Good News // Bad News

The bad news is, I seem to have neglected the blog of late.

The good news is, no one reads it anyways.

The best news is that I plan on updating it soon.


The bad news is. . . no one reads it anyways.

What Constitutes Science Fiction?

Alright, so I'm reading last year's release of Year's Best SF. the 13th I believe. Generally a good publication. The Year's Best collections are generally pretty good buys for all genre writers. The basic logic is that if you can keep up quality-wise with these guys, you should be able to publish your short-fiction with ease.
I'm not saying the logic is entirely solid, but it makes basic sense.

Well, near the back is a story called "Pirates of the Somali Coast" by Terry Bissom. It's a pretty amusing story, a satire about terrorism and children's imaginations. Here's the catch:

It's not really sci-fi. I wouldn't even call it speculative fiction. So what the hell is it doing in Year's Best SF?

Here's where I'm caught up. The story is told ENTIRELY in the form of E-mails from the child protagonist to his parents and a friend of his. The idea is that while the other passengers on the cruise he's on are really getting killed off by pirates, he thinks the whole thing is just a show for their amusement, and keeps talking about seeing the other passengers [who are dead] at the end of pirate week. If they really did come back, I'd be eating my words - but they don't.

The idea of Science Fiction, in my mind, is that there's a slightly fantastical element of science present, taking it beyond the realm of reality. Not very far, but soundly beyond.

This story is solidly, even bitterly, within the realm of the modern. The "pirates" are Arabic terrorists hijacking a cruise. They've got machine guns and a small cannon, and they use speed boats. This is all within the realm of possibility in the now, and even within the realm of the highly likely.
The most technological aspect is the e-mail, but considering that email pervades our modern culture, it's almost like saying a story is sci-fi for having cable television and cell phones. Most of us would laugh it off.

It seems to me that as we enter an age where the distant future of sci-fi past is today's reality, we're losing sight of the potential science fiction still has. As we discover more and more in the way of scientific advancement, much inspired by SF giants like Asimov and Roddenberry, it is left to SF writers to keep pushing into the future - the as-yet merely theoretical. Because if we don't, then by the time I'm dead, there will be no more genre for us to write in.

My House Is Infected.

Kay, I know I shouldn't say shit like this. Pissing other, more popular authors off is not a productive way to market your book. A back-cover blurb from someone in the same basic genre could potentially mean hundreds of readers who other-wise wouldn't have given your novel a second glance.

But still, I hate Twilight.

My younger sister bought this book today against my suggestion, and every effort. She could have at least leeched it from a library or something. Christ.

In writing news, I've made a little progress on my as-yet-untitled YA aimed novel, and started on a definitely NOT YA aimed short story.

I recently decided to delve into the world of lit mags, and try to research markets for short stories I write. You've got to break through somehow. I picked up "Rosebud" and Wither-sin," and will read through each to see what kind of stories they select. Some of the more reputable journals and reviews run pretty damned expensive, or I would have got more today. Well, they've gotta pay the writers somehow I suppose.
Look to see posts on me attempting to break into the market. . . sooner or later.

And I know you've all been waiting for this with bated breath through the entire post so here you go kiddies...


THE WORD OF THE FUCKING DAY!!!
IDIODOMY: NOUN. THE IDEAL OF THE INAPPROPRIATE ACT OF SEXUAL INTERCOURSE BETWEEN TWO MORONS. I.E.; "THOSE FUCKING IDIODIMITES SHOULD HAVE THEIR REPRODUCTIVE LICENSES REVOKED FOR THE GOOD OF THE GENE POOL!"

This has been the Word of the Fucking Day.

Have fun, and I'll see you next time, oh two to three people who read this blog. If that.

Something New

THIS IS --

THE WORD OF THE FUCKING DAY!!!
So what does that mean to you? Well, nothing. The Word of the Fucking Day (tm) is a word you will never use in semi-intelligent conversation. You will never write it in a published book. In fact, you will avoid using these words like the mother-fucking plague. Why? Coz' they'll make you sound like an idiot, dumb-ass.

So why do I do it? Because I can. A little history, the WotFD was a completely irregular segment I did on my old Xanga blog that no-one read. History over.

Today's word?
ADRENOFUCK - verb. Super-human act of sexual intercourse performed by sheer power of anger and spite. This is only possible in conensual sex, there-by distinguishing it from plain old RAPE.

Usage: "Bitch wouldn't make me eggs for breakfast, so in bed tonight I'll adrenofuck her so hard she'll 'gasm blood and shit. RAGE!!!!!!"

Rage, indeed.

In other news.

Progress: Zilch.

The thing about writing that's such a pain in the ass is that you have to actually DO it. Odd, that.
I've been watching the complete series [so far] of House M.D., which is a bloody riot. I'm a little ways into the second season right now, and I've finally got some lag between uh... "episode arrivals" so I can possibly get some writing done, because I need to.

Otherwise this blog isn't worth shit.

Introducing...

It is conceivable that one might liken an unpublished writer to an inexperienced serial killer. Again, this is conceivable -- but entirely wrong. Rather, an unpublished writer is very much like a successful serial killer.
A writer, even when unpublished and unrecognized, writes improving their skills and getting to a level where their talents are widely acknowledged. It seems to me that any killer worth his salt would be doing the same.


This will be my first addition to my blog here on blogger, and I hope to keep it updated on a semi-frequent basis. It should, if all goes according to plan, serve as half personal log for me, half entertainment for you, and half education for anyone following along my missteps. [If it wasn't entirely clear, mathematics will not be part of this curriculum.]

I am of course, part of the unpublished masses - a writer trying to get something worth-while [or at least marketable] on paper and make his cash while sitting in bed at home with a laptop and a waffle breakfast and a pretty girl lying next to him. That's how my fantasy goes anyways. My carefully metered lines between madness and lucidity do not allow me to fully submerge myself in that delusion. I know full well that having taken the task of becoming a published author no-matter-the-fuck-what, my life could be a living hell from this point on.

If you're wondering what the blog's title is all about, don't. It has something to do with something I may or may not be writing, and I may tell-all eventually - but someone would actually have to be reading this shit for me to take my time and explain.

All this being out of the way, sit back and enjoy the ride. Welcome to my mind.