Asimov's SF, January 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I barely knew where to begin. Over here was a stack that turned out to be a nearly complete file, covering the years from 1930 to 1933, of Astounding Stories of Super-Science, the remote ancestor of today's Analog. In astonishment I pulled forth the incredibly rare first issue, January 1930. Nearby were scores of copies of Amazing Stories—not the shoddy-looking pulp magazine I was familiar with, but its slick jumbo-sized forebear, founded in 1926 by the legendary Hugo Gernsback, for whom today's Hugo awards are named. Behind them were many issues of Science Wonder Stories and Air Wonder Stories, the successor magazines that Gernsback had started when a bankruptcy suit cost him control of Amazing, and beyond them were dozens of his later title, Wonder Stories, in both its pulp and slick formats. Everything was in splendid condition; some looked as though they had come straight from the newsstand. Somebody back there in the 1930s had collected science fiction magazines with zeal and had preserved them with great care, and then, perhaps, had gone off to war and never returned, and his family had sold the whole batch to The Curio Shop, where they had slumbered quietly down here until I came upon them.

  * * * *

  Even now, seeing my teenage self darting from shelf to shelf in that congested cellar, I can feel my pulse rate rising. How I had coveted these ancient, fabled magazines! But I had never seriously expected to own them, or even just to hold them in my hands. Could I afford to buy them, I wondered? There were hundreds of them. My allowance was perhaps two dollars a week. A month or so before I had purchased, for fifty cents, a 1929 copy of Science Wonder Stories, missing its front and back covers, from a mail-order dealer on Staten Island. How much would these magazines, in practically perfect condition, cost me? Whatever it was, it was surely going to be beyond my reach.

  I rushed upstairs. I must have been a wild-eyed figure, flushed, perspiring, covered with dust. Trying to be cool, I inquired after the price of the magazines downstairs.

  “Some are half a dollar, some a quarter,” the proprietor said. “Depends on what mood I'm in when you ask."

  Reader, I bought them all.

  And I still have them, somewhat the worse for wear after fifty-seven years that have taken me from one end of the country to the other, but most of them still in pretty nice shape. I didn't buy them all at once, you understand. But very quickly I came to an understanding with the fierce-looking proprietor—Virginia Mushkin was her name—and her more gentle-looking husband David. They saw in me, correctly, a bright kid for whom those magazines were tremendously important—someone who was passionately in love with them, in fact—and they agreed to sell me the whole kaboodle at whatever pace I could pay for it. After all this time I have no recollection of how I raised the money—probably through advances on my allowance—or how long it took, but in the course of time I transferred those hundreds of unthinkably rare SF magazines, two paper-bag loads at a time, from 106a Court Street to my own apartment in another part of Brooklyn. The Mushkins and I became good friends; I was a sort of an adopted son to them, and they looked on with interest as I began to write my own first science fiction stories a year or so later. They are both long dead now, but they did live on to see me become a published author.

  I read those magazines, one by one. I studied them. Sometimes I look at them even today, though not to read, because most of the stories they contain are crude, practically unreadable things. No matter. The mere sight of them gets my heart beating faster. For me they contained the whole history of science fiction in magazine form, and I cherished them for that, and I still do. I hope you who collect old SF magazines have Aladdin's Cave stories like that, but I know you can't have any to equal this one, the discovery of long runs of 1930 Astoundings and 1927 Amazings in the basement of a cluttered, dusty old junkshop, for sale at a pittance.

  Oh—one little twist. Among the magazines I acquired there were two 1946 Astoundings that contained a serialized novel by the utterly forgotten writer Arthur Leo Zagat with an Aladdin angle of its own—"Slaves of the Lamp."

  Copyright (c) 2007 Robert Silverberg

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Department: ON THE NET: SFWA

  by James Patrick Kelly

  renewal

  As I sit at my desk in the swelter of July, I have before me the form to renew my membership in the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America—sfwa.org—. The cost for a year of active membership is currently seventy dollars. I should note that there is also an associate membership for new writers who have racked up just one professional sale, but are on their way to Grandmasterdom. Now I have been getting this renewal form every summer for almost thirty years and I have never once hesitated to cut the check. You see, back when I was an aspiring writer attending the Clarion Writers Workshop—clarion.ucsd.edu—, my mentors gave me two pieces of sage career advice: I was to subscribe to Locus—locus mag.com—immediately and join SFWA as soon as I qualified. It's advice I still give now that I find myself mentoring new writers.

  And yet, in the last year, there has been serious criticism of SFWA from both within and without. Some well-published writers believe that it continues to be too easy to join SFWA and that it has long since ceased to be a professional writers’ organization. Other members worry about the raucous-verging-on-toxic tone of the arguments that take place from time to time in SFWA forums, some public like SFWA's liveJournal blog—community.livejournal.com/sfwa—and some private, like SFF Net's—sff.net—SFWA Lounge. Meanwhile there is a clutch of new writers who have declared that SFWA is largely irrelevant to their careers. And some who are exploring the many digital alternatives to traditional dead tree publishing are convinced that the powers that be in SFWA have their heads in a hole. I have even come across net-savvy writers who believe that Howard Hendrix's Pixel Stained Technopeasant rant—community.livejournal.com/sfwa/10039.html—, which we considered in the last installment, was official SFWA policy. This despite the fact that Howard made it clear he was speaking for himself only.

  * * * *

  pros

  Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I'm going to write that check once again, despite SFWA's flaws. Why? I won't dwell on those services SFWA offers to writers that are of little interest to readers of 'Mov's, other than to note that we have a committee that harries unscrupulous publishers and agents and, over the years, we have amassed emergency funds earmarked to help members in legal or medical crisis. And of course, SFWA has stood with other writers’ organizations to oppose depredations on our rights by greedy publishing conglomerates.

  Then there are the Nebula Awards—locusmag.com/SFAwards/Db/Nebula.html—. It should come as no surprise that determining who gets the coveted chunk of Lucite has always been controversial. Even now, the easiest way to get a rise out of the average SFWAn is to point out the many inequities that persist in the Nebulation process, despite years of tinkering with the rules. Nevertheless, while not every masterwork has been awarded the Nebula, the roster of winners is formidable; it compares very well with the corresponding list of Hugo—locusmag.com/SFAwards/ Db/Hugo.html—winners. And a nomination to the final Nebula ballot will land a story on the front page of the Asimov's website, thus showcasing many up-and-coming writers to the readers of the world.

  But I would especially like to draw your attention to the SFWA website—SFWA.org—, this being a column about the net, after all. Every SFWAn has an opinion about how our web presence might be best improved, but the fact remains that this is a truly amazing resource.

  For example, consider Members’ Fiction Online —sfwa.org/fiction—, a database of stories you can click, some of which are free and some of which you can read for a small fee. Or the comprehensive listing of Websites of Members—sfwa.org/ links/membersa.htm—. You can peruse selected articles—sfwa. org/bulletin—from SFWA's print magazine The Bulletin and get ideas for your next read from reading lists—sfwa.org/reading—suggested by prominent members. There is a modest page of News—sfwa.org/news—which, while not as comprehensive as that at Locus
Online, often scoops other outlets, especially when the headlines have to do with SFWA. Of particular note is the Writer Beware page—sfwa.org/beware—, “the public face of SFWA's Committee on Writing Scams.” Not only do A. C. Crispin—accrispin.com—and Victoria Strauss—sff.net/people/victoriastrauss—explore the many ways the unwary can go wrong in seeking publication, they also name the names of those who seek to take unfair advantage of trusting writers.

  However, it is as a compendium of advice on best practices in the craft and business of writing in the genres of the fantastic that the SFWA website excels. Click over to the Craft of Writing page—sfwa.org/writing—and you will find over sixty essays. Just a few of the highlights include a how-to on hard SF world building by Stephen Baxter —baxterium.org.uk—and an intro to fantasy world building by the late Poul Anderson—en.wikipedia.org/wiki/PoulAnderson—.Vonda McIntyre—vondanmcintyre.com—shows you how to prepare a manuscript and C.J. Cherryh—cherryh.com—points out the mistakes of the lazy writer. And Lewis Shiner—lewisshiner.com—and Bruce Sterling—chriswaltrip.com/sterling—present the infamous Turkey City Lexicon. Meanwhile, over on the Business of Writing page—sfwa.org/contracts—there are model contracts for anthologies, agents, hardcovers, magazines, paperbacks, and web publishing, which have been written as guides for anyone who wants to understand common publishing contracts with an eye to negotiating better ones.

  The content on SFWA's site represents the collective wisdom of many of the genre's best writers and deepest thinkers. That it is freely available speaks to that spirit of SFWA that no one could possibly criticize. For you see, SFWA is almost entirely run by volunteers who give generously of their time and share their experience for the greater good of science fiction and fantasy.

  * * * *

  meet the prez

  The spring of 2007 was something of a roller coaster ride for SFWA. John Scalzi—scalzi.com—surprised everybody in the organization by announcing that he was running for SFWA's presidency—after the deadline for filing. His quix-otic write-in candidacy gave a voice to those who worried that SFWA was stuck in publishing's past and who were uncomfortable with what they perceived as the culture of the organization. Michael Capobianco—mysite.verizon.net/michael capobianco—, who had served as president from 1996-98, ran on a platform that emphasized his long experience in SFWA; he proposed more cautious change that would not overburden SFWA's many volunteers. While the issues were aired by partisans in a very public and sometimes overheated debate, the two principals managed to keep their cool throughout. In the end, Michael won by a large margin. While I myself voted for John, I trust that Michael will do well by the organization. I invited him to assess the state of SFWA for us and he graciously agreed.

  Do you agree that there is a perception that SFWA is irrelevant to some of the younger writers who have embraced the net?

  Certainly among the most vocal of them. I think that, to some extent, the blogosphere has provided them an online community that has replaced more formal writers’ organizations like SFWA. This community offers an open forum and positive reinforcement, very valuable assets. What it doesn't have is any formal mechanism for establishing goals or working for them because it's so amorphous.

  If so, is that perception at all justified?

  We have to distinguish between the idealized SFWA and SFWA-that-is. Because of a shortage of volunteers and lack of infrastructure and continuity, SFWA isn't nearly as effective as it could be, and it's easy to see the cracks that form as the organization's resources are stretched to the breaking point. It seems sometimes that the younger writers are more aware of the internal problems than the accomplishments. I think this is because, viewed from the outside, SFWA looks like a monolithic bastion of famous writers rather than the scrappy bunch of overworked volunteers that it is.

  What can we do to change that perception?

  I'm working on that right now. I predict that SFWA will change the perception by actually accomplishing things in the real world and providing members with the information they need to make informed decisions about their careers. If we do that, and make sure that our accomplishments don't get buried under the noise, the perception will change. Part of that will be to modernize and update our website, where there's a wealth of good information for members and non-members alike.

  There was plenty of public nastiness on view for all the net to ponder during the recent election for President of SFWA. I did think that you and John Scalzi seemed for the most part to keep to civility in the face of rampant rudeness. That being said: What made you run for president and should the possibility ... um ... certainty that they will suffer personal attacks dissuade candidates from running in the future?

  Thanks, I didn't find it difficult to be civil to John. I admire his ability to use the web as a promotional tool, and the hard work he's put in to keep ahead of the game. I ran for president again because a) I retired from the USPS last year and have more time, and b) I think I can keep SFWA focused on accomplishing external goals. Finally, since I've done it before, I am conceited enough to think that I can keep the organization out of internally generated crises. It's early days, but the primary thing we can do is to carefully focus on the issues and not the personalities. Last time I was president, I found one very effective technique that helped a lot—I apologized when I was wrong. Amazing what a little apology can accomplish.

  * * * *

  exit

  I have heard it said that getting science fiction writers to agree on anything is like herding cats. But even contrarians of the feline persuasion must find common cause from time to time. All of us who believe in SFWA wish Michael Capobianco the best in his capacity as chief cat wrangler.

  Copyright (c) 2007 James Patrick Kelly

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Novelette: THE PERFECT WAVE

  by Rudy Rucker & Marc Laidlaw

  Rudy Rucker, author, mathematician, and computer-science professor extraordinaire, also edits and publishes an online SF ‘zine called Flurb (www.flurb.net), where Marc Laidlaw is a regular contributor. Rudy is currently working on a cyberpunk trilogy in which nanotechnology augments human mental powers but threatens to destroy Earth. The first volume, Postsingular, appeared from Tor this fall and is also available for free download at (www.rudyrucker.com/postsingular). You can stay abreast of the author's multifarious activities via his illustrated blog, (www.rudyrucker.com/blog).

  Marc Laidlaw, the author of Dad's Nuke and The 37th Mandala, has, for the last ten years, worked in the videogame industry as lead writer for the popular Half-Life series. He won the 2005 Game Developers’ Choice Award for Best Writing for Half-Life 2.

  * * * *

  It's a pleasant June evening in the funky California beach town of Surf City. Shadows lengthen across the state university campus, nestled amid redwoods and pastures above the town; on the bay, wetsuited surfers bob and slide on the tubes off Parker Point, their waves gilded by the setting sun.

  The Boardwalk amusement park's chains of lights are coming on; squeals burst irregularly from the roller coaster. Low cars creep down the beachfront avenue, pumping beat-heavy music. Couples and families stroll about; kids play in the yards of the grimy pastel homes in the side streets off the Boardwalk; skaters grind and flip along railings, stoops and curbs. Borne upon the cool evening breeze, the smells of grease and oregano waft from a waterside warehouse restaurant.

  The establishment's marquee displays a long-snouted grinning cartoon rat holding a surfboard and an oversized slice of pizza, the slice flopping down to drip a cheese-strand onto the rat's gnarly bare toes. The rat wears a top hat and a long red T-shirt labeled C.R. The marquee sign reads:

  Cheezemore Ratt's Surf Shack

  Pizza, Games, and Family Fun!

  Yes, We Have “The Perfect Wave"(R)TM

  A tall, skinny young man with a shock of straight platinum blond hair is spraypainting a mural onto a concrete block wall facing the mostly empty parking lot, t
he mural potentially visible to the cars trolling the beachfront avenue. The painter is Zep: avid surfer, amateur scientist, temporarily unhoused. His recently acquired companion Kaya sits on the ground, smoking cigarettes, drawing in an art-quality notebook, and admiring him. She wears a carved black coral tiki-goddess head on a Day-Glo red string around her neck.

  Zep is handsome, in a street-worn, unshaven way. Kaya wears her hair in a blonde Bettie Page bob—or, no, that's not her hair, it's a wig. Her eyebrows are shaved off and replaced by fanciful drawn-on lines. Her face is young, her front teeth large and rabbity. She wears a flowing paisley pashmina-size scarf across her shoulders against the cooling evening air.

  Resting beside Kaya are three cartons of spray-paint cans, and next to the cartons are the couple's freshly spraypainted bicycles, fat-tire beaters with stuffed saddle bags. Zep's bike is now green, Kaya's yellow. A garish science fiction novel and a computer science textbook peep from Zep's saddlebags, also a soldering iron and a voltmeter. Visible in the open tops of Kaya's bags are a Tarot deck, the brass stalk of a pocket bong, a plastic Ziploc bag of granola, a tea-kettle spout, the corner of a silky purple sleeping bag, also pliers and a screwdriver. Kaya's bicycle has a tiny motor jury-rigged to its rear wheel, with a little cylinder of gas connected to the motor.

  Zep's bicycle has a rack welded to one side, and snugged into the rack is his peculiar translucent gray surfboard, with an irregular dark shape embedded within its center. The board's surface is rough and sticky. It, too, has been recently decorated by the spray-can: the name “Chaos Attractor” rainbows across it in loose script.

  Zep has already covered the concrete-block wall with a blue sky background dotted with red-tinged white clouds. And now, holding a dirty handkerchief over his mouth with one hand, he dances along the wall, swinging a can of green spray-paint up and down in great arcs—limning the requisite image of a perfect wave.