Over Thanksgiving weekend (as usual) we attended Darkover Grand Council, a cozy little con held every year just north of Baltimore. It includes many writing-oriented panels. With one other author, a man, I had a session on romance in SF and fantasy. The subtitle of the panel was, in part, "Does it belong there?" I expected to have to spend at least a little time defending my affirmative answer to that question, but my fellow panelist and everyone in the small audience had a completely positive attitude toward SF/paranormal romance.
I talked a little about the prehistory of the genre, such as myths, fairy tales, the Gothic romance, and mid-20th-century works such as DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY, BELL, BOOK, AND CANDLE, and THE GHOST AND MRS. MUIR. I also mentioned some SF novels that could be marketed as romance if they were published today, such as Marion Zimmer Bradley's SPELL SWORD and Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Jean Lorrah's FIRST CHANNEL. Vampire romance was discussed, naturally, and I cited Chelsea Quinn Yarbro's HOTEL TRANSYLVANIA as the major precursor of that subgenre. A point was brought up about early SF in which the love story is often a minor subplot and the heroine just a prize for the victorious hero, versus newer fiction in which the love story is fully integrated into the plot and the heroine is a strong character. From there it's a short hop to true cross-genre SF or fantasy romance.
We spent most of the hour exchanging recommendations and discussing our favorite books. Catherine Asaro, J. D. Robb, and Lois McMaster Bujold were highly praised. Since my reading experience lies mostly in fantasy and the supernatural, I talked about Mercedes Lackey's fairy tale retellings and various "Tam Lin" adaptations such as Pamela Dean's TAM LIN and Diana Wynne Jones' FIRE AND HEMLOCK. And of course vampire fiction! It was a pleasure to meet a group of SF fans who showed enthusiasm for stories that, like ours, emphasize character development and relationships.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Converting a Novel to a Screenplay
Folks:
On a writer's list I'm on, one of the professional writers asked for advice for where to find books on screenwriting because he wanted to convert one of his novels to a screenplay.
As it happened, this is a subject I've been focusing on lately, so here is my answer.
Syd Field, the great screenwriting teacher, states categorically (in SCREENWRITING) that a novel is NOT a movie and shows you how and why that's so.
That incontrovertible fact is the reason so many writers are bummed when they see their work made for the screen, small or large. Scriptwriters always end up changing the THEME of the work, because they aren't you and can't "have" your idea from scratch.
So they do violence to your idea to conform it to the commercial marketplace. (i.e., they make the protag's motive revenge because audiences understand that better than what you used which the screenwriter just didn't understand. That is, "revenge" is a higher concept than your novel's concept. It is understood more easily by more people. So with big bucks riding on it, the protag's character gets warped into vengeful.)
Doing the conversion yourself, though, unless you comprehend the hard fact of the nature of the difference and the reasons writers assigned to convert a novel fail, will guarantee your screenplay will never sell.
Your novel must BECOME a screenplay or script for TV (very VERY different markets, and not just a different way of laying out the type on the page, but differing in content and where climaxes have to go by page number and the kind of character work you can do.)
Creating characters for a script is to creating novel characters as Japanese Brush Painting is to Rembrandt.
They're both highly advanced art forms -- but they are different SKILLS. The Japanese artist's eye is trained to "see" differently. The scriptwriter's "eye" for character is trained to "see" differently from the novelist's.
For a script to sell, the characters must be OUTLINES, vivid and identifyable archetypes, not individuals.
Why?
Because films cost too much to make.
To sell the script, you must attract the best name actors, and those actors will judge your script by how well they can fit themselves inside the outline of your characters. If you fill in all the colors, tones, and dimensions (as Rembrandt) you leave no room for the actor's SELF, and the script will not sell, or if it does, the actor will warp the character to suit himself and the director.
That's not art -- it's business. It's all about the cost difference per minute of entertainment delivered via the novel and the film.
I do intend to convert some of my novels to scripts, and am working through a course on screenwriting now.
I have lots to learn, but if you've learned and internalized the NOVEL paradigm, you can learn any paradigm used for storytelling.
That is, you have to understand intellectually, just how you accomplished the structuring of your original story -- the more you rely on your innate "talent," the more likely you are to fail at the converting of your own novel to a screenplay.
You have to know and understand the story-structure mechanism in a coldly analytical way to be able to accomplish this conversion trick.
If you can turn your "talent" instinct on and off, you can do it.
I highly recommend SAVE THE CAT! by Blake Snyder and the brand new board software (also titled SAVE THE CAT! ) that lets you lay out your material in the standard Hollywood format on electronic 3X5 cards (that grow to whatever size you need as you make notes). Both book and software include the precise beat-sheet which is the key to success in selling your screenplay. (Mention my name if you email Blake.)
See my Amazon review of the book. I'm vetting the software now. It's amazing. It's not on amazon yet. You can get it on blakesnyder.com though.
http://www.amazon.com/Save-Last-Book-Screenwriting-Youll/dp/1932907009/rereadablebooksr/
I also have two review columns in the New Age Magazine column I do focusing on the esoteric reasons for the difference between novel and screenplay. I use SAVE THE CAT! as the basis of comparison. Those two columns will be posted on my own site in February and April. Blake Snyder wants to link to the April review because he thought I explained it well.
http://www.simegen.com/reviews/rereadablebooks/2007/
The real trick of this head-spinning conversion problem is to realize that a great novel concept is NOT a saleable film concept. The concept needs to be recast from the inside out to become a movie.
And then you have to use the beat sheet to structure the script precisely from that filmable concept - NOT from anything in the novel itself.
The novel's material and climaxes are all in the wrong places -- the character arcs and the character formulations are all wrong. The description is all wrong. The details are all wrong. It all has to be redone from scratch, as if you'd never written the novel and are just burning to tell this story in screenplay form.
Read Syd Field's (he's very repetitive, but that emphasizes the points) opus SCREENWRITING where he explains the how and why of this novel/screenplay conversion process.
You can probably get his books from the library, but I bought 3 of his books and filled them with underlines and post-it notes.
However, my desk reference as I work on scripting a story is SAVE THE CAT! with its complete beat sheet. That beat sheet and accompanying explanation is well worth the price of the book. You can download a copy of the beat sheet without explanation on blakesnyder.com then use it in notepad or Word to structure your story into screenplay format.
Remember, you can't take the novel you've written, it's characters and their conflicts, and just take the words and reformat them into script form scene by scene.
You have to "have the idea" for the novel over again from scratch, casting it in High Concept form, or it just has no chance in today's flooded script market.
You probably already know more about screenwriting than you do about novel writing -- because you've probably seen more movies than you've read books, so you can "sense" the formula behind movies. You always know what's coming when watching a film, don't you? That's unconscious. To write a film, you have to make that gut knowledge into conscious knowledge.
Read SAVE THE CAT! where those current best selling script formulas are revealed in detail. Pick one and re-have your Idea in Concept form. (you don't get ideas for movies, you get concepts -- and there is a very important difference -- but it's all just storycraft.)
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
On a writer's list I'm on, one of the professional writers asked for advice for where to find books on screenwriting because he wanted to convert one of his novels to a screenplay.
As it happened, this is a subject I've been focusing on lately, so here is my answer.
Syd Field, the great screenwriting teacher, states categorically (in SCREENWRITING) that a novel is NOT a movie and shows you how and why that's so.
That incontrovertible fact is the reason so many writers are bummed when they see their work made for the screen, small or large. Scriptwriters always end up changing the THEME of the work, because they aren't you and can't "have" your idea from scratch.
So they do violence to your idea to conform it to the commercial marketplace. (i.e., they make the protag's motive revenge because audiences understand that better than what you used which the screenwriter just didn't understand. That is, "revenge" is a higher concept than your novel's concept. It is understood more easily by more people. So with big bucks riding on it, the protag's character gets warped into vengeful.)
Doing the conversion yourself, though, unless you comprehend the hard fact of the nature of the difference and the reasons writers assigned to convert a novel fail, will guarantee your screenplay will never sell.
Your novel must BECOME a screenplay or script for TV (very VERY different markets, and not just a different way of laying out the type on the page, but differing in content and where climaxes have to go by page number and the kind of character work you can do.)
Creating characters for a script is to creating novel characters as Japanese Brush Painting is to Rembrandt.
They're both highly advanced art forms -- but they are different SKILLS. The Japanese artist's eye is trained to "see" differently. The scriptwriter's "eye" for character is trained to "see" differently from the novelist's.
For a script to sell, the characters must be OUTLINES, vivid and identifyable archetypes, not individuals.
Why?
Because films cost too much to make.
To sell the script, you must attract the best name actors, and those actors will judge your script by how well they can fit themselves inside the outline of your characters. If you fill in all the colors, tones, and dimensions (as Rembrandt) you leave no room for the actor's SELF, and the script will not sell, or if it does, the actor will warp the character to suit himself and the director.
That's not art -- it's business. It's all about the cost difference per minute of entertainment delivered via the novel and the film.
I do intend to convert some of my novels to scripts, and am working through a course on screenwriting now.
I have lots to learn, but if you've learned and internalized the NOVEL paradigm, you can learn any paradigm used for storytelling.
That is, you have to understand intellectually, just how you accomplished the structuring of your original story -- the more you rely on your innate "talent," the more likely you are to fail at the converting of your own novel to a screenplay.
You have to know and understand the story-structure mechanism in a coldly analytical way to be able to accomplish this conversion trick.
If you can turn your "talent" instinct on and off, you can do it.
I highly recommend SAVE THE CAT! by Blake Snyder and the brand new board software (also titled SAVE THE CAT! ) that lets you lay out your material in the standard Hollywood format on electronic 3X5 cards (that grow to whatever size you need as you make notes). Both book and software include the precise beat-sheet which is the key to success in selling your screenplay. (Mention my name if you email Blake.)
See my Amazon review of the book. I'm vetting the software now. It's amazing. It's not on amazon yet. You can get it on blakesnyder.com though.
http://www.amazon.com/Save-Last-Book-Screenwriting-Youll/dp/1932907009/rereadablebooksr/
I also have two review columns in the New Age Magazine column I do focusing on the esoteric reasons for the difference between novel and screenplay. I use SAVE THE CAT! as the basis of comparison. Those two columns will be posted on my own site in February and April. Blake Snyder wants to link to the April review because he thought I explained it well.
http://www.simegen.com/reviews/rereadablebooks/2007/
The real trick of this head-spinning conversion problem is to realize that a great novel concept is NOT a saleable film concept. The concept needs to be recast from the inside out to become a movie.
And then you have to use the beat sheet to structure the script precisely from that filmable concept - NOT from anything in the novel itself.
The novel's material and climaxes are all in the wrong places -- the character arcs and the character formulations are all wrong. The description is all wrong. The details are all wrong. It all has to be redone from scratch, as if you'd never written the novel and are just burning to tell this story in screenplay form.
Read Syd Field's (he's very repetitive, but that emphasizes the points) opus SCREENWRITING where he explains the how and why of this novel/screenplay conversion process.
You can probably get his books from the library, but I bought 3 of his books and filled them with underlines and post-it notes.
However, my desk reference as I work on scripting a story is SAVE THE CAT! with its complete beat sheet. That beat sheet and accompanying explanation is well worth the price of the book. You can download a copy of the beat sheet without explanation on blakesnyder.com then use it in notepad or Word to structure your story into screenplay format.
Remember, you can't take the novel you've written, it's characters and their conflicts, and just take the words and reformat them into script form scene by scene.
You have to "have the idea" for the novel over again from scratch, casting it in High Concept form, or it just has no chance in today's flooded script market.
You probably already know more about screenwriting than you do about novel writing -- because you've probably seen more movies than you've read books, so you can "sense" the formula behind movies. You always know what's coming when watching a film, don't you? That's unconscious. To write a film, you have to make that gut knowledge into conscious knowledge.
Read SAVE THE CAT! where those current best selling script formulas are revealed in detail. Pick one and re-have your Idea in Concept form. (you don't get ideas for movies, you get concepts -- and there is a very important difference -- but it's all just storycraft.)
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Monday, November 27, 2006
Debunking Authorly Urban Legends
Eons ago, when I was in college (or it might have been grad school), I remember listening to a professor expounded on what L. Frank Baum really meant to say when he wrote the Wizard of Oz. It had something to do with repressed homosexual urges and a fascination with bestiality…well, you can figure out the rest. It was, to my way of thinking, really off the wall. And of course, L. Frank was dead and couldn’t walk up to the professor and pop the man one in the eye for his far-fetched statements.
But the prof said all this with such authority. Because he was a learned prof and therefore, knew more than the poor little author did.
I laughed about it then. Being a poor little author myself, I’m not laughing about it now.
Thankfully, Linnea Urban Legends are rare (at least, I’ve not been pointed to a great many of them). But there are a few out there that readers have directed me to. And since I’m still alive and kicking, I’d like to debunk a few of those before some learned prof stands up in class fifty years from now telling people what Linnea Sinclair really meant when she wrote her books—and have it all be so very wrong.
These are a few things (paraphrased and clipped for brevity) I’ve seen reviewers, bloggers et al state they "know" about me and my writing:
1 - McMaster Bujold is obviously Sinclair's SF antecedents. The opening scenes of Finders Keepers owe a great deal to Shards of Honor.
Answer – This is really embarrassing to admit but I’ve never read Shards of Honor. I know I should read Bujold but I haven’t. Slap me silly for not keeping up with my required reading but don’t make assumptions as to where I get my storylines from. Try asking me. So any conclusion that I’ve ripped off Bujold’s work is pure bunk.
2 – I just finished Gabriel’s Ghost. Having read An Accidental Goddess, Gabriel’s Ghost is proof that the author gets better the more she writes.
Answer – Thanks for the backhanded compliment. Check the publication dates. Gabriel’s was written before Goddess. So I guess I’m going downhill. It must be age and an increasing lack of tolerance for alcohol.
3 – Gabriel's Ghost was written by someone whose SF influences are movies and TV series… It's clear from Linnea Sinclair's skills that Gabriel's Ghost is not the product of a writer who doesn't read. [Therefore] Gabriel's Ghost is the result of a canny calculation... poised to pull an audience... ignorant of...nanotechnology, quantum states, posthumans, the singularity and other staples of post-1980s prose SF. [Gabriel's Ghost is] a romantically charged SF novel that sticks to humanoid aliens and media-SF technology.
Answer – And you say that like it's such a bad thing...
Okay, if I'm reading it right, the reviewer here had decided that because my book didn’t focus on quantum states and singularities, that it was a deliberate concoction on my part to garner a non-scientifically oriented audience ("dominated by women and girls"). Wow. I had no idea I was so smart, marketing-wise. How come Madison Avenue isn’t banging down my door? Fact is, Gabriel’s Ghost is what it is. No, I didn’t sit down one morning and say, hmm, the next book I’m writing will be geared towards women unfamiliar with nanotechnology. I wrote Sully and Chaz’s story with nary a thought to marketing or audience. I write ALL my books that way. I write my character’s stories. Period. Please don’t assume nefarious behind-the-scenes machinations on my part. If you want to know why I wrote a book, ask me.
And finally…
4 – ICK! The book has romance!
Answer – Yep, it does. The corollary to ICK is "It’s shelved in science fiction!" as if my books infect those around them on the shelves with some disgusting malady. The Urban Legend associated with this is that somehow Linnea Sinclair browbeat or bribed the powers that be at Bantam to shelve the books in science fiction, or that the author is in any way responsible for a book’s shelving. WE ARE NOT. I AM NOT. No one ever asked me where my books belong. If you have an issue with those who like romance and romantic subplots in their novels, do not demean, denigrate or damn those of us who do…and those of us who write it. We don’t put you down for what you like to read.
There are a few more but they’re pretty much variations on the above themes.
Point is this, and I’ve already said it several times above: ask me. Ask any author why they wrote the book they did, why their characters are such, why the plot took the twist it did. I’ve been blessed with some wonderful interviews—on line, in print, and in radio and television—where people took time to ascertain the facts and not just throw assumptions and accusations together. Ask.
And by the way, to the blogger who complained that Sully was a typical alpha male, he’s not. For one thing, I don’t write to archetypes. But if I did, Sully would be more gamma (poet, monk and warrior).
Just wanted to clear that up.
~Linnea
But the prof said all this with such authority. Because he was a learned prof and therefore, knew more than the poor little author did.
I laughed about it then. Being a poor little author myself, I’m not laughing about it now.
Thankfully, Linnea Urban Legends are rare (at least, I’ve not been pointed to a great many of them). But there are a few out there that readers have directed me to. And since I’m still alive and kicking, I’d like to debunk a few of those before some learned prof stands up in class fifty years from now telling people what Linnea Sinclair really meant when she wrote her books—and have it all be so very wrong.
These are a few things (paraphrased and clipped for brevity) I’ve seen reviewers, bloggers et al state they "know" about me and my writing:
1 - McMaster Bujold is obviously Sinclair's SF antecedents. The opening scenes of Finders Keepers owe a great deal to Shards of Honor.
Answer – This is really embarrassing to admit but I’ve never read Shards of Honor. I know I should read Bujold but I haven’t. Slap me silly for not keeping up with my required reading but don’t make assumptions as to where I get my storylines from. Try asking me. So any conclusion that I’ve ripped off Bujold’s work is pure bunk.
2 – I just finished Gabriel’s Ghost. Having read An Accidental Goddess, Gabriel’s Ghost is proof that the author gets better the more she writes.
Answer – Thanks for the backhanded compliment. Check the publication dates. Gabriel’s was written before Goddess. So I guess I’m going downhill. It must be age and an increasing lack of tolerance for alcohol.
3 – Gabriel's Ghost was written by someone whose SF influences are movies and TV series… It's clear from Linnea Sinclair's skills that Gabriel's Ghost is not the product of a writer who doesn't read. [Therefore] Gabriel's Ghost is the result of a canny calculation... poised to pull an audience... ignorant of...nanotechnology, quantum states, posthumans, the singularity and other staples of post-1980s prose SF. [Gabriel's Ghost is] a romantically charged SF novel that sticks to humanoid aliens and media-SF technology.
Answer – And you say that like it's such a bad thing...
Okay, if I'm reading it right, the reviewer here had decided that because my book didn’t focus on quantum states and singularities, that it was a deliberate concoction on my part to garner a non-scientifically oriented audience ("dominated by women and girls"). Wow. I had no idea I was so smart, marketing-wise. How come Madison Avenue isn’t banging down my door? Fact is, Gabriel’s Ghost is what it is. No, I didn’t sit down one morning and say, hmm, the next book I’m writing will be geared towards women unfamiliar with nanotechnology. I wrote Sully and Chaz’s story with nary a thought to marketing or audience. I write ALL my books that way. I write my character’s stories. Period. Please don’t assume nefarious behind-the-scenes machinations on my part. If you want to know why I wrote a book, ask me.
And finally…
4 – ICK! The book has romance!
Answer – Yep, it does. The corollary to ICK is "It’s shelved in science fiction!" as if my books infect those around them on the shelves with some disgusting malady. The Urban Legend associated with this is that somehow Linnea Sinclair browbeat or bribed the powers that be at Bantam to shelve the books in science fiction, or that the author is in any way responsible for a book’s shelving. WE ARE NOT. I AM NOT. No one ever asked me where my books belong. If you have an issue with those who like romance and romantic subplots in their novels, do not demean, denigrate or damn those of us who do…and those of us who write it. We don’t put you down for what you like to read.
There are a few more but they’re pretty much variations on the above themes.
Point is this, and I’ve already said it several times above: ask me. Ask any author why they wrote the book they did, why their characters are such, why the plot took the twist it did. I’ve been blessed with some wonderful interviews—on line, in print, and in radio and television—where people took time to ascertain the facts and not just throw assumptions and accusations together. Ask.
And by the way, to the blogger who complained that Sully was a typical alpha male, he’s not. For one thing, I don’t write to archetypes. But if I did, Sully would be more gamma (poet, monk and warrior).
Just wanted to clear that up.
~Linnea
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Empires, Dreams
Stayed up late last night, I did.
Empire Of Dreams was absolutely fascinating, to me, and to those with whom I watched it. I'm sure each one of us took something different away from it.
The insight that I appreciate most (at this moment) was the fact that the actor inside Darth Vader's helmet was pronouncing --and acting-- from one script, and Luke was reacting to another.
Now that really was the ultimate in saying one thing and meaning another... or of not being on the same page! I suppose it wasn't really much different from script management for Who Shot JR...? But it seemed deeper to this viewer.
I knew that Darth Vader's voice had been dubbed in later, but how cool it was to hear the difference in soundtrack when the original actor spoke. What a difference the "right" voice makes! Or the right howls. Wasn't it fascinating that Chewbacca originally had lines? Talking of Chewbacca, I greatly enjoyed the revelation that some of the movie makers were worried about the Wookie's lack of underwear. I'd noticed that uncivilized omission only the night before.
On Thursday night I tried to watch The Empire Strikes Back. I have it out from the library too, but it's a VCR and in almost unwatchably bad condition. Imagine my joy when it was on TV on Friday night. I was very pleased to see swordmaster Bob Anderson's name in the credits as a stunt double. (Recently I blogged about the account I'd read in By The Sword of why a genuine swordsman, not an actor, had to perform Darth Vader's fight with Luke.)
The music was something else I'd never really thought about--apart from the "declarative" Imperial theme for whenever Darth Vader stalked across the screen, like the wolf theme in Peter And The Wolf, only much more wicked.
How fascinating that the composer had recently finished the score for Jaws, where the
antagonist got the catchy, sinister theme music! What a twist for those of us accustomed to the Bond theme... the Here Comes The Hero refrain. When the movie music is really, really good, I don't notice it much, apart from the theme tunes. It's amusing what a difference a good orchestra makes to an aerial dogfight, isn't it?
I've watched a lot of The Making Of... documentaries, but I don't think I've grasped how much goes into making a great movie quite as vividly as I did last night, watching Empire Of Dreams.
What did you like best?
Best wishes,
Rowena Cherry
Empire Of Dreams was absolutely fascinating, to me, and to those with whom I watched it. I'm sure each one of us took something different away from it.
The insight that I appreciate most (at this moment) was the fact that the actor inside Darth Vader's helmet was pronouncing --and acting-- from one script, and Luke was reacting to another.
Now that really was the ultimate in saying one thing and meaning another... or of not being on the same page! I suppose it wasn't really much different from script management for Who Shot JR...? But it seemed deeper to this viewer.
I knew that Darth Vader's voice had been dubbed in later, but how cool it was to hear the difference in soundtrack when the original actor spoke. What a difference the "right" voice makes! Or the right howls. Wasn't it fascinating that Chewbacca originally had lines? Talking of Chewbacca, I greatly enjoyed the revelation that some of the movie makers were worried about the Wookie's lack of underwear. I'd noticed that uncivilized omission only the night before.
On Thursday night I tried to watch The Empire Strikes Back. I have it out from the library too, but it's a VCR and in almost unwatchably bad condition. Imagine my joy when it was on TV on Friday night. I was very pleased to see swordmaster Bob Anderson's name in the credits as a stunt double. (Recently I blogged about the account I'd read in By The Sword of why a genuine swordsman, not an actor, had to perform Darth Vader's fight with Luke.)
The music was something else I'd never really thought about--apart from the "declarative" Imperial theme for whenever Darth Vader stalked across the screen, like the wolf theme in Peter And The Wolf, only much more wicked.
How fascinating that the composer had recently finished the score for Jaws, where the
antagonist got the catchy, sinister theme music! What a twist for those of us accustomed to the Bond theme... the Here Comes The Hero refrain. When the movie music is really, really good, I don't notice it much, apart from the theme tunes. It's amusing what a difference a good orchestra makes to an aerial dogfight, isn't it?
I've watched a lot of The Making Of... documentaries, but I don't think I've grasped how much goes into making a great movie quite as vividly as I did last night, watching Empire Of Dreams.
What did you like best?
Best wishes,
Rowena Cherry
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Life in the real world
I know I've missed some of my days. My only excuse is the holidays are upon us. With several deadlines such as books, getting the house decorated, getting my invitations for my party out, decorating my mother's house I've just been too frazzled to concentrate on anything at all.
But as my mind searches for conventient ways to do the decorating, such as wouldn't it be nice if your tree could just pop up out of the floor fully decorated? I've wondered...will our Christmas traditions survive into the future? You read historicals all the time with Christmas scenes (Let me recommend my own Windfall) but are there ever any holiday celebrations in our futuristics? Anyone ever read a book about a futuristic Christmas?
As our civilization moves out into space the Christmas story will go with it. But it will be interesting to see what the celebration will become.
Ideas anyone?
But as my mind searches for conventient ways to do the decorating, such as wouldn't it be nice if your tree could just pop up out of the floor fully decorated? I've wondered...will our Christmas traditions survive into the future? You read historicals all the time with Christmas scenes (Let me recommend my own Windfall) but are there ever any holiday celebrations in our futuristics? Anyone ever read a book about a futuristic Christmas?
As our civilization moves out into space the Christmas story will go with it. But it will be interesting to see what the celebration will become.
Ideas anyone?
Friday, November 24, 2006
No Princess Need Apply Excerpt -- Sort of...
alien romances
Happy post Thanksgiving, Black Friday, whatever. It's Friday, my day to post. I've been putting up chapters from my futuristic romance, No Princess Need Apply -- and have gotten to the first naughty bit in the story. After thinking about it I've decided not to post this chapter online. It's not that naughty, but it's still more than I want to be responsible for putting on the net.
However, if you're interested in reading this excerpt, send me an email at sgsizemore@msn.com and I'd be happy to return an rtf file of the chapter to you.
On a future writing note, I've been on a Pride and Prejudice kick lately. Been listening to an audiobook version of the novel, been watching both the new movie and the Colin Firth television version. I'm just very into a Jane Austen mood.
It has occurred to me that I want to write a futuristic romance version of Pride and Prejudice. I don't know how I'm going to plot out the worldbuilding yet, but I've got the concept. I think it'll be fun. Just wondering if readers will be interested. Opinions welcome.
Susan
Happy post Thanksgiving, Black Friday, whatever. It's Friday, my day to post. I've been putting up chapters from my futuristic romance, No Princess Need Apply -- and have gotten to the first naughty bit in the story. After thinking about it I've decided not to post this chapter online. It's not that naughty, but it's still more than I want to be responsible for putting on the net.
However, if you're interested in reading this excerpt, send me an email at sgsizemore@msn.com and I'd be happy to return an rtf file of the chapter to you.
On a future writing note, I've been on a Pride and Prejudice kick lately. Been listening to an audiobook version of the novel, been watching both the new movie and the Colin Firth television version. I'm just very into a Jane Austen mood.
It has occurred to me that I want to write a futuristic romance version of Pride and Prejudice. I don't know how I'm going to plot out the worldbuilding yet, but I've got the concept. I think it'll be fun. Just wondering if readers will be interested. Opinions welcome.
Susan
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Living with Technology
Nobody in our family has a Playstation 3. (Our youngest son got a Nintendo Wii, which seemed to be less chaotic in its launch, not to mention more reasonably priced.) I got some amusement from reading the newspaper accounts of long lines camping out overnight for the Playstation. The hysteria became unfunny, though, when police had to quell outbreaks of violence at some locations. At least one store in this part of the state decided not to sell the system on launch day at all. What struck me most about the stories, however, was the account of a homeless woman walking along one of the waiting lines begging for change. She was quoted as saying she couldn't understand why people would be so silly as to sleep outside when they didn't have to and pay such an exorbitant amount of money for a "toy." Cue irony.
So, I pondered, how can I use this squirm-inducing story as a blog topic? Well, how about the role of high-tech in our daily lives? As a family, we've never been early adopters. (A statement that doesn't necessarily apply to our grown sons.) We tend to acquire the Next Big Thing after it's been tested on the market for a while. I can't comment on video games because I've never played them, but I can't imagine that even for something I really, really wanted I would stand in line on the first day or pay above retail price. (Who ARE these people who buy "flipped" Playstations on the Internet for thousands of dollars when they could get a new one at list price by waiting a few weeks?) And I'm not one bit interested in HDTV. The cheapest television at Best Buy plays programs just fine by my relaxed standards, and quantum levels better than the sets I watched as a kid. (Remember that extinct subspecies, the TV repairman?)
Some high-tech products, however, have changed my life so much for the better that I can hardly imagine how I lived without them. Remember when missing a TV program meant waiting for the rerun? When you couldn't see an old movie unless it was revived in your town's theater or broadcast on the local TV station? (How did film studies classes manage, I wonder?) When missing a phone call meant hoping they'd call back? When you couldn't get money while the bank was closed unless you could find a store willing to cash a check? (Before ATMs and universal acceptance of credit cards, each of our military moves involved serious preplanning and juggling to avoid being stranded with no means of buying daily necessities such as food until our newly opened local bank account in our new city of residence issued us checks the stores would accept.) When there was no Internet to use for requesting library books, ordering postage stamps, transferring funds between your bank accounts, buying products your local store didn't have in stock, reserving plane tickets, finding directions for a trip, or getting quick information on any topic? I can't guess what stage my writing career would have reached at this point in my life if I hadn't had the Internet to seek out writers' guidelines or communicate with publishers and fellow authors, not to mention that most of the publishers that have released my books wouldn't have existed in the first place (since they're e-pubs). The very existence of the computer has improved my writing to an unguessable degree, because not having to re-transcribe a whole manuscript for each set of changes means I'm far more willing to rewrite. I can tinker with a sentence over and over, without having to decided whether a contemplated small change is worth retyping a page. E-mail is a great boon, combining the best features of snail mail (you can think about what you want to say at leisure and revise it) and the telephone (you can usually get a fast reply) without the disadvantages (postal mail -- often not timely enough for the situation; phone -- you have to worry about disturbing the person and catching him/her at home or waiting for him/her to call back, plus you have to pay extra to talk to someone on the other side of the country or the world).
Good grief, there was a time when we didn't have a MICROWAVE! And, before that, there was an era when cars didn't have seat belts, or any music systems other than the radio. Also, while this doesn't exactly qualify as high-tech, packaged foods didn't bear lists of ingredients and nutritional content. To cite a high-tech advance in that area, consider the bar code. Although at first it was odd getting used to not having price tags on most groceries, soon it became pleasant to be able to move through the checkout line faster.
And then there's the cell phone. A mixed blessing, some people might say. :) I carry one and would hate to be deprived of it, but I don't use it for casual conversation, and I don't keep it turned on unless I've arranged in advance for somebody to call me for a particular purpose. In my worldview, the cell phone exists to make OUTGOING calls. When we need it, though, we REALLY need it. Before it existed, you'd have to search for a pay phone if your car broke down, or just to call home if you were delayed or make contact with a child who had to be picked up from an after-school activity. (It's often been remarked that high-tech devices such as this make a writer's job harder in some respects. If the heroine of your suspense novel carries a phone in her purse, how do you arrange for her to be stranded with no means of calling for help?) Remember how expensive our first hand-held calculators were? Today we can buy a smaller, far more versatile one in the supermarket stationery aisle for under $20. As an electronically published author, I'm waiting for a hand-held e-book reading device that's as cheap, durable, user-friendly, and ubiquitous as a calculator.
What wonders does the future hold? Already I'm seeing TV commercials for disk-shaped robots that vacuum or scrub the floors. I wouldn't think of paying the current price for them. Eventually, though, the day will come when they're as cheap and commonplace as computers are today. Then I'll get one. Will we ever see housecleaning robots that look, talk, and behave like human beings? Would we want them to? If they appeared too human, we'd have to consider the ethical quandary of whether they deserved individual rights, and as far as having cheap, unobtrusive domestic labor is concerned, we'd be back where we started. And as these new conveniences enter our lives and transform from luxuries to necessities (some public schools, not to mention colleges, already seem to assume that all students have computer access), what is our responsibility for ensuring their availability to everyone, not just the middle- and upper-class educated elite?
Nothing terribly original in these musings about the advantages and challenges of high-tech, but hey, it's a holiday. :) Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate it!
So, I pondered, how can I use this squirm-inducing story as a blog topic? Well, how about the role of high-tech in our daily lives? As a family, we've never been early adopters. (A statement that doesn't necessarily apply to our grown sons.) We tend to acquire the Next Big Thing after it's been tested on the market for a while. I can't comment on video games because I've never played them, but I can't imagine that even for something I really, really wanted I would stand in line on the first day or pay above retail price. (Who ARE these people who buy "flipped" Playstations on the Internet for thousands of dollars when they could get a new one at list price by waiting a few weeks?) And I'm not one bit interested in HDTV. The cheapest television at Best Buy plays programs just fine by my relaxed standards, and quantum levels better than the sets I watched as a kid. (Remember that extinct subspecies, the TV repairman?)
Some high-tech products, however, have changed my life so much for the better that I can hardly imagine how I lived without them. Remember when missing a TV program meant waiting for the rerun? When you couldn't see an old movie unless it was revived in your town's theater or broadcast on the local TV station? (How did film studies classes manage, I wonder?) When missing a phone call meant hoping they'd call back? When you couldn't get money while the bank was closed unless you could find a store willing to cash a check? (Before ATMs and universal acceptance of credit cards, each of our military moves involved serious preplanning and juggling to avoid being stranded with no means of buying daily necessities such as food until our newly opened local bank account in our new city of residence issued us checks the stores would accept.) When there was no Internet to use for requesting library books, ordering postage stamps, transferring funds between your bank accounts, buying products your local store didn't have in stock, reserving plane tickets, finding directions for a trip, or getting quick information on any topic? I can't guess what stage my writing career would have reached at this point in my life if I hadn't had the Internet to seek out writers' guidelines or communicate with publishers and fellow authors, not to mention that most of the publishers that have released my books wouldn't have existed in the first place (since they're e-pubs). The very existence of the computer has improved my writing to an unguessable degree, because not having to re-transcribe a whole manuscript for each set of changes means I'm far more willing to rewrite. I can tinker with a sentence over and over, without having to decided whether a contemplated small change is worth retyping a page. E-mail is a great boon, combining the best features of snail mail (you can think about what you want to say at leisure and revise it) and the telephone (you can usually get a fast reply) without the disadvantages (postal mail -- often not timely enough for the situation; phone -- you have to worry about disturbing the person and catching him/her at home or waiting for him/her to call back, plus you have to pay extra to talk to someone on the other side of the country or the world).
Good grief, there was a time when we didn't have a MICROWAVE! And, before that, there was an era when cars didn't have seat belts, or any music systems other than the radio. Also, while this doesn't exactly qualify as high-tech, packaged foods didn't bear lists of ingredients and nutritional content. To cite a high-tech advance in that area, consider the bar code. Although at first it was odd getting used to not having price tags on most groceries, soon it became pleasant to be able to move through the checkout line faster.
And then there's the cell phone. A mixed blessing, some people might say. :) I carry one and would hate to be deprived of it, but I don't use it for casual conversation, and I don't keep it turned on unless I've arranged in advance for somebody to call me for a particular purpose. In my worldview, the cell phone exists to make OUTGOING calls. When we need it, though, we REALLY need it. Before it existed, you'd have to search for a pay phone if your car broke down, or just to call home if you were delayed or make contact with a child who had to be picked up from an after-school activity. (It's often been remarked that high-tech devices such as this make a writer's job harder in some respects. If the heroine of your suspense novel carries a phone in her purse, how do you arrange for her to be stranded with no means of calling for help?) Remember how expensive our first hand-held calculators were? Today we can buy a smaller, far more versatile one in the supermarket stationery aisle for under $20. As an electronically published author, I'm waiting for a hand-held e-book reading device that's as cheap, durable, user-friendly, and ubiquitous as a calculator.
What wonders does the future hold? Already I'm seeing TV commercials for disk-shaped robots that vacuum or scrub the floors. I wouldn't think of paying the current price for them. Eventually, though, the day will come when they're as cheap and commonplace as computers are today. Then I'll get one. Will we ever see housecleaning robots that look, talk, and behave like human beings? Would we want them to? If they appeared too human, we'd have to consider the ethical quandary of whether they deserved individual rights, and as far as having cheap, unobtrusive domestic labor is concerned, we'd be back where we started. And as these new conveniences enter our lives and transform from luxuries to necessities (some public schools, not to mention colleges, already seem to assume that all students have computer access), what is our responsibility for ensuring their availability to everyone, not just the middle- and upper-class educated elite?
Nothing terribly original in these musings about the advantages and challenges of high-tech, but hey, it's a holiday. :) Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate it!
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Come Play In My Backyard
Folks:
Here's an interesting statistic:
In the film industry, it is believed that:
Happy Endings make more money than any other type. (Protag. attains a goal PLUS a need.)
Down or Tragic endings win appreciation from critics. (Protag attains neither a goal nor a need.)
Ironic endings are most often picked for Oscar attention. (Protag attains either goal or need)
I was told this about the book industry -- but I had no idea it applied to films. I never analyzed the Oscar winners, and I don't read "critics." (I REVIEW books, not criticise them).
I've always thought that you bring your story to it's PROPER -- internally consistent -- ending and you have a chance at any or all 3 of the above, money, fame, or glory.
But apparently that's not so, according to screenwriting lore.
Therefore, before starting to craft an IDEA into a story, complete with protagonist, antagonist, conflict, beginning, middle, end and resolution of the conflict, you really should think hard about the ENDING.
What a backwards way of looking at it.
Most Romances -- even Alien Romances -- have "happy" endings in that the main characters find true happiness, even if they've switched partners a few times during the story.
So Romance is not always about attaining a GOAL -- i.e. you don't have a "happy ending" unless the protagonist attains their goal and also gets what they really need in life. A Romance ends where the protags get what they NEED -- and only sometimes what they thought they were going after.
In fact, the most interesting Romances are ones where both protags shift their goals during the story and only gradually discover their own needs -- and the needs of their S. O.
Could that be why very few serious and complex Romances make it to the screen?
Romances should be cheap to make -- well, not Alien Romances or grand Historical Romances (costume pieces), but contemporary, A.U. or even most Paranormals would be filmable.
But to justify the expense of making a film -- (which in my not at all humble opinion is what Alien Romance should be! TV and Film is the right medium for this wonderful sub-genre) -- you need:
a) 4 audience demographics -- this is from SAVE THE CAT! by Blake Snyder but he didn't invent it:
Men over 25
Men under 25
Women over 25
Women under 25
Believe it or not, that's how Hollywood looks at us.
Men under 25 are THE core film audience courted most by Hollywood because they go to films more than anyone else -- AND they bring their dates to films.
So if it doesn't interest "men under 25" when presented as a poster, your story won't be made into a high profile film with the Stars you might envision in the lead roles.
Romances aren't seen as inherently interesting to men under 25.
BUT SCIENCE FICTION IS!!!!
So the SF-Romance should be a classic 4-Quadrant genre!
So if you can create an SF-Romance with blazing action, (Think TERMINATOR or STARMAN) you can write a novel that will be made into a blockbuster film.
All you have to do is craft a totally HAPPY ENDING with maybe a whiff of IRONY onto an SF-ROMANCE to have the kind of audience "reach" and Awards Potential to get a big budget with Big Stars wanting an Oscar. You could rival STAR WARS for opening weekend boxoffice.
OK, we have 6 dynamite alien romance writers here. Can we come up with a dynamite CONCEPT with an ending like that for a standard 110 page screenplay?
When I started in fandom, we did a thing called a ROUND ROBIN -- in fact my very first fiction writing that got me started so that I couldn't stop was a ROUND ROBIN where an alternate-I was my character.
So just for fun, I have an opening Round Robin challenge for each writer to add to in outline here. Let's see if we can fulfill the Hollywood formula.
Here are the elements we need:
CONCEPT LOGLINE: An interstellar dog catcher meets her match.
Opening Image: Inara stands over a huge cage made of light-bars. Within is a dark, dirty, vicious and angry creature.
Someone off-shot says, "What among all the stars is THAT?!"
Inara, panting discheveled and scratched, shrugs: "Well, my mom told me not to take a job as an xeno-petcatcher. I wonder how she knew?"
The howling, crazed nameless creature in the cage says: "Maybe my mom told her!" Then its gyrations finally release the catch and it scrambles out and away.
OK, WHO WILL ADD A LINE OR THREE TO THAT?
Before this thing could be written, we need to know:
END OF ACT ONE (p 25) major climax into the middle of the film which is the longest part, 60 pages, fully half the 110 pages. The middle is the chase, danger, cliff-hangars, and bonding between the two reluctant soulmates who will become lovers.
END OF ACT TWO (p 85) since this needs a happy ending, p 75-85 have to be the absolute nadir, Inara's most devastating failure, utter and complete loss of everything valuable to her with no apparent way out of the trap she's in. (she can't BE RESCUED - she has to invent an astonishing and successful strategy to get herself out of this, as does her soulmate).
ENDING: This has to be a HAPPY ENDING - where Inara and her soulmate both reach their goals and also attain something they really need, something other than the goal.
TAG: the denoument, page 110 -- the FINAL IMAGE.
Well, if the opening image is a dogcatcher's cage, the final image has to include that, but changed in some way.
QUESTION: is the mad creature in the cage Inara's soulmate -- or is it like a parrot, reciting something it's owner taught it - and the owner is Inara's soulmate.
Perhaps if Inara recaptures the creature, the law says it has to be put to death, so the owner is racing Inara and blocking her every move, to recapture the creature first? Maybe it's a circus creature? Maybe the creature is a human being out where humans are thought to be animals?
Want to play in my backyard?
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Here's an interesting statistic:
In the film industry, it is believed that:
Happy Endings make more money than any other type. (Protag. attains a goal PLUS a need.)
Down or Tragic endings win appreciation from critics. (Protag attains neither a goal nor a need.)
Ironic endings are most often picked for Oscar attention. (Protag attains either goal or need)
I was told this about the book industry -- but I had no idea it applied to films. I never analyzed the Oscar winners, and I don't read "critics." (I REVIEW books, not criticise them).
I've always thought that you bring your story to it's PROPER -- internally consistent -- ending and you have a chance at any or all 3 of the above, money, fame, or glory.
But apparently that's not so, according to screenwriting lore.
Therefore, before starting to craft an IDEA into a story, complete with protagonist, antagonist, conflict, beginning, middle, end and resolution of the conflict, you really should think hard about the ENDING.
What a backwards way of looking at it.
Most Romances -- even Alien Romances -- have "happy" endings in that the main characters find true happiness, even if they've switched partners a few times during the story.
So Romance is not always about attaining a GOAL -- i.e. you don't have a "happy ending" unless the protagonist attains their goal and also gets what they really need in life. A Romance ends where the protags get what they NEED -- and only sometimes what they thought they were going after.
In fact, the most interesting Romances are ones where both protags shift their goals during the story and only gradually discover their own needs -- and the needs of their S. O.
Could that be why very few serious and complex Romances make it to the screen?
Romances should be cheap to make -- well, not Alien Romances or grand Historical Romances (costume pieces), but contemporary, A.U. or even most Paranormals would be filmable.
But to justify the expense of making a film -- (which in my not at all humble opinion is what Alien Romance should be! TV and Film is the right medium for this wonderful sub-genre) -- you need:
a) 4 audience demographics -- this is from SAVE THE CAT! by Blake Snyder but he didn't invent it:
Men over 25
Men under 25
Women over 25
Women under 25
Believe it or not, that's how Hollywood looks at us.
Men under 25 are THE core film audience courted most by Hollywood because they go to films more than anyone else -- AND they bring their dates to films.
So if it doesn't interest "men under 25" when presented as a poster, your story won't be made into a high profile film with the Stars you might envision in the lead roles.
Romances aren't seen as inherently interesting to men under 25.
BUT SCIENCE FICTION IS!!!!
So the SF-Romance should be a classic 4-Quadrant genre!
So if you can create an SF-Romance with blazing action, (Think TERMINATOR or STARMAN) you can write a novel that will be made into a blockbuster film.
All you have to do is craft a totally HAPPY ENDING with maybe a whiff of IRONY onto an SF-ROMANCE to have the kind of audience "reach" and Awards Potential to get a big budget with Big Stars wanting an Oscar. You could rival STAR WARS for opening weekend boxoffice.
OK, we have 6 dynamite alien romance writers here. Can we come up with a dynamite CONCEPT with an ending like that for a standard 110 page screenplay?
When I started in fandom, we did a thing called a ROUND ROBIN -- in fact my very first fiction writing that got me started so that I couldn't stop was a ROUND ROBIN where an alternate-I was my character.
So just for fun, I have an opening Round Robin challenge for each writer to add to in outline here. Let's see if we can fulfill the Hollywood formula.
Here are the elements we need:
CONCEPT LOGLINE: An interstellar dog catcher meets her match.
Opening Image: Inara stands over a huge cage made of light-bars. Within is a dark, dirty, vicious and angry creature.
Someone off-shot says, "What among all the stars is THAT?!"
Inara, panting discheveled and scratched, shrugs: "Well, my mom told me not to take a job as an xeno-petcatcher. I wonder how she knew?"
The howling, crazed nameless creature in the cage says: "Maybe my mom told her!" Then its gyrations finally release the catch and it scrambles out and away.
OK, WHO WILL ADD A LINE OR THREE TO THAT?
Before this thing could be written, we need to know:
END OF ACT ONE (p 25) major climax into the middle of the film which is the longest part, 60 pages, fully half the 110 pages. The middle is the chase, danger, cliff-hangars, and bonding between the two reluctant soulmates who will become lovers.
END OF ACT TWO (p 85) since this needs a happy ending, p 75-85 have to be the absolute nadir, Inara's most devastating failure, utter and complete loss of everything valuable to her with no apparent way out of the trap she's in. (she can't BE RESCUED - she has to invent an astonishing and successful strategy to get herself out of this, as does her soulmate).
ENDING: This has to be a HAPPY ENDING - where Inara and her soulmate both reach their goals and also attain something they really need, something other than the goal.
TAG: the denoument, page 110 -- the FINAL IMAGE.
Well, if the opening image is a dogcatcher's cage, the final image has to include that, but changed in some way.
QUESTION: is the mad creature in the cage Inara's soulmate -- or is it like a parrot, reciting something it's owner taught it - and the owner is Inara's soulmate.
Perhaps if Inara recaptures the creature, the law says it has to be put to death, so the owner is racing Inara and blocking her every move, to recapture the creature first? Maybe it's a circus creature? Maybe the creature is a human being out where humans are thought to be animals?
Want to play in my backyard?
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Come Play In My Backyard
Folks:
Here's an interesting statistic:
In the film industry, it is believed that:
Happy Endings make more money than any other type. (Protag. attains a goal PLUS a need.)
Down or Tragic endings win appreciation from critics. (Protag attains neither a goal nor a need.)
Ironic endings are most often picked for Oscar attention. (Protag attains either goal or need)
I was told this about the book industry -- but I had no idea it applied to films. I never analyzed the Oscar winners, and I don't read "critics." (I REVIEW books, not criticise them).
I've always thought that you bring your story to it's PROPER -- internally consistent -- ending and you have a chance at any or all 3 of the above, money, fame, or glory.
But apparently that's not so, according to screenwriting lore.
Therefore, before starting to craft an IDEA into a story, complete with protagonist, antagonist, conflict, beginning, middle, end and resolution of the conflict, you really should think hard about the ENDING.
What a backwards way of looking at it.
Most Romances -- even Alien Romances -- have "happy" endings in that the main characters find true happiness, even if they've switched partners a few times during the story.
So Romance is not always about attaining a GOAL -- i.e. you don't have a "happy ending" unless the protagonist attains their goal and also gets what they really need in life. A Romance ends where the protags get what they NEED -- and only sometimes what they thought they were going after.
In fact, the most interesting Romances are ones where both protags shift their goals during the story and only gradually discover their own needs -- and the needs of their S. O.
Could that be why very few serious and complex Romances make it to the screen?
Romances should be cheap to make -- well, not Alien Romances or grand Historical Romances (costume pieces), but contemporary, A.U. or even most Paranormals would be filmable.
But to justify the expense of making a film -- (which in my not at all humble opinion is what Alien Romance should be! TV and Film is the right medium for this wonderful sub-genre) -- you need:
a) 4 audience demographics -- this is from SAVE THE CAT! by Blake Snyder but he didn't invent it:
Men over 25
Men under 25
Women over 25
Women under 25
Believe it or not, that's how Hollywood looks at us.
Men under 25 are THE core film audience courted most by Hollywood because they go to films more than anyone else -- AND they bring their dates to films.
So if it doesn't interest "men under 25" when presented as a poster, your story won't be made into a high profile film with the Stars you might envision in the lead roles.
Romances aren't seen as inherently interesting to men under 25.
BUT SCIENCE FICTION IS!!!!
So the SF-Romance should be a classic 4-Quadrant genre!
So if you can create an SF-Romance with blazing action, (Think TERMINATOR or STARMAN) you can write a novel that will be made into a blockbuster film.
All you have to do is craft a totally HAPPY ENDING with maybe a whiff of IRONY onto an SF-ROMANCE to have the kind of audience "reach" and Awards Potential to get a big budget with Big Stars wanting an Oscar. You could rival STAR WARS for opening weekend boxoffice.
OK, we have 6 dynamite alien romance writers here. Can we come up with a dynamite CONCEPT with an ending like that for a standard 110 page screenplay?
When I started in fandom, we did a thing called a ROUND ROBIN -- in fact my very first fiction writing that got me started so that I couldn't stop was a ROUND ROBIN where an alternate-I was my character.
So just for fun, I have an opening Round Robin challenge for each writer to add to in outline here. Let's see if we can fulfill the Hollywood formula.
Here are the elements we need:
CONCEPT LOGLINE: An interstellar dog catcher meets her match.
Opening Image: Inara stands over a huge cage made of light-bars. Within is a dark, dirty, vicious and angry creature.
Someone off-shot says, "What among all the stars is THAT?!"
Inara, panting discheveled and scratched, shrugs: "Well, my mom told me not to take a job as an xeno-petcatcher. I wonder how she knew?"
The howling, crazed nameless creature in the cage says: "Maybe my mom told her!" Then its gyrations finally release the catch and it scrambles out and away.
OK, WHO WILL ADD A LINE OR THREE TO THAT?
Before this thing could be written, we need to know:
END OF ACT ONE (p 25) major climax into the middle of the film which is the longest part, 60 pages, fully half the 110 pages. The middle is the chase, danger, cliff-hangars, and bonding between the two reluctant soulmates who will become lovers.
END OF ACT TWO (p 85) since this needs a happy ending, p 75-85 have to be the absolute nadir, Inara's most devastating failure, utter and complete loss of everything valuable to her with no apparent way out of the trap she's in. (she can't BE RESCUED - she has to invent an astonishing and successful strategy to get herself out of this, as does her soulmate).
ENDING: This has to be a HAPPY ENDING - where Inara and her soulmate both reach their goals and also attain something they really need, something other than the goal.
TAG: the denoument, page 110 -- the FINAL IMAGE.
Well, if the opening image is a dogcatcher's cage, the final image has to include that, but changed in some way.
QUESTION: is the mad creature in the cage Inara's soulmate -- or is it like a parrot, reciting something it's owner taught it - and the owner is Inara's soulmate.
Perhaps if Inara recaptures the creature, the law says it has to be put to death, so the owner is racing Inara and blocking her every move, to recapture the creature first? Maybe it's a circus creature? Maybe the creature is a human being out where humans are thought to be animals?
Want to play in my backyard?
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Here's an interesting statistic:
In the film industry, it is believed that:
Happy Endings make more money than any other type. (Protag. attains a goal PLUS a need.)
Down or Tragic endings win appreciation from critics. (Protag attains neither a goal nor a need.)
Ironic endings are most often picked for Oscar attention. (Protag attains either goal or need)
I was told this about the book industry -- but I had no idea it applied to films. I never analyzed the Oscar winners, and I don't read "critics." (I REVIEW books, not criticise them).
I've always thought that you bring your story to it's PROPER -- internally consistent -- ending and you have a chance at any or all 3 of the above, money, fame, or glory.
But apparently that's not so, according to screenwriting lore.
Therefore, before starting to craft an IDEA into a story, complete with protagonist, antagonist, conflict, beginning, middle, end and resolution of the conflict, you really should think hard about the ENDING.
What a backwards way of looking at it.
Most Romances -- even Alien Romances -- have "happy" endings in that the main characters find true happiness, even if they've switched partners a few times during the story.
So Romance is not always about attaining a GOAL -- i.e. you don't have a "happy ending" unless the protagonist attains their goal and also gets what they really need in life. A Romance ends where the protags get what they NEED -- and only sometimes what they thought they were going after.
In fact, the most interesting Romances are ones where both protags shift their goals during the story and only gradually discover their own needs -- and the needs of their S. O.
Could that be why very few serious and complex Romances make it to the screen?
Romances should be cheap to make -- well, not Alien Romances or grand Historical Romances (costume pieces), but contemporary, A.U. or even most Paranormals would be filmable.
But to justify the expense of making a film -- (which in my not at all humble opinion is what Alien Romance should be! TV and Film is the right medium for this wonderful sub-genre) -- you need:
a) 4 audience demographics -- this is from SAVE THE CAT! by Blake Snyder but he didn't invent it:
Men over 25
Men under 25
Women over 25
Women under 25
Believe it or not, that's how Hollywood looks at us.
Men under 25 are THE core film audience courted most by Hollywood because they go to films more than anyone else -- AND they bring their dates to films.
So if it doesn't interest "men under 25" when presented as a poster, your story won't be made into a high profile film with the Stars you might envision in the lead roles.
Romances aren't seen as inherently interesting to men under 25.
BUT SCIENCE FICTION IS!!!!
So the SF-Romance should be a classic 4-Quadrant genre!
So if you can create an SF-Romance with blazing action, (Think TERMINATOR or STARMAN) you can write a novel that will be made into a blockbuster film.
All you have to do is craft a totally HAPPY ENDING with maybe a whiff of IRONY onto an SF-ROMANCE to have the kind of audience "reach" and Awards Potential to get a big budget with Big Stars wanting an Oscar. You could rival STAR WARS for opening weekend boxoffice.
OK, we have 6 dynamite alien romance writers here. Can we come up with a dynamite CONCEPT with an ending like that for a standard 110 page screenplay?
When I started in fandom, we did a thing called a ROUND ROBIN -- in fact my very first fiction writing that got me started so that I couldn't stop was a ROUND ROBIN where an alternate-I was my character.
So just for fun, I have an opening Round Robin challenge for each writer to add to in outline here. Let's see if we can fulfill the Hollywood formula.
Here are the elements we need:
CONCEPT LOGLINE: An interstellar dog catcher meets her match.
Opening Image: Inara stands over a huge cage made of light-bars. Within is a dark, dirty, vicious and angry creature.
Someone off-shot says, "What among all the stars is THAT?!"
Inara, panting discheveled and scratched, shrugs: "Well, my mom told me not to take a job as an xeno-petcatcher. I wonder how she knew?"
The howling, crazed nameless creature in the cage says: "Maybe my mom told her!" Then its gyrations finally release the catch and it scrambles out and away.
OK, WHO WILL ADD A LINE OR THREE TO THAT?
Before this thing could be written, we need to know:
END OF ACT ONE (p 25) major climax into the middle of the film which is the longest part, 60 pages, fully half the 110 pages. The middle is the chase, danger, cliff-hangars, and bonding between the two reluctant soulmates who will become lovers.
END OF ACT TWO (p 85) since this needs a happy ending, p 75-85 have to be the absolute nadir, Inara's most devastating failure, utter and complete loss of everything valuable to her with no apparent way out of the trap she's in. (she can't BE RESCUED - she has to invent an astonishing and successful strategy to get herself out of this, as does her soulmate).
ENDING: This has to be a HAPPY ENDING - where Inara and her soulmate both reach their goals and also attain something they really need, something other than the goal.
TAG: the denoument, page 110 -- the FINAL IMAGE.
Well, if the opening image is a dogcatcher's cage, the final image has to include that, but changed in some way.
QUESTION: is the mad creature in the cage Inara's soulmate -- or is it like a parrot, reciting something it's owner taught it - and the owner is Inara's soulmate.
Perhaps if Inara recaptures the creature, the law says it has to be put to death, so the owner is racing Inara and blocking her every move, to recapture the creature first? Maybe it's a circus creature? Maybe the creature is a human being out where humans are thought to be animals?
Want to play in my backyard?
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Monday, November 20, 2006
Jurassic Passions: A Look at Character and Motivation
A dinosaur came into my online classroom a while back, courtesy of one of my students, Celia. Now, let me make clear right up front that I was teaching "Investigative Methodology For Writers" online, so that at best, the dinosaur was an E-mail-osaurus Rex.
But he was a useful bugger and I'm glad Celia brought him in. I'll tell you why.
He was a motivated dinosaur. I named him Celia's Jurassic Passion.
The class was discussing 'motives' and the dinosaur was an example Celia used to illustrate a fictional character's hobby: "A passion so intense that his thinking is temporarily turned off."
Passion. Habit. Achilles' Heel. Motive. In this particular example, this character is tricked into revealing his true identity because of his fascination with dinosaurs. He couldn't stay away from a specific exhibit. This one last shred of his real self gives him away.
Fiction, you say?
Naw. Really happens.
One of the interesting things about a character, or a person's, motivations is that it's often a key issue both in fiction writing and investigative work. It's life imitating art, and art imitating life.
In the case of Celia's Jurassic Passion, we have a unique flavor of motive that works well for a PI and damned beautifully for a writer. It's that one unattainable goal that drives a writer's protagonist or antagonist. That hones a conflict line. That keeps a reader turning page.
For the PI, it's the road sign saying: He Went Thataway.
In any really good PI work, a PI has to climb deeply into the psyche of subject of the investigation. She has to do more than find out the facts. She has to understand what motivated the subject to lie, to steal, to philander, to connive, to run. She has to know what drives him, and what drives him is called motivation.
And it has to be something strong enough, deep enough, to make him go against the norm. To take the risk. To take it all with him or, conversely, leave it all behind.
In an effort not to violate the dictums of "believable characters", many writers seem to choose mundane motivations. One hundred per cent plausible, believable motivations. A drunk driver mows down Alphonse's granny in the middle of Main Street, so Alphonse goes on a rampage against all drunk drivers.
But after ten-plus years as a private investigator, I can tell you that it's not the logic or the believability of the motive that is the crux, but the intensity. I have seen people take actions for some remarkably stupid reasons, in my estimation.
But to them, those reasons were everything. Their own Jurassic Passion.
Intensity is what fuels the motive. Because the motives are, for the most part, as instinctual and primal as, well, a dinosaur, living deep in the very beginnings of our psyche. And often just a beastly.
Many writers develop only lofty, altruistic and logical motives for their characters in the belief that the noble goal is universally understood. In my humble estimation, those writers are missing out on one of the most fascinating elements of the human psyche. Our ability to defy reason, ignore logic, damn the torpedoes and go full speed ahead because we are so blindsided by our passions we can see no other way of responding.
Give me Grieving Alphonse who isn't raging against drunk drivers but against television weather reporters. For it was the TV weather report that made Granny leave her humble home that day and cross the street to buy an umbrella. The drunk driver is simply, in Alphonse's primally passionate mind, a bit player.
As a reader, a passionately illogical motive gives me the better hook, the better twist, the bigger surprise factor when all is finally revealed on the last page.
It also, whether I like it or not, draws me into a shared identity with the character. We all have our Jurassic Passions buried somewhere inside. And motives stem from our passions. The one thing we cannot live with. The one thing we cannot live without.
As an investigator, I sought out motives as my pinpoint flashlight on a roadmap through the winding, bumpy terrain of misinformation. As a writer, you can develop a character's motives and passions as a pinpoint flashlight to zig and zag your reader over a similar emotional terrain.
It's been said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. It's only fitting, then, that the guy driving the bus to hell is none other than E-mail-osaurus Rex, your friendly and illogical Jurassic Passion.
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
But he was a useful bugger and I'm glad Celia brought him in. I'll tell you why.
He was a motivated dinosaur. I named him Celia's Jurassic Passion.
The class was discussing 'motives' and the dinosaur was an example Celia used to illustrate a fictional character's hobby: "A passion so intense that his thinking is temporarily turned off."
Passion. Habit. Achilles' Heel. Motive. In this particular example, this character is tricked into revealing his true identity because of his fascination with dinosaurs. He couldn't stay away from a specific exhibit. This one last shred of his real self gives him away.
Fiction, you say?
Naw. Really happens.
One of the interesting things about a character, or a person's, motivations is that it's often a key issue both in fiction writing and investigative work. It's life imitating art, and art imitating life.
In the case of Celia's Jurassic Passion, we have a unique flavor of motive that works well for a PI and damned beautifully for a writer. It's that one unattainable goal that drives a writer's protagonist or antagonist. That hones a conflict line. That keeps a reader turning page.
For the PI, it's the road sign saying: He Went Thataway.
In any really good PI work, a PI has to climb deeply into the psyche of subject of the investigation. She has to do more than find out the facts. She has to understand what motivated the subject to lie, to steal, to philander, to connive, to run. She has to know what drives him, and what drives him is called motivation.
And it has to be something strong enough, deep enough, to make him go against the norm. To take the risk. To take it all with him or, conversely, leave it all behind.
In an effort not to violate the dictums of "believable characters", many writers seem to choose mundane motivations. One hundred per cent plausible, believable motivations. A drunk driver mows down Alphonse's granny in the middle of Main Street, so Alphonse goes on a rampage against all drunk drivers.
But after ten-plus years as a private investigator, I can tell you that it's not the logic or the believability of the motive that is the crux, but the intensity. I have seen people take actions for some remarkably stupid reasons, in my estimation.
But to them, those reasons were everything. Their own Jurassic Passion.
Intensity is what fuels the motive. Because the motives are, for the most part, as instinctual and primal as, well, a dinosaur, living deep in the very beginnings of our psyche. And often just a beastly.
Many writers develop only lofty, altruistic and logical motives for their characters in the belief that the noble goal is universally understood. In my humble estimation, those writers are missing out on one of the most fascinating elements of the human psyche. Our ability to defy reason, ignore logic, damn the torpedoes and go full speed ahead because we are so blindsided by our passions we can see no other way of responding.
Give me Grieving Alphonse who isn't raging against drunk drivers but against television weather reporters. For it was the TV weather report that made Granny leave her humble home that day and cross the street to buy an umbrella. The drunk driver is simply, in Alphonse's primally passionate mind, a bit player.
As a reader, a passionately illogical motive gives me the better hook, the better twist, the bigger surprise factor when all is finally revealed on the last page.
It also, whether I like it or not, draws me into a shared identity with the character. We all have our Jurassic Passions buried somewhere inside. And motives stem from our passions. The one thing we cannot live with. The one thing we cannot live without.
As an investigator, I sought out motives as my pinpoint flashlight on a roadmap through the winding, bumpy terrain of misinformation. As a writer, you can develop a character's motives and passions as a pinpoint flashlight to zig and zag your reader over a similar emotional terrain.
It's been said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. It's only fitting, then, that the guy driving the bus to hell is none other than E-mail-osaurus Rex, your friendly and illogical Jurassic Passion.
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Insufficient Mating Material--embarrassing things to ask dignified people
Reviews are starting to come in for Insufficient Mating Material, and --much too late-- I'm having visions of readers sidling up to librarians and whispering "Do you have Insufficient Mating Material?"
I never thought of that before. My grandfather, who was mischievous, used to amuse himself by tapping the Fish menu and asking impassive-faced waiters slightly ungrammatical questions that involved the words "are soles?"
No doubt my Grandpa would have taken great delight in choosing his victim, and demanding my book in the most inappropriate wording possible.
Best wishes,
Rowena Cherry
Utterly enthralling
A year ago Tarrant-Arragon wouldn’t believe he was going to set his sister up… I loved this book, and I know Insufficient Mating Material is a book you will not want to miss either.~ Rose, Romanceatheart.com
What is it like, exactly, when two gods go head to head?
Stellar wit, wonderful characters and amazing research into basic and not so basic survival techniques make for a very real and relatable
environment for the prince and princess. This was without a doubt one
of my favorite reads of 2006! ~ Kenda Montgomery
Friday, November 17, 2006
No Princess Need Apply -- Episode 7
alien romances
But first a word from your sponsor….
My classic time travel tales, WINGS OF THE STORM and AFTER THE STORM are now available once more. These exciting romantic tales set in medieval England have been republished in trade paperback size by Romance Book Classics. They are available to order from this site:
http://www.romancebookclassics.com/servlet/Categories?category=Susan+Sizemore
If you like time travel, and you haven't ever read any of mine, you might want to give them a try.
Onward with No Princess Need Apply:
The kitchen was the size of an airplane hangar, and equipped with every appliance and tool known to cooking. Everywhere Summer looked she saw the gleam of white enamel, stainless steel and copper.
“Who’s your cook?” Summer asked as she stepped through the door. “Martha Stewart?”
“I have heard that name mentioned.”
Summer decided not to pursue that line of conversation, on the off chance that he wasn’t joking. Instead, she directed her Federally appointed watchdogs to put the grocery bags on the kitchen’s central worktable. They then retreated to an alcove occupied by a rustic-looking dining table and chairs. There was also a countertop television set and a coffee maker in that little corner of the world, Summer noticed. She took note of Cardon beginning to rummage through a cabinet, and Ricci turning on the television while Dalmer filled a carafe with water from the sink then took a seat at the table and watched her.
With the security men out of the way, she turned her attention to His Supremacy, Rawn Ruan, Emperor of the Kariin Empire. “Know how to use a knife?”
He looked momentarily puzzled. “I have training in several forms of primitive combat, both armed and unarmed.”
“Yeah, but do you know how to slice a clove of garlic?”
“That,” he admitted, “is something I have no training in.”
“Well, you’re about to learn.” She put her hands on her hips, and tilted her head playfully to one side. “If you’re going to hang out in my kitchen, Your Supremacy, you either have to get out of the way or help.” She pointed toward the security men. “Of course, you could always go bond with the boys and play poker or something.”
He glanced across the room. The aroma of brewing coffee wafted from that direction, as well as the murmuring white noise of the television set. He looked back at Summer. “I think I’ll learn how to slice garlic.”
She gave an emphatic nod. “Good for you.” Summer plucked a copper colander off an overhead row of pot hooks. She spotted a cutting board, and then a rack of knives. “You unpack the groceries,” she told Rawn. “I’ll gather the cooking stuff. This is going to be fun.”
“I think you’re right,” he agreed, giving her one of his deep-dimpled smiles. “Or, if not fun, at least a learning experience.” I’m all in favor of learning experiences.
Stick with me, kid, and you’ll learn a lot.
Ru was so surprised he almost dropped the mozzarella. It was fortunate that Summer’s attention was elsewhere for the moment, or she would have seen the shock on his face before he had time to hide it. Then she would ask him what was wrong, and, because lying was something that came hard to his nature, he would tell her that something wonderful had just happened. His initial impulse was to catch Summer in a possessive embrace, and kiss her the way he’d been wanting to kiss her since the moment they’d come face to face.
He continued to unpack groceries instead. For a great many reasons. Not the least of which was that Summer had shown very little interest in being kissed. She had shown a certain willingness to be his friend, which was making this whole encounter much harder than he’d thought it would be. Besides, he might have imagined the quick sharing of thoughts between the two of them. The humans of this world had as much ability for telepathy as any other human, but he’d noticed acute discomfort among Earth humans when thoughts were directed at them. Summer had quite firmly told him not to read her mind. It was difficult to believe that she had unconsciously read his.
Not only difficult to believe, but easier. Taking the easy way out was not his usual behavior pattern, but for the moment Rawn Ruan was willing to give it a try.
“What are you going to do with all this garlic, scare off vampires?” he asked, forcing himself to simply be with Summer, rather than speculate about improbabilities.
“Scare off vampires?” she answered, turning to take the trio of elephant garlic bulbs from him. “No way. I love vampires.”
“You’re in love with a vampire?”
He looked very serious, and she could almost swear there was a touch of jealousy in his voice. “I love vampire novels and movies. They aren’t real. Vampires are mythological fiction legend -- things. You know, like UFOs and alien invaders.”
“Is that irony, I detect, young woman?”
She nodded. “Uh huh. Some of the garlic’s for the pizza, the rest I’m going to roast. Trust me, you’ll like it.”
“I trust you.” Rawn began tossing Italian tomatoes at her, which she caught one by one and put into a bowl in the sink. “And I’ll have you know,” he said while they were tomato tossing, “that the Kariin Empire has nothing to do with UFOs. I don’t know any more about UFOs than your Earth governments do.”
“I see.” She began to run hot water over the tomatoes so they would peel easier. She kept her back to him, and her tone light as she said,
“And you don’t know anything about alien abductions?”
She wished she didn’t have her back to him. Because when he stepped up close behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, it made her feel warm and protected when that was the last thing she wanted from him. It made her regret her resentment of this whole situation when she had every reason to be resentful.
“I’ve only had one alien abducted, Summer,” he told her. “How fortunate for me that she can cook.”
His tone was as unconcerned as hers had been. Her insouciance was a charade. She wondered if he knew that, or if he would care if he did. And what sort of charade was he playing?
“Oh, I’m a complete domestic goddess,” she responded. “Equally talented in the kitchen, sewing room, laundry, bed-- “
“Room,” he finished for her, turning the word into a curious question.
“Yeah,” she said, though the word came out as a choked croak.
Implications and expectations and possibilities hung in the small space between them. Summer could hear the drone of the television, the faint murmur of the men across the room talking, the aroma of fresh coffee, but all she was aware of was Rawn Ruan. Not the Emperor of the Kariin Empire, but Rawn, big and solid and male, frightening and utterly fascinating.
She was used to men touching her, but in an impersonal way, as a living mannequin, something to bend and shape and pose, not as a woman. Rawn Ruan made her feel every inch a woman, even when he wasn’t touching her. Physical contact with him made her melt inside. Heat, as well as a slowly spreading need, radiated from where his hands touched her shoulders. It permeated through her, and made her long to turn into his embrace, press herself against his very solid form and turn her mouth up in a plea for a kiss.
What stopped her was the sharp needle of awareness that penetrated right through her heart. She was nothing more than a living mannequin to Rawn. She was a body he’d imperiously picked out of a catalog. Of course he was imperious, it came with the job of being Emperor. Only unlike the far more egotistical designers she worked for, Rawn wanted much more from her than to wear his clothes. In fact, what he had in mind was just the opposite of wearing clothes.
If she was going to do her country, her species, any service, she knew she should give in to the impulse to turn. She should take Rawn in her arms, instigate making love to him. She should act like what she was, not that she was willing to give her official position in the Imperial Household a name. She did make herself acknowledge that what she was here for was to be sexually available, not cook pizza. She just wished Rawn would show some overt interest in her, command her to his bedroom or something, instead of hanging out with her and being so sweet and kind and funny and lovable that her heart and her head were on the verge of forgetting he was the all-powerful enemy alien conqueror and not this really great guy she was incredibly attracted to.
She sighed, at the same time as she took a mental deep breath.
He said, “You’re mind’s not on peeling tomatoes, Summer.”
“You could say that again. Don’t.” She shrugged away from his touch. “Give me some room to work, please.” When he stepped back she turned and pointed to the other side of the room. “I’ve decided that I don’t need any help. Dinner’ll get done much faster if I work on my own. Without conversation,” she added when he opened his mouth. She shooed him toward the table and television. “Go. Catch up on the news or something.”
He looked at his watch. She hadn’t noticed before that he was wearing one. Come to think of it, what he was wearing on his wrist didn’t exactly look like a watch, but it must be, because he said, “It’s almost time for Entertainment Tonight.”
“Just leave me alone, okay?”
He gave her a concerned glance, but he went.
Without anyone hovering over her, Summer forced herself to concentrate on cooking and nothing else and soon had dinner in the oven. She set a timer, and cleaned up after herself. Then, with nothing to do but wait, and no excuse to be elsewhere, she drifted over to where the four men sat drinking coffee and watching television.
“Entertainment Tonight’s not still on, is it?” she asked as she glanced from a wall clock to the television set.
“It’s a news special,” Dalmer answered.
Rawn pulled out the chair beside his, and she took a seat. Cardon poured her a cup of coffee. She took a sip while she watched a car commercial. “What’s it about?”
Rawn touched her cheek. “You.”
Summer shot to her feet. “Me!” Rawn grabbed her wrist and tugged her back down. She would have fled the room, but he kept his grasp on her. “What do you mean it’s about me?”
“Watch,” he suggested.
Summer gritted her teeth. Her impulse was to toss her coffee cup at either the screen or the Kariin Emperor, but she curbed her temper and looked at the television as the commercial break ended.
The face of a rather famous news anchor that had no business being involved in gossip-mongering yellow journalism appeared on the screen.
“Who is Summer?” he asked. The picture switched to a view of McCloud Island from the mainland as he continued in voice-over. “We sent Mark Lawrence to her hometown to try to trace the roots and reasons why this woman has caught the attention of the most powerful man in the universe.”
“That’s me,” Rawn said brightly.
“Don’t sound so flattered,” Summer grumbled. “And don’t look so amused. This isn’t funny.” She groaned as another reporter began to talk.
“McCloud Island in Lake Huron, located a mile off the coast of Michigan’s desolate and isolated Upper Peninsula.”
“Ha!” Summer snorted. “Do you know how many thousands of tourists show up on that isolated and desolate coast every year? Where do these people get their copy? Nobody bothers with research.”
“Don’t they?” Rawn asked.
“Hush,” Cardon said. “I’m trying to listen to this.”
Summer simmered with indignation while the reporter continued.
“With only four hundred permanent residents, and perched just ten miles from the Canadian border, McCloud Island is only accessible by ferry or private boat. During Prohibition this twenty-five square mile island was a favorite drop off point for whiskey smuggling.”
Cardon gave her a sardonic look. “Your folks used to be bootleggers?”
Some of Summer’s angry tension eased at his joking tone. “Think I’d tell a revenuer that?” Cardon chuckled. She saw that Rawn was puzzled
by their interplay, but didn’t try to explain. She just said, “It’s an Earth thing.”
“I see.”
Rawn knew that there were a great many things he did not see, despite all his preparation. For example, when the news reporter interviewed the ferry pilot, and the pilot replied, “I know the girl, all right. She’s still too skinny. Ran off to New York and doesn’t come home often enough.” why did Summer giggle instead of expressing outrage?
“Didn’t he just insult you?”
“Oh, that’s just Uncle Harry,” she answered. “He doesn’t think anybody should ever leave the island, even if he does own the ferry service. He thinks every woman under two hundred pounds is skinny. Bless him.”
When asked his opinion of the former resident’s liaison with the Kariin emperor, Uncle Harry answered, “That’s none of your business. Not any of my business to have an opinion, either. Not until I hear what her Mama has to say about it.”
“Finding out Summer’s family’s opinion has proved a difficult task.” The scene changed to show the reporter standing on a deeply rutted dirt road that cut through a thick stand of pine and tamarack trees. “There are No Trespassing signs posted all over the overgrown property belonging to Summer’s mother. Reclusiveness seems to be the norm among these rural island dwellers.”
“Yeah,” Summer said to the television. “To keep out hunters during deer season, you idiot. Some of us don’t want our dogs and cows and kids shot by drunken tourist hunters. He makes it sound like there’s something nasty going on that we don’t want anybody to know about.”
“Yeah,” Ricci answered. “I hate the media.”
“Amen,” Cardon and Dalmer chimed in.
Rawn was both pleased and upset by the Earth humans’ interchange. Pleased at gathering knowledge, upset because of the way it was gathered.
“This rundown property has been in Summer’s family for generations. She is the first member of her clan to venture out into the world. Her mother lives in a cabin deep in the woods with five other children, all under the age of seventeen.”
“The cabin has six bedrooms, four baths and its own boat dock,” Summer complained. “But he makes it sound like we’re trailer trash. And Jason’s nearly nineteen.”
“You have brothers and sisters?” Rawn asked.
Summer sighed. “Brothers. Five brothers.”
“When I tried to speak with Summer’s mother, the camera crew and I were greeted with a shotgun -- “
“High powered rifle,” Summer interjected.
“-- blast and told that we had better obey the No Trespassing signs if we knew what was good for us.”
“Way to go, Mama!”
“When we approached the local sheriff -- “
“Uncle Dan.”
“-- we were escorted back to the ferry dock. Whatever the mysterious supermodel’s secrets,” Mark Lawrence ended on an ominous note. “The people of McCloud Island are keeping them.”
The “Special Report” continued, with stock footage of her walking up and down runways in various designers’ clothes, a shot of her at the opening of a trendy restaurant, brief clips of the commercials she was in, and a montage of her face on magazine covers while the announcer speculated on how she’d encountered His Supremacy. Eventually, the camera cut back to the anchor’s face, as he said, “An undisclosed source in the State Department refused to deny that Summer attended a closed-door meeting with a Cabinet member yesterday.
Meanwhile, the rumor that His Supremacy commanded Summer to become his mistress continues to circulate. If this rumor proves to have any foundation, what could this sort of behavior on the Kariins part mean for the rest of humanity?”
Summer went to take the pizzas out of the oven at this point. Rawn didn’t fail to notice that she’d gone pale, or that the three Earth males gave him furtive, but hostile glances. Rawn followed Summer to the other side of the kitchen. He would have offered to help as she busied herself with taking the food from the oven, and plates and cutlery from cabinets and drawers, but sensed she wanted no contact with him.
“Summer.” He spoke softly, but with all the command that came from years of rule. “I promise you that no one from your world will take harm from our being here.”
She stared at him, studied him, and he was once again amazed at the depths – of spirit, emotion, intelligence -- in her wide blue eyes. He could not tell if what he’d said had in any way eased her fears, but he did notice that she was holding up a very large knife.
Fortunately, she didn’t seem to be aware of holding a weapon in the Emperor’s presence. She turned from him and began to slice the first of the two large pizzas she’d made, unaware of the shadows that had gathered around her for a moment.
Rawn moved forward, and edged her away from the worktable. “Let me. You cooked, I’ll serve. Come and get it,” he called to the other men.
He smiled at Summer. “This smells good.”
Cardon, Dalmer and Ricci took their plates and returned to the table, and the television. Rawn and Summer stayed where they were.
Summer leaned against the sink, her back to the window, while he rolled up his sleeves, then perched himself on the stainless steel worktable and dug into the best pizza he’d tasted since arriving on this world.
“Better than at home,” he said as he leaned over to scoop up a second piece off the cooling pizza stone.
Summer looked both amazed and suspicious. “You really do have pizza on Kariin? Or whatever your home planet’s called?”
“Kari. Actually, my mother’s from Duslane. I was mostly raised there. The Duslaneins make wonderful pizza. though they call it bread pie.”
“Bread pie?”
“Uh huh.”
“How interesting.”
“Very.” He wiped his fingers on a blue checked napkin. “You done?”
Summer turned and put her plate in the sink. She’d been thinking that maybe she ought to take a second piece, and a third. Maybe she should get fat, then maybe he wouldn’t want her. He was the Emperor, after all, not Uncle Harry, who loved women any old way they came, and not just for their looks. She wished she wasn’t beautiful. She wished –
“Finished?” he asked again.
She turned back to face him. “Yes.”
He hopped down off the table. “Good. Now we’ll have sex.”
But first a word from your sponsor….
My classic time travel tales, WINGS OF THE STORM and AFTER THE STORM are now available once more. These exciting romantic tales set in medieval England have been republished in trade paperback size by Romance Book Classics. They are available to order from this site:
http://www.romancebookclassics.com/servlet/Categories?category=Susan+Sizemore
If you like time travel, and you haven't ever read any of mine, you might want to give them a try.
Onward with No Princess Need Apply:
The kitchen was the size of an airplane hangar, and equipped with every appliance and tool known to cooking. Everywhere Summer looked she saw the gleam of white enamel, stainless steel and copper.
“Who’s your cook?” Summer asked as she stepped through the door. “Martha Stewart?”
“I have heard that name mentioned.”
Summer decided not to pursue that line of conversation, on the off chance that he wasn’t joking. Instead, she directed her Federally appointed watchdogs to put the grocery bags on the kitchen’s central worktable. They then retreated to an alcove occupied by a rustic-looking dining table and chairs. There was also a countertop television set and a coffee maker in that little corner of the world, Summer noticed. She took note of Cardon beginning to rummage through a cabinet, and Ricci turning on the television while Dalmer filled a carafe with water from the sink then took a seat at the table and watched her.
With the security men out of the way, she turned her attention to His Supremacy, Rawn Ruan, Emperor of the Kariin Empire. “Know how to use a knife?”
He looked momentarily puzzled. “I have training in several forms of primitive combat, both armed and unarmed.”
“Yeah, but do you know how to slice a clove of garlic?”
“That,” he admitted, “is something I have no training in.”
“Well, you’re about to learn.” She put her hands on her hips, and tilted her head playfully to one side. “If you’re going to hang out in my kitchen, Your Supremacy, you either have to get out of the way or help.” She pointed toward the security men. “Of course, you could always go bond with the boys and play poker or something.”
He glanced across the room. The aroma of brewing coffee wafted from that direction, as well as the murmuring white noise of the television set. He looked back at Summer. “I think I’ll learn how to slice garlic.”
She gave an emphatic nod. “Good for you.” Summer plucked a copper colander off an overhead row of pot hooks. She spotted a cutting board, and then a rack of knives. “You unpack the groceries,” she told Rawn. “I’ll gather the cooking stuff. This is going to be fun.”
“I think you’re right,” he agreed, giving her one of his deep-dimpled smiles. “Or, if not fun, at least a learning experience.” I’m all in favor of learning experiences.
Stick with me, kid, and you’ll learn a lot.
Ru was so surprised he almost dropped the mozzarella. It was fortunate that Summer’s attention was elsewhere for the moment, or she would have seen the shock on his face before he had time to hide it. Then she would ask him what was wrong, and, because lying was something that came hard to his nature, he would tell her that something wonderful had just happened. His initial impulse was to catch Summer in a possessive embrace, and kiss her the way he’d been wanting to kiss her since the moment they’d come face to face.
He continued to unpack groceries instead. For a great many reasons. Not the least of which was that Summer had shown very little interest in being kissed. She had shown a certain willingness to be his friend, which was making this whole encounter much harder than he’d thought it would be. Besides, he might have imagined the quick sharing of thoughts between the two of them. The humans of this world had as much ability for telepathy as any other human, but he’d noticed acute discomfort among Earth humans when thoughts were directed at them. Summer had quite firmly told him not to read her mind. It was difficult to believe that she had unconsciously read his.
Not only difficult to believe, but easier. Taking the easy way out was not his usual behavior pattern, but for the moment Rawn Ruan was willing to give it a try.
“What are you going to do with all this garlic, scare off vampires?” he asked, forcing himself to simply be with Summer, rather than speculate about improbabilities.
“Scare off vampires?” she answered, turning to take the trio of elephant garlic bulbs from him. “No way. I love vampires.”
“You’re in love with a vampire?”
He looked very serious, and she could almost swear there was a touch of jealousy in his voice. “I love vampire novels and movies. They aren’t real. Vampires are mythological fiction legend -- things. You know, like UFOs and alien invaders.”
“Is that irony, I detect, young woman?”
She nodded. “Uh huh. Some of the garlic’s for the pizza, the rest I’m going to roast. Trust me, you’ll like it.”
“I trust you.” Rawn began tossing Italian tomatoes at her, which she caught one by one and put into a bowl in the sink. “And I’ll have you know,” he said while they were tomato tossing, “that the Kariin Empire has nothing to do with UFOs. I don’t know any more about UFOs than your Earth governments do.”
“I see.” She began to run hot water over the tomatoes so they would peel easier. She kept her back to him, and her tone light as she said,
“And you don’t know anything about alien abductions?”
She wished she didn’t have her back to him. Because when he stepped up close behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, it made her feel warm and protected when that was the last thing she wanted from him. It made her regret her resentment of this whole situation when she had every reason to be resentful.
“I’ve only had one alien abducted, Summer,” he told her. “How fortunate for me that she can cook.”
His tone was as unconcerned as hers had been. Her insouciance was a charade. She wondered if he knew that, or if he would care if he did. And what sort of charade was he playing?
“Oh, I’m a complete domestic goddess,” she responded. “Equally talented in the kitchen, sewing room, laundry, bed-- “
“Room,” he finished for her, turning the word into a curious question.
“Yeah,” she said, though the word came out as a choked croak.
Implications and expectations and possibilities hung in the small space between them. Summer could hear the drone of the television, the faint murmur of the men across the room talking, the aroma of fresh coffee, but all she was aware of was Rawn Ruan. Not the Emperor of the Kariin Empire, but Rawn, big and solid and male, frightening and utterly fascinating.
She was used to men touching her, but in an impersonal way, as a living mannequin, something to bend and shape and pose, not as a woman. Rawn Ruan made her feel every inch a woman, even when he wasn’t touching her. Physical contact with him made her melt inside. Heat, as well as a slowly spreading need, radiated from where his hands touched her shoulders. It permeated through her, and made her long to turn into his embrace, press herself against his very solid form and turn her mouth up in a plea for a kiss.
What stopped her was the sharp needle of awareness that penetrated right through her heart. She was nothing more than a living mannequin to Rawn. She was a body he’d imperiously picked out of a catalog. Of course he was imperious, it came with the job of being Emperor. Only unlike the far more egotistical designers she worked for, Rawn wanted much more from her than to wear his clothes. In fact, what he had in mind was just the opposite of wearing clothes.
If she was going to do her country, her species, any service, she knew she should give in to the impulse to turn. She should take Rawn in her arms, instigate making love to him. She should act like what she was, not that she was willing to give her official position in the Imperial Household a name. She did make herself acknowledge that what she was here for was to be sexually available, not cook pizza. She just wished Rawn would show some overt interest in her, command her to his bedroom or something, instead of hanging out with her and being so sweet and kind and funny and lovable that her heart and her head were on the verge of forgetting he was the all-powerful enemy alien conqueror and not this really great guy she was incredibly attracted to.
She sighed, at the same time as she took a mental deep breath.
He said, “You’re mind’s not on peeling tomatoes, Summer.”
“You could say that again. Don’t.” She shrugged away from his touch. “Give me some room to work, please.” When he stepped back she turned and pointed to the other side of the room. “I’ve decided that I don’t need any help. Dinner’ll get done much faster if I work on my own. Without conversation,” she added when he opened his mouth. She shooed him toward the table and television. “Go. Catch up on the news or something.”
He looked at his watch. She hadn’t noticed before that he was wearing one. Come to think of it, what he was wearing on his wrist didn’t exactly look like a watch, but it must be, because he said, “It’s almost time for Entertainment Tonight.”
“Just leave me alone, okay?”
He gave her a concerned glance, but he went.
Without anyone hovering over her, Summer forced herself to concentrate on cooking and nothing else and soon had dinner in the oven. She set a timer, and cleaned up after herself. Then, with nothing to do but wait, and no excuse to be elsewhere, she drifted over to where the four men sat drinking coffee and watching television.
“Entertainment Tonight’s not still on, is it?” she asked as she glanced from a wall clock to the television set.
“It’s a news special,” Dalmer answered.
Rawn pulled out the chair beside his, and she took a seat. Cardon poured her a cup of coffee. She took a sip while she watched a car commercial. “What’s it about?”
Rawn touched her cheek. “You.”
Summer shot to her feet. “Me!” Rawn grabbed her wrist and tugged her back down. She would have fled the room, but he kept his grasp on her. “What do you mean it’s about me?”
“Watch,” he suggested.
Summer gritted her teeth. Her impulse was to toss her coffee cup at either the screen or the Kariin Emperor, but she curbed her temper and looked at the television as the commercial break ended.
The face of a rather famous news anchor that had no business being involved in gossip-mongering yellow journalism appeared on the screen.
“Who is Summer?” he asked. The picture switched to a view of McCloud Island from the mainland as he continued in voice-over. “We sent Mark Lawrence to her hometown to try to trace the roots and reasons why this woman has caught the attention of the most powerful man in the universe.”
“That’s me,” Rawn said brightly.
“Don’t sound so flattered,” Summer grumbled. “And don’t look so amused. This isn’t funny.” She groaned as another reporter began to talk.
“McCloud Island in Lake Huron, located a mile off the coast of Michigan’s desolate and isolated Upper Peninsula.”
“Ha!” Summer snorted. “Do you know how many thousands of tourists show up on that isolated and desolate coast every year? Where do these people get their copy? Nobody bothers with research.”
“Don’t they?” Rawn asked.
“Hush,” Cardon said. “I’m trying to listen to this.”
Summer simmered with indignation while the reporter continued.
“With only four hundred permanent residents, and perched just ten miles from the Canadian border, McCloud Island is only accessible by ferry or private boat. During Prohibition this twenty-five square mile island was a favorite drop off point for whiskey smuggling.”
Cardon gave her a sardonic look. “Your folks used to be bootleggers?”
Some of Summer’s angry tension eased at his joking tone. “Think I’d tell a revenuer that?” Cardon chuckled. She saw that Rawn was puzzled
by their interplay, but didn’t try to explain. She just said, “It’s an Earth thing.”
“I see.”
Rawn knew that there were a great many things he did not see, despite all his preparation. For example, when the news reporter interviewed the ferry pilot, and the pilot replied, “I know the girl, all right. She’s still too skinny. Ran off to New York and doesn’t come home often enough.” why did Summer giggle instead of expressing outrage?
“Didn’t he just insult you?”
“Oh, that’s just Uncle Harry,” she answered. “He doesn’t think anybody should ever leave the island, even if he does own the ferry service. He thinks every woman under two hundred pounds is skinny. Bless him.”
When asked his opinion of the former resident’s liaison with the Kariin emperor, Uncle Harry answered, “That’s none of your business. Not any of my business to have an opinion, either. Not until I hear what her Mama has to say about it.”
“Finding out Summer’s family’s opinion has proved a difficult task.” The scene changed to show the reporter standing on a deeply rutted dirt road that cut through a thick stand of pine and tamarack trees. “There are No Trespassing signs posted all over the overgrown property belonging to Summer’s mother. Reclusiveness seems to be the norm among these rural island dwellers.”
“Yeah,” Summer said to the television. “To keep out hunters during deer season, you idiot. Some of us don’t want our dogs and cows and kids shot by drunken tourist hunters. He makes it sound like there’s something nasty going on that we don’t want anybody to know about.”
“Yeah,” Ricci answered. “I hate the media.”
“Amen,” Cardon and Dalmer chimed in.
Rawn was both pleased and upset by the Earth humans’ interchange. Pleased at gathering knowledge, upset because of the way it was gathered.
“This rundown property has been in Summer’s family for generations. She is the first member of her clan to venture out into the world. Her mother lives in a cabin deep in the woods with five other children, all under the age of seventeen.”
“The cabin has six bedrooms, four baths and its own boat dock,” Summer complained. “But he makes it sound like we’re trailer trash. And Jason’s nearly nineteen.”
“You have brothers and sisters?” Rawn asked.
Summer sighed. “Brothers. Five brothers.”
“When I tried to speak with Summer’s mother, the camera crew and I were greeted with a shotgun -- “
“High powered rifle,” Summer interjected.
“-- blast and told that we had better obey the No Trespassing signs if we knew what was good for us.”
“Way to go, Mama!”
“When we approached the local sheriff -- “
“Uncle Dan.”
“-- we were escorted back to the ferry dock. Whatever the mysterious supermodel’s secrets,” Mark Lawrence ended on an ominous note. “The people of McCloud Island are keeping them.”
The “Special Report” continued, with stock footage of her walking up and down runways in various designers’ clothes, a shot of her at the opening of a trendy restaurant, brief clips of the commercials she was in, and a montage of her face on magazine covers while the announcer speculated on how she’d encountered His Supremacy. Eventually, the camera cut back to the anchor’s face, as he said, “An undisclosed source in the State Department refused to deny that Summer attended a closed-door meeting with a Cabinet member yesterday.
Meanwhile, the rumor that His Supremacy commanded Summer to become his mistress continues to circulate. If this rumor proves to have any foundation, what could this sort of behavior on the Kariins part mean for the rest of humanity?”
Summer went to take the pizzas out of the oven at this point. Rawn didn’t fail to notice that she’d gone pale, or that the three Earth males gave him furtive, but hostile glances. Rawn followed Summer to the other side of the kitchen. He would have offered to help as she busied herself with taking the food from the oven, and plates and cutlery from cabinets and drawers, but sensed she wanted no contact with him.
“Summer.” He spoke softly, but with all the command that came from years of rule. “I promise you that no one from your world will take harm from our being here.”
She stared at him, studied him, and he was once again amazed at the depths – of spirit, emotion, intelligence -- in her wide blue eyes. He could not tell if what he’d said had in any way eased her fears, but he did notice that she was holding up a very large knife.
Fortunately, she didn’t seem to be aware of holding a weapon in the Emperor’s presence. She turned from him and began to slice the first of the two large pizzas she’d made, unaware of the shadows that had gathered around her for a moment.
Rawn moved forward, and edged her away from the worktable. “Let me. You cooked, I’ll serve. Come and get it,” he called to the other men.
He smiled at Summer. “This smells good.”
Cardon, Dalmer and Ricci took their plates and returned to the table, and the television. Rawn and Summer stayed where they were.
Summer leaned against the sink, her back to the window, while he rolled up his sleeves, then perched himself on the stainless steel worktable and dug into the best pizza he’d tasted since arriving on this world.
“Better than at home,” he said as he leaned over to scoop up a second piece off the cooling pizza stone.
Summer looked both amazed and suspicious. “You really do have pizza on Kariin? Or whatever your home planet’s called?”
“Kari. Actually, my mother’s from Duslane. I was mostly raised there. The Duslaneins make wonderful pizza. though they call it bread pie.”
“Bread pie?”
“Uh huh.”
“How interesting.”
“Very.” He wiped his fingers on a blue checked napkin. “You done?”
Summer turned and put her plate in the sink. She’d been thinking that maybe she ought to take a second piece, and a third. Maybe she should get fat, then maybe he wouldn’t want her. He was the Emperor, after all, not Uncle Harry, who loved women any old way they came, and not just for their looks. She wished she wasn’t beautiful. She wished –
“Finished?” he asked again.
She turned back to face him. “Yes.”
He hopped down off the table. “Good. Now we’ll have sex.”
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Interspecies Cooperation
I'm almost finished rereading WIZARDS AT WAR, the latest in Diane Duane's "Young Wizards" series. In this novel the teenage protagonists of the series, Kit and Nita, have to work with other wizards to save the universe from an abnormal proliferation of "dark matter." Their team comprises four Earth-human adolescents (including Kit's non-magical sister), a humanoid prince from a distant star system, a giant bug, an intelligent plant who looks like an ambulatory Christmas tree, Kit's dog (who has some magical gifts), and a sentient laptop computer. The larger group of Earth wizards includes whales and cats as well as human people. This delightful picture of interspecies cooperation reminds me of Madeleine L'Engle's A WRINKLE IN TIME and its sequels. L'Engle's human characters, at various times, work with cherubim, a unicorn, a friendly snake, assorted extraterrestrials, microscopic creatures within a small boy's body, and three angelic beings disguised as eccentric old ladies. James White's books set in a hospital on a space station show the protagonist, a human doctor, treating patients from many different planets. I enjoy stories that feature human beings and varied types of aliens seeing behind their mutual strangeness to the "soul," rejoicing in both their likenesses and their differences.
C. S. Lewis' OUT OF THE SILENT PLANET takes the hero, Ransom, to Mars, which he finds inhabited by three different intelligent species. A Martian native expresses amazement at learning Earth has only one. How, he asks, can we objectively evaluate our own thought processes if we can't compare them to thought that "floats on different blood"? I use this phrase in the title of my literary survey DIFFERENT BLOOD: THE VAMPIRE AS ALIEN from Amber Quill Press (www.amberquill.com).
Lewis' friend J. R. R. Tolkien says in "On Fairy Stories" that one of the universal human wishes fulfilled by fairy tales is the desire to communicate with other species. The talking animals in folklore vicariously heal the wound of our separation from the other creatures in our world. I find similar consolation in stories of friendship or love between human characters and members of intelligent nonhuman races. The Star Trek principle of IDIC, "Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations," celebrates bridging the gulf between species to form multi-species alliances, friendships, or intimate bonds. Which raises the question of how faithfully we live out this ideal in our mundane lives. Do we science fiction and fantasy fans typically rejoice in the other races and cultures on our own planet as wholeheartedly as we hope we would rejoice in elves and extraterrestrials? I must freely admit that most of my appreciation occurs at a distance; I grew up in a suburban WASP environment and have lived mostly in that kind of cultural context throughout my life. Therefore, my images of the ethnic groups with which I don't come into frequent contact tend, I'm sure, to be romanticized.
C. S. Lewis' OUT OF THE SILENT PLANET takes the hero, Ransom, to Mars, which he finds inhabited by three different intelligent species. A Martian native expresses amazement at learning Earth has only one. How, he asks, can we objectively evaluate our own thought processes if we can't compare them to thought that "floats on different blood"? I use this phrase in the title of my literary survey DIFFERENT BLOOD: THE VAMPIRE AS ALIEN from Amber Quill Press (www.amberquill.com).
Lewis' friend J. R. R. Tolkien says in "On Fairy Stories" that one of the universal human wishes fulfilled by fairy tales is the desire to communicate with other species. The talking animals in folklore vicariously heal the wound of our separation from the other creatures in our world. I find similar consolation in stories of friendship or love between human characters and members of intelligent nonhuman races. The Star Trek principle of IDIC, "Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations," celebrates bridging the gulf between species to form multi-species alliances, friendships, or intimate bonds. Which raises the question of how faithfully we live out this ideal in our mundane lives. Do we science fiction and fantasy fans typically rejoice in the other races and cultures on our own planet as wholeheartedly as we hope we would rejoice in elves and extraterrestrials? I must freely admit that most of my appreciation occurs at a distance; I grew up in a suburban WASP environment and have lived mostly in that kind of cultural context throughout my life. Therefore, my images of the ethnic groups with which I don't come into frequent contact tend, I'm sure, to be romanticized.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Susan Kearney News
Hi,
I'm pleased to announce I just sold two more books to Tor. In 2008 SOLAR HEAT will be available , my sequel to ISLAND HEAT and in the future this series will connect to my Rystani warrior series that began with THE CHALLENGE.
And I'm also now writing romantic suspense. The first book KISS ME DEADLY will be out this summer and I'll be writing the sequel this year. I'm very pleased to be writing in two genres. It keeps me fresh as a writer. Right now I'm having a blast with SOLAR HEAT. The book is back in space and my heroine is trapped, the hero is searching for her. It's time for her to save herself!!
Guess I'll get back to writing.
SueK.
I'm pleased to announce I just sold two more books to Tor. In 2008 SOLAR HEAT will be available , my sequel to ISLAND HEAT and in the future this series will connect to my Rystani warrior series that began with THE CHALLENGE.
And I'm also now writing romantic suspense. The first book KISS ME DEADLY will be out this summer and I'll be writing the sequel this year. I'm very pleased to be writing in two genres. It keeps me fresh as a writer. Right now I'm having a blast with SOLAR HEAT. The book is back in space and my heroine is trapped, the hero is searching for her. It's time for her to save herself!!
Guess I'll get back to writing.
SueK.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
More than you want to know!
Folks:
I've been very busy this week with mundane life, but also several writing projects active at once.
But I got a nice surprise that might interest some of you Trek fans.
There's a new e-zine, Sci Fi Studios Magazine just started. And I'm in the first issue!
Long story:
A few years ago COMMUNICATOR MAGAZINE -- a newstand slick focused on Star Trek -- was in the process of doing an article on me as part of a features series. They did one on Shirley Maiewski -- long time head of the Star Trek Welcommittee who died recently -- and had just done one on Joan Winston when the Magazine folded.
I saw the fellow who ran COMMUNICATOR at a con or two, did some panels with him, and he still had hope that COMMUNICATOR would re-launch. But so far it hasn't.
However, he is now involved in the new e-zine for Sci Fi Studios (which is connected with a lot of Hollywood pros who love Trek, endorsed by Rod Roddenberry, too) , and they contacted me to do an interview by email which I did. That was months ago and I'd all but forgotten it.
Last week, I got an email announcing the first issue - almost didn't go look at it - found a minute, browsed over, and Lo! There's a picture of me composited from a still taken during the interview I did which is in the documentary Trekkies2.
The interview with me is there, too.
Here's the ISSUE ONE of the new online magazine
http://scifi-studios.com/magazine/magcover1.htm
http://scifi-studios.com/magazine/ is the index page.
http://www.scifi-studios.com/magazine/content/view/75/26/ is the article itself.
This website is unique and a ground-breaker. They are Industry pros who are reaching out to involve FANS in the creation and production of actual, real SF the way we like it.
I really hope some Alien Romance writers get involved. I just have too many projects on my desk right now to be able to DO what I'd like to see done on that website.
So take a look at it.
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
I've been very busy this week with mundane life, but also several writing projects active at once.
But I got a nice surprise that might interest some of you Trek fans.
There's a new e-zine, Sci Fi Studios Magazine just started. And I'm in the first issue!
Long story:
A few years ago COMMUNICATOR MAGAZINE -- a newstand slick focused on Star Trek -- was in the process of doing an article on me as part of a features series. They did one on Shirley Maiewski -- long time head of the Star Trek Welcommittee who died recently -- and had just done one on Joan Winston when the Magazine folded.
I saw the fellow who ran COMMUNICATOR at a con or two, did some panels with him, and he still had hope that COMMUNICATOR would re-launch. But so far it hasn't.
However, he is now involved in the new e-zine for Sci Fi Studios (which is connected with a lot of Hollywood pros who love Trek, endorsed by Rod Roddenberry, too) , and they contacted me to do an interview by email which I did. That was months ago and I'd all but forgotten it.
Last week, I got an email announcing the first issue - almost didn't go look at it - found a minute, browsed over, and Lo! There's a picture of me composited from a still taken during the interview I did which is in the documentary Trekkies2.
The interview with me is there, too.
Here's the ISSUE ONE of the new online magazine
http://scifi-studios.com/magazine/magcover1.htm
http://scifi-studios.com/magazine/ is the index page.
http://www.scifi-studios.com/magazine/content/view/75/26/ is the article itself.
This website is unique and a ground-breaker. They are Industry pros who are reaching out to involve FANS in the creation and production of actual, real SF the way we like it.
I really hope some Alien Romance writers get involved. I just have too many projects on my desk right now to be able to DO what I'd like to see done on that website.
So take a look at it.
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Monday, November 13, 2006
101 Uses for Email Spammers
This is a blog about writing.
This is a blog about how authors sometimes use unusual sources for characters' names.
This is a blog about how great minds think alike.
Now that I've set the stage...welcome to my latest insanity. We all get email spam. Nothing can really turn a good day on a nasty edge then to be trying to get a manuscript done, waiting for feedback from your beloved critique partners, logging into your email program and you sit there for five frikkin' minutes whilst oodles of spam downloads and is snagged--one by one--by your spam filter.
Dink-kaching. Dink-kaching. Dink-kaching. (My spam filter makes little noises so I know it's actually earning the bucks I paid for it). Dink-kaching. I usually at this point go to the kitchen, brew another cup of cappuccino and return to my desk just in time for the last of the dink-kachings.
Then I noticed something while I was scanning the spam folder just in case a lovely fan mail note was erroneously dink-kachinged: spammers have started using some really neat-o peachy keen fun names as senders.
I've started saving them. Do I have a problem or what? But I've started saving them because I thought at some point they might make a fun addition to a book as a character. It would certainly save me the time and headache of creating a name.
Because, you see, I spend a lot of time creating a character's name. I listen to its melody, its cadence. I work with is masculine/feminine principles. I want it to correctly reflect my character's, well, character.
So imagine, if you will, just what these lovely characters would be like (and I'd LOVE to see your feedback--give them stories and careers and post them here!):
Headley Knoblock
Paneling L. Crib
Ceased H. Comfy
Fox O. Ethereal
Dillon Furze
Myopic U. Romeo
Repetitive H. Neurons
Hoose J. Rochester
Shocking H. Separates
Hensel F. Chowdhury
Nosedives H. Cursory
Preppier S. Barometers
Hunter Valentine (I really like this one--I think he'd make a great hard-drinkin', gun-totin' PI!)
Puppet C. Zambians
Parsifal Gandara
Nails H. Quitted
Bluford Q. Longmire
Zvonko Belvin
and that's just in the past month and it's not even all of them.
Brilliant, eh?
So in my whimsy I email author-buddy Susan Grant. And guess what? (Here comes the Great Minds part). She's doing the same thing! She's not only saving spammers names but she already USED one in an upcoming release. The character? Tibor Frix.
Now it's up to you to make some good use of annoying spammers. Tell me--in ten sentences or less--about Zvonko Belvin and Nosedives H. Cursory, et al. Let's see how creative you can get (but keep it short, eh? Ten sentences or less).
Admiringly yours,
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
This is a blog about how authors sometimes use unusual sources for characters' names.
This is a blog about how great minds think alike.
Now that I've set the stage...welcome to my latest insanity. We all get email spam. Nothing can really turn a good day on a nasty edge then to be trying to get a manuscript done, waiting for feedback from your beloved critique partners, logging into your email program and you sit there for five frikkin' minutes whilst oodles of spam downloads and is snagged--one by one--by your spam filter.
Dink-kaching. Dink-kaching. Dink-kaching. (My spam filter makes little noises so I know it's actually earning the bucks I paid for it). Dink-kaching. I usually at this point go to the kitchen, brew another cup of cappuccino and return to my desk just in time for the last of the dink-kachings.
Then I noticed something while I was scanning the spam folder just in case a lovely fan mail note was erroneously dink-kachinged: spammers have started using some really neat-o peachy keen fun names as senders.
I've started saving them. Do I have a problem or what? But I've started saving them because I thought at some point they might make a fun addition to a book as a character. It would certainly save me the time and headache of creating a name.
Because, you see, I spend a lot of time creating a character's name. I listen to its melody, its cadence. I work with is masculine/feminine principles. I want it to correctly reflect my character's, well, character.
So imagine, if you will, just what these lovely characters would be like (and I'd LOVE to see your feedback--give them stories and careers and post them here!):
Headley Knoblock
Paneling L. Crib
Ceased H. Comfy
Fox O. Ethereal
Dillon Furze
Myopic U. Romeo
Repetitive H. Neurons
Hoose J. Rochester
Shocking H. Separates
Hensel F. Chowdhury
Nosedives H. Cursory
Preppier S. Barometers
Hunter Valentine (I really like this one--I think he'd make a great hard-drinkin', gun-totin' PI!)
Puppet C. Zambians
Parsifal Gandara
Nails H. Quitted
Bluford Q. Longmire
Zvonko Belvin
and that's just in the past month and it's not even all of them.
Brilliant, eh?
So in my whimsy I email author-buddy Susan Grant. And guess what? (Here comes the Great Minds part). She's doing the same thing! She's not only saving spammers names but she already USED one in an upcoming release. The character? Tibor Frix.
Now it's up to you to make some good use of annoying spammers. Tell me--in ten sentences or less--about Zvonko Belvin and Nosedives H. Cursory, et al. Let's see how creative you can get (but keep it short, eh? Ten sentences or less).
Admiringly yours,
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
Sunday, November 12, 2006
The best swordfighting scenes
What do Pierce Brosnan in Die Another Day, Roger Moore in Moonraker, Sean Connery in Highlander, Chris O'Donnell in The Three Musketeers, Catherine Zeta Jones, Anthony Hopkins, and Antonio Banderas in The Mask of Zorro, and Liv Tyler in LOTR have in common?
I found this fascinating!
According to Richard Cohen in By The Sword, the sword fighting consultant for all those great movie swordfighting scenes was Bob Anderson. A tidbit that interested me most was that it was Bob Anderson himself in the Darth Vader costume during that steamy light saber duel with Luke in The Empire Strikes Back.
Apparently, in order to keep the steam-effect from freezing Han Solo, the stage had to be kept very hot indeed, which was especially uncomfortable for a man in a helmet and long black robes.
None of this --movie trivia-- is especially helpful to me in my research for a swordfighting hero for my next alien djinn romance, but it gives me a new respect for Hollywood, and a new perspective on the "romantic" versus the "swashbuckling" versus the "pain of it" schools of movie swordfighting.
My next title is Knight's Fork. It's not about a Retiarius! Although it is Rhett's story.
Best wishes,
Rowena
I found this fascinating!
According to Richard Cohen in By The Sword, the sword fighting consultant for all those great movie swordfighting scenes was Bob Anderson. A tidbit that interested me most was that it was Bob Anderson himself in the Darth Vader costume during that steamy light saber duel with Luke in The Empire Strikes Back.
Apparently, in order to keep the steam-effect from freezing Han Solo, the stage had to be kept very hot indeed, which was especially uncomfortable for a man in a helmet and long black robes.
None of this --movie trivia-- is especially helpful to me in my research for a swordfighting hero for my next alien djinn romance, but it gives me a new respect for Hollywood, and a new perspective on the "romantic" versus the "swashbuckling" versus the "pain of it" schools of movie swordfighting.
My next title is Knight's Fork. It's not about a Retiarius! Although it is Rhett's story.
Best wishes,
Rowena
Friday, November 10, 2006
Shooting Star...Ruben's crash
Ruben set the angle to enter the atmosphere and searched for his water bottle. It wasn’t in its usual place and he recalled that he had forgotten to fill it before he left Oasis. He’d had other things on his mind. He’d have to go aft to find some but the prickling on the back of his neck kept him in place. With yoke in hand wondered why he had not been hailed from below.
“Anything on the com?” he asked.
“I’d be sure to let you know,” Eli replied.
She was definitely pouting.
Surely they had some sort of security set up on the planet. He opened his hailing frequencies.
“See if you can raise someone,” he instructed.
“I have,” Eli replied.
“Do it again.”
Next thing you know she…it…was going to expect presents.
“Standard hailing frequencies,” Ruben added. At least he was doing his part. There was no way he could be coming in unannounced.
“Warning,” Eli said. “Unknown craft approaching from below.” A shrill jangle from the com let him know that she…it…wasn’t making it up.
“This is Shooting Star calling the planet Lavign,” Ruben yelled into the com as he punched off the warning beacon. “Repeat Shooting Star calling Lavign. Request landing coordinates.”
Nothing. Ruben did a quick visual of the deepening sky. He was coming in at a glorious sunset. He could just see the curve of the sun dipping over the edge of the planet and the orange-pink brilliance of the sky above it.
It reminded him of Oasis. Clean and pure.
“Are you sure there’s something out there?” he asked.
“Yes. But if you don’t believe me you can check for yourself.”
His com showed a blip. There was another craft out there, somewhere. It should be close enough for a visual but a crafty pilot could hide in the glare from the sun and use it’s reflection as a cloak.
He’d done it himself, many a time….
“Repeat Shooting Star calling planet Lavign. I am unarmed and seeking coordinates for landing.”
No response. The sun, now gone, gave way to a clear black sky.
“Show me the geopoll.” Ruben barked out.
It was a handy tool to have when smuggling, especially when he was trying to avoid interaction with the Senate outposts. Infrared under the three dimensional image showed sparse population of human and animal. The terrain was rolling with mountains showing in the distance. No industry showed of any kind. There were no lights sparkling from below to show the location of a city and no power blip to show an energy source.
The night skies, brightly lit with millions of stars, gave the appearance that he could reach through the plexi and gather a handful to keep. The absence of light below gave the illusion that they were close and tempting, a treasure to be collected.
Maybe he should have done some more research before he took off on his quest to find his brother. It made more sense than just going on his gut…
Another alarm went off with a whoop. “We’ve been locked,” Eli said calmly.
Someone was targeting him. Where was it? What was after him?
Ruben didn’t have time to think about it as the single blip on his screen suddenly split in two. He’d been fired upon. He pulled the Shooting Star into a quick roll to the port side and the ship responded gracefully.
From the corner of his eye Ruben caught a quick flash as the missile passed on by and exploded in the atmosphere. The light from the blast bounced off something solid.
There was another ship out there. His screen showed the blip was somewhere above him.
“My sensors indicate that the other ship is now above us,” Eli said.
“Yeah, I already figured that out sweetheart.”
What he wouldn’t give to have Shaun sitting up in the turret gun right now. The empty co-pilot seat beside him reminded him more of his solitude than he cared to admit. Maybe he should fix it, once this ride was over with.
He flipped on the screen that gave him a visual link with the turret and pushed the yoke forward so the screen was aimed towards the atmosphere above.
He saw it on the screen. The absence of light. The craft that was after him was as black as the night sky. Deliberately. Whoever was flying it did not want it to be seen. . It was a clever idea and would be handy on a cloudy night but tonight when the stars were dazzling in their brilliance the craft blocked them from view.
So what was the problem? If it was planetary defense then why the need for camouflage? They were within their rights to protect their skies from invaders although some might have issue with it.
Kind of hard to argue the point if you were dead however.
The back of his neck told him that it was not planetary defense. Something was going on here. And just maybe it was related to what he…felt…about his brother. He came here looking for answers and obviously someone did not want the questions asked.
“Look for a place to land,” he said.
He needed to get away from his attackers. And he better do it quick before whoever it was figured out that he was about to fly up…
Too late. Ruben caught the impression of a dive but it was hard to track the ship visually once it started its counter measures.
“Warning. Warning. Attack imminent,” Eli said.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He should have taken it out when he had the chance. But it wasn’t as if the Shooting Star was a Falcon and fully loaded with armament.
The blip on his screen told him his pursuer was still there, and he’d better do something quick.
Where are you?
Ruben didn’t bother with a visual check as he armed his missiles. All these years and he’d never used them. He never had a reason. Shaun and the turret gun had gotten them out of more scrapes than anything. He couldn’t even say for sure the last time he’d bothered to check the proton chambers.
It was time to make his move. The blip was behind him now and coming fast.
Too fast…Ruben’s curse exploded from his lips at the exact same time that he took the yoke and kicked in a quick burst of hyperion. Another second’s delay and he’d be a meteor shower, falling to the planet below.
The Shooting Star had taken a hit.
He was losing pressure in the cargo bay.
“Pressure leak. Cargo bay.”
Ruben slapped a button on the com. That would shut her up. He didn’t need any help communicating with the Shooting Star. He knew exactly what she was capable of.
“Come on baby,” he urged the ship as he fought for control. He knew the Air was purging behind the sealed doors and also knew that if he’d been in the stratosphere that he would be nothing more than an imploded mass of metal right now.
He was going to have to ditch.
But not without a fight.
The hyperion burst had taken him out of range but not for long. He knew the mysterious dark ship would be closing in on him for the kill.
“I hope you’ve got something left sweetheart.”
Ruben punched the dials on his com. He blew his spare tank, knowing that the gases would form a harmless cerulean cloud in the pristine oxygen of the planet. It would also make his attacker think he was on his last legs, which he was…
So why should I let them…they…it…
Who are these guys?
He couldn’t have more than a few seconds left. Ruben jerked back on the yoke and the Shooting Star pushed her curved nose into the Air.
She’s heavy…
Ruben watched the blip on his screen as he silently urged his craft upwards. He knew he only had one chance before she gave out on him.
NOW!
Ruben threw the lever above his head as his pursuer flew into the cloud, right beneath and behind his position. He felt the shudder as the cargo hold separated from the module that held the cockpit, his personal quarters and the mechanical operations of the Shooting Star.
Like a bomb the hold fell, straight out of the sky, its trajectory right on target.
“Yes!” Ruben whooped as he felt the explosion beneath. It was more than he could hope for.
The answering shudder from the Shooting Star was not part of the celebration. Alarms sounded, more noise to distract him.
“Shut up!” Ruben barked.
It had to be shrapnel. The noise was enough to kill him. If he survived this…
After I survive this…
He was going to do some serious work on his systems. Maybe he should go ahead and take the next step in his voice data. Let Eli talk sexy to him. Maybe even give her a feminine name so she…it…could whisper sweet things to him while he was in cryo.
“You’d be waking up in a state too,” he said out loud as if to assure himself that he was still alive. For the moment. “And there’d be no one available to warm your sheets.”
Yeah, that gave him something to live for…
He didn’t have time to admire the ball of flame that shot up from the ground below as his enemy exploded upon contact.
“Sorry,” Ruben muttered as an apology to the inhabitants below. It was all he could offer at the moment. He had his own crash too avoid.
As if he could. He summoned the geopoll again with the flip of a switch. There was a clearing ahead. Unfortunately it was in the same vicinity as the crash. So now he’d have it to avoid, along with the dense forest and the mountains that took a sudden rise.
“I hope there’s no one out for an evening stroll,” he said.
If there was, they were in for a show. Ruben said a silent prayer as he lowered his emergency landing gear. What was left of the Shooting Star was designed for a quick getaway and a bay landing. Ruben was certain of his skills and knew his craft like he knew his body, but a drop like a stone out of the sky landing was something that he’d never tried before.
He only had one chance to get it right….
“Come on baby,” he urged as he saw the treetops getting closer. If only he could make it to the clearing he had a chance of not ripping her belly out.
He felt the popping of the tree tops as he skirted along and then dropped lower, willing the craft on just by sheer will power.
And then just as suddenly he was there and realized he’d run out of room faster than he thought. He was headed straight for the ball of fire that was all that was left of his enemy.
He jerked her nose up and the engines stalled. The Shooting Star fell to the earth, landing on her tail with a thud before she toppled over.
Ruben catapulted from his chair and slammed against the co-pilots seat before being thrown on the com. Pain exploded in his side and in his ankle as his eyes tried to focus through the plexi on something dark and strange looking huddled on the ground as he felt himself falling towards the earth with his ship. The entire clearing was aglow with the light from the fire but for him, the light was fading fast. The impact of the ship hitting the earth threw him to the deck and the world went dark.
“Anything on the com?” he asked.
“I’d be sure to let you know,” Eli replied.
She was definitely pouting.
Surely they had some sort of security set up on the planet. He opened his hailing frequencies.
“See if you can raise someone,” he instructed.
“I have,” Eli replied.
“Do it again.”
Next thing you know she…it…was going to expect presents.
“Standard hailing frequencies,” Ruben added. At least he was doing his part. There was no way he could be coming in unannounced.
“Warning,” Eli said. “Unknown craft approaching from below.” A shrill jangle from the com let him know that she…it…wasn’t making it up.
“This is Shooting Star calling the planet Lavign,” Ruben yelled into the com as he punched off the warning beacon. “Repeat Shooting Star calling Lavign. Request landing coordinates.”
Nothing. Ruben did a quick visual of the deepening sky. He was coming in at a glorious sunset. He could just see the curve of the sun dipping over the edge of the planet and the orange-pink brilliance of the sky above it.
It reminded him of Oasis. Clean and pure.
“Are you sure there’s something out there?” he asked.
“Yes. But if you don’t believe me you can check for yourself.”
His com showed a blip. There was another craft out there, somewhere. It should be close enough for a visual but a crafty pilot could hide in the glare from the sun and use it’s reflection as a cloak.
He’d done it himself, many a time….
“Repeat Shooting Star calling planet Lavign. I am unarmed and seeking coordinates for landing.”
No response. The sun, now gone, gave way to a clear black sky.
“Show me the geopoll.” Ruben barked out.
It was a handy tool to have when smuggling, especially when he was trying to avoid interaction with the Senate outposts. Infrared under the three dimensional image showed sparse population of human and animal. The terrain was rolling with mountains showing in the distance. No industry showed of any kind. There were no lights sparkling from below to show the location of a city and no power blip to show an energy source.
The night skies, brightly lit with millions of stars, gave the appearance that he could reach through the plexi and gather a handful to keep. The absence of light below gave the illusion that they were close and tempting, a treasure to be collected.
Maybe he should have done some more research before he took off on his quest to find his brother. It made more sense than just going on his gut…
Another alarm went off with a whoop. “We’ve been locked,” Eli said calmly.
Someone was targeting him. Where was it? What was after him?
Ruben didn’t have time to think about it as the single blip on his screen suddenly split in two. He’d been fired upon. He pulled the Shooting Star into a quick roll to the port side and the ship responded gracefully.
From the corner of his eye Ruben caught a quick flash as the missile passed on by and exploded in the atmosphere. The light from the blast bounced off something solid.
There was another ship out there. His screen showed the blip was somewhere above him.
“My sensors indicate that the other ship is now above us,” Eli said.
“Yeah, I already figured that out sweetheart.”
What he wouldn’t give to have Shaun sitting up in the turret gun right now. The empty co-pilot seat beside him reminded him more of his solitude than he cared to admit. Maybe he should fix it, once this ride was over with.
He flipped on the screen that gave him a visual link with the turret and pushed the yoke forward so the screen was aimed towards the atmosphere above.
He saw it on the screen. The absence of light. The craft that was after him was as black as the night sky. Deliberately. Whoever was flying it did not want it to be seen. . It was a clever idea and would be handy on a cloudy night but tonight when the stars were dazzling in their brilliance the craft blocked them from view.
So what was the problem? If it was planetary defense then why the need for camouflage? They were within their rights to protect their skies from invaders although some might have issue with it.
Kind of hard to argue the point if you were dead however.
The back of his neck told him that it was not planetary defense. Something was going on here. And just maybe it was related to what he…felt…about his brother. He came here looking for answers and obviously someone did not want the questions asked.
“Look for a place to land,” he said.
He needed to get away from his attackers. And he better do it quick before whoever it was figured out that he was about to fly up…
Too late. Ruben caught the impression of a dive but it was hard to track the ship visually once it started its counter measures.
“Warning. Warning. Attack imminent,” Eli said.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He should have taken it out when he had the chance. But it wasn’t as if the Shooting Star was a Falcon and fully loaded with armament.
The blip on his screen told him his pursuer was still there, and he’d better do something quick.
Where are you?
Ruben didn’t bother with a visual check as he armed his missiles. All these years and he’d never used them. He never had a reason. Shaun and the turret gun had gotten them out of more scrapes than anything. He couldn’t even say for sure the last time he’d bothered to check the proton chambers.
It was time to make his move. The blip was behind him now and coming fast.
Too fast…Ruben’s curse exploded from his lips at the exact same time that he took the yoke and kicked in a quick burst of hyperion. Another second’s delay and he’d be a meteor shower, falling to the planet below.
The Shooting Star had taken a hit.
He was losing pressure in the cargo bay.
“Pressure leak. Cargo bay.”
Ruben slapped a button on the com. That would shut her up. He didn’t need any help communicating with the Shooting Star. He knew exactly what she was capable of.
“Come on baby,” he urged the ship as he fought for control. He knew the Air was purging behind the sealed doors and also knew that if he’d been in the stratosphere that he would be nothing more than an imploded mass of metal right now.
He was going to have to ditch.
But not without a fight.
The hyperion burst had taken him out of range but not for long. He knew the mysterious dark ship would be closing in on him for the kill.
“I hope you’ve got something left sweetheart.”
Ruben punched the dials on his com. He blew his spare tank, knowing that the gases would form a harmless cerulean cloud in the pristine oxygen of the planet. It would also make his attacker think he was on his last legs, which he was…
So why should I let them…they…it…
Who are these guys?
He couldn’t have more than a few seconds left. Ruben jerked back on the yoke and the Shooting Star pushed her curved nose into the Air.
She’s heavy…
Ruben watched the blip on his screen as he silently urged his craft upwards. He knew he only had one chance before she gave out on him.
NOW!
Ruben threw the lever above his head as his pursuer flew into the cloud, right beneath and behind his position. He felt the shudder as the cargo hold separated from the module that held the cockpit, his personal quarters and the mechanical operations of the Shooting Star.
Like a bomb the hold fell, straight out of the sky, its trajectory right on target.
“Yes!” Ruben whooped as he felt the explosion beneath. It was more than he could hope for.
The answering shudder from the Shooting Star was not part of the celebration. Alarms sounded, more noise to distract him.
“Shut up!” Ruben barked.
It had to be shrapnel. The noise was enough to kill him. If he survived this…
After I survive this…
He was going to do some serious work on his systems. Maybe he should go ahead and take the next step in his voice data. Let Eli talk sexy to him. Maybe even give her a feminine name so she…it…could whisper sweet things to him while he was in cryo.
“You’d be waking up in a state too,” he said out loud as if to assure himself that he was still alive. For the moment. “And there’d be no one available to warm your sheets.”
Yeah, that gave him something to live for…
He didn’t have time to admire the ball of flame that shot up from the ground below as his enemy exploded upon contact.
“Sorry,” Ruben muttered as an apology to the inhabitants below. It was all he could offer at the moment. He had his own crash too avoid.
As if he could. He summoned the geopoll again with the flip of a switch. There was a clearing ahead. Unfortunately it was in the same vicinity as the crash. So now he’d have it to avoid, along with the dense forest and the mountains that took a sudden rise.
“I hope there’s no one out for an evening stroll,” he said.
If there was, they were in for a show. Ruben said a silent prayer as he lowered his emergency landing gear. What was left of the Shooting Star was designed for a quick getaway and a bay landing. Ruben was certain of his skills and knew his craft like he knew his body, but a drop like a stone out of the sky landing was something that he’d never tried before.
He only had one chance to get it right….
“Come on baby,” he urged as he saw the treetops getting closer. If only he could make it to the clearing he had a chance of not ripping her belly out.
He felt the popping of the tree tops as he skirted along and then dropped lower, willing the craft on just by sheer will power.
And then just as suddenly he was there and realized he’d run out of room faster than he thought. He was headed straight for the ball of fire that was all that was left of his enemy.
He jerked her nose up and the engines stalled. The Shooting Star fell to the earth, landing on her tail with a thud before she toppled over.
Ruben catapulted from his chair and slammed against the co-pilots seat before being thrown on the com. Pain exploded in his side and in his ankle as his eyes tried to focus through the plexi on something dark and strange looking huddled on the ground as he felt himself falling towards the earth with his ship. The entire clearing was aglow with the light from the fire but for him, the light was fading fast. The impact of the ship hitting the earth threw him to the deck and the world went dark.
No Princess Need Apply - Excerpt 6
alien romances
“Good morning, Summer.”
The voice that spoke the instant Summer woke was deep, sultry, cheerful and female.
“My head,” Summer responded miserably. “What’s wrong with my head?” It hurt.
“Never had a hangover before?”
“No.”
“Feels like it’s about to come off, doesn’t it?”
“You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not happy, I’m just programmed to sound that way.”
“Oh.”
Programmed?
Summer sat straight up in bed. For one agonizing instant she was afraid she’d left her head on the pillow, but no, it was still on her shoulders, throbbing horribly. With her eyes still squeezed tightly shut, Summer began to rub her aching temples.
“Here. Drink this.”
Something that smelled good was wafted under her nose. Summer reluctantly opened her eyes -- and next to the bed she saw a floating metal beach ball with several appendages and lots of lights glowing in various colors. It reminded her of the torture droid that had followed Darth Vader into Princess Leia’s cell in the first Star Wars movie. Summer considered screaming, but knew her head couldn’t take a noise like that. She took the delicate blue china cup one of the metal arms held out instead, and took a gulp of the best coffee she’d ever tasted. The metal beach ball continued to float by the bedside, lights slowly flashing in what Summer began to interpret as a concerned manner.
“Feeling better?” the machine’s female voice asked.
Summer noticed that the headache was gone. “What’s in the coffee?”
Pink and green lights flashed on the machine’s surface. “A little of this, a little of that, most of it is Jamaican Blue Mountain Arabica Roast. May I take that?”
The cup was delicately plucked from her hand before Summer could respond. “What are you? A robot? Droid?”
“I like to be called Jessica,” the machine answered. “And I’m here because Ru thought you might like a more science fiction, otherworldly, alien feel to the setting.” The robotic beach ball spun around a few times, with the cup dangling from the end of a retracted arm. “What do you think? Otherworldly enough for you?”
Summer almost giggled, but she was still a bit leery. “You’re not a torture droid, are you?”
“I’m more of an administrative type.”
“I see.” She didn’t, but Summer wasn’t quite ready for a long conversation with what appeared to be a sentient computer -- one equipped with some sort of anti-gravity support. Summer wondered if the government knew about the Kariins having devices like this, but didn’t suppose it was politic to ask Jessica if other humans were aware of her - its -- existence.
Instead, she got out of bed and said, “What time is it?”
“Nearly noon, I’m afraid.”
Summer shook her head in disgust. “Half the day wasted. Listen, Jessica, I usually workout and go for a run when I get up. I don’t suppose there’s anywhere -- “
“There’s a fully equipped fitness center on the ground floor,” Jessica interrupted. “Would you like me to show you how to get there? I assumed you might want to use the facilities, so I left some exercise clothes and a swimsuit in the dressing room for you.” While Summer gaped at the floating beach ball, the floating beach ball went on, “I’ll wait for you to use the bathroom and throw on some clothes, then you can follow me.”
Summer wasn’t about to point out to Jessica that her -- it -- her -- efficiency was frightening. She just did as the robot -- droid -- administrative type -- suggested.
The fitness center proved to indeed be fully equipped, including an indoor pool, and every exercise machine Summer had ever seen, and some she hadn’t. The outside wall was also a long curving expanse of glass that looked out on a beautiful walled garden. She had to admit that the flowers and trees outside called to her more than her daily fitness routine, but discipline won out and she forced herself to get on with keeping in shape.
When she was done with her workout, she went into the dressing room to change into the swimsuit Jessica left for her. When she returned to the pool, intending to swim laps, somebody was already doing so. It only took a moment to recognize that it was His Supremacy, Rawn Ruan himself was the swimmer.
Summer stood hesitantly on the cool blue tiles at the rim of the pool, and wondered what to do. Even though she hadn’t been body conscious in years – after all she made a living traipsing around in various stages of dress – she was suddenly quite glad that the red suit she wore was a one piece, and modestly cut.
Rawn, she couldn’t help but notice when he climbed out of the pool to stand beside her, wore only a tiny little black Speedo that emphasized what little male anatomy it covered. She was embarrassed to find herself staring at him, but what she saw was certainly worth staring at. She figured that was not an alien ray gun he had in his pocket.
He didn’t have a male model’s buff and pumped torso; he was tall, but squarely built rather than long and lean. What he was was one fine looking adult male with a thickly furred chest and a graceful way of moving. His abs were not rippling and rock hard, though his stomach was certainly flat and his waist nice and trim. The breadth of his shoulders had nothing to do with flattering tailoring and probably a lot to do with those laps he’d been so vigorously swimming. The man wasn’t even breathing hard.
She liked looking at him, but told herself to stop being rude, and forward, and all those other nice, polite things she remembered her mother telling her about before she got into a business where paying attention to how people looked was very much part of the game.
One other not so polite thought did go through her head as she made herself look the Kariin Emperor in the face. And that thought was, if I have to sleep with him it’s not exactly going to be a hardship.
It was the fact that she had to do it that sent a galling rush of heat through her, and forced her fists to clench in helpless anger. “Good morning, Your Supremacy,” she said as he came up to her, a welcoming smile lighting his handsome face. “Bye,” she added, and dove into the pool. She heard the splash as he followed her into the water.
They ended up swimming laps side by side for a very long time. Summer was a strong swimmer, and in great shape, but she soon found that she lacked his power and endurance. It took quite a while, and her lungs and every muscle burned with exhaustion, but she finally figured out that he wasn’t going to just give up and go away. She finally gave up and clung to the side of the pool, too tired to pull herself out of the water. It was Rawn who came up behind her, grasped her by the waist and helped her onto the tiles. She ended up lying on her back, staring at passing clouds through the skylight in the roof. He sat beside her, his feet dangling in the water.
He took her hand and began to stroke her palm with his thumb. The sensation that radiated from the center of her hand was warm and tingling, and pleasant. “That was fun. Do you know that you have a very long lifeline? What else do you want to do today? Assuming that you survive trying to avoid my company, that is.”
She turned her head to look at him. It took her a while to get enough spare oxygen in her lungs to answer. When she did, she said, “Know it all.”
He shrugged. “Observation is one of those things you get trained in at Emperor school. Actually, I got very bad grades on that course.” He smiled, and she noticed how it made the lines around his eyes crinkle. And how deep his dimples were. It was very hard not to notice his dimples.
“If one has to be conquered by aliens from outer space,” she said. “It’s better to be conquered by ones with dimples rather than tentacles.”
“I know some very nice people with tentacles,” he said. “If they tried conquering your planet your people would turn them into sushi. Actually, they make much better accountants than soldiers. Or sushi. Speaking of which, have you had breakfast yet?”
Summer sat up, and very nearly gagged. “I do not eat raw fish for breakfast. Besides, it’s well past noon; closer to dinnertime. No, I haven’t eaten.” She got to her feet, and found that she was shivering from exhaustion, and too much time in cold water. “I want a hot shower and all the carbs I can stuff down.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” He jumped up.
She refused to let a little thing like having nearly exercised herself into a stupor get in the way of matching his energy level. She was not going to declare defeat and admit that all she really wanted was a nap. She had to hold up humanity’s side in whatever game they were playing. Of course, it was possible that the man wasn’t playing some sort of game with her, maybe there was no competition, maybe he wasn’t using her. Her impulse was to completely trust him. She knew where complete trust got one in this world: crushed.
So she fought down her impulse, smiled brightly, and said. “Let’s get dressed and have dinner.”
He nodded. “Meet you in the front hall in half an hour.”
The problem was, she liked being with Rawn. She liked being with him more than with anyone she had ever known. She knew it was foolish, but she couldn’t help but hurry through the hot shower and admit that the eagerness she felt had more to do with knowing she was going to see Rawn when she was done than with being revitalizing by the hot water.
Jessica floated into the big, luxurious bathroom as Summer stepped out of the shower. The robotic maid handed Summer a towel. Summer chatted with the curious metal beach ball while she did her hair, put on a little makeup and got dressed, then she hurried downstairs, chiding herself all the while that her sense of anticipation was wrong and stupid and would get her into trouble. Rawn was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, smiling up at her as she came down, and Summer’s heart skipped a few beats at the sight of him.
This is not safe, she warned herself. This is not wise.
When she reached him, he took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “What shall we do today?”
A sudden idea struck her, and she asked, “There a kitchen in this place?”
“Of course.”
“How about a grocery store in the neighborhood?”
He shrugged. “I’m sure there must be a place to purchase food somewhere nearby. I don’t pay much attention to where my meals come from.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why do you ask?”
She laughed. “You said you stopped on Earth to pick up pizza. Well, you haven’t tasted pizza until you’ve had mine. I specialize in a goat cheese, spinach and mushroom pizza that’ll knock your socks off. And,” she added as they walked toward the door, “it’s completely vegetarian. You do eat cheese, right? You’re not one of those ova-lactate kind of really really strict vegetarians are you?”
“I like cheese.”
“Good. You’re going to love my pizza.” Though why it mattered that the Emperor of the Known Universe liked her cooking, she didn’t know. It just did.
He stopped and turned to her as they reached the door. He put his hands on her waist and looked deep into her eyes. She thought he was going to kiss her, and both wanted and dreaded the touch of his lips on hers. She went all hot and cold – but mostly hot -- at his touch, and her breath caught almost painfully in her throat as longing warred with trepidation.
“Summer,” he said instead of kissing her. “You amaze me.”
When he released his hold on her, she was left wondering if the brief look of regret that crossed his features as he opened the door was because he hadn’t kissed her, or if there was some other reason behind the look. She told herself that she didn’t regret the lack of intimate contact, not one bit, and followed him out to the waiting limo.
Cardon, Dalmer and Ricci caught up with them in the baking products aisle of the Georgetown grocery store. It was the sort of grocery store that had a fancy deli, bakery and espresso bar. It was the sort of place one went for the ambiance as well as milk and eggs. She and Rawn had paused for a latte and scones before actually buying groceries after she told him that shopping for food on an empty stomach was a very bad idea.
“Leads to impulse buying,” she said. She couldn’t help but add a little snidely, “You know all about impulse buying, don’t you, Your Supremacy?”
She was grateful when he let the remark go, because she really did hate being rude despite her reputation as being sharp-tongued and bad-tempered. She didn’t quite know how she’d gotten the reputation, since she prided herself on being a professional who did job and then went home. Her friends were not part of the fashion world, and not likely to tell tales to the tabloids. But she’d learned people tried to invade your private life when your face became famous, and that total strangers were not above lying just to sound knowledgeable about celebrities. She hated the fact that celebrity status came with success in her job kept the lowest profile possible. Fortunately modeling was a career with a short shelf life and she looked forward to the day in the foreseeable future when she could retire into obscurity and get on with leading a real life. In the meantime her celebrity status had won her the dubious honor of shopping for the invading aliens emperor’s groceries.
She had always thought her life was surreal, but she’d never dreamed it would take this strange a turn.
They finished the coffee and scones then she instructed him the joys of wheeling a shopping cart up and down the stacked food aisles. The genuine interest and pleasure he showed in the food gathering process touched her more than she wanted to admit. She told herself that she was gaining information on the enemy for her country, not having a wonderful time with a very nice man. She tried reminding herself that this was surreal not domestic. She told herself that he might well be an insect in a human suit, and the humans rather than pizza might be what he really wanted for dinner. She just had trouble believing it. Maybe believing it wasn’t hard, caring about all the strangeness was what was hard when smiled at her, teased her, made funny comments and asked questions that made her feel that her answers really mattered to him.
She was actually glad when the security guys showed up. They were a visual reminder that she was being forced into the service of her country, that she was being forced into concubinage.
She also let them carry the grocery bags when they got through the checkout lane.
It was actually getting through the checkout lane that became the hardest part. Not because Rawn wasn’t carrying any cash, or a checkbook, or credit cards, or anything that could get him by in the world but a charming smile and a confident attitude. She had her purse, so paying for the groceries was no problem. The problem was the tabloid newspapers stacked next to the cash register. She didn’t want to look at them, but there was no way she could avoid the glaring headlines and full color photos.
Photos of her and the Kariin Emperor. Headlines proclaiming her sleazy affair with an alien. One claimed that she was pregnant with a monster’s baby. One claimed that she was a kidnapped sex slave. Another screamed in bold red print that she was a gold digging traitor to her planet.
The implications of the words didn’t register at first. For the first few seconds Summer was too busy wondering how the stories and photos in the magazines had gotten out so quickly. “The ink can’t even be dry on that trash,” was all she said when Rawn picked one up out of the stuffed magazine rack. “You’ll get your hands dirty.”
“I already have,” he answered. Then gathered up one each of the tabloids. “My Earth human advisors insist I read the New York Times,” he said when she gave him a disgusted look. “And that I watch CNN. I hardly ever get the chance to read the popular press.”
“Don’t bother. It might be popular, but it’s still trash,” she said as she pulled out her wallet. Her fingers shook a little from shock, and she felt stiff all over, as if her body was tensed for a beating. Lies, she reminded herself. You never let the lies bother you. She’d ignored them before, she’d make herself ignore them now. “Don’t bother,” she repeated.
But he did bother. In fact, he adamantly insisted on having all the papers. She sighed, and paid for them, feeling more like a mommy with a child that demanded having all the wrong kinds of breakfast cereal for a few moments than the not pregnant gold digging sex slave of an alien invader. The clerk gave them a curious look before they left, with Cardon, Ricci and Dalmer in tow. Rawn must have been wearing his anti-media device, or using some sort of alien shield because no one bothered them, or even looked twice at them, the whole time they were shopping.
It wasn’t until they were in the limo and heading back to Rawn’s home on Earth that she let reaction slip through her defenses. The headlines screamed in her head, and brought tears to her eyes. She clenched her fists to keep from pounding out humiliated anger on the leather upholstery. It’s not important, Summer told herself when she couldn’t keep from thinking about the cruel things that had been written about her. Treat it like a joke. That wasn’t her they were talking about. Not Susan, but Summer. Summer had been lied about before. What was going on wasn’t anybody’s business.
Only some of the things the tabloids said were true, and what Rawn Ruan did was everyone on Earth’s business, in a way. He did hold all the cards, all the power in the world. People had a right to be concerned about his behavior. Then again, was his private life any of their business? She knew hers wasn’t. Or was it? What if her behavior put other people in jeopardy? If she displeased him would he retaliate on the rest of humanity in some way? No. She didn’t think he’d let his private life interfere with Imperial policy, but she didn’t know. What if all the negative publicity annoyed him? What would he do? Order the authors of all those nasty stories taken out and shot – and would that be such a bad thing?
Don’t be petty, she ordered herself. Freedom of the press is important, even if that freedom ends up making you feel sleazy and dirty and picked on. There is nothing you, personally, can do about what strangers think and say. Don’t worry about it, she firmly ordered herself, though she had to fight hard to keep from shaking; to keep the tears of embarrassment and anger at bay. She wanted to rip the papers Rawn had put on the seat between them to tiny little shreds. She wanted to run home to Michigan – or at the very least her Manhattan loft – and hide in her room. She wanted to explain to somebody, her mother if not the world, that she was at the Kariin Emperor’s side for the most selfless of patriotic reasons.
She couldn’t do any of those things. She had to ignore her personal feelings. Never mind that she hadn’t asked for this assignment. She was here, there was no way out. For better or worse, she was with Rawn until he got tired of her company and there was nothing she could do about it. As for selfless and patriotic, well, that was no one’s business but her own.
Just try to remember your pizza recipe, she thought as the limo pulled up to the mansion door. Don’t worry about how Mama must be reacting to those headlines.
And don’t even think about what happens after dinner, she added firmly as her stomach began to flutter with nervous anticipation. Cause there isn’t any way out of it. You’re the Emperor’s mistress. So just get used to it, whether you like it or not.
Trouble was, she was afraid she might like it a lot.
“Good morning, Summer.”
The voice that spoke the instant Summer woke was deep, sultry, cheerful and female.
“My head,” Summer responded miserably. “What’s wrong with my head?” It hurt.
“Never had a hangover before?”
“No.”
“Feels like it’s about to come off, doesn’t it?”
“You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not happy, I’m just programmed to sound that way.”
“Oh.”
Programmed?
Summer sat straight up in bed. For one agonizing instant she was afraid she’d left her head on the pillow, but no, it was still on her shoulders, throbbing horribly. With her eyes still squeezed tightly shut, Summer began to rub her aching temples.
“Here. Drink this.”
Something that smelled good was wafted under her nose. Summer reluctantly opened her eyes -- and next to the bed she saw a floating metal beach ball with several appendages and lots of lights glowing in various colors. It reminded her of the torture droid that had followed Darth Vader into Princess Leia’s cell in the first Star Wars movie. Summer considered screaming, but knew her head couldn’t take a noise like that. She took the delicate blue china cup one of the metal arms held out instead, and took a gulp of the best coffee she’d ever tasted. The metal beach ball continued to float by the bedside, lights slowly flashing in what Summer began to interpret as a concerned manner.
“Feeling better?” the machine’s female voice asked.
Summer noticed that the headache was gone. “What’s in the coffee?”
Pink and green lights flashed on the machine’s surface. “A little of this, a little of that, most of it is Jamaican Blue Mountain Arabica Roast. May I take that?”
The cup was delicately plucked from her hand before Summer could respond. “What are you? A robot? Droid?”
“I like to be called Jessica,” the machine answered. “And I’m here because Ru thought you might like a more science fiction, otherworldly, alien feel to the setting.” The robotic beach ball spun around a few times, with the cup dangling from the end of a retracted arm. “What do you think? Otherworldly enough for you?”
Summer almost giggled, but she was still a bit leery. “You’re not a torture droid, are you?”
“I’m more of an administrative type.”
“I see.” She didn’t, but Summer wasn’t quite ready for a long conversation with what appeared to be a sentient computer -- one equipped with some sort of anti-gravity support. Summer wondered if the government knew about the Kariins having devices like this, but didn’t suppose it was politic to ask Jessica if other humans were aware of her - its -- existence.
Instead, she got out of bed and said, “What time is it?”
“Nearly noon, I’m afraid.”
Summer shook her head in disgust. “Half the day wasted. Listen, Jessica, I usually workout and go for a run when I get up. I don’t suppose there’s anywhere -- “
“There’s a fully equipped fitness center on the ground floor,” Jessica interrupted. “Would you like me to show you how to get there? I assumed you might want to use the facilities, so I left some exercise clothes and a swimsuit in the dressing room for you.” While Summer gaped at the floating beach ball, the floating beach ball went on, “I’ll wait for you to use the bathroom and throw on some clothes, then you can follow me.”
Summer wasn’t about to point out to Jessica that her -- it -- her -- efficiency was frightening. She just did as the robot -- droid -- administrative type -- suggested.
The fitness center proved to indeed be fully equipped, including an indoor pool, and every exercise machine Summer had ever seen, and some she hadn’t. The outside wall was also a long curving expanse of glass that looked out on a beautiful walled garden. She had to admit that the flowers and trees outside called to her more than her daily fitness routine, but discipline won out and she forced herself to get on with keeping in shape.
When she was done with her workout, she went into the dressing room to change into the swimsuit Jessica left for her. When she returned to the pool, intending to swim laps, somebody was already doing so. It only took a moment to recognize that it was His Supremacy, Rawn Ruan himself was the swimmer.
Summer stood hesitantly on the cool blue tiles at the rim of the pool, and wondered what to do. Even though she hadn’t been body conscious in years – after all she made a living traipsing around in various stages of dress – she was suddenly quite glad that the red suit she wore was a one piece, and modestly cut.
Rawn, she couldn’t help but notice when he climbed out of the pool to stand beside her, wore only a tiny little black Speedo that emphasized what little male anatomy it covered. She was embarrassed to find herself staring at him, but what she saw was certainly worth staring at. She figured that was not an alien ray gun he had in his pocket.
He didn’t have a male model’s buff and pumped torso; he was tall, but squarely built rather than long and lean. What he was was one fine looking adult male with a thickly furred chest and a graceful way of moving. His abs were not rippling and rock hard, though his stomach was certainly flat and his waist nice and trim. The breadth of his shoulders had nothing to do with flattering tailoring and probably a lot to do with those laps he’d been so vigorously swimming. The man wasn’t even breathing hard.
She liked looking at him, but told herself to stop being rude, and forward, and all those other nice, polite things she remembered her mother telling her about before she got into a business where paying attention to how people looked was very much part of the game.
One other not so polite thought did go through her head as she made herself look the Kariin Emperor in the face. And that thought was, if I have to sleep with him it’s not exactly going to be a hardship.
It was the fact that she had to do it that sent a galling rush of heat through her, and forced her fists to clench in helpless anger. “Good morning, Your Supremacy,” she said as he came up to her, a welcoming smile lighting his handsome face. “Bye,” she added, and dove into the pool. She heard the splash as he followed her into the water.
They ended up swimming laps side by side for a very long time. Summer was a strong swimmer, and in great shape, but she soon found that she lacked his power and endurance. It took quite a while, and her lungs and every muscle burned with exhaustion, but she finally figured out that he wasn’t going to just give up and go away. She finally gave up and clung to the side of the pool, too tired to pull herself out of the water. It was Rawn who came up behind her, grasped her by the waist and helped her onto the tiles. She ended up lying on her back, staring at passing clouds through the skylight in the roof. He sat beside her, his feet dangling in the water.
He took her hand and began to stroke her palm with his thumb. The sensation that radiated from the center of her hand was warm and tingling, and pleasant. “That was fun. Do you know that you have a very long lifeline? What else do you want to do today? Assuming that you survive trying to avoid my company, that is.”
She turned her head to look at him. It took her a while to get enough spare oxygen in her lungs to answer. When she did, she said, “Know it all.”
He shrugged. “Observation is one of those things you get trained in at Emperor school. Actually, I got very bad grades on that course.” He smiled, and she noticed how it made the lines around his eyes crinkle. And how deep his dimples were. It was very hard not to notice his dimples.
“If one has to be conquered by aliens from outer space,” she said. “It’s better to be conquered by ones with dimples rather than tentacles.”
“I know some very nice people with tentacles,” he said. “If they tried conquering your planet your people would turn them into sushi. Actually, they make much better accountants than soldiers. Or sushi. Speaking of which, have you had breakfast yet?”
Summer sat up, and very nearly gagged. “I do not eat raw fish for breakfast. Besides, it’s well past noon; closer to dinnertime. No, I haven’t eaten.” She got to her feet, and found that she was shivering from exhaustion, and too much time in cold water. “I want a hot shower and all the carbs I can stuff down.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” He jumped up.
She refused to let a little thing like having nearly exercised herself into a stupor get in the way of matching his energy level. She was not going to declare defeat and admit that all she really wanted was a nap. She had to hold up humanity’s side in whatever game they were playing. Of course, it was possible that the man wasn’t playing some sort of game with her, maybe there was no competition, maybe he wasn’t using her. Her impulse was to completely trust him. She knew where complete trust got one in this world: crushed.
So she fought down her impulse, smiled brightly, and said. “Let’s get dressed and have dinner.”
He nodded. “Meet you in the front hall in half an hour.”
The problem was, she liked being with Rawn. She liked being with him more than with anyone she had ever known. She knew it was foolish, but she couldn’t help but hurry through the hot shower and admit that the eagerness she felt had more to do with knowing she was going to see Rawn when she was done than with being revitalizing by the hot water.
Jessica floated into the big, luxurious bathroom as Summer stepped out of the shower. The robotic maid handed Summer a towel. Summer chatted with the curious metal beach ball while she did her hair, put on a little makeup and got dressed, then she hurried downstairs, chiding herself all the while that her sense of anticipation was wrong and stupid and would get her into trouble. Rawn was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, smiling up at her as she came down, and Summer’s heart skipped a few beats at the sight of him.
This is not safe, she warned herself. This is not wise.
When she reached him, he took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “What shall we do today?”
A sudden idea struck her, and she asked, “There a kitchen in this place?”
“Of course.”
“How about a grocery store in the neighborhood?”
He shrugged. “I’m sure there must be a place to purchase food somewhere nearby. I don’t pay much attention to where my meals come from.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why do you ask?”
She laughed. “You said you stopped on Earth to pick up pizza. Well, you haven’t tasted pizza until you’ve had mine. I specialize in a goat cheese, spinach and mushroom pizza that’ll knock your socks off. And,” she added as they walked toward the door, “it’s completely vegetarian. You do eat cheese, right? You’re not one of those ova-lactate kind of really really strict vegetarians are you?”
“I like cheese.”
“Good. You’re going to love my pizza.” Though why it mattered that the Emperor of the Known Universe liked her cooking, she didn’t know. It just did.
He stopped and turned to her as they reached the door. He put his hands on her waist and looked deep into her eyes. She thought he was going to kiss her, and both wanted and dreaded the touch of his lips on hers. She went all hot and cold – but mostly hot -- at his touch, and her breath caught almost painfully in her throat as longing warred with trepidation.
“Summer,” he said instead of kissing her. “You amaze me.”
When he released his hold on her, she was left wondering if the brief look of regret that crossed his features as he opened the door was because he hadn’t kissed her, or if there was some other reason behind the look. She told herself that she didn’t regret the lack of intimate contact, not one bit, and followed him out to the waiting limo.
Cardon, Dalmer and Ricci caught up with them in the baking products aisle of the Georgetown grocery store. It was the sort of grocery store that had a fancy deli, bakery and espresso bar. It was the sort of place one went for the ambiance as well as milk and eggs. She and Rawn had paused for a latte and scones before actually buying groceries after she told him that shopping for food on an empty stomach was a very bad idea.
“Leads to impulse buying,” she said. She couldn’t help but add a little snidely, “You know all about impulse buying, don’t you, Your Supremacy?”
She was grateful when he let the remark go, because she really did hate being rude despite her reputation as being sharp-tongued and bad-tempered. She didn’t quite know how she’d gotten the reputation, since she prided herself on being a professional who did job and then went home. Her friends were not part of the fashion world, and not likely to tell tales to the tabloids. But she’d learned people tried to invade your private life when your face became famous, and that total strangers were not above lying just to sound knowledgeable about celebrities. She hated the fact that celebrity status came with success in her job kept the lowest profile possible. Fortunately modeling was a career with a short shelf life and she looked forward to the day in the foreseeable future when she could retire into obscurity and get on with leading a real life. In the meantime her celebrity status had won her the dubious honor of shopping for the invading aliens emperor’s groceries.
She had always thought her life was surreal, but she’d never dreamed it would take this strange a turn.
They finished the coffee and scones then she instructed him the joys of wheeling a shopping cart up and down the stacked food aisles. The genuine interest and pleasure he showed in the food gathering process touched her more than she wanted to admit. She told herself that she was gaining information on the enemy for her country, not having a wonderful time with a very nice man. She tried reminding herself that this was surreal not domestic. She told herself that he might well be an insect in a human suit, and the humans rather than pizza might be what he really wanted for dinner. She just had trouble believing it. Maybe believing it wasn’t hard, caring about all the strangeness was what was hard when smiled at her, teased her, made funny comments and asked questions that made her feel that her answers really mattered to him.
She was actually glad when the security guys showed up. They were a visual reminder that she was being forced into the service of her country, that she was being forced into concubinage.
She also let them carry the grocery bags when they got through the checkout lane.
It was actually getting through the checkout lane that became the hardest part. Not because Rawn wasn’t carrying any cash, or a checkbook, or credit cards, or anything that could get him by in the world but a charming smile and a confident attitude. She had her purse, so paying for the groceries was no problem. The problem was the tabloid newspapers stacked next to the cash register. She didn’t want to look at them, but there was no way she could avoid the glaring headlines and full color photos.
Photos of her and the Kariin Emperor. Headlines proclaiming her sleazy affair with an alien. One claimed that she was pregnant with a monster’s baby. One claimed that she was a kidnapped sex slave. Another screamed in bold red print that she was a gold digging traitor to her planet.
The implications of the words didn’t register at first. For the first few seconds Summer was too busy wondering how the stories and photos in the magazines had gotten out so quickly. “The ink can’t even be dry on that trash,” was all she said when Rawn picked one up out of the stuffed magazine rack. “You’ll get your hands dirty.”
“I already have,” he answered. Then gathered up one each of the tabloids. “My Earth human advisors insist I read the New York Times,” he said when she gave him a disgusted look. “And that I watch CNN. I hardly ever get the chance to read the popular press.”
“Don’t bother. It might be popular, but it’s still trash,” she said as she pulled out her wallet. Her fingers shook a little from shock, and she felt stiff all over, as if her body was tensed for a beating. Lies, she reminded herself. You never let the lies bother you. She’d ignored them before, she’d make herself ignore them now. “Don’t bother,” she repeated.
But he did bother. In fact, he adamantly insisted on having all the papers. She sighed, and paid for them, feeling more like a mommy with a child that demanded having all the wrong kinds of breakfast cereal for a few moments than the not pregnant gold digging sex slave of an alien invader. The clerk gave them a curious look before they left, with Cardon, Ricci and Dalmer in tow. Rawn must have been wearing his anti-media device, or using some sort of alien shield because no one bothered them, or even looked twice at them, the whole time they were shopping.
It wasn’t until they were in the limo and heading back to Rawn’s home on Earth that she let reaction slip through her defenses. The headlines screamed in her head, and brought tears to her eyes. She clenched her fists to keep from pounding out humiliated anger on the leather upholstery. It’s not important, Summer told herself when she couldn’t keep from thinking about the cruel things that had been written about her. Treat it like a joke. That wasn’t her they were talking about. Not Susan, but Summer. Summer had been lied about before. What was going on wasn’t anybody’s business.
Only some of the things the tabloids said were true, and what Rawn Ruan did was everyone on Earth’s business, in a way. He did hold all the cards, all the power in the world. People had a right to be concerned about his behavior. Then again, was his private life any of their business? She knew hers wasn’t. Or was it? What if her behavior put other people in jeopardy? If she displeased him would he retaliate on the rest of humanity in some way? No. She didn’t think he’d let his private life interfere with Imperial policy, but she didn’t know. What if all the negative publicity annoyed him? What would he do? Order the authors of all those nasty stories taken out and shot – and would that be such a bad thing?
Don’t be petty, she ordered herself. Freedom of the press is important, even if that freedom ends up making you feel sleazy and dirty and picked on. There is nothing you, personally, can do about what strangers think and say. Don’t worry about it, she firmly ordered herself, though she had to fight hard to keep from shaking; to keep the tears of embarrassment and anger at bay. She wanted to rip the papers Rawn had put on the seat between them to tiny little shreds. She wanted to run home to Michigan – or at the very least her Manhattan loft – and hide in her room. She wanted to explain to somebody, her mother if not the world, that she was at the Kariin Emperor’s side for the most selfless of patriotic reasons.
She couldn’t do any of those things. She had to ignore her personal feelings. Never mind that she hadn’t asked for this assignment. She was here, there was no way out. For better or worse, she was with Rawn until he got tired of her company and there was nothing she could do about it. As for selfless and patriotic, well, that was no one’s business but her own.
Just try to remember your pizza recipe, she thought as the limo pulled up to the mansion door. Don’t worry about how Mama must be reacting to those headlines.
And don’t even think about what happens after dinner, she added firmly as her stomach began to flutter with nervous anticipation. Cause there isn’t any way out of it. You’re the Emperor’s mistress. So just get used to it, whether you like it or not.
Trouble was, she was afraid she might like it a lot.
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