#finally back in my star trek phase after starting strange new worlds

[evann-escence]

kira celebrates 🎉

[readingat3amisnormal]

The heat was stifling, rough sand streaking across the dunes. Whirlwinds whorled in the distance, roving across the alien landscape. Against the mayhem of the pre-dawn desert, a man stood still and silent.

His hair, shaggy and unkempt from the long trek, billowed in the dry desert wind, as did his bell-bottom trousers and chic white jacket. Absently, his fingers began snapping. He whispered subconsciously, “a-dooba-doobie…”

As the sun finally broke the horizon, Elvis Presley was cowed into silence.

He stood at the peak of a sand dune, staring out at the gaping maw of the Sahara. Endless dunes, stretching as far as the eyes could see. This was it- the real deal.

The edge of his mouth curled into his characteristic smirk.

“Come now, Nenet!” he called gleefully. “We’re almost there!”

Nenet, a sprightly, athletic young woman who did not currently look it, crested the dune and collapsed onto the sand. She’d been guiding tourists across the Sahara for the better part of five years, and none had been quite as… ambitious as this strange, strange man.

Rather than go to any of the usual tourist destinations, he was insistent on travelling off the beaten path- and dragging her with him. She made sure that they were never more than half a day’s walk away from civilization at any time, though that was becoming increasingly difficult as they progressed further into the desert.

“What’s the plan for today?” she panted, placing her hands on her knees under the weight of their luggage.

“Well, sweetheart, we’re almost at where I wanna be!” he glanced down at the compass clutched in his hand. “That-a-ways!”

His white cowbody boots jived along the sand, a fine sheen of sweat clinging to him like so many overenthusiastic fans. The dust had been quite annoying the first couple of days, but he was used to it by now.

And hey, it was better than what he’d left behind.

He’d loved it once- the fame, the fortune, the drama. But lately… the magic had faded. He’d lost his drive.

Until one fateful day…

He strummed lazily on his guitar, staring off into the distance. His thumb caught on the D string with a painful twang that echoed all around the bustling city square. It was out of tune, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

So many people, going about their day. Some of them looked up at him, most didn’t. They’d grown used to him by now. He disliked it.

“Mr Presley, act your age and get down from there!”

He glanced down at the balding city official that was calling to him, and in a moment of fear touched the top of his head.

“Oh thank goodness…” he removed his fingers from his luscious curls, then went back to strumming. “You ain’t nuthin’ but a…”

“Mr Presley, you will get down from that lion this instant!” the official stamped his foot to punctuate his point.

Elvis groaned miserably. “Awwww…”

As the official tapped his foot against the ground, Elvis dropped down from the lion. The guitar was rudely snatched away, and he was instructed to go wait in the library until his lawyers arrived.

Ah, shoot.

He grooved miserably through the gilded doors and into the lobby, sincerely disappointed that this so-called ‘grand institution’ couldn’t even afford a concierge.

“Stupid government workers…” he muttered under his breath. Like clockwork, a receptionist raised a finger to their lips.

He growled in frustration and stomped over to one of the desks. Books of various shapes, sizes and colours were strewn across it, but one drew his eye- a gilded tome, with a strange cat-person doing a pose on the front.

He reached for it before he caught himself- he wasn’t some nerd! He was a rock ‘n roll cool kid! The only reason he was even in the library was to wait until the city official left the lion statue unsupervised.

Resolute, he turned his nose up and looked away.

Although…

With trepidation, as though he were defusing a bomb, he flipped the book open with one finger. It opened to a page with intricate illustrations and an unfairly fascinating title- The Search for Tutankhamun’s Tomb.

Well, one book couldn’t hurt. He reasoned.

Four hours later, with the sun going down and his next show in fifteen minutes, he stood before one of the receptionists with the book in hand.

“Now I ain’t got no bread on me right this second, miss.” He shuffled nervously. “Spent it all on some candy from this store a couple blocks down…”

“That’s alright, dearie!” She croaked, hand trembling as she accepted the book. “Why, you don’t need to pay for books at the library! You just need a library card, and I can get that for you just now! What’d you say your name was, young man?”

He jumped through all the hoops gracefully, accepted the card, the book, and a little golden star he’d gotten for being a good boy, and headed off with a smile on his face and nary a care in the world.

From there, it had been a simple matter of devouring every book on Egypt and Egyptology he could get his hands on. He’d gotten a new personal idol- Gertrude Bell- a new purpose- find Tutankhamun’s Tomb (or any tomb, for that matter)- and a new drive. He’d kept the white coat and bell-bottomed trousers, although he’d swapped out the guitar for a khaki hat.

Nothing would stop him now. Not even his dwindling finances, though the riches he would definitely find would help him along.

His experience in the field had been entirely academic until he’d bit the bullet, travelled out to Cairo, and hired Nenet to act as his guide and translator. She’d kept him sane when hunch after hunch had proven to be incorrect and had gotten them out of some sticky situations.

Now, three weeks into what was shaping up to be the greatest adventure of his lifetime, they were so close he could taste it.

“Mr. Elvis,” Nenet said, straining under the weight of their pack. “It is of course unwise to lick the walls of an ancient ruin.”

Elvis pulled away from the wall, smacking his lips. “Well, it isn’t bone, that’s for sure.”

“It’s sandstone, Mr. Elvis. I could’ve told you that.”

“Ah, but I’ve now learned it, Nenet! Groovy!”

Despite the weight on her shoulders, Nenet shrugged. “Whatever.”

After a couple more taste tests they ended up in a cul-de-sac of sorts. Walls rose around them, and stairs led down to an intimidating looking door.

With some trepidation, Nenet followed Elvis down the stairs. He stared at the door for a good half-minute, then snapped his fingers.

“I will have no locked cupboards in my life!” he proclaimed. “Gertrude Bell, unsourced.”

Nenet leaned against the wall to take some of the weight off her back. Unbeknownst to her, the pressure of her shoulder against one of the tiles caused a centuries-old mechanism to spring into action. Gears grinded, pulleys pulled, and the end result of this mechanical medley was that the door opened just as Elvis touched the tip of his tongue to it.

He paused, staring into the darkness. The air was cool but dusty, and smelled vaguely of death.

He turned back to Nenet with a smug smile on his face. “C’mon, snake, let’s rattle!”

And with that, he pranced joyfully into the underworld.

~

Nifty…

Elvis tapped a specialised tool against the hieroglyphics on the wall. They were mostly your standard fare- “death awaits those cretins who enter”, “do not desecrate this hallowed ground, wretched mortal”, “remember to feed the cats, honey, I know you always forget XO”- but this one was different.

“Don’t… dead… open… inside.” He read off. “Hmmm…”

He considered it, ignoring Nenet’s grunts as she tried to pull their bags through a narrow doorway.

“So,” he reasoned, “don’t die, and open whatever’s inside this door? Perfect!”

He pushed the door open and ran through, close to giggling with delight. Oh, this was so much fun! He really was an explorer!

“It's so nice to be a spoke in the wheel, one that helps to turn, not one that hinders!” he called out to Nenet. “Gertrude Bell, From the Mountains to the Sea!”

As his voice faded into the distance, Nenet finished pulling their bags through. If only the oaf hadn’t insisted on bringing a to-scale sundial!

With a frustrated groan, she turned to the doors, which were slowly swinging closed behind Elvis.

“Don’t open, dead inside.” She read.

She blinked.

“Hal-kuh. Mr. Elvis! Mr. Elvis, it’s dangerous!”

Damnit, the oaf was annoying but she couldn’t leave him to die! With a deep breath, she steeled herself, grabbed something from his pack, and ran after him.

~

The thing to realise about Elvis Presley’s Egyptology phase is that it was entirely inevitable. A life of screaming fans is really, really not all it’s hyped up to be.

When he’d started out performing, he could hardly bear it. Over the years, it had taken a toll- created a… sort of psychological switch in his head. 

So how would he react if, as he walked down a dusty passageway in the hopes of finding something exciting at the end, he heard Nenet screaming from behind him?

To put it simply, Elvis had a Pavlovian reaction.

To put it simpler, he was back in showman mode.

“Ooooh, sounds like somebody’s excited!” he boogied, sashaying his hips as he made his way towards the sound.

Nenet screamed again, louder this time.

“Somebody’s real excited, hoo boy! Hot diggity-dog, I can’t wait to see what’s causin’ this!”

Elvis swaggered around the corner, ready to put on a show for his fans, and happened upon a small nook with a sarcophagus propped up against the wall. It was shaking about, reminiscent of a fan that couldn’t keep still from excitement.

“Well, what do we have here!” he called out enthusiastically, unlatching the door of the sarcophagus and coming face to face with a mummy.

He really wasn’t equipped to deal with this sort of thing. Neither was the mummy, come to think of it. Point is- when faced with these extenuating circumstances, Elvis did the only thing he could think to do.

“Are ya a fan?” he asked.

The mummy screamed the scream of a thousand crows.

Elvis screamed with it.

Behind him, Nenet screamed once more. This time, Elvis recognised it for what it was- a battle cry- and moved out of the way.

She brought an ElvisTM Baseball Bat down upon the mummy’s head with so much force that it disintegrated into kindling. “Ah, shitty American products!”

Nenet dumped what was left of the bat onto the mummy, slammed the sarcophagus lid shut, grabbed Elvis by the wrist, and pulled him down the hallway.

“Hey!” he protested. “I brought that bat along for emotional support!”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” she responded, pausing at an intersection before pulling him roughly to the left. “We need to get out of here now- that thing won’t stop until it’s killed us both. I got the drop on it once- I doubt I’ll be that lucky again.”

“But-” before he could argue further, the screeching started again. The hallway felt like it stretched forever, and Elvis’ pulse quickened.

Nenet cast a panicked glance behind her. “It’s not slowing down. We’ll need to hold it off. When I get us back to our pack, take out that big sundial and throw it in its path, yes?”

Elvis, already out of breath, blinked.

“Now!” she flung him around a corner, and he found himself back in front of the door with the strange hieroglyphics.

After a second’s hesitation (and another scream from the mummy), his brain kicked in.

He scrambled to the pack, pulled the sundial out, and dragged it into the corridor. The mummy was about halfway down, running towards them at an alarming speed. Before it could scream, Elvis tossed the sundial like an Olympic Disk thrower.

It took both the mummy’s legs out, then shattered against the floor. Elvis winced- it had been pretty expensive. But then again, at least it had saved their lives.

The mummy got to its knees, screamed, and began crawling forwards.

“Ah.” Nenet’s face was unnaturally pale. “We’ll have to run again, Mr Elvis.”

Without waiting for confirmation, she turned. “And leave your pack behind!”

The mummy, moving considerably slower now, screamed once more. Elvis’ instincts kicked in again, but for once in his life he caught himself. He was an Egyptologist, for goodness sake! He needed to act like it!

He thought back to all the books on Egyptian explorers he’d read. All the mummies he’d seen in those new-fangled Universal Pictures. He recognised the scream, recognised the pain.

What would Gertrude Bell do? He wondered.

There is nothing more difficult to measure than the value of visible emotion, she’d say to him- as she had on page 42 of From the Mountains to the Sea.

As Nenet poked her head out from the doorway with the intention of demanding he hurry up, he moved towards the mummy.

“MR ELVIS- actually you know what, I tried.” Nenet shrugged, and made to leave.

“All these years…” Elvis realised, dropping to his knees and beckoning the mummy closer. “Trapped down here, all alone.”

The mummy hissed, holding its desiccated hands up to its eyes.

Nenet, who was ready to make a break for it any second now, watched in horror as her client ran a finger tenderly along the mummy’s jaw. “It’s alright.” he soothed.

With an awful, keening screech, the mummy threw itself into Elvis’ arms and did a decent approximation of a sob.

“There, there.” Elvis stroked the mummy’s head, rocking it back and forth. “We’re here for you now, aren’t we, Nenet?”

Nenet’s eyes widened as she realised what Elvis wanted her to do. “W-with all due respect, sir-”

“Group hug!” he growled merrily, reaching into the doorway and pulling her into an embrace alongside the mummy. After a moment’s hesitation, she patted the ancient creature on its head. “It’s… alright?” she asked.

It latched an arm around her and wept loudly.

~

They emerged from the tomb a trio- Nenet, carrying some assorted riches and other sundry, Elvis, and the mummy, being carried bridal style by the intrepid Egyptologist.

“I’m gonna take you back to the US of A!” Elvis promised the mummy. “And I’ll take ya to a baseball game and show ya that baseball bats ain’t all that bad! And you can tell me more about your culture and all! Don’t that sound fun?”

The mummy purred in approval. Nenet, who still hadn’t gotten over her client bonding with an eldritch horror from an ancient tomb, shaded her eyes against the setting sun. She had to admit, the ruby-encrusted bracelets really complemented her complexion.

“We will have to make camp tonight,” she said, “and by tomorrow I will get us to the nearest town. From there you can rent a jeep to get back to Cairo, Mr. Elvis. And company.”

Elvis nodded. “Miss Nenet, it’s been a pleasure working with ya so far. What’d ya say I take you on in a more… official capacity?”

Nenet wrinkled her nose. “Are you planning on adopting me?”

“Nah, I meant hire you as my guide for all future archaeological expeditions and the like!”

“Hmmm…” she considered it. “What’s your offer?”

He listed off a number. It had lots of zeroes.

“Done.”

The mummy stared out at the sunset… the first sunset it had seen in centuries. And for the first time in centuries… it felt at peace.

“To wake in that desert dawn was like waking in the heart of an opal. ... See the desert on a fine morning and die - if you can.” Elvis whispered reverentially, following the mummy’s gaze. “Gertrude Bell, The Desert and the Snow.”

Both Nenet and the mummy nodded. They stood there awhile, watching the sun dip below the horizon and inky shadows spread like water.

“Ya know…” Elvis mentioned. “I feel a song coming on.”

“Mr. Elvis, no.” Nenet deadpanned.

“Mr. Elvis, yes! Wiiiiise, meeeen, saaaaaaaaaaay… only fooooools…”

[thesunlounge]

Reviews 367: The Visitor

A couple of years ago, Ai released II, which for me is one of the very best albums of space rock, psychedelia, and kosmische ever conceived…a sort of epic paean to all that is great about the tripped out planetarium sonics of both the early 70s and the early 90s. The album was put out by Hauch Records, an experimentally-minded label operating in the German underground that explores much else besides cosmic rock, including minimal drone, ambient, and dub amongst a range of other moods and styles. The label has a longstanding relationship with Ai, having also released the band’s self-titled LP in 2015. But even before that–back in 2011–Hauch released a record called Imitation of Nature from Ai’s keyboard shaman and synthesizer sorcerer Frank Bauer, who on his own explores imaginative worlds of modular magic as The Visitor. Earlier in 2020 and after an extended period of silence, Bauer and The Visitor returned with Installationen, a new LP+digital release on Hauch featuring music that accompanied an art exhibition in 2019, and that sees Bauer rigging his modular setup to play itself, which to paraphrase the liner notes, creates structures based on dualisms between repetition and evolution, and between composition and spontaneous generation. I’ll also mention here that for those who want more of these mystical modular incantations, Installationen was immediately preceded by a an EP called Instrumentals that contains four further pieces from the same sessions.

The Visitor - Installationen (Hauch, 2020) “Installation I” opens with twinkling bell tones drifting in a fog, while android idiophones vibrate through a cold cosmic wind. Liquid oscillations evoke UFO landings as they periodically swoosh upon the mix, and also serve to provide the track with the barest semblance of structure. Industrial scrapes transform into fractal shards as they travel radially outwards, and airy pulses of bass signal mysterious pauses. Distorted feedback fades into mist and snaps of synthetic air land amidst cascading layers of growing and overblowing ambiance…all as chemtrails soar through a cloudy winter sky. Machines purr and coo while gong mallets strike massive metal pipes, creating waves of subsonic wonderment. Ghostly vocalizations intermingle with animalistic growls while organic clouds of bass hum emerge then disperse. Computers flicker and pulse as they execute strange algorithms which cause glitching tracers that repeate at hyperspeed, and the music alternately evokes for me the work of Experimental Audio Research, and Natural Snow Buildings at their most cold and abstract. Then, as everything starts fading, the track airs out, with temple tones sitting beneath a hopeful wash of synthesis. 

In “Installation II,” a randomized robot orchestra tunes to the dawn, as machine strings and modular horns swirl into a mysterious miasma. Shadowy tones and glowing strands of starlight intermingle as buzzing blankets of interstellar warmth meet glacial walls of shimmer and shine, with sinister bass synthetics evoking the shadowspells of Igor Wakhevitch. Billowing banks of laser light, silent screams of feedbacking static, and fluid flashes of molten crystal flow together before giving way to moments of sickly tonal meditation, as bass buzz and midrange hum move through chromatic slides and disturbing harmonic abstractions. Hovering clouds of reverb and delay shade in the empty spaces with spectral hues and obscuring layers of interstellar dust, pillowy pads drift over one another in a deep lullaby dance, and blinding rainbows are birthed from decaying plumes of smoke while elsewhere, thousands of viols scream and scratch into a wall of drone mesmerism. Sorrowful whale songs distort beyond comprehension as they diffuse through star oceans and slow motion oscillations are born of resonances and misaligned vibrato until the track devolves into a primitive loop, which is chopped even further by a locked groove.

In “Installation III,” percussive sequences and modular electronics evoke tropical jungle hand drum ceremonials and minimalist mallet cascades as a shaman casts spells of fourth world magic overhead. Swaths of static blow in like a psychedelic breeze, satellite broadcasts flow around muted computations, and cracks in the ground spew vapors of all possible color. Bassline shadowforms add a further sense of groove…these barely there thuds and pulses repurposed for a forest fusion jam out…while blips and pings create virtual tapestries of insect chatter and birdsong. Millions of modular marimbas are chopped and looped in real time, creating a mesmeric collage of futurist exotica, while elsewhere, swirling shimmers, mirage sonics, and sonar pings smear into cooling haze. It’s as if a hyperspeed conga line is working its way through an island rainforest paradise, wherein metalloid liquids drip from palm fronds into boiling pools of alien fluid, creating strange reverberations that diffuse in every direction.

The vinyl trip ends with “Installation IV” and a calming bath of buzz accented by twinkles and brass synthesis. Reversing wisps dance in the air, bell tones are stretched into infinitely tall vertical structures, and hypnotizing sparkles pan through wavering whooshes and subdued thumps. It’s a study in using constant motion to achieve sonic stasis, with every single element sparkling, swishing, and vibrating, yet somehow causing time to stand still. Healing tones of feedback grow in intensity before dispersing into glimmering bodies of glass, and the modular synths again evoke idiophones–this time mbiras playing some faintly heard paean to the shining sun. Piercing globules of light move backwards and forwards in temporal displacement and a serene storm of synthesis emerges…like an automaton orchestra activated by a slow and stately sunrise. Ascending phaser streaks and drunken bass synths execute a randomized dream dance while all around, clustered gemstones refract solar light into an infinite web of chiming magnificence. And just as the A-side terminates with a locked groove, so does the B-side, with washed out loops cycling peacefully and eternally.

The trip continues into the digital realm with three further tracks, the first of which is “Installation V.” Smoldering drones and feedbacking flute tones move through atonal harmonizations, while a slowly growing pulse of fevered ambiance enters the scene. Melody is mostly abandoned in favor of texture and resonance, as a malarial fog of silvery synthesis and smoke-shrouded distortion generates flashes of white light and voids of deep darkness. The vibe progressively turns more hopeful as the harmonizing layers ease their oppressive dissonance amidst the calming dances of sci-fi pixie dusk. And from here, the track begins to resemble a mystic sound ceremony, with modulars mimicking gongs, bowed cymbals, and Tibetan bowls while sea crystal pan-pipes are effected into radar bleeps…the whole thing like the Theatre of Eternal Music or Pelt transformed into a machine meditation. As for “Installation VI,” plink plonking and madcap Berlin schools sequences fire, with cut-off manipulations moving the sounds between starlight sparkles, percussive pops, and broken morse code transmissions. The sense of motion and energy is completely arresting in comparison to the preceding track’s sonorous serenity, especially as tick tocking twinkles of multi-colored diamond rotate in maddening patterns. Mysterious vocal tones hover in the background…like chopped and looped mermaid choirs…their gothic ocean arias pulsing at lightspeed and calling to mind Klaus Schulze’s earliest epics, as well as Popol Vuh’s soundtrack work. Indeed, the track almost resembles a Herzog-ian river trek at times, only as if proceeding in hypersonic stop motion, and with minimal melodic development interrupting the interlocking sequential stardance. 

The final piece is “Installation VII,” which begins with howling winds and phase-shifting cymbal splashes. Subsuming drones of darkness sit beneath zipping lasers and rushes of white noise, while percussive electronics ping-pong back and forth…their tones evoking hand drums and rainforest mallet instruments. Subsonic slides give a lazed shape to the groove–as well as a feeling of portending doom–and liquid gurgles join hydraulic machines and their vented puffs of compressed air. Sprays of crystalline vapor are as harsh as they are transfixing, and resonant fog banks quiver while obscuring all sight as gaseous blasts of light spread towards some infinitely distant horizon. At times glowing clouds of tonal mesmerism enter…these golden washes of hovering feedback and oceanic vibration that intermingle with sonar synths and wobbling walls of mutating drone mysterium...and again, the modulars evoke the meditative tones of gongs and temple idiophones. Granular blasts of galactic sound arc across the spectrum, ghostly melodies emerge at times while giving off an oscillatory glow, and towards the end, shimmering clouds of sound flow in, churn in place, then mysteriously disappear.

(images from my person copy with download code purposefully erased)

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #368

Top Ten Things I Kinda Hope Will Happen Now Disney Owns Fox

So this week the merger of the millennium finally went through, and the mouse ate the fox. That is, Disney completed its acquisition of 20th Century Fox, bringing a diverse range of film and TV IP all under one roof. A big, domed roof, with two circular ears on top.

What to make of it? There is the knee-jerk fannish joy at the thought of the X-Men finally being able to join their Avenger cousins under one MCU roof; there is also the worrying prospect of one company holding so much power being able to wield that power uncharitably. Job losses are inevitable; maybe up to 4,000, I read. Fox 2000, a subsidiary production company that has made a name for itself with a slew of critically-acclaimed movies with an indie sensibility, is already being shuttered. So I think there is probably a degree of caution to be exercised when contemplating Mulder and Scully investigating Doctor Strange or the Na’vi turning up in the Galactic Senate.

However, for the time being I’m allowing myself to think of the positives, of the IP mash-ups or events that could transpire both in fiction and “IRL” as they say on the internets. So here, then, are ten things that I’d either like to see happen, or will happen, or would be cool but are incredibly unlikely.

Now to rewatch that Patton Oswalt filibuster from Parks and Rec…

Restore the Fox Fanfare to all Star Wars movies: probably won’t happen for new movies going forward, but I still think it’s not Star Wars without the “barump-bada-bump” Fox theme at the very start. Personally I think all Star Wars should have it, even the new ones.

Bring the Marvel Universes together: this is inevitable, isn’t it? The Marvel characters for whom Fox has historically owned the cinematic rights – principally the X-Men and Fantastic Four – are absolutely bound to appear in the MCU. Quite how and when this will happen I don’t know; I’m hoping for something a bit beyond “oh, Thanos accidentally created mutants,” if I’m honest. And I think the plans for the MCU in the early stages of Phase 4 are probably already kinda sorted (the film line-up looks like it’s taking shape, and I reckon the Skrulls will be the Big Bad of the next Avengers film, not Magneto or whoever). Really, I’m more interested in a rebooted Fantastic Four (go on, set it in the ‘60s! You know you want to!) and with Doctor Doom being a major MCU villain, the next Thanos if they do it right.

Reboot the Alien sequels: I’ve got a fair bit of time for Alien 3, and I’ve been told to give Alien: Resurrection another chance, but let’s be honest: after two masterpieces, the various Alien movies have been a seriously mixed bag. So why can’t Disney “do a Halloween” and decide to make a new Alien 3 that disregards all the other films that take place after Aliens? I mean, it sort of almost happened with Neill Blomkamp’s project, before Ridley Scott’s renewed interest in the franchise scuppered a return to the world of Hicks, Newt and – of course – Ripley. It’s currently fashionable to make “decades-later” sequels – even Ghostbusters appears to be getting one – so this could be not only fascinating but also hugely profitable. Get to it, Mickey!

Make “The X-Files: The Next Generation”: confession time, true believers: I’ve still not got round to watching the two recent X-Files mini-series, despite being an enormous “X-Phile” in the ‘90s. I know they got mixed reviews, but that’s neither here nor there to me. No, I want a regular series (but stick it on streaming so it can be gory, scary, and only 10 episodes), and I want it to feature a new raft of agents who are investigating new X-files. Maybe give Chris Carter a vanity credit and hand it off to someone else. In a lot of ways, The X-Files was the new Star Trek, so giving us a look at “the future” and the next group of people who’ll keep the flame alive, would be a good way to build the brand. And, yes, it’d still be in continuity, so Mulder could show up at some point!

Deadpool 3: I know I’ve already sorta talked about the X-Men, but that was more about incorporating and rebooting the characters within the MCU. Deadpool is a special case. He should still be Ryan Reynolds, he should still look and act the same (and, yes, he should still be R-rated). But how the fourth-wall breaking foul-mouthed ‘merc will react to being rebooted will be fascinating to see.

Stop making Die Hard films: just stop. Don’t reboot it. don’t make another sequel. Don’t do a prequel. Just stop. Do a gif search for “Simpsons he’s already dead”. Die Hard is, sadly, over. And I say that as someone who flat-out adores the first film. It has ceased to be. It is an ex-franchise. I’m sorry, Bruce, but that’s the truth.

Cancel The Simpsons: speaking of The Simpsons…! Yeah, I feel bad for saying this. As much as I love Die Hard, I love The Simpsons more; I think I love The Simpsons more than anything else Fox has ever done. And picking on them now, after thirty years? It feels like bandwagon-jumping; like trying to be cool and edgy. The fact is, I’ve not even seen a new episode for about ten years. How crazy is that? It used to be my favourite show of all time and there are probably over a hundred episodes I’ve just never seen. But that’s sort of my point. It’s not about whether it’s still good, or good enough, or as good as; it’s been going too long. the relevance it had, the cultural cachet; that’s gone for good. The Simpsons can never be The Simpsons again. I think give it a rest, cancel the series, but if you still want to keep the flame alive, make the odd movie or mini-series or TV special or something. I don’t mind more Simpsons, just make me really want it, y’know?

But bring back Futurama: as one door closes… Futurama was probably better than The Simpsons during the time it was on the air (although I don’t think I’d say it was ever quite as good as The Simpsons was at its height). So good, it’s an utter shame it had to stop when and how it did. I know Matt Groening might be busy with Disenchantment on Netflix, but maybe he can be persuaded to come back for some more journeys with the Planet Express crew? The opportunity to skewer the present day with futuristic barbs is right there for the taking.

De-Specialise the Star Wars Special Editions: I don’t mind most of the changes made by Lucas in the Special Edition trilogy. Obviously cleaning up the matting and removing the “force field” underneath Luke’s landspeeder are welcome additions. But the extra Wampa footage is unnecessary; Han shooting first really does cheapen the character, I don’t care if that’s a crying manbaby/edgelord/neckbeard/incel sorta thing to say; but the biggest flub is the utterly redundant Jabba scene they stuck back into A New Hope. Get shot of that; it gives us nothing the Greedo scene didn’t give, but clunkier and with not-entirely-convincing effects. Unaltered, and separate from the movie itself – with the human actor in a shaggy coat playing Jabba – the scene is a curio, a lost gem; but it serves no purpose in the narrative and the whole “stepping on Jabba’s tail” bit is, well, shite. If that’s the only thing they lose, fine, it’ll be worth it. I’m inevitably going to be buying these buggers in 4K, though, so I’d rather they offered a cleaned-up theatrical cut if they’re not prepared to pick-and-choose a “definitive edition”.

Don’t just close Fox Animation: from Anastasia through the Ice Age movies to Ferdinand, Fox’s animation department isn’t quite Pixar but they’ve done a really good job. Buy with Disney Animation and Pixar, does the company need another animation house? I hope they can find room for Fox, maybe as a slightly more grown-up or edgier place; after all, Pixar and Disney co-exist and there seems to be room for both.  

[scifrey]

Improbable Press put out a call asking fan fiction authors how they went from Free to Fee. Here’s my response. Happy reading!

The Story of How I Started Selling Stories

My parents, teachers, and acting/singing coaches will all tell you that I've always been a story teller. For the first twenty four years of my life, I was determined to do so through musical theatre, though I had always secretly harbored the desire to write a hit stage play. My early writing consisted of plays for my friends and I to put on, interspersed with prose that I supposed would one day become a novel, but which wasn't my passion.

I was a big reader, but where this habit came from, I'm not certain. While my mother always had a book on the go - whatever crumbling paperback law thriller or murder mystery she'd been handed by the woman down the street when she was done it, which was then passed on to the next neighbor - my father and brothers preferred sports (either on TV or outside in the yard) over reading. I stumbled into fantasy and science fiction because Wil Wheaton was hot, and his show was on every Friday night, and from there I consumed every Star Trek tie-in novel my tiny rural library carried, then started following the authors of the novels into their other worlds and series.

So you won't be surprised to learn that this was how I found fan fiction for the first time. My "I love this, gee, I wonder what else there is?" muscle was well developed by junior high, and before the internet had come to The Middle Of Nowhere Rural Ontario, I had already gotten quite adept at search keywords and codexes to track down more books to consume.  Imagine my shock and joy when, in the middle of my Phantom of the Opera phase (come on, fess up, you had one too), the internet in my school library told me about not only Fredrick Forsyth and Susan Kay's stunning re-tellings, but of something called fan fiction.

I wasted a lot of the librarian's ink and paper printing out these books and secreting them into binders and pretending to do school work at my desk or backstage between scenes. A lot. And yes, I still have most of them.

And as we all well know, the jump between reading and writing is a short when one is submerged so fully in communities of creators. Everyone else's "What If" rubs off on you, and it's just a matter of time before you find yourself playing with the idea of coaxing a few plot bunnies over to spend some time with you. Not everyone loves to write, but gosh darn it, if you want to give it a try, then you couldn't ask for a better, more supportive community. It doesn't matter how new you are to it, everyone reads, everyone comments, everyone makes suggestions. People beta read. People edit. People co-write. People cheer, and support, and recommend, and enthuse. Yeah, there are the occasional jerks, flammers, and wank-mongers, but on the whole? There's literally no better place to learn how to be a writer than in fandom, I firmly believe this.

So, of course, born storyteller that I am, I had to give it a try.

I started writing fan fiction in 1991 for a small, relatively obscure Canadian/Luxembourg co-pro children’s show called Dracula: the Series.  I used to get up and watch it on Saturday mornings, in my PJs, before heading off to whichever rehearsal or read through or practice I had that year.

1995 brought the English dub of Sailor Moon to my life, (and put me on the path to voice acting), and along with a high-school friend, I wrote, printed out, illustrated, and bound my first “book” – a self-insert story that was just over eleven pages long, which introduced new Scouts based on us.  From there, I didn’t really stop.

1996 led me to Forever Knight and Dragon Ball Z, and from there to my friend’s basement where they’d just installed the internet. We chatted with strangers on ICQ, joined Yahoo!Groups and Bravenet Chat Boards. (Incidentally, a friend from my DBZ chat group turned out to be a huge DtS fan, too. We wrote a big crossover together which is probably only accessible on the Wayback Machine now. We stayed friends, helped each other through this writing thing, and now she’s Ruthanne Reid, author of the popular Among the Mythos series.)  In 2000 I got a fanfiction.net account and never looked back.

In 2001, while in my first year of university for Dramatic Arts, I made my first Real Live fandom friends. We wrote epic-length self-insert fics in Harry Potter and Fushigi Yuugi, cosplayed at conventions (sometimes using the on-campus wardrobe department’s terrifyingly ancient serger), and made fan art and comics in our sketchbooks around studying for our finals and writing essays on critical theory or classical Latin.  I was explaining the plot of the next big fic I was going to write to one of them, an older girl who had been my T.A. but loved Interview with the Vampire just as dearly as I, when she said, “You know, this sounds really interesting. Why don’t you strip all the fandom stuff out of the story and just write it as a novel?”

You can do that? was my first thought.

No! I don’t want to! Writing is my fun hobby. What will happen if I try to be a writer and get rejected by everyone and I end up hating it? was my second.

But the seed was planted.  Slowly at first, and then at increasingly obsessive pace, I began writing my first novel around an undergrad thesis,  fourth-year  essays,  several other big fanfics that popped me into the cusp of BNF status but never quite over the tine, and then a move to Japan to teach English. From 2002-2007 I wrote about 300 000 words on the novel that I would eventually shut away in my desk drawer and ignore until I published on Wattpad under my pseudonym on a lark. It was messy. It was long. It was self-indulgent and blatantly inspired by Master of Mosquiton, Interview with the Vampire, Forever Knight, and anything written by Tanya Huff, Laurell K. Hamilton, and Charlaine Harris. This was fine for fanfic, but in terms of being comfortable with presenting it to agents and publishing houses, I felt that it wasn’t original enough.

By this time I was teaching overseas, and in my spare time (and boy, was there a lot of spare time while sitting in a Japanese teacher’s office for 40 hours per week when one only actually teaches for 11 of them) I started applying to MA programs (where I eventually wrote my thesis on Mary Sue Fan Fiction). I also spent it researching “How to Get Published”, mostly by Googling it and/or buy/reading the few books on the topic in English I could find at the local book store or order from the just-then-gaining-international traction online bookstore Amazon.

What that research mostly told me was “Write and sell a bunch of short fiction first, so you have proof that a) you can do the work and b) you can finish what you promise you’ll finish and c) you have proof that other people think you’re worth spending money on.”

Short fiction. Huh. Of course we’d studied short stories in school, and I’d even taken a short story writing class in university, though nothing I’d written for the class was indicative of the kinds of stories I preferred to tell. But I felt pretty confident about this whole writing short stories thing… after all, I’d been doing weekly challenges for years. Drabbles. Flashfic. Stories and chapters that were limited to the word count cap that LiveJournal put on its posts. I’d written novellas without knowing that’s what they were called; I’d written whole novels about other people’s characters. All I needed was an idea. Short fiction I could do.

Unfortunately, everything that came to me was fanfic inspired. It frustrated me, because I didn’t want to write a serial-numbers-filed-off story. I wanted to write something original and epic and inspiring. Something just mine. I started and stopped a lot of stories in 2006-2007. I’d been doing NaNoWriMo for years by then, having been introduced to it in undergrad, and I was determined that this would be the year that I wrote something I could shop. Something just mine. Something unique.

While I adored fanfiction, I was convinced that I couldn't make a career on it.  What had once been a fun hobby soon because a source of torment. Why could I think of a hundred ways to write a meet-cute between my favorite ships, but come up utterly blank when it came to something new and original and just mine?

It took me a while to realize that my playwriting and short story teachers had been correct when they said that there are no original stories in the world, no way you can tell a tale that someone else hasn’t already tried. The "Man vs." list exists for a reason.

The unique part isn’t your story, it’s your voice. Your lived life, your experiences, your way of forming images and structuring sentences. Your choices about who the narrator character is, and what the POV will be, and how the characters handle the conflict. In that way, every piece of writing ever done is individual and unique, even the fanfic. Because nobody is going to portray that character’s quirk or speech pattern quite like you do, nobody is going to structure your plot or your imagery like you. Because there is only one of you. Only one of me. Even if we're all writing fanfiction, no one's story sounds like anyone else's,  or is told like anyone else's.

That is the reality of being a storyteller.

And strangely enough, the woman who opened my eyes to this was a psychic from a psychic fair I attended, who told me that Mark Twain was standing over her shoulder admonishing me to stop fretting and just get something on the page – but to never forget character. My strength, she said that he said, was in creating memorable, well written, well rounded characters. And that my book should focus on that above concerns of plot or pacing.

Well, okay. If Mark Twain says that’s what my strength is, then that’s what my strength is, right? Who am I to argue with the ghost of Mark Freaking Twain?

An accident with a bike and a car on a rice patty left me immobile for six weeks in 2006, and I decided that if I was finally going to write this original short story to sell – especially since I would need income, as the accident made it obvious that I would never be able to dance professionally, and probably would never be able to tread the boards in musicals – now was the perfect time. I was going to stop fighting my fannish training and write.

I cherry picked and combined my favorite aspects of Doctor Who, Stargate: Atlantis, Torchwood, The Farm Show/The Drawer Boy, and my own melancholy experiences with culture shock and liminal-living in a foreign culture, and wrote a novella titled (Back). It was a character study of a woman named Evvie who, through an accident of time travel, meets the future version of her infant daughter Gwen. And realizes she doesn’t like the woman her daughter will become. It was a story about accepting people for who they are, instead of who you wish they would be, and had a strong undercurrent of the turbulence I was going through in trying to figure out my own sexuality and that I wouldn't have the future in performance that I had been working toward since I was four.

Deciding that I would worry about where I would try to publish the story after it had been written, I sat down and wrote what ended up being (at least for me) a pretty standard-length fanfic: 18,762 words. It was only after I had finished the story that I looked up what category that put it in – Novella. Using paying  reputable markets, like Duotrope, the Writer’s Digest, MSFV, Absolute Write, SFWA, my local Writer’s Union, Writer Beware, I realized that I had shot myself in the foot.

It seems like nearly nobody publishes novellas anymore. SF/F and Literary Fiction seem to be the last two bastions of the novella, and the competition to get one published is fierce.  The markets that accepted SF/F novellas was vanishingly thin I had to do a lot of Googling and digging to figure out who I could submit to with an unagented/unsolicited SF/F novella. If I recall correctly, it was only about ten publications. I built an excel database and filled it with all the info I found.

I put together a query letter and sent it off using my database to guide me. Most of the rejections were kind, and said that the story was good, just too long/too short/ too sci-fi-y/not sci-fi-y enough. Only one market offered on it – for $10 USD. Beggers couldn’t be choosers, even if I had hoped to make a little more than ten bucks, and I accepted.

It was a paid professional publication, and that’s what mattered to me. I had the first entry on my bibliography, and something to point to in my query letters to prove that I was a worthy investment for a publisher/agent.

And energized by this, and now aware that length really does matter, even in online-only publications, I started writing other shorts to pad out my bibliography more.

I tried to tailor these ones to what my research told me the "mainstream industry" and "mainstream audiences" wanted, and those stories? Those were shot down one after the other. I was still writing fanfiction at the time, too, and those stories were doing well, getting lots of positive feedback, so why weren’t my stories?

In 2007 I returned to Canada and Academia, frustrated by my lack of sales, desperate to kick off my publishing career, and feeling a creative void left by having to depart theatre because of my new difficulties walking. I wrote my MA, and decided that if (Back) was the only original story that people liked, then I’d try to expand it into a novel.

Over the course of two years I did my coursework, and  read everything there was to read about how to get a book deal, started hanging out in writer’s/author’s groups in Toronto and met some great people who were willing to guide me, and expanded (Back) into the novel Triptych. I kept reminding myself what Mark Twain said – character was my strength, the ability to make the kind of people that other writers wanted to write stories about, a skill I’d honed while writing fanfic. Because that's what we do, isn't it? Sure, we write fix-its and AUs and fusions and finish cancelled shows, and fill in missing scenes, but what we're all really doing is playing with characters, isn't it? Characters draw us to fanfic, and characters keep us there. Characters is what we specialize in.

Fanfic had taught me to work with a beta reader, so I started asking my fic betas if they'd like a go at my original novel. Fellow fanfic writers, can I just say how valuable editors and beta readers in the community are? These are people who do something that I've paid a professional editor thousands of dollars to do for free out of sheer love. Treasure your beta readers, folks. Really.

“It reminds me a lot of fan fiction,” one reader said. “The intense attention to character and their inner life, and the way that the worldbuilding isn’t dumped but sprinkled in an instance at a time, like, you know, a really good AU. I love it.”

Dear Lord. I couldn’t have written a better recommendation or a more flattering description if I’d tried. Mark Twain was right, it seems. And fanfic was the training ground, for me – my apprenticeship in storytelling.

Of course... what Mr. Twain hadn't explained is that character-study novels just don't sell in SF/F. They say Harry Potter was rejected twelve times? HA. I shopped Triptych to both agents and small presses who didn't require you to have an agent to publish with them, and I got 64 rejections. Take that, J.K.

At first the rejection letters were forms and photocopied "no thanks" slips. But every time I got feedback from a publisher or agent, I took it to heart, adjusted the manuscript, edited, tweaked, tweaked, tweaked. Eventually, the rejections started to get more personal. "I loved this character, but I don't know how to sell this book." And "I really enjoyed the read, but it doesn't really fit the rest of our catalogue." And "What if you rewrote the novel to be about the action event that happens before the book even starts, instead of focusing solely on the emotional aftermath?"

In other words - "Stop writing fanfiction." There seemed to be a huge disconnect between what the readership wanted and what the publishing world thought they wanted.

Disheartened, frustrated, and wondering if I was going to have to give up on my dreams of being a professional creative, I attended Ad Astra, a convention in Toronto, in 2009. At a room party, complaining to my author friends that "nobody wanted my gay alien threesome book!" a woman I didn't know asked me about the novel. We chatted, and it turned out she was the acquisitions editor for Dragon Moon Press, and incidentally, also a fan of fan fiction.

I sent her Triptych. She rejected it. I asked why. She gave me a laundry list of reasons. I said, "If I can address these issues and rewrite it, would you be willing to look at it again?" She said yes. She was certain, however, that I wouldn't be able to fix it. I spent the summer rewriting - while making sure to stay true to my original tone of the novel, and writing a character-study fanfiction. I sent it in the fall. I do believe it was Christmas eve when I received the offer of publication.

From there, my little fic-inspired novel was nominated for two Lambda Literary Awards and a CBC Bookie, was named one of the best books of 2011 by the Advocate, and garnered a starred review and a place on the Best Books Of The Year at Publishers Weekly.

The award nominations led me to an agent, and further contracts, and even conversations with studio execs. It also made me the target of Requires Only That You Hate, and other cranky, horrible reviewers. But you know what? I've had worse on a forum, and on ff.n, and LJ. It sucked, and it hurt, but if there's one thing fandom has taught me, it's that not everyone is going to love what you do, and not everyone interprets things the same way you do. The only thing we can do is learn from the critique if it's valid and thoughtful, and ignore the screaming hate and bullying. Then you pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and go write something else.

 Because a screaming hater? Is not going to ruin my love of storytelling.

But for all that... the day someone made me fan art based on Triptych is one etched in my memory. It means far more to me than any of the emails I ever received inquiring about representation or film rights, or wanting meetings to discuss series.

The lesson I learned from publishing Triptych  - now sadly out of print, but we're looking for a new home for it - is that if I chase what the "mainstream" and the "industry" want, I'll never write anything that sells because my heart won't be in it. I have to keep writing like a fanficcer, even if I'm not writing fanfic, if I want to create something that resonates with people. And if it takes time for the publishers and acquiring editors to figure out what I'm doing, and how to sell it, then fine - I have an agent on my side now, and a small growing number of supporters, readers, and editors who love what I do.

Do I still write fanfic? Very, very rarely. I’ve had some pretty demanding contracts and deadlines in the last two years, so I’ve had to pare down my writing to only what’s needed to fulfill my obligations. Doesn’t mean I don’t have ideas for fics constantly.

Sometimes the urge is powerful enough that I do give into it – I wrote To A Stranger, based on Mad Lori’s Performance in a Leading Role Sherlock AU recently, when I should have been writing the second and third novels of The Accidental Turn Series. And even more recently, I cleaned up To A Stranger  into something resembling a real screenplay and started shopping it around to film festivals and producers because I love this story, I love what I did with it, and I’m proud of the work. If To A Stranger is only ever a fanfic, that’s fine with me. I poured my heart into it and am so proud of it. But I figure that if there’s one more project I could possibly get into the real world, then why not go for it?

The worst thing the festival heads and producers can say about the work is: “No, thank you.” And being an online writer has taught me not to take the “no, thank you”s personally. Applying the values of Don’t Like Don’t Read or Not My Kink to your publication/agent search makes it much easier to handle the rejections – not every story is for every person.

Maybe once every producer in North America has rejected it, I might think about working with someone to adapt the screenplay into an illustrated comic fanbook? Who knows?

That’s the joy of starting out as a writer in fandom – felixibility, adaptability, creative problem-solving and cross-platform storytelling comes as naturally as breathing to us fan writers. It’s what we do.

You may not think that this is a strength, but trust me, it is. I was never so shocked at an author’s meetup as when I suggested to someone that their “writer’s block” sounded to me like they were telling the story in the wrong format. “I think this is a comic, not a novel,” I’d said. “It sounds so visual. That's why the story is resisting you.” And they stared at me like I suddenly had an extra head and said, “But I’m a novelist.” I said, “No, you’re a writer. Try it.” They never did, as far as I know, and they never finished that book, either.

As fans, our strength isn't just in what we write, or how we come to our stories. It’s also about the physical practice of writing, too. We’re a group of people who have learned to carry notebooks, squeeze in a few hundred words between classes, or when the baby is napping, or during our lunch breaks, or on commute home. This is our hobby, we fit it in around our lives and jobs, and that has taught us the importance of just making time.

We are, on average, more dedicated and constant writers than some of the “novelists” that I’ve met: the folks who wait for inspiration to strike, who quit their day jobs in pursuit of some lofty ideal of having an office and drinking whiskey and walking the quay and waiting for madam muse to grace them, who throw themselves at MFAs and writing retreats, as if it's the attendance that makes them writers and not the work of it.

We fans are career writers. We don’t wait for inspiration to come to us, we chase it down with a butterfly net. We write when and where we can. More than that, we finish things. (Or we have the good sense to know when to abandon something that isn’t working.) We write to deadlines. Self-imposed ones, even.

We write 5k on a weekend for fun, and think NaNoWriMo’s 50k goal and 1667 words per day are a walk in the park. (When I know it terrifies some of the best-selling published authors I hang out with.) Or if we fans don’t write fast, then we know that slow and steady works too, and we’re willing to stick it out until our story is finished, even if it takes years of weekly updates to do so. We have patience, and perseverance, and passion.

This is what being a fanfiction writer has given me. Not only a career as a writer, but tools and a skill-set to write work that other people think is work awarding, adapting, and promoting. And the courage to stick to my guns when it comes to telling the kinds of stories that I want to tell.

This is what being a fanfiction writer gives us.

Aren’t we lucky, fellow fans? Hasn’t our training been spectacular?

*

J.M. (@scifrey) is a SF/F author, and professional smartypants on AMI Audio’s Live From Studio 5. She’s appeared in podcasts, documentaries, and on television to discuss all things geeky through the lens of academia. Her debut novel TRIPTYCH was nominated for two Lambda Literary Awards,  nominated for a 2011 CBC Bookie, was named one of The Advocate’s Best Overlooked Books of 2011, and garnered both a starred review and a place among the Best Books of 2011 from Publishers Weekly. Her sophomore novel, an epic-length feminist meta-fantasy THE UNTOLD TALE (Accidental Turn Series #1), debuted to acclaim in 2015 and was followed by THE FORGOTTEN TALE (Accidental Turn Series #2) this past December. FF.N | LJ |AO3| Books | Tumblr