“Sidelines: Talks and Essays is just what it says on the tin—a collection of three decades of my nonfiction writings, including convention speeches, essays, travelogues, introductions, and some less formal pieces. I hope it will prove an interesting companion piece to my fiction.” Yes, extremely interesting, full of intriguing, fascinating or clarifying details, considerations and musings.
(N.B.: I'm actually just past the middle of reading Memory.)
“I've always tried to write the kind of book I most loved to read: character-centered adventure. My own literary favorites include, among many others, Dorothy Sayers, Arthur Conan Doyle, Alexander Dumas, and, of course, C. S. Forester. All of these writers created not just works of art, but, on some level, works of life. Theirs are creations who climb up off the page into the readers' minds and live there long after the book is shut.”
“Some of my ideas have persisted, some been made obsolete; some have been swapped out for what I presently think are better ones; others have deepened. It would be a minor tragedy if, after all that journeying, the landscape were still the same.”
“It was also explained to me—by Jim Baen in one of our early newbie-writer-tutorial conversations—that the average novel made eighty percent of all the income it was ever going to produce in its first two months on the bookstore shelves, after which it was obsolete and no longer economically exciting. It pretty quickly occurred to me that the defense against that was not to write average novels. This strategy turned out to serve very well.”
“It's increasingly clear to me that the reader and viewer—the active reader or viewer—does a lot more than he or she is ever given credit for. They fill in the blanks. From hope and charity, they explain away plot-holes to their own satisfaction. They add background from the slimmest of clues. They work. (...) So for me, this sheaf of inked paper with the gaudy cover glued to the spine is not the book. The book is not an object on the table; it is an event in the reader's mind. It's a process, through which an idea in my mind triggers an idea, more-or-less corresponding, in yours. TheI don't think a book exists till someone reads it, and the cognitive experience that results is never more than half the text writer's doing. Writers can shape, they can hope, but they can't control; fiction is a dance, not a march. words on the page are merely the means to that end, a think-by-numbers set, a bottled daydream. The book, therefore, is only finished when somebody reads it. (...) The book, if you like, is not the story but merely the blueprint of the story, like the architect's drawings of a house. The reader, then, is the contractor, the guy who does the actual sweat-work of building the dwelling. From the materials in his or her head, the ideas, the images, the previous knowledge, each one actively reconstructs the story-experience—each according to his measure, knowledge, gifts. And charity. (...) I don't think a book exists till someone reads it, and the cognitive experience that results is never more than half the text writer's doing. Writers can shape, they can hope, but they can't control; fiction is a dance, not a march.”
“I probably used my on-line thesaurus more with this book than with any other I've ever written—to find simpler but equally precise synonyms for the polysyllables that tend to fall most trippingly from my typing fingers. I suspect the practice of paying such close attention to my language was good for me as a writer; I know it was fun.”
“All this as preamble to The Sharing Knife. Because TSK is written in dialect: several of 'em, in fact. My native dialect, to be precise—or what would be if my parents hadn't been from Pittsburgh via California and a lot of formal speech training—that of rural Ohio (and points nearby). Fawn's voice is rural central Ohio pretty directly, as are the rest of the crew from West Blue.”
Ah, yes, the United States...
“Because with TSK, I'm mining down to some of the deepest layers of my own experience: the farms, woods, lakes, rivers, animals, plants, insects, people, and weather of my Ohio childhood. (...) Like so many other Americans, for me that vanished landscape is engulfed by various sorts of change or urban sprawl, and is now recoverable only in the mind, as inaccessible to daylight reach as any faerie realm. My childhood has been paved. (...) I was then taken by another fan, Sini, who is a Helsinki librarian in her day job, up to look at the church carved out of the rock, and a ride around town on the tram—trams are as good as a Disneyland ride to me, raised in the no-public-transportation American Midwest. (...) As a car-raised Midwesterner, I tend to regard public transportation as an entrancing alien device with all the charm of a Disneyland ride, and I have to retrain myself in how to use it every time I encounter it.”
Great story: “I admit, though, my all-time favorite fan letter was from a woman in Canada. She wrote to tell me she had been reading Shards of Honor, and, not wanting to put it down, took the book along to read while standing in line at the bank. She is not, she added, normally very scatterbrained or oblivious, but she does like to focus on what she reads. Eventually, she got to the teller to do the necessary banking. The teller said she could not give her change, as the robber had taken all her money. "What robber?" my reader asked. "The one who just held us up at gun-point," the teller explained. It turned out that while she had been engrossed in reading, a masked gunman had come in, robbed the bank, and made his escape, and she never noticed a thing. My reader wrote me, "All I can say is, it must have been a very quiet robbery. The security guard at the door asked if I could describe the thief for the police. Embarrassed, I said no, I didn't think I could."