This weekend, Jim Macdonald and I are going to be at Albacon, in (surprise, surprise) Albany, New York. This will be the first convention we’ve fully attended since Arisia, back in January — Readercon was a bar-and-lobby con for us this summer, for one reason and another, so we didn’t get the full experience with that one.
Albacon isn’t one of your big crowded conventions that sells out its hotel room block within 24 hours of reservations opening up, and then goes on to fill an overflow hotel or two. It’s a pleasantly-sized regional con that won’t overwhelm a newcomer. So if you’re in the area, why not swing on by? Jim and I will be wearing name badges (and so will everyone else) — if you greet us, we’ll say hi.
(Well, I’ll probably squint at your name badge and try to remember exactly where I know you from, because I suck at remembering names and faces. Just say, “I read your blog,” and that’ll be introduction enough.)
Debra Jess’s new Thunder City romance novel, Blood Hunter, is out today. I feel sort of grandparental towards it, because I was the editor.
Links for Blood Hunter and the other Thunder City novels and stories can be found at her web page; they’re available in all of the usual formats.
President Trump, in his infinite fatuity, has decided to call for a United States Space Force.
This peeves me no end. We came up with the idea of a Space Force years ago, in our novel The Price of the Stars, and now people reading our books are going to think we’re echoing That Man in the White House.
Of course, the difference between our Space Force and Trump’s is that ours is science fiction — if not outright fantasy — and Trump wants his to become fact. Or, at least purports to want it to become fact. But I could be wrong. Maybe he just wants a Hugo award.
(Good luck with that. Science fiction fans have already demonstrated that they have more sense than to buy that sort of nonsense.)
This is one of my go-to seasoning mixes for things like pot roast or beef stew, or even roast chicken. File also under “Useful Things I Learned from Folk Songs.”
Scarborough Fair Seasoning Mix
Mix together in equal parts (how big the parts are depends upon whether you’re planning to use all of the mix on your current project, or planning to make a larger batch and store most of it for later):
And a bay leaf (because you always need a sheriff at the county fair.)
Whiz them together in a spice grinder or grind them up in a mortar and pestle, or just mix them together as-is. I like to grind them up because that solves the rosemary problem: Rosemary makes stuff taste delicious, but the little needle-like sprigs don’t soften very much during cooking.
I use more or less equal parts of all four herbs, but there’s no reason you can’t tweak the proportions to suit your own preferences. Store any extra in a clean glass jar with a tight lid.
Or, to be more specific, a new porch. Because the hardships and foul weather of this past winter caused the porch and steps of our house to transition from merely dilapidated to actively collapsing, and Steps (see what I did there?) Had To Be Taken.
So carpenters came and carpenters went, removing the old porch and the old concrete and granite steps
and putting in new wooden steps with handrails, which the old steps sadly lacked, and mending the gaps in the clapboard which the collapsing porch had left in its wake.
Carpenters, like writers and freelance editors, are self-employed and need to be paid, and so they were. Which means it’s time for me to discreetly point to the Editorial and Critique Services link up above, which gives the good word about what I do and what I charge for it. You can also find an informal FAQ page here: It’s Dr. Doyle’s Question and Answer Time.
Also, I’m now a dues-paying member of the Editorial Freelancers Association, for that extra bit of professional gloss.
One of the things I used to wonder about when I read C. S. Lewis’s The Last Battle was that literal died-in-a-train-wreck ending . . . it always seemed to me like a rabbit pulled out of a hat. Then one day while idly mousing around the internet, I found out about the 1952 Harrow and Wealdstone railway crash, a three-train collision where 112 people died and 340 were injured, and I thought, “Yeah . . . for a book published in 1956, something on that scale that happened in 1952 would have still been taking up space in the author’s mind during the writing process.”
Writers aren’t necessarily in control of what sinks into their memories, and they don’t always have a say in how it may bubble back up to the surface later.
Science Fiction’s Hugos would not be what they are without accompanying periodic outbursts of controversy. This year’s topic is the email sent out to nominees for the award, “encouraging” them to dress professionally for the awards ceremony. The backlash from the sf/fantasy community was, shall we say, vociferous and overwhelmingly negative.†
As well it should be. To quote my elder daughter, on an occasion some time ago when I was fretting about the advisability of going out in public with my hair pulled back using a kid’s Snoopy-the-Flying-Ace hair tie:
“Don’t worry, Mamma. You’re a science fiction writer. You can wear anything.”
†File 770 has a summary here — scroll down to item 8 in the entry.
The weather is hot and sticky, and leaves me disinclined to do anything at all, including cook dinner. So cold cuts and storebought potato salad are the order of the day.
We have what I think — based on comparison of its noises with sound files on the web — is either a barn owl or a screech owl living in the messed-up soffits of the upstairs gable window.
There is a black bear wandering around town, eating from the garbage cans out back of the Wilderness Restaurant and showing up in people’s back yards — also once in broad daylight at the verge of the school baseball field, while a game was going on. (The kids were taken inside — a case of “game called on account of bear,” I suppose.)
And something knocked down and tore up our front-yard bird feeder last night.
It’s enough to make one peevish, so it is. Herewith, therefore, a peeve to make your day complete:
Past and passed are not the same word. Past-the-noun refers to an earlier point in time (“The past is another country”); past-the-adjective describes something having to do with an earlier point in time (“remembrance of things past”); and past-the-preposition indicates that something is moving from a point either metaphorically or literally behind something to a point forward of it (“a first-past-the-post voting system.” Passed, on the other hand, is the past tense of the verb to pass (“time passed” or “the winner passed the post in record time.”)
Don’t confuse them; it makes the baby copyeditors cry.
Along with a series of ongoing infrastructure repairs and upgrades (what can I say — it was a hard winter), we’ve finally managed to acquire all of the college decals for our assorted offspring, including the year each at Elms and Rivier that Twin B and Twin A did before moving on to bigger things:
Putting four kids through college is a hefty undertaking under the best of circumstances. Doing it while freelancing is even more so. As my spouse/co-author says, we are entitled to fly our battle honors.