Crossing Lines

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Today I crossed the Continental Divide for the first time on foot.  I'd crossed it from the air many times, of course, but that' not the same thing.  It's statistical, like knowing that sometime in the past year you must have had a birthday as opposed  to it being -- hurrah! -- today.

The experience put me in mind of Russia.  A few miles outside of Ekaterinburg (Sverdlovsk Oblast, two time zones east of Moscow), I visited the monument marking the line dividing Asia from Europe.  Physically, that's not a very important distinction, of course, because it's  only politically and culturally that Europe and Asia are two different continents.  But emotionally...   So much history was tied up in the awareness of that line that to delineate even a fraction of it would require a book.  Also, I was there with Russian fans from both sides of the line, so it was a meaningful event for me.

Similarly, when I straddled the Zero Meridian in Greenwich, England, that was a moving experience, too.  It was scientific history that was being celebrated then -- the Greenwich Observatory got to define longitude as starting from their doorstep simply because they were the first people with the intellectual clout to simply do so.

All three lines matter only to human beings.  Little does a bird or a chipmunk care if it's on one side or the other, so long as there's something to eat close at hand.  A raindrop might care about the Continental Divide because which side it landed on would determine -- long, long time later -- whether it ended up in the Atlantic or the Pacific.    But to say that it did would be to engage in the pathetic fallacy:  things don't feel emotions, and won't until we get AIs up and running, and possibly even then.

So it was a great moment and a peculiarly human one for me.  I look forward to more such bursts of joy as I move into the future, crossing more lines.

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Forgotten Writers: Charles S. Brooks

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One of my guilty pleasures -- after literary criticism -- is belletristic essays.  A slim volume with an unlikely title calls to me from a bookstore shelf, I open it despite the unfamiliar name, check the price, and...

Well, for two dollars, why not?

This is how I came across Charles S. Brooks, a writer so obscure there is no Wikipedia entry on him. From descriptions gleaned from ABEbooks, I determined that he graduated from Yale in 1900 and subsequently went to work at his father's printing business.  On the side, he wrote essays, short plays, a novel or two.  By testimony of his essays, he was a bookish man, though hardly of elevated tastes (of War and Peace, he wrote, "I read it once when I was ill and I nearly died of it").  He was blatantly  in love with words.

The book I found was Journeys to Bagdad.  Having read through its essays, I can safely say the man had stuff.  Every sentence, taken by itself, is beautifully written.  He clearly put his heart into his work.

Here are a few samples chosen, believe it or not, at random:

To me it is strange that so few people go down rabbit-holes.

In old literature life was compared to a journey, and wise men rejoiced to question old men because, like travelers, they knew the sloughs and roughnesses of the long road.

Though science lay me by the heels, I'll assert that the crocus, which is a pioneer on the windy borderland of March, would not show its head except on the sounding of the hurdy-gurdy.

Yesterday I was on the roof with the tinman.

Anyone who can write such sentences is my brother, come what may.

Alas, the essays have not aged well.  "The Worst Edition of Shakespeare" will do to explain why.  It begins with an account of going to the circus with a young relative, segues into a description of how essays should open, mentions John Bell's 1774 edition of Shakespeare, goes on to describe the contents of Brooks' bookshelves in whimsical terms, comes to the matter with the discovery that that Bell's edition is badly regarded, and then after some verbal didos, gets down to business:  Bell assembled his Shakespeare from acting copies of the plays as they were currently being performed. Cuts and all.

This is interesting.  As are Brooks' remarks on Bell's commentary.  Did you know that in 1774, a proper young woman would never use the word "blanket" in mixed company?  Neither did I.  It was a bedroom word, and thus Bell deplored Shakespear's putting the words "blanket of the dark" in Lady MacBeth's mouth.

But then, the essay moves on, to discuss the nature of gossip both literal and literary, and with a return to Brooks' anthropomorphized bookshelf, the essay ends.

The point I'm making is not that Brooks was a bad writer -- he was not-- but that he made what looked to be good choices at the time, and guessed wrong.

This can happen to anyone.  I am certain it has already happened to most of the writers I value.  I can only hope it hasn't happened to me.

To dedicate one's life to art is to take a leap in the dark.

You can find many of Brooks' books available free online.  Go and take a look.  De gustibus non disputandum.  I could be wrong.


And as always . . .

I'm on the road again.  Or will be.  Tomorrow, I leave for Colorado.  I'm to be a guest of honor at MileHiCon, the largest science fiction and fantasy literary convention in the Rocky Mountains region.  That's this October 24th through 26, but Marianne and I are going early so we can take in some of the splendor of the country thereabouts.

I'll be blogging as I can.  Most likely you'll notice no interruptions here.  But I can promise nothing.

You can find the MileHiCon site -- it looks like it's going to be a terrific con -- here.


Above:  One of many original wood-cuts in the book by Allen Lewis.  It really is a well-made object.  The publishers can't have guessed how thoroughly the man would disappear from the literary scene.

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The Evolution of the Martini (Part 4)

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The Dry Martini

The Twentieth Century was fast approaching and a new age required a new drink.  The Martini -- though not yet a drink you or I would acknowledge as such -- already existed.  Sweet vermouth had been replaced by dry vermouth.  And now, in a crucial step into the future, Old Tom Gin (a lovely tipple, but sweet) was replaced by London Gin.

This new drink was dubbed the Dry Martini.  Or perhaps we should say the "Dry" Martini.

Here's the recipe:

The Dry Martini
1 part London Gin
1 part Dry Vermouth
3 dashes Angostura Bitters
Shake over ice
Strain into cocktail glasses
Garnish with an olive or a lemon twist

Excitement was high at the American Martini Laboratory as this first true Martini was chilled, poured, and given its defining bit of fruity color.  We hoisted the glasses.  We toasted the occasion ("For Science!").  We tasted.  And...

The result was one wet mess.  This was a Martini mixed by your well-meaning teetotaler aunt on hearsay.  Chiefly, it was wet, wet, wet.  Which is to say that the vermouth, rather than modulating the flavor, dominated it.  Anyone who has ever drunk down a glass of dry vermouth (as I once did; out of politeness; and regretted it upon first sip; but I will spare you the story) will tell you that this is Not a Good Thing.

Luckily, there are those who will drink anything.  And bartenders who will tinker with that Anything hoping to make the best of a soggy drink.

At this stage of evolution, there was no indication that a Terrible Beauty was a-borning.  Nor how little change would be required to achieve it.


And for those who came in late . . .

Part 1:  Click here to discover the Ur-ancestor of the Martini.

Part 2:  Click here to witness the miracle that was the Martinez.

Part 3:  Click here to discover the first, not-entirely-convincing Martini.

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This Glitterati Life

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Monday, I was at the Mill 'n' Swill, SFWA's annual annual for industry professionals and took all of one photo of the literary celebrities present.  That's it above with (left to right) Julian Yap, Tom Purdom, and James Morrow.

Tom tells me, incidentally, that the Mill 'n' Swill (though not its name) was the creation of Gordon Dickson, who felt that since all year round editors and publishers routinely treated writers to drinks and meals, it would be pleasant to just once in the calendar turn the tables on them.

Gordy was a master of the free meal and drink, so there was some genial speculation that this was his way of softening up the editors and publishers, so they'd be even more generous with their food and drinks in the future.

He of course would have said it was his way of softening them up so writers could get higher advances and better treatment.  The drinks and meals were just icing on the cake.


And because I know you'll want an example of Dickson's mastery . . .

There is a story, also passed along by Tom, that Dickson was once taken out to lunch by a new editor.  He of course suggested a nearby restaurant, which turned out to be rather a good one.  As they were scoping out the menu, Gordon remarked to the green young man, "Don't you think it would be nice to have a bottle of wine with lunch?"

"Why, yes," the innocent said.  "Do you have any suggestions?"

"Well, back in Minnesota," Gordy replied, "there's this thing called Dom Perignon..."

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The Secret Argot of Prodom

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Every business has its beggars' cant, the words and phrases that separate the insiders from the goyim.  So too with science fiction.  Today, I will teach you one of those Insider terms.

As always, I am on the road again.  This time I'm off to New York City (with my pals Tom Purdom, Gregory Frost, and Fran Wilde) for what is technically the SFWA Reception for Industry Professionals.  But if you called it that, everybody would know you for a noob or a fraud.  As would referring to it as the SFWA Authors and Editors Reception, which was the earlier name.

No.  All the cool people invariably refer to it as the Mill 'n' Swill.  Because that's what it is -- a big set of rooms where you mill about, having conversations that may or may not advance your career, while swilling down rather too much alcohol.  (Not me for the last part, though -- I'm driving.  I will put a big dent in the seltzer water, though.)  It's a simple, catchy, self-explanatory name.  Which makes it ironic that it was coined not by one of the hundreds of wordsmiths whom the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America comprises, but by an editor.

I won't mention said person's name, though.  I don't know if it's supposed to be public information or not.


And while I'm gone . . .

Behave yourselves.  Feel free to raid the icebox.  Don't forget to feed the cat.

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In Which Gordon Van Gelder Suggests An Essential Change To My Blog

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It's against the code for a writer to say something nice about an editor.  But what the heck.  Gordon Van Gelder, the editor and publisher of F&SF has a pleasantly low-key sense of humor.

Here's this morning's conversation with him:

I think you'll get a laugh out of this one.

http://rickreads.blogspot.com/2014/09/2014-read-92-very-best-of-fantasy_29.html

---Gordon

[The link leads to a review of The Very Best of F&SF: Sixtieth Anniversary Anthology, which includes the following characterization of one of my stories:

"Mother Grasshopper" by Michael Swanwick (1998). Pure Swanwickian whatthefuckery, a Malthusian fable of immortality set inside the eye of a grasshopper as big as several planets put together. It doesn't come together exactly right, the way my favorite Swanwick stories do; there's no emotional punch hidden behind the conceptual mastery. Terrific all the same.]

Gordon,

You were right.

Michael

As reviews go, "Pure Swanwickian whatthefuckery" is hard to beat.

Gordon

I expect to see it in the story notes next time I sell something to you.

Michael

You mean you're not going to use it as the new title for your blog?

----Gordon


Above:  Photo copyright by Ellen Datlow and used with her permission.  Gordon Van Gelder's emails are quoted with his permission.  Thanks, Ellen!  Thanks, David!

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The Writer's Clock

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I'm in print again, and as always happy to be so.   This time it's in The Time Traveler's Almanac, a whomping big book of stories about... well, time travel.  It includes my story "Triceratops Summer,"which is set in and near the Winooski of my youth and is about the kind of people who lived there.  Were there really dinosaurs in Vermont when I was young?  Oh, yes.

All of which got me to doing a little mental time travel back to when I was first starting out as a science fiction writer.  I was visiting Jack Dann, who lived in Binghamton, York, back then, and we were talking about this, that, and the other thing.  Jack pointed to a set of bookshelves, floor to ceiling, and most of it crammed with his books:  Novels, collections, and anthologies containing first appearances or reprints of his stories.  "When I was a new writer like you, Anne McCaffrey pointed at her bookshelf and said, 'This is what yours will look like one day.'  It's a clock, and it will measure out the rest of your life."

At that time, I had a shelf of five or six books and magazines.  Now I have a wall-clock, with row after row of novels, foreign reprints, best of year volumes, magazines... all of it measuring out my life tick by tock, book by magazine.  Sometimes I look at it and it seems I can see it growing.  You're making good time, it seems to say.  Keep at it.

Back then, the monster library Jack had of his own work seemed so very far away.  Now it's only a few steps from my keyboard.  I pick up The Time Traveler's Almanac and add it to the shelf.

Tock.

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