Help with Hugo nominations

I’m in a rocket-shaped pickle (or a pickle-shaped rocket?):

I have no idea who to vote for on my Hugo ballot.

I’ve got a few things I know I’m putting down, but for the most part, a lot of the categories are going to be blank. It’s not that I didn’t read things last year. It’s just that I didn’t know I was going to decide to go to the Hugos, so I didn’t keep track of things I liked (I’ve already decided to try and be better about this in 2012).

This is where you come in. Are there any stories you felt really strongly about in 2011? Any new authors I might have missed that I should check out before the voting period closes in March? In particular, I need help with the following categories:

  • Best Novel (I didn’t read a lot of new releases last year)
  • Best Novella and Novelette
  • Best Short Story (two slots are open)
  • Best Related Work
  • Best Graphic Story
  • Best Editor (both long and short)
  • Best Artist (professional and fan)
  • Best Fan Writer

I can easily take care of the dramatic presentations, fancasts and the Campbell Award myself.

So. Any ideas?

Posted in Conventioneering | 5 Comments

To publish the unpublishable

I got another rejection for a ridiculous little piece of fiction this morning I’ve been trying to get published for six months. It doesn’t fit comfortably in a lot of markets, and while it isn’t the best story I’ve ever written, it has a lot of aspects that make me hopelessly fond of it. It’s part noir detective story, part my little pony.

I’ve had a hard time with this one because it’s not a sustainable story. I can’t expand it into a longer form because the nature of it is too over the top. The sickly sweetness/hardboildness of it get old really quickly. The thing it has going for it is the contrast, and of I were to expand it, everything would get stale.

It’s a love letter to my love of noir, the three years I spent working in forensic science, and the countless hours in grad school filled with Law and Order in its various incarnations.

So after the latest rejection, I found myself back on duotrope, looking for another place it could go. After twenty minutes, I realized that it doesn’t really fit anywhere else. I was on the verge of trunking it, but thanks to an email exchange with friends today, I instead decided to post it here. After all, artwork for it has already been done, how could I let it just fester on my hard drive?

Even if I had trunked it, it’s made a lot of people laugh, and isn’t the point of a story to entertain above all?

Here’s to hoping it at least makes you smile.

You can read it here.

Posted in Writing | 2 Comments

Edit-either and Edit-or

Back at work today, everything feels surreal and wrong. It’s interesting to work in a job where a new year means a completely clean slate. It’s almost enough to bleed over into other parts of my life.

Almost.

That being said, it’s been a productive year, so far. On new year’s day, despite being a bit more hungover than I would have liked, I finished a second draft of a story I wrote last month. It was such a thorough rewrite I might as well call it a second first draft – very very few things were retained, and many a darling were reluctantly murdered.  It’s a better story for it, but I think it’s bit too heavy-handed now. I have a problem with subtlety that I’m trying to get over by being blatant in early drafts, then paring back. I have no idea whether or not this will work, but exploring the other end of the spectrum can’t hurt. I do think that having a draft I can work with where the meaning is screamed can help me focus during rewrites, because a lot of time, my problem with subtlety comes from not being completely sure what I want to say.

Last night, after all my book club peeps left, I pulled up a story I’ve been sitting on while waiting for the submission period for the Dark Faith 2 anthology to open. I tinkered a bit – fixed some awkward sentences (I am the QUEEN of awkward sentences), then said “fuck it” and sent it out. I thought about sitting on it for longer, for tinkering more, but it’s a bad habit. I need to stop tinkering with old shit. I need to write new things, finish them, rewrite them, then submit.

So far so good – all of last year, I finished two new stories (and one was a ridiculous noir flash piece about a pony detective). Since October, I’ve written half of the draft of a novel (and a very rough complete synopsis), two entirely new short stories, and I’ve got about 40% of another completely new story that I hope to finish in the next week or two. That’s not bad, considering I had about three weeks of burnout after NaNo where I caught up on my reading.

What is helping my productivity is this: as I write entirely new stories, I find myself paying closer attention to things that my reptile “just get it the fuck done!” brain didn’t before. I’m more conscious of my prose (avoiding clunky phrasing), of making sure the core character conflict is known to me BEFORE I start writing (it makes it much easier to finish, and plot derives from this conflict), of staying on task with theme, and making sure there’s as much beauty in the story as I can possibly cram in. It feels more disciplined, which makes it easier.

And with this latest draft, I tried out a more disciplined revision using my friend Nicole’s method. I sat down with a piece of scrap paper and wrote out answers to all of the checkpoints before I started the rewrite and I think it made a difference.

Focus is good. Focus is something I have a problem with a lot of the time.

In other news, I started slushing for Apex last week. I’ll probably blog about lessons I learn about my own writing and how my attitude changes about submitting based on this experience, but for now, there is something I can already say:

I’m a slush reader, and I’m JUST LIKE YOU, dear struggling writer-type friend. And because we are the same, I’m rooting for you. Ferrett hit it straight on the damn head with his Confessions of a Slush Reader post for Shimmer. I’ve noticed that I’ve opened each story with the hope that my mind will be blown, but at the end, it just… wasn’t.

That’s all I’m going to say about that for now. I’ll wait until I’ve been in the trenches a while longer before I say anything else.

Be Good. Blow minds.

Posted in NaNoWriMo, Process Geekery, Slushing, Viable Paradise, Writing | 2 Comments

Where I make a resolution that isn’t really a resolution

I went back to look at my end of year post from 2010 on my old blog to see if there was anything I could pilfer for this years’s year end post and I found this:

2010 changed me. More so than 2009 did.

But there will be no 2011 resolutions post, because I’m done making promises. 2011 is the year things will get done.

Well, damn, Kelly. Way to go actually make a resolution without making yourself aware of it, then FUCKING KEEPING IT. So much so, that I might start calling 2011 my “Quit your bitching and just fucking do it already” year.

What did I do? God, what didn’t I do – I wrote nearly an entire album’s worth of ridiculous songs for the Clarion write-a-thon (I still have a few pending), I went to VP, I had my first scientific journal article published (8 years later), I sold my first short story, I went to my first con, made lots of new friends, celebrated the last birthday of my 20’s, won NaNo, wrote a bunch of new short stories, became a slush reader for a magazine I really like, became single again, joined a REAL band, got two new tattoos, and read somewhere between 30 and 40 books. I also got 18 short story rejections this year (last year, I only got three).

A lot of these are firsts for me (the publications, the slushing, the band, the con, the workshop, the songwriting), and seeing an entire year’s worth of intense emotional experience condensed like that, it certainly LOOKS impressive. But each one on its own was the culmination of a series of consistent efforts. I didn’t have to change anything about my life for them, I just had to exert a little more effort. As such, 2011 was an incredible year, full of moments I still can’t quite believe actually happened.

I could look back on all of the resolutions I made in years past for how I want my life to be, but I’m of the mind that resolutions are terrible things. They’re a massive amount of effort to become conscious of at one point. I don’t ever want to resolve to do anything important ever again (unless it’s resolving to finish this cup of coffee, or resolving to go to the liquor store this afternoon before the party – y’know, small shit). Last year, I didn’t make a resolution for anything in particular. I just promised myself I would actually fucking DO things instead of endlessly thinking about them. That’s a slight shift in mindset, not a radical change. I can DO the slight shift in mindset thing. I LOVE the slight shift in mindset thing. And that made all the difference. That’s what made 2011 such an incredible fucking year.

So for 2012, I’m going to follow a similar tack. Sure, there are things I would LIKE to do, like read more, get more rejections, finish writing this book, write more short stories, sell another one, walk more, play some live shows, etc. But those things are things I’m already working towards. Instead, I’ve got something in mind that could be seen as a similar resolution to last year’s:

I resolve to try my hardest to make 2012 even MORE awesome than 2011 has been.

And in order to do that, I’m going to be taking Neil Gaiman’s latest New Year Benediction to heart:

I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.

Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You’re doing things you’ve never done before, and more importantly, you’re Doing Something.
So that’s my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself. Make New Mistakes. Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody’s ever made before. Don’t freeze, don’t stop, don’t worry that it isn’t good enough, or it isn’t perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life.
Whatever it is you’re scared of doing, Do it.
Make your mistakes, next year and forever.

On that note, I’ll end with my own benediction. I’m not gonna try to touch what Neil said – dude’s got a way with words. And besides, I’ve put that sentiment into practice for the past three years and it hasn’t steered me wrong yet. So I want to end with something unique to this year, and hopefully unique to next year:

Be selfish: Love others like you want to be loved. Change according to how you want to be changed. And NEVER pass up a chance for adventure.

Wishing you all the happiness I wish for myself,

Happy fucking new year.

Posted in Errata | Leave a comment

Our complementing parts aren’t far out of reach

I’ve had an extraordinary weekend.

Saturday I spent alone. I sat around reading, listened to music, watched a bunch of Tim Burton movies, made sugar cookies and ordered a pizza. With everyone gone, my neighborhood was quiet. Restful. I recharged all day, knowing I had upwards of a week left in which to enjoy my solitude, to finally recharge from what has been a remarkable fall. What plans I made for Christmas seemed to have evaporated, but at the end of the day, I was okay with it. I figured something would come up.

Sunday I woke up and read all of The Thief of Always while lying in bed. I got up at noon, watched Die Hard and got note of the new Christmas plans. I putzed around the house until it was time to go. I met up with my friends, and hijinks ensued until we wound up at the single most festive bar in all of the world, where we sat and drank Shock Tops, talking about everything.

I slept today until noon, reveling in the warmth and comfort of my bed, then met up with friends at Toronado where we hung out for three hours and I got some non-cookie-based food in my belly. Now I’m back home, fresh from a bath, listening to music and getting ready to dive back into some rewrites I started earlier today.

I love being an adult. I love my friends. I love the freedom I can still find in a life that at times seems stiflingly constructed.

So much of my life has been miserable, it’s beyond wonderful to sit here, warm, happy and rested in the midst of a life I could never have imagined five years ago.

Wishing you the peace you need and the decibal level of preference.

Posted in Errata | 2 Comments

…being, as it is, an inadvertent analysis of Batman Returns

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m settling in for what apparently will be a night of Tim Burton (thank you, Tim, for having an unnatural fixation with Christmas in your early movies).

I love these early movies: Beetlejuice, the two Batmans, Edward Scissorhands, NBC, etc. I love them because the bad guys are bad and the good guys are damaged. They’re just like watching comic books on the big screen. And I’m watching one of the most comic-booky of them all: Batman Returns.

I never fully understood why everyone said Batman Returns is a terrible movie. Yeah, sure, the acting’s over the top – but that’s just because it’s a fucking comic book. Folks think the Penguin’s character is too over the top and not funny, but I don’t think he’s meant to be funny. I think he’s meant to be pathetic and I pity him (“I am not a human being!! I am an animal!!). But a lot of people make the mistake of thinking the Penguin is the antagonist in this movie. Shrek is. He’s the one who pulls the strings that destroy each and everyone of them.

I also love the story frame in this movie – we start with the Penguin’s birth. Then Shrek steps in, pushes two people to their destruction (Selena literally, and Penguin through his manipulation of him). Then Shrek steps out of the story when he’s killed, which is followed by the outro of the movie where Penguin dies in the very river he was meant to die in at the start. Penguin’s didn’t die because he was going through with his plan. He would have gotten away with it if Batman hadn’t gotten so interested in him because of Shrek. Penguin died because he messed with Shrek. All Penguin ever wanted was to punish the parents that abandoned him.

And there’s a subtle unfolding of the Penguin’s revenge. He doesn’t care about Batman. He doesn’t care about Shrek. He doesn’t care about the mayorship or the police or Catwoman or anyone else. All he wants to do is right the wrong his parents did – he wants to kill all the first born sons, like him. He wants to inflict the grief on other parents that his parents should have felt for him. He wants there to be grief in the world, even if it’s not for him.

There’s a line that Shrek delivers to Bruce in one scene when he admonishes Bruce’s black and white attitude about the Penguin, where he says Penguin could have been one of his classmates at prep school if things had gone differently. And the sad thing is, because of the wealth we see in the opening scene, that line is true. Penguin is destroyed by the selfishness not from himself, but from others.

Then there’s the parallel story with Catwoman, which I do admit isn’t as well done as the Penguin’s. She’s got some of the greatest moments in the movie – like when she’s whipping the heads off of mannequins at the Shrek department store, then starts jumping rope. Or when the Penguin throws her off a roof and she screams in the greenhouse she lands in. She’s an innocent, just like the Penguin was when he was thrown in the river. But in a world of selfish people, she’s completely isolated – she and Alfred are the only two in this movie who give anyone anything. And even when she dies, and becomes darker, she still give up her own lives in an attempt to destroy the man who destroyed her.

Shrek and Selena.

The Penguin and his Parents.

And what does Batman even do in this movie, except facilitate the destruction of each an every one of them (except the Penguin’s parents, who, of course, died with no remorse). The Penguin dies. Shrek dies. Even Catwoman dies (Selena doesn’t, since she’s left with one life left). Batman spends the movie being vilified for helping, makes the mistake of trying to reach out in a gesture of love only to be isolated once again at the end. He doesn’t come through clean. He’s just as alone at the end of the movie as he was at the beginning.

I said at the beginning of this post that I like these movies because the bad guys are bad, and the good guys are damaged. Shrek is the only bad guy here (and he dies when he finally gets the power he’s been after the entire movie – ba-doom-ching). He’s a monster of his own making (he says so himself – “I’m no Santa Claus. I’m just a schmuck who got lucky.” Everyone else is damaged.

No one can be saved in this movie. Not even the Christmas Princess who’s thrown off the roof.  All anyone can do is stand by and watch until she hits the ground.

And there’s penguins.

Anyway, hope you all are somewhere safe and warm. I’m sending my merriest of merries your way.

Posted in Movies, Ritual Movies | Leave a comment

[Hugo Movies] 1958 – The Incredible Shrinking Man

A future? In a world of giants?

Kicking off a project I’ve been meaning to do for a few months now, I sat down last night to watch the very first winner of the “Dramatic Presentation” Hugo – The Incredible Shrinking Man.

1958 was the debut year for this category (which, until 2002, included television episodes AND movies). It was also the last year that winners were chosen by a panel instead of through voting by the WorldCon members. Something to keep in mind is that all Hugos are awarded for books or media released in 1957.

Notable other movies released in 1957 were The Bridge on the River Kwai (which won the Oscar that year), 12 Angry Men (a personal favorite), Attack of the Crab Monsters, The Amazing Colossal Man, I Was a Teenage Werewolf, and Jailhouse Rock. It was the birth of the space age thanks to the launch of Sputnik, and atomic fear was one of the defining emotions of the era (which kicked off the Atomic Era of horror movies).

That being said, The Incredible Shrinking Man is very much a product of its time. Protagonist Scott Carey is out boating with his wife one day and runs into a radioactive cloud (which leaves him inexplicably covered in glitter). Combined with the effects of a brief exposure to pesticide, the man begins shrinking, which we understand by way of medical hand-waving (ah, medical hand-waving, how I love thee). What ensues is not only the diminishment of his size relative to the world around him, but also his role in it. He loses his job, his wife, his privacy and very nearly his life as things that were once trivial become insurmountable challenges.

A telling line from the movie (delivered to his wife in a moment of existential despair):

You married Scott Carey. He has a size, and a shape, and a way of thinking.

This very much sums up how Scott feels about the whole thing – How could he possibly remain the same person when something like this is happening to him?

After being chased into the basement by his former pet cat, he is trapped because he is too smal to climb the stairs. Alone and hungry, he refuses to accept his fate, and instead he will take control over what little of the world he has left to hold dominion over. As such, he must fight and destroy the massive spider that holds court over his only source of food – a discarded piece of cake.

It’s a fine movie for the era, and as someone who has a deep love of old school SF movies, this one took a look at the pulpy movies characteristic of the era and added a dash of the metaphysical (as evidenced in the soliloquy that closes the movie, and very likely was the thing to secure the Hugo for it):

I was continuing to shrink, to become… what? The infinitesimal? What was I? Still a human being? Or was I the man of the future? If there were other bursts of radiation, other clouds drifting across seas and continents, would other beings follow me into this vast new world? So close – the infinitesimal and the infinite. But suddenly, I knew they were really the two ends of the same concept. The unbelievably small and the unbelievably vast eventually meet – like the closing of a gigantic circle. I looked up, as if somehow I would grasp the heavens. The universe, worlds beyond number, God’s silver tapestry spread across the night. And in that moment, I knew the answer to the riddle of the infinite. I had thought in terms of man’s own limited dimension. I had presumed upon nature. That existence begins and ends in man’s conception, not nature’s. And I felt my body dwindling, melting, becoming nothing. My fears melted away. And in their place came acceptance. All this vast majesty of creation, it had to mean something. And then I meant something, too. Yes, smaller than the smallest, I meant something, too. To God, there is no zero. I still exist!

Even though it is physically impossible (and I use “physically” in the literal sense here) to be shrunk down to become the size of an atom, the thought of it happening is soberingly terrifying. What would you be thinking when you’re too small for even the electrostatic forces of the matter around you to hold you up and you slip into the infinity between? You’re left with the only thing you had to being with: your being. And though you are too small to have any effect on the trajectory of anything else, you still have your mind. And to Scott at the end, that has to be enough.

The movie was based on the novel by (a personal fav) Richard Matheson. Matheson also wrote the screenplay for the movie (there’s a cool article on Tor about this). Contemplative, uncomfortable, and hopeless are three words I would use to describe this movie. They’re three things I deeply enjoy in fiction, and Matheson is a master of these.

As for a rating, I would give this a 8. While it can’t compete with many of the sci-fi/horror movies I hold near and dear in my heart, for the era (and even a lot of straight up horror movies made since), it’s a breath of fresh air.

Up next: 1959 – where no winner was chosen between The Fly, The 7th Voyage of Sinbad, and Dracula.

Posted in Hugo Movies, Movies | Leave a comment

I don’t know these buildings, I think I’m lost

I don’t have to make the 35 mile drive into work for the next 11 days. I’m so happy about this, I could scream.

I’ve been looking forward to this stretch since October since this is the first time I can be truly and utterly alone for an extended period of time. I’ve been planning to just read and write as much as is humanly possible (with a few holiday parties thrown in).

Lately, I’ve been reading Jo Walton’s Among Others and for the past week at work, I’ve been spontaneously gasping, then reading sentences aloud to my coworkers. They really couldn’t care less, which makes me really appreciate that they’re willing to humor me when I’m geeking out about a sentence.

While I haven’t finished it yet, this book is already doing strange things to my mind. I feel like I’m 11 again when my dad gave me The Thief of Always, or when I was 23 and reading Sandman for the first time. There’s something breaking. Or healing. I don’t know which yet since a lot of the time they both start off feeling the same.

Anyway, Among Others is a story about a broken, isolated girl who’s only comfort is science fiction, which she immerses herself in and writes about in order to understand and escape from herself and the world around her.

Wait for it… wait for it… there it is.

There was some back and forth on twitter today after I said reading this book makes me want to fold my hand and walk away from the table. It’s beautifully written, and fuck me, Jo Walton can break my heart with a SINGLE FUCKING WORD.

It’s strange to read something so fucking inspiring and simultaneously humbling. It makes me think about how we come across things in our lives that appear at just the right time – say when where we’re undergoing a period of growth or change, or when we start crippling ourselves with doubt. Or maybe both.

Among Others is a writer writing about writing. A science fiction story about science fiction. And it’s so many more things than that. It fucking blind-sided me.

My favorite stories are the ones that are superficially satisfying enough so you start peeling back the layers and, once inside, you can admire the structure of the themes, or the narrative or both. With this book, when I start peeling I see clockwork. It’s painful.

It shows me how lazy I’ve been. How inept. And all the while, thinking these things while reading a story about an extraordinarily angry and sad girl hangs onto her sanity by writing. Sting. Sting. Checkmate.

There are so many things I need to work on to get my writing where I want it to be. Thinking about how each breakthrough has come through a combination of brute force, dumb luck and too much daydreaming… Getting to that point feels impossible.

But at the same time, MY GOD the payoff if I can get it right… even if it’s only once. I mean, I’m addicted to moments like these – where something unexpected knocks you right out of your melancholy rut; where a small epiphany sets off a succession of epiphanies that leaves you so wrung out at the end that there’s no choice but to stand up a different person. I love that. I’ve loved it ever since the first time it happened to me when I was a kid, and I’ve been trying to do it to someone else ever since (you may think it’s advice I’m giving you, but I’m really I’m just trying as hard as I can to blow your fucking mind).

So yeah. My brain is in pieces on the floor right now, so I’m gonna go finish reading this book.

Posted in Books, Writing | 1 Comment

When we look at the world, we are hallucinating all the time

I’ve got burnout.

I was hoping the mania induced by VP and WFC would carry me through to the end of the year, but the hyper-productivity that persisted through the end of NaNo has failed me, and until a few days ago, I was approaching my laptop with trepidation.

In the interim, I’ve been reading things I’ve been meaning to read. My to-read pile has been steadily growing as I ignored it in favor of writing, and after spending a few weeks hacking away at it, it’s almost felt like a Christmas present to myself. I miss spending five hours straight reading. It was a relief.

I’ve also been doing some research to keep my beast fed and happy in the interim. I’ve been reading about neuroaesthetics and neuroanatomy and I’m currently reading V.S. Ramachandran’s The Tell-Tale Brain (highly recommended) because while I can describe in excruciating detail the process of synaptic transmission or the function of the different types of cells in the brain, I know very little about the gross function of its parts. And seeing how I have three or four stories rumbling around in my head that deal with neurology in some fashion, it’s something I’ve been wanting to read more about.

And while I feel residual guilt about stepping away from the novel draft since December 3rd, all of this reading and space let a bunch of abandoned story ideas jumble up into something I hope will parallel (or even exceed) the Triffid story in its beauty and horror and sciencefulness.

Which gets me around to something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. All of the stories I have in circulation (or in draft form) right now have nothing to do with science, and they’re trifles when compared to the Triffid one. This is something I’m not entirely comfortable with. As someone who doesn’t see herself conforming to a single style or genre any time soon, I’m left thinking about what my body of work will look like in five years. Part of me almost hopes none of these find a home just because they’re so hollow when compared to the Triffid one.

But the louder part of myself knows this is a silly thing to be pondering. It’s useless to think about these things. I need to just be writing things that make me happy, and damn the rejection torpedoes. I need to be writing stories that push all my buttons, be it horror or fucked up fantasy or hard SF.

So I really like this story I started the other day. It’s mashing up a few roadtrips to the desert I took with my friend Natalie of the past few years, neuroscience and art to make up what I hope is a unique take on the (WAY overdone) zombie apocalypse trope. And I don’t care that it’s just going to make it that much harder to sell down the road. It’s got my favorite opening line of all the stories I’ve written to date.

I want to finish this story this month, but the novel has started calling me back to finish it, so maybe next month. Until then, I’ve got some studying to do.

Posted in Books, NaNoWriMo, Writing | Leave a comment

I’ll explain everything to the geeks

Because we immature scifi-chugging geeks sure are!

I’m a little late to the game on this, but on the blog for my Hugo Book Club, I posted about a recent essay making the rounds on the internet:

As I’m sure we’re all aware, SF/F/H catches a lot of shit from fans of “literary” type fiction, who call genre stuff juvenile and silly (consider Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, which cannot deign to be shelved with the sciffy stuff on the shelves at most bookstores, and so is instead found crammed in among the “Literature”).

So in an attempt to bridge what he sees as an artificial divide between the two, Daniel Abraham (a genre writer) penned a hilarious love letter from Genre to Mainstream.

Here’s an excerpt:

You take the best of me, my most glorious moments – Ursula LeGuin and Dashiell Hammet, Mary Shelly and Philip Dick – and you claim them for your own. You say that they “transcend genre”. There are no more heartless words than those. You disarm me. You know, I think, that if we were to compare our projects honestly — my best to yours, my mediocrities to yours, our failures lumped together — this division between us would vanish, and so you skim away my cream and mock me for being only milk.

You can read the whole thing on SF Signal here. It’s fucking hilarious.

As you can imagine, a discussion in the comments ensued, so I decided to post a follow up to this which I figured I would post here, too.

I’m new(ish) to this whole debate (I honestly have nothing against mainstream stuff, but it’s just not something that pushes my buttons so I don’t seek it out), just like I’m new(ish) to the world of publishing, so I’m not quite sure how all the politics plays out. As such, I’d like to see if anyone else wants to weigh in on my opinion on this mess, since I’m making extremely broad strokes here and I’d like to be corrected if I’m way off base about any of this.

That being said, here’s my comment:

So I was trying to stay neutral in the post because this is one of those impossible questions that makes a fun point to argue.

I would say, by and large, the distinction comes mostly from readers (since major publishing houses for “mainstream” books have “genre” subsidiares beneath them. For example, Tor Books are a subsidiary of Macmillan (which does everything from publishing things like Nature and Scientific American to children’s books to textbooks), so each wing has to pull it’s weight for the benefit of the entire company, which means publishing things that will sell.

Based on recent conversations and things I’ve read, I can safely say that every single editor wants to publish the books that knock their socks off – the problems come in with accepting manuscripts at the marketing level (they know editors fall in love easily, so THEY MUST BE STOPPED). This actually works in FAVOR of the genre markets because it’s got the built it audience that makes marketing inherently easier (including geeks that love to geek out about sub-genre distinctions, so they’ll buy ANYTHING that tickles their ghost-pig-PoMo-punk obsession). It’s harder to sell to mainstream audiences because those core markets (to me) actually seem LESS likely to a given book that comes out.

And this really gets to who these publishing companies THINK their readership is – and let’s face it, kids that like SF/F/H seem to be a lot more likely to continue reading SF/F/H stuff as adults, not only because it’s escapist and appeals to folks that are unhappy as kids, who are more likely to become obsessive geeks when they’re older, but also because it’s something kids have to WORK to do – we’re forced to read mostly mainstream stuff as kids, and you have to go out of your way to read genre stuff because it was hardly ever assigned (unless you had awesome teachers). And any kid that’s going out of their way to do something like that is gonna likely keep on doing that when they’re older.

Therefore, since it’s harder to market to a mainstream audience, I would guess the marketers a lot pickier about buying books from new mainstream authors because unless can get a movie deal, is a shoe-in for the Oprah book club, or appeals to the geeks on the opposite end of the spectrum (the literary snobs), it’s not going to sell well because no one’s gonna be paying attention to it.

So this brings me back around to what I was saying: it’s all because of the readers. And the most vocal factions for these arguments come from geeks from both the literary AND the genre sides.

I’m painting broad generalizations here, but I think a large part of this perceived snobbery is because genre stuff is more visible (and subject to a lot of Hollywoodization), which goes back to marketing. But this time it’s Hollywood marketing, which is focused on making what’s gonna put the most butts in chairs, which are summer blockbusters with lots of explosions. SF/F/H are what make the prettiest movies (and the most widely-appealing to general audiences). Look at Will Smith’s career – he wanted to make a successful movie, so he looked at trends for the best-grossing movies. What did they mainly consist of? SHIT WITH GENRE ELEMENTS.

On the other hand, most “mainstream” Oscar-caliber movies (the kind we would consider literary, and we’ll just pretend that “Oscar-caliber” means something for now), are mostly not adapted works from literary books – they’re constructed exclusively for the screen (because writing a glorious screenplay is a completely different skill than writing a glorious book). This is why there’s an Oscar for best adapted screenplay: because it’s fucking hard to do well. I would imagine this would let the supposed “literature snobs” turn their nose up at the most public face of genre: movies.

This doesn’t mean that genre folks are exempt from the assholery going around. There are plenty of people that dislike mainstream stuff because they were forced to read it as kids and never identified with anything quite as much as they did genre stuff (::raises hand::). People hang their identity on the things that define them as kids (and I have to say, I’ve rarely met anyone that read genre stuff enough to care about this kind of debate who started reading it when they were adults). And when you feel like people are mocking something you care deeply about, you get defensive. And I have to say, I get pretty fucking defensive around a certain coworker of mine who makes fun of my love of SF/F/H by pronouncing she would never deign to read a book with a spaceship on the cover, because, like, OMG, she would, like, DIE (and she meanwhile loves Transformers and Jurassic Park).

So we can blame it on the geeks.

Oh crap. That’s us.

Thoughts?

P.S. the title is from The National song, “Vanderlyle Crybaby” and has nothing to do with any pedantry attempted on my part.

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