Month: March 2011

When I was a young girl I succumbed to one of the fads of my time. I loved The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. In a way, even if a lot of the story now seems like an extended cliche, I still do.

When I was re-reading Darkship Thieves, before setting about writing the sequel, I was haunted by a quote from Saint-Exupery even though I hadn’t re-read The Little Prince in… thirty years: “What moves me so deeply, about this little prince who is sleeping here, is his loyalty to a flower–the image of a rose that shines through his whole being like the flame of a lamp, even when he is asleep . . .”

I don’t know if this is just me – of course, Darkship Thieves is my book, so I would feel this more, right? – or if it communicated itself to other people, but after not reading the book for two years (and trust me, as much as I’ve written since, it feels longer ago) I suddenly felt as though what made the book powerful were the parts I never went into: the weight of history behind Kit and Thena, the dank, dark, blood soaked history of the mules; the clawing of a space of safety and life for the descendants of the bio-improved people;the repression on Earth.

Perhaps it is because the second book deals with a lot more of that history, and how it comes back to bite you in the behind when you least expect it. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that, as my sons reach an age when their moving out of the house is (hopefully – if their plans go right) within a very short reach of a couple of years or so, and then my life will change completely – and the years of raising them that seemed so long in passing now appear to be no more than a fast blink, in the rearview mirror.

All of a sudden, I find myself thinking in an historical dimension, generations following generations, each no less important, not less individual, no less intense, but made, shaped, confined and somehow changed by all that went before and what they wish to make sure comes after.

It’s a humbling view, like looking at the sea and realizing that before you were born it was beating at this same shore, close to the same spot – that millennia after you’re dust in the dust it will still be doing so. At the same time, it is an exalted view, because while you’re alive – you, ephemeral and passing as you are – can build a cement barrier and change where that wave hits. Or you can walk down to the shore, let the ocean bathe your feet, and leave a little of your warmth and life in it, forever. Who we love and hate, what we believe and fight for, all leave a mark – even if it might seem minute.

It’s exactly the same with characters, at least in my mind. And what makes Thena such a powerful character, for me, is her love for Kit. As interesting a personality as she is, what makes her come alive for me is her love for this deeply flawed man, for whom she would rebuild the universe over, if needed.
It shines in her, even when she’s completely still.

Perhaps this makes me a complete fool, or at least a romantic one, but it is in their feelings for each other, in their intense involvement in their brief moment on the page, in their unspoken love – which perhaps doesn’t fit into words – that I find my characters alive on the page and vibrating with a purpose and mind of their own.

I was reminded of this problem this week, as I have a short story due for an interstellar exploration anthology.

Now, you guys know though I’ve written for Analog, I’m very far from being a scientist. I mean, sure, I took all the fast track science and stuff, until 9th grade when, due a concatenation of personal, political and historical circumstances I landed my rebellious little (back then!) behind in the so called liberal arts.

As we all know, a lack of mathematics atrophies certain areas of the brain, an atrophy possibly encouraged by regular doses of Cliff’s Notes. (Look, I read Shakespeare and Jane Austen and can even take Goethe in small doses, but really, no. That modern Portuguese novel they made us read, where the whole point was nothing happened? Wagner’s librettos? The sheer suckiness of most of what calls itself magic realism? [I said most. Hint, friends of Castro can’t do magic realism for the Marx. Seriously.] All of this was digestible only in Cliff’s notes form. Because otherwise I’d have punched holes in my parents’ walls. And my parents’ walls are made of two-foot-thick stones, so you see the problem. (Though I’ll note the instance of big literature test where I’d happily managed to forget the book even existed and had failed to provide myself with cliff’s notes or the Portuguese equivalent. When I realized the test was happening, and I couldn’t contrive some emergency to post postpone it or close the school for the day [you TRULY don’t want to know] I read the prologue. From the prologue I guessed the rest of the book. My answer – essay – ran to ten pages, focused on the prologue and how it foreshadowed the entire book. I had an A. And that, children, is when I decided to be a fiction writer. Also, when I learned to despise that type of author with the withering disdain of those who do for those who pretend.)

What this comes down to is that when my two, intensely science track sons ask me a question, it only goes to further their opinion I’m mentally retarded. Or weird.

Oh, I read all sorts of popular science books, because I’m INTERESTED. And I can, given time and a pad of paper come up with reasonable extrapolations.

BUT – and this is a big but (yes, the one with two tt too. Office chair sprawl) – it’s been years since I did science fiction SHORT STORIES. Novels, yeah, but not a short story.

Somehow working on this story catapulted me back to my original view of what it took to write science fiction short stories – their being you know, smaller and therefore more concentrated than novels. (SF short stories, now with twice the science!)

And here’s what I believed when I started out:

1- Science fiction short stories have to hinge on a science puzzle or effect.

2- Since all of the easy puzzles or effects have been written, it takes years of research to write one science fiction short story.

3- You must spend at least three afternoons in calculations (which at this point requires me to spend a week learning the math again) to verify your premiss.

Despite the fact that this directly contravened the instructions the two editors gave me, by Friday night and more than halfway through the story, I’d worked myself into a “can’t breathe” panic, convinced what I was writing was wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

Thank heavens one of the editors was more patient than he should be, even if he now probably thinks I’m insane. (I’m not revealing names till I sell the story!)

And now that my head has been reset on science fiction short stories, (again) perhaps I can send a story to Dr. Schmidt and stop hiding from him at conventions. (Besides, I think he’s onto the false nose and the moustache.)

Oh, yeah, and (#4 – You MUST use a slide rule. EVEN if you have three scientific calculators in the house. You MUST check your calculations with a slide rule.) I suppose I should get back to second-son’s room and return to him his “toy” slide rule that I absconded with. Right?

For those of you who read Darkship Thieves, the novel is the sequel to it, and then there’s the sister of the sequel. So, you see, it is a serious threat.

This used to happen all the time. My kids started noticing signs and would say “uh, oh, mom is coming down with a novel.” It was the little things that gave it away – like the fact that mom only rushed out of the office to use the bathroom, then rushed back again, muttering, forgot to eat, sometimes answered them with sentences that made no sense. Or perhaps stumbled around the house with a vacant look, walked into things and said stuff like “but that ending won’t work” in the tone of voice of one in pain. Usually things stopped short of watering the cat and giving cat food to the plants, but there was the time when I went to the store with a frozen chicken under my arm, leaving the purse safely stowed in the freezer.

It’s been a long time since a novel took me this way. Most of the time these days, I can work nine to nine, then read a bit and go to bed, but there’s time for eating and cooking and cleaning. The only thing approaching that white hot rush has been the last two/three chapters, before the book closes.

But now Darkship Renegades and A Few Good Men (don’t yell) have taken me that way. I’m having trouble even reading short stuff – like … offers – which I need to read. I’m spacing out in the middle of conversations with the family. Today, I officially ran out of clean underwear, so I’d better do some before tomorrow.

What is it? Is it that the kids are finally old enough that I can concentrate on work without fearing they’ll burn down the house? Or is it these particular books?

I don’t know. I know posting here will be erratic – oh, every day, but don’t be surprised if it’s sometimes at midnight and sometimes at ten AM – and might sound about as coherent as giving cat food to a plant. But know this – I’m being held hostage by a novel and I’m having a GLORIOUS time. It’s like an altered state of vivid dreaming, but the writing is much easier when I’m like this.

The first one should be done – latest – by end of month. Second, G-d willing, late April. If I’m not out by then, send dogs and perhaps native guides!

It’s funny how many fairytales and myths revolve around skin. Not just selkies, but also swan maidens. If you took their skins, you had them forever.

Recently I’ve been thinking of my writing as a process of removing my skin.

Before you go “ew” and try to claw out your eyes, let me explain.

All of us walk around in hard shells. We have to. Oh, maybe it was different at one time for each of us, I don’t know. When was the time you got stomped on and learned to put up a front, learned to put up a shield? When was the time you walked, puppy like, up to a group of other kids, expecting they would of course like you, and ended up pounded?

I remember the moment for my older son with almost painful clarity. No, he didn’t get pounded. If you knew you, you’d know that’s silly. He’s always been… well… built like the proverbial brick sh*thouse. But he was our first and we thought would be only child, born after six years of infertility. And he was a good baby. Slept through the night at four weeks. We delighted in him, and in his first year of life never even raised our voice to him, much less showed him impatience. He was healthy and we protected him, so he was never hurt.

And then we took him for vaccinations. They asked us to hold him, so he wouldn’t move, and they stabbed him quickly on each thigh with the syringes. The look of sheer betrayal in his face. It wasn’t the pain, I don’t think. It was the betrayal that we’d taken him here, allowed him to do this. And though of course, he doesn’t remember that, I swear he’s been more wary since.

Now, by the time most of us reach adulthood, we’ve had hundreds of such experiences, and we’ve learned to shelter ourselves from the… slings and arrows of capricious fortune. Part of it is the “I didn’t want it, anyway” and part of it is the “I’m too old to expect they’ll love me at first sight.” Etc.

This works okay in life. It would be very weird, frankly, to be an adult sauntering into a party with the eagerness of a two year old. And I think if you went around putting everything in your mouth – yes, yes, you, you know who you are – just to see how it tasted, someone would probably put you away. (Hey, my oldest used to eat dead bugs. From the windowsills. Until I caught him…)

So in life, we need our skin, our tough shell, our protection.

The problem is when you bring that protection into writing. It’s lovely in a way, isn’t it? You can write and keep it at a distance from yourself, from the parts of yourself that count.

This means different things to different people. Many people are afraid to write about sex, for instance, because it’s too close. Others will not write about emotion. Or pain. (You try reading a book that’s all joy joy, happy happy, then tell me it was any good. Even feel good books have dark moments. Some people flinch from the supernatural. Others from murder.

I confess to having had problems with all of those, at different times in my career. But there is more to it than that. Weirdly, I noticed something while listening to books. Listening somehow makes it more personal. I listen to books while walking, too, which I guess makes it more intimate – there’s no distraction of a physical book in front of you.

Anyway, I noticed that all the really good books, the ones that grab, have what can only be called “writer personal hang ups.” For instance, it’s clear that Heinlein liked cats. Or that Terry Pratchett nurtures a taste for the same sort of greasy spoon I love: the acid coffee, the burnt crunchy bits.

For me those are probably the hardest part. It’s the silly stuff you like or don’t like that’s really close to your heart. If you let it out there, people will be worried. Or shocked. Or bored. They won’t understand. They’ll make fun of your toys. You’re that little kid again, walking up to the group of older kids, and you just know they’re going to pound you.

And then there’s letting my characters bleed. I mean, really bleed, really suffer. I don’t want to. It’s not even that I don’t want to hurt them. It’s that I don’t want people to see it. What? People might think I enjoy my characters’ suffering. And besides everyone is entitled to privacy in their distress, right? No, no they’re not. It turns out people who love your characters love them more if they see them bleed. Not cosmetic bleeding, but go for the jugular and follow it down, in detail, while they bleed and twitch.

Lately I’ve been writing with no skin on and it leaves you oddly sensitive, oddly raw to the world afterwards. You have to remember “I must put my skin on again. I must go out in the world and be normal again.”

In that sense, it is the opposite of the swan maidens. When you have your skin on, you’re just someone like everyone else. You have to take the skin off to be the magical being beneath.

And even if it hurts – a keyboard is a blunt implement to remove skin with – you dance so much freer on the page without it.

When I was just a reader – before being also a writer – there were many things I didn’t understand. I think this is fairly normal. For instance I had no idea the publisher could change your title. I had no clue most writers had no say on the cover. (Yes, yes, for those of you out there, I REALLY had no say on the cover of Draw One In The Dark, hard cover. Sorry. It just happens to be true.) I didn’t even understand that most elementary of ideas – that which books get published and which don’t and in what order is not under the control of the writer.

What this means is that, say, in 2012, I could have four books published which all revolve around intelligent cats. (I won’t, I swear. I haven’t written them.) The reader – or worse, the literature professor, which is kind of like a reader with a license to snoop – would then conclude “in this phase of her life, Sarah was preoccupied with intelligent cats. Which would make perfect sense, of course. Except, if you poked into the sales history, you might find out that one was a reprint of something I wrote ten years ago, another was a write-for-hire book because the publisher had the cover and hired me to write the story (this never happened to me, but it happened to someone I know. No, don’t ask), the other was written three years ago, but the publication was delayed and yet the other was something I wrote twenty years ago and was just now accepted/published. Thereby meaning that while I’d written a lot about intelligent cats, none of it was “in this year.”

This is how one of my friends became convinced I had written “legions of gay vampires.” To date I’ve sold exactly two gay vampire stories. This out of a total of five vampire stories ever written by me. However, he happened to come across those two stories in the same year. And, heck, at one time, out of ten stories published, I had four vampire stories. Mind you, I had fifty non-vamp stories Unpublished, but as far as the public was concerned I sat up in my little attic and wrote about undead people with a hemoglobin habit.

So, what’s all this b*tching in the name of? Actually it’s not. It’s just that I just realized what is probably the greatest disconnect between reader and writer. One that is almost impossible to breach from the other side, even when I TRY, even when I know what’s on the other side.

Series.

Series are experienced dramatically differently by writers and readers. As a reader, I’ll find a book I like and run out and buy all in the series. Or if I have to buy them one by one I will often, afterwards, re-experience them all as a unit. Just recently I went through all of the Tiffany Aching series on audio over a month of walks.

But unless you’re dealing with a writer who has only one series – a breed becoming increasingly rare – the writer didn’t experience it or work it that way. I.e. I’m now working on the Darkship series, again, but this was after detours through Sword and Blood and two refinishing mysteries. Getting back to Athena, realizing that FOR HER two years haven’t passed is the work I have to do so that the reader has that sense of continuity.

So, do you ever think about that – that the books you read in a row might have YEARS of life experience between them? Is it ever obvious? (My pet theory is that it’s obvious when the character gets “broken” – i.e. loses consistency.) And how do you read series? (I’m weird because I tend to tire around book ten.) Would it ruin it for you to know that there have been other series, books, between the books you love? Or do you imagine your characters waiting patiently to go on with their lives?

(crossposted at Mad Genius Club)

No. Don’t try to send me a baby gift. Human twins are far less work than this.

Through some process I can’t fully understand, some books refuse to be worked at unless they’re worked at together.

The ones that drive me totally insane are the ones that are in widely different universes/time frames/styles. For instance, I wrote at the same time – had to – Gentleman Takes A Chance and Soul of Fire. And if you’re sitting there going “at least they both got dragons” … yeah, you’re right. It is, however, where the resemblance stops. There have been others, too, though right now I can’t remember the pairings.

At least the current ones are in the same universe – one of them, Darkship Renegade starts the minute that Thena and Kit Sinistra land in Eden and then it doesn’t stop. (No, that’s pretty much it.) The other one begins on Earth a few hours before that with a character coming out of the prison that Thena attacked in order to free Kit. And then it turns Earth inside out and upside down. (No, that’s also pretty much it.)

I’m not sure, yet, whether the two interact at all. (They might not in these books.) But I’m sure I can’t write one without writing the other AT THE SAME TIME. Sometimes I hate the way my mind works.