There's an old-- and somewhat disparaging-- anecdote in which Mr. Average American travels to Paris, France and complains to his wife, "Know what's wrong with this place? Too many durned furrinners who can't speak English!"
The problem with some of speculative fiction and science fiction/fantasy romance is the opposite one. For some unknown reason, everyone in the universe speaks English. American, Canadian or British version, but they all speak English.
Maybe this is a reaction to too many visits to Paris (can there be too many visits to Paris?). More likely, it reflects an author's fear of not understanding how to build a realistic language or of confusing the reader with alien phrases or terms.
Fears well founded. On the other side of the intergalactic literary coin, there are those spec fic and SFR novels in which the use of an alien language is a jarring distraction. It's overdone, comically done (and the intention is not to be comical) or snobbishly done (what, you mean you haven't memorized the Klingon dictionary?).
One of the necessary parts of world building, one of the necessary parts of crafting a believable spec fic novel, is the inclusion of alien concepts, religions, cultures and terms. Words.
“I want you. Yav chera.” His hoarse whisper filled her ear. “Yav chera, Trilby-chenka. Tell me you want me.”
She turned her face slightly to look at him. There was a softness in the lines of his face she’d never seen before. An openness. A vulnerability. It tugged at her heart.
“Yav chera,” she replied softly.
His thumb covered her lips. “Yav cheron. If you want me, it is yav cheron. When I want you, which is all the time, it is yav chera.”
He moved his thumb and brushed his lips against hers.
“Yav cheron,” she told him. She laced her fingers through his hair and pulled his face back to hers. (from Finders Keepers by Linnea Sinclair)
The trick is to make the inclusion of the words, the phrases, the names, the terms as natural and effortless as possible for the reader. The reader will be reading/hearing this language for the first time. But that's not a unique situation in spec fic. The reader is also encountering sickbays and starship bridges for the first time, or alien city streets, or space station corridors. Or forests thick with flora and fauna heretofore unknown and unimagined.
If you can make a reader see those things-- those station corridors, those lofty forests-- you can make them hear and understand your alien language.
One of the easiest ways I used above: make one person explain the language to the other. “I want you. Yav chera,” Rhis says to Trilby, thereby informing the reader of the meaning of the words 'yav chera'. He goes further by correcting her: Yav cheron is what she should say to him. So the reader begins-- consciously or unconsciously-- to see a pattern: chera/cheron. Female/male.
I use this same template for Rhis's language Zafharish, through the rest of Finders Keepers. But it's not a template I invented. I gleefully filched it from two workbooks I have on my bookshelf: Italian Made Simple and Vamos Apprender Portuguese.
And I've just taught you something else: you may not speak a word of Portuguese, but by comparison, by equivalency, you're going to at least figure that Vamos Apprender Portuguese is a book with the same function as Italian Made Simple.
“Ground forces. Like your marines,” he said, plucking at the insignia of crossed swords on his chest, “but we call ourselves Stegzarda. Stegzarda means perhaps ‘strength command’ in your language. We assist the Imperial Fleet when it comes to border outposts.”
Farra nodded. “Especially with recent jhavedzga—”
“Aggression.” Mitkanos corrected her. (from Finders Keepers by Linnea Sinclair.)
Farra says the word in Zafharish (Trilby's at the table listening to all this). Mitkanos, her uncle, corrects her. He also, conversationally, defines another term for Trilby.
Just as a good writer weaves in essentials elements and clues through dialogue (never, never using an info dump!), so a good spec fic writer can weave bits and pieces of a language into conversation.
But let's get back to using Vamos Apprender Portuguese as a template. You don't have to use 'We're Going to Learn Portuguese' (which is what that title says). You can use Russian or Japanese or Swahili as a template. Or you can combine templates of several languages. The point is, start with a basic linguistic template and it'll make your language-world building go so much smoother.
In Vamos, we learn o amigo and a amiga both mean 'friend'. We also see that our amigos are male and our amigas are female. (And yes, this is the same as Spanish and Italian - which is another point to keep in mind). We also see that the subject pronoun is often dropped (I, she, we) and the ending of the verb denotes the subject pronoun: Eu falo (I speak) is the same as Falo (I speak). Falamos is We speak. Same as Nos falamos.
Bear with me. I'm not trying to prep you for a trip to Rio de Janeiro, nice as that would be. I'm trying to show you that if it's done on this planet, you can do it on your planet.
Find a language template and use it. In Finders Keepers, I used Portuguese, Polish/Russian and un petite peu of French. Not the words - but the structure and conjugations. The sequence of words. And obviously, the sound of words.
Which brings me to another point about language-world building: not everyone sounds the same, even if they speak the same language.
Drogue’s bright-eyed gaze ran up and down my length, or lack of. “Captain Chasidah Bergren. Yes.” He stuck out his hand.
I accepted it.
“You are well?” he asked.
I tried to place his accent. South system, Dafir? Possibly. “All things considered, yes.” Some of my wariness returned. The Englarians were invariably cooperative with the government. I still had visions of a firing squad as a reception committee, Sully’s protestations to the contrary notwithstanding. (from Gabriel's Ghost by Linnea Sinclair.)
When I was a wee kidling, my parents gave me this enormous dictionary that contained a number of appendices, including 'Regional Variations In American Pronunciation' by Charles K. Thomas, PhD. Of course, even at 11 years old, I knew not everyone sounded alike. My grandmother, from Poland, spoke nothing like my teachers at school. And my neighbor Patty's parents, who were from Tennessee, sounded very different from anyone in my small town in New Jersey. But I'd never before seen those differences in writing. Dr. Thomas delineated ten different speech regions in the US of A. Ten! Eastern New England, North Central, New York City, Middle Atlantic, Western Pennsylvania, Southern Mountain, Southern, Central Midland, Northwest and Southwest.
And yet we have spec fic novels that while, yes, they include an alien language, all the aliens in the entire galaxy sound the same. No, they won't. They may read the same to the reader but they won't sound the same to your characters. Someone--like Chasidah, above--will notice the difference. You want your character to notice the difference. Different languages are as essential to world building as different religions, customs and even climate.
And just as with the weaving in of your alien culture or climate, use of an alien language must be done with a delicate touch. You're still writing for an English-speaking audience (or whatever other language your novel is written in). You must provide your reader with enough of a story they can understand or they won't slip into your fictional world.
Pick five or six key phrases; eight or ten key words, sprinkle your dialogue with them just enough times for the words to feel familiar. You don't jump when you walk into a French restaurant and are greeted with "Bon soir". The words, the sound, the accent belong in the setting. Your alien language should work the same way. Make the language flow easily with the scene any time you use it. Don't force your reader to stop and puzzle over it, or it might draw him out of the story. And then he'll put your novel down, grumbling… "Too many durned aliens in that book!"
~Linnea
(This article originally appeared in SFROnline)
To learn to speak Zafharish, click HERE
Monday, October 23, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
"Chess at full tilt" or "Chess at a sprint" or "Chess in bed"
In Insufficient Mating Material, apart from the title, the climactic chess got left out, and so did mating in bed.
There aren't too many beds on uninhabited desert islands on alien planets. The cover artist suggests how my hero and heroine might improvise, and I've blogged about that before.
I once had a chess scene in the version of Insufficient Mating Material that was 300 pages too long for publication, but the revealing conversation that my romantic alien couple were supposed to have over the chess board (improvised out of a variety of conch-like shells, played on hard sand) had to be reassigned in order to save paper, ink, and yawns.
To my delight, as I research the history, attitudes, mindset and culture of fencers and sword fighters for my next book, I'm learning that chess --especially lightning chess-- and swordplay have more than a little in common, though duelling with a naked weapon is potentially deadly.
The first book I chose to read, for the pragmatic reason that my local library had it (and one other that my sword master recommended) is BY THE SWORD - A History of Gladiators, Musketeers, Samauri, Swashbucklers, and Olympic Champions -- by Richard Cohen.
How could I not dive into it with an extended title like that, and it has the coolest cover showing a gauntleted hand elegantly curled around the hilt of a sabre... at least, I think it is a sabre? The painting is a detail from Le Maitre D' Armes by Tancrede Bastet.
By the way, "Chess at full tilt" and "Chess at a sprint" are mottoes that my local fencing club uses.
Best wishes,
Rowena Cherry
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Vampire Lust
Since no discussion topic has occurred to me this week, I've decided to post a short excerpt from my first vampire novel, DARK CHANGELING, from Hard Shell Word Factory (www.hardshell.com). It illustrates my approach to the intersection of blood and eroticism for vampires. My vampires are members of a natural nonhuman species, who enjoy erotic gratification by drinking from human donors ( as opposed to ordinary nourishment, most of which comes from animals, and totally separate from reproductive sex among themselves, which happens rarely, because of their long lifespans). They can't get fulfillment from the blood of their own kind. In this scene, Roger Darvell doesn't yet know that he's a vampire-human hybrid (he thinks his blood thirst is pathological), and he doesn't recognize Sylvia as a vampire because he doesn't know they exist. The two of them have met while both trying to prey on the daughter of their hosts at a party. They fled after almost getting caught:
He felt Sylvia's smoldering anger, but she docilely followed him out of the house. She balked only when he led the way down the circular drive to his black Citroen. "I'd rather take my own car."
His hand clamped onto her arm. "You can pick it up tomorrow. I'm not letting you escape until we have this out." He sensed her debating whether to fight him and rejecting the idea. Though she was tall for a woman, he was taller and outweighed her. He shoved her into the passenger seat, then got in on the driver's side and leaned across her to fasten her belt and lock the door. She watched him speculatively as she accepted these indignities. He sensed her anger yielding to curiosity.
He roared out of the driveway in a shower of gravel. Beside him, Sylvia wedged herself against the far door, subdued by his display of temper. After skirting the perimeter of the M.I.T. campus, he headed north out of Cambridge. Thankful for the late-night dearth of traffic, he didn't slack off the accelerator until they came to a scenic turnoff on Route 1A several miles out of town. The car swerved off the road and squealed to a stop.
Sylvia gave Roger a wary look. "Are we getting out?" She scanned the marshland beyond the low wall of unworked stone, as if evaluating its suitability as a refuge. Roger gripped her shoulders and jerked her around to face him. "What is this, rape?"
"Not exactly." His inflamed thirst left him with no patience for hypnotic seduction. He'd rely on physical force and wipe her memory later. He came down upon her.
Her resistance astonished him. Rather than overcoming her easily, he had to use all his strength to keep her immobilized. She kicked and squirmed in his grasp, twisting her neck away from his mouth, her own teeth bared as she tried vainly to retaliate. But she had no chance against him. Pinning her legs with one knee, he bit into her throat with a roughness unusual for him.
When her blood began to flow, she relaxed, not cooperative, but resigned. The taste was cool and tart, not the hot richness he expected. Despite Sylvia's residual excitement, satisfaction eluded him. He felt no outpouring of vitality from her, only an emptiness like his own. Baffled, he finally drew back, still unappeased.
She gazed at him, heavy-lidded, and pressed her palm to the oozing gash on the side of her neck. "What's the matter with you? Don't you know we can't get nourishment from each other?”
His rage dissipated by the struggle, Roger offered her his folded handkerchief, resisting the impulse to apologize for the red flecks staining her gown. "What do you mean, `we'?"
Sylvia wearily dabbed at her wound. "You mean you don't know? That's impossible." Her eyes probed his.
He sat up straight on his side of the car. "What are you raving about?"
"Come off it! With that strength, and your psychic power -- you have it, I felt you trying to manipulate me -- and those teeth? You're my kind. I wasn't sure until just now, because you feel somehow human, too, but you are."
He stared through the windshield, his fingers cramping on the wheel. He felt overheated in his suit jacket, stifled by the knot of his tie; he envied Sylvia's lightweight clothes. "Human? What else could I be? What do you mean, your kind?"
Again she projected bewilderment. "Maybe I did read you wrong. You don't feel right -- but you don't feel human, either."
*The woman is schizophrenic, and I'm listening to her.* "Are you saying that you're not human?"
She forced a humorless smile. "You don't believe me."
"Do you expect me to?"
*What about the things she mentioned, though? Especially the quasi-telepathy?*
Well, what about it? Some educated and otherwise rational people did believe in auras and paranormal perception. Stipulate that the power was more than delusion, that he did possess an empathic passkey to other people's emotions. If he met a woman who shared not only that power but the same perversion he suffered from, it made sense that they would be drawn to each other. Perhaps the power to read emotions predisposed to an obsession with blood. That didn't mean he had to accept Sylvia's proposed folie a deux.
"Can't you decide about having me committed later?" she said. Her shoulders twitched, and he glimpsed the tautness of her nipples through the rippling crepe de chine of her dress. She hugged her arms to her chest. "You've got both of us needing it in the worst way."
His own nerves vibrated in sync with the thirst she projected. Regardless of her mental balance or lack thereof, she certainly shared his obsession. "What do you suggest?"
"Drive," she said through clenched teeth.
He pulled onto the highway and floored the accelerator. After a few minutes she said, "Better slow down, or you won't be able to stop in time."
He noticed her eyes darting from window to window in a restless circuit of the visual field. "What are you looking for?"
"Hitchhikers."
"At this hour?"
"You'd be surprised." She didn't pause in her scan of the roadside. Over twenty minutes passed before she pointed to a figure standing on the shoulder. "There. Pick her up."
Roger slowed to a stop next to a teenage girl in a denim jacket, holding a crayoned sign that read "Cape Cod." "She's a bit young, isn't she? And what's the matter with her? Doesn't she know she's begging for assault or murder?" he said to Sylvia.
"Yes, isn't it lucky for us that people are such idiots?" she replied. Opening the door, she leaned out and beckoned to the hitchhiker.
A Writer's Life
A writer's life
I haven't been a regular blogger and I am sorry. Life keeps getting in the way. First and foremost I had to finish KISS ME DEADLY, my July 07 romantic suspense release . The galleys (final proofs) came in on ISLAND HEAT, the Feb 07 release. And both books needed quotes, dedication pages and acknowledgments. In addition, I've been traveling to conferences. In the last few months I've been to St. Louis, MO, Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta, Cleveland, Houston and DC. I'm not complaining. . .I love to travel and even got to do a local TV appearance. It's been fun. Time consuming. But fun.
And now I'm in the middle of helping to organize a Booktrailer (tm) for Circle of Seven Productions. We're shooting ISLAND HEAT with the same people who are on the cover of the book. (You can see them on my website www.susankearney.com then click on Future Books and scroll down the page) And I get to help with the script, the costumes, the actors. This past weekend we spent the entire day to get about 20 secs of film. Eventually, I'll put it up on my website . . . no, you can't see it yet. Sorry to be a tease.
And I'm also starting to think about the next book, POLAR HEAT, a sequel to ISLAND HEAT. This story is going back into space. And I need to start writing next week. All I need is a subplot, characters and an opening scene. Those openings drive me insane. It is so hard to write them. I must rewrite page one 20 times. On the other hand, I love the middle of the book, where I can put in all the complications. Endings get more difficult again. Wrapping up all those details is hard, too. Actually, there is nothing easy about writing. And the more I learn the more difficult it becomes.
So each book I try to work on one part of craft, hoping it will eventually become automatic. Sometimes this actually works. This book my goal is to deepen point of view. For a simple example, "He was worried," is a poor way to evoke emotion. It would be better to write, " He wondered if the kids were all right. Why weren't they running to the front door to greet him? Why couldn't he hear their happy voices? Maybe they were next door. "
It sounds easy to do, but for me, it's not. So the plan is to work on that as well as figure out my plot. All before Monday.
Susan Kearney
I haven't been a regular blogger and I am sorry. Life keeps getting in the way. First and foremost I had to finish KISS ME DEADLY, my July 07 romantic suspense release . The galleys (final proofs) came in on ISLAND HEAT, the Feb 07 release. And both books needed quotes, dedication pages and acknowledgments. In addition, I've been traveling to conferences. In the last few months I've been to St. Louis, MO, Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta, Cleveland, Houston and DC. I'm not complaining. . .I love to travel and even got to do a local TV appearance. It's been fun. Time consuming. But fun.
And now I'm in the middle of helping to organize a Booktrailer (tm) for Circle of Seven Productions. We're shooting ISLAND HEAT with the same people who are on the cover of the book. (You can see them on my website www.susankearney.com then click on Future Books and scroll down the page) And I get to help with the script, the costumes, the actors. This past weekend we spent the entire day to get about 20 secs of film. Eventually, I'll put it up on my website . . . no, you can't see it yet. Sorry to be a tease.
And I'm also starting to think about the next book, POLAR HEAT, a sequel to ISLAND HEAT. This story is going back into space. And I need to start writing next week. All I need is a subplot, characters and an opening scene. Those openings drive me insane. It is so hard to write them. I must rewrite page one 20 times. On the other hand, I love the middle of the book, where I can put in all the complications. Endings get more difficult again. Wrapping up all those details is hard, too. Actually, there is nothing easy about writing. And the more I learn the more difficult it becomes.
So each book I try to work on one part of craft, hoping it will eventually become automatic. Sometimes this actually works. This book my goal is to deepen point of view. For a simple example, "He was worried," is a poor way to evoke emotion. It would be better to write, " He wondered if the kids were all right. Why weren't they running to the front door to greet him? Why couldn't he hear their happy voices? Maybe they were next door. "
It sounds easy to do, but for me, it's not. So the plan is to work on that as well as figure out my plot. All before Monday.
Susan Kearney
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
How To Get Started Writing
Folks:
Linnea wrote: "An old, and perhaps overused, adage often dangled before writers is to ‘write what you know’. . . . But that adage, in my humble opinion, ignores another old adage. One that has equal, if not greater weight in my authorly mind: 'write what you love.'"
And then she went on to make a magnificent point about how it shows when you write about what captivates and motivates you.
So lets take a closer look at just how to do it -- where to get a great idea for a novel that's just so good you have to write it because YOU want to read it.
Linnea nailed the core of the matter -- write what you LOVE. That's always where to start. But it's not enough all by itself. Most of us love things we admire, knowing we could never do that.
So of all the subjects you love, the subjects that brighten your day or make you skip lunch to get the money to buy a book about it, which of those subjects is something you didn't study in school but can't stop reading about now?
If you like Regency Romances, do you devour history books on Regency costumes, language, manners, culture, The Peerage, etc?
If you like Alien Romance, do you read anthropology, sociology, psychology, biology etc etc on the side? Incessantly?
What are you hobbies? What do you do for fun? What is it you can't stop doing and learning?
Now here's the point -- you are most likely to sell only the fiction you write that is about what you love, but it will sell only if it is based in what you know.
Linnea studied criminology -- but that's the near kin of psychology, philosophy, and even art, and that's why her books shine even without a mystery to solve or criminal to expose.
Here's where, as a writing teacher, I depart from most teachers. I do not believe in doing research for a book -- except to verify details to check your memory.
First you learn -- anything, everything, without limit -- eclectically and boring down into the depths of every website you can find on it.
Then you forget -- all that you've learned.
THEN you write about what you loved about it all -- and the story comes out powerful, memorable, and inspiring to others.
Why is that? Because a writer does most of her work with her subconscious mind. That's where all the stuff you learned but forgot went -- deep down inside where you understand life, the universe and everything. Art (such as Alien Romance Novels) is about sharing that vision with others.
So you do your research ten or twenty years before you get the idea for a story.
That means that if you want to get started as a writer, what you have to do is learn -- everything, anything, all day and all night, all the time. Then forget it. Then one day you'll be sitting outside watching thunderclouds morph in the sky, and BINGO you'll have the idea for a book you have to write because you need to read it.
Where does that idea come from? Your subconscious where you stored all the stuff you learned and forgot! The subconscious is a magnificently powerful creative tool and I do suggest you make friends with yours!
When that idea strikes, you'll know everything you have to know in order to write it, and the words can just flow. That's what makes writing so much fun -- you don't have to abort the creativity to go master a whole realm of knowledge. When you're done, verify your details, and put the thing on the market.
You write what you know -- and you know it because you love it!
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Linnea wrote: "An old, and perhaps overused, adage often dangled before writers is to ‘write what you know’. . . . But that adage, in my humble opinion, ignores another old adage. One that has equal, if not greater weight in my authorly mind: 'write what you love.'"
And then she went on to make a magnificent point about how it shows when you write about what captivates and motivates you.
So lets take a closer look at just how to do it -- where to get a great idea for a novel that's just so good you have to write it because YOU want to read it.
Linnea nailed the core of the matter -- write what you LOVE. That's always where to start. But it's not enough all by itself. Most of us love things we admire, knowing we could never do that.
So of all the subjects you love, the subjects that brighten your day or make you skip lunch to get the money to buy a book about it, which of those subjects is something you didn't study in school but can't stop reading about now?
If you like Regency Romances, do you devour history books on Regency costumes, language, manners, culture, The Peerage, etc?
If you like Alien Romance, do you read anthropology, sociology, psychology, biology etc etc on the side? Incessantly?
What are you hobbies? What do you do for fun? What is it you can't stop doing and learning?
Now here's the point -- you are most likely to sell only the fiction you write that is about what you love, but it will sell only if it is based in what you know.
Linnea studied criminology -- but that's the near kin of psychology, philosophy, and even art, and that's why her books shine even without a mystery to solve or criminal to expose.
Here's where, as a writing teacher, I depart from most teachers. I do not believe in doing research for a book -- except to verify details to check your memory.
First you learn -- anything, everything, without limit -- eclectically and boring down into the depths of every website you can find on it.
Then you forget -- all that you've learned.
THEN you write about what you loved about it all -- and the story comes out powerful, memorable, and inspiring to others.
Why is that? Because a writer does most of her work with her subconscious mind. That's where all the stuff you learned but forgot went -- deep down inside where you understand life, the universe and everything. Art (such as Alien Romance Novels) is about sharing that vision with others.
So you do your research ten or twenty years before you get the idea for a story.
That means that if you want to get started as a writer, what you have to do is learn -- everything, anything, all day and all night, all the time. Then forget it. Then one day you'll be sitting outside watching thunderclouds morph in the sky, and BINGO you'll have the idea for a book you have to write because you need to read it.
Where does that idea come from? Your subconscious where you stored all the stuff you learned and forgot! The subconscious is a magnificently powerful creative tool and I do suggest you make friends with yours!
When that idea strikes, you'll know everything you have to know in order to write it, and the words can just flow. That's what makes writing so much fun -- you don't have to abort the creativity to go master a whole realm of knowledge. When you're done, verify your details, and put the thing on the market.
You write what you know -- and you know it because you love it!
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Monday, October 16, 2006
From Sleuthing to Sorcery (and Starships)
An old, and perhaps overused, adage often dangled before writers is to ‘write what you know’. There is a wisdom in that saying which rests in the fact that it’s difficult to convincingly portray something you’ve not experienced. How can you make a reader feel, smell, taste, love or fear something you’ve not?
But that adage, in my humble opinion, ignores another old adage. One that has equal, if not greater weight in my authorly mind: write what you love.
Like most authors, I’ve always written. I can’t imagine not writing but that doesn’t seem to be the issue with who read my books and then peruse my bio.
The question inevitably raised is: “What’s a nice (retired) private investigator like you doing writing about wizards and starships?”
In essence, why don’t I write what I know? Why don’t I write about sleuthing, about surveillance, about sussing out someone’s deep dark secrets?
There are actually several answers to that question, but the primary one is that I write about starships, space stations, demons called mogras and a furzel named Tank because I’m writing what I love.
Long before I donned my professional deerstalker, long before I lounged in ‘Criminology 101’ as an undergrad and ‘Crime Prevention Through Environmental Design’ as a grad student, I was fixated on Star Trek®. Fascinated by Battlestar Galactica. Okay, I’ll give away my age and state I never missed an episode of Lost In Space. The original show from way-back when there were only seven channels to choose from on television.
I went into private investigation (well, first I went into journalism) because it was a way to make a living. But my heart belonged to the Starship Enterprise.
It never occurred to me to follow science as a career. Well, okay, astronaut training did occur to me but was quickly discounted after a glance in the mirror: five foot tall, thick glasses and (see report card dangling from left hand), never managed more than a ‘D’ in math… nope. Short, bad vision, can’t add. Definitely not astronaut material.
Not like Catherine Asaro or Susan Grant, two authors who write in the same genres as I do. I greatly admire both, not only for their literary talents, but their career choices. Grant is a 747 pilot who used to fly jets in the Air Force. Asaro is a real life scientist. They not only write what they love but they do what they love, and it shows in their terrific books which draw awards and hoards of fans.
But does that mean a short, myopic detective can’t write science fiction?
I never thought so, because like Grant and Asaro, I’m still writing what I love. And to me, that’s equally as, if not more important than writing what you know.
One thing I’ve learned over the years as a journalist and a detective is that knowledge can be acquired. But true passion for something, no, that has to come from within. And true passion is what adds the oomph to your plot lines and strums the heart strings of your characters and your readers.
That doesn’t mean I couldn’t write a gripping detective novel (actually, I have two in the works, though both have paranormal/science fiction elements). It means that I prefer the science fiction and fantasy realm for the breadth and depth it permits me with characters and plot. The genre permits me to play with, and shatter, stereotypes and beliefs about good and evil, as I did in my (now out of print) sword and sorcery novel, Wintertide. My heroine, Khamsin, is a village healer who has her world turned around when her closest friends, and eventually even her lover, are drawn from the very people she’d believed to be her direst enemies.
In Gabriel’s Ghost, which is science fiction with a shape shifter element, Captain Chaz Bergren learns a lot about prejudices…especially her own. The false accusations which have branded her a murderer and stripped her of rank and command in many ways mirror her own false beliefs about Stolorths and Ragkirils, two alien races she’d been raised to fear.
And in Finders Keepers, down on her luck starfreighter captain Trilby Elliot must face the biggest prejudice of all: her own lack of self worth.
These situations, these challenges could be contained in any genre’s novel, true. But by placing them in the science fiction and fantasy settings that I love, I can draw on that extra energy inside me and infuse that into my characters and their stories. Like other authors in my genre who’ve never piloted a starship—Robin D. Owens, Patricia Waddell, Elaine Corvidae, C.J. Barry and my 'sister' authors here on this blog—I can bring to life worlds none of us have ever experienced excerpt in our imaginations. And our hearts.
The unreal becomes real. And then we’re writing not only about what we love, but about what we know.
~Linnea
But that adage, in my humble opinion, ignores another old adage. One that has equal, if not greater weight in my authorly mind: write what you love.
Like most authors, I’ve always written. I can’t imagine not writing but that doesn’t seem to be the issue with who read my books and then peruse my bio.
The question inevitably raised is: “What’s a nice (retired) private investigator like you doing writing about wizards and starships?”
In essence, why don’t I write what I know? Why don’t I write about sleuthing, about surveillance, about sussing out someone’s deep dark secrets?
There are actually several answers to that question, but the primary one is that I write about starships, space stations, demons called mogras and a furzel named Tank because I’m writing what I love.
Long before I donned my professional deerstalker, long before I lounged in ‘Criminology 101’ as an undergrad and ‘Crime Prevention Through Environmental Design’ as a grad student, I was fixated on Star Trek®. Fascinated by Battlestar Galactica. Okay, I’ll give away my age and state I never missed an episode of Lost In Space. The original show from way-back when there were only seven channels to choose from on television.
I went into private investigation (well, first I went into journalism) because it was a way to make a living. But my heart belonged to the Starship Enterprise.
It never occurred to me to follow science as a career. Well, okay, astronaut training did occur to me but was quickly discounted after a glance in the mirror: five foot tall, thick glasses and (see report card dangling from left hand), never managed more than a ‘D’ in math… nope. Short, bad vision, can’t add. Definitely not astronaut material.
Not like Catherine Asaro or Susan Grant, two authors who write in the same genres as I do. I greatly admire both, not only for their literary talents, but their career choices. Grant is a 747 pilot who used to fly jets in the Air Force. Asaro is a real life scientist. They not only write what they love but they do what they love, and it shows in their terrific books which draw awards and hoards of fans.
But does that mean a short, myopic detective can’t write science fiction?
I never thought so, because like Grant and Asaro, I’m still writing what I love. And to me, that’s equally as, if not more important than writing what you know.
One thing I’ve learned over the years as a journalist and a detective is that knowledge can be acquired. But true passion for something, no, that has to come from within. And true passion is what adds the oomph to your plot lines and strums the heart strings of your characters and your readers.
That doesn’t mean I couldn’t write a gripping detective novel (actually, I have two in the works, though both have paranormal/science fiction elements). It means that I prefer the science fiction and fantasy realm for the breadth and depth it permits me with characters and plot. The genre permits me to play with, and shatter, stereotypes and beliefs about good and evil, as I did in my (now out of print) sword and sorcery novel, Wintertide. My heroine, Khamsin, is a village healer who has her world turned around when her closest friends, and eventually even her lover, are drawn from the very people she’d believed to be her direst enemies.
In Gabriel’s Ghost, which is science fiction with a shape shifter element, Captain Chaz Bergren learns a lot about prejudices…especially her own. The false accusations which have branded her a murderer and stripped her of rank and command in many ways mirror her own false beliefs about Stolorths and Ragkirils, two alien races she’d been raised to fear.
And in Finders Keepers, down on her luck starfreighter captain Trilby Elliot must face the biggest prejudice of all: her own lack of self worth.
These situations, these challenges could be contained in any genre’s novel, true. But by placing them in the science fiction and fantasy settings that I love, I can draw on that extra energy inside me and infuse that into my characters and their stories. Like other authors in my genre who’ve never piloted a starship—Robin D. Owens, Patricia Waddell, Elaine Corvidae, C.J. Barry and my 'sister' authors here on this blog—I can bring to life worlds none of us have ever experienced excerpt in our imaginations. And our hearts.
The unreal becomes real. And then we’re writing not only about what we love, but about what we know.
~Linnea
Sunday, October 15, 2006
My hero, with his weapon in his hand
Have I told you how much fun I have with researching my alien romances?
Possibly the high point of my week this week was a visit to a sword master's lair. My quest was to get inside the head of my next hero: Prince Djarrhett.
'Rhett is a swordsman, which seems rather anachronistic in a high tech, albeit feudal, world, so the Sword Master and I had a wide ranging chat lasting nearly two hours, which covered the real-life Sword Master's opinions of the fight scenes in the Bond movie Die Another Day, and The Phantom Menace. (He feels that the light sabres are cool, but is concerned about the balance of the hilt, given that light can't weigh much, which is why Darth Maul is his favorite!!) We also discussed the logistics of weapons aboard space ships. Swords come in various lengths, and the big ones --like rapiers-- could be rather antisocial.
I so love this analytical thinking!
You can bet that if an opportunity presents itself, a lot of Sword Master Todd's opinions will filter through into 'Rhett's point of view.
"Have you ever cut someone?" I asked, never hoping for an affirmative answer. Fencing is supposed to be safe, right?
"Yes."
"What does cutting someone feel like?"
I couldn't believe my luck! After all, if I'm going to write a swordfighting duel from the point of view of my hero, he is going to have to sink some portion of his weapon into someone else's flesh.
The answer presents some literary challenges, but I can handle that, secure in the knowledge that if any Sword Masters read my next book, they will not hurl it at a wall--or trash can-- because my hero feels unrealistic sensations.
I think I must have asked more than twenty questions. I will share one more:
"Is your image of yourself different when you have a sword in your hand?"
(Oh, I did ask what he'd fight in, if he did not have to worry about protection. Would you believe, Underarmor? )
"I feel younger, stronger and faster with a weapon in my hand."
I really liked that answer, because I can make use of a double entendre. Now, I have four books to read, including The Secret History of The Sword. I had no idea there was a secret history. I cannot wait to find out what it is!
Until next week.
Rowena.
Possibly the high point of my week this week was a visit to a sword master's lair. My quest was to get inside the head of my next hero: Prince Djarrhett.
'Rhett is a swordsman, which seems rather anachronistic in a high tech, albeit feudal, world, so the Sword Master and I had a wide ranging chat lasting nearly two hours, which covered the real-life Sword Master's opinions of the fight scenes in the Bond movie Die Another Day, and The Phantom Menace. (He feels that the light sabres are cool, but is concerned about the balance of the hilt, given that light can't weigh much, which is why Darth Maul is his favorite!!) We also discussed the logistics of weapons aboard space ships. Swords come in various lengths, and the big ones --like rapiers-- could be rather antisocial.
I so love this analytical thinking!
You can bet that if an opportunity presents itself, a lot of Sword Master Todd's opinions will filter through into 'Rhett's point of view.
"Have you ever cut someone?" I asked, never hoping for an affirmative answer. Fencing is supposed to be safe, right?
"Yes."
"What does cutting someone feel like?"
I couldn't believe my luck! After all, if I'm going to write a swordfighting duel from the point of view of my hero, he is going to have to sink some portion of his weapon into someone else's flesh.
The answer presents some literary challenges, but I can handle that, secure in the knowledge that if any Sword Masters read my next book, they will not hurl it at a wall--or trash can-- because my hero feels unrealistic sensations.
I think I must have asked more than twenty questions. I will share one more:
"Is your image of yourself different when you have a sword in your hand?"
(Oh, I did ask what he'd fight in, if he did not have to worry about protection. Would you believe, Underarmor? )
"I feel younger, stronger and faster with a weapon in my hand."
I really liked that answer, because I can make use of a double entendre. Now, I have four books to read, including The Secret History of The Sword. I had no idea there was a secret history. I cannot wait to find out what it is!
Until next week.
Rowena.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Insufficient Mating Material --Writing Grievous
Question: How does one spell confidant?
Answer: Grievous, aka Gregory Bodley Harmon.
Grievous began life as the ne'er do well mercenary, soured by life, down on his luck, with tendencies to court death-by-alien.
Originally, in the first version of FORCED MATE written in 1993, he was hired as a glorified stretch limo driver and tour guide, solely to transport Prince Tarrant-Arragon from the Salisbury Plain area (where all the best UFOs land in England) to Cambridge, and then to Cerne Abbas in Dorset for a visit to the fertility symbol hill-figure.
He was supposed to get left behind.
But Prince Tarrant-Arragon had never met anyone, human or alien, who blurted out unpalatable truths to his face. Grievous told Tarrant-Arragon that his courtship manners sucked; that nice girls didn't behave like 70's Bond girls; and that it wasn't polite to stand guard too close outside a lady's bathroom door, even if she was a flight-risk.
After a few hours of Grievous's lese-majestical critiques -- of everything from prehistorical porn, to modern local government, to whether a girl would tolerate bad breath if she knew it was a prince kissing her -- Tarrant-Arragon created the job of Earthways Advisor, and made Grievous an offer the human could not refuse.
Thus Grievous, who'd been imprisoned for Grievous Bodily Harm (great bodily harm in the American legal system... how lucky Grievous was an English felon!) and had chosen Grievous as a suitably "hard" handle, found himself forced to quit smoking and take up a clean, fresh life in outer space.
One cannot smoke on a spaceship. Even on a spaceship bigger than the biggest aircraft carrier, fresh air is a concern, and a whole system of swearing and insult-giving revolves around offensive smells.
Of course, being an outsider, he makes potentially dangerous mistakes in FORCED MATE. He makes an even worse mistake in INSUFFICIENT MATING MATERIAL, and his love life suffers a set-back. Now, I'm writing KNIGHT'S FORK, and again Grievous accidentally puts his employer into hot water.
Grievous is quite a character. In his original incarnation he was heavily influenced by the Shakespearean character Enobarbus --whom I always thought was a bit of a misognynist-- the tough-guy Roman who felt such remorse he spouted a soliloguy to the Moon: Oh, sovereign mistress of true melancholy, the poisonous damps of night disponge upon me, that life --a very rebel to my will-- may hang no more upon me.
That's quoted from memory from Anthony and Cleopatra. It might not be quite correct.
If it isn't, I like it the way I remember it!
Until next time.
Rowena
Susan Grant's MY FAVORITE EARTHLING
Colby Hodge is out of town, so has generously invited Susan Grant to post
another excerpt from
MY FAVORITE EARTHLING
by Susan Grant
copyright Susan Grant 2006
MARCH 2007
ISBN 0373771924;
HQN books
This uncorrected excerpt may contain errors and other text not found in the final printed novel and is not for sale. Please don’t share the text with anyone without first receiving permission from the author to do so.
Chapter Two (continued)
“Aw, come on. Aren’t you curious?”
It reminded him of the times he and Evie got in trouble as kids. They were always going where they weren’t supposed to, giving and taking dares, playing with gusto. Jana was the serious one. Except for the night she met Cavin, she’d always behaved.
Supposedly the ship was pretty nice. A fighter. Cavin’s ship, on the other hand, was a troop transporter and ugly. He started walking along the furrow. Evie followed. There was a bounce in her step now. Her hesitance to view the spaceship was crumbling.
“But didn’t Cavin say something about staying away?”
“That was when the Reef was alive. The risk’s gone now. In fact, in the interest of national security, I say it’s our citizen’s duty to check it out.”
“Trespass, you mean. I like the sound of that. I’ll tell you what, Jared. The guy broke into my house, went through my things and scared my dog. I’d be happy to return the favor. This is the next best thing. Let’s go see his ship.”
While hunting for Cavin, the assassin had sneaked into Evie’s house looking for evidence. Evie’s house was holy ground—you didn’t mess with it, you didn’t criticize it, and you definitely didn’t invade it. The killer was probably lucky to be dead, because if Evie got her hands on him it wouldn’t be pretty. Especially after learning her psychotic, girly dog Sadie had been completely traumatized by the incident. Even staying at the ranch, surrounded by familiar people, the Chihuahua was continued to tremble and growl at nothing. Well, trembling and growling more than usual.
Jared helped Evie climb over a toppled, shattered oak tree. Beyond, the gouge in the dirt ended. The grass was flattened in a vaguely triangular shape. “There she is,” he said.
Jared and Evie walked forward, arms stretched out. It was like playing pin the tail on the donkey except with eyes wide open and without the donkey.
His hands impacted something solid. Bingo. His pulse kicked into overdrive with a spurt of adrenaline. “Say hello to the Prince, baby.”
“Say hello to the who?”
“The Prince.”
His sister gave him a pitying look.
“It’s my call sign. The Prince. I know what you’re thinking, but every fighter pilot has one. It’s part of the tradition. No one in the squadron calls anyone by their first name.” He’d hated “The Prince” at first. He’d won the name because of his privileged upbringing, his family’s celebrity. But over time, he’d made the name synonymous with shit-hot flying and unwavering professionalism. Now he wore it proudly.
“Okay, Prince. How do we get inside?”
“I have to find the hatch.” He ran his hands over the cool smooth hull. Cavin showed him how to get inside a dormant ship. He assumed the same technique would work for this one. The fuselage was rippled here, dented there, but not as damaged as he’d expected. He bumped up against what felt like a wing and climbed onto the surface.
“Careful, Jared.”
“Don’t lose your nerve, girl. This was your idea.”
“My idea? All I wanted to see were poppies.”
He found the seam of the hatch, just where he expected it to be, and the release. It opened smoothly. He swung his legs over the edge and dropped down.
The cockpit was snug and dark with room for only one person. But the craft had enough bells and whistles to make his little fighter-pilot heart roll over. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, more of the details became visible. Graceful, unfamiliar symbols labeled the smooth panels. An alien language.
God, you’re beautiful. “Say hello to the Prince, baby,” he murmured. “Say you’re mine.” He slid into the seat. It made a whirring noise and molded to his ass.
He jumped. “What the f—?”
“Jared!” Evie cried out from the open hatch.
“It’s okay. The seat moved. I didn’t expect it.” He was damn embarrassed to see that his pulse had doubled.
Enthralled, Jared took hold of the control stick as the ship continued to come alive. Lights came on, slowly, a clean white glow. One by one, the panels of instrumentation powered up. In front of him, a large rectangular screen with rounded edges glowed smoky gray. In a blink of an eye, it became transparent and he was looking outside at the fields. “This is how they see where they’re going,” he explained.
“Don’t be a spaceship hog, Jared. My turn.”
“Not yet. Wait until it finishes powering up.” They watched in wonder as the ship continued to unfurl. He’d give his right testicle for a chance at taking it up for a spin, to leave the stratosphere at mach twenty...to view the curve of the Earth...to experience weightlessness for longer than the top side of a reverse loop... Hell, maybe he’d throw in his eye teeth, too.
Suddenly, all went still. A silky female voice murmured something in a language he didn’t understand.
“What did she say?”
“I don’t know. It’s the ship’s computer, I think. Probably waiting for voice recognition.” One light blinked on the left hand rest. It resembled the incoming message light on the e-mail program on his laptop. It was too irresistible to ignore. He tapped his finger against the light and the screen turned white.
“Jared, what’s happening?”
“I’m not sure.” The forward screen was milky bright and rippled like smoke. A part of him not-so politely suggested that he might want to beat feet out of the ship, but curiosity kept him rooted in place. He extended a hand. “The light...it’s so beautiful,” he joked.
“Not funny. This is freaky. Come out, Jared. Please. Call Cavin.”
“Evie, check this out.” The milky screen slowly cleared. It revealed a large room sumptuously decorated in warm, cozy colors. Soft, comfortable looking furniture blended with what was obviously tech beyond anything they had on Earth: a small round sphere resembling a volleyball floating along near the floor; an entire wall glowed with rippling colors. “A window into another world,” he murmured.
Then voices from off screen erupted, speaking in an alien tongue. His heartbeat kicked up a notch.
“Uh oh. Jared.”
“I know. I hear them.”
The closer and louder the voices got, the more Jared hoped to God the screen wasn’t two-way. If it was, they were busted.
another excerpt from
MY FAVORITE EARTHLING
by Susan Grant
copyright Susan Grant 2006
MARCH 2007
ISBN 0373771924;
HQN books
This uncorrected excerpt may contain errors and other text not found in the final printed novel and is not for sale. Please don’t share the text with anyone without first receiving permission from the author to do so.
Chapter Two (continued)
“Aw, come on. Aren’t you curious?”
It reminded him of the times he and Evie got in trouble as kids. They were always going where they weren’t supposed to, giving and taking dares, playing with gusto. Jana was the serious one. Except for the night she met Cavin, she’d always behaved.
Supposedly the ship was pretty nice. A fighter. Cavin’s ship, on the other hand, was a troop transporter and ugly. He started walking along the furrow. Evie followed. There was a bounce in her step now. Her hesitance to view the spaceship was crumbling.
“But didn’t Cavin say something about staying away?”
“That was when the Reef was alive. The risk’s gone now. In fact, in the interest of national security, I say it’s our citizen’s duty to check it out.”
“Trespass, you mean. I like the sound of that. I’ll tell you what, Jared. The guy broke into my house, went through my things and scared my dog. I’d be happy to return the favor. This is the next best thing. Let’s go see his ship.”
While hunting for Cavin, the assassin had sneaked into Evie’s house looking for evidence. Evie’s house was holy ground—you didn’t mess with it, you didn’t criticize it, and you definitely didn’t invade it. The killer was probably lucky to be dead, because if Evie got her hands on him it wouldn’t be pretty. Especially after learning her psychotic, girly dog Sadie had been completely traumatized by the incident. Even staying at the ranch, surrounded by familiar people, the Chihuahua was continued to tremble and growl at nothing. Well, trembling and growling more than usual.
Jared helped Evie climb over a toppled, shattered oak tree. Beyond, the gouge in the dirt ended. The grass was flattened in a vaguely triangular shape. “There she is,” he said.
Jared and Evie walked forward, arms stretched out. It was like playing pin the tail on the donkey except with eyes wide open and without the donkey.
His hands impacted something solid. Bingo. His pulse kicked into overdrive with a spurt of adrenaline. “Say hello to the Prince, baby.”
“Say hello to the who?”
“The Prince.”
His sister gave him a pitying look.
“It’s my call sign. The Prince. I know what you’re thinking, but every fighter pilot has one. It’s part of the tradition. No one in the squadron calls anyone by their first name.” He’d hated “The Prince” at first. He’d won the name because of his privileged upbringing, his family’s celebrity. But over time, he’d made the name synonymous with shit-hot flying and unwavering professionalism. Now he wore it proudly.
“Okay, Prince. How do we get inside?”
“I have to find the hatch.” He ran his hands over the cool smooth hull. Cavin showed him how to get inside a dormant ship. He assumed the same technique would work for this one. The fuselage was rippled here, dented there, but not as damaged as he’d expected. He bumped up against what felt like a wing and climbed onto the surface.
“Careful, Jared.”
“Don’t lose your nerve, girl. This was your idea.”
“My idea? All I wanted to see were poppies.”
He found the seam of the hatch, just where he expected it to be, and the release. It opened smoothly. He swung his legs over the edge and dropped down.
The cockpit was snug and dark with room for only one person. But the craft had enough bells and whistles to make his little fighter-pilot heart roll over. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, more of the details became visible. Graceful, unfamiliar symbols labeled the smooth panels. An alien language.
God, you’re beautiful. “Say hello to the Prince, baby,” he murmured. “Say you’re mine.” He slid into the seat. It made a whirring noise and molded to his ass.
He jumped. “What the f—?”
“Jared!” Evie cried out from the open hatch.
“It’s okay. The seat moved. I didn’t expect it.” He was damn embarrassed to see that his pulse had doubled.
Enthralled, Jared took hold of the control stick as the ship continued to come alive. Lights came on, slowly, a clean white glow. One by one, the panels of instrumentation powered up. In front of him, a large rectangular screen with rounded edges glowed smoky gray. In a blink of an eye, it became transparent and he was looking outside at the fields. “This is how they see where they’re going,” he explained.
“Don’t be a spaceship hog, Jared. My turn.”
“Not yet. Wait until it finishes powering up.” They watched in wonder as the ship continued to unfurl. He’d give his right testicle for a chance at taking it up for a spin, to leave the stratosphere at mach twenty...to view the curve of the Earth...to experience weightlessness for longer than the top side of a reverse loop... Hell, maybe he’d throw in his eye teeth, too.
Suddenly, all went still. A silky female voice murmured something in a language he didn’t understand.
“What did she say?”
“I don’t know. It’s the ship’s computer, I think. Probably waiting for voice recognition.” One light blinked on the left hand rest. It resembled the incoming message light on the e-mail program on his laptop. It was too irresistible to ignore. He tapped his finger against the light and the screen turned white.
“Jared, what’s happening?”
“I’m not sure.” The forward screen was milky bright and rippled like smoke. A part of him not-so politely suggested that he might want to beat feet out of the ship, but curiosity kept him rooted in place. He extended a hand. “The light...it’s so beautiful,” he joked.
“Not funny. This is freaky. Come out, Jared. Please. Call Cavin.”
“Evie, check this out.” The milky screen slowly cleared. It revealed a large room sumptuously decorated in warm, cozy colors. Soft, comfortable looking furniture blended with what was obviously tech beyond anything they had on Earth: a small round sphere resembling a volleyball floating along near the floor; an entire wall glowed with rippling colors. “A window into another world,” he murmured.
Then voices from off screen erupted, speaking in an alien tongue. His heartbeat kicked up a notch.
“Uh oh. Jared.”
“I know. I hear them.”
The closer and louder the voices got, the more Jared hoped to God the screen wasn’t two-way. If it was, they were busted.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Shapeshifters
Presently I'm working on a short novel about a modern-day wizard who gets changed (for about 18 hours each day) into a St. Bernard by a witch's curse. In the process I have to decide, as with any shapeshifter, how much of his human intelligence and personality he retains in animal form. In a romance, another question to deal with is how much and what kind of attraction, in this form, he can feel toward the heroine without verging on bestiality.
In one of my favorite werewolf stories of all time, Anthony Boucher's novelette "The Compleat Werewolf," Prof. Wolfe remains completely human in mind when he transforms, but with the added advantage of a wolf's body and senses (plus supernatural resistance to any non-silver weapon). I love the humor of Wolfe's adjustment to his new condition. When I used this story as a partial model for my werewolf novel, SHADOW OF THE BEAST, the editor disliked the light touch (he wanted darker horror) and vigorously objected to having the heroine, as a wolf, think like an ordinary human being. So I altered my presentation to show her drawn deeper into the lupine experience of the world. As a beast, she can't read (the editor thought a wolf reading street signs was too silly), she doesn't think abstractly, and she has trouble focusing on whatever plans and goals she fixed in her mind before shifting. As for sexuality, she finds the process of transformation intensely arousing, but she changes back to a woman before doing anything erotic with the hero.
For what I'm thinking of as my "dog wizard" story, an erotic romance, I go for a lighter touch. It's fun to play with the predicament of a character who thinks like a man while wearing a dog's body and senses. He finds his occasional lapses into canine behavior somewhat embarrassing. While a dog, he enjoys the heroine's scent and touch, but actual arousal occurs only when he's human. In sleep, he uses the residual traces of his magic to enter her dreams and seduce her; in the dream realm, he's human.
Nancy Springer's YA novel THE HEX WITCH OF SELDOM features a man who incarnates the archetypal figure of the outlaw, trapped in the shape of a horse. A teenage girl buys the magnificent stallion and loves him fervently in the classic manner of girl-horse devotion. When she discovers his true nature, she still loves him passionately, but there is no hint of a physically erotic attraction between them. There is no hope that they can be together as a couple. Once she helps him get permanently restored to his true form, he has to go back where he belongs. It's a great story with mythic overtones, highly recommended.
In my erotic romance novella "Dragon's Tribute," the dragon has the power to transform into a man. He makes love to the heroine as a man, as well as when they're both in dragon shape. Also, as a dragon he uses his tongue and tail to satisfy her while she's in woman form. The editor allowed this activity because he's an intelligent creature and not any kind of real-life animal. Here, of course, there is no question of whether his mind remains intact in either of his forms; a dragon is superior in power and intelligence to human beings.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
We Made The Front Page!
Folks:
I am first and foremost a FAN -- an SF Fan! And for me, that's the most prestigious status I have won in life.
How did that happen? Well, it's a lifelong story and the story of my life. I was a very lonely person outcast among my age-mates for having a huge vocabulary strewn with 4-syllable words and for loving school except for recess.
And then when I was in 7th Grade, I wrote a Letter of Comment (fan-speak LoC) to AMAZING MAGAZINE, and they published it with my address (not illegal in those days). My mailbox exploded with letters from the N3F (National Fantasy Fan Federation now on the web at http://www.n3f.org/N3F.shtml ) Welcommittee, and I dove in and became a snailmail letterhack because the dolts hadn't invented the web yet!
THIS is the world I was born to live in.
Over the years my books have been published and reviewed in the New York Times (in addition to reviews, a featured article on the front page of the Sunday Books section), Publisher's Weekly, Library Journal, etc. etc. -- a number of magazines and newspapers across the country and internationally, and I've even had a few articles and interviews -- radio, TV, focused on me and what all I do. Even internet radio interviews! (see? THIS is my world!)
But THIS MONTH Jean Lorrah (http://www.jeanlorrah.com ) and I made the front page of a FAN NEWSPAPER!!!
We did the interview at WorldCon -- squeezing it in over breakfast before the daily race from panel to panel, and filled a couple of tapes which the reporter, Catherine Book, had to condense into some kind of sense. She did a great job.
But I had expected to be placed somewhere past the centerfold with 2 continuations. Instead, when my paper copy came in the mail, I saw that we're featured on the front page, ABOVE THE FOLD!!!! With a large picture of both of us!
Most writers would find this event of no note whatsoever. The newspaper circulates only within the SF/F community and mostly in the Southwest -- though a few subscribe from elsewhere. Nowadays it's posted on the internet too. But the paper is by fans about SF/F, and cons, and things of fannish interest. Others wouldn't find the target audience exciting.
For me this is an event to celebrate loudly and joyously.
I MADE THE FRONT PAGE! (with Jean's help of course!)
At this posting, the issue hasn't been put up on the web yet, but you will eventually find it under October/November at
http://www.casfs.org/ConNotations/Index-CN.html
And if you're into SF, you might want to read some previous issues or check out the advertisements which are demographically focused at US!
And hey, you can use 4-syllable words and not be rejected!
Live Long and Prosper,
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
I am first and foremost a FAN -- an SF Fan! And for me, that's the most prestigious status I have won in life.
How did that happen? Well, it's a lifelong story and the story of my life. I was a very lonely person outcast among my age-mates for having a huge vocabulary strewn with 4-syllable words and for loving school except for recess.
And then when I was in 7th Grade, I wrote a Letter of Comment (fan-speak LoC) to AMAZING MAGAZINE, and they published it with my address (not illegal in those days). My mailbox exploded with letters from the N3F (National Fantasy Fan Federation now on the web at http://www.n3f.org/N3F.shtml ) Welcommittee, and I dove in and became a snailmail letterhack because the dolts hadn't invented the web yet!
THIS is the world I was born to live in.
Over the years my books have been published and reviewed in the New York Times (in addition to reviews, a featured article on the front page of the Sunday Books section), Publisher's Weekly, Library Journal, etc. etc. -- a number of magazines and newspapers across the country and internationally, and I've even had a few articles and interviews -- radio, TV, focused on me and what all I do. Even internet radio interviews! (see? THIS is my world!)
But THIS MONTH Jean Lorrah (http://www.jeanlorrah.com ) and I made the front page of a FAN NEWSPAPER!!!
We did the interview at WorldCon -- squeezing it in over breakfast before the daily race from panel to panel, and filled a couple of tapes which the reporter, Catherine Book, had to condense into some kind of sense. She did a great job.
But I had expected to be placed somewhere past the centerfold with 2 continuations. Instead, when my paper copy came in the mail, I saw that we're featured on the front page, ABOVE THE FOLD!!!! With a large picture of both of us!
Most writers would find this event of no note whatsoever. The newspaper circulates only within the SF/F community and mostly in the Southwest -- though a few subscribe from elsewhere. Nowadays it's posted on the internet too. But the paper is by fans about SF/F, and cons, and things of fannish interest. Others wouldn't find the target audience exciting.
For me this is an event to celebrate loudly and joyously.
I MADE THE FRONT PAGE! (with Jean's help of course!)
At this posting, the issue hasn't been put up on the web yet, but you will eventually find it under October/November at
http://www.casfs.org/ConNotations/Index-CN.html
And if you're into SF, you might want to read some previous issues or check out the advertisements which are demographically focused at US!
And hey, you can use 4-syllable words and not be rejected!
Live Long and Prosper,
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Monday, October 09, 2006
UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL WITH: Rynan "Mack" Makarian
Many of you have no doubt seen in-depth, incisive interviews by noted journalists such as Barbara Walters or Connie Chung. So have I. This isn't going to be one of them. This is just me, wearing my battered reporter's fedora, attempting to weasel out some good gossip from Admiral Rynan Makarian, newly appointed head of the Fifth Fleet. Those of you who've read AN ACCIDENTAL GODDESS havealready met 'Mack', as he's known. Those of you who haven't, here's your chance to get up close and personal with a very tall, dark and handsome man!
REPORTERETTE:
Admiral Makarian, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to answer my questions. I know getting Cirrus One Station into working shape hasn't been an easy job. How did you feel when H.Q. informed you of your new posting to Cirrus?
MACK:
[leans back in his chair, arches on eyebrow] Honestly, I didn't know whether to be flattered, or to flee. Being the youngest, and newest, admiral in the fleet is something of a responsibility. And I was well aware of Cirrus One's reputation as a space station in the middle of nowhere. Well, maybe not quite in the middle of nowhere. As it's been said, it's located at the last exit before nowhere.
I anticipated there being some personnel problems, some residential problems, some supply problems. I feel fortunate that many of my best officers from the VEDRITOR agreed to accompany me. Lieutenant Pryor, Doc Janek, Commander Rand and of course, Lieutenant Tobias, my Number Two, have been a tremendous help.
REPORTERETTE:
What about those problems you didn't anticipate?
MACK:
[smiles wryly] You mean, like Gille?
REPORTERETTE:
Why would you label Captain Gillaine Davre as a problem, sir?
MACK:
[laughs] As someone who's known her much longer than I have has said, "With Gillie, it's always something". She has... a penchant for trouble. I think it comes from a very deep sense of right and wrong inside her, a very deep sense of fairness. However, she often attacks these problems by herself. It would have been a lot easier if she'd simply have told me what was going on. After all, Cirrus One is my station.
REPORTERETTE:
Are you saying that you were angry that she didn't tell you who she was?
MACK:
At the time, I think I was more shocked, more surprised, than angry. Later, yes. But moreso because I was worried she didn't trust me. [leans forward] I'm a very straightforward person. I don't play games. My crew, my officers know that. I'd hoped Gillie did... well, actually, she did know that. But when I told her I was in love with her, the entire issue became more complicated. [smiles softly]
REPORTERETTE:
So what's it like, being in love with, and being loved by, a goddess?
MACK:
Heavenly. [grins widely]
REPORTERETTE:
[groans] Thank you again for your time, Admiral Makarian. Please feel free to bring Lady Gillaine to the Intergalactic Bar & Grille anytime for a drink!
REPORTERETTE:
Admiral Makarian, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to answer my questions. I know getting Cirrus One Station into working shape hasn't been an easy job. How did you feel when H.Q. informed you of your new posting to Cirrus?
MACK:
[leans back in his chair, arches on eyebrow] Honestly, I didn't know whether to be flattered, or to flee. Being the youngest, and newest, admiral in the fleet is something of a responsibility. And I was well aware of Cirrus One's reputation as a space station in the middle of nowhere. Well, maybe not quite in the middle of nowhere. As it's been said, it's located at the last exit before nowhere.
I anticipated there being some personnel problems, some residential problems, some supply problems. I feel fortunate that many of my best officers from the VEDRITOR agreed to accompany me. Lieutenant Pryor, Doc Janek, Commander Rand and of course, Lieutenant Tobias, my Number Two, have been a tremendous help.
REPORTERETTE:
What about those problems you didn't anticipate?
MACK:
[smiles wryly] You mean, like Gille?
REPORTERETTE:
Why would you label Captain Gillaine Davre as a problem, sir?
MACK:
[laughs] As someone who's known her much longer than I have has said, "With Gillie, it's always something". She has... a penchant for trouble. I think it comes from a very deep sense of right and wrong inside her, a very deep sense of fairness. However, she often attacks these problems by herself. It would have been a lot easier if she'd simply have told me what was going on. After all, Cirrus One is my station.
REPORTERETTE:
Are you saying that you were angry that she didn't tell you who she was?
MACK:
At the time, I think I was more shocked, more surprised, than angry. Later, yes. But moreso because I was worried she didn't trust me. [leans forward] I'm a very straightforward person. I don't play games. My crew, my officers know that. I'd hoped Gillie did... well, actually, she did know that. But when I told her I was in love with her, the entire issue became more complicated. [smiles softly]
REPORTERETTE:
So what's it like, being in love with, and being loved by, a goddess?
MACK:
Heavenly. [grins widely]
REPORTERETTE:
[groans] Thank you again for your time, Admiral Makarian. Please feel free to bring Lady Gillaine to the Intergalactic Bar & Grille anytime for a drink!
~Linnea, feeling silly today...
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Undressing the heroine
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Survival is more than a matter of making out.
Djetth and Martia-Djulia have been dropped into an alien sea, and are marooned on a deserted island.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Haven’t you got a simple petticoat or shift under all that? No, I don’t suppose you have.” He tilted his head to one side and seemed to consider. “My T-shirt is bone dry. I could lend it to you.”
“I would not be seen dead in male underwear.”
“If you die, I’ll take it off you.”
Martia-Djulia hadn’t expected to laugh. Djetth’s warped sense of humor took her completely by surprise. She found herself laughing aloud before she could reflect on the unwisdom of encouraging him.
“That would be acceptable,” she said formally.
As they neared the fire, she straightened her back and lifted her chin. “Owing to the action of the sea water, I may require some assistance,” she said with as much dignity and detachment as possible under the humiliating circumstances.
“Of course,” Djetth said urbanely. “Your things have shrunk. I should have thought of that.”
“Why should you?” she questioned, wondering whether he was mocking her. It was, after all, quite implausible that her clothes had really shrunk.
He threw her a disquieting look.
“Are we as close to the fire as we want to be for this exercise?” he asked. “Some of this stuff you are wearing could conceivably be flammable.”
Martia-Djulia inclined her head in acknowledgement of his concern for her safety, then turned her back to him.
Nothing happened.
“My sleeves seem tight. I cannot reach between my shoulder blades. Please unfasten my dress at the back.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Happy to.” He sounded distracted.
Martia-Djulia felt his breath on the bare skin above her scooped neckline. His warm, clumsy fingers brushed the curve of her hips and curled around the back of her waist. It was almost as if he held her from behind at arms’ length while he bent to study the intricacies of her fastenings.
“Start at the top,” Martia-Djulia suggested.
“Hmmm,” he commented obscurely. Instead of obeying a simple instruction, he stroked his fingers up either side of her sensitive spine. “It seems to me that this fabric has not shrunk evenly. I think that there would be less strain if I were to alternate.”
Martia-Djulia didn’t know what to say. She could hardly contradict herself and tell him that the fabric had not shrunk. Yet, he seemed to be using shrinkage as a pretext to gently and firmly stroke her body around each successive —or alternating— fastening.
Up. And down. Up… It was most unnecessary.
INSUFFICIENT MATING MATERIAL will be in bookstores as of January 31st 2007.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Where it all began
When talking of Futuristic Hunks I have to revisit where it all began. And that was of course with Star Trek. Yes I was addicted. The first episode I ever saw was the one with Kirk battling the rock monster and of course he got his shirt ripped off. Which leads me to think of Galaxy Quest and Tim Allen getting his shirt ripped off. Kind of not the same. And I wasn't more than ten at the time so not the same effect. But I did love Kirk...well just because he was Kirk.
But then Chekov came along. Sigh. For my just turned teen heart he was just the right fit. Think that's what they had in mind when he came on? Someone to connect with the teeny boppers?
Chekov with his cute brown hair and his exotic accent and his hippie ex girlfriend. Yep. Love at first sight. Trouble was I didn't know his first name until the hippie exgirlfriend showed up. Kind of hard to sigh Chekov.
I was glad to see he advanced in Star Fleet. Got his own command. Had a brain worm dropped in his ear. But he survived. I don't think I could have stood it if they killed off Chekov. But come to think of it I never saw him in one of those red shirts which was always a sure sign of disater.
Cindy Holby
(posted in her absence by Rowena Cherry)
But then Chekov came along. Sigh. For my just turned teen heart he was just the right fit. Think that's what they had in mind when he came on? Someone to connect with the teeny boppers?
Chekov with his cute brown hair and his exotic accent and his hippie ex girlfriend. Yep. Love at first sight. Trouble was I didn't know his first name until the hippie exgirlfriend showed up. Kind of hard to sigh Chekov.
I was glad to see he advanced in Star Fleet. Got his own command. Had a brain worm dropped in his ear. But he survived. I don't think I could have stood it if they killed off Chekov. But come to think of it I never saw him in one of those red shirts which was always a sure sign of disater.
Cindy Holby
(posted in her absence by Rowena Cherry)
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Aliens Among Us
Recently I read an unusual "aliens among us" romance, THE DEMON'S DAUGHTER, by Emma Holly. Set in an alternate-world analogue of Victorian London, this novel envisions an Earth on which "demons" called the Yama dwell in the far north and have begun to mingle with ordinary human beings. Not truly demonic, the Yama are another species, humanoid but not human, capable of draining "etheric energy," and some of them find human etheric energy irresistibly tempting. Scotland Yard Inspector Adrian Phillips specializes in tracking down missing children, including those illicitly sold to the Yama. He has undergone enhancement with Yama implants that endow him with superhuman strength, a benefit that comes at a price of exhaustion in the aftermath of each use of this power. His colleagues view him with suspicion because he has accepted this operation, but the department needs him because he is one of the few officers who can function effectively in the part of the city where the Yama are in the majority. His work brings him into contact with Roxanne, an artist who takes him in after he has been injured while incognito in a dangerous sector of the metropolis. Soon afterward, Roxanne discovers that she is half "demon," a crossbreed previously thought to be impossible. Adrian's enemies and those of Roxanne's newfound Yama father, a prominent diplomat, place the two protagonists' lives as well as their relationship at risk. Moreover, Adrian's love affair with Roxanne threatens his law-enforcement career, the core of his identity. Since the late Victorian period is my favorite era, I found Holly's adaptation of that world enthralling, an excellent piece of world-building. Also, she writes some of the best erotic scenes I've read in a long time, both hot and tender. Reflecting on Holly's world started me thinking about other scenarios in which aliens establish a presence as a minority amid the human population.
In the "Tripods" YA trilogy by John Christopher (THE WHITE MOUNTAINS, THE CITY OF GOLD AND LEAD, and THE POOL OF FIRE, later supplemented by a prequel, WHEN THE TRIPODS CAME) extraterrestrials have built enclaves on Earth. As hostile conquerors whose motives are mysterious, they present a frightening enigma to the human characters, who know them only as monstrous, three-limbed machines (apparently modeled on the Martians in WAR OF THE WORLDS). Young people approaching adulthood are "capped" with helmets that make them docile slaves to the Tripods. Will, the teenage hero, escapes to the White Mountains and later infiltrates the City of Gold and Lead, a Tripod metropolis, where he becomes servant to one of the aliens. The ETs turn out to be tentacled creatures who can't survive in Earth's atmosphere. Knowledge brings Will some degree of understanding of them, but the Tripods are still implacable invaders.
More interesting in terms of a wide range of interactions between locals and interstellar visitors is Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover series. The earliest-published books focus on encounters between native Darkovans and the Terran newcomers. Darkover is, in fact, a lost colony from Earth's early period of interstellar exploration, but this fact isn't generally known until late in the series' chronology. So, to the feudal society of Darkover, where psychic powers called "laran" take the place of hard science, the Terrans in their spaceport compound, with their advanced technology, are aliens from a strange culture with odd customs and suspicious motives. Freedom of contact between Darkovans and Terrans varies over several generations, so that much of the time the two peoples appear exotic and mysterious to each other. THENDARA HOUSE involves a particularly interesting situation, with a Terran and a Darkovan woman essentially changing places, each having to adjust to life in the opposite culture.
Then there's the archetypal spaceport bar setting, like the tavern where Luke first meets Han Solo in STAR WARS. Neither invaders nor permanent residents, throngs of wildly different aliens from many worlds mingle on neutral ground. These four fictional universes suggest a few kinds of modus vivendi that might develop if the aliens came to us (instead of vice versa) without annihilating us on sight.
In the "Tripods" YA trilogy by John Christopher (THE WHITE MOUNTAINS, THE CITY OF GOLD AND LEAD, and THE POOL OF FIRE, later supplemented by a prequel, WHEN THE TRIPODS CAME) extraterrestrials have built enclaves on Earth. As hostile conquerors whose motives are mysterious, they present a frightening enigma to the human characters, who know them only as monstrous, three-limbed machines (apparently modeled on the Martians in WAR OF THE WORLDS). Young people approaching adulthood are "capped" with helmets that make them docile slaves to the Tripods. Will, the teenage hero, escapes to the White Mountains and later infiltrates the City of Gold and Lead, a Tripod metropolis, where he becomes servant to one of the aliens. The ETs turn out to be tentacled creatures who can't survive in Earth's atmosphere. Knowledge brings Will some degree of understanding of them, but the Tripods are still implacable invaders.
More interesting in terms of a wide range of interactions between locals and interstellar visitors is Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover series. The earliest-published books focus on encounters between native Darkovans and the Terran newcomers. Darkover is, in fact, a lost colony from Earth's early period of interstellar exploration, but this fact isn't generally known until late in the series' chronology. So, to the feudal society of Darkover, where psychic powers called "laran" take the place of hard science, the Terrans in their spaceport compound, with their advanced technology, are aliens from a strange culture with odd customs and suspicious motives. Freedom of contact between Darkovans and Terrans varies over several generations, so that much of the time the two peoples appear exotic and mysterious to each other. THENDARA HOUSE involves a particularly interesting situation, with a Terran and a Darkovan woman essentially changing places, each having to adjust to life in the opposite culture.
Then there's the archetypal spaceport bar setting, like the tavern where Luke first meets Han Solo in STAR WARS. Neither invaders nor permanent residents, throngs of wildly different aliens from many worlds mingle on neutral ground. These four fictional universes suggest a few kinds of modus vivendi that might develop if the aliens came to us (instead of vice versa) without annihilating us on sight.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Fly In The Ointment
Folks:
Human beings are monstrously complex critters, and I see no reason to assume that non-human intelligences would be any less complex (maybe more, but not less).
So what is it that makes a "soul-mate" -- the dimension that adds so much spice to the sex?
Does it take one dimension of connection between two people? Or two? Or a thousand? How many dimensions (as up/down + left-right + front-back make our usual 3 spacial dimensions) does it take to define an human being? Or believable alien we could relate to?
In mathematics, each variable makes a "dimension" or "axis" and mathematicians work in "n-dimensions" (as do chemists).
So human beings have to be considered to have a larger number of dimensions than space-time. (the 4-dimensional model of the universe).
I believe I mentioned in a previous post that string theory has led to the theory that there are 11 (not more, and not less, but exactly 11) alternate universes to our reality. (that's not proven; it's a theory).
So if there are 11 versions of "you" out there, each with who knows how many dimensions of measurement defining them, would you fall in love with "yourself" if you met "yourself"?
Would other versions of you be attractive to you?
Other versions of you would be about as close to you as you could ever get. Would they contain the makings of a "soul-mate?"
Somehow, I don't think so. We look for opposites, complements, recognizable pieces of ourselves that are missing -- not someone identical to ourself.
This begs the question of whether the other 11 dimensional yous out there share your soul, or have totally unique and different souls like other people do (theoretically!) Actually, there is a theory that a "soul" is really splintered into many parts, and our search for "the right person" is really the search for the other parts of ourselves.
So what is it we actually search for in a soul-mate, and how can this be depicted for us in a romance novel?
Some of you may have noticed that awe-struck.net (one of the premier e-book romance publishers) is now open for romance submissions in all kinds of sub-genres. Alas I don't have anything ready that resembles what they're looking for, and I have too many other deals cooking to focus on that market -- but some of you might. Go for it!
Because somewhere, some time, somebody is going to nail this "soul-mate" issue, and it could be you!
So what could make a good theory to explore in an alien-romance?
Well, the essence of story is CONFLICT -- and the "soul-mate" theory appears on the surface to be the quintessenital definition of "NO CONFLICT" relationship.
However, I pointed out above that very likely a "you" from one of the 10 other alternate universes wouldn't be likely to be your soul-mate. Though we yearn to team up with (not necessarily "marry" in the classic sense, but form a life-bond that can't be broken) someone we don't FIGHT with, what we actually do is pick someone we love to fight with.
So any soul-mate AR has to include some kind of conflict to fight about, something that threatens the relationship even though the relationship is unbreakable. That's what makes the best story! Why? Because in real life, that's the formula for the best marriages.
So what is it that makes for a great fight between soul-mates? What is the formula for creating the "fly in the ointment?"
Back to "dimensions" that define humans and our fictional aliens.
We don't really know how many independent variables it takes to create a human -- it could be n-dimensions (i.e. an infinitely large number or at least an indeterminately large number).
However, we have a working model that READERS respond to whether they are consciously aware of it or not. That is astrology where there are 10 clearly defined parameters to each personality. The shape of the life pattern that personality has to cope with is defined by 2 additional variables -- the ascendant and the MC (i.e. where on Earth you are born)
These 10 paramters (SUN, MOON, MERCURY, VENUS, MARS, JUPITER, SATURN, URANUS, NEPTUNE AND (despite the recent demotion to a non-planet) PLUTO) each are projected against an array of 12 other paramters (the signs of the zodiak) but those are systematically arrayed. And likewise the "planets" though they move, do not move "independently" -- but rather they move predictably and form well defined patterns with several patterns disallowed (you can't have a retrograde moon if you're born on Earth!)
So people are not random mixes of traits. And I submit that this non-randomness is what makes it possible to find and team up with a soul-mate.
If we use the model that astrology offers, we see that the "personality" traits are set at birth, and the ups and downs of life are set into a very specific pattern at birth. In many astrological models there is another dimension, another variable -- THE SOUL.
"You" aren't your birth chart. "You" aren't your life-pattern set by your birthtime. You are a SOUL trying to cope with either the tempting-to-laziness ease of your birth chart, or trying to battle the innate adversities, or trying to mature your soul to surmount all difficulties.
Your natal chart does not define you -- you define it. That's why the best astrologers have to ask so many questions about what you've already done with your life before venturing an analysis of what options you might have in front of you now.
There is a branch of astrology that deals exclusively with RELATIONSHIPS -- and though I'm no expert in it, I have delved into its mechanisms and assumptions. It really can describe relationships.
So what do we learn by examining dozens (hundreds!) of real-life existing relationship patterns - successful marriages, and mediocre, and burdensome, and disasterous marriages?)
We learn that in our real lives, "soul-mates" do exist though they rarely find each other. But even when they do -- there's always a fly in the ointment! Something they fight about -- something they're incompatible about.
A successful marriage isn't one without incompatibilities -- but rather contains two MATURE souls who have found appropriate coping mechanisms for dealing with a) their personality traits, and b) their life-pattern, as shown in their natal charts.
When two such mature souls relate to each other, understand each others' daily battles with temptations to laziness, soul-destroying terrors, high spiritual ambitions, or unbridled greeds, and understand the knife-edge on which each stands with respect to those battles, such a marriage will last and last, very likely for an eternity.
So what is the secret to the soul-mate marriage that lasts? What is the model we look to describe with our writer's craft and art?
Now we veer away from astrology into pop-psychology.
If you've read enough pop-psychology, you've encountered the concept of a person's psychological "defenses." These are the philosophies, actions, habits of thought or deed, or emotional armor reflected in body-armor, that allow a soul to cope with a natal chart and live a long, productive and satisfying life, with all the ups and downs of happiness that takes.
Defenses are the core of the soul's coping mechanism, and only some of them are unhealthy, life-stultifying, etc. And even if they are unhealthy, they MIGHT be optimizing that soul's existence in this life.
The immature souls seem to go through life chopping, hacking, whacking, and blasting their way through other people's defenses "for their own good." Forcing people to think about what they don't want to think about -- for their own reasons.
A prime example is the "female" focus on thinking about, dwelling on, and living in the emotional world -- insisting on verbalizing issues about Relationship. While the "male" is utterly averse to this kind of mental focus. (stipulating that "male" and "female" aspects are in every human).
Current pop-psychology (Oprah; Dr. Phil) seems focused on destroying these defenses, breaking down barriers, exposing private matters, confessing your feelings, and "being honest" in public about what happens in the bedroom.
Art, however, gains power from guarding privacy, maintaining psychological defenses. And AR is art, after all.
I submit that it is possible that the mature soul RESPECTS the coping mechanisms, the psychological defenses, of others, recognizing them for what they are, (optimizers that perhaps are expensive in terms of psychological health, but still necessary), and understanding the issues and territories they defend.
Think about the TV show, MONK. He's a crackerjack detective who goes to a shrink because of the percieved flaw of his obsessive-compulsive behaviors (which are taken to such an extreme as to be ridiculous). The show is based on the assumption that his O-C behaviors are a flaw.
Note also he's not married.
Suppose he met up with someone who could percieve the value in his O-C behavior? Who could respect the fence of ideas and assumptions (about cleanliness) that he puts up around himself? Someone in whom he could see some other set of defenses they used to balance the conflict between the nature of their souls - and the nature of their natal-chart?
Would that make the perfect soul-mate marriage for Monk?
If not, what would?
Can you think of some other character on TV to design a soul-mate for?
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http:www.simegen.com/jl/
Human beings are monstrously complex critters, and I see no reason to assume that non-human intelligences would be any less complex (maybe more, but not less).
So what is it that makes a "soul-mate" -- the dimension that adds so much spice to the sex?
Does it take one dimension of connection between two people? Or two? Or a thousand? How many dimensions (as up/down + left-right + front-back make our usual 3 spacial dimensions) does it take to define an human being? Or believable alien we could relate to?
In mathematics, each variable makes a "dimension" or "axis" and mathematicians work in "n-dimensions" (as do chemists).
So human beings have to be considered to have a larger number of dimensions than space-time. (the 4-dimensional model of the universe).
I believe I mentioned in a previous post that string theory has led to the theory that there are 11 (not more, and not less, but exactly 11) alternate universes to our reality. (that's not proven; it's a theory).
So if there are 11 versions of "you" out there, each with who knows how many dimensions of measurement defining them, would you fall in love with "yourself" if you met "yourself"?
Would other versions of you be attractive to you?
Other versions of you would be about as close to you as you could ever get. Would they contain the makings of a "soul-mate?"
Somehow, I don't think so. We look for opposites, complements, recognizable pieces of ourselves that are missing -- not someone identical to ourself.
This begs the question of whether the other 11 dimensional yous out there share your soul, or have totally unique and different souls like other people do (theoretically!) Actually, there is a theory that a "soul" is really splintered into many parts, and our search for "the right person" is really the search for the other parts of ourselves.
So what is it we actually search for in a soul-mate, and how can this be depicted for us in a romance novel?
Some of you may have noticed that awe-struck.net (one of the premier e-book romance publishers) is now open for romance submissions in all kinds of sub-genres. Alas I don't have anything ready that resembles what they're looking for, and I have too many other deals cooking to focus on that market -- but some of you might. Go for it!
Because somewhere, some time, somebody is going to nail this "soul-mate" issue, and it could be you!
So what could make a good theory to explore in an alien-romance?
Well, the essence of story is CONFLICT -- and the "soul-mate" theory appears on the surface to be the quintessenital definition of "NO CONFLICT" relationship.
However, I pointed out above that very likely a "you" from one of the 10 other alternate universes wouldn't be likely to be your soul-mate. Though we yearn to team up with (not necessarily "marry" in the classic sense, but form a life-bond that can't be broken) someone we don't FIGHT with, what we actually do is pick someone we love to fight with.
So any soul-mate AR has to include some kind of conflict to fight about, something that threatens the relationship even though the relationship is unbreakable. That's what makes the best story! Why? Because in real life, that's the formula for the best marriages.
So what is it that makes for a great fight between soul-mates? What is the formula for creating the "fly in the ointment?"
Back to "dimensions" that define humans and our fictional aliens.
We don't really know how many independent variables it takes to create a human -- it could be n-dimensions (i.e. an infinitely large number or at least an indeterminately large number).
However, we have a working model that READERS respond to whether they are consciously aware of it or not. That is astrology where there are 10 clearly defined parameters to each personality. The shape of the life pattern that personality has to cope with is defined by 2 additional variables -- the ascendant and the MC (i.e. where on Earth you are born)
These 10 paramters (SUN, MOON, MERCURY, VENUS, MARS, JUPITER, SATURN, URANUS, NEPTUNE AND (despite the recent demotion to a non-planet) PLUTO) each are projected against an array of 12 other paramters (the signs of the zodiak) but those are systematically arrayed. And likewise the "planets" though they move, do not move "independently" -- but rather they move predictably and form well defined patterns with several patterns disallowed (you can't have a retrograde moon if you're born on Earth!)
So people are not random mixes of traits. And I submit that this non-randomness is what makes it possible to find and team up with a soul-mate.
If we use the model that astrology offers, we see that the "personality" traits are set at birth, and the ups and downs of life are set into a very specific pattern at birth. In many astrological models there is another dimension, another variable -- THE SOUL.
"You" aren't your birth chart. "You" aren't your life-pattern set by your birthtime. You are a SOUL trying to cope with either the tempting-to-laziness ease of your birth chart, or trying to battle the innate adversities, or trying to mature your soul to surmount all difficulties.
Your natal chart does not define you -- you define it. That's why the best astrologers have to ask so many questions about what you've already done with your life before venturing an analysis of what options you might have in front of you now.
There is a branch of astrology that deals exclusively with RELATIONSHIPS -- and though I'm no expert in it, I have delved into its mechanisms and assumptions. It really can describe relationships.
So what do we learn by examining dozens (hundreds!) of real-life existing relationship patterns - successful marriages, and mediocre, and burdensome, and disasterous marriages?)
We learn that in our real lives, "soul-mates" do exist though they rarely find each other. But even when they do -- there's always a fly in the ointment! Something they fight about -- something they're incompatible about.
A successful marriage isn't one without incompatibilities -- but rather contains two MATURE souls who have found appropriate coping mechanisms for dealing with a) their personality traits, and b) their life-pattern, as shown in their natal charts.
When two such mature souls relate to each other, understand each others' daily battles with temptations to laziness, soul-destroying terrors, high spiritual ambitions, or unbridled greeds, and understand the knife-edge on which each stands with respect to those battles, such a marriage will last and last, very likely for an eternity.
So what is the secret to the soul-mate marriage that lasts? What is the model we look to describe with our writer's craft and art?
Now we veer away from astrology into pop-psychology.
If you've read enough pop-psychology, you've encountered the concept of a person's psychological "defenses." These are the philosophies, actions, habits of thought or deed, or emotional armor reflected in body-armor, that allow a soul to cope with a natal chart and live a long, productive and satisfying life, with all the ups and downs of happiness that takes.
Defenses are the core of the soul's coping mechanism, and only some of them are unhealthy, life-stultifying, etc. And even if they are unhealthy, they MIGHT be optimizing that soul's existence in this life.
The immature souls seem to go through life chopping, hacking, whacking, and blasting their way through other people's defenses "for their own good." Forcing people to think about what they don't want to think about -- for their own reasons.
A prime example is the "female" focus on thinking about, dwelling on, and living in the emotional world -- insisting on verbalizing issues about Relationship. While the "male" is utterly averse to this kind of mental focus. (stipulating that "male" and "female" aspects are in every human).
Current pop-psychology (Oprah; Dr. Phil) seems focused on destroying these defenses, breaking down barriers, exposing private matters, confessing your feelings, and "being honest" in public about what happens in the bedroom.
Art, however, gains power from guarding privacy, maintaining psychological defenses. And AR is art, after all.
I submit that it is possible that the mature soul RESPECTS the coping mechanisms, the psychological defenses, of others, recognizing them for what they are, (optimizers that perhaps are expensive in terms of psychological health, but still necessary), and understanding the issues and territories they defend.
Think about the TV show, MONK. He's a crackerjack detective who goes to a shrink because of the percieved flaw of his obsessive-compulsive behaviors (which are taken to such an extreme as to be ridiculous). The show is based on the assumption that his O-C behaviors are a flaw.
Note also he's not married.
Suppose he met up with someone who could percieve the value in his O-C behavior? Who could respect the fence of ideas and assumptions (about cleanliness) that he puts up around himself? Someone in whom he could see some other set of defenses they used to balance the conflict between the nature of their souls - and the nature of their natal-chart?
Would that make the perfect soul-mate marriage for Monk?
If not, what would?
Can you think of some other character on TV to design a soul-mate for?
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http:www.simegen.com/jl/
Sunday, October 01, 2006
My Favorite Earthling
Susan Grant kindly rejoins us with another excerpt, which continues from the first chapter posted on September 17th.
-----------------------------------------
Excerpted from MY FAVORITE EARTHLING
by SUSAN GRANT
copyright Susan Grant 2006
MARCH 2007
ISBN 0373771924; HQN books
This uncorrected excerpt may contain errors and other text not found in the final printed novel and is not for sale. Please don’t share the text with anyone without first receiving permission from the author to do so.
Chapter Two
Talk about a morning after, Jared Jasper thought and shoved on a pair of mirrored Oakley sunglasses. He felt like he’d been run over by a truck. An eighteen-wheeler. Fully loaded.
His aching head and dry mouth wasn’t from a hangover. The single bottle of beer he’d sucked down twelve hours ago had metabolized out of his system so long ago that he barely remember drinking it. It was post-saving-the-world syndrome, he decided, reaching for a little elusive humor to carry him through the day. Saving the world wasn’t for the weak, especially when it was followed by losing a grandfather whose passing would leave a gaping hole in his life, topped off by having to make an appearance in front of a cheering crowd of thousands outside the hospital an hour later. After losing a loved one, you craved privacy; it was only human. But his family didn’t enjoy the kind of privacy others did. The Jaspers were a political dynasty second only to the Kennedys. Senators, congressmen, governors, both at the national and state level, they were called California’s “First Family.”
But no fundraiser or election victory party had ever come close to matching yesterday’s spontaneous celebration in front of the hospital, a celebration Jared would love to have shared, if he hadn’t known too much. If he hadn’t known the aliens were coming back, and if he hadn’t known they were so territorially ravenous that they combed the stars scooping up habitable worlds like pieces in a chess game so they could stay one up in their opponent, the Drakken Hoard, overseen by an aging Darth-Vaderish warlord named Lord-General Rakkuu. Yeah, he’d have celebrated if he hadn’t known the Coalition considered what they did acquisition, not invasion, even though it meant removing the entire native population and shipping them somewhere else. Not to where the good real estate was located, Jared was sure.
He made a sound of contempt in his throat as he pulled on a sweatshirt and prepared to leave the family ranch where everyone else was still sleeping. Give him half a chance and he’d teach the Coalition a thing or two about acquisitions and hostile takeovers. They wouldn’t like it. He guaranteed that.
Problem was, it wasn’t up to him—or guys like him. He considered himself more of a scrappy mediator than an eloquent boardroom negotiator. When it came to politics, too many people in his family did it better. Or at least they enjoyed it, which was more than he could say about his feelings on the subject. Yet, the elder Jaspers hadn’t tried to stop him when he decided to pursue dual careers in commercial real estate and military flying. His grandfather, while accepting of his choice, had been somewhat disappointed, but soon he had Jana to groom whose success had brought the old man immeasurable pleasure up until the day he died. But in Grandpa’s view, every Jasper was a public servant, politico or no. “Our duty to others comes before our own interests and ambition,” he’d say, and had drilled it into each one of them since birth.
Jared was no stranger to duty—his National Guard career testified to that; he just wasn’t cut out for the “sacrifice your life for the greater good” thing. He’d fight in the trenches to the bitter end, but he wasn’t going to lead the charge.
The sun was barely up as he grabbed the keys to his Bronco and walked outside. The threat of alien invasion seemed to hang over the world like summer smog in the LA basin. He made up his mind to stick with his routine: Starbucks then the gym. After working out, he’d head to the office, although his eerily efficient staff would probably ask why he’d bothered.
How would he answer the question? That he was restless? Sleep-deprived? That somehow his view of life, his future, had shifted, and what used to feel comfortable about his existence now felt like a new pair of shoes that rubbed? He doubted he was the only one on Earth feeling this way, but his deeper involvement magnified the symptoms.
Jared sat in the idling truck, gripping the steering wheel as he watched the sun rise over the ranch house roof. Everyone who mattered to him was inside that house. His parents, his sisters. And now Cavin. They all maintained separate residences, but somehow they always gravitated back here, where they grew up.
Where all the good memories live.
As first-born, the ranch would be his someday. He’d raise a family here, and his children would run through the fields and climb the trees, riding the old tire swing to splash landings in the year-round pond. Sure, he was a ways off from settling down, but it was comforting somehow, knowing that life waited for him.
Waited for him? Was he freaking hallucinating? An alien army was off somewhere, regrouping. Unless Earth figured out to keep them away, extraterrestrials would be taking up residence at the ranch, not him. Not his family.
He jammed the idling Bronco into drive and skidded around the arc of the gravel driveway. Before he could shove the truck into drive, the front door opened and a woman burst outside. “Jared, wait!”
Dressed in tight brown yoga sweats with a little purse tucked under her arm, his younger sister Evie trotted down the driveway in her flip flops. “I’m on my way to Starbucks,” he said.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Hop in.”
A whiff of vanilla followed her into the seat. Evie always smelled good. She smelled like home. “What a night,” she said.
“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep. You?”
“I popped an Ambien and slept like a baby. I’ve got more for later if you want one.”
“A ten mile run followed by a few shots of Johnnie Walker and a hot bath is more my kind of nightcap.”
Her laughter made him smile. If Jana was the heart of the family, Evie was the warmth. The body heat, he sometimes told her, but that usually got him a dirty look because she took it as a comment on her weight problem, which in his mind wasn’t a problem. Something was wrong with society if a woman sweated being a size fourteen. But lately she’d been hitting the gym for Pilates and yoga. It was the best sign yet that she was getting over divorcing the asshole who’d cheated on her. For a domestic goddess whose home was the heart of her existence, seeing it break up had to be rough. It didn’t seem right that the world was threatening to come unglued just as she was thinking about rejoining it.
Evie slid her window down and inhaled. Her thick, dark brown hair blew around her shoulders. “Springtime, finally.
Thinking it’s too early for poppies?”
“Let’s check it out.” He pulled off the road and four-wheeled it through the meadow. Evie’s shrieks of delight echoed in the morning calm as he flew over hills and plunged down gullies. He knew without talking about it that this was what they needed after suffering such a devastating family tragedy and nearly losing their youngest sister. But they’d always been a lot alike, he and Evie. Evie was even more disinterested in politics. While he’d gone to Stanford, Evie had suffered through two years at a junior college before realizing her lifelong dream of becoming a wife and mom. They might be Jaspers, but they wanted no part of the glory themselves.
The Bronco creaked as it bounced along over dirt and rocks. It was hell on his shocks, but in light of everything else, who cared? Evie pointed to a long ditch ahead. “That one,” she cried. “Jump it.”
She screamed as he goosed the gas. The Bronco soared over the first ridge and with a jolt came to an abrupt stop with the bumper digging into the mud. His hand flew out automatically to keep Evie from hurtling forward, though her seatbelt had locked.
“Sorry about that.” He hoped he didn’t bend the front end. “You okay?”
But Evie didn’t answer. He followed her gaze to the right. Something large and heavy had dug a long scar in the ground. It went on straight as an arrow for about a half mile.
“The assassin’s space ship,” she said. “That’s where it crashed.”
During the chaos of the past few days, no one had spared the time to look for the wreckage of the dead assassin’s spaceship. Like Cavin’s ship, it was invisible behind its protective cloaking. But here it was in the middle of acres of grassland, scrub, and oaks along with a convenient trail leading right to it.
Convenient enough that you crammed you front end into it, he thought, frowning, and put the Bronco in reverse. The tires spun in the mud. He killed the engine before he dug in any deeper. “I don’t f-ing believe this. We’re stuck.”
“So much for Starbucks,” Evie said mournfully.
He got out and took a look at the rear tires. “I’ll need a tug.” There was another four-wheel drive parked in the garage back at the house. He opened his cell phone, saw the time and closed the phone. “It’s not even seven. Everyone’s sleeping.” He doubted Jana and Cavin did a whole lot of sleeping last night, either, but whatever time they could steal together, they deserved. Cavin was the first man Jana had chosen that Jared trusted to make his sister happy.
“We’ve got a little time to kill.” Jared sent a longing glance down the furrow to where the spacecraft would be if it were visible. “Come on. Let’s take a closer look.”
“What look? It’s invisible. You can’t see it.”
“Not if we open the hatch and go in. You can see when you’re inside.”
“Jared, no.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Not the end of the chapter... Stay tuned to find out what Jared found inside the alien assassin's spaceship.
-----------------------------------------
Excerpted from MY FAVORITE EARTHLING
by SUSAN GRANT
copyright Susan Grant 2006
MARCH 2007
ISBN 0373771924; HQN books
This uncorrected excerpt may contain errors and other text not found in the final printed novel and is not for sale. Please don’t share the text with anyone without first receiving permission from the author to do so.
Chapter Two
Talk about a morning after, Jared Jasper thought and shoved on a pair of mirrored Oakley sunglasses. He felt like he’d been run over by a truck. An eighteen-wheeler. Fully loaded.
His aching head and dry mouth wasn’t from a hangover. The single bottle of beer he’d sucked down twelve hours ago had metabolized out of his system so long ago that he barely remember drinking it. It was post-saving-the-world syndrome, he decided, reaching for a little elusive humor to carry him through the day. Saving the world wasn’t for the weak, especially when it was followed by losing a grandfather whose passing would leave a gaping hole in his life, topped off by having to make an appearance in front of a cheering crowd of thousands outside the hospital an hour later. After losing a loved one, you craved privacy; it was only human. But his family didn’t enjoy the kind of privacy others did. The Jaspers were a political dynasty second only to the Kennedys. Senators, congressmen, governors, both at the national and state level, they were called California’s “First Family.”
But no fundraiser or election victory party had ever come close to matching yesterday’s spontaneous celebration in front of the hospital, a celebration Jared would love to have shared, if he hadn’t known too much. If he hadn’t known the aliens were coming back, and if he hadn’t known they were so territorially ravenous that they combed the stars scooping up habitable worlds like pieces in a chess game so they could stay one up in their opponent, the Drakken Hoard, overseen by an aging Darth-Vaderish warlord named Lord-General Rakkuu. Yeah, he’d have celebrated if he hadn’t known the Coalition considered what they did acquisition, not invasion, even though it meant removing the entire native population and shipping them somewhere else. Not to where the good real estate was located, Jared was sure.
He made a sound of contempt in his throat as he pulled on a sweatshirt and prepared to leave the family ranch where everyone else was still sleeping. Give him half a chance and he’d teach the Coalition a thing or two about acquisitions and hostile takeovers. They wouldn’t like it. He guaranteed that.
Problem was, it wasn’t up to him—or guys like him. He considered himself more of a scrappy mediator than an eloquent boardroom negotiator. When it came to politics, too many people in his family did it better. Or at least they enjoyed it, which was more than he could say about his feelings on the subject. Yet, the elder Jaspers hadn’t tried to stop him when he decided to pursue dual careers in commercial real estate and military flying. His grandfather, while accepting of his choice, had been somewhat disappointed, but soon he had Jana to groom whose success had brought the old man immeasurable pleasure up until the day he died. But in Grandpa’s view, every Jasper was a public servant, politico or no. “Our duty to others comes before our own interests and ambition,” he’d say, and had drilled it into each one of them since birth.
Jared was no stranger to duty—his National Guard career testified to that; he just wasn’t cut out for the “sacrifice your life for the greater good” thing. He’d fight in the trenches to the bitter end, but he wasn’t going to lead the charge.
The sun was barely up as he grabbed the keys to his Bronco and walked outside. The threat of alien invasion seemed to hang over the world like summer smog in the LA basin. He made up his mind to stick with his routine: Starbucks then the gym. After working out, he’d head to the office, although his eerily efficient staff would probably ask why he’d bothered.
How would he answer the question? That he was restless? Sleep-deprived? That somehow his view of life, his future, had shifted, and what used to feel comfortable about his existence now felt like a new pair of shoes that rubbed? He doubted he was the only one on Earth feeling this way, but his deeper involvement magnified the symptoms.
Jared sat in the idling truck, gripping the steering wheel as he watched the sun rise over the ranch house roof. Everyone who mattered to him was inside that house. His parents, his sisters. And now Cavin. They all maintained separate residences, but somehow they always gravitated back here, where they grew up.
Where all the good memories live.
As first-born, the ranch would be his someday. He’d raise a family here, and his children would run through the fields and climb the trees, riding the old tire swing to splash landings in the year-round pond. Sure, he was a ways off from settling down, but it was comforting somehow, knowing that life waited for him.
Waited for him? Was he freaking hallucinating? An alien army was off somewhere, regrouping. Unless Earth figured out to keep them away, extraterrestrials would be taking up residence at the ranch, not him. Not his family.
He jammed the idling Bronco into drive and skidded around the arc of the gravel driveway. Before he could shove the truck into drive, the front door opened and a woman burst outside. “Jared, wait!”
Dressed in tight brown yoga sweats with a little purse tucked under her arm, his younger sister Evie trotted down the driveway in her flip flops. “I’m on my way to Starbucks,” he said.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Hop in.”
A whiff of vanilla followed her into the seat. Evie always smelled good. She smelled like home. “What a night,” she said.
“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep. You?”
“I popped an Ambien and slept like a baby. I’ve got more for later if you want one.”
“A ten mile run followed by a few shots of Johnnie Walker and a hot bath is more my kind of nightcap.”
Her laughter made him smile. If Jana was the heart of the family, Evie was the warmth. The body heat, he sometimes told her, but that usually got him a dirty look because she took it as a comment on her weight problem, which in his mind wasn’t a problem. Something was wrong with society if a woman sweated being a size fourteen. But lately she’d been hitting the gym for Pilates and yoga. It was the best sign yet that she was getting over divorcing the asshole who’d cheated on her. For a domestic goddess whose home was the heart of her existence, seeing it break up had to be rough. It didn’t seem right that the world was threatening to come unglued just as she was thinking about rejoining it.
Evie slid her window down and inhaled. Her thick, dark brown hair blew around her shoulders. “Springtime, finally.
Thinking it’s too early for poppies?”
“Let’s check it out.” He pulled off the road and four-wheeled it through the meadow. Evie’s shrieks of delight echoed in the morning calm as he flew over hills and plunged down gullies. He knew without talking about it that this was what they needed after suffering such a devastating family tragedy and nearly losing their youngest sister. But they’d always been a lot alike, he and Evie. Evie was even more disinterested in politics. While he’d gone to Stanford, Evie had suffered through two years at a junior college before realizing her lifelong dream of becoming a wife and mom. They might be Jaspers, but they wanted no part of the glory themselves.
The Bronco creaked as it bounced along over dirt and rocks. It was hell on his shocks, but in light of everything else, who cared? Evie pointed to a long ditch ahead. “That one,” she cried. “Jump it.”
She screamed as he goosed the gas. The Bronco soared over the first ridge and with a jolt came to an abrupt stop with the bumper digging into the mud. His hand flew out automatically to keep Evie from hurtling forward, though her seatbelt had locked.
“Sorry about that.” He hoped he didn’t bend the front end. “You okay?”
But Evie didn’t answer. He followed her gaze to the right. Something large and heavy had dug a long scar in the ground. It went on straight as an arrow for about a half mile.
“The assassin’s space ship,” she said. “That’s where it crashed.”
During the chaos of the past few days, no one had spared the time to look for the wreckage of the dead assassin’s spaceship. Like Cavin’s ship, it was invisible behind its protective cloaking. But here it was in the middle of acres of grassland, scrub, and oaks along with a convenient trail leading right to it.
Convenient enough that you crammed you front end into it, he thought, frowning, and put the Bronco in reverse. The tires spun in the mud. He killed the engine before he dug in any deeper. “I don’t f-ing believe this. We’re stuck.”
“So much for Starbucks,” Evie said mournfully.
He got out and took a look at the rear tires. “I’ll need a tug.” There was another four-wheel drive parked in the garage back at the house. He opened his cell phone, saw the time and closed the phone. “It’s not even seven. Everyone’s sleeping.” He doubted Jana and Cavin did a whole lot of sleeping last night, either, but whatever time they could steal together, they deserved. Cavin was the first man Jana had chosen that Jared trusted to make his sister happy.
“We’ve got a little time to kill.” Jared sent a longing glance down the furrow to where the spacecraft would be if it were visible. “Come on. Let’s take a closer look.”
“What look? It’s invisible. You can’t see it.”
“Not if we open the hatch and go in. You can see when you’re inside.”
“Jared, no.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Not the end of the chapter... Stay tuned to find out what Jared found inside the alien assassin's spaceship.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Worldbuilding--How a horse's rear dimension dictates how we blast into space
No excerpts from me (apart from sharing my Sunday with the brilliant Susan Grant).
I would like to share one thought, though. In FORCED MATE, the way my aliens tell time (officially) is a throw back to their low tech ancient days. "The old names stuck."
It's not so implausible. A correspondent sent me this incredible--sequence of events... (which is fun, but not true, according to www.snopes.com)
---------------------
Did you ever wonder why the US standard railroad gauge (distance between the rails) is 4 feet, 8.5 inches?
Because that's the way they built them in England, and English expatriates built the US Railroads. The English built them like that because the first rail lines were built by the same people who built the pre-railroad tramways, and that's the gauge they used.
Why? Because the people who built the tramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for building wagons, which
used that wheel spacing. And, they used that particular odd wheel spacing because, if they tried to use any other spacing, the wagon wheels would break on some of the old, long distance roads in England, because that's the spacing of the wheel ruts.
So the gauge of American rails was determined by the width of the ruts in English roads? Who built those old rutted roads?
Imperial Rome built the first long distance roads in Europe (and England) for their legions. The roads have been used ever since. Roman war chariots formed the initial ruts, which everyone else had to match for fear of destroying their wagon wheels. Since the chariots were made for Imperial Rome, they were all alike in the matter of wheel spacing.
The United States standard railroad gauge of 4 feet, 8.5 inches is derived from the original specifications for an
Imperial Roman war chariot. Why was a war chariot that width? Because the Imperial Roman army chariots were made just wide enough to accommodate the back ends of two war horses!
The story doesn't stop there!
When you see a Space Shuttle sitting on its launch pad, there are two big booster rockets attached to the sides of the main fuel tank. These are solid rocket boosters, or SRBs. The SRBs are made by Thiokol at their factory at Utah. The engineers who designed the SRBs would have preferred to make them a bit fatter, but the SRBs had to be shipped by train from the factory to the launch site. The railroad line from the factory happens to run through a tunnel in the mountains. The SRBs had to fit through that tunnel.
The tunnel is slightly wider than the railroad track, and the railroad track, as you now know, is about as wide as
two horses' behinds.
So, a major Space Shuttle design feature of what is arguably the world's most advanced transportation system was determined over two thousand years ago by the width of a horse's bottom.
NASA, tell me it isn't so!
Best wishes,
Rowena
I would like to share one thought, though. In FORCED MATE, the way my aliens tell time (officially) is a throw back to their low tech ancient days. "The old names stuck."
It's not so implausible. A correspondent sent me this incredible--sequence of events... (which is fun, but not true, according to www.snopes.com)
---------------------
Did you ever wonder why the US standard railroad gauge (distance between the rails) is 4 feet, 8.5 inches?
Because that's the way they built them in England, and English expatriates built the US Railroads. The English built them like that because the first rail lines were built by the same people who built the pre-railroad tramways, and that's the gauge they used.
Why? Because the people who built the tramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for building wagons, which
used that wheel spacing. And, they used that particular odd wheel spacing because, if they tried to use any other spacing, the wagon wheels would break on some of the old, long distance roads in England, because that's the spacing of the wheel ruts.
So the gauge of American rails was determined by the width of the ruts in English roads? Who built those old rutted roads?
Imperial Rome built the first long distance roads in Europe (and England) for their legions. The roads have been used ever since. Roman war chariots formed the initial ruts, which everyone else had to match for fear of destroying their wagon wheels. Since the chariots were made for Imperial Rome, they were all alike in the matter of wheel spacing.
The United States standard railroad gauge of 4 feet, 8.5 inches is derived from the original specifications for an
Imperial Roman war chariot. Why was a war chariot that width? Because the Imperial Roman army chariots were made just wide enough to accommodate the back ends of two war horses!
The story doesn't stop there!
When you see a Space Shuttle sitting on its launch pad, there are two big booster rockets attached to the sides of the main fuel tank. These are solid rocket boosters, or SRBs. The SRBs are made by Thiokol at their factory at Utah. The engineers who designed the SRBs would have preferred to make them a bit fatter, but the SRBs had to be shipped by train from the factory to the launch site. The railroad line from the factory happens to run through a tunnel in the mountains. The SRBs had to fit through that tunnel.
The tunnel is slightly wider than the railroad track, and the railroad track, as you now know, is about as wide as
two horses' behinds.
So, a major Space Shuttle design feature of what is arguably the world's most advanced transportation system was determined over two thousand years ago by the width of a horse's bottom.
NASA, tell me it isn't so!
Best wishes,
Rowena
Apollo or Starbuck
The first verision of Battlestar Gallactica absolutely blew me away. I will never forget the first scene when Apollo and Zach were running from the Cylons and Zach was blown from the sky. I was hooked. No one messed with my Sunday nights. They were reserved for deep space travel.
So which of the hunky pilots did I fall for?
Apollo. The dark haired one with the dreamy eyes.
So why not Starbuck? Dirk Benedict definetly had the looks. And the posters. And he fit the bad boy mold that made Jayne from Firefly my choice. But poor Apollo. He had all that guilt. His brother was killed right before his eyes. He lost his wife. (Remember Jane Seymour in that role) He had a son to raise. His father had the responsibility of the entire fleet which put added pressure on him. Plus he had those great eyes.
I haven't been able to get into the new version now shown on Sci-Fi. Edward James Olmos is just way too depressing. And I can't get over the fact that Starbuck is a woman. I tried. It looks fascinating. Maybe I should get the seasons on dvd and try to figure it out. But I think it will just make me miss Apollo more.
So which of the hunky pilots did I fall for?
Apollo. The dark haired one with the dreamy eyes.
So why not Starbuck? Dirk Benedict definetly had the looks. And the posters. And he fit the bad boy mold that made Jayne from Firefly my choice. But poor Apollo. He had all that guilt. His brother was killed right before his eyes. He lost his wife. (Remember Jane Seymour in that role) He had a son to raise. His father had the responsibility of the entire fleet which put added pressure on him. Plus he had those great eyes.
I haven't been able to get into the new version now shown on Sci-Fi. Edward James Olmos is just way too depressing. And I can't get over the fact that Starbuck is a woman. I tried. It looks fascinating. Maybe I should get the seasons on dvd and try to figure it out. But I think it will just make me miss Apollo more.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Myths and Aliens
It's said that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Likewise, we could say that any sufficiently advanced species is indistinguishable from divinity. Erich von Daniken theorized in CHARIOTS OF THE GODS and other books that classical myths were based on visits from alien astronauts who constructed ancient artifacts that, to von Daniken, seemed too advanced for Earth technology of the time. In STAR TREK, deities from Terran mythology were sometimes revealed to be super-powerful aliens, as when the Enterprise crew encountered Apollo on a distant planet.
Many science fiction and fantasy authors, accordingly, have transmuted beings from myth and legend into aliens of sorts. Atlantis, a favorite motif for storytellers who want to invoke the concept of long-lost advanced science, is the ultimate source of magic and wisdom in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Avalon series (posthumously continued by Diana L. Paxson). Julie Kenner's Aphrodite series features superheroes who get their powers from the Greek gods. Classical deities and demons populate the complex mythos underlying Sherrilyn Kenyon's Dark Hunter stories. Angela Knight draws upon Arthurian legends in creating her witches and vampires and their other-dimensional home, the Mageverse.
When an author creatively crosses over -- or blurs -- the lines between myth, legend, fantasy, and science fiction, how much can traditional characters and motifs from the cultural group-mind be changed without risking loss of the archetypal elements that make them resonate as strongly with the contemporary audience as they have with people of past eras?
Incidentally, I'll be one of the Jewels of the Quill October spotlight authors. Stop by www.JewelsoftheQuill.com anytime in October and find out how to win a free book.
Monday, September 25, 2006
HE'S SUCH A CHARACTER! Part Deux
Continuing my relentless exploration of the men in my books... and how they developed into the pain-in-the-patootie hunk-muffins that they are... I'm going to let you all get up close and personal with a secondary character that many of you [according to your drooling emails] have found irresistible, in spite of the fact that he has six fingers on each hand, webbing between his fingers, and has gills.
Yes, cupcakes, that's right. Ren, from GABRIEL'S GHOST. The 6’ 5” tall, blue haired, alien Stolorth guy who is [and I have a feeling this is part of the big attraction here] a virgin.
As some of you know, GABRIEL'S GHOST originally started out as a short story entitled FEAR. ANYWAY, GABRIEL'S was initially simply a meeting between two long time enemies who'd eventually become lovers: Captain Chasidah 'Chaz' Bergren, and Gabriel Ross 'Sully' Sullivan. But everytime I wrote about Sully (another major pain-in-the-patootie hunk muffin), I kept 'seeing' the shadow of someone by his side.
That someone, I knew rather quickly, was Frayne Ackravaro Ren Elt.
A snippet from my May 2000 working notes as I began to plot out GABRIEL'S GHOST:
[SNIP]...Chaz accompanies Sully after agreeing to work with him. She meets with two others -- convicts like herself. One non human. They go to the shuttleport. Most obvious place for an escape and that's why Sully works out of there. So obvious no one thinks to look. Supply shuttles come irregularly from a nearby Station. Personnel/prisoner transports, too. He utilizes certain supply shuttles.
Sully and Chaz adopt the garb of Avarian monk/nun. He finds a perverse humor in this. 'Brother Sudral' and his acolyte, 'Sister Berry'. The other human convict is well known as 'Guardian Drogue' -- Chaz has seen him twice before, never knowing he was locating her for Sully. Drogue will return to Moabar often, accompanies them only to the Station.
The non-human is a blind Stolorth; a thickly muscled male of indeterminate age. Six fingered - webbed. Gill slits. His name is Frayne Ackravaro Ren Elt. He has very long silvery blue hair, worn plaited back in a braid. Stolorths are aquatic but can live for up to 48 hours out of a hydro-environment. Clearly Sully doesn't like him but he needs him. The Stolorth worked for the Labor Ministry as an Mediation Empath. Ren was privvy to several illegal negotiations by the Labor Ministry -- exporting and importing of slave labor. Perhaps illegal breeding of slaves with genetically defective mentalities. Ren 'knows where the bodies are hidden'... [END SNIP]
These are WORKING NOTES, kidlings. Ideas jotted down as to where I thought the chapter MIGHT go. Obviously, those of you who've read GABRIEL'S GHOST see that while I had Ren's name and description correct, I had his occupation totally wrong.
These things happen. Characters often play hide and seek with an author, and it wasn't until I began to actually write the chapter that Ren revealed himself to me.
One scene that did make it from my original working notes into the final book was the scene where Ren, blind, 'sees' Chaz's face by touching her. My original working notes state:
[SNIP] ...Ren's empathic abilities help steer them clear of those prison admin who might be suspicious. Chaz senses that Sully dislikes the fact that Ren's abilities are helpful. Ren is solicitious if not a bit curious about Chaz. He hasn't had much experience with human females.
On the supply shuttle, accomodations are cramped for the 8-hour trip. Ren's innocent curiousity amuses Chaz -- reminds her of her young half-brother -- and annoys Sully. He 'sees' her by touching her face, which really annoys Sully... [END SNIP]
However, one scene that did NOT make it into the final book called GABRIEL'S GHOST is Ren's death. Yes, sweetlings, in the first draft of the book, Ren was killed near the end of the book, as Sully and Chaz fight the bad guys on Marker. I thought it would be a good catalyst for Sully to reveal his 'secret' to Chaz (and for those of you who've NOT read the book, I'm not going to discuss any further what that secret is). However, the reaction of my crit partners to Ren's death was LOUD, IMMEDIATE AND THREATENING. So I had to do a bit of rewriting... with a few cyber-guns pointed at my blonde head.
In any event, to answer the emails that I've received about Ren, yes, he gets his own book. The immediate sequel to GABRIEL'S GHOST is CHASIDAH'S CHOICE, release date late 2007 or early 2008. I’d love to follow that with a series called DOCK FIVE—no promises right now. But if I do, Ren's own story will either be one of the DOCK FIVE books, or perhaps a stand alone. Not sure at this point, other than I DO know who his lady love is, and who eventually takes his virginity. Sigh. So you can all stop sending me bribe money. No, you cannot get in a hot tub with Ren!
Well, actually, one of you on the list will, because that person on this list is the creator of Ren's lady love, Lt. Kahri Beckert.
Here's a section of her short vignette she emailed me that convinced me she'd created the woman Ren would eventually, completely love:
[SNIP] ...Kahri stripped out of her battle uniform, zipped herself into the form fitting gray utility water suit and stepped into the sani-stall. She rolled her shoulders, then braided her hair while the quick-drying mist sprinkled over her. Grabbing a thick woolen robe used for both a cover-up and to dry off after a hot soak, she hit the palm pad on the thick steel doors leading to the hydro spa. She padded barefoot over to one of the cushioned benches, dropped the robe across it and turned toward the heated pool. Frozen in place, Kahri watched the lithe, muscular figure gliding effortlessly through the water, his loose-fitting blue swim shorts billowing around his slim hips. Ren. As he came to the end closest to where she was, he stood, wrung out his long, blue-tinted hair, pausing mid-twist. Nostrils flared, head tilted toward her, he appeared to be inhaling the very scent of her. A shiver of apprehension raced up her spine. Kahri didn't want anything to do with this alien creature - a member of a race that had destroyed her family.
"Kahri". The low, sultry voice wrapped around her like silken threads of the finest made cocoon. He held out a hand, palm up, beckoning, daring her to come closer. She would not. She could not. She did... [END SNIP]
As I said, the above was written by one of Ren's fans and emailed to me. So beware when you befriend an author... you never know where you, or one of your imaginary characters, will show up and be brought to life.
~Linnea
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Helispeta's greatest mistake?
Helispeta wanted to marry well, but not THIS well.
In MATING NET a newly widowed god-Emperor wants to mate again. Soon. His twin brother's fiancee appears to be the ideal take-over target, so he decides to take her.
His family motto for seductions is: "By stealth if possible...."
Sequestered on a private island where she is being trained to be god-Prince Devoron-Vitan's mate, Helispeta can't wait to take her place at Court. She will go to any lengths to make sure that Devoron-Vitan does not break off their betrothal, even disobey an express Royal command.
She has no idea that she is playing out of her depth.
.....
Her hologrammatic visitor stood stiff-legged, imperially tall and straight-backed. His bared, star-tanned, muscular arms were folded across his chest, and he was frowning impatiently because he had been kept waiting. Devoron-Vitan was every handsbreadth her warrior prince!
Helispeta caught her breath at the thought of measuring every part of him with the gentle palms of her hands, particularly the part that she would be expected to measure with both hands and the depth of her mouth.
“Devoron-Vitan, how lovely to see you!” she said, careful not to allow her juvenile adoration of him to show. “I thought you were too far away to visit me.”
“As you can see, I’m not.” He spread his powerful arms, and his short, dust-blue robe fell open, revealing that he wore only an even shorter kilt beneath his robe. Helispeta felt her eyes widen at the sight of his impressive chest and smooth, deeply chiseled stomach muscles. It was also the first time she’d seen him less than fully robed, and the sight disquieted her. Not that she’d never seen male anatomy. Even when there was no hope of becoming the next Empress, the virgin princesses’ curriculum required a theoretical command of every important male nerve ending.
She looked. Of course, she looked. Even if he had deliberately exposed his naked upper body to her as a test, she was interested. Too late she remembered that her eyes tended to change color from silver to the deepest violet, depending on her emotions. “Passion-meter eyes,” Devoron-Vitan used to tease her. He’d once said that he couldn’t wait to see how passionately purple her eyes would shade when she felt his immense and potent size throb inside her.
“I worry about you, my love,” he said evenly.
Oh, no! Surely, even a Great Djinn couldn’t read minds through a hologram. Why else might he worry? Oh, stars! Please, no. Please not because he was about to dismiss her from his affections forever, and he knew that she would be heartbroken. But, wait. It was the first time he’d called her his love. Would he call her his love if he were about to break off their betrothal?
“You do?” Helispeta fought to remain calm. Remembering her hastily chosen flower, she brought it up to her face. A tiny, purple, penis-shaped stamen brushed her nose, ejaculating pollen on contact. She felt the cool, tiny spray of pollen droplets on her heated cheeks. Oh stars! How vulgar! He’d never believe she hadn’t planned it! But she hadn’t. She hadn’t!
“Of course I do,” he said, seeming not to have noticed the accident with the flower at all.
From under her lowered lashes she noticed the crinkle of his slightly puffy lower eyelids, which gave the impression of an intelligent and good humored male who has shrewdly seen through everything and still sees the humor in it.
“I worry how you will adapt to life on a war-star. Will you miss lying in pools all day, looking up at the Body Imperial?”
He spoke of the Gas Giant, which Tigron orbited, but she was sure he was thinking complacently of his own magnificent physique.
“Perhaps you could install a very small murk pool for me?”
“Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. Do you think my brother would approve of the extravagance?” He raised a single eyebrow the way all Djinn did.
Helispeta did not want to discuss what Djohn-Kronos would or would not approve, nor to speculate about his generosity. She traced a finger over the curved bell-end of her flower.
“Talking of your brother, I wrote him a letter of condolence.”
“Now why did you do that?” His expression was inscrutable.
“As his future sister-in-law, and given that I believed you were worlds away and might not even have heard that the Empress Djustine-Saturna had died ... the gesture seemed appropriate.”
Helispeta wondered whether she should add that for as long as the Emperor Djohn-Kronos remained a widower--which he might be for a very long time--she, as Devoron-Vitan’s mate, would be the highest ranking princess at Court.
She bit her lip. Possibly, Devoron-Vitan would misunderstand any comments from her on protocol and feminine precedence. One wouldn’t want His Highness to think she was ambitious for herself.
“It is never appropriate for a virgin to give Djohn-Kronos any sort of encouragement,” he said harshly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was presumptuous. It won’t happen again.”
He nodded, as though satisfied by her humble apology. “What will you do during the watches, when I am on the Bridge of the Ark Royal and unable to entertain you?”
“I am quite good at entertaining myself,” she said, then saw his wicked triangular grin, his thin upper lip drawn straight across perfect teeth. She knew that he knew that masturbation was on the princesses’ secret curriculum. “I play cards and all manner of board games,” she elucidated with immense dignity.
“Board games?” he repeated. Again the eyebrow lifted.
Helispeta wondered whether he was mocking her. Perhaps he was angrier with her for keeping him waiting than his surface demeanor suggested. She glanced under her long, dark curl-tipped lashes, lower down this time, at the short kilt under his open robe, and the jutting shape of him.
His thighs were not as muscular as she would have expected on a warrior, but very nice-looking.
Devoron-Vitan did not look like a god who would sit still for anything. Unless for the first few strokes of an erotic massage.
As though he could read her thoughts, which of course he could not through a hologram, he smiled predatorily.
“Are you excelling in all your studies?” He casually scratched his amazing chest.
“Oh, yes,” she lied, ignoring his boorish behavior.
“At Mothercraft, too?” he asked. “Do you look forward to being a mother? I’d like to give you children.”
“Oh, yes,” she lied again. Diplomatic Dissimulation was her best subject, after Art of Conversation. Unless one counted prestidigitation and card-sharpery, which one didn’t.
“I’ll come for you soon,” he murmured huskily.
The hologram image faded.
She was still betrothed to be mated! Helispeta sank to the ground, weak with relief.
* * * *
She was lying, of course. So was he.
Djohn-Kronos stepped off his hologram sender, well pleased with the interview.
The important thing was that Helispeta couldn’t tell the difference between himself and his younger twin. However, he did have a very unfair advantage.
--------------
Mating Net is a short story, available as an e-book from New Concepts Publishing. It was written as a prequel for FORCED MATE to tell the story of the greatest mistake of Helispeta's life.
Best wishes,
Rowena Cherry
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