Guy Stewart's Blog, page 95

LOVE IN A TIME OF ALIEN INVASION -- Chapter 72

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. All three intelligences hover on the edge of extinction. The merger of Human-Kiiote-Yown’Hoo into a van der Walls Society might not only save all three – but become something not even they could predict. Something entirely new...
The young experimental Triads are made up of the smallest primate tribe of Humans – Oscar and Xiomara; 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)
I wrapped my arms around my chest and tried thinking about how cold I’d be when Retired searched me for tracking devices. He’d search Great Uncle Rion first; who would then search Xio – while Retired checked me out for tracking devices. The feelings that brought on I shoved really deep down. For a second, the image of me stripped down and him scanning me with some device as well as checking anything that looked suspicious hit me as unexpectedly intimate and a little bit exciting.
Then I thought about who might be tracking us, and my pounding pulse slowed down as I felt cold fear wash over me.
Xio came out of the refuge shaking her head. “When Retired is finished with your great uncle, you’re up.” She slid a heavy sweatshirt over her head, tugging it down. “It’s a good thing Retired has hiking gear stashed back there.”
“That’s just a sweatshirt!” I said.
“Way more than that, my best Human friend. Way more than that!” She threw another look over her shoulder as GURion came out of the room.
It nodded to me and said, “Like I said, I’m clean of bugs. So is your Tribe-mate.”
“She’s not my mate!” I said. “Why would you think that?”
As it passed me by, it patted me on the shoulder. “I’m going to go find out what our youngest Herd member’s discovered farther on.”
Retired stepped out of the room. “You’re next Romeo.”
“I’m not in love with Xio!”
Scowling, Retired motioned me in as he said, “I never said anything about love, kid. Why would I do that?”
“Because…because…” I snorted and pushed past him and started shedding my clothing.
“You can stop at your underwear if you want,” he said. I peeled out of them and tossed them on the pile with my other clothes.
The room was warmer than I was expecting. Retired held up a scanner box then whistled. “What?” I said, my voice cracking again.
He shook his head, passed the scanner again and said, “You’re a real redhead, aren’t you?”
I was suddenly embarrassed and excited at the same time, then embarrassed at my excitement. I bent over to grab my underwear. Retired laughed. “Sorry, son. I couldn’t help it.”
“What?” I said as I tried to force my foot through the leg hole, caught my toe on the material and had to throw my arms wildly into the air. My excitement was so obvious, I probably blushed blood red. I’m pretty sure an infrared scanner would have shown me lighting up like a beacon.
“Natural reaction, kid. Don’t worry about it. Flattered even.”
“I don’t love you!”
He shrugged. “Maybe not, but your great uncle loves you.”
“It’s a robot. It can’t love anything.”
“It was programmed to look like a Human at one time. You thought he was Human.”
 I couldn’t look at him while I dressed. I was dying of embarrassment and just wanted to get out of there. But I had to defend myself. “I was just a kid. What did I know?”
“You knew your great uncle loved you.”
“He…it…it couldn’t love. I was programmed to act like it loved me!”
“If you act a part long enough, maybe you start to become the part,” said Retired.
“Just because I take the part of King Lear and don’t do any other part my whole life,” we’d watched the series of performances by the incredible Human actor, Master Deepak Ogomelenday. He played Kind Lear six thousand, four hundred and twenty-one times before he died in the first wave of the Yown’Hoo attacks on Earth. “It doesn’t make me a king at the end!” Ogomelenday had been executed with the two billion seven hundred million four thousand eight hundred and seventeen other Humans who’d died immediately after the Yown’Hoo and Kiiote ran into each other head on – they’d been used as pawns and died like pawn, hostages in a conflict they didn’t understand and hadn’t known existed. Until they died.
Retired hung his head and said, “Truth.” Dressed, I turned to leave, pausing when he said, “I’ve also known people who were brilliant, and were told repeatedly that they were stupid, finally believed it…and let themselves become stupid.” He paused again. “Thank you for loving me.”
“I don’t love you, I said! Not…not…like…that!”
“Not that. That was just biology.”
“Huh?” So much for sounding smart.
“You were embarrassed. People are only embarrassed when they value the opinion of the person observing them.”  He stepped up to open the door for me. “I love you, too, Oscar Simak Paulson.”
I left before I could say anything else.

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

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 324

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: forbidden roomsCurrent Event: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/McMartin_preschool_trialand http://www.ipt-forensics.com/journal/volume7/j7_2_1_33.htmand http://www.sacbee.com/2011/07/21/3783838/mcmartin-preschool-fiasco-led.html
Thirty years after the infamous McMartin Preschool Incident, Tayna Hopewell’s parents buy the land the day care once stood on to build a golf equipment shop. Everything is past and even though she finds out about the lot’s history through a Google search, she doesn’t say anything.
They aren’t opening a day care!
Tanya who lives in Alondra and takes classes as a high school senior at El Camino College wants to be a forensic scientist after she graduates. Her parents are “golf semi-pros” and while she supports them now that she’s “grown up”, she loathes the sport and avoids it at every chance.
On the eve of a big semi-pro tourney at the nearby Alondra Golf Course, and shortly after the excavation began, Tanya NEEDS to escape her parents! They’re driving her CRAZY!
She lights off along Manhattan Beach Boulevard, jogging toward the beach and some much-needed alone time. When she reaches the excavation site, she sees that the gate is still standing open and she figures her parents own the land, so she has every right to check things out.
A warm breeze is wafting off shore a mile or so away and even though the sun is sinking toward the horizon, she’s comfortable poking around the site.
It’s not particularly interesting until she gets to the back of the lot. It’s been built over more than once – before the infamous daycare (demolished in 1985) it was a housing development, since then The Strand Cleaners which went out of business. Now her parents are building a two-story building; the ground floor will house Hopewell’s Pro Golf; the upper story was unrented yet, but there were plenty of people interested.
At the back of the property, Tanya nearly pitches into a narrow hole in the ground that runs under the fence to the property behind their land. As well, there’s evidence of the trenches running toward Manhattan Boulevard. Scowling, she looked into the hole, though she can’t see a thing. She takes out her cell, flips it to “flashlight mode” and aims it into the hole.
She still can’t see much more than the far side of it. Muttering, she unrolls her towel, lays it on the ground and lays down, scooting to the edge so she can see over it clearly.
The flicks on the flashlight, holding it ahead of her and pointing down and looks carefully.
At the bottom of the trench, at the edge of the cell phone’s light reach, she clearly sees a pile of bones.
Heart pounding, she remembers that there was a buried trash heap under the property that they’d found evidence of even during the trial in the olden days. It’s probably just animal bones.
That’s when she sees it. To one side, barely visible now, staring at her without eyes, is a small skull.
A small HUMAN skull…
Image: http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OCWXw6InF70/TKigMBk87NI/AAAAAAAAAy4/tL7MhIfL9CM/s1600/2212_1025142570.jpg

WRITING ADVICE: What Went RIGHT #41 “Skipping School” (Submitted 5 times, Published June 2007, Aoife’s Kiss)

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, Lin Oliver speak at a convention hosted by the Minnesota Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. Since then, I have shared (with their permission) and applied the writing wisdom of Lin Oliver, Jack McDevitt, Nathan Bransford, Mike Duran, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, SL Veihl, Bruce Bethke, and Julie Czerneda. Together they write in genres broad and deep, and have acted as agents, editors, publishers, columnists, and teachers. Since then, I figured I’ve got enough publications now that I can share some of the things I did “right” and I’m busy sharing that with you.
While I don’t write full-time, nor do I make enough money with my writing to live off of it...neither do all of the professional writers above...someone pays for and publishes ten percent of what I write. When I started this blog, that was NOT true, so I may have reached a point where my own advice is reasonably good. We shall see! Hemingway’s quote above will now remain unchanged as I work to increase my writing output and sales! As always, your comments are welcome!
I liked this world, but because it’s so dark, I haven’t gone back since.
Why is it dark? Because there is still racism; there is still poverty and its attendant violence; there is still despair; there is still child abuse.
Stan Schmidt didn’t want it for ANALOG because it was “too bleak”. I wonder what Trevor Quachri would think now? Bleakness seems to be the name of the game that our politicians are playing, no matter their stripe. Argument and bad-mouthing seem to be the order of the day – whether Republican or Democrat, with both loudly blaming the other for, well, everything.
So maybe “Skipping School” would play better today. I’ll have to see. You CAN read the story in its entirety here: https://theworkandworksheetsofguystewart.blogspot.com/2013/12/skipping-school.html
In it, I postulate matter transmission has become commonplace; but it doesn’t work over large distances. There are limiting factors, unlike in Star Trek where you can even do “transwarp beaming”. In my story, you can beam – or “skip” – only a fifteen meters. Strictly line-of-sight travel.
For safety reasons, the technology has been implemented as a way of crossing busy streets. I know, would you REALLY trust a skipgate to transfer you over a busy street without slowing down are stopping?
Hmmm…I can only say that it took about a half century for Humans to go from experimental heavier-than-air flight to commercial trans-Atlantic crossings, and now people don’t give a second thought to flying from Minneapolis to London, non-stop fully expecting to get there in eight hours. Few, if any, think of the possibility of crashing in the North Atlantic because it just doesn’t happen.
In my future, the skipgate has been accepted as the only way to cross a busy street and no one gives it a second thought. But there are rumblings that it’s possible to program the ‘gate to transmit to distant ‘gates.
The information is underground though probably in labs, too. A former street cop and teacher has the information, but none of the kids – skipsnatchers – trust her to learn the technique. They also don’t go to school because in this future, schools are entirely privatized. The government can hardly afford to feed and medicate the public, let alone educate it, too. (PS – I don’t see this as an impossible future. The school I work at is bogged down by both endless regulations and endless expectations. The system as it is can hardly take any more weight before it begins to hemorrhage both talent and resources – because the schools do not produce anything tangible. We can’t even agree on what it means to be “educated”…)
I’ve commented on “education” in the past: https://faithandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2011/09/possibly-irritating-essays-educating.html, https://faithandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2014/10/possibly-irritating-essays-science.html, https://faithandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2017/07/slice-of-pie-another-stab-at-teaching.html, https://faithandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2016/08/slice-of-pie-does-science-fiction-still.html, so I won’t go on a rant here. But in this future, which I admit is bleak, Jonterrius has only had a rudimentary education because his father was an English teacher in one of the corporate schools. Also, don’t get me wrong, the aim of a corporate school would be to create educated workers, so the curriculum would be slanted at an angle designed to produce the best employees. This however, is no different from the stated goal of public education as condensed by Mortimor Adler in 1982: “to the develop citizenship, [stimulate] personal growth or self-improvement, andoccupational preparation.”
Is that what we SHOULD be developing? Or should we be working to create men and women who can think for themselves? But THAT wouldn’t be testable, would it?
At any rate, Jonterrius and the “legless woman in a wheelchair” strike a deal: he would lure homeless kids in with a key code to jump to one other skipgate. She would educate the kid – hopefully not at a desk and by rote…
It took me awhile to sell this one because it IS dark. But I think there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. One commenter noted that the ending was too pedantic and obvious; I’d have to agree. I need to tighten it and maybe make parts of it more explicit. I don’t know. I DO know I’d like to update it and sell it again!

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

MARTIAN HOLIDAY 111: Stepan of Burroughs

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 (70,000+ words as of now), drop me a line and I’ll send you the unedited version.
Stepan Izmaylova leaned on the door. It didn’t budge. He set the stick down, found the seams of the door then ran his fingers up and down. Nothing happened. He pressed the center of the door. Nothing happened. Stretching his arms, he ran his palms over wall beyond the door. His fingers caught on a square, raised slightly from the wall, about waist height. Scowling, he turned his light on it. “There’s a switch here!”
“Don’t touch it! Come on back up, Master!” QuinnAH, a blue, artificial Human boy who’d joined Stepan several days earlier.
Stepan leaning back as he looked up at the light, Quinn’s head hanging over, looking down. Then he pressed the switch.


When he woke up, he was flat on his back, staring  up at the same square of light, minus Quinn’s head. He took an experimental breath, held it, and coughed from the dust in the air. From that, he figured he wasn’t hurt – at least not obviously. He stood up, picked up his flashlight and played it around the room he’d opened. He gasped.
A surface pressure suit, deflated but with the helmet attached, lay on the floor, sleeve with the glove sealed on stretched toward where he stood. Taking a step forward, he examined the suit more carefully, noting that it wasn’t lying exactly flat. It was lumpy as if it had something inside of it. He knelt down, slowly reaching out his hand. He thought of the thousands of horror movies he’d watched during his teen years. After a terrified night under the covers when the scene with a farmer sprawled in the corner of a room, empty, dark blood crusted sockets where his eyes had been staring sightlessly at the camera had come up in the two-hundred-year-old masterpiece of horror, THE BIRDS; no horror film had ever bothered him again. He knew this for certain because he had tried watching everything from zombies to alien creatures devouring colonists. Virtually every one had elicited nothing but laughter from him.
This wasn’t any different. Even when he realized that he could clearly feel bones in the flaccid parts of the suit. “Someone died in this suit,” he said to the still air. He stepped to the side of the suit and put down the flashlight. Gently sliding his hands under it, he turned it carefully over.
The former occupant’s other hand, inside its glove, was underneath. It had clearly clutched an oddly shaped object. Stepan scowled, picked up the flashlight and examined it without touching it.
The main part of the object had once been a rectangular piece of glass. It had been broken in half, one side with smooth, rounded edges, the other jagged. The glass was scratched and pitted, old most likely, and embedded with sand or some other kind of grit. A coil of dull metal about fifty centimeters long was attached to the corner of the glass, then twisted so that it ran across the top of the rectangle. It made a clear U-turn, then ended in a broken end, as if it had been bent several times before being snapped off.
Stepan touched it, but nothing happened. He looked around the room and stood up, moving deeper into the room. It turned out to be an airlock, most likely set in the base of the Dome and opening to the surface of Mars beyond.
It was a secret airlock.
“For what?” He turned back to look at the suit on the floor, making the obvious deduction – someone had found the odd object outside and brought it back into the airlock. After cycling through, it fell – or the person died somehow and collapsed on the floor. The body had decomposed down to a skeleton inside the suit. Decades for certain; possibly longer than that up to a hundred years. He looked down at the suit. This could have been one of the original colonists for all he knew. They lived long lives, the last one dying some seven years ago at the very ripe old age of one hundred and fifty-three. The question remained. He knelt to study the artifact again, went back into the airlock, and opened one of the storage compartments. Inside was a box of specimen bags, usually used for geological samples. He took one, shook it out, and returned, picking up the glass and wire object – ‘glasses’ he dubbed them, ‘cyclops glasses’, he decided finally – into the bag. He gently tied the top and stepped out of the airlock, debating whether or not to close it.
He looked up and called, “Quinn?”
He wasn’t expecting Quinn to have been joined by four other heads, peering down at him, silhouettes in the brilliant light from above.
Image:https://media.recovery.org/wp-content...

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 323

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. Regarding Fantasy, this insight was startling: “I see the fantasy genre as an ever-shifting metaphor for life in this world, an innocuous medium that allows the author to examine difficult, even controversial, subjects with impunity. Honor, religion, politics, nobility, integrity, greed—we’ve an endless list of ideals to be dissected and explored. And maybe learned from.” – Melissa McPhail.

F Trope: black magicCurrent Event: “In many popular video games, such as Final Fantasy, white and black magic is simply used to distinguish between healing/defensive spells (such as a "cure") and offensive/elemental spells (such as "fire") respectively, and does not carry an inherent good or evil connotation.” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_magic)

Pastor Kim Dong Shik made a face and said, “I don’t dislike the game. I dislike the redefinition.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Martin Caine. A couple other boys from the youth group stood behind him, nodding.
Pastor Kim took a breath, but Trevor Mena cut him off, “You sure you’re not just trying to get us to stop playing a game you think is evil or something dumb like that?”
The pastor bit his lower lip for a moment then said, “Define ‘black magic’ for me.”
The third boy, Aagaard Zorilla said, “That’s easy – black magic is what you use to defend your characters from attack.”
“As opposed to what kind of magic?”
“White magic, of course!” said Trevor.
“Yeah, when you want to attack, you use black magic.”
“Or if you want to summon any of the elementals like earth, air, fire or water.”
Pastor Kim nodded. “So do you think that’s been the definition all along?”
All three boys looked puzzled. Finally Aagaard said, “That’s always been the definition I’ve used.”
“Care to hear a more…historical definition?”All three rolled their eyes.
Pastor Kim laughed and nodded, saying, “Oh, I get it! Anything that’s older than you isn’t important anymore!” Even though Trevor and Aagaard laughed, Martin found himself stepping back. Pastor Kim smiled sadly then said, “So you don’t think I’m important anymore?”
The smile on the faces of two of the boys disappeared. Martin’s grew as he said, “Too bad you’re one of the only ones who noticed.” His voice had dropped an octave and his skin, instead of flushing red like a blush, was flushing black as if the toxins from pasturella pestis had flooded his blood vessels.
The pastor’s eyes bugged a bit, but Martin made a face. The old-fashioned “holy man” was supposed to run away, terrified of the spell the mage had cast over Martin a few weeks ago. The mage – a college professor Martin had heard speak at his sister’s college one night – had assured him that old-fashioned christianity wasn’t relevant, let alone imbued with the kind of power mages controlled.
When Martin had mentioned his pastor was pretty cool, the professor had laughed and asked if he wanted to be truly empowered – granted power great enough to make any old christian drop to their knees in quaking fear. Martin had shrugged and said, “Sure.”
At the moment, his chest swelled and he felt taller than he’d ever felt before. He seemed to be able to look over Aagaard and Trevor and down on Pastor Kim.
But instead of cowering, Pastor Kim…
Names: South Korean, American, Uruguayan
Image: http://www.skyscrapernews.com/images/pics/6255CaernarfonCastle_pic1.jpg

Slice of PIE: How Can I Make My Stories Sing If I’m Tone Deaf?

NOT using the panel discussions of the most recent World Science Fiction Convention in Finland, I will NOT jump off, jump on, rail against, and shamelessly agree with the BRIEF DESCRIPTION given in the pdf copy of the Program Guide. Today, I’ll start with notes I took from the Minnesota Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators Fall Conference.
While the focus of the conference was “Make Your Stories Sing”, I was looking for a solution to my problem of writing INCONSISTENTLY.
I don’t mean having a time to write regularly. I don’t mean having an instrument and place to do my writing. I have both of those. I mean that I’ve published stories in the biggest markets in my chosen field – CRICKET/CICADA, for children’s writing; ANALOG Science Fiction & Fact for my SF writing; even THE WRITER (online) – but I don’t get published CONSISTENTLY.
The statistics back me up.
CRICKET/CICADA – Total submissions since 1990: 44; Total publications: 4; Total submissions since FIRST publication: 40 (It’s my thought that I’ve been blacklisted since my fourth publication, but I have no proof and no evidence…just a feeling based on “what I did”.)
ANALOG – Total submissions since 1990: 42 ; Total publications: 5; Total submissions since FIRST publication: 20
ANALOG has numerous subs before 1990, but I didn’t keep much in the way of records, so I won’t count those.
I posed the problem to the most recent winner of the Newbery Award winner. In case you don’t know: “The Newbery [is] considered the…most prestigious award for children's literature in the United States. Many bookstores and libraries have Newbery sections; popular television shows interview the winners; textbooks include lists of Newbery winners, and many master's and doctoral theses are written about them.”
Not only was she the keynote speaker, during the Q&A after her talk, I was able to pose my question: “I’ve been published in the big markets, but I have not been consistently published in the big markets. Do you write consistently well – and if you DO, how do you do it?”
She told me it was a good question, then offered a quote attributed to Ernest Hemingway, “The first draft of anything is shit.” [If you are a quote National Socialist like I am, here’s a discussion of the attribution: https://quoteinvestigator.com/2015/09/20/draft/]

It's only a part of a quote, usually taken out of context. When you find it IN context, the particular line is bracketed by precursor statements and a sort of coda: “Don’t get discouraged because there’s a lot of mechanical work to writing. There is, and you can’t get out of it. I rewrote the first part of A Farewell to Arms at least fifty times. You’ve got to work it over. The first draft of anything is shit. When you first start to write you get all the kick and the reader gets none, but after you learn to work it’s your object to convey everything to the reader so that he remembers it not as a story he had read but something that happened to himself.”
Given Hemingway's is somehow a truism that applies to the art of revision, Ms. Barnhill continued, “The secret of consistency is revision.”
Hmmm…she should know because she taught high school English in Oregon, then 7thgrade English in Minnesota where she taught her class to call her Princess Barnhill. She probably also taught them to not hand in first drafts and to do lots of draft. While she lived in Oregon, she’d written a mystery novel, sending it out to agents. When she DID get a response, the agent told her that she’d written the wrong book…
Set free from that book, she restarted writing something different and after having the image of a kid in a car holding a drawing tablet on his lap on his way to (of all places) rural Iowa, she felt compelled “to write a place for him to belong”. The result was THE MOSTLY TRUE STORY OF JACK.
Now granting the importance of revision, what did she mean by it? She answered with an anecdote and an appalling practice she committed when she first started writing (she has since come back to her senses – possibly after her husband nearly lost his mind…or something like that…)
The anecdote: When she and her husband worked for the US Forestry Service in Oregon, they were surveying the damage created by a huge blowdown. Another park Ranger was assigned to work with him. His first name was Vic and I have NO idea what I wrote for his last name except this: “Stanscliskie”. At any rate, overwhelmed by the damage, she and her husband had no idea where or how to start. Vic said, “Take the worst part of the trail and make it the best.”

Since that time, Ms. Barnhill has adapted that advice to her writing. The practice she committed however, seems wildly reckless, (though from our really brief time in the session, it seems to somehow mesh nicely with her description of how her principals viewed her as a teacher: “…impertinent. And impatient. And insubordinate. And I had a difficult time holding my tongue.”)

She'd applied Vic's theory of of rebuilding trails to the practice of writing by clicking SELECT ALL -> DELETE -> and then REWROTE THE WHOLE THING FROM MEMORY method of revision.
Since those days, however, she has revised her revision methodology (so-to-speak) to writing long-hand first drafts and then enter them into the computer. She notes that cursive writing or longhand stimulates both sides of the brain (http://www.twosidesna.org/US/2014/03/31/handwriting-helps-the-brain-function/, using actual research references: http://mashable.com/2015/01/19/handwriting-brain-benefits/#hPB0q.o2TsqI) and it’s been effective for her work.
Obviously effective, as she’s won the Newbery award as well as the World Fantasy Award, and she's been nominated for several others.
The takeaway here seems pretty clear, even to me: Take the worst part of the trail and make it the best.
The Site: https://minnesota.scbwi.org/events/2017-mn-scbwi-conference/Image: https://www.dx-revision.com/wp-content/uploads/posts/revised-revision-logo-font.jpg

LOVE IN A TIME OF ALIEN INVASION -- Chapter 71

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. All three intelligences hover on the edge of extinction. The merger of Human-Kiiote-Yown’Hoo into a van der Walls Society might not only save all three – but become something not even they could predict. Something entirely new...
The young experimental Triads are made up of the smallest primate tribe of Humans – Oscar and Xiomara; 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)
After taking the biggest risk I’d ever taken in almost seventeen years of life, I held up my hands and remarkably, Herd, Pack, and the other half of the Tribe – Xiomara – shut up.
I took a deep breath, held it, then said, “Someone’s been on our tail since we left the Dome. We need to search our clothes and bags,” I looked at GURion, “And you need to scan everyone one of us – naked.” I waited for Xio to protest. The Yown’Hoo and Kiiote didn’t usually wear body covering.
I didn’t expect Dao-hi, Herd Mother, to say, “The Human Master will scan us with our tentacles all extended.” The Herd jerked as if they’d been shocked. I guess they had been. The entire group shuddered and swung their heads a little. Males in the herd did combat with their thick, heavy heads – their brains were deep in the heart of their ribcage, in pretty much the same place as a Human heart. Seeing two Herd males banging their heads together was impressive. But they almost always kept their tentacles sheathed. They treated them the way Humans treated their genitals – covered ninety-nine percent of the time. Because when the tentacles of Herd members touched, they were able to pass crude memories via chemicals modified by the sensory experiences of an individual. The practice of Herds appearing to “shun” a member was at first attributed to mental illness in the shunned person. Then some sort of disease. Humans finally settled on the person chased out as a sort of “scapegoat”. When Humans realized that the “scapegoats” were actually incredibly brave explorers, they had no idea what to do.
The Kiiote seemed to collapse like marionettes with their strings cut. When they did that, microscopic “nerve flowers” opened at the tips of individual hairs clustered in certain patches of fur. They touched similar nerves in other members of the Pack. It wasn’t telepathy. A Pack literally shared thoughts. The collective minds of the Pack were able to think at a level far beyond that of individual minds.
 I swallowed then said, “Somebody knows where we are. Once we’re clean, we exit the tunnel and then meet up with it again west of the city of Foley. We can move faster overland – and anyone following us will figure we’ve kept on through the tunnel because it’s the easy route.” I looked around at everyone, finally turning to face Retired.
He grunted and said, “Sounds like a plan.” He pointed at Xio and said, “You. Back to the room.”

“Why start with me?” she exclaimed.
Retired looked at me and lifted his chin a bit. I took a deep breath and said, “He’s starting with you because…” I thought a moment, then said, “Would you want a Kiiote licking you from head to toe…”
She slugged me, snarling, “Fine.” She looked at Retired, adding, “Let’s go. Test me to see if I have some sort of tracking device in my head or something.” Qap and Xin belched with laughter, the rest of the Pack doing the same, though they sounded more like hiccoughs.
Retired rolled his eyes, pointed at the Pack Leaders and said, “Qap, Xin, you’re next.” They shut up. “Dao-hi, send Lan-mai-ti on ahead to see what we’re getting ourselves into.” The Herd Mother snapped a surreptitious tentacle which didn’t leave the sheath and the small Yown’Hoo scurried off into the darkness. He pointed at me and said, “Right after our glorious new leader.”
I gulped, my insides responding in an unexpected way. I can only explain it as a surge of excitement. Xio shot me a smirk as she headed back for the rooms. I deflected the sudden surge of excitement by saying, “Why both searching us. It’s obviously Great Uncle Rion!”
Everyone stopped moving. GURion turned to me. I thought he was going to smack me for being impertinent. Instead, he nodded, “A wise precaution, though I can assure you that I could know if I carried a tracker. A long-placed subroutine in my programming routinely seeks out foreign devices, analyzes them, then destroys them.”
Scowling, I said, “What if it’s not foreign?”
GURion held my look for a long time until it finally inclined its head and said, “Wiser than I had dared hope for.” He looked at Retired, nodded, and said, “Scan me first, then I can help do the others.”
Retired lifted his chin to Xio and said, “You want him to do your scanning?”
Her lips thinned. I knew the answer before she said, it in a soft voice, “Yes, please.”
“Come on, Data. Let’s get this over with so we can start moving. Then you do Xio and I’ll do Oscar the Great.”
I thought I’d found my voice when I started to say, “Let’s get moving.” It didn’t come out strong at all, and I’m pretty sure no one was impressed when my voice chose that moment to crack into a falsetto and then back to tenor. Shaking my head, I muttered, “Whatever.” I’m pretty sure Xurf burped, and if I’d been close enough, I’d have kicked him. As it was, I wrapped my arms around my chest and tried thinking about how cold I’d be when Retired searched me for tracking devices.
Then I thought about who might be tracking us, and my pounding pulse slowed down and I felt cold with fear.                                                                                       
Image: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/72/Rhll_wire_rope.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 322

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: Dystopia Is HardCurrent Event: http://www.reuters.com/article/2013/07/28/us-korea-north-pyongyang-idUSBRE96R0BB20130728
Adéla Stoica hung her head. She’d practiced abject submission just like all the other teenagers in the Orientation Class did. Beside her, Enio Cassar did the same thing.
What the Master before them didn’t see was Adéla open her eyes and shoot a sideways glance.
This time she beat Enio to the punch and could barely hold in the giggle that bubbled up inside of her when he opened his eyes an instant later. They were supposed to be contemplating the worthlessness of their own lives in submission to the Great Cause. She sighed – an acceptable sound – because the Masters of the Great Cause thought they’d beaten everyone down.
Standing before the class, Master Farkas scowled at her. He said to the class in Esperanto, the Language of Submission, “Estas bone ke vi kontempli vian propran senvaloreco ĉiutage, kaj konsideru la grandecon de la Lando anstataŭe.”
This time Enio sighed. It was the motto of the regime, “It is good that you contemplate your own worthlessness every day, and consider the greatness of the Country instead.” The education of the youth after fourteen years of the Society of the Great Cause was predictable. Master Farkas continued, “It should make you feel the weight of that responsibility so deeply that your spirit groans with the burden of it. It is only through sacrifice to society that the individual might live best. It is only through society that all wisdom, all knowledge and all discovery might be directed by the National Science Foundation. Through that wisdom, humanity might live again in the luxury to which it had become accustomed.”
Enio muttered, “Ai mund të marrë zbetë e tij idiot horseshit gojën dhe të fus atë deri gomar e tij, ku ai erdhi nga." Like everyone else at the camp, their mother language was the one they cursed and made love in; Esperanto was the language they learned to mock in; English was the language everyone could communicate across ethnic walls in. Of course, there were to BE no ethnic walls because the Great Cause united all of North America into one Cause – the betterment of humanity.
It was too bad Master Farkas was also a linguist from the Old Order. His gaze arrested Enio and he said in the same language, “Merrni ass tuaj i dobët këtu lart tani, ju mut pak.” Enio’s eyes bulged as Master Farkas added, “Your girlfriend can come up here, too.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Enio blurted.
Adéla elbowed him and they stood their ground. The line behind theirs shoved them forward and the lines in front of them opened up. She looked at them and said, “Cowards.” But none of them looked the slightest bit afraid. They looked bored. Like they wanted something interesting to happen; kill the mold growing on their lives of dull sameness. Like jackals. When Master Farkas looked up at them though, their faces transformed to slack idiocy then morphed into hanging heads.
He gestured to them and led them out of the classroom, his white lab coat flapping behind him. Two other technicians wearing the shorter, lower-ranked blue lab coats went into the classroom to take his place. Leading them down a half dozen short flights of stairs, he stopped at a metal door and used his passkey to unlock it. Pushing it open, Adéla and Enio could see that a huge screen covered one wall and that a face filled the screen, looking at them. Master Farkas grabbed Enio’s arm and shoved him into the room. Enio sighed and walked in. “I can’t believe you’re doing this…” The door slammed ponderously.
He touched Adéla’s shoulder and said, “You’re next.”
She knew exactly what was coming and shook her head, remembering the really fascinating books she’d read as a precocious two year old. First she grabbed her older brother’s copy of THE HUNGER GAMES and read it, then the other six sequels. She fell in love with Scott Westerfeld’s UGLIES books. Devoured Haddix’s  THE HIDDEN. Every dystopian book she could find from HG Well’s TIME MACHINE to the seven LAST SURVIVORS books; she read and cherished in her heart.
Then the Great Cause overtook the countries of North America – and her life had been tedious boredom ever since...
Names: ♀ Czech, Romania ; ♂Albania, MaltaImage: http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I5mmeznTlfY/UBf2g2-Kh2I/AAAAAAAABwQ/IDK6ASqBS6k/s320/wotw_villain.jpg                                                                       
Image: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b1/3,2,1_blast-off!_(15871161250).jpg/511px-3,2,1_blast-off!_(15871161250).jpg

POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY: Does Science Fiction or Fantasy PROMOTE The Boring Viewpoint Character?

Using the Programme Guide of the World Science Fiction Convention in Helsinki Finland in August 2017 (to which I will be unable to go (until I retire from education)), I will jump off, jump on, rail against, and shamelessly agree with the BRIEF DESCRIPTION given in the pdf copy of the Programme Guide. The link is provided below…
The Appeal of the Bland Protagonist: Many popular books and series feature a fairly bland protagonist. The panelist discuss why bland protagonists are popular, how they inform reader identification with the protagonist, and what they like and don't like about it! Also, is it difficult to write bland protagonists?
Kari Sperring: fantasy writerCaroline Stevermer: fantasy (YA) writerRobert Silverberg: Ah! Ah! Ah! What I would have given to meet this writer in person! I read his books when I was a KID! (As an adult, I found a copy of REVOLT ON ALPHA C with its “original” Scholastic Book Club cover…)Angus Watson: fantasy writer
Is there a reason all of the participants in this group write fantasy? Is it an unconscious bias indicating that fantasy stories are more likely to have bland characters than science fiction stories are?
Hmmm…because the first SF character I thought of was Miles Vorkosigan (Lois McMaster Bujold’s SF Universe hero). He’s absolutely NOT bland and while I’m certain I can’t get into his head and “feel like” a well-born aristocratic dwarf…I love the character. Lemme think…I’ve been reading widely lately, so what about Ada Palmer’s Mycroft Canner? A serial torturer/murderer is hardly bland, though in TOO LIKE THE LIGHTNING, he is very bland.
I read a very old Star Trek novel – the main character is NOT bland there, either. Hmmm…Paul Atreides in DUNE? Not bland. Ah! I have one, Toshio Ishikarwa in STARTIDE RISING is bland; normal, and not at all sure of himself. Mackenzie Connor WANTS to be bland, a salmon biologist, but she is anything but. Nope, she doesn’t count. Lessa of PERN? Nope, she’s queen of the planet in all but title.
OK – let’s look at fantasy. I don’t read much (almost always under the direct supervision of my daughter!), but based on what I have read, let’s have a go at it. Starting with the obvious: Harry Potter. Bland? Yup, even though he lives under the stairs, he’s the teased, abused, dreary, weary, whiny kid who lives in all of us. The Pevensie Kids – same thing. Granted, they live during the London Blitz of WWII, but so did a lot of others who didn’t slip into a wardrobe to find a magical land.
Let’s get more serious: Thomas Covenant, anti-hero in Stephen R. Donaldson’s remarkable THE CHRONICLES OF THOMAS COVENANT, UNBELIEVER, other than the fact that he’s a leper, he’s basically a normal, jerk of a guy. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins? “Normal”, uh…hobbits… who are neither heroes nor great – and in fact, Frodo was so close to destroying Middle Earth that only the fact that his boring valet saved his life kept Frodo from blowing all the hard work they’d done up to that point. After that, my fantasy memory gets pretty sketchy – PERDIDO STREET STATION I read ten years ago; Jonathan Stroud’s BARTIMAEUS books were grand, you can hardly call a demon “bland”, but Nathaniel himself is unremarkable in his world.
So – what’s the takeaway here?
Couple of things – fantasy main characters are average Mayras and Miguels. Science fiction main characters are superhuman Katniss’ and Peetas.
Also, based on the current and continuing popularity of fantasy, the bland protagonist is the choice of Twenty-first Century men and women. The superhuman has mostly lost its appeal except in certain cases.
Master Silverberg mashed fantasy and science fiction together when he created the MAJIPOOR CHRONICLES – a huge planet colonized by numerous alien races and Humans…which has technology either so advanced it’s indistinguishable from magic, or medieval technology of castles, kings, and knights. However, as I reflect on it, the viewpoint character, Valentine is both a bland and a superhuman character. China Miéville does the same thing in PERDIDO STREET STATION – mixing fantasy and steampunk technology. Isaac Dan der Grimnebulin is a dull and boring scientist in the city of New Crobuzon…who also does magic.
Creating boring characters?
Easy peasy – because us writers as a group are pretty boring! So, if I want to write fantasy, I start with a boring person. If I write science fiction, I need a superhuman (a transhuman, I suppose).
Sheesh…this explains ALL KINDS OF TROUBLE I’VE BEEN HAVING LATELY! My SF protags have all been normal people, boring people…now I have to go back and look at what it is I’ve had published recently – but right off the bat, the main character in my most recent ANALOG story is a Mayan princess…
Program Book: https://sites.grenadine.co/sites/worldcon75/en/w75/schedule
Image: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/8a/8a/96/8a8a966bdb748f71ddc1e7969dd03350.jpg

MARTIAN HOLIDAY 110: DaneelAH & Company in Burroughs

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 and I’m sorry, but a number of them got deleted from the blog – go to SCIENCE FICTION: Martian Holiday on the right and scroll to the bottom for the first story. They are HanAH, the security expert (m); DaneelAH, xenoarchaeologist (m); AzAH, language expert (f); MishAH, pattern recognition (f).
After grabbing the Artificial Human boy, she released him into HanAH’s tender embrace – a solid grip on the boy’s upper arm. “Are you an agent of Paolo Marcillon?”
“Who?”
“Paolo – an underground Christian agitator who’s wanted for sedition and terroristic actions.”
“No! I ain’t heard a no Polo! I work with the Rim Preacher!”
DaneelAH stepped up, gesturing HanAH to release the boy. Squatting down, he took the boy by both shoulders and said, “Your master…former master!” he said when the boy’s shoulders tensed. He loosened his grip. “Your former master is a Christian?”
The boy twisted free and DaneelAH let him go. HanAH and MishAH were close by. He glanced at them then shook his torso. “I guess, ‘cept I don’t know what that means. Zactly. I just know he natural born, but he ain’t like all the others. He’s good. All them others is bad.”
"Not every natural born is bad," DaneelAH muttered, looking down at the blue boy.
"Yeah. Stepan ain't. He's just sorta like a babe out where I live. But he do have connections in the HOD,” said the boy.
"The HOD?" HanAH said. “And you’re rather free with a Natural Born’s name.” He scowled down at the boy.
"Stepan calls me Quinn. If he do it, he don’t mind if I do.” He shrugged and continued, “Yeah, we was in the Home Owner's District. We were there 'cause he had to meet with some old guy." He shrugged. "That was weird. They chased him out 'cause he wasn't someone they expected him to be."
"What's that supposed to mean?" AzAH said.
"When we was there, they kept calling him somebody named ‘Natan Wallach.’"
The vat mates looked to each other, then down at the boy, stunned. DaneelAH finally managed, "Can you take us to your preacher friend?"
He shrugged again, “Sure. He be happy to see more of us at his roof farm.” He looked up at them, scowling, “Why do you want to see him?” His gaze narrowed to suspicion, “You gonna do something to him? ‘Cuz if that’s what you’re plannin’, I’ll make sure something happens to you – now, on our way there, or after you hurt him. He’s my…” he paused. “He’s my pastor. You mess with him and you mess with me.”
For an instant, the four vat mates looked at each other, tempted to laugh. Then Quinn stomped on HanAH’s instep. He drew back to strike the boy, but before DaneelAH could grab his wrist, the boy dropped to the floor, scampered between MishAH’s legs, biting her ankle; he swept his leg under AzAH, making his stumble and before he could move, DaneelAH found the boy holding a shard of glass against his anterior trial artery.
“If I push this just hard enough,” he said without any trace of a burr or street-talk, “You’ll bleed to death in five minutes.”
DaneelAH was careful not to move a muscle as he said, “We have no interest in hurting your pastor nor of exposing him. We want to find out if he knows where we can contact a man named Paolo Marcillon, who is also a Christian…”
“You mean like my pastor?”
DaneelAH raised an eyebrow. “You believe that your pastor is one of those?” He lowered his voice, “That’s illegal you know.”
The boy pricked DaneelAH’s foot, making him yelp as AzAH said, “Quit teasing him!”
Quinn stood up and said, “So being one of these Christian things is illegal?”
“Yes, it is,” said HanAH gruffly. “And being a Christian intiis more illegal, still! So don’t go getting ideas!”
MishAH smiled and said, “I think he’s just gone way past getting ideas, brother.”
HanAH grunted as Quinn said, “So, you guys Christians, too?”
“I’m not,” said HanAH.
MishAH and AzAH looked at each other and said, “Undecided,” in unison.
Quinn looked up at DaneelAH, “You ain’t sayin’ much, mister.”
“I’m not a ‘mister’, I’m a heyou!” He twisted his mouth to one side, sighed and said, “I suppose I may nearly be one.”
“Yeah,” said Quinn matter-of-factly, “I’m mostly pretty close, too.”
The sisters laughed. Quinn bristled which made them laugh harder. Finally AzAH said, “No disrespect meant, young Quinn.”
“Disrespect taken!”
MishAH said, “It’s just that you sound like we do when we talk about these Christians. We never meant to attach ourselves to one – and now we find we’re entangled with two.”
“I ain’t never seen no one named like you said, that Paul Oh. Stepan never said nothin’ about him, neither.”
“Who’s Stepan?” HanAH said.
“That ain’t important no more.”
“Why?” DaneelAH said.
“‘Cause he gone be dead if you don’t come with me.”
“What?”
“A monster in the warehouse done eat him!” and with that blurt, Quinn broke down, weeping.

Image: http://img11.deviantart.net/c3c5/i/2009/067/9/3/dr__manhattan_by_theknightinhell.png