Barry Malzberg in Writers' Heaven

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One of Barry Malzberg's most delightful creations was Writers' Heaven, which he chronicled in four short stories. In a bespoke neighborhood of Heaven designed explicitly for Great Writers, former scribblers drink, squabble, brawl, steal each other's lovers, and have long conversations in bars. They behave, in short, exactly as they did on Earth, with one notable exception--they no longer have any desire whatsoever to write. That's what makes it Heaven.

The narrator of these stories was an author who was convinced he'd been squeaked in by some bookkeeping error, because he's painfully aware that he's not of a class with Hemingway or Mark Twain. In an interview, Barry identified the narrator as Damon Runyon. But the narrative voice didn't sound anything like Runyon's and a lot like Barry's. So it's possible to make a shrewd guess who he really is.

I was talking with Barry and Mike Resnick--they were famously good friends--and Barry told me that "Mike speaks with the authority of success and I speak with the authority of failure." Barry tried hard to make it as a mainstream writer before wandering into science fiction and then strove mightily to make it as an SF writer with only middling results. His vision was too bleak, too unrelenting for the mass audience. His critical writings were astute but collectively earned him a reputation as a prophet of doom. He never received the awards, the acclaim, the recognition that he obviously yearned for.

And yet. His passing is mourned by many, many writers--and, I would argue, writers of the best sort. The ones you hope would mourn your passing, when your time comes. He was the best of company, had a dry, mordant wit, and genuinely loved science fiction. And he wrote extremely well when the mood was on him. 

Tonight, I will haul out The Man Who Loved the Midnight Lady, which is perhaps my favorite of his collections, and spend some time with the man. 

And Barry? He's at the bar in Writers' Heaven, telling anybody who will listen that he squeaked in, probably because of a bookkeeping error. All his peers and heroes are there, his pal Mike Resnick among them, and not a one of them believes him. But they listen to him anyway.

Because, like all great writers, he's also a great talker.

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The Parable of the Creche

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It's almost Christmas! So, in one of the most venerable traditions of this blog, I present my yearly seasonal story . . .

The Parable of the Creche

by Michael Swanwick

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.

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 they then displayed was genuinely moving. It provided a welcome touch of seasonality and community to the park.

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.

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.

So the kindly folks of Leverington Presbyterian Church, located just across the street from Gorgas 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.

But did this make us 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.

I was in a local tappie shortly after the adoption and heard one of the barflies holding forth on this very subject:

"The god-damned Christians," he said, "have hijacked Christmas."

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FIVE E-Books Super Sale! One Day Only!

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Okay, this is kind of refreshing. So far as I can guess, Open Road Media, makes most of its sales of my e-books on a variety of sales promotions. Today, I got a notice from them of five promotions, two of them Canada only, and three US only. It's good to see Canada as a peer of the US, as opposed to "and also in Canada."

Anyway, if you like e-books. And if you'd like to buy one of mine. And your dwelling-place and your desire overlap in the Venn diagram of this offer . . .

Well, here's your chance.

You'll never get a softer sell than that.

Friday, December 6, one day only, $1.99 only. Here's the grid they gave me:

ISBN13	Title	Author	Promo Type	Country	Start Date	End Date	Promo Price
9781504036467	Bones of the Earth	Swanwick, Michael	ORM - 1K Sale Weekly	US	2024-12-06	2024-12-06	$1.99
9781504025669	The Iron Dragon's Daughter	Swanwick, Michael	ORM - Rank Boost	CA	2024-12-06	2024-12-13	$2.99
9781504036511	Tales of Old Earth	Swanwick, Michael	ORM - Rank Boost	CA	2024-12-06	2024-12-13	$1.99
9781504036474	In the Drift	Swanwick, Michael	ORM - Rank Boost	US	2024-12-06	2024-12-13	$1.99
9781504036481	Jack Faust	Swanwick, Michael	ORM - Rank Boost	US	2024-12-06	2024-12-13	$1.99

Above: I swiped the graphic from Reactor, which used to be Tor.com. I'm sure they won't mind. Under both names, they've published a lot of my short fiction, which you can still find at Reactormag.com. You should go there and poke around. They've got a lot of cool stuff, all free.

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Ray Ridenour, Artist and Fan

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My friend Ray Ridenour died the other day, after a long illness, the details of which I know nothing about. But it helps explain why I hadn't seen him at conventions for far too many years. It was typical of him that he kept his illness from so many of his friends. H wouldn't have wanted to distress us.

Ray was an artist, a fan, and an eccentric. Even more so than most of the rest of us, I mean. He came by it honestly. His father was a psychiatrist at St. Elizabeth's Hospital and as a boy Ray used to play tennis with Ezra Pound. His normal was not like yours and mine.

Like most artists, Ray had a day job. He spent twenty-three years as a graphic artist for the City of Baltimore before going freelance. His art was all over the place. He created window displays, newspaper illustrations, posters, portraits, and abstract paintings. A stained-glass window he made, of a Tyrannosaurus rex, was displayed at Dinofest.

He also took an image from a photo shoot by Joanne Burke of Gregory Frost, Tim Sullivan, Gardner Dozois, and me and turned it into a poster for The Back Page Boys, "the Original Boy Band of the 20th Century." Which, out of nowhere, he gave to its four principals. It's hung on my office wall for decades. One week ago, Joanne came to our house for a party and was astonished to see it--Ray hadn't thought to ask permission to use her image.

Which is so typical of Ray: enthusiastic, generous, and just a little oblivious. There never was anybody quite like him.

And now he's gone. 

Vayos con dios, my friend. I'm sure the afterlife is much livelier for your presence.

And because I know . . . 

You're dying to see it. So here it is, Ray's Back Page Boys poster:

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