It felt right (hey!)

I know, it’s a very pretty bedspread. I’ll give your regards to my mother’s decorator.

And we’re back! I haven’t stopped writing completely, but life and stuff conspired to leave all those words in my drafts folder for the time being. I don’t feel great about that, since one of my biggest goals for starting this blog was keeping at the writing and the publishing of said writing. I have a tendency to start these things and get absolutely despondent when I fall off the pace, and can’t keep writing and posting regularly. Which leads to despondency, avoidance and all that good stuff. So I’m going to let myself off the hook, and be glad that I’m back at it.


It’s going to go right down to the wire, this whole “read all the finalists in the biggest Hugo categories in order to vote for the 2016 awards” thing. I knew all along it was going to, but it certainly wasn’t helped by the need (“need”, I should say) to get through all three of Ann Leckie’s Ancillary books in addition to the four other novel finalists. Ancillary Mercy is the one that’s nominated, but passing judgment without having read the preceding two would have been unfair, and I suspect, difficult. Also, the completist in me (who is, to be honest, most of me) simply wouldn’t allow it.

So I think I might be able to finish the novel, novella and novelette categories before the deadline on Sunday, but that might be as far as I get. We’ll see.

In many ways, this whole exercise is a bit stupid, but I’m still thoroughly grateful that I put myself through it. The four novel finalists I’ve read so far have all been varying shades of excellent, and given how much I’ve loved Ancillary Justice and Ancillary Sword, I have a hard time believing Mercy will be a disappointment. Bar one, all of these authors have been new acquaintances, and I feel lucky to have made all of these new acquaintances. Excepting Jim Butcher’s The Aeronaut’s Windlass, there’s a big chance I never would have read any of them, and even that one I harbored some serious prejudices towards (more of which in a later post, now that I’m writing again). I know there are people who would quibble with the inclusion of the third book in a trilogy, or a pure entertainment like Butcher’s, but to a newcomer like myself, it feels like this novel category, at least, has done the Hugo awards proud. It’s a lovely mix of fantasy and science fiction, hard and soft, entertainment and art, YA and, err… OA (?) — often all in the same book.

My motivation for reading all these finalists was to push myself out of my comfort zone, reading-wise, and also to contribute in a voting process I felt was politically significant (at least on a smaller scale). We’ll see how the vote turns out in the end, but the reading has been a rousing success, at least. Even if you’re too late to contribute to the voting, I encourage you to read these novel finalists. In fact, if you do, and don’t find any of them to your liking, I’ll buy you a book. Or a beer. Whichever you prefer.


Now nothin’s how it used to be

Almost there… al.most.therrrre.

Still on The Fifth Season, so this is going to be another in progress kind of post. It’s really rolling for me now, though, so I’m probably going to finish it today. Man, how I wish I didn’t fall out of the habit of reading when I started secondary education. Up until puberty, I used to read a couple of books a week, sometimes more. Since then, though, my reading has been periodical and sporadic, which has resulted in a paltry reading speed of fifty pages an hour on average. Depending on how much I’m struggling with the prose, it might be more, or less.

Like I said, though, this particular book has finally started to roll for me. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of having cracked a book’s prose style, world and characters, and the thing feels like it starts reading itself. Whoof, that particular high is one of the best reasons there is for seeking out a variety of genres and voices. There really is nothing like it in the world. Even if you’re not fluent enough to read for pleasure in languages other than your own, you can still find styles so foreign that they can provide something akin to that experience, and it’s pretty dang amazing.

Now, actively seeking out challenging material might seem completely contrary to the speed and ease of reading I started out lamenting here. In the long run, though, I think as catholic a book diet as possible might help immensely — if not with speed, than at the very least with the ease and enjoyment of the experience.

I keep returning to this idea, don’t I? It might be time to do some research; the sociology of literature and sociological criticism is a pretty big part of my current curriculum, after all. But let’s finish The Fifth Season first, yeah?

Writing music: the Gunn-Truscinski Trio’s reissued Ocean Parkway twofer.

Johnny looks up at the stars

The Hourglass Nebula (photo courtesy of

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been afraid of science fiction. Not the familiar trappings, though, not the rockets, rayguns and aliens, but the ideas. The ideas, and to a slightly lesser degree, the difficulty (I’ll get to that in a bit).


I’m as a much of a sucker for a good space opera as the next nerd, but once you start getting into the harder types of science fiction, to me the experience takes on the taint of horror. The highly coveted sense of wonder the genre is supposed to strive towards is for me indistinguishable from the liminality at the core of the most frightening horror fiction. This might sound hilarious to you, but just considering the unknowable vastness of space will more often than not fill me with the kind of existential dread one might expect to be overwhelmed by should you poke at the implications of your own mortality in a dark moment.

So you might have gleaned that I’m not that much of a horror guy either, though my aversion to that genre feels a bit more honest and garden-variety. “Oh, you’re squeamish about horror? So’s every other human being”. As I hinted at with the “hilarious” aside, being afraid of sf is less easy to admit, or even explain. Now, I’ll be heading into some self-analysis here, so be forewarned. But it’s my blog and I’ll navel-gaze if I wanna.

My fear of science fiction is a complex thing, inextricably linked with my shame of not being smart enough to understand the science part of it all. Not only am I frightened by the infinite, I’m also averse to reading this stuff because I’m afraid I won’t understand it, afraid of the frustration I know I’ll feel when I don’t understand. I realise everyone can feel existential anxiety, but this fear of knowing and testing my own limits seems to me a very personal one. Not easily admitted, but central to the depression and anxiety that’s made my adult life (16 years and counting) an exercise in hiding from people and pain .

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

It’s not like I flinch away, incapacitated by the sight of the words “Stephen Baxter” on the cover of a book or anything like that. My fears just means that I’ve never read much science fiction, that’s all. Both because of fear, and because I haven’t developed an affinity for it. It’s one of the milder, consequence-light results of my avoidance.

– – – –

Thus, my opinions on the sf nominees in this competition won’t be the most well-informed. Even so, I enjoyed Alastair Reynolds’ Slow Bullets quite a bit. It’s not the hardest of hard sf — meaning that at no point during reading it did I feel like a moron — but Reynolds still takes a few well-aimed prods at my preconceptions and prejudices. At one point, the story even veers into what I’d argue to be cosmic Lovecraftian horror, although it turns out to be a detour designed to bring a sense of scale, ineffability and, yes, abject horror to the rest of the tale.

Even so, I don’t feel worse off for this foray into the to-me horrible territory of harder sf. I wish I wasn’t as familiar… wait, strike that, I wish I was more familiar with this feeling of my fears and aversions being totally unfounded, but that’s depression and anxiety for you. With an outside perspective, its behaviours are the most petty, foolish things imaginable. But there, in the moment, so utterly resistant to reason.

I would apologise for oversharing, but if you’ve read this, I’d wager your interest for the inner workings of the minds of strangers is above average. You’re welcome.

I’ll write up an actual review of Slow Bullets for my Goodreads page, and post that as tomorrow’s entry.