by Nina Allan
No. It’s impossible. The box is absolutely antithetical to the current human conception of the universe; it will always be an inappropriate technology.
We might have gotten there on our own—but the massive disruption caused by a clash in metaphors precludes that possibility.
Does your work tend to explore particular themes?
Yes, I think so. At its heart, “Deus Ex Arca” is a story about alienation. Jackson’s alienation from his family and everyone else; even when he’s in daily contact with psychologists who hang on his every thought, he is overwhelmingly lonely. And the alienation we experience as humans on earth, being so very alone in the universe; we long for any kind of connection with the stars, with “something out there,” but that connection will most likely never be found.
For me, that incredible, unbearable isolation is the story’s emotional anchor. It’s part of why I chose to set the story in a place where I spent two years feeling extremely lonely and alienated myself. But isolation is a theme I return to in my work a lot.
I also write a lot about the relationships between siblings. I’m fascinated by that bond; it’s incredibly deep and unique, but not without unease, as our brothers and sisters are typically aware of our deepest vulnerabilities and darkest memories, and can trigger those moments without even trying. I write about siblings because for me that relationship is an access point to the most intense and authentic emotions I know.
Is there anything else you’d like to share about this piece? What’s next for you?
I’ve got a few exciting projects underway at the moment—but nothing I can talk about just yet.
But since you mentioned my story “Celadon,” let me point your attention to two upcoming anthologies. Clarkesworld: Year Three is available now, and Aliens: Recent Encounters will be available in June. Both include “Celadon.” The second volume in particular might be especially interesting to anyone who enjoyed “Deus Ex Arca,” as it deals exclusively with innovative takes on the alien contact story. I’m quite excited to read it myself.
Kevin McNeil reads slush at Lightspeed Magazine and is an editorial assistant at Nightmare Magazine. He is a physical therapist, sports fanatic, and volunteer coach for the Special Olympics. He graduated from the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2012 and The Center for the Study of Science Fiction’s Intensive Novel Workshop, led by Kij Johnson, in 2011. Kevin is a New Englander currently living in California. Find him on Twitter @kevinmcneil.
Author Spotlight: Anaea Lay
Earnie Sotirokos
What inspired you to write “The Visited”?
I was participating in the Halloween contest for a writer’s forum I participate in and planned to write a creepy story about a creature that interfered with people’s dreams by sticking fingers in their ears and doing something … creepy. It was vague. When I sat down to write the story, my brain informed me that I was instead going to impersonate Cat Valente and prove to the world that good things come of watching too much VH1 when you’re in high school. My brain is very opinionated and very hostile, so I don’t usually argue with it.
Where would you be when the stream cut out?
On the couch in my den. I’d be conducting stealth warfare to lure the cat onto my lap and losing to my roommates, who cheat by cuddling on the cat’s favorite chair with her favorite blanket. Further details are hard to determine, but I will definitely be teasing the indie music snob roomie for deigning to watch the live stream of somebody who is not only mainstream and famous, but not even endearingly foreign. And I’ll probably bore everybody by repeating stories from the time I went to New Orleans by train with little more than a guidebook and two days’ notice. Hopefully the stories will be new to somebody in the room.
Do you think global mega-hits like the ones Manuel Black put out are possible today, considering how fragmented current music tastes have become?
Not quite like Manuel Black, since he had a supernatural assist that made him universally popular, but global mega hits are a thing that still happens. I was in Argentina last November and there were posters for a Lady Gaga “Born this Way” ball all over Buenos Aires. And I was in Iceland when I finally connected the name “Katy Perry” with an actual song, because the cab driver mentioned how much he liked her when she came on the radio. I don’t think the mega-super-star is going anywhere, and that means mega-hits.
Portraying music in fiction can be tricky. Can you share any tips that may help aspiring writers hear the tune between their ears?
Not really—I’m tone deaf and arrhythmic, so I don’t hear the tune between my ears. For this story, I stuck to song titles as much as I could, which are much, much easier than lyrics but make it feel like there’s an actual body of music being referenced. For the lyrics I did include, I put them at the end of the story so that I would, hopefully, already have the reader rolling with the atmosphere and ready to give me some credit. For extra cover, the lyrics are from the years most people thought he wasn’t any good. I have no idea whether those lyrics even can be set to a tune. So I guess my tip is this: Don’t let lack of talent thwart you—lie and trick the reader into thinking you did something you didn’t.
What can we expect from you in the future?
A benevolent dictatorship and fudge. Failing that, I’ve got some other short stories coming up from Strange Horizons, Apex, and Nightmare in the next few months. They reflect on the virtues of cannibalism as a problem solving technique, the likelihood that we’re delusional about our own sentience, and the capacity for teenagers to think repeating their parents’ mistakes will solve problems. Not all in the same story. And you can reliably expect that on future Mondays I’ll be posting the Strange Horizons podcast, which is full of fantastic stories and poems.
Earnie Sotirokos grew up in a household where Star Trek: The Next Generation marathons were only interrupted for baseball and football games. When he’s not writing copy for radio or reading slush, he enjoys penning fiction based on those influences. Follow him on Twitter @sotirokos.
Author Spotlight: Karin Tidbeck
Andrew Liptak
Hi Karin, thanks for speaking with us! First off, how did your story, “A Fine Show on the Abyssal Plain” come into existence?
How did it come into existence? It’s one of those rare stories that knows what it wants to be right from the start. I was visiting a friend who’s also a writer. She had to take an hour to work on her current novel. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I wrote some random stuff in longhand without really thinking about it. When my friend came back out of her office, I had the first draft almost ready.
Your story follows a rather strange troupe, which begs the question: Much like a tree falling in the woods, if a play is held without an audience, is there anyone to appreciate it?
Apprentice is afraid they might be performing for empty seats, while Nestor is convinced that they’re out there, just invisible to the troupe. The question I would ask is, if the troupe has no audience, are they actually performing? I suppose it depends on whether you have an audience in mind or not. The troupe seems to be formed with the express purpose of performing for an audience, but opinions are divided on what or who that audience is. On the other hand, the troupe also believe they have the function of upholding the order of the universe. That kind of ritual needs no audience except creation itself. The actors may also be their own audience—a sort of ever-ongoing roleplay. Honestly? I don’t want to supply any ready answers. That’s up to the reader to decide.
There’s a real meta feel to this story, as Apprentice finds an audience caught in a situation very similar to the play that they’re playing. How much of real life is informed by stories, and vice versa?
I believe reality is a continuous narrative that we tell each other and ourselves; what we recognize as stories are just one of the shapes that narrative takes. I don’t think you can separate real life, or the human mind, from story. It’s a basic bodily function, like breathing.
You don’t
always write in English; a number of your stories are in Swedish. What challenges do you face when writing a story in another language, and how are they different from a story in your native language?
Storywise, not so different. Language-wise, the two allow for different styles—the sounds and cultural baggage differ. When writing in a language not my own, it’s a question of being careful about over-and undertones, keeping track of what’s current usage and what’s outdated (because the Oxford English Dictionary won’t tell you), what’s British English and what’s American English. In short, it keeps you on your toes. I try not to worry too much, though. I can’t do the same job of it as someone who’s a native English speaker, and I don’t think I want to. Coming in from another language gives some leeway to play around with it, in a different way than natives get.
What do you have coming up that we should look forward to?
I have some stories coming up in Strange Horizons, Shadows & Tall Trees, and at Tor.com during the first half of 2013. I’ve written an entry for the upcoming anthology The Starry Wisdom Library, which should be out sometime in late fall. Also, “Reindeer Mountain,” one of the stories from Jagannath, is in Jonathan Strahan’s next Year’s Best antho.
Andrew Liptak is a freelance writer and historian from Vermont. He has written for such places as Armchair General, io9, Kirkus Reviews, SF Signal, Tor.com and he can be found over at www.andrewliptak.com and at @AndrewLiptak on Twitter.
Author Spotlight: Hugh Howey
Robyn Lupo
The issues that arise in “Deep Blood Kettle” remind me of Stephen Hawking saying in 2010 that humans should fear aliens, “If aliens ever visit us, I think the outcome would be much as when Christopher Columbus first landed in America, which didn’t turn out very well for the Native Americans.” Can you tell us more about what got you writing this story? Are the aliens in the story how you see our first contact working out?
I find myself in agreement with Stephen Hawking, which I suppose is a sign that I got lucky in my thinking. In the story, the war between an alien race and humans is likened to the war worms might put up against a farmer. Farmers don’t even see the life in the dirt, it’s so far beneath them. They just plow it under. But what I really had in mind while writing the story was the fiscal cliff in the news at the time. I created a scenario of perfect doom, and told the story of bickering politicians unable to reach the compromise that might save us all.
The father in the story is quite well-defined; believing in what he can see, learning things a hard way first, and so on. If it were up to him, what do you think Pa would choose with regard to the invaders?
He and his son’s teacher are the two polar opposites in the story, with the main character torn between the two. The father wouldn’t give an inch to the aliens, I don’t think. Let the rock land; we’ll make do. Come try to take my farm; I’m cleaning my gun. There is staunch obstinance on the one side and naiveté on the other. I think another of his traits is that he believes what he wants to believe, rather than what he can see.
Can you tell us why you chose this boy to be the focal character? How do you think his realization about the invaders will change him later on? (Assuming, of course, he survives.)
I wanted the point of view to come from someone young enough not to have made up their mind about the world. The boy is the decision, bouncing back and forth between two positions. Also, there are observations young people make—ways of seeing events from an unusual angle—that allow them to have insights others might not. There’s also the fact that I grew up the son of a farmer. :)
What’s next for you?
I’m just wrapping up the launch of Wool here in the States, and the sequel, Shift, should be hitting bookstores in the UK. I’m currently pouring my energies into Dust, which will wrap up the trilogy. After that, I have to choose between one of a half dozen stories begging to get out!
Robyn Lupo has been known to frequent southwestern Ontario with her graduate student husband and elderly dog. She writes, reads, and plays video games. She is personal assistant to three cats.
Author Spotlight: Christopher Barzak
Robyn Lupo
How did you come up with Smoke City?
I was reading a book called The Point of Pittsburgh, which chronicles the life of that city from its geological formation, through its years as a vied-for settlement among colonial powers, until the present day. I read the book, about 450 pages, in two evenings, fascinated by the years when Pittsburgh became an industrial power, and then an industrial wasteland when the steel industry moved its work to developing nations. I was struck by the absolutely miserable conditions of life for the working class that made men like Carnegie wealthy, and how he attempted to assuage his guilt from taking advantage of the labor of others by providing public institutions like libraries and social clubs for the underprivileged. I was also trying to compare this aspect of the city’s past with its present day position as a city that has devoted itself to education, medicine, and green industries—the exact opposite of what it used to be. I knew I wanted to write a story that explored those differences, and wanted to write a story, too, that would have a character bound up with both the wreckage of the city’s past and the more privileged life of the present day.
Loss and sacrifice for the community runs rampant in this story—can you tell us more about this theme and how you see it working in this story?
I think for cities with a working class history like Pittsburgh—where the majority of its citizens were manual laborers for a great duration of the city’s existence—community and sacrifice for one’s community plays a big role. I grew up in a town in Ohio that grew out of Pittsburgh’s and Cleveland’s manufacturing industries, which has suffered a lot of economic losses (as those two cities have) as the manufacturing industry has left the U.S. Sacrifice is something people do when times are rough and the table of plenty has gone empty. Sharing, taking on more responsibility than usual. It’s also this self-sacrifice that leads many people from working class backgrounds to be easily taken advantage of in their dealings with others. They often take less pay than their employers can afford; they provide more labor than they’re compensated for; and they tend to be taken advantage of even in dealings with institutions like banks because they aren’t always as financially literate as people from white collar backgrounds. You can see an example of this in the recent past, with the predatory lending schemes many banks participated in. The majority of people who lost their homes were what politicians like to call “ordinary Americans,” which really translates into the lower middle class, the working class, and the working poor. Many of those working class families have had to arrange for very old-fashioned living arrangements in the wake of that debacle, multiple families living together, or people in their thirties having to live with their parents for longer periods of time, etc. Loss and sacrifice seem to be the essence of working people in America in general.
What’s a standard day of writing like for you?
I don’t have a standard writing day any longer, since I’ve started teaching full-time at Youngstown State University. My job makes it difficult to keep a regular schedule, so the best I can do is try to make use of my free time as much as possible. I tend to try to squeeze in a couple of hours each night, after classes have finished. Sometimes this consists of doing revision to works in progress, sometimes it’s generating new material to work on. If I can write a page or two a day, I’m happy. On days when I’ve not got an enormous amount of work to do for the day job, I like to write for four or five hours and really sink into that zone where everything else drops away from you except the page in front of you.
Can you tell us more about the Emily Dickinson quote and its connection to Smoke City?
The Dickinson quote worked its way into the story because of its theme, and because my grandmother, who was at varying times a factory worker or a farmer, liked Dickinson’s poetry, that poem in particular (“Because I could not stop for Death”). It�
�s a line that sort of functions as a reminder to the narrator of “Smoke City” that her obligations to the past—her past, as an inhabitant of Smoke City who has escaped into the future through a timeslip hidden in the Fourth River (a mythological river in Pittsburgh, which in the literal world is really an aquifer, or underground river, that flows beneath the city). I treated that river as a literal one for the purposes of the story and the mythic qualities I was developing within the world of the story. The Dickinson quote speaks to inevitability and obligation, too, I thought. Though we would not like to stop for Death, he will kindly stop for us when the time comes. The narrator, when she is returned periodically to Smoke City, is to some extent being returned to hell, Persephone-style, to live in the underworld and serve her time, as that myth functions.
How does the narrator leave Smoke City? Is it a natural ability of hers alone, or do others have it?
I think I alluded to this a bit in my previous answer. In the story, there’s a kind of timeslip hidden in the mythic Fourth River of Pittsburgh, which some of the inhabitants of Smoke City have found and use to escape, if they can find the strength to leave behind family and friends, their obligations and responsibilities. It’s not only my narrator who has done this, but some others. In the story, there’s mention of others coming and going from the mouth of the river’s cave entrance like she does. In this way, I’m sure the story feels a bit dystopic, which it should.
What’s next for you?
My first full-length collection of short fiction is being released in late March, 2013. It’s called Before and Afterlives,and a lot of the stories in it have won awards or been finalists for awards like the Nebula Award, the Spectrum Award, and the James Tiptree Jr. Award. It’s a mixed-genre collection—ghost stories, contemporary fantasy, and some science fiction—but it’s predominantly concerned with the supernatural more than any other mode.
