Category: Writing

Annotation: A Night in the Lonesome October

After reading Lord of Light, I decided to go on and read a bit more Zelazny, opting for A Night In the Lonesome October, which is a witty, funny, charming horror story. Written in first person, the novel centers around Snuff, the canine companion/familiar to Jack the Ripper. The story is broken down into days of October, leading up to the climax on Halloween night.

The premise breaks down like this: every 100 years, people of certain inclinations gather around a point of power (the point changes every time… it might be in Bangladesh one century, Paris the next, et cetera), and undertake a ritual concerning the Elder Gods, who have been locked away for ages. Some come to close the gate that will appear, others come to open it and release the Old Ones. If there is a deadlock in power between the openers and closers, it defaults to the closers.

The being known as Jack the Ripper is an old hand at these ceremonies, having attended several in the past. Other folks who show up over the course of the story include a witch, Count Dracula, Frankenstein (monster in tow), a mad monk, a demon worshiping pastor, and several others (even Sherlock Holmes makes a few appearances). Since the story is from the perspective of Jack’s familiar, most of the interaction that occurs is with the familiars of the other “players”.

There’s a lot more to the process of the ceremony than just collecting items of magic and sacrifice to help sway the gate in your direction. Since the location changes, no one knows where it is (as Snuff comments, there were times when no one figured it out correctly, even). A good deal of the book involves the deductive efforts of Snuff to calculate the location of the place of power, which involves triangulation based on the domiciles of the players in the area (it is always in the center of that triangulation, but the trick is figuring out where everyone lives, and even who everyone in the Game is).

The edition I have of the book has some delightful illustrations done by Gahan Wilson, which augment the simple narrative style of a dog (albeit a very intelligent one). The very first chapter really establishes the nature of the book quite well:

One night when we were in a graveyard recently an old watchdog came by, though, and we talked for a time.
“Hi. I’m a watchdog.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ve been watching you.”
“And I’ve been watching you.”
“Why is your person digging a big hole?”
“There are some things down there that he needs.”
“Oh. I don’t think he’s supposed to be doing that.”
“May I see your teeth?”
“Yes. Here. May I see yours?”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps it’s all right. Do you think you might leave a large bone somewhere nearby?”
“I believe that could be arranged.” (2)

The simplicity of it really captures the pragmatic attitude of what I imagine a dog’s mind would be. The entire book is spot on in that fashion, though naturally Snuff is far more capable a dog than most, being a familiar (with all the magical augmentation that title connotes).

The “daily journal” style is an interesting choice for the topic, and I think it works quite well to force the reader into a non-omnipotent position, which saves significantly on the amount of explanation of things that is needed. Not everyone knows how everything works and why, and it’s silly that so many stories make that assumption for the sake of exposition and establishing the setting. This book, and others like it, prove that it isn’t necessary in order to have an engaging, involved story. (A trait I’m guilty of myself when writing.)

If I was trying to introduce someone to Zelazny as an author, I’d probably suggest Lord of Light first, but that said, A Night In the Lonesome October is a fun (and relatively fast, weighing in at 280 pages of an easy to read typeface) read that I would happily recommend for the pure enjoyment of it. While the nature of the story is inherently macabre, it is really not very horrific, and I wouldn’t even twinge at giving this to a child to read.

Zelazny, Roger. A Night In the Lonesome October. New York: Avon Books, 1993.

Annotation: Lord of Light

Roger Zelazny, like Ray Bradbury, is an author whose prose reads like poetry. His writing style is sparse, yet every word evokes an image of clarity. I wish I could write like him, and hope to come close someday. He’s written dozens of novels, singly and in collaboration, and every one of them is well respected by his former peers (he died in 1995). Every author has one book, however, that leaps above the rest, more well known and lauded than any other. For Zelazny, that book would be Lord of Light. For good reason: the novel is nothing short of amazing. I haven’t felt so involved in a story in years.

The very concept of the story is fairly unique. It takes place in the distant future, on a colony world that has no contact with Earth. The original colonists developed a technology to transfer the soul of a person into a new body, and have attained virtual immortality through this use of reincarnation. They have also developed their psychokinetic abilities, or Aspects and Attributes, through training, drugs, and other methods, allowing them to act functionally as Gods to their descendants, who have restarted civilization from scratch. In particular, these “gods” simulate early Hindu or Vedic mythology, in trait and name.

Even demons and spirits exist in the world, the original inhabitants of the planet who long ago abandoned their physical bodies to become immortal beings of pure energy. The whole setup for establishing a modern science fiction tale couched in Vedic myth is brilliantly done, with nary a hole in the logic to be seen.

The tale centers around a disillusioned First (an original colonist) named Sam, better known as Siddhartha. He takes issue with the restrictions on civilization placed by the other Gods, in particular feeling that they have been hindering the society’s advancement in order to maintain the balance of power on the side of the Gods. He strives to undermine these efforts, taking on the role of the Buddha in order to establish a counter (yet complementary) movement among the people. He also bargains with the demons whom had been locked away centuries before, freeing them to fight against the Gods.

Most of the story takes place in the past. The first chapter involves Yama, God of Death, bringing Sam back into the physical world, after spending 50 years dispersed as energy in the troposphere of the planet. Each chapter after that is really a prologue, detailing Sam’s previous effort to battle the Gods (which ended with his spirit scattered across the planet, which brings us full circle), until the last two chapters, which deal with the final battle.

The entire adventure is truly epic and brilliantly done, with marvelous scenes of action and tension. That is not why I am so enamored with the story, however. It comes down to people. Zelazny was able to make me genuinely care about the people behind their Godhood. There is no clear good versus evil, everyone has a bit of both. Their conflict is a matter of opinions leading towards the same ideal, and no matter what side they may be on now, they have all fought and bled and cried and loved together in the past. They may be powerful and immortal, but they are still human.

It’s a question always at the forefront of my interests, and many of my favorite books address it either directly or indirectly: what makes us human? Where does humanity lie, and how do we retain that as we change and evolve and step beyond ourselves? Lord of Light is a book that addresses it directly, I think.

I would recommend Lord of Light to anyone, barring perhaps those who have problems with religious reinterpretation. Or perhaps not bar them at all, since they could most benefit from a new perspective. I suppose the question becomes whether the goal in reading it is to educate and enlighten, or merely to entertain.

Zelazny, Roger. Lord of Light. New York: Eos, 2004.

Annotation: The White Dragon

In my continuing desire to figure out what motivated me to previously write fan fiction based on Anne McCaffrey’s Dragonriders of Pern series (in the hopes of getting back into the swing of fiction writing again), I re-read The White Dragon for the first time in nearly a decade. While it didn’t quite re-ignite my desire to write about Pern again, I do begin to see what drew me to do so in the past.

Of the original trilogy, The White Dragon is my favorite. It follows Jaxom, the young Lord Holder of Ruatha Hold, who also managed to Impress a small, unique white dragon named Ruth (all other dragons are either gold, bronze, brown, blue, or green, with Ruth being the sole exception). Because it follows Jaxom so much more directly than the previous two books followed their characters, I find myself connecting a lot more with this novel than the others in the trilogy. I think it also helps that at the start of the novel Jaxom is very close to the age I was when I first read it.

The book opens around two years after the end of Dragonquest, with Ruth finally mature enough to fly with a rider. The rest of the book follows Jaxom’s adventures as he comes of age and learns to accept his dual nature as both a Lord Holder and a dragonrider. The overall arc of the trilogy also concludes with the last of the “Oldtimer” leaders, banished in the previous book, making a last ditch attempt to regain power and get revenge on F’lar. With the final removal of the Oldtimers, the Southern Continent (where the Oldtimers had been banished) becomes open to exploration, with the help of Jaxom. Due to the unique nature of Ruth, fire-lizards are fascinated by him, and share images from their racial collective memory with him, which leads Jaxom to discover the original settlement of when Man first came to Pern several thousand years before. The book ends with excavations beginning on the ancient settlement (buried by ash from a nearby volcano, which proved to be the cause of the initial evacuation).

I think this story of personal growth, in addition to having a truly complete and robust world after three books is what caused me to decide to write about Pern. The writing is good, but I wouldn’t call it phenomenal, and I have a suspicion that is a large part of why I decided to write about it: writing that well seemed attainable. The world was rich enough, and there was plenty of room for the adventures of another dragonrider. Having just finished The White Dragon again, I must admit I do have a small craving to write a dragonrider story.

So why did I stop? And what can I do to start again? I started by finding that same writing club that had kicked me out years ago, and rejoined. I wanted to see people writing dynamically for Pern again, see the piles of stories to read. Instead, I got a trickle. Perhaps a single two page story a day, and lackluster stories at that Meanwhile, I couldn’t post, needing to submit anything through a mentor. I found it all almost laughable, and sad. I left without posting.

My quantity of writing hasn’t increased since then, and yet I still feel better off than that ghost of a club. I don’t think I’ll be returning to Pern again, in my own writing. But at least I feel some closure about it. I’m ready to move on, finally.

As far as The White Dragon goes, I definitely enjoyed it, and would recommend it as a solid coming of age novel. It still works best as part of the trilogy, but it is sufficiently “different” from Dragonflight and Dragonquest, that I could say it almost stands on its own. It also feels good to finally get some closure on a topic that has rankled me for 8 years. That chain is finally unbound; now I just need to move forward.

McCaffrey, Anne. The White Dragon. New York: Ballantine Books, 1978.

Annotation: Dragonquest

As I stated with my annotation of Dragonflight, my decision to re-read these books stems from a desire to figure out what caused me to start writing fan fiction in the world of Dragonriders nearly a decade ago, in the hopes of also figuring out why I stopped writing fiction despite my desire to continue.

Dragonquest takes place seven years, or Turns, after Lessa brought the Weyrs of Pern forward in time in order to battle Thread once more. There are a number of plots occuring within this book, which is a bit more ambitious than Dragonflight. The chapters are divided primarily between F’lar, Weyrleader for Benden Weyr (mate to Lessa), and F’nor, his half-brother and second-in-command. The “Oldtimer” dragonriders who had come forward in time were becoming belligerent and divisive, uncomfortable with the changes in society that had occured during the Long Interval, and tired of fighting Thread after having spent 50 Turns in their own time fighting it, only to come forward to fight it for 50 more. F’nor is injured and sent elsewhere to recover, where he meets a young queenrider named Brekke. During his convalescence, he discovers and manages to bond with, or Impress, a just hatched fire-lizard, a signficantly smaller cousin of the dragons. These fire-lizards become used as messengers and pets throughout the rest of the series. Brekke’s queen ends up rising to mate at the same time as another dragon, and in the subsequent battle (which otherwise never happens between dragons), both queens are killed. F’nor, having developed a relationship with Brekke, nurses her back to health.

In the other story thread, F’lar works to keep the alliance of Weyrs and Holds together under the tensions caused by the Oldtimers. This tension comes to a head when one of the Oldtimer Weyrleaders attacks him, leading to a duel that F’lar ultimately wins. This signals a “changing of the guard”, and F’lar is made de facto leader of all of Pern. Following discoveries made in abandoned portions of the Weyrs, a telescope is discovered that allows them to see the surface of the Red Star. Following increased pressure from the Lords to go to the source itself to destroy the thread, F’nor manages to get vivid enough coordinates to teleport to the planet, and is nearly killed by the violent conditions of that other planet.

Towards the end of the book, there is a Hatching (a period when the dragon eggs hatch and Impress their riders). One egg is smaller than the others, and no one expects it to hatch. Jaxom, a young Lord Holder, overcome with emotion, frees the small dragon from the egg, and Impresses it. Due to the clear demarcation between Hold and Weyr, this causes quite a bit of contention (you can’t be a Lord Holder AND a Dragonrider). Due to the unique nature of the small dragon, (he is extremely small and white, which is entirely unheard of), the dragon’s life expectancy is very low, so Jaxom is allowed to remain as a Lord Holder.

It’s clear when McCaffrey wrote Dragonquest, she was already planning to write the third book in the series, The White Dragon, which follows Jaxom and his dragon Ruth. Overall, I’d say Dragonquest is better written than Dragonflight. The characters are more developed and engaging, the descriptions and names are more consistent (though there are still discrepancies), and the overall story is significantly more complex and robust. That said, it does not stand alone, and really requires reading Dragonflight to be appreciated.

Like Dragonflight, I still don’t see what drew me to write about Pern. There is nothing remarkable about the novel, though I do feel it was well written and entertaining. What about it made myself and literally hundreds of others decide to write about the draognriders? It’s a violent world, with only a privileged elite having a truly good life, the rest spending it in servitude or hardship. Why would we choose THAT, of all worlds, to write in?

I would recommend Dragonquest to those willing to read the rest of the original trilogy (if not more). It is an enjoyable read, and does in fact have a complete primary story arc, but I would by no means say that the book is a stand alone novel. It needs its prequel, and it needs its sequel to truly be a strong novel.

McCaffrey, Anne. Dragonquest. New York: Ballantine Books, 1971.

Annotation: Dragonflight

I first read Dragonflight my freshman year in high school, along with the rest of the Dragonriders series. I enjoyed it well enough, and after reading the entire series (there are around twenty books total), I decided I wanted to write some Dragonriders stories. I joined a “fanfic” (fan fiction, stories written in a pre-existing universe) mailing list during my sophomore year, and wrote short stories based on “Pern” (the world the series takes place on) for about six months. I managed to rouse the enmity of the people in charge, and got kicked out. I haven’t written consistently since. This semester’s focus on writing caused me to decide to re-examine my time with the mailing list, and the books that caused me to join in the first place, books I haven’t re-read since being kicked out of the writing club eight years ago.

Dragonflight is the first book in the Dragonriders of Pern series. It establishes the world and main characters for the rest of the series. The world in particular needs some explanation, since it is decidedly alien to the reader. The social structure is broken into three hierarchies, Craft, Hold, and Weyr. Crafts are specialists in a given field (smithing, mining, and farming, for instance), and are autonomous within themselves (a Mining Craftmaster would not have jurisdiction over a Smith, for instance). Holds are the general populace of the planet, operating on a semi-feudal system of Lords. Weyrs make up the dragonriders, who live in extinct volcanoes and are sworn to the protection of Pern against an alien threat known as Thread. Since the Weyrs do not have arable land, the Holds and Crafts tithe to the Weyr that protects them against Thread (there are six Weyrs total, spread across the continent).

Thread is an alien organism that eats through any organic material with ease. It is drawn to Pern by the erratic elliptical orbit of another planet that has become known as the “Red Star”. Because the orbit is erratic, it generally only passes near enough to Pern to drop Thread every two hundred years, or “Turns”, and then does so for roughly 50 Turns. Every once in a while, however, the Red Star’s orbit is sufficiently erratic that an extended period without Thread occurs, known as a “Long Interval”.

Dragonflight opens at the end of one of these Long Intervals. During the extended absence of Thread, the Weyrs have fallen into disrepute with the rest of the population, and their numbers have dwindled to a fraction of their previous numbers. The sole remaining “Queen” dragon laid a new Queen egg before passing on, and the dragonriders are in search of candidates to become linked (to “Impress”) to the new queen once it hatches. They discover a young, driven girl named Lessa, who subsequently Impresses Ramoth, the new queen dragon. This makes her the “Weyrwoman” of the Weyr (the Weyr is lead by the Weyrwoman and the Weyrleader, who is the rider of the dragon that manages to mate with the Queen).

As the story progresses, the remaining dragons attempt to prepare the planet against the imminent return of Thread (which most of the planet now regards as a myth), and face the desperate need to increase their ranks quickly. At great risk of life, Lessa and Ramoth travel back in time (an ability dragons have is teleportation; Lessa discovers they can teleport through time as well as space), to the end of the last Pass of the Red Star. She leads the vast majority of the dragons from that time forward to her own time, explaining the reduction in dragon numbers over the Long Interval, and by doing so repopulates the Weyrs in time to save the planet against Thread.

That’s the book in a nutshell. By and large, it’s reasonably well written, and won several awards when it came out in the late 1960s. That said, I’m not entirely sure what I saw in it the first time I read it. There are some major plot holes, and naming discrepancies within the book (let alone compared to future books). That said, the world itself is well developed, with a clear social structure and culture, and the dialogue in general is well written. It’s an enjoyable read, and worth reading if only as an interesting blending of science fiction and fantasy aspects. I’d recommend it as a good example of that hybrid genre.

McCaffrey, Anne. Dragonflight. New York: Ballantine Books, 1968.

Annotation: For Us, The Living

I started reading Robert Heinlein when I was in seventh grade. Ever since then, I’ve been a big fan of his work, largely due to his ability to weave social, politic, and scientific commentary into an engaging story, replete with well written dialogue and good pacing. These comments directly influenced my own opinions on many topics, in a positive way. When it was announced that the Heinlein estate was publishing his first novel, I was intruiged, though wary (while most of his work was stellar, there were a few duds, such as I Will Fear No Evil). There were probably good reasons why that novel was not published previously. My suspicions proved to be true, though not in an unpleasant way. This “novel” is not truly a novel. It is a series of expositional essays on the topics of politics, economics, religion, morals, and society, all wrapped very loosely in a skeletal story.

I say skeletal because the story can largely be ignored. It is used entirely as a tool to segue into the next expositional lump. The premise is this: a man named Perry Nelson, Naval Officer and engineer (as was Heinlein), gets in a car accident in 1939 and is somehow whisked forward nearly 150 years to the year 2086. There he is discovered by a young dancer named Diana, who proceeds to help him become acquainted with the structure of society in 2086. That’s the story. The extent of twists and turns the story takes is when he gets jealous of Diana’s dance partner and hits him, and ends up in therapy.

You would think that this undeveloped story would hinder my enjoyment of the book, but I generally didn’t mind. Instead, I kept on noticing where he had salvaged bits and pieces of the novel and placed them in other stories. This was the prototype for all future Heinlein work, the principles discussed in it making appearances in every other story he wrote. Additionally, rather than blending his opinions into the background of a story, they are direct and at the forefront in giant expositional lumps.

Expressing opinions, even for one as opinionated as Heinlein, would not account for the length of expositional lumps he created. What makes these opinions (and thus, the book) worthwhile is that each is meticulously detailed, defined, and rationalized. He doesn’t simply say that “this way is better”, he explains why it is better. And by and large, I agreed with him. As an example, his take on the role of government is simultaneously a combination of socialism and ultra-libertarian ideas. National health care and national banking, but strict privacy protection for all citizens and constitutionally banning “victimless crime” laws. The entire country’s population receives a “social credit” check from the government each month that covers basic living expenses, so no one HAS to work (though most people choose to). And it all makes sense, scarily. The mathematics and logic behind his arguments is sound.

As in other books, Heinlein had no real use for religion. He found most organized religions to be corrupt and interested in controlling the masses rather than helping them, and had a very low opinion of the church. An idea reused directly in other books, Heinlein had his society get tired of the corruption, and allow the religious zealots to secede from the country, creating a place called Coventry out of the region of Southern Ohio, Southern Indiana, Southern Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. Religion was still allowed, but was not allowed the degree of influence they previously had on our governing laws. Personally, I absolutely agree with him on that. I find it upsetting that the “Religious Right” has such a stranglehold on our government, pushing through laws that legislate “morality”. Morality is not something you should be able to legislate. If it isn’t harming another person, whose right is it to dictate what is right or wrong for anyone but themselves? Barring a very small minority who deliberately choose to “do wrong”, everyone feels they are in the right, so who is to say that one is “more right” than another?

Something that I found somewhat unnerving was the accuracy of his predictions of future events. He anticipated the formation and powers of the European Union, though he did err in thinking it would be run under a monarchy, and had it collapse after that monarch’s death, sparking a 40 year long civil war that reduced the continent’s population to a fraction of what it was and reduced their technological level to something resembling the start of the industrial area. The current developments with our own political system (decreasing liberties, higher religious influence, personal wars) were also called with startling accuracy, though again he took it a few steps further, with the President declaring a state of emergency and performing a military coup. (Though I suppose we’ll see what happens over the next few years.)

His opinions on military policy were also ones I really liked. The emphasis was shifted to defense, and the constitution was amended such that in order to send our troops overseas in battle (ie, go to war in another country, rather than defending our own shores), a national referendum was required. Those voting in the referendum would be limited to those who would be sent to war. If you were too old or too young or otherwise invalid as a soldier, you weren’t allowed to vote on the matter. Furthermore, if the referendum’s results indicated going to war, those who voted yes were to report for duty the following day. Those who abstained were the “second line” (should they become necessary), and those who voted against were the “third line” (again, should they become necessary). I think this is a brilliant way to handle war. I think it is absolutely absurd that in a supposedly “democratic” nation, people at no risk to themselves dictate whether the nation goes to war.

By and large, I really enjoyed For Us, The Living, though I wouldn’t say the story itself was overly well written. The lack of good story was more than made up for (in my opinion) by the well written, cogent ideas discussed, as well as the chance to peer inside the brain of one of my favorite authors. I would recommend it, though more to an individual studying sociology than someone studying fiction.

Heinlein, Robert A. For Us, The Living: A Comedy of Customs. New York: Pocket Books, 2004.

Annotation: Steering the Craft

Despite being the first book I started reading this month, Steering the Craft was the last that I finished. This is not to speak ill of it, mind you, as it is an excellent book on writing, written with candor, honesty, and expertise. Nor is it long. It IS, however, chock full of exercises of varying length and difficulty, and in trying to do at least some of them, it took longer to complete than I had expected. I’m glad I took the time, however, and I hope to return to the exercises I did not complete in the near future. Ursula LeGuin is easily one of the best science fiction authors in the history of the genre. If science fiction authors were a royal court, she would not just be a dame or duchess — she would be the Queen. And justifiably so. He writing is eloquent and remarkable, and her knowledge of the genre and field of writing in general is awe inspiring. I hope very much to meet her at some point, given that she lives a mere two hours south of me, in Portland, Oregon.

One of the interesting aspects of Steering the Craft is that it is actually a how to book, a book about writing, unlike most of the other writing books I’ve read thus far, which really amount to writer’s memoirs. To top that off, the book is done well, unlike so many other books of its type. It includes a glossary of terms, and an appendix of tips and advice on handling common issues like the lie/lay/lay debacle (it is not simply a matter of laying something down and lying down, there is also the intransitive verb that requires an indirect object, with its own set of rules), and the use of tense. The chapters themselves are insightful, and handle the more substantial aspects of writing well (tense, point of view, rhythm, sentence structure). She does away with many of the more stolid (read: stupid) rules from grammar school, and explains the ones she chooses to keep. Basically, what it comes down to is that any rule can be broken, but if it is broken, it should be broken well, and for a reason.

The book can be used in a variety of ways. Each chapter can stand alone rather well, and can be referenced fairly quickly as a desktop companion. Additionally, it can be used as a textbook for a peer writing group (and one of the appendixes is how to find or start such a group), or simply slogged through individually (what I ended up doing). Because each chapter stands alone, it can be done at whatever pacing necessary, though she recommends trying to spend at least a few days to a week on each chapter. Something else that I find particularly encouraging is that she includes her mailing address, and encourages readers to contact her with opinions on the text, how we found it useful, what could be improved, et cetera. Given her list of achievements, talent, and respect within the field, she could very easily have handed this book down from “on high.” I respect her a great deal for choosing not to do so.

Some parts of the book were more useful to me than others. I already have a fairly strong grasp over point of view, and while I occasionally absent-mindedly slip, a good grasp of tense as well. That said, it was vindicating to hear someone I respect as much as LeGuin declare that there is nothing wrong with using some of the more esoteric tenses (future perfect and past perfect, for instance), if you understand how to use them (which I do — four years of Latin does have SOME uses), and that largely the current avoidance of them stems from many mainstream authors and journalists NOT understanding how to use them properly. Her comments on the use of passive voice was also insightful and directly relevant: I am notorious for using qualifiers and passive voice in my writing, which makes the writing instantly less personal than it otherwise would be. It also makes it seem more “scholarly”, which is where I picked up that particular rut. It’s a vicious circle: we spend 95% of our academic career learning how to write things in an “academic” manner, which then permeates the media through graduates entering the workforce, which spreads it to the rest of the world… leaving so much of the population’s writing dense and impersonal, lacking the ability to truly COMMUNICATE.

A chapter that I found particularly useful for my own writing and myself is the first chapter, “The Sound of Your Writing”. It’s not just a matter of the rhythm, but also a matter of the sounds each word makes, in your mind and out loud. Using strong words, onomatopoeia, alliteration, rhyming, the flavor of what you’re talking about can convey a different effect. Something else I noticed about it, however, is that the nature of the exercise encourages word association, which can lead your story in unexpected directions. Word association is like a backdoor, getting you past that guard-dog we call our self-censor, and can let you be honest in ways that might not have otherwise gotten out. When I did the exercise for chapter one, what had started out as a silly little exercise ended up being a somewhat angst-ridden prose poem, which led me to discover that I still have a lot of angst in me, for better or worse. It made me realize that maybe I’m not handling my depression as well as I thought, because it became clear that I wasn’t DEALING with any of it, just burying it. Now I’m actually trying to take a more proactive stance in dealing with my depression.

Another chapter I really enjoyed was chapter nine, “Indirect Narration, or What Tells”, mainly because it’s a weak point for me. I’ve spent so much of my writing life outlining or creating character sheets and histories and not actually TELLING THE STORY, that I really found the information in the chapter really useful. It discusses ways to work in personality and history (both of the characters and the world) directly into dialogue and narrative, without creating “expository lumps”. I’ve always found my dialogue to be somewhat flat or weak in my writing, and this chapter made me realize that what I need to work on is weaving history into the dialogue. This will smooth out the story, and add a great deal of depth to the dialogue. I’m still not very good at it, but at least I’ve realized a method of improvement and can work on it more. (This is far more useful advice than what Stephen King said about dialogue, namely, you either have an ear for it or you don’t, and no amount of practice will change that.)

This is a remarkable book, and I would definitely recommend it to anyone interested in writing. In particular, I’d recommend it to writing workshops and teachers (in fact, I’m going to email my high school creative writing teacher and suggest it), as so many of the exercises in it are perfect for a workshop environment (LeGuin even marks the ones she feels are particularly suited for workshops). I’m greatly looking forward to returning to the book as the semester goes on, to visit and revisit some of the exercises within it. Like any other artistic endeavor, art is not just a matter of creativity, it is also very much a craft. I’m looking forward to refining mine.

LeGuin, Ursula K. Steering the Craft. Portland: Eighth Mountain Press, 1998.

Annotation: The Princess Bride

When people generally talk about “the classics”, they are generally talking about books that are at least 50 years old, and invariably taught at some level of academia, where bored teachers ponderously ponder the possible intentions of the long-dead author, secure in the delusion that this secret authorial message couldn’t possibly be as simple or direct as what is stated upon the page. The students, often more bored than the professor, sit around writing bad angst-filled poetry, praying to god that the teacher doesn’t put anything on the test that wasn’t in the Cliff’s Notes. These books may well be excellent pieces of literature, but after the wringer academics put them through, that can’t help but be dry. It is extremely unfortunate that the term “classic” has been so subverted, because, you see, there are classics, and then there are classics. With a book that is classic of the second type, we delve into the realm of books where the hidden message isn’t hidden at all, academics are dismissive, and the rest of the world enjoys the story all the more for that fact. William Goldman’s The Princess Bride (purportedly an abridged version of a book by the same name by a Florinese author by the name of S. Morgenstern, but is more generally assumed just part of the greater fiction of the book, since you’d be hard pressed to actually FIND an unabridged version) is a classic of this second type.

The Princess Bride at this point has been turned into a better known movie (the screenplay was also written by the author, and as such retains a remarkable amount of the book’s flavor), and is considered a mainstay of any geek’s movie collection, sitting right beside Monty Python and The Search for the Holy Grail. If you were to walk into a crowded room of geeks (at a convention, or computer lab, or even most coffee houses) and shout “Inconceivable!”, not only would people know what you were referring to, but would likely respond, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” Mandy Patinkin, the actor who played Inigo well over twenty years ago, is also a musician. Even now, at every concert he gives, he cannot leave the stage without giving in to requests for him to exclaim, “Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father, prepare to die!” Needless to say, I think it made an impact. As a writer, what this teaches me is that you should never underestimate the power of some good catch-phrases.

One of the amusing aspects of the book is the use of asides. At various points in the book, Goldman pauses from the story and adds an anecdote from when his father used to read him the book, or comments on the lengthy and completely boring portions of the book that he supposedly excised from the original edition. In fact, the entirety of chapter 3 is an aside detailing why he removed chapter 3 from the abridged version, involving Morgenstern’s extreme distaste for the aristocracy of Florin. These asides add a humorous effect to the book, which might otherwise simply be a rollicking adventure. They also occasionally serve a greater purpose, such as when Westley (the lead protagonist) is tortured and killed in the Zoo of Death (the Pit of Despair in the movie). That particular aside is used as a way to really give voice to the thoughts of the author in no uncertain terms. It discusses the first time his father read the story to him, and that his father had paused, and tried to skip the section. After much prodding, he admits that Westley dies, and it devastates the young William. In a later aside, he follows up with this, when as a teenager he has an epiphany: it had bothered him so much because it was the first time as a child that he had been faced with the realization that life isn’t fair. The ending of the book itself is also an aside: “But I also have to say, for the umpty-umpth time, that life isn’t fair. It’s just fairer than death, that’s all.” (Goldman 283)

Which brings me to a point of vague annoyance, though a very mild kind: I am not a big fan of “cliffhanger” endings. Goldman decided IS a fan of cliffhanger endings. He loves to leave things in a position where it is unclear what happens next, whether the protagonists live or die. Other examples of him doing this is the end of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, where Butch and the Kid leap off the cliff to the river far below, where it fades to black. There is no resolution, no clear answer as to whether they lived or died. I hate that, it feels like a copout. A story doesn’t necessarily have to have a happy ending, or a sad ending, but in my eyes it needs to bring the story it is telling to a conclusion. Loose ends? Not a problem. Sub-story arcs not finished? That’s too bad. But the central story arc, whatever that is, needs to wrap up. It doesn’t matter if a year after they live happily ever after, the couple is divorced and hating each other’s guts, or one was run over by a bear, or whatever, that’s a separate story. But ending a story arc with a cliffhanger is a breach of the contract between the author and reader. It irks me, and I suspect always will.

That irk aside, I really enjoyed the book (and the movie). The narrative style is witty and self-deprecating in a way that is generally reserved for first person memoir and personal essay, yet Goldman pulls it off in a third-person limited narrative. The interaction between Fezzik and Inigo in particular is really excellent, dealing with two people who are excellent at what they respectively do, but still very human. The friendship between them never seems strained or artificial. In fact, I’d say that Fezzik is my favorite character in the book. He is very human, with a great deal of depth for all his simplicity. Fezzik has a very simple mind, and mentally really only takes pleasure in rhyming. He is also exceptionally strong, and a giant, whose greatest fear is of being alone. Despite working as a rogue, he is a very honorable and upright person, fiercely loyal to his friends, and who believes in the importance of telling the truth. His foibles are REAL. His emotions are REAL. That is a remarkable thing to pull off in a story, and my hat is most certainly off to Goldman for doing it. (As an aside of my own: in the movie, Fezzik was played MOST appropriately by the late André the Giant. I can think of no one who could have been more fitting or done a better job. From the stories I’ve heard, André was very much like Fezzik in personality in real life.)

It’s hard for me to make a qualification of the book solely for the book. I’ve watched the movie so many times, that scenes from the movie can’t help but sneak into my memory of the book. That said, it has hardly hindered my enjoyment of either, and I would most certainly recommend either, or preferably both. In so many ways, it’s exactly what an adventure story should be.

Goldman, William. The Princess Bride. New York: Del Rey Books, 1973.

Annotation: The Callahan Chronicals

The principle is simple: “shared pain is lessened, and shared joy is increased.” (Robinson xii). It could be quickly shrugged off as just another turn of phrase, but think about it for a minute. We’re all caught up so much in our own lives, our own pains, that we don’t stop to listen, REALLY listen to the people around us. Doesn’t it make you stop and wonder, if only for a minute, that maybe if we could get past that and genuinely care about each other, things would be better? We’ve seen the studies and reports expounding researchers’ findings of human behavior, finding (unsurprisingly, for some of us) that this statement is a fundamental aspect of who we are as humans. When we share our pain, honestly share that pain with those around us, the pain is lessened, even mitigated through the awareness that those around you really care about what is bothering you, even if they haven’t experienced it themselves (and sometimes, sometimes they can even corroborate). When we share our joy, our elation over an experience or situation or event, it brightens the whole room. Imagine a place that takes this principle to its logical conclusion, and explicitly fosters an environment that encourages such behavior, where every person that comes there is there because they need to be, and where every person there cares about each other. That is Callahan’s.

The Callahan Chronicals is actually an omnibus collection of the first three books in the series: Callahan’s Crosstime Saloon, Time Travellers Strictly Cash, and Callahan’s Secret. They’re technically classified as science fiction, and there are certainly a fair share of aliens, time travellers, telepaths, and talking dogs, but these are really stories about people. (Though so are many other science fiction stories… caveat emptor, I suppose.) The fact of the matter is that the “science” part of the stories is kind of extraneous, it’s the people and their reactions that are important. From the very first story (“The Guy With The Eyes”), it makes this clear: it doesn’t matter whether you’re a heroin junkie or an alien scout charged with the destruction of the human race, the people here CARE about you, and will do whatever they can to help. They will not pry (in fact, there is a standing rule that if you are caught asking prying questions, Fast Eddie the piano player will blackjack you and you’ll be waking up elsewhere).

That’s the basis for the rest of the stories: they won’t pry, but they’ll listen and share if you want them to. ALL of them. How to break the ice, then? Simple: every drink in the place costs $.50. You put down a dollar on the bar, order your poison of choice, and you are given The Choice: you can either collect your change from the cigar box full of quarters at the end of the bar, or you can make a toast. The toast involves stepping up to the line in front of the fireplace, making a toast, and throwing the glass in the fire. Everyone will have quieted down for the toast, but again, they won’t pry… if you don’t want to talk about the reason for the toast, you don’t have to, but they’ll listen if you feel like talking. It seems to me like a great way to get people to open up without making them.

I’m torn on what my favorite story in the book is. “The Guy With The Eyes” is a strong contender, dealing with Tommy Janssen’s first night at the bar. Tommy is a recovering heroin addict, and had heard about Callahan’s from someone. It’s a pretty emotional bit of writing, as he toasts to smack, and rolls up his sleeves: clean, no needle-marks. It is also the first night of another regular… Mickey Finn, an alien scout sent to evaluate the risk factor of the human race, and if deemed necessary, destroy them. His assessment was going to be sent in later that night, and despite his desire not to destroy them, he had been counter-programmed and could not disobey. So they slipped him a “mickey finn” and made him miss his scheduled time to report it, thus saving the human race…

The other big contender for favorite story is “The Time Traveller”. It’s a bit different a kind of time traveling than you might think. It’s the story of Tom Hauptman, a former minister who had been visiting his sister-in-law with his wife in a small banana republic in central America. While there, a revolution happened, and they were thrown into prison under false names, and forgotten about for fully a decade. His sister-in-law died early on, and his wife died 9 years in of Malaria. Visiting tourists noticed them disposing of his wife’s body, and an investigation caused him to finally be released. That’s the time travel. Think about how much has happened in the past 10 years. (Or in the case of the story, 1963 to 1974.) If you are removed completely from any sort of communication with the outside world, think about how alien the world would seem once you were out. How much displacement can you take? You’ve lost your spouse AND your world, and your previous job hinged on an awareness of current social and moral dilemmas? It’s a damned hard thing, and Spider wrote about it beautifully.

The Callahan Chronicals is truly some excellent writing. The characters have depth and emotion, the stories are interesting (and funny when appropriate), and the overall composition is wonderful. I would heartily recommend the book to anyone looking to see what modern science fiction can be. Since the books is a collection of short stories, it works out well as a bedtime reader — there is no reason NOT to read this book, finding time is not an excuse. By the end of it, two facts are evident: I want to become as good a writer, and I want to find my own Callahan’s.

Robinson, Spider. The Callahan Chronicals. New York: Tor Books, 1997.

Annotation: Zen in the Art of Writing

Zen in the Art of Writing is not precisely a book about writing. Rather, it is a book about being passionate about what you do. While there are tips and tricks to writing and writing well, it is rather superfluous to the overall value of the book. In my eyes, where the book is most valuable is in encouraging you to be passionate. We have emotions, and yet so much of our academic lives are spent subjugating those emotions in a misguided attempt at objectivity. It is like a breath of fresh air to not only be told it’s okay to get angry or excited, but to be encouraged to do so.

The book is broken up into several essays, written over several years for various other reasons, collected into one book. As such, there is a bit of repetition in his subject matter (he comments on several of his stories several times through several different essays, often saying almost exactly the same thing), which can largely be forgiven. It really only irks when the points of repetition essentially boil down to some personal horn tooting on the case of the author (which kind of jives with what I’ve heard about Ray, namely that he is a very nice person but not all that modest about his talents). None of the repetition really harms the core of any of the essays, so no harm done, I suppose.

I thought about responding to each of the essays, but decided it would be more fun and rewarding to point out the parts that really struck me. In the essay “On the Shoulders of Giants”, Bradbury talks about the Science Fiction Explosion:

[…]and placed a gentle bomb on teacher’s desk. Instead of an apple it was Asimov.
“What’s that?” the teacher asked, suspiciously.
“Try it. It’s good for you,” said the students.
“No thanks.”
“Try it,” said the students. “Read the first page. If you don’t like it, stop.” And the clever students turned and went away.
The teachers (and the librarians, later) put off reading, kept the book around the house for a few weeks and then, late one night, tried the first paragraph.
And the bomb exploded.
They not only read the first but the second paragraph, the second and third pages, the fourth and fifth chapters.
“My God!” they cried, almost in unison, “these damned books are about something!”
“Good Lord!” they cried, reading a second book, “there are Ideas here!”
“Holy Smoke!” they babbled, on their way through Clarke, heading into Heinlein, emerging from Sturgeon, “these books are — ugly word — relevant!”
“Yes!” shouted the chorus of kids starving in the yard. “Oh my, yes!”
And the teachers began to teach, and discovered an amazing thing:
Students who had never wanted to read before suddenly were galvanized, pulled up their socks, and began to read and quote Ursula LeGuin. Kids who had never read so much as one pirate’s obituary in their lives were suddenly turning pages with their tongues, ravening for more. (Bradbury 102-103)

This piece right here is precisely what I’m talking about when I say that Bradbury’s writing is passionate and bordering poetic. It also strikes a very strong chord with me, on many levels. For one thing, I was one of those kids growing up, but in a later wave with a different fight on their hands. I had the side of the teachers now, and instead I was up against the other students, trying to convince them to just try it, and if they didn’t like it, they could throw the book in my face. I can count the number who actually took me up on my suggestions on one hand. A different but related chord is that the essay explains and encapsulates my feelings about science fiction so well. Science Fiction in so many ways should have stuck with an earlier moniker: Speculative Fiction. The genre is filled with ideas and notions and questions and ideals, some of which become reality, but that’s really superfluous to the nature of the genre. It’s the IDEAS that are important. And, for me at least, it is the challenge of Humanity.

The next most striking and invaluable essay for me was the title essay: “Zen in the Art of Writing”. It is one of his more straightforward essays, dealing with a (somewhat) more technical part of writing, namely how to do it. The entire essay can be summed up in one line: “WORK – RELAXATION – DON’T THINK – FURTHER RELAXATION” (Bradbury 144). The rest of the essay just explains that statement. What it comes down to is this: writing is WORK, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. There is craft in addition to art, and that is the structure of writing, and the act of writing itself. That said, if you are stressed out, your work will be stressed as well — it will not flow, and it will not be nearly as honest as you likely want. Likewise, if you let yourself think about what you are writing, you censor yourself: get it OUT THERE, you can always censor it later — chances are, once it’s out, you’ll be glad it is, no matter what your censor tells you when you’re writing it. Which brings us back to relaxation: ideas are from a deep part of your mind, and it takes being relaxed and receptive to get them to the surface. It’s where the “Zen” in the title becomes slightly less of just a turn of phrase. A major principle of Zen is an acceptance and receptiveness to one’s surroundings. Writing is very Zen.

The third and final essay I’m going to write about is “How to Keep and Feed a Muse”. There is always talk about a “writer’s muse”, talk that never seems to get anywhere, mostly involving some people arguing against any outside source, and others citing divine inspiration. Personally, I’m somewhere in the middle. Bradbury seems more in the camp of citing the Muse as our subconscious. There’s nothing wrong with this, and the essay is very valid regardless of which “camp” you belong to. It is worth noting that in either camp, there is the agreement that a muse must be fed. It needs experiences to grow from and work with, and life is its food of choice. It must also have an outlet, however: whether the work is good or not or feels particularly inspired or not, you need to write to keep a muse. Or paint, or sculpt, or any other creative medium — take your pick, the fact remains the same: if you are not willing to let the muse speak through you, then the muse will stop trying to. Of this I am absolutely certain, speaking from first-hand experience. You don’t even realize how important the interplay between yourself and your muse IS until it’s gone, whether through abuse, or neglect.

Zen in the Art of Writing is definitely worth reading. I would recommend happily (and have) to anyone willing to spend the few hours necessary to read it (it is not precisely long, weighing in at 176 pages in trade paperback size… I read it in less than a day). Those looking for a how-to book on writing should look elsewhere… and then come back when their priorities are in order. After all, what is the point in knowing how to write if you have nothing to say?

Bradbury, Ray. Zen in the Art of Writing. Santa Barbara: Joshua Odell Editions, 1994.