Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 114

by Neil Clarke

  Did any mythology play a part in the magic you created for All The Birds In The Sky?

  Not really. I sweated bullets trying to come up with a world of magic that didn’t feel too derivative of stuff I’d read or seen before. I started out with something much more place-holdery, and then a time came when I was getting so deep into writing the world of magic that I needed to come up with a history, and organization, of magic that felt somewhat real. And so my primary concern was not relying on the things I’d seen done before. Actually, the main thing that comes out in my use of magic is a love of magical realism. Some of my favorite things involving magic are when people use Trickster magic that involves storytelling or some kind of poetic license—Dorothea, in particular, is a witch who makes amazing things happen by telling these surreal stories. (But at a cost: She can never tell the truth, ever. Except maybe in the Confessional, because she’s Catholic.)

  The magic in your novel seems to come at a cost. Does technology have a similar cost attached to it as well?

  The notion of magic having a cost is a major idea in a lot of fantasy books and stories, and I hope I found my own spin on it. The aforementioned thing about Dorothea is an example of the way that magic winds up costing you in the long run. As for technology, though . . . the question of whether technology “has a cost” is really dependent on whether you believe in social cost, and whether the user of a particular technology should have to pay for (or be concerned with) externalities such as pollution, labor abuses, and other problems. I’m a pretty big believer in reducing our carbon footprint and trying to create a more humane economic system, in general, so I would say that technology does have a cost beyond what you pay at Best Buy.

  When researching the science for this book, what was the most interesting tidbit of knowledge you picked up?

  I talked to tons of experts on everything from superstorms to wormholes to biology to make sure that various aspects of the science in the book were accurate. The more I worked on it and revised it, the more important it seemed to me that the science be connected to real-world knowledge (even if it was “mad” science, and thus more extreme)—because having real science was the best way to draw a contrast with the novel’s fantasy content. But the most surprising thing for me was learning about how to make the artificial intelligence in the novel seem realistic and plausible—by talking to a few people, chiefly Lydia Chilton, a postdoc in computer science at Stanford. She told me some stuff that blew my mind, including the idea that you could recognize an A.I. in the making, because code would grow exponentially more complex until it suddenly became radically simplified (as the A.I. started to reshape its own code using rules that are more elegant than ones humans could come up with). I’m paraphrasing, but this was an insane thing to learn about.

  Your book plays with some of the tropes of both science fiction and fantasy. Was it difficult to strike the right balance while keeping the emotional core of your story?

  This was SO hard. In fact, this was a big reason why I tried to stop thinking of it in terms of “playing with tropes” and started thinking of it, instead, in terms of a story about two characters who came from two different worlds. The less I consciously tried to comment on the expectations of a fantasy story or a science fiction story, the easier it got to stay focused on the characters. But finding the emotional core of any story is often a nightmare, and once you find it, staying connected to it is even harder. It took a lot of ruthless slashing and burning of clever setpieces and neat story ideas, to make sure I was keeping just the stuff that made the characters come into focus. But there’s never any guarantee that you’re doing it right. You have to go with your gut, and hope for the best!

  What was the most difficult scene to write?

  God, there were so many that I wrote and rewrote and tore up and then wrote again a totally different way. Actually, the very last scene I wrote in the book is the one where Laurence and Patricia are watching parrots eat cherry blossoms. Nothing much “happens” in that scene, but it felt pivotally important for a bunch of reasons. And I tried it a hundred different ways: that scene took place at a rock concert, at an environmentalist rally, at a tech party that Milton Dirth was throwing, and a bunch of other things. Part of the problem was figuring out exactly what conversation they needed to have there. I could have cut that scene entirely and it would have been fine, but it felt like there was something missing.

  If you could hang out with one character from All The Birds in the Sky, who would it be?

  I would be terrified to meet any of them! That would be really weird. I guess I would like to hang out with Dorothea, because I think she’d be fun to go dancing with.

  What are you working on now? I heard something about space and an exoplanet?

  I’m under contract for another novel with Tor. At the moment, it’s a science fiction novel set in the future, on another planet. We’ll see how it goes!

  Finally, I must ask, can you talk to birds?

  Sure, of course I can! So can you! Whether they will talk back is another matter . . .

  About the Author

  Chris Urie is a writer and editor from Ocean City, NJ. He has written and published everything from city food guide articles to critical essays on video game level design. He currently lives in Philadelphia with an ever expanding collection of books and a small black rabbit that has an attitude problem.

  Another Word:

  How to Clothe a Character,

  Using Only Star Wars References

  Genevieve Valentine

  What your characters are wearing matters. Of course, as a writer/artist/designer, you already know this is important. No one in an age of merchandising as intense as this one doubts the importance of character design. Your Sith Lord needs to be memorable; with any luck, they’ll be a hummus appetizer someday!

  By now, a century of cinema and the omnipresence of television has made all of us very aware of the nature and importance of costume. From Flash Gordon to samurai flicks (both of which count as Star Wars references), costumes provide visual impact, illuminate character, build a world, and give you a chance to tempt cosplayers to your shores. And some of the most iconic and most frustrating movie costumes of the last fifty years come from the same vaguely-smothering franchise. So here are some tips for clothing your characters, thanks to a galaxy far, far away.

  Your character should be in a costume suited to them, as distinctive as possible while still being a believable part of the surroundings. The original film relied on simple silhouettes, largely because the bulk of the budget went into scale models and “pew pew” noises. As it turns out, this has worked immensely better than anything more deliberate could have; the vaguely gritty, lived-in style of the production design meant the clothes were both instantly recognizable as character notes and easy to replicate at home, an early instance of Accidental Cosplay Gold. Did you have access to a nearby martial-arts supply store? You had Luke in the bag. (There’s a reason that when he came back with saber blazing in Return of the Jedi, the belted-tunic silhouette was almost identical even though the color and layers had changed. That shape was Luke’s calling card; that awkward little peplum was just a part of him by then.)

  As a response to the rural and military settings of the first movies, one of the biggest stylistic deviations the prequels made was to go all in on lavish costumes for its royal heroine—technically to set the films apart from their predecessors, though it ended up being a fairly smart choice on several levels, given that the costumes were one of the few things in the prequels not CGIed in later. (Though by the time Padmé was hauling three steamer trunks’ worth of heavily-embroidered separates into the Tatooine desert, everyone probably regretted it.)

  But nobody in your work gets dressed in a vacuum; characters’ clothes relate to one another. Poe’s jacket in The Force Awakens becomes a thread that visually binds everyone who wears it to the Resistance one by one: after he loses it, Finn takes it up, and eventually loans it to Rey, as they accep
t their new roles. We know Rey and Kylo Ren share some connection before they ever actually make their creeper Force bond, just because their sleeves are horizontally segmented mummy wraps, and their long sleeveless overlayers preclude any semblance of the Jedi silhouette while looking both oppositional and parallel in a fight scene. (Imagine Rey fighting Hux or Phasma—doesn’t look nearly as balanced.)

  And Sabe, the Naboo Queen’s decoy in The Phantom Menace who wore royal costumes designed to anonymize the monarch—perhaps the only good move any of the prequels made, because it very nearly tricked you into wanting to see parts of it again despite already knowing it was the worst movie ever assembled by the kind of people who would, eventually, agree to let Disney make hummus out of their villain.

  Draw from history. There’s hundreds of years of costume nerds who came before you, and we have records of their great works; every detail of how clothes are made counts as worldbuilding. (Sumptuary laws—wardrobe restrictions issued by monarchs and government officials—are some of the most fascinating pieces of legislation that remain to us; seeing official decrees about who could wear what single-handedly addressed class fears, xenophobia, economics, and gender roles.) And historical garments can, frankly, act as gimmes for some amazing stuff.

  If I wasn’t doing an entire article using only Star Wars references, I would point out that an evening dress in the Met Museum’s costume collection was the direct inspiration for Lucille’s unforgettably Gothic Spine Gown in Crimson Peak. However, I am only using Star Wars references, so we’ll go ahead and use Padmé Amidala, whose wardrobe was a sartorial reflection of ludicrous wealth so over the top that the prequels may have actually been a nine hour propaganda video condemning capitalism and we just didn’t notice because we were so distracted by the physics of her hair.

  Historical clothes have important connotations that we recognize even when the silhouette is taken out of chronological context, which can make them an incredible shortcut to mood and character. It’s not an accident that Padmé’s action gear in Phantom Menace looks suspiciously like an eighteenth century highwayman’s frock coat. It’s not an accident that her Loyalist Senate gown in Attack of the Clones looks suspiciously Elizabethan-Parliament, with its stiffened-hourglass skirts and solemn overgown. It’s definitely not an accident that her dress for her inexplicable secret wedding to the galaxy’s worst young man just before he causes a galactic fracas lifts heavily from pre-World-War-I wedding gowns. Moment to moment, each of these costumes did exactly what they needed to do. Moment to moment, they make sense.

  But be careful about appropriation. Historical silhouettes often maintain their power outside of chronological context, but lifting from another cultural context is a lot more fraught. If you don’t know what it means, transporting it is an iffy business. This doesn’t mean you can never borrow a design element; if you want some vaguely-square drapey sleeves for your character, no one’s stopping you. It does, however, mean that perhaps when you’re assembling a royal gown for your young queen who’s from a far-off space planet, maybe you’d like to avoid lifting the court attire of Mongolian royalty wholesale. (Is it visually striking? Certainly. Does it accidentally serve to Other the culture you’re borrowing from if you take the visuals without transposing any of the attendant cultural history? It does. Unless you’re actually presenting some spacefaring Mongolians, think twice.)

  Also take into account the continuity of your character. Padmé’s clothes could, to some degree, be separated between the public and private sphere. Obviously the formal layers you wear in the Senate as the ex-tween elected monarch of a damask planet is a different approach than your home life, which is less about impressing galactic representatives than it is about deep connections with young, lustful Jedi who hate sand.

  The high-neck drapery and complicated hairstyles of the former are politically symbolic, so naturally there will be contrast; will there be so much contrast between public and personal that Padmé would don a black leather bustier so her paramour can clearly see that no sand has taken root on her shoulders? I mean, if there is, more power to her, but when designing a character from scratch, the first victim to continuity of design is practicality. Usually a character’s wardrobe is more consistent than a normal person’s, because life is long and stories are, max, three movies and an animated season (and animators do not want to deal with new wardrobe every episode, thanks). If your characters’ wardrobes start looking like they’ve been assembled by six different people, make sure six different reasons are involved and you’re not just running away with the options. (I know Fashion Tumblr has a siren call; be strong.)

  Leave the nonsense out. There is a lifetime’s worth of reading material defending the constant sartorial expression of female characters’ sexuality to tell us important things about how empowered and independent they are. It’s real cute, for certain values of cute. The women in your work should, of course, dress exactly how they please; if they all coincidentally choose to dress to please the kind of men who find the sexuality of female characters a deeply important thing to illustrate via maximum skin real estate for every occasion, then maybe that’s a sign. Nobody needs your version of Slave Leia. Literally nobody. Put it away.

  Always have that person who gives no fucks. Sure, everyone can dress appropriately and it’s fine, but like a great setting makes a gem sparkle, you benefit from having one character a little outlandish even for the world you’ve created. If I wasn’t doing an entire article only using Star Wars references, I’d point out that Dawn from the Babysitter’s Club got at least a full manuscript page in every one of those books because she would, at a moment’s notice, wear three scrunchies and a pair of earrings made of Barbie telephones just to sit at home and think about babysitting.

  However, I am only using Star Wars references, so we get Lando Calrissian, whose cape was not only lined in gold-threaded paisley, but had no means of even fastening. It potentially had hooks and eyes, but the circumference wouldn’t have allowed for Billy Dee Williams’ actual neck if he closed them, so that shit’s honestly just mocking the idea of performing the way a normal cape performs. Not only was it an iconic element of his silhouette, it was a recognizably dashing piece that borrows so much Musketeer flair you know everything you need to know about Lando the moment he shows up in it. (They give him another one later—it was just a part of him by then.) It stays on Lando’s shoulders because it loves him; in your world, too, someone should be this lucky. Bonus if it’s just outlandish enough that wearing it requires a sense of humor; you don’t see Lando Calrissian being made into hummus.

  About the Author

  Genevieve Valentine is the author of Mechanique: A Tale of the Circus Tresaulti, The Girls at the Kingfisher Club, and Persona. Her short fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons, Journal of Mythic Arts, Tor.com, and others; several have been reprinted in Best of the Year anthologies. Her nonfiction and reviews have appeared at NPR.org, the AV Club, and The New York Times. She has written Catwoman comics for DC, and is currently writing a new Xena: Warrior Princess comic for Dynamite! Her appetite for bad movies is insatiable.

  Editor’s Desk:

  Nebula Nominees and Reader’s Poll Winners

  Neil Clarke

  Under normal conditions, I probably would have just launched into the results of our annual reader’s poll, but this month gave us something special. I’d like to take a moment to congratulate this year’s Nebula nominees. In particular, I’d like to call your attention to the short story category where three Clarkesworld stories have taken six of the nominations:

  “Cat Pictures Please” by Naomi Kritzer (Clarkesworld 1/15)

  “When Your Child Strays From God” by Sam J. Miller (Clarkesworld 7/15)

  “Today I Am Paul” by Martin L. Shoemaker (Clarkesworld 8/15)

  We are quite proud of our authors and wish them all the best. I’ll be on-hand at the Nebula Award Ceremony this year to cheer them on and I hope some of you are too.

&nb
sp; One anecdote before we move on: I attended last year’s ceremony and accepted Sam’s story during the mass signing. I think this means I have to start doing more in-person story acceptances!

  Still on the Nebula high, I decided to crack open my spreadsheet and start tallying this year’s reader’s poll results. The data is always interesting and it was nice to have so many readers participating this year. I was pleasantly surprised to see an influx of newer readers taking part this year. Welcome!

  CONTEST

  This year we included a special drawing for print and ebook copies of our latest anthology, Clarkesworld: Year Eight. Ten lucky winners were picked at random and have been notified by email. If you didn’t win, it’s now available for sale from the usual places.

  COVER ART

  1 - “Spring Day is Coming” by Liu Junwei

  2 (TIE) - “Gate World” by Julie Dillon

  2 (TIE) - “Megafauna Europa” by Julie Dillon

  3 - “A-boushi-ya” by shichigoro-shingo

  This category is normally close but this year, there was a small gap between our winners and the cluster of eight remaining works with nearly equal vote totals. It seems as though some people had as much trouble picking their favorite as I did.