Rick Just's Blog, page 238

Finis--the First

Now comes the first test. I have finished the first draft of Blood of Angels--69,500 words, but who’s counting? I’ll be sending it off to early readers and my editor in a day or two. Part of me wants to clink goblets, but it is 10:30 am. Celebrations can wait until all the work is done.

Writer, Full Time

After 29 years with the agency, today was my last day at the Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation. I served for 16 years as their communications manager and about 15 as chief of planning.Now, my full-time title is writer. Or, it will be after a short vacation. Blood of Anjels is off to editors and readers in two or three weeks. Still hoping for a summer publication date.

Transitioning

Busy times for me the past few days. Much the same for the coming few, as I wrap up obligations at work before becoming a full-time writer.For the past couple of days I have been transitioning by participating in the Idaho Writers and Readers Rendezvous put on by the Idaho Writers Guild. I was able to enjoy presentations by Michael Collings, Tony Doerr, Aaron Patterson and Joanne Pence, chat with A K Turner, Clay Morgan and Doug Copsey, have lunch with Les Edgerton and John Rember and dinner with CJ Box. I learned a lot from those folks, received much encouragement and topped it off by winning first place in the short fiction competition at the conference. On the Anjels front, I’ve been doing a little light editing the past few days and I wrote  for permission to use the following as an epigraph for the novel:“This is the story of how we begin to remember.” Paul Simon, Under African Skies.

Dead Air Nightmare

I had a dream last night. I do not dream about the characters from books I’ve written. I don’t dream about magazine layout, arranging vegetables, or working in an auction house, though I’ve had those experiences. I rarely dream about the 29 years I spent working for the Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation. Like most people, I sometimes dream about being unprepared for class. Mostly, though, when I have a nightmare, it is about radio.Working in radio did not create mind monsters that haunt my sleep. It did mark me forever in its unique way, though.I was a rock and roll(ish) DJ from 1967 through 1976. After that I spent a few years playing country music at night, while I went to school during the day. I got in on the tag end of the days when DJs cued up commercials on reel-to-reel tape—except for those we read live, of course. I was replaced by a computer at one station in 1976, long before most people gave that a thought.The radio business is full of “personalities,” not all of them on the air. But it is not the often slightly daft people who make me sweat at night. It is the concept of dead air.During my radio days, at least, those of us who were on air obsessed about something most people don’t even notice. Dead air is any fraction of a second or longer in which that needle that indicates sounds is going out over the airwaves ceases to jump. Today, it’s usually a string of LEDs that indicates the station is still breathing.It was the greatest sin to let that needle rest. You always had to have music, news, a commercial, or your voice making it bounce. I think we imagined that listeners were out there with their fingers on the dial ready to find another station the minute they detected a second of silence.And, thus to my dreams. They all start out with me in the control room on a new job. I’m on the air and nothing is going right. I don’t recognize any of the record titles, there is no system in place to give me a clue about what to play next, the commercials are all about five seconds long, and I can’t remember the call letters of the station. The entire dream consists of me trying to find something else to play next. Something to keep that needle jumping. Usually, someone will come into the studio to witness my ineptitude, which just makes it that more difficult to find the next record. Polka!? Why am I playing polka?Okay, maybe it doesn’t measure up to falling off a cliff or being trapped in a barrel full of spiders (or snakes, your choice). Nevertheless, the dead air nightmare is my most persistent dream, visiting me several times a year though the last time I cued up a record or tape was nearly 30 years ago.I wonder if big time radio announcers have those dreams. I guess I could ask Jack Sunday. He could ask Charlie Tuna.

Cover for Consideration

Here's a cover I'm considering for the next book. Comments?

Delivery (not) Guaranteed

Today I was talking with a friend who is a ranger at Idaho’s Farragut State Park. The park was a huge naval training station during WWII. The only remaining building from those days is the brig. During some recent renovation in the building, they found a letter secreted away in the walls that had never been delivered. It had been written by some young man who was in the brig for some reason and apparently felt the need to hide it. The letter was addressed to his sweetheart in Tennessee, and included an envelope and stamp.
This is the sort of thing that makes a writer’s brain start cranking. We want to fill in the details. What was he in for? Why did he hide the letter? Why didn’t he retrieve it before he got out? Did he get out, or did something fiendish happen to him? What happened to her?Nearly 70 years later we get to eavesdrop on his personal correspondence. He meant for someone--someone special--to read the letter. She never did. I think this story may unsettle writers more than others, because we are constantly hiding something in the walls, hoping that eventually someone will read what we wrote. Inevitably, there will be that last attempt at writing; that last unfinished manuscript.

Right and wrong. Black and white. North and south.

These opposites--literally polar opposites in the case of the latter--are fodder for novelists. Writers frequently explore the areas between those opposites. Maybe we should call them, in the case of black and white, especially, “gray” areas.
Melville, famously, turned convention on its head in Moby Dick by making white an evil. I, less famously, did something of the the same thing in my Wizards Trilogy. At first, it was clear that the evil wizard was black. My editor at the time was very uncomfortable with that because she thought I was reinforcing racial stereotypes. Even when I pointed out that later in the book we would learn that the wizard was not a black man, but one who painted himself black, the topic made her queasy. Even later, we learn that the white wizard is not so good after all, and that she also paints herself white, I don’t think my editor was completely appeased. Both were actually pink, and neither the black nor white wizard was all good or bad. Still, the way we think about those two terms is so culturally hard wired that it was difficult for her to get around it. It was probably difficult for some readers, too, which was the point I was trying to make.I’m currently reading Drunk Tank Pink, by Adam Altar. Among other things, it explores our cultural, biological and psychological reactions to things that would not logically make a difference. The pink color of the title physically weakens people exposed to it. People named Ken are more likely to support relief efforts for hurricanes named Katrina because their names share that initial letter. Job applicants named Bob are more likely to be selected than applicants name Trayvon, even when their resumes are identical.And which way is up? North, of course. We even expect rivers to flow from north to south, rather than the other way around. This is reinforced in the United States by that big sucking drain, the Mississippi. In my current draft, up and down make only the slightest difference to anjels, until one of them discovers the ability to fall. It is at times like that, when our world views are challenged, that things really get interesting.

Right and wrong. Black and white. North and south.These o...

Right and wrong. Black and white. North and south.

These opposites--literally polar opposites in the case of the latter--are fodder for novelists. Writers frequently explore the areas between those opposites. Maybe we should call them, in the case of black and white, especially, “gray” areas.

Melville, famously, turned convention on its head in Moby Dick by making white an evil. I, less famously, did something of the the same thing in my Wizards Trilogy. At first, it was clear that the evil wizard was black. My editor at the time was very uncomfortable with that because she thought I was reenforcing racial stereotypes. Even when I pointed out that later in the book we would learn that the wizard was not a black man, but one who painted himself black, the topic made her queasy. Even later, we learn that the white wizard is not so good after all, and that she also paints herself white, I don’t think my editor was completly appeased. Both were actually pink, and neither the black nor white wizard was all good or bad. Still, the way we think about those two terms is so culturally hard wired that it was difficult for her to get around it. It was probably difficult for some readers, too, which was the point I was trying to make.

I’m currently reading Drunk Tank Pink, by Adam Altar. Among other things, it explores our cultural, biological and psychological reactions to things that would not logically make a difference. The pink color of the title physically weakens people exposed to it. People named Ken are more likely to support relief efforts for hurricanes named Katrina because their names share that initial letter. Job applicants named Bob are more likely to be selected than applicants name Trayvon, even when their resumes are identical.

And which way is up? North, of course. We even expect rivers to flow from north to south, rather than the other way around. This is reenforced in the United States by that big sucking drain, the Mississippi. 

In my current draft, up and down make only the slightest difference to anjels, until one of them discovers the ability to fall. It is at times like that, when our world views are challenged, that things really get interesting.

66401

66401That was the word count when I typed the last period of the first draft of Blood of Anjels, today. Over the next couple of weeks I’ll go back, add some scenes and read it through a couple of times before releasing the final draft to editors and readers. I’m guessing it will be about 75,000 words in finished form.The word count, as I’ve said before, is only important in terms of classification. It will be a short novel, not a novella. The important thing is that I use just enough words to tell the story, no more and no less.I am pleased and surprised with the ending. It came together faster than I had envisioned. Some readers will think it ends abruptly, because the pace of the final scene is rapid, right up to the last few paragraphs. It will frustrate some readers because not everything is spelled out. Others will find it opaque. I can hardly wait for those conversations.

Magical Thinking

I hate magical thinking. I love to think magically.
It comes as a surprise to people that there is not a shred of magic in my Wizards Trilogy. True, most of the characters think their world runs on magic. Characters often get it wrong. We all do.
All of us come into this world naïve. We know not a single thing. Lasa, my heroine in Blood of Anjels, is exactly like us in that way. And, just like us, she proceeds to learn about her world, first through her senses, and later through the teachings of others.
Both methods of education are suspect. Our senses often fool us: Look, that oar bends when it goes into the water! Those who try to teach us can lead us even further astray, often because they’ve been taught to believe something patently ridiculous themselves.
As a result, we all grow up believing some things that we later find out are not true. It turns out that bent oar is a trick of refracted light. And the Easter Bunny isn’t the benevolent deliverer of eggs we thought he was.Life is full of such misapprehensions. So are my books. Of course, as the god of the novel, I may be getting some things wrong, too, even when I am teaching my characters the errors of their ways.
Lasa is a believer because what else could she be? She is an integral part of the myth of anjels. When her own experiences make her start to question her beliefs, it is the beginning of her transcendence. She might have been happier if she could continue believing, and that is her tragedy.