Goth Chick News: Get That Raven an Agent
Here is definitive proof there is life after death.
Over the last couple years, the lovely Ms. Betty White has been blogged, tweeted and Facebooked back into the Hollywood limelight at the age of 89. She is “cute” and “sweet” and now apparently even “hot” by the standards of an entertainment industry which generally saves its highest praise and adoration for the youthful (or at least the youthful appearing).
Betty White’s resurgence of popularity is nothing short of miraculous when taken in this context.
However, relatively speaking, Ms. White is jail bait beside Mr. Edgar Allen Poe, who last month turned 202 and seems to be enjoying a second public life of his own.
And the one thing he is which Betty White definitely is not (as far as we know) is dead; a state Poe has been in for 162 years but which is not stopping him from recently getting his name in the press, or starring in several upcoming Hollywood projects.
Of course it doesn’t hurt to be terminally interesting as well.



Valhalla Rising (2009)
This week I read an advance copy of the second book in Mark Chadbourn’s series of espionage-fantasy-adventure novels, Swords of Albion. The Scar-Crow Men begins with the first performance of Christopher Marlowe’s play Doctor Faustus, and the story of the novel and the story of Faust end up connecting in a number of ways. It got me thinking about Faust, and why the story of Faust has flourished in the centuries since Marlowe wrote, and how many different ideas about wizards there really are.
When a show with a large fan base – especially a large SF fan base – ends, the fans have some small amount of solace, because there’s usually a rich bounty of “extended universe” materials to keep the fix going for a while. Often the avid fan, deprived of new episodes of the show, can enjoy exploring the novels, comic books, and, yes, even role-playing game supplements which are created through license with the show … but all good things must end.
Nearly a decade ago, having spent four nights reading my story “A New Grave For Monique” aloud to a late-night workshop audience, I won an award for fiction from the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference. The audience (and the conference in general) was uniformly Caucasian.
Back at around the turn of the century when I first started writing reviews for various SF/F on line publications, there was a lot of heated discussion about something called “
