A New Dragonstairs Chapbook, Huzzah!

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Friends of Dragonstairs Press should set their alarms early. Marianne has crafted a beautiful chapbook for a short medieval fantasy by her in-house content provider (me). The fiction chapbooks always sell faster than the non-fiction ones, so I expect this will sell out very quickly.

It goes on sale next Saturday at noon, East Coast time.

Here's the letter that Marianne just sent out to her regular clients:

Michael Swanwick's Basil, Pepper, Salt, and Garlic Greens: A Year in a Witch's Kitchen is a spicy, even saucy, medieval romance, full of useful advice from a woman who knows her way around a hearth, and life, too, for that matter. Issued in an edition of 80, each copy is 5 ½ x 4 ¼ and wrapped in Thai mulberry paper with flower petal inclusions. All are handstitched, numbered, and signed by the author.
They will be offered for sale on Saturday, May 30, 2026, at noon, Philadelphia time (eastern daylight savings) at the Dragonstairs website. www.dragonstairs.com

Shipped domestically, $11.

Shipped internationally, $13.

--

Marianne Porter (she/her)

editor, publisher

Dragonstairs Press

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Big Huge Tachyon Memorial Day Weekend Sale Blah Blah Blah

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Tachyon Publications, publisher of my brilliant and wildly entertaining short story collection, The Universe Box, has a sale this weekend. Twenty percent off of anything and everything when you use the magic code above.

And here I'm supposed to tell you how wonderful I am, blah blah blah.

But I won't. Instead, I'll suggest you go to their home page here and browse their catalog. Because Tachyon publishes a lot of the best SF and fantasy writers at work today, and if you're at all familiar with the field, you're going to find something you want.

I found two books I plan to buy--and that was on the first page only.

Oh, and Tachyon Publications also published most of my previous collections. So, you know, blah blah blah.

And because I know you're curious . . .

No, I won't tell you which two books. I know what writers are like. If I told you, every other writer on that page would conclude that I hated them and that their career was over.

You probably think I'm kidding. But I'm not even exaggerating.

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LOONG'S TALES, edited by Lynn Sun

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Look what came in the mail! A beautifully designed and made (my photo does not do it justice) copy of Loong's Tales, edited by Lynn Sun, from the Eastern Wood publishing house in Singapore. This is the English translation of an original anthology of dragon-themed science fiction stories recently published in Chinese.

There are many different dragons in Chinese mythology, the greatest and most benevolent of which is the loong. As a note in the book says:

This is a book about the Chinese dragon. Unlike dragons in Western mythology, the loong is partnered with auspicious clouds. A symbol of fortune, wisdom, and prosperity. It is a pillar of strength in the heart of the Chinese people.

I received this copy because I had the honor of writing an introduction to the book. I wrote it in part because Ms. Sun, whom I know and respect, asked me to. And in part because I like and admire the Chinese people as a whole. But mostly because I believe the Chinese science fiction community is a force for good, and that works such as this one help to, in Lynn Sun's words, build bridges between China and the world.

The stories herein are:

Regarding Why Humans Have to Seek Dragons by Baoshu (translated by Heather Wang)

Becoming a Dragon by Wang Xiaohai (translated by Wang Xin)

Are You Aware of the Dragon's Transformations? by Zhan Baitang (translated by Deng Weitian)

The Last Speech by He Jianhong (translated by Lina Shiting Lu)

Report on the Origin and Utilization of the Loong Meme by Xinfeng Xike (translated by Xueting C. Ni)

You can find Eastern Wood's website here.

And since I know you're curious . . .

Here's a statement of purpose for Eastern Wood I found online:

Our co-founders, Hans [Lee] and Lynn [Sun], are science fiction enthusiasts and are fluent in both Chinese and English. Well-versed in the Chinese sci-fi genre space, they found it meaningful to create a platform for Chinese sci-fi writers to publish their stories and reach an international audience.

As a Singaporean brand under Potato Productions, we have greater freedom and objectivity in assessing the works we receive, allowing us to bring the best of Chinese sci-fi to readers. In bridging Chinese sci-fi with the English-speaking market, we hope to showcase authentic glimpses into Chinese culture as well as the modern technological advancements of the East.

I am old enough to remember when Nixon first went to China and it first became possible for an American to see how people lived there. And I am young enough to look forward, with hope and optimism, to the major changes still happening in that once ancient and now modern land.

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Albert Hodkinson, A Great And Ordinary Man

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Friday, I attended a memorial service for Albert Hodkinson. Albert lived next door and was for over 45 years the best neighbor anybody could hope for. We used to have evening chats over the backyard fence about matters both simple and profound.

Here's one thing I learned from him: Navigating your Halifax home from a bombing raid over Berlin, you flew west until you came to the white cliffs of Dover. Then you turned right and flew up the coast until you came to the Thames. Then you turned left and flew upriver until you came to the old Roman road. You turned right and followed it up past York, where your airfield was. It was a hell of a lot easier than using a sextant during a bumpy flight in a prop bomber.

Yes. The man was in the RAF in WWII when it mattered most--"never, many, and much" as Churchill put it. Albert Hodkinson was one of those ordinary men who accomplished extraordinary things, when the future looked darkest, and saved the world from fascist domination. 

Albert's father was a pro football player when he was young. Then WWI came along and trench warfare and a foot injury that ended his dreams forever. Having served as an infantryman, he advised his son to become an airman. Albert wanted to be a pilot but, he was from London's East End and the brass told him, "Only gentlemen get to fly aircraft." So he was made a mechanic. But then, "They ran out of gentlemen," and he was sent out to drop bombs on Germany.

Albert was also a literary man, like me. He wrote story poems about his experiences in the war. They dealt with his doings and those of others, of what it's like to fly out on a bombing mission, and what it's like to fly back from one. My son Sean recorded him reading all 20 of his war poems and posted them on YouTube. At the end of each reading Sean would ask a question or two about what it was like and some of the answers were amazing.

Afterward, Sean said, "The one thing he never talked about was what it felt like dropping the bombs. He flew into the darkness. Then he flew out of the darkness. In between: silence."

So, three days ago, Marianne and Sean and I honored the passing of a man who would have told you as he told me that he was nobody special. And yet his children and his grandchildren and his great grandchildren live in a country and a world that could have been infinitely worse if it were not for him and his compatriots. Gentlemen and Eastenders alike.

All, in my estimation, heroes. 

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Phil Ochs, Dead Fifty Years Ago Today

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A half century later, the man is still dead. And we're still doing our best to forget him.

Phil Ochs was, to put an easy label on it, a protest singer. His song, “I Ain't a-Marching Anymore,” about a soldier refusing to march off to yet another war, became, ironically, the theme song to a thousand anti-war protest marches in the sixties. His “Draft Dodger Rag” (Ohhhh, I'm just sixteen I got a ruptured spleen and I always carry a purse...) was a hoot. “Love Me, I'm a Liberal” bit the hand that wanted to feed him so fiercely it bleeds to this day. And his long and complicated and wonderful “Crucifixion” proved that he was at heart an artist, who could have had a celebrated career, analogous to Bob Dylan's, if his outrage at injustice hadn't demanded he put all his heart and soul and being into political action.

Ochs spoke truth to power while at the same time making Saturday-and-evening protesters, like me, who went to rallies, signed petitions, and stood in the drizzling rain holding candles for a few hours and then went home to cocktails and dinner, feel like devout Christians who hadn't yet given everything they owned to the poor.

It's been five decades since Phil Ochs, after a struggle with bipolar disorder and alcoholism, committed suicide. The confluence of these two diseases proved stronger than his will to live. Those who resented his activism did their best to pretend he never existed. Those who agreed with his goals but hadn't reshaped our lives to the Cause shamefacedly did pretty much the same.

He was simply too sincere for any of us.

So tonight, let all of us who have failed to live up to his example bow our heads and raise a glass to a man who, in e. e. cummings's phrase, was “more brave than me:more blond than you.”

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A Box Full of Controversy

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Look what I found! I've been reorganizing (and, in many cases discarding) my papers and I came across a box containing the "A User's Guide to the Postmoderns" papers.

This requires a brief explanation.

Way back in 1986, I was feeling annoyed that the writers I felt were writing the absolute best SF at that time were--with the exception of William Gibson, who was a phenomenon--not getting a fraction of the attention they deserved. So I wrote a mock-manifesto, published in Asimov's, praising Gibson, Connie Willis, Kim Stanley Robinson, Pat Cadigan, and many others in comically exaggerated rhetoric.

How exaggerated? Well, the subtitle of "A User's Guide to the Postmoderns" was Including the Battle for the Future, Unbridled Ambition, the Fate of the Children in the Starship, the Cyberpunk-Humanist Wars, Blood under the Banquet Tables, Metaphors Run Amok, and the Destruction of Atlantis! If Metaphors Run Amok didn't tell you that that the narration was tongue-in-cheek, then you were definitely humor-deaf.

It turned out that a lot of the Asimov's readership were definitely humor-deaf. (If you want to know the entire story it can be found in my introduction to Tachyon Publication's chapbook, The Postmodern Archipelago. Which can be bought here.)

Back to the box. Peeking out of the green folder is the original typescript of the essay. Beneath it are the published responses in various fanzines. (I remember that the Texas one--really pissed--was abruptly handed to me at the Worldcon by a fan who said, "Here!" and fled.) To its right and above are outraged letters to Asimov's, mostly objecting that they'd never heard of any of these writers and doubted they'd ever amount to anything. And one from Ed Bryant who not only liked my essay but understood that it was meant to be funny. Ed was a Mensch.

The very shabby sheet in the bottom right corner contains my notes for how the essay should be ordered. Feel free to enlarge it and marvel at my hideous handwriting and the incoherence of the notes. Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be writers who draft their prose like this. Under it are responses from various writers who felt unfairly excluded from the essay. One of them was from a writer, to whom I wrote back, saying: You're right. I was wrong. Here's why it happened. You should have been included for these reasons. I apologize. Which caught him by surprise, but I meant every word of it. He should have been in the essay and I regret he wasn't to this very day. Also that I didn't include Nancy Kress, who did not complain about being excluded.

The others, not so much.

And, very best for last, inside the cardboard box itself are letters from almost everyone I profiled. I wrote them asking questions about their work and their ambitions and for permission to quote them. Their answers were all straightforward and honest. One of the humanists shared his correspondence with a major cyberpunk about what SF should and shouldn't be. When Pat Cadigan objected to what I planned to write about her, and I offered to quote whatever she might want said verbatim, she wrote back (in longhand) that it was physically impossible for her to praise herself. And James Patrick Kelly wrote a letter whose every sentence was not only quotable but worthy of putting at the heading of this post. Also Lucius Shepard's reaction after reading the essay--he lamented not being called a gunslinger, "or at least a thug."

Ah, but we were all so young, and earnest, and hardworking, and ambitious!

And to answer your question: No. Almost everyone in the box is still alive. You can read its contents when we're dead.

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Your Kevin Bacon Number with Stalin.

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I met Sergei Nikitich Krushchev once--sort of. I shook his hand and got his autograph on one of his books anyway.

This was at a lecture Nikita Krushchev's son gave at Rowan University on the 51st anniversary of the Glassboro Summit. (You can look it up, using Google.) When he was done speaking, he asked for questions and there was the usual awkward silence. So I raised my hand and asked about something I'd always wondered. Both Robert Heinlein and Edward Teller had argued passionately for a nuclear first strike on the USSR in the 1950s. Were there similar voices in Russia arguing for a first strike against the United States?

"No," he said. "You had nine atomic bombs for every one of ours. The imbalance was too great."

That gave everyone else permission to as questions and they did. The most interesting response to which was elicited by "Did you ever meet Stalin?"

Well, he said (I paraphrase here), when I was in college, studying to be a rocket engineer, my friends and I went to Red Square for the parade where they showed off all the latest rocketry. Stalin and the other big leaders were on top of Lenin's Tomb, so we jumped up and down and waved and shouted, "Comrade Stalin! Comrade Stalin!" He looked down on us and said, "Hello there."

Sergei Nikitich smiled, then, gestured at the audience and said, "So. You met me, I met Stalin."

Which means that his Kevin Bacon number with Stalin was one. Mine is two. And if you ever met me at a convention or a book signing... Well, then, no matter what your politics might be, you and Stalin have a Kevin Bacon number of three.

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