Daryl Gregory

Hey, it seems that a buddy of mine is going to have an interview in January’s Locus Magazine.

Daryl Gregory.

We attended Clarion together, lo some 20 years ago, and Daryl was one of the ones I thought would catapult to the top of the field.  He has the gift, the ability to rivet the reader, and get under your skin.  I highly recommend his first novel, Pandemonium —first-rate stuff, keeps you thinking.  Damned impressive first novel.

Daryl took many years off to raise his kids, but a few years ago I noticed his short stories appearing here and there.  Now the novel.  High Fives and kudoes to Daryl.  I wish him well in the coming year.

Myself, I’m contemplating going back into photography in a serious way.  I just photoshopped my first image here at home.  Not much, not a lot of sophisticated stuff, just cleaning up and a little contrast control and such.  With a little outlay for new equipment I suppose I could get back into it.  Maybe.

Procrastination

The end of 2008 approaches.  2009 is going to be…

Not more of the same, I sincerely hope.  Mea culpa, I am procrastinating.  I watch myself do it.  I’m doing it now.  I’m writing this instead of hammering out the classic fiction of the future.

I have tio admit, since the beginning of December I have been more and more depressed, which is a horrible, downward spiral, the likes of which I haven’t felt since I broke up with a woman I thought was going to be my wife, a long long time ago.  I was a mere 24 then, contemplated ending it all, took a lot of long walks, and came out the other end determined to do better.  A few months later I met Donna and the last 28 years have been a terrific ride with a wonderful companion.

So I know by experience that things turn around and get better.  It’s cyclic.

But you do have to do something to encourage the process, like maybe some real work.

I have been working, but it’s all peripheral stuff.  Procrastination.  A lot of it will end up being useful, I have a limited range of things I do while I procrastinate.

I have three novels I want to write in the next couple of years.  Two of them will be sequels, so writing them would be an act of faith that the first volumes to which they are connected will be published.  I just don’t know by whom.

I finally got a decent scanner, so I can start playing with Photoshop the way I’ve been intending for lo these many years.  (I’ve had Photoshop 7.0 on my system for some time now and once in a while I open it up and gaze at it…)

There is a model kit under my workbench I’ve had for several years now that I want to build.

I went to the Christmas coffeehouse last weekend, something I usually can’t do because there is an annual party we attend that always falls on the same night.  Well.  As you might guess, it was all—ALL—Christmas music, which I have a childish affection for.  But I ended up playing poorly, mainly due to a lack of practice, and, in myown ears at least, I muffed it.

I’ve fallen into a holding pattern, waiting for the world to change.  I know better.

So after I finish this post, I’m going to say a word or two on my MySapce blog, then turn my back on the internet for a few days.  I need to find a groove in my writing.  I need to stop feeling like a failure.

December is traditionally the month during which all publishing seems to disappear.  Editors are not to be found, switchboards are put on automatic, no one does anything much to speak of.  So when December 1st rolled around with no news, I sort of collapsed.  Expectations were once again not met.  I have to wait.  I am not a patient man.  I’ve never been good at waiting.  (I’ve walked away from grocery carts when it took too long to get through the line.)  It took hold for a bit.  Still does.  It’s bloody cold, the sky is grey, and I have no idea what’s going to happen in the next few months.

But I have responsibilities.  O have Center for the Book paperwork that needs tending.  I have to prepare a package by April for the transition of the presidency to someone else.  I need to walk the dog.

Mostly I have to stop acting like I’ve been defeated.  That’s hard.  But easier than watching everything else melt down and drift away.

Anyway, I’m going to fiddle around with getting a new version of WordPress so I can start uploading videos and the like.  I tend to learn a given level of software and then, because I don’t like constantly stepping outside my comfort zone, stick with it long past the time when everyone else has moved on to the new and improved.

I’m posting it here.  Mark this.  I’m not going to proscratinate anymore.  Really.  I mean it.  Cross my heart.  See if I don’t.  I’m going now.  Bye.  For now.  Till later.

Oh, hell.

Thinking, Thinking…

I’m supposed to be reassessing this weekend.  Instead, I’ve being reading, cleaning house, being interviewed for a YouTube video…

That was a bit surreal.  I have no idea how it will come out, but it will get some exposure (pun intended), and since we live in a highly visual time that might be better promotion than anything I actually write here.

Still, it was amusing.  My interlocutor asked a few questions to set the general direction of my rants and let me go.  He intends to edit it down to digestible bits and put up one or two 10-minute segments on Dangerous Intersection.  Mark Tiedemann on History.  Mark Tiedemann on Religion.  Mark Tiedemann on Sex…

I should also have been doing more writing this weekend.  Donna spent the night at her sister’s house, so I had the place pretty much to myself from about five on, and here it is seven in the morning and this is the first scribbling I’ve done.  I am such a lazy ass at times.

Today is the Dante Group.  The penultimate canto in the Inferno.  We’ve moved through this in pretty good time.  Next weekend we’ll do the last canto and then wait till ’09 for Purgatory.  It has been instructive and I will probably, at some point, include some of what I’ve gleaned from Dante into my fiction.  I want to do another Quill story.  Quill is my pilgrim in search of meaning.  The only one of his pieces that has seen print is Chasing Sacrifice, published long ago in the pages of Science Fiction Age.  I’ve written one more since and it’s in submission now, but…

For some reason I’ve always had trouble writing short fiction in series.  A couple decades back I tried it with a character called Mix Sentenni.  Street kid who manages to work his way into the space industry and pull himself up.  I managed to write three stories, one of them a reworking on an earlier version.  One made it into print in Space & Time, the second one got me into Clarion, and the third was an updated, completely revamped version of the first one and sold to Tales of the Unanticipated.  And that was it.  Never came up with another Mix story, although you’d think it would be a great vehicle for further examinations of that particular setting.  Imagination failed.

Quill is my next attempt, but so far…I guess I’d be terrible writing a television show.

The notion behind Quill is to explore religious questions in a space opera setting.  I decided to do them at novella length to see if that helped.  And as I say, I written two.  If I can do three more at that length I’d have enough for a decent fix-up novel.  But…

I have a title for a third one and some ideas are churniung in my hindbrain.  We’ll see.  It would be nice.  But in this case, it’s also a matter of not wanting to grind axes on the page.  I want the stories to fall out naturally, not turn into polemic.  The Dante sessions are helping.

In fact…

Ignorance Rampant

The following is a quote lifted from Charlie Stross’s blog and is pretty much In Full.

We. Are. Not. Going. To. Die. On. Wednesday.

The maximum energy the particles generated by the LHC (7TeV) get up to is many orders of magnitude below the maximum energy of cosmic rays that hit the Earth’s upper atmosphere from space every fricking day. None of them have created black holes and gobbled up the planet, or turned us all into strange matter. Nor have they done ditto to any cosmic bodies we can see, such as planets or stars. Therefore the world isn’t going end when they switch on the LHC on Wednesday. QED.

Joking is all very well, but please, can we not be spreading the FUD and scaring people needlessly? The current climate of superstitious dread with respect to the sciences is bad enough as it is …

As everyone knows we have a presidential election coming up. The two combatants are flinging accusations at one another as to why the other guy isn’t fit to lead. According to McCain, Obama is not only another tax-and-spend Liberal but one with no real experience. McCain is claiming to be an agent of change, despite a record that really doesn’t reflect that. To be fair, he’s been on board with a few bits of legislation that took on some of the more egregious problems in our country, but by and large he’s pretty much just another tax-and-spend Conservative, but one with a lot of experience.

I quoted Charlie’s post for a specific reason. You can search the blogosphere and find many of these sorts of posts, all done in the face of a minor upswelling of panic among those who don’t know any better claiming that the LHC would cause a major event precipitating the End of the World.

My question, simply, is this: why would anyone believe this?

This bears directly on the election. We have many organizations—like FactCheck.com— that take on the rather onerous and often thankless job of vetting statements made by political candidates. Anyone can go look to see which statements are true, false, or exaggerations. There are other sites, like Project For the Old American Century, which have a tally of the abuses of the Bush Administration, with links to sources. The record is there for anyone to go look for themselves and see.

But people don’t. Well, some people do. But I suspect a lot of people rely on the ads and the occasional televised interview to develop their information about the candidates, which is a pretty useless way to do it.

I know a woman in her 40s who does not know that women in this country did not always have the right to vote. When I pointed it out that women didn’t get it till 1920, she was incredulous. She didn’t believe me. I pulled out some history books to show her. Her eyes glazed over.

Next time I spoke to her about it, she had defaulted back to believing that we were the only democracy to guarantee women’s rights from our inception.

The obstinacy of false beliefs baffles me unlike anything else. I recall some friends who supported Ronald Reagan in 1980, said laudatory things about him, but when I bring it up now they look at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. They have rewritten their own history to disclude this embarrassing bit and will not cop to it.

Charlie’s post about the idiocy of people’s fears is very political. Remember the Alar issue over apples? The panic that this substance was on all our apples and that it would kill us spread so fast that and regardless of efforts to provide the truth, there were orchards and packing plants that went out of business because of the resulting boycott of apples that would not have hurt anyone because the substance washed off easily.

People do not understand basic science. Beyond that, there is a lack of understanding of basic logic. Why? Well, for one, it has always been assumed that Common Sense was a natural attribute—and in some small way, a particularly natural attribute of Americans (!) —and needed no assistance from the educational system, when nothing could be further from the truth.

In the introduction to his study of the history of rational thought, Uncommon Knowledge, Alan Cromer states: “I believe that rational civilization, with its science, arts, and human rights, is humankind’s greatest hope for nobility. But like Jericho, it’s but an oasis in the midst of a vast desert of human confusion and irrationality.”

Nancy Reagan regularly consulted an astrologer and often took the predictions offered as grounds for forcing changes of itinerary for her husband while in office. Who knows what else might have been effected as a result?

People like easy answers and quick fixes. The present financial crisis we see engulfing Wall Street is not mysterious. It could be seen coming years ago. Loaning money to people who cannot pay it back obviously will lead to illiquidity of the lender if indulged at too great a level, and that is what has happened. To be fair, many borrowers were openly lied to, the mortgages in question misrepresented. The only thing that might have halted the bleeding would have been if the borrowers, en masse, had had the intellectual tools to see bull shit for what it is. Many did not. Many others did not possess the capacity to differentiate between Need and Want. Of course, that obfuscation is a desired quality in business—many industries make their living on the inability of people to make disciplined distinctions. They would hate it if basic economics were taught in grade school on.

But everyone is acting surprised—and panicked. We are in bail-out mode because big houses, like AIG, are about to go under, and the truth is such institutions, that have been allowed to have tentacles into many areas of the financial garden, are so intertwined with our basic economies that we see it as to our benefit to keep them afloat.

And we do not understand how we got here.

Why not? Do we not understand that all the pseudo-Libertarian talk about Free Markets is nonsense?

No, apparently not.

On the reverse side, people are being driven by panic. The Stock Market lost 500 points. Omigod, that’s a disaster!

500 points out eleven thousand. We have lost our sense of proportion. That is less than five percent of total volume. By contrast, the Crash of 1929 saw the Stock Market lose almost 40% of its value in two months.

Let me quote from the Oxford Companion to United States History:

The crash did not cause the Great Depression of the 1930s. To be sure, the losses sustained by investors and the greater diufficulty firms had in floating new issues depressed the economy. But the Federal Reserve stepped in quickly, lending freely to member banks and thereby confining the crash to the financial system. During the 1930s, congressional investigations uncovered a number of unsavory practices by the essentially private, unregulated stock exchanges. In response, Congress passed the Securities Act of 1933 and the Security and Exchange Act of 1934, inaugurating active federal regulation of the securities market.

Sound familiar? And why did we need regulation? Because stupidity combined with avarice results in collateral damage to those not involved with these matters. Officially, we had 24% unemployment during the Great Depression. It was probably, judging by how the numbers get fudged today, more like 30%. We have 6% now and we feel that we are in a major meltdown.

Granted, for those out of work or on the losing end of investments, the pain is real and not to be scoffed at, but for the rest of us, our overreactions do us little credit. Sound solutions cannot be agreed upon in an atmosphere of panic, and such an atmosphere is fomented by those who have traditionally sought to lead us by the nose for their own benefit.

The regulatory system put in place in the 30s was designed to prevent something like that from ever happening again, and it worked. Why then would we dismantle it?

Because we did. We let Reagan’s cronies undo much of the regulation that had previously protected the country as a whole. We’re paying the price now for Free Market advocates getting their wish. They have turned out to be just as irresponsible as in the 20s and 30s.

But we have been frightened by accusations that regulation somehow equates directly to Socialism, and we have been convinced that Socialism is evil. The arguments which have been used to keep us from being sane and rational about such issues are tissue paper obfuscations, easily seen through by anyone with half a brain, but we as a people buy into them every time. Either we possess profound ignorance or equally profound cupidity. Probably both.

What Reagan began, Bush has all but finished. He has mounted up a debt so high that we must look far down the road to see it reduced to manageable levels, and yet he is lauded as a Conservative by people who ought to know better by virtue of the fact that they are losing their savings and their children’s future to rising costs.

Why would they believe it? It is, simply, the same mentality that leads them to accept the Chicken Little warnings about the Large Hadron Collider without question. It is easy to go find the answers to these questions, but answers are not sought. Because it seems that as a people we are trained not to look or, worse, not to trust a rational explanation. It is easier to live in constant panic-mode and hope the next guy in office will fix it all, so we can go back to our thoughtless lives.

When I was a little kid I remember looking at the exhaust from a factory and asking my dad where all that smoke went. “It just dissipates into the atmosphere.”

“But won’t the atmosphere fill up some day?”

“No, the world is too big for that.”

I was four or five. I accepted the answer, because I trusted my dad. He was an adult, after all, and adults didn’t do stupid things like children did. Now I look on that and see that my innate curiosity and skepticism was at work even then. His answer never satisfied me, but there were other things to do, so I trusted him and let it slide.

Collectively, we tend to be that way. Occasionally we ask “What about that?” and some “adult” pats our head and tells us not to worry, everything will be fine.

I grew up expecting adults to be rational. People did stupid things in the past, but supposedly we had learned not to do those things. I was too young then to realize how stupidity clings to people.

Forgive me if I use words like Stupidity and Moron. I am 53, almost 54, and I have lost all willingness to cut people slack anymore. When I walk into a convention hall filled with dealers in books and movies and jewelry and the fake ephemera of fantasyland (I’m talking about a science fiction convention now) and I see someone purporting to take pictures of your “Aura” (as in Kirlian Aura) with a device that supposedly “spikes” the aura by electricity shunted through one’s body while seated in a chair resembling a bad device from a Frankenstein movie, I get annoyed. When I see people lining up to buy said photos, people who really, I think, ought to know better, I get angry. The charlatan makes a living, the public is gulled, and the one who points out the bull shit is reviled by all.

We have no patience, it seems, for reasoned discourse, for examination of issues, for anything that would prompt us to take responsibility for our own ignorance. I speak collectively now, for I do in fact know many people who do not see the world this way, but it seems they are always and everywhere too few.

If the LHC had been built in this country, I fear that some court injunction would have been placed to prevent it from being turned on by some group convinced that it would result in a hole right through the Earth. We are saved from such silliness because the device is in Europe, where the courts, at least, seem less willing to entertain the hysterias of ignorant people.

So it comes down to which set of lies we will believe. We always end up hoping for the best. So far, the only thing that has buffered us from any truly cataclysmic harm is the sheer size and wealth of this country. But unless we start doing a little rational thinking and start seeing things for what they are, that will not last long.

I beg your pardon for expressing such pessimism.

Little Lost Book

We returned home one year from a worldcon (world science fiction convention, for those who may not know the nomenclature)—I forget which year—and promptly I lost a book. Or a box of books. You see, we’d early on gotten into the habit of mailing our purchases home rather than try to take boxes of books on the plane. (The first worldcon we went to in 1984 resulted in about three hefty boxes going back, all of which cost around a hundred and fifty dollars. Today that much would fit in one (small) box.) This system worked pretty well until this time. I think it must have been Chicago in 2000.

We—I—misplaced a box. So I thought. We were rearranging the house once again, moving things from one place another, and along the way I thought this one box of books had disappeared. Oh, it was in the house, certainly, buried inadvertently, and one year it would reappear. But it never did, not even through subsequent house cleanings.

Over time the contents of this box took on mythic status. I only recalled one title that was in it, Dan Simmons’ Crook Factory, but I knew there must be others in there from maybe George R.R. Martin or Greg Bear or Emma Bull or a collectible hardcover by some SF luminary. It was a small box that acquired supreme status.

Well, this morning I found it. Or, rather, I found the one title I specifically remembered, the Dan Simmons. Not in a box with other books from a worldcon, but in a plastic file box filled with old Scientific Americans. One book.

As soon as I saw it I realized that the rest of the box did not exist. I’d put this book in with these magazines to get it out of the way while I did…something. It then ended up at the bottom of one of the closets in my office, and would have remained there had I not got it in my head a few weeks ago to completely purge this space.

The bubble burst, all those other volumes—which, tellingly, I could not recall—have vanished in memory. They never existed.

Now, I have lost stories of my own before, put somewhere to wait until I got back to them…those are not mythical, and some of them were masterpieces which may never see the light of day again.

Pack Ratting

Apropos of nothing, I have just finished putting (in order) all my LOCUS Magazines.  I have nearly a complete run from 1982 to the present.  They all but this current year fit in three 38 qt. Rubbermaid storage containers.  Did I say I put them in order?

I’m keeping my LOCUS collection.  I also have two other magazine collections I’m thinking of keeping (though I have no idea why, really).  I have a nearly complete run of OMNIs from Issue One to about 1989, when the magazine got really too stupid.  I also have a set of a magazine called GEO, which originally belonged to Earline, the woman who trained my as a photofinisher.  They’re handsome editions, like a real high-end National Geographic.

Anyway, pack ratting is a disease which so many of us share that it is not considered a disease.  I’m trying to get over it.  It may sound morbid, but at 53 I’m beginning to ask myself just how much of this crap I’m ever going to actually use before I die.

More Quotes

I should point out that some of the quotes I’m putting up are my own thoughts, based on something I read. So anything unattributed is probably mine. With that in mind, here are a few more.

Numbers suggest, constrain, and refute; they do not, by themselves, specify the content of scientific theories.

H.H. Goddard and Robert Yerkes and Lewis Teman managed to supply the U.S. Government with a supposedly scientific basis for passing the strict immigration laws of 1924 that effectively kept millions of Europeans from coming here where Hitler was coming to power. They had nowhere to flee, since American I.Q. tests indicated they were of inferior racial stock and could not be allowed into America to “dilute” our native intelligence.

“We have seen more than once that the public welfare may call upon the best citizens for their lives. It would be strange if it could not call upon those who already sap the strength of the state for these lesser sacrifices. Three generations of imbeciles are enough.” Oliver Wendell Homes, jr., Buck vs. Bell Supreme Court 1927

Alfred Binet destroyed Broca’s process of division by craniometric study, determined his own predilection toward subjective bias, and formulated the first crude I.Q. tests (1905). “The scale, properly speaking, does not permit the measure of intelligence, because intellectual qualities are not superposable, and therefore cannot be measured as linear surfaces are measured.” Nevertheless, his work, misunderstood and coopted, was used to create the Standford-Binet I.Q. test, which held sway over the educational destinies of American children for decades, even though misapplied.

“A society defines what is normal and what is crazy—and then says anyone who challenges the definition is crazy.” Elizabeth Butler from “The Falling Woman” by Pat Murphy

Quotes and Musings

As salve for the more astringent posts preceding, I thought I’d start putting up a series of some of my favorite quotes.  I began keeping these on a pad of legal paper years ago, anytime I came across something I really liked, thinking maybe one day I could use them as epigrams.  Well, the pages are starting to tear and I need to put them in some more permanent form.  So I’m going to put them here.  And continue the practice online.  Some days I may just put up one, others I’ll do a few.

Bear in mind that in many instances I do not necessarily agree with the sentiments expressed.  Often I disagree strongly, but the quote is fertile ground for debate, and that I welcome.

I put one up a few posts back, the one about equality from Roberto Calasso.  So now, here are a few more.  Enjoy.

“All great efforts to improve human beings by way of training are thwarted through the apathy of those who hold the sole feasible road to be that of stricter breeding.”  Charles Spearman, 1927

“Well, I mean, yes idealism, yes the dignity of pure research, yes the pursuit of truth in all its forms, but there comes a point I’m afraid where you begin to suspect that if there’s any real truth, it’s that the entire multidimensional infinity of the Universe is almost certainly being run by a bunch of maniacs.”  Frankie Mouse, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

“What the public wants is the image of passion, not passion itself.” Roland Barthes

“Persistence of the normal is strong.”  Barbara Tuchman

Old Stuff

Still cleaning things out, emptying closets.  Unearthing a lot of Old Stuff int he process.  I’ve never been good at keeping journals or diaries, but I’ve tried from time to time.  Occasionally, when I go through one of these housecleaning fits, I find them, sad fragments, disconnected sometimes by years, even decades, a few weeks, maybe a couple of months consecutively recorded, and now…

I’m finding things from before Clarion, before 1988, when I was still trying on my own to break into writing—into publishing, I should say.  Spiral notebooks filled with cryptic notes, phone numbers, names now forgotten, and story fragments, as well as the personal expression of profound frustration.  It can be enlightening, amusing, embarrassing.  I kept a lot of stuff—old manuscripts, first, second, and nth drafts, thinking that when I became Famous some university would take all my Personal Papers.  You read about that from time to time—“The English Department of the University of Falsetto has acquired the Papers of the late Milton Toastmaster, world-renowned novelty and short story splicer…”

But I’m sipping coffee now and leafing through a couple of long forgotten notebooks and chuckling wryly (yes, he says, one does hear the wryness) at the ambition and cluelessness.  It’s the story ideas that I thought I’d never forget, the paragraph or two jotted down acting as place markers in memory for when I could flesh out the piece.

For instance:

I, Demon

In The Way of All Things it is said that each god has a demon who pursues him.  The god fights and while he fights he tries to do such things as gods must do.  The demon wins—always.  But as he kills the god, the demon in his turn becomes a god.  And so it goes.

And immediately following this, a snippet of dialogue:

“Insurance companies will own us all one day.”

“Not me.”

Ideas never pursued for whatever reason—probably because I just didn’t have the Stuff to follow through.  For another instance:

Shop of Midnight Dreams

There was a time you could walk into our shop and get anything.  No, not like an antique shop—that’s all second, third, and fourth hand, mostly garbage.  No, we provided all new.  If you needed a wool sweater like Spencer Tracy wore in Captains Courageous, well, we made you one.  It’d fit, too, guaranteed.  A captain’s wheel table with a glass top?  That, too, and fingerprints would never show on the glass.  I remember once Stella whipped together a spinning wheel that spun gold—that was a special one, you don’t get to do that often.  The wheel won’t work for anyone but the person it was made for and we trusted her not to abuse it.  My own favorite was a lost meaning.  A couple on rough times had lost the core of what they were together; it was all wrapped up in a memory.  I found it and gave it back to them.  That was one of the hardest but one of the most gratifying.  We could do anything once.

It’s all different now.  You see, Mr. Waymaker retired.  Sold the business.  I guess I can’t blame him who’d want to stay around if—

I know where that one came from, but I have no idea where I thought I’d go with it.

Another binder yielded a concerted effort at journaling from 1985.  The January 21st entry reads:

I’ll be perfectly honest—just this once: I haven’t got the faintest idea why I want to be a writer.  But, then, this is only this morning.  I have an incredible cold (the same one I’ve had now all winter, I do believe; I can’t get rid of the damn thing!) and I wrote two pages of purest garbage in my novel before trying to jump start the car.  The car started.  Success!  The novel is moving of its own power to an inexorable conclusion of blood and violence through an inexorable trail of very dull and badly wrought prose.  It’s strange: I’m watching myself screw it up and can honestly see no way to stop it.

That year it probably would have been Compass Reach.  Seems some things only become more sophisticated, but not much different.

I kept a lot of lists in these things—stories finished, stories submitted, stories yet to be born.  There are titles listed I have absolutely no recollection of.  I sometimes, I remember, jotted down titles in an imagined short story collection and then tried to imagine the contents of the book as thought it were finished.  Thought I might trick my hindbrain into giving me the story to go with the cool titles.

I find a lot of notes about Donna.

Other people, less so, but one of these “journals” contains the piece I wrote the day Earline Knackstedt died.  Earline was one half of the Gene and Earline team that owned Shaw Camera Shop, at which I worked for 20 years.  While she was alive and they owned it, I think I loved that job.  Earline fought cancer for a long, long time, and finally succumbed in April of ’85.  It was devastating.  Not so much the initial news, but the slow, gradual realization of what her absence meant.  It changed my life.  Instead of buying Shaw Camera, I became more dedicated to becoming a writer, and I knew that owning a business would end that dream.  Three years later I applied to and was accepted at Clarion and went from there.

It’s the last couple days of July now.  Supposedly, at least two editors I know of have promised to finish reading Orleans and make some kind of decision.  I expect to be rejected.  It’s not even a considered thought, just what it.  Give me another year or two, and it really will be as if I’m starting all over.

I have “started over” dozens of times be the evidence of this Old Stuff.  I ought to be good at it by now.

If the rain has stopped I must go walk the dog.  To be continued…