Tales from FAR Manor

Wednesday, May 23, 2012 3 comments

Writing Wibbles: Interview with INHALE Author Kendall Grey

I have a special treat today: instead of my yapping, you get to read someone else! I asked indie author and fellow Planet Georgia denizen Kendall Grey if she’d like to do a blog-erview, and she was happy to oblige. You can find more Kendall… well, just about anywhere:

• Just Breathe Novels
• Facebook
• Twitter
• Goodreads
• Sign up for my newsletter

INHALE is now available: Kindle, Nook, and paperback

OK, on to the interview!

Tales from FAR Manor: Georgia native or transplant?

Kendall Grey: Transplant. I was born in Cleveland, Ohio and lived there until I was ten. I consider myself a fully integrated Georgia girl now, though I can still "talk Yankee" when the need arises. ;-)

TFM: What do you want people to know about your Just Breathe trilogy?

KG: If you prefer reading books with lots of "telling" that spoon-feed you a story with easily digestible, pre-chewed plot bits and minimal brain taxing, the JUST BREATHE trilogy is NOT for you. This trilogy contains intricate world-building, multiple sub-plots, detailed vocabulary, and a slow-simmering main plot that arcs over three books. You have to think in order to understand what's going on, but at the same time, it's probably best not to overanalyze. The books are character-driven and show how the hero and heroine grow over the course of three stories. The trilogy is NOT Young Adult. I'm not sure where readers are getting this notion because the blurbs clearly state that the books contain explicit content and are not suitable for readers under 18.

TFM: You have a couple young kids. What would you say if you caught one of them reading your book? Or some other author's erotic romance? ;-)

KG: "How was it?" Hahahaha!

TFM: Do you have connections (current or former) in cetacean research, or is your interest purely personal?

KG: Both. I know people who know people in cetacean research. I've contacted some researchers personally (I have no qualms about stalking anyone online), and they've been wonderful about answering questions for my books. But I also love whales enough that I feed the need for knowledge any time it arises. I watch documentaries, read whale-related books, and always pay close attention to the naturalists on whale watch boats -- I'm an all-around whale geek. ;-)

TFM: You're just a little outspoken in your hostility toward the traditional publishing regime. ;-) Can you share some of your reasons?

KG: Traditional publishing had a chance to jump on the e-book revolution bandwagon years ago, but they didn't. Now that e-books have exploded and people are making money like crazy, the trads are left scratching their butts, wondering what happened. If you can't evolve, you become extinct. It's a simple idea, but they're too stuck in the past (and on their dying business model) to roll with the times.

I don't like to be told I'm not good enough when I know my writing is better than what some traditionally published authors have put out. Yes, there's the matter of mass market appeal, and in that respect, NY is right. I don't have it. But once I find my target audience, I think the trilogy will fall into its niche and flourish.

TFM: Rum or tequila?

KG: Tequila all the way. When I drink tequila, I become invincible. Even more so than usual. ;-)

TFM: If you knew what you know now when you started writing, what would you do differently?

KG: I wouldn't allow myself to care nearly as much about what everyone else thinks. It's so true what they say about a$$holes and opinions. Everyone's got 'em. A lot of them stink. If I'd spent as much time writing, revising, and editing as I did on getting worked up over bad reviews, I'd probably have written six books by now.

No matter what, you can't please everyone. There will always be somebody who hates what you write and what you stand for. Sometimes it's jealousy. Sometimes it's pure ignorance. Sometimes the book just isn't their thing. The reason is irrelevant because nothing you say or do will change that person's opinion. So, forget it and move on. That reader isn't your target audience. Find someone who is.

TFM: What question did you want me to ask that I missed, and what's the answer?

KG: What would the title of your autobiography be? "Hoochie Mamas, Hot Fudge, and Hematite Womanc@cks: Life on the Autobahn of a Delusional Egomaniac's Imagination"

OK, that's our interview — thanks to Kendall for visiting the free-range insane asylum! If you want to know more, go back to the top and hit some links. And if you want to sit in the comfy chair and answer a mix of serious and silly questions, just let me know…

Monday, May 21, 2012 6 comments

#TuesdaySerial: Accidental Sorcerers Season 3 Ep. 2

As an aside, this is post #1400.

When we last left our young heroes, they were concerned about someone — or something — coming aboard in the night…

Season 1 • Season 2
Season 3: Episode 1

Accidental Sorcerers
Season 3, Episode 2
On the Wide River

Bailar stumbled in from the next room. “What? Boarders?”

“Nar!” the captain grimaced. “The crew woulda give the alarm by now!”

“We felt spells being cast, sir,” said Mik. “Your crew is likely asleep. We need to do something!”

The captain glared at Bailar. “If they felt magic,” said the sorcerer, “it was not my doing. Something’s afoot.”

“Fine, then. But if you two are prankin’, it will go badly for you both!”

“If we are,” said Mik, stepping forward, “I’ll take my punishment and Sura’s as well.”

Sura pulled him back. “You will not!”

Bailar smirked. The captain glared, then softened just a little and nodded. “Yar. Let it be as you say.” He slipped out, Bailar and the apprentices following.

They reached the first slumbering crewman. The captain hissed and cursed under his breath, trying to shake the man awake. Mik looked at Bailar, who nodded; Mik crouched on the other side. He touched the sleeping man, then looked at the captain. “This is a magical sleep,” he whispered. “I can feel it. Shaking him won’t help.”

“Well, can ya wake him?”

Mik nodded and, as he’d been taught, made unnecessary gestures and whispered a nonsense rhyme: “The sun is up, the cock is crowing! Time to wake and be a-going!” At once, the crewman’s eyes popped open. Seeing the captain, he gasped.

“Nar, it ain’t yer lazy bones this time,” the captain growled. “There’s devilment afoot. Let’s take this here sprout of a sorcerer and get yer pals a-movin’!”

“Sura and I will take the other side,” said Bailar. “Quietly now.”

One by one, they brought each crewman awake. They roused almost half the crew before the boarders became aware. At the first shout, Bailar brought the False Dawn and twelve angry crewmen set on four boarders. It was over in seconds, the boarders battered and cringing in the open hold.

A splash, and the captain turned. “More! Gettin’ away, they are!”

“Stay back!” Bailar shouted, stumbling to the bow and catching himself on the rail. In the light of his False Dawn, he saw a small boat and two shadowy men rowing for their lives. He clapped his hands and threw them over his head; a waterspout formed under the boat, lifting it and its terrified occupants onto the barge. Several of the crewmen subdued them.

Bailar touched each of them in turn. “How will you deal with these?” he asked the captain.

The captain looked at the boatload of near-stolen cargo and motioned to the crew to stow it away. “Next town with authority is Mosvil,” he said. “Turn ‘em over there, we will. Let the magistrate deal with them.”

“Very well,” said Bailar, “but this one —” he pointed to one of the two from the boat — “comes to Queensport with us. A rogue mage must face the Conclave.” Even in the dim light, Mik saw the young man — almost still a boy — turn pale.

“Well, then,” said the captain, “if ye’ll be responsible for him until we get there, I see no reason to say you nay. Eat our food, he will, but knowin’ he’ll get turned into a toad is payment enough!” He barked a laugh and turned away.

Bailar turned to Mik and Sura. “Fetch me a rope,” he said, “about —”

A tingle of magic cut his words short. They turned as the rogue mage twisted free of the crewmen and leaped over the side. Bailar and his apprentices ran to the railing, but saw only ripples. They watched for a long while, but he never surfaced in range of the light.

“Cursed us, he did!” one of the crewmen moaned, shaking his wrists. “Our hands won’t hold nothin’ no more!”

Bailar examined them. “Only for a few minutes,” he reassured them. “He benumbed you so he could get free. He’s not likely to be back, but all the same, we’ll join you on watch.”

A huge hand clapped Mik’s shoulder, nearly collapsing him. “Sprouts ya may be,” the captain grinned at the apprentices, “but proved your mettle this night, ya did. Without you and yer master, they might’ve left me with an empty barge! What would be a fair reward, think ya?”

“Thank you, sir,” said Sura, “but our mentor would not let us take a reward. But you can discuss it with him.”

Mik nodded. He was too embarrassed to ask for the only thing he really wanted: a few minutes alone with Sura.

continued…

The Funeral

How I'll remember her…

My mother in law had severe asthma ever since I’ve been around. She was never one to let it slow her down much though, and it finally caught up to her last week.

She’s had a couple of near-miss attacks before, and after the last one the doc told her she probably wouldn’t survive the next. So she was at the #4 chicken house on Wednesday, where they keep one of the tractors. Even with them shut down since November, they’re still dusty and a little smelly. So combine that with the exertion of climbing a tractor, and it brought on The Big One.

The guy who’s been helping was nearby, but discovered her still wheezing and slumped over… but then she stopped breathing altogether. He did CPR and called 911, which was another black comedy of errors. For one thing, the tin roof blocks what meager cellphone signal we get there. For another, he forgot the street address (easy to do, I can’t ever remember it) and the dispatcher insisted on having one. Finally, they took directions… then the ambulance turned into the pasture and got stuck. So by the time they got her stabilized and at the hospital, it was far too late. Thus begun the tradition of calling the family together and having them on hand before disconnecting life support Thursday evening.

The wife has pretty much anchored everything and everyone the last few days, which means she hasn’t had time to really deal herself. The Boy and Snippet came down from Wisconsin, and Mr. Sunshine got off the road, and Big V is nearby anyway — so there was plenty of sturm und drang to go along with everything else. But in the end, it seems to have worked out. Snippet and the wife have reconciled, so maybe things will be a little more peaceful later on.

Anyway, I’m going to miss her. She was a good cook (especially for small army-quantities) and a great gardener. And how many people had a mother in law who’s maiden name was Alice Cooper?

Friday, May 18, 2012 28 comments

#FridayFlash: Roadkill

No, Mason didn’t do this. Mom says I did it when I was a toddler, and tied up traffic on a busy highway. A heap of something white in the road this afternoon gave me the idea for this.

Roadkill

Matt stumped up the road. One hand clutched the blanket over his shoulder, the other he had in his mouth. Behind him, Mommy napped in front of the TV and its endless reruns of PBS Kids, exhausted by one too many 3 a.m. diaper and sippy cup calls. Before him? His toddler mind could not grasp the word adventure, but understood the concept.

“Go home, Matt,” said his angel, swooping in front of him. “Lay down next to Mommy and take a nice nap.”

He grunted a negation, not wanting to move his slobbery fist, and kept walking. A whispering, rushing, humming sound slithered up the hill behind him.

“Matt! Over here!” The angel flew off to the side of the road, hovering over the ditch. He’d take a tumble, but the ground was soft and it was safer than what was coming. Matt shook his head and veered away, farther into the road. The noise grew louder.

A rustle of leaves. Beyond the ditch, a squirrel stood, acorn in its paws. “Matt! Look, Matt! Kitty!” Angels are not allowed to lie — but to Matt, all little animals were kitty. Speaking Toddler is allowed.

“Kitty!” Matt grinned and turned off the road, falling into the ditch as the angel backed up to observe and the speeding car topped the hill—

Matt’s wail snapped Mommy awake in an instant. In a panic, she slammed the screen door open and pelted up the road, finding Matt trying to climb out of the muddy ditch. “Matt!” she snatched him up. “What are you doing out here? Look at you—you’re all muddy! You’re getting a bath, then you’re going into your crib until you have a nap, and I don’t care how much you cry about it—”

Something in the road caught Mommy’s eye: a small crumpled white thing. A wing poked up from the heap. “You’d think the chicken trucks would do a better job keeping them in the cages,” she muttered. She turned and took her son home.

Monday, May 14, 2012 8 comments

#TuesdaySerial: On the Wide River (Accidental Sorcerers Season 3)

Mik and Sura begin their next adventure…

Season 1 • Season 2

Accidental Sorcerers
Season 3 Episode 1
On the Wide River

The life of an apprentice sorcerer could be frustrating. Not the learning—according to Bailar, Mik was born to it, and that was coming along well. Not the chores—he’d had those to do at home, and alongside Sura the work seemed light.

It was Sura herself who brought the frustration alongside the joy. Last winter, he had started to see Robi as more than the friend he’d known all his life, the one who shared his games and jokes—and then she chose Piet before he could bring himself to say anything. Then came the invaders from Westmarch, and his foolish and successful attempt to awaken an ice dragon. And like cattle, one following another, it all led to his apprenticeship in faraway Exidy. There he met Sura, the first girl who saw him as more than just a friend. But as a fellow apprentice, one who was like the mentor’s own daughter, they had few opportunities to be just Mik and Sura.

Image source: http://openclipart.org/

As spring drew to a close, folk began preparations for the High Summer festival, and sorcerers prepared for the Conclave. Bailar the Blue and his apprentices boarded the Wide Lady. It was a long barge, the largest craft Mik had ever seen, coming to a point on both ends like a canoe. With a crew of thirty polemen, it carried freight and passengers down the Wide River to Queensport. Mik smirked when he thought of the barge’s name; it reminded him of his aunt. Like his aunt on her ranch, the polemen shouted their Low Speech argot across the barge all day long, cursing over the heads of anyone nearby.

Freed from their daily chores, Mik and Sura thought they would have time on the barge, and in that regard this trip was more frustration. As big as the Lady was, there was no place aboard where they were not under the eyes of passengers and crew alike. At night, the few women and girls on board were sheltered away in one of the two cabins on the stern, while Mik slept with the men under a tarp fore of the cabins. (Bailar, as a sorcerer, was given the guest berth in the captain’s cabin.) At home, there was at least an opportunity for a brief embrace and a kiss between chores or after learning times.

Worse, while Mik did his best to treat Sura as honorably as he knew how, Dreaming Mik had no honor at all. But his Dreaming Sura was often just as wanton. What happened in his dreams often left Mik ashamed and excited in equal measure, and on this night, it would be the same. The barge was anchored on a stretch of the Wide where no town graced its banks, not even a fishing village. Mik twisted and moaned in his sleep; in his dream, he and Sura lay in the garden, a tingling wave rushing over him as Sura whispered his name.

“Mik… Mik!”

Mik opened his eyes. He saw Sura (fully clothed) kneeling over him, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding a lantern turned low. He grinned and reached up, still partly the Dreaming Mik, and tried to pull her to him.

“Wait— no!” she rasped, keeping her arm stiff. “Didn’t you feel it?”

He was feeling something, or almost, but Dreaming Mik faded. The wave ebbed, and Mik was grateful she didn’t ask him about his dreams. “Feel what?” he whispered, getting to his feet.

“Magic. Someone cast a spell… something familiar. Concealment, maybe. I couldn’t sleep for… Anyway, I felt the power. Close by.”

“Not the mentor?”

“No. It didn’t feel like—”

“Oh!” Mik felt it this time, like a spider racing up his spine. “That? It felt like a sleeping spell.”

“Are you sure?”

Mik nodded. As Sura’s budding talents were sharp with spells of concealment and finding, his bent toward sleeping and waking. On the far end of the barge, they heard a thump and scuffing noises. “This isn’t good!” He squinted into the dark. “We need to tell the mentor. And the captain. Maybe you should conceal us.”

Sura shook her head. “Our cloaks are dark. Besides, they’re already aboard. If we felt their magic, they’ll feel ours.”

Mik nodded and they got moving, hand in hand, nervous but enjoying that much contact.

The cabin door was locked, and Sura decided haste was now more important than stealth. She laid her hand over the latch, and it popped open. As they slipped inside, the barge captain stood, a frightening bare-chested figure in the dim lantern light, a scowl on his face and a club in his hand. “’Ere, what’s this breakin’ in—”

“Sir!” Mik interrupted. “Boarders!”

Sunday, May 13, 2012 4 comments

They’re Bawwwwck…

See how they're in the farthest corner
away from the crucifix?

Fortunately, not in the numbers they once were though.

My mother in law was either overcome by nostalgia for the “old days,” when getting eggs involved walking across the yard, or just got bored at how much less evil things have become since November. However it was, she got herself a dozen laying hens and a couple roosters last month.

Of course, they need a little fresh air and the like, so she converted an old shed last used to raise orphaned or abandoned calves. This shed has a generous half-acre of fenced in pasture, and “all we had to do” was hang some chicken wire on it to help keep them in.

Do hippie chickens
lay psychedelic eggs?

With the place prepared, the new avatars of evil were brought in and shown their new home. Being of non-industrial breed, they’re a lot more colorful than the plain white chicken house chickens. Mason enjoys watching them walk around outside, and we all enjoy the eggs.

But I have to wonder: do hippie chickens lay psychedelic eggs?

Friday, May 11, 2012 18 comments

#FridayFlash: Captain Heroic's Last Hurrah

Now that I’m back from vacation, maybe I can get a regular blogging schedule going.

I’m going to start serializing “Season” (Chapter) 3 of Accidental Sorcerers on Tuesdays. This one will last six episodes. If you need to catch up first, check out Season 1 and Season 2.

On to this week’s story:

Captain Heroic's Last Hurrah

“Breaking news from City Hall. Channel 14’s Montana Rack is on the scene.”

“Thanks, Rudy. I’m here with a man whose name is synonymous with Skyscraper City — Captain Heroic. Captain, can you tell our viewers what you just told me?”

“This wasn’t an easy decision, Montana. I just wanted to put that out there first. In brief, I just left City Hall, where I gave Mayor Barkley and Police Chief Holling my formal announcement to retire as a superhero.”

“Stunning news, Captain. Can you share what led to this decision with our viewers?”

“I’ve been fighting crime for twenty-five years now, Montana. Sure, there’s been some downtime in there, but I’ve always answered The Signal when it came. I’m in good health yet, but it has been getting a little harder this last year or two. My reaction times are off noticeably from just last year. It’s not severe yet, and it hasn’t impeded my powers, but it’s just a matter of time. I think it’s better to retire at the top of my game rather than to keep pushing my luck. It wouldn’t be good for anyone’s morale, on our side at least, if one of the villains at large could brag about taking down Captain Heroic.”

“There have been rumors concerning the flood of competition in the last few years. Could you address that?”

“I’ll be honest, Montana: that was a contributing factor. As you know, very few superheroes are self-funded. The rest of us depend on bounties to fund our ongoing arms race with the other side. When I began, the Heromobile and a handful of gadgets was all I needed. But now there’s jumpjets, submarines, computer power, and a lab where I can put all of it together. Meanwhile, bounties have stagnated since the turn of the century. The economy has squeezed Skyscraper City’s budget, and they had to cut superhero stipends. On the other hand, you have new faces on the scene — the League of Devis moved in from Kalikut, and Count Boris from Romania, not to mention the Masked Warriors from China. We work together when necessary, especially Boris and I, but everyone who works together splits the bounties. The new guys are younger and rely more on sheer numbers than technology. Since supervillain tactics have evolved to fight a lone superhero with gadgets, the ‘human wave’ guys have another advantage.”

“I’m sure I speak for most citizens when I say I’m really sorry to hear that, Captain. If you’ve just tuned in, this is Montana Rack. I’m with Captain Heroic in front of City Hall, a place where we’ve met so many times before. The Captain has just announced his retirement, citing age and financial issues. So, Captain, if you are retiring… is there any reason to not reveal your secret identity?”

“Many reasons, Montana. I’ve lost count of the number of evildoers I’ve put behind bars. There’s at least fifteen supervillains and several dozen major mobsters in prison right now, who might have enough influence to exact revenge.”

“Disappointing, but understandable. Any regrets or unfinished business?”

“One. I never could catch up with Icy von Doom. There’s a supervillain who deserves some respect: it’s hard to collect evidence from a smoking crater. I know the young turks are gunning for her, but she hasn’t made a misstep yet. We’ve been able to thwart her attempts at world domination, but that’s about it.”

“What if The Signal is lit?”

“There’s a work crew taking The Signal down off the roof as we speak. Mayor Barkley requested that it go to the Skyscraper City Museum, and that’s a fitting place for it. But I’ll be watching, and if the young turks are having trouble, Captain Heroic will be there to save the day!”

“Thank you, Captain Heroic. This has been Montana Rack, Channel 14, speaking with Skyscraper City’s most famous superhero about his announcement to retire. Back to you, Rudy. … That’s a wrap, Kyle. I’ll meet you at the truck in a minute, okay? I need to collect my thoughts. Thanks. … Off the record, Captain. What’s next?”

“Off the record? Oh, I don’t know. How about dinner?”

“Dinner? We’ve known each other for over twenty years and you’re just now getting around to asking me out?”

“Sorry. It was for your own safety. If we were dating before, you’d have been a target. And a highly visible one at that. But now?”

“I’m not getting any younger either. Why not?”

Friday, May 04, 2012 20 comments

#FridayFlash: The Three Builders

You’ll recognize these characters from Accidental Sorcerers — this takes place about eight or nine years prior.

The Three Builders
(a fable of Termag)

The nurse stood as Bailar entered Sura’s bedroom, stumbling a little. “All is well?” he asked.

“All is well, and gods willing, all shall be well.” The nurse often wondered how such a clumsy oaf could yet be a sorcerer, but there he stood. But a kindly man he is, and a good ‘un to give a home to a girl left at his door. She smiled and departed.

“I helped in the kitchen today, Father!” said Sura, sitting on her bed. Her round eyes gleamed in the candlelight. Rain drummed on the house, a comfortable sleepy sound.

“Nurse told me. She said you did well.”

She grinned. “I did! She said I would get cut or burned, but I was very careful. I’m almost five, I’m a big girl! I can help.”

“Indeed you can.”

“Yes. And then I’ll grow up to be a great sorcerer like you.”

“I’m sure you’ll be an even better one.” Bailar smiled to himself. He was no great sorcerer, but for a river town like Exidy he was adequate.

“A story, Father?” Sura bounced a little. “I’m not too big for a story.”

“Of course.” He sat on the bed and began:

Once, in the time of Camac That Was, in the Faraway West, was a fishing village. The village was remote, and they had to mostly provide for themselves. Most families had a fishing boat, and a garden, and could see the sun set over the ocean. Theirs was not an easy life, but it was the only life they knew and they were content with it.

Source: openclipart.org

One day, a raider, a big and strong man from the North, sailed by in his boat. He saw the little village, and saw how long it would take for the Queen’s navy to come to its aid. He found a place to hide his boat nearby and began to plunder the houses of the village by dark of night. What he could not carry away, he destroyed. The chief offered a great reward to anyone who could kill the raider, but none succeeded and many who tried did not live to try again.

Into this turmoil came three young men from other places, sent out from their families to make their homes. The first man said, “I shall build my house of rocks, with narrow windows and a sturdy brass door. This raider shall not break in.” When the raider came, he pounded at the brass door but could not batter it down. Then he took his great hammer, and smashed through the wall. He carried away the young man’s possessions, leaving behind a rubble.

The second man said, “I shall build my house of sturdy logs, with a great wooden door. This raider shall not break in.” When the raider came, he pounded at the great wooden door but could not batter it down. He took his great hammer and beat at the log walls, but made only some splinters. Then he took oil, poured it on the side of the house, and set it on fire. When the young man ran from his burning house, carrying what he prized most, the raider took it and more besides, leaving behind a smoking char.

The third man said, “I shall build my house from straw mats. I am a poor man, and what little I have the raider may not want.” When the raider came, he looked upon the flimsy house and laughed. “I shall simply walk through the wall and take what I will,” said he. But when he pushed the wall down, the entire house fell onto the raider, trapping him in the tough mats. As the raider struggled to escape, the young man took his hunting-spear and spitted the raider upon it. He dragged the raider’s body to the chief, who rejoiced with all the village and gave him the promised reward. The chief made him an advisor, and the village prospered.

“For it is not what you are given in this world that matters, but how you use it. The end.” Bailar smiled and stroked his foster daughter’s hair.

“That was good,” said Sura. “So you don’t have to be big and strong to win the battle?”

“Not if you are clever and use the talents you were created with,” said Bailar. “Now it’s time for the sorcerer’s daughter to go to sleep. We go to market tomorrow.”

Tuesday, May 01, 2012 1 comment

INHALE Book Launch

Today, I turn the blog over to my Twitter buddy and fellow Planet Georgia denizen, Kendall Grey! I’m helping her launch her erotic urban fantasy, INHALE — here’s what she wants you to know about it…

INHALE, an urban fantasy romance by Kendall Grey, is now available in paperback and e-book for Kindle (MOBI) and Nook (EPUB). INHALE is the first book in the JUST BREATHE trilogy. Kendall is donating all profits from the sale of the trilogy to programs that educate people about whales and the challenges they face. Watch the video to find out why.

Kendall encourages interested readers to consider purchasing an e-book instead of a paperback. E-books save trees, cost considerably less, and bring in much more money for the whales.

Thank you for supporting INHALE, and most importantly, the whales that need our help.

INHALE blurb:

Strangers in reality, inseparable in dreams…

After years of suffocating under her boss’s scrutiny, whale biologist Zoe Morgan finally lands a job as director of a tagging project in Hervey Bay, Australia. Success Down Under all but guarantees her the promotion of a lifetime, and Zoe won’t let anything—or anyone—stand in her way. Not the whale voices she suddenly hears in her head, not the ex who won’t take no for an answer, and especially not the gorgeous figment of her imagination who keeps saving her from the fiery hell of her dreams.

Gavin Cassidy hasn’t been called to help a human Wyldling in over a year, which is fine by him. Still blaming himself for the death of his partner, he keeps the guilt at bay by indulging in every excess his rock star persona affords. That is, until he’s summoned to protect Zoe from hungry Fyre Elementals and learns his new charge is the key to restoring order in the dying Dreaming. He never expects to fall for the feisty Dr. Morgan…nor does he realize he may have to sacrifice the woman he loves to save an entire country.

*This book contains graphic language, sex, and some violence. Not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

**The author will donate all profits from the sale of the JUST BREATHE trilogy to programs that educate people about whales and the challenges they face.

Sunday, April 29, 2012 8 comments

Commence to… Something

Let’s start with the big picture — long-time readers will recognize the “Then” pic from July 2008.

So yesterday morning, we got up at 6:30 a.m. That was a Saturday, which is a bad thing, but this is something that only happens once. I have several pictures to share, so I’ll let them do most of the talking.

Here they come! You can see DD with a big smile
close to the bottom-right.

I was on the side where her back was to me for the diploma,
but I had a clear line of sight to her in the seats.

And here she is, taking the handoff!

And I got a clear shot of her coming off the stage.

Hey Dad, I got it!!!

For me, the highlight came near the end. She was chosen
to lead the entire assembly in the alma mater!

Today, we’re sort of recovering. I’m going to take Mason outside for a while now.

If anyone needs a music teacher who graduated magna cum laude yesterday, she will entertain all offers. ;-)

Thursday, April 26, 2012 19 comments

#FridayFlash: Escape

I woke up this morning with the first line of this story. It wrote itself from there.

Escape

Source: openclipart.org

It was Tolkien that gave me the idea about escaping into a book — and not just in my mind. I was in high school, reading Lord of the Rings, at a time when everything in my life just seemed pointless. The idea of the whole world depending on you? Priceless. Things got better, as they always do when you’re that age, and I soon forgot about it. But an idea, once planted in your head, never really goes away.

Then I found I needed it.

It’s not something you can find on the Internet, but if you want it bad enough? The formula is out there. There are hints about it woven into our culture. Dive into reading, the summer library programs urge us. Get lost in a book. Another phrase, escapist literature, is out of circulation these days. Only the names change.

I won’t be the first to take this way out. I believe the most notorious desperado of my generation, DB Cooper, never jumped out of that airliner. Sure, he chucked out a packet of money, and it was sheer luck it landed in the Columbia River to be carried downstream. But the only dive he took that night was into a book. I don’t know which one, and it doesn’t matter. How do you extradite a criminal from a story?

I’ve picked a sci-fi story for my own escape. Again, which one doesn’t matter. There are problems, of course. You can’t have a book without problems. But it addresses the big issues like climate change and peak oil, and cancer patients have a one-time, outpatient procedure. Permanent cure. And did I mention that health care is truly universal in that world? My skills are a good fit, so I won’t have much trouble blending in.

So this is good-bye, I guess. I wouldn’t live more than a few months if I stayed, no sense in prolonging the agony. Maybe you’ll read the book I’m about to dive into. You probably won’t know I’m there — but if you read about a grateful cancer survivor? Say hello.

Writing Wibbles

So Friday morning found me without a #FridayFlash and wondering what I was going to put up. On the morning commute, I decided to do something with zombies. Of course, as most of you know already, when it comes to well-trodden sub-genres (like zombies or classic fantasy), I like to go with a different angle — and so, I decided to write about the events leading up to the zombie apocalypse.

Despite the late start, UW-401 did pretty well as I rate things on the blog. It broke 100 pageviews early Monday — not the 200-view popularity of Geek vs. Zombies or Three Sprites, One Silent — but it got lots of RTs and mentions on Twitter from people I hadn’t seen before, not to mention an all-time high of 5 “+1” clicks on Google+. The comments included lots of requests for an expanded version, and I think it will become my next #TuesdaySerial.

And speaking of pageview count, what’s the deal with Dragon Rider? It’s suddenly over 1700 pageviews, most in the last two weeks! I’m not getting any more spam than usual, so I kind of wonder what’s going on there. There was more spam in the trap for the follow-up episodes. It’s also received 4 “+1” clicks on Google+.

Onto other matters. White Pickups is with the editor, who has things to say about long sentences (which I’m aware of) and punctuation (which I wasn’t). A release this month isn’t likely, but next month looks really good now. I’ll be firming up a late May launch day soon — I’d like to have it ready for people who want something to read over the long Memorial Day weekend. So it’s time to start the publicity push… if you’re on Goodreads, I’d really appreciate it if you added it to your “to-read” shelf. I also need to start lining up the ol’ blog tour venues, plan the release party, all that stoof. Other projects are lining up… hey, could someone pay off my mortgage so I could just do this full-time?

Meanwhile, Xenocide continues to provide intelligence if not money. I’ve learned that auto-tweeting ads for it twice a day didn’t annoy anyone (to the point of vocalizing annoyance, anyway), but didn’t lead to more sales either. Its next mission: infiltrate the Kindle Select program and see if Prime members will “borrow” it. Seeing as I’ve made one actual sale on Smashwords (through B&N), I don’t think I’m taking much money off the table with this experiment. I would love to see it hit enough sales (or borrows) to get a royalty check, just to say I did. I only need about 25 sales total, so if you have 99 cents kicking around you know what you can do with it. ;-) Or if you’re an Amazon Prime member, hang on until this weekend or thereabout. (If you’re a die-hard Smashwords customer, better hurry!)

This just in: Tor has announced that they are dropping DRM. The consensus so far is that the big pubs are doing it to break Amazon’s hold on the market — which may be true. I don’t care really, why they’re doing the right thing. But if it makes them more money, it’s even better.

Friday, April 20, 2012 19 comments

#FridayFlash: UW-401

Dr. Milano stood waiting outside the glass doors as the limo pulled up. The chauffeur opened the rear door, brought out two bags from the trunk, then drove away. The newcomer watched his transportation disappear into the high grass, growing right up to the edge of the roadway, then shrugged and wheeled his bags to the door.

"Dr. London, I presume," said Milano, offering a hand.

"Yes. And you're Dr. Milano?" They shook. "Where the hell are we?"

"Somewhere in North Dakota, I think. It doesn't matter. This is your home, laboratory, office, and lecture hall from now on."

"At least it isn't a missile silo."

"Actually, it was. Only the offices are upstairs. Your office is next to mine. You can drop off your laptop and any papers you brought there first, then I'll show you the rest of the place."

"Look," said London, on the elevator ride down, "I'm having second thoughts about this. Who are we working for here? The government? The military?"

Milano sighed. "Those are just subsidiaries. We're a third subsidiary."

"What?"

"We're working for… the rulers. The one percenters, some call 'em. To say this is top secret is… well, top secrets are secret from citizens, but governments share them around as needed. This place, not even the governments know about."

"Whoa. I was promised top-notch research facilities, opportunities to publish papers, the works. Not some crazy billionaire's private spook factory."

"Actually, you'll have all that. Your papers won't appear in Nature or the New England Journal of Medicine, but we have our own network of journals and lecture circuits. And the facilities are beyond anything you've ever dreamed of. Trust me." London stopped before a steel door and again took out a packed key ring. "This is where we'll be working. Your keys are in your desk upstairs, by the way."

"What's with the keys? Why not magcards?"

"It's too easy to hack. This place was fitted with mechanical locks back when, and they'll work even if the power goes out. Come on in."

"Nice." London tried to take it all in at once.

"Only the best for the pet researchers. Let me give you an overview on what you'll be doing. It was your immunology research that called attention to you, by the way. Level 3 biosafety training didn't hurt." Milano pulled on a pair of latex gloves from a wall-mounted dispenser then lifted a vial from a rack. "This is UW-401, the virus we're studying now. It's classified Biosafety Level 2, as it's similar to HIV in its transmission vectors. Our job is to devise a vaccine for it."

"What's it do?"

Milano sighed. "The sooner you see this, the better." He led London to another steel door at one end of the laboratory, marked "OBSERVATION." He swiped a finger across a tiny scanner, and it clicked. "I'll add your fingerprints when we're done there," he said. "We got cleared to use biometric locks for interior doors. Keeps things interesting."

They looked down at the figure on the gurney. "What — ungh!" London held his nose. "Is he dead, or did he start rotting before he died —" He gasped and grasped the railing, forgetting to hold his nose and breathe. Below them, the figure moaned and writhed, pulling at the straps securing it to the gurney.

"That is a victim of UW-401," said Milano. "One of the superpower militaries developed it, looking for a way to create the ultimate soldier."

"Looks like they created a zombie instead."

"That's pretty much what it is," Milano admitted. "They thought it rather promising at first. I can show you some video from the biowar group that developed it."

"That's impossible," London breathed. "His heart's gone — you can see daylight right through that hole!"

"You can see why they thought they had a winner, huh? The virus rewires the central nervous system and shuts down all autonomous systems but locomotion and digestion. They eat, they kill. You have to decapitate it, or blow it to bits, to stop it."

"You said 'at first.' What changed their minds?"

"A minor detail with soldiers: they have to be able to follow orders. UW-401 victims don't. They just keep going, killing and eating. And transmitting the virus to those they only wound."

"What's the symptoms?"

"Numbness within a few hours of infection. Loss of appetite. Vomiting, if the victim eats anything but fresh, raw meat. The numbness progresses to loss of higher mental functions and a dampening of senses… except sense of smell, which gets keener. After eighteen hours, the cardiopulmonary functions cease and you have a zombie."

"How does it live without a heart or lungs?"

"Badly. Digestion continues to provide enough energy to keep it going, but it's continuously necrotizing. After about six months, it quits. But that's plenty of time to infect other victims."

"Do they think this is gonna get out of the labs?"

"They know it will. As soon as they have a vaccine, they're going to release it."

"What?"

"Yeah. They're freaked out about that Occupy thing. They're afraid it's going to go viral, so they're going to immunize themselves and let something else go viral."

"When?"

"End of November. They'll push down fuel prices so people will be in a spending and traveling mood for the holidays. Computer models suggest it'll be worldwide in a week."

"Why bring me in on this? Immunization isn't rocket science. Dead virus, weakened virus… they've been tried already for sure."

"Of course. The problem is, the immune system doesn't recognize UW-401 as an invader. There's no immune reaction to stimulate."

"So we have like six months to invent an entirely new immunology, so we can destroy the human race?"

"That's the gist of it."

"Fuck that. I'm outta here."

"You think they'll just let you walk out? You have a family, right? Why do you think they talked you into coming out now and letting your wife and baby 'catch up' in a couple weeks?"

London reeled, caught a chair, sprawled into it. "My God."

"Play nice, report some results, and they tell me they'll bring our families out here come fall. I want to show you one more thing, then we'll head back to the offices." Milano gestured toward another door; behind it was a room lined with foam spikes. "An anechoic chamber," he explained, closing the door. "It was part of the original facility." His voice sounded flat.

"Damn. It's so quiet in here it's hurting my ears."

"Yeah. I've checked this room as best I can, and they can't monitor us in here." He sighed again. "I apologize, Dr. London. It was me who recommended you for the position. That was before I realized they don't intend to hold up their end of the deal."

"What do you mean?"

"When they're safely vaccinated? If they're merciful, we'll get a bullet in the head. If not, they'll feed us to the zombies. They've set up another silo for themselves. They'll hole up, release the virus, and come out in a couple years when all the zombies are dead."

London paled. "Shit."

"Yeah. I've got family out there too. I think they're toast, when it comes right down to it. So this is the plan: we continue to research, and come July we announce a breakthrough. We inject the entire one percent with live virus, grab our families, and make a break back for here with as many others as we can round up. If we're lucky, we'll be able to take advantage of the chaos. If not…well, we're no worse off."

"I… that makes sense. I'm in."

Tuesday, April 17, 2012 3 comments

Writing Wibbles

Last week’s big news was that the Department of Justice went ahead with an expected suit against Apple and five of the “Big 6” publishers, alleging collusion and price-fixing of eBooks (aka the “Agency Model”). I held off writing about it until this week, mainly because I already had a post queued but also because I wanted to see if any more information came out. Oh well.

As expected, the publishing industry and their media outlets are crying Doom and Disaster. A website called Shelf Awareness, staffed by industry insiders, had this to say:

In a clash of concepts about what best serves the reader — the lowest possible prices or a healthy, diverse book industry — the federal government … came down on the side of the book as a commodity.

In other words, high eBook prices are a requirement for “a healthy, diverse book industry.” I understand the desire of a long-established oligopoly to preserve the status quo, but it’s a pity they can’t be more upfront about their motivations.

The problem is, there are laws against collusion and the DoJ provides prima facie evidence of how publisher executives “jointly acknowledged to each other the threat posed by Amazon’s pricing strategy and the need to work collectively to end that strategy.” If you can’t survive under laws that have been on the books for over 120 years, and aren’t enforced too well anyway, you’re not trying hard enough. In the end, it’s ridiculous to demand that eBooks be priced higher than hardcovers (especially when you’re explicitly forbidden to pass that eBook around the way you can a hardcover). I’ve opined before that the Agency Model was an attempt to kill eBooks; now it’s a failed attempt.

The idea that the producer dictates retail prices flies in the face of the capitalist system (that publishing executives undoubtedly support as long as it benefits them). The “S” in “MSRP” means “Suggested,” after all. Everyone in the chain, from the raw materials producers to the booksellers, tries to cover their costs plus some margin — or voluntarily takes a hit on margins (or even a loss) to gain some longer-term advantage. I doubt that even Stephen King would, for example, tell publishers that his books must sell for a certain price — so why should publishers tell Amazon what they can do?

[I should point out that, long-term, I’m not convinced that Amazon’s intentions are all wonderful for authors or readers. On the other hand, given what Barnes&Noble and Borders did to indie booksellers, I don’t weep much for their predicament now either.]

I think there’s still a role for Big Publishing, but they’ll have to update the way they do business. In my opinion, they could start by treating authors as partners rather than chattel. The average advance is the same as it was 30 years ago — i.e., much less when factoring in inflation — while book prices (and executive compensation) have increased accordingly. The games publishers play with sales figures are well-documented, and it’s funny how those “mistakes” never benefit the authors. Those kind of issues need to be addressed, instead of clinging to a business model that’s incompatible with new technology. In the Depression years and afterwards, it was possible for many authors to make a living from writing, even by writing short stories for the pulps. Top-shelf novelists were the rock stars of their day. By shooting for the lowest common denominator, the publishers have brought this new world of Amazon on themselves. IMO.

Under the current circumstances, going indie seems to be the smart move. A friend of mine cleared twice her dayjob pay in March, and circumstances are now pushing her into writing full-time. She’s a talented cover designer, and her books aren’t full of typos, so that helps. Not everyone gets that kind of success, but I think people who put a lot of effort into their work have a better chance of success by bypassing the publishers. When publishers acknowledge that they’re no longer the 800-pound gorilla, and start acting like they know it, the pendulum will begin swinging their way again.

Friday, April 13, 2012 18 comments

#FridayFlash: Words of Wisdom

And thus concludes the first part…

Words of Wisdom

Again, the beast drew near, and again it was time to run. Mary paused a lot more often than she needed, just to let Eric catch up. On several occasions, she had to stop to help him up or free his foot from a snag. The second time, the beast nearly caught up to them; it wasn’t close enough to see but its mindless advance rained debris on them. They got away, and finally managed to put some distance between it and themselves.

Mary cut down a side street, then turned to look. “Eric! Hurry!” she yelled.

“I wasn’t on the cross-country team!” he puffed; she took off again as soon as he caught up.

“Neither was I, but you either run or die!”

“Why did it get so close? Is it after you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe.” She dodged through a gaping hole into what was once a fancy restaurant. “I think we can rest in here.” They caught their breath for a moment.

“That’s comforting,” he said, looking at the overturned tables and other wreckage. “Can I look at your drawings again? They’re good.”

Mary huffed, but handed over the sketchpad.

“The one of the beast. How long did you work on it?”

“Three weeks. The others I just did off the cuff.”

“That’s even more amazing, when you think about it. They’re simple, but there’s still a lot of detail. I can draw some, but not that good. Especially the part where stuff comes to life.”

“Yeah.” Eric was kind of a pain — he slowed her down and talked too much — but he didn’t patronize her or try to hit on her. And he seemed to mean what he said about her work. That was nice. She tried to imagine this place the way it was, maybe sitting with Eric at one of the tables. Maybe on prom night.

“—it?”

“Huh?”

“If you made it, couldn’t you get rid of it?”

“What?”

“Yeah.” He held up the drawing of the beast. “I mean, you got the idea for this thing before you knew you could bring it to life, right?” He frowned. “Maybe it gave you that power, and it’s after you because it knows you could undo it somehow.”

“No way.” But his words — his idea — found a way through her armor, reaching the core where all that anger lay waiting, another beast looking for a way into the light. The anger and the idea roiled together inside her.

“Yeah. It let you use the power to get rid of people — the creepy dude and Megan Garner — and they both deserved it, probably. Once it knew you could do it, it just had to wait for you to get mad enough to bring it to life too. So maybe you can draw something to kill it. Superman, maybe.”

“That’s so whack.”

“No more whack than that thing out there. Or any of the other stuff. It’s worth a try, isn’t it? I don’t guess we can outrun that thing forever. If you can kill it, you really ought to. Even if you don’t care about yourself, my Mom always said if you can do the right thing, you should do it.”

She shook her head, but could not deny the logic. “Where is she now?”

Eric looked out the hole in the wall. “We tried to drive out, the first day. She was going too fast and wrecked, about a mile from the apartment. I was okay, but she didn’t make it.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I wish I’d died too.”

She sighed. “Listen, I need to think about this. How to do it.” She started pacing, and Eric retreated into the kitchen to forage. The restaurant shook to the rhythmic pounding of the beast’s feet, but it felt far enough away to be safe a while longer. She righted a table and chair where the light was good. “But maybe the world deserved this,” she muttered, tapping the sketchpad with her pencil. A world full of psycho parents, creepers, and evil students — and the occasional nice guy like Eric, sure. She nodded her head to the vibration.

“I think it’s getting closer,” said Eric, looking over her shoulder. “How — you’re almost done?”

“Huh?” Mary looked down. She didn’t remember starting, but there it was: a shaft of light thrust the clouds aside and shone upon the prone beast. It writhed, not under Superman, but the sword of an avenging angel. The rubble of the city lay all around them. Should I do this? She reached down into that core, found the anger there and strong as ever, but now it spoke different words: It used us! Kill it!

“Almost. Give me a little space. I think we have time.” She bent to her drawing, as Eric retreated. It was almost done, but something was missing. Something for her.

With great power comes great responsibility. At this moment, Eric’s words seemed more true than anything. But she deserved something… something nice. Somebody who cared about her for a change. Making that happen wouldn’t hurt anything, right? And maybe she wouldn’t want to destroy the world again. She sketched in a low hill, with her and Eric standing on it… holding hands. She’d saved his life at least twice, after all.

“We’ve gotta go! Now!” Eric looked wild-eyed at the hole in the wall.

“Okay. Just a few more seconds.” She spoke the words as she wrote: “Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.”

“Speaking words of wisdom, yeah. Hurry!”

She stuffed her sketchpad into her backpack, and they ran.

They reached a low hilltop as a shaft of light split the churning overcast sky.

continued…

Wednesday, April 11, 2012 4 comments

Writing Wibbles

Let’s start by welcoming a new follower to the free-range insane asylum: Caine Dorr, author of the Masked Marauder Matinee serial and the Paladin Brigade webcomic! Your badge is on the table. (Did you bring comics? The inmates like comics…)

Cranking in beta feedback on White Pickups is going about as expected: slower than desired, faster than I should have expected. There’s several scene rewrites, mostly in the early going, that are taking the most time. I was hoping to drop the whole shebang on my editor come Sunday, but that’s not going to happen.

I’m waffling on some of the scene additions: should I add a brief scene where Cody’s parents drive off? What about the initial clash between Charles’s group and the bashers in Midtown? The latter especially gets retold by Charles and Cleve later on, at separate moments, so I’m not sure it would add anything to the story. When it doubt, leave it out is probably the best policy.

What makes a story a story?

On Monday, Sonia Lal tweeted a link to a Guardian article that asks Why are English and American Novels Today so Gutless? The author laments the lack of political novels.

The question I have is: is a political story that’s ONLY about politics worth reading? Even 1984 was more about two people rebelling against the oppressive regime than the politics itself. Many people who don’t read science fiction like to say it’s all about… well, “rockets in space” was the catchphrase a generation ago. But very few people, even those who enjoy sci-fi, would enjoy a story only about rockets in space. The rest of us would (if the story is written well) care more about the people on board that rocket. The only exception I can think of is a short story by Vernor Vinge, called Long Shot; I read it back in high school, and that was about the AI onboard rather than the ship itself.

A month before I was born, in 1958, Isaac Asimov had published an essay called The Thunder-Thieves. Sputnik and Vanguard were in orbit; digital computers and other technical advances were either on the way or already on the scene. So many things were happening, that were once thought the realm of fiction, people had begun openly questioning what was left to sci-fi. Asimov’s reply was, “The answer: Everything!” Because sci-fi (and by extension, all genre fiction) is about people. The genre simply defines the background, against which the characters interact.

So while White Pickups (and moreso FAR Future) have their moments of politics — and they both come down solidly on one side of the fence — I wouldn’t characterize either one as a political novel. Nor would I call them “gutless.” But I suppose that’s in the eye of the reader.

Friday, April 06, 2012 23 comments

#FridayFlash: Times of Trouble

Several readers thought last week’s story, Let It Be, needed a little room to grow. It agreed, naturally.

Times of Trouble

Running, hiding, resting… then far too soon, doing it all over again under the angry sky. So Mary ran, dodging through the debris of what was a generic suburb only a few days before. Before she’d made her beast real, and set it loose to rampage across the world. Now Mom was dead from alcohol poisoning, and who knew where Dad ran off too?

Holding a rag to her mouth, she ran through smoke and dust —

“Hey! Is someone there? Help!”

Mary skidded to a stop, looking around.

“Over here!” A boy’s voice. He coughed, and Mary saw him wave. She reached behind her back, making sure the butcher knife was still in its sheath. She’d only had to draw it once in the last few days, and that was enough to make the asshole back off. Maybe she was just an emo art chick on Monday, but now it was Thursday. Or maybe Friday. Now she was someone who could bring utter destruction with a few strokes of a pencil.

“Can you get this off me?” He looked soft, like a gamer or geek, seated with his back to the building wall. A utility pole lay over his legs; it wasn’t crushing him but it had him trapped. “Do you have any water? I’m thirsty.”

“How long have you been here?” She slid her pack off her shoulders, keeping her knife hand free, and fished past her sketchpad for a water bottle.

“Since this morning. One of those earthquakes hit, I ran outside, fell down, and this happened before I could think. Thanks.” He drained the bottle. “Hey — don’t you go to Four Oaks?”

Mary squinted, trying to put a name to the face. “Yeah. Or I did.” She looked at the end of the pole. “I dunno if I can move this or not.”

“I’m Eric Perch.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You were in my U.S. History class. I’m Mary Smith.”

He sang, not too badly: “When I find myself in times of trouble, something Mary comes to me —”

“Haha.” She straddled the pole and heaved at it, then put her back to the wall and tried pushing with her feet. “Crap. Sorry.”

“Maybe you can lever it off?”

“With what?” She looked around, but didn’t see anything.

“Well, you can’t just leave me here!”

“Wait. Wait a minute. Let me think.” Mary stepped back and stared, composing the scene. I can’t, she thought. But if she did those other things, why not this? Why not something useful? She sat down, some distance away, and took out her sketchpad.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up. I need to think.” Mary sketched the side of the building, then Eric standing, looking down at the pole. After a minute, she lost herself in the drawing. It might work, she thought, looking it over. Under the pole, and snaking around his feet, she added LET IT BE, several times. “Pull your feet in, if you can,” she said.

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

“Fine!” A minute later, she heard then felt the ground shake. She put her hands out, looking around her to make sure nothing was about to crush her. The pole lurched forward and rolled away.

“Yes!” She looked, and Eric pushed himself upright, staring at the pole. “I’m free! Hey… how did you know the earthquake was about to happen? What were you drawing?”

Mary sighed and showed him the sketch. “I made it happen.”

“No way.” But Eric’s voice held no conviction.

“Yeah, way. Why do you think the tornado hit the school last Tuesday?” She flipped to the drawing of Amber’s dead hand. “Or that… thing out there?” She showed him the beast.

“Wow. How did you get close enough to draw it?” he breathed.

“I drew it before. What’s the same in all of those?” She handed him the sketchpad and glared, arms crossed.

Eric flipped back and forth. “They’re all pencil or colored pencil, but that’s not what you’re asking, is it? Who’s this guy?”

“Some creep who tried to get too close two weeks ago.”

“Oh. Hey, is it the ‘let it be’ thing?”

“Yeah. If I write it on something I draw, it happens.”

Eric gave her a strange look — not total disbelief, but not belief either. “They say, extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof,” he said.

“Well, you’re standing up.”

“It could’ve been a coincidence.”

She glowered. “You want me to put you back under it?”

“No! No… wait.” His stomach growled, or maybe it was hers. “Food. Can you make food?”

“I never tried. And there’s gotta be food around here anyway.”

“Uh-uh. There were six of us until yesterday, we were staying in my apartment. We picked this area clean. They ditched me when we ran out.”

“Where’s your parents?”

He looked away and shrugged. “So can you do it?”

“I guess I’ll try. I’m hungry too.” She thought a minute, then sat down on the utility pole and started drawing: herself and Eric, sitting on the pole and sharing lunch. A plastic grocery bag sat at their feet. Not her best work, but… whatever. She added the magic words.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Stuff doesn’t happen right away. It usually takes a minute. Just —” Again, the ground shook. The trunk of a car across the way rose on its own, and Mary got up to check it out.

“Forget it,” said Eric. “We checked that car out three days ago.”

“Good.” Mary turned, holding a plastic grocery bag. “You can’t say it was there, then. Bread, peanut butter, jelly, and some plastic knives. All that, and a bag of chips!” She grinned. “Let’s eat. I hope you’re not allergic.”

Eric gaped. “Wow. That’s some trick. I’m glad you’re using your power for good now.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. With great power comes great responsibility.”

Mary shook her head. “I never asked for this. All I wanted was to be left alone.”

continued…

Wednesday, April 04, 2012 4 comments

Writing Wibbles

Hey look, a new follower slipped in at the last minute: Sonya Clark. A couple weeks ago, I got a peek at the first part of her novel in progress, Freak Town. It’s going to be a winner.

Early this week, Tony Noland blogged about his fond memories of OS/2, a highly advanced operating system for its time to be sure. It got me thinking about my own fond memories, of Amiga and the old Tandy laptops, and some of the writing I did on those older systems… much of it now forever lost.

My first instinct was to lament the obsolence of file formats, but that’s not really the problem — most of the files from those days were plain text with a minimum of formatting. Even with a binary file format, it’s not that difficult to recover the text out of a file if it’s not compressed. On OSX, you could drop into the Terminal and use the strings command to clean out the crud; then fix the rest in your favorite editor.

No, the real problem is media. CP/M had a format, Commodore, Tandy, Atari, and some I’ve forgotten each had their own format, incompatible with the others (but in all cases, susceptible to bit-rot). Even in the case of the Tandy 600 laptop, whose 3-1/2" floppies can be read in MS-DOS, who has a floppy drive these days? CD-ROM isn’t exactly permanent either, even assuming the physical format hangs around. With the proliferation of tablets, and pocket computers that happen to make phone calls (I’m typing this on my iPhone), that’s not a given. In a lot of ways, it’s more likely that stories typewritten 30 years ago are more likely to survive than something typed into a personal computer 20 years ago.

So, as writers, what can we do to make our deathless prose really deathless?

The technical answer: nothing, really. The farther back you go in time, the fewer works survive. The vast majority of books in a bookstore are no more than a few years old, with some very popular exceptions. Project Gutenberg has done a wonderful job of locating and digitizing works that have passed into the public domain, but the vast majority of their titles are from the 19th and 20th centuries. Go farther back, and you’re in the realm of the “classics” — exemplary works that survive on merit — but the oldest complete works are around 2500 years old. At around 3800 years of age, the Epic of Gilgamesh is one of the oldest known written works of all, and is only fragmentary.

Perhaps the best we can do is plan for decades, maybe a century or two, and hope that our descendants find our work worth distributing forward from there. We have the Internet for decades, and paper (preferably acid-free) for centuries. As long as eBook stores carry our work, we’re good for the short-term. I don’t worry too much about a new eBook format superseding the current ones — both MOBI and ePub are ZIP archives containing HTML files (with some control files that determine the order, among other things). HTML has been around since 1991, and any browser can display an HTML file written even 20 years ago. Even if HTML is superseded later on, the files are plain text with well-defined markup elements.

While copyright laws allow for longer and longer periods before a work finally passes into the public domain, there’s nothing stopping a copyright owner from abandoning copyright earlier — or releasing the work under a Creative Commons license — and then placing the work on Gutenberg or archive.org, which are intended for the long-haul. If longevity is the goal, copyright may be the enemy.

That’s decades…what about centuries? Our civilization could crash, or our grandkids could just decide the Internet uses too much electricity to maintain and pull the plug. Say what you might about buggy whips, paper and similar media has survived civilization reboots. Keep it away from fire, use acid-free paper so it won’t eat itself, and maybe that story will catch on with future generations. Maybe not likely, but certainly possible.

Which brings me to my own deathless prose. :-P I’m still editing White Pickups, and I’m about halfway through. Not as far as I liked, but at least as good as I hoped. I’m afraid this bad boy is going to break 100,000 words by the time I crack open the Crown Royal (which is waiting for Launch Day) though.

Monday, April 02, 2012 3 comments

Changing It Around

I didn't set out to do this, but various failures over the weekend kicked off several minor technology changes today. It's like my gadgetry forgot to stop pranking me once April Fools' Day ended…

The old iPhone earbuds I've had since the 3G days are officially worn out: the left earbud has very little audio coming through. I don't know why I put up with that as long as I have, especially since I have a working pair of iPod earbuds (no clicker) and some higher-end things. I'd love to use my Bluetooth stereo headset, but it's good for about six hours and I need at least eight to get me through the workday. Right now, I'm using a pair of Future Sonics in-ear 'phones that I won some years back. I miss the clicker to start/stop my music (or answer the phone), but better that than no left channel.

The iOS Twitter client has become increasingly annoying, especially since IT has made Twitter's webapp unuseable. I need the ability to manage my lists from my phone if I can't use the webapp (or the official OSX Twitter client, for that matter). The last straw was yesterday, when the app decided to not update my Mentions anymore. I downloaded the free (ad-supported) version of Echofon this morning and like it better already. I can manage my lists, and the ads only appear in the primary timeline. The only two drawbacks so far: you have to switch out of Lists to tweet (unless replying/RTing) and I don't think new followers appear in the Mentions column like they do on the webapp.

Finally, I've started using Evernote instead of PlainText to write draft blog posts and story scenes while mobile. The Evernote app doesn't have ads and pulling a draft out of Evernote into Scrivener is about the same amount of effort as pulling it out of Dropbox (where PlainText saves stuff).

Technology can be such a PITA. I'm editing White Pickups on paper, and the only thing I have to worry about there is Mason snatching the pen out of the stack and thereby losing my place.

Friday, March 30, 2012 25 comments

#FridayFlash: Let It Be

I was at the park with Mason yesterday, and saw a girl sitting on a bench with a sketch box. She looked like she wanted the entire world to keep its distance… and then she became the centerpiece of a story…

Let It Be

“You drawing?”

Mary pulled her pad to her chest and glared at the intrusion. An older guy, leaning over the fence behind her, smile a little too wide. “Yeah.” Eff off, creeper. She pulled one leg up.

“Okay. I just like art. Can’t draw for crap myself.” He shrugged and walked away, stealing one last glance over his shoulder.

She looked up — her nephew Adam was on the highest level of the jungle gym, tearing around with the other first graders. He saw her and waved; she waved back and he dived head-first into the tube slide. He’d burn off a bunch of energy, while she made ten easy bucks and had some time to work on her drawing, and her sister Kim would have a peaceful evening for a change. Everybody wins. She was working on the beast’s outstretched claw… she knew it was holding something, but what? There will be an answer, she thought, and stared across the playground to the pond beyond the fence. She pushed her hair back and thought some more.

The image of the creepy dude wormed back into her mind, and she nearly flung her pencil. “Asshole,” she growled, and flipped to a blank sheet. Without thinking much about it, she sketched the creeper on his back; the front end of an SUV loomed over him. A few more details suggested themselves, and she added them: the jogging track crossing, backstop fence in the background, planter with flowers. She looked it over and did a double-take: under the creeper, the words LET IT BE were repeated several times. She had no memory of writing that.

“Huh,” she grunted — but suddenly she realized the beast was holding an orb. No, a huge eyeball, big as the soccer ball rolling across the playground, with a slit pupil like a cat’s. She checked the time on her phone, and made sure the alarm was set for 6:30, then dived into her drawing.

After strapping Adam into his booster seat, he gave up whining about having to leave the park and picked up his toy F-16. He made whooshing noises as she got in a long line for the exit. The best thing about being sixteen was being able to drive. It got her a long way from her crazy-bitch Mom and the fights she picked with her and Dad. She sort of hoped Dad would divorce the hag so she could move in with him.

“Sh— oh no!” she gasped. Someone was flat on the crosswalk; the cop assigned to the park had his patrol car off to the side, lights flashing like a rave with extra weird drugs. As she drew closer, she realized the guy on the pavement was the creeper. A big white Expedition stood with a crushed grille, and the driver — a woman whose hairdo was wound way too tight — was arguing with the cop: “I was supposed to get my daughter from soccer practice ten minutes ago! Am I liable for every jogger who comes popping out of nowhere?”

Mary gave the scene a goggle-eyed stare — all the details in her sketch were there. “Too weird,” she breathed, and scooted away for her sister’s house.

The slap of thunder, shaking the classroom floor, matched Mary’s mood. That bitch Amber seemed to go out of her way to make life miserable for Mary. Always talking smack, “accidentally” knocking stuff out Mary’s arms, you name it. Thank God it was study hall — maybe she could get her act together before next period. Her U.S. History assignment was done, so she opened her sketchpad. The beast was almost finished, but again she flipped to a blank page and started drawing: the school, torn open by a force unmeasurable. Debris everywhere, cars overturned. A funnel cloud dwindled in the distance. From under one car, a girl’s hand, wearing a big class ring. And that repeated LET IT BE, snaking under the arm and around the hand.

Her stomach turned a flip, and she hustled to Ms. Larson’s desk. “Need a bathroom break,” she whispered.

Ms. Larson nodded. “Hurry, okay?”

Mary returned the nod and ran to the girls’ room. She closed the stall door behind her and stared at the toilet, taking deep breaths —

The alarm went off, three short barks, over and over, nearly drowned out by a constant rumble. Tornado warning, she remembered, and crouched in the corner between the toilet and the wall.

They found Amber under a car in the parking lot. Her friend Heather said she’d cut Sociology to take a smoke break outside.

Mom was on a drunken rampage. Dad hadn’t come home from work, and wasn’t answering his cellphone. Mary had slipped her sketchpad under the dresser, maybe the one safe place for it. Mom would fling her drawers everywhere, but she was too lazy to move something that heavy.

From the sound of it, she was now tearing the kitchen apart. Mary pocketed a flashlight, grabbed her sketchpad, and opened the bedroom window. The roof of the screened-in porch was just below, fortunately; from there she could drop to the deck and get away. She’d done it before.

Dad left her. And me too. What a shit! she thought. Was this the way things would always be? Disappointment punctuated by hours of Hell on Earth? Mom would be so apologetic in the morning, and maybe she’d even mean it, but it would happen again.

The house next door was foreclosed, its empty patio a welcome retreat. Mary opened the sketchpad and shone her flashlight over the beast. It was tearing itself out of the ground, ready to render its sentence on the world. The drawing was almost done. Almost. She picked up her pencil:

LET IT BE, LET IT BE, LET IT BE, LET IT BE. There will be an answer.

continued…

Wednesday, March 28, 2012 9 comments

Writing Wibbles

In the words of the immortal Thing, it’s wibblin’ time!

Like most writers, I tend to run hot and cold on my own work. On one hand, perhaps more often than warranted, I think I’ve got a set of pretty good stories in the pipeline. People who read them have positive things to say about them; all they need is some cleanup and I’ll be smokin’ up the charts on Amazon.

Then there’s the other hand — what I call writer angst, for lack of a better term. “My writing’s crap, my stories are crap, my ideas (writing and otherwise) are crap. Why am I even bothering with this?” I was going to say I’m particularly susceptible to this phase, but (judging from what I hear from others) I’m neither unique nor particularly notable in that regard. (See, even in self-deprecation I’m only mediocre!)

I have two equal and opposite theories about writer angst:

One, it’s a necessary prod to improve, whether that means a particular story or writing in general. Once through the woe, I can pick up the work and set about making it better.
Two, it’s an excuse to be lazy. If I can convince myself that the work is crap, beyond redemption, then I have an excuse to avoid the hard work of making it better. If I can convince myself that I’m wasting my time writing, I could move on to non-writing projects (that I will also shelve as crap later on).

Often, perhaps more often than not, the angst turns out to be unwarranted. Last year, I submitted Assignation to the Best of FridayFlash (Vol. 2) anthology. I edited it, had Brooke Johnson critique it, edited it a little more, then sent it off. And started second-guessing myself immediately. When months went by with no word, and about a dozen stories (not mine) were listed in a “Reader’s Choice” poll, I assumed the worst. But Monday morning, I got an email to let me know it had been accepted! Emergent Publishing is handling publishing and distribution; I’ll let you know more when I know more.

The boost couldn’t have come at a better time, in my opinion. I’ve been doing a ton and a half of second-guessing about White Pickups lately: should I cut it (and the sequel) down to one novel? should I just dump it entirely and focus on the current shiny writing thing? or just give up altogether? And what about… Mary Lou?

The boost from one little email has reinforced a couple of blog comments I’ve received lately… in short, White Pickups is in no danger of finding a permanent home in the drawer. I’m drafting an action plan to get it out of the garage (so to speak) and then finish Pickups and Pestilence. In short:

Print out the whole book, giving my old laser printer a thorough workout. (done, and I finally figured out what to do with that ream of pre-punched paper)
Edit with an eye to fixing (if nothing else) one major issue I’ve heard from two beta readers. If that leads to combining the two books into one, so be it (but I don’t think that’s going to happen at this point).
See if the other tenor at church, who has some editing chops, wants to make a pass through it.
Format it and get it uploaded before I have a chance to change my mind!
After a few months, have a “typo hunt” contest, then roll out a second eBook edition and a paperback.

As for finishing Pickups and Pestilence, I should do what I did with both White Pickups and FAR Future: write past the place I’m having trouble with and fill in the in-between when I figure it out. Fortunately, I don’t think I’ll have the same problem with Book 2 that I have with Book 1.

By the time I get all that done, I might know how Accidental Sorcerers continues… and maybe I can get the Wings trilogy started too.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012 3 comments

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