The Muse Strikes Back
​This was a hard year for me on the writing front (well, all fronts) and damn it, I'm not comfortable with that. Stories have come hard and slow to me, and novel drafts I typically would have dashed out in under a month now take me twice that amount of time. I'm not short of ideas, and I have enough time in my schedule to get these things done. My agent says I am turning in my best work (such as ADRIFT, recently), with each manuscript getting better and better. But for the last several months, it has been as if the passion was sucked out of me. No amount of coffee, tea, or motivational viewings of 2001: A Space Odyssey could lift me from the funk.
I'm sure other writers go through phases where their output waxes or wanes; I know I have. But this time was different. The specter of quitting what I do has never haunted my thoughts, but self-doubt more than took its place. I even took to procrastinating when it came to writing, something I rarely did in previous years.
Either I'm losing my touch, or my mind needs more time to realize these stories on a subconscious level. We write stories based on our experiences in the real world, and I've been trying to tackle deeper, more 'cerebral' material instead of the action/adventure stories I typically write. Perhaps, in going for more depth, I've had to explore my own psychological depths. One would think that requires more gestation time for such stories. This isn't an excuse for writing less this year: I haven't lost any of my excitement for the craft, for science fiction and the genre at large, or for fandom.
I'm hoping this is part of my evolution as an author, and that I come out of it stronger and more focused. I intend for it to be.
As this year draws to a close, I'm roughly halfway through another first draft, AFTERWORLD. I wrote a synopsis as a guideline, and I have the overall plot envisioned. Pretty typical for me, since I'm a panster anyway. All I will say about AFTERWORLD is that it's a 'post-human' story, set far into the future at a point where humanity is extinct. The main characters are all biomechanical. This has led me to think more about how we humans express ourselves, how we see the world, and the things we take for granted, more than ever before. Even though I'm well into the first draft, new ideas are still coalescing in my mind. Should I take this narrative route, or that one? I don't find these questions to be obstacles, but they have caused me to slow my progress and ponder certain issues a little more before returning to the manuscript.
Before this year, I would have cautioned against such a thing. Usually, once I've started a new story, I don't stop until it's finished. For a novel, that meant not pausing to reconsider character motivations or plot maturation. I simply charged ahead. And that has always given me grief when revising my first drafts into second ones. Maybe now, I'm finally slowing down so that I can craft better stories, and get more of it right the first time around. If I were superstitious, I'd say this is my muse striking back, after I've sent her changing through the burning ruins of Pansterville for years.
Anyway. I plan to complete the initial draft of AFTERWORLD before 2017 finally ends. I'm excited for 2018. I'm ready for the muse to kick my ass from one globular star cluster to the next, because, even though I've slowed down for a while, I'm not giving up.
Toxic Fandom
​When I was in high school, I noticed my classmates had seemingly changed over the summer and entered the new school year as members of certain cliques. People who'd been friends were now too cool to speak to me. Not a fun place to be. In our society this is a part of growing up, unfortunately. Many people mature out of this phase—but many never do. That is how I see the toxic side of fandom.
I was never part of a clique. All I had other than a handful of friends were the science fiction and fantasy books I loved to read, Dungeons & Dragons, and heavy metal music. Little communities I felt part of, separate from those who shunned me in everyday life. I never felt others should be prevented from enjoying these things; the more people I had things in common with, the better. So even though, more than two decades later, I still read SF, still play tabletop RPGs, (my taste in music has since greatly expanded, thankfully), I reiterate that I was never in a clique. A clique is exclusive. It forbids entry to those it considers beneath them. It rescinds membership to any who might be interested but simply doesn't understand every aspect of said clique's minutiae.
Many of today's fandoms contain people who view their favorite films, comics, games, or books as just another clique. To hell with the mundanes who assume they are fans. I know most fans aren't like this, but enough are to become noticeable. Enough to make the rest of us look bad. They remind me of the cliques in high school that regarded themselves as superior to everyone else—with just as much maturity.
The current outcry over the 13th Doctor getting cast as a woman, the bitching about Ed Sheeran having a cameo in Game of Thrones Season 7, or the vitriol regarding Idris Elba portraying the Gunslinger in the new Dark Tower movie—it all sounds like a bunch of children squabbling over a pie they have always claimed is available to everyone. Star Trek fans say their fandom represents that future utopian society yet some complain when two women of color are cast in the lead roles for the new show Discovery. Star Wars fans love to imagine battling an evil empire in a galaxy featuring countless alien species, but some got butthurt when a POC was cast as a stormtrooper in The Force Awakens. And don't get me started on the comics industry.
A lot of this can be blamed on simple bigotry and misogyny. Racism and sexism are alive and well in the 21st century, but often in places no one would have suspected. But the more I talk to other writers, the more I learn that this behavior has went on for quite some time. Since I wasn't among those typically shunned from SF (women, people of color, LGBT people), I never realized how deep some of this went. It's certainly made me rethink how I see the SF genre and the things I've enjoyed for years. How my interest and involvement in them has never been questioned, while the inclusion of others is.
Hey, I get it. You bonded with a certain movie, story, or character that helped you understand yourself and provided insulation from the horrors of the world outside. Something that seemed truly yours, that only you understood. This thing has been there for you when nobody else was. When you laid alone at night, shunned by all else, you still had this one thing that offered comfort and escape. There's nothing wrong with that.
Telling someone else they can't have the same thing is not only wrong, it's hypocritical. It's selfish. It reveals a lack of empathy, for if this one thing gives you comfort, you wish to keep others from feeling the same. Where you might have turned to fandom to deal with the sanctimoniousness of other cliques, you have contributed to the very same behavior. You assume this identity is yours alone, and all others are thieves, pretenders, or those wishing to use that identity to further a political agenda. But if you're the one complaining, or trying to prohibit others from finding solace in what you like, you're the one with the agenda.
The easy thing is to tell these people 'you should live up to the ideals of your heroes'. That they missed the true message behind Star Trek, Steven Universe, Doctor Who, and others. Sometimes you block them on social media, and in some cases that can't be avoided. But they never learn what their real problem is as a result.
The real problem is that they don't understand—or accept—that their hero, their ideal, their one shining thing, can inspire and comfort someone else. Not just them. No single person, group, or community owns these fictional worlds and characters. They belong to all of us. It doesn't matter if their gender or skin color changes. As long as these worlds and characters remain true to what they represent, what they inspired, then nothing has fundamentally changed. They are the new mythology and change with the times.
They change because we do. Because some of us need them to.
Science Fiction in a Post-Truth World
​For decades, science fiction has been the genre of future speculation, hope, and even warning. Though its trends have changed with the times, there remains one constant the genre never abandons: its regard for science, knowledge, and reason. Regardless of whether fans prefer space opera over social SF, or what their politics are, science fiction has remained the champion of forward-thinking in the face of ignorance and zealotry.
Can that still be true in our new, so-called 'post-truth' society? Where it is now fashionable, in certain circles, to proudly disregard knowledge and intellect, to give opinion the same weight as fact? When daily, we watch the frightening rise of regressive behaviors such as bigotry, assault on women's rights, climate change denial, and even those who believe the Earth is flat? Or that we never landed on the Moon? When elected leaders freely cast doubt on what is true or false, for blatant political gain?
What worth can science fiction have in such a society? This question is more important than ever, as the general public's main exposure to SF is the big Hollywood blockbuster: big explosions, dumbed-down plot, technology akin to magic. When people doubt we ever sent humans into space, while using a mobile phone that receives signals from orbiting satellites. Post-modern ideas claiming science (and thus critical thought) is just another religion. Worst of all, empowered racists that ask if some people can even be considered human beings.
The best way to fight this nonsense is to maintain our standard of knowledge. One that never normalizes ignorance. A standard that science fiction epitomizes.
But wait, I know what some will say: the genre itself has always been politicized. From the Libertarian-tinged works of Robert A. Heinlein, to the feminist perspectives given by Ursula K. Le Guin, science fiction has never been a stranger to controversy (in fact, what works are considered controversial is in itself a controversy). There's nothing wrong with this; having multiple perspectives on how humans will advance (or not) is what gives the field its strength. There's something for all tastes, all political persuasions. That doesn't mean we should normalize racism, sexism, and otherwise hateful material when it arises. Recognizing and calling out such things doesn't stifle creativity. But abiding them certainly stifles the SF community, and, ultimately, the rest of society.
Yet, for all the friction within SF fandom, we've always been united by a respect for learning. I hope this continues. As the cultural wars spill over into the SF community, I fear some authors will assume the same stubborn, ignorant, even petty stances that certain elements of society now espouse. We've already witnessed that in regards to the Sad/Rabid Puppies movement. Regardless of where one stands on that issue, it's mere distraction compared to what is happening around us. What we once read about in SF books, has now, or likely will, come true:
The mass-surveillance state as shown in George Orwell's 1984;
The rise of corporatism, as depicted in William Gibson's Neuromancer;
Women as baby-making machines, from Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale;
The deterioration of urban, non-white neighborhoods, from Octavia Butler's Parable of the Sower;
Rising sea levels, like those from JG Ballard's The Drowned World.
There are other examples, but this list suffices to make my point. True, some of these haven't come to pass, or aren't as extreme as their fictional counterpart. But the signs are there, much more so than when the author in question penned said work (which is why I didn't select recent titles). We are walking the razor's edge, barefoot and blindfolded.
So, what can we, as science fiction writers, do?
Some will say, 'do nothing, keep it business as usual'. I can't condemn that. Just because we write SF, that doesn't make us activists, prophets, or anything bent on swaying another's thinking. That's not my intent when I write a short story or novel. Our beliefs, hopes, prejudices, and all else that makes us individuals, will surface in our art, regardless of authorial intent. But there is one thing we can all do: maintain respect for knowledge.
Support reason, praise intellect, require facts instead of opinions. Keep these tenements in your work, subtle or no. Inspire with that sense of wonder, like Arthur C. Clarke did with his work. Foster hope that humanity can overcome these challenges, like Octavia Butler. Challenge our concepts of gender and civilization, like Ursula K. Le Guin or Samuel Delaney. Or, like George Orwell and Margaret Atwood, tell us your greatest fears, so that we might be forewarned.
Never forget that science fiction inspired some of our greatest scientists and inventors; without this genre, rockets and mobile devices might never have left the proverbial drawing board. Our knowledge sets us apart from every other lifeform we currently know; therefore, let us celebrate it, increase it, and most importantly, share it, so that the idea of a 'post-truth' era dies like all other ephemeral, meaningless trends. Let science fiction be a pestilence upon ignorance, a poison against irrationality, and an antidote to regressive thinking.
"There is a single light of science, and to brighten it anywhere is to brighten it everywhere."
My First Con: Stalking George R.R. Martin
​It was a chilly February morning in Roanoke as I entered the hotel where Mysticon 2016 was being held. Dusty, one of my local writer friends, had managed to get me a pass. The rest had sold out weeks beforehand, due to the anticipated appearance of George R. R. Martin. This would be my first 'con', short for convention. But, as you'll see below, it seems as if I stalked poor GRRM the whole time.
After receiving my pass and perusing the vendor displays (I purchased a book and art print by fantasy artist J.P Targete, and a book from fellow HWA member, Pamela Kinney), Dusty and I made our way to the GRRM reading. No electronic devices were allowed; if they saw you so much as check your phone or tablet, the reading would end. I found that a bit harsh, but I waited with everyone else in that crowded room. Including two infants who were most enthusiastic to see the infamous architect of the Red Wedding.
GRRM walked in, wearing that customary hat and suspenders that lend a dark Santa Clause air about him. Well, he was dressed all in black. And lots of characters die in his books. Badly.
He was going to read two chapters from his upcoming novel, The Winds of Winter. You know, the novel all fandom is waiting for, from A Song of Ice and Fire. The passages were interesting, but gave nothing away (and certainly left every mystery unanswered, all of you Jon Snow hopefuls). But that's all I will say about his text; you'll have to wait like everyone else to find out what we heard in that room. Though it was cool, finding out something before the rest of fandom, I was glad when GRRM finished, because I'm not fond of readings (much rather be at home, alone, reading, with tea or coffee handy). Dusty almost fell asleep, I think.
From there, we sampled a panel about colonizing Venus. After realizing these people had no idea for how they would deal with planetary surfaces reaching 800 degrees Fahrenheit, much less the massive atmospheric pressures, Dusty and I left. I wish those people luck, but I'm certain we'll have colonized Io before they convince anyone to live on Venus. And Io's covered in frigging volcanoes.
By this time, many more attendees had shown up. Cosplayers, fans, and even writers like myself. It felt weird and fun at the same time, knowing these people shared many of my own interests. In my Star Trek t-shirt, complete with the rainbow warp colors, I felt at home. No one realized I was trying to cosplay Neil Gaiman in that leather jacket, though.
Dusty introduced me to a favorite local writer of his, P.S. Belcher, and I purchased one of Belcher's books to sign, The Six-Gun Tarot. He said he'd heard of my own book, and I simply smiled and said 'cool' (Oh shit, did he read the positive or negative reviews? Had he heard good or bad things? Hey, we writers are an insecure lot.). Dusty and I stayed for a few moments as Belcher took part in a panel on beta readers. But, alas, we had to run, to once again trail GRRM through the fan-filled halls of the hotel.
Once we finally found the signing line, our wait was relatively short. That was the good part. The bad? GRRM would only sign one item, without inscriptions, and if I wanted a photo with him, I had to have my camera out and already set to the camera app. This wouldn't have bothered me if I hadn't already purchased two copies of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (one for me, one for my cousin, who is a huge GRRM fan) from the Barnes & Noble vendor in the hotel. I pity anyone who bought all five volumes of A Song of Ice and Fire in the hopes of getting them signed.
But that wasn't the best part. By the time I got to the small room where GRRM was signing, I had the single book out, the camera was ready, and I'd cleared my throat to say something. As GRRM was signing his angular scribble on the book's title page (I'd have been pissed if he had marred the colorful, illustrated end paper), I said 'Hello, Mr. Martin.' Respectful, friendly, not attempting to start a conversation because the con staff wanted us to move our asses faster than a Sand Snake could kill a man. GRRM looked up and said 'Hello, how are you today?', and I replied, 'I'm fine,' as I took my signed book and retrieved my phone from the con staff member. Once I was away, I examined the picture they'd taken.
Holy shit. It was terrible. But in a way, it was hilarious.
The photo, which I uploaded to social media, shows me apparently frowning down at GRRM, and he's looking up at me, his pen scratching over that title page. It appears confrontational, like a stare down. Of course, when I uploaded the photo, I typed in a caption: 'I'm warning you…if Brienne dies, we riot.' Game of Thrones fans will get it.
After we grabbed lunch at Bellacino's (excellent toasted subs), we returned to the hotel so that we could listen to the GRRM Q&A. We attended another panel, this one with another local writer, Tiffany Trent, on it (author of The Unnaturalists), who received us warmly, and mentioned seeing my book advertised in the local newspaper. That made me happy and embarrassed at the same time; I'm not accustomed to praise or attention. The panel discussed raising children in a post-apocalyptic world, which I found quite interesting, but—yep, you guessed it—we left early to stalk GRRM one last time.
This time, Dusty and I managed to get a seat just to the left of the Q&A table, being closer to GRRM than anyone else. Yet, when the venerable slayer of favorite characters arrived, he made eye contact with me as he neared the stage. The dude probably thought I was some crazed fan, seeing me once again, but I managed to refrain myself from prostrating. I did smile, though. A Littlefinger kinda smile. Well, not really.
The Q&A was both entertaining and enlightening; GRRM came across as a down to earth guy, and, as Dusty commented, he was very generous with his answers to the audience's questions. This was easily the highlight for me, for, as I watched and listened, I considered my own writing hopes and dreams. GRRM makes no secret of his dislike for fame, and I got the impression he just wants to enjoy fandom like the rest of us. He really cares about the genre, and about the fans. Yes, it might seem that I complained about the limitations of the book signing, but honestly, there are far less famous and accomplished celebrities out there who charge far more for the opportunity, and GRRM lacked such arrogance. I'd do it all over again. Especially for another photo like that.
I almost got in line to ask him a question, but I couldn't think of anything worthwhile (I wanted to crack a joke about, 'hey see you at the next Hugo Loser's Party', but that'll probably never happen for me). I'm not a novice any longer, but I'm far from a master of my craft, and no doubt, there is much GRRM could fill me in on. But I found the best way to learn, in this situation, was to simply listen and observe.
Afterward, as Dusty and I passed through a Roanoke fading into twilight, I knew I would come back to Mysticon, and to other cons. My swag bag may have been filled with signed books, but my mind was filled with the possibility that, yes, I belonged there.
But I'll try not to creep out the guest author next time.
My First Book Signing
I was nervous as I hurried across the parking lot to Barnes & Noble, wary of holiday traffic and checking to make sure my wife was still beside me. In one hand I carried a small briefcase with my business cards, pens, and tablets (electronic and paper versions). In the other hand I held a cardboard package that contained the blowup of my cover, overnighted to me the day before by my publicist at Penguin.
This was my first book signing, and damn it, I didn't want to mess it up.
I'd managed to squeeze in a signing at the last minute, thanks to my father-in-law and the local Barnes & Noble manager. Scheduled six days before Christmas and one day after the release of the new Star Wars film, it seemed like a good time to offer my space opera novel to busy shoppers. So without fanfare, I arrived right on time to find a table prepared for me, with my books lined up, as well as a standup flyer with my name on it.
This was the moment I'd only dreamed of. Yes, that's a cliché spoken by every writer, but it's true. For someone like me, a book store is both exciting and sacred, a library where proven classics shares shelf space with new blood. And here I was, the new blood, daring to seat myself in the center of such a place.
The store clerk welcomed me and offered to bring me coffee from the instore café should I need it; my wife, a few relatives, and friends took photos, bought a few copies, then left to do some last minute Christmas shopping. I was lucky enough to have an extended conversation with a local author and friend, but soon, even he was gone. I was set adrift in a sea of words and the people who pay their hard-earned money to read them.
But as soon as I sat down at the table, my anxiety disappeared. I don't know why.
I'd always heard that you should engage people, but not come across too strong or annoying. So I sat there, hemmed in by my books on one side, and my cover blowup on the other, and waited.
It was interesting to watch people pass my table. You could tell who might be interested and who wasn't. If anyone made eye contact with me, I made sure to say hello, and ask how they were doing. Most people are friendlier than they appear. If someone paused and glanced at my books, or my blowup, then I'd greet them and ask if they like science fiction. If anyone replied in the positive, I would continue my sales pitch (because that's what it is) and ask if they liked Star Wars or Firefly, if they had a favorite SF author, and so on. This worked almost every time, with the result that I signed a book and garnered a sale at the end of the conversation. There was no median age, gender, or ethnicity; I sold books to the young and the old, men or women, whites and African Americans.
Some were parents shopping for their teenage children, some were buying Star Wars board games and wanted an SF book to go along with it, and some were intrigued enough by my description that they bought a copy. One woman liked my explanation of Kivita and Sar's romance in my book. A guy mentioned that he liked SyFy's new show The Expanse, and I mentioned that I watch it too (which I do) and that I tried to follow science much like that show does, by respecting different atmospheres and gravities in my own work. He bought a copy. Then there was the young guy who arrived after I had packed everything up. Wearing a curious smile, he picked up a copy, and soon we were discussing the works of Kevin J. Anderson, Timothy Zahn, and David Brin. I complimented him on his Boba Fett shirt (yes, I like that iconic character too) and the young man finally bought a signed copy.
So yes, I was being a salesman, but I know my genre, and I know my audience. I'm a fan too, and that connection with other fans worked for me.
There's no doubt that the current popularity of space operas helped me out. But during the signing, the store clerk came by and let me know that I was doing very well. According to her, she'd seen other authors give a signing, sit there for hours, and not sell a single copy. She said I was good an engaging people.
Later that night, as I carried my briefcase and cover blowup back across a darkened parking lot, with my wife in tow, I smiled. The event was a success: over half of the books sold, but most importantly, because I'd proven to myself that I could do it. That I really can talk to strangers, and perhaps, connect their love of science fiction with my own in such a way that they're willing to buy and read my work. Best of all, my wife and family were very proud. You can't put a price on that kind of support, and I thank them.
Inherit the Stars: Release Day!
​Finally, the day has arrived: November 3rd, 2015. The day I can stop retweeting 'preorder my book!', the day I can start worrying about the reviews I'll get, and the day I'm supposed to gulp down several bottles of champagne.
It's the day I can honestly say that I am a professionally published novelist. A real science fiction author.
I can remember signing that contract like it was yesterday, wondering if the release date would ever arrive, when would I get to see the cover art, or when would the ARCs go out to interested readers and publications. Now that the big day is here, I feel I have forgotten something, or there's another task to complete, or I neglected to meet a deadline buried somewhere in my inbox. A writer's life isn't filled with celebratory toasts, pats on the back, or ticker tape parades, you know.
On my debut novel's release day, all I can think about is: what comes next?
The obvious answer is to keep writing, keep submitting. But there are other considerations now. The way people view me, and the way I view myself.
It feels great to sign a copy of my book for someone, but it's also strange. As my pen scratches my name on the title page, I try to think of clever, meaningful things to say. My cursive is horrible, so I have to print out the message, save for my signature at the end, which, despite practice, still resembles rejected characters from a chicken alphabet. Then it hits me that I really wrote this frigging thing, and I try not to screw up my signature.
Some of my relatives now say 'hey, I know someone famous!', but I merely grin and shake my head. I'm not a celebrity by any stretch, but it's nice to think that anyone would think I'm cool now. I mean, one of my nieces Googled me, so that should mean something, right? Maybe I'll get a Wikipedia page soon—the goal of all serious novelists.
I won't know what fellow authors think unless they read my book, but we're all part of the same club—one in which I can hold my head high, regardless of the novel's success.
Some people may think 'hey, you've made it!', but no—all I did was climb a hill that allows me to actually see the mountain of challenges ahead. But the important thing is…now I know that I can climb.
So really, what is next?
I've already written both sequels to Inherit the Stars; one is in polished form, the other was written this past August. The story was always meant to be a trilogy, though the setting itself could be expanded in a second series. I have other science fiction and fantasy novels completed that I hope to get published, and I'm gearing up to write a brand new science fiction novel this month. I'd love to pen an epic fantasy saga down the road. There's no end to the projects I have in mind.
Plus…I have more confidence now. No one can accuse me of pursuing a 'thankless hobby'—which writing never was to me. Since I started writing seriously, it has always been, and remains, my passion. I have succeeded where many others have failed, and I know all too well just how special any success in this business is.
Now, I have business cards to pass out. I need to schedule myself for cons. I need to book some signings. My philosophy of 'if you don't regard yourself as a professional, then no one else will' is now more important than ever. The pressure doesn't go away simply because I achieved my first success.
Yet there is still much to celebrate. If writing were always a miserable enterprise, I wouldn't do it. I love what I do. C'mon, you can order my book from Amazon, it's on the shelf at Barnes & Noble and Books-A-Million, and it got a nice nod from Publishers Weekly! It's got a great cover and has the thickness of an epic. Wooo! Beyond such achievements, though, is the real release this day: it is the new me, no longer crippled by self-doubt and disillusionment. It is the start of a new chapter in my life, and my career. Inherit the Stars, indeed.
So…anyway. I can't drink too much champagne, or sing out of tune to 'We Are the Champions' all night long. Remember: I've got another book to write.
The New Face of Science Fiction
Some people fear change, especially in science fiction and fandom overall. Recent examples:
Star Wars VII accused of promoting 'white genocide'. Gamergate. The Puppies and the Hugo Awards. The 1-star reviews for Chuck Wendig's Star Wars novel, 'Aftermath'. If I wait a few days, there'll be another controversy in fandom that I can add to this list. But that isn't necessary. I, like most other writers, readers, and fans, am moving on.
The recent conservative backlashes against changes to fandom—more people of color (writers and characters), more alternate lifestyles, more LGBT representation—shouldn't surprise anyone. It's easy to ask, 'how can sci-fi fans be so racist and backward, when they love aliens, robots, and future worlds', but really, these social issues transcend fiction. A person will cheer for Lando when he blows up the Death Star in Return of the Jedi, but then stare in distaste as another black character, Finn, removes his Stormtrooper helmet in The Force Awakens. Why?
These early decades of the new millennium are seeing many social changes, and they are coming faster and faster. There remains much to be done about equality, women's rights, the divide between the rich and poor, the environment, and a host of other issues, but progress is being made. That a black actor can even be on screen as a key character in the new Star Wars film, or that the gaming industry is paying more attention to women after the Gamergate mess, is proof that the real world is slowly becoming more inclusive.
Some people doesn't want that.
Their mindset reminds me of modern conservative thinking: that America should be like the Andy Griffith Show, or return to its 'Christian roots', or have more 1950s-style nuclear families. Reality flash: this country was never like any of those things. That is someone's twisted, wishful thinking. Some believe this fantasy, often with a fierce, stubborn passion, but they are a minority. The world is leaving them behind. Not because it's excluding them, but because they don't want to live in the new one.
This was never a Christian nation. The nuclear family of the 1950s was an irrelevant societal ideal, then and now. And though I find Andy Taylor and Barney Fife's antics entertaining, in no way would I want to live in Mayberry: everyone is white, Christian, speaks English, there's no sex, there's no diversity, and there's no interest in changing these things. I'm not criticizing the actual television show, which is a classic, but rather, people's portrayal of it as the perfect community. It isn't.
The same is true with science fiction. Yes, white male authors and actors have long dominated the field. That too is changing. That anyone would take issue with this is simply immature and bigoted. The sheer amount of conspiracy theories, name-calling, and uncompromising rage that has surfaced reveals an inability to deal with change. Certain (but not all) Puppies during the 2015 Hugos drama exemplified this behavior. Some even had their works on the ballot, and still flung vitriol at critics, presenters, and the award itself.
I mean, damn.
The Puppies, the Gamergaters, the morons who engineered the hashtag boycotting the new Star Wars film—they're all trying to claim something for their own, that belongs to all of us. There's no need to be greedy, afraid, or negative. I promise you, there's plenty of science fiction to go around. But, deep down, people like that already know it. The real issue is a darker one that has long been at the heart of our society: they fear, and thus hate, those different than themselves. Especially when they feel the big, scary, Other is encroaching on 'their' territory.
Excuse me, but paraphrasing what Arthur C. Clarke once said: flags don't wave in space.
One wonders how such people would really handle first contact with aliens. My guess is that they'd react like those militaristic idiots from old UFO films: they'd shoot first, and not even ask questions later. Because if you can't accept another human being that has a different skin color, speaks another language, believes in a different (or no) deity, or has an alternate sexual preference, then how the hell will you deal with aliens? How will your tiny mind cope with the technological changes we'll likely see by 2050? How will you interact with the next generation, one reared with ubiquitous access to information?
Maybe these people feel betrayed by a future they didn't want. They don't have my sympathies. This year alone has seen the legalization of gay marriage and the Confederate flag receiving its rightful reputation as a racist anachronism. Hatred of science, of knowledge, is no longer in vogue. The public wants humans to land on Mars, it wants to preserve women's reproductive rights, and it wants to hold civil servants accountable.
People want their entertainment to reflect that. Science fiction has always been about progress, and how we as human beings deal with it. How we ultimately make ourselves better by working with change, not fighting it. Would you cheer for a hero who hates others, derails social progress, prefers argument to discussion, and condemns any who dares challenge an unequal status quo? No, me either.
I say all of this as a straight, white, male author. I say it knowing what I will never experience, or fully understand, the challenges those different than myself face each and every day. I say it because I am cognizant enough of my world to care about the people in it.
The new face of science fiction has no color, no gender. It isn't looking backward. It's looking forward. And it represents all of us.
Finding My Author Brand
Discovering how I wanted to present my author persona took several years. Some writers may plan this from the beginning, but not me. I mean, I've always known what I wanted to write, but for the longest time I merely called it 'speculative fiction'. There was a phase where I thought all I was good at was 'dark fiction'. Like a headless amateur, I would change my website to reflect these allegiances to image, these silly brainstorms I allowed myself to suffer through. In the end, I finally came back to what always mattered to me the most, and what I like: science fiction.
Sounds simple, right? If only. It was only when I'd signed with a major publisher that I knew what I wanted my 'brand' to be. Not because 'hey, I've got something people can frigging buy now!' but because I finally had the confidence to just be myself. As any author will tell you, that first big contract is worth far more than money.
In the early days, after selling my first few short stories, I simply billed myself as a 'speculative fiction' writer. I wrote science fiction, fantasy, and horror, so why not? Plus, since I was an unknown, with zero presence on social media, I feared I might sound pompous trying to brand myself. So I stuck with that for a while.
After a couple of years, I focused more on darker stories, particularly in the fantasy vein. My science fiction at that point felt weak and cliché, regurgitating ideas that better authors had already explored. So I billed myself a writer of 'dark fantasy'. Around that time, I also became a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), so I figured, hey, this might be my calling. So I launched my website with all sorts of dark imagery. Ooh, scary. But not in the way I intended. It felt lame. Like I was pretending.
This showed in my work as well. I wrote little actual horror, and most of my dark fantasy was more on the fantasy side. Still, I tried. Halloween is my favorite holiday, after all, and some of my favorite novels are Victorian Gothic fiction. I cut my literary teeth on Stoker, Poe, and Shelley. Yet this brand wasn't satisfying. It wasn't me.
During this time, I wrote three science fiction novels, but very few science fiction short stories. Maybe I thought I needed a larger canvas for those works; who knows. More and more, my interest in actual science experienced a resurgence, and for the first time in years, I had hope for the future. All of the things I loved that Arthur C. Clarke, Frank Herbert, and Sheila Finch wrote kept coming back to me. My personal life was changing. I got married. Started raising a child. I recalled my earlier years, when science fiction was my favorite thing to read.
I still wasn't sure of who I was as an author.
Everything fell into place when Penguin sent me a contract for one of those science fiction novels. Above the understandable euphoria, I sensed something else. My first published book would be a work of science fiction! Not horror or dark fantasy. Not the historical fiction I wanted to write years ago. Instead, I was giving a space opera adventure to the world. And thus, I was giving of myself. My true self.
I didn't find my author brand. It found me.
That doesn't mean I'm limiting myself to science fiction. I still have other written works, and other works planned. But science fiction will be my flagship, the banner I carry into the literary world, the badge I'll proudly wear among my peers. Through science fiction, I can trumpet my ideas that call for reason, for understanding one another, and for hope. So, perhaps my author brand has a positive core, not the brooding, angst-ridden one I thought it was.
Collecting the Past
Over the last couple of years, I have been seeking out books from my childhood that made an impression on me. Books that I don't currently own, and haven't read since grade school. There is more than nostalgia at work here, or a science fiction writer's version of a mid-life crisis. I'm peeling back layers of time to compare what I read in them, with not only the world of today, but the person that I have become.
It's a journey without roads, or even a map. By finding extant copies of these works, I feel like I am looking through a mirror at the boy I was in the 1980s, gazing back at the foundations that have led me to this point. I am an archaeologist, excavating vignettes from those early years, trying to recall them before time and age makes me forget.
Many of these works were checked out from my grade school's library, Max Meadows Elementary. I can still remember things that are anachronisms now: the Dewey Decimal System, the card catalogue, as well as the checkout card in the back of each book. On it would be scribbled another child's name who had perused the same book, taken the same journey. Though many of the books were in library binding, some were falling apart; held together by tape, they were fragile tomes that I probably checked out because I thought the cover looked interesting, or the interior illustrations, if any, caught my attention as I flipped through the musty pages. Eventually I started reading the words. Page after yellowed, musky page. Follow the yellow brick road, indeed.
Now, I'm able to find clean, almost unread copies of these works via internet sellers. They are more than mere trophies for my bookshelf. They are links to that little boy who read and cherished them in that small bedroom of my parent's house. Who would have thought that such a small space could hold so much imagination, engendered by those books. Perhaps those walls made me look beyond, out to imaginary worlds where there were no boundaries.
First, there was film novelizations. Star Wars, Tron, Star Trek: The Motion Picture—I recall these fondly. In the case of the latter two, I read these books before I ever watched the films, of which I am thankful. Those writers stirred me with these awesome new worlds, whether it was inside a computer, or far out there in space, traveling at warp speed. The novelizations of Alan Dean Foster and Brian Daley grounded those movies in a believable reality. Somehow, even at that age, I knew this was our future as a species; I knew it was my future, though I would never have guessed I would someday be writing science fiction novels of my own.
Though I had to look up the meanings of many words, and many remained obtuse to me, I still read those books, and loved them. I got the gist of them. I belonged in those worlds.
Other science fiction books came—Han Solo and the Lost Legacy, the Star Trek Reader (which introduced me to Kirk, Spock, and McCoy before I watched the original television show)—that cemented my lifelong interest in science fiction.
Next came books on Greek mythology. I loved that subject after my spelling teacher read selected tales to the class from such a book. I was hooked immediately. I'd check out those books, read them, and play out the stories in my backyard at home. I loved the editions written by Olivia E. Coolidge, who didn't shy away from the darkness within those narratives. I was blown away by characters like Diomedes and Odysseus, who defied the gods before the walls of Troy. I liked the folly, the emotional frailty, of those same gods and goddesses. They seemed like me, capable of love, fear, jealousy, and a whole range of emotions I had yet to experience.
Then there were the Choose Your Own Adventure Books, which I devoured. I read and reread them cover to cover to get to all of the possible endings. Edward Packard and R.A. Montgomery penned those early books; I remember The Cave of Time, Journey Under the Sea, The Third Planet from Altair, Mystery of the Maya, Prisoner of the Ant People—those titles, and more, have a place on my bookshelf now.
Eventually I made my way to the history section, where I discovered the reality behind those Greek myths: the Mycenaeans, the Greco-Persian Wars, and the man who tried to outdo those myths, Alexander the Great. Next came the Roman Empire, and the Crusades. This led me to legends such as King Arthur, Robin Hood, and Ogier the Dane. Being a child enamored of knightly tales and deeds, I would, after reading about the Round Table, play in that backyard again—this time with long gray socks over my arms and legs, representing chain mail, and a thick wooden stick as my sword. That was the first channeling of the influence those stories brought. It's natural for a child to act out the stories they love, to become that hero or heroine, if just for an autumn afternoon before going to school again the next day. It wasn't just escapism. It was my way of entwining myself into those stories, making them extensions of my persona.
It was me, doing what writers do, but without words. I was creating.
I still have my Watermill Classics, bought from Troll Books. Titles such as Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, War of the Worlds, Dracula, The Black Arrow, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and others—I never got rid of those, so I still have the originals I read way back then. Complete and unabridged. Books that are nearly three decades old. A lifetime then…barely a second of time in retrospect. Yet an eternity of inspiration.
Reading through these books today is a different experience. Sure, the nostalgia is here, and I grin at returning to familiar passages—but now I'm a writer too, and often the editor in my head gets in the way of my enjoyment. Passing my hands over the volumes on my bookshelf is a primitive way of connecting to those books, as if they are totems in some primeval ritual that has been forgotten. In my library, the setting sun casts orange-red rays through the window, reminding me that I am not getting any younger, that these volumes will be left to my children, and my grandchildren. That's the fate of stories. They continue, long after we are gone.
But all I have to do is open one of those books, and the light in the window becomes yellow and warm. In that moment I am transported, and those old words inspire me anew. My backyard may have moved, and my toys aren't gray socks or wooden sticks anymore, but I'm ready to play again. I now make my own roads, draw my own maps. It's the dawn of a new day.
Politicizing Dead Writers
I seldom talk politics on my blog, but when it affects the writing world, and the science fiction genre & fantasy genres in particular, it concerns me. Though I refrained from commenting here regarding the 2015 Hugo Awards, I voted on them, and let's just say, I'm not a Puppy supporter. But the Hugos are over and done with until next year, right? All that SJW nonsense faded away, correct?
Wrong. I worry that the Hugo fiasco simply brought certain people out of the woodwork. Unpopular though they may be with fandom at large, writers and readers of that slant have continued to spread animosity. I'm not getting into the reasons, the key individuals, or the rhetoric—you can find that elsewhere, on blogs that do a much better job documenting it than I could.
I'm bothered at how these groups have claimed certain writers as their own, particularly deceased authors whose work still influences the genre. These authors aren't without controversy—Robert A. Heinlein's libertarianism, H.P. Lovecraft's racism—but they're without a voice, since they are dead. Yet some people love to hold these authors up like an icon reflecting their own politics, usually in the face of criticism.
Robert E. Howard, the creator of Conan the Barbarian, is the latest to be hoisted as such an icon. Unfortunately, I feel he won't be the last. I'll return to him in a moment. First, a little background.
There are those who think people of color shouldn't be intruding on a genre where white men have dominated; there are those who claim to be victims of a politically correct system just because their work doesn't receive accolades. Worse still, these people rail against changes to the status quo, in genres where stories about change and the unknown are the norm. It's narrow-minded hypocrisy, wreathed in stagnant mediocrity.
Women and people of color have been writing masterpieces of the genre for decades, but in recent years, they have gained more recognition as society itself has changed. That's a good thing, for diversity, as well as science fiction itself. But what really matters is that they are great writers. That's ultimately how these individuals got recognized in the first place. When I voted on the Nebulas and the Hugos earlier this year, I favored the stories that moved me, the ones I thought about for days afterward. I didn't care about who their authors were, their skin color, their sexual orientation, their religion, or their politics. The Puppies asked for the same treatment, but then summarily insulted, bullied, threatened, libeled, and criticized any who disagreed with their tactics, or the slate of sub-par fiction they claimed represented their best. Now those are things that will make me not buy your book—let alone get my vote. However, I read all the entries. Many were bad. I wasn't alone in that sentiment.
Of course, the Puppies lost. Fandom moved on. Real writers kept writing instead of making excuses, or bitching.
Now, these same types are trying to control the conversation regarding one of my favorite writers, Robert E. Howard. Longtime contributors have been struck from blogs, and their essays removed. Even their pictures have been excised. Again, if you want to find out who and why, look it up. I'm not regurgitating that nonsense on my blog.
Howard's energy, passion, and existentialism have long been an influence on my writing, but the man wasn't perfect. There is thinly-veiled, and often overt, racism in several of his stories where people of color are involved. I'm not citing examples; read his work for yourself. Howard often portrayed women as little more than sexual objects; beauties to be saved by the protagonist, or to tempt him. His heroes were larger-than-life men brimming with machismo, who were unstoppable killing machines. It's easy to see why, on the surface, why a bunch of misogynist regressives would claim Howard as one of their own.
Of course, they're wrong.
Howard penned several stories that featured sword-wielding heroines (Red Sonja, Dark Agnes, Belit, Valeria) that fought just as well, if not better, than men. They lived life on their own terms, and dared anyone to take that away from them. They were lusty, quaffed alcohol, and refused to surrender to societal norms concerning 'a woman's place'. All of which were anathema in the era when Howard wrote these characters.
I'm not saying Howard was some proto-feminist writer, or even a progressive one. I'm not going to use the cliché excuse that 'he was a product of his time' either, because that's a copout to bigotry. Many of his political views are at odds with my own. Howard was an insecure man, living in a conservative town, who learned about the world from colonial, and often racist, writers. He could still write one hell of a story, though, and that's why his books are on my shelves. It's the same reason Heinlein and Lovecraft have a place in my library. They knew how to tell a story.
It's obvious Howard's not another poster child that the Puppies, Gamergate, and their allies can use to further their agenda. See, I'm not like these other people who try to claim Howard as their own, or that women and feminists have no right to comment on Howard's work. I'm secure enough with myself as a person, that I don't need to bully those who dislike my work, that I don't need to excoriate others because they disagree with me, and that I don't need to hijack the persona of a long-dead, beloved writer to represent my politics.
Those that do are afraid. Their world is changing, and they don't like it. I suggest they examine the attitude of Conan, Howard's greatest creation, who feared no human, beast, or god. He forged on with his existence. Conan didn't bitch about life; he lived it. To quote:
"I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content."
A person like that lives on their own terms, without trying to prevent others from doing the same. A person like that is more concerned with enjoying life, instead of resisting imaginary assaults upon so-called sacred cows of fandom. Robert E. Howard's heroes and heroines all fought their own battles, rather than appeal to gods, kings, or flimsy political agendas. They took responsibility for themselves, and their actions. If these Puppies and their allies want something of Howard to champion, if should be that.