The Perils of Lucidity

I was interviewed for an hour at Utopiales, standing in for GoH Robert Charles Wilson, who was down with la grippe porcine. The audience was tiny at the start, but grew to a gratifying size by the end.

A surprising amount of the interview was taken up with the question of why I am not, well, really really famous. They seemed to think I ought to be.

Of course I am preoccupied by this question, but I confess to being a little uncomfortable discussing it in a public forum (aside from this one, anyway). And discussing the complexities of American publishing in front of a French audience was daunting. I mean, it doesn't even make sense in English.

Still, one interesting theory arose. Which is that my writing is simply too lucid.

I discuss complex, sophisticated ideas (according to this theory), but I've made the mistake of explaining them with far too much clarity. They just zip into the reader's head and zip out again without gaining a lot of traction.

What I need to do (according to this theory) is to roughen up my style. If I make the reader work harder to absorb my ideas, then they'll stick in his/her head, and I'll be appreciated more.

Or so the theory goes, anyway.

I have to say the idea is counterintuitive. I work hard to communicate with clarity. (And if you doubt that it's work, you should read my first drafts, with their convoluted sentences and polysyllabic Latinisms and the weird little placeholder words that substitute for the mot juste that has somehow escaped me, but that I'll try to reach later.)

But if writing less well is my ticket to fame, then I suppose I could do that. If I had to.

But I thought I'd consult with you all first. Is lucidity my bane?

On the Video

Here's an interview from ActuSF, conducted at Utopiales a few weeks ago. The interviewer is Julien Morgan. If I'm a bit more articulate than is usual for me-- particularly considering that this event took place in the morning--- consider that it was the second time I've answered these questions. (The first time we did this interview, the sound got buggered.)

A Fine Phrenzy

I am preparing to leave this coming Sunday for Utopiales, Europe's largest SF con, where I am one of the guests of honor. After which I will spent a couple weeks wandering around France, basically kicking the tires and looking for cool stuff to write about. (A previous trip to France produced a Nebula-winning novella, so there's hope.)

While in France, I will eat about a pound of butter every day, washing it down with a couple bottles of wine and one of cognac. My mental and physical health can only improve on such a regime.

France is the country that Real Americans are supposed to hate, but I confess that I always have a wonderful time there. They've got a first-rate train system, health care that works, mass transit ditto, wonderful food chuck-full of locally-produced, gloriously flavorful ingredients, splendid beer and wine, enormous natural beauty, centuries of history, art, and architecture--- and all this and they only work 35 hours per week, with 3o paid days of vacation per year plus 10 national holidays! (One-quarter of American workers get no paid vacation at all.)

Of course, one in five French voters think it's okay to plonk down their ballots for the National Front, so it's hardly paradise.

And you know what else? We can get our swine flu shots over there! While the American system has been creaking and groaning and is only now producing limited amounts of vaccine, communist countries like France, Australia, and Japan have been immunizing their people for five whole months now!

When the swine flue kills all Americans, only the commies will survive! (And us, because we'll have had our shots.)

But not all is golden, not yet. Because I have to finish a novel before I go!

There are only two nights left! I have only a couple scenes to go!

Anyone want to bet either way?