How to Emerge, Violently

Neal Stephenson wrote a book called Anathem. You can buy it from Amazon or you can read about it on Wikipedia. I really enjoyed it, because it’s dense and full of interesting ideas and wonderful writing. Stephenson is a master of science fiction, and like all good writers in any genre, his craft surpasses it.

The bits about Anathem that matter to what I’m writing are these:

- it takes place on a world a lot like Earth but it’s not exactly earth and it evolved completely separately from our planet (which is to say, it’s not a long-lost colony in the future)

- the larger culture has the run of the place. They’re a lot like our worst vices – obsessed with television, movies, fantasy, escapism, money, sports, competition. Their world is called “extramuros” by the other group of people on the planet, who call themselves the “mathic.”

- there are a bunch of little colonies called “concents,” that are like a combination of cloistered monastery and university. The people in them are like monks who have only their clothes as their possessions. Their chief features are 1) they are largely self-sufficient 2) they have very limited contact with the outside world.

This contact is restricted depending on what kind of avout you are – the “unarians” open their gate to the outside world once a year. The “decenarians” open their gate to the extramuros world (and to the other avouts) every ten years, every hundred years for the “centenarians” and every thousand years to the “millenarians.” These groups mostly recruit from the newly-born and lower maths. This is to say, the Millenarians are only seen every thousand years, so most avout never see one! And because they have so much time for self-reflection and really detailed, slow, long-view studies that they’re said to have amazing, secret powers.

Well, there are all different kinds of “concents” (it’s a kind of convent, see?). Some of them even have legends about each other. One of those legendary concents is the Ringing Vale concent, known for their apparent study of “vale lore,” or martial arts.

So get this – these guys have been studying martial arts for thousands of years, mostly uninterrupted and with very little polluting contact with the fly-by-night saecular world. They don’t have a huge role in the book but it’s pivotal.

One of their central concepts is the idea of an “emergence.” The main character who hears the word spoken in context thinks the Ringing Vale avout means “emergency,” but she explains it further.

See, in the confines of a concent, you can’t really test martial arts. Sure, you can throw each other around and maybe do some hardcore sparring, but in the end it’s still nothing like real combat.

So, when some of these guys go out into the real world (which, again, is rare), they consider opportunities to test their knowledge in real-world circumstances as an emergence. It’s when they find their purpose in life – an emergence is like a hadj, a pilgrimage.

When it happens in the book, a small group of Valers (as they’re called) turn back an entire riot, in the kind of crunching, surgical, kinetic fight scene that few writers can do and Neal Stephenson can always do.

It makes me think of my own moments of emergence, and how those are what we work for.

Stay tuned for further reflection.

Go Ahead and Leave Comments, If You Want To

I’ve decided to bow to the interminable public pressure and finally allow comments on the Info-Matic section of my blog. I don’t like the sight of 0 comments all over my blog (it makes me feel lonely and irrelevant), so I didn’t have them before. But after a year of blogging at this domain, my traffic is always going to be what it is, and there’s no point in stifling the public discourse because of my little insecurities.

Therefore, comments are back on.

Blogs You’re Not Reading But Should Be

If there is a genetic component to verbal skill, it’s a dominant gene in my family. Even though my sister has pursued the laudable path of reason and logic, she’s the best writer that WVU’s psychology department has ever seen. I’m easily the worst writer in my family, which says all you need to know.

I have four brothers, but only one of them is as active online as I am. His blog is funny and full of insight, much like David himself. It’s mostly about his family, which David is also. An excerpt that caught my fancy:

In discussions in the car after the film, we agreed that the theme of Jumper is that cool people need to kill the religious people that are trying to kill them first because cool people have the right to be cool, even if they routinely violate the laws of physics and time-space in compleete disregard to the will of God.

His wife is Arwen, who immediately ingratiated herself to me by being named after a character in my favorite book. Since being born and named, she has started a blog about one of my other favorite things: food. Although recent recipes came from the Food Network, Winnie is someone wholly more authentic than anybody on the Food Network, which naturally means she’s pretty much way more awesome than anybody on the Food Network. I am loath to reduce my darling Nigella below anybody, but I’ve never eaten Nigella’s cooking. I’ve eaten Winnie’s cooking, and it wins.

I wish my brother Rob had a blog, but he doesn’t. Get on that, Rob. I know he’s reading, though, because he linked to me from his class’s blog. He also says in his comments that he often disagrees with what’s written in this space, but I think he mostly just means the political stuff. In matters that matter more, we agree. For instance, something that is funny to one of us is funny to the other one. This is always true. For instance, I know Rob will laugh at this:

His Dark Materials: A Review

I am hesitant to spoil the series, but I will do so in order to more fully be able to speak about it. Beware those spoilers, because they’re going to be big ones.

Lyra is a young, preadolescent girl. Her soul exists outside her body. It has a will and a mind and a name of its own, but it’s still her soul. It can take on the shape of any animal, and it can talk.

Everybody in her world has one of these animal companions, called a daemon. Childrens’ daemons have no set shape, and can change form at will. Adults’ daemons have a set animal shape that in some way illustrates or reflects the owner’s personality. It is considered unspeakably taboo to touch another person’s daemon. This becomes obvious later in the series.

Kids and daemons alike have no idea when or how their daemons will pick a shape and stay with it – Lyra and her daemon, Pan, just assume that he’ll pick one when he feels like it.

But very late in the very last book, we learn how and why and when a daemon picks its final form – it is touched by the owner’s first lover. This is why it’s taboo to touch another person’s daemon, because the act of doing so is highly sexual in nature. Instead of shaking hands with a man you meet, it would be like sticking your fingers in his mouth.

This is the central point around which the book pivots, and there are hints to this throughout, finally coming to fruition when the main character, Lyra, fulfills her destiny and becomes a second Eve – bringing about the “fall” by having sex and falling in love. Through this, she saves the mutliverse.

But not quite. To really save the whole universe and the free will of humans and the creativity and sentience of our entire species on every world and in every universe, she and her first and greatest love can never be together. They get a few days together, but that’s all – they have to split up and live in separate universes, never again able to communicate.

His Dark Materials is about growing up. Growing up is about falling in love, but it’s also about having your heart broken. Being an adult is simultaneously reveling in the bright brilliance of life’s greatest joys while accepting that every one of them is finite, and that things end. Life and death, joy and sadness, all that stuff.

I’ve read a lot of books about growing up and coming of age, and I’ve even written a few stories about it, but few writers have captured it as well as Pullman has.

I’m not just saying that because he’s an atheist, either, or because he’s written an atheist answer to The Chronicles of Narnia. He’s also written a literate answer to The Chronicles of Narnia, and an educated one, and a clever one.

A Story Without A Home

What does one do with 10,000 word story about Noah’s ark?

That’s what I’ve got. I’ve serialized some of it here before, but now I think it’s largely finished. One more run-through of the red pen should be enough.

But then what?

Although the story is Biblical, it isn’t what you’d call a religious story. I always had major philosophical issues with that God fella, and the idea that we, as human beings, should honor him by, say, killing our children if He asks us to do it. I believe in free will, and I agree with Philip Pullman that Lucifer is only heroic for questioning the authority of the Authority.

This philosophy is reflected in the story, so religious publications are right out.

It’s not science fiction at all, but it is a kind of fantasy. It exists in that weird pre-historical era of Noah’s, a period of time that is (obviously) lost to historians and can consist of any cultures or characters of which I can conceive.

It has angels in it, too. Actually, it has a lot of angels in it.

Is that enough to qualify it as fantasy?

But anyway, it’s long. It’s probably a little too long to publish. I have a kind of problem with the lengths of stories I write. It takes a certain amount of space in which to write the story I’m trying to tell, and I have trouble tearing the stories down into more manageable portions. 10,000 words is about 35 pages. That’s a lot to read. If you’re not digging the formalized voice or the teenaged narrator or the angels in the architecture, you’re not going to want to read all 10,000 words of it.

I’m stumped.

Is it even worth it? Ask me later.

I’m working on a story right now about a homeless man, and I feel like I’m not exactly qualified to write a story from the point of view of a homeless guy, which is making it very difficult to write. I suppose I could write something here about how the writer’s worst critic is himself, but that would seem derivative, uncreative and lame, which would just discourage me even more.

I’m in that narrow, craggy valley of auto-agony that typifies about 1/4 of my creative life. Just a few weeks ago, I was climbing summits! Now, I’m seeing how high they are and wondering if they’re even worth it.

I’ve got that story about the homeless guy that is probably a few hours away from being finished, and a whole range full of bubbling, back-burner stories that are even closer to completion.

I stare at them, daring them to boil over.

A Lot of Words, Gone Forever

I had a few breakthroughs. My novel was chugging along at a wonderful clip. I was happy with where it was going.

Also, I religiously back up my important files.

It was such a simple procedure – synchronize two folders; one folder is on my iMac, one is on my Macbook. The newest folders get priority – overwrite the old versions with the new versions.

Well, I had to move the iMac version to a backup drive while I reinstalled the operating system. I moved the folder back to where it was.

Tonight, the synchronization program ran, and thought that the iMac version was the new one. It wasn’t. I had written about 10,000 brand new words on my Macbook.

If I had had one preference checked off, it would have let me recover the deletion. I didn’t have that preference checked off.

All that work, at least four chapters, gone. There’s no way to recover it.

I don’t cry very often. At least one whole weekend’s worth is totally, irrevocably gone.

Ok. Time to get my head on straight about this.

I had changed direction. Most of the stuff I lost wasn’t very good anyway. The second version is always better than the first. Most of what I had typed out was already hand-written in a moleskine, so that stuff is still accessible, if not refined.

I’ll have to write it again, but at least this time I know where it’s going, and where I need it to end.

I’ll have to write it again, but this time it will be better.

Right? Oh fucking christ, I’m an ass.

Maybe I Shouldn’t Try To Write Today

Actual text:

My first thought of the morning was that Kyle had put a turd in the microwave. I went back to bed.

Later that same morning, I went back to the kitchen. I made a pot of coffee. I opened the microwave door and stared at crinkled, black log. I must have stood there for five minutes, wondering how I should dispose of it.

I unplugged it, wrapped the cord around it, kicked open Kyle’s door and dropped it into the bed next to him. He unpeeled his eyelids with great effort, his eyes rolled back into his head and he threw up on the microwave.

I drank my coffee and played a round of Super Smash Brothers.

Kyle woke up, finally. He stumbled into the kitchen and poured some coffee for himself, and then sat down on the ratty couch next to me.

“You stink,” I said.
“Fuck you,” he said.

We sat for a while without saying anything. I was playing as Mario and I got thrown off the platform for the last time. Game over. He snorted and laughed a little under his breath.

“What’s your problem?”
“You put the microwave in my bed, asshole.”
“You put a fucking turd in the microwave, dipshit.”
“I did? I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“Are you sure you don’t remember?”
“Positive. I don’t remember.”
“Absolutel
OH JESUS FUCK THIS IS AWFUL

Why Harry Potter Isn’t All That Awesome

I’m reading the new Harry Potter book. ((in case you somehow don’t know what that is, you can see it or whatever at Amazon.com)).

I sat at my mother’s then-annual July 4th backyard party, talking to some of our neighbors. One of them, Mrs. Miller, was a science fiction and fantasy fan, someone with whom I could compare my own reading history and find many overlaps. She asked if I had read the three Harry Potter books that had been released up to that point, and while I was peripherally aware of them, I told her I hadn’t. She demanded that I do so, and even fetched them from her house for me that very evening.

As many do, I devoured them.

You don’t read the Harry Potter books. You burn through them as quickly as possible. You go from revelation to revelation, from event to event. You don’t stop to savor the writing. There isn’t much craft to Rowling’s work – it’s workmanlike prose, only giving the reader enough to absorb the information. It doesn’t stun you with eyeball kicks or well-crafted sentences. The Harry Potter books are delivery mechanisms for stuff about Harry Potter, as mechanical and functional as a catapult. She loads up the basket and launches it. We don’t stop to admire the filigree on the crossbars.

I don’t think it’s such a great thing that everybody’s reading something, because these books are, in many cases, the only things they read. They don’t branch out into similar narratives like Garth Nix’s Abhorsen trilogy ((read about it at Wikipedia)), for instance. They don’t see Harry Potter as the first exposure to a whole library full of books they might like better – Potter is the beginning and the end.

So no, I don’t celebrate Harry Potter as the prodigal child of literature, exposing a generation of kids to the wonderful benefits of the written word. For many people, the release of a new Harry Potter book is the only reason they will ever have for stepping one foot into a book store.

That’s fine. I don’t begrudge people their pastimes. I won’t criticize people for not reading, because I don’t frankly see the point in reading if you don’t like books. But don’t mistake the Harry Potter fad for anything other than what it is.