So I just found out that The Wise Man’s Fear made the shortlist for the David Gemmell Legend award.
It’s flattering, because not only was Gemmell a great writer, but because whoever wins doesn’t just get a trophy or a certificate or something.
No. The winner of the David Gemmell legend award gets an axe.
Which you have to admit is pretty cool. It would certainly be a step up from my current writing axe.
The problem is this, when I wandered over to see who else was on the ballot, I saw that it was stacked with other really good books.
Most troubling for me, was the fact that it was up against Brandon Sanderson’s Alloy of Law.
When I saw that, I realized that I’d never actually gotten around to writing a review of Alloy, though I’d been meaning to for weeks and weeks.
I feel it’s my civic duty to talk spread the word about good books I’ve read. So I finally wrote it up and posted it over on Goodreads.
For those of you who have some sort of odd, trauma-borne link-clicking phobia, here’s the jist of it:
“Sanderson has now been added to a very short list. Specifically, the list authors I wish to kill so that I might eat their livers and thereby gain their power.”
It’s a really good book. Not just because of the story. But because what he’s doing is really amazingly different. (Read the review if you want the details.)
So here’s the deal. One of the nice things bout the Gemmell Legend Award is that it’s decided by a popular vote. Y’all can go in and voice your opinions.
But the OTHER nice thing is that the voting goes until May 31st.
That means if I put up a link here, y’all have plenty of time to go out and read some of the other books on the list. Fairly assessing all the options and making an informed choice.
This is the thing you should do when you vote, you realize. Making informed choices is what gives you the right to call yourself a human being.
Consider this practice for other voting type things that might be looming on the horizon. When I put up the link, don’t just wander over there, bleating like a sheep, and click the name that looks most familiar to you. Don’t vote for the option all your friends have been talking about. Don’t vote for the person your parents trained you to vote for.
No. Look at your options. Gather data. Be a rational human and make a informed choice.
Trust me. It’s good practice. This is an important thing to practice.
And here’s your link.
pat
Not Your Usual Mother’s Day Post….
Yesterday was mother’s day. And it was not an easy day for me.
I set aside the day to spend with Sarah and Oot. That was my Mother’s day present for Sarah. She decided what she’d like to do, and I’d clear my schedule for it.
The plans she chose weren’t elaborate. We were going to run a few errands, get some food, then go to the park to play.
As soon as I got into the car, Oot said, “Gandalf, I don’t want to go on an adventure.”
“Oh,” I said. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m a hobbit.”
“I think an adventure would be good for you, Bilbo. They can be a lot of fun. And you can find a lot of treasure.”
“No,” he said. “I’m too scared. I just want to stay home and smoke my smoker.”
We drove to Target, and since Sarah just had a few things to pick up, I offered to hang out in the car with Oot. Things are faster that way. Plus, we’re about to have an unexpected party, where all the dwarfs show up while Bilbo is fixing tea.
While Sarah is inside, I decide to be a good dad and coach Oot a little bit, like Sarah did for me on Father’s Day.
“Today is a special day,” I said. “Today is mother’s day. That means that you should tell your momma, “Happy Mother’s Day!”
“But I’m Bilbo Bagins!” he protests.
“Even Bilbo Bagins has a momma,” I say, thought I can’t remember who it is off the top of my head. “Everyone has a momma. My momma’s name was Marge. And she would have loved you so much.”
This might seem like it came out of nowhere, but the truth is, I think about my mom all the time. Especially around certain times of the year. Especially when I’m with Oot. My mom died in February of 2007, just before the first book came out. Oot is only about two and a half, and that means she never got to meet my baby.
So at this point I’m crying, and trying not to make a big deal about it. Because Oot’s having a pretty good time, and beside, I’m sitting in the target parking lot.
“But I’m a hobbit,” Oot says again.
“She would have loved that you’re a hobbit too,” I say. And then I really start to lose it.
It’s a beautiful day out. I’m finally published and successful beyond my wildest dreams. I have a beautiful girlfriend who loves me beyond all sense. I have a delightful son who adores me. And I’m crying uncontrollably in the Target parking lot.
“Dad, why are you crying?” Oot asks. He’s not worried. Mostly he’s just curious, but there’s still some concern there.
“I’m sad,” I say. “I miss my mom.”
He reaches up and touches my face with the back of his hand. It’s the touch we’ve taught him to use on babies. His gentlest touch. “It’s okay dad,” he says.”It’s okay. You don’t have to cry.”
“You’re right,” I say. But I can’t stop, I’m a mess at this point.
“It’s okay dad,” he says. “I can kiss you.” And he does just that. Gives me a sweet, drooly little baby kiss on my face.
I try to clean myself up because I know Sarah is coming back soon. Oot continues to pet the side of my face. “It’s okay,” he says, again and again. “You don’t have to be sad. You can stay with me.”
Sarah and I managed to do something right over the years with him. I’ll tell you that for free. It was about the nicest thing he could have said to me. And I have no idea how he came up with it.
What’s the point of my story? Here’s my point.
I have a good friend who recently lost a loved one. Someone really important to her. A member of her family. She knew that things were getting close to the end. She’s known for ages. But it still knocked the stuffing out of her. I understand. Knowing ahead of time doesn’t really help.
A couple weeks ago I was on the phone with this friend. I was doing the useless thing you do when you want to comfort someone, but there really isn’t anything you can say.
“It’s like there’s just been a big hole ripped out of my life,” she said. “I can’t believe everyone goes through this.”
I told her that I thought the exact same thing after my mother died. That I couldn’t understand how the world could work with everyone constantly walking around all the time feeling like they’ve been torn up inside.
What I didn’t tell her is the line from Shakespeare that kept running through my head after my mom died. It’s from Hamlet, when Polonius says, “Your father lost a father. That father lost, lost his.” You have to be a real twat to quote Shakespeare at someone. And you’re doubly a twat if you do it when they’re grieving.
“Does it get better?” she asked.
“Not soon.” I said. “But eventually. I don’t think about her for whole days sometimes. I don’t dream about her any more.”
“You dream about her?”
“I used to,” I said. “After she died. I always thought that was some bullshit literary device. Something hack writers put into stories. But it really happens, apparently. It happened a lot to me.”
There was a long pause on the phone.
“The worst part,” I said. “Was that in my dreams, she was always sick. It was just like before she died. And in my dreams we were doing everything we could to make things better for her. But you knew it was just a matter of time. They were horrible dreams.”
I’d never told anyone else this before.
“But the really bad part was when I woke up,” I said. “You know what it’s like when you wake up and you’re not sure if the dream is real or not?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Well I’d wake up, then have a panicked moment when I thought the dream was real. But then I’d realize that none of it was true. That my mom wasn’t sick. She was dead.” I paused. “And when I realized that, I felt this huge feeling of relief wash over me, because I know I don’t have to go through all of it again. All the hospitals and doctors and funerals.”
I waited for my friend to say something, but she didn’t.
“I mean, how fucked up is that?” I asked. “I wake up from a dream and think, ‘Oh thank god. My mom is dead.’ There’s probably something really wrong with me because of that.”
“I’ve been feeling that way too,” she said. “I’m sad and it’s horrible. But I’m so relieved its all over. And so I feel guilty for that on top of everything else.”
“Well,” I said. “At least we’re both the same flavor of fucked up.”
“I can’t believe nobody ever talks about this,” she said. “I mean people have bad breakups, and you know how to handle it because you’ve heard about their breakups. But nobody talks about people dying. There’s no script for something like this.”
“It’s a real taboo,” I said. “Not one of the silly little play taboos like sex, things we aren’t supposed to talk about and we do anyway. Real taboos are things nobody even thinks of talking about.”
“Somebody should talk about them,” she said.
“Somebody should,” I agreed.
*Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â *
So here we are.
Generally speaking, when I think about something a lot, I write about it on the blog. Its one of the ways I figure out how I really feel about things. It helps me keep my head screwed on straight.
But the one exception has always been my mom.
I think about her all the time, but I rarely ever tell stories about her.
And you know what? That’s a fucking shame. Because my mom was awesome.
So we’re fixing that. Soon.
pat