Guy Stewart's Blog, page 113

POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAYS: Frankenstein WAS NOT a Character Until He Got Zapped!

On Friday, we laid my mother to rest at the Fort Snelling National Cemetery.
She’d passed from this world eighteen days earlier.
As with all events that strike at our mortality, this set off a chain of thoughts that seem random – as well as striking some people as a bit macabre or even profane. Yet for me the chain was profound.
I am a writer as well as a grieving son, and the two are strangely melded into a single Human with one bicameral brain. Thoughts constantly cross-circuit, short-circuit, and short out. This is an instance of not knowing exactly which one happened – but producing a startling result.
The woman we laid to rest was NOT a character anymore.
Her spirit, the soul that animated her, had departed eighteen days before the body was buried.
What had created the character known by many names – but chief to ME, as Mom?
I personally believe she was animated by an eternal God to serve the purpose for which she was created. Be that as it may, as a WRITER of characters who are often accused of being less-than-cardboard, I was abruptly faced with the question, “What made Mom an active, beloved, moving character in the story of her life? What drew hundreds of people to her funeral in the cramped chapel of the obscure digs of the Cremation Society of Minnesota?
Were they there to look at a body? Emphatically NOT! There were there to honor, celebrate, and grieve over a character who would no longer play any role at all in her life or the lives of any others.
So WHAT made her a living character – and selfishly – how can I use her death to make my own characters come to life? All of this rumination leads me to the irrefutable statement above. Before Frankenstein’s Monster was zapped, he was just a man-shaped pile of stitched-together meat. If he had not been animated by a lightning strike, the book would have ended there with, “It rotted. THE END”
The question is then, “What made Mom a character?”
First and foremost, anyone who knew my mom would tell you that she was FUNNY. My sister found twenty-six pairs of wildly unusual eyeglasses when she was cleaning out Mom’s stuff. I have a pair of Harry Potters at my elbow. She was buried with five other pairs laying on her hands. Why was she funny? Because SHE loved to laugh. By making herself laugh – sometimes at the expense of her dignity! – others couldn’t help but laugh with her.
Second was that she was passionate about a few things: her family, being part of a crazy annual scholarship fundraiser called the Wastebasket Revue, quilting (everyone in the family has one or more of her works of folk art, and there are probably more elsewhere), and lastly, in the brief eulogy my artist-author-psychologist daughter posted, “May I ever be a representation of your cool sophistication, bold style, bravery, and strength as a mother and my grandmother.” (I guess there were more things in the Second than just the one.)
For now, then, if you’ll pardon the pun, which I didn’t intend: rather than flogging a dead horse, what actually made my mom – and by extension ANY character – alive?
1) They are funny – intentionally or accidentally.2) They are passionate about a few things.3) They are sophisticated (= worldly, experienced) in whatever world they inhabit.4) They have a bold style and move forward, even if they’re timid at first.5) They are brave which implies that the character is afraid of something.6) They are strong in order to overcome some OTHER force acting against them.
Also note that humor, passion, sophistication, boldness, bravery, and strength CAN ALL FAIL. That is the tension that should be inherent in story. Stories of those who are both real and those who are fictional.
So, to quote the fictional character Mia Thermopolis, “The concept is grasped. It’s just the execution that’s a little elusive.” (PRINCESS DIARIES 2). We’ll see if I can apply this Frankenstein Concept consistently in the future.

Image: https://userscontent2.emaze.com/images/be8f26a7-2c72-49a6-a7c5-adb595068229/4bf72baa-9240-46bc-bcf9-0459c6d03d1f.jpg

LOVE IN A TIME OF ALIEN INVASION -- Chapter 46

On Earth, there are three Triads intending to integrate not only the three peoples and stop the war that threatens to break loose and slaughter Humans and devastate their world; but to stop the war that consumes Kiiote economy and Yown’Hoo moral fiber. The Braiders accidentally created a resonance wave that will destroy the Milky Way and the only way to stop it is for the Yown’Hoo-Kiiote-Human Triads to build a physical wall. The merger of Human-Kiiote-Yown’Hoo into a van der Walls Society may produce the Membrane to stop the wave.
The young experimental Triads are made up of the smallest primate tribe of Humans – Oscar and Kashayla; the smallest canine pack of Kiiote – six, pack leaders Qap and Xurf; and the smallest camelid herd of Yown’Hoo – a prime eleven, Dao-hi the Herd mother. On nursery farms and ranches away from the TC cities, Humans have tended young Yown’Hoo and Kiiote in secret for decades, allowing the two warring people to reproduce and grow far from their home worlds.
“We had nearly fallen into stagnation when we encountered the Kiiote.”“And we into internecine war when we encountered the Yown’Hoo.” “Yown’Hoo and Kiiote have been defending themselves for a thousand revolutions of our Sun.” “Together, we might do something none of us alone might have done…a destiny that included Yown’Hoo, Kiiote, and Human.” (2/19/2015)
Great Uncle Tim held up his hand, palm facing Lieutenant Commander Patrick Bakhsh (ret) – we called him Retired, and said, “Not so fast, Lieutenant Commander.”
“Yes?”
“You are essential to the plan we’ve got for you.”
“That’s the second time you’ve referenced a group.”
Tim grinned, “Exactly. We would like to retain you for your services.”
Retired scowled then said, “Who are you?”
Tim gestured, “I’ll have to ask you to come in here in order to tell you anything more.”
Retired stepped backwards into the corridor as he drew his pistol. “I’m going to ask you one more time and then I’m going to start shooting: who are you?”
“If you came into the chamber, I could show you…”
“Yes, and then you’d have all of us in one place – one of only three Triads on Earth. One of only three real chances to bring this idiotic war to an end before Earth is devastated and the Yown’Hoo and the Kiiote leave us to ourselves to take their idiotic war to some other unsuspecting planet.”
There was a long pause until Great Uncle Tim said suddenly, “There aren’t any more unsuspecting planets. This is it. Either the war ends on Earth or the Yown’Hoo and the Kiiote return to their home worlds to breed and continue their war to extinction.”
The Herd backed deeper into the room Tim had opened to us. Retired backed further into the corridor, raising his weapon. The Kiiote unfolded themselves into their humanoid forms, backing against a side wall and Qap and Xurf shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the Pack somewhat behind them.
Me and ‘Shay moved toward the door but didn’t step out.
GU Tim glared at Retired then pursed his lips in an entirely human way, then finally said, “Impasse. You don’t trust me…”
“Why would I? You murdered one of the Herd.”
“I told you, the small one, the Yown’Hoo Ked-sah-ti, was murdered by the Humans in the helicopters. My root only found it and recovered the body,” said Tim.
I looked back to Retired, who said, “All we have is your word on it.”
Tim snorted, “If you think I wouldn’t have hesitated to kill the Herd mother if had suited me, ask your Human boy here what he felt when the robot had him around the neck.” They both looked at me.
I said, “It could have killed me, no problem. I about suffocated as it was.”
Tim nodded, then looked back to Retired and said, “I want this Triad to survive. I want it to prosper, and I want these aliens to go back to where they came from.” He looked to the Herd, then the Pack, adding, “No offense, Herd Mother, Pack Leaders, but I want the conflict your people started with each other off of the world of the Humans.” He looked at me and ‘Shay. “I want you to have a world all your own.” He sighed, “I may not be Human, but I was programmed to mimic Humans nearly a century ago. The hard wiring has started to become reflex. I respond without computation when certain things happen. There are even days I forget that I am not a flesh-and-blood Human, but a plastic-and-metal Human. I act no stranger than you act,” he gestured to me. “And I certainly act less suspiciously than you act,” Tim looked at Retired. “I may not be Human, but was programmed to act Human.” He paused a long time before he added, “I fail to see the difference between them,” he gestured at us, “and me.” He tapped his chest. Finally, he added, “I don’t want to see any of you dead. I want to see the Triads succeed. But there are other forces at work here. Forces I can barely stand against.” He paused, “I’ve said all I can say. You can believe me and stay in here tonight; you can disbelieve him and stay out there all night. But if you choose not to trust me, then you’re on your own from now on. I will not have anything more to do with your flight.” He crossed his arms over his artificial chest and stopped talking.
Retired looked at him, then looked at me. He stared for a long time, then finally said, “He’s your family, ‘Car. Do you trust him?”
“Who, me?” I staggered back into ‘Shay. She shoved me forward. “Why do I have to decide?”
“Like I said.”
I looked at my great uncle, Tim. I’d known him during the first ten years of my life – well. Since being stitched into the Triad though, we hadn’t seen each other. I shrugged and said, “I trusted him when I was a kid.”
“Do you trust me now?” my great uncle said abruptly.

Image: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/72/Rhll_wire_rope.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 267

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.
H Trope: good vs evil, Goddess of Chaos Will Reign!“Current” Event: THE DARK IS RISING series by Susan Cooper + https://www.rt.com/usa/348303-brexit-texit-texas-secession/, http://www.zerohedge.com/news/2016-06-24/first-uk-then-scotland-then-texas

But this is just an idea day, so read the article above about the possibility of Scotland seceding from the United Kingdom (discussed this with my wife or daughter…there have been “disunity” tremblors in all sorts of countries at all sorts of times. From 1836-1846, Texas was an independent republic. Quebec continues a long history of attempting to break free of Canada. The USSR shattered (or reassembled itself) into its original annexed nations.
So – let’s take North America: the Republic of Vermont, the Republic of California, the Free State of Jones, the Republic of Texas, MEChA (Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan), Deseret, and an Independent Quebec are all movements that are taking place or happened in the past and were efforts of smaller groups to separate themselves from the federal governments of the United States, Mexico and Canada respectively. Now, what if these separatists were being driven by a dark goddess of chaos and a group of teens from each place met at a camp to discover they were avatars of this goddess…and didn’t particularly WANT to stay that way?
Thomas Evans shook his head and said, “You don’t think we’ll go to Hell for doin’ this?”
Nancy Seddon shot him a disgusted look and said, “I thought you didn’t believe in God or Hell or anything like that?”“Well, I don’t really, but just in case, isn’t summoning Kauket like a sin or something?”
Nancy laughed, “She’s already lose in this world, Tom. Look around you.”
They were in an abandoned barn in southern Missouri. “It’s no different than usual.”
“Yeah, but things have to change. We can’t go on like this!”
Tom looked down at her, where she was drawing marks in the packed earth. She’d made a big deal of sweeping away all the old, brittle, dry hay and clearing a circle. She’d also set out crude tallow candles which she’d lit with a laboriously struck flint. He glanced at his bloody knuckles. “It’s worth bloody knuckles for?”
Nancy glanced up at him as she finished the last line and stood up, rocking to the balls of her feet. She wore an expensive pair of shoes they’d pulled from the body of a white woman who’d been strangled to death and left by the roadside to rot. “It’s worth summoning the goddess Kauket for.”

“Why do you need to call some foreign ‘gyptian thing for? Don’t we have any chaos goddesses in the Confederacy?”
“We’re in the Union now, Tom. ‘member? We’re the Free State of Jones.”
He grunted. He hadn’t forgotten. He’d even shot a couple of Rebs for the good Mr. Knight. He just hadn’t the stomach for much more’n two. Nancy had dragged him away and said she had an easier way to knock down the Confederacy. “I forgot. No Choctaw goddesses…”
She surged to her feet and shoved him, “Nanishta is a powerful goddess! In fact, she will reign over the end of the world!”
“Why don’t you call her, then?” Tom said, fighting the urge to shove her back.
Nancy looked back at the ring she’d made, shrugged, and said, “All right, fine. I’m sure she’ll listen to me even though…”
Tom backed from the circle as a dark, thunderhead had appeared, roiling in the center of the circle. At first it looked as if it would begin to rain in the dilapidated barn, but before he could laugh, the walls all around them began to bleed…
Names: ♀,♂Common Southern names during the American Civil War
Image: http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OCWXw6InF70/TKigMBk87NI/AAAAAAAAAy4/tL7MhIfL9CM/s1600/2212_1025142570.jpg

WRITING ADVICE: Can This Story Be SAVED? #2 “With Stars and Stones His Only Witness” (Submitted 8 Times Since 2008, Revised)

In September of 2007, I started this blog with a bit of writing advice. A little over a year later, I discovered how little I knew about writing after hearing children’s writer, In April of 2014, I figured I’d gotten enough publications that I could share some of the things I did “right”. I’ll keep that up, but I’m running out of pro-published stories. I don’t write full-time, nor do I make enough money with my writing to live off of it, but someone pays for and publishes ten percent of what I write. Hemingway’s quote above will remain unchanged as I work to increase my writing output and sales, but I’m adding this new series of posts because I want to carefully look at what I’ve done WRONG and see if I can fix it. As always, your comments are welcome!
ANALOG Tag Line: As we age, we often discover that the dreams we once had for our future have changed into someone else’s reality.
Elevator Pitch (What Did I Think I Was Trying To Say?): What if the last of the original Moon colonists had watched the dream of an impartial, focused research-oriented science society morph into a haven for the elderly, the entertainment industry, and extreme sports enthusiasts – and the last vestige of the dream is about to be lost forever?
Opening Line: “I’ve always loved the seven-and-a-half meter-tall Lunar giraffes.”
Onward: Montrose Dylan is the last of the original Lunar colonists and a system-wide news service has assigned a reporter to follow him until he dies. Ana Perez has come to be a sort of “great-niece” to him.
What Was I Trying To Say? Like I said above, this is a sort of “my story”. When I was a kid, I had strong hopes that we’d have colonies on the Moon and a strong space program. I believed that space travel would be commonplace and that everyone else would be excited about it. Obviously, I don’t live in the future I’d hoped for. Dylan doesn’t life there, either. How does he react? How would I react if I was in his spacesuit?
The Rest of the Story: After they travel half-way around the Moon to the inoperative Far Array, Ana is badly injured in an accident that is a direct result of the fact that even though she’s a natural-born Lunite, she’s totally unfamiliar with how to behave on the surface. You may find that unbelievable, but I live in a state that has 10,000 lakes and over 12000 bodies of water all together – and whose eastern border is mostly rivers and Lake Superior... You might assume that with that much water around, EVERYONE would learn how to swim. Your assumption would have made you look the fool because over a hundred Minnesotans drowned last year.
Dylan goes into a trench he helped dig and is badly injured. Trying to rescue her – and pretty sure she’s dead – he has a heart attack at the bottom of the trench with her. The story ends with everything around him fading into darkness – and the stars and stones his final and only witness…
End Analysis: Everything about the story is fine. It’s executed well, coherent, and gripping. But the subject is negative – totally excluding sciencey magazines like ANALOG, LIGHTSPEED, and CLARKESWORLD. Even ASIMOV’S. It’s just too…horrifying. In its own way, it’s as creepy as the Borg of Star Trek are. It represents not the “worst” Humans can do, rather it’s too much like real life – where the compromises we make for convenience-sake and because the alternative is too hard, deliver us to a very ordinary, prosaic, and absolutely NON-heroic future.
Can This Story Be Saved?: Only if I change the ending, let Dylan save Ana or Ana save Dylan, and have them pontificate about ways to change Lunar Society…which wouldn’t happen. So the answer to this one is: “No. There’s no way to save this story and still remain true to my message.”

Image: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/9f/22/3b/9f223b1e57a36e14db3eb13715fbe3f9.jpg

MARTIAN HOLIDAY 85: Paolo at Burroughs Dome

On a well-settled Mars, the five major city Council regimes struggle to meld into a stable, working government. Embracing an official Unified Faith In Humanity, the Councils are teetering on the verge of pogrom directed against Christians, Molesters, Jews, Rapists, Buddhists, Murderers, Muslims, Thieves, Hindu, Embezzlers and Artificial Humans – anyone who threatens the official Faith and the consolidating power of the Councils. It makes good sense, right – get rid of religion and Human divisiveness on a societal level will disappear? An instrument of such a pogrom might just be a Roman holiday...To see the rest of the chapters, go to SCIENCE FICTION: Martian Holiday on the right and scroll to the bottom for the first story. If you’d like to read it from beginning to end (60,000+ words as of now), drop me a line and I’ll send you the unedited version.
Paolo Marcillon pursed his lips. He wasn’t getting any younger; his brother’s life wasn’t getting any less strange as far as he’d heard. His friends in Burroughs talked about a man calling himself Stepan who had once been Natan Wallach. It seemed insane on the face of it. His brother had been violently anti-faith; a penultimate materialist, unable to grant credence to anything he could not touch, taste, hear, see, or smell.
To believe the rumor mill, his brother had made a three hundred and sixty-degree reversal away from lifelong, rigidly held beliefs. With a sigh, Paolo suited up. There was only one way to find out the truth and it was impossible to deny the compulsion he was under. While he was certain God had a hand in this crazy scheme, he was also terrified.
He sealed his helmet, stored the air in the marsbug, and let himself out through the airlock.
He’d catch the inbound commuter lev-train from the outposts ranging along the heights of the crater ring, then try and discreetly snoop around to see what his big brother was really up to. He found himself hoping that the conversion was true.
He also found himself hoping that Natan…Stepan…his adoptive brother…could help him avoid their father and help him search the Dome archives for information on the strange probe. He’d discovered it just outside of the crater. It had already been excavated – or it had done a soft landing. By the surface pitting, it was clearly old and it wasn’t anything made by any Human government.
On the other hand, it might have been a secret project, but the level of technology apparent in it wasn’t within the reach of any current Martian government. Unless there were players he’d never heard of.
Shaking his head, he made the short walk up to the crater lip to get his bearings. Just to the east was Outpost 14. The silver thread of the maglev track running along the rim then spiraling down to the floor and into Burroughs. Setting off for the ‘post, he started out by worrying and gradually slipped into prayer.
An hour later, he was on the platform, waiting for the next train. His helmet’s faceplate display showed him he had only a few minutes to wait. Even so, he found himself nervously checking the suit’s condition, reviewing his direction, and wondering what his brother was doing living so close to their father. Though the rumors from the Hidden Church said his brother was somewhere on the Rim doing something like mission work, none of them were specific enough for him to have a clear target.
He snorted as the train pulled in. It was a simple flat car with one rail around the edge, steel toeholds set in rows and vertical T-shaped poles to hang on to. It was mostly empty, though five figures stood at the far, rear corner. They didn’t even sway as it stopped. They were locked in place, probably conferencing. Or they were robots. Unlikely. Mars had never gone in for the robotic revolution like Earth had. Genetically modified artificial Humans had taken the place of mechanicals because they weren’t bothered by the fine Martian dust that pervaded life on Mars.
It took the better part of an hour to loop around the crater wall; another half an hour to descend to the floor. It was only minutes non-stop then to Burroughs itself. The car stopped, the other five passengers they’d picked up on the way down, himself, and the first five got off, heading for the decontamination and entry gate.
By the time he was out of his suit and standing on the main concourse of the Dome, it was nearly noon. The city kept its ambient temperature a little high and he wiped his forehead on his sleeve. Standing with his back to a column near a city map, he scratched his chin. The rumors said that Stepan was working somewhere on the Rim, which was the immensely thick permanent “wall” on which the dome rested. Even though the dome itself wasn’t made of real glass, but was a forcefield sandwiched between mobile nanomachines in constant motion, it was still a technology that could break down. Theoretically no dome could actually “crack” as there wasn’t any physical structure involved. But the complex interaction between the field and the two layers of microscopic robots could be disrupted by a large enough force. Designed to deflect micrometeorite impacts, a strike from something larger than a fist could conceivably disrupt enough of the sandwich to set up a vortex that would gradually spread; rather like a skin disease.
The Rim held temporary material that would explosively bubble a neighborhood if there was ever a catastrophic failure of the nanomachine-forcefield-nanomachine sandwich. It had only ever been tested in an actual disaster once. FirstDome, since abandoned along with Paolo’s father’s Ghost Dome, had blamed not the bubble technology to save everyone in the neighborhood, but religion. A Pogrom had followed and not long after, the Dome government fractured and the Councils had seized power, sometimes allowing a Mayor to rule, sometimes doing the job themselves as democratically as possible.
He sighed. Life on Mars was complicated. He wondered if life on Earth, where you could walk around on the surface had been any easier. Shaking his head, he located the nearest library and set off for it.

Image: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_x2tsYqz5q3c/TFpRAD3RNyI/AAAAAAAAC70/ASN65Y_L4lQ/s1600/Astronauta+Marcos+C%C3%A9sar+Pontes.bmp

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 266

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc.) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.
F Trope: Talking animalsCurrent Event: http://www.newsminer.com/article_a5663fec-92d2-57c6-b57c-743b4adf4194.html
Noah Rhydderch shook his head angrily, “No, I know what I heard!”
Machig Labdrön pursed her lips, then took her lower lip between her thumb and finger. Finally she said, “Ravens can’t really speak, you know.”
Noah rolled his eyes. “I know that they aren’t supposed to speak English. I know they’re mimics – but the bird wasn’t just mimicking me. It was trying to tell me something!”
Machig sighed. “Look, Noah. I know we want our research to show that they’re smarter than we’ve given them credit for...”
“Machig! Don’t patronize me!” He shook his head and dropped down onto the lab stool. The raven loft was attached to the lab building of the International Wolf Institute. They were working under a grant from the National Science Foundation – but that did little to make Noah forget his ancestral involvement with the birds. Machig had the same connections – ancient Hebrews, the Welsh and Bhutanese cultures all revered the raven. It was what had drawn them together in the first place (though in a distressingly asexual way). He continued, “Don’t you think I’m weirded out by what I think I heard?”
She dropped down on the stool next to him and put her hand on his knee, though she didn’t look at him. She said, “So tell me again – what did Katoohk say to you?” They’d named raven #13 of their survey flock an Anglicized version of an Far Eastern Russian creator god.
“See that was what was weird, he didn’t actually say anything to me. I...” he paused, shot her a look and said, “I dreamed it.”
She took her hand away, rolling her eyes as she stood up. “Oh, great! I can just see the section in our paper on ‘Dream Interpretation and Communication Skills of Corvus corax’!”
“I didn’t ask for the dream! I’m just telling you about it!”
“You’re acting like it’s significant to our studies!”
“I’m not the one who said it was – Kahoohk said what he had to tell me was significant!”
Machig took a deep breath, sat back down and faced Noah. She said, “All right. I’ll listen to your dream – but don’t interpret for me. Just tell me what happened to the best of your memory.” She set her ipik down and turned it on. “If what you say is relevant in any way, I’ll think about it and let you know if I think it has any significance.”
“You mean you get last say? That’s not fair! This is my research, too!”
She snorted, “That’s exactly what’s fair! It’s yours ‘too’! My name will be attached to it and I don’t know if I want it attached to some fairy tale!”
He opened his mouth. Shut it. Dropped back down on the stool and said, “All right. This is what Kahoohk said: “A hero of Ireland, Cú Chulainn had a son whose name was Connla, by Aífe. Connla has been long separated from his father and seeking him to sit with him and do the things fathers and sons enjoy, comes to Ireland in search of him. Cú Chulainn takes the son he does not recognize as an intruder and kills him when he refuses to identify himself. Connla's last words to his father as he dies are that they would have ‘carried the flag of Ulster to the gates of Rome and beyond’, leaving Cú Chulainn both without an heir and grief-stricken and with no understanding of what he did.”
Machig made a face and sagged in the chair. “I thought you were going to say something significant.” She laughed. “You don’t even have a kid!” When she looked at him again, his face was white. “What?”
“I suppose before we move any farther ahead or back in our relationship – or non-relationship as the case may be, I have something I should tell you…”
Names: ♀ Bhutan; ♂ Hebrew, Welsh
Image: http://www.public-domain-image.com/architecture/castle/slides/ruins-of-richmond-castle.jpg

Slice of PIE: Building Character

Using the panel discussions of the most recent World Science Fiction Convention in Spokane, August 2015, I will jump off, jump on, rail against, and shamelessly agree with the BRIEF DESCRIPTION given in the pdf copy of the Program Guide. This is event #4615 . The link is provided below…
Characters with “Character” in YA Fiction Not all characters are created equally. Some are made for moving the plot along, some are created for comedy relief, and some crafted to inspire. A book is created around characters readers can get behind, love, hate or empathize with, laugh at. From heroes to villains and more, authors share some of their favorite YA fiction characters and what makes these characters so interesting. Find out what characters work and what characters don’t for young adult readers. William Campbell Powell (m), Gail Carriger, Deby Fredericks, Rebecca Moesta
Ugh – building believable characters is a real weakness of mine…
So, how does the panel qualify?
William Campbell Powell (m) – a solid SF book under his belt. Check.Gail Carriger – commented earlier, she wrote the Parasol Protectorate books. Check (again!)Deby Fredericks – a few Kindle books in fantasy. Check.Rebecca Moesta – no comment needed! A spectacular writer whom I respect and love to read! (For those of you NOT in the know, she’s written more than a “few” STAR WARS books with her husband Kevin J. Anderson.)
There’s some real fire power here and I’m sure the discussion was fascinating.
How DO you build believable characters?
RM first: “YA and middle grade fiction has been my favorite to read since I was about ten. Somehow, I never outgrew it. There’s a magic in YA: it’s the literature of transformation. Something essential always happens to the main characters. The journey from childhood to adulthood presents challenges and rites of passage that are social, emotional, physical, and moral. Our protagonists confront issues like first love, conflicting loyalties, losing a family member, false friends, uncertain values, leaving home, poverty or violence, idealism vs pragmatism.” (http://www.rowena-cory-daniells.com/2011/10/01/meet-rebecca-moesta/)
GC: “…my favorite kind of character to write – practical to a fault, capable in a crisis, frustrating to the other characters around her, and all too often getting herself into impossible situations out of sheer nerve. It can be a little annoying trying to write myself out of the corner they have gotten the plot into, but they are so rich in friends, they have help in times of dire need.” (http://gailcarriger.com/about/never-ending-interview/)
WCP: “…told through diary entries from the main character with a couple of other things thrown into the mix. I was strongly reminded of The Testament of Jessie Lamb while reading Expiration Day, since most of the book deals with the day to day adventures of a teenager in a world that is collapsing out from under the human race.” (https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/814967264?utm_campaign=reviews&utm_medium=widget&utm_source=faithandsciencefiction.blogspot.com)
OK – so I know I CAN built characters, but I don’t know the formula yet!
How do I do it? I’ve read books and I’ve tried to reduce my own successes to something I can use more consistently. People seem to like Emerald. I think they’ll like Zechariah in HOTSS: Zechariah of Venus the new book I’m working on now.
But if there’s a formula here, I could pull this from the three observations above:
1) “Something essential always happens to the main characters…”2) “…practical, capable, frustrating to the other characters, sheer nerve…”3) “…told through diary entries, day to day adventures…”
Program Book: http://sasquan.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/ConGuide.toupload.pdf
Image: https://c1.staticflickr.com/3/2927/13945661442_d7bb77c0f8_b.jpg

I Will Return!

After a lengthy illness, on Monday, July 25, 2016; my mother passed away.The funeral was last night.I will be back on Sunday and resume blogging.Thank you for your understanding.

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 265

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.
SF Trope: Interstellar TravelCurrent Event: http://ntrs.nasa.gov/archive/nasa/casi.ntrs.nasa.gov/20110015936.pdf
Giovanna Mukhomorov shook her head slowly as she stared through the meteoroid [meteor = “celestial (brighter among the stars) phenomenon”; oid = “still seen”; ite = “a piece of”]-scarred window of the International Space Station. “When the old NASA announced this in 2014, my mom said she cried.”
Artyom Pai-Teles snorted, staring out the same window. “My fathers both shook their heads and said, ‘American hubris’.”
Gio didn’t bother looking at him as she said, “Thirty years later, the same might be said of them when they first planned your genstruction.”
“Hey! I was a successful...”
“How many times did they have to try, AP?”
He could do nothing but grunt. They’d been best friends up here since the day they’d arrived in space. Two years ago. Sometimes he thought it was too bad she was straight gay.
He sighed and she added, “It’s never gonna happen, AP.”
He said, “A man can dream about stroking those massive engines, can’t he?”
She slugged him, forgetting to hold herself down and floated away and into the main stream of older men and women, prime-age men and women, young adult men and women, and a smattering of boys and girls. Most of them politely excused themselves, bouncing like oddly-shaped ping pong balls as they moved hurriedly around Gio.
One of them did not. A young adult grabbed a bar near her feet and said, “You need to stay out of my way, kid.”
Flicking her toes, she came within a millimeter of his rather big nose. He flinched but didn’t move. Impressed despite herself, she said, “Titus, you’re ninety-one days older than me. You were one grade behind me. Even if you do the simplest math you’re most capable of, you still come out behind and I still don’t like you.” She pulled herself up and shoved herself toward the assembly area. “Come on Artyom. We have a galaxy to explore.”
He followed her, taking her hand, but she didn’t see the look on Titus Polamalu’s face. He did. He not only didn’t like the look, somewhere deep down inside of him, he found himself terrified of the mind of the man who watched his best friend.
Names: ♀ Brazil, Russia; ♂ Russia, Brazil, ♂ Hawaii, Hawaii Image: http://f.tqn.com/y/inventors/1/0/x/w/Solid_Propellant.jpg

JOURNEY TO THE PORTRAIT’S SECRET #89: August 1, 1946

This series is a little bit biographical and a little bit imaginary about my dad and a road trip he took in the summer of 1946, when he turned fifteen. He and a friend hitchhiked from Loring Park to Duluth, into Canada and back again. He was gone from home for a month. I was astonished and fascinated by the tale. So, I added some speculation about things I've always wondered about and this series is the result. To read earlier SHORT LONG JOURNEY NORTH clips, click on the label to the right, scroll down to and click OLDER ENTRIES seven or eight times. The FIRST entry is on the bottom of the last page.  ?zZ
The truck roared on. The sign on the road read, “Minneapolis 50 Miles”. Edwina Olds Lieutenant, WACS (ret.) said, “We’d better have a plan, boys, before we get down there.” Both boys nodded as the truck roared on. Neither one spoke. She said, “So, what’s the plan?” She leaned forward a bit, shot a glance at Tommy Hastings. “This is your mama we’re talking about here, son. What would you like us to do?” She turned her attention back to driving.
Tommy’s eyes practically bugged out. He swallowed hard opened his mouth then closed it. Finally, he said, “I can’t do nothin’.”
“Like hell you can’t!” Ed shouted.
Both boys slid away from her, scrunching against the door. Finally, Tommy said, “We have to get there before everyone else does.”
“So far, we’re fine,” Ed said. “We’re ahead of the Socialists for certain. What about the witch?”
Freddie Hastings said, “She’s from Anoka.”
“Hmmm.” Ed paused, “That’s a lot closer.”
“But she wasn’t bad. Scary, but not bad.”
“So we don’t have to worry about her?”
Tommy piped up, “Like Freddie said, she wasn’t bad. Just creepy. Why would she want mom’s picture?” He shook his head. “It wasn’t her.”
Freddie said, “What about the mobsters?”
Tommy stared out the window, his short hair rippling in the wind roaring through the window. “I dunno. Could be.” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. They were too…neat.” He shrugged. “She was beautiful, sure. He looked cool. Like a movie. But they didn’t even seem real.” He watched for a while more. “Nah. It’s the Socialists. They want Mom’s picture.”
“Then we’re ahead of them,” said Ed. She paused, downshifting to keep from crashing into a pickup truck, sweeping around it.
Tommy was looking in the window of the car. The driver was a stranger, but the head that leaned forward suddenly looked directly up. It jerked back as Tommy shouted, “One of the Socialists is in that truck!”
Ed floored it and cut back into her lane as a car appeared over a hill. She used a bad word. The truck driver laid on the horn and hit his brakes. Ed hit the accelerator and the truck roared down the road. “You’d better come up with a plan really, really quick, kid! I’m gonna be downtown in about an hour and a quarter.”
Tommy closed his eyes and leaned forward until his forehead smacked against the hot dashboard. He sat that way for a long time. Freddie tapped him on the shoulder. Tommy’s voice was barely audible when he said, “Leave me alone! I’m think up a plan!” Freddie and Ed looked up, eyes locking. Both sets of eyes bulged.
They rode on in silence. After twenty miles, Tommy sat up suddenly and said, “I think I got an idea.” He looked over at Ed and said, “Can you drop us off in the alley behind my house?”
Ed pursed her lips then shook her head. “Afraid not, kid. Those are too narrow for a rig like mine.”
“Can you drop us on Hennepin and Fifteenth?”
Ed grunted, nodding, “I can imagine what you’re planning, kid. I think it’ll work.”
“You think you can have a little engine trouble then?”
This time Ed grinned, nodded, and said, “I believe I can, son! I believe I can.”

Image: http://www.lakesnwoods.com/images/1940s.84.jpg