As recently as yesterday [4 November 2K+1] I had every intention of following up October's Tuppence with the second half of that essay and its wonderful topic. Indeed, it will appear in February's Tuppence. But our Beloved Editor and our Esteemed Readers [that's you lot] and I have become somewhat more mortal than they/we were two months ago. We have become more vulnerable. And some of us, perhaps, are acutely aware that what we had set out to do might well be left unfinished. The end of the first year of the new millennium is upon us, and with it, as Don Henley once sang, The End of the Innocence.
Ayn Rand, a noted writer of speculative fiction [Anthem, Atlas Shrugged], once pointed out that she wrote her stories in the hope that they would not become prophetic. Most of the technology we now take for granted has been imagined, in one form or another, by science fiction writers hard and soft. Chester Gould, creator of Dick Tracy, foresaw the cellphone and the StarTrek commo badge with his two-way wrist radio. Jules Verne envisioned the feasibility of the submarine. Cyrano de Bergerac once supposed that man might travel to the Moon in rockets. Unfortunately, the abuses of that technology, also predictable, have proven out. One example suffices--Stephen King [in perhaps his best work, The Stand] foretold of insular societies that remained after most of humanity had been killed by the inadvertent release of biotoxins.
Only it's not inadvertent, is it?
As a beginning student of history I was intrigued and appalled by the circumstances of the Thousand-Year-Reich in Nazi Germany. How was it possible for humans to do such things to one another? In time I learned that the Japanese were no better...experimenting with typhus and other diseases on prisoners they referred to as maruta, or logs of wood. And we were no better, permitting our CIA and FBI to conduct experiments with LSD and smoke tracing on unwitting civilians. I had thought this the nadir of human behavior, Fascism and Communism aberrations brought on by the insanity of certain individuals and the gullibility and moral weakness of those who followed them. Perhaps I, and we, hoped these aberrations would prove unique. We now know differently. The unthinkable has become the doable.
But in SF, the unthinkable was the predictable. Science fiction writers of both hard and soft attitudes grasped our base capabilities and saw what we might become, aided by a technology that is both our boon and our curse. We can cure most diseases, and cause them. We might erect magnificent structures, and demolish them to appease the anger of one of our gods. We can teach our next generation about stars and math and life and the ocean, while simultanously encouraging them, through neglect and inattention, to vege in front of the television set. We preach equality and have a sliding pay scale for women and for individuals with melanin. And SF writers have written of these topics abundantly, through the years. We have not, as a species, yet begun to listen.
Yet out of all this, as always, there appears Good--the essence of the human condition. In the process of kicking off a writing career of minor note in 2K+1, I met some wonderful people and made some new friends who, especially of late, have made other events of this year bearable. Here they are, and my wishes for them, in no particular order---
The vision of James B. Baker has enabled some very talented people to share their own visions and thoughts. In days of yore [wherever yore is], patrons were vital to artistic expression. Thanks for being there, Jim. For Christmas, may Santa bring you more stories for the Callisto collection that you want to assemble, and the full realization of your Mother Lobe.
J Alan Erwine is one of the most harried editors in the publishing world. Bologna and pate artiste by day, he doubles at night as a mild-mannered publisher, editor, writer, critic, and friend. It is this last career which endears him to those of his association. For J, may Santa bring you a publishing position on Mercury, where the days last 1416 hours. That may be enough time for you.
Andree Gendron's efforts in Creators Club all too often pass unnoticed. This is partly her fault, because she is so quiet and demure regarding her accomplishments. For Andree, then, may Santa deliver unto you a megaphone [batteries not included], and whatever else you need in the way of supplies to keep producing those wonderful artpieces.
You may blame Cathy Buburuz for several stories of mine, all in the horror genre. She has become, in effect, a mentor pro tempore, as well as a prolific collaborator. Having boldly gone where no haunting spectre has gone before, she now encourages me to follow. The results of our labors should be manifest sometime next year. Words cannot express how grateful I am for her help and advice. Cathy, dear, may Santa stuff down your chimney a complete set of the works of F. Paul Wilson, and enough curry to cut through bank vaults.
Erin Donahoe has a wonderful way with images and words. These showed in our single collaboration, as yet unfinished, as well as in her many published poems this year. Anyone who meets her is better off for knowing her, as am I. For Erin, a swift and smooth acquisition of the JD you desire, so that you may return to that marvelous expression in poetry and prose which is your true calling.
Sean Franklin is a young man whose interests are varied and eclectic. His mother Ali encourages him to compose stories and poetry. He should listen to her. For both of them, may Santa deliver a few dreams, wrapped of course in chocolate.
The ProMartian Advertising and Marketing process, overseen by David Shtogryn, whose last name spelled backwards would make spectacular beings from one of J's planets around Epsilon Eridani, is in capable hands. Unfortunately, this work on occasion leaves him with little time for his writing and his hobby. For David, then, a book of digital exercises designed to help him type faster, and the latest upgrade of Civilization.
Jen Cawthorne and I have collaborated on two dragon poems, one of them in French, which gives J fits, which is why we composed it. She also did an artpiece to accompany a story of mine titled "Silver." She is true, staunch, and steadfast, and she is largely responsible for the emotions that find their way into my poor prose. For Jen, may Petit Jean bring to you all that you need to continue to do all that you do. Stay solid, my friend.
I have in my PC an artpiece for a collaboration. It is titled "Dragonflower," by Dolphin. Remember that name. You may be seeing it a lot in the next few months and years. It will come as no surprise to anyone that she desires one day to be a marine biologist. To Jolena, then, may Santa bring to you a bunch of roses for you to take the time to smell, and an endless supply of prismas with which to bring Darago and Makao to life. Oh, and a bag of gourmet peanuts in the shell for Kocham, Angel, and Ann O'Nimus.
For Red [aka Alissa], a vehicle that turns, and thanks for showing me your tattoo.
For Melissa, another bunch of February mistletoe.
For Kelly Adey and the thralls in New South Wales, the entire DVD collection of Queer As Folk and an evening in that bar on Kingsbury Street.
For the unofficial fan club headed by Collette Darden, eternal gratitude. Readers like you make writers write. We could not work effectively without you.
For Brigadier Bill and the UNIT Whovians, endless reruns and a viable 8th Doctor series. And for the club, its very own TARDIS, and a portable staircase for fleeing from Daleks.
There were some people I heard or read about, but did not have the opportunity of meeting. Teri Santitoro, and Terrie Relf, and Amy Brooks, and that fellow who had the temerity to marry my kid sister and hie her off to New Mexico. There are some others I might have taken the time to know. Stan Ward, Scott Baker, Andy Miller. And Alyson Cresswell. Perhaps in 2K+2.
The list goes on...
En fin, in composing this Tuppence, I realized that I have more friends than stories and poems this year. May it ever remain so, each year, for me, and for all of you.
August's Tuppence
October's Tuppence