Libby Doyle's Blog, page 4
January 22, 2018
Women on the Brain
Women's March in Philadelphia, January 20, 2018 I’ve got women on the brain. First, because of the Women’s March on January 20, the anniversary of Trump’s inauguration. Second, the whole Aziz Ansari story, which has some saying the #MeToo movement has gone too far.Unlike last year, I didn’t go to Washington, D.C., for the March. I stayed in Philadelphia. Nearly 50 thousand people, including plenty of men, came out on a beautiful sunny day. For many the protest was about #MeToo. For some, it was about Trump, or the intersection of these two. We have a sexual predator in the White House, a man who personifies how powerful men can undermine women’s humanity.
So what of Aziz Ansari? Many keystrokes and much breath has been expended discussing this story. Sad to say, Ansari was the latest person to undermine a woman’s humanity. Although I do not believe his behavior amounted to sexual assault, I make no apologies for the pig. Even the poorly written piece slapped up by Babe shows that Ansari lost sight of the human being in front of him.
Some men believe they’re entitled to sex. Thankfully, they’re in the minority. But what about the men who believe they are entitled to push for sex. That’s what boys do, isn’t it? They try to get it any way they can. Until very recently, they did so with virtual impunity. Women and girls were conditioned to accept this as an inevitable part of life. FUCK THAT.
No, the #MeToo movement has not gone too far, although the backlash may be inevitable. Whatever you think of Ansari’s behavior, the discussion has been useful. If we ever want to throw off our social conditioning, we need to shine a light into this dark corner. We need to celebrate good men. Men who don’t want to force, coerce or even persuade a woman to have sex. Men who want to come together in lusty enthusiasm. We need to celebrate women who learn to ask for what they want.
As for the piggish and clueless men, we need to make it simple. If you have to push a woman, she’s not that into you. Is that so hard to get? She’s not playing some goddamn coy game.
We are not helpless. We are more than potential victims. If a man treats us poorly, we need to leave.
The #MeToo stories have been enlightening for many people. Haven't we all been through the fear? The humiliation? The shame of the double standard? Some women are beaten down until they think sex is all they're worth. The men who fuck them don't even see them. Just their own pleasure, their own power. The power of I-want-I-get.
The Babe piece muddied this reality because it was bad journalism. For a good take down read this Jezebel article. The writer for Babe made the woman--called “Grace” in the story--look like an ninny. For instance, the writer recounts how Grace didn’t get to choose the wine. They had white, whereas she preferred red. Oh the horror! Now I can understand Grace mentioning this in passing, but to include it in the story makes it clear the writer had no fucking idea what she was doing. We can't condemn Grace for this.
To effect cultural change, we need more thoughtful work. We need men who are willing to listen and to shout out their support for what women are trying to do. We need everyone to talk about how fantastic it is to have mutually respectful sex.
But who needs to do most of the work? Women do. I’m not saying it’s fair. It’s just the way it is. Not many people give up power voluntarily.
Which leads me to Grace. She needed to do some work. She should have walked out the damn door. This doesn’t mean I excuse Ansari, but Grace was so passive it made me cringe.
You can hope a man will pick up nonverbal cues. An attentive and considerate man will do that. Can you rely on it? HELL NO. If you deliver a verbal negative, and he backs off only to start pushing again a little later, GET OUT! There's no reason to stay. The man lost sight of you, if he ever had it.
I’ve read essays stating that women may be too frightened to say, “Back off, dude.” Such situations exist. That’s not what we are talking about here. Ansari never seemed on the cusp of forcible rape. Grace did not claim he was.
I’ve read essays saying maybe it’s not so simple to leave and get a cab in the middle of the night. It's scary to get in a car with a stranger.
Are you fucking kidding me? Then best you don’t go out at night.
We are not helpless. We are more than potential victims. If a man treats us poorly we need to leave.
Of course, we all know there’s another side to this issue. We also need to forgive ourselves if we get pushed into to sex we don’t want. We can learn from our bad experiences, find value in the scars. They let us learn about ourselves. Let us learn about other people. Help us throw off our conditioning.
We need to be forthright about what we want. I know the thought gives many people mad anxiety, but life's too short for bad sex.
If a man treats us like a pleasure tool, we need to walk out the goddamn door.
January 1, 2018
$613
Flash Fiction from a Special Guest
Happy New Year! I've got something fun to kick off 2018. Flash fiction from none other than my dear hubby! A super-cool vignette like something Tom Waits would write. 
I have $613 in mostly small bills in the back pocket of my gray suit pants and she’s nowhere to be found.
I think I left my suit jacket in the bar last night because I don’t have it now. In my left hand is the black floppy hat she was wearing. My right hand’s in my pocket, feeling some loose change and a rabbit’s foot.
It’s early. A couple restless bums waking up in doorways throwing off their newspaper blankets the only signs of life.
I’d like to know the time, but the face of my watch is smashed and it’s stopped at 1:58. I know I’ve exactly 613 bucks because I counted it like five times before I got 613 twice in a row. A cringing mutt slinks along the storefronts and small businesses. I notice my head’s throbbing.
Across the street squats the barroom, its neon dark in the daylight. She must’ve been cheating those assholes somehow. Nobody’s that lucky. Who bets on rock-paper-scissors besides fucking idiots anyway? [image error] The morons she fleeced were pissed off, puzzled, blaming each other, calling her “lucky bitch.” After the pea brains left, I asked her, “Lorraine, how’d you do it?”
She pushed her sandy-brown bangs off her forehead, her big hat tilting back, and grinned, crow’s feet crinkling her laughing eyes in a fetching way. “Pure luck, boyo,” she said.
“Bullshit.”
She laughed her mesmerizing laugh and pulled her hat down over her eyebrows.
I must’ve made it across the street from the bar where I passed out against a tree in a small park because that’s where I woke up with her big black hat on my face.
I have her hat but not her. Where is she? I don’t even know her last name. She said she was from upstate New York “originally.” She has a pretty face, looks maybe 40, 42.
I walk around behind the bar to its small parking lot to get my car. It’s gone. In its place is a piece of paper under half a brick. I kick over the brick and pick up the paper.
“Hey, boyo, sorry about the car. You shouldn’t leave your keys and wallet (and credit cards) in your jacket. I left you my winnings to sort of make amends. I had fun last night, I know you did too. I like you, I really do, boyo. Hey, if you’re ever in the Catskills maybe we’ll run into each other. Love & kisses, Lorraine (my real name).
“PS: Lucky for me we’re the same height. Your jacket fits me. Only a little baggy in the shoulders.”
I neatly fold the note and stick it in my pocket. With some of the $613 I buy a bus ticket heading north. As the bus pulls away from the depot I see my reflection in the window. Lorraine’s big, floppy black hat doesn’t look half bad on me.
I have $613 in mostly small bills in the back pocket of my gray suit pants and she’s nowhere to be found. I think I left my suit jacket in the bar last night because I don’t have it now. In my left hand is the black floppy hat she was wearing. My right hand’s in my pocket, feeling some loose change and a rabbit’s foot.
It’s early. A couple restless bums waking up in doorways throwing off their newspaper blankets the only signs of life.
I’d like to know the time, but the face of my watch is smashed and it’s stopped at 1:58. I know I’ve exactly 613 bucks because I counted it like five times before I got 613 twice in a row. A cringing mutt slinks along the storefronts and small businesses. I notice my head’s throbbing.
Across the street squats the barroom, its neon dark in the daylight. She must’ve been cheating those assholes somehow. Nobody’s that lucky. Who bets on rock-paper-scissors besides fucking idiots anyway? [image error] The morons she fleeced were pissed off, puzzled, blaming each other, calling her “lucky bitch.” After the pea brains left, I asked her, “Lorraine, how’d you do it?”
She pushed her sandy-brown bangs off her forehead, her big hat tilting back, and grinned, crow’s feet crinkling her laughing eyes in a fetching way. “Pure luck, boyo,” she said.
“Bullshit.”
She laughed her mesmerizing laugh and pulled her hat down over her eyebrows.
I must’ve made it across the street from the bar where I passed out against a tree in a small park because that’s where I woke up with her big black hat on my face.
I have her hat but not her. Where is she? I don’t even know her last name. She said she was from upstate New York “originally.” She has a pretty face, looks maybe 40, 42.
I walk around behind the bar to its small parking lot to get my car. It’s gone. In its place is a piece of paper under half a brick. I kick over the brick and pick up the paper.
“Hey, boyo, sorry about the car. You shouldn’t leave your keys and wallet (and credit cards) in your jacket. I left you my winnings to sort of make amends. I had fun last night, I know you did too. I like you, I really do, boyo. Hey, if you’re ever in the Catskills maybe we’ll run into each other. Love & kisses, Lorraine (my real name).
“PS: Lucky for me we’re the same height. Your jacket fits me. Only a little baggy in the shoulders.”
I neatly fold the note and stick it in my pocket. With some of the $613 I buy a bus ticket heading north. As the bus pulls away from the depot I see my reflection in the window. Lorraine’s big, floppy black hat doesn’t look half bad on me.
November 12, 2017
The Covalent Series is getting a makeover!
[image error] The phoenix, a symbol of rebirth. Hello, dear readers! If you haven't yet heard my announcement, I plan to revise the first two books of The Covalent Series, my romantic science fantasy.
The Passion Season: Book I of the Covalent Series, has already been removed from bookselling sites. I didn't want to leave you hanging, so from now until the end of the year, The Pain Season: Book II of the Covalent Series, is on sale for $0.99!
Amazon
Universal Link (All other retailers)
No cliffhangers in The Pain Season. Enjoy!
This means a delay in the release of The Vengeance Season: Book III of the Covalent Series . The upside? When the books reappear, the whole five-book series will be out within 15 months.
It will be EPIC.
In the meantime, I'll do my best to keep you entertained here on my blog, and through posts on my Free Short Fiction page.
Right now, I offer a deleted scene from The Passion Season. I think it's kind of fun. [image error] Setting: Zan and her friends are at a bar after the annual softball game between the FBI the the Philadelphia Police.
The drinks kept flowing and quite a few members of the group spilled out of the alcove onto the dance floor. Zan asked Rainer, but he declined. She frowned and grabbed Jamal.
“C’mon, Jamal. I know you’re an excellent dancer.”
She was right, and Jamal loved the chance to show off. He and Zan were tearing it up, but when he noticed Rainer looking at him, his enjoyment was compromised.
Why do I get the feeling I have about three seconds left to live?
He decided to ignore it.
Get used to it, Gigantor. The woman is my friend.
When the jukebox played a song Zan particularly liked, she took her dancing to a new level of abandon. Rainer had had enough. He walked over and stopped in front of them. “I’ve changed my mind. I want to dance with you," he said, staring at Zan with an intensity Jamal found downright bizarre. Zan looked at Jamal and shrugged. Jamal walked away.
Evidently, Gigantor is the jealous type.
Unsurprisingly, Rainer was also a good dancer. He put his arms around Zan and matched her movements, subdued at first. After Zan had rubbed up against him for a few minutes, he grew animated, seizing her and leaning her back, holding his face close to her as they gyrated. He pressed his face to her neck. She turned around, inviting him to move in time behind her. He put his giant hands on her hips and started to grind, his arm muscles tensed. He flipped her around to face him, crushed her to him and growled.
Jamal had gone back into the alcove and was standing with Mel and Michael, watching them.
“Holy shit. Did he just growl at her?” he asked.
“Probably, yeah. Zan says he does that,” Mel said.
“I’m sorry, but that dude is weird,” Jamal said. They all laughed.
“Yeah, he’s a little weird,” Michael said.
Back on the dance floor, Zan twirled away from Rainer with a grin, making him go after her. They were oblivious to the fact that as their dance went on, almost everyone in that section of the bar stared at them. The two were flush against each other, moving in time, staring into each other’s eyes. Rainer lightly brushed his lips against Zan's neck and flipped her around again, so he was pressed against her from behind. He grabbed her hips and brought her tight in line with him as they rolled their bodies in perfect rhythm. Zan leaned her head back, closed her eyes and forcefully exhaled.
“And then there was the time Zan had an orgasm on the dance floor of a bar in West Philly,” Mel said.
“Man,” Jamal said. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen outside of porn.”
“I’m not so sure that isn’t porn,” Mel said.
When the song was over, Zan noticed everyone staring. She blushed and whispered something in Rainer’s ear, causing him to utter a full-throated laugh. He put his hand in her hair, tilted her face to him and kissed her, hard, sliding one hand down her back to hold her against him. She hung her arms back and let him do it. When the two came back, Zan walked behind Rainer, sheepish.
“Agent O’Gara. That was behavior unbecoming a representative of the Bureau,” Mel said.
“Don’t tease me, Mel. We got carried away.”
“I’m surprised you two didn’t dance right out the door so you could be alone,” Michael said.
“Then I’d feel even more like a stupid teenager than I already do,” Zan said.
“This is why I shouldn’t dance,” Rainer said. “At least not with Zan. I cannot restrain myself.” He smiled broadly as he said this, completely unembarrassed. “And now, I'm thirsty. Would you like some water, Zan?”
“Yes, thanks, honey.”
“And all of you? More pints?”
They all nodded. “Yeah, sure. Thanks, Rainer,” Mel said. Rainer walked off to the crowded bar.
The Passion Season: Book I of the Covalent Series, has already been removed from bookselling sites. I didn't want to leave you hanging, so from now until the end of the year, The Pain Season: Book II of the Covalent Series, is on sale for $0.99!
Amazon
Universal Link (All other retailers)
No cliffhangers in The Pain Season. Enjoy!
This means a delay in the release of The Vengeance Season: Book III of the Covalent Series . The upside? When the books reappear, the whole five-book series will be out within 15 months.
It will be EPIC.
In the meantime, I'll do my best to keep you entertained here on my blog, and through posts on my Free Short Fiction page.
Right now, I offer a deleted scene from The Passion Season. I think it's kind of fun. [image error] Setting: Zan and her friends are at a bar after the annual softball game between the FBI the the Philadelphia Police.
The drinks kept flowing and quite a few members of the group spilled out of the alcove onto the dance floor. Zan asked Rainer, but he declined. She frowned and grabbed Jamal.
“C’mon, Jamal. I know you’re an excellent dancer.”
She was right, and Jamal loved the chance to show off. He and Zan were tearing it up, but when he noticed Rainer looking at him, his enjoyment was compromised.
Why do I get the feeling I have about three seconds left to live?
He decided to ignore it.
Get used to it, Gigantor. The woman is my friend.
When the jukebox played a song Zan particularly liked, she took her dancing to a new level of abandon. Rainer had had enough. He walked over and stopped in front of them. “I’ve changed my mind. I want to dance with you," he said, staring at Zan with an intensity Jamal found downright bizarre. Zan looked at Jamal and shrugged. Jamal walked away.
Evidently, Gigantor is the jealous type.
Unsurprisingly, Rainer was also a good dancer. He put his arms around Zan and matched her movements, subdued at first. After Zan had rubbed up against him for a few minutes, he grew animated, seizing her and leaning her back, holding his face close to her as they gyrated. He pressed his face to her neck. She turned around, inviting him to move in time behind her. He put his giant hands on her hips and started to grind, his arm muscles tensed. He flipped her around to face him, crushed her to him and growled.
Jamal had gone back into the alcove and was standing with Mel and Michael, watching them.
“Holy shit. Did he just growl at her?” he asked.
“Probably, yeah. Zan says he does that,” Mel said.
“I’m sorry, but that dude is weird,” Jamal said. They all laughed.
“Yeah, he’s a little weird,” Michael said.
Back on the dance floor, Zan twirled away from Rainer with a grin, making him go after her. They were oblivious to the fact that as their dance went on, almost everyone in that section of the bar stared at them. The two were flush against each other, moving in time, staring into each other’s eyes. Rainer lightly brushed his lips against Zan's neck and flipped her around again, so he was pressed against her from behind. He grabbed her hips and brought her tight in line with him as they rolled their bodies in perfect rhythm. Zan leaned her head back, closed her eyes and forcefully exhaled.
“And then there was the time Zan had an orgasm on the dance floor of a bar in West Philly,” Mel said.
“Man,” Jamal said. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen outside of porn.”
“I’m not so sure that isn’t porn,” Mel said.
When the song was over, Zan noticed everyone staring. She blushed and whispered something in Rainer’s ear, causing him to utter a full-throated laugh. He put his hand in her hair, tilted her face to him and kissed her, hard, sliding one hand down her back to hold her against him. She hung her arms back and let him do it. When the two came back, Zan walked behind Rainer, sheepish.
“Agent O’Gara. That was behavior unbecoming a representative of the Bureau,” Mel said.
“Don’t tease me, Mel. We got carried away.”
“I’m surprised you two didn’t dance right out the door so you could be alone,” Michael said.
“Then I’d feel even more like a stupid teenager than I already do,” Zan said.
“This is why I shouldn’t dance,” Rainer said. “At least not with Zan. I cannot restrain myself.” He smiled broadly as he said this, completely unembarrassed. “And now, I'm thirsty. Would you like some water, Zan?”
“Yes, thanks, honey.”
“And all of you? More pints?”
They all nodded. “Yeah, sure. Thanks, Rainer,” Mel said. Rainer walked off to the crowded bar.
October 30, 2017
Halloween's Vivid Memories
#wsite-video-container-270153276635037591{ background: url(//www.weebly.comhttp://libbydoyle.com/u... } #video-iframe-270153276635037591{ background: url(//cdn2.editmysite.com/images/util/video... } #wsite-video-container-270153276635037591, #video-iframe-270153276635037591{ background-repeat: no-repeat; background-position:center; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and ( min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and ( min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and ( min-resolution: 2dppx) { #video-iframe-270153276635037591{ background: url(//cdn2.editmysite.com/images/util/video... background-repeat: no-repeat; background-position:center; background-size: 70px 70px; } } I took the above video on my way home from work. These people win the prize for best Halloween display. Halloween is here! I love this time of year. Porches festooned with skulls, witches, black cats and pumpkins. People wandering around the city in wacky costumes. Crisp days filled with bright sun.
The people in my neighborhood love Halloween as well. Around the corner from the house I share with my husband, they set up giant inflatable spiders, bats and vampires. Last year they had a Frankenstein’s monster. They invite the neighbors to come to their region of sidewalk. Everyone passes a pleasant evening giving candy to little kids in adorable costumes. Wine is involved.
The neighbors are making good memories. Maybe this is a part of my love for Halloween. My most vivid recollections from my childhood are all about Halloween. Not Christmas, not birthdays. I should research whether dressing up in a costume makes a moment distinct in the brain. Or it could be that I love to slip into another identity.
One of my favorite costumes was classic and easy. The hobo costume! I wore one of my older brother’s cheap suits, took a pillowcase and tied it on a stick. I burnt a cork to blacken my face like I had a beard. After I saw Emperor of the North, a movie about riding the rails, I wanted to be Lee Marvin. Yes, I was an unusual child. Other little girls dream of being Disney princesses. I wanted to be Lee Marvin. Adventure and constant motion called to me.
Another favorite costume sat on the other end of the spectrum: elaborate and hard to wear. I was a butterfly. I took a sheet and painted a colorful pattern. I used the pieces of old umbrellas to give form to my wings. I had to go through doors sideways. [image error]
I took these photos at Philadelphia's fabulous scare-fest, Terror Behind the Walls. They do up the old Eastern State Penitentiary, a creepy enough place without live actors dressed as monsters and ax-wielding zombies. Speaking of hard-to-wear costumes, I’m reminded of one year in what I’ll call the second phase of Halloween. The first phase is childhood, all innocence and candy. The second phase is youth, filled with edgy costumes, wild parties and rock-n-roll. The third phase is middle age, when the candy is for the children and you hope to have the time to get together a costume. I’m hoping the fourth phase, when I'm an old lady, will be a return to the activities of youth. I’ll be partying up a storm with my besties the retirement community. Ha!
But I digress. The hard-to-wear costume I mentioned? My friend dressed up as “punk-in.” He wore a black motorcycle jacket, jeans and heavy boots. He also wore a giant pumpkin on his head. I do mean large. The thing must have weighed a hundred pounds before it was hollowed out. It was a great costume, but he had to spend all night with his head inside a scraped-out gourd. I think it was kind of a drag for him. Smelly.
That particular Halloween (in Boston, btw) I also had a great costume. I did myself up as Agent Orange, a toxic defoliant used widely in the Vietnam War. (I know I am dating myself.) I bought a jumpsuit made of that waxy, tough paper and spray-painted it orange. I wrote, “Warning, toxic agent,” on the back with a sharpie and covered all my skin with bright orange greasepaint. I looked like one of the droogs from A Clockwork Orange, only my jumpsuit was not white. Appropriate, no?
Sorry. I have no pictures. This was pre-smart phone. People didn’t photographically document their lives as much back then. I wish I had a picture, though.
What are your best Halloween memories? I’d love to hear about them in the comments.
What did I tell you? Eastern State Penitentiary. Positively medieval.
The people in my neighborhood love Halloween as well. Around the corner from the house I share with my husband, they set up giant inflatable spiders, bats and vampires. Last year they had a Frankenstein’s monster. They invite the neighbors to come to their region of sidewalk. Everyone passes a pleasant evening giving candy to little kids in adorable costumes. Wine is involved.
The neighbors are making good memories. Maybe this is a part of my love for Halloween. My most vivid recollections from my childhood are all about Halloween. Not Christmas, not birthdays. I should research whether dressing up in a costume makes a moment distinct in the brain. Or it could be that I love to slip into another identity.
One of my favorite costumes was classic and easy. The hobo costume! I wore one of my older brother’s cheap suits, took a pillowcase and tied it on a stick. I burnt a cork to blacken my face like I had a beard. After I saw Emperor of the North, a movie about riding the rails, I wanted to be Lee Marvin. Yes, I was an unusual child. Other little girls dream of being Disney princesses. I wanted to be Lee Marvin. Adventure and constant motion called to me.
Another favorite costume sat on the other end of the spectrum: elaborate and hard to wear. I was a butterfly. I took a sheet and painted a colorful pattern. I used the pieces of old umbrellas to give form to my wings. I had to go through doors sideways. [image error]
I took these photos at Philadelphia's fabulous scare-fest, Terror Behind the Walls. They do up the old Eastern State Penitentiary, a creepy enough place without live actors dressed as monsters and ax-wielding zombies. Speaking of hard-to-wear costumes, I’m reminded of one year in what I’ll call the second phase of Halloween. The first phase is childhood, all innocence and candy. The second phase is youth, filled with edgy costumes, wild parties and rock-n-roll. The third phase is middle age, when the candy is for the children and you hope to have the time to get together a costume. I’m hoping the fourth phase, when I'm an old lady, will be a return to the activities of youth. I’ll be partying up a storm with my besties the retirement community. Ha!But I digress. The hard-to-wear costume I mentioned? My friend dressed up as “punk-in.” He wore a black motorcycle jacket, jeans and heavy boots. He also wore a giant pumpkin on his head. I do mean large. The thing must have weighed a hundred pounds before it was hollowed out. It was a great costume, but he had to spend all night with his head inside a scraped-out gourd. I think it was kind of a drag for him. Smelly.
That particular Halloween (in Boston, btw) I also had a great costume. I did myself up as Agent Orange, a toxic defoliant used widely in the Vietnam War. (I know I am dating myself.) I bought a jumpsuit made of that waxy, tough paper and spray-painted it orange. I wrote, “Warning, toxic agent,” on the back with a sharpie and covered all my skin with bright orange greasepaint. I looked like one of the droogs from A Clockwork Orange, only my jumpsuit was not white. Appropriate, no?
Sorry. I have no pictures. This was pre-smart phone. People didn’t photographically document their lives as much back then. I wish I had a picture, though.
What are your best Halloween memories? I’d love to hear about them in the comments.
What did I tell you? Eastern State Penitentiary. Positively medieval.
October 7, 2017
Can’t get away from cats…
Mittzi
Hello, fine readers! I am thrilled to host my first ever guest blog post. Science fiction romance author Cara Bristol is here to tell us about
Rescued by the Cyborg,
a
novella
in the Cy-Ops Sci-fi Romance series. This story appears in
Embrace the Romance: Pets in Space 2,
an anthology
featuring twelve leading authors in the genre, releasing October 10th. This collection of tales raises money for HeroDogs.org. Learn more below.
By Cara BristolI had several published books under my belt when I realized whenever I mentioned an animal in a story, it was always a cat. Never a dog, never a bird or a rabbit, always a cat. So, I decided to write cats out of my system by creating a cat character. In False Pretenses, a ginger tabby named Jinx brings the hero and heroine together. Okay, cat done. Finished. On to the next book.
I thought I was successful in overcoming cats on the brain until some months after the release of the next book, Body Politics . Then it hit me that the hero’s “pet” name for the heroine was “Kitten.”
When I was invited to write for the first Pets In Space, of course my first instinct was to make my pet a cat. But I was uncertain, should it be “real” cat or a robotic cat? Should I make it an alien animal? I talked it over with my husband, and he suggested I write about a dog because he said dogs were more popular than cats. Hmm… I wasn’t so sure about that. But then I got the idea to create a robot dog named Sparky! (Robot, electronics, spark…get it?). Once I had the name, I fell in love with Sparky.
But for Embrace the Romance: Pets in Space 2 , I decided to go with my original inclination and write about a cat. Guy, the hero, is surprised with the gift of a kitten from his niece. The kitten has four white paws (mittens) and is named Mittzi. Guy is a cyborg with a life-threatening, demanding job that doesn’t allow for close relationships or even pet ownership.
The heroine is afraid of cats because of a really horrific experience with some feline-appearing aliens.
It’s up to a little kitten named Mittzi to show them the way to true love.
Rescued by the Cyborg
A novella in the Cy-Ops Sci-fi Romance series
A cyborg’s haunted past and a Faria’s clouded future entwine…
Hostage and sole survivor Solia waits for death at the hands of vicious predatory aliens when Cy-Ops agent Guy Roarke disobeys orders and charges in. A former medic, he initiates emergency medical procedures before rushing her to Cybermed. [image error]
Guy is taken with Solia, but the guilt of a past mistake won’t allow him to plan for a future with the delicate, brave beauty. Life is so uncertain, he can’t even keep Mittzi, the kitten his niece gave him. What he can do is see to it Solia gets the help she needs for a full recovery. But when best intentions place her in greater danger, it’s up to a little kitten to make everything all right again.
Excerpt
Guy pushed into his cabin. Next to his bags was the gift—a box tied with a big red bow. The carton was moving. And mewing. “Oh, Jessamine, what did you do?”
The box bumped into his foot. Atop the lid his niece had written: LIVE ANAMUL. OPEN IMIDATELY!
He ripped off the bow and peeled back the top. Inside, an angry, frightened kitten hissed. Jessamine’s cat had birthed a litter, and he recognized this baby by its gray coat, four white feet, and a blotch shaped like a star on its button nose.
Sighing, he reached into the carton.
The kitten growled and swiped its claws across his skin.
“Ow!” Guy yanked his hand back. The kitten leaped out and dove under the berth.
Great. Just great. How could his niece have done such a thing? She shouldn’t have boxed up a live animal—even if she did punch air holes in the carton. If she hadn’t contacted him and insisted he open the present, the kitten might have remained inside for quite a while.
In the corner of the container, he spotted a slip of paper, partially shredded. He unfolded it.
Dear Uncle Guy,
I know you are sad, and I want you to be happy. I am giving you one of Fluffy’s kittens so you won’t be lonely. I named her Mittzi becuz she has four wite white mittens. Pleez come home again, soon.
Jessamine
XOXO
His sister worried about him, but Carter, too, and now Jessamine? He hadn’t hidden his feelings well enough if his seven-year-old niece could pick up on them. [image error] Embrace the Romance: Pets in Space 2
The pets are back! Embrace the Romance: Pets in Space 2 , featuring twelve of today’s leading Science Fiction Romance authors. A dozen original stories! Join in the fun, from the Dragon Lords of Valdier to a trip aboard award-winning author, Veronica Scott’s Nebula Zephyr to journeying back to Luda where Grim is King, for stories that will take you out of this world! Join New York Times, USA TODAY, and Award-winning authors S.E. Smith, M.K. Eidem, Susan Grant, Michelle Howard, Cara Bristol, Veronica Scott, Pauline Baird Jones, Laurie A. Green, Sabine Priestley, Jessica E. Subject, Carol Van Natta, and Alexis Glynn Latner as they share stories and help out Hero-Dogs.org, a charity that supports our veterans!
10% of the first month’s profits go to Hero-Dogs.org. Hero Dogs raises and trains service dogs and places them free of charge with US Veterans to improve quality of life and restore independence.
*** [image error] USA Today bestselling author Cara Bristol writes steamy science fiction romance with an emphasis on the characters and their romance, with a little humor, heat, and danger added for fun. She is the author of three science fiction romance series: sexy cyborg Cy-Ops Scifi Romance series, the dark erotic Breeder series, and the new humorous Alien Mate series. She likes to say that she writes science fiction for readers who don’t like sci-fi. Cara lives in Missouri with her alpha hero, her husband, and Hannah, her cat, a/k/a her writing supervisor. Cara's Links
Website
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Twitter: @CaraBristol Pets in Space 2 Links
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September 17, 2017
Of Barrens and a Good Friend
[image error] Pond in the Pine Barrens, South Jersey. Taken by the hubby. A fellow author recently wrote a short story that featured the New Jersey Pine Barrens. It called up good memories. I spent my high school years near that huge tract of scrubby pines. I go back when I can.
One of my best memories is a canoeing trip I took with my friend, let's call her Ona. She was an immigrant from Lithuania who had been in the United States on vacation when the Soviet Union fell apart, so she was allowed to stay. We met when she showed up to train at my dojo. She was six-feet tall, strong and statuesque, given to swearing in Russian.
“Is best language for cursing,” she would say.
Ona’s husband was abusive. Criticized her when she gained weight. Would make her sleep on the floor. We went canoeing so Ona could do some hard thinking about whether she should seek a divorce. To me, it was a no brainer. But how could I understand her position? He was the only thing that remained to her of home.
We set out in our rented car to make the hour-long drive from Philadelphia. Before long we were paddling through the tea-colored water of the Mullica River. We had chosen a two-day trip despite not having a tent, or even much food. I don’t know what we were thinking, but the Barrens smiled upon us. The rain stayed away, as did the bugs. We talked about men, about karate, about adventures. We talked about how to be true to yourself. The sound of our paddles dipping through the water and the smell of pine restored our souls.
The Mullica River. Image courtesy of SouthJerseyTrails.org. Being something of a drinker in my youth, by the time we made the campsite I had already consumed the entire contents of our flask. We rolled out our sleeping bags on the sandy soil as the sun set. We ate our smashed sandwiches.
Another party showed up maybe a half hour later. They were like a mobile city. Five canoes, three tents, flood lights, heaps of food and a gallon jug of Seagram’s 7. They were generous, tolerant people, shaking their heads at our lack of a tent. They gave us food. They gave us Seagram’s. Jackpot. Best campsite neighbors ever.
They may have come to regret their generosity. Ona and I got righteously drunk. She attempted to teach me a Lithuanian folk tune phonetically. I started to bellow Pogues’ songs. I’m sure they counted our drunken snoring as a profound relief.
We woke early. When you’re out in Nature you wake with the sun, whiskey or no whiskey. Our neighbors were friendly as they shoved off ahead of us. They said, “Nice to meet you ladies.” Such cool people. If I knew who they were I’d send them a fruit basket. Apologize for being a sodden fool.
Ona and I set off in our canoe, still drunk. We felt fabulous. We had plenty of water, so we sucked that down to ease the buzz as we paddled along the most beautiful section of the river.
View from a canoe. Deep green fir trees hugged the banks, along with pines. The cedar water flowed faster. Small animals rustled in the underbrush. Birds quieted as we went by, only to erupt in song again the moment we were past. And the wonderful scents! Strong natural pine and the tang of sunbaked sand. The woodsy damp of the river over the faint sweetness of huckleberry. When I smell these things now I’m transported. I’m gliding past the beauty again.
By the time we got back to our car, Ona had reached her decision. She would leave her husband.
We drove back to Philadelphia, the stinky, crowded city. Me, back to my demons. Ona to face an extremely hard thing in a life already harder than this white, yankee-born woman could fathom.
Ona went home to Lithuania after a crazy time stateside (really, I could write a book about her and I might some day). I’m glad she’s with her family, back in her culture. But I miss her.
One of my best memories is a canoeing trip I took with my friend, let's call her Ona. She was an immigrant from Lithuania who had been in the United States on vacation when the Soviet Union fell apart, so she was allowed to stay. We met when she showed up to train at my dojo. She was six-feet tall, strong and statuesque, given to swearing in Russian.
“Is best language for cursing,” she would say.
Ona’s husband was abusive. Criticized her when she gained weight. Would make her sleep on the floor. We went canoeing so Ona could do some hard thinking about whether she should seek a divorce. To me, it was a no brainer. But how could I understand her position? He was the only thing that remained to her of home.
We set out in our rented car to make the hour-long drive from Philadelphia. Before long we were paddling through the tea-colored water of the Mullica River. We had chosen a two-day trip despite not having a tent, or even much food. I don’t know what we were thinking, but the Barrens smiled upon us. The rain stayed away, as did the bugs. We talked about men, about karate, about adventures. We talked about how to be true to yourself. The sound of our paddles dipping through the water and the smell of pine restored our souls.
The Mullica River. Image courtesy of SouthJerseyTrails.org. Being something of a drinker in my youth, by the time we made the campsite I had already consumed the entire contents of our flask. We rolled out our sleeping bags on the sandy soil as the sun set. We ate our smashed sandwiches. Another party showed up maybe a half hour later. They were like a mobile city. Five canoes, three tents, flood lights, heaps of food and a gallon jug of Seagram’s 7. They were generous, tolerant people, shaking their heads at our lack of a tent. They gave us food. They gave us Seagram’s. Jackpot. Best campsite neighbors ever.
They may have come to regret their generosity. Ona and I got righteously drunk. She attempted to teach me a Lithuanian folk tune phonetically. I started to bellow Pogues’ songs. I’m sure they counted our drunken snoring as a profound relief.
We woke early. When you’re out in Nature you wake with the sun, whiskey or no whiskey. Our neighbors were friendly as they shoved off ahead of us. They said, “Nice to meet you ladies.” Such cool people. If I knew who they were I’d send them a fruit basket. Apologize for being a sodden fool.
Ona and I set off in our canoe, still drunk. We felt fabulous. We had plenty of water, so we sucked that down to ease the buzz as we paddled along the most beautiful section of the river.
View from a canoe. Deep green fir trees hugged the banks, along with pines. The cedar water flowed faster. Small animals rustled in the underbrush. Birds quieted as we went by, only to erupt in song again the moment we were past. And the wonderful scents! Strong natural pine and the tang of sunbaked sand. The woodsy damp of the river over the faint sweetness of huckleberry. When I smell these things now I’m transported. I’m gliding past the beauty again.By the time we got back to our car, Ona had reached her decision. She would leave her husband.
We drove back to Philadelphia, the stinky, crowded city. Me, back to my demons. Ona to face an extremely hard thing in a life already harder than this white, yankee-born woman could fathom.
Ona went home to Lithuania after a crazy time stateside (really, I could write a book about her and I might some day). I’m glad she’s with her family, back in her culture. But I miss her.
August 13, 2017
Conformity and convention
[image error] My lack of conformity led to the greatest adventure of my life. Living in Japan. One consequence of getting older is my growing tendency toward reflection. Perhaps it’s my encroaching mortality. I don’t think I’m alone in this. Am I right, my middle-aged friends?
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my relationship with conformity and convention. My lifelong ambivalence. I half-conformed. Reminds me of what a horse trainer said to me once. I took my little red-penny horse to a clinic she ran, a one-day session within my budget. My steed was a touch unruly. She said to me, “Your pony’s only half broke.” She said if I trained him I could win in the ring. I decided I liked him better the way he was. Wild, a little dangerous. Not blue-ribbon material.
You could say the same for my professional life. In some ways I bowed to convention. I went to school, got degrees. After that you’re supposed to get the job, keep the job, get better at the job, move on to a better job, pay the proverbial dues. I never had the patience. I couldn’t stand the boredom, the disillusionment. I chose the grand rebellious gesture. I chose the adventure.
First example. After college, I had a job at a copier company. Data entry, nothing special, but it paid the bills. We found out that we were all going to be laid off. The information was leaked. It made me angry. I could have stuck around, helped them set up new processes. Sure, I would have been working to eliminate my own job, but I would have received a severance package. My job was gone anyway. Instead, I blew. I walked out, but not before I told off my craven little sexist of a supervisor, the dude who was always staring at my breasts. It was liberating. It was fun. It was stupid. You know what isn’t fun? Wondering if you can pay the rent.
Eventually, I went back to school. Got another degree, this time in journalism. Instead of looking for work in my chosen field with my newly minted diploma, I moved to Japan to teach English, the greatest adventure of my life. [image error] Kyoto in winter. You might say, “What’s wrong with that? Adventure is good! It was a job.” But you know what this says to employers? It says, “How long will this one stick around? How dedicated will she be? She's not the 9-to-5 type.”
Fast forward. I’m back from Japan (I would never have left but the contract was three years max). I manage to get a job with a newspaper as a reporter. Not an easy job to get, yet I don’t tell myself this and be happy with what I’ve got. I become disillusioned. This isn’t investigative journalism! My interview subjects are always trying to spin me, dishonest fucks. I’m working for “the man,” not the Fourth Estate!
Ah, the idealism of semi-youth (I was in my 30s). I quit. I took a job as a copy editor in Beijing, China. Adventure time again. China was on everyone’s lips. I figured I’d go learn about the new superpower. And learn I did. Travel is the best education anyone can ever have. Unfortunately, going to work for the English-language propaganda rag of the Chinese communist party was hardly a good career move (and the FBI might have a file on me).
[image error] Temple in Beijing. To compound my screw-the-job persona, I left my reporter position a few months before I was due in China. I went to wander around the American West. I spent all my money, went backcountry hiking in a lot of national parks, and experienced so much beauty I’m still astonished when I think of it.
My colleagues at the newspaper threw me a send-off. I told the photographer about my plans to head out west for a while. He said, “You’re a free spirit. That’s good.” I know in a way he was right, but all that freedom can sometimes break a person. All it takes is a little bad luck. Maybe that’s why most people follow convention, especially if they have little ones.
Glacier National Park, Montana. More conformity. I decide to go to law school at the age of 45. What the HELL was I thinking? I became a lawyer, but my inability to fit my round body into a square slot persisted. I quit my first law job because I didn’t like the commute (or the people, to be honest). Poor me, as if every working stiff in the world doesn’t have to put up with a bunch of assholes.
I was unemployed for a while, which is scary when you have law school debt. That’s right. I quit my job without having another. Who does shit like that?
By this time, I’d begun my first book. I’d always wanted to be a fiction writer, but it seemed too daunting. After working full-time while going to law school, it didn’t seem so daunting. Law school gave me confidence. Of course, I had dreams of making a living as a writer. All you other writers out there who are reading this, I can hear your laughter. Truth be told, I’m chuckling a little myself.
Now, I’m back working as a lawyer. I loathe my current job more than my first. Long hours, repetitive tasks. Also, suffice it to say, that if I thought I was working for “the man,” before, I am now doing “the man’s” laundry and cleaning his toilet.
Will I keep my horrible job like all the other grown-ups in the world? If I can cope, I will. The way I crave experience tells me I’m a born writer, but reality creates its own necessities.
I’ll also keep writing. My third book is underway. Long work hours makes it hard to find the time, but I’ll keep plugging away. Writing books is my adventure now.
I wonder if my poor decisions were my subconscious trying to tell me—beneath all the, “you should do this,” and “you should do that” bullshit—that writing is what would make me happy. I don’t know. I will say this. If I made a mistake, it was in my failure to throw off the yoke of conformity completely. I was half-assed.
So, to all you rare birds out there, do it right! Half measures avail us nothing! I leave you with the Butthole Surfers. Listen to the first minute or so, for a little wisdom on regret.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my relationship with conformity and convention. My lifelong ambivalence. I half-conformed. Reminds me of what a horse trainer said to me once. I took my little red-penny horse to a clinic she ran, a one-day session within my budget. My steed was a touch unruly. She said to me, “Your pony’s only half broke.” She said if I trained him I could win in the ring. I decided I liked him better the way he was. Wild, a little dangerous. Not blue-ribbon material.
You could say the same for my professional life. In some ways I bowed to convention. I went to school, got degrees. After that you’re supposed to get the job, keep the job, get better at the job, move on to a better job, pay the proverbial dues. I never had the patience. I couldn’t stand the boredom, the disillusionment. I chose the grand rebellious gesture. I chose the adventure.
First example. After college, I had a job at a copier company. Data entry, nothing special, but it paid the bills. We found out that we were all going to be laid off. The information was leaked. It made me angry. I could have stuck around, helped them set up new processes. Sure, I would have been working to eliminate my own job, but I would have received a severance package. My job was gone anyway. Instead, I blew. I walked out, but not before I told off my craven little sexist of a supervisor, the dude who was always staring at my breasts. It was liberating. It was fun. It was stupid. You know what isn’t fun? Wondering if you can pay the rent.
Eventually, I went back to school. Got another degree, this time in journalism. Instead of looking for work in my chosen field with my newly minted diploma, I moved to Japan to teach English, the greatest adventure of my life. [image error] Kyoto in winter. You might say, “What’s wrong with that? Adventure is good! It was a job.” But you know what this says to employers? It says, “How long will this one stick around? How dedicated will she be? She's not the 9-to-5 type.”
Fast forward. I’m back from Japan (I would never have left but the contract was three years max). I manage to get a job with a newspaper as a reporter. Not an easy job to get, yet I don’t tell myself this and be happy with what I’ve got. I become disillusioned. This isn’t investigative journalism! My interview subjects are always trying to spin me, dishonest fucks. I’m working for “the man,” not the Fourth Estate!
Ah, the idealism of semi-youth (I was in my 30s). I quit. I took a job as a copy editor in Beijing, China. Adventure time again. China was on everyone’s lips. I figured I’d go learn about the new superpower. And learn I did. Travel is the best education anyone can ever have. Unfortunately, going to work for the English-language propaganda rag of the Chinese communist party was hardly a good career move (and the FBI might have a file on me).
[image error] Temple in Beijing. To compound my screw-the-job persona, I left my reporter position a few months before I was due in China. I went to wander around the American West. I spent all my money, went backcountry hiking in a lot of national parks, and experienced so much beauty I’m still astonished when I think of it.
My colleagues at the newspaper threw me a send-off. I told the photographer about my plans to head out west for a while. He said, “You’re a free spirit. That’s good.” I know in a way he was right, but all that freedom can sometimes break a person. All it takes is a little bad luck. Maybe that’s why most people follow convention, especially if they have little ones.
Glacier National Park, Montana. More conformity. I decide to go to law school at the age of 45. What the HELL was I thinking? I became a lawyer, but my inability to fit my round body into a square slot persisted. I quit my first law job because I didn’t like the commute (or the people, to be honest). Poor me, as if every working stiff in the world doesn’t have to put up with a bunch of assholes.I was unemployed for a while, which is scary when you have law school debt. That’s right. I quit my job without having another. Who does shit like that?
By this time, I’d begun my first book. I’d always wanted to be a fiction writer, but it seemed too daunting. After working full-time while going to law school, it didn’t seem so daunting. Law school gave me confidence. Of course, I had dreams of making a living as a writer. All you other writers out there who are reading this, I can hear your laughter. Truth be told, I’m chuckling a little myself.
Now, I’m back working as a lawyer. I loathe my current job more than my first. Long hours, repetitive tasks. Also, suffice it to say, that if I thought I was working for “the man,” before, I am now doing “the man’s” laundry and cleaning his toilet.
Will I keep my horrible job like all the other grown-ups in the world? If I can cope, I will. The way I crave experience tells me I’m a born writer, but reality creates its own necessities.
I’ll also keep writing. My third book is underway. Long work hours makes it hard to find the time, but I’ll keep plugging away. Writing books is my adventure now.
I wonder if my poor decisions were my subconscious trying to tell me—beneath all the, “you should do this,” and “you should do that” bullshit—that writing is what would make me happy. I don’t know. I will say this. If I made a mistake, it was in my failure to throw off the yoke of conformity completely. I was half-assed.
So, to all you rare birds out there, do it right! Half measures avail us nothing! I leave you with the Butthole Surfers. Listen to the first minute or so, for a little wisdom on regret.
July 16, 2017
In Tribute: Madeleine L’Engle
Now that A Wrinkle in Time is on everyone's lips thanks to the release of the official trailer for the film adaptation, I thought I'd share this blog post, which first appeared on the SFR Brigade's website back in March.
They told Madeleine L’Engle her book was too strange. Nevertheless, she persisted.
In the summer of my thirteenth year, my family away from the small town where I’d lived my whole life. Away from my little friends. Our small town was urban, right outside of Philadelphia. Our new place was in the country. Sure, it smelled wonderful, like pine trees. Sure, wild strawberries grew in the fields, but there weren’t any kids in sight. I wanted to go back to my little town, where playmates were always right outside the front door.
My mother could see I needed company. Her solution was inspired. She handed me a book, A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle. I was already an avid reader, but I had never encountered anything so absorbing, the beginning of my obsession with science fiction and science fiction fantasy. My imagination was on fire. My mind was racing. The heroine was a 13-year-old girl just like me! I read it once, then twice. This book taught me about heroism, about love. I wanted to meet the happy, gentle centaurs that populated one of the book’s fantastic planets.
Recently, I gave my step-granddaughter a copy of A Wrinkle in Time. My granddaughter is a cool kid. Climbs to the tops of mountains. Excellent at mathematics. What better book for her than the story of Meg, a brave girl close to her age, also great at math? Meg sets out to rescue her father from a planet enslaved by an evil disembodied brain with powerful telepathic abilities. The brain, known as IT, exerts hypnotic control over the inhabitants’ minds. [image error]
Meg has the help of her classmate Calvin, her brother Charles and her friendly neighbors Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which, who are actually alien centaurs disguised as humans. This crew uses the “tesseract” (sound familiar?) to bend the space-time continuum and slip through a wrinkle in time to search for Meg’s long-lost father. Through these dangerous adventures, Meg comes into her own. When Charles is in danger, Meg steps up to show how strong she’s become.
I hope my granddaughter loves this book as much as I do. I hope it helps her develop a life-long love of reading. And if she tells me she likes it, I’ll tell her the challenge faced by Madeleine L’Engle to get it published. She was rejected by 26 houses. According to a well-sourced Wikipedia article, publishers thought the book was too unusual, with too much science. They thought its stark presentation of evil was too dark for young adult fiction. In fact, several paragraphs comparing the enforced conformity of the evil brain’s planet to totalitarian regimes were cut from the final draft.
L’Engle has also explained that female protagonists were rare in science fiction at the time, making it a hard sell.
Lucky for us, those days are over! And thank the writing gods that Madeleine L’Engle persisted. Her book went on to win the Newbery Medal and, according to Wikipedia, has been in continuous print since it was published. The book even got a shout out at the 2016 Democratic National Convention, when Chelsea Clinton mentioned it as a book that influenced her as a child. From one generation to the next. I should tell my granddaughter about Chelsea, too.
They told Madeleine L’Engle her book was too strange. Nevertheless, she persisted.
In the summer of my thirteenth year, my family away from the small town where I’d lived my whole life. Away from my little friends. Our small town was urban, right outside of Philadelphia. Our new place was in the country. Sure, it smelled wonderful, like pine trees. Sure, wild strawberries grew in the fields, but there weren’t any kids in sight. I wanted to go back to my little town, where playmates were always right outside the front door.
My mother could see I needed company. Her solution was inspired. She handed me a book, A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle. I was already an avid reader, but I had never encountered anything so absorbing, the beginning of my obsession with science fiction and science fiction fantasy. My imagination was on fire. My mind was racing. The heroine was a 13-year-old girl just like me! I read it once, then twice. This book taught me about heroism, about love. I wanted to meet the happy, gentle centaurs that populated one of the book’s fantastic planets.
Recently, I gave my step-granddaughter a copy of A Wrinkle in Time. My granddaughter is a cool kid. Climbs to the tops of mountains. Excellent at mathematics. What better book for her than the story of Meg, a brave girl close to her age, also great at math? Meg sets out to rescue her father from a planet enslaved by an evil disembodied brain with powerful telepathic abilities. The brain, known as IT, exerts hypnotic control over the inhabitants’ minds. [image error]
Meg has the help of her classmate Calvin, her brother Charles and her friendly neighbors Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which, who are actually alien centaurs disguised as humans. This crew uses the “tesseract” (sound familiar?) to bend the space-time continuum and slip through a wrinkle in time to search for Meg’s long-lost father. Through these dangerous adventures, Meg comes into her own. When Charles is in danger, Meg steps up to show how strong she’s become.I hope my granddaughter loves this book as much as I do. I hope it helps her develop a life-long love of reading. And if she tells me she likes it, I’ll tell her the challenge faced by Madeleine L’Engle to get it published. She was rejected by 26 houses. According to a well-sourced Wikipedia article, publishers thought the book was too unusual, with too much science. They thought its stark presentation of evil was too dark for young adult fiction. In fact, several paragraphs comparing the enforced conformity of the evil brain’s planet to totalitarian regimes were cut from the final draft.
L’Engle has also explained that female protagonists were rare in science fiction at the time, making it a hard sell.
Lucky for us, those days are over! And thank the writing gods that Madeleine L’Engle persisted. Her book went on to win the Newbery Medal and, according to Wikipedia, has been in continuous print since it was published. The book even got a shout out at the 2016 Democratic National Convention, when Chelsea Clinton mentioned it as a book that influenced her as a child. From one generation to the next. I should tell my granddaughter about Chelsea, too.
June 19, 2017
Smash the Watch
Smash the watchCannot tear the day to shreds
-- Peter Gabriel, Rhythm of the Heat
Time. I hate it and I need it. Time disappears like the coolness of the morning in high summer. I. Have. No. Time.
Sometimes I wonder how I got to this point. Did I choose this life? Did I stumble into it? I’ve become desperate for simplicity. I want to smash the watch, smash the computer, smash the system that grinds us down. That makes us work so hard just to get by.
I think my idea of Heaven, the Elysian Fields, Nirvana, whatever you want to call it, would be a magic land where I can be productive at my own pace. In this land, I would work hard, because hard work is satisfying. But I’d have plenty of time to wander among the trees, to watch small fish swim in shallow water, to sit in a city park while life wanders by in all its diversity. Time to spend hours gabbing pointlessly with dear, funny friends.
We’re here for such a short time. We should have as good a time as we possibly can. I’m a lucky person, too, the type that easily finds beauty and humor in the world around me. If I only had the time.
I’m working on The Vengeance Season: Book III of the Covalent Series, slated for release this autumn. I’ll get it done, but it’s rough. My day job is relentless, an absurd volume of work that must be performed quickly but thoroughly. I have so much to do that I need to be speedy if I don’t want to be stuck in that office for twelve hours a day. I’m there for at least ten as it is. To make matters worse, if I overlook a pertinent detail in my haste? Oh, there is hell to pay.
Forget working on my fiction when I come home at night. I’m spent! So, I’ve opted to relax on weeknights. Watch great TV shows like Fargo on FX or The Leftovers on HBO. Read great books like All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. Sure, it eases my stress, by I also consider it research. I can learn from these great narratives.
That leaves early mornings and weekends for The Vengeance Season. I worry that my creative font will dry up because I never have a work-free weekend. To be sure, writing the Covalent Series is great fun, but I need some mindless entertainment, the kind that doesn’t make demands upon my brain. I need to get out in nature. Spend time with my husband.
So, be patient with me, dear readers. I’m crafting a thrilling, psychologically rich tale for you. Craftsmanship takes time.At the risk of sounding like an extremely eccentric author, my characters help with my rushed state of existence lately. The Covalent Series has a lot of action and suspense, but it’s a love story at its heart. Barakiel is an ancient, immortal being whose kind sits at the still center of everything that exists. Time won’t claim him, but it will claim Zan, his human lover. Deep in their bones, they know they can’t waste a moment. They will meet their responsibilities and do their duty, but they will savor their time together as the best thing in life.
Writing about these two has taught me I must be mindful. I might not have much time right now, but when I have some, I need to willfully slow down. Pay attention. Not let it pass in a haze of thinking about other things. I will notice the quality of the light, the breeze on my face, the birds twittering on the telephone wires. When I have time, I’ll be happy.
June 4, 2017
Real Life Meets Fantasy
Every writer has a different process. I retain habits from my days in journalism. Case in point, when I reached one of the big action pieces in The Vengeance Season: Book III of the Covalent Series, I went for a real-world kick start. In the scene, our hero Barakiel battles not only demons, but his more powerful, terrifying enemies. This scene is the start of a sequence of events that puts the vengeance in the season. After much deliberation and a session bouncing ideas off the hubby, I decided on the location pictured above, a spot I’ve wanted to use for a while. I see it every time I cross the Walt Whitman Bridge from Philadelphia to New Jersey. The place intrigues me.
Once I had the spot — the grounds surrounding an operational pier, part of the Delaware River Port — I couldn’t come up with an opening that satisfied me, so I researched. I looked up what kinds of ships dock there, what they deliver. I hopped on Google Earth and looked around. This real life information, plus the structural details, made the place come alive in my head. I could see my way into the scene.
I began with an image of two of my characters standing at the base of one of the storage tanks. I thought about why they might be standing there, which led me to the weather. Then I was off. The descriptive details began to flow and the whole scene unscrolled like I was watching a movie. All because I looked up the fact that they deliver grains, wood products and fertilizer at this particular pier. Facts you’d need for a news story about the place, but hardly necessary for fiction. Double hardly necessary for science fiction fantasy. Why does it work for me? I have no idea.
You may ask, but what about the worlds you’ve created entirely from scratch? The Covalent Realm. The Destructive Realm. You can’t research them like you’re a reporter.
My answer is, I do! I research them like a science reporter. This is apropos. I can tell you that quite often the reporter a newspaper assigns to cover a science beat has no background in science whatsoever.
I researched quantum physics to build my worlds, as well as yin and yang principles. Pellus, my character who can manipulate the properties of matter and energy, required further physics research. I watched a NOVA series on string theory, and most recently read the book pictured here, How to Teach [Quantum] Physics to Your Dog, by Chad Orzel. Mr. Orzel did a good job of making the subject accessible, and injected some comic relief through imagined conversations with his dog, but it’s hard stuff. Dry stuff. Physics is more fun in science fiction than it is in real life, take my word for it.Nonetheless, real-world information worked its magic on me. No matter how fantastical my worlds are, I use science (at least my imperfect understanding of it) to launch into the creative process. And boy o’ man, it’s fun.
