SFF awards – the broad picture

I will be away for a couple of days, and I am not sure what sort of connectivity I will have for the next couple of days. Back Sunday night.

In the meantime, check this out: a site devoted to sff awards and (??hopefully??!) the controversies they generate come time for nominations, rule changes and winners…

Many thanks to the (very experienced sff) team who ran with this idea and have the site up and running. It’s on my list of favourites already.

And if the date and time of posts here is puzzling you, it’s because I haven’t changed by computer clock/date away from Malaysian time, which is exactly 12 hrs in advance of east coast USA.

Everyone wants to be a writer.

Are they mad?

So it seems. Read this (from the Guardian newspaper – thanks to Bibliobibuli for the link). It seems that:

A YouGov poll has found that almost 10% of Britons aspire to being an author, followed by sports personality, pilot, astronaut and event organiser on the list of most coveted jobs”. The writing aspiration was especially noticeable in the over-35 female segment of the population.

Now, of all the career paths to choose, writing fiction is probably the least remunerative – or to put it even more bluntly, the worst paid for the hours involved. It is also a job where you work for (possibly) years, certainly a great many months, without any remuneration at all or in fact, any guarantee of reimbursement of expenses, let alone pay.

And even once you do get published, the amount of money you get is likely to be small, with no pension or employee benefits, or medical benefits. No job security or any guarantees are included. NONE. Even if you write a best seller or an award winner, there is no guarantee that you will be able to sell a book that you write, say, in 10 years time.

Glamour? Forget it. What’s glamorous about sitting at a computer for most of your day, in splendid isolation?

And here is one of the reasons why you should never consider writing as a career. Another Guardian newspaper article says:

A quarter of US adults say they read no books at all in the past year, according to an Associated Press-Ipsos poll. The typical person claimed to have read four books in the last year.”

Nothing to say that they bought those books new. They could have been borrowed from friends or a library, or bought secondhand, in which case the authors never earned a penny for their work.

More from the poll: “Women and pensioners were most avid readers, and religious works and popular fiction were the top choices. The median figure for books read – with half reading more, half fewer – was nine books for women and five for men.”

And – why am I not surprised: “Democrats and liberals typically reading slightly more books than Republicans and conservatives.”

Then, just to depress every author around: “Book sales in the US have been flat in recent years and are expected to stay that way indefinitely.”

Why, then, do I write? Because I have to. Because it is what I love to do. Because I have stories to tell. And because, on occasion, I come across a crowd of young people like Wendy and the group of readers and librarians who were in the sff section of Barnes and Noble Charlottesville last night, people who affirm my faith in readers and intelligent young people who want to have their minds stimulated by stories that push the envelope and stretch the imagination.



Beautiful things…

Today I was standing on the front steps of my daughter’s house, next to a flowering plant with honey-suckle-like blossoms. And a ruby-throated hummingbird came to sip at the nectar, hovering at my elbow. I could have reached out and touched it with a finger. Suspended before me, a manikin on invisible strings, regarding me with its tiny shining black bead of an eye. Evidently deciding I was harmless, it hummed its way from flower to flower not even an arm’s length from this clumsy, fumbling imperfect human. Iridescent green, sheened gold, each feather perfection, each wing invisible – just a blur across the leaves – tail tipped black and white, stiletto beak stabbing with the precision of a sewing machine needle…a wonder in a world we skim by with so little empathy or understanding.

My grandson, just three, his world as totally self-centred as a child’s horizon dictates it must be, yet exploring with his imagination in ways that astound me. In a moment, he can be a princess, a prince, a boy trying to grow up or a baby to be pampered. He uses language – a free-flowing waterfall of words – in ways not limited as we adults limit ourselves with thoughts of rules and the niceties of our polity and our desire not to appear ridiculous. He is a king, a dancer, a singer, a chef, a vulgar story teller and a kind Cinderella, all in the space of a single tale. When he is overwhelmed and uncertain, he says, “I want to go home” even when he is already home. And in so doing he sums up the adult world, where we would all like to go home, yet never can, not truly, for only as children – if we were lucky – did we know what it was to be enfolded within the safety of parental love and the security of a mother’s arms and to believe utterly and fearlessly that we were indeed safely home.

Baby-sitting detail

First day on duty.
I’m exhausted. Grandson is still racing around at 8.30 p.m.
Did manage to get some writing done though, while he had a nap, and am happy with how that is going. Will put up the word counter tomorrow when I sort out how to get my laptop onto the house wifi…

Grandson is very cute. Also very stubborn. Can’t imagine where he gets that from!

Arrived in Virginia…

The planes seem to get smaller and smaller from Singapore onwards. The last, from Washington DC to Charlottesville, was probably the most expensive per mile of all, and it was small enough to have its own steps.

Anyway, here I am in Virginia, visiting first daughter and grandson. After California, it is sooooo green. And lots more birds too.

L.A. Art…







I am leaving for Virginia tomorrow.
Here are some photos we took this evening around where my daughter lives.

Space invader art – these tiled art works are found in many different parts of the world…

Pix 2, 3 and 4 all portray where I have been staying…if you know where to look.

5 is L.A. city and 6 is an owl – on guard against the pigeons, I guess. Or just some fun art?

When in ….

…Rome L.A, do as the locals do?

Since coming here I have done some things I have never done before: had a massage in an upmarket spa along Sunset Boulevard, for a start.

Anyone who knows me will know that spending time in a spa is, well, not exactly me. Firstly, I can always think of things I would rather be doing with my money than pampering myself with stuff that really doesn’t matter. Secondly, well – do I need a second reason? But my daughter had some gift certificates, and so off we went to the spa…

Which was all insanely luxurious and deliciously pleasant and horribly decadent.

We then went and had a cheapo pedicure and a manicure in a Vietnamese assembly line beauty parlour – fun place actually, where you can – at the same time as your feet are being mangled by charmingly indifferent humans – have your back massaged by one of those awful massage chairs that feel like something out of a horror movie. (“Eek! Janey, the chair’s alive! It’s eating meeeffmwmwm!”)

I now have polished nails for the first time in…um…thirty years? Which is much more fun than doing it every week…

Back at work and loving it

This is what my word meter looked like last time I was working on Drouthlord, Book One of The Random Rain Quartet (working titles).

Zokutou word meterZokutou word meter
147,000 / 180,000
(81.7%)

This is what it looks like when I finished today…

Zokutou word meterZokutou word meter
148,707 / 180,000
(82.6%)

Looks much same visually, but it has actually crept up a bit. My daughter has to go to work, and I am still under that compulsary rest regime, so what else is there to do but write? Actually I did quite a bit more than the meter indicates, as I also deleted and rewrote…

I love my work.

Echo Park


My daughter lives in Echo Park, so today we went down to the actual park to see what birds were around. Mostly they were hybrid ducks and geese, sea gulls and a dozen or so Double Crested Cormorants. And a stack of Brewer’s Blackbirds perched on the lily pads like exotic black flowers…. Downtown Los Angeles in the background.