stop. start. stutter.

Yesterday, I wound up heading down to the rental office to be That Tenant -- you know, the one who's always shouting "get those damn kids off my lawn!" (In this instance, replace "those damn kids" with "those people who think that lifting and slam-dropping 200-pound weights for like two hours a day is okay" and replace "off my lawn" with "out of the exercise room that shares a wall with our apartment".) While I was down there, I got into a really interesting conversation with the lady who runs the office about science fiction and race/gender issues.

We both agreed that part of the fascinating thing about sf is that it allows us the opportunity to postulate a post-racist/post-sexist society and speculate about what it might look like. We also agreed that -- because we-the-audience are reading in the context of having been acculturated in a racist, sexist society -- we have to be really careful about how we present it and how we read it. In other words: writers have the chance to postulate what a post-racist society might look like, which is cool, but we have to be really (really) careful, thoughtful, and aware of all the connotations and baggage that arises from a really long history of racial and gender inequality.

(Have I mentioned I love the building I live in? How many of you can stumble upon conversations like that in your rental office?)

I'm always fascinated whenever International Blog Against Racism Week comes around again, because it's done more for me -- as a middle-class, suburban-raised white chick of a certain age bracket -- to increase my awareness of the very real issues and facts of our society than anything else I could think of. Reading those posts is often uncomfortable, and I wind up feeling guilty and upset and angry -- not at the posters, but at the world we inhabit, the people who perpetuate and encourage power imbalance, and at myself for wanting not to think about those issues most of the time.

But my commitment to myself -- made a long time ago -- is along the lines of Spider Robinson's asshole theory: in Lifehouse, one of the characters realizes that not only is everyone an asshole, the greatest acts of assholery result from the conviction that somewhere out there are people who aren't assholes, and the burning desire to be mistaken for one of them. The trick, the character and his wife realize, is to give up, accept that you're an asshole, and do your best to be an asshole possessed of a certain amount of tact, grace, and class -- an Ethical Asshole, as it were.

I've been trying to do that for a while. And part of being an Ethical Asshole is sitting down, shutting up, and listening when someone tells you that you, or a group to which you belong, is being an asshole -- and then nodding, saying that you're sorry, and doing your best to modify your behaviour accordingly.

(You can read the round-up of IBARW posts on del.icio.us. In fact, I really recommend it.)

At the end of last month, John Scalzi -- an author I respect considerably -- wrote an entry commenting on an article in the Boston Globe called Race: The Final Frontier. He made a bunch of statements that all added up to the fact that he -- as a writer -- was trying to make it clear that his universe was one of those post-racist, post-sexist societies. It prompted a pretty rollicking argument in the comments, plus a vehement response from Kameron Hurley: Why Writing Colorblind Is Writing White, which pointed out that Scalzi was failing to do the other half of that equation: being aware that a constructed society like that is still going to be read in this society, which is neither.

This is a topic that's been on my mind a lot lately, from discussion on LiveJournal to IBARW -- because of the three protagonists of Sixteen Tons, two of them are people of color. (Although one of them only informed me of this about ten thousand words into the book. I wish they'd clue me in on these things earlier.) Joey's half Chinese, half Puerto Rican; Kit is half African-American, half white. These are basic facts about the people I'm writing: they walked in pre-constructed, really, and I'm more or less just taking dictation. I couldn't change these facts about them if I wanted to.

But I'll confess: for a few minutes, I wanted to. I wanted to make these people into people whose experience of society more closely matched my experience of society, or the experience-of-society I was more familiar with. Why? Because I, like so many middle-class, liberal, suburban-raised white chicks, am desperately terrified of getting it wrong -- of doing or saying something, out of ignorance, that will hurt or anger or offend someone whose experience-of-society is drastically different than mine.

It's been proven that if you go through a piece of text and carefully strip out all markers or indicators of race or gender, and present that text to a group of people -- any people -- the reader will read the protagonist of that piece as a straight white male -- whether the reader is a straight white male or not. (It's also been proven that even when those markers still exist, readers will bull right over them to assume straight-white-maleness; it's embarrassing how many years it took me to realize that the protagonist of Heinlein's Tunnel In The Sky is black, despite near-annual re-readings.)

And you know, that infuriates me. We shouldn't oughta do that. I know why we do it, and I know why it's going to take a very long, very messy time until we can stop doing it at least a little. I very much, as a writer, want to combat those textual assumptions as much as I can, even if I have to step outside my comfort zone to do so. But oh, God, I know that I'm getting it wrong in places -- and that no matter how many person-of-color friends I consult to say "hey, take a look at this and tell me if my white privilege is hanging out here", I'll never catch all of it.

There's the description question: How much description do you give? Which sets of words are respectful, and which signifiers are semantically neutral or semantically positive as opposed to semantically charged or negative? Where's the line between making people aware of the description of these characters, and subconsciously promoting the fetishization of the Other?

There's the characterization question: To what extent does race and racial identity permeate a person's worldview? Does Kit think of himself as "black" -- and, no matter what his answer is to that, how has the inarguable physical fact of his skin color shaped and defined him? Does Joey, whose family has been in the US for three generations, consider himself "Asian"? "American"? "Asian-American"? How can I be respectful to the people who struggle with these issues daily, when I don't? (Not those issues, at least. Most of my Other-ness is far less visible than skin color, and I know that I can't parlay all of it, or even in a lot of cases most of it.)

There's the narrative question: what happens when my characters need to express opinions or make statements that are less than supportive of these issues? How can I balance the need to remain true to character with the need to avoid promoting privileged readings of the text?

And then, of course, there's the authorial responsibility question: shit, how much harm am I going to accidentally cause in my earnest desire to deal with complicated and messy issues in an Ethical-Asshole manner?

There's a lot of unconscious racism, sexism, and homophobia in classic sf canon, and most of it can be chalked up to the fact that much of classic sf canon was written by people who were raised in a racist, sexist, and homophobic society. When I go back and read some of it now, I wince -- the same way that I wince when I hear someone around me making racist, sexist, or homophobic statements, or statements that are informed by the racist, sexist, or homophobic programming that -- no matter how liberal you are -- we all carry around with us.

There's a lot of unconscious racism, sexism, and homophobia in current sf canon, too. Whether it's in the text itself, or in the packaging. (No, really, go to your local bookstore and pick up a sampling of a hundred different books from the sf shelves, and tell me how many people of color you see on front covers. Even of books written by people of color.)

I'm uncomfortable by that. I'm angry at that. I want to speak out against that, and I want to write things that will challenge those default assumptions -- not because I have any sort of silly notion that I can "fix" it, but because I think that science fiction as a genre has some of the most stunning potential for social commentary, and social commentary that doesn't deal with race issues (or gender issues, or class issues, or sexual orientation issues) is pretty piss-poor social commentary indeed.

It's just really hard to know where to start -- aside from listening, and thinking, and being willing to challenge your own default assumptions when they're pointed out to you. Which is something I'm working very hard to do. For that reason, I'm grateful to International Blog Against Racism week, and all of the people who have shared their own experiences and their own experience-of-society -- because those posts have gone a long way to educating me.

I'm still going to get it wrong. But I think that white authors have been worried, for too long, that our lack of direct personal experience means that there's no way we can ever write a protagonist of a different race, because we're going to get it wrong -- and that's dissuaded us from even trying. And I think that's silly, because a good writer can write protagonists who are different without making them cariactures and without stripping them of any individual traits that are different than the author's own. (I mean, fantasy authors aren't elves or hobbits, and historical romance authors don't live in the sixteenth century.)

The trick, I think, is the same trick any author should be using for any character: protagonist, antagonist, or just walk-on red-shirt. The trick is to find the commonalities and respect the differences, and to educate yourself as much as possible about the environment that would have shaped them.

And treat your characters like you should be treating everyone you meet face to face: with respect.

I'd like to know which one of you in there is responsible for this.

See, I woke up at eight fucking thirty in the goddamn morning. After, mind you, falling asleep at seven, just as Sarah was heading to work. Opened my eyes. WIDE AWAKE, GOOD MORNING, CAMPERS. I ignored it for a few minutes, until the annoyance of the cat sleeping over my legs got to be too bad, and got up. I figured I'd do a little bit of reading and then go back to bed.

Yeah. At 9:30, I found myself out of my house loungewear, into jeans and a tank top with a bra, too, outside (in the sunlight), walking up to Lexington Market, where I obtained breakfast. I walked back from Lexington Market, stopping to express my gratitude to the polite gentleman who expressed his aesthetic appreciation of my posterior (seriously, it's not a trip out on the streets of Baltimore until somebody takes it upon himself to improve my self-esteem; fortunately, it's usually almost always respectful and good-natured and not at all skeevy), and am now pretty much still wide awake.

Two things: A). I'd really like to know which one of you in there is a morning person. I suspect Joey. B). Seriously, is it always that fucking bright out there? Haven't we replaced that big ball of gas with an energy-efficient bulb yet? Someone should get on that.

Oh, and C). I made my word count for the week just in the nick of time last night, and am therefore feeling virtuous.

I am at the point in the book where I am just about ready to drop my primary protagonist down a deep dark well. I keep telling him: Joey, you're supposed to be a sympathetic character. And he keeps looking at me and saying: well, if people don't find me sympathetic, that's their own damn fault, isn't it? (To which I respond: well, yes, but if I don't find you sympathetic, we have a little bit of a problem.)

I'm thirty-one thousand words in now -- or about 30% of the way to "done" -- and the typical second-quarter problems are manifesting themselves; this one is constructed of three interlocking plot lines, all of which are scheduled to intersect at about the halfway mark and start driving each other. Typically speaking, I go into a novel knowing the first 25% of it with about a medium-zoom lens, the next 25% of it with a very high-level overview, and the ending, and see what develops as I go along; if I outline a book before I start writing it, the whole thing winds up being stale and dull for me.

This means that while I'm writing, I often wind up finding out the plot about one step ahead of my audience of cheerleaders. (It also often results in me pasting bits and chunks at people and saying, "Look! Look what the fuck they went and did on me! Can you believe this shit?") I don't outline, anything past a very high-level synopsis. This has worked for me so far, mostly because I've got a very well-developed editor's eye thanks to a lot of freelance work that I've done. If there's a problem with the book, I start to become aware of it when writing it suddenly starts to become like pulling teeth, and if that lasts for more than a few writing sessions (and is therefore not just a single bad day), I can step back, take a deep breath, and start picking apart the text with an eye for "which of the Ten Major Problems is this book demonstrating right now?" (I will make a post about the Ten Major Problems with a book at some point.)

I started getting that little subtle nagging sense of "something's wrong" with this one last week. Just a hint around the edges, which means that it's not a show-stopper; it's something (whatever it is) that I can deal with on a second draft. In some ways, though, that's worse, because those problems are so subtle that they're murder to diagnose and repair until you're well past them. In this case, I suspect -- though I'm not sure -- that it's an issue of pacing; I think that Storyline A and Storyline B might have intertwined a little too fast, while Storyline C is lagging along a bit more slowly. If that's the case, I'm not going to be able to spot it until all three protagonists are finally standing in the same room and staring balefully at each other, asking me what they're supposed to do now.

Writing is hard, dammit.

However, I kind of love my storyline-B protagonist (her name's Charlotte, but her grandmére is the only one who can call her that; she's 'Charlie' to you, thank you very much, and she works for the FBI's DNA Analysis Unit). And my storyline-C protagonist, whose name is Kit, is very obliging. Charlie and Joey are supposed to have the Moonlighting-style Maddie-and-David bickering going on, but time will tell; I think they might hate each other a little bit too much for that. (And no, I have no clue why, but Charlie's holding a grudge the size of Texas against Joey and the company he works for, and I fear I might have underestimated just how much she dislikes them. Which may make for some interesting twists later. You know, if she ever decides to tell me what it is.)

(One of the things I never stop being fascinated by is just how pushy my characters can be. I've seen a lot of writers talk about similar things; for instance, one novelist friend of my acquaintance just had her characters put their foot down and swap Planned Love Interests, without so much as a by-your-leave. There's nothing like having a mental outline that requires Character A to go and do something, and when you get there on the page, he or she looks at you and says: what, do I look like I'm stupid? This is why writers drink.)

So whatever the Little Nagging Flaw in the manuscript so far is, I hope I figure it out pretty quickly. I'm enjoying the world, and I like Charlie and Kit (and even Joey, who's being a bit of a douchebag right now, has his moments). There are a few scenes coming up a bit down the road that I'm looking forward to writing, even. I just have that little pulse of "HEY! Problem here!" going on in the back of my head.

If I'm lucky, it'll be a false alarm; if I'm only slightly less lucky, it'll be something easily dealt with. Of course, if I'm not lucky, it'll turn out to be a major, massive continuity-or-plot flaw that will require four drafts and a bottle of whiskey to fix up. In any case, I'm about four thousand words shy on word count for the week, the week ends in about another fifteen hours, and everyone involved is refusing to talk to me.

I have, thus far, bravely resisted the urge to declare "Rocks fall! Everyone dies!" But man, I've come close.

How many writers dip into their junk-mail folder to name characters?

(Hey, it's easier than the tried-and-true baby name book method. Although you run the risk of getting a character named Halfreda Q. Establishment.)

The radio silence on this end is predicated by being nose-deep in the world I'm making here! I have achieved a very respectable two-thousand-words-a-day level of progress, and am now comfortably enmeshed in the delicate dance of wrapping up Act One and sliding along to Act Two (a division which exists only in my head, but which I find very useful when I'm structuring a novel -- Freytag's Pyramid and I made friends at an early age).

Of course, today I've repeating the following sequence, ad nauseam:

1. Open file.
2. Stare at file.
3. Type a sentence.
4. Delete it.
5. Discover some pressing household task that needs to get done immediately. Like cleaning out the pantry. Or cleaning the cats' litterbox. Or scrubbing the bathroom.

(Repeat steps 1-5 as necessary, or until Girlfriend comes home and feeds me.)

I also lost all of yesterday to leveling up in Final Fantasy 12. I have yet to find a way to rationalize this to myself as research, but I'm working on it.

Things I enjoy so far about this book: being able to start a section with the sentence "Dead guy in the mail!"

Writing is easy! Knowing what to write, that's the hard part...

I'm noodling around in the exposition for the latest novel (with a working title of Sixteen Tons -- a romp through corporate responsibility, forensic DNA analysis, criminal society, and colonizing the moon) and having fun trying to get a sense of my protagonists. They've already surprised me a few times, which bodes well for the future, I suppose -- if they're this mouthy early on, it's usually a good sign.

Until I can get my feet under me with this one, there'll probably be some radio silence for a while. In the meantime, I'm thinking about tomorrow's launch of Endeavor, and more specifically, the fact that Barbara Morgan is finally about to make it Up There.

I remember sitting and watching the Challenger launch when I was back in grade school; one of our teachers had been a finalist in the teacher-in-space program, and I remember her being devastated that she hadn't been selected -- and then, of course, relieved, and guilty about being relieved. Challenger hurt us so badly, and in a lot of ways, I wonder if the space program will ever recover. I hope it will. I still believe that it offers us so much hope for the future.

Endeavor's flight tomorrow goes to the ISS, and I wish them fair skies and good flying. And here's to you, Barbara. Give 'em hell up there, baby. Twenty-two years is a long time to wait, but I'm pretty damn sure it'll be worth it.

Yesterday I made a list of ten old friends: science fiction novels I keep coming back to, over and over again. Today it's time to dip into short stories.

I have such a bizarre love/hate relationship with the short story format. It's not my natural form by any definition; it takes me and my characters four thousand words just to say "good morning", and I have been known to accidentally write the opening twelve thousand words of a novel when I meant to write a thousand-word short. (Novel-writing? That's easy. Keeping the weekly fiction posts under control? God help me!)

I read short stories to marvel at the skill of people who can make every word count. I read short stories to study them, to learn how to boil away useless flesh and hair and polish the bones that are left behind.

There are thousands of brilliant short stories out there, and there's no way I could read them all. Like yesterday, I'm not trying for "best"; this time I'm going to go for ten short stories that have stuck with me over the years. (If my list of old-friend novels was biased towards the latter half of the 20th century, my list of old-friend short stories is biased towards the Golden Age...)

I wept blood at keeping this to ten -- I mean, Asimov, Campbell, Delaney, del Rey, Ellison, Farmer, Kuttner, LeGuin, Silverberg, Tiptree, Varley, should I go on? -- but these are the ones that spring to mind immediately. (After composing it, I was talking with a friend, and we were amused to find that our lists had absolutely no overlap, but both of us went "oooh, yeah" at the other's. I am tempted to make a top one hundred between us.)

Once again in order of publication, we have:

1. "Mimsy Were the Borogoves", Lewis Padgett (Henry Kuttner and Catherine L. Moore) (1943): Okay, see, the thing is, I was viciously screwed out of adequate science and math education in my public-school curriculum, and the entire time, I was thinking: but! But! Math is beautiful! And this story is why I knew enough to know it. (Reading it at a tender young age is, now that I think about it, probably partly responsible for my belief that mathematics and linguistics, among so many other things, are the same discipline viewed through a different lens.)

2. "The Man Who Traveled In Elephants", Robert Heinlein (1948): Heinlein reportedly considered this the best of all his short stories; the older I get, the more inclined I am to agree, despite the inevitable fist-fights whenever the topic comes up about whether or not it's a science fiction story at all. (My personal answer: it's not, except in the way that it totally is.)

3. "There Will Come Soft Rains", Ray Bradbury (1950): Choosing one Bradbury: pulling teeth. But this one out of all of Bradbury's short stories is the one that works its understated way into my memory and sits there, a quiet reminder of what can be accomplished through the use of negative space.

4. "The Nine Billion Names of God", Arthur C. Clarke (1953): Every time that I start to get too full of myself, I go back and read this story, and then I want to slink off and hide under my desk for a while. By which I mean, this might very well be my favorite short story ever, cross-genre. (Okay, so it's tied with Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "The Handsomest Drowned Man In The World". Apples and oranges!)

5. "Fondly Farenheit", Alfred Bester (1954): Anything I could possibly say about this story would ruin its impact for someone reading it for the first time. Suffice it to say that it's the one of the greatest examples of stylistic bravura, like, ever. Also, have I mentioned my unreliable-narrator kink?

6. "The Star", Arthur C. Clarke (1956): Choosing one Clarke: also pulling teeth. I think, however, that if anyone deserves two places on my list, it's Clarke. It is three thousand light-years to the Vatican.

7. "The Man Who Lost The Sea", Theodore Sturgeon (1959): I've never seen opinions more sharply divided on a particular story; half the people I know call this one garbage, and the other half call it a masterwork. Me, I get chills down my spine, every time.

8. "Harrison Bergeron", Kurt Vonnegut (1961): The year was 2081, and everyone was finally equal. I have actually seen people argue that the society presented in this short story is a good thing. This scares me.

9. "A Rose for Ecclesiastes", Roger Zelazny (1963): There has never been a rose on Mars. When I grow up, I want to be a poet like Roger Zelazny.

10. "Melancholy Elephants", Spider Robinson (1982): Sometimes people ask me why I hate our copyright laws. "You're a writer. Aren't you scared of people stealing your work?" Well, no, I'm really not. And this story -- twenty-five years old, even, well before the DMCA and the latest-of-many copyright extension acts -- is a pretty good insight as to why. Fittingly, it is available online from the author himself.

There are so many attempts out there to pick the "best" science fiction, to classify and identify those books that define the genre (and all its subgenres). This is not one of those lists.

This is a list of ten science fiction books I've re-read, over and over and over again. They're not necessarily the classics, or my pick of the "best", or the ones that have most heavily influenced me, or even my favorites. (All of which may be future list-subjects.) These are the ones where my copies are falling apart, held together at the seams; the ones where I keep having to pick up new copies at the bookstore or the used bookstore because I passed my copy off to someone who needed to read them.

In order of publication, a list of ten sf books I pick up when I need an old familiar friend:

1. Stranger In A Strange Land, Robert Heinlein (1961): I know so many people for whom the statement "this book changed my life" wouldn't be an exaggeration, and I'm no different. I read this every year; every year, it says something different to me about who we are and what we owe each other.

2. Flowers for Algernon, Daniel Keyes (1966): Heartbreaking in its simplicity and in what it has to say about the human mind and how it defines (and doesn't define) the individual. Whether I prefer the novella or the novel depends on whim at any given time, but either one scratches my intellectual love for cognitive science and reaches down into the spot of my subconscious that's perpetually chewing over the problem of whether we define our intellect or our intellect defines us.

3. The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress, Robert Heinlein (1966): On the one hand, it's cheating to include two Heinlein; on the other, holding it to just two is agony. If Stranger got me thinking about how to define our obligations to each other individually, this one got me thinking about how to define our obligations to each other collectively and societally. I don't agree with all of Heinlein's politics -- far from it -- but damn does he ever make me think. (Can I also include Starship Troopers as an honorable mention for the same reason?)

4. Don't Bite The Sun, Tanith Lee (1976): It's kind of interesting to see how many of my old friends are about identity and maintaining your sense-of-self in the face of sense-of-society, but this is one of the masterworks on that theme.

5. Mindkiller, Spider Robinson (1982): It brings together two of my favorite questions: how much of who you are is defined and shaped by what you remember? What do you owe yourself, and what do you owe your society? Spider returns to these over and over again, and this one's a beauty. I still remember the gut-punch of reading this for the first time and stumbling upon one of the greatest lines ever written: "God is an iron. If someone who commits felony is a felon, and someone who commits gluttony is a glutton, then God is an iron. Either that, or He's the damn dumbest designer who ever lived."

6. Ender's Game, Orson Scott Card (1985): I have a lot of problems with this book, which I may go into someday, but I keep coming back to wrestle with it anyway, for what it says about desensitization and war and learning how to think in a particular fashion: the enemy's gate is down.

7. Snow Crash, Neal Stephenson (1992): Oh, come on, it's a book about neurolinguistic hacking, how can you not love it? But seriously, this is a book that could only have been written by someone who grew up loving science fiction intensely and passionately and wholeheartedly. It is a book for geeks and nerds, and as I am both, I love it to the bottom of my geeky nerdy heart. (Sarah and I have adopted "The Mews at Windsor Heights" as a shorthand for all the Burbclaves we keep driving past, of course.)

8. Beggars In Spain, Nancy Kress (1993): And we're back to my themes again, framed and re-framed in a different fashion and a different manifestation. Identity, duty, and responsibility-to-others, all wrapped up in a fascinating premise with stellar sociological worldbuilding. (The novella's cleaner and tighter, both thematically and technically, but I have a soft spot for the novel, too.)

9. Parable of the Sower, Octavia Butler (1993): I don't often turn to the dystopias for my comfort reading, but God, this one is stunning, not only for the all-too-plausible world Butler builds us but for the way there might not be any easy answers and there might not be neat solutions, but there is hope. The characters are real and flawed and achingly human, and Butler does an amazing job of showing us things about our society from what she extrapolates for a future.

10. Passage, Connie Willis (2001): I will confess that I find this book disturbing and disquieting in a way I can't exactly put my finger on, but again, I keep coming back to it. Sometimes you just need to be creeped out a bit, you know? It's about death, and belief, and identity (again) and struggling to make connections and honor them.