Guest Post: Daniel Pinkwater on How He Exercises His Profession

Look, I love to write about terrible food. Life contains so much more of it than good food, or at least my life does. (I have limited funds and poor judgement for risk.) But more than the realism, I’m drawn to bad food because it infuses a scene with context, with a messy pathos. Someone failed before this dish was even served.

I think about the scene in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy in which the spymaster George Smiley tells the story of his one meeting with his Soviet opposite number, Karla. Sitting in a greasy restaurant with his confidant, he takes a few bites of his chicken, murmuring, “There, that shouldn’t offend the cook.” By the end of the scene, he’s given up on the dish, “over which white flakes of fat had formed like seasonable frost.” I mean, the frost isn’t even unseasonable. It is correct that this is happening; it is meet. That chicken died for nothing and everyone knows it.

The cook may have made an unpalatable dish for a sad, unhungry man, but Le Carré prepares a nose-to-tail butcher’s feast of pathos and waste. One of the points of the scene is that Smiley tried and failed to pull a Not So Different Speech on Karla; he ruined it because he’s honest, and honestly lonely. The chicken fulfills its destiny in a way that’s perfect for the mood. It doesn’t symbolize Smiley’s feelings ““ nothing so cheap. Le Carré is a subtler chef than that. Each grim bite of Smiley’s chicken evokes a universe where no spymaster, no heroic fieldman, no great analyst, no chicken farmer or chicken or roadhouse chef, can catch a single break.

I come from a Patrick O’Brian family, and when I mentioned this post to my brother Aaron, he ran to find the bit in The Far Side of the World where Captain Jack Aubrey serves up a lobscouse on which “the liquid fat [stands] half an inch deep over the whole surface.” Later, a pie leaks “thin blood [thin blood!].” As Aaron points out, the pie is rich with social worldbuilding: “Jack has no cook and he’s had to rely on various sailors who don’t actually know how to provide dishes. He’s high class enough that he can’t cook, but he exists in a social setting where he can make one set of people cook for him and another pretend to enjoy the terrible results. […] I feel like a lot of bad meals in literature say stuff about power. One thinks also of the meals Charles’ dad attacks him with in Brideshead Revisited. First red dishes, then white dishes!”

I am myself, as I have said, a gleeful writer of tragic food. It’s true that my debut, The Breath of the Sun, doesn’t have the worst food I’ve ever written. This is because I cut a scene in which a character orders something called “chicken cogulare,” which beats out a scene from a previous manuscript in which a Potemkin village of breakfast pastries is served by an evil prince.

It’s also because The Breath of the Sun is a mountaineering novel, and the literature of survival has a very specific relationship with bad food: since these stories are about scarcity, they’re also about the miracle of having food at all. I remember a meal of spaghetti and fried garlic bread in Kim Stanley Robinson’s underrated Antarctica, which prompts a character to contemplate that Antarctic food, eaten in “extreme states of hunger,” “often tasted wildly delicious even if it was very plain fare.” By the same token, who could forget the “feast of hot water” with which Genly and Estraven celebrate their ice trek in The Left Hand of Darkness (or the hot beer, oddly pleasant in an ice age, over which they make the first moves of their complicated friendship)? Some of the food on Gethen is very fine, and some of it is bad, but it is always transmuted by the sharing at the hearth.

In The Breath of the Sun, when my characters eat dried chicken and biscuit (singular, because in Arctic narratives “biscuit” is a monolithic item), and when my narrator Lamat observes that this biscuit needs to be heavily hydrated with saliva before it can be swallowed, I want to evoke a purely practical un-food. Dehydrated and preserved, it doesn’t feel prepared by human hands. For my two cranky and embittered heroines, the solitude of climbing is both terrible and delicious, and so is the dried pap you eat from a tube. To climb is to leave the context of the earth, and I use food to stretch out that feeling as far as it will go.

Even a breakfast the characters eat when not on the mountain, served by Lamat’s velvety and brutal ex-husband, has this feeling of detachment. Served on “a dirty white table” in an empty courtyard, it is “an untidy heap of miscellaneous food “” rolls and dates and apples with an unpleasant touch of lemon-juice to them, boiled eggs.” The same preservation, the same detachment, but this time there’s nothing delicious or terrible about it, only a mess of context on a plate.

Lamat’s a bartender and innkeeper when not climbing, and I think the only food she really trusts anymore is what she makes herself. When she imagines the mountain from the city, she can only conjure “a morning like a clear glass cup of tea and an egg.” And when she comes home to her lover, she describes her as “a burning breath of coffee, a sense of solidity and strength […] a steady fierce look like some tame animals have.” Home is the right drink on the right breath, and privacy.

Good food is a joy of literature, of course, just as in life. But for subtle worldbuilding, for comedy, for the interplay of hospitality and power — give me the bad stuff. It is a dish of vertiginous depth. Plus, I don’t have to taste it.

Bio: Rachel Fellman is an archivist in Northern California. She writes sharp, painterly science fiction and fantasy about her various preoccupations: art history, extreme survival, toxic love, queer identity, and terrible moral choices. Most of her protagonists are great at exactly one thing and are continually prevented from doing it. Publishers Weekly called her debut novel, The Breath of the Sun, “an atmospheric, poetic, and occasionally wry and brutal story that moves with the gentle but unstoppable momentum of an iceberg.” She does not climb mountains.

Enjoy this writing advice and want more content like it? Check out the classes Cat gives via the Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers, which offers both on-demand and live online writing classes for fantasy and science fiction writers from Cat and other authors, including Ann Leckie, Seanan McGuire, Fran Wilde and other talents! All classes include three free slots.

If you’re an author or other fantasy and science fiction creative, and want to do a guest blog post, please check out the guest blog post guidelines.

5 stories, 5 times

Have you ever wondered how your favorite story would sound if written by another author? What is it exactly, that makes writers different? What does each one bring to the story they’re writing, in terms of style, mood, tone, etc? How would the story sound as written by someone else?

That’s what the Reading 5X5 anthology explores – twenty-five SFF writers writing five variants of five stories. I asked five groups of five authors to start from the same basic story brief, but write in their own way. The result is fascinating – five wildly different approaches to each of the five briefs, but each telling, at its core, the same story.

Where did this come from?

In 2013, I read Retrospective: the Best of Gene Wolfe, in which he encourages writers to pick a story by a successful author, rewrite it from scratch, and analyze the differences. I liked the idea, but never got around to actually doing it.

In 2015, I participated in my first Novel-in-a-Day, in which each author writes one chapter of a novel, based on just a few shared facts and plot elements. There are usually multiple versions of each chapter, and it’s always interesting to read another author’s take on ‘your’ chapter.

From those two seeds, Reading 5X5 arose in mid-2017. What if comparing and contrasting different authors’ takes on the same material was the focus of the effort, rather than a bonus? What if it were an anthology, with several groups of authors taking on the same stories?

Between 2013 and 2017, it just happened that I had started an online SFF magazine, Metaphorosis. By the time I’d come up with the anthology idea, we’d been publishing for almost two years. That meant I had a ready-made pool of authors whose work I knew I liked. I sent out a query, which said, essentially – “Here’s a fun idea. Are you interested? And by the way, let’s do it for charity, so please give me your work for free.” I’m happy to say that a lot of people said yes, because that’s just how Metaphorosis authors are.

Around the same time, I’d come up with the Reading 5X5 title, which gave me the size of the anthology. We had so much interest that we signed up alternates, in case someone needed to drop out. In fact, no one did (the one down side being that I didn’t get to step into the gaps myself.)

So, how did it all work out?

I’m extraordinarily pleased. The stories are fascinating to read and to compare. Some groups ended up reasonably similar (in theme, but not in detail), while others were strikingly different. Some authors stuck close to the brief; others (even those who wrote the briefs) veered off in unexpected directions. No matter what, though, the stories in each group are recognizably the same story at their core, while being creatively, inventively different in most other ways.

Not only that, but it was fun to do.The whole endeavour was collaborative. Writers volunteered to write the story briefs, they took on the proofreading, and they participated in promotion. I enjoyed it, and I think the writers did too.

What about the actual book?

From the start, I wanted the anthology to work for two groups – readers (people like my spouse, who just want to read good stories and can’t be bothered with all the trim) and writers (who want to really dig in and see how and why the stories differ, and how they would have handled the brief). True to that goal, we’ve produced two editions of the book.

• The Readers’ edition – just 25 great stories from five story seeds.
• The Writers’ edition – all 25 stories, plus two extras, plus the original story briefs, plus extensive author’s notes for each story and by the writer of each brief. My recommendation is that writers who really want to make the most of the book start with the briefs, and write their own story from one or more of them before reading the anthology. See what choices you and the other authors made, and how they worked out differently. To help that along, set up a website where authors can post their stories and compare with an even larger group: x1.reading5X5.com

You can probably tell I’m rooting for the Writers’ edition. The stories are great in themselves, and I hope a lot of people will enjoy them. But the Writers’ edition is where the real fun is, in my mind. It’s not only interesting in itself – seeing the genesis and the thought process of each author – but it’s a ready-made writing exercise that authors can try on their own, with their critique groups, or, via the website, with strangers. The best ways to develop as a writer are to read and to write. Reading 5X5 offers both. Come check it out!

And did I mention it’s for charity? All proceeds go to the Clayton Memorial Medical Fund, providing for critical medical expenses of SFF writers in the Pacific Northwest (where Metaphorosis is based).

#SFWAPRO

Enjoy this writing advice and want more content like it? Check out the classes Cat gives via the Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers, which offers both on-demand and live online writing classes for fantasy and science fiction writers from Cat and other authors, including Ann Leckie, Seanan McGuire, Fran Wilde and other talents! All classes include three free slots.

If you’re an author or other fantasy and science fiction creative, and want to do a guest blog post, please check out the guest blog post guidelines.