Kathleen Ann Goonan

Last night I watched News Hour coverage of Lessing’s Nobel Prize.  They interviewed a professor from GWU, and one question they asked was about her science fiction.  The answer was, roughly, that because Lessing had been writing for sixty years, she was bound to do something “silly” at least once. 

They just don’t get it. 

It seems to me that Lessing doesn’t really care all that much about what people think or say about her work, which is not a surprise.  But if she did come out with a good long Nobel-Laureate statement about science fiction, it might set these people back a bit, these fierce barking defenders of the self-proclaimed Boundaries of Fiction. 

Here’s the link:  http://calico-reaction.livejournal.com/41472.html  This is a very thoughtful and extensive review.  It’s always nice to know that someone Got It.  The reviewer, Shara Saunsaucie, is a music major, so she understands the connection of music theory with quantum theory.  

As for me, I’m kind of burrowed down into serious work on The Next Novel.  It’s a good feeling. The September issue of LOCUS is out, and it features an interview with me. 

Not everyone has a good grasp of history, but my father had a really strange experience not long ago. 

He was wearing a visor that read WWII Veteran when he went to the doctor’s office.  A technician asked him if he’d fought in a war.  He said, “Yes.” 

“What war?”

Now he was really puzzled.  “World War Two.”

“Where was that?”

“Everywhere.  It was a world war.”

“So were you in Vietnam?”

“England, France, and Germany.”

At that point the conversation failed completely. 

This woman appeared to be a native-born American; she’d had technical training.  But she’d never heard of WWII. 

Apparently, she was badly Left Behind. 

A few weeks ago my sister and I were driving past the elementary school we both attended.  She was in part of kindergarten and part of first grade; I was in part of fourth grade and part of fifth grade (we moved a lot).  It was in Northern Virginia, about three miles out of D.C.

She said, “I wonder what happened to the Bomb Shelter?  Do you think it’s still there?”

“What bomb shelter?” I asked.

“Don’t you remember?  We had to bring in canned goods and water to store there in case of a nuclear attack.”

It was part of the basement, ready, I suppose, for all of us elementary schoolers in case we were trapped there when the inevitable nuclear missile hit D.C.  What were they thinking?  How long could we have stayed there?  As a teacher, all I can think of is What A Mess!  A couple of hundred young kids trapped underground, forced to eat cold Campell’s Noodle Soup, Mmmm Mmmm Good, and listen to the Emergency Broadcast System.  Of course, that’s what actually happened in Europe and in England for many years, but here was the added threat of radioactivity.  I wonder if there was some kind of protocol booklet or memo for the teachers. 

Even though I don’t specifically remember it, the anxiety of those days obviously stuck with me.  I guess that when we got a little bit older, we were all angry about the fact that the possibility of war made us crouch under our desks and hoard canned goods and went out and protested against war. 

Actually, it is Portrait of a Silk Thread, Newly Discovered Works of Billy Strayhorn.  Koko 1310. 

It’s kind of like an Alternate Jazz, if there is such a thing.  Hearing a world that was, like Bebop, there, but not widely known when things were really going down.  The pieces are played by the Dutch Jazz Orchestra.  They are lilting, lovely, energetic, and, most of all, musically and intellectually daring.  Written over a thirty-year period, most of these were not played by Ellington’s various bands, and are played using Strayhorns original, never-played, never-before-recorded scores. 

I hope that there are more such projects soon.   

All right, let’s get this out of the way. 

I can’t sleep.  At night.  During the day, I fall asleep quite easily. 

Reasons?  Pain, from hip bursitis, and possibly rheumatoid arthritis, which my mother has. She is wheelchair-bound and her hands are gnarled and she is in constant pain.  But she is always in good spirits and does not complain, like I am about to.  She was not diagnosed until late in life, and I don’t expect to be either.   Also, I broke my leg while hiking the Kalalau Trail in 1988 (see “Travel;” I wrote an article about the trip which I sold to the Washington Post, and I think about half my web visits are to that page, from tourist agencies in Hawaii) and because I was running four miles a day at the time, I simply could not stay off the leg long enough to let it heal properly. 

And maybe it’s just because I’m from a family of night owls, who have more than a touch of narcolepsy.  I’ve been diagnosed as having fibromyalgia, which I think is a lot of hooey, but that’s what they say. 

Add regular migraines.  Now, all of this junk only started happening in about 1998, so I haven’t been this pitiful all my life.  However, I generally am not awake until about nine a.m.  I do get up at 6:30 twice a week to ride bikes with my husband for 11 miles.  I can’t say that I am fully awake during this time, because once we get back home, I fall asleep and make up the time. 

After a trip to Europe in 1984, when I discovered strong coffee (subsequently the rest of the country has done so as well), I found that it helped a lot.  But nothing can take the place of nine hours of sleep. 

I’m going to post the article I wrote for a friend of mine who edits the Journal  of the American Academy of Pain Practitioners.  At least, she used to; she is now the director of the organization.  She called me out of the blue a few years ago and told me that I must be in a lot of pain. I laughed and said I was:  I had just finished moving out of a house that day and was sitting on the floor of the empty living room.  She said she had read LIGHT MUSIC and CRESCENT CITY RHAPSODY and realized that I suffered from migraines.  I did inflict them on my characters; horrific ones. 

Eventually she pursuaded me to write and article for her journal about migraine, which I will post here soon. 

Add to this the fact that I can’t see very well (yes, I do wear glasses, but with two cateract operations I have “monovision,” which I don’t wish on anyone–it is very hard to correct for near and far vision at the same time, with the same lens), and I’m sure that I can seem a little strange.

But I’m used to it.  I’ve been strange most of my life. 

End of “I don’t do mornings.”

It seems that some clarification is in order.  The marvelous, beautifully run Heinlein Centennial was not in any was associated with the Heinlein Society.  Although I never said that it was, directly, one of my pre-meeting posts had the words Heinlein Society in it, and a hard link between this blog and the HS page was created. 

The meeting was actually the result of a lot of hard work by the Kansas City Science Fiction and Fantasy Society, which deserves a lot of praise for one of the best-organized and most professional meetings I’ve attended.  The Gala itself was spectacular, and on a par with any of the Hugo ceremonies that I’ve attended.  I was honored to have been a small part of the celebration of Robert Heinlein’s 100th birthday. 

That I read a trillion (all right, maybe only about fifteen) books about the Kennedy brothers, the CIA, and various conspiracy theories in order to write a portion of IN WAR TIMES. 

On Sunday, I read BROTHERS, by David Talbot, in its entirety, except for the notes.  I intend to read the notes.  They are interesting. It is about John and Robert Kennedy, and covers JFK’s Presidency and the interlude between his murder and Robert Kennedy’s.  Mostly it is about the theory that Bobby did not have the power to properly investigate his brother’s murder, and intended to do so if he was elected President. 

On the whole, it was pretty depressing.  It is difficult to believe that our entire government is a facade. . . or is it?  Being of a cynical turn of mind, I’ve joined the ranks of those who believe that both Kennedys were killed by a conspiracy.  This has been a long time coming, but was pretty much cemented when I read book after book about the CIA, the assassination, and the evidence.  And the problem is that the conspiracy seems to have been within our government. 

The Cubans who left Cuba while they could, those with money, were counting on the U.S. to get rid of Castro.  The Joint Chiefs knew that the Bay of Pigs plan would fail, though they assured Kennedy that it would succeed, and expected him to provide U.S. Military air cover.  Because this might have escalated into war, Kennedy did not.  The military was mad.  The Joint Chiefs were mad.  The Cubans were (and still are) mad.  And the Mafia, which wanted back its lucerative casinos, was mad. 

I was watching TV when Oswald was shot.  School let out early on the 23rd, which I think was a  Thursday, and that was it for the week.  No one knew what was going on–perhaps the Soviets had done it and would now nuke Washington, where we lived. 

This is how I happened to be sitting in front of the television set watching coverage with my two younger sisters.  Our mother would not allow us to watch anything as violent as The Three Stooges (well, she also didn’t want us to think that adults could be that stupid, but now that I are one, I think that it’s adulthood’s normal state, particularly when it comes to matters of motor control), but the news is okay.  So imagine our shock when this fat guy strides up to the Guy Who Just Killed Our President, who is being obligingly held by two policemen standing rather far off to each side, and shoots him pointblank.  Oswald looks puzzled and crumples forward.  Pandemonium.  Camera swings, shouting. 

It was the start of a whole new era.  I don’t think today’s 11-year-old would be all that startled and stunned, but I don’t know. 

Anyway, Talbot’s book is sharp, moves right along, is very well-organized, and thoroughly makes its case:  that there was a conspiracy. 

On Monday, I turned to HALF OF A YELLOW SUN.  It is the story of Biafra, written in lucid prose, fully immersive.  It is about the birth and death of Biafra, the colonial history of Nigeria, and how these individuals survive.  It rather drove home the lesson of political upheaval, violence, and uncertainty that began with BROTHERS.  The survivors, being fictional and exquisitely portrayed, become, for the most part, wiser.  But, again, a depressing book simply because one wonders:  when will it end? 

Having stayed up way past my bedtime to finish it, I did not start a new book today.  I do have to write, at some point. 

I’m laying the groundwork for my new novel, which mainly consists of just writing until things begin to sharpen up.  I think it’s a bit like the newborn growing lots of synapses, which are then pruned.  All kinds of possible characters and scenarios appear, like shells washed onto a beach during a storm.  When I look at these notes later–don’t refer to them a whole lot while I’m writing the novel, though, because it’s really the process that matters–I’m always surprised at all of the surplus, things I didn’t use. 

I read like mad while I’m writing; mostly nonfiction.  Last month I ordered a lot of books and haven’t had much of a chance to look at them.  I went to my bookshelf and beheld the abovementioned Riches:  HALF A YELLOW SUN, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adicheie.  She’s a multiple prizewinner, holds a fellowship at Princeton, and is from Nigeria.  Her book takes place in Africa.  I’m working on a short story that takes place in Africa, at least part of it.  Therefore.  Actually, it just seemed so lovely when I read an exerpt online that I bought it instantly. 

LIBRA, Delillo.  Because it is about the Kennedy Assassination.  Ditto, BROTHERS, which is about the relationship between John and Robert.  Pertains to the novel in progress. 

DIVISADER, Oondaatje, for dessert at some point.  ENDLESS THINGS, Crowley, for the same reason. 

SUITE FRANCAISE, by Irène Némirovsky.  She was born in the Ukraine, but had lived in France for years and published nine novels before the Nazis took over.  Eventually, both she and her husband were rounded up and sent to camps, where they died.  She was writing this novel pretty much as events happened.  Her daughter saved the notebook, but didn’t actually read it until 1990, when she discovered, by all accounts, a stunning novel. 

REBEL VISIONS:  The Underground Comix Revolution 1963-1975, Rosenkranz.  I’m borrowing this from my friend Pam Noles, who has vowed to help me with the Underground Comics aspect of the novel, as well as the Graphic Novel aspect.  I had a great collection of underground Newspapers from the sixties and early seventies from all over the country; don’t know where they are now.  Now, I’m rather irritated by how sexist they were.  My character will have to be the true rebel, as she is a woman. 

And the latest Big Mark Twain bio, by Powers.  I’m a Mark Twain junkie (see MISSISSIPPI BLUES) and a bio junkie as well, but it is the least pressing of these reads.  I have the new Edith Wharton by Hermione Lee simply because her Virginia Woolf biography was so wonderful.  I must get Andrew Hodge’s ALAN TURING:  THE ENIGMA because Lisa Yaszek, the vice-president of SFRA and my panel-partner there (though I didn’t knit the two halves together very well) recommends it. 

Those are the main things.  Besides all the books about the brain, memory, etc.  THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON MUSIC is outstanding; THE FEMALE BRAIN is for the most part irritating.