Chapter 16 postscript
First of all, for those of you who think that writing another book is easy now that the foundation has been laid, allow me to say to you: wow ha ha ha ha ha!Cough, no wonder.
So my first thanks go to editor Patrick Nelson Hayden, who occasionally emails downplaying how much he's looking forward to reading the next chapter, not how much he wants to strangle me—he probably should have done it earlier. Well it still will, because the whole manuscript is in his hands, and there's really no harm in strangling me (unless he wants another one).
Absolutely amazing friends at Tor Publishing deserve love and chocolate: Teresa Nelson Hayden, Liz Goreski, Eleanor Gallo, the recently departed Fiona Li (she is still alive, in China), Dot Lim and Tom Doherty.In general, though, the people who work at Tor deserve my love and chocolate, and I'm not saying that because I'm making them suffer by being late - ok, maybe a little - but it's definitely not Reduce my gratitude.Also thanks to Rich Colin, proofreading and typography suffered.
And of course I must thank my agent, Ethan Eilenberg, for his wisdom and foresight in crafting the contract.
One of the reasons why this book exists is that the first book in the series, Old Man's War (the Chinese version of "Enemies from 12 Planets"), was fortunate enough to receive a lot of praise online, and the taste of these reviewers is deeply trusted by readers.Thank you, everyone, and special thanks go to Glenn Reynolds, Corey Doctorow, Stephen Green, Stephen Bainbridge, and Eugene Worough.If you've ever doubted the usefulness of online reviews, take my word for it: man, they are.
If you've ever wondered why some of the ideas in this book are so good, the simple answer is because I saw them succeed in other books and thought, "Great, I'm going to have to steal this." Stealing writers include Nick Sagan (whose teleportation was used with great success in Edenborn), Scott Westerfield (The Space War in The Risen Empire and The Killing of Worlds Can See You Weeping with joy) and David Brin, whose concept of "uplift" (see The Uplift War, the Chinese version of "Uplift War") made me very tempted.Thank you to all the science fiction and fantasy authors whose names I use in my book.
As in the past, the first reader, Ragan Everey, was absolutely necessary.Every writer should have a Regan, but my Regan Everey is mine.she is mine.go away!
Chad Brinker sent me a book for my autograph, and it took me months to return it—in fact, I still have the book.I figured thanking him at the end of the book would make up for my delay in sending the book.Also, you obviously shouldn't be sending me books for autographs.It's not your fault, it's mine.
Deven Desai, Natasha Kordus, Kevin Stampfl, Mykal Burns, Daniel Mainz, Justine Larbalestier, Lauren McLaughlin, Andrew Woffinden, Charlie Stross, Bill Schafer, Karen Meisner, Anne KG Murphy, Cian Chang, Kristy Gaitten, John Anderson, Stephen Bennett, Erin Barbee and Joe Rybicki and many other friends whose names I can't remember - because it's 4:30 in the morning - but you know who you are and I love you all and would love to have babies for you, twins.
Last but not least, I must thank Christi Scalzi and Athena Scalzi for being so patient while I was writing this book, which was especially difficult for Athena as she used to run off to talk to her mother Said: "Daddy is so boring." Oh, my dear, I promise that I will not be so boring from now on, just start from this moment.
On my seventy-fifth birthday, I did two things: the first was to visit my wife's grave, and the second was to join the army. Going to Kathy's grave is less dramatic than the two. She is buried in Harris Creek Cemetery, less than a mile down the road, where I live now and where we used to have our children.Getting her buried for Ann was more difficult than she had imagined; neither she nor I anticipated who would need funeral services, so no arrangements were ever made.Arguing with the cemetery manager because his wife hadn't booked a cemetery is humiliating at best.In the end it was my son Charlie, who happened to be the mayor of the town, who had a hard time getting the little piece of land.Being the mayor's dad does have its perks, too. Without further ado, let's talk about her grave.Simple, unobtrusive, no big tombstones, only a small landmark like that.In stark contrast, Sandra Kane was buried next to her. The black polished marble tombstone was exaggerated. Not only were Sandy’s high school photos inlaid, but a few words of Keats lamenting youth were engraved with a sandblasting machine on the front. And sentimental verses of beauty gone.This is totally Sandy's style.Kathy would have been overjoyed to know that Sandra was buried next to her with an exaggeratedly large tombstone; while the two were alive, Sandy never let go of her passive rivalry with Kathy, which is truly hilarious.Kathy brings a pie to a local bake sale, and Sandy promises to bring three and a grievance that will be palpable if Kathy's pie happens to sell first.Kathy will try to appease Sandy by using her right of first refusal to buy one of her pies.From Sandy's point of view, it's hard to tell whether this has made things better or worse. Sandy's tombstone was sort of the closing statement of the fight, and Kathy couldn't fight back because she was the first mover after all.But on the other hand, I don't recall anyone visiting Sandy, and after she died, Steve Kane sold his house and moved to Arizona with a smile wider than Interstate 10.After a while, he sent me a postcard; he'd hooked up with some fifty-year-old porn star there.The whole week after I got the news, I felt like I touched something dirty.Sandy's children and grandchildren lived in the next town, but visited as if they lived in Arizona, too.After she was buried, I was probably the only one who read the Keats verse on Sandy's tombstone, and I only glanced at it as I went to my wife's grave a few feet away. Kathy's tomb is engraved with her name (Katherine Rebecca Perry), dates of birth and death, and a few words: loving wife and loving mother.Every time I go to the grave, I read these words over and over again.I couldn't help myself; although it was only four words, it was difficult to describe everything, but it perfectly summed up her life.These words can't tell you who she is, how she faces each day, how hard she works, what her interests are, where she likes to travel.It's impossible for you to know what color she likes the most, what hairstyle she likes, who she votes for, or whether she has a good sense of humor.A few words can't help you understand her, only let you know that someone loves her-and it is true.She will feel that is enough. I hate it here.I hate that my wife of forty-two years has just left me.That Saturday morning, one minute she was in the kitchen stirring waffle batter while describing to me the riot at the library board last night; the next she was lying on the floor, convulsed by a stroke. more than.Her last line, "Where the hell is the vanilla?" was especially painful to me. I hate being that old man who hangs around the cemetery with his dead wife.When I was young (very young), I asked Kathy what the point of going to a grave was.The rotting flesh that once belonged to someone is not the person, it's just the rotting flesh.That person had gone, gone to Heaven or Hell or God knows where, and might just as well be gone.Worshiping a fan of beef is no different from this.When you're old, you'll realize that the facts haven't changed, you just don't care because you have no other way out. However, despite my aversion to cemeteries, I am also grateful that such a place exists.I miss my wife.It was easier to miss her in the cemetery, where she was dead after all, but everywhere else she was alive. I didn't stay long.I always do.Enough to let me know that after eight years, the wound is still fresh.Pain reminds me that I have other things to do than stand in the graveyard like an old fool.Feeling the pain, I turned around and left without looking back.This is my last visit to the cemetery and my wife's grave, but I don't want to spend too much time remembering it all.Because, as I said, here she is dead after all, and remembering graveyards is worthless.
On my seventy-fifth birthday, I did two things: the first was to visit my wife's grave, and the second was to join the army. Going to Kathy's grave is less dramatic than the two. She is buried in Harris Creek Cemetery, less than a mile down the road, where I live now and where we used to have our children.Getting her buried for Ann was more difficult than she had imagined; neither she nor I anticipated who would need funeral services, so no arrangements were ever made.Arguing with the cemetery manager because his wife hadn't booked a cemetery is humiliating at best.In the end it was my son Charlie, who happened to be the mayor of the town, who had a hard time getting the little piece of land.Being the mayor's dad does have its perks, too. Without further ado, let's talk about her grave.Simple, unobtrusive, no big tombstones, only a small landmark like that.In stark contrast, Sandra Kane was buried next to her. The black polished marble tombstone was exaggerated. Not only were Sandy’s high school photos inlaid, but a few words of Keats lamenting youth were engraved with a sandblasting machine on the front. And sentimental verses of beauty gone.This is totally Sandy's style.Kathy would have been overjoyed to know that Sandra was buried next to her with an exaggeratedly large tombstone; while the two were alive, Sandy never let go of her passive rivalry with Kathy, which is truly hilarious.Kathy brings a pie to a local bake sale, and Sandy promises to bring three and a grievance that will be palpable if Kathy's pie happens to sell first.Kathy will try to appease Sandy by using her right of first refusal to buy one of her pies.From Sandy's point of view, it's hard to tell whether this has made things better or worse. Sandy's tombstone was sort of the closing statement of the fight, and Kathy couldn't fight back because she was the first mover after all.But on the other hand, I don't recall anyone visiting Sandy, and after she died, Steve Kane sold his house and moved to Arizona with a smile wider than Interstate 10.After a while, he sent me a postcard; he'd hooked up with some fifty-year-old porn star there.The whole week after I got the news, I felt like I touched something dirty.Sandy's children and grandchildren lived in the next town, but visited as if they lived in Arizona, too.After she was buried, I was probably the only one who read the Keats verse on Sandy's tombstone, and I only glanced at it as I went to my wife's grave a few feet away. Kathy's tomb is engraved with her name (Katherine Rebecca Perry), dates of birth and death, and a few words: loving wife and loving mother.Every time I go to the grave, I read these words over and over again.I couldn't help myself; although it was only four words, it was difficult to describe everything, but it perfectly summed up her life.These words can't tell you who she is, how she faces each day, how hard she works, what her interests are, where she likes to travel.It's impossible for you to know what color she likes the most, what hairstyle she likes, who she votes for, or whether she has a good sense of humor.A few words can't help you understand her, only let you know that someone loves her-and it is true.She will feel that is enough. I hate it here.I hate that my wife of forty-two years has just left me.That Saturday morning, one minute she was in the kitchen stirring waffle batter while describing to me the riot at the library board last night; the next she was lying on the floor, convulsed by a stroke. more than.Her last line, "Where the hell is the vanilla?" was especially painful to me. I hate being that old man who hangs around the cemetery with his dead wife.When I was young (very young), I asked Kathy what the point of going to a grave was.The rotting flesh that once belonged to someone is not the person, it's just the rotting flesh.That person had gone, gone to Heaven or Hell or God knows where, and might just as well be gone.Worshiping a fan of beef is no different from this.When you're old, you'll realize that the facts haven't changed, you just don't care because you have no other way out. However, despite my aversion to cemeteries, I am also grateful that such a place exists.I miss my wife.It was easier to miss her in the cemetery, where she was dead after all, but everywhere else she was alive. I didn't stay long.I always do.Enough to let me know that after eight years, the wound is still fresh.Pain reminds me that I have other things to do than stand in the graveyard like an old fool.Feeling the pain, I turned around and left without looking back.This is my last visit to the cemetery and my wife's grave, but I don't want to spend too much time remembering it all.Because, as I said, here she is dead after all, and remembering graveyards is worthless.