[ all the entries and posts and pages &etc below this timestamp are wrong. just all stuff I copied over from the old/other site. so, yeah, I could go into the mySQL table(s), rig the times to some approximation of what they are, or were, but, too, I kind of like the idea of all the dates in here bottoming out in late January, here (right after I turned 34…). however, this place being shiny new and all that, if you find any deadlinks or navigational dead ends or get caught in some spin-cycle somewhere, let me know. the only issue I’m aware of right now, with the place half-built, is that that ATBS script/PDF over in Exclusives might have enough security stuff going on with it that Mozilla isn’t just superfond of opening it. at least my Mozilla. IE’s no problem, however. Trick is, legally, I’m not supposed to make it printable. so, I don’t know: good luck. ]
I don’t write essays, but, anyway, been meaning to for a couple of years now. planned subject: all the fake throwing up in movies. it’s so insulting to me when the character leans over and hurls up some obvious mouthful of soup or something. their sides hardly contracting in dry heaves, none of that. maybe it’s just that throwing up was the one sport I could have gone olympic in, I don’t know.
On a sad note, SciFiction is a gone thing. Of course, wherever Ellen Datlow lands next will be the new hot spot for speculative stuff. Just hope the wait isn’t too long.
My selfish reason for being sad, of course, is that I cut my teeth on OMNI’s fiction* back in the 80’s. Which is to say Datlow introduced me to the short story, more or less. So I’ve been amassing rejection letters from her for about twelve years now. Maybe longer, even. I should rig them up in some kind of display case, really, charting changes in letterhead, all that. Going to miss that monthly rejection, though. You get addicted to it after a while. Well, that and the hope that there’s an acceptance in the mail too, one that’ll bring you (me) full circle, as far as the short story goes. Foolish as it sounds, I’ve always felt like I owe her one good story, as thanks for all the good ones she’s shared over the years.
Instead of typing in all the volume and issue number stuff, instead each cover is just linked to its high-res scan, which has all the good info on it. Hover your mouse over the covers to see which story’s where.
stuff you might see be seeing on the shelf now:
The video of the panel is live. It runs close to an hour, but well worth it, lots of good stuff talked about by all of the authors. Too, thanks to my brother for the steady hand as he filmed most of it, and when it shakes and your stomach is sick, blame me, sorry, couldn’t stand still. Enjoy. Click the picture to start the recording, or click here to just listen:
links to the panelists:
It’s in a couple of places from a couple of different cameras. Thanks to Marcus J. Weekley for the steady hand on the camera, and to Chad and James for rigging up the podium-cam (which seems to have ten or eleven minutes of dead-air up front, sorry). They’re both supposed to be streaming, anyway.
I can only remember two–the first-first glimmerings of BIRD & FAST, then the full glossary for BIRD (okay: there were two novellas as well, but they’re gone, now, sorry).
That FAST piece, I wrote it deep in the morning, after having just lied to an editor at a party that I’d finished the novel already. so I went home and started it. and, BIRD: it ook forever to find the right and proper voice for that one. but then of course it turned out to be many voices. as for that glossary, it’s surely best FC2 had me edit it down so much. some of those terms, though, I miss them. anyway, three links, here:
Early, scary stuff here. All of it right about fifteen years old. Not sure how I ever learned to write, really. Just that I had to. Included: “The Parrot Man,” which has a scene in it I’ve still yet to stop trying to tell; “West Texas Dirt,” which got me my first-ever fiction award, and $150; “Breakfast for Two,” which maybe had potential; then the first story I ever turned in for workshop, “Whiter Shade of Pale.” back when I thought song-lyrics were cool in stories. Or when I thought nobody else knew that song. I don’t know. Then the first story I ever wrote, sitting in another emergency room at nineteen years old, a blank spiral in my lap–all I’d had when the cops pulled me from World Lit, escorted me to the hospital for a three-day wait. What I remember best from those seventy-two hours–it was Halloween–would be this huge, big guy, who’d taken his kid trick or treating but got a flat, was changing it, got hit and dragged by a drunk driver. He was tore up all kinds of bad, of course, and really shouldn’t have been alive, but–I still get all shaky talking about it–the way he kept rising from that bed, fighting the lines and wires, fighting everything, just to live. It’s never left me. And, at the end of it, I had a story in my spiral. And here I am. But maybe I’d trade it just for that guy, I think. So he could have just taken his kid door to door, collecting candy.
So, yeah, I’m on a desert island, can only have ten books. A strange, impractical set-up—that the dungeon master here can assume I’d grab a round number of books instead of a two-way radio or a knife—but so be it. I’m there. I can only have ten books. Which is a lot like punishment, but, too, is a lot better than just nine books. Here goes:
1.Don Quixote. Not because it’s a classic and not because it’s on the required reading lists and not because it was the first real novel, any of that. I’d have it with me just because it’s good. Because I still think often of the way Dulcinea’s world must have reordered itself just a little, when she ceased being a princess. Because Don Quixote is able to preserve that romantic idealism most of us lose in the process of growing up. For him the world’s a magical place. I envy him that.