Population Imbalances

It's well known that China's "one child" policy has led to a shortage of girls, leaving many young men unable to find wives. This week, though, I read in the paper that male birth rates are falling in some first-world countries, possibly because of environmental pollution, among other causes. All along, despite the higher number of boys conceived, fewer boys than girls have been born because prenatal loss of male babies tends to be higher. After birth, boys continue to succumb to death at higher rates than girls; males truly are the "weaker sex." Now, however, it seems that fewer boys are being conceived. So we could end up with a shortage of men in the developed world. Another demographic imbalance revolves around age. As an unintended consequence of population control, highly technological societies are ending up with "too many" older people in proportion to the young people needed to keep the economy functioning, especially in Japan and parts of Europe.

It's obvious that a society with too few women is in deep trouble, reproductively speaking. What are the likely sociological effects upon the status of women? Would they become highly valued and respected? Or would they be "valued" only in the sense of property to hoard and fight over? In the chilling theocratic society of Margaret Atwood's HANDMAID'S TALE, fertile women have become so scarce that they're forced to serve as breeding vessels (Handmaids) for a few wealthy, infertile couples. Another side effect of an excess of males, of course, is usually an increase in violent crime and other reckless behavior. A shortage of males, on the other hand, needn't pose a problem from a reproductive perspective. Given the necessary adjustment in sexual and/or parenting customs, one man can supply enough sperm to fertilized many women. From the perspective of women who want to marry and establish families, however, it's naturally a big problem. An extreme imbalance could lead to SF scenarios of men being held as pets or property by women rich and powerful enough to afford them. Or might the culture move in a retro direction and end up with a few powerful men possessing harems?

Too many old people? Might we (because I'm rapidly moving into that demographic) rule the world or at any rate the economy of developed nations, as we boomers supposedly do in the U.S. already? Or could the situation become so desperate that people past a certain advanced age—as in a little-read section of Swift's GULLIVER'S TRAVELS—would be effectively declared dead and stripped of their property rights to make room for the rising generations?

Optimistic SF writers such as Heinlein have often proposed fictional scenarios in which population pressures on Earth are relieved by extraterrestrial colonization. Would space travel ever become easy and cheap enough to remove any significant number of "excess" people from this planet? Historically, did the New World actually relieve population pressures in Europe? Or did the mere existence of an alternative for some people provide a symbolic "safety valve" that changed the balance in the Old World? I don't know enough history to have a legitimate opinion on that question, except that I know Ireland was severely depopulated by emigration in the wake of the potato famine in the 1840s.

Title Help--calling all would be title experts

Hi All,
I could really use some title help. My next books is a romantic suspense and is not tied to my June 26th release, Kiss Me Deadly. The book is a stand alone. It's about a secret formula my heroine inherits--along with her father's business partner--the hero. And someone is after the formula. My heroine is a classical dance teacher with a yen for tribal belly dance. The hero is a businessman. The book is set in Florida outside of Tampa.

All suggestions welcome.

Thanks,
Susan Kearney

"Mr. Ed" and Writing the Great American Novel

Please see my long comment on Linnea's post that went up yesterday. She's right, it takes longer to write shorter.

Well now! Isn't The Great American Novel what we all feel we're doing when we write?
Of course, we know it isn't so. Problems of genre-prejudice aside, you don't write "the great American novel" on purpose. Perhaps someone else on this co-blog will examine the concept "great" and the concept "American" in depth, and "novel" is a whole subject on its own, but today I wanted to examine what makes an Icon of a culture.

What is the function of an Icon and why do cultures elevate some trivial bit to become an icon to future generations?

Where do Icons come from?

I saw a segment on the PBS News Hour last week that's been bugging me with this question, and in truth it has a lot to do with Alien Romance and Intimate Adventure and Genre-Prejudice and Iconography.

"Mr. Ed" the 1960's TV show was billed and named in the News Hour segment several times as An American Icon. I think the publicist for the book written by the star of the show whom they were interviewing must have coined the phrase and succeeded in convincing the reporter to use it.

"Mr. Ed" preceded Star Trek and was an SF-ish parody crossed with kiddy-fare and came out immensely popular with adults because it was interlaced with complex relationships (like I Love Lucy and The Lucy Show).

http://www.tv.com/mister-ed/show/769/summary.html for more information (episode guides are there if anyone posted them -- tv.com is only as good as the contributors).

Mr. Ed was followed by "My Favorite Martian" -- and later by Star Trek which turned everything topsy turvey.

You see, Star Trek was actual adult drama -- not even really SF's traditional "Action/Adventure For Teen Boys" though it had that element prominent on the surface. ST posed serious questions about morality, ethics, world politics and religion.

SF on TV was revolutionized by Star Trek -- but the thin edge of the wedge, the ground-breaker, the true entry point into the general consciousness for science fiction (and adult stories about non-human intelligence) was via COMEDY.

And so Mr. Ed (about a deep buddy-friendship between an ordinary man and a talking horse who wanted to keep his verbal skills secret) became an American Icon (nearly 50 years later, when the star of the show writes a book about it!).

So maybe "an icon" is the tip of the root of change -- the point where a seed breaks open and starts to grow, but isn't quite recognizable yet.

Yes, I noted Rowena's post about Ginger Root and its shape. You see the impression humor makes.

So an Icon may be the first not-quite-recognizable appearance of a thing, or the next growth stage where it becomes recognizable (Spock has been named "an Icon") -- or some further inflection point in a growth curve.

Why do we appoint some things as "icons" and other things not? Well, that's another discussion having to do with popularity, publicity, journalistic choices, feedback between audience and profit-driven journalism, and group mind building.

But before we discuss any of that, and get bogged down in the related topic of "what is Art, really?" I think here on Alien Romance, we should study the 1960's a little deeper and learn.

Try this link:
http://www.tv.com/comedy/genre/4/topshows.html?g=4&era=1960&l=A&pop=&tag=gen_subtabs;era;4

Romance has been as derided as Science Fiction.
Science Fiction has begun to lose that stigma (still has a way to go, but frankly SF fandom WON the battle).

Romance is still considered "girly" fare, kid-lit, or the opiate of the useless drudge of the household.

But The Romance Genre really is an in-depth, far ranging and far reaching, highly philosophical, blatantly critical study of a single astrological phenomenon long known as The Neptune Transit -- which is famous for its spiritual effects.

The Alien Romance exposes that buried philosophical depth to the eye of the un-educated and perhaps innocent reader just as Star Trek exposed the philosophical importance of Science Fiction buried inside Mr. Ed, My Favorite Martian, Bewitched, and The Adams Family. (I'm not even mentioning Superman and other "kiddie" items, just general comedy.)

As Alien Romance adds an adult dimension to Romance, so Comedy added an adult dimension to SF.

Our next step must be a TV SHOW -- maybe made from a feature film -- which will become an American Icon like Mr. Ed -- a lighthearted romantic comedy with an alien point of view.

Now, maybe that's already happened and we're too close to it to see. I could nominate Buffy The Vampire Slayer and Angel as the Alien Romance Icon, maybe Lois and Clark -- maybe Forever Knight? Today we have Tanya Huff's Blood Files on TV along with a chance for The Dresden Files to make it on the Sci Fi channel. Maybe we're already there?

Anyone else have a nomination for the 2000's decade American Icon that will change viewing habits and make Alien Romance highly respectable general audience fare recognized on its artistic and philosophical merits?

What exactly is an icon and how do you recognize it before the media names it so?
Or maybe more to the point, how do you get to be "the media" that gets to choose what to select as "an Icon?"

Note this media piece on the last episode of The Sopranos:

--------------Were 'Sopranos' fans whacked or blessed? By JOCELYN NOVECK, AP National Writer
NEW YORK - And so on the first day of Year One A.T. — After Tony, that is — the "Sopranos"-viewing world was split in two camps.
One was muttering bitterly into its morning coffee at the open-ended conclusion of the epic series, a banal family moment over onion rings that would have delighted existentialist Jean-Paul Sartre, author of "Being and Nothingness."
The other was lavishly praising the iconic HBO drama for capturing life's essential ambiguity and disorderliness.
See the full article:http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070611/ap_en_tv/tv_sopranos_ending;_ylt=AnWtrKSlaxXnNWYMMX9RZueuGL8C
---------------------

Is "iconic" a buzzword being cheapened by overuse? Or does this really point the way forward into the general consciousness?

Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/

Authors and Writers and Readers, Oh My!

I'm too slammed with work--writing CHASIDAH'S CHOICE and deep in the final, final copy edits on THE DOWN HOME ZOMBIE BLUES--to be particularly witty today. So I'm going to ramble...

I spent this weekend north of Tampa, FL, giving two workshops at the New Port Richey library for the Florida Writers Association. I had a terrific time and my thanks go to Dahris Clair and the FWA, as well as the lovely people at the library who kindly made extra copies of my handouts. FWA is a multi-genre writers' organization so it appeared to me that you don't get the kind of genre-bonding that you do when you're part of a solo-genre group, like MWA (Mystery Writers of America), RWA (Romance) or SFWA (Science Fiction). Hence, there were a fair amount of authors-to-be in the audience who were attacking the goal of being published via the more difficult path: alone.

I mentioned at in my opening--and it's something I've commented on before--that I have the greatest respect for writers who became authors in the pre-Internet days. Before information was literally dripping off the walls. Before professional advice was a mere mouse-click away. Jacqueline Lichtenberg's writerly advice on her Sime~Gen site saved my pre-published patootie more than once years ago. Her advice still keeps my published patootie in line.

So it surprises me when I speak before a fiction writing group and they not only don't know the difference between external and internal conflict, but they have no idea where to find a sample of a query letter. (And I'm not stating everyone in my workshop fell into that category, but there were more who did than I'd expected.)

The truth is not only out there, folks, but so are the answers. In addition to Jacqueline's WorldCrafters Guild, there are sites like my agent's blog, PubRants, where she fully and often humorously demystifies the process of getting an agent. And Miss Snark ::genuflects:: may have recently retired, but her blog archives--and spot-0n advice--is still there.

Authors like Holly Lisle and Orson Scott Card have long maintained wonderful "How To Write Your Novel" pages on their sites. And when you're burned out from crafting your words, go hang out with RITA-award winning author, Robin D. Owens, and revive your muse.

And that's only the tip of the iceberg. I'm sure many of you have your favorite Writing Help/How To site. Share, okay? And when I get time [Linnea falls off her chair, laughing], I'll do up a page on my site, listing them all.

So the plain fact is, educating yourself on the craft of writing AND (and this is a big, whopping, important AND) the business of being a published author is not an impossible task. It's out there, kidlings. Click, scroll, learn.

Which brings me to the other half of this blog: readers.

I was absolutely blessed (and surprised) to have GAMES OF COMMAND make All About Romance's "Desert Isle Keeper" list recently. The DIK designation means this is a book the reviewer would want with him/her on a desert island. It's a honor. I'm truly honored. Because writing a book that makes people happy is a lot of hard, hard, hard (did I say it was hard?) work.

I'm not sure readers realize that. Sometimes I think readers pictures authors as lounging on the chaise, dictacting their next novel whilst being hand-fed chocolate-covered blueberries. Or some such thing. Every word we dictate is then accepted without question by the editors and copy-editors who adore us, and we go on to our next novel, and our next bowl of chocolate-covered blueberries.

Trust me, it's not remotely anything like that. Writing a novel is slightly less painful then going through back-to-back root canal operations. Don't get me wrong. I love writing. I'm addicted to writing. But what I write, what I present to my editor and what comes out as the final book is a long, often frustrating, always crazy process. So in case any readers were wondering:

1. Yes, I have to write to a specific word count. I cannot just ramble on like I am here. Yes, there is some leeway in the word count but when my editor says CUT I have to CUT. That may mean a fairly important scene never makes it into the final book because there are more important scenes than that one. It's like packing for a week's vacation. You have a suitcase of a certain size. You have airline weight limits for that suitcase. You have fifteen outfits you want to bring along but only room for eight. What goes? What stays behind? That's what writing and EDITING a book is like.

2. I have to balance both the speculative fiction aspect (science fiction/fantasy) and the romance aspect. And often, some mystery or political intrigue that has to be cleared up by book's end. I have to keep both my science fiction readers and my romance readers happy. That means, yes, it's a balancing act and no one, ever, is going to be one-hundred per cent happy. Not even me. That's why I have to groan when I read a blogger's or reviewer's comment that a) Linnea Sinclair had too much romance in [fill in novel title] for me and, from another blogger or reviewer about the identical book b) Linnea Sinclair had too much science fiction in [fill in novel title] for me.

Please see item #1 above. I have a finite amount of space in which to produce a novel. I do absolutely the best I can at the time to keep everyone happy but (see item #1 above) I also have to listen to my editor and copy-editor. Things get cut, and understand I may not always agree with the things I'm told to cut. But I cut. That's my job, as much as writing the book is.

Writing cross-genre fiction is--again--like packing a suitcase for a week's vacation where the climate will vary greatly: a snowy ski resort at the top of the mountain and a balmy beach below. Bikini. Down-filled parka. Flip-flops. Ski boots. What goes, what stays behind?

3. I write to deadline. That means I not only have to make all these decisions and changes and adjustments to the novel, I have to do it before X date. While at the same time--and this may shock you--trying to spend some small amount of time with my husband. And remembering to clean the kitty-litter pans. And feed the duck. And yes, travel up-state to teach two workshops. In between that, I have to update my website. Design and print my bookmarks. Answer fan mail (love doing that!). Fold laundry. Life eats away at writing time. Unfair but factual.

And this isn't just me, kidlings. Every published author faces these kinds of problems. Did you all notice the first sentence of this blog? I'm WRITING one book while stil EDITING another.

Which brings me back to writers' organizations, like RWA, SFWA and the Florida group (FWA) that I visited this weekend. Get used to hobnobbing with your fellow and sister writers and authors now--even before you're published. Because once you get published, life quickly morphs from crazy to insanely outta control. You're going to need your author buddies, not just for critique reads or cover quotes or characterization questions, but just as someone to laugh with. Someone who has a shoulder to cry on. Someone who can help you celebrate when your book is designated a 'Desert Isle Keeper.' And someone who can help you pound your head on your monitor in frustration when one reviewer notes that the romance in GAMES OF COMMAND between Sass and Branden was a waste of time, and another blogger pens that the romance in GAMES OF COMMAND between Sass and Branden was the only thing worth reading.

Authors and writers and readers, oh my! ~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com

Worldbuilding in the grocery aisles

Hybrids aren't just cars that run on more than one fuel source.

There are hybrid animals, and hybrid plants which occur either naturally or with the assistance of mankind, also hybrids in Greek and Roman mythology. Some hybrids are sterile, and some are not. Some hybrids are called after a combination of the father's name and the mother's (father's name first). The mythological creatures do not appear to follow this convention... and in fact, now I understand the convention, my mind boggles over the Manticore (man-lion-scorpion).

wikipedia.org/wiki/Hybrid


The etymology is delightful. According to wikipedia, hybrid comes from the ancient Greek for "son of outrageous conduct."

I could have called my Tigron world's black sabre-toothed tigers ... pangers, or tigthers, but I think that would have complicated matters.

This week, I'm more interested in plant hybrids. For world-building in a hurry --not that I recommend taking a short cut, but sometimes one has to-- a few hours in the grocery aisles can be quite inspiring.

There are some astonishing hybrids available, as well as exotic fruits and vegetables that might or might not have been hybridized. I look at the Ugly Fruit, and I wonder whether it evolved to be visually appealing to anything (assuming that its fruit is "designed" to be dispersed with the assistance of creatures that eat the fleshy parts and eject the pits).

There's something spiny and orange that looks like a cross between a sea urchin and a sea slug, and I'm fascinated by those waxy green globes that come inside a pale green papery looking flower. If you were to change their colors, rename them, and describe them carefully as if you'd never seen them before, you'd hardly need to dream up your own fruits and vegetables for your alien romance's world. And, then there are the roots. You have to be careful what you do with your root vegetables, in my opinion.

How did we ever start to eat root veg? Did we observe a primate and copy them? Did our earliest ancestors' curious gaze fall upon something intriguingly orange, or pleasantly white, pushing up through loose soil? I suppose we do have an instinct (as children) to pull things out of the ground and bite them as an experiment. I'm told that I ate a worm once when I was a toddler! Would your aliens have similar instincts?

Your human heroine has to eat in outer space, so not all her food can be unrecognizable (or she'd have to have major allergy testing) or her gut would not be adapted to handle it. We're accustomed to stories about our domestic pets eating human delicacies which are not natural for them... which their guts are not adapted to handle. I've been thinking about what natural carnivores can and cannot eat, because I want my tigers to play a larger role in my next story.

In fact, having spent several hours reading the ingredients on dry pet food for research purposes, I do have to wonder under what circumstances a dog in the wild would eat corn on the cob. Or rice!

There are some schools of alternative healing thought that claim some of our painful ailments (such as arthritis) are a consequence of us eating fruits or vegetables that we are not adapted for, or to which some of us are allergic. My mother cured very painful arthritic swelling in her hands by giving up all produce in the tomato families. Other people have a problem with potatoes. (Some have a problem but don't know it.)

In Insufficient Mating Material, the hero and heroine are marooned on an island on an alien world, and they have to test food and deal with the possibility that the heroine might not have a tolerance for some of the fruits and vegetables growing there.

Why do I think roots are a problem? Carrots are easy, and you can eat them raw if you want to. Parsnips look like big carrots only white... but you really do have to cook them. Watch out for onions and shallots, because they look like tulip bulbs. There are different roots that look alike. Take ginger root and Jerusalem artichoke. They are both about the shape and size of a small, pudgy hand, with gnarly, stub-tipped fingers, root filaments like fleshy hairs, and are beige-gray.

On our world, some plants do not want to be eaten, especially by the roots (!) so they evolve to be poisonous. What happens in your alien world?

For those interested in research, or obsessed with plausible alien anatomy --and possibly inspired by the fact that a carrot fresh from the ground does not necessarily look "carrot shaped"-- M.I.T. (an eminently respectable place of scholarship) sells --or used to sell-- a to-scale, and anatomically correct poster called "Penises of the Animal Kingdom".

I thought the plural was Penes, but I suppose a few people wouldn't get the point.

And having Googled that, because none of the three of my dictionaries within easy reach gives any guidance on what a proper person should call multiple schlongs, I'm off to pursue other lines of romantic alien research.

Best wishes,

Rowena Cherry
Insufficient Mating Material
"racy, wildly entertaining futuristic romance" ~Writers Write

Explaining Aliens: SEALED IN BLOOD Excerpt

When reading SF and fantasy, I often find that the passages of exposition or extended dialogue explaining the biology and culture of the aliens are my favorite parts. As a writer, though, I know editors and readers want exposition interwoven through the story in subtle and intriguing ways. One method of getting around the problem is to include an essay in an appendix, laying out all the details not covered in the narrative itself. I always enjoy reading and rereading the appendices in S. M. Stirling's alternate histories, for instance. A way of incorporating this level of detail within the narrative is to have a character openly lecturing. In Suzy McKee Charnas' THE VAMPIRE TAPESTRY, Dr. Weyland, the vampire, delivers an ostensibly speculative lecture on "how nature would design a vampire." The female viewpoint character's suspicion of Weyland's vampirism and the professor's give-and-take with the audience keep the scene lively.

How do we integrate information feed directly into dialogue without having characters tell each other things they already know (the infamous "as you know, Bob" technique)? Often we can provide a character who serves as the reader's stand-in by being ignorant of the facts and having a plausible need to learn them. For example, Hugh, the protagonist of Jacqueline's HOUSE OF ZEOR, being new to Sime Territory, fills this role. That's the technique I most often use in my "vampire as alien" fiction. An ordinary mortal who has just learned that vampires (or werewolves, demons, etc.) really exist naturally wants to learn as much as possible about them (if she doesn't instantly run away in panic, but then she wouldn't be a suitable paranormal romance heroine, would she?).

As an example, this is part of the scene from my novel SEALED IN BLOOD in which the heroine first discovers that the hero is a vampire.

Excerpt from SEALED IN BLOOD (Amber Quill Press, www.amberquill.com):

The mugger let out a gurgle and released her. Sherri whirled around to see him stumble backward.

Impossible--how could he share her delusion?

The monster was flying straight at her. She threw herself sideways, landing on the leaf-strewn ground with a bruising thump to one hip. Instead of fleeing, the mugger brandished his knife underhand and rushed the winged creature. Maybe this thug had also decided the apparition didn't exist.

His defiant karate yell died in his throat when taloned hands grabbed his shoulders. He slashed the thing's chest. Its grip slackened. The man squirmed free and dashed into the woods.

With a loud moan, the creature sank to all fours. Sherri sat on the ground paralyzed, her head spinning, while she watched the wings shrivel up and disappear, the ebony fur melt away, the catlike ears shrink. The man levered himself into a crouch and stared back at her. His eyes gleamed crimson in the twilight.

"Nigel?" The ground lurched under her. Earthquake? *No, just my world-view turning upside down. No problem, folks.* He held out a hand. A chill swept over her. In the next instant it metamorphosed to a hot flush, as she realized his posture wasn't attack, but supplication. *Idiot, he probably saved your life! And you thought you were so open-minded!*

She scrambled to her feet and scurried over to Nigel. Squatting beside him, she took in the ripped shirt and the red patch spreading on it. "You're wounded."

"Excellent powers of observation." His voice slurred a bit, spoiling the sarcasm. When Sherri glanced nervously over her shoulder, he said, "Don't worry, he's long gone. Damn--didn't mean to scare him away. Wanted to question him. Clumsy."

"We'd better get you inside." When he grasped her outstretched hand, his weight almost overbalanced her. They both managed to stagger to their feet, though, and they trudged up to the house with his arm draped around her shoulders.

As they climbed the deck stairs, the cat hissed, then darted away to leap over the side. "Funny, Quark isn't usually shy of people," Sherri said.

"I make animals nervous," said Nigel as she opened the door. "Don't you lock it?"

"Just to go jogging? Don't be silly." She attempted a brisk tone to counteract her delayed reaction. Now that the crisis had passed, she felt the thudding of her heart and the cramps in her bowels.

"How do you trusting types survive?" He lowered himself onto the couch she steered him to. "Your cat's name is Quark?"

"Because he has strangeness and charm."

"Logical," he said. He closed his eyes.

"We have to get you cleaned up. Stay right there."

"I assure you, I'm not going anyplace."

Stumbling into the kitchen, Sherri realized her hands were shaking. She clutched the edge of the counter until they steadied. She drank a glass of ice water from the refrigerator dispenser, then refilled it for Nigel. After soaking a couple of washcloths in warm water, she carried them, with paper towels and the full glass, into the living room.

She glanced around at the newspapers on the floor and the galley proofs strewn on her desk. "I apologize for the mess."

Nigel opened his eyes and said with a sardonic quirk of his lips, "As well you should. Disgraceful--never saw such chaos. Don't know if I can bring myself to collapse in here."

"All right, it was a stupid remark," she snapped.

He leaned forward with a groan, resting his head on one hand. "Teach me to make inane jokes within minutes of getting knifed."

She perched on the arm of the couch. "Sit back and hold still." She unbuttoned his ripped shirt. "I'm afraid this is ruined." With his cooperation she drew it off. He winced at her touch and averted his eyes when she switched on the end table lamp. "Sorry, I have to see what I'm doing." He gulped down the glass of water as she swabbed sticky blood from his chest. After the second washcloth was stained red, she got a good look at the knife slash. The incision, closed to a thin red line, appeared hours old.

Mechanically patting his cold, white skin dry with paper towels, she said, "I do not see this."

"Sure you do," said Nigel, "just as you saw what happened outside. Don't lie to yourself; you're no good at it."

"Then those pictures of your sister weren't a special effect at all."

"No."

She withdrew her hand from his chest.

Something like sadness flickered in his eyes. "Relax, I won't bite. Not unless severely provoked."

Ashamed of fearing him, even for a second, after he'd rescued her, she finished cleaning the wound. "Doesn't even look like it needs a bandage. Nigel, how did you do that?"

"The change? A psychic skill we learn in adolescence. It's a purely superficial shifting of molecules, with more than a trace of illusion--how we look depends a lot on what the observer expects to see. That's why those last snapshots were foggy. The underlying body structures remain the same."

"Why did you do it?" she said. "The risk of being seen--"

"Error in judgment," Nigel sighed. "It seemed a good way to make sure he couldn't describe or identify me later. Besides, confound it, changing feels good." He touched the cut over his ribs. "I paid for it."

Reminded of how bad he must feel, Sherri jumped up with a guilty start. "What can I get for you? A drink?"

"Milk," he said. "Laced with the highest proof alcohol you have."

Since she seldom drank anything stronger than blush wine, she had to mull over her supplies for a minute. "Maybe Amaretto?"

Nigel grimaced.

"Oh, I just remembered the bottle of brandy I got for a present last Christmas--hardly been touched. Is that okay?" He nodded. Hurrying to the kitchen to pour the drink, she recalled first aid cautions against administering alcohol to an injured person. Nigel, however, ought to know better than she what his own metabolism could handle.

When she gave him the glass, he downed half of it without pausing for breath. "At least I should have taken off the blasted shirt first," he said. "Including clothes in the change takes a lot more concentration. It wasn't quite dark enough, either. I feel...drained. We're hypersensitive enough as it is when our molecules are in flux that way. That's why being stabbed hurt so much. In normal shape I'd have been able to suppress most of the pain."

"What else can you turn into?" she said. "Wolf, giant rat, glowing mist?" She sat beside him, forgetting all nervousness in her fascination.

He emitted a weak laugh. "Sorry, that's it. Aren't you satisfied with a six-foot bat-winged panther? And a singularly useless skill it is, most of the time."

"How can you be sure nobody saw you on the way here?"

He laughed harder, ending on a groan. "My dear girl, did you think I flew up from Berkeley? I am not Superman. My car's parked at the bottom of your lane."

"Oh," she said sheepishly. For a moment she silently watched him sip his drink. The superhero reference reminded her of other aliens in films and TV shows, and the planets they hailed from. She decided she had to ask. "Nigel, where are you from?"

"Nevada."

"What?"

"That 'alien' label was Brewster's guess," Nigel said, "and he was wrong. We're not interstellar invaders; we've shared your world for millennia. I'd be glad to give you the complete lecture and answer all your questions--later. We have more immediate problems. I've discovered a few things about Brewster. Pooling what little knowledge we have might enable us to end this harassment you're suffering."

"Have you considered giving my anonymous caller what he wants and washing our hands of it?" Sherri said.

"No longer an option," said Nigel. "I don't have the photos either. I turned them over to a friend in L.A., who will certainly destroy them. He's probably done so already."

An almost forgotten detail from the snapshots floated to the surface of Sherri's mind. "If your sister's shape-changing wasn't a special effect, then neither was anything else, was it? Including the blood-drinking."

Nigel turned his head to meet her eyes. "If you're suggesting that milk punch wouldn't be my first choice, you are right."

Her gasp held more delight than fear. How other fans would envy her if they knew what she'd stumbled into--not that she could tell anyone. "You're a vampire!"

"Close enough," he said. "We use the term for ourselves, though it's misleading in some ways. As you must have figured out, we aren't corpses animated by the Devil. We're a long-lived species with a few peculiar habits."

How long-lived? she wondered. "How old are you?"

"No more than I claim--forty-two, still in my first youth. And Laura's even younger. Good grief, can you imagine someone with centuries of experience getting into the trouble she's in?"

"So you're convinced she isn't in the coven voluntarily?"

"She was at first," he said. "I have a feeling things have gotten out of control."

"I suppose you're planning to play detective and rescue her?"

"What else?" He shifted position and winced again. "As soon as I've had a few hours to recover."

"You can stay here tonight, of course. You don't look in any shape to drive. You're still hurting, aren't you?" He averted his eyes from hers. Drawing a deep breath, she laid her head on the back of the couch, exposing the smooth arch of her neck. "Well, go ahead, I guess I owe you."

"No, you don't; I got you into this in the first place. My dear, you look like a martyr presenting herself for the headsman's ax!"

She raised her head and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His head was bowed, one hand shading his own eyes. "Sherri, I can't afford to turn down your offer. But it doesn't have to be like that."

"Why won't you look at me?"

"Because I don't want to be tempted to use hypnotic coercion on you." He clasped her left hand and raised it to his lips. Again she noticed their feverish heat, in contrast to the overall coolness of his flesh. Still holding her hand, he put his free arm around her shoulders. To her surprise, she felt him trembling. "Relax for me, Sherri. I won't force you to; I want you alert."

"I want to stay alert, too. I don't want to miss a single detail."

He responded with a shaky chuckle and began licking the inside of her wrist. A shiver coursed up her arm. "What's that for?"

Giving her palm a light kiss, he paused to answer, "Our secretions contain a mild anesthetic, to which we ourselves are immune, of course. The last thing I want is to cause you pain." His tongue resumed its tantalizing strokes. The delicate skin of her wrist tingled with a warmth that slowly seeped up her arm and settled between her breasts. She noticed the nip of his teeth only as a painless prickling like a mild electric shock. He didn't suck the wound like a film vampire, but continued to lick. In the midst of the lassitude creeping over her, she managed to remember her scientific curiosity about the process and fixed her gaze on the cuckoo clock on the opposite wall. No more than three minutes passed before Nigel released her and sat back, closing his eyes with a long sigh.

She sat frozen, gaping at the minute, painless incision from which blood still trickled. After a moment he opened his eyes and said, "Are you sure you want to bleed all over the couch?" Digging a handkerchief out of his side pocket, he pressed it to the wound.

"Thanks." She closed the fingers of her right hand around the makeshift dressing. "I didn't see any fangs."

"What do you think I am, a rattlesnake? An object needn't be pointed to be sharp. Like a razor cut, that will be scarcely visible by tomorrow."

"Convenient. No punctures to hide." She studied his face. Still pale--naturally pale, no doubt, but the blue tinge had faded from his lips. "You do feel better, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. God, yes." He squeezed her hand. "It's just that I'm worn out. All this--the change, the instant healing--is a hell of an energy drain."

-end of excerpt-

Kiss Me Deadly trailer

To advertise my latest book, I decided to make my own video trailer. You can watch it at www.susankearney.com. It turned out to be a family affair. My daughter Tara acted in part of it. She's the girl thrown against the wall. My son played the villain and my husband drove the truck. My daughter did the text and a friend shot the actors. I wrote the script and helped edit. For about 40 seconds of film, it took two months of work. Not a solid two months--I was writing a book at the time, too. Anyway, this book, Kiss Me Deadly is a romantic suspense. I have found that going back and forth between genres, romantic suspense and my futuristic romances helps keep the writing fresh and the mind sharp.

But to answer the questions I'm asked most often:
1) Will I write more futuristics? Yes. In fact, Solar Heat is already finished and will be out next February. My daughter shot the cover photograph.
2) Will my books return to space? Yes.
3) Will I be writing more Rystani warriors? I hope so. The plan is to connect the Rystani series with the Heat series in a few more books.

For those of you who love paranormal, you've probably noticed that more of them are in stores than ever before. And this is due to readers buying these books and recommending them to their friends. Please keep up the good work. Your support means our publishers will keep buying these stories. So please, please keep recommending them to your friends. And if you like romantic suspense as well, please give Kiss me Deadly a try. It will be out in stores June 26 , 2007

Susan Kearney

Granddaughters And World Building

Folks:

I agree with Linnea about Magic Lost, Trouble Found -- it's a page-turner with everything and the kitchen sink tossed into the worldbuilding mix.

I got my computer fan replaced and I'm back in the saddle again! (remember Roy Rogers?)
I've been talking about worldbuilding -- the writer's tool for creating an alternate reality background for the story to unfold in front of, for some time now.

Many writers just hurry through that part of preparing to write, because it's tedious, often irrelevant, and will never collect them any money or glory.

But the truth is -- world building is the writer's tool for drawing a reader into a story, especially a romance, and doubly-especially a romance that involves star-crossed lovers or the divinely inspired love that can reach across a cultural gulf, or in our case a species gulf.

The Alien Romance genre actually goes farther to define LOVE in an operational way that readers can use in their mundane lives than any other genre I know of. Love isn't "human" -- love transcends humanity.

That lays a big responsiblity on the romance writer who's just trying to make a living.
Think! As you craft this story, think about the young women and men who will read this story, who will feel these emotions with the characters, who will remember those characters' names their whole lives long as "symbols" of the philosophies they stand for.

Think about the lessons they will derive from walking a mile in this character's moccasins.
Yes, the background world building carries the thematic message of the story more strongly than the characters themselves. It's not BECOMING the character that impresses a story on the readers' dreams -- it's that mile they have to walk in the character's moccasins, feeling every stone through the thin soles.

What draws a reader deep, DEEP, into a story is the philosophical match between the character, his/her internal conflict, clearly reflected in his/her external conflict, crystal and pristinely reflected in the world surrounding the character.

The way all these levels of the artistic creation match, go-together to bespeak a certain view of Life The Universe And Everything -- matters of ultimate concern -- (astrologically 12 House matters) -- that makes that world real to the reader.

For an artist to pull that trick off, the artist must be aiming his/her creation at a very specifically defined audience, readership, market. Just as in conversation, you must take into account what the other person is thinking, feeling (mood), wanting, needing, believing, before you phrase your utterance.

Ask the boss for a raise when you've just spilled hot coffee in her lap and see what happens next! Take her clothes to the cleaners and have them back spotless in an hour and you won't have to ask.

Do the same when you create a story -- take into account who you're talking to and what else they have distracting them and craft your story accordingly.

Most romance readers are either young and dreaming of creating their own family -- or currently raising kids and dreaming of ways to make it easier.

When you craft a story and build the world to house that story, you are talking to that audience, just as you talk to your boss (and make no mistake, the reader is your boss, the reader signs your paycheck.)

So you want to start with a statement or image that makes sense to the reader before you dive off the deep end into aliens and falling in love across vast gulfs.

That one thing that almost all Alien Romance readers have in common -- almost all readers, actually, -- is FAMILY.

Now, here's an aspect of worldbuilding we haven't discussed at much length. FAMILY.
Note that Star Wars is a multi-generation family drama not unlike Dallas, the TV show was.
A popular Romance sub-genre was the Gothic -- where some young woman down on her luck inherits a haunted house with a tall dark stranger next door.

INHERITS being the operative word -- grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. Where there's a past, there's a future. Romance is really all about potential family.

So I have a real-life story to tell you to make my point here about how to make any alien environment you build accessible (understandable on an emotional level) to your readers.
Read this story with an awareness of WHAT you already know that you use to interpret and visualize what this story means. And simultaneously consider WHAT to invent for your alien world to fill the niches of these things you already know about our reality.

What you choose to put in those niches will delineate the philosophical statement which is the theme of your work.

Remember, your readers will use what THEY already know to interpret what you write, to interpolate facts between your words as you do when reading this story. Leave the gaps they need, but also fill ones that tickle the mind with a new way of looking at the world.

This morning, my daughter called while driving her daughter (4 3/4 yrs old) to an appointment.
My daughter said right off that she had just heard The William Tell Overture on her car radio and she instantly thought of me and how it was past time she should call me.

Why did she think of me? Because I'm a Lone Ranger Fan of the first water, and she grew up well aware of that (as well as Star Trek -- her first word after Orange Juice was Captain Kirk).
So we talked, and she told me several too-too precious stories about my granddaughter who had been nagging her to talk to grandma and grandpa. I won't lay them on you.

Then she told me that at a garage sale a couple weeks ago she picked up for $5 a video camera you can hook to the TV set and see yourself. Immediately, MY GRANDDAUGHTER (here is absolute proof of the relationship!) seized on the camera, set up a vanity table chair as a stage and pretty backdrop, put her Barbie Dolls on it and proceeded to move them around watching on the TV and telling Princess stories.

At her age, I wrote words on paper (even if nobody but me could read the squiggles I thought were writing), my granddaughter tells stories in video! But stories are stories -- I've spawned a PRODUCER!!! Maybe she'll produce one of my unsold scripts she finds when cleaning out my house after my funeral. (Now there's a Gothic tale untold!)

Then we discussed what to get this kid for her birthday. One of my presents to her is this blog which occurred to me when I spoke to her on the phone. Maybe she'll stumble over it when she's a teen surfing the web for romance novels.

Jacqueline Lichtenberghttp://www.simegen.com/jl/

Raine-ing Praises (on Magic Lost, Trouble Found)

I try to compete with Rowena Cherry's unparalled abilities for puns and turns of phrase and always feel I fall short (could be the differences in our heights as well...).

Be that as it may, Raine-ing Praises today is all about Raine Benares. She is a fictional character in Lisa Shearin's MAGIC LOST, TROUBLE FOUND, a rip-roaring good fantasy novel that's also Shearin's debut book:

My name is Raine Benares. I'm a seeker. The people who hire me are usually happy when I find things. But some things are better left unfound...

The book has elves, it has goblins, it has sorcerers and sorceresses (sorceri?). It has smugglers and thieves and magic spells. It even has a strong romantic subplot--yay!

Not only is the book a terrific fun read, but Shearin's query letter to literary agent Kristin Nelson has obtained almost cult-status, as it's been quoted as one of the best queries around:

http://pubrants.blogspot.com/2006/08/queriesan-inside-scoop-lisa-shearins.html

What if you suddenly have a largely unknown, potentially unlimited power? What if that power just might eat your soul for breakfast, lunch and dinner? What if every magical mobster and sicko sorcerer in town wants that power? And what if you can't get rid of it?

I had the pleasure of reading MAGIC LOST in ARC (Advanced Review Copy) form months back. I've been anxiously awaiting its release ever since so I could tell you all about it. Go buy this book. It's fun, fast-paced, kick-ass, snarky, beautifully written and exciting. And there's a sequel.

What this has to do with alien romances and what this has to do with exploring my recent theme of love across (or did I say beyond?) boundaries, is that MAGIC LOST is populated by every non-human paranormal being you could think of. How they relate-or don't--what their issues are, what their prejudices are, and what their loves, fears and failing are become underlying themes in this book.

Now, of course, you can read it just for fun. I highly recommend reading just for fun because it's not one of those angst-y, esoteric doom-and-gloom speculative fiction tomes that preach and lecture and make you feel miserable at book's end. It's a freakin' fun book. But the characters and their relationships form a huge part of the book's engine. If you want to see Intimate Adventure at work, you'll see it here. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I have.


~Linnea


PS - FYI, I've reworked my website and added some new things to the Intergalactic Bar & Grille-including a chance to win free t-shirts! Check out my revamped website: www.linneasinclair.com

Naked and Armored

"Naked and Armored" isn't intended as a cheap shot... but my title reflects my love of the oxymoron, the "grabber" that turned a social moment into a minor quest, and my delight in discovering The Society for Creative Anachronism, Inc.

http:www.sca.org

Yesterday, I took my child to a birthday party, and stayed. (I always stay, because she is multi-allergic and I can't expect a party-giver to wield an Epipen). I'd planned to spend two hours in a shady corner of their garden researching plot elements for my next alien romance, but a Michigan thunderstorm drove me inside with other temporarily superfluous parents.

Absorbed as I was with trying to decide whether the Tarot card that best fits my next hero's character and fortune should be Judgement, Temperance, or Knight Of Swords, I commented on a known hobby of one of the fathers.

I thought that he dressed up like d'Artagnan or Richard the Lionheart (or Robin Hood) and reenacted famous Medieval European battles on American soil. It turns out that his society improvises battles. Some of them wear full armor, and some don't.

I was astonished to learn that costumed battles take place in August, and asked how on earth they coped with the heat. Apparently some warriors rely on the ubiquitous water bearers and on creative choices of what to wear --or what not to wear-- under the armor.

Contrary to what I expected (although my metal-clad experience is limited to sitting in a silver-painted car in a parking lot) it never occurred to me that the modern fencers would suffer more that the knights in armor because of the way epéeists and sabreurs have to dress to do battle.

Apart from issues of heat and nudity, I was interested in the conventions of killing each other --a tap on the shoulder from behind-- the detail that the "dead" take a time out to avoid being trodden on by those who are still fighting, the fact that battles are worth points towards winning the season-long war, so killing the King (although fun, and something everyone wants to do) does not mean that the dead King's men stop fighting and run away in leaderless confusion.

Isn't the human element fun?

At RT, I was on several panels where authors revealed what inspires and informs them. A recurrent tip was the value of talking to strangers. As Cathy Clamp said, (and JA Konrath made the same point) someone you meet will possess exactly the insight you are looking for (even if at the time you don't know what it is).

A few posts ago, Jacqueline recommended that you start with your world's Sun when you begin to build a world. (Great and cool advice!). For a great short cut to building a society --if for some reason you don't have time for complete evolution-- a few hours on the Society for Creative Anachronism website might be time well spent.

Their articles on picking a SCA name are fascinating. Names have to have a logic, a consistency, and a purpose. Titles, too. A Welsh King might be a Teyrn. Doesn't that sound like "Tyrant"? A Welsh Lord might be an Arglewydd. (I love that!)

In my own reading, I'm impressed by the power and romance of really cool, and "thus"-sounding names for characters in SF and Fantasy. In LOTR, Aragorn was known by different names... that he had an Elf name, an alias while he was a Ranger, and the heraldic "Aragorn son of Arathorn son of..."

I liked that his lineage was recited as if it were a list of titles of nobility, didn't you? As for Star Wars, I enjoyed the cultural differences in names.

Jabba The Hutt sounds Welsh!
Queen Amidalah was also Padme
Darth was like a title, except that Darth Vader was also addressed as Lord Vader.

I could go on, but I won't. I've got a deadline looming!


Best wishes,

Rowena Cherry

Star Wars

Happy Birthday Star Wars. It's hard to believe that it has been thirty years since you hit the screen.

I will never forget my first viewing. The sheer magnitude of the Emperial Cruiser as we got the underneath shot. Absolutely blew me away. And the concept of A long time ago in a Galaxy far far away....mind boggling.

Star Wars blazed so many trails. The sassy heroine. The ne'er do well hero. The conflict between father and son. The special effects. The sheer scope of everything. It pretty much changed the movie world as we know it and opened up tons and tons of possiblities.

There's nothing like the first three (or the last three for you purists) The first three chapters just didn't compare because it was more about the speical effects than the story. But Han, Luke and Leia will live forever.

Now if someone would just get this walking carpet out of my way. I'm going to have a StarWArs dvdathon....

"Tentacles of Love"

Yesterday Ellora's Cave (www.ellorascave.com) released my humorous erotic Lovecraftian romance "Tentacles of Love" in their "Naughty Nuptials" Quickie series. This story was inspired by H. P. Lovecraft's classic tale "The Dunwich Horror." Since the premise of the June "Naughty Nuptials" promotional series is weddings, I played with the concept of how an ordinary woman would react to discovering she's about to marry into a family that has interbred with the "gods" of Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. Suppose Wilbur Whateley and his huge, invisible, monstrous brother in "The Dunwich Horror" were actually nice guys looking for love? Distinguished SF author and editor Marion Zimmer Bradley expressed her dislike for Lovecraft's story, outraged that a "poor deformed boy" would be treated as an object of loathing and horror. After all, don't a person's inner qualities matter more than a few tentacles? Coincidentally, a few days ago I read a "Dunwich Horror" sequel by Stanley C. Sargent, "Black Brat of Dunwich," wherein Wilbur Whateley's former tutor reveals that Wilbur, despite his grotesque appearance, wasn't evil, just a lonely misfit. He wanted a copy of the NECRONOMICON to control his monstrous twin, not unleash him on the world. This story appears in Sargent's collection THE TAINT OF LOVECRAFT and has also been anthologized. It's much darker than my novelette, which (I hope) comes across as funny and sexy. Here's an excerpt from the heroine's first meeting with her fiance's twin. Those who've read Lovecraft's story will recognize the allusion in the line, "he looks more like our father than I do."

Excerpt from "Tentacles of Love," copyright 2007 by Margaret L. Carter:

“What? Who? Since when?” Hitching up the straps of her sundress, Lauren glared at Blake. “All this time, you somehow forgot to mention you had a brother?”

He flinched at her accusing tone. “We’re twins but he looks more like our father than I do.” He hardly ever talked about his parents. His mom, who’d died before Lauren had met him, had been a single mother. Other than mentioning that the pregnancy had resulted from a brief fling, he’d said nothing about his father. “Wilbur lives here. He never goes out.”

“Wilbur?” She couldn’t help associating the name with a pig in a children’s book.

“Named after one of my mom’s relatives a couple of generations back.” He stepped behind her to zip up the dress.

She dug a comb out of her purse and hastily whipped her hair into shape. “You’re saying he’s in the house now? Good grief, why did you let me scream?”

“Don’t worry, the walls are thick.”

“Why doesn’t he go out?”

“He’s—not like other people,” Blake said with a nervous clearing of his throat. “One thing I love about you is how open-minded and compassionate you are. Nothing seems to faze you.”

“Such as the fact that your family’s a little strange? No biggie. My aunt collects velvet Elvis paintings. I’ve had plenty of practice in open-mindedness.”

“Seriously, you rescued me from terminal geekhood. Miskatonic University alumni aren’t noted for our social graces.”

“Hey, before you, I’d never met a guy who could quote Plato in the original Greek and Olaus Wormius in medieval Latin. Major turn-on.” Although she still didn’t know Olaus Wormius’ claim to fame, the quotations had sounded impressively ominous.

“See, you have a talent for taking weirdness in stride. That’s why I thought you might be able to accept us. Even Wilbur. But I was still scared enough to put off introducing you.”

She folded her arms. “So this is the big secret you’ve been hiding? You thought I might break our engagement because you have a brother who’s a little different? God, do you really think I’m that shallow?”

“No way!” He strode over to her and clasped her shoulders. “It’s not that simple. You’ll see. But I have faith in you.”

Retreating from him, she said, “Okay, let’s get this over with.” She still simmered with indignation that he had hidden such vital information.

“Guess I can’t blame you for getting angry. Just bear with me ‘til you know all the facts, okay?”

She responded with a grudging nod.

“We have to go upstairs.” He led her to a door where the hall dead-ended and opened it to show a narrow flight of steps. He flipped on a light switch.

“Your family makes him live in the attic?”

“He likes it up there. It’s arranged to suit his special needs.”

Still barefoot, she followed Blake to the top of the stairs, where a bare bulb on the ceiling showed a long, well-swept room lined with stacks of boxes, miscellaneous furniture and the gable windows she’d noticed from outside. At the far end a wall with a closed door blocked off part of the space. “Hold on, does that lead to the window that’s boarded up?”

“Yeah.”

“So you don’t keep a wife locked in the attic, just a brother?”

“Before you go all ballistic about how we’re mistreating him, wait until you’ve seen the whole picture. His room is customized for him and part of that involves covering the window.” Knocking on the door, he said, “Wilbur? I’ve brought Lauren to meet you, the way I promised.”

A whistling noise, like wind howling through a cavern, emanated from the other side. “Well, here goes.” He clasped her hand and opened the door.

Splinters of rainbow light, like the inside of a kaleidoscope, struck her eyes. After blinking a couple of times, she realized she was seeing the colors through a shimmering curtain of mist. Blake stepped across the threshold, pulling her with him. A chill shuddered through her at the moment she entered the room. The floor tilted, then straightened. She clutched Blake’s arm and waited for the vertigo to fade.

Why did the room seem to stretch twenty feet or more ahead of them? “There can’t be this much space up here. Is it some kind of optical illusion?”

“This room isn’t exactly all here. All in this world, I mean. That’s one reason we covered the window. People got too curious about the weird lights.”

She stared at the—object or creature?—that occupied the other end of the chamber. A floor-to-ceiling translucent mound of rainbow-colored bubbles filled the space, emitting blue and violet sparks whenever its surface rippled. A pseudopod oozed outward for a second, then withdrew into the mass, leaving a glittery trail on the floorboards.

“What is that? Is it alive?” The thing struck her as beautiful in an alien, mind-wrenching way. Maybe the family secret was that the mysterious Wilbur performed mad-scientist illicit DNA experiments.

Blake put his arm around her waist. “That’s my brother.”

“What?” she yelped. “Where?”

The mammoth rainbow-bubble cluster extended six tentacles like the tendrils of a jellyfish, and four eye-stalks popped up at random spots on its surface. “Welcome, Lauren.” The voice vibrated through the floor and resonated in the pit of her stomach like organ music. “I’m so happy to meet my new sister.”

Gray spots clumped in front of her eyes. Her head reeled, her knees wobbled and the floor lurched up to meet her.

When her vision cleared, she found herself leaning on Blake with only his snug embrace holding her upright. The conglomeration of bubbles and tentacles hadn’t disappeared.

She screamed and hid her face on Blake’s chest.

He patted her on the back. “Calm down, love. He’d never hurt you. You see why I tried to prepare you for a little shock?”

“Shock?” she shrieked. “Little? You’ve just told me your brother is a giant, glowing blob.”

-end of excerpt-

Writers And Backup

Yep, here we go again with the one thing writers never do and always must do.

My computer fan burned out and I have another fan on order (a feat
that took 2 whole work days from writing -- because of course the fan
went on Memorial Day weekend).

My computer is a Dell Precision 350 -- only 4 years old but you can
only get refurbished parts for it from Dell -- it's off warranty and
barely supported at Dell -- but not supported at all at normal stores
like Best Buy and Frys Electronics.

It took two geek friends two days to get me this far -- really, in a
normal world I could just buy a fan, stick it in, and the computer
would work again. Dells aren't designed for that -- or maybe they are
now but weren't 4 years ago.

At any rate my "whole life" is backed up on an external harddrive that
is unplugged most of the time.

It is unlikely that any of the data on my computer's internal hard
drives (2 huge ones) is affected in any way because the software
caught the problem and refused to boot the machine normally. I don't
have an overheat or catastrophic thermal event (i.e. dead CPU to deal
with) -- I hope. If I'm wrong, then I've lost a couple months worth
of data since my last massive incremental backup.

I SHOULD have done the all-night job of another backup to the external
hard drive when I first heard the fan making an odd noise. I didn't
because I was working hard on a story (which is backed up on an
external floppy disk -- but in software that my husband's machine
doesn't have). I worked too late to have the time to start the backup
running then check all night to see if it crashed.

Meanwhile, though I'm using my husband's much smaller machine that
can't run all the software I normally use in my daily grind.

So although at this moment I don't think I have a data disaster on my
hands, I am crippled for lack of that hefty machine I work on.

But this lesson is worth learning and re-learning and somehow creative
people just have to be force-trained into the backup habit perhaps by
the age of 6 or the habit just won't "take."

Really, backup runs counter to everything in an artist's personality
-- you don't make COPIES, you make unique ORIGINAL stuff, one of a
kind. It gets "copied" only when you've finally got it right.

Well, this world is different. There are whole businesses (several of
them in my phone book) that advertise "data recovery" for just exactly
this reason!

The computer world isn't yet configured for human habitation.

JL


-- Jacqueline Lichtenberg
jl@simegen.com
http://www.simegen.com/jl/

Crafting Challenging Relationships in SFR - David Speaks Out

An author is blessed not only when fans read her books, but when they actually become interested in--and excited by--the creation of a novel...the characters, the world building, the behind-the-scenes stuff. David Gray is such a fan. He's fascinated by the whys and wherefores, not only because he likes my books and the science fiction/science fiction romance genres in particular, but because he's crafting his owns worlds, his own characters. So I asked him to share some of his thoughts in this blog as to what he's doing with the emotional machinations and "intimate adventures" of his characters. I think you'll find it as thought provoking as I did (and yeah, writers do play with the strangest ideas!) ~Linnea

Hi, all! And thanks, Linnea, for inviting me over to guest-blog on Alien Romances!

Last monday, Linnea posted a blog -- Love Beyond Boundaries -- and continued on the topic of barriers that challenge the development of romantic relationships between individuals -- a ready source of the very conflict that makes a story work. I found this particularly relevant to my own fictional work-in-progress. Linnea cited several examples of society's traditional taboos, and in my story, set a century and a half into our future, these still hold stubbornly true in one form or another.

Take my main character and his love interest, for example. Daie Fahr is a commoner with ambiguous religious beliefs. He was born and raised on an agricultrual colony planet in another solar system. His accent, his idiomatic expressions and slang, all mark him as an outsider. Anya, the apple of his eye, comes from a well-to-do family on Earth. She's well educated, dresses in the current fashions, and adheres to a fairly rigid belief system. Anya has never left Earth. She's also never met an alien in person, while Daie spent a couple of years on a commercial hub space station -- he ran into them all the time. Daie's immediate environments have always been fairly remote as well. Anya lives on a planet teeming with people. Even aside from these obvious things, Daie's lack of inherent bias against those different from himself, particularly aliens, makes him a potential outcast even among his own kind.

At great odds with these two is the nearly symbiotic relationship between two of my alien species. The one is indigenous to their now-shared home-world while the other is a long-ago transplant -- in essence, an invader. If ever there was a barrier, that ought to be one. Moreover, the indigenous race is corporeal while the other, in its adult stage of life, is ethereal. Nevertheless, over time the two have crossed the boundaries that separated them and learned to coexist so well together that neither would now dream of an existence without the other. Moreover, this hybridization of their cultures has allowed them to advance their knowledge and expand their reach to the point that they have long since become the dominant species in this particular universe. Ironically, that in itself is enough to cause resentment on behalf of other species, humans included.

As you may have surmised, I like to tinker with things. I think Linnea calls it what-if-ing. It's like playing with a chemistry set made of characters and settings. Mix, stir, BOOM! Stuff happens. Whether reading or writing, this is the appeal for me of SFR as a sub-genre -- the maximum potential for situational diversity, by way of a science fictional universe, combined with the exploration of personal relationships, by way of romance. And, of course there's the HEA factor. Yes, guys like HEAs, too. Given such widely variable perspectives amongst the characters, is it any wonder why SFR/RSF is so exciting to read? Every one of these people is embarking on their own Intimate Adventure, about to be afforded an opportunity to walk a mile in another's shoes and maybe see if they should re-examine what they believe and why. They might just get a whole new slant on what unconditional love really is.

Cheers,
David Gray

Insufficient Mating Material's trouble-making heroine

Insufficient Mating Material has just been launched in the UK as of May 25th 2007. I'm told that it can be found in Tesco, WHSmith, Waterstone's, and Blackwell



"Be good..." they say. "And if you can't be good, be careful!"

It must be almost impossible to be careful when all the worlds are watching all the time, and not always sympathetically.

Princesses and celebrities have everywoman's problems, but their problems are magnified a hundredfold by the telephoto lens of public scrutiny. Everyone wants to know who they are seeing, what they are drinking, what they did in bed and with whom, whether or not they are pregnant...

A single alien princess might precipitate a constitutional crisis if an unflattering camera caught her just as a breeze was bellying out her bathing costume... especially if it was common knowledge that she'd slept with a foreign terrorist for kicks.

Princess Martia-Djulia has all the problems of a youngest child (the third child) but more so. It seems pointless to compete with her brilliant older brother and sister. Until senility overtakes them, they will always be older, wiser, better-read, more experienced, more athletic, more powerful.

In a world of feudal primogeniture, the older she gets, the lower her status. She is only interesting if she is scandalous.



Insufficient Mating Material's heroine was introduced in FORCED MATE, where she got a great deal more than she bargained for when she flirted with a handsome --and most unsuitable-- commoner.

She also went through her brother's private "stuff" and got caught, did the gustatory equivalent of spiking the drinks at her brother's wedding banquet, made a compromising video of herself in bed with a tattooed stranger, and fell hopelessly in love with a hunk who was honor-bound to marry someone else.


She makes her dramatic appearance in Insufficient Mating Material as the Royal bride at an Imperial shotgun wedding. As she surveys the throngs who have come to see her married to the mate of her dreams (who has miraculously been relieved of the fiancee he intended to marry and brought back to her) her happiness seems complete...


CHAPTER ONE

Never in all Great Djinn history has any Imperial Princess had such a Mating Ceremony on such short notice, and to a mate freely chosen by the Princess!

Princess Martia-Djulia savored her unique happiness. The second best part was that she was going to get away with it. By taking an alien and a commoner like Commander Jason to mate, she poked a defiant finger in the eye of Imperial tradition.

“You’re glowing,” her tall, grimly magnificent brother commented as he joined her on the raised throne-stage and offered her the support of his bent arm for the slow, gyring descent of the stage into the Throne Room below the Imperial suite.

“I’ve a lot to glow about,” Martia-Djulia retorted. She could have made a barbed remark about how Tarrant-Arragon had tricked his own cold, pale bride into saying the irrevocable Imperial Mating Vows, but she didn’t.

After all, Tarrant-Arragon had hunted down Commander Jason, and brought him back to her.

Her thoughts returned to her Jason who shared her taste for subversion and mischief-making. He was the Mate who would change her sad, lonely life; her boring, bottled-up life. He was her rescuer, her lover, her private hero, the warrior who made her feel young and beautiful, and who awed the Fewmet out of her insolent, uncontrollable sons.

He was the only male in all the forty-two gestates of her life who had ever given her an orgasm.

Martia-Djulia took a deep, happy breath as the last notes of the Fanfare Royal drifted up from the balconies of the Throne Room, and the Crown Prince’s throne stage —its stark, craggy contours pleasingly draped for the occasion in her favorite colors of dusk-sky mauve and midnight-purple— descended silently, like one of her brother’s deliberately placed chess pieces, only fortress-sized.

“I can hardly believe it,” she whispered to herself as she nodded graciously to the crowd below. “I’m about to be Mated to the only male who has the physical strength to pick me up and sweep me off my feet, and the desire to do so.”

Tarrant-Arragon lifted an eyebrow at her.


“Oh, when I think of Jason’s passion--” she said, "When I think of how violently he knocked the ceremonial headmask off an interfering Saurian Ambassador, and of the wicked, sexual insults he threw….”

“You liked that, didn’t you?” Tarrant-Arragon teased. “But, I hope you don’t expect your new Mate to pick you up, attack Saurian Ambassadors, and hurl sexual insults in front of our distinguished guests.”

Martia-Djulia took in the carefully orchestrated tableau where she stood on the stepped stage, waiting for Jason to make an entrance through one of the Throne Room’s soaring central portals.

What would he be thinking? Would he remember how they met at a Virgins’ Ball in this very Throne Room? Would he mentally undress her with his strange, dark-nebula eyes and notice that she looked better than he remembered?

Surely, even a fashion hawk like Jason would approve of her sense of style. For her second Mating, she could hardly usurp the pallor of a Royal Virgin bride. She had chosen the subtle, shifting colors of a fast-frozen sea, glittering with the palest, most precious gemstones aligned in all the right places for the most flattering effect.

“They all came back!” Martia-Djulia breathed, gazing out at the heads of state, ambassadors, military leaders, and subject royalty who had been hastily recalled, some before they had returned home after her brother’s nuptials.

“Of course,” Tarrant-Arragon murmured. “On occasions like this, no matter how lofty the ceiling, it is never high enough, is it?”

The pentagonal Throne Room shimmered with the warmth rising from the thronged guests. Massed body heat made the vast room a battleground of assorted perfumes and less intentional odors that only Djinn nostrils might identify.

Suddenly, Martia-Djulia was conscious of emerging mature notes from her own signature perfume.

“Tarrant-Arragon,” she whispered anxiously. “Did I overdo the Queen of the Night?”

“You seem to have put it absolutely everywhere,” he drawled, and grinned, confirming that his Djinn-sharp olfactory senses were as embarrassingly acute as those of a sea-predator.

“I’ll let Jason lick it off,” Martia-Djulia quipped brazening out her secret embarrassment.

“If he’s got any Djinn in him, he might find that joy a little overpowering,” Tarrant-Arragon said.

Martia-Djulia felt a vague, fleeting apprehension. Was it a certain enigmatic tone in her brother’s voice? Something wasn’t right. Tarrant-Arragon had once threatened to kill Commander Jason if her lover turned out to be of rogue Djinn lineage.

Why was Jason late?

Her anxious gaze searched the double avenues of ground-lighted, living trees which flanked the four grand entrances.

“Ah. The so delightful Henquist and Thor-quentin.” Tarrant-Arragon jerked his head to indicate the upper level balcony where her two tall sons leaned negligently on the elaborately carved stone balustrade. “They look pleased.”

Martia-Djulia smiled hopefully at her usually sullen, sulky sons, until she realized that Tarrant-Arragon was being ironic.

...

“Nervous?” Tarrant-Arragon asked mockingly.

Before she could retort, a loud fanfare made further conversation impossible. The pentagonal room vibrated with the thunder of massed war-drums. Colored plumes of scented smoke surged up and tumbled from the Imperial throne-space, reminiscent of an ultraviolet tinted, pyroclastic cloud. The Emperor’s throne-stage thrust up through the smoke like a coldly gleaming, ice-volcano rising out of a swirling fog.

Her father, The Emperor Djerrold Vulcan V, appeared to stroll on the pinkish-purple vapor trails, high above his guests. Martia-Djulia tried to imprint on her memory every detail of this splendid, dramatic illusion.

“Dear friends, welcome back,” the Emperor began with his customary, affable menace. “You are now here to witness the exchange of vows between my younger daughter and her new mate. Since The Princess Martia-Djulia is a widow, and a mother, and since this is her second marriage, there will —obviously— be no display of proofs of virginity.”
He pointed his Fire-Stone-Ringed forefinger around the room, his guests shrank in their seats, and he smiled tigrishly.

“There will come a point when my dear daughter will ask anyone who objects to her choice of mate to speak out. Anyone who dares to do so will be incinerated.”
Star-blue lightning sizzled and flashed from the Emperor’s finger. Regrettably, her father had flatly refused to even try to color-coordinate his laser ring’s fire for this one occasion.

“Out of consideration for your fellow guests’ nostrils,” Djerrold Vulcan V continued pleasantly, “I advise against any interference. Proceed!”

High above, another fanfare blared from long, deep-noted instruments. The massive central doors at the far end of the Imperial throne room opened.

“I kept my promise,” Tarrant-Arragon said quietly, “…to bring back Jason, if he agreed to come, or to find you a mate like your Commander Jason.”

She wasn’t paying attention, though it was an odd thing to say. Unseen, a massed male voice choir roared out the Mating Anthem... usually heard only once in a generation at the Mating of an Emperor or the Emperor's male heir.

This, too, was her due. She’d been promised that her Mating would be as splendid as the one she had organized for her big brother. And so it was. Only prettier.

“Here he comes!” Martia-Djulia whispered, trembling.

A tall, broad-shouldered silhouette limped from the darkness beyond the doorway.
His beloved, scarred face was a shadowed, distant blur… but something wasn’t right. Had Tarrant-Arragon tortured and starved Commander Jason into agreeing to Mate with her?

“What is wrong with him?” she hissed accusingly. Time stretched out. A sense of creeping horror chilled her vitals. “You promised not to force him.”

Her thoughts raced back to three Imperatrix cycles ago.

She vividly remembered what they’d agreed, just before Tarrant-Arragon left to exact terrible revenge on the unknown villains who’d tried to assassinate him on his honeymoon.

I want him to be happy, she’d protested when Tarrant-Arragon caught her trying to erase compromising footage of Jason on top of her. Jason’s happiness hadn’t been on her mind when she triggered the surveillance systems.

Do you think he’d be happy with me if I force him to be my mate? she’d asked her brother, who had no scruples when it came to mate appropriation.

No, Tarrant-Arragon had bluntly told her, dashing any lingering hope that she could blackmail Jason into returning to her bed permanently.

At the Virgins’ Ball, Commander Jason had made it clear that he’d rather be searching the rim worlds for his errant mate-to-be, but he was on duty. Since he had to be at the Ball, he’d been in the mood for a revenge dock in any bay that would accommodate him.

Martia-Djulia had only wanted illicit excitement — until Jason gave her so much, she wanted him to do it for the rest of her life.

“Did you force him? Did you torture him?” Martia-Djulia demanded urgently.

“Not really,” her appalling brother replied.

Something was wrong. Martia-Djulia's heart thumped. She clasped nervous hands to her glittering breast, and glared in an effort to get a better look at her promised Mate. At this distance, across the Throne Room, it was hard to tell…. Closer he came. Closer.


I hope you enjoyed this glimpse of Martia-Djulia.
Read her story in Insufficient Mating Material

Pirates 3

I have to gush about this movie because we saw it last night and unfortunately it's filled my brain so much that I can't think about anything else. And why the picture of Orlando and not Johnny Depp? Hey I wrote the book Obsessing Orlando under the name Kassy Tayler. That should pretty much explain it all.

Great special effects. Great battle scenes! Depp was hilarious. Rush thoroughly enjoyed his turn as Barbossa. Keira got to be a kick ass heroine. And Orloando got to be heroic and romantic and give us more of those great movie kiss scenes.

The ending kind of made me sad. But it left the potential for more movies. But I have to say my favorite scene (and this does not give away any plot points) was where the ship was sailing on a sea of stars. It was one of the most visually stunning things I've ever seen. Almost as if they were in deep space just drifting along. So see it even relates!