Two Distinct Worlds in One Artistic Write

September 24, 2012-


          I received a phone call this morning asking me to come in for an interview, but my fierce senses explained rather quickly that this was a polite request. I had been lying in bed resting at the time, which of course had fair reasons to prompt my hand to a rather slow reaction, so that I listened to a message two minutes later. My brows furrowed immediately when I heard the exuberant voice at the end which clearly expressed spices of clover, or something really strong to give your tea a good flavor. So strong was her joy at a simple request that could not have meant more than flicking a fly away if I ruined her mission somehow by misinterpreting what the expression could have been at any point, flicking away someone who could not fit her idea of purpose for the facility, that I shrugged. Shrugged away her manners, because I could not see how placing so little life in her voice that I sometimes do when I, in my honest skepticism, speak about such to someone with authority, and also because- I knew the woman at the other end was not really, no, she wasn’t planning to bring me in for a need, but to build up the vision she had for the YMCA’s swimming department. My eyes narrowed then, and I completely understood her cheerfulness and the critic in me was finally given the push which dissolved its annoying clattering. My mind quieted. She had a purpose that I would now scope out, and if this was simply a ‘polite request’ for a chat she did not need, then, shrugging again if I must, I’ll have cookies under my shoulder as it moves when I go in for that interview.

This reminds me very dearly of a story that I read this week that the Speculative Edge had prompted me to read, which I shall not say much of, save for that it had a strong focus on robotics. Because I do not have the calibre in this subject to rather easily depict various involved ideas as they swim around each other in a forest quite so very vast as that, it sometimes fosters a melee of paradoxes, mathematical triangles, and mistrusted-due-to-my-experience equations, that, as I drank a strong cup of tea to my eye’s tired pleasure, I sat there feeling a bit like the woman in my last post that knew nothing about the wide but colorful world which I’d grimaced at initially, until, eventually, another peacock from the forest came, and untangled my web. I sifted through the story until I found purpose, and mission, and all the colors of dark, and light shades mixed into the bright, shapely but exotic leaves in the environment began to make sense. This time, I hope you shall not laugh if I tell you that I found a peacock quite literally to take me to a place in that jungle that grew to something with beauty in my eyes.

Last night while I was reading about robotics in a Starbucks café, still yet lost in a mechanical branch of science that became a branch in my imaginary forest picture, I spotted another picture that my dear friend was creating on her computer screen for a graphic design class. It had a blue setting, very light in hue but across the expanse were inlaid dozens of squiggly lines, frilly semblances in lines and shapes that were very appealing, I thought. In front however was a large mathematical shape. It was either white or black at different times, depending on my friend’s mood, which seemed caught up in the problem of rational and that which seemed irrational behind it. After a while, she pulled on the ends of her hair and blurted out in frustration,

“It has to make sense too.” I bit my lip.

                “Yes,” I finally agreed. “It should make sense. But I really like the interplay between the two themes.”  She sighed.

                “Thanks.” I leaned over her screen.

                “Perhaps it’s those little lacy-like diamond looking things in the background.”

                “Which ones?” I pointed them out to her. She seemed to really like them, for some reason, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. They had no bearing or purpose in the scene. And then I figured it out. She didn’t want it to have a purpose.

                Of course my friend was under the illusion that the very idea that she had adamantly leaned away from trying to give her picture a purpose for the better part of an hour, was utterly insane. She would have balked had I suggested it. And I do understand, truly, that she wanted her design to make sense to the general public. But the truth was that, in seeking out items from the program with a creative touch to slap onto a logic puzzle that served the base shape in the front, her instincts were crawling with the illogical, but oftentimes singularly beautiful, work of the most nonsensical poet. Like some of the scenes I remember from Leonardo DiCaprio’s recent films, such as the Aviator,  the work was ingenuous, but ingenuity and reason do not always mix. Much of Shakespeare’s work is filled with fluff and nonsense, but sounds particularly beautiful.

For a few moments as I stared at my friend’s picture, I tried to shift through a puzzle of my own. What was it about the logical puzzle that didn’t fit with what now appeared to be Hawaiian ropes of flowers framing the shape? I’ve always wondered why the irrational and the rational did not mix in school, because obviously the world needs both. They never seem to portray their esteemed qualities when clashing. After all, mixed marriages don’t clash. Opposites usually attract in my experience. A mixed plate with good, wholesome foods of every variety is just what a person needs. And yet . . .

“I’ve got it, Lily! They can’t go together because you are not rationally inclined.” She stared at me like I was crazy.

“What?” I smiled.

“Don’t you see . . .  ” I spoke gently, and with more understanding. “You don’t understand yourself the ties between the logic on that page and the- Honolulu hoops or whatever you call them. There’s no way that they can be put together if you don’t know the purpose.” And now I also understood why the author of the robotic story had chosen his purpose with such a specialized branch of study. He was serving a purpose that was rooted solely in the logical paradox which he had created. He knew that he didn’t understand the ties between other worlds, and thus did not want to venture out of the scientific realm. A smart move. The smartest author knows what he or she doesn’t understand, and the smartest reader . . . experiments with this knowledge. And suddenly my journey through the story was clarified, and I plunged through the story voraciously. Right now I am still wondering about all of the new shades and the shapes and the colors, noise, and revelations it enclosed. But I understand that my greatest and most honored job while I’m working here at this magazine is bravery. To not be afraid to experiment.

I’ll speak to you all next Monday.

Until then,

Enjoy the Speculative Edge’s gifts that it has to offer!

And be brave,

Brooke ~

Wading Through a Jungle

September 17, 2012 -

Hello,

My name is Brooke Fox, and I am interning here, at The Speculative Edge magazine, until December 2012. This is the first time that the magazine has worked with one like myself, and I’m here to tell you a little about what it’s like.

First off, I’ll begin by saying that I originally knew little about the process of assisting in the editorial-type- er, processes- and now I indeed have some experience by which I can explain my first foray into the field. It is like pulling heavy crocodile teeth, I hope you know- nah, scratch that. It has a deep water, but there are no crocodiles fighting for me in the area of editorial work.

Let me explain why I originally wanted to work for a magazine that produces material of the type which this particular one, does. I had been wading through a jungle, oh, not your ordinary jungle, but one of purpose and meaning, grasping at different ways to sink my foot into the literary environment. Of course, being here in the midst of so many- you see, the list “Top 50 Literary Magazines” offered me little respite, so different was each magazine. Researching this jungle was a walk in which various colors and sights attracted me, but they did little to help my navigational obstruction. I began sending out e-mails rapidly, working towards my route, but here, and there, were so many different responses that inspired my interest, yet did little to inspire me. And here I sat, with ten e-mail boxes open in front of me, but feeling rather discomfited by the responses.

My lackadaisical attitude lasted for a few days, before I finally came upon the particular fork in my journey that I thought I’d scope out slightly. Shane Collins, the primary editor of The Speculative Edge, demonstrated a brightly colored display that- I thought I’d follow, slowly, and then happily found myself guided to one of the most sparkling, and clear waters that I could ever imagine.

“Well, ahem, I’m a twenty-two year old English student working towards my degree at Michigan’s private Madonna University campus. Well, no, sir, I don’t exactly have experience as an editor or an understudy, but I’ll show you what I do have . . . ”

Although our conversations took place solely over e-mail, Mr. Collins was a colorful peacock- but maybe he shouldn’t like this description, so let’s keep it secretive- that brought me to my house, or rather, room full of this drink of life that my experience, skills, and qualities as a writer, desperately needed.

Some of you may be wondering why I have called this blog after a lovely exploding room. Lovely? Well . . . yes. Explosives can be lovely, you know. After all, haven’t you ever been to the latest firework display in your area near to the Fourth, finding yourself amidst the miraculous display, the sparkling fireworks that were created solely for the most spectacular visual appeal on the face of the Earth? The color variety, spawned by an initial crackling on the ground that bursts, into so many different features that artists and poets over the world all around us, across seas would just simply love to be near them, wherever they may be, at that moment? And that is not their only quality. I mean fireworks are fireworks, of course. But they must necessarily be used, you know, in the most symbolic ways, since I am a writer, and you are readers and writers.

The Room That Explodes. This is my metaphor for the work that I have done so far with The Speculative Edge. During my first week with the publication I was offered three stories from different writers, with a polite request to analyze or ‘critique’ them. Well, this was common ground, I thought, seeing as the type of academic background I’ve had underlines it. But, into the second and the third week, I was given even more stories, and I soon realized, that the term ‘speculative’ meant much more. My background, although having a creative lean to it, perpetually lent me to academic based papers, what some might consider ‘dry.’ I read so many fantasies from my analytical work, and the magazine itself- since Mr. Collins had graciously given me a free copy- that I had monsters with flowers spurting from their brains, and colorful, strange talking demons, crawling out of my ears, and my mind. But- this was the room of my dreams! An endless number of stories to read, from writers of various backgrounds, from perhaps India, to Idaho, and no end of stimuli for my overactive brain, and a shower of sparks, and fire beneath them, that made my creativity simply- ooze.

Okay, I suppose we are out of the forest now, and into the safe haven of The Room That Explodes. But let me take you back there for a moment out of necessity, to explain the end of our lost journey. Ahhh, think of a peacock once more, although we will not say who it might be. So as not to confuse our metaphors with each other, that bird gradually brings us around to a sparkling river flow. Of course we are drawn to that pretty water and we step into it. The rest of the route works its way into the material that I have been privileged to read. But how exactly it will meander to the end of wherever it goes, I wouldn’t know. Perhaps the editorial process will be a never ending one. I suppose we will see in the future months. For now, I will bring you out of the jungle though, and back into the room that is alight with speculative fiction glories. And in the next post, I hope that you will once again join me in,

The Room That Explodes.

Brooke ~