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y delphyne<br />
Once in <strong>the</strong> course of human events, only once, does a perfect<br />
thing happen. Of course, perfection lies in <strong>the</strong> eye of <strong>the</strong><br />
beholder, and to explain one’s perfect point of view to ano<strong>the</strong>r<br />
can be nigh unto impossible…but I shall make <strong>the</strong> attempt.<br />
This splendid writer person, this Richard Chwedyk, our noble<br />
Toastmaster of Windycon, has made <strong>the</strong> ra<strong>the</strong>r strange request<br />
that I, a non-writer, an artist, compose his biography. “Fool!” I<br />
immediately thought to myself. “What is he up to now?” But I<br />
accepted <strong>the</strong> challenge and thus will say…hmmmm…<br />
Well, I shall use his own words: “Everything I ever needed<br />
to know I learned from Castle of Frankenstein magazine.”<br />
He is a Chicago South Sider. That much is certain. He hails<br />
from a scruffy blue collar southwest side neighborhood called<br />
Garfield Ridge, born and raised Polish, grown to scrawny blond<br />
strange and utterly charming manliness. He suffered <strong>the</strong> usual<br />
indignities visited upon a Homo sapiens sapiens dwelling in<br />
<strong>the</strong> midst of Homo neanderthalensi. Never<strong>the</strong>less, he achieved<br />
maturity, and has reproduced his most essential self via <strong>the</strong><br />
sacred rite of writing.<br />
Rich’s first sf story, “Getting Along With Larga”, won <strong>the</strong> very first<br />
<strong>ISFiC</strong> short story contest in 1986. His first professionally published<br />
story, “A Man Makes A Machine,” ga<strong>the</strong>red momentum and<br />
emerged from <strong>the</strong> depths of his soul while attending a Windycon<br />
and is equal parts Antigone and Galaxina. It was <strong>the</strong> <strong>ISFiC</strong> contest<br />
winner for 1988, and was published in Amazing in 1990.<br />
His poem, “Rich and Pam Go to Fermilab and Later See a Dead<br />
Man” was nominated for a Rhysling Award, also was published<br />
in <strong>the</strong> 2004 Rhysling Anthology, courtesy of <strong>the</strong> Science Fiction<br />
Poetry Association. Recently published is a retro tale from his<br />
rabble-rousing rhythm guitar-playing adolescence in Lincoln<br />
Park, “The Button”. And, most recently, his short story, “Where<br />
We Go” appeared in Eric Reynolds’ 2007 anthology Visual<br />
Journeys produced by Kansas City’s Hadley Rille Press. Hot!<br />
Richard’s novella, “Brontë’s Egg”, won <strong>the</strong> 2004 Nebula Award.<br />
“Brontë’s Egg” also received a Hugo nomination and came<br />
in second for a Sturgeon Award. “Tibor’s Cardboard Castle”<br />
continues <strong>the</strong> tale of legendary “saurs” (bioengineered children’s<br />
toys cruelly cast aside to die, i.e., AI with tails) begun in “The<br />
Measure of All Things”. Both “The Measure of All Things”<br />
and “Brontë’s Egg” have been translated into Italian and Hebrew<br />
and appeared in <strong>the</strong> Israeli sf magazine The Tenth Dimension.<br />
The next saur story will be “Orfy”, as in Orpheus, where saur<br />
Axel learns to cope with death. That will be followed by “The<br />
Man Who Put <strong>the</strong> Bomp”, where <strong>the</strong> saurs meet <strong>the</strong>ir ostensible<br />
“creator.” Not surprisingly, Rich’s saur stories prove popular<br />
with people involved in animal rescue and shelter organizations,<br />
including bat rescue (yes, bat rescue).<br />
15<br />
Forthcoming is “The Ambiguities” appearing in <strong>the</strong> horror<br />
anthology, Hell in <strong>the</strong> Heartland, from Annihilation Press of<br />
Carbondale, a yarn about a young woman riding <strong>the</strong> Greyhound<br />
bus, appropriately, from Hell.<br />
Rich has been an inveterate journalist by day for decades.<br />
Never<strong>the</strong>less, at night, despite screaming Midwestern winters,<br />
wretched public transportation, and sustained by White Hen<br />
coffee and soup, he has taught creative writing to aspiring protosentients.<br />
A saint. He has been a regular bon vivant at Red Lion<br />
festivities on Lincoln Avenue featuring Twilight Tales readings<br />
and chilly ghost viewings. Interestingly, <strong>the</strong> original Red Lion,<br />
relict of Old Chicago, has been demolished and is being rebuilt<br />
from <strong>the</strong> ground up, a challenge to <strong>the</strong> ‘haints.<br />
He is among <strong>the</strong> finest of glittering literati. He sizzles, he also is<br />
<strong>the</strong> steak. Yet, despite all of this, he survives as a Homo sapiens<br />
sapiens which is no mean feat. He eats meat with abandon,<br />
greens and legumes with reluctance, and quaffs vodka with glee.<br />
He is a great soul, my friend…he is perfection.