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~ Joe Pitkin's stories, queries, and quibbles regarding the human, the inhuman, the humanesque.

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Monthly Archives: December 2015

The Year in Reading

29 Tuesday Dec 2015

Posted by Joe Pitkin in A Place for my Stuff, Musings and ponderation

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

biology, books, fantasy, sci-fi

Because it was one of my 2015 New Year’s resolutions to read more books, I paid some mind to my reading habits this year. This resolution was a real softball pitch to myself, since in all of 2014 I read only eight books. At that paltry rate, even if I am lucky enough to live another 40 years, I will only read 320 more books in life.

(In my defense, 2014 was the year I finished up graduate school and got remarried, so the first half of 2014 didn’t leave me a lot of reading time. Still, eight books. It’s hard to call yourself a writer if you only read eight books a year).

This year I did somewhat better: 15 books (not counting re-reads of books that I was teaching this year). How did I fare with these? What follows is a brief review of each title in my motley 2015 bookshelf:

Apollinaire, Guillame: The Heresiarch + Co. This was a gift from Gloria on her return from France. I found these stories charming—hilarious, sweet-natured, wry, odd, just a bit surreal. Sometimes the plotting seemed a little artless, but there were other touches of language that seemed masterful, like the poet with “the gift of ubiquity” and the cigar with the plea for help written inside. Apollinaire is a favorite poet of mine, so I was predisposed to love his fiction.

Austen, Jane. Emma. The second Austen novel I’ve read, I found this book a perfectly delightful comedy of manners and a sly (perhaps over-subtle) critique of the British class system and the limits placed upon English women. Emma’s character is almost thoroughly unsympathetic for the first half of the book or so, but she acquits herself admirably. Austen’s humor is gentle, understated, and yet at the same time absolutely electric. The characters were generally types—something like the types of Shakespearean comedy—rather than fully fleshed out bundles of complication. But that’s Austen’s style.

Bailey, Thomas R., Shanna Smith Jaggars, and Davis Jenkins. Redesigning America’s Community Colleges. This was a wonky read, but a very good one. While I was already convinced of our need to develop guided pathways for community college students, this book provides both evidence supporting the argument as well as some suggestions for further research and colleges to watch. I have a feeling I’ll be consulting  this book a good deal in the coming years.

Dyson, Freeman: Disturbing the Universe. One of the best books of essays I’ve read. Freeman is very much like Loren Eisley as a writer—somewhat less sublime but also funnier. Some of these essays have lasted better than others, but I am quite taken with Dyson’s powerful and utterly unique moral vision.

Le Guin, Ursula K. The Lathe of Heaven. I reviewed this earlier in the year. It’s a gripping read, one of those stories which breaks a cardinal rule of writing (in this case, no “it was all a dream” stories) but which Le Guin gets away with because, hey, she’s Ursula Le Guin. I don’t know that this novel held together at the end quite as well as some others of hers—like Left Hand of Darkness—but I was taken with the humor and horror of this story, as well as with Le Guin’s of-the-era argument for the quieter, wiser ways of Taoism as a corrective to the evangelical Judeo-Christian Western Rationalism that brought us the Vietnam War and global warming and the DSM.

Link, Kelly. Stranger Things Happen. I loved these stories overall. The best of them were truly chilling and surreal, like Twin Peaks on the page. Link is masterful at, well, linking disparate, subterranean connections in her work, and the best stories—like the first three in the book—do things that I couldn’t imagine doing as a writer. At times the writing is a little precious or too eager to crack a joke, but Link is the real deal.

Newport, Cal: So Good They Can’t Ignore You. The best career advice book I’ve read. This quick read annoyed me in a few places—Newport mostly interviews the beneficiaries of privilege, like himself, and he has a lot to say about what being a faculty member at Georgetown will be like before he’s even started the job—but the career advice Newport gives here is sound and a valuable corrective to the conventional wisdom of “following your passion.” I bought this book for my oldest daughter and will pass it along to the younger girls when the time is ripe.

Peake, Mervyn: Titus Groan. The first of the Ghormenghast Novels. This was a remarkably slow read, oddly and loosely plotted (in some ways almost without plot), full of demanding and self-indulgent writing. But I’ve also never read anything like it: Peake has a gift for arresting imagery and wordplay. His work is like a novel-length set of Edward Gorey drawings.

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Art credit: Michelle Duckworth

 

Peake, Mervyn: Gormenghast.  The second Gormenghast Novel. I think that in most ways I preferred Titus Groan, even though Gormenghast has more action. Peake’s work is by turns inspiring and maddening: he will turn a phrase or describe a scene in such an arresting way that I can’t imagine how he managed it; then, he’ll try to squeeze out of a plot difficulty with a hamfisted and frustrating plot twist, coincidence, or ad hoc explanation. While there’s plenty that frustrated me about this book and its predecessor, I probably have enough momentum here to finish the Gormenghast novels next year.

Penn, Rob: It’s All About the Bike. This was an enchanting little history of the bicycle. I’m not certain how accurate it is on every point, but I loved the stories of the bike’s early days, interspersed with Penn’s quest for his own “lifetime bike.” It makes me want to assemble a bike myself.

Romano, Tom. Write What Matters. This book was dedicated to my dad and contained some sweet moments from his life (as well as from the life of another beloved and departed writing teacher of mine, Ken Brewer). While I didn’t always follow Tom’s organization, I loved Tom’s voice and his fierce love as a writing teacher. His words about rough drafts have helped me during this tough slog through the sloppiest rough draft I’ve ever attempted: Pacifica.

Schwarz, Barry. The Paradox of Choice: Why More Is Less. I picked up this easy, engaging read in my research into structured pathways at my community college. The book is funny, humanistic, and it digests a lot of psychological and economic research into a reader-friendly form. I may want to pass this book along to my daughter to help her with her career-picking struggles.

Sterner, Robert and James Elser: Ecological Stoichiometry. This book took me several attempts, but when I really sat down to deal with it, I got through it in about 8 months of two-pages-a-day reading. It really is a remarkable scientific work, and I came away convinced that phosphorous is the most ecologically important chemical on Earth (because of its role making up RNA). I’d love to do science like this! I realize, though, that it’s not the kind of science that most people do in their spare time. I’ve definitely decided to keep reading in the biological sciences, though, and perhaps a cool home project will present itself.

Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray.  I’d been meaning to read this since taking a long ago grad school class on the symbolists and decadents. Overall, this seemed like a Poe-esque gothic tale peppered with Lord Henry’s bon mots and aphorisms. Plot-wise, it dragged a bit—it seemed highly influenced by Huysman’s Against Nature—and there were few truly sympathetic characters besides Basil. At the end, it struck me as a much more conventional morality play than I had been led to believe it would be—maybe that’s why I came away a bit disappointed. The art for art’s sake motto of the aestheticists ultimately seemed to give way to a somewhat conventional Victorian morality, less daring in its conclusions than Hardy or George Eliot or Flaubert or Dostoevsky.

Wilson, David Sloan: Darwin’s Cathedral. This book really affected me powerfully–I wrote about it in my previous blog post. The idea that religious behavior is adaptive and selected for through multi-level group selection is revolutionary (though maybe it shouldn’t be). I can see how this book is influencing my approach to writing Pacifica: Jude wants to build the next religion that will expand our moral circle to include all humanity and be compatible with science.

I hope that 2015 was a good reading year for you, perhaps so good that it would be impossible to fit your thoughts into a single blog post. I’ll see you in the new year!

Glad Solstitial Tidings

20 Sunday Dec 2015

Posted by Joe Pitkin in Biology, Musings and ponderation

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Christmas, David Sloan Wilson, mythopoesis, natural selection, The Winter Solstice, utopia

Tomorrow I’ll be ringing in the winter solstice with my wife at Breitenbush Hot Springs. There will be poetry, yoga, maybe some ecstatic dancing of some kind–who knows? I’ve never been to a Breitenbush solstice, but I loved spending some time there last year and I think it’s extremely likely I’ll have a good time.

One thing I bet I won’t hear, given the circles I travel in, is many references to the birth of Jesus or other Christmas-related greetings. That’s not a problem for me–in fact, I far prefer it. I consider Christmas the most debased festival in the liturgical calendar (and anyway, as a Quaker, I feel a scruple about observing any religious holidays at all).

My friends’ silence might seem curious at first blush, given that practically all of my close friends are culturally Christian if not nominally Christian. Most today would not consider themselves Christians of any stripe: my friends are atheists, agnostics, spiritual tourists, a’la carte Buddho-Hindu-Taoists, Sufi-curious, and neopagans. But, aside from the Friends in my Quaker meeting, I can’t think of many who regard Christianity sympathetically today.

Frankly, the Christian movement–which has been an accomplice of oppression and intolerance at least as often as it has worked to bring peace and justice to the world–deserves plenty of opprobrium. To say it in Christian language, The Church has been so soiled by the world that it has departed from Christ. So I’m not surprised to have friends who may have been raised in a Christian church who today distance themselves from what they regard as a fountainhead of exploitation.

But what I do find curious is how often my friends and acquaintances–even many of those who consider themselves atheists–engage in behaviors that might be considered reverent or even spiritual. While I know a few people whose atheism is so deeply held that they are able to see all ceremony as ridiculous, more often people seem to gravitate towards reverence even if they reject the particular rituals they grew up with.

One of the most important books I read this year explores this phenomenon: David Sloan Wilson’s Darwin’s Cathedral. Wilson’s thesis is that religious behavior is evolutionarily adaptive, that our urge to find sacredness in the world is a way of enforcing group cohesion and eliciting altruistic behavior. This thesis is radical in biology circles, partly because it depends on a concept of natural selection that acts on groups as well as on individuals. It’s beyond the scope of this post to unpack the reasons this idea is derided by most biologists (nor why I believe it is correct); for now I’ll just offer a quote from David Sloan Wilson and his co-author E.O Wilson (no relation) that summarizes the entire argument behind group level selection: “Selfishness beats altruism within groups. Altruistic groups beat selfish groups. Everything else is commentary”.

Friends, I wish you well this holiday season. If you believe that altruism exists, I urge you to practice it. If you believe that altruism does not exist, I urge you to look harder. May you one day find yourself practicing altruism unawares. I wish you happiness in this season, not on account of the solstice, nor on account of the birth of Jesus (who was very unlikely to have celebrated his birthday on December 25), but on account of the biology of our species, on account of the deep urge to be kind to one another, in spite of the ways I fall short.

The Zeroth Draft

12 Saturday Dec 2015

Posted by Joe Pitkin in My Fiction, Pacifica

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Tags

Pacifica, sci-fi, writing practice, zeroth drafts

I finished the roughest draft of a novel I’ve ever roughed out in a rough world. It is so rough that I couldn’t bring myself to write Pacifica: first draft at the beginning of the notebook–instead I titled it Pacifica notes. It’s a ridiculous mix of fatuous underwriting and deep purple gasbaggery. But, if you don’t mind characters appearing,  disappearing, and changing gender midway through, it’s also a finished draft.

So far as I can tell, I wrote about 60,000 words–shorter than Stranger Bird, but still a novel. I would guess there are 15,000 words I’ll toss out immediately and maybe that many new words to add. And it’s still too early to tell whether it will ever amount to anything.

But, while I feel more exhausted than excited, it does feel at least a little good to have a story of that scope and sweep, and with a beginning, middle, and end on paper.

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Photo Credit: Miheco

I Fall to Pieces

09 Wednesday Dec 2015

Posted by Joe Pitkin in My Fiction, Uncategorized

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Tags

flash fiction, Mercury Retrograde

I’ve written flash fiction (i.e. a story of less than 1000 words) only a couple of times in my life. It’s not a genre I’m comfortable with. But I liked this attempt at flash fiction–I hope you will too. Readers who have seen my story “Lamp of the Body” will recognize the name of the bar. I am no lover of astrology (more accurately, I’m an astrology loather), but I always thought “Mercury Retrograde” would be a cool name for a bar. Anyway, I hope you like it: “I Fall to Pieces.”

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Photo credit: Rob Swatski

I Fall to Pieces

Wil has just enough room at the end of the text to address the girl by the pet name he used with her: Soph. He would have liked to write out the full Sophia. But apparently even breakups, like relationships, are about compromise.

Wil feels a jolt of energy move through him when he finishes pecking out the message on his phone. It feels like a flash of purpose; he is old enough to know that such a jolt often spells trouble. But it is hard to walk away from such a flush of energy. He presses the Send button.

He downs the rest of the pint in front of him and wonders whether his tone had been appropriately dignified. 150 characters is not a lot to work with when establishing a tone. Probably that is one reason not to break up with someone via text messaging.

He imagines her out with someone else, someone who looks like Ethan Hawke. Or maybe a huge black swan. What does it matter? She is in the Rose Garden where Wil had walked with her on their first date. Only now, instead of walking beside her, taken in by her, Wil inhabits each rose bush like a troll as she walks by.

Which leads him to wonder whether he was in fact breaking up with her. Or had his message simply shown her, at last, that he understood that she was ignoring him? You send a text. Ok, maybe she didn’t receive it. You leave a voice mail, you leave a Facebook message. She doesn’t answer them. You send up smoke signals and a poem tied to the leg of a homing pigeon. You blink to her in Morse Code. She ignores every overture, explicit and implied, written and spoken and telepathic. Who is breaking up with whom, really?

The waitress comes back and he orders without looking up. Instead he gazes around the bar at the couples and singles. Half of them—half of the couples, even—are pecking away at smart phones, taking pictures of their beers, announcing to Facebook acquaintances that they are sitting @ Mercury Retrograde, perhaps summoning a real friend from his house in the glorious sunset. Would it have been better to have sent her a Facebook message instead of a text? In addition to a text? Wil dismisses the latter possibility as soon as it occurs to him: have some dignity, you sorry bastard, he tells himself.

He is tired of dissecting the last word she said to him (before she said goodbye):yes. Do you want to see Obscure Object of Desire at the Laurelhurst, he had asked her. What she said was yes. Had it been a yes of unalloyed, infatuated enthusiasm, as he had assumed when he first heard her say it? Or was there a subtext, an undercurrent of sarcasm or cruelty or carelessness or lack of resolve? He is exhausted from running over the contours of that yes in his mind, but he cannot help himself from worrying over it the way one picks at a festering sliver in the palm of the hand.

The bar stereo is playing Patsy Cline’s greatest hits. “I Fall to Pieces,” Wil’s favorite. You walk by, and I, fall to pieces, she sings. That’s a song that only makes sense in a small town in the fifties. When and where would Wil just see her walking by? You ignore my texts and I fall to pieces, he thinks.

Wil realizes that he should not have ordered another pint as soon as the waitress brings it. He contemplates the full glass morosely, watches the foam spread over the top of the nut-brown ale as though it is a map of lost continents spread over a dark ocean. Perhaps an entire civilization of yeast had burgeoned and died in this glass, unmourned by all except Wil in his drunkenness.

A cheer goes up throughout the bar. On the muted bar televisions a news program is reporting the first holographic marriages to be ceremonialized in New York. Wil looks up from his beer at the pair of slender, aged holographs in tuxedos exchanging vows on the screen, and at the dozens of patrons rejoicing that everyone is free now to love whoever they want.

Building Worlds

05 Saturday Dec 2015

Posted by Joe Pitkin in Dungeons and Dragons, Musings and ponderation

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

fantasy, maps, marketing, mythopoesis, sci-fi, utopia

When I was  in sixth grade, I made a map out of my imagination. I drew it in colored pencils on six pieces of graph paper which I connected with masking tape, so that I could fold it like a codex or some mystical road map. While I’ve largely forgotten what it looked like, I remember that I had drawn a continent which clustered around an inner sea, a dragon-infested Mediterranean. The land was divided into kingdoms and empires, a crazy-quilt of realms filled with Dungeons and Dragons creatures, which is to say filled with a Lord of the Rings-fanboy descendants of Tolkien’s elves and dwarves and orcs.

map_of_earthsea

A Map of Earthsea, by Liam Davis, after Ursula Le Guin

 

What first drew me to fantasy and science fiction as a reader, and as a gamer and as a writer, was the world building. I’m reminded of the words of a friend’s son who said that you can tell if a book is going to be good if there’s a map at the beginning of it. When I read fantasy as a kid, I could put up with a lot of weak writing–poor characterization, wooden dialogue, tedious exposition–if there was a map in the book that represented a world that I would want to exist.

And yet, a map is also judged by its verisimilitude. Middle Earth, Earthsea, The Hyborian Age all drew me in with their plausibility: however oddly shaped the continents, those drawings seemed like maps of the actual world from a much earlier time, or a map of what might be the world. A map with no connection to a world that the reader does know is a useless map.

That’s the tricky thing about world building. There is no building a truly new world, untethered from any human world. Every map we draw, every pantheon of ancient deities we imagine for a game world or a novel, is a variation on a theme that was laid down in the real world. The Shire looks a lot like rural England. Earthsea is an imagined Bronze Age for the San Juan Islands. Gormenghast is the drama of a noble English house played out in Beijing’s Forbidden City. The City in Little, Big is New York City. The challenge with such world-building is to arrange these oddly-lensed realities into a world which seems totally distinct.

There’s a tension in fantasy and science fiction–as there is with all art–between the craving for the new and the comfort of the familiar. Audiences long for the new world, that giddy disorientation that comes from reading of an unfamiliar hero or a far country and knowing that these people and places fit into a coherent world that the book is slowly uncovering. But readers also crave the comfort of recognition, in the original sense of the word recognize: to know again. That is, readers are still happy to pay for something that reminds them of Lord of the Rings or Alice in Wonderland, no matter how many others complain about how much derivative fiction is out there. A book with a map that looks something like the real world is far likelier to appeal to readers than a book with a map of a totally new place, a place so different as to be unrecognizable. But some, thank goodness, can’t rest until they find the totally new place.

 

 

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