I'm busy today, but here's something cool to check out!

A Science-Fiction and Fantasy First-Line Game on a popular writer's message board, wherein I post under the pseudonym "Badducky".

Start at the top, and watch as it spins wildly out of control into vast, crazy Awesome.

Right. Seeya tomorrow!

on the playoffs...

I wish the Eagles and the Giants could somehow both lose.

That is all.

Can't write until I recover hand...

My hand is currently in use. I cannot work at all until I get it back.

The Unicorn Giant War Beetle!

The "Unicorn" is a touch smaller than most other Giant War Beetles. She's only as big as a small suburb.

She can ram you with her huge unicorn-like horn! Also, it shoots big friggin' rockets! She has acidic tentacles all over her body, and steely-sharp pincers all over her feet!

You can't see the under-carriage, but down there is a bunch of harnesses for machine gunners!

WAR BEETLES!

WOO!

Challenge to all photoshoppers!

As you can clearly see, this WAR BEETLE was bioengineered to give it more long, spindly, hard-steel legs to keep it's frikkin' HUGE bulk up in the sky. It's basically the size of a suburb. Each of it's six eyes is the size of of a wal-mart. And, they shoot frikkin' lasers. They have huge, diamond scythes on their faces so they can eat their prey - OTHER WAR BEETLES! - and long trunk-like tubules that spit acid.

Also, they are always drenched in the red, red blood-spray of their enemies.

I could spend all day doodling WAR BEETLES! in Microsoft Paint.

Instead, I want you - yes *YOU* - to photoshop me up some giant war beetle action! Or take a picture of your amazing Lego Giant War Beetle!

The winner gets a prize, if anyone actually does this.

Also, you get to say you made a better giant war beetle than I did.

Which would be difficult, because mine is totally awesome for a minute-and-a-half in microsoft paint!

Everybody Has Cool Names in the Future!

Last night I was working on a science fiction short story.

I shall start at the beginning. I was burned out working on a very difficult section of a new novel that I will not tell you anything at all about, period, except to say that I am working on a new novel. Why wouldn't I be working on a new novel?

Anywho, I was burned out, but it was only just after dinner time, and I didn't feel like I had written enough.

Thus, I popped open the computer to a quick note I had written myself after watching Escaflowne the day before. "Giant War Beetles!" said my note. That's all the file said. I decided to write a story about war beetles. Because war beetles are automatically cool. Say it with me now... "WAR BEETLES!" Doesn't it just roll off the tongue? It makes the geeky parts of your brain fire off signals of geek happiness. WAR BEETLES!

Now, naturally, because I am J M McDermott, my story ended up about almost nothing to do with the actual war beetles.

As I was working on the story, I needed two names. I decided, because it was a story about fucking massive beetles of war that I had to make the names really cool.

The story was just sent out this morning, and we'll see what the world thinks of my War Beetles.

(War Beetles. I just like typing War Beetles. It makes me happy. War Beetles. War Beetles. You should try typing war beetles. It feels good.)

However, and more to the point of this post, I was thinking as I was waiting in line at the post office that I can't recall any character in science fiction with a truly dreadful, embarrassing name.

Where are the Morrisses and Berthaminas with last names from Eastern European cultures that are spelled like the mad ravings of someone with a lot of severe swelling in their throat? Where are the African-American names like my former classmates in elementary school, Precious Washington and Desire Lewis?

Where are the names that are mind-boggling experiments in double entendre that means their parents must have been either cruel or really naive, like Richard Assman?

I can't recall ever encountering someone in SF from the future who did not have a cool name.

Thus, I predict that in the future everybody will have a cool name!

Because self-pimping for awards makes me feel icky

Look, Jim Hines has a NEW NOVEL OUT! AND IT LOOKS LIKE A GOOD ONE!



Look, here's a lovely web-trailer for Catherynne Valente's latest (I'm a huge Valente fan. Literally. I'm a 260 pound gorilla that reads as much Valente as he can find. I'm both large, and a fan of Valente. I'm really looking forward to Palimpsest. I wish I had enough publishing cred to snag an ARC. I'm going to have to buy one just like the hoi polloi. And I don't mind, because I think it's important to support the bleeding edge of arty SF!) Here's the trailer.





Right.

I feel less icky.

About Hugo Nominations...

I'm eligible for numerous awards, this year. I hear Hugo nominations are open.

I'm not saying you have to do this, naturally. I just thought I'd throw this little factoid out there, and let the few folks who stop by here now and again to remind folks that such things are open. After all, the important thing is that you participate in the award, whether you select my work or not. Really, the best thing you can do to make an award like the Hugo work good is to participate in the process, and provide your own, little influence on who gets the nifty rocket.

If you happen to think my stuff is the bee's knees, well, here are some handy suggestions for things that are eligible.

LAST DRAGON is, naturally, eligible for a Hugo for Novel - though I suspect it will be a cold day in Hawaii before my arty, post-modern fantasy novel stands a chance against such strong, popular contenders as Zoe's Tale, Little Brother, and The Graveyard Book.

Some of my short stories are eligible, for the Hugo Short Story Category.

Gods of the Spiderhole, in Fantasy Magazine, for instance.

Or, The Lovesong of Jack McNally in Atomjack Magazine.

The End of Her World in Dark Recesses Press.

Dave Jones and the Survivor, also in Atomjack Magazine.

All links are clickable to the right.

Finally, I would also suggest that I might be an excellent candidate for a John W Campbell Award. I mean, I'm a new writer, after all, and the John W Campbell is designed to acknowledge new writers, isn't it? I'm a writer. I'm new. I'm eligible for that one.

But, there are many, many fine candidates for all these awards, and I think what is really important is that everyone who is eligible participates. Participation makes awards work better.

थ्रिलर

My favorite short stories of 2008.

I've read a *LOT* of great short stories this year.

I thought however, that instead of making a big, long list, I'd just point you folks in the right direction to the short story that made the biggest impact on my imagination in both written and podcast form. These are the two that I read (or listened to) much more than once, trying to study the craft carefully to see how it worked and why it worked.

From Spring's issue of Talebones, I loved James Van Pelt's "Rockhouse". I always considered "The Fall of the House of Usher" the worst short story by Edgar Allan Poe, because very little happens, and it's all just a veiled reference to incest. Which is gross. James Van Pelt manages to take a story I didn't care for and completely reconstruct it from the ground up - er... Down, actually - into a wondrous, magical realist meditation on life and living, with an unforgettable underground mansion.

I've also spent lots of time this year listening to podcasts while cleaning the apartment, or playing chess against the computer, or other such nonsense. One story really stood out as both a brilliant and powerful work of short fiction, and as a primer for how exactly one should do readings with different dialects. From Podcastle, Maureen McHugh's "Ancestor Money".

I could go on at length about many other pieces. Sure, I could. But you and I both know you aren't going to follow every link I post. Anyway, everyone has been making all sorts of lists, and lots of stories have been mentioned all over the place, and everyone's correct about how brilliant everyone is.

I've given you two links. That should be enough.

Note to self...

On my deathbed, I will not say, "Gee, I wish I had played more freecell!"

Ever hear about Thaumatrope?

A new Twitter-based 'zine tests the limit of flash speculative fiction.

It's been fun watching this project, and fun submitting to them.

They've got more than a few entries by me in their pipeline. I'm getting close to the ten dollar mark! I might actually need to open a paypal account to recieve payment!

It's been fun. So much fun, it seems, that they had to close their submissions pile.

:(

Here's the website:

http://thaumatrope.greententacles.com/

abandoned prose...

Sometimes you'll be writing a short story, and then see how the short story isn't working because it really needs more room to do correctly.

[quote]
Dozens of caravan companies were on this cliff with us. Our gurads and their guards immediately got in friendly debate about the borders of the different groups.
The cliff was packed, on both sides. The side nearest the city – our side – was reserved for caravans. Our jumpers walled off the wagons with sturdy metals and heavy bolting screws. They didn’t let any of the caravan so much as touch a screw. I watched Ferdinand and Joachim with much interest. They could bind a wagon with iron in ten minutes, despite the great weight of the grating they used, pulled out from under the platform. They lashed their heavy ropes and chains to the top corners of the wagon walls, and the wagon axles. They lashed those ropes to the harpoons mounted on their mangonels. The horses and oxen had ot be driven, drugged, to the top of the platform, where they stepped onto the metal grating that would contain them. I knew the animals would experience injuries, and upon arrival I would likely have to purchase replacements for the animals that break legs, or worse. I watched the Gribaldi brothers wall off the animals, with the ostlers, in their metal cage. The ostlers, from inside, further doped the animals into a stupor, until the creatures collapsed to the ground. Then, the ostlers bound them with ropes to the grating. We fit all our animals and our four ostlers in a metal crate twenty feet by twenty feet. The lead ostler walked around after the Gribaldi brothers, shaking at the cage walls and testing their strength. He seemed pleased with the results. He and his men tied themselves down, next. They had the worst of it, with the animals.
The rest of us stood around, waiting. We were not traveling in luxury. The heavy equipment of the mangonels was reserved for the wagons and the animals. After all of the larger objects were secured and prepared for travel, the Gribaldi brothers handed out leather straps to all of us. We were encouraged to tie one side to our wrists in advance, and to remain close to the ramp. Then, they prepared their own crate of supplies, that would be used near Saravel to get all of us off the back of the Saurian.
“When the Great One comes,” said Ferdinand, to me, and – I assume – everyone else who received a strap, “the whole ground will tremble, and you won’t be able to run quickly. When the Great One’s back is in range, we will transport the caravan, with or without any of you. When the last man makes the trip, so will I. We will cut the lines behind us. Anyone who is not around will be stranded.”
I didn’t go far. I walked under the ramp, and saw all the ropes there. The Gribaldi brothers had enough mangonels and ropes for a caravan twice as large as ours. I calculated the expense in my head of all this wood in the desert mountains, and all this iron that would need to be replaced every year. They would only turn a profit if all of our spice made it to market, and they were paid their share of the profits. If even one of our wagons was lost, the Gribaldi brothers would probably be unable to replace their metals in time for the next season’s jump.
The profit wouldn’t be high, either.
I walked among the men. My father had told me that the best thing I could do, if I didn’t know what to do with myself, was to look confident and assertive and walk around among the men. Bulger and the wagon drivers were sitting in the dust, eating and drinking what they had recovered from the wagons before everything was bound down for the trip.
“Best eat while you can, sir,” said the Jon Bulger. “Won’t be long now. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow.”
I waved at him. “I’ll eat later. Did everyone lash down their spices? I don’t want to lose even one crate.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Sir, we’ve all done this before. We know our business. Sit with us a while, and eat something. Walking around like that all the time makes you look nervous.”
“We’ll have plenty of time to relax on the Saurian,” I said. “Besides, I am nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before. You were nervous your first time, weren’t you?”
He shrugged. “It’s not so bad. A bit rough getting over, but the Jumpers and ostlers do all the work. We’re just along for the ride. I hope your jumpers know what they’re doing.”
I borrowed a line from Ferdinand, though I had truthfully not known about their other line of work when I hired them. “They are likely the most competent jumpers available this late in the season,” I said, “because people judge them because of their line of work the rest of the year.”
“Still…”
“Not one word, Mr. Bulger. Not even one.”
“Right, sir. I’m sure they’ll be fine, like you say.”
I walked away. I knew they would be grumbling about me behind my back. Let them grumble. Father always said the crew is supposed to hate you a little, just because you’re in charge.
We waited there half a day. The desert sun wasn’t as bad that high up the mountain, where the breeze was always cool. The journey here had been grueling. Two horses had died from the heat, and replacing a horse this close to the Saurian’s back was an unpleasent expense. There was no way to be sure our new horses would survive this trip uninjured, and we’d have to replace more horses on the other side. Naturally, I was to be blamed for driving the crew so hard that horses died. We had been moving too slow after we had to replace a couple broken axles. If we missed the Saurian, the whole trip was a bust, and the spice had to be sold at a loss in markets where it would not bring a great price.
I stand by my actions, even at the cost of the horses, especially considering how close we came to missing the Saurian.
For only half a day, I anxiously paced my caravan. Ferdinand found me pacing. He touched my shoulder and pointed at the other side of the cliff. The passengers and travelers were in motion, bustling around the cliff, near their mangonels.
“They can see the desert behind them. They know when the Great One is near before we feel him. In the dunes, you can see for miles on top of the cliff. Best gather the men near the mangonels, and check with the ostlers. Make sure they’re all lashed down good. Sometimes men get tired of waiting like that, and loosen their straps.”
“Right,” I said. My hands were trembling. I tried to will them to stop shaking. I couldn’t.
Jon Bulger was already over at the ostler’s crate, shouting at the ostlers to check their straps. I glared at him, and sent him back to the wagon drivers.
Tom Gish, lead ostler, unstrapped himself enough to reach a hand through the cage and place it on my shoulder. “Don’t worry much about that Jon Bulger,” said Tom Gish, “He’s still not sure about you, is all, and this part of the trip is a bit bumpier than waltzing down Cormorant Highway with perfumes and silks.”
“Mr. Gish, I would advise you to advise Mr. Bulger to remember who is in charge of this caravan.”
He laughed. “I will, sir. Your father is in charge, and he put us in your capable hands.”
I snorted at him. “Tell me, Mr. Gish, is there anything I can do for the ostlers while we’re on the Saurian? I know this part of the trip is bumpy.”
“Nothing to it, sir. We’ll be right fine. The Jumpers won’t let us starve or nothing. These jumpers are a bit funny-looking, but they seem to know their business.”
“Take care to strap yourself back down, Mr. Gish. I came here to make sure you were strapped in, not to encourage you to stand up again.”
He smiled and clapped his hands. “I think it’s fun, actually. Hope I don’t break anything. I broke a rib once. Hurt something awful everytime the big fellow took a step.”
I waited until Mr. Gish was strapped in. I joined the drivers and the guards near the mangonel that we would be riding down. Ferdinand and Joachim were unruffled. They loaded their mangonels. Together they cranked the giant bowstrings back, and gently adjusted the harpoons to shoot as straight as possible considering the circumstances.
They were nearly halfway through their mangonels when I felt the first tremor.
All the caravans cheered, all the travellers. The roasing shouts filled the sky, but they weren’t load enough to mute the heavy steps of the Saurian, whose each footfall sounded like a thunderclap in the sand dunes.
II rushed to the clump of men near the mangonel. We formed a line under Joachim’s guidance. Strongest looking men first, and weakest last. I was not a manual laborer, and I was nearly last. The captain of the caravan guard was behind me, in his old age. I knew for a fact he was stronger than he looked, and wiry under his clothes, but he never minded when people mistook him for a weak old man. Ferdinand clapped my shoulder. “We have a few minutes. I’d advise sitting down until the Great One comes. His foot steps only make the earth shake more. We are lucky he steps on the dunes far below. The sand mutes his powerful steps so that we, here on the rocks, do not feel the worst of it.”
[/quote]

Happy New Year!

I had a fantastic year in 2008. What with my book launching at last, doing quite well, and being chosen for some excellent year's best lists, I really couldn't have had a bad year.

Also, I had a fantastic time at some wonderful conventions. ConDFW, where we launched the book by eating, drinking, and playing RockBand, was great because it was the first time my parents met lots of my friends. Since I'm actually great friends with my parents, it was a happy event to see them all getting along. AggieCon was lots of fun, too.At AggieCon, people actually showed up to my reading, which had never happened before. I had to read and everything. They seemed to like it, since everyone in the reading went to buy my book in the dealer's room soon after. At ApolloCon, I danced, I paneled, I met lots of new people, and even played some cool games. At FenCon, I got to cross over and sit on the volunteer side of the desk for just a little while, which I thought was lots of fun. Great concert at FenCon, too, which is a redundant statement because they always have great filking. At ArmadilloCon, I was dazzled by the panels, wherein literary-ish topics were on the menu, and attended in force.

I also published about a dozen short stories and poems. Needless to say, that's a very nice thing to do. So many of my attempted stories are failures that slink into my hard drives to die that I am always pleased and excited to see any of them come out good.

I made many wonderful friends, and even lost a few friends that turned out not to be so wonderful. Such is life.

Anyway, this year has basically been a total blast.

Now, for next year, I came up with some New Year's Resolutions that should point me in the right direction.

1) I resolve to read a book full of naughty limericks.

2) I resolve to doodle in the margins instead of reading a book, if I'm reading a book and discover that it bores me.

3) I resolve to develop mastery ofthe Force, and to construct my own light-saber to defeat the forces of the dark side.

My only concern with my list is what I will do if the book of naughty limericks bores me, and I end up doodling in the margins instead of reading the book. Would pushing myself through the limericks break resolution #2, or would abandoning the book break resolution #1. It's a good thing I'll be a Jedi Master soon, because it's the kind of conundrum only Yoda could solve.