The Mallet of Loving Correction

21.

2010.

My "Being Poor" piece has been getting a workout the last couple of days, because people were linking to it in response to a blog post by Todd Henderson, a law professor at the University of Chicago. Professor Henderson was kvetching about the possibility of Obama raising his taxes (or more accurately, Obama allowing the Bush era tax reductions to sunset) when he was just sc.r.a.ping by on a household income high enough for the president to have an interest in letting his tax cut expire-i.e., above $250,000, which puts his household in the top 1.5% or so of all income earners.

Henderson's lament has since been taken down from its original blog-he appears to have been hurt and confused as to why so many commenters and other bloggers had a distinct lack of sympathy for him as he laid out how the change in the tax regime would affect his gardener and nanny and his children's private schools-but economist Brad De Long rescued the piece from Google Cache, accompanied by some pungent thoughts on Henderson's predicament.

It's pretty clear that Henderson either forgot or didn't know that the problems of the well-off tend to be less than impressive to people whose own problems are not so nearly high-toned. Yes, it's awful that you may have to cut back on your gardener and your housecleaner and your nanny, but do please understand that in airing such a lament, you establish that in fact you have a gardener, housecleaner and nanny. Which is an enviable trifecta of domestic hands on deck, to be sure. Such a loadout largely disqualifies you from sympathy from those who do without. Which is most people, many of whom would like to have a job right now, and a side order of health insurance to go along with it.

Or to put it another way, while an Ivy League graduate currently employed as a law professor at one of the most prestigious universities in the world has a perfect right to complain in public about how he and his equally gainfully-employed medical doctor wife might have to make adjustments to their wholly enviable professional lifestyle because their top marginal tax rate might go up a couple of percentage points, he really ought to have the good sense not to. You end up looking foolish on the Internet when you do. Which Professor Henderson now appears to realize, and has at least temporarily excused himself from the Internet because of it.

Professor Henderson may have been foolish to write what he did, but in fairness I don't believe he deserved to be bludgeoned with my Being Poor piece in response. When he was kvetching about sc.r.a.ping by, he wasn't suggesting that he was in any way poor-not he, with his gardener and housecleaner and nanny and private schools. It's the wrong tool to employ against him, and I feel reasonably qualified to say so. Professor Henderson's lament isn't saying that he's poor, or even feels poor. His lament is that he isn't rich, and certainly doesn't feel like he's rich, what with his debts and owes-which aside from his domestic help, also more seriously include the ma.s.sive school loans that come with law and medical degrees, and a mortgage which Professor Henderson implies but does not say is currently underwater. Not being (or feeling) rich is an entirely different thing than being poor, and I don't think it serves anyone well to confuse the two states.

Now, if you are part of the rabble who populates the lower 98.5% of American income brackets, you may ask: is it really possible to be in the top 1.5% of income earners in the United States and not realize you're rich by most objective standards? Sure, as long as two things are in play: First, that your picture of "rich" is predicated on how billionaires live and act; second, that your financial outlays come reasonably close to your financial intake. So in the first case, if your mental image of being rich includes helicopters and supermodels at your beck and call, in equal and staggering amounts, then making a quarter of a million a year looks rather more like an "average" or "middle-cla.s.s" income, even when it is manifestly not. When rich folk say they feel middle-cla.s.s, they're not (always) being disingenuous, it's just their way of saying "I don't own a castle on an island."

Likewise, if you make a quarter of a million a year but send out most of it paying for things, then asking yourself "wait, I'm supposed to be rich, here?" doesn't seem horribly unreasonable. When one is poor, the problem you have with money is not having any. When one is well-off, the problem you have with money is managing it. When you have more money, you do more things with it, and that means more opportunities for it to get away from you if you're not paying attention. This is a high-cla.s.s problem to have, mind you, and generally speaking it's not going to generate a large gout of sympathy from anyone else, especially those with little money to manage. But it's still a problem, especially when it's your problem.

But it is your problem, and it doesn't mean you're not well off, or even rich by many relevant real-world standards. Because, my dear 1.5% folks: you so very are. The median household income in the US is about $46,000 a year. If your household is bringing in five times that on an annual basis, you certainly have the potential to be doing reasonably well anywhere in the United States-even in Chicago, and even in Hyde Park-provided you have some sense about how you allocate your income and resources. And as regards the very-likely-soon-to-be-sunset Bush tax cut, if shaving off an extra couple of percent off your income above $250,000 will send your family into a dark spiral of money woes, you have other issues which you should address. Taxes are not your biggest problem in that case. Accountants are your friends.

So what have we learned today?

1.Don't complain to the Internets about trying to get by on $250,000 a year; 2. Being poor and not feeling rich are not the same thing, don't confuse the two; 3. Even well-off people can have money woes; 4. With great income comes great (financial management) responsibilities.

There, we're done for the day! Let's go get some pie.

Worth Promoting to Its Own Post: Notes on Arguing Aug

16.

2011.

Here's a comment I made in a thread, which I am promoting to its own post (with some edits for context) because I think it says something relevant about discussions here, especially (but not limited to) political ones: 1.One is ent.i.tled to one's own opinions, but not one's own facts. Commensurately, anecdote may be fact (it happened to you), but anecdote is usually a poor platform for general a.s.sertions, since one's own experience is often not a general experience.

2.If you make an a.s.sertion that implies a factual basis, it is entirely proper that others may ask you to back up these a.s.sertions with facts, or at least data, beyond the anecdotal.

3.If you cannot bolster said a.s.sertion with facts, or at least data, beyond the anecdotal, you have to accept that others may not find your general argument persuasive.

4.This dynamic of people asking for facts, or at least data, beyond the anecdotal, is in itself non-partisan; implications otherwise are a form of ad hominem argument which is generally not relevant to the discussion at hand.

5.If you offer evidence and a.s.sert it as fact, you may reasonably expect others to examine such information and to rebut you if they find it wanting and/or find your interpretation incorrect in some manner.

All of which is to say that a.s.serting from anecdote without being able to bolster said a.s.sertion with actual facts is likely to get your a.s.sertion discounted; if you present facts without rigor, you're likely to see those discounted as well. Again, this is neither here nor there as regards one's personal politics; this is simply about making a robust argument.

People here have a low tolerance for general a.s.sertion from personal anecdote because rhetorically speaking I have a low tolerance for general a.s.sertion from personal anecdote, and over time that rubs off on others who comment here regularly. That low tolerance is in fact non-partisan on my part, as I have called out liberals for bad argument when they have offered one, and I have called out people in non-political threads for the same thing (when one's politics are not in evidence). There are indeed a lot of liberals here; there are also quite a few conservatives as well. Everyone gets dinged when they argue poorly.

In a general sense, if one wants to have one's arguments and a.s.sertions taken seriously here, they need to be serious arguments and a.s.sertions. There's nothing wrong with making an observation from personal experience; I do it all the time. But I also note the anecdotal nature of the observation; and when I don't, guess what? People here call me on it.

This is all to be noted for future reference.

Writers and Financial Woes: What's Going On Nov

9.

2009.

An e-mail: You talk about money and writing a lot, so let me ask you: What is it with writers and money? Lots of them seem to be in financial hot water these days.

Hmmmm. Well, let's start by pointing out two rather salient points (note this discussion is primarily US-centric, but may have application elsewhere): 1. Things are tough all over. "These days" includes a profound recession, for which employment is a lagging factor, so let's make sure we factor that not-trivial datum into our mindview. On top of this general employment malaise, writers of all sorts are taking an extra set of lumps: Journalism is losing thousands of full-time writers out of newspapers and magazines, writers in corporate settings are no safer than any other white-collar worker and publishing companies are actively tr.i.m.m.i.n.g their author rosters and slicing advances. I'd hesitate to suggest that writers are having it worst of all recently, but you know what, they're not just skating through this recession, either. They've got it middlin' bad.

On top of this: 2. It's not just writers who make lousy financial choices. There aren't enough writers in the United States to cover all the bad mortgages out there right now, to make one obvious point. It's not just writers who push the average consumer debt above $7,000 per card holder. It's not just writers who save almost none of their income, leaving them vulnerable to sudden, unexpected changes in personal fortune. Writers are often bad with money, but then so are secretaries, and doctors, and teachers, and plumbers, and members of the military and any other group of people you might care to imagine, excepting possibly accountants, and honestly I wouldn't even put it past them. So when we're singling out writers for discussion, let's remember they are not alone out there on the far end of the "wow, we really suck at finances" spectrum.

Having noted the above, here are some additional reasons why writers seem to so often fall face first, financially. Note that not all of these apply equally to every writer; we're talking in vast generalities, here.

First, some practical issues: 3. Writer pay is generally low and generally inconsistent. And if one writes fiction for some/all of one's writing output, especially so. I've written in detail about writing rates and payment before so it's not necessary to go into detail again right at the moment. But what it means is that if one is a writer, one does a fair amount of work for not a whole lot of money, and then has to wait for that payment to arrive more or less at the pleasure of the person sending the check. Unfortunately, writers like pretty much everyone else have fixed expenses (mortgage/rent, bills etc), and those people generally do not wait to be paid at the pleasure of the writer; you pay your electric bill regularly or you don't get electricity. This means writers are often in a situation where despite working prodigiously, they don't have money in hand to pay regular, fixed monthly expenses.

4. Writers often lack what meager social net actually exists in corporate America. Writers are often self-employed, which means they bear the full brunt of the cost of health insurance or go without, and when they do pay for health insurance, they pay a lot because their individual plans don't spread out risk like corporate plans do. Since per point three writers don't get paid a lot (or regularly), very often they go without-as often do their spouses and children, if the spouse does not work for someone who provides health insurance. Which means they are quite susceptible to even incidental medical costs wreaking holy h.e.l.l with their finances, and my own anecdotal experience with writers is that they are not exactly a hale and hearty group to start.

Self-employed writers don't get 401(k)s and often don't get around to funding IRAs, so their ability to save for retirement is made that much more challenging. They are on the hook for their full amount of Social Security taxes and also have to file taxes quarterly, and the IRS keeps a close eye on them (and all self-employed folks) for fraud and so on. Add it all up, and not being formally on the corporate teat makes it easier for writers to find themselves in a compromised financial situation.

5. Writers, like many people (even presumably educated folks), often have rudimentary financial skills. Which means even when they do have money and a desire to save it intelligently, they often don't know how or have already gotten themselves into a compromised financial situation which makes smart and sane financial practices more difficult. Now, for writers, to some extent we can blame them and their arty-farty educations for this lack. I'm not sure how many MFA or undergrad writing programs out there require a "real world basic finance" cla.s.s for a degree, but I'm guessing I can count them on one hand and have up to five fingers left over. Likewise, my anecdotal experience with writers suggests that not a whole lot of them have a vibrant love affair with mathematics, even the relatively basic sort that underpins day-to-day financial planning. So there are two strikes against them right there.

But to be fair to writers, once again, it's not just them. I have a philosophy degree; it didn't require a real world financial management cla.s.s either. I don't believe I actually ever took a cla.s.s in basic financial planning and management, ever, and I'm guessing I'm not the only one there. This leaves basically everyone to get their financial educations from rah-rah financial bestsellers, fatuous talking heads on CNBC and folks like the sort who recently suckered millions of Americans into buying far more home than they could rationally afford on the basis that hey, the real estate market will never ever go down. This is, basically, an appalling state of affairs, and not just for writers.

Having enumerated some practical issues, here are some (for lack of a better term) "lifestyle" reasons why writers often have money problems: 6. Writers are often flaky. Which can mean (pick one or more) that they have short attention spans, which penalize them for things like finances; they get bored quickly and therefore make bad economic decisions because they want to stop thinking about them and get on to interesting stuff; because they are clever with words they think that means that they are smart outside of their specific field (and particularly with money), which is a common mistake people good in one intellectual area make; they trust people they should not with their money and/or their life situations; they go with their guts rather than with their brains; they prioritize immediate wants over long-term needs; and so on.

We could have a nice fun argument about whether flaky people become writers or whether being a writer makes one flaky, but it's a discussion that's not relevant at the moment; the point here is that many authors by their personal nature are not well-composed for the sober, staid and completely boring task of dealing with money.

(Note I'm not simply running down other writers here; ask my wife why it was when we met I had all my utilities on third notice, despite the fact I could afford to pay the bills. It will confirm my own "flaky like a pie crust" nature.) Related to this: 7. Writers are often irrational risk-takers. Because how can you write about life without experiencing it, etc, which is a convenient rationale for doing stupid things and getting caught in bad situations, up to and including terrible relationships, addictions, impulsive life-changing decisions and so on, all of which end up having a (not in the least) surprising impact on one's financial life. h.e.l.l, even a bog-standard nicotine addiction will set you back $9 per pack in NYC and $5 everywhere else (not counting the cost of one's lung cancer treatments later). Whether these sorts of irrational risks actually do make one a better writer is of course deeply open to debate, but again, it's a rationale as opposed to a reason.

Note that in the cases of 6 and 7 above, there's another potential correlating issue, which is that writers like many creative types appear to have higher incidence of mental illness than your random sample of, say, grocery store managers or bus drivers. Mental illness-particularly illness that goes untreated/undertreated due to financial constraints-will have corresponding effects on one's financial situation.

8. Writers are often attracted to other creative folks, including other writers. Nothing wrong with this in a general sense, mind you. We all love who we love, and what's not to love about another witty, smart and talented person? The problem financially speaking, however, is that other writers very often have the same basic financial issues: low, irregular pay, no benefits, poor finance skills, tendencies toward flakiness and risk-taking, and such. Two incomes are theoretically better than one, but two sporadic incomes accompanied by everything else that comes attached to the writing life isn't necessarily as much better than one would expect. And don't forget: Kids may happen. They often do.


9. Writing can be expensive. The actual act of writing is not expensive, mind you-if one had to one could do it for free off a library computer, although few do-but everything around it adds up. Typewriters, paper, ribbons and correcting fluid have been replaced by computers, printers, printer ink and internet access, so the sunk cost there is roughly the same as it ever was, as are the costs of sending ma.n.u.scripts and correspondence, at least to the markets which still require paper submissions. Writers who write in coffee shops and cafes pay "rent" in coffee and pastries; it sounds silly, but those things ain't cheap when you check the tab. Writers are gregarious and go to things like workshops and conventions and writers' nights at the local bar; these aren't required costs but they are desirable activities and they cost money to attend (even if it's just to get an overpriced beer).

Do all these things mean writers are more susceptible than other trades/professions to encounter serious financial issues? Not necessarily; folks in other creative fields (acting, music, art, dance) have the same set of practical and lifestyle challenges, and while the challenges of other lines of work will vary, they're still there-h.e.l.l, even doctors and lawyers find themselves saddled first with huge amounts of debt and then with some impressive overhead to keep their practices going. Pick a profession-there's lots of ways to get yourself in financial hot water doing it.

However, there is one thing that can make it appear that writers as a cla.s.s are in more financial trouble than other folks, regardless of whether or not it's true: 10. Writers write about their situations. Because they're writers, you see. Writing is what they do. And lots of writers feel the need to share their financial situations with an audience, to a greater or lesser degree. Why? Because (again, pick one or more) writing helps writers think through their situation; writing is therapy; writers feel an obligation to share; writers are hoping for sympathy, encouragement and possibly solutions or even help. Whatever their reasons, it shouldn't be very surprising that you'll more than occasionally read an author lay out his or her financial woes, and (yes) do it in an interesting and engaging style that sticks in your head more than, say, a similar blog post by a janitor might. It's an interesting curse, you might say.

So those are some reasons writers might be having a hard time of it right now-and why it might seem they're having a harder time than some others.

Writing: Find the Time or Don't Sep

16.

2010.

Over the last couple of months I've gotten a fair number of letters from aspiring writers who want to write but find themselves plagued by the vicissitudes of the day, i.e., they've got jobs, and they're tiring, and when they come home they just want to collapse in front of the TV/spend time with family/blow up anthills in the backyard/whatever. And so they want to know two things: One, how I keep inspired to write; two, how one manages to find the time and/or will to write when the rest of life is so draining. I've addressed these before, but at this point the archives are vast, so I'll go ahead and address them again.

The answer to the first of these is simple and unsatisfying: I keep inspired to write because if I don't then the mortgage company will be inspired to foreclose on my house. And I'd prefer not to have that happen. This answer is simple because it's true-hey, this is my job, I don't have another-and it's unsatisfying because writers, and I suppose particularly authors of fiction, are a.s.sumed to have some other, more esoteric inspiration. And, you know. Maybe other authors do. But to the extent that I have to be inspired to write at all on a day-to-day basis (and I really don't; you don't keep a daily blog for twelve years, for example, if you're the sort of person who has to wait for inspiration to get your fingers going across a keyboard), the desire to make money for myself and my family works well enough. Another day, another dollar, etc.

Now, bear in mind here I'm establishing a difference between inspiration for writing on a daily, continuing basis, and inspiration for specific pieces of work; those inspirations aren't necessarily related to getting paid, and can come from any place. But even then, I find the two inspirational motivations work in a complementary fashion. I am inspired to write a particular story or idea in a fanciful way, and then the practical inspiration of getting paid gets my a.s.s in a chair to write the thing. It's a congenial, if somewhat unromantic, way of doing things.

As to the second of these, my basic response here is, Well, look. Either you want to write or you don't, and thinking that you want to write really doesn't mean anything. There are lots of things I think I'd like to do, and yet if I don't actually make the time and effort to do them, they don't get done. This is why I don't have an acting career, or am a musician-because as much as I'd like those, I somehow stubbornly don't actually do the things I need to do in order to achieve them. So I guess in really fundamental way I don't want them, otherwise I'd make the time. C'est la vie.

(This sort of skips over the question of whether I'd be good at either acting or music, but that's neither here nor there. By not trying, I'm not even achieving failure.) So: Do you want to write or don't you? If your answer is "yes, but," then here's a small editing tip: what you're doing is using six letters and two words to say "no." And that's fine. Just don't kid yourself as to what "yes, but" means.

If your answer is "yes," then the question is simply when and how you find the time to do it. If you spend your free time after work watching TV, turn off the TV and write. If you prefer to spend time with your family when you get home, write a bit after the kids are in bed and before you turn in yourself. If your work makes you too tired to think straight when you get home, wake up early and write a little in the morning before you head off. If you can't do that (I'm not a morning person myself) then you have your weekend-weekends being what I used when I wrote Agent to the Stars.

And if you can't manage that, then what you're saying is that you were lying when you said your answer is "yes." Because if you really wanted to write, you would find a way to make the time, and you would find a way to actually write. Cory Doctorow says that no matter what, he tries for 250 words a day (that's a third of what I've written in this entry to this point), and if you write just 250 words a day-the equivalent to a single, double-s.p.a.ced page of text-then in a year you have 90,000 words. That's the length of a novel. Off of 250 words a day. Which you could do. On the G.o.dd.a.m.ned bus. If you really wanted.

This is why at this point in time I have really very little patience for people who say they want to write but then come up with all sorts of excuses as to why they don't have the time. You know what, today is the day my friend Jay Lake goes into surgery to remove a huge chunk of his liver. After which he goes into chemo. For the third time in two years. Between chemo and everything else, he still does work for his day job. And when I last saw him, he was telling me about the novel he was just finishing up. Let me repeat that for you: Jay Lake has been fighting cancer and has had poison running through his system for two years, still does work for his day job and has written novels. So will you please just shut the f.u.c.k up about how hard it is for you to find the time and inspiration to write, and just do it or not.

And to repeat: It's okay if you don't. There's nothing wrong with deciding that when it really comes down to it, you want to do things other than writing. It's even okay to start writing, work at it a while, and decide it's not for you. Being a writer isn't some grand, mystical state of being, it just means you put words together to amuse people, most of all yourself. There's no more shame in not being a writer than there is in not being a painter, or a botanist, or a real estate agent-all of which are things I, personally, quite easily do not regret not being.

But if you want to be a writer, then be a writer, for G.o.d's sake. It's not that hard, and it doesn't require that much effort on a day-to-day basis. Find the time or make the time. Sit down, shut up and put your words together. Work at it and keep working at it. And if you need inspiration, think of yourself on your deathbed saying "well, at least I watched a lot of TV." If saying such a thing as your life ebbs away fills you with existential horror, well, then. I think you know what to do.

You Never Go Full McCain.

Sep.

14.

2012.

Here's the thing about Mitt Romney: He's a Republican candidate for president in the unenviable bind of not being able to run on any sort of record at all. He's tried to run on his record as a businessman, but that's been no good. The Democrats have done a pretty effective job painting him as a robber baron lighting cigars with the pensions of little old ladies, whose companies Bain & Company just liquidated for the LOLs. He can't run on his record as a governor, because then the GOP base has its face rubbed in the fact that Romney gave socialized medicine to gay people who could get married, and that just won't do. He can't go out there and articulate his economic plan, bolted on as it is by the good graces of his Vice Presidential candidate Paul Ryan, because Ryan's economic plan is frankly insane, the sort of plan you make when you apparently think that the oliganarchy of the Russian 1990s is something to aim for, not run away from.

Constrained as he is, he's got nothing he can actually use to make a case for himself but himself-Mitt Romney, with that genial smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, that head of hair strategically left to gray at the temples, and that paternal aura of competence that says, hey, trust me, put me in the job and we'll deal with all those silly fiddly details later. And you know what? With the economy still farting about and Obama still being as cuddly as a p.r.i.c.kly pear, and Romney having a bunch of SuperPACs willing to shovel money until there's not a swing state that's not carpetbombed with ads, this had a reasonably good chance of working. But ultimately it only works if you actually trust Romney-or alternately, have no reason to distrust Romney-to make sane, responsible and intelligent decisions.

Which is why Romney blew up his chance to be president this week: He showed, manifestly, that he's indeed capable of making horrible, awful, very bad, no good, terrible choices. First, by deciding that a foreign crisis, generally considered to be off-limits for bald, obvious politicking, would be an excellent time to engage in some bald, obvious politicking. Second, by making a statement slamming the president while the crisis was still in the process of developing and getting worse. Third, by blaming the president for an action he had no hand in (the press release from the under siege emba.s.sy) and which his administration had disavowed. Fourth, when after the facts of the events became clear, and it became clear that Romney's statement had some serious factual holes in it, for doubling down at a press conference on a.s.sertions everyone knew by that time weren't correct.

How appalling was Romney's decision-making process in attacking Obama on the emba.s.sy attacks? So appalling that it took three whole days for the GOP to find a way to get its messaging to support Romney's position (sort of). And in the meantime, everyone in the world was treated to diplomats, politicians and commentators on both sides of the aisle saying the somewhat more articulate equivalent of "What is this I don't even" to Romney's antics.

Was there a legitimate criticism to be made of the administration's handling of the emba.s.sy attacks? Sure, although it would have been smarter not to release it on September 11. Did Romney make it? No. When presented with a fine opportunity to recraft and restate his criticism, did Romney take advantage of it? Quite the opposite, in fact. Has Romney's refusal to walk back his initial screw-up compromised legitimate criticism about how the emba.s.sy attacks have been handled? Oh, my, yes. It's amazing, actually. It's as if at every turn in the crisis Romney had an opportunity to do something that wouldn't make him look like a cat with a bag on its head navigating through a room full of bar stool legs, and chose instead the opposing course. It's impressive in its way, but it's a not a good way to be impressive.

What Romney has done here is in fact similar to something his predecessor John McCain did in 2008: Seize a moment in a crisis to take a bold step, without checking to see if one is in fact stepping into the abyss. McCain's moment came when the economy started collapsing in on itself, and McCain decided to suspend his campaign, postpone the debates and generally attempt to make it look like he was already president. This didn't go over particularly well, as you may recall. It certainly puzzled me. For me it signaled the point at which Obama began pulling away with the election, because it made McCain look panicky and befuddled rather than decisive and in charge. As I wrote at the time: I wish that this sudden, overwhelming concern wasn't such a transparent attempt to continue the McCain presidential strategy of attempting to win the White House without being required to articulate coherently to the public or the press why he's presidential material. McCain has missed more Senate votes this year than any senator not recovering from a ma.s.sive stroke, so an active presence in the Senate is not something he's put much of a premium on since beginning his campaign. He isn't rushing to Washington to help, he's running away from everything else. He is the Sir Robin of the 2008 presidential election.

Fast-forward to 2012. Here is another crisis, of a different sort. Here's another candidate, attempting to look bold and decisive, ending up looking like he has no idea what he's doing and in the process stripping away the one item he has to base his campaign on: The illusion that he can be trusted to do the right thing. Here's another place where there's an excellent chance we'll one day look back and say: This is where the GOP lost the presidency this time around.

Romney went Full McCain on this one. We see how well it worked for McCain. I suspect it'll work just as well for Romney.

Right Here, Right Now.

Nov.

24.

2011.

There's no way to note this without appearing just the tiniest bit morbid, so I'll come right out and say it: One day, I will be dead. Indeed, if you are reading this in the future (and one day, you may just be!) I may already be dead. In which case: Uh, h.e.l.lo, future. I hope you're enjoying your personal rocket packs, which I never got, you lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. But that's okay, because so far, when I lived and where I lived was not bad for me in the slightest. In fact, for someone like me, it was (and to get back to the current time, is) a pretty good time to be alive.

It has its problems. Right now the US is in a severe money crunch and something that we're being told isn't an actual depression but is about as close to one as anyone under the age of eighty has ever experienced. Cla.s.s divisions are as stark as they have been in the history of our country. We're in an extraordinarily partisan political environment that's paralyzing our governments, federal and state, and we're about to gear up for an election year that promises to rival the presidential elections of the early 1800s in terms of sheer nastiness. And then there's the rest of the world. Oy.

It's a mess. But it's never not a mess. This is not to discount the problems we have now-please, let's not-but it is a reminder that every time and every generation has its crises and its troubles. In my own lifetime of 42 years to date, troubles in the United States have included the Vietnam War, Watergate, oil embargos, stagflation, recessions, the cold war, the rise of the national debt, climate change, 9/11, the Iraq and Afghanistan wars and banking crisis. That's nothing compared to the 40 years before I was born, mind you. But it's enough to make the point that whenever you live, one's world and one's nation will be beset by challenges. We're humans. This is what we do.

I note this to acknowledge the fact this time and place are not perfect. I do what I can to help it become what I see as more perfect, while knowing it'll never get there in my lifetime or (judging from the history of the world) in the lifetimes of probably the next hundred generations to come. Perfection is probably not the point for humans anyway; the working toward it is. It's like the speed of light: something you'll never reach no matter how much energy you put into it, but still worth getting as close to as possible because of the things you'll learn by doing so.

So: not a perfect time. But is it the right time for me? I think so. Part of this is entirely practical: this is the time of three "A"s: Air conditioning, antibiotics and anesthesia, all of which make life longer and more pleasant. It's also the time when I walk around with a computer that fits into the palm of my hand that lets me access information from the entire span of human history, more books, music and moving entertainment that I could read, listen and see if I had seven more lifetimes, and which allows me to communicate, instantly and cheaply, with friends on the other side of the planet almost as easily as if they were in the room with me. I live in a time where I can make a living, sitting in a room in my house, typing.

Part of this is transitional: I live in a time where human rights, while being contested as they always are, are more widely spread than at any other point in history. Technology is making these rights all but unavoidable, even as it equally offers up new challenges to issues like privacy and government intrusion. I am living in a time where I get to see people who were denied their right to care for each other like any others gain those rights, and in that struggle help the rest of us become better people ourselves. I live in a time where we're finally becoming serious about weaning ourselves from oil and all the attendant political and social baggage that dependency has required from us. I mean, holy c.r.a.p, General Motors offers an electric car-for real this time. It's not to say that transitions solve problems-every change brings up new issues and challenges. But I like that these changes are happening now, and am happy to accept the idea that change does not equal "and now we never have to think about any of this ever again."

Part of it is personal: I like the people I know now. Living in any other time and any other place would mean different people in my life. I don't doubt that I would be able to find good people with whom to live my life-but it wouldn't be these people, and my life would be different, and to a non-trivial extent, I would therefore be different as well. I'm grateful that living now has led me to my wife, and has resulted in my child, both of whom I cannot imagine my life being improved without, no matter who else could theoretically replace their roles. I can't imagine wanting to be without the other people that I love, who live here and now. These are the right people for me. They exist now and only now, here and only here.

Living now means I won't live later, which is more than a little annoying for a science fiction writer, who spends so much of his time imagining people, places and times in the future. It's also a little depressing for someone who likes being alive, and conscious, and engaged in a world with so many interesting things about it. I like everyone once held out the hope that before I shuffled off that they'd find a way to make people live forever. They have not, but this is not necessarily a bad thing. I probably wouldn't turn down the opportunity to live longer (and healthier, and better, and with more hair and less saggy chin, please); I don't really expect to live forever, nor do I ultimately see the wisdom of cursing this planet with the same static seven billion people. There's also the pertinent point my friend Mykal Burns brought up several years ago when I asked him if he wanted to live forever: "Why would I want to live forever? I get bored now."