I love WorldCon.  These are my people.

Melissa and I arrived late Tuesday night, and went straight to bed.  We got up early Wednesday morning, went downstairs, and had breakfast at the hotel.  Then, it was off on a brisk walk to the convention center for registration.

We arrived relatively early.  The doors weren’t open yet, but a line had already formed.  Once inside, we had our badges and goodie bags in short order.  We were lucky.  Shortly after we wandered away from registration, someone announced that registration had a three hour delay.

The first event we took part in was the blood drive.  Again, Melissa and I showed up early so we wouldn’t have to wait too long.  We talked with the people running the blood mobile, and found out that they expected about 25 to 30 people.  It turned out that they had 25 people before they even opened the doors.

Melissa was first in to donate, and I was second.  I give blood frequently, but this time, I agreed to do something different.  I knew about giving platelets, which I’ve never done.  This was like that, only they were taking red blood cells and putting my plasma back in me.  That way, they could effectively get two units from me.  They take twice the red blood cells, and the recovery is twice as long.

It felt strange.  The withdrawal of the blood was normal enough, but part way through, the machine changed direction of the flow, and I could see fluids pumped back into me.  The plasma and saline was room temperature, which meant that it was comparatively cold going into my arm.  I’m not sure I’ve ever felt my circulatory system before.  The process changed course twice more before it was done.

I’m glad to give blood.  The only drawback this time was that it went a little longer than I expected, and I wound up missing the first panel I wanted to attend.

Melissa and I shambled away from the vampires.  We made our way back upstairs to the dealer room and looked at all the goodies.  Unlike some conventions I’ve been to, a map is posted, with a list of the different vendors.  We didn’t make use of the map or list, but it was nice to see it there.

We looked at books and shirts and costumes.  We spoke with David Malki.  He even seemed to vaguely remember me from Reno and Chicago.  We picked up some surprises for the kids.  They don’t read my blog, but on the off-chance that they decide to check it out this one time, I won’t spoil their surprise and say what it is.  But the gifts are absolutely perfect, and they’re going to love them.

We eventually made our way downstairs to the ballroom, for the opening ceremonies.  Again, we arrived nice and early, and we were able to get good seats.

Opening ceremonies began with a native American storyteller (whose name I cannot remember), blessing the convention with a song.  He then told a few stories, talking about how there is something to learn from every story.  He talked about how there are truths in the head, and there are truths that are in the heart.  His stories spoke to those truths in the heart.  He also spoke about the importance of verbal storytelling.  I thought of Michael and knew that he would approve.  It’s a real shame Michael couldn’t attend this WorldCon.  I know it’s tearing him up that he can’t be here, because he loves this event as much or more than I do.

After opening ceremonies, there was a procession that lead out to the park area behind the convention center, near the river.  Men and women from the SCA were on display, dueling.  Someone was flying a drone.  There was a booth for face painting, some tables for convention bids, and a good number of people simply mingling.  There was also ice cream.  Melissa and I each acquired a cone.

Smoke from all the fires in the surrounding areas choked the sky, and dimmed the sun to a smoldering red.  It made for a beautiful and terrible sight.

At 7PM, Melissa and I went into our first proper panel, which was about critiques and writer groups.  I had been looking forward to it especially, both for the subject matter (which, honestly, I was already familiar with) and because Jennifer Carson was one of the panelists.  I’ll write up detailed notes about the panel later.

Then it was off to the con parties!

When arranging our hotel, I wanted to make sure that we were in the same hotel as the parties, so that when I needed to go to bed, I didn’t have to go very far.  The sasquan web site mentioned that the parties were at the Davenport, so I made sure that we had rooms there.  Unfortunately, there are multiple Davenport hotels.  Our room is at the Tower, but most of the parties were actually at the Davenport Historic.  The Historic is really close to the Tower, fortunately, so it wasn’t too bad.

After giving blood, and then staying on our feet most of the day, Melissa and I were both exhausted pretty early.  We only visited a couple of parties before we called it quits and headed back to our room.  We were in bed before 11.

This WorldCon looks to be every bit as splendid as the ones I’ve attended previously.  It’s not the same without Michael, but Melissa is here with me, and we’re having a really great time so far.

Walking is great exercise.  Maybe not as great as a 10 mile obstacle course in Tahoe but it’s still great.  You work the largest muscles in your body without putting excess strain on your joints.  It’s natural movement.  It’s good for you.

But most of the time when I go walking, I’m not doing it for my body.  I’m doing it for my mind.  I clear my thoughts.  I let stress and emotions roll out along my legs and into the ground beneath me.  I unravel programming knots.  I contemplate stories.  I think.

I take a little bit of time out of every day at work to go and walk.  It’s the same route, everyday.  I go out through the back door.  I cross the parking lot towards the pond between my building and the next.  I take the path that runs along the stream, that connects the two parking lots.  Then, I go along the entire outside of the next lot, step over onto the side street, and follow it to the main street.  A right turn, and then I’m headed back towards my work place.  It’s just under a mile, with busy freeway on one side, a quiet, verdant pond on the other.

When I’m not solving a problem in my mind, or working out the details of a story, I try to be in the moment.  I listen to the cars racing by on Highway 50.  I look up at the sky, appreciating the cerulean sky and the softness of the clouds.  I imagine the vastness of space, lying just beyond the sky.  With no roof over my head, there is nothing preventing me from spinning off into the nothing, save for the Earth herself holding me to her surface.  Holding me by my feet, which I keep lifting and moving away from the concrete, like an unruly child squirming away from his mother’s embrace.

Yesterday, while walking this same route I’ve walked for more than a year and a half, I felt like a character in one of my own stories.  Details lent itself to narrative.  If you’ll indulge me a moment, I will share!

I rounded the corner onto the last street leading back to my office.  The heat of the afternoon pressed me from all sides, and I felt sweat forming in the middle of my back.  I chastised myself for not walking earlier in the day, when the temperature would have been more mild.

As I made the last leg of the trek, I spotted the corpse of a raccoon lying on the grass, near the road.  It lay on its side, its paws pulled up and its eyes closed, facing me.

“Oh man,” I said, and turned away quickly.  I thought for a moment how mild my exclamation was.  No profanity.  Then the smell hit me, and my thoughts evaporated.  I quickened my step.

As I moved past, I noticed something else out of place.  Dotting the grass and bushes along my path were dozens of pieces of notebook paper.  They were empty and lined, though not like typical, college ruled paper.

The paper littered the ground for a dozen yards or so.  I’d walked past most of it before my steps began to falter.

In a cartoon world, an angel and a devil would have appeared on my shoulder.

“Leave the world better than you found it,” the angel would have said.

“Get back to work,” the devil would respond. “This isn’t your problem.”

“But it won’t take much to pick up the paper.  It’s dry.”

“There are other people who get paid to do this.  It’s not your job.”

I turned around.  The angel doesn’t always win, but I always want him to.

I walked back to where the paper began.  I bent and picked it up, then turned to the next.  Then the next after that.  The odor from the roadkill struck me again, but I pressed on.  None of the pages were close to the dead raccoon, and I considered that a blessing.

A few minutes later, I was back on the path, a stack of blank pages in my hand.  I went into my office and dumped the pages in the recycling bin.  I sat at my desk and went back to my programming, feeling like I’d done something small, but right.

I walk almost every day.  I don’t write nearly so often.  I need to write more.  When I’m not writing, I get depressed.  I withdraw.  And apparently, when I go long enough without writing something, I start framing minor events in my life in some sort of narrative.

Writers and readers look for patterns and symmetry.  We look for connections.  We take comfort in the familiarity of the hero’s journey and fairy tale endings.  We also look for symbols, and the meaning of things.

Take, for example, Thor’s hammer.  As a hammer, it is shaped to work as a weapon or a tool.  More than its shape or function, it is a symbol of Asgard, and the persona of Thor. “Whosoever holds this hammer, be they worthy, wields the power of Thor.” It is not just the weapon of the god of thunder, it’s his symbol.

Our fiction is filled with these symbols.  Superman’s crest, and Batman’s emblem.  Dr. Who’s police box.  We see these things, and some of us have emotional reactions.  We’re taken back to the place and time where our lives were touched by these symbols.

For better or worse, these symbols aren’t confined to our fiction.  Some of these symbols are deeply personal, an aspect of what defines us.  The problem is that we don’t always agree on what these symbols mean, so those that identify the most with a symbol are most likely to feel slighted by those that do not share such a connection.

Take, for example, the “Jesus Fish.”

This is the Ichthys.  It’s simple, and its old.  To Christians, the Greek letters that form the word for this symbol stand for “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior.” The fish also has other meanings to Christians.  Jesus was the fisher of men.  At the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus fed the congregation fish and bread.  There may be other connections that I’m forgetting.  But the point is that to many Christians, this is a symbol of Jesus Christ, as important as the cross.

Of course, the symbol itself is older than Christianity.  But in the US, if you see this symbol on a necklace or someone’s bumper, the person that placed it there probably did it because they want to express their faith.

For a time, the Ichthys was gaining in popularity.  Then another symbol started to appear on bumpers.

 

It’s kind of cute.  But what does it mean?

I’ve met quite a few people that didn’t know anything about the Ichthys.  Those people didn’t mean any offense.  One woman I spoke to about the Darwin fish on her car said, “I just like it.  The little fish evolved.”

Not all people display the Darwin Fish so innocently.  Some versions of the Darwin Fish are eating a Jesus Fish.  To them, the Darwin Fish represents evolution, winning out of creationism.  Taken a step further, the symbol stands for science and knowledge being superior to ignorance and superstition.

Whether it is intended or not, the Darwin Fish is an appropriation and mutilation of the Jesus Fish.  Understandably, folks that like their Jesus Fish might find the Darwin Fish offensive.

Should Christians be upset?  What is the appropriate response?

Let’s look at another symbol.

 

This one evokes a different emotion than either of the fishes.  Atrocities were done under this symbol.  This one reminds us of genocide.  It reminds us of hate.

If you see a swastika on someone’s bumper, what is the appropriate response?

Before you answer that, look at this symbol.

 

Before the swastika became the symbol that it is today, it was something else.  It’s much older than the Holocaust.  It is a symbol central to some religions, predating Christ.  In Sanskrit, it means “lucky, or auspicious.”  It has represented the four seasons, or four elements (sun, wind, water, earth).

Before it became a symbol of hate, it meant other, more positive things, to a great many people.

I’m not going to tell you that the Darwin Fish is as bad as the swastika.  That’s ridiculous, and it’s not the point of this post.

The point is that you cannot tell someone that they are right or wrong in the meaning they find in a symbol.

Let’s look at one more symbol, then wrap this up.

 

This one has caused all kinds of a stir recently.

To some… perhaps most… it represents slavery and racism.  Others claim that it represents Southern pride.

People are taking strong stances for or against this flag.  It’s coming down off of public buildings.  That seems reasonable to me.

Some stores are no longer selling items that feature this image.  That seems somewhat less reasonable to me, but okay.

And Warner Bros is discontinuing merchandise that features the General Lee from Dukes of Hazard.  Wait, what?

And a social media campaign is encouraging people to go and tear down the flag wherever you see it, even if it means invading and destroying other people’s property.  Seriously?

When I read about these reactions, I feel like the only adult left in the world.

Here is my opinion on how this flag should be handled.

If you are a confederate flag supporter, be considerate, and look at your community.  Acknowledge the fact that while the flag might represent something positive to you, it represents something hateful and ugly to a great many other people.  Are you prepared to offend some perfectly nice people you’ve never met?  Are you prepared to explain your stance, over and over again?  Maybe you should reconsider posting the flag publicly.  Maybe you can find some other symbol that isn’t so controversial,

Of course, if you want to fly the flag because you’re a racist douche bag, it doesn’t matter what I say here.  You’re going to find a way to be an asshole, if not with this flag, then with something else.  You’re why we can’t have nice things.

If you’re offended by the confederate flag, you’re not alone.  Change is happening, and it’s in your favor.  You’re not wrong for finding offense.  I only ask that you exercise the benefit of the doubt.  The guy wearing the confederate flag on his shirt might be a racist douche bag, but he might not be.  If you don’t know what that stranger’s intentions are, why assume the worst?

And please, don’t trespass and vandalize someone’s property.  I applaud the passion and the conviction, but being offended is not a valid excuse for willful destruction.  It won’t change anyone’s mind.  It’s only going to keep the hate and divisiveness going.

I’m 42 years old, and yesterday, I completed one of the most physically challenging adventures of my life.  I completed Tough Mudder.

This story doesn’t start at the starting line, with my heart pumping and adrenaline pouring through my veins.  This story starts much earlier than that, with something as mundane and boring as online registration.

Michael invited me to go with him, and join #GallowglasArmy for Tough Mudder.  I was just getting ready to start P90X with my son, so I thought it was a great idea.  I agreed, and we began the online registration process.

He added me to the team, and I received an email.  I followed the links, got to the registration portion, and entered all my information.  At the end of this process, they asked for some money, and I gave them my credit card information.  No problem.  It all seemed standard, to me.

I noticed at the time that I received two registration confirmation emails, about an hour apart.  I thought that was a little strange, but I didn’t give it much thought.

Months later, the day of the race was nearly upon us.  I looked at myself, and I reevaluated my decision participate.  I’d watched videos and talked to people that had done Tough Mudder, and I knew that I wasn’t ready.  I knew that I wasn’t in shape.  The P90X thing never happened, and I hadn’t been walking as much as I had been several months ago.

I decided to flake out.  There was no way that I was going to be able to make it through the course.  I did not want to die in Tahoe, or embarrass myself.  Michael might grumble and give me a hard time, but I could live with that.

Then I received the next set of emails, telling me when my start times were.  Start times.  Plural.  With two completely distinct registration numbers.  Oh shit.

Michael had paid for my registration, and when I’d gone through it, I wound up registering a second time.  That put a different spin on things.  I could walk away from my own monetary investment.  But I couldn’t do that to Michael.  I had no choice.  Flaking out was not an option.

I still had an extra registration, and I knew my son, Chris, wanted to go.  I didn’t see any reason why Chris couldn’t use the other registration I paid for.  So Chris was going, too.

Yesterday morning, around 6AM, our complete Tough Mudder team met up at my house and prepared to carpool.  Six of us were participating, with one of us going as an observer.  We needed to take two cars.  Four of us packed into my mustang, and we headed off.

Skipping past the driving and the parking confusion, we approached the first, non-official obstacle.  That is, checking in, and getting our wristbands and numbers.  Normally, this is no big deal, but I complicated the proceedings by checking in Chris with registration that had my name all over it.  Michael voiced some concerns.  I remained confident that everything would work out.

My optimism was rewarded.  Chris and I were directed to a table, and I started with an apology.  I told them that I had paid for my son, but my name was all over the registration information.  They said it was no big deal, strapped wristbands on both of us (without even checking ID!), and we were out of there without a hitch.

Here’s a picture of #GallowglasArmy before we began. From left to right, it’s Chris, me, Michael, London, Michael’s oldest son Robert, and Cody.  Cody’s girlfriend, Jenni, took the picture.

Look how clean we are!  So full of energy, ready tackle the course!

We had our own battle cry.  Michael would yell “Gallowglas Army!” and we’d all yell “Uisce beatha!” That’s the Irish word for whiskey, and it’s not pronounced how it looks.  It sounded more like “oosh kavah” when we yelled it.  Any team that’s battle cry is essentially booze has a lot going for it.

We finally arrived at the beginning of the race with a huge herd of Tough Mudders.  A man called “Coach” lead us through warm-ups and stretches.  Coach’s arms were as big around as my thighs, and he wore short shorts and an epic porn-stache.  Coach was cool, inspirational, and led us through a great warm-up.

After the warm-up area, our herd moved forward to the actually starting line, where another man gave us a truly inspirational speech.  One of the key lines of it: When was the last time you did something for the first time?  He also made it clear that our racing time was not important.  What was important was doing our best, and giving it our all.

I felt pumped and excited.  A quick countdown, and then we were off!  We charged the first hill!

The first hill is where reality set in.  You’d think after the warm-up and the rousing speeches, with all of the excitement and adrenaline, we’d tackle that hill with no problem.  We’d be buoyed up by our enthusiasm alone.  Most of the mudders around me did, but not me.

Part way up that very first hill, my heart began to race, and I started gasping for air.  I was out of shape.  Sure, I could walk forever on flat ground, but this was a hill path, covered in bark.  Furthermore, we were at an elevation where the air was thinner.  We had barely begun, and I was already facing the limits of what I could physically do.

This was what I had feared.  This was why I had wanted to flake out, and abandon the idea of doing Tough Mudder.  Gasping for breath, with my lips turning blue, and my heart trying to get to the other side of my rib cage, I felt weak and ashamed.

But I wasn’t alone.  Michael, Chris, Robert, London, and Cody were right there with me.  They weren’t gasping like I was, but they weren’t going to abandon me.  They stayed with me.  Then, they helped me move forward.  They made sure I had water.  They made sure I was breathing in through my nose, and out through my mouth.  They were there for me, and they practically carried me up that hill.

I didn’t give up.  I kept going, willing one foot in front of the other.  Michael stayed at my side, speaking encouragement.  We kept going.  I can’t say that it got easier.  It became doable.  I wasn’t alone.  And I could keep going.

I’m not sure I remember everything that happened in those 10 miles.  What I do remember, I’m not sure I remember chronologically.  There were so many hills.  Those hills killed me.  I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say we went uphill 8 miles during that course.

The hills were the main obstacle for me, but there were actual obstacles throughout the course.  The first one was a relatively short wall, which we didn’t have much trouble with.  The second obstacle involved crawling under a short stretch of barbed wire.  After the crawl, we had to pull ourselves through about 12 feet of tube, and then fall into a pool of chilly water on the other side.

Here’s a picture of our group after that second obstacle:

 

Cody, beside me with his arm around me in this picture, had just overcome his claustrophobia to make it through that obstacle.  I didn’t know it at the time.  He didn’t hesitate.  He pushed himself through it.  He told us about the claustrophobia later.

He wasn’t the only one that had to overcome personal fears in order to complete an obstacle.  Not too long after this photo, we came to an obstacle called “Walk the Plank”.  All you have to do is climb up to a platform, go out on a length of wood, and fall 15 or 20 feet into a deep, muddy pool.

Chris and I both looked at this obstacle with fear and dread.  Chris didn’t like the heights.  I didn’t much care for the plunge into the water.  But I thought about past regrets and decided that I was going to do this.  I was not going to let fear guide me, this time.  Chris was more reluctant.

I stayed with him.  I told him why I was going to go through with it.  We had a moment on the top of the platform, the rest of our team already on the other side, shouting their own encouragement.  Then, shaking with fear and adrenaline, Chris and I stepped onto our planks.  And then we jumped off.

The cold, muddy water shocked my system again.  I got out, found Chris, and hugged him.  We had done it.  We’d faced our fears, and conquered them.

I continued to be the slowest member of our group, but no one gave me a hard time for it.  Michael stayed with me the whole time.  The younger folks, with all of their energy and verve, would go ahead sometimes, but always wait for us at the next water station or obstacle.  We continued going through the course together.

One of the obstacles was called “Warrior Carry” or something like that.  One mudder needed to carry another mudder some distance.  Michael and I were together.  We looked at each other, and at the sign for the obstacle.  I suggested that we just try to find some smaller people to carry, but Michael hunkered down and prepared to take my weight.  I gritted my teeth and climbed up on his back.

As he walked, I thought about how preposterous it was.  My friend was literally carrying me through the course.  It didn’t seem fair.  I felt embarrassed.  But by that time, I’d reached the point where embarrassment didn’t have the same sting.  I’m a fiercely independent person, usually too proud to accept or ask for help, but the course had been teaching me that there is another way.  Sitting on Michael’s back, I thought about it, and tried to accept the life lesson.

Then we saw the sign that said “Switch.” And I smiled.  Michael and I switched, and I carried him to the end of that obstacle.  I was surprised I was able to do it, as tired and sore as I felt.

The course was full of surprises and self-discovery.  I don’t remember the name of the obstacle, but it involved climbing up a tall incline, putting pegs in holes as you went.  It required a lot of upper body strength.  I’d known about the obstacle in advance, and I didn’t think I’d be able to do it.  But I did it.  Some people helped push me part way up, but I pulled myself the rest of the way on my own.

Towards the end, there was an obstacle called Ladder to Hell.  It was a series of broad, horizontal planks.  You just had to climb up and over.  I stared at it for several moments before attempting it.  I had nothing left in the tank.  Did I have the energy and strength left to climb over?  I doubted it.  But then I stepped forward, pulled myself up, and found it to be one of the easiest obstacles I’d faced.

Speaking of easy obstacles, there was one called “Cry-Baby” where we were to crawl on mud through a short, closed area full of “tear gas.” This was another obstacle I’d seen in advance, and I knew that it wasn’t tear gas.  I’d been exposed to real tear gas in the Air Force.  I got down, crawled in with one eye closed, and it smelled a bit like Vick’s vapor rub.  I bonked my head on a beam, and then crawled more slowly.  Halfway through, I switched eyes.  And then I was out on the other side, feeling somewhat refreshed.

Many obstacles, I could not have completed without the help of my teammates.  There was one where we had to carry a log an insane distance, passing it through an obstruction.  We could not let the log rest on the obstruction.  That one was ridiculous, and it took a lot out of Chris.

There was “Mt. Everest,” which was basically running up a halfpipe.  There wasn’t really anything to grab onto at the top.  Other mudders that had gone before stayed up there to grab onto people and help them up.  I ran up, got some good height, but then became a dead weight that my team had to haul up.

I tried every obstacle, except one.  It was the monkey bars, and it reminded me very much of a section of the Confidence Course back in basic training.  I fell in the water back then.  I was certain I was going to fall in on this one.  I decided to try it anyway, until I felt it had become unfair.  A guy stood to the side with a hose, occasionally spraying the people waiting in line.  He would also spray people that were dangling too long.  Just before I grabbed the bars, he’d sprayed, and all of the bars in front of me were dripping wet.  I grimaced, and then walked around.

The last obstacle was “Electroshock Therapy.”  Here’s a link to a video on Facebook that captures the whole event.  We had considered linking arms.  A couple of us thought about just running through.  Instead, we raised our arms and walked together, slowly.  We got zapped.  Some of us more than others.  I might have been zapped more than once, but I only remember one sharp sting to the back of my neck.  And that’s how we finished Tough Mudder.  Strong.  Unafraid of the pain.  And together, as a team.

Today, I have scrapes and bruises and blisters.  I’m sore all over.  But I have no regrets.  I learned a lot about myself.  I limped away with some valuable life lessons.  And, chances are, I’m going to do it again.

This is a shot from the finish line.  This is #GallowglasArmy, victorious.

 

I have not read all of the posts about the current Hugo kerfuffle, but I’ve read many.  One of the posts I read, the writer said something along the lines of silence on this issues is cowardice.  Well, I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m a coward.

Another article I read said that “any writer that tells you that they do not want a Hugo is lying.” I’m not going to lie.  I’d love to win a Hugo.  My first priority is finishing something good, but Heinlein was my hero years ago.  To be a Hugo winner like him?  I don’t have words to describe what that would be like.

Honestly, I don’t know if I’m a strong enough writer to ever win such an honor.  But dreams don’t have to be realistic.

This whole fiasco with the Hugos bothers me for another reason.  My writing resurgence is due, in part, to the Hugos.  As I’ve told many people, going to WorldCon in Reno a few years ago reminded me of this part of my life that I’d neglected.  What I have not mentioned often is that I almost didn’t go to Reno.  I knew what the Hugos were at the time, but I didn’t know that they were given out at WorldCon.  When I found out, that made up my mind.  I thought back to all of those paperbacks I’d read with the words “Hugo nominated” or “Hugo award winning” on them, and I knew that I wanted to be there when the next awards were given out.  I had no idea that in going to WorldCon, I’d find my people.

So, for a myriad of sentimental reasons, the Hugos are important to me.  And that’s why I’m writing this post.

As of this writing, two people have withdrawn from their nominations.  Connie Willis won’t be a presenter.  People have said that they should hand out asterisks with the awards.  George R. R. Martin has been quoted as describing the Hugos as irreparably broken.

Before going on, let me be clear about one thing: I am not on the side of the Sad Puppies or the Rabid Puppies.  In an effort to be fair, I’ve read some of their posts and I’ve tried to keep an open mind.  And, I’ve found flaws with their most reasonable points.

Torgersen wrote about what he called “unreliable packaging.” His assertion is that you used to be able to pick up a science fiction or fantasy story and know that it was about adventure, and not social commentary.  He wrote a long post going into great detail on this, but it doesn’t hold true.  Heinlein and Asimov layered meaning beneath their adventures.  That’s one of the reasons they were so good.

One of the best articles I’ve read was all about data analysis.  One of the things I like the post is that it provides disambiguation between the Sad Puppies and the Rabid Puppies.  It also provides some interesting data about male/female ratios of Hugo winners over the years, as well as point out correlations between Good Reads ratings and Hugo winners and nominees.

Let’s be real, though.  Cold, data analysis is excellent for keeping conversations grounded, but we are way past that point now.  Good writers, innocent in all of this, have been hurt.  At least two have withdrawn from consideration for something that I dream about.

And then there’s that asshole that is saying that if he doesn’t win a Hugo, he’ll just keep doing this, year after year.  I’m not going to type his name.  I don’t think anyone should.  If you want someone out of the spotlight, then quit shining it on them.

I want the Hugos to keep going.  I have a couple of friends that were nominated this year.  I want them to have the night of their life.  I want them to win, and enjoy it, and not have to worry about their award being less than it was.  I want the tradition to continue.

I don’t have much culture to draw from.  There are no traditions that my family holds to with any conviction.  WorldCon is the culture I identify with.  I like the people that show up.  I like the celebration of science fiction and fantasy.  And I like the Hugos.

I hope George R. R. Martin is wrong about the Hugos.  I don’t want them to be forever broken.  How will I ever win one if they’re gone?

To the people that have been nominated this year: I feel for you.  Whether you withdraw or stay on, I appreciate how difficult this must be for you, and I hope for the best.

To the people that are raging about the Sad Puppies: What they did with the nominations is cheating in spirit, if not specifically against the rules.  That said, please try to keep your vitriol in check.  I’ve seen some hyperbole about feeling physically threatened by the Sad Puppies.  Don’t get this group mixed with the Rabid Puppies.  The Sad Puppies are misguided jerks, but I really don’t think they’re sociopaths.

To the people that are raging about the Rabid Puppies: I hear you.  Please try to stay civil, and not drop to the level of their leader.  I don’t expect the Rabid Puppies to be adults, so the rest of us must step up and be better people.

To everyone that loves WorldCon: Let’s learn from this.  The nomination rules can’t be changed in time for 2016, so we may have another year of this garbage, but that doesn’t mean this has to be the end.  Let’s come up with a way to fix the nomination process, so this doesn’t happen again.  My suggestion: insert an additional step to the process, at the beginning.  This first step would be open to anyone with supporting WorldCon membership, much like it is now.  Everyone can submit selections for nomination.  Then, ALL submissions would be open for vote, to move on to the next round.  Puppies could submit their slates all they want, but they would no longer be guaranteed spots the way they currently are.

 

I’ve linked to some of the articles I’ve read above.  Here are some others:

On The Hugo Awards and Dysfunctional Politics

The Hugo Awards: GamerGate Edition, 2015

Hugo Award Nominations spark Criticism over Diversity in Sci-Fi

The Hugo Awards were Always Political.  Now they’re Only Political

George R. R. Martin and others Speak Out Over Hugo Awards Controversy

Asking the Wrong Questions

Hugo Story Withdrawn

Two Decline their Hugo Nomination

 

Tonight, I’ll be playing with the River City Concert Band.

Wednesday Apr 8, 7:00PM
11211 Point East Dr
Rancho Cordova, CA

The cost tonight is $10.  That includes getting to see the Sacramento Symphonic Winds.  It’s going to be a fantastic show.

Saturday afternoon, I’ll be playing with River City Swing.  This performance is open to the public (which I take to mean “free”).

Saturday Apr 11, 12:00PM
Same location as above

Saturday evening, I’ll be playing with the ACB Convention band, at 8:00PM.  I don’t know if it is open to the public, or just to convention members.

 

Crazy, huh?

This week is full of wonderful music, opportunities to meet and play with some skilled musicians, and really lose myself in the art.

The only problem is time.  How am I going to manage my job, the volunteer hours at the convention, and the convention band practices?

Fortunately, my workplace is awesome.  They let me work a 10 hour day on Monday, an 11 hour day on Tuesday, and another 10 hour day Wednesday.  I can do half days on Thursday and Friday, which will allow me to make it to the practices.

Thursday and Friday evenings, I’m filling some stage crew volunteer slots.  I’m also doing stage crew duty on Saturday, from 1:30 to 5:00.

I’m not going to have time do any writing or editing this week.  I don’t really feel bad about it.  There are only so many hours in a day, and this week, they’ve all been claimed.  I’ll just have to write twice as much next week.

My last few posts where I’ve talked about writing have not been exactly uplifting.  I’ve talked about how I’m not writing.  I’ve talked about other ways that I’m blessed, and I’ve mentioned that I haven’t given up.  At the end of the day, my stories languished, and I felt bad about it.

Today, let’s change it up a little bit.  Today, let’s talk about an actual writing success!

This past Sunday, I needed to finish editing something to turn in to my writer’s group.  I felt pressured to get at least the first act of the novel finished.

After work on Friday, Melissa left the house with me and we headed to a Starbucks closer to our house.  A smaller venue, we sat in the corner, Melissa with her book, me with my Surface.  I hunched over my notes, and fell into my story.

Then, something wonderful happened.  I lost myself in the words.  I enjoyed myself.  I enjoyed my story!  Before I knew it, a crabby barista was telling us that we had fifteen minutes to pack up our stuff and leave.  I had completely lost track of time.

The next morning, feeling invigorated by the success of the previous evening, I made a plan to keep going.  I spent the morning editing another few chapters.  By afternoon, the kids were doing their own thing, and Melissa was off with her sister for some fun before a Garth Brooks concert.  I decided that a little Scotch might loosen me up.  Big mistake.

When it comes to alcohol, I’m a bit of a featherweight.  Alone in my garage, slightly inebriated, I thought it’d be a good idea to watch a couple of Tarantino movies.  You know, because he’s good at dialog, so it’d be like research.  Then something made me think of the movie Inception, so I put that in.  Somehow, more Scotch wound up in my glass.

The next morning, feeling a little bit hung over, I made a new plan.  More editing, less Scotch.  Melissa took me to breakfast and fed my need for greasy food.  When we got home, I returned to the garage, and tried to find whatever magic I’d found Friday night.

It took a while, but eventually, I found it.

I fell back into the story.  The stumbling block had been some seemingly insignificant detail that I needed to include near the beginning.  For whatever reason, I just couldn’t find the words.  When I found them, the flood gates opened, and I was able to tackle a chapter that had been eluding me for months.

The story drew me in.  Well after midnight, I clawed my way back into the real world, sent the story to the group, and went to bed.  I was a dragon slayer.  I was a Jedi Knight.  I had slain the monster, rescued the hostage.  I felt powerful and amazing.  I also felt exhausted.  It was time for a victory sleep.

It played out like a story, really.  Friday, the first act, introduced me to what was possible, foreshadowing what was to come.  Saturday, during the second act, my journey took a turn for the worst, and I wound up in a difficult position.  Sunday, the final act, I overcame the difficulty in a spectacular fashion, bringing the story to a satisfactory conclusion.

I still have a long ways to go with the novel, but I’m encouraged by the success.  And now that I’m warmed up, it’s time to get back to it!  Wish me luck!

Before I get ahead of myself, let me tell you about a performance I’ll be a part of today.  River City Swing will be performing at American River Brewing Company today, from 4PM to 6PM.  The address is:

11151 Trade Center Drive
Suite 104
Rancho Cordova, CA, 95670

Having said that, it brings me to the topic of this post: my music dreams are stepping on the toes of my writing dreams.

I’m a busy guy.

I’m busy at work, of course, and that’s generally a good thing.  I’m supporting my family through my job, and I’m working for a company that is making green energy more viable, especially in California.  Even when I complain about occasional long hours, I still like my job, and derive a great deal of satisfaction from it.  Whatever time work doesn’t consume is what I have to spend on my other dreams.

Let’s revisit my dreams for a moment.  When I was younger and first figuring out what I realistically wanted to do with my life, I narrowed it down to three things:

1. Become a music teacher, or some kind of performer
2. Become a writer
3. “Something with computers”

Looking at the scoreboard, I can see that “something with computers” pulled way out in front, and has become my bread and butter.  I’ve been doing something with computers for a really long time now, and it’s pretty great.

The music and writing dreams have not been fully realized.  If you’ve been reading my blog, you know that I’ve put a lot of effort into writing for the last several years.  I don’t have a ton to show for it, but I’ve been improving.  I have an unfinished second draft to a decent novel.  I have a couple of short stories which are, according to my writing groups, competent, but not particularly special.  I have a scheduled, dedicating time to writing every week.  And I have this blog, where I share the details of my life along this writer’s journey.

What about music?  Obviously, I’m not going to be a music teacher, though I did get a small taste of what it might have been like a couple of years ago.  I don’t have the patience for it.  Also, I don’t have the education for it.  I’m not qualified to teach children music, and I don’t have the time or inclination to become qualified.

Performing is another matter.  When I joined River City Concert Band a couple of years ago, it was mostly because my daughter was playing with the band.  I wasn’t particularly passionate about it, and my involvement at the time didn’t satisfy me as a performer.  In fact, I felt superfluous.  I felt like I didn’t need to put much more than a B effort into the music.  When my daughter stopped, I nearly stopped as well.  For about a month, I felt like I was wasting my time.

Then something kind of strange happened.  One of the tenors paid me a compliment, about how I was picking up a difficult section of music very quickly, and I suddenly felt special again.  I started putting in a little more effort, and I started to feel like a musician again.

When I was asked to fill in for River City Swing, I was reluctant.  My confidence wasn’t particularly high, and I wasn’t sure if I had the time.  Then I played with them, and suddenly, I was feeling things I hadn’t felt since high school and college.

So now here we are, several months later, and I’m playing in two bands.  Mondays are completely full, Tuesdays are completely full, and we have performances every couple of weeks.  My family has invested money in my music, giving me a new alto and a new soprano.  I’m practicing more at home.  I am a performer.

Last night, as I was falling asleep, I was thinking about music.  I thought of a trick for transposing from E♭ to B♭, which I’m sure lots of musicians already know, but it only just occurred to me recently.  When you want to go from E♭ to B♭, you add a flat.  Or going the other way, you add a sharp.  For example, a concert B♭ is a G on the alto, and it’s a C on the soprano.  A G scale has one sharp.  A C scale has no sharps or flats.  If I’m playing a G on the alto, it’s going to be a C on the soprano.  Another example… a concert F is a D on the alto.  A D has two sharps.  Add a flat, you wind up with one sharp, which is a G.  So a D on the alto is a G on the soprano.  As long as you know your scales, it’s super easy to transpose between the E♭ and B♭ instruments.

If your eyes glazed over during that last paragraph, it’s okay.  Like I said, this is the stuff I was thinking while going to sleep.  So the next time you’re having trouble sleeping, just transpose some music in your head.  You can thank me later.

Music has become a bigger part of my life.  What does that mean?  Am I giving up on writing?  Is this blog just going to be more boring posts about transposing?

No.  I need to write.  When I’m not writing, I’m unhappy.  I have a novel that needs to be finished.  I will not be completely happy until I’m holding a printed copy in my hand, with my name on the cover.

Spending more time on music means it’s just harder to find time to write, but not impossible.  I read a recent post by Hugh Howey, which looks like it’s about KDP and self publishing, but it’s really about persevering as a writer.  I needed to read this.  It’s encouraging in the ways I needed encouragement.  If I turn off Scrivener to do something else 99 times, it just means I need to open it 100.

Last week, I skipped out on my Wednesday night writing because I stayed up all night working.  This week, I skipped out on my Wednesday night writing because I was feeling a little sick, and I wound up going to bed at 8PM.  I’ve missed a couple of weeks, but it’s not the end of the world.  It doesn’t mean that the journey is over.  It means I’m taking a detour.  I will get there.  It might take a little longer than I intended, but I will get there.

I’m trying something different with the beginning of my writing session tonight.  Tonight, to get the juices flowing, I’m going to grab a writing prompt, and write using that prompt for ten to fifteen minutes.

Tonight’s prompt comes reddit.  The prompt is:

One day everyone notices the words “Human Update 1.1 progress 1%” in the corner of their eye.

---

 

Daniel awoke slowly, the blare of the alarm clock loud in his ears. He lay on his back several moments, staring at the ceiling. He was having trouble finding the willpower to pull himself out of bed.

His bare feet touched the hardwood floor, and the chill of morning bit into his legs. He cursed, rubbing his eyes as he shambled across the room towards the alarm clock. His hand hovered over the snooze button before falling on the off switch. Silence replaced the cacophony. Daniel sighed and rubbed his eyes again.

As he teetered towards the bathroom, he raised his fists to rub his eyes yet again. He stopped, blinking. It wasn’t an eyelash or eye snot in his field of vision. White text in a tightly kerned font floated in the lower right corner of his field of vision.

“Human Update 1.1. Progress… 1%.”

Daniel blinked several times. The words were only visible while his eyes were open. He fidgeted with his hands. He pinched his forearm hard enough, and winced.

“Is this some kind of trick?” he said. He smiled and waited a moment before saying, “Okay, you’ve got me. I don’t know how you’re doing this, but it’s pretty clever!”

When no one responded, he hurried out to his living room and turned on the television. A man and a woman sitting behind a desk with a cityscape behind faced the camera. On the bottom of the screen, the same words floated in a banner.

“-not sure what it means,” the man was saying. Both reporters were frowning. The man gripped his papers in a white knuckled grip that he didn’t seem aware of. The woman sat with her hands clasped in front of her, as though to trap them in one place.

“Doctor Parks, a biology professor with the University of Illinois is on line one,” the male reporter said. “Doctor, you’re on the air.”

“Thank you,” a phone voice said. “While we still do not know the exact cause of the visual phenomena, the two prevailing theories are mass hallucination, and spontaneous genetic mutation. Indeed, the latter

---

 

And that’s all I have time for tonight.

The writing prompt made me think of Daneel Olivaw, for some reason, so I named the protagonist Daniel.

I’m not sure exactly where I was going to go with the story.  This was purely seat-of-the-pants writing.  There were a number of directions I could go.  I actually like the prompt for that reason, though it didn’t really fit with a 10 to 15 minute exercise.  I could probably spend a couple of days with that and write a full short story.

Before I could finish it, I would need to look at the human condition and determine the one thing I would change to make the race better.  Remove violence?  Replace selfishness with altruism?  I’m not sure.

Anyway, that was an enjoyable exercise.  If you liked it, let me know, and I’ll do it again.  If you hated it, let me know that as well.

This has bothered me for so long, and I’ve wanted to talk about it so much, that it has blocked me from writing other things.  Today, it’s come to a head.  Maybe because it is March.  Maybe it’s because of the rumor that Westboro Baptist Church will picket Leonard Nimoy’s funeral.  Whatever the reason, I want to talk about how to deal bigotry.

But first, here are two answers that do not work:

Do not White Knight

It’s noble to stand up for the little guy, and fight for people that cannot fight for themselves.  Unfortunately, that’s the message you’re sending when you soapbox for people of a different race, gender, or sexuality.  You’re saying that people X cannot stand on their own, that people X are weaker, and require assistance.

White Knighting is not the same as spreading awareness.  When one group of people are oppressing another group of people based on something as superficial as gender, race, or sexuality, we need to know.  But if you are fighting for a people not your own, because you think they need it, maybe you should examine the root of your motivation.

Do not Counterattack

Reverse discrimination comes in several flavors and names.  No matter the direction, it’s still discrimination, and will not make our society better.  Instead, it polarizes.  People stop thinking, and instead, just start fighting over bullshit.

White males have ruled the world for a long time.  I cannot and will not dispute that.  However, calling on people to marginalize or ignore an individual’s work because they are white or male is, in the long run, just going to create a new bigotry.  That’s not justice, anymore than punishing a child for the crimes of their parent is justice.

 

Now, here are the three things you can personally do to make the world a better place.

Start with The Golden Rule

As a reminder, it is this: treat people as you would want to be treated.  That is the rule in its simplest state.  Personally, I expand it to include treating people with love.

This is an ideal.  You will not always remember to do this.  Depending on what’s going on in your life, you may not even be capable of doing this.  However, like any skill, the more you practice, the easier it will become.

If you choose to treat other people the way you want to be treated, you will stop doing the first two things I listed.

Remember that Individuals are not People

At my most cynical, I think people are generally stupid.  Individuals, on the other hand, can be exceptional.  When dealing with an individual, remember that they are unique.  Do not unnecessarily burden a person with the history and stereotypes of the people that they look like.

You may have been raised in a household (or a church) where bigotry was part of the education.  You may have inside you some prejudices that you are unaware of.  If you remember that individuals are not people, and treat every person you meet on their own merits, you will start to free yourself of the ingrained prejudices that you were unfairly saddled with.

Stop Feeding the Bigots

If the first two directions were idealistic, this one is practical.  When you become aware of an organization or an individual acting on prejudice, do not support them.  But keep the first two rules in mind when you do this.

The best way I can explain this point is through two examples.

Example 1: Chick-fil-A

I enjoyed Chick-fil-A, until I found out that they were publicly spending money to fight gay marriage.  I tip my hat to them being brave enough to stand on their principles, but I will not give them anymore of my money.  And I tell people about this, as I’m telling you now.

Chick-fil-A made a huge profit after it became publicly known that they were spending money to suppress LGBT rights.  This is the opposite of what should hav happened.  If we want companies to stop acting on their prejudices, then we need to hit them in the pocket book.

Example 2: A Relative

I have a relative that loves Fox news.  For years, she has sent ridiculous items to her friends and family.  Being the asshole that I am, I would read her emails, go check the facts, then send her a reply (usually with a link to snopes) saying that she’s spreading misinformation.  I asked her often to stop, and she finally took me off her mailing list.

I still had her on Facebook, and she still posted some crazy stuff.  Occasionally, I’d refute the most egregious things she posted.  Finally, she posted something that was straight up racist, and I called her on it.  I told her that I cannot condone that, and now we’re no longer in contact.

This relative is an individual.  I treated her as I would want to be treated.  If I say something stupid and offensive, I want people to give me the benefit of the doubt, call me on it, and warn me.  I did this for her.  Unfortunately, it didn’t work out, and now I’m not going to give her anymore of my time or energy.

 

I’m idealistic.  I cling to notions that make me seem naive.  However, I believe if we all did these three things, we would end racism, sexism, and mistreatment of people based on their sexuality.

Final thoughts:

It’s important to be ready to forgive.  If Chick-fil-A completely stops funding anti-LGBT stuff, I will consider eating their food again.  If the relative I mentioned ever approaches me to try to bridge the gap between us, I’ll listen to her.  This is all still part of the Golden Rule, really.  When I screw up, I want to be forgiven when I seek to make amends.

If I have missed anything, please let me know.  If I am mistaken, please let me know.  I want the world to be a better place for everyone, and not just for my children.