Samuel Bothers Boo

Sometimes our indoor children have discussions with our outdoor guests.

Most times they tolerate each other.

Ghost, our indoor cat, barely gives a nod when someone shows up.

Boo lets us know when various Old Ones are about.

He sometimes whines at the door. Translation, “The raccoons are here.”

Or he’ll sit and stare out a window. Translation, “The turkeys are here.”

A low growl. “We have an opossum visiting.”

And then there’s the huff. Sometimes it’s a huff with a bounce on his front feet. Usually means something doglike is on “his” turf.

Quite territorial, he.

Fortunately, our canid wild isn’t quite as territorial as he.

As you can see here, Samuel the Coyote basically says, “Yeah, okay. A dog. Sheesh. Chill, Bro. Yo! Two-Legs! Want to put a muzzle on that inhospitable pup of yours?”

Boo has learned not to be so challenging.

We go out and see to our guests, then promptly come back in and give both him and Ghost treats.

Lets them know these Old Ones are our guests. There are rewards for treating them with respect.

Not sure how to teach Two-Legs the same thing, though.

Suggestions, anyone?

 

Is your work product or art?

Bit of a trick question, that.

Art is also a product. The question has more to do with production values. There’s a difference in the care put into producing a Velvet Elvis versus the Mona Lisa. It has nothing to do with Da Vinci thinking, “Yeah, some day, hot dang, I’ll be remembered for this.” I doubt he did. It was commissioned work. But he definitely put more time into it than he made on the commission. He wanted to do a good job.

Not sure anybody on the Velvet Elvis production line has such thoughts. Ever heard anybody at a burgerjoint call from out back, “Wow, Charlie! That’s one damn good fry you made!”?

The “work versus product” question has been with me since January of this year (2020). I took a class with a recognized, award winning author.
Continue reading “Is your work product or art?”

What’s Your Plan B? (or “After 100 Agents, what?”)

We don’ need no stinkin’ Plan Bs

“I plan on becoming an internationally renowned brain surgeon.”
“That’s great. Except you’re a straight D student, you have essential tremor, and anybody who really wants to become a brain surgeon would know enough to call it ‘neurosurgeon’. So what’s your Plan B?

Plan B. The fallback. The backup. The “what you do when what you want doesn’t happen.”

I’ve always had trouble with the concept of a Plan B.

It was as if somewhere in my teens I said to myself, “Let’s see… I can do well in school, go to college, get a degree and lead a totally mundane, boring, completely unfulfilled life. Or I can become a superhero…” and I saw that and said, “Screw that. The rest of the world can go on the straight and narrow,” and I took a left.
Of course, the path I chose meant I’d be misunderstood, have enemies, have to solve bigger than life problems, that kind of stuff, but even if I chose the simple path I’d be telling myself I was still doing those things. The superhero path also meant I’d be respected and honored and sought after, and again, I’d be telling myself those things were true even if I took the simple path.
So somewhere in my teens I figured, “What the hell?”
I took a left and never looked back.

 
For one thing, having a Plan B is distracting. Every time there’s a bump on your Plan A road, you take a moment or two to decide if this is when you should switch to Plan B.

Nobody seems to note that all those moments, all that decision making, all it really is is a loss of focus on your Plan A goal.

Remember, Plan B is your fallback. It’s what you settle for. It’s less than what you wanted. When Kennedy committed the USA to landing on the moon by the end of the decade, nobody stood up and said, “But if we never leave low Earth orbit, that’s cool, too!” The goal was The Moon. Anything else would be Not Moon.

Anybody notice the subtle shift I did there? I talked about the goal, not how to reach the goal. Any plan – A, B, C, H, Q, Fromblitz, whatever – is how you get to your goal.


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My apologies

Long ago and far away I received a letter (shows how long ago this was) from AJ Budrys congratulating me on getting my short story, Cymodoce, nominated for the Nebula (1995).

Flattered, honored, and I mention it when it seems appropriate.

 
Someone wrote me they couldn’t find any record of my nomination.

First, Wow! It’s important enough to you you looked it up? I’m flattered and honored all over again.

But it did make me curious. I emailed SFWA

Is there a list of Nebula first round nominees available? I remember receiving a letter (an indication of how long ago this was) from AJ Budrys re a story of mine, Cymodoce (Tomorrow Magazine, 1995), congratulating me on being a first round nominee.
Does SFWA/Nebula keep first-round nominee records? And if so, do they go that far back?

and just now (3 Jun 20, 12:38pmET) received

Yes, we do keep records. Your story did receive a recommendation listed in the Nebula Awards Report, but this was not considered being a “first round nominee.” It required ten recommendation to make the preliminary ballot.

Hence I apologize for the confusion.

And you know what?

AJ LIKED MY STUFF ENOUGH TO RECOMMENDED IT!

Yeah. I’m good with that.

I’ll take it until something better comes along.

(and i will be updating my marketing materials as time allows (wondering if i can get away with calling it a typo…))

Why It Works for Me – Brian Fagan’s “The Little Ice Age”

This is the ninth in a series I’m doing wherein I discuss why a particular piece of writing works for me, aka, this piece of writing taught me something about writing, encouraged me to be a better writer, engaged me, captivated me, educated me, et cetera.

As I’ve written elsewhere, it’s one thing to know something is good, it’s a better thing (in my opinion) to know why it’s good and then be able to copy what’s good about it, to learn from it so you can be as good and (hopefully) better.

This time out, Brian Fagan’s “The Little Ice Age”. I also shared Brian Fagan’s “The First North Americans” in episode seven.