I sat down and cast my Hugo ballots tonight, just an hour ago, online. Naturally, I voted for myself wherever possible.

Sorry, Col Kratman, but I thought you were not interested in the award anyway.

And I voted for my editor Vox Day, who as far as I am concerned, is the best editor I have ever worked with. Although my several other editors, including George RR Martin (who has forgotten he and I worked together to our mutual satisfaction) were kind enough, and professional and thorough, and I am grateful to them, none of the others made specific suggestions that specifically improved my work, or discussed my works with me, other than the very minimum.

With Larry Correia off the list, I voted for Jim Butcher’s SKIN GAME in the number one spot for best novel.

The one and only story I tucked beneath a NO AWARD was ‘Day the Earth Turned Upside Down’ which was poorly written on every level, jejune, mildly grotesque, and involved a conceit that seems directly opposite the whole point of speculative fiction, which is to think through the realistic ramifications of unreal conceits.

Of course, since my own beloved story, ‘Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus’ which I had to open a vein to write in the blood of the innermost heart, the most difficult work I ever wrote, was knocked from the list (in an overly strict interpretation of a rule that he been bent for John Scalzi in earlier years) in order to make room for this lacktalent tripe, I cannot pretend to have in this case achieved my normal superhuman perfection of emotionless Vulcan objectivity.

As if Paris of Troy were to see the tinsel crown awarded to Medusa after Helen were removed for a technicality from a beauty contest. But, even if Paris put aside his personal feelings, any eye could see that a face that turns screaming men to stone is less fair that that which launched a thousand ships.

Of course, on the other hand, since ‘Yes, Virginia’ was not a science fiction story either, I have no cause for complaint. But it was a well written nonsciencefiction story, not a poorly written one.

On the griping hand, I have exchanged a few kind words with Mr. Thomas Olde Heuvelt, and should he win, I will applaud him with honest enthusiasm. I think him a fine fellow who should win an award for being a fine fellow. I do not this this story of his, however, should win an award for science fiction literature.

But we are not voting for the authors, but for their works. I assume I am not the only person alive who understands and obeys that principle.

So, in all fairness, I did vote as objectively as possible according to my honest judgment of the merit of the works offered. As should you.

(The fact that each snarling Morlock will grab his ears from rage and rip himself in two from crown to groin like Rumpelstiltskin should I win anything is merely a pleasing side-effect, what economists call a positive externality, and should form no part of your motives, dear readers, in voting for any works of mine you may find worthy of the honor.)