The Forester’s Tale, A Modern Parable

The Forester’s Tale
A Modern Parable

Once there was a Forester who, with his lovely wife, had a small cottage. The Forester was a man of trees and understood the forest but his wife understood the smaller plants and flowers that make a house a home and she turned the area around the cottage into a fairyland of color. Though the Forester did not understand her work, by the time she was done, he had carried and toted and dug enough that he felt her plants to be his own and thus it was that both the Forester and his wife had a pleasant home surrounded by foliage they both adored.
Sadly, the Forester lived near a City. It was not a very big City, which may explain why it had such a terrible attitude and always acted horribly toward everyone it dealt with. The City did not like the Forester, for he was a different kind of man than it preferred, it did not like the Forester’s wife because she loved plants which it did not, and the City absolutely hated the Forester’s cottage because it was not the kind of thing the City would have built if it had owned the Forester’s land. And what the City did not control, it hated.
There was trouble from the beginning.
“Your grass is too long,” the City would yell at the Forester.
“I daresay, sir, no. Your grass is too short, for it is not long enough to hold sufficient water within its leaves and will burn and brown in the summer sun. To cut it shorter is to lose it all and harm the land.”
“Better that it be destroyed than different from what I wish,” growled the City. “Cut down those weeds”
“I daresay, sir, no. For those are not weed, they are day lilies, planted and beloved of my wife.”
“And those weeds there too!”
“Those you now insult are peonies, sir, and will soon flower a lovely pink. I shall not cut them for they are deliberate and things of beauty. Neither shall I cut the hyacinth nor the lilac which you also impugn. If you would but tarry a bit and listen, sir, I would tell you of each planting and why it is and then you, too, may have things of beauty for, forgive my saying so, your own lands are blasted ground and pavement. It is not hard, sir, and I will help if I can.”
“Better that it be destroyed,” roared the City, “than different from what I wish.” And so it went until the Forester learned to remain silent but he would not destroy the cultivations of his hands and the things of beauty on his land.
Now, the City had a ditch that ran against the back of the Forester’s land and, when the spring storms came, the sides of the ditch crumbled away and the City’s ditch flooded the Forester’s land. With reluctance, the Forester went to the City.
“Excuse me sir but your ditch has flooded my land,” the Forester explained. “Might I ask you to repair it?”
“There is nothing wrong with anything of mine,” the City replied. “The fault must be yours.”
“I daresay, sir, no. I have seen it with my own eyes as have my neighbors. We sought the council of the ditch diggers’ guild and their journeymen have inspected it as well. All agree that, indeed, the fault is yours.”
“There is nothing wrong with anything of mine,” the City thundered and drove the Forester away.
For days, the conversation was repeated until the Forester was of a mind to seek redress from the local Lord and the courts of Law. Then suddenly, strangely, the City declared that, though there was neither need nor reason, the City would rebuild his ditch but to reach it, he must come in through the Forester’s land.
The Forester thought the City’s behavior exceedingly strange but he did not argue. “Indeed, sir, you may cross my land to work upon your ditch. I ask only that you tread with such care as you can lest the cultivations of my land be unduly harmed.”
The City did not repair the ditch itself but sent other men to do it for him and these men came with heavy equipment, great noise, and no regard for the affairs of the Forester. Once their work was complete and they took their leave, the City’s hirelings left the land behind the Forester’s cottage a great torn gash of mud and rock and barren, hard-packed soil.
“Alas,” sighed the Forester’s wife, “all my work is ruined. The land is hurt too deep and shall now be as the City’s land, blasted land and pavement.”
“I daresay, wife, no,” the Forester answered. “You are wise in the way of the land and my back is yet strong enough. We shall rebuild and heal this land.”
But the City, having once set foot upon the Forester’s land, now began to command the Forester as if the Forester’s land was its own. “You will cut down this tree and root out these weeds as I have told you before.”
“I daresay, sir, no. This land is mine own and I shall care for it as I see fit.”
“Better that it be destroyed than different from what I wish,” spat the City and stomped away.
The Forester set to work, thinking the matter done, but soon the City returned, bringing with him a vassal of the local Lord who thought himself to speak with the voice of the Law.
“The City has told me of your defiance,” the vassal said, tying a blindfold across his eyes. “Now that I see for myself, I agree: better it be destroyed than different. Your land is a blight upon the kingdom.”
“I daresay, sir, no. This land is mine and my wife agrees with me that it is a place of beauty. It is no blight.”
The vassal laughed and handed the Forester a scrap of foolscap. “Now, it is a blight.”
The Forester looked at the parchment which read only: “Blight-weeds.”
“Cut down that tree, it is a blight,” ordered the City.
“I daresay, sir, no. It is an apple.”
“Tear this strange vine down here, and this one here too. Rip up this flowering thing that covers the ground and plant short grass instead. Burn down that pile of leaves there within that box, I find it ugly. And,” the City gasped in horror, “is that a garden?”
“The vine here is porcelain berry and this one here is wisteria. The flowering groundcover must stay. The grass will no longer grow here, for your hirelings have made the ground too low and wet. That box is not of leaves alone but compost that I may return health to the land you have injured and allow it to grow again. And, indeed, sir, it is a garden and for its success you may thank the compost bin which you find so ugly.”
“Destroy it!” the City screamed. “Destroy it all!”
“I daresay, sir, no. And twice again, no. You presume too much. By both Law of God and Man, you have no right to demand these things.”
The City’s hissed and glared. “I shall set this vassal to torment you. I shall speak lies of you in court and I shall devote my full attentions to the destruction of all which is yours.”
“As you will,” replied the Forester, “but I council you one final time toward wisdom. The land is afire with brigandry and war. Men go homeless and hungry upon your lands. These are dark days and you could do much good. But the choice is yours and I cannot make you do otherwise.”
The City did not heed these words and long years passed, filled with pain for the Forester and his wife for it was more important to the City to have its way than to do things both right and good until one day the Forester’s wife said to him, “Husband, this place will be death to you. With every day I see you grow older and weaker while the City does not age and his minions are endless. Let us go away and return to your people in the free lands of the south where you may regain your strength.”
“As always, wife, your council is wise but who shall watch the cottage to keep out the robbers while we are gone?”
“The Traveling Woman has no home. Let her come and stay within our cottage. In this we will all be well served.”
“You are wise indeed, beloved wife.”
And so the Forester and his wife left the lands of the City to rest and heal and the homeless Traveling Woman was given a home and all seemed, indeed, to be well.
And it should have been but, like most honest people, the Forester and his wife could not conceive of the selfish and evil depths creatures like the City can stoop to. The City went to the vassals and demanded that the Forester be punished because the Forester did not get permission from the City to let someone else stay in his cottage. “And surely,” the City told them, “he obtains money from her as well and we should receive a portion of this as well.” This was not true but, just as the Forester could not conceive of the selfish things the City would do, so too the City could not conceive that someone would act out of kindness or compassion. The City would never let someone stay upon its lands without paying a steep toll and therefore that was what the Forester must be doing as well.
By now, the vassals considered the City’s words to be the words of the Law, so they did not bother to seek the truth of the matter but instead ordered that the Forester be captured and placed in irons and that all his good and assets should be forfeit to the City. Mind you, the free peoples of the south would not raise hand against the Forester for he had done them no wrong and they were not such fools as the people of the City to believe everything the City said. Still, by this the City was able to continue its attacks upon the Forester and he continued to sicken.
Dear children, if this were a fairy tale, I would tell you of how a champion emerged to defend the Forester or how, with her vast wisdom, the Forester’s wife tricked the evil City with her cleverness or how the land itself rose up to drive the City away from the cottage and the Traveling Woman or how the City had a change of heart and chose to do those good and right things that were its duty and leave the Forester to live in peace, but, alas dear children, this is not a fairy tale, it is a parable. Unlike fairy tales, parables must show the world as it is.
So, the Traveling Woman was again without a home, the Forester and his wife were forced to remain with the southern free people, never to return to their cottage again, and the City got exactly what it wanted, as it always did, and was free to turn its attention to destroying someone else.
And now you know, dear children, why there are neither Foresters, Authors, nor any beauty in Center Line, Michigan.

For the Semi-Good Niece

Dearest True,

Even as I left you, my health was declining and, upon my return to my own modest abode, I fell under the sway of a most vile pestilence. I therefore must communicate to you using this odd new-fangled grimcrack which seems to operate upon the waves of the ether (I am not certian of that; I rather suppose Mr. Edison would know better). Further, I must trust that you mother, obsessed as she is with all things electrographic, will turn up this rather misplaced missive and deliver to you my message. Let me apologize profusely for the lack of annotation and illustrative documentation that the nature of this medium prevents me from providing. (Perhaps it is for the best. After all, my dear, do you truly wish to have a sketch of "Evil Uncle succumbing to pustulation and mucosial discharge"? It may be that, even in the interests of science, so vistas remain obscured.)

To my point then with alacrity before the goodfellows expel my disease-ridden carcass from their lodge. I wish to let you know that I did indeed return to the McHO intact though somewhat the worse for wear and that I did survive being catapulted through the atmosphere as no man rightfully should. I firmly believe that man was not meant to fly and yet he does. Having experience in these matters, I believe the discomfort is necessary to offset the insult to the natural order--a kind of purgatory for our hubris. Further, I would have you know that I have recieved your own vastly informative missives and devoured their contents with great haste and pleasure. I find fault within your researches in but a singular instance. I believe that the correct designation for a discorpreated spirit residing in the temporal ether pending migration to either higher or lower plain for its final respite is "ghost" rather than "gost". On the other hand, this may be a matter of regional dialect and, if it does indeed prove to be true, you may have chanced upon a most profitable area of linguistic, ethnic, and anthropological lore to investigate further. I recommend to you that you also consider additionally the possible alternative spelling of "ghast". While these all share a similar root in the Teutonic/Scandinavian phonetics, I do think that "ghoul" is sufficiently established within the Hungarian to be safely excluded from your search. Perhaps I am wrong on this and if so, what a discovery awaits you. Follow your instincts on this and do keep me abreast of your researches.

For now, I return to my sick bed. Not to worry. Carry on, stiff upper lip, pip-pip, and all that.

I remain,
your Evil Uncle

Advice for the lovelorn

While things are in tumult, I thought I'd take some time out to offend people. Hence, I offer my opinions on marriage.

I am seeing just way too many nice young girls marrying men I flat disapprove of and so, as a public service, I have taken it upon myself to provide a short guide for making sure the man you want is a good man. And, for the record, in order to make sure you get the best of the best, I’m going to insult just about every married guy I know including myself because ain’t none of us perfect.

First off, ladies, consider where you found him. Don’t go looking for men because the only place most of you think of to look for them is the worst place to find them. Don’t date a man that you meet at a place you don’t want him to be at after you marry him. If you meet him at a bar or a disco, you don’t want him (and what are you doing there to start with?). His environment already tells you his character. Try a more wholesome environment like a rodeo or a NASCAR race or, better yet, find a guy that’s volunteering to help at the VFW or a hospital. Remember, no matter how nice he is, if you meet him while you’re working undercover with the feds to help break up his white slavery ring, the relationship is not going to work out. Likewise, prison pen pals are right out. Men are like produce. If you’re in the grocery store and you find a nice tomato in the vegetable aisle, that’s fine but if you see a tomato shoved onto the shelf over between the dog food and the cat litter, just leave that nasty thing where you found it.

Now, let’s assume that you’ve acquired a suitable pool of suitors. How do you narrow them down? Quick cuts first. Check his feet. Can you see his toes? Goodbye. Flip-flops are for showers at the gym and sandals are for the beach. Any man too dumb to wear appropriate footgear is right out. Now check his head. Is it gelled up and spiky? If he thinks his head is a cave floor to be covered in stalagmites, he’s too dumb to be a good husband. Besides, you don’t want any guy that spends longer getting pretty than you do.

Listen to me on this, when you get married and are just starting out in the world odds are you’re going to be in an apartment or a tiny little house. That means only one bathroom and you don’t want to be sharing that precious space with a man who has more lotions than you’ve got curlers. Look at his soap too. Does it have chunks of lava rocks in it? Does it have a citrus base to cut through grease? That’s good. When you get married you can shove his soap under the cabinet and not worry about it. All he wants from it is to get the gunk off his hands; he doesn’t care if the bottle is pretty or if it’s imported. In my shack, the soap on the counter is goat soap with pumpkin spice. Why? Because that’s what my wife likes. I don’t know why they make soap out of goats and I don’t want to know what they do to make the goat’s smell like pumpkins. I know my wife is happy. ‘nuff said.

Let’s cut some more real fast. In love with his car? Not in love with you. Cruel to animals? Cruel to you. Still calls his mommy ‘mommy’? That man’s already got a woman. His hands softer than yours? Get lost slacker. Uses the phrase “If you really loved me, you’d…”? Hell no. Mean to children? To the curb.

Now, some of you are wailing “But I don’t want kids” and that’s fine but you still have to cut him from the herd. If you know me, you know that I hate kids and consider them a total blight on society. But that’s no reason to take it out on the little ones. Not their fault they’re here. We got ‘em; let’s take care of ‘em and maybe they’ll grow up to not be human. Listen, girlfriend, you do not want a man that can be mean to children or animals. You don’t even want him to know you. This is a guy that’s got three bodies buried in the basement and already has a hole dug for you. Run!

And don’t marry a crazy guy either. I know; I’m certified insane. We are way too high maintenance. I’m thrilled to death that my wife was gullible enough to take me but don’t inflict this wound on yourself.

If this little winnowing process leaves you all alone, that’s okay. I know that for some reason most of y’all don’t get it but no man is way better than the wrong man. I ain’t never seen a scraggly horse yet that there weren’t a scraggly bush around to tie it too. Hang in there, your time will come spinster woman.

That was the easy part. From here it gets harder because you’ve got to ask a few questions. And this isn’t like one of those quizzes in Cosmo, you’re going to have to think a little.

What does he talk about? If he talks about stuff more than people, it’s bad. If he talks about his stuff more than people, it’s worse. I know guys are concrete oriented and you might think that makes it okay for him to be stuff oriented but they aren’t the same thing. Concrete oriented means he’s not so good at articulating feelings and that, when you tell him your problems, he’ll try to fix them instead of just listening and nodding like your girlfriends. Stuff oriented means his life is about how much can he get to show off to other people and compensate for his own lack of worth. He probably sees you as one more thing on his stuff list. “I have a house, a car, a Rolex. Must be time to get a wife and a kid.” No, no, no. You are a person. Your family and friends are people. Your offspring will probably be people too. He doesn’t have to like them but he’d better understand them they’re mooshy organic real folks and not chess pieces on a board for his scoring and amusement. You deserve better.

How does he hunt? Notice I didn’t say “Does he hunt?”. I’m not saying he should but I am saying he should be prepared and willing to do so if necessary. If you’ve got nothing and the kids are hungry, you want a man that will pick up or borrow a gun, a stick, a blowgun, a knife, or even go out with his bare hands and strangle you some food for the table if that’s what it takes. However, you don’t want a man that brags about his hunting. That’s insensitive and cruel. You want a man who will boldly go out onto the frozen tundra, bludgeon Bambi to death with a warped 2-by-4, dress out the carcass and bring home the meat then cry about it a little when he thinks nobody is looking. And don’t give me any nonsense about animal rights and vegetarianism. If it don’t eat bacon, it ain’t a man. Heck, even pigs like bacon.

How does he react when you suggest a co-ed wedding shower? If he says absolutely not, then this question is a push. Maybe he’s being selfish and insensitive and maybe he’s being old-fashioned and smart. I can’t tell you which from here. But if he thinks it’s a good idea, get rid of him. In fact, brand him with a big X or something so the rest of us guy can beat him when he’s outside.

Does he want a stag party? G-rated bachelor parties are fun and I’m all for them. Miniature golf, go-karts, and junk food till dawn while you shoot the breeze over old times are something that should never go out of style even after a fellow is married. But if he wants some kind of stripper-laden, wild oats send off to the single life, tell him to keep the single life. This is a huge red flag.

Why does he love you? Ask him this question and then be ready to hold the door on his way out. If he says one word about a single physical attribute, he’s gone. I know that one of the major appeals of women is that they’re soft and they smell nice (like spiced goats, I reckon) but that’s no reason for love. If he names any transient aspect, anything that will change over time, he’s not ready. Maybe he’s not a bad guy but he’s not ready. Marriage is about permanence. Remember, you’re not looking for a pretty groom or a playmate for the party; you’re looking for the guy that someday is going to have to hold you hair when you puke and change your Depends—if you don’t end up doing it for him first! This is not glamour but it is love. In the end, the real answer to why is because he CHOOSES to. Your sparkling wit and wonderful personality may be contributing factors to why he decided to make the choice but if you don’t hear anything else I’m saying, hear this: LOVE IS AN ACT OF CONSIOUS WILL! It’s not an emotion. Don’t marry infatuation. Marry stubborn.

I’ve said my piece and maybe I’ve exaggerated at times but not as much as you think. And if you’re a guy and I’ve offended you, grow the hell up. Any guy that’s not confident enough in who he is to take a poke in the ribs isn’t ready for a relationship anyhow.

More confusion than one man needs

I don't talk about it much, but I'm currently homeless. Not the horrible "living on the street and sleeping on stoops" homeless (been there, don't want to do that again) but the awkward uncomfortable homeless of being forced to live in other people's spare rooms and, most lately, on the edge of my father's farm. Well, the farm finally sold and so, I've got to move again. Move where? Don't know.

Now, don't fret for me. It may take a month or two but things should improve considerably (I might even end up with a bit o' property of my own under me feet). But it does mean that the regular blog updates will be even more irregular (if that's even possible). Be patient and I'll hopefully see some of you at ConClave SFF convention in Michigan in October. If I can figure out the entire wi-fi/laptop/public library mystery, you might not even notice but consider this fair warning. Ah, fun, fun, fun.

And I'm still cat-less. Sumo (Kay Kenyon's cat) recommends I mourn three years before getting another.

Recent Reading

The cat used to put this up so I suppose I'll continue. It's not a complete list (I tend to forget to update it, especially with library books that have to go back quickly and can't set on my desk until I get aroung to boxing them up.)

The Book of Renfield by Tim Lucas
Everything I Want To Do Is Illegal by Joel Salatin
On Writing by Steven King
Short Story Masterpieces edited by Warren and Erskine
Lemuria: the Lost Continent by W. S. Cerve and Dr. Ward through the Rosicrucian Press
The Destroyer #18: Funny Money by Sapir and Murphy
Anasazi by Dean Ing
Doom: Infernal Sky by Dafydd ab Hugh and Brad Linaweaver
The Destroyer #27: The Last Temple by Sapir and Murphy
Sinbad’s (Funny, funny, funny, funny, funny) Guide to Life by Sinbad with David Ritz
I Am Jackie Chan (My Life in Action) by Jackie Chan and Jeff Yang
Haint by Joy Ward
Outlanders: Talon and Fang by James Axler
Deathlands: Pilgrimage to Hell by Jack Adrian
The Destroyer #35: Last Call by Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy
Black Alley by Mickey Spillane
The Destroyer #56: Encounter Group by Warren Murphy
The House of Doors by Brian Lumley
The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammet
The Kinsman Saga by Ben Bova
The Bone Collector by Jeffery Deavers
A Scattering of Jades by Alexander Irvine
The Curse of the Pharaohs by Philipp Vandenberg
A Stress Analysis of a Strapless Evening Gown (Essays for a Scientific Age) edited by Robert Baker

Realms of Fantasy Relaunch Review (2 of 2)

From here on, I can really only comment on issue-specific content so this may or may not be useful or relevant. I’ve already said that I thought the internal art could have been a lot better and that several of the ads detracted from the professional look of the magazine.

The book reviews left me flat too, mostly because the books that were reviewed were the same books that everyone else reviews and so, as a reader, I didn’t gain anything I couldn’t have found somewhere else or even free on the web. There was little said about the actual execution of the books, and the overwhelming bulk of the reviews were plot recaps of the work. (The review of the graphic novel is an exception to this; it does address technical merit.)

I thought the game reviews were pretty, sharp once you got past the obligatory look at the latest D&D sourcebook.

The artist highlight was enjoyable and I’d have liked to see his work spread throughout the magazine instead of all lumped up in one spot.

The movie review was a waste of space. My apologies to Resa Nelson—it’s nothing personal and her review was well written and the use of sidebars to cover specific characters was an innovative touch—I just cannot think of a movie less in need of review than the next Harry Potter film. It’s deep in a series based on a series of books. The reader already has their mind made up and either they’re going to go see it or not, regardless of what a reviewer says. To me, this is five pages of wasted content space. Hopefully in the future, the movies covered will be more obscure.

I mentioned music reviews earlier and now I must expand on that. It’s not actually a music review. I don’t know what it is. Maybe I didn’t do enough drugs in the sixties. The section is listed as a department (Folkroots) as if this is to be a recurring feature. The actual content is a rambling essay about music history. So, what does that mean for the next issue and the magazine in the long run? I hope it means that this abstruse essay is an introduction to the kind of material that will be reviewed in the future, but who can say? More annoying, I read the essay three times trying to find an answer and it’s not there. The essay is the kind of beat rant that’s full of references but lacking enough context for these references to give the reader meaningful information; the kind of essay whose real point is not to inform but to impress the reader with how smart the writer is. To me, seven more pages of wasted content. On the other hand, I think music reviews are a great idea. On this ‘department’ I say give it three issues. If the word ‘filk’ hasn’t been mentioned, start complaining to the editors. If Wild Mercy’s latest album isn’t reviewed in the next six, cancel your subscription. But that’s a personal thing. If you like to dress in black and snap your fingers while some guy rants in a coffee shop, you’ll love this.

What of the stories themselves? Despite Shawna’s editorial promoting the magazine as an incubator for new authors, this issue wasn’t. Tanith Lee headlines and the other three authors aren’t exactly new faces. (On the other hand, for a relaunch, this is a bit of a necessity.) I liked two of the stories, hated one, and thought that the Tanith Lee work was not up to her usual standards. I appreciate and support the goal of promoting new authors in RoF but the cold realities of magazine publishing and marketing mean that, with only 4 spots to work with, at best only two of those can be risked on new talent and that’s not great odds.

So, in the end, what do I think? I think it’s not as good as I’d hoped and I hate to have to say bad things about it. For all intents and purposes, it’s the same old RoF, back again. That’s good and bad. The old fan base will be happy, but I don’t see anything here that will draw in new readers or subscribers. The old fan base is loyal but they weren’t enough to support the old RoF. I expect that the magazine will continue on at a slightly reduced production value, and will probably drop their pay rates for freelancers within the year. (Please don’t let me be right about that.)

Did I mention that I want them to succeed? By all means and please, prove me wrong.



[Postscript: After I prepared this review, I was fortunate enough to exchange emails with Doug Cohen at RoF. He explained to me that FolkRoots was not music reviews. It is an ongoing series of essays about music. This gives me a better understanding of the department but no greater liking for it. I would rather that they have music reviews--if there is any area where it is almost impossible to find good talent, it is the folk and filk community. (There's lots of talent out there; they are just really hard to find other than word of mouth.) He also assured me that the style guide is being standarized as we speak and that the copy-editing quality will improve. Many of the problems I identified as first issue issues seem to be exactly that. This is good news and I pass it on to you.]

Realms of Fantasy Relaunch Review (1 of 2)

On the newsstands right now you should find the August issue of Realms of Fantasy magazine. This is a relaunch of the magazine under a new publisher and I was given the privilege of reviewing the new, resurrected magazine.

Now, to be honest, I have a real interest in seeing the magazine succeed. Not only is it a market for my work but, more importantly, it’s a short story market and the industry desperately needs these markets. The fiction editor (Shawna McCarthy) expounds on this importance in her editorial in the magazine but, in this, she’s late to the party. John Scalzi and I were discussing the importance of the short fiction magazines as a proving ground for the next generation of authors years ago.

Well, the magazine is out and it’s time for all the people who lamented its demise to put their money where their mouths have been and support it. I have my own opinions on the ‘new’ RoF and I’ll share them but my job here is to tell you what the magazine is and let you know if it’s of use and interest to you.

When I first got my copy in the mail, my first thought was that there had been a mistake and I’d received a catalogue for self-published and small press POD paranormal romance books instead. The magazine is ad heavy (about one-third advertisements). Of 84 pages (including the covers), roughly 24 of these are ads plus big pull-out envelope of stuff in the middle. Don’t misunderstand; I’m not opposed to advertising in a magazine. These ads are part of what a magazine offers, letting me know what the market is doing and keeping me abreast of new titles hitting the shelves. In this case, however, I was distressed to see that the production value of some of the ads was extremely low—so low, in fact, that I think they hurt the overall appeal and professional look of the magazine. A bad ad makes the magazine looks bad. I understand the financial side of magazine publishing and the difficulties involved here, especially when bringing a magazine back from oblivion, but I do hope that this is a problem that will be solved in the future as RoF can become more selective and demand a certain minimum level of production value in its advertisers.

I also wasn’t thrilled with the quality of the magazine itself (specifically, pages started falling out of the middle) but this is not the publishers fault. My copy came through a PO box and the big envelope of advertising stuff was pulling the staples out and putting undue strain on the spine. No big deal, but not an auspicious beginning.

Before I get further into specifics, let me give you an overview of what the magazine is and who it’s written for. (Yeah, yeah, I know: “For whom it is written”.) If you like the old RoF, you’ll be right at home—there hasn’t been much change. If you’re not familiar with the old one, let me see if I can give an honest overview.

RoF is not purely a magazine of fantasy fiction. It’s better classified as a magazine generally covering all things fantasy—movies, games, music, art, etc.—with a few short stories thrown in as well. By my count, in this issue, 53% of the actual content (after ads) took the form of reviews of one sort or another and only 37% was made up of fiction (four stories). Further, it doesn’t address all types of fantasy (fantasy is a pretty broad category). It focuses more on mermaids, fuzzy dragons and cats, “Goddess Ripper” genre of stuff. Again, that’s not a complaint but if you’re looking for noir sword-and-sorcery or space opera, this is not the magazine for it.

I would describe (rather tongue in cheek) the demographic of RoF as young women ages 14 to 40 with unicorn posters on the wall and a firm belief that purple is the bestest color in the world. (Which it is, by the way.) Take a look at the spines on your bookshelf and add up the various publisher logos. Mostly Avon/Eos? Subscribe now. Tor? You’ll probably like it. Daw? Definitely worth a look and you’ll at least want to pick up the occasional issue that has an author who interests you. Baen? Don’t bother. Golden Eagle? Walk away slowly; there’s no reason for anyone to get hurt over a magazine. If Tanith Lee and Charles deLint are as gods to you and you cried for days when MZB died, this is your kind of stuff.

Let’s crunch some numbers on this issue: 84 pages for a cover price of $6.99. 24 pages of ads, 3 pages of editorial necessities like the Table of Contents, and 57 pages of actual content. Of this, 5 full page pieces of art (one is the cover), 5 pages of game reviews, 5 reviewing a movie, 7 devoted to music (I think; more on this later), 8 pages of book reviews including YA and graphic novel, a 6-page spread highlighting artist Michael Hague and showing his art, and, finally, about 21 pages of fiction. Put a different way, that’s $2.59 for the stories, $3.71 for reviews, and $0.69 for the artist. Is that worth your money? Depends on what you’re looking for; I’m the wrong person to ask. Personally, I’m a story kind of guy and for this kind of money I could buy an entire book. Still, if you wanted a book, you wouldn’t be in the magazine section so the question you have to answer is: Is this ratio one that satisfies you?

The execution of the magazine is a bit on the soft side—copy-editing goofs, the quality of the internal art is low, page layouts could be better, the font changes sizes at times—there is a list of things I could nitpick, but it boils down to the fact that the magazine needs to develop and employ a consistent style guide, and I expect they will. This is, after all, a first issue of sorts. One of these nits looms large to me though. Some (but not all) of the reviewers get a bio at the end of their piece, but none of the authors do. That, to me, is unacceptable and must be corrected.

A Brief History of Staff (4 of 4)

Chaos was a pampered only-cat for a few years until my wife walked into the backyard one day and found a bird. Apparently, this was some kind of special bird (too small to eat, that’s all I could tell by looking—birds aren’t my kind of pets). Well, we couldn’t keep a bird but her sister had just taken in a stray cat and they though it would be a fair trade. “She’s a sweet little thing and growing really quick.” Yeah, really quick because she was pregnant. Once again a swarm of kittens was inflicted on my quiet home. And the mother was, at best, an incompetent monster. Not only was it her first litter but she also hated them and wanted nothing to do with them. Chaos stepped up and became their parental figure, master of the guild, trainer and mentor. Their mother escaped the house and never looked back as soon as they were weaned after a few unsuccessful attempts to eat them. Of this litter, we kept three: Zeno, Chucky, and Whiskey. Zeno I have spoken of before. Chucky is sadly much like her mother—a true cat—but she also fell head-over-heels in love with Chaos and remains with us still, trying as best she can to be domestic (and failing). And Whiskey? Well therein lies quite the story.

The more observant (and Celtic) might observe that I’m spelling Whiskey’s name wrong. That’s deliberate. Water Horses are strong enough without helping them along with the magic of naming.

When the horrid cat had her kittens, she gave birth to four that lived…and Whiskey. I tampered with the natural order and received a changeling in return. She was born dead in a placental sac that didn’t break open. I gnawed through it with my teeth (the only tool handy), sucked the mucous from her nose and mouth, and made her live. She was brain damaged, prone to seizures, lacking in coordination and depth perception, and, well, rather simple at times but she was also a rare and wonderful fey treasure.

I have never known an animal filled with more joy, more raw pleasure at the simplest events of daily life, more in love with the experience of just being alive. Oh, she was a pooka, a prankster that lived just outside of the normal world and saw everything just a little off from the rest. She didn’t cry or mew, she trilled. Emblematic of her behavior and her problems was her love of swirling her humans’ legs. Ducking her head, she’d charge forward—and miss. Realizing her error, she would stop and throw her hips sideways in order to finally make contact then circle around for another try.

It’s not really surprising that she didn’t die. One day she disappeared, back into the fairy realm she’d come to visit from. Very sad, but appropriate.

I could go on—almost two decades of cats makes for a lot of stories—but I believe this will suffice for my purpose: a brief history of the staff this far.

ConspiriThursday

Conspiracy Notes:
Disclaimer: The following information is presented for consideration only. The author assumes no exclusive responsibility for the accuracy of the information (although the attempt has been made to be wholly factual). Unless expressly stated, the author does not necessarily agree with the conclusions implied by the data presented. In other words, this stuff is for you to look at and start researching yourself if it strikes a cord. Don't blame us for what you find, don't assume we mean everything we bring up for consideration, and don't take our word as a final authority. We're talking about conspiracies here; we just might lie.

Welcome to the world of Jude St. James...

(I recently used this bit of research in an article I wrote so I thought I'd share the entire block of info here)

Garduna

In 710 A.D. (aprox.) the hermit Apollinario received a vision of the Blessed Virgin, naming him savior of Spain and commanding him to drive the Moors from the land. As a surety, she gave him a button from the robe of Christ. Convinced, Apollinario formed the Garduna, a sacred army to combat the Moor. One of the unique aspects of this army was the belief that they had a special commission which absolved them of all sin so long as it was committed only against non-Christians. In effect, the Moors found themselves facing an guerrilla army of Holy terrorists.

They failed and the Garduna slowly degenerated into a criminal network, one that still held to the refusal to shed Christian blood. By the fifteenth century, the Garduna had all but faded into history before they were revitalized by Ferdinand V. The king summoned the surviving leaders of the Garduna, unleashing them in the service of the Inquisition, this time not only their sins forgiven but their crimes pardoned by the king. In 1670, the Inquisition withdrew their support of the Garduna but by then the groups power was secure.

During the eighteenth century, they repealed the prohibition against injuring Christians and became truly mercenary, selling their criminal services. Finally, in 1822, the Garduna Grand Master of Seville was arrested and, along with 16 other leaders, publicly hung.

Most historians consider that the end of the Garduna but, during the Spanish Civil War, the Garduna battle cry of "Remember the Virgin of Cordoval" resurfaced and it now seems reasonable to assume the Garduna still exist.

A Brief History of Staff (3 of 4)

Shortly after we moved from the apartment into our house in Center Line, Michigan, Boo passed away, an occurrence I discussed an essay in the Collector’s Edition of Ogre Ugly. I’ll not rehash it here. (It’s in the collector’s edition, the version released at Penguicon years ago. In later editions, it has been removed because we decided it was a bit too mature for children.) Even before the move, though, Boo was largely absent during daylight hours, hiding in her lair, and the kittens were gone to their new homes. That left Chaos and I.

I’ll be the first to admit, I taught him a lot of bad habits. Like drinking pop. The old apartment was within walking distance of the local 7-11 and I worked with a perpetual ‘Double Gulp’ at my side. Condensation formed on the sides of the cup and the thirsty kitten would lap at the sides. I thought it was cute and let it go. Soon he moved on to licking the condensation (and diluted soda) that pooled on the lid. I barely noticed.

The first time he popped the lid off and began to fish inside with his paw, I noticed but by then it was too late. In fact, I made it worse. Angry that he had ruined my drink, I rather spitefully poured the remaining contents into his water bowl thinking I would teach him a lesson. I did but not the one I thought. I had, instead, created a soda drinking cat. And nothing is quite as funny to watch as a kitten zipping around the house loaded full of caffeine and sugar.

I probably should have expected something like this, at the least I should have expected the paw fishing in the cup. From the time he was tiny, Chaos delighted in fishing—slapping at pieces of ice floating in his water dish—and he had an odd way of drinking that consisted of dipping his paw into the water and then licking it dry (and shaking it when he was done, spraying the room with droplets of water).

It’s strange to think of the mammoth beast that was the Mighty Kos small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, a tuft of fur, claws, and teeth that would ride inside my jacket when we walked. When he first acquired his toy mouse it was almost as big as he was. It was a block of grey felt billed as ‘indestructible.’ It was tough, but not quite that tough. After years of abuse, when it finally fell to pieces, my wife wrote a letter to the manufacturer, telling them of the years of pleasure Chaos had enjoyed from his toy, thanking them, they, in turn, sent him a box of them. He destroyed or lost them all over the years—always with great enthusiasm.

The mouse was what gave away Chaos’ secret identity. If his mother was a dragon, he was secretly a dog. He was loyal to me in a way quite unnatural for a cat and would stump happily along behind me if I failed to pick him up and carry him but his relationship with the mouse was surreal. He was a cat who would fetch. No kidding. He would pad through the house, mouse stuffed securely into his mouth, until he found me then drop the toy at my feet and begin to cry. Eventually, I’d relent, pick up the mouse, and throw it as far away as I could. (In fact, I often threw it into places I didn’t think he could get into just to watch him puzzle things out. He was amazing in his ability to get up to and into places that you’d never expect an animal, much less a three-legged on, to reach.) Once he reclaimed it, he’d cram it into his mouth with one paw and bring it back to me, beginning the entire process over again. This would go on for hours until I lost patience and hide the mouse. That was the signal to climb into my lap and take a nap, preparing for the next round of fetch.

The mouse situation became painful when Chaos decided that his favorite toy should be regularly dropped into the water dish to be washed and then fished out again. After a few of these treatments, the felt would become rock hard. Apparently this didn’t bother the cat at all but I couldn’t help but wince when I’d throw it and it would hit the floor with a crack or thunk like a rock. He was a weird cat. Great friend but weird cat.

A Brief History of Staff (2 of 4)

While Boo was establishing herself as master of the household, her progeny were making themselves to home. Boo was an incredible cat mother but she was still a cat—these kittens needed human-style discipline. Now, over time, all the kittens (except for Chaos, of course) found loving homes, but in the meantime, they were too many cats in too small a space. It was during this time that I learned the three techniques of cat training (which my lovely wife will be totally scandalized by my telling in public).

First of all, they must know that there is no piece of furniture too big to be moved if a defiant kitten is hiding under it. Sure, it’s a pain and often the effort is more trouble than it’s worth but even if the punishment doesn’t fit the crime, you must move the couch/table/car/mobile home and follow through on their punishment. It’s an important part of drilling into their little heads that you are the dominant species.

Second, you must teach them fear (to fear you specifically) and you must do it in a way that is in their language without being physically cruel. My recommended method is to simply grab them when they’re small and stick their entire head in your mouth. Just hold them there for a second or so (and don’t close your mouth!) then pull them back out. They’ll get the message. Nothing says who’s the dominant predator like realizing that your entire head could be bitten off in one shot. And a lesson learned young sticks with them forever. (Note: In no way do I advocate actually biting the cat or actually harming them. This is just about making a point that even the most rebellious of kitten brains can understand.)

The third technique is rather questionable and may not be suitable for everyone but it worked for me. I was faced with (at the time) a half-dozen kittens, all of whom seemed to feel obligated to begin marking territory at the same time. I could tell the whole story but I’m pretty sure my Good Lady Wife would have a fit and forbid it so let me simply give you the general principle: Once you demonstrate to all the would-be kingdom markers that you can mark more territory in seconds than they could hope to in a week, they should be intimidated into surrendering. It worked for me. One ‘demonstration’ and there was never—NEVER—another ‘marking’ issue. Desperate times call for desperate measures and the results seem to have justified the procedure.

A Brief History of Staff (1 of 4)

Cats? I’ve known a few. Very few of them that acted like cats though; I suppose that’s why I put up with them.

The entire cat situation began years ago shortly after I was married. My Good Lady Wife was working in a greenhouse where a stray cat had taken up residence and deposited a litter of mewling kittens. The owner was insistent in his stance that the creatures be caught, stuffed in a bag, and tossed into the nearest body of water. And so it came to pass that my soft-hearted wife convinced her equally soft-headed husband that the poor wastrels must come to abide with us, but only for the short period of time it would take for them to find new homes. In the case of one, that period of time was nigh-on seventeen years.

First home was the slowest runner, the three-legged magician we have all come to know and love as Chaos. His mother and siblings soon followed. Of them, I’ll discuss only the one who stayed: Boo, mother of all, black cat extraordinaire of black cats. In truth, she was not a cat; she was a dragon. The first clue was her eyes, an attribute shared by Chaos. They were a deep gold laced with green as if her eyes were topographical maps of a sprawling, gemstone world.

A survivor par excellence, she spent the first few months of her life with us hiding safely in her ‘cave’ under the bed and, by the time she began to emerge in the daylight, the remainder of her kittens were safely crammed into our little apartment. Over time, she proved to be an excellent mother and taught her offspring many useful skills like team-hunting.

This was back about the time that cheese flavored potato chips, specifically cheddar cheese and sour cream flavor, had first began to appear in our local markets. I liked them; the cats loved them. Strange as it may seem, Chaos especially loved chips and bread (the additional attraction of cheese was a given) and the other cats weren’t far behind. Occasionally I would share chips with him; more often I would fend him off or hide from him in order to snack in peace. And then came the day I saw his mother’s training pay off. Chaos diligently watched me eat then began to pull at my pant’s leg, eventually climbing onto my lap. Lifting my chip safely away from him, over my shoulder, I heard a satisfied crunch as his mother took the largest bite of the chip she possibly could and sprint away. Pack hunting, out-smarting the human, and Boo took the first cut. It was a harbinger of things to come and indicative of the cat’s uncanny intelligence.

After seeing the eyes and the mind of a dragon in the body of a cat, I shouldn’t have been surprised at her love of metallic baubles and her hording instinct. The hording, I attributed to her years as a scavenger. It became apparent early on that she had once been someone’s beloved pet only to be dumped later to survive by her wits alone—and she didn’t just survive, she prospered.

I first saw the hording in regard to food. I had prepared a cookie sheet of chicken nuggets and left them on the stove-top to cool. Minutes later, I spied a black cat shooting toward the bedroom, nugget in her mouth. I was amused and let her go. Once again, the cat had taken advantage of a human lapse and who was I to deprive her of her rightful gain? I returned to my book and, a short while later, entered the kitchen to prepare my plate. The tray of nuggets was half empty. I hadn’t been robbed of one piece but a dozen. Boo had been diligently toting food as fast as she could from kitchen to lair, storing up against future famine.

Small object disappeared with regularity. Earrings, coins, pewter miniatures, screws from a disassembled vacuum cleaner, small pieces of blown glass—nothing seemed safe. By now I had my suspicions and I followed them into the dragon’s den. Sure enough, laying on my stomach under the bed, under the baleful gaze of a very displeased cat, I found the missing objects—and more. To this day, I’ve no idea how she managed to wrestle object almost as big as she was into her lair but they were there. It was a respectable horde for a raccoon—or a dragon.

A final story on Boo’s love of loot and glitter. I was sorting coins into stacks so that I could then, in turn put them in wrappers, and had the table covered in stacks of dimes. Just as I finished, Boo leapt onto the table, took a look at the situation, and, with a contemptuous paw, slapped the neat stacks into a more comfortable mound. She then sprawled across the top of it and began to purr contentedly. I kid you not. It was in that rather surreal moment that I realized I could no longer deny the obvious. She might look like a cat but this creature that shared my home was, in fact, a dragon.

Questions on Cover Art

When you are browsing, how important is cover art to which titles you select and actually buy?
For better or worse, it seems that cover art is the single most important factor for readers when they browse. Reviews, recommendations, and familiarity with the author’s previous work figure prominently in buying but, when a reader is wandering the stacks with no preset ideas in mind, the cover becomes the dominant factor.
When discussing book covers and cover art, it becomes rapidly apparent that, in the minds of most readers, the two things are one and the same. The cover art is not just the picture on the front but expands to include the entire structure of the book’s cover—the font and placement of the title, the layout of the spine, even the back cover blurb and publisher quotes and how they are presented all blend together into a singular entity. This makes the follow up question, ‘what is good cover art?’, doubly difficult to evaluate.
A marketable cover walks a razor’s edge. On the one hand, it must be different enough from the others around it to attract the browser’s attention. On the other, it must be similar enough not to confuse or put off the reader. Horror covers need to be scary, adventure books need exciting covers, the reader needs to be able to ‘categorize’ the book, by its cover, at a glance. Not only must the books cover broadcast its genre but, to a lesser extent, it needs to project a similarity to other in genre books of similar subject or style. Most series try to keep the same cover artist for all the covers in the series. Some go so far as to keep the same artist or at least the same artistic style for all of an author’s works. The selling power of Frazetta covers in fantasy is a good example. Graphic novels provide another insight into the symbiosis between artistic style and internal style by literally wearing their style on their cover.
But, with similarity is the rule of the day, what places one book ahead of another in the browser’s eyes? Obviously the subtle differences but what makes for a successful ‘distinction’ is very much in the eyes of the beholder and seems to be as mystical as any fictional arcana. This is where the cover structure comes into its own. Title placement, fonts, text layout on cover, spine and back—all these provide some of the greatest opportunities to individualize a cover, usually in surprisingly subtle ways. Some works demand a flowing, scripted font for the title. Some readers greatly prefer block lettering on the spine. Press quotes from reviewers hook some browsers and repulse others. Here, knowledge of the nature, style, and preferences of the books target audience is an absolute necessity and everything must be tailored to please the eyes and attract the attention of that audience.
There is no one formula that emerges for cover art. It is, pardon the pun, an artform. Every nuance of the cover has to be tailored to synchronize with the potential desired reader. Salinger’s classic Catcher in the Rye cover of gold lettering on a stark red background seems to defy all conventional wisdom but actually embodies it—the cover speaks of the book, powerfully, and reaches out to the reader from the shelves, distinct in its lack of trappings. On a personal note, I am constantly surprised by how the cover design of my own recent book, Speakers and Kings, has the power to draw readers, piquing their curiosity with the absence of pictorial art on the cover while the simplicity reassures them that the book is ‘classy’.
The cover of a book is possibly its strongest selling point and one of the most often overlooked aspects. It leads one to wonder, how many good books failed to sell because of the cover? And what a terrible disservice to the author that many publishing houses push them aside for this final step in the creative process—the writer’s foremost and final chance to portray his work in a single visual moment to his future readers.

TheoTuesdays: The Animistic and Anthropomorphic Soul

I finally mewed at the Thin Man until he agreed to explain, at least in brief, his philosophy of the soul and why animals do go to heaven. Because it is pedantic and of little interest to the reader (in his opinion) he wants me to spread it out (I’m thinking of instituting ‘TheoTuesdays’ like the current ‘ConspiriThursday’) and he insists on the following disclaimer:

There are public theologies and private thoughts. Likewise, there are core, vital doctrines and then there are those speculations that are not truly relevant in the grand scheme of Salvation. This is a private speculation based largely on two foundations: the fact that it seems intuitively correct and does not contradict anything extant in the Holy Writ; and a reasoned extension of the already-displayed character and consistency of God documented in the Holy Writ. These are one man’s thoughts in the long hours of the night and should not be considered in any way worthwhile doctrine or even subjects of debate (except, perhaps, where the reader may find the Holy Ghost prompting within—and at that point it is an issue between God and the reader).

[This is the last part of the Thin Man's fat essay: "A Brief Discourse on the Animistic and Anthropomorphic Extensions of the Nature of the Soul". Hope you enjoyed the ride.]

Throughout human history, the belief that animals will exist in heaven has been present. They may be present as prey to be hunted, mounts to be ridden, or pets to be coddled but they are there. It seems that to question their presence in the afterlife is a modern invention rather than an age-old question. The sheep of the shepherd and the fish of the fisherman apostles will be present. This is intuitively known; it is only later that men began to ask how. Animals do not possess souls of their own (souls seem to be the province of humans alone) and so, we are taught, only souls pass from the mortal to the immortal world. Does that mean there are, in fact, no animals in heaven? How grotesquely we underestimate God.

If the influence of the soul can be extended to other humans, why can the same not be true of animals? Indeed, since animals do not possess souls of their own, would it not stand to reason that, for a time, they borrow a portion of a person’s soul to use as their own? And if the spirit arises from the interaction of body and soul, then would this not explain why certain animals seem to have very human personalities while others, more distant to humans, remain ‘simply’ animals? (In fact, I would extend this beyond animals and out to include things such as trees and the land itself.)

Let me specifically address animals on three different levels: pets, livestock (and prey), and incidental contact.

It is with pets that this theory needs the least explanation except to clarify that, as with people, a pet may be influenced by more than one human being. It is not about the animal’s owner, but about the people who invest themselves in the animal.

Livestock (animals raised for food) and prey (animals hunted for food) are more difficult to explain. The reason is because many people (including many farmers and hunters) do not understand the love that exists between the herdsman, the hunter, and the beasts of field and forest. To an animal, the human is their god. It is man who sets the time of their coming and going, the days of their lives and the tasks they perform in between. And with that power comes a terrible duty—a duty that, without a deep and abiding love, is impossible to perform properly. That the animal must, in the end, die is inconsequential to the greater truth that, first, the animal must live and live well. But man is not God and he cannot change what must be. He cannot cure all of the disease, cannot ease all the suffering, and, in the end, man’s duty to his family and his clan requires that the animal he loves so much must fulfill one final role. Many a farmer grieves the slaughter; many hunters weep for the fallen. This relationship is one of those matters that, I fear, cannot be fully explained, only understood or not depending on the experiences of the person involved.

I cite incidental contact as an example of the natural empathy that exists between man and animal. A pet or herd animal is well known, but the great stag seen in passing or the hawk that alights once in the yard and is never seen again may still have a profound effect on the viewer. It seems logical, then, to believe that in these small contacts some transference and investment occurs just as it does when two humans meet as strangers. There is still contact, there is still significance.

Do animals go to heaven? Yes; they ride along with us, as part of our souls, parts that we loaned to them while we shared this life together and that they give back to us increased a hundredfold.

I honestly don’t feel that this is a sufficient explanation and by no means complete but it is the best I can express in the time at hand. In no way do I believe this fragile theory of mine should be used as a basis for any doctrine nor is it an excuse to somehow worship the creation instead of the Creator. I state all these things only that you, the reader, may think about it and, perhaps, find in the contemplation a portion of the wonder and mystery, the glimpse of God’s glory in nature that I have found.

TheoTuesdays: The Regenerative Nature of the Soul

I finally mewed at the Thin Man until he agreed to explain, at least in brief, his philosophy of the soul and why animals do go to heaven. Because it is pedantic and of little interest to the reader (in his opinion) he wants me to spread it out (I’m thinking of instituting ‘TheoTuesdays’ like the current ‘ConspiriThursday’) and he insists on the following disclaimer:

There are public theologies and private thoughts. Likewise, there are core, vital doctrines and then there are those speculations that are not truly relevant in the grand scheme of Salvation. This is a private speculation based largely on two foundations: the fact that it seems intuitively correct and does not contradict anything extant in the Holy Writ; and a reasoned extension of the already-displayed character and consistency of God documented in the Holy Writ. These are one man’s thoughts in the long hours of the night and should not be considered in any way worthwhile doctrine or even subjects of debate (except, perhaps, where the reader may find the Holy Ghost prompting within—and at that point it is an issue between God and the reader).


The materialist paradigm long ago infested religious thought. Nowhere is this more obvious than in the prevailing view of the soul. We take for granted a kind of ‘assembly line soul’ on a lease-to-own plan—one per customer, standard size, one size fits all, no alterations, return it when you’re done and pay for any damages. This is not a view based on nature, experience, or Holy Scripture; it is a view rooted in an industrial worldview.

We are never told the limits of the soul and I believe that is for a reason: there are no limits of the soul. There is no maximum or minimum amount of ‘soul’ and no limits of breadth or width or height. The soul is unquantifiable. It has quality but not quantity. If the soul could be summed up into a set of dimensions, definitions, and limits, if it could be bound up in a trap of words, then it would not be a soul. The soul must be more than mundane. It must exceed measurement for, if it did not, then it would not be worth the terrible cost that has been paid to redeem it. And because of this, there is no reason not to assume (and every experiential reason to accept) that the soul can be hurt, can be (at least temporarily) diminished and oppressed (though never extinguished, for it is sustained by an indefatigable spark of divine grace), and that the soul can, in turn, heal, grow, and expand without limits.

I have previously discussed that the soul can be taken, given, and distributed across vast distances of space and time. The logical question is: Why? Why allow something as precious as the soul to be spread outside the physical body into the entire sphere of influence of the individual? I contend it is exactly that: so that the influence of an individual’s soul can be spread across the entirety of that person’s reach. It would diminish the value and usefulness of the soul if it were to be tied only to the physical body. If I could not reach out and lend encouragement, comfort, ennoblement, and all the other virtues of the soul across time and space, then my usefulness to the overall plan of God would be pointlessly diminished. God is not wasteful or shortsighted and I would therefore argue that, if it is gainful, there is no reason to doubt at least the possibility of the extension and transference of the soul from and to other people.

There is a term for this in business: investiture. Modern Christianity has an even more incomplete term: discipleship. I prefer the simpler terms. I call it friendship and, beyond that, compassion. We give of ourselves to other people, close friends or strangers, of our time, caring, labor—in a word, we choose to love them. And some, in turn, do the same for us. This is an example of the sharing of the soul. We may be hurt because we make ourselves vulnerable. To a zero-sum believer, this is a terrifying prospect. Surely to give of your soul diminishes the grace you retain within; to love is to become less than you were before. To a transcendent believer, this ability to give is a cause for great joy. We do not run out—there is no empty tank of soul—and, though we may and will be hurt, we may also increase someone else. In turn, when we are weak and tired, others will do the same for us. It is a strange, confusing, frightening process that we can never fully understand but that, on a spiritual level, we are impelled instinctively to do; the whole of the human experience—ours, those around us, and total strangers possibly even generation removed (for remember, the soul is extemporal, it cares nothing for time)—is made better and made to see more of God’s grace channeled through us.

Now, if memory serves, I set out to explain how all of this was relevant to animals.

TheoTuesdays: Theft of the Soul

I finally mewed at the Thin Man until he agreed to explain, at least in brief, his philosophy of the soul and why animals do go to heaven. Because it is pedantic and of little interest to the reader (in his opinion) he wants me to spread it out (I’m thinking of instituting ‘TheoTuesdays’ like the current ‘ConspiriThursday’) and he insists on the following disclaimer:

There are public theologies and private thoughts. Likewise, there are core, vital doctrines and then there are those speculations that are not truly relevant in the grand scheme of Salvation. This is a private speculation based largely on two foundations: the fact that it seems intuitively correct and does not contradict anything extant in the Holy Writ; and a reasoned extension of the already-displayed character and consistency of God documented in the Holy Writ. These are one man’s thoughts in the long hours of the night and should not be considered in any way worthwhile doctrine or even subjects of debate (except, perhaps, where the reader may find the Holy Ghost prompting within—and at that point it is an issue between God and the reader).


Photographs steal part of your soul. You know it, I know it, tribal groups throughout history have known it. You want to pretend that you’re sophisticated and modern and that it’s all just primitive superstition but, deep down, we all know better. Still, I’ll spell it out just to drive home the point.

When I speak of a photograph, I am actually referring to a much larger body of work and art—photographs, portraits, letters, books, sculpture—in essence, I am referring to any work from or depiction of an individual that calls to the mind of another that individual, and any emotion or knowledge of that individual. Put more simply, I’m talking about symbols, any symbol that represents an individual. When you read a letter from a relative, it is symbolic of that relative, calling them to your mind. When you see a picture of someone, you are seeing a symbol of that individual. Obviously, there is more to a person than a simple picture or letter can present but, through the symbol, the entirety of that person and what you know of them is summoned up within the mind of the viewer. Further still, even viewing a picture or reading a letter from a person you’ve never met will still bring to your mind an impression of that person. It may be an incorrect impression but, strangely enough, humans seem highly adept at discerning the nature and character of an individual even from something as distant and impersonal as a photograph. How can this be? We take it for granted as if it were a simple thing rather than the great wonder that it is.

It has been said that language is what separates man from the animals, the greatest of his gifts and tools. And what is language but the use of symbols to represent larger concepts from mind to mind? Words carry connotations as well as definitions and, in context, carry even more meaning. Words are only part of language. Indeed, the entirety of what most people define as language barely scratches the surface. Language is the sum total of communication from one individual, isolated within his own mind, to another individual, isolated within their own mind. All of the arts are language, from paintings to novels to sculptures and the buildings designed and built by the hands of men and the plowed fields of the farmer waving with grain. Every stamp, every mark, every temporary change upon the physical world is communication, language from one lonely soul to another through the only medium available—physical reality. Photographs, then, are languages, sentences and speeches made with actions rather than words.

Again we return to the basic question: How? How can language carry such power? It is true magic and a mystery. More to the point, though, it works because, within this language, be it words or pictures, lies trapped a portion of the subject’s soul. There is no other reasonable explanation (although this is only part of the explanation, not the totality of it).

The query that logically follows is why we allow the practice and why we willingly engage in it. The answer is deceptively simple. Why would we assume that having a portion of your soul captured and shared by someone else is a bad thing? Certainly it can be and, as an author, I certainly understand the risks and fears of laying heart and soul bare for the inspection of strangers through my writing; but, perhaps, it is not always bad.

Why?

Reality is not a zero-sum game.

TheoTuesday: Universal Sums

There are public theologies and private thoughts. Likewise, there are core, vital doctrines and then there are those speculations that are not truly relevant in the grand scheme of Salvation. This is a private speculation based largely on two foundations: the fact that it seems intuitively correct and does not contradict anything extant in the Holy Writ; and a reasoned extension of the already-displayed character and consistency of God documented in the Holy Writ. These are one man’s thoughts in the long hours of the night and should not be considered in any way worthwhile doctrine or even subjects of debate (except, perhaps, where the reader may find the Holy Ghost prompting within—and at that point it is an issue between God and the reader).

3: Universal Sums

Reality is not a zero-sum game.

There are two schools of thought on the various aspects of existence. One holds that there is only a given amount of anything and that, in order for one person to gain, another must lose, that what there is minus what is had, what can be had, and what has been had equals zero. The other school holds that man is transcendent and that, through the application of work, the full force of human will and creativity with, perhaps, a touch of miracle, there is no limit to what may be done, had, made, and created. The applications may be different, but almost all of human philosophy and behavior come down to actions and assumptions based on the belief in one of these two schools of thought. Either we live in a materialistic world run by invisible accountants summing up the tallies to zero; or we have free will and self-direction, and though we may not have the answer to the problems at hand, we believe as a matter of faith that there is a better way. These two theories are, in fact, a matter of religion and metaphysics. Either we believe or we do not; either only the mundane, tangible material that we see and touch is real, or there are mysteries beyond and we are more than the sum of our chemical composition.

We see the outgrowth of these conflicting beliefs in every aspect of our lives. At work we see the zero-sum man fight and scratch, stabbing his fellow worker in the back and trying to climb to the top of the heap on the backs of other men. Beside him we see the transcendent man laboring diligently to lift himself and all of those around him through merit and work. We see the Senator who insists on taxing the rich out of existence under the pretext of giving to the poor (and all the while plying the tactics of race and class warfare and jealousy) while we see another arguing the virtues of creating opportunity for all, free of penalty, firm in the belief that ‘a rising tide lifts all boats.’ We see hoarders and, in contrast, we see the generous. The universe of reductionists and accountants is a petty, mean place, lending itself to selfishness. The transcendent universe casts its bread upon the waters and waits, generous for its own sake, and generous for its own gain. This extends beyond the personal and spiritual, it reaches even into the physical. Can the crowd be fed, or are there only five loaves and two fish? How long will the oil suffice to light the menorah?

On this point I am adamant. Reality is not a zero-sum game. Reality is a theophany.

The King is Dead; He Has No Heirs

Behold that I write to you with mine own hand that you may know my verity. The King is dead; he has no heirs.

Sunday morning, Chaos suffered what appeared to be a stroke (or series of small strokes) and, by that evening, was gone.

It is impossible for me to explain the significance or devistation of this loss. For 17 years, he had been my constant companion, sleeping next to me in bed and sitting in my lap as I wrote. He was with me before, during, and after my physical collapse and, in the process, became the perfectly trained companion animal. Now he is gone.

He outlived the two proteges he trained and leaves me with an empty office. I must admit, I frankly don't know what I'll do now. Without the cat (pet, friend, confidant, side-kick, and partner) to manage it, maybe I'll stop. (Unlike my optimistic feline, I doubt it's read on a regular basis and I don't really think I have anything worth saying anyhow.) I'll have to think it through. Right now, I just don't know.

He already scheduled the rest of the discussion of the soul to automatically post itself and I'll let that run while I think. He'd have wanted it that way.

MKeaton

TheoTuesday: Patrick's Theophany

There are public theologies and private thoughts. Likewise, there are core, vital doctrines and then there are those speculations that are not truly relevant in the grand scheme of Salvation. This is a private speculation based largely on two foundations: the fact that it seems intuitively correct and does not contradict anything extant in the Holy Writ; and a reasoned extension of the already-displayed character and consistency of God documented in the Holy Writ. These are one man’s thoughts in the long hours of the night and should not be considered in any way worthwhile doctrine or even subjects of debate (except, perhaps, where the reader may find the Holy Ghost prompting within—and at that point it is an issue between God and the reader).

2: Patrick’s Theophany

“In the beginning Elohim created the heaven and the earth.” So begins the Holy Scriptures of three religions; so begins history. From the beginning, God and His creation are inseparable. I reference this because this base assumption influences the way I think about everything that proceeds from it, including animals and the soul.

The concept that an omnipresent God was represented within every aspect of his creation was accepted as intuitively obvious until it was obscured by the over-legalization of the Jews. Early Christians, following the rigid Roman mindset of rationalization and materialism, also failed to recognize this greatest of testaments. It was not until St. Patrick that the early Church began to again recognize that creation itself was the greatest theophany—the ever visible physical presence of God among men. The wonders of creation—its complexities, its beauties, and its mysteries—are a Holy Scripture themselves speaking to man, on the most basic level, of the nature and constancy of God. It is a reaffirmation of natural (Noahchim) law and the law of conscience. (Let me pause to address a specific point of doctrine. Many schools of modern Christian thought believe that the law of conscience became obsolete with the advent of the Christ. This is patently untrue. Neither the law of conscience nor Judaic law passed away. The Christ Himself took pains to state that He had come to fulfill the law, not to do away with it.)

Although this entire discussion seems a digression, I feel the point needed to be made in order to establish the reasons that I believe physical reality, as well as the worlds of spirit and soul, is first and foremost governed by spiritual laws rather than physical laws. I say this as a scientist. Within the history of science it can be found that, when science and God appear to disagree, in the end, God proves to be correct. I do not mean God in the sense of whatever the prevailing human dogma is but, rather, God as He has demonstrated Himself throughout history both in Scripture and the constancy of His nature. Physics and metaphysics are two separate, complimentary studies; placing one above the other is an act of human hubris. God instituted physics and created the ‘laws’ of science; there is no contradiction because there is only one truth. Nevertheless, if there appears to be a conflict between the two, the spiritual presumptions are, in my experience, the more reliable ones (and, might I add, these areas of seeming conflict are the most gainful areas of study both for the theologian and the scientist).

This is how I view the underlying nature and prioritization of reality, and it colors all my further assumptions and deductions. St. Patrick understood; Augustine did not. The God of nature is the God of man. This is not an appeal to the worship of nature as a god nor the endorsement of obeahism, but it is an acknowledgement of one of the greatest, permanently available theophanies—a clear and omnipresent insight into the mind of God.

I realize that, in this regard, I run the risk of sounding like some odd form of Unitarian/Druid/Kabbalist/ Christian. This is not the case. My theology (and more importantly, my core belief) is effectively that of a traditional Anabaptist. More to the point, I believe that God dictated the Holy Scriptures and that He meant exactly what He said. In this, I place no man’s opinion over what is written in the Word. For the most part, I can be comfortably pigeonholed as one of those ‘hatemongering, legalistic, holiness-movement-throwback evangelicals.” But I also am, in some regard, a mystic (albeit a Christian mystic—the good St. Patrick and I have much in common). An acceptance of the mystic, of the unknown and unknowable mysteries that are not explained to man because it is not necessary for man to know, is part of an honest belief. The modern Church has come to accept the materialistic reductionist paradigm as though it were part of the Holy Writ rather than a secular human conceit. Again, I am a scientist but I am not a worshiper of science as the be all, end all ultimate answer of all things. There are things beyond our understanding; there are mysteries and things beyond our ken. That is not heresy; it is honesty.

[Note: Theophany is classically defined as a manifestation of God to man by actual appearance such as the giving of the Ten Commandments to Moses on Mt. Sinai or the Burning Bush. Materialism is a philosophy holding that matter is the only reality and that everything, even thought and will, can be explained only in terms of matter. As a consequence, it lends itself to the belief that comfort, pleasure, and wealth are the only and highest goals and values. When combined with the dehumanizing effects of industrialism, it is a philosophy of scant value and severe danger.]

Reading, Writing, and Cover Art

This is a question we've been tossing around for a while and I think there is a general consensus that we can safely post on the blog. Feel free to add your own opinions.

When you are browsing, how important is cover art to which titles you select and actually buy?

For better or worse, it seems that cover art is the single most important factor for readers when they browse. Reviews, recommendations, and familiarity with the author’s previous work figure prominently in buying but, when a reader is wandering the stacks with no preset ideas in mind, the cover becomes the dominant factor.
When discussing book covers and cover art, it becomes rapidly apparent that, in the minds of most readers, the two things are one and the same. The cover art is not just the picture on the front but expands to include the entire structure of the book’s cover—the font and placement of the title, the layout of the spine, even the back cover blurb and publisher quotes and how they are presented all blend together into a singular entity. This makes the follow up question, ‘what is good cover art?’, doubly difficult to evaluate.
A marketable cover walks a razor’s edge. On the one hand, it must be different enough from the others around it to attract the browser’s attention. On the other, it must be similar enough not to confuse or put off the reader. Horror covers need to be scary, adventure books need exciting covers, the reader needs to be able to ‘categorize’ the book, by its cover, at a glance. Not only must the books cover broadcast its genre but, to a lesser extent, it needs to project a similarity to other in genre books of similar subject or style. Most series try to keep the same cover artist for all the covers in the series. Some go so far as to keep the same artist or at least the same artistic style for all of an author’s works. The selling power of Frazetta covers in fantasy is a good example. Graphic novels provide another insight into the symbiosis between artistic style and internal style by literally wearing their style on their cover.
But, with similarity is the rule of the day, what places one book ahead of another in the browser’s eyes? Obviously the subtle differences but what makes for a successful ‘distinction’ is very much in the eyes of the beholder and seems to be as mystical as any fictional arcana. This is where the cover structure comes into its own. Title placement, fonts, text layout on cover, spine and back—all these provide some of the greatest opportunities to individualize a cover, usually in surprisingly subtle ways. Some works demand a flowing, scripted font for the title. Some readers greatly prefer block lettering on the spine. Press quotes from reviewers hook some browsers and repulse others. Here, knowledge of the nature, style, and preferences of the books target audience is an absolute necessity and everything must be tailored to please the eyes and attract the attention of that audience.
There is no one formula that emerges for cover art. It is, pardon the pun, an artform. Every nuance of the cover has to be tailored to synchronize with the potential desired reader. Salinger’s classic Catcher in the Rye cover of gold lettering on a stark red background seems to defy all conventional wisdom but actually embodies it—the cover speaks of the book, powerfully, and reaches out to the reader from the shelves, distinct in its lack of trappings. On a personal note, I am constantly surprised by how the cover design of my own recent book, Speakers and Kings, has the power to draw readers, piquing their curiosity with the absence of pictorial art on the cover while the simplicity reassures them that the book is ‘classy’.
The cover of a book is possibly its strongest selling point and one of the most often overlooked aspects. It leads one to wonder, how many good books failed to sell because of the cover? And what a terrible disservice to the author that many publishing houses push them aside for this final step in the creative process—the writer’s foremost and final chance to portray his work in a single visual moment to his future readers.

TheoTuesday (An Experiment in Heresy)--The Debate of Body and Soul

I finally mewed at the Thin Man until he agreed to explain, at least in brief, his philosophy of the soul and why animals do go to heaven. Because it is pedantic and of little interest to the reader (in his opinion) he wants me to spread it out (I’m thinking of instituting ‘TheoTuesdays’ like the current ‘ConspiriThursday’) and he insists on the following disclaimer:

There are public theologies and private thoughts. Likewise, there are core, vital doctrines and then there are those speculations that are not truly relevant in the grand scheme of Salvation. This is a private speculation based largely on two foundations: the fact that it seems intuitively correct and does not contradict anything extant in the Holy Writ; and a reasoned extension of the already-displayed character and consistency of God documented in the Holy Writ. These are one man’s thoughts in the long hours of the night and should not be considered in any way worthwhile doctrine or even subjects of debate (except, perhaps, where the reader may find the Holy Ghost prompting within—and at that point it is an issue between God and the reader).

A Brief Discourse on the Animistic and Anthropomorphic Extensions of the Nature of the Soul

1: The Debate of Body and Soul

The question of what, exactly, is the soul and how it relates to the other aspects which make up the totality of this mortal clay called ‘man’ is a subject of debate as old as mankind himself. The modern cliché describes man as body, spirit, and soul (sometimes substituting mind for spirit) without clearly defining the terms. Most of us accept this without question or understanding. Medieval scholars debated extensively the conflict between the body and soul with the mind or spirit absent completely from the discussion. Indeed, the concept of the spirit existing separate from the soul is a relatively new (or alternatively very old) idea. There is little question that man has a body and that he has a soul—some part of his existence that is both immortal and inextricably connected to man’s relationship with the Divine—but whether or not he also possesses a separate component of spirit or conscious mind separate from one of these two is a matter still unsettled. The apostle Paul writes about the two ‘natures’ within man, one base and human, one divine and acquired through divine grace, that exist within the believer in a constant state of dynamic struggle. This has been interpreted by scholars to show either as two spirits within man seeking influence over bodily actions and the direction of the soul or as two souls, each attempting to control the body.

The Holy Writ makes no attempt to define the soul. “And the Lord God formed man the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.” Thus is implied that the soul exists beyond death and that the body is separate from the soul but that the body, lacking the soul, is dead.

All of this goes simply to point out that, when asking the question, “What is the soul and where does it begin and end?” there is no empirical answer. The question is, I believe, something that each person must ultimately answer for themselves. St. Aquinas spent volumes discussing it and, in the end, even he did not arrive at a simple or comprehensive answer. It is most likely that the actual answer is an intuitive truth—that we know what the soul is even if we cannot succinctly articulate it. I believe that, since words have power and much of that power is the power to bind and limit, this inability to capture the soul with words, to put the divine spark of the self into a simple box, is a necessary mystery. It is right and fitting that the soul should be beyond mere words.

For our purposes, let me state what I hold as true, remembering that I am most likely wrong, definitely incomplete in my understanding, and quite possibly different from the reader. I contend that man is comprised of three elements—body, spirit, and soul—but that these distinctions are themselves misleading and that the three elements, in the mortal coil, are inextricably linked and interwoven within each other. The color of man is a plaid. The spirit and soul influence the body. Does not a man gripped by fear and despair carry himself differently from one free of cares? And over time, do not these aspects originating not of the body, in time, mold and form the body into unchanging physical forms? Likewise the body exerts its influence in turn. A man living in constant physical pain will see his spirit affected, for good or ill. The body is the aspect that the physical world and other humans interact with and this interaction, in turn, cannot fail to influence the less physical aspects of man. Let me also state that, in the course of this discussion, I shall often use the terms soul and spirit interchangeably and possibly even incorrectly. This is because of the unique mixture of the part of the human condition that make precise distinctions impossible.

Accepting then that anything I say is, at best, sophiclism, I further contend that the seat of consciousness is most likely the spirit. That is to say, the spirit and the mind occupy the same role in the human amalgama. The body—the implacable, omnipresent clay that is the seat of human existence—is an absolute, standing to the one side of the spirit. The soul—that part of man that is immortal, moral, and uniquely tuned to the divine—stands on the other. The spirit, influenced by both, is a kind of metaphysical skid brake between the two. Our concept of our selves is that worn, malleable, ever-flexing cushion between the two extremes, influenced by and filtering the effects of each, though in muted form, to the other allowing us to exist as one unified being made up of incompatible extremes.

And what, you ask, does any of this have to do with animals and heaven? I might get to that eventually; but aren’t you sorry you asked?

Guy Even Watch French Movies (but rarely)

Le Pacte des Loups (The Brotherhood of the Wolf) from Umvd Studios
One of the more amusing descriptions of this movie was “Crouching Tiger; Hidden Werewolf”. It is not a bad synopsis. The movie is, at its core, a werewolf movie with token gestures towards detective work and period piece. It is also a foreign film (subtitled into English) and, worse yet, it is French. With all of this weighing in against it, why would anyone watch? The answer is surprisingly simple: it’s well-done, and it’s pretty to watch.
The movie is not high art but it is artistic. The plot, though simple, is nuanced in places and well-executed. The straightforward nature of the characters clears the way for the viewer to enjoy the visuals and action. A minimum of complicated dialogue negates much of the distraction caused by subtitling a movie. In short, the movie is just plain fun to watch.
The settings are gorgeous, eccentric, and colorful. The cinematography is occasionally a bit too artsy but overall above average and, at times, brilliantly experimental. The fight choreography is on par with the Hong Kong cinema. The acting is solid and does not get in the way of the film. The use of sound effects and music accentuates the on screen action quite nicely. Though easily overlooked, the placement and timing of the subtitles on screen are a masterful technical stroke which makes the foreign film accessible. The viewer is never presented with the decision between reading dialoged and missing a key element on screen and the subtitles do not distract from the natural flow of the viewing experience.
Le Pacte des Loups is not high cinema but it is one of the most enjoyable werewolf movies since the Howling. Even if werewolves do not appeal to you, the fight scenes are a visual blast worth watching as well.

Guys Read About Imperialism

British Imperialism (Gold, God, Glory) edited by Robin W. Winks
In an age when imperialism and hegemony are considered to somehow be intrinsically evil, it is extremely beneficial to examine the actual track record of these institutions. In addition, for a reader of genre literature, especially period adventures, an understanding of the political context of the time can add considerably to the enjoyment of the work.
British Imperialism is not a singular work by one author or with one perspective. It is a collection of essays addressing the issue from a variety of perspectives, differing emphases, and even written at different points in history from essays written within the British Imperial period to modern critics. It is with this widely variety of approaches that the book achieves a fair and unbiased viewpoint of this issue through a balance of extremes. Economic, moral, and societal pressures are each examined as driving forces in the establishment of the imperial colonial mindset. The end result is far from the modern posturing of academic historians who present the matter with a kind of moralistic proselytizing. The book instead leaves the reader with objective information and historical context from which it is the reader rather than the history professor who is left to assess the Empire upon which the sun never set.

Related Reading:
The Fall of Rome edited by Mortimer Chambers
Napoleon III (Man of Destiny) edited by Brison D. Gooch

Updating, at last

Once again, I update what I've seen the Thin Man reading. (It's not a complete list because I miss a lot of stuff and we live in and out of boxes but it does give you some insight into his total lack of focus.)

Wild Seed by Octavia Butler
Destroyer #44: Balance of Power by Warren Murphy
Predators edited by Gorman and Greenberg
Angel by Garry D. Kilworth
Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand by Sam Delany
Good Neighbors by Holly Black
Stony Man #70: Ramrod Intercept presented by Don Pendleton
How the Irish Saved Civilization by Thomas Cahill
Worlds in Collision by Immanuel Velikovsky
Real Men Don’t Apologize by Jim Belushi
Falcon by Emma Bull
Brave New World and Brave New World Revisited by Aldous Huxley
Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett
Doomstalker by Glen Cook
Heir Apparent by Vivian Vande Velde
Short Story Masterpieces edited by Warren and Erskine

Midsouth Convention Report (Part the Final of a half-dozen or so)

Let me point you toward one final person from the convention and that’s my favorite Nordic heretic, Jeremy Lewis (aka J. F. Lewis). Jeremy writes the Void City books but, in my opinion, his real claim to fame is that he’s a heck of a dad. It’s hard to be a writer and have a family and keep it all in perspective. Jeremy’s one of the few that does and for no other reason than that, I’d tell you to go buy his books. But that’s not all. He’s also a great guy all around but, more important, he’s a really good writer—tight, fast, visceral—vampires, werewolves, violence. What’s not to love? Okay, not happy yet? How about he throws in solid plots and well-developed characters? Still not convinced? Well, that’s all I’ve got so I guess I’ll let his fan base sell you on the rest. Let me close with this: Harry Dresden with attitude.

Okay, cat, con report done until ‘Clave.

Midsouth Convention Report (Part 6 of a half-dozen or so)

As long as I’m wandering around hyping people, let me talk about the Gambers. It’s hard for me to say nice things about them without being accused of kissing up to a publisher but, oh well. (The Gambers run Meadowhawk Press.) Now, I like the entire family but I think Jackie’s writing specifically should get more attention. She’s got tons of short stuff coming out and, surprisingly, a good portion of it is horror. It’s surprising because she’s one of the sweetest, least menacing people I know. We first met on a panel last year about killing characters where she explained that she was opposed to it. For a writer that gets so attached to her characters that she doesn’t want to kill them to end up selling horror short stories is amusing to me but it’s also a good example of her flexibility as a writer. I mention the horror but, at heart, she’s a fantasy author and a darn good one (a little mushy for my taste but then, you know me). If that confuses you, go over to www.hads.us and see what I mean by mushy—I like my dragons more aggressive, not less. Joking aside, if you like fantasy, and especially if you like dragon fantasy, she’s your go-to person. But if you want to see her horror (and mine), pick up the next few issues of Shroud magazine (I ain’t sayin’ no more because I don’t know whose ink is dry on which contracts and what we’re allowed to talk about.)

While I’m talking about generally sweet people, let me also point you toward Joy Ward and her genre of ‘dog lit.’ (dogblog.dogster.com) as well as her book Haint. I haven’t read Haint yet but I like Joy and she knows what she’s talking about with writing so I’m looking forward to the book. She sent me home with a copy to read and then send on overseas. Joy and Jackie are a couple of people who understand what I’m talking about when I say I kill people in my books all the time but killing the horse, now that’s serious business.

I’d hype Bill Snodgrass, Double Edged Publishing, and Ray Gun Revival magazine but, people, that’s who put out Calamity’s Child. If you haven’t figured that out yet, I can’t help much other than to say that DEP puts out a wide range of magazines and books and that the magazines are free on-line so why not go read?

Midsouth Convention Report (Part 5 of a half-dozen or so)

The author GoH at Midsouthcon was Mike Resnick. We got along about like you’d expect (assuming you know both of us). I didn’t see much of the other GoHs but I do wish to point out that, in the limited time I had to talk with Stanton Friedman, though he and I don’t agree on some subjects, I was struck with the openness of his personality and his dedication to finding truth as opposed to merely promoting the scientific orthodoxy. If that leads him down the path of UFO investigation, so be it. I certainly respect his willingness to look and his willingness to come to the convention and defend his positions.

The Filk GoH was Wild Mercy. Let me state up front that I love their music. I never get to hear them live because I tend to be busy elsewhere but it was really nice to get to talk to them this trip. Mostly, I want to put a plug in for their new CD and send you looking for more of their stuff. I’ve almost worn the grooves off Summer Storm (and tend to wake up with their songs stuck in my head). If you want an explanation of the style of their music, well, good luck with that. I’ll point you to the harp, the strong Celtic influence, the general folk styling, and the very well executed percussion elements but that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

I didn’t really get to spend anywhere near the time I’d have liked with Glen Cook but the wandering panel we did was like candy, sheer storytelling pleasure. Likewise, it was nice to share a bit of horror-market gossip with Linda Donahue but we barely managed more than a pass in the hall.

Andrew Fox I met first on Friday through his boys and we talked on and off through the weekend. As with Wild Mercy, I want to point you over toward his stuff. Andrew lives in New Orleans and after the ugly hurricane, lost his web presence so you might have to do a bit more work than just pop over to a website but I’m sure he’ll be back on line soon enough. His latest book, The Good Humor Man, just came out from Tachyon Publications. What does he write? Well, think of it as a mix of supernatural horror with a strong dose of sardonic humor. Do a search, read some reviews of his earlier books, and consider picking it up. It’s not my personal cup of tea but it is well executed and entertaining.