Month: January 2025

The Future We Want

personby Nancy Jane Moore
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I’ve been putting myself to sleep at night by envisioning the kind of future world I’d like to see. Being a science fiction writer as well as someone who has spent much of my life doing work toward social change, I’m always thinking about better systems.

But the combination of the polycrises we face (I’m deliberately using the plural of crisis here because we not only have multiple crises that affect each other – thus the poly – but each crisis has its own set of multiple components) with the forthcoming grifter/broligarch/religious and right wing extremist government has urged me more in that direction.

Given that the government will not only not be addressing the polycrises but will in fact be doing things that make them much, much worse, I cannot be satisfied by resistance. And given that the status quo was already shaky – very little being done about climate change, inequality, and the cost of housing, not to mention protecting the country from insurrectionists – I’m not feeling pumped up about trying to get back to that.

Yeah, we need the rule of law and the Constitution here in the United States, but both those things have some big flaws that should have been addressed a long time ago. Most of the resistance will be focused on keeping political things from getting too much worse, but it won’t be fixing any of the underlying problems.

So I am trying to envision what we could have. I recently read an essay Donella Meadows wrote in 1994, “Envisioning a Sustainable World,” and it inspired me to do more imagining of what kind of world we could have.

Meadows was one of the authors of the 1972 work Limits to Growth, which provided a guide to the problems we’re facing right now. You can find out more about her work here and download a free copy of Limits to Growth here:

Of course, I’ve been working on envisioning futures all along.  Lately, I’ve been reading some futurist thinking to help expand my ability to do that. You have to be careful with futurists, since many of them are tied in with tech bro thinking, but there are some very useful skills in that area that help you get past the “there’s no way that could happen” point.

You have to get past the “there’s no way that could happen” point before you can open your mind to anything new.

Continue reading “The Future We Want”…

From Little England to New York, not forgetting the Wild West

personby Gillian Polack
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I once wondered what would happen if each time a place was central to a novel what would happen to the place if the mentions carrying charges. If the charges were of fairystuff, then new York and London, more than anywhere else in the English-speaking world, would turn into fairy wonderlands. Japanese anime answered this question for me by making the charges the stuff of detonation and world-changing tragedy. Tokyo has died more times than anywhere else in the Japanese-speaking world.

When I’d explored this notion decades ago, I kept it in mind, and nearly made a map containing all the places that were the heartland of a novel, just to find out more. At that point I entered the public service (this was a long time ago) and there was no time to make maps.

I turned my thoughts to notions that did not need mapping. How much do we centre our narratives around the US and around England? What does this do to our sense of what makes home? How does it affect how we see ourselves? Often it means we see ourselves poorly, because the London and New York publishing industries tend to reinforce the bias from the stories they select for publication. It’s far, far harder for outsiders to get published and have careers without moving to those places and creating networks and being seen. The further one is from a central place, the more difficult it is. In Australia, Sydney, Melbourne (and recently Brisbane) are those central points. People who can travel a lot and create modern networks are less disadvantaged. We know what this does to careers. I’m not sure we have looked deeply enough into what this does for the stories we tell.

Today, I’m thinking about this quite specifically in relation to the US’s story dream of a Wild West and in Australia’s equivalent. In novel terms, my favourite Australian story based in our Wild-West equivalent is Voss. It’s the opposite of anything written by Zane Grey. White won a Nobel Prize and Grey sold more novels than I can count. They are not, to be fair, good comparisons, because they were not simply written at far ends of the world, but they are also at far ends of the literary spectrum. Yet White and Grey are the two writers who always come to mind when I start to think about popular stories that share history. I read them both when I was fifteen and sixteen. I fiercely wanted to understand them. I didn’t want the literary understanding I was being offered at school. I wanted to understand how they tell us who we are and what would happen if we put them in historical perspective.

Both writers demonstrate some of the core stories we associate with European settlement when we’re telling stories that focus on that settlement. Those core stories give me hints on how we shape our own histories to make them distinctive. The publishing tendency to centralise rubs away differences. Publishing tends to limit the range of stories we’re offered and to focus on areas that publishers think will sell. This reinforces a small concept of the past and the reinforces it again and again and again until we think it’s legendary. Those of us who are not in the right region or culture find the legendary passes us by.

When I was twenty-six I accepted that job in Canberra and suddenly the stories of a gunslinging past were staring at me from the roads I walked. Local farmers were descended from famous bushrangers (Australian outlaws). Canberra is on the road from the goldfields to the big smoke. And yet… we didn’t have a big set of Wild West stories. We have some bushranger songs and tales, but they’re not encapsulated in a whole world the way the Wild West stories are. Australia’s writing legacy was through the UK rather than through the US and do, instead of dime novels, we had penny-dreadfuls and their ilk and heirs. We had writers such as Mary Fortune and Fergus Hume and, later, Arthur Upfield. They’re quite different in nature and story style. In many cases, the lives of the writers themselves held elements of that penny-dreadfulness and the books were often set in Melbourne. For Fortune and Hume, the best place to start with with the work of Lucy Sussex. She is also from Melbourne. Melbourne is, these days, a City of Literature, but it still relies on people living there and does not reach out so much to the rest of Australia. Likewise, the earlier Australian popular literature mentions of places do not seem to carry the same charges as novels set in New York or in the Wild West.

For readers, this is a good thing. Each novel can be read by itself and for itself. But from a cultural standpoint, it’s not so good. The pressure remains to write novels set in New York or to tell yet another Wild West science fiction story.

What are we missing with this? I was going to explore this in another post, next week, but I’ve been thinking about it. Would anyone reading this (including Treehouse friends!) like to talk about our histories? We could compare the dates we’re taught as important. We could discuss why the US has the Wild West while Australia has Marvellous Melbourne. We could compare goldrushes and outlaw stories. It could be a great deal of fun. Would anyone like to share a discussion? (Not for next week, for a mutually convenient future time.)

On Gentleness

personby Nancy Jane Moore
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It strikes me once again how much I need gentleness in these fraught times.

The last time the grifter was allowed to occupy the White House, I ended up writing a gentle adventure novel — gentle despite the fact that it was rooted in The Three Musketeers. It’s called For the Good of the Realm and the adventures are had by swordswomen and witches. You can buy a copy here if you’re in need of gentle adventures.

The sequel I’m working on turns out to have more violence and complexity in it, which might be why I’m having some trouble with the messy middle right now. I need gentleness, though not at the expense of trying to force a story to be something it isn’t. I didn’t realize I was writing a gentle adventure with Realm until it was finished, and the current book is opening some doors I never knew existed when I wrote the first one.

That said, it may be tricky for me to write something that’s a little harsher right now because – like I said at the beginning – the times cry out for gentleness as an antidote to what we’re facing.

Now in a world with numerous wars and cruel treatment of refugees and, for that matter, of anyone without enough money — people make homes in tents and old RVs in my neighborhood — gentleness is a privilege.

Probably it has always been a privilege, though when reading about “gently bred” ladies of the English Regency period, I am inclined to think those women were more imprisoned than protected by the concept. Gentleness needs to be freely given and available.

I do not want to ignore the evils of the world. We cannot stop them unless we acknowledge that they exist and act on that.

But at the same time, looking at the horrors and knowing you can’t stop them is hard. Not as hard as living through them, but still hard.

I was brought to this realization by two recent posts on social media. In one, a friend was planning to re-read Kim Stanley Robinson’s The Ministry for the Future, but going to skip Chapter 1 because they can’t face reading it again.

It’s a very hard chapter to read. You must read it when you read the book the first time, but it will likely be so seared in your memory after that that you can skip it and get to the part of the story that shows a better path forward on any re-reads.

Someone else I follow was watching Furiosa, the prequel to Fury Road, and while they love the movie, had to stop because they found it too hard to rewatch knowing what was coming.

I think that’s why I need gentle right now: because looking at what we’ve been through the last few years, I know some of what’s coming. Continue reading “On Gentleness”…

The Right Way to Be a Writer

personby Madeleine Robins
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TLDR: There isn’t one.

I once auditioned to teach a writing course on the community level for a place that offered a bewildering array of classes in everything from becoming a real estate tycoon to becoming a high-end chef. It was pretty clear to me that they syllabus the program wanted was based on the 5- or 7-beat plot (which are essentially the same thing, but the 7-beat-plot breaks the stages down a bit more). So I put together a class outline and taught a sample class and lost the gig. Why? As near as I can tell, it’s because at the end of the class I said something like “Of course, this is only one way to write a novel, and it might not be the one for you.”

Apparently that was heresy. True, in my opinion, but heretical in that situation. Oh well.

I think many satisfying books have a glancing relation to the 5- or 7-beat story (there are many different terms for each beat–one man’s “introduction” might be another man’s “exposition,” etc. But the writer may get there without once thinking in those terms.

These days a lot of the writing advice I see is not about writing at all, but about the business of being a writer. And a lot of that advice is such that I, for one, would never have put pen to paper if I had seen it as a young and tender human. If you are the sort of person who likes to write, but writes slowly, or sweats over crafting a sentence, or thinks in a quirky, non-linear fashion, some of the rules could stop you dead. If you’re the kind of introvert for whom having a Social Media presence gives you shudders the rules could stop you dead. And rules really shouldn’t stop you dead, honest.

I was confidently told last month by someone who I assume is living up to her own dicta, that if I couldn’t publish a book a month–more would be better, but a girl’s got to sleep–then I would never make it as a writer.

Um.

It may be fortunate that I don’t make my living by writing, because I flunk many of the Right Way To Be A Writer tests. The fastest I have ever written a book was a little under three months–from turning in the outline to the editor  (I never outline, but it was a media tie-in book and such was required) to dropping the manuscript on said editor’s desk. Approval of the outline, by the way, came in a week after I delivered the book (the book was needed urgently, as the writer whose work had previously been scheduled for that slot had had to drop out–publishing schedules are sometimes inexorable). So: I am not going to be putting out a book a month, under any circumstances. I don’t, as noted, outline (actually, sometimes I outline when I’m about 2/3 of the way through a book to make sure I know where I”m going). The 5 or 7 steps in my plot are observed only when the book is done and I can say “hey, look! Rising action! I did that!” All in all, in terms of the Right Way shibboleths, I’m a pretty bad writer.

And yet I’ve written more than a dozen books, published 11 of them (I’m polishing #12 as we speak). So somehow, despite the rules, I appear to be a writer.

All this is to say: you are a writer if you write. You may not be an author (I tend to think of authors as persons who have written, and perhaps published. Authordom involves past tense). You may structure your work rigorously according to one metric or another, or wander, as I do, over the landscape of your plot until you find yourself at a satisfying destination. The rules are really just there to help you, not to grade you.

Okay: maybe there is one rule I would say is inviolable: Be yourself and have fun. If you’re having fun, even if it’s the stare-off-into-the-middle-distance-and-swear-under-your-breath sort of fun, then you’re doing it right. If you’re having fun, it’s far more likely that someone else–like the audience–will as well (all things being equal, and the book being written in sentences and stuff).

You can tie your own hands by following the rules; that may make you feel safer. But remember that art is by its nature a risky business.