My latest Locus column takes the form of a thought-experiment in which I try to make sense of how we treat creative work on behalf of a notional Martian:

It’s about this time that the Martian notices our distinctly contradictory relationship with copying. On the one hand, copying is inextricably tied up with this idea of ‘‘human progress’’ (itself the basis for venerating creativity). We copy the words invented by our ancestors. We copy the storytelling forms passed down to us by our literary forebears. Painters copy each others’ conventions and brushstrokes (not to mention mechanical techniques from gesso to frame-stretching). Filmmakers copy like crazy: everything from extreme wide shots to dollying in and out are techniques that were invented in living memory.

That matters, O Martian. Because generally, we frown less upon a copy when it builds on the work of someone long dead – especially when that person is anonymous. Not knowing which ingenious proto-linguist thought up the idea of a pronoun, we couldn’t possibly credit that part of speech to her. At a certain point, we stop treating each others’ creations and special pseudo-property (with all the legal and normative implications imposed by such a respect, from attribution to permission) and we start treating it as infrastructure – belonging to no one and everyone.

Infrastructure matters. Infrastructure forms the links of the chain from which we swing – someone invents language, someone invents storytelling, someone invents writing, someone invents type, someone invents publishing, someone invents trade publishing, someone invents science fiction, someone invents first contact stories, someone invents magazine columns, and then, I create this article you’re reading now. If I had to invent my own language and alphabet and commercial publishing industry before you I could claim to have created anything, I’d never get anything done, and all the magazines would be full of blank pages because all the writers would be so busy inventing their own private creative words that the articles wouldn’t get written.

Cory Doctorow: Explaining Creativity to a Martian

(Image: Martian Face 2, a Creative Commons Attribution (2.0) image from 33942000@N00’s photostream)

My latest Guardian column, “Information overload? Time to relax then,” describes a technique for overcoming “information overload” by letting go of the idea that if you overlook something in your inbox, RSS reader, or other feed that it’ll disappear forever. The faster your feeds get, the more the good stuff gets repeated — trust the redundancy and embrace non-deterministic information consumption!

This was a real struggle at first. There is a world of difference between reading every word uttered in a community and reading just a few choice ones. But soon the anxiety gave way to contentment and even delight: it turned out that “overload” has a wonderful corollary: redundancy.

Anything really worth seeing wouldn’t just appear once and vanish. The really interesting stuff would find its way into other discussions, and early conferencing systems made it easy enough to back my way through the forums I was ignoring or skimming to find the important thing I’d missed.

This pattern went on to repeat itself again and again. Once, I could read all the Usenet discussion groups my ISP carried, then only a selection, and then only one or two plus a longer list of groups I’d dip into now and again when time allowed.

Information overload? Time to relax then

(Image: Web 2.0 icons, a Creative Commons Attribution (2.0) image from zipckr’s photostream)

Thanks to Ludwik Stawowy for sending along the cover for the Polish edition of Little Brother, AKA Maly Brat!

Pamela DiFrancesco writes, “Iread your novel Little Brother, not too long ago and really loved it—except I just didn’t believe that the court system would be as just as it was, or that Marcus would be saved by the police, or that he would go on to “rock the vote,” so to speak. So (thanks to the wonder of Creative Commons), I rewrote it and posted it on my blog.”

I lost track of time. Days and nights blended together, a never-ending stream of assaults on my senses and my body. I began to lose my grip on reality. Sometimes during the torture, I made up stories. Every teacher, adult, authority figure I’d ever known had been an al Qaeda operative, bent on recruiting me. I babbled these stories to my torturers, and sometimes even believed they were true. They recorded my rantings and played them back to me at night. They became the dreams I was deprived of.

But through it all, I never gave them my password, or told them about Xnet, or sold out my friends.

One day after a torture session, I was dragged down a different hallway than usual. One of my guards, talking over me as if I wasn’t there, addressed the other guard.