Tom Kepler's Blog, page 11

Netflix's Bright, Shiny with Hope

One result of being highly visible is that it can make you an easy target. Netflix’s first big movie, Bright, has that distinction. Critics’ reviews are generally dismal: being tagged as the worst movie of the year certainly isn’t an accolade, after all. A mash-up of buddy cops, urban fantasy, and social commentary movie, utilizing a palette of garish colors and heavy-handed brush strokes--I get it. The thing is, my gut reaction is that I just don’t agree. I enjoyed the movie, and no, I don’t think it’s just a case of “that’s to be expected from a shallow guy like you.”

One reason Bright is a significant movie--perhaps the major reason--is that the concept is so captivating, so enchanting. Anyone who has been hooked by the fantasy genre will find that once an epic is completed, the question of “what about two thousand years later?” is a most fulfilling opportunity for speculation. Take The Lord of the Rings saga: it ends with the age of the rise of men. Move that forward to the rise of the age of science and technology, move that forward to an age that includes a modern-age Los Angeles, and a LOTR Middle Earth with Fords, Glocks, and elves and orcs is a rich stew that can be savored over time. Just drop something new into the pot over the days as the stew ages: elves working for the National Park Service or the Sierra Club, dwarves caring for the mountains as agents of the Department of the Interior, races other than men striving to curb the excesses of the Age of Men. 
One characteristic of Bright that is both a strength and weakness, as the movie was created, is that the audience is just dropped into the reality of the movie. The Lord of the Rings movie trilogy contains too-ample summaries of the world of the hobbits--and, what?, maybe four endings? Such a saga needed the footage to tie things up, but . . . On the other hand, we are dropped into the world of Bright, and there are definite WTF? moments where we have to actively work to figure out what’s going on, as best as we can. This is not a bad thing, although it can pull us out of the movie’s reality it we have to work too hard at our figuring. The other side of the coin is represented by the too-obvious moments of commentary on the bigotry towards the orcs, the race that backed the evil sorcerer who lost the magic wars two thousand years earlier. Really, any audience with half a brain won’t need cue cards to figure out the parallels. The questions that arise from the created reality of the movie are a perfect platform for the sequel and perhaps even an eventual TV series. Hopefully in subsequent expeditions into this reality, the franchise will be able to develop the intriguing questions that arise without being too obvious and insulting the intelligence of the audience.

Another love/hate aspect of Bright is the acting of the two main characters--Will Smith as the experienced human cop, and Joel Edgerton as the orc rookie cop. Smith plays the character we’ve seen before, as in Bad Boys, and provides his usual polished performance, yet we don’t really see anything new. It’s Will being Will, just as we’ve seen so many movies where Clint Eastwood was just doing his Clint thing. I think Will Smith was capable of moving into new territory within the experienced-cop characterization, but the interaction of writer, director, and actor just didn’t bear any new and exotic fruit. We got the old standby, which was good, no complaints, but also no real opportunities to shout Wow! out loud. Edgerton, on the other hand, was much fresher in his portrayal of the orc rookie seeking to make his place and to find himself. It’s ironic that Smith was the big name for the movie, yet his character was in many ways the supporting foil for Edgerton’s. That was a surprise and real plus for the movie.

The critics' analysis of the movie has been--if you’ll pardon the expression--fast and furious, which has been all to the good. Hopefully, the Urban Middle Earth reality of Bright can be more intelligently and adroitly explored in the upcoming sequel. Maybe the two cops can take a trip to the Sierra Nevadas, Smith with his family and Edgerton with a girlfriend. Maybe they can meet some old-school elves and dwarves. Maybe they can hear a prophesy, renounce it, and then discover that renunciation is only affirmation, new age style. Maybe we’ll experience the magic of a world awful in its possibilities made bright with the reality of rebirth, resurrection, and renewal. Everybody hopes so . . . so, Netflix, whatya gonna do?

S.M. Stirling, The Sea Peoples, a Review

The Sea Peoples is S.M. Stirling's fourteenth novel in his Change series, if one counts the anthology The Change, which he contributed to and edited. The fourth novel in the third generation cycle of the series, although not one of the best achievements in this series, The Sea Peoples is certainly not the worst of the batch--let's call it four stars out of five. The fleshing out of secondary characters and the introduction of an extended excursion into magic are two reasons why this particular addition to the series is a significant contribution to Stirling's alternative reality oeuvre.

The secondary characters introduced in the first works of this cycle of the series mix it up, providing most of the action as they engage in their dreamtime, magical quest. Captain Pip (Lady Philippa Balwyn-Abercrombie) is one interesting character, a roustabout with aristocratic ancestors, dressed in "white shirt and shorts black as her boots and suspenders and steel-lined bowler hat." She is paired with Toa, a Maorian who is Pip's protector, although she hardly needs protecting. The quest group also includes Deor Godulfson, a Nordic scop and totemic magician; and Thora Garwood, a Bearkiller female warrior and fighting partner to Godulfson.

This quest group must enter into the dreamscape of alternative realities/magical possibilities to rescue a fellow warrior, utilizing their individual animal spirits to keep their souls safe from the evil that contaminates the realities they navigate. Stirling's development of these characters, their interactions with one another, and their individual traits keep the action lively and fresh. Their individual skills also allow for their journey into the fluid realities of several worlds--possible realities that have diverged from their original homeland. This shape-shifting of reality is a tip of the hat to the legacy of Roger Zelazny's fantasy Amber series. Stirling carries it off well, and this soul quest through apocalyptic landscapes is the main action in the novel. Part of the pleasure of reading this novel is to experience the development and mastery of the characteristics of the new world three generations after the Change. The world Changed, and forty-six years later, the children of the world understand and work much more successfully with the new rules of existence.

Princesses Orlaith and Reiko travel to Hawaii in this novel, and that thread of action includes the massive sea battle at the end. Stirling's good at sea battles, as seen in other novels in this series; however, the development of the Hawaii action is overshadowed by the dream question plot strand. This is a weakness of the novel, even though it was necessary to further the plot so that the next novel in the series can move forward--cumbersome, but the job got done. Prince John is also in this novel (the main character in the novel prior, Prince of Outcasts), and his character is more three-dimensional than in the previous novel, although the prince is actively present in only a small part of the novel.

The final good news about The Sea Peoples is that it doesn't end with a cliffhanger. There is a good sense of closure for this novel--and then an epilogue that tantalizes us with a hint at where the next novel will lead. Considering the perspective of the first novel of this series, Dies the Fire, Stirling's most recent contribution reveals just how different the world has changed since the Change. His new foray into earth magic keeps the series from just being a continual slog of enemies and battles and new generations doing the same old things. Reading this third-generation cycle of novels has been and up-and-down experience, and I'm glad that this novel was a good steady-as-she-goes contribution to this alternative history.

Enjoying a New Writing Environment

Actually, I would be enjoying this environment whether I were writing or not, but I'm still writing every day and also sight-seeing. I especially enjoy seeing the different plants and birds out here in southern California. The mission architecture is also a beautiful change from Midwest clapboard white. Although I don't enjoy sharing this space with millions of other people, I've found that walking increases my enjoyment. Driving in a car is rather like being a NASCAR driver, with the only reward being arrival at the destination unscathed.

From where I am staying at my in-laws' house, it't about a two-mile walk to the beach, about a third on the level of the spine of a hill, and the rest downhill to sea level. I saw some beautiful homes and some huge eucalyptus and pine trees today on my hike.

A Mediterranean-style home with some tropical trees.Here is one street-corner home I passed on my walk. It didn't have the huge trees but was a beautiful combination of flora definitely not present in the Midwest, and of the Spanish mission-style architecture.
We also spent some time on a pier at Oceanside, and to see the locals fishing was fun. They were actually catching some silver fish about ten inches long. They had a long haul to get them up from the water to the pier, though. I don't know how successful they would have been with a really big catch!
Quite a few anglers of Asian ancestry, catching fresh food for dinner.From appearances, some of the anglers fished regularly from the pier. They were organized with their gear and bait, and treated the tourists (me) like someone would treat a chipmunk or rabbit in the Midwest--by ignoring me because I'm one of a million!

Of course, the ocean was the predominant geographic reality, the sounds of waves breaking on the shore and splashing against the pier's pilings, the open horizon and the blues of the water and sky, the sea smells of sea life and seawater. It was also enjoyable to be out on an unusually hot day for this time of year--in the high 80's--when we are experiencing much cooler weather in the Midwest.

All the people were enjoying the ocean, including surfers farther out.On today's walk I also stopped at the local refurbished train station, where a local commuter train regularly stops and Amtrak's Surfliner stops a few times a day. Perhaps some day I'll take the train and enjoy a ride up the coast. I'm told lows reach the 40's in the winter, which will seem quite warm if I come out from winter weather in the Midwest. It could even be 40 degrees warmer! Positively balmy :)

It's a joy to take the time to write on my current project, and to also spend time on this blog again. I'm just short of 7,000 words A Mage That Gathers.

Mom: Nice at 92

"I'm not seeing too well," my mom says, and of course she's right.

With macular degeneration, all she sees are outlines. "Everything's fuzzy," she says. And with her hearing levels at maybe 25 percent in one ear with her hearing aid, Mom's interaction with the world is limited. Living in her home, where she is familiar with where everything is, Mom is still able to get by, though, with the help of my brother and with an IHSS county caregiver. She washes and dresses herself, makes her bed, and does some occasional cleaning.

"I know where you got your kindness," my wife tells me, and it's true that my mom has maintained her positive attitude even with the limitations she now experiences.

This trip to California, my wife Sandy and I both visited my mom and brother. Since both my wife and I have obligations to our families, we have split our time for the past years in order to keep our trips shorter or to have someone at home for our immediate family. Now we are in southern California, where we will visit Sandy's son and her parents.

The air quality has been poor with the pollution and smoke from fires. We drove from northern California to the south, catching the orchards, the rice paddies, and the oil fields. We saw an immense solar energy array. We saw clouds of dust from harvest, billowing masses of smoke from horizon to horizon from the forest fires. We saw orchards and orchards of pistachio trees.

Now we are heading to the Pacific Ocean, where I will walk on the beach and experience the sea, something I have not done for quite a while.

As I left Mom's house, she told me I have a good wife and that she's happy for me. God bless my mom. At ninety-two years old, she still always has something nice to say.

Still Writing Even While Traveling

Making my goal of three hundred words a day has been easy so far, even while traveling.

I'm caught up with my previous writing now, and will continue to develop the plot, using the device of splitting chapters and points of view between two characters, utilizing third-person point of view. I've never developed a story that shifts from two characters, although I enjoy reading such, so I'm excited about working with such an organization.

A couple of weeks have added up to over five thousand words. That's not really a lot; the most important thing is that I've been writing every day on the project. Over the weekend, my wife will be engaged on business with her family, and I will be in a hotel room pretty much in the middle of Nowhere, California. I intend to spend those hours writing longer than just the time needed to write three hundred words. That will be fun.

I remember when I began writing The Stone Dragon  over a Thanksgiving vacation. By the time the vacation ended, I had written over seven thousand words and had the novel concept firmly in mind and begun on "paper." First I see through the window, then I climb through the window, and then I'm out and about, exploring and discovering.

I'll be checking out of the motel room soon and then heading out to visit my mother and brother, after that off to southern California in a rental car. Really, though, I'm in the mountains with Gnossos and Alma-Ata, with Ocean, River, and Rain, the three sisters. I'm trekking with a mud dragon and my donkey to a local village smithy to wield dragonfire to forge a magic sword.

Sound like fun? In a couple of years, you can buy the book and join the adventure!

Seven Days of Writing

Well, my last post for this blog was in September, four months--a record, I think, and not one I want to celebrate!

I have been writing some from my bicycling blog, and I've also done some spot writing, flash fiction and a little on my novel, A Mage that Gathers.

I'm happy that for the last seven days, I've stuck to the routine of writing in the early morning at least three hundred words. This is just a small amount, but what I'm working toward is establishing a routine. Three hundred words a day means 2,100 words a week, times 52 comes to 109,200 words in a year--or the rough draft of a novel.

Oddly enough, it was easier to establish regular writing times when I was teaching full-time. The times available for writing were definite and limited, so I had to take them: 5:00 AM every day, or 1:57 PM, for example. Now time is more fluid and seems to slip through my fingers, even though my activity is meaningful and purposeful.

So I'm glad to be writing regularly for a week. Those words-per-day can extend over time. I'm traveling with my wife soon, so I'll have time on the plane, or time in the hotel room while my wife is away with her business. If travel interferes on a particular day, I still have the 2,100-word goal for each week.

I have this picture in my head: it's November and getting cold in Iowa, but I'm camping, bundled up with wool underwear, flannel-lined pants and down coat. I'm sitting in my camp chair next to a fire, tent behind me. My laptop is open, and I am typing. I'm wearing brown jersey cotton gloves, the fingers cut off. It's cold but the fire is warm. It's quiet in the campground. Geese vee to the lake, sounding their distant calls. I'm writing, a cup of chai near at hand. I stand, place my laptop on the chair, and then add wood to the fire.

The reality might be that I'm sitting there, shivering so hard I can't think or type, but the picture in my mind is a nice one. I hope to try it this year. I have warm clothes. I have wood and matches for the fire. I have my sweet little laptop. It might happen.

If not, then change that to me sitting beside my woodstove. It's snowing outside, and that silence of falling snow permeates even through the walls of the house. The soft sounds of my fingers working the keyboard break the silence, hardly a description to be found in a Jack London novel. "Buck rested his large head on John Thornton's thigh, gazing devotedly up as the man's fingers typed out an email order for frozen fish for the sled dogs."

Oh, well. Times change, but at least for the last week I've managed to get myself back into harness. Mush!

Mom Goes Political

“Who’s our new president?” my ninety-two-year-old mom asks. “His name is Don?”
“Donald,” I say.
“I don’t know his last name.”
“Trump.”
Mom is almost totally deaf. “Dlumf?” she says. “That’s a hard name. I don’t like it.”
“T-R-U-M-P,” I say, “like in the card game.”
“Oh, I don’t know anything about cards.”
We repeat letters back and forth for a while. “Trulb, it’s a hard word.”
“He’s been president about 130 days.”
“I read up and always voted for years, but I don’t anymore. . . . T-R-U . . . is it an N or an M?”
“M like in monkey.”
“Oh, okay. Weird name. The other guy was president for eight years. His name was hard, too.”
“I remember. Not a common name.”
“Well, I can’t see or hear anymore, but I try to keep up.”
“You do really well, Mom.”

“Trump,” she repeats. “T-R-U-M-P. Not sure I’ll remember it.”
"It's okay if you forget."

A Rejection Letter for my Quince Flash Fiction Story

Well, I got a response. Unfortunately, the response was a rejection letter. 

Dear Thomas Kepler, 

Thank you for sending us your flash fiction story, "Perchance Beneath a Quince Tree". We appreciate the chance to read it. Unfortunately, it's not quite the right fit for Every Day Fiction. 

Please find attached some feedback from our editorial team. 

Thanks again, and best of luck placing this story elsewhere. 

Sincerely, 
all of us at Every Day Fiction 

Anyone who submits must be prepared for a rejection letter. That's what I've learned through the years. Also, there seem to be only two reasonable responses: 1) submit to another publication, or 2) shelve the work for a while (or forever).

I'm traveling for now, so my response will be the latter until I get back home.

Here are the notes regarding the rejection. (And, it is important to say that many publications don't bother with personal notes due to the volume of submissions or due to the possible adverse reaction from writers.

"This is unique and there are some lovely moments, but I found the story a bit hard to follow."

The main character of "Perchance Beneath a Quince Tree" also found her "story" a bit hard to follow, since her untrained magical talent slipped her from one alternative universe to another, and she's struggling to get back home to her husband and children. The whole purpose of the flash fiction story was to embody that wonder and elusive experience.

That being said, EDF has a responsibility to its readers--and if that if to provide stories a bit easier to follow, well, OK. One of the good points of shelving a story for a while is to read it later with the editor's criticism in mind. One possibility for a rewrite is to use the flash fiction story (with limited word count) as a basis for an expanded story that doesn't have to be so compressed.

Well, on to other writing. I even have an idea to use the main character of this story in another tale.

Another Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Contest I've Lost

copyright K.S. BrooksYep, lost another one . . . and I'm happy.

This contest provided a photo visual prompt, a grey ocean beach, which reminded me of a short story that I've worked on over the last few years, drafting different beginnings, different storylines, different points of view, but never feeling the story was moving in the right direction.

I think writing this 250-word story got me to the right place, allowed me to discover the right angle. So I celebrate my happy loss.

The short story has had several titles:
Lonely Is a Bitter WindWaves Like Dragon WingsPeople of the BeachElementalOcean's DaughterThis flash fiction version of the story was written while traveling on Amtrak, so it was a real pleasure to sit in my roomette, watching the miles roll by, drafting offline on Google Docs. Receptivity comes and goes while on the train, so I worked offline after reading the Indies Unlimited writing prompt. And writing on my iPhone 6+ was easy--a little slower than on a laptop, but maybe that's not so bad. I also really like not having to pack around a lot of electronics!

I'm looking forward to expanding the story from this 250-word shorthand version.

The first line of "Ocean's Daughter" reads: Stone and driftwood and the bitter sea–all is grey, water-worn, salt-bleached and half-buried.

The story is posted in the comments section of the UI blog post, if you'd like to read it--250 words, a quick read! I've linked the title above to the blog page.

Writing About the Quince--Flash Fiction

I've just completed another draft of my flash fiction story "Perchance Beneath a Quince Tree." It was 1,028 words, and I needed it to be less than 1,000. It's now 857! Go, Tom! Way to tighten!

I've always enjoyed revising, oddly enough, and the strictures of writing flash fiction remind me of when I used to dabble writing sonnets, including "modern" sonnets. The boundaries of the form seem to open up possibilities that wouldn't have occurred to me if the form were wide open. Interesting idea about creativity, that boundaries don't limit creativity but channel it.

Here is the first paragraph of the story, as it stands now.

It was the longest dream, it was the best dream, the one I most wanted to believe, and when it faded to morning mists, willy-nilly, I entered, seeking a way home, quickening my pace along the fog-heavy trail, quiet with hope because the track was familiar, reminding me of when I had started out on an early morning, landmarks time-tattered, half-remembered--this shoulder of the slope with its scruff of trees, those early morning shadows.

I plan to submit the story to an online fiction magazine--and then I wait 60-90 days for a response. Sounds like I'll choose another story to work on to keep me busy and happy!