Y'all may remember my previous rant about how I almost got into it without some who said that YA was a reading level and not a genre?

Well, it has been percolating in my brain all that time. For one thing, I still think I'm right that it's a genre and not a reading level. Secondly, I thought I remembered my editor at Flux saying something of the sort way back when - one of the 8,000 reasons I am fond of him. Anyway, I seemed to recall it being on the website somewhere and ah HA.

Andrew Karre, YA editor at Flux, agrees with me: "Flux is an imprint dedicated to fiction for teens, where young adult is a point of view, not a reading level."

Take that, nameless bookstore dude!

I dreamt this morning that I had wandered into a huge auditorium in which all the chairs were arranged in a circle, planetarium style. In the center of the room, Steven Spielberg and George Lucas were sitting in a circular pit, which, at the proper time, would be covered by a dome, onto which at the right time they'd project one of their favorite films.

They said they were going to screen Lassiter, a title which in the dream meant nothing to me, but which upon waking I see is a 1984 movie starring Tom Selleck. I've never seen it, but based on reading about it, I can't imagine it being anyone's favorite film. In the dream, however, that's exactly what Spielberg and Lucas were going to show us, only they never explained why, and I never questioned their choice.

A handsome man was sitting on the lip of the pit, dangling his feet. As I looked at him, I somehow knew he was an actor, but I couldn't quite recognize him, perhaps because his features kept morphing.

"You're George Peppard, aren't you?" I asked, but as soon as I did, his face changed, and he shook his head.

"Oh, I see, you're Dirk Benedict," I said, and for a moment he was, but then that face, too, was gone.

Then I saw that he was really Mark Hamill. This time, when I called him out, the face remained, and he sighed, shrugged with "you got me" body language, and asked me "What do you want to know?" in a suffering tone, as if he was weary of public interactions. When I told him that I didn't need anything from him, he seemed surprised.

But then, as eerie music welled up in the background, I told him, in a threatening tone of voice, that I wanted him to give me one fact that no one else knew, and as I started walking closer, he screamed and fell to the ground, because it suddenly became apparent that in the dream I was a collector, though not of books or DVDs or autographs, but of information that could be mine alone, and that once I got that one never-before-shared fact from him, he would have to die, so that he could never give it away to anyone else.

And then I woke and scribbled this all down.

I sense a story seed in the concept of such a collector ...

I've just learned that Thomas M. Disch, author, teacher, editor, and poet, has passed away. He is the second instructor I had at the Clarion Science-Fiction Writing Workshop to have died in the past few weeks, having been preceded by Algis Budrys. In addition to having both been teachers of mine, Tom and Ajay were bound together in another, far more intense way, as can be seen by the recent posting in which Tom wrote of Ajay, "I was certain I would beat him to the exit, but no I get to dance on his grave," an eerie sentiment to reread in light of this new context.

I can no longer remember when I read my first Disch, but I can very much remember when I read my favorite Disch. It was in the pages of Terry Carr's 1967 Ace Books anthology New Worlds of Fantasy, which reprinted "The Squirrel Cage." The story begins:

The terrifying thing—if that's what I mean—I'm not sure that "terrifying" is the right word—is that I'm free to write down anything I like but that no matter what I do write down it will make no difference—to me, to you, to whomever differences are made. But then what is meant by "a difference?" Is there ever really such a thing as change?

We learn that our narrator is locked in a small, windowless room. He has no memory of how he got there or why he is there. Perhaps he volunteered for an experiment. Perhaps he's the sole survivor of the human race, Perhaps he's being studied by aliens. All he knows is that time is passing while the only things he has with which to entertain himself are the copies of the New York Times which keep showing up in the room.

And a typewriter, with no platen. He cannot see the results of his typing, and so he imagines that his words appear outside his room, perhaps like a news ticker in lights scrolling across the side of a building as crowds watch. We experience his despair as one day blends into another, and he struggles to stay sane and survive. The story ends with:

"Terrifying?"

It's not terrifying. How can it be? It's only a story, after all. Maybe you don't think it's a story, because you're out there reading it on the billboard, but I know it's a story because I have to sit here on this stool making it up. Oh it might have been terrifying once upon a time, when I first got the idea, but I've been here now for years. Years. The story has gone on far too long. Nothing can be terrifying for years on end. I only say it's terrifying because, you know, I have to say something. Something or other. The only thing that could terrify me now is if someone were to come in. If they came in and said, "All right, Disch, you can go now." That, truly, would be terrifying.

I was only 12 when I read this story, and it made an immediate existential impact on me. It apparently had the same affect on many others. When I went to Clarion in 1979, primarily because I wanted to be taught by Tom, I started to tell him how much a certain story had moved me. He instantly knew which story I'd meant. People were always coming up to him to tell him how much that particular story had changed their lives, including one woman who had memorized the entire tale. I never went quite that far, but Tom did change my life.

While at Clarion, he told me things which had they been said by anyone else, I might not have heard. But getting critiqued by Tom was like getting hit by a 2"-by-4". He got my full attention. I left my one-on-one with Tom stunned, but as soon that critical concussion wore off, I put what he taught me into practice.

I loved his short stories such as "Descending" and "The Roaches, and his novels such as Camp Concentration and On Wings of Song, and ... well ... I wouldn't be who I am today without both them and him.

When I first read though The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, one of the entries I immediately paged to was Tom's. There I came across the following words written by John Clute:

Because of his intellectual audacity, the chillingly distant mannerism of his narrative art, the austerity of the pleasures he affords, and the fine cruelty of his wit, Thomas M. Disch has been perhaps the most respected, least trusted, most envied and least read of all modern first-rank SF writers.

And though that sort of description might put off those of you who dream of bestsellerdom, when I read those words, I immediately thought, if anyone could ever honestly describe my work in that way, I would be happy. It would be enough. I have no idea what Tom thought of that write-up, but I hope that he, too, was pleased.

And now he's suddenly gone, with a new novel just out, and having blogged as tomsdisch just a few days ago. I'm stunned, and saddened, and not sure what else to say, other than to repeat these words from "The Squirrel Cage":

"All right, Disch, you can go now."

I just updated my website to reflect my blurbs and . . . wow . . . I look like a real author. (feel free to go and heckle my graphic design)

What's weird is that Flux is going to be talking about title/ cover details for BALLAD this month. You know, the one I just handed in last week? Freaky!

Let me get his out of the way first:  Last night I got an e-mail from Rob Sawyer, and I don’t think he’ll mind if I quote it directly here:

“Oh, and think about STANLEY SCHMIDT when
 doing your Hugo voting. This is his
 THIRTIETH ANNIVERSARY as editor of ANALOG.
 In every one of those years, ANALOG has been
 the world's number-one best-selling
 English-language SF magazine, and Stan has
 been nominated every year for the
 best-editor Hugo, but has never won.”

I ditto this.  The Hugo ballot is due tomorrow.   Stan is a terrific editor and we fans need to give him that Hugo!



Last night Geoff and I went to see The Happening.

I’m a big M. Night Shyamalan fan, and not just because I won a Nebula the same night he won for The Sixth Sense.  Shyamalan’s detractors ( if you Google his name or the titles of any of his movies you’ll find them, alas) can’t quite put their finger on what they don’t like, so I’ll put it in a single phrase:  he’s not slick.

And that’s just what I like about him.

Shyamalan decided early on to emulate older, pre-special-effects story telling values, and it shows in his films.  It’s well known that he loves Hitchcock.  Like Hitchcock, his movies are each based on a disquieting premise that has nothing to do with the number of different ways you can film deafening car crashes or trace the path of a bullet or morph somebody’s head into a tiger’s.   They have to do with messing with our heads.

Somebody (tell me who?) said writing is a form of telepathy.  The writer creates an image, and with a relatively small number of words, plants that image in the reader's head.  The image may be twisted or altered, but those alterations fit the experiences and psychology of the reader.  Telepathy.

And when Shyamalan does the telepathy trick, when he messes with our heads, the result is naive, fresh, authentic.  It’s about the story.  It’s about the effect the premise has on the characters.   It’s not about how you can twist events to show a giant tree eating people or a field of monstrous corn with fangs.

Frankly, my favorite of his films is not The Sixth Sense, as powerful as I found that one.  It’s The Village.  At one point, the monster is glimpsed out of the corner of the camera’s eye, and you say, “But that looks so fake.”  The point is, it is fake.  The Village is about technology and about a refusal to participate in the madness of the modern world, and about the sacrifices people are willing, or not willing, to make to escape.

I know he got panned for Lady in the Water, but I think detractors were missing the point.  The contrast between the tawdry apartment building with its cheesy landscaping and unglamorous tenants  (he loves middle American settings and faces, particularly Pennsylvania and people who look like they live in Pennsylvania) on the one hand and the inner fantasy of the story on the other is striking.  It’s true, the special effects are outwardly not convincing.  The shabbiness of the setting is a foil. The inner reality, created through the illusion of storytelling, is what matters.

I was also quite fond of Signs, and in fact it inspired me to write a crop-circle story (Ewaipanoma, though my crop circles are only peripheral).   Again, Shyamalan uses the magician’s trick of what is not seen.  He doesn’t bother with pretty talking robotic animatronic aliens, because that’s not the point.  We can summon better aliens up from our dreams.

But I also am mulling over The Happening and thinking it may be my new favorite.  Special effects here?  A bit of stage gore here and there, nothing you couldn’t do with a prosthetic makeup kit like those my students used  back at Kent Trumbull theater.   A car crash.  A couple crash dummies filmed from a distance.  Trees and high grass waving in the wind.  The real special effects are all inside.  What drives a normal man to suddenly take a commonplace piece of power equipment and end his life in a hideously painful and wryly ironic way?  It’s in your head.

Yes, yes, his dialog sometimes seems a bit too expository.  But if the point of a movie is what happens between your ears instead of what happens in the CGI lab, maybe you need a bit more exposition.

So, I love Shyamalan as a creative genius, just like I love the Coen brothers and Paul Thomas Anderson and David Lynch and Sergio Sanchez.  They aren’t slaves to the mainstream.  They’re trying to do something else. 

And that something else is: get us to think scary thoughts.

The hotel block closes today (July 6). Reserve one of the remaining rooms at the convention rate.

Hugo voting closes tomorrow (July 7). Your ballot (electronic or hard copy) must be received in Seattle no later than midnight PDT on July 7. You must be a Denvention member to vote and you must have your PIN to vote online.

I see that everyone from Cherie Priest to Cory Doctorow to William Gibson has already blogged this, so I'm not sure how much more my spreading the word can help, but albionidaho reports that four Clarion West students had their laptops and some other things stolen. But really, they're writers at a workshop, so it's about the laptops. They have loaners for now, and Clarion West is taking donations to help defray the cost of replacement.

ETA: It appears that the cost of replacements has been met. But I'm sure that any donations to help Clarion West continue their work in general will be welcome.

raecarson and my oldest told me this story (which is a direct result of this post a couple days ago) makes little or no sense. I won't say which one was little and which one was no. Like the Monkeycon stories I wrote a few years ago, I suspect it is full of references that only amuse me. Nevertheless, I give you:

( The Cross-time Accountants Fail to Kill Hitler Because Chuck Berry Does The Twist )

Good Evening,

As part of our ongoing effort to streamline member services and make SFWA a more functional and flexible organization, I'm pleased to announce that Steven H. Silver has been appointed as the SFWA Events Coordinator.

Steven H Silver has several years of con-running experience, including working as programming chair for Chicon 2000 (WorldCon), and has chaired two Windycons and the first Midwest Construction, a con devoted to con-running. In 2004, Steven served as the liaison from Noreascon IV to SFWA and the following year he helped run the 2005 Nebula Award Weekend in Chicago.

Steven has served on the Nebula Award jury four times, twice on the short fiction jury and twice on the novel jury, including a current stint as the chair of the novel jury.

Steven founded the Sidewise Award for Alternate History and has been nominated for the Hugo Award nine times, eight times as Best Fan Writer and once for Best Fanzine.  He has sold two short stories, and runs ISFiC Press.

In addition to ensuring that SFWA Events such as the Nebula Award Weekend and the SFWA Suite at WorldCon operate in a successful manner, Steven will also be helping to establish a SFWA-presence at other conventions and ensuring that future administrations have all the records necessary to continue building these events successfully. I'm really thrilled to have him on board and am looking forward to working with him in the coming months.

Cheers,

Russell Davis

 I have two memberships for sale, I would like to sell both together, via paypal. I paid $175 each but will sell both for $300. We have a work conflict and cannot attend. Let me know.

This story, which appeared in the June issue of Realms of Fantasy, picked up a Nebula nod. Only nine more to go!

If you’re a member of SFWA, and you’d like to give the story a read, you can do so here.

Comments? Link

Long time Science Fiction fan Bruce Dane had an accident June 2 which has left him paralyzed from the neck down. He's had surgery on his neck and we are hoping for a lot of recovery, but it will be a lot of work and a long haul to get there. He is currently in ICU at Porter Hospital in Denver.

There will be a benefit concert on July 19th to help raise money for medical and future living expenses. The concert is being held at Soda Springs park in Manitou Springs Co. If you can't make it and would like to donate you may go to http://www.boomerbox.com .We'd love to see you there.

I will answer what questions I can. I am no longer on the newsgroup RASFF; someone may wish to post this information there as well.

I have a hotel room available at the Crowne Plaza.  Non-smoking for five nights.  Check-In: Wed 6 Aug 2008 at 04:00 PM & Check-Out: Mon 11 Aug 2008 at 12:00 PM.  $129 a night.  Is anyone interested in taking this off my hands?

Life just doesn't play fair sometimes and now I can't go.

Taking bids up to July 13th, Cash or barter for interesting stuff.
I'm into steampunk and hard SF.

Attending Membership only.

http://www.sfnovelists.com/2008/07/05/for-the-love/

I had found myself in a strange place.

For some years now I have been writing to contract. It was a heady thing - someone BOUGHT my stories before they had been written, somebody paid me advances for dreams yet undreamed. There was an exhilaration to it - and there were two other things, too. One was the hobble of tight deadlines, of the pressure to produce the books that I had been contracted to write, the danger that if I let the wings of my imagination spread too wide and fly me too far I might land in dangerous places. The other was a strange security, the fact that I knew that there was a contract in my drawer with my name on it and the publisher’s name on it and it promised to pay me a certain sum of money I could count on, could live on.

But then I found myself in that strange place.

For the first time in five years or so, I am currently NOT under contract. The jury is still out on a couple of projects and proposals which are out there exploring the universe - but nothing is signed, sealed, or indeed delivered. And because I can’t NOT write, I started on the next project anyway. And found myself stalling over and over again, starting every new chapter was like starting the whole novel all over again, I was writing a story and all I could think about was the contracts - will this thing sell? Will it be published? Will there be  a new contract under my pillow…?

And it got in the way of the story. In the worst way.

And my husband said, “When you wrote “Jin Shei” - your biggest book ever - you wrote it for the love of it, for the fun of it, because you had a story that needed to be told. You didn’t have a contract then. Go back to that. Write for the love of it. Forget what comes after.”

So I did.

I closed the book of contracts and the frustrations of the potential publishing process.

I opened the book of Story once again.

I wrote twenty thousand words in five days, four chapters’ worth of story, *and they were good*. I am extrapolating into the story’s future, figuring things out as I go, just as I did in the heady days of writing “Jin Shei”. I am writing a story that wants to be told.

I’m back on the Island of Faith; I’m writing because I believe. We’ll cross the bridge back to the Practical Mainland of Publishing when we’re ready, my story and I.

In the meantime, I am writing. For the love of it.

albionidaho reports laptops and other items stolen yesterday from students in one of the Clarion West houses. Not a happy Fourth for them. I can only imagine how that would affect the Clarion experience for the theft victims, especially if there was work-in-progress on the machines. What can you do to help? See her post for more info.

Several weeks ago, after Bill Shunn posted photos from his Clarion class of 1985 in the wake of Algis Budrys' death, I bemoaned the fact that—as far as I know—no photos exist from my own Clarion year.

Then I remembered that I do have one image that reflects how I looked as a member of the Clarion class of 1979, but it isn't a photograph—it's a portrait done of me by my classmate Barb Rausch. [Click on the image at right to view it at a larger size.]

After Clarion, Barb went on to become a well-known comic-book artist, drawing Katy Keene for Archie and Barbie for Marvel. Unfortunately, Barb passed away in 2001. She's the only member of my class to have died ... I think.

Not only did she draw me at Clarion, Barb also drew on me, as she painted the fake tattoos I sported when I dressed as a Hell's Angel for our '60s party.

So—the class of 1985 has photographs, while the class of 1979 has pencil drawings. I guess this means that if we query the class of 1968, we'll discover that all they have to remember their year are carvings on stone tablets!

I hope y'all are having a good 4th of July -- blowing things up, eating slaughtered cows, dancing around bonfires with lots of face paint, etc.

My Friday fiction (fun demon action!) is up at Merry Sisters of Fate. I thought of it while I was sitting in the parking lot of Walmart today. I think that either says something about Walmart or me.

As many of you know, I am planning on walking about the reformatted mole-hills in the vicinity of the Denvention; I hope to wander to the top of at least one or two 14K foot mole-hills, though I am not so enthusiastic about meeting a fourteen thousand foot mole.

I gather that bears can be a problem. I have seen recommendations either to ties bags up in a tree (a problem if no convenient trees are around) or use a "bear-proof" container.

What is a "bear-proof" container? Has anyone used such a container?

Bears are generally very strong and have been known to rip apart people. How can a portable container do any better?

Another suggestion is to bring along food with little or no smell.
What foods fall in this category?

While I was not planning on hiking with lutefisk and gorgonzola sandwiches spiced with garlic, I am trying to plan my meals.

Man overboard is kissing woman overboard. Our rescue boat is starboard. The guy with the arrows is being pulled in at port....

Ever had one of those weeks? You'll know where I'm coming from, then.

There's been very good stuff and very bad stuff. I'll leave the family stuff unsaid, because it isn't mine to talk about in public, but it's there and some of it hits hard. My stuff, however, is mine to tell. I'll tell you the worst bit of the bad stuff and the best bit of the good stuff.

Worst bad bit:

Fell over the dog in the dark on Wednesday night. Jacob was sleeping sweetly in the hallway to the North Wing, where it turns a corner outside Bev's bedroom door. I was taking a break from writing when Heather called out to ask for a snack, so I walked down there carrying a big mug of blackcurrent juice in one hand and three digestive biscuits in the other. Didn't bother to turn the light on because I thought I could see okay with the faint glow from the living room behind me.

Wrong. I was already in mid-air before I realised there was a problem. Jacob had skittered out from under my feet when I tripped over him, heading in the only direction open to him - which was back the way I'd come from - and effectively whipping my feet right out from under me.



Stupid instinct kicked in and I held onto the drink and biscuits rather than dropping them to free my hands. I fell very heavily. Smashed Bev's door open with my face and crunched my right knee and elbow hard on the slate floor.

Heather and Bev cried out in alarm as they ran to help me, and Janette and Jackie came running too. I was actually crying out in pain, and shock set in quickly. We got me upright and back into the living room, where Jackie applied a bag of frozen peas to my rapidly swelling knee and Heather fed me hot fruit tea and a marmalade sandwich.

Took about half an hour before I recovered enough to monitor the damage. The knee and elbow and head gave the sharpest pain and shouted "urgent!" loudest, but the deep ache coming from my right hip up to my shoulder blade seemed more important.

My doctor is calling sometime today to examine me. His visit was already scheduled, because there's some deep and unpleasant ache living in my tailbone, so that's good. We haven't mentioned the new damage to him yet. :D

Best good bit:

Lovely people are talking to me on my new blog! I published my first proper post there this morning: First, write your novel.

:)