The Progressive and the Goodness Project

I’m pleased to report that The Progressive will be publishing an updated version of my essay, “Was My Father Evil?” The essay is set to run in the August issue.

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Where in the World is Diane Silver?

She’s taking a deep breath after spending a year on The Goodness Project. Meanwhile, plans are afoot. Stay tuned for further developments.

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What’s Next?

The task I set for myself more than a year ago has been completed. I haven’t found the meaning of life, or even goodness, but I did do what I said I would do: After 365 days of research I came up with an answer to the question: What is goodness. Hooray me! But I don’t feel like I can let this goodness thing go. Not yet.

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My First Theory of Goodness

My year is up. No more dodging the issue. It’s time for me to answer my own question: What is goodness? To do that, however, I have to first talk about God, moral codes and baseball.

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Should Goodness Ever Be Defined, or What Have I Done?

No more dodging the issue for me. Tomorrow is the 365th day of my quest, which means I have to finally give you my definition of goodness. Before I went to WisCon last week, I drafted that post, loaded it onto the blog, and boarded the plane to Madison feeling darn-right smug. I thought I’d come up with a fetching and irrefutable answer.But then I got to WisCon, and started trying out my  spiffy new definition on other people. Oh dear. 

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Emerging from the WisCon Haze

I’m writing from an extended stay hotel on the outskirts of Madison, WI. Clouds are beginning to clog the sky, but I am happy, happy, happy. I’ve just completed another WisCon, the premier convention of the feminist science fiction and fantasy community.

 Every other year when the con ended, and my temporary tribe broke apart, so did my heart. It hurt to feel us scatter, each to her or his destination, so that once again we would be separated by hours or days of travel we could not afford to undertake. With the breaking of WisCon came the breaking of a spell: No more ecstatic conversations at 1 in the morning. No more solid sense of coming home to people who finally, blessedly understood me. No more exaltation of writing and the need to comprehend and tell the stories of our limping, absurd human existence.

This year, though, instead of tottering back to Lawrence, KS, and a bereaved exile, I’ve stayed. With three friends, I’ve adjourned to a nearby hotel to write. I have time to take a breath, (sleep!) write and think, but the conversations continue. The feeling that we share a mission continues. The feeling that I really am not alone continues.

Thank you, Nancy Jane and Therese, for setting up the retreat and nagging me to come. I am in your debt.

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The Countdown

One, ridiculously short day.

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