I dreamed last night that I was in the large waiting room of a train station sitting with my father. I had no idea why we were there or where we were going. I didn’t know whether both of us or just one of us would be traveling, and if only one of us, which one.

As we waited and chatted (I can remember nothing of our conversation), I looked across the room and through the crowd saw Connie Willis standing and talking with three or four other women of a similar age and type. I got up from my Dad and walked over to her to say hello.

As Connie and I talked, I pointed my Dad out to her. I waved at him, but he couldn’t seem to make me out from across the room, and so he didn’t wave back.

I woke before the dream progressed any further.

I dreamed this morning that I was in a restaurant taking part in a chicken-eating contest with Gardner Dozois. Susan Casper and John Kessel watched on. Unfortunately, the results of our match were inconclusive, because I woke before we arrived at a winner.

In the face of all the dreams I’ve shared with you here, you may ask yourself—does this guy dream of anything else besides hanging out with his publishing friends? Don’t worry. I promise you that I do. I’m a frequent dreamer, and usually remember 3-5 dreams per night. But I only choose to inflict upon you the dreams that seem relevant.

If I shared all of my dreams, you’d really be in trouble!

The Al Pacino thriller 88 Minutes opened today, and though I have not seen the film, the trailer is currently unavoidable. The fleeting face of one of the film’s stars reminded me of one of the many alternate lives I might have led, this particular one the parallel universe that would have been created had I made the decision to focus on becoming an actor instead of a writer.

Back in high school, I enjoyed both acting and writing, and attacked each with equal enthusiasm, though writing was always the first among equals. I was submitting (and getting rejected by) all of the science-fiction magazines then extant, while at the same time acting in school plays. As a result of the latter activity, I was picked to take part in a summer program offered by the New York City public school system—TAPAW, or the Teen Age Performing Arts Workshop. Kids were chosen from all of the city schools one summer to join together to put on the play Fiorello. I was cast as one of the political cronies who sing the songs “Politics and Poker” and “A Little Tin Box.” One of the others cast as a crony was a kid named Bill Forsythe, who I’d never met before, since he’d been attending a different school.

(You can see us both a little more clearly if you click through on the image above right. I’m the tallest person in the back row. William Forsythe is in the back row with his head turned to the right and his hair partially obscuring his face.)

The show was a success, and once the summer was over, Bill transferred to my high school, South Shore High School, for his senior year. After graduation, Bill took off and I didn’t hear of him again until almost a decade later, only as William Forsythe. If you recognize that name, you can already guess how and why. (more…)

I dreamed this morning that I was visiting a group of people who, though outwardly friendly, turned out to be part of an extreme religious cult. When I tried to go home after dinner, I was prevented from leaving. Though I managed to sneak away within the compound and make a phone call for help, whenever I tried to speak, traffic would mysteriously roar by, drowning out my pleas.

When rescue finally arrives and I leap into the car that has come to take me away, who should be inside but Bob Howe, Mary Turzillo, and Resa Nelson, all Clarion classmates (of each other, not of me)!

Thanks for breaking me out of there, guys!

The New York Times reports today on the death of Eugene Ehrlich at age 85. Ehrlich popularized esoteric etymological knowledge, writing forty dictionaries, thesauruses, and phrase books, including The Highly Selective Thesaurus for the Extraordinarily Literate.

But what impressed me the most was that his obituary (and he) ended this way:

Some family members were so used to Mr. Ehrlich’s habit of correcting grammar that some studied up before visiting him. On his deathbed, Mr. Ehrlich heard somebody ask, “To who?”

“To whom,” he said, with a weak voice and great authority.

Way to go!

(So to speak.)

To commemorate the 100th anniversary of Jack Williamson’s birth, which is now just fifteen days away, Haffner Press has published The Worlds of Jack Williamson: A Centennial Tribute. The volume includes many of Jack’s classic stories, as well as previously unpublished tales, a film treatment, and appreciations by both friends and academics.

My new icon today is a picture of Jack and me taken on the 75th anniversary of the publication of his first short story. (more…)

Irene and I moved to our current home in June 2004 and have been planting spring bulbs each fall ever since. Two years ago, we decided that we should celebrate the end of winter with a Thank God It’s Spring Daffodil Party, and now pack the house and garden with friends each April on the first or second Saturday. This year we ate, drank, and made merry from noon until 9:00 p.m.

There’s a bell curve to the rise and fall of the two-month daffodil season, but I always count the blooms the afternoon of the party to see how much progress we’ve made from year to year due to both new bulb planting and intense fertilization.

At our April 8, 2006 party, we had 635 daffodils in bloom.

On April 14, 2007, we had 939 daffodils in bloom.

Yesterday, we had an amazing—

—2,568 blooms! These were two of them, and here are others.

I just finished reading Jeffrey Ford’s novel The Shadow Year, and immediately recommended it for both a Stoker and a Nebula Award. Shortly, I’ll recommend it for a World Fantasy Award as well. But now, I’m recommending it to you.

The Shadow Year is an expansion of Ford’s novella “Botch Town,” which appeared for the first time in his collection The Empire of Ice Cream and went on to win the World Fantasy Award. “Botch Town” was about kids in the ’60s who build a replica of their town in the basement and the parallels that then crop up between that fantasy world and the real world. I loved it. It had me feeling nostalgic for a place I’d never been.

I sensed there was more to tell, and thought that the story was worthy of being expanded to novel length even before I’d learned that Jeff was considering doing so. But at the same time, I was afraid, because “Botch Town” was so perfect, and I didn’t want to see the novel … well … botched.

But I should never have doubted the miraculous Jeffrey Ford, because the novel is as amazing as the novella. I can see no seams from its expansion, no flaws in its construction, no spots at which additional information was clumsily jammed in. I imagine that someday someone will do a doctoral thesis comparing the two, but that’s not for the likes of me. I just plan on enjoying them again and again. And you should, too.

The Shadow Year was published last month by William Morrow.

Here’s another example of how Paul Di Filippo bedeviled the Post Office year after year.

I have no idea who these smiling, finger-snapping guys are—Used car salesmen? Shriners? Madison Avenue ad men?—but they managed to march to my old address in Maryland without delay.

Even though it’s long past Easter by the calendar, it’s always Easter on our West Virginia island, as you can see by the daffodil that just popped by our moai. Though I’ve visited all seven continents, making it to Easter Island is one of those dreams I’ve yet to fulfill, and so I set up a pretend piece of that faraway land about 400 feet out back from the house, just before you get near the area with the bamboo and the Buddha.

As you can see here, the daffodils continue to explode. We had 1,494 in bloom yesterday, he admitted sheepishly. (As I’ve said, I do count them every few days, because I’m perversely interested in the bell curve of the blooming season.)