Last night I dreamt that a friend of mine who is finishing up a novel (that’s at least six of you, and I’m not saying which one) was trapped in a submarine with Michelle Malkin. Throughout the dream I made various attempts at rescue, because that seemed like a really difficult environment to work in.
The thing is, I had never even heard of Michelle Malkin until last night, when the ABC debate travesty got me reading Wonkette for the first time in…years (at some point the political situation in the U.S. just stopped being funny to me, which, given my taste, could be a sign of the apocalypse).
Anyway, I mention this on the off chance that the dream was prophetic. Dear Novelists of My Acquaintance: never, ever get in a submarine with Michelle Malkin. Also, never put salt in your eyes.
Apropos of nothing: I was reading some stories in the archives of Strange Horizons, and one in particular struck me as very well-crafted: intriguing, initially mysterious, but with a healthy dose of prosaic reality. It was, of course, your “Mayfly.” Well done.
Damn. Too late. I thought you said, “ALWAYS get in a submarine with Michelle Malkin.”
–d
(5 of 6, Borg Novelist)