Audience Response

Is our world turning "alien?" Or maybe it always has been?

The generation gap. The religious gaps. The cultural gaps. Romance is about bridging the gap between one individual and another. Alien Romance is about bridging the gap between groups, worlds of people living in different perceptivities of reality.

I've been a public speaker for a good while now and have noticed something I wonder if others have noticed. I'd really like some input on this issue.

It seems that general audiences, and even audiences full of fiction readers, have lost the distinction between a question and an opinion.

I usually start an audience discussion by asking the audience what they came to learn, and something about who they are and what they do. Then I edit the subject I'm supposed to discuss to slant it to the audience, When I finally get them jumping out of their seats with enthusiasm, I request questions from the audience. That's where the trouble starts. People offer long, rambling opinions instead of questions.

Has any other public speaker noticed this? Any idea why it's happening? Is it a generation related issue, or do you see it in older people too?

This seems important to me because I'm beginning to wonder if the distinction between fact and opinion has been lost as well, and if that loss is generation related. Do younger people take other people's opinions as facts?

I've noticed that newspapers and TV news have wildly mixed editorial commentary with news. The touchstone of good journalism used to be the strict separation of fact and opinion. Fact is news. Opinion is editorial. Both have their place, and are essential in order to comprehend the meaning of an item -- but they aren't the same thing.

I believe TV (non-fic and fiction) follows public trends. I don't think commercial endeavors create trends. They make a profit by following trends. But they do magnify trends -- with the internet, the magnification happens faster.

Are we looking at a trend here, and if so is there anything we can do about it? Is there anything we should do about it? The world should change with the generations. Resistance is futile. So it's not just a question of what to do -- but toward what goal should those actions be targeted?

I have been dismissing this issue of blurring question, opinion and fact as a mere curiosity. But I recently watched a 1957 movie on AMC, SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESSS.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0051036/

A character casually mentioned the population of the United States as 60 million. I thought immediately that 300 million was surpassed last year.

I saw in a different light, the vast problem of TV vs. Internet news, political elections, Electoral College issues, and how TV and Radio talk show hosts are influencing the electorate with opinion packaged as news. Is it possible that one generation can tell the difference between opinion and news while another can't?

Pre-radio, newspapers were the most influencial source for voters information. Owning a newspaper, endorsing a candidate, gave someone power. Now it's talk-radio, TV and above all YouTube. I don't know that it makes a difference. Media has always been important in shaping public opinion -- but media used to distinguish between fact and opinion.

When there were 60 million in America, there were a few things that "everybody" knew. Now there are 300 million, and as far as I can find, there isn't anything left that "everybody" knows. We are a fragmented society.

It occurred to me that the basic problem may not be whether people can tell the difference between question, opinion, and fact. That could be just a symptom, not the problem.

Perhaps the real problem is that our Constitution, governmental structure, school system, healthcare delivery system, fiction delivery system, news delivery system, cultural assumptions, have all reached a limit of what business calls "scalability" -- at a certain size, the underlying business model breaks down and the system becomes dysfunctional and non-profitable.

Is that why our schools fail to convey cognitive methodology to our children? Has the model upon which America is based reached a limit of scalability and begun to break down -- to cost more to operate than it can possibly produce?

Is the problem really that what works for 60 million won't work for 300 million?

What is really going on when audience members stand up to answer a call for questions and launch into a diatribe of personal opinion? And what can a speaker do about that without starting a riot?

Figure that out, and you'll have the subject for a dynamite best seller. All the technique in the world won't sell a novel that isn't ABOUT something having to do with a recognizable trend. Study the world. Hypothesize. Extrapolate.

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

Craft of Writing: Vividness outrank Brevity

Eons ago, when I was studying for my private pilot's license, I used to read Flying magazine and a column called I Learned About Flying From That. Amazingly helpful, sometimes scary real-life recountings from real-life pilots. A bit of "hangar flying," as we used to call it.

So I guess we can say this is I Learned About Writing From That, starting with Susan Kearney's posting and continuing with Colby Hodge's terrific example of the difference between showing and telling.

My personal "Learned About Writing" came largely from a battered yellow tome entitled Techniques of the Selling Writer by Dwight V. Swain. I personally think if you want to be a published author and can read only one how-to book, Techniques should be it. It was originally written in 1965 or thereabouts. That's how classic the advice is. And timeless. Everything Swain talks about you can use today, right now in your writing.

One of the first things Swain taught me was "Vividness Outranks Brevity." That fact is the basis of a workshop I teach on word choice. Pretty is not the same as beautiful. Old is not the same as decrepit. The wrong word or the right word can make the difference between a gripping scene or a ho-hum one.

The reason vividness outranks brevity is that your writing creates a story world and, as Swain says:

You need to remember three key points about the world in which your story takes place:
a. Your reader has never been there.
b. It's a sensory world.
c. It's a subjective world.

I don't care if you're writing about Chicago or London or West Long Branch, New Jersey. Even if every reader has been to those locales, he's never been to those locales through your character's eyes, experiencing those locales exactly as your character does.

We all know the old adage that if you have three witnesses to a car accident, you'll have three different versions of what happened (and as I'm a retired private investigator who's worked accident reconstruction, I can tell you that old adage is very true).

The reality is the unreality you create is your story world and it's fresh and new and foreign to your reader, even if they're been there in real life.

For that reason, vividness is of utmost importance.

How do you write vividly? Swain: "You present your story in terms of things that can be verified by sensory perception. Sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch--these are the common denominators of human experience; these are the evidence that men believe.

Describe them precisely, put them forth in terms of action and of movement, and you're in business."

Go back and look at Cindy/Colby's blog offering again. This is exactly what she did to improve that passage. She brought us in with vividness, with human experiences through dialogue. She chose her characters movements--rubbing his hands over his face, or tossing his coat aside quickly--to fit the experience she wants the reader to have. You become the characters, you feel the characters because you are vividly brought into their situation.

I had the same challenge in the start of chapter two in my current work-in-progress, Hope's Folly.

Rya Bennton is a former military police officer now--with the collapse of the Empire's political structure--finds herself unemployed and siding with the rebels. But she has to get to their ship first.

My original draft is where I simply get my characters moving. I might not "see" the world as clearly. In subsequent drafts, I add in details that not only bring the reader into the world, but bring them in with the feelings and opinions I want them to have.

Hope's Folly is still being written. This section may yet go through changes. But you should be able to see the use of vividness in the opening paragraph of Chapter 2:

The passenger docks on Kirro Station were cavernous, dimly lit and bitingly cold. It didn’t escape Rya’s notice that someone with a sick sense of humor decreed the walls and bulkheads painted a distinctly icy color of pale blue. It took forty-five minutes for the Starford Spacelines’ transport ship to regurgitate Rya’s duffel out of its cargo holds, along with the rest of the passengers’ baggage. By that point, she had already turned up the collar on her brown leather jacket and tucked her hands under her armpits, releasing them only to make a grab for her duffel on the shuddering, rumbling baggage belt. Then she knelt, fished her dark blue Special Protection Service beret out of the side pocket, and removed the rank and service pins. She pulled the beret over her perpetually unruly hair. Some people might look twice if they knew what the beret symbolized. This was, after all, a declared Alliance station. Imperial Fleet in all its flavors, including ImpSec, was not welcome.

Granted, none of you have been to Kirro Station. But many of you have been to an airport or bus station, and the experiences of drafty buildings and lurching baggage belts are not uncommon. And I could have said just that--Rya walked through the drafty building to the lurching baggage belt. It would have gotten the job done.

But it wouldn't have brought you into her world as she hears it and feels it and sees it. So I used words like regurgitate Rya’s duffel out of its cargo holds and shuddering, rumbling baggage belt deliberately. I not only had Rya notice the cold, I had her keep her hands tucked in her armpits. Cold is cold but when you need to tuck your hands in your armpits, it's damned cold.

So craft lesson number one from Dwight Swain: vividness outranks brevity.

~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com

Rocking the white house

I'm in one of those deadline crises that seems to require me to get up in the small hours to write certain scenes (in my next alien romance) which I don't want my family
reading over my shoulder as I type.

In my brief lurches onto aol, where I also receive transcripts of alien romance posts and comments in my mail, I noticed two things that inspired me to write what I'm about to write.

One was Margaret's Election blog.

The other was an aol news story.

http://news.aol.com/entertainment/music/music-news-story/ar/_a/rocker-wants-no-feeling-for-huckabee/20080215091109990004

It seems to me that the media and the newsblogosphere is focusing on the politics
of the original musician and copyright holder, but in my opinion, this is the wrong point, and no one seems to notice it.

What I see is that some --not all-- of the most prominent men in the country (and I don't care which political party they represent) seem to be setting an appalling example to all the world: that it is OK to perform a musician's copyrighted work at a public performance, or take a musician's copyrighted work as a theme tune for a multi-million dollar campaign, and yet not pay royalties and not seek permission!

It upsets me greatly to see that the musicians who complain are being vilified by commentators and bloggers. This might be because the majority of the public do not understand about copyright and that creative artists make their living from royalties.

I wish that some politicians or political commentators would set the record straight!

How embarrassing would it be to admit that there had been a misunderstanding, and that
the campaign's intention was to seek permission and pay the royalties?

How much of a nuisance would it be for an Election Committee to add a rule to the procedural manual (maybe under political contributions) about the use of copyrighted works as theme tunes or for public performances by musically gifted candidates?


Is there one set of rules for copyrighted music, or lyrics, and another for copyrighted works of fiction? I don't think so. Song lyrics are often poems. Some song lyrics are epic poems!

(OK, so I cannot see a political candidate performing a public reading of one of our alien romances. That may never happen, but that doesn't mean that writers shouldn't be concerned.)

Romance Writers of America has recently taken an interest in the issue of piracy of books. It's not just e-books. Books that have never been published as electronic books are being scanned, and shared or sold as e-books, and the authors never get a cent.

Other organizations such as EPIC and SFWA also do their best to put a stop to piracy, but as quickly as sites are shut down, they open again under a new name.

And part of the problem is that the sharers, copiers, and pirates feel like literary Robin Hoods. They seem to believe that all authors are millionaires, all publishers are profitable, editors and authors don't need an income, and that everyone has a right to read anything and everything without paying... or at least without paying the artist/author.

How many of you reading this blog (thank you!) have either had your written work pirated, or know someone who has had their work pirated?

How many of you think it is acceptable to file-share with friends or strangers --which cannot be done without making a copy, which is by definition publishing?

The way to share an e-book legally, is to let your friends borrow your e-book reader, or your computer.

:-)

Insufficient Mating Material

The Craft of Writing

It was with much interest that I read Susan's post from Wednesday. I too am a forgetful blogger and I especially find it hard to come up with "Alien" related posts, especially when I'm working on the other part of my career, that of historical writer Cindy Holby. I am currently working on a historical called Fallen and waaaay behind in my writing. As each author has a different process and has to find what works for them I'd thought I'd do some craft stuff and those of you interested can figure out what works for you and what doesn't.

At the moment I'm more worried about getting the pages done that the quality of them. I figure I can go back and fix them later. (I've got six weeks to write 300 plus pages. Yeah, no pressure. I usually need six months) So last night I realized that I was telling instead of showing when it really should be the other way around.

This is my first draft. The time is 1774, Aberdeen Scotland and the hero, Captain John Murray of His Majesty's Army has just gotten a letter informing him of his mother's pending death and the death of her third fiance.

John could not help but shake his head at his sister’s unbelievable run of bad luck where marriage was concerned. Lord Fansler had been her last hope at making a decent marriage as she was now known about London as the Virgin Widow. The gossip would only be worse now and all the eligible men would avoid her like the plague. Beyond her apparent beauty, she had nothing to offer. There was no dowry and Carrie was more likely to knock over a tea service than serve it. Still she was a pleasant companion and had a wonderful sense of humor along with a peaceful mien that made her pleasant company. Any man would be lucky to have her for a wife, lack of dowry notwithstanding. Perhaps he should introduce her to some of his comrades, such as Rory.
Rory’s father would likely not allow it. As would any of his friends parents who were of the peerage. Marriages were made to garner wealth and position which was something Carrie did not have. She was past the age of becoming a governess also.
John sighed as he realized that he would likely have to provide for his sister for the rest of her life. But thinking on that was better than thinking on the real reason for the letter.
Their mother was dying. Their father was in the colonies. If Carrie had sent father a letter at the same time she sent John’s then it was weeks away from delivery, and that was if father was at a post. The last he’d heard his father was on the Western Frontier, in a place called Pennsylvania, along a river called Ohio, fighting the savages. It could be months before Carrie’s letter found him and then more months before he could get home. What were the chances that Mother would still be alive if father got to come home?
John hated to ask for leave now since he had only recently come to Aberdeen. It would have to wait. Wait until mother was sicker and closer to death. There was nothing he could do for her or Carrie. Being there wouldn’t change anything. At least his visit would be something they could look forward too.

Boring right. John is sitting in his room just thinking. A friend and I call it rock sitting. Long story but same principle.

This is my final without edits. In this rewrite I added John's room-mate Rory to the mix.

“A letter from home?” Rory asked as he came into the room. He quickly removed his coat and hung it next to John’s, loosened his stock and stretched out on his bunk with his hands crossed behind his head. He appeared quite content and John knew, without asking, that his friend had recently been with a woman. “Bad news?” Rory asked.
“Yes,” John replied. “Full of it.”
“Give me the least of it first,” Rory said.
“Carrie’s latest fiancé has passed.”
“How many is that now?” Rory asked. “Three?”
John nodded. “This one expired of old age.”
“Tell me John, how can this be considered bad news. Beyond the obvious lack of income for your sister.”
“She has no dowry and now no prospects. Lord Fansler was a last resort on our mother’s part. He had no heirs and no property, but he did have some money and a nice little house in London. It would have been enough to keep Carrie comfortable.”
“I supposed now it will all go to some distant relative,” Rory concluded.
“Yes,” John sighed. He dropped the letter on the desk the two men shared and stretched out on his own cot. “They call her the Virgin Widow you know.”
“Yes,” Rory said. “I’ve heard.”
“It’s too bad really,” John said. “She would make someone a wonderful wife. She’s pretty and intelligent and a most pleasant companion.”
“Indeed,” Rory agreed.
John looked hopefully at his room-mate. “She has a wonderful sense of humor also.”
“I know what you are thinking John and my father would sooner disown me than allow me to marry a woman with no wealth or title no matter how well he thinks of you. When and if I marry it will be to enhance the family coffers with coin, land and titles.” Rory looked over at John with a wry look on her face. “Although it might be worth the disownment to watch Carrie pour tea in his lap as she did when I visited with your mother when we were last in London.”
John had to grin at the memory. What Carrie possessed in beauty she lost in clumsiness. She had a dreadful penchant for tripping over her dress hem and knocking over tables and such.
“How is your lovely mother by the way,” Rory asked.
John sighed. “Not well. Not well at all.” He pointed at the letter. “Feel free to read it. I’m not sure I can stand to say it aloud at the moment.”
Rory quickly read the letter and sat down on his cot to look at John. “I am so sorry old friend,” he said. “What do you plan to do? Ask for leave?”
“I don’t feel as if I can at the moment,” John said as he too, sat up and faced Rory. “Even though I know the General will allow it because of his friendship with my father. I don’t want anyone thinking I am taking advantage of that friendship and asking for special privileges, especially since we have only recently come to this post.”
“I’m sure no one would think that, given the circumstances.”
“Oh but someone will,” John said. “It would come out, sooner than later. It would be on my permanent record and follow me wherever I go. There is some time. I think it would be better to wait until…later…”
“It would give her something to look forward too,” Rory added.
“Indeed.”
“What about your father,” Rory asked. “Do you think he knows?”
“It depends. I think now, at the present time, he does not know.” John rubbed
his hands over his face as the seriousness of the situation settled upon him. “If Carrie sent Father a letter at the same time she sent mine then it is weeks away from delivery, and that is only if Father is at his post. The last I heard from him he was on the Western Frontier, in a place called Pennsylvania, along a river called Ohio, fighting the savages.” John continued. “It could be months before Carrie’s letter finds him and then more months before he can get home. What are the chances that Mother will still be alive if and when he gets here?”
Rory reached out and laid a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. “There is only so much you can do from here, and nothing you can do about the things you can not control. Write Carrie and tell her you will ask for leave this fall and that your prayers are with her and your mother. Then write your mother and tell her you look forward to seeing her soon and make no mention of her illness. I have found in my own experience that mother’s like to think they are in charge and can make things fine just by wishing them so.”
“It is the same with mine,” John said.
“Then she will appreciate your subterfuge,” Rory said. “I will leave you in peace for a bit to write your letters.” With that he stood and stretched his arms over his head as if waking from a nap. “I suddenly find that I am starving and will have to go raid the mess lest I expire before meal time is upon us.”

I was able to cover all the information I wanted the reader to see, plus show a bit of Rory's personality. Rory is not a central character to the story, other than the fact that he will be senselessly killed and John's reaction to that death is important in his relationship with Izzy, the heroine. By doing this however, I developed Rory's character a bit more, showed how close their friendship is and hopefully in the long run have the reader be saddened by his death.

Its much more interesting this way, or so I hope.

Elections

With the Maryland presidential primaries this week, the predictions and analyses of the political experts and pollsters reminded me of a story I read some time ago. It doesn't have anything to do with aliens or romance, but it's certainly "alien" to us in its futuristic speculation. The author imagines a future United States in which demographic science has advanced so far that an exhaustive study can produce the name of the single citizen who is absolutely typical. He so perfectly represents the attitudes of the population as a whole that there's no need for elections with millions of people casting ballots. Whenever public offices need to be filled, the authorities identify the typical citizen of the moment and designate him or her as the Voter. Amid much media hoopla, the experts interview and analyze him, and on the basis of his response a computer program (I think) chooses the winners of the election. An interesting satirical extension, to its ultimate degree, of our present reliance on polls and media trends. How many people vote for a particular candidate simply because that candidate has been built up in the media as a viable choice ("name recognition")? If the election process could be done the way that story imagines it, it would be quite a time- and money-saver. :)

Robert Heinlein, in his collection EXPANDED UNIVERSE, tosses out several provocative ideas on different ways to choose elected officials. His own novel STARSHIP TROOPERS, of course, limits the franchise to veterans of Federal Service (NOT actively serving members; they can't vote until after discharge). (No, the political culture of the Federation in that novel is NOT the neo-fascist military dictatorship implied in that infuriating travesty of a movie adaptation.) Here's an essay analyzing STARSHIP TROOPERS in some detail:

http://www.nitrosyncretic.com/rah/ftp/fedrlsvc.pdf

Heinlein also brings up Mark Twain's "The Curious Republic of Gondour," a utopian society in which every citizen has at least one vote, but education or wealth can earn the individual the right to additional votes. The relevant portion of the story can be found here:

http://www.nitrosyncretic.com/rah/gondour.html

Another system proposed by Heinlein (how seriously, I can't tell) is a return to the requirement of property ownership as a qualification for the franchise, on the grounds that owning property proves the individual has a serious stake in his community. That idea gives me the chills, implying a reversion to the bad old days of the poll tax and other exclusionary tactics. At the very least, property couldn't be the only qualification. A college degree or employment in a skilled trade should be accepted as an alternative.

Most entertaining is Heinlein's comment about women's suffrage. When the vote was extended to women, many people assumed political discourse would rise to a higher, more morally pure level because of women's refining influence. Clearly, that result hasn't come to pass. Heinlein suggests we haven't gone far enough. How about disenfranchising males for a century or so and see what happens? It's only fair, right? :)

What do you want from our blog?

I'm a sometimes forgetful blogger. I tend to blog when I have a book out. And yes, Solar heat hit the stores this week. But what I'd like to ask readers is why do you read blogs? Do you want to hear about our books? About our lives? About how we think? Because I never know what to blog about. As much as I like Solar Heat, I wrote it a long time ago. So long that I don't recall details. And the new book I'm writing now won't be out for a long time. So what kinds of blogs do you like? Why do you read them? Do you ever buy books because of blogs, book videos, or covers?

I love to put up pictures on my blogs. Do you like those? Are you looking for information about authors? How we write? What we think? Industry news? I'm curious because Wednesday is my day and invariably I wonder what interests you.

So tell me. What do you want from us? What do you like best? What don't you like at all? Why do you come back here?
Susan Kearney

Well...??? So why DO you write!!!

I'm experimenting inserting this in the HTML mode and can only hope it'll look OK. Please forgive the formatting gliches.

In several screenwriting classes, the assignment was the pesky "Why do you write?" one. Now I'm used to "Where do you get your crazy ideas?" and I've been answering that routinely on this blog. But "Why do you write?" I just can't fathom that question. But it keeps coming. Finally, it made me mad enough to draft the following little scripted scene.

Another assignment was to create a domain to house screenplay offerings, so I did that, too, though it's far from "finished." It will get a logo and some more graphics, a much longer list of screenplays ready to market, much improved "marketing materials" (i.e. the description of what the script is and what it's about), and even some internal navigation aids plus a lot more actual content. This scene is posted there, too -- http://www.slantedconcept.com where you can read this item without the format-scramble caused by the narrow column of the blog text.

BRUTAL INTERROGATION

Written by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

                                                               FADE IN:

               INT. TORTURE CHAMBER - NIGHT  

               A small dark room with a bare TABLE and CHAIR, plus a DESK
               with two unlit SPOTLIGHTS aimed at the chair.  A WATER
               BOARDING setup sits to one side with no water in it.   

               A cloaked figure, the INTERROGATOR, walks to the desk carrying a
               large pile of paper.  He pounds a light switch and sits.  

               The spotlights reveal the woman, JACQUELINE LICHTENBERG,
               sitting at the table.  Mature, stately, utterly composed,
               wearing a staid business suit, a queen on her throne,
               Lichtenberg stares down the rude man from her reddened eyes. 

The Interrogator checks his notes.

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         Now, once more, Lichtenberg, you
                         will tell me exactly why you write!  

               Lichtenberg's voice is husky, lips dry and cracked.  

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         You wouldn't believe me.  

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         Immaterial.  We will not be here
                         all night.  Answer the question.  

               Lichtenberg's eyes flash to the water boarding setup then
               back to the Interrogator.  Her chin rises.  She is silent.

                                   INTERROGATOR (CONT'D)
                         Lindsay!  

               The door opens letting in flourescent blue light.  LINDSAY a
               hulking man built like a Sumo wrestler, enters with a BUCKET
               of water. The door SLAMS.  The Interrogator nods at the water
               boarding setup.  Lindsay pours the water slowly, glances over
               his shoulder at Lichtenberg, drawing the cruel moment out.
               She faces the Interrogator in royal capitulation.  She folds
               her hands on the table, stares at them and confesses.

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         B-because.  Because I can't draw,
                         or paint, or sew, or dance, or
                         sculpt, or sing, or compose music.  

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         I told you, no more specious lies.  

               Stung, Lichtenberg stares right into the blinding lights that
               hide her enemy.  

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         The bald, unalloyed,
                         incontrovertible truth is - 

               She pauses to take a deep breath.

                                   LICHTENBERG (CONT'D)
                         I HAVE NO TALENT!!!!  There, now
                         are you satisfied!  

               She starts to rise as if to leave the room in a huff.
               Lindsay pushes her shoulders down, seating her hard.  

               The Interrogator shakes the stack of paper at her.

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         That is a patent lie!  This is the
                         original manuscript of one of your
                         award winning novels.  Lindsay - 

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         No!  No, I'll tell you.  I'll tell
                         you everything.  Just don't - !  

               She glances at the water boarding setup.  

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         All right.  One more chance.  

               Voice cracking, Lichtenberg begins.  

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         I write to show people the vast
                         potential I see in humanity.

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         That's too vague.

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         The Universe, and humanity, are
                         made out of the substance of love,
                         of affinity for goodness.  

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         Balderdash.  This is all battle
                         scenes and chase scenes.  

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         The beauty of the human spirit
                         reveals itself under duress.  

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         What human?  These are aliens!  

               Lichtenberg glances from the Manuscript to Lindsay and snaps.  

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         Lindsay, did you read that book?

                                   LINDSAY
                         Yes, Ma'am. 

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         Were the non-humans believable?

                                   LINDSAY
                         Yes, Ma'am.  

                                   LICHTENBERG
                             (To Interrogator)
                         The humanity of the human spirit
                         may be ellusive.  But the beauty
                         within always emerges.  

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         You don't always write science
                         fiction.  

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         True.  I always show ways to
                         uncover the goodness in the world,
                         to inspire people to look at the
                         worst and see the inner beauty.    

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         But this is cheesey trash, wall to
                         wall action peppered with passion!  

                                   LICHTENBERG
                         Each action results from a free
                         will choice such as we all face in
                         life.  Success depends on the
                         ability to make a friend out of an
                         enemy.  The trick of that is to
                         find the beauty within yourself.  

                                   INTERROGATOR
                         Let her go, Lindsay.  She's daft.  

                                                              FADE OUT.

Reinventing Linnea

Bantam will reissue my backlist this summer with all new covers, and, I'm told, shelve my books in the romance section. To that end, they've decided Linnea Needs a New Look. It's called 'branding'--creating a design or image that will be associated with a "Linnea Sinclair" book.

So here's a sneak peek at the upcoming books. They're trying to lure romance readers without losing science fiction readers. What do you think? ~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com

Crime and Punishment

The Maryland General Assembly's legislative session is at its height now, accompanied by reintroduction of various hardy perennial proposals, including the abolition of the death penalty, which seems to be gaining momentum this year. The disturbing revelations (through DNA tests) of mistakenly convicted people on death row and the fact that the execution process (with appeals) costs more than supporting a prisoner for life make the death penalty appear especially problematic. So I started thinking about possible future enhancements of or alternatives to execution as punishment for heinous crimes, some of which I've encountered in SF stories:

Simplest solution to the high cost of the death sentencing process: Put the malefactor in a permanent coma and harvest his organs for transplant, killing him only after all usable spare parts have been extracted.

Place his body in suspended animation and use his brain to pilot an otherwise unmanned cargo spaceship. This was the premise of a story I read a long time ago, but I don't remember what stopped the disembodied pilot from simply absconding with the ship.

Sentence him to lifelong solitary confinement in a sealed, completely automated and computerized cell, with no human contact. No more problems with prison violence!

Link him to a virtual reality program that forces him to experience his victim's suffering in precise detail, over and over for the rest of his life.

Same system, but instead force him to virtually commit the crime over and over in an endless loop.

Wire his brain to turn him into a mindless zombie and use him for hazardous physical labor.

Alter his brain through either surgery or drugs to make him completely docile, incapable of violence or rebellion.

Release him into society as an unperson, declared "invisible," so that no one will interact with him in any way, and he has to survive by scrounging for his basic needs. This idea also comes from a story I read, and, again, I don't remember how the author dealt with the danger that the convict, having nothing else to lose, might go on a rampage of destruction. That problem could be avoided by first reprogramming him, as above.

Wipe his personality completely. Reprogram him with a totally compliant, nonviolent personality. Would this procedure, if feasible, constitute the most humane solution or the ultimate violation of human rights?

Solar Heat Chat

Hi Everyone,
It's that time again. My new book Solar Heat should be hitting the stores this week. And while it is a sequel to Island heat, you needn't read the first one, which took place on Earth. Solar Heat is back in space and where I'm most happy. I'll be chatting about the book tonight at 9pm EST at Writerspace.com Please come by, say hello and stay for some chocolate. :)

And here's a quote from Romantic Times: 4 1/2 Top Pick

"It's back to the stars for another otherworldly thriller. This rip-roaring adventure zips along while not scrimping on the character development or sexy sizzle. It's mega-talented Kearney at her best." —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

And here's a blurb.

Solar Heat SOLAR HEAT
Mass Market Paperback
ISBN: 0765358441
Publisher: Tor Paranormal Romance
Pub. Date: February 2008

Is she an indispensable ally. . . or his worst enemy?

When Intersolar Mining entrepreneur Derrek Archer rescues Azsla from her emergency sleeping pod, he's confounded by his desire for her. An inexplicable desire. An irresistible desire that causes Derrek to wonder if he's been drugged or hypnotized.

Is she better off with him . . . or without him?

Azsla's attracted to the sexy asteroid miner, but she fears getting close to Derrek might compromise her mission and reveal her secret. A secret that she's an enemy spy and her facade hides a complex and powerful woman—one capable of enslaving Derrek and destroying everything he holds dear.

Will Azsla's devastating secret destroy them . . . or save them?

When a cataclysm of deadly proportions threatens Derrek's world, they must overcome their distrust, suspicion and opposing loyalties. But while uniting forces might save a planet, working together might tear them apart or bring them together. Forever.

Crazy in Love

If it is the first Tuesday of the month, it must be "Crazy Tuesday"

Today, between 10.00 am Eastern Time and noon, Rowena Cherry and Susan Kearney will be chatting about Romance and out of this world lovers --and also their latest novels with Linnea Sinclair, Susan Sizemore, Joy Nash and Susan Grant.

That is the approximate order of appearance. You can listen live on your computers, or you can download the podcast later.

Why "Crazy"? Well, you'd have to be out of your mind to fall in love with a robot, a
cyborg, a half-man of steel, wouldn't you? How about a vampire lover to take a bite out of you every night? What about an extra terrestrial Terminator? An alien zombie hunter? Would you feel nervous if your lover spends part of her life as a wolf? Where would you look if your lover is a god with a penis that literally flashes in the dark?


Susan Kearney

http://www.susankearney.com
Kiss Me Deadly
Dancing with Fire

Linnea Sinclair
http://www.linneasinclair.com

multi-award winning science fiction romance author, including the RITA, PEARL, Sapphire and more

The Down Home Zombie Blues Nov 2007
Shades of Dark July 2008 (sequel to RITA winner,

Gabriel's Ghost

Susan Sizemore
http://www.susansizemore.com
Susan Sizemore, author of urban fantasy and romance vampire fiction.
The Vampire Primes romance series(Primal Desires) and Laws of Blood fantasy series
First Blood Aug 2008



Susan Grant
http://www.susangrant.com
RITA Award winning SF Romance

Their paths had crossed in a bitter war.
Their hearts would collide in a fragile peace.

Moonstruck 6/08 An all-new series



Joy Nash
http://www.joynash.com
USA Today bestselling author for Immortals: The Awakening
Recipient of Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award for Best Historical Fantasy
Deep Magic-Druids of Avalon book 2
Historical fantasy with an arthurian connection
Immortals: The Crossing Oct 2008


Rowena Cherry
http://www.rowenacherry.com

Chess-inspired (mating) titles. Gods from outer space. Sexy SFR. Poking fun (pun intended) Shameless word-play.

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

Line Edits, Plotting and Synopsis, Oh My!

Welcome to my world.

I'm in line edits on SHADES OF DARK (July 2008) which is not to be confused with (substantive) edits, which is not to be confused with galley edits. Which is not to be confused with writing the book. Line edits are, essentially, the second-round-pass on a finished manuscript. You've written the whole book, your editor has read it and come back to you with suggested (substantive) changes (ie: the funny part here should be funnier, the scary part here should be scarier, I think it's out of character for the character to say X at this point, etc..). You've made those substantive changes along with whatever punctuation and grammar changes your editor noted. Now the manuscript goes to the CE (Copy Editor), who basically checks spelling on every word and verifies every comma, question mark and quotation mark. And so do you.

Those are called line edits. Keep in mind you've already done a bunch of comman to em-dash changes during substantive edits. Now, you're doing more. Different ones. New ones. Ones you thought for sure you did or ones your editor did and the CE doesn't like.

You also change things per your publisher's "style sheet." IE: Bantam wants "toward" not "towards." Both are legal English. Six books in, I've pretty much trained myself to write toward. But some towards slip through. So do some advisors where Bantam wants advisers. I also write ship's logs or ship's systems and Bantam wants the ship's logs or the ship's systems.

I could argue the points--I sometimes do with "STET" clearly written over their changes, as when the CE for The Down Home Zombie Blues changed "sighting a rifle" to "citing a rifle"--but understand line edits are grueling. I get too tired to argue (except when "citing" is obviously wrong, unless one it issuing the rifle a citation...)

It doesn't end there, though. After this, you get galley edits. The galleys are the book's actual pages and you have to typo-snipe again.

Figure by this time you've read your own manuscript, oh, at least two dozen times and you can no longer 'see' what you wrote. The brain fills in automatically for what's not on the page. You anticipate. You miss things. It's nuts.

Add to the above the fact I'm writing Hope's Folly, Philip's story (from Gabriel's Ghost and Shades of Dark). And I'm revamping the synopsis for Moon Under Glass (totally new, unrealted SFR).

In the midst of that I'm prepping for an out of town book signing (Orlando, February 9th), a radio interview tomorrow (February 5th), an out of town conference (Columbia, SC, February 29th-March 2nd), and prepping/planning/coordinating workshops and talks I have with the other authors involved for the Columbia SC conference as well as a San Francisco appearance mid-March and the huge Romantic Times conference in Pittsburgh, end of April.

Have I mentioned that I basically spend 18+ hours a day in front of my computer?

Now do you know why? Welcome to my world.

~Linnea, back to line edits, synopsis revamping, laying out the Celebrate Romance conference program and figuring out what in hell I can talk about at my upcoming conferences and still sound both sane AND witty...

http://www.linneasinclair.com/

New Star Trek Fanfic Posted

Well, it's not NEW new fanfic.

Remote Control is Jacqueline Lichtenberg's very first attempt at writing a script in the mid-1960's, before creating her Star Trek fanfic universe, Kraith,

http://www.simegen.com/fandom/startrek/kraith/

before development of the Intimate Adventure premise,

http://www.simegen.com/jl/intimateadventure.html

before her first fiction sale of the Sime~Gen story, Operation High Time,

http://www.simegen.com/sgfandom/rimonslibrary/oht.html

before winning any awards for writing.

But it may have some historical interest for fans. (as a script it is absolutely awful, and as a story it is more than somewhat lacking).

Read Remote Control -- brought to you by Doug Dietz who retrieved it from a 'zine Jacqueline no longer possesses.

http://www.simegen.com/fandom/startrek/remotecontrol/

Or explore our growing Star Trek fanfic section. Recommend 'zines to be added.

http://www.simegen.com/fandom/startrek/

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 femalepale by comparison.

Alien Romance finalists

Congratulations to the Finalists

FUTURISTIC
SILVER MASTER by Jayne Castle | Jove
THE DOWN HOME ZOMBIE BLUES by Linnea Sinclair | Bantam (Dell)
HEART DANCE by Robin D. Owens | Berkley
INSUFFICIENT MATING MATERIAL by Rowena Cherry | Dorchester Love spell
HOW TO LOSE AN EXTRATERRESTRIAL IN 10 DAYS by Susan Grant | HQN

SCIENCE FICTION or FANTASY
ALL TOGETHER DEAD by Charlaine Harris | Ace Books
A LICK OF FROST by Laurell K. Hamilton | Ballantine Books
GAMES OF COMMAND by Linnea Sinclair | Spectra
BLOOD BOUND by Patricia Briggs | Ace Books
PROTECTOR OF THE FLIGHT by Robin D. Owens | Luna

Best wishes,

Rowena Cherry

Reproductive Oddities

Re-watching part of Animal Planets MOST EXTREME "Breeders" episode reminded me of the many different reproductive arrangements here on our own planet and how they might translate to alien cultures. Admittedly, the most extreme breeder on Earth, the tapeworm, wouldn't make a very interesting alien, because it's basically all sex organs with no brain. (Resisting temptation to make a joke about men.) Number two on the list, the naked mole rat, however, has possibilities. This subterranean mammal lives in a termite-like society. One female produces all the offspring (mating with her brothers and sons) and prevents the other females from breeding. Terry Pratchett adapts this system for a society of intelligent beings in his "Wee Free Men" series. The vast majority of his pixies are male. They dwell in beehive-like mounds, each ruled by a matriarch who is married to one of the older men. She normally has only one daughter among her myriad children; the daughter, upon coming of age, migrates to a different colony to marry one of their males and become the mother of that colony's next generation.

A wolf pack comprises basically one extended family, in which only the alpha male and female produce cubs. Since this restriction would limit possibilities for romance, my werewolves don't behave this way. One of Tanya Huff's "Blood" novels, though, features a werewolf pack in which only the alpha pair is allowed to breed. A custom of that kind could make a provocative plot hook if a young male wanted to mate and therefore had to leave the pack to strike out on his own.

Imagine an intelligent species with a social structure like that of an elephant herd. The basic unit consists of related females and their children, dominated by a matriarch, with adult males relegated to the periphery. A human man who fell in love with a female alien from such a culture would have to make quite an adjustment to fit in.

While I wouldn't really want to live like a wolf or an elephant, I've often envied the kangaroo's reproductive biology. Imagine the ease of giving birth to an embryo-size infant who then crawls into one's pouch, compared to the difficulty of bearing nine-pound babies. (Two of my four sons reached the nine-pound mark.) How convenient a working mother's life would be if she could just carry her baby everywhere in a marsupial pouch, where the little one could feed himself or herself at will. Moreover, a kangaroo is one of several animals that can temporarily halt the development of an embryo, effectively putting it into suspended animation, until conditions are favorable for pregnancy. A very handy trick!

Suppose an intelligent alien race had estrus cycles like many animals? The Vulcans of the Star Trek universe, whose males periodically undergo "pon farr," have monogamous marriages, but that need not be the custom for all estrous species. Ursula LeGuin's LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS, of course, is well known for its hermaphroditic aliens who are asexual except during "kemmer" (estrus) and, during their fertile phase, become either sex at random. Jacqueline Lichtenberg's MOLT BROTHER includes reptilian aliens with the familiar two sexes and a heat cycle. When a female goes into heat, she invites several males to mate with her multiple times over the span of her estrus. In such a culture, would the female (not having a spouse) receive help in child-rearing from her siblings?

Consider fish: Some change sex from female to male according to environmental factors. Others, such as certain angler fish, have such a wild disparity between the sexes that at first biologists mistook the male for a growth on the female's skin. Much smaller than his mate, he attaches himself to her body and atrophies into little more than a tiny lump of sperm-producing flesh. It would be quite a stretch to make a romantic character out of an alien with a reproductive pattern like that.

How about insectoids? Octavia Butler's classic story "Bloodchild" focuses on intelligent, centipede-like females who lay their eggs in the bodies of young human men. The females show genuine affection for the human families they take under their protection; they try to remove the hatching grubs before the infants can harm their host. I once read a story about a humanoid, butterfly-like species whose females emit sexual pheromones, as many insects do. Females on this planet frequently have sexual encounters with visiting Terran men. The stimulation causes the females to lay eggs, but, sadly, the eggs are sterile because of the two species' biological incompatibility. If one of these creatures fell in love with a human male, she would have to give up her chance at natural offspring to be with him.

Come to think of it, a human character might face a major challenge in getting an alien partner to understand the concept of monogamous love. Or might the human lover choose to adjust to the alien's culture (whether it involved group marriage or something far more bizarre from our viewpoint)?

Where I get ideas

Readers always ask me where my ideas come from. Today was a strange day. I had to bring my iguana, okay my daughter's iguana outside. And the animal nodded his head, letting me know he didn't want me to touch him. However, the cleaning lady was coming over--and I don't trust him around a vacuum cleaner. So anyway, out he went to the outdoor cage. And he decided on the way outside to display his annoyance with me and bit my sweatshirt. When I set him down, he still wouldn't let go. He's now outside, playing King of the Sweatshirt.

Then I come home and there's a bird in my kitchen. Luckily I just had to open the door and it flew out. When I went to the mall, my husband found a cool owl. The owl is kind of a puppet. His head turns. His eyes move. I knew he'd be perfect in a video--so I added him to my book. :) His name is Merlin. So between the bird in my kitchen and the owl at the store, I now have a recurring character for my new series.

As for the iguana, his behavior is very dragonlike. he too shall show up in my book. So I guess ideas come from my surroundings as well as from inside my head. The ideas are random at first, then slowly my subconscious puts them together and I have an aha moment. And I think, "I can use that."

When people ask me where the ideas come from, i can't always pinpoint their origination point. I just know that like refills the well. And I'm very excited about my current work as well as the book, Solar Heat, coming out Feb 5th. If you've never tried a futuristic, please give it a try and let me know what you think.
Best,
Susan Kearney

Doomsday Romance

Margaret Carter wrote below:
---------
This week the History Channel aired a two-hour special called LIFE AFTER PEOPLE, which explored how the world would change if the human race vanished.

(snipped)

It's not surprising that wood-frame buildings would succumb quickly to rot, termites, and lightning-set fires. But I was shocked to learn how much less “permanent” steel and concrete are than I'd thought. Moreover, modern concrete is less durable than the type used by the ancient Romans, quite a humbling thought. By a thousand years after our extinction, most of our cities would have become unrecognizable as such.

(snipped)

I'd expected books to hang around for alien archaeologists to read, though. Not so, unless they're fortunate enough to be stored in a desert climate and protected from sunlight. Ironically, the stone and clay tablets of our remote ancestors will last longer than any of our advanced information technology.
----------------

And Rowena Cherry added:

-------------
I also saw the program before it, which was about doomsday predictions from different civilizations all over the globe. Apparently, everyone agrees that the world will end in 2012.

Yesterday, I saw a news item about the ice caps now being thought to melt entirely in the summers in five years' time...which will take us to either the summer of 2011 or of 2012.

-------------
I (Jacqueline Lichtenberg) missed the History Channel LIFE AFTER PEOPLE and prior show. Normally, that kind of show doesn't attract me because the underlying editing thrust is to prod the viewer into believing "the worst" or "the horror of it all" -- or other alarmist agendas disconnected from reality by carefully leaving out salient facts (which I might happen to know -- which implies things I don't know being edited out presenting a false picture).

But both Margaret and Rowena are exactly correct to be monitoring what these shows are purveying. This kind of media slant is indeed where we get our unending flood of "crazy ideas."

And it's relevant because of all the viewers who believe the nonsense. Shows and books like this gave me much of the material used in the Sime~Gen novels -- the portrait of a nearly forgotten Ancient Civilization from before the Sime~Gen mutation pretty much fits the History Channel sketch Margaret has presented here.

However, I have more faith in the human spirit, in love, in loyalty, dreams, and the immortality through children.

If all humans were kidnapped by some galactic slave traders (who neglected to destroy Earth's ecology by stealing water and minerals, too), yes, Nature would reclaim our mighty works rapidly indeed. Escapees from interstellar slavery who returned (provided they could find the planet) wouldn't recognize it from ancestral tales.

Imagine being kidnapped along with most all humans from Earth just to provide genetic material for some huge hybridizing cloning operation!

But I can't see slavers getting us all! Some would remain, scattered here and there.

The remnants would rebuild -- something. And I like to assume what they'd build would be better in some way.

Referring to the series of 20 posts I did last year on Tarot, think about what happens when the physical structures and knowledge (buildings and electronic files) decay.

The IMAGE of all that we have done remains embedded in the astral plane (Akashic Record). Physical action of the people who remain as they rebuild civilization would recreate much of what we've got now -- but it would look different.

There is a theory in esoteric circles that WE have rebuilt Atlantis and are busy self-destructing as they did. (I used that theory in the two novels, MOLT BROTHER and CITY OF A MILLION LEGENDS).

I think the driving force that makes such repetitions of past forms (errors and triumphs) happen, or makes us feel or think that such a recreation could happen, is the Soul Mate.

The Alien Romance field has elevated the Soul Mate story to something that can explore vistas of spirituality far beyond what can be reached in a mundane setting.

When two such Souls from different species find each other, their main occupation will be bringing down more Souls to this plane of existence, building family, tribe, nation, civilization -- hybridizing souls. And we all know about hybrid vigor.

For me, THERE -- in the story of the rebuilding of civilizations -- is where the passion, pyrotechnics, and hairy politics prevail. There is where the really profound alien romances happen.

QUESTION: do all species throughout all the galaxies have the cyclical rise and fall of civilizations -- or is that rise and fall a property of human nature?

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

Shades of Dark--Sneak Peek #2

Continuing my propensity to torture my readers, here’s another SHADES snippet for your collection:

Blurb:

For two fugitive lovers, space has no haven,no mercy, no light—only...SHADES OF DARK

Before her court-martial, Captain Chasidah “Chaz” Bergren was the pride of the Sixth Fleet. Now she’s a fugitive from the “justice” of a corrupt Empire. Along with her lover, the former monk, mercenary, and telepath Gabriel Ross Sullivan, Chaz hoped to leave the past light-years behind—until the news of her brother Thad’s arrest and upcoming execution for treason. It’s a ploy by Sully’s cousin Hayden Burke to force them out of hiding and it works.

With a killer targeting human females and a renegade gen lab breeding jukor war machines, Chaz and Sully already had their hands full of treachery, betrayal—not to mention each other. Throw in Chaz’s Imperial ex-husband, Admiral Philip Guthrie, and a Kyi-Ragkiril mentor out to seduce Sully and not just loyalties but lives are at stake. For when Sully makes a fateful choice changing their relationship forever, Chaz must also choose—between what duty demands and what her heart tells her she must do.


…I saw Sully falling backwards, Gregor’s hands locked on his throat. I saw black-clad arms gripped around the stained, sweaty back of Gregor’s gray shirt. I was standing, Stinger set to stun, but I couldn’t get a clear shot. Sully and Gregor, tangled together, pushing and shoving, toppled into the small space between the table and the wall.

Ignoring the grunts and curses, I shoved the table away with my boot, giving Sully more room. I didn’t know why he didn’t just blank Gregor’s mind, shut him down then and there, but he wasn’t. Instead, he yanked on Gregor’s arm, wrenching it around. Gregor turned, knees coming up. Sully jerked sideways, Gregor moving with him. If Sully wasn’t going to use his Ragkiril methods, then I needed a clear shot. But they were too close.

I danced out of the way of a swinging leg just as Sully flipped Gregor over on his back, pinning his shoulders to the floor. A chair skittered sideways, fell.

Move, Sully. I have a shot! “Stop it, Gregor, now!” I took aim.

Gregor reared up, bellowing a guttural cry. Sully swung, smashing his fist in Gregor’s face. Gregor thrashed back, bleeding, cursing, twisting, reaching—

Something glinted in his hand. I saw the thin edge of the knife. “No!”

The room exploded.

I was flash-blinded, seeing nothing but light. I dropped to the floor, shielding my face, waiting for the intense heat from the detonation to roll over me. But I felt nothing. Heard nothing.

I jerked my face up, blinking. Light melted into haze. Still clutching my gun, I pulled myself onto my hands and knees. Sully was three, four feet in front of me, down on one knee next to Gregor’s body, fingers splayed. The silver fire of the Kyi whipped all around him, flowing over Gregor and past me, but it was nothing compared to the luminescence radiating from within Sully.

Sully? For a moment I wasn’t sure who I was looking at.

Jagged streaks of lightning striped his face like blazing tattoos, one down each cheek. More streaks disappeared beneath his black shirt, which barely contained the heated glow. It was Sully’s profile, it was Sully’s clothes. But this was not a Sully I’d ever seen.

I stared at him. His focus was fixed on Gregor.

The only movement on Gregor’s body was a thin trickle of blood flowing from his left ear. His gaze was riveted on Sully’s hands. His mouth was open in a silent scream.

This was not supposed to happen. You’ll control yourself because of her, Ren had said.

This was not control. This was... I shook myself, trying to process what I was seeing. The only thing I knew for sure was I had to stop this. Sully. Back off.

No answer.

Gregor’s chest jerked up, his body arching unnaturally, almost as if Sully’s fingers pulled him up. Pulling the life from him. Kyi energy sparkled in small bursts all around me.

Was this what would eventually happen to Thad?

“Sully!” I hissed. “Enough!”

Gregor’s gaze moved to me. He heard me. God. Gregor was still alive. Stark terror showed in his eyes. His throat moved convulsively. He panted in short, hard gasps through his gaping mouth, sounding more animal than human.

Another abrupt jerk on his body. Then Gregor’s right arm came up smoothly as if guided by the thick silver haze around it. His hand clutched the knife, bringing it toward his own face, his own throat—

“Stop this! Or I will!” I levered up on my knees and raised my Stinger, taking aim at the man who was ky’sal to me. And I screamed, in my mind, for Ren.

For two, three heartbeats, nothing happened. Then Gregor’s fingers spasmed. The knife fell, sliding off his arched chest, hitting the floor with a muted clink.

Keeping the Stinger on Sully, I grabbed blindly for the knife with my left hand, then shoved it across the floor behind me, toward where I remembered the door being. I wasn’t going to turn around and check. And in this silver haze, I wasn’t even sure I could see that far.

Stupid, I told myself when I heard the knife hit against something metallic. He wants a knife, he can think a thousand of them into existence.

Sully turned suddenly, his expression of intense concentration shifting to one of an almost detached curiosity. No, this wasn’t Sully, mercenary, poet and lover. But Gabriel, shape shifter, telepath, Kyi-Ragkiril.

I had no way of knowing if he heard my mental comment or had suddenly noticed I was there. But it was the first time he’d looked at me. A chill ran up my spine. I didn’t know this man kneeling a few feet away from me, this luminescent demon with lightning glowing in flashes under his skin. But I could taste his power. It was a cold thing, thick and astringent. It had no mercy.

And I had no choice.

“Gabriel, let him go.” Silver tendrils still writhed around Gregor’s partly suspended body. “I will shoot you.” And I swear, if you rip this gun from my hands, or in any way stop me from stopping you, you will be sleeping alone for the rest of your very miserable, very celibate life...


Linnea Sinclair
http://www.linneasinclair.com/ -- www.myspace.com/linneasinclair
RITA(c) Award Winning SF Romance from Bantam Spectra
Coming 2007-08: GAMES OF COMMAND, THE DOWN HOME ZOMBIE BLUES, SHADES OF DARK

2012

Margaret blogged about watching the Life After People program. I saw it too.

I also saw the program before it, which was about doomsday predictions from different civilizations all over the globe. Apparently, everyone agrees that the world will end in 2012.

Yesterday, I saw a news item about the ice caps now being thought to melt entirely in the summers in five years' time...which will take us to either the summer of 2011 or of 2012.

Last night, I saw a program about a very inaccessible area of the Sahara desert where there is graffiti proving (?) that people once swam there. The commentator suggested that NASA photos of the Sahara prove that there were once rivers in the Sahara (I thought there was once a sea, too). Something was said about the Earth tipping on its axis to explain why the Sahara desert was once a fertile area.

Before you make a 2012 list on the same principle as the movie "Bucket List" you might like to check out what a NASA scientist has to say.

http://image.gsfc.nasa.gov/poetry/ask/arot.html

On the other hand, and at the risk of saying something someone else has already examined, I am fascinated by the thought of prehistoric graffiti. I do have to wonder whether it is justified to assume that ancient graffiti artists drew accurate --insofar as a cartoon can be accurate-- representations of the world around them.

I'm not interested in writing a post-apocalyptic novel, but an alien romance offers fertile ground for an outsider to stare at graffiti and extrapolate.

Best wishes,
Rowena Cherry

Another exerpt from Twist

Chapter Twenty-six

Jayne sat in the upstairs hall, his tail lashing back and forth like a snake. He was obviously displeased with me.
“Join the club,” I said as I ran down the stairs.
Trent had been moved to the clinic. He lay curled on his side on the metal table, the knobs of his spine exposed to a lantern that sat on a nearby rolling cart. A huge needle lay next to it. Berta stood next to him and wiped his face. Shane was by the window, watching the commotion outside as he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.
I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat, which was considerable given the fact that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
Berta bent over and spoke in Trent’s ear. “Abbey’s here,” she said. She looked up and smiled at me encouragingly.
“Hey,” I said as I walked up to the table. “You finally woke up.”
“Shane said I should go back to sleep.” I had to bend down to hear him; his voice seemed so distant. “Cause it’s gonna hurt.”
I looked up at Shane who was watching the two of us. “Anesthesia? I mouthed. He shook his head no.
“Yes, it’s going to hurt,” I said to Trent. “But you’re a ninja now. And ninja’s are brave and strong.”
“Do ninjas cry?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” I said. “When something really hurts.” I didn’t want him to be worried about trying to be brave.
“Ninjas are way cooler than pirates,” Shane said.
There he was with that line again. I wondered exactly what it meant and I gave him a puzzled look.
“Do you know any pirates?” Trent asked.
I arched an eyebrow at Shane. “A few,” I said. “But I know a lot more ninjas. And he’s right. They are cooler.”
Shane picked up the needle and handed me a piece of plastic. He pointed toward his mouth with his finger, and I quickly got the meaning.
“Put this in your mouth, and when it hurts bite down,” I said to Trent and he obliged. “That’s what the cool ninjas do.”
“You’re going to have to hold him,” Shane said.
I took Trent’s upper body, and Berta took his legs. I watched as Shane dabbed the base of Trent’s spine with alcohol and then inserted the needle.
The noise the boy made was wretched. Trent clamped his teeth down on the piece of plastic, and tears poured from between his clenched eyelids. I tried to soothe him. I don’t even know what I said beyond “Ninjas are cool” over and over again, but he seemed to respond, smiling up bravely at me when he could.
Shane backed off the plunger on the needle, and a cloudy liquid filled it. I was surprised; I’d expected blood. Shane frowned when he saw it.
“It’s over now,” I said as Shane pulled the needle away.
Trent didn’t answer. He’d passed out; from the pain or the fever, I didn’t know which.
Shane held the vial up to the candlelight and looked at it closely before placing it on a tray.
“What?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up Trent and carried him to the wardroom. I stood at the door and watched as he gently placed the boy on a cot, and Berta pulled a blanket over him.
The look on Shane’s face was grim as passed by me again. He picked up the vial and left the room. I trailed after him with Jayne bringing up the rear as we once more went downstairs.
Shane attacked his work table. He lit several candles and prepared a slide with the fluid drawn from Trent’s back. I leaned against the edge of his sofa as he examined the slide and then went over to his desk and pulled down one of the thick books that sat on the shelf above.
Jayne looked up at me questioningly as Shane flipped through innumerable pages. Finally I saw Shane settle on a page and study it intently. He slammed the book shut and dropped it on his desk with a thud. He leaned over the desk with his back to me, his hair falling across his face. I watched as a long shudder moved down his spine.
“What is it?”
“Bacterial Meningitis.”
“Can you cure it?”
He laughed. It was mirthless, almost sinister. The sound gave me chills, and I rubbed the goose-bumps on my arms.
In one movement, he suddenly swung his arms and cleared his desk. Books, papers, binders, pencils and pens; everything went flying to the floor. Jayne jumped and ran under the bed. I heard a low growl in the cat’s throat and his eyes glowed with a strange gold light.
“How can I cure it?” Shane asked in a hoarse voice. “I’ve got nothing to cure it with. Nothing. No meds. Those were gone a long time ago, used up in the pandemic, where once again all I could do was stand back and watch people die.”
“We’ll go to the hospital, to doctor’s offices, pharmacies,” I said. “We’ll find some.”
Shane shook his head like he was talking to a child. “What do you think people have been doing for the past hundred years? I, myself, have cleaned out every stockpile of medicine in this city.”
He stretched his hands out in front of him, spread the fingers, and arched the palms. He looked at them as if he’d never seen them before.
“I used to think my hands were for healing,” he continued. He turned the left one over, and in a heartbeat his eyes took on that strange red glow that frightened me so. I watched with my stomach churning as that thing, that stabber, that life-sucker extended out of it. He held it up for me to see.
“This is all I’m good for,” he said. “This. Taking life. Killing. Ending it.” He took a step toward me. I wanted to retreat but the sofa was already pressed against my back. “I could save him,” he said. His voice was speculative. “I could change him.”
“No.” I shook my head fiercely.
“Why not?”
I didn’t like the look on his face or the fact that he’d taken another step closer.
“Save Trent. Save you. I could save everyone. Then we could all live happily ever after; at least while we aren’t trying to kill each other off.” Shane took another step. He turned his palm over again so that the thing in his hand stood straight up. I couldn’t help but look at it. “How bout it Abbey?” he said. “Want to live forever?”
I looked into his eyes. The red glow was still there, but it covered something else.
“No,” I said.
“Think of all the fun we’ll have,” he continued. He took another step.
“Stop it Shane,” I said. I grabbed his hand and wrenched it away. It was an old move, one I’d learned in my karate class. Twist the fingers back, and the body will follow. “You said you couldn’t change us before. What are you doing?”
The weapon in Shane’s palm retracted, and I watched the skin close over it so that his palm once again looked normal. It amazed me to see the opening coincided with his life line. If I traced it would it run on continually? Did eternal life show in patterns on the skin?
I looked once more at his face. His eyes lost their red hue as he looked at me for a long hard moment but I felt rage and frustration simmer beneath their surface.
Suddenly, Shane fell to the floor. It was if all his strength left him at once. He sagged down, his back against the couch and his head on his knees.
“No matter what I do, I can’t stop it. I can never stop it,” He said. His voice was shaky. Was he crying? “It never ends,” he continued. “It’s nothing but an eternity of death.”
I knelt down beside him. I touched his hair and let my fingers trail through the silky blonde strands. He looked up at me. His eyes were dark, practically navy, and they filled with tears.
“I told myself a long time ago not to care. Doctors aren’t supposed to get personally involved with their patients. I try to keep everyone at a distance because I know in the end they’re all going to die.”
I realized then his pain. His loneliness. His solitude. And the reason why he always ran hot and cold with me. He was scared of caring for anyone. He’d watched so many people die through the years; his brother, his parents, his friends and the people who lived and worked in this small community trying to stay alive. And now Trent was dying. Trent, who was probably as close as he’d ever come to having a child of his own.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders; I pulled his head under my chin. I stretched my legs out so that one went behind him and the other over his lap and I pulled him close.
His body was tense, his muscles rigid. I stroked his hair and held on tight until I felt him relax against me. His arms crept around my waist and he wrapped his hands in my shirt. I felt it bunch up and move, exposing the bare skin of my back. He let out a long sigh and moved his head up on my shoulder so that I could feel the brush of his breath on the skin of my neck.
We sat still for a long, long moment. I continued to run my fingers through his hair. Jayne came out from under the bed and lay down beside me, his paws tucked up beneath his chest. His rumbling purr seemed louder than normal as it broke the deep dark silence that surrounded us.
“No one touches me,” Shane said quietly.
I didn’t understand, but said nothing, just continued with my fingers in his hair.
“They’re all afraid to touch me,” he said. “Afraid if they touch me they’ll become infected. They don’t mind when I touch them, as long as it’s medicinal, but they won’t touch me.”
I nodded. I felt his lips move against my neck as he spoke again.
“Physical comfort is a precious thing,” he said. “You’re the first person to give it to me in one hundred years.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d only done what I wanted; I gave him what I felt he needed. I’d offered comfort. It was the most natural thing in the world.
“Abbey…” his voice trailed off as his hands freed themselves from my shirt and his fingers caressed my back.
I felt that touch down to my core. Heat coiled inside me. It bubbled and twisted and spread from the center of my body to follow the trail of his hand which moved gently up my spine.
“Abbey,” he said again. I turned toward him as he lifted his head from my shoulder.
“Abbey,” he whispered as I looked into his eyes.
They were blue. Very blue. For a moment I’d been afraid they’d be glowing with red fire. Instead, I saw something more dangerous.
Dangerous, yet so very very tempting.

Earth Without Us

This week the History Channel aired a two-hour special called LIFE AFTER PEOPLE, which explored how the world would change if the human race vanished. The program didn't get sidetracked by speculating on how our species might get wiped out. It simply postulated the instantaneous disappearance of all human beings. A rather unlikely prospect compared to a gradual decline, but that approach did allow vivid images of a modern city suddenly deserted. The probable scenarios at various intervals after our extinction were analyzed, beginning with "1 Day After People," going through a week, ten days, one year, etc., all the way up to 10,000 years.

How soon would the lights go out? In most areas, within a couple of days. Only the electricity from hydroelectric facilities such as the Hoover Dam, which doesn't need direct human intervention to keep producing power, would continue flowing for a long time. What would our pets do? Among those that could escape and attempt to live in the wild, small dogs and those bred for specialized but counter-survival traits such as short, pushed-in muzzles or stubby legs probably wouldn't last long. Cats were visualized as eventually forming thriving colonies in the vegetation-covered ruins of city skyscrapers, feeding on rodents and small birds. Both animals and plants from the wild would move into our emptied ecological niches with surprising speed (based on the example of how rapidly the wolf population in the American Northwest increased soon after a few dozen were released in Yellowstone). Mice, gulls, and pigeons grown used to depending on our food waste might undergo an initial die-off but would rebound. Cockroaches, needless to say, would miss the food we provide but wouldn't have much trouble surviving, since they can eat almost anything.

I was surprised at the pessimistic predictions of how soon our infrastructure would deteriorate without regular maintenance. A real-life example, a city in Ukraine abandoned twenty years ago, was shown. Buildings, although their shells still stand, are overrun with vegetation, and some species of wild animals are more abundant there than anywhere else in the region. While nonhuman nature is thriving, the structures are already so decayed that it would be impossible to resettle the city without razing it and starting over. It's somewhat cheering to realize from this example (a city where the radiation from the Chernobyl disaster exceeded that from both bombs dropped on Japan in 1945) that there's no danger of our making any part of the planet uninhabitable through nuclear war. None of those patches of blasted land where nothing would grow for thousands of years that we used to read about in post-apocalyptic novels of the 1960s. The earth is resilient and wouldn't miss us a bit.

It's not surprising that wood-frame buildings would succumb quickly to rot, termites, and lightning-set fires. But I was shocked to learn how much less “permanent” steel and concrete are than I'd thought. Moreover, modern concrete is less durable than the type used by the ancient Romans, quite a humbling thought. By a thousand years after our extinction, most of our cities would have become unrecognizable as such. "Tower and temple turn to dust," as the somber hymn says. More dismaying to me was the probable fate of our information storage media. Of course I knew electronic files aren't made to last, and I wasn't surprised that film, deprived of a climate-controlled environment, wouldn't survive long either. I'd expected books to hang around for alien archeologists to read, though. Not so, unless they're fortunate enough to be stored in a desert climate and protected from sunlight. Ironically, the stone and clay tablets of our remote ancestors will last longer than any of our advanced information technology.

I found this program sobering and yet oddly exhilarating. The image of the Earth starting afresh with nature reclaiming and obliterating all our works—only such monumental constructions as Mount Rushmore and the Great Wall of China are likely to survive mainly intact to the 10,000-year mark—fires the imagination. Last, the show speculated on our possible successors (assuming aliens don't drop in to explore and colonize, a scenario not mentioned on the program). Would one of the more advanced animal species evolve to fill our niche? Or was the development of intelligence such a one-time fluke that it's not likely to happen again on this planet? Chimpanzees were mentioned. That idea, however, overlooks the fact that chimps and other apes have undergone as many millions of years of evolutionary specialization as we have, since the era when an ancestral primate split into our two species. There's probably no turning back to the flexibility that would be required to enable them to evolve into a sapient species. At least, that's what I think from what I've read about primate evolution; I'm not a zoologist or anthropologist. The same principle applies to dolphins. Even if they have intelligence equivalent to ours, as some people believe, I can't see why our disappearance would inspire them to abandon their established niche in the ocean and return to land to build a technological civilization. So it would probably take far more than 10,000 years for any existing Terran life forms to develop into our technological successors. I'd put my money on the alien colonists.

Forbidden Relationships

Folks:

There's some kind of spice, a charge (or maybe discharge) of emotional tension in doing the forbidden, the naughty, the unexpected. It's like crossing a line, going on an adventure, taking a dare -- being proved "right" somehow.

There's an expectation that others' opinion of you will change. Why?

Doing something for the first time is a kind of loss of virginity - a loss of "innocence." It doesn't much matter what the thing is. Skiing down a legendary slope, killing someone (on purpose or running them over by accident), or having sex.

When you do something you've never done before, it changes you. So you expect others to change their opinion of you. In fact, one thing that drives people to cross those lines, the taboos, is dissatisfaction with their current reputation.

Some of the things we do change us in good ways, make us stronger, more self-reliant, more capable of handling the world so that we can shelter children. Such things would be oh, maybe your first solo drive in your Dad's car, writing your first check, your first use of a credit card, your first stay in a hotel by yourself, returning merchandise to a store because it's defective.

These are landmarks on the road to self-reliance and dependability.

There are all kinds of things we do for a "first time" -- and later they just seem of no moment.

But each thing we do, each action we take, changes us as well as the world.

Remember, King David, the warrior King of Israel who wrote the Psalms which were sung daily in the Temple (which then was a tent), was forbidden to build the stone Temple because he was a blooded warrior, however righteous. He was a great scholar, a brave and powerful man, an artist of renown -- but that one task was forbidden to him and left for his son, King Solomon.

I've been thinking about that for a long time -- why King David was not given to build the permanent Temple. What quality had he attained that disqualified him from this task?

So this last week I was privileged to read Susan Grant's forthcoming (May 25, 2008) Harlequin SF-Romance, MOONSTRUCK, Book I in her Borderlands Series.

I do hope it'll be a long series!!!

MOONSTRUCK explores the ways in which having sex changes a person -- the first time, and what it means to be the only virgin on a starship full of tough customers -- and a peculiar type of "first time" when a jaded Captain used to "only sex" falls in love for the second time in her life, and discovers the unique experience of making love instead of "just sex" is more disturbing than ever she could imagine -- because it is with her enemy, her nemesis, the symbol of all that's despicable in her world.

Oh, Star Trek fans will love Grant's BORDERLANDS series. It's just what we've all been waiting for.

This starship captain is a woman with a sexual appetite and a lust for definitive action. She's carrying a huge emotional load that leads her to obsessive behavior and has distanced herself from all human contact because of that. Now, all of that has to change - fast - because she's been given a new ship to command and a First Officer (you guessed it) who was her enemy, her nemesis, the symbol of all that's despicable in her world. But that was before the war ended.

The BORDERLANDS universe will be familiar to some of Grant's fans, but MOONSTRUCK is an independent study in the reconstruction of a society fragmented for centuries by war. This novel introduces you gently to the universe that is so fraught with complexity you will live in it for years to come.

In fact, the Borderlands saga may owe as much to the turmoil in the Middle East as it does to Star Trek -- it is Nation Building seen from within. And as I've been saying in almost all the Tarot posts last year, the glue that holds this whole world together is LOVE.

Grant takes us on a love-venture (loventure?) into a relationship forbidden by religious and cultural rules, and forbidden by the common sense rule of the Service that sexual relationships up and down the chain of command do more harm than good, and forbidden by emotional rules about sleeping with the enemy.

This starship captain has few qualms about "just sex" with anything male, enemies included (remind you of James Kirk?). So no harm done? Right? uh-oh.

But after it dawns on her that it ISN'T "just sex" -- what then?

Doing something forbidden may have a certain spice to it -- but afterwards, is it worth it? What are the consequences and upon whom does the toll fall? If the cost is only to yourself, then it's nobody else's business. But if it involves another - that's a problem. If it involves two interstellar civilizations, that's something else entirely.

But if it weren't "forbidden" then there wouldn't be any consequences, right? It's crossing the line of "forbidden" that causes all the trouble -- not the act itself. Hmmm?

Or are things "forbidden" because some ancient ancestors got into trouble doing that thing?

Well, then but that was then and this is now -- rules have to change, right? The "forbidden line" has to move from generation to generation. No?

So we have to figure out what should or should not be forbidden in our own time. From scratch.

Should nothing be forbidden?

Should no action disqualify you for some other opportunity?

Is there some logic or reasoning that can be applied to select what taboos a culture needs?

Grant's first novel in her Borderlands Series could be viewed as a 3 of Swords process where the actions are crossing the lines of the forbidden, thus closing some options (as 3 Swords always does) and opening others.

See my August to December Tuesday posts for the 20 Tarot posts.

Live Long and Prosper,
Jacqueline Lichtenberg