Horton Deakins's Blog, page 14

Daily Dracula Double

Since I posted this one on my fan page the same day as the last post, I thought it therefore only proper to follow suit on ye olde blogg.

Does anyone remember when the vampire freight train first began to build up steam?  How much fuel do you think it has left?  Does it add something, or does it cheapen literature overall?

Do you bite on every vampire tale that dares darken your path?  Or does your blood grow thin, and do you shudder uncontrollably at the sudden chill induced by the sight of yet another tale of anthropomorphic leeches? Would you like to see a new trend emerge, or would you prefer to ride a bit further?  Do tell.  And sleep, sleep well, my lovelies, for the night is just beginning…

Riddle me this

As of late, I have posted on my fan page a number of things designed to elicit discussion.  I have decided that most of those postings are too long for the typical facebook posts, so I will now set about to re-post them here, and to commence using this blog for all such posts in the future.

The first deals with observations I have made about the huge quantity of books read by, primarily, many of the people who have goodreads accounts.  I would like to know your take on this.

I am constantly discovering more and more people who read voraciously, people who can devour books in just a couple of days and who have read hundreds if not thousands of books, and they still have good enough retention after completing a tome to do a review.What is puzzling to me is, with that kind of skill—which I envy—why are not more  of these accomplished readers also accomplished writers? Is it merely the mindset that it is an insurmountable task to get published? Is it fear that one’s writing will not be good enough? Fear of ridicule? Or is it simply not on the to-do list? What do you think?

 

Does Your Dirigible Keep You in Suspense?

Are you a Steampunk fan?  Then enlighten me.  Will Steampunk succeed and survive under its own head of steam?  Will dirigibles dare to displace Dracula?  Or Alucard? (If you are old enough, you will remember this: “Serutan” is “Natures” spelled backward).

I wonder about this: How far forward on the technological time-line is fair game for the enabling of the means to acquire monstrous mechanisms for a Steampunk tale?  Will the devices of Steampunk be forever hobbled by the very real Laws of Thermodynamics so that the writer can never quite achieve a sufficient blurring of the division between fantasy and reality to obtain a breakthrough-level readership share?  Can I possibly write a longer sentence?

Perhaps we don’t care that the devices are not believable.  Would the devices be any less fun if they were powered by one ring that ruled them all, rather than springs and boilers?  Is that what Steampunk is really about?  Do we voluntarily check our disbelief at the door before we open the book and begin reading?  Is all the responsibility on the reader, and none on the writer?  And should Steampunk remain unadulterated by the introduction of vampires (actually, it’s too late for that)?

I hope your steam safety valve is about to blow, because I want to know what you think.  You can contact me from the form on this blog site, or from the one on my website: www.hortondeakins.com

Review of Clockwork Fagin, by Cory Doctorow

Clockwork Fagin by Cory Doctorow

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I had never read any of Doctorow’s work before, so I wondered what the fuss was all about. Now I know. He is quite the skillful wordsmith. There were word usages, however that I could not find even in my Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus, such as refering to one’s offspring as one’s “get,” but perhaps this is regional Canadian slang.

I’m not sure why, but this story, which began for me as mere entertainment, actually brought a small tear to my eye by its end. Perhaps it was the transformation of a situation fraught with tremendous evil to one of compassion and peace — but that would never affect any normal, sane person, right?

View all my reviews

Review of Immanuel’s Veins, by Ted Dekker

Immanuel’s Veins by Ted Dekker


My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I am doing this review for the audio version of Immanuel’s Veins. I have seen some of the lower ratings for this book, and I cannot say I disagree with much of what they say. Yes, the story needed to be less repetitious and it needed to pick up the pace. Yes, there were a few words used that seemed to not fit the period. I also had a bit of trouble with weapons that were lost and then seemed to magically reappear at a later time, but I will allow that I could have overlooked the explanation for that.

I think many are missing the bigger picture here. I do wish the author had created a bit more structure to his story, that he was just a little less of a “pantser” and a little more “plotter,” but the quality of his writing, outside the structure of the story, is superb. Perhaps my judgment has been biased, as the book I was reading prior to this one was just about the worst thing I’ve ever seen in print, and I could not finish it. Thus, when I began listening to Mr. Dekker’s writing, it was like steak to a starving man—I felt I could actually taste it, could sink my teeth into it… and I just wanted to give it an itsy bitsy little bite.

I won’t describe the story here, as plenty of others have done that already, but I have to say I was completely unaware of the plot before I began. Until now, I have managed to shun all manner of vampire stories, but I actually enjoyed this one (oh my—does that mean that I’ve crossed over to the Dark Side? *shudder*).

Therefore, I’m giving four stars for the quality of the prose, taking away only one star for the structural issues.





View all my reviews

Check out my fan page on facebook

I just created a fan page on facebook, so come check it out:

http://www.facebook.com/AuthorHortonDeakins

Yeah, I know, I’m a bit late to the party, but I’ve always been a little behind the curve on social media.  Give me a task to write a software application, and I’ll build it up and dress it in bows, but don’t ask me to figure out how to use someone else’s software.  Besides, the whole “fan” idea is a bit out of my comfort zone—I just can’t get used to the idea of having “fans.”  I guess that’s because I haven’t had any in the past.

Help me out, if you would, though, and “like” my fan page.  I’ve got quite a ways to go before I hit the magic “30″ number, so every “like” counts.

Now… to figure out what to do with my new page… all this power… what worlds to conquer now… what untold galaxies to claim for king and country… why, the very thought almost inspires me to write—almost.  But there are still miles to go before I sleep.

So, why doesn’t it feel different?

Recently, I hit another milestone in my weight loss program:

35 pounds down!

So, why doesn’t it feel different?  I suppose it does, really.  I mean, 35 pounds is more weight than in four gallons of milk.  That’s nearly two cases of beer.  Three or four school backpacks of books.

But I scarcely notice it.  Sure, my wristwatch, which at one time nearly cut off my circulation, is now about to slide down my wrist and over my hand, and my knees don’t hurt when I jog or climb stairs.   But I know I still have about 40 pounds left to go, and the process seems to be slowing now—I’ve stayed at the same weight for several days.  Plus, whenever I look in the mirror, I still see what appears to be some alien embryo developing in the vicinity of my stomach—or perhaps it’s a basketball that was inadvertently left in my abdomen during a botched surgery.  I still feel bloated all the time, and I never like what my mirror on the wall says when it talks to me.

I know I must be getting healthier, but I’m not ready to celebrate yet.  I’m not even halfway to my goal, and I’m not even sure that my initial weight goal is low enough.  I seem to have a rather thin frame, when you get down past the blubber, and even when I was in my 20′s and was doing aerobics I measured out (in an immersion test) to have a much higher body fat percentage than the average male of my age.  So, maybe 150 should be my goal, rather than 165.  If I remember correctly, though, the calculations said that in order to get my body fat down to a reasonable amount, I would have to lose to around 137 pounds.  Wow. That would be another 66 pounds, meaning I’m only about a third of the way there!  Well, I could always have my arms cut off.  It’s only a flesh wound!

Me second attempt at reading poetry, to be sure.

Here is my second stab at William Butler Yeats (his poetry, not the man—for Pete’s sake—the man’s dead already!).  This one is entitled, “Ephemera.”  It was a new one for me, not an old friend like The Host of the Air, so I had to work at this one a bit.  In each of these poems, however, I tripped up on at least one word, but neither time did it justify another attempt.

Next time I’ll choose another poet, Dylan Thomas, or perhaps Poe (Poe is an old friend of mine—we go way back—bwa-ha-ha-ha!).

In any case, I hope you enjoy it just a wee bit.

Ephemera
By William Butler Yeats

Read by Horton Deakins

July 10, 1967 — It was a very good Time.

Midget B1 Champions, July 10, 1967

In case you were wondering, I’m the tall, lanky, pencil-necked geek in the back row, center.  I was twelve years old, and at six feet, way taller than most of my classmates.  I was  probably every bit of 125 pounds, sopping wet.  Occasionally, I was referred to as “Bean Pole,” but that was probably because the Muppet character, Beaker, had not yet been created.

This photo was taken the day we received our ribbons as the Midget B1 Champions for YMCA baseball, although we represented Del City Elementary School.  This, and the previous season, were the only time I ever played team sports in school.  I never even had gym class after sixth grade, because marching band qualified as exercise—somehow.  Actually, I think it had more to do with there not being enough hours in the day to do both.  All that has changed these days, I hear, but I really regret not getting the chance to go further with baseball.

See the guy directly in front of me, in the middle, sitting on the bench?  That kid hit the most home runs for the season—three.  Guess who hit the second most?  Yep, yours truly.  That was a pretty amazing accomplishment, considering that the previous season I was the strike-out king.  I was terrified to swing at that ball, and the pitchers knew it.  They were always trying to get close to me or hit me with the ball, and thank God for baseball helmets.  I took one full-on in the left temple one time.  Didn’t hurt a bit, and of course that put me on first base.  My dad came to the rescue.  He took a baseball, drilled a hole through it, attached 60-pound-test fishing line, and attached the other end to a swivel on a stick made from a croquet mallet.  He then proceeded to swing the ball in a large circle, and I got to practice hitting curve balls.  My dad could build anything out of nothing.  I guess I inherited some of that, because I keep a lot of nothing around in case I need to build anything.

I learned a lot playing with those guys, and some are still my friends today.  Most of them I have lost touch with, and that’s sad… for the most part.  The kid sitting third from the right, the one slumped down, was sent up the river for kidnapping young boys, taking them across state line, and sexually abusing them.  I’m not exactly eager to reconnect with him.  The kid on the front, far right, was the son of one of the coaches, the man to my left, your right.  This kid was my best friend for awhile, but something happened not long after this photo was taken (at the end of the season) to drive a wedge between us, and I never figured out what it was.  I’ve always had trouble making (and keeping) friends, but I’m hoping that this time it wasn’t me.  If you’re out there, Wayne—can we talk?  His dad, the main coach, was a great guy, and I appreciate greatly how he gave so much to me and the other boys.   I saw recently that he had died a few years ago, and I was quite sad to hear it.  He was a WWII veteran, as was my own father.

The anniversary of my own dad’s death was just over a week ago, but it’s been fifteen years now, and this time the day came and went without my notice.  Either it’s getting easier, or my memory is getting worse; I’m not sure.  I doubt I’ll forget my mother’s, however, even though it’s been nearly two years longer (yes, folks—I’m an “orphan.” *wink*).

What I am sure about, though, is that 1967 was a very, very good year.

I could sure use another 1967 right now.

 

I don’t typically spend time plugging other authors, but…

… when a fellow wordsmith makes a TV interview, well… I have to give credit where credit is due.

Rachel Hunter on KSBI Oklahoma Live .