Musing on Muses.

I wrote to Andrew Carroll the other day, and as he is patient enough to put up with me, he wrote me back. The conversation is less important, for the purpose of this post, than a comment he made about the muses.

I think that all artists in some way shape or form acknowledge The Muse (use capital letters!) when working. On occasion, divine inspiration slaps you across the face and you sit down and it's almost as much fun as having sex on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. Most of the time fun isn't a word that many people would use. Rewarding? Sure. But it's not always easy to sit down and grapple with that blank page - or blank screen if you'd prefer.

I've heard of writers who go so far as to perform elaborate rituals in order to capture the attention of The Muse. This reminds me a bit of those athletes who will do something weird before going out and performing their best. It's always the same kind of thing, usually only a second or two before the required action is performed. The swimmer who runs his left hand (fingers tight, thumb along the forefinger!) over his swim cap from his eyebrow to the crown of his head - or the sprinter who jumps up and down three times like a Masai Warrior.

But is that the truth of it? Are we, as artists, vulnerable to this kind of crazy superstition? Yeah, artist. I said it. Wanna fight about it? All seriousness aside - I think this might be a recurring theme.

On a mote of dust

Science fiction as a genre tends to sit in the backseat of the literary canon, and is often made to wear a special helmet so it doesn't hurt itself - presumably whilst licking the windows. As a writer who gravitated toward science writing and science fiction in particular, I can honestly say that the reputation SF has received is not entirely without warrant.

There's the cliched argument for the constant relevancy of SF as new breakthroughs occur guided by the auspices of the great writers and talking heads of days past. Gene Roddenberry is often brought up, and that makes me sad. He wasn't even a very good writer, and as far as I know he was never a scientist. He was, however, a pilot. Ok.

Then there are guys like Carl Sagan. I was too young and too far from English Speaking TV to ever catch Cosmos when I was younger. But I imagine I would have liked it a lot. Here is something he might have gotten a kick out of.

Dirty Secrets

So there i was. Seventeen and just beginning to seriously consider putting words on paper in college. Unfortunately, I'd also just discovered comic books that didn't involve guys dressed up in spandex. This was an ill-fated affair, to say the least.

In my enthusiasm for the newly discovered medium, I decided the best way to express myself and my bubbling appreciation was through fan fiction. Alas. It's true.

What is worse still? This fan fiction was published on a web-site! Worse still yet moreso?

It's still there.

I can look at this semi-objectively now and see that my excitement was much greater than my skill in the craft. It's an embarrassing reminder of how far I have come as a writer - and it lets me laugh at myself.

Surely, there is nothing wrong with that.

Counting Electric Sheep

I ran into this documentary on Philip Dick, the author of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Valis, and the short story "The Minority Report" among many, many others. If you are unfamiliar, I'd recommend starting with his short stories. Philip Dick wrote hyperreal Science Fiction - and is generally loved and hated in equal measure. Here's part 1.

On Criticism

"Everyone's a critic" is the kind of cliched thing the hack writer mumbles to himself as he swallows another mouthful of Johnny Walker Black only to vomit it up in short order all over his typewriter. With the establishment of the "Comments" section, suddenly everyone can, and most do criticize the work of others.

Often this criticism is insightful, helpful, and tacit. Other times it's worthless. And more often it seems a comments section becomes a breeding ground for trolls who enjoy making people cry. Not the topic, but still.

Pages like Amazon and Goodreads make critics of us all as we jot our experiences, thoughts, and opinions for all the world to see. I'm as guilty of that as anyone, as I was a top 100 reviewer for a month (my first month, oddly enough).

With all this energy dedicated to critique, has this become the form of creative expression of choice for the average net denizen?

I take it all back.

So in a moment of weakness I sent Neil Gaiman a message via his website. Less than a week later I got a very short response, but a response nonetheless. Well shit. Now I feel only slightly bad for leaving less than drooling reviews of his works on goodreads. Sorry Neil.

Rejection Slips

The other day I received a rejection slip from another magazine called Strange Horizons for something I'd sent in. Being too dumb to quit, I immediately sent it out to another publisher. Strange Horizons was then sent another story for consideration. Might as well.

I'm not concerned about the quality of the work on a mechanical level. Though it might be too short - that having been an issue until recently. There is little else to do but keep on writing, and we'll see what we see in a month or two.