Solarpunk

Hey guys! We're back from a bit of a hiatus. We're announcing a new schedule: we'll try to send out a new post to you all every Thursday (or at least once a week), even to just check in. Hope to see you all a bit more!

Can I talk about science fiction for a bit? Not the Victorian original science fiction mixed with fantasy that is steampunk. Not the robots and distant universes that is classic sci-fi. Not the artificial intelligences and spaceships that is space opera. Not the dictatorships and near futures that is dystopia. But the science fiction that is solar panels and art and rebellion in a beautiful way and in a gritty way that is solarpunk, also known as one of the leading subgenres of optimistic fiction and science fiction. 

I've written a little about solarpunk before. But what exactly is it?

It's a subgenre of sci-fi that's mostly still in ideological stages—unlike other genres who can clearly point to a founding author, the nature of solarpunk is that its inspiration comes from lots of varied authors: Nnedi Okorafor's afrofuturism, Ernest Callenbach's environmental utopia, Alaya Dawn Johnson's Brazilian monarchy, Neal Stephenson's optimistic principle-based sci-fi. A few founding anthologies such as Wings of Renewal and Hieroglyph have been produced, but not much more than that.

Personally, I see solarpunk as an optimistic, aesthetic sci-fi—not built on flat white male characters like Jules Verne's classics, not as dark or pessimistic as The Hunger Games or Divergent, and more technologically advanced and responsible than the classic '50s sci-fi of, say, Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep or the I, Robot works of Isaac Asimov. 

The idea is that it's a futuristic world that we can begin building now: embracing the valuable, diverse current cultures and the complexities of current issues and incorporating that kind of responsibility into mainstream society in a way that's still a reachable standard today. 

What I find most interesting about solarpunk's emergence is that its two founding documents, so to speak, are 1) a series of images of solarpunk fashion and architecture, created by an artist and 2) a political philosophy drafted by a member of Arizona State University's Center for Science and the Imagination. In other words, this genre is built on ideas by people from what others might call the opposite ends of the academic spectrum. 

Members of the solarpunk community now write anthologies; cosplay solarpunk fashion; make art; write fantasy and sci-fi taking place within a solarpunk world; ponder how society today would change in a more ideal solarpunk world; share experimental science that could have futuristic applications; and figure out how we can work today to make our world a little bit more optimistic and a little bit, dare I say, prettier. 

The political side of solarpunk: social justice for everyone. The world today isn't the ideal, and there are things that we can change to make it closer to one. How would whole systems change to ensure the rights of girls, the poor, the disadvantaged, the disenfranchised? How would income work in a world where robots could do the manual labor and where the sun and the wind and possibly some photosynthetic algae could give us endless energy? What about the educational system, charity work, democracy? How could the system be changed to "make scientists heroes again"?

It might seem like fluff or utopia, but solarpunk is the punk-rock response to today's world and today's fiction. In a world where the mainstream is discouraging radical diversity and love, acknowledging problems—and more importantly, their solutions—and living hopefully is the rebellion.

Solarpunk is something that I love because I can stretch it, and because there's more than just writing advice in the community. I want to read a story about a way to build a city without coal or carbon dioxide—then be directed to a link about how people are building it now. I want to read colorful stories about dragons with solar-panel wings and helicopters running on biofuel—in the same universe. I want to see characters who look like me and with backstories like my parents', written by an author who looks like me and my parents. I want to be part of a community where the #solarpunk tag has art and cosplay and photos and exposés and research and writing, whether it's fantasy or sci-fi or could take place in my neighbor's backyard right now without me having a clue. I love solarpunk because it's being built right now, and I'm having a tiny part in that.

Happy reading,
~Citali

#SayNoToHYDRACap

It is true what they say:

"With great power comes great responsibility."

Marvel Comics knows this;

after all, it's a classic Spider-Man line, isn't it?

On the other hand, it is also true that

power corrupts, and that

absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Marvel Comics

has just proven that never

has a truer word been spoken.

I write this

Regarding the recent controversy

Surrounding the release of a new comic featuring

Steve Rogers as Captain America

(which, as you might have heard,

he has not been in a while.)

This is all well and good, only...

Plot twist.

According to the writers of this issue--

(Imagine I am reading this out loud.

My voice is heavy with sarcasm.)

--anyway, according to the writers of this issue,

Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America,

is HYDRA. And always has been.

Wow.

First of all, how dare you?

How dare you take something that was

written by Jewish writers to oppose Hitler

(in a time when it was not wise to oppose Hitler)

and say, "oh, yeah, he's been a 

Nazi all along"?

"We've been dropping hints for a while--"

No, you haven't. Please.

Spare me.

Second of all, how dare you?

Captain America, the paragon of freedom,

the very embodiment of America--

not what it is, but what it should be.

Not a perfect soldier, but a good man.

How dare you take Steve Rogers

(kind Steve Rogers, humble Steve Rogers,

selfless Steve Rogers, good Steve Rogers)

and turn him into a white supremacist?

Third of all, how dare you?

How, might I ask,

am I going to explain to my little cousin

(she idolizes Cap; who doesn't really?)

how will I explain to her that the hero

she looks up to,

the person she wants to be

 when she grows up,

is a Nazi?

How dare you?

Fourth of all, how dare you?

This travesty is akin to

Bucky Barnes saying that

he consented to brainwashing.

It is like taking MCU T'challa

and forcing him to say that

his father deserved to die,

it is as if Tony Stark

set aside the suit

because,  he says, the world doesn't 

deserve protection.

It is like Natalia Romanova

confessing, a smile on her lips,

that she enjoyed the murder she was forced to commit.

(as if she would ever. no, no, Natasha could never. would never.

likewise: never could Captain America be HYDRA)

It is worse.

This is taking every Holocaust survivor,

and every Holocaust survivor's descendants,

and slapping them.

Telling them that they deserved it.

How dare you?

(This has been, lovely readers, a poem inspired by shock and disbelief and deep, deep rage.)

~Willow

Steampunk Library: Library Series

Citali again with another library! This library is a steampunk vehicle-house! This, I guess, is the first installment... I might add more to the Athenaeum's story later.

Steampunk

She pulled the lever, and the Athenaeum Airship began jolting forwards on its large velocipede wheels. The open windows clattered in their frames and let in a wind that whipped her braids back along with her scarf. Steadfast, nowhere did the pilot's eyes wander until she grabbed the throttle and pulled it farther back, tipping the Airship back on its oversize wheels and setting its batlike wings flapping as the Athenaeum lifted up into the sky. Stepping out of the controls area, the pilot yanked sharply on a bellpull. A horn let out a loud, comical squawk and a boy wearing airship goggles and a mischievous expression popped his head down the skylight. The girl snatched the goggles off his head. "That's where my goggles got to?"

The boy grinned and hopped down from the skylight, bowing a bit. "Isn't that what your little-brother-librarian-sidekick is for?" Turning serious, he continued, "What's our next city? Did you see the trunk of books I managed to get at that antique shop in that last town? A steal! They're really good too; some of them actually aren't falling apart at the bindings."

The pilot-girl rolled her eyes halfheartedly. She might never let her little brother see it, but he really was a good librarian-sidekick. "Yes, we've got to sort out those books you found. Come on, the Airship can fly itself for a few hours, and we must get those books on the shelf before we get to the next town." Turning, she gripped the railing of an old iron spiral staircase and descended to a lower floor. Here, below the deck where she piloted and her brother kept watch over the wings and the steam engine, was the Athenaeum itself: the library. Leather poufs filled the space between half-full bookshelves. The girl opened the window seat between two bookcases and pulled a needle and thread, as well as a bottle of glue, from the repair kit she kept there. As her brother descended into the library with a battered trunk, she opened it to reveal even more stacks of books. "It was a good find," she admitted. "But like all good things, it can always be better if we make it so." He rolled his eyes at her waxing philosophical, but took the glue bottle she offered him and sat down on his own pouf, checking book spines and applying glue.

A steam horn squawked. "Come on, we're almost to the next city." Her brother tumbled the unfinished books into the window seat's storage and scrambled up the spiral stairs behind her. As he climbed to the rooftops to sight the town through the clouds, she pulled down her goggles. Before her, clouds scudded past as she lowered the Airship down into a field. Before she could stop her brother, he'd given an ear-piercing whistle and sounded the squawky horn of the Airship again. Children and adults spilled out of the town buildings towards the airship taking up the town common, holding baskets full of books.

Children tugged at their mothers' skirts as they waited their turn in the "magical house" of the Athenaeum. The girl had thrown open the windows, and shouts of the children running around the commons followed her down the stairs to the Athenaeum floor. As her brother set the last books on the shelves in order, she threw open the doors. "Come one, come all! Visit the Athenaeum Airship, home of books you need! We fly from city to city to bring you from your world to a world far away!"

And as her brother, swarmed by little boys, went over to find some serial novels for his flock (though closely watched by slightly disapproving parents' eyes), the pilot-girl took a basket of books and wandered out onto the common.

"Come one, come all. I'm here, the Athenaeum girl, with books for those who don't want to venture from your world; books that are here, right now."

Happy reading!
~Citali

High Fantasy Library: Library Series

A troll meditating on the meaning of life wasn't something you saw every day, even in the city of Elyka. But if any elvin gondolier had poled his boat beneath the rightmost arch of the Twilight Bridge, he'd have seen exactly that. The troll in question had made his home there; most of the gondoliers took their business passengers looking for fast, skillful transport through the middle arch, which was the cleanest and most direct, while they took the tourists looking to admire the mosaic masonry of Elyka through the left arch, where colored glass formed a runic pattern. The troll didn't care for speed: he was part rock, after all. And the ragged trousers he wore with dirty, grey-toned patches showed a disregard for art and beauty probably equal to his love for solitude, hence the camp under the rightmost arch.

Today, he was meditating on the meaning of life as he sat, legs up to his knobbly knees in the grey water, trousers hiked up to mid-thigh, back up against the piers of the bridge. A troll shouldn't think about the meaning of his life, he thought. But while I'm at it... what do I want to do with my life? I have the whole city of Elyka ahead of me to use. A single elvin gondolier poled his boat past the bridge, not going under it into the Twilight canal, as the troll thought. Elves are gondoliers, he thought. Mages are writers. Centaurs are blacksmiths, fae are goldsmiths. But no one thinks of the trolls. I could be anything, if I wanted. 

Like the gondoliers that traveled the tourist routes all day, his thoughts meandered, but always came back to that thought: I could be anything. Not a troll under a bridge, but what? As the sun set, he lumbered up from his spot and waded through the water, which at its deepest was merely knee-high for him, to the banks. Easily stepping out of the water to drip onto the path, he clumped up and through the streets.

Finally he arrived in the center of the city. Gaping down the narrow street at the many lit lanterns, he noticed a tall, tall building with the marks of all trades: fae gilt made lanterns shine even more brightly than normal; elvin gondolas were docked in front of this clearly popular stop. Elyka's famed mosaics made a round stained glass window of a mage holding an orb of light blossom like a star. For this was a mage's building: centaur wrought iron supported a hanging sign over the street reading, "The Library of Elyka."

A centaur holding an iron poker glanced at him curiously as the troll began walking forwards, almost transfixed. Two fae bending over a lantern in the street flitted out of his way. An elf walking down the street with a mug of some hot drink in hand almost dropped his mug at the sight of a troll coming towards him, eyes lifted and seeing the window and only the window.

Two mages at the front door stood in the circle of light cast by a lantern. Though they did not move at the sight of the rocky troll, one said in a surprisingly soft voice, "May we help you?"

"I... am a troll. And I would like to learn to... to... write." Perhaps it was the mage's voice, the only voice directed at specifically him in such a long time. Had he ever been spoken to in Elyka? Directly? His voice seemed soft to him. Soft, not like a troll.

"A library is a mage's place," the other mage quoted. Her eyes seemed like the white glint of stars on the canal: much farther and colder than the lantern light from buildings.

"Who says it cannot be a troll's as well?" the troll found himself saying. It wasn't soft now, but the grating tone he'd always thought he spoke in. The arguing seemed to smooth the lump that was in his throat into something he could work around. Arguing and riddling were a troll's native ground, after all. That was why they lived under bridges, for passers-by had to solve a troll's riddle to get by. That was in the old days, before the cities had grown up and there was more than one bridge to get over a canal. Perhaps what the mages called "rhetoric" was not so much his gift, but he could understand arguing in riddles.

The glint-eyed mage frowned, then smiled. Then she extended an arm and barely trembled as the troll rested his rocky arm as gently as possible on hers.

"You know, mages are not only writers. To write, you must adventure. I lived under a bridge, myself, when I was younger," she said. To the look on his face that must have been skeptical, she flexed her robed arm slightly, surprising him with her strength. "A pen is a weapon of its own, beyond strength," she said, quoting again.

And the people of Elyka's library were pleasantly surprised by the elderly librarian who escorted in a troll to a private table, set a quill before him, and directed him slowly in forming his letters.

Happy reading!
~Citali

Snowy Vault: Libraries Series

Hiya from Citali. I'm not so sure how this libraries writing thing will go, but here's my second one. It's a bit longer and different, but... more libraries and writing!

Snowy vault

"Ugh." She finished the energy bar and stood up, immediately feeling the blast of cold, snowy air as she poked her head out of the small rocky crevice that had been protecting her from the cold. "Almost there." Gripping her backpack straps, she tested the slope with her boot before taking each step, struggling to dig her foot first out of the snow, then into it for a grip as she moved the next step. Dig in, lean forwards, dig out. Dig in, lean forwards, dig out. She kept her gaze downwards, focusing on her steps so she would never fall. Never, she promised herself. Suddenly instead of the hard slickness of frozen-together snow, which would give if she pushed hard enough, she felt the hard solidity of metal. Using her boot, she brushed aside more snow to find a metal grate packed with ice. But it was metal nevertheless. Continuing to brush aside snow, she followed the path and was suddenly stunned at a sight she'd never expected to see in the wildest of places: a building of concrete and metal, rising at sharp angles from the soft curves of frozen water. She trudged to the front door and found it open as she brushed fingertips over a sensor. Somehow it had been frozen shut, but by giving it some good old pounding with her boot, the ice broke, shattering into a treacherously clear mound in front of the door. The big step she took over the threshold was hindered by her many layers of clothing, but once inside the blast of warm air felt like a zephyr of life. Shoving with her shoulder, she closed the front door. Now she was safe from the cold, inside this... vault. A counterlike ledge jutting from the wall was the perfect place for her to shed her waterproof gloves in favor of simple, warm wool ones under a round lantern. She hesitated just a bit before shrugging off her heavy backpack, but something about the lamp and the warm air made her feel secure after the day of trekking through treacherous snow. She brushed the snow from her boots and the folds of her jacket, then took the lantern carefully to explore the rest. Later, she realized she hadn't had to, as more lanterns were somehow lit inside. Instead of eerie isolation, the vault was filled with a cozy sense of comfort in solitude as she passed shelves. Unlike the concrete and steel exterior amidst black rocks and white ice, the shelves were full of color; books with spines of bold illustrations and fine embossed words, boxes of documents tabbed in bright plastic. She could imagine someone else here, someone like her, enjoying being alone; but she could also imagine many others here, filling this place with even more warmth and light, sharing in this color.

Happy reading! I'd love feedback or comments.

~Citali

Solarpunk Library: Libraries Series

Hello, it's Citali here, with my first post in the libraries series: a solarpunk library.

Solarpunk

The library had been the first thing the city rebuilt after the apocalypse, by unanimous vote of all the citizens. Standing outside, he always took a moment to look up at the building. Seemingly squeezed onto a street corner, the former apartment building now had its balconies, fire escapes, and even its roof glassed in. Through the colorful stained-glass-like mosaics created by the solar glass, he could see the library already humming with life, even at this time in the morning. Quickly, he locked his bike into one of the colorfully painted racks and entered the library. Inside, he immediately started hunting down his favorite reading nook. Passing an end table with a whimsical sign saying Leave your favorite book, take someone else's as your own, he took a look at a dark blue hardcover with a graceful, cherry-red high heel. With a grin, he took the book, taking one out of his backpack to leave, a silver-and-blue book probably about two inches thick and yet one of the greatest stories he'd ever read. Next to the end table lay a pile of colorful beanbags with a lanternlike stained glass lamp hanging above, casting a warm glow. Letting himself fall onto the beanbags, he put his feet up and opened the new book. A few minutes later, a boy in walked by with an overstuffed backpack and a tiny kitten following at his heels. Pausing at the end table, he thoughtfully flipped open the cover of the book he'd left and scanned a page or two. Deciding to take it, he pulled a thin yellow paperback out of his backpack with difficulty and left it on the table. The boy would have walked on, probably to find an armchair for himself and his comical kitten, but something about the other boy made him pause. "Nice book," he said. The kitten padded up to the beanbag boy and patted his shoe.

Happy reading!

~Citali

Perfect Libraries: Libraries Series

Heya, it's Citali!

If you're a book lover who doesn't love libraries... well. I do believe you have a few issues, though I'll try not to judge. But libraries seem to embody the best of not only a love of books but also, well, everything. Where else is a sanctuary, a meeting hall, a place to receive knowledge for free, a place that's equally fun and interesting by yourself or with a book-loving friend?

Whether you love sci-fi or fantasy, I've always been fascinated by the idea of worldbuilding including libraries. Futuristic libraries? Cozy libraries? Flying island libraries? Underground vault libraries? Robot librarians? Elf librarians? As public buildings, they can embody the entire vibe of whatever world the library belongs to; as a storehouse for knowledge, they can be as open or as secure as you wish.

So I'll be starting a bit of a series, composed of different short stories I've written about libraries of different possible genres. I guess I've talked about me writing on here a bit, but I've never really shared any of it. Hope you enjoy!

Happy reading,
~Citali

Worldbuilding: How I Write

I've been reading fanfiction lately, and often think about wanting to write some of my own... but I realize that a big part of what I love about writing, I can't do if I write fanfiction. What is this part? Worldbuilding. Here's why.

I think that writing is an amazing way to help get amazing ideas out into the world, to change the world that by no means is perfect but also by no means is terrible, that we live in.

Some writers focus on the characters they write: they change the world by breaking stereotypes, by having characters that reflect all of us. They write about tough fairies who are more macho than eighteen-year-old Irish geniuses; monsters who run fast-food restauraunts and sculpture gardens, girls who wear radish earrings. And while breaking stereotypes and making characters who are hilarious, brave, and all-around amazing is a truly powerful way to use writing, there's more than one way to change the world with authorial genius.

When I write, I base my stories on ideas. I've written (or attempted to write) about fairies dancing through interconnected rooftop gardens, young artists defending their solar-glass solarpunk city, girls finding a secret in a library that helps them block the storm that ravages their city. Even if there are no cities with bicentennial storm cycles, even if fairies don't exist, I believe that ideas of rooftop cardens and libraries with power and treetop solar-glass photosynthetic urban-architecture treetop optimistic-future cities... they're all possible. Possible and beautiful and goals that we should reach for. Even if we never can make it to the moon, we'll land amongst the stars.

Wonder -- that's what I want to write and read for. A school for magic, in an ancient castle? A kingdom on the moon while cyborgs and spaceships exist down below on Earth? A girl living among embassies, where next door can be Russian soil or German, and the Iranians have the best beachfront access? A secret steampunk society hiding from the floating cities? One has to be filled with a child's wonder at that. And I hope that we can build worlds and have ideas that continue this wonder and let us have fun while doing so.

P. S. I mostly talked about why I love worldbuilding. However, some of the awesome blogger/authors over at the blog Inkdrops and Raindrops have written an amazing post on worldbuilding you can read here.
P. P. S. Here's an amazing quote by Rase McCray on wonder in writing! This is a large part of my inspiration for this post.

"As readers, artists, creators, and dreamers there's still hope you will be ambassadors for wonder as a narrative force, making it not only a reason why you write, but also a technique for how you write.

Wonder’s haughty sibling, “conflict,” usually gets the acclaim, with many writers insisting that conflict is the essential ingredient to an engaging story. But consider the magical school. Whether Hogwarts or Brakebills, in the city of Ankh-Morpork or on the island of Roke, the magical school is narrative wonder writ large. We chuckle when the Weasley twins sprout beards after cheating the Goblet of Fire’s age line; we long for a Marauder’s Map that can lead us toward butterbeer.... My point is that wonder is the fun stuff, the stuff written because why shouldn't it be written? In fact, wonder often infuses the moments remembered most fondly, regardless of genre—it’s Hazel and Gus drinking champagne at Oranjee.... I write to give readers the wonder I experienced in these scenes."

Read, write, and wonder!

~Citali