Author of LGBTQIA+ speculative fiction and poetry in English and Esperanto. Teacher of scientific writing. Lover of natural history. SFWA Secretary. (he/him)
As July ends, I typically find myself consumed with regrets. With August imminent, I sulk as I see the end of summer approaching and recognize I need to start working to get ready for the fall. And I invariably feel like I didn’t accomplish enough during the summer. I didn’t relax enough, enjoy myself, write enough, travel enough, etc.
Enough. I need to let go of these regrets and just let myself enjoy the time that I have. So today, on the last day of July, I propose to do exactly that. It doesn’t matter if I don’t write. Or don’t organize my office. Or don’t register for some upcoming conference. I need to just not dwell on negative thoughts and let myself be happy.
When my brother Philip attends a party he invariably comments, “Am I not the socialest of all possible butterflies?” This week, I felt like a socialist butterfly my own self.
When my wife was involved in local politics (chiefly 2002-2022), she loved attending social events. It was an important part of why she was so effective. I occasionally got to attend as arm candy, though it’s not really my thing. I joke that when we first arrived, she was my wife. But after she became one of the most well-known people in town, I became her husband. It’s nice to attend events with her because she knows everyone and can remind me who is who. I’m terrible with faces and names.
For Pride, I went to a flag raising at Town Hall. It was fun to see all my queer friends. After the flag raising there was a presentation by Justice Roderick Ireland, one of judges that decided the constitutional question that enabled same-sex marriage in Massachusetts 20 years ago, followed by a panel discussion. Unfortunately, the event was indoors, so I was unable to attend. But my friends who were there said it was very moving.
Next, we attended a giant party that was a fundraiser for the Family Outreach of Amherst. They run two events annually, Warm Up the Night in the fall and Light Up the Night in the spring. They’re huge events that have a number of vendors that bring samples of beverages and foods and attract hundreds of people to eat, drink, mingle, and chat. We saws dozens of people, including the UMassAmherst Chancellor whom I have been in meetings with dozens of times, but had not been able to meet face-to-face (since I can’t attend indoor meetings).
My union held a get together for a co-president who’s stepping back after many years of service. It was a smaller event, but still with a lot of people and social interaction.
Finally, the Amherst town council president holds a “garden party” at her home every year that, also, attracts many of the politically active people from the town and University. Once again the Chancellor was there, so I got to hang out with him for the second time in a week. Our state rep was there. And our former state senator. After the long isolation during the height of the pandemic it was nice to catch up and reconnect with people we haven’t seen in a year or more.
My wife had even more events, but that was enough for me for a while. Now I’m ready to stay home and get back to my writing.
My father passed away last year, just short of 90 years old. He had been suffering from dementia for several years and he could no longer recognize me or remember who I was. But, even before then, we were not close. He maintained contact with me out of a kind of weird sense of obligation. When we spoke, there was an implicit understanding that I would tell him things about his grandchildren — not because he was genuinely interested in them, but because he needed to know things about them to fend off his wife who believed he should take an interest in them. At least, that was how it felt to me.
My father did not like me as a child or, especially, as a young adult. He was always clever with a quip or turn of phrase, often at the expense of other people. As a child, when he turned this form of “humor” on me, I felt compelled to do the same to him. But where he could be clever, I was merely offensive and he was often furious with me for being obnoxious and rude. Once he angrily told me to get out of the car on the side of the road miles from anywhere, driving a short distance ahead, and then stopping and angrily telling me to get back in the car.
He lamented that I was lazy and fat and a poor student. He made it clear that I did not measure up. As a teenager, I became withdrawn and antisocial. When I started smoking, he was livid and told my mother he was writing me off. My mother said she would be glad to take me. My relationship with my mother was probably what saved me: she always loved both her children unconditionally and without qualification.
As a child, I craved approval and wanted to be closer to my father, but he only accepted interaction on his terms. He was never interested in learning about or doing any of the things I wanted to do. But there were places where our interests aligned. He spent a lot of time in the field as a biologist. And, as I expressed an interest in herpetology, I could go with him into the field and — while he looked for birds — I would scour the ground for reptiles and amphibians.
When I finished my PhD and was hired for a faculty position at a prestigious university, I remember he took me aside and grudgingly admitted that I had turned out OK. I think that was the first time I ever felt like he had given me any real measure of approval.
He was pleased when I had children. As a biologist, he was very interested in the idea of children carrying forward his genes. He wasn’t actually interested in the children themselves, however. He didn’t really like children and wasn’t interested in getting to know them as people. He had always seen his own children as objects and his grandchildren were objects too. I tried to get him to spend time with his grandchildren and invited him to take them on outings. But he never did. He would say, “Well, if you need me to watch them sometime, I guess I could do that.” And I would reply, “We don’t ever need you to ‘watch’ them — but if you’d like to spend time with them or take them somewhere, that would be great.” But, as I say, he never did.
It was a surprise to me that, when my father died, many of his former colleagues and students remembered him at his funeral as an extremely attentive and devoted friend and mentor. It sounded like he maintained a network of close collegial relationships where he checked in with a vast number of people on a daily or weekly basis. It was a side of him I never would have predicted based on my own personal experiences.
So, on Father’s Day, I reflect on my “relationship” with my father. I intentionally strove to be a different kind of father. I tried to see my children as people from an early age and to not try to live my life through them. I tried to take an interest in things they liked to do and to find ways to relate to them through their interests. But I know also that I’m not a perfect father either. And so I’ve tried grant my father a certain amount of understanding by acknowledging that he was doing the best he could with what he had in terms of his native personality and the experiences he had growing up.
For the first time, in many, many years, I’m actually free this summer.
When I began my career at the University, I was hired on a 12-month appointment to direct the Biology Computer Resource Center (BCRC). After the first year, the chairman — with some help from the dean — rewrote my job classification to put me on a 9-month appointment so that I would be able to apply for grants to supplement my salary during the summer. But, with the understanding, that I would not “vanish” during the summer and would be available to provide support to students and faculty that needed it.
In point of fact, the summer was indispensable for running the BCRC because it was then that I could update software, replace hardware, and build the server infrastructure that made running the facility possible. It was the only period when I had the uninterrupted blocks of time needed to really accomplish significant projects. And I did: setting up instructional materials and resources, engaging in curriculum design, and writing papers.
Perhaps eight years ago, I proposed to develop an online version of the writing class I teach to be taught during the summer. Most summer classes are taught only over a 6-week period. I tried the class that way but found it unsatisfactory: students can’t write enough in 6 weeks to get a full-semester’s worth of writing experience. So I taught the course over the full 13-week period spanning both summer sessions. And that worked pretty well. It was a pretty light load spread out that way, but it was still an obligation.
When the Biology Department closed the BCRC and rewrote my job description during the pandemic, I no longer had the obligation to spend my summers working on infrastructure, but I continued to teach the writing class. This year, however, I decided to stop. Mostly, I just wanted to have the time to write, but the fact that I would have had to migrate all of the teaching materials to a different LMS played no small role in my decision as well. I notified the Department back in October I wouldn’t be teaching it, so they could find someone else, if they wanted to. But nobody stepped up.
But, for the first time in nearly 30 years, I’m free of obligations during the summer. I can’t say I don’t like it, because it’s glorious. It’s not like I’m not “working” in that I’ve already written tens of thousands of words of fiction. But it’s great to be able to focus without distractions — and to let serendipity guide how I spend each day.
On May 20, 2024, I served as the Presiding Officer of an Emergency General Faculty Meeting for UMass Amherst. More than a thousand of the faculty were split between a large room on campus and via Zoom. It was by far and away the largest meeting — let alone hybrid meeting — I had ever tried to run.
The meeting was called, following the Constitution of the Faculty Senate, in response to a petition of more than 10% of the faculty and librarians. The meeting had a single agenda item: a resolution calling for no confidence in the Chancellor. On May 7, the Chancellor had directed police to disperse students protesting the war in Gaza. During the police action, students and faculty were arrested and there were some violent clashes between the police and protesters.
The emergency meeting was organized frenetically on extremely short notice during the Commencement weekend. A handful of us on the Rules Committee exchanged hundreds of emails to nail down the agenda, try to develop a mechanism to enable faculty to vote securely, and draft a long and comprehensive set of ground rules for running the meeting.
There were a number of technical challenges. Faculty had difficulty registering, email systems rejected the ballots as spam, the audio from some of the mics was nearly inaudible via Zoom. We did the best we could to resolve the issues and, by the end of the meeting, we had things working about as well as could be reasonably expected.
The meeting went on and on. Passions were high, but most people respected the ground rules and were patient as we worked though the technical issues. We came to the final vote after four hours of discussion and consideration of an amendment to change “no confidence” to “censure”. In the end, more than 800 faculty voted and 473 voted no confidence, so the motion carried. And after four hours and fifteen minutes, I adjourned the meeting.
The vote carries only symbolic weight. The UMass System President and Board of Trustees have expressed their unwavering support of the Chancellor. Still, the resolution minimally provides notice to the Chancellor that hundreds of faculty are incredibly angry and upset. As soon as the vote was announced, he issued a statement expressing disappointment, but accepting the results and promising to work to rebuild trust.
Those of us organizing and running the meeting received many messages of appreciation and support, though not everyone was entirely satisfied. I’m satisfied, however, that we did the very best we could under the circumstances. And I think the outcome speaks for itself.
One thing I realized is that hybrid meetings work a lot better when they’re convened and run by a remote participant. People in the room tend to ignore remote participants. A remote participant is better positioned to make sure everyone gets to fully participate.
But perhaps the most important outcome was that, during the meeting, someone noticed the poster for Revin’s Heart in the background of my Zoom image and bought a copy. They emailed me to ask about order of the series, but I pointed out that the collected edition contains all of the stories — plus some side stories — so they should be all set.
Being an author has ups and downs. It’s a constant rollercoaster. When you submit manuscripts you get acceptances and rejections. The same when you apply to present at conventions. Or apply for grants. You can torment yourself by watching the book scan sales numbers. Or Amazon ranking. Or reviews at Goodreads (and elsewhere).
When good things happen, it’s wonderful. Getting a manuscript accepted is a great feeling.
When bad things happen, you just have to grit your teeth and go on.
But sometimes you have a long run of bad luck. It can get very discouraging when everything seems to get rejected or turned down. When that happens, you question what you’re even doing. Why keep trying? Why bother? Why not just do something else.
I got to see John Hodgman perform in Northampton a few years ago. This was around the time he was promoting Vacationland. One of the themes was the ineffable quality of celebrity. People kept asking him how he became a celebrity, as if there was some secret or recipe. He said he spent a lot of time trying to figure out why *this* thing had gone viral whereas all these other things he’d been doing before or after did not. Eventually, he decided there wasn’t any difference. It was just luck or happenstance. But, even though you couldn’t predict what might lead to success, it was clear that the only way to be sure to fail was to not keep doing your art. It could only happen if you were making stuff and putting it out there.
So, even when I’m down. Even when I feel like nothing is getting traction. Even when I feel like there’s no point. I just keep putting one foot in front of the other and soldiering on. And maybe — just maybe — one of the things I write will find an audience and lead to greater things. Maybe.
Twenty-eight years ago, I joined the Biology Department at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. As a freshly-minted PhD in Science Education, I was hired to the direct the Biology Computer Resource Center (BCRC) — a small computer lab that was both a computer classroom and drop-in space for undergraduates.
I really enjoyed the educational and technical work I did for the Department and University. The Internet was new and we built a lot of interesting and innovative educational resources. When I was hired, I had no formal teaching responsibilities, but over time I developed a number of face-to-face and online classes which offered unique learning opportunities for students.
During the pandemic, the Department closed the BCRC and my job responsibilities became solely teaching. When I was no longer obligated to spend all of my summers, breaks, and intersessions maintaining computer systems, I decided to repurpose that time for writing fiction. Since then, I’ve published several short stories and two books of fiction. And written a number more that are, as yet, unpublished.
Last year, after a long stay in the local hospital, I was diagnosed with a chronic lung condition that makes it likely I will become very ill from any respiratory infections. I’ve been working remotely since then, and I’m so grateful that the University has provided this accommodation that has allowed me to continue working. But remote work is isolating and difficult. And I’d also like to have even more time for writing fiction.
This evening, I was notified that my application to do a phased retirement over the next two years has been approved. Beginning in Fall 2024, I will teach only half time for two academic years and then fully retire. I’m looking forward to making a gradual transition into retirement and being able to devote myself more to my new creative endeavors.
Alisa V. Brewer, generously wearing the “fascinator” I got her at WorldCon.
Thirty-nine years ago, I met someone who would change my life forever. I was visiting a former roommate who’d forgotten he promised to take his girlfriend to a rodeo. When she called angrily to remind him, he looked at me and said, “Hey, Steve. Wanna go to a rodeo?” And I was like, “Aight.” And his girlfriend, horrified that her boyfriend’s loser friend Steve would be going too, invited her friend Alisa. And when Alisa yelled, “Look! That calf has mange!” I knew that she was the one for me.
I read something once that said that, to make a long-term relationship work, you must accept that your partner will do things that are “predictably stupid and unforgivable.” And you need to forgive them anyway, because that’s who they are and they’re never going to change. You have to accept that they will always do that thing, no matter how many times you’ve told them not to. And no matter how many times they’ve promised not to. They’re gonna do that thing regardless.
Note: I really should be saying “I” here. No matter how many times I’ve promised to not do that thing, I do it anyway. Because I’m a horrible person. But somehow she’s managed to forgive me and we’re still together.
There’s an article today in the New York Times speculating about what famous women might have accomplished if they had a wife. It’s been well known that success of male academics is often strongly influenced by having a wife who takes care of all of the flotsam and jetsam of day-to-day life so they can focus on their “life of the mind.” So it has been with me.
After a few interesting years of both working the jobs our bachelors degrees brought us in the late 1980s, Alisa put me through graduate school; she worked at a series of both temporary and what she calls “pink collar” jobs which provided enough money to support us living frugally in student housing with the meager supplement of what I made as a graduate student. (Pro-tip: always refer to yourself as a “doctoral student” to University staff — they treat you way, way better.)
She found the classified ad in Science for the job I ultimately got. When I started, she was able to quit working to stay home with our children (though not without sacrifices). I had been the primary caregiver of our first child while I was finishing my dissertation (which was challenging), but when I started working I was able to focus on my career because she gave up hers and allowed us to make that pivot.
As the kids grew and she had more time, she wanted more than to stay at home and began to pursue an interest in municipal service after various parenting groups had run their course. She got elected to Representative Town Meeting, helped renovate a municipal playground, helped lead the PTO at our son’s elementary school, and served on various committees at the school and town levels, then was elected to the School Committee then the Select Board. She was Select Board Chair for some tumultuous years when the Town Manager unexpectedly passed away. After the form of town government changed, she felt compelled to bring her experience to help shape the transition to a Town Council, and then retired after that three year term — after twenty years of town service.
I occasionally got to see Alisa in action as a municipal official because the meetings are all televised. Personally, I didn’t pay much attention to town issues because she was already there attending to my concerns (not counting the closure of our elementary school, for which I have mostly forgiven her). But I remember a particular event very early on that stuck in my mind as emblematic of her puissance as a public official: They were considering a budget that was many, many pages long. At the conclusion of the presentation, she asked, “On line 30 of page 1 there is a budget item labeled X. And on page 80 there is another item labeled X, but the amount is different. Can you explain this discrepancy?” Alisa has this unique ability to see BOTH the forest AND each individual tree in it. It’s uncanny.
Since her retirement from public service, she has continued in her long-term part-time job that’s been terrific to allow her to continue to work remotely, as she has increasingly been managing family members’ — including my mother’s — health. We’ve been so lucky that my mom has lived with us since our oldest was two and, while she is now 90 and in generally good health, she has a stream of medical appointments. There are few 90-year-olds who have any hope of navigating the patient portals, phone trees, and bureaucratic hoop-jumping required to effectively manage their own care. Furthermore, Alisa attends all of the medical meetings and keeps an eye that, when they propose a procedure or a prescription, that it makes sense. And, when the order actually appears, that it matches what they said in person and in the patient portal.
When I was hospitalized, Alisa brought all of this to my care. She was a constant fierce and obsessive advocate for my medical treatment. Several times she prompted me with key information and questions so that issues were addressed properly. She identified several places where wires had gotten crossed or information was mischaracterized in my care. She was constantly checking and reconciling what the staff and doctors were telling me and what was recorded in the patient portal. And asking questions when anything wasn’t clear — or challenging them when they were mistaken. I was overwhelmed being stuck full of needles and constantly pinched and poked and squoze. (Plus I just can’t do that sort of thing to begin with.) One of the hospitalists admitted it was vital to have someone who could keep an eye on everything. And there is no-one better at that sort of thing than Alisa.
I love my wife and I am profoundly grateful that she has chosen to share her life with me. I met her when I was 20 and so, next year, we will have been together for twice as long as we were apart in our lives. And, with her diligent care of me, perhaps we can share another 20 — or more — years together.
