On my other blog and on the science fiction and fantasy group on facebook, I and others have occasionally discussed changes in science fiction over the last generation; changes in definition, changes is audience and what's being published and how they impact each other. But as I think about the fantasy story I've been posting on this blog, I realize the same is happening with fantasy, to a degree. Fantasy enjoys far better success (and much of the more successful so-called science fiction is really fantasy in many respects, too) as exemplified by what makes it into tv and movies (and that's what most publishers are hoping for in the novels they choose, because that's where the big money comes in besides the stuff that makes it into the classroom as required reading). In some respects, old classic fantasy (including fair tales) are even staging something of a comeback. But like science fiction, it's all got a new, modern twist, being set in near-contemporary worlds and mixed up with contemporary fiction genre's (Grimm being a cop show, for example). Even Harry Potter is set in modern England, though some who aren't fans see the victorian-era garb and assume it has a historical setting).
I've seen and heard discussions of high fantasy as if it were still popular. It at least doesn't seem to have lost its definition as much science fiction has, but I'm not seeing any make it big. Am I missing something? For awhile, I saw quite a few books that might almost fit into it: pseudo medieval settings of elf-like beings or beings calling themselves elves (though they don't fit either the fairy tale or Tolkein definition that I can tell), but none recently. The closest that I saw get good billing was Dwarf or Dwarves. (The really cool helm on the cover is what sticks in my mind more than the name.
It would be sad if high fantasy slid into the obscure past, another lost genre, just when we have writers that let the women play cool roles in them. Women having cool roles was notably lacking in most of what I had been finding when it was more popular and it remains rare in the newer sorts of fantasy I've been seeing. I hope it's not a trend that every time a sub genre gets cool women characters, it fades out. I was encouraged to believe that women in lead roles was the in thing (since the guys don't seem to mind at all and the women certainly enjoy it). McCaffrey was billed as a trend setter in that regard, and a few other SF writers have had varying degrees of success with female or mixed leads (though none of them stick in my mind the way Menolly, Lessa, and Helva do) but it's not a trend that has made it to media and will only stay a trend if publishers accept it as such.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Christmas shopping lists
There are lots of ways to Christmas shop. I shop all year, finding it easier to find interesting gifts at unfamiliar stores when I travel. Toward the end of the year, though, it's time to be a little more organized and I start matching gifts to recipients, to make sure that I have something for everyone, and to make sure I haven't bought enough for a couple of Christmases. When the budget is tight, I check sooner. Give yourself a budget for gifts and stick to it. A "little extra" adds up rapidly over several gifts for several people.
The other way to handle limited financial budgets (or something to consider if not limited) is to consider whether it might be appropriate to spend time instead of money. Crafters say that the time it takes to make something is worth ten times the material cost of supplies, and the reactions of recipients often seem to prove the point, even for crafts that don't take much skill or training. It's like certain wonderful treats (one of the ones I like is ginger-candied orange peels, but it takes a lot of careful peeling to make a little pile of treats) that you know are a pain to make: you so appreciate the person who went to the bother of making it because it's your favorite! Since I've been doing a bunch of crochet this year, I became aware that crocheted and knitted things have become more rare in the stores, so a certain uniqueness value is added, too. Handmade Christmas ornaments might not get much use, but can be an annual reminder of you and your interest in the recipient, much more so than something purchased at a store. Time is precious. Spending a little of it on a friend or family members can make a great gift.
The other way to handle limited financial budgets (or something to consider if not limited) is to consider whether it might be appropriate to spend time instead of money. Crafters say that the time it takes to make something is worth ten times the material cost of supplies, and the reactions of recipients often seem to prove the point, even for crafts that don't take much skill or training. It's like certain wonderful treats (one of the ones I like is ginger-candied orange peels, but it takes a lot of careful peeling to make a little pile of treats) that you know are a pain to make: you so appreciate the person who went to the bother of making it because it's your favorite! Since I've been doing a bunch of crochet this year, I became aware that crocheted and knitted things have become more rare in the stores, so a certain uniqueness value is added, too. Handmade Christmas ornaments might not get much use, but can be an annual reminder of you and your interest in the recipient, much more so than something purchased at a store. Time is precious. Spending a little of it on a friend or family members can make a great gift.
Friday, November 11, 2011
A Culture of Solitude
Cuani walked without seeing, the countryside around her empty of the people that could give her sight. It was a rare joy. The wind was a warm comfort against her face and set the drapes of her shield mesh dancing across her legs. She pulled the mesh, a shapeless dress of web-thin ceramic beads, off over her head and draped it around her shoulders, realizing that here she didn't need it. Here she was not inundated by the sensations and thoughts of other people. She could feel instead the reality of the nuanen farmland through which she strode.
"Stay on the road til there is no more road, if you really want to walk that far, then turn left. There's a driveway but it's kind of windy, and the house a bit up slope to the right. Hopefully they'll spot you if you can't find the house. It's open enough, but they might not be looking."
That's what the shuttle pilot had told her when she disembarked and asked for directions instead of a ride. The shuttle wasn't allowed in the farmlands, nor motorized vehicles, but buggy drivers could be booked in advance. Buggy drivers and hosts and empaths were all that were allowed. And her. Wherever empaths but not telepaths, wherever telepaths but not empaths, she could go almost always. But she had checked. The exceptions were rare but important. She hadn't bothered with the buggy driver. It was a walkable distance and she wanted to experience it without the encumberance of people.
The sun, she could feel, was already high overhead, warming her hair, her forehead, a little of one cheek. The mesh was keeping the sun from heating her shoulders, an unexpected benefit. Academically, she knew the mesh was a kind of temperature moderator, but that wasn't it's purpose, just a side bonus she forgot about in the already-controlled temperatures of the comm center where she lived and worked. Her legs, lightly wrapped by the thin overalls, were cooled by the light breeze, almost chill despite the high sun and she reminded herself not to pause in her walking. She would want to be there by the time the sun fell. Her luggage had been sent ahead with another buggy rider and she hadn't thought to grab a coat.
She took a deeper, cautious, breath, reminding herself that, though this wasn't the filtered air of the comms center, the odors might be better as easily as worse. She sniffed with her nose, took a deep breath with her nose, smiled her own smile with her own delight. Bread, she thought. Warm bread baked with flower petals and served with honey butter, perhaps, or, no, herbed butter. Sweet and savory herbs eaten on a picnic blanket with crushed grass underneath. She stumbled and laughed at herself with her own amusement. The eyes of people around her gave her sight, and the floors of the comm center were smooth unless someone had left a box or bag in the walkway, but she gladly gave up the sight they offered for the pleasure of knowing she wasn't smiling because someeone else was happy, her own feelings lost and buried by the joys and sorrows and frustrations and amusements of everyone around her.
She paused, made sure she was still feeling the grainy texture of the stone beneath her boots and that she hadn't stumbled because of shifting off to the shoulder or into the fields that would line the road to the farm houses. Yes, still road, and the soft feel of distance presences, the cluster of homes and stores and services around the shuttle dock, remained behind her. She lifted her arms to feel the air more fully, breathed through her nose again, and considered turning around just to dance in the emptiness of it all and the warmth of the sun and the cool of the air, but kept herself from doing so. Keeping to a straight line was relatively easy, getting on the right straight line again not so much. For just a moment she might dance when the hosts at the farm were close enough to sense, so long as they were happy to see her.
Fiction Friday Prompt: Use this phrase or sentiment in your story ” a culture of solitude”
"Stay on the road til there is no more road, if you really want to walk that far, then turn left. There's a driveway but it's kind of windy, and the house a bit up slope to the right. Hopefully they'll spot you if you can't find the house. It's open enough, but they might not be looking."
That's what the shuttle pilot had told her when she disembarked and asked for directions instead of a ride. The shuttle wasn't allowed in the farmlands, nor motorized vehicles, but buggy drivers could be booked in advance. Buggy drivers and hosts and empaths were all that were allowed. And her. Wherever empaths but not telepaths, wherever telepaths but not empaths, she could go almost always. But she had checked. The exceptions were rare but important. She hadn't bothered with the buggy driver. It was a walkable distance and she wanted to experience it without the encumberance of people.
The sun, she could feel, was already high overhead, warming her hair, her forehead, a little of one cheek. The mesh was keeping the sun from heating her shoulders, an unexpected benefit. Academically, she knew the mesh was a kind of temperature moderator, but that wasn't it's purpose, just a side bonus she forgot about in the already-controlled temperatures of the comm center where she lived and worked. Her legs, lightly wrapped by the thin overalls, were cooled by the light breeze, almost chill despite the high sun and she reminded herself not to pause in her walking. She would want to be there by the time the sun fell. Her luggage had been sent ahead with another buggy rider and she hadn't thought to grab a coat.
She took a deeper, cautious, breath, reminding herself that, though this wasn't the filtered air of the comms center, the odors might be better as easily as worse. She sniffed with her nose, took a deep breath with her nose, smiled her own smile with her own delight. Bread, she thought. Warm bread baked with flower petals and served with honey butter, perhaps, or, no, herbed butter. Sweet and savory herbs eaten on a picnic blanket with crushed grass underneath. She stumbled and laughed at herself with her own amusement. The eyes of people around her gave her sight, and the floors of the comm center were smooth unless someone had left a box or bag in the walkway, but she gladly gave up the sight they offered for the pleasure of knowing she wasn't smiling because someeone else was happy, her own feelings lost and buried by the joys and sorrows and frustrations and amusements of everyone around her.
She paused, made sure she was still feeling the grainy texture of the stone beneath her boots and that she hadn't stumbled because of shifting off to the shoulder or into the fields that would line the road to the farm houses. Yes, still road, and the soft feel of distance presences, the cluster of homes and stores and services around the shuttle dock, remained behind her. She lifted her arms to feel the air more fully, breathed through her nose again, and considered turning around just to dance in the emptiness of it all and the warmth of the sun and the cool of the air, but kept herself from doing so. Keeping to a straight line was relatively easy, getting on the right straight line again not so much. For just a moment she might dance when the hosts at the farm were close enough to sense, so long as they were happy to see her.
Fiction Friday Prompt: Use this phrase or sentiment in your story ” a culture of solitude”
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