Swan Tower

So far we've been talking about friendship in a one-to-one sense, as a relationship between only two people at a time. But of course, we all exist in a much larger social world -- even during periods when that existence is best defined by a position firmly outside the circle. What does friendship look like when we open up our scope?

Well, for starters, "friendship" starts to be a word that maybe ought to have sarcasm quotes around it. We are social primates, and unfortunately, that entails some pretty nasty behavior alongside the nice stuff. As I said last week, depending on how you use the term, a friend might just be somebody you know and haven't outright declared an enemy or dead to you. Or, depending on how you use the term . . . your "friend" might indeed be somebody you are out to hurt.

If that sounds like a particular negative feminine stereotype, you're not wrong: in our society, teenaged girls in particular are proverbial for how horribly they may treat their so-called friends. This isn't inherent to being adolescent and female, though; it tends to show up anywhere you foster the kind of hothouse atmosphere where a bunch of people are trapped together and can only rise socially by climbing over each other.

And that means it can describe a royal court every bit as much as a high school! Reading about the interpersonal dynamics of Elizabeth I's nobles and ministers, I was struck by how much their behavior resembled the cliques and grudges of teenagers. The specifics differed -- A offended B, so B arranged to have one of A's political hangers-on denied the right of entry to the more exclusive precincts of the royal presence -- but the vibes were much the same.

Associating this specifically with women is therefore not entirely true, because men can behave in similar ways. It's also not entirely false, though, because control of social dynamics is a form of soft power, and in a patriarchal society where women are denied access to the formal levers of government, soft power is the only kind they can use. So now the question becomes: how do you acquire that power?

Some of it comes from obvious sources. If a person has some more formal type of authority -- or, in the case of a woman, is associated with a man who has such authority -- that tends to give their social presence more weight. After all, offending the prime minister or the wife of the Lord Treasurer might mean all kinds of political difficulties, whereas gaining their friendship could open new doors. This is true even at lower levels of society than a royal court; the wife of a town mayor or village headman probably has a certain amount of social cachet.

Similarly, wealth brings the ability to host more people more extravagantly, which is beneficial no matter what scale of party you're looking at. Though in many cases, the power of wealth has to be evaluated in light of status: where commerce is scorned, then a woman from a merchant family, be she never so rich, will be seen as more déclassé than a noblewoman of more modest means. The former can still win social authority, but she'll have to work harder for it.

What form that work takes depends on what's admired in the society at hand. As we've discussed before, fashion can play a role here: exhibiting good aesthetic taste will bring approval, and if you can combine that with just the right amount of daring innovation, you might become the trendsetter everyone else looks to for guidance. That's difficult to pull off if you're a social nobody -- your innovations are more likely to be sneered at as missteps -- but one admiring comment from the right person might begin your rise to social influence.

For those of more modest financial means, it may be easier to aim for becoming known as a good conversationalist. Remember, this is a social world, so being someone people enjoy talking to is a major asset! Flatter the right people just the right amount, so you don't sound too obsequious; tell rousing anecdotes about interesting situations; extemporize good poetry to commemorate the occasion at hand; exhibit whatever type of wit is most admired right now . . . which, yes, can include the back-biting type where you're constantly tearing other people down, though it doesn't have to. A lot depends on how vicious the local dynamic is.

Under the right circumstances -- and this will be of interest to many people who enjoy reading SF/F -- you can even win social influence through your book-learning and smarts. If you live in an environment of intellectual ferment and scientific exploration, then being au courant with the latest discoveries gives you fodder for attracting attention. You do still need to be a good conversationalist, so you can deliver what you know in an interesting fashion -- otherwise you'll have a reputation as a pedantic bore -- but it isn't always about jokes and empty gossip.

For women in Enlightenment-era Europe, in fact, social gatherings were a major part of how they kept up with the intellectual scene. The French salonnières of the early modern period famously established a model of social interaction that spread across the continent and into the British Isles. "Bluestocking," the Victorian pejorative for an excessively bookish woman, was originally the name of an eighteenth-century "salon" or social circle focused on literary discussion -- which, given the era, included philosophy, history, and scientific research, not just fiction. Their community included men, but it was led by women, and through the connections formed at their gatherings, they helped advance each others' minds, laying the groundwork for the advances of feminism in the nineteenth century.

It's not all so high-minded, of course. Like I said, these environments can also feature a ton of backstabbing and social climbing: witness all scenes set at Almack's Assembly Rooms in Regency romances, where a single introduction from the right person might set an individual on a path to an advantageous marriage . . . while others with competing interests do their best to spike any such alliance. The Lady Patronesses of Almack's, with their control over vouchers for admission, held a great deal of power over that scene.

In that case there was a group of women in control, but where a single queen bee rules over it all, she can be as capricious and arbitrary as any formal autocrat. She's likely to be a central gathering-point for gossip, and whispered into the right ears, those juicy tidbits might become a scandal that brings down a minister. Even without such weapons at hand, declaring someone persona non grata at her own events can mean they find themself excluded elsewhere as well . . . and without the chance to rub shoulders with influential people, their chances of advancement, whether through marriage or political appointment, go into a steep decline.

So is the social scene occasionally petty and vicious? Absolutely -- but that doesn't make it trivial. Stylish ladies or sociable gentlemen can leverage this world as an alternative route to power, all without ever lifting anything more dangerous than a fan or a pen.



(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/G7vEgj)

Friendship hardly seems like something that needs worldbuilding. It's a basic human behavior, right? We all make friends?

Sure -- but what friendship means does not stay the same.

Starting at: Who can you be friends with? Then and now, social divisions may complicate the answer to that. Can men and women be friends? If sex segregation means that women aren't supposed to go out into society or interact with men who aren't their relatives, then cross-gender friendship is pretty much restricted to a trusted cousin or two. (Even then, the relationship is likely to be spoken of in familial terms instead.) But a more egalitarian society may still be dubious of friendships between men and women, with many people assuming there will always, inevitably, be an undercurrent of sexual tension there: friendship as a consolation prize, or a barrier to head off escalation to something more.

What about friendship across class lines? That will often be awkward, even without formal hierarchies of status to get in the way; after all, if one person's struggling to make rent and the other could buy their entire apartment building, you have some inherent inequality there. This gets particularly thorny when one person employs the other: however well they get along and enjoy each other's company, their personal and their business relationships may wind up pulling in opposite directions, to the detriment of both bonds. In that light, it's not surprising that many past societies would have said straight-out that such connections cannot be true friendship. That can only exist between equals.

Class also shares a quality with racial boundaries, which is that both of them are deeply interwoven with culture. People from different groups may have any number of cultural differences, creating significant contrasts in how they spend their free time, what they eat, and even how they converse. These things don't prevent friendship -- we have far too many real-world examples proving otherwise -- but they can make it more difficult, with opportunities arising for misunderstanding or conflict.

But what does it mean to be friends, anyway? So far we've been glossing over that as if it can be taken for granted . . . but one look at an elementary school (where kids are very much learning the social ropes) shows that's not the case.

The answer here isn't just cultural but personal, too. One individual may refer to anybody they know in a positive, non-business capacity as their friend; to their neighbor, most of those people are "acquaintances" or "people they know," with the term "friend" reserved for those who enjoy a deeper connection. Digital relationships particularly complicate this, with the rhetoric of "friending" someone on a social media network implying more connection than actually exists. And how many friends can you have? Most people don't put a real cap on that, but they may feel you can have only one best friend at a time, and that to throw the superlative around more broadly cheapens its meaning.

Part of what muddies the waters here is that we rarely have formal markers for friendship, the way we have them for marriage. Friendship bracelets (which are said to have historical origins in Central America) started being shared in the '70s or '80s; however, they're not universally used, and people can wear that style of bracelet without it signifying anything in particular. Children may declare "you're my friend now" or ask "are we friends?", but adults -- at least in the societies I know -- are more likely to leave it implicit, with all the social pitfalls that entails.

Because part of friendship is being able to share certain intimacies with the other person. That might mean dumping your troubles on them, knowing (or at least having good reason to hope) you'll receive a sympathetic hearing; it might mean asking them to do things for you, without needing to negotiate some kind of explicit compensation or trade. If you try either of those things with someone you assume is a good enough friend for it, only to find they don't see the two of you as being that close . . . oof. It can get very awkward, very fast.

And "intimacy" may go a lot farther than that. In much of the past, and in many parts of the world today, it's entirely normal for friends to show a degree of physical affection that my fellow Americans generally reserve for significant others: hugging is okay, at least for some people in some circumstances, but holding hands as you walk down the street? Kissing, on the cheek or on the lips? Taking a bath together, or sharing a bed? Those things look romantic to us, not platonic.

The same goes for emotional intimacy, or rather, how it's expressed. If you read the letters of same-sex English friends from the nineteenth century, they regularly speak of each other in terms so passionate, you could easily mistake them for lovers. And in some cases, we have reason to surmise that's one hundred percent true; deep friendships could indeed be a cover for a type of relationship not sanctioned by society at the time. But that cover worked because friends did write to each other in such terms, without anybody assuming that "I long to kiss your lips again" carried sexual implications.

Which makes for interesting challenges when it comes to fiction. If you write such behavior into your invented society, then it's likely that a high percentage of your readers are going to interpret that as shippy. In some ways that's fine -- a certain type of reader will ship all kinds of pairings you never intended -- but in other cases, that may make your audience think you're queer-baiting them, suggesting something and then not delivering. Even if they don't feel cheated, the weight of association is going to shift how they read the characters' behavior, adding sexual overtones where none were supposed to be.

Finally, there's the question of how friendship ends. Again, children tend to make it more explicit: "I'm not going to be your friend anymore!" Social media gives us the passive-aggressive option of unfollowing somebody, which they may or may not even notice happening. If you have some of their belongings, or they have a key to your place, a sufficiently bad rift may entail a dramatic scene of shoving somebody's stuff back at them or revoking their access. But mostly we just drift away, ending the relationship as ambiguously as we began it. . . with every bit as much room for uncertainty and misinterpretation.

Seen in that light, there's frankly a lot to be said for worldbuilding more overt structures around the beginning, ending, and depth of friendship between your characters. Or maybe not: maybe crossed wires and hurt feelings are exactly what your story needs!



(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/QcgTOl)

. . . is that twenty years ago today, my first novel was published.

Psych! My entire career since then has been a trick! The Doppelganger duology, the Onyx Court, the Wilders series, the Memoirs of Lady Trent and their sequel, my Legend of the Five Rings tie-ins, Driftwood, The Waking of Angantyr, the Rook and Rose trilogy as M.A. Carrick, the short stories and novelettes and novellas, the game writing, the poetry, the Hugo rocket on the shelf behind me as I type this: all of it has been my April Fool's joke upon you! Hahahahahah, you all have been fooled into thinking I can write!

And the best part of the joke is, I'm not gonna give it up. I have stuck it out in this bonkers industry for twenty years, and I fully intend to stick it out for another twenty at least. I will keep up the gag with more novels, more short fiction, more poetry. My commitment to the bit is so strong that today marks the publication of THREE new works: the rai "In the salt-drowned lands" and the sonnet "Gorgoneia" in Vol.031 of The Rialto Books Review, and the short story "All Under Heaven" in issue #2 of Adventitious. That latter, which is free to read online, demonstrates how far I'll go for this joke: fully fifteen years ago, in the aftermath of the Tōhoku earthquake, a (fortunately very patient) friend made won my offering in the charity auction and asked me to write a short story about Oda Nobunaga's sack of the Enryakuji monastery. It took me eleven damn years to write the story and then a little longer to sell it, but now -- once again on April Fool's Day; see how well-crafted the joke is? -- it is finally out, the latest addition to a gag two decades long and counting.

I even woke up to a poetry acceptance this morning. My joke is so good, other people are telling it back to me today!

Thank you all for being such a good set of marks for so long. I could not sustain this joke without you, and you are the ones who make it all worthwhile.

Forgery: where art and crime intersect.

Not all kinds of forgery are art, of course. When my fourteen-year-old self forged my father's signature on my practice records to assure my band director that yes, of course I practiced at home as much as I was supposed to, there was no art involved there. (Rather the opposite, in fact.) I suppose you could argue that mimicking someone's handwriting is calligraphic forgery, but that feels to me like it's stretching the point. Counterfeiting we've already talked about separately, in the first year of this Patreon; the manufacture of fake IDs or other legal documents, or of something like knockoff Gucci purses, are also not the focus of this essay.

No, here we're concerned with the creation of fake objects of art, whether works attributed to a specific artist, or anonymous artifacts of a particular place and time. And this is a topic I find fascinatingly squirrelly.

The techniques necessary to pull this off have gotten increasingly sophisticated over time. Back in the day -- or even now, if you're selling to a credulous enough fool -- anything that passed muster to a casual glance might suffice. Get yourself a fresh sheet of parchment, papyrus, or paper, write or draw on it, apply some physical and chemical stresses to make it look old, and you're good to go. Fire a pot or clay figure, or carve something out of stone, then batter it around for that authentic chipped look. Maybe even stamp out an ancient coin or two, if it's a piece rare enough to be worth substantially more than its metal content.

These days, it's not nearly that simple. We have carbon dating, spectroscopic analysis, and other high-tech methods of determining whether some detail is out of place. Which doesn't mean forgeries have gone away; it just means that talented forger needs to know a lot more than just what their proposed artifact should look like. There's a thriving market in blank fragments of ancient papyrus -- so the substrate will pass an age check even if what's written on it is new -- and who knows what texts have been scraped off bits of parchment, what paintings have been covered or rubbed away, so something more lucrative can be put in their place. The best forgers need to know the chemistry of inks and paints, how to make the right tools, the techniques used back then, so that only the closest analysis by the most skilled experts can spot the fake.

Nor is it only about the object itself. These days, we also pay a lot of attention to provenance: the history of an object's ownership, which can help to prove that it wasn't made last week. (A very similar term, provenience, is used in archaeology to refer to where the object was found: relevant to sifting out illegally looted objects from those excavated under legitimate conditions.) Of course, if you want to pass off a fake as the real thing, you also have to forge a provenance -- hence the massive upswing after World War II in items that had been the property of an "anonymous Swiss collector," a fig leaf to cover Nazi theft and forgeries alike.

That's when you're just trying to make a Twelfth Dynasty Egyptian ushabti or a bronze ornament from Sanxingdui: a plausible example of a type, but nothing more specific than that. When you're trying to pass something off as a previously-unidentified Picasso or Rodin, then you can't hide behind the expected variations between different nameless historical artisans; you have to mimic not just the materials but the ideas, composition, and execution of that specific person -- well enough that it seems like it could have genuinely been their work.

And at that point, you very nearly have a Zen koan on your hands: if someone forges a Rembrandt so well it can't be told from the real thing, is there a meaningful difference? Is the art itself what's worthwhile, or the fact that it was made by a specific person?

The answer to that really depends on context. If I'm a layperson who likes Caravaggio's style of painting, and somebody else comes along who paints just like Caravaggio (without claiming those are his works), I might be delighted to acquire things of the exact type I like for a fraction of the cost. Yay for pretty art! By contrast, if a forger lies to me and I pay Caravaggio prices for something that doesn't suffer from the scarcity of the artist being dead for centuries, I'm probably going to be pissed. And if I'm an art historian trying to learn more about Caravaggio, that forger has actively poisoned the well of scholarship by introducing false data.

Some of our "forgery" problems now actual stem from situations more like that first example. You can buy a million and one plastic replicas of Michaelangelo's David in Florence, and nobody thinks of those as forgeries . . . but rewind a few centuries or millennia, and those replicas had to be hand-crafted out of marble or bronze or whatever suited the sculpture being copied. That wasn't forgery; it was just how art got replicated, and the best copyists were deploying a useful, legitimate skill. The same was true of paintings. Now, however, the interests of both scholarship and the aura of owning a verified-as-legitimate original mean we have to sort that historical wheat from the chaff.

Or take the workshop context in which many Renaissance artists operated. Apprentices were expected to mimic their master's style, and if the result was good enough, the master was free to sell those works under his (or, more rarely, her) own name. Again, nowadays we strive to separate those out from the authentic works of the master -- but that reflects a modern attitude where the individual genius is the most important thing, above whether it reflects their style or was made under their auspices.

Some forgeries are extremely famous. Han Van Meegeren had to out himself as a forger when he was accused of collaboration for selling a Vermeer to the Nazi Hermann Göring; to prove that he hadn't hocked a piece of cultural patrimony, he painted another one while court-appointed witnesses stood and watched. The Getty Museum in Los Angeles has spent quite a bit of money trying to prove the disputed authenticity of a kouros (a specific style of statue) they bought for seven million dollars, but the best they've been able to achieve is a label identifying it as "Greek, about 530 B.C., or modern forgery." The Boston Museum of Fine Arts similarly clings to the hope that their probably-fake "Minoan snake goddess" statuette might be the real thing.

One thing these forgeries have in common: the demand for the genuine article is high enough to make fakes worth the effort of their creation. Minoan snake goddesses got manufactured because Sir Arthur Evans' excavations at Knossos attracted a ton of publicity, and he was not particularly discriminating in buying the "discoveries" people brought to him. Few criminals bothered forging Indigenous art until collectors turned their attention toward those parts of the world, thereby creating demand. This can in turn come full circle: van Meegeren's post-trial fame made his paintings rise high enough in value that his own son wound up forging more of them.

Nobody knows for sure how many fakes are on display in museums, galleries, and private collections. Some estimates run very high, due to the way today's plutocrats treat the acquisition of art as an investment strategy and display of status, while others say that improved methods of detection and the emphasis on authenticating an object before somebody forks over millions for it have greatly reduced the incidence. We'll never really know for sure, because of the loss of face inherent in admitting you paid too much for a forgery -- including the cratering in value for other works that might become suspect by association. But if you want to tell a story of trickery and sordid doings, the art world is rife with possibility!



(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/aYnVC2)

I was busy enough yesterday that this went out on Bluesky, but not yet here on my own site!

I am teaming up again with Avery Liell-Kok (one of the artists from the pattern deck) to make Lady Trent's Field Journal: A Dragon Coloring Book. Ten images of dragons in the wild, accompanied by excerpts from Lady Trent's scholarly writings -- my way of answering a question I've gotten with surprising frequency, which is "Will you ever publish any of her scientific work?" I have yet to come up with any complete ideas in that regard that would be interesting enough to pass as a short story, but as pairings for her drawings from the field? Sure!

The dragons featured here are a deliberate mix of old favorites you've seen before, dragons which got mentioned but never depicted, and new beasts created entirely for this project. The Kickstarter campaign will offer the writings and images in three formats: a file pack you can print at home or color in digitally, a loose-leaf pack to facilitate sharing around or hanging on the wall, and a paperback book -- that last coming in both a regular and a Scholar's Edition, which will be signed and have an additional quick sketch from Avery. I'm also including add-ons for bookplates and signed paperbacks of the novels in the series!

Right now we're in the pre-launch phase. If you'd like to be notified when it goes live (or you just want to support the project in the eyes of the algorithm gods), just click the "notify me" button here. It won't be long!

(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/ww1BN4)

Beastly: An Anthology of Shapeshifting Fairy Tales, ed. Jennifer Pullen. Sent to me for blurbing purposes. This is a cross-section of fourteen largely (though not exclusively) European tales themed around the "beast bride or bridegroom" motif, some of them very well known -- "Beauty and the Beast," of course -- and others more obscure. But Pullen casts a fairly wide net, such that transformations in general wind up here, e.g. with "The Little Mermaid" making an appearance. Each comes with some introductory context from Pullen as well as footnotes throughout, many of which are overtly more about her personal thoughts on the tales than academic analysis. On the whole, I'd say this is very approachable for a layperson.

A Thousand Li: The Fourth Fall, Tao Wong.
A Thousand Li: The Fourth Wall, Tao Wong. These two were actually separated by the following title, but I might as well talk about them together. Normally I make a point of spacing out my reading of a series -- especially a long series -- because I've realized that otherwise I tend to overdose and stop enjoying them quite so much. Since these are the final two books, however, I said "screw it" and read them very nearly back to back.

(. . . mostly the final two books. They conclude their series, but Wong has begun a sequel series. Which, ironically, is even more on point for the genre research impulse that led me to pick up A Thousand Li, so I guess I'll be reading those as well?)

I do appreciate how Wong maneuvers in the back half of this series to change up exactly what kind of scenario and challenges his protagonist is facing. In The Fourth Fall, it's international diplomacy: Wu Ying has to accompany a delegation to first secure an alliance and then attempt to negotiate an end to the ongoing war with a rival land. Since Wu Ying is not a great diplomat, this is definitely a challenge, but also he's not at the forefront of it, so he feels a bit peripheral at points. On the other hand, when things (inevitably) blow up into a climactic battle, there's a delightful "when life hands you lemons, make lemonade bombs to throw at your enemy" bit of tactics, which sets the stage for the final book.

As for the final book . . . I very much liked the beginning of it, which addressed the fallout from before (including with some good pov from the secondary characters), and the ending of it, which leaned into the philosophical elements I've always found to be one of the stronger parts of this series. The middle, however, felt a bit like it was there to keep the beginning and the ending from bumping into one another. It wasn't bad, but it felt less like vital connective tissue and more like "let's put some obstacles in the way of the conclusion."

I should note, btw, that apparently this series will be getting a trad-pub re-release. I'll be interested to take a look at the first book, because I'm curious whether it's just getting repackaged, or whether it will have gotten a thorough editing scrub first. I stuck it out for all twelve books first because it was a useful tour of the cultivation genre, then because it manages some genuinely good moments of genre philosophy along the way, but . . . well, the writing has always fallen victim to the self-pub trap of reading like it was pounded out very fast with essentially no time for revision. (I think it was the eleventh book that used the word "stymie" over and over again, sometimes where that was not actually what the word means, and in at least one place, misspelled.) I'm hoping the trad pub version will polish that up, and maybe also address the less-than-stellar handling of female characters early on -- which, I'm glad to say, improved as the series went along.

When the Tiger Came Down the Mountain, Nghi Vo. Novellas are interesting because sometimes they read like short novels, and sometimes they read like long short stories. This is the latter type, with the plot essentially consisting of "Chih and companions get cornered by talking tigers who want to eat them; Chih stalls for time by telling a story, during which the tigers argue with how they're telling it." The tension with the tigers was excellently done, as was all the arguing, but the result did feel a little slight for what I was expecting from a novella.

Mythopedia: A Brief Compendium of Natural History Lore, Adrienne Mayor. This is specifically a book about geomythology, a term for which -- as with Pullen above -- Mayor takes a broad definition. Sometimes it's "here's a story about these offshore rocks that clearly sounds like a mythologized record of the tsunami that likely put them there," and sometimes it's "here's a famous tree; now we'll talk about the lore surrounding that type of tree." Interesting fodder if you're the kind of person who finds such tidbits suggestive of stories!

Ausias March: Selected Poems, ed. and trans. Arthur Terry. Read because March is possibly the most famous Valencian poet ever, so this was research for the Sea Beyond. I have no problem with Terry choosing to translate March's work as prose, because I understand the very great challenges inherent in trying to balance the demands of meaning and style while also making it work as poetry. However, Terry has a comment toward the end of his introduction about how he makes no pretense regarding the aesthetic merit of his translations, and boy howdy is there none. This is the kind of "just the facts, ma'am" translation that's useful for being able to look at the original text on the facing page and see how they line up . . . but it made for stultifyingly boring reading, and in no way, shape, or form helped sell you on March being a great poet.

Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen. Would you believe I never read this before now? We read Emma in high school, but that's it for me and Austen on the page. A friend linked to an interview with Colin Firth, though, which made me want to re-watch the A&E miniseries, and then for comparison I watched the more recent film adaptation, and after that I thought, hey, maybe I should read the book while those are fresh in my mind!

And, well, surprise surprise, it is very good. I know the A&E miniseries well enough that naturally I envisioned and heard all the characters as those versions, but that was in no way jarring, because it's such a faithful adaptation. It was delightful to see the bits that didn't make it onto the screen, though, like Elizabeth opining on the power of one good sonnet to kill off a love affair.

Star*Line 49.1, ed. John Reinhart. I am technically in this, insofar as there's an interview with me. Otherwise, quite a lot of SF/F poetry packed into a tidy little volume.

You Dreamed of Empires, Álvaro Enrigue, trans. Natasha Wimmer. This novel is bonkers. It's about Cortés in Tenochtitlan, and about how Moctezuma and the people around him responded to that, but it's got the kind of meta voice that feels free to wander omnisciently around and also to comment from a modern perspective, like when it explains the difference between Nahua and Colhua and Mexica and why some Europeans in the nineteenth century looked at that tangle and said "fuck it, we're just gonna call them all Aztecs." And then it goes trippy alternate history on top of all that.

Literally trippy, because a lot here hinges on the use of indigenous hallucinogens. I don't know this history well enough to tell if Enrigue is really playing up just how stoned Moctezuma in particular was, but here it's very much presented as part of the political turmoil in Tenochtitlan, with the huey tlahtoāni retreating into drugs rather than dealing with the problems around him. But don't worry, this book is here to show you the ugly underbelly of both sides of the conflict -- and also things that aren't the ugly underbelly; I very much appreciated how much time (in a relatively slender novel) is spent on exploring the agency and complicated dynamics of the various people involved, so you understand at least one interpretation of why Cortés was allowed to get far enough in to do what he did, and what different individuals thought they might gain from it.

If I have one objection, it's that Enrigue gives a strong impression that most of his key indigenous characters didn't really believe in their own religion, just went along with it because of tradition and social pressure. That's an angle I always side-eye, because it generally feels like modern mentalities failing to understand those of the past. But it's a small quibble for a book I very much enjoyed.

The Alchemy of Stars: Rhysling Award Winners Showcase, ed. Roger Dutcher and Mike Allen. This anthology collected the short and long form winners of the Rhysling Award (the biggest SFF poetry award) up through 2004. What's interesting about that is how it lets you see the trends come and go: there's a stretch of time where a lot of the poetry was very science-y (sometimes more that than science fiction-y), or the bit in the early 2000s which I can best sum up as "my kind of thing." I did skip a few that just got too experimental and weird for me to get anything out of them, but otherwise, good cross-section.

Women of the Fairy Tale Resistance: The Forgotten Founding Mothers of the Fairy Tale and the Stories That They Spun, Jane Harrington, ill. Khoa Le. This is about the French salon writers of the late seventeenth century, Madame d'Aulnoy and her ilk -- emphasis on "her ilk," because half the point of this book is to talk about the ones who aren't as famous. Harrington's general thesis here is that the fairy tales they wrote were their way of expressing the troubles they faced and/or imagining better worlds, e.g. where women could choose the husbands they wanted. Each chapter gives a short biography of one of the writers, including connecting her to the others who were perhaps relatives or friends, then retells one or more of their stories.

I did like getting to read tales less familiar than "The White Cat" (which also shows up in Pullen's book), but I wish Harrington had gone more for translation than retelling, or at least had tried to adhere to a more period tone. I feel like her "yay early feminism, so relatable" mission statement led her to modernize the language more than I would have preferred, and in the cases of the stories I don't already know, that leads me to question whether the plots have also been presented in a more "updated" fashion. And while she does have an extensive bibliography at the end, the way she talks about "rescuing" these writers from obscurity does give a self-aggrandizing whiff to the whole thing, as if Harrington is the first person to pay attention to this topic. Wound up feeling like a bit of a mixed bag.

The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within, Stephen Fry. Yes, that Stephen Fry, the actor. Didn't know he wrote poetry? That's because he writes it purely for his own enjoyment, not for publication. (He mentions toward the end of the book that, among other things, he knows his celebrity status would warp how those poems are received, and he'd rather just not deal with that.)

His comedic skills shine through here, as this is a highly readable introduction to formal poetry -- meaning not "poetry always about serious subjects," but "poetry that adheres to a particular form." The introduction is not shallow, though: when he leads you by the hand through meter, he doesn't stop at showing you the different feet and explaining how to count them. Instead he talks about things like the different ways you can futz around with iambic pentameter, where a trochaic substitution will sound okay vs. weird, and what effect it has if you put a pyrrhic substitution in the third foot vs. the fourth. (Though right after reading this, I came across a blog post that characterized what Fry considers a pyrrhic substitution very differently: same phenomenon in the end, but a good demonstration of how there's no One True Answer for a lot of this stuff.)

Be warned that this book is unabashedly opinionated. Fry says there are free verse poems he likes, but on the whole he has a very poor opinion of modern poetry being just about the only art where people are told "Don't worry about rules or technique! All that matters is that you ~*express yourself*~!" He thinks that acquiring a solid handle on meter and rhyme is equivalent to a visual artist learning the rules of perspective: they're vital skills even if you wind up breaking those rules later. When he gets to the section discussing particular forms, he's also unafraid to bag on the ones he doesn't think very highly of -- mostly modern syllable-counting forms like the tetractys or nonet, but also elaborate stunts like the sonnet redoublé, where you'd better be damn good at what you're doing for it to seem like anything more than a stupid flex.

The guidance, though, is very thorough and I think very accessible -- though admittedly I come at this as someone who's never had trouble figuring out how meter or rhyme work, so I'm not the best judge of that. He gives copious examples from literature, and also practice exercises for which he provides his own demonstrations: the exception to him not making his poetry public, but only a quasi-exception, because he says outright that these are pieces meant to practice the basic skills, with no expectation of them turning out good. And that is useful in its own way, because it helps chip away at the notion that poetry is some mystical, elevated thing, rather than an art whose basics you can drill without worrying about whether you've produced immortal verse.

Highly recommended for anybody who would like a solid entry point into writing poetry!

(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/VdjDrK)

Uprisings. Revolts. Insurgencies. Rebellions. Civil wars.

What are the differences between all these things?

The gradations can be quite fine, in no small part because they're often as much a question of public relations as one of technical definitions. (Especially in a historical context, before political scientists started making technical definitions.) They're all forms of internecine strife, differentiated by how organized they are, how violent, how acknowledged by the official government, and so forth. And so, rather than trying to separate all the possible strands, I'm just going to talk about them in a lump here.

Genre fiction loves the idea of the Big Rebellion. A plucky band of idealists gather together, maybe fight a few battles, kill or capture the king, and put somebody new in charge: Mission Accomplished! A phrase George W. Bush famously used rather prematurely after the U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003, and I deploy it here quite with deliberate intent, because of course the situation is unlikely to be that simple. Regime changes rarely go that quickly and smoothly, and even if the guy who used to be in charge dies, is that really the end? His loyalists, instead of laying down arms, are liable to find someone else to rally around: a brother, a son, somebody claiming to be a son, etc. It took about thirty-one years for the fighting to end after the Glorious Revolution of 1688 deposed James II & VII from the thrones of England and Scotland, and Henry VII had to deal with multiple pretenders announcing themselves as various lost royal relatives after the Wars of the Roses.

But it's also somewhat rare for a rebellion to sweep in and put somebody totally new on the throne, at least in the kinds of societies we tend to write about. Changes of dynasty do happen, but where there's a strong expectation of titles being inherited within a bloodline, claimants often grasp for some fig leaf of lineage or marriage to a suitable spouse to cover their naked ambition. Winning legitimacy on charisma alone is not unheard of, but it's much less common. Most civil wars within a kingdom look more like the English Anarchy, with the previous king's daughter fighting his nephew for the crown. (She lost, but her son wound up inheriting anyway after her cousin died.)

There are other reasons for civil strife, though, and they tend to be much less explored in science fiction and fantasy.

In particular, a whole swath of this subject can be placed under the header of "listen to us, damn it!" The famous Magna Carta of England was the product of rebellion by a group of barons against King John -- but they weren't trying to replace him. Instead they wanted him to confirm the Charter of Liberties proclaimed by Henry I about a century before, which protected certain elite rights. (Magna Carta itself is not about the rights of the common man, either, though people in later centuries assumed for a while that it was.) If war is the continuation of policy with other means -- the actual phrasing used by Clausewitz, often somewhat misquoted -- then revolts can be a way of angling for leverage in a political dispute.

This is especially true of peasant revolts. It is extraordinarily rare for the common folk to rise up and effect a regime change all on their own; in fact, it is rare enough that I can't think of any ironclad examples. (If you know of one, I welcome it in the comments!) The American and French Revolutions were heavily led, at least in the first instance, by relatively privileged men; even the Haitian Revolution likely would not have succeeded if the rebels hadn't received support from outside. Peasants, slaves, and other such folk simply do not have the resources or knowledge necessary to stand unsupported against people who hold every advantage against them.

But most peasant revolts aren't aimed at installing a new king or swapping monarchy for some other system of government. They're attempts to redress specific grievances, like unfair taxation or judicial corruption, or to achieve improved rights, such as through the abolition of serfdom (one of the goals of Wat Tyler's Rebellion in 1381). And if we're being honest, goals like that are a lot more important to the average farmer in his field than who exactly is ruling the country! Kings come and go, but taxes remain.

The relative achievability of those goals doesn't mean they get achieved, though. Governments have a loooooong and inglorious history of viewing any such resistance as treason, and they put it down with extreme force. Nor is this solely a thing of the distant past: in more modern times, labor organization has been viewed in a very similar light, as a rebellious disobedience to the law, posing a great enough threat to the stability of the nation that it justifies violent or even lethal response.

Nonviolent resistance isn't unheard of in historical eras, but large-scale acts of it have become more common over the past century or so. I wonder -- this is entirely my own thought, not anything I've read, and it's not a subject I'm deeply familiar with -- if its success relies at least in part on mass communication. While nonviolent groups have existed before, as a tactic in effecting widespread social change it seems to be mostly new, and that makes sense when you think about the role played by optics. As I said above, governments tend to respond with force to those who disobey, and that excites a lot more sympathy and support for peaceful protesters when the news can be widely circulated. (Particularly if the event is captured on video.) Of course, routine interpersonal violence has also declined over time, so most disputes these days are less likely to break out into fights, let alone fatal ones.

Civil strife has absolutely not gone away, though, nor do I think it's likely to do so any time soon. Right now in my own country, we have widespread resistance to the authoritarian government of Donald Trump, ranging from peaceful protests in the streets to acts of low-grade sabotage against the secret police of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) arresting and deporting anybody who looks too brown. It's not a revolution to throw him out ahead of schedule and replace him with somebody new, and it certainly can't be accomplished with one climactic fight and a quick denouement . . . but perhaps we could use more fictional examples of how this kind of struggle is fought.



(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/CYJRUS)

There's a pop-culture tendency to point at structures like Hadrian's Wall or the Great Wall of China and laugh because "they didn't keep invaders out." But that betrays a very limited understanding of what a wall is for.

Without a wall, anybody can wander through anywhere they like -- terrain permitting, which is why people like to put borders in places where nature itself forms a useful barrier. (Much cheaper that way.) When you build a wall, though, easy passage can only be effected in a limited number of places: specifically, where there are gates. Legitimate traffic will go through those restricted channels, which means that at a minimum, your wall gives you the chance to monitor that traffic. If you want to ask their business, record information, collect taxes, or turn somebody away, a wall makes those tasks much simpler.

Can people get over the wall in non-gate locations? Of course: outside of fantasy, basically no wall is completely unclimbable. But every bit of difficulty you put in an intruder's way is going to limit how easily and, more important, how usefully they can get across. Even a mere palisade of sharpened stakes, like that used to defend the Roman border in Upper Germania, is beneficial in that regard. Sure, somebody can get over it. But can a hundred? A thousand? Without being noticed? Even if they can, their horses sure as hell can't, or their supply train. If they want to bring an effective invasion force through, that small group has to either bring the wall down, or (more likely) hit a gate fort from behind, through a surprise attack or treachery. Then, with the gate in their control, they can actually start the invasion proper.

Defense, however, isn't just about barriers; it's also about surveillance. A wall and its forts make a useful base from which to send out reconnaissance patrols, which might either return word of an approaching army or not return at all -- and that's a warning in its own right. If the defenders are competent, they'll also keep a swath of ground outside the wall clear of trees, so that anybody approaching will be spotted before they reach the wall itself. Once there, ideally no point anywhere along the line will be out of view of a watchtower, even if you have to change their spacing or the path of the wall to arrange that. The result is that even the aforementioned single guy or small force can't go unnoticed, unless they go without torches on a cloudy or moonless night -- which, of course, makes it that much harder to effect a crossing. Once the defenders see anything, they light signal fires or otherwise send an alert, and the larger body of soldiers at a gate fort knows to prepare for trouble.

Nor does it end there! In addition to the watchtowers and forts, a wall frequently has nearby support, in the form of one or more larger settlements with their own garrisons. This place can have support services for the army (you don't want a ton of civilians at your wall), and soldiers can rotate in and out -- wall duty being kind of famously an unpleasant assignment. When something goes down at the border, word also gets sent to the nearby army, which can either ride out in support or batten down the hatches in preparation for an impending attack. This can ripple out as far as it needs to, from that settlement to deeper within the territory, and all the way back to the capital or wherever the ruler happens to be.

In other words, a wall is a larger-scale version of the security principles we talked about in Year Three. To begin with, it serves as a deterrent: attacking someplace guarded by a wall is harder than attacking someplace without, which either diverts the enemy to an easier target or discourages the less well-organized foe. If they attempt something anyway, the wall gives you an opportunity to spot it coming, and to warn others that they're in danger. And finally, it provides a foothold for your response, whether that be killing, capturing, or driving off whoever threatens the wall and everything it protects.

So why don't they always work?

Most failures can be chalked up to an insufficiency of money, of loyalty, or of both. If a state can't or won't pay to properly maintain its wall and associated defenses, then crumbling sections or encroaching forest will make it easier for people to get across unseen. If it can't or won't pay to properly equip, train, and compensate its soldiers, then they'll slack off in their vigilance or be useless when trouble arrives. And poorly paid soldiers -- especially poorly paid commanders -- are more susceptible to bribery. Why bother sneaking a bunch of guys over the wall in pitch-black night and then assaulting a fort when you could just get somebody inside to open the gate for you?

Most of the time, the security failures will be small ones. Somebody takes an unauthorized nap and it's fine, because nine hundred ninety-nine times out of a thousand, nobody's trying to slip across at that exact moment. Guys at a watchtower or two get bribed to look away from, not an invading army, but some smugglers bringing contraband over the border. Maybe twenty guys manage to raid a border village -- and then possibly stay on that side of the wall, marauding through the countryside, because everything they steal makes it that much harder to get back home (assuming they even want to go).

But the big failures are dramatic. Somebody turns coat against their country, maybe for greed, maybe for ideology, but the result is pretty much the same. It may sound like a good idea to get a troublesome general out of your hair by sending him as far from the capital as he can get, but you do risk him deciding he's got better friends on the other side of the wall. If he's competent and ruthless enough, he can keep that warning system from transmitting an alert until his loyalists and new allies are deep into your territory, where there are no more walls to help keep them out.

No, walls don't always work. But when you really need to defend a border, having one is worth the expense. Just make sure you don't stop paying the bills.



(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/ZidYV5)

Sunday Morning Transport is making all of its January stories free to read, and that includes my latest piece: "The Final Voyage of the Ouranos"!

If you're getting Mary Celeste vibes off it, you're not wrong; the genesis of this story was entirely me going "oooh, I want to do something kinda like that." (It is not, however, a retelling of that specific incident.) The setting of my previous SMT story, "The Poison Gardener", struck me as the ideal place for such a narrative, and the editor, Fran Wilde, snapped it right up!

In these days of climate change, the notion of coastal areas going underwater is a familiar fear. But it's not a new one; we have stories of drowned lands going back for thousands of years.

The famous example, of course, is Atlantis. Which Plato wrote about for allegorical purposes, not literal ones: he was making a point about society, building up Atlantis as a negative foil to the perfections of Athens. That hasn't stopped later writers from taking the idea and running with it, though, with interest particularly surging after Europeans learned of the New World. That's one of many locations since identified with Atlantis, with considerable effort expended on identifying a real-world inspiration for Plato's story (Thera leads the pack) . . . alongside wild theories that build up the sunken land as a place of advanced technology and magic. The supposed "lost continents" of Lemuria and Mu -- which may be the same thing, or may be synonymous with Atlantis -- are later inventions, discredited by the development of geological science.

We don't have to lose whole continents to the ocean, though. The shorelines of northern Europe are dotted with legends of regions sunk below the waves: the city of Ys on the coast of Brittany, Lyonesse in Cornwall, Cantre'r Gwaelod in Wales' Cardigan Bay. Natural features can contribute to these legends; the beaches of Cardigan Bay have ridges, termed sarnau, which run out into the ocean and have been taken for causeways, and environmental conditions at Ynyslas have preserved the stumps of submerged trees, which emerge at times of low tide. The so-called Yonaguni Monument in Japan and Bimini Road in the Bahamas are eerily regular-looking stone formations that theorists have mistaken for human construction, again raising the specter of a forgotten society drowned by the sea.

Many of the examples I'm most familiar with come from Europe, but this isn't solely a European phenomenon. I suspect you can get stories of this kind anywhere there's a coastline, especially if the offshore terrain is shallow enough for land to have genuinely been submerged by rising sea levels. Tamil and Sanskrit literature going back two thousand years has stories about places lost to the ocean, which is part of why some modern Tamil writers seized on the idea of Lemuria (supposedly positioned to the south of India). It doesn't even have to be salt water! A late eighteenth-century Russian text has the city of Kitezh sinking into Lake Svetloyar: a rather pyrrhic miracle delivered by God when the inhabitants prayed to be saved from a Mongol invasion.

Some drowned lands are entirely factual. Doggerland is the name given to the region of the North Sea that used to connect the British Isles to mainland Europe, before rising sea levels at the end of the last glaciation inundated the area. Archaeological investigation of the terrain is difficult, but artifacts and human bones have been dredged up from the depths. If we go into another Ice Age, Doggerland could re-emerge from the sea -- and if it had been flooded in a later era, what's down there could include monumental temples and other such dramatic features. We're robbed of such exciting discoveries by the fact that it was inhabited only by nomadic hunter-gatherers . . . which, of course, need not limit a fictional example!

Doggerland was submerged over the course of thousands of years, but most stories of this kind involve a sudden inundation. That may not be unrealistic: after an extended period in which the Mediterranean basin was mostly or entirely cut off from the Atlantic Ocean, the Zanclean flood broke through what is now the Strait of Gibraltar and refilled the basin over the course of anything from two years to as little as a few months. Water levels may have risen as fast as ten meters a day! Of course, the region before then would have been hellishly hot and arid rather than the pleasant home of a happy civilization, but it's still dramatic to imagine.

Then there are the phantom islands. I have these on the brain right now because the upcoming duology I'm writing with Alyc Helms as M.A. Carrick, the Sea Beyond, makes extensive use of these, but they've fascinated me for far longer than we've been working on the series.

"Phantom island" is the general term used for islands that turn out not to be real. Some of these, like Atlantis, are entirely mythical, existing only in stories whose tellers may not ever have meant them to be more than metaphor. Others, however, are a consequence of the intense difficulties of maritime travel. Mirages and fog banks can make sailors believe they've spotted land where there is none . . . or they see an actual, factual place, but they don't realize where they are.

To understand how that can happen, you have to think about navigation in the past. We've had methods of calculating latitude for a long time, but they were often imprecise, and a error of even one degree can mean your position is off by nearly seventy miles/a hundred kilometers. Meanwhile, as I've mentioned before, longitude was a profoundly intractable problem until about two hundred and fifty years ago, with seafarers unable to make more than educated guesses as to their east-west position -- guesses that could be off by hundreds and hundreds of miles.

The result is that even if you saw a real piece of land, did you know where it was? You would chart it to the best of your ability, but somebody else later sailing through (what they thought was) the same patch of sea might spot nothing at all. Or they'd find land they thought looked like what you'd described, except it was in another location. Well-identified masses could be mistaken for new ones if ships wrongly calculated their current position, especially since accurate coastal charts were also difficult to make when your movements were at the mercy of wind and current.

Phantom islands therefore moved all over the map, vanishing and reappearing, or having their names reattached to new places as we became sure of those latter. Some of them persisted into the twentieth century, when we finally amassed enough technology (like satellites) to know for certain what is and is not out there in the ocean. There are still a few cases where people wonder if an island appeared and then sank again, though we know now that the conditions which can make that happen are fairly rare -- and usually involve volcanic eruptions.

The sea still feels like a place of mystery, though, where all kinds of wonders might lie just over the horizon. And depending on how much we succeed or fail at controlling global temperatures and the encroachments of the sea, we may genuinely wind up with sunken cities to form a new generation of cautionary tales . . .



(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/kKc80k)