I’m pleased to announce that my story “Nomenclator of the Revolution” is now appearing in Boston Review. The folks at BR did a lovely job with the layout and the drop quotes, and I couldn’t be happier that the story is available to be read.
From the set of Guillermo del Toro’s Pinocchio, another tale about the relationship of language to authoritarianism. Photo Joe Pitkin.
And here’s a little secret about the story for you all, beloved blog readers: the short poem in the middle of “Nomenclator” is one of my favorite poems that I have ever written, and it’s a piece that I found impossible to place (in fact, I stopped trying to publish any of my poems after receiving about thirty rejections of that one). I remain convinced that it’s a good poem; hopefully it has a better fate as the work of a fictional character in this story.
I’ve spent the last few weeks drafting two new short stories and workshopping a third, so I hope that “Nomenclator” isn’t the last short story you will see from me. However, given the mystical journey of getting stories placed and published, “Nomenclator” may be my last published short fiction for a few months. I hope you enjoy it!
I’ve known for a long time that writing is a business. But knowing that writing is a business is no guarantee that one knows how the business works. There’s good circumstantial evidence that for the past 20+ years, I haven’t had the foggiest idea about what I’m doing.
Where my writing career is concerned, I’ve tried to follow Steve Martin’s exhortation to be “so good they can’t ignore you.” But what that quote elides is that it’s still up to the writer to give the audience a chance not to ignore you. I could be as good a writer as Emily Dickinson, but if I don’t know how to get people’s attention, my career could still end up like, well, Emily Dickinson’s.
I’m facing this challenge as I go out for a literary agent for my third novel, Pacifica. (I have an excellent agent, Scott Veltri, for TV and movie projects, which is the hope for my novel Exit Black. But Pacifica is not on the list of 10,000 books I would think of for a movie tie-in). As anyone who has ever gone out for an agent knows, a query letter is one of the writer’s few early opportunities to show their understanding of writing as a business. And one of the things I’ve only recently gotten a feel for is the importance of comps for the novel I’m trying to sell.
Comps–short for comparative titles–are a short list of recent books that are similar to the novel you’re selling. And there are apparently rules, or at least norms, regarding the art of good comps. Here are the ones I’ve picked up at conference panels, in writing guides, and intuition:
Pick no more than three books (though apparently one of the books can be a movie or tv program)
Pick recent, commercially successful works, but
Avoid comparing your work to that of literary A-listers (e.g. no Annie Proulxes or Cormac McCarthys)
Are these the rules? If I knew, more people would probably be reading my writing. If you have better intel on how comps work, please jump in the comments or feel free to DM me! I can tell you what wasn’t working for me, though:
Not offering a list of comps in my query letter
Comparing my work to Ursula K. Le Guin’s (though I don’t think I’m wrong! Read Stranger Bird yourself and you be the judge)
Dissing other writers’ work (at the time I was lathered up about what I called the Harry Potter Industrial Complex)
None of these remarks got me an agent, and I suspect now that that was because my approach showed that I didn’t understand how the publishing business works. Agents and publishers want to know comps for a simple reason: they want to know what has already sold well that is similar to the book you are selling. It doesn’t matter if your book is the most exquisitely constructed exploration of the human heart since Anna Karenina–an agent wants to know if your novel will sell.
Is that a mercenary attitude? Maybe. Is it a rule that you must have comps? Absolutely not. But there’s also no rule that says I have to wear pants to a job interview. If I want to wear jorts to my next job interview, that’s my right as an American. However, wearing jorts to an interview will foreclose on just about every job offer outside of a very small set of jorts-positive jobs, many for which a 53 year-old man wouldn’t be an attractive candidate anyway.
My last unsuccessful job interview. Photo credit Carlyn Eames
So, what am I pitching as my comps for Pacifica? My three are Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow; Anthony Doerr’s Cloud Cuckoo Land, and Russell Brand’s The Magic Kingdom–three very different books (and one of them I wasn’t even crazy about). But they’re three recent, commercially successful books, each with a passing resemblance to my book about a guy who has a religious vision playing video games which spurs him to found several increasingly ridiculous, polyamorous intentional communities. I guess that’s not exactly a concept which sells itself. Hopefully the comps will help me market it.
I just got the news that my short story “Nomenclator of the Revolution” will be appearing in the excellent Boston Review‘s online magazine on Friday, August 18!
“Nomenclator” had a mystical journey getting to publication. I drafted it soon after the 2016 U.S. presidential election as a way of exorcising some of the troubles bedeviling me (no reason!) in those days. As is often the case when I’m having a tough time of things, I tried to write something funny–I will leave it to others to judge whether I succeeded. Generous readers might get a whiff of George Saunders’s work (or Donald Barthelme’s or Italo Calvino’s) in what I wrote.
I suppose it’s just as timely a story today, while the National Grifter is threatening the Republic yet again, even as he tries to outrun two three criminal indictments.
I’m also proud of this little story: it’s being published by one of the country’s most prestigious magazines after having been rejected by more than a few less highbrow publications. That’s one more reason for me to wonder whether I could improve the way I market my work. That’s a post for another time, though (the short answer being that I have been historically inept at marketing my work).
“Nomenclator” is the only short story I’m likely to publish this year, since I have been spending so much of my writing time on my novels Exit Black and Pacifica–so check out “Nomenclator of the Revolution” when it drops!
In a post of mine from a couple of weeks back, I mentioned as an aside my preference for the gritty, noir quality of sword & sorcery fantasy over the flash and bombast of high fantasy. As I’ve reflected on that offhand comment over the last days, I’ve wondered precisely what I meant by it. And I’ve wondered, both as a fantasy writer and a teacher of a fantasy and science fiction literature class, whether I even know what I mean by the terms high fantasy and sword & sorcery.
I’m not the only one to struggle with what seem like ill-defined terms. As the Wikipedia page on low fantasyargues, the distinction between high and low fantasy rests on where the action takes place: if the fantasy story takes place on another world (or a hidden world within this world), then it is high fantasy; if the action takes place in this world, then it is low fantasy. But this is hardly everyone’s definition: for many, the distinction between high fantasy and low fantasy involves the role of magic and morality in the story, not the question of where the story takes place. As the same Wikipedia page helpfully explains, “Thus, some works like Robert E. Howard‘s Conan the Barbarian series can be high fantasy according to the first definition but low fantasy according to the second.”
Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser have the same problem. . .but high fantasy or not, Dark Horse’s omnibus edition is coming soon!
So what did I mean when I said I preferred sword & sorcery to high fantasy? Well, here’s what I talk about when I talk about high fantasy: the world of the high fantasy novel or game is a cosmic battleground between the powers of good and evil. Magic is common, perhaps ubiquitous. The protagonists of the story or game–who are good–forge alliances and fellowships with other good creatures (often, and maybe usually, including elves, who often, maybe usually, represent an extreme incarnation of western beauty standards), who are locked in a mortal struggle with a host of evil creatures in the service of an even more evil master. If it sounds like I am describing The Lord of the Rings, I am: Tolkien’s work is usually held up as the type specimen of high fantasy. Many of the great high fantasy franchises you may be familiar with–like J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter, The Inheritance Cycle of Christopher Paolini, Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain, and the Forgotten Realms setting of Dungeons & Dragons–are influenced by Tolkien’s cosmology. Some are downright derivative, little more than Tolkien reskins.
Behold, good folk, your hot ally has arrived. Legolas cosplay at Chicago Comic Con 2014, Photographer Gabbo T
Sword & Sorcery, by contrast, involves fewer world-spanning struggles between good and evil; instead, sword and sorcery focuses more on the trials and adventures of a single adventurer or a handful of them. Those adventurers are not “good” in the sense that high fantasy uses the term. Rather, “heroes” of sword & sorcery fantasy are typically a bundle of contradictions, a mix of noble and base impulses–often, much like the characters of hard-boiled detective fiction, they are just conflicted people trying to get a dirty job done. In short, sword & sorcery protagonists are a lot more like us, at least on the inside.
Magic, too, is less flashy, and far less common, in the typical sword & sorcery story. Unlike high fantasy, where in many franchises practically everybody can shoot lightning bolts and fly about like the superheroes of an MCU movie, magicians in sword & sorcery are rare, misunderstood, and mysterious figures. They are often sinister or at least morally compromised, as though magical power itself involves a deep and unsavory moral choice. They are far likelier to act as antagonists in the story, representatives of a shadowy corruption that it’s the protagonist’s job to resist.
Many of the classic heroes of sword & sorcery literature–Conan, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, Elric–had their heyday over forty years ago. And it’s probably been since the 1980s that I really read those books voraciously. There is no doubt that some of the writers’ underlying assumptions about gender and race have not aged well at all (of course, the same has certainly been said, fairly or not, about Tolkien’s work). In calling for a renaissance of sword & sorcery, I’m not arguing for a return of the passive, white-skinned, Frazetta-drawn “chainmail bikini” damsel in distress to fantasy literature. Sword & sorcery is cool for a totally different set of reasons, reasons which I believe are separable from the socially retrograde ideas of some of the original sword & sorcery creators.
Rather, what sword & sorcery offers, and what I wish Dungeons & Dragons would take more seriously, is moral complexity. Instead of simplistic good-vs.-evil alignments and the racial essentialism of “savage orcs” and “cultured elves,” I’d like to see more D&D that presents players with competing visions of the good, with life a series of tradeoffs to be made rather than a body of questions that one gets right or wrong. I’d like to see a magic system where the costs of devoting oneself to magic–or even wielding a magic item–are high enough that not every player will pursue magic power.
Dungeons & Dragons isn’t really built around those ideas. Too much about alignment and race and magic in D&D seem to assume a high fantasy worldview, and most D&D creators and players clearly seem more comfortable in a Tolkien-inflected high fantasy world. But one of the things I love about the current edition of D&D–and which I hope will continue in the coming version–is the game’s open environment for modifying, for mixing-and-matching. D&D today is more like a great set of cookbooks than a list of prescriptive instructions. And, just as it would be a lot of ridiculous work to prepare every recipe in a cookbook at the same time, most good dungeon masters know not to use every class and race and monster and option presented in the D&D books, at least not at the same time. One can make a sword & sorcery campaign in D&D; it’s just a matter of removing a few of the million options presented in the books.
There is a lot that I still love about high fantasy. I still attend Tolkien’s Birthday Bash every January at McMenamins Kennedy School in Portland to watch 6-13 straight hours of LOTR movies. But I prefer to think of the world we live in as something other than a cosmic battle between pure good and pure evil. And I like my storytelling and games, no matter how fantastic, to say something about the world as it is, not the world that black-and-white thinkers imagine that it is.
I decided to go in for a new head shot recently. It’s been over six years since my most recent head shots, and not only have I gotten more wizened over that time, but I also have a new book coming out in the next few months.
As with my last photos, my new head shot is he work of the incomparable Pat Rose. You can check out her amazing work here: she’s an institution of Portland portraiture. Having my photo taken by her feels a lot like I imagine sitting for a painted portrait would feel, and at the end of it all she produces an image that is wonderful and painterly as though Jan Van Eyck had painted me.
So, in honor of the coming Exit Black (and of my advancing age), I give you “Portrait of Joe Pitkin, aged 52”. . .
Followers of this blog are familiar with my deep Dungeons & Dragons nerdity. I certainly felt the nerd in me rising over the last couple of weeks during my first ever trip to Spain: it’s hard not to be reminded of D&D when there is an ancient castle on every hill and a painting of knights in every church.
But one of the greatest D&D connections on this trip was unexpected to me. We managed to spend two glorious, sweltering days in Seville, “the frying pan of Spain,” and I was brought face to face with the literary roots of the thieves’ guild.
Skyline of Seville from the Giralda Tower. Photo Carlyn Eames
Many people, even non-D&D players, are aware of how many ideas from D&D were lifted whole cloth from Lord of the Rings: elves, dwarves, orcs, halflings, rangers. But the idea of the thieves’ guild–which is so central to D&D’s concept of the rogue–has no antecedent in Tolkien’s work. So far as I know (and please correct me, fantasy nerds, if you have a better story) the original thieves’ guild in fantasy comes from the work of Fritz Leiber, one of the titans of swords and sorcery fantasy. (By the way, I far prefer Leiber’s gritty, noir-ish vibe of swords and sorcery fantasy to the Wagnerian bombast of high fantasy–but that’s a subject for another post). Leiber’s odd-couple duo of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser often had to tangle with the thieves’ guild of Lankhmar, and so many of the details of that story made their way into D&D (and into Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, and The Elder Scrolls, and Assassin’s Creed, and a thousand other fantasy franchises). By the way, Dark Horse is publishing a new omnibus of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser in early 2024–I’m very excited to get my hands on it!
But where did Leiber’s concept of the thieves’ guild come from? I don’t know, and it may be impossible to know, but it’s almost certain that Leiber pulled the idea from earlier literature rather than from any historical criminal organization (which were generally gangs rather than guilds in the D&D sense).
The earliest literary treatment of the thieves’ guild that I am familiar with is Cervantes’ delightful story “Rinconete and Cortadillo,” which follows two likeable young rogues to the city of–you guessed it–Seville, where they get recruited into a hilarious (and oddly pious) thieves’ guild. Seville was, in Cervantes’ day, a kind of boom town and very much a city on the make, swollen with silver that the Spanish crown had plundered from the Americas. For about a hundred years or so, it was probably the wealthiest city in Europe (as well as a pretty gritty place).
The Seville tomb of a far less likeable rogue. Photo Carlyn Eames
When we visited, it was just charming and hot. But everywhere we looked, there were plaques memorializing events that appeared in Cervantes’ life and in “Rinconete and Cortadillo,” from Cervantes’ years in debtor’s prison (ironically, there’s a bank on the site now) to the spot on the cathedral steps where Cortadillo steals the sacristan’s handkerchief. We had our hotel room in the Casco Antiguo, right in the neighborhood where Rinconete and Cortadillo had their territory in the story. The whole experience lined up Cervantes with Leiber with Dungeons & Dragons in my soul like a wonderful convergence of nerdly planets.
Hello, literarians and assorted (and beloved) fellow weirdos!
I received an email from my publisher, Blackstone, yesterday with a publication schedule for my second novel, Exit Black. I’m excited to announce that my little bundle of joy is due to come out in February of 2024 (or, to use Cesare Emiliani’s Holocene Calendar, February 12024). I promise not to pester you about it every day for the next eight months!
I also promise not to ever refer to Exit Black as “my little bundle of joy” again. But it sure is a little bundle of something–little bundle of action? Little bundle of thrills? Little bundle of artfully strung-together words? That last one feels a little too on-the-nose.
I experienced a weird constellation of three events last week. First, my editor, my agent, and I hashed out the jacket copy for my upcoming novel, Exit Black. It was weird to realize that I was basically helping write ad copy for a book that I labored over for two years. Second, I sent out a query to a literary agent for the book I drafted after Exit Black, called Pacifica. (My current excellent and extant agent, Scott, works on film and TV projects, and Pacifica definitely isn’t movie material, so I am looking for a bookish agent as well).
And third, I was driving down Broadway in Portland when I saw this bumper sticker ahead of me:
Millennials and Zoomers–and their parents who might have watched Spongebob Squarepants with them twenty years ago–will recognize this as Squidward Tentacles’ self portrait, “Bold and Brash.” I was happily shocked to see it on a bumper sticker. And I realized when I saw it that this publication process I am experiencing with my books is drawing up all of my deeply Squidwardian impulses: my vanity, my hunger for approval, my inner conflict about how art intersects with commerce. Squidward, c’est moi.
If you need a blast from the past, or you somehow never saw the original, here is a clip of me Squidward from the episode “Artist Unknown:”
I’m late bringing this news to The Subway Test–a sign of the recent moribunditude of my blog. But last year I entered the Aura Estrada Short Story Contest at Boston Review and…I didn’t win. But my story, called “Nomenclator of the Revolution,” was a finalist for the award, and that means the story will be appearing in Boston Review soon!
One of the reasons I feel so proud to have “Nomenclator” coming out in Boston Review–besides the obvious, that Boston Review is an excellent publication which has hosted writing from titans like Rita Dove, John Updike, Susan Sontag, and Saul Bellow–is that “Nomenclator” had been rejected by 26 other magazines before it was accepted at Boston Review.
Which is another way of saying don’t invest too much meaning in any particular rejection of your work. When a story of mine is rejected a few times–say, half a dozen rejections or so–I do need to look hard at what I’m sending out. Maybe the piece isn’t ready. Maybe it’s not as good as I would like to believe it is. But once in a while, I scrutinize the much-rejected story and it still looks good to me. It’s hard to assess my own work honestly. But if I really believe the story is good, then I’ll keep sending it out until I find someone who agrees with me.
One of my formative memories as a writer was seeing the great poet William Stafford read at the end of his career. He would have been 75 or 76 years old at the time–a wizened, kindly fellow who I appreciated only later as one of the most important poetic voices in the 20th century. At one point in the reading, he introduced one of his poems by reciting the names of all the magazines and journals that had rejected it. The list was long–I don’t remember how many publications were on it–but, journal names being what they are, the list sounded like a poem of its own. I didn’t have the courage to tell Stafford how important his reading had been to me, and he died mot much later. But thank you, William Stafford, for reading that list when I was 19 years old.
But the novel I’m working on now, Pacifica, begins each of its 74 chapters with an epigraph. Much like the computer game Civilization, each chapter is named after one of the technologies that have made modern humanity possible. And, much like Civilization, each technology is accompanied by an apposite quote. Leonard Nimoy was the gold standard narrator for those quotes in Civilization IV (though Sean Bean has his moments in Civilization VI).
One of the most fun parts of drafting Pacifica has been finding the right quotes for each chapter. I picked from books and poems that I love (as well as a few books that I hated) to put together what I imagined as a kind of collage or mosaic of human knowledge. I imagined the task as something like a literary version of the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, where The Beatles assembled a photo-collage crowd of their favorite thinkers and artists and goofball influences.
Many technologies were easy to find quotes for. Especially for early technologies like pottery, masonry, and currency, there are a thousand great writers who had something pithy to say. Mostly I would page through books in my office, or CTRL-F through digitized books in Archive.org, to find quotes that spoke to the technology in question and also, hopefully, to the action of the chapter. Sometimes I had to draw the connections myself, in which case the quote turned into something of a writing prompt; other times the quote fit the chapter in deep and unexpected ways that I couldn’t have engineered if I tried.
Some of the later technologies were much harder: for instance, no one from Homer to Virginia Woolf seems to have much to say about the superconductor. Who could I quote for a tech like that?
It just so happened that by the time I got to the superconductor chapter of the book, everybody was talking about ChatGPT. At my college, the discussion revolves entirely around students’ using ChatGPT to plagiarize their essays, an issue which seems to me as trivial, in the grand scheme of dangers that ChatGPT represents, as the crew of the Titanic arguing about a shortage of urinal cakes in the men’s rooms of the Saloon Deck.
So I asked ChatGPT to find me some quotes about superconducting. It suggested some quotes from Larry Niven’s Ringworld and Niven’s and Jerry Pournelle’s The Mote in God’s Eye. They weren’t bad references, exactly–those books do mention superconducting–but none of them resonated with me. So I asked about Arthur C. Clarke, a fave of mine: surely, I thought, Clarke must have written somewhere about superconducting.
According to ChatGPT, Clarke has written about superconducting: of the two references ChatGPT gave me, the one which jumped out at me was this one: “Clarke’s short story ‘The Ultimate Melody,’ published in 1957, briefly mentions the use of superconducting materials in the construction of a futuristic musical instrument called the ‘ultimate melody.'” Now that’s a resonant quote–that would work perfectly for Pacifica!
So I looked up the story and read it (like 90% of Clarke’s short fiction, I had never read it before). Here’s the thing, though: there’s absolutely nothing about superconducting in that story! (For that matter, the futuristic musical instrument is called “Ludwig;” the ultimate melody was the ideal music the instrument was designed to find).
And here’s the other thing, which I discovered later: Arthur C. Clarke did write a short story, called “Crusade,” in which superconductivity is a central plot point. ChatGPT didn’t think to mention it (because ChatGPT doesn’t think yet). I tracked that story down with a simple DuckDuckGo search for “Arthur C. Clarke superconducting.” It’s an excellent story, by the way–very Arthur C. Clarke. And that story had the perfect quote, which fits both Pacifica and the life I feel I am living lately: “It was a computer’s paradise. No world could have been more hostile to life.“
So, for now, I agree with John Scalzi’s excellent assessment: “If you want a fast, infinite generator of competently-assembled bullshit, AI is your go-to source. For anything else, you still need a human.” That’s all changing, and changing faster than I would like, but I’m relieved to know that I’m still smarter than a computer for the next year or maybe two.
The Subway Test 
