If y’all have been following the blog, you may recall that a preliminary cover for the new epic fantasy The Dragon’s Path got leaked a while back. I had it up for a few minutes, then took it back down. Well the real deal is now among us. Check it out:
by Daniel Abraham
by Daniel Abraham
I am informed by reliable sources that my collection of short stories Leviathan Wept and Other Stories has under fifty copies left unsold. It’s got some of my best short work in it, including one done as an assignment by Catherynne Valente which isn’t available anywhere else. Plus which, seriously, check out this cover art:
by Daniel Abraham
by Daniel Abraham
3) Oh. That’s what classical music is about.
by Daniel Abraham
Larry at OF Blog of the Fallen had an old post when RaceFail ’09 was still generating a lot of heat. I didn’t come across it at the time, but I’ve hit it now, and reading it over, it had me thinking about some things. I’ll just post and play:
1. Name the last book by a female author that you’ve read.
You know, the hardest thing about this is remembering the order in which I’ve read things. They all seem to clump up in a “recently” folder in my head. I’m pretty sure it was Catherynne Valente’s The Habitation of the Blessed. I am, however, expecting an MS from Carrie Vaughn pretty soon here.
2. Name the last book by an African or African-American author that you’ve read.
Easy. The Jewel-Hinged Jaw by Samuel Delaney (as assigned me by David Hartwell). About which more when I’ve sat with it for a bit.
3. Name one from a Latino/a author.
Upside Down: A Primer for the Looking Glass World by Eduardo Galeano. But my *favorite* South American author is Enrique Anderson Imbert.
4. How about one from an Asian country or Asian-American?
Hmm. Well, Ted Chiang’s The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate, I guess. Before that Maximum City by Suketu Mehta. But I can’t think of two books I’ve read in recent memory that have less in common than those two.
And oddly, I feel very uncomfortable characterizing Ted by his genetics. He’s a friend of mine. I admire him no end. I’m pretty sure his ancestors spent some of the Pleistocene in Asia. So . . . all right. Sure.
5. What about a GLBT writer?
Jeanette Winterson. The Passion. I read it again every few years. Gorgeous book. The Darling Wife also got me David Sedaris’ Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk which I’ve grazed a little. For non-fiction, I’m a real fan of Nora Vincent’s Self-Made Man.
6. Why not name an Israeli/Arab/Turk/Persian writer, if you’re feeling lucky?
Saladin Ahmed is going to be the first one that comes to mind because I need to get back to his book and finish it. Soon. Probably instead of doing this, actually. It’s a good one, and it’s got to be going into production soon here. But if the question is about an Arab who doesn’t live in New York, it’ll be Edward Said’s Reflections on Exile. And that was a few years back.
As for Israeli authors, I’ve got a bunch of Jews on the shelf, but none that I’m sure live in Israel.
7. Any other “marginalized” authors you’ve read lately?
You see, there’s where I get confused. I’ve done the exercise — I can indeed name a bunch of authors who I’ve read and enjoyed and have here on my shelf where I can see them — and I think I haven’t actually proven anything. Or even given anything very strong evidence. I am perfectly willing to believe that someone could read all the books I have and come away just as racist and sexist as they went in. It’s fun to remember these particular books by these particular writers, and I hope folks who are interested go out and read ’em themselves because they’re good. But I don’t think my reading list can give me any kind of free pass or authority on matters of privilege. I think the impulse to demonstrate my political awareness and empathy is itself suspect.
But that’s not the only thing about this particular exercise that’s interesting to me. And by interesting, I mean troubling.
When I think of marginalized authors — marginalized — I don’t find myself thinking about people of a certain race or sexuality or political class. By the time I pop over to Amazon.com or wander through my local Barnes and Noble, the folks nearest the margin have already been weeded out. Everyone I’ve mentioned in this post has a book deal. Has distribution. Has a pulpit from which to declaim their point of view. I like Junot Diaz. By which I mean I like his writing and I enjoyed his company the one time we hung out. He writes from a perspective and with a voice that is both deeply familiar (role-playing game geek) and very much outside my experience (Dominican-American). But the guy’s won a Pulitzer, he’s on the Pulitzer committee, and he’s teaching at an ivy league college. If he, as an individual, is marginalized, I have misunderstood the term. At a guess, I’d say that the most utterly outside voice I’ve mentioned was Galeano, and he’s got nine or ten books in print here in the United States.
We live in a racist, sexist, homophobic culture. We as individuals are racist and sexist and homophobic, myself included. And in addition to that (not but but and) the voiceless are voiceless. By the time I’ve heard them, they aren’t anymore. The thing I’ve read most recently by a genuinely marginalized author probably read something like: Homeless Veteran. Anything will help. God Bless!
by Daniel Abraham
Well, this is it.
Yesterday, Vicious Grace hit shelves officially (though my experience working in bookstores is that it’s probably been ootching out for a week or two). Go tell your friends and relatives. Shout it from the mountaintops and the street corners. Mention it at work. Like that.
When I was an ambitious kid wanting to be a writer, I didn’t actually picture this moment. In fact, I didn’t really picture any of the moments exactly. Like any of my fellow authors, I bounced between thinking I was the best writer of my generation and knowing that I was a fraud and not even a very good one. In my travels, I haven’t yet met a writer who didn’t suffer that useless, inaccurate oscillation of self-worth. I think it’s our defining characteristic.
But when I started this gig, I didn’t know what I was getting into. I didn’t get into it for the money. (Funny story. I knew this very high-power lawyer — Fred — for a while. We didn’t get along well, and yet I think of him fondly. He had a talent for the utterly cutting remark, and some part of him lodged in my head and comes out every now and then to say something mean. Daniel’s-Fred-Homonculus on writing for money: “Writing fiction is a stupid way to make money. If you’re writing fiction to make money, you’re stupid.”) I didn’t get into it for the fame (as evidenced by my apparently freakish willingness to strip off my name and put on a pseudonym at the first opportunity). I didn’t do it to win awards (they’d be nice, but if I never won one again, that’s cool too). God knows I didn’t do it to be accepted by the academic world or I sure as hell wouldn’t be writing the kinds of things I write.
So if i it’s not the money or the fame or the awards or the academic respectability — to riff briefly on The Lookout — what am I doing here?
When I started getting published and asking people who were better and more established and invested in this industry than myself what their ambitions were, I got a wide variety of answers, but none of them ever really seemed to describe my situation. And what’s more, I often got the feeling that the people telling me weren’t actually sure of themselves either. It’s easy when someone asks a question I don’t know the answer to — especially if its something about my internal psychological life — to make up some post-hoc rationalization on the fly and trot it out as if it were truth. But I look around at the writers I know, and the rich ones are just as desperate and insecure as the poor, the ones who’ve never won an award are just as dedicated and driven as the ones with a shelf of Hugos and Nebulas and those hilariously ugly Lovecraft heads they give out for the World Fantasy. There’s something else that we get out of this that makes long years of labor with little return, the constant casual judgment of others, and the cultivated insecurity of the job worth it. There is an ambition that is just his side of driven by demons, but I don’t know what it’s driving us — by which I mean me — toward.
I know that Vicious Grace is out. (And also “Hurt Me” — MLN Hanover’s first published short story, which has been mentioned kindly in some reviews of Songs of Love and Death.) I know some folks like them. The Dragon’s Path will be out in April. Leviathan Wakes, in June. And I hope y’all enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.
But I also know that this moment — my book is in print! — is a necessary step, but it isn’t what I’m here for. I’m not filled with joy and satisfaction so much as bracing for the blow of lousy reviews and poor sales numbers that may or may not come. What I’m really looking forward to is the next chapter of the next book, the thing I haven’t written yet, the one that might yet achieve and fulfill my ambition.
Whatever it is.
by Daniel Abraham
The giveaway is all closed up, and my thanks to the random number generator for taking out any actual decision making on my part. I am contacting all the folks chosen by unpredictable atmospheric noise. If you haven’t heard from me, thank you for playing, and please do come again. 🙂
And finally (before I crawl off to bed), one of the nifty things a wordpress site like this does is give you a list of what search terms folks used to find the page. So for whoever came here by googling “Daniel Abraham author home address” — dude, stop that. You’re freaking me out, right?
by Daniel Abraham
I’m closing down the MLN Hanover giveaway tomorrow so I can actually get to the mailing stuff out part. Get in on it if you want to get in on it.
And exactly one week until Vicious Grace drops . . .
by Daniel Abraham
The official release date for Vicious Grace is November 30th. We are in the final countdown. In celebration — or possibly as a kind of cargo cult offering to the gods — I’m going to try running a giveaway. I’ve heard good things about them in the past. might as well give it a shot, right?
But I’m not entirely sure how to go about it. Should I give away copies of Vicious Grace? Or copies of the first two books? All three? Should I print up copies of MLN’s only published short story (“Hurt Me” in Songs of Love and Death)? Should I give the books to the folks who ask for ’em, or should I get y’all to nominate some friend or relative of yours who we can surprise with signed copies in the mail? Should I try to get Carl Kassel’s voice on your home answering machine?
Hell if I know. I’m new around here myself.
Let’s start easy, then. I’ll open requests now. If you’d like a free signed copy of Vicious Grace, leave a comment here with your email address in some slightly disguised form to confound spammers or drop me a line at dja at daniel abraham dot com. On Wednesday, I’ll pick five folks at random and send out copies.
Additionally, in honor of our previous conversations here on the blog, the first five people to donate $50 to your local rape crisis line / rape prevention training / sexual abuse counseling joint, I’ll send you all three books. And we’re working on the honor system here, folks. I’m not gong to ask for receipts or anything. Just know that if you lie about it just to score some free books, you’ll be the kind of person who’d lie about something like that just to score some free books. You have to live with yourself. Do the right thing.
Okay. Back to work now.
by Daniel Abraham
By which I mean console gaming.
My first computer game was Colossal Cave Adventure. I was in third grade, going over to Laura Buxton’s house after school. Her father, Larry, had built his own computer in the back bedroom, and Laura and I spent a lot of hours back there figuring out how to avoid the grue, navigate the maze of twisty passages, and say Plugh to the best effect. As I remember, Laura also introduced me to Pong, which I found somewhat less interesting. In Advent, I could explore hidden caves, solve complex puzzles, kill dragons with my bare hands. In Pong, I could move either up or down.
Yeah, no contest.
I also didn’t have a television for large swaths of my childhood, and as a direct result I sat out the Atari and Nintendo revolutions. When I got older and had a computer anyway, I played through some Blizzard games — Warcraft, Starcraft, Diablo. They were fun, but I wouldn’t have bought a dedicated computer just to play them. And then I met Ty, and lo, I was corrupted.
And the game that got me twitching at all hours of day and night? Was it a new story of exploration with dragons to defeat, hidden caverns to explore, intellectual and linguistic puzzles to tease apart? Nope. I went for the game that was all about action, and not just action, fairly simple, repetitive action. My first love of console gaming was the great, great grandchild of Pong. Left 4 Dead. I broke. I caved. I got not only an Xbox, but the most expensive television I’ve ever owned (okay, that’s a low bar — my taste in electronics is pretty cheap, but still . . .) and all for a game I could only play when the kid was asleep.
Left 4 Dead, for those who haven’t yet been corrupted, is a first-person shooter where you take the role of one of four survivors of a zombie apocalypse. It’s built as four “movies” with exactly the same plot: get from point A to point B without getting everybody killed at once. There were two things about it that fascinated me: the simplicity and the design.
As these games go, Left 4 Dead is very straightforward. Your inventory consists of at most two weapons, a health pack, a bottle of pills, and one of two kinds of grenade-like things. There is nothing more to manage. There are a bunch of zombies, with a few special enemies with powers and behaviors that are simple to understand. The whole game is demonstrated in a short action-packed video introduction — every obstacle, every strategy, every bad guy, every ability. But because the placement of the enemies and supplies varies so much, every play-through is a little different.
And the design. Left 4 Dead was built to make players work together. Anyone striking off on their own is doomed. The game designers force the players to cooperate. It is a game about supporting and protecting the people around you. It’s simple, it’s visceral, it’s tactical, and it takes very little time to learn.
And the best part? It comes with designer notes. If you go to the extras menu, there’s an option to play through the game’s commentary track where you go through the game landscape from point to point, hearing the designers commentary about what they were thinking, what concerns they had, and what solutions they adopted. I played through for months without thinking particularly about how the game used color to direct me, or how important it was to have the silhouettes of the players be distinct from each other and from the enemies, or, or, or . . .
With respect to Roger Ebert, Left 4 Dead was and is my entrance into an elegant art form that has come to exist within my lifetime. The aesthetic and technical issues that it engages with are unlike anything I’ve seen elsewhere, and they’re also very familiar. I’ve thought about how art leads the eye through a painting or a book cover. I’ve talked about how rule sets shape behavior. I’ve read people much smarter than me who were concerned with how interactivity changes narrative. Gaming has its roots in Colossal Cave and Pong, and it has pulled a tremendous body of theory and practice up around those to become something new and interesting.
And, of course, Left 4 Dead isn’t like sitting down with a book. It doesn’t have that depth of characterization, the sharp interplay of dialog between characters, the sense of everything coming together in ways that weren’t obvious but seem neccesary after the fact.
For that, you need Dragon Age.