Today’s the first day of autumn here, and the weather is rainy and gloomy, and temperatures have dropped by more than 25 degrees from yesterday, and yet the crabapple tree right off from our front porch decided to send out a few optimistic blossoms this morning. These blossoms are even more errant than you might expect because the tree they’re on is now largely dead; it effectively passed on this spring, simply a victim of time, and we’ve made arrangements for it to be removed and replaced. So not only are these the last blossoms this tree will offer this year, but the last blossoms it will ever have. It was a good and lovely tree and I want to honor its last efforts at beauty and renewal, and share them with you. Here they are.
Interesting video from the Kurzgesagt folks about whether individual action can make a difference on the climate change front. The short answer is no (no matter how much you as an individual work to decarbonize your personal life, it’s literally a fraction of a drop in the bucket in terms what the total change required would be), and the longer answer is yes (vote out politicians who do not prioritize climate change issues; collective economic and social action will eventually tip the scale).
Of course no one likes it when “No, but also yes” is the answer. But it’s in line with everything I know, and it’s a reminder that the focus for climate change is less on what one does in one’s own individual life, and rather more on what’s to be done to haul the major companies and corporations and economic sectors which account for the vast majority of negative climate change activity into line. More bluntly, it’s less about you and more about Shell and Delta and Tyson Foods and so on, no matter how much they try to put all the responsibility back on you.
I think about this a lot. I live a high carbon life, as it were, and have in the last several years tried to do the work to offset my own footprint by doing the usual things like cutting back on meat and/or buying locally raised meat and produce to lower transport carbon, by making sure our next car is electric, buying carbon offsets for my air and other travel, keeping track of and supporting sustainable initiatives, etc. And obviously I also vote and invest with an eye toward climate policy and initiatives. I do it with full awareness that on an individual level, any personal change will shift things only microscopically here and now, but also with the awareness that a) if I don’t do it today, who will, b) this is all for the long-term. Also, you know. It cuts down my personal hypocrisy load a bit, which is never a bad thing. And also, if we can’t get oil and agriculture and construction and technology and other industrial sectors to massively overhaul, my carbon offsets and local produce will mean diddly.
I’m optimistic that we will move ourselves in the right direction for all of this, but I also know enough about our current and political systems to understand we’re not going to move near fast enough and that the rest of my life, at least, will be spent watching the world be pound foolish for not having been penny wise when it could have. This is pretty much baked in at this point, pun intended. What we’re doing now is finding out how much we’ll mitigate the change that is already here. I’m doing my part, and you should, too. But there’s a whole lot more to it than that.
There are emotions we all experience, because we experience other emotions first. In the Big Idea for Under the Whispering Door, author TJ Klune talks about one of those follow-up emotions, and why it’s so important for the novel.
Under the Whispering Door is, at its heart, a book about the power of grief. No two people experience grief the same way. Whether it be because of our beliefs or the circumstances surrounding why we’re grieving, it’s a unique experience that varies from person to person.
And yet, there is still something universal about it. The loss of a loved one, the loss of an opportunity, the loss of a pet or a life not quite lived the way we wanted, we’ve all been through some form of grief. After all, if you live long enough to learn what love is, chances are you’ll know grief too. If you’re reading this, you’ve probably grieved over someone or something. It’s inevitable.
I think a lot about what might happen to us when we close our eyes for the last time. It’s not because I have an unhealthy fascination with the idea of death, but more because it’s one of the great unknowns, a mystery with no firm answers. No one really knows what happens, at least no one living. Is there something more beyond this life? Is there a Heaven? A Hell? Somewhere in between? Are we judged over every little action we made, the good weighed against the bad? Do people who lived in service of others get a better deal than those who didn’t? Or is there nothing at all? Is this the only chance we get to do anything, and once done, there’s nothing else?
I don’t have these answers. At best, I’m a lazy agnostic, but I think I consider myself that because it’s easier than to believe in one thing specifically, only to be proven wrong. I’m not knocking anyone’s beliefs, whether personal or those found through religion, but I often find myself questioning what comes next, and what it all means. I’d like to believe that we continue on, somehow, and that there’s more that awaits us than we can know in life, but I can’t ever really bring myself to commit to it. My faith is filled with questions that I don’t know how to answer.
But I do know grief. I know the power it has to eat away at you until there’s nothing left but an empty husk. Denial: thinking that this can’t be happening, this isn’t real. Anger: the ranting and raving about the unfairness of it all. Bargaining: I’ll change, I swear I’ll change, we can fix this, I’ll be better, I’ll do better. Depression: that old black dog that bites down and chews you up until you’re in shreds. Acceptance: a ludicrous thing that we must get to because it might mean there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
So many stages of grief, and there’s even more than I’ve listed here. These steps aren’t something everyone goes through, and even if they do, it doesn’t mean there’s a specific order. I’ve bounced from acceptance back to denial at the drop of a hat. I’ve stayed in anger for so long, it becomes all I know. I’ve bargained, making dramatic proclamations that if I get what I want, I’ll do whatever it takes to show that I’ve earned it. Depression? Hell yes. I know that one probably better than all the others, like I’m in quicksand and no matter what I do to try and escape, it only makes me sink further.
I lost my father when I was five. My uncle that same day. My grandfather, my grandmother. Friends, family, pets. A partner taken far too soon, leaving behind a ragged hole where he should be, making me laugh and calling me out for my bullshit. I’ve lost people, good people who didn’t deserve to go when they did. I’m not unique in that regard. Everyone has lost someone. Again, grief is different for everyone, but I think we all wonder what we would do if we had more time. What would we say? What would we ask? What would we do if we had one more day, one more hour, one more minute? Would we hold on just a little bit tighter? Would we say everything we’d kept secret?
I don’t know. It feels like a mantra, that: I don’t know. I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know what I’d do if I had just one more moment with those I’ve lost. I don’t know what I’ll do when it becomes my turn to find out. Will I be brave? Perhaps. Will I be scared? Oh, yes, I think I will be. But I’ll have the answers, then. I’ll know.
Under the Whispering Door was never meant to answer the question of what comes next for us after we die. I wrote this book because I was still wrestling with my own grief, and when I’m lost in such a way, I do the only thing I know how to: I write. And through this story, I found a measure of peace. I found my catharsis, and when I finished, I knew I’d done what I set out to do: I found a reason to believe, to have hope, even if I still don’t know what comes after this life.
There are still days when I’m angry, still days when I’m bargaining or caught in a web of depression. But acceptance comes easier now, and even though I wish things could be different, I can’t do anything to change the past. Even if this is all there is, I want to try and leave this world a little better than it was when I came into it. It’s the least I could do for being able to love as I have, even with all I’ve lost.
And maybe that’s the point. To try. To live and love and grieve, but to still try. What more could anyone ask of us?
Read an excerpt (click the “Read Excerpt” link on the page). Visit the author’s site. Follow him on Twitter.
Tomorrow’s the first day of Autumn up here in the northern hemisphere, and while the persistent cloud cover here in Bradford suggests I will not be able to get a shot of tonight’s sunset to bid the season farewell, I can offer this version of “The Boys of Summer” by Bree Sharp. Enjoy, and welcome, fall.
(is passed note)
Oh, wait, that should be, is definitely clowning around. Well, sort of.
Look, he’s here to explain it all, I’ll just let him do it, okay?
I’m loathe these days to try and give the “big idea” for my books, as all my elevator pitches sound like parodies of proper ones. A Man Lies Dreaming? “Adolf Hitler as a Private Eye”. Central Station? “A science fiction novel where nothing happens”. By Force Alone? “The Matter of Britain as a gangster saga” (OK, that one at least sounded more commercial, I just forgot to mention the Jewish kung-fu and the aliens when I pitched it).
There is something very appealing to me about the inverse-pitch. The absurdity of concepts put together that should never, in truth, be put together can lead to a sort of new illumination, even profundity. Or it can slip on a banana skin and fall head first into a custard pie, of course.
So for The Escapement, I blithely went around telling everyone I was writing a “clown western”. What I didn’t take into account – simply because it never occurred to me! – was that people in publishing really, and I mean really, hate clowns. It turns out it’s not just people in publishing, either. So I would watch publishers edge away and run from the table at what was, after all, yet another ridiculous elevator pitch. You know, the ones that really shouldn’t work.
It becomes a running theme in the book, of course. This hatred of clowns. Their alienation. That uncanny valley. “I cut and I cut, trying to find the answer,” says Professor Federico The Magnificentearly on to the Stranger and Temperanza, standing over the dissected corpse of a Whiteface. “Why aren’t they funny!”
Alone of all the people on the Escapement, it is only the Stranger who has a strange love of clowns. That love might come from the ambiguity of what the Escapement actually is. Is it a secondary world, filled with god-like forces, circuses and bounty hunters, train robbers and clowns? Or is it a projection, an imaginary construct created by a nameless man as he sits by his dying son’s hospital bed?
Perhaps it’s both. I wanted to write a very simple book for once. A linear adventure story. A fantasy without The War on Terror (Osama) or the Holocaust (A Man Lies Dreaming) or Israel and Palestine (Unholy Land). I wanted to write about train robberies and murderous magicians (in the stage performance meaning of the word), of people hanging for dear life from a clock tower like Buster Keaton, of buried clocks still ticking life and of train engines powered by ghosts. Instead I wrote a fairytale about a father searching for a flower to cure his son’s illness. The heart of the Escapement is in that doomed quest. It grew in the telling (as old Professor Tolkien once said) and it became its own thing. So…
Somewhere there’s a place where clowns roam the land and toy trains run along toy tracks across vast distances. It is a place anyone can visit but few do. It is full of hidden dangers, a place where a chthonic bomb could turn the people of a city into pink flamingoes, a place where giant statues roam and circus people flourish. Somewhere out there the Stranger rides in search of the Ur-Shanabi, the Flower of Heartbeat rumoured to grow beyond the Mountains of Darkness. But the road is long, and directions often change on the Escapement. He has been searching for a long time… And somewhere else a father sits by a hospital bed, where a boy with a clown doll clasped in his hands lies hooked up to machines, and the clock on the wall ticks relentlessly.
Welcome to the Escapement, Stranger.
And when the rainy day is a Monday? Well, forget it. He’s just gonna nap through the whole darn thing!
Also, for those of you born after, oh, 1971, who might not get the reference:
There, now you’re all caught up. Hope your Monday was a good one, rainy or not.
Bethesda and Arkane have made some of my favorite video games in recent years, most notably the Dishonored series, which had a delightful balance of worldbuilding and the ability to magically hoist bad guys into the air, all the better to stab them in the neck. When they announced Deathloop, which promised all the stabby joy of Dishonored with a nifty retro sci-fi aesthetic and a wild time-loop mechanic, I was all in. Now that I’ve dived in for about twelve hours worth of gameplay on my PC, I can absolutely say that as a game, it lives up to its advertising and is a whole lot of fun to play. Also, there’s no way you should buy it right now, because getting it to run on a PC is a huge fucking nightmare.
I noted this yesterday on Twitter:
This is not an exaggeration. When I open up the game on Steam, it’ll get to the opening splash screen and then close, throwing up a huge dialog box of crash data. So I open it up again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and eventually if I open it up enough, it’ll work and I can play. Why does it work on the fifth or eighth or eleventh try? Got me. My PC, although not new, is not meagerly specced; it fits the game’s minimum system requirements with some headroom. So that’s not the issue. It’s just temperamental, and when I say temperamental, I mean I’ve discovered that Deathloop has a better chance of opening and being playable if, while I’m firing up the game, I also have Chrome open and am actively scrolling through a Web page. Why? Who the hell knows? I don’t and I imagine neither Bethesda nor Arkane knows, either.
Which, you know, is a problem. I shouldn’t have to rely on janky heuristics and finger-crossing to get a multimillion-dollar, AAA major studio game to open on a computer that fits the game’s minimum specs, and neither should anyone else. Some people are pointing fingers at the game’s DRM system, while others are noting it plays poorly with modern graphics cards, or whatever. At the end of the day, however, a new game should be able to be played out of the (these days virtual) box, or at the very least have a reasonable explanation for why it cannot.
When the game can be played, it’s pretty terrific. As a character named Colt, you wander about a time-looped island trying to figure out how you got there and why another character named Julianna is going out of her way to kill you. Along the way you discover that in order to break the time loop, you have to kill eight “visionaries” (think: level bosses), and you unlock various quasi-magical skills to do it as you go along. The gameplay is fun, the story is compelling, and it’s fun murdering a whole bunch of temporally-locked jerks who are trying to kill you. When it works, it’s probably my favorite game of 2021.
But it doesn’t work enough, and when it does work, it runs the risk of suddenly not working anymore (the latest crash involved the game telling me to “infuse” a weapon I didn’t have, and didn’t give me a way out of the screen it had put up to have me do it, and when I tried to alt-crtl-del my way out, it shut down). Given all the reports on the Internet about Deathloop, I know I am far from the only one having problems with the game on PC (I understand the PS5 version has its own problems as well). The excellent game experience is deeply and terminally compromised by the overall user experience.
Which is why I say: Deathloop on PC is awesome, and I absolutely cannot recommend it. This game needs to be patched waaaay the fuck out before I can suggest that anyone else spend $60+ dollars on it.
Further, game studios should not ship games that don’t work. I bought Deathloop on day one, because as a video game player, Bethesda and Arkane earned some credit for their previous terrific games. But here on out, I’ll be waiting a month or two (at least) before buying any game of theirs on PC, because they can’t be trusted to make a game that runs on day one. That’s bad news for both, since a game that’s not bought on day one has a much better chance of being a game that’s not bought at all. But them’s the breaks, when you ship a broken game.
Sometimes, the killer hook for a thriller isn’t a plot point, or even the first line of the novel, but something else… something that comes even before that. Lee Matthew Goldberg explains in this Big Idea for his latest story, The Stalker Stalked.
LEE MATTHEW GOLDBERG:
The first germ of a Big Idea I had for my novel Stalker Stalked was the title. After writing eight books, none of them summed up the plot so succinctly: What if a stalker finds herself stalked as well?
My last novel The Ancestor had recently come out, a historical thriller about a man who wakes up in the wilderness with amnesia, believing he was frozen in time from the Gold Rush era. It required a lot of research, since a good chunk takes place in the late 1800s. I’d also written it after my father passed away and death really permeates throughout the book. So, coming off that, I needed to write something lighter. I’ve penned Sci-fi and YA too, but I’m most at home writing thrillers, and luckily, the title just popped into my mind.
From there, the novel began to form. My stalker Lexi would be obsessed with reality TV and fixate on the star of a horrible show called Socialites about six rich frenemies navigating the NYC socialite scene, everything Lexi aspires to be. She’s a pharma rep, hawking drugs to doctors, and addicted to Monolopins, little blue pills which she refers to as her “my blue heavens”. After her boyfriend breaks up with her, Lexi’s splits from her own reality: hallucinating and imagining herself as one of the Socialites, with the star Magnolia Artois as her best friend.
But while she’s stalking Magnolia, Lexi begins to see a shadow of a person outside her window, following her on the train, staring at her from across the club. Is it the “my blue heavens” causing these visions, or is someone after her for nefarious reasons? One of her exes, a doctor who knows she’s stolen pills, her best friend Pria, a detective investigating her case, or maybe, Magnolia herself turning the tables? If Lexi wants to survive, she needs to use her own stalking prowess to overcome her pursuer.
After heavy research for The Ancestor, the research for Stalker Stalked was very different. I watched a lot of really terrible reality TV. I wanted to get in the headspace of the self-absorbed people who are on these shows, but also those addicted to them. On TV, a heightened reality is created that’s not entirely fake, but played up for the cameras, all with the notion of keeping eyeballs glued and sponsors happy.
With social media these days, anyone is accessible in some form. It’s how Lexi stalks Magnolia, and how she becomes stalked as well. We put up a shiny version of our lives on display, a sliver of our realities to gain likes and followers. For lonely Lexi, it becomes her means of interacting with the world. It’s something I struggle with as well. As an author, you’re meant to have a social media presence. I’ve had publishers ask how many followers I have to do promotion, and it never seems enough. Gone are the days of a J.D. Salinger or Thomas Pynchon who don’t need to promote their work. We’re required to feed this system now, but at what price?
For Lexi, the journey she goes on in Stalker Stalked is one of self love. How did her past shape her into the needy individual she became, and is there happiness waiting for her at the end? She wants to be noticed so much that she enjoys being stalked. It gives her a purpose, a never-ending cycle where she feels safe and loved. For her to move forward in life, she needs to break this cycle, turn off the TV, cancel her social media accounts, and fully unplug.
Sometimes that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.
Our hibiscus plant nearly died because after keeping it in a heated garage all winter, we replanted it too early in the spring and it got snowed on, so the hibiscus flowers this year have been few and far between. It just makes me appreciate the ones we have gotten. Here’s today’s.
Travel broadens the mind, or so they say, but for Monica Byrne, travel to a particular Central American country did much more than that — and the result was her novel The Actual Star, which (disclosure!) I liked so much I gave it a blurb, and participated into an author Q&A, which you can view at the bottom of this Big Idea. For now, read on as Byrne explains what travel gave to her, and what she did with it.
“Where does your inspiration come from?”
Writers dread getting this question. Don’t feel bad if you’ve asked it—now you know!—and it’s extremely common. Most writers have a stock answer. Some are vague (“everywhere”), some are sarcastic (“the mail”), and some are entire lovely essays (thank you Neil). Whenever I try to answer, I get tongue-tied about how inspiration isn’t really discrete, it’s more like a whole life orientation, and blagghh, what am I trying to say, anyway…
…but now I have my stock answer. It’s one that might surprise you. I’ll tell you how I got it.
Rewind to the day that altered the course of my life: January 21, 2012. It was a Saturday.
I’d been traveling in Belize, in honor of my mother. She’d taught there in her twenties and never got to go back before she died. For me, it was a pilgrimage, worth it even though it had wiped out my bank account. I figured I’d see the places she’d lived, check out the tourist attractions, and probably never return.
Then I signed up for a tour to an ancient Maya site called Actun Tunichil Muknal. I heard from other tourists that the trip would take a whole day, because the cave was deep in the jungle, but they didn’t tell me much else—just that I had to see it for myself. So I showed up the morning of the tour and thought, sure, let’s have a whirl. I’ve seen stalagmites before.
Ten hours later, I emerged from the cave, soaked to the bone, and said to my guide, “I have to come back.”
Why did I feel the way I did? Giddy and choked up, like I was in love? Like I wanted to turn right back around and go back in and press on, deeper into the mountain, farther up that river, and never stop? Especially when the ancient Maya regarded the place as a realm of terror—why was I so happy there? When my group came out of the cave, I felt like my whole body was ringing. Like I was on drugs, or possessed. I was embarrassed at how strongly I felt, and kept lingering in the euphoria, talking to the guides, talking to fellow tourists, going out to dinner and still talking about it to anyone who would listen. It made no sense. I just wanted to go back.
I didn’t know how or when I was going to come back, because I was broke. All I had waiting for me was a handful of freelance editing gigs. But the conviction remained so strong that when I came home, I sat down and bought a plane ticket back to Belize with the last of my savings, before I’d even taken off my shoes.
Nine years later, I’m sitting here writing this on the day The Actual Star comes out. It’s a novel about the cave, yes. But it’s also the story about the origins and destiny of humanity, as told by three brave, vulnerable, fallible people making their way through history, from the collapse of the ancient Maya elites to a far-future utopia. I could never have guessed the full dimensions of what was pushing to come through me, at the time; just that I had to serve it. That feeling became my characters’ feelings: repeatedly, they are overwhelmed by a physical, noetic certainty that they must act upon. In 1012, Ket is overwhelmed by the desire to make a blood sacrifice to help her royal family. In 2012, Javier is overwhelmed with love for a young tourist he’s only known for a day. In 3012, Niloux is overwhelmed by a sighting of Venus that causes her to rethink everything she ever believed. All of these feelings set the course of the book in motion.
And that brings me to my stock answer.
For me, inspiration comes from the body.The body loves what it loves, and it’s my job to follow its wisdom, especially when I don’t understand. Now that I look back at all the things I write, from start to finish, my body is always the instrument by which I measure its rightness. Does this excite me? Does it bore me? Does it resonate? Just…does it feel right? I wish I could be more specific, but the verbal originates in the pre-verbal. I wrote The Actual Star just because my body felt the way it felt in that cave. It took nine years and 160,000 words.
I’m grateful to have learned that so clearly—and to the ones in the cave, who taught me.
The annual reappearance of these particular cereals has arrived. Krissy saw these in a three-pack and assumed I would want them because I eat like a sugar-amped child, and she is not wrong! I do want them. But as it happens when I was an actual sugar-amped child, I don’t think I ever partook in any of these; they just never showed up in my house, in part because my mom was more of a granola-and-Grape-Nuts sort of person. I guess I’m making up for lost time now. Honestly, it’s a miracle I’m still alive.
Ideas come out of anywhere, and for Amanda Jayatissa, the motivating spark of the novel My Sweet Girl came out of being really, really, really annoyed. Hey, whatever works. Here’s Jayatissa to fill you in on the circumstances and what came out of that moment.
If there’s anything this blog has shown me, it’s that big ideas often lurk in the unlikeliest of places. They are sparked by things people have said years ago, inside jokes, thoughts that wriggle their way into your mind and don’t leave you alone. If you’re lucky, that spark will come from something wondrous. If your luck is of a more complex nature, sometimes that spark comes from something unfortunate. As unfortunate as astoundingly poor customer service at a bank.
I was in a bad mood already. I couldn’t help it. I was trudging my way through a disastrous WIP and my dissatisfaction with it colored pretty much everything else in my life at the time. I had woken up late, not had my coffee, was behind on a million mundane tasks, and here was this customer service agent telling me that they’ve “misplaced” my paperwork (again).
Of course, I didn’t make a fuss. I hadn’t been trained my entire life to be anything less than a picture of understanding. I ranted and raged inside my head while I made my way to my favorite coffee shop, and (finally caffeinated) did what most writers would do— I pulled out a notebook and pen and really ripped that customer service agent to shreds. Things I would never say out loud, some things I never even let myself think, were bubbling up to the surface. And after a while of this— my big idea— I was having a blast being angry. Which is how my main character, Paloma, was born.
My old WIP forgotten, I dived into this new voice I had found. A voice where I gave myself permission to think angry thoughts. To give myself a lens to look through situations that I faced myself when I lived in the US, where much like Paloma, I had to wear the mask of the polite, well-mannered model minority, trying not to take up too much space with my big feelings in the white spaces I had been trying to navigate.
And then, the next spark. Most of the thrillers I had read at the time (and I had read many, many of them) didn’t have a protagonist who was like me. Sure, they were mostly women, mostly in their 30s, and always racing against some sinister force before time ran out, but they were always white. And just like Paloma being brown impacted her story, these heroines being white impacted theirs. There was nothing wrong with their experiences. There were just other stories to tell also.
It took me a moment to make my peace with it. That this biting, sassy, layered woman had a story worth telling. That she was fully realized enough to be the Main Character in her story, not just a token exotic beauty, or (shudder) math geek that most brown women play.
Then, what I suppose was the biggest spark of all. It was okay that Paloma wasn’t likable. She didn’t have to do what every other brown woman navigating a white space felt compelled to do and conform to a set of ever-changing rules. Paloma didn’t feel bad for thinking the way she did or for her behavior. She was done with being a model minority. She was ready to step out into the world and take charge of her life. And so was I.
I often get asked if Paloma is me. The answer is no. Probably thanks to years of practicing yoga and a very understanding husband, I don’t have that much anger pent up inside me (until my next visit to the bank, that is). The more honest answer is that my love of green-goddess smoothies and mom jeans makes me exactly the kind of person Paloma would make fun of in her head.
Sometimes it can take a few sparks to ignite a big idea. Sometimes, a big idea can be born out of being really, really pissed off.
I woke this morning to the news that California governor Gavin Newsom has defeated the recall initiative against him, and apparently by a margin large enough that even committed conspiracists can’t make a claim that the vote was tainted with a straight face. Oh, some of them will, because they can’t not, but every time they do they weaken the argument for later by showing that there’s no election result they won’t claim “fraud” for, no matter the circumstances. So on second thought, go right ahead, conservatives, whine that this election was tainted.
Back in the real world, however, the result is not entirely surprising in a state where the Democrats have a 2-1 party registration advantage over the GOP, and where the conservative candidate’s pitch was that he planned to make California more like Florida, where the recent infectious peak of COVID (August 16) was almost four times higher than California, despite the latter state having far more people. “Make California More Infected” turns out not to be the winning slogan GOP folks seem to think it is.
That said, and like every other commentator out there, I would in fact warn people on reading too much into Newsom’s unrecalled status here, with regard to signs and portents about the nation at large. California really is sui generis when it comes to politics, and it’s not like Newsom is universally beloved. The vote to deny his recall had as much to do with Democratic (and Californian) annoyance at the GOP wasting everyone’s time (and Elder being a pro-COIVD dimwit with a shady history) than any referendum on Newsom himself. In my view as a former Californian who spends at least a little time keeping up with my former state’s politics, it was unlikely that Newsom would have been recalled in any circumstance, but if I were Newsom, I wouldn’t be smug about the result. He’s still got fences to mend, and not with the GOP.
The one thing I would take away from this result that I think does have national import is the idea the Democrats remain activated and hyper-aware of GOP electoral shenanigans. One of the reasons this recall was attempted at all was that GOP folks figured that the turnout in a recall election would be low, like any non-presidential year election, but even more so as there was nothing else on the ballot. Low turnout traditionally favors the GOP, because, among other things, the old white people who are the GOP base turn out for every election come hell or high water. But it looks like somewhere in the area of 13 million Californians turned out to vote in the recall, in a state with something like 22 million registered voters. That’s a very solid result for an off-off-year vote, and a reminder that Democrats aren’t taking their votes for granted these days. Hopefully this left-side ambition to vote at every possible opportunity continues through 2022 and beyond.
So, yes, congrats, to Newsom, who shouldn’t get cocky. Good riddance to Elder, although I suspect he’ll try again in an actual election year, which will be good for Newsom’s re-election chances. And as always, folks, remember to vote, each time, every time, no matter what.
Want a kid? Okay, but it’s gonna cost you. And before you say, “Yes, I know, I’ve seen college tuition these days,” read Calder Szewczak’s big idea for The Offset. The cost is something else entirely, here.
Having children might be one of the most cruel things a human can do.
No one consents to being born. It’s a simple fact, but one we don’t talk about all that much. Probably because the conversation is too fraught, too easily hijacked. Reproduction always takes place within a matrix of numerous power imbalances; those of class, race and gender, those instilled by heteronorms and biological norms. In turn, these are filtered through circumstance: accident, abuse, regret, hope. As soon as you lose sight of the contextualising nature of these factors—of the fact that reproduction doesn’t happen in a vacuum—it’s all too easy to find yourself debating who you think deserves full autonomy over their reproductive rights and who does not. The conversation can too easily slide into misogyny (bad) and eugenics (also bad).
So let’s tread carefully, then, and stick to the initial point: that being a biological parent is to enact a very unique sort of power dichotomy that is far from ideal.
Suffering has always been part of existence; disease, destruction and despair the unavoidable side-effects of being alive in the world. Sophocles knew it when he wrote: “What foolishness it is to desire more life, after one has tasted / A bit of it and seen the world; for each day, after each endless day, / Piles up ever more misery into a mound.”
What foolishness it is to introduce children into this world of suffering. We have always known this, yet we have always continued to procreate, making more and more people to undergo the trauma of life. Perhaps it’s because we’re all hopeless optimists, believing matters will improve, or perhaps it’s just because misery really does love company. Either way, the ethics are skewed.
We speak of life as a gift—that to be alive is something to be grateful for—which brings to mind the words of Germaine Greer: “The compelled mother loves her child as the caged bird sings. The song does not justify the cage nor the love the enforcement.” As much may be said of the experience of being alive. Whatever small joys may be derived from living do not themselves justify the creation of life.
In the modern era, of course, with all its medical and technological advances, you might be forgiven for thinking that the good can outweigh the bad, that—given the right circumstances—a child might be guaranteed far more years of stability and happiness than those of precarity and pain. But if that were ever true, it isn’t now. The climate crisis has changed everything.
The children of the next generation are already grappling desperately with how their forebears have all but destroyed the planet on which they must, somehow, find a way to live. Young as they are, they don’t have the comfort of knowing, like their parents and elders do, that (if they’re lucky) they might still die before things get really, really bad. What will these children’s lives be like with global temperatures notching ever upwards? How will they survive? Will they survive? What untold catastrophes will they endure along the way?
Given the likelihood of suffering to come, might it not genuinely have been better for them not to have been born in the first place?
And (whisper it) might that not have been better for everyone else, as well? Because children are part of the problem. More accurately, children of wealthy, developed countries are part of the problem. It’s no secret that having fewer children is by far and above the most impactful way to cut your carbon footprint. Switch to a plant-based diet? That will save you 0.82 tonnes of CO2 per year. Cut out a single transatlantic flight? 1.6 tonnes. Eschew your car in favour of public transport? 2.4 tonnes. But have one fewer child? 7.8 tonnes.
Whichever way you run the numbers, there’s only one conclusion: people are a net loss for the planet. The fewer of us, the better.
Funny, isn’t it, that it all essentially comes back to women’s reproductive rights? That familiar battleground. One could be forgiven for being a little suspicious; suspicious of how responsibility is being apportioned, suspicious of the bottom line being drawn. 7.8 tonnes for a child, but how many tonnes for an oil refinery? Or an eleven-minute passenger flight to the thermosphere?
It is this—the intersection of environmental activism with reproductive rights—that provides the central concern of The Offset. Core to the book is anti-natalism, the ethical view that one ought not to create new people. Although the concept has gained traction in recent years (you may have come across the man who sued his parents for bringing him into the world or various women who have gone on birth strike) it is still not widely discussed and has been rarely examined in fiction, to the point where the world’s foremost anti-natalist David Benatar has said that our book “may be a literary first in giving central place to anti-natalism”.
In creating our anti-natalist society, we knew there were many real-world examples to draw on; horrifying methods, such as one-child policies and forced sterilisation, that have been used at various points across the world to cap fertility rates. But none of these were in keeping with the spirit of anti-natalism, which typically sees individuals freely making a commitment to never reproduce. Accordingly, in our fictional world, any rule of anti-natalism would have to be self-enforcing rather than imposed, something adhered to as a way of life or a cultural practice. The point was not a world where people were prevented from having children per se, just one where few would want to.
So what if every birth had a cost? What if bringing a child into the world meant your own life was forfeit?
There was an appealing balance to that: a life for a life. One in, one out.
Of course, if we were positing a world in which every child still had two biological parents, then there was the small matter of working out which parent would die. For all that we were constructing a dystopian world, we were nevertheless set on creating one that put queerness first. We had already decided upon our main characters: Alix and Jac, a lesbian couple who used ovum-to-ovum technology to have their child, Miri. But we knew that if we mishandled the mechanism of selection, we would still risk reinforcing the heteronormative.
The solution was straightforward. The decision would be given to the children of our dystopia, each of whom, on their eighteenth birthday, would have to pick one of their biological parents to die as a carbon offset for their own life.
And so the mechanism became a reckoning, a way to hand back power to the children (and so, too, the burden). It felt like something that parents and offspring alike could believe in as a resetting of the scales, a righting of a wrong, a restoration of balance. Something, in short, that would be cruel enough to match the cruelty of having been brought into existence in the first place. Of course, few anti-natalists would approve of such a drastic measure—their intent is to reduce suffering, not to increase it. But that is, perhaps, the point: that any attempt to clamp down upon and control reproduction can only ever increase suffering. The critical issue is not how many of us there are, but how we live—specifically, in developed countries. Our only hope is that, in speaking frankly about what it means to create life within the context of the climate crisis, we can, with renewed vigour, once more turn our attention to restoring the world for the next generation.
Another September 13, and another year of Whatever in the (virtual, electronic) books. For the site, an unusual year, in that I was not the sole writer here — through most of it Athena wrote nearly as much as I did (more accurately, I had more posts, but more of my posts were cat pictures and sunsets, so she probably wrote more words). I think that change of tenor was a pretty good thing. Athena is back at school at the moment and we’ll figure out to what extent she’ll be involved here while she’s also doing classwork. Could be a little! Could be a lot! Could be none at all! We’ll see, and whatever it is, that’ll be fine, because she has a life outside this site.
Me? Slightly less so. We still have a plague going on, thank you very much dunderheads who won’t get vaccinated, so despite a couple of memorable forays out into the world, I’m still mostly at home. Whatever continues to be the place where I write out my longer thoughts on the world. In the last year, with the exception of the events between the election and Joe Biden’s inauguration, in which we were living in genuinely historical times, it feels to me I’ve steered away from commenting on politics as much as I normally do, partly because of burnout (who could be blamed for that, honestly) and partly because much of the politics of the moment boil down to “aspiring fascists having performative tantrums” and “literally everybody else,” and that’s not interesting to me to write about. Politics right now makes me cranky, basically, which is why I’ve been putting my political thoughts mostly on Twitter. There I’m cranky in 280 characters or less, and then can immediately follow up with a picture of a burrito or the dog de-sequeakifying some poor stuffed animal. I don’t not write about politics here (go back just a few posts, you’ll see), I just write about it less frequently than I have at other times. That may change in the next year, going into a mid-term election year as we are. We’ll see.
For all that I find Whatever to be a pleasant thing to do, and to have. The last year in particular it feels like it hummed along nicely, as Athena did her writing and posted Big Ideas, and I posted and tended to other things. I especially miss have someone else post up the Big Ideas; it’s not difficult but it takes time, and I’m still posting more of them than I have in years past because book tours and physical appearances are still thin on the ground thanks to the pandemic, and authors need all the help they can get. Perhaps I’ll get an intern (I probably won’t get an intern). Regardless, in the last year it was nice to have it here, doing its thing, often without me.
The funny thing about writing on the site for 23 years is that it seems like the “blogosphere” is coming back around again, it’s just that now we’re calling it “Substack” and “Medium” and “paid newsletters.” Nevertheless the dynamic is still the same: One writes in one’s own space, and people come around to read it (or have it delivered by feed or email). What is old is new again. While I have both Substack and Medium accounts, I am unlikely to turn Whatever into a paid newsletter. I feel it runs against the ethos of Whatever to turn it into a job replacement. I don’t need another job, and I don’t need your money (this way; please buy my books). But to the extent that this new flourishing of personal media begins to pull people away from the Facebook/Twitter/Instagram triopoly of attention, so much the better. I mean, use those sites! I use them too. But then go other places too. Of course I don’t need to tell you this, you’re already here. Tell other people, maybe.
Whatever will, of course, go on. At the moment there is no plan to stop, or to much change how this site works. I write what I want to write here; you get what you get when you come here. That’s been the deal for 23 years and it doesn’t seem likely to change anytime soon, unless I drop dead, which to be clear I have no intention of doing, but which might not be entirely up to me. I like doing what I do here, and there is no reason to stop or change. In a way it’s nice. Fashions come and go, online media empires rise and fall, trends wax and wane, and through it all Whatever is here, doing its thing in its corner. Come around when you like, it’ll be here. Which means I will be here. Welcome.
Australian blogger and science fiction genre commentator Camestros Felapton (not their real name, the pen name is taken from logical syllogisms) has taken it upon themselves to write a fairly exhaustive history of the Sad/Rabid Puppy mess in science fiction lit, calling it “Debarkle” and posting it up on their site on a chapter by chapter basis (you can find it here). It’s still being written but as a practical matter it’s beginning to wind down, as the current installments cover the era where the Pups had stopped actively trying to game the Hugo Awards and had mostly dissolved as an ongoing concern. It’s far enough along that I feel all right looking back at the events recorded in a retrospective fashion without worrying too much about new information popping up.
I’m not going to review “Debarkle” in detail here; suffice to say I think it’s reasonably accurate though with a distinct point of view, a well-sourced but somewhat scattershot retelling of events, and as someone who pops up in the narrative relatively frequently (indeed, there are a couple of chapters about me and my work), it’s interesting to see how I come across from the outside. But reading the history as it’s come along has prompted a few of my own thoughts about the events the narrative covers, and their aftermath. Note well that these thoughts will only be interesting to the extent you both know and care about the events under discussion, and I will assume people reading will know what’s being discussed. Also, these thoughts of mine are in no particular order.
1. It really does seem like so long ago now. The nonsense the Sad/Rabid Puppies (henceforth to be referred to as “the Pups”) perpetrated is largely contained in the years of 2014 – 2016, and while that’s not actually all that long ago — a mere five years since MidAmericon II, where new Hugo nomination rules were ratified to minimize slate nominating, and NK Jemisin won the first of her three consecutive Best Novel Hugo Awards — it feels like a distant memory now, a kind of “oh, yeah, that happened,” sort of event.
There are reasons for that, but I think the largest part has to do with the fact that the Pups, simply and bluntly, failed at every level that was important for their movement. The bifurcated goals of the Pups were to champion science fiction with a certain political/cultural point of view (i.e., largely white, largely conservative), and to destroy the Hugos by flooding the nominations with crap. They did neither very well. Toward the former, the material they slated was largely not very good, and with respect to the latter, the Hugos both still persist and remain a premier award in the field.
Their strategy was bad because it was addressing a problem that largely did not exist and was arrived at in a backward fashion, and their tactics were bad because they exploited loopholes and antagonized everyone who was not part of their clique, activating thousands of dormant Hugo voters against them. They were routed through a simple mechanism for which they had not accounted (“No Award”), and once their slating tactic was blunted by a nomination rule change, they flounced entirely.
When your only track record is that of complete failure, it’s not surprising you don’t have much of an impact. Meanwhile the Hugos have been doing perfectly well, with excellent finalists and winners in most categories, and a wider and more diverse range of authors and creators. Nor are these works or creators obscure, either to fans or the general public; of the six Best Novel finalists for the current year, four are New York Times bestsellers (and commensurately bestsellers on other lists as well), and the authors of the two that are not, have won Hugos and other awards before. The Best Series finalists add a couple more bestsellers and award winners to that stack as well. The Hugos reflect what they are assumed to reflect: What’s interesting, and to varying degrees popular, in the larger field of the genre.
Basically, the post-Pup era has been a golden one for the genre and the award they tried to brigade, and that’s a much more interesting narrative.
2. The authors The Pups put on their enemies lists have done pretty well. This is correlative, not causative, to be sure — nothing the Pups did had much to do with these authors’ critical and commercial successes, and indeed those successes are to some degree why these authors were on the enemies list to begin with — but it’s certainly interesting.
Among the several authors who qualify in this category, I’ll mention two: Me and NK Jemisin. We were particularly favorite targets of the various strains of Pups, who liked to declare that we were nowhere as popular as we were made out to be, that various politically correct forces in publishing and fandom were responsible for our successes, that the fix was in regardless of whatever tripe we published, that our actual sales numbers were terrible, and so on. Along with that was a lot bigoted nonsense; the Pups spent a fair amount of time attempting to devalue my masculinity (among other things it was simultaneously hinted that I was gay and dominated by my wife, which is a nice trick if I do say so myself), and the nonsense I got was nothing compared to what was aimed at Jemisin, a black woman.
Fast forward to 2021 and… well, I’m certainly doing just fine these days, in terms of sales, awards and career opportunities. As for Jemisin, she’s inarguably the most important speculative fiction writer of her generation (note: I’m in her generation), a MacArthur Genius Grant recipient, and currently writing scripts for the upcoming big studio adaptation of her Broken Earth trilogy. Oh, and both of us are Hugo finalists this year. Now, sure, the Powers That Be may have simply decided to really go all in on faking our respective successes over the last half decade, but the simpler explanation is that, rather than being propped up by The Politically Correct Man, we’re actually good at what we do and we’re savvy enough, business-wise, to catch a wave swelling beneath us. If the Pups have shown us anything, it’s that you can’t simply brigade questionable material to success. There has to be quality there.
3. The Pups have largely not benefitted commercially from their actions. During the course of the Pup nonsense, I was made aware that at least some of the industriousness of a couple of the prime movers was the belief that the noise and controversy of their actions would help drive sales, perhaps through curiosity about the work and perhaps out of the adage that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Some of the more obscure Pups hoped to become less obscure, and the ones who were already comfortable perhaps thought they might move up a rung or two on the ladder.
And, five years later… not really? The best case scenario sees the most popular Pups more or less at the same level of sales and popularity as they were when the nonsense started; they were not hurt by it because they already had their fan bases, contracts and distribution, and their fan base was either sympathetic to their Pup positions, or didn’t know and/or care.
(The latter, incidentally, is important to note; the Pup nonsense really was inside pool and few people not deeply committed to the genre knew much about it. Almost no one in the larger world would (or does) know or care much about an internecine struggle involving the mechanics of a genre award. Bestselling writers are so because they can draw in readers outside of the relatively small base of established SF/F fandom. They weren’t going to be substantially hurt by the Pup antics.)
With that said, the relatively small base of established SF/F fandom can be important for new, struggling and midlist authors, and “new, struggling and midlist authors” describes a fair number of the Pups. I don’t think those authors did themselves any favors alienating fandom, both in actions and in their characterization of fandom at the height of the nonsense, and (for some of the more traditionally established and published authors) by associating themselves and their personal brands with actual hateful bigots. Of the main Pups who were not bestsellers before the nonsense, none of them as far as I can see have really broken out since, in terms of sales and popularity. They’re no longer new, just midlist and/or struggling. They’re not gone — lots are still publishing — but five years on, any benefit they might have gotten from the nonsense is well over and done, and there’s not much record of any benefit.
The one silver lining, perhaps, is that as time goes on the Pup events will become even more obscure than they are today, and there will be a generation of fandom that neither knows much about it, nor care about it if they do. So they have that going for them, which is nice.
4. Even if it had succeeded, the Pup nonsense was futile; the genre had already changed. To the extent that the less malignant Pups had a strategy at all, it missed the realities of the publishing world. Even if the Hugos had lacked a “No Award” mechanism and some of their work walked away with rockets, it wouldn’t have changed what was being published in science fiction and by whom… and who was buying it. Brute-force manipulation of award results, at best, devalues the award itself. But awards, while nice and occasionally useful, aren’t actually hugely significant to the bottom line of publishing. Acquisitions and sales are.
What the Pups missed (or, if they did not miss, at least severely misunderstood) was who is acquiring genre work these days and who is buying it. Hint: it’s not all straight white dudes, and indeed, it may not even be majority straight white dudes anymore. The legions of associate-to-senior editors in publishing right now and in the last decade are more diverse than they’ve ever been, less white, less male, more queer… and with a hellaciously passionate work ethic and a damn fine eye for material. They didn’t necessarily come up through “traditional” science fiction. Lots of them came up through YA or from other genres, and developed their own personal canon of works that may or may not have included “classic” SF work. When they bought work, they didn’t just buy for the audience that SF/F books were assumed to address. They bought for the audience they wanted to bring into the field. They did it in book publishing, and in short fiction publishing as well.
And guess what? It fucking worked. The Pups liked to assert, without much in the way of evidence, that “New York Publishing” was and still is on its way out (which would not be great for them, as the major publisher in the Pup space, based in North Carolina as it is, nevertheless is distributed and put into stores through a New York publisher). Someone should have told that to New York publishing, particularly its science fiction and fantasy imprints; they’re doing just fine. And not only fine: they’re minting more bestsellers and bringing in more readers to the genre and being a larger part of the cultural conversation than they have done before. Likewise, short fiction publishing features more diverse material and storytelling than ever before. Genre literature is finally catching up to where the genre is in other media, in terms of popularity and influence — in large part, I would argue, because the doors are open wide to a larger base of readers and writers.
By the time the Pups noticed this, in their profoundly negative way (not “hey, the field has more and different people in it” but “I’m not winning awards which should be mine, for reasons, waaaaaah“), it was already too late. The more diverse associate-to-senior editors were already in place, working like hell, and their books were already selling and finding and expanding audiences. The Pups didn’t think this stuff was selling, I suspect because they certainly wouldn’t read it, which is a monumental self-own. But it was selling, and is selling, and a lot of it is terrific. And a fair amount of that terrific stuff is now on the bestseller charts and in the award finalist lists.
Yes, yes, but what about the straight white man? Is there a place for him in the science fiction literary culture now? I mean, yes (waves), and even if you consider my straight white male credentials suspicious in some way, there are plenty of other examples — including the Pups themselves, who again are still publishing away, albeit in some cases not with the notability they felt they were entitled to. We straight white dudes show up in bestseller and award lists, still. We just share them more now.
This was already happening when the Pups finally noticed. And by the time they noticed, it was already too late. The genre had changed. It wasn’t just about them anymore, or more accurately, they could no longer assume that it was just about them anymore, as they had done before.
5. The Pup movement is what entitled mediocrity looks like. Which is not to say that the Pups were (or are!) uniformly mediocre writers. Some of them had gotten on to finalist lists on their own steam with their stories and prose, and got decent-to-glowing reviews for their work, and of course sold from all right to very well indeed. But fundamentally the Pup movement was about resentment: Resentment about not winning awards. Resentment about sharing the genre with others. Resentment about having to compete, and being outcompeted. Resentment that had they started their careers 20 years earlier, they might have had more acclaim and baubles. Resentment that says that if you can’t have the success you want, exactly how you want it, then you are entitled to make sure no one else has it either; that you would rather burn something to the ground than to have someone else get it.
At the end of the day, everything about the Pup movement was “I can’t compete, I don’t want to compete, and also, I shouldn’t have to compete, the whole set-up is inherently unfair, so I’m justified in wrecking it.” And that line of thinking is the product of mediocrity, whether or not the prose in question is fine and fair. I don’t know whether that can be fixed, or whether the Pups want to fix it at this late point. Five years on, however, it doesn’t much matter.
On the same day that “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was officially released as the first single off of Nirvana’s Nevermind album, September 10, 1991, I started my first post-college job: Film critic and feature writer for the entertainment section of the Fresno Bee. I had done freelance work before — indeed, I paid for a lot of my senior year of college by writing for the Chicago Sun-Times and New City magazine — but September 10, 1991 was the start of my full-time paid career as a writer. Since that day 30 years ago now, I have never not been a professional writer; it has always been the way that I supported myself and my family. At this point, three decades in, I can’t imagine doing anything else for a living. I suppose I’m stuck, now. You may imagine I am all right with this.
Thirty years on I do not have the writing career I thought I would have when I started out. I’ve said this before and I think people disbelieve me, but: I had no intention of being a novelist, or, at the very least, I assumed that if I were to write novels, that they would be a nice occasional side hustle. What I hoped for at the time — and what I assumed would be the case — is that I would write for newspapers all my life. The gig at the Fresno Bee would lead to gigs at other newspapers, and eventually I would land up at the New York Times/Washington Post/Los Angeles Times/Chicago Tribune as a daily columnist, riffing off local and world events like idols such as Mike Royko or Molly Ivins. Twenty-two-year-old me fully expected an entire career of daily deadlines and 800-word bursts of opinion.
And, I’m not going to lie, part of me is sad I didn’t get that life. Not too sad, because, well. Hello, welcome to Whatever, which I have been writing at for twenty-three years come Monday. But I loved working at newspapers when I was there; loved coming into the newsroom and seeing and talking other reporters and writers, loved having to have everything in by 3pm, loved the whole life of it. In 1991 there was little indication just how quickly that mode of work and storied kind of job would be outmoded, outsourced and outdated, and it’s kind of a tragedy. We are not better as a nation for having our local newspapers being a half or third of what they used to be in terms of writers and editors (if they still exist at all), and taken over by hedge funds who starve the papers and squeeze their staff. We can say it was inevitable once the Internet became a thing, but I don’t think that’s it. Choices were made, large and small. Not the best choices. I miss what newspapers were, and call me silly, but I hope one day there’s a way for them to come back.
So I didn’t get that life. The life I did get, I think, is better for me. Since 2001 I’ve been writing in the same northwest corner of the office that is in the northwest corner of my house, in a village of 1,800 people in Ohio. From that one same spot (plus occasional laptop travel) have come over thirty books, split between novels and non-fiction, plus thousands of other bits of writing: blog posts, reviews, newspaper and online columns, scripts and script notes, newsletters and corporate consulting. A lot of it done in a bathrobe, with pets sleeping in the office whilst I type. That life has seen me go all around the country and world to talk about my writing, to sign books and meet people, and to make friends that I would likely have never met if my life had gone to the plan my 22-year-old self had imagined. It’s gotten me published two dozen languages around the world, won me awards (including the Hugo, the one award that young me absolutely would have geeked out about), and, as a bonus, made me a decent amount of money to support myself and my family.
This has been a good life and career, and I’m happy to have gotten this one, out of all the possible ones I could have gotten. I think I would have been happy in the life I had planned at 22. I think I’m happier in the life I have now.
30 years of writing professionally is a long time, and it doesn’t feel like that long at all. Realistically I can hope for another twenty years of it; I wouldn’t mind getting another thirty. I’ll keep at it; honestly at this point I’m not qualified for anything else. The good news is, I still like doing my job, and doing it mostly every day.
And that’s the very best thing: To love what you do and to keep wanting to do it. I love my job, and love writing to all of you in this northwest corner of this northwest room in my little Ohio town. Thank you all for letting me have this life so far. I’ll keep at it, and look forward to what happens from here.
In point of fact, these days on 9/11 I don’t tend to think about it much at all, which is I think a healthy thing. It was a national shock and tragedy, and we are still living with many of the things it set into motion. But the day itself was twenty years ago now, and as with every grief, it fades with time. It’s not forgotten by me but I also don’t use it as an excuse to retraumatize myself. Today is a day for remembrance, not for refreshing the pain of the day.
Because it’s the 20th anniversary, and we tend to attach importance to round numbers, some people seem to want to use the day as a cudgel. In the run up to the day I’ve seen a lot of memes berating other folks for not being in, I guess, an appropriate state of reverence for the day. Most of these I found, of course, on Facebook, the home of amateur psyops (and of professional psyops made to look amateur enough to be shared). This caused me to write a post, which I will now share here:
Folks, reposting memes that pre-emptively shame people for having forgotten 9/11 is kind of a shitty move, and more or less an update of the “I bet people won’t repost this” meme dynamic that is so very deeply annoying and manipulative. I assure you that anyone who was alive and cognizant in 2001 has not forgotten the day. They will remember it in their own way. May I suggest you let them do so without further editorial comment, pre-emptive or otherwise, on how they choose to do it.
And indeed, I remember the day. I know where I was and what I was doing and what I was feeling through the whole thing. It doesn’t make those thoughts and emotions and memories any less real not to revisit them on an annual basis like the stations of the cross. It’s okay to let them lessen and subside and to let time do the thing it does. But if you do want to revisit them — if that’s you’re way of dealing with the day — then that’s fine too. Do what you need to do for the day. Try not to judge how others do the same.
Here’s how I plan to spend this 9/11: As if it were an ordinary Saturday, which, god willing, it will be. I plan to go into town with Krissy and do a little shopping. She’s out of coffee, and we need to buy a set of trash cans with lids and foot pedals because Charlie likes to graze out of our current trash baskets as if they are a buffet, which is kind of gross and makes a mess. I will remember the day — I’m remembering it now, after all, here, with you who are reading this — and I will also live my life within the day. Both the remembering and the living are important. The country came to a stop one day, twenty years ago. It’s all right to keep going now.
A confession: I meant to post this stack of new books and ARCs last Friday, but then I was at Dragon Con, and I was… busy. So: Here they are now! What here in the stack looks interesting to you? Tell us all in the comments.