Tagged: speculative fiction

I Just Think It Will Happen, Soon

A new story came out last week, this one up at Interfictions Online: A Journal of the Interstitial Arts, produced by the Interstitial Arts Foundation. It’s an organization that’s doing intriguing critical and creative work that explores the gaps between genres and forms.

The story is called “I Just Think It Will Happen, Soon.” It began as the “other half” to one that appeared in Interzone 250 last year, called “Lilacs and Daffodils.” That story is about a synthetic consciousness with inexplicable memories of a biological childhood that obsess it, even when it knows they can’t be true. This story is about human beings who seem to share the same synthetic memories, and are both burdened and entranced by them.

They don’t need to be read together, but I like to remember their connection.

There’s a lot of other great work in the Interfictions 6. The formal flexibility of Debbie Urbanski’s “A Primer on Separation”  and the historical texture of Amy Parker’s “Kingdom by the Sea” stood out for me, but I’m also pleased to see some experimental criticism. And “Old Ghosts” by Nneoma Ike-Njoku is an aboslute pleasure to read out loud.

 

“I Just Think It Will Happen, Soon” was written with the support of a grant from the Ontario Arts Council.

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Sometimes There Are Even Readers

Lackington’s published a story of mine in their last issue. It’s called “The Glad Hosts” and is one of several stories and images Ranylt Richildis selected to explore “Skins” as a theme. It is, according to readers, a piece of parasite body-horror.

I say “according to readers” because while I wrote the story because I’m curious about parasites, I did not consider it body horror until I saw the responses. Yes, it describes the transformation of a woman’s bodies in multiple ways, but horror?

After the issue went live, a friend of mine posted a link to a metafilter discussion which included a series of insightful and amusing responses that indicated yes, I had written a horror story while I thought I was writing a story about transformation and distance and family.

(I particularly liked this one: “Are there parasites around that will remove this story from my brain because it was horrifying?” from jeather)

Since then other people have responded in equally interesting ways. At Marooned Off Vesta there’s an extensive and considered discussion about free indirect narration and what it does to storytelling, as well as some good points about the challenges of authorial self-consciousness. Charlotte Ashley over at Apex makes some interesting observations about what the story says about subjectivity. There are similar points over at Susan Hated Literature, which suggest it’s a story about the limits of such subjectivity, and where (exactly) we locate the self.

This is all less about “The Glad Hosts” than it is a reminder to me that while my writing life is spent mostly alone doing work that is invisible and unread, there are actually people out there who might catch a story at the right moment and read it and respond. This makes me very happy because it makes me part of a conversation. And it leaves me feeling lucky, too, that Lackington’s exists as a place for us to meet up.

This Blog Fell Asleep in Toronto and Woke Up in Windsor

So. After a slightly chaotic and blog-free summer, I thought I’d update with two things.  First, we moved to Windsor for some teaching work.  Second, I’ve added a page to keep track of forthcoming stuff.  I feel this may be a little optimistic, considering I only have a couple of short stories coming out.  That’s not actually a lot to keep track of.

I want to write about Windsor.  Or, to be more accurate, I want to write about staring across the river at the Detroit Skyline, which leads to a lot of contemplation, especially regarding those disaster-pornish photographs of decaying public buildings that flood instagram and facebook. In pop culture Detroit seems to exist exclusively as a dreadful-but-fascinating warning, a place for post-Fordist disaster tourism, rather than an actual community.  Creepy.  It’s shockingly beautiful from across the water, especially at sunset.

 As for the stories—I seem to have officially crossed some genre-line into the land of awesome known as contemporary Speculative Fiction, which was something I should have done a while ago, since Angela Carter, and Ursula K. LeGuin, and John Wyndham have always been important to me.  One of the stories is about an AI suffering from debilitating nostalgia, and the other is about a cyborg.  Fun!