Two weeks on, and Alyssa Wong's still creeping me out. The four short stories included in my Hugo voters' packet to support her nomination for Best New Writer* (AKA the John W Campbell Award) are formidable exercises in body and transformation horror. They're several shades grimmer than I usually care to go, but she's darn good at what she does.
Hungry Daughters Of Starving Mothers, The Fisher Queen, Santos de Sampaguitas and Scarecrow (all available online at the links given) take in vampires of the id, mermaids of the Mekong delta, spirit magic in the Philippines and homophobic bullying in small town America respectively.
And as you might guess from that brief outline, Wong's protagonists and settings are generally not those offered by your typical genre yarn. Whether geographically or psychologically, we're outside white, straight America here.
I tend to find this is good for me - as product of white, straight Britain it stops me reading lazily through the prism of my own life experience and preconceptions. And in this case the pay off in the form of Wong's writing certainly makes the imaginative leap worthwhile. These stories have stuck with me in a way that many don't.
Maybe it's the short story format or the feminist (not to mention LGBT) sensibility with which Wong writes, maybe it's the underplayed brutality of the stories, but there's also something here reminscent of Tiptree. I know as I type that this might be seen as a lazy comparison to roll out, but having only recently read Tiptree it feels relevant and is is high praise indeed in Mothworld.
My only (very constructive) criticism would be that Wong is trying to compress a lot into her work - they do read like pocket novels. It could be that longer-form writing would give her characters more room to breathe and the decisions on which her stories turn more weight.
That said, this is a very strong body of work to be coming out of the gates with so early in her career. Three of these stories have won awards, with Hungry Daughters winning last year's Nebula for best short story. For this reader, all of them are comfortably better than anything in last year's Hugo short fiction categories.
So, with one more nominee on the Campbell shortlist to read, it looks like it's between Wong and Andy Weir for my first place vote. And for all Weir's deserved success, I'm leaning towards Wong as the deserved winner and better writer.
*Wong is the only nominee on the Campbell shortlist not on the Rabid Puppy slate.
Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Sunday, May 22, 2016
In the Lovecraftian mode, but not in the Lovecraftian mood: Stephen King's Revival
After sampling the early part of Stephen King's career last year with The Long Walk, I thought I'd see what he was up to these days.
As it turns out, I found Revival (2014) to be an entertaining but curious and mismatched beast of a book. King is trying his hand here at a story in the idiom of H P Lovecraft, slowly building up to full-on, drawing-back-the-cosmic-curtain, scientific horror. The kind of story which suggests that looking beyond the limits of what is knowable is a bad, bad idea, both for the protagonist and for humanity at large.
But this aim is a poor fit with King's usual strengths as a writer, particularly his investment in character, in everyday America and in the psychogeography of his home state of Maine. All of these are on lengthy display in Revival's early and middle sections. Many of the best scenes in the book come from the interaction between our narrator Jamie Morton and his friends, family and colleagues, as he meanders (like the text) through his life.
Even his friend and adversary, defrocked pastor Charlie Jacobs, is much more convincing as teacher or as grieving widower than the tragic scientist/occultist he eventually becomes.
This means that the shift in the later sections of the book to a Lovecraftian mode - although well foreshadowed - is somewhat jarring and does not bring with it a corresponding Lovecraftian mood. King's humanistic sensibilities, so well presented earlier, make it difficult for him to carry off the full-throated anti-humanism required for the exercise.
Anger at the unfairness of the world and unreasoning faith, and at the unwillingness of people to face up to this, King can do with knobs on. With spoilering you, Charlie Jacobs' so-called 'Terrible Sermon' - his resignation speech from the pulpit - is one of the best uses of dramatic monologue in modern genre fiction I can recall reading.
But this comes from a place of anthropocentric outrage in a way that Lovecraftian coldness simply doesn't. And structurally, I suspect that the accumulation of human detail King provides in the build-up detracts from the inhuman horror of the climax. Would a short, sharp novella have been a better treatment of the core material? Perhaps.
Lest you think I'm damning Revival overmuch, let me say that it's never less than readable and parts of it are very good indeed. And the fact that SK is still trying to pull off work like this around forty years into his writing career, rather than resting on his laurels, speaks highly of his continued creativity.
As it turns out, I found Revival (2014) to be an entertaining but curious and mismatched beast of a book. King is trying his hand here at a story in the idiom of H P Lovecraft, slowly building up to full-on, drawing-back-the-cosmic-curtain, scientific horror. The kind of story which suggests that looking beyond the limits of what is knowable is a bad, bad idea, both for the protagonist and for humanity at large.
But this aim is a poor fit with King's usual strengths as a writer, particularly his investment in character, in everyday America and in the psychogeography of his home state of Maine. All of these are on lengthy display in Revival's early and middle sections. Many of the best scenes in the book come from the interaction between our narrator Jamie Morton and his friends, family and colleagues, as he meanders (like the text) through his life.
Even his friend and adversary, defrocked pastor Charlie Jacobs, is much more convincing as teacher or as grieving widower than the tragic scientist/occultist he eventually becomes.
This means that the shift in the later sections of the book to a Lovecraftian mode - although well foreshadowed - is somewhat jarring and does not bring with it a corresponding Lovecraftian mood. King's humanistic sensibilities, so well presented earlier, make it difficult for him to carry off the full-throated anti-humanism required for the exercise.
Anger at the unfairness of the world and unreasoning faith, and at the unwillingness of people to face up to this, King can do with knobs on. With spoilering you, Charlie Jacobs' so-called 'Terrible Sermon' - his resignation speech from the pulpit - is one of the best uses of dramatic monologue in modern genre fiction I can recall reading.
But this comes from a place of anthropocentric outrage in a way that Lovecraftian coldness simply doesn't. And structurally, I suspect that the accumulation of human detail King provides in the build-up detracts from the inhuman horror of the climax. Would a short, sharp novella have been a better treatment of the core material? Perhaps.
Lest you think I'm damning Revival overmuch, let me say that it's never less than readable and parts of it are very good indeed. And the fact that SK is still trying to pull off work like this around forty years into his writing career, rather than resting on his laurels, speaks highly of his continued creativity.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Steampunk-zombie-urban-western, anyone? Cherie Priest's Boneshaker reviewed
It's a measure of how postmodern speculative fiction has become that Cherie Priest's Boneshaker can be tagged steampunk-zombie-urban-western without anyone batting an eyelid.
And as a general rule, that's progress. All other things being equal, I'd rather read an exercise in genre-clash throwing up new juxtapositions than yet another piece of fantasy purism.
Or any other kind of purism, for that matter.
I mean it as a compliment of high order when I describe Boneshaker as a page-turner. It creates a believable microcosm of a toxic, undead-infested late nineteenth century Seattle, through which the protagonists - one woman and her YA son - claustrophobically wander. The story does a very Chandleresque job of having a new threat come through the door every time it threatens to slow down.
Priest's various influences play nicely together, and the the book rollicks, crawls and clanks in all the right places. What's more - Boneshaker resists cliche - a strong woman protagonist without a romantic interest who refuses to be defined by either her widowhood or her motherhood is (sadly) remarkable enough that it's worth mentioning.
While importing dirgibles and infernal machines into the Old West certainly doesn't evade the "steampunk is fascism for nice people" challenge set by Lavie Tidhar, it does duck some of the class and authority issues the genre tends to struggle with.
I intend to track down the sequel, and if it ventures beyond Seattle it'll be interesting to see how it deals with issues of race and empire outside a zombie-infested microcosm.
And as a general rule, that's progress. All other things being equal, I'd rather read an exercise in genre-clash throwing up new juxtapositions than yet another piece of fantasy purism.
Or any other kind of purism, for that matter.
I mean it as a compliment of high order when I describe Boneshaker as a page-turner. It creates a believable microcosm of a toxic, undead-infested late nineteenth century Seattle, through which the protagonists - one woman and her YA son - claustrophobically wander. The story does a very Chandleresque job of having a new threat come through the door every time it threatens to slow down.
Priest's various influences play nicely together, and the the book rollicks, crawls and clanks in all the right places. What's more - Boneshaker resists cliche - a strong woman protagonist without a romantic interest who refuses to be defined by either her widowhood or her motherhood is (sadly) remarkable enough that it's worth mentioning.
While importing dirgibles and infernal machines into the Old West certainly doesn't evade the "steampunk is fascism for nice people" challenge set by Lavie Tidhar, it does duck some of the class and authority issues the genre tends to struggle with.
I intend to track down the sequel, and if it ventures beyond Seattle it'll be interesting to see how it deals with issues of race and empire outside a zombie-infested microcosm.
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