Let me be blunt: Warren Ellis writes about books in a way that makes me want to read them. This is an exceptionally rare skill and it ought to be the sort of skill which provides one with a comfortable income, homes on several continents, cars so rare that racing games have never even heard of them, several ponies (because who wouldn’t want a pony) and the absolute best chemical amusement aids money can buy. You probably think that I’m exaggerating, but I’m dead serious. The ability to make people make a point of seeking out and reading books is like alchemy in that it’s a both a lost art and probably impossible. I’ve always found most book reviews strangely bloodless. If you’re passionate about something, you ought to feel compelled to bust out a few superlatives. Instead, you mostly get a generic plot-summary, some historical background, a personal anecdote, and maybe a few sentences on something like “voice.” I’ve read very few reviews that made me more interested in a book than I already was. I don’t want a book report; I want reasons to read it (or avoid it). Check out this Warren Ellis write-up of Don Winslow’s The Power of the Dog. Does that make you want to read some Don Winslow? I know it sure as hell works for me. I’ve never read Don Winslow, and now I feel like this is a serious failing on my part. Thomas Pynchon’s Against The Day wasn’t really on my radar until I read what Mr. Ellis had to say about it. After reading that (and if you haven’t, go back and please, please do so), how could I not read it? I’m halfway through it and it’s utterly spellbinding. See? “Spellbinding?” How does that make you want to read a book? That’s what I’m talking about. It’s not as easy as it sounds, is it? It’s an under-appreciated talent that deserves more respect. And cash. Lots and lots of cash. EDIT: Here’s another one: Warren Ellis on The Water Knife No, not this Warren Ellis. The other one. Don’t feel bad; they get this sort of thing a lot.
Author: Ridley
Wife of The Woman
This story is in response to Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Six Random Titles. I wasn’t particularly inspired by any of them, but once I figured out a direction for this particular title, it wound up being a surprisingly fun exercise. Plus, it inspired me to purchase and read an old short story, the title of which you’ll probably guess in fairly short order. ————————————————————————————————————– Flinging open the door to the carriage, she spoke in a fierce whisper which struck the ears more forcefully than any shout, “Well, my love, it’s been quite an exciting couple of days, hasn’t it?” Elizabeth Briony didn’t look up even look from her book, an English translation of Manual de Anatomia Pathologica General, as the other women entered the carriage, although if you watched her closely enough, you’d have seen her cheekbones rise almost imperceptibly, indicating the slightest of all smiles. As the younger, petite woman settled in beside her, slightly out of breath from unaccustomed haste, Mrs. Briony continued: “We shaved that one a bit close, don’t you think? “Oh, do you think so? How very perceptive. How. Terribly. Clever. Of. You.” It wasn’t possible to be certain if the younger woman’s pauses were for emphasis or just due to the exertion, but the point was made nonetheless. Bess carefully shut her book, set it between herself and her companion, and, without the slight smile, responded: “I’m glad you think so too, Rena. If not for my, for our precautions, we would likely find ourselves in far more trouble than little Willy intended.” “You wouldn’t call him that if you knew him as I did. Besides, he was never the source of peril, it was that slender fellow he employed and you know it. Speaking of fellows, what have you done with Godfrey? Leaving him behind would be asking for more trouble.” Rena’s hair, normally arranged flawlessly, was an umbra of willow-like tendrils, a condition which Bess found almost irresistible, but she kept her hands folded and forced her eyes forward. “Godfrey’s with us, in one of my trunks. I cannot help but think he’ll prove useful again. Driver! We are settled, please carry on!” Bess’ voice had none of the lilt of Rena’s, but she could use it with surprising force when occasioned to do so. She was no beauty in the classic sense, being tall and, while lithe, broad of shoulder. “Handsome,” perhaps, would be a better description. They rode silently, the curtains of the carriage drawn tight. The women stole glances at each other, at first nervously, then conspiratorially, and finally, with some giddiness as it became clear from the sounds and smells that they were no longer within the confines of the city. They were beginning to believe that they may, just may, be getting away with it. Far from the gaslights, the night was dark enough that they felt they could risk opening the side curtains and let the fresher air of then country nighttime into the carriage. No one was likely to glance their way, and if they did, well, the chance of being recognized was slim enough to be worth the risk. They travelled throughout most of the night, making odd small talk, superstitiously afraid to discuss the nature of their good fortune as though speaking of it would burst the thin soap-bubble of providence protecting them. Rina was the first to speak of the incidents. In hushed tones, she asked, “So, tell me. How did you work it all out?” Around anyone else, Bess would have put on the air of one who knew all but revealed little, but with Rina, she shrugged her shoulders and admitted, “There was more luck to it than I’d care to admit, if I am to be perfectly honest with you. You know how I enjoy the art of fisticuffs?” Rina cringed, as she knew but did not approve. Bess continued: “Well, I have seen more fights than I can recount, and I’ve learned that it is very difficult for a man to let an inferior fighter win. Perhaps it is an affront to his manliness, but I think it more likely that, when instinct takes over, allowing oneself to accept a blow is not so easy as it looks.” Bess’ eyes became slightly distant. “Back when I was working, right before I met you, we tried to hire a professional fighter to perform with our troupe. It was a disaster. He was meant to be the villain, but he kept defeating our lead actor during the finale, oftentimes rendering him unconscious.” Rina was not especially thrilled by tales of this ilk, but listened on patiently. Bess, on the other hand, obviously found it rousing, and her focus returned to Rina. “Well, when the scuffle broke out in front of the house right the other day, I was still nearby and I could not help but observe. The clergyman who intervened, the gentleman you invited in to tend to? He struck me as a more skilled pugilist than he let on. He had several opportunities strike at the other fellows, but instead seemed more interested in receiving a blow.” “How odd.” “How odd indeed. And how odd that, almost immediately after brought him inside, a fire should break out. More coincidence than I am was prepared to accept. I decided that I would do well to follow him. After all, while he knew you and Godfrey, I was a complete stranger to him. And so, I was able to follow him back to his hired room and listen to him lay out his entire scheme to his confidante.” “That’s almost cheating, Bess! “Well, there was some peril for me as well. In order to hear them properly, I had to unfasten the windows, but those window fasteners were child’s play. After you told me about the glance to your hidey-hole for your personal papers, it all made sense. Why you keep your daguerreotype of your clients among our more…personal…photos, I will never understand.” Rina allowed herself a little clap of excitement. “You know I followed him as well!” Bess frowned. “Yes, and I think he may have very nearly recognized you. You must be careful!” If Rina felt at all chastened, she hid it exceptionally well. “Oh, hush. You know I can’t let…
When Life Gives You Lemons In The Form of Randomly-Generated Titles
I remember Larry Niven writing a little piece about how working within an arbitrary restriction can be a handy creative tool. He and Jerry Pournelle decided to use a plastic model space ship, the AMT Leif Erikson, as the basis for the INSS MacArthur in The Mote in God’s Eye. It was a neat exercise: Start with the plastic model and then justify the functionality of the various design choices of the model. Why were the engines arranged thusly? Why were their aerodynamic features? Stuff like that. I mention this as a way of getting myself psyched for a writing prompt which feels less than promising at first glace. We’ve been directed to a random title generator which and told to only roll the metaphorical dice one time. Six possible titles were generated, and while they are each plenty plausible, none of them jumped off the screen, grabbed me by the shoulders, and shook me vigorously, as if to say “Me pick me I am the one can you imagine the adventures we’ll have!” Bother. But, one of them stuck in my skull and I’ve decided to go with it. It’s both awkward and obvious at the same time: “Wife of the Woman.” Not exactly in my wheelhouse, is it? But…I think, I think I have a direction I can take it. Otherwise, I may have to try to do something with “Prince of Slave,” a prospect which should provide ample motivation to make literally any other title work. So, tomorrow, off to work. Oh, and mental note to myself: Try to keep it around a thousand words this time, ok? -RK
As Good As Needs To Get
For the last twenty-four hours or so, I’ve been feeling, for want of a better way to put it, actively happy. Contentment is good. Heck, I’d even call it great. This, however, is different. It’s the sort of happy which propels one forward, a sort of happy which radiates off you like some sort of human analog of Hawking radiation, apparently creating something out of nothing. It’s very much the sort of happy which makes you look forward to the rest of your life and wish you could tack on a bit more at the end if it isn’t too much bother. I’m in a good mood. I’m in a good mood and I can’t think of any, single proximate cause. It’s certainly not work, which, at its best, is something that doesn’t occupy too much of my brainspace. My health hasn’t magically improved; I may have suffered a little setback in that regard. I just feel ridiculously positive about where I am and what the future may look like, assuming my augury tools are properly calibrated. Novelist Matt Haig turned forty on Twitter this week and did the a little of the traditional fretting about it (in fun, I suspect.) I got to thinking about my turning that same age a while back and how remarkably good my forties have been to me. They’ve easily been the best decade, a fact which surprises me a little. Not that I would have listened, but I don’t remember anyone telling me that things got better as one got older. I wonder if it’s to do with mental health I feel like my brain is working very well right now and that I’m equipped to deal with most of what gets tossed my way. You get some chicken-and-egg problems trying to analyze your own happiness, especially when you’re speculating about how your own mental well-being is affecting said happiness, so I’ll just leave it at that. Mind feels clear and sharp. Love my current vector. Love my not-quite-wife-but-we’re-going-to-rectify-that. Love the people around me. Love the people who aren’t nearby, but I know are there anyway. Life is good. I’ll try to enjoy it without clutching. -RK The laptop, now looking properly “mine.”
We Are Nowhere And It’s Now
So here I am, out in the middle of nowhere, and I have no clue what time it is although I’m not really sure that matters. The weird thing is that I’m pretty sure I just saw the most imporant thing in human history. Let me back up and explain. This is a response to Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge of 6/26. Go to your music player of choice, pull up a random song, and use that song title as the title to your story. You don’t need to make the story about the song or inspired by the song (unless you want to) — all you really need is the title to run with. On iTunes, it’s shuffle, I think, but if you google “play random song” you’ll find plenty of ways to conjure one from the chaos. Write the story with the song title as your story title. This sucker’s gone through so many permutations so far, being a completely different story 3 days ago, that it’s both a 13th draft and a 1st draft, so it needs a hacksaw to cut away huge chunks as well as some sandpaper to smooth it out. I like the story, though. I’ll like it more, I suspect, the next time I go in and mess with it. __________________________________________________________________________ So here I am, out in the middle of nowhere, and I have no clue what time it is although I’m not really sure that matters. The weird thing is that I’m pretty sure I just saw the most imporant thing in human history. Let me back up and explain. Last Spring, Tomas and I were going through a rough patch. More specifically, I thought he was being distant and evasive and I was acting like a jealous asshole. We weren’t exactly fighting, but we weren’t exactly not, if you know what I mean. Tomas was ready for it to be over and I wasn’t. That’s the best way to put it, even if it lacks poetry. Anyway, like any guy raised on John Cusack movies, I did the only thing that made sense to my panicked mind: The Grand Romantic Gesture. One of those stupid blinking ads that should have been blocked popped up on the right side of some story I was reading. It promised a romantic New Year’s spent at the South Pole, where, for twenty four hours, you could re-experience the new year every hour, on the hour. I clicked on it and, by some force of sheer luck, didn’t wind up with any ransomware. Twenty thousand dollars and thirty minutes later (their site was as shitty as the ad you’d expect from a company using pop-up ads), I’d booked the two of us on a ten day vacation highlighted by “the Longest New Year’s Kiss on planet Earth!” Of course I didn’t tell him exactly what I’d planned, but I made sure he knew I’d planned something big because, otherwise, what’s the point? As you might have guessed, with the relationship already on fumes in the Spring, a huge New Year’s celebration was too much, too late. Tomas was emotionally involved with someone else and was reaching the point where he didn’t care too much if I knew. Which is all a long way of saying, I took off from Baltimore, heading as far south as a body could get, by myself. Ten days sounds like a long time to spend at the South Pole and it probably is, but we never found out because all but about thirty-six hours of your vacation package is travel. By the time the dozen or so of us got off the little ski plane, we weren’t going to be too picky about where we finally stop moving for a little while. A good thing, too, as our romantic day at the South Pole was going to be spent in a big, only slightly-glorifed tent. The tent was huge, probably big enough for a hundred people, and it was weirdly festooned in some of the cheapest New Year’s regalia you’d ever encounter at the dollar store. Lots of cardboard numerals indicating the year hung from strings, a needlessly plastic ice sculpture, folding tables with cheap white table cloths, and extremely harsh LED lighting. Oh, and there was champagne. There was a lot of almost decent champagne and, if you dug a little, enough vodka to keep us from paying too much attention to the cheapness of the fixtures after a very short while. The key feature of the tent, centered around the thirty-foot tentpole, was a huge ring, with twenty-four spokes, one for each time zone. The idea, obviously, was that we would all huddle inside the slice representing the zone which would be experiencing the New Year next, and we’d yell, and kiss, and toast, and be merry for a short time, then do it again in an hour, fifteen degrees further along the circle. Not exactly what I would call “romantic.” If I weren’t so miserable and lonely, I would almost be glad that Tomas and his scientific brain weren’t here to see this. Around the sides of the room were cots partitioned off by canvas walls. I presumed these were for people who couldn’t hack twenty four hours of revelry, but it slowly dawned on me that the copious amounts of alcohol and the forced romantic nature of the event might tip the ickiness-to-horniness ratio enough to make sharing a cot seem like a good idea. Ew. I made note of two couples who seemed most likely to pursue that line of action: Two trust fund babies from an American university for whom the “mile high club” probably also seemed attractive, and a middle-aged German pair whose affection I may have mis-identifed as lechery, but there was no point in risking it. I avoided both couples all day and night as best I could. Now, the first really strange thing I noticed was that, outside of a small crew in jumpsuits that were supposed to have sort of looked like tuxedos, obviously the “staff” at this establishment, there were sixteen people including me. It didn’t take world-class math skills to recognize that there was either someone else alone or some group had an odd number of members. It didn’t take long to discover it…
In which my body gets it backwards (plus some Coffee Achievers stuff)
I was unwell last evening. Headaches, nausea, and just plain exhaustion put me in bed by 7:30 which is to say, last night might as well not have happened from my standpoint. I was prepared to call in to the office this morning, legitimately ill. Of course, now I’m no longer legitimately ill, and I’m at the office. I need to have a word or two with my body about this. If it isn’t too much bother, I would prefer to be sick during work hours and well during my time off. This sort of arrangements is one of the few perks of having an “exempt” position and I almost never take advantage of it. Bother. On the plus side, while I’m reasonably sure I won’t be able to salvage anything from the story I wrote the other night, browsing through my drafts folder brought my attention to another failed bit which is absolutely perfect for adaptation to the task at hand. There’s probably a French expression for this sort of thing, but I have no clue what it might be. So, back to the task this evening, assuming my body is ok with it. On the double-plus side, pouring my coffee this morning reminded me of one of the most awesome relics of the 80’s: The Coffee Achievers! Remember The Coffee Achievers? No? In the early-mid 80’s, the coffee people decided to run a series of ads to try to get young people interested in their product. Coffee was on the decline while MTV was on the rise, so, they put two and two together and came up with The Coffee Achievers: A series of 30 second spots, set to the music of the incomparable Electric Light Orchestra, featuring: Actress Cicely Tyson Football player Ken Anderson Musician David Bowie Writer Kurt Vonnegut Actress Jane Curtin Musicians Ann and Nancy Wilson (Heart) Read that list carefully and then try to tell me this wouldn’t have been the most awesome crimefighting superhero group ever. And man, you want to talk about reboots? Try casting The Coffee Achievers of the 2010’s. Imagine a crossover. I really want to take a stab at this, but I can’t stop imagining how amazing it would be if this were one of Warren Ellis’ secret projects. *sigh* A man can dream. A man can dream. -RK
The car drove great, but it wouldn’t take me anywhere
Last night, I tried something a little different. I cleared my head, cleared the space around me, and decided to just start working on a story cold. Just sit down, pick a title, and write. Two hours later, I’d knocked out several pages of work that I feel was pretty darned well written…and the story was complete garbage. I felt like I was on a roll in terms of telling it, but the story itself? It just didn’t work. It’s bad enough that I’m not sure there’s anything I can salvage. It’s sitting in the drafts folder, just daring me to delete it. This being for Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenge this week, the title was the name of randomly selected song, and it was a good one, although maybe a little too leading. There was really only one place the story could go, and it was too obvious right from the beginning. (Can you tell I’m working through this as we speak?) Of the top of my head, I can think of two rescue strategies. I can either figure out a way to twist it, to make it take a unexpected fork, or I can go all Treasure of the Sierra Madre on it and make it about foreboding. Or maybe just roll the ol’ random number generator again and see what it gives me. Like I said, I liked everything about the story but the story (which is a very significant “but”). I’d still deem the operation a success. Pity about the patient, though…
June 26, 2015 – A date which will live in the opposite of infamy
In a sense, it’s a little disappointing that the “Land of the Free” took so long to get around to something like marriage equality, but I’m not going to let that get in the way of enjoying something that’s been a long, long time coming. In the end, the Supreme Court just ratified what America as a whole has already determined. That’s not to say it wasn’t a long, difficult, and bitter fight, but in the end, the court didn’t lead so much as just recognize reality. I was raised in a very different time. That being the case, I’m going to have to have to re-learn some nomenclature and un-learn some assumptions. That’s fine by me. Societies changes and language changes to accommodate those changes and older folks like myself have to adapt. These are symptoms of growth and progress. I’m going to get my words wrong sometimes, I’ll mistakenly assume that when a guy gets married that he’ll have a “wife,” and I’ll be embarrassed. I won’t do it on purpose, and I’ll expect to be corrected when I get it wrong. I’ll get there, just bear with me. On the other hand, I don’t expect ever to understand how people can feel bitter and belittled by other people getting the same freedoms that they already enjoy. It strikes me as petty and selfish to think that your rights are less valuable when they’re extended to more people. At that point, you’re not talking about “rights,” you’re talking about “privilege.” Perhaps someone can explain it to me in terms that make sense to me, but to date, no one has managed it. In a roundabout way, today is going to be kind of a watershed for speculative and science fiction writing. From this point forward, any story about a future that doesn’t include same-sex relationships is going to look dated and naive. It’s going to feel implausible. This is a good thing. We as a people have grown a little bit and our stories should reflect this. This isn’t the end of the road by any stretch of the imagination. There are plenty of institutional biases still entrenched in society and in law that need to be swept away. There are certianly many, many more that I’m not even aware of, and there will new ones emerging every generation. There is no final destination on the path to reform. Reform is a process. That doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing, and it certainly doesn’t mean we shouldn’t celebrate with abandon when we get it right. So, congratulations to the Supreme Court of the United States and everyone living in America: You got this one right. I feel much more excited about getting married now that it’s a more inclusive institution. I’ll close with this: I think today should be a national holiday. Either the 26th of June or the last Friday in June. How does “Freedom Day” sound to you?
A short post about Patrick McNee (1922-2015)
As far as I was concerned, there was only one man who personified the “English secret agent” and his name was “Steed.” Bond was too clumsy and full of himself, Templar was too derivative, Smiley was too realistic, Cornelius was, well, at the other end of the spectrum from Smiley, and I was too young to really “get” Number 6. Patrick McNee’s John Steed struck just the right note. He had fun with the character (playing off of Diana Rigg, who wouldn’t?), his timing was spot on, and while he didn’t bring a great deal of physicality to the role, his bearing more than made up for it. I won’t lie: I’m not nearly as familiar with his other work (aside from The New Avengers, which was still loads of fun). Every time I’d see him in another film or show, my first thought was “oh, John Steed!”, but he was always at the very least good, and frequently excellent, in everything I saw him do. I hope he was happy up till the end, and even I know him primarily from one television show almost a half century ago, I absolutely loved him for it. James Bond wasn’t fit to carry his umbrella. Steed and Peel, because you have to look that good to catch bad guys
Doing Slightly More Than Nothing About The Hugo Awards
If you’re at all interested in science fiction, you’re likely aware that this year’s Hugo Awards have been the subject of altogether too much silliness. I’ve been keeping tabs from a distance, weighing in from time to time, but not really getting involved. I’ve followed the daily updates on Mike Glyer’s File770.com with increasing disbelief at just how overheated the whole situation has become. For the first time in my life, I’ll be voting on the Hugo Awards this year. I’ve been reading science fiction for several decades now, but this is the first time I’ve felt strongly enough about the awards to get involved. One vote isn’t much, but I feel like it’s important to do what little bit I can. I’ll share my ballot after I submit it. -RK