10/12

It has never bothered me that my birthday is on Columbus Day.  I feel no affinity for Chris and except for the fact that I was born in the United States find no reason to take on any kind of anniversary significance.  It’s my birthday—and the birthday of many others—and that’s it.  I’m not even particularly moved by the celebratory excuse such a calendrical coincidence provides.

Legally, anyway, Columbus Day has been moved.

I’m a bit stunned today.  I went to my FaceBook page and found nearly 70 well-wishes on the occasion.  But I’m also a bit surprised at myself for sitting here now remarking on the day.  I usually do what I can to treat my birthday as just any other day.  There may be a bit of disingenuousness about that, something of a pose, a “oh, it’s no big deal, notice me not making a big deal out it, it’s just my birthday and I’m so cool about it that I don’t care who notices” act that’s mostly true—but I wonder how hurt I’d be if no one did notice.

Here’s a photograph of me taken at the most recent Archon by Elonka Dunin, who very kindly updated my Wikipedia entry.

 

Aside from a few scattered images over the last few decades taken on my birthday, this is probably the most recent associated with the event itself, just a couple weeks past.  I’m a bit dismayed by what I see.  This is not how I thought I’d look at age 57.  I’ve tried, with varying degrees of success, to stay in shape, but there have really only been two things I’ve managed to consistently work at in my life—my writing and Donna.

Plus I never counted on the frustrations.  Who does?  Even if someone tells you at an early age that there will be frustrations, what does that mean?  It’s kind of a null warning.  Frustration is not getting a A on a math test or being turned down for a date for the nth time or being forced to go here when you wanted to be there.  Not the kind of grinding crap that real frustration is.

So I carry a few more pounds  than I’d like, but I enjoy my food too much.  I’m 57 and the other day I ran three blocks with my dog, full out.  Sure, it took another three blocks for my breathing to return to normal, but hey, that ain’t bad.

I wish the beard hadn’t turned white.  I’m vain, but not vain enough to dye it.  Maybe for next year I’ll shave it off completely.  I haven’t seen my upper lip since high school.

I said my writing and Donna.  I’ve got great friends.  I mean, yeah.  My dad always told me that as you go through life you will find many acquaintances but very few friends.  In his case, he has one—his wife.  In my case…

I have great friends.  I have Jim and Greg and Tom.  I have Tim and Bernadette.  I have Lucy.  I have Allen and Linda and John.  I have Nicola and Kelley and Peg.  I have Terry and Terry and Russell and Rich.

But mainly I have Donna, who asks me every year what I want for my birthday and every time I tell her I already have it and silently wish for one more year with her.  I didn’t really know what I wanted to be until I met her.  She is just amazing and I get few chances to say it.  Without her…

Well, you can guess the rest.

Thank you all for your well wishes and kind thoughts.  You’re all amazing and I’m lucky to know you.

 

Without Naming Names

I didn’t really enjoy Archon very much this year.  I hesitate to pin blame because so many things are going on right now that my dissatisfaction could be result of factors completely unrelated.  Any number of them might have coalesced into the hazy funk that seemed to follow me around all weekend.

But there did seem to be a lack of focus at the convention and I was surprised at the lack of meaningful programming.  I volunteered to do two workshops, one on Saturday the other on Sunday, but except for titles and brief descriptions, there was no structure to speak of.  I showed up and improvised and the people in attendance seemed satisfied.  Copious notes were being taken in any case.

I did get to spend time with people I only see at conventions.  A tip o’ the hat through the internets to Selina and Lynn, Vic, Tom, Rich and Michelle, and a handful of others who made it worth my while to show up.

One thing I will say, the convention returned to Collinsville, Illinois, which is about 15 miles from my house.  Not an onerous drive except for getting over the bridge, on which this weekend there were repairs and therefore traffic jams.   The convention facilities themselves are okay—it is, after all, a convention center (Gateway) and it is designed for such things.  It used to be there was only one good hotel there, but a Drury has been added.  The dearth of decent restaurants is a problem.  I don’t consider Arby’s, Bandana’s, Ponderosa, Ruby Tuesday, or  Steak’n’Shake decent restaurants.  Fast food, sure.  But there’s still only one really good restaurant there, Porters, which is fine eating and expensive as hell.  Last year Archon moved to Westport Plaza.  I know there were complaints about it being spread out and the dealer’s rooms were on the other side of the plaza from the actual programming, but it was a cool setting, good food, decent hotels, and…

Yeah, it’s closer to my house, but more importantly there’s no bridge that is always being repaired.

Even so, that doesn’t explain my loss of enthusiasm.  I think I’m just really tired from the last eight months.  I’m not working on anything right now but what I want to be working on, till my agent tasks me with more revisions or something, so I’ve decided to work on the small stack of short stories I have.  Rich Horton was at Archon and pointedly lamented my non-output of short material.  So that’s what I’m doing now.

And learning my away around Twitter.  One more distraction, but I’m told it is necessary for my coming popularity vis-a-vis my career.

Things just seem unsettled lately.  There are reasons which I won’t go into here, but they seem to be ganging up on me.  I’m so easily distracted, I throw my hands up at merest provocation and put off till tomorrow work I really need to be doing today.  For instance, the story I should be working on is staring at my back just now, on the other computer, while I explain all this to you.  It’s a cool story, too, if I can just bring it home.  So while it’s pleasant chatting with you here, and you’re such a terrific audience patiently listening to me gripe about not much, I’m going to hit the publish button and go do that cool story.

But I wanted to tell you about Twitter.  Really.  (See? I’m not a Luddite.)

The Wrong People

The federal government is currently requiring Fannie May and Freddy Mac to sue their business partners—the banks—over the mess they’ve all made together.  This is awkward, because while they do that they are also being required to cooperate to untangle the mess.

Presumably, when all this is done, what it basically means is the government will know who to fine.  And at what level.

Which is basically bogus.  This situation requires major surgery, months in full body traction, and possibly a mercy killing.  All this move does is put another band-aid on it.

 

They’re still worrying about the wrong people.  Investment bankers, mortgage brokers, and such like are not the victims of the current debacle.  Many of them, not all, are the perpetrators of it and once more we’re letting the government run around trying to fix their situation while ignoring the people who are really taking one up the ol’ backdoor, namely the Homeowner.

Something began in the 80s that has done huge damage to the so-called American dream.  We even had a dress rehearsal for the crash in 2008 back then with the Savings & Loan Crisis (remember that one?  Charles Keating and others, including some peripheral involvement of the Bush clan.  Anyway…)  What began to happen was a systematic turnover of housing in a game of Bubble Bubble, Let’s Make A Bubble.  In the heyday of the Yuppie (another old term—remember them?  Young and Upwardly Mobile) it became the thing to do to buy a house, live in it for a while, do a little upgrading, then sell it at a higher price within a year or two and use that money to buy a better house in a nicer neighborhood and so one up the ladder until, from a relatively modest initial purchase, you find yourself in a six-figure house with a lot of extra cash from all your shrewd escalations.  Banks loved it because the turn-over in loans looked good on their ledgers and the price of housing kept going up in these deals.  This came hot on the heels, of course, of the late 70s rehab boom, so for a time the intrinsic value of the properties actually did go up.

But it became a game and the end result was to always inflate the price of the house so you could make a quick profit and lever your way into a “better” home.  This had a couple of unintended consequences, one of which we know about because it’s all over the news, the other not so much because its impact was spread all over the place.

The banks got into this in a Big Way and as the Bubble grew they found they could sell their loan bundles into investment portfolios that were backed up by the increasing large mortgage payments.  But there was a problem.  By law, the side of the bank dealing in consumer home loans was kept separate from the side of the bank dealing in investment banking.  A little law called the Glass-Steagall Act (1933) kept these two things from mingling.

The whole point of Glass-Steagall was to control speculation, which had created the huge bubble which burst in October of 1929 and brought on the Great Depression.  Bankers and financiers have been trying to repeal the act ever since and they’ve whittled away at it over time.  In 1980, the provision that allowed the Federal Reserve to regulate interest rates on savings accounts was repealed and the provision that prohibited a bank holding company to own other financial institutions was repealed in 1999 by the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act.  That opened the flood gates and it took less than ten years to sink the economy.  Why we simply didn’t bring Glass-Steagall back in 2008 or 2009, I do not know.

(Yes, I do, I’m being facetious.  The financial world still thinks they can build a perpetual motion machine if only regulation didn’t stand in their way, so they keep paying large sums of money to politicians to scuttle efforts to enact real regulation.)

Enough of the bubble has been based on housing that we are still fretting over what to do with all those mortgages that should never have been written.

Which brings me to the part of this that doesn’t get a lot of press.  All the people who have been put at jeopardy to lose their homes because the economy is in the tank.  I’m not talking about people who had no business buying the houses they were in, but those who till 2008 were managing to pay their mortgages on time and could have continued to do so had the bubble not collapsed along with everything else.  And that’s where the whole practice of flipping homes comes into range of my ire.

Consider: the cost of housing has risen far more than wages.  It takes a much larger chunk of your income to pay your mortgage than it did in the 70s or the 60s, and I’m talking ratios now.  Between 1950 and 1990, average Real income for a working class or middle class family has gone up by a factor of three.  In that same period, the cost of a house has gone up by a factor of eight.  All this because the phenomenon known as “gentrification” and the financial games played to support it, which has inflated the cost of housing to insane levels.

(Personal anecdote.  The costs have continued to rise since the 90s, of course.  The house that Donna and I bought in 1992 we could no longer afford today.  It’s value has doubled, but our income has not.  In fact, our income has been fairly stable over the last 20 years, which I actually think is the case for far more people than polls suggest.)

You want a home.  You have no intention of playing this game, you just want a nice house in which to live and raise your family.  The cost of that house has already been distorted because you neighbors—not all, but it only takes a few—have played this game long enough that the cost of living in a given neighborhood has gone up artificially.  It’s not the intrinsic value of the bricks and frame and floors and appliances, but the balance sheet of mortgages and tax assessments that have done this, because a few people are parlaying housing into fat bank accounts.  If it only affected the cost of the houses they were buying and selling, it would be different, the risk would all be on them, but that’s not how housing works.  You don’t buy A House, you buy a neighborhood.

So the initial cost of that house is already high but you can handle it.  However, your ability to handle it is based on a growing economy that can pay you a wage that will cover it.  That economy is based on the continual inflation of property values PLUS the value of investment instruments you know nothing about and have very little to do with the physical property, only on the theoretical return on continued mortgage payments on housing sold at inflated prices.

When the bubble bursts, it immediately degrades the resale value of your house, which in current euphemism, puts you underwater.  You now owe more on your house than you can sell it for.

Then the dominoes fall.  Because investments take a hit, the stock market plummets, spending seizes up, banks stop issuing loans, the movement of currency slows to a crawl, and the company you work for contracts.  You lose your job.  Through absolutely no fault of your own, you are about to be foreclosed on because you can’t make the payments.

The economy is in crisis.  The government steps in to save—

The Banks.

Foreclosures proceed apace, but the banks don’t have to worry about eating the bad loans because they’re receiving money from the government to keep them afloat.  Of course, the whole point from the public’s standpoint to keep them afloat is so they will resume making loans so the economy will start growing again and you can get a new job.

But that doesn’t happen.  The bailouts cover the losses of investors, not homeowners, who are pretty much screwed.

Why?

Here’s a thought.  Let’s use the authority of the FHA and FHFA to direct the banks to write all those mortgages off.  I mean it. Tomorrow, if you’re in a house and still owe on it, the day after, it’s yours.

Lunacy?  The banks are drowning in unsalable housing right now.  They are forced to foreclose because that’s what the rules say, but they can’t resell the properties.  By the time they can, the cost on their ledgers will be enormous what with taxes and maintenance—unless they’re not maintaining them or paying taxes, which means local communities take a double hit in decaying housing and loss of tax revenue.  By the time the economy turns around, the banks will have an impossible burden in vacant housing, which they will likely sell off in auctions for pennies on the dollar.  It would make more sense to just write them off.

You then stay in your house.  Without a mortgage, you can afford to take a lower paying job to meet the balance of your needs.  More importantly, once your employed again, you can resume paying property taxes, which your local community can use to maintain streets, schools, etc.  You lose your house, not only will you be a nontaxpaying homeless person, your credit is besmirched and you will have a very hard time getting another loan for another house, job or no job.  The long term consequences of doing otherwise will cost us billions.

But we don’t consider long term.  The banks will scream  “but all those mortgage payments!”  So what?  Clean ledgers, the surviving banks can go back into making home loans to the next generation.

None of which will do any good if the same bubble is allowed to grow again.

We keep listening to the wrong people.  Bankers at that level will never miss a meal.  Homeowners, however, generally do not conduct their finances on that level.  It is grossly unfair that responsible people should lose their homes because someone else has played a financial shell game with housing prices that has now put everyone at risk.

But the banks would go under?  Some of them.  New ones will spring up.  I think we have made a huge mistake buying into the idea of Too Big To Fail.  No such thing.  Size shouldn’t automatically come with special protections against the consequences of greed.

For once, I think private institutions ought to be bypassed.  They broke it once (well, several times) and should not be trusted to fix it this time.  When the savings and loan collapse occurred in the 80s, thousands of people lost their homes.  A couple of financiers went to jail.  Big deal.  Maybe if the investors in those companies were made to take a hit, they would require more rational—and moral—management from their boards.

Not to worry.  This won’t happen.  Obama is proposing we find ways of allowing all those people underwater to refinance.  Heaven forbid average people get a bailout from their government that might actually do the entire economy some good!

Necessary Notes

Couple of things.  One, as noted in the previous post, I’m going to Bouchercon, here in St. Louis this year.  The other event coming up—well, Archon, of course, the first weekend of October, but I always try to be there—will be the local independent bookstores bus tour on October 22nd, via St. Louis Alliance.  I’ll be at the Book House on Manchester Road from 11:00 AM on and then with readers for lunch.  Check the Alliance web page for details.

Today I spent doing some catch-up stuff.  Company left this morning, so I cleaned up a bit, walked the dog, then got together with Scott Phillips in U City for coffee.  Scott’s a great guy and I owe him for hooking me up with my new agent.  He has a new novel out and I urge you all to find it, buy it, read it.  The Adjustment  is prime Scott, quirky, disturbing, funny, and utterly unclassifiable.  (And although I have provided the Amazon link, please buy it from a local, preferably independent bookstore.  If you don’t, I’ll know, or I know people who will know, and once they know, well…)

After that, heading back home, I took a detour to visit a friend I don’t see enough of.  Vicky was home and we spent an hour or so visiting, something I need to do more often.  I’ve known Vicky for mumbles%handovermouth*muffle muffle years and, as with others, time has sort of slipped away and too much has gone by without enough contact.  Yeah, I’ve been busy (and sometimes just in no kinda mood to be friendly with anyone) and so has she, but friends are friends and there’s no real excuse.  If you delay and accept the excuses, one day you go back and find the place overgrown, abandoned, the windows busted, and the door boarded up.

 

After The Sale

 

Anyway, I’m back home now (obviously) and doing some more cleaning up and getting a bit annoyed at myself for being disorganized.  There’s more fiction to write, some music to do, and—at the moment perhaps most importantly—a nap that needs taking.  I can see it, right there, lying out in the open, unguarded.  All I need to do is reach out when no one is looking and take it.

 

Just Getting Up In The Morning

Really, I’ve been up since 5:20 already.  We have company coming into town, so most of the day so far has been taken up with cleaning the house and arranging the guest room—which is at all other times my office.

But I sometimes feel that just being able to get up in the morning and do anything constructive is a minor miracle.  Oh, nothing significant about that thought.  Usually it’s a matter of choosing among several options and then deciding whether I have either the imagination or the energy to tackle any of them.  I often have a period of enervation after completing a novel and the older I get the more intense they seem to be.

I didn’t go to the gym this morning as I normally would have because of the incoming company and other scheduling conflicts.  I’d decided that before I found out about the company, but now I wonder if I’ll manage it Wednesday.  It is too easy to get into a habit of blowing off certain tasks for later.  For instance, I keep meaning to write a new short story (started one yesterday, much to my dismay) or pull out the half dozen I have in rough draft and get them in shape.  As long as there is a novel in process, I can feel righteous about putting them off.  But I have no excuse now other than just not feeling like it.

Not to mention all the things around the house that need tending to.  I do a fair job of keeping up with the entropy, but some things slip by and when I get around to them they have grown in size to unmanageable proportions.  I have to work up to tackling them.  So far, I always do, but there may come a day…

I’m going to Bouchercon.  Since at least two of the projects I have under submission to my new agent (did I tell you about my new agent?  I’m sure I did) are mysteries—though in truth at least half my oeuvre to date has been a hybrid of SF and mystery (I mean, it even says so on the cover of Mirage, Chimera, and Aurora,  an Asimov Robot Mystery), and there are even some noirish aspects to Remains—it seemed sensible to bite the bullet and go to the mystery convention, especially since it’s going to be here, in St. Louis.  The plus also is I get to meet my new agent (did I tell you about my new agent?  Oh, yeah, I did) face to face.

It’s been feeling like this year a number of things are going to get fixed.  All this getting up in the morning has to count for something, right?  But one thing I’ve discovered for certain, and it’s something that had been bothering me—I still love to write.  Since March I have been working long days on two of my novels, both of which have received major revisions.  Hell, the first one was gutted like a fish and rebuilt almost from the bottom up.  But because it felt like it was going somewhere, that something was going to come of it, I dived in and had a ball.  This was important.  I needed to know this, thought I’d been putting off even asking the question.

So getting up in the morning, while still occasionally a pain, has renewed meaning for me.  There’s a point to all this effort and that makes a huge difference.  Good may yet come of all this.

I do need to make better use of my time.  But that’s always been true.  So for now, adieu.  I’m off to make time bleed a little and get some more done.

Down. To It and Otherwise

But not depressed. Just tired. Sort of a twilight feeling.

I’m working on the last chapter of The Spanish Bride, an action/historical mystery/thriller/etc set in the uncrowded days of 1780s St. Louis.  This is about the fifth draft now and I think it’s ready.  Just one more chapter.

 

 

This is always a dangerous point in the process.  I see that finish line and I get anxious, I want it to be done, but the last stretch of a novel is where all the promise is supposed to pay off, so you shouldn’t hurry it up.

It will be fine.  After I finish this draft, Donna gets to read it and then I must go back and fix the things she indicates need fixing.

But I am tired.  I’ve been constantly redrafting a novel—this one and Orleans—since March.  I need a break.  A couple weeks to catch up on some other things.  I have a guest blog to write, things around the house to tend to, more photographs to finish, friends to catch up with.

The image above was taken the night of the Fourth of July.  A pall of smoke filled the neighborhood as if some battle had been fought (which ritualistically it had).  I’ve manipulated it a bit to make it a little stranger.

I’m going to go feed the dog and watch some tv now.

Playing Around

I’m trying another new theme.  One of these days I may build something all my own…or, at least, watch while someone who knows how to do it builds something for me at my direction.

But I like this one, I think I’ll leave it alone for a while.  It’s more in tune with what I like to think myself all about—broad vistas, cosmic scenery, special effects.  Well, maybe not so much special effects, but, you know, skiffy.

From what I have seen so far, I’m very much liking the new WordPress.  Of course, that means I’m distracted.  This is not the sort of writing I need to be doing just now.

I particularly like this feature, inserting images and adding text alongside.  This may be old hat to a lot of seasoned bloggers, but till now I haven’t been able to do it.  It’s more the sort of thing I’ve been wanting to do.  I have a lot of images that will serve fine as accent, but I don’t want them as the main attraction.

It’s Saturday and once again Donna is at work.  Audit season, we don’t see much of one another.  For the time being, that’s okay since I do have a book to finish.  Once I get done telling you all this, I have to go back to the 1780s and get with it.

I finished the first rewrite for my new agent (in case I haven’t mentioned that previously).  The alternate history is out the door.  My door.  She still has to pass on it and tell me it’s brilliant.  Meanwhile, I’m working on the historical mystery, and this week I ran into the chapter from hell.  One of those miserable pieces of writing that has a good deal of parts I don’t want to love, but embedded in a marsh of motionless gunk.  I finally figured out how to fix it, but it requires throwing a lot of what’s already there in the can, and I am loathe to do it.  As this is Saturday and my love is nowhere near (hell, even the dog is out of the house, at the groomer’s), I have no excuse.

So enough.  I have a couple of more studied posts I want to do later—one in particular on the new Yes album, which after three weeks I still quite like—and maybe some more political kvetching, of which there is ample to kvetch about.  But I must end this playing around now and do some serious work.  Really.  Right now.  I’m going.

Later.

Treason To The Future

No, I’m not going off on some political rant.  At least, I don’t think so.  (I was accused recently of using my blog as a soapbox…well, I thought, isn’t that what it’s for?  The question is, how good is the soap.)

At our recent Dante session I was reminded of a quote I’d forgotten all about.  One of the best philosophical thinkers of the 20th Century was Alfred North Whitehead.  I recommend him.  Even where I disagree with him, there is plenty to stir the imagination and encourage new thought.  One of his better books, quite short and to the point, is The Function of Reason.  In the chapter three or thereabouts, we find this little gem.

“To set limits on speculation is treason to the future.”

By that, I read him as meaning that we must be free to speculate about where we’re going, what we hope to do, how we’ll make it happen.  All ideas are welcome, even bad ones, as long as we’re only speculating.  But more than that, it’s kind of one of those notions that ought to go without saying—all thinking is speculation, even problem solving, and to arbitrarily set limits, to say “You can’t talk about that,” is to shut the door on possible solutions to problems we may not even know we have yet.

I’m using that quote in a talk I’m doing tomorrow night in Columbia on What Is Science Fiction.  I think it answers a century-worth of ridicule and criticism toward the form that ought not to have come up to begin with, but which was predictable.  People are uncomfortable with change.  (Here’s a little bit of politics coming up.  Sorry about that.)  When you look at the current wrestling match going in the country—indeed, around the globe—there seems to be one basic demand from people with regards to the problems we face:  fix it but don’t change anything.

Science fiction is all about change.

There are two ways to look at change—as an inevitable force impossible to avoid or as a fate we seek to hide from.  Change is coming regardless, so hiding does no good, but it does do harm, because in hiding we surrender any say we might have in how change happens.  And when you do that, then whatever happens will probably be something you won’t like.

Preparing this talk reminded me why I’ve always liked science fiction in the first place.  I’ve never been afraid of the future.  The future, to me, has always been a place where the best could happen.  It might not, things might go sour, but it’s not inevitable, and even if we do go through a bad time, the future is still there, with potential.  When I was a kid, Today was always pretty much dull.  Tomorrow—and by that I mean TOMORROW! —held all the really cool stuff I knew would make life better.  By and large, I haven’t been terribly disappointed.  In spite of things transpiring that rather annoy, irritate, and anger me, there is much more that I find generally wonderful.

The trick is to be open to that part instead of stockpiling a list of complaints.

Pretty Good July So Far

If anyone is interested, July has been a good month to this point.  I’m working on the line edits of a novel, which I hope to have finished by August, and I’m feeling good about the results.  The new agent is working me and to good effect.

This past week has been filled with good stuff.  We had company for two days, Donna’s sister and her husband, up from Florida, and we ate at an excellent restaurant (The Shaved Duck, should anyone be interested, which I unreservedly recommend) and had good conversation.  Friday night Donna and I went to see Tim Minchin at the Sheldon and that was very fun (with the added pleasure of viewing, in the Sheldon Gallery, a showing of photographs by Larry Fink).  Last night I played at the coffeehouse, something I do purely for fun once a month, and we tried something brand new that came off fine.

This morning we did our Dante group—we’re on Canto X of Paradiso—and that was pleasurably dense.  This after a morning session at the gym where I learned to my pleasant surprise that I’d been pressing (legs) above my all-time heaviest because I underestimated the base weight of the platten.  (Leg press at 810 lbs, if anyone is interested.)

This coming week I’ll be doing a talk at the Daniel Boone Regional Library about the nature of science fiction and spending the rest of the weekend in pleasant company.  We may be watching Game of Thrones, which I haven’t seen yet, not having cable.

Then the following week I’ll be conducting a teleconferenced interview with Ursula K. Le Guin, which I am anxiously enthusiastic about.

I cannot complain about July.  It has been a good month, even if the heat is oppressive (close to hundred today, maybe tomorrow).  Oh, and I received the new YES album,  Fly From Here, which I’ve now listened to about four times.  I think it is fine and I will be writing a long piece about it here, but I have to think about it a little more.

There’s other stuff I know I’m overlooking, but I’ll save it for the end of the month.  Instead of complaining, as I often do here, I just wanted to say things are pretty good at the moment.  Hope things are well with you, whoever you are and wherever you may be.