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I understand science fiction better now than I ever had. Not because I've been writing it my entire life—which I have—but because I moved last month.
Let me explain—and to do so, I have to get a little personal.
We had planned to snowbird half-time in Las Vegas for years now, and we found a condo in January. As that happened, I was getting progressively sicker and sicker from the 8.5 million allergies that I suffer from. I couldn't find a cause until we discovered that our idiot neighbor had gotten into a fight with the city and the city dump, and decided, willy-nilly, to burn his garbage in his fireplace all winter, releasing God knows what kinds of toxins in the air.
I have what doctors call extreme chemical sensitivity, which is essentially allergies to everything that is made from non-organic ingredients, so needless to say this stinky stew coming out of our neighbor's fireplace was damn near lethal for me. (We live in a small town; getting the locals to do something about this is almost as hard as getting the U.S. back to the Moon.)
So, Dean and I decided to move me to Vegas ASAP. As in, one week I was in Lincoln City; the next, I was in our place in Vegas. To say that March was a whirlwind is an understatement of giant proportions.
I've been here about a month now, mostly on my own. The chemical sensitivity remains but is very manageable, and the food allergies are easy to cope with because the various restaurants—tourist-sensitive—cater to it.
I'm healthier than I've been in years, and I'm only just starting to recover.