My Summer, Catching Up


What a summer this has been. So much to catch up on, so much to have joy about, and so much to look forward to.

  • Maybe most relevant to my writing interests (and certainly most beneficial) was the Odyssey Writer’s Workshop, which I attended this summer. It was a transformative experience for me as a writer and a reader. I put away the stuffy, pretentious novel I’d been feeling obligated to work on and started writing something I like in both concept and reality. I met incredible writers–smart, kind, gracious people who demanded my best and helped me achieve it. I met Jeanne, the director, who will be in the acknowledgements of my first book as the smartest reader and best teacher I’ve ever had the fortune to know. I made so many new friends and learned so much–I would wish it on every writer.
  • Still on Odyssey: I had the chance to meet and learn from N.K. Jemisin, Patricia Bray, Meg Spooner, Scott Andrews, and, for a whole week, Mary Robinette Kowal. Odyssey would have been incredible if all we did was learn from Jeanne; the guest writers made it extraordinary.
  • This isn’t a summer thing, but it became a tell-able secret this summer: my wife and I are having a baby girl this fall. We just finished painting her room and stripping away the carpet there to reveal beautiful hardwood floors underneath. Look, look! (Incredible paintings by my sister, Katie)


  • I finished my second summer residency for my MFA program last week. It was a change of pace after the craziness and intensity of Odyssey, but I had a fun time meeting the new students, reconnecting with the second and third years, and seeing lots of good readings and craft talks.
  • I don’t think I’ve updated since this happened: I’m one of the new Articles Editors at Strange Horizons! I’m working with an unbelievably awesome team of other editors within articles, but the whole Strange Horizons crew is pretty amazing. I’m lucky, lucky, lucky to have this opportunity.
  • I’m in a new office, getting ready to teach two new classes this year, and I have one of those L-shaped desks. This whole office move situation (and really the whole work situation) has been pretty depressing and disheartening in recent months, but I’ve been trying to look on the positive side, to be, as one of my friends and colleagues here says, “a soldier of joy.” So I’m being joyful about the future addition to our family, the writing-related opportunities I’ve had, and this cool L-shaped desk. Hopefully I’ll have some happy publication news soon.

What I’m Reading: February

Well, the semester is underway and student papers have started doing that thing where they pile up on my desk in secret, covetous groups and side-eye me until I either grade or leave the office. So I’ve left the office. Your move, student papers.

And now the snow, like metaphors about snow in an MFA classroom, is falling without any sign of stopping, and I’m getting ready to ensepulchre myself in blankets and read more of Robert Jackson Bennett’s American Elsewhere, which is an eerie novel to read when you live in a small, Midwestern town like I do (the book is in part concerned with how messed up and problematic those cute, idyllic little towns can be). It’s a great book, but I really haven’t been sleeping well recently.

This month, I’m looking forward to getting into Lavie Tidhar’s upcoming novel Central Station (which I’ll be talking about over at Hazel & Wren), China Mieville’s new novel This Census-Taker, and Claudia Rankine’s much-celebrated Citizen.

Oh! And don’t forget to check out this amazing kickstarter for an Ursula Le Guin documentary. The world needs this. Actually, the world needs about twelve Le Guin documentaries. Or more.

New Story: “The Demon in the Page”

Here it is! Metaphorosis went live on the first day of 2016, and “The Demon in the Page” was chosen as the story to launch the magazine, which is a hugeful (obsolete form of huge first used in the 15th century; it sounds way better though, right?) honor and an even hugefuller (made-up form of huge first used now) honor, given that this is my first publication. If there’s a best way to have your first story published, this is surely it. The magazine promises to be full of great stories and beautiful prose; I’ll definitely be tuning in for what’s to come. I hope you will, too.

I’m hoping to get better at posting here this year. In general, I’m suspicious of resolutions associated with arbitrary days of the week/month/year, not because they can’t be kept or useful, but because, historically, I never keep them. Because, of course, there’s always another arbitrary day on the horizon, and why not just start then? All of this is to say, though, that I’m going to make a concerted effort to write here more often: about what I’m reading and writing mostly. If it happens, great. If it doesn’t happen, I will have to continue bearing the weight of my imaginary readership’s criticisms, which consist primarily of eldritch phrases shouted in arcane tongues at me through the nether. They’re a needy bunch, my imaginary readership.

8 Months, 25 days

Remember this? That rejection was for a story submitted last February, my first story ever submitted.

And just today I signed a contract for my first sale! The excitement is real, people! My story “The Demon in the Page” is now forthcoming in Metaphorosis.

I heard the good news of the acceptance this past Sunday, which was exactly 8 months and 25 days after my first submission. It’s not the same story I submitted back in February (that one is still getting sent around and reworked), but it’s still pretty darn special. I have more I want to say about this, but for now, I’m still in celebration mode, and it’s Halloween, so I’m going to have a scotch, pass out candy to people dressed like other people/places/things, and keep floating on this wave of happiness.Contract Header

NerdCon: Stories

I attended NerdCon: Stories in Minneapolis this weekend. It was great; the organizers brought in an awesome lineup of writers, podcasters, artists, and creators of all kinds. The presentations varied from the guests playing games of various sorts on stage to standard panels to Q&As. Since this was the first year for the con (though not the last, I would imagine), it wasn’t packed, which is always a plus. Feeling like you’re a participating member in a vast, buzzing insect swarm is never a great experience, especially in the hyper-clean-yet-oddly-still-grimy space so many cons seem to occupy.

I realized this weekend, though, that cons really aren’t for me: I’m 28 and feel like I’m 75 most of the time. My back hurts pretty much constantly from excessive time spent in my youth carrying big-ass drums. After teenage years during which I thought I was literally the coolest person in the world, being around those kinds of teenagers makes me wish for sweet, swift, merciful Death to take me away in her chariot. Crowds of any sort absolutely drain my batteries, and even being around other fans of stuff I’m fannish about sucks my energy. And as an aspiring writer, I feel the obligatory weight of the ever-hateful “networking possibilities” in a place like NerdCon, which, instead of actually making me want to network, actually makes me want to curl up in a corner with a notebook.

So yeah, the con was great. I can recognize that. But I can also recognize that it totally wasn’t for me (in no way because of the specificity of this con–it’s all conventions, conferences, colloquia…gatherings that start with ‘c’ apparently), and that whenever I start getting stuff published, that’s going to be a big hurdle for me. I left both days (Friday and Saturday) feeling simultaneously exhausted and guilty for feeling exhausted.

One frustration and one joy from the con:

Frustration: I went to two panels moderated by the same person (a creator I’ve not loved for a little while–it was my own dumb fault for picking the panels, but I was so interested by the panelists that I thought it would be ok! Not so, unfortunately…), and each of these panels seemed, despite their descriptions, to be opportunities for this person to pontificate. At great length. To the extent that the panelists–the actual people who have been asked to participate on speak on these panels–had either very little time to speak or were instead pulled down rabbit holes where the message seemed to be, “Gosh, it’s super hard to be really successful. People shouldn’t make me feel bad about complaining about my success. I’ve been so limited in who I can complain to about being so successful, and that’s really hard for me.” And you know? Fair enough. But it needs to be recognized that a panel at a convention is probably not the right place for that *very, very, very* privileged whining to happen. That first panel was basically saved by Dessa, who kept bringing the discussion back to positive advice for writers. She’s awesome.

Joy: On Friday night, a whole bunch of creators played a game that was a mix of The Canterbury Tales, D&D, and other storytelling endeavors. It featured the creators improvising stories that could be challenged by other players, which then forced the teller to either creatively work with the disruption or give up the opportunity to score more coins. Anyway, Mary Robinette Kowal, to whom I’ve listened on Writing Excuses, was incredible. Her stuff was funny and witty, but she was also clearly having so much damn fun up there. I haven’t yet read any of her books, but I desperately want to now!

Some of That, Some of This

Because posts from bloggers apologizing to their imaginary audiences for time away are the worst, and because I want to be blogging again but don’t really have much to say, I’ve decided to do a random wrap-up of the banalities of past days, the hopes for future days, and the happiness of present days. It’ll be an exercise in writing without purpose.

-I was stung by a bee yesterday. On my right ring toe (I don’t actually know what that toe’s called–but if it were a little piggy, it would have none.) It was weirdly nostalgic. I used to get stung by bees all the time as a kid (mostly because I was a little demon who thought bee hives could be cleared away using rocks, hurled at speed. Shockingly, I was often wrong), and it turns out that those little pollinators still know how to cause surprising and terrible pain.

Prairie and Wind Turbine

-I’m working almost exclusively on my novel these days (though I still have plans to start the web serial–just, you know, someday), and I had the awesome realization that what it needs is precisely this big worldbuilding mechanic nestled at the heart of a different novel idea I’ve had for awhile. So, I just sort of plopped them together in my mind, and holy smokes, imaginary reader, it’s way cool!

-I’ve lived in dorm rooms or temporary, rented housing/apartments for most of my adult life, and it’s only really recently that I’ve started shaking off that deeply instilled idea inside me that shuts down any creative impulse I have to put myself into my environment. When I was in graduate school, I lived in the bottom floor of this house in West Virginia, and after two years there, I had put up almost no posters, had rearranged not at all, and I could completely extricate myself from that place in under an hour and a half–leaving no trace. I slept on an air mattress (thanks to some great friends for that–B.A.M [Before Air Mattress] I was sleeping on the floor), had relatively few personal possessions, and had sent out no domestic roots at all. But I own a house now (or am a part-owner, anyway), and I don’t have to silence the urge to recreate my environment. It’s exciting in a way that makes me sad for teenage me, so freaked out about leaving any impression behind.

-The new semester is coming along. I’m trying to be excited about it; I’m sick of hating my job so much of the time. I get to talk with smart people for a living! I get to help those same people get smarter! I only have to work 9 months out of the year! Yeah!

-I didn’t teach at CTY this year, which was harder than I thought it was going to be (though it was nice not to leave my wife for weeks at a time). I get such a phantom nostalgia when I think about CTY: I didn’t go as a kid, but I can see myself in so many of the kids there. Lonely, passionate, smart, and so, so excited to find an oasis in the middle of summer, this magical place where they can meet other kids like them, other kids who will challenge and push and support one another. I think about how much I would have loved to go as a 13-year old, how much my life would have been changed if, instead of spending summers sitting inside the library alone, playing with fictional characters, I could’ve instead been in classrooms with other kids who loved to read, who were just as baffled by what it meant to be “cool,” who wanted to talk endlessly about which books or movies or poems or writers were the best. I taught for two summers at CTY, and I could feel the absence this summer–acutely–despite the busyness of things in July and August here. I think about the dances, the discussions during class (and, for that matter, during breaks), the games of chess squeezed into any free time possible, the games of four-square, all of it. And I miss it.

-And even though I’ve been missing CTY, it’s been great to be at home and spend a summer with my wife, with whom I will shortly be celebrating our one-year anniversary! And since she’s probably the only one reading this: happy anniversary, Wife Person! You’re pretty much the greatest.

-Here are my hopes for the future: creativity and passion, happiness and sadness, drizzly days and fall colors, words and pages, kisses and handholding, hope and laughter.


Interview: Sam J Miller

1. Can you talk a little about your work as a community organizer? Do you see your passion for community as coming from the same place as your passion for writing? Do these two things have similar goals/aims?
By day I work as an organizer with a group called Picture the Homeless, which was founded and is led by homeless folks, and we work on bringing people experiencing homelessness together to fight collectively to fix the systemic problems they face. Because of the myths and stereotypes surrounding homeless people, most policy-makers and media debates feel perfectly comfortable ignoring them even as they make decisions that impact them. So it’s our job to support homeless people building power through direct action, trainings, meetings with decision-makers, public speaking, media work, etc. Mostly we work on police reform and housing policy. It’s super radical and super fun and that’s why I’m still on the job after eleven years. I think my writing and my activism come from different places – writing and reading fiction is an activity focused inward, on what Nabokov calls “aesthetic bliss,”* whereas my organizing work is focused outward, on fixing the problems I perceive in the world – but they definitely feed each other. Working with homeless folks has opened my eyes to some shocking, horrific realities that most people turn a blind eye to if they can, and that finds its way into my fiction. Poor people today are already living in a dystopia, and are already reduced to pawns for other people’s profit, so the worldbuilding in “We Are The Cloud” is pretty rooted in the reality I see firsthand every day. And organizing has shown me that when people come together, they can do anything – that’s the idea I metaphorized in “The Heat Of Us.” At bottom, of course, my writing and organizing probably spring from the same impulse, as everything does – an attempt to find meaning and joy in a cold and hostile universe, and to help others find that too.
2. What is your writing process? How has it changed as you’ve grown and changed as a writer?
When I was younger I used to write every day, and I think that was a really important stage in my development – certainly my prose rhythm and sentence structure got pretty tight during that time. But the overall quality of my work, especially around story structure and character, suffered, because I was constantly executing ideas before I’d had a chance to really sit with them and learn about what excited me, what they needed, etc. Now I mostly just let story ideas bounce around in my brain until they start to glom onto each other, take shape, turn into something interesting and exciting, and then I’ll start to write for an hour a day here or there, when I can, and not stress myself out too much if a couple days go by – because when I beat myself up is when I start to force myself even when it’s not flowing, and that rarely yields good results for me. I’m fortunate that I can write pretty much anywhere, and often pretty fast – for my birthday every year I take the day off from work and go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and sit there all day and try to write a complete story rough draft. Overall I work better late at night, or early in the morning. And getting input from my writer friends is a huge and essential part of the process. That’s one of the most important things Clarion taught me. No one is in this alone. Your comrades make you better. And you make them better. I’m privileged to be part of an excellent writers’ group in NYC, and to have my Clarion 2012 brethren and a bunch of other great readers and writers to critique my drafts and make them better… and sellable.
3. Your list of short fiction is really extensive and varied. What is it about the short form that appeals to you? And piggybacking on that, what is it about speculative short work that appeals to you?
Short stories are fun because you can create the wildest worlds and people, in miniature, and then smash them up or flip them sideways or abandon them. They’re like experiments – what can I do with this crazy idea? So I can do horror, then fantasy, then hard SF, then super crazy multi-genre mash-ups, so as not to get too bored or stuck in one way of doing things.  As for – why work in these genres at all? I write speculative fiction because that’s how the world looks to me. Life is magic. The world is science fiction. We carry tiny rectangles in our pockets that can access the sum total of human knowledge! And have you ever seen an ocean? THAT SHIT IS CRAZY. To me the world is so full of wonder and horror that speculative fiction is the only literature equal to the task of reflecting it. By telling the most ridiculous lies, we as speculative fiction writers can present the primal truth of human existence in ways that other genre and non-genre lit could never begin to do.
4. Can you give any info on your current projects? Can we expect to see a Sam J Miller novel any time in the near future?
I just finished a draft of a super-dark-edgy-fucked-up novel, “Rules of the Body,” about a bullied gay teen boy with an eating disorder – which I was. SO CROSS YOUR FINGERS AND PRAY IT GETS PUBLISHED. And, also, always, a couple hundred baby-bird story ideas squawking in my brain, demanding to be fed.
5. What are five pieces of writing that have influenced you the most? (I realize this question is totally impossible, but I thought it might be fun to try)
Actually, it’s pretty easy. Octavia Butler’s “Mind of My Mind.” Ted Chiang’s “Story of Your Life.” Virginia Woolf’s “Mrs. Dalloway.” Ray Bradbury’s “Something Wicked This Way Comes.” Isaak Babel’s “Red Cavalry.” I mean, that’s a somewhat arbitrary cut-off, because I could list dozens of other books that inspired me just as much (Jean Genet! James Baldwin! Charlotte Bronte! Zora Neale Hurston! Borges, Gogol, Cortazar, Atwood, Highsmith!), but if I look at who I am as a writer, and what I want to do, those are things that keep me going.
* “For me a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm.” – Vladimir Nabokov
Thanks so much to Sam for agreeing to do this interview. He can be found online at his website and his twitter. Go check out his website and read all of his stories! Twice!

Three-A-Week (4.3): Sam J Miller’s “Allosaurus Burgers”

Published in Shimmer (Issue #20)

(Warning: I’m going to be talking about the story assuming you, my wife or imaginary reader, have read it. Here there be spoilers. Also, these are my rough, rambly thoughts; I make no promises regarding cohesion or concision.)

“Allosaurus Burgers” is one of those stories that sneaks up on a reader. The moment you think you’ve understood that it’s a weird magical realist story about a dinosaur’s effect on this town, it twists and shifts to reveal itself to be a really powerful narrative about a son learning that his mother is a real human being. There’s something really impressive about a story that can present such a profound experience through a seemingly light-hearted perspective/plot. Much of this is accomplished, of course, through the narrator, who is done so, so well. Kids are a difficult perspective to pull off convincingly, especially kids who are in a moment of change or realization. Add to that already tall order a strained and slightly messed up family situation that has really had an effect on the child, and you have Matt, the narrator here. And Sam totally knocks it out of the park. The voice of the story might have been my favorite part.

The pacing of the story seemed rushed to me. I felt like we were only just beginning to get a handle on Matt’s situation and the people around him when the climax of the story came along, and although I could see the emotional climax the story wanted to hit, I wasn’t sure it had totally earned it. This is weird for me to say, because I did feel an emotional reaction to the story and to the ending, but I suspect that has more to do with me projecting my own parental issues onto the story. The story hit my buttons from the first few lines, and I would’ve been on board even if the Allosaurus turned out to be Voldemort in a dinosaur costume.

I really love the subtle way we’re introduced to how inflated Matt’s consideration is of his mother. He narrates some of these problems by mentioning how he forces himself to think of his father the way his mother does or talking about being mad at his sister because of what she’d said about his mother. But then there’s the moment where he sees the dinosaur, which is such a great scene. Matt comes face to face with this creature from another age, a creature of imagination and legend, and his metric for understanding its size and stance is to compare it to his mom. This is the kind of thing that really gave me pause in this story. Matt’s inflated understanding of his mother is so ingrained that even this amazing creature only exists in relation to his equally mythic mother. What a great way to demonstrate the sneaky and sometimes damaging impacts adults can have on the children they care for.

That wraps up Sam’s stories for this week, though the Sam J Miller excitement isn’t over yet! He has very graciously agreed to do a short interview, so look forward to seeing that sometime next week. Hurray!

Three-A-Week (4.2): Sam J Miller’s “The Heat of Us: Notes Toward an Oral History”

Published in Uncanny Magazine (Issue 2)

(Warning: I’m going to be talking about the story assuming you, my wife or imaginary reader, have read it. Here there be spoilers. Also, these are my rough, rambly thoughts; I make no promises regarding cohesion or concision.)

This is a really incredible story. I knew a little about the Stonewall riots, but I found myself pushed to find out more in order to really appreciate “The Heat of Us,” which is a good thing, I think. So often, the speculative work I read seems desperate to leave the world behind, to disavow its influences and divorce itself from reality. This, of course, is impossible, and the works that attempt it miss out on what speculative work excels at: escaping to better understand your present. Good fantasy, in particular, leverages magic or the supernatural to help understand reality; I think it’s actual better at doing reality than most real fiction. (That all sounds very academic-y and sterilized–I think, though, the love and joy found in those speculative elements is really important, too. I just want to recognize the other side of how awesome fantasy is!). “The Heat of Us” is a story that understands perfectly its orientation toward reality. It’s so steeped in a historical moment that the speculative element is at once powerfully emotional and importantly political.

I’m so completely torn in my reaction to this story. I loved it–totally. But both times I read it I had a weird, dual reaction. The story resonates so profoundly as a consideration of systems of discrimination, parallels between pain and suffering, and the Stonewall riots, and it is also a really stunning and flat-out *cool* entangling of form and content. On the one hand, I feel like this story should be read and digested in quiet, alone. On the character level, Ben is absolutely (heart)broken over the death of his brother and his part in it; on the thematic level, the audience is asked to really critically and carefully think about how suffering between distinct populations is or isn’t similar. Is the pain of oppression universal or specific to the oppressed (or the oppresser)? This is serious stuff, and it should be considered with the full weight of the thick silence that comes after reading a powerful story.

But on the other hand, the content twists with the form in such an exciting and interesting way that it makes me want to chatter endlessly (to myself, since there was no one else around except for Cassie (who is a cat) when I finished). There’s so much coolness in the way Sam perfectly adopts the oral history form without becoming servant to it. The form accentuates the nature of the content: a story about people coming together to have their story told truthfully, to have themselves told truthfully, begs to be told this way. It’s so great. Seriously. Just go read it. And if you’ve already read it, reread it. I know I’m going to.

One thing kind of related to what I was talking about above: I was really fascinated by the varying positions on suffering/pain espoused by different characters in the story. Sargent Abraham Asher, even as he makes his really homophobic comments, asks what is an important question: if the deaths at the Stonewall happened because a group of people decided, communally, that they had had enough, why did the same thing not happen with those imprisoned in Auschwitz? In other words, what he’s really asking is whether or not this explosion of communal pain and sorrow and anger was specific to this group of people or whether it’s universal. Craig, whose opinion and perspective we trust more as readers, suggests that the lack of these incidents in history is actually the fault of those who read and write history. His suggestion that this sort of thing has happened before but not been recorded or understood implies a certain universality to pain that certainly resonates with the focus on community and interconnection present in the story. But at the same time, I wonder about this question of suffering. Is it something that isolates, that belongs to a single person, or a single community? Is feeling individual pain and suffering the privilege of those already connected and systematically supported? Or is it something that brings people together, something that forges connections? I’m not sure I have an answer, and I’m not sure “The Heat of Us” provides a conclusive answer, but it certainly believes in something hopeful about pain. And not only pain, but joy, both of which are working on the same kind of idea I saw in “We Are The Cloud,” which is this notion of powerful emotions enabling (or limiting) an individual’s ability to connect to those around him or her.

So much to think about! What could be better?

Three-A-Week (4.1): Sam J Miller’s “We Are the Cloud”

Published September 2014 in Lightspeed (Issue 52)

(Warning: I’m going to be talking about the story assuming you, my wife or imaginary reader, have read it. Here there be spoilers. Also, these are my rough, rambly thoughts; I make no promises regarding cohesion or concision.)

I keep putting myself in a pickle by reading stories that are so damn good and so damn hard to write about. “We Are the Cloud” is really beautiful in a tragic and uncomfortably true kind of way. Angel’s narrative feels at once personal and political; his individual experiences build and shape a reality we’re surrounded with. Sam’s website talks a little about his passion for community organization, and that comes through in “We Are the Cloud,” which paints a picture of the individual’s place within a community as both hopeful and desperate. It’s an incredible story, and one that I’m going to be thinking about for a long time to come.

I’m so fascinated by the evolving idea of alienation/separation in this story. Angel is a character who is completely disconnected from the community and society around him, and he even seems disconnected from himself, all of which are ways to keep people down and content with it. In addition to struggling with speech and living away from his mother and in a place he doesn’t seem to fit, Angel’s systematically enforced anxiety over his own sexuality means even his own desires are strangers to him, things he must avoid or feel ashamed of. And Case changes that for him, though not in the way we would expect. For a hot second, the story of Case and Angel’s relationship seems to be one about mutual support in times of darkness. Case appears and Angel begins to understand more about himself: he sees how his linguistic abilities change depending on the love/affection he is feeling; he allows his desire to overwhelm him and experiences what it’s like to truly want someone/something; he begins to feel connected, both to Case and to the world around him. Case comes around and Angel begins to plug himself in to the world.

But Case’s choice after the porn shoot changes everything for the story, and this is where I realized how incredibly smart the narrative is and how totally capable Sam is as a writer. Angel’s reaction to what he sees as Case’s betrayal is the perfect recognition of the depressingly complex situation of communities among the poor. Can we really blame Case for taking the money and running? For using another person to get ahead and (hopefully) get out of the damaging trap the boys of Egan House find themselves in? In some ways, it’s totally selfish. It’s the same kind of orientation toward the Other that keeps poor people poor and rich people rich; you see someone else as a tool to be used, and that justifies all manner of sins (cloudporting among them).

And yet, I find myself feeling a little sorry for Case, because he, like Angel, like Angel’s mom, is so much a product of the world around him. He seems to struggle with his decision to leave, and even though Angel’s revenge fantasies paint Case out to be a malicious and vile person, I think the truth is much more complex, much more tragic. And it’s clear that the author recognizes that, too. Angel finds himself still longing for Case, though he now recognizes that perhaps what he was feeling was not love but a desire that he’d long kept shut away from himself. It’s a mighty and important realization, and it was wonderful to see it handled so deftly.

Angel’s final scene is one that feels at once empowering and dangerous. He’s finally begun to understand his place in the world, and he’s beginning to throw off these illusory rules that have kept him in line. And he’s reacting to the bright flare that was his relationship with Case in exactly the opposite way that Case did. He’s using this newfound passion to create community, to reinvest in those around him. He’s become dangerous to the system that has kept him in line, and this is in part due to the cloudport, but it’s also really because he’s begun to see himself as an individual with a community. He’s no longer a solitary node; he’s one in a network.