14.4.04
As I write this, I have been up for something close to thirty hours and have travelled close to four thousand miles. I feel like I can see things more clearly like this. But I suspect this is like the clarity offered by dope - an illusion.
My University offered me a place on their creative writing MA course. I am pleased, and relieved because I don't think I could bear the humiliation of not being selected (I am arrogant that way, you see? I told you about the clarity.)
One of my interviewers, a known ass, said to me, "We'd like to offer you a place. The only slight hesitation we had was your choice of subject matter. But the quality of your writing speaks for itself."
I had told them, as eloquently as I could manage in a cramped, prefabricated office, in a too-hot jacket, with words and simple explanations trickling away from me like sand through a sieve, I told them as eloquently as I could about my pseudo-science fiction novel.
I am not sure they believed me when I told them there was a small but thriving sub-genre of Urban Myth. More worryingly, perhaps they believed me but did not believe it was any good.
I am tired of telling people I want to write about archetypes, I want to have a murder mystery where Death is the victim and Death Mark II and Fate are the fumbling investigators, chased down all the time by hollow absent men and an Amnesiac Memory.
They always say the same thing - it's unwieldy. It's too big. The underlying suggestion is, I can't possibly manage it.
This is the second time the quality of my writing has been brought up as if this is the excuse, the only reason I 'got away with it'.
Surely the quality of my writing should be the only thing that matters. If I begin this piece and it's good, and it works, why is the burden of proof still on me? Still on me when it wouldn't be if I were writing in any other genre?
The upsetting thing is the real issue the ass raised. I need people who will give me a chance and a level playing field. If I don't gel with the other students or the teachers, straight up, I'm in a tricky situation.
I hate that science fiction and fantasy has been ghettoised. I hate that sometimes I think they deserve their reputation.
Arthur C. Clarke, Ursula K. LeGuin, Isaac Asimov, Jules Verne, Philip K. Dick, Aldous Huxley. There was a time when science fiction was respected, and after that there was a time when it at least wasn't spurned.
I firmly believe that the goal of a story is to explore, to teach, to give ideas. We put characters into extraordinary situations and watch how they react. We explore philosophy and morality. We create wonderful creations for amusement, entertainment, to spark off other wonderful creations in other minds.
The scope of a story is the imagination. The limit of the lesson is imagination. By limiting yourself only to one world, to a handful of times, you limit your imagination. You limit everything.
I never said everyone should be out there writing speculative fiction. I never said I wanted to write about little green men from mars and space ships blowing each other up.
I just want to write something a little different and be given the benefit of the doubt.
I want to write something a little different and not have people look at my work and say, "Well, okay, you've managed it so far, but..."
I want them to say, "Wow, you've managed to do this! I really didn't think you could, but look, I guess there's a chance I was wrong."
I think I was born into the wrong age. I missed the science fiction boat.
My grandmother owned a first edition copy of "Brave New World," by Aldous Huxley. This Easter, I asked my grandpa if I could have it, because I read it the last time she was sick and it was special to me. He said of course, so now it's mine.
Beginning on page two-hundred and sixty, my grandma (twenty-two at the time) began to underline things in pencil.
They were not the things I would have underlined. They were things about happiness, and about not being happy. They were things about the banality of comfort, about claiming your right to struggle and passion and things that were out of the ordinary and dangerous.
My grandma married a man who drank only milk his entire life, who wouldn't spend extra money on popcorn at the cinema, who was absolutely, unquestionably reliable, but who gave directions to the basement by using the points of the compass.
Aldous Huxley writes, "But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."
Next to it my grandmother writes (the only time she wrote anything in the whole book), "Oh god, yes -- To live, really live --"
I want to know now if she got her chance. She left the politely alcoholic society of the deep south and moved into a tea-totalling suburbia. Did she lose out? Was it worth it?
In my sleep-deprived state, I wonder if this is some sort of red flag; my science fiction calling card; a warning to go and do what it is I want to do and fuck the critics.
Then again, maybe it's not. Maybe it's just a gift.
If so, so. For the first time in my life I own an object of sentimental importance.
I mean... I have objects I own that I like. I've never held with not admitting I'm attached to my stuff. I like it, it makes my life easier. Dammit, I've spent money on all those DVDs, I want something to show for it.
And I've had objects I've kept for dubious, perhaps emotional reasons; ticket stubs from big movies; a stuffed animal from and ex-boyfriend; a coconut I bought when I was twelve for 39p that never went rotten on the outside; a lot of small metal dolls' teacups I don't even know where I found.
But in the end, I'm only attached to that stuff to an extent. If I lost it, I wouldn't mind so much (and then we ask, why do I keep it? I don't know. Ask me when I've had some sleep and I'll be far enough away from clarity to justify it.)
If I lost this book, though, I'd be heartbroken.
Finally, I have an object.
My University offered me a place on their creative writing MA course. I am pleased, and relieved because I don't think I could bear the humiliation of not being selected (I am arrogant that way, you see? I told you about the clarity.)
One of my interviewers, a known ass, said to me, "We'd like to offer you a place. The only slight hesitation we had was your choice of subject matter. But the quality of your writing speaks for itself."
I had told them, as eloquently as I could manage in a cramped, prefabricated office, in a too-hot jacket, with words and simple explanations trickling away from me like sand through a sieve, I told them as eloquently as I could about my pseudo-science fiction novel.
I am not sure they believed me when I told them there was a small but thriving sub-genre of Urban Myth. More worryingly, perhaps they believed me but did not believe it was any good.
I am tired of telling people I want to write about archetypes, I want to have a murder mystery where Death is the victim and Death Mark II and Fate are the fumbling investigators, chased down all the time by hollow absent men and an Amnesiac Memory.
They always say the same thing - it's unwieldy. It's too big. The underlying suggestion is, I can't possibly manage it.
This is the second time the quality of my writing has been brought up as if this is the excuse, the only reason I 'got away with it'.
Surely the quality of my writing should be the only thing that matters. If I begin this piece and it's good, and it works, why is the burden of proof still on me? Still on me when it wouldn't be if I were writing in any other genre?
The upsetting thing is the real issue the ass raised. I need people who will give me a chance and a level playing field. If I don't gel with the other students or the teachers, straight up, I'm in a tricky situation.
I hate that science fiction and fantasy has been ghettoised. I hate that sometimes I think they deserve their reputation.
Arthur C. Clarke, Ursula K. LeGuin, Isaac Asimov, Jules Verne, Philip K. Dick, Aldous Huxley. There was a time when science fiction was respected, and after that there was a time when it at least wasn't spurned.
I firmly believe that the goal of a story is to explore, to teach, to give ideas. We put characters into extraordinary situations and watch how they react. We explore philosophy and morality. We create wonderful creations for amusement, entertainment, to spark off other wonderful creations in other minds.
The scope of a story is the imagination. The limit of the lesson is imagination. By limiting yourself only to one world, to a handful of times, you limit your imagination. You limit everything.
I never said everyone should be out there writing speculative fiction. I never said I wanted to write about little green men from mars and space ships blowing each other up.
I just want to write something a little different and be given the benefit of the doubt.
I want to write something a little different and not have people look at my work and say, "Well, okay, you've managed it so far, but..."
I want them to say, "Wow, you've managed to do this! I really didn't think you could, but look, I guess there's a chance I was wrong."
I think I was born into the wrong age. I missed the science fiction boat.
My grandmother owned a first edition copy of "Brave New World," by Aldous Huxley. This Easter, I asked my grandpa if I could have it, because I read it the last time she was sick and it was special to me. He said of course, so now it's mine.
Beginning on page two-hundred and sixty, my grandma (twenty-two at the time) began to underline things in pencil.
They were not the things I would have underlined. They were things about happiness, and about not being happy. They were things about the banality of comfort, about claiming your right to struggle and passion and things that were out of the ordinary and dangerous.
My grandma married a man who drank only milk his entire life, who wouldn't spend extra money on popcorn at the cinema, who was absolutely, unquestionably reliable, but who gave directions to the basement by using the points of the compass.
Aldous Huxley writes, "But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."
Next to it my grandmother writes (the only time she wrote anything in the whole book), "Oh god, yes -- To live, really live --"
I want to know now if she got her chance. She left the politely alcoholic society of the deep south and moved into a tea-totalling suburbia. Did she lose out? Was it worth it?
In my sleep-deprived state, I wonder if this is some sort of red flag; my science fiction calling card; a warning to go and do what it is I want to do and fuck the critics.
Then again, maybe it's not. Maybe it's just a gift.
If so, so. For the first time in my life I own an object of sentimental importance.
I mean... I have objects I own that I like. I've never held with not admitting I'm attached to my stuff. I like it, it makes my life easier. Dammit, I've spent money on all those DVDs, I want something to show for it.
And I've had objects I've kept for dubious, perhaps emotional reasons; ticket stubs from big movies; a stuffed animal from and ex-boyfriend; a coconut I bought when I was twelve for 39p that never went rotten on the outside; a lot of small metal dolls' teacups I don't even know where I found.
But in the end, I'm only attached to that stuff to an extent. If I lost it, I wouldn't mind so much (and then we ask, why do I keep it? I don't know. Ask me when I've had some sleep and I'll be far enough away from clarity to justify it.)
If I lost this book, though, I'd be heartbroken.
Finally, I have an object.
