I ran across two intriguing quotes over the past couple of days that have absolutely nothing in common and have no right to be rubbing up against each other like this. But here they are anyway, and make of them what you will.

First, Philip Kennicott, reviewing (well, eviscerating) “The Art of Video Games” exhibition at the Smithsonian American Art Museum for the Washington Post, wrote:

What must a game do to become art? And when will the medium itself begin to look more like the art world than the entertainment industry?

I’d propose some of the following: We’ll know it’s art when old games are as interesting to people as new ones; when particular games play a role in changing the actual world, just as novels such as The Sorrows of Young Werther, Uncle Tom’s Cabin and The Jungle altered ideas of identity and politics; when the best games are richly self-referential to an accepted canon of classic games; and when the contemplation after playing a game is more pleasing than the game itself.

Which to me says more about the fact that the Post should have sent someone else to review the exhibition than it does about the exhibition itself. (more…)

Last night, Irene and I headed over to what was dubbed an Irish Fest of the Future, hosted by Tom Doyle and Beth Delany. Since we were asked to dress according to the theme, I adorned myself with little green men. As you can see in the photo below, in addition to green clothing and a brown derby, I wore Yoda, Braniac 5, and one of those cute aliens from Toy Story.

Also—you’ll note a certain green-haired wench on my arm … one who’s likely to smack me around for calling her a green-haired wench. (Thanks to Karen Wester Newton for the pic!)

The catalyst for the theme was that Tom’s a recent winner of the Writers of the Future competition, and will be heading to L.A. next month to take part in the awards ceremony. So last night, when he wasn’t leading us in singing “Fairytale of New York” and “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” he read the opening to his story.

St. Patrick’s Day may be over, but that’s no reason not join in the celebration now below! (more…)

Remember Richard Wilson? Some of you might, but alas, most probably don’t. Wilson won the Nebula Award for Best Novelette in 1968 for “Mother to the World” (which got him a Hugo nomination, too), and I published his “The Nineteenth Century Spaceship” in Last Wave back in 1984. He died in 1987, and is now mostly forgotten except to the cognoscenti.

John Pelan of Ramble House is publishing a series of books collecting his short stories—the first volume of which is now on sale, and he got in touch with me to see whether I still had copies of the magazine he could use to help in reprinting that latter story.

But I’d hung on to more than just that. I also had our correspondence regarding that and other submissions. So I sent John scans of a batch of letters, including the one below, which teases with information about a collection editor Terry Carr was considering, one that never came to pass. (Carr also died in 1987.)

Ah, the land of Might-Have-Been! That letter is filled with many things which never came to pass.

For more Wilson, keep up with what Ramble House‘s publishing plans.

I received a copy of Kurt Vonnegut: Novels & Stories 1950-1962 in the mail the other day. The book featured a cover photo of a Vonnegut I did not recognize and an essay on science fiction written by a Vonnegut I did not recognize either.

The photo caused some cognitive dissonance because of what was lacking—the curly hair, that mustache … and where was the cigarette? And as for the essay, well, he may have liked SF writers and editors, thinking them a jovial bunch, “generous and amusing souls,” as he put it, but he sure didn’t like the words on the page.

I’m sure I read the piece titled “Science Fiction” back in 1974 when it was reprinted in his collection Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons, but I’d completely forgotten about it. Maybe you have, too. Or perhaps you’ve never read it. But in writing of the science fiction field of 1965, Vonnegut was quite dismissive:

Whatever it knows about science was fully revealed in Popular Mechanics by 1933. Whatever it knows about politics and economics and history can be found in the Information Please Almanac for 1941. Whatever it knows about the relationships between men and women derives from the clean and the pornographic versions of “Maggie and Jiggs.”

Oh, but he doesn’t hate all science fiction, though, because: (more…)

Over at the Night Land Journal, my short story “What Will Come After” was praised as the result of its recent reprinting in Stephen Jones’ latest best horror of the year anthology:

One of the most unusual zombie stories I’ve ever read is Scott Edelman’s “What Will Come After,” which I just read as the lead story in The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror #22 …

“What Will Come After” got under my skin and into my blood faster than any zombie virus ever could. It’s a live human and undead zombie story all mixed together. Actually, it’s more of a meditation on inevitability than anything else. I found it both frail and strong at the same time—all very affective and certainly unforgettable.

If you can’t find a copy of The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror #22, you can always catch up with the story in my all-zombie collection of the same name, either in a print edition or as an ebook.

The review is credited only to “DC5,” so I don’t know quite whom to thank, so whoever you are, all I can say is—you’ve got … BRAINZ!

One thing Science Fiction Age could do during its run that no other science fiction magazines could—since it was a large, full-color publication—was include a six-page gallery each issue, usually focused on the work of a single artist. It was inevitable that the visionary Jean Giraud, better known (well, to some) by his pseudonym Moebius, would be one of those artists.

Giraud, who passed away earlier today of cancer, was a part of the magazine from the first issue. Though we never commissioned original artwork—he was out of our league in terms of paying for anything new out of our budget, so I’d go through his vast portfolio of existing work in attempts to match up pieces with stories that suited his spirit—I enjoyed working with him.

Check out the gallery below from our September 1996 issue as you—as we all—mourn the great artist today.

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I love Bloom County, but there was only one installment of the strip that ever moved me to cut it out of my Sunday paper and stash it away. Looking at it now, it seems even more relevant today than it did when it ran on February 26, 1989.

As you’ll see, Berke Breathed knew all about the 99% long before the term was invented.

I sure wish Breathed was back doing comics. We could use his voice again.

I’ve already told you how the only reason I got my job at Marvel Comics in the ’70s was because of a serendipitous encounter with the late Duffy Vohland. But in a way, I almost lost that job because of Duffy, too. Or at least … I thought I was going to.

Before Duffy pulled me into comics as a professional, he pulled me into his corner of comics fandom. Oh, I’d already been going to cons, buying fanzines, and getting involved in lots of other fanac, but he hooked me up with a bunch of guys who published and/or wrote and/or drew for a fanzine titled CPL—that is, Contemporary Pictorial Literature. If you know anything about comics, you’ve heard of some of those guys, because Bob Layton, Roger Stern, John Byrne, and Roger Slifer all went on to professional comics careers of their own.

Duffy wrote a column known as “Duffy’s Tavern” for that (and other) fanzines, and asked me to fill in for an issue, which I did, writing an essay that appeared in the CPL #8, which featured this spiffy cover penciled by John and inked by Duffy.

My essay, titled “Comic Art: Fact or Fiction?” was written when I was still a fan, and took a very jaundiced view of the creative state of the field. I wrote, among other things, that “There are very few comic books which even come close to what a comic should be.” I sent the piece off, and forgot all about it, until it was published … by which time I was working on staff at Marvel. And upon rereading it, I thought—What have I done? Once Roy Thomas reads this, he’s going to can me for sure!

I trembled for several weeks waiting for the axe to fall, or at the very least for the two us to have an extremely uncomfortable conversation due to my having written an essay which basically maligned most of Marvel’s output. As far as I recall, though, nothing was ever said, either because Roy never read it or had read it but just thought it was too silly to even comment on.

Rereading it now, it occurs to me that though It doesn’t quite express my feelings today, it does basically explain why I don’t like those recently announced Watchmen prequels and why I have no plans to read them. So some feelings never change.

But enough about me. Whatever you think of my essay, I’m sure you’ll find it far more entertaining to look at some of the great art from that issue, including a naked Ben Grimm.

That’s right. A named Ben Grimm.

By none other than the legendary Joe Sinnott! (more…)

China Miéville’s excellent essay on whether racially problematic literature of the past needs to be put in context and how asking for that to be done isn’t the same as calling for censorship makes me recall when I encountered the Australian children’s classic The Magic Pudding … and how it caused me to wince.

Irene and I visited Australia for the first time in 2003, and while wandering Melbourne’s Royal Botanic Gardens, we came across this whimsical statue.

We had no idea who any of these characters were, nor why they were deserving of such celebration. We struck up a conversation with another couple nearby, and soon learned that the quartet was from the Norman Lindsay book The Magic Pudding: Being The Adventures of Bunyip Bluegum and his friends Bill Barnacle and Sam Sawnoff, which Australians consider a work on par with Alice in Wonderland or The Wizard of Oz. So I of course had to track down a copy before we left the country.

Not that there was much “tracking” involved, because it was indeed such an important book in Australia that copies were in every bookshop and department store. So that afternoon, I saw the illustration which had inspired the statue.

I saved the book to read on our flight home, and it was wonderful, all about a koala named Bunyip Bluegum, a sailor named Bill Barnacle, a penguin named Sam Sawnoff, and a grumpy magic pudding named Albert—magic because no matter how much you’d eat him, he’d always still be there, whole, apparently infinite, walking around with extruded arms and legs and a pot on his head.

Anyway, the adventures the four have are marvelous and magical, and I was smiling and chuckling away on my flight—until I got to the part where my chuckling stopped. (more…)

February is dead and buried, so it’s time to gather up that month’s dreams and see whether anything useful comes out of letting them rub up against each other.

My dreamworld visitors included Ray Bradbury, Katee Sackhoff, Chip Delany, Orson Welles, and many other names you might recognize.

And for those who’ve asked, as they’ve seen these dreams flit by over on Twitter, whether I really dream this much … yes, yes I do. I always have, and I hope I always will.

FEBRUARY 2012

I dreamt I arrived at my Jeep with a platter of pastries for Marie Severin to find two guys attempting to break in. So I chased them off. 29 Feb

I dreamt David Kyle handed over to me film canisters given to him by Fred Pohl, which turned out to be experimental movies by Chip Delany. 28 Feb

I dreamt I clumsily navigated crowded dealers room aisles while lugging half a dozen stuffed shopping bags in each hand. It wasn’t pretty. 28 Feb

I dreamt that to escape an island on which I’d shipwrecked, I crawled through caverns in total darkness for days to retrieve a special moss. 28 Feb

I dreamt Irene drove up to the house in a brand new silver Cadillac, causing me to think — Wow, she went ahead and bought a car without me? 25 Feb

I dreamt I was Stephen Colbert running alongside a dwarf in an Uncle Sam suit. My subconscious apologizes to little people everywhere. 25 Feb

I dreamt that, having received an email from Walter Cronkite in the morning and Ray Bradbury in the afternoon, I was feeling VERY pleased. 25 Feb

I dreamt I was The Mentalist‘s Patrick Jane, hosting a seance to reveal a killer. As part of my ploy, the room suddenly filled with flames. 25 Feb

I dreamt my ukulele teacher was also a marriage counselor, and because he double booked, my lesson took place while a couple complained. 24 Feb

I dreamt I hung out with Brooklyn pals, touring the interiors of those beautiful old timey movie palaces which no longer exist in real life. 23 Feb (more…)