My short story “The Awful Truth About the Circus,” which appeared last year in the anthology Zencore!, has just been reviewed at the site The Future Fire. (Actually, I’m not entirely sure exactly when the review was written and published, as it’s undated and was only just pointed out to me now.)

The reviewer, credited as “The Exploding Boy,” had this to say:

“The Awful Truth About the Circus” and “Red Velvet Dust” are both excellent, well-written stories, nimbly capturing what magical realism is all about, turning the reader’s eye inward to the human condition, describing hope and loss with delicate brush strokes.

Thank you, Exploding Boy, whoever you are!

Catching up on recent unread editions of the Washington Post Book World, I came across an interview with Tobias Wolff which accompanied the review of his new collection, Our Story Begins: New and Selected Stories. As is sometimes the case, I found the questions to be as interesting as the answers.

Interviewer Daniel Asa Rose asked Wolff the following in the April 13 issue:

I’ll bet you’re sick of the term “dirty realism”—first applied to you and fellow writers Raymond Carver, Richard Ford et. al., by Bill Buford in Granta in 1983.

When Wolff replies that he doesn’t know what that term means, the interviewer explains:

To me it means martini drinkers writing about beer drinkers: the fascination certain middle-class authors have for working-class characters.

I was glad to see that Wolff had never heard of the term, since I had never heard of the term. I understood the school of writing practiced by Carver, Jayne Anne Philips, and others to simply be referred to as “minimalism.”

Need I be embarrassed by this hole in my knowledge? Raise your hand if you’re also unaware of this literary distinction.

Or am I the only one?

I was so busy attending (and recovering from) the 2008 Nebula Awards weekend that I failed to mention that the June 2008 issue of SCI FI magazine went on sale last week.

In addition to our cover feature on Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, we also spotlight the films Speed Racer, Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian, The Incredible Hulk, Iron Man, Wanted, Get Smart, Wall*E, and The Happening, plus the SCI FI projects The Sarah Jane Adventures, Doctor Who, and Heatstroke and Aztec Rex, two upcoming SCI FI Saturday night movies directed by David Kemper. The issue also includes the usual reviews of books, DVDs, games, and more.

The June 2008 issue will be available in bookstores and on newsstands through June 16.

Ads close this afternoon on the August issue, which will occupy most of my thoughts until it heads to the printer 15 days from now.

John Berkey, one of our greatest science-fiction and fantasy artists, passed away Tuesday. He was a frequent contributor to both Science Fiction Age and Realms of Fantasy. (Click on the cover at right to begin viewing a gallery of nine Science Fiction Age covers I’ve uploaded to honor his memory. Each cover can be clicked on yet again to be seen full size.)

His impressionistic paintings had a dreamlike quality which made them a welcome change from the photo-realistic images that many other artists seemed to be aiming for then. But John embodied more than just talent. He was a consummate professional who made all of his deadlines without complaint, whatever his circumstances. And those circumstances were often dire.

Back when I worked at Sovereign Media, I always looked forward to my conversations with John, and almost thought of them as perks. We never met face-to-face, but he was always warm to me over the phone, and we had many long talks, not only about art, but also about the differing challenges life had handed each of us.

During one of those talks, John once segued with a phrase I’d never before heard used in a conversation and am unlikely to ever hear again—”When I first came out of my coma, I … “—which certainly perked up my attention for what he was to say next. John had been dealt some fairly tough hands in his personal life, but he always faced them with dignity and grace.

Considering his many health problems over the years, his passing was no surprise. But that doesn’t make him any less missed.

I just received a review copy of the New Directions reissue of poet Kenneth Patchen’s The Walking-Away World. I’m not sure why, since at first glance it seemed unlikely that I would have anything to say about the volume that would help publicize it. The illustrated poetry inside is a far cry from science fiction or fantasy, and so I’m not sure what the PR department was thinking, since there’s no hook that would cause me to review the book in either Science Fiction Weekly or SCI FI magazine.

Then I read the introduction, since I enjoy reading writing about writing, regardless of the genre. It turned out to have been written by Jim Woodring, the cartoonist of the surreal wordless series Frank. I can only assume that he was chosen because of the parallels between his work and the three picture-poems of Patchen’s which are gathered here.

So the reason I’m sharing about The Walking-Away World is due to an anecdote Woodring shares in his introduction, one which relates to the recent brouhaha concerning the proper way to respond to bad reviews. Since I have no one-star Amazon reviews of my work and therefore can’t respond to this fiasco the way John Scalzi did, I figure this is the least I can do. (more…)

Jack Williamson was born 100 years ago today, and we should all pause for at least a moment to remember the humble science-fiction Grand Master who published in nine consecutive decades.

My own feelings about Jack were laid out in an editorial titled “Celebrating Science Fiction’s Living National Treasure,” which I wrote about him for the March 5, 2001 issue of Science Fiction Weekly. I don’t think that I could improve upon those thoughts now. One paragraph reads:

In a more just culture, Jack Williamson would be treated as the Japanese treat their elders who are masters of a given art—painters, calligraphers, writers. He would be officially named as a “living national treasure.” Jack certainly qualifies as that, which is, I think, a more comfortable thing to be after all than Mount Rushmore. Jack Williamson deserves that honor not just because he has taught me how to create compelling science fiction, but also because Jack has taught me—with his honesty, his endless wonder and curiosity at the universe, his rare ability to continue to grow and change with each passing year where others would have petrified, and his graciousness for the generations of SF writers and editors who have followed him—how best to live a life.

The above picture was taken in 2003, on the occasion of the 75th anniversary of the publication of Jack’s first short story, “The Metal Man,” in the December 1928 Amazing Stories. I’m holding a copy of that magazine, which I’d just had him autograph. It now hangs framed in my office, where it inspires me each day.

I last saw Jack in 2006, shortly before his 98th birthday, and though his body was weakening, his amazing mind was as alive as ever. It almost seemed as if he could go on forever, but, of course, he could not. I wish he could be with us still, continuing to point the way.

Today I miss him a little more than usual. So please join me in missing him, too.

I’d thought I was done with the 2008 Nebula Awards weekend, and that it was done with me, so I started out the morning packing, figuring that once I was done I’d spend the few hours until my airport shuttle working in the room. Then the phone rang and I heard the mellifluous voice of Connie Willis. She was about to have breakfast with Cynthia Felice and Joe and Gay Haldeman over at the Driskoll Hotel, and wanted to know if I’d recovered enough from our feast of the night before to be able to join them.

Never one to pass up such an invitation, I changed into less scruffy garb to be worthy of both the company and the locale. The food was excellent, and was also, in one instance, art. Gay’s waffle was cooked in the shape of the great state of Texas! I don’t know why she was the one so blessed, because the rest of our food was just shaped like, well, food.

As usual, the topics of conversation varied widely, and included House, The Office, Steinbeck, Mencken, Herodotus, Hemingway, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Father Coughlin, Clay Shirky’s recent essay about the true reason for the rise of the sitcom, and more. Then we toured the hotel, where Connie and Cynthia made a new friend, as you can see below.

And that, now that I’m back home, is definitely the end of the 2008 Nebula Awards weekend!

Sundays at conventions and conferences are always lazy days, and this is particularly true during Nebula Awards weekends. With no scheduled programming, Sunday tends to be spent primarily in the bar, hospitality suite, and restaurants, and that was how I spent the day, except for the hours I returned to my hotel room to either work on Science Fiction Weekly or update this blog.

I wandered over to the Hickory Street Bar & Grill with Mike Marano and Laura Domitz for brunch. Mike and I know the insides of each other’s heads far too well, but I’d never had a chance to catch up that intimately with Laura before, which is strange, considering that, as I learned over waffles, we’d been at many of the same conventions in the early ’70s, including the first Star Trek convention. While we exchanged convention war stories, Mike got along so well with our waitress that it almost felt as if Laura and I were intruding, but as far as I could tell, no phone numbers were exchanged.

Between bunch and dinner I hung out with Connie Willis and Liza Groen Trombi in the bar, oohing and aahing over baby pictures (and a video) before Liza headed for home. (more…)

I started Saturday by brunching with the Dell Magazines gang for the annual combined Analog AnLab Awards/Asimov’s Readers Awards breakfast ceremony. I was seated at a long table at Ancho’s restaurant between Connie Willis and Liza Groen Trombi and across from Nancy Kress, Jack Skillingstead, and Trevor Quachri. The food was fine (though only Connie was enthusiastic about the grits), and the conversation was compelling (as usual). What was unusual this year is that we seemed to expend a great deal of energy before the awards were handed out trying to convince Nancy not to steal one of the miniature milk bottles that contained the cream for her coffee.

Though Nancy will try to tell you that I have a larcenous soul, do not believe her—I am the most honest of men. I was merely far more creative in suggesting the many ways in which she could exercise her thieving inner nature. Connie was equally horrified by both of us, however, which raises the question&#151which is worse, the thought or the deed? The egger-on or the eggee?

After brunch, Gabrielle Faust, Michael Marano and I visited two unique museums—the Museum of Natural and Artificial Ephemerata and the South Austin Museum of Popular Culture.

The Museum of Natural and Artificial Ephemerata is meant to replicate the experience of visiting wunderkammern&#151those curiosity cabinets popular in the 17th century which were the precursors of our modern museums—and of dime museums, in which fraudulent fabulations were often exhibited. You could find on display as part of the museum’s Impermanent Collection a taxidermy pheasant given by John Wayne to a member of one of his film crews, a fudge eyeball handed out by George Bush, Sr. one Halloween during trick or treating, and rivets from George W.G. Ferris’ first ferris wheel. The patter offered by curator Jill Hirt during our tour was as much fun as the exhibits themselves. I enjoyed our visit so much that I’m thinking of offering to loan them a key once bent by Uri Geller when visiting the offices of Marvel Comics. (more…)

I began Friday by sneaking out of the hotel to once more absorb at little bit of Austin culture. I decided to hit the Austin Museum of Art, which turned out to be having an exhibit titled “New Art in Austin: 20 to Watch,” featuring original works by local artists.

You already know how I feel about much of what passes for modern art based on my February 20 visit to New York’s Museum of Modern Art, but there were actually a few people whose work I found intellectually stimulating, notably Jill Pangallo and the team of Jen Hirt and Scott Webel, who create as the collective the Museum of Natural and Artificial Ephemerata. Those latter two turn out to have their own gallery here in Austin, and I intend to make it over there Saturday after lunch.

I then returned to the hotel, where I found the following battle in progress between competing Nebula nominees Jennifer Pelland and Mary Turzillo.

We won’t learn until Saturday night whether Jennifer’s “Captive Girl” or Mary’s “Pride” will take the trophy in the short fiction category, or whether one of their talented competitors such as David Levine, Karen Joy Fowler, Andy Duncan, or Vera Nazarian will win, but since I think that literary competitions should always be resolved by fisticuffs in hotel hallways, I have to believe that Jennifer and Mary have the edge. (more…)