Real Artificial Intelligence

Real Artificial Intelligence

I was talking recently with my favorite coder—this would be my son, of course—who is smitten with the subject of artificial intelligence. He has a lot of faith in it solving a lot of problems, and I don’t doubt that it can and might. Let’s face it, computers have given us some things that are not just handy but essential, like online banking. My greatest fear of the apocalypse is the loss of online banking. I can bake and slice my own bread, but I shudder at the thought of going back to writing checks and keeping a register. And, when you think about how far online banking has come in the last few years, you’ve got to appreciate at least some potential of AI.

The problem with AI in its current state is that, for those of us who make a living in creative fields, it’s threatening to replace us in the most vulgar way. It can’t create, only regurgitate. Granted, one of the most famous assessments of creativity is that novices borrow while masters steal—a paraphrase of the old adage, “There’s nothing new under the sun.” And maybe these chatbots will someday achieve the status of masters, but right now they’re barely amateurs.

With my interest in the fertile science fiction notion of automatons, I’ve spent some time dwelling on the idea of the smart machine, whether operating with cogs and pinions or microchips and processors. I’m also dyslexic, and, despite the problems incurred, I’m glad I am. I’ve developed a paraphrase of another old adage. If necessity is the mother of invention, then misunderstanding is the father of creativity.

The beauty of dyslexia is that it allows the mind to take the presented reality and readily alter it into something that actually is a new thing, the process of analysis and synthesis being automatic but often unintentional. My own assessment is that these poor, wretched “masters” who must steal to create are simply lacking the greatest source of creativity—dyslexia. I also believe that a truly creative AI—as apposed to an RI, regurgitator of information—will only result when the software designers develop the dyslexia code. Of course, the problem they will then face moody, highly sensitive, randomly motivated, unpredictable machines. My son, of course, has yet to accept this theory.

Vintage Science Fantasy

Any discussion of fantastical technology must start long before the dreadful work of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and the hopeful tales of Jules Verne. The most alarming and insight volume available today concerning fantasies of scientific nature is Adrienne Mayor’s Gods and Robots in which Mayor delivers thorough insight into the legends and myths of of mechanized men and women that left me to wonder what might have possibly inspired such forward thinking by these ancient people. What prehistoric technology, subdued and forever extinguished from existence, could have been the forerunner and foundation for the air patrol of the iron Tholos or the deceptive fem fatale Pandora? The latter was programmed for a covert offensive strike against humanity. All this because good old Prometheus delivered the wonder of fire allowing not only grilling but the liquifying, combining, and forming of metals, which the great storytellers of the day turned straightly into flying patrol robots and beautiful seductresses.

 

Few authors have dedicates themselves more to the glorification of humanity’s ability to shape their world than Jules Verne. His stories read as hymns of praise to the value of human knowledge, the wonderous things humans are capable of if they possess understanding of physics, geography, geology, and the other natural sciences. But he was writing after the fact of great and wonderful technological advances. His father would have told him of the development of steam power with the same excitement that youngsters these days are told of the first days of the Internet. He shared his infancy with photography and saw the dawn of high-speed, long-range communication via telegraphy in his teens. By the mid-1870s his the success of his writing career was well established and the massive technological advancements of that period overshadowed even his great imagination.

Meanwhile, countering her male counterpart’s adoration of invention, Mary Wollstonecraft explored the equivalent of Pandora with her own take on the dreadful use of biology to create a man hateful and doubtful of its creator and determined to undermine Man’s achievements.

 

Steampunk fits into historical science fantasy as its elaborately adorned monarch. This subgenre of science fiction was officially and wonderfully christened by KW Jeter in 1987, but it was born ten years earlier with those four fabulous words on the big screen:

A long time ago . . .

George Lucas, who owes much of his inspiration toward romanticism to Frank Herbert with his embrace of aristocratic references, made a daring suggestion to sci-fi to turn around and look back rather than forward. The advancement of technology had veered afar in the Wollstonecraft warning direction and away from the valiance of Verne with each new rendition of war machine it produced. With doom and despair being the preeminent outlook for our technological future (again, this is prior the advent of the great unifying, informing, and entertaining Internet) the romantic notion of looking back rather than forward seemed a good idea. Jeter shortly thereafter launched the subgenre with Morlock Night, a wonderful play off HG Wells’ The Time Machine.

The Essential Outline for Steampunk Fiction

I here submit to you the essential outline for Victorian science fantasy, a.k.a. steampunk fiction: Rob Higgs’ “Corkscrew”.

‘How, in God’s name,’ you might ask and be rightly justified in doing so, ‘could such a device qualify as an exemplar of any sort of literary endeavor?’

Allow me:

As discussed in Steampunk is . . . , this niche subgenre of science fiction is intended to be far more than vintage sci-fi, although it can be only that and naught else. It can be, to no shame whatever, paranormal romance set in Century XIX with or without the addition of clockwork or coal power. Likewise, it may be historical romance with those same accoutrements. But in order for prose fiction to accomplish the definitive rebellious implications of steampunk fiction, the author might do well to consider the application of such model as the machine displayed in the accompanying demonstration.

After watching the video, please consider the specifications suggested below.

The Rob Higgs “Corkscrew”:

Steampunk Story according to the Above Example:

As stated in the post mentioned above, the punk portion of steampunk fiction’s christening is no inconsequential syllable. Punk implies a certain defiance, albeit, in this case, by circuitous means. Steampunk celebrates the shortcomings of technology through presentation of advancements that never could have occurred. The London of the 19th century proffered a glorious hope in many of its several wards while others can be described as nothing short of dystopian and apocalyptic.

Likewise, steampunk stories may, are allowed to, and, as is here suggested, might be expected to proffer similar dichotomy through the intentional rejection of certain rules presently considered dogma among the gatekeepers of the publishing industry. Passive voice; sentence, paragraph, and chapter length; the embrace and nurturing of cliche; et cetera may, along with clockwork and steam-powered fancies that intentionally defy the physical laws of their own foundations, represent a world of vastly unattainable luxury. As well might the very structure of story be so delightfully convoluted as to challenge its reader for the express purpose of doing so.

An Architectural Example of the Steampunk Principle

In the heart of the Century XX, when mechanization and industrialization yet ruled supreme and infallible, prior to the atomic dawn of the age of doubt, architects strived for their designs, whether offices, residences, or institutions, to act as machines. The form should follow the demands of the function. Every possible aspect of the structure should ease the lives of its users. Ornamentation was stripped away, as it served no functional purpose and lent nothing to convenience. Money was better spent on temperature and lighting controls. The world had moved beyond even the volutes and filigree cast in the iron plates of machinery of the Victorian age.

But then the great bombs dropped, and man proved his ability to destroy on a wholesale level, without discretion. Young people began to doubt the value of offering up their lives for the greater good in hope of a better tomorrow. The most vocal among them formed the punk movement and coined its fundamental premise: “If you’re not angry, then you’re not paying attention.” And a few architects decided that the designed and built environment should cease catering to the comfort and convenience of its users. Instead, they should be challenged by their environments. The design should serve itself more than it served its users.

Now to Apply this Idea to Steampunk Fiction

Several of the great founders of steampunk fiction structured their stories likewise to the designs of those rebellious architects, and they produced stories that mimic Rob Higgs’ “Corkscrew”. One great example of this style of structure is James P. Blaylock’s novel Homunculus. This story has an alarmingly broad cast of characters that push and pull each other. They impose upon each other and react to each other precisely as the many cogs and pinions of Rob Higgs’ device do. And, like the Corkscrew, the story needn’t necessarily be so complex. Characters could be combined, as is often done to simplify a story and make it easier for the reader to take in. Publishers press authors to cater to the fast pace of the world and the resulting short attentions of potential readers with shorter chapters, paragraphs, sentences, and even novels. Though published all the way back in 1986, Homunculus was already a work of drawn complexity, challenging this notion of catering to the lowest expectations. Yet its resolution is delightfully simple, thereby magnifying its own complexity.

Many steampunk authors have followed Blaylock’s example and created intentionally complex plots for their novels. And it should be no great wonder that such is the case when we consider that exactly the same approach is implemented by makers and designers in the production of hats, clothing, vehicles, and machinery. Outlandish complexity, blatant impracticality, and lavish absurdity are the essential traits of all things steampunk.

But isn’t it amusing that we engage in such flippant frivolity to celebrate the Victorian era when its essential motive was reaction against the flippant frivolity of its romantic predecessors? Absolutely not! For by such irony we not only accomplish but also magnify the rebellious intentions of steampunk fiction and of Victorian science fantasy.

Homunculus by Peter Blaylock,
steampunk fiction,
Victorian science fantasy

 

Victorian Steampunks

Victorians provide steampunk fiction with by far the greatest portion of its characters. This fact is no wonder, as theirs is the period of focus of this delightful niche subgenre of science fiction. Quite often Victorians are pilloried for their uptightness and strict sensitivity toward propriety. George Dower, KW Jeter’s person of interest in his trilogy, provides a lighthearted and comical example of a character overwhelmed by his own virtuosity. (See George Dower – Victorian Man)

In his book Victorian People and Ideas, Richard D. Altick makes an enlightening assertion about Victorian Brits. He begins his volume with an insightful explanation for the character of the Victorian people that few consider, let alone mention. He contrasts the ideals of Victorian generation that inspires so much historical science fantasy with their frivolous romantic predecessors. For example, Lord Byron, the romantic poet, figures among them. Now it would be easy to assume that the stiffly poised Victorian man was the product of generations and even centuries of development, but, as Altick demonstrates in his comparison, quite the opposite is true. In fact, the moral reserve of this generation reacted against their fathers with their own prudence and chastity.

The men of the former generation were so wont to demonstrate their emotions that they would seek out triggers for the onset of tears. They showed their love of great art by weeping at its beauty. Likewise, the frills they wore demonstrated their luxurious status in their own society and in the world at large. They quite literally wore their hearts on their sleeves. So, when the Victorian man holds himself upright, when he sees that his habiliments are well kept, tidy, and properly fitted, and when he speaks reservedly, he is doing so, at least to some degree, out of spite for his father’s generation.

In short, Victorians were punks. Their protestations? Their own Emo dads!

This being noted, it should be of no surprise that the niche subgenre of historical science fantasy should devote itself to Victorian Steampunks.

Resourse:

Non-fiction reading suggestion for more information about the sources of vintage sci-fi.

Victorian People and Ideas, a great resource for the foundation of the steampunk scifi niche subgenre

George Dower – Victorian man

In this original steampunk trilogy, KW Jeter implements the propriety of the Victorian gentleman in his main character. George Dower is moral, upstanding, economical, and dutiful. Having inherited his estranged father’s clock shop, he minds it faithfully, though his skills with clockwork are extremely lacking, especially when compared to his father’s genius at geared mechanicals. But the junior Mr Dower is to receive much elucidation of the true depth of his father’s ingenuity, which achieved not only mania but also a dalliance into highly questionable moral conduct. The story contains a cast of characters and a collection of themes that create a delightful explore that drags a proper Victorian gentleman into the shocking underbelly of anarchy, myth, debauchery, and all that wonderful hope 19th century technological advancement promised.

For more insight into the Victorians and what made them the people they were, see Victorina Steampunks.

Resourse:

Suggestion for vintage sci-fi.

Steampunk trilogy, KW Jeter

Steampunk is . . .

Although thirty-five years old now, the term steampunk remains well beyond the breadth of the average person’s lexicon to the extent that when asked what I write I use some variation of historical science fantasy unless I’m in a casual situation where a lengthy dialogue may ensue. Such situation presented itself recently at a physical therapy session, which amounted to an hour of casual conversation aimed, for the most part, at getting acquainted. I admitted I wrote steampunk and got the standard query: ‘What is steampunk?’ Over the years of going through the explanation, I’ve adopted what I feel remains the most comprehensive description: Steampunk is a genre in which romance may blossom betwixt an automaton and a mermaid. If further explanation is required, I explain it as a universe in which the highest and most extraordinary forms of mechanical technology may coexist and interact with mythology, the supernatural, and the paranormal. But, in truth, steampunk is far more.

The Passion Engine cover art
The Passion Engine

Naming Vintage Sci-fi

When KW Jeter coined the moniker in April of 1987, he made reference to the already popular cyberpunk genre which juxtaposes extreme advances in technology with apocalyptic conditions, thus questioning the actual hope technology imparts upon our world. Nothing new there, as Mary Wollstonecraft was among the first generation of science fiction writers and proffered the same notion with the horrible product of Dr. Frankenstein’s pursuit of technologically instigated resurrection. But, if you look at the manner in which Jeter and his partners in the genre’s foundation wrote, even at the very beginning, you indeed find an exceedingly punk flavor of science fiction.

Aside from such stylistic extravagance as marrying Arthurian legend with the technologies of HG Wells, an extraordinary new means of protest lying beneath the delightful characters and situations of the stories. Beneath the airships and bowler hats, waistcoats and corsets, chronometers and lampposts, automatons and mermaids, all of which attest the first part of the moniker, that of steam, lies not merely a disregard of contemporary expectation of fiction prose but an outright defiance thereof. The novels which instigated the question to which the moniker of steampunk proved the answer abound with elaborate diction, grammatic structures of the distant past (such as passive voice and the more verbose means necessitated of preventing a preposition occurring at the end of a sentence), and a delightful renaissance of such recently abandoned punctuation as the semicolon.

If it please the court, allow the presentation of such supreme evidence that downright punkish rebellion exists in these texts. The witness: a character at the opening of the final volume of Jeter’s Infernal Devices trilogy, an undertaker, who is declared to be “the very caricature of his calling”. Simply put, the character is a cliché, the bane of any instructor of writing at any level from junior high upward. And so the second syllable of the enigmatic moniker ‘punk’ is satisfied.

The Power of Punk

Punk has never been a compliment. The origin of the work references a biting fly. Later it became the label for hoodlums and criminals, outcasts of society. The principal tenet of the social movement so named is: ‘If you’re not angry, you’re not paying attention,” and issued forth at the pinnacle of atomic-age youth thinking. But, rather than garbing in shredded black clothing with hair styles and makeup manifesting anger and rebellion, steampunks accoutre themselves in high fashion of the age prior the terrible modern wars and conduct themselves in manners of propriety and dignity, and, in so doing, commit protestation equal to or even far greater than their goth counterparts because it is done with additional illustrious varnish of gentility.

For an interesting insight into the punkishness of the Victorians themselves, see Victorian Steampunks.

Self Publishing: Taboo to Virtue

I attended my first writers conference in 2004. It was a weeklong affair that started on Monday with a battalion of proud manuscript possessors and ended on a chill but crisp Sunday morning with a batch of trodden troops wondering where they’d gone wrong. It proved quite the eyeopener. Like so many others, I arrived excited and hopeful. I learned how dreadful my manuscript was in the group sessions, and I learned about rejection in the pitch sessions. The lessons outside the curriculum proved equally valuable: I wasn’t alone; while I wasn’t the skilled crafter I’d seen myself as days earlier, I was a writer at heart and had a solid foundation to build upon; and, above all, self-publishing was the only taboo.

Among my group was a guy who, upon having at some earlier time finished a manuscript, proceeded to have the manuscript printed and bound, taking it, of his own initiative, by definition, from manuscript to book without the blessing of anyone in the sacred houses of publishing. He didn’t make the week. Of all the criticism doled out during the group sessions and the humiliation delivered in the pitch sessions, the wrath poured out upon him for his presumption was far worse. By Thursday, he was gone.

Of all the lessons I returned humbly home with, the greatest, repeated by each instructor as opportunity presented itself was: self-publishing simply is not done. Not a mere act of innocent ignorance, like opening with a dream sequence, leaving your character alone to wallow too long, etc, the act of self-publishing was the ultimate act of hubris. Books, unlike manuscripts, were sacred things. There were processes involved in the transformation one to the other. There were gatekeepers mitigating between. There was a journey the one must suffer to become the other. Rites of passage to be suffered. And any who dared bypass these trials were interlopers of the most heinous sort.

So I wrote. I found a glorious and wonderful group to exchange lessons of craft with and to grow with. I queried. I received rejection. I repeated. Those were the days of snail mail, and so scarred am I by the hope and disappointed of those days that I still rarely pass the mailbox with out checking it, even if it’s Sunday and I’ve already checked it twice.

By 2010 I felt that I had to give up. I acquired a sixty-page block. I could take any idea up to the threshold of that vast bulky middle where I would decide that I simply couldn’t put myself through the process again. But I kept trying. I had an idea that haunted me constantly. Twice a made page sixty. Once I made it past the pitfall and thought I was underway until I hit one-hundred and lost steam! At last, I decided to outline. I found the story to be four books instead of one, and I managed to break through the barrier, finishing the manuscript in 2014. I set forth toward conferences, pitch sessions, rejections, and one alarming discovery. At the first lecture, an agent responded to the question of that terrible old taboo of self-publishing thusly:

“If you’re not willing to take a chance on yourself, why should I?”

The gates of the citadel of publishing had been breached!

The first ten years of vast industry changes had come and gone, but these years were only the beginning of change and by no means the fastest paced or most impressive! Now, anyone anywhere can sell anything to anyone. Anything anyone wants to write can be delivered directly to anyone who wants to read it. Likewise, anything that anyone can download onto a digital device can be pirated and republished in minutes. But don’t let that bother you, because if your work isn’t good enough to be successful nobody’s going to bother pirating it. Generally, the changes have been great for me and for millions of writers and readers around the world.

Change needs to go on, and authors need to lead the change. When I put my first book on Amazon, they took $2 while the few brick-and-mortar stores needed $4. Now that those stores are out of business, Amazon demands nearly $6 and I have no option but to let them take, and, of course, the increase gets passed on to the reader. Resale of used printed books should include a royalty to the author. The purchase of a book is the purchase of two products: the paper and ink required to print the book and the story contained within. Back when sales were done in musty basement bookshops and records were kept on scraps of used paper, regulating the sale of used books was impossible, but now, when a book is sold online, the author should be able to reap a specific royalty. And someone needs to make foil, spot gloss, and emboss available and affordable for digital printing so we can again make beautiful books.