By contrast, the Nebula awards are chosen by a much more selective community. The Nebulas are given in five categories—best novel, novella, novelette, short story, and script—by members of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA). At the beginning of the nomination period, an online form provides a list of “recommended reading” to which all SFWA members can add. During this period, all active members can also nominate up to five works in each category; at the end of the nomination period, the top six works in each category are placed on the final ballot. (Previously, special Nebula juries were allowed to add one additional work per category to the final ballot, but the juries were abolished as of 2009.) All the Hugo winners previously mentioned have also won the Nebula—sometimes on multiple occasions.
The Philip K. Dick Award acknowledges the best original science fiction paperback (not previously published as a hardcover) published in the United States that year. The Philadelphia Science Fiction Society, in conjunction with the Philip K. Dick Trust, began giving the award in 1983 (one year after death of the author it’s named for), at a time when most science fiction novels were only available in paperback. A panel of five authors with distinction in the genre present the award each year at Norwescon in Washington.
Created in 1973 in memory of the longtime editor of Astounding Science Fiction, the John W. Campbell Memorial Award is presented by a similarly small group of judges, but unlike the rotating panel for the Philip K. Dick award, the Campbell Award jury remains relatively constant from year to year. The award goes to the best science-fiction novel published in English in the previous calendar year. First-, second-, and third-place levels of the award are distributed; a novel that wins a first-place Campbell award as well as a Hugo and a Nebula is said to have won science fiction’s “triple crown.” Also bearing Campbell’s name is the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, given to an outstanding writer whose first work of science fiction or fantasy was published in the past two calendar years. Presented alongside these Campbell awards is the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award for the best science fiction short story of the year. Named after a notable science fiction short story writer whose first story was published by Campbell, the award has been given by a jury since 1987.
The Locus Award is chosen not by jury, but by the subscribers of Locus magazine, a news magazine of the science fiction and fantasy field (and 21-time Hugo winner in the Semiprozine category). A “recommended reading” list is published alongside the ballot in the February issue of the magazine. Readers nominate up to five ranked works in each category, which are then assigned points based on rankings. After the final tally, the work with the most points wins the award, which is given to the author as a certificate. The top four finalists are also announced as “finalists.” Awards are given in fifteen categories, including Best Science Fiction Novel, Best Fantasy Novel, Best Young Adult Novel, Best First Novel, Best Short Story, and Best Non-Fiction/Art Book.
Other awards have eligibility criteria based not just on excellence, but on specific subject matter as well. The James Tiptree Jr. Award is given to a work of science fiction or fantasy that explores or expands the reader’s understanding of gender. The award, given since 1991, is named for writer Alice B. Sheldon, who wrote under the masculine pseudonym in the award’s title for years. Her work involved similarly thought-provoking gender-bending, so the award established in her honor celebrates ongoing innovation in the topic of gender in literary works. The Tiptree Award is given each year at the Wisconsin Science Fiction Convention (Wiscon).
Similarly, the Lambda Literary Awards recognize works published each year in the United States that explore LGBT themes in many genres. The Lambdas are not an exclusively science fiction award—categories range from mystery to poetry to erotica—but one story is selected to receive the Lambda in Science fiction/Fantasy/Horror at the “Lammy” Awards Gala.
The Rhysling Award, named for a spacegoing poet in Robert A. Heinlein’s story “The Green Hills of Earth,” is bestowed upon the author of the best poem of the year in either science fiction, fantasy, or horror. Members of the Science Fiction Poetry Association (SFPA) nominate works that are then compiled into an anthology; the members then vote on the winners. Two Rhysling awards are given each year, one for short poems (under 50 lines) and one for longer works (50 lines and over). While poems of between 1 and 10 lines are eligible for the short form award, they are infrequently nominated and none has ever won, so the SFPA also awards a separate Dwarf Star Award for these very short works.
Some awards only consider works written or published within a particular geographical area, or in a particular language. Perhaps most notable of these is the Arthur C. Clark Award, given to the best science fiction novel published in the United Kingdom that year. Unlike many of these awards, novels must actually be submitted to the jury to be considered for the award, but the award comes with the largest cash prize for any science fiction award. Only Australian authors are eligible for the Aurealis Award, which gives honors to works in each genre (science fiction, horror, and fantasy) individually; similarly, only works by New Zealanders can win the Sir Julius Vogel Award. The Prix Aurora Award is given to exemplary Canadian works in both English and French. The Janusz A. Zajdel Award is a Polish fandom prize, with the best novels and short stories chosen by the members of Polcon. The Seiun Award in Japan (Japanese for “nebula,” though it is unrelated to the Nebula Awards), has some categories dedicated to foreign language works, but primarily recognizes authors writing in Japanese. The Kurd-Laßwitz-Preis, Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire, and Italia Awards are also language-based; they acknowledge the best works in German, French, and Italian SF, respectively.
CONNIE WILLIS
(1945– )
Although she started writing later in life than many writers, Connie Willis came to prominence very quickly once she did get started. She has already set the record for Hugo Awards won with nine, along with seven Nebula Awards. Her characters are remarkably evocative, and Willis has the ability to convey emotional nuances to readers that few other writers can pull off.
Born in Denver, Constance Elaine Trimmer was only twelve when she lost her mother, who died in childbirth. She tried to bury her grief in books and reading, by losing herself in other worlds. In particular, she discovered the works of Robert A. Heinlein. After graduating from Colorado State College with a degree in English, Willis taught elementary school. She sold her first story, “Santa Titicaca” to Worlds of Fantasy in 1971, but didn’t publish much for the rest of the 1970s.
When her daughter Cordelia was born in the early 1980s, Willis decided to write full-time, and succeeded rapidly. Her novel Fire Watch won her first Hugo and Nebula in 1983.
A LETTER FROM THE CLEARYS, by Connie Willis
First published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, July 1982
There was a letter from the Clearys at the post office. I put it in my backpack along with Mrs. Talbot’s magazine and went outside to untie Stitch.
He had pulled his leash out as far as it would go and was sitting around the corner, half-strangled, watching a robin. Stitch never barks, not even at birds. He didn’t even yip when Dad stitched up his paw. He just sat there the way we found him on the front porch shivering a little and holding his paw up for Dad to look at Mrs. Talbot says he’s a terrible watchdog, but I’m glad he doesn’t bark Rusty barked all the time and look where it got him.
I had to pull Stitch back around the corner to where I could get enough slack to untie him. That took some doing, because he really liked that robin. “It’s a sign of spring, isn’t it, fella?” I said, trying to get at the knot with my fingernails. I didn’t loosen the knot but I managed to break one of my fingernails off to the quick. Great. Mom will demand to know if I’ve noticed any other fingernails breaking.
My hands are a real mess. This winter I’ve gotten about a hundred burns on the back of my hands from that stupid wood stove of ours. One spot, just above my wrist, I keep burning ov
er and over so it never has a chance to heal. The stove isn’t big enough, and when I try to jam a log in that’s too long, that same spot hits the inside of the stove every time. My stupid brother David won’t saw them off to the right length. I’ve asked him and asked him to please cut them shorter, but he doesn’t pay any attention to me.
I asked Mom if she would please tell him not to saw the logs so long, but she didn’t. She never criticizes David. As far as she’s concerned he can’t do anything wrong just because he’s twenty-three and was married.
“He does it on purpose,” I told her. “He’s hoping I’ll burn to death.”
“Paranoia is the number-one killer of fourteen-year-old girls, “ Mom said. She always says that. It makes me so mad I feel like killing her. “He doesn’t do it on purpose. You need to be more careful with the stove, that’s all.” But all the time she was holding my hand and looking at the big burn that won’t heal like it was a time bomb set to go off.
“We need a bigger stove,” I said, and yanked my hand away. We do need a bigger one. Dad closed up the fireplace and put the wood-stove in when the gas bill was getting out of sight, but it’s just a little one, because Mom didn’t want one that would stick way out in the living room. Anyway, we were only going to use it in the evenings.
We won’t get a new one. They are all too busy working on the stupid greenhouse. Maybe spring will come early, and my hand will have half a chance to heal. I know better. Last winter the snow kept up till the middle of June, and this is only March. Stitch’s robin is going to freeze his little tail if he doesn’t head back south. Dad says that last year was unusual, that the weather will be back to normal this year, but he doesn’t believe it either or he wouldn’t be building the greenhouse.
As soon as I let go of Stitch’s leash, he backed around the corner like a good boy and sat there waiting for me to stop sucking my finger and untie him. “We’d better get a move on,” I told him. “Mom’ll have a fit.” I was supposed to go by the general store to try and get some tomato seeds, but the sun was already pretty far west, and I had at least a half-hour’s walk home. If I got home after dark, I’d get sent to bed without supper, and then I wouldn’t get to read the letter. Besides, if I didn’t go to the general store today they’d have to let me go tomorrow, and I wouldn’t have to work on the stupid greenhouse.
Sometimes I feel like blowing it up. There’s sawdust and mud on everything, and David dropped one of the pieces of plastic on the stove while they were cutting it and it melted onto the stove and stank to high heaven. But nobody else even notices the mess; they’re too busy talking about how wonderful it’s going to be to have homegrown watermelon and corn and tomatoes next summer.
I don’t see how it’s going to be any different from last summer. The only things that came up at all were the lettuce and the potatoes. The lettuce was about as tall as my broken fingernail and the potatoes were as hard as rocks. Mrs. Talbot said it was the altitude, but Dad said it was the funny weather and this crummy Pike’s Peak granite that passes for soil around here. He went up to the little library in the back of the general store and got a do-it-yourself book on greenhouses and started tearing everything up, and now even Mrs. Talbot is crazy about the idea.
The other day I told them, “Paranoia is the number-one killer of people at this altitude,” but they were too busy cutting slats and stapling plastic to pay any attention to me.
Stitch walked along ahead of me, straining at his leash, and as soon as we were across the highway, I took it off. He never runs away like Rusty used to. Anyway, it’s impossible to keep him out of the road, and the times I’ve tried keeping him on his leash, he dragged me out into the middle and I got in trouble with Dad over leaving footprints. So I keep to the frozen edges of the road, and he moseys along, stopping to sniff at potholes; when he gets behind, I whistle at him and he comes running right up.
I walked pretty fast. It was getting chilly out, and I’d only worn my sweater. I stopped at the top of the hill and whistled at Stitch. We still had a mile to go. I could see the Peak from where I was standing. Maybe Dad is right about spring coming. There was hardly any snow on the Peak, and the burned part didn’t look quite as dark as it did last fall, like maybe the trees are coming back.
Last year at this time the whole peak was solid white. I remember because that was when Dad and David and Mr. Talbot went hunting and it snowed every day and they didn’t get back for almost a month. Mom just about went crazy before they got back. She kept going up to the road to watch for them even though the snow was five feet deep and she was leaving footprints as big as the Abominable Snowman’s. She took Rusty with her even though he hated the snow about as much as Stitch hates the dark. And she took a gun. One time she tripped over a branch and fell down in the snow. She sprained her ankle and was almost frozen stiff by the time she made it back to the house. I felt like saying, “Paranoia is the number-one killer of mothers,” but Mrs. Talbot butted in and said the next time I had to go with her and how this was what happened when people were allowed to go places by themselves, which meant me going to the post office. I said I could take care of myself, and Mom told me not to be rude to Mrs. Talbot and Mrs. Talbot was right, I should go with her the next time.
She wouldn’t wait till her ankle was better. She bandaged it up and we went the very next day. She didn’t say a word the whole trip, just limped through the snow. She never even looked up till we got to the road. The snow had stopped for a little while, and the clouds had lifted enough so you could see the Peak. It was like a black-and-white photograph, the gray sky and the black trees and the white mountain. The Peak was completely covered with snow. You couldn’t make out the toll road at all.
We were supposed to hike up the Peak with the Clearys.
When we got back to the house, I said, “The summer before last the Clearys never came.”
Mom took off her mittens and stood by the stove, pulling off chunks of frozen snow. “Of course they didn’t come, Lynn,” she said.
Snow from my coat was dripping onto the stove and sizzling. “I didn’t mean that,” I said. “They were supposed to come the first week in June. Right after Rick graduated. So what happened? Did they just decide not to come or what?”
“I don’t know,” she said, pulling off her hat and shaking her hair out. Her bangs were all wet.
“Maybe they wrote to tell you they’d changed their plans,” Mrs. Talbot said. “Maybe the post office lost the letter.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mom said.
“You’d think they’d have written or something,” I said.
“Maybe the post office put the letter in somebody else’s box,” Mrs. Talbot said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mom said, and went to hang her coat over the line in the kitchen. She wouldn’t say another word about them. When Dad got home I asked him too about the Clearys, but he was too busy telling about the trip to pay any attention to me.
Stitch didn’t come. I whistled again and then started back after him. He was all the way at the bottom of the hill, his nose buried in something. “Come on,” I said, and he turned around and then I could see why he hadn’t come. He’d gotten himself tangled up in one of the electric wires that was down. He’d managed to get the cable wound around his legs like he does his leash sometimes, and the harder he tried to get out, the more he got tangled up.
He was right in the middle of the road. I stood on the edge of the road, trying to figure out a way to get to him without leaving footprints. The road was pretty much frozen at the top of the hill, but down here snow was still melting and running across the road in big rivers. I put my toe out into the mud, and my sneaker sank in a good half-inch, so I backed up, rubbed out the toe print with my hand, and wiped my hand on my jeans. I tried to think what to do. Dad is as paranoic about footprints as Mom is about my hands, but he is even worse about my being out after dark. If I didn’t make it back in time, he might even tell me I couldn’t go to the post office anymore.
>
Stitch was coming as close as he ever would to barking. He’d gotten the wire around his neck and was choking himself. “All right,” I said. “I’m coming.” I jumped out as far as I could into one of the rivers and then waded the rest of the way to Stitch, looking back a couple of times to make sure the water was washing away the footprints.
I unwound Stitch and threw the loose end of the wire over to the side of the road where it dangled from the pole, all ready to hang Stitch next time he comes along.
Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction Page 490