So. Uh (isn’t this how these always start? Am I honestly so creatively bereft that I can start out a blog entry no other way than sputtering?):
“Our Talons Can Crush Galaxies,” my thousand-word rage bark published in Uncanny Magazine, is a finalist for the Best Short Story Nebula. Again, to everyone who put it on their ballot: holy shit, thank you so goddamned much. I was helping clean up after a family funeral when I got the call, so to say that I needed that good news is a grave and frankly insulting understatement to the gift you all handed me. I didn’t expect to get on the ballot last year. I figured it was probably the last time I’d be within six city blocks of a ballot for a long, long time, if ever. Is being a finalist again so soon intimidating? You’d better fuckin’ believe it, buster. Is trying to figure out how I am going to follow this up absolutely bowel-twistingly terrifying, the fear that I’ll never write anything else worthwhile once again lurking at the edges of my internal narrative like a shadow beneath a 1 AM streetlamp? DING DING DING.
It isn’t going to win. I give so little fucks about the fact that it isn’t going to win. I am going to lose to the best–my dear friends and my peers–I am going to go home with a nifty pin and niftier certificate, and I am going to love every minute of it, just like last time. This is further than I ever saw myself getting. This is, like, Voyager probe levels beyond where I ever saw myself getting. I’m honestly just enjoying the hurtling through space bit. The view from out here is great! Flying away from the Earth at extreme velocity is something I highly recommend trying these days.
Meanwhile awards season continues, as the world burns down around us and the mad emperor capers and plays his kazoo, and thus I am obligated to mention that “Our Talons Can Crush Galaxies” remains eligible for the Hugo ballot (closes March 18th! Supporting members don’t even have to attend to submit, although Helsinki is rad as hell) and the Locus (April 15th! You don’t have to do, uh, pretty much anything to vote on that one). The Hugos have been what polite circles would call “a spluttering sphinctal shit-blizzard” the past few years; at the very least I’d love to be on a final ballot for that fine old rocket that didn’t make me want to bury in face in my hands and throw up through the gaps in my fingers like a baroque bile fountain.
That eldritch power, however, rests solely in your hands–and believe me, friends, your hands have already done me more than enough of a good turn this year. Again, from the bottom of my salted and burned little heart: thank you.