Wen Spencer's Blog, page 3
April 7, 2013
Podcast for Baen Books
I was a guest on the Baen Books podcast giving a writing tip for the week.
http://www.baen.com/podcast/podcast.asp
http://www.baen.com/podcast/podcast.asp
March 26, 2013
Elfhome snippet
They cautiously looked for the river monster the entire next day, careful not to stray too close to the water's edge. Jane kept hold of the whistle and refused to let them use it.
"We could call Nessie to us." Nigel pointed out many times.
"No!" Jane kept shouting back.
"Okay, but can you explain why?" Nigel finally broke the pattern.
Jane growled. God, she hated being outnumbered. This was like riding herd on her little brothers, only worse because "I'll beat you if you do" wasn't an acceptable answer. "First rule of shooting a show on Elfhome." She grabbed Hal and made him face each of the two newbies so there was no way they could miss the mask of dark purple bruises across Hal's face. "Avoid getting 'The Face' damaged. Viewers don't like raccoon boys. Hal is out of production until the bruising can be covered with makeup. We've got fifty days and a grocery list of face-chewing monsters to film. We have to think about damage control."
"Second rule!" She let Hal go and held up two fingers. "Get as much footage as possible of the monster before you kill it. People don't like looking at dead monsters if you don't give them lots of time seeing it alive. Right now we have got something dark moving at night in water. No one ever seen this before, so we can't use stock footage to pad. We blow the whistle and it will come out of the water and try to rip your face off – violating rule one – and then we'll have to kill it and thus break rule two."
"We could call Nessie to us." Nigel pointed out many times.
"No!" Jane kept shouting back.
"Okay, but can you explain why?" Nigel finally broke the pattern.
Jane growled. God, she hated being outnumbered. This was like riding herd on her little brothers, only worse because "I'll beat you if you do" wasn't an acceptable answer. "First rule of shooting a show on Elfhome." She grabbed Hal and made him face each of the two newbies so there was no way they could miss the mask of dark purple bruises across Hal's face. "Avoid getting 'The Face' damaged. Viewers don't like raccoon boys. Hal is out of production until the bruising can be covered with makeup. We've got fifty days and a grocery list of face-chewing monsters to film. We have to think about damage control."
"Second rule!" She let Hal go and held up two fingers. "Get as much footage as possible of the monster before you kill it. People don't like looking at dead monsters if you don't give them lots of time seeing it alive. Right now we have got something dark moving at night in water. No one ever seen this before, so we can't use stock footage to pad. We blow the whistle and it will come out of the water and try to rip your face off – violating rule one – and then we'll have to kill it and thus break rule two."
March 14, 2013
That certain age and rape
The odd thing about writing fiction is that you're constantly trying to put meaning to a world that you made up, events you created, and yet because you're digging around in your subconscious you find universal truths without realizing it. Today I read about the horrible events in Steubenville, where a young girl was carried dead drunk party to party and repeatedly raped. It reminded me of a conversation I had with a mother of young writer in Alpha. She'd been horrified that the book her child had read contained a rape scene and came to me and did a "isn't this bad, writers shouldn't put this in books for teenagers."
The problem was I had a book coming out with an attempted rape.
So here I am, face to face, with an upset mother.
So I considered for a minute and tried to explain to her why, no, I didn't agree with her and it forced me to think about my decisions in what I wrote and why. This is what I said to her:
I think it's important that when rape appears in fiction, that the characters who are presented as good and noble people – the heroes of the story – react with horror. If the characters react with negatively, then the reader learns through their emotions that this action is wrong, and shouldn't be brush aside, or is in any way okay.
My character was a young woman who is experiencing her first dating experience. She is going out with a person she has known for a long time and thinks is a good, trustworthy person. Up to the point when he attempts to force her into sex, she would have trusted him with her life. By putting this into a story, I hope to warn young girls that men can seem to be a good person, claim that they love the girl, and still do something totally wrong. The girl are not doing something wrong by trusting this person, they think they're safe because this man seems good. Its not their fault that the man betrays their trust in them, that man is at fault. By having all my characters react as if the man is at fault, then the reader gets this reinforced lesson that rape is bad, that the victim isn't guilty, that the rapist is the wrong that they betrayed the girl's trust.
I added in that while I was growing up, the stories I read had this weird cutoff point. There were the stories about mild crushes, where the characters would pass notes in class and "go out" but rarely even did more than hold hands. They served as guideposts for our first romances. And then there were the adult romances, where everyone already had sex some time in their shadowy past, but the focus is now on this one love affair of non-virgins. There were no stories where the woman finds herself for the first time alone in a room with a man and he wants to have sex. There were no guideposts on how you quickly decide what you want in your heart of hearts. There's no advice on how you get a half-naked man out of your home. And certainly, nothing about having to face him a few days later, as you try to figure out what happened late at night, while the lights were out, and you were scared.
The problem was I had a book coming out with an attempted rape.
So here I am, face to face, with an upset mother.
So I considered for a minute and tried to explain to her why, no, I didn't agree with her and it forced me to think about my decisions in what I wrote and why. This is what I said to her:
I think it's important that when rape appears in fiction, that the characters who are presented as good and noble people – the heroes of the story – react with horror. If the characters react with negatively, then the reader learns through their emotions that this action is wrong, and shouldn't be brush aside, or is in any way okay.
My character was a young woman who is experiencing her first dating experience. She is going out with a person she has known for a long time and thinks is a good, trustworthy person. Up to the point when he attempts to force her into sex, she would have trusted him with her life. By putting this into a story, I hope to warn young girls that men can seem to be a good person, claim that they love the girl, and still do something totally wrong. The girl are not doing something wrong by trusting this person, they think they're safe because this man seems good. Its not their fault that the man betrays their trust in them, that man is at fault. By having all my characters react as if the man is at fault, then the reader gets this reinforced lesson that rape is bad, that the victim isn't guilty, that the rapist is the wrong that they betrayed the girl's trust.
I added in that while I was growing up, the stories I read had this weird cutoff point. There were the stories about mild crushes, where the characters would pass notes in class and "go out" but rarely even did more than hold hands. They served as guideposts for our first romances. And then there were the adult romances, where everyone already had sex some time in their shadowy past, but the focus is now on this one love affair of non-virgins. There were no stories where the woman finds herself for the first time alone in a room with a man and he wants to have sex. There were no guideposts on how you quickly decide what you want in your heart of hearts. There's no advice on how you get a half-naked man out of your home. And certainly, nothing about having to face him a few days later, as you try to figure out what happened late at night, while the lights were out, and you were scared.
February 11, 2013
eARC of Eight Million Gods is up on Baen's website!
Along with sample chapters to read ... and get hooked...MUHHAHAHAHA!
http://www.baenebooks.com/p-1846-eight-million-gods-earc.aspx
http://www.baenebooks.com/p-1846-eight-million-gods-earc.aspx
January 25, 2013
What's in a name?
Imagine if you would, walking out onto a golf course where four businessmen are playing. You face them down and say, "You're not a golfer." They would say "We spent thousands of dollars on these clubs. We have membership at this country club so we can play. We've taken lessons for hundreds of dollars. We've spent countless hours putting and hitting the ball. What do you mean we're not golfers?" "You're not ranked as by the PGA as a member, so you're not a golfer."
But you'd be wrong.
Imagine if you would, stopping at a local high school. There's a football team out on the field, practicing for the next big game. You stop them and say "You're not football players." They would say, "We've been doing this since we were in middle school. We spend hundreds of hours practicing. We work out until we hurt and in games we bleed and are bruised and play hard to win. We hope to get scholarships into college doing it. We dream of making the NFL. What do you meant we're not football players?" "You don't play for the NFL yet, so you're not a football player."
But you'd be wrong.
Imagine if you would, finding a bunch of grandmothers sitting around a quilt, working jointly on finishing off the piece. You stop them and say "You're not quilters." They would say, "We've been quilting for years. We've spent thousands of dollars on sewing machines, on tools, on fabric and on patterns. We spend countless hours laboring over our quilts. We've made quilts for all our family members. We give them as gifts at weddings and baby showers. What do you mean we're not quilters?" "You've never had your art hung in a museum or sold for thousands of dollars, so you're not a quilter."
And of course, you'd be wrong.
Writers buy computers, writing software, pens and paper. They read countless books on writing. They take hours out of their life to practice their art.
Writers are writers because they write. Not because they finish. Not because they've sold.
To say other would be wrong.
But you'd be wrong.
Imagine if you would, stopping at a local high school. There's a football team out on the field, practicing for the next big game. You stop them and say "You're not football players." They would say, "We've been doing this since we were in middle school. We spend hundreds of hours practicing. We work out until we hurt and in games we bleed and are bruised and play hard to win. We hope to get scholarships into college doing it. We dream of making the NFL. What do you meant we're not football players?" "You don't play for the NFL yet, so you're not a football player."
But you'd be wrong.
Imagine if you would, finding a bunch of grandmothers sitting around a quilt, working jointly on finishing off the piece. You stop them and say "You're not quilters." They would say, "We've been quilting for years. We've spent thousands of dollars on sewing machines, on tools, on fabric and on patterns. We spend countless hours laboring over our quilts. We've made quilts for all our family members. We give them as gifts at weddings and baby showers. What do you mean we're not quilters?" "You've never had your art hung in a museum or sold for thousands of dollars, so you're not a quilter."
And of course, you'd be wrong.
Writers buy computers, writing software, pens and paper. They read countless books on writing. They take hours out of their life to practice their art.
Writers are writers because they write. Not because they finish. Not because they've sold.
To say other would be wrong.
January 1, 2013
Happy New Year -- Year of the Water Snake -- Eight Million Gods
2: The OMG Baseball Bat
Nikki was living in Japan. Osaka, Japan to be exact. Two months and it still startled her in a way she found weirdly uncomfortable. She had moved dozens of times before in the states, from suburban mental hospitals, to a dormitory at a private high school in the middle of nowhere, to walk up apartments in gritty inner city neighborhoods. Never before did she constantly feel like she was taking a baseball bat to the head labeled "OMG."
Some days it seemed like everything triggered the feeling. Waking up lying on a futon on the floor. Whack! Going pee at a public restroom by squatting over a ceramic trough. Whack! Wandering up and down the levels of a bookstore with thousands of interesting looking books without being able to read a single word. Whack! Walking through an entire shopping district, surrounded by people, and unable to guess or even ask where to buy a basic cooking knife. Whack! One minute she would be steaming along, enjoying the adventure of living on her own and then the "OMG" baseball bat of cultural shock would catch her smack between the eyes.
By lunchtime, she was slightly punch-drunk by the number of hits she'd taken. The only reason she didn't suggest meeting at KFC or McDonalds was somehow the combination of familiar and uniquely Japanese that the two food chains represented would have been more unsettling than the little hole-in-the-wall traditional okonomiyaki shop. At least the act of taking off her sandals in the restaurant's foyer, putting them in one of the many cubbyholes, bowing to the waitress and stepping down into the sitting area around a grill-topped table was now comfortingly familiar despite being totally foreign.
Nikki waved off the menu that the waitress was trying to offer her. "Sumimasen," Nikki tried to remember the Japanese word for "menu." "English -- English…"
"Ah!" The waitress smiled as she realized what Nikki was trying for. "English Menu. Hai! One minute."
The waitress disappeared into the impossibly small kitchen hidden behind a half-wall where a cook was already standing.
Her best friend Miriam Frydman laughed in greeting. "One of those kinds of days?"
"God, yes." Nikki tossed her backpack onto the seat beside her. "There are days I could just kill my mother. All this would be easier if I'd been able to stick to our plan and learn Japanese."
Nikki had met Miriam the only time she attended normal high school. Not that you could really call Foxcroft 'normal' as it was an expensive private boarding school. Miriam always had a fascination for all things Japanese. Nikki just wanted to have half the planet between her and her mother. She and Miriam had come up with the detailed plan that would have had both of them fluent in Japanese, employed by the same company, and sharing an apartment together. Her mother, though, had yanked Nikki out of school in her senior year and ruined every later attempt to keep to the plan.
Miriam tilted her head and squinted in deep thought. Her bright pink-dyed hair gathered into quirky pigtails and her high school outfit were both part of her own battle with all things Japanese. She'd confessed that she'd had come to the conclusion that as a gaijin – an "outsider" – she would never fully fit in, so she had decided to stand out. Nikki would never have the courage to dye her hair or wear anything as short as Miriam's mini-skirt but Miriam was fearless. "Nah, I think you still be reeling even if you'd learned Japanese first. I felt the same way for the first six months. Really? The toilets alone break all language barriers when it comes to cultural shock." She slid her glass slightly closer to Nikki's side. "A stiff drink does help."
Nikki snorted. "I'm actually tempted. Much as a drug addiction scares the willies out of me, knowing that something like valium would make it – make it seem better – for a while..."
Miriam dragged the glass back to herself of the table. "My bad. Sorry."
The waitress came back with a sketchily translated menu and slightly better phrased, "What do you want?"
They picked their okonomiyaki toppings with Nikki pointing to her selection on the English menu and Miriam ordering from the Japanese one.
Nikki tentatively added her drink order. "Mazu?"
The word got a muffled giggle from Miriam and a blank stare from the waitress.
From behind the hand covering her mouth, Miriam murmured, "Water is mizu."
Nikki winced, wondering what she had actually said to the waitress. Hopefully nothing obscene. "Mizu kudasai."
The waitress smiled. "Ah, yes, water!"
"Mizu. Mizu." Nikki repeated softly after the waitress left. Miriam might be right, being fluent might not stop the cultural shock but she was tired of being clueless of what was being said around her. Her whole life had been a series of being completely helpless and at her mother's mercy or heavily dependent on the kindness of friends. "The plan" was for them to live together but Miriam was locked into a lease for another four months at a place where she couldn't have a roommate. For the first time, Nikki was living alone, buying her own clothes, and cooking her own food. She loved being independent but this constantly being lost and confused the moment she ventured out of her apartment was frustrating the hell out of her.
The waitress returned with their drinks and two mixing bowls with the ingredients for the okonomiyaki. They watched as the waitress mixed up the batter and poured it onto the hot grill. She used a large steel spatula to round the batter into a thick pancake.
Why okonomiyaki was considered Japanese "pizza" still mystified Nikki; it was shredded cabbage mixed with flour and topped with barbeque sauce and mayonnaise. The only thing that was similar was it was circular and came with countless toppings. Personally she thought of them as very weird pancakes. She had discovered early on that the shrimp came with their heads still attached and she couldn't quite deal with having her dinner stare at her with accusing eyes. The other thing that slightly creeped her out was the fact that the shaved bonito on top wriggled as if still alive.
Once the waitress had both "pizzas" in place, she motioned that they weren't to fiddle with the dough with the little spatulas that were in lieu of forks and spoons. "Ah – cook – don't touch."
The shoji-style front door slid open, triggering a call of "Irasshaimase" from the two employees. The new customer was one of the impossibly slender salaryman, looking like he would only weigh over hundred pounds if you dipped him and his two-piece suit in one of Osaka's many waterways. It still freaked Nikki out that, at five foot three, she could look down at a goodly number of the Japanese men, the newest customer included.
He took off his shoes, tucked them into a cubbyhole next to her sandals as the waitress hurried across the twenty feet between the kitchen to the foyer to greet him properly. Waitress bowed, the salaryman bowed back. It was like watching anime come to life; a good happy moment that Nikki desperately needed at this point.
The salaryman was installed in the booth besides theirs, and the grill-top of his table fired up to get ready for cooking.
"So?" Miriam nudged at Nikki with her socking clad foot. "Who's dead?"
"Hm?" Nikki studied the salaryman in the guise of cleaning her hands with the wet wipe. He was thin and delicate like a sparrow. She couldn't tell how old he was; he was so tiny he seemed like he should be only thirteen, but most likely he was a college graduate and in his twenties. Certainly, he made many manga storylines about boys passing as girls more believable.
Miriam nudged her hard, forcing Nikki to give up her study of the salaryman. "You're wearing your shirt of mourning. You only wear that after you kill someone. Who's dead?"
Nikki tented out her Goth Lolita shirt. It was the most beautiful thing she ever owned, all black silk with long sleeves, and lace everywhere. She'd bought to cheer herself up after the Brit vanished out the novel. Did she really only wear it after a murder? "I blogged it. Didn't you read it?"
Miriam covered her mouth as she yawned. "I had an nomikai Friday night. God, only the Japanese would require employees get hammered together on a regular basis. I spent most of yesterday in zombie mode. I did see your blog on doing your laundry but nothing on you killing someone off."
"I posted the murder later."
"Who did you kill?"
"The expatriate, George Wilson." Nikki told her glumly. "The idiot pervert."
Miriam laughed. "What does this make it? Three love interests you've killed before even getting to the sex? You have to stop killing people."
"I've tried! I just can't stop myself. One minute George is drinking sake in his Umeda apartment, getting ready to go out, and the next he's taking an eight hundred dollar Blendtec blender to the guts."
"A blender?"
"Yeah, ever notice how sharp the blades on a blender? I broke the glass container against George's head and set the blender on puree." Nikki made the sound of the blades spinning and twirled her index finger in a tight circle. "Blood all over the white countertop."
"Cool. I approve."
Nikki scoffed. "I thought you would. The color contrast was stunning."
"Where did he get the blender?" Miriam pointed out the one thing that worried Nikki about the murder.
"I think he brought it from United States. Does it really matter? It's not like it’s a sword or firearm." It still geeked her out that the Japanese had more laws controlling swords than guns.
The waitress returned to flip over their pancakes. It was nice and golden on the cooked side. As Miriam asked the waitress something in Japanese, Nikki realized that the office worker was staring at her in utter horror.
Oops.
It was something she kept forgetting; since English was taught in Japanese schools from first grade up, Japanese people normally understood a lot more English than she understood Japanese. She played back their conversation and winced. How was she going to explain?
"I didn't really kill anyone. I'm a writer." Was that what they called them? "I write books. I'm an author of books. Novels? Miriam, help."
Miriam laughed and said something that made the man bolt from the booth, grab his shoes and run still stocking foot out of the store.
"What did you say?" Nikki cried.
"I told him you don't kill nice little uke like him, only big bad seme."
"Miriam! I don't kill people – real people."
The waitress returned with the salaryman's drink order and eyed the empty booth with confusion.
"Ix-nay on the urder-may," Nikki said. "I don't want a burned okonomiyaki."
Nikki was living in Japan. Osaka, Japan to be exact. Two months and it still startled her in a way she found weirdly uncomfortable. She had moved dozens of times before in the states, from suburban mental hospitals, to a dormitory at a private high school in the middle of nowhere, to walk up apartments in gritty inner city neighborhoods. Never before did she constantly feel like she was taking a baseball bat to the head labeled "OMG."
Some days it seemed like everything triggered the feeling. Waking up lying on a futon on the floor. Whack! Going pee at a public restroom by squatting over a ceramic trough. Whack! Wandering up and down the levels of a bookstore with thousands of interesting looking books without being able to read a single word. Whack! Walking through an entire shopping district, surrounded by people, and unable to guess or even ask where to buy a basic cooking knife. Whack! One minute she would be steaming along, enjoying the adventure of living on her own and then the "OMG" baseball bat of cultural shock would catch her smack between the eyes.
By lunchtime, she was slightly punch-drunk by the number of hits she'd taken. The only reason she didn't suggest meeting at KFC or McDonalds was somehow the combination of familiar and uniquely Japanese that the two food chains represented would have been more unsettling than the little hole-in-the-wall traditional okonomiyaki shop. At least the act of taking off her sandals in the restaurant's foyer, putting them in one of the many cubbyholes, bowing to the waitress and stepping down into the sitting area around a grill-topped table was now comfortingly familiar despite being totally foreign.
Nikki waved off the menu that the waitress was trying to offer her. "Sumimasen," Nikki tried to remember the Japanese word for "menu." "English -- English…"
"Ah!" The waitress smiled as she realized what Nikki was trying for. "English Menu. Hai! One minute."
The waitress disappeared into the impossibly small kitchen hidden behind a half-wall where a cook was already standing.
Her best friend Miriam Frydman laughed in greeting. "One of those kinds of days?"
"God, yes." Nikki tossed her backpack onto the seat beside her. "There are days I could just kill my mother. All this would be easier if I'd been able to stick to our plan and learn Japanese."
Nikki had met Miriam the only time she attended normal high school. Not that you could really call Foxcroft 'normal' as it was an expensive private boarding school. Miriam always had a fascination for all things Japanese. Nikki just wanted to have half the planet between her and her mother. She and Miriam had come up with the detailed plan that would have had both of them fluent in Japanese, employed by the same company, and sharing an apartment together. Her mother, though, had yanked Nikki out of school in her senior year and ruined every later attempt to keep to the plan.
Miriam tilted her head and squinted in deep thought. Her bright pink-dyed hair gathered into quirky pigtails and her high school outfit were both part of her own battle with all things Japanese. She'd confessed that she'd had come to the conclusion that as a gaijin – an "outsider" – she would never fully fit in, so she had decided to stand out. Nikki would never have the courage to dye her hair or wear anything as short as Miriam's mini-skirt but Miriam was fearless. "Nah, I think you still be reeling even if you'd learned Japanese first. I felt the same way for the first six months. Really? The toilets alone break all language barriers when it comes to cultural shock." She slid her glass slightly closer to Nikki's side. "A stiff drink does help."
Nikki snorted. "I'm actually tempted. Much as a drug addiction scares the willies out of me, knowing that something like valium would make it – make it seem better – for a while..."
Miriam dragged the glass back to herself of the table. "My bad. Sorry."
The waitress came back with a sketchily translated menu and slightly better phrased, "What do you want?"
They picked their okonomiyaki toppings with Nikki pointing to her selection on the English menu and Miriam ordering from the Japanese one.
Nikki tentatively added her drink order. "Mazu?"
The word got a muffled giggle from Miriam and a blank stare from the waitress.
From behind the hand covering her mouth, Miriam murmured, "Water is mizu."
Nikki winced, wondering what she had actually said to the waitress. Hopefully nothing obscene. "Mizu kudasai."
The waitress smiled. "Ah, yes, water!"
"Mizu. Mizu." Nikki repeated softly after the waitress left. Miriam might be right, being fluent might not stop the cultural shock but she was tired of being clueless of what was being said around her. Her whole life had been a series of being completely helpless and at her mother's mercy or heavily dependent on the kindness of friends. "The plan" was for them to live together but Miriam was locked into a lease for another four months at a place where she couldn't have a roommate. For the first time, Nikki was living alone, buying her own clothes, and cooking her own food. She loved being independent but this constantly being lost and confused the moment she ventured out of her apartment was frustrating the hell out of her.
The waitress returned with their drinks and two mixing bowls with the ingredients for the okonomiyaki. They watched as the waitress mixed up the batter and poured it onto the hot grill. She used a large steel spatula to round the batter into a thick pancake.
Why okonomiyaki was considered Japanese "pizza" still mystified Nikki; it was shredded cabbage mixed with flour and topped with barbeque sauce and mayonnaise. The only thing that was similar was it was circular and came with countless toppings. Personally she thought of them as very weird pancakes. She had discovered early on that the shrimp came with their heads still attached and she couldn't quite deal with having her dinner stare at her with accusing eyes. The other thing that slightly creeped her out was the fact that the shaved bonito on top wriggled as if still alive.
Once the waitress had both "pizzas" in place, she motioned that they weren't to fiddle with the dough with the little spatulas that were in lieu of forks and spoons. "Ah – cook – don't touch."
The shoji-style front door slid open, triggering a call of "Irasshaimase" from the two employees. The new customer was one of the impossibly slender salaryman, looking like he would only weigh over hundred pounds if you dipped him and his two-piece suit in one of Osaka's many waterways. It still freaked Nikki out that, at five foot three, she could look down at a goodly number of the Japanese men, the newest customer included.
He took off his shoes, tucked them into a cubbyhole next to her sandals as the waitress hurried across the twenty feet between the kitchen to the foyer to greet him properly. Waitress bowed, the salaryman bowed back. It was like watching anime come to life; a good happy moment that Nikki desperately needed at this point.
The salaryman was installed in the booth besides theirs, and the grill-top of his table fired up to get ready for cooking.
"So?" Miriam nudged at Nikki with her socking clad foot. "Who's dead?"
"Hm?" Nikki studied the salaryman in the guise of cleaning her hands with the wet wipe. He was thin and delicate like a sparrow. She couldn't tell how old he was; he was so tiny he seemed like he should be only thirteen, but most likely he was a college graduate and in his twenties. Certainly, he made many manga storylines about boys passing as girls more believable.
Miriam nudged her hard, forcing Nikki to give up her study of the salaryman. "You're wearing your shirt of mourning. You only wear that after you kill someone. Who's dead?"
Nikki tented out her Goth Lolita shirt. It was the most beautiful thing she ever owned, all black silk with long sleeves, and lace everywhere. She'd bought to cheer herself up after the Brit vanished out the novel. Did she really only wear it after a murder? "I blogged it. Didn't you read it?"
Miriam covered her mouth as she yawned. "I had an nomikai Friday night. God, only the Japanese would require employees get hammered together on a regular basis. I spent most of yesterday in zombie mode. I did see your blog on doing your laundry but nothing on you killing someone off."
"I posted the murder later."
"Who did you kill?"
"The expatriate, George Wilson." Nikki told her glumly. "The idiot pervert."
Miriam laughed. "What does this make it? Three love interests you've killed before even getting to the sex? You have to stop killing people."
"I've tried! I just can't stop myself. One minute George is drinking sake in his Umeda apartment, getting ready to go out, and the next he's taking an eight hundred dollar Blendtec blender to the guts."
"A blender?"
"Yeah, ever notice how sharp the blades on a blender? I broke the glass container against George's head and set the blender on puree." Nikki made the sound of the blades spinning and twirled her index finger in a tight circle. "Blood all over the white countertop."
"Cool. I approve."
Nikki scoffed. "I thought you would. The color contrast was stunning."
"Where did he get the blender?" Miriam pointed out the one thing that worried Nikki about the murder.
"I think he brought it from United States. Does it really matter? It's not like it’s a sword or firearm." It still geeked her out that the Japanese had more laws controlling swords than guns.
The waitress returned to flip over their pancakes. It was nice and golden on the cooked side. As Miriam asked the waitress something in Japanese, Nikki realized that the office worker was staring at her in utter horror.
Oops.
It was something she kept forgetting; since English was taught in Japanese schools from first grade up, Japanese people normally understood a lot more English than she understood Japanese. She played back their conversation and winced. How was she going to explain?
"I didn't really kill anyone. I'm a writer." Was that what they called them? "I write books. I'm an author of books. Novels? Miriam, help."
Miriam laughed and said something that made the man bolt from the booth, grab his shoes and run still stocking foot out of the store.
"What did you say?" Nikki cried.
"I told him you don't kill nice little uke like him, only big bad seme."
"Miriam! I don't kill people – real people."
The waitress returned with the salaryman's drink order and eyed the empty booth with confusion.
"Ix-nay on the urder-may," Nikki said. "I don't want a burned okonomiyaki."
December 27, 2012
Warning -- a rant
This might offend some people but it's been bottled up for several months. It is a reaction to people that believe that sex education shouldn't be taught in schools and that promise rings are the only reasonable approach to dealing with teenagers and sex.
Welcome all girls, ages ten through twelve years old. You have gotten your period. You have started puberty and now can get pregnant at the drop of a hat. You have entered the war against women. Nothing can keep you out of this war. Even if you have an IQ of 50, you will be conscripted and forced to fight. No one gets a ticket out.
Here's your plane in this war you've entering. Its not fastest plane out there. It has no weapons. It is also subject to odd electrical surges that make it difficult to control. You will be constantly asked to fly into unfamiliar territory with unknown landmarks and unknown dangers. You will be pitted against bigger, faster planes that are heavily armed and often attacking in numbers…good luck.
You will be expected to fly this plane into enemy territory daily. Some of you unfortunates will actually be stationed at enemy airbases where you will attacked as you sleep or refueling. Also be aware that supposedly neutral territory – your classroom, your church, your playground – can suddenly become enemy territory without any declaration of war. If you are attacked under these circumstances – shame on you.
We will not be supplying you with weapons or teach you how to fight or even teach you tactics on evading the enemy. We won't even be warning you about how trusted allies can often be double spies for the enemy. You should instinctively know how to avoid attack and if you don't, shame on you. This applies even to those stationed at enemy airbases.
If you're shot down, there is no parachute. You should have avoided being attacked over enemy territory. You should have been more careful, faster, more vigilant. Shame on you. Because of your negligence, you must go down with your plane. If you survive the attack, it will be up to you to find your way back to safety. We won't believe that you were attacked, instead we'll believe that you purposely crashed your airplane. If you become pregnant from this attack, you'll just have to carry on your missions, but with a baby strapped to your back. And shame on you.
Yes, you are ten or eleven or twelve. Nature, however, has selected to make you a fully functional soldier in this war and we refuse to acknowledge that your youth makes you unprepared to deal with constant attack. We will not train you in any way because it might make you more negligent instead of smarter. We believe soldiers should be kept totally ignorant at all times. If you fail, shame on you.
We will be keeping the enemy – males – ignorant too. God forbid they understand how civilized people will act. We will simply tell them not to shoot at you. Then we will ignore the constant barrage of aggressive images fed to the masses. How great it is to attack women. How they secretly want it. How it will make everyone respect the boy for his victory.
Your mission in this war?
Those that don't want you to be trained believe that you're supposed to identify one of those boys roaring past you at high attitude over unfamiliar territory as your spiritual soul mate. If you manage to find him, you will be lifted up above all others in a glorious celebration and the war will be over (so they tell you) and all be wonderful. This means you're supposed to open yourself up to attack and then hope for the best. Unfortunately, even the best male pilots don't have full control over their weapons systems. Accidental discharge is quite common.
If you fail once, we have pre-recorded a message for you to play every moment after you fail. It says "Shame on you. You're a slut. You failed. You are no longer a virgin. You can't wear a promise ring. You won't be able to wear white at your wedding." This is because those in charge of the war don't believe in Plan B, or parachutes, or actual 'forgiveness of sins' since their only defense for girls is "keep your virginity intact or SHAME ON YOU."
So soldier welcome to the war. Yes, you may be as young as ten, and it won't be until you're eighteen before you legally can chose your own course (although by cultural norm the age you actually reach a point where you can declare your independence is actually twenty-one,) FIGHT ON!
Welcome all girls, ages ten through twelve years old. You have gotten your period. You have started puberty and now can get pregnant at the drop of a hat. You have entered the war against women. Nothing can keep you out of this war. Even if you have an IQ of 50, you will be conscripted and forced to fight. No one gets a ticket out.
Here's your plane in this war you've entering. Its not fastest plane out there. It has no weapons. It is also subject to odd electrical surges that make it difficult to control. You will be constantly asked to fly into unfamiliar territory with unknown landmarks and unknown dangers. You will be pitted against bigger, faster planes that are heavily armed and often attacking in numbers…good luck.
You will be expected to fly this plane into enemy territory daily. Some of you unfortunates will actually be stationed at enemy airbases where you will attacked as you sleep or refueling. Also be aware that supposedly neutral territory – your classroom, your church, your playground – can suddenly become enemy territory without any declaration of war. If you are attacked under these circumstances – shame on you.
We will not be supplying you with weapons or teach you how to fight or even teach you tactics on evading the enemy. We won't even be warning you about how trusted allies can often be double spies for the enemy. You should instinctively know how to avoid attack and if you don't, shame on you. This applies even to those stationed at enemy airbases.
If you're shot down, there is no parachute. You should have avoided being attacked over enemy territory. You should have been more careful, faster, more vigilant. Shame on you. Because of your negligence, you must go down with your plane. If you survive the attack, it will be up to you to find your way back to safety. We won't believe that you were attacked, instead we'll believe that you purposely crashed your airplane. If you become pregnant from this attack, you'll just have to carry on your missions, but with a baby strapped to your back. And shame on you.
Yes, you are ten or eleven or twelve. Nature, however, has selected to make you a fully functional soldier in this war and we refuse to acknowledge that your youth makes you unprepared to deal with constant attack. We will not train you in any way because it might make you more negligent instead of smarter. We believe soldiers should be kept totally ignorant at all times. If you fail, shame on you.
We will be keeping the enemy – males – ignorant too. God forbid they understand how civilized people will act. We will simply tell them not to shoot at you. Then we will ignore the constant barrage of aggressive images fed to the masses. How great it is to attack women. How they secretly want it. How it will make everyone respect the boy for his victory.
Your mission in this war?
Those that don't want you to be trained believe that you're supposed to identify one of those boys roaring past you at high attitude over unfamiliar territory as your spiritual soul mate. If you manage to find him, you will be lifted up above all others in a glorious celebration and the war will be over (so they tell you) and all be wonderful. This means you're supposed to open yourself up to attack and then hope for the best. Unfortunately, even the best male pilots don't have full control over their weapons systems. Accidental discharge is quite common.
If you fail once, we have pre-recorded a message for you to play every moment after you fail. It says "Shame on you. You're a slut. You failed. You are no longer a virgin. You can't wear a promise ring. You won't be able to wear white at your wedding." This is because those in charge of the war don't believe in Plan B, or parachutes, or actual 'forgiveness of sins' since their only defense for girls is "keep your virginity intact or SHAME ON YOU."
So soldier welcome to the war. Yes, you may be as young as ten, and it won't be until you're eighteen before you legally can chose your own course (although by cultural norm the age you actually reach a point where you can declare your independence is actually twenty-one,) FIGHT ON!
December 25, 2012
Merry Christmas!
A small gift
April lived in high-rise on the Upper East Side. The Girl Scout uniforms got them past the doorman for the promise of free cookies. According to her phone, April was now home, so they went straight to her apartment.
They rang the doorbell and listened intently as soft footsteps came to the door. There was a long silence as they were examined through the spyhole. After a full minute, the locks were thrown and the door opened.
April was surprisingly young and pretty. She was wearing a tight black dress and last night's makeup. "Wow, I didn't think girl scouts went door to door anymore. Are you sure you're allowed to do this? It's not really safe, even with a dog that big."
"Hi," Jillian said. "Can we ask you some questions?"
"I'll buy a box or two. I love thin mints. Let me get my purse."
She started to close the door but Louise put her foot in the door. "Wait! We want to know what happened to your babies."
Jillian glared at her for going off script.
"My what?" April said.
"Eighteen years ago, you visited Cryobank clinic in Manhattan and was implanted with four embryos – but you live in a one bedroom apartment. What happened to your babies?"
April glanced down the hallway and lowered her voice. "How do you know about that? Who told you that?"
"Your babies are our sisters." Louise said. "We're the embryos that wasn't implanted in you."
"Oh Jesus," April whispered. "Come in."
The apartment was cluttered but clean. The floor was swept but every surface was crowded with interesting stuff. Books. Art. Toys. April disappeared into the kitchen to make tea.
"I always thought that there be a day when the doorbell would ring and it be her wanting to know who the hell I thought I was, having a baby for money and walking away, leaving her there, on that world."
A baby. "You only had one? A girl?"
There was silence in the kitchen. April came to lean on the doorway. "Yeah. A little girl. You know, you can only leave Pittsburgh once a month, and she was born the day after Startup, so I was there with her for thirty days, knowing that she wasn't really mine. It was so hard to walk away. To stay away. But as they say – you make your bed, you have to sleep in it."
"I wanted out off Elfhome. I was seven when Startup took Pittsburgh to Elfhome. It woke us up in the middle of night. The power off. The phones not working. Giant trees where our backyard had been, pressed right up against the house. A saurus attacked our neighbor's house the next morning. We could hear them screaming. My dad told us to lock ourselves in the bathroom and he went down the street with his hunting rifle and shot it."
"Here." She went across the living room to a bookcase and got down a picture frame. "This is him with it."
Her father looked more like an accountant with wire-rim glasses and hair combed across a balding spot. He beamed with pride at the camera behind the saurus' massive head, its mouth propped open to show off hundreds of long sharp teeth.
"One day twenty-first century, the next you're living in the Stone Age, complete with dinosaurs. My parents loved it, but it scared me. Strangle vines ate our dog. A tree ate my favorite teacher. A fish ate one of my friends. There was a bunch of us standing on the riverbank looking at this strange big fish. It was a fish. We thought as long as we didn't go into the water, we'd be safe. And then all of the sudden…" She made a fast snatching motion with her hand. "And the girl standing right next me was gone. There was just one of her shoes…"
She shook her head. "I shouldn't be telling little kids like you things like this. It will give you guys nightmares. It will give me nightmares. Do you want something to drink? I have some diet coke and tea."
Their parents didn't let them have either, saying that it would stunt their growth. Personally Louise thought it was because their parents were afraid that caffeine would make them even harder to manage.
"I'd like tea," Louise said.
It turned out tea was more complicated than soda because Jean had what seemed to be an infinite variety of tea. Louise picked a coconut mango oolong. Jillian chose fusion honey, ginseng and white tea. April took a bottle out of the cabinet and added scotch to her Earl Gray.
"So they paid you to have our sister?" Jillian asked while Louise tried to get the tea sweet enough to drink.
"Yes." Jean sighed. "It sounds so horrible, doesn't it? It felt good and right until it was time to walk away." She opened the fridge, took out a carton of milk and poured it into the mug that said "I heart New York."
"My family moved to Neville Island, thinking it would be safer. Mr. Bell lived down the street. He was a sweet, little old man. He could fix anything and he was always willing to help out. He saved my life once when I was little; I gotten too close to some strangle vine and he cut me free. I felt like I owed him. And it wasn't like he was going to have sex with me – it would all be neat and medical."
"Mr. Bell?" The name on the records had been Leonardo Dufae, the famous inventor. "He was our real father?"
"No, no, it was his son. Um. Gosh, I'd forgotten his name. I never met him. He'd been killed on Earth. He had donated some –" she paused, blushing slightly. Apparently she just remembered that they were just kids.
"Sperm." Louise provided the proper word.
"Yes." The blush deepened. "Genetic material. It was all that Mr. Bell had left of his son. He just wanted a grandchild. The baby, though, had to be born in Pittsburgh if it was going to grow up on Elfhome with Mr. Bell. The elves limited immigration to a handful of people a year. The EIA – the Earth Interdimensional Agency – pre-approves the applicants. They want scientists and researchers, not babies. There weren't any fertility clinics in Pittsburgh, not after the first Startup, and he couldn't have gotten any surrogate mother from Earth into Pittsburgh for more than a month. Since in vitro babies are often premature -- it would have been hit or miss whether his granddaughter would be born on Earth or Elfhome."
"So the surrogate had to be a Pittsburgher," Louise said.
April nodded. "I could come to New York City, have the – the procedure and go back to Pittsburgh until it was time for her to be born. I would get money to move to Earth. Go to college. We would all live happily ever after. It seemed so simple."
"So she's still in Pittsburgh?" Jillian asked.
"Oh yes." April got down a leather book from the bookcase. "Mr. Bell sends me a photos every year or so. At least he used to; last time he did, he wrote that the lack of technology on Elfhome frustrates her. I think he's afraid that if she finds out about me, that she'll use me as an excuse to come to Earth. This is her."
The first few pictures looked like their own baby pictures where their parents squint and go "Is this Jillian or Louise?" and their mother would mutter how she should have tagged their photos. At three, though, their sister became wholly herself. Her hair was boy short. She sported a bandage in nearly every photo. In one she had a black eye, looking extremely pleased. She wore bright t-shirts, blue jeans and often was barefoot. There wasn't a doll or stuffed animal in any of the pictures, but wheeled vehicles that grew larger and larger as she did. When she was their age, she had a go-kart. Louise felt a stab of jealousy.
"Is it really that bad? Living in Pittsburgh?" Jillian asked. "It seems so …fantastical. With magic. Dinosaurs. Elves. Dragons."
April laughed. "We didn't have any dragons in Pittsburgh, thank god. The elves, oh god, they are gorgeous. But magic? It was really just an annoyance. It made machines not work right. Most humans were clueless how to deal with it. Mr. Bell was an exception. He picked it up somehow."
Obviously the Dufae were all clever, including their sister.
"How did our mother get involved in all this?" They found that most puzzling since their father had died when their mother was still in middle school.
"Esme? Oh it was all her idea at first. I was there the day she first showed up. I think she scared Mr. Bell, talking about his son being killed, and everything. He kept saying 'I'm not who you think I am.' Finally she said something like 'the bloodline of his unbounded brilliance must go on. Without his light, darkness will take everything.'"
Louise felt shivers go down her back and her teacup rattled on the saucer. She fought to still her hand. She felt like she just heard the most true thing in her life and it scared her.
Jillian hadn't noticed; she was leaned forward, eyes wide. "Oooohhh, that is so cool."
"What darkness?" Louise asked.
April shrugged and eyed her teacup which was empty. "I'd grown up in Pittsburgh that was fast becoming a ghost town compared to what it was. I'd never met anyone like Esme before. New York, you meet them here and there, the big fish in a big pond. The movers. The shakers. Forces of nature. She scared me. I started to edge away, saying goodbye. I don't think she had noticed I was in the room until I tried to escape. She turned and saw me by the door and went 'You!'" Jean pointed forcibly at the door, nearly shouting the word, making Louise jump. "'You're going to help! How would you like to make a million dollars?'"
"A million dollars?" Louise asked.
"She paid you a million dollars to have our sister?" Jillian clarified.
April laughed. "Crazy? Right? I didn't believe her at first, but then she gave me some jewelry as down payment. This amazing tennis bracelet." She held up her right wrist to show off the glitter of large diamonds and blue gemstones. "A Rolex woman's wrist watch. Her family is rich and she had this crazy plan of going into space and never coming back, so she was blowing it all on this baby."
"A million dollars for our sister?" Jillian tone had changed slightly. And Louise understood completely. A million
dollars for their older sister, nothing for them, and nothing for their siblings still frozen in the lab.
"She had a ton of rules. I wasn't allowed to drink or smoke or do drugs or even date – the last wasn't that hard considering all the decent boys had left Pittsburgh. She swore me to secrecy – I wasn't allowed to tell anyone about the baby. Not my parents. Not her parents. Not even her sister who lives in Pittsburgh."
"You're telling us." Louise pointed out.
"Oh, you guys are the exception to the rule." April got up to start poking among her bookcase. "She said that if any of her kids were to show up at my door, I was to tell them everything. Answer every question. And – where is it – oh here." April pulled out a square wooden box. "And to give you this."
"This" was a Chinese puzzle box, lacquered with a beautiful pattern. April held it out to them and when neither took it, sat it down on the coffee table between them.
"Are you sure she meant us and not our older sister?" Louise asked.
"She said 'any kid.' I think she even added something like 'one or two, together or alone, boy or girl.'" April frowned for a moment. "Where exactly did you come from?"
Louise glanced at Jillian. They hadn't come up with a cover story for that.
"We rather not say," Jillian said.
"Our parents stole us," Louise said.
April rubbed at the ridge of her nose. "It's like your whole family been cursed to live weird and bizarre lives."
"We are not weird." Louise said.
"Oh so its perfectly normal for kids your age to disguise themselves as girl scouts and ambush people at their front door?"
"We are not disguised as girl scouts," Louise snapped. "We are girl scouts. There's a difference. Do you want to order cookies or not?"
"Yeah, I'll take two boxes of thin mints."
#
They managed to talk April into two thin mints, a box of samoas and a box of trefoils, scanned all the pictures of their sister, and copied all personal data on Tim Bell and his granddaughter including his phone number and address.
April lived in high-rise on the Upper East Side. The Girl Scout uniforms got them past the doorman for the promise of free cookies. According to her phone, April was now home, so they went straight to her apartment.
They rang the doorbell and listened intently as soft footsteps came to the door. There was a long silence as they were examined through the spyhole. After a full minute, the locks were thrown and the door opened.
April was surprisingly young and pretty. She was wearing a tight black dress and last night's makeup. "Wow, I didn't think girl scouts went door to door anymore. Are you sure you're allowed to do this? It's not really safe, even with a dog that big."
"Hi," Jillian said. "Can we ask you some questions?"
"I'll buy a box or two. I love thin mints. Let me get my purse."
She started to close the door but Louise put her foot in the door. "Wait! We want to know what happened to your babies."
Jillian glared at her for going off script.
"My what?" April said.
"Eighteen years ago, you visited Cryobank clinic in Manhattan and was implanted with four embryos – but you live in a one bedroom apartment. What happened to your babies?"
April glanced down the hallway and lowered her voice. "How do you know about that? Who told you that?"
"Your babies are our sisters." Louise said. "We're the embryos that wasn't implanted in you."
"Oh Jesus," April whispered. "Come in."
The apartment was cluttered but clean. The floor was swept but every surface was crowded with interesting stuff. Books. Art. Toys. April disappeared into the kitchen to make tea.
"I always thought that there be a day when the doorbell would ring and it be her wanting to know who the hell I thought I was, having a baby for money and walking away, leaving her there, on that world."
A baby. "You only had one? A girl?"
There was silence in the kitchen. April came to lean on the doorway. "Yeah. A little girl. You know, you can only leave Pittsburgh once a month, and she was born the day after Startup, so I was there with her for thirty days, knowing that she wasn't really mine. It was so hard to walk away. To stay away. But as they say – you make your bed, you have to sleep in it."
"I wanted out off Elfhome. I was seven when Startup took Pittsburgh to Elfhome. It woke us up in the middle of night. The power off. The phones not working. Giant trees where our backyard had been, pressed right up against the house. A saurus attacked our neighbor's house the next morning. We could hear them screaming. My dad told us to lock ourselves in the bathroom and he went down the street with his hunting rifle and shot it."
"Here." She went across the living room to a bookcase and got down a picture frame. "This is him with it."
Her father looked more like an accountant with wire-rim glasses and hair combed across a balding spot. He beamed with pride at the camera behind the saurus' massive head, its mouth propped open to show off hundreds of long sharp teeth.
"One day twenty-first century, the next you're living in the Stone Age, complete with dinosaurs. My parents loved it, but it scared me. Strangle vines ate our dog. A tree ate my favorite teacher. A fish ate one of my friends. There was a bunch of us standing on the riverbank looking at this strange big fish. It was a fish. We thought as long as we didn't go into the water, we'd be safe. And then all of the sudden…" She made a fast snatching motion with her hand. "And the girl standing right next me was gone. There was just one of her shoes…"
She shook her head. "I shouldn't be telling little kids like you things like this. It will give you guys nightmares. It will give me nightmares. Do you want something to drink? I have some diet coke and tea."
Their parents didn't let them have either, saying that it would stunt their growth. Personally Louise thought it was because their parents were afraid that caffeine would make them even harder to manage.
"I'd like tea," Louise said.
It turned out tea was more complicated than soda because Jean had what seemed to be an infinite variety of tea. Louise picked a coconut mango oolong. Jillian chose fusion honey, ginseng and white tea. April took a bottle out of the cabinet and added scotch to her Earl Gray.
"So they paid you to have our sister?" Jillian asked while Louise tried to get the tea sweet enough to drink.
"Yes." Jean sighed. "It sounds so horrible, doesn't it? It felt good and right until it was time to walk away." She opened the fridge, took out a carton of milk and poured it into the mug that said "I heart New York."
"My family moved to Neville Island, thinking it would be safer. Mr. Bell lived down the street. He was a sweet, little old man. He could fix anything and he was always willing to help out. He saved my life once when I was little; I gotten too close to some strangle vine and he cut me free. I felt like I owed him. And it wasn't like he was going to have sex with me – it would all be neat and medical."
"Mr. Bell?" The name on the records had been Leonardo Dufae, the famous inventor. "He was our real father?"
"No, no, it was his son. Um. Gosh, I'd forgotten his name. I never met him. He'd been killed on Earth. He had donated some –" she paused, blushing slightly. Apparently she just remembered that they were just kids.
"Sperm." Louise provided the proper word.
"Yes." The blush deepened. "Genetic material. It was all that Mr. Bell had left of his son. He just wanted a grandchild. The baby, though, had to be born in Pittsburgh if it was going to grow up on Elfhome with Mr. Bell. The elves limited immigration to a handful of people a year. The EIA – the Earth Interdimensional Agency – pre-approves the applicants. They want scientists and researchers, not babies. There weren't any fertility clinics in Pittsburgh, not after the first Startup, and he couldn't have gotten any surrogate mother from Earth into Pittsburgh for more than a month. Since in vitro babies are often premature -- it would have been hit or miss whether his granddaughter would be born on Earth or Elfhome."
"So the surrogate had to be a Pittsburgher," Louise said.
April nodded. "I could come to New York City, have the – the procedure and go back to Pittsburgh until it was time for her to be born. I would get money to move to Earth. Go to college. We would all live happily ever after. It seemed so simple."
"So she's still in Pittsburgh?" Jillian asked.
"Oh yes." April got down a leather book from the bookcase. "Mr. Bell sends me a photos every year or so. At least he used to; last time he did, he wrote that the lack of technology on Elfhome frustrates her. I think he's afraid that if she finds out about me, that she'll use me as an excuse to come to Earth. This is her."
The first few pictures looked like their own baby pictures where their parents squint and go "Is this Jillian or Louise?" and their mother would mutter how she should have tagged their photos. At three, though, their sister became wholly herself. Her hair was boy short. She sported a bandage in nearly every photo. In one she had a black eye, looking extremely pleased. She wore bright t-shirts, blue jeans and often was barefoot. There wasn't a doll or stuffed animal in any of the pictures, but wheeled vehicles that grew larger and larger as she did. When she was their age, she had a go-kart. Louise felt a stab of jealousy.
"Is it really that bad? Living in Pittsburgh?" Jillian asked. "It seems so …fantastical. With magic. Dinosaurs. Elves. Dragons."
April laughed. "We didn't have any dragons in Pittsburgh, thank god. The elves, oh god, they are gorgeous. But magic? It was really just an annoyance. It made machines not work right. Most humans were clueless how to deal with it. Mr. Bell was an exception. He picked it up somehow."
Obviously the Dufae were all clever, including their sister.
"How did our mother get involved in all this?" They found that most puzzling since their father had died when their mother was still in middle school.
"Esme? Oh it was all her idea at first. I was there the day she first showed up. I think she scared Mr. Bell, talking about his son being killed, and everything. He kept saying 'I'm not who you think I am.' Finally she said something like 'the bloodline of his unbounded brilliance must go on. Without his light, darkness will take everything.'"
Louise felt shivers go down her back and her teacup rattled on the saucer. She fought to still her hand. She felt like she just heard the most true thing in her life and it scared her.
Jillian hadn't noticed; she was leaned forward, eyes wide. "Oooohhh, that is so cool."
"What darkness?" Louise asked.
April shrugged and eyed her teacup which was empty. "I'd grown up in Pittsburgh that was fast becoming a ghost town compared to what it was. I'd never met anyone like Esme before. New York, you meet them here and there, the big fish in a big pond. The movers. The shakers. Forces of nature. She scared me. I started to edge away, saying goodbye. I don't think she had noticed I was in the room until I tried to escape. She turned and saw me by the door and went 'You!'" Jean pointed forcibly at the door, nearly shouting the word, making Louise jump. "'You're going to help! How would you like to make a million dollars?'"
"A million dollars?" Louise asked.
"She paid you a million dollars to have our sister?" Jillian clarified.
April laughed. "Crazy? Right? I didn't believe her at first, but then she gave me some jewelry as down payment. This amazing tennis bracelet." She held up her right wrist to show off the glitter of large diamonds and blue gemstones. "A Rolex woman's wrist watch. Her family is rich and she had this crazy plan of going into space and never coming back, so she was blowing it all on this baby."
"A million dollars for our sister?" Jillian tone had changed slightly. And Louise understood completely. A million
dollars for their older sister, nothing for them, and nothing for their siblings still frozen in the lab.
"She had a ton of rules. I wasn't allowed to drink or smoke or do drugs or even date – the last wasn't that hard considering all the decent boys had left Pittsburgh. She swore me to secrecy – I wasn't allowed to tell anyone about the baby. Not my parents. Not her parents. Not even her sister who lives in Pittsburgh."
"You're telling us." Louise pointed out.
"Oh, you guys are the exception to the rule." April got up to start poking among her bookcase. "She said that if any of her kids were to show up at my door, I was to tell them everything. Answer every question. And – where is it – oh here." April pulled out a square wooden box. "And to give you this."
"This" was a Chinese puzzle box, lacquered with a beautiful pattern. April held it out to them and when neither took it, sat it down on the coffee table between them.
"Are you sure she meant us and not our older sister?" Louise asked.
"She said 'any kid.' I think she even added something like 'one or two, together or alone, boy or girl.'" April frowned for a moment. "Where exactly did you come from?"
Louise glanced at Jillian. They hadn't come up with a cover story for that.
"We rather not say," Jillian said.
"Our parents stole us," Louise said.
April rubbed at the ridge of her nose. "It's like your whole family been cursed to live weird and bizarre lives."
"We are not weird." Louise said.
"Oh so its perfectly normal for kids your age to disguise themselves as girl scouts and ambush people at their front door?"
"We are not disguised as girl scouts," Louise snapped. "We are girl scouts. There's a difference. Do you want to order cookies or not?"
"Yeah, I'll take two boxes of thin mints."
#
They managed to talk April into two thin mints, a box of samoas and a box of trefoils, scanned all the pictures of their sister, and copied all personal data on Tim Bell and his granddaughter including his phone number and address.
December 17, 2012
Planning to visit April, Tinker's surrogate mother
Jillian decided that they'd go disguised as Girl Scouts selling cookies.
Louise wasn't sure they needed disguises. And she was fairly positive that they hadn't needed to actually join the Girl Scouts in order to obtain the uniforms. She suspected that Jillian secretly just wanted to join but wouldn't admit it.
Elle had been so stunned when they showed up at the after school meeting that she only stood there, mouth open, with a confused look on her face. Mrs. Pondwater was much better at covering her emotions. She ran on autopilot, welcoming them to the troop with only flashes of horror going through her eyes when she happened to look at Louise's blast-shortened hair. Jillian told everyone in class that Louise's new hairstyle was because of an accident with bubblegum so there were no embarrassing questions about explosions, leveled playhouses, or emergency room visits. Mrs. Pondwater apparently knew the truth, hinting that the woman obsessively tracked everyone that touched upon her daughter's life. She obviously didn't want to take responsibility for anyone who already managed to blow themselves up once. The spirit of Girl Scouts – as Jillian pointed out – was to accept any girl no matter her ethnic and social group.
So they had the uniforms, cookie order forms, and a creditable alibi for all of Saturday.
Neither one of them remembered that Saturday was their birthday.
#
"The Girl Scouts?" Their mother said for the third time after they told her. She was in her power business suit, her briefcase on the counter, and dinner from the supermarket's hot deli still in its insulated bag on the kitchen table. The evening news was on but muted.
"Is something wrong with the Girl Scouts?" Louise got out four plates and four forks.
"You said we should try to play with the other girls more." Jillian investigated the bag. "Oh good, rotisserie chicken!" She pulled out a small full chicken and then other containers that held steamed brown rice, salad makings and fresh fruit.
"There's nothing wrong with Girl Scouts." Their mother took off her heels with a sigh of relief. "I thought – oh what's her name…?"
"Elle Pondwater." Louise supplied the name and four glasses.
"Yes, that Elle's mother ran the girl scouts and you thought she was materialistic and extremely controlling. What's changed?"
Since it was true, Louise let Jillian field the question.
"By ignoring the Girl Scouts, we were allowing Elle to control that power base. By infiltrating that clique, we could disrupt her monopoly on it."
Their mother pursed her lips, studying Jillian with eyes narrowed. "I am never sure to be dismayed or proud when you talk that way."
Louise wasn't sure they needed disguises. And she was fairly positive that they hadn't needed to actually join the Girl Scouts in order to obtain the uniforms. She suspected that Jillian secretly just wanted to join but wouldn't admit it.
Elle had been so stunned when they showed up at the after school meeting that she only stood there, mouth open, with a confused look on her face. Mrs. Pondwater was much better at covering her emotions. She ran on autopilot, welcoming them to the troop with only flashes of horror going through her eyes when she happened to look at Louise's blast-shortened hair. Jillian told everyone in class that Louise's new hairstyle was because of an accident with bubblegum so there were no embarrassing questions about explosions, leveled playhouses, or emergency room visits. Mrs. Pondwater apparently knew the truth, hinting that the woman obsessively tracked everyone that touched upon her daughter's life. She obviously didn't want to take responsibility for anyone who already managed to blow themselves up once. The spirit of Girl Scouts – as Jillian pointed out – was to accept any girl no matter her ethnic and social group.
So they had the uniforms, cookie order forms, and a creditable alibi for all of Saturday.
Neither one of them remembered that Saturday was their birthday.
#
"The Girl Scouts?" Their mother said for the third time after they told her. She was in her power business suit, her briefcase on the counter, and dinner from the supermarket's hot deli still in its insulated bag on the kitchen table. The evening news was on but muted.
"Is something wrong with the Girl Scouts?" Louise got out four plates and four forks.
"You said we should try to play with the other girls more." Jillian investigated the bag. "Oh good, rotisserie chicken!" She pulled out a small full chicken and then other containers that held steamed brown rice, salad makings and fresh fruit.
"There's nothing wrong with Girl Scouts." Their mother took off her heels with a sigh of relief. "I thought – oh what's her name…?"
"Elle Pondwater." Louise supplied the name and four glasses.
"Yes, that Elle's mother ran the girl scouts and you thought she was materialistic and extremely controlling. What's changed?"
Since it was true, Louise let Jillian field the question.
"By ignoring the Girl Scouts, we were allowing Elle to control that power base. By infiltrating that clique, we could disrupt her monopoly on it."
Their mother pursed her lips, studying Jillian with eyes narrowed. "I am never sure to be dismayed or proud when you talk that way."
December 16, 2012
Birth of "Away in the Manger"
There are times when a story leaps into your brain and shouts joyously "Write me!" Unfortunately usually this comes while you're trying to get something else done and you grumble back "Go away, leave me alone."
So one day, Jack and his band of friends ambushed me. I can't find the exact date at the moment since I've referred back to the original file to remind myself of the basic gist.
#
Jack was the first to spot the barge coming downriver. He was up on the belfry, salvaging the parts of the big clock for some gizmo or gadget he had planned. They made him come up with a harness to make sure he wouldn't fall.
"Dogs aren't built for climbing." Robert pointed out, lazily swinging his tail from his perch halfway up the tower. He was showing off because he couldn't make heads or tails of gizmo and gadgets and it bothered him.
Jack suffered the harness, so he was nearly tied into place when he spotted the barge. "Hoi! Hoi!"
"What are you barking at?" Timothy grumbled. He was the heaviest, so they'd used him to counteranchor Jack. He had all four hooves planted and was resigned that he was stuck in place.
"There's a thing! In the water! What do you call them?"
"How the bloody hell would I know." Timothy grumbled.
"A boat." Robert supplied a word, walking around the narrow ledge of the belfry. "A ship. A dory. Ah, that's a barge."
"Do you think it has Spam on it?" Jack cried.
"Who bloody cares?" Timothy said. "Stop bouncing around or you'll come off the pivot and then where will you be? Sixty feet down and a big wet mess."
The barge was slowly drifting down the river, a big square of steel on the gray water. It was going to clear the old pilings of the half-ruined bridge, but it looked as if it run around on the little island built up around the second bridge.
#
Yes, that's word for word exactly what my creative back brain spit into the consciousness. 261 words of "WTF." Nothing else. The names would all change except Jack, but the meat is there in a nutshell. A dog, a cat, and pony all able to talk and somewhat manipulate tools salvaging things in a post-apocalyptic world.
The "go away, don't bother me" is because I'm grinding away on a novel deadline. I can't really afford to go chasing off after the new shiny, much as I would love to. Novels are huge massive, long, brutal things and I've never been able to finish one without loathing it. (I love it again once I get the hardcover copy in my hands with the guarantee that there's no more work to be done.) If I chased after every new shiny, I'd never get done on my novels.
On the other hand, however, once the current novel is done, the next project needs to be ready to roll. What's the next project? That's where the new shiny might be important. (Ironically the idea for WOOD SPRITES ambushed me a few days later.) With that in mind, I write down all the ideas that ambush me, just in case. If I really love the idea, I give it a day or two of playtime before shutting it down.
The face off with the lawnmower and the discussion of 'whoever made this world' spring up and get written down while I struggle with big world problems. Why are these three animals together? Are there other talking animals? Where are all the humans? What happened? Key to answering the questions is: how can these three animals fix/change their world? Of course not all stories need to be "change the world" but it's easier to start big and scale small than the other way around. I get an idea of what the world dynamics are and sketch them out.
What kicks in next is "business person" versus "artist." What is the market value of the story? As an artist, do I love the idea so much that I pursue it regardless of its worth? Or as an self-employed business person, do I decide that there's no money in it? The idea cropped up just as I'm hammering out ideas to pitch to my publisher, so these are serious questions. All novels often start out with a little as this in the beginning, which needs to be spun into something bigger. Unfortunately new ideas are always shiny and loveable and trying to figure out which to focus on is difficult.
I realize that part of the idea hinges on post-apocalyptic coolness. Since most mythologies have such stories, there must be something about the tales that the human brain just loves. It gets a plus mark for that. Unfortunately, the talking animals bring all sorts of problem to "marketability." People like to have a character that they can identify with, but the main characters are all animals. Yes, Jack is a fun character but he's not going to have human problems.
My two halves fling literary examples at each other, from Animal Farm (come on, we all hated it in eighth grade) to Watership Down to Redwall. In the end, I decide that I'm not going to devote a novel to it. Business person stamps it with "fail" and files it away. Artist pouts a lot. In August, however, Baen asked me if I could do a Christmas short story. The artist jumps up and shouts "What's more Christmas than talking animals?"
Business person glares at the artist and suggests tie-in to novels already written as gateway to those worlds. Artist points out that most of my projects have time constraints. For example, Elfhome ended with Tinker in the middle of September. To write a Christmas story for her, I would either have to do it prior to her meeting Windwolf, or risk driving myself insane trying to match up timelines of two future novels to one short story. Both artist and business person cringe at that idea.
Finally the artist plays the trump card. "If I write this short, I'll wear the shiny off." Business person knows that artist is much more reasonable once the shiny all wears off a new idea. They agree. A few days later, the rough draft of the story is done.
So one day, Jack and his band of friends ambushed me. I can't find the exact date at the moment since I've referred back to the original file to remind myself of the basic gist.
#
Jack was the first to spot the barge coming downriver. He was up on the belfry, salvaging the parts of the big clock for some gizmo or gadget he had planned. They made him come up with a harness to make sure he wouldn't fall.
"Dogs aren't built for climbing." Robert pointed out, lazily swinging his tail from his perch halfway up the tower. He was showing off because he couldn't make heads or tails of gizmo and gadgets and it bothered him.
Jack suffered the harness, so he was nearly tied into place when he spotted the barge. "Hoi! Hoi!"
"What are you barking at?" Timothy grumbled. He was the heaviest, so they'd used him to counteranchor Jack. He had all four hooves planted and was resigned that he was stuck in place.
"There's a thing! In the water! What do you call them?"
"How the bloody hell would I know." Timothy grumbled.
"A boat." Robert supplied a word, walking around the narrow ledge of the belfry. "A ship. A dory. Ah, that's a barge."
"Do you think it has Spam on it?" Jack cried.
"Who bloody cares?" Timothy said. "Stop bouncing around or you'll come off the pivot and then where will you be? Sixty feet down and a big wet mess."
The barge was slowly drifting down the river, a big square of steel on the gray water. It was going to clear the old pilings of the half-ruined bridge, but it looked as if it run around on the little island built up around the second bridge.
#
Yes, that's word for word exactly what my creative back brain spit into the consciousness. 261 words of "WTF." Nothing else. The names would all change except Jack, but the meat is there in a nutshell. A dog, a cat, and pony all able to talk and somewhat manipulate tools salvaging things in a post-apocalyptic world.
The "go away, don't bother me" is because I'm grinding away on a novel deadline. I can't really afford to go chasing off after the new shiny, much as I would love to. Novels are huge massive, long, brutal things and I've never been able to finish one without loathing it. (I love it again once I get the hardcover copy in my hands with the guarantee that there's no more work to be done.) If I chased after every new shiny, I'd never get done on my novels.
On the other hand, however, once the current novel is done, the next project needs to be ready to roll. What's the next project? That's where the new shiny might be important. (Ironically the idea for WOOD SPRITES ambushed me a few days later.) With that in mind, I write down all the ideas that ambush me, just in case. If I really love the idea, I give it a day or two of playtime before shutting it down.
The face off with the lawnmower and the discussion of 'whoever made this world' spring up and get written down while I struggle with big world problems. Why are these three animals together? Are there other talking animals? Where are all the humans? What happened? Key to answering the questions is: how can these three animals fix/change their world? Of course not all stories need to be "change the world" but it's easier to start big and scale small than the other way around. I get an idea of what the world dynamics are and sketch them out.
What kicks in next is "business person" versus "artist." What is the market value of the story? As an artist, do I love the idea so much that I pursue it regardless of its worth? Or as an self-employed business person, do I decide that there's no money in it? The idea cropped up just as I'm hammering out ideas to pitch to my publisher, so these are serious questions. All novels often start out with a little as this in the beginning, which needs to be spun into something bigger. Unfortunately new ideas are always shiny and loveable and trying to figure out which to focus on is difficult.
I realize that part of the idea hinges on post-apocalyptic coolness. Since most mythologies have such stories, there must be something about the tales that the human brain just loves. It gets a plus mark for that. Unfortunately, the talking animals bring all sorts of problem to "marketability." People like to have a character that they can identify with, but the main characters are all animals. Yes, Jack is a fun character but he's not going to have human problems.
My two halves fling literary examples at each other, from Animal Farm (come on, we all hated it in eighth grade) to Watership Down to Redwall. In the end, I decide that I'm not going to devote a novel to it. Business person stamps it with "fail" and files it away. Artist pouts a lot. In August, however, Baen asked me if I could do a Christmas short story. The artist jumps up and shouts "What's more Christmas than talking animals?"
Business person glares at the artist and suggests tie-in to novels already written as gateway to those worlds. Artist points out that most of my projects have time constraints. For example, Elfhome ended with Tinker in the middle of September. To write a Christmas story for her, I would either have to do it prior to her meeting Windwolf, or risk driving myself insane trying to match up timelines of two future novels to one short story. Both artist and business person cringe at that idea.
Finally the artist plays the trump card. "If I write this short, I'll wear the shiny off." Business person knows that artist is much more reasonable once the shiny all wears off a new idea. They agree. A few days later, the rough draft of the story is done.
