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I’m most comfortable in that range: the further ahead into the future I speculate, the less confident I am about my own guesses—and if I’m dubious, how am I to convince a reader? I was not dismayed—or even surprised—at how often my guesses about the future had turned out to be dead wrong. What would they want with the unsolicited opinions of an American-born science fiction writer who lived about as far from Toronto as a Canadian resident can get, and whose most recent journalistic credentials—lame ones—were almost thirty years old? And Warren Clements bought the piece, and asked for more, and that’s how I became an Op-Ed columnist—like nearly everything else I’ve accomplished in my life so far: by accident. —British Columbia 18 September, 2000 Melancholy Elephants This story is dedicated to Virginia Heinlein She sat zazen, concentrating on not concentrating, until it was time to prepare for the appointment. To his credit, Joe kept his eyes bravely open as Spud yanked the car in and out of high-speed ¬traffic, snaking through holes that hadn’t appeared to be there and doing unspeakable things to the Buick’s transmission. ” “If those goniffs at the dealership don’t take too long fixin’ the belt,” Joe agreed. Joe curbed his impatience with a ¬visible effort and rummaged in a nearby ashtray, selecting the longest butt he could find.
I’ve never claimed or wished to be a prophet; I write about possible futures, and strive for plausible ones. I’ve provided herein some samples of the column that ran in The Globe and Mail every three weeks from 1996–99 under the running title, “The Crazy Years.” If you don’t care for fact—or at least, for opinions about facts—with your fiction, by all means skip over them. Sitting seemed to produce the usual serenity, put everything in perspective. But Joe was almost—almost—grateful when the sound of an ululating siren became audible over the snarling horns and screaming brakes. Twelve years old, no license, a stolen car, a half a fat guy in a dress—cripes, even fifty bucks’d be cutting it close.” Thinking furiously, he pulled over and parked on the grass, beneath a hellishly bright highway light. He snatched a handful of cigarette butts from the ashtray, smeared black grime on Spud’s upper lip. “So you give me the insurance money, and use the belt to go a few months ahead. “Joe,” Spud whispered, “how come that goof is the only one here? Oh, Spud, baby, you’re beautiful, I got my legs back!
Novels pay so much better that, without consciously planning to, I just stopped getting short story ideas a few years back. He tugged experimentally, flimsy fabric parted, and the trunk lid rose. Vitelli staggered back as if he’d been slapped with a sandbag. “Look, officer, I can explain,” Spud said without the least shred of conviction. “Oh shit,” he said at last, and began to pull the dress over his head, removing the derby. The gun dropped from his nerveless fingers; the hand stayed before him, index finger crooked. “I’m sorry, but you know I’m right.” Spud grimaced and banged the wheel with his fist. “Spud, Spud, you get into that bracket, at your age, the word has just gotta spread. Shortly he came back down with a moronic-looking pimply teen-ager in dirty green coveralls, “Dinny” written in red lace on his breast pocket. Come on, let’s go.” Chuckling to himself, he helped Spud haul Joe ¬upstairs to the shop.Anybody out there ever move into a house and found new evidence everyday that the people there before you lived like virtual pigs?Thats my experience presently Andrew Deal ([email protected]) Apple Valley, Ca - Saturday, May 25, 1996 at Hi, Andy: I tried 3 or 4 times to find this place and couldn't.Last time before I signed off, finally connected Tom Aune (TAC) ([email protected],[email protected]) Victorville, Ca USA - Saturday, May 11, 1996 at GREAT Web presence!!!This is how the future will look--beautiful, elegant & informative. air Angelo I Rosas ([email protected] [email protected]) Victorville, CA USA - Friday, April 19, 1996 at At first glance, is PROFESSIONALLY done.