End of the Month Report: August

Submissions: 2
Rejections: 8
Acceptances: 0
Published: 0
Stories presently out: 6
Mood: ♫♪ What’s it (writing) ♫♫ all about ♪♫♫ ??? ♫♪

Scifi, scifi, scifi! Oi! Oi! Oi!

When you open The Age’s A2 supplement for a leisurely Sunday morning read and discover an article about the Hugo Awards titled It’s SF, but not as we know it, and said article reels off names like Paolo Bacigalupi, China Mieville, and Catherynne M Valente while giving a Booker-like roundup of the shortlisted works, well, then you know something odd is going on.

That something odd is, of course, AussieCon4, the 68th World Science Fiction Convention in Melbourne, which starts on Thursday.

And I’m good to go. I’ve organized days off from the Arvo Job, highlighted the program (check out Robert Silverberg and other such SF luminaries, try to get Kim Stanley Robinson to sign my treasured, but now yellowing copies of Red Mars, Green Mars, and Blue Mars, learn how to make a Dalek with Lego blocks*...), cleared my camera and charged the batteries.

So yipeee! Only 4 sleeps to go!

*I later realised that the 'Build a LEGO Dalek' is in fact part of the kids program, as are 'Light saber making and training' and 'Steampunk my iPhone and iPad'. Drats, drats, drats. Bloody kids have all the fun.

A splice of life

I saw Splice last night. Dark, creepy, occasionally funny, full of slippery moral slopes, abysmal parenting, folk getting drunk on their godlike powers of scientific creation and giving in to base urges. The word love was twisted and abused, and constantly wielded as a get-out-of-jail card for inexcusable behaviour.

Given that the neighbours are indulging their love of bogan bass tonight, after lulling me into a false sense of security with months of peace and quiet, I feel a few dark impulses of my own rising. I’m tempted to pop next door and engage in a little DIY chromosomal upgrading. The introduction of sound-sensitive DNA into their genetic makeup, as well as a better taste in music, would be a definite improvement.

Monkey see, monkey buy

New Scientist. One study. Two adverts. The only difference between them is a four second scene in which the female model either looked passively at the camera or touched her cheek with the back of her hand.

The one advertisement was much preferred over the other, even though the volunteers did not notice any difference between them. Apparently the gesture produced a measurable, positive emotional response. No wonder all those ad models are endlessly caressing themselves or running their hands through their own silky tresses in outrageous displays of product porn.

Still, it’s a bit scary. 4 seconds? One gesture? Is that all it takes to manipulate rational thought?

Here we go again

So I came home to my sixth rejection for this month, and there are no morale boosting publications in my 'forthcoming' folder, so of course I'm thinking about chucking it all in and investing my sense of identity in something infinitely more doable than writing, something like winning an Olympic gold medal in some sport I have yet to take up, or saving the planet from greenhouse gasses, or building a FTL spaceship in my backyard.

But even as I'm swearing that this time I really really mean it, this time I'm really really over this heart-crushing writing business, a part of my brain is already planning my comeback and telling me that hey, that story will be snapped up for sure if you send it to publication XYZ or ABC, and you know if you just rejig that other rejected story, maybe drop a few hundred words from it, why, for sure there'll be worldwide bidding wars for it, and you know, some of those rejections were nice encouraging ones so you can't be all bad, and ...

Blah, blah, angsty blah.

Incurable.

I ♥ democracy

And so off I went this morning, a chipper citizen eager to cast her first country vote here in the Heartlands. In St Kilda, I always waited until 5 minutes to closing time, hopped on my bike, barrelled through the weary leaflet folk still left standing, and did my civic duty. But today, I wanted to check out the local election scene.

The first noticeable difference was that there was much more cake involved. There were huge slabs of the stuff on tables of all political persuasions. This feed-them-sugar strategy had me worrying about whether people voted according to the cocoa content of Judy’s or Beryl’s secret recipes rather than the worthiness of our often doughy politicians.

The second big difference was that the demographic wasn’t skewered towards trendy young arty things and professional young couples with 4WD prams intent on gentrifying the world in their image. Instead, there was a lovely mix of different age groups and social classes, with a few crusty old country codgers thrown in.

Unfortunately, as much as I ♥ democracy, I’m less enamoured with bureaucracy. Despite the fact that I’d changed my address details, and despite the fact that I had a letter confirming the change, I was not on the electoral roll. Apparently, a nice volunteer told me, they had had many such omissions (a conspiracy of some sort?). So alas, I had to fill out forms, and finally, fifteen months after leaving St Kilda, I had to cast an absentee vote for Port Melbourne.

Where's the tribalism in that?

It just won't be the same watching the results on telly.

Never surrender, never give up.

At last - my long expected fall from footy grace. Last week, three of us shared first place in the footy tipping at the Arvo Job. This week, after 6 (?) weeks in the lead, I've sunk to third place. Oh, the ignominy! Oh the penury of lost winnings! There are two rounds to go. Who knows (dare to dream) maybe I'll fight my way back to the top. Still, when it comes to fighting, it helps to know what you're doing (I know it's a sport and that it involves a lot of blokes and one ball). I guess I'll just have to leave it to luck then. As I've done every week so far.

So go ... whoever I've picked!

Love is a multi-level battlefield

Forget life as an American musical; life as a Japanese video game, that’s the ticket. When it comes to the contest of love, there’s none of that feel-good wielding of umbrellas, and singing and splashing in puddles business then. Instead it’s seriously impressive swords and heavy-duty bass guitars at ten paces, racking up points as you go.

Some things, however, never change. If you claim that a movie is a comedy, then the dialogue by definition must be humorous. And when it comes to romance, it doesn’t matter whether you’re a Boomer, a Gen X, Y or Delta, the plot is set in stone. Long ago, at some writers meeting in a post-Jurassic cave, dramatists decreed that a traditional love story must abide by the following structure: boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy and girl face obstacles and/or misunderstandings, boy and girl have a falling out, boy and girl overcome obstacles and/or misunderstandings, boy and girl get back together, true love triumphs. There’s usually some kissing involved.

Scott Pilgrim vs the World obeys the classic rules while remaining a steadfastly modern movie. Goodness knows what granny would make of it all. Since it's a rom-com, our lovers, Scott and Ramona, are naturally sweet and witty, thought definitely not virginal, and throughout their trials, a Greek chorus of sharp-eyed, wise-cracking, fast-living friends and family members pass comments to counter excessive soppiness. Many droll observations about our incredibly interconnected lives are made without belabouring the point, and the movie pokes much fun, as does all good comedy, at People-Who-Take-Themselves-Too-Seriously. There is kissing. And more.

I saw this movie yesterday, and I’m still sniggering at the Righteous Vegan jokes.

The frugal frontier

This morning I was:

1) Inspired by a quote. According to The Weekend Australian Review, the Italian fabulist Italo Calvino said: “Fantasy is like jam; you have to spread it on a solid slice of bread. If not, it remains a shapeless thing, like jam, out of which you can’t make anything.”

2) Amused, and frightened, by the concept of El Cheapo aliens. Catching up on my New Scientist reading, I came across the scary thought that ET might, like us, be in thrall to bean counters. If so, extraterrestrial economics of the thriftier kind suggests that aliens would use small and cheap beacons as transmitters, and choose to transmit their intergalactic greetings at frequencies closer to 10 gigahertz rather than 1.42 to 1.72 range that the SETI projects scan. It’s the thought of accountants ruling the universe that unsettles me. Is there then no escape from their adventure-strangling mindset?

Repeat after me

I must get a synopsis done for the YOSF&F workshop, I must get a synopsis done for the YOSF&F workshop, I must get a synopsis done for the YOSF&F workshop ...

Silver Star

Googling yesterday for a Sunday blog picture, I discovered that the Lone Ranger's horse Silver once had his own comic book. This I did not know. Called The Lone Ranger's Famous Horse Hi-Yo Silver, it started in 1952 and ran for 34 issues. Just by looking at the covers, I know that if I'd been a 10 year old back in the early fifties, I'd have bought and cherished those comics.

What I did know was that Silver was originally a wild stallion. You see, the Lone Ranger first rode a chestnut mare called Dusty, but she was killed by a criminal, boo hiss. But then the Lone Ranger saved Silver's life from an enraged buffalo, and in gratitude Silver gave up his wild life to carry him. Aaaah.

Hi-Ho, Sunday, Away

I'm just back from a long day of horseriding. The weather was perfect - sunny, but crisp. It was just my sister and myself today, so we could do whatever we liked, which mostly involved exploring the Wombat Forest, occasionally getting a teeny bit lost, and finding our way back out again.

Now for a hot shower.

A short story a day...

I finished Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine Issue 44 this morning. My favourite story is the one I read Tuesday - Factory Made by Ralph Benedetto. It has a nice Golden Age of SF feel about it, and was fun to read.

Two catty questions

After reading the local paper this morning, I ask:

1) Is it right to use that hated word ‘lifestyle’ when referring to the terrible conditions endured by people in Third World countries, as in ‘It was emotionally draining and just really hard to accept their lifestyle'? I have no problem with the speaker’s generosity and praiseworthy desire to help others, just with that stupid word used in this context. To me, ‘lifestyle’ implies an element of choice, and the financial luxury and political freedom to pursue your choices. Methinks that wretched word ‘lifestyle’ is to the English language what the vuvuzela is to music.

2) If a dog that guards property (utes, commercial sites, home offices) and equipment is deemed a member of a work environment, and their dog-related expenses such as food, vaccinations and vet bills can be claimed as deductions from a business’s gross income, should not the costs of the dedicated cats belonging to those involved in more contemplative trades also be legitimate tax deductions? For some of us, a cat in the lap, or just snoozing companionably in the room, is a vital part of the thinking/writing process. I shall have to speak with my local MP.

Feel the Force

Sighted from a tram on the way to the Arvo Job – a Stormtrooper and a Jedi knight striding side by side up Collins Street, office folk in sensible attire milling about them. I laughed, I did.

Once at the Arvo Job, I discovered that for the fifth (maybe sixth?) consecutive week, by the merest of leads (1 point), I am still #1 in the footy tips. There are still 4 rounds to go. Ah, so near to monetary gain, yet so far.