A few years back, fellow speculative fiction author Daniel Abraham posted a very witty and amusing ‘Private Letter From Genre To Literature’ (aka “literary fiction”) on SF Signal. (It’s still worth a read if you havena done so already.)

Like everyone else at the time I chuckled quite a bit as I read it—except that even way back then, in the midst of the vasty wilds of 2011, I couldn’t help thinking that even penning such a letter implied a certain cultural cringe from genre to literature. As if, even in jest, the implication is that a genre such as SFF somehow requires the approval of so-called “literary fiction.”

The thing is, you see, to me “literary fiction” is just another genre with its own distinctive tropes, such as—to indulge in broad generalizations, which is what we do when we descend to categories and categorization—narrow plot scope or no plot at all; open, opaque, or ‘none-ending’ endings; an intensive-to-introverted focus on often unsympathetic characters; and the inclusion of gratuitous physical (usually sexual or urination/defecation related) detail as a shorthand for “realism.”

So from my point of view, given “SFF” (for example, although I could equally well discuss “crime” or other styles of literature) and “literary” are both genres with (broad-brush though not exclusive) distinctions of approach, subject matter and style, it seems pointless for one (or practitioners therein) to angst over the notice—or otherwise—of the other. To be honest, I think readers are smart enough to know good storytelling and good writing when they encounter it, regardless of labels and vested interests touting one style of literature or another as “superior.”

But I think we only see the truly ridiculous nature of the genre vs literary debate if we take “all sorts and conditions” of storytelling and extend the analogy out  to the world of those who (potentially might) read the books/stories. That world comprises all “sorts and conditions” of people: not just diverse nations, cultures, religions and ethnicities, but also fat people, thin people; tall people, short people; the fit and the unfit; the hirsute and the bald; the left-handed, the right-handed and the ambidextrous; the fair, the dark and the red-headed; as well as differences of sex and sexual preference… I think (hope!) we know the dangers inherent in trying to pick one element, or combination of elements, in all of this infinite human variety and say: “this is the exemplar, everything else the also-rans.”

Because that would be nonsense, right, we all know it. So why on earth do we keep perpetuating exactly that sort of differentiation with books and the “genre vs literary” circumnavigation of the writing mulberry bush—it sure beats me!
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One thing I am really convinced of is that the writer as storyteller has to be like Odysseus: you have to stay lashed to the mast in order to remain on course—but you also have to be able to listen to the sirens of story singing their myriad songs, so you can not only hear but tell of them after.
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I really enjoyed this Guardian article on:

“The weird afterlife of the world’s subterranean ‘ghost stations'”

So I thought I’d share it as something fun for your weekend—not least because it raises all sorts of speculative possibilities. 😉
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The Wall of Night Series map; design by Peter Fitzpatrick

The A Geography of Haarth post series is exploring the full range of locales and places from The Wall of Night world of Haarth. Each entry is accompanied by a quote from the books in which the place appears, currently either The Heir Of Night or The Gathering Of The Lost, or both.

Not only are we entering the final stage of our Haarth traverse today, by crossing onto the great plains of “W”—but the initial entry is the Wall of Night itself: how cool is that? (Very cool indeed, I think you’ll find.) 😉

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Wall of Night:  the vast mountain range that protects the world of Haarth from the Swarm of Dark. Garrisoned by the Derai Alliance, the Wall is said to have been created by the House of Night and is also called the Shield-wall of Night.
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“The Derai are warlike and fierce,” one storyteller had said solemnly, while another recounted an even older story that claimed the Derai were not from Haarth at all, but had come from the stars long ago. They had, the teller said in hushed tones, built their great strongholds in a night and a day while the world still reeled from their coming. The plains had been riven with earthquake and fire, every river and lake had boiled—and when the cataclysm was over the vast and terrible Wall of Night marched along the northern boundary of the world.

~ from © The Heir Of Night, The Wall of Night Book One: Chapter 16 — Woman of Winter
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“The Darkswarm warrior, Jehane Mor reflected as they crept toward the skylight, had to be a danger given the powers she had seen his kind use on the Wall of Night, five years before. No obvious aura surrounded the one in the courtyard, but the ability to detect others’ powers often depended on familiarity with their weaves. And that could work either for or against her now, depending on how much the Swarm knew about Haarth magic.”

~  from © The Gathering Of The Lost, The Wall of Night Book Two: Chapter 5 — The Guild House

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Last month I admitted that next to speculative fiction, the literary “genre” I like best is historical (and that I include both fiction and non fiction under that umbrella.)

Right now I’m reading another historical novel, Nicola Griffiths’ Hild—and so far, at around three quarters of the way through, I am absolutely loving it. I feel it is one of the best historical novels I have read in quite some time, not even excepting Hilary Mantel’s Booker prize-winning, Wolf Hall. (Which means I am spoiled, because I also really enjoyed my previous historical read, Robert Harris’s An Officer And A Spy.)

Seriously though, so far just about everything about Hild is fabulous: a great historical sense of seventh century, Anglo-Saxon Britain, excellent characterization—especially of Hild herself, but there’s a whole raft of other great characters, and just a wonderful richness of storytelling overall. I am really looking forward to completing the read and sharing my final thoughts.

My moment of puzzlement: Hild was nominated for a Nebula Award this year, which  is given by the Science Fiction Writers of America for works of science fiction or fantasy. But as above, I am currently a good three quarters of the way through this novel and so far can detect no sign of it being anything but historical fiction. So maybe I am the one who is confused, or maybe because Nicola Griffiths also wrote such wonderful novels as Ammonite (a longtime favourite) she is forever entwined with the genre in the good folk of SFWA’s minds…

Oh, what is Hild about you ask—well, the story is a fictionalized account of the early life of the woman who became St Hilda of Whitby. For a little more information, here’s the backcover blurb:

“Britain in the seventh century – and the world is changing. Small kingdoms are merging, frequently and violently. Edwin, King of Northumbria, plots his rise to overking of all the Angles. Ruthless and unforgiving, he is prepared to use every tool at his disposal: blood, bribery, belief. Into this brutal, vibrant court steps Hild – Edwin’s youngest niece.

With her glittering mind and powerful curiosity, Hild has a unique way of reading the world. By studying nature, observing human behavior and matching cause with effect, she has developed the ability to make startlingly accurate predictions. It is a gift that can seem uncanny, even supernatural, to those around her.

It is also a valuable weapon. Hild is indispensable to Edwin – unless she should ever lead him astray. The stakes are life and death: for Hild, for her family, for her loved ones, and for the increasing numbers who seek the protection of the strange girl who can see the future and lead men like a warrior.

In this vivid, utterly compelling novel, Nicola Griffith has brought the Early Middle Ages to life in an extraordinary act of alchemy. Drawn from the story of St Hilda of Whitby – one of the most fascinating and pivotal figures of the age – Hild transports the reader into a mesmerising, unforgettable world.”

“Vivid and utterly compelling”: so far, I heartily agree with that.

~ by Rebecca Fisher

Introduction:

Every Saturday morning my sister and I would get up early to creep down the hall and watch an episode of Batman: The Animated Series. And it’s a good thing the show did air in the mornings, because absorbing what it had to offer right before bedtime probably would have resulted in a lot of bad dreams. As it was, I had a nightly ritual for a number of years in which I had to check the end of the bed for Scarecrow.

Running from 1992 to 1995, Batman embraced a film noir atmosphere with appropriately themed Gothic architecture and 1950s-era clothing and vehicles. Elements like police blimps and black-and-white televisions existed alongside high-tech gadgets and computer systems, creating a unique visual style.

The “dark deco” skyline of Gotham City

It was this tone more than anything else that suggested the show was targeted toward an older audience, and though there have been several cartoons since that have garnered a similar amount of acclaim (Avatar: The Last Airbender, Gargoyles) I like to think that it all started with Batman. If nothing else, it was this show that kick-started DC’s successful cartoon franchise, followed by several animated films (Mask of the Phantasm, Mystery of the Batwoman) and superhero spin-offs (Superman: The Animated Series, Justice League and Batman Beyond).

The show was exciting, suspenseful, insightful and surprisingly dark at times, and the writing team was unafraid to end any given episode on a poignant – even tragic, note.

Premise:

Surely you know it by now. Bruce Wayne is a wealthy philanthropist by day and a masked vigilante by night, inspired by the death of his parents to stamp out crime in Gotham City. In fact, the show’s opening sequence perfectly encapsulates the show’s premise: Batman’s wealth and agility, his use of fear tactics and high-tech gadgets, his disdain for guns and his respect to the law by leaving the police to find the criminals he has just overpowered.

Along the way he’s assisted by the trustworthy Commissionaire Gordon and his loyal butler Alfred, and eventually joined by Dick Greyson (Robin/Nightwing), Barbara Gordon (Batgirl) and Tim Drake (the second Robin), all donning their own cowls and capes to dispense justice alongside him.

Batgirl, Batman, Robin and Nightwing

But of course, it’s only half a Batman show without its Rogue’s Gallery, and this is where the show really excelled. Far from being a collection of oddly-themed criminals, the writers ensured that almost all of them had clearly defined motivation and an explanatory backstory. From Harvey Dent (Two-Face) to Pamela Isley (Poison Ivy) to Matt Hagen (Clayface), each one is established as a person first and a villain second.

But despite adding some level of sympathy to each one, whether thwarted love, substance abuse, misguided activism or psychological breakdowns, the show doesn’t stint on how dangerous they all are. Most of them are nursing personal vendettas against Batman as well as anything from petty crime to attempts at world domination.

Story:

Each episode dealt with Batman fighting a particular crook. It sounds simple enough, but the formula was often played with by telling the story from the point-of-view of a sidekick, bystander, or even one of the villains.

Some of the villains in the Rogue’s Gallery

But what surprised me most during my rewatch was how many of the villains weren’t particularly flashy at all. A lot of the time Batman has to deal with the likes of crime lords like Rupert Thorne, corrupt corporate executives like Roland Dagget, sadistic security guards like Lyle Bolton, or convicts like Lloyd Ventrix, a man who’s gotten his hands on an invisibility suit and plans to use it to kidnap his daughter from his ex-wife.

None of them are “supervillains” in any sense of the word; instead they’re ordinary people misusing whatever amount of power or responsibility they possess. It’s a theme that fits in nicely with a superhero who doesn’t have any preternatural powers, and who uses his significant wealth and privilege to make the streets safer for their most vulnerable citizens.

Characters:

The show is full of iconic characters and voice actors, from the dark and brooding Batman (Kevin Conway) to the slinky and amoral Catwoman (Adrienne Barbeau) to the totally unhinged Joker (Mark Hamill). Most of these characters are faithful adaptations of their comic book incarnations, but this show made two noteworthy contributions to the Batman mythos.

The first was the creation of Harley Quinn, a bright and perky henchman (er, woman) to the Joker, caught in a sadomasochistic relationship that she just couldn’t break free from. Oddly tragic and cheery at the same time, she proved so popular with audiences that she eventually got her own comic book series.

Mr Freeze remembers his wife

The second was Mr Freeze, previously characterized as a gimmick with a freeze gun, reimagined here as a scientist called Victor Fries whose wife is cryogenically frozen due to a debilitating illness. After a laboratory accident (these things happen a lot in comics), he is forced to don a freeze suit to keep him in sub-zero temperatures. Out for both revenge and a cure for his wife, the audience is painfully aware that even if she is brought back to health, he can never truly be with her again.

The closing shot of him sitting in his cold jail cell, staring at a revolving ballet dancer on a music box is among the show’s most haunting scenes, emblematic of Batman’s edgy tone.

Conclusion:

Batman holds a lot of fond memories for me, and probably for my sister as well (thanks to this show, it was about three years before she stopped answering “Catwoman” to the question of what she wanted to be when she grew up).

But as a child I was unable to appreciate many finer details, such as the fact it was the first cartoon to have a realistic depiction of guns, or some of the genuinely disturbing animation (Clayface’s transformations or the Scarecrow’s drug-induced nightmares are things you probably wouldn’t get away with putting on a children’s show these days).

Filled with so many classic episodes that it would take too long to list them all, Batman is one of the most important animated shows out there, one which set the tone for many more to follow in its footsteps.

Next Time: Dr Who

It’s time to tackle one of the big kahunas. Currently on its eighth season (though technically it’s been running since 1963) Doctor Who is one of the biggest science-fiction franchises out there – so big in fact that I’m going to restrict my overview to the first season of 2005 reboot, starring Christopher Eccleston as the titular Doctor.
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About The Reviewer:

Rebecca Fisher is a graduate of the University of Canterbury with a Masters degree in English Literature, mainly, she claims, because she was able to get away with writing her thesis on C.S. Lewis and Philip Pullman. She is a reviewer for FantasyLiterature.com, a large website that specializes in fantasy and science-fiction novels, as well as posting reviews to Amazon.com and her They’re All Fictional blog.

To read Rebecca’s detailed introduction of both herself and the series, as well as preceding reviews, click on:

Big Worlds On Small Screens

The Fox

The fox is a single red stroke that cuts across
the clearing. The colour seems to hang like smoke,
you can almost see where she has come from.
Her musk (though you can smell nothing)
is specific like a thumbprint on the air.
It isn’t raining but there’s a kind of wet
on your face, a stickiness of insect juices dropped.
The fox is rusty-dull, discreet, not radiant or hot
or pulsing. Not agitated. Not randy.
She is completely dream and intelligence
sliding through the wet grass, the stinging nettles,
the little brittle helmets of dry seed,
a flower or two, relics of the drizzly, petalled summer.
The lyric fox goes down to the creek
where dark and dankness will mask her scent
and the lovely rosette of her face.
She’ll be able to pause there, for a while, sip water
while the dogs swirl and bell in front of the Big House.

(c) Bernadette Hall

from The Lustre Jug (VUP) 2009

The Fox was a Best New Zealand Poem 2009

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Fine poems should be read and heard more than once, so I’m continuing with my series of relooking at poets who have had multiple poems featured here on “…Anything, Really” since I joined the Tuesday Poem community in June 2010. Bernadette Hall’s “The Fox” was both one of the early poems featured, on 17 August 2010, and has also been one of the most enduringly popular in terms of readers’ visits. I hope you enjoy re-reading it today.

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About Bernadette Hall:

Bernadette Hall is best known for her poetry but also writes short fiction. She has published ten collections of poetry, the most recent being ‘Life & Customs’ (Victoria University Press 2013). Also in 2013, her edition of poems by the Christchurch writer, Lorna Staveley Anker, was published by Canterbury University Press. Titled ‘The Judas Tree’ it reveals Lorna Anker as New Zealand’s first woman war poet with memories of both World Wars. The Dunedin composer Anthony Ritchie used seven of Bernadette’s Stations of the Cross poems in a symphony which premiered in Christchurch on the 22^nd of February this year as a memorial to those who died and those who have suffered as a result of the 2011 earthquake.

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To check out the featured poem on the Tuesday Poem Hub and other great poems from fellow Tuesday poets from around the world, click here or on the Quill icon in the sidebar.

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On September 12, The Guardian featured an indepth interview with renowned author, Harumi Murakami. I thoroughly recommend it to you if you have not read it already:

The Guardian: An Interview With Harumi Murakami

‘ “Strange things happen in this world,” Haruki Murakami says. “You don’t know why, but they happen.”
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The interview is wide-ranging, but the parts that really resonated for me were when Murakami spoke about the writing process. Here are a few examples :

‘ “I like to write. I like to choose the right word, I like to write the right sentence… in the right place. That kind of engineering is exhausting, though: a daily trip to the “basement of the mind” and back up again. “…You have to dedicate yourself to that work. You have no extra space to do something else.” ‘

Also:

‘ “I take time to rewrite,” he explains. “Rewriting is my favourite part of writing. The first time is a kind of torture, sometimes. Raymond Carver [whose work Murakami has translated into Japanese] said the same thing. I met him and I talked with him in 1983 or 84, and he said: ‘The first draft is kind of torture, but when you rewrite it’s getting better, so you are happy…” ‘

And this:

‘ “I don’t like deadlines …when it’s finished, it’s finished. But before then, it is not finished.” ‘

No doubt other parts of the interview may resonate for you, but when I read these sections in particular I thought: Yup, I hear you!

Suffrage Memorial, Christchurch

This past week I celebrated a range women characters with “agency” from my books, as my own personal tribute to Women’s Suffrage week, celebrating 121 years of all women in NZ getting the vote.

And before the weekend was out I promised you an Easter Egg, which in this context is an important character who wasn’t canvassed during the week. So here goes, folks:

Meet Yorindesarinen, From The Heir Of Night & The Gathering Of The Lost

So why leave Yorinesarinen until now? Readers hear about her in the first pages of The Heir Of Night, but don’t actually meet her for a while. Because here’s the thing, y’see: as well as being amongst the greatest heroes of the Derai, a really important aspect of this character is that she’s dead…

But let’s meet her now as you would in The Heir Of Night:

“A fire was burning in the center of the clearing and a figure sat beside it, wrapped in a dark, hooded cloak. “You may come closer,” the cloaked figure bade them, without turning around. The voice that spoke was a woman’s, low and clear and pleasant. “It’s quite safe.”  … The woman reached up and pushed back the hood, revealing a face that was unmistakably Derai. A net of tiny white stars held the cloud of her black hair in place, while the moonlight revealed high cheekbones above a strong jaw, shadowed eyes, and a humorous curve to the mouth. “Welcome to my fire,” she said…

…Wordlessly, she opened her cloak so they could see the mail beneath, gleaming silver in the moonlight. While they watched it became dull, hacked in a hundred places, with blood dried black around the wounds and in slow runnels across the armor’s surface. “In the world beyond the Gate of Dreams,” Yorindesarinen said, “I did indeed die long ago, slain in my battle with the Worm of Chaos, even though I killed it at the last. We did for each other, that Worm and I.” As she finished speaking, the hacked and bloodied armor transformed into gleaming silver again.”

And then again in The Gathering Of The Lost:

“Desperate, the fleeing creature plunged into a deep fog bank, flowing beneath a long-fallen tree and out the other side. The trees here were taller, their vast trunks soaring skyward around a narrow glade with a small fire burning at its heart. A woman with stars in her hair sat beside the fire, the hood of her cloak thrown back as she played cat’s cradle with the flames. The creature hesitated, but the pursuing darkness was pressing close behind, crackling out power like a lightning storm. Terrified, the creature darted toward the fire, cowering low as the woman rose. Her expression was grim as she surveyed the being crouched at her feet. “Someone,” she said, “has used you hard.”

The woman looked through the fog toward the approaching storm and raised her right hand, still with the fire in it. The flame roared, leaping skyward, then twisted into a ribbon that circled them both. In the distance, hounds howled, and the fire blazed hotter, becoming a conflagration. The star-crowned woman’s smile was thin. “Even Nindorith,” she said, “will not like to meet that hunt.” She turned the other way and the flames parted, opening onto a rugged mountainside in northern Emer. “Go,” she bade the creature at her feet. “And stay away from Derai in future, for we are not kind to those who cross either our will or our path.”

The creature slipped away, disappearing into the Emerian dusk. The fire roared again, reforming into a mirror through which Yorindesarinen’s scarred face studied Malian, who gazed back at her through the medium of the dream…”
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I hope you have enjoyed your “Easter egg.”

As for what’s with the long names—well, that’ a subject for another post. 😉

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To check out some of the other women characters, all—I hope—with “agency”, from my writing , click on:

I Celebrate NZ Women’s Suffrage—By Celebrating My Women Characters: Part 1, The Heir Of Night

I Celebrate NZ Women’s Suffrage—By Celebrating My Women Characters: Part 2, Thornspell

Celebrating Women Characters: The Gathering Of The Lost

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To read more about September 19 and NZ women’s suffrage, try:

Christchurch City Libraries: Votes For Women — 19 September 1893

Te Ara, The Encyclopedia of New Zealand: Voting Rights

Kate Sheppard, who led the campaign for the vote

“Do not think your single vote does not matter much. The rain that refreshes the parched ground is made up of single drops” – Kate Sheppard.

What she said: that woman was all kinds of awesome.

Plus, if you don’t like the government you’ve got, or how any government operates, don’t treat citizenship and democracy like spectator sports: they ain’t.

Hokay, said my piece–time to get off my bench and onto the field of play.