Asimov's Science Fiction - June 2014
Page 18
Very likely I'd be using that creaky 1982 computer even now, but for the fact that in 1991 it lost contact with my printer, and the technician who usually got me through such glitches could find no way to get me through this one. By then, though, standardized PCs using DOS operating systems had appeared, so writers could send diskettes to editors and skip the manuscript stage entirely, whereas I was still plodding along with my totally noncompatible software. It was fine software—to this day, I have not encountered an easier or more flexible word-processing program than Arrow, the one that came with my Compucorp—and after nine years of experience with it, I wanted to keep on using it. But Compucorp, by then, was out of business. Then I learned that Arrow was now available in a DOS version that could be used on any of the many makes of PCs that had come into use. I did a little comparative shopping, bought a Compaq 386 computer, installed Arrow on it, and set happily to work.
I loved using it. In fact I went on using it and using it and using it as decades went by. Computers aren't supposed to last forever, and indeed most don't last more than a few years; but there I was, still turning out books on my Compaq 386 in the new century, and doing my personal and business bookkeeping on it too. The demise of my Compucorp had been a blessing in disguise; now I was a DOS user like everybody else, no longer locked into a unique and non-compatible operating system, and I could back up my work on my wife's computer, or on the second computer that I bought for my own backup purposes, or any other DOS computer I chose.
During those years the Internet happened. My computer had no modem, but that was all right, because I didn't want the distraction of e-mail or eBay or e-anything while I worked. Around 1998, I bought a laptop for Internet use in the main house, and eventually upgraded to a Macintosh iMac; but over in my office, a separate building, I worked on and on with my ever more ancient Compaq, using my beloved Arrow software.
I worked on and on, yes, but not without a certain tension as the years went by, because I knew that my office computer had lasted well beyond its plausible life span, and every morning as I headed for the office to begin the day's work I wondered whether this might be the morning when it would no longer respond. I had it all backed up on a laptop computer but, even so, I knew it would be tremendously traumatic when the day came that my good old Compaq suddenly could not be made to work.
That day came a couple of months ago. I had just written a new column for Asimov's, and I was backing it up onto a diskette so I could turn it into an ASCII file, take it over to the main house, convert it to a Word document, and e-mail it to the magazine, when suddenly my computer abruptly announced that its C drive—that is, the primary one—could not be found. I went into the DOS directory and saw that all the C drive files were still there—long lists of them with cryptic DOS names, stories, novels, essays, business records, everything that I had put on that computer since 1991. But I had no access to anything.
Trauma, all right. I called in a local computer expert old enough to remember DOS-based computers, C drives, floppy disks, all that ancient stuff, and for a couple of mornings he tinkered with my venerable machine. Without success, though, for the problem was within the Arrow software, not in the computer itself, and Arrow had been a thing of the past for so long that no one now working with computers had any idea how to fix a chunk of corrupted code. This, I knew, was The End, Goetterdaemmerung for my dear old Compaq at last.
The disaster wasn't total, though. I still had the entire contents of the Compaq backed up on the laptop, and I also had access to the A drive, the diskette drive, of the old computer. I wasn't able to print anything from the laptop—that's a different and very complicated story—but I could transfer any document I wanted from the laptop to a diskette, put it on the Compaq using the A drive, work with it there, and print the result. Writing to the A drive is slower than using the hard drive, of course, because I type quickly and the A drive, unable to keep up with the input at the speed with which I put it in, pauses every couple of minutes to catch up, and I have to wait while that is going on. But that's not a serious problem—certainly not while making bookkeeping entries, since those are made at a rather slower pace than the one with which I compose sentences, and even while writing essays I could easily deal with having to wait a moment for the computer before going on to the next word. Scrolling through something I've already written is slower, too, because a diskette doesn't have much memory; but I tell myself that waiting for the next line to show up is a Zen exercise for me, a belated education in learning a little patience.
The delays that the diskette drive enforces might be irritating if I were writing fiction, because sometimes fiction is written (at least in the first draft) in a white heat, and waiting for the computer might prove maddening. But I don't write much fiction any more. My last novel was published in 2002, and the encroachment of age leaves me without much desire to embark on any project that big again. Even short stories have become few and far between; I haven't written one since the early months of 2011, and at least for now I have no plans for doing any, though that could change quickly if some editor were to make me an offer I couldn't refuse.
I still do write the regular column for Asimov's, though, and various other essays from time to time, introductions to other people's books, and the like, and, because I still prefer to work with my familiar keyboard and the familiar whiteon-black screen and the fine Arrow software of yesteryear, I've learned to do all that on the diskette drive, backing it up for safety's sake to the laptop, and then taking my diskette over to the iMac to convert the new piece into a Word document and e-mail it off to its publisher. Doing business or financial bookkeeping that way plainly makes no sense, though. Some day the rest of the Compaq will die and I'll lose whatever documents may be stranded on it; and the Arrow software that does my arithmetical computations is incompatible with anything now in use, so I can't simply take backups of my business records over to the iMac and feed them into Excel or Word. Therefore I've been busy converting everything that involves mathematical computation into new Excel files—personal and professional tax files, investment data, earnings records, and so on.
It's been a long and wearisome job, and after two months I'm not done with it yet; but once again, as was the case when I had to make the switch from the Compucorp to the Compaq nearly a quarter of a century ago, I recognize it as a blessing in disguise. Instead of keeping those records on a computer almost a quarter of a century old, using software that no one else knows how to use, I have them on my shiny modern iMac, backed up onto a second in-house iMac and also onto an external hard drive. And all the stories and novels that I wrote on the Compaq were long ago backed up and converted to Word files on the iMac, along with much of my pre-computer fiction, which various publishers have scanned and converted for me. So I no longer wonder, at the beginning of each day, whether this is the day that the computer catastrophe arrives at last. Other catastrophes, yes: there are always plenty of those to worry about, a 9.3 earthquake, a home-invasion robbery, a replay of the terrible firestorm of 1989 that destroyed three thousand homes less than a mile from where I live. But I'm not going to turn on my computer some morning and discover that I have lost access to everything I've written in the last couple of decades. There's comfort in knowing that I have successfully lived on into the post-Compaq age, or, more accurately, have been dragged into it, after at least a decade of worrying about what would happen when the old machine finally gave out.
* * *
On the Net
IT'S AN HONOR JUST TO BE NOMINATED James Patrick Kelly | 1639 words
origin story
Although I am writing in the fall of 2013, by the time you read this the nominees for the Science Fiction Writers of America Nebula Award sfwa.org/nebula-awards >, will have been announced. While there are good arguments to be made that we spend too much time thinking about the Nebulas, Hugos thehugoawards.org >, World Fantasy Awards worldfantasy.org/awards > and the like, the fact is that not only do awards provide yearly
snapshots of the state of science fiction and fantasy, but they often drive the critical discourse about what our genres do best and what they could do without.
The Nebula Award was the brainchild of Lloyd Biggle Jr. sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/biggle_lloyd_jr >, who was the secretary/treasurer of the fledgling Science Fiction Writers of America in 1965. Biggle calculated that the cost of the awards and their attendant banquet ceremony could be paid for from sales of an anthology of nominees and winners. That yearly anthology pyrsf.com/nebula awards2013.htm > continues to be published to this day, although the cost of the expanded Nebula Weekend www.sfwa.org/nebula-awards/nebula-weekend > exceeds the income it now brings in. The handsome trophy, designed by J. A. Lawrence sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/lawrence_j_a > from a drawing by Kate Wilhelm katewilhelm.com >, has changed little over the years. It takes the form of a transparent block of Lucite, 8x4x4 inches in size, in which is embedded a spiral nebula of glitter suspended over rock crystals. The mechanics of nominating and voting, on the other hand, have been the source of continuing controversy since day one, with more rule changes than anyone cares to remember. For example, in the first year there was no preliminary ballot or short-list, and so the voters of SFWA had to pick their favorites from some seventy nominees! The following year saw the first revision to the rules, resulting in just fourteen finalists.
Five Nebulas in four categories were awarded to that first class of 1966. The winner for best novel was Frank Herbert's Dune dunenovels.com >, the tied winners for novella were "The Saliva Tree" by Brian W. Aldiss brianaldiss.co.uk > and "He Who Shapes" by Roger Zelazny sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/zelazny_roger >, the novelette was Zelazny's "The Doors of His Face, the Lamps of His Mouth," and the short story was Harlan Ellison harlanellison.com > " 'Repent, Harlequin!' Said the Ticktockman. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%22 Repent,_Harlequin!%22_Said_the_Tick tockman >. It was a stellar selection; almost all of these stories have stood the test of time.
But consider, for a moment, the snapshot of our genre in the mid-sixties which that first slate of nominees provides. Of the seventy nominees, just one was a woman, Jane Beauclerk, a pseudonym for M. J. Engh mjengh.com >. And with very few exceptions, the nominated stories were all science fiction. Jump ahead to 2012, when John Kessel http:// www4.ncsu.edu/~tenshi/index2.html > and I edited the Nebula Showcase anthology; there were more women than men nominated, and more fantasy than science fiction on the final ballot.
Though not exactly Nebulas, SFWA has created three new literary awards since: the Ray Bradbury Award for Outstanding Dramatic Presentation, the An dre Norton Award for Young Adult Science Fiction and Fantasy, and the Damon Knight Memorial Grand Master Award. The first incarnation of the Bradbury began in 1992, but due to very little interest from the Hollywood nominees, it went on hiatus, only to be revived in 1999. However, the attention this award gets from the film and television community remains minimal. The Norton Award was first given in 2006 and has been much more successful in bringing recognition to worthy novels and novelists. The first Grand Master award, a career honor given to living writers, was bestowed on Robert A. Heinlein heinleinsociety.org > in 1975. Readers with long memories may recall that we reviewed the list of Grand Masters asimovs.com/_issue_0511/Onthenet.shtml > in this space back in 2005. Since then, Harlan Ellison, James Gunn sfcenter.ku.edu/bio.htm >, Michael Moorcock multiverse.org >, Harry Harrison michaelowencarroll.com/hh >, Joe Haldeman www.joehaldeman.com >, Connie Willis sftv.org/cw >, and Gene Wolfe en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gene_Wolfe > have joined their storied ranks.
keeping score
Since the first Nebulas were awarded in 1966, there have been two hundred and four winners by my (rough) count. This includes several ties, along with the extra Nebulas awarded in those years when they were given to dramatic presentations and scripts (now SFWA offers the Bradbury Award instead) and minus the award that Lisa Tuttle lisatuttle.co.uk> declined in 1982. In that time, those most often called to the podium have been Connie Willis with seven wins, Ursula K. Le Guin ursulakleguin.com > with six, and Greg Bear , Joe Haldeman, and Robert Silverberg majipoor.com > in a three-way tie with five. Meanwhile, Robert Silverberg has racked up the most nominations with twenty-two, followed by Gene Wolfe with twenty, and Ursula K. Le Guin and Kate Wilhelm tied with eighteen.
Of course, for every winner, there is usually a raft of losers non-winners. That is the way of awards, alas. Avram Davidson avramdavidson.org > and Bruce Sterling sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/sterling_bruce > are currently tied for the most nominations without a win with ten each, followed by Thomas M. Disch sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/disch_thomas_m > with nine and R. A. Lafferty mulle-kybernetik.com/RAL > and Maureen McHugh sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/mchugh_maureen_f > with seven. Even those who have Nebulas on their shelves have lost more often than they have won. Gene Wolfe holds the record with eighteen losses; Robert Silverberg has seventeen; and Jack McDevitt >, Michael Swanwick michaelswanwick.com >, and Kate Wilhelm have lost fifteen times.
For all the intrepid statisticians out there, here's the breakdown of wins and losses by category. Ursula K. Le Guin has received the most Nebulas for Best Novel, with four wins out of six nominations. On the other hand, Philip K. Dick philip kdickfans.com > and Poul Anderson en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poul_Anderson > were both nominated five times without winning. Nancy Kress sff.net/people/nan kress > has won the most Nebulas for Best Novella with three out of her six nominations. Michael Bishop www.michaelbishop-writer.com > has seven nominations without a win. Ted Chiang sfencyclopedia.com/entry/chiang_ted > has the most wins in the novelette category, with a perfect record of three nominations and three awards. At six nominations without a win, the all time novelette loser is... um... me jimkelly.net >. Harlan Ellison has three Nebulas for his eight nominations. Michael Swanwick has the most nominations for short story without winning at six.
so what?
I admit that I was hesitant to draw your attention to the stats above, even though they are easily available on Wikipedia and the invaluable Science Fiction Awards Database sfadb.com >. Why? Because to some extent it reinforces the zero sum mindset that tends to dominate the awards. Immedi ately after ballots are announced, all the nominees are winners. Friends send congratulatory messages; those fortunate few get their names printed in all the best places. Nominees remain in this exalted state right up until the moment the Nebula banquet begins. Then comes Squirm Time. Even if they have convinced themselves that they don't really care and besides they have no chance of winning and of course the whole enterprise of giving awards to works of art is silly, which is why they haven't bothered to write a speech, if they are in the banquet hall they must necessarily breathe the awards atmosphere, overheated as it is by seething ambition. Any anxiety, even if it is completely under control, becomes part of the spectacle. When the winners are announced, the bereft nominees are expected to applaud, smile tightly, and utter the awards mantra with as much grace as they can muster.
It's an honor just to be nominated.
In the immediate aftermath of a Nebula Awards banquet, that commonplace may not offer much consolation. But I would argue that winners and nominees, colleagues and fans, ought to acknowledge its truth. Imperfect as they are, the Nebulas have showcased some amazing fiction over the years and have pointed readers toward work they might otherwise have overlooked. With all the free publicity, a nomination can help launch a fledgling career or boost a sagging one.
Last year, the astute British critic Paul Kincaid published a dyspeptic view of awards ttdlabyrinth.wordpress.com/2013/04/07/a-dyspeptic-view-of-awards > on his blog. In examining "the process, the nature, the character of awards" he limns the flaws in awards culture. Although he focuses on the Hugo and the British Science Fiction Association Awards bsfa.co.uk/bsfa-awards >, his spot-on commentary applies to all awards. Kincaid asks what awards are for, then discounts claims that they honor the best, since best is, after all, clearly hyperbole, and even "one of the best" is slippery terminology that depends on standards that resist consensus defin
ition. Are they then popularity contests? The reality is that there is too much to read across too many genres. Some (?)... most (?)... voters read only the works of a few of their favorite authors and none of the other nominees, and then mark their ballots. So what then does popular mean? " 'Popular' is thus no more coherent, cohesive or explicable than 'best' as a description of what the award is honouring." In that case, what are awards about? "All awards, I would argue, are ways of asserting ownership by claiming the right to decide what is or is not to be acclaimed as the exemplars, the stars, the best of the genre."
An interesting argument, although I doubt anybody in SFWA would seriously contend that our jerry-built awards process has the exclusive ability to recognize the best science fiction. I do, however, applaud Kincaid's prescription for fixing broken awards: "I suspect that any award that attempts to cover the whole field and be all things to all people is already doomed to irrelevance. I think the awards that are likely to continue to engage our interest are those that are able to react quickly to the changing character of the genre, and particularly those that have a focus we can recognise and share."
exit
So yes, I have my own Nebula history. As a ten time loser, I once was a top contender for most nominations without a win. On a memorable (to me, at least) night in May of 2007, I broke the jinx and took home Best Novella, my one and only Nebula. That same night, my friend Jack McDevitt, who then had eleven losses without seeing the Lucite, won Best Novel. Since then we both have gone back to our losing ways. Jack has lost five times since, while I have lost just three.