Nick Mamatas's Blog, page 40
February 13, 2014
Thursday Quick Notes
I am interviewed on the 80th number of the Books and Booze podcast, which should be pretty funny as I rarely drink and thus am a total lightweight. Check it out. (I had better luck with the audio on Chrome than on Firefox.)
I liked Maggie Estep back in the 1990s and was pleased to rediscover her as a crime writer just two years ago when I read her story in Queens Noir; I think got her novels out of the library. I was sad to hear that she died at age 50, said the person who is going to be 42 next week. Her essay about leaving New York, for the usual reasons, is worth a read and is online here.
Livejournal's glory days ended long before picture-memes became popular, so here is something that might have been, had we been current:
I've been following the SFWA petition news since the weekend, before it hit, and it has been suitably hilarious.
I liked Maggie Estep back in the 1990s and was pleased to rediscover her as a crime writer just two years ago when I read her story in Queens Noir; I think got her novels out of the library. I was sad to hear that she died at age 50, said the person who is going to be 42 next week. Her essay about leaving New York, for the usual reasons, is worth a read and is online here.
Livejournal's glory days ended long before picture-memes became popular, so here is something that might have been, had we been current:
I've been following the SFWA petition news since the weekend, before it hit, and it has been suitably hilarious.
February 11, 2014
February 8, 2014
BURNING PARADISE by Robert Charles Wilson
I wanted to like Burning Paradise, and read it even though I was turned off right away. And even though I wrote a superior version of the same book, which was published in 2011 under the name Sensation. I had liked his Spin and Axis very much—so much that even a second use of the conceit "Something has surrounded the planet and changed life as we know it" didn't bother me.
Anyway, in this book, the First World War was the last major war. Radio technology seemingly brought the world together, and a series of historical mishaps and missteps thwarted the designs of warmongers and conquerers. So, no Cold War. Also no Internet or cell phones. The US remains a manufacturing powerhouse. And it's all the fault of a "hypercolony" of unintelligent but hive-minded aliens that are interfering with radio transmissions in order to keep the Earth sufficiently peaceful for them to build a birthing chamber and then swarm out. Humans, for their part, have discovered the "radiosphere" and have built their broadcast and telephonic technology around it, but otherwise nobody seems to really care about exploring the radiosphere (which is the hypercolony and not to be confused with the astronomical term). A handful of scientists and their spouses—all of whom have precisely one personality trait each—have learned the truth and created a secret society with which to examine and perhaps even fight the hypercolony. But then many of them were killed by "sims"—human-looking beings run by the hypercolony. You can tell the difference between a sim and a human because sims have one fewer personality traits than humans.
The cover really captures the excitement of the plot, and the charisma of its characters!
Anyway, as it turns out, the parasitic hypercolony also has a parasite of its own. Well then, that's almost interesting, but not really. The parasites want to keep the hypercolony going for a little bit longer so they too can swarm out, but the hypercolony...actually, as the hypercolony already swarmed, there's no particular reason for the remaining pseudo-consciousness to care about anything, but care it does. Care enough to...KILL! And sleep with TWO hot chicks—well, one hot bitch (that's her personality trait) and one bland geek (that's her personality trait).
Anyway, this is a short novel that consists of people talking about the hypercolony a lot, and a hare-brained scheme to stop it, and then...and then, well nothing. About three-fourths of the way through the book I started dreading that this might be the beginning of a lengthy series, but nope, everything just wraps up. As it turns out, one of the major characters is a sim, and he has arranged events so that the bland geek can blow up the hypercolony birthing/swarming facility with dynamite, so he can die. The parasites make several half-hearted attempts to talk the bland geek's uncle into helping them keep the birthing/swarming facility going for a few years until they can finish using it, but he doesn't buy what they're trying to sell, because they are parasitic aliens. Despite both hypercolony and colony parasite being capable of bloodshed via their sims, the chamber itself is about as well-protected as a Long Island strip mall. Uncle and geek walk right in, set up the dynamite, and up it goes. Big whoop, as we used to say in Brooklyn.
Do I keep saying anyway? Of course I do. That's how this story is told. Anyway, this happens. Anyway, this person thinks X. Anyway, this person might be dangerous. Anyway, we got into a car and left. Anyway, here's some fake IDs and money to make everything easier.
And if one spends several seconds thinking about the plot, why bother? The sim infiltrator could have simply blown up the chamber himself a few years prior. The hypercolony could have built a temporary single-use b/s chamber (yeah, BS chamber!) in the first place, since they are aware of the existence of their parasite. Or hell, the sim could have gathered up all the material by the scientists (he was the main scientist's "son") gone to the FBI with it, and then said, "To prove my case, I will now shoot myself in the head, which is full of green slime." Or a different sim could have, with a handgun, barged into a different national newscast each week and shot themselves in the head until the general public figured it out. Then of course humanity would have found the birthing chamber and destroyed it.
Or hell, just leave it alone. The hypercolony-parasite doesn't seem to be a danger to the hypercolony. After all, the hypercolony did swarm successfully, right? I don't spend much time worrying about my eyebrow mites either. Only the husk was looking for a mercy killing, but it could have killed itself far more easily without involving the scientists and their geeky nieces at all.
Nor is the setting very interesting. It's basically what the 1950s would have been without "duck and cover" paranoia, or the Beats, or jazz, or the Montgomery Bus Boycott. Nor is there much debate at all about whether blowing up the hypercolony's birthing chamber would be a good thing, given the hypercolony's beneficial influence on the prior century. One of the scientists is asked to think about it, but then we cut to another set of characters (and off-page the scientist is told some personal information which we never get to him really react to) and nobody cares at all. Nor apparently did anyone think about it. The secret society of scientists forgot to communicate with political scientists, sociologists, risk specialists, or even some telephone engineers. Now there is something of interest here—the head of the secret society is portrayed as a narcissist with delusions of grandeur, but ultimately his foibles feel like a way of just wrapping the book up sooner. If he's easy to dispatch, and his plans just aren't very good, we don't need to spend pages and pages dealing with him.
Ultimately, I was bored. I read the book because it was short, a few pages at a time, in my workplace's men's room. After I was done, I went to the grocery store and left it there in case someone else was interested in a free hardcover novel. I happened to go back to the store this evening, and the book was still on the shelf under the community bulletin board, where I had left it. Next time, call a book like this Contractual Obligation and I'll know to skip it.
Anyway, in this book, the First World War was the last major war. Radio technology seemingly brought the world together, and a series of historical mishaps and missteps thwarted the designs of warmongers and conquerers. So, no Cold War. Also no Internet or cell phones. The US remains a manufacturing powerhouse. And it's all the fault of a "hypercolony" of unintelligent but hive-minded aliens that are interfering with radio transmissions in order to keep the Earth sufficiently peaceful for them to build a birthing chamber and then swarm out. Humans, for their part, have discovered the "radiosphere" and have built their broadcast and telephonic technology around it, but otherwise nobody seems to really care about exploring the radiosphere (which is the hypercolony and not to be confused with the astronomical term). A handful of scientists and their spouses—all of whom have precisely one personality trait each—have learned the truth and created a secret society with which to examine and perhaps even fight the hypercolony. But then many of them were killed by "sims"—human-looking beings run by the hypercolony. You can tell the difference between a sim and a human because sims have one fewer personality traits than humans.
The cover really captures the excitement of the plot, and the charisma of its characters!
Anyway, as it turns out, the parasitic hypercolony also has a parasite of its own. Well then, that's almost interesting, but not really. The parasites want to keep the hypercolony going for a little bit longer so they too can swarm out, but the hypercolony...actually, as the hypercolony already swarmed, there's no particular reason for the remaining pseudo-consciousness to care about anything, but care it does. Care enough to...KILL! And sleep with TWO hot chicks—well, one hot bitch (that's her personality trait) and one bland geek (that's her personality trait).
Anyway, this is a short novel that consists of people talking about the hypercolony a lot, and a hare-brained scheme to stop it, and then...and then, well nothing. About three-fourths of the way through the book I started dreading that this might be the beginning of a lengthy series, but nope, everything just wraps up. As it turns out, one of the major characters is a sim, and he has arranged events so that the bland geek can blow up the hypercolony birthing/swarming facility with dynamite, so he can die. The parasites make several half-hearted attempts to talk the bland geek's uncle into helping them keep the birthing/swarming facility going for a few years until they can finish using it, but he doesn't buy what they're trying to sell, because they are parasitic aliens. Despite both hypercolony and colony parasite being capable of bloodshed via their sims, the chamber itself is about as well-protected as a Long Island strip mall. Uncle and geek walk right in, set up the dynamite, and up it goes. Big whoop, as we used to say in Brooklyn.
Do I keep saying anyway? Of course I do. That's how this story is told. Anyway, this happens. Anyway, this person thinks X. Anyway, this person might be dangerous. Anyway, we got into a car and left. Anyway, here's some fake IDs and money to make everything easier.
And if one spends several seconds thinking about the plot, why bother? The sim infiltrator could have simply blown up the chamber himself a few years prior. The hypercolony could have built a temporary single-use b/s chamber (yeah, BS chamber!) in the first place, since they are aware of the existence of their parasite. Or hell, the sim could have gathered up all the material by the scientists (he was the main scientist's "son") gone to the FBI with it, and then said, "To prove my case, I will now shoot myself in the head, which is full of green slime." Or a different sim could have, with a handgun, barged into a different national newscast each week and shot themselves in the head until the general public figured it out. Then of course humanity would have found the birthing chamber and destroyed it.
Or hell, just leave it alone. The hypercolony-parasite doesn't seem to be a danger to the hypercolony. After all, the hypercolony did swarm successfully, right? I don't spend much time worrying about my eyebrow mites either. Only the husk was looking for a mercy killing, but it could have killed itself far more easily without involving the scientists and their geeky nieces at all.
Nor is the setting very interesting. It's basically what the 1950s would have been without "duck and cover" paranoia, or the Beats, or jazz, or the Montgomery Bus Boycott. Nor is there much debate at all about whether blowing up the hypercolony's birthing chamber would be a good thing, given the hypercolony's beneficial influence on the prior century. One of the scientists is asked to think about it, but then we cut to another set of characters (and off-page the scientist is told some personal information which we never get to him really react to) and nobody cares at all. Nor apparently did anyone think about it. The secret society of scientists forgot to communicate with political scientists, sociologists, risk specialists, or even some telephone engineers. Now there is something of interest here—the head of the secret society is portrayed as a narcissist with delusions of grandeur, but ultimately his foibles feel like a way of just wrapping the book up sooner. If he's easy to dispatch, and his plans just aren't very good, we don't need to spend pages and pages dealing with him.
Ultimately, I was bored. I read the book because it was short, a few pages at a time, in my workplace's men's room. After I was done, I went to the grocery store and left it there in case someone else was interested in a free hardcover novel. I happened to go back to the store this evening, and the book was still on the shelf under the community bulletin board, where I had left it. Next time, call a book like this Contractual Obligation and I'll know to skip it.
We're taking over!
...said Stalin to Mercader with a wink, as he handed over the icepick.
Justine Tunney just did an end run on @OWS. In a way, such things are inevitable given how most social media are structured, and given that often people without a lot going for them politically assume organizational responsibilities (as opposed to political responsibilities) in groups like Occupy, or the Bolsheviks, or your local Homeowners Association. All the more reason why movements have to internally monitor who signs up to be, say, General Secretary.
February 5, 2014
Wednesday Quick Notes
A few years ago I published a crime story in the electronic anthology (doesn't that sound nicer than "e-book"?) West Coast Crime Wave, which I see is only a buck on Kindle today. (Or maybe it's been that way since 2011 when it was a temporary Christmas sale. Anyway, the publishers were ambitious-seeming but this was the only book produced so far.) Ken Bruen in the introduction said that he liked my story the best, which was neat. Also neat, the podcast Crime City Central has recorded the story, The People's Republic of Everywhere and Everything for your free listening pleasure. It starts around twenty-one minutes in, and features a rather creative pronunciation of the word "patchouli." So check that out.
One thing about signing in to LJ these days—the birthday reminders on the front page, ninety percent of which are for people I've not heard from or even thought of, in years. (Incidentally, today is Trayvon Martin's birthday. He would have been nineteen if not for the actions of a successful artist and celebrated sportsman.) William S. Burroughs would have been 100 today, but his life was tragically cut short by drugs at the age of 83.
I've been doing some anthology work recently with Team Rocket, and I'm reminded of how ridiculous authors are. Yesterday I had to take a picture of myself with someone's signed and countersigned contract, my finger pointing to his name, to remind him that he indeed sent it in. Also, nobody knows how to fill out an invoice. Also, when people catch wind of these projects, they often do exactly the wrong thing when querying me about the possibility of submitting. Ah well, it's almost over.
I tend to think that Woody Allen did molest Dylan Farrow, but I certainly have no proof. This sort of thing, a "re-watch" by Esquire Magazine though, is unhelpful in the extreme. It's basically someone looking at the sexual themes of Allen's films, and finding that his protagonists often enjoy sleeping with or wish to sleep with older teens. In this, they are like every Hollywood movie ever made. Also, what psychological conclusions can be drawn from, say, a brief overview of the work of Dennis Cooper, or Stephen King, or Nick Mamatas? Back when Seung-Hui Cho shot up Virginia Tech, every writing workshop teacher became an instant therapist, closely reading student stories for signs of a potential mass shooter. Luckily, it didn't go on for very long, since more than half of the undergraduate creative work by male students read exactly like Cho's. Also, I have to say that this is probably one of the weirdest first sentences of a Wikipedia entry ever: Seung-Hui Cho[2] (/ˌtʃoʊ sʌŋˈhiː/;) (January 18, 1984 – April 16, 2007) was a Korean playwright and mass murderer who killed 32 people and wounded 17 others on April 16, 2007, at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University in Blacksburg, Virginia.[3] Korean playwright! I can't wait for some kid who has to write about theatrical traditions in Asia for a school paper to find this entry... Anyway, Allen's movies, most of which are riffs on the books he read as a youth, have as little to do with his (likely) guilt as all the personal foibles of Mia Farrow have to do with the veracity of her daughter's accusations.
My baby is a babbler.
One thing about signing in to LJ these days—the birthday reminders on the front page, ninety percent of which are for people I've not heard from or even thought of, in years. (Incidentally, today is Trayvon Martin's birthday. He would have been nineteen if not for the actions of a successful artist and celebrated sportsman.) William S. Burroughs would have been 100 today, but his life was tragically cut short by drugs at the age of 83.
I've been doing some anthology work recently with Team Rocket, and I'm reminded of how ridiculous authors are. Yesterday I had to take a picture of myself with someone's signed and countersigned contract, my finger pointing to his name, to remind him that he indeed sent it in. Also, nobody knows how to fill out an invoice. Also, when people catch wind of these projects, they often do exactly the wrong thing when querying me about the possibility of submitting. Ah well, it's almost over.
I tend to think that Woody Allen did molest Dylan Farrow, but I certainly have no proof. This sort of thing, a "re-watch" by Esquire Magazine though, is unhelpful in the extreme. It's basically someone looking at the sexual themes of Allen's films, and finding that his protagonists often enjoy sleeping with or wish to sleep with older teens. In this, they are like every Hollywood movie ever made. Also, what psychological conclusions can be drawn from, say, a brief overview of the work of Dennis Cooper, or Stephen King, or Nick Mamatas? Back when Seung-Hui Cho shot up Virginia Tech, every writing workshop teacher became an instant therapist, closely reading student stories for signs of a potential mass shooter. Luckily, it didn't go on for very long, since more than half of the undergraduate creative work by male students read exactly like Cho's. Also, I have to say that this is probably one of the weirdest first sentences of a Wikipedia entry ever: Seung-Hui Cho[2] (/ˌtʃoʊ sʌŋˈhiː/;) (January 18, 1984 – April 16, 2007) was a Korean playwright and mass murderer who killed 32 people and wounded 17 others on April 16, 2007, at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University in Blacksburg, Virginia.[3] Korean playwright! I can't wait for some kid who has to write about theatrical traditions in Asia for a school paper to find this entry... Anyway, Allen's movies, most of which are riffs on the books he read as a youth, have as little to do with his (likely) guilt as all the personal foibles of Mia Farrow have to do with the veracity of her daughter's accusations.
My baby is a babbler.
January 31, 2014
The Last Weekend is up for pre-order
PS Publishing has put The Last Weekend, the cover of which I revealed a week or so ago, up for pre-order. Here's the page for the trade hardcover and here's the page for the more expensive signed edition.
There are no immediate plans for other editions. Either a year will pass from the time the book ships, or PS will sell 700 copies, and then I can bring out other editions of the book. Obviously, my agent (Alec Shane, Writers House, if you're interested) is seeking a US paperback/ebook release, but if none is forthcoming perhaps I'll put out an ebook myself, next year.
Here's the cover again:
And here's a blurb!
Meet Vasilis "Billy" Kostopolos: Bay Area Rust Belt refugee, failed sci-fi writer, successful barfly and, since an exceptionally American zombie apocalypse, accomplished "driller" of reanimated corpses. Now that all the sane, well-adjusted human beings are hunted to extinction, he's found his vocation trepanning zombies, peddling his one and only published short story and drinking himself to death--that is, until both his girlfriends turn out to be homicidal revolutionaries, he collides with a gang of Berkeley scientists gone berserker, the long-awaited "Big One" finally strikes San Francisco, and what's left of local government can no longer hide the awful secret lurking deep in the basement of City Hall. Can Bill unearth the truth about America's demise and San Francisco's survival--and will he destroy what little's left of it in the process? Is he legend, the last man, or just another sucker on the vine? Nick Mamatas' The Last Weekend takes a high-powered drill to the lurching, groaning conventions of zombie dystopias and conspiracy thrillers, sparing no cliché about tortured artists, alcoholic "genius," noir action heroes, survivalist dogma, or starry-eyed California dreaming. Starting in booze-soaked but very clear-eyed cynicism and ending in gloriously uncozy catastrophe, this tale of a man and his city's last living days is merciless, uncomfortably perceptive, and bleakly hilarious. —Joan Frances Turner, author of Dust and Frail.
And here's another blurb:
"You might think that there's nothing fresh or original in the current crop of zombie fiction, and you'd be right -- unless you read The Last Weekend. Nick Mamatas crafts a clever blend of multiple genres that is equal parts heartfelt, fearful, and funny. The Last Weekend is a headshot to a tiresome trope.I loved it!"—Brian Keene, author of The Rising and The Last Zombie.
PS: if imported hardcovers are too rich for your blood, I'd like to remind you that Love is the Law is under eight bucks!
There are no immediate plans for other editions. Either a year will pass from the time the book ships, or PS will sell 700 copies, and then I can bring out other editions of the book. Obviously, my agent (Alec Shane, Writers House, if you're interested) is seeking a US paperback/ebook release, but if none is forthcoming perhaps I'll put out an ebook myself, next year.
Here's the cover again:
And here's a blurb!
Meet Vasilis "Billy" Kostopolos: Bay Area Rust Belt refugee, failed sci-fi writer, successful barfly and, since an exceptionally American zombie apocalypse, accomplished "driller" of reanimated corpses. Now that all the sane, well-adjusted human beings are hunted to extinction, he's found his vocation trepanning zombies, peddling his one and only published short story and drinking himself to death--that is, until both his girlfriends turn out to be homicidal revolutionaries, he collides with a gang of Berkeley scientists gone berserker, the long-awaited "Big One" finally strikes San Francisco, and what's left of local government can no longer hide the awful secret lurking deep in the basement of City Hall. Can Bill unearth the truth about America's demise and San Francisco's survival--and will he destroy what little's left of it in the process? Is he legend, the last man, or just another sucker on the vine? Nick Mamatas' The Last Weekend takes a high-powered drill to the lurching, groaning conventions of zombie dystopias and conspiracy thrillers, sparing no cliché about tortured artists, alcoholic "genius," noir action heroes, survivalist dogma, or starry-eyed California dreaming. Starting in booze-soaked but very clear-eyed cynicism and ending in gloriously uncozy catastrophe, this tale of a man and his city's last living days is merciless, uncomfortably perceptive, and bleakly hilarious. —Joan Frances Turner, author of Dust and Frail.
And here's another blurb:
"You might think that there's nothing fresh or original in the current crop of zombie fiction, and you'd be right -- unless you read The Last Weekend. Nick Mamatas crafts a clever blend of multiple genres that is equal parts heartfelt, fearful, and funny. The Last Weekend is a headshot to a tiresome trope.I loved it!"—Brian Keene, author of The Rising and The Last Zombie.
PS: if imported hardcovers are too rich for your blood, I'd like to remind you that Love is the Law is under eight bucks!
January 29, 2014
Full Babyism: songs to sing and play
Totally trolling the baby this morning with alternative lyrics to Do-Re-Mi:
Do-the Way, to do all things
Re—a deadly laser beam
Mi-that's you, when you talk to me
發-that's something issuing
So-WHAT? when you must complain
La—describing it's a pain
Ti—the letter before U
Do—it's really everything
He totally believed me!
Do-the Way, to do all things
Re—a deadly laser beam
Mi-that's you, when you talk to me
發-that's something issuing
So-WHAT? when you must complain
La—describing it's a pain
Ti—the letter before U
Do—it's really everything
He totally believed me!
January 28, 2014
Well, I got the Ellison phone calls...
Harlan Ellison called me this afternoon, and left a semi-jovial message on my voicemail taking issue with some turns of phrase and what he said was 26 errors of fact in my essay about his recent work. He also mentioned his YouTube channel and that he writes daily and that he just wanted to chat. He also sniffed at the headline—as if writers write their own headlines and is if "Don't Let Harlan Ellison Hear This" wasn't just a joke referring to the text.
So I called him back and went into it with him for a few minutes. He said he didn't want to get angry, and ultimately hung up—actually starting a conversation and refusing to finish it is a huge pet peeve of mine, but I didn't call him back—so we didn't get very far. He did wish to start over after first complaining about the art accompanying the piece, which of course writers generally have nothing to do with. (I saw the art when the piece was published and not a moment before.)
Anyway, then objected to the idea that he is "barely" writing, pointing to his many new books (comprised primarily of old material) and how much money they make him. I got the Encyclopedia Britannica riff ("between Ellis Island and Ralph Ellison", though he reversed the order on the phone) and he said that I had praised him with faint damns. He also didn't like "allegedly" because he WON all his lawsuits. I pointed out that he settled most of them, and in a settlement the payer generally doesn't admit wrongdoing, so "alleged" is still an appropriate word choice, then he shouted the amount of one of his settlement checks [six figures, between a quarter and half a mil] and grumbled that he didn't want to be angry and hung up.
I played the voicemail for Olivia when I got home and she said that even her young high school students had heard of Ellison, thanks to "I Have No Mouth, But I Want To Scream" (sic) which according to the kids is "one of the best videogames of all time." And that was hysterical.
So I called him back and went into it with him for a few minutes. He said he didn't want to get angry, and ultimately hung up—actually starting a conversation and refusing to finish it is a huge pet peeve of mine, but I didn't call him back—so we didn't get very far. He did wish to start over after first complaining about the art accompanying the piece, which of course writers generally have nothing to do with. (I saw the art when the piece was published and not a moment before.)
Anyway, then objected to the idea that he is "barely" writing, pointing to his many new books (comprised primarily of old material) and how much money they make him. I got the Encyclopedia Britannica riff ("between Ellis Island and Ralph Ellison", though he reversed the order on the phone) and he said that I had praised him with faint damns. He also didn't like "allegedly" because he WON all his lawsuits. I pointed out that he settled most of them, and in a settlement the payer generally doesn't admit wrongdoing, so "alleged" is still an appropriate word choice, then he shouted the amount of one of his settlement checks [six figures, between a quarter and half a mil] and grumbled that he didn't want to be angry and hung up.
I played the voicemail for Olivia when I got home and she said that even her young high school students had heard of Ellison, thanks to "I Have No Mouth, But I Want To Scream" (sic) which according to the kids is "one of the best videogames of all time." And that was hysterical.
January 27, 2014
Monday Quick Notes
After an absence of a couple of, uh, years, I am back at The Smart Set with a new essay: Don’t Let Harlan Ellison Hear This.
In other news, the Under My Roof movie now has a Twitter account. This doesn't mean anything in particular, except that the producer continues to be enthusiastic about the eighth or so draft of the script. With luck, it'll move forward. Baby needs shoes! SOLID GOLD SHOES WITH DIAMOND AGLETS.
In other news, the Under My Roof movie now has a Twitter account. This doesn't mean anything in particular, except that the producer continues to be enthusiastic about the eighth or so draft of the script. With luck, it'll move forward. Baby needs shoes! SOLID GOLD SHOES WITH DIAMOND AGLETS.
January 23, 2014
Handsome Devil
The anthology Handsome Devil requires a double picture burst of the book with my handsome devils!
My name's on the cover! Yeah! I have a story in it, natch—"Please Do Me: An Oral History." I've been long obsessed with oral histories, thanks to early exposure to, of course, Please Kill Me, but also Down and In and Nightmare of Ecstasy (Ed Wood! Sadly OP!) I'd like to do an oral history one day, but I have no idea of what subject—Livejournal's rise and fall?—and of course people don't actually like talking to me. So it's a problem.
I also like this book because it presented a challenge: how do you write a story about an incubus without making it a simple and unsophisticated depiction of date rape? And it's an invisible challenge; if the author succeeds, the reader doesn't notice the possibility of failure. I think I managed it with "Please Do Me", which is part of why I am carrying on about this story more than some others in the anthologies I've appeared in lately. So I hope you all check it out.
My name's on the cover! Yeah! I have a story in it, natch—"Please Do Me: An Oral History." I've been long obsessed with oral histories, thanks to early exposure to, of course, Please Kill Me, but also Down and In and Nightmare of Ecstasy (Ed Wood! Sadly OP!) I'd like to do an oral history one day, but I have no idea of what subject—Livejournal's rise and fall?—and of course people don't actually like talking to me. So it's a problem.
I also like this book because it presented a challenge: how do you write a story about an incubus without making it a simple and unsophisticated depiction of date rape? And it's an invisible challenge; if the author succeeds, the reader doesn't notice the possibility of failure. I think I managed it with "Please Do Me", which is part of why I am carrying on about this story more than some others in the anthologies I've appeared in lately. So I hope you all check it out.
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