Back to The Violent Century: how did that novel challenge you in ways that your other books haven’t?
It was a nightmare to write! You know, Osama was probably the easiest thing I ever wrote, strangely enough. And the book I’ve been working on this year, I wrote it incredibly quickly (mostly because it was so dark—I couldn’t bear the thought of spending too long in that mental space).
The Violent Century was the opposite. It was hard, it was slow, it went through rewrite after rewrite—but each time it was getting closer to what it should have been. I made a stylistic choice early on in the way it is told, and the response to that wasn’t good, and I stopped working for three months because I didn’t know what to do—and then I decided I knew best after all, and kept going. You have to trust your instincts (though it can be scary!).
And it was written very much in the middle of a lot of transition, both in my circumstances and in my career—I started work on it when I thought my career was essentially over before it’s began, and finished it literally a week before winning the World Fantasy Award for Osama. So it’s been a real rollercoaster in many ways!
You’ve lived and traveled all around the world. How do you suppose that has affected your writing and sense of place?
I’ve said it before, that sense of place is incredibly important to me—not necessarily in overblown descriptions of places but for my own feel for a place in order for me to write about it. But at the same time, though I have set stories widely across the world, and I’ve lived in many of those places, I am increasingly uncomfortable with doing that—I am feeling more and more that I need to concentrate on my personal background, heritage, geography. I’m conflicted, in a way.
Vanuatu was a big influence on my science fiction short stories, for instance in the use of Bislama (the pidgin/creole English used in Vanuatu) which has fed into my fiction a lot. Laos strongly influenced Gorel & The Pot-Bellied God (and Osama starts and ends there). I’ve been lucky—I’ve climbed volcanoes and sailed canoes and I’ve lived in some of the most remote and beautiful places on Earth. I’ve hitchhiked across Eastern Europe and Southeast Africa. I travelled on the trans-Siberian railway and stood on a frozen river of ice in the Gobi desert. But so what? That doesn’t make you a good writer, necessarily (though it can make you a boring dinner companion!).
So I’m trying to go deeper inside myself, instead. And to write honestly and authentically from my own identity.
Which is not to say I’m at all averse to writing the occasional very silly mash-up!
You started off as a poet, with a Hebrew collection, and poetry continues to appear in your work—both English poetry and I think also Bislama poetry? What is the importance of poetry to you?
I’ve said this before, that I wish I was a great poet, but I’m not—I’m decent, maybe even good, but I won’t be great, the way Larkin or Plath were, say. Or Amichai or Celan—take your pick. I did publish, a little, here and there, but if I do write (which is very infrequently, sadly—and I think you never know if you’ll ever write another poem, which is what happened to Larkin, he knew it was over, and that was three years I think before he died—it was all gone), well, these days I just work them into the novels or a story, so at least they’re there, if only for myself!
Back when we started, you mentioned the novel you’re working on now. Can you talk a little bit about it?
I don’t want to say much at this stage, obviously—it’s on the face of it a Hardboiled detective novel, which is actually quite hard to do, a proper Hardboiled (Osama is noir, but it’s very far from Hardboiled!)—but of course it’s not really a detective novel at all. It’s sort of alternate history, but again, like Osama, it’s not really an alternate history either. It’s . . . going to be interesting to see what happens with it. I’m just going over it now before sending it to my editor. And it’s about the Holocaust again—I think this will have to be my last work set in, or about, World War 2 for a while (after Martian Sands and The Violent Century). I just can’t sustain it any more. It’s draining, but something I also can’t escape. My mother was born in a refugee camp in Germany, her parents survived Auschwitz. Most of my family died there. A handful lived through the camp. It’s something that I need to talk about almost obsessively, but finding the right way, the right form of art in which to do it, that’s difficult, and I think I come at it from a weird angle.
But this will be my final statement on a lot of that stuff—Nazism and sexuality and pulp fiction and Hitler and Zionism and and metafictional worlds and what have you! And there are a couple of novellas still that I’m toying with about all that. But I’d like to write something very different after that. And a part of me just wants to do an honest-to-God big old science fiction novel. And a part of me—in all seriousness—wants to do a Star Wars novel. Just because I’d be fascinated to take that big property and try and treat it really seriously—do a literary novel set in that world!
About the Author
Jeremy L. C. Jones is a freelance writer, editor, and teacher. He is the Staff Interviewer for Clarkesworld Magazine and a frequent contributor to Kobold Quarterly and Booklifenow.com. He teaches at Wofford College and Montessori Academy in Spartanburg, SC. He is also the director of Shared Worlds, a creative writing and world-building camp for teenagers that he and Jeff VanderMeer designed in 2006. Jones lives in Upstate South Carolina with his wife, daughter, and flying poodle.
Another Word:
What Are You Doing Here?
Daniel Abraham
One of my favorite movies of all time is 2007’s The Lookout. It’s a gorgeous, twisty little noir that manages to co-opt all the expectations of the genre and do something just a little different with all of them. In particular, there’s a scene where Jeff Daniels’ blind protector-figure Lewis sits down with love interest Luvlee played by Isla Fisher. He tells her the story of how he lost his sight, and ties his experience back into hers with a simple, telling question: What are you doing here?
When I was starting out as a professional writer, with a few stories here and there and working on a novel that might be publishable, I spent a lot of time talking to people who were further along in the business than I was. I asked one question of accomplished writers—“What is your ambition?” It was my own way of phrasing the idea “what are you doing here?” The answers I got never quite satisfied me.
Some folks wanted to win awards, some wanted to be taught a part of the modern literary canon, some wanted to be New York Times bestsellers. They told me about some things that people thought would be cool, things that would be genuinely gratifying to the ego. Maybe that was what they heard when I asked the question. Looking back, I don’t think that was what I meant, but it’s possible the question I was trying to ask doesn’t fit so well into casual conversation.
Anyone who dedicates a large chunk of their life to the pursuit of a massive and at least partly self-defined project—writing novels, dog agility, martial arts, building robots in the garage, programming, whatever—has something very interesting happening to them.
Often, when we don’t make money from them, we call these hobbies, but I have to say I really dislike that word. It has too many nuances of frivolity and fecklessness. I prefer fetishist. It’s also inaccurate, but it captures the idea of excitement and obsession and transgression in a way that seems more nearly true.
In a culture that is most comfortable defining us—you and me and all the rest—in terms of workers and consumers, the idea of someone throwing a deep passion into something that doesn’t make them money, passively entertain them, or get them laid is a little dangerous. It questions things that we don’t always feel comfortable questioning. Like, what’s the point of being alive? How am I different from the people around me, and do I have the courage to celebrate that, knowing that, to some degree of another, I will be punished for it?
Writers—even dedicated unpublished writers—can spend thousands of hours of their lives working with a craft that pays poorly
and inconsistently for the chance to have their efforts casually dismissed by anyone with a Goodreads account. Most writers don’t make a living at it. Most books fail in the marketplace. By any rational standard, what we do is a terrible, terrible idea. Or consider cosplayers who can spend weeks and a fair amount of money on costumes for which they will not receive any professional or monetary credit. Or civil war reenactors who will actually go out in period-style wool uniforms in the heat of summer and man the walls of old forts and sleep in the encampments of the 1800s.
All of us are doing something that exists outside the realm of getting a good job and consuming things that entertain us or raise our social status. And the word “love” comes up a lot when we talk about these little enthusiasms. So you see why I reach for “fetish” over “hobby.” When I asked what people’s ambitions were, I was reaching for that question. What are we getting out of this? What desires to these things feed?
That’s why my first formulation—“What is your Ambition?”—was a bad one. I actually meant: “What are you doing here?” They heard: “What do you want?” That’s also a fair question, but it isn’t what I was looking for. The confusion’s pretty easy to track. They thought I was asking about goals, and “goal” sounds a lot like “end point.”
One of the interesting things I’ve found about writing stories is that a lot of times I won’t really understand what the story is about until I get to the end. My instinct is that these projects of ours are similar. Only with stories, there’s another step. I can edit stories. Fix them. Change their shapes to match the meaning that I found only at the end.
I don’t get to do that with my life. You don’t either. First drafts are what we are. And so, I hoped people would tell me what the end was they imagined their project was working toward. The fact that someone who wins a Hugo or the Booker or the Nobel doesn’t then stop working means that wasn’t the goal. They had some other ambition, because the drive didn’t stop. Likewise a cosplayer who has fashioned the perfect Duela Dent outfit doesn’t, I think, feel a sense of relief at never having to make another costume again. The best we could do, I thought, was define what would actually complete our work.
It was a failure of imagination on my part to think that all projects are moving toward completion.
And still, there were things I learned by asking the wrong questions, because the things we think—mistakenly—will satisfy us and tell us something about what our projects are, who we care about, and which fetish precisely we’re cultivating. And, more to the point, which ones we aren’t.
When I was in high school, I was very active in the theater program. I acted, I worked tech, and I volunteered at the local community theater. The important lesson—the one I still carry with me—came very early in that process. I must have been a freshman. I don’t remember the name of the woman who was running the program then, but the play we were working on was called “Her Infinite Variety”. It was basically a Shakespeare clips show with scenes from a bunch of different plays, all focusing on women. I’d gotten the role of Enobarbus from Antony and Cleopatra and all the interstitial bits bridging one scene from another. The only other male in the cast was Chad Thomas playing Petruchio against a Kate by a Stephanie . . . whose last name I can never recall, but she was Nellie’s friend and I liked her. It was not, you could say, the zenith of all high school theater productions. We were very young and greener than grass and uncomfortable in our skins and in ourselves. I have exactly two memories from the play.
One of them is being on stage trying not to cough while Chad and Stephanie were the center of attention. The other was one of the most important insights I had in that period of my life.
We were at rehearsal in the auditorium. The stage was wood and painted black. There was no one there but us, mumbling our Shakespeare and trying to make our gestures small and unobtrusive. If self-consciousness had mass, we’d have been a singularity. The director despaired. At the end of the hour, she called us all up the edge of the stage and said, “You’re up here to be seen. You’re up here to be heard.” And I understood. To this day, I have no fear of speaking in public. When I’m in front of a class or a room full of people, I know what I’m doing. I’m there to be seen and heard.
In college, I realized—with some help from a plain-spoken advisor—that theater wasn’t actually the project to which I wanted to dedicate my time and energy.
It was writing.
And for a long time, I went looking for something similar. That I didn’t quite know is probably why I spent so much time asking other people. Here I was, spending hours on the work and money on the postage. I knew I was there for something, but I couldn’t articulate what it was.
I don’t have a penny-drop moment for this. There wasn’t a bolt from the blue that made it all clear. Instead, it’s been a long, slow accretion of opinions, a process of trial and error. But here’s what I’ve come to—This is my ambition: I want to write stories that are hard to put down, that linger in memory, and that can be enjoyed by people who aren’t just like me.
That sounds simple. It isn’t. In all the professional writers I asked in all the years I posed the question, no one—not one—said that. They all answered with awards or sales figures or whatever happened to be the tower on their horizon at the time.
Goals, it seems to me, are like signposts. Ambitions are more like directions. The difference between them is like answering the question Where are you going? with New York or else East, east, farther and farther and always east. Goals, once reached, lose their power. I know that. I’ve reached a lot of mine, and they lose their shine as soon as you have them. They’re good for setting a direction for a while, but once you’re there, they aren’t useful anymore. Ambition never wears out.
So, artists and makers and cosplayers and dog agility enthusiasts and composers, I was wondering. What are you doing here?
About the Author
Daniel Abraham is a writer of genre fiction with a dozen books in print and over thirty published short stories. His work has been nominated for the Nebula, World Fantasy, and Hugo Awards and has been awarded the International Horror Guild Award. He also writes as MLN Hanover and (with Ty Franck) as James S. A. Corey. He lives in the American Southwest.
Editor’s Desk:
Seven and Counting
Neil Clarke
This issue marks the seventh anniversary of Clarkesworld Magazine. When we began publishing Clarkesworld in 2006, we started small—publishing two stories (each under four thousand words long) and a cover in each issue. Over the years we’ve gradually expanded, offering non-fiction, additional original stories, and most recently, reprints. We owe a debt of gratitude to the many people who supported us along the way and made our growth and continued existence possible. Quite a bit of credit goes to our staff, and, certainly to the authors and artists that entrusted us with their work. We also count on the various vendors that provide web and distribution services. Most of all we are thankful to our many readers, subscribers, and donors who make this all possible. Thank you all.
This month we’ll be increasing the number of devices that Clarkesworld subscriptions are available on. We’ve partnered with Maz Digital to produce apps for the iPad, iPhone and Android devices. That means Clarkesworld will be available through the Apple and Google Play newsstands. This project has been in the works for months, so it’s very satisfying to see it come to fruition. One of the more exciting things about this project is that we can work the podcasts into these editions. As the audio versions of stories become available, play buttons will activate within the issue!
Speaking of the podcast, this is also Kate Baker’s fourth anniversary as Podcast Director. I have to go on record as saying that bringing Kate on-board was probably the smartest hire I’ve made in my life. Under her supervision, the podcast has developed a loyal (and growing) following. She is the voice of Clarkesworld and never ceases to impress me with the level of professionalism and sheer talent that she brings to each ep
isode. If you’ve never listened to one of our podcasts, do yourself a favor and try one. I was particularly impressed by her recent episode with Jim Kelly, where the two of them teamed up to read “The Promise of Space” from our September issue. It would make a great place to start. The live reading they did at Worldcon moved the audience to tears.
Oh, and Worldcon! I have to at least talk briefly about that. I think that was most fun I’ve had at a convention in ages. It was great meeting and chatting with so many of our readers. It was also uplifting to know so many people were pulling for us in the Hugos this year. (I’m looking at you, mystery people who yelled from the back of packed elevators, as they stopped and passed our floor.) As to the Hugos, to win the award for Best Semiprozine after everything that happened in 2012, (heart attack, kidney stones, losing my day job, hurricane, etc.), well, there aren’t words to describe it. I was simply overwhelmed and to be able to accept the award with Sean, Kate and Jason up there beside me . . . it just doesn’t get better. We will endeavor to live up to the honor.
Left to right: Neil Clarke, Sean Wallace, Jason Heller, Kate Baker.
Photo by James J. Seals.
The Chesley Award Ceremony was also held at Worldcon and I was invited to hand out the award for Best Magazine Cover. Three of the six nominees were from Clarkesworld: Ken Barthelmey, Julie Dillon, and Martin Faragasso. The ASFA (Association of Science Fiction & Fantasy Artists) members awarded the Chesley to Ken for his November 2012 cover! This is the second time a Clarkesworld cover has been so honored. Congratulations, Ken! Here’s his winning cover:
Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 85 Page 14