Currently your humble servant writes two periodical personal columns, one in each of Israel’s only two SF&F magazines:
Mad Nir
The adventures of an almost average SF fan
Appears since 1997 in The Tenth Dimension
The Twisted Mirror
The worst stories in the world - a beginning writer’s shock-treatment
Appears since 2002 in Dreams in Aspamia

Below is an example of a typical Mad Nir column. This particular one was published in issue 22 of The Tenth Dimension, October 2004. While some of the events which are described here have actually happened, it should be noted, for decency’s sake, that the following text is the truth and nothing but the truth, in the sense that all art is.

The Monarchy
Mad Nir Chronicles XVII
Falteringly translated into English by the author

I'm imprisoned here, in this dark and narrow space, and I do not know when I could come out. The sounds of blasts and gurgling about me hint that my end might come any time now. And maybe there’s consolation in that, for in any case, as any neutral bystander could have told you, my life is not worth living. Not since the fatal series of that abominable Irish author. Not since The Monarchies of God.

*

"I've nothing to wear!" said K.
"To wear, to wear, always to wear," I said. "You think only of clothes. What about culture? What about art? What about common sense? How about reading a book?"
"I've nothing to read!" said K. She did this very gracefully, in front of the living room library, which contains about six hundred books. I silently pointed at the aforementioned contraption, uttering not but a single word, with only the sagely shadow of a smile upon my lips.
"Stop making faces," said K. "And don't hint at this bookcase - you know that I don't like reading in English."
"Very well," I said. "How about reading Harlan Ellison’s Dangerous Visions?"
"I've read it. Bother."
"Who, me?"
"No. He. He blabbers."
"Miss, you're talking here about Harlan Ellison!"
"Call me ‘Miss' one more time, and you and him both fly straight out of the window. Also - how much can one write about each story? You write much better forewords(1)."
"Hmm," I said. "That is, in fact, correct. Well, how about reading Brust’s Teckla?"
"I read it, bother."
"Brust also?"
"No. You. You deliberately pick up books I've already read."
"Alright," I said. "Here’s the bookcase - help yourself."
O, mistakes of the naive, loss of the innocent.
"What’s this?" asked K, randomly extracting a book from the uppermost shelf, where I've deliberately hid it when I finished reading it, a week before. "What’s this Hawkwood hing?"
"Ah, this." I said. "It’s… it’s just… it’s nothing special, really. It’s the first part of a series, The Monarchies of God or something of the sort, and I don't think that the rest of it was translated, and we know already that you don't like suspense…"
"I've no problem with suspense," said K. "No problem whatsoever."

*

"What is this supposed to mean?" said K a week later. "The book ends in the middle of everything!"
"I told you that it’s a part of a series," I said.
"I want to know what’s happening next! Bring me the next one!"
"Ah. Well, as I've already mentioned, they have not translated the…"
"I don't care! Do something!"
Having no choice in the matter, I did what any sensible science fiction and fantasy fan would have done in my place: I immediately called the publishing house’s raven(2).
"Good morning!" said the raven.
"Scum, refuse, evil beast from the most horrid abyss of hell," I said. "Why haven't you translated the second book of The Monarchies of God?"
"What, The Heretic Kings?"
"Could be. Why haven't you translated it?"
"Surely we've translated it," said the raven. "It’s been sold in bookshops for two months already."
"What?"
"We've translated it, surely," said the raven. "Already for two months it’s been sold in bookshops."
"Aha!" I said. "Then, ah, deliver a copy to me, as compensation."
"What?"
"As compensation, deliver a copy to me, then, ah, aha!"
"Oh, well," said the raven. "So be it."

*

"That’s it?" said K several days later. "There’s even more suspense in this one’s ending than in the previous one’s! Where are the rest?"
"What are you talking about? What rest?" I said. In my defense it could be said that I was, at the time, concentrating on the first part of Guy Gavriel Kay’s Sarantine Mosaic. "What do you want?"
"The rest of the series, ‘what rest'. You don't care about me at all!"
"Of course I care!" I said, turning a page. "Of course. But, ah, I can hardly believe that the third part was already translated."
"I don't care! Do something!"
I called the raven.
"Merry evening!" he said.
"Abomination! Terror and Damnation!" I said. "Where’s the third part of The Monarchies?"
"What, The Iron Wars?"
"Maybe. Why haven't you translated it?"
"Of course we have," said the raven, "it’s surely published by now."
"What?"
"Surely we have," said the raven, "of course it’s published by now."
"I knew it, for sure!" I said. "Send me one quickly!"
"What?"
"I knew it quickly!" I said. "Send me one for sure!"
"I never suspected that you were susceptible to a little bit of suspense," said the raven.
"Me?" I said. "What makes you think it’s me? It’s K. This series kills my domestic life."
"Ah," said the raven. "If it’s for K, I don't know whether we can really do…"
"If you don't act quickly," I said, "she'll kill your domestic life too."

*

"Well?" said K. "Where’s the fourth part?"
"Oh, no," I said. "Not again."
"What ‘no'? What ‘again'? And what’s this Mosaic thing that you're reading?"
"Ah, Kay’s Sarantine Mosaic. Um. It’s also part of a series, and it’s… oh, it’s really horrible. You really don't want to try it. Yes. Definitely."
"Don't change the subject," said K. "Where’s the fourth book?"
"You rotten carcass, you," I said into the telephone’s receiver. "I'm sure you've already translated the fourth part of The Monarchies. Where is it?"
"Hello?" said the raven. "Who’s that?"
"It is your horrible fate," I said. "Where’s the fourth part of…"
"What, The Second Empire?"
"The very same. Send me a copy."
"Alas, we have not finished translating it yet."
"Send me a copy by mail immediately!"
"Translating it, alas, we have not finished yet."
"Immediately by mail, a copy, send me!"
"Finished, we have note yet, translating it, alas."
"Immediately!"
"Alas."
"Are you aware," I said, "of the grave consequences of your unfortunate behavior?"
"Your domestic life?"
"My life, domestic or not. And yours. You have to do something!"
"Why me?" said the raven innocently.
"For otherwise, K will have your home address. I'll make sure of that."
"Very well," said the raven. "We have to bring the matter to Israel."
"The book?"
"The author."
"You're kidding me. Just you wait!"

*

"You're kidding me," said K when I brought her to the Bidyon Convention, guest of honour of which being Paul Kearney, author of The Monarchies of God. "You say this only to make me relaxed and unsuspecting. Just you wait."
"No, really!" I said. "We organized this just for you! Here, K-" and here I switched to English, "- K, meet Paul Kearney - Hi Paul! This is K, who likes your books very much."
"I know very well that you're putting one upon me," said K, and thus addressed Mr. Kearney, in Hebrew: "Well, tell me, how much did he give you to stand here and pretend that you're an author?"
"Ah," I said. "She says that she admires your work. Yes. Extremely."
Mr. Kearney was quite gentle of manners, and honoured us with a polite smile. Science fiction and fantasy fans of various shapes and sizes examined us curiously. The raven, who was present there as one of Mr. Kearney’s entourage, took the opportunity and hid behind a nearby bush.
"Is that really him?" whispered K loudly.
"Yes!"
"Ah! Aha! I really like your books! Ah."
"I already told him that!" I whispered, and immediately my right knee was battered.
"But why do you keep writing about silly clothes?" said K. "Nobody can wear them!"
"Is this the best of times to discuss fashion?" I said.
"In fact," said someone else of Mr. Kearney’s entourage, "in his particular case, the clothes descriptions are quite alright…"
Mr. Kearney was also trying to answer the rude question, but in vain.
"Be quiet, you!" said K. "I'm talking now!"
"…as opposed to several other authors I can think of, such as Jorden, who has a real fetish for…"
"And you too!"
At this moment, luckily for all involved, it was time for Mr. Kearney to address the convention visitors, and utilizing this excuse I managed to usher K into the main lecturing hall, not before the author kindly asked me to add, in my capacity as audience, an intelligent question or two to the forthcoming discussion, in order to enliven it - a subject upon which I consulted with K.
"Ask him about the clothes!" she said.
"Come on," I said. "I'd do better if I ask him what his name was."
"Too late. Someone in the first row has just asked that."
"Damnation. What else can we ask him about?"
"Ask him where the fourth part is!"
"In fact," I said, "it is in my pocket."
"What?"
"He gave me signed copies of the fourth and fifth books."
"What?" said K. "And you didn't tell me?"
And what I received then was as nothing to what I received back home, when K found out that said books were the originals, written in English.

*

"Well," I told K. "Here’s the fourth book, in Hebrew. Especially for you. They worked overtime, in the publishing house, and…"
"And where’s the fifth one?"
"Well," I said. "So."
"Well?"
"How about reading it in English anyway? You've got a signed copy. It’s nice! It’s lovely!"
"I still think that the clothes in his books are…"
"Yes, yes. Of course," I said, and added, making use of my best seductive face and manners, "so what say? Will you read it in English?"
"You look like a snake," said K. "Fine, I'll try it."

Some time later, while fighting her way through the fifth book, signed, English and all, K put it down and asked, "What’s this mosaic that you're reading?"
"Ah, I told you. It’s not really worth mentioning. Quite uninteresting. And it’s a first part, and they didn't translate the second one yet, and, ah, and everybody there dresses simply horribly! Quite untastefully! You won't like it."
"I read a review of it, I think," said K. "Kay’s Sarantine Mosaic, right? It was said there that it’s quite good."
"No, no," I said. "You don't understand. It’s, uh, it’s a mistake."
"I also heard from friends that it isn't bad."
"Um, a mistake, yes. This book, you see, is by Guy Gavriel Kay. They were probably talking about the book by, uh, by Danny Kay. That’s it."
"Give it to me!"
"But you haven't finished the fifth part of The Mo…"
"I'll wait for the translation. Give it to me!"
"But, ah, I'm in the middle of it?"
"Give it to me!"
"Maybe, eh, maybe we talk a bit about you having nothing to wear?"
"Give me the book!"
"Do you promise not to get pissed off when you finish it and there’s still no second part in Hebrew?"
"I never get pissed off," said K. "Give it here!"

*

And now I'm imprisoned here, in this dark and narrow space, under the bed, and I do not know when I could come out. The sounds of blasts and gurgling about me hint that my end might come any time now. And maybe there’s consolation in that, for in any case, as any neutral bystander could have told you, my life is not worth living. Not as long as there are fantasy series in the world which were not completely translated.
Or written.
I'm so lucky that there’s no Harry Potter in the house.

THE END

(1) The author of this column also writes what he hopes are somewhat witty forewords to all the stories appearing in the Israeli SF&F magazine “Dreams in Aspamia”.
(2) In Hebrew, the words “Raven” and “Editor” differ only in one letter – the last. The abovementioned editor is known, in some circles, as “The Raven”, and thus the author of this piece elected to name him. The latter, not being of the translator persuasion himself, has no idea whatsoever how this play of words can be represented in English, and is thus reduced to humbly apologizing for this inability on his part.

(C) Nir Yaniv