Egoboo

Thirty-some years back, when I was a hopeful adolescent, there was - briefly - a magazine in the UK called SF Monthly, and I had it on subscription. It was poster-sized, and had full colour artwork posters in the centre spread, and I read every issue avidly; but the only story I remember was called "On Cooking the First Hero in Spring", and it was by one Ian Watson. I loved it (how could I not love a story with a title like that?), and I looked out for his work thereafter, and ever since. And I've met him since, a few times, and he's scary-smart and infinite value, and I still admire his work enormously.

And that SF story that I wrote a couple of weeks back, and sent to the editor who'd asked for it, who liked it? Well, Ian Watson is apparently co-editing the antho; and he has now read, and commented. And I'm not going to quote, because I don't have permission and it wouldn't really be seemly; but, well, he likes it. A lot.

And I am feeling so utterly crap and hopeless right now, the odd sprinkle of fairy-dust goes a long way; and when a man who's been a role-model for thirty years says stuff like this about my work, well, I can live off that for a fortnight. At least. Check back in two weeks, and see how I'm doing. (Don't ask what I'm doing; I am, of course, writing another SF story. More of which anon...)