The Preliminary PhD Reading List: Hard Times Ahead (or, Yay Caribbean Literature)
If you didn’t know, I’ve been hard at work putting together my committee and reading list for my PhD exams, which I intend to take in March or April of next year. The list will likely change in the next few weeks, given feedback from my director, but I thought you’d all like to see what I’m up to academically. For those that don’t know, I am writing my PhD on the relationship between the Caribbean and the space of Empire (spatiality). In particular, my work will be an attempt to conceptualize how Empire is spatially constructed and how such constructions are reflected in the literature and resisted/manipulated/etc. by Caribbean peoples/characters/authors/etc. The idea is to (hopefully) mold together my work on Hopkinson and Buckell for the MA into a larger project on Caribbean literature. With that in mind, here is the list I’ve so far constructed. Feel free to offer suggestions of your own, as this reading list is only for my exams and not necessarily for my final project. Here goes: Novels (Early Period) The English in the West Indies, Or, the Bow of Ulysses by James Anthony Froude Wonderful Adventures of Mrs. Seacole in Many Lands by Mary Seacole Rupert Gray, a Study in Black and White by Stephen N. Cobham (Modern and Mid-20th Century) Emmanuel Appadocca by Michel Maxwell Philip Minty Alley by C. L. R. James A Morning at the Office by Edgar Mittelholzer Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys (Contemporary) The Enigma of Arrival by V. S. Naipaul Frangipani House by Beryl Gilroy Cambridge by Caryl Phillips A Map to the Door of No Return: Notes to Belonging by Dianne Brand (Genre and Related Contemporary) Crystal Rain by Tobias S. Buckell Ragamuffin by Tobias S. Buckell Sly Mongoose by Tobias S. Buckell (note: there is a fourth book coming out in this series, which I may add to this list at a later time) Midnight Robber by Nalo Hopkinson Redemption in Indigo by Karen Lord Theory, History, etc. (Spatial Theory) The Production of Space by Henri Lefebvre The Urban Experience by David Harvey The Road to Botany Bay: An Essay in Spatial History by Paul Carter The Archaeologies of the Future by Fredric Jameson The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard (Caribbean History, Postcolonial Theory, etc.) Writing in Limbo by Simon Gikandi Poetics of Relation by Edouard Glissant The Repeating Island: the Caribbean and the Postmodern Perspective by Rojo Antonio Benitez The Pleasures of Exile by George Lamming The British Caribbean: From the Decline of Colonialism to the End of Federation by Elisabeth Wallace
WISB Shorts: Which do you want first?
I’m starting up the WISB Project again. This year, I am going to finish it. Through and through. That means four new short stories set in Traea, and a full novel podcast, with an ebook release. And to make up for life’s complexities, I will give anyone who donated $5 or more a copy of the ebook for The World in the Satin Bag (and the deal applies to anyone else who decides to donate in the future). I won’t be pushing for donations this time, around, though. Donate if you want. All I really want is to hear from people. If you like a story, or a chapter, leave a comment. But for now, I need some direction. I have four short stories in the works for the project, ranging from pre-WISB eras to distant futures (though still very much in the realm of fantasy). Based on the following descriptions, which would you want to read first? You can leave extended answers in the comments, if you are so inclined. Here goes: “Suckled at the Edge of Flesh” A prequel to The World in the Satin Bag. Fagan Tarceron rides the seas to map the unknown stretches beyond the shores of Elithae and the Black Gap. But when the many ships under his lord’s command discover a massive continent covered in abandoned cities, Fagan knows they should turn around before it’s too late. What could empty entire cities without leaving a trace? The real question: Is it worth finding out? The Girl Who Flew on a Whale Set several hundred years after the events that take place in The World in the Satin Bag. In the long-forgotten city of Arlin, the Dreamer imagines riding the seas and the skies, having grand adventures with brigands and pirates and all manner of strange creatures. Most of all, she dreams of the flying whales who have become the great myths and legends of the sailors and seafolk at the edge of the long-forgotten city of Arlin. But the Dreamer is a young lady. She’s destined for courts and finishing schools and all manner of obscure tortures her mother can dream up. And when the Royal Archbombasin of Cagerock convinces the Dreamer’s mother to send her to his special school for special children, where it is rumored that he feasts upon young flesh, the Dreamer can take no more, fleeing into the city to discover the adventures she’s always dreamed of… (Probably more like a middle-grade novel, to be honest.) “Murder in Hodgepodge Alley” Set in a pre-industrial city several hundred years or so after the events of The Girl Who Flew on a Whale. Harper is one of the many who occupy the winding alley of monstrous houses and board-bridges called Magpie City. One of the Prolet. The lesser folk. Life isn’t terribly hard there. They have food. They have water. And they can build up and up and up almost without limitation. But the city of Bifur does have its limits, with strict security forces to keep those limits enforced. When Harper finds the body of a member of a royal house, he knows that things will not go well for Hodgepodge Alley or the residents of Magpie City. Not well at all… “Lendergross and Eaves” Set in the same city as the previous story, and in roughly the same era. The Anurians of Bifur live out their toad-like lives in the slums, eking out an existence while the city finds new ways to exploit them. Except for Terk. He’s cornered the Eaves market, pushing illicit drugs as high as the elite circles. That is until someone important is murdered with Terk’s calling card all over him. Except Terk doesn’t kill people. Maims? Sure. But never kills. Which means someone is trying to set him up to ruin him. Unless he can figure out who’s behind it all and clear his name. Well, mostly clear his name, that is… Have at it, folks!
WIP Snippet: “Great is the History of the Many-Skilled Artistes”
Folks following me on Twitter will know that I have been working on a short story entitled “Great is the History of the Many-Skilled Artistes” (a working title). The story was inspired by one of my graduate school classes this semester. I’m still working on it, and expect it to be completed next month (once finals are done and over with). The following is the first of four sections in the story. Do let me know what you think in the comments! Here goes: I. Tears in the Womb of Unture“Never trust the snake who wears another man’s clothes.They are prone to theft and death follows them at the tail.”–Avaganze Proverb, from The Thirty-third Book of Unturekamo, Date Unknown The man in the bowl hat wanted to eat their mythology, he said. Nothing could have shocked the Avaganze more, since their mythology was everything to them. They had cultivated it for generations, built their culture around it with stunning clarity. They believed they were gifted by Unture, Queen of the Divine Realm, to live among the stars singular and alone. But then the bowl hat man had come, stepping huge footprints onto their tiny world, demanding a sacrifice like Unture herself. But he was not Unture. He could not be. No. Unture’s breasts hung low on her chest, because they were full of milk for the children of the universe, and her hips always swayed to an unknown rhythm in the sky. And yet the bowler hat man had arrived and eaten away those few myths the Avaganze had let drift in the wind, including the divine nature of their existence. Already, they were hurting. The bowl hat man smiled, licking his pearly teeth with a pink tongue glistening in the blazing afternoon sun. His blue eyes struck dissonant notes in the air as he stared at the collective before him. He dusted off his black waistcoat and the pleats of his black pants; he did not clean the tan-brown mess from his shoes, as if aware that to do so would be pointless. His blonde hair fluttered in the wind, shining like gold beneath a brow drenched in sparkling sweat, jettisoning off a sagging frog chin. His face bore the mark of a thousand ages, but the scars had long since healed, living his skin the color of lilies. He spoke again with his authoritarian voice, pulling from the gut and pushing tooth-filled words into the air, which swam down among the little people before him and nibbled at their heels: “You will feed me your myths, or your children will have no history.” They were so much tinier than the bowl hat man, but only because he had consumed so much already. His gut protruded from his fine clothes, exposing the hairy, jiggling blob beneath. Yet his slovenly appearance gave way to gentility in the shiny bracelets and trinkets that adorned his neck, wrists, and belt. The little people gathered their strength, and finally Rohirre—which in the tongue of Avaganze meant “speaker of convincing words”—stepped forward. “How are you called?” he said, peering several feet up into the hungry eyes of the bowler hat man, who licked his lips and giggled from his belly. A little butterfly fluttered from his belly button, nibbling at the air with its curled protrusion before dispersing in the wind as ashes. “Ah, so the Avaganze speak, with such fine, simple words.” He sucked his teeth effect. “You may call me Mogron.” An audible hiss filled the air as the Avaganze reeled away. “Yes, I like that name. It rests well on the tongue, does it not? Oh, and how strongly it translates. ‘He Who Plagues Unture’s Feet.’ How wonderful you have become. How creative! Oh, I will feast well here. I will feast well indeed.” “What compels Mogron to our shores?” Mogron bowed low, bringing his eyes level with Rohirre’s, some three feet from the ground; Rohirre was the tallest of his kind with a projecting voice—he had earned his name. “I have come to eat. Your mythology compels me. It demands eating, for the many in the sky who I serve.” The Avaganze hissed again, some even cursing. Rohirre stiffened, his jaw set against emotion, but revealing the fear lingering in his heart. “The Ongrorre sent you to us?” Mogron laughed. His voice vibrated in the sand beneath his feet. “Is that what you call the sky beings? Dwellers in the City? Oh, how fascinating!” He licked his lips, tasting the air with a long, pink tongue covered in warts the size of Rohirre’s fingertips. “I will eat well here.” “You will go now, Mogron. You will go back to the Ongrorre and tell them that you may not eat here.” “And why would I do that, little one?” “Because the lands of the Avaganze are for the Avaganze, to be tilled by the Avaganze, to be the haven for the bodies of the Avaganze. You are not Avaganze. You are one of the Ongrorre. Unture’s bane. Unture’s torturer. And you belong in Ongrorre. Now go.” Rohirre lifted his chin, proud of his accomplishment, proud of waves of emotion emanating from the dozens of Avaganze standing behind him. He did not glance back, but he could see them in the back of his mind holding hands tight, faces determined and strong. Once more, he had fulfilled his namesake. Mogron brought himself to his full height, sucking in a deep breath. And then he laughed, not unkindly. His belly jiggled, the hairs standing on end with excitement. The pearly whites in his mouth glistened with spittle as the roar of joy spilled from his gut, emitting serpentine wisps of air that slithered through the air and around the feet of the Avaganze. Then Mogron lifted his right arm, pointing a finger in such a way that only an elder would to a child, and in one great cry of pain, Rohirre disintegrated into dust. Mogron sniffed Rohirre into his lungs, licking his
NaPoWriMo: Who’s with me?
I am participating in the National Poetry Writing Month. No, this is not an April Fool’s joke. I am seriously going to write one poem, every single day for all of April. That’s 30 poems. And it’s entirely possible I am going to post them here. John Keats = poetry boss. Worship him. If you’re inclined towards poetry, you should join me. Or not. It’s up to you. But this is what I’m doing this month, on top of all the other crap I have to do (final papers, grading, syllabus creation, etc.). Anywho!
#ICFA — Some Late Thoughts on an Amazing Conference
Before I talk about my brief, but wonderful experience at the International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts (now almost a week since I was forced to leave by the whims of time), you should check out Jeff Vandermeer’s excellent recap here. It best sums up, I think, the general feeling one returns home with after being surrounded by so many friends and colleagues, particularly when one is a rather important writer (Vandermeer is such a writer). Now for my thoughts… Wandering the Halls (or, Meeting and Not Meeting) I think one missing component explains the impact ICFA had on me: I completely forgot to take pictures of people, things, places, or even the alligator who made his presence known to everyone who hung out around the pool. Not because I didn’t have a camera, but because I simply forgot the darn thing was in my bag while at the actual conference. Why? Part of it could have to do with the fact that many of the people at ICFA are writers I greatly respect (whether as people or writers). I met Nalo Hopkinson (for the second time in my short life) and Karen Lord. While my discussions with them were short, I still enjoyed meeting them both and hope to meet them again. I also met up with Mari Ness, who I met with John Ottinger at MegaCon in Orlando last year. Mari was as delightful as ever and introduced me to a number of people who I will remember by face, but will probably not remember by name (starstruck as I was). Of the people I didn’t get a chance to speak with were China Mieville (spoke with him at Eaton last year, and he is truly one of the brightest, friendliest people with which I’ve had the pleasure to speak), Nick Mamatas (who always seemed somewhere I wasn’t), Jeff Vandermeer (who was either preoccupied with people or at one of his talks, which conflicted with my paper presentation), Ann Vandermeer (ditto), Sheila Williams, Delia Sherman, John Rieder (though I had lunch with him on Monday, and attended his talk later that evening), Jeffrey Cohen (the guest scholar who wrote about his experiences here), Christopher Barzak (who I never saw, but wish I had — One For Sorrow is one of the best books I have ever read), and so many others. I hope that I will have more courage at future ICFA conferences (I am so antisocial when it comes to such things). But I did make a new friend at the conference. Her name is Mandy Mahaffey, a teacher at Valencia Community College and a U of Florida PhD. in English hopeful. She came to my panel (which I’ll talk about below) and we really hit it off (her and my roomie/friend, Kayley). And because of her, I got to meet Robert J. Sawyer, whose presence put me in a constant state of awe. Mr. Sawyer, by the way, is one of the most gracious people I have ever met. He gave me advice on writing, we talked about the good and the bad of Star Wars, other science fiction properties, movie making, and much more. There was also a little of male bonding (of the “we’re being silly” kind). And he probably did a lot of work to make me feel at ease, because I can guarantee you that I looked like a complete fool while trying to hold a conversation with a man who, quite honestly, is one of the most important writers of our age (yes, I am willing to make that statement and stick to it). And I’d never met him before. Yet there I was with Robert J. Sawyer and Mandy and Carolyn Clink (a noted poet and Mr. Sawyer’s partner in crime), having a conversation. It was wonderful. And I came out having learned so much. That alone would make ICFA one of the best conferences an SF/F scholar and wannabe-writer could ever attend. But then there’s this… The Presentation Experience (or, Holy Crap, This is Incredible) I’m going to shut up soon, but I did want to talk about how much fun I had presenting my paper at ICFA. I’ve been to a lot of conferences since I started graduate school. Some have been great. Others have not. Usually this is because the audience isn’t receptive, there isn’t an audience to speak of, or the audience responds in ways that aren’t conducive for an exchange (one individual at a conference I attended spent the entire 15-20 minute Q&A session grilling one of the panelists on a single point — and by “grill” I mean “talked for most of the 15-20 minutes and wouldn’t let it go”). But that’s not what happened at ICFA. Most of the folks at my panel were from the U of Florida, which was great, but the few who weren’t were enormously receptive. One panelist challenged me on my inclusion of Kage Baker’s The House of the Stag among works of postcolonial literature, but in a way that, I think, was helpful. Another asked me some interesting questions related to her fields of interest (queer theory, etc.), which inevitably led to a great discussion afterwards (and there begins my friendship with Mandy). And the other panelists (my friends Kendra and NaToya) got questions too. It was, to put it bluntly, a fantastic experience. And Now to Shut Up All in all, ICFA turned out to be an amazing conference. I will be back next year. Period. I have to be! So expect me there… Anywho! ——————————————————————————— P.S.: There was also a very interesting bit of male bonding with a friend from the U of Florida. I will probably write about that later, because it’s that special.
Upcoming Projects: South African Science Fiction and Kage Baker
I said at the beginning of this semester that I wasn’t going to do any more academic conferences. Part of that is because I don’t want to spend any more money for travel expenses and the other part is because I want to start focusing on publications. Well…so much for that idea. In a few weeks, I will be presenting an essay on South African genre fiction at a local conference. The essay focuses on contemporary SA SF, such as written work by Lauren Beukes and S. L. Grey and films like Neil Blomkamp’s District 9. Specifically, I am interested in the problem of interpretation. One of the issues I see with how people read SA SF is that such readings are often overly simplistic. It’s too easy to read District 9 as a thinly-veiled allegory of Apartheid. But doing so, in my mind, is reductive; it ignores the contemporary position of South Africa: that is that SA is not an Apartheid State anymore; rather, it is a post-Apartheid State, and discussing contemporary literature should take that into account. Every reference to racial tensions are, in my mind, more accurately applied to SA now than to SA as it was in a worse time. That’s not to say that talking about Apartheid is not relevant to interpretation or reading, just that reducing our reading experience to historical sensationalism presents problems for reception. That’s the first… The second project I’m working on is not a sure thing — yet. A friend semi-invited me to contribute to a panel she is working on with another friend for the International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts (ICFA) — where China Mieville is Guest of Honor. Their panel is focused on experiences of trauma and the “monster within,” and I happen to have a paper that I’ve been meaning to rework that deals with those issues. And the text in question? Kage Baker’s The House of the Stag. In the original paper, I focused on the reconstruction of history and its impact on subjectivity in Baker’s novel and Amitav Ghosh’s In an Antique Land. For this paper, I’m reconstructing the sections on Baker’s novel in order to talk about how colonial trauma and exile lead to a different kind of internal acceptance — if you’ve read the book, then you know that Gard adopts the narrative of the Dark Lord in order to find a “space” to exist within an extensive system of colonial exclusions. Hopefully the paper will turn out well. We’ll see. And there you go. What are you working on (academic or otherwise)?