Thursday, February 06, 2003
Yesterday was supposed to have been a "day off." I don't believe that writers deserve "days off," but Thryn insisted. So I tried. It was a bit of a failure, and, in the end, trying not to work was more stressful than just bloody working. Too many intrusions from people who also don't think writers should have days off. But I tried. Now I go back to work . . .
My mind is in some slippery, cosmic frame this morning. I was reading an article in National Geographic just after I woke up and before breakfast, after having already read Thryn Ray Bradbury's "The Exiles" at bedtime last night. I made it halfway through a piece on new theories of galactic formation. And I had one of those all to familiar, dizzying moments of "existential shock." Less than a century ago, astronomers believed ours was the only galaxy in the universe. Then Hubbel discovered Andromeda and now we're looking at a universe with 100 billion galaxies, with 100 billion stars in our little Milky Way alone. I computed the numbers of planets that would have life, if only .001% of that 100 billion stars in our galaxy had biospheres on a single planet. That number alone was staggering, before you raise it to a universal order. As a biologist, I suspect the universe swarms with life. Just as it swarms with so many other unlikely, but inevitable, chemical reactions. But, for an "intelligent," technologically-prone species to arise, and then a civilization, and then to manage to survive long enough without annihilating itself, and to discover a means of interstellar travel, or at least communication. Even then, the number must be very, very high. Millions of galaxies with empires and interstellar ultrasuperhighways. Pools of life scattered across a near inifinity, straining always to reach one another, even as they quarrel with themselves, ever lessening the chances of making contact. And some of us, here in dark spaces between spiral arms on undistinguished galaxies, cosmic boonies as it were, may be too far off the beaten path, or an interesting path, to ever come to the notice of others.
But. That wasn't even the point. The point, of the shock, was how poorly we've adjusted to the new cosmos we find ourselves in. It's not surprising. We've had a million years to become entrenched; it's probably asking too much of our poor gray brains to expect them to make that jump — 1 to 100,000,000,000 — in hardly the span of one human lifetime, much less to consider the implications. No wonder the creationists continue to get apoplectic on a regular basis, and we continue to fight wars for gods, and most of us are little more conscious than a codfish.
And Columbia steaks across the sky, a fireball against our loneliness, a symbol of our striving. That we may not be alone and earthbound forever.
I pray that someone finds us.
Then again, I think of the invasion of North America and South America by the Europeans. And of Africa by everyone. And so forth. And I know how unfortunate it might be, contact. We would be bumpkins, savages, animals, I think.
How have we treated whales and dolphins and other primates? Why should we expect better, from beings who can cross the spaces between stars as easily as we cross busy streets.
Still, I pray that someone finds us. We won't last here on our own for very much longer.
Sorry to get so heavy. Astronomy does that to me.
Tomorrow night, a new Farscape, speaking of cosmic, speaking of interstellar dynasties and all not being right in the heavens. Watch. "Bringing Home the Beacon" promises to be a very good episode, I believe. The Girls of Farscape, since we had the Boys last week. 8 p.m. and 12:30 a.m. (EST) Friday night.
Today. What do I have to do today? Well, for one thing, tell you that Subterranean Press is having a special 50% off sale on pre-orders, which includes three of my forthcoming books: Trilobite: The Writing of Threshold, Waycross (almost sold out), and The Five of Cups. But, it's an offer by e-mail, so you have to sign up for the newsletter, and the offer is good for today only, I think. For more information, go to:
Special Offers
Oh, wait. Here's a preview of the cover of Low Red Moon, coming from Roc November 2003 (and from Subterranean Press sometime before then):
Cover (rough)
I finished "La Peau Verte on Tuesday afternoon. The last stretch was only 858 words, for a total of 9,748 words, in only 8 days. Anyway, the story's for an anthology coming from, Medium Rare Books, Verte Brume, which will also include stories by Poppy Z. and Ramsey Campbell and others. But today, I have to begin a read-through of Low Red Moon, as the editorial letter from Roc should arrive soon and there will be revisions. It needs more proofreading, as well. And I need to do the Gemma Files introduction, and an afterword for a Subterranean Press anthology, and the short story for the Candlewick Press anthology (Gothic!), and about a zillion other things.
And my head is full of stars.
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