God, hes left as on aur oun.
Teleautograph.
Over at Making Light, debcha reminds us all to check out Collision Detection more often. Here’s a bit on how Margaret Atwood is, well, not getting out of the house as much as she used to, thanks to a long-distance waldo. Which includes the following:
First of all, this confirms my growing sense that Atwood is among the biggest secret geeks on the planet. After all, she’s basically a sci-fi author masquerading as a writer of “serious” adult nonfiction. Her “what if” novels are so superb—and so manifestly superior to her other books—that I sometimes wish she’d just give up writing about the usual maundering-around-the-kitchen-moaning-about-your-children/divorce/boring-ass-upper-middle-class-life crap that comprises 99% of all of today’s dinosaur literary fiction, and just throw it down old-skool in sci-fi and fantasy, and crank out a bunch of 4,000-page novels with, y’know, dragons and instellar spacecraft and shit on the covers. I would so pay for that.
Ninety-nine per cent? —Anyway, exuberantly presented point taken.
