June 11

Retro Recs–Stranger in a Strange Land

HERE’S THE PLAN: to pull out a book from my tight-packed bookshelves and share it. Qualifications? It has to be one I’ve read over and over again, one that has inspired my own writing, and one that gave me a lasting experience of some sort. There are so many older books that are just too damned good to be buried in the mosh pit of publishing fashions and frenzies. So I’m going to pull them out and have another dance with them. And hopefully encourage others to do the same.
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I grok Heinlein.

I do, and with all that ‘grok’ means. I see all the warts and bumps, all the sharp edges, and all the unavoidable misogyny possessed by men his age and station. I see the lack of atmospherics—important to me, for I want the smell and feel of a place. More, I remember the world that Heinlein’s generation—in actuality, my father’s generation—came from, and mourn that we were so immersed in that world that even science fiction—stories that are supposed to make us question and challenge our own realities—often refused to see past the ingrained, casual “‘isms” that were an unfortunate fact of life.

But I also see a stark beauty in Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. Despite an admitted surfeit of subterranean glitches—which passed as both unremarkable and seldom remarked upon in earlier decades—it also posed mind-bending questions and challenges. It opened my eyes to some amazing possibilities. The characters were fascinating. Stranger in a Strange Land addressed as many thorny social issues as it disregarded–or unfortunately supported. But it’s also true that it lit another spark in the fires of insubordination against an untenable reality—particularly for ‘a girl who read weird stuff’, and who was growing up in the deep south in the wake of the fifties.

(By the by, why do young women lately insist on dressing up like ‘50s housewives? Do they even know what they’re emulating? Never mind: that’s a whole ‘nother essay…)

SiaSL plays with religion by showing what it can be and what it usually, unfortunately, is. It employs a trope that I find particularly fascinating: the outsider, considered ‘other’ and ‘alien’, brought into what they consider equally ‘alien’ circumstances—and it gives both viewpoints, a startling new addition in its time. It plays with sexual mores—not nearly enough, let it be said—but an impressive amount when one considers the reality it was written against.

And that phrase is key: when one considers the reality it was written against.

Many books are dismissed because they were written in another time, to the (usually grossly inaccurate) standards of that time. I understand the anger that comes from misrepresentation. I have some pretty visceral reactions to The Searchers. History isn’t pretty, and I grew up in the midst of some damned ugly history myself, had much of my own heritage swept under the rug by shame and the dominant paradigm. (With many blessings to my grandmother’s spirit, who kept me in the loop regardless…)

And I fully applaud #itstopshere.

Yet I still recommend this book: subversive brilliance on one hand, warts and too many “‘isms” to count on the other. I refuse to dismiss something because it makes me uncomfortable, particularly when I’m uncomfortable and have the privilege of dismissal before me. Discomfort and failure and horribly wrong paths wended… all of that exists within every journey and experience. Avoiding discomfort means we don’t learn. It means we end up making the same sorry mistakes because we don’t grok what our world and its peoples have endured.

So, you may ask, what the hell is ‘grok’, anyway?

Here’s a bit from the book:

“…but Mike would have agreed if I had named a hundred other English words, words which we think of as different concepts, even antithetical concepts. ‘Grok’ means all of these. It means ‘fear’, it means ‘love’, it means ‘hate’—proper hate, for by the Martian ‘map’ you cannot hate anything unless you grok it, understand it so thoroughly that you merge with it and it merges with you—then you can hate. By hating yourself. But this implies that you love it, too, and cherish it and would not have it otherwise…”

Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein

This is pretty powerful stuff. And yes, I think Stranger in a Strange Land is worth the read, within a proper context.

Do you grok? Or not?

April 15

Retro Recs–GOSSAMER AXE

HERE’S THE PLAN: to pull out a book from my tight-packed bookshelves and share it. Qualifications? It has to be one I’ve read over and over again, one that has inspired my own writing, and one that gave me a lasting experience of some sort. There are so many older books that are just too damned good to be buried in the mosh pit of publishing fashions and frenzies. So I’m going to pull them out and have another dance with them. And hopefully encourage others to do the same.
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So, confession time: I used to really dig urban fantasy. Of course, this was some time ago, and was often called contemporary fantasy, and didn’t always mean big cities or snarky protagonists who sport trench coats and tight leather pants, often packin’ some ginormous, sawed-off heat.

I’m sure you know what I mean. 😉

So, long before string theory and alternate realities became more science than fiction, I was fascinated with the concept of “otherworlds’ existing side by side with our own reality. I grew up with stories of pwcas and grogachs on one side of my clan, and from the other the Bohpoli and the Kowi Anukasha. When a ‘new’ sort of fantasy mirroring these otherworlds started to emerge, I was there. I wrote it. I read it. (And I have a lot of these titles upcoming on the TBR Retro Recs pile.)

All right, this has been a bit of digression, but I wanted to give some reasons as to why I’m going to stick with the old-school styling of ‘contemporary’ fantasy for some of these types of books I’ll be recommending. Because much of what has become known as ‘urban’ fantasy is just not my bag.

On the other hand, GOSSAMER AXE, by Gael Baudino, is.

Check out the cover, and picture this. A somewhat immortal druid harper has lost her lover to the fae. After several centuries’ worth of hopeless musical stand-offs-cum-rescue attempts, she discovers that this latest century has a secret weapon that should subdue the harp of any faery king: glam rock and electric guitars.

It has a townscape that’s less a noir crime scene and more the kind of town I personally recognise. (Sorry, just not a big-city person, me. Country lass, all the way.) It has a queer protagonist who doesn’t need a sawed-off shotgun or the epithet ‘strong woman’ to hold her power, and stands up as a fully-realised person with not only aged wisdom, but agency. (Though she does end up wearing tight pants—spandex, not leather.) Gossamer Axe also has a cast of troubled, interesting characters, who, with the help of her agency and determination, rediscover their own resilience.

In fact, the only character I found rather insipid was the fae-trapped lover. But sometimes people are, well, insipid.

The prose, though, is NOT insipid:

… pouring out of an ivory-coloured Strat and black Marshall amplifiers… the fat, electronic shriek of circuitry pushing overload, vacuum tubes glowing red hot, speakers vibrating in unnumbered frequencies, innumerable harmonics…

Music had changed since Christa had studied in Corca Duibne. The stately, unmodulated modes had, over the centuries, given way, first to the strict and predictable division of major and minor, and then to the polymorphous fire of chromatics, the black flame of harmonic minor and diminished scales. But Christa had paid little attention. She had had her instrument and her life. The branching, interweaving evolution of classical and popular music could not, would not, affect her.

Until now.

GOSSAMER AXE, by Gael Baudino

While Ms Baudino certainly wields her own axe of good storytelling, she also was (still is, I hope) an accomplished musician. It shows. Not with a ‘see what I know’ egotism, perhaps with the forgivable bits of techno-jargon that simply bleed over with being an expert in your field, but overall with subtle layerings of complexity, ones to suggest competence and comfort with the subject.

(And yes, O youthful readers, the portrayed bigotry and misogyny—not only in the music industry, but life in general—is all too accurate. Unfortunately.)

Also unfortunately, Ms. Baudino has long given up on publishing. While I can’t blame her for making that choice, I also feel the reading public lost yet another unique harper. Gossamer Axe is long out of print, so you’ll have to find it used. But it’ll be well worth the search.

February 11

Retro Recs-All Creatures Great and Small

HERE’S THE PLAN: to pull out a book from my tight-packed bookshelves and share it. Qualifications? It has to be one I’ve read over and over again, one that has inspired my own writing, and one that gave me a lasting experience of some sort. There are so many older books that are just too damned good to be buried in the mosh pit of publishing fashions and frenzies. So I’m going to pull them out and have another dance with them. And hopefully encourage others to do the same.
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James Herriot’s All Creatures Great and Smallbegan my love affair with Yorkshire.

All Creatures Great and Small also remains the book that inspired me to NOT become a veterinarian.

It wasn’t the bits one would think, like squelching about in blood and dung, dealing with breech births and uterine prolapses, or sticking your arm up a cow’s arse. I’m not squeamish about such things, and with the vet tech & equine reproductive training I needed in my career, I actually ended up doing a lot of that.

No, it was the lack of sleep.

(Well, okay, there was the realisation of college funds and college math—lots of it—that also nixed the vet career. But when the book first came out, Teenage-Me glommed onto it, read it cover to cover, and said, “No sleep? No way!” And then read it all over again, thinking See, veterinarians can still write books…)

It’s that real, that evocative. When opening All Creatures Great and Small, one is soon immersed in the early-20th-century of a Yorkshire country vet.

Check out the cover: he’s rolling up his sleeve! Because that’s what vets spend a lot of time doing, believe me.

The people are the vehicle for getting to know the animals, and refreshingly, none of them are perfect—quite the contrary! There’s a refreshing acceptance of quirks, both human and animal. Many of the animal cast have recurring roles, and in the doing, define their people’s foibles. In the first book (yes, a whole series, and I’ll detail the titles below) we meet James who, as a young veterinary intern, comes to the Yorkshire Dales. He’s newly-employed at a country practice, and that owned by two brothers who aren’t exactly as he imagined—complete with a spoiled pack of delinquent dogs.

Because it’s all too true: animal practitioners don’t always practice what they preach. 😉

And oh, the countryside! In these books, northeast Yorkshire maintains its own character—and it should. You drive through the heartbreaking beauty of the Dales (sometimes in an old beater with holes in the flooring and less-than-adequate brakes!) and open an endless supply of gates; you lie on frosted cobbles with the wind icing your veins to save the life of a cow and twin calves—and sometimes, receive an invitation to warm yourself by the fire with a fine tea. Moreover, you hear the sometimes-incomprehensible, essentially-beautiful dialect that inspired the language of elder texts like Gawain and the Green Knight or The Tale of Gamelyn.

Immersive and real—if that’s your bag, the entire series is well worth a read. Myself, I really miss books like this. It’s lovely to revisit them and find, not less, but more of a treasure.

All Creatures Great and Small
All Things Bright and Beautiful
All Things Wise and Wonderful
The Lord God Made Them All
Every Living Thing

August 15

Worldcon!

Today on the way to San Jose (cue music) with #RobinHood and the #wodebooks!

I’ll be signing on Monday at 2pm. Bring a book to sign and you’ll receive a special thank you. I’ll also be at the Broad Universe Rapid Fire Reading on Saturday at 5pm along with a lovely and lively group of writers. Between times you can find me and the books at the BU table. Stop by and say hullo!

April 20

Retro Recs Redux

For various reasons, I haven’t done any Retro Recs in quite some time. I’d the best of intentions, but life happens. So I’m reinstating it, here and now, with a re-posting of the originals to start it off.

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HERE’S the plan: to pull out a book from my tight-packed bookshelves and share it. Qualifications? It has to be one I’ve read over and over again, one that has inspired my own writing, and one that gave me a lasting experience of some sort. There are so many older books that are just too damned good to be buried in the mosh pit of publishing fashions and frenzies. So I’m going to pull them out and have another dance with them. And hopefully encourage others to do the same.
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To choose Mary Stewart was a no brainer, actually, though it was difficult to pick between what I call ‘my rosary of three Marys’ (Stewart, Mary Renault, and Mary O’Hara). But once I decided which Mary, it was a little easier to pick the book. I’m sure others will come into play at a later date, but this time, it had to be The Ivy Tree.

The cover is from those aforementioned bookshelves, (c)1961, this is the first US printing in 1963. Isn’t this cover just deliciously (and a bit painfully) ’60s gothic? From the sweeping cape and hair to the Barnabas Collins coat and the uphill, defiant pose?

Back cover copy: If Mary Grey looked so much like the missing heiress, why should she not be the heiress? To the lonely young woman–living in a dreary furnished room–the impersonation offered intriguing possibilities… So plain Mary Grey became the glamourous Annabel Winslow. Only someone wanted Annabel Winslow missing… permanently.

I love old gothics. I miss them. Brain candy, of course, but a specific type of tweak and treat for those doomed with a brain that stubbornly refuses to totally check out. Gothics have their own formula, tiresome as any when cranked out with little skill or craft… but the good ones were complex, character driven, and subtle after their own fashion, with the formula in service to the craft, not the other way ’round. The Ivy Tree was a very, very good gothic.

Mary Grey is, like most of Stewart’s heroines, a real person: independent and capable, conflicted… and with a secret that could be the death of her, if she’s not careful. Inheritance of a small estate, a dying, over-controlling grandfather, and a few sociopaths scattered into the mix, turn a chance meeting on Hadrian’s Wall into a madness of plot and counterplot… did I mention I love gothics? A good one has as many twists as a North Country back road. And the language Stewart uses!

“If you stood on the low piece of crumbling wall that enclosed the trunk, you could just reach your hand into the hole. I held on to the writhen stems of the ivy with one hand and felt above my head into the hollow left by some long-decayed and fallen bough. I put my hand in slowly, nervously, almost as I might have done had I known Julie’s owl and seven mythical young were inside, and ready to defend it, or as I might have invaded a private drawer in someone’s desk. The secret tryst; Ninus’ tomb; the lovers’ tree; what right had a ghost there, prying?”

What right indeed? Well, you’ll have to read the book and let me know what you think. You won’t be sorry; it’s a thumping good afternoon’s read.

April 11

Writing Moments

In bed with Amazing Spouse, watching ‘Captain Blood’:
Spouse: This is so CHEESY
Me: But! Basil Rathbone! Fencing! With Errol Flynn!

Spouse: The Robin Hood movie is better.  And they both fence there, too. Robin and Guy
Me:  …
(as a certain Robyn and Guy snort at the idea of… and I quote… ‘poncy’ fencing technique)

Mr. Rathbone: (in uber-French accent, brandishing rope) “You know, you can screw a man’s eyeballs out of his head with one of these…”

Me: Now, my Robyn would appreciate that.
Spouse: More like your Guy would.

And that, my friends, is when you realise that Mr. Rathbone needs to be “cast”, somehow, as one of the Wode villains.

Care to guess who?