Monthly Archives: January 2016

75. Parts of Speech, Oh, No!

yol 3The next posts are tagged teaching, as well as the usual SF, fantasy and writing. I taught school for twenty-seven years, mostly science, along with a little of everything else, including reading and writing. So pardon me while I rant a little.

My idea of Hell is being an English teacher, working all day with textbooks written by Satan’s emissaries, then going home and spending all night correcting horrible writing. My idea of an angel is someone who does that out of duty, or love of writing, or love of children.

The problem with English textbooks is that they are written by people who can’t write. Or rather, have only written for other English teachers, who learned their trade by writing for other English teachers, who learned their trade . . .

If textbook writers had to sell their wares at Barnes and Noble, they would starve. But people don’t buy textbooks, bureaucrats do.

Let’s start with the most basic lie textbooks tell.

Your Own Language, 3: Parts of Speech, Oh, No!

The next time someone asks you if (insert word of your choice) is a noun, the correct answer is:

  • Yes
  • No
  • Sometimes, but not always
  • It all depends.

That seems evasive, but it is actually the correct answer.

Parts of speech exist and are critically important in understanding and mastering English, but they are not things, they are functions. I am tempted to say verbs not nouns, but partially accurate analogies confuse more than they help.

Wait! I saw you reaching for that off switch.

Of course you are an adult, and far from grammar school (an interesting concept, “grammar school”) but some of you are teachers and most of you are parents, or will be. I want to show you a fallacy. It won’t take long.

Parts of speech morph. Verbs turn into nouns, which turn into verbs again, sometimes with odd results. When I was a boy, if a salesman had said he had to service his customers, he would have been making an off-color sexual reference. Service meant sex, in absence of emotion; bulls serviced cows. Or it meant the carrying out of a mechanical act. The serviceman (noun) at the service (adjective) station serviced (verb) your car.

A salesman served (verb) his customers, and that act was the service (noun) he provided for them. Over my lifetime I have seen the noun service become a verb again with results that still sound wrong to my ear.

Nail. It is a word, but it is not a part of speech. It can act as a part of speech, that is, it can take on a function, but which function it takes on can’t be guessed by seeing the word in isolation.

“He hung his shirt on a nail.” Clearly nail is a noun here because of its function in a sentence.

“Nail that board back up on the fence where the dog knocked it down.” Clearly nail is a verb here because of its function.

“His new nail gun increased his productivity.” Here nail is an adjective.

Most of the time, as children in school, or as adults learning a foreign language, we get our parts of speech as lists to be memorized in isolation. If a child is told to memorize a list of nouns – bat, ball, dog, horse, house – we have already begun a lifelong pattern of generating ignorance. The brightest students will learn in spite of the handicaps thrown in their way; the rest will decide they are too stupid to learn. And all because we taught them things that aren’t true.

Prince of Exile, 3

Satyr noticed him first and gestured. Base line human, I would have said. The horse was more interesting than the rider, though its only visible modifications were a mane and tail that shifted colors from blue to white to yellow to red, like the last flames that flicker about the embers of a dying fire.

I decided that the horse was chosen to divert attention from the rider, although it was hardly necessary. You’ve never seen a more nondescript Everyman. Even now, I can’t recall the color of his hair or eyes.

He halted in the road before us, doffed his hat – bland gray, of course – and addressed himself to the Prince, saying, “Felicitations. Are you en route to Gleian Ellerick?”

The Prince smiled back and said, “We are. And yourself?”

“The same.”

“Then join us. Here, ride beside me.”

Satyr raised one hair-winged eyebrow at me and I shrugged. Nondescript to the point of invisibility – a thief, no doubt. Perhaps a warning was in order, but he had chosen his profession.

Satyr prodded his dark mount and the creature bounded away. It could not keep the same pace as a horse and they were relieved when it raced ahead. The thief remained, speaking ingratiatingly to the Prince.

*****

What a crew we were! Satyr I will not describe for you.  His name tells you how we saw him, but I could never be sure that it was not merely a mediant shape he chose; a half-demon sufficiently fearsome that it would keep us from pressing him for sight of the greater horror within.

Rollan, Arhe, and Darian were human to the eye and hid the inhumanities of their souls. Or maybe they were merely human – but if so, why were they among us? Myrcryr wore a human body, but his eyes gave him away, and Greyleaf was a cold wind that blew through my soul.

*****

Greyleaf nudged her horse up to walk beside mine, and I wondered if that last, vagrant thought had summoned her. I would never know. She sat straight in the high saddle and her eyes were on the Prince and his new companion. Her skin was tight against the bones of her face. Her age was indeterminate. Her hair was brown, swept back from her high forehead and held there with a band of russet silk that passed behind her ears. Her tunic was of faded saffron, and her fringed skirt was of deerskin. Her eyes were gray, and I had learned early not to look into them. She had been with the Prince nearly as long as I had.

I did not dislike her, but I feared her.

“Another thief,” she observed.

“Another fool,” I agreed.

She looked sideways at me and smiled. Her eyes asked silently when I had become wise enough to judge another man’s foolishness. She could crush a man with that smile.

We rode on in weary silence toward the valley and toward an inn I hoped would be at least somewhat congruent with my memories. more tomorrow

74. Writing vs. Storytelling

yol 2Your Own Language, 2: Writing vs. Storytelling

Here is a confession. I’ve never read Harry Potter. I’ve tried, but I could never get through the first book; the writing was too dull for me. It would have been fine for a romance, or a modern slice-of-life, or even a western, but fantasies need to sing. At least in my universe.

A Potterfanatic friend of mine tells me that the movies follow the books extremely well, and I find the movies superb. Whatever I think of Rowling’s writing style, she is a first-class storyteller.

We have to judge Homer entirely on his storytelling, since no one has ever heard his original delivery.

Shakespeare is noted for both language and storytelling, and I don’t dispute it. But just between us, if you took one of his comedies with its misunderstandings and cross-dressing disguises, and stripped it of its beautiful language, wouldn’t it look at home on I Love Lucy?

Pavane, by Keith Roberts, is one of my favorites for beauty of writing. If you read the reviews on Goodreads, you will find a strong division between those who praise the beauty of his writing and those who find him confusing, disorganized, and sometimes lacking in believability. I can’t buy that, because his writing trumps any weaknesses in storytelling – for me.

In my own writing, if I had to choose I would take beauty of writing over storytelling. But we don’t choose; we strive for both.

Of course, it’s all artificial. Analysis always is, but analysis is a useful tool if you don’t let it get in the way of creativity. Critics use analysis to tell us how we screwed up, and rarely, what we did right. We use analysis to try to catch our faults before they can.

What about you? This series of posts are meant for would-be writers, not casual onlookers. Which side of the writing vs. storytelling dichotomy do you come down on?

Try this experiment. Choose a favorite novel, then look it up in Goodreads and read at least thirty reviews. You might want to beware of the respondents who are young readers just getting their wings, but you will probably find most of them to be mature and intelligent. It can be eye opening to see how many different ways readers react to the same work.

There are masterpieces that everybody loves and dogs that can’t find a friend, but I find the mid-rated books most instructive. They tend to have their advocates and detractors arrayed around the notion of beauty of writing vs. strong storytelling. I can usually see both viewpoints even when they are trouncing one of my favorites. Or praising something I find unreadable.

Here is another experiment. Try it if you dare. Take the twenty books you most love, the ones which have changed your life. Look them up in Goodreads. If everybody hates what you most love, you may not be destined to be the next Stephen King.

Or not; you never know.

Prince of Exile, 2

1.

In a far country, the King lay dying.

News had spread throughout the region. For a long time he had grown steadily weaker. Even the peasants in the fields and shopkeepers in the town below Castle Hill knew that the end was near.

As the King lingered on the edge of death, the courtiers, servants, nieces and nephews who normally surrounded him were all shut out by Croayl, the priest.  Croayl and the King had spent their lives together, yet no two men were more different. The King was a man of passions, fiercely held and freely stated. Croayl was all inward. Throughout his lifetime, the King’s court had been open; now at the end of his life, Croayl closed off access to him. It was an ill omen.

2.

We came down out of the hills in the afternoon. The promise of rain had not been fulfilled and a west wind was driving the clouds away before it. Boiling over our heads, they changed from gray to white as the sunlight increased. The hills around us were covered with low, brown grasses. Higher up, hidden by the convolutions of the foothills, snow had begun falling on the steeper slopes, sifting down among the pines, gentle, quiet, and deadly.

I gave thanks to be out of it. The passes we had crossed would be closed for days, and that too was a comfort, for we had been pursued.

It was often that way in the service of the Prince of Exile.

We were weary of riding, all but the Prince, as we made our way downslope in a silent file. There were seven of us in all. People are always joining the Prince’s retinue, following a while for reasons of their own, then wandering off to find their own destiny. But it seemed to me that in the last few years, more had come than had left, and I was uncomfortable traveling with so many.

Now we were making our way down out of the mountains toward the warmth of the valley and, hopefully, toward the comforts of an inn I knew. I could have asked the Prince if this was indeed Gleian Ellerick, but he has a disconcerting way of turning even a simple question into an exercise in metaphysics. It did not matter to me what its ontological status was, as long as my bed was warm.

The Prince was willing to let me remain incurious as long as I did not ask questions that he could misconstrue as philosophical. It was one of the reasons I still followed him after all these years.

How many years? Sorry, that’s one of those questions. You’ll understand what I mean as we move along. more tomorrow

73. Your Own Language

    YOL 1 Welcome to 2016. I have been dense-packing this website with nine posts per week since mid-2015, in support of the upcoming release of Cyan, the novel which signals my return from the graveyard of forgotten writers.
     Science fiction readers tend to be closet or would-be writers themselves. With that in mind, the next eight posts in A Writing Life will be an unabashed how-to series.

Your Own Language
first post of 8

I have spent the last fifty-five years perfecting the ability to write in a dead language – grammatical English.

Before you close me out without reading further, let me assure you that I fight back against English grammar as much as anyone else who deals with it daily. The grammar books of my childhood and youth were of little use in learning to write well; the ones I saw during my years as a teacher were positively harmful. Most of what they taught needed to be unlearned to avoid becoming a mental cripple.

I have come to these two conclusions about English.

  • Those who slavishly follow grammatical rules end up sounding like pretentious fools.
  • Those who ignore grammatical rules end up sounding like ignorant fools.

As Kirk said to Spock, the truth lies somewhere in between.

I grew up on a farm outside a tiny town in Oklahoma. The version of English my people spoke did not follow Strunk and White, but it still had rules. You would never say to a friend, “Y’all come over after work.” Only ignorant Northerners said that when mocking us. You would say, “Come over after work,” or, “Would you like to come over after work.” In the South, you is second person singular and y’all (you all) is second person plural, a grammatical nicety far superior to the way standard English collapses singular and plural into a single word.

It wasn’t standard grammar, but it was grammar nonetheless, and if you didn’t follow the rule, you looked ignorant.

If I had planned to be a farmer, I would simply have talked like everybody around me. It is a valid dialect, capable of great expressiveness. But I had decided to go to college to become a scientist, so I had to master standard English.

Try that is a tiny town in Oklahoma in the fifties. I dare you.

Fifty-some years, two master’s theses, and many novels later, I’m still working at it. Here are some of the things I’ve learned along the way.

  • There is no such thing as Standard English.
  • What I took for Standard English and spent a lifetime mastering was only a snapshot of a continuously changing scene.
  • The language I made my own, has largely disappeared.
  • What typically passes for English today is as chaotic as a bowl of alphabet soup, but . . .
  • If you choose a typical passage written in 1950, or 1900, or 1850, or 1800 it will be equally chaotic.
  • Chaotic or not, readers read and understand the writing of their own era. And pay for it, if it’s interesting or exciting.
  • Generally speaking, so-so writers make more money than really wonderful writers, if they are also excellent storytellers.
  • You have to create your own version of English.

Prince of Exile, 1, introduction

Welcome back to Serial in its normal form. I did not want my fantasy short story Prince of Exile broken up by a change of year. Beginning tomorrow, it will appear in eleven additional posts, with this post as an introduction.

I have been writing fantasy of one kind or another since the beginning. In 1972 I wrote the opening lines of Valley of the Menhir, (post 39) three years before I decided to try my hand at novels. Most of the fantasy I’ve written has been in that universe; the Land of the Menhir has become almost a second home to me.

This story stands separate and a lot further along the continuum from medieval to mythical. It takes place adjacent to a land of Kings and barmaids, and in that land at the same time – sort of. The Prince is more than a little hard to pin down.

The initial rush of emotion that told me I had a story crying to be written came when I first heard the Doors’ performance of Celebration of the Lizard on their 1970 album Absolutely Live. When I heard . . .

Brothers and sisters of the pale forest
Children of the night
—–
Tomorrow we enter the town of my birth
I want to be ready.

. . . I knew I had to take those words, absorb them, transmute them, and bring them back again. The story that emerged did not contain the words of the poem; nevertheless, they are its genesis and essence.

(Pardon the brevity of the quotation; I am punctilious about not stealing other artist’s words.)

Two other fragments were necessary to this story; I am a fan of Michael Moorcock and of Elric, but Stormbringer always repelled me. In part 2, I decided to offer my anti-Stormbringer in rebuke.

The second fragment comes from childhood, from a book called Wild Animals I have Known by Ernest Thompson Seton, which I bought when I was about twelve. In one of his stories, all based on real events, Seton says, “Every true story ends in death.” Or so my mind constructed his meaning; I still have the book, but I have never since been able to find the passage that affected me so deeply. Most likely, I had rebuilt his actual words, “The life of a wild animal always has a tragic end,” which is a subtly but critically different observation.

Over the years, while recognizing the reality of Seton’s statement, whatever words he actually used to convey it, I have also come to realize that the opposite is equally true. No action, for good or ill, ends with the actor’s life. All the things we do have reverberations that long outlive us. In other words, “No true story ever ends.”

In Prince of Exile, I finally found the right place to use that conundrum.

You might guess from the length of this introduction that Prince of Exile is something special to me. I may be my favorite among all the things I’ve written. Although it would be hard to rank Prince above something I’ve spent years polishing, at least pound for pound it ranks first.

There is one flaw in the story, which I have no intention of fixing. If you were to read it cold, you would  expect to find that the prince is the king’s son. No. The King is a king; the Prince is the prince. Not related the way you would think at all. Logically, I should change one or the other, but I can no more do that than Ursula LeGuin could change Ged’s name because someone might think she meant God. Anyway, structural flaws don’t mean so much in a story that comes from this deep.   Prince of Exile begins tomorrow.

72. New Year on a New Planet

Welcome to 2016. Even though my upcoming novel Cyan has been moved back to an April release date, some of the Cyan related posts are tied to the solar calendar. For example . . .

Why do we start our year on “New Years Day”? The Chinese don’t. Traditional Jews don’t. Islamic nations don’t. Our New Year might make some sense if it started on an equinox or a solstice, but it doesn’t.

Where does a circle – or an orbit – start? Silly question; it doesn’t. Yet we have seasons, and seasons make the year. Where we start counting the days of that year is arbitrary. And if there were no seasons, as on Cyan where there is no axial tilt . . .

Gus Leinhoff, one of the first explorers of Cyan, said:

The philosopher observes that the life of a man is like the passing of the seasons, from springlike birth, through the autumn of age, and winter’s death. In spring’s rebirth, year after year, the philosopher’s metaphor becomes the prophet’s revelation, as we try to see a new life for ourselves after the death that awaits us all.

What philosophies and religions might come out of this planet of endless springtime, and how will our children understand the briefness of their own lives without the endless cycle of seasons to provide a metaphor for their understanding.

Perhaps Gus worried too much. Humans are resilient, and the DNA evolved by a billion years on Earth cannot be reset quickly. Twenty years after the first colonists arrived on Cyan . . .

The long days and seasonless years had begun to seem normal, even to the oldest colonists. There was a whole generation of Cyan-born children, nearly thirty thousand of them now, who had known nothing else. The humans weren’t quite emulating a yeast culture, but they were multiplying fast.

Birthdays were artificial reminders of the yearly rhythms of old Earth. They served no practical function on Cyan, but they had become important rituals, just as the old, nearly abandoned holiday of Xmas (or Christmas as some extreme purists still called it) had been revived to mark the end of a year. An Earth year, that is, which was the only kind of year anyone memorialized.

A trip around Procyon where nothing changes can hardly be called a year.

from Spoon River

hiatusSpoon River Anthology: Lucinda Matlock

Edgar Lee Masters is not overlooked, and his Spoon River is well known, but not well enough. It would be hard for it to have its due, since it is, for my taste anyway, one of the crowning achievements of American literature.

Masters lets his 200 plus characters speak their minds without authorial censorship. They are grave, gay, kind, angry, cynical, full of love, full of hatred, spewing venom and offering forgiveness. Masters never tries to arbitrate. He simply lets them tell their stories from the grave, but he does juxtapose. Tom Merritt tells of being killed by his wife’s lover, then his wife tells her story, then the killer tells his. Three stories on three pages, but with viewpoints so different they could be in different universes.

Choosing a poem to illustrate Spoon River could become an exercise in choosing what I believe, thus skewing the picture. Spoon River is huge in variety. Like the Bible, you can find arguments somewhere in it to bolster any position.

Instead, I’ll give you what seems to be Masters’ favorite, the story of his grandmother, given under another name.

Lucinda Matlock
from The Spoon River Anthology
Edgar Lee Masters – 1915

I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed —
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you —
It takes life to love Life.

Hiatus, sort of ends today. The fantasy short story Prince of Exile will begin here Monday.