Christopher Rowe

Some Say... news

I think this is already pretty well known by people who are interested in knowing, but because I can't remember an "official announcement" from either Gwenda or me, here's some news. Our 'zine, Say... is now an annual, rather than semi-annual, concern. We always tried to be careful to describe our subscriptions as "two-issue" rather than "annual" so hopefully everybody will be cool with the change. We figured out that we wouldn't be able to keep the perfect binding and full color covers and still do two issues per year and decided we'd rather have those things and (hopefully) bigger issues than go back to the saddle stitching.

If you're an interested creative type, you can read some (somewhat outdated) guidelines here. The addresses and info about which editors to send what is still accurate there. The short version for the next issue is that Say...what's the combination? will feature stories and poems (and hopefully comics) that answer, explore, interrogate or refute the theme question. As I said elsewhere, "We're going to tighten our focus down on the theme a little this time. We want to see work about keys and answers, and about unifications and joinings."

Poetry editor Alan DeNiro wrote, of his side of things, that "rather than receive dozens of "Ye Olde Odes to Safecracking", I thought it would be cool to make--for this issue only--a call for poems that are coded in some way... Poems that utilize acrostics, abecedarians, anagrams, syllabics and other cryptographies." Unlike all other types of submissions by the way, Alan prefers that poetry submissions be e-mailed to him here.

Our reading periods will now be July 1st through March 1st (of the following year), and we're actively soliciting material for the upcoming issue. We haven't officially purchased anything yet, and I'm down to  just three stories in the slush pile that we're considering right now. Our commitment to publishing the best material we receive remains strong, as does our commitment to having a table or contents with a demographic breakdown that more closely resembles the world at large than it does the membership roster of a rod and gun club in South Carolina. We want to put out a big issue next time, so please spread the word.

Finally, if you're interested in taking out a $10 two-issue subscription to the magazine, please use the PayPal link below. I recently got a few copies of #5 (...have you heard this one?) back in stock, so please indicate whether you want to begin your subscription with that one or with the upcoming #6. (That link is for subscribers in the USA, if you're somewhere else, please e-mail me.)

Long Live the King

A few weeks after I got word that I'd sold my first story, I attended the 1998 Chattacon in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Another first; I didn't have to pay to get in! And they put me on panels so I could sit next to Andy Duncan and laugh at all the clever stuff he was saying! (This is actually pretty much what I do to this day when I attend Chattacon, which we'll be traveling to again in a few months. It's always a great trip, if for nothing else than the awesome aquarium.)

After one such panel, an Atlanta based small press and webzine editor came up to me and solicited a contribution to a new magazine he was launching called Pulp Eternity. He had very specific needs--he wanted a time travel story about either Elvis or Tesla, he wanted it to be 2,500 words long, and he wanted it in two weeks. First sale, first convention as a "pro," and now this! A commission!

And so I went home to Louisville and wrote what I later called my minimum wage story. My methodology when I was first starting out was to do a lot of research and a lot of notebook work before actually doing any, y'know, writing. I would write interviews with characters, collect photographs and maps to paste into my notebook (every story must have its own notebook! and its own folder for attendant paperwork!), use multiple outlining "strategies" for the same piece and so on. As you might guess, this is not a highly profitable use of time in terms of how much money the writing of any given genre short story is likely to yield. (It's also not highly profitable in terms of producing even a small number or stories, or of artistic success for that matter, but these things lie without the purview, y'dig?)

In this case, however, since I was now a professional, I decided to keep track of exactly how much time I spent on the story, whether it was reading or writing or even just thinking about it. And I decided that I wanted to make better than the prevailing federal minimum wage, which at that time was a paltry $5.15 per hour. "At that time," he says. So, zero prep work.

I was working an odd tech bubble job in those days, wholesaling computer equipment via telephone and the web. High stress cubicle farm stuff that took up a lot of time and energy. What with one thing and another, I found myself up against the deadline without having even started, and so on a Saturday in February of 1998 (I could look up the exact date, probably, because I still have the folder. Every story must have its own folder!), I walked down Lower Brownsborough Road to the video store where the World's Biggest Chow Yun-Fat fan* worked and, because they didn't have anything about Tesla in stock, rented a couple of Elvis movies. I went home and watched 'em. Then I drafted this story, sent it to a buddy who read it and suggested some changes, incorporated all but one of his notes, then sent it to the editor via the electrical mail. He sent back an acceptance about ten minutes later. So I totally busted minimum wage.

The story, well, it is what it is. The editor wound up making a couple of changes: he was even more dash happy than I am, and he didn't like my title or ending line. I think my original title was Even the King and it tied into a now forgotten original last line that was anything but "Long live the King." One of my, um, artistic goals for the piece was to not use that phrase. My buddy had correctly predicted that the editor would want exactly that phrase as the ending line and the title. Being a high powered professional writer now, I dug in my heels a little on the line (though I did rewrite it, just not to what I saw as the editor's lame specifications) but he pretty much told me that he would title it whatever he wanted and that was that.

The magazine, when it eventually came out, was a full sized newsprint publication. Even the cover is newsprint. It was billed as a "collectible" and the copy I have, signed and numbered by the editor, is #294 of 2,100. The editor (he was also the publisher, but you've probably figured that out) kind of disappeared from the field shortly thereafter and I don't know if he ever produced a second issue (which he also solicited a story from me for--"Dragons! Less than a thousand words! I need it by Thursday!"--though he didn't buy what I sent him). The check for Long Live the King did clear, however, and I got another fun illustration.

The apartment in the story is pretty much exactly my first apartment, a truly crappy little place I lived at on Kentucky Street in Bowling Green when I was nineteen. Artist Brett Tadlock, to the best of my knowledge, never visited that place (I don't think I've ever met him, actually) but he got the kitchen pretty much exactly right. Even better, when Elvis shows up (oops, should have said SPOILERS), he's described like this: "He was young, maybe from around the time he filmed King Creole. But he was wearing the black leathers from the '68 comeback special." I thought it was hilarious when I realized that the illustrator took that literally--Elvis is clearly the young, slim dandy of the early films, but his leather outfit is way too big for him, because I guess, it was tailored for the Elvis of ten years later.

If you click on the "continue reading Long Live the King" link below you should see another link, which will get you a PDF of the story. I imagine it'll either download or open in a browser window, depending on your setup. I'm only going to leave the file up until the next Virtual Collection entry, because, well, to be frank, this is not exactly a piece I want out there representing, y'know? If I have my druthers, this'll be the last time it's ever available. That said, I do think there are some moderately fun aspects to the story and if you read it, I hope you'll do so with a light heart.

UPDATE: The file has been removed, as scheduled.

*Why yes, I do mean that in more than one way.

Curly

Look at that graphic, baby. I'm not just quotes; I'm smart quotes.

How do you say "broken ribs" in Japanese?

Yesterday was an excellent mail day down at the post office. The box held page proofs for my contribution to an upcoming reprint anthology and, even better, the recent issue of Hayakawa's SF Magazine which included a translation of "The Voluntary State." The translator, Yoshio Kobayashi, has an article in the magazine about American science fiction as well, and it apparently features some talk of me and my buds Richard and Ben. I think that the substance of the article (I don't read Japanese, unfortunately) is probably similar to that of this conversation at Strange Horizons Yoshio had with Say... alumni Chris Barzak and K. Bird Lincoln.

As exciting as it to see my story translated into another language for the first time (the same story is also scheduled to appear soon in Greek, Hebrew and Danish, and maybe a couple of other languages) the coolest thing by far about this is the illustrations. The piece is accompanied by three full page drawings by one Nara Kihachi, who clearly read the story with some care, and just as clearly has a sense of humor. I'm going to try to track the guy down to see if I can get his permission to reprint one or more of the illustrations here. I've always been lucky in my illustrations, but I can say without a doubt that I've never been more delighted.

Now, as to ribs. I mentioned the post office at the top of this entry. Well, a few weeks ago I had a bicycle wreck of the Hollywood/special effects variety turning into that selfsame P.O. off of High Street. In my defense, I had literally just left the bike shop where I'd had new brakes installed, so I wasn't used to the significantly higher, uh, grab factor I had to deal with. Anyway, there was skidding and flipping and general crashing and so on, but I pretty much felt that the whole thing went as well as it could have and went about my life.

Cut to yesterday morning, when I'm at the student health clinic getting some blood work done as a follow up to an earlier visit, and also asking about some discomfort I've been having in my side. As it turns out, I broke the two lower ribs on my right side in that crash. Which is a better diagnosis than my theory, which had to do with liver inflammation and vitamin toxicity and stuff. My doctor told me to stop watching House, and also told me that my liver is about four inches lower down than where the pain is. Doctors think they're sooo smart.

So there's that. In other news, the wireless router at the house is apparently on the fritz (I'm typepadding live from right here) so I'm sure I'm getting farther and farther behind on e-mail and news and weather and so on. Hopefully I'll get the connectivity sorted out this afternoon, but if you don't hear much from us in the next couple of days, that's why.

Well put!

Today in my literature class ("Kentucky Masters of the Short Story") we were discussing Robert Hazel's challenging "White Anglo-Saxon Protestant." Hazel is probably best known outside the Commonwealth for his poetry, but within it, he's most often mentioned for the years in the late fifties he spent teaching writing at the University of Kentucky, where he mentored people like Ed McClanahan, Gurney Norman, Wendell Berry and Bobbie Ann Mason. (Here's a good article about that particular spike on the Kentucky literary timeline).

Hazel's story is a troubling look at racism and sexism among leftist Village intellectuals in the sixties, so naturally, the conversation turned to category romance novels. (Don't ask me, I couldn't track it and I was there, taking notes even.)

One young lady in class was very emphatic in expressing her view of Harlequins in particular. As she put it, "Nothing in them slut novels is true!"

I can't think of anything to add to that, really.

Tricked!

Oh, how I loves me some Alex Robinson funny books. His first graphic novel, Box Office Poison, was a revelation (forget the mutoids in tights, if I get to be somebody from a comic I want to be Stephen Gaedel). Now, finally, after a four year wait, I have in my hands tonight all 350 pages of Tricked, a tale, it says here, that "follows the lives of six people--a reclusive rock legend, a heartbroken waitress, a counterfeiter, an obsessive crank, a lost daughter, and a backstabbing lover--whose lives are unconnected until an act of violence brings them spiraling in on each other." I have student work to critique and, from the other side of the desk, student work to produce. I have some freelance assignments that need polishing and some proposals that need propositioning. So I'm only gonna read the first half tonight.

Probably.

Two more things to note. First, the image here (even if you click on it to see an enlarged version, which you can) doesn't do even a tiny bit of justice to the cover, with its hypnotic background paintings by Bwana Spoons backing up Robinson's always deft characterization. Design is by Robinson and Brett Warnock. Second, you can buy Robinson's books--gorgeous editions from Top Shelf Productions all--straight from the man himself. Just click right here.

Tomorrow, we ramp up to the next "virtual collection" entry by whining about the desire to have every story you write "contribute to the conversation," and the angst that desire produces in light of reading your own juvenilia. Then again, why should I subject you good people to the whining and the angst, when the juvenilia has a guy parallel parking a Peterbilt in the very first paragraph. Plus, Elvis.

Later, he went to Paris

By popular demand, the photo referenced in the previous entry. Let's be kind to this young man and say that he looks "self-possessed." I believe this photo was taken on Barnett's Creek in January or February of 1998 by my Aunt Lesa.

Kin to Crows

Like a lot of writers, my favorite parts of short story collections often aren't the stories at all, but the "story notes" provided by the authors. These can range from short squibs that don't really provide much more information than what's found on the copyright page to lengthy accounts of the events surrounding the writing of the story, its influences and antecedents. The best ones are like little ethnographies with stories as their subjects of study.

A few of my stories are collected in the chapbook Bittersweet Creek, available from Small Beer Press, and a couple of others have been printed or reprinted in various anthologies. But I've never had the opportunity to write up story notes, so I thought I'd take advantage of this journal to indulge in a little hubris. I know, I know, indulging in hubris is something heretofore unknown among writers on the internet. I may do more of these if people like the idea, and won't if they don't. I'll point out where the stories appear online in those cases where they do, and provide downloadable PDFs of those that haven't been electronically reprinted.

First up, Kin to Crows.

This was the first story I sold, and my memory of finding the letter of acceptance in the mailbox is crystal clear almost eight years later. It was in December of 1997, at the rental house on Ewing Avenue with the intertwined red and white dogwoods in the front yard. I had to leave for a company Christmas party just a few minutes after I opened the envelope and saw the contract, and the party turned out to be a "professional" version of one of those How-to-Host-a-Murder games. (The bartender did it.)

Kin to Crows was the first story I sold, but the fourth I'd completed as an adult. I wrote it in 1996, in the fourth week of that year's Clarion West Writers Workshop. Geoff Ryman was the instructor that week, and after he'd read both the story and a couple of issues of the Adair Progress I had lying around, he said "Adair is your secret weapon."

Like a lot of my early stories, it's set in the imaginary Cane County, which is an amalgam of the place I grew up and a romanticized version of the place I grew up, liberally salted with some second-hand Appalachian folkways. I remember spending an afternoon in the map room of the Louisville library working with the quad maps of south-central Kentucky, mentally adding ridge lines and moving lakes so I could nestle Cane County in among the real world Adair, Casey and Taylor Counties.

It's also the, or at least an, "origin story" of a character named Japheth Sapp, who continues to appear in various contradictory forms in my fiction. One of my goals for my novel-in-progress, The Border State, is to exorcise old Japheth.

Kin to Crows first appeared in the June 1998 issue of Realms of Fantasy. The full page, full color illustration was by a David Martin. There seem to be at least three David Martins working in the field of fantasy illustration, but on the evidence of the line work of this piece, I'm pretty sure "mine" is the one who later won a Chesley Award in the gaming-related illustration category. I was very pleased with the layout of the story in the magazine, which featured a ghostly, silhouetted crow behind the text.

They used a photograph of me on the contributors page in which I was wearing round rimmed glasses, a wool fisherman's sweater and a full beard, so I'm not coming to this hubris thing late. The teaser the magazine used for the story, well, it was what it was: "Vengeance is a dish best served cold—much the way carrion birds prefer their meals." I'll leave it to you to determine how applicable that is.

The story garnered an honorable mention in the Year's Best Fantasy & Horror, Twelfth Annual Collection, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. It was later reprinted online by Ideomancer when I was their featured author in the summer of 2002, and then in my chapbook (linked above) Bittersweet Creek, in 2003.

The Ideomancer version is still online, so I'll let that page act as the official text, at least so far as this virtual collection is concerned. It's strange, now, to read something I wrote when I was almost a decade younger, but I'm still proud of it—even if it reminds me, in more than one way, of something Terry Bisson said about the dialect in an early draft of another of my stories: "It's thick, but it's accurate."

Old Ones Lie

So, I'm working on an annotated bibliography for the anthropology class I'm taking at Bluegrass College. Because it relates to a story I've been thinking about writing, I chose contemporary examples of animal sacrifice as my subject. That led me, in turn, to an article called "Khanty Communal Reindeer Sacrifice: Belief, Subsistence and Cultural Persistence in Contemporary Siberia" in the journal Arctic Anthropology.

Discovering that there's a journal called Arctic Anthropology is almost worth going back to school for all by itself. But wow! This article is fascinating. Here's just one little bit. Before they perform the sacrifice, the Khanty perform a divination ceremony using fly agaric mushrooms (Amanita muscaria). Talking about the mushrooms, a Khanty man told the authors that "the value of the divination depends upon taking the smallest fly agaric mushroom in any stand of mushrooms; one must not gather the older ones 'because old ones lie.'"

I'd make a terrible anthropologist. My field notes would probably read like this: "That is so cool! Wait, did he just say something about a bear cult? Awesome!"

Shine on, Mr. Westerfeld

Curious about a comment I saw in this entry on YA supahstah Scott Westerfeld's blog, I did some googling around and determined that, hey! The Penguin Australia edition of Scott's So Yesterday has won the 2005 Victorian Premier's Literary Award Prize for Young Adult Fiction.

Sources tell me that "[t]he Victorian Premier's Literary Awards are one of Australia’s oldest and most prestigious annual literary awards. Financially supported by the Victorian Government, the Awards are nationa and reward Australian writers for the best Australian books and writing in the categories of fiction, non-fiction, young adult fiction, poetry, drama, essay, screen writing and literary translation."

And you thought he was a Texan.

The judge's report (linked off the Award home page above) on So Yesterday has nice quotes like these:

"A clever, witty narrative wryly examines adolescent obsessions with being cool, or choosing not to be, without talking down."

"This original novel confirms adolescents as the savvy people they are."

I can't really add much to that, other than to say that while I'm not a savvy adolescent, I can highly recommend So Yesterday. Congratulations, Scott, much deserved.