Michael Swanwick's Blog, page 87
December 14, 2018
The Parable of the Creche
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Once a year, I post this story here. I think it says something valuable and true about human beings. So of course it speaks to the holiday season.
Happy holidays, everybody! I hope with all my heart that they bring you contentment and joy. Though, you being human...
When first I came to Roxborough, more than a third of a century ago, the creche was already a tradition of long standing. Every year it appeared in Gorgas Park during the Christmas season. It wasn't all that big -- maybe seven feet high at its tip -- and it wasn't very fancy. The figures of Joseph and Mary, the Christ child, and the animals were a couple of feet high, and there were sheets of Plexiglas over the front of the wooden construction to keep people from walking off with them. But there was a painted backdrop of the hills of Bethlehem at night, the floor was strewn was real straw, and it was genuinely loved.
It was a common sight to see people standing before the creche, especially in the evening, admiring it. Sometimes parents brought their small children to see it for the first time and that was genuinely touching. It provided a welcome touch of seasonality and community to the park.
Alas, Gorgas Park was publicly owned, and it was only a matter of time before somebody complained that the creche violated the principle of the separation of church and state. When the complaint finally came, the creche was taken out of the park and put into storage.
People were upset of course. Nobody liked seeing a beloved tradition disappear. There was a certain amount of grumbling and disgruntlement.
So the kindly people of Leverington Presbyterian Church, located just across the street from the park, stepped in. They adopted the creche and put it up on the yard in front of their church, where it could be seen and enjoyed by all.
But did this make us happy? It did not. The creche was simply not the same, located in front of a church. It seemed lessened, in some strange way, made into a prop for the Presbyterians. You didn’t see people standing before it anymore.
I was in a local tappie shortly after the adoption and heard one of the barflies holding forth on this very subject:
"The god-damned Christians," he said, "have hijacked Christmas."
*
Once a year, I post this story here. I think it says something valuable and true about human beings. So of course it speaks to the holiday season.
Happy holidays, everybody! I hope with all my heart that they bring you contentment and joy. Though, you being human...
When first I came to Roxborough, more than a third of a century ago, the creche was already a tradition of long standing. Every year it appeared in Gorgas Park during the Christmas season. It wasn't all that big -- maybe seven feet high at its tip -- and it wasn't very fancy. The figures of Joseph and Mary, the Christ child, and the animals were a couple of feet high, and there were sheets of Plexiglas over the front of the wooden construction to keep people from walking off with them. But there was a painted backdrop of the hills of Bethlehem at night, the floor was strewn was real straw, and it was genuinely loved.
It was a common sight to see people standing before the creche, especially in the evening, admiring it. Sometimes parents brought their small children to see it for the first time and that was genuinely touching. It provided a welcome touch of seasonality and community to the park.
Alas, Gorgas Park was publicly owned, and it was only a matter of time before somebody complained that the creche violated the principle of the separation of church and state. When the complaint finally came, the creche was taken out of the park and put into storage.
People were upset of course. Nobody liked seeing a beloved tradition disappear. There was a certain amount of grumbling and disgruntlement.
So the kindly people of Leverington Presbyterian Church, located just across the street from the park, stepped in. They adopted the creche and put it up on the yard in front of their church, where it could be seen and enjoyed by all.
But did this make us happy? It did not. The creche was simply not the same, located in front of a church. It seemed lessened, in some strange way, made into a prop for the Presbyterians. You didn’t see people standing before it anymore.
I was in a local tappie shortly after the adoption and heard one of the barflies holding forth on this very subject:
"The god-damned Christians," he said, "have hijacked Christmas."
*
December 10, 2018
Bones of the Earth! Cheap! Soon!
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And speaking of ruthless self-promotional news...
Bones of the Earth, my wildly entertaining novel of dinosaurs-and-time-travel will be featured in Early Bird Books, Open Roads Media's daily deals newsletter on the 19th of this month. On that day, the ebook will be downpriced to $1.99.
So if you like e-books, like SF, like dinosaurs, and don't already have a copy... well, this deal is for you.
You can subscribe to Early Bird Books here, so you'll get the direct link to the deal on the day it happens. If such is your choice.
Which is the whole thing in a nutshell. You couldn't ask for a kinder, gentler hard sell than that.
*
And speaking of ruthless self-promotional news...
Bones of the Earth, my wildly entertaining novel of dinosaurs-and-time-travel will be featured in Early Bird Books, Open Roads Media's daily deals newsletter on the 19th of this month. On that day, the ebook will be downpriced to $1.99.
So if you like e-books, like SF, like dinosaurs, and don't already have a copy... well, this deal is for you.
You can subscribe to Early Bird Books here, so you'll get the direct link to the deal on the day it happens. If such is your choice.
Which is the whole thing in a nutshell. You couldn't ask for a kinder, gentler hard sell than that.
*
December 5, 2018
Small Wonders Briefly Available
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It's that time of year again! Every December Dragonstairs Press (which, I have to remind people, is not my press but Marianne Porter's, I being but a lowly in-house content provider) issues a Solstice chapbook. Signed, numbered, hand-stitched, and scandalously underpriced. Those which aee not mailed out to Friends of the Press are then made available for purchase.
Newly out from Dragonstairs is Small Wonders, containing three seasonal and very short stories by your humble servant: "Midnight Journey," "A Horse Named Michael," and "The Mousewife's Tale."
Here's how the last story begins:
There are, as of this posting, exactly one dozen copies available, out of an edition of 120. You can find them at www.dragonstairs.com. The prices listed are not for the postage. The prices include the postage.
*
It's that time of year again! Every December Dragonstairs Press (which, I have to remind people, is not my press but Marianne Porter's, I being but a lowly in-house content provider) issues a Solstice chapbook. Signed, numbered, hand-stitched, and scandalously underpriced. Those which aee not mailed out to Friends of the Press are then made available for purchase.
Newly out from Dragonstairs is Small Wonders, containing three seasonal and very short stories by your humble servant: "Midnight Journey," "A Horse Named Michael," and "The Mousewife's Tale."
Here's how the last story begins:
The Mousewife’s Tale
Little girls, however winsome, grow up. Long before she left for college, Catherine outgrew her dollhouse and so it was placed in the attic, open side to the wall, against the day when her daughter or granddaughter might require it.
What a treasure this was for a questing young mouse to discover!
Wonderingly, the mouse crept inside, peering about with small bright eyes. Her whiskers twitched. There was a living room with rugs and chairs and ottomans and a dining room with a long table and chandelier. The kitchen was fully furnished. A staircase led to more rooms upstairs.
But dust was everywhere. So, tying on an apron, the mouse grabbed a broom made from a toothpick and thistle-fluff and began to sweep. When that was done, she filled an acorn bucket with soapy water and mopped the kitchen floor.
I personally like these stories. But, ten, I'm biased. The perfect gift for the bibliophile on your Solstice list.
The doorbell rang and in trooped…
There are, as of this posting, exactly one dozen copies available, out of an edition of 120. You can find them at www.dragonstairs.com. The prices listed are not for the postage. The prices include the postage.
*
December 3, 2018
The Mainstream Murray Leinster
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There was no more important writer in the period between H. G. Wells and Robert Heinlein than Murray Leinster. Who was actually a Virginian named Will F. Jenkins.
In a career that began in 1913 and ended with his death in 1975, Jenkins published some 1,800 stories in more than 150 periodicals, as well as 74 novels and collections. Only a small part of his output was science fiction -- and that was written over the horrified objections of his agent. (SF didn't pay as well as the slicks, which were his usual markets.) But Jenkins loved science and wrote science fiction for the fun of it, utilizing the Leinster pen name to protect his other fiction.
Making it ironic that today Will F. Jenkins is remembered almost entirely for his science fiction, which included the first alternate history story, the original first contact, and, in "A Logic Named Joe" (Astounding, 1946), a truly prescient description of the Internet.
If you're like me, you've probably wondered what Jenkins' other fiction looked like but never had the time and energy and resources to go digging through old mainstream magazines to find out.
Well, good news! "Ten Unique Stories by Will F. Jenkins from the the Murray Leinster Archives" has just gone up for sale in e-book and paperback formats. (Created and edited, though she takes no credit for it, in an act of filial piety by his daughter Billee Stallings.) And I wrote the introduction!
Here's how the intro begins:
If you want to read the rest of my essay, it's visible in its entirety using Amazon's "Look Within" function here. Or you could simply buy the book.
And I owe everyone an apology . . .
Without meaning to do so, I let my blog lapse. I was busy, I was traveling, and I had rather a large backlog of work to see to. Mea culpa. I'm sorry for that.
But now the blog is back! And I'll have a lot of things to post about over the coming months. So welcome back.
I'll do my best not to wander off in a haze of forgetfulness this time.
*
There was no more important writer in the period between H. G. Wells and Robert Heinlein than Murray Leinster. Who was actually a Virginian named Will F. Jenkins.
In a career that began in 1913 and ended with his death in 1975, Jenkins published some 1,800 stories in more than 150 periodicals, as well as 74 novels and collections. Only a small part of his output was science fiction -- and that was written over the horrified objections of his agent. (SF didn't pay as well as the slicks, which were his usual markets.) But Jenkins loved science and wrote science fiction for the fun of it, utilizing the Leinster pen name to protect his other fiction.
Making it ironic that today Will F. Jenkins is remembered almost entirely for his science fiction, which included the first alternate history story, the original first contact, and, in "A Logic Named Joe" (Astounding, 1946), a truly prescient description of the Internet.
If you're like me, you've probably wondered what Jenkins' other fiction looked like but never had the time and energy and resources to go digging through old mainstream magazines to find out.
Well, good news! "Ten Unique Stories by Will F. Jenkins from the the Murray Leinster Archives" has just gone up for sale in e-book and paperback formats. (Created and edited, though she takes no credit for it, in an act of filial piety by his daughter Billee Stallings.) And I wrote the introduction!
Here's how the intro begins:
Introduction: Will Jenkins, Writing as Himself
“I have a new theory about the natural structure of story,” Will Jenkins said. I was in his house, Ardudwy, in Gloucester County, Virginia, along with a fellow student who was also a science fiction fan and an indulgent William and Mary professor who thought we’d get a kick out of meeting a real writer. “I think it goes back to caveman times. A bunch of hunters are sitting around a campfire and one of them says, ‘It was pretty clever of me, the way I killed that cave bear today. Of course, he had me down for a moment and I thought I was going to die. But then I came up with that trick.’” A pause. “‘When I left the camp this morning, I had no idea that…’”
Jenkins let his hypothetical narrator trail off, and laughed.
That was nearly half a century ago and I still cherish the memory of that one-time-only encounter with the man who, even then, was known chiefly for his seminal works of science fiction. Which is ironic, because…
If you want to read the rest of my essay, it's visible in its entirety using Amazon's "Look Within" function here. Or you could simply buy the book.
And I owe everyone an apology . . .
Without meaning to do so, I let my blog lapse. I was busy, I was traveling, and I had rather a large backlog of work to see to. Mea culpa. I'm sorry for that.
But now the blog is back! And I'll have a lot of things to post about over the coming months. So welcome back.
I'll do my best not to wander off in a haze of forgetfulness this time.
*
November 3, 2018
Gregory Manchess Paints... Me!
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So tonight, November 3, 2018, starting at 8:00 p.m. artist Gregory Manchess will paint a portrait of me... live! This will take place at the Artists' Reception of the World Fantasy Convention in Baltimore.
This is a big deal for me, not only for the obvious reasons but because I am a great admirer of Greg's work. Pictured above is his illustration for "The Mongolian Wizard," the first of a projected 21-story series being published on Tor.com. It's a terrific painting in its own right. But it also has virtues that you'll have to read the story to fully appreciate. First of all, it neatly encapsulates the tory without giving away any of its surprises. The faces of Ritter and Sir Toby (and the wolf Geri's, too, come to think of it) express their characters as I imagined them.
Most importantly, the illustration captures the essence of the story. If you looked at it and thought, "I hope the story's as good as the picture is," then you're going to enjoy the story. Conversely, if you thought, "That is exactly the sort of thing I would never read," well... Greg's just saved you the trouble.
While I'm being painted, both Greg and I will take questions about our work. So it should be a dynamic, involving event. If you're at the WFC, consider dropping by.
Oh, and spread the word, would you? This event was put together at the last moment, so not everybody who would be interested knows about it.
Thanks!
And you may be wondering . . .
Haven't I been saying I wasn't going to the World Fantasy Convention?
Yes, I did say that and, indeed, I'm still in Philadelphia. I'll be there only for the two-hours-and-change that the event will take. So if for any reason you want to see me...
*
So tonight, November 3, 2018, starting at 8:00 p.m. artist Gregory Manchess will paint a portrait of me... live! This will take place at the Artists' Reception of the World Fantasy Convention in Baltimore.
This is a big deal for me, not only for the obvious reasons but because I am a great admirer of Greg's work. Pictured above is his illustration for "The Mongolian Wizard," the first of a projected 21-story series being published on Tor.com. It's a terrific painting in its own right. But it also has virtues that you'll have to read the story to fully appreciate. First of all, it neatly encapsulates the tory without giving away any of its surprises. The faces of Ritter and Sir Toby (and the wolf Geri's, too, come to think of it) express their characters as I imagined them.
Most importantly, the illustration captures the essence of the story. If you looked at it and thought, "I hope the story's as good as the picture is," then you're going to enjoy the story. Conversely, if you thought, "That is exactly the sort of thing I would never read," well... Greg's just saved you the trouble.
While I'm being painted, both Greg and I will take questions about our work. So it should be a dynamic, involving event. If you're at the WFC, consider dropping by.
Oh, and spread the word, would you? This event was put together at the last moment, so not everybody who would be interested knows about it.
Thanks!
And you may be wondering . . .
Haven't I been saying I wasn't going to the World Fantasy Convention?
Yes, I did say that and, indeed, I'm still in Philadelphia. I'll be there only for the two-hours-and-change that the event will take. So if for any reason you want to see me...
*
November 2, 2018
All Lives Lingers
.
I keep an untidy office. Anyone who knows me knows that that's not an exaggeration.
Marianne and I came home this afternoon from a very pleasant lunch with Julie Phillips, the author of James Tiptree, Jr.: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon, easily the best biography of a science fiction author ever written, and Samuel R. Delany who is, well, Samuel R. Delany. We talked about Julie's bio-in-progress of Ursula K. Le Guin and a variety of other matters that I for one found interesting. Then, back home, Marianne set about baking and I went to my office to take care of some business.
Casually, I picked up a newspaper clipping from the floor and glanced at it to decide whether it should be filed or discarded.
It was Gardner Dozois' obituary.
Ah, me. I knew Gardner for something like 44 years and Marianne knew him for only a month or two less. What a kind and generous man he was! How tirelessly he worked for the good of others! How terribly, terribly sad I feel to be reminded that he's gone.
But here's the thing.
I had a friend (nobody you know) who did not live his life a fraction so well. I will not go into the details. Suffice it to say, whenever I'm reminded of him and the damage he did to others, I reflexively think: "[Name], you idiot!"
When you die, the facts of your life are suddenly, radically simplified. It's as if an enormous hand reaches down out of the sky and with one finger draws a line under the column of figures contains all the pluses and minuses of your life. The zeros fall off. What remains is a simple number, maybe positive, maybe negative.
Which is how you will be remembered.
End of sermon. Please forgive me for making it. I was reminded of a friend today and it made me sad. At least it didn't make me angry.
*
I keep an untidy office. Anyone who knows me knows that that's not an exaggeration.
Marianne and I came home this afternoon from a very pleasant lunch with Julie Phillips, the author of James Tiptree, Jr.: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon, easily the best biography of a science fiction author ever written, and Samuel R. Delany who is, well, Samuel R. Delany. We talked about Julie's bio-in-progress of Ursula K. Le Guin and a variety of other matters that I for one found interesting. Then, back home, Marianne set about baking and I went to my office to take care of some business.
Casually, I picked up a newspaper clipping from the floor and glanced at it to decide whether it should be filed or discarded.
It was Gardner Dozois' obituary.
Ah, me. I knew Gardner for something like 44 years and Marianne knew him for only a month or two less. What a kind and generous man he was! How tirelessly he worked for the good of others! How terribly, terribly sad I feel to be reminded that he's gone.
But here's the thing.
I had a friend (nobody you know) who did not live his life a fraction so well. I will not go into the details. Suffice it to say, whenever I'm reminded of him and the damage he did to others, I reflexively think: "[Name], you idiot!"
When you die, the facts of your life are suddenly, radically simplified. It's as if an enormous hand reaches down out of the sky and with one finger draws a line under the column of figures contains all the pluses and minuses of your life. The zeros fall off. What remains is a simple number, maybe positive, maybe negative.
Which is how you will be remembered.
End of sermon. Please forgive me for making it. I was reminded of a friend today and it made me sad. At least it didn't make me angry.
*
October 23, 2018
Retroactive Wit for Procrastinators
.
What a stroke of luck! There was a button maker in the huckster room at MileHiCon 50.
What made this so fortunate is that, as a former guest of honor at the convention, Connie Willis was there too. And I see I'm going to have to explain this...
Long long ago in a galaxy very close to hand, back in the early 1980s, I had a notion. As a new writer of serious ambition, it was obvious to me who my peers were: people like Connie, Kim Stanley Robinson, Nancy Kress, John Kessel, Pat Cadigan, James Patrick Kelley, William Gibson, and a handful of others.These were the people whose work I most admired and the people I was in friendly competition with. So one day, when there was a great deal of talk about the latest SFWA Damon Knight Grand Master (I think this was before Damon's name was appended to the award), whoever it was, I came up with the notion of getting a batch of buttons made reading Grand Master of the Future and giving them to all of my pals who I thought were likely future recipients of the award.
It was an amusing idea because we were all young and at the outsets of our careers... a little early to be thinking about such matters.
Alas, I never got the buttons made. Why, I'm not sure. Possibly out of mere cheapness. Maybe because I didn't want anybody to think any of my pals were seriously politicking for the offer. The reason doesn't really matter.
Then, decades later, the latest Grand Master was announced and it was... Connie Willis.
I had two thoughts then. The first was: Yeah, she's a good choice.
The second was: Why didn't I get those buttons made?
So when I saw the button making machine, I realized that I had the chance to make things right.
There's Connie up above, wearing a button reading Retro Grand Master of the Future. So an involuntary injustice has been made right.
I hope to have more of these made up as time goes by. In the meantime, I think that Connie Willis is an excellent Choice for the Retro Grand Master of the Future button.
And I should thank...
I really should thank the button-maker, who went through a great deal of trouble to find a printer to make the button possible. But, predictably enough, I didn't think to ask her name. I am, alas, a Past Mater of what the French call l'esprit de escalier.
Above: I apologize for the strange color values of my photo. I'm not much of a photographer, I'm afraid.
*
What a stroke of luck! There was a button maker in the huckster room at MileHiCon 50.
What made this so fortunate is that, as a former guest of honor at the convention, Connie Willis was there too. And I see I'm going to have to explain this...
Long long ago in a galaxy very close to hand, back in the early 1980s, I had a notion. As a new writer of serious ambition, it was obvious to me who my peers were: people like Connie, Kim Stanley Robinson, Nancy Kress, John Kessel, Pat Cadigan, James Patrick Kelley, William Gibson, and a handful of others.These were the people whose work I most admired and the people I was in friendly competition with. So one day, when there was a great deal of talk about the latest SFWA Damon Knight Grand Master (I think this was before Damon's name was appended to the award), whoever it was, I came up with the notion of getting a batch of buttons made reading Grand Master of the Future and giving them to all of my pals who I thought were likely future recipients of the award.
It was an amusing idea because we were all young and at the outsets of our careers... a little early to be thinking about such matters.
Alas, I never got the buttons made. Why, I'm not sure. Possibly out of mere cheapness. Maybe because I didn't want anybody to think any of my pals were seriously politicking for the offer. The reason doesn't really matter.
Then, decades later, the latest Grand Master was announced and it was... Connie Willis.
I had two thoughts then. The first was: Yeah, she's a good choice.
The second was: Why didn't I get those buttons made?
So when I saw the button making machine, I realized that I had the chance to make things right.
There's Connie up above, wearing a button reading Retro Grand Master of the Future. So an involuntary injustice has been made right.
I hope to have more of these made up as time goes by. In the meantime, I think that Connie Willis is an excellent Choice for the Retro Grand Master of the Future button.
And I should thank...
I really should thank the button-maker, who went through a great deal of trouble to find a printer to make the button possible. But, predictably enough, I didn't think to ask her name. I am, alas, a Past Mater of what the French call l'esprit de escalier.
Above: I apologize for the strange color values of my photo. I'm not much of a photographer, I'm afraid.
*
October 18, 2018
The Unmoving Pivot
.
It seems to be the season for dreams. I had another of those ones last night.
I dreamed I met a Susan Casper impersonator. I was at a large house party with an enormous number of my friends and a lot of strangers too. I was talking to a woman I thought was Susan when she said, "I must have been the worst student you ever had, Michael."
Which took me aback because, as far as I could tell, I'd never taught Susan anything about writing. She had Gardner for that. So I just said, "Well, Susan, you always had your own vision and went your own way."
But in that instant, I realized that this woman couldn't be Susan, even though she sounded exactly like her. For one thing, she was too young. For another, Susan died a year before. Still, she was astonishing. Except for the youth and being alive and the strange comment, there would have been no telling.
When she left, I turned to Gardner (in my dream he was still alive) and said, "Who was that?"
Gardner, of course, said, "I have no idea."
So I went outside to reflect on how good it was to hear my name on Susan's lips again. Susan had a way of saying your name so that you could hear the fondness she had for you. Sometimes it was mixed with amusement or exasperation. But that fondness was always there.
I lay down on the grass and, staring straight up at the sky, thought, "I am the unmoving pivot." I could feel all of life whirling about me and, one by one, my friends falling away.
Eventually, I decided the time had come to leave. So I got up and went looking for the party's hostess so I could say goodbye.
But Janet Kagan was nowhere to be found.
And, again, as always . . .
I'm on the road. This time to Denver for MileHiCon.
Tomorrow at 4, I think, I have a panel discussion with Shaenon Garrity, best known for the (highly recommended) Narbonic and Skin Horse comics. It's a pairing so obvious that I don't have to tell you what the topic will be.
I'm sure we'll have figured it out by then.
Be there or be square!
Above: Susan Casper. All her friends miss her terribly.
*
It seems to be the season for dreams. I had another of those ones last night.
I dreamed I met a Susan Casper impersonator. I was at a large house party with an enormous number of my friends and a lot of strangers too. I was talking to a woman I thought was Susan when she said, "I must have been the worst student you ever had, Michael."
Which took me aback because, as far as I could tell, I'd never taught Susan anything about writing. She had Gardner for that. So I just said, "Well, Susan, you always had your own vision and went your own way."
But in that instant, I realized that this woman couldn't be Susan, even though she sounded exactly like her. For one thing, she was too young. For another, Susan died a year before. Still, she was astonishing. Except for the youth and being alive and the strange comment, there would have been no telling.
When she left, I turned to Gardner (in my dream he was still alive) and said, "Who was that?"
Gardner, of course, said, "I have no idea."
So I went outside to reflect on how good it was to hear my name on Susan's lips again. Susan had a way of saying your name so that you could hear the fondness she had for you. Sometimes it was mixed with amusement or exasperation. But that fondness was always there.
I lay down on the grass and, staring straight up at the sky, thought, "I am the unmoving pivot." I could feel all of life whirling about me and, one by one, my friends falling away.
Eventually, I decided the time had come to leave. So I got up and went looking for the party's hostess so I could say goodbye.
But Janet Kagan was nowhere to be found.
And, again, as always . . .
I'm on the road. This time to Denver for MileHiCon.
Tomorrow at 4, I think, I have a panel discussion with Shaenon Garrity, best known for the (highly recommended) Narbonic and Skin Horse comics. It's a pairing so obvious that I don't have to tell you what the topic will be.
I'm sure we'll have figured it out by then.
Be there or be square!
Above: Susan Casper. All her friends miss her terribly.
*
October 17, 2018
A Story Whose Name I Will Not Tell in a Category I Do Not Know
.
I'm in print again! Collaboratively! In an editorial that's simultaneously fiction and non-fiction.
Okay, this may take some explanation. Especially since I can't say much about my contribution without ruining the... Story? Essay? Whatever it is.
Here's what happened. Some time ago, in response to something I had read, I wrote a work of flash fiction and sent it off to Sheila Williams. It has a title but I can't tell you it without ruining the... But let's not go there again. Anyway, I knew that Sheila would publish it. I just didn't know how. Because the work was... kind of tricky to put into a magazine. But I trusted Sheila to figure out a way.
Which of course she did. Sheila made my short-short the centerpiece of an editorial titled "Never Say 'Highly Unlikely' Again." So I have a new collaborative... something... in the November/December 2018 issue of Asimov's Science Fiction .
Thank you, Sheila.
As usual, the first thing I did upon receiving the magazine was to add the collaborative work to my bibliography. The only question was whether it belonged in the"fiction" or "non-fiction" section.
Ultimately, I had to create a new category: "fiction/non-fiction hybrids."
I realize this is all a little vague, but if you read the editorial, all will be explained.
And as always . . .
I'm on the road again! Or I will be soon. Tomorrow I jet to Denver to attend MileHiCon, which is celebrating its 50th anniversary by bringing back so many former guests of honor you'll have to brush them aside to get into the bar.
Being one of said former guests of honor, I felt I should attend.
So off I go! More adventures when I return.
*
I'm in print again! Collaboratively! In an editorial that's simultaneously fiction and non-fiction.
Okay, this may take some explanation. Especially since I can't say much about my contribution without ruining the... Story? Essay? Whatever it is.
Here's what happened. Some time ago, in response to something I had read, I wrote a work of flash fiction and sent it off to Sheila Williams. It has a title but I can't tell you it without ruining the... But let's not go there again. Anyway, I knew that Sheila would publish it. I just didn't know how. Because the work was... kind of tricky to put into a magazine. But I trusted Sheila to figure out a way.
Which of course she did. Sheila made my short-short the centerpiece of an editorial titled "Never Say 'Highly Unlikely' Again." So I have a new collaborative... something... in the November/December 2018 issue of Asimov's Science Fiction .
Thank you, Sheila.
As usual, the first thing I did upon receiving the magazine was to add the collaborative work to my bibliography. The only question was whether it belonged in the"fiction" or "non-fiction" section.
Ultimately, I had to create a new category: "fiction/non-fiction hybrids."
I realize this is all a little vague, but if you read the editorial, all will be explained.
And as always . . .
I'm on the road again! Or I will be soon. Tomorrow I jet to Denver to attend MileHiCon, which is celebrating its 50th anniversary by bringing back so many former guests of honor you'll have to brush them aside to get into the bar.
Being one of said former guests of honor, I felt I should attend.
So off I go! More adventures when I return.
*
October 11, 2018
"Five Things Nailed to Joe Haldeman's Door"
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Dream Diary, 10/7/18
On my next-to-last night in Iceland, I had one of those dreams. One where someone you cared about isn't really dead after all.
In my dream, it was Gardner Dozois. It was only a few days after his death and I had suddenly realized that there was a grace period of two weeks after you die before you have to go away. So I hurried over to his apartment.
When I got there, he handed me a thin typescript--maybe six pages altogether--of an essay he had just written. "I'd rather it was fiction," I said, "but I'll take what I can get." The title was "Five Things Nailed to Joe Haldeman's Door."
"Aha!" I cried. "I know what this is." Because it was clearly a companion piece to an article Joe had written about his early days as a writer, titled "Five Things Nailed to My Door." Which had been written for I forget now what non-fiction book, possibly a collection of essays about his work. At which point, I dropped Gardner's typescript.
Gathering up the pages, I noticed that they had been misnumbered, so I said, "This is so very appropriate. I read Joe's piece a couple of days ago and every single page was numbered either 2 or 3--including the first one!"
Gardner threw back his head and laughed, then, that beautiful, full-hearted laugh of his. I felt a twinge of sorrow, then, knowing that this was the last time I would ever hear it.
At which moment, I woke up. It was night, and I'd heard Gardner laugh one more time. And I felt such a strange mixture of sadness and gratitude.
*
Dream Diary, 10/7/18
On my next-to-last night in Iceland, I had one of those dreams. One where someone you cared about isn't really dead after all.
In my dream, it was Gardner Dozois. It was only a few days after his death and I had suddenly realized that there was a grace period of two weeks after you die before you have to go away. So I hurried over to his apartment.
When I got there, he handed me a thin typescript--maybe six pages altogether--of an essay he had just written. "I'd rather it was fiction," I said, "but I'll take what I can get." The title was "Five Things Nailed to Joe Haldeman's Door."
"Aha!" I cried. "I know what this is." Because it was clearly a companion piece to an article Joe had written about his early days as a writer, titled "Five Things Nailed to My Door." Which had been written for I forget now what non-fiction book, possibly a collection of essays about his work. At which point, I dropped Gardner's typescript.
Gathering up the pages, I noticed that they had been misnumbered, so I said, "This is so very appropriate. I read Joe's piece a couple of days ago and every single page was numbered either 2 or 3--including the first one!"
Gardner threw back his head and laughed, then, that beautiful, full-hearted laugh of his. I felt a twinge of sorrow, then, knowing that this was the last time I would ever hear it.
At which moment, I woke up. It was night, and I'd heard Gardner laugh one more time. And I felt such a strange mixture of sadness and gratitude.
*
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