The Week in Writing (3/25/15)

As days pass, a pregnant woman’s belly grows wider.

As my days pass, the folder of notes and typed-out script scraps grows wider still. This has turned out to be a remarkably easy childbir–project. The characters conform neatly to my pen, and the plot offers only a gentle shrug before being corralled.

The official announcement will come from the publisher tomorrow. Until then, truthfully, all I’m playing is a waiting game.

Classics Illustrated 110_A Study in Scarlet

The fabulous podcast I Hear of Sherlock Everywhere interviewed me for an article/announcement that will be on their site in the near future, regarding an announcement of sorts regarding The Science of Detection. Which, if you’ve been keeping your ear off the ground, is a collection of Sherlock Holmes novellas. I’ll be editing it, and 18thWall Productions will be publishing.

While said IHSE is currently Bojaciuk-less, there’s more than enough there to enjoy for any Holmesian.

Until tomorrow, when my appointment goes from supposition to announcement.

Progress: 10k

A nearly finished script, and a nearly finished story to boot.

 

The Week in Writing (3/16/15)

x2_upright_editWe lost hope.

When the 1950s were over and dead, American science fiction blackened over. Not like something dramatic–a shadow, a cloud, a plague–as it may have hoped, but with all the depth and meaning of over-cooked toast. Scape off the angst, take a knife to the political moaning and pretentious groaning, and you find only one thing: white bread.

Scrape away the remains of most of the popular science fiction, particularly from the 90s-onward when Star Trek and Star Wars had run around exhausted, to find unbaked cynicism.

Scrape away the bitter blackness from Samuel R. Delany (most stories and novels will do, but “Aye, and Gomorrah” is perfect) and you find a pedophile writing about diseased worlds where he can quite readily get away with his preferred madness…

Scrape away the soot from Childhood’s End, and you find an emotional cripple shouting that his opinions are right. There’s no maturity of discussion, as one might expect from a Bardbury, Lewis, or Asimov; nor is there the emotional maturity one finds in, say, Camus, who is quite happy to admit that disagreeing with his own views will not make you any less of a person.

In a way, this all leads to the background of my latest project. It’s too dramatic to say it will be “a restoration of hope to science fiction”; this trend has been underway, in greater and lesser waves, for the better part of a decade by the time I set my pen to paper. But there are few things more pleasant than a war of words; and even if a salvo is late, it should never be held back from battle.

Progress: A few hundred words; most of this week’s writing time has been spent sealing the deal.

Other stories increased by about 2k. An acceptably small count, considering sickness and travel.