I received two fan notes yesterday on What We hold Onto, in this month’s Asimov’s. (the idea that I could have fans seems absurd to me but the word was used by one, so I’m running with it.)
One was from a man who loved the world-building; my half-destroyed world struggling to fix itself; my Nomad culture of people without physical possessions, technological affluent people who don’t do real estate, who keep all their property in a digital cloud. The Nomads, with their mission to heal the world, help displaced people, help humanity let go of the things in culture that no longer work.
The woman, who I made weep on Mother’s day, a fact for which I am both happy and sad, loved the way that the spec-fic existed in service of the human story, how it didn’t drown it out; it was about the people; their world, the gizmos, didn’t drown out their humanity.
This is as good as it gets.
Ok, picture me smiling, as well as I am able, as I say that. I’m not being ironic.
This is wonderful.
This is all I ever wanted to do. Now I just want to do it a lot more. And I would dearly love if more people felt the same and got something out of what I’m writing.
I think maybe they can. I think maybe I can do this now. I thought this twenty years ago, after my first sale to Charlie Ryan at Aboriginal SF, but I was wrong then. I hope I’m not wrong now.
OH! I wanted to urge people to write nice notes to the writers they read. Not to be morbid, but writers drop dead at any age. If you intend to say something good, something supportive, something decent, to someone who has made you feel something you appreciate, don’t put that off. Do it now. Do it when you think about it.
Oh. And, if you can, call your mother. I know mother’s day is over, but call her again.
We don’t know how long we get to be with each other in this world. Do not delay gratitude. Never postpone an act of love.