August 2014 – Shaun Duke

On Robin Williams

Shaun Duke / August 31, 2014

You have probably already heard about the death of Robin Williams by (apparent) suicide. Given the public nature of celebrity deaths, I have a feeling a lot of people are somewhat desensitized to the whole thing. I, however, feel inclined to say a few words about Robin Williams. I was born in 1983. Basically, I was a 90s kid. I grew up on 90s cartoons. I grew up on 90s movies.[1] Among my fondest memories are those films which featured Robin Williams. Hook (1991), FernGully (1992), Aladdin (1992), Mrs. Doubtfire (1993), Jumanji (1995), Jack (1996), and Flubber (1997). My siblings and I watched a number of these films many times over. They brought us joy. Robin Williams had a way of making us laugh — his greatest gift. In a small way, Williams helped make our lives better. Those that know me are probably aware that my childhood was pretty crap. I wrote about some of that here. Movies and video games were some of the methods through which I survived that growing-up experience. Robin Williams was a part of that. And so, for me, his death had a personal feel to it. The man who made us laugh. Who brought joy and wonder. He’s gone. Forever. I’ll never forget the laughs. It’s just sad that we won’t have any new laughfests from Robin Williams. We’ll only have the memories.

SF/F Commentary

Anonymous Comments = Off

Shaun Duke / August 30, 2014

A quick note for readers: I ran a bit of an experiment with comments to see if turning off registration requirements (even with something like Open ID) would affect the activity on this blog. Unfortunately, all that seemed to happen is that spammers got more comments into my moderation queue than real people with real things to say. For that reason, I’m turning off anonymous comments. It’ll prevent my statistics from being skewed and it’ll make my life easier, since I won’t have to delete mountains of annoying spam comments from my inbox. Hopefully, this won’t be a problem for anyone. You should be able to use any social media account to leave a comment here (via Open ID), which I imagine almost all of you have. Anywhoodles.

Book Reviews

Book Review: All Those Vanished Engines (2014) by Paul Park

Shaun Duke / August 28, 2014

“It occurs to me that every memoirist and every historian should begin by reminding their readers that the mere act of writing something down, of organizing something in a line of words, involves a clear betrayal of the truth.” — All Those Vanished Engines by Paul Park (Pg. 173) Of the novels I’ve reviewed in the last year, this is by far one of the most difficult. All Those Vanished Engines (2014) by Paul Park is not your typical SF novel. It is layered, divergent, and postmodern. If I were to describe this book in a single phrase, it would be “a destabilized metanarrative about art and history with mindscrew tendencies.” Though I appreciate the ambitiousness of Park’s narrative styling and prose, All Those Vanished Engines is a somewhat cold work. All Those Vanished Engines (ATVE) is essentially a collection of three novellas. The first is the most mystical of the bunch. Set during an alternate post-Civil War America, it follows Paulina as she attempts to make sense of her past by way of a fictional journal about a science fictional future. As the narrative progresses, however, the journal and the real world become increasingly closer to the same thing, destabilizing the reality with which the novel opens. Of the three narratives, this is by far the most compelling, not only because of its deliberate meta-ness, but also because of the way that meta-ness manipulates the actual reality of the text. The interaction between fiction and a fiction-within-a-fiction produces a chilling effect that is somewhat absent throughout the rest of the book, in no small part because this is the only section which seems dedicated to uprooting the reader’s grasp on something “real.” What became apparent as I continued reading, however, is that each individual section might have been better served as its own novel. The first narrative clearly connects to the second and third, but the first narrative’s closing moments leave too much wide open — too many questions unanswered. The second narrative is the first seemingly autobiographical section, drawing upon Park’s actual writings to examine the writing practice (a supposed postmodernist trait) and a (initially) fictional account of a dying man’s confessions about a secret project conducted during the Second World War (presumably some variation of the Manhattan Project, but with a distinctly 50s nuclear-monsters quality to it). Much of the section follows the narrator as he tutors another writer in the literary art, but it jumps between the narrator’s personal relationships and his efforts to write a novel (Park’s only Wizards of the Coast contribution). Though I am a fan of the postmodern tendency towards self-awareness of the processes of fiction, the second section seemed to me a tad overindulgent, drawing so much attention to the narrator’s writing process as to shove the remaining narrative elements into the background. In particular, I found myself more interested in the bizarre Manhattan-style project and the narrator’s relationship with his family than the long digressions into the fictionality of fiction. Unfortunately, much like the previous section, this one doesn’t offer any sense of closure, leaving much to be desired. The third narrative (the Nebula-nominated novell, “Ghosts Doing the Orange Dance”) is also autobiographical in form, appearing to take place both in the future of the first narrative and during the period in which Park wrote A Princess of Roumania (2005). The cover copy identifies this third narrative as occurring in a near-future U.S., though this must be a remarkably subtle shift forward, as I failed to notice what identified the narrative’s events as “in the future” (I may have forgotten, since each of Park’s sections contain multiple intersecting narratives and time periods). Regardless, here, Park’s marriage to the metanarrative and the seemingly deliberate memoirist focus settles around the history of Park’s grandfather, Edwin, and an unsolved murder in the Park-McCullough House — a real historical house from the 1860s, which I assume was once owned by Park’s actual family; the narrator returns to the house on his journey through his family’s history, unpacking some of the house’s “secrets.” The third section is less abstract than the second, in part because the metanarrative focuses on a multi-layered examination of Edwin Park’s “real” writings (real in the fictional world, at least) in relation to the writing process of the narrator (presumably, Paul). Though this third section returns to the uprooting of reality present in the first narrative (as a form of closure, it seems), I must admit to being somewhat frustrated with the structure and direction. By the time I arrived at “Ghosts Doing the Orange Dance,” I think I had gotten to the point where I wanted the ATVE to stop with its literary games and get to a “point” or “root” that would tie everything together. This became especially important to me because my own knowledge of the manipulated materials is inadequate, a problem which may not bother fans of Park’s work. ATVE is primarily an alternative history with a heavy dose of what appears to be autobiographical material. Much of the shifts in history revolve around the Civil War, a period which I am woefully uneducated. While some of Park’s shifts are obvious (aliens in the first narrative), the other shifts are less so, such that references to characters and moments were, for me, somewhat abstracted. This is made more difficult by the fact that many aspects of the novel seem to refer to Park’s real life and his family, particularly in the second and third narratives, which focus on writing (with references to Park’s work) and family (presumably Park’s actual family members, or analogues thereof). The abstractness of the novel, in other words, became too overbearing for me. For me, it seemed as though the novel lacked a grounding element, something to tie the reader to a solid reality. A time period doesn’t seem like enough to me, especially since the novel is split across three narratives set in what seem to be different versions of reality. I could

SF/F Commentary

5 Don’ts of Panels (and Podcast Roundtables)

Shaun Duke / August 27, 2014

I’m officially back from Worldcon/LonCon3, which marks my third convention this year (preceded by ICFA and CONvergence). Having had a few experiences as a panelist, I’ve learned a few things about what works and what doesn’t. The below list is not exhaustive by any means, but it reflects my fairly new experiences as an panelist and audience member. Here goes: Do NOT assume something personal about a panelistIn particular, do NOT assume you share experiences with a panelist because you share some physical or personal feature. Two religious people may have had entirely different journeys. Two gay men or lesbian women (or bisexuals) may have had entirely different lives. Two people of the same race or gender? The same. The problem with making these assumptions isn’t that they are inherently “bad” in any kind of moral sense; rather, the problem is that some of these assumptions can actually make panelists extremely uncomfortable. In some cases, a panelist might be so uncomfortable talking about personal experiences of race or gender or whatever that asking them point blank will reveal that discomfort to the audience. I would hope it’s obvious why this is not a good thing. Many of the topics we now discuss in the sf/f community are not unlike handling prickly pears, and so it’s incumbent upon each of us to recognize that everyone has a different level of comfort with those topics. On a related note: don’t assume vaguely topical jokes about a panelist based on some defining feature of their physical person (race, gender, dress, etc.) will be received as jokes. I think many jokes are harmless, but you really should know what an individual is comfortable with before making jokes about their appearance. None of this is universal. I just think the best practice in cases of potentially controversial topics is to ask your panelists whether there is anything they really don’t want to discuss. And then you drop those undesirable topics entirely. Moderators Should ModerateYour ONLY job is to keep the panelists discussing the topic. This isn’t an easy thing to do, as I’ve learned from moderating a handful of panels. It takes some degree of skill to keep a conversation evolving organically. The biggest no-no of moderating, however, is in assuming you are a panelist, too. You’re not. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t respond to questions if you can bring something to the table that your panelists have not; it only means that you should be more interested in keeping the conversation going than in making sure your voice is heard. The worst moderators are the ones who seem to think this is as much their show as everyone else’s. And the worst of the worst moderators are those that have to be moderated by the panelists. I’ve seen this happen. It is not pretty. Ask Questions; Don’t BabbleTaking into account that exceptions might exist, audience participation in panels should be in the form of actual questions. Most of us have heard this piece of advice before — and for good reason. The audience only gets a small portion of time in which to participate, so when someone takes up 5 minutes offering their own point, it comes off as a tad selfish. I’ve had this happen at an academic conference: one individual went on and on with a critique of a fellow panelist’s paper, refusing to allow anyone else to ask a question; in the end, the Q&A time became “random dude’s babblefest time.” I’m not saying that offering up a comment is necessarily a bad thing, but if you’re in a room full of raised hands, a question is much more useful than a running commentary. Ask a question. If you can, turn that comment into a question; you can always talk to the panelists afterwards! Wait to Prep Your Panel Until the Last MinuteIf possible, prep your panel well ahead of time, as travel arrangements may mean your panelists aren’t available a week before the convention. I learned this first hand; it’s not a wicked sin or anything, but it does mean your panelists can be put on the spot more often than they are comfortable with. Sometimes, you can produce a more interesting organic paneling experience by getting the basics out of the way. I find the in-depth discussions of a topic come not from going over the surface but digging into the meaty beats underneath. For example, it’s probably less interesting to discuss *what* urban fantasy is than it is to discuss how urban fantasy has evolved over time (or how urban fantasy authors engage with the political and social realities of the real world). Prepping panelists beforehand also gives you the opportunity to ask if there’s anything they *don’t* want to discuss (which leads me back to #1). Avoid Making Negative Blanket Statements About XGenerally speaking, blanket statements are inaccurate and crass. If you identify a negative trait with an entire nationality, it’s likely you’re completely wrong; in some cases, it’s quite likely someone in the room identifies themselves as that nationality. This applies to other groupings, too. The problem with blanket statements is that they have a tendency to come off as offensive. If someone says “all Americans are X,” and that thing doesn’t apply to me, I tend to feel like I’m being shit on for being born in the USA. I can’t imagine how it feels for someone coming from a traditionally marginalized culture or country to be told something similar, especially by someone who is not part of that culture or country. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. Context matters. There are contexts in which a group identity is used to make a point about that group; that point usually implies exceptions to the rule. That said, I think it is often more useful to qualify every statement about a group. Often, “some” is a necessary word for the panel toolbox. And that’s my list. What would you add here? —————————- Note:

SF/F Commentary

The Taxonomy of Genre: Science Fiction as Supergenre

Shaun Duke / August 25, 2014

I recently stayed with Maureen Kincaid Speller and Paul Kincaid, two wonderful people whose book collections would make almost any sf fan drool. One of the brief discussions we had before I headed off for my final days in London concerned the often pointless debates about what science fiction “is.” Paul suggested that thinking of sf as a “genre” in the narrative sense is not accurate to the use of “genre.” Unlike romance or crime, there is nothing unique to the narrative practice of sf that can be separated from everything else. This might explain, for example, why there has been so much discussion about the nature of sf as a cross-pollinating genre – crossovers being so regular an occurrence that one would be hard pressed to find an sf text which does not cross over into other generic forms. Paul’s observation, it seems to me, is spot on. Even if I might define sf by such vague features as future time and extrapolation, these are merely functional terms to explain sf to someone who does not know what it is; outside of that narrow space, these definitions are practically useless, as the academic world has yet to define sf in any concrete, generally accepted sense – as opposed to other fields, such as biology, whose name defines itself (the study of life). Likewise, no two people can agree on what sf “is,” with academics and non-academics alike debating the wide range of critical definitions, from Darko Suvin to Carl Freedman to Istvan Csicsery-Ronay, Jr. During this conversation, I suggested that it might be more fruitful to think of sf as a supergenre rather than a straight genre, as doing so would allow us to apply the crossover potential of sf to a different set of parameters: namely, the interaction of subgenres or genres with the supergenres to which they belong. The supergenres would include realism, science fiction, and anti-realism, with the traditional genres of crime, romance, historicals, fantasy, and so on underneath. These supergenres would not necessarily define the genres beneath them, but they would suggest a relationship between genres that moves beyond narrative practice, but never quite leaves it behind. A fantasy novel might be as much historical as it is anti-realist; the former is a narrative practice, while the latter is a conceptual “game.” In this respect, sf would be defined by its most basic roots – its conceptual concerns, not its narrative ones. Futurity, extrapolation, and social or hard science, to give a rough sketch. Of course, sf can interact with the other supergenres, producing sf-nal works which are more realistic than not (or the other way around); this seems a supergeneric necessity, as to define “realism” as anything other than “literature which attempts to represent the world as it is” would not allow for the widest range of possibilities, which I submit a supergenre requires in order to be defined as such. A terminological shift from “as it is” to “as it could or might be” is fairly negligible in the long run. Thus, an sf text can adhere to the rigors of science in its imagining of a possible real future, and a realist text can do the same in reverse order; whichever conceptual mode is dominant would determine the supergenre to which that text most aptly belongs, but the divisions would never be hard so as to discount the cross-supergeneric influences. One might think of a typical Asimov or Bacigalupi novel as more sf-nal than realist and a Jane Rogers novel as more realist than sf-nal. Naturally, this could make things rather messy.[1] In a similar fashion, one might think of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings as both anti-realist and realist at once, which might suggest a contradiction if not for the fact that the rigor with which Tolkien wrote LOTR would seem to subvert the anti-realist tendencies of fantasy, if only minutely. I’d suggest that LOTR is dominated by its anti-realist practices simply by being more tied to myth and folklore than to the Realist tradition (in the literary sense, not the supergeneric sense). In that respect, one would place myth, fairy tales, and folklore firmly under the anti-realist banner. Defining genre this way would also kill the endless discussions about how to classify texts which seem to borrow narrative traditions from all over the place. A romantic comedy featuring a detective could be shoved into three separate genres (or subgenres), neither marring the value of the other in relation to the text. Whether dominance should determine classification at this point is up to debate, though I suspect out of a need to keep conversations about texts relatively smooth and unencumbered one would need to focus on the dominant trait rather than apply a text’s multiplicities. Outside of conversation, an acronymic practice might make things easier.[2] These are all preliminary thoughts – ones which I’m expounding upon while on my train to London Victoria. I do think they are worthwhile ones, though. Expect more on this in the future. And on that note: I leave the comments to you lot. *** [1]: Obviously, this concept is only useful outside of the marketing apparatus. [2]: If one is clever, the acronyms could be turned into clever words. A romantic comedy set in 18th century France would become a HRC, or “horic.”

SF/F Commentary

On LonCon and Thanks

Shaun Duke / August 20, 2014

I’m currently in Bristol after a long, exciting weekend at LonCon, resting up, seeing some touristy stuff, and generally dropping the weight from my shoulders. Overall, this trip abroad has been beautiful. I’ll talk about some of that here (warning: this will be more rambly and random than usual). LonCon! I still have a few days to look forward to in the big magic city, but my experience at the convention was overwhelmingly positive. First, the LonCon staff put together a fantastic convention. Though I could not attend every item I wanted to for all sorts of reasons, there were so many incredible panels this year, including a whole sub-track on World SF. Clearly, the con runners heard all of the complaints and concerns about San Antonio (and previous cons) and took it to heart. The international presence was phenomenal, in part served by the location (LONDON!) and by the smart programming staff who wanted to highlight the contributions of non-US/non-UK authors and fans. I also have to say an enormous THANK YOU to the con staff for helping me deal with technology issues. For those that don’t know, my portable recorder mysteriously stopped working at the start of the con. It turns out that my device and my microSD card weren’t communicating properly, which led me to the second problem: I had already recorded a bunch of things with the device, all of which I did not want to lose. The con staff helped me get the files off of the recorder and onto a flash drive. For that, I am immensely grateful. You saved me from an otherwise terrible situation. Overall, the con was amazing. I’m so glad I got to go, and equally happy about participating in programming. Most of all, I’m glad I got to meet so many people I otherwise might never have met. Hopefully, I’ll get to travel abroad for a future con! The Hugos Ceremony Thank the heavens that it was short. They really crushed it down to the basics so we wouldn’t be stuck in those bloody chairs for all time. It’s not that I don’t like sitting down for events, but previous ceremonies have been astronomically long (in the same way as the Oscars, which I tend to mostly ignore, except when the actual winners are announced). Personally, I’d rather get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible so I can get to other things. In this case, other things involved parties…Hugo Losers Parties. On Losing a Hugo Here’s something that I think should be said about losing this award: it’s a first. It was my first time being nominated. It was my first time losing. Maybe I’ll have my first win one day. Regardless, there are so many firsts to appreciate. How many people get to say “I’ve been nominated for a Hugo” or “I lost a Hugo”? Not that many. So, I lost. Oh noes. And while it kind of hurt at first — especially when I looked at the numbers — it really did become less a “oh noes” situation than a “holy crap, I got nominated and I’m in a room full of amazing people who also got nominated and lost and all this losing crap doesn’t really matter all that much because George R. R. Martin is over there and he lost, too, and he’s amazing, and then there are the Book Smugglers over there, who lost, and Justin Landon, who lost, and a bunch of amazing authors who lost” situation. And I tacked on the “holy crap, two of my favorite authors this year, John Chu and Ann Leckie, won awards this year, and they’re amazing and deserving and I shouldn’t mope cause I didn’t win because I wanted these two to win so bad, and they did, and OMG I’m filling up with amazing happy feelings.” That’s kind of the evolution of the Hugo loser, I guess. In any case, The Skiffy and Fanty Show will continue to do what it does to the best of our ability. We’re dedicated to spreading the love for World SF this year, and to our focus on women in 2015. A Moment for Thanks This is going to be long, and it will involve a whole lot of people. First, I want to thank all the listeners of The Skiffy and Fanty Show for supporting the podcast all these years, for nominating us, and voting for us. It really is an honor to be on the ballot, and the fact that the community of voters thought we were worthy of being on the list means a lot. Second, I want to thank my family for their support throughout the years, not just for the podcast, but for my studies. When times have been tough, they’ve been there for me, giving me money for rent, helping me fly home to spend time with family, and generally being supportive. If I ever need something, I know I can go to my family for help. I should also thank Julie and Scott Crawford, Erik and Hilary Vos, and Janel and Johannes (my aunt and uncle) for donating to my fundraiser; Kevin (my uncle) for basically buying my flight to England; my mom and my grandmother for their endless support; and everyone else, friends and so on, who have supported me all of these years doing whatever it is I do. Thank you. Third, I need to thank my various cohosts on the show: To Adam Callaway: thank you for starting The Skiffy and Fanty Show with me all those years ago. To Jen Zink: thank you for filling in for Adam and helping me make the show what it is today; without you, the show would have died before it could find its wings. Additionally, I have to thank you from the deepest part of my heart for being my best friend, through thick and thin, for your advice and support, and for just being you. Thank