My friend posted this link to his Facebook wall yesterday along with a badge proclaiming that his writing style is like David Foster Wallace’s. Of course I had to rush off right away and try it for myself, with disappointing results. I entered sections of text from Tattoo and got Chuck Palaniuk. I did love Fight Club, the film, but I’ve never managed to get more than 30 pages into a Palaniuk story before discarding it. Sniffily, I repeated the experiment with a different passage and got Vladimir Nabokov. Another writer I’ve never “gotten.” Curious to see if the program would generate the same result each time, I entered text from Bleat and She Alone Can Move Me, varying from strictly prose sections to heavy dialogue, and was told that I write like Stephenie Meyer, Ursula LeGuin and Stephen King. With the exception of some of King’s earlier works (I devoured “Carrie” when I was a teen), more authors I haven’t read. I pasted in a few ‘graphs of a recent email to a friend and finally received the laudable “Your write like David Foster Wallace.”

The process left me wondering how many authors were included in the list of comparisons. How many were women vs men? Were there any writers of color? Any international writers? If the test compares your style to modern American authors, ok. The results left me tepid. I’d hoped to be surprised, even rewarded (“You write like Tanith Lee, Dorothy Parker and Anais Nin all rolled into one!”). I suspect that the program is a simple algorithm that analyzes keywords, sentence length and structure, and prose vs dialogue. How can we really write like other authors, even when we try? Though many genres seem homogenized, there’s always a distinct tweak to the style that differentiates it from other writer’s voices, for better or worse.

I suspect that this program was created by one guy–mid 20s-mid 30s, college educated, white, single or married but dreamy/drifty and vaguely unhappy, someone who doesn’t wash his jeans too often and probably sports a subtle affectation of scruffiness because A) he thinks it makes him look cool and hearkens back to some Beatnik ideal and B) it displeases his mother)–and comprises the sum total of his cultural and literary awareness. He has never read bell hooks, Kobo Abe, Jewelle Gomez, Chinua Achebe, Angela Carter or Kathe Koja. Maybe I’m just being snarky. Maybe I’m just creating another character.

By the way, after pasting this post in the analyzer, I’m told I now I write like Jonathan Swift.

Kirsten Imani Kasai

PS!

Hey! I’m going to be at Comic Con Saturday July 24, so I hope you’ll stop by and check out my panel (one of i09′s “don’t miss” events!)

Welcome to The Future: Are You Sure You Want to Stay?-
Speculative fiction authors discuss visions of the future, dystopian and otherwise. Authors include Samuel R. Delany (Dhalgren), Alan Dean Foster (Flinx Transcendent), Cody Goodfellow (Perfect Union), Kirsten Imani Kasai (Ice Song), Dani Kollin and Eytan Kollin (The Unincorporated War), Nnedi Okorafor (Who Fears Death), David Weber (Honor Harrington novels), David J. Williams (The Machinery Of Light), and Charles Yu (How To Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe). Moderated by Maryelizabeth Hart of Mysterious Galaxy.
When: 4:30-5:30
Where: Room 4

OK, that really has nothing to do with my post. It was just a random Seinfeld moment. (Mandelbaum!)

When all this book stuff start kicking off in Nov. 2007, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep for about three weeks. Sleep deprivation turned a minor cold into a nasty sinus infection, which in turn wreaked havoc on my head-innards, resulting in total blockage and a lot of misery. Last Wednesday, my doctor, a very lovely and conscientious woman and her stellar OR team broke apart the little eggshell thin bones in my sinuses and snipped out the offensive tissue. Now, a very small man could probably go spelunking in there. It was a roller coaster week of evaluating the possible complications and trying to make peace with the idea of waking up blind or not at all, brain fluid leaking from my head, mysterious, unstoppable geysers of blood…I could go on. I’ve quite the imagination for gore, you know. I came home, woozy from anesthesia and promptly went to bed, where I stayed for three days. How lovely to have a valid excuse to avoid domestic tedium! I read, watched many eps. of Bones and slept and dreamed.

Doing nothing is creatively fruitful. While I was too weary to write, I spent much time thinking, a highly underrated pastime. It is one of my favorite hobbies, second only to drinking whiskey and eating cookies. We are afforded precious little time to simply sit and mull. What fun it is!

I’m ready to get back to work and pin down some of those ideas before they’re gone. The blank spot that is the two hours of lost consciousness is like a demarcation line separating before and after. Whatever writing-related agonies that manifested in my tissues over the past 3 years have been excised. A loop is pulled closed. There is a sense of something having been taken from me, allowing me to move forward less burdened. I’m not prone to sentiment or applying meaning to random occurrences, but a part of me is convinced that there’s something terribly profound in choosing to face death (however likely or unlikely the possibility), and its silent black nothingness.

Worries about what would happen to my next book flitted nervously about. We haven’t even begun the line edit yet. What if something terrible happened to me? Would Tattoo die too? Could I assign its completion and editorial duties to a friend or team of friends? It would be like selecting a godparent for my child. Would anyone be willing to take the responsibility? In the end, I convinced myself there was no need to be extra-morbid and adopted a very que sera, sera attitude about the whole thing, and here I am, alive to write another day.

I can breathe easy now, literally and figuratively. Let the line edit commence!

Robert Stanley was arrested in 1837 for being "Dressed Phantastically."

I do so wish I could see what he was wearing! http://ht.ly/20K3p

Something like this, perhaps?

This is your new blog post. Click here and start typing, or drag in elements from the top bar.

Happy news!

ICE SONG won for Best Sci-fi/Fantasy in the Published Fiction category at Saturday's San Diego Book Awards!

My fellow Page a Day Writer's Group member and blogger,
Michelle Zive won Best Memoir in the Unpublished Fiction category for “Holding On and Letting Go: A Mother’s Story.”








Playing in my my head as I took the stage:

I used to be a "discovery writer." Oddly enough, I didn't even know there was a name for my writing style until just a couple of years ago, so far into my rabbit hole was I. Back then, I began a book or story on the strength of a head full of images, voices, snippets of plot and conversation, and then proceeded to weave them together, if a bit clumsily. This method creates a manuscript which requires much refining and retooling. It's perfect for Joycean stream of consciousness stories, less so for those that become densely plotted or depend on a solidly built new world. I think I got (mostly) lucky with ICE SONG.

Oddly enough, I didn't even know there was a name for my writing style until just a couple of years ago, so far into my rabbit hole was I. Back then, I began a book or story on the strength of a head full of images, voices, snippets of plot and conversation, and then proceeded to weave them together, if a bit clumsily. This method creates a manuscript which requires much refining and retooling. It's perfect for Joycean stream of consciousness stories, less so for those that become densely plotted or depend on a solidly built new world. I think I got (mostly) lucky with Ice Song, because I was following the traditional format of a fairy tale. But as I begin my fourth novel Asta Requited, and the third in the saga of Sorykah, the gender-switching Trader, I'm taking a  new tack.

Deb Ayers introduced me to the Hero's Journey and Vogler's The Writer's Journey, which lit up my brain with a firecracker explosion of insight. Next, Claire Fadden shared Larry Brook's Storyfix concepts with the group. More light show displays. Then I really and truly understood the meaning, purpose and placement of the inciting incident, and plot and pinch points, hooks, archetypes, the classic conflicts and resolutions. As Eddie Murphy said, way back in '82, "You gotta have a hook!"  Suddenly, the big doors of the writing temple opened, and previously vexing koans revealed their glorious simplicity. It was thrilling.

You want foreshadowing? Bam! You got it!
You want structure? Bah da bing! You got it, baby!

Asta Requited is going to be different. I'm a more confident mother/creator/writer now. I understand all the parts and their placement and will lay out my foundation in advance, rather than building the house first and then having to shore up sagging supports. It feels like more work to begin with a Hero's Journey worksheet and Story Structure worksheet (cheat sheets I made for myself), to outline and really peg out the high points, but, it's work I'd have to do anyway. This time, I'm mapping out the book. I know that my hook and foreshadowing go in the first few pages, if not paragraphs. I know (roughly) which chapters contain plot points, and the essential info needed there.

There's still plenty of freedom allotted for discovery-writing. I depend on and look forward to my characters taking charge of their own stories and surprising me. They just won't be running the show this time. It's a bit more challenging, since I'm not a terribly organized thinker and resistant to routine, but I have a new sense of comfort and certainty as I go forth. I may wander through imaginary foreign lands, but I don't need to get lost there. Sometimes, it's nice to have a map.

The nights feel weirdly empty without a novel to work on. It’s just this long strange stretch of time. Of course, I have plenty of work, but there’s still a hollowness, an echoing silence. The room is quiet, I’ve got a couple of beers in me (Newcastle, if you must know) and New Young Pony Club on the headphones. Music doesn’t drown out those blaring alarm clocks though. You know the ones. The Other Projects.  As soon as I type “The End” (rather literally or figuratively), and set a finished manuscript aside, the alarms spring to life, each one ringing more loudly, shrilly and more insistently than the others, wanting to be heard.

Each story elects one character as its representative, and they stream forward like supplicants approaching the queen upon her throne, their arms piled high with offerings. We’ll let you talk about cannibalism & leeches, says one. Remember that scene in the country, those bare backs splayed across hot, sun-soaked boulders, prods another. Choose me, cries the memoir. I’ll hold your hair back while you purge.

How do I want to feel for the next year? What squirrelly set of emotions shall I choose to immerse myself in? Which sensations do I crave? What do I have the stamina for? Should I reward myself by writing something light and fun, or dive into the abyss and swim for the bottom?

Being between projects–it’s like being a spirit in limbo.I have to find my way back to the land of the living and shut off those damned clocks. To get there, I have to listen and answer the call of the story that most needs telling. Once I’m committed to the project, the hours will again have purpose. But until then, ice cream.

Passed a landmark today–another draft finished! This was a big and rather gory one, the remaking of  Tattoo from a jumbled dream to a somewhat-more-streamlined and chronological dream. At least I hope it’s ordered enough to make sense to someone else. I admit that I have a problem with time lines. I don’t think in straight lines; I think in circuits, stars, snowflakes and fun house mirror images. There is at times, I think, too much of the dream world in my stories. In my dreams, I jump from character to character and scene to scene, loosely following some disjointed narrative. You know how dreams are. Like some strange, art house film that makes more sense to the director than the audience, even though they can get the gist of it.

So I’m trying to be more linear, I really am. That meant going back through the whole thing and untangling all my plot threads, a bit like carding wool, unpicking the knots and retying them. I thought I had it all worked out until I woke up this morning and remembered that it takes nine months to grow a baby. I’d convinced myself that the entire novel took place within one week. Carding, again. Stretching, shaping, cleaning. We move from spring to summer to fall. The book closes as the season turns, and hopefully, everything is at last in its right place.

Foodies and history buffs will love browsing FXCuisine.com.
Learn how to make a port-wine infused Stilton, tag along on a saffron harvest, learn the knack of perfect paper-thin crepes and more. Travel back in time to the medieval age and brew your own Hippogras (spiced wine), Italian lung & tongue sausage and primitive Tyrolian cheese, with a pong guaranteed to make corpses sit up and gag.

 Head over to ConDor XVII, San Diego's own sci-fi/fantasy convention, Feb. 26-28, 2010. I'll be speaking on three discussion panels. Stop by and say hi!

Saturday, 4 pm: Grand Ballroom II
Victorian Society – Kirsten Imani Kasai, Sherwood Smith, Bret Culpepper

Saturday, 7 pm: Executive Room
Sexuality and Gender in SF - Kirsten Imani Kasai, Virginia Waks, Lisanne Norman, Jane Fancher, Sweta Nararyan

Sunday, 10 am: Balboa Room
Adapting Fairy Tales - Kirsten Imani Kasai, Michael Underwood, C. J. Cherryh, Nancy Holder

It will be a fantastic event chock-full of speculative fiction, steampunk and Victorian gear, knitting, costume and armor classes, author signings, dancing and fun!

Hope to see you there!