixon craves power, pursuing it with the dogged determination of an addict. When Henry Kissinger approaches him in 1966, asking him to consider thinking about running for President again, Nixon considers what it would mean to let himself dream this long-dead dream again:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
There are the rare, rare moments when you’ve lost a thing you treasured and made your peace with that loss; your life is going to go on without it, a diminished place, but you’ve figured out how to twist yourself around just right to love and appreciate the new thing you’ve become — and then you’re given another chance at the thing you wanted so badly.</blockquote>
But he’s funny, too, at the most poignant or frightening moments. Introducing his constant companion, Gary, the carrier of the nuclear football, he lists all of the embarrassing or private bits of his life that Gary has had to witness, including “gastrointestinal episodes,” “furious arguments with Pat,” and “restrained, dignified weeping,” before concluding, anticlimactically, that “Gary and I were not friends.” Another list, this time in a classified document, tells of “potentially nuclear-resistant entities” who might represent a threat to the United States, including “Corn Men,” “Vladimir Ilyich Lenin,” “the British royal family,” and “Little Hare, a Native American trickster god of the Southwestern United States.”<br />
<br />
Buried beneath Nixon’s paradoxical, ridiculous exterior is a darker truth, though — the unknowability of the human heart. He admits that, since a young boy, he felt an attraction to secrets. He remembers the moment when his mother taught him what a secret was, realizing that there was “more than one side” to him:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
No matter how pure I seemed, righteous all the way through, there was always another me that couldn’t be put down, a sly one, a clever one, a lying one, a vicious one. I could be elected president of the whole goddamned United States but I’d always be Tricky Dick.</blockquote>
All of this secret-keeping takes its toll on Nixon as an individual and on his closest relationships, primarily his relationship with his wife Pat (who has some delicious secrets of her own!). He tells us in Chapter 2:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
This is a tale of espionage and betrayal and the dark secrets of a decades-long cold war. It is a story of otherworldly horror, of strange nameless forces that lie beneath the reality we know. In other words, it is the story of a marriage.</blockquote>
In comparison to these painful human truths, Grossman doesn’t spend much time showing us the dark forces or the secret rituals that call them forth, causing some readers to complain that they wanted more of that aspect of the book. But I thought it was perfect. One of the effects of Lovecraftian horror is the sense that the big scary thing is always just out of sight, around the corner, down a well, or lurking beneath the waves. Spending a fraction of time actually with these creatures helps amplify our terror when we do see them. But I think there’s another reason, too, that Grossman spends most of his time on Nixon’s personal fears and failings. This is his clue to his readers that the horrors of power, of being a double agent, a spy, and a fake — of, essentially, being alone — are just as chilling as the supernatural horrors the novel keeps at bay.<br />
<br />
I got to listen to <b><i>Crooked</i></b> as narrated by Kiff VandenHeuvel. VandenHeuvel nailed Nixon’s brusque delivery without being too over-the-top; his voice was rough but resonant as if his jowls were an echo chamber but, somehow, it did not devolve into caricature. It was one of the best audiobook experiences I’ve ever had — and yet, despite getting a review copy of the audiobook for free, I STILL went out and bought this in hardback… which should tell you something, because I’m pretty cheap!<br />
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*Well, other than <i style="font-weight: bold;">City of Blades</i>, but that actually released in 2016.<br />
**This is pre-<b><i>Hamilton </i></b>as well.</div>
<div>
**This review originally appeared on FantasyLiterature.com, where I gave the book 5 stars, easy.</div>
Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-36911770349215853882016-02-22T17:10:00.002-06:002016-02-22T21:44:13.159-06:00Evolution of a Sci-Fi Class<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikZ9ZmisiTWfyFDNbDZI29SL2z9EWkr7Kpvzh8uUlGzzn7fb8g_C8x2mhy5ggysHtQV3Kc1iG-iBbEjKH4loAfmX1SwVb_AyLYWgeNMhHCrej72LeQCu-hZCuu4b3qFIcaSji3bg/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikZ9ZmisiTWfyFDNbDZI29SL2z9EWkr7Kpvzh8uUlGzzn7fb8g_C8x2mhy5ggysHtQV3Kc1iG-iBbEjKH4loAfmX1SwVb_AyLYWgeNMhHCrej72LeQCu-hZCuu4b3qFIcaSji3bg/s320/images.jpeg" width="216" /></a></div>
A few years ago, I was approached by an academic publisher to review a proposal for a sci-fi textbook. I was excited to do it, but a little confused as well; I’d only taught a class on speculative fiction* twice, and was not an expert in the field by any means. But the publisher had found my name and course descriptions online, and if that was good enough for them, hey, why not? <br />
<br />
When I opened the proposal, I was surprised by how limited the anthology was, despite including 50 stories. The proposal was focused on including “classic” stories—in the words of the author, “the greatest science fiction stories ever written." I had already expected it to be weighted towards the Golden Age of sci-fi--most anthologies I've seen are--but I wasn’t prepared for how heavily weighted it would be. Although the timeline of the anthology began in 1844 and went through 2011, fully half of those 50 stories were from just three decades—the 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s. And although I could tell that the author had made an attempt to include women and writers of color, I was still disappointed by the scope of science fiction represented in the anthology. In short, it didn’t seem to be doing anything different from any number of anthologies already out there.<br />
<br />
Maybe I’m not as interested in the “classic” label as others are. What’s exciting for me about reading contemporary speculative fiction is how different it is from what I grew up expecting when I read an SFF story. Read most of the pro SFF magazines today and you’ll find a wide variety of storytelling modes, of prose styles, and of points of view. I don’t mind social issues in my fiction. Yep, I’m one of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Social_Justice_Warrior">those</a> people. To my mind, speculative fiction is one of the most fun and most subversive ways to tip the [insert ideology here] status quo on its head and explore alternatives to the norm. <br />
<br />
Fast-forward five years, and I’m teaching another speculative fiction class. In the interim, I’ve learned a lot more about the field by reviewing books, reading spec-fic magazines regularly, and writing SFF myself. I’m still not an expert, but this time around, I decided to challenge myself by building my own syllabus of stories instead of relying on an anthology. (You can <a href="http://katelechler.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/ENG352Spring2016-PDF.pdf">view it here</a>.)<br />
<br />
The first question I asked myself was: okay, so what IS speculative fiction? Am I going to try to cover fantasy, sci-fi, horror, <i>and</i> magical realism in just one class? Or am I going to specialize?<br />
<br />
Spoiler alert: I decided to specialize.<br />
<br />
Now, my very specific jams are dark, lush fairy-tale retellings, but <a href="http://olemissfairytales2015.weebly.com/">I’ve taught that class</a>, and I wanted to do something new. I was also considering the bald economics of teaching at a university: keeping butts in seats, so to speak. I thought I had a better chance at attracting students with sci-fi than I did with a course titled “Kate’s Favorite Dark Fairytales," (subtitle: everybody bring a pillow to scream into).<br />
<br />
I also wanted to keep cost in mind. The two sci-fi textbooks I’ve used in the past are both pretty expensive, upwards of $50 a pop. Instead, I began by choosing a book of criticism that would function as an introduction to the field: <i>The Cambridge Companion to Science Fiction</i>, pictured above. It’s a reasonably priced textbook with essays covering the chronology of SF, as well as major thematic issues and critical approaches to SF. The bulk of the rest of the reading I found available for free online.<br />
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Using some of the issues and themes that the <i>Companion</i> develops, I structured my class into 4 units. During the “Explorations in Space and Time” unit, we look at time-travel and space-opera. In the “Strange Encounters of the Third Kind” unit, we read some first-contact stories, and then examine the ways sci-fi has treated issues of race and gender. We discuss governments and political systems in our “Utopias and Dystopias” unit. And then end with a unit on ‘The Post-Human,” in which we cover artificial intelligence, human evolution, and the blending of biology with technology. The larger question we consider, through the lens of each of these units, is a question that a lot of literature asks: “What does it mean to be human?”<br />
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Because I’m teaching an undergraduate class, I felt like I couldn’t dispense entirely with the SF classics. That’s probably what the students have come to read, anyways: the Robert Heinleins and Arthur C. Clarkes of the world. But I wanted to balance the expected sci-fi stories with more modern stories to give the students a taste of what the field actually looks like today. Representation mattered, too; I consciously sought out writers of various backgrounds and identities. So for each unit, I chose a couple of the old standards, and then a handful of stories that fit the theme from recent issues of major spec-fic magazines. This way, I got to introduce my students to amazing authors that they may not have heard of like Charlie Jane Anders, Benjanun Sriduangkaew, Rachel Swirsky, Nnedi Okorafur, Ken Liu, and Kelly Link (and some online comics from my fave, Emily Carroll! *squee*)<br />
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I was terrified to do this when I started. I felt like I didn’t know enough about the field (it’s YUUUUUGE) and, even with what was available for free online, I was spoiled for choice. But I'm pretty happy with what I came up with; it helps that the students seem to be digging the choices I’ve made. However, as I’ve said repeatedly in this post, I AM NOT AN EXPERT, so I welcome feedback and story suggestions as I tweak this class for future iterations.<br />
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*by which I mean sci-fi, fantasy, horror, and magical realism ... and all the subgenres thereof.Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-3929199403930343492016-02-19T12:33:00.003-06:002016-02-19T12:33:43.118-06:00Sorcerer to the Crown: A fun Regency Fantasy with a heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/chozen/">Zen Cho</a>’s debut novel <b><i>Sorcerer to the Crown*</i></b> is a heck of a lot of fun.<br /><br />A quick description of it may not sound like it, though. It revolves around the magician Zacharias Wythe as he negotiates his new position as Sorcerer Royal, which, in England, has become more of a political position than a magical one. He has to cater to the needs of the English government by helping them negotiate alliances, navigate the shifting politics of the Royal Society of Unnatural Philosophers, and make appearances among the hoity-toity London upper crust. Unfortunately for Zacharias, he does not enjoy politics. His position is complicated by the fact that he took over the staff of Sorcerer Royal after the strange and unexplained death of his mentor and guardian, Stephen Wythe. Combined with the fact that Zacharias is a freed black slave, events seem to have conspired against him to make his position challenging, even dangerous.<br /><br />The three central conflicts unfold, one after the other. England’s magic is draining away due to some unknown cause. England also needs to pacify Janda Baik, an island nation in the Malayasian archipelago, to maintain their foothold in the East against French incursions. To help out their Malaysian ally, Zacharias is asked to remove a contingent of female vampires who have been running amok in Janda Baik. Finally, the female magicians of England have been long ostracized from magical instruction or utility. Most English sorcerers are happy for this situation to continue unchanged, but Zacharias meets a young savant, Prunella. With the help of her inheritance (seven eggs of familiars, a rare and priceless commodity in a world lacking magic), she convinces him that women should be given access to magical education and even position.<br /><br />As you’ll notice, all three of these problems have to do with England in some way: England’s power, England’s influence, England’s people and magical resources. <b><i>Sorcerer to the Crown </i></b>is as much a novel of the mundane realities of politics, national identity, and social institutions such as racism and sexism as it is about fairies, familiars, vampires, and other fantastical beings. But these institutions become villains every bit as frightening as the others. In fact, as Zacharias finds out, these enemies are harder to fight. He has a more difficult time being seen as an equal by the other sorcerers than he does getting out of the many assassination attempts set for him, like sentient flames and sucking puddles of death.<br /><br />Some of the most disturbing moments in the novel happen in Zacharias’ mind, as he recognizes fundamental attitudes which will never change to accept him. He realizes, as his adopted mother does not, that he is not seen by the eligible young women of London as a potential mate. He is frustrated and hurt when young sorcerers whose careers he has helped are rude and dismissive in public. Prunella, too, recognizes the inequity that keeps her, a talented magician, in the position of governess and housemaid to more privileged young ladies.<br /><br />So what is fun about <b><i>Sorcerer to the Crown</i></b>? Cho’s “fantasy of manners” has the wry wit and sparkling tone of a Regency novel. She lampoons both social mores and social frauds with the deftness of Austen or Dickens. Preening dandies, over-dramatic social-climbers, and backbiting politicians all feel the edge of Cho’s criticism.<br /><br />The pace is also fun; once it gets rolling, the story moves from event to event at a breakneck pace. I agree with FantasyLiterature reviewer Bill Capossere that, at times, it seemed to move too fast and could have benefited from a few more beats or transition moments. But I always wanted to keep reading, to find out what happened next. In retrospect, I recognize some of the plot holes at the end <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/reviews/sorcerer-to-the-crown/">that Bill references</a>, but in the moment, they didn’t really bother me. I was enjoying it too much, too wrapped up in the fun of it.<br /><br />To emphasize the lighthearted aspects, though, is not to say that <b><i>Sorcerer to the Crown</i></b> lacks a heart. The race, class, and gender struggles that Zacharias and Prunella encounter never feel as though they are there to make this “issue fiction.” They are seamlessly integrated into the characterization and world-building, and their delivery is so heartfelt and realistic that you can’t help but feel angry and sad and hopeless as well.<br /><br />But to counterbalance the negative emotions are the positive emotions of warmth, love, and affection. Zacharias loves his mentor and guardians, the Wythes, and the friendship (and romance) that develops between him and Prunella is, dare I say, tender. As a sucker for tender, I really enjoyed the way Cho developed their relationship.<br /><br /><b><i>Sorcerer to the Crown </i></b>is the first in a series, and I’m excited to see what happens next. I hope we get to see more Fairyland, more of the world outside of England, and especially more of the four remaining familiar eggs that Prunella inherited.<div>
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*Cho's <a href="http://zencho.org/publications-in-2015/" target="_blank">eligibility post for 2015</a> can be found here and, yes, <i style="font-weight: bold;">Sorcerer to the Crown</i> is on it! I'm planning to nominate her for her short story "Monkey King, Faerie Queen" (short fic Hugo nom post coming up ....)<br /><div>
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**This review originally appeared at FantasyLiterature.com, where I gave the book 3.5 stars.</div>
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-91366542034887884812016-01-18T11:30:00.000-06:002016-01-18T11:30:00.230-06:00The Fairy-Tale Archetype of the Sexy Witch<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Witch in Snow White</td></tr>
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Last spring, I taught a class on fairy tales and fairy tale adaptations (you can see some of my student’s final projects <a href="http://olemissfairytales2015.weebly.com/portfolio.html">here</a>). I structured the class around archetypal characters or relationships, such as the <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/giveaway/the-expanded-universe-tricksters-in-fairy-tales/">Trickster</a> or the Sibling Rivalry. One of the archetypes that I find the most fascinating, however, is that of the sexy witch*.<br /><br />When I was growing up, I had one view of witches: the hairy-chinned, warty-nosed hag with the pointy hat. If she was stirring a cauldron of luminous green liquid, so much the better. Cackling on a broom was a given; a black cat familiar was just icing on the cake. Like Dorothy in <b><i>The Wizard of Oz</i></b>, I thought that all witches were “old and ugly.”<br /><br />The identification of witchcraft with old women has a long history. Many folk and fairy tales dating back centuries feature a crone figure, sometimes with magical powers, such as the Slavic witch Baba Yaga, whose name is often translated as Grandmother Yaga. Shakespeare’s Macbeth features iconic scenes of witches described as “secret, black, and midnight hags” whose appearance is “so withered and so wild” that they look unearthly.<br /><br />The positive side of the crone-witch is the preserver of memory, the bone gatherer with her folk remedies and midwifery skills. She is aged but ageless, in tune with deeper truths of the universe, like Mrs. Whatsit from <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/lenglemadeleine/">Madeleine L’Engle</a>’s <b><i>A Wrinkle in Time</i></b>. At the same time, she represents winter, death, and endings. Even in her darker connotations, though, the crone witch is not always evil as much as an uncanny figure whose goals may not be in line with the people who seek her help (as with Macbeth).<br /><br />As I grew up, I realized that life was not that easily compartmentalized: not all villains twirl their mustaches, not all devils have pointy tails, and not all witches were old women. I encountered the even-more frightening figure of the witch who hides evil behind a lovely face. She is the mother-witch figure: a figure of fertility, sexuality, and power. While this figure can be good, Glinda was wrong when she told Dorothy that “only bad witches are ugly.” In many fairy tales, specifically those in the Aarne-Thompson 709 grouping (the same grouping where we find Snow White), the beautiful woman seeks to maintain her beauty and power at the expense of the life of an innocent. In the Scottish fairy tale "Silver-Tree and Gold-Tree," the queen Silver-Tree seeks to kill her daughter Gold-Tree for being more beautiful than she is. Like in the Snow White story, she asks to eat one of her daughter’s organs — in this case, her liver. When that fails, she stabs Gold-Tree’s finger with a poisoned splinter, and when that fails, she tries to poison her with a “precious drink.”<br /><br />It is not explicitly stated that Silver-Tree is a witch. Perhaps she’s just a jealous queen. Perhaps all of her methods of murdering Gold-Tree are mundane, simply rat poison well-applied. But I don’t think so. Eating someone’s vital organ could merely be a handy way to prove that they are dead, and therefore no longer a threat to one’s status. But I think there is a more sinister reason that this story, and many others like it, demand the heart, lungs, liver, intestines, or a vial of blood from the young girl. In an act of black magic, the woman is taking the girl’s essence, using it to stay young and beautiful, similar to stories that circulated about Countess Elizabeth Bathory bathing in the blood of virgins to maintain her youth.<br /><br />What’s behind these stories is complicated, but it’s clear that the concept of the mother-witch is bound up with sexuality. On the one hand, these horrific Snow White narratives mirror misogynistic fears of the mature woman as a sexual being. In medieval and early modern literature, there are concerns that women who know about sex can be corrupting influences on young women and men of any age. By passing on their knowledge of the arts of seduction, they can ruin a young girl’s innocence. By using their own knowledge of the arts of seduction, they can ruin a man’s reason, his reputation, his very life. The <i>Malleus maleficarum</i>, an early-modern treatise on witches, says that “all witchcraft comes from carnal lust, which is in women insatiable.”<br /><br />So it’s no coincidence that charges of witchcraft, along with charges of incest and adultery, were brought against Anne Boleyn in her trial. Here was a woman who, in the public imagination, brought church, king, and country to its knees. Of course she was using some kind of weird sexy ju-ju to get inside Henry VIII’s head! Another early modern trial, that of Frances Howard, involved charges of magically-induced impotence (and inspired Thomas Middleton to write his play, <i>The Witch</i>, from which scenes in Macbeth were later taken). These stories blur the borders between sex and magic until every sexually-experienced woman becomes a potential witch. With these fears in mind, it only makes sense that fairy tales might portray the triumph of innocence and purity over sex-appeal and knowledge.<br /><br />On the other hand, the portrayal of the beautiful mother-witch hearkens back to ancient pagan goddesses of fertility and life. The primeval procreative power that women have has always been mysterious and awe-inspiring. We see these positive aspects of the mother-witch in medieval tales of fairy queens who enrapture young knights, as in the lay of Lanval by Marie de France*. Lanval meets a young woman whose body was “well-shaped and sweet.” She offers him her love, “and what’s more, her body!” In the end, she rescues him from execution, bearing him off to Faerie and joy forever. We also see the life-giving aspects in the fairy godmothers that populate French fairytales. These marvelous women act as donors, giving treasure, talent, and luck to young men or women who need their help — often leading them to love and families of their own, perpetuating the cycle of life.<br /><br />*Perhaps too fascinating. My students told me I talked about sex too much, although, as one of them said, that was “typical for an English class.”<div>
*The divine Mallory Ortberg has <a href="http://the-toast.net/2015/09/15/how-to-tell-if-you-are-in-a-lai-of-marie-de-france/" target="_blank">a great post</a> on The Toast about the lays/lais of Marie de France. Enjoy!<br /><div>
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-48341618089333505682016-01-14T11:18:00.000-06:002016-01-14T11:18:01.072-06:00Hugo Nomination #4: Dennis Mahoney's Bell Weather<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir6AEAbEdfKd6EbjvRiFt0bzpgA-pmfkQZqxYZoa3wQlrdzkj81A9UnZeSXNxDMoNomTHZr-ref00MklQMDAQiGGraq8ivT1yZY7AiSBqudyW7Ih6fvkVAcNgxPM5MjVFSjbxBWQ/s1600/61mwxwAlhZL._SL250_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir6AEAbEdfKd6EbjvRiFt0bzpgA-pmfkQZqxYZoa3wQlrdzkj81A9UnZeSXNxDMoNomTHZr-ref00MklQMDAQiGGraq8ivT1yZY7AiSBqudyW7Ih6fvkVAcNgxPM5MjVFSjbxBWQ/s320/61mwxwAlhZL._SL250_.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<i>I've already covered <a href="http://therediscoveredcountry.blogspot.com/2016/01/hugo-nomination-1-naomi-noviks-uprooted.html" target="_blank">Naomi Novik's </a></i><a href="http://therediscoveredcountry.blogspot.com/2016/01/hugo-nomination-1-naomi-noviks-uprooted.html" target="_blank">Uprooted</a> <i>and <a href="http://therediscoveredcountry.blogspot.com/2016/01/hugo-nomination-2-cat-valentes-speakeasy.html" target="_blank">Cat Valente's </a></i><a href="http://therediscoveredcountry.blogspot.com/2016/01/hugo-nomination-2-cat-valentes-speakeasy.html" target="_blank">Speakeasy</a> <i>(a novella). Which brings me to the second full-length novel nomination ... Dennis Mahoney's gorgeous, strange, spell-binding </i>Bell Weather.<br />
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I had never heard of <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/mahoneydennis/" target="_blank">Dennis Mahoney </a>before picking up <b><i>Bell Weather</i></b>, but the bright green ARC cover (different than the published cover shown to the left) drew me in: a monochrome print of a woman framed by trees. A hummingbird with bat-wings flies overhead. And over this, in bold white letters, “Enter the world of Root.” Well, with an invitation like that, don’t mind if I do.<br />
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<b><i>Bell Weather</i></b> is an adventure story following a young woman named Molly Bell as she escapes from two dangerous men bent on controlling her. Molly is a fantastic heroine, kinetic and indomitable. She is described as a “quicksummer spirit.” Associated with images of flowers and flame, she embodies warmth and tenacity, clinging to life through trials that would have killed a weaker person. Near the end of the novel, her brother Nicholas describes these abilities: “It is a quality of yours: a marvelous facility to wriggle out, adapt, and bloom without light.”<br />
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This inner vivacity, though, becomes a problem for her when she tries to hide in Root, a small town in the largely-unconquered continent of Colonial Floria. Despite her best attempts to blend in and become part of town life, Molly draws attention — starting fires, injuring herself, arguing with town drunks, and causing gossip by starting a romance with Root’s bachelor tavern owner, Tom Orange. Her relationship with Tom sustains and changes both of them, but eventually, the secrets of her past come to light, drawing danger down on the town as her pursuers come ever closer.<br />
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One of <b><i>Bell Weather</i></b>’s many strengths is Mahoney’s facility with description and setting. He has created a marvelous place in Root, a homely colonial outpost set on a continent of wonders. Like Molly herself, the weather around Root is volatile, ephemeral, unique. Storms wash the land in color. St. Verna’s fire is green electricity which clings to objects and people that it strikes. Winter comes all of a sudden in a yearly event called “deadfall” when the temperature plummets. Plants like ember gourds, which combust if not harvested on time, and stalkers, weeds that can walk, populate the land alongside animals like winterbears, grey wolfish bears. But Mahoney doesn’t rely on the strangeness of his setting alone. His language is lovely and surprising, too. He shows us hoarfur dripping from the branches: “the filaments gave the woods a moldering appearance, like a spiderwebbed crypt far below the earth.” The flight of cravens, small black birds afraid of everything, is described as “whirl[ing], dark and fluid, in a smooth gorgeous panic.”<br />
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This magical, inexplicable setting takes a backseat to the story, though, which is largely based in realism. Like most of the plot of <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/addisonkatherine">Katherine Addison</a>‘s <b><i>The Goblin Emperor</i></b>, the major events of <b><i>Bell Weather</i></b> could have happened in our world. Fantasy colors but doesn’t overwhelm the human action, which includes grueling journeys, deception and disguise, and several near deaths for Molly, her brother Nicholas, and her lover Tom.<br />
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This is where <b><i>Bell Weather</i></b> comes alive: its people. Mahoney doesn’t spend a lot of time detailing the personal appearance of his characters, but he communicates the feel of them through tiny gestures, impressions, and dialogue. Nothing communicates the terror that General Bell can inspire better than his line to his children, “There is God, and there is me. And God cannot protect you.” Or the expression of keen disappointment following joy: “Lem’s smile grew deformed, tangling in his beard.” Or the feeling of knowing you are loved: “Molly’s heart became an orange, nourishing and bright.” Or what is possibly the funniest line in the novel, exposing how the Bell children allow the household to decay around them while their father is away: “The laundry maid, wearing a ball gown and surrounded by feral cats she had taken to feeding, was caught reading a scandalous novel in the library.”<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Bell Weather</span>’s characters are each imperfect: impetuous, hard-headed, selfish, devious, or cowardly. But on the whole, Mahoney is remarkably generous towards his characters, portraying tenderness, attraction, and steadfast friendship. Even those characters we learn to hate or fear the most — General Bell, Nicholas, or the odious Mrs. Wickware — benefit from moments of vulnerability and flashes of deeply felt emotion. And part of Molly’s charm is that she can’t help but love the people who have hurt her the most. For instance, her father, General Bell, was harsh and abusive towards both of his children. However, after escaping her father, Molly remembers him: “She thought of hugging him the day he said goodbye and left for Floria, of reaching for his saber when he dragged her on the floor. Love made her miss him, love and all its afterbirth.”<br />
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To sum up, <b><i>Bell Weather</i></b> was a rewarding, thrilling, and surprisingly <i>touching</i> read. I look forward to reading more of what Mahoney has to offer, especially as he’s left Molly and Tom’s story at a nice stopping point, but with the potential for a follow-up.<br />
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*This review was originally posted at FantasyLiterature.com, where I gave the book 4.5 stars.</div>
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-51775221452242997462016-01-12T14:43:00.000-06:002016-01-12T14:57:29.316-06:00Hugo Nomination #3: FantasyLiterature.com<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVW_DXMmLlltbO1YHmzY91sTSwf42J74gAM5Q1QLjo-TkQidk7wy3lt9a2mMtCcHLsF7GlQVfWxMDEuv5BQjiIywRAI1eaiL5EM_oqGNPa04dcaL4VkgXVHHQfBk5NYthDoikY0g/s320/emailbanner.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
Okay, okay, so <i>this</i> is one where I actually have skin in the game*. The review site that I write for, <a href="http://fantasyliterature.com/">FantasyLiterature.com</a>, is Hugo-eligible--yay!<br />
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I've been reviewing for FanLit for almost 2 years now, and it's been a great relationship. My SFF knowledge has grown by leaps and bounds from being forced ... ahem, I mean, <i>encouraged </i>... to read more--both in terms of quantity and in terms of breadth. I read things I wouldn't necessarily have picked up on my own. And I found that reading consciously informed my fiction writing as well. Finally, I got plugged into a group of people who are just the smartest, weirdest, most fun group I've ever not-quite-met. When I first joined the site, the e-mail chains that the group sent blew me away ... they were so well-read and witty! I'm thrilled that several of us are planning to go to MidAmeriCon this year to attend the 74th World Science Fiction Convention, not only because I get to attend the Hugos but also because I get to meet, in-person, people who have become very dear to me.<br />
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So, all of that being said, here's our announcement:<br />
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"Fantasy Literature is Hugo-eligible in the category of Best Fanzine. Since 2007, the bloggers at Fantasy Literature have been committed to bringing you thoughtful, high-quality reviews, columns and news items about science fiction, fantasy, and horror. In the past two years, we’ve branched out to incorporate a larger social media presence, more author interviews, TV and film reviews, and special interest columns on topics like writing and comics. Our diverse global staff include bloggers from the US, the UK, Canada, New Zealand, Japan, and Portugal. Our New Zealand correspondent won a national Best Fan Writer award in 2014. Between the 20 active reviewers writing for Fantasy Literature, five are academics, three are lawyers, two are editors, and all are active, engaged SFF fans. We love the field, and we love a lively discussion! If you enjoy our columns and reviews, consider nominating us."<br />
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-80018815803055181752016-01-11T11:30:00.000-06:002016-01-11T11:30:00.848-06:00Hugo Nomination #2: Cat Valente's Speakeasy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>For my first nomination, <a href="http://www.therediscoveredcountry.blogspot.com/2016/01/hugo-nomination-1-naomi-noviks-uprooted.html" target="_blank">check out Naomi Novik's <b>Uprooted</b></a>. My first novella nomination is Cat Valente's <span style="font-weight: bold;">Speak Easy</span>.</i><br />
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I held off on reading <b><i>Speak Easy</i></b> by <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/valentecatherynne/">Catherynne M. Valente</a> for a few weeks after it arrived because I knew once I started reading it, I’d want to do nothing else. When you look at the novella, this doesn’t seem like such a big problem. The advanced reader’s copy is a slim volume, thinner than my pinky finger (the signed limited-edition volumes for sale at Subterranean Press might be bigger; they are hardcovers, bound in cloth). But take a peek into the first page of Valente’s novella, and you get a sense of the denseness and beauty of her language:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"There’s this ragamuffin city out east, you follow? Sitting pretty with a river on each arm, lit up in her gladdest rags since 1624. She’ll tell you she’s seen it all, boy howdy, the deep down and the high up, champagne and syphilis, pearls and puke. Oh, she’s a cynical doll, nothing new to her.<br />
Don’t you believe it."</blockquote>
As it was, it took only three nights of pre-bedtime reading to finish <b><i>Speak Easy</i></b>, and each night I went to bed with Valente’s gorgeous lines echoing in my brain.<br />
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<b><i>Speak Easy</i></b> is ostensibly a re-telling of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Twelve_Dancing_Princesses">the fairy tale</a>, “The Twelve Dancing Princesses.” Valente sets hers in the Artemisia hotel, a Jazz Age palace of illegal drinks and scandalous dances. Zelda Fair is the Artemisia’s most alluring resident. Just when she’s growing impatient the ease and indulgence of her life, a small door appears at the back of her closet. When it finally unlocks itself, she makes her way down winding stairs to the basement of the Artemisia. The decadence of the upper levels of the Artemisia can’t compete with what’s in the basement. The party there rivals Jareth the Goblin King’s ball for intoxicating strangeness. The basement, and its residents, are controlled by by Al, a tiny, immortal ganglord who is also possibly a fairy lord (and not the good kind — wait, there’s no good kind). He is a terrifying figure who captures what I look for in a fairy story: the idea that Faerie is not a happy, sparkly, rainbow-hued place, but a place more akin to Lovecraft than to a Disney film: utterly alien, dangerous, and seductive.<br />
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The one-to-one references to the original fairy tale are complicated in <b><i>Speak Easy</i></b> by a few of Valente’s own inventions. Zelda has a constant companion in a large pelican that follows her around like a puppy. I’m not sure if this references something in the original tale; perhaps the pelican is meant to symbolize the loyalty and silence of the soldier who breaks the spell on the twelve sisters? Or perhaps he’s what lures the sisters to the fairy dance in the first place? Either way, he’s an evocative figure in Valente’s book, perhaps the only friend Zelda really has.<br />
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Even more interesting is who Zelda herself represents in the novella: that other famous flapper, Zelda Fitzgerald. Her suitor, Frankie the bellhop, is none other than F. Scott himself. As such, their story has a much more ominous ending than that of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” (depending, that is, on how you feel about kings giving their daughters away as reward).<br />
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Reading <b><i>Speak Easy</i></b> inspired me to read up on Zelda Fitgerald’s life, which did not have a happy ending itself. In real life, Zelda accused F. Scott Fitzgerald of stealing her words and experiences for his novels, building his own literary success while pilfering her creativity and autonomy. She struggled with alcoholism, thwarted talent, and mental health problems, and ended up dying in a mental hospital during a fire. These tragic themes make their way into Valente’s ending, but even the earlier scenes of madcap revelry are suffused with darkness. Given their history, I feel bad comparing an F. Scott novel to a book about Zelda, but Valente has captured the sense of existential crisis and impending doom that haunts <b><i>The Great Gatsby.</i></b><br />
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Despite the tragedy, I will be returning to <b><i>Speak Easy</i></b> soon, and many times. It is a masterful fairy tale retelling with a side of literary history, and Valente’s language spins a spell that is hard to escape.<br />
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This review originally appeared on FantasyLiterature.com, where I gave the novella 5 stars.</div>
Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-15420286867157162362016-01-08T11:00:00.000-06:002016-01-08T11:52:44.530-06:00The Teen Ghost-hunters of Stockton<br />
<i>A writing exercise from the Iowa Writer's Workshop MOOC I took in the fall. And yeah, it's based in a thinly-disguised Oxford full of old ghosts and teenagers so ... just a thinly-disguised Oxford then ...</i><br />
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The three of us are sitting on the balcony of the bookstore, eating stolen cookies and warming our hands on mugs of coffee, when Kaitlyn finally mentions the grave.<br />
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"I was walking down 14th last night, and right when I got to the bottom of the hill, I saw a light by the grave."<br />
<br />
I know exactly what she's talking about. The only grave that matters in Stockton is Pentius Lamar's grave. Even though it's in a massive cemetery surrounded by hundreds of other graves, it's still "the grave," as if Lamar was Elvis or something. It's at the foot of a hill, with a giant oak spreading out over it, providing shade in summer and littering it with leaves in winter.<br />
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"It was his ghost," Cash says. I reach over and flick his ear. "Shut up, you don't know anything," I say, but not meanly. I'm glad he's deigned to hang out with his lame older sister for once. He rolls his eyes and keeps eating his cookie, huddling against the wind that gusts around the side of the building.<br />
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"Well, did you examine it?" I ask Kaitlyn. "What was it?"<br />
<br />
"A phone light." She giggles. "Two people doing it."<br />
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I look pointedly at Cash, and then back at her. She is unrepentant, though. "I got an eyeful of pale white ass." <br />
<br />
I make a move to cover his ears, but he shrugs me off. "I know what <i>ass </i>means already."<br />
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"Well, it weren't nothing, then." I cover my shiver with countrified bravado. That grave was the last place I saw—I <i>think</i> I saw—my mom. What I'm thinking must show in my face, because Kaitlyn leans forward and puts her hand on mine, crushing it against the rough wood of the table.<br />
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"We couldn't see anything behind all those branches. The mist was gathering, and it was dark. It coulda been anyone!" she says.<br />
<br />
"I know what I saw," I say. "It was her. I saw her face." I saw my mother silhouetted against the dim lights of the cemetery, wearing her checked rain-jacket, the one that smelled like cigarettes because she got it at the Goodwill. Her hair was floating in the breeze around her face, and I saw her lift a hand toward someone in the distance. Her mouth was moving, but when I try to remember what she said, I only hear the sound of the wind, the crunch of the acorns underfoot as we shifted.<br />
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This is where our interpretations differ, although both are equally bleak. Kaitlyn maintains that whoever we saw down by the grave while we were playing spies in the bushes around the cemetery, it wasn't my mom. She said it was some tourist, taking snaps of the Lamar grave. What this means though is uncertain. Her working theory—formed from watching too many police procedurals--is that Mom got kidnapped, or killed. That thought makes my stomach churn, even now, 10 years later. But my theory makes a hot ball of rage sit at the base of my spine. She left us. And she was glad about it. I still remember the look of joy that lit her up from inside, just before we got scared and ran off. <br />
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Cash's theory, based on the fuzzy memory of a 3-year-old who tagged along even when he wasn't invited and did not stay silent despite big-sisterly commands, is that she went with the ghost of Lamar. "I saw her walk up to him, take his hand, and then walk into the hill," he repeats whenever anyone asks. When I ask him if she looked happy, he nods, and then tilts his head as if listening for something. "Sort of. More just ... peaceful," he adds.<br />
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I'd be inclined to write him off and stick to my poisonous resentment and pain, except that I've seen the lights, too. Because I've seen those lights, too, and they weren't always the harbingers of a hookup.</div>
Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-54531695875359723512016-01-06T17:21:00.000-06:002016-01-06T17:21:18.272-06:00Hugo Nomination #1: Naomi Novik's UprootedI haven't sent in my Hugo nominations yet--I need to get on that--but one of the novels I'll certainly be nominating is <i style="font-weight: bold;">Uprooted</i>.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Agniezska is the brave, stubborn, sensitive heroine of <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/noviknaomi/">Naomi Novik</a>’s 2015 novel — and she’s about to steal your heart. She comes from Dvernik, a remote village on the edges of the enchanted Wood, the dark forest that creeps like a blight over interior Polnya. The only thing holding the Wood back from engulfing the land is the Dragon, a feared sorcerer who lives nearby. For his work keeping the danger at bay, every ten years the Dragon demands one young woman from the village. As the time for “the taking” approaches, everyone in the village expects the Dragon to choose Kasia, Dvernik’s golden girl and Agniezska’s best friend. However, something about Agniezska catches the Dragon’s eye and she is the one chosen to leave her family and friends for ten years to serve him in his tower.<br /><br />The setup might lead you to expect a typical Beauty and the Beast story, but <b><i>Uprooted</i></b> quickly becomes to something else. Novik’s plot weaves in elements of myth, magic, politics, coming-of-age, and yes, romance. It is easy to see the fairy-tale inspiration at work, but not always easy to pick out exactly which fairy tales she’s working from. There’s a good reason for this: Novik’s novel grew out of Polish fairy tales that her mother read to her when she was a child, mixed in with a healthy dose of her own imagination. As such, her story is populated with figures we know, such as Baba Jaga, the witch from Slavic folklore who is ferocious or maternal by turns, and figures we don’t know, such as woods-walkers and heart-trees. And an ancient legend of a marriage between a human king and a fairy queen becomes the linchpin to defeating the evil in the Wood.<br /><br />The myth and legend that Novik evokes in <b><i>Uprooted</i></b> is only one aspect of some fantastic worldbuilding. As with her TEMERAIRE series, <b><i>Uprooted</i></b> is an alternate history of a medieval Slavic world; Polnya is Poland, locked in a hostile relationship with its near neighbor, Rosya (Russia). The reason for the conflict lie in the Wood itself; the queen of Polnya was taken into the Wood by a Rosyan prince and has never been seen since. In their efforts to rescue the Queen, Agniezska and the Dragon visit the capital of Polnya, navigating the treacherous waters of politics at court.<br /><br />They also enter deeper into the Wood than anyone ever has, encountering horror and death. In The Wood, Novik has created an incredible setting, the fairy-tale analogue to <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/vandermeerjeff/">Jeff VanderMeer</a>’s Southern Reach series. It isn’t haunted — not precisely — but it is corrupted. Like more creepy versions of the apple trees Dorothy encounters in Oz, the very plants and animals of the Wood have become toxic. Something as simple as drinking water or touching a leaf in the Wood can sicken a person, sometimes with an illness that is visible like horrible deformation, and sometimes with an illness that doesn’t present itself until the person finds themselves in the midst of some unthinkable act, like murdering their family. The farther into the Wood one goes, the less likely it is that they will ever make it out, much less come out unchanged. [spoiler, highlight if you want to see it:] <span style="color: white;">Kasia is taken by walkers, which are like giant men made of sticks and branches, and thrust into a heart tree, one of the Wood’s many strongholds. Although she only resides there for a night, cleansing her of the corruption inside and out requires all of the magic that Agniezska and the Dragon can summon. And even when they succeed, Kasia is forever changed into something part flesh, part wood. </span> This kind of corruption is like possession, and it is a visual metaphor for something the Wood wants desperately—to overtake all of Polnya. It’s like evil kudzu.<br /><br />I don’t use the word “evil” lightly here. When we finally meet the real villain, she is terrifying and powerful, but though the darkness within her threatens humanity, it is actually a creation of human hatred and violence. The final conflict is resolved a bit too quickly for me, but it works within one of Novik’s themes, the idea that human ties to the land are deep and healing and that, in reclaiming land, we restore and strengthen ourselves. While Uprooteddoesn’t telegraph any particular message or moral, this particular bit of the story could easily be a parable about our current relationship with the planet, reminding us that what we poison will eventually end up poisoning us.<br /><br />Relationships are key to <b><i>Uprooted</i></b>. Agniezska’s relationship to the land, to the valley she grew up in, is part of what gives her such enormous power. But her relationships to others — her stubborn loyalty to Kasia, her affection for her family — are what humanize her and make her a fantastic character. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk about one of my favorite relationships in the novel: the romance between Agniezska and the Dragon. Novik creates great chemistry between these characters, and Agniezska’s willful boldness complements the Dragon’s arrogant reserve. He has no idea how the outside world sees him until she comes into his life and shows him. It’s like a fantasy version of Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, but Novik doesn’t gloss over the parts that Austen left out, if you know what I mean. In other words, the romance between the two fulfills all my dreams of what a satisfying fictional romance should be. Even if you’re not a fan of romance, however, there is plenty in <b><i>Uprooted</i></b> to enjoy and savor.</div>
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This review originally appeared on FantasyLiterature.com, where I (and the <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/reviews/uprooted/" target="_blank">rest of the FanLit reviewers</a>) gave the book 5 stars.</div>
Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-63156188618753166832015-12-07T20:02:00.003-06:002016-03-14T21:27:44.238-05:00Writing Lessons from Hamilton<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5OToIc-8BDIt2H89DU3-EUUMqsqcDTY9LpCIFvQodew8NzuORTum7QmKI_yEA8q4UFbHRDBWsecuLAwX1TkIjaW3SxsaIJjr7WgVKo-pbbpWeTWkZboV2aOVBxfLccq2n8Puu4g/s1600/Playbill_from_the_original_Broadway_production_of_Hamilton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5OToIc-8BDIt2H89DU3-EUUMqsqcDTY9LpCIFvQodew8NzuORTum7QmKI_yEA8q4UFbHRDBWsecuLAwX1TkIjaW3SxsaIJjr7WgVKo-pbbpWeTWkZboV2aOVBxfLccq2n8Puu4g/s320/Playbill_from_the_original_Broadway_production_of_Hamilton.jpg" width="205" /></a><br />
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Like much of the online community, I’ve been listening to the musical <i>Hamilton</i> a lot lately (I’d say “non-stop,” but The Toast already made <a href="http://the-toast.net/2015/09/28/on-leslie-odom-jr-in-hamilton/">that joke</a>). In addition to what it means to me as a person, as a consumer of stories—the gorgeous and tragic friendship of Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, their inverse trajectories and contradictory attitudes towards leadership and politics—it means a lot to me as a creator of stories. <br />
<br />
Cause I’m a recent migrant to the land of fiction. I finished my Ph.D. in Literature a year and a half ago. Since finishing my dissertation, a long-ass boring document<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=17683697#_ftn1">[1]</a> that only four other people in the world have read (and three of them were on my committee), I’ve been writing fiction, something I never trained for and wasn’t sure how to go about. I have a couple of publications now, but I still feel like a beginner. My husband graduated with his MFA from Florida State University, where we met; during my time there, I was surrounded by writers. Now I live and teach in Oxford Mississippi, a town of writers, a not-inconsequential number of whom are some degree of famous. And here I am, giving this writing thing a go, seeing if I have what it takes.<br />
<br />
Why do I write? Because I enjoy it. Because I am good at it. And because, I’m sort of ashamed to say, I want to be famous. Don’t quote the statistics at me about how many writers there are for every J.K. Rowling or Stephen King; I already know it’s not likely to happen. But yeah, there’s a part of me—a part I’m not totally comfortable acknowledging publicly—that wants to be recognized for something that I do well. To be part of the conversation.<br />
<br />
All of this is complicated by my desire to parent a child. I’m in my mid-30’s, so the topic of parenthood is very much on the table. Often. With hot sauce. These days, I think a lot about why I want to be a parent, creating entirely unrealistic expectations for what that relationship might look like. I mean, I’m just spitballing, but .... is it too much to ask for my kid to dig Shakespeare but be able to articulate at an early age why Middleton is at least as good ... or for them to be a hilarious genius who will spawn their own hashtag when I tweet their adorable/unsettling quotes ... or to expect them to wear small versions of grown-up clothes—no cartoons—like a tiny baby hipster? I’m only partially making fun of myself here; like my writing career, I am approaching parenthood with unrealistic optimism<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=17683697#_ftn2">[2]</a> ... tempered, of course, with facts and real-life experiences from friends. <br />
<br />
So I’m on the cusp—well, maybe not the cusp exactly; the kid thing is still a couple years away, <i>Mom</i>—of these two exciting, intimidating things: writing and parenthood. And the simple (and, to some, unpopular) truth is that, even when I am a mom, I am not going to give up my ambition to write. Children are a wonderful legacy but I don’t want my child to be my only legacy. At the end of my life, I want to leave something behind me—a body of writing—that’s just mine. Almost every day I think about time: how much of it I have, how I’m spending it, and how much I’ll need in the future to finish what I have in mind. <br />
<br />
So when Alexander Hamilton talks about not throwing away his shot, I listen. This is my shot. I’m employed full-time in a job that gives me surprising freedom to write; I’m married with no kids and a supportive partner who cooks food for me when I’ve been at my desk and forgotten to eat. I’m not throwing that away.<br />
<br />
The relationship between time and work is a recurrent theme in Hamilton. In “Non-Stop,” we learn that Hamilton writes like he’s “running out of time.” When Burr tells the audience about the Federalist Papers, he shouts out how many of the 85 essays Hamilton completed—“the other fifty-one!”—as if he’s throwing down the gauntlet. <i>See what my man did? Beat that if you can!</i> The chorus says Hamilton writes like “tomorrow won’t arrive,” like he “need[s] it to survive,” “ev’ry second [he’s] alive.” <br />
<br />
Every writer can relate to Hamilton’s instinct to produce. He’s trying to write out his feelings—“a testament to his pain”—and to defend what he believes. Every time I listen to these songs, I want to go home and throw myself into a work-in-progress, to dedicate to it my time and energy and life-blood (entirely metaphorical, at least so far).<br />
<br />
But Hamilton isn’t a one-man writing machine. He has conflicting forces in his life. His urge to write, to be remembered, is epitomized perhaps by his relationship with Washington, who tells him that once you’re dead—which can happen at any moment—“you have no control ... who tells your story.” But he also has forces reminding him to slow down and take it easy. His friend/rival, Aaron Burr, always advises him to “talk less; smile more,” and models caution, playing the long game instead of living with Hamilton’s urgency. And Hamilton’s wife, Eliza, wants him to recognize and appreciate “how lucky we are to be alive right now.” In “That Would Be Enough,” Eliza says that they don’t need a legacy or money to be happy, only enough time with each other. <br />
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The competing desires in my own head aren’t as easily personified, but they’re still there: the desire to parent, and the desire to write and publish. Right now, I’m worried more about giving up my dreams to write than neglecting my child for the work I want to do. The child is currently a hypothetical, and the culture of motherhood in this country is such that I’ll probably feel pressured to over-parent rather than to under-parent. All I can do to chill out about the future is to write hard now, and hope that these two desires won’t end up being as antithetical as I assume. Hamilton had kids, right? <i>Yeah,</i> says the other voice in my head, <i>but Eliza was doing the parenting </i>...<br />
<br />
So while I’m figuring out this writing thing, this life/work thing, this future child thing, I’m listening to Hamilton. To remind me to work, and to remind me that I’m lucky to have the present moment. To occasionally take the advice of Eliza and Aaron Burr and chill out, smile more, enjoy the moment, come upstate. And to remind me that, if/when the child becomes less hypothetical, I don’t have to give up writing. Like Hamilton and Burr, I may have, instead, a new reason to write (*sobs* "Dear Theodosia" *wails*). And I can pass on the worlds that I “keep erasing and creating in my mind” to my kid. (Who will LOVE it—I’m not going to give them a choice.)<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=17683697#_ftnref1">[1]</a> Thomas Middleton in Performance 1960-2013: A History of Reception—see, it even sounds boring! <br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=17683697#_ftnref2">[2]</a> Which may be the only way you can approach parenthood. It’s too scary otherwise. <br />
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-24685999001596212232015-12-04T12:00:00.000-06:002015-12-04T12:00:06.737-06:00SevenEves: 600 pages of info-dump leaves little room for plot<div style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet, Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Neal Stephenson doesn’t shy away from big concepts, long timelines, or larger than life events. His most recent novel, <i>SevenEves</i>, begins with the moon blowing up. Readers never find out what blew up the moon, because all too quickly humanity discovers that the Earth will soon be bombarded by a thousand-year rain of meteorites — the remnants of the moon as they collide with each other in space, becoming smaller and smaller — which will turn Earth into an uninhabitable wasteland. Humankind has a 2-year deadline to preserve its cultural legacy and a breeding population. The solution is to make extended life-in-space a possibility. The first two thirds of the book follows a group of astronauts and scientists who are among those who will form the new colony orbiting Earth, waiting a few millennia for it to become habitable again. The last third shows us what has become of humanity after 5,000 years in space, as they begin their slow return to the surface of the planet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">From the first sentence of the book (“The moon blew up without warning and for no apparent reason”), I thought this concept had brilliant potential to be both scientifically and emotionally compelling. But about 200 pages in, I realized that not much had happened yet … well, you know, other than the moon exploding. Further, I realized that I still didn’t really have a strong sense of the main characters. I flipped back through what I’d read and saw that for each single line of dialogue, there were about two dense paragraphs of exposition — essentially infodumping — usually geared towards explaining complex engineering or physics problems with which the human race was now faced.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Infodumping isn’t a dealbreaker for me, nor is a little educational material in my fiction. Some of my favorite facts come from fiction, such as the idea of a tesseract in <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/lenglemadeleine">A Wrinkle in Time</a>, the curvature of space and time as explained in <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/crichtonmichael">Michael Crichton</a>‘s <i>Sphere</i>, the explanations of seventeenth-century trade and economics in Stephenson’s BAROQUE CYCLE, or literally anything about rabbits from <a href="http://www.fantasyliterature.com/fantasy-author/adamsrichard">Watership Down</a>. But when I’m reading fiction, I also expect to equally enjoy other aspects of the prose, such as, for instance, character building, internal and external conflict, scenes, dialogue, or even just “events that are happening.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first 400 pages of <i>SevenEves</i>, on the other hand, functioned mostly as a lecture to the reader so that a) they could appreciate how hard the task of creating long-term self-sustaining space habitats is, and b) marvel at how Stephenson, a scientist himself with a background in computing, geography, and physics, had come up with workarounds for the problems inherent to the task. Part of me wanted to say, “Well, goody for you, Neal; you figured it out. Can we please get back to the task of creating a story now?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the reasons I never connected to the characters is that Stephenson spreads himself too thinly by following a few different point-of-view characters, instead of one particular character. This strategy works for a lot of books, but in such an information-heavy novel, which already skimps on character development and scene-building, it would help to at least anchor the readers with one p.o.v. character. However, since <i>SevenEves</i> didn’t do that, I felt relegated to the surface of each of these character’s interior lives, instead of getting to know one of them more deeply. I wasn’t sure why Stephenson chose to follow the characters he did, either. One of them (a clear reference to Neil DeGrasse Tyson) didn’t contribute much of essence to the plot. While he was intelligent and relatively sympathetic, he ended up playing the role of a very highly-educated observer. His life and efforts neither helped nor hindered the plan for human survival. However, Julia, an appealingly Machiavellian former U.S. President who cheats and manipulates her way up to the space colony instead of dying on the surface, was not a p.o.v. character. I would have liked to hear her internal monologue, especially as she ended up playing a large role in the eventual outcome for humanity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Around page 400, things really picked up and conflicts exploded — political, personal, practical — across the page. The second half of the book had a plot that I would even deign to describe as “rip-roaring.” As if the moon blowing up and destroying life on earth wasn’t enough, after a few years in space, the survival of the human race is put up against odds that are practically insurmountable. The last third of the book occurs 5,000 years in the future and we get to see how humanity has met those odds, succeeded, and (most thrillingly) evolved. And there are wonderful surprises waiting, too, that Stephenson has seeded into the plot from the beginning. The end of the book made me want to cry, not only because of feels (*sob* “Life really DOES find a way!” *sob*), but also because of the beautiful way in which Stephenson wove his ending together.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This does not, however, erase the fact that the beginning of the book also made me want to cry from frustration and anger that such a great idea had been squandered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It pains me to say anything bad about Stephenson’s books. In addition to writing lots of books that I love, he wrote <i>Anathem</i>, <a href="http://therediscoveredcountry.blogspot.com/2011/05/open-letter-to-neal-stephenson.html" target="_blank">my favorite book</a>. And the ironic thing is that, for many readers, <i>SevenEves</i> may not feel that different from <i>Anathem</i>, which also has lots of infodumping, in this case regarding philosophy and theoretical physics. Much of <i>Anathem</i> consists of philosophical lectures in the form of dialogue between characters. But the concepts Stephenson expounded in those lectures ended up being thematically central to the plot of the book, whereas in <i>SevenEves</i>, I felt like it was too much engineering talk for a book that was not really about engineering.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe I’m being condescending to the practical sciences here. Why can one book be “about” philosophy, and another one not be “about” engineering? Perhaps Stephenson, and other readers, might argue that the book isabout engineering: all of the human knowledge and ingenuity that is devoted to guaranteeing the survival of humanity. It’s for those readers that I’m loath to give <i>SevenEves</i> a low ranking. I believe that many people will love this book, perhaps with the level of fervor that I feel for <i>Anathem</i>. However, despite the impressive ending, I felt largely frustrated and let down by a sub-par execution of a fantastic story.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">This review originally appeared on FantasyLiterature.com, where I gave the book 3.5 stars. </span></i></div>
Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17683697.post-39074271365095689302015-11-29T20:40:00.003-06:002015-11-29T20:48:02.795-06:00Selections from the Intragalactic Encyclopedia of Habitable Planets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My story, "Selections from the Intragalactic Encyclopedia of Habitable Planets," came out a few days ago in Kelly Ann Jacobson's new anthology, <i>Dear Robot: An Anthology of Epistolary Science Fiction</i>. I'm proud of the story, which is a Douglas Adams-esque take on a far-future encyclopedia cataloguing various species and cultural practices of the Milky Way galaxy. <br />
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But I'm even more proud of the anthology. It lives next to my bed right now and I read a story or two every night before I go to sleep, and dang! My co-contributors can write! I'm happy and humbled that my work appears in such company.<br />
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I started working on "Selections" in July of 2014. It began as a writing exercise. The first couple sentences of the first entry, "Sand," just came to me: </div>
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"Two universal laws govern sand. One: every rocky planet that has either wind or liquid water has sand. Two: Sand gets into everything."</blockquote>
So I kept going with it, allowing myself to be silly. My normal fiction mode is more serious; this was the first humor piece I'd written. And once I finished the entries, all of which start with "S," I wasn't sure it would be a story. Who would buy it?<br />
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I showed it to my friend Scott Fogg, a regular and valued beta-reader of mine, who liked the entries but said they needed a narrative. I agreed, but wasn't sure what framework might tie them all together. I didn't want to crib too directly from <i>Hitchhiker's Guide</i>, so I didn't really want the story to be about a journey in which the Encyclopedia gets used. Then my husband gave me the idea of the editors of the Encyclopedia. "What if the story is in their notes on the entries?" As a student of book history, I love learning about the ways in which texts are created--what kind of collaborative labor goes into an edited edition of a play, a medieval illuminated manuscript, or even an anthology. So the idea of telling a story using editorial notes and commentary appealed to the book-nerd in me.<br />
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Going in, I had no ideas about the over-arching plot, but once I started writing in the voices of the editors, their personalities were so strong that my story--about the creation of the Galactic Alliance and the discovery of a mysterious object called "The Box"--just came together. The first editor I created was Alyssa Carson, v. 13, an artificial intelligence and the lead editor on the project, whose unflappable rationality grounded the other two characters. She worked as a little name-drop, too, for one of my heroes; the <a href="http://nasablueberry.com/" target="_blank">real-life Alyssa Carson </a>is a 9th grade "teen astronaut in training" who wants to be one of the first humans on Mars. I first heard of her because of Amy Poehler's <i>Smart Girls </i>initiative and in my alternate history, Alyssa gets her wish--and a <i>lot</i> more!<br />
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The other editors, being material and emotional, are more volatile than Alyssa. The human scientist Mahesh Atwal is intense, earnest, and pretty gullible. I wrote him as a stereotype of academics: really smart but lacking a well-developed sense of humor.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Which leads to some good pranks on the part of the third editor, R’Kaf Ka’Goff Uslav’terben-Jones. R'Kaf is a non-human whose origin, species, and even age are shrouded in mystery. What we do know is that zhe's gender-neutral, well-traveled, and more knowledgable about the galaxy than practically anyone else. Some readers might expect a character like this to be a sage, but my inspiration for R'Kaf was less Yoda, more Q from Star Trek: TNG. Zhe's immature, mischievous, and filthy-minded. I liked the idea of this ancient alien being basically a lovable asshole instead of a fount of wisdom.<br /><br />The end of the story ... well, it's inconclusive, and it's meant to be. R'Kaf's trickster-nature comes through on the final page either way you read it. The truth of what actually happened depends on whether you take his statements at face-value or as jokes, and whether or not you believe that Alyssa is as reliable as she claims to be. But I'll leave that experience to you.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First page</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: small;">*Shout-outs also due to Marion Deeds, Dario Sulzman, and Beth Pietrzak, who also read and gave me excellent feedback on this story!</span><br />
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Kate Lechlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15144349260641118479noreply@blogger.com3