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Collecting the Past

9/29/2015

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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.
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Politicizing Dead Writers

9/26/2015

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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.

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Tangerine Dream: Ultimate Sci-Fi Music

9/2/2015

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I’ve been a fan of Tangerine Dream for only sixteen years or so. I say ‘only’, because their work has been around for over forty years. From surreal, progressive rock, to early synthesizer pioneers, on to composing film soundtracks, then to New Age soundscapes, and finally back to a slick reimagining of their electronica, the group has covered so many styles. But more than providing mere listening pleasure, Tangerine Dream is often my personal soundtrack when I write.

There’s a certain nostalgia about Tangerine Dream’s music, taking me back to my 80s childhood. Synthesizer music dominated that decade, and hearing the warm, analog passages of Tangerine Dream is like an aural time machine. I’m reminded of all the wonderful technological advances like Apple computer, Atari video games, and the glorious Space Shuttle launches, pre-Challenger. I’m also reminded of Omni Magazine, of the beginnings of the sci-fi subgenre known as cyberpunk, and of the euphoric feeling that in the 21st century, technology would solve many of our problems.

This is all a construct of my mind, associating events, places, and things with Tangerine Dream’s compositions. It fills my mind with tangentially related memories of the sound of sequenced beats, sine pads, and synth bass. It is the creation of memory, real or imagined, and I realize this even while the music evokes these sensations and images. That is part of Tangerine Dream’s brilliance. Their music really is like a waking dream.

But all that aside, there’s something else that their music conjures in my mind: alien worlds, starships on interstellar journeys, and technology so advanced it is beyond human ken. It makes me think about, and want to write, science fiction stories. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the merger of artificial sounds with live instrumentation, or the contrasting arrangements that play out in synchronized lockstep only to collapse into bursts of chaos. Perhaps it’s the band’s introspective, yet hopeful, vibe. I only know that it moves me.

There are two things in particular that come to mind whenever I begin a Tangerine Dream playlist: alien skies, and Michael Whelan paintings. The music suggests vistas on another world, where the sky is wide open, and I can fly through it until I finally cross over into vacuum. I can even look skyward on my own world, at the blue sky and clouds, and their music flows into my thoughts.

Whelan is among my favorite fantasy artists, and there is a sophistication and humanity about his work that I hear in Tangerine Dream. One piece of his perfectly illustrates this: Robots of Dawn, from the Isaac Asimov book of the same name. The otherworldly hue of the sky in the background, the tragedy of the robot’s beleaguered pose in the foreground, and the contemplative visage on the stone at the robot’s feet, epitomize what I’m talking about. Look at that image while listening to tracks like ‘Zulu’, or ‘Hunter Shot By A Yellow Rabbit’ and tell me you don’t feel something.

From ‘Rubycon’, “Roaring of the Bliss’, and ‘Phaedra”, their compositions possess an energy, a relentless drive to move forward, as if progress itself is nudging us on. This isn’t because Tangerine Dream uses loops and sequencers. This same drive exists in their live performances. It’s the same drive I feel when I read science fiction. It pushes me into the next stage of thought, of being.

When Edgar Froese, the founder of Tangerine Dream and its only original member, died in January 2015, I was quite saddened. He was still working on new music up until his passing. I think that reflects the energy, hope, and forward-driving intuition that permeates the band’s music: that’s who he was, and you can hear it in the arrangements.

So as I gear up to write the next science fiction novel, I already hear the opening strains of ‘One Night In Space’, taking me on another voyage of the imagination. Whatever Edgar Froese intended with his work, I’m sure such a comment would make him proud.

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