Unforgettable
Harrowing Futures, Horrors, & (Dark) Humor
PAUL McCOMAS
© 2011 Paul McComas
Published by Walkabout Publishing at Smashwords.
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A
PIECE OF TALE (a.k.a. “About the Cover”)
Co-written
with Stephen D. Sullivan
... for as the smoke cleared, the sound of drums—ancient, primal—drifted through the jungle night like far-off thunder.
Like a heartbeat.
Kneeling on the altar, Kitana raised her arms in invocation, palms pressed toward the stars. “Ay shubara ko, mo shu’ba. Ay shubara ko—”
At once, the trees shook with titan footsteps as the gigantic silver figure burst into the clearing. It stopped and stood stock still, towering above her, its chromoid skin gleaming in the light of the full moon.
The flanking torches flared; the rising wind whipped her blood-red hair across her eyes. But all she saw was It. And It merely stood …
Waiting.
The stone surface began to hurt Kitana’s bare knees; her widespread legs felt stiff and cramped. She had not seen the MechaLoa in more than a year. It seemed ... larger.
Has It grown?
She took a breath, then began: “O Great One Who Does Not Die, hear me. I have performed all of Your proscribed rituals and ablutions. I have bared my skin and marked my body, this very night carving the sacred pattern of Zeroes and Ones into the tender flesh of my inner thigh”—she could still feel the slow throb of pain—“and I have done so with neither complaint nor cry. I have worked tirelessly to execute Your every order, to fulfill Your every wish. And I have known neither man nor woman for thirteen cycles. My every day and night, I have given to You.”
The colossus spoke at last, in a voice like rending steel, the altar vibrating with each syllable: “WHAT OF IT?”
Kitana swallowed and, steadying her voice, cried: “Fulfill my desires! Grant me the powers I seek!”
The great, burnished arms rose, creaking, and folded over the massive metal chest. “YOU ASK MUCH, MAMBO. BUT BEYOND BLIND OBEDIENCE, WHAT HAVE YOU THAT SUCH AS I COULD NEED—OR DESIRE?”
“Well, Master … what do You desire?”
The behemoth stood silent. Then: “I LACK BUT ONE THING.”
“What?” No sooner had she asked than it came to her: My ... humanity!
The giant nodded. “YOUR BODY, YOUR MIND, YOUR VERY SOUL … ALL THAT YOU ARE AND EVER WILL BE.”
The distant drums grew louder. The torch fires danced and darted. The howling winds raged.
Kitana ran her tongue over suddenly dry lips. “I ... I offer You my cyberserpent—the best that technomancy can render. With it, You can interface with the Allweb, know everything this pale, fleshly world has to offer.”
The god-machine’s eyes glowed. “IT’S A START.”
Its meaning was clear—and made her shudder:
Only a start ...
* * *
Praise for Unforgettable
“McComas’ fiction here is punk, in a good way: frequently over the top, unafraid to be noisy and have a good time.”
—Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel
“McComas explores the unknown, what lurks around the corner—and how our curiosity leads us to things we never expected. Unforgettable is an excellent genre collection that should not be overlooked.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Engaging, intelligent, and creative, Unforgettable signals a sharply written return to McComas’ genre-fiction roots.”
—Milwaukee Shepherd-Express
“Through his ‘unforgettable’ settings, themes, and ideas, McComas conjures up some pretty tough stuff about future dystopias and post-apocalyptic travails, eased—somewhat—by streaks of dark humor.”
—Evanston (IL) Review / Pioneer Press
“Paul McComas is my kind of writer: unforgettable, yes, but more importantly, uncategorizable—and that is a virtue never to be underestimated. Unforgettable has something for everyone, no matter where your taste runs or leaves something to be desired. The book is huge, and it’s chock-a-block with illustrations, interludes, plus lots of author intros à la Harlan Ellison (who seems to be a muse); it earns its price tag not just with quantity, but also with quality—and it’s wall-to-wall fun. The author approaches all genres with the same smart sensibility, combining the logical extrapolations of science fiction, the free reign of imagination in fantasy, and the dark anatomical sensibility of horror. Plus, happily, lots of this collection is extremely funny. Do not expect The King's Speech. Do expect ‘Blood of the Wolfman’ and ‘Spaceslime!’ Think of it as rock-and-roll science fiction. And horror. And humor. Or as a spiky, thorny grab bag of everything you can imagine—and a lot you cannot.”
—Rick Kleffel, California Public Radio, www.bookotron.com
“Entertaining! From futuristic stories of a frozen world to ‘Collies in Space,’ here’s everything you could possibly imagine, and some things you could not. McComas’ brilliant story-telling techniques yield thought-provoking [tales] you won’t soon forget.”
— May 2011 Book Pick, www.book-club-queen.com
“Many of the stories span different genres. They’re not just horror; they’re not just post-apocalyptic—they’re both, and more. The style is anti-Tolkien: rather than expounding on the exotic elements, the author makes them self-explanatory so he can focus on the characters and the plot. Many of the pieces serve as allegories of our lives today. [McComas] grabs the reader, develops the characters, does justice to the genre elements, and gets the moral across, all in a short amount of time.”
—Milwaukee Public Radio
“A mammoth career overview by the daring Paul McComas; a tightly honed and entertaining experience. Recommended. ****” (out of 5)
—Chicago Center for Literature and Photography
“You’ve often encountered the publishing cliché, ‘There has never been a book like this.’ Well, with the volume in your hand, that ‘cliché’ becomes fact. In these amazing, multi-faceted pages, Paul McComas puts the pedal to the metal and propels the reader through an awesome maze of literary delights. I won’t tell you what’s in store as each page is turned, but trust me, you’re in for a wild ride that will leave you breathless. McComas is a one-man powerhouse, an author-magician, a wizard with words whose range is unlimited. And Unforgettable is a stunning performance, a literary tour de force. Let me repeat: there’s never been a book like this. Never.”
—William F. Nolan, author of Logan's Run
“Paul’s fertile imagination, utter lack of pretension, and let-it-all-hang-out honesty make his writing not only accessible but relatable, for beneath all the monsters and aliens are recognizable human characters and emotions. The stuff of his fiction is quite simply the stuff of life. … It’s all here: honest expression, serious purpose, perverse playfulness—and even fearlessness.”
—Eric Greene, author of “Planet of the Apes” as American Myth: Race, Politics, and Popular Culture, from his Foreword
“Some stories make you laugh, some tug at your heartstrings, some creep you out, and some make you think. In this collection, Paul McComas does all that—often within just one tale. The contents of these shorts make them unforgettable: the woman whose sloughed-off skin comes alive, the frantic race to escape a carnivorous office building, the fear of the child confronting the lion-shaped water fountain, the compassion of the man tending the fugitive scientist, the bleak landscape of the frozen world ... All these things will stick with me for the rest of my life. Paul McComas’ new collection is both high literature and accessible genre fiction. Seize it! Read it! Cherish it!”
—Stephen D. Sullivan, author of Martian Knights & Other Tales
“This compilation is the ‘unforgettable’ party we all want to attend. You enter the room and realize it’s packed with people and personalities of all kinds: some attractive, some scary, some out-of-this-world, but all compelling. Over there is the fisherman with the ultimate one-that-got-away story. Right here’s the lover who’s found a way to ‘charm’ the object of his desire—literally. And here comes the trio of dogs who’ve crossed the universe to find a common bond on an alien world. Don’t miss this fête; allow your host, Paul McComas, to stretch your mind, make you laugh out loud, and keep you thinking long after you’ve read the last page.”
—Joy Ward, author of Haint and Interviews from the Ark
“As Wordsworth said, ‘The child is father of the man.’ And indeed, an early interest in science fiction has informed much of Paul McComas’ later writing, for our benefit and entertainment. About life’s mysteries, Unforgettable, as one character states, ‘Is open to unexpected answers—and, in due course, to the exploration that might provide them.’ The author’s solo pieces and collaborations alike are deeply disturbing, deliciously gruesome, and profoundly hilarious.”
—Tim W. Brown, author of Second Acts
“Unforgettable is in essence a ‘Paul McComas Reader,’ a vast and delightful sampling from the author’s prolific writings, focused on but not limited to sci-fi and horror. Here you will find McComas juvenilia, reprised adult stories, brand new tales, and collaborations with others. You'll be hooked by one whopper of a fish story, shocked at a woman haunted by her own skin, amused by a tweener filming gerbils in the Christmas crèche—and you'll find out what happens if you pee in the wrong place. This is a book for all of us who are addicted to Paul’s work, as well as for those needing an introduction to one of our country’s most versatile and endearing artists. In short, Unforgettable—is.”
—William Hart, author of Never Fade Away & Home to Ballygunge
“A fine collection of chilling, screaming-good stories. People with constipation should keep this book in the bathroom. It’ll scare the shit out of them.”
—John M. Daniel, author of Geronimo’s Skull and Elephant Lake
“Daddy is a writer. I don’t know what that means. Daddy plays with me, takes me for walkies, and gives me treats. I love him.”
—Sam, the author’s rescue greyhound
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ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
Books
Planet of the Dates
Unplugged
Twenty Questions
First Person Imperfect (editor)
Further Persons Imperfect (editor)
Short films and TV Episodes
Galactic Exchange (screenwriter; director; producer; actor) *
White Scarf (screenwriter) * †
Wedding Dress (screenwriter; co-director/-producer; actor) * †
Edge (screenwriter; story co-writer; actor) †
Be Mine (screenwriter; actor) †
Desert Slacks (screenwriter; director; co-producer; actor) †
H.O.D. (screenwriter; co-director/-producer; actor) * †
Symmetry (screenwriter; director; co-producer; actor) * †
Shock Theatre (screenwriter; director; co-producer; actor) * †
Rumpus Room of Horror (screenwriter; director; producer; actor) *
Plus
No-Budget Theatre episodes as writer, director, co-producer, and actor:
Episode 1: Box †
Episode 2: Vader * †
Episode 3: Beyond the Planet of the Apes * †
Episode 4: Creature Double-Feature * †
Episode 5: The Twilight Zone: “Reactionary” †
Episode 6: Blood of the Wolfman * †
Episode 7: Gorzak’s Grab-Bag * †
* denotes award-winner
† denotes film-festival selection
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Unforgettable
Harrowing Futures, Horrors, & (Dark) Humor
Paul McComas
Foreword by Eric Greene
Walkabout Publishing • 2011
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All pieces © 2011 (and, in some cases, prior years too) by Paul McComas, except:
“A Piece of Tale” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Stephen D. Sullivan
Foreword © 2011 by Eric Greene
“Pentas!” and “Icemare” © 2011 by William F. Nolan and Paul McComas
“Collies in Space” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Heather McComas
“Strongest” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Eric Greene
“Big, Two-Fisted Jungle” © 1981, 2011 by Paul McComas and Ben Neumann
“Malfeasance” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Eric Diekhans
“The Collector (XOXO)” © 2011 by Paul McComas and C.J. Ullrich
“Edge of the World” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Marie Thourson
“Project: Android” © 2011 by Paul McComas and John Scott
“Class Reunion” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Richard LaValierre
“Postgame” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Marko Tubic
“This Too Too Solid Flesh” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Eileen Maksym
“Maw” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Lisa Beth Janis
“United Kinkdom” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Nick Endres
“Love Spores” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Ben Neumann
“The Rail” © 2011 by Paul McComas and Laurence Minsky
“The Oracle’s Rap” and “Date with the Devil” from Edge
© 1992, 2011 by Paul McComas and Peter Shultz
Cover illustration, interior illustrations, and photos
co-copyright 2011 by the respective artists and Paul McComas
Walkabout Publishing
S.D. Studios
P.O. Box 151
Kansasville, WI 53139
www.walkaboutpublishing.com
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning, or any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author.
Any similarity to actual persons, places, institutions, or properties—other than for lawful tribute, homage, or satirical purposes—is purely coincidental.
First Edition, February 2011; Second Edition, June 2011 – First E-Book Edition, June 2011
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A portion of the Author’s Preface originally appeared as the essay “Tell A Tale—Tall or Otherwise” in the www.book-club-queen.com series “Life Between My Pages” in 2010.
Earlier versions of “Roomie,” “I’ve Been Dreaming of You,” “House of Dogs” (as “H.O.D.”), and “Desert Slacks” appeared in the collection Twenty Questions (1998, Daniel & Daniel). Additionally, “Roomie” previously appeared in the Twilight Tales chapbook Strange Creatures (1998), and “House of Dogs” (as “H.O.D.”) previously appeared in Tomorrow Magazine #4 (1987–88).
Earlier versions of “Descent/Ascent,” “The Answering Wind,” and “Shock Theatre”—as well as portions of “Songbook Sinistre”—appeared in the novel Unplugged (2002, John Daniel & Co.). In addition, “Descent/Ascent” originally appeared in The Awakenings Review, Vol. I, #1 (2000).
Earlier versions of “The One that Got Away” appeared in Tomorrow Magazine’s “Best Of” issue (#9/10, 1992) and in the collection Further Persons Imperfect (iUniverse, 2007).
Earlier versions of “Journey to the Planet of the Dates,” “Young Love, Punk Love,” and “Proof Positive” appeared in the novel Planet of the Dates (The Permanent Press, 2008). In addition, an earlier version of “Journey ... ” appeared in The Awakenings Review, Vol. II, #2 (2003).
An earlier version of “Big, Two-Fisted Jungle” appeared in Tropos (1982).
* * *
Excerpt from Tell a Tall Tale by Kent Salisbury & Adrina Zanazanian
Excerpt from “Against Interpretation” by Susan Sontag
“Science Fiction Novel ...” headline from The Onion
Excerpts from “Unhappily Ever After” by Karen Springen, Newsweek, July 21, 2008
Excerpts from “Fresh Hells” by Laura Miller, The New Yorker, June 14, 2010
Excerpt from Sacred Places in North America by Courtney Milne
Excerpt from “To a Mouse” by Robert Burns
Lyrics from “Great Divide” by Magnus Sveningsson
Lyrics from “Miss Macbeth” by Elvis Costello
Excerpt from Logan’s Journey introduction by William F. Nolan
Lyrics from “Big and Strong” by Marc Heard & Olivia Newton-John
Lyrics from “Nature Boy” by Eden Ahbez
Lyrics from “Green Slime” by Richard Delvy
Text from In Search Of ... intro narration by Alan Landsburg
Text from The Twilight Zone intro narration by Rod Serling
“Ten-Tale Terminus” intro lyrics based on lyrics by Carol Burnett
Lyrics from all Oil Tasters songs by Richard LaValliere
* * *
Deep thanks to my wife, Heather; mother, Hazelyn; teachers, Jan Martin and Mark Dintenfass; mentor, Bill Nolan; “brother,” Eric Greene; awesome artists, Joe Witkowski, Stefanie Sylvester, and “cover boy” Nick Endres; phlattering photogs, Wendy Santeliz and Jaime VanDeventer; text scanner, Kim Hah; peerless publicist, Liz Ridley; wondrous webmaster, Neal Katz; “Simon”-sketch adviser, Joe Hronek; killer co-authors; beneficent blurbers; and to the good folks at Brella Productions who lent this project their expertise and support: Mark Mallchok, Bernadette Burke, Spencer Parks, Valerie Baciak, Patti Lahey, Marc Morgan, and Pono.
Thanks, too, to my many “colleague-heroes”—those writers who’ve inspired me most (and whose work I heartily recommend)—chief among them Joyce Carol Oates, Jayne Anne Phillips, Sam Shepard, Kazuo Ishiguro, Alice Sebold, and Tony Earley. And, in memoriam, Rod Serling.
I especially wish to thank my publisher, Steve Sullivan. This book is the dream-come-true I didn’t even realize I was dreaming. The “deal” for it was the single best thing that happened to me in 2010, the worst year by far of my forty-nine. The times I spent working on it—solo, with my co-authors, with the artists, and with my publisher—were candles in the darkness. Steve, bud ... you kinda saved me.
* * *
For John Scott,
with admiration, with affection, and
with gratitude for nearly forty years of friendship
* * *
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S PREFACE: The Roads Not (Yet) Taken
Journey to the Planet of the Dates
“Descent/Ascent” and “The Answering Wind” from Unplugged
“The Oracle’s Rap” and “Date with the Devil” from Edge
Treatment: Murder, She Wrote Series Finale
The Twilight Zone: Reactionary
Rules for Playing Hide-and-Go-Ax
The Most Terrifying Three-Word Dystopian/Dark-Fantasy/Horror Story Ever Written
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ILLUSTRATIONS GUIDE
After “Advance Praise”: “Collies in Space” drawing by Stefanie Sylvester, from the author’s concept © 2011 by Stefanie Sylvester and Paul & Heather McComas
NOTE: Available on T-shirts, note cards, a poster, and other items benefiting Collie Rescue of Greater Illinois, Inc., at www.collierescue.org
Dedication page: Stills of John Scott at seventeen as “Dr. Gilbert / Neanderthal” from the movie The Twilight Zone: “Reactionary” © 1979, 2011 by Paul McComas
Before Foreword: Photo of the author with Eric Greene, by Adam Belanoff © 2008, 2011 by Adam Belanoff, Paul McComas, and Eric Greene
Following Author’s Preface: Location photo of the author at sixteen as “Francis 7” in Logan’s Quest, by John Scott © 1978, 2011 by John Scott and Paul McComas; photo of the author at forty-six as “Francis 7” with “Jessica 6,” by Lee Salawitch © 2008, 2011 by Lee Salawitch and Paul McComas
TEN-TALE TAKEOFF: “Icediver” drawing by Joe Witkowski © 2005, 2011 by Joe Witkowski and Paul McComas
STAGE TO PAGE: “They ‘Live’ By Night” photo of the author with Roberta Rudolph, by John Scott © 1991, 2011 by John Scott and Paul McComas
TWO HEADS ARE BETTER: Photo of the author with a CPR demo-dummy, by Jim Ziv © 1990, 2011 by Jim Ziv and Paul McComas
FILM SET TO TYPESET: Stills from the movies Beyond the Planet of the Apes, Blood of the Wolfman, Time Trek, and The Twilight Zone: “Reactionary,” © 1975, 1979, 2007, 2010, and 2011 by Paul McComas; still of Richard Shavzin as “Random” (shadowed by “Jacko”) from the movie Edge © 1993, 2011 by Peter Shultz; still of the author with movie camera in hand, by Michael Ferris © 2006 by Michael Ferris and Paul McComas
FLASHBACKS: “Simon Says” ink drawing by the author at seventeen © 1979, 2011 by Paul McComas
MAIM THAT TUNE: Photo of the author as “the Joker,” performing at a charity concert, by Susan Frikken © 2009, 2011 by Susan Frikken and Paul McComas
TEN-TALE TERMINUS: Stills from the video House of Dogs © 1993, 2011 by Kurt Heintz and Paul McComas; exterior shot of building © 1986, 2011 by Paul McComas
JUST DESSERT: “Unforgettable” drawing by Joe Witkowski © 2011 by Joe Witkowski and Paul McComas
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WARNING
For the nearly five-hundred pages that follow, you will experience tales so mind-boggling that the publisher, the author, and the municipality in which you reside are all deeply concerned for your welfare. Therefore, we request that you read this book utilizing “the buddy system,” and that each of you assume responsibility for taking care of his or her neighbor. If your “buddy” becomes uncontrollably awed, unsettled, surprised, frightened, or entertained by the contents of this collection, please dial 911 immediately so that medical attention can be rushed to the aid of the afflicted.*
*Adapted from the intro narration to William Castle’s 1958 film Macabre, screenplay by Rob White
* * *
FOREWORD
My introduction to Paul McComas’ work was an advance copy of his 2008 novel Planet of the Dates, a coming-of-age story about a young man’s early adventures in the world of dating interspersed with his adventures creating homemade science fiction movies. What struck me even more than Paul's fertile imagination was his utter lack of pretension. The let-it-all-hang-out honesty made his writing not only accessible, but relatable, for beneath all the monsters and aliens and fanciful stories were recognizable human characters and emotions.
The same is true of this current collection. You may not have been any of the people who populate this book, but I expect you have known versions of them. You may not have lived these experiences, but I am certain you will recognize them: the painful choice that cannot be avoided in “Roomie”; the longed-for love declared too late in “Levitation”; the merciless tyranny of monsters left unvanquished in the collection’s title story. The stuff of Paul’s fiction is quite simply the stuff of life.
Paul sought me out because I had written about the beloved fiction of his early life. My 1999 book “Planet of the Apes” as American Myth: Race, Politics, and Popular Culture explored how an ambitious group of producers, writers, and directors had created a modern mythology that catalogued and critiqued the racial and political struggles of the 1960s and ’70s—and captured audiences’ imaginations at the same time. It was a book that revealed the political subconscious of a cultural phenomenon.
Reading Paul’s work, I'm not surprised that he was taken with my exploration of how the Planet of the Apes films managed to be a potent mix of political sophistication, moral outrage, and entertainment, because what comes through again and again in Paul’s writing is his recognition of the power of fictional worlds as a tool to cope with, interpret, and navigate the real world in which we all live.
I hope Paul will forgive the suggestion that the most poignant creation in these pages was one he began writing at the impressively young age of fifteen. The traumatized and incapacitated title character of “Simon Says,” who creates imagined worlds to cope with his circumstances, says much about the uses of fiction by all of us—and, perhaps, about its dangers as well, as beneath Simon’s seemingly blank eyes, worlds are not just created but destroyed.
Just as in Planet of the Apes and all the other genre classics to which Paul tips his literary hat, so it is in his Unforgettable: there is something more going on beneath the surface. For Paul understands that “playful” does not necessarily mean “trivial.” He attests to taking particular pride in the notion that viewers of his film Blood of the Wolfman have recognized “what the piece is really about: the wages of violence, the burden of guilt, and the redemptive power of love.”
This is not a unique example. Suffusing Paul’s stories is the weight of consequences: scientific facts unheeded and political choices unmade in “Icediver”; the tragic results of “harmless” teen teasing in “Class Reunion”; the Rapper’s admonition in “The Oracle’s Rap”; ambition and greed unbounded in our joint creation, “Strongest”; the bone-chilling warning of the unimaginably depressing “The Most Terrifying Three-Word Dystopian/Dark-Fantasy/Horror Story Ever Written”—and, back again to the haunting young Simon, the collateral damage of deliberate cruelty.
It’s all here. Honest expression, serious purpose, perverse playfulness. And even fearlessness, when Paul boldly—and bravely—seeks, vis-a-vis his songwriting, to rehabilitate the term “amateur”: to reclaim it from the cultural gatekeepers (who wield the word to indict the “inferiority” of others and confirm the “superiority” of themselves), returning it to those who toil at a labor of love because of that love.
There is no doubt that for Paul, writing this book was a labor of love.
For you, I hope reading it will be as well.
—Eric Greene
Los Angeles, January 2011
* * *
AUTHOR’S PREFACE:
“THE ROADS NOT (YET) TAKEN”
This is a book I hadn’t intended to write. But man, am I glad I did!
Honestly, it had never occurred to me to compile a “genre collection” until one sunny Saturday afternoon in June 2010. Walkabout Publishing’s Steve Sullivan and I had just finished co-chairing (Siskel-&-Ebert-style, with a few friendly fireworks) the science fiction (SF/sci-fi) and fantasy panel at the Southeast Wisconsin Book Festival. We were seated side by side at the Authors’ Tables, signing copies of our respective books—or, more to the point, not signing them, for business was slow. “I’ve a few short genre pieces,” said I, “that need a home. Tell me more about these multi-author anthologies that Walkabout publishes.”
“I’ll go you one better,” quoth Stephen. “Let’s publish your genre book.”
“Uh ... Okay.” Sure—twist my arm.
In retrospect, my entire life had been leading up to this offer ... and, thus, to this book.
In 1966, when I was four years old and—largely under the tutelage of my big sister, Rachel—had just learned to read, Golden Books published Tell a Tall Tale, a (fittingly) tall, narrow, spiral-bound hardcover by Kent Salisbury and Adrina Zanazanian that’s best described by its charming back-cover copy: “Does a caveman live in a castle? Does a princess ride on a pig? In this book, anything can happen. According to our computer, there are 279,936 funny mix-up stories in Tell a Tall Tale. You may want to try them all.” By flipping different cardboard segments into different positions, you could, indeed, tell the illustrated story of a pig-riding princess, as well as “a bug-eyed Martian attending a grand ball” (in a lovely gown) and—a personal favorite—“a cowboy running on his giant reptile legs.”
I still own the book (now out of print, but available online), and if the wear-marks are any indication, I did try all 279,936 variants. Appetite whetted, I then began writing stories of my own—most of them populated (initially, at least) by ferocious dinosaurs and/or animals imbued with speech.
By age eleven, with several years of story-telling and (oft-undecipherable) writing under my belt, I transformed the basement of my family’s suburban-Milwaukee home into a movie studio and began scripting and shooting short films: nearly fifty in all by the time I’d graduated from high school. With titles like Godzilla Versus Mechani- (sic) Godzilla, Spaceslime! and The Tale of Captain Shaw: A Loch Ness Adventure, these movies weren’t exactly giving Welles or Kubrick a run for their money. Still, making them taught me a great deal about narrative development.
At the same time, I began a four-year stint of writing, illustrating, and “publishing” a pair of ten- to thirteen-page ’zines: Lonny Jr., a mimeographed Lon Chaney, Jr. fan rag that ran for twenty-four issues, and the carbon-copied Frightmonsters, which lasted for fourteen. As the founder and president of Macabre Publications, I welcomed into the fold three fellow monster-crazed boys, along with their own budding mags; at our peak, we four churned out five ’zines a month for a public consisting of, well, mostly each other. Thus did I gain valuable, ongoing practice at writing—and become one damned quick four-finger typist.
When I was fifteen, I mailed some of my SF work to multi-genre master William F. Nolan, whose novel, Logan’s Run, I adored ... and whose encouraging reply letter gave me the confidence to tackle a bigger canvas. And so, during my junior and senior years of high school, further inspired by my Modern Lit teacher, Janet Martin, and the books to which she exposed my classmates and me (including the classic dystopian novels Lord of the Flies and Brave New World), I wrote a short psychological-sci-fi novel, Simon Says. Jan, bless her soul, read each chapter as I completed it and met with me after school, on her own time, to give me notes ... straight through to the end. An (unpublished) novelist was born!
At Lawrence University in Appleton, WI (birthplace of the fascistic Senator Joe McCarthy—but also the town where Harry Houdini grew up, so it’s kind of a wash), I studied fiction writing with novelist Mark Dintenfass (Old World, New World). No longer focused on SF, I began tackling the human condition—at least, as I then knew it—through short works of contemporary, character-driven mainstream/literary fiction. (I didn’t realize it at the time, but Mark wasn’t just teaching me how to write; he was also teaching me how to teach writing—which, as of this writing, I’ve been doing and greatly enjoying for thirteen years.)
After Lawrence, it was off to the film program at Northwestern University in Evanston, IL, where I learned a great deal about cinema ... but also learned that I was, and am, a fiction writer at heart. Remaining in Evanston after receiving my Master’s, I took a series of full-time writing jobs: composing descriptions of dental products; editing a monthly newsletter about the mind/body link; working in PR for a medical school, and then for a VA hospital. All the while, I wrote short stories, sent them off to literary mags, accrued a most impressive collection of rejection letters ... and, in time, garnered the occasional acceptance for publication.
During this same period (the mid-1980s to mid-’90s), I also became a minor fixture in the Chicago performance-art/-poetry scene, adapting many of my stories into monologues and (with the help of a local actress or three) two-person performance pieces. I’ve always enjoyed acting; beyond that, it has proven to be a real help in my writing career, because “the more venues, the merrier”—and because presentation counts. (It’s also a great way to obtain direct, immediate, in-person feedback on new material.) I think of this performance-based approach as “dressing up my work in its nicest suit.” What’s more, it’s been an excellent preparation for my side career with News and Views, a Chicago-based speakers’ bureau.
It wasn’t till my first book, a collection of twenty short stories with ambiguous endings called Twenty Questions (Daniel & Daniel, 1998; now in its third printing), had come out to uniformly good reviews that I gave myself permission, for the first time since high school, to tackle a novel. Unplugged (2002, John Daniel & Co.), the story of a troubled rock musician who “finds” herself—both literally and figuratively—in the South Dakota Badlands, collected several Book of the Year, Book of the Month, and Critic’s Choice designations. In addition, it apparently threw out a pretty wide net; I’m fairly certain my debut novel is the only book in literary history to receive simultaneous raves from ROCKRGRL Magazine, Christian Century, Out in the Mountains (Vermont’s LGBT paper), and The Lakota Journal (tribal newsweekly of the Oglala Sioux)!
After Unplugged and its coast-to-coast, fifty-stop bookstore tour, I edited two short-fiction anthologies, First Person Imperfect (2003) and Further Persons Imperfect (2007), both published by iUniverse, then authored Planet of the Dates (The Permanent Press, 2008), a comedic coming-of-age novel about a teenaged filmmaker in suburban Milwaukee circa 1980 who finds his sci-fi obsession eclipsed by a dire quest to connect with the opposite sex. (“Semi-autobiographical,” anyone? “Coming full circle,” perhaps?) Another “critic’s darling,” Planet—my first hardcover—was swiftly optioned and now is in development by producers Jason Koornick (Next) and Michael Henry (Years in Your Ears) as a feature film.
Elsewhere in the “coming full circle” department: a dozen of my teenhood films—re-edited, with sound and some new footage added—have become a “cult” cable-TV series called No-Budget Theatre, several episodes of which have won international and national awards. Also, I’m currently co-authoring Logan’s Journey with the aforementioned Mr. Nolan, to be published in conjunction with Warner Brothers’ upcoming big-budget 3-D remake of Logan’s Run.
And, you know what? Until Planet got optioned, I never had an agent. I’m here to tell you that you can have a career in fiction as a self-represented author, as long as you’re not intent on grasping the “brass ring” of signing, right away, with one of the big publishing houses. Maybe I’ll get there, in time ... but frankly, I’m not worried. For, either way, my career is moving forward, my reviews have been glowing, and so far, I’m achieving my primary goal as an author: that each and every book I write be completely different from all of its predecessors—certainly the case with Unforgettable. So, to any un- or under-published fiction writer out there who’s reading these words, I say: keep at it ... and be open to where your characters (pig-riding princesses included!) take you. They are the best “agents” you’ll ever have.
* * *
Up till now, I’ve eschewed commentary on and analysis of my own work within the pages that comprise it. (In preparation for the third printing of Twenty Questions, I succumbed and added a two-page Author’s Note—the gist of which was, somewhat perversely, “Here are my reasons for not analyzing these stories.”) I’m a disciple of the Theory of Intentional Fallacy, which holds that the author’s/artist’s intentions are, indeed must be, irrelevant to the reader’s/viewer’s “understanding” of the work. I’m also an admirer of Susan Sontag’s essay “Against Interpretation”:
Our task is not to find the maximum amount of content in a work of art, much less to squeeze more content out of the work than is already there. Our task is to cut back content so that we can see the thing at all.
Thus, I’ve tended to let my work speak for itself.
What better time to “break the rules” than when stepping outside my usual mainstream/literary œuvre and into genre? Well, in for a penny, in for a pound: this book is rife with introductory comments, including some analysis, and even includes a few epigraphs (another no-no for me—till now). I’ve enjoyed “playing Rod Serling” in these proceedings ... but undoubtedly will abandon the role in my next book(s), serving ’em up “straight, no chaser.”
In the end, of course, it’s not the commentary that really counts, but the material commented upon. Through the fifty-one (count ’em!) pieces that follow—some old, but newly revised; many brand new—I’ve tried to deliver a “thinking person’s genre collection” that does justice to the SF/speculative fiction, horror, and dark-humor forms while also, in some sense, transcending them.
How? Chiefly through an emphasis on characterization. I’m reminded of a headline from the satirical newsweekly The Onion: “Science Fiction Novel Posits A World Where Characters Are Hastily Sketched.” Too often true—and it can be the undoing of a brilliant premise (see Ursula LeGuinn’s The Left Hand of Darkness).
Conversely, my own approach to genre fiction, like my approach to fiction overall, is character-based and -driven. Do your characters justice, and then trust them to show you the way.
Secondly, and nearly as important, is economy of expression. From Nolan—whose skill at character development blossomed after the otherwise stellar Logan’s Run (see how much more fleshed-out and affecting Logan and Jessica are by the time of Logan’s World)—I learned how to introduce genre elements concisely and with maximum impact. This may seem counterintuitive to genre fans (certainly, it’s counter-Tolkien!), but why devote a paragraph, a page, or—yes, I’ve witnessed this—an entire chapter to describing some futuristic device or alien cultural practice? Skip the excess exposition; reduce or eliminate back story and background; use self-explanatory terminology (the structure was made of “litemetal”; she wore a hooded “skintite”; the youths had just concluded their monthly “omni-mating” ritual); keep moving forward, shark-like, into the story—following your characters wherever they lead.
* * *
As for this book’s subtitle, “Harrowing Futures, Horror, & (Dark) Humor,” let’s take these one at a time ... and in reverse order, for I want to save the best—or, at least, the closest to my heart (and the one about which I’ve the most to say)—for last.
I. Dark humor
Otherwise known as gallows humor. Whistling—or, indeed, laughing a lung out—in the graveyard is a time-tested coping mechanism, one that we often use when confronting, or when confronted by, the otherwise unthinkable. We lessen the sting of “taboo” topics (disability, death, murder, suicide, mental illness, natural disasters, terrorism, even genocide) by making light of them ... or by locating the element of dark humor inherent to them. That element may be tiny, the meagerest of “silver linings” to a sky-spanning “dark cloud.” Still, by focusing on it, we make the cloud seem a bit smaller and, thus, more manageable. As any physician who has lost a patient, anyone who lives and struggles with clinical depression, or any family member of an Alzheimer’s patient (to name but three examples out of many) will attest: dark humor helps us survive.
Dark humor can be offensive, if mishandled; its proper deployment requires sensitivity and tact. But it also can be very, very funny—in part, I think, because the stakes of the joke or the funny story are raised sky-high by our realization of how dire the situation is.
There’s a great deal of dark humor in the book you’re about to read; in fact, you’ll find it present in more pieces than not. I hope these “silver linings” amuse you—and, in at least some cases, offer a bit of comfort or relief.
II. Horror
I’ve been a fan of monster and horror stories (primarily on the screen; to a lesser extent on the page) since age ten. Note the distinction: “monster and horror stories.” There is considerable overlap, of course, but these genres are not one in the same. Most monster stories are horror stories as well, but some (Edward Scissorhands; Son of Godzilla) are not; moreover, many horror stories include no monster whatsoever, at least in the classic sense (The Blair Witch Project; The Silence of the Lambs [Hannibal Lecter is a figurative monster but not a literal one]).
Accordingly, these two different genres address different expectations and fulfill different needs in the reader/viewer. A monster tale inspires awe; like a (fictitious) freak show, it gives us permission and an opportunity to stare, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at a most uncommon creature. At its best (The Bride of Frankenstein; The Wolf Man), the story also challenges us to find within the suffering monster not just a soul, but also an element of ourselves.
A horror tale, on the other hand, exists primarily to frighten: to get under our skin and either creep us out incrementally (The Shining) or scare the bejeezus out of us (Psycho).
Unfortunately, the horror movie—beginning with Psycho—went on to birth a largely execrable “slasher” sub-genre (the Halloween series; Friday the 13th Parts I through infinity)... which, in time, gave rise to an even worse sub-sub-genre, namely “torture porn” (the Saw movies; Hostel). The less written about these crass “efforts,” the better; suffice it to say, their popularity raises valid concerns about the psycho-spiritual health of the culture that spawned and appears to demand them.
I considered including my December 1983 film-school term paper, in its entirety, within this collection but decided against it because the book was getting pretty damned long even without it! Allow me, though, to quote from “The Spectator’s Experience of the Horror Film, Then and Now: Only the Fear Remains” (keeping in mind that “Now” is now a generation ago):
There’s something masochistic about intentionally placing oneself, time after time, in potentially terrifying situations. But, as any horror film enthusiast will attest, doing so can be enormously fun. Like a good rollercoaster ride, a well-made horror movie makes your heart pound and your adrenaline flow, filling you with a level and type of excitement rarely felt in other contexts. Simply put, for a large number of people, it feels good to be scared. A second purpose served by the horror film—and, thus, a second reason for its popularity—lies in its therapeutic value.... Most mental-health experts would doubtless concur that the first step toward overcoming one’s fears is to face them, to get them out in the open, where they become less mystical, better-defined, and thus more vulnerable.... Carl Jung might see in the horror film an outlet for our dark side; horror movies may serve, then, some unconscious yet constructive—and innate—human purpose. The third reason I see for the popularity of the horror film lies in its escapist value. All kinds of fascinating, shocking, exciting things can happen in the world of horror, which is not bounded by the rules of our own, “real” world. The horror realm thus is a good one to have around, as it allows us to trade in our own oft-dismal existence, however briefly, for another.
In the paper, I then contrast classic with more recent, chiefly American horror films, in four categories: (A) methods used to frighten the viewer (subtle/nuanced/implicit [see: Jacques Tourneur] vs. graphic/gory/explicit [see: George Romero]); (B) subject matter (the supernatural vs. the psychotic); (C) the nature of the monster, when there is one (then, either pure evil [Dracula] or accursed and sympathetic [the Wolfman]; now, an evil character for whom we’re encouraged to root [The Shining’s Jack Torrance; Hannibal Lecter]); and (D) the ending (“good conquers evil” vs. evil either wins or, if vanquished, is poised for a comeback). To this last point, I append the following:
Rather than meting out justice, these [recent] narratives either ignore it or turn it on its head—thus mirroring, the cynic would say, real life. There is no happy ending, no awakening from [film theorist] Parker Tyler’s “daylight dream,” for the world of said “dream” (i.e., the film) is no longer gothic or supernatural; it’s the same cold, cruel world to which we wake up anew every day.
I attribute these shifts to the turmoil of the 1960s and ’70s—lynchings, assassinations, Vietnam, the Cold War, Watergate, nuclear threats—and to America’s concomitant loss of innocence:
With such real-life horrors taking place all around us, we’d be naïve to expect horror movies to remain the tame, escapist vehicles they once were; rather, like each of us, they would never be the same again.
Finally, I hypothesize as to a “new purpose,” other than scaring us, of the contemporary horror film:
If the horror enthusiast of today is, at least to some extent, a cynic, then perhaps s/he takes in the latest gore-fest to justify, support, or reinforce that cynicism ... thus yielding a circular pattern: each subsequent film adds to its audience’s cynicism, and the audience in turn demands an ever-more-cynical entertainment “product.”
Whoa—there it is, way back in 1983: my dead-on prediction of 21st Century “torture porn.”
I trust you’ll find that the horror tales in this book harken, for the most part, toward the insinuative and the suggestive, as opposed to the “in-your-face—and (with apologies to the clever and industrious Dr. Lecter) tearing it clean off your skull.”
III. Harrowing Futures
Ah. Here she is, at last: the literary love of my life ... Lady Dystopia.
This Preface takes its name from a seminar I developed and taught in 2008 at National-Louis University (NLU) called The Roads Not (Yet) Taken: Modern Dystopian Literature. I appended “and Cinema” for my 2010 panel at Capricon XXX; four months later, the book-fest panel Steve Sullivan and I presented was called The Road Not (Yet) Taken: Futurist and Fantasy Fiction. So, this whole “Road” bit has gotten quite a workout. (Cue poet Robert Frost—or, more to the point, novelist Cormac McCarthy.)
At NLU, we initially focused on terminology, beginning with a differentiation between SF and speculative fiction. The former relies heavily on hard science (including life sciences) and/or technology (2001; The Island of Dr. Moreau); in the latter, the emphasis is more on “soft” sciences—sociology, anthropology, poli sci, etc.—and tech may or may not play a role (The Handmaid’s Tale; Make Room, Make Room! and its superior film adaptation, Soylent Green).
Then, there’s the spectrum of apocalyptic (Dr. Strangelove), post-apocalyptic (The Road), and dystopian (Planet of the Apes), with the third requiring that a society be in place—one that may (the movie version of Logan’s Run) or may not have (Never Let Me Go) emerged from and/or survived an apocalypse. (The novel Logan’s Run, interestingly, has one foot in each type: its “Little War,” comprising widespread riots and a single nuke detonated in D.C., does the trick.) Too often, people lump post-apocalyptic visions together with bleak future societies, referring to both strains as “dystopian” when only the latter truly qualifies. Listen to two pop songs—Morrissey’s “Every Day Is Like Sunday” and Zager and Evans’ “In the Year 2525”—side by side if you want to hear the difference articulated clearly (and in rhyme!).
Some dystopian work is satirical (Idiocracy). Most is futurist, but it also can be set in the present (Lord of the Flies) or even the past (in Never Let Me Go, a recent alternative past to our own); nearly all of it is allegorical—one of my favorite aspects of the genre, from the start. As one attempts to categorize different spec-fic books and films according to the various terms above—a most instructive exercise—it can be illuminating to ponder which ones take a big-picture approach (Independence Day), which ones evoke a smaller picture (Signs), and which combine the two (in different ways, The Children of Men, Brave New World, and Logan’s Run all start small and end big, or at least bigger).
The required texts I chose for the NLU course were Margaret Atwood’s near-futurist, semi-satirical, small- to medium-picture dystopian spec-fic novel The Handmaid’s Tale; Kazuo Ishiguro’s recent-alternative-past, small-picture novel Never Let Me Go (which bridges the SF/spec-fic divide); and William F. Nolan and George Clayton Johnson’s futurist, semi-satirical, medium- to big-picture SF novel, Logan’s Run. Also, we viewed Rod Serling’s classic Twilight Zone episode “The Eye of the Beholder” (unknown time—and place—small-picture spec-fic). Notice that none of these four is, in the traditional sense, post-apocalyptic. Indeed, most dystopias aren’t ... perhaps suggesting that we all need to watch out, lest they sneak up on us slowly, over time.
(By the way, if I’d had my druthers, P.D. James’ deeply moving The Children of Men would have been required reading as well ... but The Roads Not [Yet] Taken was only a three-session seminar, and I try not to overassign to my students.)
Through the Real Live Authors! program I founded at NLU, we chatted via real-time audio feed with Bill Nolan about Logan specifically and dystopias in general. In addition, we viewed and discussed segments of the movie versions of Handmaid and Logan, as well as excerpts from Children of Men, Island of Lost Souls, Soylent Green, Minority Report, Planet of the Apes (which features the quintessential post-apocalyptic “reveal” ending), and The Dark Knight (the best superhero movie ever made; its Gotham City is, like Yeltsin-era Russia, a kleptocratic dystopia—as well as, arguably, a sociopathocracy). Everything we read and watched throughout the course qualified as dystopian.
My preferred definition of “dystopian” comes from Wikipedia:
The vision of a society in which life conditions are miserable and are characterized by poverty, oppression, war, violence, disease, pollution, nuclear fallout, and/or the abridgement of human rights, resulting in widespread unhappiness, suffering, and pain.
To which I would add “mandated conformity.” In a dystopia, it is well-nigh impossible to be an individualist—or even an individual.
That said, in virtually every dystopian narrative, there are those who try; generally, they’re able to find one another and work together. The “runners” in Logan; the Underground Femaleroad in Handmaid; the entire population of “manimals,” eventually, in The Island of Dr. Moreau ... A resistance movement or incipient rebellion is almost inevitable.
I say “almost” because of Never Let Me Go, in which there is no resistance, organized or otherwise. Yes, the clones Kathy H. and Tommy C. hope for a reprieve from their fate as compulsory “donors”—but when none is forthcoming, these two walking organ banks simply, if not gladly, submit. Has resistance been genetically engineered out of them, or was it brainwashed away at boarding school? Either way, their failure to even try resisting makes this, for me, the bleakest and most disturbing dystopia of all ... and the most moving.
I kicked off the Capricon panel by reading aloud the rather grim Wikipedia definition and commenting, “Now we’re having some fun, huh?” That got a good laugh, but I was being only half-facetious. Since conflict is at the heart of drama, utopias just aren’t very dramatic. Ernest Callenbach’s novel Ecotopia is a good read, but less as narrative than as public-policy proposal. For that matter, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have A Dream” speech is inspiring and, yes, even dramatic ... but a dead end, narratively speaking. No—it’s the dark side that compels.
Ever since I was a boy*, I’ve been equally intrigued and terrified by what the future might hold. I recall writing a school history report on one of my heroes, abolitionist John Brown—then paging through The Prophecies of Nostradamus and finding a clear prediction of the Harper’s Ferry uprising, cluelessly labeled “Event Undetermined.” How, I wondered, did ol’ Nossy know? And how might I know what’s ahead, too?
*The first dystopia to which I was exposed was probably the Island of Misfit Toys in the stop-motion animated TV Christmas special Rudolph, the Red Nose Reindeer. This leper-colony variant is unique among dystopias in that its ruler, the winged lion (and so, by implication, a misfit himself) King Moonracer, is benevolent—and, indeed, eventually effects his subjects’ liberation.
At about that time, fascinated by the Planet of the Apes films and frankly freaked out by the recently released Soylent Green (which, you may notice, is now beginning to come true before our eyes: water crises and food shortages increasingly plague our grossly overpopulated world), I began turning, for answers, to dystopian visions with their oddly satisfying ironic turnabouts and dramatic reversals. State-sanctioned “firemen” whose job isn’t to put fires out, but to start them—in order to burn books (Fahrenheit 451); a cathedral full of post-fallout mutants singing hymns to their altar-mounted “creator”—The Bomb (Beneath the Planet of the Apes); twenty-one-year-old Jessica 6 being called a “nice old lady” (Logan’s Run).... These images and premises are riveting, relevant, thought-provoking, and exciting to contemplate.
In other words, “fun.”
But important, too. Ishiguro is warning us not to wander too far down the slippery slope of biomedical engineering, as surely as Atwood, writing from Canada in the early 1980s, was sending her neighbors to the south a wake-up call about the so-called Moral Majority and its unholy alliance with the Reagan Revolution. The novel Logan’s Run cautions us that a world of the young is a world without wisdom, and thus doomed; the movie version (Eric Greene will agree to disagree on this) reveals the dark underbelly of the shiny-surfaced, sexy, but ultimately hollow disco/“Cali culture” and mall-centric Me Generation of the Seventies. Both versions castigate soulless hedonism (see then-President Carter’s frankly prophetic 1979 “malaise speech” for many of the same points) and advocate “rage against the machine”—that is, against the computer that runs the whole show.
Every imagined “harrowing future” is a road map of sorts, intended to steer us not toward but clear of places where we most assuredly don’t want to go. The authors of these books and the makers of these films are our modern prophets, whose predictions we ignore at our peril. Will they be heeded ... or are they but voices crying in the wilderness?
That’s up to you and me—and no cultural question, I would hold, could be more pressing. For dystopias, sad to say, are all too real. Read Lakota elder Black Elk’s devastating autobiography Black Elk Speaks, or Alex Haley’s Roots, or The Diary of Anne Frank for a glimpse into actual, factual dystopias past; travel into Taliban territory or any other Islamist (as opposed to Islamic—a key distinction) stronghold, and ask the de-nosed women and the child-bride survivors of female genital mutilation (to which we should never refer as mere “circumcision”) about dystopias present. Hell—take a close look at the Patriot Act, right here at home ... and dare imagine what’s next.
This stuff ain’t fiction, folks. In Pogo’s words, “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”
The kids get it, anyway. This trend merits an essay all its own; then again, Karen Springen (“Unhappily Ever After,” Newsweek, July 21, 2008) and Laura Miller (“Fresh Hells,” The New Yorker, June 14, 2010) already having penned fine ones, I’ll be semi-brief.
Over the past decade, an absolute boom has developed in dystopian and apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic fiction written specifically for young people: City of Ember, The Hunger Games, Uglies, Feed, Gone, etc.—and their inevitable sequels. Why? As Springen submits:
Today’s kids live in a dark place: September 11, global warming, Iraq.... Says [Ember author Jeanne] DuPrau, “These are big, hard truths that are facing kids, and they need to know these things.” ... The books also help kids understand that “there’s a direct connection between things they [McComas’ italics] may do, and the end of the world,” says [Gone author Michael] Grant.
This can only be good, as it seems likely to engender greater stewardship of our planet and responsibility toward its inhabitants, both human and otherwise.
Miller points out two important respects in which “youth-centered versions of dystopia part company with their adult predecessors. For one thing, the grownup ones are grimmer,” whereas the young adult (YA) ones end hopefully, often going so far as to ask: “If a new, better way of life can be assembled from the ruins, would the apocalypse really be such a bad thing?” Secondly, writes Miller:
Dystopian fiction may be the only genre written for children that’s routinely less didactic than its adult counterpart. It’s not about persuading the reader to stop something terrible from happening—it’s about what’s happening, right this minute, in the stormy psyche of the adolescent reader.
I’d argue that this less-didactic approach is, in the end, the more convincing. As my fiction writing students can tell you, I constantly stress the importance of “writing in the moment”—bringing an individual instant to light and to life in vivid detail, then moving forward to the next such moment, then the next, in the process building “shared history” between author, characters, and reader. The implicit message that emerges from this process is far more persuasive than the explicitness of a clearly spelled-out “moral,” because in the former case—to borrow the tag line from the (god-awful) horror film Jaws 4: The Revenge—“This time, it’s personal.”
Miller ends her New Yorker examination strongly:
[Lots of kids] read these books, and some of them will surely grow up to write dystopian tales of their own, incited by technologies or social trends we have yet to conceive. By then, [today’s problems] may seem quaint, outdated.... But the part about the world being broken or intolerable, about the need to sweep away the past to make room for the new? That part never gets old.
Amen, sister—and all to the good! Well, almost all: there’s one element of the YA-dystopia phenomenon that gives me pause. And it’s not what you might think. I’m unconcerned that these books are too heavy for kids; another word for “heavy” is “important.” Yeah, Soylent Green scared the piss out of me—and two years later, I was volunteering for the US Presidential campaign of environmentalist Congressman “Mo” Udall. You do the math.
No; my sole concern lies elsewhere. Writes Springen in Newsweek, “Once upon a time, doomsday stories—War of the Worlds, Planet of the Apes—were adults-only fare.” Here, she is seriously mistaken, for prior to the YA-dystopia trend (for instance, during the Seventies, when I was a kid), those tweens and teens who were drawn to bleak future-visions devoured such “adults-only fare.” Is it progress for today’s kids to digest arguably dumbed-down harrowing futures instead of, say, Huxley and Orwell? To read Uglies rather than viewing Rod Serling’s classic Twilight Zone episode “Number 12 Looks Just Like You”—and, thus, never to know that the former shamelessly rips off the (brilliant) latter?
Progress or regress, I have to conclude that it’s A-OK. Uglies may be derivative, but it’s well written—and its anti-“looksist” message is vital, especially for tween and teen girls growing up in our body-image-obsessed culture. Plus, at least these kids are reading, right? (God bless you, Saint Rowling!) Hopefully, children raised on the Ember books will be reading Atwood, Ishiguro, Nolan, and James in no time at all. The path from The Knife of Never Letting Go to Never Let Me Go is short and direct.
As the young people say, “It’s all good.”
* * *
All fiction is a paradox: it’s the “lie” that enables the writer to tell greater truths. Or, as the old Native American expression has it, “These things never happened, but the story is true.” Speaking of which:
A boy was playing with his seven sisters when he found that he could not speak. His body sprouted long hair. His fingers and toes grew sharp claws. The boy grew bigger and bigger, and he was transformed into a gigantic bear. His sisters were terrified. The boy-bear roared, dropped down on all fours, and chased his sisters away. They climbed onto a tree stump and prayed desperately for help. The Great Spirit responded by turning the stump into a tower, placing the girls beyond the bear’s reach. The bear rose up to his full height and swiped at the tower with his sharp claws, streaking its sides all around. Finally, exhausted, the bear gave up and skulked away. The girls were safe—but they had no way to get off the tower and back down to earth. Again, they prayed ... and again, their prayer was answered. On a clear night, the seven sisters can be seen even today, for the Great Spirit drew them up into the sky, wherer they became the seven stars of the Big Dipper.
(Adapted from Courtney Milne’s version of a Kiowa legend)
A beautiful story—though not factual: the gigantic, striated, butte-like Wyoming rock formation called Mateo Tepee, or Bear Lodge—mistranslated by white settlers as “Devil’s Tower” (yes, of Close Encounters fame)—is actually the hardened magma of a millenniae-ago underground volcanic eruption, around which the earth has receded (and recedes still; thus, unlike my beloved Badlands, which are eroding, Mateo Tepee is gradually getting taller).
But that’s just science—and I use the “just” deliberately, as geology tells us little about human history, let alone the soul. For that, some rely on religion; others turn to what I call “Myth and Mystery” in the belief that gaps in our understanding are best filled via legend. There is, of course, much overlap between these two, shall we say, “roads.”