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James G. Harper
I’m standing fifteen hundred miles from the South Pole and, incredibly, I’m wishing it was colder. During the winter months you can work flat-out all day and never sweat a drop, and your clothes smell almost as fresh as when you first put them on. But right now it’s late summer, so it’s just warm enough that your inner layers get damp, and if you don’t thoroughly air out your sleeping bag you’ll find lumps of ice when you climb back in.
Normally you can cool off by removing your gloves or goggles for a moment, but my construction crew’s working directly under the ozone hole, so we’ve got to stay covered up. That means we’re slathered in suntan lotion and sleeping in windowless prefab cabins and, since the nearest internet access is four thousand kilometers away, we’re making do with dumb tools and no glassguides. All to build a solar array forest in the middle of the Antarctic that’s not powering anything. I still can’t figure out why.
|What I Write||
Bizarre morality tales set on a desolate rain-soaked island. Heavily researched SF/fantasy/horror hybrid stories, often set in different decades of London’s history. Technically optimistic near-future stuff. As for right now, ridiculously over-the-top space opera pastiche.
A Clean Start, Amazing Stories (free online here)
I’m preparing to move house at the moment, so writing isn’t top of my agenda right now. But for the Write-a-thon I’ll try to finish part two of my space opera pastiche, ‘Into the Core Again.’ It should only be another 20k words or so.
Anything, really. It’s all for a good cause.
As an incentive, anyone who supports me for $1 or more will… let’s just say you’ll be able to add something to my space opera story.