I’ve been a voracious reader all my life. My brother can sit at the breakfast table to eat a whole bowl of cereal without reading a single word on the cereal box. I have no idea how he does it.
I never cared about the authors. I lived for the stories. The Archmage Ged, Kip Russell, Archie Goodwin, and Miss Marple were more real to me than Ursula LeGuin, Robert Heinlein, Rex Stout or Agatha Christie. I relied on national book awards to steer me toward the best stories: the Hugo, the Nebula.
So when the latest Hugo Awards controversy erupted, I felt left out. I don’t know who any of these people are, or what their race or gender or politics might be. And I really don’t care. Can they write good stories? Sadly, the answer appears to be No. If they could, they wouldn’t need affirmative action awards to make themselves feel better.
Joe Doakes
I’m not a huge SciFi fan – but Joe’s premise confirms Dennis Prager’s dictum: the left destroys everything it touches.
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