by Sarah A. Hoyt
Special to L. Neil Smith’s The Libertarian Enterprise
Perhaps that title isn’t as reassuring as it should be, because, well…. we all know I use fish for ballistic missiles. (I’d say I mean well, but I know you all have a finely trained bullshit detector, so I won’t.)
I should write a post, I should. I started yesterday, but couldn’t explain why my gut says all this with Russia and China is just something that their execrable leaders and whoever has his hand up Biden’s butt cooked up, before the stolen election. After all, all of them, including those who are—very nominally—our countrymen want to see America destroyed. It’s an absolute conviction, and yea, I could find the bunny trail, but I’m not in the mood to write a ten thousand word post just now, sorry.
Of course there is no reason to expect any of this to turn out better than the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, because there might be honor among thieves, but there isn’t even a thought of honor among authoritarian shitweasels (in the case of no longer our countrymen those shitweasels are, to boot, idiot Marxists, who think that if you destroy America paradise ensues. And actually, Putin is an idiot Marxist his own self variety “if everything collapses, Russia will be glorious, glorious” and by Russia he means himself. I wonder if he knows there are penis enlargement surgeries available? Would save the world so much trouble.)
All of which means…. well…. I DID tell you that the thrashing, dying spasms of international socialism (communism is just the extreme of socialism) which has gripped our world for almost a hundred years and our “educated elites” for longer than that was going to be hell to go through. I remain hopeful—but not certain—that they won’t manage to kill civilization with their stupid, insane hatred of everyone who is happier than they (which is actually everyone. Including some people with terminal illnesses. It’s not just that evil is tedious, but it makes its adherents so uniformly miserable.)
So—who asked for interesting times? Because I certainly didn’t. And honestly, if I find who did, the chinelo is going to do a number on their behind.
In the middle of all this, writing my books seems like the most futile pursuit in the world, except for two things: The last time I lived through interesting times, sometimes the only thing that held me (just barely) this side of sanity was the knowledge that that month a new (to me) Heinlein, or Simak or Bradbury would be released in Portuguese, which meant, between reading and rereading twice (which started as soon as I hit the end) that would give me 10 hours of not waiting for the hammer to fall. (And honestly, right now? No pressure on anyone, but Pratchett is dead, I could kill for a new Dave Freer, a new Ringo, a new Weber (or even better, please, mo’e prince Roger?), a new Correia. I crave this like an addict craves a cigarette, which means when I’m stressed, I need it more.)
The second thing is that once at 33 I faced the certainty (well, everyone who should know said it was inevitable) I would die in hours or at most days. And I hadn’t written the books I’d been dragging around inside my head since I was fourteen. (Yes, No Man’s Land is getting done. This year. There are things I have to do to continue series before I start that one, okay?) I don’t want to face that again, and the weather for the next several years is scary, with a heavy chance of individual death. So I’d best be making with the writing yes?
And then I was looking for something to hide a hole in the wall of my office. (Look, it’s a big round hole, and there’s a bunch of cables in it. I have no clue what the cables are, and left to my own devices, I’d cut them, slap a dry wall patch on it, and call it a day. But I suspect Dan would make that sound he makes when I say “Oh, that weird gizmo? I didn’t know what it was so I put it somewhere in the basement.” It’s like a combination sigh and cry of despair. It’s sad. So, I’m not doing that. ) BUT it bothers me, to have that huge hole right there. So I considered buying one of those “doorbell chime covers” to hide it, except the pretty ones cost the Earth, and I got this thing offering a canvas print for $9 with free shipping. Only what the heck do I put on the canvas? I mean, I could steal someone’s art, but I don’t do that.
So I did a quick render and looked for a Heinlein quote. (The chick, btw, is the woman from Space Magic, which yeah yeah I need to finish. It’s in the queue. Which is why “gone fishing” is actually “gone writing.” But that sounds weird, since this is writing too.)
I’d never seen this one, but you know what? The man was right. And suddenly writing stories in the middle of apocalyptic (hopefully not literal) chaos makes a lot more sense. After all, who knows what will survive? Stories have as good a chance as anything. Maybe a better one, considering we still talk of the tales spun by the blind seer, Homer.
And so, ladies and gentlemen, dragons, pterodactyls and reticulated giraffes, possess your souls in patience, while the writer lays down some words (and maybe finally finishes typesetting and putting up some stuff that’s finished.)
I’ll see you on the flip side.*
*Yes, that IS dating myself, which is illegal in 32 states and iffy in Utah.