 |
Now available The paperback from DAW Books |
Praise for Ed's previous novel, Lost in Translation: "Edward Willett has arrived, and SF is the richer for it." - Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo Award-winning author of Hominids "A believable, absorbing, thought-provoking and highly enjoyable read." - Kathy Tyers, Author of the Firebird trilogy, Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura, and Star Wars: Balance Point "An interstellar adventure story worthy of Golden Age masters like Isaac Asimov and Robert A. Heinlein. " - Dave Duncan, author of the Seventh Sword series, the King's Blades series and Children of Chaos |
LIBRARY Click on a CD to access data ***
***
***
***
***
***
***
***
*** |
Saturday, February 16, 20024:49 PMThis morning, after taking the Volvo to the shop (turned out to be a computer glitch, nothing serious), I made my way to Globe Theatre for the first rehearsal of my script Saved, for this year's On the Line.On the Line, subtitled A Freefall Through New Work, features new scripts by local writers. The scripts are supposed to be no more than 15 minutes in length and capable of being done by a cast of four actors, two men and two women. Saved, whose original version you can read here, isn't exactly a new script, but I've reworked it considerably, both to boil it down to about 15 minutes (OK, OK, so it really runs 20, but the director doesn't seem to mind) and to tie it into the post-September 11 zietgeist. It's always a joy to watch a script brought to life by talented actors, under the guidance of a talented director. When I write scripts, I see very clearly in my mind's eye what they should look like on stage. I have a pretty good image of the characters and the set, and I try to give some indication of what I envision in my stage directions. But playwriting is a collaborative art; a play is brought to life not only by the author's words, but by the choices made by the actors and director. Those choices may not necessarily be what I envisioned when I was writing the play, but that doesn't make them wrong--often, they're better than what I envisioned. And so, this morning, I saw characters that had hitherto existed only in my head (and in the heads of the limited number of people who have read the original script--although the gender of one of the characters in the original script has changed from male to female) suddenly become real, breathing people, through the magic of the actor's craft. It's one of the unique pleasures of playwriting that novel writing doesn't offer. I believe, though, that in its own way, novel-writing is collaborative too; the words I write on the page are bound to conjure up different images and associations in each individual reader than they did in my mind when I wrote them. The joy of playwriting is that this process, which is normally hidden inside readers' heads, is made visible. When you watch a play, you're watching one group of individuals' version of the story told by the playwrite; and each time that play is done with a different cast, that story changes--just as the story in a novel changes each time it is read by a different reader. It's a cool thing to see, when you're the playwright in question. Saved will be given a staged reading on Saturday, February 23, along with several other scripts, in the Shumiatcher Theatre, Riddell Centre, University of Regina. 4:49 PMThis morning, after taking the Volvo to the shop (turned out to be a computer glitch, nothing serious), I made my way to Globe Theatre for the first rehearsal of my script Saved, for this year's On the Line.On the Line, subtitled A Freefall Through New Work, features new scripts by local writers. The scripts are supposed to be no more than 15 minutes in length and capable of being done by a cast of four actors, two men and two women. Saved, whose original version you can read here, isn't exactly a new script, but I've reworked it considerably, both to boil it down to about 15 minutes (OK, OK, so it really runs 20, but the director doesn't seem to mind) and to tie it into the post-September 11 zietgeist. It's always a joy to watch a script brought to life by talented actors, under the guidance of a talented director. When I write scripts, I see very clearly in my mind's eye what they should look like on stage. I have a pretty good image of the characters and the set, and I try to give some indication of what I envision in my stage directions. But playwriting is a collaborative art; a play is brought to life not only by the author's words, but by the choices made by the actors and director. Those choices may not necessarily be what I envisioned when I was writing the play, but that doesn't make them wrong--often, they're better than what I envisioned. And so, this morning, I saw characters that had hitherto existed only in my head (and in the heads of the limited number of people who have read the original script--although the gender of one of the characters in the original script has changed from male to female) suddenly become real, breathing people, through the magic of the actor's craft. It's one of the unique pleasures of playwriting that novel writing doesn't offer. I believe, though, that in its own way, novel-writing is collaborative too; the words I write on the page are bound to conjure up different images and associations in each individual reader than they did in my mind when I wrote them. The joy of playwriting is that this process, which is normally hidden inside readers' heads, is made visible. When you watch a play, you're watching one group of individuals' version of the story told by the playwrite; and each time that play is done with a different cast, that story changes--just as the story in a novel changes each time it is read by a different reader. It's a cool thing to see, when you're the playwright in question. Saved will be given a staged reading on Saturday, February 23, along with several other scripts, in the Shumiatcher Theatre, Riddell Centre, University of Regina. Friday, February 15, 20025:32 PMFirst, some unfinished business from yesterday: the flowers arrived, for both wife and baby, and all was joy and great happiness.Today, I had promised myself to put in some serious fiction writing time--and somehow, what with one thing and another (updating the Regina Lyric Light Opera web site, buying socks and underwear, reading the newspapers, watching Star Trek re-runs) the day got mostly away from me before I got around to it. In the end, I wrote for about 40 minutes on Death Tide, a YA fantasy novel that began years ago as a series of online segments on a local bulletin board and that I am determined to finish sometime before the 10th anniversary of its beginning...whether it's any good or not. But then I realized I hadn't updated by Blog yet, and... I've often said I've never suffered from writer's block, and in a way that's true: put me in front of a keyboard and I can always write something. And I make a good living as a writer, thanks to non-fiction and computer books and all the other things I write. But what I would really like to do is make a living writing nothing but fiction...and yet, in recent years my fiction production has dwindled precipiously. In my 20s, I was prolific--a novel a year, or even more (short, YA novels, but still). I slowed a bit in my early 30s, and now...well, it's true I finally finished a sequel to Andy Nebula: Interstellar Rock Star late last year, but it took me a couple of years to write, and most of the time it was just sitting there. Death Tide, as noted, has been in the works forever. I have an adult SF novel, Razor Wind, that an editor at a major publishing house actually expressed interest in seeing, once it's finished--but that interest was expressed in 1995, and it still isn't finished. Not even close. So maybe I am suffering from my own peculiar form of writer's block, where you can write and write and write--and I turn out a lot of words a year, I assure you--and yet somehow never get written what you'd really like to get written. Just call me Sisyphus. (Hey! Wouldn't that be a great opening line for a novel about the search for a giant white...oh, never mind.) Thursday, February 14, 20024:46 PMValentine's Day, and here I sit, wondering if the flowers I ordered this morning will be delivered before tomorrow, or if I'll have some fancy explaining to do to my beloved.Who decided flowers made a perfect gift for Valentine's Day, anyway? Oh, sure, they're pretty, but so is a mobile made out of old AOL CDs received in the mail. And, sure, they smell nice, but so does meat on the grill, and I'm pretty sure a visit to the alley behind Burger King would not be acceptable as a Valentine's Day gift, either. And lets look at the down side. Cut flowers last, what, a week if you're lucky? What kind of symbol is that of undying devotion? (Even creepier, flowers are really the sexual organs of plants. What kind of symbolism is the giving of sexual organs that have been removed from their proper place on a living organism with a knife or scissors, anyway? And why is it always the man who gives this bizarre gift? It gives me the shivers.) No, let's face it; the giving of flowers has to be the work of an evil axis of florists, Harlequin romance novelists, and the manufacturers of vases, and by ordering flowers this morning, I have fallen under their sway and taken them one step closer toward their ultimate goal of world domination. My own consolation is that I didn't buy chocolates, too. The equally evil axis of chocolatiers, box manufacturers and the makers of shiny wrapping paper failed to get its claws into me...this time. But next year...who knows? The war continues. Wednesday, February 13, 20023:37 PMIt's our daughter Alice's eighth-month birthday today. As I write this, she's playing on the floor behind me, working industriously to pull The Encylopedia of World Mythology from the bottommost shelf of my not-yet-baby-proofed bookcase, having earlier succeeded in liberating The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes from that same prison.It seems the most natural thing in the world to me now to have a baby playing in my office. A year ago it was pretty much unimaginable, even though I knew her birth was only a few months away. And the really amazing thing is...I like it. I love it, in fact. I mean, who knew babies could be so much fun to watch and play with and hold? Oh, sure, she woke us up four times over the course of last night, and I was surfing the Internet with one hand while holding her with the other at 1:30 a.m. when I'd really rather have been sleeping, but so what? She's our little girl, she's beautiful, she's bright, and she's endlessly fascinating (hence the large and ever-growing collection of pictures here). But what's even more amazing is that I've become interested in other people's babies--especially those that are a few months older than Alice. It's like looking into the future. "So...in another six months I can expect her to be walking...speaking a few words...and, oh, yes, smearing food all over her face." (Right now, that's our job as we try to feed her Pablum while she tries to look at everything going on in the kitchen at the same time.) And that's why I've actually spent quite a bit of time in the Gnat section of James Lileks's Web site. (A Web site I highly recommend to everyone for everything that's on it, by the way.) His daughter Natalie is ten months older than Alice. He posts fabulous photos of her on a regular basis--and I look at them and imagine what Alice will be like next year about this time. I can't wait...and yet, I'll miss some of the littler-baby-moments we share right now--even the 1:30 a.m. trying-to-surf-her-to-sleep moments. It sounds like a cliche, but every moment with my daughter is precious, now, next year--and forever. P.S. She didn't manage to get the Encylopedia of Mythology off the shelf, but she had more luck with Buck Rogers: The First 60 Years in the 25th Century. Obviously a born SF fan. Tuesday, February 12, 20023:54 PMI just finished reading Field of Dishonor, Book 4 in David Weber's Honor Harrington series (high-concept precis: "Horatio Hornblower in outer space--but he's a woman!")--and I have to say it's been a long time since I've devoured a series of books the way I have been these.This surprised me a bit, because I read the first book almost by accident. I was vaguely aware of it, of course, as I'm vaguely aware of dozens of science fiction books I haven't gotten around to reading, through my subscription to Locus. Because of that vague awareness, I bought the first book in the series for a teenaged friend whom I'm trying to get and keep interested in written SF (as opposed to media sci-fi). But the main reason I read the first book was because I was looking for "content" for my new Hiebook e-book reader (much more on the Hiebook and e-books in general later), and the first few Honor Harrington novels are available free for downloading from Baen Books. If you enjoy stirring space battles and a strong heroine whom you'll quickly come to love and respect as much as her fellow officers and crew, read Honor Harrington. I've already downloaded Book 5, Flag in Exile, from Fictionwise and will be plugging it into my Hiebook tonight. Monday, February 11, 20025:41 PMWelcome to The Stacks, the place where I can post random thoughts, observations, rants, stuff, nonsense and brilliant insights daily or weekly or whenever else I happen to feel like it without firing up FrontPage and working with the whole darn site.In other words: this is a blog. It might turn into a diary. (Although, considering the way spelling seems to go by the wayside in the examples of these things others have turned out, it's just as likely to turn into a dairy. Consider that my first rant.) It might turn into an ongoing, online story--I've written stories that way before, on local bulletin boards (this was some time ago), turning out fifty or sixty lines a day. It may not sound like much, but it adds up, and before you know it, you have a book. Or it might wither and die. We'll see. In any event, it has begun--and whomever happens to stumble upon it will, I hope, find it of some slight interest.
|
