As I noted in my last post, I’m trying to move past oversharing on a personal level, and hoping to focus instead on the professional. I know it’s not healthy to be so overwhelmed by simple questions like “How are you?” that catching up with most people becomes a dread-filled exercise, but–right now it is, and so it goes. Many months of feeling trapped in conversations about my failure have taken their toll, and I’d just like to focus on the work to come.
To this end, tomorrow I hope to distribute the last of the thank-you letters I owe to people who helped tremendously with my teaching work this past term. With any luck, I can then focus on sending long-overdue notes to others who have reached out and been met with silence over these past few months, but–one thing at a time.
After tomorrow, it’s on to prepping for a condensed course, Intro to Science Fiction, that I will be teaching at a different institution in May. I have quite a bit of work to do this week to get the course ready, but I am looking forward to a body of meaningful conversations about the genre with a highly practicality-oriented cohort of college students.
On the writing front, the sudden emergence of this course meant giving up on finishing the novel by the end of April. This was a bit deflating, because the novel was supposed to be my transition project–a way of restoring confidence in the wake of last year’s failure–and I’d originally booked a 10-day window off all work (now rescinded) to revise it for submission in mid-May. Now I won’t be able to touch the draft in any meaningful way again until June 1, because between my two main jobs in May, I only have one day off. Nevertheless, my main concern here is not burning myself out, the way I did while juggling PhD work amid two to three jobs for three years. So, life goes on, and I can try to finish the novel again soon enough.
In the meantime, if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to squeeze out a story submission in the next few weeks, but mostly I have non-fiction projects on hand: two book reviews due in early May, one article I hope to send out April 30, and a host of freelance editing to support a local writer I’m honoured to be assisting in the production of their first book of poetry.
For most of May, though, I expect I’ll have quite a bit of evening marking and lecture prep for this condensed course. And that’s okay. There are worse things for a sci-fi writer to be doing than reviewing their genre and contemplating its next directions for a while.
In June, Rich Horton’s Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 2017 will be published, containing one of my novelettes from Analog; and in July, Gardner Dozois’s The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Thirty-Fourth Annual Collection hits the stands with my last Clarkesworld story. I’m not sure when my next Analog story comes out, but these two reprints and that new work are it for now. It’s… a strange feeling, not having anything substantial in queue (or even written) on the short-story front, but there was a logic to my choice in January to focus on the novel instead.
June will arrive in due course–and with it, a fresh chance to finish the novel, start work on a new collaborative creative venture, and return to short-story-writing practice.
For now, though, I am in the middle of a significant energy deficit (i.e. work tasks these last two weeks all took far longer than they should have; I feel like I’m treading water in molasses these days), and between the aforementioned projects, I don’t see that I will have much time for anything else. But–so it goes sometimes. My original plan for May had been a slow, calm withdrawal from one professional field into another–but now that my trajectory’s changed, I am simply trying to be present in my circumstances, and to see where this new current takes me.
I also remain hopeful, though, that amid my new responsibilities I can still do a better job promoting other people’s creative excellence. With this in mind, wherever your own artistic projects and lives might take you in the coming weeks, I wish you all every success.
On Thursday I received an email from an SF&F giant of my youth: a name I know from twenty years of Asimov‘s mastheads and the editorial line of major SF anthologies. When I was just a wee sprog testing the waters, his anthology introductions guided my sense of how SF&F was growing as a discipline. I still can’t quite wrap my head around the simple fact that Gardner R. Dozois sent me a line!–because I’m still marvelling at how effortless it is to connect today with people who framed my literary imagination for years. We live in the future indeed.
Then there’s the practical side of things, too:
Today I send out my contract for “A Tower for the Coming World,” just published in Clarkesworld‘s December 2016 issue, to appear again in Gardner Dozois’ The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Thirty-Fourth Annual Collection.
I only published two stories this year, due in large part to pouring far too much energy into a doomed dissertation draft. However, the other story, a novelette called “Seven Ways of Looking at the Sun-Worshippers of Yul-Katan” (Analog, April 2016), was also picked up for reprint, in Rich Horton’s Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 2016.
Two stories, two forthcoming reprints in Year’s Best anthologies.
To say that I’m honoured and privileged would be an understatement.
As of late, I’ve been feeling overwhelmed by three paying jobs, and writing time has been scarce as a result. But I haven’t forgotten how keenly I want to produce work that can respond to the needs of our changing world, and which will champion and elevate others doing even more extraordinary work to that same end.
These latest, doubled honours–the first publication of each story, and the impending reprints of both–leave me feeling even more serious, and calm, and focussed, about the work to come.
I have been very, very lucky.
Now it’s my responsibility to make good use of that luck in turn.
Wherever the end of 2016 finds you–and whatever your own goals for the writing year to come–I wish you every success. More importantly, though: if and when you achieve it, I hope that you’ll always be in the position to pay it forward. I’m certainly going to try my best to do so now.
I cleared this blog a few weeks ago, when I realized I needed to reflect long and hard on who I am and who I want to be.
The 2016 US Presidential Election has answered some of those questions in ways that do not invite further hesitation or doubt.
When I was in undergrad, I came across Margaret Atwood’s “The Writer’s Responsibility.” It was the first time I saw an acknowledgment of Canadian literature’s awkward position in the world. I got chills reading that
[w]e live in a society in which the main consensus seems to be that the artist’s duty is to entertain and divert, nothing more. Occasionally our critics get a little heavy and start talking about the human condition, but on the whole the audience prefers art not to be a mirror held up to life but a Disneyland of the soul, containing Romanceland, Spyland, Pornoland, and all the other Escapelands which are so much more agreeable than the complex truth. … We are good at measuring an author’s production in terms of his craft. We are not good at analyzing it in terms of his politics, and by and larger we do not do so.
And later, that
Oppression involves a failure of the imagination: the failure to imagine the full humanity of other human beings. If the imagination were a negligible thing and the act of writing a mere frill, as many in this society would like to believe, regimes all over the world would not be at such pains to exterminate them.
These words gave license to my preference for European literature over North American literature. My favourite writers were people who treated fiction as just one piece of a broader, more urgent social conversation, carried out in equal part by works of philosophy, political discourse, contemporary journalism, and dialogue within the streets. I wanted to write like these seemingly effortless internationalists, but how?
It would be years before I realized that Atwood’s essay closed doors even as it opened them. For all that her words ennoble the writer’s profession, they do so in a fashion that simultaneously limits our understanding of fellow human beings. Thus she writes that
[w]e in this country should use our privileged position not as a shelter from the world’s realities but as a platform from which to speak. Many are denied their voices; we are not. A voice is a gift; it should be cherished and used, to utter fully human speech if possible.
Now, Atwood is certainly not to the first to express such sentiments; the concept is right out of Proverbs 31:8, “Open thy mouth for the dumb.” But damned if this presumption of voicelessness doesn’t construct a universe in which some are “gifted” with voice and some are “silent.” How easy it then becomes to speak over the voices that absolutely do exist in even the most oppressive global circumstances–and further, to assume that just because we haven’t heard X’s story before, it must be because of X’s silence, which thankfully we’re now here to rectify.
During the 2016 US Presidential Election, many voices arose within marginalized groups. Whole discourses about the state of North America’s social contract rose and fell within communities of (among others) Black Americans, Hispanic Americans, Native Americans, persons with disabilities, queer persons, female/feminized persons, Muslim Americans, recent and X-generational immigrants, the working poor, and trauma survivors.
On November 8, these voices were not silenced. They were simply (and devastatingly) not reflected by the power structure voted into office. These voices continue–even now–to march in the streets; to mobilize on social media and in local communities; to speak out.
So what do we really mean when we think about “giving voice” as writers?
Atwood’s “platform” analogy poses an answer by inferring–but only inferring–the existence of an audience. And yet, this is really the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Whose ear are we desperately hoping to reach? To whom do Canadian writers speak?
If it is to the world, then we find ourselves in the uncomfortable position of speaking other people’s experiences at them, and from a place of greater security. If it is to ourselves, though–to awaken ourselves to the world and its needs–then the question becomes: Why aren’t we all in the audience, listening and learning? And are there options, as Canadian storytellers, above and beyond taking turns listening to each other narrate the world?
Of course there are.
And the onus lies on writers and educators alike to employ them.
Simply put: It does not suffice to write characters who are “fully human” unto themselves. This is a basic condition of writing competently–whether the characters in question come from communities down the street from the author, or halfway across the globe.
What we need are stories that bring whole other discourses along with our “fully human” characters from other contexts, other worlds, other already vocal communities.
We need to write characters who are plainly products of and ongoing participants in their own literatures–and we need to be aware of, and include, those other literatures, those other dialogues, when we attempt to assemble other people’s worlds whole-cloth.
We need to convey that our role is not to write other people’s stories, not to use the platform of the written word to aggrandize ourselves through the invention of other voices, but to create higher vantage points from which to identify other platforms, other audiences already engaged in their own, immense narrative streams.
It is not enough to awaken the reader to the existence of other human beings and their struggles. It is also a necessary condition of the work–now, as always–to foreground that other human beings had voices of their own long before we came around, and that good literature is a matter of truly listening to, not speaking for, the world on whole.
Our job is to leave readers with a greater awareness of the existence of other platforms, and with our own writing to direct these readers more fearlessly towards them.
And that may take some time. Other ways of thinking, and being, and persevering, will not come easily. We will try–whether we mean to or not, in keeping with the natural cadence of our work–to synthesize, compartmentalize, and otherwise “resolve” dissonant voices within the confines of our own traditions, our native vocal preferences.
Nevertheless, we must write in ways that open doors to whole other ongoing and longstanding conversations, and we must speak about our writing process in these ways, too: with explicit reference to others doing similar work already. Our inspirations. Our ongoing reading list. Our well-springs of vital information about the world.
We cannot signal-boost enough in the coming days, and weeks, and years. There are too many people, at home and abroad, for whom the maintenance of a full and equal humanity under the law relies on people in positions of greater social power paying attention to the many voices who’ve been speaking out all along.
But oh, can we try.
And we will.