The dream pub

30 January 2003 | Leave a Comment

It seems strange that my first contact with the world of authors’ sites would be after reading only two chapters of a writer’s book (and nothing of her stories), but that is a sincere tribute to the person, the book, and the site. I’m looking forward very much to cozy nights in the pub exploring the worlds of Kelley Eskridge and Nicola.

John Young

I hope the virtual pub is comfortable and properly provisioned. I’m finding it pretty cozy myself, really enjoying it. And, of course, I hope you enjoy the book as well, and would look forward to any comments you might wish to share.

I’m curious about what brought you here after only two chapters. Please note, this isn’t a veiled request for lots of ego strokes about marvelous writing or whatever, but rather a question about the psychology around the access made possible by the web and an individual website. Did something in the book make you curious about me specifically? Do you generally go out and look for more information about artists whose work interests you? What are your criteria for sticking with a site like this? This is an open question for anyone, really. Those of you who have read through the material on this site know that I’m interested in notions of access and connection. I know what kind I’m willing to grant — less than some, more than others — and I know what kind I hope for from people whose work I admire. But that’s just me. I’m guessing that mileage varies wildly in this regard. If anyone wants to talk about this, I would find it interesting and instructive.

Your comment also got me imagining my dream pub. A neighborhood place, a little shabby from the outside with an entrance off the main road, so that the regulars can feel safe and just that bit smug about our good fortune. There would always a table free for me and mine, of course (grin). A main room with just enough bustle that never got too far on the wrong side of noise and crowd. A snug with soft leather armchairs and a lovely fireplace. Oranjeboom, Redhook, Fullers ESB and proper Dublin Guinness on draft. Decent champagne and brandy. A couple of startling and dramatic wines. A bartender who is a renaissance person with an extensive lending library and a genuine talent for making people feel welcome. Giant hamburgers with homemade buns and sautéed onions, and special handed-down-for-generations mayonnaise-based secret sauces. Fried zucchini and fried okra. Haddock and the best chips in the universe. Hummus with enough lemon, served with hot Greek pita. Vegetarian chili and cole slaw layered in pita bread (trust me). Sandwiches from Boat Street here in Seattle (artichoke-heart-salad, or pate and cornichons, or poached chicken with roasted red peppers, all on crusty baguettes) and The Other Coast Café (amazing deli concoctions, also in Seattle, lucky us). Good music. Indirect lighting. A room at the back with pool tables for Nicola.

My local isn’t Kelley’s Dream Pub, but it’s a great place. Good Philly cheese steak sandwiches and imperial pints of Bass. A fireplace. My kind of music. They like us and take great care of us, although there’s that tricky matter of not having my favorite table always waiting whenever I want it…. However, I’ve learned that one advantage of being a writer is the ability to visit the pub in off-hours and have the run of the place. We met a good friend there recently and parked ourselves in front of the fireplace for an entire weekday afternoon; Nicola took Official Virtual Pint Photos; and we all found that lovely drinking pace that maintains rousing good spirits without veering into conversational stupidity. A grand day. I’ll take as many of those as I can get.

Posted by Kelley | Filed Under blog, life, talk to me, virtual pint archives, writing 

Mileage varies

21 January 2003 | Leave a Comment

Dear Kelley,

Chocolate milkshakes.

Ah. Damn… And I’m usually pretty good with metaphors. I pulled a Buckner on that one (Red Sox player, ball went flying between his legs, lost the World Series, attempted suicide after the game, but the bus went between his legs). I completely missed it. I thought the crocodile was a metaphor for madness…

I am new to science fiction and have been reading more and more of it since last month.. trying to understand the scientific part of it. I think I overlooked the metaphor in order to understand something that I didn’t really need to… which is crazy… when I was in high school, I lived for metaphors… and even crazier when, here, it’s kind of the whole point. Well, now that I know the crocodile is a metaphor for that fear you mentioned, I’m going to reread Solitaire.

take care,
Lindsey

No Buckners here, amiga. You didn’t misread. The crocodile is certainly a metaphor for madness. That’s even made explicit in the text (”She wanted to lie back and rest in the jaws of madness.”) It’s just that I think the equation “well, she was alone for a really long time so she went nuts” is too simplistic. Madness, like anything else, is a specific experience. So it was my job to imagine it specifically, and to make it particular to Jackal. That’s why I describe the crocodile as being one embodiment of her fear — she is so afraid of “not being herself” that her fear threatens to pull her apart and swallow her up.

I believe this happens. Things we fear come to rule our lives, if we allow it. Jackal’s fear is influencing her to make bad choices right from the opening of the book. For me, the VC section was (among other things) my chance to explore that intersection of fear and choice. Jackal fights off the crocodile and doesn’t give in to madness, but that’s not the end of her struggle with fear. She falls into a much more subtle trap of fear when she turns herself to stone, when she erases the people and things that she loves so they can’t hurt her anymore. And so on. Fear has many ways to control us, some of which seem so sensible and comforting at the time. I regret the impact it has had on my life, which is of course one reason I write about it.

And please remember that this is just my version of the story. You get to read Solitaire any way you want. I can tell you what happens to Jackal, and I can tell you what it means to me, but it’s your job to decide what it means to you. That’s one of the biggest pleasures of story for me (and story can be words, music, movies, theatre, visual art) — it becomes mine, filtered through my experience, my imagination, my hopes and fears. The best stories help explain myself to me, or show me something that I want to be or feel or do. And if all someone takes away from Solitaire is a newly-discovered taste for brandy and orange juice, that’s cool with me. It’s the connection, large or small, that matters.

Posted by Kelley | Filed Under blog, talk to me, virtual pint archives, writing 

The value of art

13 January 2003 | Leave a Comment

Dear Kelley,

I ran across Solitaire a week or so before Christmas, attracted by the cover image, and was amazed and delighted to discover that you had finally written a novel. My first encounter with your work was when I read “Strings” in the (’94?) edition of The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror anthology. Perhaps it was partly the nature of the character that made that story so precious to me (I’m a violinist as well), but it instantly became (and still is) one of my favorite pieces of short fiction. I’m not easily overwhelmed, but by the final page I was weeping. Reading it aloud to my girlfriend a little over a year later, I couldn’t keep my voice steady when I came to the end. Your work is extremely powerful, and I felt blessed just to have read that one story — it caused me to make a serious inquiry into what I value about life, and living. I can say without hesitation that it changed me.

After my experience with “Strings,” I sought out the rest of your work, and loved it, but since ‘99 or so I’d been tormented by the “is this it? is that all?” sensation one feels when waiting (and waiting . . .) for a favorite artist to produce something new. And then, finally, I found Solitaire, and I rushed home with it, and I read and re-read until I became completely absorbed in Jackal Segura’s life, and her story. Then, when I finally set it down (I usually devour books at an alarming pace, but this one I savored, taking it a few chapters at a time) I realized I didn’t have any words to use to tell you how grateful I am. You gave me a journey I can make again and again, and a whole world.

I don’t mean to be so effusive with my praise, but there are very few authors whose work I can connect with on so many different levels, and I value those few quite highly. Your writing inspires me to live as fully as I can, to create, to dream, to love . . . and to hope.

Sincerely,
Aislinn

These are lovely words to give to any artist, and it means a great deal to me to receive them. Thank you.

The waiting wasn’t so much fun on this end, either. Nicola and I share a metaphor about writing, which is that there are points where a work-in-progress becomes a desert — nothing but dust ahead, nothing but dust behind. All the writer can do is stick her chin out and keep slogging. There were a couple of years of dust during the writing of Solitaire, when the work went particularly slowly because of the demands of my job at Wizards of the Coast, and also because I made a serious wrong turn in the narrative. I had to trash about 15 or 20 thousand words, about a year’s worth of work at the time. That was a very bad day. It took a while to get back on track. So, thanks for being patient.

I’m still getting used to the fact that strangers have read my short fiction and liked it well enough to go out looking for more. I’m not trying to be coy — it’s literally amazing to me that someone might pick up Solitaire and think (some version of) hot damn, Kelley Eskridge wrote a book! My stories have been so few and far between (at least in publication terms, although not in terms of my own process) that it hadn’t occurred to me that people would persist in seeking out my work.

Nicola and I were talking last night about the ways that art gets in and stirs up the soul. I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced art that changed me like a lightning strike, but there are particular works that have influenced me incrementally but immensely, like weather systems moving across the ocean. They are works that speak to the deepest parts of me, and force me to recognize things within myself — values, as you’ve said. In almost every case, they are works that confront me with the truth that I can be more than I have let myself imagine — I can work harder, be braver, see more clearly, endure more, go farther, have more joy.

And then there are those experiences of art that are like mainlining joy, struggle, sadness, fear and courage, hope, loss, redemption. Emotion speedballs. Music does that for me, and movies, and particular piercing moments in books. There is nothing like it, for my money. I will always be fascinated by the quality of humans that compels us to seek out such moments, and to create them for each other. I think whatever power there is in my work comes from this place, but that’s me looking at it from the inside out. You are a musician — is making music like this for you? I know there are other uses for art, and perhaps one day they will interest me more than this one. But not now (grin).

Posted by Kelley | Filed Under blog, talk to me, virtual pint archives, writing 

Crocodiles

11 January 2003 | 1 Comment

Hi Kelley,

Not a beer drinker (though I wish I could be because it always looks so fun)… So, I bring wine to the table.

Anyway….I read your short stories online and I liked them, so I thought I’d give Solitaire a try. I found it next to Slow River (and had to grin). When I read the jacket and saw the word, “corporate”, I stopped smiling… What if it’s boring? What if I don’t get it? Do I really want to spend twenty-five bucks on something I might not get? Fuckit. I’m buying it.

And I am so glad that I did. What a story! I’ve been thinking about it for the past two days.

I read the other questions here and was surprised to find people wondering about Steel Breeze. I had forgotten about them and everyone from Ko… And I think it had everything to do with Jackal rubbing everyone out while she was in VC. I almost didn’t want to finish the book after Snow got rubbed out. It was agonizing. This is serious, I thought, breathe. If Jackal came out of VC and Steel Breeze, her family, Neill, Snow and the others were never mentioned again, I would understand that… But I’m glad it didn’t turn out that way.

I didn’t quite understand how editing would work for the other solos. To me, it seemed that the crocodile was a breaking point and that the way to survive in VC was to get past the breaking point without breaking. The way I saw it, Jackal took herself apart instead of letting her crocodile rip her to pieces. So, were the other solos so damaged because they passed the breaking point and broke? If so, how would editing work for them when, in their virtual memories (aftershock) they are in a different place than Jackal? Like, a broken place. It just seems that, for the ones that are in the broken place, it’s not a matter of finally facing the crocodile, but a matter of being able to go back to the first time they met the crocodile, so they can take themselves apart and get to the unbroken place where doors can be imagined. I feel like I’m doing a bad job expressing this idea, so I hope it makes some kind of sense.

Thanks for taking the time to read all of this,

cheers,
Lindsey

Beer, wine, champagne, chocolate milkshakes — bring it on, I like it all.

The way I read your question has to do with the difference between confronting (or being confronted by) one’s crocodiles, and being psychologically and emotional functional in the daily world.

The crocodile in this book is one of my metaphors for a particular, fundamental fear that I believe we all have to some extent — fear of discovering that we are not as good at (insert your notion of important human attributes here) as the people around us. That we are broken people in a world where only perfect people enjoy love and success. We are Bad. Jackal’s crocodile is a combination of guilt, imposter syndrome, and a huge need to please others so that she can like herself. It’s not a new fear — it’s been driving her most of her life.

I think lots of people go through life with one or more crocodiles lurking in the back brain. Sometimes we lock ourselves into little psychological boxes to avoid dealing with them, or to protect ourselves from their attacks. This influences our behavior and keeps us from living as fully as we can, but it doesn’t mean we’re nuts. We have tools (therapy, religion, mountain climbing, career, love, whatever) to help us manage the fear and get on with whatever lives we have decided to permit ourselves. What Jackal offers the other solos is such a tool to short-cut through the fear (as symbolized by the cell with no windows or doors) into a more expanded space. They still have flashbacks and get sucked into VC, but now they will have more options to deal with it.

The solos are screwed up because they’ve been forced to be alone with themselves in ways that (IMO) most cultures don’t socialize for. We’re not taught basic concepts and behaviors of autonomy to nearly the same extent as concepts of community. “Plays nicely” was certainly a lot more important to my grade school teachers than “independently sets her own standards and then strives to meet them.” And it’s clear in the context of the book that virtual solitary confinement is intended as a punishment. I am ambivalent about this, which is why it was only through being so alone that Jackal could win her way to a greater freedom.

It amuses me that some reviews describe Jackal as passive. Deciding to play nicely, or to play along, is not the same thing as being passive. That’s not a word I would apply to anyone who makes an effort to become self-aware. For me, it’s the most active choice there is.

Having said that, I don’t think anyone has to be particularly sane or self-aware to live a functional life. The average consumer in Jackal’s world won’t need to be emotionally mature to get her kicks from an infinitely customizable virtual adventure. Nor will the solos have to walk through the same fire as Jackal to “earn” the right to the wider virtual world. Some of them will be getting a free ride. In general, I don’t believe that people must become self-aware, or confront fear, or evolve spiritually to have lives that are comfortable and sometimes happy. It’s only necessary that our definition of comfort and happiness match the life we are living. How, and whether, we make that match is where story happens.

This is all highly metaphorical, of course, and like most metaphor breaks down at some level of detailed examination. One of the reasons that I’ve been thinking, lately, that I’m not a “real” science fiction writer is that metaphor is so much more interesting to me than the science necessary to support its creation.

I’m not sure if I’ve expressed all these ideas coherently. If I haven’t, please let me know, and I’ll take another swing at it. And thanks for taking a chance with your twenty-five bucks.

Posted by Kelley | Filed Under blog, talk to me, virtual pint archives, writing 

Talkin’ about love

2 January 2003 | 41 Comments

i just wanted to pass along praise for Solitaire. i loved the cover, and while it’s true that you can’t judge a book by its cover, your words ended up in my hands and in my head because of the art. amen for that.

i’m not a big sci-fi reader, but i was cruising through the pages, and then one line nailed me like a Mack truck. the line about wanting to be in Snow’s arms spoke so much to me about humanity and existence, and how a lover can have such influence and healing, be a haven. that line alone made it clear that i’d finish the book, and i ended up reading cover to cover that night.

being much more of a romantic than a sci-fi fan, it was the words about Snow and Jackal and the way they cared about and understood each other that were my favorites. your words were familiar and the ache for their relationship to survive is like the ache i have for my future and the possibility of love like that.

thanks for sharing your talents, and for using your talents to share emotion, compassion, intelligence, humanity, independence and togetherness, etc etc etc!

can’t wait for more,
maria

Thanks very much. I’m glad you enjoyed it.

I find it challenging to write about love. I think it depends on describing small and sometimes inherently uninteresting moments in ways that reflect the greater whole, like building a pinhole camera to watch an eclipse. It seems to me that often writers choose to focus on the Big Moments of love, but in life (at least, in mine) those are only about 10% of the package — the rest is daily, built primarily, as Jackal describes it, on the dozen hourly acts of will that bind people together. Those are the bones of love. It’s hard enough to write honestly and well about the beginning of love, or the end: but writing about persistence of love is, I think, a very particular and delicate skill. Something to keep working on, for sure. I will be a Happy Writer when I can write that well.

Having said all that, of course the Big Moments — where the foundation either holds, or not — are part of any story. Much of what interests me as a writer boils down to examining moments of choice, and even when the choice seems small it can still be a big moment. The things that drive our choices are so varied. There are a million stories there.

I wasn’t sure as I was writing Solitaire that Jackal and Snow would be together after VC. I didn’t make that decision until very shortly before I wrote the scene where Jackal finds Snow outside Shangri-La. It was hard to write about their saying goodbye (in the phone call just before Jackal goes into VC) and to think that it might be true. I’m glad it wasn’t.

The choice about whether to have Snow come to the NNA was really, at base, a fundamental decision of whether to write a book about the presence or absence of hope. I decided that it was a braver choice, as well as a happier one, to have them try to work things out. It can be hard to sustain hope. It’s a choice that has to be made over and over again — I think will plays a greater part than disposition in the choice (well, I believe that about almost every choice, but that’s my bias). I believe the courage to hope is a quintessentially human thing.

I don’t know if I’m a romantic or not. I don’t believe that romantic love conquers all — I think in many cases it just makes life damn complicated. And I don’t understand people who think that bad love is better than no love at all. I think some people don’t know how to love, and that some people love each other but are not good together. Feelings aren’t enough, no matter how intense. The persistence of love depends on doing as well as feeling. I do believe with all my heart that this kind of love (and lover) can be a haven, a fortress, a greenhouse, a grand adventure, and the best story in the world.

Posted by Kelley | Filed Under blog, life, talk to me, virtual pint archives, writing