Charlie Jane Anders
Charlie Jane Anders is an American science fiction novelist, editor, blogger, and podcaster, born on July 24, 1969, in Tolland County, Connecticut.
Anders was educated at the University of Cambridge and writes in English. She is a trans woman and a United States citizen who has worked across fiction, editorial roles, blogging, and podcasting. Her notable works include the novels The City in the Middle of the Night and Victories Greater Than Death, as well as the shorter works Six Months, Three Days and Choir Boy.
The recognition her work has received spans multiple award categories. She holds the Nebula Award for Best Novel, the Hugo Award for Best Novelette, the Locus Award for Best Short Story, the Locus Award for Best Young Adult Book, and the Crawford Award. This range of honors across novel-length, novelette, and short-story categories reflects the breadth of her engagement with the science fiction field.
Her output moves across the registers of science fiction — novels, short fiction, and editorial work — and she has served as part of an editing staff alongside her activity as a writer. Her authorized catalog entry under the name Anders, Charlie Jane gathers a body of work that has been recognized at the highest levels of the genre, from the Nebula Award for Best Novel to the Hugo Award for Best Novelette, marking her sustained presence across both long and short forms of science fiction writing.
Quotes by Charlie Jane Anders
If you’re a writer, you don’t serve genres. Genres serve you. Like, if you’re writing a science fiction story set on a spaceship, you don’t have to have someone thrown out an airlock.
Their house had been a spice shop a hundred years ago, and it still smelled of cinnamon and turmeric and saffron and garlic and a little sweat. The perfect hardwood floors had been walked on by visitors from India and China and everywhere, bringing everything spicy in the world. If Patricia closed her eyes and breathed deeply, she could imagine the people unloading wooden foil-lined crates stamped with names of cities like Marrakesh and Bombay.
What?” Patricia looked at her knees, through the thready holes in her denim overalls, and thought her kneecaps looked like weird eggs. “What?” She looked over at the sparrow in the bucket, who was in turn studying her with one eye, as if trying to decide whether to trust her.
Well.” The bird seemed to think about this for a moment. “You don’t know how to heal a broken wing, do you?” He flapped his bad wing. He’d looked just sort of gray-brown at first, but up close she could see brilliant red and yellow streaks along his wings, with a milk-white belly and a dark, slightly barbed beak.
I think that technology is much more mysterious to the people using it than, say, the automobile was. This isn’t an original observation, but a lot of the smart devices people rely on now really do feel like magic to a lot of us.
I have not spoken to a living person,” the Tree said, forming the words syllable by syllable, “in many seasons. You were distressed. What is wrong?” Its voice sounded like the wind blowing through an old bellows, or the lowest note playing on a big wooden recorder.
Maybe increasing the aggregate level of happiness in the world is one way to try and hold back the crash.