The artist in a society of entitlement

Consider this: If you were to work for seven years only to discover not only was your income so far below the poverty line as to be non-existent, but worse, people had been seeking out, using, and enjoying your work without paying you for it -- would you be disgruntled, perhaps peeved, perhaps even angry? Would their love and praise of your work diminish in its importance under the weight of knowing those secret customers stole your work? When the cost of your work is not much more than the price of a cup of coffee and yet still people thieve, would that drive you to seek justice, only to find there is no justice to be had?

Would you even stop working in order to prevent further theft?

Could you?

This is a problem every writer, and indeed creator of intellectual and visual content faces every day because of the power and all-encompassing nature of the Internet.

Recently I did one of my usual searches for my own writing on the Internet. And, as usual, pirate sites popped up featuring my books. I was about to prepare to fire off my usual notices to the site owners of copyright infringement, when I noticed discussion boards in which people quite freely seek out guidance from other members where they might be able to download a free copy of a book they wish to read. A free copy. Openly and unabashedly asking people where they could steal a copy of my work.

My first thought was: do these people not know about libraries?

And then my second thought was: that would be too much trouble. Because in this society of instant gratification and entitlement why should you not be able to enjoy someone's work, use their wares, because you want to, because everything should belong to everyone, quite outside of the fact you're too damned greedy to offer even the price of a cup of a coffee to the maker of the pleasure you'll receive over the next 36 hours. And of course it's perfectly acceptable to discuss stealing that person's work in public because it's your right to enjoy that work. After all, it's not really harming anyone. Not really.

Because the fact a person has worked in isolation for seven years, researching, writing, revising, paying for the professional services of an editor, revising, reworking, waking up at three of the blessed morning to realize everything you've written for the past two weeks is shite and you have to start again, and then when finally you've bashed that story into something about which you can feel a modicum of pride you then go through all those endless public appearances for signings, wrangling with social media to get your name out there, putting in all those mind-numbing hours in order to meet the needs of marketing and fans and all the business of business when you know very well every hour spent away from your desk is another hour you're not getting the next book into shape -- none of that matters. Apparently. You're not worth the price of a cup of coffee.

Would you, as a consumer, with your privileged, entitled, inflated sense of self-worth then take that ego one step further? You like that particular coat, and because you do you take it off the rack at the store, carefully remove the theft-prevention tag, and then walk out the door wearing the coat.

Oh, you'd like to have that bottle of pinot grigot with dinner tonight, and after all you're not really hurting anyone by taking it home, it's a big company making pots of money, so in a way you're really being a Robin Hood of sorts. Sure you are. You, smug in your living room without a thought for the vintner who laboured for twenty years to bring that small vineyard into production, risking everything so you could pound back some decent plonk.

Ah, well while we're at it, you really would like to drive that new car, so you jack your way into it and enjoy not having to take the public transit to buy groceries, go to work, all that hassle of every day life.

But then what happens when your boss thinks the same way you do? What happens when she steals your hours of labour with nary a pay cheque in sight? Different story, right? You march yourself to the first legal aid (because you don't want to have to pay for a lawyer) and you sue that bastard's ass because you've been robbed! You haven't been paid!

Still enjoying that ripped off read?

Yeah, and sure I'm glad you like my writing. But if you do, don't be such a cheap bastard and at least buy me the price of that cup of coffee.

The would-be jurors

Recently a colleague from SFCanada posted a link to a review site which published an article, entitled Is genre fiction creating a market for lemons, about the rise of self-publishing and the proliferation of reader reviews.

Despite being intelligently written, I'm afraid it hit the Taz button for me. You know, the Taz -- Tasmanian Devil, the misunderstood growly beastie.

Why? Well, here's why:

I am heartily weary of this discussion, that somehow self-publishers, or small presses, or gods forbid the unenlightened, uneducated hordes might dare to think they, also, could create art, that somehow art is only art when adjudicated by a precious few who are somehow authorized to canonize a writer for their work. Only THEY can say, ‘This is worthy of publication.’

Oh horse-cookies.

People have been writing stories for millennia, and recording them either through their memories and retelling them as the shaman or bard or wise-person, or through pictographs, scratching on papyrus or parchment or vellum or paper, or now digitally. And people have been listening to stories for millennia. The stories which are remembered generations from now are the ones which resonate with some part of the human spirit. If not, the stories diminish; they die.

So many of these would-be gatekeepers, these chickens who wail, “The sky is falling. Art as we know is under siege!” forget that but 150 years ago people wrote their stories and yes, grab the smelling-salts, they self-published! They created their own kickstarter campaigns, only then contributors were called patrons, and every patron received a copy of said book. And so many of those published works are forgotten but perhaps by a precious few. And that’s okay. Really, it is.

For the love of sanity, I do wish these toffs would get over themselves. The public will read what they will read. And if you don’t like the marketplace, well, take your stall somewhere else.

Just one last comment regarding reader reviews: Whether they’re fake or not makes little difference, because since when did we allow someone else to decide what we should and should not read? Why not just read or watch something because you think the subject matter might be of interest? And then, gasp, make up your own mind whether you wasted your time or not.

And you know what, even if you didn’t like said piece of art, it wasn’t a waste of time finding that out! Why? Because YOU’VE LEARNED SOMETHING! Even the negative can teach us something.

Geez.

Rant off. Apologies in advance for the myriad people I will have pissed off. Going back to my Taz-Devil ways in the loft.

What were the jurors of the GG thinking?

I do have to wonder sometimes about the artistic and literary pundits of this country we call Canada and home. While I completely recognize the subjectivity of art and its appreciation, the jurors of this year's Governor General's Award I cannot help but feel have collectively been dropped on their heads, or have slick palms, or fail to recognize citizenship, or just plain didn't read all the books on the short-list, or the biographies of the authors whose works were short-listed. Truly, something is amiss here.

What first strikes me as incomprehensible is the awarding of one of Canada's most prestigious literary awards to a writer who has been a Canadian for all of six years of her life. Eleanor Catton, author of what I consider to be an abysmally pretentious bit of fiction (The Luminaries), it would seem, has been deemed a beloved daughter of Canada, and her work pre-eminent. My review of her novel is here.

Eleanor Catton

The decision of this year's GG jurors is simply incomprehensible when the list of the other nominees is considered, most especially Joseph Boyden and his novel, The Orenda. Why it is Boyden's novel should have been overlooked is mystifying. Artistically considered it is a superior work, in my opinion. Culturally it is a scintillating lens on Canadian history and concerns, written by a man who is quintessentially Canadian.

Boyden was born in Willowdale, Ontario, educated in Canada, has lived most of his life in Canada, and now divides his time between Louisiana, United States, where he is a writer in residence, and northern Ontario. He writes Canadian stories, about Canadian people, primarily First Nations. My review of his novel, The Orenda, is here.

Joseph Boyden

So how did the GG jurors fail to recognize any of that?

For what it's worth, I urge all of you to give Catton's novel a pass, unless you like a little masochism. Instead, treat yourself to a truly Canadian writer, Joseph Boyden, and novel, The Orenda, that will illuminate, edify and linger hauntingly for years to come, and in this way support those who are entitled to call themselves Canadian.

Open complaint to College of Physicians and Surgeons of Ontario

I have filed the following complaint to the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Ontario, and am making that complaint a matter of public record by posting it here on my blog.

NB: This post has been edited from the original letter, omitting names of the physicians.

re: --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Overview

I first saw Dr. ------- October 7, 2013 as a new patient. Although very pleasant, from the outset it was clear Dr. ------- was determined to recommend not only outdated and ineffective practices regarding obesity, but cast into doubt the veracity of any of my statements.

The appointment was concluded, and I was told to book another for follow-up, which I did.

The second appointment took place on October 21. I was immediately informed this appointment was to be a complete physical, with an array of blood and urine tests to follow, none of which I had consented to undergo. I refused the physical, and obtained prescriptions for rampipril 10mg, and atenol 50mg, prescribed by my former physician for hypertension.

I made a third appointment which took place November 8, at which time Dr. ------- terminated our doctor/patient relationship.

Areas of Concern

No understanding of, or sympathy with, the dynamics of chronic pain

I deal with chronic pain from both osteoarthritis and sciatica.

Around 2007 I was treated by Dr. ------------ in ------- for osteoarthritis and sciatica, which resulted in long-term prescription of Tylenol 3, 30mg, to be taken as required, not to exceed six tablets/day. I usually only took 2 tablets before bed in order to dampen the pain enough and allow me to fall asleep.

In 2009, I was treated by Dr. ------------- for osteoarthritis, with the end result he prescribed 375mg naproxen twice daily in order to better address arthritis pain, with full knowledge of my hypertension and medication history. The result of that treatment resulted in a dramatic improvement in my quality of life.

I continued to take T3s when necessary at night, as Naproxen does not address nerve pain.

Upon my first visit with Dr. -------, he immediately told me to discontinue use of Naproxen because it can elevate blood pressure. I asked how I was to deal with the pain of arthritis, and he had no answer, and instead discussed obesity. I subsequently refused to discontinue use of naproxen, knowing without it my daily mobility and function is greatly impacted.

My third visit to Dr. -------was to refill my prescription for T3s, and to give him a copy of the medical report I’d received from Dr. ------------- regarding his diagnosis and treatment for my arthritis. At that time, I also gave Dr. -------a detailed chart of my daily food consumption, with daily blood pressure and pulse records, to prove his assertions of over-eating were erroneous, and that at home, in a stable, controlled environment, my blood pressure is within acceptable levels.

Dr. -------became quite incensed when he glanced at Dr. -------- report, and even further incensed when he read my daily record. When I then asked for a prescription renewal of T3s, he vehemently, even angrily, stated he would not prescribe narcotics. I asked how I was to manage sleep without pain relief. He stated I was already on naproxen. I pointed out naproxen addressed arthritis pain, but would not touch nerve pain from sciatica. It was then Dr. ------- tossed the reports back at me and stated our relationship is over.

It became clear to me that because I had refused to accept his path of treatment, and his dismissal of my chronic pain difficulties, that Dr. ------- would brook no questioning of his authority. A patient has a right to access an informed, understanding physician, without prejudice or bias. It is clear Dr. ------- is incapable of accepting a patient’s will, and is lacking in understanding in the area of treatment of chronic pain.

Adherence to outdated practices regarding obesity

During my first visit with Dr. -------, he naturally focused on the fact I am obese. Quite understandable. However, he immediately zeroed in on the highly questionable (and now under intense research and investigation) theory of thermodynamics, and made it clear he doubted my veracity when I asserted I do not over-eat, the fact I’m obese is not a matter of quality or quantity of food. I explained I have been either over-weight or obese all my life, that even on 600 calories a day and vigorous exercise I can still gain weight.

Because of his dismissal of my assertions, he then wished me to see a bariatric surgeon. I emphatically refused. He asked why, and I responded the research clearly indicates bariatric surgery is ineffective over the long term, quite outside of the enormous monetary consideration for treatment not covered by government health care, and often the equivalent in cost of a very expensive new vehicle. I was not prepared to mortgage my home for treatment clearly proven ineffective.

Dr. ------- then asked if I have difficulty sleeping, which I confirmed, adding pain was usually the reason. He ignored the latter and asked if I snored. I confirmed that from time to time I snore, especially when over-tired. He then asserted I snore because I’m obese, and he wished me to see a sleep therapist in order to address sleep apnea. He further asserted I’m obese because I snore (bit of circular thinking there), because if I wasn’t sleeping, I was eating. I made it clear I remained in bed and read when I couldn’t sleep, which he dismissed. Again, I refused to see a sleep therapist, because, quite frankly, by this time I suspected the snake oil was going to come out at any moment, you will please pardon the unprofessionalism of that statement.

I asked Dr. ------- if he had read any of the current research regarding obesity, in particular:

http://thesocietypages.org/socimages/2013/08/19/whats-causing-the-rise-in-obesity-everything/

and:

http://www.aeonmagazine.com/being-human/david-berreby-obesity-era/

or if he’d read the fascinating research presented by Gary Taubes in: Good Calories, Bad Calories.

The answer to all of these was no. So, it was clear Dr. ------- was simply repeating outdated, ineffective, uninformed and sometimes dangerous medical practice, rather than pausing to consider the most recent research into this global problem.

Frankly, I’m weary beyond expression of doctors who simply will not listen to patients, who are not keeping current. And Dr. --------- dismissal of any of my statements was an expected and disappointing repeat.

No respect for patient’s wishes

After these three visits to Dr. -------, and his subsequent refusal to treat me, it is clear he will brook no disagreement with his authority, his opinion, or his theories. I am tired of being poked and prodded for tests which will come back negative. I am tired of doctors looking for diseases which I don’t have. I am tired of doctors looking at me like I’m a revenue generator. And I’m tired of doctors calling me a liar, albeit in very politic and polite terms.

It is clear Dr. -------is no exception from what has become the norm in the paradigm of medicine. When the Hippocratic oath was replaced with imperative of profit and business, patient care went out the window. I imagine if I had been like so many other patients, and particularly female patients, and simply accepted his statements as truths, never questioned, never bothered to research my own health and conditions, I would still be under his care. But I’m not. And despite the fact I am once again without a physician, there is a relief, also, that comes with knowing I won’t have to deal with someone so autocratic and ignorant.

Response to Liz Bourke at Strange Horizons

Normally when a negative review (which thankfully are few) for one of my books appears I just shrug. We all have different aesthetics, points of view, something the Internet has allowed us to share through social media.

So it was when I raised the very public hackles of Liz Bourke, reviewer for Strange Horizons, I merely allowed Ms. Bourke her opinion about my novel From Mountains of Ice and carried on.

It would seem, however, her review garnered the notice of another blogger at Pornokitsch, under the heading of Extremist Reviewing. The author of Pornokitsch found great humour in Liz Bourke's evisceration (the author's term, not mine) of my novel, enough to Tweet and generally share around the multiverse. That, also, is fine. Again, we all must find humour, entertainment, and share opinion in order to expand our horizons and understanding of life.

One of Ms. Bourke's strident objections read thusly:

But the first and perhaps the most severe of my problems with From Mountains of Ice is its lack of willingness to abide by the usual conventions of English-language punctuation. Particularly where it comes to commas.

a fluid list of titles and salutations, professions of greatest love and longing, veiled accusations of betrayal through Sylvio's absence, enforced though it might have been, earnest wishes to redress absence. Just the fact Carmelo singled him out was fraught with potential, none of it with hope. (p. 75)

Phrases, especially descriptive phrases, come tacked together with commas when it would be more comprehensible (and less horribly irritating) to use more than one sentence. Several sentences have more commas than they need. Several suffer from a mysterious dearth of commas, where a comma would have added to comprehensibility or to the ordinary flow of prose.

Carried by the outgoing tide they'd be swept out to sea, just as she. (p. 107)

Having laid that foundation, I would therefore entreat both Ms. Bourke and her followers to consider the following passage:

Also — for there had been more than a few migrants aboard, yes, quite a quantity of wives who had been grilled by reasonable, doing-their-job officials about the length of and distinguishing moles upon their husbands’ genitalia, a sufficiency of children upon whose legitimacy the British Government had cast its ever-reasonable doubts — mingling with the remnants of the plain, equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul, broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mother-tongues, violated privacies, untranslatable jokes, extinguished futures, lost loves, the forgotten meaning of hollow, booming words, land, belong, home.

The author of this passage is guilty, according to conventional wisdom, of egregious writing abuse. I remember clearly reading this passage a few years ago, and those which came before, and after, and the whole dizzying effect of this tumbling narrative. I sat stunned after closing the novel, aware I looked into the face of genius for the second time in my life. Suddenly all I had been taught meant nothing confronted with this monumental art.

I hear your disparagement even now. What kack, Lorina, you say. This is a run-on sentence, incomprehensible, nonsensical. Tripe, to be polite. Unmitigated shite if not.

So? Ah yes so.

The author: Salman Rushdie. The work: The Satanic Verses.

Something to give you pause, eh? A slight blush. Perhaps an ahem or two? I know the feeling.

Now, far be it from me to compare my work to Salman Rushdie's. But there is inspiration here. There is a great deal to study, to comprehend, to emulate. Think about the artistic and emotional effect of that passage by Rushdie.

It has long been said in order to create art you need to understand the rules. And then you need to understand how to break the rules.

And just as that work of art may not be everyone's taste, before slagging it, consider your own biases as a reviewer, whether you're reviewing painting, sculpture, music or literature. This is something I try to remember when I review literature. A review should not be a wholesale condemnation of the worth of a thing. A review is, and only ever will be, one person's opinion. Your trash may be someone else's treasure.

Just saying.

Aiming the pistol at the foot

Despite all my bluster chivvying authors into brave faces, preaching that the un-achievable is attainable, when it comes to my own career as an author I tend to shrink back into the shadows. I have no idea why I do that. But I do. Always have. Call it a character flaw.

However, every now and again I emerge from my cave, or shell, or whatever, and decide, HEY! I can DO THIS! And I summon courage and analyze stories and send out submissions to magazines, collections and the like, keeping careful log of their journeys through an Excel spreadsheet (yes, yes, I know all about Obsessive Compulsion Disorder.)

The current attempt to shoot off my feet comes in the form of the call for submissions for the Tesseracts 18 anthology. I've been trying to break that market ever since Judy Merrill first launched it way back. No joy. And I doubt very much there will be joy this time, but the point is I've at least tried.

Lester B. Pearson, former Prime Minister of Canada, and Nobel Peace Prize Winner, once said: The only failures are those who fail to try.

Hon. Lester B. Pearson

So Lester, ol' bean, old sport, I'm trying. I don't hold out much hope. But to the best of my knowledge I've targeted the right story for the right market.

Of course, this comes on the heels of finding out all the primary round of rejections for the Fearful Symmetries anthology have taken place, and the remaining 355 stories are either still being considered, or have now been forwarded to editor, Ellen Datlow. In this case, no news is good news.

Now, there is a synchronicity about the fact I haven't heard thing one as yet regarding my submission to that heady anthology, because back in the day when Omni was the nirvana of short speculative fiction (I was at Clarion the year Ted Chiang made his first short story sale with the first short story he'd ever written, which was to none other than Ellen Datlow at Omni) I had dreams of maybe, one day, breaking into that market, of having someone like Ellen Datlow pat me on the head and reward my closet scribblings with publication. Alas, it never happened.

Ellen Datlow

But here the gyre curves round again, and I find myself in six degrees of separation.

Dear god, there are days I truly wonder why I do this? Why do I peck at the keyboard, dreaming dreams of people and places, of hurt and triumph, of destinies and deeds? Why answer the sibilant whispers in my head who constantly narrate stories for which I am but a vehicle? I don't know.

But somewhere between editing other authors' stories, creating print layouts, rounds of meetings and discussions and all the trappings of being a publisher, I still pursue this calling of being a story-teller. Keep writing. Just keep writing. And the foot? Ack. It will heal.

Story genesis and writing environmental detail

Recently a dear friend and colleague (Robert Runte) and I were discussing the craft of writing, which happened concurrently with a similar discussion I was having with my husband, Gary. In particular we discussed story genesis, and how to create meaningful environment detail and description in literature.

For example, I mentioned to Robert a story on which I'm presently working, that all I had so far was mood (eeriness) and one element (an owl). He wondered how I could start with two such nebulous concepts, rather than a solid character and an event, as example, and mentioned I must feel my way through stories rather than plot.

I had to think about that for a moment, and realized that indeed I sort of feel, yes, but more think.

For me, thinking about mood/emotion gives order and reason to chaos, and I suppose is a subliminal underlying theme in much of my writing. Reason over passion. Being aware of the effect of environment and cause, and reasoning your way to logical and beneficial effect. So it is a writer can come up with two concepts -- eeriness and an owl -- and from that shape a story. Those concepts set up a chain of thought processes: Why is the ambient mood eerie? Is there something metaphysical happening? Is there an impending storm? Is it the call of the owl? That can certainly be eerie. So, yes, the eeriness will derive from the mythology around owls (greatly undeserved given they are known to be as dumb as doorknobs). So given they are not clever birds, why eerie? They are known to be near-silent flyers, powerful. They have an ability to echo-locate and so navigate dense woods with ease. They have those strange rotating heads, which can raise the hairs on your arms with ease. Their calls are often heard during the twilight hours, which has always held a mystique in the human psyche.

And so it goes. You can see how a story can build from these elements. It's like germinating seeds. Before you know it you have a garden, which is your story.

Which then brings us to environment detail. I'd never thought about how I write environmental detail until both Gary and Robert queried me regarding that process. The only meaningful metaphor I came up with was that it's like echo-location, to borrow from my owl-friend. You are the centre of your universe, so all you know and do is based upon the data you pick up from environment. In order for the reader to understand the character, it is necessary to use echo-location in order for the reader to understand the character's place in that environment. 

Robert in particular has had an interest in a specific passage in my novel, From Mountains of Ice. 

He heard whispers, dry and chittering, looked up sharply into the dust and gloom of the warehouse. Only the scuttle of a mouse. In the distance a horse whickered, followed by the firm but gentle command of an ostler. A burst of laughter then, plainly from the traders viewing Danuto's horses. Whispers again beneath his hand, fading like a breeze lost in leaves. A swallow swooped along the vaulted ceiling, blade-like wings almost silent. Almost. Like the voices in the boxes beneath his hand.

In the scene above, we start with two points: Sylvio, and the fact he needs to think, which prefaces the quoted paragraph. As a result of the fact the main protagonist needs to think, he's in the warehouse, taking time out, but he's still very much connected to his environment by virtue of the fact he's a living, breathing human being, and in order for the reader to get into Sylvio's head, the reader has to be aware of what he's experiencing. 

So, just as you or I would do in real life, I describe that environment in writing not through slavish and sterile descriptions that are like an inventory, but through his own sensory awareness, his own echo-location, if you will. Thus he looks up both physically and through his senses from his thoughts, from that myopic state of both inner and within arm's reach environment, and receives input, information: a sound which turns out to be a mouse, out further to the light beyond where he stands, which takes his senses out to the courtyard where there are horses, becomes aware of the movement and sounds there (you see how the sensory waves are pooling out?), and then, because his vision and hearing have reached their limits, pulls back, like a receding wave to the point of origin, himself and the box on which his hand rests, to the immediate pressure and concern that has brought him to the warehouse in the first place, and so hears what no one else can, the voices of the dead in the box of bows under his hand. Echo-location. And now the reader has a better understanding of what's going on not only in the world around Sylvio, but his inner world.

I did a similar thing in the opening paragraph of my novel, Shadow Song: 

I remember the summer I met Shadow Song was so green it hurt my eyes. It was as if the world were carved from jade – something sacred and equally fragile. I, Danielle Michelle Fleming, was to become mesmerized by this world. This land, this Upper Canada, was a place where I would learn to breathe.

Although I'm not dealing with specific environmental detail, I have immediately established what is to be the tone, place and environment of the novel. We know right off the novel is named for a person who will have a significant influence on the main protagonist. Why? Because he is named immediately, given pre-eminence. We know it's going to be a land that's verdant because of the import of the colour green. We also know that environment is somehow going to cause hurt or harm to Danielle because of the fact the colour hurts her eyes, that perhaps there is bane in bounty, and that no good deed goes unpunished, or that perhaps the yin/yang factor is going to come into play. Whichever it is, the reader is immediately set up for possible tragedy. We know this world is going to be precious to her, and also fragile, and because she is writing these things in past tense that the story is going to be a memoir of something once precious now broken and lost. We also know that despite pain, Danielle will fall in love and under the spell of such bounty. We are also given a glimpse into her history by the simple mention that she would learn to breathe in this new world, indicating her life until then has been suffocating, perhaps restrictive. 

That's a lot of information to pack into 54 words.

You will notice in both passages I've refrained from giving measurements, cataloguing specifics. By doing so I've still created environment, but also allowed the reader interface, allowed their imaginations to paint in the colour around the lines I've sketched in. I've established a dialogue, and by doing so have invested the reader in the story. 

Equally, I've also sustained or established tension and the momentum of the plot, preventing the reader from closing the novel, perhaps permanently.

Certainly I cannot claim invention of this technique. It is used with ease by some of the great masters of literature. The first time I became aware of it was as an adolescent of 14,when I read Hardy's Tess of the d'Ubervilles. I realized how well Hardy married environment to mood and character, that one was shaped and fed by the other. Later I found the same technique used in Atwood's A Handmaid's Tale, in particular one of the first passages in which she describes Ofglen walking along a sidewalk, stepping over worms that have risen in the rain, how they look like bloated lips. In that moment I knew this was going to be a story about love and sexuality gone horribly wrong, and I was cognizant of the deftness of writing that allowed Ofglen's inner world to bleed out into her environment, so that what she saw was a reflection of her inner thought process.

Candas Jane Dorsey, Rohinton Mistry, Joseph Boyden, Caitlin Sweet and many other writers whose work I study and admire employ this sort of echo-location and environmental detail.

How to employ that technique yourself? Try meditating in an environment of your own and practice that sort of echo-location. Start with your inner world, the sound of your heart, your breathing, allow your senses to swim out. What do you perceive next, second, third, and at what point do you return to the self and the origin of your thoughts? And how does your inner world affect your perception and reception of the outer world? It's amazing how the same environment can be described differently depending on mood and personal stresses both physical and emotional.

In a way it boils down to what I'm always advising writers when I edit their work: BE YOUR CHARACTER. Allow yourself to get inside their head and then write the story as if you were them. Do that, and you'll refrain from telling your reader a room is 20' x 39', made of dressed stone. Instead you'll describe how your character feels the chill of the room, wishing there were tapestries on the stone walls to temper their grey and harsh welcome, how in a room of this size the fireplace and the fire in it are miserly, not even room for an inglenook in which to sit and dispel the dampness.

To put it simply, open your senses. If you're going to be a writer, you have to be a conduit for not only the temporal world, but the metaphysical world you're creating.

The dangers of silence

I was advised very early when I first established my own blog to keep it focused, to keep it out of controversial subjects. Always thought that was a bit ridiculous, being the passionate, idealistic sort of person I am. I've always thought people had an intrinsic right to express opinions in an intelligent, non-violent fashion. This is, after all, how we learn about one another, reach broader perspectives, perhaps even greater understanding.

This morning this foundation of freedom of information and speech, however, has been somewhat shaken by two seemingly disparate and yet similar occurrences from two allegedly polar political extremes. One comes from a British broadcaster in Tiananmen Square, who has been detained by Chinese officials without apparent reason, seemingly because he mentioned the infamous student uprising of 1989. (A year that will forever be etched upon my memory.)



Concurrent with that is a report is one here in Canada about yet another attempt by our Conservative government to muzzle any perceived disagreement with Prime Minister Harper's policies. This time it's not our scientists who are targeted, but rather Library and Archives employees. Now, it would appear, not only are our scientists being muzzled, but the archivists and employees who safeguard the bulk of Canada's history and intellectual properties.

It would seem the Harper government is steadily working toward shutting down the dissemination of information to Canadians, especially information the government deems we should not receive. Much of this, I'm sure, is done under some misguided sense of national security. But in truth, it has more to do with control of the people, because restriction of information is one of the first strategies toward control implemented by any totalitarian regime. Doesn't matter what label you put on that regime: Communist, Fascist: go far enough in any direction and it all ends up in the same place.

Here, however, in this country called Canada, where we've championed human rights, won Nobel prizes and  international recognition for our peace-keeping efforts, we're rapidly moving toward a government that serves not the people, but rather a self-serving political agenda and party that is all about consolidation of power and repression of any dissent.

How, then, does that make our current government any less insidious, dangerous, mis-representative of the people than China's government?

And why should this writer and this publisher care so very vehemently about the direction our Canadian government is heading?

Because I am a writer. Because my existence is based upon the gathering of knowledge, the dissemination of that knowledge, and the free exchange of ideas. Because I am a publisher, and the ability to provide knowledge to people is just part of the paradigm of my publishing house, and my own life.

So, in Canada, if elections can be skewed through the manipulation of information through robocalls, if scientists are no longer allowed to publish or discuss their findings without first receiving government sanction, and if the gatekeepers of our collective knowledge are no longer the non-political archivists and librarians of the nation but rather one political party serving its own interests -- then how is Canada any different from any despotic nation on the planet?

Sure, we're not incarcerating protesters. Yet. Sure, we're not shooting down protesters. Yet.

But as both a writer and a publisher I become increasingly concerned that Big Brother Canada is watching, listening, and at any time the wealth of small, independent publishers and authors across this nation will fall under the same cloak of silence, because we won't have the international political or economic clout to take on the juggernaut of Harper's regime. What if silencing scientists and librarians isn't enough? What if the Harper government chooses to silence other outlets of information? Our magazines, our newspapers, our publishers, our writers? What, if like China, our government chooses to monitor the Internet and social media, and individuals start receiving polite but pointed gag-orders from the Prime Minister's office?

Nonsense, many will say. Lorina, you're chasing shadows.

Really? How is it, then, other totalitarian governments have come to exist? Because the people did nothing. Because people shrugged their massive shoulders and said it can never happen here. We're civilized. Nothing extreme going on here.

But it is. Right now. Right under our noses. Tampering with elections. Silencing of scientists. Silencing of librarians. Will you be next? Will I?

A response to Jeff Vitous

I came across a review at LibraryThing last week which, beyond it's disappointing rating, quite startled me with its inaccuracies, to the point I wondered which novel Jeff Vitous read, because it didn't seem to be From Mountains of Ice.

 

Although I make it a policy never to respond to a review, I'm going to fly in the face of conventional wisdom to comment. Jeff Vitous' review is set off as a quote, my response in blue.

In the afterward, Lorina Stephens tells us how this book, her first in 16 years, made it to digital print. The wonderful thing about digital publishing is you don't need to be a pedigreed writer just to get consideration. The bad...nearly anyone can do it.

Not quite what I wrote, Jeff Vitous. I stated From Mountains of Ice was the first novel I'd written in 16 years. It was first published as a trade paperback, later as an eBook. I quibble, but if we're going to start splitting hairs, let's be sure we're making the correct comparisons.

As to my pedigree, while I don't have international fame, I have earned my way as a writer for over 30 years, primarily as a freelance journalist for Canadian national, regional and local periodicals. I also worked as an editor for a regional lifestyle magazine, now defunct, was wooed by several others, and am now publisher at Five Rivers Publishing. And before snorts of derision can be made about the publishing house, it should be noted it does not exist as a vanity house for the glory of Lorina Stephens. Quite the contrary. We presently have published 11 authors and 19 books, and have signed and will soon be publishing six more authors with another 32 books, all of which are most definitely not pulp, churned-out, manufactured dross for the masses. I invite you to take a look at our catalogue and amend your comment.

Pedigree, Jeff Vitous? Beyond writing reviews of books and war-gaming, I don't see a publishing background in your CV. I apologize, but perhaps I've missed something.

This is the third ebook I've read this year that was published by a small digital publishing company.

Once more, where does it say Five Rivers is a digital only house?

All have one thing in common: terrible editing! Do the majors have a lock on good editors?

A matter of opinion, I'm sure. I could easily point you to several novels published by major houses which have terrible editing. The Twilight saga immediately leaps to mind.

Or, and I suspect this is more the case, does these small publishers see editing as an obstacle to getting large volumes of content quickly to the market?

Hardly. A recent publication from Five Rivers, Mik Murdoch: Boy Superhero, was in editing for 18 months or so, with a total of three passes from the same editor, Robert Runte, who edited From Mountains of Ice, the novel to which Jeff Vitous takes such umbrage.

 

Oh, and if we're speaking of editing, it's do these small publishers see editing as an obstacle, not does.

From Mountains of Ice is set in a fictional analog to medieval Italy. Having a fictional world with a real-world ethnic analog didn't work for me; I found it distracting.

 

That's unfortunate. I suppose Jeff Vitous wouldn't like anything written by, say, the award-winning Guy Gavriel Kay, or Caitlin Sweet, or perhaps even any of the myriad Arthurian sagas.

 

I remember advice from long ago that unless you are really really good at it, don't try writing accents. It's not that Stephens writes a lot of accents, but it naturally seems so with so many ethnic Italian names.

So, the complaint here is that the names aren't recognizable Anglo-Saxon white names? Jeff Vitous is correct, however, that I didn't write a patois in From Mountains of Ice. As he says, unless you're really good at it, like, say, Salman Rushdie (Then why speakofy such treason and filthy up my children's ears with what-all Godless bunk? -- The Moor's Last Sigh) then you should simply refrain.

 

The second major problem I had was a reliance of narrative to move the story forward and define character relations in some cases. The narrator should not play such a prominent role...we should know by the action of the story and dialog between character what the emotional relationship between characters are. Here, we are told that simply that two characters have tension after long months of working together -- well, their story lines during these months were omitted altogether! So when they confront each other, it is without prior foreshadowing. These kind of issues compounded as the book wore on. In the end, you had the narrator telling us how deeply torn and emotional the characters were, but there was no precedence for this outburst. Character actions were largely contrived and baffling throughout the book.

Funny thing is, I quite agree with Jeff Vitous statement that we should show not tell. However, the method employed in what he terms narration is a literary device easily to be found in say, Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, in which Conrad continually tells us of the insane and cruel Kurtz, who we don't meet until the last pages of the novel. It's a device employed by Bram Stoker in Dracula. The device has also been employed extremely well by a myriad of modern writers. But, perhaps, given the consistently poor ratings Jeff Vitous offers from his LibraryThing podium, and the type of books he seems to prefer, it would appear a less subtle and more obvious narrative would better suit his tastes.

It would be interesting to see what Jeff Vitous might have to say about the above-quoted Salman Rushdie, or Rohinton Mistry (I bet he'd have a field day with him!), or Linden MacIntyre for that matter. Oh, I think he'd have his knickers in a right knot were he to read Giller-winning, The Bishop's Man. Lots and lots of narrative there with which to deal.

There are also fantasy elements in the story that seemed forced an[d] employed as a crutch as needed. The village truthsayer, Aletta, can always tell when someone is lying.

 

How is that a crutch? Aletta herself admits it isn't so much magic as learning to read body language, to hear inflection of voice. All of what she does is well-researched psychology of the present day.

[I]t seems dead ancestors serve in an advisory role.

Again, I have to ask, why is that a crutch? Or any different from any of the belief paradigms of cultures past and present all over the globe?

Her husband, Sylvio, exiled brother of the prince, [...]

Sylvio is Carmelo's brother? Really? Wow. I don't remember writing that. Not anywhere in that novel. I didn't realize mentor is a synonym for brother.

[...]is a bowyer who crafts unique bows containing bones of the dead. Those dead speak to him as well.

 And the problem with that is?...

When Sylvio is summoned to his brother's court, he encounters a child prostitute who he enlists on a mission to Aletta, with instructions that Aletta is to look after her.

A mission? Sylvio gives the child (Passerapina) coin and tells her to go find his wife so that the child will be safe, to get her off the street, to give her a life. There is no mission. It is an act of compassion.

Surprise surprise, the dead talk to her too, and she becomes a protege of Aletta. By the end of the story, we find that it appears to be a special talent of anyone born with a genetic lineage to the country, much to the chagrin of would-be neighboring conquerors.

 Ah, so the problem is Jeff Vitous doesn't like the premise of the story, that the dead can speak to the living, that there is a race of people genetically capable of such a thing. How is that any different from vampire or zombie stories, one wonders?

 

From Mountains of Ice wants to be an epic tale, Stephens fails on all fronts when it comes to developing that tale. Characters have no dimension. The history of this created world is undeveloped. Fantastical aspects are created and employed as convenience, not because they add to the story are inconsistently employed. I felt as if there was originally a much bigger story, and the author took it upon her self to cut it down to an arbitrary length. An author who knows the motives of the characters is not the best person to do such massive edits -- the end product still makes sense to the author, but not so much for other readers. ( )

| flag JeffV | Aug 24, 2012 |

Oh well. I guess Jeff Vitous just needed to vent spleen, exercise intellectual muscles, display erudition. As they say, can't please them all. Oh, and Jeff? Do me a favour, don't read novels outside your narrow view of the world and war gaming. And most especially don't read any of my novels. I guarantee you won't like them.