Chicanonautica: Gonzo Writing On-The-Run Diary

 by Ernest Hogan

One thing I do when I teach my class for Palabras del Pueblo is write a story. The first day I gather some material, usually from the conversation, get an idea, and by the final day I have a story. What better way to share my writing process than to be doing it?

This time getting an idea was easy. In their opening presentation E.L. and Ronnie Dukes had us all do a writing exercise about getting a text from yourself from the year 2070. I tend to have doubts about such things, and scribbled some unusable gibberish, but the prompt got my diabolical imagination going. 

I’m old and will be 115 in 2070. Maybe it would be better if it was about a younger guy. Ronnie had us do a drawing exercise, so I drew what I would look like. A lot of my characters start out as me, then get off on their own.

To further complicate things, in the week between the Palabras weekends Emily and I had planned to do a three-day getaway from the killer heat of the Metro Phoenix Area. I was going to have to write the story on the run. Gonzo!

I decided to keep a diary of the story. And share it with my students. 

Of course, I’ve done some revising, correcting, and rewriting first:

That night, after midnight, a brainstorm woke me up. One of my brainstorms is literally like a lightning storm in my head. I took notes: mental health . . . Robots . . . Franchises . .  . Dying . .   Drones like giant mosquitoes . .  . Taser-headed robot dogs . .  . Like rough, unpolished poetry. Fragments hung on an awkward, jagged framework.

Then I had a dream of running up and down rocky hills on the way to a protest. 

It came in no kind of order. Gonzo information gathering. Cook the rasquache scramble into mutant huevos rancheros later. Like cubism. Sometimes I compose stories like Hieronymus Bosch, Diego Rivera, or S. Clay Wilson.

I didn’t get enough sleep, so I had to gonzo it with caffeine and antihistamines. My days of abusing caffeine to almost hallucinogenic levels are long behind me, but I’ve found that when I do need a boost, a little dab will do me. The muses (Xochiquetzal included) don’t give a damn about your schedules and obligations.

Also, Google was getting glitchy. I copied the stuff from the Drive file to my sketchbook in case I couldn’t access it. Keep your analog. You might need it!

After a first thing in the morning line, I made some decisions: The world is ours, right now–only worse. I still had no face on the main character, but he was younger than me, and a chronically unemployed recent college grad.

Then I decided not to think about it for the rest of the day, concentrate on the class, let the riders in the backseat of my brain work on it.

Later I re-read what I had from the beginning. I’ve found that's a good way to get back into it, and a chance to make changes and corrections.

I named the character Tavo and incorporated stuff from Ernesto Mireles’ talk–about the grim future of Chicano studies. I also decided to change the sex of a minor character because there were no women so far.

Next morning I did the sex change, thought about rearranging things. Let it stew.

I also had to go to my day job. It’s always interesting to go to work with an embryonic story growing in your brain. Kinda like drugs.

The next day Emily and I went on our road trip. As usual, I take a sketchbook/notebook. I do what I call cherchez le weird. I get a lot of my crazy ideas that way.

At one point, we got a flat tire. I took the following notes while waiting for AAA to rescue us:

[KEEP CHANGING MY MIND ABOUT THINGS I WANT TO REARRANGE & LEAVE OUT OF THE STORY. THERE IS STILL TIME TO WAFFLE . . .]

[SHOULD THERE BE MORE PEOPLE ON THE TRAIN?}

[THE PROTESTORS / RIOTERS - WHO ARE THEY?]

[WHEN THE TRAIN STOPS, IT IS NEXT TO AN ABANDONED SHOPPING MALL. TAVO RUNS INTO A NEARBY NEIGHBORHOOD, WORRYING ABOUT WHAT WILL HAPPEN, WILL THEY COME AFTER HIM?]

[TAVO THROWS A ROCK AT A ROBODOG. PROTESTERS CHEER]

[HE FLIPS OFF A DRONE]

[IN THE END, HIS PHONE RINGS AGAIN, WE GET THE “HERE WE GO AGAIN.” SUGGEST OLD TAVO IS IN A SIMILAR SITUATION.]

And the folks at Enterprise switched us to another car, getting us back to running around, having fun in record time.

The next day, while reposting the new Chicanonautica about my preparations for the class, I realized that its main purpose is triggering creativity rather than instruction. I am not an academic. I’ve never been comfortable in a classroom. I set out to deliberately be non-academic. If I can get to students to experience creativity, I consider it a success.

Later, I had a beer with dinner (a Corona lager) and a couple of chocolates from a Whisky Row shop that contained alcohol. I usually do my writing after dinner while traveling, so I decided to experiment with gonzo writing under the influence . . . I wrote my usual rough draft with one finger on my phone. The booze didn’t slow me down, but then I’m a professional who’s been publishing since 1982.

I even got to the end of the story.

Of course, I was not finished. Lots of people go on social media at this point and cheer about being “done.” No, this is not the end. What you have now is a creative mess. This is where the real work begins, the pick-and-shovel stuff. The gonzo frolicking is over. Switch over the other side of the brain, engage critical thinking, get into editor mode—Dr. Jekyll instead of Mr. Hyde.

It’s the part of writing you don’t hear much about, except for impassioned bitching.

The next morning there was no need for a warmup sentence/paragraph.

I felt that the ending needed something. Things kept occurring to me. After thoughts and second guessing. Stuff bubbling in the depths of my brain. I let it. Then worked on making it ready for an editor.

The rest of the day I concentrated on having fun.

Ernest Hogan will be teaching again at the Fall Palabras del Pueblo workshop. Meanwhile, he will be committing random acts of Xicanxfuturism, and wonder what the world will be like in a few months.

Chicanonautica: Writing in a Mass Deportation

 

by Ernest Hogan

There’s an old joke about someone asking a centipede how he walks with all those legs. He had never thought about, so he did . . . And never walked again. 

I tend not to think much about how I write. I just let it happen for the most part. Teaching a class about it forced me to think about it.  I’m happy to report that I’m not suffering the fate of that poor centipede. 

Good thing I only have two legs.

It actually has helped. I do have a process, albeit an eccentric one that is always open to change.

After the election, a story about mass deportation seemed like a natural. My inspiration usually comes from slugging it out with the real world. I loved hearing Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison talk about getting pissed off and it resulting in a story. 

I didn’t as much decide to write it as much as it started happening. It’s how it goes with me, the story manifests in my brain, and doesn’t stop until it’s written. A persistent story can keep at it for years, decades . . .

I always have stories in my brain, clamoring for my attention. Maybe someday there will a drug for it, complete with a long list of horrifying side-effects.

The idea came when I imagined being stopped at a checkpoint. Some dialogue started, and it came alive.

Then I came up with the title “Once Upon a Time in a Mass Deportation.”

I made some notes, and wrote an opening, then decided to wait until the actual mass deportation started, figuring on getting some gonzo inspiration.

Boy, am I glad I did.

Even though I was aiming for blood-thirsty satire, what I had come up with was way too rational. I had no idea that the reality would be so bugfuck. 

Rod Serling said he has to tone down reality for the Twilight Zone. Something a senator would say in real life would only be acceptable on TV from a Martian.

Things are different in the 21st century. In the glut of information and disinformation, people will believe anything, but reject reality even when it bites them on the ass. What’s a Chicano sciifista to do?

I kept up on things, taking notes on the extreme weirdness. Then I made it into a story. Not as much plotting it out but composing it like a painting by Hieronymus Bosch, a mural by Diego Rivera, or a comics panel by Will Elder clogged with “chicken fat” details. I turned my surrealist tendencies loose. Watched some Luis Buñuel, Buster Keaton, and Marx Brothers. It’s such a joy to indulge in being myself.

I’m so glad I’m not a journalist.

I think it does the dirty job. Now it’s after me to get it published.

It also got me warmed up to come up with a story to write as part of the online writing class I’m teaching. My confidence is ridiculous. 

Should be fiendish fun.

And even educational.

I thank Tezcatlipoca for my grotesquely large, powerful, and overactive imagination. And I make the occasional sacrifice.

Ernest Hogan is always imagining different worlds, sometimes better than ours, sometimes worse. Then he writes about them.

Chicanonautica: Xicanxfuturism Live in Phoenix

by Ernest Hogan

We interrupt your deprogramming for an important announcement. I will be appearing, live in the flesh, at 12:30 PM, April 13 at Palabras Bilingual Bookstore, 906 W. Roosevelt St. Unit 2 in Phoenix, Arizona.

Scott Russell Duncan, author of Old California Strikes Back and editor of  Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow will also be there.

Don’t let our gringo names fool you, we really are Dos Space Vatos.

We will be reading from our work, and talking about Xixanxfuturism as a needed alternative to Trumpfuturism and the rise of the techistadors.

I’ll have copies of Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories, to sell and sign, and will be reading selections from “A Wild and Wooly Road Trip on Mars” from Xicanxfuturism. And “Uno! Dos! One-Two! Tres! Cuatro” from Guerrilla.

Now back to our regularly scheduled deprogramming. Don’t buy any recycled dystopias from sleazy con men . . .

Ernest Hogan, the Father of Chicano Science Fiction, will also be teaching the latest mutation of his “Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style” in June at the (online) Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop.

Chicanonautica: Again, Dangerous Education

by Ernest Hogan

Look out, Western Civilization, I’m going to be playing teacher again! You will be able to partake of my Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom and learn how to create your own Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style, and there ain’t nothing the new, improved federal government can do to stop it.

I think. (As the Cisco Kid’s sidekick Pancho would say.)

For two weekends, June 7 & 8, then 14 & 15, I’ll be on Zoom, telling about my gonzo techniques, marketing yourself to the Anglo-centric publishing industry, using the social media, and outrageous-sometimes hair-raising-firsthand anecdotes of a professional writer’s life. I will also start and write a story sharing how I do it and the results and encourage students to do the same.

And if you have work you’d like to share, there will be some time. Impress me if you can.

As usual, I’m hoping to get my mind blown.

It costs $100, which is cheap. Check out what other writing workshops cost.

It’s free to apply. The deadline for applications is May 1.

If money is a problem, Space Cowboy Press has offered a sponsorship. Inquire soon.

If you are not part of the Chicano/Latinoid continuum, you will be able to take courses at the workshop, however, be aware that they will be oriented toward the non-Anglo students. It’ll be the reverse of my experience back in the Seventies, when I was so often the only brown face in the room . . .

And with all the caca flying around in 2025, I’m going to have a lot to say about sci-fi writing while Chicano in the time of Trump.

There’s nobody with a warrant pounding on my door—yet.

I think.

(At least I’m not picking up Pancho’s accent—I theenk . . . Uh-oh!)

Ernest Hogan is busy committing shameless acts of aesthetic terrorism and creative blasphemy. He is also writing.

Chicanonautica: Weirdo Summer Update

by Ernest Hogan

 

So, we’ve got a summer of change, a helluvalot of it. I can’t keep up with it. A clever wisecrack about the political situation becomes obsolete by the time I post it. The Latinoid is still a popular target for the backward types. Guess I need to take a few breaths, see how things are working out in the long run.

Meanwhile, I’m going to be teaching my “Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style” class again online, at Palabras del Pueblo, October 5-6, & 12-13. And you don’t have to be a Chicano, just somewhere in the vast, planet-embracing Latinoid continuum with a wild imagination fueled by your culture, and ready to blast off to places no Anglo has dreamed of.

I’m also picking the winners of the Somos en escrito Extra Fiction contest again. Send your submissions between August 1st and November 1st. I’m going to be in the mood for synapse-scorching reading material.

No matter who wins the election, if it’s closer to utopia or dystopia—and I am aware that what is utopia to some is dystopia to others—we’re going to need visions, to either give us some clues, or keep us ready to deal with the unexpected.

And is there ever a motherload of the unexpected coming down, causing strange things to grow inside my brain . . .

Ernest Hogan wants you to remember, that’s “Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style” at the Fall 2024 Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop, online, and Extra Fiction contest. Then there's the matter of  this book called Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song . . .

Chicanonautica: Sci-Fi Gonzoing While Chicano in Class

by Ernest Hogan

Once again, I taught a class at (problematic, it was online via good ol’ Zoom) the Palabras del Pueblo writing workshop. I called it “Gonzo Sciene Fiction, Chicano Style” to give myself a excuse to plug my new book, Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories. Self-promotion is important, kids, do it whenever you can get away with it—hell, even when you can’t get away with it!  It’s called professionalism.

There I go, thinking like a teacher again . . .

When introducing themselves, students mentioned the Impostor Syndrome about being writers. I don’t have that problem; my credentials as one of the most successful Chicano writers of my generation are secure. But when it comes to being a teacher, that’s another plate of tacos.

I never wanted to be a teacher. I don't have a degree. I never did like school. All I have is over forty years of bizarre experience.

And there are people out there who like what I write. I guess it all counts for something. 

This was my second time doing this. I may get the hang of it yet.

I presented material from my updated notes. I tend to change my mind about things, and the writing biz keeps a-changing. I wrote a story over the course of the class, all the way sharing my creative process (hiljole! What a pretentious phrase). 

It was strange because I don’t usually think about what I do—I just do it. I find discussing the Art of Writing to be boring and irritating.

Interestingly enough, there were no surprises. I’ve been doing this so long that I know what I’m doing without having to ponder the mysteries of it all. Like I said, experience.

The story is called “Spawn of the New, Improved Tortilla Machine.” I was lucky enough to be inspired by all the craziness going on in the world, combined with the fact that I had promised I would write a story. The process was, and the result is, gonzo.

I’ve never been comfortable in a classroom. I tried hard to make this a non- or even anti-academic experience. Writing is not an academic activity and shouldn’t be.

Once again, I was impressed by the students. They were a diverse group from all parts of the Latinoid continuum. I tend to be Chicano-centric because Aztlán in the second half of siglo XX is where I come from, but I always enjoy other cultures that have been affected by contact with the Hispanic virus. We need to start cooperating on a global level—since we are most of the people in this hemisphere we need to come off as a majority so publishers stop dismissing us as a niche market. We have fantastic ideas coming out of a wide range of cultures—we keep creating new ones—that will make for great fiction that will entertain and enlighten the world.

For the next time—it pays well, often better than the writing itself—I will strive to make it more interactive and focus even more on the wants and needs of the students. Guess I’ll be updating those notes again.

One thing I need to work on is the market—where to send what you write. It’s something I need to do anyway. I’ve been spoiled this century, most of what I publish these days is the result of publishers and editors coming to me—thank Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca for the interwebs! But lately, I’ve built up a backlog of unpublished stories. I need to do some investigating of the mutating world of publishing. No doubt, there will be some hair-raising adventures.

Also, anybody interested in publishing one or more of these stories, besides this blog and Mondo Ernesto, I’m on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

Another lesson in professionalism.

Ernest Hogan, the Father of Chicano Science Fiction, is the author of Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories, a guidebook for the weirdness to come.

Chicanonautica: Education, La Raza, and Me

by Ernest Hogan

I’m getting ready to teach my Papí Sci-Fi’s Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom online at Palabra del Pueblo Writing Workshop. Guao, it still sounds weird. Me, a teacher. How the hell did that happen? 

My usual joke is to say that me and school never got along so good. Back in the Sixties the education system didn’t know what to do with a dyslexic Chicano with a dangerously over-active imagination. I just wasn’t good at the trained monkey act that gets mistaken for intelligence, and I couldn't seem to do anything right but daydream .  .  .

I’m not complaining. It’s been a wild ride, and where I ended up is pretty damn interesting. My out-of-control mutant monster imagination has been good for me, even if I had some serious struggles in my early years.

Somehow I keep ending up at odds with society and education—and by that I mean organized education. Y’know, like organized religion. I’m all for education, it's just that I tend to clash with the social constructions that evolved around it.

It’s something I keep writing about.

At one time I was so frustrated I almost threw my high school diploma into the trash. The only time I was asked about it was when I applied for some classes at a community college. Now that I  talk—some would say “lecture”—at colleges nobody even mentions any degrees I might have.

And in the last couple of decades, academia charged in and saved my career.

So I’ve become a teacher of sorts, an undocumented one, of course.

I have no explanation for it. It’s like a fable of Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom.

I’m a firm believer in self-education. I also believe that it never stops. Diplomas and graduations are social niceties, excuses for photo ops, parties, and glomming gifts. Have fun, get what you can, but the learning never stops—unless you’re a total loser.

I’ve long wanted to write a book called Steal This Education (referencing Abbie Hoffman), but the ways to acquire information—and knowledge—keeps changing. Any manual would be obsolete before it could be published, which is the point. You have to be constantly learning, or else you’ll be left behind.

It’s so pinche sci-fi. Gotta love it.

I can’t really tell anybody how to do it. I can babble about how I’ve done it. Maybe it will help.

So I try to make it fun.

Life is a series of learning experiences. Make it an adventure.

It’s the freaking story of my life. I’m always writing it. Sometimes I sell and publish it. It’s a bad habit I’ve got, and there seems to be no cure. I sure hope not.

Class dismissed. Now go out and get into some interesting trouble.

Meanwhile, I’m putting on my Papí Sci-Fi mask and costume, and going out to cause some interesting trouble.

Freeze frame. Mad scientist chortle. Fade out. 

Ernest Hogan shouldn’t be taken too seriously, after all he’s a cartoonist, sci-fi writer, and a Chicano.