CITY OF STAIRS Advanced Review Copies are in

So the CITY OF STAIRS arcs came. Check em out:

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They look… small. Like, I know this book is about a third shorter than AMERICAN ELSEWHERE was, but it feels more like half. See? (Bonus excessive barware in the background.)

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But I checked and made sure, and all the words are there. The magic of formatting, I suppose.

I asked awhile back if you’d like to receive an ARC of the book, and I think a lot of you have been patiently waiting. Now’s the time that you should be hearing from Crown about your copy. Sarah over there is doing a great job of working the list I compiled, but if you’re a reviewer and you completely missed getting on my list, post a comment to this blog post with your email address. I won’t publish the comment, but I’ll send your address along to Crown.

As a note, while I know a lot of people want to read the book – something I’m very grateful for – at this time, we’re really only looking to give books to reviewers. We only have a handful of these, so unfortunately we got to make them count.

As this puppy doesn’t drop until September, I probably won’t be doing a giveaway until July or so. Also, the box of books had the misfortune of arriving during a bigass family event, so it got pounced on and raided immediately, so I’ll need a month or two to force all my relatives to please return my books.

In the meantime, CITY OF STAIRS has maintained a near-perfect rating on Goodreads.

I completely own up to being a geocentric crackpot

Well, it looks like I’m in the hot seat again.

Listen folks, let me just put this out here: last time I checked, we lived in a little country I like to call America. (Except for foreign people, who obviously do not matter.) And in this little place I like to call America, you’re allowed to believe whatever you want, even if you have no basis or even identifiable motive for doing so. And if anyone – particularly anyone in the minority – has any problem with what you believe, it’s my inalienable right to scream at the top of my lungs until my teeth bleed.

What am I talking about, here? Well folks, I’m coming under a lot of fire for a film recently made out of a collaboration I did with Robert Sungenis, Galileo Was Wrong: The Church Was Right.

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Haha, man, it seems like it was only a few years ago that we fired that sucker out. I still remember those days: me, trudging out of my mud shack in the desert, my nostrils lined with cocaine rime, and I saw ol’ Sungenis sitting on the ground, wearing nothing but his chinos and staring up at the cloudless sky.

I asked him if we’d found forgiveness yet – we did a lot of that out in the desert – and he said, “Forget that! Have you ever noticed that fuckin’ thing?”

He pointed up. It took me a while to realize he was pointing at the sun.

“What, the sun?” I said.

“You have a name for it?” he said. “When did that happen?”

“The sun, or me naming the sun?”

“Both.”

I scratched my head, causing some hair to fall out. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember exactly when the sun showed up, or when I started calling it that. Sungenis quizzed me pretty hard on it, so much so that I threw up in my mouth a little.

“You know what I think?” said Sungenis as I lay on the ground, gasping for air.

“Something about the Jews being bad?”

“No. Well, yeah, I’m always thinking that,” he said. “What I’m thinking is, everything we know about that fucked up puppy up there is totally wrong.”

“I feel like people know a lot about the sun.”

“But have they ever seen it?”

“Yeah, probably every day.”

“No, I mean – seen it up close.”

I furrowed my brow. “Maybe someone has…”

“But have you ever met someone who has?”

“I… guess not?”

“Exactly!” he said.

And so we got to work, pounding away on typewriters on our book. For about a year or two, we made no progress. Then I had the smart idea to try and put some paper in the typewriters, and whammo, things just blew up. You can basically put anything on paper, if you try, and I guess that goes for the world, too – you’re free to say whatever the hell you like about it, and if someone disagrees with you then that’s the only thing worse than murder, I guess.

Those were the good old days: me and Sungenis, typing away, ranting into tape recorders, living with about forty-seven stray dogs who would just show up whenever they wanted. (Later when we parted it turned out the dogs were the legal owners of the shack.) It wasn’t exactly the healthiest living conditions – me and Sungenis both contracted the P.H.D., a disease so virulent we are now legally required to list it after our names – but I still look back on it fondly.

Since then, it’s been a long, hard road, trying to disprove a bunch of shit people have seen with their own goddamn two eyes. Sure, some fancy lad with long pants and all his teeth might claim that astronauts have been to space and actually, physically, seen the earth and the sun and whatnot – but have you ever met an astronaut? And if you have, did you ever see him go to space? And if you did, did you get to go to space with him, and see how all that crazy crap up there works?

No. You haven’t. And if you did, then I will scream at the top of my lungs every time you try to make a reasonable argument. That’s democracy, asshole.

So sure, I kept my side-living as a crazier-than-a-rat-in-a-tin-shithouse theological physicist on the DL while trying to make this whole SFF thing happen, but does that mean I’m ashamed of it? Am I ashamed that we duped the Start Wars lady into lending her pretty pipes to our antiquated rantings? Am I ashamed that me and ol’ Sungenis took a page from the Swift Boat dudes and basically raided the internet for public domain video of physicists reading excerpts that tangentially supported whatever the hell we wanted?

Hell no! Check out that Amazon page – three stars, motherfucker! 26 reviews! If 26 people agree on something, it’s got to be absolutely right (no I haven’t read the reviews and I refuse to do so).

(Hat tip to Felix Gilman for sending me the book link. His book is probably better.)

On Hannibal

When I first started watching Hannibal, I thought I would hate it.

There were a couple of reasons for this. On first glance it seemed to be yet another serial killer show, and also another crime procedural, with the slight twist that a serial killer was secretly helping the detectives. That just sounds bad. I’ve never seen The Following, but it sounds like that kind of bad.

I also initially thought the casting of Mads Mikkelsen as Hannibal Lecter was kind of on the nose. He’s an actual, genuine Bond villain. Even though I was a fan of his – Valhalla Rising is a trippy, disturbing delight, and he does an amazing job grounding it (as much as this could ever be possible) without saying a word – it felt like NBC was just kind of rummaging around in a box labeled “villains.”

I didn’t know Bryan Fuller was doing the show. It probably wouldn’t have mattered much: I never got too involved in his other shows, despite my wife’s frenzied adoration of Lee Pace. I was just aware that Silence of the Lambs was a good movie with two landmark performances in it, and there’d been a noticeable trend of shitty, lurid spinoffs. This seemed like just another one of those.

But then I started hearing that Hannibal was worth.

No, not worth watching – that it was damn good.

So I tuned in. And though it started out as a guilty pleasure, it’s now one of the shows I most look forward to.

I wish they’d said right off the bat that Hannibal was, in some regards, a kindred spirit of Twin Peaks operating within the loose guidelines put forward by Thomas Harris’s books. That’s another thing I wish they’d mentioned: that Fuller was basically flushing all of the pre-Silence canon down the toilet and was starting over. (As a note, I have read Red Dragon and part of Silence of the Lambs, and I thought the former was decent and the latter so intent on being nasty that it was difficult to enjoy it, lacking all the subtlety of the movie.)

hanniofficeHannibal is a weird-ass dream show, a bizarre, surreal, hallucinatory vision-quest through the frozen wildernesses of the Rust Belt. It completely discards the blue collar stagnation so thoroughly examined in Silence of the Lambs,and instead explores impossibly ornate, baroque set-pieces, whether it’s the cauterized, sterile modernism of the FBI headquarters, the bleak and windswept winter fields of Virginia, or Hannibal’s living quarters, which don’t seem to exist within any reality I recognize and instead reside within the troubled human subconscious: where else could Greek myths, tangles of antlers, and endless library shelves clash so perfectly?

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The show moves between settings much like one does in a dream: quickly, naturally, and without explanation. This could be very well pointed out as a flaw: how exactly does one character get from Baltimore to Wisconsin so easily? And there’s also the eternal critique of the serial killer show, because boy howdy, there sure do seem to be a lot of serial killers within the jurisdiction of the leads on this show, and they sure do seem to kill a lot and kinda-sorta get away with it.

But what lessens this is that Hannibal couldn’t give less of a shit about crime procedural. It took about half of the first season for the show to figure this out (the first half was a bit wonky, I still feel), but Hannibal is more about examining the psychic damages murder and immorality inflict on human beings. This is unusual for what’s usually such gleefully lurid subject matter, but Hannibal might be the most soulful show on television right now, let alone the most soulful show about cannibalistic serial killers. Sometimes this show feels less like it’s taking place on television, and more like it’s taking place in some Boschian medieval woodcut: we are seeing human flaws and desires – and their consequences – hugely perverted and contorted over a dark canvas.

If anything, this show is about a war of psyches. The main conflict would be between the infamous Dr. Hannibal Lecter and FBI Special Investigator Will Graham. Both of these men possess impossible talents: one for perception, the other for illusion. Will Graham is an impossible creature, able to completely understand the most twisted of human souls simply by glancing at a murder scene and entering what can only be called a dream-state. Hugh Dancy does a remarkable job as will, and though Hannibal takes gruesome delight in marring and warping the physical bodies of the victims on this show, it’s in Hugh Dancy’s performance that one can see the spiritual pain inflicted: Dancy is nervous, sweating, unshaven, ill, trembling. The show depicts him as a man on a spiritual journey, burdened with incredible empathy (bordering on telepathy), sensitive to pain, yet only by exposing himself to this pain can he bring justice for countless victims. He’s picked a hard road to travel, like a dark, savage inversion of Pilgrim’s Progress, as you can see in the example, where Will, asleep, is persecuted by the show’s avatar of murderous evil:

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The question is, did he really pick this path? Or has he been forced onto it by someone else?

hannibalMads Mikkelsen deserves credit for perhaps the most stoic and understated performance this side of Don Draper. His strange, angular face is capable of attaining what is almost like negative space, a dead-eyed, stone-faced expression that somehow brings the entire room to a stand-still. And this may make his version of Hannibal Lecter so much more unsettling: Anthony Hopkins’s Lecter wanted to scare you, to disturb you, to reach out from his tiny cell and terrify you into submission. Mikkelsen’s Lecter, however, is indifference manifest. The impression one gets from his totally static, expressionless face is that he can only recognize other humans, appropriately enough, as flesh: he cannot quite bring himself to focus long enough to acknowledge there is intelligence, and perhaps a soul, within the mortal trappings of those around him. He is frightening in the same way an Elder God is frightening: he is remote, inaccessible, indifferent, and vast.

And it’s his character which, initially, was the most difficult for me. At first, this show was basically Hannibal Lecter Fucks With People. He did things, and it was difficult for me to understand why he would ever want to do them, why he would risk himself in this manner. He didn’t seem to have any motive.

But eventually, a motive, of a sort, became clear: he wished to create another human in his image. His goal, however, indirect, was to invade and pervert the psyche of Will Graham until he looked into Graham’s eyes and saw his own staring back. I say this like it was a personal mission for him, but that’s not the case: I feel as if Hannibal started on this grand plan of mental torture solely out of curiosity, a pleasant diversion in between his sprees. There’s something classically Satanic about that, beautiful Lucifer wandering through the vaults of Paradise, idly kicking out supports to see what will make everything fall.

As Will Graham finally put it on the most recent episode: “He wanted to see what would happen.” A simple motive, but perhaps the most chilling, when done right. And here, it is.

The trouble with zombies

(As a note, I am probably not saying anything terribly new about zombies here, but it’s something that struck my mind after seeing a comment on Twitter today.)

I’ve never been comfortable with most zombie apocalypse stories, but it’s always been tough for me to explain why. I definitely get the appeal: the me-versus-the-world aspect, the sudden transformation of a recognizable home environment into hostile territory, the whole of society turned upside down… That’s all thrilling stuff.

So why don’t I like modern zombie stories that much?

For a while I thought it was the idea that zombie scenarios put the audience in a situation where it’s acceptable to murder countless civilians and dodge all moral consequences. Ever wanted to shoot your neighbor, your boss, your coworkers, random people in the street? Well, now it’s not only okay to do so, but it’s demanded of you. You can’t not shoot random people – you have to in order to get by in this world, thus indulging, however peripherally, countless murderous fantasies.

But this conclusion felt rather trite, and I didn’t think it really scratched the surface of my issues.

Then today I read a tweet by John Perich that analyzed the zombie scenario in racial terms: to an affluent white person, a constantly hostile environment is a surreal nightmare. To a black person, or any other minority, there’s a much greater chance of it being a reality.

This struck me as somewhat right, but it was the subject of “nightmare” that I found struck a wrong chord: because the more I thought about it, the more I felt like the idea of a constantly hostile environment was less of a nightmare for the common affluent citizens today, and more of a paranoid fantasy.

Think about it – most affluent Americans live in the suburbs today, so think about how the suburbs are structured: they’re advertised and designed to be communities separate from the city. Some of them are gated communities, but even if they aren’t, that gate is often metaphorical: there is some kind of barrier there, keeping strangers out. I grew up in Houston, where many suburban communities are ringed with high, high stone walls, with only a handful of entrances and exits. These rare apertures suggest, however subtly, that you wouldn’t think of coming in unless you knew you were supposed to – unless you’d been invited, in other words.

And on the inside of these larger barriers, what do you see? Fences, and lots of them. Usually smaller ones, cordoning off each plot of land. And though we might like the idea of looking over your fence and having a conversation with your neighbor, I think to most people this might feel like an intrusion: “This is supposed to be my space,” they’d think. “I don’t want just anybody sticking their head in here.”

That’s why people buy houses and yards, of course: to have a piece of property that’s their own, to do with as they please. It’s the American Dream.

But ingrained in this perspective of “my own” is the concept that you have to keep the world out. To express true ownership, true control, you have to wall yourself off, draw firm boundaries around your property, and you have to be ready and willing to defend it. Your home is your kingdom – why else do the wealthy buy ranches, besides to maximize this desire and create their own independent fiefdoms? (Imagine the signs at the fences: “Trespassers will be shot!”) A home and a yard is a sovereign nation in miniature. And in this idea is the assumption that, at some point in time, your nation will be invaded, attacked.

“But by whom?” you might ask.

The answer is, “Anyone. Everyone.”

And that’s the raw nerve that I think the zombie scenario massages: this idea of your home or your world as a fort that you have to defend, the idea of the entire nation full of hungry assailants chasing you, tearing down your walls, suddenly obsessed with capturing and abusing you. It all beckons to a deep-seated mistrust of humanity and the larger world that lies in the foundation of this zealous, jealous guarding of personal property: “I have to keep everything I have safe,” it says, “because they’re coming.”

Sometimes this is used for satire, but this is less common in the past five or ten years. The popular explorations of zombies entertain the idea that the average Joe is something worth chasing – which is, of course, delusional fantasy. As if you, Just Somebody, have something on your property or on your person that could cause a giant crowd to chase you or come beating down your door.

It’s almost like a persecution complex, and it’s laughable in that the very idea is vain – why, exactly, would the whole wide world want to spend two seconds thinking about you, let alone chase you through the streets? – and the endpoint is preposterous: the idea of the common man suddenly discovering the tools and the fortitude to transform himself, overnight, into a combat machine capable of stemming back a flood of assailants. Much like how a wealthy oil man might buy a ranch and immediately feel he is transformed into John Wayne, patrolling the borders of his country with a rifle, protecting his property.

It’s that pessimism that I think zombie scenarios indulge, that mistrust and paranoia… all of that puts a bad taste in my mouth. It hugely inflates the powers and judgments of the individual, and it rewards suspicion and savagery: you have to defend your castle, and if you invite anyone in, you have to check them for bites – and you must be ready at any time to shoot them down if they show any symptoms.

Perhaps we value individualism so much that we condemn the whole of humanity, to the degree that any property owning person must reasonably explore a scenario in which they justly kill their neighbor. And zombies allow us to execute that scenario without any hint of recrimination. Though these scenarios, where one civilian expects another to suddenly exhibit murderous behavior, and acts accordingly, are all too real life these days.

Zombies force you to imagine that anyone at any time could become a slavering animal – which suggests that, deep down, that’s what we were all along. Whether zombification is caused by infection, by magic, by radiation, or by nanites, whatever their cause, zombies allow us to entertain our worst impulses as human beings, always ending in the fantasy of putting a human face in the sights of a gun – man, woman, or child – and feeling totally righteous in pulling the trigger.

Library Journal mention of City of Stairs

Barbara Hoffert from Library Journal has cited CITY OF STAIRS as a top pick for September of 2014!

Bennett has won the Edgar Award, the Shirley Jackson Award, and a Philip K. Dick citation of excellence, which gives you a sense of how his fiction crosses borders. His new book is being billed as purely high fantasy and promises fine writing that should intrigue even those who don’t routinely read in this genre. Once a conquering city, Bulikov has been reduced to mere colonial outpost when Shara Divani is sent there by the ruling powers to take up a modest diplomatic post. Actually, though, she’s a top spymaster, tasked with investigating the murder of a milquetoast historian.

 

Creating a Culture, Part 1: The Protagonist

Every once in a while you get a moment of intuition. There are a lot of words for this: an ah-ha or eureka moment, a feeling of being “in the zone” where all your mental pistons are firing perfectly. What it really is, I think, is a moment of connection, a point where your mind somehow – usually by random chance, or so it feels – slips into the perfect perspective to not only view the pattern and similarities of a larger picture, but also the possibilities.

It’s a moment, in other words, of understanding what something is, and what you can do with it.

This is kind of what it felt like when I had the idea for City of Stairs. The moment when everything came together for me for this book remains quite clear in my memory.

(Of course, this is the hard part: ideas never feel like they had a single origin point. In some fashion, every story or idea you have was bubbling away in some protean form for years and years and years. It just takes you a moment, perhaps, to realize that the idea is now ripe. But I digress.)

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I’d been reading Dark Star by Alan Furst, a terrific spy novel about a KGB agent in Nazi Germany, and I thought the Eastern European perspective was a really interesting and rare one: it explored how Poland was just wildly unprepared, operating as if this was still the 19th century, with 20th century warfare bearing down on them. It was an aspect of a major historical event that was often unexplored to Americans such as myself: we prefer to approach World War II from the avenues of British or French participation, rather than consider the Poles or the rest of Eastern Europe. (In other words, from a Non-Western perspective.)

Then one day I was vacuuming the house and Turner Classic Movies was on, showing a 1930s satire about the nobility of a fictional Eastern European nation. It was a mildly amusing little movie – an English tourist who just happened to look a lot like a frivolous king was forced to stand in as him, under ridiculous circumstances – and I thought it’d be interesting to write about a diplomat trying to maneuver this densely complicated and Balkanized area, navigating the echelons of a foreign elite; someone dealing with both the dreary slog of bureaucracy, while also managing the terrifying spycraft going on in the background.

And I remember thinking, “Well, all these countries are mad at this diplomat. But why?”

And the answer came back immediately: “Why, because her country killed all their gods, of course.” And, as I’ve told others, that was that.

The idea kept boiling in my head, this idea of broken nations and dead gods and burgeoning imperialism and colonialism, and I started to imagine a history of this world, a history in which every year and every major event was shaped and formed by the presence of very active gods.

This presented both a challenge: if a god is truly omnipotent, or so close as for the difference to be immaterial, how definite can a history or reality be? If a god wishes for, say, five years of a history to have never existed, wouldn’t it be possible for them to wish it out of existence? How would the citizens of this world even know that their reality had been edited, overwritten?

I realized pretty quickly that though I’d felt “that was that,” that was not, actually, that. This was going to be a second world fantasy, and I’d never written something like that.

But then, every challenge is an opportunity.

***

Most fantasy stories are not escapism. This is because most fantasy stories are about us, about the real world.

Well, every story is about the real world, sure: all stories are built in reaction to our understanding of our reality. But some fantasy stories are more about us than others.

For example, most fantasy stories, it seems, will prominently feature a Caucasian bearded man holding a weapon. The nature of this weapon will vary – in some, a sword, in others, a steampunk-like firearm – but it will always be there, as will be the beard (sometimes more of a dense stubble) and his often-undeniably Caucasian background.

One could say, perhaps, that this fixation in fantasy is truly about us. One could say that these stories are really about our own masculine wish-fulfillment, in which manly men with manly weapons do manly deeds, engaging in royal skullduggery and leading armies of other manly men across vaguely North European battlefields. These are men with important lives doing important, violent deeds, and this world is largely about their will and how the world is subjected to it. These are men living in a mythical, primeval state from which our current culture is theoretically derived – that is to say, a culture that is both male and white – a violent, messy, gritty Garden of Eden in which things were real, things were authentic, where everything  mattered, and though things weren’t perfect, they were imperfect in the right ways.

One could say that. This is, I gather, a not uncommon criticism of fantasy in general, particularly epic fantasy.

However, when I debated writing the story that would be City of Stairs in this manner, I realized that the main thing I could say about this is that I thought it’d been done a lot.

A whole lot.

I mean, seriously, I’ve been reading those stories since I was a kid. I spent years and years and years in those worlds – so, really, I didn’t want to spend any more time in one with the purpose of writing it. I wanted to go someplace new.

So what to write?

***

Here’s the thing about diversity: a lot of people will attach a certain degree of morality to it, a sense of moral obligation, that one should include others because to not do so is an indecency.

I think this is completely true. I think there is a morality in acknowledging and accepting the human condition, no matter what form it may take. It’s perhaps the only morality. I think challenging and reconsidering what you consider to be the “default” nature of humanity is perhaps the key to spiritual and intellectual growth.

However, I’ve found that moral righteousness is frequently not a very good way to entice people to act about anything. Approaching morality from this perspective sometimes has the same attraction as Sunday school: a thing you really ought to do, but you’d really prefer to be doing something else.

People are selfish. They will do things for moral reasons, true, but I think that’s not usually the biggest carrot to dangle from the metaphorical stick.

For example, take environmentalism. Sure, we all support sustainability. However, for about the past fifteen years it’s been pretty expensive to do so. Some people will spend that extra dollar out of a sense of moral obligation, sure, but most won’t.

However, if sustainable energy grows to be less expensive than non-sustainable … Why, then it’s suddenly so much easier to support sustainability. Selfish reasoning, sure, but that tends to be the kind that works.

So here’s what I think is the totally selfish reason some people (I hope) gravitate toward diversity:

Because it’s interesting. And a lack of diversity is hugely, cripplingly boring.

There is a point, I think, when someone realizes that confining one’s self to stories about one single culture is, in effect, denying one’s self the vast riches this marvelous world has to offer. Realizing that you’re being trapped in a hermetic little cultural bubble is often the hard part. Realizing that there is something outside of it, that there’s always been lots of things outside of it, going on for years and years and years, is a tantalizing and exciting epiphany. And it makes you want to plunge through the bubble’s wall, and out into the rest of the world.

This is a very selfish decision to make, and, true, it can encourage a sort of arriviste voyeurism, in which one feels free to cherrypick from other cultures and histories without any attention to the real human experience of those who actually live in those cultures and histories. However, anything right can also be done wrong, and so long as one anchors one’s perspective in the human element – acknowledging that these are not stories or tropes you’re playing with, but people – the result is not so much akin to sampling dishes at a buffet, but rather a massive shift in self-regard, where one realizes one’s tiny, insignificant, arbitrary vantage point in a huge, ancient world.

It’s the difference between being entertained and learning. One involves change on your part; the other does not.

When I had that first idea for City of Stairs, so far I’d written three novels about white dudes. Two of them tough white dudes with guns (one of which, eventually, had a beard). I’d written one book featuring a woman of color, but she was so deeply alienated that it would be difficult to say she belonged to any single culture.

Writing books takes a very long time. You are going to spend a lot of time in this place you’re making. And I knew I did not want to spend it with the sorts of people I’d written about or read about before. I want to meet someone new. I wanted to look at humanity from a new vantage point, through a new lens.

And when I started finishing up on that day when I first had the idea for City of Stairs, putting up the vacuum cleaner and dragging out the mop, I realized who I wanted my protagonist to be.

I wanted her to be a woman. She would be a woman of color. And her primary weapons would be books and a terrifying ability to manipulate bureaucratic and governmental institutions.

Enter Shara Komayd.

(This will be an ongoing series I’ll be writing, exploring why I chose to make the world of City of Stairs as I did, what was difficult, fun, and unexpected about it, and how I felt I succeeded and how I felt I failed. Stay tuned.)

On fandom, and the liking of things

cccrowdFandom has been getting talked about a lot lately. There have been statements made by the vague body that is fandom, followed by contradicting statements saying that that part of fandom isn’t the real fandom, and thus should not be listened to, leading to other voices within the fandom community trying to draw boundaries within fandom, articulating which parts of fandom are which, which leads to a better articulation of who is allowed to say what about what.

The whole thing feels like a much-less-alarming version of what’s going on in Crimea right now, where suddenly Russia is saying that this huge tract of land is basically theirs because a lot of them speak Russian and have a Russian identity, and you know what, maybe the Ukraine never actually left the USSR at all. Meanwhile, in Kiev, everyone’s trying to try and quantify exactly what makes an autonomous republic, and is the Ukraine legitimate? Is Crimea? How do you tell them apart? And so on, and so on…

How the hell do you draw lines around this stuff? How do you define such a large body of people?

I’ve been told that fandom is actually really easy to define. Do you like The Thing? If so, then you’re a fan. If you don’t like The Thing, then you’re not a fan. End of story.

I wish it was that easy, but I feel like that’s not quite true, not anymore. Fandom’s gotten elevated in the past ten or so years. It feels like it’s no longer, “Do you like The Thing?” but rather, “Do you like The Thing, and are you willing to buy airfare and a hotel room and hang out for days and nights discussing The Thing, forming relationships inspired specifically by The Thing, and when you go home do you create extensive, elaborate online communities for this world formed around The Thing?”

It’s different now. The digital age allows us to like things on a higher level than ever before. Being a fan no longer means like a thing, it means liking a thing To The Maxx™.

And when you like a thing To The Maxx™, suddenly you’re invested in it. It’s like teenagers saying they don’t care about politics, but then ten years later they’re working and they do their taxes, they suddenly say, “This costs what? And it’s being spent on what? Well then shit, we had better be doing the things I want to have done with this stuff!”

Fandom means having skin in the game now. It means having a budget set aside in your daily life for doing fan shit. You have to ask yourself, “Can I afford to like The Thing to the extent I’d prefer to this year?” To a certain extent, it’s a ridiculous question, yet it’s a true one.

And this, I think, is why we’re seeing increased (but not completely new) arguments over fandom agendas, over the liking and the creation of The Things. We want to see our personal agendas and beliefs exercised and realized in our pop culture. We’re paying in tons of money toward pop culture, so it had better do the shit we want it to do, right?

This leads to the current state of affairs, which is, I think, the normal state of affairs whenever it comes to large groups of human beings marshaling and spending their resources. It’s just far less systematized than voting or holding share in a company. Hell, we can’t figure out how much to charge for art, much less how to use money to make art say the stuff we’d like to be said. (A depressing idea, really.)

Where does this leave me, the writer? Completely alone, as far as I can see. I don’t feel like I’m a part of this. That’s not a good or a bad thing, it’s just kind of weird.

The reason for this separation is that – in my own opinion – if you really want to be a writer, if you really want to create, then you need to be clinical in how you view your art and culture. When I really started writing, it suddenly became a lot harder for me to fall head over heels in love with books and movies and TV, because I’d trained my brain to dissect and seek out weaknesses. Suddenly, nothing was perfect, nothing was mind-blowingly-amazing, because I could now see the thumbprints in the clay and the strings that made the puppets dance.

And I’ll probably always see those things now. I’m never going to like a thing To The Maxx™. I can’t anymore, I don’t think. That organ has atrophied or withered away. If someone says to me, “OH MY GOSH I LIKE THIS THING SO MUCH RIGHT RIGHT,” my instinct is probably going to be to say, “Yes, it’s good, but…”

Things are no longer perfect. Maybe because if they’re perfect, I can’t learn from them. But there’ll always be a distance there, like how a doctor can’t love a patient and still have the mindset to put a stent in their aorta. I’ve turned my brain into an artistic chop shop, which isn’t exactly a lovely place to hang out and discuss fiction.

So for me, this intense passion that’s the nature of fandom is less and less accessible. I’m on the outside looking in through soundproof glass: I see a lot of people yelling, but it’s hard for me to feel too involved in it.

There’s one firm dividing line, then: those who can still like a thing without abandon, and those who can’t.

***

When I was at World Horror last year in New Orleans, I felt pretty out of place. I was the guy wearing a bright pink button up and linen slacks in a room full of people wearing various shades of black and gray. I looked more like I worked for the damn hotel than like I was going to the convention.

I still enjoyed myself, and I enjoyed the discussions I heard and took part in, but I could tell these people were About This Stuff in a way that I just wasn’t. It was like saying, “Yeah, I watch football,” and then going to a fantasy football camp and realizing, whoa, these people are just on another level. I was inadequate. Like, these people were going to go home and keep talking to each other about this stuff until the next World Horror rolled around. I was just going to go home and write.

Then I happened to meet a much more established writer than me. This was a dude who’d been in the vanguard during the horror (and publishing in general) heyday of the 1980’s, the sort of writer that the current writing crop probably all wanted to be when they got started. I hadn’t read any of his books, but he was a terribly nice gentleman, so we got to chatting.

I brought up the sort of weird alienation I felt coming to things like this, the strange existential dread I had where I was aware that I was not like these people, and yet I was supposed to be making the stuff that they liked. I knew in my head that I was writing stuff for everyone, for all kinds of people, something that’s applicable to humanity in general rather than people like me, but it was still odd to see it right in front of me, these people I wasn’t like, and know that I was writing for them.

He looked at me and said, “That’s because they’re not your people. They’re not. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that they are.”

It was a startling thing to hear. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I think about it a lot, even today.