Today I steal my title from Ken McLeod, a marvellous SF writer.
I'm indulging myself this afternoon (try it a little while you read - maybe rub your belly or loosen your shirt. That's it, feel alive) as I found out that Michael Crichton has died and I am sad. It's not cool to like his books, but I do - the ones I've read at least (which is not all of them by a long shot) and I admired how he went about what he did. It kind of reminded me of John Grisham, but with research. I sometimes felt that he was a thwarted documentary maker, and I also wish I had his talent for creating page turning plots. No, not great with the character development, but he didn't really pretend to be anything he wasn't, and the books nearly read themselves to you. Maybe they made better movies than books (Rising Sun) but that's ok too.
I also came across a great interview with Charles Stross, who is creating fascinating novels and I think is great fun. Thankfully, he is very well, and not dead. He talks here about SF as a genre with it's self-imposed limits, but also his own ideas of what keeps it relevant and interesting. It's from this interview that I pinched the title. I've read my share of singularity rapture!
I'm sad to have another writer die. Somehow it seems fitting that aging movie stars meet their end, or racing car drivers or politicians. But aren't writers exempt in some way?
I guess not.
Well, I hope he's having a good nerd rapture now.
So say we all.