Folks:
This is a blog about Alien Romance, but a while ago someone asked about the writing technique known as Worldbuilding -- and for most of my posts since, I've been developing a long instructional piece on how to do the kind of thinking native to SF while still telling a whopping romance story.
Most people think of worldbuilding as having to do with science -- and sometimes they dare to include sociology or psychology. But the real point of all the science (how big is the world you're building, what's its gravity, what kind of sun does it have, moons?, cycles and seasons, evolutionary pressures, contact with other worlds in this galaxy or another etc. etc) the real point is to start with the physics of the star's makeup, project what kind of worlds would circle that star, start with a raw dead hunk of rock and develope an environment conducive to life.
Then you have to populate that environment with plants and animals (or some bizarre equivalent) from single protein molecules on up -- then figure what pressures that environment would put on life to force the development of intelligence -- THEN decide what sort of Divine intervention actually happened to produce people, or what sort of Divine intervention those people postulate and/or believe solemnly.
And the point of all this -- ROMANCE!
The point of thinking through each step from raw sun to rock to life to intelligence is to postulate how physiology and environment combine to generate cultures.
Yes, Alien Romance is inherently about intercultural communication -- which may often include conflict. And where there's conflict, there's STORY.
But what good is all that hard work if the people who read your story don't understand it or care to try to understand it?
Your story has to say something about today, humanity, life on earth, our cultures and their conflicts. A story has to be relevant to its times (no matter if set in the future like Star Trek or set in the past like a time-travel romance).
The whole point of writing a story at all is to arouse the reader and provide an emotional experience they couldn't get from "real" life. But they must return to "real" life with some new point of view, some new idea, (this is SF Romance or Romantic SF -- any way you slice it Alien Romance is primarily SF and thus the Literature of Ideas - so readers must return to reality with an IDEA to think about and explore.)
You want to get famous as a writer? Produce ideas your readers will TALK about to their friends, thus inducing people to read your books.
So where do writers get those kinds of ideas? SF ideas?
Just watch the evening news!
We just saw an election in France that promises to change the political course there -- toward building a more capitalistic economy and edging away from the kind of economy that failed in Japan where laws made it hard or impossible for corporations to fire people. Strangely, the inability to fire people means that unemployment goes up and up and UP and the government crashes down in revolution -- or as in Japan, things get changed on the government level.
Now the USA faces a truly important Presidential Election. No matter which side you're already on, you know that the choice we make in 2008 will change things in the whole world.
Nearly a year before the first primary we have a field of 18 candidates - 10 of them Republican.
Hundreds of millions of dollars are going into this presidential campaign. It's a spectacle to rival the Roman Circus!
What's an SF writer looking for an Alien Romance story to do if the source of ideas is the evening news? And all that's on is Presidential Debates?
Sit back, put on your alien ears, and just listen to what these people are saying. Oh, yeah, they're all politicians. Like preachers, they have learned a certain "cant" -- a chant, a tune, a manner of speaking and a set of phrases, jargon, and so on, mostly incomprehensible to someone who's not American or maybe British (though I have to admit I don't understand British politics at all.)
Well, I did this exercise the other night and I've been watching the sound-bytes and reading some articles online -- and one thing leaps out at me more starkly even than in prior campaigns.
These characters all try to distinguish themselves from each other by WHAT they will FIGHT FOR -- not about their attitude toward fighting in general.
"Elect me and I'll fight for your right to X, Y, Z."
They'll fight global warming; they'll pledge to fight whatever people don't like at the moment.
How would that sound to someone from that planet we invented above, the planet upon which a species evolved to produce a major Hunk our Earthling can fall in love with while hating or rescuing him?
How we choose the SUN around which this bare rock forms -- (yes, worldbuilding goes that far back -- how you choose the sun) -- will determine whether politicians from those civilizations FIGHT or whether they PROBLEM SOLVE instead.
Do they argue instead of negotiate? Do they keep arguing until they convince everyone -- are their elections about finding out what is right instead of who is right?
If so, then our elections and our Presidential Politics will look pretty ridiculous or incomprehensible -- "How can you settle a war by fighting? It makes no sense."
Thus our glorious Hunk looks upon the Love of His Life who is running for President of the USA on the pledge to FIGHT FOR GALACTIC PEACE, and runs for the hills!
Ooops. Back to choosing the right sun to build our world around.
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Monday, May 07, 2007
More "Lost" Games of Command scenes
Okay, this one isn't so much lost (it's part of Chapter 7) as it was pared down. This is the uncut version from 2001, so pardon some of the inconsistencies. The book was originally a series, you know. Poor thing's been through hell...
BRIDGE, THS VAXXAR
“All I know, admiral, is that Doctors Fynn and Monterro still have tests to perform on Serafino. They don’t want anything to occur that could cause him to relapse.”
Kel-Paten glanced down at the small woman standing next to him on the bridge. Her face was in profile to him. She watched the starfield flowing by the large forward viewport as the Vaxxar traveled at sub-light speed towards the nearest Fleet Base on Panperra Station.
He hated when he couldn’t see her eyes when she spoke. He was learning, sometimes the hard way, to read her expressions, the nuances between her words and thoughts. True, he’d been trained-- he liked that word better than programmed-- to correctly interpret over one hundred and forty human facial expressions and another sixty-seven non-human ones. But these classifications were useless when it came to Tasha Sebastian.
He needed to know more than the fact that her facial expression designated, for example, mild amusement. He needed to know if that amusement was directed at him or against him; if it were an amusement she felt he’d understand and wanted to share with him; if something he said or did was the source of that delightful and often pixie-ish smile. He needed to know if he made her feel something.
And nothing in his progr-- his training allowed for that.
Right now, the little he could see of her face told him she’d adopted her “professional expression”-- a noncommittal, almost bland mien. She simply reported the facts as she knew them, and had no opinions of same.
Or else she had deep opinions and was not about to share them with him. He’d known her long enough, studied her long enough, to see that also as a viable option. It was at those times he felt the most left out. She didn’t trust him enough to share her concerns with him. Or, like most of his crew, she believed he wasn’t capable of caring.
He was. She’d taught him that, too.
So he probed, asked a few more questions about Serafino’s condition and got nowhere. Except that now she thought he didn’t have any faith in Fynn’s medical abilities.
“I assure you, Sebastian, I have a great respect for the doctor’s assessment here. However, her focus is different from ours.” He liked that as soon as he said it. It aligned Sass with himself under the heading of “Command”, breaking from her usual allegiance with the CMO.
“As I understand it, we’ll have nothing to focus on if Serafino is comatose again. Or dead.” She looked at him briefly, a slight raising of one eyebrow as if to say, ‘Are you following me on this, fly-boy?’
She hadn’t called him “fly-boy” since the peace talks. Before that, it had been one of the names she’d taunted him with from the bridge of the Regalia. Fly-boy. An ancient aviator term for heavy-air fighter pilots. The first time she’d leveled it at him he’d taken offense but she’d used it so often after that that it became almost a term of endearment. At least, he liked to think of it that way.
Now, all he rated was the raised eyebrow.
“I only intend to question the man, not torture him,” he told her.
“At least not yet, eh, Kel-Paten?” she replied, her voice lowered a bit and with a hint of a smile.
“Sebastian.” He paused.
“Kel-Paten,” she replied and then paused.
It was the ‘name game’, one of their few rituals that had continued after the peace talks. He would say her name, followed by the appropriate warning-filled pause whenever something she said or did warranted his supposed disapproval. And she would reply with his name, either matching his warning tone or, more often, mocking it.
This time it was the latter.
“When we reach Panperra he’ll be turned over to Adjutant Kel-Farquin,” he said, watching her carefully for her reaction. “That should be torture enough.”
She choked back a laugh at his comment, which told him she remembered what he did. Homer Kel-Farquin’s whining, nasal voice and supercilious manner had been one of the low-points in the peace talks. Kel-Paten would steeple his hands in front of his face every time the Adjutant would launch into one of his obnoxious diatribes. After one such painful session, Sass had sarcastically complimented Kel-Paten on his ability to appear so focused on Kel-Farquin’s every word.
“I am not focused,” he’d told her without expression. “I am sleeping.”
He’d been rewarded then with one of her-- heart stopping-- smiles. Not dissimilar to the one now teasing across her lips.
“Why Admiral Kel-Paten,” she drawled. “I heard you were so impressed with Kel-Farquin’s oratory talents that you ordered copies of every one of his speeches.”
“I believe,” he countered dryly, “that would be grounds for a Section Forty-Six.”
“Unless one had a justifiable reason for ordering them. You know,” she said, continuing their verbal game, “those tapes may contain the very thing we need to defeat the Illithians.”
He thought for a moment. “A subliminal transmission of their contents into Illithian space could be very effective,” he posited, matching her feigned concern.
“Or considered cruel and inhumane methods.”
A slight shrug. “Who would be left to complain?”
“There might be a few. After all, I found copious amounts of gin to be an workable antidote.”
He glanced down at her. “I slept.”
“And well I remember your ingenious defense. Better than mine. No hangover.”
“It’s a methodology I developed after a long association with Triad politicians. Let my experience be your guide.”
She clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels. “I’ll keep that in mind for your next staff meeting.”
Had he misread her? Was she aligning him in her mind with the likes of Homer Kel-Farquin? He wasn’t sure until she grinned up at him. “Gotcha!” she said softly.
He couldn’t help it. He felt a small smile form on his lips but she was turning away from him, her attention on a nav-tech on the lower tier of the bridge. There was a problem with some incoming data. She stepped quickly down the stairs.
Some of her warmth, however, lingered behind.
Gotcha.
Yes, indeed.
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
BRIDGE, THS VAXXAR
“All I know, admiral, is that Doctors Fynn and Monterro still have tests to perform on Serafino. They don’t want anything to occur that could cause him to relapse.”
Kel-Paten glanced down at the small woman standing next to him on the bridge. Her face was in profile to him. She watched the starfield flowing by the large forward viewport as the Vaxxar traveled at sub-light speed towards the nearest Fleet Base on Panperra Station.
He hated when he couldn’t see her eyes when she spoke. He was learning, sometimes the hard way, to read her expressions, the nuances between her words and thoughts. True, he’d been trained-- he liked that word better than programmed-- to correctly interpret over one hundred and forty human facial expressions and another sixty-seven non-human ones. But these classifications were useless when it came to Tasha Sebastian.
He needed to know more than the fact that her facial expression designated, for example, mild amusement. He needed to know if that amusement was directed at him or against him; if it were an amusement she felt he’d understand and wanted to share with him; if something he said or did was the source of that delightful and often pixie-ish smile. He needed to know if he made her feel something.
And nothing in his progr-- his training allowed for that.
Right now, the little he could see of her face told him she’d adopted her “professional expression”-- a noncommittal, almost bland mien. She simply reported the facts as she knew them, and had no opinions of same.
Or else she had deep opinions and was not about to share them with him. He’d known her long enough, studied her long enough, to see that also as a viable option. It was at those times he felt the most left out. She didn’t trust him enough to share her concerns with him. Or, like most of his crew, she believed he wasn’t capable of caring.
He was. She’d taught him that, too.
So he probed, asked a few more questions about Serafino’s condition and got nowhere. Except that now she thought he didn’t have any faith in Fynn’s medical abilities.
“I assure you, Sebastian, I have a great respect for the doctor’s assessment here. However, her focus is different from ours.” He liked that as soon as he said it. It aligned Sass with himself under the heading of “Command”, breaking from her usual allegiance with the CMO.
“As I understand it, we’ll have nothing to focus on if Serafino is comatose again. Or dead.” She looked at him briefly, a slight raising of one eyebrow as if to say, ‘Are you following me on this, fly-boy?’
She hadn’t called him “fly-boy” since the peace talks. Before that, it had been one of the names she’d taunted him with from the bridge of the Regalia. Fly-boy. An ancient aviator term for heavy-air fighter pilots. The first time she’d leveled it at him he’d taken offense but she’d used it so often after that that it became almost a term of endearment. At least, he liked to think of it that way.
Now, all he rated was the raised eyebrow.
“I only intend to question the man, not torture him,” he told her.
“At least not yet, eh, Kel-Paten?” she replied, her voice lowered a bit and with a hint of a smile.
“Sebastian.” He paused.
“Kel-Paten,” she replied and then paused.
It was the ‘name game’, one of their few rituals that had continued after the peace talks. He would say her name, followed by the appropriate warning-filled pause whenever something she said or did warranted his supposed disapproval. And she would reply with his name, either matching his warning tone or, more often, mocking it.
This time it was the latter.
“When we reach Panperra he’ll be turned over to Adjutant Kel-Farquin,” he said, watching her carefully for her reaction. “That should be torture enough.”
She choked back a laugh at his comment, which told him she remembered what he did. Homer Kel-Farquin’s whining, nasal voice and supercilious manner had been one of the low-points in the peace talks. Kel-Paten would steeple his hands in front of his face every time the Adjutant would launch into one of his obnoxious diatribes. After one such painful session, Sass had sarcastically complimented Kel-Paten on his ability to appear so focused on Kel-Farquin’s every word.
“I am not focused,” he’d told her without expression. “I am sleeping.”
He’d been rewarded then with one of her-- heart stopping-- smiles. Not dissimilar to the one now teasing across her lips.
“Why Admiral Kel-Paten,” she drawled. “I heard you were so impressed with Kel-Farquin’s oratory talents that you ordered copies of every one of his speeches.”
“I believe,” he countered dryly, “that would be grounds for a Section Forty-Six.”
“Unless one had a justifiable reason for ordering them. You know,” she said, continuing their verbal game, “those tapes may contain the very thing we need to defeat the Illithians.”
He thought for a moment. “A subliminal transmission of their contents into Illithian space could be very effective,” he posited, matching her feigned concern.
“Or considered cruel and inhumane methods.”
A slight shrug. “Who would be left to complain?”
“There might be a few. After all, I found copious amounts of gin to be an workable antidote.”
He glanced down at her. “I slept.”
“And well I remember your ingenious defense. Better than mine. No hangover.”
“It’s a methodology I developed after a long association with Triad politicians. Let my experience be your guide.”
She clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels. “I’ll keep that in mind for your next staff meeting.”
Had he misread her? Was she aligning him in her mind with the likes of Homer Kel-Farquin? He wasn’t sure until she grinned up at him. “Gotcha!” she said softly.
He couldn’t help it. He felt a small smile form on his lips but she was turning away from him, her attention on a nav-tech on the lower tier of the bridge. There was a problem with some incoming data. She stepped quickly down the stairs.
Some of her warmth, however, lingered behind.
Gotcha.
Yes, indeed.
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Astronaut kidney stones
If the label at the Johnson Space Center in Houston gave proper attribution to the astronauts who kindly donated their kidney stones for the public to peer at, and wince over, I did not notice it.
One specimen on display was the size of my little toe!
I don't know whether I can make much of astronautical (should that be a word?) kidney stones in my "Forking" books (the sequels to my alien romances in the Gods of Tigron trilogy). With Forced Mate, the carefully (but not personally) researched military uses for urine were left on the cutting room floor. However, I don't think my hero is going to want to be weightless for any long period of time. I'll have to upgrade his mothership.
That means that there wouldn't be a lot of point in tying him into one of those cool, grey, astronaut sleeping bags, which had seemed to me to have some vaguely sexy possibilities... While alluding to bondage, I'd never, previously, given much thought to the fact that astronauts in a zero gravity environment have to be tied down in order to exercise.
As for floaters, did you know that astronaut toilets have a rear view mirror, so astronauts can check before leaving the throne that they are not about to be pursued around the spacecraft?
If you ever thought that an airliner's toilet made efficient use of space, with every surface a repository for some compactly-stowed item, imagine the space shuttle as an airline toilet... without gravity, and without the running water.
Every pull-out drawer had a net inside it, to stop the drawer's contents escaping whenever the drawer was opened. The different space suits were interesting. One which had chilled water pumped through it reminded me powerfully of the costumes worn in "Dune". Another made the astronaut look like a human lobster.
I've thought of "contact suits" for visiting aliens, but never before had I realised that a stiff and bulky (and sealed) headmask would mean that one could not contemplate ones own navel ... or chest. Astronauts have small mirrors on the insides of their wrists, so that they can read the dials in the control packs on their chests and other places. That means, any instructions have to be in "mirror writing".
Of course, this would not be an issue if an alien language was in symbols like our H or O or X which read the same whether upside down or backwards. Then, they'd have to have a Yoda-like concept of grammar, where word order did not matter.
Much as I love Tolkein, I don't think I'll take world-building to the extent he did, and actually invent (and use) a complete language for my alien worlds. Until every book is an e-book --and there will come a day when it is illegal to cut down trees-- pulp fiction allows a writer ever fewer pages to tell a story.
Best wishes,
Rowena Cherry
Insufficient Mating Material
One specimen on display was the size of my little toe!
I don't know whether I can make much of astronautical (should that be a word?) kidney stones in my "Forking" books (the sequels to my alien romances in the Gods of Tigron trilogy). With Forced Mate, the carefully (but not personally) researched military uses for urine were left on the cutting room floor. However, I don't think my hero is going to want to be weightless for any long period of time. I'll have to upgrade his mothership.
That means that there wouldn't be a lot of point in tying him into one of those cool, grey, astronaut sleeping bags, which had seemed to me to have some vaguely sexy possibilities... While alluding to bondage, I'd never, previously, given much thought to the fact that astronauts in a zero gravity environment have to be tied down in order to exercise.
As for floaters, did you know that astronaut toilets have a rear view mirror, so astronauts can check before leaving the throne that they are not about to be pursued around the spacecraft?
If you ever thought that an airliner's toilet made efficient use of space, with every surface a repository for some compactly-stowed item, imagine the space shuttle as an airline toilet... without gravity, and without the running water.
Every pull-out drawer had a net inside it, to stop the drawer's contents escaping whenever the drawer was opened. The different space suits were interesting. One which had chilled water pumped through it reminded me powerfully of the costumes worn in "Dune". Another made the astronaut look like a human lobster.
I've thought of "contact suits" for visiting aliens, but never before had I realised that a stiff and bulky (and sealed) headmask would mean that one could not contemplate ones own navel ... or chest. Astronauts have small mirrors on the insides of their wrists, so that they can read the dials in the control packs on their chests and other places. That means, any instructions have to be in "mirror writing".
Of course, this would not be an issue if an alien language was in symbols like our H or O or X which read the same whether upside down or backwards. Then, they'd have to have a Yoda-like concept of grammar, where word order did not matter.
Much as I love Tolkein, I don't think I'll take world-building to the extent he did, and actually invent (and use) a complete language for my alien worlds. Until every book is an e-book --and there will come a day when it is illegal to cut down trees-- pulp fiction allows a writer ever fewer pages to tell a story.
Best wishes,
Rowena Cherry
Insufficient Mating Material
Admin ... Can the dinosaur brain adapt?
I think I may have fouled up.
While I was in Houston for the Romantic Times booklovers convention, and inspired by all the good and positive things I heard about group blogging, I started a cross-genre blog for authors who love to write animal characters into their books. (Males-And-Other-Animals).
This morning, having noticed that my "new" co-bloggers hadn't put up their own websites and other urls of interest, I went stabbing around in the virtual dark, taking my responsibilities as site owner seriously, you see.
Before long, I realized that I didn't have to "do" HTML. This was inconvenient, because I couldn't copy and paste half a column of hrefs. However, there were compensations.
Book videos/book trailers, for instance, can be permanently lodged in the footer. What you do, having uploaded yours simply by title, is doubleclick on it, and then scroll to the top of the blogpage to watch it.
"I'm done watching this" will appear above the video. For a few moments, I was taken aback until I realized that this is not someone else's snark about my Insufficient Mating Material book trailer, but a handy link to stop the video.
Seductive!!! Linnea and Susan, take note. I think there may be links for podcasts and tv shows, too.
I tried to be responsible. I experimented on another blog that I control. The upgrade warning warned me that I'd lose any changes I'd made to colors and fonts. It also promised to save my original indefinitely. (Of course, I can't now find the original).
Too late, I find that I seem to have "lost" our silver heart logo. (Jacqueline, it is still on the old, unimproved, Survival-Romances site, so all is not lost)
I apologize for the inconvenience.
Best wishes
Rowena Cherry
While I was in Houston for the Romantic Times booklovers convention, and inspired by all the good and positive things I heard about group blogging, I started a cross-genre blog for authors who love to write animal characters into their books. (Males-And-Other-Animals).
This morning, having noticed that my "new" co-bloggers hadn't put up their own websites and other urls of interest, I went stabbing around in the virtual dark, taking my responsibilities as site owner seriously, you see.
Before long, I realized that I didn't have to "do" HTML. This was inconvenient, because I couldn't copy and paste half a column of hrefs. However, there were compensations.
Book videos/book trailers, for instance, can be permanently lodged in the footer. What you do, having uploaded yours simply by title, is doubleclick on it, and then scroll to the top of the blogpage to watch it.
"I'm done watching this" will appear above the video. For a few moments, I was taken aback until I realized that this is not someone else's snark about my Insufficient Mating Material book trailer, but a handy link to stop the video.
Seductive!!! Linnea and Susan, take note. I think there may be links for podcasts and tv shows, too.
I tried to be responsible. I experimented on another blog that I control. The upgrade warning warned me that I'd lose any changes I'd made to colors and fonts. It also promised to save my original indefinitely. (Of course, I can't now find the original).
Too late, I find that I seem to have "lost" our silver heart logo. (Jacqueline, it is still on the old, unimproved, Survival-Romances site, so all is not lost)
I apologize for the inconvenience.
Best wishes
Rowena Cherry
Saturday, May 05, 2007
The Big Bang
I had the extreme pleasure of presenting a workshop with some of the other outstanding authors on this blog and my part of it was on world building which I thought I share here today.
How to build a Universe.
Keep is simple. You do not want to spend the entire book explaining things.
Stargazer: page 181\
He slid the canvas away and ducked as a squeal and the slapping of skin came toward his head.
“Worrats,” he spat out in disgust. “They always stay away from the lighted areas.”
Without describing the “Worrats” you know what they are. Just add a few words here and there, enough to make it “sound” futuristic.
Shooting Star: page 132
Everything was so primitive. There wasn’t a piece of pexi or tunstun in sight.
Where does your story take place? On a planet? On a ship? Set the scene
Stargazer: the planet Oasis: page 56
They soon came out of the darkness of space and into the clear blue skies of Oaisis. Shaun found a set of eye shields; the air was so clean that it made the color more intense, and his eyes were still not accustomed to the brightness. They were soon flying over fields that were abundant with crops. The landscape was a myriad of bright color as the greens and golds of grains contrasted sharply with the pinks, purples, and reds of fields of flowers. In the distance glittered what looked like a huge diamond. It turned out to be a city of pure white granite that rose up from the landscape as if it had been carved from a mountain. It was surrounded by lush gardens full of flowers of every possible color, which stood out in sharp contrast against the pure whiteness of the walls of the city.
“We use every part of our planet; nothing goes to waste,” Lilly said, proud of her homeland.
Shooting Star: the planet Lavign: page 120
His door was one of three that led off the big room. There was a door in the middle of one wall that led outside. All he saw beyond it was green.
“This way,” Boone said and turned Ruben toward the back of the house. They made their way into another room where Tess was standing over a stove that had to be older than time. He saw flames shimmering beneath a pot that she stirred.
“Where am I?” he said again as he hobbled through with Boone and Ky’s help towards another door. “What is this place?”
They walked out onto a covered porch and he saw a garden, a large tower with metal blades slapping around in the breeze and some other buildings that he did not have the time or inclination to figure out at the moment.
Boone pointed to a narrow shack at the end of a trail of smooth stones.
“The necessary,” he announced.
Ruben quirked an eyebrow as they hobbled down the path. As he opened the door his nostrils were assaulted with a horrible smell and he realized that there was nothing there beyond a hole in the ground and a wooden seat. The bright sunlight that streamed though two cuts in the exterior wall did nothing to cheer up the interior.
“When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,” he told himself as he stood before the hole.
It wasn’t until he saw that the fluid coming out of him was bright blue that he realized he was in trouble.
Transportation
What do your cars look like? Your ships? Firefly used space ships and horses. Once again there is no need for indepth description unless you character is just arriving to your invented world
Food Sources
Grown normally? In space on giant asteroids? Manufactured in a factory?
Social Status
Royalty? Slavery? Just a regular guy? Outlaw? What are the crimes and the penalties?
Entertainment
I created The Murlacca…A gladiator type battle fought with hooked blades. The champions are treated like the athletes of today but it also used as execution for political prisoners. If you feel the need to explain the rules of the game have one of your viewers be witnessing it for the first time while the companion explains it.
Slang
That’s where you can really have fun. My teenagers in Star Shadows use Gank for Nerd, Geek, Jerk. Just make something up and slip it into the conversation as you would a current word. The readers will figure it out.
Politics
This is where it can get complicated. All worlds have some sort of political structure. This is where notes come in handy. If you’re writing a series then maintain continuity. My Star series has three political factions struggling for control.
How to build a Universe.
Keep is simple. You do not want to spend the entire book explaining things.
Stargazer: page 181\
He slid the canvas away and ducked as a squeal and the slapping of skin came toward his head.
“Worrats,” he spat out in disgust. “They always stay away from the lighted areas.”
Without describing the “Worrats” you know what they are. Just add a few words here and there, enough to make it “sound” futuristic.
Shooting Star: page 132
Everything was so primitive. There wasn’t a piece of pexi or tunstun in sight.
Where does your story take place? On a planet? On a ship? Set the scene
Stargazer: the planet Oasis: page 56
They soon came out of the darkness of space and into the clear blue skies of Oaisis. Shaun found a set of eye shields; the air was so clean that it made the color more intense, and his eyes were still not accustomed to the brightness. They were soon flying over fields that were abundant with crops. The landscape was a myriad of bright color as the greens and golds of grains contrasted sharply with the pinks, purples, and reds of fields of flowers. In the distance glittered what looked like a huge diamond. It turned out to be a city of pure white granite that rose up from the landscape as if it had been carved from a mountain. It was surrounded by lush gardens full of flowers of every possible color, which stood out in sharp contrast against the pure whiteness of the walls of the city.
“We use every part of our planet; nothing goes to waste,” Lilly said, proud of her homeland.
Shooting Star: the planet Lavign: page 120
His door was one of three that led off the big room. There was a door in the middle of one wall that led outside. All he saw beyond it was green.
“This way,” Boone said and turned Ruben toward the back of the house. They made their way into another room where Tess was standing over a stove that had to be older than time. He saw flames shimmering beneath a pot that she stirred.
“Where am I?” he said again as he hobbled through with Boone and Ky’s help towards another door. “What is this place?”
They walked out onto a covered porch and he saw a garden, a large tower with metal blades slapping around in the breeze and some other buildings that he did not have the time or inclination to figure out at the moment.
Boone pointed to a narrow shack at the end of a trail of smooth stones.
“The necessary,” he announced.
Ruben quirked an eyebrow as they hobbled down the path. As he opened the door his nostrils were assaulted with a horrible smell and he realized that there was nothing there beyond a hole in the ground and a wooden seat. The bright sunlight that streamed though two cuts in the exterior wall did nothing to cheer up the interior.
“When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,” he told himself as he stood before the hole.
It wasn’t until he saw that the fluid coming out of him was bright blue that he realized he was in trouble.
Transportation
What do your cars look like? Your ships? Firefly used space ships and horses. Once again there is no need for indepth description unless you character is just arriving to your invented world
Food Sources
Grown normally? In space on giant asteroids? Manufactured in a factory?
Social Status
Royalty? Slavery? Just a regular guy? Outlaw? What are the crimes and the penalties?
Entertainment
I created The Murlacca…A gladiator type battle fought with hooked blades. The champions are treated like the athletes of today but it also used as execution for political prisoners. If you feel the need to explain the rules of the game have one of your viewers be witnessing it for the first time while the companion explains it.
Slang
That’s where you can really have fun. My teenagers in Star Shadows use Gank for Nerd, Geek, Jerk. Just make something up and slip it into the conversation as you would a current word. The readers will figure it out.
Politics
This is where it can get complicated. All worlds have some sort of political structure. This is where notes come in handy. If you’re writing a series then maintain continuity. My Star series has three political factions struggling for control.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
New Release: Undine in Love
My erotic fantasy romance novelette "Aquatic Ardor" has just been published in the Amber Heat line of Amber Quill Press (www.amberquill.com). It was inspired by the legend that an undine (a water elemental) wins a human soul if she falls in love with a mortal. (I suspect Hans Christian Andersen had this story at least partly in mind when writing "The Little Mermaid.") But what if the last thing she wants is to become human? And she falls in love anyway? Since my favorite theme is intimacy between human and nonhuman beings, I had fun with my heroine's adjustment to the "alien" world of dry land and the thrills and terrors of love. I always like “fish out of water” stories, and though Melia isn't a fish, she certainly has problems with being out of water. :)
Here's an excerpt from the beginning of "Aquatic Ardor":
Alien sounds rippled over the water and filtered through it to stir the pondweed and stargrass on the floor of the lake. Voices. Her senses, permeating the liquid that embodied her, resonated with one of those voices. She had heard and seen land folk walking on her banks from time to time, but most of them had been strangers. Could this person be her boy?
No, not a boy. He had been a man for a long time. Human time flowed so swiftly that she lost track of the years. How long had she waited, one with the water of her home, to hear that voice? Why did he come here so seldom now? The vibrations emanating from him woke her memory. Yes, he had visited as a man, but not often enough. No wonder she’d forgotten the changes in him.
The weeds on the lake bed undulated as if swept by a gust of wind. A miniature whirlpool coalesced into a slender, four-limbed shape topped with hair and a face. Slowly Melia gathered her substance from all parts of the lake to concentrate it into human form. Now she saw only what fell within range of her eyes, but her vision became clearer, less diffuse. She could still hear the voices talking. Now, when she raised her head above the surface in woman’s shape, she could understand their language.
“One-acre waterfront lots,” said one of the men. A stranger. “The houses will get snapped up as soon as they’re built. Of course, there’s septic permits and stuff like that to take care of, but I don’t anticipate any problems.”
“I haven’t definitely decided to sell.” That voice reverberated through Melia like a summer thunderstorm. “I’m still thinking about it.”
It’s him. Adam.
“You’d be crazy not to,” the first man said. “Lakefront property an hour’s drive from Richmond? We’re looking at units priced in the high six figures, easily. That’s why I can make you such a great offer.” A low chuckle. “Not holding out for more, are you?”
Her man answered with a hint of warm laughter in his voice. “Hardly. Not a thing wrong with the offer. I just have to be completely sure first. This land has been in my family since 1931.”
“It’s not like I’m going to ruin the place. I’m talking low density, scenic views, sailboats. And you get to keep your house and a good-size slice of land around it.” The voices grew fainter, drifting away from the shore. “I’ll be in touch again soon, and meanwhile, you’ve got my number.”
Submerged up to her chest, surrounded by floating water lilies, Melia leaned against a bank under a weeping willow, her chin pillowed on her folded arms. She understood little of what she’d heard, with most of her knowledge of the human world limited to snatches of conversation she’d listened to over the years. She got only one clear impression…that change threatened her home. The strange man wanted to replace part of her woods with human dwellings. Although she’d missed her boy—no, her man—during his long absences, she didn’t want dozens more mortals tearing up trees and plants, bringing noise and artificial odors with them. She sighed with pleasure at the breeze stirring the humid air and inhaled the green aromas of leaves and pine needles. Now that the men had walked out of hearing range, the only sounds were the chirping of birds and the skittering of squirrels in the branches. She wanted to keep her lake exactly like this, sharing it with nobody except the man who’d at last returned from wherever he’d gone.
As a child, he had spent weeks here every summer. Vaguely aware of his parents and the young friends he’d sometimes brought with him, Melia had focused her attention on Adam. Although she’d cherished a mild fondness for his father and grandfather and even dallied with them in their youth, he was the only one who’d come here often enough for her to truly know him. She had watched him grow from year to year. She missed the fun of making the water swirl and eddy around him, startling him with splashes and miniature waterspouts. She’d enjoyed the sensation of enveloping his strong, blood-warmed flesh and sliding over his skin, making him shiver with delight. As he’d changed from a half-grown boy into a young man, she’d reveled in his body’s response to her liquid caresses. Catching him alone, she’d often teased one part of him to urgent hardness. She’d submerged him up to the neck and yearned to draw him below the surface where she could embrace him completely. But she knew no mortal could survive that total union.
-end of excerpt-
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
A Different Solution To Global Warming
The debate is still open on how much of Earth's temperature rise is due to the natural glaciation cycle and how much to human activity.
But it's pretty definite that we're in a very steep warming cycle, and losing species fast.
I read recently that there are a number of human-food species in our oceans that are in danger of sudden collapse.
The bees from a number of continents are dying off -- here there's some kind of infection in commercial hives, and the move northward of killer bees that don't pollinate but do invade domestic bee hives and destroy them.
The cost of food is rising because of the cost of renting bee hives to pollinate. A worldbuilding writer could forecast famine.
A huge number of frog species are going extinct. Amphibians seem to be reproductively sensitive to something that's killing them off. Fast. They're a vital link in the food chain.
Rise in temperature is causing migrations -- and the creep of tropical diseases north and southward from the equator.
Some of this is due to global warming -- changing habitats and water availability. Some is due to pollution. Some to the increase of UV from atmospheric pollution done decades ago when nobody believed aerosols could cause a problem in the arctic -- and nobody cared about the antarctic because it was so far away.
So an sf writer who wants to do some worldbuilding futurology has to look at what changes the increase in global temperatures may bring -- and it's not just ocean levels rising.
To cope with these conditions, humans will develop better buildings against storms, better flood control, and cheaper air conditioning.
But the really big profits will be in terraforming Earth -- trying to control the glaciation cycles, to reverse the damage from global warming.
Clearly, of course, we will try to preserve the genetic specimens from species going extinct. And we'll try to re-breed and rebuild those species.
We'll have to study and breed and release microbes -- and no doubt we'll make mistakes.
But there is one response to global warming that I can't recall ever being discussed on TV or in magazines.
We are all set to spend money looking for cheap renewable energy resources and to control the greenhouse gas emissions of power plants and vehicles.
But that may not be an effective approach. It may not target the actual cause.
RESTRICTING human activity and trying to eliminate greenhouse gas production might not work. Instead, we should be looking at the other side of the problem -- not restricting our emissions but increasing the Earth's ability to recycle greenhouse gases.
Today, human activity has reduced the Earth's ability to absorb and recycle Co2 -- cutting down the Brazlian rain forrest (and forrests in the USA early in the 18th century), and spreading oil slicks and other chemicals on the oceans which is killing plankton and other ocean surface plants that absorb CO2 and release O2.
We need to stop destroying the Earth's ability to recycle greenhouse gasses more than we need to pull back on our production of them.
Suppose industry saw a profit to be made in increasing Earth's ability to absorb and recycle pollutants to match our production of them?
The richest people in the world would be those who could produce trees, plankton, and other plants with more acre-feet of leaf surface and faster C02 recycling.
In our current world, a goodly number of people are convinced that the Western industrial lifestyle is wrong, or even just plain evil. Their response is to make an all-out effort to destroy Western economies that are based on such absolute immorality.
Here you can listen online to some of their reasons and decide for yourself if they're wrong.
http://www.obsessionthemovie.com/index1.php
Now do some SF worldbuilding and visualize the future they are driving toward.
Jacqueline Lichtenberghttp://www.simegen.com/jl/
But it's pretty definite that we're in a very steep warming cycle, and losing species fast.
I read recently that there are a number of human-food species in our oceans that are in danger of sudden collapse.
The bees from a number of continents are dying off -- here there's some kind of infection in commercial hives, and the move northward of killer bees that don't pollinate but do invade domestic bee hives and destroy them.
The cost of food is rising because of the cost of renting bee hives to pollinate. A worldbuilding writer could forecast famine.
A huge number of frog species are going extinct. Amphibians seem to be reproductively sensitive to something that's killing them off. Fast. They're a vital link in the food chain.
Rise in temperature is causing migrations -- and the creep of tropical diseases north and southward from the equator.
Some of this is due to global warming -- changing habitats and water availability. Some is due to pollution. Some to the increase of UV from atmospheric pollution done decades ago when nobody believed aerosols could cause a problem in the arctic -- and nobody cared about the antarctic because it was so far away.
So an sf writer who wants to do some worldbuilding futurology has to look at what changes the increase in global temperatures may bring -- and it's not just ocean levels rising.
To cope with these conditions, humans will develop better buildings against storms, better flood control, and cheaper air conditioning.
But the really big profits will be in terraforming Earth -- trying to control the glaciation cycles, to reverse the damage from global warming.
Clearly, of course, we will try to preserve the genetic specimens from species going extinct. And we'll try to re-breed and rebuild those species.
We'll have to study and breed and release microbes -- and no doubt we'll make mistakes.
But there is one response to global warming that I can't recall ever being discussed on TV or in magazines.
We are all set to spend money looking for cheap renewable energy resources and to control the greenhouse gas emissions of power plants and vehicles.
But that may not be an effective approach. It may not target the actual cause.
RESTRICTING human activity and trying to eliminate greenhouse gas production might not work. Instead, we should be looking at the other side of the problem -- not restricting our emissions but increasing the Earth's ability to recycle greenhouse gases.
Today, human activity has reduced the Earth's ability to absorb and recycle Co2 -- cutting down the Brazlian rain forrest (and forrests in the USA early in the 18th century), and spreading oil slicks and other chemicals on the oceans which is killing plankton and other ocean surface plants that absorb CO2 and release O2.
We need to stop destroying the Earth's ability to recycle greenhouse gasses more than we need to pull back on our production of them.
Suppose industry saw a profit to be made in increasing Earth's ability to absorb and recycle pollutants to match our production of them?
The richest people in the world would be those who could produce trees, plankton, and other plants with more acre-feet of leaf surface and faster C02 recycling.
In our current world, a goodly number of people are convinced that the Western industrial lifestyle is wrong, or even just plain evil. Their response is to make an all-out effort to destroy Western economies that are based on such absolute immorality.
Here you can listen online to some of their reasons and decide for yourself if they're wrong.
http://www.obsessionthemovie.com/index1.php
Now do some SF worldbuilding and visualize the future they are driving toward.
Jacqueline Lichtenberghttp://www.simegen.com/jl/
Monday, April 30, 2007
Houston, we have lift off...
As you're reading this, I'm more than likely airborne or just landing. The ginormous (thank you, JC Wilder, who taught me that word this week)RT Booklover's Convention is over and I'm one of the last to leave here Monday morning (trust me, there's a method to my madness).
As always, it was wild. A crush. A zoo. Faboo. The most fun you can have with your clothes on. Exhausting. Draining. Silly. Enlightening. It was a total hoot meeting my readers, my Yahoo loopies ::waves to David:: and reuniting with old friends.
I'll post pictures on my website this week but I wanted to share with you all a wonderful thing: I met noted SFF author Barbara Hambly, one of my longtime favorite authors. I more than met the esteemed Ms. Hambly. I sat and talked with her for several hours.
I am--to quote my UK friend Lynne Connolly, who was also at the convention--gobsmacked.
I've read Ms. Hambly for years. The Silicon Mage is a top ten favorite. But there are so many others: Stranger at the Wedding, the Sunwolf and Starhawk books, her Star Wars and Trek books...oh, the hours of joy! You can see her booklist here: http://www.barbarahambly.com/hambooks.htm
Several times during the conversation I had to mentally pinch myself. Holy Crap. I'm talking to Barbara Hambly.
She is a gentle, gracious woman with large eyes behind round glasses. She listens intently and has that writer's slight perpetual puzzled expression that is a combination of thoughtfulness and curiousity. We talked industry talk, we talked of her new projects and mine. The whole paranormal romance thing interests her. I'm so very glad. I would love nothing more for a noted writer such as Barbara Hambly to come play in my pond. It would be a boon to this cross-genre.
And, holy crap, I met Barbara Hambly.
She's going to be Guest of Honor at Archon in St Louis this coming August. I'll be there as well, along with author Stacey Klemstein and, I hope, author Isabo Kelly. And another noted author: Jacqueline Lichtenberg.
I will definitely be gobsmacked.
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
As always, it was wild. A crush. A zoo. Faboo. The most fun you can have with your clothes on. Exhausting. Draining. Silly. Enlightening. It was a total hoot meeting my readers, my Yahoo loopies ::waves to David:: and reuniting with old friends.
I'll post pictures on my website this week but I wanted to share with you all a wonderful thing: I met noted SFF author Barbara Hambly, one of my longtime favorite authors. I more than met the esteemed Ms. Hambly. I sat and talked with her for several hours.
I am--to quote my UK friend Lynne Connolly, who was also at the convention--gobsmacked.
I've read Ms. Hambly for years. The Silicon Mage is a top ten favorite. But there are so many others: Stranger at the Wedding, the Sunwolf and Starhawk books, her Star Wars and Trek books...oh, the hours of joy! You can see her booklist here: http://www.barbarahambly.com/hambooks.htm
Several times during the conversation I had to mentally pinch myself. Holy Crap. I'm talking to Barbara Hambly.
She is a gentle, gracious woman with large eyes behind round glasses. She listens intently and has that writer's slight perpetual puzzled expression that is a combination of thoughtfulness and curiousity. We talked industry talk, we talked of her new projects and mine. The whole paranormal romance thing interests her. I'm so very glad. I would love nothing more for a noted writer such as Barbara Hambly to come play in my pond. It would be a boon to this cross-genre.
And, holy crap, I met Barbara Hambly.
She's going to be Guest of Honor at Archon in St Louis this coming August. I'll be there as well, along with author Stacey Klemstein and, I hope, author Isabo Kelly. And another noted author: Jacqueline Lichtenberg.
I will definitely be gobsmacked.
~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
Sunday, April 29, 2007
It's time to honk
Linnea, Susan, Cindy, and yours truly (as I like to sign off some of Insufficient Mating Material's blogs) are at the Romantic Times Booklovers' convention in Houston Texas.
Linnea organized an Intergalactic Bar and Grille party for readers, where ten authors of science-fiction romance did a spaced out version of wheel of fortune, and the house was packed. Not only that, those who came were ready and able to answer great (and not-to-challenging) questions about our books.
Janet Miller, Barbara Karmazin, Isabo Kelly, Susan Grant, Linnea Sinclair, Susan Kearney, Evangeline Anderson, Deidre Knight, Colby Hodge, and Stacey Klemstein (and I) put together thee or four gravity defying questions and a few fun prizes.
Susan Kearney, Susan Grant, PC Cast, Anne Groel, Deidre Knight, Colby Hodge, and yours truly were on Linnea's Starships and Swordfights panel workshop. Susan Kearney made a huge impression on the room (I hope!) when she told readers and writers that it is time science fiction romance came out from under the wing of paranormal... time science fiction romance lovers stood up to be counted.
The reason I am blogging today about what Susan said is that I had a jaw dropping conversation with a powerful gentleman (industry strength, not cover model) during the massive BookFair run by Katy Books in the Imperial Ballroom.
In effect, there seems to be a perception in some parts that there is a literary glass ceiling for science fiction romance, and it is in the avian armpit of paranormal. Now there is a mixed metaphor. It makes more sense if you think of paranormal as a big speckled hen with lots of multi-colored chicks.
While I was working on reviving my smile, three readers almost in succession came up to me and expressed their joy over science fiction romance as a genre. That is why I say that it is time to honk if you love aliens and space-faring humans in your romances.
Now, I'm off to look at the space center.
Linnea organized an Intergalactic Bar and Grille party for readers, where ten authors of science-fiction romance did a spaced out version of wheel of fortune, and the house was packed. Not only that, those who came were ready and able to answer great (and not-to-challenging) questions about our books.
Janet Miller, Barbara Karmazin, Isabo Kelly, Susan Grant, Linnea Sinclair, Susan Kearney, Evangeline Anderson, Deidre Knight, Colby Hodge, and Stacey Klemstein (and I) put together thee or four gravity defying questions and a few fun prizes.
Susan Kearney, Susan Grant, PC Cast, Anne Groel, Deidre Knight, Colby Hodge, and yours truly were on Linnea's Starships and Swordfights panel workshop. Susan Kearney made a huge impression on the room (I hope!) when she told readers and writers that it is time science fiction romance came out from under the wing of paranormal... time science fiction romance lovers stood up to be counted.
The reason I am blogging today about what Susan said is that I had a jaw dropping conversation with a powerful gentleman (industry strength, not cover model) during the massive BookFair run by Katy Books in the Imperial Ballroom.
In effect, there seems to be a perception in some parts that there is a literary glass ceiling for science fiction romance, and it is in the avian armpit of paranormal. Now there is a mixed metaphor. It makes more sense if you think of paranormal as a big speckled hen with lots of multi-colored chicks.
While I was working on reviving my smile, three readers almost in succession came up to me and expressed their joy over science fiction romance as a genre. That is why I say that it is time to honk if you love aliens and space-faring humans in your romances.
Now, I'm off to look at the space center.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
The Latest About Life on Distant Worlds
Have you all read about the discovery of a potentially Earthlike, life-bearing planet orbiting a distant red dwarf star? That's an encouraging step toward the refutation of the pessimistic view that the reason the aliens haven't contacted us is that there aren't any—that life as we know it is so rare throughout the cosmos that it's statistically unlikely for any advanced extraterrestrial civilization to spring up during the lifespan of our species. Recent discoveries have refreshingly suggested that planets are a not uncommon feature of the life cycles of stars. Now we have concrete reason to hope that Earthlike planets aren't uncommon, either.
How likely, however, is it that their inhabitants, even if intelligent, will resemble us? Some xenobiologists maintain that the humanoid shape, bipedal with manipulative limbs free to handle objects and with a head at the top to house the brain and sensory organs, is a logical body design likely to be replicated many times over on a multitude of planets. That view might be cast in doubt, though, by the reminder that right here on our own planet, lots of creatures who share our favored habitat don't look anything like us. Cats, dogs, spiders, roaches, and ants, for example, live quite contentedly in our houses. And I see no intrinsic reason why, given a nudge in a different direction, evolution couldn't have produced sapient felids or canids rather than sapient primates. Nor would they necessarily have to become bipeds. In Heinlein's delightful novel STAR BEAST, it's assumed that Lummox, the hero's eight-legged alien pet, can't be kin to an intelligent species that otherwise resembles her because she doesn't have hands. Well, surprise, she develops manipulative forelimbs with maturity. What about non-mammals? On land, crustaceans, cephalopods, and arthropods (insects, spiders, etc.) seem poor candidates for brains large enough to harbor intelligence. In water, however, such species don't have size limitations. Sapient giant squids or crabs look perfectly feasible in an aquatic environment. The Creator (or the creative process working through evolution, depending upon your viewpoint) is capable of almost infinite variety. So should we expect a STAR TREK universe inhabited by dozens of alien races who look almost like us except for cosmetic variations? Or should we prepare for extraterrestrial neighbors in a myriad of forms we can only begin to imagine?
As a writer of spec fic romance, I of course opt for the former, because I want aliens my human characters can plausibly fall in love with. In paranormal romances, for example, I'm perfectly willing to suspend disbelief in extraterrestrial vampires who can pass for human. But in the primary-world cosmos, I suspect the latter will prove more likely.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Life's Scutwork
Folks:
There was an article recently in the news about compensating the sibling who ends up living with an elderly parent and being the final care-giver while the other siblings live their lives.
Such a sibling sacrifices career building prospects, personal funds, and a huge swatch of their emotional well-being (i.e. the internal image of the parent held dear for the rest of life.)
Truths come out that don't otherwise impact the child's life.
So, this article suggested legal documentation (such as the Will) should provide compensation for the care-giver sibling.
In most families this would be considered a horrible travesty -- such care is given from love. If it's for money or material wealth, then the care itself is sullied.
So it's one of those situations that has to be thought about from all points of view (thus of course making it fodder for story ideas -- plot-bunnies under the bed.)
Our society has distanced this dying process by providing "hospice" care either in the home (by choice usually -- but it's the cheaper choice though it requires a family member be there at night at least) -- or in a hospital like environment. I've seen a couple really LOVELY hospice buildings, but I feel them as lonely and isolated. Family and friends visit seldom and for short times -- it's depressing.
But Linnea brings up a very interesting point in this regard. In Japan I think -- or maybe it's Microsoft or a combination -- there is a household chores robot in development. It's already pretty good and will be affordable - at least to rent when you really need it.
I've toyed with the dramatic elements of the emotional impact of being relegated to the care of machines.
A.I. shows some promise, but a real "personality" a human being can interact with is a long way off. Our robots show no signs of becoming "alive" as in the film NUMBER FIVE IS ALIVE.
But we have a very small generation getting set to give final care to a huge generation - the Boomers.
SF and Romance both have a great deal to say about the permutations and combinations of situations that could arise.
How about if a sibling care-giver is so badly "stuck" with a parental situation they can't physically manage, have put their own life on hold and feel they're getting older too fast -- and gets seduced into voluntarily becoming a vampire?
What if such a turned care-giver accidentally drank their parent dry? (or on purpose?)
How could the law deal with that? How could the siblings deal with that?
What if this happened a century ago and everyone in that situation is long gone except the vampire-caregiver? What emotional toll would that take?
What if there's a disease that evolves (like a virus) that kills vampires but not humans. After all, if vampires multiply and associate with each other, there's an empty ecological niche waiting for something to crawl in and occupy it, vampire infections.
Now the care-giver who voluntarily became a vampire gets this disease (he/she probably helped evolve) and another vampire has to give the last century of care to this sick elder (postulating a vampire would take a long time to die of a virus.)
Could love resolve that conflict? Maybe -- if ghosts are real in this built world.
At any rate, I think the plight of the final care-giver abandoned by family to go-it-alone should be closely examined and fiction is a good tool for that job.
Live Long and Prosper,
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
There was an article recently in the news about compensating the sibling who ends up living with an elderly parent and being the final care-giver while the other siblings live their lives.
Such a sibling sacrifices career building prospects, personal funds, and a huge swatch of their emotional well-being (i.e. the internal image of the parent held dear for the rest of life.)
Truths come out that don't otherwise impact the child's life.
So, this article suggested legal documentation (such as the Will) should provide compensation for the care-giver sibling.
In most families this would be considered a horrible travesty -- such care is given from love. If it's for money or material wealth, then the care itself is sullied.
So it's one of those situations that has to be thought about from all points of view (thus of course making it fodder for story ideas -- plot-bunnies under the bed.)
Our society has distanced this dying process by providing "hospice" care either in the home (by choice usually -- but it's the cheaper choice though it requires a family member be there at night at least) -- or in a hospital like environment. I've seen a couple really LOVELY hospice buildings, but I feel them as lonely and isolated. Family and friends visit seldom and for short times -- it's depressing.
But Linnea brings up a very interesting point in this regard. In Japan I think -- or maybe it's Microsoft or a combination -- there is a household chores robot in development. It's already pretty good and will be affordable - at least to rent when you really need it.
I've toyed with the dramatic elements of the emotional impact of being relegated to the care of machines.
A.I. shows some promise, but a real "personality" a human being can interact with is a long way off. Our robots show no signs of becoming "alive" as in the film NUMBER FIVE IS ALIVE.
But we have a very small generation getting set to give final care to a huge generation - the Boomers.
SF and Romance both have a great deal to say about the permutations and combinations of situations that could arise.
How about if a sibling care-giver is so badly "stuck" with a parental situation they can't physically manage, have put their own life on hold and feel they're getting older too fast -- and gets seduced into voluntarily becoming a vampire?
What if such a turned care-giver accidentally drank their parent dry? (or on purpose?)
How could the law deal with that? How could the siblings deal with that?
What if this happened a century ago and everyone in that situation is long gone except the vampire-caregiver? What emotional toll would that take?
What if there's a disease that evolves (like a virus) that kills vampires but not humans. After all, if vampires multiply and associate with each other, there's an empty ecological niche waiting for something to crawl in and occupy it, vampire infections.
Now the care-giver who voluntarily became a vampire gets this disease (he/she probably helped evolve) and another vampire has to give the last century of care to this sick elder (postulating a vampire would take a long time to die of a virus.)
Could love resolve that conflict? Maybe -- if ghosts are real in this built world.
At any rate, I think the plight of the final care-giver abandoned by family to go-it-alone should be closely examined and fiction is a good tool for that job.
Live Long and Prosper,
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Scutwork in the Future
Here's a link to an article by Ruth Rosen, "Why Working Women Are Stuck in the 1950s," on what she calls the "care crisis," connected to the way our culture has defined as "women's work" the routine maintenance of a household:
http://www.alternet.org/story/48370
Linguist and SF author Suzette Haden Elgin's blog recently discussed this article over several days, generating hundreds of comments. Go to http://ozarque.livejournal.com and check the archives beginning March 3.
How will our descendants deal with this issue? The most optimistic images of the future envision true equality between the sexes. Later series in the Star Trek universe portray women filling the same professional, military, and political positions as men. I don't remember ever seeing a cleaning crew on any of the Enterprises. Probably robots performed that function. Replicators produced food, at least later in the chronology of the universe, although Neelix on Voyager often cooked from fresh ingredients. Surely not all civilians could afford replicators and robots, though. The protagonist of Robert Heinlein's DOOR INTO SUMMER invents cleaning robots, intended for the average middle-class family, but his earlier models do only a few specific tasks. In J. D. Robb's futuristic mysteries, set in the 2050s, women perform the same kinds of work as men (women officers are even addressed as "Sir"), and droids do household labor. In this universe, such inventions serve only the affluent. In less prosperous households, some human being must be doing the scutwork (defined by Peg Bracken in her I HATE TO HOUSEKEEP book as "chores any boob can do"). American society in Robb's universe includes an official, paid (presumably by the government) career of "professional parent." (A concept I approve of, since it would remove the "welfare leech" stigma for the subsidizing of stay-at-home parenthood, while recognizing that people who choose to bear children are performing an indispensable service for society as a whole. SOMEBODY has to produce a younger generation to keep the economy going when the rest of us get too infirm to work full-time.) But it's not implied that this person necessarily does all the cleaning and other chores as well as parenting. And even with robots (or human servants, for that matter) somebody has to organize and direct the work, maintain the schedules for family members, etc.
In the future, the achievement of true gender equality would, one hopes, render obsolete the assumption that household upkeep is "women's work" -- her responsibility to arrange, even if she doesn't personally do most of the tasks. It would also be nice to see the "scutwork" decoupled from the primary-parent role. If parenthood is recognized (with or without pay) as a full-time job, then it should follow that the person in this role shouldn't necessarily be expected to handle all routine maintenance just because he or she happens to be hanging around the house. Until the advent of universal access to robot servants, though, who will do this work? Would chores be divided according to the number of hours each adult works outside the home? Inversely proportional to income contributed to the household? According to personal preference? (What about the jobs nobody likes?) By a rotating schedule, a point system, or a lottery? These are a few potential solutions discussed on Elgin's blog.
As for the "care crisis" in general, one way to ameliorate the situation would be to make polyandry legal. Aside from moral and spiritual considerations (as a Christian, I of course believe in monogamy), a marital unit of one woman and two men would pragmatically solve a number of problems. (Why not polygyny? Because the female is the reproductive bottleneck, so to speak, and more women in a household would mean potentially more babies, so care-crisis-wise you'd be right back where you started. Besides, historically the harem system has NOT been associated with female empowerment.) Three adults per household would provide three incomes, a big plus in areas with high housing costs. You'd have three people among whom to divide the tasks of daily life. If babies and small children needed care, the role of stay-at-home parent could be rotated, with two income-producing adults always working. Moreover, the average man can't keep up, sexually, with the average healthy woman. Two men to one woman would be just about the right ratio. (Of course, there are down sides to this system. We'd end up with an even greater imbalance between single women and eligible men than we have now. And the male biological tendency to sexual jealousy might disrupt a polyandrous marriage. We can't expect all adult males to behave like the blissful participants in the group marriages of such novels as Heinlein's STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND and TIME ENOUGH FOR LOVE.)
Anyway, unless we eventually become cosmic disembodied intelligences as in Arthur Clarke's CHILDHOOD'S END (a prospect I don't find at all appealing), we'll always have the scutwork to deal with somehow.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
The Dresden Files Interview with Jim Butcher
Folks:
Sunday, I spent an hour with Jim Butcher, creator of The Dresden Files then sat through his talk at a local bookstore, The Poison Pen in Scottsdale AZ. (he's a very good speaker -- and very funny too!)
It was very informative and enjoyable -- maybe 45 or 50 people turned out in a smallish bookstore.
He was born in 1971 and grew up on Anime, Spiderman movies, and modern adult fantasy - thinks visually of story in Anime and film terms and likes the Anime style of deep relationships and screaming hot action.
Patric asked a good question which I posed to Jim:
Is he satisfied with how his books were translated to the screen.
Jim said yes he is, the only real changes were cosmetic and for practical TV filming purposes.
The two we discussed were the switch from Dresden driving a VW Beetle to a Jeep -- and the reason was that a 6Ft+ guy getting in and out of a Beetle on screen would be funny/awkward every time it was shot whereas in his novels he can play it for laughs only when appropriate.
The reasoning for choosing a Jeep was consistent with the background point that Dresden's body field fries fancy electronics. Also the VW Beetle would be harder to shoot from various angles and catch Dresden's image inside -- but the Jeep is easy and thus cheaper. So he accepts that change.
The other visual change was the long duster changed into a fireman's jacket -- and Jim says that's fine since it's in keeping with the way Dresden uses fire. On the other hand he and I agree the jacket just doesn't have the right look -- the flowing leather duster would look better. I'm not sure of the reason for that change.
The wand becoming a hockey stick he can live with easily enough. The blasting rod we didn't discuss -- we only had an hour. But basically I agree that so far the TV version has only superficial changes necessary to make the budget work (fewer characters, less animation, fewer sets). If they do a second season and onwards I do hope they can increase the budget.
I have philosophy and writing-lesson material for several columns and the final episode of the first season airs tonight. I want to see that and then write some columns. They'll decide by June whether to do a second season - no word on the DVD yet. Of course as author of the books, Jim is the last to know!
I'm working on the July 2007 column and a few more that will feature bits from this interview.
My review column, ReReadable Books (because it's not worth its cover price if it's not re-readable) is published on paper in The Monthly Aspectarian, then posted to their website lightworks.com then archived on simegen.com/reviews/rereadablebooks/ so you can always look up prior columns.
Live Long and Prosper,
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Creator of the Sime~Gen Universe
where a mutation makes the evolutionary
division into male and female pale by comparison.
Sunday, I spent an hour with Jim Butcher, creator of The Dresden Files then sat through his talk at a local bookstore, The Poison Pen in Scottsdale AZ. (he's a very good speaker -- and very funny too!)
It was very informative and enjoyable -- maybe 45 or 50 people turned out in a smallish bookstore.
He was born in 1971 and grew up on Anime, Spiderman movies, and modern adult fantasy - thinks visually of story in Anime and film terms and likes the Anime style of deep relationships and screaming hot action.
Patric asked a good question which I posed to Jim:
Is he satisfied with how his books were translated to the screen.
Jim said yes he is, the only real changes were cosmetic and for practical TV filming purposes.
The two we discussed were the switch from Dresden driving a VW Beetle to a Jeep -- and the reason was that a 6Ft+ guy getting in and out of a Beetle on screen would be funny/awkward every time it was shot whereas in his novels he can play it for laughs only when appropriate.
The reasoning for choosing a Jeep was consistent with the background point that Dresden's body field fries fancy electronics. Also the VW Beetle would be harder to shoot from various angles and catch Dresden's image inside -- but the Jeep is easy and thus cheaper. So he accepts that change.
The other visual change was the long duster changed into a fireman's jacket -- and Jim says that's fine since it's in keeping with the way Dresden uses fire. On the other hand he and I agree the jacket just doesn't have the right look -- the flowing leather duster would look better. I'm not sure of the reason for that change.
The wand becoming a hockey stick he can live with easily enough. The blasting rod we didn't discuss -- we only had an hour. But basically I agree that so far the TV version has only superficial changes necessary to make the budget work (fewer characters, less animation, fewer sets). If they do a second season and onwards I do hope they can increase the budget.
I have philosophy and writing-lesson material for several columns and the final episode of the first season airs tonight. I want to see that and then write some columns. They'll decide by June whether to do a second season - no word on the DVD yet. Of course as author of the books, Jim is the last to know!
I'm working on the July 2007 column and a few more that will feature bits from this interview.
My review column, ReReadable Books (because it's not worth its cover price if it's not re-readable) is published on paper in The Monthly Aspectarian, then posted to their website lightworks.com then archived on simegen.com/reviews/rereadablebooks/ so you can always look up prior columns.
Live Long and Prosper,
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/
Creator of the Sime~Gen Universe
where a mutation makes the evolutionary
division into male and female pale by comparison.
Monday, April 16, 2007
More from the Cutting Room Floor : Games of Command
More from the "cutting room floor"...deleted scenes from GAMES OF COMMAND:
ADMIRAL’S OFFICE, I.H.S. VAXXAR
He knew how she took her coffee just as he knew how she took her gin and what vegetables she liked and how seedless black grapes, chilled, were one of her favorite snacks. After eleven years of following her, challenging her and studying her, he knew all of those minute, concrete details.
But he still, no matter how hard he tried, didn’t know how to read between the lines of those light-hearted quips of hers. You promise me coffee and I’ll do anything.
He wanted desperately to believe that even a mild flirtation existed in those and many other things she said to him, as he tried to ignore the fact that she also frequently traded quips with others. He wanted desperately to believe he wasn’t the “Tin Soldier” to her, was not a cybernetic construct that so many of his crew viewed as simply another extension of the ship. He wanted to be real and warm and as human as he could to her, and had no idea how to do that without making more of a complete fool of himself than he already had.
So as much as possible, he kept her with him, in unscheduled meetings, extended conferences, detailed inspections and whatever other ways he could think of to commandeer her time.
He heard her step through his office door just as he was retrieving two hot cups of coffee from the replicator set in the far wall. He held one out. She accepted it with a bright smile and sipped at it gratefully as he stood in silent, appreciative appraisal in front of her. Then she moved towards the chair in front of his desk, and there was the light, seductive scent of sandalwood in the air around her. He could see where her short cropped hair was still slightly damp around at the nape of her neck. He had to willfully restrain himself from reaching out to touch it.
He took his own chair and placed his cup on the desk to the right of the datafiles he had pulled as an excuse for this discussion. He granted himself another moment of the silent pleasure of just looking at her before clearing his throat, and selecting a thin crystalline file, pushed it into the appropriate data slot. “As long as we have to be on Panperra, we might as well acquaint ourselves with some of the Adjutant’s recent projects.”
Sass groaned loudly and leaned back in the chair. “If this is one of Kel-Farquin’s reports, I’m going to need a lot more than just coffee to get through.”
“If this were Kel-Farquin’s, I would have brought pillows,” he replied blandly, his tone hiding the deep pleasure he felt at her responding wide smile. “No, this is some data on the recent ion storm activity which Panperran sensors were in prime position to record. Now...”
And then Sass leaned forward, as he knew she would, in order to better read the data on the desktop monitor. And for the next forty minutes he had her total attention, and physical presence, all to himself.
www.linneasinclair.com
ADMIRAL’S OFFICE, I.H.S. VAXXAR
He knew how she took her coffee just as he knew how she took her gin and what vegetables she liked and how seedless black grapes, chilled, were one of her favorite snacks. After eleven years of following her, challenging her and studying her, he knew all of those minute, concrete details.
But he still, no matter how hard he tried, didn’t know how to read between the lines of those light-hearted quips of hers. You promise me coffee and I’ll do anything.
He wanted desperately to believe that even a mild flirtation existed in those and many other things she said to him, as he tried to ignore the fact that she also frequently traded quips with others. He wanted desperately to believe he wasn’t the “Tin Soldier” to her, was not a cybernetic construct that so many of his crew viewed as simply another extension of the ship. He wanted to be real and warm and as human as he could to her, and had no idea how to do that without making more of a complete fool of himself than he already had.
So as much as possible, he kept her with him, in unscheduled meetings, extended conferences, detailed inspections and whatever other ways he could think of to commandeer her time.
He heard her step through his office door just as he was retrieving two hot cups of coffee from the replicator set in the far wall. He held one out. She accepted it with a bright smile and sipped at it gratefully as he stood in silent, appreciative appraisal in front of her. Then she moved towards the chair in front of his desk, and there was the light, seductive scent of sandalwood in the air around her. He could see where her short cropped hair was still slightly damp around at the nape of her neck. He had to willfully restrain himself from reaching out to touch it.
He took his own chair and placed his cup on the desk to the right of the datafiles he had pulled as an excuse for this discussion. He granted himself another moment of the silent pleasure of just looking at her before clearing his throat, and selecting a thin crystalline file, pushed it into the appropriate data slot. “As long as we have to be on Panperra, we might as well acquaint ourselves with some of the Adjutant’s recent projects.”
Sass groaned loudly and leaned back in the chair. “If this is one of Kel-Farquin’s reports, I’m going to need a lot more than just coffee to get through.”
“If this were Kel-Farquin’s, I would have brought pillows,” he replied blandly, his tone hiding the deep pleasure he felt at her responding wide smile. “No, this is some data on the recent ion storm activity which Panperran sensors were in prime position to record. Now...”
And then Sass leaned forward, as he knew she would, in order to better read the data on the desktop monitor. And for the next forty minutes he had her total attention, and physical presence, all to himself.
www.linneasinclair.com
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Sarcasm, Irony... aliens don't "get" it
You Earthlings (humans, Terrans) are a funny lot. You don't speak the same language. You fight incontinently. You don't have a one-world government. You can't decide on one individual to lead you all --you don't even try!
It's no wonder we aliens shrug and go home when our extremely reasonable request "Take Me To Your Leader" causes such confusion and such unsatisfactory and inconsistent responses.
It's never the same leader. It usually turns out that whoever the leader is, he's not the Leader of all leaders. There was once a "she"... We had hopes of her.
And then, there's the human sense of humor. It makes no sense to us. In fact, there isn't just one sense of humor shared and enjoyed by all humans, which would be logical.
Any sentient being can understand that sudden bursts of malodorous gas and floating droplets of unmentionable matter in a confined space (and almost no gravity) are just cause for venting one's strongest and most appropriate swear words or else for laughing in manic despair.
But some of you cannot even talk sense. How is a highly intelligent alien supposed to know when you are using sarcasm or irony?
Do you mean what you say, or don't you? Sometimes, an alien could be forgiven for his confusion. It would be helpful to your alien cousins if you would show your teeth and heave your upper bodies to show that you think you are being pleasantly funny, and that you either do --or do not-- mean what you just said.
Sarcasm is when you Terrans say exactly what you mean, but in such a way that it makes your auditor uncomfortable.
The modern "Duh!" is much more useful.
"No sh-t!" is an obscenity which offends us beyond words, for reasons this alien has delicately hinted at above.
A --presumably rhetorical-- question, such as "Is the Pope Catholic?" or "Does a bear sh-t in the woods?" presumes that aliens have a wide understanding of your different cultures and the sanitary practices of wilderlife.
Besides which, a polar bear on an ice floe probably does not have that luxury. Nor for that matter does a captive bear in a concrete habitat mysteriously known as a zoological garden.
Irony is when you Terrans say the opposite of what you mean, but in such a way that it makes your auditor uncomfortable.
Making someone else uncomfortable, or finding "humor" in thoughts of another's discomfort seems to be a repeating theme.
Now this alien thinks about it, "pleasantly funny" may be an oxymoron ... a logical contradiction in terms.
We will leave you now. But We will be back!
Posted on behalf of a fascinated alien by,
Rowena Cherry
author of the Gods of Tigron trilogy
(Forced Mate, Mating Net, Insufficient Mating Material)
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Talking with the Animals
I've just bought a DVD of the live-action film of CHARLOTTE'S WEB, one of my favorite stories. Its theme (as explicitly stressed in the voice-over of this new version) is the value of friendship. I especially like this book because of the way it portrays friendship across species lines, centering upon the marvelously improbable devotion between a pig and a spider. Eventually, all the inhabitants of the barn, even the unsavory rat Templeton, get drawn into the circle of friendship. Here's my pet theme of "intimacy across gulfs of difference" again, or as Spock would say, "infinite diversity in infinite combinations."
Tolkien says in his classic essay "On Fairy-Stories" that the other creatures of nature are like foreign countries with which humankind has broken off diplomatic relations. He suggests that one desire satisfied by fairy tales, through the motif of talking animals, is the yearning to re-establish that lost connection with the other species who share our world. A taste of dragon's blood gifts the mythic hero with the language of beasts, thus helping him in his quest. Dr. Doolittle talks to the animals and gains a fresh perspective on the human race. WATERSHIP DOWN immerses the reader in rabbit culture and language. In CHARLOTTE'S WEB, Fern is still young enough to understand the animals' conversations, although it's implied that she is poised on the cusp, soon to outgrow that connection with nature. Primate researchers conduct simple dialogues with symbol-using apes. Many people believe dolphins have true language.
Of course, we might not like what we'd hear if our pets could speak to us. Garfield thinks of Jon as "the man who cleans my litter box." Still, imagine what we could learn about our world if we could communicate with creatures (like cats, with their night vision, and dogs, with their extraordinary noses) whose senses perceive the environment so differently from ours.
Tolkien says in his classic essay "On Fairy-Stories" that the other creatures of nature are like foreign countries with which humankind has broken off diplomatic relations. He suggests that one desire satisfied by fairy tales, through the motif of talking animals, is the yearning to re-establish that lost connection with the other species who share our world. A taste of dragon's blood gifts the mythic hero with the language of beasts, thus helping him in his quest. Dr. Doolittle talks to the animals and gains a fresh perspective on the human race. WATERSHIP DOWN immerses the reader in rabbit culture and language. In CHARLOTTE'S WEB, Fern is still young enough to understand the animals' conversations, although it's implied that she is poised on the cusp, soon to outgrow that connection with nature. Primate researchers conduct simple dialogues with symbol-using apes. Many people believe dolphins have true language.
Of course, we might not like what we'd hear if our pets could speak to us. Garfield thinks of Jon as "the man who cleans my litter box." Still, imagine what we could learn about our world if we could communicate with creatures (like cats, with their night vision, and dogs, with their extraordinary noses) whose senses perceive the environment so differently from ours.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Once an Alien Lover, Always an Alien Lover
Of all the questions I’m ever asked now that I write alien romance, probably the most common one is how or why I came to the genre. So I thought it would be fun to talk about my longstanding ties with sci-fi romance, and how I finally decided to put all my crazy ideas on paper.
For me, it all started that summer back in the 1980’s when the original Star Trek aired in reruns every afternoon at four p.m. I mean, before that I’d certainly loved Star Wars, had read a little Arthur C. Clarke, but Trek was a new dimension. It tapped into my imagination, to those parts of me that loved King Arthur lore and believed in other realms—and probably into my sixteen-year-old hormones. I mean, come on! Who can’t love a brilliant, emotionally rigid alien who goes wild during his mating cycle, right? Ah, Spock and his Pon Far mating needs. When you’re sixteen, that’s heady stuff. Super intelligent, geek reaction? Maybe not, but I ate it up.
Of course, it was far more than that too. Spock mentally bonding with the horta? Realizing she was just a mother protecting her young? My brain was in overdrive. Aliens, with their supernatural abilities and natures, were capable of things I’d never imagined. Forget PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, forget WUTHERING HEIGHTS (my earliest romance roots, plus approved summer reading!) I had TREK! That fall when school reconvened, I was amazed to discover that a whole cadre of my fellow geeks had also discovered these reruns. Next thing I knew three of us had formed a power triumvirate, trading black and white headshots and debating whether Spock or Kirk was the hottest one. Interestingly enough, of the three of us, I now write sci-fi romance and another went on to write for Buffy.
Something started for me then, a new place in my writerly development. I’d always made up stories, passing the time as a lonely child of divorced parents by living in the make-believe realm of my imagination. But that summer of Star Trek, the stories inside my mind shifted, became other-worldly oriented. It just took fourteen years for me to translate the crazy ideas inside my head to paper. I wrote and wrote in the interim, but somehow—for reasons I can’t understand looking back—it never occurred to me that I could write what I loved and thought about the most. Maybe I needed permission? Maybe we all do with our creative selves.
I give all the credit to a little known, compulsively watchable show of alien romance, Roswell. From the first episode I saw in 2000, it was as if every idea I’d ever had floating in my head coalesced. Romance, aliens, sci-fi… it could all come together. This was a massive sea change for me. Within months I began writing fanfic (no, don’t run and don’t hide!) It’s amazing how many of my fellow sci-fi romance writers began just the same way. I think fanfic is a fabulous way for new writers to push their boundaries, to realize what they can get away with. It taught me to take crazy chances and not worry who went with me—even my fanfic readers. And trust me, there were times when, with my unconventional romance pairings, very few followed me. I guess I’m saying that fanfic toughened me up. And it gave me confidence to trust in my writer’s heart.
In 2004 I’d finished my first novel. Big clue to self: It had absolutely no elements of the paranormal. It was a deeply felt, emotional women’s fiction novel, and although it was well-received by many editors, was simply too edgy to sell. Twenty-two rejections later I decided that maybe—just maybe—some killer clue lay in my sci-fi writings. After all, that was what I’d spent four years writing in the fanfic world. It was what first stirred my imagination with Trek. Even though it seemed odd after trying my hand at a literary novel, I poured all my energy into the proposal for the Midnight Warriors series. And guess what? Being true to yourself pays off: The series sold very fast.
Lesson learned? Go with what you love. Trust your fantasies and the passions that drive you. No matter how off the wall, or unconventional, I think being real and writing what you love will—in the end—bring you success. If you’ve read my books, you’ll see shades of Spock and Pon Far still shining through. Because once an alien lover, always an alien lover… and I’m proud to carry that ID badge.
Deidre Knight
author of:
Parallel Heat
Parallel Attraction
Parallel Seduction
For me, it all started that summer back in the 1980’s when the original Star Trek aired in reruns every afternoon at four p.m. I mean, before that I’d certainly loved Star Wars, had read a little Arthur C. Clarke, but Trek was a new dimension. It tapped into my imagination, to those parts of me that loved King Arthur lore and believed in other realms—and probably into my sixteen-year-old hormones. I mean, come on! Who can’t love a brilliant, emotionally rigid alien who goes wild during his mating cycle, right? Ah, Spock and his Pon Far mating needs. When you’re sixteen, that’s heady stuff. Super intelligent, geek reaction? Maybe not, but I ate it up.
Of course, it was far more than that too. Spock mentally bonding with the horta? Realizing she was just a mother protecting her young? My brain was in overdrive. Aliens, with their supernatural abilities and natures, were capable of things I’d never imagined. Forget PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, forget WUTHERING HEIGHTS (my earliest romance roots, plus approved summer reading!) I had TREK! That fall when school reconvened, I was amazed to discover that a whole cadre of my fellow geeks had also discovered these reruns. Next thing I knew three of us had formed a power triumvirate, trading black and white headshots and debating whether Spock or Kirk was the hottest one. Interestingly enough, of the three of us, I now write sci-fi romance and another went on to write for Buffy.
Something started for me then, a new place in my writerly development. I’d always made up stories, passing the time as a lonely child of divorced parents by living in the make-believe realm of my imagination. But that summer of Star Trek, the stories inside my mind shifted, became other-worldly oriented. It just took fourteen years for me to translate the crazy ideas inside my head to paper. I wrote and wrote in the interim, but somehow—for reasons I can’t understand looking back—it never occurred to me that I could write what I loved and thought about the most. Maybe I needed permission? Maybe we all do with our creative selves.
I give all the credit to a little known, compulsively watchable show of alien romance, Roswell. From the first episode I saw in 2000, it was as if every idea I’d ever had floating in my head coalesced. Romance, aliens, sci-fi… it could all come together. This was a massive sea change for me. Within months I began writing fanfic (no, don’t run and don’t hide!) It’s amazing how many of my fellow sci-fi romance writers began just the same way. I think fanfic is a fabulous way for new writers to push their boundaries, to realize what they can get away with. It taught me to take crazy chances and not worry who went with me—even my fanfic readers. And trust me, there were times when, with my unconventional romance pairings, very few followed me. I guess I’m saying that fanfic toughened me up. And it gave me confidence to trust in my writer’s heart.
In 2004 I’d finished my first novel. Big clue to self: It had absolutely no elements of the paranormal. It was a deeply felt, emotional women’s fiction novel, and although it was well-received by many editors, was simply too edgy to sell. Twenty-two rejections later I decided that maybe—just maybe—some killer clue lay in my sci-fi writings. After all, that was what I’d spent four years writing in the fanfic world. It was what first stirred my imagination with Trek. Even though it seemed odd after trying my hand at a literary novel, I poured all my energy into the proposal for the Midnight Warriors series. And guess what? Being true to yourself pays off: The series sold very fast.
Lesson learned? Go with what you love. Trust your fantasies and the passions that drive you. No matter how off the wall, or unconventional, I think being real and writing what you love will—in the end—bring you success. If you’ve read my books, you’ll see shades of Spock and Pon Far still shining through. Because once an alien lover, always an alien lover… and I’m proud to carry that ID badge.
Deidre Knight
author of:
Parallel Heat
Parallel Attraction
Parallel Seduction
Monday, April 09, 2007
Where it all began--PART 2
Continuing our foray into my old GAMES OF COMMAND/COMMAND PERFORMANCE files for purposes of backstory, here's more of the original, circa 2001 Chapter One file on Captain Tasha "Sass" Sebastian and Admiral Branden Kel-Paten.... Please note these are OLD ORIGINAL UNEDITED files.
Have fun! ~ Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
(from the original Chapter One... and the cutting room floor)
Something heated flared correspondingly inside Kel-Paten, his gaze taking in far more of her than he was used to seeing. At least, not while he was awake. He didn’t miss her playful tap on Dr. Fynn’s arm with the tip of her racquet as she strode by. “Whipped his ass, 5-4!” she rasped, still somewhat short of breath.
The CMO hid her laughter behind a well-timed coughing fit as Sass plunked down into the chair next to his own. She wiped her face with a towel draped around her neck. A series of soft chuckles followed around the room as the lettering on the Captain’s t-shirt became obvious for all to see:
“My name’s No! No! Bad Captain!
What’s Yours?”
“Sebastian.” Pause. There was always The Pause. “You’re--”
“Late, I know.” Sass held up one hand as if to stave off his reprimand. “I apologize, Admiral. I’d every intention of being here on time. Even recheduled my game two hours earlier. But we—”
“And you’re out of uniform,” he cut in and made sure he didn’t allow his gaze to travel lower than Sass’ face. Interesting what dampness does to certain thin fabrics.
“I’d be later if I’d taken time to change,” Sass was pointing out. “But before you have me vented out the starboard exhausts for a total inattention to duty, at least allow me to state that I have read the entire packet and,” she said, swiveling one of the comp screens attached at regular intervals down the middle of the table, “my report has been filed and already disseminated to the staff.” She tapped at the “Report Waiting” icon flashing on the lower left.
“I assume you’ve all used the...” and she stopped, glancing at her watch, “...four minutes and forty three point two seconds that I was delayed to retrieve and review my report?”
Five faces, including his own, turned blankly to her. Only Dr. Fynn grinned back. Kel-Paten didn’t know if the CMO was just used to the petite green-eyed blonde’s diversonary tactics, or had known beforehand the report would be there. It didn’t matter.
From the conspiratorial nature of her grin, it was obvious she was the only one who’d read it
"Well, good, then it shouldn’t take the rest of you, Dr. Fynn excluded, more than four minutes and forty three point two seconds to do just that. And in that time,” Sass added, rising, “I’ll jog down the corridor to my quarters and grab a sweatshirt. Imperial issue of course,” she added, “before I freeze my butt off in here.”
The zip-front black sweatshirt with the Vaxxar’s signature slashed-lightning logo on the sleeves helped, but not much, Kel-Paten noted wryly as Sass returned to the ready room with ten point oh-eight seconds to spare. The sweatshirt, in generic extra-large, fell below the hem line of her shorts so that when she walked in all he saw were sweatshirt and nicely shaped bare legs... and nothing else. Oh, there were socks (also bright pink) and high-top sneakers (white), he knew, but that only made the illusion worse. It was only after she took the seat next to him that he let out the breath he’d been holding. Slowly.
When he turned back to the table five pairs of eyes regarded him expectantly: Kel-Fhay, the First Officer on his left; Kel-Arint, Chief of Tactical next to him. Then came his U-Cee-issue CMO. Her blue eyes held a a hint of amusement, so he passed over her quickly. His U-Cee-issue Chief of Security, Lt. Francisco Garrick, was opposite her. To Garrick’s left was Zahar Kel-Nilos. The grey-haired Commander had been his Chief of Engineering for fifteen years; he trusted Kel-Nilos, trusted him with his life and his ship and the lives of his crew. Hence, he was also trusted to be the only other officer allowed to sit next to the captain.
She, he noted, didn’t look at him but directly at Eden Fynn. He didn’t like the smile on either woman’s face.
Had he been prone to sighing he would’ve done so just then, but instead he eased himself up to his full 6’3” height’, well aware of the image he presented: an imposing figure in black with night-dark hair. Five diamond-studded stars glinted blue-white on his uniform’s high collar and were matched in their iciness, it was often said, only by the hardness of his eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a problem. It sppears we may have to do some damage control.”
The problem’s name was Shadow, or more accurately, Jace Serafino. Captain Jace Serafino though Kel-Paten’s tone as he said the rank relayed just how little respect he had for the often deadly, always flamboyant mercenary.
Serafino had quite a history, most of it conflicting, very little of it documented save for spaceport gossip and ‘tracker' legends. He was the illegitimate son of an Imperial nobleman and a prosti from the U-Cee pleasure world of Glitterkiln. He was defrocked Nasyry from the Warrior-Priest clan. He was a Q’itha addict and escapee from an Imperial Rehab compound. He was a reclusive and mega-weathly entrepreneur with a decidedly unorthodox philanthropic hobby. He was a bio-cybe crechling--one of Kel-Paten’s siblings--who’d been reported to have died at birth.
All were true. None were true. The only verifiable facts known about Captain Jace Serafino was that he had been very, very good at making trouble for the U-Cees and the Empire, now called the Alliance, and their mutual enemy, the Illithians. And he’d also been very very good at escaping from the clutches of all three.
Until now.
Suddenly made patriotic by the prospect of two hundred fifty thousand credits, Serafino had agreed to participate in a little undercover work for the newly formed Alliance. Kel-Paten had been openly against the idea but had been out voted by the Defense Minister and Admiral Kel-Varen. So Serafino had been paid half the money, pointed in the direction of the Illithian border... and vanished.
It had been almost five months and nothing had been heard of him or his ship, the Novalis. However, two weeks after he’d left Kel Station, a lowly ensign in payroll made a not-so startling discovery--the other half of Serafino’s payment was also gone. For all intents and purposes it looked like he’d taken the money, and run. And was probably comfortably holed up in some rim-world nighthouse, enjoying the soft charms of a sloe-eyed prosti. And laughing his ass off at the Alliance.
So the Alliance did what the Empire always used to do when the Empire got pissed: they gave the command to unleash Kel-Paten on the problem.
“Captain Sebastian’s report noted all the leads we have relative to a last known location on Serafino,” Kel-Paten said. “Lt. Garrick, I want you and Lt. Kel-Arint to head up one team; Commander Kel-Fhay and Dr. Fynn will head the second. The captain and I will head the third. If he isn’t found precisely in one of those locations, I have no doubt, based on the accuracy of our information, that we won’t be very far behind him.”
“We don’t have any reason to believe that Serafino will be cooperative about returning to Kel Prime,” Garrick noted. “Your instructions, sir, if we encounter resistance?”
Kel-Paten leaned his black-gloved fists against the table. This answer was easy. “Kill him,” he replied evenly.
Then he straightened, his hands behind him in correct military posture. “You all understand the situation. Dismissed.”
A nodding of heads accompanied the squeaking of chairs as the command staff of the Vaxxar rose almost in unison and headed for the door. Sass swiveled in her chair, followed Kel-Nilos around the far end of the conference table.
He said her name before she could reach Dr. Fynn’s side: “Sebastian.” Pause. “I will require your attention for a bit longer.”
She turned and faced him expectantly. “Admiral?”
Kel-Paten opened his mouth to speak only to find his mind blanking as My name’s No! No! Bad Captain! stared back at him. Sometime during the ninety-minute meeting her workout clothes had dried and Sass had unzipped the oversized black sweatshirt. Her arms, folded casually across her chest, obscured the What’s Yours?
He cleared his throat. “Sebastian.”
Pause.
She looked up. “Yes?”
Damn her, damn her! Two hours ago, he’d chosen what he’d thought was the perfect topic to delay her after the meeting, something important enough to be believable. Something they could discuss, leisurely, perhaps over a cup of coffee. Something that... something that he’d obviously forgotten.
“Your... report was very thorough.” One-point-four-million credits they had spent perfecting his flawlessly synchronized cybertronic brain interface and that was the best he could come up with.
She cocked her head slightly to one side. Perhaps she knew of the amount and was just now realizing what a tremendous waste of funds it represented.
“Thanks. But it was just a distillation of facts. The original report was kind of repetitive.”
“H.Q.’s usually are.”
“Well then, just goes to prove the theory that bureaucrats everywhere share a common DNA. I never read a report out of our H.Q. at Varlow that was worth a damn, either.”
“I can imagine,” he replied and knew that if the fate of the Universe relied on his conversational abilities right now they’d all be in the proverbial shitter.
However, his terse sentence elicited a raised eyebrow from her. “Didn’t think you had to imagine, Kel-Paten. I was under the impression that there was little the U-Cees did during the war that you weren’t directly aware of. I’d thought our reports provided you with the bulk of your bedtime stories.”
Actually, he’d always saved reports on the Regalia’s captain for that particular time of his day. “I was naturally aware of any information deemed to be important.”
“Oh, naturally,” she said, her mouth quirking slightly into a smile. “If there’s nothing else, Admiral?”
“Nothing else?” He’d been contemplating the soft curves at the base of her throat. Her usual uniform’s high collar covered that area, and though he’d often seen her in the ship’s gym, it had been from across the room. He’d never been this close to her when she’d had been so interestingly out of uniform. So enticingly out of uniform. The temperature in the ready room shot up a few hundred degrees.
“Yes sir, if there’s nothing else you wish to discuss, I’d really like to go back to my quarters and change out of this gear.” She tugged at the slitted hem of her pink shorts, which only drew his eyes down to her bare thighs. His mind immediately responded by informing him just how quickly one could slide those pieces of flimsy pink apparel down and...
“Yes, of course. I’m sure you want to change.” He turned quickly and took his seat at the head of the table. With a few quick touches on the comp screen, he called up a selection of files of unknown subject matter, only peripherally aware they were there. But at least it looked as if he were doing something productive. “Dismissed, Sebastian.”
Sass inclined her head slightly. “By your leave, Admiral.”
He waited until the doors whooshed closed before he let his head fall wearily against the high back of the chair, his body throbbing. He was surprised the chair hadn’t melted.
He was still in that position, eyes closed, a half hour later when the Vaxxar’s red-alert sirens jolted him back into reality.
He almost collided with Sass in the corridor just as his com badge trilled, demanding his attention. He managed to slap at it with one hand and grab Sass’ elbow with the other.
“We’re right here,” he barked as he guided her forcefully through the double sliding doors that led to the upper-level of the bridge.
The two-tiered, U-shaped command center of the huntership was already frenzied with activity. Voices were terse, commands clipped. Every screen streamed with data.
Sass immediately bolted down the short flight of stairs to the scanner station to check incoming data. Kel-Paten slid into the left command seat and, with a practiced familiarity, thumbed open a small panel covering the dataport in the armrest and linked into the ship’s systems through the interface feeds built into his wrist. There were the microseconds of disorientation as there always was when he spiked in. The last thing his human vision focused on before his mind merged completely with the Vax’s cybermechanisms was Sass’ nicely rounded bottom, clad in fitted pale pink sweat pants as she leaned over the main scanner console below him...
Have fun! ~ Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
(from the original Chapter One... and the cutting room floor)
Sass... Captain Sebastian arrived at exactly 2034.43.2, her bright pink cropped t-shirt top and side-slit work-out shorts still damp from her recent exertions.
Something heated flared correspondingly inside Kel-Paten, his gaze taking in far more of her than he was used to seeing. At least, not while he was awake. He didn’t miss her playful tap on Dr. Fynn’s arm with the tip of her racquet as she strode by. “Whipped his ass, 5-4!” she rasped, still somewhat short of breath.
The CMO hid her laughter behind a well-timed coughing fit as Sass plunked down into the chair next to his own. She wiped her face with a towel draped around her neck. A series of soft chuckles followed around the room as the lettering on the Captain’s t-shirt became obvious for all to see:
“My name’s No! No! Bad Captain!
What’s Yours?”
“Sebastian.” Pause. There was always The Pause. “You’re--”
“Late, I know.” Sass held up one hand as if to stave off his reprimand. “I apologize, Admiral. I’d every intention of being here on time. Even recheduled my game two hours earlier. But we—”
“And you’re out of uniform,” he cut in and made sure he didn’t allow his gaze to travel lower than Sass’ face. Interesting what dampness does to certain thin fabrics.
“I’d be later if I’d taken time to change,” Sass was pointing out. “But before you have me vented out the starboard exhausts for a total inattention to duty, at least allow me to state that I have read the entire packet and,” she said, swiveling one of the comp screens attached at regular intervals down the middle of the table, “my report has been filed and already disseminated to the staff.” She tapped at the “Report Waiting” icon flashing on the lower left.
“I assume you’ve all used the...” and she stopped, glancing at her watch, “...four minutes and forty three point two seconds that I was delayed to retrieve and review my report?”
Five faces, including his own, turned blankly to her. Only Dr. Fynn grinned back. Kel-Paten didn’t know if the CMO was just used to the petite green-eyed blonde’s diversonary tactics, or had known beforehand the report would be there. It didn’t matter.
From the conspiratorial nature of her grin, it was obvious she was the only one who’d read it
"Well, good, then it shouldn’t take the rest of you, Dr. Fynn excluded, more than four minutes and forty three point two seconds to do just that. And in that time,” Sass added, rising, “I’ll jog down the corridor to my quarters and grab a sweatshirt. Imperial issue of course,” she added, “before I freeze my butt off in here.”
The zip-front black sweatshirt with the Vaxxar’s signature slashed-lightning logo on the sleeves helped, but not much, Kel-Paten noted wryly as Sass returned to the ready room with ten point oh-eight seconds to spare. The sweatshirt, in generic extra-large, fell below the hem line of her shorts so that when she walked in all he saw were sweatshirt and nicely shaped bare legs... and nothing else. Oh, there were socks (also bright pink) and high-top sneakers (white), he knew, but that only made the illusion worse. It was only after she took the seat next to him that he let out the breath he’d been holding. Slowly.
When he turned back to the table five pairs of eyes regarded him expectantly: Kel-Fhay, the First Officer on his left; Kel-Arint, Chief of Tactical next to him. Then came his U-Cee-issue CMO. Her blue eyes held a a hint of amusement, so he passed over her quickly. His U-Cee-issue Chief of Security, Lt. Francisco Garrick, was opposite her. To Garrick’s left was Zahar Kel-Nilos. The grey-haired Commander had been his Chief of Engineering for fifteen years; he trusted Kel-Nilos, trusted him with his life and his ship and the lives of his crew. Hence, he was also trusted to be the only other officer allowed to sit next to the captain.
She, he noted, didn’t look at him but directly at Eden Fynn. He didn’t like the smile on either woman’s face.
Had he been prone to sighing he would’ve done so just then, but instead he eased himself up to his full 6’3” height’, well aware of the image he presented: an imposing figure in black with night-dark hair. Five diamond-studded stars glinted blue-white on his uniform’s high collar and were matched in their iciness, it was often said, only by the hardness of his eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a problem. It sppears we may have to do some damage control.”
The problem’s name was Shadow, or more accurately, Jace Serafino. Captain Jace Serafino though Kel-Paten’s tone as he said the rank relayed just how little respect he had for the often deadly, always flamboyant mercenary.
Serafino had quite a history, most of it conflicting, very little of it documented save for spaceport gossip and ‘tracker' legends. He was the illegitimate son of an Imperial nobleman and a prosti from the U-Cee pleasure world of Glitterkiln. He was defrocked Nasyry from the Warrior-Priest clan. He was a Q’itha addict and escapee from an Imperial Rehab compound. He was a reclusive and mega-weathly entrepreneur with a decidedly unorthodox philanthropic hobby. He was a bio-cybe crechling--one of Kel-Paten’s siblings--who’d been reported to have died at birth.
All were true. None were true. The only verifiable facts known about Captain Jace Serafino was that he had been very, very good at making trouble for the U-Cees and the Empire, now called the Alliance, and their mutual enemy, the Illithians. And he’d also been very very good at escaping from the clutches of all three.
Until now.
Suddenly made patriotic by the prospect of two hundred fifty thousand credits, Serafino had agreed to participate in a little undercover work for the newly formed Alliance. Kel-Paten had been openly against the idea but had been out voted by the Defense Minister and Admiral Kel-Varen. So Serafino had been paid half the money, pointed in the direction of the Illithian border... and vanished.
It had been almost five months and nothing had been heard of him or his ship, the Novalis. However, two weeks after he’d left Kel Station, a lowly ensign in payroll made a not-so startling discovery--the other half of Serafino’s payment was also gone. For all intents and purposes it looked like he’d taken the money, and run. And was probably comfortably holed up in some rim-world nighthouse, enjoying the soft charms of a sloe-eyed prosti. And laughing his ass off at the Alliance.
So the Alliance did what the Empire always used to do when the Empire got pissed: they gave the command to unleash Kel-Paten on the problem.
“Captain Sebastian’s report noted all the leads we have relative to a last known location on Serafino,” Kel-Paten said. “Lt. Garrick, I want you and Lt. Kel-Arint to head up one team; Commander Kel-Fhay and Dr. Fynn will head the second. The captain and I will head the third. If he isn’t found precisely in one of those locations, I have no doubt, based on the accuracy of our information, that we won’t be very far behind him.”
“We don’t have any reason to believe that Serafino will be cooperative about returning to Kel Prime,” Garrick noted. “Your instructions, sir, if we encounter resistance?”
Kel-Paten leaned his black-gloved fists against the table. This answer was easy. “Kill him,” he replied evenly.
Then he straightened, his hands behind him in correct military posture. “You all understand the situation. Dismissed.”
A nodding of heads accompanied the squeaking of chairs as the command staff of the Vaxxar rose almost in unison and headed for the door. Sass swiveled in her chair, followed Kel-Nilos around the far end of the conference table.
He said her name before she could reach Dr. Fynn’s side: “Sebastian.” Pause. “I will require your attention for a bit longer.”
She turned and faced him expectantly. “Admiral?”
Kel-Paten opened his mouth to speak only to find his mind blanking as My name’s No! No! Bad Captain! stared back at him. Sometime during the ninety-minute meeting her workout clothes had dried and Sass had unzipped the oversized black sweatshirt. Her arms, folded casually across her chest, obscured the What’s Yours?
Pause.
She looked up. “Yes?”
Damn her, damn her! Two hours ago, he’d chosen what he’d thought was the perfect topic to delay her after the meeting, something important enough to be believable. Something they could discuss, leisurely, perhaps over a cup of coffee. Something that... something that he’d obviously forgotten.
“Your... report was very thorough.” One-point-four-million credits they had spent perfecting his flawlessly synchronized cybertronic brain interface and that was the best he could come up with.
She cocked her head slightly to one side. Perhaps she knew of the amount and was just now realizing what a tremendous waste of funds it represented.
“Thanks. But it was just a distillation of facts. The original report was kind of repetitive.”
“H.Q.’s usually are.”
“Well then, just goes to prove the theory that bureaucrats everywhere share a common DNA. I never read a report out of our H.Q. at Varlow that was worth a damn, either.”
“I can imagine,” he replied and knew that if the fate of the Universe relied on his conversational abilities right now they’d all be in the proverbial shitter.
However, his terse sentence elicited a raised eyebrow from her. “Didn’t think you had to imagine, Kel-Paten. I was under the impression that there was little the U-Cees did during the war that you weren’t directly aware of. I’d thought our reports provided you with the bulk of your bedtime stories.”
Actually, he’d always saved reports on the Regalia’s captain for that particular time of his day. “I was naturally aware of any information deemed to be important.”
“Oh, naturally,” she said, her mouth quirking slightly into a smile. “If there’s nothing else, Admiral?”
“Nothing else?” He’d been contemplating the soft curves at the base of her throat. Her usual uniform’s high collar covered that area, and though he’d often seen her in the ship’s gym, it had been from across the room. He’d never been this close to her when she’d had been so interestingly out of uniform. So enticingly out of uniform. The temperature in the ready room shot up a few hundred degrees.
“Yes sir, if there’s nothing else you wish to discuss, I’d really like to go back to my quarters and change out of this gear.” She tugged at the slitted hem of her pink shorts, which only drew his eyes down to her bare thighs. His mind immediately responded by informing him just how quickly one could slide those pieces of flimsy pink apparel down and...
“Yes, of course. I’m sure you want to change.” He turned quickly and took his seat at the head of the table. With a few quick touches on the comp screen, he called up a selection of files of unknown subject matter, only peripherally aware they were there. But at least it looked as if he were doing something productive. “Dismissed, Sebastian.”
Sass inclined her head slightly. “By your leave, Admiral.”
He waited until the doors whooshed closed before he let his head fall wearily against the high back of the chair, his body throbbing. He was surprised the chair hadn’t melted.
He was still in that position, eyes closed, a half hour later when the Vaxxar’s red-alert sirens jolted him back into reality.
He almost collided with Sass in the corridor just as his com badge trilled, demanding his attention. He managed to slap at it with one hand and grab Sass’ elbow with the other.
“We’re right here,” he barked as he guided her forcefully through the double sliding doors that led to the upper-level of the bridge.
The two-tiered, U-shaped command center of the huntership was already frenzied with activity. Voices were terse, commands clipped. Every screen streamed with data.
Sass immediately bolted down the short flight of stairs to the scanner station to check incoming data. Kel-Paten slid into the left command seat and, with a practiced familiarity, thumbed open a small panel covering the dataport in the armrest and linked into the ship’s systems through the interface feeds built into his wrist. There were the microseconds of disorientation as there always was when he spiked in. The last thing his human vision focused on before his mind merged completely with the Vax’s cybermechanisms was Sass’ nicely rounded bottom, clad in fitted pale pink sweat pants as she leaned over the main scanner console below him...
Sunday, April 08, 2007
If I had to... could I?
Before I write about my sometimes alien heroines, I research the Earthly equivalent of the situations into which I dump them, and I like to think that if I were their age, in the shape they are in, and in similar circumstances, I could do almost as well.
But could I?
Could I purify and filter water without a commercial tablet or a store-bought gadget on my plumbing as Djetth (Jeth) does in Insufficient Mating Material? I know how in theory, and what I wrote passed muster with my survival consultant.
If global warming reduced my neighborhood to something close to a dust bowl, could I find water by making a solar still? Could I follow my own survival advice that I dish up in Insufficient Mating Material?
If I decided that I no longer trusted prepared, packaged foods from the supermarket, could I make pizza from scratch... on a hot rock?
Well, could I?
Maybe not pizza, if I didn't have yeast, but I might surprise myself. We women may be tougher than we think.
Actually, I used to make pizza when I lived in Dorset. I had a coal fired oven, which meant that I had to shovel coal into the fire box, wait for it to get really hot, and then bake. My paternal grandmother didn't have a refrigerator. She had a slab of marble in a cupboard under the stairs!
But as for doing some of the things Survivorman does.... I'm not sure, and I hope I never find out, but I pay attention, and I'm thinking of buying some of the best fire making tools I've seen him use on his show, and keeping them in my handbag. It won't do much for the shape of my bag, but a bit of extra weight-lifting should keep my arms and my bones in shape.
Insufficient Mating Material contains quite a lot of information from various survival sources and the consultative wisdom of Survivorman, Les Stroud. Like the alien hero, Djetth (Jeth), I took part in competitive life-saving at school. I still have all the badges that I earned. However, when I think back to all the mushrooms we used to gather in the local cow pastures at dawn, and the berries we picked from hedgerows in Autumn: hips and haws, elderberry, crabapples, blackberries, I wonder whether I'd dare to today, if I weren't desperate.
The problem is (for everyday people), practising making shelters by cutting down vegetation is not environmentally responsible, and experimenting with strange berries when I don't have to seems to be asking for trouble... and I don't mean experimenting in the way that Djetth and Martia-Djulia experiment once their alien romance heats up.
Best wishes,
Rowena
Thursday, April 05, 2007
J. D. Robb's Futuristic Mysteries
It's been a long time since I've discovered a series that engages me the way J. D. Robb's "In Death" mysteries do. Happily, it comprises so many books that I have a long time before I catch up (i.e., run out). The relationship between New York homicide detective Eve Dallas and her husband Roarke gives the novels their special appeal for me. It's often said that the male and female of the human race view each other as alien (men are from Mars, women are from Venus). A character in one of Heinlein's novels questions whether men and women actually belong to the same species. When Eve and Roarke first meet, they live in different worlds, so they feel "alien" to each other, a blunt-spoken cop devoted to the law and a rich, elegant man who made his fortune on the shady side of the legal line. And if "the past is a different country," so is the future of the 2050s in which these stories take place, making the characters slightly alien to us as readers, too. Robb (aka Nora Roberts) has said that in these books she set out with the intention of telling the story of their marriage, so that the first of the series, in which they meet and fall in love, is only the beginning.
What really fascinates me about their relationship is its underlying similarity to the marriage between Harriet Vane and Lord Peter Wimsey in Dorothy Sayers' mysteries. In both couples, a career woman marries a much wealthier man. In each case, both the man and the woman have trauma in their pasts (although Harriet's ordeal of being tried for murder pales beside Eve's harrowing childhood). Both couples met while one of the parties was a murder suspect. Both Eve and Harriet are emotionally gun-shy, finding it difficult to accept the possibility of love and, even after marriage, having trouble saying, "I love you," in so many words. Roarke has a counterpart to Lord Peter's impeccable Bunter, and like Lord Peter and Bunter, Roarke and Summerset went through the wars together, metaphorically. (Lord Peter met Bunter on a literal battlefield, in World War I; Roarke bonded with Summerset in the underworld of the Dublin streets.) A difference is that Bunter likes Harriet, while Summerset and Eve (to begin with, at any rate) share a mutual loathing. Roarke even enjoys, like Lord Peter, teasing his more cautious soul-mate by driving his fabulously expensive vehicle recklessly fast. Eve, like Harriet, sensitive about her husband's wealth, has a hard time accepting gifts. A proud, prickly woman and a suave, self-contained, but deeply passionate man, both of them intelligent and articulate—what a dynamite combination!
What's the common theme in these two series that I find so compelling? So far, I think it can be encapsulated as "trust and love overcoming pride and fear of vulnerability." Also, I'm always drawn to stories of people (human or not) reaching out to each other across chasms of difference to grow from alien-ness (or alienation) to intimacy.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Thoughts on the Non-human Hero
Thoughts on the Non-human Hero
By Jennifer Ashley / Allyson James
Rowena kindly asked me to guest blog here with thoughts about non-human heroes, since lately I’ve been writing many of them: Immortal demigods, dragon shapeshifters, were-panthers, genetically enhanced males, and my own made-up creatures.
I have to say that when I read or write paranormal or futuristic heroes, I never think: “But these guys aren’t human!” Perhaps this is because I’ve been reading fantasy and scifi since age twelve, and I’m used to alternate universes and allegorical worlds, but it never occurs to me to dwell on the non-humanness of heroes (or heroines).
I look at each hero, human or non, as a character. Whether he is a Regency cavalry captain or an Immortal demigod or a logosh from my Nvengarian series, I approach each the same way--he (or she) is a character with a history--wants, needs, quirks, flaws, and strengths. All characters have a background that makes them them. Whether or not they are homo sapiens sapiens doesn’t bother me at all.
Before I start a novel, I love to write my hero’s autobiography, beginning with where he was born, who were his parents, were they good parents or bad (or dead), what he had to struggle with while growing up, and how that shaped him.
It’s amazing what comes out when I free-flow a hero’s bio--I become him for a time. Whether he was raised in a rigid Regency household with an uber-strict father, or he’s a two-thousand-year-old warrior who learned to fight in a Roman legion--each hero’s background shapes him into something unique.
I think the most fun heroes I’ve created are the Shareem characters I write as Allyson James. These men were born in a factory from a mixture of donated DNA (no parents), then they were sexually enhanced and raised for one purpose only--to pleasure women.
The scientists claim they’ve taken all emotions from these men and turned them into the ultimate slaves--but of course they haven’t. Each of the Shareem has a distinct personality and a different way of dealing with their lives and fighting their genetic programming.
I am amazed at how much scope for character the background to the Shareem gave me. These men are not human, or maybe they’re super-human, but underneath, they are the most human characters I’ve ever created.
Do I have a point? Probably not. But I thought I’d share some of my techniques for creating heroes who are richly layered and unique. The alpha hero is the most popular type of romance hero (he really is), but he doesn’t have to be the same-old, same-old.
Dig into his background, figure out what happened to him in all the years before the story, and you’ll have a memorable character, whether he’s human or vampire or were-thing or an alien born in a vat.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Where it all began...GAMES OF COMMAND original files
I've received a lot of fan mail (thank you!) since Games of Command came out the end of February. I'm just tickled that readers so love Sass and the admiral, Jace and Eden. A lot of my fans know--since I'm not shy about it--that the original manuscript ran over 300,000 words...and was a series of emails between a dear friend and myself. Rather a "continuing adventure" just for fun and never meant to be published.
Readers have also been clamoring for all those scenes that ended up on the cutting room floor.
I thought I'd lost a lot of the original, due to computer crashes and such. But I did come across a few files from 2001. They're not the FIRST original files but pretty durn close. I'll share them with you over the next few blogs...
Please note some names/scenes/settings may NOT match the book. This is the seed from which the book was sprouted.
Enjoy! ~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
ORIGINAL CHAPTER ONE from my notes dated 2001
Sickbay, Triad HUNTERSHIP Vaxxar
There might be worse things in the galaxy than a lethal alien virus. An admiral with an attitude, and an agenda, could well be one of them.
Chief Medical Officer Eden Fynn glanced at the time stamp in the corner of her screen. “Damn!” She increased the document’s scroll rate. There was a required staff meeting in five minutes, and she had fifty more pages to review. A second outbreak of Nar’Relian flu had inexplicably surfaced at three United Coalition spaceports in the past month, resulting in five more deaths. Finding a cure was now a race against time. She’d waited for two days for this critical analysis. Yet when it finally arrives, she had to go play Dutiful and Obedient CMO because Kel-Paten had his proverbial cybernetic knickers in a knot over something. Again.
“Cal, can you load these stats into my medalytic program? Got another command performance with the full staff in the ready room in five.”
The portly, gray-haired doctor smiled knowingly. “He’s overdue by about thirty-six hours this week, isn’t he?”
“The admiral just likes to be efficient,” Eden replied as blandly as the tired grin on her face would allow her.
“The admiral likes to see how high we all can jump, and when.” Caleb Monterro accepted the thin data-disk that Eden held out to him. “Be glad to help. We need some fast answers on this one. But I’ll tell you, I don’t envy your having to go to these meetings of his. Especially this late.”
"The admiral has his own view of time," Eden agreed as she straightened a stack of files on her desk. It was already a half hour into Third Duty Shift, which was Cal’s shift, not hers as ship's CMO. But medical work rarely respected schedules.
“It’s been different working with the Kel Triad these past six months." Cal absently tapped the thin disk against his palm. "Not like on the Regalia, with Captain Sebastian.”
“Tell me about it,” she quipped. A med-tech interrupted any further conversation, handing a new patient file to Monterro to review.
They parted with an exchange of tired smiles.
But, yes, what Cal had said was true. Their captain had her own way of doing things, and in Eden’s opinion, that to a great extent was what caused some of Admiral Kel-Paten’s problems. The other cause was a supposition she’d only recent begun to consider. It wasn’t one she wanted to explore further, right now. Especially because if she were right, and the bio-cybernetic construct in charge of the newly formed Alliance Fleet was actually experiencing emotions. Then she, as Chief Medical Officer, might just have to Section Forty-Six him.
She didn’t think that would go over well in the Triad part of the Alliance. It might even start another war. Then a puzzling virus would be the least of their problems.
The lift door pinged. She spent the short ride up to the Bridge Deck searching for more pleasant thoughts: the meeting shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half, two hours at most. That would leave her just enough time to get back to her quarters, change into some comfortable hiking gear and unwind with a leisurely late-shift stroll through one of the simdecks’ “Scenic Trails of the Universe” programs. It would unkink muscles now tense from hours of sitting. And maybe would unkink a mind tired from staring at medical data that made no sense.
Eden entered the stark ready room, a relaxed smile on her face. She only had to play “dutiful and obedient officer” for another ninety minutes and then she was free to do as she pleased.
Unfortunately, Fate and the Universe, as they often do, were just at the moment making plans of their own.
Ready Room, THS Vaxxar
Admiral Branden Kel-Paten noted the exact time of Dr. Fynn’s arrival in the same way he noted the exact time of every one of his officers’ arrivals: on a digital read-out in the lower left corner of his field of vision. The angular numbers were a bright shade of yellow-green, a color he'd found disruptive at first, as he'd found disruptive many of the bio-mechanical enhancements that had been added to his human form. He’d said something about the color choice to the Bio Engineers, hesitantly, as he'd been young enough then to still experience the emotion of shame. And the engineers had been sharp and caustic in their reply: he was a fifteen year old child and in no position to dictate preferences to these experienced and degreed professionals.
Truth was, he was more than just a fifteen year old child; he and eleven others had been human experiments, lab-bred from the best genetic materials available so that the Triad could produce five Senior Captains to helm and command the Triad’s five quadrants. But out of the dozen crèche-lings that had fertilized in the test tubes, only three had lived past their tenth birthday. And only one -- Kel-Paten, literally “Kel” (for the Keltish Triad) P.A.-Ten -- Paracybernetic Augmented Humanoid Ten -- survived past his fourteenth birthday and into enough human maturity where the mechanical enhancement procedures could begin.
The psycho-synthesizing had started three years later.
Over the years -- almost thirty more of them -- he'd gotten used to the putrid yellow-green color of his visual readouts. So now when he noted his CMO’s arrival it meant nothing, other than she was on time, and Sass wasn’t.
Again.
Oh, Captain Sebastian still had seventy-two point four seconds in which to arrive on time, but he knew she wouldn’t. The look she’d given him over the vidcom when he’d told her to be at the ready room at 2030 hours had portended that. She was off-shift at that time-- as most of his command staff would be-- and was scheduled to play a zero-g racquetball game at 2030 with a certain unmarried commander from Engineering who, Kel-Paten felt, was a little too attentive to Captain Sebastian lately. The info packet he’d downloaded from HQ after they’d cleared the ion storms could’ve waited until First Shift, until the “morning” as dirtsiders would say. There was no reason for a 2030 hours conference, other than such a meeting would keep Sass where he could keep a eye on her. And that was something he lately felt more and more inclined to do.
Sass... Captain Sebastian arrived at exactly 2034.43.2, her bright pink cropped t-shirt top and side-slit work-out shorts still damp from her recent exertions.
Something heated flared correspondingly inside Kel-Paten, his gaze taking in far more of her than he was used to seeing. At least, not while he was awake. He didn’t miss her playful tap on Dr. Fynn’s arm with the tip of her racquet as she strode by.
“Whipped his ass, 5-4!” she rasped, still somewhat short of breath.
(to be continued... more of the ORIGINAL Chapter One next time...)
Readers have also been clamoring for all those scenes that ended up on the cutting room floor.
I thought I'd lost a lot of the original, due to computer crashes and such. But I did come across a few files from 2001. They're not the FIRST original files but pretty durn close. I'll share them with you over the next few blogs...
Please note some names/scenes/settings may NOT match the book. This is the seed from which the book was sprouted.
Enjoy! ~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com
ORIGINAL CHAPTER ONE from my notes dated 2001
Sickbay, Triad HUNTERSHIP Vaxxar
There might be worse things in the galaxy than a lethal alien virus. An admiral with an attitude, and an agenda, could well be one of them.
Chief Medical Officer Eden Fynn glanced at the time stamp in the corner of her screen. “Damn!” She increased the document’s scroll rate. There was a required staff meeting in five minutes, and she had fifty more pages to review. A second outbreak of Nar’Relian flu had inexplicably surfaced at three United Coalition spaceports in the past month, resulting in five more deaths. Finding a cure was now a race against time. She’d waited for two days for this critical analysis. Yet when it finally arrives, she had to go play Dutiful and Obedient CMO because Kel-Paten had his proverbial cybernetic knickers in a knot over something. Again.
“Cal, can you load these stats into my medalytic program? Got another command performance with the full staff in the ready room in five.”
The portly, gray-haired doctor smiled knowingly. “He’s overdue by about thirty-six hours this week, isn’t he?”
“The admiral just likes to be efficient,” Eden replied as blandly as the tired grin on her face would allow her.
“The admiral likes to see how high we all can jump, and when.” Caleb Monterro accepted the thin data-disk that Eden held out to him. “Be glad to help. We need some fast answers on this one. But I’ll tell you, I don’t envy your having to go to these meetings of his. Especially this late.”
"The admiral has his own view of time," Eden agreed as she straightened a stack of files on her desk. It was already a half hour into Third Duty Shift, which was Cal’s shift, not hers as ship's CMO. But medical work rarely respected schedules.
“It’s been different working with the Kel Triad these past six months." Cal absently tapped the thin disk against his palm. "Not like on the Regalia, with Captain Sebastian.”
“Tell me about it,” she quipped. A med-tech interrupted any further conversation, handing a new patient file to Monterro to review.
They parted with an exchange of tired smiles.
But, yes, what Cal had said was true. Their captain had her own way of doing things, and in Eden’s opinion, that to a great extent was what caused some of Admiral Kel-Paten’s problems. The other cause was a supposition she’d only recent begun to consider. It wasn’t one she wanted to explore further, right now. Especially because if she were right, and the bio-cybernetic construct in charge of the newly formed Alliance Fleet was actually experiencing emotions. Then she, as Chief Medical Officer, might just have to Section Forty-Six him.
She didn’t think that would go over well in the Triad part of the Alliance. It might even start another war. Then a puzzling virus would be the least of their problems.
The lift door pinged. She spent the short ride up to the Bridge Deck searching for more pleasant thoughts: the meeting shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half, two hours at most. That would leave her just enough time to get back to her quarters, change into some comfortable hiking gear and unwind with a leisurely late-shift stroll through one of the simdecks’ “Scenic Trails of the Universe” programs. It would unkink muscles now tense from hours of sitting. And maybe would unkink a mind tired from staring at medical data that made no sense.
Eden entered the stark ready room, a relaxed smile on her face. She only had to play “dutiful and obedient officer” for another ninety minutes and then she was free to do as she pleased.
Unfortunately, Fate and the Universe, as they often do, were just at the moment making plans of their own.
Ready Room, THS Vaxxar
Admiral Branden Kel-Paten noted the exact time of Dr. Fynn’s arrival in the same way he noted the exact time of every one of his officers’ arrivals: on a digital read-out in the lower left corner of his field of vision. The angular numbers were a bright shade of yellow-green, a color he'd found disruptive at first, as he'd found disruptive many of the bio-mechanical enhancements that had been added to his human form. He’d said something about the color choice to the Bio Engineers, hesitantly, as he'd been young enough then to still experience the emotion of shame. And the engineers had been sharp and caustic in their reply: he was a fifteen year old child and in no position to dictate preferences to these experienced and degreed professionals.
Truth was, he was more than just a fifteen year old child; he and eleven others had been human experiments, lab-bred from the best genetic materials available so that the Triad could produce five Senior Captains to helm and command the Triad’s five quadrants. But out of the dozen crèche-lings that had fertilized in the test tubes, only three had lived past their tenth birthday. And only one -- Kel-Paten, literally “Kel” (for the Keltish Triad) P.A.-Ten -- Paracybernetic Augmented Humanoid Ten -- survived past his fourteenth birthday and into enough human maturity where the mechanical enhancement procedures could begin.
The psycho-synthesizing had started three years later.
Over the years -- almost thirty more of them -- he'd gotten used to the putrid yellow-green color of his visual readouts. So now when he noted his CMO’s arrival it meant nothing, other than she was on time, and Sass wasn’t.
Again.
Oh, Captain Sebastian still had seventy-two point four seconds in which to arrive on time, but he knew she wouldn’t. The look she’d given him over the vidcom when he’d told her to be at the ready room at 2030 hours had portended that. She was off-shift at that time-- as most of his command staff would be-- and was scheduled to play a zero-g racquetball game at 2030 with a certain unmarried commander from Engineering who, Kel-Paten felt, was a little too attentive to Captain Sebastian lately. The info packet he’d downloaded from HQ after they’d cleared the ion storms could’ve waited until First Shift, until the “morning” as dirtsiders would say. There was no reason for a 2030 hours conference, other than such a meeting would keep Sass where he could keep a eye on her. And that was something he lately felt more and more inclined to do.
Sass... Captain Sebastian arrived at exactly 2034.43.2, her bright pink cropped t-shirt top and side-slit work-out shorts still damp from her recent exertions.
Something heated flared correspondingly inside Kel-Paten, his gaze taking in far more of her than he was used to seeing. At least, not while he was awake. He didn’t miss her playful tap on Dr. Fynn’s arm with the tip of her racquet as she strode by.
“Whipped his ass, 5-4!” she rasped, still somewhat short of breath.
(to be continued... more of the ORIGINAL Chapter One next time...)
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Strange Brews
I think my aural memory is very good, but sometimes it isn't.
For instance, I was absolutely certain that I knew the opening lines to The Eagles quintessentially seventies song "Life in the Fast Lane."
Mea culpa. I thought the heroine was terminally vain.
I listened to that song a lot while writing about Insufficient Mating Material's fashionista heroine who was so pampered, she could not even undress without the hero's help, and the slightly brutal Djetth (Jeth).
It wasn't my imaginary theme song for the book, but I felt an affinity.
A couple of days ago, I learned that the heroine was "terminally pretty" (to rhyme with "the hard cold city"). How devastating to know that I have been mistaken for more than two decades!
OK. I will admit it. I loved The Cream song, Strange Brew but I never have been clear what it is about. When I was a giddy youth, I didn't read the transcripts on the backs of LPs.
These songs recapture my happiest memories -- well... I should modify that, but the late sixties, seventies and eighties were fabulous, and that's when I had time to listen to the radio, and when I judged potential boyfriends by their record collections.
Did anyone else do that? Or am I truly weird?
LP-Harmony!!!!
I've also been polling my internet acquaintances about their opinions of Newsletters put out by authors, because I am on a panel speaking about the virtues of Newsletters on behalf of the EPIC organization (for electronically published authors) at the upcoming Romantic Times convention.
More than once as my questionnaires came back to me, I heard that readers love recipes in authors' newsletters. Good grief, people are interested in what I eat, whether I cook it, and what ingredients I use! Who knew?
Music, recipes... now add Linnea Sinclair's barman, Sin.
When you write do you follow the What's In Your Wallet? line of characterization?
Some characterization pundits advise authors to make lists of what is in their heroes' pockets.
(I tried that in Insufficient Mating Material, with good reason. My survival consultant, Les Stroud, aka Survivorman always tells the Science Channel viewer what, apart from his multi-tool, is in his pocket when he is stranded on a deserted island or other hostile-to-life spot.)
How about, What's In Your Drink? (I have paranoid, intergalactic superspy heroes who wonder that, too.)
Let's take world-building to an appropriate level. What do your inter-stellar characters drink for survival, for sustenance, for pleasure, and for a buzz?
Is it basically a gin and tonic with dye in it? Is it green small beer? (That's a fraction deeper than you think). Is it Blue Curacao with vodka? Is water the champagne of the future? Or serum?
Who saw Antz? The Bar Scene? Drinking from the aphids' butts (not that I recommend it, but does it have potential for an alien lifestyle)? There was another bar scene in An Ant's Life. Cartoons can be highly creative.
Well, here's the kicker.
Tonight (Sunday 9 -11 pm Eastern), April Fools' Night, with the moon all but full, Linnea, Susan, Colby and Rowena are going to be appearing in character on the Passionate Internet Voices Radio in order to put the lot together.
We'll be in Linnea's Intergalactic Bar and Grille (a franchise thereof) with Sin the bartender making otherwordly drinks. And we'll be planning a big surprise for Earth.
Best wishes,
Rowena
For instance, I was absolutely certain that I knew the opening lines to The Eagles quintessentially seventies song "Life in the Fast Lane."
Mea culpa. I thought the heroine was terminally vain.
I listened to that song a lot while writing about Insufficient Mating Material's fashionista heroine who was so pampered, she could not even undress without the hero's help, and the slightly brutal Djetth (Jeth).
It wasn't my imaginary theme song for the book, but I felt an affinity.
A couple of days ago, I learned that the heroine was "terminally pretty" (to rhyme with "the hard cold city"). How devastating to know that I have been mistaken for more than two decades!
OK. I will admit it. I loved The Cream song, Strange Brew but I never have been clear what it is about. When I was a giddy youth, I didn't read the transcripts on the backs of LPs.
These songs recapture my happiest memories -- well... I should modify that, but the late sixties, seventies and eighties were fabulous, and that's when I had time to listen to the radio, and when I judged potential boyfriends by their record collections.
Did anyone else do that? Or am I truly weird?
LP-Harmony!!!!
I've also been polling my internet acquaintances about their opinions of Newsletters put out by authors, because I am on a panel speaking about the virtues of Newsletters on behalf of the EPIC organization (for electronically published authors) at the upcoming Romantic Times convention.
More than once as my questionnaires came back to me, I heard that readers love recipes in authors' newsletters. Good grief, people are interested in what I eat, whether I cook it, and what ingredients I use! Who knew?
Music, recipes... now add Linnea Sinclair's barman, Sin.
When you write do you follow the What's In Your Wallet? line of characterization?
Some characterization pundits advise authors to make lists of what is in their heroes' pockets.
(I tried that in Insufficient Mating Material, with good reason. My survival consultant, Les Stroud, aka Survivorman always tells the Science Channel viewer what, apart from his multi-tool, is in his pocket when he is stranded on a deserted island or other hostile-to-life spot.)
How about, What's In Your Drink? (I have paranoid, intergalactic superspy heroes who wonder that, too.)
Let's take world-building to an appropriate level. What do your inter-stellar characters drink for survival, for sustenance, for pleasure, and for a buzz?
Is it basically a gin and tonic with dye in it? Is it green small beer? (That's a fraction deeper than you think). Is it Blue Curacao with vodka? Is water the champagne of the future? Or serum?
Who saw Antz? The Bar Scene? Drinking from the aphids' butts (not that I recommend it, but does it have potential for an alien lifestyle)? There was another bar scene in An Ant's Life. Cartoons can be highly creative.
Well, here's the kicker.
Tonight (Sunday 9 -11 pm Eastern), April Fools' Night, with the moon all but full, Linnea, Susan, Colby and Rowena are going to be appearing in character on the Passionate Internet Voices Radio in order to put the lot together.
We'll be in Linnea's Intergalactic Bar and Grille (a franchise thereof) with Sin the bartender making otherwordly drinks. And we'll be planning a big surprise for Earth.
Best wishes,
Rowena
Role Playing
Some of us here at Alien Blog are doing a pod-cast on Sunday night. I'll let Rowenna post the details since my mind is still trying to get around the idea that I will be Princess Arielle of Oasis for the good part of the weekend. After all I've got to get into the zone.
This is Elle. And a little bit about her.
He was the only man she’d ever loved. The one who’d roused her innocent girlhood passions . . . the one she held responsible for her brother’s death. So when Boone’s starship was shot down over a faraway planet, Elle resolved to forget him, to devote herself to her duty as the future ruler of Oasis. She focused her formidable mind on honing her powers, until the day she witnessed a pair of sweat-sleek, breathtaking gladiators facing each other down in the vicious fight-to-the-death of the Murlacca. Here were the two men she’d thought lost to her forever, and one last chance to save them. It was up to Elle to outwit the Circe witches who held Boone and Zander prisoner, so she could claim a love that had once seemed as elusive as . . .Star Shadows
So what does Elle do? She kicks some butt. She's deadly with her Sais. And she's learning that there are things bigger than power...like true love. YOu can read all about her this November. But Sunday night you can find her hanging out in a bar with Hell and Sass and a cat that can't keep its tail out of the beer. Come join us!
This is Elle. And a little bit about her.
He was the only man she’d ever loved. The one who’d roused her innocent girlhood passions . . . the one she held responsible for her brother’s death. So when Boone’s starship was shot down over a faraway planet, Elle resolved to forget him, to devote herself to her duty as the future ruler of Oasis. She focused her formidable mind on honing her powers, until the day she witnessed a pair of sweat-sleek, breathtaking gladiators facing each other down in the vicious fight-to-the-death of the Murlacca. Here were the two men she’d thought lost to her forever, and one last chance to save them. It was up to Elle to outwit the Circe witches who held Boone and Zander prisoner, so she could claim a love that had once seemed as elusive as . . .Star Shadows
So what does Elle do? She kicks some butt. She's deadly with her Sais. And she's learning that there are things bigger than power...like true love. YOu can read all about her this November. But Sunday night you can find her hanging out in a bar with Hell and Sass and a cat that can't keep its tail out of the beer. Come join us!
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