Michael Swanwick's Blog, page 5

Habeamus Pubdate!

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 At last it can be told! I have a new collection of my short fiction coming out from Tachyon Publications in 2026.

The Universe Box contains contains seventeen of the very best of a decade's worth of stories appearing in Asimov's Science Fiction, Clarkesworld, Reactor/Tordotcom, F&SF, Analog, New Worlds, Sunday Morning Transport, Sword and Sorcery, The Book of Dragons, and Dragonstairs Press (the story the book derives its title from; though it was later reprinted in Asimov's). Plus one or two that are original to the book. If you already have almost all of them, you have my profound admiration. Also my worried concern that your bookshelves may be as overburdened as my own.

This has been in the works for a while. But at last a publication date has been set. It is (trumpets and drum roll, please): 

 

 February3, 2026 

 

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This seems like a long time to wait. But in publishing time, it's a blink of the eye.

 

And I should warn you . . .

The kindly but tyrannical people at Tachyon have informed me in no uncertain terms that between now and the publication date, I must ruthlessly promote the collection on social media. So, of course, I have no choice but to do so.

Still, I promise I'll do my best to be entertaining at it. I have plans. You'll see.

 

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Tiptree's Paper Clip

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I am the proud owner of a paper clip once owned by Alice Sheldon, a giant of science fiction under the name of James Tiptree, Jr. Sheldon kept a physical distance from her literary genre of choice. She didn't attend conventions and very seldom met with anybody, fan or writer, from the community. I never even came close to meeting her. So you may be wondering how I came in possession of this literary relic. Well...

Gardner Dozoisand Susan Casper met Sheldon once in the late seventies or early eighties, at herplace in McLean, Virginia. Her house was mostly glass and sat over a streamthat ran through the living room. Raccoons would come intoit at night. In an interview published in the Temporary Culture chapbook She Saved Us From World War Three Gardner said, “…wewent out there and spent the afternoon. We had burgers, I think, which theygrilled, and we sat around for a while. I found out during the afternoon thatshe kept her Nebula Award in a closet with galoshes piled on top of it.”

He also said that Sheldon wasflamboyant, even theatrical. “She really dominated your attention. She wasmagnetic. […] While we were eating our hamburgers… She had put out paper napkinsand I was nervous, so I sat nervously shredding a napkin. She told me laterthat after we left she had picked up the shreds of the napkin and put them in abaggie and written “Napkin Shredded by Gardner Dozois” and the date on a label.Whether that still exists or not, I have no idea.”  

Such souvenirs were obviously important toSheldon. When Gardner and Susan started to leave, she looked around hurriedlyfor something to give him as a memento and ended up handing him an oversizedblue plastic paper clip—the one you see enshrined above.

Such souvenirs were not importantto Gardner So he gave it to me.

Thus it was that this luminous object passed from a believer to an infidel to a believer again. This is the Wheel of Samsara in action.

 

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A Comprehensive Dictionary of Cat

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After years of labor, I have finallyassembled a comprehensive dictionary of Cat. It is as follows:

now?:Oh, please, sir. I'm ever so hungry. Will no one feed the nice cat?

Hark!:Damn your eyes, why did you make me do this? Your impudence will notbe soon forgotten. Clean up this hairball immediately. I'm going off to a quiet spot to plot vengeance.

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Barry Longyear R. I. P.

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Barry Longyear is dead. I wasn't going to note his passing because he and I were never close. We bumped into each other on panels at Worldcons a couple of times, but that was it. However, the current issue of Locus has, in addition to its obituary, only one appreciation, though a good one written by his agent, Richard Curtis. His star has since faded, but Longyear was once considered to be one of the greats in science fiction. He deserves more than that.

So I'll say a very few words here. If early on you're offended, please keep reading. I promise all will be made right. 

Back in the 1970s, Longyear was one of George Scithers' two most celebrated discoveries, along with John M. Ford, in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine. As a writer, his every story, especially the Circusworld ones set on the planet Baraboo, hit the sweet spot with fans. As a human being, he was an absolute asshole.

The stories of the man's offensive behavior and curmudgeonly insults of his writing peers (in all fairness, he did punch up as well as down, though at some of the most beloved figures in the field) were legion. Thankfully, time has erased most of the specifics for me. Though I vividly remember the fanzine article he wrote about the Hugo Award, where he said that if he won one and had only enough room in his suitcase for the trophy or his soiled underwear, he would choose the underwear.

But then he went into rehab.

He went in belligerent and offensive, and he came out likeable. Again, I never knew Barry Longyear very well. But anyone could see that person he used to be was not the real him. The real him, it turned out, was a nice guy.

That nice guy, according to the Locus obit, founded Dragon Slayers, a Narcotics Anonymous group that he selflessly helped run for decades. That tells us a lot.

Longyear's career highpoint came when his novella, Enemy Mine, in which a human and an alien at war with each other must make common cause in order to survive. won the Hugo, Nebula, Locus, and John W. Campbell Awards. A low point ensued when it was made into a movie. Word at the time was that the suits looked at the script and said, "Where's the mine?" and so one was inserted. Reportedly, the whole thing went down from there. The movie was a flop and by all accounts deserved to be one.

Curtis relates, I'm sure correctly, that Longyear wrote two sequels to the story and his own version of what the movie should have been. A year ago, Twentieth Century Studios decided they wanted to do a remake of the movie. Contracts were signed in time for the ailing author to know that there was a good chance his story would be done up as it deserved. I could have wished that he had lived long enough to see the movie and that the movie was everything it should have been. But writers live on hope, and Longyear lived long enough to experience that hope one last time.

Go with God, Barry. I hope your movie is one of the great ones.

Above: The picture of Barry Longyear was taken from Hazelden Publishing.

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.Barry Longyear is dead. I wasn't going to note his pass...

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Barry Longyear is dead. I wasn't going to note his passing because he and I were never close. We bumped into each other on panels at Worldcons a couple of times, but that was it. However, the current issue of Locus has, in addition to its obituary, only one appreciation, though a good one written by his agent, Richard Curtis. His star has since faded, but Longyear was once considered to be one of the greats in science fiction. He deserves more than that.

So I'll say a very few words here. If early on you're offended, please keep reading. I promise all will be made right. 

Back in the 1970s, Longyear was one of George Scithers' two most celebrated discoveries, along with John M. Ford, in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine. As a writer, his every story, especially the Circusworld ones set on the planet Baraboo, hit the sweet spot with fans. As a human being, he was an absolute asshole.

The stories of the man's offensive behavior and curmudgeonly insults of his writing peers (in all fairness, he did punch up as well as down, though at some of the most beloved figures in the field) were legion. Thankfully, time has erased most of the specifics for me. Though I vividly remember the fanzine article he wrote about the Hugo Award, where he said that if he won one and had only enough room in his suitcase for the trophy or his soiled underwear, he would choose the underwear.

But then he went into rehab.

He went in belligerent and offensive, and he came out likeable. Again, I never knew Barry Longyear very well. But anyone could see that person he used to be was not the real him. The real him, it turned out, was a nice guy.

That nice guy, according to the Locus obit, founded Dragon Slayers, a Narcotics Anonymous group that he selflessly helped run for decades. That tells us a lot.

Longyear's career highpoint came when his novella, Enemy Mine, in which a human and an alien at war with each other must make common cause in order to survive. won the Hugo, Nebula, Locus, and John W. Campbell Awards. A low point ensued when it was made into a movie. Word at the time was that the suits looked at the script and said, "Where's the mine?" and so one was inserted. Reportedly, the whole thing went down from there. The movie was a flop and by all accounts deserved to be one.

Curtis relates, I'm sure correctly, that Longyear wrote two sequels to the story and his own version of what the movie should have been. A year ago, Twentieth Century Studios decided they wanted to do a remake of the movie. Contracts were signed in time for the ailing author to know that there was a good chance his story would be done up as it deserved. I could have wished that he had lived long enough to see the movie and that the movie was everything it should have been. But writers live on hope, and Longyear lived long enough to experience that hope one last time.

Go with God, Barry. I hope your movie is one of the great ones.

Above: The picture of Barry Longyear was taken from Hazelden Publishing.

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Books I Have And You Don't: Penna School Report 1869--a Commonplace Book

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This entry in the series may be cheating a little... But most readers of this blog are on the bookish side, so coming up with something none of you have is a challenge.

 Anyway, sometime in the 19th century, either one or two men... And here I have to pause because Albert B. Flagg and Indecipherable M. Stone both put their names and addresses (22 Derby Street, Jamestown, NY) in the front endpapers. They both, or presumably one of them, were or was the editor.

So, as I was saying, someone(s) took a book he or neither of them gave a fart about and turned it into an anthology of stories clipped from the newspaper.  Back then, newspapers published overt fictions with titles like (chosen at random):

[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY]

THE INDIAN'S REVENGE

A TALE OF ILLINOIS

BY FRANK E. T[AGESPOT]E CLAIRE

"an  o'er true tale"

Which begins:

The scene of this sketch is laid on the Illinois river, something over a hundred miles from its mouth, where the town of Meredosia now stands. The time of which we write, the pioneer days of the Pioneer State, prior to its admission into the Union.

There are also poems and non-fiction articles that the compiler(s) found amusing.

And it has to be said that most of these gems of prose and poetry so carefully preserved from the winds of time are dreadful. So much so that I have never read the whole book through and can only sample it in small sips.

Yet, every now and again, I pick up the product of the (surely young) Mssrs. Flagg and Stone and am transported back to their time. When newspapers printed fiction. And readers cared enough to want to preserve what they felt were the best of that.

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Mattie Brahen, Briefly Remembered

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Today, I attended the memorial service for Mattie Brahen, author and the wife of Darrell Schweitzer. Darrell was of course devastated. He wrote a memorial for Mattie and very wisely had the funeral parlor director read it for him, rather than attempt it himself and risk breaking down in public.

The parlor was filled with friends and family. Several came forward to speak. And then it was over. 

At times like these, I feel the loss of Gardner Dozois most acutely. I've heard him speak at several funerals and he had the gift of summing up a life in a handful of words, always ending with, "You could do worse."

Thinking about Mattie, and Darrell, and Gardner afterwords, I speculated about what Gardner might have said were he there. Something, I think, along the lines of;

She read the books she loved. She wrote the books she loved. She sang the songs she loved. She loved the people she loved. You could do worse.

And I honestly don't see how you could do better.

Above: I swiped Mattie's picture from her Facebook page. I honestly don't think she'd have minded.

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One-Day E-Book Sale Tomorrow: The Iron Dragon's Daughter

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Open Road Media is putting the e-book of what may be my most popular novel, The Iron Dragon's Daughter, on sale tomorrow, June 11th, That's one day only. The price will be $1.99. And, with apologies to the rest of the world, this offer is good in the US only.

And here's the entirety of my sales pitch: If you like e-books and are curious about my novel and live in the United States, you might consider buying it.

I don't believe in haranguing readers.

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Stalking the Black Swan

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Yesterday, on an impulse, Marianne and I went to Bombay Hook Wildlife Refuge in search of the otherwise nonexistent in the America wild black swan. I'm not going to mislead you: The swan did not get caught up in a windstorm in China and miraculously survive a journey across the Pacific Ocean and then over thousands of miles of the body of the United States to end up in Delaware. No. It was almost certainly an escapee or a dump from a private aviary.

Nevertheless, an adventure is an adventure. And, as adventures do, this one involved a lot of voracious insects. But also two separate bald eagles, sitting on two separate mud flats. And two foxes, one of which was obviously working the cars in the hope that someone would throw him a hot dog, a blue grosbeak (seen in the sun, where its plumage dazzled, and in the shade where it didn't), a wild turkey trotting down the road toward us, a green egret, which is a lovely little bird perfectly camouflaged for waterfront foliage, save for its bright yellow feet. We saw them all.

Oh, and the black swan. 

We saw it.

It was kind of frustrating to be looking at such a rarity and have cars rush be without even pausing to ask what Marianne and I were looking at. I waved one car to a stop and, pointing, said, "There's a black swan out there." To which the woman replied, "We've seen a white one and a fox." and drove on. But on the return loop, we looked to see if it was still where we'd last seen it and it was. More pertinently, there was a stopped car and spilling over it five people with cameras and binoculars and spotting scopes all pointed in the same direction.

"You saw the black swan?" either Marianne or I said.

"Oh, yes. Right there. Wonderful."

"That's good." And, feeling much better, we drove on.

And because there's always more than one ending to any true story . . .

On the way home, shortly after Marianne said that the only thing she regretted was not seeing a snapping turtle, I spotted a snapping turtle on the verge of the highway.

Above: Yes, that tiny black silhouette is it. It looks better through binoculars. Someday I should consider getting a real camera with a zoom lens.

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Singular Interviews: MICHAEL MOORCOCK

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Marianne Porter's  latest Dragonstairs Press chapbook, Singular Interviews, will be offered for sale at noon Eastern time this coming Saturday, and sell out shortly thereafter. A quarter-century in the making, each of my interviews with a science fiction or fantasy notable is exactly one question long. In the coming week, I'll be posting three of the interviews on this blog. Here's the third of them:

 

SINGULARINTERVIEWS:  MICHAEL MOORCOCK

 

QUESTION: When and why did you decide to interconnect allyour stories and novels to make of them a single metafiction?

MICHAEL MOORCOCK: I frequently read that my aspiration wasto ‘improve’ science fiction in some way by shifting emphasis away from itstraditional subject matter and calling for higher standards ofwriting.  Actually I wanted to introduce the techniques and subjectmatter of sf and fantasy into ‘literary’ or non-generic work, to broaden theconcerns of general fiction which I believed to be moribund.  For allI know this was going to happen anyway so I was perhaps just one of many peopletrying to do the same but at the time I knew very few people who agreed withme. The likes of Kingsley Amis, in fact, vehemently disagreed with me.  My ambition inspired my criticism andmy editorship of NEW WORLDS.  None of this, of course, happenedovernight.  It took a few years to develop a coherent sense ofexactly how this could be achieved and demonstrated.

I read Zweig’s biography of Balzac when I was 15 and as ajournalist learned, like him, to write at high speeds without giving myselftime to revise, developing ideas from one story to another rather than refininga single piece, but I was never consciously inspired by him. My first versionof The Eternal Champion was written in 1957 when I was 17 and was pretty crudelywritten but contained the idea, perhaps inspired by Arnold’s Phra thePhoenician, of a protagonistconstantly reborn to fight a cause over and over again through differenthistorical periods and locales.  My description of what I called a‘multiverse’, The Sundered Worlds, a story which looked at a many worlds theory, firstexplored in fiction by Wells, from as it were the outside as an observablephenomenon, was published in 1963,but I didn’t start to consider my work as one large novel until 1968 when Ibegan A Cure For Cancer, the second Jerry Cornelius book, and realized I couldrefine ideas over many books by linking them to the same characters in differentsituations and circumstances. 

I’m not for a moment comparing my work to Balzac’s Human Comedy, but I might have come to it for similar reasons, practicalas well as artistic, continuing themes and ideas via the same characters inoften very disparate places, historical periods and invented worlds, enablingme to write stories which moved from generic fiction to literary fiction and sobreak down the barriers between them as editorially I tried to encourageauthors to do in New Worlds.  This quickly enabled me to write bookswhich were part realistic and part fantastic and thus carry ideas organicallyfrom one sequence of stories, absurdist, fantastic and realistic, toanother.  A relatively minor character,such as Colonel Pyat of the Cornelius stories, could become the self-deceiving,unreliable narrator of a realistic examination of the 20th centuryroots of the Nazi holocaust, while a character like Elric can appear in afantasy or a comedy without any apparent incongruity.  They can, like players in a Commedia dell’Arte sketch, keep their essential personalities and moral character from pieceto piece and carry a theme which can be looked at from many different aspectsand narratives.  They offer the readerechoes, as it were, which bring a feeling of familiarity without the kind ofdistracting (and disappointing) rationale which, in my view, frequently ruins agood story.  In this sense they shouldproduce a feeling of resolution more like music than most fiction.  Whether I’ve been successful in this, ofcourse, is for the reader to decide.

 

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