Author: Kelley

I agree with your thoughts about both the good and the bad sides of brotherhood/ sisterhood, the good side being the comfort zone of being with people you don’t have to justify yourself to, the bad side being a bunker us-against-them mentality. I see the good side first hand in my work environment, we researchers being able to understand each other’s arguments without involved explanations and feeling that, as long as we do our work competently, the nerdish aspects of our personalities are mutually overlooked.

One of the strangest cases of the bad side I’ve experienced first hand is my brother (who lives in a rural area) having his Ford pickup vandalized because many of the locals, who are culturally homogenous, have formed gangs that get in fights and deface each other’s property over arguments about whether Ford or Chevy is the better brand of motor vehicle. Incredible… but true. I suppose that such stuff is part of human nature, and it seems that even the rapid cultural flux we’re exposed to is unlikely to erase it anytime soon.

But, back to your answer to the “question I did ask,” the one about whether you would continue writing in the SF/Fantasy genre. In a nutshell, it seems that your answer was no, unless one of those settings offered something that would support the characters’ journey in a way that wasn’t otherwise possible. That makes sense, and real-world literature can be wonderful; The Brothers Karamazov is one of my favorites. The Bridge Of San Luis Rey is another. But, I have to admit that when I’m in the mood for recreational reading, I do love fantasy novels that give me a cool place to wander around in, and that in general I tend more towards reading SF/Fantasy than mainstream. Now that I’ve read Solitaire I’ll be picking up anything else you write, whatever the genre; but, truth be told, it’s much less likely that I would have picked up Solitaire in the first place if I hadn’t come across it in the SF section of the bookstore. So, don’t forget the SF/Fantasy fans of the world when you’re choosing among the no doubt numerous potential plots swimming around in your head!

It seems that the last 10% of any project is the most difficult to see through, and I expect that when you get to that point, and the going requires 100% effort, you’re going to want to choose between your “Kansas Novel” and your “Mountain Novel” rather than carrying them both along. Has that point come yet? Since neither of them involve aliens attacking with laser guns, or unlikely heroes/heroines overthrowing a dark lord, I won’t cast a vote one way or another, but whatever your choice, best wishes on making good progress.

Anonymous

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People get het up over the most amazing things. If I drove our humble but doughty Toyota into your brother’s neighborhood, do you suppose the Ford and Chevy tribes would band together against the invader? You’re right about human nature; people will take their kinship wherever they find it, or create it if necessary, which is where things can get a little scary sometimes (ritual vehicle-mutilation being just one possible outcome).

It’s true that brother/sisterhood offers a kind of experiential shorthand, which is how I interpret your description of working with your fellow researchers. There’s a lot to be said for not having to establish context every time you express an opinion or idea, and for having a bond that forgives everyone’s individual warts in service of the larger interest. I think that’s what a good team is (in sports, in business, in love, in family).

As for reading and writing, well, who knows where I’m going (she said, with a brave smile). Some of my longest-owned, best-loved books are sprawling fantasy, sf or horror novels. I still turn to them for comfort reads, but I find I’m not reading as much new work in the field(s) as I used to. I’m reading a bit more mainstream, a lot more mystery/thriller, and a great deal more nonfiction. I find much current mainstream fiction dissatisfying and am trying to pinpoint why, so I can avoid doing it myself. I dunno, maybe it’s just me, but I’d rather read Mary Renault or John D. MacDonald or Patrick O’Brian than Don DeLillo any day of the week. I have recently enjoyed Set This House In Order by Matt Ruff (great writing and an amazing metaphor system, just wow…), and Tropic of Night by Michael Gruber (twisty mystery). I need to expand my mainstream horizons: I’m not exposing myself to all that’s out there, partly because I get a little tired of wading through tens of thousands of clever words, wondering when the story is going to start. I’ve become suspicious and curmudgeonly (laughing)! Must improve.

Conversely, a lot of the current speculative fiction I’ve picked up is NBP—nothing but plot. I know there are exceptions, but I’m just not finding a lot of them right now. I hold my breath for new Le Guin, Robin McKinley, Patricia McKillip, Peter Straub, Stephen King (well, we’ll see what happens there—it would be a shame if he truly means to publish no more beyond the last books of the Dark Tower series). There would be other people on this list, but they’re dead. Part of what I like about all these folks is their ability to create worlds and people that I love spending time with: a confluence of character, dialogue, prose that is witty and graceful as opposed to arch or clunky (or arch and clunky, oh, the horror….), an interesting world experienced through people who feel and behave, as opposed to just do, do, do. And what I want, I am figuring out, is to write a mainstream novel that does what my favorite speculative fiction does—sucks me in, makes me feel, gives me adventure, and provokes in me the urgent wish to go there myself and be with those people for whatever they’re going to do next. I’m not Pomo-Irony Girl, and shop-and-fuck-between-mojitos novels are not my calling, so I sure hope there’s room for me in the pond.

There I go, not answering the question again. As it happens, right now I am focusing on the mountain novel. There are some structural and character problems with the Kansas book: I’m not bagging it, but I do need to let it cool for a bit so I can scrape the big layer of fat off the top (anyone who has ever cooked lamb shanks is with me in this moment, I know). Part of the problem with the Kansas book, I am realizing right this minute, is that it doesn’t do what I just said in the last paragraph that I want to do in a mainstream context. There’s no adventure, no Please, can I go there too? No sense of camaraderie with the protagonist. Well. Damn. There it is. I can see I’ll be waking up at 3:00 this morning with my brain already chewing on what needs to change.

I think the mountain book is already different in this regard, at least I hope so. As I envision it right now, it’s very much about community and interconnection in a way that the Kansas book (light bulb!) really isn’t. I said to Nicola a while back that although the story and people of the Kansas book aren’t like Solitaire, on some level it was starting to seem similar to me. And I don’t need to be writing the same book twice.

It’s tricky. The Kansas and mountain books are both about disconnection and reconnection, about rebirth, as is Solitaire. On some level, it’s likely that everything I’ve ever written can be said to spring from these roots, and I’m sure it will be possible to point at whatever I write next and say it’s just like the last one. But the Kansas book feels like Solitaire without as much emotional solidity, whereas the mountain book feels very much like the next thing to do.

Goodness me, what a week. Table-pounding essays and important fiction realizations. Thank you for this round, it’s been wonderfully useful as well as interesting. I will certainly enjoy my actual beer tonight, and feel as though I’ve deserved it (grin).

I just finished reading Solitaire and am left with a few questions and conclusions.

I identified with Jackal in her search of “what am I and what am I suppose to do” in regards to being the “Hope”. I couldn’t figure out the big deal. But then, global and corporate domination isn’t something I would want to be associated with.

I saw her as a victim and a pawn, even at the end.

The elevator scenario was not her fault. She was doing her best, doing something when no one else was. And interestingly enough, I never thought she hit the wrong button, but instead the whole console was rigged by the terrorist. Nobody was going to get them out no matter what she or a technician did.

As I thought about the story, it dawned on me that the title of the book is ironic. Jackal was never by herself. Ever. Before prison it was Ko watching her, and during her sentence, the scientist/jailers were with her. Her implants kept her connected to the real world. No matter how much she thought she was alone or solo, she had to subconsciously understand that there were people always watching her. Interacting with her. Monitoring her every brain spike and functions. Her retreat to a unpopulated Ko showed she knew it would be the only way to be left by herself.

And now, she still isn’t alone. I never read where her implants and tracking devices were removed. She’s still not her own person. She’s still being controlled and observed, but just on her own terms.

Another puzzling part was her aversion to touch. Why would the lack of it for her imagined 8 years encourage her to pull away from it? It was mentioned at the end she recognized the last time someone had touched her, but yet, was uncomfortable with the one person whose touch she should have needed the most. Weird.

I enjoyed the “management “dialogs. It was interesting to see how things can be perceived with a corporate vision.

Thank you for a very thought provoking book.

Claudia

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You’re welcome, although the book you read certainly wasn’t the book I meant to write. Not that it matters. I’ve been having an interesting discussion with a teacher about intentionality, and we agree that the writer’s intention isn’t the point of the reading experience. Still, I must say I’m sorry to hear that for you Jackal is a victim and a pawn throughout the book. I wouldn’t enjoy reading a book like that, and don’t much enjoy the thought that someone believes I’ve written one. But mileage varies, and it’s interesting to try to see the book from your point of view.

Very little of Solitaire is ironic, from my perspective (oh, here I go, talking about my intentions. Sorry. It’s hard not to, since I’m the writer as well as a reader in this case). Some long-term customers of the virtual pub may get a little tired of hearing me say this (oh well): I really do believe in hope, and small joys as well as great ones. I would wish the book to reflect that without irony.

Of course, Solitaire is also a novel that explores ambivalence on almost every level of the narrative, which is perhaps what has sparked some of your observations. It’s true for me that Jackal is still being observed, for example (her implants are there to stay), and controlled (she is still a convicted criminal with limited civil rights). And I also think she’s very much her own person, as much as any of us can be within the limitations that arise from living with other people in social structures.

There are so many folks in the world who never get to live on their own terms: it’s not an easy thing for me to categorize as “but just.” I think it’s a triumph: a small one perhaps, but a life of small triumphs is a successful life indeed.

The touch issue is another expression of the ambivalence that’s so much a part of the book. Not intentional (grin), but I can see how it fits into the larger pattern. Being literally untouched for an extended period of time can be a horribly isolating experience, especially if the body adjusts to it, and it becomes a physical norm. I think all humans have an individual baseline of touch (as we do with personal space, or tolerance of pain), and it’s my experience that if my baseline isn’t being met (because people are touching me too much, or not enough), I become uncomfortable. I think Jackal’s baseline changes pretty drastically in VC.

Touch is also part of the overall metaphor of connection in the book. Jackal identifies herself so strongly as connected (with Ko, the web, her family), and then she is so forcibly disconnected: her confusion about touch once she is out of VC is part of her overall confusion about reconnecting.

Hmm. That’s interesting to think about. Thanks for bringing it up.

I’m glad you enjoyed the management dialogs. I enjoyed writing them, and sometimes miss using my “business brain” on a daily basis as I did when I was in the corporate world. At the moment, I’m a member of a degree committee for a master’s candidate in organizational systems design, which is giving me the chance to share some of my knowledge and experience, and learn new things. Great fun. The corporate world isn’t the only arena where these skills are useful, but it’s one where having skill can make a huge difference to the quality of everyone’s daily experience. I’m biased, of course, but I wish more people cared enough about this stuff to instill it in their corporate cultures.

Cheers.

I bought your book and I liked it, but I would like to get it signed and I wanted to know if you were going on tour. I couldn’t find any dates. I also wanted to know if you have another book coming out soon, or if your working on one. Oh yeah, and my favorite character is snow.

Alexander

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No tour unless I pay for it myself, or find a tour angel who wants to jet me and my sweetie to places where people will turn up in droves, buy lots of books, and ply us with good food and wine and conversation…. ah, the writer’s life as it should be. I really enjoy doing readings and signings, and wish I had more opportunity. I think I’d do well on a tour –” I enjoy meeting readers, booksellers, reps and journalists, and there’s nothing like face-to-face mutual goodwill to help spread the word about the work. Anyone who can get me or Nicola on Fresh Air or All Things Considered, and would find a very nice dinner with us an incentive, please feel free to pull some strings on our behalf (grin).

I always post information about appearances in News, and will certainly give advance notice of anything outside of Seattle. Right now, the only way to get a book personally signed is to order one through University Books, and I’ll go in and sign it. (edited in 2008 to add: I’m not doing this right now, but you can email me directly and I’ll give you a PO Box to send a book to. Kludgy, I know, but there it is.) I know you’ve already bought the book, I’m not asking you to buy another, but perhaps someone will get you a signed copy for your next present-receiving occasion.

I like Snow too. It’s good to have a person of focus in one’s corner, as Jackal certainly knows.

In this response you wrote:

“I think joy and hope also require consciousness. Hope is almost always a choice to value oneself, in my experience, and joy is almost always a choice to celebrate value in oneself or the world. Maybe it’s that order and kindness and hope and joy are connecting forces, and fear is disconnecting. Maybe it’s that simple. What do you think?”

My thoughts on the topic are probably not especially profound but, in the spirit of sharing a virtual pint, I’ll offer an answer. I’d say that whether chaos, fear, etc. are breaking or bonding forces depends on which direction they’re going: from the inside out, or from the outside in. There’s a scene in Ursula Le Guin’s The Dispossessed (I’m guessing from prior posts that you’re familiar with her work) where Shevik says that the only source of brotherhood (or sisterhood, or friendship…) is shared suffering. I read The Dispossessed when I was a teenager, and it’s been decades since then, but that insight — that a brief period of shared suffering can forge a stronger bond than a lifetime of shared good times (not that good times should be avoided) — has stayed with me ever since. In other words, my feeling is that external negative forces, or negative feelings forcibly induced by external conditions, can help create the most enduring connections possible.

That said, I admit that confusion and fear emanating from the inside are disruptive. Nor do they require much consciousness; they’re more like manifestations of instinctive self-preservation or panic. Also, I admit that external negative forces aren’t intrinsically creative or connecting — it’s their catalytic effect on latent kindness, courage, and internal conviction that does the magic. So, in short, I agree with your view and feel no need to improve your definition. But agreeing with you straight out would have been too boring.

Besides, bringing up the Le Guin book sparked another question I’d like to ask. Although there are exceptions, most of the stories that continue to resonate in my life have something that separates them from ordinary experience: fantasy, scientific speculation, a wide cultural gap, etc. I’m guessing that those kinds of settings let me step outside myself, let go of my opinions, and be more receptive to other viewpoints — in much the same way that some folks who are allergic to mainstream religion can accept the teachings of a mystic from a remote land, even if the precepts are little different from what’s preached by the pastor down the street. Do you agree, and do you find using unfamiliar settings valuable enough that you’re going to continue writing in the sf/fantasy genre?

Best Wishes

Anonymous

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I don’t mind having my definitions improved. Conversations like this are more like cooking than like carpentry (oh, there she goes again with the metaphors….). I’d rather think of these ideas as a multi-course meal than something that must be nailed perfectly together. There are very few 90-degree angles in my approach to life.

It’s been interesting thinking about brother/sisterhood. I’ve really been chewing on it, because it’s not something I generally feel, and on some level that bothers me, I guess. I see it as loyalty based on a specific shared experience (or set of experiences), rather than on the character of the individual people we’re ‘hooding with. If we have seen things, done things (or had them done to us) that we believe other people cannot understand, then we have a bond because we were there. We know. That word know is tricky; it’s not about imagination or empathy or fellow-feeling, it’s about direct parity of experience. It’s an experiential kinship: you are like me because we shared this thing. We know each other in a way that others don’t know us.

And I think that’s true. I think in many ways we can never “know” each other, which is one reason we have art, and psychology, and ecstatic mechanisms like drugs or drumming or dance. Why we have ritual. Why sex means something different when the people involved wish to be emotionally as well as physically connected. I admire humans for all the ways we try to understand things we cannot know.

And yet I find that I much prefer to connect on the individual level, rather than the “we band of brothers” plane. Perhaps that’s because I see people (myself included) using experience to divide ourselves so absolutely from one another. You can’t understand, we say, as if it were the end of the discussion. Experience does differentiate us, absolutely, but does it always have to be divisive? Here’s a low-voltage but common example: when a new mother tells me with that particular combination of satisfaction and pity that I can never know what it’s like to be a parent because I have no children of my own, I want to punch her, I really do — she’s right, and she’s also involved in some sort of social and emotional point-scoring that I find bewildering and somewhat Animal Farm-esque. Why can’t we just acknowledge difference? Why does some difference have to be better than others?

I know it’s not that simple. I do know that. I’ve had someone diminish and devalue my experience because they don’t share it and don’t, in fact, understand it, and I don’t like the feeling. And when I meet someone who I believe “gets it” because they have similar experience, I do feel a resonance. We can connect in that way. And I have seen people almost certainly save their own lives by finding a “kinship” group to whom they did not have to explain, justify, or apologize for their own experience. A group who kept them safe and gave them respite.

I think most people do find brother/sisterhood in bad times rather than good. I worry that in this culture, which is so frightened of difference, the result will be a bunker mentality that only divides us further.

The thing is, I believe passionately that people can bond over shared joy, shared dreams, shared love as well as over the traumatic stuff. Suffering and enduring hardship can catalyze our potential for being bigger, braver, more ourselves than we might have imagined; but I really, really think that love and joy and hope can do it too.

So here I am, answering a question you didn’t ask and not the one you did. Hmm, setting, setting. I think for me setting is a tool rather than a goal: in other words, I’ll probably never write a novel just to create a cool world for people to wander around in. I wrote Solitaire as speculative fiction in part because it was the only way I could imagine getting Jackal into her own head in a way that would be an undiluted experience for her and the reader both. I also wrote it as spec fic because that was all I could imagine myself writing at the time — imagine my surprise to find myself splashing about in the mainstream. The Kansas book and the mountain book are set in the present day US because that’s how I can best support the journey of the characters. Putting these folks in Ko, or Darwath, or even 12th century China, would make it impossible for me to tell their particular stories.

Having said that, part of the fun of the new books is that the settings are unfamiliar, at least to me. I’m learning about different kinds of community and different ways of life. I’m having a whale of a time thinking how I can enter into the experience of someone who shares elements of my culture, but whose external landscape is so different from mine. I don’t think I need specifically to write sf or fantasy in order to go to unfamiliar places; and with those settings, my goal is not to say to readers Look how different this is, but rather See how our places shape us.