Day before yesterday, I allowed myself to get unreasonably bent out of shape by an Amazon.com "review" of Murder of Angels (click here and see "Failure of Genre-Switching"). The upshot — I'm a pretty good "horror" writer, but should've stay in my own neighborhood and not tried writing "fantasy," at which I apparently suck. Never mind that since the very beginning, way back in 1995 or whatever, I've maintained, publicly, in interviews, on websites, and usenet, and everywhere else, that I AM NOT A HORROR WRITER! No, really. It's true. I write fantasy. Everything that I've written — every short story, novel, comic, and novella — all of it, fantasy. Hell, in The Dreaming there were even fairies and witches and magic and all that stuff which is lazily considered "genre fantasy" by those who can't be bothered, and I began work on the series in 1996! But, the real point is, I do not write genre. I am not a genre writer, not in the sense that the term is understood in publishing today. I write the stories that come to me. I write in worlds without walls. My sf is horrific. My "horror" is usually fantastic. Sometimes, my "fantasy" is even very scientific. Anyway, I suppose I shouldn't grouse too much about this "review." At least the reader was condescendingly nice about Silk and generally patronizing. I should count my blessings.
Last night, I gave Destroy All Humans a try, and it's really a very decent game. Beautiful graphics, some very funny scripting, and what more admirable goal could any game have? How could I not love a game titled Destroy All Humans, especially one where I get to kill rednecks, blow up drive-in theatres, and characters complain that they're not green, they're grey.