The Writing LIfe. You know, there was a big frou frou when people switched from typewriters to word processors. And there's been another frou frou about contractual rights pertaining to the internet (when a print mag buys FNASR, First North American Serial Rights, does that cover the internet? Are people who are buying stories paying the authors not to post their stories on their personal websites? Are they paying them enough?). But have you noticed that more and more writers have websites? Or at least fan websites? While print magazines, in general, refuse to accept e-mail submissions, they do want your e-mail. And I get my submission information solely over the internet -- it's easier to track down smaller magazines and webzines (obviously), and YOU CAN E-MAIL THE EDITOR TO SEE IF THE DANG THING STILL EXISTS.

Is the internet a part of the writing life now?

Mrs. Kurtz ran into a dead end, but she hasn't died. I wrote the last segment, and it sucked. I haven't forgotten.

Ray Babies like to crawl around naked.

In the mail. In the interested of Science, I've sent "One Cool Million," in its shortened form, to On Spec. Ok, ok, I'll send it tomorrow. Post office closed, sort of fing.

Neat! I always knew those Canadians kicked ass.

On Spec is a Canadian SciFi print magazine that has graciously posted a list of Thou-shalt-nots and the related Turkey City Lexicon. But here's the cool stuff.

My brother-in-law Mike (hi, Mike!) gave us a copy of the book Complete Idiot's Guid to Publishing Science Fiction. I recommend it, not because it has the most amazing writing advice I've ever seen, but because it's a good place to start. All the really obvious things you need to know before you start sending in stories -- like standard manuscript formatting -- are covered, and in such a way that a) your delicate writerly ego isn't hurt and b) that it defuses the nervousness: "I'm just not ready to start submitting..." Which, believe me, I understand.*

The reason I mention this book is that I needed the really obvious publishing stuff pointed out to me...so I read and liked the book. And in the book, it mentions terms from the Turkey City Lexicon. Ah-ha! Sure enough, Mr. Doctorow is from Canada.

And FURTHER, Mr. Doctorow writes for one of my favorite websites, BoingBoing.

I take personal satisfaction in following these connections.

*Nevertheless, do it anyway. Start big: you might get published. YOU MIGHT GET PAID. And then don't stop submitting once you get rejected. But that's what they say.

Now! With YACCS comments!

Hoot Island. The folks at Hoot Island have seen my story...and I think they like it. I'm working on the frame story over the weekend and sending it back to them. Keep your legs crossed for me, will ya?

Mrs. Kurtz, On Hold, part the fourth. Note: The hubby's name has been changed to Marcus.

Mrs. Kurtz squealed. "Marcus!"

"What about it, woman? Can't you see I'm busy?" Marcus flipped through a copy of the TV Guide.

"Fine," she said. He wanted to watch cable television when he could have been using the internet, fine. Fine. The ignoramus got his recommended dailly allowance of porn by paying for it. Fine. "Nevermind, just some special offer I'm sure we can't afford."

Marcus grunted.

The message repeated five times while she scraped what letfovers the dogs hadn't eaten into the garbage, changed Desi's diaper, contemplated getting a fill on her nails this Saturday, bitched at her kids for leaving their crap underfoot, and flipped through Marcus's discarded TV guide. Because the bastid had gone out. And she had a kink in her neck now from holding the damn phone on her shoulder.

Jim T. Biggins said, "I know there's nothing I can say to make you belive me, but..."

Click.

"Hello my name is Scott and in order to serve you better may I have your phone number?"

"You ain't gettin' nothin' until you tell me what the hell kind of jerk-offs you have leaving freaky messages on your answering machine."

Graduation! Ray's too big for the infant car seat. The straps just won't stretch any more. She's too long. Today: the big carseat. The sitty-uppy carseat. The forward-facing carseat. For some reason, I keep hearing George Thorogood songs in my head.

Writers? Maybe this is you.

Do you remember all the people, as you were growing up, that were going to be writers? What happened to them? Especially that one kid in junior high--oh so much cooler than I--who wrote that great sci-fi military story, the one I dared criticise, because I just do? I started beating my head against the wall, it seems, about the time he stopped. I threw some airy fancy together about people living in retreat from ecological disaster, sent it off to a youth writer's camp, and drove off in a van with a communist martial artist, a living Jane Austen character, and a grammatically correct grandma who extolled the virtues of public radio and prudishness. I've only held an English teacher in contempt once, and it wasn't her. Drove off--came back. Esme and I had a roommate who has probably either overdosed or had too many kids too young by now. By the end of the first day, the divinely serene Miss Esme (she enjoyed being long-distance runner, if that tells you anything) vouchsafed to me that while she, too, had had hardships as a child, she didn't feel it necessary to tell everyone around her. And the first contemporary poet that I ever read and liked sold and signed for me a professional chapbook.

The mind boggles. Whether or not they're famous--whether or not they're published--isn't what I want to know. Do they write? At least I know Lee still writes (he says he's working on a story for me!). And Doyce still writes. I haven't kept in touch otherwise.