There was a serious attempt by two racist, homophobic and misogynistic (this is a tautology: you never get one without the others) groups calling themselves, respectively, Sad Puppies and Rabid Puppies.
They are not house trained puppies. They are vicious little mutts who will, if they ever grow up, turn out to be unlovable mongrels the colour of their own shit. You know the sort.
Here are a couple of talented authors’ comments on the whole rancid affair.
First and foremost, let’s just get this out of the way:
Congrats to the winners of last night’s Hugo Awards, including the Not The Hugo Award, the John W. Campbell award for new writer. Well done, all of you. Including up and coming sci-fi superstar, Noah Ward, who I’m sure is drunk somewhere right now, joy-barfing off a balcony.
And, also, to the Sad and Rabid Puppies, those charm school rejects who thought they could wrest control of the awards away from some mysterious vile cabal of PC CHORF SMOF SJWS, one likes to hope that last night was a demonstration of your noses being rubbed in the mess you made. I know, I know, “it’s about ethics in award nominating”…
Read the rest at The Obligatory Hugo Awards Recap Post « terribleminds: chuck wendig.
You might also like to read this post on what the Hugo nominations would probably have looked like without the ballot-stuffing by the Sad and Inadequate Puppies: What the alternate Hugo Ballot would likely have been by Tobias Buckell.
It’s an indication of how out-of-touch these fuckwitted social regressives are that some authors they schemed to get onto the list of finalists actually went out of their way to ask people not to vote for them.
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
—Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)
It is a sad but unavoidable fact that bad writing gets into print rather more often than those of us who claim to enjoy a good book would wish. Horrendously long opening sentences are a clue, of course, and occasionally the author accidentally trips himself up in the middle of one, to our everlasting joy. So it was with Bulwer-Lytton… And so we have The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.
The first seven words of our opening quote are not at all coincidentally the opening phrase of the novel that Snoopy never finished. That quite remarkable self-applied custard pie has inspired an annual contest sponsored by the English Department at San Jose State University. That’s in the USA in case you wondered; if you didn’t wonder it’s still in the USA. Geography’s like that. The basic requirement is to provide the worst possible opening sentence of a fictional novel.
The published entries may be compared with howlers committed by real, published, and sometimes even respected authors. H.P. Lovecraft and Baroness Orczy are in there of course: great plots, wonderful imaginations, but bloody awful writing styles.
There is also a Poetry section, dedicated to the immortal William McGonagall, who really did exist and wrote poems that are probably still reducing Scots O-level English classes to tears of helpless laughter. A required detour for fans of Spike Milligan or Terry Pratchett.