Taking Umbrage

I'm not one to take umbrage at every little thing, but when I saw this sticker on the back of a van this weekend I just about shouted out loud. It is an insult not only to the creator of Calvin, Bill Watterson, but more importantly to serious followers of Christ, who can hardly take validation from seeing a comic strip character bending before the cross.

Inspiration

Deep into sixth draft something unusual happened: the manuscript inhaled. Not in the Clintonian sense of doing something it shouldn't have, but filled its lungs and gave voice to how I should proceed. Some crucial details were missing in a scene I was working on and the manuscript told me what I should do to rectify the lack. At first hesitant to follow such advice, I overcame my reluctance and tried it out and you know what? it brought the scene together in a fresh way. Sounds weird, I know.

The earliest drafts were tough because they were a collection of disparate scenes without plot threads to connect them. Subsequent versions have brought new hurdles, the latest of which is making the text lift off the page and come to life. Plotting is done and scenes I've got by the truckload, but breathing life into the words and transforming the story into an enjoyable experience has been difficult.

Then this happens.

I had come home from work and as is typical lately, I was looking at some pages before cooking dinner. The pages did not look good. Something was missing. The section I was editing had basic features in place but... I couldn't put my finger on what the problem was. Then it happened: the page seemed to speak and describe what was needed to complete the scene. At once I sat down and started writing some rough descriptions and dialogue. Next thing I knew an hour had passed and I had a passel of notes that brought a significant new dimension to the book.

Soon after I found myself thinking of Philip K Dick.

A science fiction writer who has no equal in the 20th century, PK Dick has long been an inspiration to me. For many years I devoted myself to learning as much about the author as I could, collecting his entire catalog of 43 novels in paperback editions and bundling them away in a suitcase that I kept by my desk. He is fascinating both as artist and man. The suitcase has since then been donated to a Seattle bookseller, but his influence continues.

Phil, as he was known to friends, would routinely churn out novels quickly and efficiently. After typing out a manuscript over a benzedrine-fueled weekend, he would collapse with pneumonia. Some of these books are quite good, such as Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (the basis for Blade Runner) and Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said; others are not quite up to snuff.

The Simulacra suffers from the author making it up as he goes. Though Dick was known to do this, part of what makes his writing crackle is the headlong energy investing it with a sense that what is around the corner is a mystery to both author and reader. There is a weird sense of shared discovery that is totally unique to reading PK Dick. This sometimes gets out of control and ruins an otherwise good story. In The Simulacra there are so many twists and reversals they obviously exist for no reason than to keep things moving, and move they do -in all directions. Too much inspiration!

This came to mind the other day after I'd experienced a bout of inspiration. It is easy to be convinced that a burst of insight is sufficient cause for committing words to the page, but this conviction has risks. Though I wish an editor had seen fit to rein in PK Dick, what failed in some of his books is uncontestably great in others.

This reminds me of the musician PJ Harvey, who says that every successful song she's written has 9 bad ones preceding it. Mistakes are an unavoidable part of the process. When creating, the expedient feels no different from true substance, from the stuff that actually makes words come to life. Discovering which is which is out of creators' hands and must be determined by the audience, a hard truth to come by.

Why Flying Casual is a Bad Idea

Some days I argue with myself. The inner provocateur rails against my decision to finish a science fiction novel, castigating and berating me in a south shore New Jersey accent that contains not even an ounce of compassion. Fighting back sometimes absorbs energies that otherwise might be more productively used, but what am I supposed to do? Rope-a-dope doesn't work so well when the opponent is in your head.

Here's a recent example: What is the best way to present future history that doesn't come off like Star Trek, which is to say, so fantastical as to be irrelevant? (I'm not taking the position that Star Trek lacks relevance, per se, but that the far-flung context renders it palatable only to a narrow audience.) I go back and forth on this, wanting to lay out my grand scheme on the one hand but on the other wanting to maintain focus on characters without diverging into a wide lens view. But this is scifi, rants my nemesis, you have to create a galactic context!

It's so different to be a writer of this stuff, when most of my life has been spent as an avid fan of scifi. Rather than having the luxury of sitting back and throwing darts whenever an author does something I don't agree with, I struggle with ways to keep the audience engaged. The risk is that by going too panoramic, the novel will become an exercise in space opera. We already have Dune, the peak of the genre, and I'm not interested in presenting every historic detail of how we came to the present moment in which the novel is set; though I have created this history, every time I veer into descriptions of these events it completely derails the narrative and makes the book out to be something it is not, namely space opera.

But this is scifi! How else are we to know the story isn't unfolding contemporaneously? (My nemesis likes them big words.)

Another question is how to present the villain of the piece without revealing his badness. I want him to be a part of the story and for intimations of his malevolence to come through in small things, not to be writ large. In posing this particular problem, my inner provocateur is not only unsympathetic but devolves into mocking me with quotes of bad dialogue:

I don't know, fly casual.

This is every bit as helpful as Han Solo's advice in Return of the Jedi: not at all. In that instance, our favorite smuggler is telling his Wookiee pilot to disguise the fact that they are approaching the bad guys in a stolen space shuttle. He tells Chewy to "fly casual", which ostensibly means to blend in with all the other Imperial craft zipping around. Apparently in the Imperial Flyer's Handbook, a pilot's success is rated by how casual they are.

Though this approach is successful for Han Solo and friends, it doesn't work for writers of novels.

What I have to fall back on is my experience as a reader. Looking at effective storytelling in such books as, say, Dune, it is clear from the start who is bad. Though it seems a good idea to be tricky and lure the reader into a false sense that all is well, what truly works is the opposite. This is not just about following what has come before but in understanding that presentation of a clear protagonist assists the reader.

A friend once proposed creating a conflict-free story, in which basically nothing happens. It would be an experiment in style and push the frontier of narrative structure -but would it be storytelling? Ultimately you come up against this problem when crafting a story: it has to adhere to basic rules. By taking away conflict, you remove structure and are left with writing that is experimental, yes, but better relegated to a notebook. My nemesis would like nothing better than to keep me at that level, and in fact for many years has succeeded in doing so.

To "fly casual" is to write what I want and eschew standards of good storytelling, a method I've followed for a long time. Funny how I never used to have these arguments in those days, things were simpler then!

Remembering the Fallen: Tiananmen Square June 4, 1989

YESTERDAY



TODAY

Bildungsroman

The five volumes of Doris Lessing's Children of Violence follow a protagonist over the course of her life. At the start we meet Martha Quest in her youth and over the course of the books see her develop well into adulthood, the entire work hung together by the consciousness of the heroine. This is a revolutionary work. Lessing has broken through the boundaries of the traditional Bildungsroman form, extending the central character's journey well beyond what has come before.

What, you may ask, is a bildungsroman? It denotes a work of self-development, a fictional tale along the lines of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations wherein we follow along as the central character grows and develops within the context of a defined social order. It can be described as a quest tale the object of which is to find meaningful existence within society. Typically such a tale is limited to a single novel; what's more, coming into the twentieth century it applied exclusively to male protagonists.

Lessing has done more than change the gender of the hero. She has also made the development of the heroine's self contingent on relation to the greater collective. Whereas the dominant motif of the bildungsroman has been that by the novel's end social values become manifest in the individual, Lessing leaves the question open; an undetermined future remains open to Martha Quest whereby she will continue to pursue education and experience.

Beyond Doris Lessing's invaluable contribution to novel forms, there is more to the "female" bildungsroman yet to explore. Circularity, according to Helen Paloge, is foundational to the evolution of the form, "cyclical" time characterized by non-linear events. What is not remembered from the protagonist's past, and how is memory manipulated to create the sense of a fresh start? Events are revised as they are repeated, thus laminating the self over history. Without incorporating these new features to the form, a bildungsroman is doomed to being chained to the dusty past.

The Manuscript

The manuscript is in a good place. It has come together in the latest draft and my efforts now are focused on polishing up dialogue and chapter transitions. It doesn't help to have a scattered approach, an hour each morning before I start work and evening editing sessions when there are no other obligations -considering the state of my social existence, there is rare competition for evenings. Nevertheless, progress is at an excruciating, glacial pace, which thanks to practical concerns cannot be helped.

What I've noticed happening is a shift in focus. Whereas in prior drafts I worried over plot developments, now that the story requirements are established I am using my ears to find proper rhythms for the story to unfold. If this sounds more like musical than literary composition, perhaps that is the best analogy. An unpublished author can settle for plodding movements on the page. These are less demanding on the reader and service the plot in necessary fashion, allowing it to unfold logically if not musically. I avoided doing this is in earlier drafts, to my detriment. As an insightful reader so aptly put it, I was too "precious" about my words. I've learned to let go of phrases I find clever, because they are obvious to the canny reader and all but obliterate the rhythms that allow someone to settle in and enjoy a story. By letting go, I was able to complete a draft and be totally miserable with it -which is not as easy as it might seem!

Being miserable with a creative effort is part of the process. I've had to put aside preconceptions of existing in some kind of blissed-out, creative zone when writing. Sessions like that produce a usable line or two, at best, and if I expect more (as I all too often have) the natural result of looking at what I've written is a screaming depression. By allowing part of the process to be harsh criticism of your own work, this actually enables forward movement far better than anything else. Mistakes provide richer fuel than success.

UP!

Saw Up this weekend and enjoyed it more than anything else I've seen this year, with the notable exception of Coraline. Heart-warming and -wrenching by equal turns, I laughed, I cried, I laughed again, all the while amazed that Pixar has yet again outdone itself. The Incredibles and Toy Story leap to mind as representing what Pixar does so well, marrying great story with awe-inspiring imagery to create films that stay with you well after you've left the theatre. Up deserves to be ranked with their best.

Homogeneous Science Fiction

The most original retrofit to Star Trek in the new film is a sidekick for Scotty. This igneous-headed, onyx-eyed dwarf serves some purpose, I'm sure, purloining cask malt whisky perhaps. Lacking any clear function beyond being so ugly it's cute, the little guy has become my poster alien for what is wrong with the movie: the creative minds rebooting this classic science fiction series have done everything they can to make Star Trek so much like other action-adventures in space that it is nearly indistinguishable. Misunderstood young hero with a destiny to fulfill? Claustrophobic fisticuffs, zany pratfalls, menacing CGI-beasts and epic explosions in space? All of these and much more can be enjoyed at a theatre near you.

Don't misunderstand: we're talking about a very entertaining couple of hours, made even moreso at an IMAX cinedome. This is a spectacular adventure. When you emerge, it might trouble your thoughts a moment to remember what the movie was -Star What? It not only shares several tropes with Star Wars but piques crowds not necessarily inclined toward scifi with hyper-action that owes more to the Bourne Identity series than any other.
Let's talk about what has made Star Trek work in the past. Do you know anyone that doesn't hold Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan as the peak achievement of the series? This is assuming, of course, that you know people who care that much about Star Trek. What makes it stick? Literate script and a memorable villain are two qualities that leap to mind. Jump ahead and consider the villain of Star Trek (which is not numbered or sub-headed), a Romulan with a huge grudge who meets his fate gaping at a flash of light. Really? Compare this with Khan, who dies creating a new planet and quoting Melville. Then again, don't bother -because there is no comparison.

I don't mean to compare Star Trek with older episodes so much as hold it up to scifi greats in general. The second Star Trek film (I'm weird and prefer the first) holds up to, say, the second Star Wars film, The Empire Strikes Back, which is arguably one of the finest scifi films there is; it isn't laughed off the screen if 2001 or Blade Runner are mentioned, and not merely because it has a great villain. It has substance and leaves us with something more. What Star Trek leaves me with is a homogeneized afterglow indistinguishable from many other action-oriented movies I've seen in the last few years. Don't hate me if I'm looking for something more!

The basis of science fiction is to explore unknown territory rather than repeat what has come before or strive to resemble other presentations of familiar narratives. The best example of this is Dune. It's space opera, yes; it's a recycled messiah myth, yes; it's a philosophic tractate on the nature of reality... well, yes, and isn't that all at once wonderful and strange? It breaches the limits of our expectations and takes us where we never imagined we could ever go. This to me is the essence of what makes great science fiction, which more than any other genre has the potential to show new ways of thinking, feeling, and experiencing what is beautiful about life.

I was entertained by Star Trek, and for a popcorn matinee that is sufficient. For science fiction it is retrograde in more than its recreation of what came before; that it strives mightily to be another blockbuster entertainment and fails to astonish or take any chances at all is what disappoints. We need more than a rock-noggined sidekick to tell this one apart, but sadly that's all we get.

2010: The Meaning of Caprica

58 Years Before the Fall.

These are the first words you see when Caprica begins, and from the opening frame there is a clock ticking. Instantly we are plunged into a raging dancehall, where a myriad of decadent behaviors are openly displayed, from rapine to murder and culminating in human sacrifice. Before long we see that all of it is illusion, unfolding behind the eyes of a young girl, a virtual reality that she can access electronically. And why not? All the Caprica kids are doing it.

Zoe Graystone is the daughter of Caprica's leading industrialist and a devout follower of the One True God. This is tantamount to heresy on Caprica, where the pantheon of Kobol Lords are integrated into all aspects of life; to deviate from belief in them is to invite sanction and societal rejection. How this dovetails with her virtual existence at the V-Club is the jumping off point for a story that grows to impact all levels of civil society on the planet.

Her father, Daniel Graystone, is a tech genius in the class of Wozniak and Jobs. He is developing a CYbernetic LifefOrm Node -an acronym that will be revealed in all its clunkiness as CYLONs. Things are not going well in honing these robots for the military, and to make matters worse, Graystone is competing with a Caprican version of the mafia for a vital processor. His ambition will intersect with his daughter's spirituality in startling ways and lay the groundwork for what could be a fantastic new television series.

This is a small part of what is presented in the pilot for Caprica. Rather than risk saying more, I'll leave you with the preview and say that here is something worthy of the Battlestar Galactica legacy.

What is the fall? Beyond the reference to the Christian fall of humanity, the implications are that it is total and profound. Watchers of Battlestar Galactica will have an idea of what the fall represents, but Caprica is not relying on knowledge of the show to appreciate the questions it raises. Viewers new and old will find something to fascinate them in 2010, when the series is scheduled to air.

Two Hundredth

To mark this, our two hundredth year at zeitheist, with proper panache and pomp, there is going to be a subtle shift in tone. While I'll continue posting about entertainments that catch my eye -I'm excited to see Moon and my next post will be a review of the BSG-spinoff Caprica- there will be a greater focus on work I'm doing to get my novel published. Thus far I've limited references to it, playing the protective papa to a still-burgeoning child. Now that it is further along and ready to be shopped to agents, I want to share the experience and maybe learn something along the way about how to do it better next time -in the eternal words of HoJo, "Things can only get better!"

Speaking of entertainment, I've been honored to have correspondences with the creator of what was one of my favorite comic strips at The Stranger, a Seattle weekly paper. As "Smell of Steve Inc.", Brian Sendelbach amused and inspired me on a regular basis back in the early part of this decade. He has put up his quill and entered the publishing game, doing his damnedest to crack that toughest of nuts: children's book publishing! Since this is the kind of trouble I am seeking to bring into my own life, albeit in non-children's books, I thought it only appropriate to share a column he wrote about his (thus far) frustrated attempts at getting published. Read about it here... and then come back and gaze some more at Bougle Gluce (pictured).

Green Lantern film update

Soundtrack provided by Men at Work. Read about it here.

Will GL exhibit a newfound love of vegemite? It's what all the space cops with power rings are eating these days.

Sleep Dealer

Intriguing science fiction film from Mexico:

2009: The Meaning of Greatness (Part Two)

Cylons were created by humanity. They evolved and developed a plan. What was this plan? Even now with the series finished, this question has not been answered completely. A sexy cylon in Baltar's head seduces him with hints at what the plan entails, implying that humans have strayed from belief in the One True God. Through apocalyptic measures, created wishes to put creator back on the path of righteousness... if any are left by the time they are done.

President Roslin is on a mystic journey when we first meet her, concluding that pragmatism wins over spiritual promise. She retains awe and wonder in the face of an inscrutable cosmos, but without the visionary aspect. Arguably she passes from one pagan philosophy to another. There is a clear connection between her and the cylons, the nature of which is undefined -have the cylons failed? A strong woman of conviction is no less convicted when we last see her. What exactly it is that commands her spirit is left open to interpretation, never definitely rooted in the One True God cylons espouse; in this respect, she is a failed experiment and human, all too human.

Gaius Baltar undergoes a very different transformation. He is convinced of God's perfection and beauty, proclaiming it to all and sundry. Knowing what we do about his character, the depth of his conversion remains unanswered. Without question he comes to his prophetic hysteria having endured experiences devastating to lesser folk, and provides the series' dynamic of how we come to recognize what it is we truly believe.

Is Baltar a cylon success story? He is like Paul of Tarsus, born a persecutor and reborn in fire, blindness and long wandering to become God's man.

All of this to say, Battlestar Galactica undertakes a great storytelling challenge: to tell of spiritual renewal without lapsing into cliche and preordained outcomes. As the series progresses, it is never certain where Roslin or Baltar will end up. When we see them at the end, it is a marvel. How amazing, too, that it unfolds within the trappings of a science fiction television show.

Moon Trailer

Watch this and tell me you aren't jazzed to see Moon:

Because Screaming Lady Says So

Film lovers, there are fresh posts at 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die.

2009: The Meaning of Greatness (Part One)

It was a surprise to learn that cylons believe in God. Not the gods humans worship, but the One True God. At the time period during which Battlestar Galactica is set, humans thrive on the planet Caprica and devotedly worship a pantheon, the Lords of Kobol. After the planet is razed by nuclear attack and survivors flee in a rag-tag fleet, everything they believe is thrown into disarray, just as the cylons planned it...

On Caprica Laura Roslin was Secretary of Education. In the aftermath, she is ranking survivor and named President. A woman of deep conviction and faith, she accepts the position hesitantly and soon proves to have the necessary fiber to lead. Her faith is in the Lords of Kobol, which puts her at odds with the cylon mission. Her nemesis? Gaius Baltar.

Baltar is the great traitor of his race. He gave up the planetary defense codes that let cylon bombs fall. In his head is a sexy cylon who preaches the gospel of the One True God. Wittingly or not, this puts him in direct conflict with the President. She works toward a better day for all, while Baltar, flawed savant and slicker than slick, craves one more night with his cylon lover.

As Roslin becomes increasingly obsessed with prophecy that will lead humanity to a new homeworld, she begins to exhibit mystic behavior that is not far removed from madness. It doesn't help that she is battling breast cancer; her meds are warping her mind. Could the Lords of Kobol be false? As the first season progresses, the question persists and the cylon's siren song in Baltar's head starts to sound more alluring...

Next: God's plan is never complete, but sure makes for great science fiction

Sacred Vectorfunk

In this week leading up to Easter, I've been on the peep for sacred expression. Matt W Moore's "Sacred Vectorfunk" puts me in the right kind of reflective mood, brilliantly espousing mystery and essence.

Check out more of his work here.

Daily Glitter

I think of Twitter as litter. The strobing updates are like flotsam cluttering up the web and one day soon I won't be surprised if we see adverts floating across our screens in like fashion. It's already happened on tv. During the Super Bowl, that bellwether of advanced promotion, we saw a split-second beer ad:
Could this be advertising's next big thing? I liken it to Twitter, which as far as next big things go has arrived and overstayed its welcome.

Litter. Pieces of forgotten things drifting in and out of view. Almost as soon as an update hits the screen, it is as quickly forgotten.

The closest I come to participating is on my gmail chat box, which I have come to think as "glitter", a cachinateun that follows the example of latching the letter "g" to the front of a noun -see the Uncyclopedia for numerous frivolous examples.

Moon

Hot off the griddle: a new SF film starring one of my favorite actors, Sam Rockwell! I know next to nothing about Moon, other than that its director is David Bowie's son and the premise is man (Rockwell) stranded on moon. My friend Jeffrey Overstreet, who's seen a preview screening, says it is the next milestone in SF cinema.

Check out the lovely poster and read tidbits here.

1978: The Meaning of Feldercarb

I was a child when Battlestar Galactica premiered in the fall of 1978. It was my favorite thing to watch and set lasting precedents for the type of science fiction I enjoy now.

To love as a child is glorious; the object of such uncritical devotion is observed without pause from eye to heart, blooming into the brain's deepest chambers with lasting effect. What are the chances that something so beloved is translated into maturity? Certainly Battlestar Galactica-as-was has lost a great deal in translation and is indeed a painful thing to view decades later. Which makes it all the more incredible that the re-imagined version that premiered in 2003 is such a treat; it goes entirely against expectations by taking the germ of what gave the old show such staying power and transforming it into the fine television series that finished its run last week.

The basic premise remains: a ragtag fleet of holocaust survivors fleeing into the universe in search of a new home, the planet called... Earth. The survivors, as one might easily imagine, are a mouthy lot. They don't hesitate to use colorful language. This aspect of the show has carried over into the updated version and there is no lack of futuristic euphemisms when tensions run high. "Frak" and "gods dammit" are the two most heard; what is not heard very often is "feldercarb".

Feldercarb is a word meant to describe situations that are unfair or undeserved to the person uttering it. According to Urban Dictionary, it should be associated with what can politely be described in contemporary speak as "bullpucky". While frak seems to be find sympathy among viewers, feldercarb is hardly if ever mentioned, on- or offscreen. And why should it be, when the locutive effort required nowhere near matches the impact of bullpucky.

Next: Setting the standard for 21st century science fiction!