Saturday, July 22, 2017

The Targaryen Infestation

There are spoilers on the Internet.  I hear rumors.  But I've avoided them, and what you get here are a few quick writerly thoughts on the eve of GOT's second episode:

Euron needs a gift for the Queen, and more importantly, he needs credentials as a potent dramatic device.  My first instinct was that he would nab Tyrion, but that would be hard to work and premature for the story arc, and no sensible animal would take on the three dragons this early in the season.  No, he's off to Dorne to be cruel to women, bringing back those guilty of killing Cersei's daughter.

Likewise, if Jaime could conquer the high castle with Crazy Mom and Spectrum-Disorder Boy, then two of their enemies are killed.  Less salary, fewer characters.  Always good when your money machine is nearing its last days.

Little Arya looked awfully sweet, eating rabbit and shopping for good manly faces.  (But I wish they had a little more budget to show the full transformation of a body when the face goes on, and off.  Walter F. was much bigger than her, and she doesn't dress in old-man hands either.) 

I have no good idea how to bring Bran and his ultimate knowledge into the story line.  The boy can go everywhere and everywhen, which makes him into the ultimate Google Photos app.  A ten minute monologue could pretty much put everyone in their place.  So yeah, I think he's intriguing, but a far more dangerous weapon than dragons for the writers to deploy.

The Targaryen of the North meets the Targaryen with dragons.  A thousand years of waiting for that moment may be surprised by the outcome.  Which won't be love, I suspect.

Cersei talks of a thousand-year dynasty for her and her brother.  I think we should take her at her word.  She has a very competent physician on staff who can animate poisoned, mostly dead warriors.  Why not make the twins immortal?  Because that would be the final push that would make Jaime kill her?

Who are Targaryen's themselves, I suspect.

The Ice King has to become more compelling than a blizzard with spears.  He needs a voice and a culture and the purest of agendas.  If he is to become a suitable nemesis for the final season.

Daenerys won't win, but that's why we spent so much time at Slaver's Bay.  That's where she should rule out her lifetime.

Jon won't win.  He's too good/weak to be the king, and he doesn't have the hunger, and besides, he's fighting the more important war in the north.  If he survives, he'll live out his days doing infrastructure work on the Wall.

The Hound kills the Ice King.

Jamie sits on the throne.

No, Tyrion.

No, Tyrion is at Dragon Bay.  Littlefinger sits on the revamped throne.  Although he should be on Arya's list.  Which, by the way, Bran's time-tripping could point that girl at a lot of worthy targets.

So who rules?


Unless of course the unthinkable happens.  An election with a Prime Minister named Lord Varys.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

How to write the next civil war

Our household subscribes to the Wall Street Journal.  That's because my wife is a lifelong journalist and works in Communications, and if those aren't reasons enough, I enjoy reading newsprint at the breakfast table.  The NY Times and Washington Post live on my phone.  But the Journal not only has a distinct point of view, there's also the rich selection of articles on subjects that I didn't know I wanted to know about, until I turn the next page.

The above article is an interview with Allen Guelzo, director of the Civil War Era Studies Program at Gettysburg College.  Our nation today is divided.  That much is a given.  But the 1850s and 60s were worse, and according to at least one historian, we aren't on the brink of civil war.  Read it if you can get past the barricades.  And keep in mind that I found the historian's professorial calm to be reassuring.

But you aren't a genuine SF writer unless you can see the wrong inside a learned, well-reasoned argument.

There is a regional quality to today's pain, but no, it's not nearly as distinct as it was in 1860.  Trump and the Right have their neighborhoods and districts, and in some cases, full control of certain states.  For instance, Nebraska is decidedly Republican, save for parts of Omaha and Lincoln.  But it's difficult to imagine organized armies forming at any mutually agreed-upon border, wearing uniforms punched out--I assume--by Vietnamese garment makers.  No, the civil war that I'd write about is much more chaotic and silly, arbitrary and hard to control.

The succession of most of our slave states triggered the first civil war, and just as important, Lincoln's determination to stop this bullshit.

What would be a comparable ignition event for the 21st century?  If I was writing the novel, my guiding guess would involve the Federal Government being "captured" by the other side.  Left or Right, that choke hold would inflame passions and cause those on the outside to organize and arm themselves.  (If they don't have munition caches already.)

Actually, this sounds rather like the last ten years, doesn't it?

In that atmosphere, the next war might start with small sparks.

In the 1850s, congressmen battled with congressmen on the chamber floors.  That was something read about in newspapers, I assume.  But not seen by the nation.  What if we saw live feeds where Ted Cruz and Chuck Schumer traded body blows?  Think of the noise on Facebook.  Imagine a million family gatherings where the same caustic feelings were happy to bloom.

That story might be served best as bleak and small-scale black comedy.

Or the spark and subsequent firestorm might be enormous.  The Left is eager for the 2018 mid-terms.  But what if their opponents cooked the books, retaining control over every branch of government?  Even better, what if our ties with Putin became official and obvious?  There's a notion worth a full scenario.  The United States leaves NATO and signs a mutual-protection pact with Russia.  Ludicrous to imagine, sure.  But jump back twenty years and look at today.  What about our world doesn't look deeply peculiar?

So that's how the nation finally splits.  Cities against the farms.  The coasts against the interior.  Not armies marching, no.  But terrorists and malware and shutting down power plants and water, and chaos, and nobody holding any genuine authority.

Novels never write themselves.  A fact that has slowed down my production by a factor of a thousand.

But history does write itself, every moment, and let's hope our futures don't flow the easy route into anarchy.

Friday, June 30, 2017

Face Bleeding

My wife and I were eating breakfast this morning when Leslie found herself caught in a quagmire.  Called Facebook.

The liberal vanguard of my family was raging about the latest Presidential controversy.  (This doesn't have to be a date-specific post, since mayhem seems to be a daily occurrence.  But in this case, I'm talking about "face-bleeding.")  The conversation's hope of hopes was that this would be the final insult that would lead to impeachment, or something.  Which would be a great victory for their tribe and maybe the nation too.  Or at least I assume that was the heart of the messages.  Leslie was trying to ignore the beeping phone, and I was reading the Times on my phone.

You know, people really do love their stories.  Which is why we get ourselves into so much trouble, and more importantly, why we can never quite get out of our messes.  Trump is a villain to many, yes, and an embarrassment to the nation, and a threat to the future of humanity.  No doubt about any of that in my mind.  But he's a villain with millions who believe his story.  And he's also obvious and ineffectual and surprisingly weak-willed.  Meanwhile impeachment will be a very slow business.  When this chapter ends--and I hope it can end without catastrophic suffering--someone else will conquer the Oval Office.  Pence?  An ideologue who might not survive the Russian intrigues or having dinner with women other than his wife.  Paul Ryan?  No man woman or computer software with a boner for Ayn Rand should be allowed near the highest office.  After that?  Orrin Hatch, I believe.  Which says something.  I mean, when in my life have I ever imagined that President Orrin Hatch would be good news?

My advice is not to waste much hope for an early end to President Trump's clumsy reign.  In part because I am a writer, and there will be more chapters, and there's no end to the shit that can happen.  There are legions of people and well-funded causes that still stand behind the man.  But more to the point, they never stop telling the same few stories to themselves.  Maybe they're standing a few steps farther back now, sure.  But still, their outrage is like cruise missile attacks.  This is wrong, he shouldn't have done that.  The man is learning as he goes, and so on.

There's another Trump somewhere, shrewder and far more capable.

And standing against him?  A political party that cannot seem to make three good decisions in a row.  That spends millions getting beaten in the wrong campaigns, and that still, despite evidence of a growing mandate, can't find the voice or vigor to support far more progressive ideals.

The next Trump will be very much like our Trump:  The elected leader of the Confederate States of America.  But there isn't going to be an old-style civil war.  If violence erupts, it won't be pretty like it was in the 1860s.  No uniforms.  No neat borders.  No Battle Hymn of the Republic.  The military leaders on both sides will not have gone to school together, and there won't be an ending written in the noble language of treaties and exhaustion.

No, our next civil war will belong to Facebook, chaotic and full of beeps while you're trying to eat your Raisin Bran.

Friday, June 16, 2017

Giving up SFWA

June is when I traditionally renew my membership in the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America.  But this year, for the first time in approximately three decades, I plan to pass.

SFWA is older than the vast majority of its members, and for good reason.  For a certain kind of author, the venerable organization has accomplished quite a lot.  I'll even say that each newly-minted professional should pony up the dough, feeling proud about his or her inclusion in the club.  But for three years only.  Of maybe seven years.  No investment should turn into an annuity for the organization receiving your money.  After the initial honeymoon, the author needs to look hard at  benefits and costs, and if the gains are inadequate, then those funds should be shipped somewhere else.  To your website, to a new Chromebook.  To the rice and beans that you'll need over the next couple weeks.

I'm not using SFWA.  And sure, that underscores my limits as a professional.  I don't nominate works or vote on the Nebula ballot.  I'm miserable at networking, and I certainly don't haunt the websites associated with SFWA.  From conversations with colleagues, I imagine that there's quite a lot of chatter going on day and night.  Writers are battling over politics and the value of recent works, they make or lose friends with a single posting, and if some of these people spent as much fuel on their own work, they would have quite a bit more work.  But I don't involve myself with any of that, because I don't see any way to win at this game.

The SFWA suite at conventions.  That's the most tactile benefit accrued from my membership.  For years, there was no better place to meet other writers for the first time, and hear rumors, and culture the image that I belonged to a small organization that had some power inside a small corner of the shrinking publishing universe.  But the last several conventions have proved less than satisfying.  Some of the friends aren't coming to WorldCons anymore, shouting at strangers is less fun than it used to be, and not being involved with the on-line scene puts me at a deep disadvantage.  But mostly there's the problem that I don't have plans to attend any future conventions.  Which kind of makes the free pop and chips to be less of enticement than it used to be.

Good old days.  For me, the glory time in SFWA was in the late '80s, early '90s.  News came in the form of small cheap and charming booklets filled with minutes from meetings and letters from disgruntled writers.  Harry Harrison was a fountain of angry noise, constantly complaining about how we were idiots to work for so little and we were ruining the business.  There were always a few angry letters, and that's what I adored.  Drama.  The taste of discord.  Which is the last thing that the Internet can supply.  A taste.

SFWA can help with publisher troubles.  But I don't have many publishers, certainly none that my agent isn't suited to handle.

SFWA manages to fill its offices, but those ballots are barely more interesting than the Nebula ballots.  One candidate for every post, and maybe the wild card that nobody wants.  Which is understandable, since being an officer sounds thankless and occasionally grim.

The Nebula is a major award.  Ideally, the best works should be found and every voter should read everything nominated and vote only for the finest reasons.  But we don't and don't and don't.

Years ago, I was called by a fellow writer who wanted my vote.  It was a pretty ballsy act, I thought at the time.  And ever since.  I don't remember which way I went with my vote.  But the poor fellow didn't win, and I heard that he was furious after the award ceremony, complaining about all the butt-kissing that didn't pay off in the end.

Friends vote for friends, and that means everything in a club with a few hundred avid voters.

If I was Emperor of SFWA, I'd start a 5-year moratorium on the Nebula.  Nominate nothing, vote on nothing.  Then relaunch the trophy by judging the works still available five years after their first publication.  That gives the world time to assess, and what seemed valuable and wise in the past may have vanished altogether.  Or it's genius has only grown.

But even if this is a good idea, it won't happen.  If any President makes such a creatively radical proposal, he or she will be the first SFWA president to be cooked and served in the suite at the next WorldCon, alongside the chips and dip and little green florets of broccoli.

And maybe that's the best reason to give up on SFWA.

It's not half as creative as it believes itself to be.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Giving Up LOCUS

Until very recently, I paid 10 dollars each month for my own locker at the local YMCA.  Which I assume isn't very much money for a full-sized locker in a typical downtown health club.  But I also had a second locker that comes free with membership.  It's big enough for shoes and toiletries and the long basket holding my smaller treasures, and because my Y happens to be the oldest, smallest, and least important child in our local family of Ys, there's a considerable shortage of members.  A lot of the old guys are missing.  Which means an abundance of empty lockers labeled "Day Lockers."  Respectable volumes of cheap, lockable metal that can be had for nothing, and why am I paying 10 dollars a month?

Well, I gave up that fat-cat indulgence.  For now, the windfall is being spent giving the family commercial-free Hulu and CBS All Access.  Although once SURVIVOR is done, the CBS service may vanish.  At least for the summer.  At least until Star Trek arrives.  Which is another 10 bucks that has to be added to the family's monthly budget.

My growing need for frugality:  Here is a topic for quite a few blogs.  But I promise that I won't keeping talking about stashing my spare underwear and socks.


LOCUS MAGAZINE is considered a linchpin of SF and Fantasy.  And I've let my subscription lapse twice.  The first time came when I was a frustrated young writer.  I'm sure that I was partly motivated by saving money.  But what I remember best is the monthly frustrations, how this semi-pro journal would come to me, its only purpose to remind me about all the great book deals out there, and the young faces who were doing better at the job than I presently was.

Eventually I returned to the magazine, and I remained loyal for decades.  During that span, one of my stories won a Hugo, others were nominated for the usual major awards, and some little prizes too.  LOCUS reviewed my novels, and my stories were reviewed, and I can't complain about any critical opinions that disappointed me.  This is the game.  The critic reads too much and too quickly, and then he or she is paid for what they think, and I have zero right to take exception to anything.  Or for that matter, claim too much pride in anyone else's praise.

I was interviewed once in LOCUS.  Charlie Brown hit me at the end of a long convention, and I felt like shit and nervous, and I don't think either of us had much fun.  But my main takeaway is what the late Jim Turner told me afterwards.   When my interview was published, my photo was framed and set on the wall of another author, a woman with a reputation.  "The way they treated you on the cover," he said.  Or words to that effect.  "You should yell at them until their ears bleed."  Or something like that.  This was years ago, and Jim wasn't long for the world.

In brief, this is my relationship with the PUBLISHER'S WEEKLY of my small field.

I've let my subscription lapse again.  Money is part of the story.  But this time around, it felt more as if the yearly fee was short of value.  An annuity given to former associates who were never all that involved with me.  The typical issue would mean reading a few of the general news articles.  From those, I gathered that the industry seems unhealthy, and I don't just mean in terms of sales and numbers of readers.  Publishing houses are few, and they act scared.  Booksellers are few, and only one of them is successful.  (I'm looking at you, Seattle.)  I would feel more invested in this magazine if there was an editorial component to the writing.  But I don't recall seeing those articles.  LOCUS has never had the resources for real in-depth reporting.  It is a home for press releases, and for long, long lists of books that I never intend to read, and there's chatty news about editors who I will never meet, and foreign news that might be important to me, but how can I tell what matters?  And since we're living in a science fiction world, the big breaking stories can be found on the LOCUS website and around the Internet.  Why bother with another 20th century magazine?

I gave up LOCUS a little more than two years ago.  They did have one window to win me back.  When the Hugo controversy was at its height, I could have bitten on a source that had a strong-minded, entertainingly offensive editorial tone.  You know, a voice that would say, "This Puppy group is so fucked up that we should burn science fiction and start the fuck over again with a new name and a freshly scrubbed aspect."  I want a controversial voice that would do anything to win a much larger audience.  Because there was a brief moment when the larger world gave a shit about the Hugo.  Suddenly people who didn't care about the best novelette or short-form dramatic work were asking me about the award and the general business of SF writing.  LOCUS could have turned itself into that large smart voice that the New York Times and Huffington would regard as first on the list to call whenever any controversy broke.  If I was in charge, I would have given it a shot.  And when I failed, which is almost certain, I would have retired, handing the keys to whoever was standing closest.

I don't even glance at the LOCUS website daily.  When I do, my first task is to see who has died.  My second job is to look for the next interesting controversy.  I used to read the website's short-fiction reviews, and I'll admit that's because there have been nice things said about my stories.  But they don't have any resident critic anymore, and I certainly wouldn't want the job.  Eating thousands of stories a year, and from every publication and would-be website...that's a tough trail to walk...

When I do glance at the website, I see that science fiction and fantasy and horror are extremely good at the production and polishing of awards.

This is what my old business has come to.  People giving each other trophies.

So yeah, I stopped taking LOCUS.  And I've mostly stopped reading reviews of anyone's work, particularly my own.  Those two actions have freed up time in my day, and maybe that's the central reason behind most of my decisions at this point.

Time is short.

I've got work that needs to be done.

Saturday, May 13, 2017

Hand to the Heart

As a rule, and I mean as a tough, never-compromise-your-principles rule, I avoid placing my hand to my heart during the National Anthem.  Nor do I sing along or cast loving eyes at the rippling flag.

If people give me guff, I ignore them.

Or tell them that I'm Canadian.

But if someone persists, asking where this policy comes from, I'm prepared to explain that all of it is hollow posturing.  Paying your taxes and fervent respect the Bill of Rights.  Those are duties more important to the nation and its people than any quasi-religious event.  Which won't satisfy many in the audience, I know.

"But Bob, can't you put your feet in both boots?  Pro-BofR and pro-jingoism?"

Actually no, I don't think these are compatible faiths.  A feeling that comes in part from the obvious disgust of others.  While I act as if I'm dissing the stars and stripes, many of those in the hand-to-the-heart crowd are watching me, hoping to see my head explode.

Last year, for the first and probably only time in my life, I went to a NFL game.  Jingoism on steroids.  Servicemen and women were honored, because this is what you do when not enough citizens question the wisdom behind dangerous missions, or even the premise that soldiers stationed in foreign lands actually make Kansas safer.  Good Americans are supposed to bring out flags and beer and crisp uniforms and more beer, and to some degree, they feel happy because they aren't going into battle.  Because hopefully their kids won't have to either.  Although sure, a few of them have fought in a war, or they have lost a daughter or son.  But if that's the case, I doubt that a single fly-over by fighter jets puts any mind at ease.

And shall I mention the irony of a game that looks like ritualized war serving up an easy, deeply conditioned symbolism?

These last few months have helped my mood.  American actions and inactions are only increasing my commitment about keeping my hand away from my heart.  Watching my home take sides, and in particular, being reminded daily that different regions have very different politics, I find myself turning anxious in ways I never thought possible.  The remnants of the Old Confederacy were instrumental in electing the President and many of the Republicans in Washington.  Kansas City sits very close to the Rebellion from two centuries ago  And it doesn't very little imagination to picture America dividing in two unequal parts, then happily marching against one another.

And yes, each side with stars blazing on the flag.

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Poor Korea

I'll begin with several admissions:  I am not Korean.  And I am not in a position to coax either Korea to move in any particular direction.  My father was a veteran of the Japanese-American War, and that experience was so fulfilling that he spent the Korean War cleaning latrines in North Carolina.  Or at least that's the story fed to me as a boy.  But as I say, I have no significant ties to the peninsula, or for that matter, to Japan.  I've read histories and I think Inchon was lucky hubris and the Chinese didn't so much catch us by surprise as they came across the Yalu when we had our eyes firmly closed.

North Korea is facing an onslaught of a super-industrialized nation.  But tough people know that civilization is frail, and nukes are knives ready to be used against weak necks.  An illustration:  One sharp proposal that I read some years ago--I don't recall where--had the North Koreans launching a big rocket.  The payload would be a dirty nuke that would have only one goal.  Make space.  Then it detonates a few hundred miles above the Earth, and the debris and radiation spread, doing their worst.  Low-orbit satellites are rarely hardened against this kind of abuse.  Entire networks of satellites would fail, and humans on the space station would have to come home, and we'd loose GPS and communications.  Sure, yes, North Korea would be struck hard as a consequence.  Our man in charge is a man of action, and he gets particularly pissed when anyone perceives him as weak.  But it's sobering to realize that one bomb can cost trillions of dollars.

But what if I was in charge of Crazed Korea?  Here's my  strategy.  Purely mine, I think.  (Writers are never sure what they've stolen from others.  Or we are sure, and we choose not to mention the crimes.)  Missiles are problematic weapons.  A couple dozen nukes, and possibly only a few are small enough to be carried over the ocean.  No, what North Korea needs to do is dig holes.  Ambitious holes, but not outrageously deep.  They should tunnel into the south slopes of little mountains near the DMZ.  Pick mountains with strong bones.  Give the tunnels angles, like a cannon barrel, and then pack them with nukes and the usual foul wastes that come with reactors working overtime.  And then like every evil character in a Bond movie, they need to monologue.  Explain to the world that if they are attacked, they will detonate.  If the wind is from the north, South Korea will be poisoned for centuries, ceasing to exist.  And if the wind isn't from the south?  Well, what's the worst that can happen?  A few million of my own people killed, and Seoul still left contaminated by the next shift in the weather.

Oh, and if that isn't bad enough.  How about a suicide submarine off the coast of Japan, crewed by patriots, carrying a hydrogen-infused warhead and enough cobalt to sterilize a fat portion of Honshu?

See?  Simple crude and spectacularly destructive tactics are easy, and of course I don't want this to happen.  No, what I want is for every human with a spark of imagination to realize that a few kilos of uranium, used with flair, can define the next twenty years of life on this little world.

Which could be the last twenty years, sure.