Michael Swanwick's Blog, page 157

No Post Today

.As always, I'm on the road again.  Uniquely, I'm helping Marianne settle her mother's affairs, following Mrs. Porter's death at age 103 last Saturday.  So there won't be a formal post here today.  Just this jot explaining why not.

I will note, however, that Mrs. Porter made this chore a lot easier by writing her own obituary beforehand and leaving instructions for what she wanted done (and not) at her memorial service.  Those of us who are getting on in years and love our children, might well take her example to heart.

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Farewell to a Strong Lady

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Marianne's mother, my mother-in-law, died last Saturday, at Strabane Woods, an assisted-living facility in Washington, PA.  Mary Ann Porter was 103.

That's her up above, on a Harley.

Mrs. Porter was one of six daughters (there were four brothers as well, one of whom died in childhood) born to immigrants.  All the Sisters -- that's how they were collectively referred to in the family -- were strong women.  But now only one, Evangeline, who was the baby of the family, remains.

Mary Ann Sinclair was a newspaperwoman for the Canonsburg Daily Notes , worked in Harrisburg at the creation of Social Security, and was for a time manager of the Hats and Hair Goods section of a local department store.  In 1939, she married a young lawyer named William Christian Porter.  During World War II, when he was in the Navy, they took an apartment in New York City, his home port, and she worked in retail again for the May Company.

When her husband died in 1988, Mrs. Porter expected to follow soon after.  But she did not.  Her friends grew old and died, so she made a new set of friends among the next generation.  Then her younger friends grew old and died.  "She's going to have a few firm words to say to God when her time finally comes," we used to joke in the family.

She was a devout Christian who was deeply involved in First Baptist Church of Washington,  a master quilter, and a woman with a lively sense of fun.  She was widely beloved.  Mrs. Porter lived by herself, without assistance, up until age 98, and the house was always impeccably neat and clean.  She was alert and aware up until the very end.  And her end was swift.

May God bless her and keep her.  I don't envy Him the conversation she's having with Him now.


Above:  Mrs. Porter wouldn't want anybody mislead.  That wasn't her Harley, it belonged to the church sexton, who can be seen behind her.  But when he gave her the opportunity to get her picture taken on his chopper, she jumped at the chance.

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My Place in [the] Stars

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I'm in audio-print again!  Well, almost.  Here's what Janis Ian had to say over on Facebook:

Just got an approval of the POD version of "Stars: The Anthology", edited by Mike Resnick and yours truly, with a new bonus story by Michael Swanwick. I worked with Lucky Bat Press on it and I have to say, they did an amazing job. Thanks, LBP!! The book, audio book, and e-book versions will be out later this month.

The story, I hasten to mention, is new to the anthology but has been published before.  What happened was that I was one of the writers Janis invited to contribute to Stars , her anthology of stories based on or inspired by her songs.  I immediately knew which song I wanted to use as a jumping-off point:   Mary's Eyes .  Here's the magic of art:  when she wrote the song, Janis didn't know she was writing about the Irish experience.  But she was, and the song breaks my heart every time I hear it.

So I began to write, "For I Have Lain Me Down on the Stone of Loneliness and I'll Not Be Back Again."  And a few pages in, after the scene where the protagonist meets Maire na Raghallach,  the plot stalled.  I had the beginning and I knew how it had to end . . . but not how to get from the one place to the other.

These things happen to writers on a regular basis.

I put the story aside and turned to other things.  The anthology was printed without my contribution and did well.  Autumn turned into winter and spring to summer.  Oaks sprouted from acorns, spread their branches across the sky, and were felled by great storms.  Continents drifted.  All the dinosaurs died.

One day, on my umpteenth assault upon the barren slopes of story, "The Stone of Loneliness" came to life in my hands.  I finished it and sold it to Asimov's, since Stars was not only published but long ago fallen out of print.

More time passed, during which the Mastodons may have died off (I wasn't paying close attention).  Then Janis got in touch with me to say that she was creating an audiobook version of the anthology, and would like to include my contribution as a sort of bonus for those who buy it.

This particular story is a personal favorite of mine, in part because it contains more autobiographical bits than anything else I've ever written, and I'll always be grateful to Janis for writing the song that inspired it.  Also I love the song.  Also she was doing the narration herself, shortly after winning an Emmy for the audiobook of her memoir, Society's Child, so it was going to be a very good audio version of the story.  Also, Janis is a pal.  And I really approve of the idea of giving people who buy your stuff something extra.  So of course I said yes.

The story contains fragments of a song that Mary sings, called "Deirdre's Lament."  In the course of checking the pronunciation of all difficult words (part of being an artist and perhaps the most necessary one is attention to detail), Janis asked if I'd mind if she put a tune to the song and sang it in the narration.

I let on that I supposed I could live with that.

Then Janis proposed to register her version of the song and give me a co-writing credit.  "Um..." I said.  "I didn't write it.  The original is a traditional Irish verse and the English version was written by Sir Samuel Ferguson."

But apparently the way these things work my copying the lyrics out of a Victorian collection of Irish verse counts, and that's how I came to share a writing credit with Janis Ian.

It's an astonishing world, sometimes.


And since I know you're curious about the title . . .

Rather than make you wait for Stars to come out, here's the explanation, taken from my own story:

The Stone of Loneliness was a fallen menhir or standing stone, something not at all uncommon throughout the British Isles.  They’d been reared by unknown people for reasons still not understood in Megalithic times, sometimes arranged in circles, and other times as solitary monuments.  There were faded cup-and-ring lines carved into what had been the stone’s upper end.  And it was broad enough that a grown man could lie  down on it [...] it was said to be a cure for homesickness.  So, during the Famine, emigrants would spend their last night atop it before leaving Ireland forever. 

Many years ago, I found the Stone of Loneliness by the entrance the the graveyard of an abandoned church in the West of Ireland.  It was a beautiful, blue-skyed day.  I lay down upon it.  

And I felt all the loneliness in the world flow into my body.


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And Even More Astonishingly . . .

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As always, I'm on the road again.  But before I left this morning, an amazing package arrived in the mail.  It contained a pair of handsome Simon Pearse double helix champagne glasses, which an anonymous donor wished to be given to this year's winner of the Godless Atheist Christmas Card Competition.  For -- in the donor's words -- "effortlessness, wordlessness, and creative energies in displaying the void that is there, not there, and not not there."

I took the glasses into the back yard and took the above snapshot.  As you can see, these are really quite lovely champagne flutes.  And as soon as I get back home, they'll be repackaged and shipped to this year's winner -- my sister Mary.

Which means that for one brief, shining instant, the Godless Atheist Christmas Card Competition was not only one of the most prestigious competitions of its kind, but the only one to turn a profit for its winner.

This may well be a Christmas miracle.  Albeit a very odd one indeed.


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And The Winner IS . . .

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Some people get hysterical when they receive a Christmas card with a tasteful graphic of a glass ornament on the front and a bland HAPPY HOLIDAYS within.  Not I.  So many friends of the household have contrary opinions or difficult personalities that such cards aren't even on the radar.  Indeed, we receive so many Godless Atheist Christmas Cards that every year we have a competition for the Most Godless Atheist Christmas Card of the Year.

And the winner this year is . . .  (Drum roll, please) . . . my sister Mary!  Her card, shown above, beat out some genuine stunners this year, and well deserved to do so.  It rejects everything that is sacred about the Christmas season in favor of a secular Christmas -- and then rejects the secular Christmas as well!  All in a single bleak and nihilistic yet elegant image.  The Not At All Nepotistic Blue Ribbon Panel of Family saw this card and found themselves staring into the Abyss.

Well done, Mary!

This year's winner proves an important point, that you don't have to be Godless or an atheist to win the Godless Atheist Christmas Card Competition.  (I know my sister, and she is neither.)  You simply have to have a weird sense of humor.


And since I know your next question . . .

The card was made by Main Squeeze Press.  You can find their Etsy shop here.  It doesn't seem to be among their current offerings, but their current offerings are well worth a look.  And who knows?  If you write them, maybe they've still got a couple of cards left.

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The 2013 Godless Atheist Christmas Card Competition Results

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The results are in.  The Not At All Nepotistic Blue Ribbon Panel of Family has met in formal conclave and we have a winner of this year's GODLESS ATHEIST CHRISTMAS CARD COMPETITION.

And what a year this was!  For the first time, two family photos made it to the finals.  My sister Barbie submitted a deliberate evocation of Southern culture by posing her family in  and around a pickup truck.  When this first arrived, Marianne thought it almost perfectly nihilistic but not quite -- the pickup truck was red, which she found marginally "Christmasy."  That's how tough the competition was this year.  I, however, felt it fell short on two levels:  First, it didn't evoke any of the offensive stereotypes that outsiders impose upon the South.  (Other than the pickup truck, of course -- and how offensive is that?  Pickup trucks are cool.)  Second, it was obvious, to me at least, that these people all loved each other. 

This was not a problem with the other family card, submitted by our good friend Liz.  The picture was so heavily solarized that you'd have to know these people damn well to recognize them.  And they were all flashing gang signs.

Breathtaking.

Another contender, submitted by Beth and Mike was the photograph of a little boy standing in the snow with his tongue frozen to a metal flagpole.  So close!  Marianne and Sean, however, both felt that the picture having been taken from the movie version of Jean Shepard's  A Christmas Story and that movie being iconic, disqualified it.  I argued that the movie was the Devil's own creation but was outvoted.

From Russia came our friend Boris's e-card of a warm-looking room filled with presents, a Christmas tree -- and a short-skirted woman with great gams and the head of a horse.  This was an image so surrealistic in a nightmarish waay that I was sure it should go right to the top . . . but again I was overruled.  Marianne felt it was important to the purity of the competition that all cards be physical.  (And a good thing, too, because Boris later explained that it was a reference to 2014 being the Year of the Horse in China; the good humor behind that would probably have disqualified it anyway.)

We had reached an unspoken consensus on the winner when a last-minute entry arrived and threatened to run away with the honors.  Sean took part in a Secret Santa exchange for gamers and, along with his present (an oil painting of Cthulhu posing with a D12 die), received the card shown above and below from "your goon pal."  (Of course she was a Goon!  What else could she possibly have been?)

Was it a contender?  Just look at it!  Postmodern irony, the deliberate misspelling of "inoffensive," the in-your-face cheapness of using a sheet of lined three-hole paper for the card, a lower-case pseudonym... all topped by a promise of glitter with NO GLITTER!  I tell you, there were some fervent arguments in favor of this one.

For which reason, we must assign it Special Mention Woulda Won Any Other Year status.

Because in the end there could be only one.  And we all agreed that it was...

[TO BE CONCLUDED MONDAY]




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Your New Year's Martini Resolutions

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The beginning of a new year is traditionally a time when one makes personal resolutions to improve one's situation or character.  Unhappily, in our hectic modern world all too many people simply lack the leisure needed to craft thoughtful resolutions.  Luckily, the American Martini Institute is here to help.

In the coming year, you resolve that . . .

1.  This year you will acknowledge at last that simply because something is served up in a martini glass does not make it a martini.  The other day, we were offered a "Peppermint Bark Martini," consisting of peppermint schnapps, Godiva White Chocolate liqueur, a dash of cream, and chocolate shavings.  This is, one imagines, a perfectly acceptable drink for non-diabetics.  But it has not a single ingredient in common with the noble martini.  Not one!  You might as well fill a beer stein with live frogs and serve it to friends as an India Pale Ale.  "Very hoppy," you might then say with a small, greasy smile.

2.  You will immediately cease referring to the vodkatini -- an adequate drink in its own right, we're sure -- as a vodka martini.  It is no such thing.  The martini is such a sensitive drink that merely substituting a pickled onion for the time-hallowed olive or lemon twist turns it into a Gibson.  Eschewing gin for an inferior tipple is not only a shocking lapse of taste but a logical fallacy as well.

3.  You will continue to form your own opinions as to which gins are best in your martinis,  Here, authoritative as the American Martini Institute is, we cannot guide you.  Personally, we feel that Boodles is unquestionably the right man for the job; that Bluecoat imparts a flowery quality that almost -- but not quite -- makes its martini an entirely new drink; and that Hendricks, though delicious, is best reserved for the gin and tonic, a drink in which it is unsurpassed.  But your mileage may vary.  People with the eminent good sense to drink a proper martini can be trusted to choose a proper gin for it.

4.  You will restrain your enthusiasm for fetishizing dryness.  (Yes, the Dadaists created a drink in which the gin was flavored by passing a bottle of vermouth through a ray of sunshine intersecting the glass, but that was a joke.  Anyway, said novelty drink is not a martini but an immaculate conception.)  Several times this year, upon ordering a very dry martini, we have been asked by the tappie, "Do you want vermouth in that or not?"  Of course we do.  Had we desired a glass of cold gin, we would have asked for one.  Or better yet, a shot of single malt.  Highland Park by preference, or possible Glenmorangie.

5.  Finally, you will refrain from snarking at the poor, benighted souls who fail to understand and appreciate the near-spiritual glory of the perfect cocktail commonly known as the martini.  That is the responsibility of the American Martini Institute.

This has been a public service announcement.  For your own good.


And coming soon . . .

The Not At All Nepotistic Blue Ribbon Panel of Family has been laboring long and hard over this year's Godless Atheist Christmas Card Competition .  And it's been a breathtaking year!

The results will appear here soon.


Above:  Courtesy of the American Martini Laboratory, a wholly owned subsidiary of the American Martini Institute, a drink consisting of five parts gin, one part vermouth, and a dead fish.  It is called, of course, the martuna.


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Tom Purdom, Lover & Fighter

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It's coming soon, the book I've spent many years yearning for -- Lovers & Fighters, Starships & Dragons , the first collection of Tom Purdom's short fiction.

How highly do I regard Tom's fiction?  So highly that I wrote the introduction to the collection -- and I hate writing introductions.  They're a lot of work.  But these stories deserve enormous praise, so I was glad to do it.

I'll be posting more about this collection as it comes available.  In the meantime, here's one paragraph from my introduction:

And here's the table of contents:
 
Lovers & Fighters, Starships & Dragons will be available in print on demand and e-book formats from Fantastic Books.  will be launched in February at Boskone in Boston.  Tom Purdom will be in attendance, so if you're going to be there, you really should pick up a copy and get it autographed. 


And on an unrelated note . . .

The judging for this year's Godless Atheist Christmas Card Competition is winding down.  The results will be posted here, as they come available.


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[dream diary]

.December 28, 2013

In my dreams, I wrote:

Olive Oyl at the Orgy
     The old gal was game.  But it was Popeye who was the only one standing at the end.


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Working With Mariella Coudy

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I'm in print again!  David Hartwell's anthology, Year's Best SF 18 , arrived in yesterday's mail and it contains my story "The Woman Who Shook the World Tree."

The pleasures of writing a story differ from the pleasures of reading one.  For me, the chief pleasure in this work was getting to work with the story's protagonist, Mariella Coudy.

The story begins:  She was not a pretty child.  Nor did her appearance improve with age.  "You'd better get yourself a good education," her mother would say, alaughing.  "Because you're sure not going to get by on your looks."  But that's a misdirection.  What makes Mariella's life so difficult is not her looks -- there are tons of women who get all the romance, sex, and love they want without being at all beautiful -- or her distant parents, but her genius.  She is simply so far beyond the likes of you and me that she's almost a different, one-woman species.

So half the joy of writing this work was, for me, getting to inhabit the mind of a world-class genius and to pretend, briefly, that I could follow her thoughts.  But the other half lay in getting to create a woman of genius who was as badly socialized and as little aware of it as the worst of her male peers.

Who can forget the mathematician Paul Erdős discovered in the kitchen at 3 a. m., holding a carton of orange juice and staring baffled at the stuff puddling around his feet because he'd wanted a drink and tried to open the carton by stabbing its bottom with a steak knife?  His hosts put up with behavior like this because  of the quality of work he would do while he was visiting.  But women almost never get to be so clueless and yet admired.

I created one who was.  And then, in gratitude for her being such a lovely character, I gave Mariella Coudy everything she'd always thought she'd never have.

An "Erdős number" is a half-serious calculation of one's professional closeness to the man.  Those who have collaborated on a paper with him have an Erdős number of 1, those who haven't but have collaborated with someone who collaborated with him have an Erdős number of 2.  And so on.

I'm not a mathematician and so I have no Erdős number at all.  But I have a Mariella Coudy number of 1.  I believe I'm the only person in the world who can say that.

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