Of all the questions I’m ever asked now that I write alien romance, probably the most common one is how or why I came to the genre. So I thought it would be fun to talk about my longstanding ties with sci-fi romance, and how I finally decided to put all my crazy ideas on paper.
For me, it all started that summer back in the 1980’s when the original Star Trek aired in reruns every afternoon at four p.m. I mean, before that I’d certainly loved Star Wars, had read a little Arthur C. Clarke, but Trek was a new dimension. It tapped into my imagination, to those parts of me that loved King Arthur lore and believed in other realms—and probably into my sixteen-year-old hormones. I mean, come on! Who can’t love a brilliant, emotionally rigid alien who goes wild during his mating cycle, right? Ah, Spock and his Pon Far mating needs. When you’re sixteen, that’s heady stuff. Super intelligent, geek reaction? Maybe not, but I ate it up.
Of course, it was far more than that too. Spock mentally bonding with the horta? Realizing she was just a mother protecting her young? My brain was in overdrive. Aliens, with their supernatural abilities and natures, were capable of things I’d never imagined. Forget PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, forget WUTHERING HEIGHTS (my earliest romance roots, plus approved summer reading!) I had TREK! That fall when school reconvened, I was amazed to discover that a whole cadre of my fellow geeks had also discovered these reruns. Next thing I knew three of us had formed a power triumvirate, trading black and white headshots and debating whether Spock or Kirk was the hottest one. Interestingly enough, of the three of us, I now write sci-fi romance and another went on to write for Buffy.
Something started for me then, a new place in my writerly development. I’d always made up stories, passing the time as a lonely child of divorced parents by living in the make-believe realm of my imagination. But that summer of Star Trek, the stories inside my mind shifted, became other-worldly oriented. It just took fourteen years for me to translate the crazy ideas inside my head to paper. I wrote and wrote in the interim, but somehow—for reasons I can’t understand looking back—it never occurred to me that I could write what I loved and thought about the most. Maybe I needed permission? Maybe we all do with our creative selves.
I give all the credit to a little known, compulsively watchable show of alien romance, Roswell. From the first episode I saw in 2000, it was as if every idea I’d ever had floating in my head coalesced. Romance, aliens, sci-fi… it could all come together. This was a massive sea change for me. Within months I began writing fanfic (no, don’t run and don’t hide!) It’s amazing how many of my fellow sci-fi romance writers began just the same way. I think fanfic is a fabulous way for new writers to push their boundaries, to realize what they can get away with. It taught me to take crazy chances and not worry who went with me—even my fanfic readers. And trust me, there were times when, with my unconventional romance pairings, very few followed me. I guess I’m saying that fanfic toughened me up. And it gave me confidence to trust in my writer’s heart.
In 2004 I’d finished my first novel. Big clue to self: It had absolutely no elements of the paranormal. It was a deeply felt, emotional women’s fiction novel, and although it was well-received by many editors, was simply too edgy to sell. Twenty-two rejections later I decided that maybe—just maybe—some killer clue lay in my sci-fi writings. After all, that was what I’d spent four years writing in the fanfic world. It was what first stirred my imagination with Trek. Even though it seemed odd after trying my hand at a literary novel, I poured all my energy into the proposal for the Midnight Warriors series. And guess what? Being true to yourself pays off: The series sold very fast.
Lesson learned? Go with what you love. Trust your fantasies and the passions that drive you. No matter how off the wall, or unconventional, I think being real and writing what you love will—in the end—bring you success. If you’ve read my books, you’ll see shades of Spock and Pon Far still shining through. Because once an alien lover, always an alien lover… and I’m proud to carry that ID badge.
Deidre Knight
author of:
Parallel Heat
Parallel Attraction
Parallel Seduction
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Monday, April 09, 2007
Where it all began--PART 2
Continuing our foray into my old GAMES OF COMMAND/COMMAND PERFORMANCE files for purposes of backstory, here's more of the original, circa 2001 Chapter One file on Captain Tasha "Sass" Sebastian and Admiral Branden Kel-Paten.... Please note these are OLD ORIGINAL UNEDITED files.
Have fun! ~ Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
(from the original Chapter One... and the cutting room floor)
Something heated flared correspondingly inside Kel-Paten, his gaze taking in far more of her than he was used to seeing. At least, not while he was awake. He didn’t miss her playful tap on Dr. Fynn’s arm with the tip of her racquet as she strode by. “Whipped his ass, 5-4!” she rasped, still somewhat short of breath.
The CMO hid her laughter behind a well-timed coughing fit as Sass plunked down into the chair next to his own. She wiped her face with a towel draped around her neck. A series of soft chuckles followed around the room as the lettering on the Captain’s t-shirt became obvious for all to see:
“My name’s No! No! Bad Captain!
What’s Yours?”
“Sebastian.” Pause. There was always The Pause. “You’re--”
“Late, I know.” Sass held up one hand as if to stave off his reprimand. “I apologize, Admiral. I’d every intention of being here on time. Even recheduled my game two hours earlier. But we—”
“And you’re out of uniform,” he cut in and made sure he didn’t allow his gaze to travel lower than Sass’ face. Interesting what dampness does to certain thin fabrics.
“I’d be later if I’d taken time to change,” Sass was pointing out. “But before you have me vented out the starboard exhausts for a total inattention to duty, at least allow me to state that I have read the entire packet and,” she said, swiveling one of the comp screens attached at regular intervals down the middle of the table, “my report has been filed and already disseminated to the staff.” She tapped at the “Report Waiting” icon flashing on the lower left.
“I assume you’ve all used the...” and she stopped, glancing at her watch, “...four minutes and forty three point two seconds that I was delayed to retrieve and review my report?”
Five faces, including his own, turned blankly to her. Only Dr. Fynn grinned back. Kel-Paten didn’t know if the CMO was just used to the petite green-eyed blonde’s diversonary tactics, or had known beforehand the report would be there. It didn’t matter.
From the conspiratorial nature of her grin, it was obvious she was the only one who’d read it
"Well, good, then it shouldn’t take the rest of you, Dr. Fynn excluded, more than four minutes and forty three point two seconds to do just that. And in that time,” Sass added, rising, “I’ll jog down the corridor to my quarters and grab a sweatshirt. Imperial issue of course,” she added, “before I freeze my butt off in here.”
The zip-front black sweatshirt with the Vaxxar’s signature slashed-lightning logo on the sleeves helped, but not much, Kel-Paten noted wryly as Sass returned to the ready room with ten point oh-eight seconds to spare. The sweatshirt, in generic extra-large, fell below the hem line of her shorts so that when she walked in all he saw were sweatshirt and nicely shaped bare legs... and nothing else. Oh, there were socks (also bright pink) and high-top sneakers (white), he knew, but that only made the illusion worse. It was only after she took the seat next to him that he let out the breath he’d been holding. Slowly.
When he turned back to the table five pairs of eyes regarded him expectantly: Kel-Fhay, the First Officer on his left; Kel-Arint, Chief of Tactical next to him. Then came his U-Cee-issue CMO. Her blue eyes held a a hint of amusement, so he passed over her quickly. His U-Cee-issue Chief of Security, Lt. Francisco Garrick, was opposite her. To Garrick’s left was Zahar Kel-Nilos. The grey-haired Commander had been his Chief of Engineering for fifteen years; he trusted Kel-Nilos, trusted him with his life and his ship and the lives of his crew. Hence, he was also trusted to be the only other officer allowed to sit next to the captain.
She, he noted, didn’t look at him but directly at Eden Fynn. He didn’t like the smile on either woman’s face.
Had he been prone to sighing he would’ve done so just then, but instead he eased himself up to his full 6’3” height’, well aware of the image he presented: an imposing figure in black with night-dark hair. Five diamond-studded stars glinted blue-white on his uniform’s high collar and were matched in their iciness, it was often said, only by the hardness of his eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a problem. It sppears we may have to do some damage control.”
The problem’s name was Shadow, or more accurately, Jace Serafino. Captain Jace Serafino though Kel-Paten’s tone as he said the rank relayed just how little respect he had for the often deadly, always flamboyant mercenary.
Serafino had quite a history, most of it conflicting, very little of it documented save for spaceport gossip and ‘tracker' legends. He was the illegitimate son of an Imperial nobleman and a prosti from the U-Cee pleasure world of Glitterkiln. He was defrocked Nasyry from the Warrior-Priest clan. He was a Q’itha addict and escapee from an Imperial Rehab compound. He was a reclusive and mega-weathly entrepreneur with a decidedly unorthodox philanthropic hobby. He was a bio-cybe crechling--one of Kel-Paten’s siblings--who’d been reported to have died at birth.
All were true. None were true. The only verifiable facts known about Captain Jace Serafino was that he had been very, very good at making trouble for the U-Cees and the Empire, now called the Alliance, and their mutual enemy, the Illithians. And he’d also been very very good at escaping from the clutches of all three.
Until now.
Suddenly made patriotic by the prospect of two hundred fifty thousand credits, Serafino had agreed to participate in a little undercover work for the newly formed Alliance. Kel-Paten had been openly against the idea but had been out voted by the Defense Minister and Admiral Kel-Varen. So Serafino had been paid half the money, pointed in the direction of the Illithian border... and vanished.
It had been almost five months and nothing had been heard of him or his ship, the Novalis. However, two weeks after he’d left Kel Station, a lowly ensign in payroll made a not-so startling discovery--the other half of Serafino’s payment was also gone. For all intents and purposes it looked like he’d taken the money, and run. And was probably comfortably holed up in some rim-world nighthouse, enjoying the soft charms of a sloe-eyed prosti. And laughing his ass off at the Alliance.
So the Alliance did what the Empire always used to do when the Empire got pissed: they gave the command to unleash Kel-Paten on the problem.
“Captain Sebastian’s report noted all the leads we have relative to a last known location on Serafino,” Kel-Paten said. “Lt. Garrick, I want you and Lt. Kel-Arint to head up one team; Commander Kel-Fhay and Dr. Fynn will head the second. The captain and I will head the third. If he isn’t found precisely in one of those locations, I have no doubt, based on the accuracy of our information, that we won’t be very far behind him.”
“We don’t have any reason to believe that Serafino will be cooperative about returning to Kel Prime,” Garrick noted. “Your instructions, sir, if we encounter resistance?”
Kel-Paten leaned his black-gloved fists against the table. This answer was easy. “Kill him,” he replied evenly.
Then he straightened, his hands behind him in correct military posture. “You all understand the situation. Dismissed.”
A nodding of heads accompanied the squeaking of chairs as the command staff of the Vaxxar rose almost in unison and headed for the door. Sass swiveled in her chair, followed Kel-Nilos around the far end of the conference table.
He said her name before she could reach Dr. Fynn’s side: “Sebastian.” Pause. “I will require your attention for a bit longer.”
She turned and faced him expectantly. “Admiral?”
Kel-Paten opened his mouth to speak only to find his mind blanking as My name’s No! No! Bad Captain! stared back at him. Sometime during the ninety-minute meeting her workout clothes had dried and Sass had unzipped the oversized black sweatshirt. Her arms, folded casually across her chest, obscured the What’s Yours?
He cleared his throat. “Sebastian.”
Pause.
She looked up. “Yes?”
Damn her, damn her! Two hours ago, he’d chosen what he’d thought was the perfect topic to delay her after the meeting, something important enough to be believable. Something they could discuss, leisurely, perhaps over a cup of coffee. Something that... something that he’d obviously forgotten.
“Your... report was very thorough.” One-point-four-million credits they had spent perfecting his flawlessly synchronized cybertronic brain interface and that was the best he could come up with.
She cocked her head slightly to one side. Perhaps she knew of the amount and was just now realizing what a tremendous waste of funds it represented.
“Thanks. But it was just a distillation of facts. The original report was kind of repetitive.”
“H.Q.’s usually are.”
“Well then, just goes to prove the theory that bureaucrats everywhere share a common DNA. I never read a report out of our H.Q. at Varlow that was worth a damn, either.”
“I can imagine,” he replied and knew that if the fate of the Universe relied on his conversational abilities right now they’d all be in the proverbial shitter.
However, his terse sentence elicited a raised eyebrow from her. “Didn’t think you had to imagine, Kel-Paten. I was under the impression that there was little the U-Cees did during the war that you weren’t directly aware of. I’d thought our reports provided you with the bulk of your bedtime stories.”
Actually, he’d always saved reports on the Regalia’s captain for that particular time of his day. “I was naturally aware of any information deemed to be important.”
“Oh, naturally,” she said, her mouth quirking slightly into a smile. “If there’s nothing else, Admiral?”
“Nothing else?” He’d been contemplating the soft curves at the base of her throat. Her usual uniform’s high collar covered that area, and though he’d often seen her in the ship’s gym, it had been from across the room. He’d never been this close to her when she’d had been so interestingly out of uniform. So enticingly out of uniform. The temperature in the ready room shot up a few hundred degrees.
“Yes sir, if there’s nothing else you wish to discuss, I’d really like to go back to my quarters and change out of this gear.” She tugged at the slitted hem of her pink shorts, which only drew his eyes down to her bare thighs. His mind immediately responded by informing him just how quickly one could slide those pieces of flimsy pink apparel down and...
“Yes, of course. I’m sure you want to change.” He turned quickly and took his seat at the head of the table. With a few quick touches on the comp screen, he called up a selection of files of unknown subject matter, only peripherally aware they were there. But at least it looked as if he were doing something productive. “Dismissed, Sebastian.”
Sass inclined her head slightly. “By your leave, Admiral.”
He waited until the doors whooshed closed before he let his head fall wearily against the high back of the chair, his body throbbing. He was surprised the chair hadn’t melted.
He was still in that position, eyes closed, a half hour later when the Vaxxar’s red-alert sirens jolted him back into reality.
He almost collided with Sass in the corridor just as his com badge trilled, demanding his attention. He managed to slap at it with one hand and grab Sass’ elbow with the other.
“We’re right here,” he barked as he guided her forcefully through the double sliding doors that led to the upper-level of the bridge.
The two-tiered, U-shaped command center of the huntership was already frenzied with activity. Voices were terse, commands clipped. Every screen streamed with data.
Sass immediately bolted down the short flight of stairs to the scanner station to check incoming data. Kel-Paten slid into the left command seat and, with a practiced familiarity, thumbed open a small panel covering the dataport in the armrest and linked into the ship’s systems through the interface feeds built into his wrist. There were the microseconds of disorientation as there always was when he spiked in. The last thing his human vision focused on before his mind merged completely with the Vax’s cybermechanisms was Sass’ nicely rounded bottom, clad in fitted pale pink sweat pants as she leaned over the main scanner console below him...
Have fun! ~ Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
(from the original Chapter One... and the cutting room floor)
Sass... Captain Sebastian arrived at exactly 2034.43.2, her bright pink cropped t-shirt top and side-slit work-out shorts still damp from her recent exertions.
Something heated flared correspondingly inside Kel-Paten, his gaze taking in far more of her than he was used to seeing. At least, not while he was awake. He didn’t miss her playful tap on Dr. Fynn’s arm with the tip of her racquet as she strode by. “Whipped his ass, 5-4!” she rasped, still somewhat short of breath.
The CMO hid her laughter behind a well-timed coughing fit as Sass plunked down into the chair next to his own. She wiped her face with a towel draped around her neck. A series of soft chuckles followed around the room as the lettering on the Captain’s t-shirt became obvious for all to see:
“My name’s No! No! Bad Captain!
What’s Yours?”
“Sebastian.” Pause. There was always The Pause. “You’re--”
“Late, I know.” Sass held up one hand as if to stave off his reprimand. “I apologize, Admiral. I’d every intention of being here on time. Even recheduled my game two hours earlier. But we—”
“And you’re out of uniform,” he cut in and made sure he didn’t allow his gaze to travel lower than Sass’ face. Interesting what dampness does to certain thin fabrics.
“I’d be later if I’d taken time to change,” Sass was pointing out. “But before you have me vented out the starboard exhausts for a total inattention to duty, at least allow me to state that I have read the entire packet and,” she said, swiveling one of the comp screens attached at regular intervals down the middle of the table, “my report has been filed and already disseminated to the staff.” She tapped at the “Report Waiting” icon flashing on the lower left.
“I assume you’ve all used the...” and she stopped, glancing at her watch, “...four minutes and forty three point two seconds that I was delayed to retrieve and review my report?”
Five faces, including his own, turned blankly to her. Only Dr. Fynn grinned back. Kel-Paten didn’t know if the CMO was just used to the petite green-eyed blonde’s diversonary tactics, or had known beforehand the report would be there. It didn’t matter.
From the conspiratorial nature of her grin, it was obvious she was the only one who’d read it
"Well, good, then it shouldn’t take the rest of you, Dr. Fynn excluded, more than four minutes and forty three point two seconds to do just that. And in that time,” Sass added, rising, “I’ll jog down the corridor to my quarters and grab a sweatshirt. Imperial issue of course,” she added, “before I freeze my butt off in here.”
The zip-front black sweatshirt with the Vaxxar’s signature slashed-lightning logo on the sleeves helped, but not much, Kel-Paten noted wryly as Sass returned to the ready room with ten point oh-eight seconds to spare. The sweatshirt, in generic extra-large, fell below the hem line of her shorts so that when she walked in all he saw were sweatshirt and nicely shaped bare legs... and nothing else. Oh, there were socks (also bright pink) and high-top sneakers (white), he knew, but that only made the illusion worse. It was only after she took the seat next to him that he let out the breath he’d been holding. Slowly.
When he turned back to the table five pairs of eyes regarded him expectantly: Kel-Fhay, the First Officer on his left; Kel-Arint, Chief of Tactical next to him. Then came his U-Cee-issue CMO. Her blue eyes held a a hint of amusement, so he passed over her quickly. His U-Cee-issue Chief of Security, Lt. Francisco Garrick, was opposite her. To Garrick’s left was Zahar Kel-Nilos. The grey-haired Commander had been his Chief of Engineering for fifteen years; he trusted Kel-Nilos, trusted him with his life and his ship and the lives of his crew. Hence, he was also trusted to be the only other officer allowed to sit next to the captain.
She, he noted, didn’t look at him but directly at Eden Fynn. He didn’t like the smile on either woman’s face.
Had he been prone to sighing he would’ve done so just then, but instead he eased himself up to his full 6’3” height’, well aware of the image he presented: an imposing figure in black with night-dark hair. Five diamond-studded stars glinted blue-white on his uniform’s high collar and were matched in their iciness, it was often said, only by the hardness of his eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a problem. It sppears we may have to do some damage control.”
The problem’s name was Shadow, or more accurately, Jace Serafino. Captain Jace Serafino though Kel-Paten’s tone as he said the rank relayed just how little respect he had for the often deadly, always flamboyant mercenary.
Serafino had quite a history, most of it conflicting, very little of it documented save for spaceport gossip and ‘tracker' legends. He was the illegitimate son of an Imperial nobleman and a prosti from the U-Cee pleasure world of Glitterkiln. He was defrocked Nasyry from the Warrior-Priest clan. He was a Q’itha addict and escapee from an Imperial Rehab compound. He was a reclusive and mega-weathly entrepreneur with a decidedly unorthodox philanthropic hobby. He was a bio-cybe crechling--one of Kel-Paten’s siblings--who’d been reported to have died at birth.
All were true. None were true. The only verifiable facts known about Captain Jace Serafino was that he had been very, very good at making trouble for the U-Cees and the Empire, now called the Alliance, and their mutual enemy, the Illithians. And he’d also been very very good at escaping from the clutches of all three.
Until now.
Suddenly made patriotic by the prospect of two hundred fifty thousand credits, Serafino had agreed to participate in a little undercover work for the newly formed Alliance. Kel-Paten had been openly against the idea but had been out voted by the Defense Minister and Admiral Kel-Varen. So Serafino had been paid half the money, pointed in the direction of the Illithian border... and vanished.
It had been almost five months and nothing had been heard of him or his ship, the Novalis. However, two weeks after he’d left Kel Station, a lowly ensign in payroll made a not-so startling discovery--the other half of Serafino’s payment was also gone. For all intents and purposes it looked like he’d taken the money, and run. And was probably comfortably holed up in some rim-world nighthouse, enjoying the soft charms of a sloe-eyed prosti. And laughing his ass off at the Alliance.
So the Alliance did what the Empire always used to do when the Empire got pissed: they gave the command to unleash Kel-Paten on the problem.
“Captain Sebastian’s report noted all the leads we have relative to a last known location on Serafino,” Kel-Paten said. “Lt. Garrick, I want you and Lt. Kel-Arint to head up one team; Commander Kel-Fhay and Dr. Fynn will head the second. The captain and I will head the third. If he isn’t found precisely in one of those locations, I have no doubt, based on the accuracy of our information, that we won’t be very far behind him.”
“We don’t have any reason to believe that Serafino will be cooperative about returning to Kel Prime,” Garrick noted. “Your instructions, sir, if we encounter resistance?”
Kel-Paten leaned his black-gloved fists against the table. This answer was easy. “Kill him,” he replied evenly.
Then he straightened, his hands behind him in correct military posture. “You all understand the situation. Dismissed.”
A nodding of heads accompanied the squeaking of chairs as the command staff of the Vaxxar rose almost in unison and headed for the door. Sass swiveled in her chair, followed Kel-Nilos around the far end of the conference table.
He said her name before she could reach Dr. Fynn’s side: “Sebastian.” Pause. “I will require your attention for a bit longer.”
She turned and faced him expectantly. “Admiral?”
Kel-Paten opened his mouth to speak only to find his mind blanking as My name’s No! No! Bad Captain! stared back at him. Sometime during the ninety-minute meeting her workout clothes had dried and Sass had unzipped the oversized black sweatshirt. Her arms, folded casually across her chest, obscured the What’s Yours?
Pause.
She looked up. “Yes?”
Damn her, damn her! Two hours ago, he’d chosen what he’d thought was the perfect topic to delay her after the meeting, something important enough to be believable. Something they could discuss, leisurely, perhaps over a cup of coffee. Something that... something that he’d obviously forgotten.
“Your... report was very thorough.” One-point-four-million credits they had spent perfecting his flawlessly synchronized cybertronic brain interface and that was the best he could come up with.
She cocked her head slightly to one side. Perhaps she knew of the amount and was just now realizing what a tremendous waste of funds it represented.
“Thanks. But it was just a distillation of facts. The original report was kind of repetitive.”
“H.Q.’s usually are.”
“Well then, just goes to prove the theory that bureaucrats everywhere share a common DNA. I never read a report out of our H.Q. at Varlow that was worth a damn, either.”
“I can imagine,” he replied and knew that if the fate of the Universe relied on his conversational abilities right now they’d all be in the proverbial shitter.
However, his terse sentence elicited a raised eyebrow from her. “Didn’t think you had to imagine, Kel-Paten. I was under the impression that there was little the U-Cees did during the war that you weren’t directly aware of. I’d thought our reports provided you with the bulk of your bedtime stories.”
Actually, he’d always saved reports on the Regalia’s captain for that particular time of his day. “I was naturally aware of any information deemed to be important.”
“Oh, naturally,” she said, her mouth quirking slightly into a smile. “If there’s nothing else, Admiral?”
“Nothing else?” He’d been contemplating the soft curves at the base of her throat. Her usual uniform’s high collar covered that area, and though he’d often seen her in the ship’s gym, it had been from across the room. He’d never been this close to her when she’d had been so interestingly out of uniform. So enticingly out of uniform. The temperature in the ready room shot up a few hundred degrees.
“Yes sir, if there’s nothing else you wish to discuss, I’d really like to go back to my quarters and change out of this gear.” She tugged at the slitted hem of her pink shorts, which only drew his eyes down to her bare thighs. His mind immediately responded by informing him just how quickly one could slide those pieces of flimsy pink apparel down and...
“Yes, of course. I’m sure you want to change.” He turned quickly and took his seat at the head of the table. With a few quick touches on the comp screen, he called up a selection of files of unknown subject matter, only peripherally aware they were there. But at least it looked as if he were doing something productive. “Dismissed, Sebastian.”
Sass inclined her head slightly. “By your leave, Admiral.”
He waited until the doors whooshed closed before he let his head fall wearily against the high back of the chair, his body throbbing. He was surprised the chair hadn’t melted.
He was still in that position, eyes closed, a half hour later when the Vaxxar’s red-alert sirens jolted him back into reality.
He almost collided with Sass in the corridor just as his com badge trilled, demanding his attention. He managed to slap at it with one hand and grab Sass’ elbow with the other.
“We’re right here,” he barked as he guided her forcefully through the double sliding doors that led to the upper-level of the bridge.
The two-tiered, U-shaped command center of the huntership was already frenzied with activity. Voices were terse, commands clipped. Every screen streamed with data.
Sass immediately bolted down the short flight of stairs to the scanner station to check incoming data. Kel-Paten slid into the left command seat and, with a practiced familiarity, thumbed open a small panel covering the dataport in the armrest and linked into the ship’s systems through the interface feeds built into his wrist. There were the microseconds of disorientation as there always was when he spiked in. The last thing his human vision focused on before his mind merged completely with the Vax’s cybermechanisms was Sass’ nicely rounded bottom, clad in fitted pale pink sweat pants as she leaned over the main scanner console below him...
Sunday, April 08, 2007
If I had to... could I?
Before I write about my sometimes alien heroines, I research the Earthly equivalent of the situations into which I dump them, and I like to think that if I were their age, in the shape they are in, and in similar circumstances, I could do almost as well.
But could I?
Could I purify and filter water without a commercial tablet or a store-bought gadget on my plumbing as Djetth (Jeth) does in Insufficient Mating Material? I know how in theory, and what I wrote passed muster with my survival consultant.
If global warming reduced my neighborhood to something close to a dust bowl, could I find water by making a solar still? Could I follow my own survival advice that I dish up in Insufficient Mating Material?
If I decided that I no longer trusted prepared, packaged foods from the supermarket, could I make pizza from scratch... on a hot rock?
Well, could I?
Maybe not pizza, if I didn't have yeast, but I might surprise myself. We women may be tougher than we think.
Actually, I used to make pizza when I lived in Dorset. I had a coal fired oven, which meant that I had to shovel coal into the fire box, wait for it to get really hot, and then bake. My paternal grandmother didn't have a refrigerator. She had a slab of marble in a cupboard under the stairs!
But as for doing some of the things Survivorman does.... I'm not sure, and I hope I never find out, but I pay attention, and I'm thinking of buying some of the best fire making tools I've seen him use on his show, and keeping them in my handbag. It won't do much for the shape of my bag, but a bit of extra weight-lifting should keep my arms and my bones in shape.
Insufficient Mating Material contains quite a lot of information from various survival sources and the consultative wisdom of Survivorman, Les Stroud. Like the alien hero, Djetth (Jeth), I took part in competitive life-saving at school. I still have all the badges that I earned. However, when I think back to all the mushrooms we used to gather in the local cow pastures at dawn, and the berries we picked from hedgerows in Autumn: hips and haws, elderberry, crabapples, blackberries, I wonder whether I'd dare to today, if I weren't desperate.
The problem is (for everyday people), practising making shelters by cutting down vegetation is not environmentally responsible, and experimenting with strange berries when I don't have to seems to be asking for trouble... and I don't mean experimenting in the way that Djetth and Martia-Djulia experiment once their alien romance heats up.
Best wishes,
Rowena
Thursday, April 05, 2007
J. D. Robb's Futuristic Mysteries
It's been a long time since I've discovered a series that engages me the way J. D. Robb's "In Death" mysteries do. Happily, it comprises so many books that I have a long time before I catch up (i.e., run out). The relationship between New York homicide detective Eve Dallas and her husband Roarke gives the novels their special appeal for me. It's often said that the male and female of the human race view each other as alien (men are from Mars, women are from Venus). A character in one of Heinlein's novels questions whether men and women actually belong to the same species. When Eve and Roarke first meet, they live in different worlds, so they feel "alien" to each other, a blunt-spoken cop devoted to the law and a rich, elegant man who made his fortune on the shady side of the legal line. And if "the past is a different country," so is the future of the 2050s in which these stories take place, making the characters slightly alien to us as readers, too. Robb (aka Nora Roberts) has said that in these books she set out with the intention of telling the story of their marriage, so that the first of the series, in which they meet and fall in love, is only the beginning.
What really fascinates me about their relationship is its underlying similarity to the marriage between Harriet Vane and Lord Peter Wimsey in Dorothy Sayers' mysteries. In both couples, a career woman marries a much wealthier man. In each case, both the man and the woman have trauma in their pasts (although Harriet's ordeal of being tried for murder pales beside Eve's harrowing childhood). Both couples met while one of the parties was a murder suspect. Both Eve and Harriet are emotionally gun-shy, finding it difficult to accept the possibility of love and, even after marriage, having trouble saying, "I love you," in so many words. Roarke has a counterpart to Lord Peter's impeccable Bunter, and like Lord Peter and Bunter, Roarke and Summerset went through the wars together, metaphorically. (Lord Peter met Bunter on a literal battlefield, in World War I; Roarke bonded with Summerset in the underworld of the Dublin streets.) A difference is that Bunter likes Harriet, while Summerset and Eve (to begin with, at any rate) share a mutual loathing. Roarke even enjoys, like Lord Peter, teasing his more cautious soul-mate by driving his fabulously expensive vehicle recklessly fast. Eve, like Harriet, sensitive about her husband's wealth, has a hard time accepting gifts. A proud, prickly woman and a suave, self-contained, but deeply passionate man, both of them intelligent and articulate—what a dynamite combination!
What's the common theme in these two series that I find so compelling? So far, I think it can be encapsulated as "trust and love overcoming pride and fear of vulnerability." Also, I'm always drawn to stories of people (human or not) reaching out to each other across chasms of difference to grow from alien-ness (or alienation) to intimacy.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Thoughts on the Non-human Hero
Thoughts on the Non-human Hero
By Jennifer Ashley / Allyson James
Rowena kindly asked me to guest blog here with thoughts about non-human heroes, since lately I’ve been writing many of them: Immortal demigods, dragon shapeshifters, were-panthers, genetically enhanced males, and my own made-up creatures.
I have to say that when I read or write paranormal or futuristic heroes, I never think: “But these guys aren’t human!” Perhaps this is because I’ve been reading fantasy and scifi since age twelve, and I’m used to alternate universes and allegorical worlds, but it never occurs to me to dwell on the non-humanness of heroes (or heroines).
I look at each hero, human or non, as a character. Whether he is a Regency cavalry captain or an Immortal demigod or a logosh from my Nvengarian series, I approach each the same way--he (or she) is a character with a history--wants, needs, quirks, flaws, and strengths. All characters have a background that makes them them. Whether or not they are homo sapiens sapiens doesn’t bother me at all.
Before I start a novel, I love to write my hero’s autobiography, beginning with where he was born, who were his parents, were they good parents or bad (or dead), what he had to struggle with while growing up, and how that shaped him.
It’s amazing what comes out when I free-flow a hero’s bio--I become him for a time. Whether he was raised in a rigid Regency household with an uber-strict father, or he’s a two-thousand-year-old warrior who learned to fight in a Roman legion--each hero’s background shapes him into something unique.
I think the most fun heroes I’ve created are the Shareem characters I write as Allyson James. These men were born in a factory from a mixture of donated DNA (no parents), then they were sexually enhanced and raised for one purpose only--to pleasure women.
The scientists claim they’ve taken all emotions from these men and turned them into the ultimate slaves--but of course they haven’t. Each of the Shareem has a distinct personality and a different way of dealing with their lives and fighting their genetic programming.
I am amazed at how much scope for character the background to the Shareem gave me. These men are not human, or maybe they’re super-human, but underneath, they are the most human characters I’ve ever created.
Do I have a point? Probably not. But I thought I’d share some of my techniques for creating heroes who are richly layered and unique. The alpha hero is the most popular type of romance hero (he really is), but he doesn’t have to be the same-old, same-old.
Dig into his background, figure out what happened to him in all the years before the story, and you’ll have a memorable character, whether he’s human or vampire or were-thing or an alien born in a vat.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Where it all began...GAMES OF COMMAND original files
I've received a lot of fan mail (thank you!) since Games of Command came out the end of February. I'm just tickled that readers so love Sass and the admiral, Jace and Eden. A lot of my fans know--since I'm not shy about it--that the original manuscript ran over 300,000 words...and was a series of emails between a dear friend and myself. Rather a "continuing adventure" just for fun and never meant to be published.
Readers have also been clamoring for all those scenes that ended up on the cutting room floor.
I thought I'd lost a lot of the original, due to computer crashes and such. But I did come across a few files from 2001. They're not the FIRST original files but pretty durn close. I'll share them with you over the next few blogs...
Please note some names/scenes/settings may NOT match the book. This is the seed from which the book was sprouted.
Enjoy! ~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
ORIGINAL CHAPTER ONE from my notes dated 2001
Sickbay, Triad HUNTERSHIP Vaxxar
There might be worse things in the galaxy than a lethal alien virus. An admiral with an attitude, and an agenda, could well be one of them.
Chief Medical Officer Eden Fynn glanced at the time stamp in the corner of her screen. “Damn!” She increased the document’s scroll rate. There was a required staff meeting in five minutes, and she had fifty more pages to review. A second outbreak of Nar’Relian flu had inexplicably surfaced at three United Coalition spaceports in the past month, resulting in five more deaths. Finding a cure was now a race against time. She’d waited for two days for this critical analysis. Yet when it finally arrives, she had to go play Dutiful and Obedient CMO because Kel-Paten had his proverbial cybernetic knickers in a knot over something. Again.
“Cal, can you load these stats into my medalytic program? Got another command performance with the full staff in the ready room in five.”
The portly, gray-haired doctor smiled knowingly. “He’s overdue by about thirty-six hours this week, isn’t he?”
“The admiral just likes to be efficient,” Eden replied as blandly as the tired grin on her face would allow her.
“The admiral likes to see how high we all can jump, and when.” Caleb Monterro accepted the thin data-disk that Eden held out to him. “Be glad to help. We need some fast answers on this one. But I’ll tell you, I don’t envy your having to go to these meetings of his. Especially this late.”
"The admiral has his own view of time," Eden agreed as she straightened a stack of files on her desk. It was already a half hour into Third Duty Shift, which was Cal’s shift, not hers as ship's CMO. But medical work rarely respected schedules.
“It’s been different working with the Kel Triad these past six months." Cal absently tapped the thin disk against his palm. "Not like on the Regalia, with Captain Sebastian.”
“Tell me about it,” she quipped. A med-tech interrupted any further conversation, handing a new patient file to Monterro to review.
They parted with an exchange of tired smiles.
But, yes, what Cal had said was true. Their captain had her own way of doing things, and in Eden’s opinion, that to a great extent was what caused some of Admiral Kel-Paten’s problems. The other cause was a supposition she’d only recent begun to consider. It wasn’t one she wanted to explore further, right now. Especially because if she were right, and the bio-cybernetic construct in charge of the newly formed Alliance Fleet was actually experiencing emotions. Then she, as Chief Medical Officer, might just have to Section Forty-Six him.
She didn’t think that would go over well in the Triad part of the Alliance. It might even start another war. Then a puzzling virus would be the least of their problems.
The lift door pinged. She spent the short ride up to the Bridge Deck searching for more pleasant thoughts: the meeting shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half, two hours at most. That would leave her just enough time to get back to her quarters, change into some comfortable hiking gear and unwind with a leisurely late-shift stroll through one of the simdecks’ “Scenic Trails of the Universe” programs. It would unkink muscles now tense from hours of sitting. And maybe would unkink a mind tired from staring at medical data that made no sense.
Eden entered the stark ready room, a relaxed smile on her face. She only had to play “dutiful and obedient officer” for another ninety minutes and then she was free to do as she pleased.
Unfortunately, Fate and the Universe, as they often do, were just at the moment making plans of their own.
Ready Room, THS Vaxxar
Admiral Branden Kel-Paten noted the exact time of Dr. Fynn’s arrival in the same way he noted the exact time of every one of his officers’ arrivals: on a digital read-out in the lower left corner of his field of vision. The angular numbers were a bright shade of yellow-green, a color he'd found disruptive at first, as he'd found disruptive many of the bio-mechanical enhancements that had been added to his human form. He’d said something about the color choice to the Bio Engineers, hesitantly, as he'd been young enough then to still experience the emotion of shame. And the engineers had been sharp and caustic in their reply: he was a fifteen year old child and in no position to dictate preferences to these experienced and degreed professionals.
Truth was, he was more than just a fifteen year old child; he and eleven others had been human experiments, lab-bred from the best genetic materials available so that the Triad could produce five Senior Captains to helm and command the Triad’s five quadrants. But out of the dozen crèche-lings that had fertilized in the test tubes, only three had lived past their tenth birthday. And only one -- Kel-Paten, literally “Kel” (for the Keltish Triad) P.A.-Ten -- Paracybernetic Augmented Humanoid Ten -- survived past his fourteenth birthday and into enough human maturity where the mechanical enhancement procedures could begin.
The psycho-synthesizing had started three years later.
Over the years -- almost thirty more of them -- he'd gotten used to the putrid yellow-green color of his visual readouts. So now when he noted his CMO’s arrival it meant nothing, other than she was on time, and Sass wasn’t.
Again.
Oh, Captain Sebastian still had seventy-two point four seconds in which to arrive on time, but he knew she wouldn’t. The look she’d given him over the vidcom when he’d told her to be at the ready room at 2030 hours had portended that. She was off-shift at that time-- as most of his command staff would be-- and was scheduled to play a zero-g racquetball game at 2030 with a certain unmarried commander from Engineering who, Kel-Paten felt, was a little too attentive to Captain Sebastian lately. The info packet he’d downloaded from HQ after they’d cleared the ion storms could’ve waited until First Shift, until the “morning” as dirtsiders would say. There was no reason for a 2030 hours conference, other than such a meeting would keep Sass where he could keep a eye on her. And that was something he lately felt more and more inclined to do.
Sass... Captain Sebastian arrived at exactly 2034.43.2, her bright pink cropped t-shirt top and side-slit work-out shorts still damp from her recent exertions.
Something heated flared correspondingly inside Kel-Paten, his gaze taking in far more of her than he was used to seeing. At least, not while he was awake. He didn’t miss her playful tap on Dr. Fynn’s arm with the tip of her racquet as she strode by.
“Whipped his ass, 5-4!” she rasped, still somewhat short of breath.
(to be continued... more of the ORIGINAL Chapter One next time...)
Readers have also been clamoring for all those scenes that ended up on the cutting room floor.
I thought I'd lost a lot of the original, due to computer crashes and such. But I did come across a few files from 2001. They're not the FIRST original files but pretty durn close. I'll share them with you over the next few blogs...
Please note some names/scenes/settings may NOT match the book. This is the seed from which the book was sprouted.
Enjoy! ~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
ORIGINAL CHAPTER ONE from my notes dated 2001
Sickbay, Triad HUNTERSHIP Vaxxar
There might be worse things in the galaxy than a lethal alien virus. An admiral with an attitude, and an agenda, could well be one of them.
Chief Medical Officer Eden Fynn glanced at the time stamp in the corner of her screen. “Damn!” She increased the document’s scroll rate. There was a required staff meeting in five minutes, and she had fifty more pages to review. A second outbreak of Nar’Relian flu had inexplicably surfaced at three United Coalition spaceports in the past month, resulting in five more deaths. Finding a cure was now a race against time. She’d waited for two days for this critical analysis. Yet when it finally arrives, she had to go play Dutiful and Obedient CMO because Kel-Paten had his proverbial cybernetic knickers in a knot over something. Again.
“Cal, can you load these stats into my medalytic program? Got another command performance with the full staff in the ready room in five.”
The portly, gray-haired doctor smiled knowingly. “He’s overdue by about thirty-six hours this week, isn’t he?”
“The admiral just likes to be efficient,” Eden replied as blandly as the tired grin on her face would allow her.
“The admiral likes to see how high we all can jump, and when.” Caleb Monterro accepted the thin data-disk that Eden held out to him. “Be glad to help. We need some fast answers on this one. But I’ll tell you, I don’t envy your having to go to these meetings of his. Especially this late.”
"The admiral has his own view of time," Eden agreed as she straightened a stack of files on her desk. It was already a half hour into Third Duty Shift, which was Cal’s shift, not hers as ship's CMO. But medical work rarely respected schedules.
“It’s been different working with the Kel Triad these past six months." Cal absently tapped the thin disk against his palm. "Not like on the Regalia, with Captain Sebastian.”
“Tell me about it,” she quipped. A med-tech interrupted any further conversation, handing a new patient file to Monterro to review.
They parted with an exchange of tired smiles.
But, yes, what Cal had said was true. Their captain had her own way of doing things, and in Eden’s opinion, that to a great extent was what caused some of Admiral Kel-Paten’s problems. The other cause was a supposition she’d only recent begun to consider. It wasn’t one she wanted to explore further, right now. Especially because if she were right, and the bio-cybernetic construct in charge of the newly formed Alliance Fleet was actually experiencing emotions. Then she, as Chief Medical Officer, might just have to Section Forty-Six him.
She didn’t think that would go over well in the Triad part of the Alliance. It might even start another war. Then a puzzling virus would be the least of their problems.
The lift door pinged. She spent the short ride up to the Bridge Deck searching for more pleasant thoughts: the meeting shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half, two hours at most. That would leave her just enough time to get back to her quarters, change into some comfortable hiking gear and unwind with a leisurely late-shift stroll through one of the simdecks’ “Scenic Trails of the Universe” programs. It would unkink muscles now tense from hours of sitting. And maybe would unkink a mind tired from staring at medical data that made no sense.
Eden entered the stark ready room, a relaxed smile on her face. She only had to play “dutiful and obedient officer” for another ninety minutes and then she was free to do as she pleased.
Unfortunately, Fate and the Universe, as they often do, were just at the moment making plans of their own.
Ready Room, THS Vaxxar
Admiral Branden Kel-Paten noted the exact time of Dr. Fynn’s arrival in the same way he noted the exact time of every one of his officers’ arrivals: on a digital read-out in the lower left corner of his field of vision. The angular numbers were a bright shade of yellow-green, a color he'd found disruptive at first, as he'd found disruptive many of the bio-mechanical enhancements that had been added to his human form. He’d said something about the color choice to the Bio Engineers, hesitantly, as he'd been young enough then to still experience the emotion of shame. And the engineers had been sharp and caustic in their reply: he was a fifteen year old child and in no position to dictate preferences to these experienced and degreed professionals.
Truth was, he was more than just a fifteen year old child; he and eleven others had been human experiments, lab-bred from the best genetic materials available so that the Triad could produce five Senior Captains to helm and command the Triad’s five quadrants. But out of the dozen crèche-lings that had fertilized in the test tubes, only three had lived past their tenth birthday. And only one -- Kel-Paten, literally “Kel” (for the Keltish Triad) P.A.-Ten -- Paracybernetic Augmented Humanoid Ten -- survived past his fourteenth birthday and into enough human maturity where the mechanical enhancement procedures could begin.
The psycho-synthesizing had started three years later.
Over the years -- almost thirty more of them -- he'd gotten used to the putrid yellow-green color of his visual readouts. So now when he noted his CMO’s arrival it meant nothing, other than she was on time, and Sass wasn’t.
Again.
Oh, Captain Sebastian still had seventy-two point four seconds in which to arrive on time, but he knew she wouldn’t. The look she’d given him over the vidcom when he’d told her to be at the ready room at 2030 hours had portended that. She was off-shift at that time-- as most of his command staff would be-- and was scheduled to play a zero-g racquetball game at 2030 with a certain unmarried commander from Engineering who, Kel-Paten felt, was a little too attentive to Captain Sebastian lately. The info packet he’d downloaded from HQ after they’d cleared the ion storms could’ve waited until First Shift, until the “morning” as dirtsiders would say. There was no reason for a 2030 hours conference, other than such a meeting would keep Sass where he could keep a eye on her. And that was something he lately felt more and more inclined to do.
Sass... Captain Sebastian arrived at exactly 2034.43.2, her bright pink cropped t-shirt top and side-slit work-out shorts still damp from her recent exertions.
Something heated flared correspondingly inside Kel-Paten, his gaze taking in far more of her than he was used to seeing. At least, not while he was awake. He didn’t miss her playful tap on Dr. Fynn’s arm with the tip of her racquet as she strode by.
“Whipped his ass, 5-4!” she rasped, still somewhat short of breath.
(to be continued... more of the ORIGINAL Chapter One next time...)
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Strange Brews
I think my aural memory is very good, but sometimes it isn't.
For instance, I was absolutely certain that I knew the opening lines to The Eagles quintessentially seventies song "Life in the Fast Lane."
Mea culpa. I thought the heroine was terminally vain.
I listened to that song a lot while writing about Insufficient Mating Material's fashionista heroine who was so pampered, she could not even undress without the hero's help, and the slightly brutal Djetth (Jeth).
It wasn't my imaginary theme song for the book, but I felt an affinity.
A couple of days ago, I learned that the heroine was "terminally pretty" (to rhyme with "the hard cold city"). How devastating to know that I have been mistaken for more than two decades!
OK. I will admit it. I loved The Cream song, Strange Brew but I never have been clear what it is about. When I was a giddy youth, I didn't read the transcripts on the backs of LPs.
These songs recapture my happiest memories -- well... I should modify that, but the late sixties, seventies and eighties were fabulous, and that's when I had time to listen to the radio, and when I judged potential boyfriends by their record collections.
Did anyone else do that? Or am I truly weird?
LP-Harmony!!!!
I've also been polling my internet acquaintances about their opinions of Newsletters put out by authors, because I am on a panel speaking about the virtues of Newsletters on behalf of the EPIC organization (for electronically published authors) at the upcoming Romantic Times convention.
More than once as my questionnaires came back to me, I heard that readers love recipes in authors' newsletters. Good grief, people are interested in what I eat, whether I cook it, and what ingredients I use! Who knew?
Music, recipes... now add Linnea Sinclair's barman, Sin.
When you write do you follow the What's In Your Wallet? line of characterization?
Some characterization pundits advise authors to make lists of what is in their heroes' pockets.
(I tried that in Insufficient Mating Material, with good reason. My survival consultant, Les Stroud, aka Survivorman always tells the Science Channel viewer what, apart from his multi-tool, is in his pocket when he is stranded on a deserted island or other hostile-to-life spot.)
How about, What's In Your Drink? (I have paranoid, intergalactic superspy heroes who wonder that, too.)
Let's take world-building to an appropriate level. What do your inter-stellar characters drink for survival, for sustenance, for pleasure, and for a buzz?
Is it basically a gin and tonic with dye in it? Is it green small beer? (That's a fraction deeper than you think). Is it Blue Curacao with vodka? Is water the champagne of the future? Or serum?
Who saw Antz? The Bar Scene? Drinking from the aphids' butts (not that I recommend it, but does it have potential for an alien lifestyle)? There was another bar scene in An Ant's Life. Cartoons can be highly creative.
Well, here's the kicker.
Tonight (Sunday 9 -11 pm Eastern), April Fools' Night, with the moon all but full, Linnea, Susan, Colby and Rowena are going to be appearing in character on the Passionate Internet Voices Radio in order to put the lot together.
We'll be in Linnea's Intergalactic Bar and Grille (a franchise thereof) with Sin the bartender making otherwordly drinks. And we'll be planning a big surprise for Earth.
Best wishes,
Rowena
For instance, I was absolutely certain that I knew the opening lines to The Eagles quintessentially seventies song "Life in the Fast Lane."
Mea culpa. I thought the heroine was terminally vain.
I listened to that song a lot while writing about Insufficient Mating Material's fashionista heroine who was so pampered, she could not even undress without the hero's help, and the slightly brutal Djetth (Jeth).
It wasn't my imaginary theme song for the book, but I felt an affinity.
A couple of days ago, I learned that the heroine was "terminally pretty" (to rhyme with "the hard cold city"). How devastating to know that I have been mistaken for more than two decades!
OK. I will admit it. I loved The Cream song, Strange Brew but I never have been clear what it is about. When I was a giddy youth, I didn't read the transcripts on the backs of LPs.
These songs recapture my happiest memories -- well... I should modify that, but the late sixties, seventies and eighties were fabulous, and that's when I had time to listen to the radio, and when I judged potential boyfriends by their record collections.
Did anyone else do that? Or am I truly weird?
LP-Harmony!!!!
I've also been polling my internet acquaintances about their opinions of Newsletters put out by authors, because I am on a panel speaking about the virtues of Newsletters on behalf of the EPIC organization (for electronically published authors) at the upcoming Romantic Times convention.
More than once as my questionnaires came back to me, I heard that readers love recipes in authors' newsletters. Good grief, people are interested in what I eat, whether I cook it, and what ingredients I use! Who knew?
Music, recipes... now add Linnea Sinclair's barman, Sin.
When you write do you follow the What's In Your Wallet? line of characterization?
Some characterization pundits advise authors to make lists of what is in their heroes' pockets.
(I tried that in Insufficient Mating Material, with good reason. My survival consultant, Les Stroud, aka Survivorman always tells the Science Channel viewer what, apart from his multi-tool, is in his pocket when he is stranded on a deserted island or other hostile-to-life spot.)
How about, What's In Your Drink? (I have paranoid, intergalactic superspy heroes who wonder that, too.)
Let's take world-building to an appropriate level. What do your inter-stellar characters drink for survival, for sustenance, for pleasure, and for a buzz?
Is it basically a gin and tonic with dye in it? Is it green small beer? (That's a fraction deeper than you think). Is it Blue Curacao with vodka? Is water the champagne of the future? Or serum?
Who saw Antz? The Bar Scene? Drinking from the aphids' butts (not that I recommend it, but does it have potential for an alien lifestyle)? There was another bar scene in An Ant's Life. Cartoons can be highly creative.
Well, here's the kicker.
Tonight (Sunday 9 -11 pm Eastern), April Fools' Night, with the moon all but full, Linnea, Susan, Colby and Rowena are going to be appearing in character on the Passionate Internet Voices Radio in order to put the lot together.
We'll be in Linnea's Intergalactic Bar and Grille (a franchise thereof) with Sin the bartender making otherwordly drinks. And we'll be planning a big surprise for Earth.
Best wishes,
Rowena
Role Playing
Some of us here at Alien Blog are doing a pod-cast on Sunday night. I'll let Rowenna post the details since my mind is still trying to get around the idea that I will be Princess Arielle of Oasis for the good part of the weekend. After all I've got to get into the zone.
This is Elle. And a little bit about her.
He was the only man she’d ever loved. The one who’d roused her innocent girlhood passions . . . the one she held responsible for her brother’s death. So when Boone’s starship was shot down over a faraway planet, Elle resolved to forget him, to devote herself to her duty as the future ruler of Oasis. She focused her formidable mind on honing her powers, until the day she witnessed a pair of sweat-sleek, breathtaking gladiators facing each other down in the vicious fight-to-the-death of the Murlacca. Here were the two men she’d thought lost to her forever, and one last chance to save them. It was up to Elle to outwit the Circe witches who held Boone and Zander prisoner, so she could claim a love that had once seemed as elusive as . . .Star Shadows
So what does Elle do? She kicks some butt. She's deadly with her Sais. And she's learning that there are things bigger than power...like true love. YOu can read all about her this November. But Sunday night you can find her hanging out in a bar with Hell and Sass and a cat that can't keep its tail out of the beer. Come join us!
This is Elle. And a little bit about her.
He was the only man she’d ever loved. The one who’d roused her innocent girlhood passions . . . the one she held responsible for her brother’s death. So when Boone’s starship was shot down over a faraway planet, Elle resolved to forget him, to devote herself to her duty as the future ruler of Oasis. She focused her formidable mind on honing her powers, until the day she witnessed a pair of sweat-sleek, breathtaking gladiators facing each other down in the vicious fight-to-the-death of the Murlacca. Here were the two men she’d thought lost to her forever, and one last chance to save them. It was up to Elle to outwit the Circe witches who held Boone and Zander prisoner, so she could claim a love that had once seemed as elusive as . . .Star Shadows
So what does Elle do? She kicks some butt. She's deadly with her Sais. And she's learning that there are things bigger than power...like true love. YOu can read all about her this November. But Sunday night you can find her hanging out in a bar with Hell and Sass and a cat that can't keep its tail out of the beer. Come join us!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
The Future of Books
It's still "crunch" time at my day job, so I won't be able to blog at length for a few more weeks. This time, I just want to draw your attention to an essay by Cory Doctorow about e-books in the March issue of LOCUS. He points out that most of the people who claim they won't buy e-books because they don't like reading off a computer screen do, in practice, spend many of their waking hours happily reading off computer screens. What they mean, he says, is that they don't want to read novel-length works on the computer. He maintains that the computer (and even more so, the PDA and cell phone) is best suited for reading short forms that lend themselves to multitasking. “Networked computers. . . have a million ways of asking for your attention, and just as many ways of rewarding it.” The medium shapes the message, as we've been told since the 1960s.
As Doctorow puts it, “The cognitive style of the novel is different from the cognitive style of the legend. The cognitive style of the computer is different from the cognitive style of the novel.” And, to glance back at earlier changes he doesn't mention, the transition from hand-copied manuscripts to print allowed the invention of popular fiction (and many types of nonfiction) as we know it. Likewise, the supplanting of the scroll by the codex (a bound sheaf of pages) must have been a giant leap in convenience for the reader, with the capacity for flipping instantly to any page desired, not to mention making indexing possible.
It's not “that screens aren't sharp enough to read novels off of,” Doctorow says. Rather, the novel isn't "screeny" enough for the computer. (I like that word.) Read the whole article if you can; it's fascinating. Is he right in thinking that long fiction won't become a widespread use of electronic media, at least not anytime soon? Although I'm an e-published author, I admit I don't take full advantage of the technology. If there's an e-published version of a work that's either unavailable or disproportionately expensive in print, I'll buy the e-book. Otherwise, I choose the paperback. One reason is that, although I own a laptop and a Gemstar reader, I'm most likely to read e-books in the nonportable venue of the desktop computer. Paperbacks, I can carry anywhere. However, some people actively prefer e-books because many texts can be packed into a small space, the font size can be adjusted, and backlighting allows reading anywhere without external light. Yet even in the world of STAR TREK, where everyone reads text off handheld devices that look very much like today's e-book readers, some people (such as Captain Kirk) still enjoy collecting bound books.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Jim Butcher's Dresden Series and TV Show
Folks:
There are advantages to being a reviewer for simegen.com!
I have been invited to interview Jim Butcher when he's in Phoenix in mid-April, and I think I've
got an appointment set up for April 15th. (thankfully, my taxes are done and I'll be available).
Now, way back when I started reading the Dresden File novels, I had some questions to ask him, so I'll have to look those up.
Meanwhile, as I've mentioned here, I've been studying screenwriting again, and this morning I saw (thank you DVR inventor whoever you are) the Dresden episode which is a plot-thread fragment of the first Dresden novel, STORM FRONT.
I've also finished reading WHITE KNIGHT.
I should be ready with loads of good questions -- I'm not.
So any ideas you guys have would be most sincerely welcomed. What would you like to find out from Jim Butcher?
Oh, in case any of you can make it -- this will be at (if all goes well)
Poisoned Pen Bookstore: 480-947-29744014 N Goldwater Blvd # 101, Scottsdale, AZ 85251, US
April 15, 2007 - somewhere between 11AM and 2PM -- his book signing is slated for noon to 1PM.
Live Long and Prosper,
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com
There are advantages to being a reviewer for simegen.com!
I have been invited to interview Jim Butcher when he's in Phoenix in mid-April, and I think I've
got an appointment set up for April 15th. (thankfully, my taxes are done and I'll be available).
Now, way back when I started reading the Dresden File novels, I had some questions to ask him, so I'll have to look those up.
Meanwhile, as I've mentioned here, I've been studying screenwriting again, and this morning I saw (thank you DVR inventor whoever you are) the Dresden episode which is a plot-thread fragment of the first Dresden novel, STORM FRONT.
I've also finished reading WHITE KNIGHT.
I should be ready with loads of good questions -- I'm not.
So any ideas you guys have would be most sincerely welcomed. What would you like to find out from Jim Butcher?
Oh, in case any of you can make it -- this will be at (if all goes well)
Poisoned Pen Bookstore: 480-947-29744014 N Goldwater Blvd # 101, Scottsdale, AZ 85251, US
April 15, 2007 - somewhere between 11AM and 2PM -- his book signing is slated for noon to 1PM.
Live Long and Prosper,
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com
Monday, March 26, 2007
Galactic Gabbing: Confessions of a Word Slut
I’m a word slut. In fact, if there was a Wordaholics Anonymous, I’d be right there in the front row, ‘fessing up to my addiction. So it was with great interest I read Margaret Carter’s recent blog here, WATCHING LANGUAGE.
A professional etymologist, I’m not. Strictly amateur here, from a life-long love of reading and a life-long love of eavesdropping and people-watching. (In fact, consider the word: “eavesdropping.” Wow, what a wacko word when you realize what it actually says. I’d love to know what the lower edge of a roof has to do with being nosy though visually I can rather see it.) See, this is what I mean. I’m easily seduced whilst reading or conversing by a flirtatious set of letters.
I recently taught a writing workshop in the Orlando, Fl area and—not surprisingly—at the luncheon after several writers and I were discussing words (well, golfers talk about golf clubs and golf balls, the tools of their trade!). One gal—and apologies but I forget who told me this delightful anecdote—mentioned her editor (who is an Aussie, I believe) questioned her use of …”All of a sudden.” As in…ALL of a sudden? Show me HALF of a sudden.
Wow, what a wacko phrase. That received a delighted chortle from me. Half of a sudden. ::snort!:: Love it.
So that brings me to crafting languages—as I do in my books—for non-Earth based characters.
I’ve blogged a bit on that last year (in case you missed them). They’re articles originally published by SFROnline. You can find them here:
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2006/10/part-uno-speaking-in-alien-tongues.html
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2006/11/part-deux-swearing-in-alien-tongues.html
So I know I’ve warbled on this subject already. However, Margaret’s blog renewed my fervor for galactic gabbing and how it’s done.
It’s done just as we do it here. Depending on how you structure your Not-Earth culture, you hone done or fluff out their language in the same way. If they’re not spacefaring, if they’re xenophobic, then chances are—and I do love the comment by Anon on Margaret’s post—their language won’t remotely suffer from the “cribhouse whore” syndrome. It will probably be predominantly purely their own and—depending on how you structure their religion and politics—there may even be a penalty for using anything but their “pure” language.
Spacefaring cultures, to me, would be the most likely to have a real mixture and far more slang, simply do to the taint of continuous exposure to other cultures. Those would be the most fun to create and write.
The hard part is translating this—kinda sorta—into English. I know someone’s translated Shakespeare into Klingon. But for the most part, a NY publishing house is not going to buy an entire SF novel written in Vekran or Alarsh. So as an SF/SFR author, you have the daunting task of doing all this delightful linguistic work knowing 90 percent of it will be backstory, and never make the pages of the novel.
But you have to do it. It’s as much a part of your required world building as religion or politics. The entire galaxy does NOT speak English. Yes, your novel is written in English (or French or Portuguese or Russian) but you have to be aware, when you’re crafting character, dialogue, etc.., that your character is the product of a Non-Earth culture (if that is, in fact, the case). Your character IS his or her (or its) local galactic culture and will be aware of speech patterns (and differences) from other galactic cultures. Not only does everyone in the galaxy not speak English or Portuguese but they don’t speak Alarsh, either.
In the same way you’re away of the accents and speech patterns of those around you—in the supermarket, at the airport, at a meeting—your characters are aware of others’ word use, word choice and accent. There are differences in the same “planetary culture” just as there are here: someone from Alabama speaks differently from someone from Maine. Or London. It’s not just accent. It’s also slang. Cadence. Rapidity (or not) of speech. And at this point, it’s still the same language.
How about a “universal” language? In a spacefaring culture, I’d deem that possible. English has been crowned the official language of the air: commercial pilots and air traffic controllers all over this planet are required to speak English. There’s also Esperanto, that kind of one-size-fits-all attempt at a global language.
So I think it’s reasonable to posit an official language of the spaceways as long as you remember—when crafting characters and dialogue—that someone from Cirrus One Station may not pronounce the words in the same way that someone from Delos-5 would. Again, Alabama and Maine. Or even more, a Frenchman or Italian speaking English (as a secondary language) or an American speaking French (as a secondary language). There will be a noticeable accent. There will even be mispronunciations. Which lends to…unique characters and believable world building.
And slang—well, that’s my favorite part, as many of you know. Slang will be the one thread of constant miscommunication through it all. I have no idea why something that’s soda in New Jersey is pop in Michigan. But I really, really want to see a “half of a sudden.” And I want to know how my character would say it in Alarsh.
(From THE DOWN HOME ZOMBIE BLUES by Linnea Sinclair, coming November 2007 from Bantam)
Blurb: After almost twenty years on the job, Bahia Vista homicide detective, Theo Petrakos, is used to the fact that almost everyone in Florida is from somewhere else. Then a mummified corpse and a room full of high tech computer equipment sends Guardian Force commander and intergalactic zombie hunter, Jorie Mikkalah, into his life. And ‘illegal alien’ takes on a whole new meaning...
The rear cargo door of the vehicle suddenly flew open. But no weapons turrets protruded, nothing lethal emerged. Jorie slowly let out the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding and watched him transfer the small black boxes to the rear cargo area. The long box went in, too. She was considering how to take him from behind when, damn! damn! He stepped back to the door on the navigator’s side, bent over and came out with the T-MOD in his grasp.
There it was. She had to take possession of it now. It shouldn’t be difficult. He was a nil, a civilian. She was an expertly trained military commander with the element of surprise.
She rose in one smooth, swift, practiced movement.
And her scanner screeched out an intruder alert.
Zombie.
So much for keeping a low profile.
“Run!” Jorie screamed at him, her heart pounding in her throat as she tabbed the laser in her right hand up to hard terminate. “Run!”
She grabbed her other laser and barreled across the lawn. “Drop the T-MOD! Run!” A sickly green glow formed in the night gloom off to her left. She laced the spot with both her lasers, aware the stupid nil was still standing there, T-MOD in his hands, staring at the expanding portal.
Just as she reached him the green cloud erupted into hard form maybe two maxmeters away, about level with the top of the high hedge. Its diameter was small. Bliss luck, she’d done some damage. But she hadn’t stopped it. Yet. She fired off three more bursts then swung around to face the nil, bringing her micro-rifle across her chest as she did. “Drop the unit, damn you!” Her breath was coming in hard gasps. “That’s a zombie. It’ll kill you!”
The man stared down at her. And then Jorie remembered: the entire universe did not speak Alarsh.
But that was the least of her problems. The zombie had arrived.
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
SFRomance from Bantam Spectra
A professional etymologist, I’m not. Strictly amateur here, from a life-long love of reading and a life-long love of eavesdropping and people-watching. (In fact, consider the word: “eavesdropping.” Wow, what a wacko word when you realize what it actually says. I’d love to know what the lower edge of a roof has to do with being nosy though visually I can rather see it.) See, this is what I mean. I’m easily seduced whilst reading or conversing by a flirtatious set of letters.
I recently taught a writing workshop in the Orlando, Fl area and—not surprisingly—at the luncheon after several writers and I were discussing words (well, golfers talk about golf clubs and golf balls, the tools of their trade!). One gal—and apologies but I forget who told me this delightful anecdote—mentioned her editor (who is an Aussie, I believe) questioned her use of …”All of a sudden.” As in…ALL of a sudden? Show me HALF of a sudden.
Wow, what a wacko phrase. That received a delighted chortle from me. Half of a sudden. ::snort!:: Love it.
So that brings me to crafting languages—as I do in my books—for non-Earth based characters.
I’ve blogged a bit on that last year (in case you missed them). They’re articles originally published by SFROnline. You can find them here:
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2006/10/part-uno-speaking-in-alien-tongues.html
http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com/2006/11/part-deux-swearing-in-alien-tongues.html
So I know I’ve warbled on this subject already. However, Margaret’s blog renewed my fervor for galactic gabbing and how it’s done.
It’s done just as we do it here. Depending on how you structure your Not-Earth culture, you hone done or fluff out their language in the same way. If they’re not spacefaring, if they’re xenophobic, then chances are—and I do love the comment by Anon on Margaret’s post—their language won’t remotely suffer from the “cribhouse whore” syndrome. It will probably be predominantly purely their own and—depending on how you structure their religion and politics—there may even be a penalty for using anything but their “pure” language.
Spacefaring cultures, to me, would be the most likely to have a real mixture and far more slang, simply do to the taint of continuous exposure to other cultures. Those would be the most fun to create and write.
The hard part is translating this—kinda sorta—into English. I know someone’s translated Shakespeare into Klingon. But for the most part, a NY publishing house is not going to buy an entire SF novel written in Vekran or Alarsh. So as an SF/SFR author, you have the daunting task of doing all this delightful linguistic work knowing 90 percent of it will be backstory, and never make the pages of the novel.
But you have to do it. It’s as much a part of your required world building as religion or politics. The entire galaxy does NOT speak English. Yes, your novel is written in English (or French or Portuguese or Russian) but you have to be aware, when you’re crafting character, dialogue, etc.., that your character is the product of a Non-Earth culture (if that is, in fact, the case). Your character IS his or her (or its) local galactic culture and will be aware of speech patterns (and differences) from other galactic cultures. Not only does everyone in the galaxy not speak English or Portuguese but they don’t speak Alarsh, either.
In the same way you’re away of the accents and speech patterns of those around you—in the supermarket, at the airport, at a meeting—your characters are aware of others’ word use, word choice and accent. There are differences in the same “planetary culture” just as there are here: someone from Alabama speaks differently from someone from Maine. Or London. It’s not just accent. It’s also slang. Cadence. Rapidity (or not) of speech. And at this point, it’s still the same language.
How about a “universal” language? In a spacefaring culture, I’d deem that possible. English has been crowned the official language of the air: commercial pilots and air traffic controllers all over this planet are required to speak English. There’s also Esperanto, that kind of one-size-fits-all attempt at a global language.
So I think it’s reasonable to posit an official language of the spaceways as long as you remember—when crafting characters and dialogue—that someone from Cirrus One Station may not pronounce the words in the same way that someone from Delos-5 would. Again, Alabama and Maine. Or even more, a Frenchman or Italian speaking English (as a secondary language) or an American speaking French (as a secondary language). There will be a noticeable accent. There will even be mispronunciations. Which lends to…unique characters and believable world building.
And slang—well, that’s my favorite part, as many of you know. Slang will be the one thread of constant miscommunication through it all. I have no idea why something that’s soda in New Jersey is pop in Michigan. But I really, really want to see a “half of a sudden.” And I want to know how my character would say it in Alarsh.
(From THE DOWN HOME ZOMBIE BLUES by Linnea Sinclair, coming November 2007 from Bantam)
Blurb: After almost twenty years on the job, Bahia Vista homicide detective, Theo Petrakos, is used to the fact that almost everyone in Florida is from somewhere else. Then a mummified corpse and a room full of high tech computer equipment sends Guardian Force commander and intergalactic zombie hunter, Jorie Mikkalah, into his life. And ‘illegal alien’ takes on a whole new meaning...
The rear cargo door of the vehicle suddenly flew open. But no weapons turrets protruded, nothing lethal emerged. Jorie slowly let out the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding and watched him transfer the small black boxes to the rear cargo area. The long box went in, too. She was considering how to take him from behind when, damn! damn! He stepped back to the door on the navigator’s side, bent over and came out with the T-MOD in his grasp.
There it was. She had to take possession of it now. It shouldn’t be difficult. He was a nil, a civilian. She was an expertly trained military commander with the element of surprise.
She rose in one smooth, swift, practiced movement.
And her scanner screeched out an intruder alert.
Zombie.
So much for keeping a low profile.
“Run!” Jorie screamed at him, her heart pounding in her throat as she tabbed the laser in her right hand up to hard terminate. “Run!”
She grabbed her other laser and barreled across the lawn. “Drop the T-MOD! Run!” A sickly green glow formed in the night gloom off to her left. She laced the spot with both her lasers, aware the stupid nil was still standing there, T-MOD in his hands, staring at the expanding portal.
Just as she reached him the green cloud erupted into hard form maybe two maxmeters away, about level with the top of the high hedge. Its diameter was small. Bliss luck, she’d done some damage. But she hadn’t stopped it. Yet. She fired off three more bursts then swung around to face the nil, bringing her micro-rifle across her chest as she did. “Drop the unit, damn you!” Her breath was coming in hard gasps. “That’s a zombie. It’ll kill you!”
The man stared down at her. And then Jorie remembered: the entire universe did not speak Alarsh.
But that was the least of her problems. The zombie had arrived.
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
SFRomance from Bantam Spectra
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Disparate things and unfinished business
This image has absolutely nothing to do with Cindy's sagging middle, or Jacqueline's evolutionary preferences... it has to do with mine, perhaps.
Also with unfinished business.
On reading Jacqueline's fascinating blog about world-building, the two books I thought of were H.G. Wells's The Time Machine (I confess... it was not so much the book as the movie with Jeremy Irons as the troglodite-predator branch of homo sapiens) and The Sparrow.
Both books had a predator and a prey species who looked similar. In the case of The Sparrow, it was a matter of convergent evolution. The predator evolved to look like its prey, so that hunting would be less strenuous.
If I'm going to have a predator and prey species in my books, I'd like the predatory males to be attractive, and to have a limited interest in eating prey females.
I can say that. In both The Sparrow and the Jeremy Irons movie, a predator wanted to have intercourse with a female member of the prey species. Now, the female prey wasn't keen on the idea, in one case because it was dangerous... like a deer going to bed with a lion, in the other, because Jeremy looked and acted a bit like an Uruk-Hai.
Now, the Uruk-Hai were buff and ripped, a bit too ripped in some cases, really, but they had terrible dentition and I'm sure their breath was unimaginably bad.
The problem with all this for mainstream literature is human taboos. If we were lion-men, as a society we'd probably imprison any lion-man who indulged his attraction to a deer-lady.
Our culture has fewer issues when the predator is, or claims to be, a god. At least when I was a schoolgirl, we studied Greek and Roman literature in school. We didn't bat an eyelid when a honking great male swan (who was the king of all gods in disguise) gave Leda a couple of double-yolked eggs. Or when he turned a girlfriend into a cow so he could continue the affaire without upsetting his wife.
OK. His wife was upset anyway.
Zeus's other disguises included being a bull (now that is scary, and impractical, you'd think) and a golden shower (!).
For the last fifteen or so years, I've chosen to write alien romances about "gods from outer space" which allows me to cherry-pick items from our culture that I'd like to claim the gods gave us... like chess and fortune-telling. It's rather like the point Margaret made about our language stealing choice words from other nationalities, only --perhaps-- in reverse.
As for the picture, it's concept art from a work in progress and I put it up here simply for a bit of visual interest. I've gone back to Ed Traxler who created my Insufficient Mating Material slideshow to produce a slide show for the e-book Mating Net (a short story).
Best wishes,
Rowena Cherry
rowenacherry.com
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Sagging Middle
Nope, I'm not talking about my tummy although it sags, no matter how many ab crunches I do every day. I'm talking about the current work in progress, Star Shadows. I have just found my way through the middle and am ready to proceed with the ending.
So what is it that makes the middle sag? The beginning is always fun, a new project, new ideas, new characters, the excitement of seeing where the story will take you. The first third is always about the set up, the introduction and character growth. Then you get to the middle. Which is logical. You can't just have a beginning and an end.
But when you get to the middle its always the hardest part to write. And the longest. I won't reveal how long it has taken me to get through the middle of this book, lets just say the story is complicated and I lost a dear member of my family while struggling through it.
Maybe its the world building. Or the plot. It's basically a journey between point A and Point B that has to fill about 150 pages. All I know is it takes forever, its slow writing and during this point I always wonder why am I doing this. This book sucks. I'll never finish it.
Then suddenly, just like that your through it. My revelation came yesterday. Yay! I'm ready to write the end. I'll have this book done in two weeks. (I better, its due in a month)
If someone could ever come up for a way through the middle in a timely manner then we could all churn out about ten books a year, instead of two or three. I'm open for suggestions. And very happy that Star Shadows in about to come to its ending.
So what is it that makes the middle sag? The beginning is always fun, a new project, new ideas, new characters, the excitement of seeing where the story will take you. The first third is always about the set up, the introduction and character growth. Then you get to the middle. Which is logical. You can't just have a beginning and an end.
But when you get to the middle its always the hardest part to write. And the longest. I won't reveal how long it has taken me to get through the middle of this book, lets just say the story is complicated and I lost a dear member of my family while struggling through it.
Maybe its the world building. Or the plot. It's basically a journey between point A and Point B that has to fill about 150 pages. All I know is it takes forever, its slow writing and during this point I always wonder why am I doing this. This book sucks. I'll never finish it.
Then suddenly, just like that your through it. My revelation came yesterday. Yay! I'm ready to write the end. I'll have this book done in two weeks. (I better, its due in a month)
If someone could ever come up for a way through the middle in a timely manner then we could all churn out about ten books a year, instead of two or three. I'm open for suggestions. And very happy that Star Shadows in about to come to its ending.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Watching Language
Recently I read a vampire novel set in England of the 1820s. Although it was pretty entertaining, I noticed a couple of anachronisms that made me wince. "Alpha" in the sense of "dominant," not a popular term in common use until the late twentieth century. (And though I don't know when biologists first started using it that way, I doubt it was pre-1900.) A complimentary "nice save," a phrase I never heard in conversation until a few years ago. Likewise, "sadism" and "masochism" shouldn't be used in dialogue, first person, or tight third person POV in periods before Sade and Sacher-Masoch published their respective works. It's not that hard to look up which words and phrases were in the English vocabulary in a given era.
More subtle is the issue of avoiding fossilized metaphors we unthinkingly use that are based on modern technology. Probably nobody would have a character in 1890 say, "You sound like a broken record" (a reference that may have outlived its meaning, at least for members of Gen X and Y who have seldom listened to music on anything but CDs and iPods). However, what about extricating oneself from a circular discussion with, "Stop, this is where I came in"? That metaphor comes from the cinema-viewing experience. Nobody would use it in an era before movies became an important form of popular entertainment. Another turn of speech that has lost its live context for people too young to remember the golden past when, for the price of one ticket, you could sit in the theater as long as you wished and watch the same show over and over, but as a "dead" metaphor it's still heard in conversation.
In SF set in some future decade or century, what words and phrases common now would have become obsolete? And what new slang and metaphors would adorn your futuristic characters' speech, based on social and technological developments we can only imagine? How likely is it that future American English may incorporate slang from other languages to the extent found, for example, in the linguistic tour-de-force of A CLOCKWORK ORANGE? I've read that young people in some parts of the Southwest already speak “Spanglish,” a blend of English and Spanish. Less blatantly, the process of adopting loan words from other cultures continues as vibrantly as ever. For instance, how many Americans had heard of anime and manga 20 years ago? English is the most eclectic language in the world, known for (to paraphrase a source I can't quite remember) not just borrowing from other languages, but knocking them down in dark alleys and rummaging through their pockets for stray bits of vocabulary.
More subtle is the issue of avoiding fossilized metaphors we unthinkingly use that are based on modern technology. Probably nobody would have a character in 1890 say, "You sound like a broken record" (a reference that may have outlived its meaning, at least for members of Gen X and Y who have seldom listened to music on anything but CDs and iPods). However, what about extricating oneself from a circular discussion with, "Stop, this is where I came in"? That metaphor comes from the cinema-viewing experience. Nobody would use it in an era before movies became an important form of popular entertainment. Another turn of speech that has lost its live context for people too young to remember the golden past when, for the price of one ticket, you could sit in the theater as long as you wished and watch the same show over and over, but as a "dead" metaphor it's still heard in conversation.
In SF set in some future decade or century, what words and phrases common now would have become obsolete? And what new slang and metaphors would adorn your futuristic characters' speech, based on social and technological developments we can only imagine? How likely is it that future American English may incorporate slang from other languages to the extent found, for example, in the linguistic tour-de-force of A CLOCKWORK ORANGE? I've read that young people in some parts of the Southwest already speak “Spanglish,” a blend of English and Spanish. Less blatantly, the process of adopting loan words from other cultures continues as vibrantly as ever. For instance, how many Americans had heard of anime and manga 20 years ago? English is the most eclectic language in the world, known for (to paraphrase a source I can't quite remember) not just borrowing from other languages, but knocking them down in dark alleys and rummaging through their pockets for stray bits of vocabulary.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
I've messed up this blog!
Folks:
My entry for Tuesday March 20th, 2007, posted as Sunday March 18. Scroll down below Linnea's entry for Monday March 19 and you'll find my Tuesday entry.
Sorry
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
My entry for Tuesday March 20th, 2007, posted as Sunday March 18. Scroll down below Linnea's entry for Monday March 19 and you'll find my Tuesday entry.
Sorry
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Monday, March 19, 2007
Flying Solo
(This essay was originally written several years ago for Futures magazine, and it garnered me a Pushcart Literary nomination...so I thought I'd share to see if it resonates with you writers out there.)
Humans are supposed to be herd animals, creatures of the pack. Even only children like myself are raised in a family setting. We attend school in groups and if you’re a young female, you learn to go to the bathroom in groups. We have our cliques, our club memberships, our teams and our carpools.
Then a few strange ones suddenly veer off the crowded path, find their trembling wings and start flying solo. As writers. As one-woman private investigative agencies.
Ah, you say. Now I know where she’s going with this. Good, if you do. If you don’t, sit back, grab a beer and get ready for some free-fall soul searching.
Has it yet occurred to you that one of the reasons you’re a writer is that you’re very comfortable being alone?
Not every one can do this. Most people -- and I like e.e. cummings’ phraseology on this -- “Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the squarerootofminusone.” If you don’t believe me try going to any well-populated social gathering. A clearance sale at K-Mart will do. Tell the multitudes that you’re a writer and once they finishing ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the fame they associate with the profession, they will inevitably ask how you do it. How do you sit there, hands on the keyboard, staring at a blank computer screen, or blank piece of paper, and get your ideas. Your characters. Your action. All by yourself.
And that’s the kicker. All by yourself. No boss breathing down your neck. No supervisor clucking her tongue at your tardiness. No taskmaster with a whip, other than your own self.
And then you try to explain that you’re really not alone, that there are about a hundred or so people who live inside your head, all with stories to tell, all clamoring for your attention.
And these people, these nice employed-in-big-nine-to-five-offices people began to back away from you. Slowly.
Been there?
Fifteen years ago when I started my investigative agency I figured I’d have two or three others on staff. All male. Reverse chauvinism. And they had to be good looking (they all were). But I found, and it wasn’t due to the distraction of being surrounded by hunks, that I got just as much work accomplished by myself.
So for the last few years I worked as I investigator I was flying solo, and it may come as no surprise to you writers that the majority of private investigators do the same.
We have our heads full of people, too. Slimy people, wacky people, tricky people, lost people.
I worked a lot of cases by marching these people out onto my mind’s stage and running them through their paces. I tripped up slime because in my mind I wore their skins. I found the lost because in my mind I wore their walking shoes. I out-thought the con artists because in my mind we donned the same thinking caps.
My days often went like this: I’d sit in the attorney’s office after delivering my report and he’d look at me from across his polished mahogany desk, praising my work.
“So. How many investigators did you put on this guy’s tail?” While he questioned me I knew that outside his office door are no less than two secretaries, a receptionist and four junior partners in his law firm.
“None. Just me,” I ‘d tell him.
“Just you?” he’d asked, as if being only five feet tall even further reduces my abilities.
“Yeah. Just me.”
“Then how did you figure out so quickly what this guy was up to?” The attorney knew he couldn’t even produce a simple transmittal letter without getting at least three other people involved.
“Easy,” I’d tell him. “Around two in the morning, after I’ve beaten the case file and all the accumulated data to death, I pour myself a goblet of Opus One. Then I pace the kitchen in the dark and become your adversary. I think his thoughts, feel his fears, absorb his desperation.”
At this point the attorney would inevitably glance at his watch, make a remark about his busy day and full schedule of appointments, and if I wouldn’t mind showing myself out....?
Yeah, I think me, myself and I can handle that.
Gentle readers, gentle writers, you and I fly solo. There is something in our nature that requires us to pull away from the ‘madding crowd’ and hover, to observe and record.
But not in a crowd at the zoo or a class trip to the museum, where other fingers point out the sights and others opinions fill our ears. But on our own, either as the advance scout or the straggler. So we see what others would have trampled on, hear what others would have lost in the din.
We saw heroes in the stars long before anyone told us what the constellations were supposed to mean. And we still see castles in the clouds when most other people only see a seventy per cent chance of precipitation.
One of my greatest thrills when I had my private pilot’s license was to fly directly into any cloud castle I wanted to. It would blanket my small plane, obscuring the windows and then suddenly I was out the other side, and the whole horizon looked brighter, more vivid with color. Pilots called it cloud punching.
I think of that blankness sometimes when I sit and stare at the white screen on my computer, knowing the words that I type suddenly make it come alive with color. With voices. With characters.
Which brings me back to my original question. Has it yet occurred to you that one of the reasons you are a writer is that you are very comfortable being alone?
Now do you know why?
Happy cloud punching.
Namaste, ~Linnea
http://www.linneasinclair.com
Humans are supposed to be herd animals, creatures of the pack. Even only children like myself are raised in a family setting. We attend school in groups and if you’re a young female, you learn to go to the bathroom in groups. We have our cliques, our club memberships, our teams and our carpools.
Then a few strange ones suddenly veer off the crowded path, find their trembling wings and start flying solo. As writers. As one-woman private investigative agencies.
Ah, you say. Now I know where she’s going with this. Good, if you do. If you don’t, sit back, grab a beer and get ready for some free-fall soul searching.
Has it yet occurred to you that one of the reasons you’re a writer is that you’re very comfortable being alone?
Not every one can do this. Most people -- and I like e.e. cummings’ phraseology on this -- “Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the squarerootofminusone.” If you don’t believe me try going to any well-populated social gathering. A clearance sale at K-Mart will do. Tell the multitudes that you’re a writer and once they finishing ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the fame they associate with the profession, they will inevitably ask how you do it. How do you sit there, hands on the keyboard, staring at a blank computer screen, or blank piece of paper, and get your ideas. Your characters. Your action. All by yourself.
And that’s the kicker. All by yourself. No boss breathing down your neck. No supervisor clucking her tongue at your tardiness. No taskmaster with a whip, other than your own self.
And then you try to explain that you’re really not alone, that there are about a hundred or so people who live inside your head, all with stories to tell, all clamoring for your attention.
And these people, these nice employed-in-big-nine-to-five-offices people began to back away from you. Slowly.
Been there?
Fifteen years ago when I started my investigative agency I figured I’d have two or three others on staff. All male. Reverse chauvinism. And they had to be good looking (they all were). But I found, and it wasn’t due to the distraction of being surrounded by hunks, that I got just as much work accomplished by myself.
So for the last few years I worked as I investigator I was flying solo, and it may come as no surprise to you writers that the majority of private investigators do the same.
We have our heads full of people, too. Slimy people, wacky people, tricky people, lost people.
I worked a lot of cases by marching these people out onto my mind’s stage and running them through their paces. I tripped up slime because in my mind I wore their skins. I found the lost because in my mind I wore their walking shoes. I out-thought the con artists because in my mind we donned the same thinking caps.
My days often went like this: I’d sit in the attorney’s office after delivering my report and he’d look at me from across his polished mahogany desk, praising my work.
“So. How many investigators did you put on this guy’s tail?” While he questioned me I knew that outside his office door are no less than two secretaries, a receptionist and four junior partners in his law firm.
“None. Just me,” I ‘d tell him.
“Just you?” he’d asked, as if being only five feet tall even further reduces my abilities.
“Yeah. Just me.”
“Then how did you figure out so quickly what this guy was up to?” The attorney knew he couldn’t even produce a simple transmittal letter without getting at least three other people involved.
“Easy,” I’d tell him. “Around two in the morning, after I’ve beaten the case file and all the accumulated data to death, I pour myself a goblet of Opus One. Then I pace the kitchen in the dark and become your adversary. I think his thoughts, feel his fears, absorb his desperation.”
At this point the attorney would inevitably glance at his watch, make a remark about his busy day and full schedule of appointments, and if I wouldn’t mind showing myself out....?
Yeah, I think me, myself and I can handle that.
Gentle readers, gentle writers, you and I fly solo. There is something in our nature that requires us to pull away from the ‘madding crowd’ and hover, to observe and record.
But not in a crowd at the zoo or a class trip to the museum, where other fingers point out the sights and others opinions fill our ears. But on our own, either as the advance scout or the straggler. So we see what others would have trampled on, hear what others would have lost in the din.
We saw heroes in the stars long before anyone told us what the constellations were supposed to mean. And we still see castles in the clouds when most other people only see a seventy per cent chance of precipitation.
One of my greatest thrills when I had my private pilot’s license was to fly directly into any cloud castle I wanted to. It would blanket my small plane, obscuring the windows and then suddenly I was out the other side, and the whole horizon looked brighter, more vivid with color. Pilots called it cloud punching.
I think of that blankness sometimes when I sit and stare at the white screen on my computer, knowing the words that I type suddenly make it come alive with color. With voices. With characters.
Which brings me back to my original question. Has it yet occurred to you that one of the reasons you are a writer is that you are very comfortable being alone?
Now do you know why?
Happy cloud punching.
Namaste, ~Linnea
http://www.linneasinclair.com
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Evolutionary Tree and Worldbuilding
Folks:
Those who've read Linnea Sinclair's post for March 19, 2007, just previous to this one, will be particularly interested in the sentence in the article I'm discussing here that indicates humans evolved from prey not preditors. And prey do tend to form groups, herds, flocks, prides, etc. I can wonder if it's too simplistic to classify humans as preditor or prey when we clearly produce both.
An Item in the March 18, 2007 issue of Newsweek -- BEYOND STONES & BONES: The New Science of Evolution by Sharon Begley -- gives us an interesting twist on the biological part of the author's worldbuilding job (we not only have to make planets, but biospheres too).
There are some illustrations in the print article that don't appear in the free online article, but here's the link to the online article.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17542627/site/newsweek/
This model of human evolution opens a whole lot of possibilities for the evolutionary trees of other planets that we can just imagine -- and all the trouble Terran explorers could get into because they didn't understand where the planet was in this process when they landed.
Who's to say that two or three independently evolved versions of some sapiens species might not independently open negotiations with some alien explorers. That's been done in SF, but here we have a way to make it plausible to modern readers who are learning THIS model of human evolution in school (or not!).
What's important about this article is not the science it's explaining -- anyone following "the literature" would know all this already years ago. What's important about this article FOR WRITERS is that it's in Newsweek -- and thus now writers who are worldbuilding must assume their readers are familiar with this new theory of the evolutionary pattern.
Some may rely on it as the best current information, some my disbelieve it because they disbelieve, and others may misunderstand it. But now it's in Newsweek, the SF/F writer has to account for it in order to make the story plausible to the most readers.
Some of the items of greatest interest to me come near the end of the article.
a) (bottom of page 1 of online article) the record shows evolutionary changes seem to come in bursts, in fits and starts.
More than once in human prehistory, evolution created a modern trait such as a face without jutting, apelike brows and jaws, only to let it go extinct, before trying again a few million years later. Our species' travels through time proceeded in fits and starts, with long periods when "nothing much happened," punctuated by bursts of dizzying change, says paleontologist Ian Tattersall, co-curator of the American Museum's new hall.
b) (4th parag up from the end )
"We are all descended from maybe about 2,000 men -- perhaps 4,000 people. And I recall they genetically identified "Eve" the one woman who is ancestor to all modern humans. I don't know if that's still firmly established. "
c) (2nd parag up from the end) the most recent change in the human genome seems to have occurred 5800 years ago --
"The third (...gene...), called ASPM and also involved in brain size, clocks in at 5,800 years. That was just before people established the first cities in the Near East and is well after Homo sapiens attained their modern form. It therefore suggests that we are still evolving."
d) ( at the end of page 2 online) connect this to item a) above.
"Instead, evolution played Mr. Potato Head, putting different combinations of features on ancient hominids then letting them vanish until a later species evolved them. "Similar traits evolved more than once, which means you can't use them as gold-plated evidence that one fossil is descended from another or that having an advanced trait means a fossil was a direct ancestor of modern humans," says Wood. "Lots of branches in the human family tree don't make it to the surface.""
DISCUSSION:
a) as I originally set up the Sime~Gen mutation, channels appeared and disappeared quite a few times leaving no record (lots of great stories in times of chaos) -- and likewise the Farris mutation occurred independently in widely separated places, mostly only to fail because they are so fragile. Fan writers have largely ignored all those story opportunities! That may be because they were operating from the "old model" of human evolution mentioned in this Newsweek article while I had extrapolated ahead to the currently fashionable model explained here.
b) has little to do with S~G -- but in worldbuilding in general, that 2,000 male group of ancestors might be the crew and passengers of a crashed space ship. Given this model of evolution -- where modern traits appear and go extinct over and over at widely separated and disconnected places -- it's possible to extrapolate that just exactly that kind of "appear/disappear" evolution is going on on other planets, and somewhere OUR traits would appear and not disappear too quickly.
On the other hand "we" haven't been around very long -- who says we aren't going to disappear in this Global Warming phase, only to reappear again independently here when the climate is better, or on another planet. Of course, Global Warming could be terminated by a meteor strike or Supervolcano eruption.
Look at this "appear/disappear" model from a far perspective. Isn't it as if "something" is trying to use the anthropoid DNA template to "emerge" ??? hooo-hooo spookey.
c) You all do know this is the year 5767 of the Hebrew calendar -- that means that God finished creating humankind 5, 767 years ago, just when this calculation shows that the latest gene was added to our makeup, the key turning point in the record where language, art and culture emerge. (as I recall agriculture appeared about 7,000 years ago, and as much as 9,000 years ago some kind of human traveled from what is England today, across Greenland to the Eastern Canada and US shores (they left graves with peculiar red clay in them).
d) put the "fits and starts" concept of evolutionary progress together with the way a pattern seems to emerge here, there, elsewhere, die out, and emerge again independently -- correlate that with the mystical view of the universe and you can worldbuild for the next 30 years and not run out of permutations and combinations of worlds in which to tell stories.
Also don't fail to notice how the "fits and starts" concept of evolutionary progress doesn't exactly fit with the "genetic clock" calculations where genetic replication "mistakes" are made at a statistically predictable rate.
Now I do expect that in a few years, this entire model of evolution will hit the trash can as researchers dig up the connecting links among the dead ends -- but in the meantime, we can have a FIELD-DAY in SF writing.
And what haunts me in the whole thing is how obvious it is that WE (us Ancients) are likely to be one of those branches that peters out to extinction. Where have I seen that theory played with in SF?
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Those who've read Linnea Sinclair's post for March 19, 2007, just previous to this one, will be particularly interested in the sentence in the article I'm discussing here that indicates humans evolved from prey not preditors. And prey do tend to form groups, herds, flocks, prides, etc. I can wonder if it's too simplistic to classify humans as preditor or prey when we clearly produce both.
An Item in the March 18, 2007 issue of Newsweek -- BEYOND STONES & BONES: The New Science of Evolution by Sharon Begley -- gives us an interesting twist on the biological part of the author's worldbuilding job (we not only have to make planets, but biospheres too).
There are some illustrations in the print article that don't appear in the free online article, but here's the link to the online article.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17542627/site/newsweek/
This model of human evolution opens a whole lot of possibilities for the evolutionary trees of other planets that we can just imagine -- and all the trouble Terran explorers could get into because they didn't understand where the planet was in this process when they landed.
Who's to say that two or three independently evolved versions of some sapiens species might not independently open negotiations with some alien explorers. That's been done in SF, but here we have a way to make it plausible to modern readers who are learning THIS model of human evolution in school (or not!).
What's important about this article is not the science it's explaining -- anyone following "the literature" would know all this already years ago. What's important about this article FOR WRITERS is that it's in Newsweek -- and thus now writers who are worldbuilding must assume their readers are familiar with this new theory of the evolutionary pattern.
Some may rely on it as the best current information, some my disbelieve it because they disbelieve, and others may misunderstand it. But now it's in Newsweek, the SF/F writer has to account for it in order to make the story plausible to the most readers.
Some of the items of greatest interest to me come near the end of the article.
a) (bottom of page 1 of online article) the record shows evolutionary changes seem to come in bursts, in fits and starts.
More than once in human prehistory, evolution created a modern trait such as a face without jutting, apelike brows and jaws, only to let it go extinct, before trying again a few million years later. Our species' travels through time proceeded in fits and starts, with long periods when "nothing much happened," punctuated by bursts of dizzying change, says paleontologist Ian Tattersall, co-curator of the American Museum's new hall.
b) (4th parag up from the end )
"We are all descended from maybe about 2,000 men -- perhaps 4,000 people. And I recall they genetically identified "Eve" the one woman who is ancestor to all modern humans. I don't know if that's still firmly established. "
c) (2nd parag up from the end) the most recent change in the human genome seems to have occurred 5800 years ago --
"The third (...gene...), called ASPM and also involved in brain size, clocks in at 5,800 years. That was just before people established the first cities in the Near East and is well after Homo sapiens attained their modern form. It therefore suggests that we are still evolving."
d) ( at the end of page 2 online) connect this to item a) above.
"Instead, evolution played Mr. Potato Head, putting different combinations of features on ancient hominids then letting them vanish until a later species evolved them. "Similar traits evolved more than once, which means you can't use them as gold-plated evidence that one fossil is descended from another or that having an advanced trait means a fossil was a direct ancestor of modern humans," says Wood. "Lots of branches in the human family tree don't make it to the surface.""
DISCUSSION:
a) as I originally set up the Sime~Gen mutation, channels appeared and disappeared quite a few times leaving no record (lots of great stories in times of chaos) -- and likewise the Farris mutation occurred independently in widely separated places, mostly only to fail because they are so fragile. Fan writers have largely ignored all those story opportunities! That may be because they were operating from the "old model" of human evolution mentioned in this Newsweek article while I had extrapolated ahead to the currently fashionable model explained here.
b) has little to do with S~G -- but in worldbuilding in general, that 2,000 male group of ancestors might be the crew and passengers of a crashed space ship. Given this model of evolution -- where modern traits appear and go extinct over and over at widely separated and disconnected places -- it's possible to extrapolate that just exactly that kind of "appear/disappear" evolution is going on on other planets, and somewhere OUR traits would appear and not disappear too quickly.
On the other hand "we" haven't been around very long -- who says we aren't going to disappear in this Global Warming phase, only to reappear again independently here when the climate is better, or on another planet. Of course, Global Warming could be terminated by a meteor strike or Supervolcano eruption.
Look at this "appear/disappear" model from a far perspective. Isn't it as if "something" is trying to use the anthropoid DNA template to "emerge" ??? hooo-hooo spookey.
c) You all do know this is the year 5767 of the Hebrew calendar -- that means that God finished creating humankind 5, 767 years ago, just when this calculation shows that the latest gene was added to our makeup, the key turning point in the record where language, art and culture emerge. (as I recall agriculture appeared about 7,000 years ago, and as much as 9,000 years ago some kind of human traveled from what is England today, across Greenland to the Eastern Canada and US shores (they left graves with peculiar red clay in them).
d) put the "fits and starts" concept of evolutionary progress together with the way a pattern seems to emerge here, there, elsewhere, die out, and emerge again independently -- correlate that with the mystical view of the universe and you can worldbuild for the next 30 years and not run out of permutations and combinations of worlds in which to tell stories.
Also don't fail to notice how the "fits and starts" concept of evolutionary progress doesn't exactly fit with the "genetic clock" calculations where genetic replication "mistakes" are made at a statistically predictable rate.
Now I do expect that in a few years, this entire model of evolution will hit the trash can as researchers dig up the connecting links among the dead ends -- but in the meantime, we can have a FIELD-DAY in SF writing.
And what haunts me in the whole thing is how obvious it is that WE (us Ancients) are likely to be one of those branches that peters out to extinction. Where have I seen that theory played with in SF?
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
A picture is worth a thousand words
Cover art is supposed to do the job, and we've talked about that on this blog.
But what happens when your cover art doesn't communicate what the author thinks it should communicate? Can you compensate? Should you?
Notice the caveat. I'm talking about what I think, and I concede that I may not be right. An aurora borealis and a naked couple rolling about in the sea does not communicate "alien romance" or even "survival romance" to me.
It probably says "Sex!" Maybe even "Fallible, unreliable, all-too-human sex!" given my title, which is actually a chess term for a "No-win situation" but not a lot of people realize that.
So, when I set off on a booksigning (drive-by) tour down I-75, I took my poster with me. If an author has a visual aid with her, I think she has a better shot at making an impression.
I felt a little self-conscious thrusting my custom poster under busy romance experts' noses, but even a picture of a naked man is more interesting than much else I can think of, and self-promotion is not a game for the shrinking violet.
On the left are scenes from my "novel trailer" (done by Edward Traxler) showing planets and spaceships (for space), a couple of aviation dogfights (action), parachutes and exploding stars (space and action), a naked man (ah, well, if you've got one, flaunt him), a conflagration.
On the right were jpgs given to me personally by Survivorman, who was my survival consultant to make sure I translated all my research into plausible action, and who also gave me some really cool survival tips... not to mention the cover quote. The slides show a conch, which is a handy container for boiling water on the campfire, a fishing technique using whittled sticks, a shelter.
In my opinion, if you are making a book trailer, you should consider what other uses you could make of custom artwork stills!
Signed copies of Insufficient Mating Material are at:
KY
Barnes & Noble Booksellers
1932 Pavilion Way
Lexington, KY 40509
859-543-8518
TN
Barnes & Noble Booksellers
8029 Kingston Pike
Knoxville, TN 37919
865-670-0773
GA
Barnes & Noble Booksellers
50 Barrett Pkwy Suite 1100
Marietta, GA 30066
770-422-2261
Barnes & Noble Booksellers
3625 Dallas Hwy SW
Marietta, GA 30064
770-424-0511
Barnes & Noble Booksellers
2952 Cobb Pkwy
Atlanta, GA 30339
770-953-0966
FL
B.Dalton Booksellers
Regency Square Mall
9501 Arlington Expressway #250
Jacksonville, FL 32225
904-721-2446
Barnes & Noble Booksellers
9282 Atlantic Blvd
Jacksonville, FL 3225
904-721-2446
Barnes & Noble Booksellers
10280 Midtown Parkway
Jacksonville, FL 32225
904-928-2027
(Also, Barnes & Noble Booksellers
The Streets of Westchester
9455 Civic Centre Blvd
West Chester, OH 45069
513-755-2258)
see the Insufficient Mating Material video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLuEtY7oP7A
INSUFFICIENT MATING MATERIAL takes up where FORCED MATE ended, with Djetthro-Jason (Jethro-Jason) severely beaten, about to undergo surgery to change his face and identity before his shotgun wedding to the frivolous Princess Martia-Djulia (Marsha-Julia).
No one gives a thought to what Martia-Djulia might do when she realizes that it’s not her unsuitable lover, Commander Jason, but a stranger being frog-marched up the aisle to become her Mate.
Her surprising reaction sets off a firestorm of rumor… and rattles a murderer who thought he’d gotten away with an ancient crime.
INSUFFICIENT MATING MATERIAL EXCERPT
A Tricky Experiment
“Maybe, sweetheart, we should have sex to prove to you that you can and will enjoy it.”
“I enjoyed it once. I am very happy with my memories. I don’t need you or your experiment to prove anything,” she said stiffly.
“Once?” He raised an eyebrow. His lips twitched. Too late, Martia-Djulia realized that she had just contradicted one of her earlier statements.
“The Aim of the Experiment is to discover whether or not we are sexually compatible,” Djetth said loftily. She suspected that he was amusing himself by parodying a formal checklist. “Method: to have mind-blowing recreational sex using positions and techniques that mitigate or avoid unfortunate consequences. Expected result--”
“What unfortunate consequences?”
“Insects in your hair?” he teased. “Sand in your baby box. A baby. Infection. Injury. Legal consummation of a Mating we might not want.”
His gaze flickered. Martia-Djulia had the impression that his list was deliberately ordered.
“Injury to whom?” she asked, ignoring the glossed over “baby.”
“I’ve wondered why you haven’t blasted me backward onto my butt since our Mating Day. I’ve certainly deserved it.”
“Yes you have!” she agreed heatedly.
ISBN 0-505-52711-1
Best wishes,
Rowena Cherry
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Where the ideas strike.
Well, not so much where as when -- or maybe where and when.
For me, IDEAS always strike when I have no time to write them down -- or when there's no paper or pen -- or when (as noted) there are projects on deadline. I have two active projects and just had a dynamite idea for a 3rd which I did manage to outline on the computer but it'll be years until I get to it and there are other projects that would make better sense to do!
So wherever you are when ideas strike, somehow jot them down with enough outline (beginning, middle, end) to draw the whole world back into your mind.
One of the first things I learned about writing when I was a teenager is to keep an Idea File and a Name File (to name characters from later when you're writing), and a file of Place Names that pop into your head. These stray bits of worldbuilding pop into your head because they are attached to a story in there somewhere -- save them and use them to fish the story out at a later date.
The problem for a writer is not finding ideas -- it's beating them off with a stick.
When your idea file is full to bursting, eventually you'll come to a point where you must choose a project to spend the next 5 years of your working life on. That choosing process is totally external to the writing process and has nothing to do with picking the "best" idea you've got, or sometimes not even the one you like best.
Linnea's post just before this one hits the nail on the head.
One of the things they always teach new writers is "write what you know" -- but most people think that means to write about their home town or their grammar school or the Marine Battalion they served with.
That's not what it means. Since you are writing fiction "what you know" is the kind of fiction you are reading.
Most audiences or readerships are conditioned to accept certain "myths" -- or conventions of the genre, an alternate reality.
If you want to violate one of those conventions (like Sherlock Holmes wears a Deerstalker hat) you have to do it in such a way that the readers know you know the convention and are violating it for a good story-based reason that will deliver satisfaction to them for their patience.
Historical romance is of course one of those -- as is "The Western" -- where writers have created comfortable alternate histories for their readers that readers will pay for. For example, today we have a plethora of historical romance novels where the woman is more a 21st century woman than a product of her historical time. That's OK -- I love fantasy!
Now there are two main ways to found a career in writing -- one safe and one really risky. For safe you can aim your work at an established market and add something original to the existing template that readers already thirst for -- or you can risk trying to create a market.
You must sort your idea file into items that can be written to existing markets, and ideas that are genuinely so different they just don't have a place in today's market.
Many of you have lived through the creation of the Paranormal Romance market. It didn't happen all at once and there were only a couple of blockbuster novels that set the tone for this new genre. One oddball novel that cracked resistance was INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE that straddled the horror/relationship genre borderlines.
A lot of people who loved INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE didn't like the sequels at all because they became darker and more horror-driven.
I personally lauded INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE because it showed an audience who otherwise would not read a fantasy or SF novel what relationship could do in a Vampire setting.
The relationship in question is simply that between the interviewing reporter and the vampire -- and the interviewing reporter becomes wholly enamored of the vampire existence and wants in. His ideas and attitudes change as the vampire tells his story. The whole book is just the recounting of a story that makes the interviewer lust after vampire-hood.
And it was marvelously well done.
After the first reprint of INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE, we began to see Romance writers being allowed to play with the human/vampire relationship where they were of opposite genders.
The origin of the Vampire Romance goes back way before INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE -- but the commercial rennaisance happened in the wake of that successful book in another but adjacent genre.
Can anyone refute that analysis? Any other candidates for the market-making book that founded the Vampire Romance and opened up the opportunity to make a market in Paranormal Romance, SF Romance, and Fantasy Romance etc etc.
Does anyone here remember the days before Romance novel spines had sub-genre logos or words on them?
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
For me, IDEAS always strike when I have no time to write them down -- or when there's no paper or pen -- or when (as noted) there are projects on deadline. I have two active projects and just had a dynamite idea for a 3rd which I did manage to outline on the computer but it'll be years until I get to it and there are other projects that would make better sense to do!
So wherever you are when ideas strike, somehow jot them down with enough outline (beginning, middle, end) to draw the whole world back into your mind.
One of the first things I learned about writing when I was a teenager is to keep an Idea File and a Name File (to name characters from later when you're writing), and a file of Place Names that pop into your head. These stray bits of worldbuilding pop into your head because they are attached to a story in there somewhere -- save them and use them to fish the story out at a later date.
The problem for a writer is not finding ideas -- it's beating them off with a stick.
When your idea file is full to bursting, eventually you'll come to a point where you must choose a project to spend the next 5 years of your working life on. That choosing process is totally external to the writing process and has nothing to do with picking the "best" idea you've got, or sometimes not even the one you like best.
Linnea's post just before this one hits the nail on the head.
One of the things they always teach new writers is "write what you know" -- but most people think that means to write about their home town or their grammar school or the Marine Battalion they served with.
That's not what it means. Since you are writing fiction "what you know" is the kind of fiction you are reading.
Most audiences or readerships are conditioned to accept certain "myths" -- or conventions of the genre, an alternate reality.
If you want to violate one of those conventions (like Sherlock Holmes wears a Deerstalker hat) you have to do it in such a way that the readers know you know the convention and are violating it for a good story-based reason that will deliver satisfaction to them for their patience.
Historical romance is of course one of those -- as is "The Western" -- where writers have created comfortable alternate histories for their readers that readers will pay for. For example, today we have a plethora of historical romance novels where the woman is more a 21st century woman than a product of her historical time. That's OK -- I love fantasy!
Now there are two main ways to found a career in writing -- one safe and one really risky. For safe you can aim your work at an established market and add something original to the existing template that readers already thirst for -- or you can risk trying to create a market.
You must sort your idea file into items that can be written to existing markets, and ideas that are genuinely so different they just don't have a place in today's market.
Many of you have lived through the creation of the Paranormal Romance market. It didn't happen all at once and there were only a couple of blockbuster novels that set the tone for this new genre. One oddball novel that cracked resistance was INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE that straddled the horror/relationship genre borderlines.
A lot of people who loved INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE didn't like the sequels at all because they became darker and more horror-driven.
I personally lauded INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE because it showed an audience who otherwise would not read a fantasy or SF novel what relationship could do in a Vampire setting.
The relationship in question is simply that between the interviewing reporter and the vampire -- and the interviewing reporter becomes wholly enamored of the vampire existence and wants in. His ideas and attitudes change as the vampire tells his story. The whole book is just the recounting of a story that makes the interviewer lust after vampire-hood.
And it was marvelously well done.
After the first reprint of INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE, we began to see Romance writers being allowed to play with the human/vampire relationship where they were of opposite genders.
The origin of the Vampire Romance goes back way before INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE -- but the commercial rennaisance happened in the wake of that successful book in another but adjacent genre.
Can anyone refute that analysis? Any other candidates for the market-making book that founded the Vampire Romance and opened up the opportunity to make a market in Paranormal Romance, SF Romance, and Fantasy Romance etc etc.
Does anyone here remember the days before Romance novel spines had sub-genre logos or words on them?
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Monday, March 12, 2007
What flavor am I?
In keeping with Murphy’s Law, I’ve had a very busy teaching schedule the past two months. This, of course, happening when I’m late on book deadline and creating lessons, printing handouts, driving to Hither and Yon In Florida for in-person workshops or sifting through dozens of emails for my on-line workshops are things that make me wish for thirty hour days. Hell, forty hours might not even be enough.
But be that as it may, when one does dang near back to back workshops with all levels of writers, one tends to—at times—come upon similarities in the questions students ask.
This season’s flavor seems to be students who want to write in [fill in the blank] genre and yet haven’t read the genre or—if they have—aren’t conversant enough to know where their manuscript would fit in.
Essentially, when a student catches me after class or via email and tells me about his or her work in progress, one of my first questions invariably is: What author(s) do you write like? What’s a read-alike list for your work?
And I’m invariably treated to a blank stare.
“My books aren’t like anyone else’s,” I’m told.
Oh. So you invented a new genre?
No, they haven’t. But the reality is they haven’t done their homework, either.
Is it important for a yet-to-be-published writer to know their read-alikes? Hell, yes. For one thing, it keeps you from reinventing a wheel that’s been around for a long time. (Hey, I wrote this great story about a guy named Romeo and a gal named Juliet and they’re in love but their families hate each other…Oh, it’s been written?) For another, it immensely helps you market yourself to an agent or a publisher.
“People who read Susan Grant, Colby Hodge, Jacqueline Lichtenberg, Susan Kearney, Rowena Cherry and Margaret Carter will love Linnea Sinclair’s books.”
Having that little fact in your query or on the tip of your tongue at a writer conference will indicate to the agent/editor that you’re a professional—even before you are. You’ve done your homework. You’ve researched the genre and the market. You know your audience. You know WHAT AUDIENCE YOU’RE WRITING FOR. You know you’re not wasting your time creating a story that’s already been done to death.
Yes, you are writing your own unique story but you know what shelf you belong on, what review column you’d be placed in, what kind of costume you’d wear if you had to represent your book at the next Romantic Times BOOKlover’s Conference masquerade party.
It also means you know the conventions (not as in conference but as in rules and regs) and tenets of the genre. Romance has to have an HEA. In fantasy/spec fic, magic must have a price. In a mystery there has to be, well, a mystery. A puzzle. It means you know the difference between hard science fiction, soft science fiction and space opera. And so on and so forth.
Does that mean if you’re Linnea Sinclair that you write EXACTLY like Sue Grant or Jacqueline Lichtenberg? Of course not. Each author is unique. But there are similarities. Think of it like ice cream: if you like chocolate ice cream, you more than likely will enjoy double fudge ripple or mocha java or brownie fudge ice cream. If you like cocoanut ice cream (my personal fave) you’d most likely enjoy a scoop of Pina Colada flavored ice cream.
You can make those kinds of decision at Baskin Robbins. Learn to make them as well at Barnes & Noble.
Hugs all and happy writing! ~ Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
But be that as it may, when one does dang near back to back workshops with all levels of writers, one tends to—at times—come upon similarities in the questions students ask.
This season’s flavor seems to be students who want to write in [fill in the blank] genre and yet haven’t read the genre or—if they have—aren’t conversant enough to know where their manuscript would fit in.
Essentially, when a student catches me after class or via email and tells me about his or her work in progress, one of my first questions invariably is: What author(s) do you write like? What’s a read-alike list for your work?
And I’m invariably treated to a blank stare.
“My books aren’t like anyone else’s,” I’m told.
Oh. So you invented a new genre?
No, they haven’t. But the reality is they haven’t done their homework, either.
Is it important for a yet-to-be-published writer to know their read-alikes? Hell, yes. For one thing, it keeps you from reinventing a wheel that’s been around for a long time. (Hey, I wrote this great story about a guy named Romeo and a gal named Juliet and they’re in love but their families hate each other…Oh, it’s been written?) For another, it immensely helps you market yourself to an agent or a publisher.
“People who read Susan Grant, Colby Hodge, Jacqueline Lichtenberg, Susan Kearney, Rowena Cherry and Margaret Carter will love Linnea Sinclair’s books.”
Having that little fact in your query or on the tip of your tongue at a writer conference will indicate to the agent/editor that you’re a professional—even before you are. You’ve done your homework. You’ve researched the genre and the market. You know your audience. You know WHAT AUDIENCE YOU’RE WRITING FOR. You know you’re not wasting your time creating a story that’s already been done to death.
Yes, you are writing your own unique story but you know what shelf you belong on, what review column you’d be placed in, what kind of costume you’d wear if you had to represent your book at the next Romantic Times BOOKlover’s Conference masquerade party.
It also means you know the conventions (not as in conference but as in rules and regs) and tenets of the genre. Romance has to have an HEA. In fantasy/spec fic, magic must have a price. In a mystery there has to be, well, a mystery. A puzzle. It means you know the difference between hard science fiction, soft science fiction and space opera. And so on and so forth.
Does that mean if you’re Linnea Sinclair that you write EXACTLY like Sue Grant or Jacqueline Lichtenberg? Of course not. Each author is unique. But there are similarities. Think of it like ice cream: if you like chocolate ice cream, you more than likely will enjoy double fudge ripple or mocha java or brownie fudge ice cream. If you like cocoanut ice cream (my personal fave) you’d most likely enjoy a scoop of Pina Colada flavored ice cream.
You can make those kinds of decision at Baskin Robbins. Learn to make them as well at Barnes & Noble.
Hugs all and happy writing! ~ Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
Sunday, March 11, 2007
SUSAN GRANT - Secret Conversations of a Writer
GUEST BLOGGER: SUSAN GRANT!
I met the heroine of My Favorite Earthling in the throes of a rage. No, not mine—hers! I was typing away on deadline for another book when my muse came up and tapped me on the shoulder. "Keira has summoned you," she said.
"Keira?" I blinked. "Keira who?"
My muse, if you must know, is mistress of the Withering Stare. But she does make the story ideas pop, so I keep her on the payroll (her currency of choice: dark chocolate coins). "To freshen your memory, Susan, you briefly mentioned Keira on page 76 in Your Planet or Mine? as queen of the galaxy, with a history of castrating potential suitors. But don't let Her Majesty know I had to remind you."
"Why not? I'm the author. She's just a character." I closed my laptop screen. "And where does she get off summoning me? Who's in charge here?"
Thwack! Thwack! Two jeweled-hilt daggers sank into the wall behind my desk. Heart pounding, I spun around in my chair to find a beautiful, young, and very pissed-off woman hefting two more daggers. "I want my own story," she demanded. "I want a hero and a happy ending. I deserve no less!" Thwack! Thwack!
I winced, twice. "Why do you think you deserve your own story?"
Her perfect black-leather-clad breasts heaved with anger even as her eyes hinted at heartbreaking loneliness and a secret vulnerability that I immediately noted, author that I am. "I am queen of the galaxy, last in the line of the Holy Sakkaran goddesses—"
"And castrator of men," I finished for her. "This is not good heroine material."
"So I'm a bad girl. Romance books have bad boys all the time." Her expression turned a little naughty. "The blood of Sakkaran goddesses runs hot, if you know what I mean. I'll promise to make my hero quite happy while I give him hell. Give me a chance. That's all I ask."
I tapped a pencil against my chin as I observed the unhappy queen. "Jared Jasper," Muse whispered in my ear. "He's a confirmed bachelor, a fighter pilot, real-estate broker… and a barbarian from the primitive planet Earth. Confident, in control, doesn't like to be pushed around—and one of the sexiest men you've ever written, in my opinion. But no, it'll never work. They're complete opposites. They'll both refuse."
Except if I made it so they had to marry…
Muse and I exchanged knowing smiles.
"What won't work?" Keira demanded, trying to eavesdrop. "Who's a barbarian?"
"Honey," I soothed, "don't worry about a thing. Go on back to the palace. I'll take care of everything from here." I yanked the daggers out of the wall and returned them.
Muse shook her head as Keira flounced away. "She has no idea what's coming, does she?"
"Isn't that the point?" Smiling wickedly, I opened my laptop and began writing. It is, after all, what I love to do.
I hope you'll join me in learning what happens to Keira, Jared, and the rest of the galaxy. Although My Favorite Earthling is the second story in this series—following Your Planet or Mine?—it's a stand-alone book. It's also my hottest to date, full of the humor, adventure, and smarts you've come to expect from my stories. Look for the conclusion to the series, How to Lose an Extraterrestrial in 10 Days, this August.
Until next time… fly high!
Susan Grant
3/07: My Favorite Earthling; "a sizzling cosmic romp!"
www.susangrant.com
www.MYSPACE.com/susangrant
Come fly with me: www.susangrant.blogspot.com
I met the heroine of My Favorite Earthling in the throes of a rage. No, not mine—hers! I was typing away on deadline for another book when my muse came up and tapped me on the shoulder. "Keira has summoned you," she said.
"Keira?" I blinked. "Keira who?"
My muse, if you must know, is mistress of the Withering Stare. But she does make the story ideas pop, so I keep her on the payroll (her currency of choice: dark chocolate coins). "To freshen your memory, Susan, you briefly mentioned Keira on page 76 in Your Planet or Mine? as queen of the galaxy, with a history of castrating potential suitors. But don't let Her Majesty know I had to remind you."
"Why not? I'm the author. She's just a character." I closed my laptop screen. "And where does she get off summoning me? Who's in charge here?"
Thwack! Thwack! Two jeweled-hilt daggers sank into the wall behind my desk. Heart pounding, I spun around in my chair to find a beautiful, young, and very pissed-off woman hefting two more daggers. "I want my own story," she demanded. "I want a hero and a happy ending. I deserve no less!" Thwack! Thwack!
I winced, twice. "Why do you think you deserve your own story?"
Her perfect black-leather-clad breasts heaved with anger even as her eyes hinted at heartbreaking loneliness and a secret vulnerability that I immediately noted, author that I am. "I am queen of the galaxy, last in the line of the Holy Sakkaran goddesses—"
"And castrator of men," I finished for her. "This is not good heroine material."
"So I'm a bad girl. Romance books have bad boys all the time." Her expression turned a little naughty. "The blood of Sakkaran goddesses runs hot, if you know what I mean. I'll promise to make my hero quite happy while I give him hell. Give me a chance. That's all I ask."
I tapped a pencil against my chin as I observed the unhappy queen. "Jared Jasper," Muse whispered in my ear. "He's a confirmed bachelor, a fighter pilot, real-estate broker… and a barbarian from the primitive planet Earth. Confident, in control, doesn't like to be pushed around—and one of the sexiest men you've ever written, in my opinion. But no, it'll never work. They're complete opposites. They'll both refuse."
Except if I made it so they had to marry…
Muse and I exchanged knowing smiles.
"What won't work?" Keira demanded, trying to eavesdrop. "Who's a barbarian?"
"Honey," I soothed, "don't worry about a thing. Go on back to the palace. I'll take care of everything from here." I yanked the daggers out of the wall and returned them.
Muse shook her head as Keira flounced away. "She has no idea what's coming, does she?"
"Isn't that the point?" Smiling wickedly, I opened my laptop and began writing. It is, after all, what I love to do.
I hope you'll join me in learning what happens to Keira, Jared, and the rest of the galaxy. Although My Favorite Earthling is the second story in this series—following Your Planet or Mine?—it's a stand-alone book. It's also my hottest to date, full of the humor, adventure, and smarts you've come to expect from my stories. Look for the conclusion to the series, How to Lose an Extraterrestrial in 10 Days, this August.
Until next time… fly high!
Susan Grant
3/07: My Favorite Earthling; "a sizzling cosmic romp!"
www.susangrant.com
www.MYSPACE.com/susangrant
Come fly with me: www.susangrant.blogspot.com
Saturday, March 10, 2007
So whats wrong with romance?
I appeared at a women's expo in Knoxville TN yesterday with the fabulous Susan Kearny. And while signing books I got the question that arises at every signing.
"I want to write. What do I do?"
I got out a bookmark and wrote rwa.org on it. That's the url for Romance Writers of America, a wonderful organization that teaches the craft of writing. Then I proceeded to explain to this person about the local chapter, (shout out to Smokey Mountain Romance Writers).
This person looked at me in horror. "Oh no, I don't write romance. I write real books."
hmmm....and I don't? I'm pretty sure that all of us here at Alien Romance write real books, real stories with great elements such as life, death, love, family, happiness, tragedy, and the triumph over evil. Sounds like a real book to me. And a lot more exciting than some of the "classics" that I've read.
I bit my tongue and paitently explained to this person that if they wanted to learn the craft of writing that they really should check out RWA. And the writer of real books took my book, signed and personalized. Of course it was free, provided by the company that sponsered the Expo.
So why is it that some people don't think romance novels are real? I actually had someone in a local writers chapter (not rwa related) ask me when I was going to write a real book. Which was kind of funny because I'm the only published writer in this chapter. Is it the covers? I admit some of them are kind of "ick". OR is it the happily ever after? What makes our books different than say Nicholas Sparks who claims he does'nt write romance. Is it because our characters wind up together while his die or no apparent reason other than the fact that he wanted to make us cry? (and before I get a fan rant let me say that Walk To Remember is one of my faves.)
What is the stigma with romance? Any care to comment?
"I want to write. What do I do?"
I got out a bookmark and wrote rwa.org on it. That's the url for Romance Writers of America, a wonderful organization that teaches the craft of writing. Then I proceeded to explain to this person about the local chapter, (shout out to Smokey Mountain Romance Writers).
This person looked at me in horror. "Oh no, I don't write romance. I write real books."
hmmm....and I don't? I'm pretty sure that all of us here at Alien Romance write real books, real stories with great elements such as life, death, love, family, happiness, tragedy, and the triumph over evil. Sounds like a real book to me. And a lot more exciting than some of the "classics" that I've read.
I bit my tongue and paitently explained to this person that if they wanted to learn the craft of writing that they really should check out RWA. And the writer of real books took my book, signed and personalized. Of course it was free, provided by the company that sponsered the Expo.
So why is it that some people don't think romance novels are real? I actually had someone in a local writers chapter (not rwa related) ask me when I was going to write a real book. Which was kind of funny because I'm the only published writer in this chapter. Is it the covers? I admit some of them are kind of "ick". OR is it the happily ever after? What makes our books different than say Nicholas Sparks who claims he does'nt write romance. Is it because our characters wind up together while his die or no apparent reason other than the fact that he wanted to make us cry? (and before I get a fan rant let me say that Walk To Remember is one of my faves.)
What is the stigma with romance? Any care to comment?
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Welcome to the Dark Side!!
Okay, welcome to MY dark side might be a better title! Alyssa Day here, guesting at the fabulous Alien Djinn blog, hanging out with the cool kids! Thanks for inviting me, ladies!!
What's up with me? It's been a CRAZY WEEK for me - release week! ATLANTIS RISING hit stores on Tuesday, yet somehow enough copies snuck out to stores early that the book already is a NATIONAL BESTSELLER!! Yes, I was shocked to find out that I'd hit the Bookscan national bestseller list before the book even released. Like I said, CRAZY.
Which brings me back to the darkside . . .
What's a nice romantic comedy author to do when she wants to go to dark, tortured places in her writing? And she wants there to be hot sexy romance when she gets there?
She turns the reins (and the computer keyboard) over to her dark and twisty alter ego Alyssa Day, that's what. So I created Alyssa Day and she created the world of the Warriors of Poseidon. This works brilliantly for the creative process but at home? Not so much.
Kids: Can we have cake for breakfast?
Alyssa: Sure. Why not? There's milk in there somewhere, right?
Real me: WHAT? They can't eat cake for breakfast! Nutrition blah blah Health blah blah . . .
Alyssa and Kids: WhatEVER.
You can see how this is a problem. On the other hand, they don't always like HER better because I, real Mommy, have never threatened to take them out back and velcro their brains to the fence.
But the writing? is going great!! Even if Alyssa is gloating a bit over the dozens of reader letters that she's gotten already. And the great reviews. And for being the featured romance for Borders/Waldenbooks for March. And the Rhapsody Rising Star . . . [SHUT UP, ALREADY, ALYSSA.]
Sorry. It's that darn dark side. We'd write more, but we need a new pair of kickass leather boots. For a rocking movie-style book trailer, visit me here and for a very cool interview Christine Feehan did with me, go HERE.
And please tell me about your own dark side! By the end of the day I'll randomly choose one commenter to win an autographed copy of ATLANTIS RISING. Thanks again for letting me/us come and play!
Alyssa and Alesia
What's up with me? It's been a CRAZY WEEK for me - release week! ATLANTIS RISING hit stores on Tuesday, yet somehow enough copies snuck out to stores early that the book already is a NATIONAL BESTSELLER!! Yes, I was shocked to find out that I'd hit the Bookscan national bestseller list before the book even released. Like I said, CRAZY.
Which brings me back to the darkside . . .
What's a nice romantic comedy author to do when she wants to go to dark, tortured places in her writing? And she wants there to be hot sexy romance when she gets there?
She turns the reins (and the computer keyboard) over to her dark and twisty alter ego Alyssa Day, that's what. So I created Alyssa Day and she created the world of the Warriors of Poseidon. This works brilliantly for the creative process but at home? Not so much.
Kids: Can we have cake for breakfast?
Alyssa: Sure. Why not? There's milk in there somewhere, right?
Real me: WHAT? They can't eat cake for breakfast! Nutrition blah blah Health blah blah . . .
Alyssa and Kids: WhatEVER.
You can see how this is a problem. On the other hand, they don't always like HER better because I, real Mommy, have never threatened to take them out back and velcro their brains to the fence.
But the writing? is going great!! Even if Alyssa is gloating a bit over the dozens of reader letters that she's gotten already. And the great reviews. And for being the featured romance for Borders/Waldenbooks for March. And the Rhapsody Rising Star . . . [SHUT UP, ALREADY, ALYSSA.]
Sorry. It's that darn dark side. We'd write more, but we need a new pair of kickass leather boots. For a rocking movie-style book trailer, visit me here and for a very cool interview Christine Feehan did with me, go HERE.
And please tell me about your own dark side! By the end of the day I'll randomly choose one commenter to win an autographed copy of ATLANTIS RISING. Thanks again for letting me/us come and play!
Alyssa and Alesia
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