A few weeks ago I made a very lame Australian political joke about steampunk submarines. It’s not worth repeating. But it reminded me about how hopeful I was just over a decade ago regarding steampunk exploding onto the fiction scene. It never happened.
And I started thinking about why not, and timing, and how times of crisis change our fiction consumption, and how mythology is more powerful than history.
Which led me to a new prediction.
::insert drum roll::
Retropunk.
Sadly, I think the chance of steampunk becoming more than a niche subgenre has passed. However, retropunk, which reimagines the past and the future, while critiquing the present, and without being limited to steam engines and Queen Victoria being all “we are not amused”, is really well-positioned to claim attention.
Whatever world we wish we had, retropunk can inhabit it. Retropunk can push us forward to a future of delirious disintegration or of flourishing space colonies. It can be anything, but whatever it is will be framed by nostalgia. That nostalgia provides the stepping stones, ones that steampunk lacked, to bring the popular imagination along with it.
[If you’re curious about my steampunk adventures, I recommend The Icarus Plot for a traditional London setting and Clockwork Gold for an Australian version.]
First, the bad news. I’ve pushed back the release of Ghosts Cry to July 30. It’s a Thursday. I’ve given up trying to avoid launching during a crisis, and that’s all I’m saying about this disruptive political year. (Other than to bemoan, again, how hard it is to attract new readers to a series set in a parliament house when everyone is increasingly allergic to politicians, who famously infest…ahem…serve with honor and dedication in parliament houses. Sigh).
Second, the idea of reading journeys that I mentioned a few weeks ago is definitely something I want to do. They would make a nice Christmas present: books to read before reading a particular book of mine; books to read after. It’ll be a challenging project, but hopefully fun.
Thirdly, I’ve been thinking about the value of fiction in what I can only consider “interesting times” (a la the ancient curse “may you live in interesting times”). I haven’t come up with anything worth writing a whole post about—yet. But I did want to mention two ideas I’m musing on.
Open a book. Open a door. Going out of yourself and your world to discover your truth in fiction. In a world that can feel very oppressive, fiction is a safe space in which to be vulnerable and to explore.
Speculative fiction in an age of derivative or scripted AI creations faces new challenges. AI can predict trends, cobble together plots (tropes and target audiences/niche subgenres), and hit the market with a full advertising package. I imagine this will happen more and more, and be done not only by AI enthusiasts, but by independent authors and by traditional publishing houses. I fear it will degrade and devalue the reading experience, and it is vital that authors write books with heart (sharing themselves, respecting others, discerning meaning, and communicating hope) and that readers continue searching for such books and sharing them with other readers.
A while ago now I posted about scammers using AI to target authors; i.e. give us money to edit, market, review your book, to participate in a non-existent conference, to be interviewed or featured on a podcast, and the list goes on. The scammers claim to be famous authors or that other authors are using their services. They’re also targeting book reviewers. I’ve heard some people suggest that authors are a soft target and that having refined their tactics on us, the scammers will go after other professionals. I think they’ll also go after hobbyists because that’s where we’re, perhaps, less critical and more likely to spend money to feel good about ourselves and our work.
Anyways, this is just to say be very, very careful of anyone contacting you whom you don’t know. It’s also to explain why I’m very wary and often don’t respond to a private message. If you’ve messaged me and haven’t heard back, please comment on a public post. You don’t have to say anything important, just let me know that you’ll be sending me a message.
I hate how AI-empowered scammers have further eroded trust and communication. By being as transparent as possible about the problem, I hope our community here continues to grow. It’s why I have comments set to manual approval. I cannot tell you how much it annoys me that we can’t comment and reply to each other in real time, but keeping this space safe is the priority.
(If you’d like more information, the Writer Beware site run by Victoria Strauss is always to be trusted).
A month ago the American Public Libraries Association held its annual conference. I haven’t read any reports on it. (If you know of any good write-ups, please share). But I was very much taken by their promotional material for the conference. On their website they encouraged attendees to consider structuring the conference experience via sample journeys, “…designed to help you get oriented, spark ideas, and consider the range of possibilities. … Think of these journeys as a starting point, not a rigid script.” Such sample journeys included Community Engagement, Small and Rural Librarians, and Youth and Family Champions.
Which started me thinking, do we have reading journeys?
Would it be interesting or appalling for an author to suggest a book (or selection of books) to be read before and after their own book? The books suggested before and after the author’s book could provide different journeys by emphasizing different aspects of the central book.
I’m curious if anyone is doing this, if it’s a gut-check “no” for you when you read of the idea, or if I’ve been living under a rock and there’s an app for it. (There’s always an app ::insert long-suffering, cynical sigh:: )
Myths are a vital part of a society’s glue. They help define who we are and who we are not, where we came from, and maybe where we’re going.
I’m Australian, but not First Nations. I grew up with a very limited understanding of the stories, the myths, that created our land for thousands of years. The Rainbow Serpent might have been my first introduction to the Dreaming.
Storytellers retell old stories. Sometimes they’re myths or support myths. Sometimes they’re family-bonding memories.
Little children often force us to re-read the same book every night because there is comfort in familiar stories. They are a shelter.
Sometimes I wonder if one of the most radical acts of defiance is to retell old stories, holding steady to their truth while the world is in tumult.
The stories we tell reveal our values and define who we become.
Storytellers are constantly absorbing impressions: the sights, sounds, smells, and vibe of the world. What is becomes what could be. Meaning is extracted and communicated.
But the problem with being a sponge is that you soak up a lot of negativity.
Australia has a classic anti-smoking ad where a sponge is squeezed to show the tar from smoking cigarettes dropping disgustingly into a beaker.
For some storytellers, that tar (all the heartbreak and suffering in the world) is squeezed out to become a bleak portrayal of survival and resistance. Sometimes that very bleakness becomes a rallying cry.
But for me, I don’t want to pass on the negativity. It stops with me. The stories I tell are about good people inhabiting interesting, hopeful worlds. Conflict is part of life, but it can be positive not simply destructive. My stories push back against the negativity I’ve absorbed.
The lungs as sponges metaphor is useful because one of the cures for the world’s negativity is to breathe the fresh air of joy. So, I search out stories of hope and resilience: the scientists assembling building blocks of knowledge to solve our problems; communities caring for each other; cute animal pictures, all the wonder that exists beyond the negativity and which will outlast it and prevail.
A storyteller is a bridge between the past and the future. In a sense the present is unknowable. We experience it, but we understand it as the past or as the future.
I know you’re saying, “How can we understand the present as the future?”
Take a moment to think about it. When we were living in what is now the past, what is now the present was a possible future.
Pause with that thought while neuroscience comes rushing in to explain why this is important.
Our expectations shape our perceptions.
Therefore, what we believed in the past (creating our expectations) shapes what we believe we’ll experience in the future, and because expectations are so powerful that they literally shape our perception, the present moment is defined (to some degree) by what our past self expected of the future.
Have I muddled you? Do you think I need more coffee and a brisk walk in the fresh air? (Yes, yes, I do).
A storyteller takes the past and the future and provides a meaningful link between them. That bridge is the present moment that we consistently experience, but seldom occupy. We are journeying in a tension between the past (learning, regretting) and the future (anticipating, planning). A strong story reduces the friction of the journey, either because the truth of the story removes any conflict between our expectations and experience, or because the emotional arousal of the story overrides the conflict and our brains pour more energy into shaping our perception to match the story.
We are each our own storyteller, but our stories can be influenced by determined external storytellers. People who tell us we’re weak can train us to tell ourselves the same story. Or perhaps they’ll tell us that we’re trapped, and then, we’ll tell ourselves that we’ll never scale our metaphorical walls—and all the time, we never see the open door. Storytellers that give us strength and compassion, connection and hope are the external storytellers we should listen to and wrap into our personal story. Our journeys aren’t easy, but the bridge between the past and the future can be stronger and stranger than we currently imagine.
In the last few months corporations and government agencies have been advertising for storytellers. The new job title might sound as if they hope to recruit the Brothers Grimm, but my take on this is that they’re actually after someone who can clarify the organization’s value and purpose, and the journey the customer/citizen will go on with them. Eve Macdonald suggests that what they actually need is an editor.
The rise of the corporate storyteller is part of the convulsions of AI integration. The bulk of the deliverables of a marketing campaign can be produced by AI (or so its proponents promise). This means a hollowing out of marketing agencies and departments. Graphic design, statistical analysis, social media moderation, all of it is being buffeted by claims that AI can do it—not necessarily better—but cheaper, and perhaps, faster and more personalized. Once the system is in place, the AI agent can handle it. ::insert doubtful hum::
But for the system to work, and for corporate leadership to believe in it and fund it, there must be clarity about what it will deliver. In short, what consistent, coherent story must it tell? How will the organization know that the AI agent is staying on message? And when the environment changes, how must the story change?
Corporations and government agencies are really hoping to employ spiders. These are rare people who consume vast amounts of information and connection, and can filter it for meaning and a meaningful response. Sitting at the center of a web of incoming and outgoing information they influence perception of the organization internally as well as externally. The CEO is the public face, the schmoozer, and the one who makes decisions (depending on how active the board/government minister is). The spider, or storyteller, is the one who ensures the clarity of vision and consistency of message that the CEO sells.
Guess what? As an indie author, spider is now another hat for me to wear. It’s actually useful because it validates efforts I already undertake: studying the market, anticipating social trends, keeping up with new technology and publishing platforms, and communicating my own perspective on these things.
To be honest, I’m not a very good spider. If I was then I’d have a one sentence answer to the question: why does anyone need my books?
But I’m working on that puzzle. Why, in your seventy years of life (if we accept the biblical three score years and ten for the sake of rhetorical flair), would you invest hours of it to journeying with my characters and exploring my imaginary worlds?
Perhaps the corporate world is right and the answer is that a storyteller creates a solid path forward, out of the confusion that is reality. A good storyteller provides hope.
“Empty courtesy” is an old-fashioned term for an act of routine politeness, which is devoid of emotional investment. As the opposite of rudeness, it could be defined as caring. It’s not, though. It is, instead, a means of moving smoothly through the world. It could be as simple as a person saying, “I’m sorry”, when they’re not and they have no intention of altering their (mis)behavior.
In many circumstances, empty courtesy is sufficient to sustain superficial relationships and business and social dealings.
However, for people who want genuine relationships and genuine change, empty courtesy is a frustrating brick wall. They bounce off it, and, if they’re smart, they’ll go and look elsewhere to have their needs met.
AI-generated communications are the equivalent of empty courtesy. They meet the social requirements, but without engaging at a deeper level. For many people that is exactly what they want. I find this shocking, but I’m growing to accept that the emotional dullness of AI meets, even satisfies, many people’s fear of others and of change.
For those who want a deeper connection, I think we need to coin a term that signals that there is a person at the other end of a communication or creative endeavor who is also seeking connection. People are trying out human, genuine, non-AI, and other terms. I think the buzzword of a few years ago, authenticity, has fallen by the wayside.
Artisan became the descriptor for specialty or craft, rather than mass-produced, items.
I’m not keen on calling myself an artisanal (as in non-AI) author, but maybe “guilded” as in belonging to the collective or community that is authors and readers. I don’t think that’s quite the term either, but I am keen to see how we express this opposite of empty courtesy in the creative arts and communication more broadly.
Enemies to lovers is a popular trope in romance and all its spin-offs, most notably romantasy. Who doesn’t enjoy a rival romance? But I think an underdeveloped aspect of it will be drawn out over the next few years, that of the vengeance or punishment element of a nemesis. People want retribution stories as well as a redemption arc.
So, we’ll have nemeses to lovers as a growing trope with the initial conflict, the bitter frustration, the resentment of their own feelings, and then, the decision to choose mercy and hope and move forward.
Justice is a complicated subject. Fiction has a powerful role to play in providing ways of seeing the world and emotional frameworks for processing it.
Nemeses to lovers is a trope that doesn’t require us to defeat our enemies with violence. I’m eagerly anticipating how authors will find a path from fury and grief to healing, hope, and love.
