Folks: I’m trying out a new comment system associated with WordPress called IntenseDebate, which should offer (me at least) a little more functionality as regarding handling comments here. What this means is that over the next little while you may see some cosmetic and functionality changes with comments. It shouldn’t hamper your ability to comment, however. And if it does (or if I just don’t like the new functionality), I’ll swap things back to how they were previously. In any event, don’t be alarmed if there are changes here and there. That is all.
I’ve had a couple of people e-mail me to say that although the Redshirts library auction is over, they’re still interested in donating a little money to my library, and wanted to know how to do it. The answer is just to write a check to “Bradford Public Library” and send it to the address here.
However, if you’re feeling in the mood to donate to a library, may I suggest that you donate to your local public library? Trust me when I say that libraries all across this land of ours would be positively delighted to get a donation. They will almost certainly be able to use it, almost immediately. And while I’m sure the librarians in Bradford would be happy to see additional funds, they would also almost certainly agree that you helping the library that helps your community would be a fine and laudable thing. So give it some thought. Thanks.
From time to time someone will send me an e-mail with an idea for a story or a novel, presumably because they’re not going to use it but they think it should be used by someone, and particularly by me. I think it’s a sweet and thoughtful gesture, and as soon as I recognize what’s going on (usually in the first sentence, and before I get to the actual idea being proffered), I stop reading, close out the e-mail and delete it. These e-mails don’t get an acknowledgement from me that I have read them.
Why? People, in the wide world out there, some people are crazy, and if one of them sends me an idea and later I write something even vaguely related to the idea they’ve sent me, there’s a possibility they will, in their craziness, try to sue me over it. Don’t laugh, such things have happened, and while these suits go nowhere, it costs money to make sure they go nowhere. If they try to sue me, an e-mail even acknowledging the receipt of their idea is going to be a pain in my ass. There’s no point helping crazy people make my life miserable. Unfortunately for the rest of you, who are sane and wouldn’t attempt to sue me in a fit of foamy foaminess, it means that as an exercise in excessive prudence, I’m not going to read or respond to your idea e-mail, either.
The best thing to do, when seized by the philanthropic desire to give me an idea for a story or novel, is not to. Know that I really do appreciate the thought, however. Know also, simply as a practical matter, that I already have a whole stack of really cool ideas for stories and novels that I’m working through, and to which I am constantly adding. I have more ideas than I have the ability to write them all out between now and the day I croak. Ideas are not the limiting factor, here. Time is. But thank you.
(Note this is different from the “Hey, let’s collaborate, I’ll give you the idea, you write it and we’ll split the money” thing I and every single author who’s ever existed in the history of time gets from people. The answer to this one is always no, really, let’s not.)
I often think to myself how lucky I am to have born when I was — not just in a general sense, but in the sense of being a writer. I swear, if I had to write a novel on a typewriter, I might just strangle myself with the ribbon instead. But it’s not to say I don’t think about what it would be like to live in a world that had changed — one in which every modern convenience goes out the window. As it happens S.M. Stirling has a very successful book series with this idea at its core, of which The Tears of the Sun is the latest. He’s here to explain that world, how it works, and how he himself would fare in the world he created.
The Big Idea behind the Change series starts simple. On May 15th, 1998, the island of Nantucket is covered by a dome of colored lights. At 6:15 pm (Pacific time) it vanishes, and the Change propagates around the Earth at the speed of light. Every animal advanced enough to have a spinal cord feels a momentary subjective instant of intense pain and a flash of light.
An instant later it’s over… and all higher technology has ceased to function. Nobody knows why; nobody can tell how. Not for a long time, and even then they only get enigmatic hints. Nobody can do anything about it, either.
Electronics stop working; internal combustion engines don’t combust to the degree necessary to work. A blacksmith’s forge works fine; diesels don’t generate enough pressure to function.
Life without high technology… sucks, frankly, if you’re used to having the toys and then get them taken away.
We’ll leave aside the fact that I’d be dead several times over without modern medicine; multiple episodes of asthma and pneumonia in childhood, complicated problems with infected appendix(es); yes, I had two! The surgeon was extremely surprised.
But I wrote my first book on a manual typewriter. That was when ‘cut and paste’ actually meant cut and paste, or in my case using a lot of Scotch tape. Not surprisingly, that book was also shorter than most of mine. Partly that was because it was my first, and I deliberately restricted the number of viewpoint characters and the length of time covered to keep it simple to write. A lot of it was the sheer mechanical difficulty and expense of doing corrections and rewrites. I prefer to rewrite constantly, redoing each day’s work before starting on fresh material. On a manual that was hideously difficult; it might not have been quite so hard writing longhand, but I can’t compose longhand. It just doesn’t feel right.
Then there’s the sheer expense of writing materials in the old days. When paper was made from rags collected from old clothing and made by hand, it was expensive. You couldn’t afford much unless you were fairly well-to-do to start with. Books cost at least the equivalent of several days work for an ordinary man.
Our technology affects us in ways we can’t imagine, or at least can’t imagine without research. Take something basic like calories in and calories out. Look at a photograph from an American city a century ago, and one of the first things that strikes you is that the number of overweight people is miniscule.
This isn’t because they were undernourished; not most of the native-born Americans, at least. They ate more meat than we do, and had a diet very heavy in fats and starches besides. They just burned more.
A lot of them did very heavy manual labor; one of my grand-uncles (he was in his 70’s when I met him, as a child of 6 or so) was fond of lard sandwiches. He was still about the same weight he’d been as a teenager… when he went around Cape Horn on a windjammer, climbing the rigging to reef ice-covered sails in the storms. The rest of his life was spent on fishing trawlers. He smoked, too, and used to stub out his cigarettes on his palms, which were covered in callus like the shell of a turtle, which fascinated me as a child.
But even affluent people, below the very uppermost level, walked all the time. They climbed stairs, if they lived in a city. Being overweight was rare, and was a sign of unusual income and leisure. It meant not only having enough to eat well and not work, but enough to have servants who handled the high-effort drudgery of daily life. An immense amount of ‘stuff’ that we buy as processed goods or commercial services then had to be done yourself; hence the Victorian cookbooks which start a chicken recipe with ‘first kill, clean and pluck your chicken’.
A writer in a putative low-tech society is either going to be wealthy, or have a wealthy patron, or he’s going to fit his or her writing in between bouts of things like chopping wood. I spend three hours a day at the gym, but it’s not the same. I’ve experienced a little of those demands; I did a lot of odd jobs during the years I was trying to get established as a writer (including a memorable two-day stint as a bouncer) and I’ve worked at things like bailing hay and cutting down trees. Even with modern equipment, by the end of the day you just want to eat and sleep.
In my Change books, of course, all the higher-tech toys are taken away.
It’s not quite a plunge into the Dung Ages, once the initial horrors are over. A lot of the available technology is actually 19th-century; the difference between cutting grain with a horse-drawn reaper and doing it with a sickle is actually about as great as that between a horse-drawn twine-binder and a combine. But the drop in productivity is an immense shock to the people who do survive.
My initial protagonist is a folk-singer and Wiccan priestess named Juniper Mackenzie who has a place in the country and keeps horses and a big garden… and she’s shocked by the degree of sheer hard graft necessary to live. A farmer she works with is moved to comment that he thought he knew what hard work was like, but that he had a new appreciation for his grandparents!
(I took that from talks I’ve had with farmers, and from things I saw living in Africa as a teenager.)
The Change isn’t a return to the past, though. It’s a world in which modern people are forced to embrace a lot of aspects of the past; but the synthesis is quite new. In a way the books are, like the Nantucket trilogy, an experiment in mass time travel. Using bits and pieces and salvaged wreckage and memories of the past (including a lot of mythology and folk-memory which has very little to do with the actual historical experience) modern people have to create something new.
And it makes a great canvas for stories!
What would have happened if in 1977, instead of releasing Star Wars, George Lucas released… nothing at all? The science fiction and film worlds would be very different, is what. I detail some of the differences in my FilmCritic.com column for the week. Go and read it and tell the world your own thoughts in the comment. That’s the way it should be. That’s the way it must be.