I did my homework
A week or two ago, Uncle Jim gave me a homework assignment so that I could catch up on the last twenty years of science fiction. Now I'm reporting in.
I was immensely cheered to see that people were more important than the science/machines in the books that I read. I think this was one of the reasons I stopped reading much SF back in the late 80s; the emphasis was more on the technology and science than on the characters, and that was fine when I was a thirteen year old geek up to my elbows in small engine parts but not so compelling when I got a little older.
Reading Joe Haldeman's Camouflage showed that even a frequently visited subject (aliens among us) can keep you up late if it's done well enough.
Ken Macleod's Dark Light showed how complex world building can be without drowning the reader in details; I know the Macleod knows everything about his universe but he doesn't have to share everything with me. He also is a master of revealing information exactly when you need it and not before. And his subplot on what makes a man a man is often laugh out loud funny while at the same time thought-provoking. Even though science and technology are at the forefront here, it's the characters I care about -- and Macleod has a sure hand at making every character a protagonist, so that I'm rooting for one character until the viewpoint shifts and I find myself rooting for his antagonist, who is now the protagonist. Intelligent and engaging.
So all of this was very exciting and encouraging to me, motivating me to get back to work on my own SF manuscript. But then (I almost said "and then" but, whew, caught myself in time) I picked up Robert Charles Wilson's Spin. And I will never write that well, not if I tried for ten lifetimes. I have a little talent, a useful little talent, and it has not failed me so far, but it is by no means capable of anything approaching Wilson's mastery.
Now what? I feel like I should just put the pen down and back slowly away from the paper.
Ordinarily I'm pretty sure that I can hold my own with other writers, and people not related to me have actually remarked on my ability to put sentences together without hurting myself, so I'm not much given to self doubt. We've all picked up books and gone, eh, I could do better myself, I *have* done better myself. . . but only rarely do I pick up a book and think, I'm not even in this man's zip code.
I'm pretty sure Uncle Jim will tell me to write the damned book, but I'm curious about whether this has happened to other people and how they use it to motivate them.
If there's a way to include tequila and/or chocolate in the solution to this problem, I would be really grateful.
Thanks for your thoughts.
Jennifer Lawler