Sir Arthur C. Clarke, Renowned Science Fiction Author and Futurist, Dead at 90
Published March 19th, 2008 | 
“Somewhere in me is a curiosity sensor. I want to know what’s over the next hill. You know, people can live longer without food than without information. Without information, you’d go crazy.” – Arthur C. Clarke
I am saddened, as I’m sure many are, at the news Arthur C. Clarke is dead. Even though his death was not unexpected, it’s still unsettling. We just don’t produce writers or visionaries like Clarke anymore. There’s a hole in the world this morning.
The first time I read Clarke, I was 12, almost 13. Seventh grade. I remember sitting in the Woodruff School library reading “The Nine Billion Names of God”. I was supposed to be writing a report on lions and I was hiding the storybook behind Volume “L” of the Encycopedia Britanica, away from the watchful eyes of my teacher and the school librarian. I’m sure I got more of an education from that one short story than I ever got from writing that report on lions. Clarke opened my eyes up to possibility. He engaged my imagination and my sense of wonder and for that I’ll always be grateful.
Arthur C. Clarke was born in Minehead, Somerset, England in 1917. He later served in World War II as a radar specialist, which inspired his one, non-SF novel, Glide Path and lead to his idea that geostational satellites could be used as communication relays. He was also involved in the early development of satellite technology.
His prolific writing career began in the 1940’s in the SF fanzines of the era. In addition to 2001, he is best-known for the novels, Childhood’s End and Rendevous with Rama. In his later years, his declining health forced him to write with the help of collaborators such as Gregory Benford and Stephen Baxter.
As a writer, scientist and a human being, he committed himself to the notion that humans would eventually evolve and grow out of their basers selves and that a more hopeful future was possible. If more of us shared his vision, it just might be.
Short Stories Live Forever — It’s Only the Writers Who Die Slow, Agonizing Deaths
Published March 13th, 2008 | A week ago, there was this brief posting about the validity of the short story on Mediabistro’s Galleycat which I found rather disturbing. I’m not really sure what I found more disturbing: the assertation from the complainers that the short story is dead because it’s no longer commercially viable or Ron Hogan’s surly response to the complaints.
The complaint about the short story being “dead” is ridiculous on two counts. First, it assumes that the short story only matters if the author is making money. Second, the disgruntled writers making this assertion assume that the short story was once-upon-a-time a cash cow for writers. There may have been a time, back in the 30’s and 40’s when a prolific hack could eek out a small income from the slicks of the day, but I doubt that was true of most writers even then. I wonder, did Franz Kafka complain that he didn’t make any money writing short stories? When Ray Carver was busting his ass in a factory and writing stories on the side, did he whine about the short story being a dead form of art? In fact, don’t most successful short story writers nowadays have day jobs? Am I wrong? It’s true that there are fewer commercial markets for short fiction presently but, overall, there are more venues than ever for stories both online and off. The short story exists with as much vitality in 2008 as it did when Washington Irving was scribbling “Rip Van Winkle” (and if Irving had fallen asleep and woke-up in the here and now, do you think he’d be displeased with the short story or marvel at how it has grown — just a thought). The genre cannot be invalid just because a particular writer feels somehow invalidated writing within that genre.
Which is not to say such writers don’t have a gripe in feeling invalidated. The problem I have with Ron Hogan’s comment is the implication that story writers outside the establishment publishing world only fail because they are bad writers. While that’s probably true enough to some degree — it’s not completely true. There are good writers who fail too. And there are bad writers who succeed for some mysterious reason I still can’t understand. For an outsider writer, the experience of writing is often akin to (Kafka, again) seeking an audience at The Castle. The Galleycat blog seems to me to have a pro-establishment bias judging by this and other posts on the website. Therefore, one wouldn’t expect much sympathy for the struggle of the average writer here. Indeed, even if the short story is alive and well, being a short story writer is frustrating most of the time. Just because there are plenty of stories being written and lots of non-paying markets to showcase them doesn’t mean the naysayers don’t have a valid argument. Short stories just don’t have quite the same cachet they once had when Hemingway was doing it. Even brand-name behemoth, Stephen King — when he even deigns to put out a new story collection — seems to look at the short story with a kind of nostalgia one reserves for a troublesome, but much-loved dead relative. The only thing worse than being a short story writer is being a poet — but poets are used to being consigned to the literary ghetto. Short fiction writers are relatively new arrivals to the gutter. The stench of the place is still fresh to them. Give them time.
I’m John Erianne, Who the Hell Are You? or, Shits ‘N’ Giggles on Amazon.com Part 2
Published March 10th, 2008 | The other day I solved a mystery of sorts.
You may recall an incident I wrote about last year in which some anonymous turd trashed me on Amazon.com. Although, to be honest, I was much more bemused by the incident than angry, I have wondered about the identity of Maxites D. ever since. Well, the other day I found out. This woman, Lauren, posted a comment about a blog from 2006, “Club’em Over the Head and Leave’em to the Buzzards” in which I said some unkind (although, I maintain, not unfair) things about this kid, Michael Pritsos’s writing. The woman wanted me to know that the kid had just published a novel. Naturally, I had to investigate, because it would astonish the hell out of me if this kid could get a novel published by a legitimate publisher. A quick google search turned up a link to Amazon.com, where I found a listing for Hoplite
Anyway, what really struck me is that one of the main characters of this novel is a guy named Maxites, the same name as my anonymous critic. Coincidence? I think not. Also telling, and further evidence that Michael Pritsos is the same Maxites who trashed me, is the one glowing review of Pritsos’s book written by “R. Christ” whom you guys may remember was the guy agreeing with Maxites in the reviews of my chapbooks. It’s clear to me that “R. Christ” and “Maxites” are the same person.
You’ll never catch me hiding behind a phony identity. Many people think I’m an arrogant shit. Arrogant? Perhaps, but I think it just makes me honest. I’ve got over 20 years experience as a writer and I’d like to think I know what I’m talking about at least some of the time. Also,I’ve paid some serious dues in my life and I’ve got the scars to prove it. And at my age I’m not inclined to suffer fools or take shit from anyone — least of all some punk half my age and with none of my wit and wisdom.
As I am an outspoken and brutally honest person, I do expect, from time to time, people will respond negatively to me, because we live in a society which prefers lies clothed in pretty dresses over the truth running wild and naked in the streets. Pritsos’s response, as such, does not surprise me in the least. However, I’d expect when one does trash me in public, they not hide behind a psuedonym either. Have the balls to own you’re own opinions, feelings, be a passionate advocate for them and be steadfast enough absorb the counterpunches. Best advice I can give you as a human being and as a writer, Michael. Else as a writer and as a human being you will continue to be dickless and dismissed.
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