Long, Lonnnnnnng Titles . . .

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Eek!  I just discovered that I never posted yesterday's blog.  I just wrote it out and saved it.  My bad.



And here it is, yesterday's post . . .

I just popped my latest story "For I Have Lain Me Down on the Stone of Loneliness and I'll Not Be Back Again" in the mail today and it got me thinking about titles.  I've been on an desultory long title binge lately -- "From Babel's Fall'n Glory We Fled . . ." leaps to mind -- because I got tired of everything having short, tidy titles to the degree that there are months when the contents page of Asimov's looks like a row of neatly-tied brown shoes.

Seventeen words is nowhere near the record for longest title for a published short story, of course.  But what is?  Does anybody here know?


Above:  It has nothing to do with today's blog, but since I didn't have anything appropriate I thought I'd share this photo of the ghost of a jack-o-lantern.

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Introducing Hope

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Marianne claimed her Christmas present this morning:  an exquisite gem of a freshly spayed Bengal cat.  There she is, above.  She's been wandering about our house examining everything and taking the occasional break to disappear into a closet and sleep.

She's very small and very beautiful.

It's been a long time since we've had a female cat in this house and that will take some getting used to.  Plus we've never had a small cat in our house and Bengals are only generations divorced from the wild, so the next few months will be a voyage of discovery for us.

You'll  be getting posts whenever I manage to take a good picture of her.  Which is to say, not all that often.

And her name?


Those with weak stomaches may very well want to leave the theater now . . .

 Marianne and I told our son Sean that we needed a name for a beautiful female cat and expressed a preference for something literary.

"That's easy," he said.  "Name her Hope Mirrlees."

Which was almost perfect.  Its only shortcoming was that it wasn't a pun.  So, on reflection, we decided that the newest member of our family would be called:  Miss Helen Hope Mrrlees.  With the accent on the mrr.

Above:  That's Hopie herself.  The picture gives you only the faintest idea of how lovely she is.

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Black Friday!

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My apologies for not getting yesterday's blog entry up yesterday.  I had to be up at 5 a.m. for the traditional electronics-buying binge at Micro Center, spent the day working on the novel, and then went out to dinner with a friend.

But I'll have a photo of Marianne's Christmas gift posted sometime later this afternoon.


And speaking of the American vernacular . . .

Here's an exchange I witnessed yesterday morning, at the diner we always go to on Black Friday after buying electronics:

Waitress:  What do you want to drink?
Sean:  A cola, please.
Waitress:  A Coke?
Sean:  Sure.
Waitress:  Pepsi okay?

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Reasons To Be Grateful

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It's Thanksgiving here in America, a time for gluttony and reflection.  The holiday will be celebrated at my son Sean's apartment, a new but pleasant tradition for us, and there will be all the traditional foods (celery, mashed potatoes, radishes, creamed onions cooked by Dad, jellied cranberry sauce with the can ridges on the sides . . .) that make the meal a true feast.  So it's time to pause and reflect on some small fraction of the things for which I'm grateful:

For family and friends, first and foremost.  For the above-mentioned feast.  For all the joys of culture -- books, movies, plays, the lot.  For having the opportunity to travel to other continents and discover friends in Russia, Sweden, England, Finland, Scotland, Australia, and China.  For still being commercially viable at a time when many worthy writers are losing their publishers.  For living in an age of scientific discovery when every issue of Science News has something worth marveling at.  For living to see Terrestrial life take its first faltering steps beyond the planet.  For living in such a rich world, so filled with pleasures and wonders and experiences that they're available even to me.

And for the fact that when I glanced out the window just now I discovered it was snowing.  Great big clumps of sugar snow sifting slowly down out of the sky.

Happy Thanksgiving Day, everybody.  May you have much to be grateful for, and twice that a year from now.


And on Saturday morning, Marianne receives her big Christmas present early . . .

She couldn't wait.  She's been jonesing for it.  So she's getting it a month early.  There'll be a photo later that day.

Above:  The last roses of autumn.  I'm grateful for them too.

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(Almost) Nothing To Say

I'm working on the novel nonstop right now.  Plus tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day and I plan to spend it doing nothing but eating, loafing, and preparing creamed onions.  In reverse order, of course.

So normally I'd have nothing to say.  But my admirable son Sean dropped by the house a few minutes ago to borrow a few last-minute utensils for the Thanksgiving dinner he'll be making us tomorrow.  And he told us of the following nearly-incredible piece of late-breaking news:

Dick Van Dyke rescued from certain death by friendly dolphins!

Do you doubt me?  Then click here.

And happy Thanksgiving Day to everybody!

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Steampunk Pickles

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I'm back from SFContario and working hard on the edited typescript of Dancing With Bears.  So I'm a little short on time for blogging.

But I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the pickle-electrifier that steampunk fashion plate Kevin Groocock demonstrated at the dead dog party.  Tres stylish . . . and it electrifies pickles in a grand manner.  A couple of people at the party took snapshots of the gizmo in action, which they promised to forward to me.  If they do, I'll share 'em with you.

Above:  Kevin Groocock adjusting his magnificent ionization device.

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Always Coming Home

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I'm on the road again -- only, this time I'm coming home.

SFContario was an enormous success.  I'd thought I would be a great first-con guest because I was aware of how many problems the first iteration of a new convention inevitably has and so wouldn't be offended by them.  But the convention was one of the most smoothly-run I've ever attended.  So they could've had somebody far grumpier for their goh.

Saturday night, at Geri Sullivan's exotic-beer-tasting party (sponsored by every current Worldcon bid and a whole raft of past Worldcons), I sat and talked all evening with Karl Schroeder (pronounced "shrader," incidentally) and Jo Walton.  Which reminded me of an incident thirty-plus years ago, before I had published my first story:

It was at a Disclave and on a Sunday afternoon.  In an hour, we would all be gone, on our way home. There was an airy room, part of the con suite I think, with open windows and big wicker chairs and a gusty wind filling it all.  Gardner Dozois sat on one, Joe Haldeman in another, and George R. R. Martin in a third.  They discussed art and literature and science fiction in an Olympian manner, while we groundlings, gonnabes, and fans crouched at their feet worshipfully, snatching at the crumbs that fell from their mouths.

So finding myself in exactly the same situation with Karl and Jo (who are both smart as a whip!) really brought home to me the circle of life.


And it turns out that I owe Peter Watts an apology . . .

I ran across Peter exactly once during the convention -- and bitterly regret it wasn't a dozen times; he's a very likable and impressive guy -- and apparently he has Google Alerts on his own name because he told me that, contrary to my recent posting that I'd never encountered him, we had met eleven years ago at ConSpec in Edmonton.  Worse, he remembered the conversations we'd had in detail.  Worse, it was clearly a conversation worth treasuring.

I, meanwhile, remember nothing.  Complete strangers come up to me on the street and say, "You don't remember me, do you?" and when I admit this is true, say, "I'm your sister."

What can I say in such a situation?  "Oh."

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