In March, I read two books. I finished reading Acceptance by Jeff VanderMeer, and I started and finished reading Ancillary Sword by Ann Leckie.
I watched five movies. The Man Who Would Be King and Star Trek: The Motion Picture — which I’d actually never seen before — weren’t great. But the 1978 Invasion of the Body Snatchers was genuinely very creepy, like a ’70s political conspiracy mixed with a ’70s zombie movie. And Zardoz…god, Zardoz will fuck you up. I don’t regret watching it, but…it’s not something you can ever un-see.
The fifth was The Man Who Knew Too Much, which I’d actually forgotten until just now, as I was editing this post, that I’d seen. It’s decent Hitchcock, but not remarkable.
I read thirty-eight short stories in my continuing endeavor to read at least one a day. The best of them, I thought, were:
- “Jackalope Wives” by Ursula Vernon (Apex)
- “We Are the Cloud” by Sam J. Miller (Lightspeed)
- “Sickly Sweet” by Evan Dorman (Lakeside Circus)
- “Sing Me Your Scars” by Damien Angelica Walters (Apex)
- “Where Monsters Dance” by Merc Rustad (Inscription)
- “The House in Winter” by Jessica Sirkin (Apex)
- “Wild Things Got to Go Free” by Heather Clitheroe (Beneath Ceaseless Skies)
- “The Good Son” by Naomi Kritzer (Lightspeed)
I went to a meet-up of a local sci-fi club, where we watched a bunch of Star Trek in tribute to Leonard Nimoy — you know who was terrific? Leonard Nimoy — and I won a Spock glass. That (and the mint juleps) made me quite happy.
Oh, and I turned thirty-mumble-mumble-mumble. Thirty-eight. It was an okay birthday, far as those go, I guess.
Otherwise, it was a pretty ordinary March. More wintry than I would have liked — a snowstorm on the first day of spring — and a couple of other meetups unceremoniously canceled.
I’m still writing, still reading and editing for Kaleidotrope, still doing the unable-to-find-an-apartment-why-am-I-living-in-New-York thing.
And I listened to some music:
Onward to April, I guess.