54 Below Sings Starmites

What with a full-time job, an attempt to keep my writing up and other obligations, I haven’t done a lot of “going out” lately. So it was really nice to to be able to treat ourselves to 54 Below Sings Starmites, a cabaret-type performance of a 1980s comic-book musical called, yes, Starmites. It was directed by Pat Cerasaro & Barry Keating; Keating wrote the music and lyrics; he also wrote the book along with Stuart Ross.


54 Below is a nightclub in the lower level of what was, of course, the former and notorious Club 54 (the upper level is now a theatre owned by the Roundabout). We had a somewhat expensive but extremely yummy dinner; then an enthusiastic and very talented cast and band performed the musical numbers on a dangerously small stage while the story (such as it was) was narrated by Liz Larsen, a member of the original cast.

It was a huge amount of fun. The whole cast was great (and negotiated their way through a few mistakes and glitches with professionalism and humor). I was especially impressed by Cheryl Freeman, who belted out a song called Hard To Be Diva with incredible energy, and Brian Charles Rooney, who played the bad guy with relish and sang The Cruelty Stomp wonderfully, throwing in some jazzy riffs that that directly referenced Cab Calloway, among others.

Many thanks to Sheri Lane and Barry Keating for helping us discover this event.

Mythic Delirium 2.1 — with my story “Sophia’s Legacy — is now available

The latest issue of Mythic Delirium is now on sale with, as editor Mike Allen says, “three tales of magical protagonists haunted by past events” — including my story “Sophia’s Legacy,” which is based (extremely loosely) on a story my grandmother once told me about her mother.

Mythic_Delirium_1_4_coverHere’s the description as found on the website:

We join a vampire moving in the worlds of high fashion and higher powers; a sea witch crashing a royal wedding with a (familial) blood score to settle; an enchanted chess game with life-and-death consequences, with the opponents separated by a century.

Our poems in this issue add new chapters to the tales of Oz and The Tempest, grant new coats to villains and secret lives to cabinets, discover new senses and damaged but working hearts.

The stories come courtesy of Sara M. Harvey, Cassandra Khaw and Barbara Krasnoff, while Jane Yolen, Sandi Leibowitz, Shira Lipkin, Hannah Strom-Martin, Anne Carly Abad and Alicia Cole provide the poetry. Our spectacular cover art, inspired by Cassandra’s story, comes from Paula Arwen Owen.

The print publication is available now through Amazon or Weightless Books. My story will be available online in September (although Sara Harvey’s story and two of the poems are available now). Enjoy!

My Readercon Schedule

Readercon is in a very few days and I’m very much looking forward to it. Folks who may want to say hi will be able to find me either lurking in the halls, making notes in the audience, or part of the following panels/readings:

Thursday July 09

9:00 PM    ENL    How to Write for a Living When You Can’t Live Off Your Fiction.  Leah Bobet, John Crowley, Michael Dirda, Barbara Krasnoff (leader).You’ve just been laid off from your staff job, you can’t live on the royalties from your fiction writing, and your significant other has taken a cut in pay. How do you pay the rent? Well, you can find freelance work writing articles, white papers, reviews, blogs, and other non-SFnal stuff. Despite today’s lean journalistic market, it’s still possible to make a living writing, editing, and/or publishing. Let’s talk about where and how you can sell yourself as a professional writer, whether blogging can be done for a living, and how else you can use your talent to keep the wolf from the door. Bring whatever ideas, sources, and contacts you have.

Friday July 10

1:00 PM    ENL    The Works of Joanna Russ. Gwynne Garfinkle, David G. Hartwell, Barbara Krasnoff (moderator), Scott Lynch. Joanna Russ (1937–2011) was, arguably, the most influential writer of feminist science fiction the field has ever seen. In addition to her classic The Female Man (1975), her novels include Picnic on Paradise (1968), We Who are About to… (1977), and The Two Of Them (1978). Her short fiction is collected in The Adventures of Alyx(1976), The Zanzibar Cat (1983), (Extra)Ordinary People (1984), and The Hidden Side of the Moon (1987). She was also a distinguished critic of science fiction; her books include The Country You Have Never Seen: Essays and Reviews (2007). Of her works outside the SF field, she is perhaps best known forHow to Suppress Women’s Writing (1983). Join us to discuss her works.

3:00 PM    G    Women of Technology. Karen Burnham, Barbara Krasnoff (moderator), Shariann Lewitt, B Diane Martin, Fran Wilde. Current technology is the handmaiden of hard science fiction. What can SF literature learn from the women who have made a difference in tech today? What have been their challenges, experiences, and frustrations? How can we use them as prototypes for the inhabitants of our imagined futures? And from the point of view of women in scientific and technical fields, what science fiction works have succeeded (or failed) in extrapolating not only future technology but the role of women within it?

8:00 PM    CO    Dealing with Discouragement. Susan Bigelow, Michael J. Daley, Scott Edelman, Barbara Krasnoff (leader), Shariann Lewitt. As writers, we learn very early on to handle rejection, but how do you handle it when a story you’re sure is good is rejected by 20 different publications? Or when your carefully crafted novel is shrugged off by five different agents? Or your self-published novella is bought by only 25 people, all of them friends and relatives? Or your fantasy novel disappears from public view after a couple of weeks? We’ll explore personal strategies to deal with disappointments, rejection, and other setbacks.

Saturday July 11

9:00 AM    F    The Author’s Voice. Barbara Krasnoff (leader), Kate Marayuma, Tom Purdom, Paul Tremblay, Gregory Wilson. An old writing advice chestnut is that you should read your work aloud; supposedly this will help you notice awkward phrasing. Let’s dig a little further: when, how, and why do writers do this, if at all? How has it helped—and has it ever hindered? Do authors who are performers have the opposite problem, where their ability to make something come alive in a reading obscures the fact that it’s a bit dead on the page? How does reading aloud square with things like footnotes, parentheticals, illustrations, digressions, or visual representations of dialects? Is anyone emphatically against the practice of reading aloud as an element of process?

10:00 AM    EM    Tabula Rasa. Jen Brissett, Barbara Krasnoff, Terence Taylor. Tabula Rasa Group Reading

Sunday July 12

9:30 AM    ENV    Reading

Didja know that women were closer to the primitive than men? Didja? Hah?

Sometimes, it’s fun — and occasionally necessary — to see where we came from so that we can have some perspective on today’s battles. Just by chance, browsing through a table of free used books, I picked up a science fiction novel called Sign of the Labrys by Margaret St. Clair, copyright 1963. I don’t remember ever reading one of her works (although I read so much science fiction/fantasy when I was a teenager that I may simply not remember the book). But besides the interest of reading something new that was published back then, I knew I immediately had to take the book when I turned it over and looked at the blurb on the back cover.

And had to show it off. This was considered a positive way to market a skiffy book by somebody who was female and actually admitted to it by not changing her name or using initials. Women are writing science fiction! Really! And because they are closer to the primitive than men, they possess a buried memory of humankind’s past! So this has gotta be a great book!

(Actually, this is apparently one of the earliest uses of Wiccan themes in a speculative fiction novel, so the marketing is understandable. But still…)

I bring you, ladies and gentlebeings, 1963:

"Women are closer to the primitive than men."
“Women are closer to the primitive than men.”

Short stories I got published in 2014

I’d been feeling a bit discouraged about the visibility (or lack thereof) of my published writing — nothing serious, just the periodic self-pity fest that most writers go though occasionally — and then I read Amal El-Mohtar’s essay Of Awards Eligibility Lists and Unbearable Smugness, about how women too often are shy about promoting their work, especially around awards season.

Thank you, Amal — and thanks to N.K. Jemisin, whose Facebook entry led me to it.

So here’s a list of the short stories I’ve had published this year, along with where they’ve appeared and very short descriptions. All of them except the one published in Space and Time are available online. If you like, read one or two:

Perihelion/November 2014
Science fiction/humor

“The Waterbug”
Triptych Tales/September 2014
Sort-of-fantasy/vague weirdness

“Under the Bay Court Tree”
Space and Time #121/Summer 2014
Urban fantasy

Crossed Genres/February 2014
Urban fantasy

Requiem for a suburban garden

Recently, my mother moved out of the home she had lived in for about 40 years. It was not a home I had many emotional ties with, except for the fact that my mother and father (and occasionally, my brother) had lived there. My parents moved there when I was attending an upstate university, and as a result, except for a couple of summers and a period of about a year just after I graduated from college, I never really considered it my home.

So when, after a rather prolonged period of showing and bargaining and selling and buying, my mother finally moved out, I felt some sadness — after all, it was associated with my family; my father had loved that house and had died in it; it was where I had stored the remaining souvenirs of my childhood and adolescence. But it wasn’t where I had grown up — that happened in a couple of different housing projects in Brooklyn — and so once the difficult process was over, I thought I was done with it.

I now know that wasn’t true.

When my parents moved into the house, they made some changes to the inside. They totally refurbished the kitchen; they painted and carpeted; they removed a large mirror from over the fireplace and installed two lighting sconces; they cleaned the unused fireplace and turned it back into a wood-burning fireplace.

The garden was a different matter. There was a multitude of things growing in that garden, and my parents kept it, loved it, tended it, and added to it.

The house and part of the garden in November 2014, just before the move. The flagpole is on the left; the tree my brother and father planted is the one with the red leaves; the spruce can be seen just behind the house. None of the foliage in this photo still exists.

The house is located on the back of a corner lot. A huge blue spruce towered over it on the left side; the tree was at least twice as high as the house itself, if not taller, and we had no idea how long it had been growing on that site. It was magnificent. The lowest branches hung outside the dining room window, and my father hung a bird feeder there so he could watch the finches and sparrows (and squirrels) at breakfast. The tree’s needles clogged the drains and the branches had to be constantly cut away from the neighbor’s driveway, but my parents didn’t care.

A smaller tree was next to it; I don’t remember the name, but in the fall it opened large, purple-blue blossoms that I could see outside my bedroom window. One tree near that one died soon after my parents moved in; my brother and father planted another that blossomed white in the fall; it grew and thrived.

On the left side of the front lawn there was a flagpole; my father, who was a veteran of the European campaign in World War II and a determined left-winger, would fly a flag on all appropriate occasions and made sure that it was folded properly and put away in regulation fashion. Around the flagpole, they planted bushes and marigolds and hyacinths and whatever flowers took their fancy that year.

There were vines and bushes out front, bushes lined the entire lawn. There was a rose bush growing against the side of the garage; there were herbs growing in back.

On the right side of the house there was a pear tree which, for the first 20 years or so, grew plentiful and very edible pears; we would stand on the flat roof of the garage and gather as many as we could. A parakeet and my much-loved cat were buried under its branches. After about 20 years, the pear tree caught a disease which it never completely recovered from, although my father nursed it tenderly. It never grew pears again, but we kept it nonetheless.

After my father died, I’d go with my mother every spring to a large gardening store a few miles away and we’d pick out the annuals that would go under the flagpole and in front of the house and on the side, and the herbs that would grow in back. As the years went on, we became less ambitious in how much we planted, but there were always marigolds around the flagpole and herbs in the back.

When we sold the house — to two adult brothers and their older parents — we were told at one point that they planned to remove the huge spruce because they were afraid their parents would trip on the roots. We tried to dissuade them, told them (and this was the truth) that when Sandy hit, my mother’s was the only roof in the area that didn’t suffer any damage, and the roofer said it was probably because the tree had protected the house. But I knew that the lovely tree would probably go.

What I didn’t know was that the entire garden was going to be a sacrifice to our desertion.

Out of curiosity, I drove past the house yesterday. The tree was indeed gone. In fact, everything was gone — the bushes surrounding the garden, the tree with the blue-purple blossoms, the tree my father and brother had planted, the ivy, the bushes, the rose bush…. In fact, the only thing still there was the flagpole; the only thing growing was the pear tree. Which, I suspect, may not be there much longer either.

My parents’ house was never truly my home; I never made friends there and never wanted to live there. I have some good memories there; but I have good memories associated with other places long gone.

But I mourn the garden. It was a lovely and loved place. I hope whatever takes its place is worthy of its memory.

Looking at Playbills from the past

old playbills

So I’m going through some very old stuff that I kept in a trunk in my room in the house where my mom just moved out of, and found a few really old Playbills (I’ve got a huge number of them in a drawer here, but didn’t realize that I had kept a few older ones there).

Among other things, I discovered that I did not, as I thought, see Herschel Bernardi as Tevya in Fiddler on the Roof in March, 1967 — there is one of those notes in the program that apologizes because Bernardi was ill; the role was played by Harry Goz. However, that was made up for by the fact that the role of Tzeitel, the oldest daughter, was played by Bette Midler. Who knew?

And two years earlier, I had seen Bernardi in the musical Bajour (which I actually have some vague memories of, because there is a comic song sung by an anthropologist who talks about the places she doesn’t want to go, including one line about “the tse-tse fly,” which I remember thinking was hilarious). Other people in Bajour: Harry Goz (yes, the same guy I saw in Fiddler two years later), Paul Sorvino, Nancy Dussault (who I saw in The Sound of Music a couple of years earlier than that), Mae Questel (yes — the “Betty Boop” Mae Questel) and Chita Rivera.

Bajour was my 11th birthday treat (each year, I was given the choice of a party or a musical and I usually chose the latter). I just wish I could go back into my own head at age 11 and see it again, now that I’d be more aware of who the actors were…