Over the course of my lifetime, science fiction has gone from a niche-market storyform aimed at geeks and propeller-heads to a cultural juggernaut consumed by the masses. So you would think that, as a one-time card-carrying member of the Junior Space Ranger’s Adventure Club, I would be delighted by the scifi-rich world I now find myself living in.

But I’m not.

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against this strange new form of SF that sets traditional soap operas on space ships and colony planets. But in the rush to serve the masses anything with blinking lights and technobabble, the kind of SF I crave seems to have been shuffled out an air-lock to make room.

Classifying science fiction
Anyone familiar with the field will likely know the distinction that is often made between “hard” SF and “soft.” As they are usually defined, those terms distinguish between stories that are steeped in provocative scientific or technical ideas (the hard stuff), and the ones that lean on the softer sciences, which also tend to put greater emphasis on other aspects of the story-builder’s toolkit, like character development, and plot.

But that hard/soft distinction has never served much use for me, because it doesn’t help me to find the kinds of stories I’ll like, or to avoid the ones I don’t. I think of myself as an equal-opportunity reader on the SF hardness spectrum, and have enjoyed plenty of stories of both kinds.

There is, however, a bisection I can make of the field that does serve as a helpful razor. I call the two camps “structural” vs “ornamental” science fiction.

All science fiction stories are based on at least one disjunctive premise; one idea or assumption that is taken as true, but is contrary to the truth of the present world. Maybe it’s that humanity has expanded to other worlds, or that time travel is possible. Maybe aliens have made contact, or perhaps the world around us is a lie being fed to us by our computer overlords. But whatever form the premise takes, the story unfolds in a world where it is true. That’s what makes it science fiction.

So why is it that so much of the science fiction being made these days is so hollow and unsatisfying to me? In a word, it’s because it’s all in the “ornamental” camp, while I’m looking for the “structural” ones.

The test for which camp a story falls into is simple: Remove the disjunctive premise. Move the story back into the real world by trading “space ship” for “cruise ship”, “colony village” for “fishing village” or whatever transformation does the job. Now, does the story still work? Is it still just as dramatically engaging? If so, you are probably looking at an ornamental SF story, because structural SF cannot function without its disjunctive premise.

Think about Larry Niven’s Ringworld. You could remove the two-headed alien or even the General Products spaceship hull and still have essentially the same story. But there’s no way you could remove the Ringworld itself. Without that colossal achievement of far-future engineering, there’s nothing left to talk about. No story at all.

Or try the same thing with Asimov’s Foundation series. Here the focus is on more human stories, but if you take away the disjunctive premise of the two foundations guiding human social evolution, the entire thing becomes meaningless. You might just as well try to pull off The Matrix without including virtual reality, machine overlords, or sentient Agent programs.

To me, structural dependence on the premise is what makes science fiction worth reading. But sadly, those stories are not only rare today; they’re getting rarer. Perhaps because most people who self-identify as science fiction fans these days are happy enough with the ornamental varieties. To them, the tech-infused setting is all that’s needed to scratch their itch. And in a way, I envy them. Their style of SF is on the rise and it’s just going to keep on climbing.

By its nature, structural SF is harder to write and more challenging to read, so not only are fewer writers qualified to write it, the market is smaller as well. And then, once such a tale has been written, it still has to compete with ornamental stories for the attention of executives who don’t know the difference. And since ornamental can be appreciated by a much larger audience, they are much more likely to get the green light. It almost makes you wonder why anybody would bother writing structural tales anymore.

But they say, “Write the stories you wish to see in the world,” and those are the ones I’m looking for, so you can be sure that my first SF novel (which I’m working on now, nestled in among my other fantasy projects) will not be ornamental. I don’t yet know where readers will place it on the hard-soft spectrum, but I defy anybody to call it ornamental.

Go ahead. I dare you.

(PS: Has anybody read anything recent that they’d classify as structural SF? If so, I’d love to hear about it. Tell me what you thought via reply email and maybe I’ll share your report with the entire class.)

It’s November now. I can tell because our collective habit for seasonal fetishism has finally turned its firehose away from spewing tales of terror. But in looking back at the month of October, I see that I was particularly inundated with talk about Netflix’s re-imagining of an old classic: The Haunting of Hill House.

I first encountered this story by way of the 1963 movie, which was shown to us at school one day. It was a late June afternoon when I was in 7th grade and the teachers were obviously just filling the last few days before the start of summer vacation. But I wasn’t at all prepared for what I saw, and as a result, it turned out to be one of the scariest movie experiences of my life. Not only because of the film itself, but in no small part because of the “extra effort” put in by the teacher who decided to show it to us. (Thanks, Mr. McGuigan. You scarred me for life.) Anyway, with that experience still resonating 40 years later, I decided to have a look and see what Netflix has done with the material.

Sadly, I wasn’t thrilled. It was my own fault, really, and I probably should have seen it coming. I had made the mistake of expecting to see a retelling of that deliciously dread-filled story from my youth. When I was presented instead with a complete reinvention, only loosely based on the original, I couldn’t help but see it in terms of what it wasn’t, rather than what it was.

It’s a bit like going home for the holidays and finding your beloved childhood pet stuffed and mounted on the wall, but now with plastic eyes, an inexplicably twisted leg, and some other dog’s collar around its neck. It’s recognizable, but only just, and the differences diminish every facet of what the original once meant to you.

So if you were hoping to see a review of the Netflix version, sorry, I’m afraid I can’t help you. In every way that matters, I’ve never seen it. All I could see were the ghastly things mom had done to dear old Rover. And while you could make a case that this might have been an engaging horror tale in its own right, (I mean, taxidermy is inherently creepy, right?) it wasn’t one I was interested in exploring. Instead, I decided to take this as an opportunity to go back and check out the original source material, which I had never read: Shirley Jackson’s 1959 book.

I confess that I approached this with a little apprehension. After all, nothing could ever recapture the delicious frights from Mr. McGuigan in that darkened middle school gym. But his demented pranks notwithstanding, my bigger concern was that I’d have to make allowances for the enormous social chasm that lies between audiences of today and those of the more bucolic 1950s. Would a tale about something as simple as a haunted house still be able to get under my skin and make it squirm without access to the jump scares, blood squibs, and creepy music tricks that Hollywood has taught me to expect over the intervening years? Could an author from fully sixty years ago actually affect me, armed with nothing more than her dated, creepy writing?

Well, in a word, yes. Yes, she could. I am pleased to say that Jackson’s original work still holds up surprisingly well. Probably because she chose to root her work in things that don’t change: the basic human psychologies of superstition, anxiety and dread. And she deployed them with a mastery that begins right away in chapter one. To my surprise, I was actually creeped out by that house before we’d seen even the first shingle or brick of the building itself.

Jackson’s most brilliant decision, I think, was in concluding that the more she told us about the house, the more real it would become, more solid, more “out here in the real world”—a place where we know haunted houses don’t exist. What she needed was for us to stay deeply in our own heads with her imagined house—one that was free to deviate from the solid and boring familiarity of reality and be whatever she guided us into believing it to be. Because, when you think about it, we are never really frightened by what we actually see or hear. We are frightened by what we think those sensations mean. If you see a pale figure in a diaphanous gown on the side of the road at night and believe she’s an anemic teen walking home from the prom, that’s not scary. But if you believe she’s a ghost from beyond the grave, you might easily have a heart attack at the wheel. Same sensory inputs, but two totally different interpretations of what they mean, and two totally different experiences as a result.

So Jackson didn’t introduce us to the house by showing it to us; she showed us other people’s reactions to the idea of the house. And that proved to be a powerful device.

When we see people reacting to a situation, we are hard-wired to take our cues from them about what the situation means. If we hadn’t noticed the figure on the road, but had seen the driver’s face when he saw her and only then noticed her for ourselves, we would be automatically guided in our own interpretation by how we had seen him react. If he had smiled and waved, we’d expect a familiar sight and see a neighbor girl. But if he had screamed, clutched his chest, and died, we’d be looking for a thing that would invoke such a terrified reaction, and be led by that hint into seeing her as a ghost.

Jackson uses that instinct to great effect. As the book opens, we see some of her minor characters reacting with horror at the mere mention of Hill House. Even the landscape and society we’re driving through seems to become warped and sickened as we approach the place. And from cues like that, we are led immediately—and more importantly, subconsciously—to interpret the house as unbearably monstrous, even before we’ve seen the first brick.

But Jackson had more in her authorial tool box than just reflected terror and pathetic fallacy, because the story is about more than just a creepy house. It’s also about a particular set of fragile people having to experience the house, and having to do so together.

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The circumstances of these featured characters are a crucial ingredient in forming the necessary “critical mass” that makes this story so effective. It’s not just that they’re fragile, but the particulars of those fragilities interact in ways that incite reactions between and among them, so that each one amplifies the others in a ping-ponging chain reaction that ratchets up their collective paranoia as events unfold. And we, hapless observers that we are, have no choice but to ping-pong along with them.

The result is a disturbing experience. Perhaps made a bit lighter by the old-fashioned character tropes, but still enjoyable and satisfyingly creepy. The only caveat I will offer is that, because the experience relies on its slow buildup and the sustained reverberations of one reaction leading into the next, it’s probably best experienced if you can read it one sitting. It’s only 150 pages, so that’s not too big a stretch. Just find yourself a warm dark room, open a bottle of wine, and let Shirley Jackson take you on her little journey.

You won’t be disappointed.

PS: If you do try it, please let me know what you thought. I’m fascinated to see if you’ll have the same experience I had.

After all, you never had a Mr. McGuigan.

I had a strange experience recently. With a bit of idle time on my hands, I went to the local library and booked a vacation to a new story realm. Then I ran home with my boarding pass and immediately set sail for parts unknown.

My first impression upon arriving was that it seemed a rather grim and repressive place. Much of that sense came from the young man who was guiding me around. As he talked, it became clear that he was chafing against the rules and conventions he was forced to live under. Even though he was one of the most privileged people in his society—a student mage and the son of the most powerful man in the city—he didn’t fit in, but neither his father nor the conventions of his society would allow him to pursue what he really wanted to do. It was a classic case of misfit-itis, although somewhat unusual in that, this time, the misfit was a wealthy and pampered member of the elite, rather than a farm boy who hated farming or a baker’s apprentice who yearned to become a dragon rider.

Those differences intrigued me enough that I decided to stick around for a while. I’d never seen this particular take on the misfit story line before and the twin hooks of rebellion and adventure were firmly set. But every now and then as I wandered around in his wake, I got this strange feeling. A sort of déjà vu. Not strong enough that I ever knew what was going to happen next, but from time to time, some key moment would happen to him and I couldn’t help but think I’d seen it before, even though he and his situation seemed completely and utterly new to me.

I continued to stick with him because he was making brave but difficult choices and I thought he could really use whatever comfort my companionship might give him, but those occasional flashes of the familiar kept resurfacing—to the point that it was becoming a distraction. I ignored them as best I could and soldiered on, staying at his side through his banishment from the city, through the wild chase in which the city fathers tried to hunt him down and kill him, and through the ferocious battle to win his freedom. Finally, at that point, I had a flash of prescience and made a startling prediction. I was pretty sure I knew where he would go next with his horrible wounds and who was going to tend them when he got there. I say “startling” because it centered on a place and character that we had not yet been introduced to. I was fabricating pure nonsense out of thin air.

And I was right.

Dammit! Either I had become suddenly clairvoyant or I actually had been to this world before, and since I didn’t also happen to know the upcoming lottery numbers, I could only conclude that it was the latter. And that’s disappointing. It seems I’d followed this very kid around to all his unusual places once before, listened to all his specific complaints and grievances, even witnessed his exciting and unusual events, all without ever recognizing that I was retracing familiar ground. It made me feel cheated, like my previous visit had been a complete waste of time for having been so utterly forgettable.

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But it also got me curious. For an adventure that had fully engrossed me this time around, what was there about it that had allowed it to slip so completely from my recollection the first time?

So I went back over the events that had preceded my epiphany and noticed something interesting. My moment of clarity had come during a scene of dramatic conflict that had a rather iconic visual. A specific, memorable image. But while my protagonist friend had shared some interesting thoughts up to that point and done some interesting things, they were all rather cerebral, internal experiences. None of those “interesting things” had been paired with any specific and memorable images.

So I think there’s a lesson here for me. It seems that my memories of travel to exotic locations are tied to strong visuals. And if that’s how it works for me, there are probably lots of other explorers out there with similarly visual memories. So, note to self: When recounting tales of my own exploits, be sure to include dramatic imagery to make the experience memorable.

It also has me curious about you guys. Have you had this sort of déjà vu experience before? And if so, can you articulate what finally triggered your recollection? Was it a striking visual, or something else?

Also, you’ll note that I have neglected to mention what world I’ve been talking about, and I’ve related fairly spoiler-free clues as to what happened there. Was that enough for anybody to recognize where I was?

Have I mentioned that I take my camera with me on all my travels? I never know who I’m going to meet or what I’m going to see, and any of it might get pulled into a story later. So even though the damned images always come out wonky when I get back, I keep a photo journal to serve as visual reminders of the things I might want to write about later. This most recent trip was no different, and a young Gnomileshi boy made quite an impression on me.

His name was Echmog. (Or maybe it was Echmok. He had a quiet, reedy voice and I had trouble making out some of what he said.) I met him while revisiting Gash-Garnok.

Most Gnome children run from me on sight, but Echmog was busy digging for fragments at the base of the shrine and never even looked my way as I sat myself in the tower’s shade and took out my lunch.

I thought he’d been too absorbed in his search to notice me, but when I asked if I could take his picture he agreed quickly, on the condition that I pay him with the chicken bone left over from my lunch. I assumed he was hungry of course, but to my surprise, after letting me snap this photo, he took his payment and climbed up the tower to set his prize carefully in the dish, leaving it as an offering to Garnok’s Rage. I was taken somewhat aback by this. A little boy—he couldn’t have been any more than seven or eight—was appealing to that fractious spirit of conflict, hoping to appease it and bring an end to the war that had turned his world on its head.

Our interaction didn’t last any longer than five minutes, but as I say, it left an indelible impression. I am humbled by moments and contacts like these. They remind me that war is a tool of governments, and rarely an expression of what the real people themselves believe. People like Echmog. I hope he’ll be safe in the days ahead, but I fear for him. Something’s coming. I can feel it.

This article first appeared in The Liar’s Hearth, my super-secret newsletter. If you’d like to see stuff like this when it’s, you know, current, plus lots of stuff that doesn’t get posted to the site, you can sign up for free. Just click this dangerous looking button here:

This week, my travels took me to a newly discovered continent: Kanopy. Maybe you know about it already, but I didn’t. For those of you still wandering in the fog like I was, Kanopy is a streaming service that libraries and universities can sign up for. My wife discovered it and learned that we could connect by referencing a valid alumni email address from our alma mater. (Check to see whether your university or local library offers the same thing.) Their collection of old movies, indie films, documentaries, lecture series, and even children’s programming seems really impressive. Yay for libraries!

Anyway, our first foray into Kanopy has been with a documentary series. Actually, it’s a university lecture series called How Great Science Fiction Works. It’s not (as the title might suggest) a course on how to write SF, but instead is a really insightful look at how broad themes are used in science fiction literature as a whole.

The host is Dr. Gary Wolfe, from Roosevelt University. He seems a bit uncomfortable in front of the camera at times, (strange pauses and cadences in his delivery, although in a way that may be familiar to Shatner fans :-) but he’s really knowledgeable and manages to keep the ideas flowing. I’d always considered myself pretty well read in the genre, but this guy really knows his stuff. While he’s hitting on lots of authors and books that I have read, he’s also relating it to ones that I haven’t. So if you’re looking for a guide to the SF that matters, you’ll find it all right there, delivered in a way that not only tells you which books are important, but also why.

This article first appeared in The Liar’s Hearth, my super-secret newsletter. If you’d like to see stuff like this when it’s, you know, current, plus lots of stuff that doesn’t get posted to the site, you can sign up for free. Just click this dangerous looking button here:

I took a trip this week over to Netflix Land to explore the newly settled province of Final Space. But even after touring every village twice, I still don’t know what to think. It’s quirky, I’ll give it that much, sometimes earning a mild chuckle, but far more often prompting a puzzled tilt of my head and a heartfelt, “Huh?”

Mild spoiler of fairly guessable plot point ahead.

At the core, it seems to be built on a flagrant, almost self-congratulatory foundation of “Show vs Tell” mismatches. The protagonist, Gary Goodspeed, is by all evidence of my senses, a complete and total douche bag. He’s self-important, painfully obtuse, sexist, and dumb as a post, while steadfastly convinced of his own awesomeness. Yet, inexplicably, the characters around him all seem blind to these shortcomings. The one exception is his love interest, who sees Gary the way I do. Yay! Finally, a character I can relate to. But then, rather than proving herself right, she evenutally reverses herself and joins the ranks of the mouth-breathing Gary-lovers. Sigh.

This article first appeared in The Liar’s Hearth, my super-secret newsletter. If you’d like to see stuff like this when it’s, you know, current, plus lots of stuff that doesn’t get posted to the site, you can sign up for free. Just click this dangerous looking button here:

They tried to reveal more layers to Gary as the series unfolded, but it all felt flimsy and artificial to me. So I don’t really know what to tell you. On the one hand, I didn’t much like the characters, or the plot, but on the other, I couldn’t look away from its bizarre character dynamics.

Has anybody else given it a try? Am I the only one who came away wishing I could get my time back?

I’ve been thinking about this for years now, but I’ve finally taken my weight off my thinker and started doing it. Today I posted the first in what I intend to be a recurring series of videos: Fun readings from my books, delivered in unusual ways. I don’t know what that means, exactly, but it struck me as an interesting thing to try.

Click to watch video.

To start things off, I’m keeping it safe. This is a pan-and-zoom “animation” of my children’s picture book, narrated by the cheapest narrator I could find. (I didn’t even buy myself coffee!) But the star of the show has to be the gorgeous artwork by Cody Cheung.

So if you’re looking for YouTube content to keep your little ones entertained—or if you just have a thing for middle-aged men reading preschool stories—then this one is guaranteed to fit the bill.

In preparation for the upcoming launch of The Widow’s Wrinkles, the previous two episodes have been given new covers. Now that Karsten and Babette have a following, I wanted to feature them more prominently in the cover art. And since the previous covers implied a slightly darker tone, this was also the chance to lighten things up a bit, to convey the humor as well.

If you want to get the new one for just a buck, preorder it here before the price goes up after launch.

In this episode, Gilbert interviews two different librarians. One’s a promoter of good indie books (The Fussy Librarian) and the other is a college student and vampire who hunts bad guys for the government (Amber Fang.)

The kingdom being protected by Deneigh and its sister fortresses.

Merrik, Tam and Kern do not live in an isolated bubble. The boys of Brotherhood of Delinquents live in a run-down fortress community, but it was once a mighty bulwark at the edge of a busy and prosperous kingdom. I found a copy of the map that’s a bit less weathered than the one that appears on the back of the book, but even this one is so old it has faded. Sorry about that.