Reading Writing by Writers (with review of For The Win, by Cory Doctorow)

Mea culpa is Latin for “my bad.” And today Roger Ebert came up with one, in his blogged apology for declaring games cannot be art.

Which makes me admire Ebert even more. He’s already my favorite film critic, mainly because he’s such a great writer that reading his reviews is sometimes a better experience than sitting through two hours of movie. And while I was ready to slide him a few curmudgeon points for being too old to get it, I think he just proved he actually does get it.

Another great writer: Cory Doctorow. I’ve nearly finished For The Win, a story about gold farmers, unions, gamers, economics and virtual realities. Reading it here and now gives me the same chills up and down my back that reading Neuromancer did when I first read it by the feeble light of a glowy amber display, back before computers had pictures, and color. If you’re reading this blog, trust me, you’ll like For The Win.

It’s about: some awesome characters, including a talented girl from the slums of Daravi, India who goes by the handle of General Robotwallah, a Chinese audioblogger reporting on issues concerning factory girls, a nice Jewish boy from the OC who comes up with a clever way to smuggle game cards into China after his parents try pulling an ill advised military school intervention, an economist and a professional gold farmer hunter and a tank who goes directly from an assault by some head-busting anti-union goons – in the PRC – to becoming an underground celebrity. All dealing with various facets of the interesting new virtual economy, while facing obstacles such as old people who don’t know how to text. These people all feel like they live in the same world where I live, as opposed to characters from many other novels.

You will learn things from this book, about economics and virtual worlds and game theory and pyramid schemes and psychology and Chinese dumplings, but none of the textbooky stuff overwhelms the action, which is frequently triumphant, as one might expect from an author who knows a thing or two about games. You will ask yourself questions like “how do labor unions figure into a global virtual economy?” and “now that we are all in touch via the internet, do borders really matter?” and “wow, what if there really was a Mad Magazine virtual world, would that be awesome or what?” And since it’s a YA novel, there’s a refreshing lack of ladies being dissected in basements.

And Cory’s old man, E.L. Doctorow, who wrote Welcome to Hard Times and Ragtime (two of my favorite novels), is pretty damn good himself.

I wish there were more writers I liked, because the fact that two (2) of them have come out with linguistic spillage worth of an official Darth Bunnywabbit salute reminds me how bleak the last few years have been from a print addiction standpoint. All those Derrida fans monopolizing the print outlets with their endless bleak tales about how The Mute Numb Protagonist feels disconnected angst while witnessing The Obligatory Heinous Abuse of Some Innocent Child and/or Some Hot Girl. In between writing agonizing op-eds about how Computers and/or Gamers Are Ruining The World.

For example, Steigg Larson’s Millennium Trilogy, aka The Girl Who Sold A Boatload Of Novels. I’ve read the first one in the series. It was engaging, despite the fact I was prepared to hate it -- I'm not a fan of either mysteries or thrillers, and it's both. The abuse of children and/or hot girls is present, to serve convention, but there is also a kickass Aspergerian nerdgirl who uses it as momentum to kick major ass, and the pacing works just fine.

The whole issue of “pacing” reminds me of playing music. Many people think they like a particular song because the singer is pretty or they agree with the lyrics. In fact, they like that song because the producers, as well as the musicians who play non-foreground instruments such as bass, did such a damn fine (yet invisible) job. And maybe they even like that song because someone with an appreciation for invisible craftsmanship played that song in a place where the listener created some fond memories.

Larsson’s writing is like that. They went here. They did this. The rug was green. She wore a black shirt and blue jeans. The chair came from Ikea. It’s the equivalent of a sinuous bass riff winding throughout, keeping the time, distinguishing it from the mountain of other murder mysteries and nerdgirls and asskicking and bass riffs and Ikea chairs already cluttering up the planet. Try singing haunting jazz lyrics over the bass riff of some fatfingered spastic who can’t stay on the beat and you’ll see what I mean.

Recently I was thinking about J.K. Rawlings and J.T. Leroy. These are both pen names, belonging respectively to Joanne Rawlings and Laura Albert. Both are middle aged ladies aware of the fact that using initials instead of a first name will rescue you from the dreaded Chick Lit Curse that can confine your writings to a (horrible) girly pink readership instead of a (wonderful) manly readership (notwithstanding the fact most people who read and buy books are female).

Both J.K. and J.T. wrote about teenage boys going through extraordinary experiences. J.K., a single mom fortunate to live in a country with a social safety net (yes, there’s my subliminal political statement woven two pages into the text – don’t you think this is worlds better than drawing some line in imaginary sand and then shrilling about it?) wrote about Harry Potter. You may have heard of him.

J.T., who found herself in hipster-infested late 20th century San Francisco (territory I know well), gave her teenage boy protagonist the name of an actress from Andy Warhol’s factory and made him a transvestite truck stop prostitute (with abusive childhood). And because she came from a milieu where authenticity was nearly as esteemed as dark edgy explicitness, she actually got a friend to play her seemingly-autobiographical character for public appearances, thus fleecing many rock stars, writers and hipsters. Then later on her cover was blown and these days she’s known more for her deception than her writing.

Which makes you wonder what she might have come up with if she hadn’t had to work it quite as hard to achieve literary success. Or whether Harry Potter would have been written at all in America, if J.K. had been shuffling through various sales-motivated tropes in an attempt to make a living at this writing thing. Or whether I would have ended up writing the same kind of crap if I hadn’t vanished into my apartment to devote my life to playing video games. Or whether Cory Doctorow's awesome talent would have surfaced without his dad's genes and guidance.

And meanwhile, how are the games going? Meh, my guild still hasn’t killed Arthas, and my sims are popping up with random tattoos, now that the game includes tattoo artists. Fortunately they’re all erasable. And I have decided I want my sim town to include a row of California-esque type bungalows. If you’ve ever driven down 19th Avenue in San Francisco you know the kind of house I mean, all approximately the same size and with the same floor plan, but different facades – this one Spanish, that one modern, the next one Victorian, the next one with columns, the next one with an interesting concrete planter. You can find them in LA too, all up and down the coast. An architectural style that apparently doesn’t get a lot of love from coffee table books or websites, compared to that boring row of Vics on Alamo Square that you will see endless pictures of if you Google San Francisco architecture. I might have to actually leave the house in order to get some good photos of same. Fortunately it’s summer, and the weather’s nice out. Hope it’s likewise where you are. If not, go get that Cory Doctorow book and curl up with it for a couple of days. It’s a damn fine read.