In one of the panels at Conclave, the question was asked: now that royalty payments are infeasible, how are writers going to get paid? Are there any new ideas out there? The question didn’t get answered and I thought I’d address it here.
Let me explain a bit of the background to the issue. Traditionally, writers are paid royalties, an amount of money per book sold. This is usually around 4-6% of the cover price so when you buy a seven dollar paperback, the author gets an amount around 35 cents. (Numbers vary depending on binding and other factors.) Needless to say, you have to sell a lot of books to make money. (Typically, the author is paid an up-front “advance against royalties” and then starts getting royalty payments after the advance is “earned out”. The average advance is somewhere around five thousand dollars per book and most authors don’t earn out. As a rule of thumb, if you assume that your local author is getting five to seven grand a book total, you’ve got a pretty good view of the writing economy. Don’t quit your day job.)
The problem with the royalty model in an internet based economy (and the reason that most writers expect that something will have to change) is the e-book. E-books are cheap and getting cheaper. I could go off on a rant about how the real problem is that the market doesn’t see the creative effort of writing a book as having monetary value and therefore thinks the only real costs are in paper but that’s not the point. The point is, if an author can’t make a decent living on 5% of seven bucks, then 5% of two bucks isn’t worth the effort to write the book. (Think of it: one morning someone invents an internet application and suddenly you take an almost 80% pay cut.) So something’s got to change in the way authors get paid, but what?
The answer is: nobody knows. In the near-term, it’s going to get worse before it gets better. There will be a lot of different things tried, some better than others, and a lot of places will stick with the royalty model as long as possible.
But the question was asked if there are any other feasible alternatives that anyone has considered and I believe there is one—one that has the advantage of having been used successfully before.
Patronage.
Before dismissing the idea as crazy, hear me out. Patronage has a fine history in the arts. After all, Dante didn’t write the Inferno on spec. Nobles patronized artists, artists provided books, music, paintings, sculptures, and so on to please their patrons and life went on. I know some people will yell that patronized art is corrupted and not true to the artists visions but, frankly, these people don’t know very much about the market or history. In actuality, patronage provides for a wider range of expression because, instead of having to cater to a marketing demographic or federal grant program, the artist only has to please one person—their patron—and individuals have much broader tastes and tolerances than homogenized cultures.
But are there enough rich people willing to patronize and make the idea work? Let’s go back to history. Why did the nobility and the church patronize artists to begin with? Some were altruistic but most were after two simple things: propaganda and public image. Either art to support and promote a specific agenda or art so that the common man would say “Well, that baron supports this theater and that writer and these paintings and even though I ain’t happy with the taxes, at least he ain’t such a bad feller all the way around. Let’s put off the revolt until next week.”
Now go watch TV for a few minutes and look at the ads. Notice that a lot of them aren’t for products or services; they’re general touchy-feely our company isn’t evil, we’re your friend kind of ads. In other words, public image ads. That tells you that the market and the money are there. You have a clear potential, no only for individual patronage, but also patronage by charitable organizations, foundations, schools, research institutes, and the entire scope of corporate America.
Let’s make it even more fun. Let’s say that a corporation decides to sponsor an author and that they make a portion of that author’s writing (and maybe that author’s time) available for free to schools and libraries. Think about it. On every bookshelf, from bookstores to supermarkets, the sponsor’s corporate logo has replaced the publisher’s imprint (massive brand exposure) plus now it’s going into schools and libraries too. Why wouldn’t a corporation spring for that? You could buy a dozen authors for the price of a Super Bowl ad.
And what about stocks? What if you could buy a percentage of your favorite author? If a group of you could go together, buy stock in an author, and jointly support his or her work? Especially is the author threw in some nice bonuses like signed first edition copies for all stock holders, exclusive beta reads and deleted scenes, character cameos of preferred holders, etc.? We could end up with a much broader market selection that we have now where only two major publishers rule most of the field.
I’m not saying it’s going to happen and I’m not saying whether it would be good or bad for society but I am saying that it is a plausible, feasible alternative.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Very good recent books
I haven’t had a chance to do quality book reviews for a couple of recent books that I really liked but I don’t want them to be overlooked either. Instead, let me give you a quick capsule look at some books that really impressed me.
The Dream of Perpetual Motion by Dexter Palmer
The book is classified as steampunk and one of the cover blurbs calls it “steampunk comes of age”. The statement is fair as far as it goes but I think this is one of those books that transcends simple classification and is simply good literature. Think Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby with steampunk trappings retelling Shakespeare’s The Tempest and you’ve got a thumbnail view of the book. This is one of those books that I finished and said, “I can’t write like that. That was art with the capital A.” I’m not sure if it’s fair to say I enjoyed it as much as I was very impressed with it (it’s a grim book so it’s kind of hard to enjoy per se). I do think that if you are a fan of or writer of the steampunk genre, you should make the time to read this book.
The Monstrumologist by Rick Yancy
I like monster horror so this book was right up my alley—monster horror in Victorian era America. Even more impressive was that this book was scary and let’s be honest, not much that is classified as horror is scary these days except for psychological horror (which is too scary but in a different way). This book I enjoyed immensely although I have one small quibble. It’s classified as a YA book. I think it’s a bit too gory for that but that’s where you’ll probably find the book in your library. Good monster ecology in this book adds a great extra level of realism as well. Definitely a good read.
The Dream of Perpetual Motion by Dexter Palmer
The book is classified as steampunk and one of the cover blurbs calls it “steampunk comes of age”. The statement is fair as far as it goes but I think this is one of those books that transcends simple classification and is simply good literature. Think Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby with steampunk trappings retelling Shakespeare’s The Tempest and you’ve got a thumbnail view of the book. This is one of those books that I finished and said, “I can’t write like that. That was art with the capital A.” I’m not sure if it’s fair to say I enjoyed it as much as I was very impressed with it (it’s a grim book so it’s kind of hard to enjoy per se). I do think that if you are a fan of or writer of the steampunk genre, you should make the time to read this book.
The Monstrumologist by Rick Yancy
I like monster horror so this book was right up my alley—monster horror in Victorian era America. Even more impressive was that this book was scary and let’s be honest, not much that is classified as horror is scary these days except for psychological horror (which is too scary but in a different way). This book I enjoyed immensely although I have one small quibble. It’s classified as a YA book. I think it’s a bit too gory for that but that’s where you’ll probably find the book in your library. Good monster ecology in this book adds a great extra level of realism as well. Definitely a good read.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Non-Fiction Writing and Marketing
I was asked during the convention how one went about writing and marketing non-fiction. I’m not the best person to ask; I’ve done a goodly bit of non-fiction writing in my time but the market changes rapidly and most of what I have done has been very focused, technical non-fiction as opposed to commercial non-fiction. (My beloved child bride that I stole away from the foreign tribes has been after me to write commercial non-fiction for years but I still resist.) Ne’ertheless, I promised to see what I could put together by way of suggestions and references.
Compared to fiction, non-fiction is all good news. The pay is better, the markets are more abundant, and there are plenty of books in most libraries. I don’t think the libraries planned to emphasize non-fiction in their selection of books on writing and formatting; it just happens that most people who write those books freely mix fiction and non-fiction information, and non-fiction is easier to talk about in generalities. So, stop number one: local library and you should be able to find a good stock of books on format, style, etc. The internet is also full of references (search terms like “writing non-fiction”, “formatting non-fiction”, “non-fiction footnote endnotes”, etc.) Also take this time to research your competition. See what’s already on the shelves and who is publishing what you want to write.
This information will give you a general over-view of the different techniques used in non-fiction. What it will not do is tell you what to write, give you markets, or put it all together and tell you what to write and how to write it for a specific market. That is your responsibility.
First off, decide what you want to write and, more importantly in non-fiction, what you are qualified to write about. Qualifications are important to a lot of non-fiction publishers; no degree or special experience, no reason for them to trust your information to be complete or accurate. Whether it’s fair or not, that seems to be the general trend. (On the other hand, some areas are relatively generic but I’m not going to get distracted talking about women’s magazines and that content.) The key thing you’ll want to think about is: Why you? What makes you uniquely qualified to write about this subject and makes your work better and distinct from all the other people who are also writing about it? Sometimes that means saying, “I have a doctorate in theoretical nuclear chemistry” and sometimes it means saying, “I can write about Cleveland because I have lived here for fifty years and seen the changes over time” but you should always be able to answer that questions. (In some cases, the answer might even be, “I think this subject is fascinating so I’ve researched it to death and I have a real passion for it.” That’s a good answer too although it might be a bit harder to sell.)
Having decided what to write, when do you write it? In fiction, unless you’re established as a writer, everything you do will be on speculation (i.e. total freelance). Non-fiction is not always that way. Non-fiction buys a lot of things on query. What order you do things in is up to you and your market but my suggestion would be to at least write a complete draft first. You may have to do a complete rewrite to fit the style guide of a specific publication later but that kind of thing is a lot easier than sitting down and writing cold. (My lovely wife disagrees and advises to query first. If you’re a regular reader, you already know whose advice counts for more.)
In fiction, the cover letter is almost irrelevant to a submission; in non-fiction, it is the main selling point. One of the things you should have picked up from the how-to books is how to write a cover letter and query for non-fiction. I know it seems out of order, but I would suggest that you should be able to put your proposal into a query (or abstract) before you even start looking for markets. Otherwise, you may not have a clear enough grasp of what you’re selling to place it effectively.
Finally, markets. I put this off until last because it’s a big subject but it is not necessarily the last thing you want to consider. You might want to look at markets first to get a feel for what is out there and then go back to actually writing the article or book. Like with query letters, I’m not much help here; this isn’t my area and everyone works differently. But I can tell you that if you’re interested enough in a non-fiction topic to want to write it then you probably have books and magazines about it already handy around the house. Some magazines include a thumbnail of their submission guidelines. Most don’t but will, in turn, have them on the publisher’s website. If not there, then you can search the internet for terms like “non-fiction market listings” or “Magazine name submission guidelines”. The be-all end-all of market listings for everything is the LMP, the Literary Market Place. Your library should have one. (If they don’t, they should be able to get it for you through inter-library loan. If no place in your library system has it, then yell at the thieving buggers and tell them to stop wasting your tax money on bloody paranormal romance and cookbooks and provide the blasted service they were created for. Feel free to add your own expletives as seems appropriate.) The reason I insist on getting access to the LMP through your library is that it is expensive and you need an up-to-date copy. Once you’ve got the LMP in hand, you can find almost any market for any thing. Tailor your query (or full submission) to the publisher’s guidelines and good luck to you.
As an afterward, let me mention corporate work and work-for-hire. This is when a company hires you to write stuff for them, anything from the employee handbook to a company newsletter to the operating manual for their software. You may hear people who write this kind of thing called “technical writers” and, for this kind of work, you need to deal with the company directly since you are basically saying, “Here am I, a writer. Pay me and tell me what to write.” You get this kind of work much like you do any other job: convince the person hiring that you’re the one for them, and then work from their specs with their people. Usually, they will want a local person or someone already affiliated in some way with the company. It’s not glamorous but it’s good work (and better pay) if you can get it.
Some key references:
The Literary Market Place
Writing for Dollars by John McCollister
The Thorncroft Learning Center Workshop: The Business of Writing (I believe one of these workshops is due to be held in Missouri sometime around the end of November.)
Compared to fiction, non-fiction is all good news. The pay is better, the markets are more abundant, and there are plenty of books in most libraries. I don’t think the libraries planned to emphasize non-fiction in their selection of books on writing and formatting; it just happens that most people who write those books freely mix fiction and non-fiction information, and non-fiction is easier to talk about in generalities. So, stop number one: local library and you should be able to find a good stock of books on format, style, etc. The internet is also full of references (search terms like “writing non-fiction”, “formatting non-fiction”, “non-fiction footnote endnotes”, etc.) Also take this time to research your competition. See what’s already on the shelves and who is publishing what you want to write.
This information will give you a general over-view of the different techniques used in non-fiction. What it will not do is tell you what to write, give you markets, or put it all together and tell you what to write and how to write it for a specific market. That is your responsibility.
First off, decide what you want to write and, more importantly in non-fiction, what you are qualified to write about. Qualifications are important to a lot of non-fiction publishers; no degree or special experience, no reason for them to trust your information to be complete or accurate. Whether it’s fair or not, that seems to be the general trend. (On the other hand, some areas are relatively generic but I’m not going to get distracted talking about women’s magazines and that content.) The key thing you’ll want to think about is: Why you? What makes you uniquely qualified to write about this subject and makes your work better and distinct from all the other people who are also writing about it? Sometimes that means saying, “I have a doctorate in theoretical nuclear chemistry” and sometimes it means saying, “I can write about Cleveland because I have lived here for fifty years and seen the changes over time” but you should always be able to answer that questions. (In some cases, the answer might even be, “I think this subject is fascinating so I’ve researched it to death and I have a real passion for it.” That’s a good answer too although it might be a bit harder to sell.)
Having decided what to write, when do you write it? In fiction, unless you’re established as a writer, everything you do will be on speculation (i.e. total freelance). Non-fiction is not always that way. Non-fiction buys a lot of things on query. What order you do things in is up to you and your market but my suggestion would be to at least write a complete draft first. You may have to do a complete rewrite to fit the style guide of a specific publication later but that kind of thing is a lot easier than sitting down and writing cold. (My lovely wife disagrees and advises to query first. If you’re a regular reader, you already know whose advice counts for more.)
In fiction, the cover letter is almost irrelevant to a submission; in non-fiction, it is the main selling point. One of the things you should have picked up from the how-to books is how to write a cover letter and query for non-fiction. I know it seems out of order, but I would suggest that you should be able to put your proposal into a query (or abstract) before you even start looking for markets. Otherwise, you may not have a clear enough grasp of what you’re selling to place it effectively.
Finally, markets. I put this off until last because it’s a big subject but it is not necessarily the last thing you want to consider. You might want to look at markets first to get a feel for what is out there and then go back to actually writing the article or book. Like with query letters, I’m not much help here; this isn’t my area and everyone works differently. But I can tell you that if you’re interested enough in a non-fiction topic to want to write it then you probably have books and magazines about it already handy around the house. Some magazines include a thumbnail of their submission guidelines. Most don’t but will, in turn, have them on the publisher’s website. If not there, then you can search the internet for terms like “non-fiction market listings” or “Magazine name submission guidelines”. The be-all end-all of market listings for everything is the LMP, the Literary Market Place. Your library should have one. (If they don’t, they should be able to get it for you through inter-library loan. If no place in your library system has it, then yell at the thieving buggers and tell them to stop wasting your tax money on bloody paranormal romance and cookbooks and provide the blasted service they were created for. Feel free to add your own expletives as seems appropriate.) The reason I insist on getting access to the LMP through your library is that it is expensive and you need an up-to-date copy. Once you’ve got the LMP in hand, you can find almost any market for any thing. Tailor your query (or full submission) to the publisher’s guidelines and good luck to you.
As an afterward, let me mention corporate work and work-for-hire. This is when a company hires you to write stuff for them, anything from the employee handbook to a company newsletter to the operating manual for their software. You may hear people who write this kind of thing called “technical writers” and, for this kind of work, you need to deal with the company directly since you are basically saying, “Here am I, a writer. Pay me and tell me what to write.” You get this kind of work much like you do any other job: convince the person hiring that you’re the one for them, and then work from their specs with their people. Usually, they will want a local person or someone already affiliated in some way with the company. It’s not glamorous but it’s good work (and better pay) if you can get it.
Some key references:
The Literary Market Place
Writing for Dollars by John McCollister
The Thorncroft Learning Center Workshop: The Business of Writing (I believe one of these workshops is due to be held in Missouri sometime around the end of November.)
Friday, October 29, 2010
How do your favorite writers maintain tension in books where physical action and danger are delayed from the start of the book?
The book I’m working on now has what I see as a problem and I’m not sure how to fix it. Simply put, the driving tension of the book doesn’t become clear until we’re a few chapters in but I want the book to have a fast, strong start.
Normally, physical action and danger (to the characters and to other people) drive my books from the beginning. In this one, the danger is there but they don’t know about it yet so the main characters are investigating the mysteries facing them at a less than frantic pace. Realistic, but not, I think, really grabbing for the reader.
I’d like to look at how other authors have handled this kind of situation before and I’m looking for suggestions on who you have read that you think has done this kind of thing well.
Normally, physical action and danger (to the characters and to other people) drive my books from the beginning. In this one, the danger is there but they don’t know about it yet so the main characters are investigating the mysteries facing them at a less than frantic pace. Realistic, but not, I think, really grabbing for the reader.
I’d like to look at how other authors have handled this kind of situation before and I’m looking for suggestions on who you have read that you think has done this kind of thing well.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Conclave and a Review of Calamity's Child
I am home, safe and mostly sound, from Conclave and I will, eventually talk about the convention (I've finally given up on trying to do full convention reports since I still haven't even talked about Conclave from last year). In short, the convention and all the people there were wonderful and if there was a weak link, it was me. Because I'm having even worse than usual health problems, I was heavily medicated and tired. I don't feel like I gave the people who attended the writing workshop the attention, energy, and extended feedback that they deserved and for that I apologize. Fortunately, they know that they can always follow up with me by email later for as long as they need. (You guys do know that, right?)
I would also like to point to a review I found sitting in my in-box when I returned from the convention that made me happy and inflated my already dangerously large ego. The review is of Calamity's Child and it's over at http://christianscifiandfantasyreview.webs.com/ . (Hope that link posts in correctly.) I'm always happy when people feel my books were worth their time and money.
Thank you to everyone and I'm off to get more sleep.
MKeaton
PS: I know that my "interweb pressence" is woefully short of what is considered normal these days. We are taking some steps and bringing in some additional staff to address this and we'll be talking about it on the blog shortly. One of the things I want to do is to give you, my readers, what you actually want rather than try to follow the prevailing paradigms because "that's what is done and that's what markets" so don't be surprised when I start asking questions. Thank you again.
I would also like to point to a review I found sitting in my in-box when I returned from the convention that made me happy and inflated my already dangerously large ego. The review is of Calamity's Child and it's over at http://christianscifiandfantasyreview.webs.com/ . (Hope that link posts in correctly.) I'm always happy when people feel my books were worth their time and money.
Thank you to everyone and I'm off to get more sleep.
MKeaton
PS: I know that my "interweb pressence" is woefully short of what is considered normal these days. We are taking some steps and bringing in some additional staff to address this and we'll be talking about it on the blog shortly. One of the things I want to do is to give you, my readers, what you actually want rather than try to follow the prevailing paradigms because "that's what is done and that's what markets" so don't be surprised when I start asking questions. Thank you again.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
New Book: Dreams of Steam
Why yes, I am in this anthology. And it's out now. Go to your bookstore and ask for a copy (or order on line if you'd rather.)
Friday, August 27, 2010
Bookdrive update
Just to let everyone interested know, the first 15 boxes of books shipped out today for the military. (I perfer not to say where; I probably could but I'm unsure and not taking any chances.)
I promised to let you know the mechanics involved so here was today. Get requests and fill boxes according to type of books and magazines desired. Fill out customs forms and also write the addresses on the lids of the boxes themselves (in case the customs forms get knocked off in shipping, the Post Office likes when you do that). Drive 15 big ol' boxes to the Post Office and lug them in. Have them weighed and customs forms stamped and fastened on top. (This is like shipping a bunch of Christmas presents or any other sending of a passel of big boxes all at once. You block up the line and there's a lot of lifting so try to pick a time when the PO isn't busy and warn them in advance that you're coming if you can.) Pay big money (in this case, 15 boxes was just under $400). And that's it. Packages away and hopefully they'll arrive safe and sound (use lots of tape on the boxes to hold them together, just in case).
Now I start boxing up the next round.
MK
(Special thanks to Ron and Kimba Wilson and Glenn and Jo Ann Keaton who donated postage to help cover the costs.)
I promised to let you know the mechanics involved so here was today. Get requests and fill boxes according to type of books and magazines desired. Fill out customs forms and also write the addresses on the lids of the boxes themselves (in case the customs forms get knocked off in shipping, the Post Office likes when you do that). Drive 15 big ol' boxes to the Post Office and lug them in. Have them weighed and customs forms stamped and fastened on top. (This is like shipping a bunch of Christmas presents or any other sending of a passel of big boxes all at once. You block up the line and there's a lot of lifting so try to pick a time when the PO isn't busy and warn them in advance that you're coming if you can.) Pay big money (in this case, 15 boxes was just under $400). And that's it. Packages away and hopefully they'll arrive safe and sound (use lots of tape on the boxes to hold them together, just in case).
Now I start boxing up the next round.
MK
(Special thanks to Ron and Kimba Wilson and Glenn and Jo Ann Keaton who donated postage to help cover the costs.)
Friday, August 20, 2010
Basic Update--A whining day
Crazy, frustrating times. "Calamity's Child"'s publisher has vanished into the ether so I have no idea what's going on with the promotion and distribution of the book.
Been sorting books for the book drive and will have the first 15 boxes or so going out in the next week. (more on that when it happens)
And I need geek services. With internet only through my long-suffering library, I keep coming back to the conviction that there has to be a cheap, simple way to get net access even though I live without cable access or a telephone line. Cell phone towers are up and I can even get 'net through my phone (though expensive and little bitty). So, how do people off-grid get the net? There's got to be a way and I think I'm just a little to luddite to know the latest tech. (Suggestions appreciated.)
That's all I got. I ain't dead; I'm just really tired and over half-way done with a book I don't even know if the publisher still wants or not.
Sorry for whining. Some days complaints are all there is for news and it's been too long since I updated.
Been sorting books for the book drive and will have the first 15 boxes or so going out in the next week. (more on that when it happens)
And I need geek services. With internet only through my long-suffering library, I keep coming back to the conviction that there has to be a cheap, simple way to get net access even though I live without cable access or a telephone line. Cell phone towers are up and I can even get 'net through my phone (though expensive and little bitty). So, how do people off-grid get the net? There's got to be a way and I think I'm just a little to luddite to know the latest tech. (Suggestions appreciated.)
That's all I got. I ain't dead; I'm just really tired and over half-way done with a book I don't even know if the publisher still wants or not.
Sorry for whining. Some days complaints are all there is for news and it's been too long since I updated.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Quantum Irrationality (100th post)
Quantum Irrationality
I’ve seen such a plethora of new-age-hippie-self-help-guru-pat-the-bunny-fuzzy-logic pap that tries to combine the old “rub your tantric chakras together for fun and profit” with a scientific patina of “deliberately misunderstand Quantum Mechanics and Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle” that I decided I should get in on the gravy train before the rubes got a clue and it was time for the charlatans to go on the lam (fat chance of that). Look for me on Oprah soon!
The underlying premise of these books is to take a really weak understanding of Quantum Physics and apply it to philosophy (preferably, a pet philosophy you already have lying around and like to use to impress the dames). So, without further ado, I present to you:
Quantum Irrationality, a New Breakthrough in the Study of the Mind and Retroactive Self-Justification
As we all know, Heisenberg worked with the Ancient Maya developed what is now commonly called the Uncertainty Principle. This principle states, in essence, that the act of observing an object alters the properties of said object. Specifically, observing position alters velocity, observing velocity alters location, and in a stunning revelation location is roughly interchangeable with position so long as the switch is not observed. The Secret Government does not want you to have this information but, these rediscoveries of ancient Lemurian truths are not just applicable to mechanistic objects but to your daily life. Quantum Irrationality (QI) can enhance your spiritual well-being and lead you to a higher understanding of the world around and into an advanced state of mental awareness. In addition, this final step in the evolution of the human consciousness will also guarantee you financial prosperity, less stress, regular and fulfilling bowel movements, and mind-blowing multi-orgasmic sex. [Warning: Repeated applications of multi-orgasmic sex may result in accidental tantric trans-dimensional translation.]
Chances are, you have already experienced QI in your own life. It is common knowledge that the more people you have looking for an object, the faster it can be found—frequently in a location you have already searched. This is because when you, as a singular observer, attempted to discern the position of the object, by observing it, you altered its velocity thereby causing it to move away from your gaze. But when multiple observers were employed, the overlapping field of energies generated by the group synchronicity created a pattern of “strange attractors” that glued the lost object into place. Once you understand, it’s that easy. With an understanding of QI supplemented by the liberal application of herbal attenuators, the key to the mysteries of the universe are yours to command.
The most significant recent development in the study of QI was the discovery in the Fifty-Second Veda of the Eddaic Groomba of Bohr that since observation alters, it is possible to become aware of the properties of an object by a studied program of apathy. If one does not care about the properties of an object, eventually one of these datum, either location or velocity, will project itself into your conscious or subconscious mind—an “end-around” of the Uncertainty Principle! Think, in your own life, how often have you been sitting in the comfortable Zen bliss of mindless television-based meditation when suddenly you “remember” that you have a tasty piece of chocolate cake just sitting in the refrigerator? This is Bohr’s Apathy and QI at work. Sadly, once you remember the cake, you become interested in its location and are doomed therefore to impart it with velocity thereby making it impossible to actually find the cake when you look for it but this is a minor detail that later QI studies will most certainly hammer out (another good reason to subscribe to our QI newsletter).
You have probably noticed that the longer you stare at an attractive member of the opposite sex, the faster they move away from you. You’ve been making a classic QI mistake in your approach to mating. By observing position, you have imparted velocity. Now that you know better, employ the reverse. Grab him or her and impart a velocity (such as toward your waiting van in the parking lot) and you will have achieved control over position! Further in you have equipped your transcendence van with a GPS monitor, the Global Positioning System will constantly observe your position, imparting additional velocity to your van when the Secret Government attempts to intervene in your attempts to initiate your new acolyte into the mysteries of Quantum Irrationality.
Though we can’t give away the entire secrets of Atlantis, Lemuria, and New Jersey blindly on the internet, we can, through covert hints with shady characters and a six-figure book deal eventually lead you to a full understanding of QI. But time is short, the world will end in November of 2012. (You may have heard that the actual date predicted by the Maya is in December but this is disinformation propagated by the military-industrial complex to prevent public panic before their own operatives can use the wonders of QI to frame the new coming world-age into their own twisted image. Don’t be fooled.)
Not since ancient astronauts brought the technology of “chittlings” (know to the ancient Aztecs as Citlz), has a discovery offered such potential for abuse and profit. The ability to force world peace and impose your mental dominion over the planet to bring about freedom via the alignment of your chakras and your happy benevolent thoughts of tolerance of all non-intolerable beliefs lies within your grasp.
To save the future, you must act now, flooding the newly-founded QI Institute for Unlimited Internet and Television Appearances and a Big Fat Book Deal with money and support! QIIUIT (ABFBD) needs your help.
I’ve seen such a plethora of new-age-hippie-self-help-guru-pat-the-bunny-fuzzy-logic pap that tries to combine the old “rub your tantric chakras together for fun and profit” with a scientific patina of “deliberately misunderstand Quantum Mechanics and Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle” that I decided I should get in on the gravy train before the rubes got a clue and it was time for the charlatans to go on the lam (fat chance of that). Look for me on Oprah soon!
The underlying premise of these books is to take a really weak understanding of Quantum Physics and apply it to philosophy (preferably, a pet philosophy you already have lying around and like to use to impress the dames). So, without further ado, I present to you:
Quantum Irrationality, a New Breakthrough in the Study of the Mind and Retroactive Self-Justification
As we all know, Heisenberg worked with the Ancient Maya developed what is now commonly called the Uncertainty Principle. This principle states, in essence, that the act of observing an object alters the properties of said object. Specifically, observing position alters velocity, observing velocity alters location, and in a stunning revelation location is roughly interchangeable with position so long as the switch is not observed. The Secret Government does not want you to have this information but, these rediscoveries of ancient Lemurian truths are not just applicable to mechanistic objects but to your daily life. Quantum Irrationality (QI) can enhance your spiritual well-being and lead you to a higher understanding of the world around and into an advanced state of mental awareness. In addition, this final step in the evolution of the human consciousness will also guarantee you financial prosperity, less stress, regular and fulfilling bowel movements, and mind-blowing multi-orgasmic sex. [Warning: Repeated applications of multi-orgasmic sex may result in accidental tantric trans-dimensional translation.]
Chances are, you have already experienced QI in your own life. It is common knowledge that the more people you have looking for an object, the faster it can be found—frequently in a location you have already searched. This is because when you, as a singular observer, attempted to discern the position of the object, by observing it, you altered its velocity thereby causing it to move away from your gaze. But when multiple observers were employed, the overlapping field of energies generated by the group synchronicity created a pattern of “strange attractors” that glued the lost object into place. Once you understand, it’s that easy. With an understanding of QI supplemented by the liberal application of herbal attenuators, the key to the mysteries of the universe are yours to command.
The most significant recent development in the study of QI was the discovery in the Fifty-Second Veda of the Eddaic Groomba of Bohr that since observation alters, it is possible to become aware of the properties of an object by a studied program of apathy. If one does not care about the properties of an object, eventually one of these datum, either location or velocity, will project itself into your conscious or subconscious mind—an “end-around” of the Uncertainty Principle! Think, in your own life, how often have you been sitting in the comfortable Zen bliss of mindless television-based meditation when suddenly you “remember” that you have a tasty piece of chocolate cake just sitting in the refrigerator? This is Bohr’s Apathy and QI at work. Sadly, once you remember the cake, you become interested in its location and are doomed therefore to impart it with velocity thereby making it impossible to actually find the cake when you look for it but this is a minor detail that later QI studies will most certainly hammer out (another good reason to subscribe to our QI newsletter).
You have probably noticed that the longer you stare at an attractive member of the opposite sex, the faster they move away from you. You’ve been making a classic QI mistake in your approach to mating. By observing position, you have imparted velocity. Now that you know better, employ the reverse. Grab him or her and impart a velocity (such as toward your waiting van in the parking lot) and you will have achieved control over position! Further in you have equipped your transcendence van with a GPS monitor, the Global Positioning System will constantly observe your position, imparting additional velocity to your van when the Secret Government attempts to intervene in your attempts to initiate your new acolyte into the mysteries of Quantum Irrationality.
Though we can’t give away the entire secrets of Atlantis, Lemuria, and New Jersey blindly on the internet, we can, through covert hints with shady characters and a six-figure book deal eventually lead you to a full understanding of QI. But time is short, the world will end in November of 2012. (You may have heard that the actual date predicted by the Maya is in December but this is disinformation propagated by the military-industrial complex to prevent public panic before their own operatives can use the wonders of QI to frame the new coming world-age into their own twisted image. Don’t be fooled.)
Not since ancient astronauts brought the technology of “chittlings” (know to the ancient Aztecs as Citlz), has a discovery offered such potential for abuse and profit. The ability to force world peace and impose your mental dominion over the planet to bring about freedom via the alignment of your chakras and your happy benevolent thoughts of tolerance of all non-intolerable beliefs lies within your grasp.
To save the future, you must act now, flooding the newly-founded QI Institute for Unlimited Internet and Television Appearances and a Big Fat Book Deal with money and support! QIIUIT (ABFBD) needs your help.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Book Drive Update
The response to the book drive was considerably better than what the bookstore staff had expected and, honestly, a bit above my own expectations as well. I would estimate that we're going to be sending out about the same number of boxes as we did after the ConClave book drive--about 40 boxes or so. I've been sorting through the books to get some idea of the types and it is interesting to see the difference between the two drives. ConClave was heavy in paperback classic sci-fi and fantasy (not a surprise) while this drive is largely newer, hardback popular fiction. But, and this is a huge bonus, there are a lot of westerns (very popular). I even saw a few familys come into the bookstore with their children to buy books expressly for the book drive. Thank you especially for that. I also learned from the staff at Hastings that someone had conducted their own drive at their place of work and then dropped the books off at the store before I got there on Saturday. I never even got to see this paerson and yet they made a huge contribution to the drive. Thank you and everyone you work with (and feel free to post and let me know who and where).
So, where does that leave the drive itself? The short answer is, now I look for group requests over at BooksforSoldiers that match the types of books recieved, box up the books for shipping, fill out the customs forms, and start sending them out. That's going to go a lot slower than I'd like and it will probably take a few months before they're all sent. Why? Well, for one thing, my available manpower is limited and another is the sheer volume of donations exceeded what we were ready to handle. But the other thing that will slow the process is that while the good, literate people of the Ozarks and the staff at Hastings did a good job in getting the word out and the books in, our appeals for corporate supporters was met with an unusual deafening silence. Maybe it's the economy or maybe it's that the war isn't a "sexy, marketable" cause these days or maybe it's just bad timing but the end result is, I'm financing the postage myself. I'm not complaining because I always plan on that but it does mean that I can't ship everything all at once.
Some of you may wonder how much it costs to send a box of books. I use boxes that are about the size of a case of paper for each requests and, since it's all books, I'm able to mail it all media rate. That puts the cost per box at about 20 dollars. All in all a really good rate because these boxes are heavy. For those who don't know, by the way, APO and FPO addresses are considered domestic for postal rates so that helps as well.
Filling out customs forms sounds a lot scarier than it actually is. I simply go down to the post office in little Hindsville Arkansas, tell the Post Mistress what I'm sending out and she hands me the forms I need (you can also download them off the web). You fill out your name and address and then where it's going (the form also acts as a mailing label) check a few boxes to answer some basic handling questions (Like, if the person it's adressed to isn't there anymore, should the box be returned, thrown away, or left with the current resident--obviously since the military folks rotate in and out, I always check leave with resident), and finally, there's a section that says "What's in here?" and the answer is "Books" and a rough estimate of the number. Easy.
You may ask, "Can I sponsor a box or two?" and the answer is "Well, yes, I feel uncomfortable taking your money but give it go me and I'll pay the postman." But don't worry about that, just be patient and I'll keep updating everyone as the boxes go out.
Since I've been sick for the last week and the heat is horrid here (and no AC in the storage building with the books) I would estimate that the first wave of shipments will go out around the middle of June and nearing July, hopefully to arrive around the holiday.
So, where does that leave the drive itself? The short answer is, now I look for group requests over at BooksforSoldiers that match the types of books recieved, box up the books for shipping, fill out the customs forms, and start sending them out. That's going to go a lot slower than I'd like and it will probably take a few months before they're all sent. Why? Well, for one thing, my available manpower is limited and another is the sheer volume of donations exceeded what we were ready to handle. But the other thing that will slow the process is that while the good, literate people of the Ozarks and the staff at Hastings did a good job in getting the word out and the books in, our appeals for corporate supporters was met with an unusual deafening silence. Maybe it's the economy or maybe it's that the war isn't a "sexy, marketable" cause these days or maybe it's just bad timing but the end result is, I'm financing the postage myself. I'm not complaining because I always plan on that but it does mean that I can't ship everything all at once.
Some of you may wonder how much it costs to send a box of books. I use boxes that are about the size of a case of paper for each requests and, since it's all books, I'm able to mail it all media rate. That puts the cost per box at about 20 dollars. All in all a really good rate because these boxes are heavy. For those who don't know, by the way, APO and FPO addresses are considered domestic for postal rates so that helps as well.
Filling out customs forms sounds a lot scarier than it actually is. I simply go down to the post office in little Hindsville Arkansas, tell the Post Mistress what I'm sending out and she hands me the forms I need (you can also download them off the web). You fill out your name and address and then where it's going (the form also acts as a mailing label) check a few boxes to answer some basic handling questions (Like, if the person it's adressed to isn't there anymore, should the box be returned, thrown away, or left with the current resident--obviously since the military folks rotate in and out, I always check leave with resident), and finally, there's a section that says "What's in here?" and the answer is "Books" and a rough estimate of the number. Easy.
You may ask, "Can I sponsor a box or two?" and the answer is "Well, yes, I feel uncomfortable taking your money but give it go me and I'll pay the postman." But don't worry about that, just be patient and I'll keep updating everyone as the boxes go out.
Since I've been sick for the last week and the heat is horrid here (and no AC in the storage building with the books) I would estimate that the first wave of shipments will go out around the middle of June and nearing July, hopefully to arrive around the holiday.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Book Drive Info
Okay, today is the book drive and I'm setting at a table in Hasting trying (and failing) to be charming and congenial. Since not everyone can do a book drive or might want to do it differently than me, I'm going to give you just a few of the places you can go and look to find more information on how to donate, write letters, send care packages, etc.
BOOKSFORSOLDRS.COM (My #1 go-to people since they handle individual and group requests)
Nmam.org (National Military Appreciation Month and they also link to a lot of other useful places)
Militarymoms.net
Warletters.com
USO.org
Operationmilitarypride.org (another favortite of mine)
And of course, someone around here will eventually answer any questions you email in if we can help. In fact, I think we even have a brocheure (or however you spell it) on what to put in a care package and the best ways to send them that we'll send out for a SASE (or maybe we can email the pdf, I don't know, the cat's dead and I don't know squat about all this interweb stuff but I'm sure it'll get sorted out once it gets here, just be patient.)
So, now we see how it goes.
BOOKSFORSOLDRS.COM (My #1 go-to people since they handle individual and group requests)
Nmam.org (National Military Appreciation Month and they also link to a lot of other useful places)
Militarymoms.net
Warletters.com
USO.org
Operationmilitarypride.org (another favortite of mine)
And of course, someone around here will eventually answer any questions you email in if we can help. In fact, I think we even have a brocheure (or however you spell it) on what to put in a care package and the best ways to send them that we'll send out for a SASE (or maybe we can email the pdf, I don't know, the cat's dead and I don't know squat about all this interweb stuff but I'm sure it'll get sorted out once it gets here, just be patient.)
So, now we see how it goes.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Book Drive Info
I've had enough questions about doing book drives (and other charity work) for the military that I thought this current drive would be a good idea to walk through the steps of how I do it. Note, this is how I do it; not how it should be done or the only way to do it or even the best way to do it.
Let's start where I am right now. I've partnered with a local bookstore for this drive to increase visibility and give people a reliable drop-off point. In preparing for this, I've spent about 200 bucks in printing posters, direct mailings, and other advertising kinds of things to make sure people know about it. Honestly, you don't have to go to all that trouble. I just happen to have enough interested people in the area that it's a justified expense. (I also include a signed copy of one of my books in each box of books that we send out dedicated to the person who made the request for books for the rest of their squad. It's an additional cost and not one that the average person will incur but, well, it's what I like to do.)
Also to increase visibility, I've sent a press release to the major news stations and papers in the area. (An aside: Thank you NWA Star Shopper--I think that's the biggest ad I've ever had donated and I'm very appreciative.) Finally, I've hit up the various publishers and local authors I know to see if they want to help.
Basically, to get read for the book drive itself, I've made sure that I can get the word out that it's happening every way I can think of.
Does that mean it will succeed? Who knows. That part is out of my hands and up to the local people. I can say that, even though the book drive isn't until Saturday, I've already got two boxes of books at my place that have been donated in advance, the bookstore (Hastings in Springdale Arkansas) has told me they already have a stack that people have been bringing in, and Alan Gilbreath at Kerlack publishing has offered to help make up any shortfall I have.
From here, we get boxes ready and wait.
Some people might want to go ahead and get together their requests and adresses that they're going to send books to. I used to but I don't anymore; now I wait until I've got the books. Reason is, I use the fine people at Books For Soldiers (booksforsoldier.com) to provide me with requesters and adresses and I've found that it's easier to match requests and boxes of books up after I know what I have to work with. That's up to you. I know it saves a lot of time if you start filling out customs forms, etc. in advance but I've done this often enough that I feel comfortable waiting.
Let's start where I am right now. I've partnered with a local bookstore for this drive to increase visibility and give people a reliable drop-off point. In preparing for this, I've spent about 200 bucks in printing posters, direct mailings, and other advertising kinds of things to make sure people know about it. Honestly, you don't have to go to all that trouble. I just happen to have enough interested people in the area that it's a justified expense. (I also include a signed copy of one of my books in each box of books that we send out dedicated to the person who made the request for books for the rest of their squad. It's an additional cost and not one that the average person will incur but, well, it's what I like to do.)
Also to increase visibility, I've sent a press release to the major news stations and papers in the area. (An aside: Thank you NWA Star Shopper--I think that's the biggest ad I've ever had donated and I'm very appreciative.) Finally, I've hit up the various publishers and local authors I know to see if they want to help.
Basically, to get read for the book drive itself, I've made sure that I can get the word out that it's happening every way I can think of.
Does that mean it will succeed? Who knows. That part is out of my hands and up to the local people. I can say that, even though the book drive isn't until Saturday, I've already got two boxes of books at my place that have been donated in advance, the bookstore (Hastings in Springdale Arkansas) has told me they already have a stack that people have been bringing in, and Alan Gilbreath at Kerlack publishing has offered to help make up any shortfall I have.
From here, we get boxes ready and wait.
Some people might want to go ahead and get together their requests and adresses that they're going to send books to. I used to but I don't anymore; now I wait until I've got the books. Reason is, I use the fine people at Books For Soldiers (booksforsoldier.com) to provide me with requesters and adresses and I've found that it's easier to match requests and boxes of books up after I know what I have to work with. That's up to you. I know it saves a lot of time if you start filling out customs forms, etc. in advance but I've done this often enough that I feel comfortable waiting.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Status Update
I've had several people wondering just what the heck is going on in my personal life (vis a vis moving et. al.). Well, let me try to bring it current but it's a mess.
Dad's got six acres, I have two. They're adjacent and, for logistics sake, it was decided that we'd bring Dad's functional before I started on mine. So, we have electricity to the front six and a road. Drilled a well (five-hundred feet and sulfur water-dammit). Finally, installed a septic system. Right now I'm living out of a travel trailer sitting on the front six getting ready to go to work on mine. Should have electricity run back to the back within a week or two and then I'll be out of money. Running water to the back from the well and putting in septic will run around four grand and that has to be done before I can move the trailer back...and that's all before I can start building a house.
In between, I have to write about twenty books and coordinate the May book drive. If you want to see me do many public appearances and travelling this year, I humbly suggest you feed the cat.
Hopefully, that catches everyone up.
Dad's got six acres, I have two. They're adjacent and, for logistics sake, it was decided that we'd bring Dad's functional before I started on mine. So, we have electricity to the front six and a road. Drilled a well (five-hundred feet and sulfur water-dammit). Finally, installed a septic system. Right now I'm living out of a travel trailer sitting on the front six getting ready to go to work on mine. Should have electricity run back to the back within a week or two and then I'll be out of money. Running water to the back from the well and putting in septic will run around four grand and that has to be done before I can move the trailer back...and that's all before I can start building a house.
In between, I have to write about twenty books and coordinate the May book drive. If you want to see me do many public appearances and travelling this year, I humbly suggest you feed the cat.
Hopefully, that catches everyone up.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Military Appreciation Month and Book Drive
May is Military Appreciation Month, a time to honor and remember the men and women who serve our country and keep it safe. On May 22, Hastings in conjunction with local author M. Keaton are hosting a drive to collect new and gently used books to be shipped to our troops. Donations may be dropped off at the store. It’s as simple as that—you bring in the books and someone else will take care of sorting and shipping. Clean up your cluttered book shelves at home or buy new books at the store, either way this is a great opportunity for everyone in the Northwest Arkansas region to show their support and give a little something back to those who give so much for all of us. (Worried about what books you can donate? Common sense rules apply. No propaganda or overtly religious books or tracts and, by request of the troops, no romance.)
Monday, March 8, 2010
MidSouthCon this Weekend
Once again I take to the road. I'm off to MidSouthCon in Memphis, TN. (Actually, just south of Memphis but close enough.) If anyone happens to be in the area, I'd love to see you there, just come on up and say 'hi'.
MKeaton
MKeaton
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Global Warming
Normally, I try to avoid politics but this is a special case and a subject that I've been involved with for a long time.
I’ve been watching the science news patiently for the past year and I think it is now quite clear to anyone willing to consider the facts, the scientific support for the political fraud of global warming has collapsed. Glacieral data has been discredited, warming trends have been shown to not exist and the planetary temperature constant since the mid-nineties, and the unacceptable shredding of data to avoid Freedom of Information acts are only the most recent of the collapsing dominoes. Man-made global warming has been shown to be a hoax and the faked and “manipulated” data casts serious doubt on the premise of any global warming at all outside of the routine cyclic trends that occur naturally.
This has been something I’ve been fighting since the early 1990s when I began to work as an environmental scientist and learned that Freon was outlawed, not for any environmental or chemical reasons (despite the public propaganda) but because the exclusive patent had expired—or, if not, the timing was very suspicious and the ban counterproductive. (For those who doubt that it was counterproductive, I ask you to consider that, one the one hand, we have no proof that CFCs ever affected the ozone layer while, one the other, it is abundantly clear that the need to stop using the economical and compact Freon cooling systems and change to the more expensive and larger alternative systems significantly reduced the ability of the world’s aid organizations to distribute medicines to the third world.)
A decade of environmental analysis served only to strengthen my conviction that the science was flawed and yet, the amount of grief I had to endure from other (non-environmental non-climatologically) scientists and laymen was fascinating. Despite the mounting evidence to the contrary, such as the demonstration that increased levels of atmospheric carbon dioxide was a result of increased temperatures, not a cause, somehow I was a bad scientist and a luddite for rejecting what was, from the first, a political rather than scientific dogma.
And now the hoax is falling completely to pieces. Certainly, the religious believers in global warming will ignore the facts and continue to hold to their belief but it’s time for science to move on with data rather than bias. For my own part, I am currently accepting apologies and promise to try not to mock those who fell for the con game too harshly.
I’ve been watching the science news patiently for the past year and I think it is now quite clear to anyone willing to consider the facts, the scientific support for the political fraud of global warming has collapsed. Glacieral data has been discredited, warming trends have been shown to not exist and the planetary temperature constant since the mid-nineties, and the unacceptable shredding of data to avoid Freedom of Information acts are only the most recent of the collapsing dominoes. Man-made global warming has been shown to be a hoax and the faked and “manipulated” data casts serious doubt on the premise of any global warming at all outside of the routine cyclic trends that occur naturally.
This has been something I’ve been fighting since the early 1990s when I began to work as an environmental scientist and learned that Freon was outlawed, not for any environmental or chemical reasons (despite the public propaganda) but because the exclusive patent had expired—or, if not, the timing was very suspicious and the ban counterproductive. (For those who doubt that it was counterproductive, I ask you to consider that, one the one hand, we have no proof that CFCs ever affected the ozone layer while, one the other, it is abundantly clear that the need to stop using the economical and compact Freon cooling systems and change to the more expensive and larger alternative systems significantly reduced the ability of the world’s aid organizations to distribute medicines to the third world.)
A decade of environmental analysis served only to strengthen my conviction that the science was flawed and yet, the amount of grief I had to endure from other (non-environmental non-climatologically) scientists and laymen was fascinating. Despite the mounting evidence to the contrary, such as the demonstration that increased levels of atmospheric carbon dioxide was a result of increased temperatures, not a cause, somehow I was a bad scientist and a luddite for rejecting what was, from the first, a political rather than scientific dogma.
And now the hoax is falling completely to pieces. Certainly, the religious believers in global warming will ignore the facts and continue to hold to their belief but it’s time for science to move on with data rather than bias. For my own part, I am currently accepting apologies and promise to try not to mock those who fell for the con game too harshly.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Okay, I'm nuts. Get over it.
Something happened the other day that illustrates some of the small difficulties in putting up with someone whose brain works the way mine does. It’s no secret that I’m “hyper-linear” and overly literal but it crops up in strange and often amusing ways. You see, there’s a commercial running on the radio that starts out “Men, are you having trouble urinating? Going more frequently? Waking up at night to urinate?” and then it goes on to promote a pill that will solve these problems. My response was, to me, perfectly reasonable. I looked to my good lady wife and said, “Why would anyone want to buy a pill that makes you wet the bed?”
She gave me a look. Not the dreaded The Look but a look, one of the useful stock that she keeps just for me. This was the look that says “Are you really that dumb or are you teasing me?” and, as always, the answer is “Yes, he’s that dumb.” She then proceeds to explain to me that this is a pill to reduce prostate swelling and that idea is the pill stops waking up by removing the need, not making you wet the bed. I’m quick to defend myself by pointing out that my interpretation is quite logical and my lovely bride is nice enough to concede that the commercial could have been phrased better.
The ugly fact is, this kind of thing is much more common than it should be. I’m sure neurotypicals will be quick to point out that the problem is in my mental function but I reject this explanation. Word mean thing and should be used with precision. (Although I will concede, sometimes the needle in my mental record jumps the groove.)
She gave me a look. Not the dreaded The Look but a look, one of the useful stock that she keeps just for me. This was the look that says “Are you really that dumb or are you teasing me?” and, as always, the answer is “Yes, he’s that dumb.” She then proceeds to explain to me that this is a pill to reduce prostate swelling and that idea is the pill stops waking up by removing the need, not making you wet the bed. I’m quick to defend myself by pointing out that my interpretation is quite logical and my lovely bride is nice enough to concede that the commercial could have been phrased better.
The ugly fact is, this kind of thing is much more common than it should be. I’m sure neurotypicals will be quick to point out that the problem is in my mental function but I reject this explanation. Word mean thing and should be used with precision. (Although I will concede, sometimes the needle in my mental record jumps the groove.)
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Random
I'm still in the process of moving so today I thought I'd clear up on of those small things that people get wrong (even in books) that really irritates me.
CHICKENS WILL LAY EGGS IRRESPECTIVE OF THE PRESENCE OF A ROOSTER!
Yes, it's a true, biological fact. Now, go thy way and write stupidness no more.
CHICKENS WILL LAY EGGS IRRESPECTIVE OF THE PRESENCE OF A ROOSTER!
Yes, it's a true, biological fact. Now, go thy way and write stupidness no more.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Booksigning
Assuming anyone is curious, the booksigning went well. I wish I had sold one more copy of "Calamity's Child" though. If I had, the store would have been sold out (including the extra stock they ordered in especially for the signing). Now if the book drive for the military goes half as well in May (at the same store) then all will be well. I'll post the details of that once we have them.
Let me just say a quick "thank you" to everyone who came out. I appreciate the support and I absolutely love when enough people show up for a book signing that it intimidates the store's management.
MK
Let me just say a quick "thank you" to everyone who came out. I appreciate the support and I absolutely love when enough people show up for a book signing that it intimidates the store's management.
MK
Monday, February 1, 2010
Bah, some storm. New signing date
We had a very bad storm--for a day. Just enough to delay the signing but not enough to knock out the power. (My water is frozen but that just means that it's a month that ends in Y or R.)
New date for the Arkansas Hastings signing is February 13th.
New date for the Arkansas Hastings signing is February 13th.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Words is his craft
I finished reading a book yesterday that was unremarkably bad, just one more bit of the mendacity that comprises modern “literature”. It did, however, contain a description that I thought was worth passing along for your consideration:
“Sheep dotted the hillside like wool.”
“Sheep dotted the hillside like wool.”
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Saturday Signing
Well, as anyone around here knows by now from the weather forcasts, we're supposed to have ice, snow, hail, and a cameo from at least one of the four horsemen this weekend (or we might just have a slow, drizzling rain--I don't trust weather forecasters that much). It looks very likely that the signing scheduled for this Saturday will be moved to next Saturday. If the weather is bad, stay home and be safe.
Also keep in mind that I'll be back at the same store in May (Military appreciation month) for signing and a military donation bookdrive so if you miss me this pass, I'll be back again in a few months for a really good cause.
MK
Also keep in mind that I'll be back at the same store in May (Military appreciation month) for signing and a military donation bookdrive so if you miss me this pass, I'll be back again in a few months for a really good cause.
MK
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Good Ol' Days
I’m doing most of my writing now from my laptop, which is annoying because the keyboard is so small. Now, I’m not on a netbook or any tiny toy like that, I’m on a normal laptop with a “full-sized” keyboard. Problem is, it’s a “full-sized” computer keyboard and it’s flat and jammed together.
I’m old. I know it, I’m happy with it, I embrace my antiquity. It just causes small problems on occasion. For example: People looking over at me in the library and saying “Dude, what’re you trying to kill it?” I learned to type during a different time, the age of typewriters (during the “fire good, wheel patent-pending” era for you youngsters). Back then, we had keys that were actual keys and you’d better slap ‘em hard if you wanted a clear result. We had manual typewriters and, I must explain for the children, a manual typewriter is basically a set of levers with woodcuts of letter on one end and you smash down the other. The woodcut flies up (hopefully) to smack on the back of a ribbon (the fancy technical term for “piece of cloth soaked in ink-usually in two colors just to be helpful). Imagine your wife’s scrap booking stamping kit but made of metal for use by men.
It was a different era, a golden time when we were taught to strike hard and to actually spread our fingers out because the keys had to be far enough away from each other to avoid tangling up as you went. It was a time when accuracy was more important than speed because mistakes were fatal. Well, not directly fatal but indirectly because the stress and extra work of trying to fix a typographical error in those days would lead a man to an early grave. There was no “file”, no electronic copy. There was the sheet of paper in the machine and the fourteen carbons behind it and you had to hit hard enough to carry the ink through them all. In theory there were a dozen different ways to fix errors, from poisonous paint to cover your error to little sheet covered in carcinogens that you could retype over. But none of them fixed the carbons—you had to do that one at a time—and they all came with their own complicated ways to mess things up even worse. No, there was only one true way to fix a problem: rip the paper out of the machine, crumple it up in a ball, throw it over your shoulder, and start again. A successful author was judged based on how many wads of paper surrounded his chair. We didn’t have word count, publishers ordered manuscripts by the pound. At the end of a hard day, you’d have to shove through the waist-high debris to get to the door. Most of us just slept at our desks until our publishers sent someone over with dig us out and get the finished manuscript. The original Hugo trophy was a snow shovel!
We went through the paper in those days, ten or twelve sheets tossed to the floor for every page of clean manuscript copy. And there was no email or electronic submissions, everything had to be done by hand—reams of paper sent to the far edges of the earth to be inspected by monastic orders who lived in the mountains of Tibet and read slush. More than a handful of rejections for a book and you’d have to become a best-seller just to cover the investment in postage.
It was no time for the weak. With no fancy interweb, we did our research the hard way; we lived it. We learned police procedure by starting bar fights and spending a night in the tank. Sure, we did ride-alongs with the cops—from the back seat. Want to understand military strategy? Saddle up and ride with Teddy off to find a war. We were hard men in hard time in a hard job. Hemmingway used to eat other authors just to keep his strength up!
It was a time when authors were respected. Well, no, but we were feared! Today, tell someone that you’re an author and they nod. “That’s nice. My cousin wrote a cookbook and…” (I’ve never heard the end of that sentence; I don’t have the attention span.) In the golden days, say you were an author and men gasped, mothers pulled their children in off the streets, and neighborhood petitions were passed urging the city fathers to pay you to leave town. We were paid in paper, ink, and whiskey. We ate what we could catch—leaves, tree bark, slow neighborhood dogs. Children would disappear only to be found days later by desperate relatives; wandering like miniature Dr. Zhivago’s, the tops of their heads barely visible above the great blowing drifts of wadded paper filling the house. Where authors went, bad things followed.
Fire was the worst. Working neck deep in dry paper, sweating alcohol, and smoking like a chimney fires were common. More than a few of the best authors of the past were victims of spontaneous combustion. Our only defense was coffee. In those days, coffee only came in two flavors: solid and sludge depending on how long the pot had been sitting on the radiator. We didn’t have fancy frapees or mocawhatsits or special mild blends of roasted beans; we had a black gruel of battery acid, cigarette ashes, and burnt bread crumbs dumped out of the toaster. With enough coffee, a man could become fireproof, like old leather or half-petrified wood.
It hurt, a good hurt, the kind of hurt that tells a man he’s alive and that death will only come as a favor we’re not good enough to earn. We had lungs full of smoke, blood full of alcohol, heads and hearts burning with passion for the craft, and terminal heartburn in our guts.
That’s the problem with kids today; no fire in their bellies.
I’m old. I know it, I’m happy with it, I embrace my antiquity. It just causes small problems on occasion. For example: People looking over at me in the library and saying “Dude, what’re you trying to kill it?” I learned to type during a different time, the age of typewriters (during the “fire good, wheel patent-pending” era for you youngsters). Back then, we had keys that were actual keys and you’d better slap ‘em hard if you wanted a clear result. We had manual typewriters and, I must explain for the children, a manual typewriter is basically a set of levers with woodcuts of letter on one end and you smash down the other. The woodcut flies up (hopefully) to smack on the back of a ribbon (the fancy technical term for “piece of cloth soaked in ink-usually in two colors just to be helpful). Imagine your wife’s scrap booking stamping kit but made of metal for use by men.
It was a different era, a golden time when we were taught to strike hard and to actually spread our fingers out because the keys had to be far enough away from each other to avoid tangling up as you went. It was a time when accuracy was more important than speed because mistakes were fatal. Well, not directly fatal but indirectly because the stress and extra work of trying to fix a typographical error in those days would lead a man to an early grave. There was no “file”, no electronic copy. There was the sheet of paper in the machine and the fourteen carbons behind it and you had to hit hard enough to carry the ink through them all. In theory there were a dozen different ways to fix errors, from poisonous paint to cover your error to little sheet covered in carcinogens that you could retype over. But none of them fixed the carbons—you had to do that one at a time—and they all came with their own complicated ways to mess things up even worse. No, there was only one true way to fix a problem: rip the paper out of the machine, crumple it up in a ball, throw it over your shoulder, and start again. A successful author was judged based on how many wads of paper surrounded his chair. We didn’t have word count, publishers ordered manuscripts by the pound. At the end of a hard day, you’d have to shove through the waist-high debris to get to the door. Most of us just slept at our desks until our publishers sent someone over with dig us out and get the finished manuscript. The original Hugo trophy was a snow shovel!
We went through the paper in those days, ten or twelve sheets tossed to the floor for every page of clean manuscript copy. And there was no email or electronic submissions, everything had to be done by hand—reams of paper sent to the far edges of the earth to be inspected by monastic orders who lived in the mountains of Tibet and read slush. More than a handful of rejections for a book and you’d have to become a best-seller just to cover the investment in postage.
It was no time for the weak. With no fancy interweb, we did our research the hard way; we lived it. We learned police procedure by starting bar fights and spending a night in the tank. Sure, we did ride-alongs with the cops—from the back seat. Want to understand military strategy? Saddle up and ride with Teddy off to find a war. We were hard men in hard time in a hard job. Hemmingway used to eat other authors just to keep his strength up!
It was a time when authors were respected. Well, no, but we were feared! Today, tell someone that you’re an author and they nod. “That’s nice. My cousin wrote a cookbook and…” (I’ve never heard the end of that sentence; I don’t have the attention span.) In the golden days, say you were an author and men gasped, mothers pulled their children in off the streets, and neighborhood petitions were passed urging the city fathers to pay you to leave town. We were paid in paper, ink, and whiskey. We ate what we could catch—leaves, tree bark, slow neighborhood dogs. Children would disappear only to be found days later by desperate relatives; wandering like miniature Dr. Zhivago’s, the tops of their heads barely visible above the great blowing drifts of wadded paper filling the house. Where authors went, bad things followed.
Fire was the worst. Working neck deep in dry paper, sweating alcohol, and smoking like a chimney fires were common. More than a few of the best authors of the past were victims of spontaneous combustion. Our only defense was coffee. In those days, coffee only came in two flavors: solid and sludge depending on how long the pot had been sitting on the radiator. We didn’t have fancy frapees or mocawhatsits or special mild blends of roasted beans; we had a black gruel of battery acid, cigarette ashes, and burnt bread crumbs dumped out of the toaster. With enough coffee, a man could become fireproof, like old leather or half-petrified wood.
It hurt, a good hurt, the kind of hurt that tells a man he’s alive and that death will only come as a favor we’re not good enough to earn. We had lungs full of smoke, blood full of alcohol, heads and hearts burning with passion for the craft, and terminal heartburn in our guts.
That’s the problem with kids today; no fire in their bellies.
Update
I said we might be off the air for a while. I underestimated “a while”. Without going into too much boring detail: still homeless and living out of a travel trailer, freezing, and working off the laptop. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was horribly frustrating at best and it’s even harder to work, especially since I spend a good portion of my day making sure the water doesn’t freeze and/or thawing out frozen pipes. So, the more promising news:
Book Signing:
Hastings in Springdale AR
January 30
1-4pm.
And I’ve been invited back to MidSouth Con.
Oh, and we have a new kitten but I’m inclined to file that under “bad things”.
Book Signing:
Hastings in Springdale AR
January 30
1-4pm.
And I’ve been invited back to MidSouth Con.
Oh, and we have a new kitten but I’m inclined to file that under “bad things”.
Friday, October 30, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
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
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
Friday, September 4, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
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
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
Saturday, August 1, 2009
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.]
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.]
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
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.
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.
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