Continue reading »]]> Find the original post here. 

About the author

‘Anon’ hails from a far and distant land, but has found a cozy spot in the English-speaking SFF community. ‘Anon’ enjoys everything dark and weird in every medium possible. Occasional reviewer and a writer of SFF fiction, ‘Anon’ currently dips toes in the world of editing and personal branding and marketing.

Depression in a Place Where Depression Is Not a Thing

I’m probably the poster child for the argument of fiction as an escape (I find it quite funny, considering your don’t know who I am). I fell in love with fiction, because I wanted to escape my life. My teenage years brought almost nothing worthwhile for me. I have been teased and ignored at school, then oppressed at home.

In all honesty, this is not something uncommon. I am painting a familiar picture, but the main difference is that I have been living with an acute depression, since my early teens and I’ve lived with it in a culture, where depression is not a thing, because my society has chosen for it to remain invisible.

Invisibility is a spell, which we cast every day. Honestly, in my country, you, as an individual, remain invisible, until you become something more or something else. Something that can’t be ignored and then you suffer for it. This is why I turned to fiction and I have found people, who don’t quite fit in their societies based on their scars, their limps and pieces missing.

Disability creates a counterpoint to the vantage point of the ‘perfect’ protagonists, whose one main fault has been their heritage (of course, I’m referring to the clichéd tropes, which more or less now have been pushed to the background), but otherwise possess a special power, the charm and the looks to get their ‘perfect’ happy conclusion.

I have found disability (even in villains) and the otherness to be far more interesting, though I have read about physical disability in my reading. Save for Nicodemus from Blake Charlton’s series, I haven’t met a character, who suffers from our modern conditions. Perhaps, there is a character suffering from depression somewhere in the speculative fiction spectrum, but I have yet to read it.

Depression in itself is unpredictable. It hits hard. It hits out of the blue. It turns the person into someone else completely. I doubt depression would be easy to transfer into fiction, because it would mean for the author to break every convention of proper character development and if an author can’t say outright what the character’s problem is, especially in a world, where this condition is not a thing, yet, the reader is confused.

I live in a community culture, where mental disorders are not a reality. You’re either sane or you’re not. If you know how to spell and speak, not stab random people or drool, then you are sane. Stop whining, stop asking for attention and get back to work. What is this bullshit? Are you trying to be special, take the easy way out?

ADHD, OCD, bi-polar disorder and depression speak nothing to the majority of the people here. Depression, in my country’s vernacular, means ‘having the blues’. It’s not the crippling condition that forces you to hate yourself and everything you do or say.

No, depression is that lazy, dull state you are in, when it rains and maybe you feel a wee bit sad. It certainly doesn’t impair your judgment, nor does it make seeing your reflection one of the positively worst experiences you will have to do in your day. I’m sure that more than one or two people will relate to me, because depression is common. You’ve probably sought one or two professional opinions. You have been diagnosed. You have received professional help in terms of sessions, ideas for exercises or when necessary, medication.

To have depression in a place, where depression isn’t a thing, amounts to a whole different experience. I’ve not been officially diagnosed for one, because then my family doctor would alert my family that I have seen a psychologist and once your family thinks you are crazy, it’s a nightmare ride. I have no professional to help me, because doctors’ mistakes, miss-diagnosis and clinical negligence are the norm. I take no medication, so when I go through a depressive period, I lose momentum at school, at work and at home. No one knows though, so I have to smile and pretend I don’t want to fall on the floor.

It’s only me, the Internet, a close friend and some contacts abroad, who understand the battle I have in me, because their culture recognizes depression. When society doesn’t understand or try to distinguish one condition from another, it tends to generalize, lump everything together and stamp it with a large social stigmata, which makes existing all the more difficult. Who’s to say I’m not bi-polar or have a dash of OCD in there? What are the things I have to work on to surpass my anxieties or assume control?

It doesn’t matter to other people, though. They will judge, they will discriminate and this one of the reasons I’ve decided to keep my identity a secret. Finding professional realization in a country like mine is complicated. Companies want the normal, the uncomplicated and who wants to deal with a person suffering from a mental condition.

This is how life is for people with depression in a place, where depression is not a thing. As I read this, I know my words sound dramatic, even melodramatic, but that’s depression for you. It amplifies everything beyond reason, beyond proportion. I know I’m fighting this. I know I am loved, but damn, there are days, when I feel less than nothing.

Continue reading »]]> (This is posted exactly one week after my surgery)

I usually don’t like the idea of writing things for my Special Needs in Strange Worlds events, but I woke up this morning staring down the barrel of surgery number ten and I guess it’s making me a bit nostalgic.

I don’t think Special Needs in Strange Worlds is about disabilities – at least, not to me. To me, Special Needs in Strange Worlds is about heroes. The real heroes. The heroes that get overlooked in daily life and literature. Special Needs in Strange Worlds is about honoring our trials, and the strengths those trials bring us.

As I just mentioned, I’m having surgery number ten this morning. In fact, if I don’t write this out soon, it won’t get written before I get sliced and diced. Why might I be having another surgery, you may be asking? Because my daughter is twenty-one months old, and she likes to run and I’m sick of telling her, “No, baby, don’t do that. Mommy can’t move like that.” Maybe that’s a small thing to the rest of you, but to me every time I say that, it makes me feel like less of a mother.

I’m thirty years old, and this surgery is my last ditch effort to ever feel my right leg again. It’s my last try to ever be able to walk at a normal pace, or without a cane or some form of assistance. It’s my last chance to live a pain free life. Maybe that’s not a big deal, but to me it’s huge. I’m thirty, and I’ve already beat cancer, I can beat this, too.

At least I hope.

The thing is, it’s not our abilities that make us heroes, and it’s not the abilities of characters in books that make them heroes. I don’t relate to the urban fantasy woman who can leap over buildings in single bounds and attract every man in a ten mile radius by her ravishing good looks. In fact, at this point in my life, after cancer, after signing up for my tenth surgery and saying, “I just beat cancer, haven’t I been through enough?” for about a day complete with tears streaming down my cheeks, characters like that make my stomach churn.

They are fun. They are common, but they aren’t real.

We all have our own stories. We go through what we go through for love. Whether it’s love of your family, kids, friends or life itself, we go through our trials and adversaries because of love and it’s love that defines us. It’s love that pulls us through, supports us, wipes our tears, gives us the will to try again so I can run with my twenty-one month old like a mother should. It’s love that makes a five day hospital stay worth it and love that fills those cancer hospitals all over the nation with patients that have nothing but hope and families to cling to. It’s love that makes people heroes, not looks or abilities, or special qualities.

It’s the trials, the errors, the mistakes and pitfalls, the things that are quirky and wrong that make us interesting. It’s love, and the strength love gives us to pull through the hard times, no matter how changed they make us, that creates heroes.

Maybe I’ll be able to run with my daughter after this surgery. Maybe I’ll walk with a cane for the rest of my life, but no matter how it ends up, it’s love that’s pulled me through. Now that I’m staring the possibility of a “legally disabled” life in the face, I’m realizing that I might not be disabled at all. In fact, the things that limit me are the things that make me interesting and it’s the same way with books.

The things that limit characters are the things I love about them. Those are the very things that make the book memorable,  the story unique, the settings, world building and trials so easy to relate to. I don’t know if any author actually sits down and thinks, “I’m going to write a special needs character into this chapter,” or not. I know that in my various forays into writing, I’ve never done so, it’s just happened. Why? Because no one is perfect. No one. We are all so incredibly unique and we’ve all learned to work with, and despite our unique qualities.

We do that because of love. We love living, loving, laughing and learning. We read because our passion for literature can only be satiated by that next book we run across. Characters in books aren’t limited, but they are driven and enflamed. They can get things done just as well as anyone else which means they aren’t “special needs” at all, but passionate and realistic. That’s life and it’s love that stokes that fire.

Along with physical discomforts come emotional ones, and those are often overlooked, for whatever reason. We tend to live in a society where it’s easier to talk about someone losing an arm rather than all the emotional upheaval that lost arm will cost that person. For example, I spent over two years fighting cancer, and learning that it has spread (twice) before I was clear. Cancer, while not physically disabling, mentally is so. I have some deep scars that and emotional wounds that haven’t healed, and I wonder if they ever truly will. This doesn’t make me a special case. In fact, anyone who has to work around what is perceived as a “limitation” has emotional backlash from said limitation. It’s this emotional backlash which seems to define us, or ruin us. Is can be disabling  but the scars I wear on my soul are hard won and just add to my ever present drive to continue on. No matter what I face. I’m not physically or emotionally limited. All this says is to say that, should someone tell my story, it would probably be an interesting one and what got me through was what this post is all about: love.

My life has certainly been filled with its ups and downs, but I’ve learned to deal with more than I ever thought I’ve needed to. I always tell myself, “If I beat cancer by thirty, I can do damn near anything.” I might have to do it a little differently than you, but I can do it. Why? Because I love my life and my family too much not to.

And that’s what makes the characters I love in the books I never forget so memorable. They have a love, drive and passion to push through those hard times, to make it through to the end despite whatever has waylaid them. They have the love and ambition to define their lives the way they choose, no matter their “limitations” and their inner scars are just as interesting and hard won as their outer ones.

This isn’t about Special Needs in Strange Worlds.

It’s about love.

Continue reading »]]> About the Author

Raised on a diet of Heavy Metal and bad intentions, Tim Marquitz has always been interested in writing, but it wasn’t until about 1995 the urge became a compulsion. However, it would be many years later before the ability matched the interest. Fortunately, the two have reconciled…mostly.

Writing a mix of the dark perverse, the horrific, and the tragic, tinged with sarcasm and biting humor, he looks to leave a gaping wound in the minds of his readers like his inspirations: Clive Barker, Jim Butcher, and Stephen King.

A former grave digger, bouncer, and dedicated metalhead, Tim is a huge fan of Mixed Martial Arts, and fighting in general.

He lives in Texas with his beautiful wife and daughter.

You can learn more about Tim, and various ways to contact and follow him, on his website.

The Uncomfortable Reality of Fiction

I’ve very little experience with special needs in fiction or in real life. While my dominant hand was injured years back and is technically crippled to a small degree, and has sufficiently altered my approach to daily function, it’s not what anyone would consider a true disability. It’s frustrating and occasionally painful and often inconvenient, but it does little to limit the quality of my life.

However, as minor as my injury is in the grand scheme of things, it has allowed me the slightest sampling of what so many people face day in and day out and to far greater extremes. I can only imagine what it’s like to be forced to survive every day, a person’s own body or mind conspiring against the basic functions most of us take for granted. In fact, I’m not even sure I can imagine it, which I suspect is why I’ve excluded it from my fiction, however unconsciously that decision has been.

Looking at it now, it’s a glaring exemption of a part of society I had even realized I’d exempted from my work while diligently including others. Sadly, I believe that’s the true burden of the special needs, to be hidden in plain sight, little thought given to their plight outside of the dedicated and compassionate few who work with them on a daily basis, made to experience true disability as close as anyone can and yet still be outside the affected group.

Given the novels I’ve read over the years, it’s clear I’m not the only writer to have dropped the ball on this part of our society. And while I don’t believe this is intentional on any of their parts, the story needs often far outweighing the reality aspect of life, it’s telling to note how rare such instances are in my own reading experience.

Ultimately, while I don’t feel it’s necessary for an author to include a special needs person in their fiction simply to do so, I do believe it’s an underappreciated minority whose story is just as compelling, if not more so, than many of the hale and whole protagonists that populate the world of fiction. And since conflict and challenges are such an integral part of storytelling, who better to exemplify the battle against adversity than those who have to deal with it every moment of their lives?

Continue reading »]]> About the Book

Melinda Soto, aged sixty-four, vacationing in Mexico, is murdered by a fellow American tourist.

Back in her hometown of Reno, Nevada, she leaves behind her adopted son, Jeremy, whom she rescued from war-torn Guatamala when he was a toddler—just one of her many causes over the years. And she leaves behind a circle of friends: Veronique, the academic stuck in a teaching job from which she can’t retire; Rosemary, who’s losing her husband to Alzheimer’s and who’s trying to lose herself in volunteer work; Henrietta, the priest at Rosemary’s and Melinda’s church.

Jeremy already had a fraught relationship with his charismatic mother and the people in her orbit. Now her death is tearing him apart, and he can barely stand the rituals of remembrance that ensue among his mother’s friends. Then the police reveal who killed Melinda: a Seattle teenager who flew home to his parents and drowned himself just days later.

It’s too much. Jeremy’s not the only one who can’t deal. Friendships fray. But the unexpected happens: an invitation to them all, from the murderer’s mother, to come to Seattle for his memorial. It’s ridiculous. And yet, somehow, each of them begins to see in it a chance to heal. Aided, in peculiar ways, by Jeremy’s years-long obsession with the comic-book hero Comrade Cosmos, and the immense cult of online commentary it’s spawned.

Shot through with feeling and inventiveness, this is a novel of the odd paths that lead to home

336 page (hardcover)
Published on May 14, 2013
Published by Tor
Author’s webpage

This book was provided for me to review by the publisher.

You can purchase a copy of this book by clicking on the following links: Mending the Moon, Mending the Moon – Kindle

—–

Mending the Moon wowed me on first glance because of the cover alone. It’s simple, somber and artistic. It automatically drew me. It wasn’t busy, but instead it has an atmosphere about it that sets the stage for the atmosphere of the book itself. As cover art goes, this one is a slam-dunk. Busy isn’t always better, and Mending the Moon proves that with its attractive simplicity.

Mending the Moon isn’t what you expect. In fact, when you first start reading this book you might wonder why Tor published it. It takes a while to realize if there’s any SFF elements in the book at all, and the elements that are there are rather subtle and toe the SFF line. This is actually rather a benefit for the book itself, as I’d have no problem lending it to my mother (who struggles with SFF and anything to do with it) and I know she’d read it and enjoy it. Sometimes books that toe the genre lines are good for that. It allows books like Mending the Moon to appeal to a wider, more varied audience.

Mending the Moon is a somber story dealing with murder, suicide and the effects both acts have on all parties involved. It’s not a happy tale. There is a somewhat golden, hopeful ending, but it’s after a long emotional struggle. The book itself is written in a truly interesting way. First the reader is introduced to one character and his family and friends. Then the reader is introduced to another character and her family. Then, suddenly, there’s a chapter about a bunch of computer science majors who created a superhero comic book-verse. The chapters continue in this vein, and it might take a little while for the reader to understand that the comic book chapters aren’t just thrown in for the hell of it, but they are thrown in to mirror the real-life stories that are tearing two families apart. These comic book chapters are a genius way for readers to connect with a very raw storyline in a way that might not emotionally overtax you.

The interesting thing about Mending the Moon is that everyone, on the surface, is falling apart. Relationships fray, even before the murder, relationships and friendships aren’t what they could be. Then the murder/suicide happens and things get even more tense and frayed. These are real life situations that are usually so hard and uncomfortable to talk about, people usually don’t do so. It takes a brave author not only to talk about relationships in the face of life altering circumstances, but talk about them so candidly, honestly and believably and with such incredible kindness. Hats off to Susan Palwick for braving territory many people (including myself) would be far to afraid to venture into.

Mending the Moon is told on a number of levels. There’s the human level where readers will associate with the characters – the son, wives and friends. Then there’s the academic level, where almost every character is somehow tied to education somehow and it shows in the plot. The plot is smart, and while the story the that surrounds the characters is interesting, it’s truly a plot that has quite a bit of depth and symbolism, from an evergreen tree given to Jeremy at his mother’s service, to Veronique, a professor looking to retire and the books she has her students read. Every part of this story is put there for a reason, and that, coupled with the interesting comic book aspect really makes this book shine.

When it’s said and done, Mending the Moon isn’t a book you read when you want to laugh and have an easy mental vacation. This is a book that makes you think about family and relationships and exactly how these two things work together to create our own little realities. Mending the Moon is a story told on multiple levels. It’s deep, somber, raw and incredibly emotional. This is one of those books that sticks with you long after you finish reading it, and it’ll have you analyzing the people in your life and what they mean to you. This is a story about bonds of family and friendship, and even a bit of hope in a hopeless situation. Plus, it’s light on the fantasy, which makes it appeal to a wider audience. Basically, Mending the Moon isn’t what you’d expect, and despite that (or perhaps because of it) it’s one of the most emotionally charged, unique and well written books I’ve read in a while.

5/5 stars

Continue reading »]]> You can find the original post here.

Continue reading »]]> About the Book

Reality Bites

Fortitude Scott’s life is a mess. A degree in film theory has left him with zero marketable skills, his job revolves around pouring coffee, his roommate hasn’t paid rent in four months, and he’s also a vampire. Well, sort of. He’s still mostly human.

But when a new vampire comes into his family’s territory and young girls start going missing, Fort can’t ignore his heritage anymore. His mother and his older, stronger siblings think he’s crazy for wanting to get involved. So it’s up to Fort to take action, with the assistance of Suzume Hollis, a dangerous and sexy shape-shifter. Fort is determined to find a way to outsmart the deadly vamp, even if he isn’t quite sure how.

But without having matured into full vampirehood and with Suzume ready to split if things get too risky, Fort’s rescue mission might just kill him.…

320 pages (paperback)
Published on May 7, 2013
Published by Roc
Author’s webpage

This book was sent for me to review by the publisher.

You can purchase a copy of this book by clicking on the following links: Generation V, Generation V – Kindle

—–

Every few weeks I complain about how I’m sick to death of vampires. I’m just sick of them. I’m sick of hearing about them, thinking about them, reading about them. I’m just done. Then, for some reason or another, I end up reading a vampire book. This leads me to believe that, despite all my bravado and gruff talk, I have some sort of a “thing” for vampires that I’d prefer not to admit to. Or something.

Then, occasionally, I run across a book dealing with vampires that doesn’t drive me crazy. It’s not full of mindless tropes and typical “mysterious sexy guy” plot lines. It’s a vampire book with flair. Though this is rare, when it happens, it tends to stick with me. I like these books. I like it when authors dare to do vampires different. I like it even more when these differences make vampires even more believable.

Enter: Generation V

Generation V’s primary character is Fortitude Scott, with a pretty useless degree in film history. Fort himself is more human than vampire, and his rather tense relationship with his family makes him incredibly eager to hold onto as much of his humanity as he possibly can. Once readers are introduced to his (much) older sister and brother, they will likely sympathize with Fort’s desire to stay human and avoid transition.

What makes Generation V stand out from the myriad of other urban fantasy books that discuss the hardships of vampires stuck in a human world is the believability behind it all. Vampires aren’t really created in the sense that most think of, they are born and the process of being born is rather intricate. Brennan isn’t afraid to tell the readers how vampires are born/created and though it can be a little intricate and confusing, it’s a completely unique take on a very tired trope. It’s one of many of the small details that makes Generation V stand out from its urban fantasy peers.

As you’d expect, chaos erupts and Fort, instead of randomly finding himself in the middle of a rather mysterious situation, actually inserts himself into the middle of it despite the wishes of his family. Girls go missing in his mother’s territory, and while his family doesn’t seem to care, Fort is human enough to worry, wonder, and want to bring an end to it. At this point we are introduced to a rather attractive shape shifter. Sexy shape shifters aren’t new, and in an urban fantasy, you really have to expect some tropes. Where Brennan makes the “sexy shape shifter” a bit different is her Japanese lore and heritage that backs her.

Again I must say, it’s the details, background, history that make Generation V pop in a genre that is just exhausted.

While a lot of this novel is a mystery and there is some action thrown in for good measure, there’s also a lot of personal growth. Generation V is also a coming-of-age tale. Fortitude does have a tendency to whine quite a bit. Hey, it’s not my fault he chose to get a pointless degree, but it’s something I ended up reading about ad nauseum. That being said, Fort himself grows from a rather confused, disgruntled young man who really isn’t sure where he fits in the grand scheme of the world. By the end of the book, despite the fact that he still gripes a bit, he is much more confidant and seems like an adult who knows exactly who he is and what he plans to get out of life. It’s a great change to see, and it is a gradual evolution that happens as the plot unfolds.

There is a little bit of romantic tension in the plot, but it’s not overpowering. Instead, the plot is really more focused on the mystery of the disappearing women and Fortitude’s own personal growth and evolution. In my estimation, Brennan should be proud. The author has managed to take an urban fantasy book filled with vampires and shifters, two exhausted tropes, and made it interesting, human and relatable. Generation V isn’t your typical urban fantasy, and that’s what makes it so wonderful. It’s different, unique and fresh.

4/5 stars

Continue reading »]]> About the Author

Yo! I’m Zack, a 33-year-old, quarter-Hungarian, typically shaven-headed male. I’ve lived in Northern Arizona, where the weather is nice and the political decisions are horrifying, since 1990, with occasional forays into the wetter and colder world.

My favorite activities include: listening to 70s-00s punk and post-punk music, cooking and then eating delicious and often unhealthy foods, riding human-powered vehicles of all varieties (though hardly well), talking and/or arguing about religion, watching sitcoms, night-swimming, and jumping on and off stuff.

During my depressingly rare periods of creative productivity, I write science fiction and fantasy. No Return, my first novel, came out in March of 2013 from Night Shade Books. My short stories have appeared in a variety of places, including Asimov’s Science Fiction, Crossed Genres, and Escape Pod.

You can find out more about the author on his website, as well as various ways to stalk him online.

——

“Disability is not a brave struggle or ‘courage in the face of adversity.’ Disability is an art. It’s an ingenious way to live.”

- Neil Marcus

I won’t be shy about it:

The people I admire most in life are those who have to put forth more effort for a similar result. Why? Because effort makes a person wise. It makes a person strong. Knowing the odds (physical, mental, societal) against you and refusing to sell yourself short — that is an admirable mindset, possibly the most admirable mindset.

No, I’m not overly impressed if you have every advantage the world could give you, because most of the people I know who are in that position are uninteresting as hell. They usually lack a sense of humor, because they don’t understand what makes people tick. Not knowing what makes people tick, they often lack compassion.

Of course, I don’t know what it’s like to think of myself as disabled — and to have others label me disabled — and yet I’d like to think that two decades of Obsessive Compulsive-related mental illness has taught me something about what it means to exist under the weight of abnormality. It’s made me question whether or not there even is a normal, but more than that it’s caused me to doubt that normal is a good thing to shoot for.

No, scratch that doubt.

Normal is objectively not a good thing.

Disability, different ability, knowing what you lack — every thing that inspires us to live ingeniously — is something we should all be grateful for. Now, I’m not saying that, given a choice, any of us would choose to be unable to walk, or solve a math problem any 9 out of 10 people could solve, or, hell, listen to the symphony, but…

The world benefits from the perspectives of individuals forced to take the unconventional approach. More than this (so, so, so much more than this), these individuals, often in the face of horrible prejudice, become creatures of rare insight — the kind of insight that approaches the alien to those of us who’ve never had occasion to view the world through such a unique lens.

There is immense value in disability. There is beauty that we should all learn to see.

Of course, it’s easy for me to say this, being abled in a way that resembles normal to the majority of human beings. I can act wise and sympathetic all day, but I don’t really know the challenges on a gut level. I’d crack, bust out in big alligator tears, to experience the pain — physical and emotional — that attends intense disability (whatever we decide that means). I won’t pretend I’m strong in that way, for I’ve never had an occasion to be strong in that way.

But I have eyes, goddammit.

And if I didn’t have eyes, I’d have ears, or some other way to know the world around me.

I’d see the obvious fact that we are a sad species when we view the differently abled as not abled, worthy of pity as opposed to sympathy and unity. We are a sad species when we fail to recognize how stagnant existence would be without long odds.

“Dis”ability defines our best moments far more than we realize. It is written into the very fabric of our existence. Only a fool fails to recognize this fact. Only a fool fails to see that we are a variegated and ungainly mass of imperfect, abnormal humanity, striving forward with missing hands and limbs and organs. Even if the bare fact of this changes — if we achieve a state of bodily “perfection” — we will continue living with the knowledge of our differences, our limitations.

That knowledge will inspire us.

Or it won’t.

If we someday forget that we once drew strength from exceeding our various limitations — if we all become one graceful mass of perfect, normal humanity — then we probably won’t be fit to call ourselves human any longer.

Maybe we’ll become like the women and men of Cordwainer Smith’s Instrumentality, so bleached of any sense of wonder by our deathless existence that we force ourselves to re-introduce imperfection and risk back into the world. Or perhaps we’ll become like the denizens of Iain M. Banks’ The Culture, who live in a galaxy of unlimited resources and therefore recognize how beautiful being unlike your neighbor is.

Now, I’m aware that a great many things I’ve written might come across as — or might in all actuality be — ableist. As I stated previously, I’ve never been put in the position of being thought of as disabled. Though I’ve had to admit on occasion that I have (gasp!) a special need due to my OCD-related issues (which have, now and then, produced anxiety in school settings), I’m likely as blind to my ableism as most people who consider themselves “fully” abled.

But, like I said, I observe the world. Sometimes I write fiction based on these observations. It’s my hope that, now and in my fiction, my admiration for those living with limitations is clear. If I in fact end up fetishizing the fact of someone’s ingenuity in the face of long odds, then I’ll always apologize. I don’t want to displace my own sense of entitlement, or minimize another’s pain by calling it noble, or “courage in the face of adversity.”

Disability, different ability — it simply is. It makes no one automatically a hero.

But, you must admit, it gives one immense potential.

Continue reading »]]> You can find the original post here.

About the author

Mark Lawrence is married with four children, one of whom is severely disabled. His day job is as a research scientist focused on various rather intractable problems in the field of artificial intelligence. He has held secret level clearance with both US and UK governments. At one point he was qualified to say ’this isn’t rocket science … oh wait, it actually is’.

Broken Heroes

(warning, contains A Song of Ice and Fire spoilers, Soldier Son trilogy spoilers, and traces of nuts)

I’m writing this piece because Sarah asked me to on the strength of a tweet about Elspeth Cooper’s guest blog [link]. I’m not sure how I established my credentials in less than 140 characters but Sarah’s hard to say no to, so I took the easy path and said yes.

Historically, there has been a tendency across many cultures and religions to view disability (and illness/misfortune in general) as something visited upon those who deserve it. Although these modes of thought have no root in the core religious texts of either Christianity or Islam, and whilst there may be debate as to their prevalence, they have certainly impacted our literature. The primal cause may be a biological revulsion for the imperfect in case ‘it’s catching’ – a reaction that might have some evolutionary benefit, however unenlightened.

In any event, time and again those with physical impairments are depicted as the ‘baddies’ in our cultural heritage. From Shakespeare’s Richard III, hunch-backed and ‘rudely stamped’ by God, to James Bond’s wheelchair-bound nemesis, Blofeld. Think of Captain Hook and Darth Vader (a multiple amputee) – Tinkerbelle and Peter Pan would never have been offered to us as heroes lacking extremities.

The portrayal of disability is of course not entirely one-sided and somewhere between Dickens’ Smike and 60’s TV series Ironside the disabled wrestled themselves into the occasional heroic role.

But we’re grown now, surely, and those days of prejudice are behind us? Maybe. It’s hard to find a disabled superhero to point at. I mean a superman with one leg … he’d still be pretty awesome, right? Since he can fly he doesn’t actually need legs at all unless he wants to kick someone. In fact the only famous examples I can think of are ones where the superpowers somehow make the disability just part of the character colour because their new abilities overcompensate. Dare Devil is blind… but he can pretty much see really. Professor X is in a wheelchair (and bald with it!) but he can stop time, make you see what he wants you to, and basically do pretty much anything. In fact he could probably float out of his chair and grow dreadlocks should he so desire.

Fantasy fiction then? That great experimental sandbox and domain of the open-minded. Well, here I have to plead ignorance in the main. I’m not that widely read in the genre. But I can cite a few popular examples where talented writers have tackled the business of a healthy person becoming disabled, through injury or illness.

First we have George Martin in the series starting with A Game of Thrones. Bran is paralysed from the waist down almost as soon as we meet him. It’s a bold move to disable a child as your opening gambit and we see a decent portrayal of the psychological consequences, the necessary readjustments of expectations, even the partial compensation of the effects through use of suitable equipment (modified saddle). It’s a portrayal that shies away from the messier side of such a disability, but in the context of the story being told we can perhaps forgive the sweeping under the carpet of incontinence and the reliance on other people to wipe backsides. Secondly from GRRM, and perhaps more boldly, we see someone not only extremely physically capable but also deeply unpleasant become disabled. Jamie Lannister has his hand amputated. Suddenly he is no longer the foremost swordsman of the realm, no longer even a decent swordsman, in fact no longer capable of buttoning his shirt, and his sister stops finding him sexually attractive (generally a good thing, but in this context a symptom of the revulsion physical impairment can engender in some people).

Hobb’s protagonist in Soldier Son styles himself an athletic warrior just waiting for his chance at glory. Magical intervention renders him morbidly obese and this alone reforms his society’s opinion about him, including those of his parents and fiancé.

These are examples of skilled writers taking the trouble to look into aspects of disability and allowing the reader new insights. But I doubt that either Martin or Hobb were doing this out of some dutiful sense of obligation. They weren’t ticking boxes in a representational chart to ensure all minorities had a fair crack of the quill. I rather suspect both were following their story, and lifted by the slow but rising tide of general enlightenment in these areas, in combination no doubt with their own varied experiences, they had realised the potential for adding interest and depth to their work by such inclusion.

My own experience is of a different flavour and two-fold. The first instance is of the slow and creeping debilitation that multiple sclerosis brings. My wife, who I’ve been with for very nearly quarter of a century now, first showed signs of the condition in her early twenties, though we only recognised that when casting hindsight back across a decade or two. It’s not the sudden devastation of Bran’s fall or Jamie’s amputation. There’s nobody to blame, no personification of the guilt, nobody did it to her. It’s an erosion, an additional vulnerability, as if somehow she’s aging faster than I am. She was always the keen cyclist, but now it’s me that cycles ten miles a day to and from work, and she has to use a wheelchair to leave the house. It’s disease, not contagious but mysterious, poorly understood. There’s no romance to it, its effects are invisible and the heights of our technology are required to just see the tiny signs of damage, and yet it devastates. Weakness is the least of it. Pain is what it gives. And pain, day in and out, grinds a person down.

The second instance was that of my daughter, and that really was as sudden as a sword blow or a fall. Almost everything was taken from my youngest daughter just minutes before her first chance to see the world. It’s a dangerous business, this being born. Some babies aren’t put together quite right. Others, like Celyn, are damaged at birth. A lack of oxygen saw her come out grey and limp with a wedge of her brain – the motor cortex mostly – dying as I laid eyes on her. And still more babies emerge in apparent health only to be dragged down by some rare and vicious syndrome as they try to grow.

Celyn’s is eight now. She can’t move any part of her body in a useful way, she can’t roll, lift an arm, sit, use her fingers. She can’t speak, her eyesight is very poor, she’s doubly incontinent, and often in pain. She sleeps for two hours at most before requiring turning, resettling, maybe drugging. All her liquids are fed to her through a tube that goes through her abdomen directly into her stomach.  But it seems that her intelligence is intact. She understands what is said to her, she got 9 out of 10 last week in her maths test on the times tables, she attends a regular school with able-bodied children and her teacher says she is one of the quickest to understand new things. She laughs. A lot. She loves stories, writes stories (with the help of a head switch, a computer listing choices, and an assistant), loves taking part, hates being left out.

This is a whole different kind of disability. The disability of forever. It’s all she has ever known. Her understanding of what has been denied to her is coming to her slowly, piece by piece. She hasn’t lost the ability to walk, to hold things, to speak, she’s never had them. It breaks my heart knowing what she can’t have, but it doesn’t break hers. Some people might say (and have in fact said – to my wife in a radio phone-in) they would rather be dead than be like that, that drowning such children at birth would be a kindness both to the child and to the tax payer. But Celyn loves her life. She has ambitions. She’s an eight year old girl who loves pink, loves princesses, wants her hair done . . . I don’t know where all this will lead us – the doctors doubt it will lead us past 18 – but she deserves her chances and what happiness she can snatch. As do we all.

This disability from birth, especially profound disability, is something I’ve not seen addressed in fantasy. It isn’t something I demand to see represented. I don’t see writing as something subject to demands. It is however something I’m interested to see. The perspective of someone who has never tasted the full array of physical opportunities is unique and hard for an outsider to penetrate. There are insights offered by such privation, insights into what we are, into what makes us people, what we share at the core. That’s the reason I’d like to see such a character in a story. Not to fill a quota, not out of duty, but because it could be fascinating.

I’ve started two books with significant characters who have been profoundly disabled since birth. In one, ‘The Arithmetic of Magpies’, the character is a young woman with severe cerebral palsy (my daughter’s condition) at the heart of a high-tech hacking operation, prized for her particular skills, who finds herself being hunted by Orion – the avatar of the mythological figure – and plunged into a very strange conflict. All largely without stirring from the spot.

In the other, ‘Gunlaw’, a young boy with similar disabilities is strapped to a board in a ‘cripple-shack’ in a pseudo Wild West milieu. In this case rather than technology it is psychic ability that offers additional possibilities to the character, but in both cases I am careful to ensure that the technology or power in no way reduces the disability to a minor inconvenience – the new capability is tangential to the disability, it doesn’t compensate but it offers additional avenues for input to the story. Moreover, I’m trying to make the characters interesting in their own right. A disabled character doesn’t have to be good, or nice, or well intentioned. They can be as wonderful or crappy as the rest of us. The disability isn’t their defining feature – it’s the thing between their defining features and us. It may shape and colour what they have to offer, but ultimately the task of the story is to see past it to the person.

And the final thing I’d like to see in fantasy, just because it’s part of life – at least part of mine – is the carer’s point of view. It’s a unique position. Compared to Joe Public the carer has a raw deal. Their time is taken, their ambitions curbed. I spend almost all my time working or caring for my daughter. I’ve not had a holiday, day off, lie in, etc for eight years. I don’t have time to maintain friendships, raise my other children with the input they need and deserve . . . it’s pretty shit all in all. Compared to the person the carer is supporting their life is often a bed of roses. I can see, talk, run, jump. I’m not in pain. I had thirty plus years of freedom and fun, holidays, lie ins, time wasted doing nothing. It was great. I should shut the fuck up.

There it is in a nutshell. The carer has it much worse than most around them but much better than the person who is really suffering. They’re denied the luxury of complaint. It’s survivor guilt. I feel small for mentioning it here after listing Celyn’s challenges. But it’s a thing. It’s real, and it’s just another dimension of the matter.

My final point is that more than foresight or social conscience or good intentions, it takes skill to bring this subject to the page. There is an exceedingly fine balance to be struck when showing the reader the world through the eyes of a disabled person. Mention the hard facts of their impairment too often and it becomes deeply irritating very quickly. Enough with the leg/arm/missing hand already! Fail to mention the problems enough and you risk sweeping the constant and intrusive core of them away for convenience – because that’s at the heart of disability; it won’t quit, won’t be pushed aside, won’t stay quiet when it’s important. It just won’t.

All of this is part of life, which is why it offers potential for fascinating literature. Throw in some swords, a suit of armour, a dragon, a spell gone wrong . . . and stir until done. Perhaps someone with serious life-long disability can use (or has already used) that particular and peculiar ability of the fantasy genre to make their experience more real and accessible to those of us on the outside. Show us some broken heroes. Only do it well. Do it right.

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You can find Mark online here:

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Webpage
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You can read more about his books on his webpage, or on Goodreads (or numerous other sources, I’m sure. Mark is one VERY talked about author).

Continue reading »]]> About the Book

Welcome to the Metrozone – post-apocalyptic London of the Future, full of homeless refugees, street gangs, crooked cops and mad cults. Enter Samuil Petrovitch: a Russian émigré with a smart mouth, a dodgy heart and a dodgier past. He’s brilliant, selfish, cocky and might just be most unlikely champion a city has ever had. Armed with a genius-level intellect, extensive cybernetic replacements, a built-in AI with god-like capabilities and a plethora of Russian swearwords – he’s saved this city from ruin more than once. He’s also made a few enemies in the process – Reconstruction America being one of them. So when his adopted daughter Lucy goes missing, he’s got a clue who’s responsible. And there’s no way he can let them get away with it.

400 pages (paperback)
Published on March 19, 2013
Published by Orbit
Author’s webpage

This book was sent for me to review by the publisher.

You can purchase a copy of this book by clicking on the following links: The Curve of The Earth, The Curve of The Earth – Kindle

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When I first started my blog roughly three years ago, I was a heavy fantasy reader with a flair for epic fantasy and had very little science fiction under my belt. Now, three years later, my tastes have (predictably) changed. Now science fiction captivates me and I have a harder time getting into epic fantasy quite as much as I used to. Science Fiction, in my mind, is almost completely untapped, probably because I’ve read so little of it. But it’s also really interesting to see how authors envision the future, especially when you take into account the events happening around them when they write their futuristic novels.

The Curve of the Earth is a book that flew below the radar. It’s set in a sort of futuristic Earth. Politics and the whole “the earth is flat” thing have effected how people live, communicate, work and understand each other. The world is a different place. Some areas, like the America, are ultra conservative, while others are downtrodden and rather terrifying, ruled by crime bosses. It’s a world where crossing the Atlantic takes a fraction of the time it takes now. In a world like that, the proverbial ripple of a butterfly’s wing can cause massive, sprawling political and ecological impacts world wide in a matter of minutes. It makes today’s digital, satellite, and almost instantaneous world look like a snail’s pace in comparison.

Metrozone, the London of the future, a post-apocalyptic nightmare of street gangs, hoods, crime bosses, and weird cults, is truly a one of a kind place for a story like The Curve of the Earth to take place in. Metrozone is an area that frightens most, but it is basically ruled by Samuil Petrovitch, a Russian émigré. Petrovitch truly is the star of the show, and if I’d been halfway smart about reading this book, I would have realized that there was a Metrozone trilogy that was released before this book. While I don’t think it’s necessary to read said trilogy before you read The Curve of the Earth, reading it first might help sort out some of the problems with details that I found confusing as the book started.

Perhaps it is those details which is the greatest drawback of this book. While things do become easier to understand as the book progresses, at the start it’s hard to understand the political system, the ways people communicate to each other, why Metrozone is such a dark, scary place, and exactly why the name Samuil Petrovitch is at once notorious and feared. As I mentioned, these things iron out as the book progresses, but it can be a bit frustrating and it does occasionally feel like you are in foreign water with no real landmarks by which to navigate.

Petrovitch’s best friend is a genius AI named Michael, who appears on and off throughout the book offering insights and various tidbits of information that will help you piece together what exactly is happening and what has happened to create the world as it currently is. Michael is a wonderful addition to the story, he adds a bit of stability to Petrovitch’s sometimes over-the-top cockiness and eagerness to stir the proverbial pot. Speaking of which, Petrovitch is a little bit of everything. He’s human, political criminal, a ruler and leader of sorts, a sarcastic ass, completely unafraid and a cyborg. He’s larger than life, so it’s somewhat ironic that his AI companion Michael is his balancing factor.

The Curve of the Earth moves at quite a quick pace, which is another reason why I think being somewhat aware of the details of the world before you start the book might be a good idea. Morden is unrepentant. His writing is fluid and often so detailed and lush you can get lost in it, but the intricacies that he weaves into this quick moving tale are truly mind blowing. It’s part adventure, part 1984, and possibly an eerie glimpse into an ominous future. Regardless, the protagonist and his team are an absolute riot to follow. Petrovitch is hilarious, and while he is occasionally hard to believe, it’s his companions, like Michael, that keep him grounded and believable. The Curve of the Earth is an adventure with a deep message hidden at its core and plenty of pulse pumping action.

4/5 stars

Continue reading »]]> About the Author

If you’re unfamiliar with Peter, you’ll find his creative endeavors come in two main thrusts: Writing and Music. Depending on the day, he’ll tell you one or the other is his favorite. Early on, a close third was athletics, baseball in particular. But somewhere along the line he became more a spectator than participant; that was about the time he began to write and make music in earnest.

As a writer, Peter tends to write the stories that occur to him and prove compelling, which means he writes in any number of genres. His published fiction is mostly fantasy and science fiction at this point, but he’s written a couple of thrillers he hopes to find homes for soon. At least one bestselling fiction writer has seen the outline of one of Peter’s unpublished novels—a more mainstream story—and thinks it’s bound to be his bestselling work. That book is on hold for now, though, as Peter ramps up a new fantasy series, THE VAULT OF HEAVEN.

Then as a musician, Peter’s tastes likewise run the gamut. There are few musical genres he doesn’t enjoy. So, while many might find easy stereotypes when they see Peter, those stereotypes are too narrow to accommodate the variety of his musical tastes. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t love rock music—he absolutely does!

Beyond these consuming interests, he currently works at Microsoft in the Interactive Entertainment Business (Xbox), loves the outdoors (with a fondness for the Rocky Mountains that he’ll never lose) and taking his Jeep deep into the back-country, but more than anything enjoys spending time with his family.

You can find out more about Peter, and the various ways to follow and contact him, on his website.

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Seeing with Different Eyes

You hear it sometimes. Writers thanking this person or that for the opportunity to write something. But I have to tell you, when Sarah hit me up with this topic, synapses fired immediately on what I’d say both to her and to anyone who’d read my contribution. To Sarah, I said yes, of course. And here’s what I want to write about: seeing others with different eyes.

I’m going to try not to get up on a soapbox here. That’s not my intention at all. But I understand the risk I run in tackling a topic like this. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Let me start by saying it’s quite likely that you, dear reader, already do this—see others with different eyes, that is. What I mean by it is this: You don’t make value judgments based on what you see. Rather, your feelings and opinions about others are probably engendered by something more substantive than appearance. Still, bear with me.

We’ve all bandied about trite phrases like, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” “Looks can be deceiving,” and “There’s more to it than meets the eye.” I don’t want to cover that ground. You know it well enough already. Instead, I want to talk about one way I think we can get past the snap judgments, past whatever discomfort seeing someone with special needs might cause us.

And it’s simply this: See them as a father or mother would.

There are flaws with my assertion. First, you may be neither a father nor mother, and so don’t have a frame of reference for my suggestion. But everyone’s got parents, one might argue. Well, even there, it’s possible your own parents weren’t great models of loving-kindness. It’s sad, but true, that some parents don’t feel particularly close to their own children. So, fair enough. I won’t argue these points.

But I’ll go out on a limb and say that parents generally love their kids. Really love them. With a deep connection it’s hard to articulate with mere words. Strictly speaking, it shouldn’t be necessary to apply the lens of parenthood when looking at someone else. The idealist in me shouts that we should treat everyone fairly, show compassion, lend a hand. But, we’re human. That’s not an excuse for bad behavior, just a fact. And humans are flawed. Sometimes deeply so.

It’s why I think it can be helpful to esteem others as a parent would. In broad strokes, every person—whether disabled; or down on their luck; or, hell, even just sad—is the child of someone who loves them. And I think that can inform how we treat one another.

When I hear about a woman being raped, I sometimes wonder to myself, “Would that guy do it if he had a daughter of his own?” It’s not a rational thought. Many rapists have daughters. And I understand that I’m projecting the love I have for my own little girl onto a man committing an act of violence. Still, in my sometimes warped sense of justice, I’ll imagine the bastard having a daughter later in life and becoming tormented by the thought of his crime once he realizes what he’s done to some father’s child.

Again, I realize, it shouldn’t be necessary to shift one’s frame of reference in order to show someone some common decency. But clearly the world has room for improvement in the area of how we treat one another. And I submit that this simple way of seeing others could help.

“Blood is thicker than water,” some will say. Right, but all that means is that you don’t have to work as hard at seeing your own family in the way I’ve described. It comes more naturally. The suggestion I’m making is—if needed—we consider that those who are encumbered with any number of challenges are someone else’s family. They’re loved. And there’s enough that’s common between us to let it soften our hearts to a healthy degree. And by soften, I mean cause our willingness to render aid, compassion, or defense. Yeah, that’s right. Stand up against a goddamn bully when you see him or her taunting another person’s child. Because you’d damn sure want someone to do that for your own kid if you weren’t around.

The world’s not a fair place. Trite statement, that. But we all walk in our own spheres, where we can make it more equitable if we choose to.

“Orullian,” you may be saying, “I didn’t tune in to Sarah’s awesome blog for a philosophical rant.”

No, you didn’t. But I’m not apologizing. Maybe Sarah won’t even run this. I may wind up having to post it on my own blog. Because I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.

You see, I thought I was a fairly even-handed guy until my first child was born. And despite what you might say about it, the very second I saw her head (I was in the delivery room), something in me changed. For the better, I might add. It was one of the most metaphysical moments of my life. I can’t explain it. It’s like a switched was turned on. My capacity for patience and compassion and love . . . well, it kind of multiplied. All that, and a fierce and immediate willingness to defend and protect my child.

I don’t pretend this happens for all dads. Though, many men tell me they’ve had the same experience.

Where does all this leave us? Maybe nowhere. I’ve no delusions that this blog post is more than a drop in an ocean. Still, I’d invite you to try it once. Next time you see someone with special needs, or really anyone who could use some help, think about them as someone’s kid. They could be feeling alone or confused. And consider that if their father or mother could be there, they’d be answering that need. In their absence, pay the needful the kindness someone who loves them would.

And now that I think about it, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings to see more of this in fiction, too. Good writing will show character flaws and failures, but I love reading stories where a character is willing to sacrifice on behalf of someone else. And that sacrifice doesn’t need to be mortal to be meaningful.

To close this out, I’ll reference a couple of songs. If you didn’t know, besides writing fiction, my other abiding passion is music. There are a lot of examples I could use, but a few whose sentiments seem to express what I’m trying to say come from Trans Siberian Orchestra and Dream Theater.

Trans Siberian Orchestra wrote a song entitled, “Old City Bar.” If you don’t know TSO, they’re most famous for their Christmas music. Rock style. Regardless whether you celebrate Christmas or not, I hope we’d align behind seminal Christmas ideas like charity and generosity. If so, then consider these lyrics:

Then the door opened wide
And a child came inside
That no one in the bar
Had seen there before

And he asked did we know
That outside in the snow
That someone was lost
Standing outside our door

Then the bartender gazed
Through the smoke and the haze
Through the window and ice
To a corner streetlight

Where standing alone
By a broken pay phone
Was a girl the child said
Could no longer get home

And the snow it was falling
The neon was calling
The bartender turned
And said, not that I care
But how do you know this?
The child said, I’ve noticed
If one could be home
They’d be already there

Then the bartender came out from behind the bar
And in all of his life he was never that far
Then he did something else that he thought no one saw
When he took all the cash from the register drawer

Then he followed the child to the girl cross the street
And we watched from the bar as they started to speak
Then he called for a cab and he said J.F.K.
Put the girl in the cab and the cab drove away
And we saw in his hand
That the cash was all gone

And from the Dream Theater song “Don’t Look Past Me,” this simple, powerful phrase:

And so love is broken
They’re asking me, “How can you help
When you don’t even know how it feels?”
I don’t need one thousand reasons
When someone starts to cry
When someone says my heart needs lifting
Don’t ask how come, ask how high

I suppose sharing these could make me look a bit maudlin. But I don’t care. I think there’s power in them. Real power. The kind that matters anyway.