When last we spoke, you and me, the subject was what I wasn’t. Feel free to go back and refresh your memory, I’ll wait here. La, la, la; biddley-biddley-boooo; Rump-Titty-Titty-Tum-TAH-Tee….
Ah, good, you’re back. And you brought me a root-beer, much thanks. This time around, I’d like to address the subject of what I am. At least in part: if we did the whole thing, we’d be here through Entropy, and I’d have to pay you by the hour.
You already know I’m a bibliophile, and a stfnal historian, and Estates Liaison for the Science-Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. I probably wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’m also a Leo (like that matters worth a tinker’s cuss), a native Virginian, white, middle-class and not nearly as overweight as I was a year ago. None of that is germane to this discussion, though, except perhaps peripherally.
For our purposes here at the Black Gate blog, I am a professional writer of science fiction and fantasy. Well, strictly speaking I write whatever I can get paid to write, within reason, but my preferences (not to mention my influences) run to fantastic fiction of one sort or another. I make no bones about that and never have; I don’t apologize to my family about it, I don’t qualify it as “something I’m doing to pay the rent while I work on My Novel,” and I don’t try to turn what I do into Art or Literature.
Don’t get me wrong, now; if anything I write approaches those lofty heights (and believe me, I do consider those heights both lofty and worthy of aspiration), I would be absolutely delighted. I’m just content when people tell me I’ve written a pretty good yarn. Anything else is space-icing on the cake-droid. With time-travel.
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