Work-in-Progress Wednesday: Dream Studies

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I spoke last night to a fellow writer who admits that he hates to write–he doesn’t enjoy it at all, it’s just a compulsion. That’s a sentiment I understand (see my recent essay, on the Back Road Cafe), but it’s something I seldom experience anymore. In part, I think, because I’ve learned how to spend more time inside the dream of storytelling (and less time trying to perfect the telling).

Inside the dream of my next short story, a quantum version of my twenty-year-old self is the assistant manager at the Elks Opera House in Prescott, Arizona. She’s enrolled in a class called Dream Studies, and she’s in a romantic relationship she can’t quite figure out how to get out of.

Over the course of this story–which I’m just beginning to imagine the opening lines of–she spends a night at work, in part to avoid dealing with her boyfriend, and discovers a network of what appear to be Hopi kivas beneath the hundred-year-old theater. But how is that even possible? How could anyone build one structure so elaborate right on top of another?

In the course of this tale, as you might imagine, reality and dreams converge. I have a few notes–pictured here–which I made this summer, but beyond that, I have no idea where this story will take me.

And that is something I very much enjoy.

Monday Muse: The Sound of Gravity

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The odd little audio blip in this video, from the New Yorker, is the sound of gravitational waves, released a billion years ago, many millions of galaxies away from here, when a pair of black holes collided.

Those waves appeared on the screen of Marco Drago, a postdoc student, viewing data from LIGO (the Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory), an immense two-part particle detector in Louisiana and Washington, which was constructed at a cost of upwards of two hundred and seventy-two million dollars, more than any N.S.F.-backed experiment before or since–all in the hopes of proving one of the more elusive implications of Einstein’s general theory of relativity.

These waves appeared on Drago’s screen as a compressed squiggle, but to LIGO, which this fascinating New Yorker article calls “the most exquisite ears in the universe,” which is attuned to vibrations of less than a trillionth of an inch, and he heard what astronomers call a “chirp”—a faint whooping from low to high. The LIGO team has announced that the signal constitutes the first direct observation of gravitational waves.

This sound indicates the presence of waves in spacetime, caused by the tragic dance (and subsequent collision) of two black holes a quarter the lifetime of the universe ago, which actually cause matter here on earth to shrink or expand by a vanishingly small degree when they pass through us.

I’ve been thinking about this extraordinary development as I prepare to release my first short story to my Patreon subscribers, “Spin,” which tells the tales of two other star-crossed lovers–a physicist and a dancer, two people equally fascinated by the physical world but in different ways.

As with every great discovery in science as well as art, the question, for me, is this: If this is true, what might also be true?

Friday Round Up: Best Thing I’ve Read All Week

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“When I think about the political unconsciousness of masculinity, it’s queerness.” That’s Pulitzer Prize winner Junot Diaz discussing masculinity, science fiction, and writing as an act of defiance, in conversation with Hilton Als, theater critic for The New Yorker, part of a series of conversations that took place at The Strand, New York’s legendary independent book store, and I’ve been thinking about this  all week.

In reading about the sort of racism Diaz grew up with (“My entire family, they’re like, ‘Racism? I just don’t like niggers.’), I see shades of some of my own extended family–in particular, my Guyanese cousins who grew up in the Bronx, whom I’ve heard say almost exactly the same thing. It has always struck me as ironic that people who’ve grown up in one of the most diverse cities on the face of the planet would perpetuate that kind of attitude, but there it is.

And when Hilton Als replies, “My brother is very light-skinned, and my West Indian grandmother would tell me to get out of the sun,” I can practically hear my Guyanese grandmother telling me the same thing. (She also told me to avoid wearing dark colors, as they would make me look darker). Als notes that the fine gradations of privilege corresponding to fine gradations in the color scale in Dominican and Haitian cultures “can be very wounding.” As far as I can tell, this kind of discrimination is quite common throughout the Caribbean.

Diaz, I believe, is something approaching a bona fide genius, and in this interview, he strikes me as a kind of miraculous person as well: one who threw off both the racism and homophobia he grew up with to become one of our most thoughtful critics of the same.

Here’s the link to the full interview: http://lithub.com/junot-diaz-hilton-als-talk-masculinity-science-fiction-and-writing-as-an-act-of-defiance/

Works in Progress: Relics

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I’ve been drafting a new short story for the last month or so, in between revising chapters of Kublai, the science fiction novel I wrote via dictation last year. This short story is entitled either “Relics” (or “In Blackwater Woods”–I haven’t decided yet), and I’m experiencing that great creative high that comes with finishing the first draft.

In part because this is the first story I’ve written that’s set in the tilted version of West Michigan that I’ve had in mind for so long, in a version of the hippie farming community I had the good fortune to grow up in. As kids in this community, we always had our own particular, slightly slanted version of the world that we lived in, which lends itself well to magic–or at least, the suggestion of magic.

As these things go, I had to write a few pages before I was able to get to the beginning of the story. That’s part of what you see with the handwriting in red on this page, about what kind of a story this is (though this might make it into the story later on). (See also: My creative process at the moment.) That line at the bottom, I think, is where this story really begins.

Here’s the whole opening paragraph of this early draft:

“Our dungeon master hung himself from the hay loft the week he was home on leave from the Navy. Really, he was our storyteller–what we played had not been Dungeons and Dragons in a very long time–but to call him that would be to imply that we were not capable of telling stories ourselves, which we certainly were, and would certainly need to, now that he was dead.”

Next step: Type it up! (And revise.)