In case you missed it yesterday, later this year will see the publication of Above & Below a double novella published by 12th Planet Press. I’ll be sharing the book with the always lovely Stephanie Campisi.

The story is set after a city in the sky falls to the ground, and Above, Steph’s novella, deals with what happens in the floating cities of Loft. Mine, entitled Below, deals with what happens in Dirt, where the city crashes. One of the neat tricks we’re doing for the book is making sure that each piece folds onto the other, reinforcing each story, and adding more depth–what you’ll end up with, hopefully, is a small novel, and one that will reward the reader no matter which side he or she begins on.

Should be neat, I reckon.

Five years ago, for no real particular reason, I interviewed a bunch of people in the Australian scene. People seemed to dig it, so much so, in fact, that in 2007, Alisa Krasnostein and the ASif people did it again. They’re back for a go in 2010, which is kind of nice, really, and I did an interview which shows how much of a mellow sort I am.

Also, it tells you that Steph Campisi and I will have a small book out this year called Above & Below.

Now, the interview:

It seemed fitting to start with Ben Peek for my series of interviews. Ben Peek is a Sydney-based writer. He’s had two novels published. The first was an autobiography called Twenty-Six Lies/One Truth, and was published by Wheatland Press, and illustrated by Anna Brown. His second novel was a dystopian novel called Black Sheep,. His short stories have appeared in collections like Polyphony, Agog!, Forever Shores, and magazines such as Aurealis, Fantasy Magazine, Phantom, and Lone Star Stories. In 2007 and 2008, he ran an online comic with Anna Brown titled Nowhere Near Savannah.

Peek also conducted the first Aussie Snapshot, in 2005, which was so much fun that ASif! repeated it in 2007 and again, now, in 2010.

1. You did the first Snapshot back in 2005. How do you think the scene has changed over nearly 5 years? Do you view the local scene differently to how you did when you conducted those first set of interviews?

Five years.

It doesn’t seem like five years, to be honest. I wonder if that’s a sign of age kicking in or something similar.

As for the scene changing, I’m not sure it has, hugely. There’s new writers and new presses, of course, but it seems to me that it speaks largely to the same audience, a problem that exists in small presses around the world. Of course, I’m probably not the best person to give an opinion of the scene, since I have very little to do with it. The parties, cons, whatnot–they’re really not my scene. The few people I chat with I do so over email, so I’m a bit out of touch. I guess you could say I don’t really have a huge interest in the scene anymore. I just write. I just publish. After that, it isn’t really my concern.

2. What are you working on at the moment and what can we expect from Peek in the near future?

At the moment I’m writing a novella called BELOW, which is the second half of a small book I’m doing with Steph Campisi called ABOVE & BELOW. She’s writing ABOVE. It’s a pretty neat idea, actually, in that we’re writing two novellas that will be printed as one book, and which, no matter the side you begin on, fold into each other and compliment the other story, yet remained independent. That’s going to be published by 12th Planet Planet Press. There’s a story of mine called White Crocodile Jazz coming out in SPRAWL, an anthology edited by Alisa Krasnostein, and I recently recorded my novella, ‘Under the Red Sun’ for Keith Stevenson’s podcast.

There’s some other stuff in the works, but if there’s anything I’ve learnt about this gig in the last fifteen years, it’s that it isn’t worth bothering to talk about until there’s things signed. Hopefully there’ll be things to say soon enough.

What hopefully will happen is that this year there will simply be more of me around. Last year wasn’t a particularly good one, from a business stand point, and even a personal one, really, and it took its toll. So, push through, clap hands, and so on and so forth.

3. You’ve been writing short stories, and a novella, in a series you call > Dead Americans. What fascinates you about iconic Americans and what are you exploring when you write them with alternate history?

I guess when I’m writing about dead Americans, what I’m writing about is my culture. I’m a white Australian, a mongrel background kid who grew up on Japanese cartoons translated for Americans, American movies, and make believe fantasies primarily from the States. Soaked into that is the music, the lives, the general thrust of the capitalist society we live in, and dead Americans–at least the ones that fascinate me–all form a part of that little tapestry. Sometimes, when I write about them, it’s the big, obvious people like John Wayne, who embodied that noble, yet humble, big, tough masculine figure–and who also had the duality of the racism and the freedom that is part of the country. Others, like Octavia Butler, aren’t so much as about the author, but about the themes she engaged with, the things that motivated her work, and a desire for me to get people to read more of it. It’s different each time out, and part of that is myself, too–because I hate repeating myself in my work, since it doesn’t feel like growth, and it isn’t interesting or challenging to do.

Americans, pop culture Americans especially, are bigger than they have a right to be. David Carradine is a good example of it–why should anyone remember the guy who played Kane, a Z-grade martial arts wandering bum in a Z-grade series that demanded no loyalty? Truth is, there’s no reason, but they do, and likely they will forever now, because of the simply amazing way in which he accidentally killed himself, tied up in a body stocking, with woman’s clothes next to him, and a rope tied around his genitals.

4. Which Australian writers or work would you like to see on the Hugo shortlists this year? What have you enjoyed reading?

Hugos?

You know, I laughed, just a little, when I read this. I can’t remember who won a Hugo last year, much less be particularly moved to figure out who deserves one this year. A statue and accolades from people you don’t know? I know there’s a line for people who want it, but it’s not my thing.

But you know, me and awards. It’s why I’m so charming.

Book wise, I’m currently enjoying Thomas Lynch’s APPARITION AND LATE FICTION. I’m a big, big fan of Lynch, ever since I read THE UNDERTAKING years ago, and this is the first book that has felt similar, thematically, to that. I totally recommend it. I read James Morrow’s SHAMBLING TOWARDS HIROSHIMA, which I thought was okay, but seemed to be aimed at people who are more into monster flicks than me–Morrow’s THE PHILOSOPHER’S APPRENTICE is sitting close at hand, and I’ll read that soon, I think, because it looks like Morrow in full swing, which is an excellent thing. Lydia Millet’s collection LOVE IN INFANT MONKEYS isn’t so bad so far, and like everything Millet writes, is written with such a fine command of language. I should see about getting a poster of Millet and making her into a rockstar for the disenfranchised. I kinda stumbled and fell off on Margart Atwood’s ORYX AND CRAKE, though it was beautifully written, and–

And, you know, there’s a lot of nice books out there. Fine writers. Ngugi Wa Thiong’o’s WIZARD OF THE CROW–that and a couple of David Gemmell books I hadn’t read before his death, STORMRIDER AND RAVENHEART. Both writers are hugely different, but they hit what I wanted at the time.

5. Will you be at Aussiecon 4 in September? If so, what are you most looking forward to about it?

September?

That’s a little far away, don’t you think? I’ve barely figured out February.

To read all the 2010 Snapshot Interviews hot off the press, check these blogs daily:

http://random-alex.livejournal.com/
http://girliejones.livejournal.com/
http://kathrynlinge.livejournal.com/
http://www.mechanicalcat.net/rachel

A happy New Year to you all.

I think there was a time when I didn’t know when Chinese New Year happened, but its long passed now. If the students don’t remind me, my friends do, or the neighbours sing songs in the back of their yard.

I’ve been reading Thomas Lynch’s collection, Apparition and Late Fictions over the last few days. It’s a slim book, with only five stories in it (the final one being a large novella), and I have to say, I’m enjoying it so far. Undertaking remains one of my favourite books, and I reckon I must have talked about it here more than enough, but while I’ve liked Lynch’s other books, Bodies in Rest and Motion and Booking Passage didn’t grab me as much as that first one did. Good stuff, but at times a little too Catholic and a little too Irish for my tastes. But the collection, at least at this early part, is much more akin to Undertaking than any of the other books, with the stories so far being meditations on loss and violence. Also, I’m not quite sure I realised how much went into fishing. This is possibly because the only time I ever fished was when I was a kid, and my old man and his friend took me and his kid out into a lake on a tiny, metal boat, and sat us in the sun with reels while they fished.

We caught nothing.

Check out the book though, I reckon.

I went out to put washing on the line about a little bit ago, and I’m standing there, pinning sheets in the sun, when I glance up–

–Jesus, but I’m still not quite sure what it’s doing in that web.

Link.

Today I did a reading for Keith Stevenson’s podcast, Terra Incognita SF.

I read my novella, ‘Under the Red Sun’, which may or may have not been a wise choice, given that the recording said it went for an hour once I had finished. That might not be right, incidentally–there’s probably about forty minutes of stumbles that Keith will take out, rendering it a lean, easy going five minutes, with thirty minutes of commercials. Or something like that. Either way, it was interesting to do: I don’t read my work often, mostly because I’m hardly ever asked to do so–venues for readings a pretty scarce round here–and I tend to think that my work looks better on a page than it does written aloud.

In fact, I’m a big believer that writing for the page is not the same as writing to be read. I came to that conclusion years back, when I had a student who was also a performance artist. She would submit CDs of her work, which were always really neat, and the highlight of every assignment period. But when you saw the work on the page there was no elegance, no style, nothing but big slabs of text that made you want to go and cry in a corner. What surprised me was how little I would have guessed that by hearing her perform. She was, really, impressive: subtle and stylish and powerful and raw when needed. But it was also true that I could barely make it through the page of her written scripts. It was around then that I started to pay attention to the differences, to how we read with our eyes, and what they will register subconsciously, and how your ears will take something in. There is, I think, a rather large difference, and I’m not sure how ‘Under the Red Sun’ will sound to the listener, but I hope it isn’t the reverse of what I just described.

Still, it was fun, and waking up to big packages of recording material sent by Keith was also pretty funny. I honestly didn’t expect to get a whole stand and microphone sent to me when I agreed to do the recording. I thought I’d get a headset, and sound fuzzy and lost, a figure trapped in early technology, wearing stylish suits, smoking cigarettes, and telling you the world was ending.

Last night, I caught up with A., who I had not seen in years, and I had a good time.

On the way home, however, I had to change trains, so I ended up with a fifteen minute pause on Parramatta station, where four teenage boys came and sat around me. I suppose they must have been in year twelve, year eleven at a push, but I have never been the best at guessing ages, so its not terribly important. However, while I was sitting there, one of them, who had a bag with new shoes in, began telling his friends how, if there were more than two hundred people in the country with AIDS, that the economy would go bust. He blew a raspberry and pointed his thumbs down when he said it.

“Dude, that’s not true,” one of his friend’s said. He looked a lot like the other, in hair and clothes. “There’s like three thousand people with AIDS in Australia. Probably more.”

“My teacher told me. He said that the economy would collapse if it had to treat more than two hundred people. The country can’t sustain it.”

Next to him, I forgot myself and laughed.

The Shoe Kid turned to me. He looked a little pissed, but at the same time, was polite in respecting his elders, like any kid with new shoes should be. “Sorry,” he said.

“No hassle,” I said. “But I reckon there might be more than 200 people with AIDS in this country.”

“Like, nearly four thousand,” said his friend.

“Maybe a little more than that,” I said.

“But my teacher told me!”

I laughed and let it go, because the only thing that occurred to me was to tell him was that his teacher was full of shit, and many were, and besides which, I was intruding and my train was coming. No doubt, after I left, they talked about what an asshole the big, bald guy in black had been, but to them, and the statement that there were no AIDS stats on the web for Australia, I present the following from the Australian Federation of AIDS Organisations (AFAO), “Up to 31 December 2008, the cumulative number of HIV infections in Australia was estimated at 28,330, and the cumulative number of AIDS diagnoses was 10,348. 6,765 deaths following AIDS had occurred. An estimated 17,444 people were living with HIV/AIDS in Australia in 2008.” It’ll be another seven or so months before the data for 2009 is released.

I told S. about it later, because–as is seen by this post–I like to share this kind of event. She told me that once, when she was younger, a woman had told her that AIDS had begun because a black man had sex with a monkey, and it was all the black man’s fault. “You can’t make this shit up,” she told me.

Clearly, however, you can.

This morning, my copy of Vladimir Nabokov’s final, unfinished novel, The Original of Laura arrived.

I’m not sure what I will think of it, once I’m done. I’m a big fan of Nabakov’s work, and I sort of went between wanting to read this book, and not wanting to read it, because of its unfinished nature. However, without reading it, I have to say that the Knopf edition of the book is very lovely: thick, solid pages, simple black cover, and with a nice, hefty weight to it. Part of that is, of course, because, with the pages split between what Nabakov’s cards that planned the novel, and the typed version of it below, that there’s likely to not be a huge amount of content in it. That’s just an assumption, before I flip it open–Laura might be deceptive, and of course, I’ve picked up four to five hundred pages books that have all the content of a 1000 word short story.

Still, as an object, The Original of Laura is very nice.

“With Star Wars the pendulum seems to be swinging the other way, towards huge but empty spectacles where the special effects–like the brilliantly designed space vehicles and their interiors in both Star Wars and 2001–preside over derivative ideas and unoriginal plots, as in some massively financed stage musical where the sets and costumes are lavish but there are no tunes. I can’t help feeling that in both these films the spectacular sets are the real subject matter, and that the original and imaginative ideas–until now science fiction’s chief claim to fame–are regarded by their makers as secondary, unimportant and even, possibly, distracting.”

–JG Ballard, 1977.

At an hour and twenty minutes, Collapse is feature length interview with Michael Ruppert, ex-police officer, news reporter, and creator of the Left Wing environmentalist newsletter, Into the Wilderness.

At the centre of the film is the concept of Peak Oil, which Ruppert explains as being the point “when the maximum rate of global petroleum extraction is reached,” and when “the rate of production enters terminal decline.” It is from this centre that Ruppert’s view of the world extends–with oil reserves drying up, and the importance that oil takes in our society, especially in the creation of goods, he believes that the economy is coming to a crash, that our way of life will be ending. It’s a frightening portrayal of a future, and Ruppert delivers it well, confident in his research, confident in what the world is becoming. Unfortunately, this is both the pro and the con of the film, which has been made by Chris Smith, the director of Yes Men. For, while Ruppert is confident in his opinion, there is no attempt by Smith to bring in outsides voices, to not so much validate or discredit the man, but to create an argument that within the film. A small attempt is made by a faceless interviewer in the film (it could be Smith, I’m not sure) to raise questions to Ruppert, and the film then touches on ideas such as using the media to support your own opinion, and if human invention will save us all from the horrors that are coming–but Ruppert is unwilling to be drawn into debate, and refuses to answer the questions, making him as bad as the politicians that he is portrays as villains.

Yet, for the lack of outside influence on the film, it is still mostly quite interesting. I hadn’t heard of the term Peak Oil before, and I must admit, I hadn’t stopped to think about how much oil was used in our the construction of things from tires to toothbrushes. Possibly, if you’re a little more knowledgeable than I in the area, you might find the film to be a touch on the shallow side, or lacking any real debate, but if you’re like me, there’s a lot of information floating around in it, and taken with grains of salt, and added with your own research, it’s an interesting hour and a half (well, just under). Yes, it does tend to drag a little, especially in the middle when Ruppert begins repeating himself, but the man himself is a good speaker, and Smith has put his film together well–allowing, even, for a mirror to be held up between Ruppert and his opinion of the world, for Ruppert, like the world he is trying to convince, is in meltdown too. Without steady employment and income, and with his books not selling well, Michael Ruppert, at the end of the film, is living by himself, with a dog, counting the smiles of people when he walks the dog, and fighting eviction, since he is unable to pay his rent.

Worth you time, I reckon.