[On the comments regarding my previous post -- this is, I think, of sufficient general interest to warrant its own Front Page Treatment]

It's worth remembering my favorite paraphrase of Nietzsche: When you judge a work of art, the art also judges you.

That is to say: what you get out of a book depends more on what you bring to it than on any skill of its author (though I well understand that this is heresy to most of the LitCrit crowd, whose entire worldview -- not to mention income and careers -- is based on the indefensible contention that not only do objective signifiers of literary quality exist, but that these supposed signifiers can be reliably identified by critics. And that identifying and sharing these signifiers in various rhetorical arguments about various works' inherent quality is not only a worthwhile occupation, but one for which they should be paid).

What Really Good Critics do is create and deliver an entertaining and persuasive narrative of their own experience; they understand that the only defensible form of criticism is a report of how the work in question affected (or failed to affect) them. What Really Stupid Critics do is smugly repeat shit like "Show, Don't Tell" and, oh, I don't know, maybe "This is how it feels to read crap," in order to pretend they're smart.

Look: there are some people who are open to the idea that a book like Revenge of the Sith might actually be a Good Novel -- even people who generally despise Star Wars, like (for example) my wife, the Fabulous Robyn. In fact, she still hasn't forgiven me for seducing her into actually giving a damn about Anakin Skywalker and Obi-wan Kenobi (she listened to the Unabridged Version read by the estimable Jonathan Davis, and it made her cry. More than once). But these are people who are already susceptible to the heroic epic; a Henry James fan who considers the mark of Great Literatue to be the delicately filigreed tale of how the Cruel World ultimately Destroys the Beauty of the Sensitive Soul, is just never gonna get it, no matter how hard you push it. There are plenty of James fans who will insist that The Iliad is Real Literature, as is Hamlet or many other narratives based on outside sources -- and in the same breath say that RotS can't be Real Literature because it's based on Star Wars. I could be the Second Coming of Leo Fucking Tolstoy, and still none of these people would be persuaded that a Star Wars book can be anything other than (at best) an entertaining diversion.

Not that I'm claiming to be in the same league as Homer, Shakespeare and Tolstoy, you understand. I'm far from convinced that my SW books will still be read ten years from now, let alone 400. Or 2500. I would, however, just once like to copy out Homer's capsule bios of each of the slain heroes at Troy, then pants one of these Show Don't Tell fucktards and shove that copy up his ass.

KF1138:

Thanks for the great review. Sorry about the gender misapplication -- the -trix suffix is usually applied to female examples of persons engaged in occupations that end in -tor. Hence the mix-up. Sorry.

I have been ruminating lately on how certain genre writers broke out into the mainstream after making the acquaintance/coming to the attention of certain influential critics -- specifically, Bradbury meeting Christopher Isherwood, and Cormac McCarthy becoming the (strictly metaphoric, so far as I know, and generally literary) love interest of Harold Bloom.

So here's the question:

How do I get this person a job at the New York Times Review of Books? And why isn't she already famous?

Now, don't get me wrong: I know I've received a great deal of love from various and sundry Individuals of Stellar Taste who may very well be on their way to Influential Criticosity within (at least) Our Genre . . . but I need somebody who's already big.

Dang it.

This.

I have not personally verified the genuine-osity of this organization; as with any online charity site, I suggest you do so before contributing. A less-detective-work alternative would be to simply attend the auction at ComiCon.

I do know that Mr Ostrander has (by his own report) recently had eye surgery, and so I strongly suspect that this is entirely legitimate. I'm just too shy to write to the guy directly and ask.

Those of you who don't know who Jon Ostrander is, well . . . you must not love comic books, several of the best in recent memory being products of his pen (including the current Star Wars: Legacy series, and one of my all-time favorite works of serial graphic fiction, Grimjack).

Those of you who work Real Jobs are hereby officially encouraged to

1.) contribute, if possible, or at least
2.) help get the word out to other interested parties, or
3.) both.

I can speak with some authority to the devastating effect of chronic illness, and being buried in debt only makes it worse.

Full disclosure: Those of you who enjoyed Shatterpoint should be aware that my characterization of Mace Windu owes a considerable debt to Mr Ostrander's depiction of him. I don't know the guy personally, you understand; I'm just a fan.

It's Father's Day in the USA, so felicitations to all USA-ish males with living offspring.

It's also Caine's birthday everywhere (International Date Lines notwithstanding), which means that he's on the cusp of Gemini and Cancer, which tells you pretty much all you need to know about my faith in astrology.

However, those of you who are (of legal drinking age and) so inclined, raise a toast to your favorite Amoral Sociopath Who Hasn't Been Born Yet at some appropriate time of the day.

Hardcore fans will, of course, do so with Caine's spirit of choice, Laphroaig.

The 10 year old, that is. The 15's for weenies and anybody who drinks Scotch over 20 years old should just go ahead and drink cognac.

That's all.

Okay, this is worth mentioning.

This "Charlesmaverick" who wrote a note in the previous comments section may turn out to be kind of a big deal; he says two of the biggest publishers in mainland China are interested in presenting Star Wars-related books in one or more of the various Chinese languages (I actually forgot to ask if Cm translated the book into Mandarin or Cantonese or whatever -- largely because I don't really know a damn thing about Chinese dialects outside the bare fact that there are several major and a number of minor). I managed to locate the right person at LFL to steer them toward, and now I'm waiting with considerable interest to see what happens next.

It may still fizzle; I'm not privy to any inside information, and cross-cultural intellectual property negotiations can be exceedingly tricky. But the possibility alone is cause for pleasurable contemplation. Umpty-million Chinese sales of Revenge of the Sith wouldn't make me a wealthy man -- but it'd be pretty cool to be part of what could be a major cultural exchange. David Brin would likely disagree, but I think that Star Wars, the Expanded Universe, and SW Fandom in general reflect well upon Western pop culture. It'd also be really damn cool if some Chinese SFF types were to get new contracts to produce their own SW books and such.

I'd read 'em.

Well, fuck me like a virgin goat.

There's a site apparently devoted to ranking SF and fantasy novels, where some insightful soul of impeccable taste stuck Heroes Die on their list of Top 25 Fantasy Novels of All Time.

I don't know who compiled that list, but may the gods shower blessing upon them and their house unto the seventh generation.

Kweshyins Kweshyins evriboddi gots kweshyins . . .

First: I'm not going to tell you what names those future projects might be published under, because
1) I haven't decided yet, and
2) it would kinda defeat the whole purpose of using a pseud, which is to hoodwink gullible bookstore computer ordering systems -- and presumably equally gullible human genre buyers -- into ordering more copies than they otherwise would, if they knew that I (ass-end charlie in the genre mid-list) wrote them.

The chain bookstores see my name below the title, and then bring up their tally of my most recent sales figures . . . then they order ten percent fewer copies than my last book sold, on the perfectly reasonable (and in fact correct) assumption that if this particular title takes off, they can always order more. The downside is that publishers use pre-orders to judge how much push they want to put behind the book -- and so the chains order less and less, and the publisher is less and less inclined to flush advertising dollars down the toilet of a failing career.

At a certain point, a particular by-line vanishes into a downward spiral of diminishing expectations of success. The rule of thumb is that if you haven't broken out by your fourth novel, you're done. So I'm done. The only reason you keep seeing books with my name on them is that
1) I had a pre-existing contract for two Caine novels, and
2) my estimable editor had a brilliant idea for an on-the-cheap publicity campaign, and
3) the author-of-record for my SW books (for ordering purposes) is "Star Wars," which means that my shitty sales record doesn't affect them at all -- but they also don't help pump the orders for my original stuff.

This is not to say that you won't see more Stover books; I have contracts for two other tie-ins, as well as the last Caine book. If one of my new projects becomes wildly successful, I may be able to return to the genre as a "Thus&Such writing as Matthew Stover" kind of thing.

Next:

No, I don't play CoD4. I don't even own a 360.

Next:

During the events described in Heroes Die, Berne is 27 or 28, if I recall correctly -- roughly ten years younger than Caine.

Next:

For anyone wishing to reach me (and who doesn't already have my email), your best bet is to create an account at www.theforce.net or www.sffworld.com and pm me.

Next:

There are currently no plans to re-release Blade in conventional print. I had a nibble from an independent publishing house about putting out a collector's edition, but that seems to have fallen away.

Finally:

I have no idea about the sales of Lynch and Abercrombie and company, except a strong suspicion that they're considerably higher than mine.

That's all for now. I have to go kill things.