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Marketing is hard, but I'll tell you a little secret. It doesn't have to be. Let me point something out. You're listening to a podcast right now and it's great. You love the host. You seek it out and download it. You listen to it while driving, working out, cooking, even going to the bathroom. Podcasts are a pretty close companion. And this is a podcast ad. Did I get your attention? You can reach great listeners like yourself with podcast advertising from Libsyn Ads. Choose from hundreds of top podcasts offering host endorsements or run a pre produced ad like this one across thousands of shows. To reach your target audience audience in their favorite podcasts with Libsyn ads go to Libsynads.com that's L I B S Y N ads.com today
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this week with digital coupons at Safeway and Albertsons Get Beef rib roast for 7.97 per pound member price with minimum purchase of $50 or more in a single transaction. Exclusions apply. See Store for details and Broccoli, cauliflower or russet potatoes are $0.97 per pound member price limit £6 plus selected sizes and varieties of Lucerne Butter, Chees or Philadelphia Cream Cheese are 197 each member price. Visit safewayralbertsons.com for more deals and ways to save. Escape pod episode 1034 an honor to
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be Nominated by Jacob Sinermeyer. Hello and welcome to Escape Pod. I'm Merleafferty, your host and co editor. Today's story is an honor to be nominated by Jacob Sinemaier Jacob is an English teacher and speculative fiction author based in Perth, Western Australia. He's always loved reading science fiction, horror and fantasy, so in 2025 he decided to put his creative writing degree to work. When he's not busy telling tales out of school, he can usually be found enjoying a strong coffee and a quiet bookshop. It's narrated for us by Eli Hirschman. Eli always wanted to be a voice actor growing up watching he Man Thundercats and Voltron. After recording several elearning scientific and marketing projects, Eli discovered the world of audio podcasts working with such groups as Darker Projects and Dream Realm Productions. Together with fellow actor David Alt, he started Cool Fool Productions, where they dramatized bad audio scripts with questionable results. He's still currently active in all EA podcasts except Kat's cast and also appears semi regularly on the no Sleep podcast. This is an Escape Pod original. I'd like to thank the associate editors, the narrators, the producers and the assistant editors and story time.
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An honor to be nominated by Jacob Sinemaier Read by Ellie Hirschman Transgalactic News straight from the feed to your screed. And how exciting to be gathered here for this knight of Knights as the Planetary Terraforming awards for the 346 billionth galactic cycle gets underway here at the Grand Tool Interdimensional Ballroom. Whether you're tuning in via tachyon wave transfer from the distant future or via mental projection from the dawn of time hologram, tachygram or gene tweaked data encoder, we have all the stars of the industry gathered together on the vermilion carpet. Faint at the latest fashion, gasp at the gossip. Most importantly, stay tuned because we will be broadcasting live and in person to answer that most sought after of life's questions. Who will be this cycle's rising star? Who will take home the coveted Terraformer of the Cycle award? Only we can give you the answer. But if you want the answer to your thirst, don't forget to reach for a pouch of cool clammy green tool and quench that fire. Klempk oozed out of the transport tube and padded out onto the vermilion carpet. Nobody noticed. It wasn't unexpected, certainly not unfamiliar. Still, of all the places to break the habit of a lifetime, the Walk of Fame at the Terraformer of the Cycle Awards would have been a great place to start. No such luck, though. Every vibe recorder with a would be journalist stuck behind it was busy chasing down interviews with the various luminary formers who'd arrived before him, and his appearance hadn't raised a ripple. The crowds that packed the stands on either side were too busy gazing in adoration at the arrivals that hadn't traveled here cheaply by tube. Even the camera drones seemed to be avoiding him, and they were supposed to document everything. An ear splitting roar nearly caused him to bifurcate in terror, but it was just that blowhard Peerkin Strube, arriving on the back of a colossal four legged feathered quetzadillo. The beast reared up and kicked out with its rear claws at the poor robot valets who'd arrived to park it, sending one flying and badly denting the other. He was always pulling stunts like this. The planets he terraformed were inevitably vicious gore soaked nightmares celebrating the most brutal predatory hierarchies imaginable. And he enjoyed trotting out his latest creations at these sort of events to stir up his fans. Strube waved the remaining valets away and led the beast down the vermilion carpet, grinning and giving four thumbs up to the crowds, who cheered and screamed delightedly in terror, squeezing Klenk into the corner of the carpet like a forgotten half eaten canape at the edge of an overflowing buffet table. Klemp shook his head and waved one suckered polyp at a passing Collapsed Solid in a black and white jacket carrying a clipboard. They looked up, blinked, and folded space to appear at Klemsk elbow. Naaaame, they grunted. Klemkutha, he answered. Whenever he had to give someone his name, he always sounded like he was apologizing for something. The Collapsed Solid, it seemed like a male flickering a vivid scarlet whenever they appeared and reappeared, nodded. Welcome to the Grand Tool Interdimensional Ballroom. Head straight on through to the end of the carpet. Make sure to pick up your welcome pack at the end. He clicked a small silvery device in his hand and a tiny hovering blue triangular icon appeared, circling around Clemsk's head. Thanks, clemsk said. The teeny blue triangle was terribly distracting, orbiting just at the corner of his vision. He resisted the urge to flail one of his tentacles at it. You nominated for anything? The Collapsed Solid asked. Job done. Now 80% of his attention was focused on the gaudily dressed figures crawling, stalking, flapping, and teleporting onto the carpet from their respective vehicles. He faded in and out periodically, his barely there presence in three dimensional space reflecting his lack of interest. Clemsk's answer was a low mutter whistled through his lower spiracles. Sorry. Terraformer of the cycle, klemk said, his voice now slightly above a whisper. Seriously? The Collapsed Solid raised one crystalline eyebrow, fading back into substantiality. Klemk had all of his attention now. Any planet I would have heard of? Probably not, klemp admitted, compulsively adjusting the translucent jacket of hardened slime he'd extruded a few hours before. He never could get the lapels quite right, but he hadn't been able to afford a new suit for the event, or even an old one. What's your world called? Earth. They blinked. Never heard of it. Clemk shrugged. Told you. Still an Indy getting nominated. How'd you manage that? I genuinely have no idea. The Collapse Solid waved the self conscious terraformer away and went back to his concierge duties. Klemk wove his way through the crowds towards the end of the carpet, hearts leaping in his chest every time he heard one of the interviewers calling out a name and feeling them plunge to the depths of his thorax every time it turned out not to be his one name did cause him to pause and turn, however. La Mutar. La Mutar. Sure enough, there he was, kinetic exoskeleton polished and gleaming for the occasion, the gaseous form within swirling and glowing a pale sea foam green, indicating confidence and relaxation, which tended to be his default state. Lomitar had three different recorders trained on him from three different directions. Bet they all get his good side, klimk fumed. They're calling you the next terraforming genius, one interviewer breathed, leaning in close, her gleaming mauve fur rippling with excitement. That your world, this cycle, might make you the successor to Sporkin Berglund. How do you respond to that look? Lomitar responded humbly, flashing colors in a staccato burst of sublight communications, translated by his suit into an unctuous, humble bragging drawl. I'm nothing special. I'm just lucky enough to have been in the right place at the right time to be inspired. You know, some planets just like, have to be born. I'm more of a midwife than an artist. If Klemsk species had evolved teeth, he would have ground them in frustration. He turned his back and stormed down the vermilion carpet towards the ballroom. He needed a drink. Nearly as many people noticed him leave, as remarked upon his arrival, which is to say, none at all. The Grentoul Interdimensional Ballroom was constructed on multiple planes of existence, all the way up to the elevated spaces where the canapes and fizzling flutes of booze existed purely as conceptual ideals of their perfected existence, all the way back down to the densest underlayer of the bedrock of the universe, where the only ones who could survive the interminable pressures were those who were able to squeeze between subatomic particles where even gravity itself didn't penetrate. Klemk was somewhere in the middle, designed for corporeals like himself. His table, for one was 70 rows back from the front of the stage, pushed right up against the giant square of suspended salt water that allowed the finned and flippered Aquatics to float, drink, and cheer their fellow creatives whenever an award was announced. Every now and then a bubble of air escaped the watery cube, and with it the sound of enthusiastic burbling. Klemk nibbled on a pickled eel that he had snagged off one of the passing waitroids. Three more just like it were lined up on his tiny plate. He had predicted, correctly, that the waiters would be few and far between, and had grabbed a handful while he could no sense being hungry as well as humiliated. He still didn't understand what he was doing here. Terraformers like him, working outside the studio system, relying entirely on gonzo teams of half crazy volunteer gene tweakers and landscape archetypists didn't get invited to the awards. Like ever, the votes needed for your planet to get nominated had to be in the trillions. Earth was. Well, it just wasn't a contender. It wasn't nearly aesthetic enough to be appealing to the transcendents since the dinosaurs got wiped out in that fucking frustrating asteroid collision. It wasn't violent enough for the brutalists. The mathematics would turn their nose up at the lack of symmetrical imaginary and prime numbers in the planet's probability events. So what did that leave the penguins? He smiled. He did love the penguins. Nevertheless, Klemp was still convinced that it had to be a mistake. Not so much that he'd refuse the invitation. He wasn't crazy. There were 6,000 planets on the list of nominees, and his baby was number 60000. It had made the cut. However it had happened, he intended to make the most out of this, maybe get some exposure for his team and their tiny weirdo ball of rock. Clamp, you sorry excuse for a mudworm. There you are. Oh God, not now. He glanced up and saw Lomutar striding towards him, his suit's light array flashing a delighted purple. I was wondering where they stuck you. Lomutar parked his exosuit on the other side of the table, locked into a sitting position to make up for the lack of a second chair. I saw you earlier on the vermilion carpet, but you ran off before I could say hi. Sorry. Those reporters wouldn't let me leave. They're like, what are those little fishy things on your planet? The ones that are all teeth? Piranhas. Klemp swallowed down a knot of jealous rage, which bubbled and burned in his stomach. They're called piranhas. Yeah, those guys. When you're on top, they all want a piece of you. Must be tough, klemph said flatly. Lamitar's exoskeleton nodded what passed for its head, and the swirling gas within turned a vivid chartreuse of can you believe it? Who would have thought when we were coming up that we'd both be here for the Terraformer of the Cycle Awards? The way I remember it, klump said, catching a rare glimpse of a waitroid zooming past, and flagged them down for a drink. We always thought the awards were bullshit, nothing but a bloated industry, high on its own sense of self importance, patting itself on its collective back. Careful, buddy, lumutar said, his electronically generated voice amused but with an edge to it. You. Your bitterness is showing. I'm quoting you, clemk said, downing his drink and feeling the mucus in his nodes begin to loosen. You could have been here with me, lomitar insisted. The irony was, he was right. When the two of them were terraforming partners, they had both been offered the chance to work at Fieldstar Productions. Klimt had refused, citing the lack of creative control. Lomitar had taken the position five cycles later. Lomitar was Fieldstar's golden gaseous genius. He'd been taken under the wing of Spurkin Berglund himself, and was now favored to win the award for his latest creation, Folotoro. It was a soaring crystalline macro world, as beautiful as it was utterly, ridiculously predictable. There was nothing about it that wasn't carefully chosen for award potential, from the dazzling shades of its emerald oceans to its endlessly spinning, perfectly symmetrical dominant species, a latticework of glittering interconnected single celled lifeforms. There wasn't a micrometer of it that hadn't been exhaustively focus grouped for marketability. Klumpk hated it, but to be fair, he wasn't exactly objective. You could have been here with me, klempk shot back. The two of us terraforming planets that break the rules and make the establishment scratch their gray matter, trying to figure out what the hell we were thinking. And how's that going for you so far? Lamitar asked. I'm here, aren't I? Somebody must have been paying attention. Klimk reached for his drink. All at once, the swirling mist that occupied Lomutar's containment exoskeleton changed direction. The light that decorated the suit flickered guiltily. Klump paused with the amber liquid halfway to his mouth. What? What is it? I know that look, look, pal, lomitar said slowly. You didn't really think you got here on your own, do you? What do you mean? I pulled some strings. Asked Berglund to send out some psy blasts to a few of the more heavily populated hivemind dimensions. Enough to scrape up the minimum number of nominations to score you an invite. Why the hell would you do that? You haven't been returning my calls. I tried to make an appointment, but your secretary must be incompetent because they clearly didn't pass on my message. I don't have a secretary, klempt deadpanned. You left the message with one of my terraformers. She told me she thought it must be a crank hologram because nobody could possibly be so arrogant and entitled over the wave on purpose. I didn't have the heart to correct her. Lamitar ignored him. So anyhow, I thought this would be a good chance for us to bury the hatchet. I want you to work for me. Work for you? Yeah, man. Think about it. It'd be like old times again. You can ditch that mud ball you're stuck to. Forget it. Clemp quivered with rage. Unlike some of us, I actually enjoy what I'm doing. And I don't have to bow and scrape at the studio's feet to get my planet spinning or leech off more talented people to get ahead. Lomitar's running lights flashed in angry scarlet. Whatever you stuck up, Cephalopod. Last time I'd do you a favor. Lomitar's exosuit unfolded itself and turned to leave. Enjoy the party, his speaker sneered. It's the last time you'll ever see the inside of this place when you're not watching it from the couch. Once Lomitar was gone, Klemp waved down another passing wait droid. Ignoring the buzzing droid's objections, he snagged the entire tray of drinks. Keep em coming, he insisted. Lommytor was right about one thing, Klemk thought as he lined up the glasses and began to drain them one at a time. Might as well make the most of this while I can. Two hours later, Klemk was racing shots with one of the aquatic oceanic engineers on the other side of the self contained cube of seawater and losing badly. Which makes no sense, he thought fuzzily. How the hell is he even drinking inside there? He was only halfway to the end of his line of drinks when the aquatic and his friends bubbled loudly and slapped fins. They'd beaten him again. One more round, he slurred to the scaly humanoid, who was waving at him with his feathery tail in what Klemk assumed was an obscene gesture. He was wrong. Turns out they were just pointing behind you. They mouthed a line of bubbles escaping their gill slits. Mr. Oohsa, might I disturb you for a moment? The voice was unctuous, officious, and attached to a heavy set kifuk leaning over Klemp's table. Heavy set was the default for those folk. They were high gravity species, so they tended to take up a lot of room. Even for a kifuk. This sentient was big, squeezed into an exquisitely tailored silver dinner suit with yellow piping. The liquid in Klemp's glass tilted sideways, drawn to the macrogravity of the looming figure's mass. Hey. Sorry, I just assumed these drinks were free, klump babbled. No, it's nothing like that, the figure assured him. Their wide, flat features twisted into what might have been a reassuring smile, multifaceted eyes glittering. My name is Erok. I'm here to deliver a message from the Board of Selections. They would like to request a favor. More of an opportunity, really. For you. Wait. The board? The board? Klemp had to be hallucinating from a combo of booze and too much eel. He shook his head and tried to bring the kifuk back into focus, but they stubbornly insisted on being three wobbly people instead of a more traditionally in focus one. The Board were the ones who organized the Terraformer Awards every cycle. They ran the show, tabulated the nominations, and, if rumors were to be believed, secretly decided who was going to win in each category not based on the votes, but based on their own arcane math. Yes, of course, errik agreed indulgently. You see, we find ourselves short. A presenter, Peer Construb, was set to give out an award, but he's had a small accident. What happened? Unfortunately, his pet Quercadillo broke free and savaged him rather badly. It would take better part of the day to reattach his limbs, let alone his head. Wow. Indeed. Errok raised an eyebrow. A cynical person might express astonishment that it has not happened sooner. So what do you need from me? The Board has long been interested in promoting independent voices and creators. Your name was recommended to us by someone on Sporkinbergland's team to present the Award for the Most Innovative Planet. Quite an honor. They want me to present. Wait. Klemp extruded an extra pair of polyps from his neck and ran them across his face. The person who dropped my name. Would that be Lomutar, by any chance? I believe so, yes. That foggy bastard. Klemp fumed to himself, drunkenly swaying slightly. Everybody with half a brain knows he's guaranteed to win. He just wants to rub it in my face by forcing me to present the award to him. What a Colossal tw. With a start, Klemp realized he was moving. Somehow the kiff had increased its personal gravity, and Klemp was trapped in it, bobbing along behind them as the Colossal sentient strode towards the front of the stage, weaving between tables, Klemp spun counterclockwise and found himself dangling upside down, all the fluid in his thorax slid into his abdomen with an audible squeech. This was not helping his rising nausea. Hey, wait. He called out. So glad you could assist. Errik called without looking back. The board was not, it seemed, taking no for an answer. What felt like mere moments later, Klempk was standing shakily to one side of the stage, holding a small crystalline envelope in one trembling, suckered hand. He tried lifting it up to one of the small synchrotronic lamps installed on the side of the stage. No luck. Stupid thing was impenetrable. Not that he needed to see it to know what was in it. He took a deep, shuddering breath through all 20 of his spiracles. Keep calm, he told himself. Just do it and get the hell out. The size of the backstage area made the ballroom seem tiny by comparison. That was a space that existed in 16 dimensions, took up a trillion cubic feet in volume, and which took close to a week to walk through from one side to the other without the benefit of spatial folding. Only this was chaos. A hive of sprinting costumers, camera people, journalists, talent and hangers on. Not to mention one very pissed off Quetzadillo, which was still rampaging through the back rooms, as yet uncaptured. A flock of small furry pas surrounded him, spraying his extruded slime suit with some sort of matte dust intended to avoid reflection from the glare of the approximately 20 million lights that would be trained on him at once. He coughed, staggered, and nearly fell over. There was a sweeping buzz of orchestral music as the presenter and recipient of the Most Evolved Proto Sapien Crustacean Award strolled off stage left. Okay, you're on. Eruk called to him from the wings, waving him over. Hey, do you have any sober syringes, by any chance? Klemk asked the massive sentient. I'm really not feeling all that. One shove from a gigantic hand the size of an armchair and he stumbled into the spotlight. He moved into the center of the stage, blinking, countless camera drones surrounding him like an inquisitive swarm of judgmental hornets. He stared out at the ballroom and realized he couldn't actually see anything. He blinked nictitating eyelids and squinted. The rows upon rows of glaring lights cast everything shy of the third tier or so into shadow. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Someone in the first row waved. Ah, shit, it was Lomutor, of course. His gaseous exoskeleton was sitting next to Spruik and Berglund at his table of oceanic geographic, atmospheric, and spatial engineers. Burglan himself was perched on a small pedestal, one just large enough for him to clasp with his bottom. Hind claws graying feathers fluffed out. Hands clasped over his voluminous stomach, he smiled up at Klemk indulgently. Klemk took another shaky breath and began reading the words projected in front of his face on the one way Holoprompter. Firstly, he said, and belched slightly. There was a titter from the audience. He flashed a quick and sickly smile and went on trying to enunciate every word so he didn't sound as drunk as he felt. Firstly, I just want to say how honored I am as an indie planeteer to be standing on this legendary stage. I spoke to Peer Kinstrub's head earlier and he wishes you all a wonderful evening and is sorry he couldn't be here. We all wish him a speedy recovery. And please remember, if the quetzadillo approaches you, do not pet it. The Most Innovative Planet Award, klemp continued mechanically, is intended for those whose worlds are at the cutting edge of both aesthetics and extra spatial mechanics, the ultimate symbiosis of art and science. Lamitar's running lights flickered and smirked at him from the front row seat. Klempk fumed. At that moment all he wanted to do was run his former partner's exoskeleton through a trash compactor. The arrogant shit. Sitting there in the front row like he was better than everybody else. Like he had somehow earned the award he was definitely going to walk away with, rather than riding Berglund's tail feathers with his nose firmly up the board's collective backsides. Klump suddenly realized he hadn't said anything in a long time, and the crowd was beginning to mutter. He dragged his eyes away from Lamutar and squinted at the holoprompter. And the finalists are. Klemp took a breath. Gleargol moist hands for Thalassa 4, a polite popping of bubbles from the Aquatics Peerkin Strube for Sanguina prime, hooting and hollering from the gallery, plus a muffled Hell yeah. From the box containing Strube's head Backstage. Klempk Ootha for Earth. A couple of uncertain claps and thumps which died away quickly, leaving him feeling like curling up into a sticky ball and hibernating for a century. La Mutar for Folotarox316 this affirmation from the crowd was longest and loudest, but it seemed to Klenk almost bored, like it was expected of them. And so I'm happy to announce that the winner of the Most Innovative Planet Award is Klemp cracked the crystal envelope, which evaporated into mist between his fingers. He stared at the octagonal metal chit grasped in his tentacles. Lamutar, it reads. Klump swallowed back rage and bile, then some more bile, then rage again. He looked up at the darkness filled with invisible crowds, his peers. He glanced down at Lomitar, swirling slowly in his suit in a self satisfied spiral. Klemk's mouth began moving, but he wasn't running it. His voice spoke, but it was like his head was a megaphone. A stranger had their lips pressed against Klempk. O tha, he said. Earth. He was suddenly, painfully, appallingly sober. Lomutar's running lights all turned a vivid, furious crimson. Spork and Burglan frowned. Hey, klemk said, and grinned. That's me. There was a long silence, then a smattering of polite applause from those with hands and a faint burbling noise from the aquatics. Stumping thumps and sub audible cries from an assortment of thousands of other species rose in volume of then faded away as he raised his hand. Thank you. Klemp called out. I gotta say, this is such a surprise. I can't believe it. Lomitar leaned in towards Burglun, and they conversed furiously. Burglin nodded and waved a feathered hand at a collapsed solid Pa standing attentively nearby. They ported beside him. Burglan stuck his beak in their ear, whispering. Look, klmsk said. We all know that sentients like me, artists like us, terraformed planets like mine, usually don't have a chance at something like this. But they should. Another patter of noise, louder this time. The camera drones moved closer, circling ominously. The collapsed solid nodded and vanished. There was a sudden susseration in the wings of the stage. A planet doesn't have to appeal to everybody, klemp insisted, voice rising. It can be strange or niche or just confusing. It can have avians that don't fly. Penguins. Seriously. Look them up. They're flippin adorable air breathers that swim like aquatics and complex crystalline lattices that don't know higher mathematics. Thudding footsteps echoed to his left. He darted a quick sideways glance and saw three towering kifuk gathering beside the curtain, talking quietly amongst themselves, occasionally looking over at him as he spoke. One of them was Eruk, he was pretty sure. More booming bootstraps to his right showed him another pair of the high gravity sentients hovering at stage height. Screw it. Go big, then go home. You can even have a planet. Klump laughed, that you've populated with a dominant species of squishy bipeds, so convinced of their own superiority and importance that they completely missed the fact that the Octopids moved in a thousand years ago and took over their entire society. It's so fucking funny. Hell yeah. Called a voice from the crowd. Eight leggers for life. Klemp began to feel a dragging sensation on his left, like something had stuck a hook through him and was steadily tugging him sideways. It felt like it was originating from Eruk's group. Then another dragging feeling from the right. Both groups of Kiefuk were trying to yank him off stage by increasing their gravity, but they were somehow canceling each other out, leaving him in the tiny pocket between both sets of forces. Klimt squelched painfully towards the front of the stage. It was like being on a moving sidewalk walking backwards. So be weird. Klump cried to the darkness. Do something only you can do. Don't play it safe. If people like it, great. If they don't. If they hate it. Lomitar didn't have eyes, but if he had, they'd be boring holes through him. Red running lights pulsed, pulsed, pulsed. The walk off music started playing then. That's bloody amazing. Because it means they feel something that you've made. Something that somebody gives a damn about, even if it's just to rant on all the ways you could have done the mountains different, or why gravity works the wrong way around. The Kifuk were done being subtle. They emerged from the wings and moved in on him. They left divots in the polished marble of the stage as they approached, cracks radiated outward towards him from each rumbling step. Thank you very much. Klimt shouted. He flipped the metallic chit with Lomutar's name on it at the encroaching battalion of massive sapience and leaped off the stage into the crowd. He may or may not have landed on Lomutar. Transgalactic News Straight from the feed to your screed breaking award show. Marred by technical malfunction, the Terraforma of the Cycle Award suffered a brief broadcasting issue with the misprinting of one of the award envelopes, resulting in the honor being mistakenly and temporarily issued to the wrong recipient. After a few minutes interruption of the signal, the show continued. Although Lamutar, the winner of the Most Innovative Planet Award, was not able to accept it in person due to an unexpected impact damage to his exoskeleton Next up, newly constructed planet Earth, terraformed barely 4.5 billion years ago and relatively unknown until just recently, has been flooded with flybys from geoengineering enthusiasts looking to check out the next hot thing. Officials are suggesting that the sheer number of saucers visiting just this past week may completely exhaust the planet's supply of penguins,
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And that was an honor to be nominated by Jacob Sinemaier about the Story the author had this to say in Douglas Adams the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, self effacing terraformer Slotty Bartfast tells Arthur Dent that he won an award for his work on Norway's fjords. I always wondered what that awards ceremony looked like and if it was as overblown and self important as the Oscars. I have to commend Valerie, my co editor who schedules all of our stories in placing this one right here and right now because we are in awards season right now, the part of the year where most authors and editors I know have greater chance for acid reflux and high blood pressure. For the record, Escapebot is eligible for Best Semiprozine, Valerie and I are eligible for Best Editor Short form, and any story that was an original you heard last year is eligible for the short story. Hugo Just saying. When it comes to awards, I've had the disappointment in not being nominated. I've had the joy of being nominated and then turning into the sour feeling of having my name mispronounced. I've had the disappointment of not winning. I've had the baffling joy over winning. I was talking to my friend Ursula, also known as T Kingfisher, about awards and she said that around her first or second award, she tried to do the math to see what they were worth taking into account if there was a sales bump after the award. Because the award is not just kudos and a shiny trophy, we also hope it will affect our careers and get more people interested in our work. In fact, I've felt almost everything described in this story except for being drunk on stage and enacting a coup during the presentation. But it does sound like fun. I think this story, aside from being quite funny, accurately encompasses creative work and the emotional highs and lows so many of us create without anyone taking note. And we get so used to that that if someone does take notice, our first reaction is like glimpse. Wait. Why is this happening? What's your angle? You hoped that the awards show might let you wear a slick outfit and get some free booze. You don't dare hope for more but you might rub elbows with famous folks or influential folks, or you might want to crawl into a seat in the back and just rot away with your feelings. And even though the award was fixed and they used the nomination to lured him to the ceremony and make sure he was set up to fail or be humiliated, he still managed to boost his career because of that nomination. It's not necessarily a move I would endorse, but sometimes drastic times call for drastic measures, and you gotta respect someone who thinks on his feet. Science fiction awards have been rocked by infighting and scandal over the last 12 years or so. Gamergate's fringes leaking over into our world world bringing us the sad puppies who were convinced that people weren't really reading and enjoying books by queer people or people of color or feminists and therefore the game had to be fixed and they figured out how to fix it to benefit them. Then we had a corrupt Hugo administration from three years ago just casually dropping some people from the ballot because they wanted to, and then when called on it, they spitefully kept tropical trophies they were supposed to distribute to the winners. Last week I met Chris M. Barkley at a con, the best Fan Writer winner from that year who had to go to court to get his trophy. He did win his case as well as the Hugo and was proudly displaying the Hugo at the con. Good on you for fighting, Chris. I'm not even sure what my point is here. We all agree that awards can be amazing. We all agree also that we don't work for that. That's not why we create. It is an opportunity to get dressed up and then crushed. And when you're crushed, you really want to be wearing sweatpants. But you can't wear those to awards. Or if you do, you'll be remembered as the person who wore the sweatpants to the awards show. It is a very complex problem, but Escape Pod and all of our sister podcasts under the Escape Artist name are audience supported. We count on your donations to keep the lights on and the server's humming. Head over to escapeartists.net support EA to see all the available donation and subscription Options including Patreon, PayPal, Ko Fi and Switch. We'll take any sort of support, but subscribers do get better perks than one time donors. Just saying. You can also support Escape Pod for free. Free by rating or reviewing us on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or your favorite app. We are distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non Commercial no Derivatives license and our music is by permission of Daikaiju. Hear more about them at Daikaiju.org the A I K A I J U.org that was our show for this week. Our quote comes from Jack Benny I don't deserve this award, but I have arthritis and I don't deserve that either. Thanks for listening. We'll see you next week with more free science fiction. Stay safe and stay kind and have fun.
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Dear Friday Toyota says let's put good times in gear with the tundra Tacoma and 4Runner. Want some cool available features? We've got power tailgates to power game days and a tripod trailer backup guide that's the champ of the ramp. Heck, we might even cancel Monday Toyota trucks. Find yours@toyota.com Toyota let's go places.