Sunday, July 27, 2014

Picking Up Steam?

I had to go out on a business venture for the past two weeks, which kept me from checking on this blog(I scheduled several posts in advance).  I checked back in yesterday and confirmed my suspicions.

I thought I was noticing an uptick in blog traffic over the last couple of months, but I was never certain(mostly because I was too lazy to keep track of the number of hits I was getting each week).  Therefore, since I knew I couldn't look at my site counter in the last little bit, I finally wrote down the number of total hits my site had before I left - 26367.  Imagine my surprise when I opened up this morning and discovered it at 27350!

Now this site might not have the page views of someone like JA Konrath, Hugh Howey, or Sarah Hoyt, but it has been averaging between 400 and 500 hits a week for the last few months, and that's a big deal to me since I was thrilled to be getting a dozen hits a week when the site first began.  And I think I could do more if I had the time to promote it even further.

That's something I need to get back into.  I used to use the Writers' Digest Forum, but it went dark a while back.  I've got a link to the new one, but I have yet to engage(two young children and my job keep me pretty busy).  I try to post on sites like The Passive Voice when I can, as well as sites that allow Comment Luv so that my blog post titles are in my comment, but it seems to get crazy sometimes when it's midnight and I still haven't been able to break away.  Don't get me wrong - I don't post unless I have something to say, but sites like these encourage commenting since they allow your site or post title to be seen as well.

Anyway, this post is not about how I've failed to promote enough, but rather how this site has gotten more traffic.  I'm gratified that more people have decided to tune in, and I wish I knew how it happened(so I could duplicate it), but I haven't got the first damn clue.  Is longevity of presence enough to have contributed, or are others drawing in their friends?  Whatever the reason, I'm heartened that more people are giving me a chance.

Now if only I could get more people to comment...

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Salvation Day - Chapter 1

It occurred to me that for all my talk of how I think Salvation Day is my finest work, I've given very little concrete about it.  Today, I'll remedy that.  Below is the first chapter from that novel.  Enjoy it, but know that it'll be the last chapter put out in this blog until the book gets published in November of 2016.
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1
WASHED AWAY
Rain fell steadily as tears streamed down his cheeks.
            Mike Faulkner sat under the awning by his wife’s freshly dug grave, out of the rain and staring into nothing.  The rain didn’t matter; it had been raining for nearly two weeks and today was no different.  He barely noticed.
            The funeral had been over for an hour.  Friends came and silently patted his shoulder.  Several opened their mouths to speak, but no words would come.  Most looked at him with sad eyes that were both pitying and accusatory.  They all felt for what he’d been through, but many felt that this latest tragedy could have been avoided if Mike had paid more attention to Karen.
            Karen.  His wife.  The side of him he took for granted as always being there.  She’d been strong, always the one trying to find solutions and working tirelessly for their daughter.  But when Samantha died, Karen broke.  Shattered, Karen could do nothing but pine for Samantha.  Mike wanted to comfort her, to help her through all of this, but he didn’t know how.
            And in a way, he resented Karen for her pain.  It seemed so much deeper than his.  He loved Samantha but had always been taught to be stoic.  He grieved silently, carrying that weight as if it were an anvil sewn onto his back.  He knew it was there, but he would persevere.  He had to.
            However, Karen wept unashamedly and nearly all the time.  Mike never knew her to be like that, for she’d always been happy, patient, and loving.  She doted on Mike when they were married, and after Samantha was born, Karen doted on her as well.  The pain of her loss tore at Karen in a way that baffled him.  Mike buried himself in his work, while Karen buried herself in her grief.
            Work was where Mike was when he got the call from Elise, their next door neighbor.  She had gone to check on Karen and the door was cracked.  Mike dimly remembered the words about razor blades on the bathroom counter and the sink full of ice.  Elise said frantic paramedics tried to save his wife, but she was too far gone.  He refused to believe any of it and had hung up on her. 
He didn’t even believe it when the police showed up at the lab.  He hid in the bathroom for the better part of 15 minutes, pacing, and stubbornly refusing to come out to face them.  Finally, they tracked him down and made him listen – Karen had committed suicide and was being taken to the morgue on Hawthorne Street.  The police asked if he needed a priest.  He didn’t and kept running over their words in his mind, trying to figure out what they meant.
            The next few days were jumbled as he prepared the funeral arrangements.  They bought plots next to each other a few years back.  That seemed so long ago, when the thought of death was that impossible thing that happened to other people.  The logical part of his brain remarked on how he would need to buy yet another plot, for the one next to Karen was already occupied by their eight month old daughter.
            An icy wind briefly blew.  He ignored it.  All he could do was watch his wife’s coffin lowering slowly into the hole in the ground, mocking him.  Finally, with a small thud, it hit bottom.  A backhoe stood nearby.  Even in the rain, the gravediggers had to get paid.
            Finally, Mike stood up.  There was nothing left for him here.  He slowly left, much to the apparent relief of the man working the backhoe who was eager to finish his job.  The rain continued to pelt Mike’s grey overcoat.  It also matted his light brown hair and hit his face, hiding tears already fallen.
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            He slid his key into the lock and walked into his house.  He wanted to call it his home, but without Karen or Samantha, it didn’t have the same feel.  It felt empty, hollow.  Even the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floors sounded flat.
            Tossing his keys on the entryway table, he glanced absently at a picture of Karen and Samantha.  It was just a few months ago during this past summer.  Karen was in a sunflower dress, holding Samantha on her hip.  Both were smiling.  Karen’s dress and Samantha’s skin almost matched in their hue.
            He gently stroked the picture.  Samantha had been such a beautiful little girl, even with the jaundice that persisted.  She could smile and point, as she was doing in the picture, and Karen was smiling as well.  Mike wasn’t in the picture – he figured there would be plenty of time for that.
            He blinked back tears again and scowled a little at the photo.  He reflected that this was supposed to be the best year of his life and it had become the worst.  A few months ago he had a family; now there was only an empty house.
            Absently carrying the picture into the kitchen and sitting it down on the antique table Karen had refinished, he sat in a chair and ran both hands through his hair.  There was no reason to turn on the lights, so the kitchen was bathed in gray.  Three empty beer bottles sat on the table, a fourth one half finished nearby.  Never really a drinker, Mike saw little else to do.
            He picked up the fourth bottle and took a swig.  The beer was flat, but Mike absently drank it anyway.  Drinking was just something to pass a few more seconds and try to get beyond the emptiness.
            Tomorrow he’d return to the lab.  His co-workers told him to take as much time as he needed, but he thought the phrase was ridiculous. He could go back to work and bury himself in numbers, or he could sit by himself in an empty house with pictures of what had been his family.  Although neither choice was appealing, the first offered more distraction.
            Still, he wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t been so quick to return after Samantha’s funeral.  Karen couldn’t get away from the memories like Mike could.  She was a nurse at one point, deciding to stay home when Samantha was born.  As Samantha’s jaundice grew worse and she weakened, Karen stayed by her day and night as the doctors tried to save their daughter’s life.
            Karen was unable to do anything afterwards, and no one would’ve wanted her to be on the job anyway.  Karen stayed home, alone, and melted into nothingness while Mike left for the comforts of the lab.  Mike again absently wondered whether he could have shared her grief when he had little idea how to feel himself, let alone what Karen was really feeling.  Would false comfort might have been enough to get Karen past that which may have never passed?
            He pushed away from the table and finally took off his overcoat, walking into the living room and throwing it on the couch.  He sat on his familiar leather couch and grabbed the remote, hoping the noise would better fill the room than his thoughts.
            He flipped on the TV, which was on the news.  It was the usual type of news broadcast, recounting the day’s usual type of events – the usual murder downtown, probably gang related; the usual fire in a low rent apartment complex, probably started by a kid playing with his mother’s lighter; the usual politicians blathering about how something was wrong and it was the other side’s fault.
            Nothing penetrated the room but the gray filtering through the windows, eventually dissolving and leaving only the light from the TV.  Finally, Mike turned it off and headed for bed.
            As he lay on top of the covers, he could hear the steady pelting of rain outside.  The wind blew through the trees, making a sound like a cracked flute.  Had he been outside, he would have felt the wind chill the air just a bit more, if only for a moment.
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            He stared into the darkness for a long time.  By the time he looked at his bedside clock and noticed it read 2:14 am, he had slept only in bursts.  At some point just before dawn, he drifted off, and unlike most nights, slipped into dream.
            The sky was hazy, but he could see a shade of blue in it anyway.  In the distance, there was a green field.  In fact, as he focused harder, the green was nearly overwhelming.
            Wanting to move closer, but unable to do so, he felt like he was treading water.  Some invisible hand held him there, gently but firmly.
            His began to see more clearly.  The field also held wildflowers, beautiful and delicate, swaying in a soft breeze.  Nearby was a lake that looked like deep blue silk.  It appeared to be fed by a golden river.  Silver mist came off of the river and melted into shimmering sparkles.
            Birds and butterflies moved with unconscious grace across the landscape, flowing with the same movement as the river.  My God, he thought, this is incredible.  He let the feelings of comfort wash over him.
            There was laughter in the distance.  Not raucous, but the kind that a child would make playing tag with friends.  He smiled at the sound, the first time he could remember doing so recently.
            This must be what Heaven feels like, he thought.  He pushed against the gentle hand and tried to swim closer.  If he could get beyond the haze, maybe the dream could reunite him with Karen and Samantha.  He struggled again against the hand.
            Suddenly, a dull whisper jolted him…
            “Karen’s not in there,” said the voice.  “And she never will be.”
            Sitting bolt upright in bed, he could feel his heart beating so hard he thought it was trying to escape his chest.  Then he remembered where he was, and his grief returned, intensified by his failure to find Karen or Samantha in his dream.
Then he remembered the voice.  It chilled him almost as much as the rain.  Now he tried to rationalize that it was only a dream.
            As dawn broke, his bedroom was bathed in gray again.  Another day, he thought.  Another day to endure.
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            Breakfast was quiet.  Two pieces of toast smeared with butter.  Day old coffee.
            Mike stood at the island in his kitchen and stared at the wall while he ate.  Rain rapped the windows, but he ignored it.
            He couldn’t really call it his kitchen; Karen had done the work to make it nice.  He played along as she had hardwood floors installed after ripping up the linoleum.  The antique table was a find of hers at an out of the way store.  Red candle holders on the wall held candles you weren’t supposed to burn, a decoration he never understood.  The display table in the corner held a set of crystal glasses that Karen got from her mother.  The whole room screamed her name.
            Mike had never paid much attention to those things.  He acted interested when she came to him with ideas, but he just smiled and nodded, knowing it would keep her busy when he wanted to be involved in other things.  He knew she’d be around to do those other things, so he ignored their time apart.
            He brushed the crumbs from his face and drank the last bit of coffee.  The memories would be here when he got back, so he put on his coat and headed out.
            The minivan was red, another reminder of a time when he thought his best days were ahead of him.  He’d sworn he’d never own a minivan, telling Karen that such a thing would be a sure sign he’d sold out.  Eventually he gave in, rationalizing that they’d need the extra room for the additional children they were going to have soon.  The plan had been to let Samantha turn two and then begin trying again.  Mike didn’t know if they were going to do more than that, but two young kids were going to need room in a good sized car, and a minivan would be able to take it.  Plus, there’d be years of friends riding around, ballet recitals, and going to pick up a new dog.
            He shook his head at the recklessness of those dreams.  Mike usually held back, not diving into much without careful thought.  He now felt like the one time he went with his heart over his head, he got burned.
            Traffic was light as he headed down King Street on his way to Hadlon Enterprises.  More likely, people were just being cautious in the rain.  He was surprised they weren’t used to it by now, as it seemed like all it had done recently was rain.
            As he arrived at his building, took a deep breath, and got out of his car.  Once inside, he spotted the receptionist already tapping away at her keyboard.  The keyboard went silent and he could feel her eyes on him, but he walked on without saying anything.  He didn’t feel like feigning politeness right now.
            The keypad to his lab still worked (thank God for small favors) and it was dark inside.  White florescent lights flickered on, giving the sterile feel that he found comforting.  Those lights didn’t care whether he gave enough time to his family or regretted not doing more.  They just existed, doing what they were designed to do.
            After switching on the particle refractor, he glanced at the journal on his desk.  It was stuck on the same series of equations it was on when he got Elise’s call.  Those equations were what he had immersed himself in.  He knew that they should balance and produce a solution, but they’d ignored him up to now.  He picked up his pencil, a No. 2 Style Write, and began to work.
            This was what helped him keep his mind off of Samantha after she passed.  Though slow going, he knew it would help him keep his mind off of Karen as well.  He’d been at it for 30 minutes and just input the latest refraction angles into the machine when Gary walked in.
            “Mike?” he stammered.  “What are you doing here?”
            “Finishing up the latest set of equations I’ve got before running them through the refractor,” he said without hesitating.
            Gary frowned at him.  “You know what I mean.  We told you to take time.  It’s only been a few days since…”  His voice trailed off.
            Mike didn’t look up from the machine.  “I need to get back into the mix.  I’m fine.”
            “Bullshit,” said Gary.
            Mike looked at him, the pencil frozen in his hand.  He took a deep breath and said, almost pleading, “I have to be here Gary.  You guys told me to take all the time I needed, but I don’t think that time would be spent any better at home.  It’s better if I just get back into my normal routine until I figure out what to do next.”
            “Everybody needs time to grieve.”
            “What’s that going to accomplish?  It was different after Samantha died – I had Karen, so I needed those days to help try and get her straight, for all the good it did.  But now?  All I’d be doing is feeling sorry for myself.  I’ve got to get into something or I’ll go crazy.”
            Gary looked unconvinced, but after a moment said, “You know best what to do for yourself.  If you say you need to be here, then I guess you need to be here.”  He reached over to the rack and put on his lab coat.  “Just don’t rush into anything.”
            Mike nodded and went back to inputting the angles.  Brief energy out, and then the printout of the latest refraction tables.  He took the numbers and went back to the original equations.  The curve of energy accelerant was still too flat.  If Harmonic Resonance Energy was possible, the curve was going to have to steepen.
            And that was what this was all about – Harmonic Resonance Energy, a potentially new form of energy that could provide benefits yet unknowable.  By Mike’s theories, once created, it could affect the bonds of reality.  It reminded Mike of the alchemists during the Middle Ages.  Stable enough for dispersion, it could, with proper manipulation, solve many of the world’s resource shortages.  At least in theory.
            There were still two big problems, though.  The first was getting the equations to balance and have the particles align correctly.  If the proper refraction angles of photon bursts could be achieved, it would produce a tiny amount of energy, showing it was possible to do on a larger scale when they constructed a new machine.
            But that was the second problem.  Such a machine would be very expensive.  Even if Hadlon could see the potential profits – one of the reasons Mike still had a job – the machine itself might prove too costly to build.  Mike had hidden the total expense, and Gary played along, because they both knew that the company would have money pouring in if the right way to manufacture it could ever be found.
            He looked at the contrast of the mirrors in relation to each other and wondered if they needed to be readjusted to increase the curve.  As he thought that, his mind drifted to Karen tilting her head up in the mirror in their bedroom and curling her eyelashes.  Mike never understood that, because even though hers were nice and long, they were rarely ever noticed unless someone specifically tried to look at them.  But she looked great in the mirror, full of energy, and she would smile at him through her reflection when she caught him staring.
            With effort, he brought his thoughts away from Karen and back to the problem with the mirrors.  He knew they would have to be readjusted, but Gary would have to help him.  Mike could calculate the angles more precisely, but he didn’t have Gary’s eye to hand coordination in the exacting adjustments.
            It was over at Gary’s for dinner shortly after Samantha was born that Karen had gotten tipsy and decided they needed to leave.  They didn’t explain why to Gary, saying they had to get Samantha to bed, but as soon as they got home and set Samantha’s car seat down, Karen attacked him with passion.  It was the first time since Samantha’s birth that they’d made love, and alcohol was always good for getting Karen in the mood.  He thought back to the feel of her breath on his neck and soft touch of her skin.
            Shit, he thought.  Again he had to pull his mind out of his memories and back to calculating the angles of the photon bursts.  He pulled a note from the back of his journal and placed it on the table.  It was slightly rumpled and familiar, showing how often he’d folded it.  He wished Karen’s letters had that same feel.  She’d written to him a lot when he was doing graduate work.  Mostly she wrote letters instead of email because she felt they were more intimate.  The loopy scrawl of her pen looked like it had come out of the Victorian Era.  She wrote about how she missed him, and he would write back, looking forward to their life together.
            He quickly pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.  Dammit, he thought, get control!  You’ve got work to do.  He walked down the row of work tables to try and calm down.
            Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gary looking at him.  His mustache concealed whatever expression his mouth wore, but if it matched his eyes, Gary obviously thought he’d snapped.  His colleague’s hands were frozen over the keyboard he was typing on and he was sitting so rigidly in his chair that Mike wondered if he’d had metal rods inserted into his back.
            Hoping to avoid questions, Mike said, “I just needed to clear my head for a minute.”  He tried to force a chuckle, but the sound came out more like that of a child who’d been caught looking at a dirty magazine.  “The angles are still off, and I can’t work them out.  Can you help me adjust the mirrors in a sec?”
            “Sure, Mike,” Gary said slowly.  He regarded Mike as if he was some kind of bomb that could go off with the wrong touch.  “Let me finish this real quick.  Once I hit a stopping point, I’ll be over.”
            “OK.  I’ve got to get the adjustments calculated real quick.”  He walked back to his chair and tried hard not to imagine Gary staring at his back with a look of pity.
            He finally managed enough focus enough to calculate the adjustments he wanted, although he knew they wouldn’t be precise enough – that would’ve taken him most of the day.  In the back of his mind he knew he should’ve taken the necessary time, but he just wanted to get the mirrors done for now so he could run another burst.  Besides, if they weren’t precise enough, it would give him something to do afterwards.
            He heard Gary get up and walk over.  He handed him the worksheet of adjustment, and Gary grabbed the tools.  Mike really wanted to be able to do this, but he wasn’t as good as Gary.  He reflected that he wouldn’t need to be since he knew the adjustments weren’t near as precise as necessary.
            It took 20 minutes since the mirrors didn’t need much tuning, at least not according to Mike’s slipshod calculations.  Gary took off his specs and looked up.
            “That it?” he asked.
            “Yeah.  Thanks.”
            Gary hesitated for a moment.  “Mike,” he said, an awkward note in his voice, “I’m not real good at these kinds of things, but if you want to talk, I’ll try to hear you.  I don’t know what I can do, but I could listen.”
           Mike stared at his table.  He didn’t want to talk about Karen.  What he really wanted to do was ask a question.
            “Do you believe in God?”
            Of all the questions Mike might have asked, it was clear that Gary had not expected this.  He backed up and leaned against the work table behind him.  The tool in his hand shifted awkwardly, but Gary managed to steady it in short order.
            “I guess.  I mean, I used to go to church.  Diane wishes I went more, but it’s tiresome sometimes.”  He paused.  “I went to Sunday School when I was a kid.”
            Mike swiveled to look at him, chair squealing in protest.  “That’s not what I asked,” he said.  “I wanted to know if you believed in God.”
            Gary began to look uncomfortable.  Finally, he shrugged.  “I don’t know.  There are times I think maybe I do, and times I wish I did, but usually I don’t think about it.  He’s either there or He isn’t – it really doesn’t have much to do with me.” He began to say something else but stopped.
            “I don’t know either,” said Mike.  “I’ve never really thought about it.  I didn’t get taught anything about God when I was younger, so I didn’t think very hard about it.  Karen was getting more into religion when Samantha was sick, but I took that as someone searching for comfort.  Recent events, though…”
            His voice trailed off.  He wanted to talk with someone who could sympathize with him about his dream, but the skinny scientist wearing glasses and a mustache was the only person here.  Finally, he spoke.  “I had a dream about Heaven last night.”
            Gary nodded.  “I’m sure you’ll get there one day and see them again.”  His voice was quick and lacked conviction.
            “I don’t know.  If it’s real, then yeah, I’ll see Samantha.  But Karen?  I’m not so sure.”  As Gary looked at him quizzically, he said, “A lot of religions say that people who commit suicide can’t go to Heaven.”
            “Why?” asked Gary.
            “I don’t know.  I’ve never been a religious guy, but I remember hearing about that, probably on TV or something.  Catholics in particular say that suicides go…somewhere else.”
            “Somewhere else?  You mean like Hell?”  Gary curled his mouth.  “What would the point of that be?  Sorry, even if I believed in God, I couldn’t buy into that.”
            Silence stretched between them for what seemed like minutes until Gary said, “I know you’re worried about that because of what happened, but I wouldn’t sweat it.  You asked me about the difference between religion and God.  How would a ‘religious person’” – he pulled his hands off the table and made quotation marks in the air – “know about that unless they died and found out.  I may have missed the news, but I don’t recall seeing too many folks coming back and telling us.”  He attempted a smile, but wiped it from his face as quickly as it appeared.
            “You’re probably right.  I don’t even think I believe in God’s existence, but you wonder about things like that when …stuff happens.”  He turned his chair back around and looked at his equations again.  “Thanks.  I was just, you know, wondering.”
            “Sure, Mike,” said Gary, an obvious note of relief in his voice.  Mike thought the footsteps heading across the room were a little fast, and silence was soon the only thing left between them.
            He tried to get back to his work and find a way to get something else, anything else, into his head.  It wasn’t working.  Mentioning Karen’s suicide forced other images into his head – like seeing her body on that metal bed at the morgue.  Her skin was waxy and pale, probably from the loss of blood.  He wanted to reach out and pull up and eyelid, hoping she’d pop up and say, “Just kidding!”  But the attendants stopped him.  They’d briefly discussed what to do with the body.  He mumbled something about their burial plots.  They made some preliminary arrangements and told him to go home for the night.
            Home was a different nightmare.  The paramedics had worked on his wife, but they didn’t clean up the mess.  The bathroom sink was full of cold, red water where the ice she’d soaked her wrists in had melted, but not before she bled into it.  She bled into the sink, onto the floor, and even  onto the walls.  He’d have never picked her as a slit-the-wrists kind of girl, but knew Karen rarely did things without a reason.
            Terry, Elise’s husband, came over to check on him and helped him scrub the bathroom.  Terry said Elise was too shaken to come over, but those were about the only words they shared.  He picked up a towel and a bottle of cleaner from the kitchen while Mike grabbed the mop.  The circumstances were less than ideal to clean up that much blood, but they made due.  They mopped, scrubbed, and wiped for two hours.  Near the end, Mike began to slow, as if cleaning up the last of her blood would mean she was really gone.
            When it was over, he threw the towels into the garbage, knowing he would never get the blood out of them.  Terry looked around, asked Mike what he needed that night, and left after promising to be by in the morning.
            Once again he pulled his mind back to reality and forced himself to work on his equations.  Gary was already at his table and apparently working very hard.  Mike got the impression he was avoiding looking up in case Mike wanted to talk again.  It didn’t matter – he didn’t want to look at or talk to anybody right now.
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            No work really got done that day.  He tried, but it wouldn’t come.  Maybe I should have taken more time like they said, he thought.  But I still don’t know what I would’ve done with it.
            He left 30 minutes early, throwing on his overcoat and looking out of the window and at the rain.  Still gray, still coming down, this time in a chilly mist.  Not the pelting type that had been coming down the last few days, but still enough to make the trip to the car unpleasant.
            He pushed open the door, turned his face against the mist, and walked towards the minivan.  He fumbled for his keys, dropping them.  Shaking them off, he finally managed to unlock the door and climb inside.  The chill wasn’t any better in here, and he knew that if he didn’t turn on the defroster before he left, he’d soon be unable to see.
            The radio came on.  Mike preferred jazz, and his satellite radio held 15 stations of it.  Dance jazz.  Blues jazz.  Toe tapping jazz.  He found a nice slow selection, hoping it would soothe him.  Traffic passed at the same cautious pace it had that morning.  With a steady tug of the wheel, he pulled out of the parking lot.
            Cars were going much more slowly than he cared for, so he pulled into the left lane and headed towards his house.  Karen would have gotten onto him about his speed, especially if Samantha had been in the car, but she wasn’t here now, and he hadn’t had an accident since he was in high school.  Yes, the road was slick, but people always drove more slowly than necessary.
            He glanced out of the window at the pattern the wind was creating with the water on the glass.  That had fascinated him since he was a kid.  It was as if the droplets of water were dancing just for him.
            He’d been looking at it for a few seconds when the minivan suddenly screeched to a halt.  The seat belt grabbed him, digging hard into his chest.  For a second he thought he’d hit something, but the thought was gone as soon as it formed; he never felt an impact.  The car just stopped.
            He was about to curse, afraid of the price tag that would be associated with such a catastrophic repair, when a large blue SUV screamed in front of him, horn blaring.  Mike looked up and realized he’d nearly run the stoplight.  Had the vehicle not stopped, he’d have been broadsided by the SUV and probably killed.  After a few seconds, he figured out that the loud thud in his ears was his heart, and he slowly managed to steady his hands.
            Be more careful, he thought, almost in Karen’s voice, as the light turned green.  He looked both ways, carefully checking traffic(something he almost never did), and edged out into the intersection.  He knew that he’d be temporarily cured of driving too fast or not paying attention.  He glanced to the side to see if anyone saw how close he’d come to being pulverized before returning his focus in front of him.
            If only he’d looked behind him, he might have seen the lone figure in a long black overcoat and wide brimmed hat staring at him.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Dumbing Down For Mass Appeal?

Reading isn't for everyone.  In fact, in my experience, reading isn't for most people.  Some like to read the newspaper or a specific work related to their job, but not many read purely for pleasure.  Those of us that do get caught up in the worlds of fantasy and adventure that can only exist in our imaginations.  We can spin incredible movies in our minds, tales of such stunning beauty and complexity that they'd put even the hardiest Hollywood director to shame.
(In a book, anyone can go into space)
However, a common complaint amongst those of us snobs who love books is that most forms of mass media entertainment lack the subtlety and special complexity we enjoy in novels.  I watch something like Ender's Game, and regardless of how many friends say they liked it, I come away disappointed.  That's because I remember the struggles Ender had in the story and how he came to grips with the genocide he was manipulated into perpetrating.  I watch the Harry Potter movies and know that the books wove in so many elements we don't see that it feels lacking on the big screen.

Some of this is a constraint of time - you can only include so much in a two and a half hour film.  However, I'm convinced that some of it is due to the public's lack of patience with complexity.  Why delve into the varied themes in Heinlein's Starship Troopers when you can give most folks a cheap thrill with the male/female shower scene.  People watch movies to have things shown to them rather than have to figure them out for themselves.  That's what sets readers apart - we know there are elements we have to dig for, and that's part of the fun.  But movies are visual mediums meant to be shown and forgotten rather than studied.  Sure, there are some exceptions, but those are rare.

This is why we readers will almost always be disappointed when our favorite novel hits the big screen - we've built up such a grand image of what it will be in our minds that the final, and simple, product never matches our vision.  We're going to have to accept that most folks don't want that level of thought in their entertainment.  Yes, it's arrogant to point out, but it's also real, regardless of how it may make us feel.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Indie Is For Losers?

"The only people who go into self publishing are those who couldn't get a real publishing deal."

I've heard this canard from countless people, from editors to agents, and even friends.  So many people have come out and said that indie publishing is the last resort of those who couldn't succeed that's it's become an axiom to the uneducated.  And once upon a time, it might have even been true, but it's so far from the truth nowadays that the truth is but a tiny speck in the distance.



(Whoever knew such losers could seem so successful?)
 
Above are but two of the novels written by supposed losers.  The one on the left is Witchfinder, by Sarah Hoyt, and the one on the right is Wool, by Hugh Howey.  I've had the honor to interview both of these incredible writers, and if theirs is the measure of failure, I can only imagine that success means I get to realize my dream of ruling the world.
 
Success stories like these are becoming more and more commonplace in a world where the average traditionally published writer isn't earning enough to put food on the table, but more indie writers are breaking out.  By breaking out, I don't necessarily mean in the sense of self published books like Eragon(didn't know that was indie published, did you?), but rather in the sense that more indie writers are able to make a living by writing.  Yes, most indie writers aren't there yet, and, truth be told, most will never get there, but neither will most traditionally published writers.  Let's forget the thousands that fall all over themselves to traditionally publish yet never do - even those that manage to get far enough to have some publisher pick them up are unable to pay the rent with their average earnings.
 
More and more writers are figuring out that they can earn more by self publishing than they can by spending years trying to kiss the right agent's ass and then getting meek deals that fork over most of the revenue and all of the rights to a traditional publisher.  The Amazon/Hachette situation is but one more nail in the coffin of the traditional world, even if it may take 20-30 more years to put it in the ground.
 
We all know the big time authors and their books, like Stephen King and The Shining, or John Grisham and The Firm, but here are a few you might not realize were indie published - Wool, Eragon, Fifty Shades of Gray, The Shack, The Celestine Prophecy, Rich Dad Poor Dad, and many others.  Those that think it's a road to loserdome are living in 1980s America and really need to join us in the present, where new technology and the ability to directly reach the fan base makes indie publishing not only possible, but more desirable, even more so when one considers the canards sold under the guise of traditional publishing(Think you'll get an all expense paid book tour, or that marketing is now the job of someone else?  Think again!).
 
I hope to be as big a loser as these folks one day.  We can all dream...

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Divine Intervention - A Short Story

"The demons have been here."

The others looked at Yahweh with serious eyes.  Their leader was incensed as he gazed through the viewport.  The blue world in front of them was a prize much sought after amongst the sentient species of the galaxy.  It possessed an abundance of water, and life started teeming on it just two and a half billion years earlier.

"Lord, the biosphere here is extensive.  Are you sure these things couldn't have evolved on their own?" Gabriel ventured.

Yahweh snorted derisively.  "You really think the similarities in appearance are mere coincidence?  Look at the images brought back from our probe, and compare them to our nemesis.  Yes, there are differences, and their new puppets still have a long way to go, but they've obviously seeded this planet for later use."

Gabriel looked at the images on his own screen.  The reptilian nightmares on the surface sure looked like the demons once might have - they were primal, with tough hides and razor sharp teeth that could cut through rock.  Some even had claws and possessed speed that would rival any species engineered anywhere else in the universe.

"How could we have overlooked such extensive genetic engineering?" Michael asked.

"That doesn't matter," Yahweh answered.  "The only thing we can deal with is what is before us now.  We have to get rid of this infestation.  I want this world, and I want it now."

Among the group, now was a relative term.  These beings were, by all measures, immortal, just as their enemies were.  They sprang from the primordial soup of creation not long after the Big Bang, and their lifetimes were measured in eons.  Only the heat death of the universe would eventually snuff them out, and in order to prevent that, they needed other intelligences that could think outside the box.

"So, what's our plan, Lord?" Gabriel asked.

"We could infest the biosphere with bacterial or fungal toxin," Michael interjected.  "Creatures as large as these might be able to fight off conventional attacks for a while, but they're vulnerable to the least of us."

Yahweh stroked his beard.  "I'd rather not.  The biosphere is already rich, and although some of it must necessarily perish, I'd rather not have a poison that is difficult to control sticking around afterwards.  Such things could affect the tiniest of creatures, and there are some animals that I wish to preserve."

"We could use a flood basalt, or even a gamma ray burst.  We used that against the Ordovicians and it took care of them."

"Yes, but the resulting damage to the ozone would be challenging to repair again.  Flood basalts threaten the plankton we need to produce oxygen, and I like the balance of gasses here."  After another moment, he snapped his fingers.  "I've got it!  We toss 'em a rock."

Gabriel looked skeptical.  "That could take some time to redirect, assuming we even found one."

"You're forgetting that cloud of debris out by the outer rim of the system," Yahweh countered.  "We needn't grab a 50 kilometer planet killer - a simple stone 5 miles across should do the trick."

Michael began inputting computations into his console.  "That size object would destroy at least 75% of all land creatures and nearly 60% of the vegetation."

"Yet that's likely what's necessary to take out all of the demons' minions.  Those reptilian beasts are probably only 15 million years from developing intelligence - we can't have that.  Some collateral damage is to be expected, but I expect the smaller creatures, especially the mammals, to endure.  Besides which, sea creatures will be mostly unaffected and the bacterium and plankton that regulate gasses will remain intact."

After a few more minutes of debate, the discussion subsided and the crew began manipulating the graviton beam to pull in the rock.  Minute adjustments were made to its solar trajectory so that any demon scout ships passing by wouldn't notice(Yahweh's ship was cloaked, so he wouldn't be seen no matter what...a comet, on the other hand, had to be hidden until the last minute).

They remained in the system for several millennia while the rock started its journey.  Finally, after much patience and tinkering, it closed in on the planet.

The resulting explosion was intense, and even Uriel has to shield his eyes from the blast.  A fireball rose so high into the air that Yahweh briefly wondered if it'd catch the entire atmosphere on fire, but the resulting dust particles only enhanced the fire effect and killed the targets.  By the hundreds of thousands they died - the Allosaur, the Velociraptor, the Pteradon.  None of the species meant by the demons to evolve survived.

However, a few furry little creatures hiding in the rocks managed to live.  Yahweh smiled at his accomplishment, all while knowing he still had work to do.  There was brain matter to build, land bridges to be formed for encouraging migration, and simple tools to place so that deductive reasoning could grow.  All in all, though, he was pleased.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Revisions, Revisions, Revisions

As I've written before, I'm in the middle of trying to gain permission from some businesses to use their name in my novel, Akeldama.  There have been a few obstacles along the way, but nothing that's a showstopper.  However, looking for brand name products at discount prices isn't the only thing that's been going on.

In making sure I don't use someone's stuff without permission, I've gone back and re-read the novel.  Each chapter gets excruciating attention, similar to when I was editing.  Let's remember, though, that this is supposedly a "finished" novel.  Therefore, imagine my surprise when I found that there were still pieces that I could improve on(I know - SHOCKING!).

Nothing in all this mess is a big deal.  It's more like tweaks here and there, but that doesn't mean it's not a little disconcerting to figure out.  It has taught me one hell of a lesson in humility, as well as the limits of what I think I can do.

I also wonder just how much is necessary.  What I mean is that I believe there's a point at which you simply have to have faith in what you've written.  I could probably stick Akeldama in a drawer for two or three months, come back, and find stuff that I can revise every single time, but does it make a big enough difference in quality to make it worth the chore?  At what point are things "good enough?"

Truthfully, if I wasn't scouring the book to search for potential lawsuit bait, I wouldn't be diving back in.  Once you reach a certain threshold, you just have to let the work speak on its own merits.  Still, as long as I'm going through it anyway, I might as well make the adjustments I find.

There are a few changes that will be necessary and require more than a word change.  A few businesses haven't given me permission to use their names, so a setting or two will have to change.  Again, no big deal, but still enough of a chore to make it a pain in the ass.  Those sections will have to be run through the wringer again prior to publication in May 2016(shameless plug - get on my distro list prior, and the hardcopy will be about 25-ish% off).

I think we can always get better, and we should take advantage when the opportunity presents itself.  On the other hand, there comes a point at which it becomes nitpicky.  When you're at an 85% solution, is the last 15% worth the effort expended?  I don't want to sound like I'm settling, but I have to ask how many more hours make the prose substantially better?  Will anyone notice, or will it draw in any more customers?

In the end, I think the answer lies within each of us.  How happy are you with what you've written?  If you feel it needs work, it probably does.  But if you feel the juice isn't worth the squeeze, then it's probably time to stop obsessing.  Only you can answer this conundrum.