2014 Readercon Schedule

Boy howdy folks, am I excited to be going to Readercon this weekend, yessiree bob. I’m so excited that yesterday I treated myself to an organic pear.

Anywhoo, aside from the much more selfish reasons for attending Readercon, I will also be attending in order to try to justify why I’m worth reading, mostly by sweating and struggling to explain my opinions on panels. Please see below for all the shit I’m gonna do!


Saturday July 12

2:00 PM    F    Becoming a Better Reader. Marc Abrahams, Robert Jackson Bennett, Leah Bobet, Michael Dirda, Yoon Ha Lee, Resa Nelson (leader). In a 2013 Twitter comment, Caitlín R. Kiernan wrote, “Too often, the problem isn’t that an author needs to be a better writer, but that a reader needs to be a better reader.” As readers, we can sometimes tell whether we liked a book, but it’s much harder to step outside and evaluate ourselves as ideal readers and how our pleasure/displeasure in a work relates to what the author was trying to do. How can we become different readers, or better readers? What makes one reader better than another, in the context of a given work or in general? Is there even such a thing as a better reader, or are there only readers who are more or less prepared for a particular book?

Sunday July 13

12:00 PM    F    Extrapolating SF from Science . Robert Jackson Bennett, Cecil Castellucci, Danielle Friedman, Jeff Hecht (leader), Ken Liu, Allen Steele.“Trying to predict the future is a discouraging and hazardous occupation,” Arthur C. Clarke declared. How far can authors see into the future and extrapolate about new technologies? Isaac Asimov said that science is how we see farther, and science fiction is where we write down what we see. Join us as our panelists discuss how they use science and technology in their work and how they try to predict future trends.
1:30 PM    EM    Reading: Robert Jackson Bennett. Robert Jackson Bennett. Robert Jackson Bennett reads from American Elsewhere.

Authorial responsibility


I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: I completely hate this. “This” being specifically this blog, what I’m typing, this direct, immediate communication from me to you, the reader.

(Of course, chances are you’re not a reader of mine. But I’ll gloss over that for now.)

Why do I hate this? Well, I feel like I’ve said this before – in fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve said it a lot – but one of my deepest beliefs as a writer is that writers should stay the fuck out of their audience’s business.

This is because the reading experience is an extremely private, personal, subjective experience. The core relationship is between the reader and the text: the writer has no place interjecting themselves into this relationship. It is not the writer’s place to tell the audience how to think about the work, or whether the audience’s opinion or interpretation is wrong or not.

Nor is it the writer’s place to directly enter into discourse with the reader, because to do so would, in a sense, overrule them, contradict them, taking this very delicate and personal relationship with a work and forcing a completely different set of associations and connotations and interpretations on it.

I will say this a thousand times: 90% of the work done in the reading experience is done by the reader. The writer is essentially providing a recipe, a blueprint: it’s the reader who comes in and does the creating. I am not putting anything into your head: it’s you that’s rendering and summoning up this beautiful or terrible experience, guided by my vague instructions.

My opinion is moot. If I don’t mention a character’s race, and you make them black in their head, it’s not my place to say, “Actually, no, that’s wrong, she’s white. Oh yeah, and she’s from Connecticut, actually, and she played field hockey, and she also failed out of law school and worked in house renovations for six years before the story, I just didn’t mention any of that stuff. But here it is now, here’s who she really is. I don’t know what’s in your head, but that’s who she is.”

No. That’s not how this works. You have the authority. I am giving you soft clay figures, and you are shaping them and giving them details.



This leaves only the issue of responsibility.

Am I, the writer, responsible to you? Are you responsible to me? If you completely misinterpret my work and say, for example, that The Troupe actually has a hidden Jewish agenda, that it’s putting a nice face on the Jewish culture and I’m actively extending the secret Jewish control over the media, is it my responsibility to come out and publicly say, hey, no, pump the brakes here, what you’re saying is crazy?

I prefer to think it isn’t. A story is a conversation. And when the writer’s done writing it, they’ve had their say. Now it’s up to the story to speak for itself, and for the readers to talk amongst themselves and make their own decisions about what this book is.

The writer should more or less leave the premises. The writer should be, in some sense, an absentee parent. Or at least a very hands-off one.

Now, this relationship – the one between me, the writer, and you, the reader – is muddy despite my beliefs that a writer should flee the spotlight (or throne) whenever possible. If I’m writing about something extremely sensitive – say, apartheid, or something like that – it is my responsibility to be judicious and thoughtful when writing it. That should be the default mode at all times: ideally, any piece of writing should be informed by a humane and empathic sensibility, one that considers experiences external to one own, even if it isn’t about something delicate.

So here’s the ideal mode of the writer/reader relationship:

  1. Even when writing about hard or sensitive things, the assumption should be that the writer is writing about this with care. The reader should trust that the writer is doing this, or attempting to, and if the writer is being lurid or provocative, the assumption should be that they are doing so for a reason.
  2. Likewise, the writer should write assuming that the reader will be reading the story with the same trust and care. The writer should assume that the reader will not be taking the text at face value: the writer must trust that the reader understands that a book involving violence, for example, is not necessarily encouraging violence.

This is the ideal state.

But people fuck it up a lot.

Some writers will write stupid, offensive shit. Some readers will read stupid, offense shit into a work that might be neither. The latter can go both ways: some readers might read the work and say, “Boo, racism!” or some might alternately say, “Hooray, racism, because I am a racist!” (They won’t say that, because they don’t think they are. But they are.)

So the question is, what’s the writer’s responsibility in all this? Is it up to them to set the record straight?

My feeling is that the writer should shut up and stay out of it, regardless of whether or not the work is what people are claiming it is.

Seriously, how many times has a writer weighed in on a bad review and wound up looking stupid? And has that ever actually helped? When has the writer’s involvement ever actually fixed anything? It seems to me like it just makes it worse.

Here’s the deal, writers: if you write something, people get to say whatever they like about it. And, in my opinion, you don’t get to say anything back. You’ve had your say.

This isn’t about you. The deal is, everyone gets to read it, everyone’s reading of it is legitimate, and it’s up to the audience to figure it out. Even if they are saying some wildly fucked up shit about your work, your job – and it’s a cruddy job – is to placidly sit it out, or, better yet, get started writing the next thing.

This is their thing, their relationship. It’s like your kid fighting with their significant other, and though you might get mentioned a lot (“It’s because your crazy, stupid dad messed you all up!”), it’s not your fight. Let them figure it out. Even if it hurts you, it’s their decision.



The reason I’m writing this is because of – take a breath here now, because we’re gonna get deep – the recent discussion around trigger warnings.

Trigger warnings, for those who don’t know, are kind of like the warnings you get before television shows (“This show is rated TV MA-LSV”) except way more specific, in that what it’s warning you about is something along the lines of rape, domestic abuse, child abuse, etc.

It’s my general understanding that trigger warnings came about because the internet – in its infinite hunger for outrage and all manner of upsetting things – encourages sharing of incendiary material, and some of this material causes deep, terrible reactions in those who might have gone through the experience described in the material.

I completely understand this. It actually happens to me: sometimes I wish people would include trigger warnings for “infant died of brain cancer” because, hey, I have a kid, and that makes me feel all fucked up at work. I would prefer not to read that. It triggered a really nasty reaction in me. So it must be a million times worse if it’s actually happened to you.

Trigger warnings have since become somewhat popular with fiction. Some writers include trigger warnings for their stuff. Strong Female Protagonist, one of my favorite webcomics, included one before they tackled an arc in which gang rape was very, very obliquely (and, I think, tastefully) mentioned. And I support them for doing it. That’s a sensitive position to take, and SFP is very involved with their fans.

I know I’m never going to do it, though.

Some people complain about trigger warnings because they’re basically spoilers. “Watch out!” the trigger warning might say. “This story contains spousal abuse!” And then you spend the rest of the story waiting for the spousal abuse to come along.

That’s a somewhat legitimate issue with trigger warnings. But it’s not why I’m not going to do it.

My problem is that I genuinely, sincerely, honestly believe it is not my place to interject any bit of myself between you and what I wrote. Even if it’s to tell you to watch out, to help you.

That passage above about the white girl field hockey player from Connecticut, that’s authorial “helping” too. Authorial help is not, in my opinion, very helpful.

That’s why I tell myself every day that if I ever Make It (whatever that means) I am chunking this blog in the garbage and starting some oblique avant-garde website where you can’t figure out if I’m real or not. (I guess that’s what I do with twitter, anyway.)

I don’t want to be involved in your relationship with my books, even to smallest degree. I don’t want to hold your hand through the story. I don’t want you to like the story more because you think you like me. I want this to be about you and what I wrote.



I can hear the questions out there, and they’re fair ones:

So you’re okay with this? You’re okay causing these sorts of horrible reactions in people, you’re willing to let that happen?

To which I have to say, hell no, I’m not okay with it.

I’ve had people tell me they read my books and spent all night crying. I’ve had people tell me my books violently reminded them of their fucked up relationships with their parents. I’ve had one person tell me – once, agonizingly – that I had accurately captured the feeling of losing a child, because they had gone through that.

And I could tell, each time, that it had fucked them all up. This thing I made had done this to them. My book had fucked them all up.

Except it didn’t. I didn’t do this, I didn’t sneak into their heads and make this happen. I didn’t set them out to remind them of their deceased child. What breaks one reader’s heart will completely bounce off another’s.

We all bring our own baggage to our books. It’s a muddy relationship, but I still think the reader does most of the work. It’s the reader who animates the horrors in all the corners of a book. And the reader is who what makes all the good parts beautiful.

Is it fair? No. Does it make me feel good? No. It makes me feel like dogshit. I still don’t know how to react to, “Your book made me cry.” Do I thank them? Do I apologize? And then the next reader will walk up and say, “That part was hilarious,” and I’ll wonder what the hell is wrong with them.

Despite our image of authorial authority – one imagines a writer like a provocative director of a play, imagining upsetting scenarios – I don’t have any control over you. I don’t control what you see. I can’t make you like my books. And I also can’t make my books not hurt you.

I really cannot articulate the wide, wide, yawning disconnect between composition and reaction. The disconnect between what I wrote and what you react to is wider than the distance between the sun and the earth. And if I try and jump in and fix that disconnect, odds are I’ll just wind up doing more damage.

But – But! – I do think that it’s my place to take the criticism if you’re giving it out. If you think my book should have had trigger warnings, it’s completely okay for you to get all over Amazon and all over Goodreads and give me 1-star reviews for not doing so. By all means, write essays about it, tell all your friends about it.

That’s your prerogative as reader, as audience member. If you think I’m an insensitive piece of shit, grab a megaphone and sing it from the mountains.

And I won’t stop you. I’ll stay completely silent. I won’t raise a single hand to defend myself. Because that’s the deal. Your reading of my work, no matter what it is, is legitimate. It’s your reading. And it’s not my place to overrule you, even the tiniest bit.

Is this a good relationship? Is this a good way to leave this world, as writer and reader? Is this healthy? I don’t particularly know. I doubt it. But I think it might be the right way to do it. To warn you about something would be to distance myself from it, to abandon it – to a certain extent, it’s to avoid responsibility for it.

But it’s a moot point. If what I wrote is bad, really, genuinely hurtful, it’s me, the writer, who should be the fall guy for it. And I should fall all the way, if that’s the case.


Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer is one of the strangest, most dream-like novels I’ve ever read. I struggle to find anything to compare it to – some other reviews have noted the Atwood similarities, particularly with the alternations between following the present and reflections upon a melancholy, difficult past – but for the first three quarters of the book, the only thing I could think of was video games.

Not just any video games – not Super Smash Brothers or Halo or the like. Rather, it made me think of the lonely, survivor/mystery games that have never seemed to really break into the blockbuster mainstream, games like Myst or Silent Hill or the online games where a nameless protagonist is trapped in a room riddled with obscure messages. These games are often cult classics that are difficult to duplicate and difficult to explain why they’re enjoyable – because in so many of these games, there’s long stretches of silence in which either very little happens or very little is understood.

These games use something that novels can use only very rarely, and often with little success: the unknown.

And I mean the complete unknown. Not the whole, “what’s in that room, I can’t see it” unknown, but the “who is this protagonist, why are they here, what’s going on” sort of unknown, an unknown in which much is happening and everything suggests hidden meanings, but at the end of it, it’s impossible to conclude exactly what is going on. Novels can’t often do this – without the immediate action of video games, the unknowability leaves little to grab onto in a book – but to my disbelief, Annihilation succeeds. This quality, of course, must tread a very thin line between tantalization and frustration, but Annihilation does so, perhaps aided by the length of the book (I suspect it’d be quite hard to maintain this over 500 pages) and the stick-to-the-facts nature of the protagonist.

What to say of the protagonist? It’s hard for me to decide. She is a biologist (this is the only name we have for her), part of a team of women sent to explore a strange place. With her are a psychologist, an anthropologist, and a surveyor. But the biologist, we find, is untrustworthy and unreliable, both because of who she is and because of her circumstances.

She has arrived in a verdant, natural, but somewhat alien location described only as Area X, and in order to make this journey she and the rest of her team of explorers had to be hypnotized. This hypnosis, as we quickly gather, was far more pervasive than she and the reader thought, and soon the reader has an abundance of reasons to distrust her. Does she know why she’s here? Why was it so important for her not to know? What is this place? What happened here, and why does she not know? What has she been programmed to do? Why is it that everyone in this team has so thoroughly shrugged off their names? They came to this place through a door – but where is this door?

The first indication at how strange and bewildering this protagonist would be was, for me, a scene in which they discover a vast underground staircase, tunneling straight down into the earth. This is the first scene of the novel, but what makes it strange is that the biologist begins by calling it a “tower.” It’s only when her compatriots begin describing it as a tunnel that it makes it clear to the reader that what she is observing and recording may not be as linked to the real world as a reader would assume. She insists on calling it a tower, and her frustration builds and builds until, out of the blue in a strategic conversation:

“I want you to know that I cannot stop thinking of it as a tower,” I confessed. “I can’t see it as a tunnel.” It seemed important to make the distinction before our descent, even if it influenced their evaluation of my mental state. I saw a tower, plunging into the ground. The thought that we stood at its summit made me a little dizzy.

All three stared at me then, as if I were the strange cry at dusk, and after a moment the psychologist said, grudgingly, “If that helps make you more comfortable, then I don’t see the harm.”

This scene actually provoked nervous laughter in me. What a peculiar thing to do! What a peculiar thing to think, as if insisting a car was a sailboat or a road a river! What is the meaning of her strange association, we wonder? And yet it quickly becomes apparent that the rest of the team is just as damaged, paranoid, and untrustworthy as she.

The book is a meditation on observation and mimicry, I think, a book about observers sent to observe something that cannot be observed. Something vast and alive and intelligent is living in or below or around Area X, performing strange acts for unknowable reasons – in some ways, the book’s closest cousin is Solaris, by Stanislaw Lem. These people were sent here to witness something that cannot be witnessed.

In another aspect, though, perhaps the book functions as an exploration of relationships: the biologist agreed to go to Area X only because her husband was on the previous expedition, and mysteriously returned in a strange state and quickly died of cancer. Her reflections upon their difficult, dissolving marriage are among the book’s most moving. There is a reason she carries a microscope with her wherever she goes: she chooses to be a watcher, an observer, but never engaged, never open or intermingling, and it is this nature that doomed their relationship. As the story proceeds, the unknowability of other humans parallels with the unknowability of Area X – though it suggests, however peripherally, that perhaps love can function much like spores: a series of small, insignificant, invisible gestures and moments that land upon the mind and form fruiting bodies, slowly colonizing you in a manner that is both inextricable and terrifying and lovely.

Toward the end of the book I became increasingly aware that this was the first in a trilogy. Some was explained at the end (maybe too much, I sometimes wondered – the tantalizing opaqueness dissolves as the biologist begins to lift the veil on the nature of Area X, and sometimes I wished the book ended with my knowing as little as I started), but much of it is not concluded. I look forward to reading the rest of the series the moment they become available.

No dog food for Victor tonight

It’s my pleasure to tell you that AMERICAN ELSEWHERE has been nominated for a 2013 Shirley Jackson Award.

This is a real thrill for me. I’ve never been to Readercon (I’ll definitely be going this year) but I seem to bump into Readercon peeps all the time, and I get along very well with them. Moreso, the 2010 Shirley Jackson I won for MR. SHIVERS was the first major writing event of my life, and it came at a time when I needed it. Four years later, my respect and appreciation for the award has grown: I know more of what it means, and I’m increasingly grateful for the leg up it gave me.

So it’s an honor to be nominated, and I’ll definitely be there this year. If I win this time, I won’t get the news while sitting in a bath at home, hungover, like last time. But I think I’ll really just be looking forward to the company, no matter what happens.

But I have some more fun AMERICAN ELSEWHERE news: the book has been optioned by the BBC America production company as a TV show.

If you follow other writers, you may be aware that optioning is a real shot in the arm, but doesn’t necessarily guarantee anything. At best, it’s one small step on a long, long path. As my friend David Liss wisely put it, it’s getting paid to hold a lottery ticket. But I’m tremendously pleased to be here and to have someone value what I’ve done to this degree. It’s a huge honor.

And I’m truly, deeply thankful to the fans and readers out there who like my stuff and continue to read it, with or without awards and TV shows.

Some other stuff that is over and dead, besides novels

Because the Guardian went ahead and declared novels as dead, I thought it’d be useful for me to join in and list some other stuff that uninformed people think is common and good, but is actually dead and not done anymore.

Here you go:

1. Windows – Windows are completely passé at this point. There used to be a market for people inside of a thing, like a building or a car or maybe a boat, that also wanted to see outside of that thing, but it’s proven to be a fad and we’re moving beyond it. Where I am people generally avoid windows or they just forget they’re there. Sometimes they glance at a window and say, “gosh, what a weird part of this wall,” and when they realize they’ve been looking out of a window they’re really embarrassed.

2. Shoes – Shoes are just weirdo gloves for your feet with thick palms (the palm-part being the part of the foot-glove that goes down on the ground, in this description). Once we got iPhones and started snapchatting, it quickly became apparent that it was pretty ridiculous that we’d had these things for the past hundred or so years. I’m still not sure why we were putting things on that particular part of the body. It was a big lol, that moment. I lolled.

3. Anything smaller than a bird – These are unnecessary. A bird is the appropriate minimum size of a thing. Other, smaller things – like coins, spiders, little rocks, a baby’s eye – are not needed. We’ve woken up and realized we’ve been burdened by these ridiculous fripperies for too long.

4. Containers that are wider than they are tall – This one is self-explanatory. I don’t use plates with edges anymore, personally, and I don’t know anyone who does, nor would I wish to.

5. Face-touching with the mouth-part of the face – When people were very drunk they used to do this, to touch their mouths to other people’s mouths, but as times have changed it’s become clear that this particular act is wholly unneeded, and a waste of time.