Category: nonfiction

I need to work out. I have a schedule I try to stick with: four days of cardio interspersed with three days of weight training, because my doctor beat me about the head and shoulders about the need for weight training (which I find deeply boring) if I expect to arrive at Old Age in any sort of shape at all. So I have a schedule, which helps keep me honest. To be frank, I’m still sort of getting back into the swing of the routine after spending a week on vacation, but I’ve been pretty good, even when it meant bounding out of bed and starting to exercise.

However.

I have a cold. Coughing, sneezing, scratchy throat, the classic bug. Yesterday I did nothing. Which includes the cardio.

Today I am feeling better. By rights, and by my schedule, today I should do my weights routine. Except that I didn’t do the cardio, which I marginally prefer, yesterday. And I found myself having an actual, very dumb, conversation with myself about the moral imperative to do the weights routine today, on accounta I have a schedule, and if I do not keep the schedule then I am a bad person. Madeleine A opined that if I did not do weights today I would knock the whole schedule out of whack and then chaos would ensue. Madeleine B pointed out that I could do cardio or weights or nothing today, I might as well do whatever I prefer. Madeleine A responded that if I’m going to exercise at all, I should keep with the schedule, because schedule. Madeleine B pointed out that the schedule is entirely arbitrary, I invented it myself to give myself some structure, and that there is no external authority who is going to give me demerits or a spanking if I knock the schedule out of whack. At which point Madeleine A said, huffily, “FINE! You might as well not work out at all today! At least then you’d be back in the rhythm of the schedule.” Madeleine B noted that this might be an over-reaction, but again, there is no external authority who is going to come scold me and tell me that I am a Bad Person for skipping exercise when I’m sick.

At which point Madeleine C, a wholly separate entity, declared she was going to have a cup of tea and revisit the whole question in an hour.

It is a fine thing to create structures. Especially now that I am retired, I love my structures because they keep me from doomscrolling or watching too many reruns of old medical dramas. On the other hand, our structures can be manipulated into shackles, and nobody wants that. Balance in all things.

I once almost got into a fight with a Beefeater in the Tower of London when I dared suggest that Shakespeare might have been wrong about Richard III killing off his nephews.  Shakespeare’s version of the story has become enshrined as something “everybody knows.”  And “everybody knows” is a problem if you want to get something right.

I was thinking about this while re-reading Black London,* a terrific and fascinating book by Gretchen Gerzina about the history of Africans in England.  Early in the book Gerzina tells of going into a bookstore looking for material about people of color in London.  The saleswoman told her, with a touch of asperity, that everyone knew that there were no blacks in England prior to the end of WW II.  

In fact, there were so many blacks in England during the reign of Elizabeth I that she issued an edict ordering them to leave the country (it was largely  ignored).  And slavery, which we in America tend to think of as our own “peculiar institution,” was legal in England until as late as 1772.  There were African slaves in England–most of them domestics–because up until that point there had been no specific law against slavery.

What changed? A slave named James Somersett, brought by his owner to England from the Massachusetts colony, was beaten and left to die by his owner, Charles Stewart.  Instead, he was rescued, taken to the hospital, and when he was well, apprenticed as a free man.  By chance, a year or so later, Stewart saw his erstwhile slave, hale and productive, and demanded that the man be returned to him. A huge legal battle ensued, with public opinion vocally divided. The judiciary was forced to make case law, finding that, while colonial laws might explicitly permit slavery, there was no Parliamentary act or common law that made slavery in England legal, and that it was therefore illegal.

Somersett was freed, as were the 10,000 or so African slaves in England.

The slave trade continued, making port cities like Bristol and Plymouth into centers of commerce;  slavery in the British colonies flourished. But the abolitionist movement, stirred to life by the Somersett case, struggled against economic interests, and in 1807 the slave trade in England was abolished. It took almost thirty more years (1834) for the institution itself to be banned throughout the Empire.

That means that during Jane Austen’s lifetime there were black people in England.  It’s clear (particularly from Mansfield Park) that Austen was well aware of the slave trade as it was practiced in the British colonies, and her letters suggest that she was part of the abolitionist camp. Austen did not live a cosmopolitain life (she disliked London and Bath) but it is not unlikely that she encountered black Britons–those persons who had lived in England as domestics for decades, or had come to Britain after the American Revolution (many slaves were promised freedom by the Crown if they fought for England, and some took the offer and wound up there after the war–albeit not always very happily).  There was a tendency among white Britons to lump all people of color together, but at the same time freed slaves were arriving from America, immigrants from the British colony of India were arriving too. My favorite is the Bengali entrepreneur who introduced the word “shampoo” — meaning head massage — into the English language. He was considered “black.” He operated a spa (Mahomed’s Steam and Vapor Sea Water Medicated Baths) which offered a combined Turkish bath with massage (sounds great). As the British Empire spread its influence, there were more and more persons of color in England. The clerk Gerzina encountered at the bookstore may have cited “everybody” in her opinion, but she was dead wrong.

Whenever I hear someone saying “everybody knows,” I’m pretty sure I’m in for a whopping historical error.

_____
* Yes, I’m researching for Sarah Tolerance #5...

I don’t talk about Patreon much, but I’ve had a place there for a while. Once a month I send subscribers a short story, an old essay, a new one, some writing advice, and what’s happening behind the scenes. Everyone receives a recipe or two once a week, on the blog. Most patrons receive the short story. A lesser number (but still most) subscribe to the essay tier, and some subscribe to it at a level that means they get to choose what I write a new essay about, and so forth. This week I’d like to share with you some of my writing advice. it’s half of what’s in the newsletter, and it lets you see what that tier is about.

One of the new essays was about the colour ‘blue.’ I’d like to riff on that refrain and return to world building. Two birds, one stone.

There are some simple tools that help convince your reader that they walk in a strange world and not all of those tools involve flying cars or weird monsters. One of the easiest is colour. Science fiction TV often used to spray paint vegetation blue or orange to let viewers know “They walk in strange soil.” Writers have better choices than spray paint.

If someone returns home after a voyage (Odysseus!) and sees the familiar purple leaves and their comforting orange spots, that’s spray paint. The emotions help show the reader what they’re supposed to feel about the character and about the character’s relationship to the landscape, and the colours show that the world he sees is not ours. This gives the story some life using a few words or a single paragraph. If you want the past voyage to have changed them, you bring it into play. If the leaves are edible, even better. The character can pick a leaf and nibble it then recoil. What was sweet when they left their home has changed. If you want the landscape to have been changed by aliens (us!) invading and making it edible for our bodies, then you show this. The colour is no longer spray paint: it is integral to the story.

It’s really that simple. It works with all five senses, or with objects. Make it integral to the story by having a character interacting with it, and make that interaction show something important to the reader, or, in this case, a mini-story: noting the colour, reacting to it, tasting the leaf, reacting to it, realising that all has changed. That miniature story uses colour to enrich a landscape and bring it to life, while helping round the character out and give the reader a reminder of what has happened. Small things can have big impacts.

I stumbled upon an essay I wrote some years ago yesterday. It’s a pretty good piece, kind of funny, part of my ongoing “Raised in a Barn” series of anecdotes about my odd childhood. I finished it, was pretty happy with it still… and then the thought occurred to me: it’s weird that I do this. This being: write essays retelling anecdotes about my parents, the Barn, bats and Christmas trees and the trapeze that hung in our hallway, et cetera.

I mean, what’s the point? Writing fiction, you’re creating a world, and characters, and a narrative arc. Anecdotes may have characters and certainly take place in a world, and often they have a narrative arc, because otherwise it’s just… someone writing something that sounds like “My uncle had a frog named Bertram,” wth no therefore.

I think about this because I have been toying, off and on, with the idea of blowing my “Raised in a Barn” anecdotes up into a memoir. That’s hard because I run aground on “what’s the point,” or rather “why would this matter to anyone else?”

Memoir is a thriving subsection of American letters. Particularly popular are the “how I survived” memoirs, which range from true-life horror stories by survivors of crimes or horrific events, to “I had psychotic parents and I’m here to spill the tea” to “I left my abusive significant other, and you can too” to “I survived all that medical science could do to me, and I’m cured, but I’m still angry.” Survival memoirs can be instructional or inspirational, and some them are very angry.

Some memoirs are less about survival than they are about “what the hell happened?” Many memoirs by famous people, particularly famous women, fall under that banner. They promise the inside skinny, the truth that the news or TikTok or Instagram won’t tell you. Sometimes they’re inspirational too. And there are memoirs that are less about the author and more about evoking a time and place.

I have read memoirs that failed because they had no there there–the equivalent of talking about Uncle Fred and his frog Bertram. Books where the author (and presumably the publisher) thought there was something compelling about their story, what they lived through, saw, survived, but that missed that narrative arc. Maybe they thought it was implicit, but it wasn’t. If  I read a memoir and I don’t come out of it with a sense of what the author really wanted me to know (beyond, say Abusive Spouses Are Bad! or Running for President is Unpleasant!) I don’t think it works. 

It takes a certain mindset to write a memoir. You have to be convinced that other people will care about a story you’re telling about YOU. That requires some audacity, doesn’t it? To believe that your story will have meaning to anyone else? Audacity is a well-known tool in the writer’s kit, right there with grammar and spelling.

I spent the past weekend among family at the celebration of life for my late and entirely wonderful Aunt Julie. There was a graveside meet up (it was non-religious, so calling it a service is a misnomer) at which I spoke–and there were probably 30 or so people there, including caregivers, a co-worker, friends, and of course, family. And we all told stories about Aunt Julie and what made her so delightful, and there were tears and a whole lot of laughter. It was effortless to tell these stories, because everyone there loved my aunt. That was the point: to share the different aspects of my aunt’s life and her character and to celebrate her. The stories had meaning for everyone there.

If I’m going to write a memoir (and I haven’t talked myself out of it just yet) I need to have–not just the audacity to believe that someone is going to find meaning in it, but a narrative arc that creates that meaning.

The list is out, and my work is done.

I have been, since November, reading as a judge for the World Fantasy Awards. There are stacks and stacks (and stacks, and stacks and stacks) of books in my living room, my bedroom, my garage. As of this week the other judges and I have turned in the slate and it has been made public. Our work is pretty much done, except for keeping our mouths shut until the awards are given at the World Fantasy Convention in October.

If anyone ever asks if you’d like to be a judge–consider saying Yes. Also, consider saying No. It is a huge undertaking. We received over 300 novels, about 75 novellas, I’ve’-lost-count-of-how-many short fiction entries, plus anthologies, collections, and a fascinating hodge-podge of works for the Special Award categories. Even with five judges (each work is seen by at least two of the judges) it’s a pretty massive undertaking. I was fortunate that my fellow judges (Ann VanderMeer, Richard Thomas, Chịkọdịlị Emelụmadụ, and Tamsyn Muir) were all smart funny people who were willing to dig in and do the work. We did not agree on every work (there were a couple of books I read early on that I thought were great, but the best I was able to get from the other readers was that they could see why I thought the books were great but they were less than thrilled). But when one of the other judges posts something like “Holy Shit, this is a great book!” you want to look at it right away.

The World Fantasy Award encompasses fantasy, horror, and a sort of catchall of weird, slipstream, and magical realism. It does not include Science Fiction, which is well represented and awarded elsewhere. I am not much of a horror reader, but I came to have a new appreciation for the genre. And there are a number of works I read that were an intriguing mix of two or more genres that put me in mind of the players in Hamlet, working in combinations of pastoral-comical-historical etc. And I have to say that I have a new awe for the range of talent, and of reach in the Fantasy/Horror field. A lot of great work out there.

As I said: consider saying Yes: you will be exposed to what is best in the field. You will be inspired and impressed, and you will get to work with great people. Consider also saying No: I got no writing done from November until the end of July, barring only posts in the Treehouse and necessary correspondence. My brain was filled with other peoples’ stories. And because I am me, and a compulsive stage manager, I wound up deploying a lot of spreadsheets to keep track of what came in, who was reading what, who thought what of which, and what had to happen next. It’s a lot.

Still: consider saying Yes. But you have been warned.

Apologies: I’m up against a deadline that will not budge, and so am posting an essay from about a decade ago. These days I spend more time than is healthy wondering what the era we are currently living through will be called, and how history will judge us. But that’s not what this is about.

We humans love our boundaries. Between nations, between states, between property. So important to know where you end and I begin, not?

But in history, maybe not so useful. When I was taking history classes, there was a tendency to teach historical periods and eras, as if the Plantagenets filed out in an orderly fashion one day, the Tudors clocked in, and everything–clothes, art, technology, politics–changed right then. But history isn’t a single timeline, there are huge overlaps, some of which can take me by surprise.

For instance the dapper fellow in the photo? That’s Wyatt Earp, of the O.K. Corral: major character in the American saga of The Wild West. After Tombstone he moved to California where, among other things, he was a consultant to the film industry; he and western star Tom Mix were great friends. Earp died in 1929, well into the era of electricity, cars, flight.

Sometimes I’m asked when the Regency was. There’s a simple and accurate answer: the Regency began in 1811, when Parliament enacted the Regency Bill and the Prince of Wales became a stand-in for his father George III. It ended in 1820, when George III died and the Prince of Wales became king.

But in discussing the Regency, particularly when talking about fiction, the period is a more squishy, pliable thing. For convenience’s sake, I’d say it was roughly 1795-1825, the era of England’s involvement with Napoleon; the point when the Empire style was at its height; the Romantic movement was in full blast; and technology was beginning to make serious inroads in daily life. But from another vantage point, the Regency is just a subset of the Georgian era, a blip on the way from the Enlightenment to the Victorians. It all depends where you draw the lines. And frankly, the lines didn’t matter as much if you were at the lower end of the economic spectrum: things don’t change as fast when you’re scrabbling for dinner and all your money goes for necessities rather than a new gown.

It’s easy to forget that while some people were living what we would consider a medieval life, others were smack dab in the middle of the Renaissance. To me one of the most arresting scenes in The Return of Martin Guerre (a lovely French film from a few decades ago) is at the trial, when there are the nice medieval peasants and the clergy and lawyers, all in their robes of office–and there in the audience are people who would not look out of place in the court of James I. My initial belief in my own historical knowledge (oh, I know when this is!) was knocked askew. In the same way, I love the film versions of Austen in which women are wearing clothes from several different eras–from the older woman who is still wearing a highly structured gown from 1795 to the young woman whose gown is the latest cry: high waisted, sheer fabric, Romantic draping. It reminds me that many women didn’t toss out the old gowns–they wore them, or tore them apart and remade them–because fabric and labor were not cheap. And that no one was sitting there thinking, “well, I’d better rethink my wardrobe, because we’re transitioning into the Regency, and these old rags will simply look like they belong to another era.”

My daughter has been watching Mad Men from the beginning of the series. I mentioned that (because my father worked on Madison Avenue in the 50s and 60s) it all looked rather familiar to me. And this launched us into a discussion about eras, and how you know when you’re in one. And of course, you don’t. At the time, it just seems like today is an extension of yesterday, and tomorrow will flow right out of today. At the time, even fringed suede vests might seem like the thing to do.