Tag Archives: literature

723. Humanity

 

Humanity

When it becomes too lonely to be “I”,
All the “I”s become “we”.
That is the beginning of culture.

Being “we” creates “them”.
That is the beginning of war

There were no blacks until white men created them.
They were just people of a darker complexion
on another continent, going about their lives.

Then they were captured,
bound, transported, and reborn in another land.
Abused, held down, tormented, and therefore feared.

Made into a new people.

It didn’t matter that they came from the Bushveld or Karoo,
The Swahili Coast or the Congo, Kalahari or Natal . . .
White people mashed all the Africans into one lump
and called them n—–.

We don’t use that word any more,
but we use the same thinking.

There were no Indians until the whites arrived.
No Native Americans, either.

(Native Americans!
Named after an arrogant map maker,
instead of a mistake made by an Italian
working for the Spanish
who never did know where he was.)

Before European explorers came
There were Apache and Blackfeet, Cheyenne and Dakota,
Hopi and Kickapoo, Kiowa and Mi’kmaq,
Osage and Paiute, Quapaw and Chippewa.

Hundreds of little groups, at war with one another.
Each the center of their own universe,
until they became one people in the eyes of the Europeans.

But that’s not all.

There were no Whites in Europe, either.
They didn’t become Whites until they reached America.

In Europe they were French and Polish,
Italian and Greek,
Russian and Romanian,
English, Welsh, Scottish, and Irish,
Gypsies and Danes.

They hated each other,
They fought with each other, they killed each other.
There was no unity in Europe either.

“Unity” came everywhere
when the little groups became bigger groups,
usually against their will.

It happens on our side,
It happens on their side, too.
And then we fight.

Do we have to wait for the flying saucers to land,
and give us a common enemy?

Will it take that to force humans
to become humanity?

722. Index to Learning from the Masters

My job should be to write books and leave the teases, the blurbs, and the come-ons to the publisher, but life never did give anyone what he wanted without some pain attached. Self-publishing is basically everything I never wanted. Oh, well.

 

Since I have to tease to get readers, I intend to do it well. Last week I told you about Learning from the Masters which will be coming out in about a year.

Here is an even better tease — the index. 

Yes, I know that is a ridiculous amount of scrolling, but its a large book full of small essays.   

IT STARTED WITH POETRY
Discovering Khyyam

HEINLEIN
Lost Legacy
The Three Stages of Heinlein
Heinlein’s Harems
What’s in a Name: Heinlein characters
RAH and Methuselah’s Children
Heinlein and the Hippies
Opposite visions: Starship and Stranger
Time Enough for Love
Five by Heinlein
RAH: The Man Who Sold the Moon
The Number of the Beast

THE OTHER OLD MASTERS OF SFF
Worlds of Ursula K. Le Guin
Harlan Ellison
Asimov’s Good Life
Arthur C. Clarke: The Two Diaspars
Arthur C. Clarke Invents the Modern World
Arthur C. Clarke and Russia
The Geosynchronous Arthur C. Clarke
J. G. Ballard’s Coral D
Roger Zelazny: Doorways in the Sand
     and Isle of the Dead
Two Times Gordon Dickson
Randall Garrett’s Lord Darcy
Jean Lorrah: Vulcan Academy Murders
Jean Lorrah: The IDIC Epidemic

CLASSICS, MOSTLY
Bob Dylan, Nobel Laureate
A Guest Editorial by Mark Twain
The American by Howard Fast
Books About Books
Great (?) Books
Lost Classics
More Weight: Arthur Miller’s Crucible
The Great American Read
What Moved You on the GAR?

STORIES THAT SING
Fifteen Stories
Ernest Hemingway: The Old Man and the Sea
Keith Roberts: Pavane
A Life of Reading
Richard Cowper: The Road to Corlay
Richard McKenna: Hunter, Come Home
E. E. Smith: The Lensmen Series
Roger Zelazny: Jack of Shadows
Edgar Pangborn: Davy
John Brunner: The Traveler in Black
Sharyn McCrumb: Highland Laddie Gone
John Buchan: A Prince of the Captivity
Erskine Childers: The Riddle of the Sands
Homage to Robert Louis Stevenson
Stevenson’s Kidnapped
Stevenson’s Catriona

DETECTIVES, WESTERNS, AND OTHER GENRES
Mentors in Detection
G. K. Chesterton: Father Brown
Andrew Greeley: Father Blackie Ryan
John D. MacDonald: The Green Ripper
John D. MacDonald: Travis McGee’s Women
Alistair Maclean: The Black Shrike
S. S. Van Dine: The Benson Murder Case
John Buchan: the Hannay Novels
The Thirty-nine Steps
Greenmantle
Mr. Sandfast
Three Hostages
Island of Sheep
John Gierach (What? You’ve Never Heard of Him?)
Looking for Louis L’Amour
Louis L’Amour: The Education of a
Wandering Man
Louis L’Amour: Wandering Quotes
A Perfect Book
And Finally, The Worst Story Ever Told

JUVENILES, MOSTLY SCIENCE FICTION
Apprentice Literature
Boys at Work: Lee Corey
Boys at Work: Howard Pease
Boys at Work: Harold Goodwin’s Rick Brant
Thank You, Harold Goodwin
Who Is This Harold Goodwin
Heinlein’s Starman Jones
Heinlein’s Time for the Stars
Heinlein’s Textbook: The Rolling Stones
Andre Norton: Science Fiction in the Wild
Andre Norton: At Sword’s Point
Andre Norton: Sword Trilogy
Andre Norton: Star Gate
Andre Norton: Beast Master
Guilt: Willard Price’s Underwater Adventure
Two Hands and a Knife
Donald A. Wollheim’s Mike Mars
Great Books for Kids
The Green Hills of Mars

NEW OR NEW TO ME
JM Williams: In the Valley of Magic
JM Williams: The Nightingale
Sturgeon and Steampunk
Michael Tierney’s To Rule the Sky
A PhD in Steampunk: Michael Perschon
Marsheila Rockwell’s Bridges of Longing
Small Gods, Big Issues — Terry Pratchett
Lots of Love  (Nazareth)
A Late Arrival

AND IT ENDS WITH POETRY
Spoon River Anthology

721. Learning from the Masters

   

Much of what has appeared in this blog over the years has been how-to for writers and would-be writers. Those posts have been gathered, reconsidered, sometimes condensed, sometimes expanded, and placed between the virtual covers of two books.

The first book, Learning from the Masters, is a compilation of some of the things I have learned from a lifetime of reading. It is partly a thank you to those who came before me, and it could form a long, annotated to-read list. You could do worse than to look up these old guys (and gals) as your next reads. There is a note below that will tell you more. Learning from the Masters is scheduled for release on March 17, 2027, a little less than a year from now.

The second book, So You Want to Write Science Fiction, is more personal, primarily consisting of things I have learned myself through fifty-plus years on the edge of the publishing industry. It is due for release on July 7, 2027. There will be a heads-up like this one on July 8th of this year to remind you.

— << >> —

What follows here is a note I wrote a few months ago, for inclusion at the beginning of Learning from the Masters. If you were born after 1990, this note is for you.

This book is called Learning from the Masters. You don’t get to be a Master overnight. Even if your first book is a masterpiece, it will probably be decades before they call you a Master.

Most (not all) of the Masters in this book are dead. That doesn’t make them obsolete. Even if you are reading this on your smart phone, you should remember that these visionaries were the primary builders of the world that made that smart phone possible. Even though they lived in your past, their minds lived in the future. Most of what they envisioned is yet to come — unless one of the violent ends to modern culture that they also envisioned happens first.

When they wrote is less important than what they wrote.

There are Masters at work today, and many of them have already been anointed with that title. Some will still be called Masters by your children; some will be forgotten. A few of them are in this book, but the bulk of those I have included are the Masters who helped form my writing life.

My early life was lived with one foot in the past and one foot in the future. I was born in 1947 — a little closer to 1900 than to 2000, and much closer to 1900 than to the publication date of Learning from the Masters..

When I was thirteen, standing in the dairy barn, shoveling cow manure out the door, my soul wasn’t grounded in the muck at my feet. It was riding a multi-colored variform horse across the plains of Arzor in memory of the Andre Norton novel I had been reading the night before. Or it was on the way to the outer planets with the family Stone in a novel written by Heinlein

The Masters in this book, no matter what era they were writing in, faced the same challenges that writers face today. Plot, characterization, backstory, readership, changing tastes, censorship, publication and how to attain it — the questions never change, although the answers often do.

If you are a writer, or want to be — and why would you read this book (or this blog) if you didn’t — these men (and a few women) faced the same challenges you are facing now. Shouldn’t you be . . .

Learning from the Masters

Due for release on March 17, 2027.

717. Don’t Start at the Beginning, Part Two.

Last week I said you should buy a copy of Flint, by Lous L’Amour, and have it in hand as I take you through the first five pages. I have left out more than I have provided, so you need the original. Don’t read this and think you have read L’Amour. Now let’s begin —

Flint, Chapter 1, Paragraph 1-3  =>  It is given to few people in this world to disappear twice but, as he had succeeded once, the man known as James T. Kettleman was about to make his second attempt.

If he did not succeed this time he would never know it, for he would be dead.

When a man has but a few months to live, he can, if he so wills, choose the manner of his going, and Kettleman had made such a choice. He was now on his way to a place of which he alone knew, and there he would die. He would die as he had lived — alone.

If that doesn’t grab you by the lapels, I don’t know what it would take.

Be sure to read the paragraphs I don’t provide. The ones I am giving you are just landmarks.

Paragraph 6 => There were five people in the car. The lights were dim, the passengers lay sprawled in uncomfortable sleep. The train rushed westward through the cold, clear night, carrying the man steadily toward his final destination.

First who he is, now where he is. Next we will get a glimpse of his love interest and his antagonist, both of who will appear later in the novel. Read on . . .

Paragraph 10-14 => The country outside was invisible. The windows had steamed over, and the train moved as if through an endless tunnel.     (I am trying to maintain the letter and spirit of the copyright laws, which allow short excerpts, so you will have to have a copy of Flint to read the longer sections.)

Now we know where he is going, and that the place is intimately familiar to him. If you are a fan of the genre, you also know that it is a place you want to spend the next few hours. In a different genre, it would be different place.

Paragraph 15-23 =>      Next in your copy, but too long to reproduce in this post, is the essential flashback that establishes Flint’s deep background. This gunfight is a classic of the genre, but it is told briefly since it exists to establish character and motivation. There will be other gunfights to bring the book to its necessary conclusion. This is a Western, after all.

In another genre, say a romance, this might be be an early or failed romance to set up THE ONE in the closing pages.

Paragraph 24 => In the instant of silence that followed the shooting they heard the click of a drawn-back gun hammer, and every head turned. “He was my friend,” the youngster said, and he started shooting.

This is a triple set-up. First it establishes Flint’s relationship to the man who is killed. This will be fleshed out later in the novel. It also shows Flint’s gun skills, and finally it sets-up an essential mistake of identity, when “Kettleman” is later thought to be the legendary hired killer Flint.

Paragraph 27-28 => The train whistled, the lonely sound trailing off across the wind-swept plains. Kettleman got out his pipe and lighted it. His two bags and haversack were at the back of the car. When he opened that door there would be a moment when the cold air might awaken the others, but he would be gone.

Up to a point he had planned every move, but once arrived at Flint’s old hideout there would be nothing to do but wait. Some time ago his doctor had told him he would not live a year, and most of that year had passed.

The next five paragraphs are skipped just to speed the process. Of course you will read them in that novel in your other hand.

Paragraph 33-34 => There had been more than fifteen hundred dollars in Flint’s pockets when he died on that rain soaked Kansas hillside, following the shooting at The Crossing. The boy who was to become James T. Kettleman had sixty dollars of his own, which he used to buy an outfit of store clothes in Kansas City.

He travelled to New York City and sold his four horses for an additional four hundred dollars. With this stake he started in business. It was more money than either Jay Gould or Russel Sage had started with.

Again, some paragraphs are skipped.

Paragraph 41 => In the fifteen years following that night at The Crossing he had built his small stake into many millions, making many enemies and no friends in the process. He married a wife who tried to have him killed, and had no children.

That last sentence is a masterpiece of brevity. It tells a little, but leaves volumes unsaid. It leaves us dying to know more about this woman. When she shows up more than half-way through the book, we will find that she has been worth waiting for.

Paragraph 43 => Thirty years earlier, when he was two years old, he had been picked from the brush near a burned wagon train, where he had been overlooked by raiding Comanches. There were no other survivors. Nothing remained to tell who he was, and those who found him had no interest in learning. During the next four years he was handed around from family to family and finally abandoned on a cold night in a one-street Western town.

Having established Flint as a youth and as a grown man, L’Amour finally tells us about the very early life which set him on his path.

Paragraph 47-49 => The dry grass bent before the wind, and seed pods rattled in the brush along the right of way.

James T. Kettleman was ended, and the man who had borne that name, making it feared and respected, stood now where he had stood so many years before, without a name. He was now a man without a past as he had been a boy without one.

“Good-by,” he said, but there was nobody to say the word to, and nothing to remember.

<< == >>

So now we are five pages into the novel. I dare you — or any reader — to stop now.

There is a lot to be learned in these few pages about grabbing your readers, whether you like Westerns or not. And if you didn’t get a copy of Flint to read, causing you to miss 90% of what the rest of us learned, aren’t you sorry now?

Of course you can still go get a copy. This post will still be here. Just type Syd Logsdon 716. Don’t Start at the Beginning, Part 2 into your browser.

716. Don’t Start at the Beginning, Part One.

Genesis 1:1 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

The Bible starts that way but you shouldn’t. When I say that, I am assuming that your are or want to be a writer.

The days of beginning at the beginning of a story passed a couple of centuries ago. Now we begin in medias res, which is Latin for in the middle of things. Then we fill in with flashbacks, as needed.

It’s quite an art, and it is often done badly.

In a recent Christmas movie, two young women were standing on stage at the Grand Ole Opry. One said, “I can’t believe I still get nervous before a live show.” The other replied, “You’re Suzie Smith, country western star, and I’m your manager. You’ve got this!”

Awkward, awkward, awkward.

You need to get your story going at full speed, then introduce the necessary background early so your reader or viewer doesn’t close the book or change the channel before being properly hooked. It’s a skill that takes time to master.

AI devours ten thousand reports in order to learn how to produce one report. Writers read a thousand novels before they are ready to write one, starting it in medias res. I am about to offer you a novel that should be on your list.

The novel is Flint, by Lous L’Amour. It doesn’t matter if you are a fan of westerns or not, this is business. You can learn from any genre, and this novel is a masterpiece at grabbing the reader by the lapels in the first sentence and never letting him escape.

In the first five pages, L’Amour introduces his character, paints a compelling picture of his surroundings, tells you that his character is dying (he isn’t, but he thinks he is), shows the girl who will later be his love interest, as well as the man who will be his future enemy, tells Flint’s origin story (it’s a good one), tells the story of his life so far, and introduces the woman (who happens to be his wife) who will bring him no end of misery.

But here is a twist. Before I tell more, I’m going to give you a homework assignment.

You can buy Flint in many new bookstores, in many used bookstores, or you can go to Amazon and find it new, used, as kindle, or as an audiobook. Get a copy and have it handy on March 11th. Then I will walk through the first five pages with you.

I can’t compress five novel pages into one of these posts, and it would probably be illegal anyway. Also, I’m not ChatGPT. If I am going to use another author’s novel, I will expect him (or his estate) to get at least a few pennies.

Of course, you may be reading this post years from now. The same rules apply. Get a copy of Flint and then go to the March 11, 2026 post.

Join me next week, same time, same place,
with a copy of Flint in your hand.

715. Pettus Bridge, a fable

Once upon a time, there was a lovely young woman. Unfortunately, she was black, enslaved, and living in Alabama. The year was 1815.

Her owner was just back from fighting beside Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans. He was a hero.

His wife didn’t think so. She had been running the plantation all the time he was gone. She hadn’t enjoyed that, but she enjoyed having him home again even less. In bed, he was quick and crude, and after three weeks his wife moved into a different bedroom.

A week later, he found the lovely young black woman in the fields. He ordered her to take off her clothes and lie down on her back in the shade of a tree. Ten minutes later he was on his way again.

Nine months later, the woman gave birth to a beautiful daughter. Nineteen years later, the hero’s son caught the daughter in the fields and did the same thing to her that his father had done to her mother. Nine months later, another lovely black girl-child was born, but now things had changed.

The plantation was failing. The hero’s son had become too fat to chase women, even slave women, and too drunk most of the time to miss the chase. The plantation was sold, the slaves were broken up and scattered. The girl-child stayed with her mother a few years, then was sold to a plantation south of Birmingham. When she turned seventeen, she was sold to a brothel.

When she was twenty-four, she gave birth to twins — but not identicals. One she named Flo; it had been her mother’s name. The other she named Cécile, since the father had been a Frenchman. She thought so, anyway.

The blood of Cécile’s white father, and grandfather, and great grandfather were strong in her makeup. He nose was small, her skin was pale, She would be a great addition to the brothel when she grew up. Flo had inherited the other side of the genetic lottery.

Both would remain slaves. Both were black, Cécile’s white looks notwithstanding, since the doctrine of that day was the one drop of blood was all it took to make you black.

Little Cécile was a favorite of all the men who came to the brothel. When her head was only up to their elbows, she had already learned how to lean against them, smile up at them, and laugh like she didn’t have a care. She earned coins that way and she kept them hidden. She listened to what they talked about as they waited their turn upstairs, and she remembered. She stored everything away in her finely tuned mind and she planned. She learned about Birmingham, but more importantly she learned about Memphis from a traveler who came often. Soon she knew all the street names, where blacks lived, and where they didn’t.

When she was fifteen, she ran away. Two months later, she was in Memphis. Her name was Celia, now. Celia White, because she had a sense of humor. Her name was White, and she was white, because she was intelligent enough to know that that was the only way to survive. Her husband never knew. Her children never knew.

Celia had eight children. Every time a child was born, she was in mortal fear that the child would have dark skin and kinky hair, but it never happened. When one of Celia’s grandsons had a black appearing child, he beat his wife for her infidelity, since the child clearly could not be his. Celia said nothing.

When Celia was 53, her husband moved to Selma, Alabama. Within a year most of the children and grandchildren had followed. Now Celia was only seventeen miles from the town that held the brothel where she had been born. She said nothing.

Celia’s mother was emancipated in 1865, but Celia never contacted her.

Celia had emancipated herself already. While the others traded slavery for Jim Crow, Celia had made herself white. Her emancipation was real, and she had no intention of jeopardizing it.

Celia live to be 71. They buried her in Selma, in a cemetery that black folks couldn’t use — but she did.

She had eight children, forty-seven grandchildren, and one hundred six great-grandchildren. Most of them remained in and around Selma, and many went into law enforcement.

In 1965, Celia would have been 116 if she had lived that long. She never saw her mother again after she ran away from the brothel. She never saw her twin, Flo, either. For most of Celia’s life, Flo was alive and in the area, having children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, just like Celia, but they never met again.

On March 7, 1965 near the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama, Celia’s great-grandchildren, thinking they were white, brutally attacked Flo’s great-grandchildren who knew that they were black and always would be.

Behold, America, clubbing itself to death over the myth of race.

714. The Soul of the Menhir

Religion fascinates me. I had it, I lost it, and I have told that story too many times to repeat it here, but the fascination remains.

I invented a master religion in Jandrax, where Louis Dumezil wrote a compilation of all the things which religions have in common and called it the Monomythos. It was meant to end religious wars. It went through many revisions, after which religious wars were fought over which version was the correct one.

In A Fond Farewell to Dying Ram David Singh found his research impeded by those who believed in the Christian concept of a soul and by those who believed in the Hindu concept of atman.

That is the way I exercise my fascination. Whatever my personal opinion, I write about characters working out their destinies, guided by their own beliefs.

Of course, I nudge.

In the menhir series, menhirs are gates between worlds. (See post 710, January 28, 2026) How they are powered in the rest of the multiverse is not explained, but in the world of the menhir they are repositories of souls, and are fed by the ai (power) of the souls which are bound (enreithed) to them.

I’ll let my favorite priest, Dymal, explain further:

— <<  >> —

From Morning of the Gods . . .

Dymal paused outside the hedge and shook his head.

“Most improper,” he said and, looking at the direction the late afternoon shadows fell. He walked around to the eastern side of the thorngall hedge and pushed through. As Tidac and Cinnabar followed him, he said, “One always approaches a menhir from the direction of the rising sun.”

“We didn’t know.”

“Of course not. No harm was done. It’s just that you came in the window when you should have entered by the front door.”

Dymal stopped to survey the besh. It was rounded and lichen covered, a boulder perhaps a little under man height. He raised his hands and spoke a word, listened to the echo of his voice, then said, “Not a menhir, but certainly a stone of enreithment.”

Tidac was puzzled. His education should have included the details of menhir worship, but it had been cut short by Marquart’s death. Cinnabar knew even less, and said so.

Dymal accepted their ignorance with good grace and fell into a didactic mode of speech. “When one dies,” he said, “where does the soul go?”

“It is enreithed,” Tidac said.

“It hoovers above the body for a time,” Cinnabar said. “Then it sometimes goes into some object, or it just fades away.”

Dymal smiled as if his pupils had said something profound. A dozen years of teaching priest candidates had given him the skill of setting young ones at ease, and making the ignorant feel smarter than they were. “You are both half right and half wrong.” he said.

“No one knows where souls come from; the last great mystery is who you were before you were born. But once installed in a physical body, our soul, our essence, clings with such tenacity that not age, nor weakness, nor sorrow, nor torture can drive it out. Only death can free a soul, and in that terrible last moment it becomes abahara — bodiless. The word means disconnected, and there is no greater torment than that state.

“Thousands upon thousands of years ago, wise men discovered a way to attach those bodiless souls to inanimate stone, and give them rest. Over the millennia, as soul after soul comes to find rest in a single stone, those souls form a commingled whole — a gestalt soul, if you will. Thus a mere stone becomes a besh, as this one is.”

“But not a menhir?” Tidac asked.

“All menhirs are beshes, but not all beshes are menhirs. This one will never be more than it is. It is too far from where men now live. But in other places, as more and more souls are enreithed, the power of each soul — each soul’s ai — contributes to the ai of the besh. If this goes on long enough, the besh becomes a menhir gate, through which the powerful can pass from world to world.”

— <<  >> —

Thank you, Dymal. I’ll take over now.

Menhirs are gates between the worlds, but only in the world of the menhir are men so attached to them. They are every man’s or woman’s desired ending. Death is not particularly feared, if it is followed by enreithment and a commingling with all the souls who have gone before. However, it is much feared by travelers and soldiers, whose deaths may come too far from a menhir. They truly die. Their souls arise out of their bodies and hover in fear and agony. Over a few days they dissipate. It is the ultimate in loneliness, and those who endure it are called abahara.

But not ghosts. Once these abaharas are gone, they are gone. They do not return.

There is passage between living worlds by way of the menhirs, for those who have the personal power to compel them. There is passage into the menhirs, once and forever at death. The eternal loneliness is averted, but individual identity is lost.

There is no land of the dead for the abaharas to return from. The unenreithed are simply dead, irrevocably and eternally.

It’s a tough world. I wrote it, I enjoy visiting and watching my word-people working out their destinies, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

— <<  >> —

BACK IN POST 695 BIRTH OF A SERIES I gave my best estimate of publication dates for the Menhir series. That has been revised to:

The Morning of the Gods

May 27, 2026

Firedrake

July 15, 2026

The Lost Get

September 2, 2027

Whitethorn

October 21, 2026

The Scourge of Heaven

December 9, 2026

713. You and Me

 

About sixty-eight years ago I was sitting in a fourth or fifth grade classroom, learning that I should always say, “You and I,” and that I was never supposed to say “Me and you”. I didn’t know that right there in small town Oklahoma I was being given a double-whammy of British imperialism and English politeness.

I did know that every child was going to continue saying “me and you” outside the classroom, and I suspected that the teacher probably would too. Adults were always full of advice they didn’t follow themselves.

I also knew that the adults in my little town didn’t talk like the people on television, and certainly didn’t speak the same English that I was finding in all those books from the county library.

I’m not talking about accent. Books are silent. Whatever was written in them, echoed in my head in the same Okie accent that I spoke. Even the local newsman on KTUL Tulsa, who used different words in different places than the people in my town, did so in the same Okie accent.

The teacher said, “Never say me and you. Always say you and I.” The implication was, memorize it and don’t ask any questions.

It wasn’t even grammatical. Let’s assume that we keep the other person first and ourselves second — it is “you and I” if we are using it as subject, and “you and me” if we are using it as an object. They didn’t teach us that.

Putting the person spoken to before the speaker didn’t really have anything to do with grammar. It existed because America grew out of British culture, before the rest of the world arrived. Britain was a stratified society in which you kept your head down unless you were top dog.

Don’t step in front of your betters. Don’t complain if they cut in line. Don’t speak until spoken to. And put your betters first in the sentence.

Any stratified society is dangerous, because your place in the system is never permanent or safe. If you work hard enough, you can rise — but if you slack off, you will fall.

That’s for the upper strata. If you are too far down, you had better plan to stay there, or your “betters” will make you wish you had. We are referring to Brits in Britain, high caste Hindus interacting with low caste Hindus in India, or anybody White in the era of my childhood, anywhere near the South, talking to anybody Black.

Until recently, and maybe still, that also included women trying to interact with men.

The English politeness — you and me, but never me and you — is not a matter of Mary Poppins sweetness and light. It is a word to the wise. Never assert your own value in a stratified society. Never put yourself first. Those above you will slap you down if you do.

— << >> —

In that class, I was actually being taught that grammar (in the larger sense of rules of language, both acknowledged and hidden) is what language is all about. It would be years later that I realized that an equally compelling case could be made for the idea that usage is what language is all about. Finally I came to realize that it is, and probably always will be, a struggle between those two positions.

To be short and snarky, usage is what people say, and grammar is what intellectuals tell people that they should have said.

So who cares? You do, probably, if you are or want to be a writer.

Language is always changing, and one advantage of being seventy-eight and being a writer is that I have lived long enough to see it happen. A disadvantage (from the same viewpoint) is that language always seems to move toward the more simple, at the expense of the measured, the stately, and the beautiful.

I hate it. I throw metaphorical bricks at my TV screen every evening because of the way the characters are talking.

Nevertheless, the changes are real. They reflect the language people actually speak. They make up the language you readers will expect to read.

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When I was about fourteen, I knew I wanted to go to college, and I knew that the people there were not going to speak small town Okie. I got an authoritative book of grammar, Strunk and White, and made it part of my thinking. (It didn’t help my accent, but that’s another post.)

Even then, I didn’t buy into S&W as if it were the word of God, and over the years I have found that much of their advice was not helpful. No problem. I have never read a book without muttering, “Yeah, maybe?”, from time to time under my breath.

I know now that sentence fragments are as legitimate as sentences, and are frequently a great deal more expressive. Strunk or White would slap my knuckles for that, but who cares.

Are you a writer, or a would-be writer? I can’t imagine you coming this far into this post if you aren’t. There is a great variety of English out there. Pick and choose. Make it your own. Decide who your audience is, and how far you want to go toward sounding like them.

Especially,  be prepared for more changes in the future. Like it or not, change is coming.

710. Star Gates and Menhirs

Stonehenge: the most famous menhir.

Star gates have been around a long time, often under other names. They have given us passage to elsewhere in science fiction and in fantasy for decades. They seem to work equally well in either genre.

Is a star gate science fiction or fantasy? The term seems to imply science fiction and looks a bit like a wormhole. The concept of a gate to elsewhere, however, could be either or both.

The first time I saw the term was in the title of Andre Norton’s 1958 novel called Star Gate. It was science fiction, but with some magic thrown in. I saw it next as the title of a theatrical movie Stargate in 1994, which had nothing in common with the Norton novel but the title. That movie spun off the television series which everybody remembers. It ran from 1997 to 2007, then spawned numerous additional spinoffs. You can find it on re-run channels any week.

I can’t speak authoritatively of the TV series. Military fiction isn’t in my wheelhouse so I rarely watched it, but I assume the places they were sent to were in our physical universe. That would make it science fiction.

Let’s drop the prefix star and continue.

Heinlein used a teleportation gate to other planets as the basis for his novel Tunnel in the Sky. Gordon Dickson used such a gate in Time to Teleport (a pretty good novel with a lousy title). It’s a fairly common device for authors who don’t feel like inventing a faster than light drive to get their characters to some extrasolar planet.

Also still within science fiction are alternate universes. Sometimes a whole novel takes place in one such alternate without any travel between them. More often, characters from one universe travel to one or more other alternate universes. Sometimes they go in time-space vehicles (example: Heinlein’s Number of the Beast). Sometimes they travel via a gate-like device that sends them directly to their destination.

Andre Norton used such a device in her 1963 novel Witch World to get Simon Tregarth from prosaic Earth to a magical world. Norton would preside over her Witch World as she and a few others spun off novels and short stories for forty years. She referred to the device that transported Tregarth as the Siege Perilous, referring to Arthurian legend, but essentially it was just another gate.

Was Norton’s Siege Perilous scientific or magical? Who knows? Who cares? If you are going in a book to a wonderful place, what difference if you get there by a space ship or you step through a magical wardrobe?

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Now, a slight detour. Some time in the mid-sixties I stumbled upon a book. I can’t tell you the title or the author, but if you are a reader you will understand why I can’t remember them all. It explained that for thousands of years there was a culture of menhir builders who left megalithic monuments across Europe and the Middle East. No one knows why these menhirs were built. We now have some notion of by whom, but that wasn’t known when the book was written. It was all a big mystery.

I was intrigued by what I had read. I fantasized about the menhir builders. I wrote an unremarkable short story, then tossed it. Then I more or less forgot about menhirs for a decade, but they didn’t go away.

Years later, I dreamed up this medieval kid whose father was killed, but who didn’t want to seek revenge. I told you about his origin last October fifth.

In 1976 I began to tell his story, and that led me to build a world for him to occupy. Those fascinating menhirs came crawling up from memory and insisted that they become the center of his world. In fact, his world came to be called the World of the Menhir, and I plan to publish the first five novels this year.

The boy’s name was Tidac. I already knew that five minutes after he crawled into my brain in 1972. He had been introduced to me during a seance with a Ouija board in Oklahoma City in 1965. The board (or the lovely and imaginative young lady who seemed to be the one manipulating it) said that I was reincarnated from a Norman prince named Tidac. Who was I to argue with a lovely young lady?

When Tidac crawled out of Beowulf in 1972, I knew him immediately and I knew why he didn’t want to take revenge for his father’s death. He wanted freedom from his father’s shadow. I had wanted my freedom for similar reasons, only a few years earlier.

That’s not coincidence; that’s how a writer’s mind works.

707. A New Start

A New Start

It is already January fourteenth, but the year is still new and the re-start of A Writing Life is still fairly new. It’s time to present something special.

On April 17, 2019 I was trying to write a review of a novel. I remembered the book clearly but didn’t remember enough details, and I needed to explain why I was going to postpone writing about it. What I wrote then does more to tell why I created this blog than anything else I have written.

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I have written quite a few books over the years, but it is never enough. Writing books is just too much fun.

The fact is, reading a book is ten times better than watching a movie, but writing a book is fifty times better than reading one. And takes fifty times as long.

Besides the hundred thousand words a modern novel demands, there are the other hundreds of thousands of words you have to go through while getting to the right ones. And there are all those books you have to burrow through looking for just the right bit of information or inspiration to help you understand how that next chapter is supposed to come out.

Just reading a book for fun gets lost somewhere. I read the things I need to read, and late in the evening I read comfort books, like the thirtieth Nero Wolfe, which isn’t that different from the other twenty-nine.

It wasn’t always that way.

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I was an only child on a farm in the fifties. We had one black and white TV that got two channels, which my parents watched in the evenings while I read. Of course I became a reader; what else was there to do? From the time I discovered the county library, there was no time I didn’t have a stack of books waiting for my attention.

But I didn’t talk about it.

My mother read occasional romance novels but she didn’t talk about it. My dad read the Bible, but he didn’t talk about it. The habit started early.

I read books about hunting and outdoor life. I already lived outdoors, but on a tractor. I never hunted, barely fished, and I had never seen a tent. My outdoors wasn’t for play, it was for work, and that wasn’t enough to satisfy me.

Looking back, I know that the place I lived as a boy was rather lovely, in a muted sort of way. It was farm country, lightly populated by humans, but with plenty of birds, and occasional coyotes and possums.

Nevertheless, every patch of ground was either under the plow or turned into grazing land. There was nothing wild. I wanted forests and streams, fish and game, and real snow, along with the freedom to wander through them.

That was all available in books, along with a thousand other adventures to be found all over the globe.

My fellow students in my little school read what they had to read — but nobody talked about it. Nobody read science fiction. Nobody wanted to know any more about science than they were required to know. I was reading and studying continuously, preparing to head for college to be a scientist — but I didn’t talk about it, because no one wanted to know.

When I got to college, one of my roommates was a science fiction fan. We talked about it, but only a little. By then, my habit of silence was pretty well set.

A lifetime later I started this blog. For the first time I got to really talk about the books I love and why I love them. Like right here, right now, talking to you, telling you why I had to postpone a review.

Hi. You see, there was this book called The Road to Corlay . . .

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I began A Writing Life in support of an upcoming novel, but it quickly evolved into something larger. It became a how-to, and a “How I did it”, and a “What I’ve learned about how others did it.”

Many of those posts, somewhat modified, are gathered together now in a pair of books for writers called Learning from the Masters (that would be Heinlein, Clarke, et al, not me bragging about myself) and So You Want to Write Science Fiction. Because 2026 will be fully occupied with the Menhir series, they are scheduled for release in 2027. Tentative dates are:

Learning from the Masters

March 17, 2027

and

So You Want to Write Science Fiction

July 7, 2027