I seem to have abandoned new media for newer media, or old new media for new new media, or however you want to describe it, as can be easily discerned by anyone who’s been following me here as well as on my Twitter feed. I used to make posts on an almost daily basis—44 in December ’08 alone, for example—but since starting to tweet, that’s fallen way off. I’ve only made two LJ entries in May, not counting this one.

Instead of posting mini-essays here, I’ve been using twitter multiple times per day, and letting those updates transfer to my facebook page. Here, for example, is what you would have seen had you been following my twitter feed yesterday while I attended Balticon. (more…)

I’ve probably made more money in the first decade of this century from the reprinting of comic books I wrote in the mid-’70s than I earned during the mid-’70s from the original publication of those comics.

When I started working in comics back then, however, the concept of getting paid for reprinted material was just a pipe dream. The artists and writers could complain all they wanted, but the companies wouldn’t budge. At least not until 1976, when both Marvel and DC decided that they needed to institute reprint payment policies to hang on to talent.

First out of the gate was DC Comics, which issued the following undated memo somewhere between July 20, 1976 and August 10, 1976. (The reason I’m sure of those dates is that I’ve kept all of my memos from the old days, and those were the dates of the memos just before and just after this one.)

Here’s what Jeannette Kahn and Sol Harrison had to say:

A few months later, on December 13, 1976, Marvel came forward with its own reprint policy. Take a look at what Jim Galton and Stan Lee countered with:

Reprint payment rates have increased since then, to the extent that I now get more per each reprinted page than I did for having written it originally. I may not have written anything new for either company since the early ’80s, but thanks to that long-ago change in policy, I continue to get paid. Which is how it should be.

Thanks for fighting the good fight, Pete.

I keep trying to watch this without crying … but I can’t. Aside from the power of the song itself, there’s something about seeing a man once reviled now redeemed that gets to me.

I started the day at 10:00 a.m. at the WGA/SFWA mixer, which tossed the print writers and the visual writers in the bar together with fruit, cheese, and muffins in the hopes that we’d all just get along, instead of starting a rumble. We seemed to behave professionally. No drinks were tossed, and all of the silverware in the room was used for its intended purpose.

I did try to mingle, as the organizers of the event intended, so I tried to stay away from the usual suspects, though that was hard. Who would not want to discover, via a conversation with Michael Cassutt and Craig Miller, that they’d gone to grade school together? The longest conversation I had with any single person was the time I sat with D. C. Fontana (below), and probably bored her to tears reminiscing of the time I got her autograph at the first Star Trek convention back in 1972. She did her best to smile and tolerate me as we talked of the old days at the Statler-Hilton Hotel.

As the event died down, I took a shuttle bus over to the UCLA campus with Connie Willis, Cynthia Felice, Sheila Williams, John Moore and others so we could attend the Festival of the Book. Connie headed off to sign books at a bookstore’s booth, but Sheila and I wandered the massive campus in search of the auditorium housing the Grand Masters panel on which Robert Silverberg, Harry Harrison, and Joe Haldeman would pontificate. (more…)

Based on this entry’s time stamp, I should be asleep, since my head only hit the pillow about five hours ago, but my body thinks it’s back home, and that it’s already 8:00 a.m., and long past time to be awake. So here I am, typing up my thoughts on the first day of the Nebula Awards weekend in L.A.

For me, the weekend started not at the Luxe Hotel, but at the airport, where Jim Kelly and John Kessel, who’d rented a car for the weekend, met me at United’s baggage claim. We were all coming in on different airlines at around the same time, which allowed for us to meet and then have lunch together. We drove to the hotel while comparing notes on two foreign conventions we’d attended—my 2002 trip to Cuba and their recent trip to Columbia. At the Luxe, we quickly dumped our bags, picked up our badges, and headed off for lunch at Musso and Frank, Hollywood’s oldest restaurant.

As John drove, he pointed out various locations in the life of Preston Sturges, whom John had researched for his homage story “The Miracle of Ivar Avenue.” (And yes, after lunch, we did end up walking briefly along Ivar Avenue.) The restaurant was filled with dark wood paneling and ghosts, the latter since Mary Pickford, Edward G. Robinson, Cesar Romero and other stars used to dine there. At meal’s end, in the bathroom, I couldn’t help but think … hmmm, I wonder if Cary Cooper once stood right here where I’m standing? (OK, maybe that was too much information … ) (more…)

Yesterday’s mail brought a copy of Tor’s hardcover reissue of Isaac Asimov’s The Currents of Space, a novel which was originally published in 1952, and which I likely first read in the late ’60s. I haven’t read it since. I have no idea whether it would hold up today, or how differently its story would be perceived by the adult me as opposed to my teen self.

But what I’m thinking most about isn’t any possible changed reaction to the novel, but rather my very different reaction the dedication.

Asimov dedicated the book—

To David, who took his time coming, but was worth waiting for

Isaac’s son David was born in 1951, the year before The Currents of Space was released. When I first read those words, I probably paid them little attention. What teenager would? But I can now imagine Isaac having written the words to that dedication while filled with a father’s pride, and with hope for the future they would have together, not knowing that their relationship would turn out to be a rocky one. (more…)

I received my schedule for Balticon 43 yesterday, which will be held May 22-25 at the Hunt Valley Inn in Baltimore.

All of my programming takes place on Saturday, May 23.

If you also plan on being there, here’s where you’ll be able to find me:

10:00 a.m.: Autographing (with Steve White)

12:00 p.m.: Submission Faux Pas (with Michael Kabongo, Joshua Palmatier, and Angela Render)

5:00 p.m.: Are Short Stories Still Worth Writing? (with Larry Hodges, Tom Doyle, and Robert R. Chase)

See you there!

According to a poll run by The Telegraph, Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird is the most inspirational book of all time.

Here’s the newspaper’s full list:

1. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
2. The Bible
3. A Child Called It, Dave Pelzer
4. Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, John Gray
5. Diary of Anne Frank, Anne Frank
6. 1984, George Orwell
7. A Long Walk to Freedom, Nelson Mandela
8. The Beach, Alex Garland
9. The Time Travellers Wife, Audrey Niffenegger
10. The Catcher in the Rye, J D Salinger

1984 leapt out at me, causing a “Huh?” moment, because I never thought of it as inspirational. Powerful, influential, horribly depressing, sad, maybe, but never inspirational. Reading it, rather than inspiring me, made it want to just give up and slit my wrists. I can accept Diary of Anne Frank as inspiring in spite of its grim story, because she does, after all, feel that “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”

But 1984, which says that “If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever,” and ends with one of the most chilling images I’ve ever read … inspirational?

Not to me. How about you?

In an interview with Annie Proulx in the Spring 2009 issue of The Paris Review, the author of “Brokeback Mountain” and The Shipping News is asked to name her influences.

Here’s how she responds:

I can’t answer that question. I have been an omnivorous reader since early childhood and I suppose the work of all the writers I’ve read has flowed through my brain, and that some of it stuck. S.J. Perelman, Nordhoff and Hall, Kinnan Rawlings, Jack London, Faulkner, Hemingway, Dante, Dorothy Canfield Fisher, lots of science fiction, Vardis Fisher, Graham Greene, Jaroslav Hasek … why go on? Almost every book I’ve read has left its mark. And I think it silly to look for influences.

As much as I admire Proulx, I have to say this ticked me off.

Non-SF authors get named, but any SF writers she might have read get lumped together as “lots of science fiction”? Yeah, that sci-fi stuff is indistinguishable. Octavia Butler and Robert Heinlein? Can’t tell them apart!

I’d like to have learned the names of the specific writers. But no.

Sigh …

Am I overreacting yet again? I think not, but then, that’s what you’re all here to let me know.

In response to my entry about a famous comic-book image used by poet John Ashbery in one of his collages, rtbinc wrote to point me toward a New York Times article from September about Ashbery’s artwork, which includes other examples of him making use of comic art.

You can see the most obvious one below.

In this instance, the origin of the art is at least more directly acknowledged. Here’s what Holland Cotter wrote about this particular piece:

The insouciant Pop-ish sensibility in some pieces owes a debt to Mr. Brainard’s brilliant collage work, as in Mr. Ashbery’s “Diffusion of Knowledge,” with its pair of all-American comic-strip superheroes mounting a spirited defense of the Smithsonian Institution castle in Washington.

That’s Fighting American to the left and the Guardian to the right, both created by Joe Simon and Jack Kirby. Here’s what those characters look like in their natural habitats:

I’m afraid I can’t point out the exact panels or covers from which Ashbery took his images. Can you?