Is one of the books that went up at Fictionwise.com as an e-book. A fairly long excerpt is posted on that site - something they seem to do for a lot of their e-books.
Reading that excerpt, I find myself feeling again that it's a damned good book and that it should have been the one that did the job for me. Ah, well. It's silly and pointless, of course, to continue mourning a given novel's lack of success.
And I really am largely over that failure, thanks to the passage of time, working on Time and the Soldier, and this blog.
Now if I can just get the damned taxes done, so that I can back to TimeSold.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
Central Heat Cover
At least, I think it is. This is the cover of the e-book, which has just shown up on Fictionwise. My other e-books that are for sale there have the same covers as the print editions, so I'm assuming that this the cover of the Central Heat print edition, as well.
Wildside modified it from my original, but I'm happy to admit that they improved on what I sent them. I'm also happy that they kept the nifty background illustration as well as the basic theme from my version.
Wildside modified it from my original, but I'm happy to admit that they improved on what I sent them. I'm also happy that they kept the nifty background illustration as well as the basic theme from my version.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Close vs. Not Close at All
I just got a rejection for a story, and apparently it was a close thing. The previous rejection for the same story was also close, really close.
Of course it feels better to come close than otherwise. Or does it? Mostly, it does, and yet there's the frustration of thinking that if you had done something ever so slightly differently, the story would have been accepted. (Leaving aside the question of whether you know what that something is - and whether you would want to change the story, even if you did know.)
I was wondering how other people feel. Which do you feel is worse/better: coming close but not making it, or not coming close at all?
Of course it feels better to come close than otherwise. Or does it? Mostly, it does, and yet there's the frustration of thinking that if you had done something ever so slightly differently, the story would have been accepted. (Leaving aside the question of whether you know what that something is - and whether you would want to change the story, even if you did know.)
I was wondering how other people feel. Which do you feel is worse/better: coming close but not making it, or not coming close at all?
Friday, March 23, 2007
Mickling and Taxing
I haven't been posting about writing, but I have been writing. Not lots and lots, because I've been working on the taxes.
Our taxes are cumbersome, and every year I let everything slide till close to the deadline, despite promising myself, after filing the taxes, that this year will be different, because this year I'll keep up with the organizing and processing and spreadsheet entering on a weekly, or at least a monthly basis. Well, I've finally learned my lesson. This year will be different. ...
So that takes care of my free evenings. On and off, I've been taking my laptop to work and writing during lunch. The novel has reached the point where that's not so easy to do, though. I don't have large sections to write. Now I'm going through it it and tweaking and adding and subtracting small bits. I find that hard to do at work on the small laptop screen, for some reason. I need to be at home with hours to spend. So that's a bit of a problem, right now.
Also, we'll be going to Baton Rouge over the Easter weekend for a humongous gathering of my wife's family to celebrate my father-in-law's 85th birthday. (For his 80th, we all gathered at a fancy restaurant in New Orleans, but Katrina has changed things.) I might take a laptop, but I doubt if any writing will be accomplished. Maybe a grumpy blog post. On the bright side, seafood! Also, Abita beer, which is not bad at all.
I want to/must get the taxes done before we leave on that trip, and then when we come back, I'll be all freed up of immediate obligations and will be able to dive back in properly. That sounds just a little bit like, "Some day, when I have time, I'm going to write a novel, too." But not really.
Our taxes are cumbersome, and every year I let everything slide till close to the deadline, despite promising myself, after filing the taxes, that this year will be different, because this year I'll keep up with the organizing and processing and spreadsheet entering on a weekly, or at least a monthly basis. Well, I've finally learned my lesson. This year will be different. ...
So that takes care of my free evenings. On and off, I've been taking my laptop to work and writing during lunch. The novel has reached the point where that's not so easy to do, though. I don't have large sections to write. Now I'm going through it it and tweaking and adding and subtracting small bits. I find that hard to do at work on the small laptop screen, for some reason. I need to be at home with hours to spend. So that's a bit of a problem, right now.
Also, we'll be going to Baton Rouge over the Easter weekend for a humongous gathering of my wife's family to celebrate my father-in-law's 85th birthday. (For his 80th, we all gathered at a fancy restaurant in New Orleans, but Katrina has changed things.) I might take a laptop, but I doubt if any writing will be accomplished. Maybe a grumpy blog post. On the bright side, seafood! Also, Abita beer, which is not bad at all.
I want to/must get the taxes done before we leave on that trip, and then when we come back, I'll be all freed up of immediate obligations and will be able to dive back in properly. That sounds just a little bit like, "Some day, when I have time, I'm going to write a novel, too." But not really.
Henpecked
David's Definition for the May edition of Community News. I wonder if there'll be negative feedback for this one.
Henpecked
Chickens are nasty creatures. It's no wonder we consider them food instead of pets. They peck at each other, and I'm not talking about a love peck. Under some conditions, such as overcrowding, they may even peck each other to death. If one chicken is injured, the others may peck it to death. Under more normal conditions, they have a social hierarchy, called a pecking order, in which the top chicken pecks any other chicken it wants to, and each chicken pecks the chickens below it and is pecked by those above it. The ones at the bottom can be pecked by any of the others but can never peck back. A husband with a nagging wife can find himself at the bottom rung of his household pecking order -- cowed, dominated, unable to peck back. He is said to be henpecked.
Henpecked
Chickens are nasty creatures. It's no wonder we consider them food instead of pets. They peck at each other, and I'm not talking about a love peck. Under some conditions, such as overcrowding, they may even peck each other to death. If one chicken is injured, the others may peck it to death. Under more normal conditions, they have a social hierarchy, called a pecking order, in which the top chicken pecks any other chicken it wants to, and each chicken pecks the chickens below it and is pecked by those above it. The ones at the bottom can be pecked by any of the others but can never peck back. A husband with a nagging wife can find himself at the bottom rung of his household pecking order -- cowed, dominated, unable to peck back. He is said to be henpecked.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Sure, I'll Read and Maybe Blurb Your Novel
And I'd tell you that, if I hadn't deleted your e-mail.
Aargh! It's been a stressful few days, and today was particularly stressful, and I appear to have deleted the e-mail someone sent me asking if I'd be willing to read and possibly blurb his novel. Maybe he reads this blog. Or maybe he'll dismiss me as a stuckup twit who won't even take the time to respond to a polite e-mail request.
Aargh.
Aargh! It's been a stressful few days, and today was particularly stressful, and I appear to have deleted the e-mail someone sent me asking if I'd be willing to read and possibly blurb his novel. Maybe he reads this blog. Or maybe he'll dismiss me as a stuckup twit who won't even take the time to respond to a polite e-mail request.
Aargh.
Monday, March 19, 2007
More Son News
And this is a followup to the post about my son's recent visit.
Daniel just received the official invitation to the PhD program in bioinformatics at the University of Colorado Health Sciences Center here in Denver, and he accepted. So he'll be moving back here at the end of the summer and will be in Denver for the next two-three years.
After that, of course, who knows?
If I'm remembering correctly, he got acceptances from Minnesota, Pittsburgh, Ohio State, and the University of Illinois Chicago Circle campus (where his grandfather finished his academic career as head of the English department).
Daniel just received the official invitation to the PhD program in bioinformatics at the University of Colorado Health Sciences Center here in Denver, and he accepted. So he'll be moving back here at the end of the summer and will be in Denver for the next two-three years.
After that, of course, who knows?
If I'm remembering correctly, he got acceptances from Minnesota, Pittsburgh, Ohio State, and the University of Illinois Chicago Circle campus (where his grandfather finished his academic career as head of the English department).
Ancient Engineers
This is sort of a followon post to the one titled "Immense Spans of Time".
One anniversary that I should included in that post is this one: This year marks 40 years since I went to work at NASA in Houston, primarily on the Apollo missions.
I'm on a mailing list for news about people I used to work with at NASA. I was contacted about it, and signed up, quite recently - just in time to start getting e-mails about people being in the hospital or dying. Not from accidents but natural causes, which is to say, old age.
Sometimes there are photos of the people. Oooooold people, impersonating the youngish folks I worked with back then.
Shiver!
I should mention that I was younger than most of my coworkers. I was in my mid- to late-twenties when I worked there, and most of the other people were a few years older than that, with a few as much as ten or twenty years older. So those e-mails are scarcely surprising. But they still make me uncomfortable.
One anniversary that I should included in that post is this one: This year marks 40 years since I went to work at NASA in Houston, primarily on the Apollo missions.
I'm on a mailing list for news about people I used to work with at NASA. I was contacted about it, and signed up, quite recently - just in time to start getting e-mails about people being in the hospital or dying. Not from accidents but natural causes, which is to say, old age.
Sometimes there are photos of the people. Oooooold people, impersonating the youngish folks I worked with back then.
Shiver!
I should mention that I was younger than most of my coworkers. I was in my mid- to late-twenties when I worked there, and most of the other people were a few years older than that, with a few as much as ten or twenty years older. So those e-mails are scarcely surprising. But they still make me uncomfortable.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Bistro!
The way we should all produce, I suppose.
This is the April installment of David's Definitions in Community News:
Bistro
A type of restaurant, typically small and with a fairly simple menu and reasonable prices. My Russian teacher in college told us that the word comes from the Russian word bistro, meaning quickly, because Russian soldiers occupying Paris after the defeat of Napoleon used to yell that at the French waiters, who weren’t as easily intimidated as Russian serfs. Bistros evolved to serve the Russians but then became popular with the French, who decided that this Russian idea of fast service and low prices wasn’t such a bad one, after all. I’ve since read that linguists dispute this origin of the word, but it does make a nifty story.
This is the April installment of David's Definitions in Community News:
Bistro
A type of restaurant, typically small and with a fairly simple menu and reasonable prices. My Russian teacher in college told us that the word comes from the Russian word bistro, meaning quickly, because Russian soldiers occupying Paris after the defeat of Napoleon used to yell that at the French waiters, who weren’t as easily intimidated as Russian serfs. Bistros evolved to serve the Russians but then became popular with the French, who decided that this Russian idea of fast service and low prices wasn’t such a bad one, after all. I’ve since read that linguists dispute this origin of the word, but it does make a nifty story.
Where Do You Get Your Ideas?
What writer hasn't been asked that?
You can answer flippantly ("Anonymous e-mails!"). You can stumble around and blather for a while, sounding remarkably confused about the matter. You can say, "From everywhere, from the news, from reading." None of those answers will satisfy the non-writer who asked the question.
And, yes, the questioner is not a writer, although he may think he is. If he were, he'd understand where you get your ideas.
More to the point, he'd understand that that question betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of what motivates a writer.
A writer isn't someone who wants to have written or someone who is fascinated by the imagined glamor of the writer's life and therefore decides to become one. "Some day, when I have the time, I'm going to write a book." I bet you've heard that one, too. Odds are, people who say that will never write that book. Somehow, they'll never have the time. Or they'll have the time, but when they try writing a book, they'll realize that writing consists of lots of sitting down and, well, writing. It ain't glamor. It's words. Lots of them.
Writers don't decide to become writers and then start searching for ideas. Writers are people who keep getting ideas and feel driven to express them in writing, and so they become writers. The ideas drive the writing, and not the other way around.
Well, that's the way it is for me, anyway. I spent my childhood in a fantasy world - much more interesting than the material world outside my head - and very soon wanted to start writing my daydreams down. Oh, and of course I read oodles, so I knew that you can write your daydreams down and have other people read them. Not that I knew about the nature of the publishing biz, back then. It's surely a good thing that I didn't.
I wrote a longish essay on my Web site about why we write. It's from a different perspective than the above.
You can answer flippantly ("Anonymous e-mails!"). You can stumble around and blather for a while, sounding remarkably confused about the matter. You can say, "From everywhere, from the news, from reading." None of those answers will satisfy the non-writer who asked the question.
And, yes, the questioner is not a writer, although he may think he is. If he were, he'd understand where you get your ideas.
More to the point, he'd understand that that question betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of what motivates a writer.
A writer isn't someone who wants to have written or someone who is fascinated by the imagined glamor of the writer's life and therefore decides to become one. "Some day, when I have the time, I'm going to write a book." I bet you've heard that one, too. Odds are, people who say that will never write that book. Somehow, they'll never have the time. Or they'll have the time, but when they try writing a book, they'll realize that writing consists of lots of sitting down and, well, writing. It ain't glamor. It's words. Lots of them.
Writers don't decide to become writers and then start searching for ideas. Writers are people who keep getting ideas and feel driven to express them in writing, and so they become writers. The ideas drive the writing, and not the other way around.
Well, that's the way it is for me, anyway. I spent my childhood in a fantasy world - much more interesting than the material world outside my head - and very soon wanted to start writing my daydreams down. Oh, and of course I read oodles, so I knew that you can write your daydreams down and have other people read them. Not that I knew about the nature of the publishing biz, back then. It's surely a good thing that I didn't.
I wrote a longish essay on my Web site about why we write. It's from a different perspective than the above.
Curtains of Spots
In the comments under the Nitpicking post, Lahdeedah mentioned how hard it is to walk up stairs when you're new to the altitude of Colorado's Front Range.
When we moved here from Houston in 1971, I was in my late twenties and had been moderately active - or as active as the ghastly Houston humidity and heat permitted. I considered myself a fairly fit fella. Right after we got here, Leonore and I went to the mountains with a friend. Not very high in the mountains, either. I was overcome with the beauty of it all and went running happily along a trail. Born free! As free as the wind blows! As free as -- In seconds, I was sitting on a convenient large rock (lots of those around), gasping, and watching the curtain of spots waving in front of my eyes. Golly. Fitness is relative, isn't it?
The relationship to writing is a bit tenuous, but it's there. Just like the protagonist of John Denver's great (but often absurdly and unfairly maligned) song, "Rocky Mountain High", I felt freed from my previous life, reborn. I started writing seriously instead of mostly just nattering and whining about it. The following year, my first published short story, "Adam's Servant", appeared in the December 1972 issue of Cavalier, a men's magazine. Brilliant story, of course, but I think they bought it because of the sex. That same issue also contained a short story, "The Mangler", by some kid named Stephen King, who I understand has sold a few more things since then.
When we moved here from Houston in 1971, I was in my late twenties and had been moderately active - or as active as the ghastly Houston humidity and heat permitted. I considered myself a fairly fit fella. Right after we got here, Leonore and I went to the mountains with a friend. Not very high in the mountains, either. I was overcome with the beauty of it all and went running happily along a trail. Born free! As free as the wind blows! As free as -- In seconds, I was sitting on a convenient large rock (lots of those around), gasping, and watching the curtain of spots waving in front of my eyes. Golly. Fitness is relative, isn't it?
The relationship to writing is a bit tenuous, but it's there. Just like the protagonist of John Denver's great (but often absurdly and unfairly maligned) song, "Rocky Mountain High", I felt freed from my previous life, reborn. I started writing seriously instead of mostly just nattering and whining about it. The following year, my first published short story, "Adam's Servant", appeared in the December 1972 issue of Cavalier, a men's magazine. Brilliant story, of course, but I think they bought it because of the sex. That same issue also contained a short story, "The Mangler", by some kid named Stephen King, who I understand has sold a few more things since then.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Nitpicking
This will be fun.
The editor of a local free magazine, in which Leonore has been publishing articles about exercise and nutrition, asked me to do a monthly, brief definition of a word of phrase, under the heading David's Definitions.
The first one will be in the April issue. Here it is:
The editor of a local free magazine, in which Leonore has been publishing articles about exercise and nutrition, asked me to do a monthly, brief definition of a word of phrase, under the heading David's Definitions.
The first one will be in the April issue. Here it is:
Nitpicking
Or nit-picking, or nit picking, or picking nits.
Nits are lice eggs. In the old days, people used to get rid of lice infestations on their kids' heads by shaving off all the hair and then picking off the nits, so that there wouldn't be another generation of lice. (The parents had to pick the nits off because lice use their saliva to glue their eggs to your scalp. Lice don't find that disgusting.) So nitpicking is looking for tiny details.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Immense Spans of Time
I recently realized that this year marks 50 years since I came to the U.S. and 30 years since my first novel was published.
Those are two immense spans of time and are not consistent with the fact that I'm only 23 years old. Something is awry.
Those are two immense spans of time and are not consistent with the fact that I'm only 23 years old. Something is awry.
Son Visit
Our son, Daniel, who has been in Minneapolis, in graduate school at the U. of Minnesota, will be back in Denver this weekend, courtesy of the University of Colorado Health Sciences Center.
In addition to Minnesota, he applied to the PhD programs at a few other schools, the Health Sciences Center being one of them. When he left Colorado, the local program in bioinformatics was just getting under way and wasn't very impressive, but it's been considerably beefed up since then. He's doing biostatics at Minnesota, but he started out in bioinformatics, and I think there's a big part of him that still gravitates toward that field.
The Health Sciences Center flew him and a few other candidates into town for the weekend for a mutual dog-and-pony show. We won't see him till Sunday, and we're eager to see how he feels after a weekend of being treated well and being back in his hometown. There will, however, be absolutely no parental pressure of even the most subtle variety. This is our solemn vow, sworn on the altar of progressive parenthood. I can't swear for our unconscious minds, however.
Daniel did receive an acceptance from the PhD program (biostatistics, I think) at Ohio State U. in Columbus, so he does that have that waiting, at any rate.
Oh, blog-relevant addition. Daniel and I coauthored two novels and have always wanted to do more together. His time is overly full and probably will be for years yet, but if he did decide to squeeze in another collaboration, it would be much, much easier to do so if he were living in Denver again. So while that's not a factor in his decision, it might be an effect of it.
In addition to Minnesota, he applied to the PhD programs at a few other schools, the Health Sciences Center being one of them. When he left Colorado, the local program in bioinformatics was just getting under way and wasn't very impressive, but it's been considerably beefed up since then. He's doing biostatics at Minnesota, but he started out in bioinformatics, and I think there's a big part of him that still gravitates toward that field.
The Health Sciences Center flew him and a few other candidates into town for the weekend for a mutual dog-and-pony show. We won't see him till Sunday, and we're eager to see how he feels after a weekend of being treated well and being back in his hometown. There will, however, be absolutely no parental pressure of even the most subtle variety. This is our solemn vow, sworn on the altar of progressive parenthood. I can't swear for our unconscious minds, however.
Daniel did receive an acceptance from the PhD program (biostatistics, I think) at Ohio State U. in Columbus, so he does that have that waiting, at any rate.
Oh, blog-relevant addition. Daniel and I coauthored two novels and have always wanted to do more together. His time is overly full and probably will be for years yet, but if he did decide to squeeze in another collaboration, it would be much, much easier to do so if he were living in Denver again. So while that's not a factor in his decision, it might be an effect of it.
Friday, February 09, 2007
The Incredible Shrinking Publishing Industry
In her blog, agent Lori Perkins said this:
"When I started as an agent in 1987, there were 23 publishers."
Reading that reminded me that I recently came across the sheet of paper on which I listed all the publishers I planned to send my first novel to. The one that bought the novel, Pocket Books, is outlined in red with "2/25/76!" written next to it in big, red letters, and if I understand my cryptic marks, I had queried four publishers on the list before Pocket, so I'm guessing that I made up the list in the summer or fall of 1975.
I don't remember where I got the names from, but I do remember that the publishers on the list were all independent and all said, in some reference book or other, that they were willing to look at science fiction. Many of those names no longer exist at all; some are still in business, but only as imprints or divisions of other publishers. I think there are also a few on the list that still exist but no longer publish fiction. There are 71 names on this list. Probably, an agent of those days, having much more knowledge of the market than I did, would not have been interested in some of those houses, but it's still a long list.
This illustrates how far the number of available markets had shrunk in the twelve years before Perkins entered the business. In her post, she says that it has now shrunk considerably more.
So here's the list. (Some of those names are guesswork, because I can't read my own handwriting!)
Abelard-Schuman
Ace
Antheloon(?) Press
Ashley Books
Atheneum
Atlantic Monthly
Aurora
Avon
Award
Ballantine
Bobbs-Merrill
Branden Press
Chilton
Charles Irwin
Coward, McCann
Criterion
Thomas Crowell
Crown
Dasein
John Day
Dell
Denlinger's
Dial
Doubleday
Eriksson
Evans
Farrar, Straus & Giroux
Fawcett
Frederick Fell
Harcourt Brace
Harper & Row
Holloway House
Houghton-Mifflin
A. E. Knopf
Seymour Lawrence
Lester & Orpen(?)
Libra
J. B. Lippincot
Liveright
Living Books
Longman Canada
McMillan
MacRae
Manor
Maryland
Mason & L(?)
New American Library
O'Hara
Pacesetter
Paneth
S. G. Philip
Pinnacle
Playboy
Pocket
Popular
Porter
Prentice Hall
Putnam
Pyramind
San Francisco
Scribner's
Simon & Schuster
The Smith
Stein & Day
Vanguard
Walker & Co.
Warbrooke
Warner
Westover
Weybright & Talley
White Star
"When I started as an agent in 1987, there were 23 publishers."
Reading that reminded me that I recently came across the sheet of paper on which I listed all the publishers I planned to send my first novel to. The one that bought the novel, Pocket Books, is outlined in red with "2/25/76!" written next to it in big, red letters, and if I understand my cryptic marks, I had queried four publishers on the list before Pocket, so I'm guessing that I made up the list in the summer or fall of 1975.
I don't remember where I got the names from, but I do remember that the publishers on the list were all independent and all said, in some reference book or other, that they were willing to look at science fiction. Many of those names no longer exist at all; some are still in business, but only as imprints or divisions of other publishers. I think there are also a few on the list that still exist but no longer publish fiction. There are 71 names on this list. Probably, an agent of those days, having much more knowledge of the market than I did, would not have been interested in some of those houses, but it's still a long list.
This illustrates how far the number of available markets had shrunk in the twelve years before Perkins entered the business. In her post, she says that it has now shrunk considerably more.
So here's the list. (Some of those names are guesswork, because I can't read my own handwriting!)
Abelard-Schuman
Ace
Antheloon(?) Press
Ashley Books
Atheneum
Atlantic Monthly
Aurora
Avon
Award
Ballantine
Bobbs-Merrill
Branden Press
Chilton
Charles Irwin
Coward, McCann
Criterion
Thomas Crowell
Crown
Dasein
John Day
Dell
Denlinger's
Dial
Doubleday
Eriksson
Evans
Farrar, Straus & Giroux
Fawcett
Frederick Fell
Harcourt Brace
Harper & Row
Holloway House
Houghton-Mifflin
A. E. Knopf
Seymour Lawrence
Lester & Orpen(?)
Libra
J. B. Lippincot
Liveright
Living Books
Longman Canada
McMillan
MacRae
Manor
Maryland
Mason & L(?)
New American Library
O'Hara
Pacesetter
Paneth
S. G. Philip
Pinnacle
Playboy
Popular
Porter
Prentice Hall
Putnam
Pyramind
San Francisco
Scribner's
Simon & Schuster
The Smith
Stein & Day
Vanguard
Walker & Co.
Warbrooke
Warner
Westover
Weybright & Talley
White Star
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Free at last!
My car, that is.
The snow is mostly gone, thanks both to warm temperatures and those humongous machines. I was finally able to get my car free yesterday evening. It's now resting in the driveway, looking weary.
The Spanish group is beginning to gather downstairs. Incomprehensible phrases are drifting up to my study. It's time to remove my hearing aids.
Chris asked in a comment about translations of my books.
My first novel, The Children of Shiny Mountain, was translated into German and Italian. It was strange and exciting when copies of those editions arrived in the mail.
The only other novels that were translated where the Star Trek ones. The Captains' Honor had a Hebrew edition. When that one arrived in the mail, Leonore thought it was a Klingon translation. Before that, I hadn't thought of the slight similarity between the Klingon alphabet and the Hebrew one. I wonder if that's coincidence? I can still read Hebrew well enough to make out my name and Daniel's name, as the authors, and also to be able to tell that they translated the title correctly: as Captains', not Captain's. References to the book in the U.S. often use the singular possessive for some reason. Makes me wanna go all Klingon on them.
Leonore read the German edition of my first novel and said it was an excellent translation -- even better in places than my original. Gasp!
The snow is mostly gone, thanks both to warm temperatures and those humongous machines. I was finally able to get my car free yesterday evening. It's now resting in the driveway, looking weary.
The Spanish group is beginning to gather downstairs. Incomprehensible phrases are drifting up to my study. It's time to remove my hearing aids.
Chris asked in a comment about translations of my books.
My first novel, The Children of Shiny Mountain, was translated into German and Italian. It was strange and exciting when copies of those editions arrived in the mail.
The only other novels that were translated where the Star Trek ones. The Captains' Honor had a Hebrew edition. When that one arrived in the mail, Leonore thought it was a Klingon translation. Before that, I hadn't thought of the slight similarity between the Klingon alphabet and the Hebrew one. I wonder if that's coincidence? I can still read Hebrew well enough to make out my name and Daniel's name, as the authors, and also to be able to tell that they translated the title correctly: as Captains', not Captain's. References to the book in the U.S. often use the singular possessive for some reason. Makes me wanna go all Klingon on them.
Leonore read the German edition of my first novel and said it was an excellent translation -- even better in places than my original. Gasp!
Monday, February 05, 2007
It's more than snow
It's also ice.
However, what the title refers to is my realization that I've probably given the impression that I've been battling snow and ice and not writing. In fact, I've been lugging my heavy old laptop to work every day (uphill both ways, against the wind, over the ice, fighting off the dire wolves) and writing during lunch. Except for the days when I work at home - normally Wednesday and Friday - when I've been using my lunchtime to do the snow-and-ice thang.
I won't talk about my writing progress in detail because I'll end up repeating the overly optimistic stuff I said in my first few posts on this blog, and that would be silly. However, it's really taking shape! It's really getting there! It's getting really close to being a final draft! Etc.
At least, with the snow, I can see progress. No, that's not quite true. I see progress while I shovel and chip away, but then at night there's a big refreeze and everything is undone. We've always had a problem in this neighborhood with heavy snows covering up the storm drains, so any snowmelt forms small lakes in every driveway and even covering the sidewalks, and that refreezes at night, making the morning walk to the bus stop really exciting. We're in a warmup now, and it's supposed to stay above freezing tonight and tomorrow night, so that should help. Also, the city sent some humongous machines our way. They broke up the ice (and, I fear, the street beneath) and piled it in the middle of the street, creating two narrow lanes with an impressive wall between them. A day or so later, more humongous machines showed up to haul away the ice. So now there's a chance that the melt will actually drain away.
My car is still stuck in ice and is immobile. This Wednesday, I'll try to free it again. Wed. evening, Leonore will be hosting her monthly Spanish conversation group meeting. A big crowd always shows up, rain (a rarity in Denver) or snow (not so rare, this winter), and we need to have parking spaces available on the street. I really want my car out of the way by then.
However, what the title refers to is my realization that I've probably given the impression that I've been battling snow and ice and not writing. In fact, I've been lugging my heavy old laptop to work every day (uphill both ways, against the wind, over the ice, fighting off the dire wolves) and writing during lunch. Except for the days when I work at home - normally Wednesday and Friday - when I've been using my lunchtime to do the snow-and-ice thang.
I won't talk about my writing progress in detail because I'll end up repeating the overly optimistic stuff I said in my first few posts on this blog, and that would be silly. However, it's really taking shape! It's really getting there! It's getting really close to being a final draft! Etc.
At least, with the snow, I can see progress. No, that's not quite true. I see progress while I shovel and chip away, but then at night there's a big refreeze and everything is undone. We've always had a problem in this neighborhood with heavy snows covering up the storm drains, so any snowmelt forms small lakes in every driveway and even covering the sidewalks, and that refreezes at night, making the morning walk to the bus stop really exciting. We're in a warmup now, and it's supposed to stay above freezing tonight and tomorrow night, so that should help. Also, the city sent some humongous machines our way. They broke up the ice (and, I fear, the street beneath) and piled it in the middle of the street, creating two narrow lanes with an impressive wall between them. A day or so later, more humongous machines showed up to haul away the ice. So now there's a chance that the melt will actually drain away.
My car is still stuck in ice and is immobile. This Wednesday, I'll try to free it again. Wed. evening, Leonore will be hosting her monthly Spanish conversation group meeting. A big crowd always shows up, rain (a rarity in Denver) or snow (not so rare, this winter), and we need to have parking spaces available on the street. I really want my car out of the way by then.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Central Heat - My Cover
Oh, what the heck. I still haven't heard from Wildside about a publish date for the reissue and whether they'll be using my cover, so here it is:
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Snow, dig. Snow, snow, dig. Snow, snow, snow, sigh.
It never stops! We're all going crazy! Send help! Or whiskey, at any rate.
Yesterday, I again spent my lunch time chipping and hacking and shoveling, taking advantage of warm weather (above freezing, anyway). I managed to break down and shovel away part of the ice wall created at the end of the driveway by the snow plows. Dug my car partly free, although I discovered that the wheels are trapped in fairly solid ice. I was hoping that the forecast - another installment of the regular weekly blizzard - would be wrong and the exposed ice would melt some more, or at least would soften a bit and lose some of its grip on the concrete underneath.
Nope. Snowing again, cold again. Self-pity again.
But at least I'm continuing to work away at Time and the Soldier. The finish line keeps receding, but I know it's really there and I'll reach it. I just don't know when.
Or what will happen when I do. But one must never think of that. Ya gotta keep focused on the book. At that, ya gotta keep focused on the part of the book you're currently working on. That's the key, and I know that, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.
Yesterday, I again spent my lunch time chipping and hacking and shoveling, taking advantage of warm weather (above freezing, anyway). I managed to break down and shovel away part of the ice wall created at the end of the driveway by the snow plows. Dug my car partly free, although I discovered that the wheels are trapped in fairly solid ice. I was hoping that the forecast - another installment of the regular weekly blizzard - would be wrong and the exposed ice would melt some more, or at least would soften a bit and lose some of its grip on the concrete underneath.
Nope. Snowing again, cold again. Self-pity again.
But at least I'm continuing to work away at Time and the Soldier. The finish line keeps receding, but I know it's really there and I'll reach it. I just don't know when.
Or what will happen when I do. But one must never think of that. Ya gotta keep focused on the book. At that, ya gotta keep focused on the part of the book you're currently working on. That's the key, and I know that, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.
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