The world beyond my kitchen window is an explosion of summer's beauty. Peaches and pears fall over themselves on the counter behind me; trees boast their lushness, seemingly winking at passers-by as they offer a respite from September's inevitable bustle. While busy, the Ontarian Fall is a delayed spectacular affair. With the marketing world pushing pumpkin spice onto our sensibilities, firmly reminding us to put away our sunshine dreams, September continues to present summer's last fabulous aspects.
This is the time to look up into the canopies, listen as birds flit overhead, marvel at the bounty that is our local gardens. Gorge on tomatoes, eat corn by the bucket, sip lemonade as you observe the world becoming just a little crisper, more colourful. I gush but I am consistently amazed by the boundaries our culture imposes on the natural world. The seasons are more a continuous song of life rather than the beginnings and endings that are simultaneously lamented and glorified. September's back to school, return to the serious business of being busy resonates little for me. Rather, this in-between stage presents an opportunity for reflection. September is life heightened to its peak of summer glory, tipping into a new phase bringing with it renewed reasons to just go outside.
Whatever way you choose to view this slip from summer into fall, seek out a bench, preferably tucked secretly amidst a cove of greenery and read. There is enough going on these months ahead to take away our inner reading-selves. And as my little world, with my little family inevitably rushes along, I have discovered the wonders of the SF short story. A well-written, tightly-bound short can have a profound effect on a reader. The inherent character of its length energizes imaginations more fully than most perfectly executed novels. An idea not fully realized is a tantalizing gift. Like a seed, the short story's concept continues to shift and shape long after the final paragraph is read. Without the space to explore an author can play, toying with plot-lines that if further developed might lay flat rather than shine as most do within this particular format.
I have been preoccupied with two collections: Space Opera by Rich Horton and Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show. Being a self-diagnosed space opera junky, the chances of me walking out of the local bookstore without Rich Horton's collection was an improbability. The man basically visualized me in his mind as his target audience, proceeding to pack the book with some of the best examples of space goodness. With authors like Kage Baker, Naomi Novik, James Patrick Kelly, Alastair Reynolds and Yoon Ha Lee part of the line up, the book glows from the wonders bound within.
With all the space operatic madness to choose from no short story compared to the scope of pure imagination that is Yoon Ha Lee's The Knight of Chains, The Deuce of Stars . Lee's genius is his ability to move the printed word into a three-dimensional kaleidoscope of colours, formulating a poetic explosion that overpowers the reader with opulence. When a story begins with "The tower is a black spire upon a world whose only sun is a million starships wrecked into a mass grave.", a park bench worthy of such a sentence is required.
But not all short stories need to smash your mind in with extravagant eloquence, Intergalactic Medicine Show, published stories from Card's on-line magazine have a more personal touch. With 4 shorts from the Ender's Game universe, the collection has an old friend over for dinner vibe. The new vantage points revealed in this well-defined world expands my appreciation for the dedication Orson Scott Card has committed to his original story-line.
Short story collections, whether it be a composite of SF's current gifted writers or a book solely dedicated to one author all share their unique slant to life. Each present a glimpse into galaxies, planets, aliens, men and women all who entertain me as I sit on my local park bench observing the slow rotation of life.
Mere weeks from now I will be meandering down our street intent upon my son's progression into his second year of schooling. Not one to shrug convention, we whole-heartedly joined the multitudes of Ontario families last year, enrolling our wee one into his first of two years of kindergarten. That junior year was a pantheon of riches with each month a new exploration into emotional, social and educational avenues. With senior kindergarten looming, and this our first summer dictated by the school calendar, I ponder on where the summer actually went. The two months seemed to have flowed through my fingers, yet joy bounces through our house.
As my toddler grew from a two to three to a four year old pre-schooler I lingered on the past, missing the chubby cheeks, the giggly-worthy mispronounce of 'dinowhore'. Tears would spill down my cheeks each fall as I packed away clothes, aware that the little lobster shorts would never be worn again. But now, as my son and I wander through the halls of the Royal Ontario Museum discussing the merits of bats to the ecology I realize how pointless those tears were. The pure happiness of parenthood is discovering who that little baby will become. Our future is bright, our past is cherished but the present that surrounds us, is all that matters.
Not every moment is perfect, disagreements abound; this girl's life is not 'facebook' perfect. But it is my life with my son and my husband, a unique, quiet little life that we actively create, keeping life less busy, less full of events, more into park days and books. With the rush of September approaching, a good read is needed to ground oneself to the moment that is this season. Having found this read in Tom Rachman's The Imperfectionists, I recommend you to read it as well. Not a science fiction book, The Imperfectionists attempts to capture the realities of the newspaper world. Set in Rome, the reader bounces through decades, following the inception and death of an international newspaper geared for the expats of the world.
Beautifully simple in it's design, The Imperfectionists is a gathering of lives. The chapters are dedicated to the nuances of each person's character by revealing a personal crisis. I am haunted by this book. This is the art that Tom Rachman has with the printed word, the talent to make life dramatic, elegant, as we the readers witness countless small heartbreaks that define the employees of this nameless newspaper. The Imperfectionists captures the imperfections of life, the reality that no one life is perfect. While it reveals the inner workings of journalism, it lacks the altruistic, objective journalism often portrayed in many novels. By focusing in upon the people of the newspaper, allowing each character a moment in time, the novel explodes with richness. I loved this book and plan on reading more of this gifted writer.
Summers can be surprisingly anxious correlated to the grand orb of warmth, the sun. Will it shine, is it too strong, too bright; in Newfoundland the question of the season is where art thou dear summer, where art thou? When the local meteorologist is arrested on air for trafficking rain, drizzle and fog you know your impending holiday will be less beach and more cozy sofa. Although my shorts have seen the daylight twice on this trip to my nation's most easterly province, my complaints are few and far between. After all, it is August, albeit a foggy, steely grey version.
And so, as I endeavour to read Robert A. Heinlein's The Moon is a Harsh Mistress the hopeful positivity I am directing to the season has spilled over to my reading adventures. Half-way through, I confess the book lays splayed open, accusingly taunting me as I forgo it for yet another whimsical murder/mystery. Can summer truly happen if an Agatha Christie has not been read?
Known primarily for it's libertarian ideals, The Moon is a Harsh Mistress has been kicking around since the 60's. A story of revolt, it was originally released as a series in World of If subsequently winning the Hugo of '67. Heinlein's 21st century is an Earth of Federated Nations that repurposed the Moon as a penal colony; a modern Australia, if you will. Millions of outcasts bonded by geographical isolation and servitude live in cities deep under the strata. Left mainly to their own devices with Warden marking a cursory nod to the planets control, the Loonies have developed a uniquely avant-garde society. Highly developed polygamous relationships evolved from the necessities of a ratio of two men for every woman.
The story begins with Mannie, our hero, a free-lance computer tech who discovers that the Warden's thinkum dinkum is sentient with a fully engaged sense of humour. Intrigued, a precarious friendship develops with the mainframe being guided along the precarious path of humanity. This wonderfully attentive opening sequence quickly progresses from a first contact story-line to a developed portrayal of the mechanism, reaction and consequences of revolution.
Reading the grandmasters takes some patience: the reader has to actively visualize the times from which the novel was conceived. The limited exposure to 50-60's SF has been more an exploration of the author's viewpoint constrained by his own societal barriers than a glimpse into the genesis of the genre. Beyond Foundation, I have yet to read an oldie but goodie that has struck me as good. With The Moon is a Harsh Mistress abandoned, seeping out guilt on my nightstand, the passing of the reading day leaves me less likely to ever read it through. Ultimately, the success of a novel lives and dies with connection. Unlike Asimov's Foundation, Heinlein lacks the every-man knack, even though he clearly attempted that very thing through the unique slant of the prose. Creating a sense of 'The Other' would not have been a new formula during Heinlein's era but I imagine his literary perspective would have been a refreshing change. And while I admire those very abilities to create a very Luna speech pathology, it is extremely difficult to digest. Rather than invite me in, it pushes away distracting me from the plot, generating a heaviness to the tone.
The Moon is a Harsh Mistress is full with imaginative, engaging ideas. It deserves its place in the cannon of science fiction, unfortunately for this girl, the writing rather than the concepts served to distract. As I reach for yet another obscure murder from the Dame herself, I look to the rainy skies hoping not only for sun but a more positive experience with the grand-daddies of Science Fiction.
The world beyond my kitchen window is an explosion of summer's beauty. Peaches and pears fall over themselves on the counter behind me; trees boast their lushness, seemingly winking at passers-by as they offer a respite from September's inevitable bustle. While busy, the Ontarian Fall is a delayed spectacular affair. With the marketing world pushing pumpkin spice onto our sensibilities, firmly reminding us to put away our sunshine dreams, September continues to present summer's last fabulous aspects. 
I have been preoccupied with two collections: Space Opera by Rich Horton and Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show. Being a self-diagnosed space opera junky, the chances of me walking out of the local bookstore without Rich Horton's collection was an improbability. The man basically visualized me in his mind as his target audience, proceeding to pack the book with some of the best examples of space goodness. With authors like Kage Baker, Naomi Novik, James Patrick Kelly, Alastair Reynolds and Yoon Ha Lee part of the line up, the book glows from the wonders bound within. 
