About DWD

My job description and integrity are both vaguely defined, so take this biographical interview of Derick William Dalton with the requisite dubiety.
You are, after all, dealing with me. Shelly. A room temperature-blooded reptile.


Shelly: Mr. Dalton. I'm contractually obligated to drag some personal information out of you. Don't make this difficult.

DWD: No need to be dramatic. I'm sitting right here.

Shelly: You write science fiction. Why?

DWD: My brain makes up stories when it's supposed to be doing something else. I found that if I dictated, I could read them later without guilt or getting behind.

Shelly: I see where you're going with this, and I'm not getting suckered into a biochemical/philosophical discussion of the definition of "self".

DWD: Your loss. I also write science fiction because, if I do it correctly, I'm forced to learn real science and can see the possibilities of what humans can do.

Shelly: So you don't consider yourself a Neo-Malthusian then.

DWD: Nope. But that's a boring topic. Look. I brought photos!

Shelly: What's this, a warped inner respect for Darth Vader? Oh, right. Your winter running apparatus. I have to ask why. Why tolerate winter consciously? Why run? Why the lack of embarassment at your appearance?

DWD: What you can't appreciate is how this warms the air before I breathe it.

Shelly: Usually you sound more geeky. "The proprietary inner workings are obscured, but the mother of this invention was a love of rapid aerobic gait in a location 2000 meters (6500 feet) above sea level."

DWD: I don't convert metric to English in polite conversation. But yeah, I was tired of freezerburning my lungs in January trying to stay in shape for track season. It warms -20 C (-4 F) air to room temperature.

Shelly: Nice conversion. Very polite. So, where are the state champion medals?

DWD: Umm...

Shelly: Photos of you competing? Did you even make it to the district meet?

DWD: I'm playing the long game.

Shelly: The one where you finally win your age category by attrition because you're the only 80-year-old competing?

DWD: Yep.

Shelly: Uh, nice tie?

DWD: This is me at tryouts for the local semi-pro quidditch team. I made the first cut, but not the second. Perhaps next year.

Shelly: That's not you.

DWD: My son.

Shelly: Rawr. I'm looking at that hard hat and supraorbital ridge and wishing he was fifteen years older.

DWD: Sorry. He's into redheads.

Shelly: So, what's this? Surely you have more fashion sense than to tell us this is typical attire.

DWD: Homage to a favorite Christmas movie. It is goo-ood. You can't see it through the window, but outside there's an RV. It looks so nice parked in my driveway.