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EPIC CATALOG: Stories that work best in book format
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Category: On Writing
GABBLER RECOMMENDS: What happens when literary novelists experiment with science fiction by Laura Miller
“Dystopian fiction is animated by fear, but postapocalyptic stories almost always harbor a kernel of desire. Dystopia is a form of criticism: It sounds a klaxon, urging society to course-correct before it’s too late. But the postapocalyptic narrative is fatalistic and romantic. Civilization’s coup de grace might come, as 20th-century science-fiction novelists anticipated, in the form of nuclear war, or—today’s preference—as a pandemic or devastating climate change. The carnage will certainly be epic. But afterward comes the possibility of a return to what really matters and a clean slate on which to draw society anew. Even at their most seemingly nihilistic, postapocalyptic scenarios invoke the persistent, cherished American myth of the frontier, that place where a man can prove himself through hard work and violence, free from the rules, hassles, and compromises imposed by civilization.
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Despite their varying ages, races, and genders, this is the basic temperament of all the characters in Station Eleven: a propensity toward melancholic, vaguely paralyzed reveries that invokes the type of personality you’d expect to find in someone who writes literary fiction. These people are, when you get right down to it, all pretty much the same person. So much for the promise that literary writers will bring something more than stock figures to their science-fiction scenarios; Mandel’s rueful musers are just a different kind of stock figure.
Science fiction writers and readers have long resented incursions like these into their territory, especially when they come, as such novels often do, with a disavowal of the genre itself. (Mandel insisted that she didn’t consider Station Eleven to be science fiction.) And besides, science fiction has its own bravura stylists, writers such as William Gibson, and psychologically acute humanists, such as Karen Joy Fowler. Gibson’s Neuromancer is the most evident influence on Void Star, the new novel by Zachary Mason, author of The Lost Books of the Odyssey, a well-received 2007 riff on Homer’s epic. Mason is a computer scientist (the novel’s title is a reference to the C++ programming language), and Void Star attempts the difficult feat of rendering the abstract ecstasies of mathematics in artfully oblique sentences: “The glyphs are intricate, radiant with significance that she can’t quite articulate. Like rain, she thinks, on a clear day, seen over miles of ocean. Like ideograms distended in a black hole’s gravity.”
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Void Star comes the closest of all these recent examples to the classic definition of hard science fiction: idea- rather than character-driven and devoted to extrapolating from the technology we now employ to whatever tech will define our future. The novel has many small, astute predictions; Irina observes that with the advent of self-driving cars, people are even more inclined to treat their vehicles like bedrooms, places to get dressed and apply makeup, “anonymity substituting for privacy.” But Mason’s characters, too, are uncompelling compared to his plot, the waferlike concoctions of technothriller convenience, their superpowers perfunctorily deepened with a side serving of regret.
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Science fiction has always promised its readers fictional wonders they can’t get in other genres, stories in which the stakes are high and the ideas are heady. What’s surprising is not that literary novelists are increasingly taking up science fiction’s tools, but that more of them didn’t try it sooner. Now, as the present crumbles away into a future that evolves more quickly than most of us can track, it seems impossible to write about contemporary life without writing science fiction. But the secret to doing it well doesn’t lie in suspenseful chase scenes, weighty messages or mind-blowing existential puzzles. That stuff can be fun, but it can also feel pretty thin without something that’s supposed to be a specialty of literary novelists: the fullest appreciation of humanity in its infinite variety and intricacy. Do justice to that, and the wonders will take care of themselves.”
[Via]
GABBLER RECOMMENDS: Literary “Community” by Daniel Green
‘These questions for me are prompted in part by a current literary culture that seems devoted to creating an impression of great collegiality among writers. The most immediate and influential form of literary criticism–book reviewing–is dominated by novelists and poets, some of whom are also perceptive critics but many of whom have been assigned to write reviews under the apparent assumption that fiction writers are best situated to judge other fiction, poets other poetry. This assumption is dubious at best, but the primary effect of this practice is that most reviews dispense abundant praise, often long on superlatives and short on real analysis.
In addition, almost all books now come heavily “blurbed” by other writers, who often seem determined to outdo each other in the rhetorical excess with which they praise their fellow authors. The literary corners of social media sites such as Twitter and Facebook liberally engage in various digital versions of handclapping for writers especially admired and frequently feature explicit appeals to “community” among writers, as if literature was a civic organization, or a team sport in which one pledges one’s mutual support for teammates. Perhaps it is in this context that we can understand the controversy over “negative reviews”: Some writers, and many critics, fail to fully join the team, venturing to question a team member’s accomplishment and disrupting group camaraderie.
In surveying literary history, it is hard to identify another period in which serious writers expected to be, or indicated any desire to be, part of a literary community. Paris after World War I is often discussed as the setting for a gathering of like-minded modernists, but Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast ought to be evidence enough that whatever friendships that might have formed at this time were laced with barely suppressed resentment and condescension, examples of writers suffering other writers. It seems to me that the push for “community” among writers is a direct function of the “program era” in American literature, the relocation of literary life to the academy, where it is administered in creative writing programs, where other writers are indeed colleagues, and where the wheels driving publication and recognition are greased by the spread of literary magazines sponsored by creative writing programs themselves and the substitution of tenure for commercial success. Under these circumstances, it becomes much easier to think of other writers as fellow members of a community (the community of creative writing teachers and students) rather than rivals, although also much easier as well to write safe but duly crafted, convention-approved fiction and poetry rather than challenge the hegemony of craft and convention by following inspiration where it leads.
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“Literary citizenship” is a concept that many writers apparently take quite seriously, as it has evolved from a metaphorical notion that writers should advocate on behalf of literature generally to a quasi-literal requirement that they be good citizens in the “literary community” at large, whose well-being they are expected to consider.
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What about the apostate, the writer who resists the call to literary citizenship, either through obstinacy or through a sincere belief that the writer’s job is to write, not to network? Although May frequently insists that the writer’s first responsibility is indeed to his/her own writing, those who might deny the value of literary citizenship when it is made into a de facto requirement of living a “writing life” would surely provoke resentment for not carrying his/her weight in propping up the remaining structures that make a literary life still marginally possible. More importantly, what about the true literary apostate, who violates community norms, who produces work even the best literary citizens might have trouble celebrating, or even understanding? What if the demand for literary citizenship had been made of Samuel Beckett or William S. Burroughs (or even a more conventional curmudgeonly type such as, say, Philip Larkin)?’
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On the history of letters:
‘Addressing the symbolic and material functions of letters, this essay shows how a selection of their epistles served as gifts, thus conferring prestige on recipients in a society where social networking was largely defined by a cultural consensus. The sociological notion of cultural capital adopted here refers to the material and symbolic use of epistles as evidence of a person’s training in Greek παιδεία: its style of writing, discourse among powerful associates, and models of governance gleaned from its history and literature. Mastering these lessons qualified individuals as scholars, civic mediators, and patrons in a heritage of leadership stretching back to the pre-Roman era. This preparation did not always yield tangible benefits, but having this resource—especially in conjunction with holding political and economic authority—garnered one respect in a community defined by its accumulated cultural knowledge. A proficiency in παιδεία—as manifested in epistolary exchange—was evidence that one knew the rules of social interaction among elites. Individuals steeped in classical Greek studies held a profit of distinction that brought them immediate legitimacy when they interacted with persons of similar background. Thus, exhibiting this cultural capital facilitated the discourse between bishops and their correspondents.
In the eastern Roman Empire, where social standing often was based on one’s command of ancient Greek literature, individuals educated in the curriculum of παιδεία had been raised on classical Hellenic mores. Although the heritage of hellenismos (“being Greek”) had already come to be equated with “paganism” by the mid-300s, in their discourse with elite eastern Romans the Cappadocians continued to celebrate those aspects of παιδεία that represented “speaking” and “being civilized” in the Greek way. They did remain guarded, however, in proposing this education for Christian laity, who might not have sufficient discernment to dismiss its polytheistic theology and accounts of immoral behavior. One of the more salient ideals within this classical Greek heritage—rooted in the φιλία relationship—involved conferring prestige on an individual with the expectation that the recipient would reciprocate the act of honor. Presenting cultural capital in the form of epistles was not a financial transaction, but rather a reminder of mutual values that could potentially inform one’s policies. Gift exchange, in the form of sending and receiving letters, represented an exercise imbued with emotional and personal connection. To send a letter meant that one was presenting part of oneself. The nature of such a precious gift prompted the recipient to acknowledge its affective meaning and to act in the best interest of the giver. As masters of eloquent words (λόγοι), the Cappadocians asserted their erudition in a social setting based on honor and expectation… The model of ancient Greek gift-giving provided them a means by which publicly to assert the heritage of a pre-Christian Hellenism as a social and political force; it called attention to Christian participation in this practice; and it enabled them to mediate for individuals and communities under their social patronage.
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Using exempla from the Iliad and the Odyssey established the writer’s command of the fundamental texts of the Greek literary heritage. And referring to motifs from venerated Attic writers underscored the writer’s affinity with an elite leadership that governed through the power of its words. Παιδεία required learning across a number of disciplines, including art, geography, mythology, and physiognomy, a comprehensive knowledge that distinguished its experts as refined and steeped in Hellenism. This education invited its recipients to display their erudition in multiple forms, ranging from textual references to visual representations on clothing and in material objects. Composing and sending epistles was only one way of signaling membership in this circle. But the epistolary medium was especially relevant because it applied Hellenic allusions and showed their relevance to current social and political circumstances. And it conveyed these sentiments in the form of a gift. The acceptability of the epistle, however, depended on high standards of writing. Not every letter was worthy of sending to a beneficiary.
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To acquire gift status, an epistle had to have merit warranting that the recipient would value it and share it. Letters of great distinction were “small objets d’art, carefully articulated, circulated among a select group, collected, copied, and treasured.” Letters of premium quality “had to rise above the ordinary routine of life. There had to be a touch of elegance . . . brief and to the point, but also so fi nely crafted that the recipient would want to show it, rather read it, to his friends.” Individual honor derived from the publicized contents of the epistle, which made the recipient’s acquisition of the letter known to a greater populace, along with its message.
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Letters from prominent scholars—set apart by their Hellenic education—would have been made known to the community. An individual’s collection of these written works, particularly if one wanted to appear as an eloquent Greek, enhanced one’s reputation.
…Although all epistles reflecting cultivation were to be valued, a certain gradation can be detected in their content, indicating that certain gifts carried more prestige than others. The number of literary references and their familiarity among scholars, for example, could aff ect the merits of an epistle. Inserting several uncommon classical allusions demonstrated the author’s high level of labor in composing the epistle by singling out distinct references. More obscure passages also indicated the addressee’s deeper knowledge of the ancients, as did couched metaphors, because they would have necessitated an ability to recognize them. An epistle containing a few famous phrases from Homer, for example, might present less status than one that included cryptic sayings from more esoteric sources. The latter would indicate an advanced level of παιδεία for author and addressee. It designated a person as part of a limited group endowed with the precious ability to comprehend the text. Receiving this kind of epistle would have trumpeted one’s comprehensive familiarity with the Greek literary heritage.
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By emphasizing ancient Greek themes in their correspondence, the Cappadocian Fathers were reinforcing their access to a program of social and political influence in the east, one that they would not surrender to non-Christians. Through these gifts of eloquence, the bishops were coopting Hellenism, sans its pagan deities, for their own agenda.’
–Nathan D. Howard “Gifts Bearing Greekness: Epistles as Cultural Capital in Fourth-Century Cappadocia.”
Terry Pratchett on the novel he wrote with Neil Gaiman:
“In the end, it was this book done by two guys, who shared the money equally and did it for fun and wouldn’t do it again for a big clock.” – Terry Pratchett, on writing Good Omens with Neil Gaiman.
[Via]
Co-authoring doesn’t seem like it’s all that it’s cracked up to be.