Dennis Danvers’ Web Site

And none too soon. I’m giving a talk at the Library of Congress next week entitled, “What I’ve Learned Teaching Science Fiction.” More about that later, but what I learned this summer is not to put so much new stuff in the middle of the syllabus. Worn to a frazzle, I am. Hence my silence here for some weeks now. Still, it was a wonderful experience as always, getting to meet bright young people and teach them something about the literature I love. The honors for favorite movie in the Urban Fantasy class was a tie this year, between Let the Right One In and Donnie Darko. The favorite book was Miéville’s The City & The City, with Empire of Ice Cream and Anansi Boys a tie for second.  Adaptation and Stranger Than Fiction were invited to leave in equal measure.  They resist the notion of metafiction as a fantasy device, and Stranger Than Fiction fell to the cheesy accusation.  Fair enough.  Peter Straub’s lost boy lost girl didn’t charm them as it did me, and was the least favorite.  In a departure from previous years, feelings didn’t run so strong one way or the other on Kafka on the Shore, though I suspect more than a few might not have finished it.  I do need to find a shorter book, though once again I loved rereading it.

The finals are read.  The grades turned in.  Now where did I put that glass of wine?

Prayer

I am not a good man.
No need of a god to confess
that one to,
to offer penance—
passion’s ashes and a spent bag of wind—
every god’s treasure:
Another sorry old man
like Himself.

Or so the old ones say.
Not old like me, you understand,
but older-better, wiser, deader:
Eternal life, salvation, all of that.
That’s not what I’m after—what comes after.
I’ve had a glimpse, caught a whiff.
That changes things, the small disaster.
Tenses shift.
Time is altered.
I have not been a good man.

They were a terrific bunch, very likable and smart and thoughtful.  These kids today.  I didn’t always feel at the top of my game, especially on bad hamstring days, but they usually had something interesting to say.  Their unfavorite book, by a wide margin, was Snow Crash—even worse than Neuromancer in years past.  Forever War was once again the class favorite, though Boneshaker was a strong second.  They were quite enthusiastic about Boneshaker the first day we discussed it, when a construction worker accidentally set off the wrath-of-God alarm system, ending that discussion.  When we returned the next day, the spark had gone, but I would definitely teach the book again.  One thing the class especially liked about the book was Briar, a strong female character.  The one thing most liked about Snow Crash was the character of Y.T., another strong female character.  Some of the best papers were definitely on Boneshaker.  They liked the book better than I did (I wearied immediately of the sullen whiny adolescent boy), so I learned a lot about it from them.  I love it when that happens.  Monday Urban Fantasy begins, and I’m spending the weekend with Anansi Boys.  We’re practically old friends.  Throw me in that briar patch, Neil!

The envelope please.  Every year I ask my students to vote on their favorite and least favorite items on the syllabus.  We watched the last of the films, and the somewhat surprising winner was 2001: A Space Odyssey.   The clear loser?  T2.  So much for the conventional wisdom that these kids today require non-stop action and will reject Kubrick’s glacial pace like a bowl of cold oatmeal.  Second place went to Sleep Dealer, which pleased me.  It’s a very smart film.  The Rocky Horror Picture Show was beloved by fans, but as is often the case with fans, they weren’t eager to articulate the sources of their affection.  While Body Snatchers was nobody’s fave, it was still a success with most of the class.  I also just read their papers in which they review an sf film of their choosing.  A particularly good paper on Repo Man has me reconsidering that cult gem for the problematic 80′s.

It seemed like such a good idea—to include the most watched sf movie ever made—The Rocky Horror Picture Show—but I discovered that watching a movie in an inebriated state, throwing food, and shouting ritual responses are poor preparation for any critical appreciation of a film.  It’s become inseparable from its ritual.  There was a small but quiet group of loyalists, but for the most part, the movie tanked.  I identified with Eddie.  Looks like its back to Alien next year.  The Forever War, however, was successful once again.  This is an excellent class, their papers were quite good, and they’re not afraid to talk and disagree.  We screen T2 today, and who doesn’t like the Governator?  My classroom is next to the stairwell, so the noise doesn’t carry fortunately.  We can blow shit up to our heart’s content.  I’m showing the superior theatrical cut.  Cameron’s restored scenes in DVD release are mostly plot-bloating cheese, especially the dopey ghost-of-Kyle scene in the mental hospital.  Then on to Snow Crash, a book that’s growing on me, especially the incisive descriptions of the burbscape.  I do wish Neal Stephenson would follow Miéville’s fine example and write something of a teachable length!

First of all, the department changed the course number, and the class was listed in the schedule of classes as simply “Readings in Literature.”  No one knew they were signing up for a science fiction class.  A couple were pleased.  Some were stunned.  Some are gone.  To make matters more complicated, the first book on the reading list, The Stars My Destination, is out of print (even though according to the bookstore Random House took the order and only told the store last minute).  Scrambling to rearrange the schedule, I’ve had to front load the movies, so we’re barely underway and watching 2001: A Space Odyssey—all of it.  Fast-paced it ain’t.  So a week has gone by, they’ve watched two movies, and I barely know them except for their names.  They turn in the first paper on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? when we return on Tuesday.  I’ve read the novel close to a dozen times now and still enjoy it and find new things in it.  Here’s hoping my students liked it too.

Sarah and I vacationed in DC and took advantage of its many socialist pleasures like public transportation and art museums.  Since I’m writing about angels, I went hunting in the Renaissance and came back with some interesting images.  Check out the colorful wings on this flock:

My favorite, however, has to be this Nativity with the tiny angels just visible in the top of the stable, and an air traffic controller guiding them in:

This review appeared recently on Beam Me Up—

Tails of Wonder & Imagination
Edit by Ellen Datlow
from Night Shade Books

Do you think of yourself as a cat fancier? Do stories about cats or with cats as the main character garner more than just a little interest? Well have I got a book for you! Tails of Wonder edited by Ellen Datlow has collected some of the finest “catâ€? stories I have seen to date. Now I am not talking about the cutesy puss in boots tales (no pun intended) either. Some of the most heart wrenching and frightening stories are contained within the covers, by some of the most esteemed authors in the field today. Stephen King, George R.R. Martin and Mary A. Turrizllo to name a few. Mary’s story you might remember from an earlier BMU program, is Pride which tells the story of a long dead sabre tooth tiger brought back through regressive dna (I know, I am mangling the science) and the horrifying effect that the big cat has on modern society. Or the absolutely indescribable Cat Skin by Kelly Link and one of my favorites in the book Healing Benjamin by Dennis Danvers is absolutely heart breaking.

Forty two stories in all with a fine intro by Ellen gives enough selection than anyone is likely to find several well worth the cost of the volume. I thought I would be wanting at the end knowing that most of the stories would be classified as fantasy, but I had no problem getting to the end and often a lot of trouble just putting it down.

This would be one that I would suggest you checking out no matter what your main story venue is. I think even the most hardened amongst us can warm to this collection.

posted by Beam Me Up at 2:50 PM on May 13, 2010

Summer school starts Monday, so I’m crazy busy.  I’ll be back with news from that front when time allows.

I just heard today that Realms of Fantasy will be publishing another story of mine, “The Banjo Singer.”  While “Here’s What I Know,” previously published by Realms mythologized my father’s life, this one’s about my mom, by way of the fantastic, of course.  Here’s how it begins—

The Banjo Singer

Marie’s father was a large man with hands square and flat like coal shovels.  He owned the music store where Marie worked—like her dead mother before her.  She was a quiet girl, slim and slightly bent like a young tree planted in the way of a tireless north wind, but stronger for it.  There was something discomforting in her gaze if you looked her in the eye, and so Marie rarely looked others in the eye, not wanting to make anyone uncomfortable.

Afternoons she helped her father among the tubas and piccolos and banjoes and violins and thought them all of  no real importance.  Wood tubes, bent brass, strung wires and cat gut—they were dead things.  She wanted to be a singer.  She was a singer.  She wanted this all her life, though few had ever heard her sing.   Even at birthday parties or at Christmas when everyone sang, she always busied herself doing something else.  In church, she never voiced the words, for she knew if prayers were answered, her life would be quite different altogether….

I suppose it began with the Walkman.  I never actually owned one, but I borrowed them enough to know I didn’t really want my own personal soundtrack except on rare occasions, usually stationary at my desk.  So I wasn’t tempted by the iPod, though I listen to most of my music on my computer.  But my big step was in not getting a cell phone.  I still don’t have one.  As far as I can tell, it’s still a chronically unreliable technology, rather like owning an American car in the 70′s.  A favorite subject of social conversation now is cell phone woes.  Nearly all of you understand these better than I.  A nice young woman at dinner last night said she’d started receiving anonymous porn messages on her cell.  Many wish they could do without their cell phones, but they are cursed for life apparently.  Sort of like me and heart meds.  I do appreciate that cell phones have made eavesdropping on intimate conversations about damn near anything way easier, and for all that good material, I am grateful and unrepentant.

As a writer working at home during the day, I’m not crazy about The Phone.  Or, as I often call it, The Phucking Phone.  The no call list helps, but since the biggest biz in the world (American Politics) isn’t excluded, interruptions still abound.  I’m also fond of those Rat Bastards who claim to be charitable raising money for the police, orphans, et. al. and keeping 90% themselves.  There are also times, I confess, that I haven’t wanted an employer or deranged lover to be able to reach me on the phone.  So I wasn’t exactly enticed by the cellular technology that evoked images of no escape.  Hundreds of earnest pitches have been made to me by users based on Safety.  What if I Break Down?!  Like I said, just like an American Car in the 70′s.  I’ll probably die being run over by a motorist on a cell phone who ignored me in the crosswalk, and I’m sure all the witnesses will have cell phones to report the matter, take my picture, post to YouTube…

When I teach science fiction writing, I’m always advising students to remember who doesn’t use the technology they’re imagining.  A homogenous world isn’t plausible. Now I’m in a minority of non-users of what I’ve heard called “a necessity of modern life.”  Most apparently agree.  A friend sent me a NYT article with the following factoid:  Only 15% of Americans don’t have cell phones for various reasons, mostly bad coverage or can’t afford it.  I’m in a well-covered city and could afford it, making my reason “Chooses not to.”  You know how many gave that answer?  5%.  We’re talking tiny minority.  This happened very quickly.  I know there were clunkoid phones in the 80′s, but the fever’s been less than 20 years.  It’s now become a cultural study for me.  How long can I hold out?  When will I join in the fun?  When will I be safe?