Category: blog

Access and connection

…soft twist annnnnnnnd, SIGH. Cleopatras out for the pouring. Oh, how a virtual Cristal toast is delicious! “Ooh lala lalalalalala”. (note for the connoisseurs: I know those are not the best glasses. I just liked the sound of it.)

My last question –” I’m not sure if you got it because my computer did something funky –” was about Children of a Lesser God and aftershock as seizures. (Kelley’s note: Yep, here it is, sorry for the delay.) Well, if you got it, then what I’m about to say will make sense. And if you didn’t, then I’ll ask all over again later.

My comment is about that access you were talking about earlier. I didn’t give it much thought until I asked my seizure question. Outside of this pub, I would never ask you a question about seizures. Like, at a reading/signing thing… there’s no way I would raise my hand and say, Well, I have juvenile myoclonic epilepsy (JME) and I was just wondering about Scully’s aftershock episode…. etc., etc. I mean, even in the pub, it took me 4 or 5 questions to get to it. My last question was really my first. It’s just a thing I don’t talk about unless I have to (teachers, employers, new friends). Outside the pub, I probably wouldn’t ask any questions at all. I’d wait for someone else to ask the same question in my head. Lame, I know. So, for me, this kind of access is cool because I can ask what I really want to ask. I think a lot of people are afraid of asking “stupid questions.” But then you get to a point where you just say, “Fuck it, I want to know this”. Anyone else here a “But why?/Yeah, but what if?” kid in school? I had no problem asking all kinds of questions when I was younger. Pissed most of my teachers off. I feel a huge ramble session coming on, so I’m going to stop right here.

Congratulations!!!

Lindsey

p.s. In my need-to-know more kick, I discovered that there is cow blood in chewing gum. Fascinating.

Serious ick. Cow blood belongs in steak, not in Wrigley’s.

Virtual Pint is definitely a lower-risk experience than raising one’s hand at a public event. That’s part of the point. People are vulnerable even in the dream pub, but maybe not as much. And it’s a way for people to “see” me who may never come to a reading or signing. Here, just as at a public event, people can reach out to me if they choose, or get a sense of me without having to reveal themselves. But if no one raises their hand (in either scenario), then the conversation runs out of steam pretty quickly. No fun there.

One of the big perks of my aging process turns out to be a diminished fear of personal lameness. I am relieved. I was one of those kids who wouldn’t raise my hand unless I knew the answer, and was mortally afraid of having people think I was stupid. This same fear as an adult has sometimes kept me from taking a risk with someone I admire. Oh, they’ll think I’m dumb. I’ll look like an asshole. I want them to see me for the singular amazing person that I am, but to them I’ll just be another sappy fan.

And that’s quite possibly true. It’s a hard thing to know that some people have a bigger place in my emotional space than I have in theirs. And that I’ll never even have a chance to tell some of them how much impact their work has had on me, how much it means. How it has shaped some essential corner or curve of my self. The thing about touching more people is that there seems to be less and less actual contact. I go to U2 concerts because it’s amazing to share space with those four men, but does that mean I’m actually connecting with them? Only in the way that I am an atom of audience, a part of the larger whole that is really all they see. And yet that’s better (for me, for them) than watching it on TV.

What does it mean? I’m not sure, but it has something to do with connection and access and with my increased willingness to let go of what I think the experience should be, and just give it up to whatever the experience is. And take the risk: say the thing that is true for me, and if I look or feel like an asshole, well, it certainly won’t be the first time.

Access is an interesting and slippery notion. Nicola and I talk about it sometimes over beer. (They sure do drink a lot! Kelley and Nicola wouldn’t have made it without beer, would they, Dad? No, they wouldn’t, and that’s a fact.1) What I yearn for is to be best friends with the people I admire. What I actually think is reasonable to hope for is an open door to say something and have it be heard. So that’s what I try to offer here.

How arrogant is it to create this space? It’s some arrogant, to be sure (as well as fun). And I hope I’m being clear: I don’t think I’m such a celebrity that people should be lining up with their questions. But I’m on record as saying that the point of my work is to explore and to connect, and I hope that here there is an open door to do both.

1 With apologies to JRR Tolkien.

Revenge and love in Solitaire

Hello, Just a note with bits and bites of my thoughts on your book.

Nicola might have passed on i posted on the AOL lesbian reading group bulletin board that i really liked Solitaire. Anyhow, in no particular order, here are some thoughts.

Hope you get the Nebula. And the Lammy.

Oops spoiler here i guess, the book didn’t really kick in for me until the elevator attack. I stopped reading at that point and had a deep breath. Then she gets the option of going into VC and when she says ‘I don’t think i can be alone for eight years’, wow, i stopped there again. That’s really where this book went BANG for me and then i was hooked lined and sinkered. The first part was mostly set up, but there were bits of Jackal and Snow that made me think they weren’t going to be cut off. At least it made me pull for the characters to come out ok.

I noted how the story doesn’t touch revenge or getting even. I didn’t find it necessary, just somewhat unusual.

Jackal doesn’t even get mad at her parents, at least not her father, nor Neill, nor KO and it’s so easy to hate some big corporation. But i guess the corporation in a way is home to her, it’s where she went while in VC.

I thought the line where Snow tells Neil that Jackal loves him just stuck out, didn’t go anywhere. He’s important but to use the word ‘love’ was a bit far. ‘Love’ is between Snow and Jackal. You had some lines there (i can’t recall them anymore) that really felt spot on for me. I know the book wasn’t intended to be romantic, but there was a bit of it the way i read it.

Boy, do they drink a lot. (g)

What about a sequel? More, more.

Thanks for writing a thought provoking, heart rending read.

Please leave off my email if you post this on the virtual pint. Nice name that.

Cheers, V.

I’m glad you liked it. Thanks for taking the time to share your response.

No Lammy for Solitaire. The nominations have been posted, and Solitaire is not among them (although Nicola’s novel Stay has been nominated, which is a Very Fine Thing). Thanks for your kind wishes about the Nebula. Win or no, it will be fun to turn up at the ceremony and spend time with people that we haven’t seen for a while. I very rarely really feel like part of the science fiction community, and it will be unusual and interesting to be right in the thick of it for a few days.

Revenge in books is mostly wish-fulfillment. That’s fine, but not what I wanted to do in Solitaire. I think we’d like to believe that we can get even when bad things happen to us, but usually it doesn’t work out that way. Just think about the language — we want to get “even” with the people who have hurt us. But that’s not possible. If someone damages me or the people I love, how can I make that even? How can there be a balance for that? At the end of it all, Jackal has to live with what’s happened, and so do we. I do think she’s mad at her parents, at Ko, sometimes at the whole damn world. But the book isn’t about someone being bitter. I said in the previous question that Jackal behaves the way I would like to, and that’s also true for what we’re talking about here — I hope that when my foundation drops out from under me in one of the several inevitable ways, I will find a way through it rather than being swallowed up. Sometimes the things I write about are a kind of rehearsal.

We can disagree about proper applications of the word “love.” It’s the word I meant to use, and I think Jackal does love Neill, although not the way she loves Snow, or her parents, or the Ko greenbelt, or the feeling of being a Hope, or any of the other degrees of attachment and vulnerability possible along this particular emotional spectrum. It’s a shame to make one poor little word do so much work, but there it is. Your mileage may vary.

They do drink a lot, don’t they? (grin). I wonder where they get that from.

Cheers.

ASL and JME

Just some ice water…had a bonfire in the snow last night…a break-up party for a friend… too much schnapps in the Swiss Miss.

I was wondering about a couple of things. In a previous question, you mentioned your interest in sign language. Did you start that program? Is it really good? And, have you ever seen the movie Children of a Lesser God? I loved that movie –” when she describes the sound of the ocean –” when she screamed, “Hear my voice,” I was bawling my eyes out. That movie made me want to learn sign language. And for a year I had a crush on Marlee Matlin (sp?)…I was thirteen. I never did get around to learning it though. I know the alphabet and I used to know how to count. But that’s all. If it had been there when I was in school, I probably would have taken it instead of french.

In Solitaire, Scully’s aftershock behind the bar made me think of seizures. I’ve never seen a real one. Have you? I have JME and have had plenty of seizures (haven’t had one in 9 yrs and no more zombie meds either)… Anyway, friends and classmates would tell me what I looked like when I was having one. When Scully looked like he was going to reach out, when he made the nasty strangled sound and his eyes rolled back… that whole scene (except that his body was relaxed during the aftershock), was scary for me to read because, in a weird way, it was as if I hit play on the VCR and there I was seizing in front of myself. What Jackal does for Scully, other people have done for me… move stuff out of the way etc., etc. So, have you seen a seizure? Have you ever had to move stuff out of the way for someone? Just curious.

Thanks for taking the time to answer yet another one of my questions,

Lindsey

I enjoy your questions, it’s nice to have an extended conversation.

I did start my class and I love it. Love love love. I study at ASLIS, the American Sign Language & Interpreting School of Seattle. It turns out that many students in my class moved to Seattle specifically to study at the school, and that kind of commitment makes for a pretty tight bonding experience. It’s a great place to be if one is serious about ASL. Classes are small (and will get smaller next year, since some people take class as a foreign language credit for the University of Washington, and won’t be staying for the full program). We get a lot of teacher attention (also known as nowhere to run, nowhere to hide…) There’s a big emphasis on community involvement and learning about Deaf culture. It’s focused and intense and treats us like grownups, all of which work well for me in a learning situation.

I have seen Children of a Lesser God 2 or 3 times and really admire Marlee Matlin’s work. I love the scene in which she dances, feeling the music. I recently saw a repeat of an episode of The Practice that she did in 2000, in which she played a woman on trial for killing the man who murdered her daughter. There was an amazing scene between Matlin and Camryn Manheim (side note, Camryn Manheim rocks) –” they have an argument in ASL and as it heats up, Manheim stops voicing, and there’s a good 60-90 seconds of (silent) ASL between two very pissed-off people. No subtitles for the ASL-impaired; either the viewer keeps up or she doesn’t. It was exciting to watch, and very powerful.

I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed a seizure –” I’m guessing the images and notions I have mostly come from books and movies/TV. I’m glad you don’t have to make a daily choice between seizing and zombification –” that sounds pretty unhappy either way. This is the first time I’ve really thought about the fact that people who experience seizures might not know what one is like (what they look like, or how people react). I imagine it’s unsettling to know something about yourself only from others’ perceptions, especially if the people around you are afraid. I hope your friends and classmates were sensible, although so much of that depends on our particular socialization (“bodies are icky and illness is embarrassing and what if I do the wrong thing?” versus “bodies are part of the package, they get wacky or hurt sometimes, and we just have to do what we think is best to help”).

So few of us are trained how to approach new and urgent situations, and how to trust ourselves in action. Specialized knowledge is good, but damn, there’s no substitute for common sense and the willingness to take some responsibility. Jackal behaves the way I hope I would: and now that I’m thinking about this, I realize that my next book looks at this issue (how people behave in crisis) more intentionally. Hmm. I wonder how many little moments in Solitaire reflect themes or ideas that are important to me but still subterranean, that I will explore in future books, maybe forever.

More about the pub

My perfect pub isn’t much different from yours Kelley. I would like to have all my favorite people close enough to drop by a lot. You really made me hungry with that menu and I agree with most of the food. I’d like my own easy chair maybe covered with dark old worn leather so it’s soft. Tables for setting things on but not strictly as sitting at but some of those too. I loved the way you covered the wine. Lighting only bright over the pool table, subdued everywhere else. A variety of finger snacks in bowls here and there. Oh yeah that reminds me, no one would make disparaging remarks about anyone else’s body size or make recommendations about how to make your life better based on their idea of what’s right and wrong. That’s not to say those things couldn’t be in a discussion you dig. Weirdly enough I can see a book case with books that can be read there in a few of these chairs with lamps by them. (My efficiency expert mind is busy devising a system for this book thing. Or do they call those people system analysts now?) Is my quarter up on the pool table yet?

Sly

Your quarter is certainly up but you will have to check with Nicola to get the game going. I will sit in one of your lovely leather chairs with my beer and coach from the sidelines.

Doesn’t seem weird at all to have books. It’ll be a literary pub! Every once in a while we will have live music or live stories or some such fun. Talented people, famous and not, will clamor to perform there just for the company and the beer. There will be many interesting conversations between people who are comfortable with ideas and feelings and differences. Imagine, a cozy room full of cool grown-ups. How much fun would that be?

There will be no bullshit in our pub about body size, skin color, education, whether English is your native language, or who your daddy is. People will speak ASL and English and Spanish and French and whatever else, and we will all find ways to make ourselves understood. People who do not play nicely will be given the opportunity to change their behavior (free training provided!), and if they don’t choose to change then they will be helped out the door by a big strong woman in big strong boots. The rest of us will smile and go back to our beer.

Don’t blame genre

Oversized mugs of hot chocolate for everyone!!! Oh, and there’s fluff, little marshmallows, whipped cream and shaved chocolate if anyone wants some. I’m assuming it’s -2 everywhere… Noreasters (sort of like Dairy Queen blizzards) for those in warmer places! I know… I’m taking the virtual beverage thing too far. But it’s fun.

I just wanted to say that I agree with you about the pleasure of story. I mean, it was all that I took away from your short stories that led me to Solitaire in the first place. I’ve been on this need-to-know-more kick. I read five really good stories this month, one right after the other (Solitaire, the fifth), and so I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking. And thinking. Restless, really. And then I thought, “Wow. I don’t know as much as I thought I did”. And so, the need-to-know-more thing…

And second guessing, which is new to me. Without realizing it, I think I just wanted to know what Solitaire meant to you (and everyone else here), because I know what it means to me. For whatever reason, knowing what it means to me isn’t enough. Maybe I should find a book club that plans to read Solitaire (I’m laughing).

Have fun,
Lindsey

Don’t laugh too hard (smile)! I would love book clubs from coast to coast to throw their arms around Solitaire and hug it hard. It’s one of the best ways to make a book successful.

The thing is, I know why you’re laughing, too, because it’s just not really book club fodder, is it? I’m not sure exactly why I think that only a book club brave of heart would take it on. Well, I know partly why — I think of book clubs as mainstream organisms, and expect them to be more enthusiastic about Bridget Jones and the Ya-Ya Sisters than they would be about a young woman with an identity crisis and a crocodile in her head.

I am grateful for anyone who reads at all, even if they never touch my work, but I do think that many readers have a fairly narrow band of taste (even if the band is in some extreme part of the spectrum). People tend to like certain kind of stories, or certain ways of storytelling. I wish more readers knew that it’s not necessarily the genre they like or dislike, it’s the storytelling style or the story’s concerns. Nicola and I often remark on how many people have said to one of us I don’t like science fiction, but I love your stuff! Well, if they like our stuff, of course there’s a lot of other SF they won’t like, because it’s told differently, with different conventions and concerns.

I can understand people saying I’ve never before read any SF that I enjoyed, which is to me a very different statement. But genre no longer means prose style and plot content. Things have become more subtle than that. I think genre these days is more about particular storytelling assumptions, freedoms and limitations that help us define something as SF or thriller or Russian Depression Novel. I do think there are plenty of formulaic books in all genres, but at the heart of each book is the story that wants to be told. Either a reader will connect with the story and the way it’s told, or she won’t.

And speaking of connecting, please join me in a virtual toast to the Nebula Jury who liked Solitaire well enough to put it on the final ballot for the Nebula Award, doing great honor to the book and giving me a very interesting start to the week.

Numbers game

Hi Kelley:

I read “Strings” as a result of an email sent (and posted) to Nadja. Wow!!!!!!! Thanks for the taste. I can see Solitaire is next on my list.

Great work and website. Isn’t it nice to be “riding high on the crest of public approval.”

Aren’t we all imprisoned by a means of our own device?

Scott

I’m very fond of Strings, glad you liked it. I’m assuming since you found the post on Nadja’s website, that you also followed the trail to C.A. Casey’s article at Strange Horizons (but here it is again for people who may not know about it). I enjoyed the article thoroughly, and was jazzed that Nadja actually read the story.

Riding high on the crest of public approval doesn’t suck, for as long as it lasts. The trick is not to turn it into heroin, because one day the fix just won’t be there. Public approval is ephemeral, and contextual. Solitaire got a very strong response for a first SF novel, but that same response might be considered mediocre for a mainstream novel with same caliber of advance quotes and the same amount of pre-publication buzz. And if the critical approval doesn’t translate into sales, well… publishing is a business, and they don’t pay royalties on good reviews.

I don’t know how much you know (or care) about the business of publishing, but what I’m waiting for now are the sell-through figures. I know how many books were printed, ordered and shipped to booksellers. If stores are going to return large quantities of the book (because they think they will never sell them, or they’re tight on inventory space, or they have policies about turning inventory on a regular schedule), they will generally do so within about 6 months –” in my case, by the end of February. It’s nice when stores order lots of books, and bad when they return lots. At the end of all this, HarperCollins will look at the percentage of books that “sold through” (shipments minus returns) and use this to roll their numbers and determine whether the book has been a financial success for them.

At the same time, bookstores will have noted the individual store sell-through. When my next book is published, they’ll go back to these records as a guide. The worst place a writer can find herself is on the downward spiral of “well, we ordered way too many last time, let’s cut that order in half this time” (as opposed to, “wow, her last book did well for us, let’s bring in a few more this time”). It’s better in some ways to sell 90% of 100 books than 50% of 180 books.

In the meantime, I am not ungrateful! I’m delighted with the response. Happy writer. I like being approved of. And even though Solitaire certainly hasn’t been universally praised, the criticism has almost always been intelligent and interesting. And really, the best part is the growing interaction I have with readers through this site. I even find myself answering Virtual Pint questions when I should be working on my new book (grin).

Sure, we’re all prisoners of our own device (the Eagles said so, it must be true). That’s what fear is. Solitaire was written on some level for anyone who’s experienced the liberation of kicking down one of her own particular walls.

The dream pub

It seems strange that my first contact with the world of authors’ sites would be after reading only two chapters of a writer’s book (and nothing of her stories), but that is a sincere tribute to the person, the book, and the site. I’m looking forward very much to cozy nights in the pub exploring the worlds of Kelley Eskridge and Nicola.

John Young

I hope the virtual pub is comfortable and properly provisioned. I’m finding it pretty cozy myself, really enjoying it. And, of course, I hope you enjoy the book as well, and would look forward to any comments you might wish to share.

I’m curious about what brought you here after only two chapters. Please note, this isn’t a veiled request for lots of ego strokes about marvelous writing or whatever, but rather a question about the psychology around the access made possible by the web and an individual website. Did something in the book make you curious about me specifically? Do you generally go out and look for more information about artists whose work interests you? What are your criteria for sticking with a site like this? This is an open question for anyone, really. Those of you who have read through the material on this site know that I’m interested in notions of access and connection. I know what kind I’m willing to grant — less than some, more than others — and I know what kind I hope for from people whose work I admire. But that’s just me. I’m guessing that mileage varies wildly in this regard. If anyone wants to talk about this, I would find it interesting and instructive.

Your comment also got me imagining my dream pub. A neighborhood place, a little shabby from the outside with an entrance off the main road, so that the regulars can feel safe and just that bit smug about our good fortune. There would always a table free for me and mine, of course (grin). A main room with just enough bustle that never got too far on the wrong side of noise and crowd. A snug with soft leather armchairs and a lovely fireplace. Oranjeboom, Redhook, Fullers ESB and proper Dublin Guinness on draft. Decent champagne and brandy. A couple of startling and dramatic wines. A bartender who is a renaissance person with an extensive lending library and a genuine talent for making people feel welcome. Giant hamburgers with homemade buns and sautéed onions, and special handed-down-for-generations mayonnaise-based secret sauces. Fried zucchini and fried okra. Haddock and the best chips in the universe. Hummus with enough lemon, served with hot Greek pita. Vegetarian chili and cole slaw layered in pita bread (trust me). Sandwiches from Boat Street here in Seattle (artichoke-heart-salad, or pate and cornichons, or poached chicken with roasted red peppers, all on crusty baguettes) and The Other Coast Café (amazing deli concoctions, also in Seattle, lucky us). Good music. Indirect lighting. A room at the back with pool tables for Nicola.

My local isn’t Kelley’s Dream Pub, but it’s a great place. Good Philly cheese steak sandwiches and imperial pints of Bass. A fireplace. My kind of music. They like us and take great care of us, although there’s that tricky matter of not having my favorite table always waiting whenever I want it…. However, I’ve learned that one advantage of being a writer is the ability to visit the pub in off-hours and have the run of the place. We met a good friend there recently and parked ourselves in front of the fireplace for an entire weekday afternoon; Nicola took Official Virtual Pint Photos; and we all found that lovely drinking pace that maintains rousing good spirits without veering into conversational stupidity. A grand day. I’ll take as many of those as I can get.

Mileage varies

Dear Kelley,

Chocolate milkshakes.

Ah. Damn… And I’m usually pretty good with metaphors. I pulled a Buckner on that one (Red Sox player, ball went flying between his legs, lost the World Series, attempted suicide after the game, but the bus went between his legs). I completely missed it. I thought the crocodile was a metaphor for madness…

I am new to science fiction and have been reading more and more of it since last month.. trying to understand the scientific part of it. I think I overlooked the metaphor in order to understand something that I didn’t really need to… which is crazy… when I was in high school, I lived for metaphors… and even crazier when, here, it’s kind of the whole point. Well, now that I know the crocodile is a metaphor for that fear you mentioned, I’m going to reread Solitaire.

take care,
Lindsey

No Buckners here, amiga. You didn’t misread. The crocodile is certainly a metaphor for madness. That’s even made explicit in the text (“She wanted to lie back and rest in the jaws of madness.”) It’s just that I think the equation “well, she was alone for a really long time so she went nuts” is too simplistic. Madness, like anything else, is a specific experience. So it was my job to imagine it specifically, and to make it particular to Jackal. That’s why I describe the crocodile as being one embodiment of her fear –” she is so afraid of “not being herself” that her fear threatens to pull her apart and swallow her up.

I believe this happens. Things we fear come to rule our lives, if we allow it. Jackal’s fear is influencing her to make bad choices right from the opening of the book. For me, the VC section was (among other things) my chance to explore that intersection of fear and choice. Jackal fights off the crocodile and doesn’t give in to madness, but that’s not the end of her struggle with fear. She falls into a much more subtle trap of fear when she turns herself to stone, when she erases the people and things that she loves so they can’t hurt her anymore. And so on. Fear has many ways to control us, some of which seem so sensible and comforting at the time. I regret the impact it has had on my life, which is of course one reason I write about it.

And please remember that this is just my version of the story. You get to read Solitaire any way you want. I can tell you what happens to Jackal, and I can tell you what it means to me, but it’s your job to decide what it means to you. That’s one of the biggest pleasures of story for me (and story can be words, music, movies, theatre, visual art) –” it becomes mine, filtered through my experience, my imagination, my hopes and fears. The best stories help explain myself to me, or show me something that I want to be or feel or do. And if all someone takes away from Solitaire is a newly-discovered taste for brandy and orange juice, that’s cool with me. It’s the connection, large or small, that matters.

The value of art

Dear Kelley,

I ran across Solitaire a week or so before Christmas, attracted by the cover image, and was amazed and delighted to discover that you had finally written a novel. My first encounter with your work was when I read “Strings” in the (’94?) edition of The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror anthology. Perhaps it was partly the nature of the character that made that story so precious to me (I’m a violinist as well), but it instantly became (and still is) one of my favorite pieces of short fiction. I’m not easily overwhelmed, but by the final page I was weeping. Reading it aloud to my girlfriend a little over a year later, I couldn’t keep my voice steady when I came to the end. Your work is extremely powerful, and I felt blessed just to have read that one story — it caused me to make a serious inquiry into what I value about life, and living. I can say without hesitation that it changed me.

After my experience with “Strings,” I sought out the rest of your work, and loved it, but since ’99 or so I’d been tormented by the “is this it? is that all?” sensation one feels when waiting (and waiting . . .) for a favorite artist to produce something new. And then, finally, I found Solitaire, and I rushed home with it, and I read and re-read until I became completely absorbed in Jackal Segura’s life, and her story. Then, when I finally set it down (I usually devour books at an alarming pace, but this one I savored, taking it a few chapters at a time) I realized I didn’t have any words to use to tell you how grateful I am. You gave me a journey I can make again and again, and a whole world.

I don’t mean to be so effusive with my praise, but there are very few authors whose work I can connect with on so many different levels, and I value those few quite highly. Your writing inspires me to live as fully as I can, to create, to dream, to love . . . and to hope.

Sincerely,
Aislinn

These are lovely words to give to any artist, and it means a great deal to me to receive them. Thank you.

The waiting wasn’t so much fun on this end, either. Nicola and I share a metaphor about writing, which is that there are points where a work-in-progress becomes a desert — nothing but dust ahead, nothing but dust behind. All the writer can do is stick her chin out and keep slogging. There were a couple of years of dust during the writing of Solitaire, when the work went particularly slowly because of the demands of my job at Wizards of the Coast, and also because I made a serious wrong turn in the narrative. I had to trash about 15 or 20 thousand words, about a year’s worth of work at the time. That was a very bad day. It took a while to get back on track. So, thanks for being patient.

I’m still getting used to the fact that strangers have read my short fiction and liked it well enough to go out looking for more. I’m not trying to be coy — it’s literally amazing to me that someone might pick up Solitaire and think (some version of) hot damn, Kelley Eskridge wrote a book! My stories have been so few and far between (at least in publication terms, although not in terms of my own process) that it hadn’t occurred to me that people would persist in seeking out my work.

Nicola and I were talking last night about the ways that art gets in and stirs up the soul. I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced art that changed me like a lightning strike, but there are particular works that have influenced me incrementally but immensely, like weather systems moving across the ocean. They are works that speak to the deepest parts of me, and force me to recognize things within myself –” values, as you’ve said. In almost every case, they are works that confront me with the truth that I can be more than I have let myself imagine –” I can work harder, be braver, see more clearly, endure more, go farther, have more joy.

And then there are those experiences of art that are like mainlining joy, struggle, sadness, fear and courage, hope, loss, redemption. Emotion speedballs. Music does that for me, and movies, and particular piercing moments in books. There is nothing like it, for my money. I will always be fascinated by the quality of humans that compels us to seek out such moments, and to create them for each other. I think whatever power there is in my work comes from this place, but that’s me looking at it from the inside out. You are a musician –” is making music like this for you? I know there are other uses for art, and perhaps one day they will interest me more than this one. But not now (grin).

Crocodiles

Hi Kelley,

Not a beer drinker (though I wish I could be because it always looks so fun)… So, I bring wine to the table.

Anyway….I read your short stories online and I liked them, so I thought I’d give Solitaire a try. I found it next to Slow River (and had to grin). When I read the jacket and saw the word, “corporate”, I stopped smiling… What if it’s boring? What if I don’t get it? Do I really want to spend twenty-five bucks on something I might not get? Fuckit. I’m buying it.

And I am so glad that I did. What a story! I’ve been thinking about it for the past two days.

I read the other questions here and was surprised to find people wondering about Steel Breeze. I had forgotten about them and everyone from Ko… And I think it had everything to do with Jackal rubbing everyone out while she was in VC. I almost didn’t want to finish the book after Snow got rubbed out. It was agonizing. This is serious, I thought, breathe. If Jackal came out of VC and Steel Breeze, her family, Neill, Snow and the others were never mentioned again, I would understand that… But I’m glad it didn’t turn out that way.

I didn’t quite understand how editing would work for the other solos. To me, it seemed that the crocodile was a breaking point and that the way to survive in VC was to get past the breaking point without breaking. The way I saw it, Jackal took herself apart instead of letting her crocodile rip her to pieces. So, were the other solos so damaged because they passed the breaking point and broke? If so, how would editing work for them when, in their virtual memories (aftershock) they are in a different place than Jackal? Like, a broken place. It just seems that, for the ones that are in the broken place, it’s not a matter of finally facing the crocodile, but a matter of being able to go back to the first time they met the crocodile, so they can take themselves apart and get to the unbroken place where doors can be imagined. I feel like I’m doing a bad job expressing this idea, so I hope it makes some kind of sense.

Thanks for taking the time to read all of this,

cheers,
Lindsey

Beer, wine, champagne, chocolate milkshakes –” bring it on, I like it all.

The way I read your question has to do with the difference between confronting (or being confronted by) one’s crocodiles, and being psychologically and emotional functional in the daily world.

The crocodile in this book is one of my metaphors for a particular, fundamental fear that I believe we all have to some extent –” fear of discovering that we are not as good at (insert your notion of important human attributes here) as the people around us. That we are broken people in a world where only perfect people enjoy love and success. We are Bad. Jackal’s crocodile is a combination of guilt, imposter syndrome, and a huge need to please others so that she can like herself. It’s not a new fear –” it’s been driving her most of her life.

I think lots of people go through life with one or more crocodiles lurking in the back brain. Sometimes we lock ourselves into little psychological boxes to avoid dealing with them, or to protect ourselves from their attacks. This influences our behavior and keeps us from living as fully as we can, but it doesn’t mean we’re nuts. We have tools (therapy, religion, mountain climbing, career, love, whatever) to help us manage the fear and get on with whatever lives we have decided to permit ourselves. What Jackal offers the other solos is such a tool to short-cut through the fear (as symbolized by the cell with no windows or doors) into a more expanded space. They still have flashbacks and get sucked into VC, but now they will have more options to deal with it.

The solos are screwed up because they’ve been forced to be alone with themselves in ways that (IMO) most cultures don’t socialize for. We’re not taught basic concepts and behaviors of autonomy to nearly the same extent as concepts of community. “Plays nicely” was certainly a lot more important to my grade school teachers than “independently sets her own standards and then strives to meet them.” And it’s clear in the context of the book that virtual solitary confinement is intended as a punishment. I am ambivalent about this, which is why it was only through being so alone that Jackal could win her way to a greater freedom.

It amuses me that some reviews describe Jackal as passive. Deciding to play nicely, or to play along, is not the same thing as being passive. That’s not a word I would apply to anyone who makes an effort to become self-aware. For me, it’s the most active choice there is.

Having said that, I don’t think anyone has to be particularly sane or self-aware to live a functional life. The average consumer in Jackal’s world won’t need to be emotionally mature to get her kicks from an infinitely customizable virtual adventure. Nor will the solos have to walk through the same fire as Jackal to “earn” the right to the wider virtual world. Some of them will be getting a free ride. In general, I don’t believe that people must become self-aware, or confront fear, or evolve spiritually to have lives that are comfortable and sometimes happy. It’s only necessary that our definition of comfort and happiness match the life we are living. How, and whether, we make that match is where story happens.

This is all highly metaphorical, of course, and like most metaphor breaks down at some level of detailed examination. One of the reasons that I’ve been thinking, lately, that I’m not a “real” science fiction writer is that metaphor is so much more interesting to me than the science necessary to support its creation.

I’m not sure if I’ve expressed all these ideas coherently. If I haven’t, please let me know, and I’ll take another swing at it. And thanks for taking a chance with your twenty-five bucks.