Well, this year’s Australian National Science Fiction Convention is firing up in Perth tomorrow night. Ken Macleod and Karl Schroeder and a bunch of the other cool folk are flying into town. Dinner plans have been made, babysitters arranged, and hopefully fun will be had by all.  I’m off to the airport soon-ish to pick up a friend who’s staying with us for part of the weekend.  Interesting times…

A quick follow-on.  Clarke was not the last of the greats. Giants from the earliest days of our field do still walk, ever more slowly, amongst us.  This November Tor will publish The Last Theorem, an Arthur Clarke novel that has been completed by Frederik Pohl.   Kate Wilhelm also recently published a new novel. I doubt Phil Farmer will write anything more, but SubPress continue to publish some lovely editions of his work.  One thing Clarke’s death highlights is the need for us to cherish those who are still here.

Associated Press have reported that Sir Arthur C. Clarke has died aged 90.  Clarke was one of the last of the giants of our field who was still alive and working well into the 21st Century.  Having read Childhood’s End and loved it, been moved by “The Nine Billion Names of God”, and awed by Rendezvous with Rama, I can only say that I think it’s a very, very sad loss for our field.  It also shows how important it is that we treasure Frederik Pohl, Philip Jose Farmer, Ray Bradbury, and the few others who remain from that rich, golden age when science fiction came of age.

So, I know you’re wondering how today is going. Well, the shoulder that I damaged somehow six weeks ago is unrepaired. The ankle that began to act up a couple weeks after that is similarly intermittent. I also seem to have picked up a flu bug, leaving me ideally prepared for a four day long weekend with convention. I got to work this morning to receive an email from my air carrier of choice to tell me that my much-heralded trip booking of last week had gone pear-shaped. This was resolved with some help from Oakland HQ, and some unnecessary stress.

Have I done anything productive? Well, I processed someone else’s HR paperwork at the office so they won’t lose their pay rise. I also bugged a (very nice) publisher about a book proposal, and got a copy of the latest issue of my very favorite magazine in the whole world. Got picked up from work by Marianne and Sophie, and am currently sitting blogging and feeling under the weather and sorry for myself in that “I know it’s not terribly serious, no one died, and the things that were problems can be fixed but I still feel rotten” kind of way.

I want to tell you that I did something productive in a science fictional sense, but I’d be lying. Today I did not read stories in magazines and anthologies. I did not get one inch further through my Eclipse reading pile. Nor did I read a single novel (though I did read Cory’s Little Brother last weekend and loved it). What I did do was buy a new novella for Godlike Machines, which I am very pleased about.  I still think I can get the ms. for that done in time.  I also spent some time worrying about only having bought one story for Eclipse Two, so far. I’ve been getting some lovely email from people about the first Eclipse, telling me how they can’t wait for the second one.  I love that, but I don’t have any idea what the final book will look like.

Anyway, enough of this post.  If I whine any more I’ll have to move this blog over to LiveJournal.  I’m sitting here, waiting for the girls to get home from school and listening to the latest and extremely terrific Shelby Lynne album.  If only I had something I really wanted to read.  Hmmm. Maybe I should start nagging Garth to write another “Sir Hereward” story, just so I can read it …

I cadged this one from Commodore Andrew Wheeler over at Antick Musings:

Everyone has things they blog about. Everyone has things they don’t blog about. Challenge me out of my comfort zone by telling me something I don’t blog about, but you’d like to hear about, and I’ll write a post about it. Repost in your own journal if you are so inclined.