It’s been quiet here as of late, because I’ve been ridiculously busy and burned-out–that’s part of being a student.

On the subject of me being a student (what a segue), I’m also posting all my lit-related stuff on my official university weblog:

http://leah.weblog.leidenuniv.nl

Listen to it at Escape Pod.

This is probably one of the bravest science fiction pieces I’ve ever read.

It’s a cliché that scifi is about alien cultures. It’s also wrong. Science fiction is about our own culture, but tweaked enough that we are able to look at it objectively. The creatures of that society might look completely different (or they might not), but it all comes down to the same thing in the end: eerily recognisable societies and cultures, that are only really alien because they hail from a different planet.

The reason I think this story is brave, is because it takes a few steps away from the tried-and-tested mould of recognisable aliens. Family Values focuses on sentient underwater blobs, with reproductive processes that are very alien indeed.

Why is it brave? Well, the simple fact of the matter is that people, even science fiction geeks, aren’t interested in aliens. They’re interested in people. Well, that’s being very generous. People are interested in people in general and themselves in particular. Literature is usually most enjoyable for the reader when he or she can recognise a character who is similar to themselves, or when they are confronted with a situation that they have had to deal with in real life.

Unfortunately, this piece isn’t as brave as it could have been. Although it is vastly more alien than most science fiction in the creatures presented and the worldbuilding, the narrative itself is incredibly human. There’s bribable politicians, petty squabbling between women based on age and experience (therefore social merit), and there’s men and women using sex to manipulate each other, based on each gender’s unique weaknesses and strengths.

Still, I applaud the author for having the audacity to dare write about something that wasn’t entirely human. It makes it harder for the casual readers, but much more enjoyable for those looking for something more than semi-escapist fantasy.

I just finished H.G. Wells’ The Island of Dr. Moreau, and it’s helped me realise why I dislike the use of narrative elements bound to a specific time period.

In The Island of Dr. Moreau, we’re given a very detailed view of some of the period’s ideas, but not through the inclusion of cultural or social ‘landmarks’, if you will. The very ideas that form the basis for the plot are enough to tell us that we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

For those of you who are unaware of the plot of this particular science fiction classic, I strongly suggest you don’t read on. There, that should constitute as fair warning. On we go.

Even I, as a mere student of English, know that it is impossible to create near-human creatures from animals using vivisection. In our modern day and age, this idea is so preposterous, that it simply isn’t viable as a premise for a science fiction story. Maybe with the right tweaking it could be used for fantasy, but sci fi? No. Way too implausible.

While working my way through this novel (which, despite the datedness of the ideas, was still an amazing read) I couldn’t help but marvel at how it showcased the ideas and sentiments of the time, while using a setting that could easily be adapted for a more modern tale.

Of course, this is just a pet hate of mine. I don’t mind historical settings. In fact, I quite like them, when they’re done properly. And I suppose you could see an MMORPG as a historical setting. It will be in 200 years’ time, after all.

Still, I vastly prefer the use of typically modern ideas rather than typically modern settings. Ideas are much less prone to dominating the plot and characters, sapping them of all life and interest.

Listen to it at Variant Frequencies.

I don’t know why, but I tend to dislike stories that play on ‘gimmicks’ or current events. I’m sure these will be fascinating to anthropologists in centuries to come. But if there’s something that doesn’t interest me right now, then chances are I’m not going to be interested by a story about it, either.

When I realised that this story was going to be about a Second Life/MMORPG, I groaned. I didn’t manage to get through Save Me Plz at Escape Pod, either. But, I figured I’d stick this one out. This is Variant Frequencies, after all: I consider VF to be the bastion of quality audio speculative fiction online. I have yet to be disappointed by one of their offerings. Actually, that’s not entirely true, as Saint Darwin’s Spirituals didn’t do much for me, but the ideas behind it were so awesome that I actually fault myself rather than the story.

Anyway, back to the review at hand. Despite my expectations, I actually really enjoyed this story. The reason is pretty clear to me. Instead of writing a story about an MMORPG, McGoran wrote a story involving an MMORPG. Yes, the setting is vital to the plot, but it does not dominate. The characters are what keep it interesting and the plot itself is what keeps the story going, not the fact that it’s set in an online game.

The plot itself was pretty impressive. It must have been tempting to take this case of true online escapism and turning it into a full-blown novel. I think that it really benefits from its brevity–the reader is presented with an interesting setting and a very interesting problem. We aren’t presented with an answer, but that’s okay. Any possible answer would have probably fallen short, at any rate.

So far, this is the only story I’ve ever encountered that handles MMORPG-settings well. I’m still not crazy about the ‘genre’, if you can call it that. But it’s good to know that quality fiction really can come from anywhere. It’s even better to know that when such fiction does pop up, it finds its way to Variant Frequencies.

Listen to it at Escape Pod.

This has to be one of the single most enjoyable science fiction stories I’ve read in a long time.

Science fiction, as a genre, has a lot of potential. Many people who don’t come into contact with the genre assume that it’s all about little green men and explosions and death rays. This isn’t true. Lots of science fiction is bogged down with ideas and exploration of thousands of ‘what ifs’ that simply aren’t viable in mainstream fiction.

Luckily, this story was basically about little green men and explosions. I think the best way to describe this story is to take Indiana Jones, have him portrayed by a sarcastic overweight woman, and then send him off into space. Hilarity ensues. Not only is there action and adventure, there’s subtle exploration of other cultures, giving this light-hearted romp a serious side. It also has a helmet that sucks your brains out, just to make sure that the reader realises that this is pure, unabashedly fun scifi.

Many otherwise excellent stories are sabotaged by the author’s need to be ‘respectable’. After all, it isn’t real literature if it isn’t serious and soul-searching, right? That is true, to some extent. However, sometimes, even serious students of literature want to read about explosions and prostitute-assassins on a faraway planet. Not only that, we want to read a well-written story including these things. Such stories are so hard to come by, that when I do run across one, I cherish it. And that’s why I’m so glad that I read God Juice.

Today, I was discussing a number of canonical works of British literature that me and a friend are going to be tested on tomorrow. We discussed The Turn of the Screw, Tess of the D’Urbevilles, Great Expectations, Alice in Wonderland, Wuthering Heights, Lord Jim, Silas Marner, and Sherlock Holmes.

The thing that tickled me, was when we got to discussing the great sleuth. I’m a huge Sherlock Holmes fan myself, and did one of my most recent papers on character functions within the Holmes narratives. However, while I was doing research, it became quite clear that there aren’t many papers on Conan Doyle’s most popular creation. I found way more articles on Yekl (you ask who, I say exactly).

The truth is, there isn’t that much to say about the Holmes stories. They’re well-written and entertaining, but they don’t have much literary value. Now, I’m sure there are quite a few novels, writers, or even whole genres that are discredited by ’serious’ readers, because they’re well-written and entertaining, but nothing more.

Food for thought.

Listen to it at Escape Pod.

When Steve Eley announced on this week’s Escape Pod that the story was YA science fiction, I got excited. I’m a big fan of YA fiction, and not just because it wasn’t that long ago when I was in the target demographic for that particular genre. I believe that children’s fiction and YA fiction contains some of the strongest messages you’ll find in literature. These genres aren’t afraid to tackle the most universal and difficult themes. Lewis Carroll’s Alice books are mostly about the question, ‘Who am I?’ Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy is about the question, ‘What is right? What is wrong? What should I believe?’

Why are the questions posed by works in these genres so fundamental? Well, because that’s the kind of stuff that plays on your mind when you’re a child or a young adult. Taxes and relationships have yet to sully your mental horizon, so you’re left with plenty of time to fret about the big questions.

The difference between regular YA/children’s fiction and great YA/children’s fiction, is whether the narrative answers any questions. I’m a firm believer in letting people figure things out for themselves. It’s okay to give people a nudge in the right direction–who hasn’t needed guidance at some point? But the answers that are most satisfying and most right, from your point of view, are the ones that you come up with yourself.

Also, not answering any of the major questions keeps narratives from descending into thinly-veiled sermons on how to live your life when you reach that mythical stage known as Adulthood. Kids aren’t stupid. They know, probably better than anyone else, when they’re being told what to do, and they’re still smart enough to reject false authorities.

I’m not sure whether Alien Promises by Janni Lee Simner is preachy or not. On the one hand, it’s certainly not giving kids realistic advice on what to do with their lives, unless interstellar space travel becomes mundane any time soon. I’d love for that to happen, but I’m not counting on it.

What this story does do, however, is present an overly-idealised ending. Now, happy endings have their place in children’s lit. I don’t advocate doom and gloom in YA lit. But I do feel that the ending of Alien Promises, with the social outcast finally finding acceptance, even among some of the very popular kids, is a little too ‘happily ever after’.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved the message. It made me smile as I was listening to it, because I recognised a much younger me in the protagonist. But, and maybe the protagonist is just a much better person than I was when I was 10, I don’t think that even aliens could have made me stop disliking the kids who were less than social towards me. I might have asked the aliens to zap them, but I think that’s about as far as it goes.

Ah, but then there’s a lesson to be learned here, I hear you think. This story tells us to be more accepting and forgiving of those around us, because everyone is human, and makes mistakes. Even popular kids who like beating less popular kids up can have redeeming features, and they might just be nutty enough to want to be abducted by aliens.

And that’s the part of the story that I really have an issue with. I like the message, I really do. I think that the more kids who realise that the people around them aren’t as awful as they seem, the better the world will be. However, I’m not sure if I like how it’s handled in the story. Don’t read on from here, if you don’t want to know about the ending.

After the popular kids ruin the protagonist’s chances of getting what she really wants, she bonds with them and they form a group. She’s finally got a community in which she belongs. Now, I like that. It’s saying that even people who ruin things for you when they’re not even trying can turn out to be good. That’s an excellent message, because it’s true.

However, we’re then told that they keep in contact forever and they’re going to build a spaceship, and then they’re going to travel to other planets, where they’ll be the aliens bringing peace and joy and cuddles. Well, we’re not explicitly told about the cuddles, but to me it was pretty obvious that that is what was being implied. Even if the cuddles are metaphorical.

This is where my critique might get a bit… sticky. I’m going to start to talk about plausibility. Now, I know, this isn’t something that you should address when you’re talking about a story that has aliens and spaceships, but bear with me. I’m talking about the emotional plausibility, if that makes sense. The reader is presented with this strongly idealised ending, in which the people who wanted to go with the aliens band together and try to make the world a better place.

That, for me, is a little too preachy. I think that the message would have worked much better if the protagonist had stayed friends with her fellow almost-abductees. That is something that, if you left out the aliens and made it a real-life situation, I could see happening. It’s a good image to present to a young reader.

Instead, what’s being shown, is a group of people who were enlightened, and now feel the need to go off and enlighten everyone else. Not only is that unlikely (thank goodness), but it’s also not the best message to send out in this kind of story. That’s just my personal opinion, mind, but it did make me like the ending less than I could have.

Also, speaking of implausibility, I was amazed that the protagonist was so friendly to the popular kids after they ruined her chances of leaving Earth. She was never special, she was never liked, she didn’t feel a particular connection with anyone. What she wanted more than anything else in the world, was to be taken into space by aliens, but she didn’t think that would happen because her planet wasn’t special enough. She didn’t even consider thinking about how not-special-enough she was.

And yet, she’s chosen. She’s singled out for that honour. And then the popular kids take the most amazing thing that has ever happened to her, and they ruin it.

The protagonist must be an amazing person, because I would have flipped my lid.

Anyway, to sum up what I thought of this story: I liked it. It’s a shame that the ending was a little too out-there for my liking (and I’m not talking about the aliens), because I think that this has a strong message that a lot of kids could do with hearing. I’d recommend this to anyone, even if they don’t like science fiction, because it’s one of those stories that makes you warm and fuzzy inside.

Read it at Wikisource.

Real literature! Yes, I do more than listen to speculative fiction podcasts.

I’m a little burned-out when it comes to this work. I’m in the process of finishing a paper on it, and this article is as much for me as it is for whoever wants to read it–this is just going to be a brief summary of the 2000-odd words I’ve written over the past two days.

I always find it difficult to read texts like this. In case you haven’t heard of The Conjure Woman (and the chances are substantial, to say the least), it’s a series of connected short stories, using a frame narrative structure. It’s regional fiction, or at least I think it is. It’s got that frame structure, and it’s written in the vernacular–the heart of each tale is told by Uncle Julius, a former slave. And yes, it’s written out how he would have spoken it at the time.

When I read this, and when I read Huckleberry Finn, I felt a little offended. To me, the texts feel racist. Not that strange, seeing as it’s about slavery, and the n-bomb is dropped just about every other line. However, I keep reminding myself that I’ve got to put it in context (you knew context was going to pop up, didn’t you?). At the time, the things presented in the narratives were not out of the ordinary. No one was shocked by the use of certain words or stereotypes–if anything, the ommitance of said words and stereotypes would have drawn attention. It’s similar to the antisemitism present in The Sun Also Rises: at the time, people just didn’t know better. You live, you learn, and if you’re lucky, the next generation applies the knowledge you’ve garnered.

When I started analysing the stories, I started picking up on unusual messages within the text. Well, I say unusual–Charles Chesnutt was himself the son of two free black people. He had a light skin, but he was very much aware of his heritage. It’s unlikely that he would have written racist texts.

The Conjure Woman contains many empowering messages, both on race and gender. The most obvious example of this is Uncle Julius. Every time, he manages to get his way with John and Annie, manipulating them with his stories. Well, the one he truly manipulates is Annie, but nevertheless, it gets the job done. You could ask yourself why it is he keeps on getting away with this–after all, John is only truly taken in the first time, the only time that Julius didn’t succeed in getting his own way. It could be because John patronises the former slave, tolerating his trickery because he thinks it inherently harmless. It could also be because he likes and respects the old man, and sees no point in correcting this behaviour which doesn’t really harm him, and greatly benefits his wife, who is comforted and amused by Julius’ tales.

The strongest positive message regarding gender lies in the very title, though. Each of Julius’ tales has a conjure man or woman. The conjure men are potrayed as petty and malicious, even if one does eventually realise what he has done and tries to make amends. Tenie, the conjure woman in Po’ Sandy, makes a dog’s dinner of her lover’s life, but she does so with the best intentions. Although she was acting in her own interest, she was trying to save Sandy, rather than trying to punish him, like the two conjure men did.

Aunt Peggy, the titular conjure woman, is presented as a wise and compassionate woman. She does gain from her powers, but not directly. She does not curse those who wrong her, rather, she asks for a fee when she helps others. She does not know the people she affects. She does not want to know. She is not really the one who does the harming: she merely provides the means. Morally, she is superior to the conjure men.

That is what I have on gender in The Conjure Woman, in a nutshell. I’ve also blathered on a bit about race, but my mind is already a bit frazzled, so I might post about that at a later date

Listen to it at PodCastle.

I’m all about not judging a book or story by its genre. I believe that just about any genre is capable of producing gems of storytelling, as well as unmitigated dreck. When it comes to genre, I like to think of myself as an equal rights activist.

Even I have my limits, though. When it was announced in the PodCastle intro that Magic in a Certain Slant of Light had been reprinted in Year’s Best Paranormal Romance, I felt my stomach drop and my gorge rise. For the love of all that is good in the world, no!

I used to dislike romance in general, but then I read Sense and Sensibility and Wuthering Heights. It still feels like a guilty pleasure, even though those books are canonical. It’s still romance, after all.

Anyway, I did not let the label ‘paranormal romance’ put me off this story. I braced myself, and reminded myself that every genre has potential, whether it’s high literature… or paranormal romance. I think I had to stop myself from giggling hysterically as I thought that.

Although it still certainly isn’t a genre that I particularly like, this story has shown me that yes, even paranormal romance can produce wonderful stories. Truth be told, this felt more like a high-literature piece, maybe something that a female Kurt Vonnegut without the wry humour would have written.

The protagonist knows things. She knows that someone is pregnant, even before the lucky woman herself realises it. She knows what her boss is planning, before he’s announced it. She also knows that her lover is going to leave her within a year, and she is powerless to stop it.

This story analyses the way that people deal with losing the thing that they love most. It gets a bit meta, which I thoroughly enjoyed, being the postmodern geek that I am.  Yes, the protagonist got a bit whiny, and  yes, the zeppelin thing did wear a little thin towards the end, but it was nevertheless enjoyable.

It would have been vastly more enjoyable, however, if the ending hadn’t been so… not. It wasn’t really anything. Yes, the character came to terms with the fact that, despite her science skills, she can’t control every aspect of her life. Good for her. But there was no real resolution. We’re shown how things vastly improve between her and her lover (thanks to a zeppelin), but nothing changes. He’s still going to leave. But we’re just told that and… I don’t know, it just falls a little flat. I was surprised when the PodCastle music started playing, because I was expecting another paragraph or two.

Still, it’s about the journey, not the destination. Magic in a Certain Slant of Light has vastly improved my opinion of paranormal romance as a genre. It reminded me that not everything has to be about a woman stuck in a dead-end job falling in love with a vampire and then having all kinds of wacky adventures and weird sex. This, needless to say, is a good thing.

I generally don’t buy that many horror novels. Sometimes I’ll pick something up, if it’s a name I recognise, or a title I know is a classic. The only writer who many connect with horror that I actively follow is Stephen King. (I’m one of the few people who actually prefers his newer stuff to the stuff he wrote pre-accident.)

The reason for this, is that it seems to me that a lot of horror is concerned with serial killers, psychopaths, or other people who aren’t quite right in the head. Now, they can be utterly fascinating characters when done properly, but they tend to fall a little short.

I was listening to Matt Wallace being interviewed on Tea and Chat earlier on, and he mentioned how much fun he had writing the Feral Twins. That’s a pretty brave thing to admit, considering how infinitely messed-up those two are. However, I think the having-fun-white-writing thing must work, because The Failed Cities Monologues’ resident psychopathic killers-for-hire are prime specimens of an exceedingly rare breed: psychopaths I actually enjoyed as characters.

It’s hard for me to pin down why these two work. Maybe the fact that it’s two, not one, helps. They give each other a context (aah, there I am with my context again). Together, they create their own environment, which gives Wallace’s audience a reference point. The stark contrast between the psychopaths and their surroundings is toned down, allowing us to look at the characters as actual people, rather than things that don’t belong. The actual character traits are the focus, rather than how those traits are wrong, or deviant, or sick.

Another thing that appeals to me, is the fact that they don’t pity themselves or each other. They find strength in each other, and the power that they hold over others. Yes, this is the power of life and death, and it’s a little messed up, but they don’t realise that. Either that, or they simply don’t acknowlede it. The Feral Twins do not throw pity parties. I am not annoyed by their frustration or angst, unlike the protagonist in Pseudopod’s Blood, Gridlock and Pez, by Kevin Anderson. Although the fact that the protagonist ends up as crazy as the guy who menaces him isn’t evident from the beginning of the narrative, I’m unable to sympathize with him. So your girlfriend is cheating on you, and you got threatened by a guy with an axe. Cry me a river, son.

The Feral Twins go through some awful things, but they fight back against all the problems life throws at them. They are taking their fate into their own hands, reacting to the wrongs that other people have done them in a way that isn’t exactly positive, but is at least pro-active. I could sort of get behind it, if it wasn’t for the slaughtering of people.

As characters, they have strength. They could have whole novels written about them, because they do more than simply lash out after being provoked for a long time. They are not the passive ‘oh noes look at my horrible life, I’m going to kill someone and then you’ll be sorry’ characters that seem so prevalent.

However, such ‘weak’ psychotic characters can make for interesting narratives, if handled properly. SL Bickley’s Pseudopod offering, It’s Easy To Make A Sandwich, shows us someone who slowly descends into madness, and eventually starts hurting those around him because of it. Generally, I really dislike this kind of narrative, because it has no real point, other than to showcase frustration, anger, and mental problems. These subjects can be interesting, but aren’t enough to hold my attention when they’re not backed up by something else. However, I enjoyed It’s Easy To Make A Sandwich, because of the style and the competence of the writing. I was immersed in the protagonist’s psyche. It didn’t really stick with me (I only remembered it as I was looking over the Pseudopod archives for this article; it didn’t make me nervous about having lunch at my favourite bagel place either), but I do remember being surprised at actually liking it, contrary to my expectations.

Still, that messed-up food technician doesn’t come close to Matt Wallace’s Feral Twins. But then and again, that’s not too surprising. Yes, I will devote an article to the excellent Failed Cities Monologues, but I want to do it justice. I don’t have the time to give it another listen right now, but rest assured, it will happen.