Noted without comment.
Now back to the word mines.
2015 Locus Awards Finalists
The Locus Science Fiction Foundation has announced the top five finalists in each category of the 2015 Locus Awards.
Winners will be announced during the Locus Awards Weekend in Seattle WA, June 26-28, 2015; Connie Willis will MC the awards ceremony. Additional weekend events include author readings with Willis and Daryl Gregory; a kickoff Clarion West party honoring first week instructor Andy Duncan, Clarion West supporters, awards weekend ticket holders, and special guests; panels with leading authors; an autograph session with books available for sale thanks to University Book Store; and a lunch banquet with the annual Hawai’ian shirt contest, all followed by a Locus party on Saturday night.
SCIENCE FICTION NOVEL
The Peripheral, William Gibson (Putnam; Viking UK)
Ancillary Sword, Ann Leckie (Orbit US; Orbit UK)
The Three-Body Problem, Cixin Liu (Tor)
Lock In, John Scalzi (Tor; Gollancz)
Annihilation/Authority/Acceptance, Jeff VanderMeer (FSG Originals; Fourth Estate; HarperCollins Canada)
The Goblin Emperor, Katherine Addison (Tor)
Steles of the Sky, Elizabeth Bear (Tor)
City of Stairs, Robert Jackson Bennett (Broadway; Jo Fletcher)
The Magician’s Land, Lev Grossman (Viking; Arrow 2015)
The Mirror Empire, Kameron Hurley (Angry Robot US)
YOUNG ADULT BOOK
Half a King, Joe Abercrombie (Del Rey; Voyager UK)
The Doubt Factory, Paolo Bacigalupi (Little, Brown)
Waistcoats & Weaponry, Gail Carriger (Little, Brown; Atom)
Empress of the Sun, Ian McDonald (Jo Fletcher; Pyr)
Clariel, Garth Nix (Harper; Hot Key; Allen & Unwin)
Elysium, Jennifer Marie Brissett (Aqueduct)
A Darkling Sea, James L. Cambias (Tor)
The Clockwork Dagger, Beth Cato (Harper Voyager)
The Memory Garden, Mary Rickert (Sourcebooks Landmark)
The Emperor’s Blades, Brian Staveley (Tor; Tor UK)
“The Man Who Sold the Moon”, Cory Doctorow (Hieroglyph)
We Are All Completely Fine, Daryl Gregory (Tachyon)
Yesterday’s Kin, Nancy Kress (Tachyon)
“The Regular”, Ken Liu (Upgraded)
“The Lightning Tree”, Patrick Rothfuss (Rogues)
“Tough Times All Over”, Joe Abercrombie (Rogues)
“The Hand Is Quicker”, Elizabeth Bear (The Book of Silverberg)
“Memorials”, Aliette de Bodard (Asimov’s 1/14)
“The Jar of Water”, Ursula K. Le Guin (Tin House #62)
“A Year and a Day in Old Theradane”, Scott Lynch (Rogues)
“Covenant”, Elizabeth Bear (Hieroglyph)
“The Dust Queen”, Aliette de Bodard (Reach for Infinity)
“The Truth About Owls”, Amal El-Mohtar (Kaleidoscope)
“In Babelsberg”, Alastair Reynolds (Reach for Infinity)
“Ogres of East Africa”, Sofia Samatar (Long Hidden)
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Thirty-first Annual Collection, Gardner Dozois, ed. (St. Martin’s Press)
Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History, Rose Fox & Daniel José Older, eds. (Crossed Genres)
Rogues, George R.R. Martin & Gardner Dozois, ed. (Bantam; Titan)
Reach for Infinity, Jonathan Strahan, ed. (Solaris US; Solaris UK)
The Time Traveler’s Almanac, Ann VanderMeer & Jeff VanderMeer, eds. (Head of Zeus; Tor)
Questionable Practices, Eileen Gunn (Small Beer)
The Collected Short Fiction Volume One: The Man Who Made Models, R.A. Lafferty (Centipede)
Last Plane to Heaven, Jay Lake (Tor)
Academic Exercises, K.J. Parker (Subterranean)
The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume Nine: The Millennium Express, Robert Silverberg (Subterranean; Gateway)
John Joseph Adams
Ann & Jeff VanderMeer
Ray Bradbury Unbound, Jonathan Eller (University of Illinois Press)
Harry Harrison! Harry Harrison!, Harry Harrison (Tor)
The Secret History of Wonder Woman, Jill Lepore (Knopf)
Robert A. Heinlein: In Dialogue with His Century, Volume 2: The Man Who Learned Better: 1948-1988, William H. Patterson, Jr. (Tor)
What Makes This Book So Great, Jo Walton (Tor; Corsair 2015)
Jim Burns, The Art of Jim Burns: Hyperluminal (Titan)
The Art of Neil Gaiman, Hayley Campbell (Harper Design)
Spectrum 21: The Best in Contemporary Fantastic Art, John Fleskes, ed. (Flesk)
Brian & Wendy Froud, Brian Froud’s Faeries’ Tales (Abrams)
The Art of Space: The History of Space Art, from the Earliest Visions to the Graphics of the Modern Era, Ron Miller (Zenith)
I've just finished reading Jeff Guinn's The Last Gunfight: The Real Story of the Shootout at the O.K. Corral-And How It Changed the American West.
He's got a really aggravating tendency to claim an understanding of motives and leave out words like "perhaps," "probably," and "allegedly" that should be liberally sprinkling this text, and he's got that annoying tendency that many male historians and biographers of generally lionized male historical figures have of getting all possessive of his boyfriends and either dismissing the women in their lives as insignificant, hysterical, clutching, or entirely out for the main chance; or of editorializing on how irritating their men must have found them.
Also, I quibble some with his description of the forensics of the infamous gunfight (this is one of those places where "perhaps" would have come in really handy), especially as he misses my pet theory about how Tom McLaury managed to take a load of shotgun pellets in the armpit (my favorite reconstruction of the fight has the unarmed Tom reaching over the saddle of Billy Clanton's horse to retrieve Clanton's rifle from the saddle sheath, and being dragged around in a circle when the horse spooks, thus exposing his side and underarm to Doc), but at least Guinn does point out that it's pretty implausible for Doc to have put down the shotgun, pulled his revolver, shot Billy Clanton in cold blood, picked the shotgun back up, killed Tom with it, then dropped the shotgun and picked up the pistol and proceeded to miss Frank in the <30 seconds of the entire fight.
However, the book is pretty impressive on historical context and backstory, and presents one of the clearer pictures of the tapestry of interwoven motivations, politics, social considerations, and economics that drove the tensions in Southeast Arizona at the time.
Guinn also makes really good sense of the stagecoach robberies, and rightly points out that gunfight was the top of the second act in this particular narrative, and not the climax at all. (The actual climax is kind of an anticlimax, as is so common the real world and why the end of the story gets rewritten when it's fictionalized for film. Curly Bill and John Ringo have to be foregrounded a heck of a lot more, and Ike Clanton kicked back to his admittedly rightful place as a second-stringer for something closer to the real world narrative to work as a story.)
What we learn from the lives of the Earp brothers, in the end, is if you have to be an Earp, be James. Live quietly and more or less without notoriety, show up for work, and die in your 80s in bed, contented and comfortably well off.
What we learn from the lives of historians of the Matter of Tombstone is that anybody who wades through the John H. Flood manuscript of Wyatt's memoirs deserves hazard pay. You can read the PTSD between the lines in every single account that mentions it.
A representative sample:
Earp could feel the warmth of the conspirator's body as he leaned against him; the pulsations beat against his own and then there was a throb; something that felt like nerves, and the tenseness of muscles at the drawing of a gun. Earp was watching Allison and the movement of his forty-five; gradually, it was slipping forward from its holster while the marshal stood silently and looked on.
Now the assassin's thumb reached towards the hammer - quietly - then he felt a thrill, something that made his side turn cold, the side against that of the city marshal. Then he raised his eyes to another pair of eyes, and flinched, and dropped his gaze to the ground; he saw a movement at his side and he thought his end had come. Earp was two seconds ahead of him on the draw, and Allison knew that he had lost his play, and he edged out onto the walk...
So I have 7500 words of The Stone in the Skull, the first book of the second Eternal Sky trilogy, which is collectively called The Lotus Kingdoms, done. I'm trying to have a bad draft before Readercon if I can.
And because I'm really, really happy with how this is coming out--apparently I've finally learned how to take that advice in the blog title and throw another bear in the canoe--here's the first three paragraphs.
My poor protagonists. I am a horrible person.
Also, very smug.
The mountain wore a mirrored mask. A pale sun blazed light but no heat in the limpid, icy air and glaciers shimmered against a sky like glass. The air was so still it seemed the encircling peaks held their breaths on some portent.
Their reflections bent toward a vanishing point in the polished egg-shape of the mirrored mask also worn by the brass man who toiled mechanically--tirelessly--up the slope of the notch below the peaks and between. A wrap of cowl had fallen back from his featureless head and his heavy hands gleamed in what might have been brass gauntlets. His brass feet were strapped into iron-thorned crampons without benefit of boots. The spikes bit into the smooth ice of a river made into rock by the cold.
A hawser thick as a woman's wrist draped over the brass man's shoulder. It stretched behind him on a weighty arc, reaching back to the curved bow of a strange ship: square-rigged, boasting a lofty reptilian figurehead gallantly painted in red and gold--but resting on two curved, ice-encased runners that bore it over the surface of the stone-hard river as if glass slid oiled on glass. A pilot stood on the little platform at the back of the bowsprit, peering up at the slopes above through a glass. Though it was early in the winter for avalanches, it was never too early for care.
Behind that ship was another....
Here's a thing about science fiction fandom that a lot of people who are new to the community may miss, SF prodom is an industry, yes--it's a group of interrelated sole proprietors and corporations and nonprofits all working in the same word mines.
I'm an entrepreneur. I'm a small business, in point of fact.
But I'm also a fan. And fandom intersects with prodom on a thousand different levels, not the least of which is that most SF pros are also SF fans.
And SF Fandom is a functioning, self-sustaining, multi-generational anarchy.
There is no central governing body. There is no system of government. There is no set of checks and balances, no higher authority to whom we can appeal when something hinky is going on, if it's an abusive fan, an unethical writer, or an editor who engages in harassment.
We are it. Fandom. And fandom is you and me and that guy over there who is horrible to everybody.
Fandom is an emergent property of a large group of fans. Nobody planned it. Nobody guided it. It just happened.
And it happened--and continues to happen--in large part because a whole fuckload of people decided to serve it. Not exploit it. Not attempt to co-opt it. But to serve it, with things like fanzines and Fan Funds and fan-run conventions (which are entirely staffed by volunteers, by the way, and the pros who attend them are generally not paid. If we are guests, we may get a per diem for food, a hotel room, and our travel covered. We may get a membership comped if we do program even if we're not guests of the convention, but in those cases we're paying our own expenses to be there. That's it. For a general loss of about a week's working time, and remember--nobody pays us if we don't work.).
They also serve it with the Worldcon, and with the World Science Fiction Society's Hugo Awards. Which are (again) administrated by volunteers. There's no glory in administrating awards, and a huge pile of backbreaking and thankless labor, and often a great deal of annoyance and wank and farmed or native drama.
Fandom happens because people take care of it, nurture it, and make it a fun place for people to be. Preferably, an inclusive place. If anything, we often err too far on the side of putting up with assholes, because we're bad at excluding people.
There are plenty of people in fandom who I think are jerks, idiots, pains in the ass, complete eye-rolling cramps, and/or moon men. Some of those people do valuable work for the community, even while I'm facepalming over their opinions.
All of them got into it the same way I did--by being volunteered or (as is very common) voluntold.
These people refer to themselves as SMoFs as a joke, you understand. Jobs often get done in haphazard ass-backward ways because they are done by anybody willing, and often on limited time, in the cracks of a busy life, and with little or no funding.
Some people in the community do not contribute in any meaningful way. But its awfully hard to actually run those people off, because we are--as I mentioned above--an anarchy. Fandom has no Office of Asshole Removal*.
Nobody is in charge, is what I'm saying. Fandom therefore demands both patience and personal responsibility of us all.
What we do have, though, are antibodies. We have ways of spreading information, and dealing with problems, and we have very long institutional memories. We have an understanding that any scalpel can also be used as a knife, and so--even though we make mistakes, and a lot of them, we tend to be self-correcting in the long run.
This is not the first time All Fandom Has Been Plunged Into War. It will not be the last.
But it's also not going to break fandom.
Because the great thing about anarchies is that they are very resilient, and they are also very good at establishing customs of the tribe, which is pretty much how anarchic, egalitarian, tribal societies usually organize themselves.
There's a new custom circulating in my tribe, and I think it's a good one, so I will be adopting it.
I have not in the past and I will not in the future participate in any popular award voting slate, public or private. I will not vote for any story or person or institution that is nominated for a popular award after agreeing to be on such a slate.
I believe that slate-voting is unethical and perverts the purpose of the awards--and disadvantages almost everyone, quite frankly--and I am personally invested in making sure my fandom does not decay into a series of cage matches.
That is the ethical decision I am making for myself.
I have no problem with recommendations, with Hugo discussion, with eligibility lists, with people saying "I think this is my best work last year and if you are nominating and care to read it, it's available here." (I do not particularly like the "I will send a copy to any nominator who wants one," practice, but I don't think it's unethical, just cheap.)
I have, however, a big problem with the party lever. Because I'm not much of one for parties at all.
There are some friends of mine on the Sad Puppies slate, and some people who I consider very good at their jobs. I'll be leaving them off the ballot, not merely placing them under "No Award."
Because this is how fandom's antibodies work. We each make a personal decision what we will and won't participate in, and then we stick to it.
At least the Hugo voting will be easy and fast this year**.
It usually takes me weeks to make my decisions.
Official publication date for An Apprentice to Elves:13 October 2015.
I saw grass today. And took the dog for a walk without my coat.
Now I have to pack for Tucson, Wisconsin, Minneapolis, and Illinois. So, yeah. Layers.
Pewter scraped across the black wave-caps of the Atlantic on the morning Carl Hughes learned how his lover had died.
"The universe will always need plumbers," Henry said, up to her armpit in the toilet. "At least until the Big Rip. Or the Rapture, whichever happens first."
A Time to Reap:
I paused in the wings stage left, in air thick with the smell of dust, imagining the applause.
On Safari in R'lyeh and Carcosa with Gun and Camera:
"We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you'd flunked Algebra, Griswold," Roberts said, racking another shell into his hunting rifle and peering over our flimsy barricade to see if the monstrous creatures beyond were preparing for another assault.
You'd think I'd have gotten out of the adventuring business, is all.
[No first line yet.]
The Stone in the Skull :
The mountain wore a mirrored mask.
Johnny Backus was a daywalker. Johnny Backus was a vampire. Johnny Backus was a friend of mine.
I loved you not.
There are no unremarkable worlds.
As the innate perversity of the universe would have it, Officer Jericho was up to her elbows in the guts of a roasted pumpkin as big as her chest when her pager shrilled.
Patience and Fortitude
Nothing made Matthew hate himself more than waiting for the elevator.
Give us this day our daily Giant Ridiculous Dog.
4280 words today, to finish a draft of "En Libres."
An epic fantasy short story revolving around the protagonists's desire to finish their dissertations and collect their Ph.Ds, starring a postgrad centaur alchemist and a postgrad botanical thaumaturge.
Now I get Thai food, as my reward for virtue. And I get to goof off tonight.
I've already written six pieces of short fiction in 2015, which is as many as I managed in all of 2014.
Maybe something came unstuck?
Also, I'm being funny this year.
This dog is inverted.
My Tucson Festival of Books schedule!
10-11am Panel: the Next Big Thing
2:30-3:30pm Panel: Revenge of the Flying Car
4-5pm Panel: Aim to Misbehave
I have the post-Boskone crud, just like everybody else. But I also managed to get my taxes done, buy a new car (It's my first actual bourgoisie car with a car payment in my entire lifetime: it's a Subaru Crosstrek and I get to pick it up tomorrow), and do a whole bunch of adulting, such as the annual over-forty irradiation and answering some interview questions and getting a whole bunch of stuff set to mail.
INBOX ZERO LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING SORCERER.
Now I have to fold the laundry I've been ignoring for three days.