And I'm back. The Ditmar nominations are open, at last, for 30 days at least. I feel a little confused about the rules, but such is often the case with the Ditmars. My major area of confusion is what, exactly, is eligible. It says that anything published in the year preceding the Natcon is eligible, but that might mean that things that were eligible for nomination at last year's convention are eligible again. It seems to mean that anything published this year is ineligible, even if there was more than a year between Natcons. I might just nominate things and let the committee sort it out.

There's the familiar problem with self-published works, as well. Last year, there was a heated debate about whether they were professional or fan, and that really doesn't seem to have been resolved. I'd like it to be clear, because Son et Lumiere, the collection, is eligible this year for one category or the other. In some ways, I'd prefer it to be eligible in the fan category, because it's up against Dreaming Again and a couple of other biggies in the pro category. But that, in turn, raises the question of what category the stories within it can be nominated. Are they fan or pro?

It's the familiar old confusion.

Later.

I wish this blog was as expert as those I see when I look at others. Right now, it's bare and bleak. Time will improve it, I hope (although that goes against experience; time rarely improves things. Wine, perhaps, although too much time will destroy any vintage. Cheese, up to a point. The lies our lives are made of? Questionable. The whole "age shall not wither nor custom stale" thing really does not work.)

I've just returned from tutoring one of the little casualties of our education system. Nice kid, but has been fucked around by both his life to date and the school he's at. I dare not tell him that the relief teacher he had for a term was either lazy or incompetent or both, since she has returned absolutely none of his work to him for an entire term, so I have no examples of extended writing to work with. The kid's okay, but can't express his ideas, because he's never been properly trained to write. He lacks confidence and stumbles over his expression, always attempting to achieve perfection, instead of just getting the bloody thing down and getting perfection later.

I stayed a little late, and, consequently, missed the tree lopper who was going to do something about our feral garden. It's a jungle out there, with giant powton trees (you know; those sweet trees with big leaves and lovely flowers that grow to thirty-metre monsters in six months), zamia palms encrusted with wisteria, bottle brush that threaten the power lines. Tarzan would love it, but I ain't no Tarzan. Back later.