Instead, we got a skinny, boyish, enthusiastic 41 year old cross between Bertie Wooster, Jeeves, and Neil Gaiman (without the black clothing), in t-shirt and jeans, overly caffeinated, jet lagged, giddy from meeting Ursula Le Guin just prior to the reading (which was packed to overflowing), and my god funny. I called Debby afterward and told her I wished she’d been able to attend–no previous experience with his work was required to enjoy the hell out of the evening. He was also very sweet to a woman with a crying baby, insisting almost desperately that she stay–partially because he loved babies and partially because he missed his own very much.

It was also a lesson in reading performance. He started out slow, a little stuttery (he described himself as a “stuttering English introvert”), but the longer he read, the more he fell into character with believable Dutch and Japanese accents. (He lived in Japan for 8 years and Holland for several years.) He joked that his worst accent was American English and that he sometimes has to speak in caricature to be understood.

By being himself and by charming the audience, he probably does more for his book sales than most PR campaigns.

Of course there were people asking about his writing process, which had him scratching his head, then coming up with practical if not roundabout answers, including a comparison between writing a first novel and losing one’s virginity–where you look back on it and wonder what the fuss was all about. In response to a question about how the structure of his novels have steadily simplified, he described an index of style from Murakami to Marilynne Robinson, from the more clinical and highly structured to “human mud,” and that the story of human mud (relationships and emotional turmoil) did not need or want complex structure. His stories were steadily becoming less about (multidimensional) castles and more about mud.

A few quotes:

He saw Powells as “this great Borgesian City with little outposts of Portland attached.”

“The soul is a verb, not a noun.” Paraphrased from a Japanese character in his latest work.

“Real people’s misery is what novelists eat, really.”

“This cup of tea was kindly made for me about 2 hours ago–it has 2 tea bags in it–it’s like Guinness now.” (followed by smacking his lips)

About research and detail: “Novelists require a magpie mind.”

In summing up part of UKLG’s intro to the revised edition of Left Hand of Darkness, on writing for readers (which he read), he said, “I think this means, the [reader's] Eyeball has an Eardrum.”

He would make a great Dr. Who.

People often say that 90% of getting the job done is just showing up; implying that once you’ve shown up for the task, personal ethics, peer pressure, or some other common human force will require you to complete your most important work. That’s bullshit. Starting is easy. It’s the extra 10%–and really the last 2 or 1%–that matters, and that is a hell of a gap. Two analogies (aside from “gap”): it’s like driving (or running) down a flat stretch or slope most of your way, then suddenly hitting a 60% incline (or greater). It’s like the ~1.6 % difference in DNA between homo sapiens and bonobos.

Writing is mostly false starts. Ideas are easy to come by. Writers, especially caffeinated writers, are easily excited and full of ideas. I have notebooks and, more recently, many blog entry drafts full of false starts.

Today, right now in fact, my wife Deborah is in surgery having her left thyroid and attached benign mass removed. It’s low risk, common surgery, as surgeries go. (What is it that we do to ourselves, how are we miscoded, that makes thyroid removal or irregularities “common?”). Her ENT doctor (also her surgeon, a youngish man in his late 30′s and not an ancient tree herder) is low key, articulate, experienced, confident, and cautious. And patient–with her, with us as a couple. We know the risk factors he quoted are gross percentages that doctors and medical writers use to generalize the outcome of an extremely complex method for calculating situational risks of surgical success  in a few simple comforting words laypeople (and some medical people) can understand. The number of factors that influence a positive or negative outcome make a real a priori assessment of risk almost impossible to describe and acceptance almost an act of faith. So we accepted the generalization and sandbagged it with our feelings about the doctor, his approach, and diagnostic and surgical history, especially with thyroid condition treatment (yes, we checked). That’s good–he’s cutting Deborah’s throat open and wielding a scalpel around nerve bundles, blood vessels, and vocal chords tucked against her thyroid glands.

I admire Deborah more than I can say. She didn’t have a false start. She had the lump identified on discovery and, when it was diagnosed as benign, put a long term plan in place to have it removed, scheduling months ahead around her dragon boat competition, Noah’s start of summer vacation, our family vacations, holidays, and our finances (we’ll be making payments on the deductible for a few years), and folded in her personal health goals dependent on the surgery, including weight loss that’s been hindered by an uncooperative thyroid. Her plan runs on for years. She plans like the ancient Mandarins.

Me, I would have dealt with it immediately or put it off indefinitely until, perhaps, people began to confuse me with Zaphod Beeblebrox (either you get that or you don’t), adding it to my long list of false starts and likely sliding me under the far slope of the risk bell curve where X is time and Y is successful treatment following early action.

That’s what I would have done. In the last few weeks, we’ve practiced a little of that “living in unspoken urgency” that precedes an impending interruption and possible (no matter how unlikely) end: completing key maintenance tasks round the house (from a mundane list most homeowners know), replacing some old kid and cat-worn furniture, taking more day trips with the kids, celebrating our wedding anniversary with a series of dates. We stopped each other in passing more often. Impatient with our cold spring rain, she colored her hair to match the summer sun. Waiting on her in surgery, I’ve had this opportunity to write myself this reminder about false starts. And, if you’ve read this far, inflict it on you.

Could I do this without her–run the house, care for the family, fill her role and mine in taking on the day to day critical tasks that keep our family stable? If anything goes wrong, there’s less room for false starts. If it all goes right, and it almost certainly will, then is there any damn good reason other than habit not to resume life with–not a sense of urgency–but the enhanced need to complete (together and individually), so that living in a way that matters becomes normal?

If  you want to exist, show up. If you want to live, and write, then complete the last 1%. And make it matter, however you measure that last word. I know I’m saying this because I’m worried and scared, regardless of the risk assessment. It’s classic for humans to fill the balloon with gas and then let the tank run out, the gas contract, and the balloon to deflate. I’ll need to leave a few reminders for when I backslide. I hope that Deborah’s presence is one. Scraps like this are another.

Postscript: Deborah’s just out of surgery and in recovery, one thyroid lighter. Dr. Kim said it had grown larger since the biopsy and was “sticky”–making the procedure last a bit longer than the scheduled two hours. During surgery, a pathologist ran a routine lab on the larger sample for cancer, with negative results to back up the earlier diagnosis. In a few weeks, Deborah will able to swallow without pain. For the next few days, she has a stack of novels and a couple of detective games for her DS next to the bed, a freezer full of popsicles, a husband with a week of vacation, and two young children who will be happy to see their mom and ready to run their dad happily ragged.

I woke around 4 this morning and thought, that’s it, I’m done before I’ve done it. Might as well die right now, posterity’s already putting double quotes around, “He mowed a nice lawn.” I don’t pray, but in my head I started reaching out for advice. And in the unreal clarity of pre-dawn, a pragmatic voice answered right back: You can write. It didn’t shrug and it didn’t rub my nose in anything. It just said, between the lines, You couldn’t for a bit, and now you can. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Just write. You want permission, call it permission. Just don’t call it late for dinner.

This isn’t about mojo* (which is more of a filterless cigarette or a chic manly body spray than a creative groove). It’s simpler, more like a light switch flicking on. Or a circuit breaker reset. Or a great ZOT! followed by bell chimes. Or a simple gift I’ll finish unwrapping later tonight.

* Also the simian nemesis of Bubbles, Blossom, and Buttercup, the Powerpuff Girls

I have henchmen characters, the shamblers, in Sea of Tigers whose origin has always been a little vague–one of those problems I knew I’d eventually resolve, although hopefully not with clichés. As I read the chapter described above, a voice–you know the voice–whispered, “The shamblers are Untouchables.” I don’t always trust that voice, even if it’s right–it’s also impetuous, a trait it shares with me. But the whisperer is right. They are Untouchables, although not from a single culture, and their leader organizes and runs them according to her complex (but not opaque) moral agenda. They’re not role models, they’re more privateer than criminal, but they are sympathetic and, in their ragged way, are working for a better world.

The shamblers’ origin wasn’t nagging at me when I read Half The Sky–I hadn’t thought about their origin in months–but it was clear that deeper parts of my creative conscious–that black hole where most of the real work happens and from which things can escape–had not forgotten about them and was actively seeking solutions.

That’s the beauty of eureka–it never gets old, it never stops being a surprise, it’s almost always a gift. Even when it’s a curse.

I’ve been reading Anil Menon’s The Beast with Nine Billion Feet (see here and here). It’s the intellectual SF adventure novel I would write if I had an encyclopedic brain and no day job, and an IQ that was at least 20 points higher. It’s both deliriously engaging and an exercise in sadomasochism (for the writer as reader). I don’t have enough years left to gather that much knowledge and synthesize it on the page and entertain readers at the same time. So I’m giving up–Anil has defeated me and, probably, a whole generation of writers. We need to stop his book from being published in the US now. Join me in my efforts at www.corralmenon.org. If we can keep him locked down on the subcontinent then generations of weaker minded western writers like me will have a chance.

Your’s in defeat,

~ Kurt

P.S. Seriously, if you think there’s no market for jam packed smarty pants SF for young and adult readers, get your hands on a copy. Publishers will have a hell of a time categorizing it (they already have in India, where it’s tagged “young reader”–but it’s no more young reader than LeGuin’s “YA” work. It’ll either wither in obscurity or, my bet, grow a long spidery set of legs.) I read Vandana Singh (her speculative fiction and other stories) and she shows me unique paths to tread. Then I add Anil Menon to the mix and the paths fork. We really need more SF writers of non-western origin who can write for multicultural audiences to provoke our expectations as readers and show us new ways to grow as writers (and, in my case, remove self-imposed limits). In the past, I’ve said a lot of nice things about Vandana’s work–partially out of encouragement, but mostly out of admiration born from exposure to new insights (or remembrance of insights I’d buried to properly mold my thinking). But never out of reverence. Not till she’s at least 90 and still churning out short stories, novellas, and someday the novel.

This morning as I passed the corner diner three blocks from the office, I watched a women, probably in her early 50′s, salty short hair, medium build and wearing a thick wool coat,* step briskly inside and settle alone at the big U-shaped Formica counter. What, outside of hunger, brought her there? She’d moved too decisively for the visit to be random. The food’s pure diner–attentive service, large (formerly “healthy”) portions, but expensive. Maybe for the sexy no-nonsense waitresses? For the two cooks sweating over the grill and talking in rapid-fire Spanish, slinging hot dishes almost as fast as they speak? For the easygoing elbow-to-elbow contact with the other diners hunched over eggs and cakes, eavesdropping or chatting with their neighbors, construction workers and execs finding common ground, couples eating off each other’s plates, a little old scarecrow of a man settling in with his paper and receiving his breakfast without ordering. And suddenly I’ve slipped from one head into the next, sipping my always hot coffee, winking at the waitress who doesn’t acknowledge but accepts the flattery, clearing my sinuses with tobasco steaming off my huevos rancheros. The closer I get to work, the thinner my imaginary connection grows until it snaps at the office door and I’m me again, waving to our friendly receptionist and trying not to stumble down the curving stair to the “lower atrium” and the double-wide I share with a project manager who commutes two days a week from Boise. I try to get to know my coworkers through conversation, but avoid getting into their heads, reserving that kind of intimacy for people I’ll never see again. I don’t want to think, much less say to a coworker, even sympathetically, “Man, I’ve been inside your head and I get you.”

*I had mistyped “wearing a thick wool cat” and almost left it.

When I need grounding, I read anything Molly Gloss.

When I want to know whether I’ll be writing when I’m in my 70′s, I read my friend Tony Wolk. I also read his friend, Ursula, who is now 80, but daunting with her bold silver litcrit yin yang rodeo buckle.

***

The other day when the wind was blowing in 40 MPH gusts, I went for a run. Just to see. I live in an established suburban neighborhood anchored with trees that had danced with storms since my grandparents ran wild: mighty oaks, old growth fir, and two jolly green poplar that on clear nights bookend the moons of Jupiter; towering over a younger wiry crop of developer-planted dogwood, cherry, and maple. The wind frantically dipped the tree tops, whipped up leaf demons, and bullied small branches to the ground. It tried to push me around, but I’m skinny and, without leaves or needles or webbing, don’t have much lift. One big gust tossed a cat–a fluffy little tabby with ears like lateen sails–out of the skirts of a big fir and into my arms (really, onto my shoulders) as I jogged past. I whooped and she howled and dug in, burying her nose in my armpit. The tree stood on the lawn of a white neo-colonial with a red front door–red for good fortune in finance–so I carried her there and rang the bell. A friendly older gentleman answered, a lawyer or professor or other professional orator from his demeanor, he swept me in and thanked me profusely while scolding and cooing over the cat–who rumbled in response to “Oh now now you are now now puss puss.” His wife–younger and lovely in her own feline sort of way–exclaimed and rubbed noses with little Onnyannpp, offered me a cold cloth for the blood, and insisted I stay for tea. Three cups and one photo album of adventure vacations and graduations later, the cat twining round my ankles, they conferred briefly nose-to-nose then suddenly offered one of their daughter’s hands in marriage. I smiled apologetically at my new dear friends and held up my left ring finger. Then I told them about my three sons of marriageble age: one a budding economist in the blossoming field of online publishing, one an athlete developing a method for knitting bones with sound, one a musician who speaks three Eastern languages and laughs at jokes in six. And so you find me here in the first row of pews on the groom’s side, with my own beautiful wife, holding kleenex in one hand and my little daughter’s hand tight in the other, waiting for the bride, hoping that the wind howling outside has not blown her away, and wondering if there are two feet sticking out from under this little church, rapidly curling and ready to drop a pair of sparkling red shoes.

[This odd little piece started out as a handful of sentences about how it was windy, I went for a run, caught a cat blown from a tree, returned the cat to her owner, was rewarded with an offer of marriage, countered with an offer of my son's hand, and ended up in church for the ceremony--a sketch of of initial conditions and unpredictable outcome (leaving out the background info for all parties that would make the outcome far less random). Then I started dropping in more language, and shaving; dropping in and shaving (like a homeless guy in a public restroom on the mornings of successive job interviews). I stopped after I'd seriously exceeded the time I'd given myself to work on the piece, thought it was either droll and wacky or flat and wacky with a few sparks, but "good enough for blog (vanity press?) work," and not good enough to send out. I'm focusing more on productivity instead of my usual practice--smothering a piece with love that I only mean to flirt with. But I can use pieces like this as phrase and idea banks I might draw from later, and I'll continue to play with the theme of apparently random outcomes.]

***

My heart thuds and whooshes in my ears all day long. I notice it more at night, when the world is quiet. The doctor says my EKG is normal and my blood pressure is par excellence. Extracurricular reading says it might be anxiety. I’ve been anxious all my life and maybe it’s just catching up with me. Dry observations aside, it annoys the hell out of me. Time to dust off the old tai chi again, I think–long form, Yang style, the way I learned it back in another century.

It helps me that my tools for personal writing (either offline or online) are very different from my workaday computer tools (the MS Office Suite, a fancy text editor, and CMS and web dev tools). When I open PageFour or my intentionally simple blog env (or my little red spiral bound notebook), I know why I’m there, I’m not distracted by the tools or thinking about other projects for which I use them and should probably check up or work on. If I’m not connected to the blog, I intentionally go offline.

Cory Doctorow has written that he drafts everything in a text editor to minimize computer-related distractions. I can’t do that easily–only because my thinking is still shaped by some visual presentation and sense of organization of the parts. But it’s worthwhile to have that separation–the virtual desk or “room of one’s own.”

QUEEN OF THE EDITORIAL JUNGLE

FADE IN:

SHE is sitting at her computer, with marked up papers scattered in loose piles about her cube floor. SHE is wearing headphones, and is frustrated and mumbling to herself.

HE stands in her cube entrance, dripping sweat from dysfunctional glands, tangling up his therapist’s advice with the feverish influences of lonely nights fueled by super heroine graphical novels (She Bantha, Tiger Twins, Ms. Victory, and Lightnin’ Streak), his adrenalin fired by a Venti latte, 50 sit-ups, new power tie, narrow nylon rimmed glasses, and red Pumas, he blurts the completely inappropriate observation he’s been girding his loins for days to get the balls to make.

SHE turns, pulling off her headphones.

SHE

I’m sorry, what? Say again?

SHE squints at him.

HE

I—

SHE

Stop there. Here’s some advice: keep your eyes on the business end of business, buster, and it won’t trouble you again.

HE

But, I—

SHE (sighing)

I suppose it’s natural to descend right to the anus jokes, but it won’t do. Helloooo, employee handbook? Look, page 65, paragraph 6. There’s an opaque shield around exposed skin at the office. If you’d follow rules, you wouldn’t find yourself in such a state.

HE

But—no, please, no, let me speak! Look, it’s very attractive, but do you worry about unwanted attention?

SHE

Hellooo? Business end? Opaque shield? What’s the problem? Okay, look. It’s comfortable. It’s practical. And…

SHE dangles limp marked up copy as EXHIBIT B.

SHE

…it is hotter than a freakin’ jungle in here.

HE

But—

SHE

Floss—yeah, I’ve heard it all before. In high school.

HE

Not…

SHE

So hard to see the utility, is it? It not only covers me below, but it doubles as a sling, and a slingshot—I can stun small vermin at 100 yards. Voila!—it’s fashionable headgear, and a very edgy robber’s mask. Itis my utility belt, Boy Wonder. Stick ‘em up! Hah!

HE

Well. I didn’t mean, just—be right back.

SHE

That didn’t take long.

HE

While I was gone I—

SHE

Got into your lower left desk drawer? We all know about the bottle. Let me extinguish all live flames.

HE

—Did some research while I was gone.

SHE

I see you killed a few trees.

HE

Well, I have compiled a definitive history of the thong. You may find it—

SHE

Fascinating. CliffNotes version please.

SHE

Ahem. For millennia, this versatile strap was habillement du jour for the wandering San men of southern Africa…and, err, male gods of the Greek pantheon…who were captured and sold into the harem of Awilda, a migratory Scandinavian princess turned Viking raider—

SHE

Great-great-great granny!

HE

—to avoid marrying Alf the Feeble…she traded thongs for salted herring to Native American fishermen…their photos firing the imaginations of golden age American comic book artists…launched the first Brazilian Carnivale…and, ahem, of course, Gandhi.

SHE

It’s a history of men? Typical. Not the tale of your daddy’s shower shoes, though, eh?

HE

I, um, also wrote a song. In praise. A thong song.

SHE

Stop there, citizen! You’re about to violate copyright. As an Editor, I’m duty bound to report you. First, I’ll have to stun you and bind your wrists and ankles. Two more uses.

HE

You…it’s like you anticipate my every move. Are you…a super hero?

SHE

Heroine, mac! Get a clue. No man can do this!

CRACK! THWUP!

THE OVERHEAD FLOURESCENTS start to strobe…

SAMUEL JACKSON (lyrical, growling V.O.)

FOXY GUINEVERE JONES!! DIVINE EDITORIAL ENFORCER!! (“motherfucking” implied)

A LIGHT OVER A DISTANT CUBICLE explodes, with accompanying shrieks. JUNGLE DRUMS BEGIN, LOW.

HE

I…seek your autograph.

SHE

Rise, citizen. Here’s my catalog—order something and I’ll be happy to sign it. How about this decorative Post-It block? Comes in handy as a cry for help when I’m away from the desk.

CUT TO BLACK