Alison Sinclair

In an exchange on a listserver I am on, the question of writing lessons learned along the way came up. This was my list . . .

• Published novels are the finished product: one never sees the messes, failures and train-wrecks on the way, so one is completely misled as to how easy certain things are to execute. The downside of a diet of the best is that the emerging writer can become inadvertently overambitious and try things that are too difficult for them.
• I did two dumb things and two smart thing in my first novel. Dumb things (ie, things I wasn’t developed enough to do): writing a quest novel, and using that past-present structure that Ursula Le Guin made work so beautifully in Dispossessed. I didn’t realize until a year or so after Legacies came out where I’d got it from, and why I was so wedded to it. The sort-of-quest structure is difficult to pull off because it doesn’t innately have a strong narrative drive behind it. Smart things I did: having a single viewpoint, and having a character I had deliberately written as attentive and extremely perceptive. Sometimes, wrestling with the need to convey something essential via a viewpoint character for whom it’s not in character to notice that, I miss Lian.
• Certain plots are more bomb-proof than others – they carry their own structure and drive with them. Blueheart‘s initial plot is a mystery, and once I’d got that – the dead body in the ocean – it found its shape quite quickly, carried along by the central question of who and how. By midway through the book the reader actually knew everything, and it turned into a political novel, but by then the central conflict was established and on its way to the climax. I did myself an inadvertent favour, there.
• Quest plots – frequently the first plot an SF&F writer tries – are not as easy as they look: certain choices have to be made to ensure the quest plot gets and keeps its narrative drive and doesn’t become picaresque (a right-on editorial comment about an early draft of Legacies). If I were writing a quest, even now, I’d make sure that what was being sought and who was seeking it were established in the first chapter, and not lose sight of that for a moment. I’m still not sure enough in my plotting to do the young man/woman goes off all unknowing and find his/her destiny on the way. I was unwittingly smart enough to have the quest front and center in the beginning of Legacies’ frontstory, interspersing it with the interleaved backstory in which Lian had to find his mission.
• Passive, reflective characters fall under the heading of Advanced Work. Again, writers have pulled off the reluctant hero wonderfully, but life is much easier if a character wants something and goes after it. Lian climbing over the wall, throwing himself into the path of Lara and Rathla and the story itself, was a wonderfully liberating moment for me.
• Sometimes the writer just has to give up and do what’s obvious – usually because they’ve set themselves up that way. In one of my unpublished novels I was resisting a particular idea because it seemed too obvious. When I finally accepted that it had to be that way, a whole lot of other problems were suddenly solved, because my characters’ repugnance (they didn’t like the idea any more than I did) prompted them to actions that led directly to the showdown. Moral: It’s a bad idea for the writer to argue with their own story.
• Even after (almost) 9.5 novels, I still don’t get control of the plot until my second draft (or later). I’ve just had to do a massive overhaul to keep two of my main characters on the scene for a major action setpiece (this was Shadowborn). I also had difficulties setting up a crucial event in that conflict, because I needed not to surprise the reader, but I knew that if one of the characters knew about it, it would be out of character for him to leave. So overhaul. And it works. So. Much. Better. Moral of the story: keep the viewpoints where the action is. As long as the action is essential to the plot.
• If I reach the end of my first draft, and it isn’t right (usual metaphor: large plate of spaghetti, stands slithering over the sides), I start cutting. I usually have a fixed idea of the endpoint from fairly early on in the novel, and I reshape the novel to line up with the end. I cut out everything that that isn’t related to the end. Then I put in everything that’s missing.
• On the other hand, all the scenes that end up on the cutting-room floor mean that by the time I get the scene I need, it practically writes itself because all the decisions are made and I have the characters rounded out. Ibsen described his growing familiarity with his characters through successive drafts. In the first draft he knew them as if he had met them on a train (‘One has chattered about this and that’). By the second draft he might have spent a month at a spa with them (‘I have discovered the fundamentals’). By the third draft, he knew them thoroughly (‘as I see them now, I shall always see them’).
• I try to obey Chekov’s Law (‘One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it.’), which usually means I have to round up a certain amount of unused artillery during revisions. One of the downsides of writing a trilogy is that once Darkborn was committed to press, I was committed to firing off the guns lying around. Twelve of them, when I did the inventory in my notebook. I was delighted when I found a way to get four to pop off at once in the archduke’s breakfast.

I probably don’t have to explain Jo Walton’s singular new novel, Among Others, by now. If I do, in brief, it is the journal and reading diary of a fifteen-year-old girl who, after a series of traumatic events that left her twin sister dead and herself lame, has found a physical refuge in a girl’s boarding school, and a spiritual refuge in books, particularly SF. Which makes it sound mundane, except that Mor speaks to fairies—and not the Disneyfied, sentimentalized version, but the original wild spirits of wood, earth, and stone—works magic, and she and her sister sacrificed themselves to save the world. This is about the aftermath. It’s set in England in 1979-1980, and as someone who fell into SF while a teenager at a girl’s school in Scotland in the 70s, I really looked forward to the evocation of the time and the place.

I got that, and more. One of the unique aspects about the book was how well it portrays a young mind bursting out in all directions. I’d largely forgotten about that experience of intellectual flowering, of being in possession of an adult vocabulary and intellectual capacity, not to mention the toolkit that comes with a decent education, and being let loose with a fistful of library tickets to go romping through the best works of kindred and strange minds. I don’t think I ever found that experience—which has to be one of the best parts of adolescence, up there with the creative experimentation that goes with all those discoveries—portrayed in mainstream fiction—and how I snickered when when I read Mor’s caustic comments on Teen Problem Novels, because that is exactly what I thought, even then [i]. SF was a wonderful liberation from the mandated dreariness of adolescence. (I wonder if the experience gets encoded in SF and fantasy in the form of the emergence of psionic powers or magic . . . a topic for another time.)

The portrait of a character and a mind being formed by reading also made something go click in a way that hadn’t before: Reading is experience, as opposed to being a way of avoiding experience, or an inadequate replacement for it, a cultural assumption that I’d accepted (though not without resistance) for years [ii]. And because Mor absorbs her reading into her experience, on a number of occasions she simply says, “Oh, that”, and carries on, proceeding by the map her reading has laid out. Which in a couple of instances made me wince, and in others, laugh—pity the teenage lout who encounters a girl versed in Heinlein. Well, that was a laugh and wince, in sympathy.

And what about the magic? For myself as an SF/F reader, reading by a SF/F protocol, there’s no doubt: there’s magic. I like the magic, the subtlety of it, the way it merely leans on the possible. Having bounced off the endings of fantasy novels aimed at young readers (Silver on the Tree, The Last Battle), I like Mor’s explanation as to why she thinks that she will do less magic as she matures. Yet the very subtlety of the magic, makes it, as Mor says herself more than once, “deniable”. Mor has the hallmarks of reliability: she’s not a “fanciful” person; she might see fairies and ghosts, sense and work magic, yet she likes chemistry and physics, and would like maths if it would but like her back. She self-consciously challenges the putative reader’s skepticism only once, at the end of the first section of the book, unlike most first person unreliable narrators, who do so repeatedly. She’s prickly—I suspect Mor and (prickly!) fifteen-year-old me might not have got on—and sometimes brusque in her judgements, but deeply grounded and thoughtful, and has moved far beyond a self-centered view of right and wrong. Nevertheless, switch off the SF reader’s protocol, take a quarter turn, and consider the book from that angle, disbelieving in the magic, and the book still works as a study of a young woman’s imaginative response to loss. Which is another unique, and very neat, thing about it.

Footnotes

[i] I decided Teen Problem Novels were a product of cultural reaction against the teenage years of the the baby boom. Twentysomething boomers were embarrassed by adolescence, the rest of the culture was burned out on it, and nobody had anything good to say about it.

[ii] A few years after I discovered SF, I discovered feminism, and Joanna Russ provided me with a workable explanation as to the whole experience issue, which had preoccupied at least two generations of women writers before me (Mansfield, Plath, Russ herself): setting up ‘experience’ as a prerequisite, and certain kinds of experience at that, was another strategy that condemned women writers to insignificance. Worked for me for years, but I like this one better.

When I first thought up the Darkborn, I never envisioned writing three novels about them (plus an assortment of short story beginnings scattered like crumbs – or maybe seeds – on my hard drive). I had Balthasar and Floria, and the paper wall between them, and I had Tercelle Amberley arriving in distress on Balthasar’s doorstep, and I had Telmaine coming down the stairs and encountering Ishmael. Who was a Shadowhunter, whatever that was.

I ought to know by now to watch those offhand remarks. I toss one off, and when I look again it has sprouted and ramified, and turned into a major part of the plot.

So I hadn’t considered the sustained exercise of writing a novel completely lacking in visual references. The Darkborn are born without vision: they have eyes, but the optic nerve is atrophied. They replace vision with a sense akin to sonar; however, although the liberties I have taken are considerable. The original reference is Howard C Hughes fascinating book, Sensory Exotica. Electroreception is going to work its way into a story, one of these days.

First of all, I couldn’t use colour. I couldn’t describe the colour of peoples’ hair, eyes and complexions. I couldn’t describe the colour of curtains or carpets or tiles or linoleum or wallpaper or trinkets or flame or … or anything. In one stroke I’d lost the use of every single colour-word I possessed – and I keep lists of them, even the ones so archaic or extravagant as to be inadmissible to modern prose. I lost all references to distance; it’s not merely indistinct, as it is for myopes such as myself, but beyond reach of their senses. I had to expunge all references to distance and things only seen at a distance, sky, stars, clouds, etc, though horizon works its way in there, via an outré piece of artwork. I’d to start thinking about living in a world composed entirely of echoes, sounds, shapes, volumes, textures, and smells. My first concentrated exercise in it was that scene in Darkborn where Ishmael is lurking and waiting to speak to Vladimer. Ish is an excellent viewpoint for an immersion in the world of the Darkborn, because he pays such close attention to his senses. Balthasar and Telmaine are both urbanites.

Next, eyes are irrelevant to the Darkborn. I couldn’t describe looks or glances, directed or exchanged, when I was in Darkborn heads. No-one’s eyes would meet another’s in a private moment. In my teens, I’d been given a boxed set of Jane Austin’s novels, and the introduction to one of them described Austen’s portrayal of the language of looks and glances in playing out relationships and social exchanges in that repressed and rôle-prescriptive society. Nothing else about Austen took (truly), but I liked that. With the Darkborn, I lost that vocabulary, too; I had to do much more with speech, tone, and timing. I think being a regular listener to radio drama helped

Furthermore, there’s no watching from the sidelines. A Darkborn can listen without being observed, but the moment he or she sonns, his or her attention becomes obvious to the listener. That changes the dynamics; passivity is less achievable. Sneaking around is challenging, since Darkborn are aware each others’ sonn. Scenes such as the one where Ishmael comes into Tercelle’s house required strategy, on my part as well as his. I wasn’t quite writing action with my eyes shut – because doing that has the tendency to produce output like piy[iy ;olr yjod, but I was deep in my head.

If I admit to doing this, someone’s sure to send me an email saying ‘you missed one’, but I did try to remove all visual references. I kept ‘visualized’, as a generic term for an internal representation of a reality, but I tried to round up and substitute for ‘look/looked’, ‘see/saw/seen’, ‘watch/watched’, etc, without getting into verbal contortions. There was a point late in the edits of Darkborn when I was so sensitized to the words that they distracted me in other people’s writing.

I got a bit odd, I must admit. One does – well, I do – when the writing becomes intense. If the phone rings, I’m not quite sure who’s going to answer it. I’ve experienced my characters’ dreams and the odd attack of social anxiety for violating imaginary customs. At one point during the revision of the Darkborn sections of Lightborn I could be found following a nervous pigeon along a side-street, trying to find the exact words for the softly opaque, greyish cream of its feathers. I’d go into a trance in the grocery store with a tomato in my hand, tripping on its pure redness. (When I was writing Blueheart, it was plums. Eight hours writing, and I’d be standing in Safeway thinking, ‘what is this thing?’, bewildered to find myself on dry land). I blame the need to go on restorative colour trips for my fascination with the graphics capabilities of R, and the vcd package – though I think the 20″ by 20″ mosaic plot that took 1.5 hours to render was carrying it to excess.

At Farthing Party last August (good grief), I was on a panel on the question of “Who is Qualified to Write SF?”. My intro packed in an awful lot of thought, so I figured I would take the opportunity to unpack – though why I did not post this until now I can’t really explain, because it reached close to final form in the first couple of weeks after. Might have something to do with submitting Shadowborn, going out west, and starting a new job.

I raised four points:

• The usefulness of having a background (whether acquired through formal education or not) in the discipline (defined broadly) that is the focus of the story, which helps with the details, helps with getting the fundamentals right, and allows extrapolation (in any direction – forward, sideways, or backwards), as opposed to what I chose to call fabrication, which is just picking up the trappings [i]. At the panel we spent a lot of time on the big and small things that made us go ‘owww’ and – metaphorically or otherwise – throw books against walls.
• The need to know and avoid the ‘big dumb clichés’, the misperceptions of science promoted by news media that tend to normalize the aberrant and popular narrative media conventions that romanticize the deviant. Everyone who is a member of a social group or practitioner of an occupation or serious hobby has to deal with the ‘big dumb clichés’ around their domain. Others have written about the annoying and persistent myths around science; my personal pet peeves are the distortions of human research and medicine (a longer rant for a later time). This is about getting the culture, norms and ethics right [ii].
• The importance of being engaged with science. I spoke about the social awkwardness around being a young woman in science at social events – particularly those where the sexes were herded into different corners (we’re talking about the late 1970s and early 80s) – and saying what I did was the kiss of death to conversation. I still get the sense that many people who express judgments about science on the Internet are as checked out on the subject as those women who’d tell me that science was boring or too difficult for them [iii]. This is not a position to write SF from.
• However, being engaged does not mean being uncritical, which brings me to the fourth point, which is an argument that the best people to undertake the critique of science within SF may not be scientists [iv]. Science is a dominant, if not the dominant narrative in our society, and as much as we need competence and accuracy in the depiction of science in SF, we need competence and accuracy in the critique of science in SF – as a culture, as a system, as what my history lecturer would have said a ‘project of modernity’ – as the way it reinforces dominant narratives and power relations, and how it subverts and is subverted by them [v]. This requires a different position and a different toolkit, which is where SF needs people who don’t have a science background, and aren’t socialized and acculturated.

And this is by no means a complete list. Other thoughts:

• In my observation, it’s more likely that a writer who writes prose that makes me drool, purr, and mutter ‘envy is a sin, envy is a sin’, does not have a formal education in science than that they do (note the epidemiologist’s phrasing here). I may be biased by knowing how much my own style deteriorated from late high school to graduate school, and by the memory of having my style described as both ‘flowery’ and ‘insensitive’ during the same university term, by a science prof and an english prof respectively.
• Jo Walton and Jim McDonald both said the writing – the mastery of storytelling – was paramount. Yes, yes, yes! If a writer has the writing and storytelling part right, I’ll not only be more prepared to believe that they have the information right if I don’t know the subject, and more willing to accept implausibilities and forgive errors (having fact-checked) if I do.
• There’s also the problem of time.There’s that million words of garbage or that 10 000 hours of practice needing to be got over. Science-science doesn’t generally give one as much time as social sciences and the arts do for the simple exercise of putting words together to convey one’s meaning accurately, much less time to think about narrative or the production of story.

Expansions

[i] We can argue about whether or not extrapolation is a necessary criterion in the definition. It’s in my own, particularly on those odd Tuesdays when I define SF as a product of the present day in dialogue with the needs, concerns and technologies of the present day, and therefore needing a reference to the present day. Plus, I like to watch writers do the extrapolation. However, my definition of SF is anything but fixed. See also [v].

[ii] And for me personally, errors there are more offensive than errors in fact.

[iii] Today, I could offer a number of responses that might lead into productive conversations about how and why they had become checked out (if indeed they were) – public perception of science, science education, dynamics of inclusion and exclusion – but then I was too young and skinless to deal well with what felt like dismissal.

[iv] At the panel I mentioned butting heads with fellow listserv members on the subject of Margaret Atwood, and realizing upon reflection that the heat was actually being generated by a struggle over who did and did not have the dominant narrative. We were not arguing so much about whether Atwood is a SF writer, or whether she writes good SF or not; we were arguing about power, privilege, and who gets to be the authority. I saw the arts having the dominant narrative, and Atwood being granted disproportionate attention because she was such a major figure in CanLit. I suspect my fellow members saw science as having the dominant narrative, and myself as dissing Atwood because she was neither within the field of SF or the field of science.

My early experience did not suggest that science was privileged. The formative years of my education were at an all-girls school that came out of a particular tradition in female education that took the education and vocation of young women unusually seriously, but which nevertheless centred on the arts, leaving the sciences as something of an afterthought. Then, before I had finished school, we moved (back – it’s complicated) to Canada, in the mid-70s, where the arts were the chosen platform for the expression of Canadian identity. It was in America, where science and scientific prowess were one of the platforms for the battles of the Cold War, that science was being actively promoted.

In addition, as a woman training in science, I did not feel privileged. I felt a barely tolerated outsider, stumbling through the complicated dance that would keep the men around me seeing me as a scientist rather than as a female, and entirely too aware that my femaleness would be used to push me outside any time it suited them. I’d discovered feminism, but many feminist writers appeared to equate science with masculinity and condemn it as a tool of patriarchy (it is, it is), leaving me with the sense – rightly or wrongly – that they regarded as science as no place for a woman, and a woman in science as an unnatural being (… where had I heard that before?). It was a splendid moment for me when I picked up a 1982 issue of Ms magazine in which they published a long excerpt from Vivian Gornick’s “Women in Science: Portraits from a World in Transition”.

I got clued to the biases resulting from being embedded in science via various inputs. The ones that come to mind are:

• the inescapable experience of being female in science and observing how the science around gender was refracted through social expectations
• the work of critics of the sociology of science like Evelyn Fox Keller and Hilary Rose [vi]
• going into medicine, where there had been extensive work by feminists and sociologists looking at how the science of medicine intersects with the sociology of medicine and with the lines of power and privilege
• taking a course on the history of modern Europe, which turned out to be an intellectual and political history of Europe, which gave me the perspective of science as one of the projects of modernity – along with feminism, democracy and individuality.

And I also clue to the potential limitations of science fiction purely by scientists by reading a form of SF written primarily by insiders. I’ve been reading naval and military fiction and SF ever since I got into Hornblower via Star Trek [vii]. I recognize the writers’ authority – not only do most of them have the real-world credentials equivalent to having science degrees and writing SF, but the work gives off that particular resonance of an author confident both in story and subject. However, being an outsider, I also recognize the unexamined assumptions in many of the popular works [viii], and feel the tension of being pulled into the story  and yet being fully aware that as civilian, a physically unexceptional female, and someone whose politics – at least these days – is left of centre, I do not belong there. Well, other than as a shreddie. That’s another area where Lois McMaster Bujold stands out, because she takes the perspective both of the insider and the outsider, does not take for granted militarization as a norm (Barrayar is a militarized society in the process of demilitarization), and questions the power-relations. Furthermore, Miles is by birth, socialization, and ambition an insider, but because of his physical limitations is an outsider.

When I was writing Cavalcade, I was in the middle of medical school and conscious of the ongoing process of socialization to professional norms , and the difference between the realities of the profession and the ‘big dumb clichés’. I wanted a special forces team aboard, and I was sure that popular representations of the military were as distorted as those of medicine. I read a whole variety of books written by insiders, would-be insiders, and people who were consciously using an outside perspective and outside toolkit to look in. Ones I particularly remember were “The Company They Keep”, written by an anthropologist married to a special forces soldier, “The Militarization of Women’s Lives”, about the influence of even a peacetime military on women, families and society, a book about praetorianism (whose exact title I can’t remember), which picked apart the American republic’s history of profound ambivalence and indeed distrust of military power as a threat to democracy, fascinating to someone living next door to the post-WWII, post-Cold War, militarized republic. I never was sure enough of myself to present a point of view from the special forces unit, but their presence and the relationship between them and the forming government ran through the novel.

[v] There are a heck of a lot of my personal causes and beefs embedded in this viewpoint, and unpacking those would run for few thousand words or so. Suffice for the moment to say I Have Views about the social as well as the artistic purposes of science fiction. But see also point [i]. On alternate Wednesdays, I don’t care about the social purposes of SF; I just want some shiny, irresponsible fun.

[vi] Rose discusses science fiction as offering models for a feminist science in a later chapter in her book “Love, Knowledge and Power”, and Jane Donawerth uses Rose’s ideas to give shape to a broad discussion of women’s presentation of science in science fiction (with lots of examples) in “Utopian Science in Science Fiction by Women,” in “Frankenstein’s Daughters”.

[vii] I once had a conversation with Marie Jakober about our shared fascination with war despite being unambiguously opposed to it IRL. I don’t recall that we reached a conclusion, but we were fully aware of the contradiction.

[viii] Unexamined within the work, at least.

Remnant Population

Elizabeth Moon; Del Rey 2003

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Courtesy of the Heroine’s Journey thread over at Tor.com, about which I’ll say more once I’ve dug myself out from underneath Bayesian analysis, counterfactual models, causality, directed acyclic graphs, fractional polynomials, splines, and simulation of datasets … I’ve been rereading Elizabeth Moon’s Remnant Population. There aren’t many protagonists in SF like Ofelia, whom the Scots (and we should know) would describe as a cussed auld besom. She’s nearly eighty, one of the oldest inhabitants of a human colony thwarted in its development by repeated disasters; of Ofelia’s several children, only one son, Barto, has survived into middle age. The colony has endured but not grown or progressed; education is purely vocational and individual talent and aspiration suppressed. The social order is narrow: Ofelia’s community impresses on her her dependency and diminishing worth as an old woman, and Ofelia in turn passes silent judgment on disruptive, sexually promiscuous women like her neighbour Linda and childless women like her daughter-in-law Rosara.

But within the first pages of the novel the colonists learn that their colony has been judged a failure and is to be abandoned by its corporate sponsor. Within a month, the colonists will depart for another planet, decades away, leaving the work of forty years behind them. As a further imposition, the sponsors are refusing to pay for Ofelia’s passage, charging it to her son and daughter-in-law.

Enough, Ofelia decides. When the time comes, she will walk into the forest with enough food for a few days, and wait until she is certain the last shuttle is gone. The company representatives will not trouble themselves to look for one woman too old to work. She will live the rest of her life alone, and for the first time in her life she’ll have nobody around to tell her what to do and who to be.

And she does. Once she has restored power to the deserted colony and established a routine of gardening and foraging, she has everything she needs. She gets up to mischief. She pokes into other women’s cupboards. She sleeps in other people’s beds. She sheds the drab clothing of elderly respectability and dresses in gaudy colours, walks naked in the streets, weaves herself a cape of netting and beads, daubs her body with paints. She annotates the colony’s official log with the stories of sexual strife and violence that lie behind single line entries of moves between households or ‘accidental’ deaths. The narrow inner voice of social censure is gradually silenced by a new voice. (These acts of throwing off social convention, that argument between the inner voice of social censure and the new voice of true experience turns up in other womens’ novels, too. Top of my mind is Joan Barfoot’s Abra, a mainstream novel of a woman who also chooses solitude and self-sufficiency, but on this earth.)

But she does not remain alone. Months later, the colonists’ successors arrive. Disdaining the site of her failed colony, the new settlers set down elsewhere on the planet—and Ofelia, silently listening over the radio, hears their unanswered pleas for help as they are slaughtered to the last man, woman and child by aliens that no one knew were there. Ofelia’s initial intense fear, loneliness and vulnerability are gradually easing with the familiarity of her surroundings and routine when, in the middle of one of the planet’s violent storms, she comes face to face with a small wandering band of the aliens. The recognition that one of them is injured, and exasperation at seeing anyone or anything too foolish to come out of the rain, pre-empts fear, and she throws open her door.

They spend an uncomfortable night huddled together in the dark, and each party (the aliens’ collective voices are represented in brief interpolated passages) emerges gratified to find themselves unharmed by the other. Ofelia would be quite happy to go back to her solitary life, but the aliens are social and curious, and Ofelia finds herself shooing them out of the kitchen and out of the colony control room and power-plant, convinced they’ll do themselves harm, and pushing towels and mops into their hands when they track mud and water across her floor. Children, she thinks, having reached the age where everyone looks like children, and exasperated all over again at losing her precious solitude. But she demonstrates how light-switches work, and how domestic appliances work, and struggles—despite her own truncated education—to explain how electricity is generated. She makes music with them. She dances with them. An elder, a nest-guardian, the People decide in their turn, and summon one of their senior singers, a diplomat, to treat with her as a representative of her people. And, half-understanding, she finds herself appointed as guardian to the newborn babies of one of the band.

One of the marvelous aspects of this novel is that the important events happen in Ofelia’s old age. Many novels with an old person as protagonist (eg, Margaret Lawrence’s The Stone Angel, itself a groundbreaking book) take place as much in the novel past as the novel present, and youth’s adventures and dramas pre-empt attention. Age seldom gets all the adventure all to itself, as it does here. Despite the arrival of a team of experts, all shiny, knowledgeable, and oblivious to their own human foibles (Children, thinks Ofelia), Ofelia—old, ill-educated, eccentrically clad, and cussed—and the alien diplomat whom she calls Bluecloak, succeed in making the human representatives recognize the outrage that provoked the massacre, and establish the terms for colonization of the planet in full partnership with the People.