This is not the book you’re looking for

I tried the “ask a friend” trick on Facebook, trying to find a book I vaguely remembered reading years ago.

There were moving sidewalks, like in airports, but in a series at faster and faster speeds. I googled it and found one possibility: The Caves of Steel by Isaac Asimov. Art Slade suggested Heinlein’s The Roads Must Roll, but the Wiki description wasn’t at all familiar to me; I don’t think I’ve ever read it. Eric Orchard found a wiki sight on moving walkways with some sci fi books listed, including The Roads Must Roll and The Caves of Steel. Danny Levinson suggested Heinlein, too, and then asked for more clues. And – ah ha – he found the scene on-line, in Galaxy Magazine November 1953. It is, indeed. The Caves of Steel.

Thank you to everyone for doing my research for me.  And thanks for the brilliant minds that give us this computing power.

If I was in a rush I could just read it on-line at the Galaxy Magazine at the Internet Archive, but I’d rather read a paper book. The Calgary Public Library doesn’t have it on paper, so I’ve put it on hold with the province-wide library system.

And voila – my work is done.

Maureen

Writing Joy

I’m back from another writing retreat in Canmore, alone in a lovely condo, a wonderful treat courtesy of in-laws.

I’ve been malingering over a cold-ish thing for a while, and not writing much. I’d been getting writing related work done, but the writing itself? That immersion in a story? Not so much.

I worried that would continue in Canmore, but my first afternoon I settled in to work, and felt excited by my stories for the first time in weeks. There’s this thing that happens to writers, in the middle of a project, or when sick, and definitely when both converge, when the work all seems terrible. That’s a good time to walk away, and do something else for a while.

That’s all I’ve been seeing for a while, so it was a thrill to – well, to be thrilled again. To feel that tingling up my back, as I read a section of story that works, that does what I want it to do – and leaves me wanting to move forward, to find out what happens next. Because that’s the joy in a story, in reading it and in writing it. And without that, there’s simply no point in bothering.

I’m back in Calgary again, organizing myself for a week of hard work. As I do, I will lift my teacup and salute the mountains, and thank them (and my wonderfully supportive family) for a return to writing joy.

Maureen

Winter Hibernation

Our snow is formidably deep, and the Christmas tree is stuffed into a snowbank. When it falls over as the snow melts, that’ll be spring.

In the meantime, we light candles, and go snowshoeing, and light a fire some nights, and enjoy the sun on the clear days.

I’ve hung birdfeeders in the garden, and battle with the squirrels, desperate to get what they think is their share (all of it), vs what I think is their share (whatever leftovers fall to the ground). We have a new winner every day.

Birds fight for their share, too: pigeons and magpies of course, and a lovely big flicker and little woodpeckers with red tufts on their heads, sparrows and chickadees and redpolls. I think bunnies are coming at night, leaving little gifts as they forage under the birdfeeders. Well, I shouldn’t really call them bunnies. When they hop away we see how incredibly long they are.

And I wait for the days to lengthen, and page through a gardening catalogue, dreaming of spring.

Maureen