tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14841803260129504002024-03-18T13:32:43.192-07:00Flogging BabelMichael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.comBlogger2889125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-62863305228858124602024-03-18T13:30:00.000-07:002024-03-18T13:32:11.998-07:00Locus Fundraiser (Deep Pockets Edition)<p style="text-align: right;">.</p><p>`</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI6K-GrkzkUFokPPfZg-7Gq1sMcIee_onl8PK3DxfRvzxnC5ND_S7D4-Z7CVyDSHtHfZenx-gHURm8tlK1-AKNSSp8R5EptJ_cXc6Mu1fKOoKpT8YA5lDHR_SxULSKqR_F8OoTMW0u2UQu7GbLlnn8GYn3u6wM2il29FeG-V93H-cFd9V0jbuuBrU7SzU/s800/Screenshot%20Locus.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="800" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI6K-GrkzkUFokPPfZg-7Gq1sMcIee_onl8PK3DxfRvzxnC5ND_S7D4-Z7CVyDSHtHfZenx-gHURm8tlK1-AKNSSp8R5EptJ_cXc6Mu1fKOoKpT8YA5lDHR_SxULSKqR_F8OoTMW0u2UQu7GbLlnn8GYn3u6wM2il29FeG-V93H-cFd9V0jbuuBrU7SzU/w400-h140/Screenshot%20Locus.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p><p><b><i>Locus Magazine</i> </b>is the closest thing that printed science fiction has to a center. It's not just where we get the news and reviews that matter to SF fans and writers, but where we learn about what 's happening outside the restricted circle of people we happen to know. Sort of like a Serengeti watering hole without the chance of being eaten by a lion. So it matters that it stays in business and it matters that its yearly fundraiser succeeds.</p><p>Right now, they're holding two simultaneous fundraisers. One I've already talked about because Marianne and I donated three <b>Dragonstairs Press </b>chapbooks to it. You can find that <a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/locus-mag-science-fiction-fantasy-horror-2024#/">here</a>.</p><p>They're also holding a week-long fundraiser for the well-heeled. The incentives being offered range from <b>Neil Gaiman </b>recording a personalized voicemail message for you ($450) to a fairy stone tiara ($250) created by Hugo Award and Chesley Award winning artist <b>Sara Felix</b>. <br /></p><p>There are also some rather expensive items on offer as well.</p><p>If you have the money, you should take a look. If you don't, you should look anyway and daydream about what you'd get if HBO picked up that fantasy trilogy you haven't yet written. You can find the items <a href="https://locus.betterworld.org/auctions/locus-magazine-science-fiction-f">here</a>. But hurry--<i>this </i>fundraiser ends Wednesday.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*<br /></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01708413411146291236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-47325534352366034472024-03-16T07:09:00.000-07:002024-03-16T07:09:54.399-07:00A Midnight Symposium in Orlando<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-AC0_RstdOXThewRQdKlXqgEnl12b5fAMzABpwrl6TSoS6mktPY-q22DtBinCnnfY30-h6UkS2Hgj8OfO_eMVm6C1mJWzcedLgJsd5IJxlnzGH1sgvBnW4rW5QZIo3VBOLoyXt8FqOqDuUfE1hyphenhyphen7R2X2YVw2is-W5B3u_hh_ezQF7jAQV2LQzEszA/s800/Midnight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-AC0_RstdOXThewRQdKlXqgEnl12b5fAMzABpwrl6TSoS6mktPY-q22DtBinCnnfY30-h6UkS2Hgj8OfO_eMVm6C1mJWzcedLgJsd5IJxlnzGH1sgvBnW4rW5QZIo3VBOLoyXt8FqOqDuUfE1hyphenhyphen7R2X2YVw2is-W5B3u_hh_ezQF7jAQV2LQzEszA/w400-h300/Midnight.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Last night, I found myself at a table not far from the pool, talking with a batch of friends about snakes, cigars, animal control officers, fifty-thousand-dollar turtles, and such. The usual. But around midnight, people began to drift off to bed, leaving <b>Ellen Klages, Madeleine Robbins, Walter Jon Williams, Emma Bull </b>and me to talk about short fiction.</p><p>Oh, what a conversation that was! "With the hoofs and horns still on it," as <b>R. A. Lafferty</b> used to say. There was a particular emphasis on the works of <b>Kelly Link </b>and <b>Howard Waldrop</b> because even among the wild productions of genre writers, they're outliers, stories whose very existence is hard to explain. Oh, and stories of Clarions (east, west, and south) we've attended or taught, lessons learned and lessons almost impossible to make students understand...</p><p>An enchanted evening. And then, everybody reached the end simultaneously, stood up, and went back to our rooms. Leaving the hotel grounds by the lake empty, because we were the last writers standing.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>And because I know that . . .</b></p><p>There will be gonnabe writers reading this, hoping to find a trail of breadcrumbs out of the dark forest. I'll offer them a single crouton, Howard's explanation of the distinction between a short story and a novel:</p><p><i>A short story is about the most important event in the protagonist's life. A novel is about the most important period in the protagonist's life.</i></p><p>Which, properly employed, should help you recognize what length of fiction the story you're working on wants to be.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Above, l-r: E. Klages, M. Robbins, E. Bull, W. J. Williams. Photographer, also present: M. Swanwick</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>*</i></p><p><br /></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-14699596679113883602024-03-11T11:17:00.000-07:002024-03-11T11:17:47.854-07:00The Locus Fundraiser Soars Into The Future!<p style="text-align: right;">.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUB6Gcr6dVvSrPa3B5sdPFL5suQh9N2lSvyW3MO6hDf38bjSkrwlURfAe_rErVuAWFx3C0ThOxjYVkHTFAt70xNFbP_yHPei2olrT2U9ONrOcxy6yCAdC1QmU5Zmtg1dcyWzrgBdRYcvfJ7GynW08mZk5fyipFJIHG8mbcAkzkbESxX0yBzT1VVBZ2/s660/Connie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="660" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUB6Gcr6dVvSrPa3B5sdPFL5suQh9N2lSvyW3MO6hDf38bjSkrwlURfAe_rErVuAWFx3C0ThOxjYVkHTFAt70xNFbP_yHPei2olrT2U9ONrOcxy6yCAdC1QmU5Zmtg1dcyWzrgBdRYcvfJ7GynW08mZk5fyipFJIHG8mbcAkzkbESxX0yBzT1VVBZ2/w400-h279/Connie.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><i>Locus Magazine's </i></b>fundraiser is a quarter-way to its goal, with 25 days to go. And there are a lot of cool perks for donors. A personalized letter to you from a fictional character. A couple of story critiques from pro writers. (These are pretty hard to come by; they're a <i>lot</i> of work for the writer!) A couple of tuckerizations (that's a mention of you by name, in the author's next novel; the writer <b>Wilson Tucker</b> was notorious for doing this to friends, hence the term) and one goaterization (you'll have to go to that perk for a definition). Plus lots of signed hardcovers--which would make excellent Christmas or birthday presents for the fanatic reader you care about most.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">But probably the niftiest perk of the lot is a half-hour private Zoom coffee chat with Connie Willis. With typical generosity Ms. Willis has volunteered to take on up to eight of these, and they're not cheap. But they're worth it. Connie is extremely good company. She's as smart as a whip. She knows everything that's worth knowing about science fiction. And she's a genuinely kind human being. I can't think of a more pleasant person to share a cup of coffee or tea with.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p>Oh, and have I mentioned that Connie has won more Hugos and Nebulas for fiction than anyone else in history?</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">If you're curious, you can visit the <b><i>Locus</i></b> Indiegogo fundraiser <a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/locus-mag-science-fiction-fantasy-horror-2024#/">here</a>.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-75707789380163589762024-03-09T08:02:00.000-08:002024-03-09T08:02:26.500-08:00Nevermore: An Interview With The Raven--On Sale Today!<p style="text-align: right;">.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG2Y61VDbI6AlWECkZnQEV2JI43y6vtn8_Psm30Sub0NcZH91Tyhr_AwWmAaVKPDCuZYpYT0eLklcvEw1-fI9nukq9qgkzARKaXRzcTgMnWQ-epMtAJtRocy-0FsNkMV3b5_reSzNBRMJLXp0hE3vjztrqDT_BoUR7NqoahXArf7o3Gl-ZG-ZwUjG9/s800/Nevermore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG2Y61VDbI6AlWECkZnQEV2JI43y6vtn8_Psm30Sub0NcZH91Tyhr_AwWmAaVKPDCuZYpYT0eLklcvEw1-fI9nukq9qgkzARKaXRzcTgMnWQ-epMtAJtRocy-0FsNkMV3b5_reSzNBRMJLXp0hE3vjztrqDT_BoUR7NqoahXArf7o3Gl-ZG-ZwUjG9/w300-h400/Nevermore.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p>Good news! <b>Dragonstairs Press's </b>latest chapbook comes out today.</p><p> <br /></p><p>Here's the official word from <b>Marianne Porter</b>:</p><p> </p><p><b><i>Nevermore: an Interview with the Raven</i></b> is Michael Swanwick's historical
chat with that great actor and literary hero, collaborator with Edgar
Allan Poe, Charles Dickens, and so many others. Yes, that Raven. <br /><br />Nevermore
was created to mark Swanwick's kaffeklatch at 2024 Boskone. Printed in
an edition of 40, of which 28 are offered for sale, at
Dragonstairs.com, on Saturday March 9, 2024, at noon, eastern
(Philadelphia) time. 5 ½ x 4 ¼ inches. Hand-stitched, numbered, and
signed by the author.</p><p> </p><p>To which I will only add that it's expected to sell out fast. </p><p><br /></p><p><b>And because I know you're curious . . .</b></p><p><b> </b></p><p>Here's a brief excerpt:</p><p><b> </b><br /></p><p><i>Swanwick: </i>How did you come to meet Edgar Allan Poe?</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Raven: </i>Through the usual literary circuit. I was doing some work for Chuck Dickens, modeling for Grip, the raven in <i>Barnaby Rudge.</i> Ed thought my part was (and I quote) "intensely amusing." He also thought it a shame that I had been relegated to the status of a minor character. He felt that my "Croaking might have been prophetically heard in the course of the drama." Quote, unquote. Well, what actor could possibly object to a review like that?</p><p><br /></p><p>So when Poe contacted my agent, I was all agog for the part he offered me. A title role? From the hottest, most <i>au courant</i> writer of the times? C'mon. Who could turn that down? Not me.<br /></p><p> </p><p style="text-align: center;">* <br /></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01708413411146291236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-74919817905523082342024-03-07T08:08:00.000-08:002024-03-07T08:09:08.013-08:00Advance Copy of Father Winter!<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU__DEDImNzfxGYPLvvpeK-UO4UZwn6QlyLVYVmCthBwzTpPslHn5cSZ8xfNv93eKyVRnGY5PFFkw4RzSLdX6mQyQZ7fjNkgzEM6Z0cC5kfMuwZjwqm1ZkCMqg8dHnpYxv89tPAIcZ3IJIMHgX7hNjscYl2e6x4oTT1eE4P4Z2a5fV9Nel3z1N5GA8/s800/Father%20Winter%20and%20Son.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU__DEDImNzfxGYPLvvpeK-UO4UZwn6QlyLVYVmCthBwzTpPslHn5cSZ8xfNv93eKyVRnGY5PFFkw4RzSLdX6mQyQZ7fjNkgzEM6Z0cC5kfMuwZjwqm1ZkCMqg8dHnpYxv89tPAIcZ3IJIMHgX7hNjscYl2e6x4oTT1eE4P4Z2a5fV9Nel3z1N5GA8/w300-h400/Father%20Winter%20and%20Son.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p>The <b><i>Locus</i></b> fundraiser on Indiegogo has moved into its third day and posted as a new perk the third and last otherwise unobtainable Dragonstairs Press chapbook contributed by Marianne and me--<b><i>Father Winter.</i></b></p><p><b><i>Father Winter </i></b>is the latest in a series of Solstice chapbooks sent out in the winter holiday season by Dragonstairs Press to select friends of the press. Lovingly crafted, hand sewn, signed and numbered in an edition of 120. As is traditional, last year's remaining copies (of which this is one) will be put up on sale sometime in November or December. When, because there are only 37 copies, they will sell out in the first fifteen minutes. As Will Sonnett used to say: "No brag, just fact."</p><p>Last winter's theme was fathers and sons, so it is particularly appropriate that my son, <b>Sean William Swanwick</b>, collaborated with me on this chapbook. In token of which, it is autographed by both of us. Just look at those signatures! One is calm and clever and the other obviously the scrawling of a Bond villain-grade monomaniac. </p><p>If you're curious, you can find the <b><i>Locus </i></b>fundraiser <a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/locus-mag-science-fiction-fantasy-horror-2024#/">here</a>. You'll find a lot of cool perks on offer: autographed books, Zoom meetings, critiques, tuckerizations, a goat naming, a personalized letter from a fictional character, and much more! Take a peek. You might just find the perfect gift for your favorite book-lover.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>And since I know you're curious . . .</b></p><p>Here's the first story in <b><i>Father Winter</i></b>. It's about my late father, <b>John Francis Swanwick</b>, and I will <i>not</i> apologize for the sentimentality of it.</p><p> </p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><b><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Winter Wonderland</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Spring belongs to mothers. It's the time of birth and
beauty and kneeling in the garden to plant seeds that will come to fruition in
the summer. Summer also belongs to mothers, for it's the time of growth and
joy, both qualities that come easier to women than to men. Autumn? Think of hot
cider, bright leaves pressed in books, strolls in the woods, jars of
home-canned preserves, knitted sweaters. Mom<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>again. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">But winter? That belongs to fathers. Black ice. Snow
squalls. Shoveling the walk, rotating the tires and putting chains on them,
scraping ice off the windshield, chopping wood and bringing it indoors by the
armful if you had a fireplace. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">My father was a farm boy. He belonged to 4-H and won
ribbons at county fairs. It was important to him that his children could
identify the breeds of cows the family car drove past on the highway. But
because he grew up at a time when radio was the wondrous technology that computers
were only a few decades ago and he was particularly bright, he became an
engineer.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Still, he retained a few tricks from his boyhood.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">One day, a blizzard came down from Canada, turned the
sky black, and dumped foot upon<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>foot of
snow on Schenectady. We children went to bed while the snow was still coming
down hard. And in the morning...</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Something wonderful! In the backyard, my father had
made a slide out of snow, curved at the center so there was no chance of
falling off. On the straight-up side of it, he placed a wooden ladder. And over
the sliding surface, he had poured a bucket of water, so that it froze solid
and an inch thick.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">There was never a faster or more magical slide than
that. Nobody but our father could have made it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Nor was there a more lasting one. Okay, sure, when
the weather turned warmer the snow melted away to nothing. But in my memory
it's still there, gleaming in the bright winter sun, as enduring as love
itself.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">* <br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-46226360812568496712024-03-06T08:38:00.000-08:002024-03-06T08:38:58.718-08:00The Last Copy of In His Own Words!<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimiqyChCERmUmLITVhve5HAh0TC9oENiUF_AS7dGnJqff9FoAajK7qTQT_n4LTTMwln-tp0IUQBJWo64i5sLYa8edEkSNHy6v_kkDVSa008BFFfiWsMNpFfa25hk8OieNhMg_WSsU29LvvX7u8qfFbD5L9zkVwQUmrNgQay4hE0BNemTGjU0xXKlSl/s800/In%20His%20Own%20Words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="625" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimiqyChCERmUmLITVhve5HAh0TC9oENiUF_AS7dGnJqff9FoAajK7qTQT_n4LTTMwln-tp0IUQBJWo64i5sLYa8edEkSNHy6v_kkDVSa008BFFfiWsMNpFfa25hk8OieNhMg_WSsU29LvvX7u8qfFbD5L9zkVwQUmrNgQay4hE0BNemTGjU0xXKlSl/w313-h400/In%20His%20Own%20Words.jpg" width="313" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>The <b><i>Locus</i></b> fundraiser continues apace! As mentioned yesterday, Marianne and I contributed three otherwise unobtainable <b>Dragonstairs Press </b>chapbooks to the cause. The first one up, <b><i>Brief Essays on Genre</i></b>, went fast... as Marianne's lovingly-made, hand-stitched, signed and numbered chapbooks tend to do. So they've put up the second chapbook. </p><p>This one is <b><i>In His Own Words</i></b>, a chapbook created to mark the dedication of a plaque in Gardner's honor in the <b>Pen & Pencil Club, </b>Philadelphia's venerable journalists club. It was a particularly apt place for the plaque not only because Gardner was a member but because he got his start as a military journalist in the U. S. Army. I assembled all the most pertinent parts from a much longer interview and Marianne made a beautiful chapbook of it. <span style="font-family: times;">Issued in an edition of 60 and bound in hand-made paper from Sri
Lanka, crafted from recycled elephant dung. Because Gardner would have thought
that was hilarious.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"> You can find <b><i>Locus's</i></b> Indiegogo campaign, chockablock with cool incentives for giving, <a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/locus-mag-science-fiction-fantasy-horror-2024#/">here</a>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b>And if you're curious about the contents . . .<br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">The chapbook was given out to family and journalists at the unveiling, where I gave a brief talk about Gardner Dozois's career as an award-winning military journalist. You should have seen the journalists' shocked faces when I told his helicopter story! And of course the story behind the photograph on the cover is hilarious. But this being a science fiction audience, I thought you'd be most interested in learning about Gardner's relationship with two giants of the field--John W. Campbell and Isaac Asimov.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Enjoy: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You also met John W.
Campbell, didn’t you?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><b>Gardner Dozois:</b> Very, very briefly. Only right at
the end of his life, in fact. I met him for about five minutes. It was at a
Lunacon in 1971. He died about two months later, in fact, so that was the only
chance I ever got to meet him. Someone with a mischievous sense of humor,
probably Damon Knight, dragged me up to meet John Campbell in the huckster room
where he was standing. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">You must understand two things. One, this was at the
height of the New Wave wars, which has receded so far into the past that nobody
even remembers it anymore. But it was a hot issue of the time. And two, I was
a young hippie freak, of about a hundred and fifty pounds at that point. And I
would have been wearing my army fatigue jacket, because I didn’t have anything
else to wear, and probably combat boots, because I didn’t have any other shoes.
And probably a pair of blue jeans, and some sort of body shirt. And I had hair
literally down past my ass. Very, very long hair, and an untrimmed beard which
sort of flopped around like a huge flag. So I looked like an Amish person gone
insane. Damon dragged me up to John Campbell, and said, “Here’s a hot new
writer, really good, I want you to meet.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">I stuck out of my hand, and he sort of reflexively shook
my hand while cringing back. Before I even said anything, he said, “I like the
Old Wave stuff. I don’t like this New Wave stuff. Only Old Wave science fiction
for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Analog</i>.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">Oh, well, okay, Mr. Campbell, and he said, “Oh, none of
this New Wave stuff!” He was sort of backing away. “Only Old Wave stuff!” And
he backed away, crossing himself.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">That was my one and only meeting with John Campbell.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What was it like
working with Isaac Asimov?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Gardner Dozois:</b>
Isaac was great to work for. For one thing, he didn’t really meddle with the
editorial content of the magazine at all. Which from my perspective was fine,
because most of the stuff I was buying he would not have liked, if he actually
read any of it. He was smart enough to hire people that he trusted, and then
not interfere with them. Which is very, very rare in today’s society.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">He would come into the office once a week to pick up the
letters, because he answered the letters for the letter column. It was always a
big event when Isaac showed up at the office. People from all other
departments, crosswords magazines and everything, would get excited because
Isaac was coming into the office. He would arrive and you could hear him
whistling and singing down the hallway. He would do Gilbert and Sullivan songs.
He would do little dances, while he was coming down the corridor. He would make
up limericks on the spot for whoever was in the office. He would make up often
insulting, mildly risque limericks about them, and he would make up little
poems which he would recite, and then he would pick up the mail and he would
sing off down the corridor. That would be about it, actually, for our dealing
with Isaac.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">But he certainly was a good boss to work with. He left you
alone. He was entertaining when he showed up. You can’t ask more from a boss
than that.</p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style>* <br /></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-79894631598276590402024-03-05T13:36:00.000-08:002024-03-05T13:37:41.549-08:00Three Otherwise Unobtainable Dragonstairs Chapbooks!<p style="text-align: right;">.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhECp7sl_Wj6QANUroFmpe0BABXoXBuPFviNuXzydjunjn3ELObjbCBk7Q1LGVZwytp-Oj7FWb8OaFpoX2ywIb2nV_DnORQ25dipkIwWQSCkfev55dftizH9AzkPhYydLyNLWw1g8TXfmtdoJK3TRy8p0cTCGC7NZQ48wBHR0a40E3fFgOhAYThTScH/s800/Locus%20Fundraiser.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="556" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhECp7sl_Wj6QANUroFmpe0BABXoXBuPFviNuXzydjunjn3ELObjbCBk7Q1LGVZwytp-Oj7FWb8OaFpoX2ywIb2nV_DnORQ25dipkIwWQSCkfev55dftizH9AzkPhYydLyNLWw1g8TXfmtdoJK3TRy8p0cTCGC7NZQ48wBHR0a40E3fFgOhAYThTScH/w417-h556/Locus%20Fundraiser.jpg" width="417" /></a></div><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i> </i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Locus Magazine is</i></b> having its annual
fundraiser! I hold it to be a self-evident truth that <b><i>Locus</i></b> is a
necessary element of the community focused on the genres of science fiction,
fantasy, and horror. So Marianne and I have contributed two <b>Dragonstairs
Press </b>chapbooks held back for this purpose but otherwise sold out long ago,
and one that will not be available for sale until next December. When,
experience has taught us, it will then sell out in half an hour.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;">Our contributions—all hand-stitched, numbered, and signed, written
by Michael Swanwick and lovingly hand-crafted by Marianne Porter—are:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"><b>Brief Essays on Genre</b> is a collection of 25 short and
often witty discussions of literature including the definition of science
fiction and fantasy, why write true crime, the place of gratuitous sex in
fiction, and the proper use of the present tense. Indispensable to the gonnabe
writer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Issued in an edition of 75, all
of which save this copy are no longer available.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"> <b><i>In His Own
Words</i></b> was created to mark the unveiling of a plaque in the Pen &
Pencil Club in Philadelphia, to honor Gardner Dozois, who began his writing
career as an award-winning journalist in the U S Army. This is a transcription
of an interview by Michael Swanwick in which Gardner described his
(occasionally wacky) career as a military newsman as well as his philosophy of
editing. Issued in an edition of 60 and was bound in hand-made paper from Sri
Lanka, crafted from recycled elephant dung. Because Gardner would have thought
that was hilarious.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Father Winter</i></b><i> </i>is a collection of seven
father-themed Solstice stories written by Michael Swanwick and his son, Sean
Swanwick. It was created as a winter gift to select friends of Dragonstairs
Press in an addition of 120. Those that were not given away will be put on sale
this coming winter and go out of print shortly thereafter.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;">The chapbooks were donated as a group but the <b><i>Locus </i></b>editors
are offering them up separately on their Indiegogo page. The first one went up
today and the others will be added later in the campaign.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;">You can explore the campaign and its perks—pins, autographed
books, story critiques, tuckerizations, coffee mugs, and much more at:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/locus-magazine-science-fiction-fantasy-horror#/" style="font-family: times;">https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/locus-magazine-science-fiction-fantasy-horror#/</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: times;"> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: times;">And you may notice . . .</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;">The photo shown on Indiegogo does not depict <b><i>Brief
Essays on Genre</i></b>. Somebody did a quick search and came up with another,
also sold-out, chapbook. But to make up for that, here are the first two essays
in the chapbook:</span></p>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><b style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brief
Essays on Genre: Part 1 </i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><b style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><b style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On the Origin of Science Fiction</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">The first written glyph was a
straight line drawn with a stick in the mud or sand and it meant: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am here</i>. This was the beginning of
history.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">A moment’s reflection, however,
reveals that implicit in the statement was another: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I was not always here</i>. This was the beginning of literature.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">So science fiction, the
literature of change, was present in written language from the very beginning.</span></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span><i style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <br /></i></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: right;"><i style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <br /></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><b style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brief Essays on Genre: Part 2</i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><b style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><b style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On the Nature of Fantasy</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><i style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why fantasy?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">Because the
world as it is makes us unhappy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><i style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why not make the world as good as you wish
it were?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">Because only
in fantasy do we have the power to change the world to that extent.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><i style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But fantasy won’t do that.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">Neither will
reality.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><i style="font-family: times; mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why not simply accept reality as it is?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">I spit in
your face.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Above, last line: Not literally, of course. </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i> </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>* </i> <br /></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style> <br /></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-19269753296141799902024-02-26T16:03:00.000-08:002024-02-26T16:08:38.275-08:00Brian Stableford: The Formidable Man And His Remarkable Future History<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl-QvUitDQdjs_cm72Jhh4Y8CM6ThMfRKqKgI9e8TrK7XbwCrbHThZhQVfAm4LpEfh37RgbfEdIIH0orjzbl-VvCxYoGJFkI7kIH89mhQEjpFl2TflB76F3y8soYYo8sSKWTxhVZyQfRB3T83YiYZc3GW_TEgS8rHFRuIOtJXKEdyWIm7lwPQfyzYv/s2560/Stableford.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1707" data-original-width="2560" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl-QvUitDQdjs_cm72Jhh4Y8CM6ThMfRKqKgI9e8TrK7XbwCrbHThZhQVfAm4LpEfh37RgbfEdIIH0orjzbl-VvCxYoGJFkI7kIH89mhQEjpFl2TflB76F3y8soYYo8sSKWTxhVZyQfRB3T83YiYZc3GW_TEgS8rHFRuIOtJXKEdyWIm7lwPQfyzYv/w400-h266/Stableford.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><b>Brian Stableford</b> died two days ago. He was a fine science fiction and horror writer and a most erudite critic and literary historian. I knew him a little but couldn't claim to be his friend. And I have only one story to tell about him. It's a small one but since it might turn you on to a very interesting book, I'll share it.</p><p>The book is <i style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><b>The Third Millennium: A History of the World AD 2000–3000</b> </i><span face="sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-size: 14px;">by Stableford and <b>David Langford. </b>The spine of it was a future history he had mapped out and embodied in many stories and novels in which science, particularly biotech, makes the human race ever more happy until everyone is immortal and has anything they could wish for. Any writer could tell that's an impossible future to find stories in, but he had no problem there. Fiction just flowed out of him. </span></p><p>Oh, and the book was full of pictures cleverly repurposed for the future history. One, for example, showing an electrician almost buried in cables, purported to show a biotechnician among the roots of an ailing organic house.</p><p>So, anyway... I ran into Stableford at a Worldcon and told him I was reading the book and enjoying it enormously. I said that I especially liked the end of the chapter on the death of capitalism when the Last Capitalist, just before leaving for exile on Mars, snarls, "The meek have inherited the earth."</p><p>"That was Langford's," he said gloomily. Then, still gloomily, "When we sent in the manuscript, the editor sent it back with a note requesting 'more jokes.'"</p><p>Wikipedia informs me that Stableford wrote over seventy novels and translated over a hundred books. You have no idea how intimidating I found that--and still do. The man was astonishing.</p><p>But if <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Third Millennium </i>sounds interesting to you, check it out. There's nothing quite like it.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Above: Photograph by <b>Lionel Allorge.</b> Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons (</i><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Brian_Stableford_%C3%A0_la_remise_du_prix_Actu_SF_aux_13emes_Rencontres_de_l%E2%80%99Imaginaire_de_S%C3%A8vres_le_26_novembre_2016_-_07.jpg">File:Brian Stableford à la remise du prix Actu SF aux 13emes Rencontres de l’Imaginaire de Sèvres le 26 novembre 2016 - 07.jpg - Wikimedia Commons</a>). Merci beaucoup, M. Allorge.</p><h2 class="title" itemprop="offers" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Offer" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-family: "Amazon Ember", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.25; margin: 0px 0px 8px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></h2><div style="text-align: center;">*</div>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-83959128409138815602024-02-25T14:50:00.000-08:002024-02-25T14:51:52.136-08:00Tom Purdom in Roxborough<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDzpfI03S2zlojY4Msjay_lmH5R8M-R4zVmMaFOnXBONizm1TMQU96r2Yn7M8hq45kNBpcETgciOrnKvpcUjkijKlDJKA6trdSTupvUWpVEHculuMwAPK3NtBNkhX0CO4XOKrBq6f9nWGpKgQQVVugV4tpR0DiBqwRkABRnaV1w58VKMqBaYR8e79/s800/a%20Greg%20Frost.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDzpfI03S2zlojY4Msjay_lmH5R8M-R4zVmMaFOnXBONizm1TMQU96r2Yn7M8hq45kNBpcETgciOrnKvpcUjkijKlDJKA6trdSTupvUWpVEHculuMwAPK3NtBNkhX0CO4XOKrBq6f9nWGpKgQQVVugV4tpR0DiBqwRkABRnaV1w58VKMqBaYR8e79/w300-h400/a%20Greg%20Frost.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gregory Frost, one of the guests<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>Because <b>Tom Purdom </b>used to hold a monthly brunch for the Philadelphia SF writing community, Marianne and I held a memorial brunch in Roxborough in his memory this Saturday. Those attending included <b>Gregory and Barabara Frost, Victoria McManus, Darrell Schweitzer, Mattie Brahan, Sally Grotta, Samuel R. Delany, Sean Swanwick,</b><b> </b>and <b>Lawrence Schoen. </b>All people who knew Tom and many of us who knew him for decades.</p><p>We honored Tom with conversation (free of background music, of course--he was a music critic but only listened to it live), and then with memories of him. Chip Delany told of how back when all he knew of Tom was that they'd shared an Ace double, he'd made a public appearance in a Philadelphia university and there among the young people was an older man--Tom. Chip read a short story and in the Q&A afterward, Tom suggested that the story would be improved by making a small change in it. Chip agreed and made the change before publication and was impressed afterward not only by Tom's insight but by his generosity in offering the observation. "He'd listened to the story," Chip said.<br /></p><p>Then, after sharing our memories, we went back to talking, talking, talking about everything under the sun and moon. Not only because that's the sort of people we are but because that's what Tom would have wanted.</p><p>Another thing he would have approved of was that we were reuniting a lot of people whom hadn't seen each other in a long time. The whole "absence makes the heart grow fonder" thing? No. What absence does is remind you just how much you rely on seeing the people you care about most on a regular basis</p><p><b>And before you ask . . .</b></p><p>Chip did not remember what change Tom had suggested. He can't even remember what story he read. But he remembered the event, the suggestion, the kindness.</p><p> </p><p><b>And a few more photos . . .</b></p><p>I regret not getting pics of everyone, but you know how it is when you're having fun.<b> <br /></b></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwnz6XfXFoaJm2b8rezqAY0MWUIxut99hQ9u_XNNRVNoJonZbBh8Tlg89vKCTORqWZHZBXdQYDt66GWLC3jtKQdXbdxzuCCCntgti0UlqCJrw98bD1IIPKbzRLU2g1eLyhSlWHawNVobnLYtTwl2J6vWF7-1uaqk1c28pkdtLw_cLyxl8GmUu1PVGQ/s800/a%20Chip%20Delany.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwnz6XfXFoaJm2b8rezqAY0MWUIxut99hQ9u_XNNRVNoJonZbBh8Tlg89vKCTORqWZHZBXdQYDt66GWLC3jtKQdXbdxzuCCCntgti0UlqCJrw98bD1IIPKbzRLU2g1eLyhSlWHawNVobnLYtTwl2J6vWF7-1uaqk1c28pkdtLw_cLyxl8GmUu1PVGQ/s320/a%20Chip%20Delany.jpg" width="240" /></a></b></div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimdRv82BX7jhvVu5vqqhrBIl7qzL1c_d5xeuWkLDe9bRlem3b72W8k9WDRxjKMabkY-cH_GDpDjWpV00sOJjqajh_ATeWqt-rc6BCCJncOVrGdpGu4PXzZ3CNDJvhYN-EvinFCtdPyTH62KQ0RboBlsDSF6tL0byNrE710Ej0vCnZ6MmkvTM7ZnJVd/s800/a%20Darrell%20Schweitzer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimdRv82BX7jhvVu5vqqhrBIl7qzL1c_d5xeuWkLDe9bRlem3b72W8k9WDRxjKMabkY-cH_GDpDjWpV00sOJjqajh_ATeWqt-rc6BCCJncOVrGdpGu4PXzZ3CNDJvhYN-EvinFCtdPyTH62KQ0RboBlsDSF6tL0byNrE710Ej0vCnZ6MmkvTM7ZnJVd/s320/a%20Darrell%20Schweitzer.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj631IcSVkEbShCGlzYiDMOM4KLpDF1L8KPt39CAoQFipJ8WsUnO19jpS6iSKfzh1VkJ4b8d6GacdYvlnBgaepaf67yzd_VDTRWJQuoa0AcRNNYCDacrPP4KQEXqrwqxzgxwH7txLUXBRDKEiTnRiNGn2B2WcdyfWN_ZRqtw6l1sBK7vlHSVKZpkESY/s800/a%20Sally%20Grotta.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj631IcSVkEbShCGlzYiDMOM4KLpDF1L8KPt39CAoQFipJ8WsUnO19jpS6iSKfzh1VkJ4b8d6GacdYvlnBgaepaf67yzd_VDTRWJQuoa0AcRNNYCDacrPP4KQEXqrwqxzgxwH7txLUXBRDKEiTnRiNGn2B2WcdyfWN_ZRqtw6l1sBK7vlHSVKZpkESY/s320/a%20Sally%20Grotta.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuV_7hic4KJcNbRI-2c7W1RNc_99Z9oCP5SZeikrpFHo_Pyf5CndJ6oeW40LdrHImFBWYERMq2BGKVEgf1h-ZdcwOvwxxDProv9jiM_yUwcKCcdYnNkghDXtvfe-jMuVmRfm1ltF7DLnc9INAGiNbo68EjdZg6sb7bo4og6aIFeAC8n33Mc74joqbH/s800/a%20Victoria%20McManus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuV_7hic4KJcNbRI-2c7W1RNc_99Z9oCP5SZeikrpFHo_Pyf5CndJ6oeW40LdrHImFBWYERMq2BGKVEgf1h-ZdcwOvwxxDProv9jiM_yUwcKCcdYnNkghDXtvfe-jMuVmRfm1ltF7DLnc9INAGiNbo68EjdZg6sb7bo4og6aIFeAC8n33Mc74joqbH/s320/a%20Victoria%20McManus.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> </b> <br /><p></p><p><i>Above: All photos by Michael Swanwick. Top to bottom: Samuel R. Delany, Darrell Schweitzer, Sally Grotta, and Victoria McManus. Camille Bacon-Smith could not attend but was there in spirit.<br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>*</i></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-38688381453275667272024-02-05T14:45:00.000-08:002024-02-05T14:45:38.745-08:00My True and Gentle Friend, Sandy Meschkow<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6w-5jt8bK3XBXNGsMLf2Glul-qkAr8JcddZL2ZY73pZish8v0BOrIV9vxHQsU-eWtB9_XQiWDbGw5ezU5XDn_4s5yNfx8sXtrTQw8Y0TZcZB-lNy2e_spAtq65gWuz2L_KvNM8U3ko4D23OduoUxULIDGiiTZvKWujb_9R3zPdwAxqbRBYYF_wjj9/s800/Sandy%20Meschkow%20Memorial.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6w-5jt8bK3XBXNGsMLf2Glul-qkAr8JcddZL2ZY73pZish8v0BOrIV9vxHQsU-eWtB9_XQiWDbGw5ezU5XDn_4s5yNfx8sXtrTQw8Y0TZcZB-lNy2e_spAtq65gWuz2L_KvNM8U3ko4D23OduoUxULIDGiiTZvKWujb_9R3zPdwAxqbRBYYF_wjj9/w400-h300/Sandy%20Meschkow%20Memorial.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<p>My old friend <b>Sandy Meschkow</b> died the other day. You probably
didn't know him. But Sandy was a gentle soul, a kind man, and a good friend of
mine for close to fifty years.</p>
<p>I cannot remember Sandy ever being angry about anything. Where other people would
have felt anger, Sandy was amused. When he was working at the Franklin
Institute, he taped up a picture of Gore Vidal, whose writing he admired, in
his workspace and his boss suggested he take it down because he wouldn't want
people to think he was "one of them." Sandy, who was as straight as
they come, thought this was hilarious—not that somebody would think he was gay
but that anybody would think that being gay was something to be ashamed of. The
picture stayed.</p>
<p>Sandy was an engineer and eminently competent. One day his boss said,
"Meschkow! You're writing a manual on aluminum welding." To which
Sandy responded, "But... but... I don't know anything about aluminum
welding." To which his boss responded, "Then learn." And, of
course, as these stories go, Sandy learned and wrote and the manual became
standard.</p>
<p>He was a passionate fan of science and a mainstay of Philadelphia’s science
fiction community. He was also a major reason why the Institute became an
employment haven for bright and overeducated but unskilled young fans. He and I
worked together there at the National Solar Heating and Cooling Information
Center. Sandy was a pay grade or five above me yet he never acted as if we
weren't anything but peers. He believed in me as a writer back when I hadn’t
published a single word of fiction. His support came when I needed it most.</p>
<p>Sandy outlived two wives—both marriages happy—and on retirement gradually
faded from public life. It was typical of him that he would slip away quietly.</p>
<p>And now this kindly, generous man is gone. The world is diminished by his
leaving it.</p>
<p align="center" style="text-align: center;">*</p>
<p> </p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-79020630697098090682024-02-04T15:13:00.000-08:002024-02-04T15:13:35.900-08:00One Last Visit To Tom Purdom's Apartment<p style="text-align: right;">.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRg4nemwIJy1zklAbk-8lCh0M61CIDZa-eMCeuoNk_QDPSkHLCia3ODysXTKihQsiWh01KPDwa_T1sgXHRVlyLD4-UAtbbX1gAwsXJQ0wHeHQ5hti2kxX32CroiC51rVQxGibwD9vSvtpG0c3FSIZYVmUnRZiuh8VeP1DYjqN8_ZX1OQUHRl7D3aag/s800/Tom's%20coat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRg4nemwIJy1zklAbk-8lCh0M61CIDZa-eMCeuoNk_QDPSkHLCia3ODysXTKihQsiWh01KPDwa_T1sgXHRVlyLD4-UAtbbX1gAwsXJQ0wHeHQ5hti2kxX32CroiC51rVQxGibwD9vSvtpG0c3FSIZYVmUnRZiuh8VeP1DYjqN8_ZX1OQUHRl7D3aag/w300-h400/Tom's%20coat.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Marianne and I went to <b>Tom Purdom's</b> Center City Philadelphia apartment today to help sort through things. It was a melancholy day.</p><p>As we were leaving, I saw Tom's signature coat and cap on pegs behind the door. Waiting like faithful pets for their master to gather them up and take them out into the streets again. Tom was a great walker and he'd carried them many a hundred miles up and down the city he only rarely left.</p><p> I looked at them and thought, "I miss him too." And left, closing the door quietly behind me.</p><p> </p><p style="text-align: center;">* <br /></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-6878396681144101962024-01-29T23:30:00.000-08:002024-02-05T14:55:53.344-08:00The Phases of the Sun and Moon--Saturday, from Dragonstairs!<p style="text-align: right;">.</p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqM7ImNEyhb-8LsnaMIBkglLc3NTgSTA2VtexMb4YvW7vb0aSrRhz-Ja7wyzZ7P3oNDSB7hiTzj355XFWvmHrRZ-_nvDASkW0hllFbLByZSvOxxJKIUVZ0gMxXx4RcVVCyJGaJop2ondx8lSnCVVep64pR4livlIgmzocB3P36sFHDgndq14jydGq/s800/Phases.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqM7ImNEyhb-8LsnaMIBkglLc3NTgSTA2VtexMb4YvW7vb0aSrRhz-Ja7wyzZ7P3oNDSB7hiTzj355XFWvmHrRZ-_nvDASkW0hllFbLByZSvOxxJKIUVZ0gMxXx4RcVVCyJGaJop2ondx8lSnCVVep64pR4livlIgmzocB3P36sFHDgndq14jydGq/w300-h400/Phases.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>I periodically have to remind everybody that <b>Dragonstairs Press</b> is not <i>my</i> imprint but that of my wife, <b>Marianne Porter</b>, who lovingly crafts and creates each chapbook. I'm just the in-house content provider. It's particularly important that I not try to hog the glory in this case because Marianne has created something special.</p><p><i><b>Phases of the Sun and Moon </b></i>is a hand-made accordion-fold chapbook. One side, <b><i>Phases of the Moon,</i></b> contains eight flash fictions following the lives of lovers from first love to old age. The other, <b><i>Phases of the Sun </i></b>similarly follows the lives of their opposites--which are, of course, writers. When you finish one side, simply flip the book over, and the second half is there to be read.</p><p>The accordion books are, of course, beautifully and painstakingly handmade. So painstakingly, in fact, that Marianne made only 19. Which means that in spite of the fact that they cost significantly more than Dragonstairs Press chapbooks usually do, they'll sell out fast.<br /></p><p>They go on sale at <b>noon, Philadelphia time</b>, this <b>Saturday, February 3</b> at <b>www.dragonstairs.com.</b></p>Here's the press release: <br /><p></p><blockquote>Dragonstairs Press is pleased to announce that The Phases of the Moon/The Phases of the Sun will be going on sale February 3rd, 2024, noon, eastern standard time, at <a href="http://dragonstairs.com/" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" style="color: #196ad4; outline: none;" target="_blank">dragonstairs.com</a> .<br style="outline: none;" /><br style="outline: none;" />The Phases of the Sun/The Phases of the Moon is an accordion-fold, hand made, signed, numbered, limited edition chapbook of text by Michael Swanwick. They measure 6” x 8”, and can be read in sequence (New to Last Crescent) from either side. The Phases of the Sun recounts the stages in a writer's career and The Phases of the Moon tells of a lifetime of romance.<br style="outline: none;" /><br style="outline: none;" />Created in an edition of 19, of which 15 are offered for sale.<br style="outline: none;" /><br style="outline: none;" />$60 including domestic shipping.<br style="outline: none;" /><br style="outline: none;" />$75 including international shipping.</blockquote><p></p><p> </p><p><b>And I should mention . . .</b></p><p>I've read these stories a couple of times in public and they've always gone over like gangbusters. Particularly when there were writers in the audience. Because they knew that, however acerbic the stories might have sounded to non-writers, every word in them was true.<br /></p><p><b> </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* </b> <br /></p><div style="outline: none;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; outline: none;" /></div>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01708413411146291236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-37594286495694346542024-01-24T23:30:00.000-08:002024-01-24T23:30:00.124-08:00Five Things You Didn't Know About Stations of the Tide<p style="text-align: right;">.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4XoGljZz0SWwC71xrZHltBo_vfFXXq7W6AfbNaly14qEVAqlf0fNSU0z04faI2bjndK-Kbam5UZqX3Cpir3x0QgTruePO4poVswFjUlQTRR8VJDuo3qXrslx_dpRPQ8tKdkRbsdsgcNbMtMFRuJaINYh_ucAQck8CpL7kPkWQeYvfby2NbMSIAvQs94/s1167/Tor%20Essentials.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1167" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4XoGljZz0SWwC71xrZHltBo_vfFXXq7W6AfbNaly14qEVAqlf0fNSU0z04faI2bjndK-Kbam5UZqX3Cpir3x0QgTruePO4poVswFjUlQTRR8VJDuo3qXrslx_dpRPQ8tKdkRbsdsgcNbMtMFRuJaINYh_ucAQck8CpL7kPkWQeYvfby2NbMSIAvQs94/w329-h400/Tor%20Essentials.jpg" width="329" /></a></div> <p></p><p>To my great pleasure, <i style="font-weight: bold;">Stations of the Tide</i> is in print again! In a lot of ways, this is my strangest novel--solid science fiction that feels a lot like fantasy, filled with black constellations, Tantric sex, a sentient briefcase, a homicidal magician, a hero bureaucrat, hallucinogenic rain, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo by Ezra Pound... Oh, the list goes on and on. A lot of strange stuff went into the book. I remember, as I was writing it, thinking, "Nobody is going to get a word of this." And yet, it was the most intensely <i>understood </i>novel I ever wrote.</p><p>Here are five things that very few people know about <b><i>Stations of the Tide </i></b>but which may increase your pleasure in reading it:</p><p>1. When I began writing, I determined to include an act of magic in every chapter, beginning with an act of slight-of-hand at the beginning and growing more and more esoteric as the novel progressed. I also set a standard for myself that each instance of magic would be something that <b>Isaac Asimov </b>would admit (grudgingly at times, perhaps) could happen in our reality.</p><p>2. The technology on Miranda is, for reasons the system's offworld elite deem justifiable, being suppressed to 20th century levels. This is in part my response to the many, many SF stories and novels in which planetary technology is suppressed to medieval levels.</p><p>3. A lot of reviewers saw the influence of <b>Gene Wolfe</b> on this particular book, and I cannot deny that. Oddly, nobody seems to have noticed that of <b>Gabriel Garcia </b><span><b>Márquez</b>, particularly <b><i>One Hundred Years of Solitude.</i></b> I threw in a shipwreck covered with orchids in the middle of a jungle just so that nobody would think I was trying to get away with anything.</span></p><p><span>4. Many people think the novel is set in Louisiana bayou country. Not so. (I've never been there. I look forward to visiting it.) It's set in an off-worldly version of Tidewater, Virginia, with just a smidge of Northern Vermont, where it borders on Canada, for seasoning. Both places I know and love.</span></p><p><span>5. There are fourteen Stations of the Cross in Catholic religion and fourteen chapters in my novel. You might think this is no coincidence, but it is. My novel had been accepted under the awful place-holder title of <b><i>Sea-Twin</i></b> and I only came up with its current (far superior, I believe) title at the last minute. So, much as I'd like to to take credit for this I cannot.</span></p><p><span>There's a lot more hidden in the book, but these will do for a start. If you've read it, I hope you liked it. If you haven't, I hope you'll buy it and read it and like it. That's why I wrote it.</span></p><p><span>Really, taken as a whole, the book's intent is as simple as that.</span></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01708413411146291236noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-45016374602083964902024-01-23T12:28:00.000-08:002024-01-23T12:40:56.180-08:00Albert Hodkinson's War<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGKZ4yBv2Uh_V8TJH84D6Zz6gs6l0HSYqTuGuc3kp7emAhb6elZWjYAOTZuXWuc6Dy_hQARiFp6daHvMG6zzpeFDKs0kFkkey1LDMThmSBZycUpqWM7kSFoICDxAI4YfJNoHZo9GZ0TeiOH5i-kTM1v1lIVrCVS8VwyBVo1LUlYA1a_RBEgQ3Aq4Q/s800/Albert%20Hodkinson.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGKZ4yBv2Uh_V8TJH84D6Zz6gs6l0HSYqTuGuc3kp7emAhb6elZWjYAOTZuXWuc6Dy_hQARiFp6daHvMG6zzpeFDKs0kFkkey1LDMThmSBZycUpqWM7kSFoICDxAI4YfJNoHZo9GZ0TeiOH5i-kTM1v1lIVrCVS8VwyBVo1LUlYA1a_RBEgQ3Aq4Q/w300-h400/Albert%20Hodkinson.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><p><b>Albert Hodkinson</b>, whose neighbor I am proud to be, turned 102 the other day. Eighty years ago, he was one of that small group of airmen who effectively saved civilization from Nazi Germany--the Royal Air Force. When he enlisted, he wanted to be a pilot. However, he was made a mechanic because he was from the East End of London, and "only gentlemen were allowed to fly in their airplanes." Long before the war was over, however, "they had run out of gentlemen," and he became a navigator.</p><p>Albert guided Halifax bombers on runs over Berlin.</p><p>Much later, Albert wrote a series of story poems about his experiences in WWII in order to record what it was like to be "an ordinary man under extraordinary circumstances." My son, <b>Sean Swanwick</b> recorded him reading those poems and has been editing them for clarity of sound. Now the first three readings have gone up on YouTube.</p><p>The readings are short, and Sean asks a few questions after each one. You can find the first three videos <a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC2gCTEjfVD2p0n4nVfkwNVQ">here</a>.<br /></p><p>There will be more in the coming weeks.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*<br /></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01708413411146291236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-6071511632107612602024-01-18T23:30:00.000-08:002024-01-19T06:33:54.880-08:00Howard Waldrop, Implausibly, Is No More<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDSEB38qxH8CwPbGevmlRF6MaGUBHDBXeTwmYzS30jWfEoZVFa4rgi-JSelAjhWam6omUdCQLKNKgqP8Rtx0oDDIB0LqQvv5qkccZ6MR6OjaYX8kaQWQxnDAWq_uquNJccSQk8mK19dF_G2_r00yRxgPKqTpCOOhoOWAN1JTb-slXqKSYufP8Pqpit/s400/H'ard%20and%20Andy.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDSEB38qxH8CwPbGevmlRF6MaGUBHDBXeTwmYzS30jWfEoZVFa4rgi-JSelAjhWam6omUdCQLKNKgqP8Rtx0oDDIB0LqQvv5qkccZ6MR6OjaYX8kaQWQxnDAWq_uquNJccSQk8mK19dF_G2_r00yRxgPKqTpCOOhoOWAN1JTb-slXqKSYufP8Pqpit/w400-h300/H'ard%20and%20Andy.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">l-r: Howard Waldrop, Andy Duncan<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p> <b>Howard Waldrop </b>is dead. This seems impossible--almost as impossible as that he could have existed in the first place. He was unlike anybody else. I once labeled him in print as "the weird mind of his generation," and it was true. He simply didn't think the way other people did.</p><p>You could see it in the best of his stories. People would come back from conventions where he'd read a new story (he incubated them in his mind for a long time and didn't write anything down until the story was letter-perfect; fans learned that you could squeeze a new one out of him by making him the guest of honor at a con and requesting that he read something new at it; the night before the reading, he'd sit down and write out... something amazing) and say something like, "Howard wrote a story about dodo birds surviving in the American South," or "Howard wrote a story about Dwight D. Eisenhower becoming a jazz musician," and I'd think: <i>Damn. I wish I'd had that idea! </i>One day somebody said, "Howard wrote a story about Izaak Walton and John Bunyan going fishing in the Slough of Despond."</p><p><span><i>Damn,</i> I thought. <i>I wish I'd had that idea--and I wish I knew what the hell it was! </i> </span></p><p><span>(The story is <i><b>"God's Hooks!"</b></i> and it's one of my favorites, almost as good as <i><b>"Ugly Chickens," </b></i>his dodo story<b>.)<br /></b></span></p><p>Howard was a true original, and he paid for that with a lifetime of poverty. He moved often from one cheap rental to another, occasionally living in a tent or on somebody's porch or once, memorably, in the basement (or, some said, septic tank) that was all that existed of a house under construction. He loved fishing and made and sold low-end fly rods. He was famously prickly about accepting "charity" from anybody. An editor once bought him a meal and Howard insisted that the next one was on him. The fact that the editor paid out of an expense account carried no weight with him. I bought him a drink once and his friends were amazed that he'd let me get away with it.<br /></p><p>But now I see that I've wandered away from a dry recital of facts and am printing the legend. Well, so be it. There was nobody remotely like Howard anywhere outside of American folk tales. Johnny Appleseed comes close, or maybe Jack of Appalachia. So it's no surprise that he returned occasionally to that particular well for inspiration. He was simply paying a visit home.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>And if you're wondering about that remarkable photo . . .</b></p><p>I was in a bar<b> </b>with Howard and <b>Andy Duncan</b>, swapping gossip and tall tales when it occurred to me that I should take a picture of the two. So I did. And that's how it came out. For weeks after, I'd show the snap to somebody and say, "Don't H'ard and Andy look like two Dust Bowl-era grifters? I mean, just look at them. These two are going to stroll off with your wallet, whistling." </p><p>The sixth or seventh time I said that, I realized that my subconscious was trying to tell me that there was an opportunity to be had there. So, long story short, I recruited <b>Gregory Frost</b> and the two of us wrote a story titled <b><i>"Lock Up Your Chickens and Daughters--H'ard and Andy are Come to Town."</i></b> It was a good story, too. So good that it <i>deserved</i> that title. </p><p>Now that team of magical-America confidence tricksters exists only in memory. Andy Duncan, who probably has no idea that he's just inherited the title of "strange mind of his generation," will simply have to carry on alone.<br /></p><p> </p><p><i>Above: Photo by Michael Swanwick.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p style="text-align: center;"> *</p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-5234186541077285372024-01-16T23:30:00.000-08:002024-01-18T05:46:46.532-08:00Tom Purdom, Heart of Philadelphia <p style="text-align: right;">.</p><p><b><br /></b></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmaqXA3iFBND8RDH09pbNCsR3ji7ixGeYKuvR71Lq2mkSoA0Xoia2_lzzqV4zHH6bLFDKQa0Ud7ngkZTJSSTDWIKCgdhWdm0oPZh2oWYCBRsj_3QsC1BSGnU5-TqBmg6J6yMz48g_0ELIi5tScPS7cR0WayBeCsKeSG4DRH7OgfnDRvRIc6QMPF7YKxuA/s2048/Tom%20Purdom.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmaqXA3iFBND8RDH09pbNCsR3ji7ixGeYKuvR71Lq2mkSoA0Xoia2_lzzqV4zHH6bLFDKQa0Ud7ngkZTJSSTDWIKCgdhWdm0oPZh2oWYCBRsj_3QsC1BSGnU5-TqBmg6J6yMz48g_0ELIi5tScPS7cR0WayBeCsKeSG4DRH7OgfnDRvRIc6QMPF7YKxuA/w300-h400/Tom%20Purdom.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Sally Grotta</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />This is very hard for me to write. So please excuse its infelicities. I knew this man for a full fifty years.<br /><p></p><p><b>Tom Purdom</b> is dead. Not enough people will know what a loss this is. While he was as vivid and eccentric an individual as any of the rest of us, he absolutely refused to promote himself. I think he believed it was ungentlemanly. But those who knew him, cherished him.</p><p>Tom was the very heart of Philadelphia science fiction long before I came to town in 1974. He and his socially elegant wife <b>Sara Purdom </b>had monthly open houses where all the SF community was welcome--even rowdies like <b>Gardner Dozois </b>and myself. They two served as role models for Marianne and me. </p><p>His gatherings were as glittery events as our crew ever saw. I recall <b>Milton Rothman </b>discussing the physics of nuclear-powered aircraft, and I most vividly remember <b>Jack McKnight</b> (who machined the first Hugo trophies in his garage) pretending to steal our then-infant son <b>Sean </b>at one of these soirees.</p><p>Tom had three careers: First as a science fiction writer (he published his first two stories in 1957). Then, after he was squeezed out of the field by commercial forces, as a freelance writer specializing in biological and medical matters, chiefly for hospitals and universities. When Gardner Dozois became editor of <i><b>Asimov's</b>, </i>one of his ambitions was to get Tom writing SF again. Under Gardner's prodding, he wrote <i style="font-weight: bold;">"A Proper Place to Live,"</i> which, if unsold, could serve as a love letter to his wife Sara. Gardner bought it and Tom responded with a series of ambitious stories which put him in direct competition with the best of that era's young writers. <i style="font-weight: bold;">"Fossil Games,"</i> a Hugo nominee, was my favorite (and in my opinion one of the best stories of the decade) but it was preceded and followed by many stories that were almost as good.</p><p>Tom was opinionated and a natural contrarian. Once, I told him I had decided to take his advice on some particular matter and he immediately told me why I <i>shouldn't. </i>But there was never any anger in our disagreements. They were more in the nature of a game, something done for the intellectual fun of it. </p><p>He was also a strange combination of stoic and epicure. When his publisher told him that his half of a paperback double hadn't sold as well as the other half (and paid him accordingly) he refused to challenge that, because gentlemen took their lumps without complaining. But he also arranged his life to maximize the three great pleasures in his life: family (particularly his wife Sara, to whom he was devoted), witty conversation with interesting people, and what he called "sitting in a room where musicians were making music surrounded by people who like to sit in rooms where musicians are making music." His gig as a classical music critic allowed him the luxury of never having to listen to recorded music. </p><p>Tom was always worth listening to, always interesting, always full of new ideas. If you knew him, you wished he lived next door to you. If you didn't know him... Well, maybe you should read some of his stories. He was a good man and a very good writer. He worked to make this world a better, more civilized place.</p><p><i>Vaya con dios, </i>Tom. You leave a great many people heartbroken by your absence. But I guess that's the price of your presence in the first place.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><br />Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01708413411146291236noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-11561802885364550642024-01-13T23:30:00.000-08:002024-01-14T04:59:12.593-08:00Three Things You Must Know About Terry Bisson (May Stalin Bless His Soul)<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiGpfj1ujts7v7AyP8l8VSvDo09vwubv4PDjrfqYFJLuvPkYkK7ceX-BHTgvZdVXl7-JW2yKeg6gHKw_hEJVDwZ6JbgnOk_Fe5uRgaUjwh1SUMQKE4JnI9jaOVE26Qy_5xZiWNdCDdl2XNyMS_D68X5yEWiaXlLR7NlhdKUWXunkUu4283tYHAT8oM/s450/Terry%20Bisson.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="450" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiGpfj1ujts7v7AyP8l8VSvDo09vwubv4PDjrfqYFJLuvPkYkK7ceX-BHTgvZdVXl7-JW2yKeg6gHKw_hEJVDwZ6JbgnOk_Fe5uRgaUjwh1SUMQKE4JnI9jaOVE26Qy_5xZiWNdCDdl2XNyMS_D68X5yEWiaXlLR7NlhdKUWXunkUu4283tYHAT8oM/w400-h355/Terry%20Bisson.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><i>"I enjoyed working as an auto mechanic,"</i> <b>Terry Bisson</b>, who would later ghost-write a book for the <i style="font-weight: bold;">Car Talk</i> guys, once told me. "But one Saturday, when it was raining and I'd been working on this car for hours and I had just barked my knuckles on a bolt that refused to turn, I looked over to the mechanic on a creeper the next car over and said, 'Manuel, why are we doing this to ourselves?'</p><p>"And Manuel grinned and said, "You think this is hard? Try chopping cane.'"</p><p>So there's the first thing you should know about Terry. He was grounded in reality. He could fix a car or write a book with equal facility.</p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i>Another time, I was at a Worldcon</i> in the SFWA suite with Terry and <b>Sheila Williams</b> and Terry started talking about attending the first (and, as it turned out, only) science fiction convention in the Soviet Union. ("As we got off the boat, they handed us all watermelons and we wandered into the woods, carrying them, as if we were in a surrealist painting...") He said, "I told them, 'I know you guys are all capitalists now, but I'm still a Stalinist. I hold to the old ways.'"</p><p>Then he got up and walked off. Sheila looked after him, smiled sweetly, and said, "I really had a hard time not saying, 'You and Fidel, Terry.'"</p><p>That's the second thing you should know about Terry. He was a committed Communist. As a member of the May 19th Communist Organization, an offshoot of the Weather Underground, he was sentenced to three months in jail for refusing to rat out friends who had gone on the lam.</p><p>You don't have to agree with his politics to admire him for that. He walked the walk.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>"I'm writing a story with Terry Bisson,"</i> I told Gardner Dozois. Gardner looked astonished. Then, savvy editor that he was, he said, "No, you're not."</p><p>Gardner was right, of course. When I proposed that we collaborate, Terry had given me some notes he had made for a story in which the protagonist was griping about everything around him even as he was living, as Terry put it, "in a fucking Utopia." I took the notes, wrote a solid beginning to the story, and sent it to him for continuation. And... He apologized that he couldn't do it, and gave me full ownership and <i>carte blanche</i> of the story. So I named the protagonist "Terry Bissel" and published it. </p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">"Walking Out"</i> placed on the Hugo ballot. At the time, I joked that it would have won if Terry had participated. But awards aren't what matters. What matters is that if he'd participated, it would have been a better story.</p><p>That's the third thing you need to know about Terry Bisson. He was a hell of a good writer. <b><i>"Bears Discover Fire"</i> </b>was one of the best stories of the nineties. <i style="font-weight: bold;">Talking Man </i>deserves a place on the Pantheon of Fantasy Fiction. </p><p>Terry wrote far too little and far too rarely. But what he did write was of the finest quality.</p><p><br /></p><p>And here's a fourth thing you don't need to know but all his friends were aware of: He was one sweet guy.</p><p><i>Vayo con dios, mi amigo. </i>May Stalin himself welcome you into Commie Heaven.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>And from Terry's <i>New</i> Y<i>orker </i>profile . . .</b></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: TNYAdobeCaslonPro, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;"><i>On his Web site, Bisson once quoted the Surrealist and communist Paul Eluard: “There is another world, but it is in this one.” When asked about it, he said, gently, “That’s the world I want to be in.”</i></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: TNYAdobeCaslonPro, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;">You can read the profile by <b>Margret Grebowicz</b></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: TNYAdobeCaslonPro, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;"> </span><a href="https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/terry-bissons-history-of-the-future" style="font-family: TNYAdobeCaslonPro, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;">here</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: TNYAdobeCaslonPro, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;">. Read today, it's a first-class obituary. But it was published while Terry was alive and so he got to read it. Thank you and God bless you for that, Ms. Grebowicz.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: TNYAdobeCaslonPro, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;"><b>And a glimmer of good news . . .</b></span></p><p>If you're a subscriber to <i style="font-weight: bold;">Locus,</i> you know that Terry has been publishing a series of mini-micro masterpieces of sf under the title of <i style="font-weight: bold;">This Month in History,</i> a future history in the form of two or three sentence entries. All are witty, most are satiric, and by slow degrees I found them addictive.</p><p>The last time I communicated with Terry, I asked if they would ever see book form. He told me that a small press (I forget its name) would publish them in 2024.</p><p>When they do, whoever they are, I'm going to buy a copy.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Above: This picture of Terry Bisson was taken from the PM Press site. PM Press is leftist, sincere, literary. Terry did a lot of work for and with them. Start <a href="http://blog.pmpress.org">here</a> and search for their science fiction publications. You won't be disappointed.</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>*</i></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-36517638804095454232024-01-03T08:42:00.000-08:002024-01-03T08:49:49.661-08:00Stations of the Tide in Ukraine<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW-iXIo81GlpRSPNVIiRK9R6wqo3smmypP-Dw4rytzNQt71hQ0CD16NfV6laXeDn6xuYAoHtkKnp5Ncb7HR65IiWY8ixELGlVeWbBSHhzeakyHLdTKmTjYAQZOWSQuPpTIJOgp29fKZw4EUksOz88h-Zrmc9cdk20lCNeabY8xnPA9FOetqQU_kE2GWE4/s2109/image_2024-01-03_101020432.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="659" data-original-width="2109" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW-iXIo81GlpRSPNVIiRK9R6wqo3smmypP-Dw4rytzNQt71hQ0CD16NfV6laXeDn6xuYAoHtkKnp5Ncb7HR65IiWY8ixELGlVeWbBSHhzeakyHLdTKmTjYAQZOWSQuPpTIJOgp29fKZw4EUksOz88h-Zrmc9cdk20lCNeabY8xnPA9FOetqQU_kE2GWE4/w400-h125/image_2024-01-03_101020432.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>I have learned that <b>Zhupansky Publishing House </b>in Ukraine will be publishing <i style="font-weight: bold;">Stations of the Tide.</i> This is the same publisher that published <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Iron Dragon's Daughter </i>in 2021.</p><p>I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I find it incredibly moving that ordinary life can go on in the midst of a horrific war--and that my book can be a small distraction from that war. On the other hand, I feel bad about taking money out of a country that very much needs it.</p><p>So I'm giving it all back.</p><p>The four organizations I've chosen for this purpose are:</p><p><b>Future for Ukraine: </b>Founded by displaced Ukrainian women, FFU aids displaced Ukrainian children and women coping with the psychological consequences of war. They also provide prosthetics for wounded Ukrainians abroad and humanitarian aid to affected regions within Ukraine.</p><p><b>GlobalGiving Ukraine Crisis Relief Fund: </b>This supports locally-led organizations throughout Ukraine providing essentials for refugees, health and psychological support, and access to education and economic assistance.</p><p><b>Malteser International: </b>This is the humanitarian relief agency of the Sovereign Order of Malta. It provides food, shelter, and emergency medial care within Ukraine and neighboring countries.</p><p><b>Global Empowerment Mission: </b>To date, GEM has helped relocate nearly 39,000 refugees, placed some 14,000 people in temporary housing, and repaired hundreds of buildings and homes.</p><p>I chose these organizations from <b><i>Forbes Magazine's </i></b>list of charities working to relieve some of the suffering the war has imposed upon the people of Ukraine. If you wish to donate to any of them, you can find the list and more information on them <a href="https://www.forbes.com/advisor/personal-finance/donate-relief-to-ukraine/">here</a>.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Above: I found this graphic at the US Department of State's travel advisory page for Ukraine. They advise against traveling there.</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>* </i></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01708413411146291236noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-26935485927022987732023-12-29T15:08:00.000-08:002023-12-29T15:08:50.423-08:00Celebrating the Queen of Cocktails . . . the Manhattan!<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNTCXP5tJBCjmoVntYzEIKHmQvxG6kYyR5-nI_r8Tt0VRzTDCss-PpxGhdM_y0mJrKsTAncmOilfzKFIvOwj19B5GZM6GbOHhS_Sbnjb0GlIchLOq51Rrde-283TZwuVufCNZsLivrX3x_Edd_w2P8y50hzuqUrrWAPuvwxL-W616eSwBHGGT0y3S/s800/Queen%20of%20Cocktails.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNTCXP5tJBCjmoVntYzEIKHmQvxG6kYyR5-nI_r8Tt0VRzTDCss-PpxGhdM_y0mJrKsTAncmOilfzKFIvOwj19B5GZM6GbOHhS_Sbnjb0GlIchLOq51Rrde-283TZwuVufCNZsLivrX3x_Edd_w2P8y50hzuqUrrWAPuvwxL-W616eSwBHGGT0y3S/w300-h400/Queen%20of%20Cocktails.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Today is the 149th anniversary of the invention of the <b>Manhattan. </b>It was invented at the Manhattan Club in (of course) New York City at a gala celebration in honor of Samuel Jones Tilden, who had just been elected governor. To make the history even more glittery, the event was held in the home of Jennie Jerome, mother of Winston Churchill. Some even say the drink was made specifically for her.</p><p>And already I've told more lies than you could count after a third drink. All the above was once documented as being true--and every word of it has since been disproved by cold, solid scholarship.</p><p>But what the heck. When the truth becomes legend... print the legend.</p><p>So the Manhattan is 149 years old this evening. </p><p>If you look up the earliest printed recipes for this noble drink, you'll find that in keeping with the taste for sticky-sweet drinks that was prevalent at the time, they called for equal portions of sweet vermouth and rye or even twice more vermouth than rye. Don't do that. </p><p>Even today, many will tell you that the proportions should be 2-1-2, the same as the borough of Manhattan's area code--two parts rye, one part sweet vermouth, two dashes of bitters. That's close but why settle for close? Here's the taste-tested recipe for the Queen of Cocktails:</p><p><br /></p><p><b>The Manhattan</b></p><p>3 ounces rye</p><p>1 ounce sweet vermouth</p><p>1 or 2 dashes of bitters, depending on your preference</p><p>1 spiced cherry for garnish</p><p><br /></p><p>Unlike the Martini, there's wiggle room here. I prefer Angostura bitters, where Marianne favors cherry bitters. Orange bitters are also good as are--wait for it!--Aztec chocolate bitters. It's all a matter of taste. </p><p>Oh, and spiced cherries are far, far superior to those awful candied things you buy by the jar. But nobody's going to give you a hard time if they're what you have on hand.</p><p><i>À votre santé, la Reine de la Nuit!</i></p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-58201328732395066722023-12-27T10:43:00.000-08:002023-12-27T10:45:29.776-08:00Richard Bowes (1944-2023)<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfaHlJoekwLR-wKRMyUIwxeoZWvBKjKRjvD__c4gMewH9pMmTL0ZjgAf34AlTBzzMj4uXPutRfYvVslbNgsCLbN1kR1_4pgve781H7PD8LCyVMb9gENUE7v3RmyIqy6ZZcQShTgHAfwE5OK9woAmie-VmVqbXv4xjiyMvycOdp5HlQcdMVvPkLWFENSc/s300/Richard%20Bowes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="300" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfaHlJoekwLR-wKRMyUIwxeoZWvBKjKRjvD__c4gMewH9pMmTL0ZjgAf34AlTBzzMj4uXPutRfYvVslbNgsCLbN1kR1_4pgve781H7PD8LCyVMb9gENUE7v3RmyIqy6ZZcQShTgHAfwE5OK9woAmie-VmVqbXv4xjiyMvycOdp5HlQcdMVvPkLWFENSc/w400-h397/Richard%20Bowes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: right;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b>Richard Bowes</b> is dead. Normally, I write "has left the planet" when a fellow science fiction writer dies. But in this case, I'd have to write <i>has left New York City.</i> Oh man, did he love New York! Particularly Old New York, the city that can only be found in remnants and nostalgia. It was not so much a theme in his writing as a character. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Which makes it ironic that he was born in Boston. But when he came to the City, he came to stay. He made it a part of himself.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Bowes was a fine writer and a good man. He had a quick wit and a warm heart. He was a gay activist back when they were greatly needed. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Over on Facebook, his niece wrote a long and loving post of what he meant to his extended family. Here's one small part of it. It captures the essence of the man better than I could hope to:</p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">To our family, Ricky was the heart and soul of our holiday gatherings. His hilarious "backrub train" and unmatched wit brought laughter and joy to every occasion. More than his written words or his advocacy for equality, Ricky's legacy lies in the laughter, love, and resilience he shared with us all. He had a remarkable knack for engaging with every person and experience, from discussing various subjects like history, baseball, pop culture, and politics, to taking joy in the ordinary. His genuine interest and delight in our lives made him both endearing and fascinating. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;">Farewell, my friend. New York City is a sadder place without you.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Above: I swiped the pic of Richard Bowes from SFWA's Nebula Awards entry on him at https://nebulas.sfwa.org/nominees/richard-bowes/</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>*</i></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01708413411146291236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-33654961051782373262023-12-23T16:35:00.000-08:002023-12-23T16:35:20.526-08:00The Grinch and I<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RJwtch3fGjGSQKPEUn7d7uYrKsMQHXKCjxqHJFmK_CzPpd-kYxUI2Wja7UcLA3j4HZxfmh-hp3trbrDVFWYsjsRjI2iIS0_R7iE2Pq0Qtjm47gJ4B7sQXSaPkjYjwA6n73lbaQ5BChfYsaK6-M6xPTouCt-GSx-K_fNJ475j4YTLDwA3GfPlBeHfrSs/s800/Grinch%20and%20I.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RJwtch3fGjGSQKPEUn7d7uYrKsMQHXKCjxqHJFmK_CzPpd-kYxUI2Wja7UcLA3j4HZxfmh-hp3trbrDVFWYsjsRjI2iIS0_R7iE2Pq0Qtjm47gJ4B7sQXSaPkjYjwA6n73lbaQ5BChfYsaK6-M6xPTouCt-GSx-K_fNJ475j4YTLDwA3GfPlBeHfrSs/w400-h300/Grinch%20and%20I.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Today, I was at the <b>ROTfest </b>in Highland Park, NJ. This is <b>Alex Dawson's</b> attempt to make the world a stranger place via a series of odd performances (Elvis was there, singing his version of Christmas carols) and opportunity to display his truck/bookstore/work of folk art, the <b>Rac-On Tour</b>. I was there to read some of my Solstice flash fictions as a last-minute replacement for a fire eater who'd had a dental emergency.</p><p>And I missed, people tell me, one of the best performances of the day. That's because I was in it.</p><p>When I arrived, Alex told me that I'd also be reading <b>Dr. Seuss' </b><i style="font-weight: bold;">How the Grinch Stole Christmas. </i>(He likes to throw this kind of thing at you unannounced; I think he has a theory that the unexpected is the parent of creativity. And since <b>JB</b> was there in a Grinch suit, he was told to stand in front of the stage and do whatever came to him.</p><p>So I read. I read well and I could tell this was one of my better readings. But because I was focused on the words, I could only spare a glance or two at the Grinch. Who, apparently, acted the whole thing out. Even though nobody had told him about this before either.</p><p>Marianne told me he was wonderful, "a first-rate actor." Then she said, "Your reading was also excellent. The two of you worked really well together."</p><p>So I missed something worth witnessing, it seems.</p><p>But if you have to miss a good performance, the next best thing is to be in it.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>And I should mention . . .</b></p><p>I don't know JB's full name. But I have his card. He does, it says, Animation, Cosplay, Illustration, Sculpting, Voice Acting, Music Parody, Puppetry, and Etc. He sells things at <a href="http://Etsy.com/shop/JackSquatJBcrafts">Etsy.com/shop/JackSquatJBcrafts</a> and will create an original character design at <a href="http://Patreon.com/JackSquatJB">Patreon.com/JackSquatJB</a> for "ANY support amount!"</p><p>He also seems to be a nice guy, </p><p><br /></p><p><b>Oh, and also . . .</b></p><p>I just now learned that JB made the Grinch suit himself! In the picture, it looks great. In real life it looks even better. Easily the best Grinch costume I've ever seen.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Above: My good friend and I. Photo by Marianne C. Porter.</i></p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01708413411146291236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-56326813693466419462023-12-18T00:00:00.000-08:002023-12-21T07:59:00.620-08:00Alvaros Zinos-Amaro's "A User's Guide to Michael Swanwick," His Blog Tour, and What I Concluded From It<p style="text-align: right;"> .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mrUV996-X-wl7vpQvKvGB-qS7xnq5LUbOrTp0GxXmrEzWTLO6d3dPkIiK8U0douYrZNdDARvr1pCEu9yMb0tCcmIEv_u_aBcuwz7JCBufHy_i_0OqTDYOOZ5TzWxFcg_brLVB-bBW6J5uzUcd09WXcIzsYF0EGR_UUMI4M3Y9TuzwXEXGmjvaTbZ/s1440/Guide%202%20Me.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="873" data-original-width="1440" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mrUV996-X-wl7vpQvKvGB-qS7xnq5LUbOrTp0GxXmrEzWTLO6d3dPkIiK8U0douYrZNdDARvr1pCEu9yMb0tCcmIEv_u_aBcuwz7JCBufHy_i_0OqTDYOOZ5TzWxFcg_brLVB-bBW6J5uzUcd09WXcIzsYF0EGR_UUMI4M3Y9TuzwXEXGmjvaTbZ/w400-h243/Guide%202%20Me.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: right;"><br /></p><p>A few years ago, I was talking with my wife, Marianne Porter, about a novel I may someday get around to writing and said, "You'll never guess what happens to the protagonist at the end of the first chapter."</p><p>"She dies," Marianne said.</p><p>I was astonished. "How in the world did you know that?" I asked.</p><p>"It happens all the time in your fiction," she replied</p><p>This incident was brought to mind recently when I read <b>Alvaro Zinos-Amaro's </b>article in <b>Tor.com, </b><i style="font-weight: bold;"> "A User's Guide to Michael Swanwick."</i> Alvaro is currently doing a blog tour to bring to public attention his remarkable year-and-a-half long series of conversations/interviews with me published by <b>Fairwood Press </b>under the title <b><i>Being Michael Swanwick. </i></b></p><p>In the article, Zinos-Amaro lists what he feels are the best of my stories and novels, along with the first sentence for each. That for my novel <b style="font-style: italic;">Vacuum Flowers </b>was <i>She didn't know she had died. </i>And right away, I was struck by the fact that there were more works on the list where the protagonist was dead right from the very beginning. </p><p>It was a strange discovery when Marianne first pointed it out to me, and it remains a strange observation today. I have no explanation for it.</p><p>But thinking about it, I realized that after I die--many long decades from now, I hope--the stories and novels will remain, living after me. It's pleasant to think that a vital fraction of my life will go blithely on, neither knowing nor caring that the rest of me is gone.</p><p>And, really, that's where, after a literary flourish or three, I was going to conclude this post. But then I thought deeper and came up with a different conclusion.</p><p>If you read <i style="font-weight: bold;">Being Michael Swanwick</i> (and, again, you already know if you will or will not) and pay close attention, you'll note that Alvaro has a crisper, cleaner voice than I do. It's as if I were speaking in first draft and he in final draft. Readihng his blog tour posts I was struck by the strength of his prose and inventiveness of his thought. I write the occasional nonfiction piece, so I'm aware of how hard that is.</p><p>Judge for yourself. You can find <i style="font-weight: bold;">"A User's Guide to Michael Swanwick" </i><a href="https://www.tor.com/2023/11/29/a-users-guide-to-michael-swanwick-short-fiction-novels-and-beyond/">here</a>.</p><p>You can find Alvaro's post on <b>Mary Robinette Kowal's </b>blog <a href="https://maryrobinettekowal.com/journal/my-favorite-bit/my-favorite-bit-alvaro-zinos-amaro-talks-about-being-michael-swanick/">here</a>.</p><p><b>John Scalci </b>hosted Alvaro <a href="https://whatever.scalzi.com/2023/11/22/the-big-idea-alvaro-zinos-amaro/">here</a>.</p><p>And <i style="font-weight: bold;">Black Gate </i>hosted Alvaro <a href="https://www.blackgate.com/2023/10/01/being-michael-swanwick-by-alvaro-zinos-amaro/">here</a>. </p><p><br /></p><p><b>And if you're a gonnabe writer . . .</b></p><p>It would be worth your while to study these pieces and see how Alvaro Zinos-Amaro wrote very different pieces to promote the same book. All of them varied, honest, and interesting. When you finally are published, you're going to be expected to promote yourself. (When I was first published, the Internet didn't exist and publishing houses took care of all that.) And when that happens, remember to make your self-promotion:</p><p>1) Varied</p><p>2) Honest</p><p>3) Interesting</p><p>Remember that you're not trying to outwit the system. That never works. You're just trying to bring your work to the attention of people who would enjoy reading it.</p><p>End of lecture.. Go thou and sin no more.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-89809232998908662992023-12-15T00:00:00.000-08:002023-12-15T05:34:44.022-08:00The Boy and the Heron and Miyazaki and Us<p style="text-align: right;">.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Y3DjHCBvsxQ5QMBuEICnk9RCUUjiUY6ohUNnNdTkcgI6bHcQoUksd5B63-WKapKxVcpXzMw-Y3C5WeuUi1hI5raVDcMzcqZbcn6sQp3m-ECyAWk6XFifT9Hwd89sZ5FVPe9jD9ilPJ6CUdyz9pa29DqiH9jd6gytinJhn_TlV0B5Wt_QA65KqOkf/s282/The%20Boy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="179" data-original-width="282" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Y3DjHCBvsxQ5QMBuEICnk9RCUUjiUY6ohUNnNdTkcgI6bHcQoUksd5B63-WKapKxVcpXzMw-Y3C5WeuUi1hI5raVDcMzcqZbcn6sQp3m-ECyAWk6XFifT9Hwd89sZ5FVPe9jD9ilPJ6CUdyz9pa29DqiH9jd6gytinJhn_TlV0B5Wt_QA65KqOkf/w400-h254/The%20Boy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Marianne and Sean and I went to see <b>Hiyao Miyazaki's </b>newest anime, <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Boy and the Heron</i> yesterday and were glad we did. It's a good movie.</p><p>But it's not one of Miyazaki's best. It's not up there with <b style="font-style: italic;">Spirited Away </b>or<b style="font-style: italic;"> Princess Mononoke.</b> </p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">The Boy and the Heron </i>has been receiving rave reviews and it's easy to see why. Miyazaki is old and has announced his retirement more than once before this, so we're very, very grateful for another touch of the maestro's magic. And the movie is chockablock with familiar elements from older, beloved movies: strangely aggressive shreds of paper, dwarfish but benign old women, intriguing ruins, World War Two fighter plane engineering... the list goes on and on. And even I, knowing nothing of Miyazaki's life, could see that there were strong autobiographical elements here. No wonder so many critics are acclaiming <i><b>The Boy and the Heron</b></i> as a summation of his entire career.</p><p>Oh, yeah. The movie never goes where you expect it to. That's brilliant.</p><p>But while <b><i>Th</i></b><i><b>e Boy and the Heron</b></i> is filled, from start to finish with striking and extraordinary imagery, the story itself is...</p><p>Oh, it's okay. But as a long-time working fantasist, I know when a plot is not fully under control of its creator. The rules change in order to keep the action moving along. You've got a fire witch, so why can't she use her powers to get you out of this fix you're in? Well, her powers are diminished while in this particular location. (Why? Don't ask.) The carnivorous budgerigars close in on our unconscious heroes with vocalized intentions to eat them and then leave one where he lies and take the other to their (previously unmentioned) king. (Why? It advances the plot.)</p><p>There's a great deal of running back and forth with things collapsing behind or under our hero. The animation is <i>great.</i> The fact they're running back and forth with things collapsing behind or under them, not so much.</p><p>And yet... and yet...</p><p>Hiyao Miyazaki's universe is so beautiful, so evocative, so <i>surprising</i>, that you want to spend a year or three simply wandering about it. Two hours and four minutes only whetted my appetite for it.</p><p>If you have the chance to see it in a movie theater, I recommend that you do. If not... Keep Watching the Screens. </p><p>Meanwhile, Miyazaki has once again announced that he has not <i>quite</i> retired. There's another movie in the works.</p><p>I can hardly wait.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p><br /></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-54993452896945098702023-12-11T06:57:00.000-08:002023-12-11T06:57:40.608-08:00The Parable of the Creche<div style="text-align: right;">.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-_6eEXokZf15-hODBi284lKUAtJS6XNmApFSsAZSqXTtPa8zaH-XVXjnuG-57Nm3spaWR1vzHd6sCFIHWYKVfiI6xI6kd3IiDcBIV1LpiQkOV5RLDE_Bo99-mE-erHyejWpICE57TOx7uptNvmhzYWhSJscWj4VkpV95lEolaYiYqI4WRCqlsg7m/s259/Parable.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-_6eEXokZf15-hODBi284lKUAtJS6XNmApFSsAZSqXTtPa8zaH-XVXjnuG-57Nm3spaWR1vzHd6sCFIHWYKVfiI6xI6kd3IiDcBIV1LpiQkOV5RLDE_Bo99-mE-erHyejWpICE57TOx7uptNvmhzYWhSJscWj4VkpV95lEolaYiYqI4WRCqlsg7m/w400-h300/Parable.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Hey, kids! Christmas is coming! Which means it's time to post my classic holiday story... </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Parable of the Creche</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;">by Michael Swanwick</div><div><br /></div><div>When first I came to Roxborough, over forty years 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 the tip of the roof--nor was it very fancy. The figures of Joseph and Mary, the Christ Child, and the animals were a couple of feet tall at most, and there were sheets of Plexiglas over the front of the wooden structure 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 with real straw, and the neighborhood folk genuinely loved it.</div><div><br /></div><div> It was a common thing to see people standing before the creche, especially at night, admiring it. Sometimes parents brought their small children to see it for the first time and the wonder then displayed was genuinely moving. It provided a welcome touch of seasonality and community to the park.</div><div><br /></div><div>Alas, Gorgas Park is public property, and it was only a matter of time before somebody complained that the creche violated the principle of separation of church and state. When the complaint finally came, the creche was taken out of the park and put in storage.</div><div><br /></div><div>People were upset, of course. Nobody likes seeing a beloved tradition die. There was a certain amount of grumbling and disgruntlement. One might even say disgrumblement.</div><div><br /></div><div>So the kindly folks of Leverington Presbyterian Church, located just across the street from the park, stepped in. They adopted the creche and put it up in the yard in front of their church, where it could be seen and enjoyed by all.</div><div><br /></div><div>But did this make up happy? It did not. The creche was just not the same located in front of a church. It seemed lessened, in some strange way, made into a prop for the Presbyterians. You don't see people standing in front of it anymore.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was in a local tappie shortly after the adoption and heard one of the barflies holding forth on this very subject:</div><div><br /></div><div>"The god-damned Christians," he said, "have hijacked Christmas."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*</div>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1484180326012950400.post-38385618095560333652023-11-30T07:50:00.000-08:002023-11-30T07:50:48.147-08:00E-Book Sales Tomorrow Only!<p style="text-align: right;">.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXoYWb3ahLi7PMGs4K7vD_wM_LhuI07zSkJ_KL_MpxJB1kEukFddLgy9AJYIGQJztk9PYT6zOg2IVS88WrKaEVU_iVspQrtjzK_ODr3url4chnxT4LnR5-J9vq7lHk-OvfnNK52nRoBFFo_t7Ta-raq9sD1Maf3nrkeVs2RGDcbK09VwuSyEAlmt8/s500/vacuum%20flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="328" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXoYWb3ahLi7PMGs4K7vD_wM_LhuI07zSkJ_KL_MpxJB1kEukFddLgy9AJYIGQJztk9PYT6zOg2IVS88WrKaEVU_iVspQrtjzK_ODr3url4chnxT4LnR5-J9vq7lHk-OvfnNK52nRoBFFo_t7Ta-raq9sD1Maf3nrkeVs2RGDcbK09VwuSyEAlmt8/w263-h400/vacuum%20flowers.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Yes, these e-book sales come along pretty often--it seems to be the publisher's marketing strategy. But it would be unprofessional of me not to support the people who are working hard to supply me with an income. </p><p>So let me trumpet this to the skies: Tomorrow, <b>Friday, December 1, </b>both <i><b>In the Drift </b></i>and<i><b> Vacuum Flowers</b></i> will be on sale for only <b>$1.99 each.</b> That's in the <b>US only.</b></p><p><i><b>In the Drift</b></i>, my first novel,<b> </b>is a dark, moody cautionary tale set in the wake of a full meltdown at Three Mile Island. <i><b>Vacuum Flowers </b></i>is a bright and adventurous tour of the Solar System centuries after a human diaspora that came about when all of humanity on Earth was swallowed up by a hive mind. So the one is an antidote to the other. You can decide which one you'd like to read depending on what mood you're in.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*<br /></p>Michael Swanwickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18389836784776252022noreply@blogger.com1