Nebula Awards Showcase 2012 (2 page)

~ * ~

Jim: It’s a good question. The boundaries of “speculative fiction”—or as the critic John Clute calls it,
fantastika
—have expanded to include a lot of literary territory. But to mix metaphors, I actually like the “Big Tent” we’ve set up for our readers here. It fits with my own writerly sensibilities, and yours as well, I’ll bet. Sure, fantasy and its many subgenres have captured some readers who might once have been exclusively science fiction fans, but I like to think that many fantasy readers retain a lively interest in what’s happening in SF—and vice versa. Certainly there are editors who publish short fiction in print and online who still welcome a variety of genres to their table of contents. Many of the short fiction nominees first appeared in magazines featuring stories that are as likely to explore Venus as they are to visit Faerie. I wonder if speculative fiction’s many awards, but the Hugo and Nebula especially, are not the center of our sprawling genre, at least at this point in history. Were the science fiction novels of Connie Willis and Paolo Bacigalupi awarded Nebulas in 2010 and 2009 respectively? Well, Ursula Le Guin’s fantasy and Michael Chabon’s alternate history took the novel Nebs in 2008 and 2007. So if we’re keeping score, which genre is ahead? Fantasy or science fiction?

My answer is
yes.

~ * ~

John: When the Nebulas were founded there were two reasons for their founding, and I think the difference between those reasons is illuminating and still relevant. Science Fiction Writers of America was a fledgling organization, dedicated to improving the situation of SF writers, but it had no money. Lloyd Biggie, the SFWA secretary-treasurer, suggested that SFWA sell an annual anthology to publishers with the proceeds going to support the organization. This rapidly became a plan to create a new SF award, voted on by writers, and thus the Nebulas were born. But the other reason, according to Damon Knight, was to improve the breed, to “show the quality of modern science fiction, its range, and ... its growing depth and maturity.” Knight was a critic and teacher as well as an editor and writer, and I believe he saw the Nebulas not simply as a way to honor the best work in the field, but to encourage writers to set their sights higher.

In the event, the trophies cost more than the amount raised by the anthology. But what of Knight’s other purpose? Have the awards spurred us on to write better SF and fantasy? Have they been good for the reputation of the genre?

I think it’s demonstrable that some of the best work written in the last forty years has been recognized by the Nebulas. And the awards have gone to grizzled old pros and to newcomers, to Ursula Le Guin’s
Powers,
published in the forty-eighth year of her career, and to Ted Chiang’s “Tower of Babylon,” the first story he ever published. To classics like
Dune
,
The Left Hand of Darkness, Neuromancer,
“Aye, and Gomorrah,” “When it Changed,” “Houston, Houston, Do You Read?” “Beggars in Spain,” “Bears Discover Fire,” “Fire Watch,” “Behold the Man,” “R&R,” and “Magic for Beginners.” To names who could not be more famous (Isaac Asimov) and to those who could (Jack Cady). I find it reassuring that the race does not always go to the best-known competitor; that every year there are new names on the final ballot.

I don’t suppose there’s anyone who would maintain that the winners have been without question the best stories of the year. Just as the Oscars go to films chosen for reasons that, in retrospect, seem inexplicable, sometimes factors other than literary merit influence the outcome of the voting. Or people’s judgment just changes over time. Or there just isn’t room to give awards to all the worthy stories. At the 2011 Academy Awards Stephen Spielberg acknowledged these realities when he presented the best picture award, saying, “In a moment one of these ten movies will join a list that includes
On the Waterfront, Midnight Cowboy, The Godfather,
and
The Deer Hunter.
The other nine will join a list that includes
The Grapes of Wrath, Citizen Kane, The Graduate,
and
Raging Bull!
’

Past Nebula nominee Andy Duncan recently made a provocative point about awards:

Over the years, I have decided the primary purpose of an award is not to celebrate individuals, but to celebrate the field those individuals work in. We squirm when this is made overt, as in the sanctimonious aren
’
t-we-great speeches about the universal appeal of motion pictures at the Oscars every year, or that endless Grammys tribute this year to the music charities supported by the recording industry. Yet it
’
s true anyway; it
’
s less important who wins, say, the Hugos in any given year than the fact that, once again, the Hugos are given out, generating another opportunity to see one another, and applaud one another, and talk to one another about our field and how it
’
s doing—and, yes, to kvetch about who got robbed and who
’
s overrated and who the real winner is.

~ * ~

Jim: We don’t have to go to the history books for reassurance that the race does not always go to the best-known competitor: it seems to me that the takeaway from this year’s list of nominees is that fresh voices will be heard. With wins in novella and novelette, new writers Rachel Swirsky and Eric James Stone have posted their names on the marquee just a few years into their careers. Reminds me of 1982 when a couple of tyros named Connie Willis and John Kessel swooped out of nowhere and won all three short fiction Nebulas. And first time nominees like Vylar Kaftan, Amal El-Mohtar, Felicity Shoulders, Aliette de Bodard, Shweta Narayan, Christopher Kastensmidt, Caroline M. Yoachim, J. Kathleen Cheney, M. K. Hobson, N. K. Jemisin, Mary Robinette Kowal, and Nnedi Okorafor represent almost half of the ballot. It’s the largest such group in the history of the award.

Speaking from personal experience, the impact of a nomination on a new writer can be profound. It’s hard for any writer to know exactly how she is doing, once she starts selling regularly. Income doesn’t necessarily tell the story. Reviews are a crapshoot—are bad reviews worse than no reviews? Readers may or may not check in. And there are no promotions. Nobody gets to be Vice President of Slipstream or Project Manager for Space Opera or Director of the Zombie Division. Yes, we have to believe in ourselves and know in our hearts that what we have to say is worth saying, but it helps when our colleagues offer some validation. Best-of-the-year editors certainly have this power, but they are individuals whose sensibilities are theirs alone. But when an organization of your colleagues proclaims to the world that you have written an elite story, you have to believe them. I think that helps the next time your curl your fingers over a keyboard.

And that’s precisely why there is so much kvetching about the Nebulas.
They matter.
If we get it wrong, if the process of nominating stories and anointing one of the nominees does not spur the collective effort to write better SF and fantasy, then we’ve lost our way. My mentor Damon Knight would not be pleased.

I don’t think this is the case, obviously. But the problem is that there is no consensus about how to write better SF and fantasy. Do we honor stories that are in dialogue with stories from our past, as has been our tradition, or is all that stuff old-fashioned now? Should we seek to break down the walls between the genres, or between genre and the literary mainstream, or is that turning our backs on our mission? And just what is our mission? Do we even have one? The discussions and, yes,
controversies
that sometimes swirl around the Nebulas are as important a part of our continuing self-evaluation as the awards themselves.

~ * ~

John: If the impact of a nomination on a young writer can be profound, I can say from similar personal experience that winning a Nebula can be a test of character. When I wrote “Another Orphan,” which won me a Nebula on my first nomination, I paid less attention to marketability, and more to my own obsessive interests than I had for any story I had written up to that point. After I won, I spent a year spinning my wheels trying to figure out what winning meant I should write next. What did people expect to see from me? What was I
supposed
to write? It took me some time to find myself again after that experience.

The attention of your peers is powerful, for good or ill. As E. B. White reminds us when Wilbur the pig wins an award at the country fair in
Charlotte
’
s Web,
“It is deeply satisfying to win a prize in front of a lot of people.” The stress of winning causes poor Wilbur to faint dead away, for “he is modest and can’t stand praise.” Fortunately, winning a prize does not mean that Wilbur must be slaughtered and eaten; instead, he goes back to his barn at the end and lives pretty much as he did before. Let us choose Wilbur as our role model.

~ * ~

Jim: There are many paths to greatness. (Uh-oh, I’m starting to sound like a fortune cookie!) And we would be foolish to say that being nominated for a Nebula or even winning one was the only honor that counted in this or any other year. It is instructive to note that two of the awards given at the Nebula ceremony, the Bradbury and the Norton, are named for great writers who, while celebrated as SFWA Grandmasters, have never made the short list for the award, let alone won. That’s right: Ray Bradbury and Andre Norton have never appeared on the final ballot. Ever. And in their distinguished company are some of the most talented writers ever to grace our genre. For example: Iain Banks, Elizabeth Bear, Jonathan Carroll, Greg Egan, M. John Harrison, Alexander Jablokov, Jay Lake, Kit Reed, Rudy Rucker, and Sherri Tepper— to name but ten.

What does this tell us? Only that proximity to the stories of any given year distorts our vision. In our opinion, these are
some
of the very best stories of 2011, but it is up to future generations of readers to decide—fifty or a hundred years from now—which ones speak to the ages.

Until then, we are very proud to present this year’s
Nebula Awards Showcase.

<
>

~ * ~

AUTHOR
’
S INTRODUCTION

Children are not all monsters, but many little girls are. In my small town elementary school, I was informally seeded 22nd in my class of 24. I played with numbers 23 and 24 because they were the ones willing to play with me, and I like to think that I would not have thrown them under the bus if that had been the price for improving my position—but it never came up, and I’m grateful, now.

“Ponies” is about that, and the maiming so many little girls subject themselves to, just to survive childhood. My first published short stories were horror, the literature of effect. Later I moved into fantasy and other things, but last year I returned to horror with the science fiction story “Spar,” and found that I had more to learn about how fiction gets under the skin. “Ponies” is another exploration of that.

NEBULA AWARD, SHORT STORY (TIE)

PONIES

Kij Johnson

The invitation card has a Western theme. Along its margins, cartoon girls in cowboy hats chase a herd of wild Ponies. The Ponies are no taller than the girls, bright as butterflies, fat, with short round-tipped unicorn horns and small fluffy wings. At the bottom of the card, newly caught Ponies mill about in a corral. The girls have lassoed a pink-and-white Pony. Its eyes and mouth are surprised round Os. There is an exclamation mark over its head.

The little girls are cutting off its horn with curved knives. Its wings are already removed, part of a pile beside the corral.

You and your Pony___[and Sunny’s name is handwritten here, in puffy letters]___are invited to a cutting-out party with TheOtherGirls! If we like you, and if your Pony does okay, we’ll let you hang out with us.

Sunny says, “I can’t wait to have friends!” She reads over Barbara’s shoulder, rose-scented breath woofling through Barbara’s hair. They are in the backyard next to Sunny’s pink stable.

Barbara says, “Do you know what you want to keep?”

Sunny’s tiny wings are a blur as she hops into the air, loops and then hovers, legs curled under her. “Oh, being able to talk, absolutely! Flying is great, but talking is way better!” She drops to the grass. “I don’t know why any Pony would keep her horn! It’s not like it does anything!”

This is the way it’s always been, as long as there have been Ponies. All ponies have wings. All Ponies have horns. All Ponies can talk. Then all Ponies go to a cutting-out party, and they give up two of the three, because that’s what has to happen if a girl is going to fit in with TheOtherGirls. Barbara’s never seen a Pony that still had her horn or wings after her cutting-out party.

Barbara sees TheOtherGirls’ Ponies peeking in the classroom windows just before recess or clustered at the bus stop after school. They’re baby pink and lavender and daffodil-yellow, with flossy manes in ringlets, and tails that curl to the ground. When not at school and cello lessons and ballet class and soccer practice and play group and the orthodontist’s, TheOtherGirls spend their days with their Ponies.

~ * ~

The party is at TopGirl’s house, which has a mother who’s a pediatrician and a father who’s a cardiologist and a small barn and giant trees shading the grass where the Ponies are playing games. Sunny walks out to them nervously. They silently touch her horn and wings with their velvet noses, and then the Ponies all trot out to the lilac barn at the bottom of the pasture, where a bale of hay has been broken open.