Tag Archive: Frank Herbert


The 2-Step Kerfuffle

People moan about moving house, as though it’s some huge terrible chore something like a nightmare.

I don’t know why.  I think moving house is great.  And although I’ve only ever had a flat’s worth of stuff, rather than a massive semi-detached-plus-garage’s worth, it’s still pretty easily distilled into two steps.

1) Find a new place to live.

2) Get all your stuff from your old place to your new place.

Easy!

But seriously, I like all the endless searching (don’t you always see places of your hometown you never knew existed), the awkward meet-your-neighbouring (I found out that I live opposite novelist Marina Lewycka the other day) and those first few days sitting on your new settee, eating takeaway food surrounded by higgle-piggle towers of cardboard boxes.

Although my new place currently has a notable cat deficiency, I’ve still enjoyed warming it up and getting things straight.

Mainly this is because it appeals to my OCD side.

Naturally the following will probably be offensive to those with actual OCD, so to keep those guys distracted I’ll just say this: how people people used your bar of soap BEFORE YOU DID this morning!?

Whilst they’re hyperventilating somewhere, I can explain that what I have isn’t a disorder, obviously – It’s just nerdism.  I like to organise things.  I like to arrange them in ways that please some weird, weird part of me.

Books.  People who know me know that I have a lot of books.  I require a large amount of bookcases to house them and unloading boxes of books onto said bookcases makes me stupidly happy.  I organise them into a way that makes regulated sense out of the chaos of size, shape and colour that a bookcase may potentially be.  By author: naturally.  But what about the large editions of new books?  THEY STICK UP COMPARED TO THE OTHER ONES.  I don’t like this.  What about the hardbacks?  They’re deeper than the mass-market paperback ones!  THEY STICK OUT OVER THE EDGE!  I don’t like this.  The stygian interplay of shadow and perspective.  The SHEER UNTIDINESS OF IT.

So tall ones go together.  Short ones go together.  Deep ones go together.  What if this separates some books by a particular author from his others?  THIS CANNOT BE.  So I have to be inventive.  Okay, maybe they won’t run in chronological publishing order from left to right.  But at least the tall deep ones are at the left and the little ones are in the middle.  Then someone else can fill up the other side in a symmetrical, mathematical pattern that calms the nagging neatfreak within me.

This is a particular problem with some authors, say P. K. Dick, whose fiction is slowly going out of print and whose old third-hand Amazon editions are notoriously difficult to collate into a reasonable approximation of order.

Colour is important.  I don’t want my shelf to go black-orange-white-pink-blue-green-black-brown-white-white-grey.  I want it to go pink-white-white-white-grey-blue-green-brown-black.  A smooth Crayola regulation. It just makes sense.

I also don’t want my trashy Stephen Kings in with my literary J G Ballards.  So they are separated, thank-you both, and rearranged thematically so at least the China Mievilles and Jeff Vandermeers go together, and the Frank Herberts and Isaac Asimovs have a shelf of their own.  Woe betide the popular Richard & Judy bookclub trash that weedles its way inbetween the poets and the best of the non-fiction.  BE GONE WITH YOU, resigned to the narrow shelf two up from bottom, which is practically invisible when you look down at it from a lofty, judgemental 5-foot-11.

Why do I let myself do this?  Because I enjoy it.  Do I like it when somebody picks up a book, takes a look at it, and then puts it back on the shelf SIDEWAYS ON TOP OF THE OTHER BOOKS?  Not really.  I’ll put it in its proper place when they leave, or when they recover from that mysterious and sudden blunt-force head trauma.

People like to call these little quirks of theirs OCD, like organising your DVDs by director – but it isn’t.  It’s just basic nerdiness and those people should just admit it and embrace it.

It feels good.  Mmm.  Like warm PJs fresh from the drier.

So anyway.  This is one of the reasons why I like moving house.

— db

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In 1986 science-fiction author Frank Herbert wrote the sixth and last novel in his award-winning “Dune” series before his untimely death.  I read “Dune” probably fifteen years ago in France, and soon finished its remarkable sequels.  The sixth, “Dune: Chapterhouse”, ends on a cliff-hanger of sorts.

For twenty years fans have wondered whether Herbert’s son, Brian, would continue the saga.  A few years ago, he did.

It is with this seventh book, “Hunters of Dune” that I sit in the kitchen where I work.  I’m on my lunch break, I have a whole hour to read, and I’ve just started it.  Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson wrote some pretty average prequels to the original series, which was full of adventure and politics, but this it the first true sequel.  It continues the story I’ve been reading about for over a decade, and admittedly it’s not bad.

Frank Herbert's "Dune"

The office gossip wanders into the kitchen.  She’s harmless but pretty nosy.  Straight away, she’s up to my book where I’ve left it on the table while I get a(nother) cup of tea.

‘What are you reading now, then?’

‘Science fiction’, I say, because it’s the easiest way to end the kind of conversation that the other person isn’t really interested in.

‘Oh,’ she says.  She has already turned away. ‘Oh, I see.’

And I want to scream.

‘”Dune” is the best sci-fi book ever written!’ I want to yell. ‘The writer was a genius!  There are writers out there who aren’t fit to check his ‘scripts for typos, let alone have their books on the same shelf as his!’

I feel this way about only very few writers.  Probably Isaac Asimov, if we’re going to stick with sci-fi for a moment.  Other names that come to mind are Clive Barker, China Mieville, Steph Swainston, Stanislaw Lem.  People whose level of talent you aspire towards, as a writer yourself, but never expect to achieve.

And it galls me when people dismiss a novel – or film, or television – because it is science-fiction.
People who “don’t like sci-fi or fantasy” are, you’ll find on most occasions, people who never read it.  They don’t really know what it is.

They might have dipped into it once – probably the popular Rowling/Meyer trash – and assumed it was indicative of the entire genre.  i.e., unchallenging, insipid, uninvolving.

They have never heard of cyberpunk, or Victoriana, or slipstream, or speculative fiction.  To them, all sci-fi is Star Trek and all fantasy is The Lord of the Rings.

I asked my mother once why she never read fantasy, back when she was a reader.

She said, “I couldn’t pronounce any of the names”.

Way to jump in at the deep end, Mum – Tolkien.  My mischievous big brother probably leant her ‘The Silmarillion’ as a joke.

And Tolkien was a great writer, but is probably the reason why my mother will never ‘get round’ to reading my own novel.

There is a stigma fixed to genre fiction and there doesn’t seem to be any way around it.  People don’t like to try genre fiction because of the notion they have of what it contains: dragons and goblins or, in the case of sci-fi, stiff-backed men in uniform discussing interplanetary politics on a ship’s bridge.

Star Trek has a lot to answer for.

In fact, it has probably damaged science-fiction irreparably.

Sing the song again.  You know you want to.  "Theeeeeere's Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow ..."

The 2009 film, which gave the franchise a much-needed reboot, went some way to convincing people that sci-fi isn’t all boring and preachy.  It can be just as exciting and guiltily-satisfying as any action film.  TV’s Futurama brought sci-fi to the living room again, but people don’t think this is ‘real’ sci-fi.  It’s something pretending to be sci-fi.

Sci-fi can’t be funny, like Red Dwarf.  It can’t be an adventure, like Star Wars.  It can’t be beautiful, like Solaris.  These aren’t ‘proper’ sci-fi at all.

But people don’t buy it.  They think these are exceptions to the rule.

The rule is that science-fiction must be rigid and preachy.  It must have, in some form, a federation of military types.  There must be spaceships and, ideally, robots.  One of the most irritating defining characteristics I hear of sci-fi is that it has aliens in it.  As though, without the greys, it’s not sci-fi at all, or else, not ‘proper’ sci-fi.

The same goes for literature.  People hear you’re a writer, it’s the most interesting thing they’ve ever heard.  They’re hear you’re a genre writer, they switch off.

That or it’s, ‘Oh, you’re going to write the next Harry Potter, then?’

Yes.  I’m going to write the next Harry Potter.

In fact, I’m writing it now.

“Harry Potter and the Death of Integrity”.

Yes, I read the books.  I have a right to slag them with my burning contempt.  I deeply, truly regret wasting all those hours, which is why I consider myself free to despise “Twilight” despite the fact that I couldn’t even choke down the whole of the first novel.

‘Never again,’ I promised myself.

Remember Harry Potter.

Re-read Michael Crichton instead.  Re-read “Hitchhikers”.  See if the Foundation books are as good as you remember.

I suppose it’s up to us to repair the reputation of these tarnished genres.  We should try to get some intelligent, spectacular and above all original genre fiction out there.  More steampunk fiction.  More new weird fiction.  Enticing, entrancing, entertaining.

But it’s already out there.  A lot of us know it.  Films are more likely to wake people up than literature.  After all, a film takes up a lot less of your time than a 500-page novel.  It requires less brain-power, even if it has subtitles in places.  But the most original ideas, the ones that aren’t tried and tested, don’t get the budget.  They don’t get the stars.  And they therefore don’t get the marketing or the national releases or the audiences.  A film without an audience might as well not exist.

Some decent stuff gets through.  The Donnie Darkos and the Eden Logs and the Sky Blues.  A few people, outside of their main target audience, gets to see them.  And the love them.  They realise that there’s another side to fantasy and horror and science-fiction.

A new breed.

There might be hope.  Although the paper fiction industry has taken its knock these last two or three years, genre fiction in particular is suffering no worse than the ever-popular mainstream titles.  Granted, it’s supported by the franchise bilge like Dr Who and endless hack’n’slash fantasy.

But the new stuff is there.  Even if it’s Neal Asher or Charlaine Harris.

Just try it.

You might even like it.

— db