immediacy: ephemeral thoughts on the immediate environment, a blog by Glen Engel-Cox

"Things to Do When You're Dead" received a form rejection from Playboy, while "Red, White (and) Blues" didn't even make it to Glimpses because of a defunct address.

While driving from Redding, California to Hilt, the gold Honda Accord that I've owned for the last three years lost power on an upgrade, then refused to start after I had limped it into a service station. I was forced to tow the car to Ashland, Oregon, where I rented a car at the Medford airport because I couldn't wait to have the Honda fixed, as I needed to be in Richland, Washington tomorrow. Drove the rental car to Eugene.

I'm in love with Kenneth Branagh--no! Not that way! I'm in love with the talent and the drive. And the love is mixed with equal parts envy and recrimination. Oh, how I would like to be Branagh, 28 and directing himself in Henry V, or, even before that, just as a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company, filming a movie of the early life of D.H. Lawrence in Australia. Yes, I would like to be an actor, but for ever much a dream it may be in Britain, even more so in America. Here, there are only two places where one can gain recognition--New York and Los Angeles. Even more so, those are probably the only places one could make a living at it. But it's envy of the man's energy just as much. Sure, it may be the case that becoming an actor is easier in Britain, but then how does one explain Branagh's writing his own one-man shows, or his first play. No, this is truly a man with talent and drive, probably equally strong. And so the recrimination. I am 27, only a year away from the magic age at which this book was written, and what do I have to show for it? I finally have my Bachelor's degree, I've published two stories and written a few more, I've been involved in one magazine of note, and I've lived in several places besides where I grew up. And that's it. Not really a lot. Wasted time? Some of it, and yet, on the other hand, I wouldn't exchange it, either. I just with that I had something more tangible to show for it. Branagh's young to write an autobiography, even a first volume as this undoubtably will turn out to be, and he comments as much. Even for all his accomplishments, he isn't content to rest. There's a moral there, I believe. What Branagh has to show you is that greatness, which I do believe he has already obtained, is not an ephemeral quality, but elusive and rare. It can be had, through hard work. I heard someone recently on NPR--a poet, I think--talk about writing. He said, attempt greatness, because if you fail, well, then, it may simply be good, which isn't bad. But if you only attempt to be good.... I will attempt greatness.

Picked this up on a whim--I think it won a children's book award--and read it in a day. Nice little contemporary (20th Century) fantasy about a Jewish girl in Hungary before, during, and after WWII. "Fantasy" may be the wrong word, for while there are some fantastic things going on, the happenings are startingly realistic. In some worlds, this one might be considered magic realism, except that the characters are surprised and awed by the fantastic. They seem to accept it as natural, however. The really surprising thing about this book, though, is the changes of the lead character and the time scale. I didn't expect the character to "grow up"; I didn't expect a lot of what happened. A non-predictable fantasy? Yes. How rare.

I still like Holt, but he's starting to wane. This is mainly because he is moving away from the Wodehouse/Benson situational type of humor to the Pratchett one-liner & pun type. No, that's not quite the description either. What Holt has been missing in these last few books is a simple coherency of plot. The plot is there, but rather than following one or two characters (Wodehouse tends to follow only one, the viewpoint character), Holt has taken to Douglas Adams-ing and going from direct narration by an omniscient and wise-cracking author to a maniac movement between three or four viewpoint characters. Is it funny? Yes, but the funny is a quick, brisk kind rather than the slow build-up.

Here Comes the Sun is mainly a sendup of beauracracy. What if the universe were actually one big machine, that required drivers and mechanics for the sun, regional planners for weather, an idiot administration (there is, of course, no other kind of administration, so I guess that's an oxymoron), and the long- suffering support staff. Well, I can imagine it, and I think my imagination would cast it as a horor novel rather than as a comedy. I think Here Comes the Sun worked better than the even-more maniacal Overtime, but I'd like to pass Holt some virtual valium and hope for a book more like Goatsong the next time around.

Jonathan Bond's editorial -- A little purple, but interesting. Much better than the "we are the Young Turks" editorial from the last issue. The purpleness is just a person trying too hard. Relax, Bond. Let the stories speak for themselves-- use the editorial for another subject of interest to the readership, like small press economics, or the price of housing in Eugene.

• Billie Sue Mosiman, "No Restrictions" -- Not a story for the language squeamish. This contains a lot of pointed material, although it seems that there is a whole bunch more serial killers out there in fiction than there are in the real world. I wonder if the 80s/90s period of mystery/horror literature will be called the time of the serial killer? The prison stuff here rings authentic, and is interesting. It's a little over-written, especially the stream-of-conciousness bits where he loses himself in the killing frenzy, but that's thankfully only 10% of the total.
• Lawrence Watt-Evans, "Monster Kidnaps Girl at Mad Scientist's Command" -- Sure, he wrote it for the title. It's a gimmick story in that way. But the characters themselves are pretty likeable, and the story is readable. He probably could have sold it to Asimov's if the sexual references could have been toned down to middle-class America. I liked it, and I'm a tough audience for Watt-Evans.
• Carrie Richerson, "Phases" -- Gross. Meant to be gross and disturbing. Sufficiently short enough not to be annoying, but I think I wanted more. The be-all here seems to be breaking the taboo on mentioning menstruation.
• Sonia Lynn Oris, "Motherhood" -- I don't know what it means, but it was interesting. There's a level here of subtlety that may be present, or I may just be looking for more than what was written. The writing flows, and the characters are unique, but what's it all about? Do you really want your readers to be this far in the dark?
• Barry Malzberg, "From the Heart's Basement" -- Barry must have overdosed on John Clute before sitting down to write this essay because it's a remarkable imitation. Too alike. I didn't like spending the effort to translate it into English, so I skimmed it.
• Lucy Taylor, "Close to the Bone" -- Continuing the issue's theme of graphic grossness, we get another redneck horror story. You know, I don't really have anything against the subgenre, but it never seems to break the surface. Must I mention Lansdale's "Night They Missed the Horror Show" again? More horror authors (Lansdale included) need to go back to this story and realize that this is the goal. No one seems to be aiming that high anymore.
• Charles de Lint, "The Eclectic Muse" -- Nice review of Sheri Tepper's Beauty, especially worthwhile for the list of fairy-tale retellings in novel form that he starts it off with. Can't judge whether or not I agree with the review since I haven't read the book.
• Ray Vukevich, "There is Danger" -- There is confusion. Interesting set-up here--is Selena a goddess, an alien, what?--but the conclusion settles nothing in that regard, and the protagonist isn't clearly enough drawn for us to get a feeling for any change that he went through. Thankfully short for such an unsatisfying conclusion.
• Mike Resnick, "The Mummy" -- Another Lucifer Jones story, continuing in its tradition of light-hearted, well-done humorous adventure. Cotton candy for the mind--not very filling, but it won't hurt you either.
• Steven Utley, "Little Whalers" -- A one-joke story, adeptly accomplished. It's a short short, so it wasn't painful to get to the joke, either.

Jill had been trying to get me to read Gould for over a year. She subscribes to Natural History and so had a fresh dose every month to tackle me with. And I'm not sure of my reluctance. Jill would say that it's because I'm reluctant to do anything that she wants me to do--I'm not ready to admit that (I certainly hope that that's not true!). I think it may have been that I didn't want to add Natural History to my voluminous stack of stuff yet to read-- cleverly forgetting, if I had ever truly realized it, that Gould's column was collected, and continuously being collected, in a series of volumes, of which this one is the first. Maybe I just wanted to start from the beginning.

It's a good thing that Jill had introduced me to some later Gould, because this, while genuinely entertaining, and definately intellectually stimulating, is a rougher mix. Gould has grown as a writer (and probably as a scientist) since originally starting his column.

This isn't a book to try to read at one sitting (I think it's been at my bedside for the last year) because it is thick and meaty. While Gould attempts to write at a level that a layman can understand, he doesn't simplify things. It's a tough slog through some of these essays, but always worth the effort. I've got the next volume by the bedside now, and I look forward to growing with Gould.

See, I can't say too many bad things about Jonathan Bond at Pulphouse, because he sends a nice note back with "If I Could Read Your Mind" where he writes, "I liked it quite a bit, and it was a tough decision, but I'm going to have to return it to you. It was just lacking that certain bite I'm looking for."

Kris Rusch for Fantasy and Science Fiction wrote, about "The Perfect Home," "Weird story, Glen. I enjoyed it, but feel it's not quite right for F&SF."

Finally got around to getting "Going Mobile" (to Analog) and "My Radon Daughter" (to Aboriginal SF) back in the mail and into the slush piles.

Jill and I are trying something new--NOT THAT! Jesus, when did Gardner Dozois and the rest of the Delpholk get in the door?--we're "making" each other read certain books. Jill has long complained that I never read anything she recommends, with some justice, and, because of her feeling that way, she has resisted my recommendations as well. Since we've started this new phase of our lives, we've come up with a new system of recommending and reading books. (I know, I know, I'm horrible. I have a system for everything. And they never stay around for long, constantly being modified. Hell, I'm just like the federal government.) Jill picks out a book that she's read and thinks I'll like. Once I've read it, then I pick a book of mine that I've read and think she'll like. The two books have to be roughly the same word count (Jill didn't want to relive the experience of saying, "I'll read any Harlan Ellison book you give me," and then be handed the 1,000 page The Essential Ellison).

James and the Giant Peach is the first from this. Jill's been trying to get me to read this children's book for years, knowing that I would appreciate it. She was right, of course. I loved it. It's exactly the type of children's book that I look for: not sickly sweet with a sledgehammer moral, but sly and wicked and funny and irreverant, with an underlying ethical framework that I can agree with. Characters in books like these can be exaggerated (as Dahl did with wonderful effect in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory), but they contain a kernel of what we see in our everyday world--things like greed, egoism, abuse, unhappiness, etc.

I gave Jill The Postman Always Rings Twice. After I read her next recommendation, though, I think I'm going to get her to read E. Nesbit's Five Children and It, a more fitting response to this Dahl.

Sent "Cinema Verite" to Ghosttide and "Cattrap" to Glimmer Train today.