The following post is a reprint from my previous blog, Positively Flummoxed (and yes, that’s another Hobbit reference). Just how have our technological revolutions marked shifts in our conception of society, humanity and reality itself? Here are my thoughts:

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First, me

I was born in 1969.

On July 20th, when I am eight days old, Neil Armstrong becomes the first human being to set foot on the moon. He manually pilots the Eagle past strewn boulders, amid the sounding of alarms, to land in the Sea of Tranquility with 30 seconds worth of fuel to spare. 240 thousand miles away, his voice reaches through the television sets of half a billion people, including ours, to proclaim: “That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”

I was born straddling two worlds.

I have heard it said that context is decisive. I take this to mean that all our impressions of reality — the world we see and touch, the thoughts that occupy our minds, the feelings that swell our hearts — do not exist absolutely, in and of themselves. They are manifestations of deeper premises. It is not just that context is the lens through which we see the world, nor that context shapes content, but that together they form a discrete whole. They are, quite literally, one. It follows, then, that all creation happens not at the level of content, through a change of circumstance, but perceptually, through the shifting of context.

Armstrong later said, of seeing the earth from space, “It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn’t feel like a giant. I felt very, very small.”

He had experienced a shift in context.

The Western Civ class some of us slept through

I am not the first person to observe that technological revolutions transform our perceptions of reality, our values, and our understanding of what it is to be human. Consider, in admittedly broad strokes, the evolution of Western civilization.

Feudal, agrarian societies experienced life as cyclical, like the seasons, and reality as immutable, fixed in a hierarchy between peasant and God. One did not rise above their station. Authority was conferred by one’s position in the hierarchy, which was codified in scripture and administered through the church and feudal state. Morality was quite literally written in stone, but its import could only be reached by resort to the hierarchy’s interpreters: the priests. The dominant metaphor was world as organism, in which each organ must fulfill its function for the whole to survive. Wealth was land; conquest was its agent; God was a king.

The industrial revolution introduced the idea of progress, of unlimited, directional, linear growth. The value of the natural world, and that of a human life, were reinterpreted in terms of their utilitarian value, as were the norms and morals of the time. The end justified the means; the exploitation of resources became an end in itself, and its own justification. The fixed, centralized hierarchy, validated by a universally accepted script, was replaced by a Darwinian hierarchy in which the winners were presumed to be the fittest. Predestination was reinterpreted as self-determination, and yet the rich still enjoyed the whiff of divine approval. Rationality usurped God; and the dominant metaphor was world as machine, hypothetically knowable, if one only had the blueprint. Wealth was capital; competition was its agent; reason was God.

And the digital age? No longer fixed, nor even linear, time and space proceed exponentially; shifts are immediate and tectonic. One image, one statement, may intersect with unknown variables to produce wholesale changes in the global mindset. Experience, divorced from both natural cycles and indeed physical reality, is mediated; one knows what one thinks, feels, and is through the process of packaging it for others. Form defines substance; the message is the meal. Gratification is instantaneous, stripped of both time and effort. The power structure is again subverted; authority is now conferred by influence. Self-determination is reinterpreted as self-invention. In this new game, perception trumps factual reality, and truth itself becomes irrelevant. Fame, be it notorious or meritorious, is its own accomplishment, stripped, like gratification, of its underpinnings. Knowledge is global; mystery, like God, is dead. The dominant metaphor is world as, not computer, but the computed. It is world as soundbite, world as meme. Wealth is display, influence its agent, and God is a new kind of machine, with digital, rather than analog, capacities.

A wide-open world in which everything is up for grabs, everything is at stake, and everything is possible, for better or for worse. May you live in interesting times.

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The fulcrum generation

My fellow Gen X-ers may feel this shift more keenly than any other generation. We passed our formative years in analog time, before the rise of the personal computer, came of age with the internet, and entered our productive years with the smart phone, navigating realities essentially foreign to our upbringing. We have more in common with the Boomers before us, yet share sympathies with the Millennials who came after, sensing our complicity in a disaster not quite of our making. We were latch-key kids, the fulcrum generation, and if we didn’t believe in anything, it was because we sensed the old world had died, but the new one had not yet been born.

My heart still lives in the old world, even while my imagination is captured by the new. Perhaps that’s why I feel compelled to dig its treasures out of the trash bin and hold them up to the light, share them with others, chase people down the street and force them to look up from their phones. I sense there is something important to remember, even if I cannot remember quite what it is. We articulate in order to know; we share in order to have. And if I go searching for the spirit of the analog age, perhaps the search itself will be the finding. For context is decisive, or so I’ve been told.

Like Neil Armstrong, gazing at a world I’ve left behind, perhaps I will discover it for the first time.

Next time…

Hope you enjoyed this bit of food for thought. Next time I’ll share what I mean by analog and digital values, and then it’s back to unpacking observations and inquiries from my trip to Scotland.

I’m looking to grow my publication, so if you know someone else who might enjoy this post, please share it!

_{Photo attributions: From “Space Colony Art of the 1970s” NASA ID NUMBER; Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-F079012-0030 / CC-BY-SA 3.0, CC BY-SA 3.0 DE <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/de/deed.en>, via Wikimedia Commons}

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Going Away and Coming Home

Do you remember your first book?

This is a variant of that age-old question about your first love. For me, it was Little House in the Big Woods, followed by the entire Little House series. I was seven years old at the time, living in San Francisco during a time of upheaval for my itinerant family, and I can still recall the dawning of wonder and comfort, the epiphany that I could, at will, enter a new world – a place of adventure, but also one of refuge, set apart from all the vulnerability and change of my real life.

Was I going away or coming home as I stepped across the threshold of that house that Pa had built with his own hands? The answer, of course, is both.

Astonishingly, this new superpower was always within my reach. No matter where I went, or what difficulties awaited me – I could always enter a book. The covers of beloved ones were old friends, but others hinted at relationships I had yet to encounter. I would come home from the library and lay my armload of books out on the floor, trying to decide which to read first, each cover shimmering with possibility.

No adult can read quite like a child reads.

And yet, the whiff of magic endures. This paradoxical sense of going away and yet coming home is central to the fiction experience, no matter your age. All novels are “fantasies,” not just because they are “made up,” but also due to the peculiar quality of adventure and homecoming that the activity of entering a story evokes. But I think the genre of fantasy literature distills this quality into its purest form. Fantasy worlds are obviously (and sometimes lavishly) invented, and so often the plots involve quests and journeys and, at the end of it all, homecomings.

When Gandalf knocks at Bilbo’s door with his wizard’s staff, and the dwarves follow by twos and threes, casting shadows on the walls of his hobbit hole that are fraught with strangeness, we feel the call of the unknown, but we are also touched by a far more distant shadow, a longing for the homecoming that lies at the end of a journey not yet begun. And it is only in leaving the comfort of his hobbit hole that Bilbo can ever experience the poignancy of that beloved return. The journey itself is part of the homecoming.

Which makes me wonder – are we always simply journeying homeward?

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All Aboard

All this came to my mind when I spied the darling little Keith-Dufftown train depot, looking much as it must have back in its 19^th century heyday. We stood on the platform as the train shuddered into the station amid the cries of the conductor and the scream of the whistle. The line still runs on weekends, for tourists like us, and the conductor plays his part. But we know that we can never actually enter the past. We are – all of us – bounded in time and can no more extricate ourselves than we can stop the passage of time itself.

Nostalgia is the yearning to return to pasts both real and imagined, but this homecoming is impossible, and it is this that gives nostalgia an emotional resonance of longing, wistfulness, and thwarted love. Perhaps it is that quality which reminded me of the books of my youth, as much as the fairytale setting. Journeys of the imagination will always be just that – imaginary. And therefore, they will always be imbued with nostalgia.

Context and content arise together as an inextricable whole. We must go away in order to come home, and so how can we separate the journey from the homecoming? In a similar way, at the moment of our birth, our death arises as well. This too is a journey and a homecoming. The space between birth and death is marked by time, passing with all the appearance of a linear progression, day to day, year to year. Yet, in some sense, we are simply living out a drama that is already written, if not in its contours, at least in its conclusion. And this largely subconscious awareness of being bounded in time is fundamental to the human experience.

Nostalgia whispers of these mysteries to us from the deepest strata of our being, mirroring our essential nature. That’s why the longing cuts so deep.

There’s more to say here, for limitation is such a foundational, paradoxical, and as it turns out, bountiful subject, that it could fill a book (and maybe it will). Turning towards, investigating, and eventually embracing the structural limitations inherent in our nature and reality gives us access to, well, our nature and reality. It like that old joke about who’s buried in Grant’s tomb. Yet so often, we attempt to hide from that truth, both as individuals and as cultures – to thwart it, forestall it, or overcome it. These efforts are, of course, doomed to failure, but more importantly, they rob us of a complex sense of reunion with ourselves, and the power, resourcefulness, and peace of mind that such a reunion makes available.

I said I’d keep it (kind of) short, so I’ll leave you with nostalgia for today. We’re heading to London as I write this on another train – a modern one with all the conveniences. And in a few days we’ll be flying back to the states, to the place I call home, at least for the time being. But I’ll be unpacking the analog treasures of our trip to Scotland for the next few weeks, so stay tuned, and as always, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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Stone Houses

The post title is a quote from a fictitious William Wallace, compliments of the movie Braveheart, and I’m telling myself it’s connected to my subject matter here, but it’s possible that it just sounds cool. You decide.

I’m in the Scottish highlands with my family for two weeks, which feels a lot like my Oregon home. Maybe it’s the trees and green things, the friendliness of the people, or the lurking DNA of my Scottish ancestors. There is one big difference, though: stone houses.

I love stone houses.

Stepping inside a stone house is like stepping back in time. We’re staying in the stone Victorian pictured above, which is both homey and grand, not busy or fussy like an American Victorian (which I also love). I say it’s like stepping back in time, which is as close as one can get. Those of us who read historical fiction, fantasy, and other nostalgic literary genres, will feel my pain.

If I had a superpower, it would not be flying or mind-reading or being able to speak any language at will (although this is a close second). I would transport myself through time. Imagine it — you pick a spot, say on a sidewalk in Edinburgh, with the cars whizzing by on the wrong side of the road, but suddenly, it’s the 15th century, or the 6th century, or the iron age, or even Jurassic.

The only way this works is if one is impervious to harm, so maybe my superpower involves me being a sort of ghost, but I can walk around and explore, and be inside the moment, just as it was in days of yore. These were the books of my childhood: the magic of parting those fur coats at the back of the wardrobe and stepping into a snowy forest lit by a single lamppost, or picking up a coin on the sidewalk that transports you into Arthurian times. The lure of the past is deep, instinctive, and it can tell us a lot about what it is to be human.

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Analog Values

There has been an explosion of interest in analog practices and technologies in recent years, which is not at all surprising. With the world spiraling forth into the digital age, fueled by its own mysterious mechanisms, all of which seem to be out of our control, is it any wonder we long for the past?

I approach analog reality in a slightly different way. There is something foundational that shifts with each technological revolution. The way we experience the world and our humanity is invisibly and inextricably tied to how we manipulate the world. Maybe it has something to do with opposable thumbs. Fire changed us, farming changed us, machines changed us, and now even our conception of intelligence is proven to be malleable. The digital age comes with hidden cargo, a submerged, perfectly intact structure lurking below the visible part, that proverbial tip of the iceberg. Digital reality functions in a way that is fundamentally distinct from analog reality.

That is what interests me.

When we understand that difference, we know what to keep and what to discard — or more to the point, we know how analog values can anchor and enhance the disruptive and transformative power of the digital age. In the following posts, I’ll be talking about things like limitation, effort, resonance, physicality and even nostalgia.

If you’re coming to my work through my books, maybe you’re thinking this is not really your thing. I promise, I’ll continue to share content and opportunities from my novels — past, present and future. But if you like my books, there’s a good chance you’re already interested in analog values, in history, folklore and myth, in human relationships, and in thinking deeply on what’s possible in being human.

If you’re already interested in an analog lifestyle, I hope these conversations can enrich your experience and your practices. If you’re a digital enthusiast, I think you’ll find that I’m equally fascinated by the raw, exponential power of the digital age. And if you just like reading books — well, books are inherently analog, and there will be plenty of conversations about those too.

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What does this have to do with stone houses?

To travel is to encounter the past, especially in places like Europe where the hardscape still lingers in the form of stone houses and castle ruins, and the occasional decommissioned train depot. In the next few posts, I’ll be sharing some insights inspired by my surroundings, from the analog qualities of fantasy literature to the commercialization of nostalgia. I’ll examine the counter-intuitive tensions that connect effort and satisfaction, limitation and value, and even progress and deterioration.

I’m going to keep it short — if your inbox is anything like mine, it can take up your whole day. But I hope to deliver a little bit of value each time, and if I’m lucky, once in a while, I’ll make you see the world in a new way.

So, stay tuned, and if something I’ve touched on interests you, please tell me about it! Conversation is an analog value too.

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Starting over

Hello to all my old Mailchimp subscribers! I think I’m going to be very happy here on Substack, and I hope you’ll stick with me. And hello to all the new friends I hope to meet! I moved every year until I was ten, so I’m used to being the new kid on the block. That’s me in the picture above, dining at a little restaurant somewhere in the south of France last summer, and butchering the language between bites. I don’t know why I picked it exactly — if a picture is worth a thousand words, what exactly am I saying?

Which leads me to…

Who I am. I’ve been writing novels for 20 years, or rather, “learning my craft,” a euphemism with which most writers are familiar. I have found that the process of becoming a good writer consists mostly of being a bad writer for years on end. It requires a special kind of dissociation to do this. If you really knew how bad you were, would you continue, day after day, to pound those keys? If you’re a writer, the answer is yes, because you were too caught up in what you were writing to notice how bad it was, or too interested in how to make it better. And then one day, miraculously, it is, only now there’s a whole new mountain to climb.

Here’s the short version of my writing life. I started my first middle grade novel when I was pregnant with my son, who is now 22. I was already a writer of lawyerly briefs and unpublished literary short stories, and I decided I wanted to become the author of other unpublished things. So, over the following years, as my children grew before my eyes, so too did the amount of unpublished material in my computer database. I was a success! This, my friend, is the power of context.

Eventually, after much rending of the hair and gnashing of the teeth, I obtained a very good agent at a very good agency who had exceedingly good authors on her list. I am not ashamed to tell you that I cried, right there in the coffee shop, as we discussed representation and I saw, shimmering before me, my long career, punctuated discretely by prestigious awards and bestseller lists who would crow my virtues, shortly before they fell prey to the vicissitudes of the digital age.

But it was not to be. Mirages are fickle things. After shopping around two of my books to no avail, my agent decided she was not right for me. This may have been a euphemism too.

And then, disaster struck! I mean… more disaster! The pandemic was upon us. Do you remember? The zoom calls? The empty streets? The house littered with empty potato chip bags? And… the infamous pandemic project. My family and I installed a pond, built a deck, and played way too much Dominion. And having done all this, I did what anyone would do. I started my own author imprint, Starr Creek Press.

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Believe, a middle grade mash-up of my 70s/80s childhood, came out in 2020. It won the Eric Hoffer Book Award for Best Middle Reader, which (again) made me cry. Because it had been a long haul, you know? It also won the Eric Hoffer First Horizon Award for Debut Books, and the Best Book Award for Children’s Literature from American BookFest. It’s been my best seller at about 15,000 copies. But I think what I may be most proud of is that I reduced a 32-year-old woman to tears at 1 a.m., somewhere in the U.K., someone I’ve never met but that somehow I had reached. And after years of writing for agents and editors, all very lovely people, mind you — how miraculous it was to reach across the world and make contact with a reader, and deep contact at that. Each reader is like that for me, the fulfillment of the whole thing in one person. Each and every time.

But don’t get me wrong. I’d like to reach more people. Isn’t that why we write?

In 2021, I published Vasilisa, featuring the fantastic witch Baba Yaga, and in 2022, the sequel, Elena the Brave, which is based on the byliny, oral ballads of an idealized 10th century Kievan Rus. Both of these were BookLife Prize Semifinalists, and Elena also won the Writer’s Digest Best Self-Pub YA and nabbed a Kirkus star and write-up in their magazine. This too felt good after years of faceless toil. But even as I released Elena, Russian troops were invading Ukraine — literally, boots on the ground during my release week. And the planned sequels became more complicated for me. I know I will return to it some day — there’s still The Alatyr Stone to be written, and maybe the prequel, Pushkin’s Ring. Ahem, I think I still have some fans of this series out there? Yes? No? Maybe?

Lastly, in 2023, I released The Starlet Letter, a tongue-in-cheek mystery featuring twin 18-year-old female sleuths in 1930’s New York City. They belong to this eccentric, black-sheep Knickerbocker family who has taken in boarders to make ends meet. It pays homage in equal part to Nathanial Hawthorne and Wes Anderson. I hope you’ll read it because I’ve had a hard time getting eyes on this one, even though it was shortlisted for some awards, and it’s really funny, if I do say so myself. I’ve tabled the rest of the Canary House Mysteries until I can develop a readership for the series. So… um… if you read The Starlet Letter… um, let me know.

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Now what?

I’m excited to be part of the Substack community. I expect to post once a week or so, and I’ll be exploring the work of others on Substack as well, so if what I’ve said here resonates with you, please reach out. I write a blog about analog values in the digital age entitled Positively Flummoxed, and I’ll be sharing some of those essays here, along with musings about my writing life, my characters and worlds, and whatever else has captured my fancy, with plenty of opportunities to be involved if you’d like to be a beta reader, comment on prospective cover art, or just talk.

I’m working on a new book, Arcana, and I look forward to sharing chapters as I revise. Here’s the pitch: Three small town teens in mid-century America stumble through a portal in a carnival trailer into bygone chapters of history, only to discover they are reincarnated initiates of an ancient mystery sect who must decode clues hidden in the tarot if they are escape the dark stranger chasing them through time — and protect the balance of good and evil in the world. Think Something Wicked This Way Comes meets The DaVinci Code.

If you’ve gone this far, thank you for reading! I’ll check in next week… from Scotland!