Deborah J. Ross's Blog, page 130

Career Chat: Why Writing Really Good Books Matters

 Author Bob Mayer posted a great discussion entitled, If I Were a Newly Self-Published Author, What Steps Would I Take To Succeed?


I love that his first point is to write really good books, and that it takes time and practice to do that. (And, for most of us, critical feedback, which could be from a good workshop or a professional editor.)


We aren't born knowing how to write really good books. Some of us have more aptitude than others, but while -- as the saying goes -- writing cannot be taught, it can be learned. What that means is that there are many ways to get better. Didactic learning (in a classroom or formal workshop, from lectures, from a teacher) is only one. Some writers fizzle in such environments but thrive when left alone. (I'm not one of them -- I fall in love with my own hideous mistakes.)




Every once in a while, a first novel works. Gets published. Does well. Usually it's a book that the author has slaved over for years, sometimes decades. The book has been honed and evolved over time, making it the equivalent of many separate books in terms of practice. Then what happens all too often is that the second book is a failure. Expectations based on that first book are dashed because the subsequent books are written in a year instead of a decade. (Of course there are exceptions, but far too few.) The other thing is that new writers are not usually astute enough to judge the quality of a book they've obsessed about for so long. They're too close to it, they're enveloped by it.

My first professional novel sale ( Jaydium , to DAW in 1991) was actually the 6th or 8th novel I'd completed, depending on how you count (drafts/revisions/novellas). (And I'd revised it -- major rewrites not just polishing -- 3 or 4 times.) I have no idea if I'm a slow learner or whether we just don't talk about all those sub-publication-threshold books we struggled through. There's nothing either right or wrong about how many books we have to write in order to achieve one that we can be proud of, one we can use to launch a career.

That's the point if we want a career and not just one book to hold in our hands. If the latter, go ahead and self-pub it because it isn't going anywhere anyway. If we want to be doing this -- writing stories -- for the long haul, we need to cultivate Bob Mayer's "marathon view" -- the long-distance haul that will carry us through dry times, hard times, publisher explosions, radical shifts in publishing technology, and the like. To do that, we need a solid foundation on which to build the castle of our dreams. That first book needs to be the best we can possibly achieve at our current skill level.

But it doesn't stop there. We need to make the next book even better, and the one after that even better. We don't always succeed, and the market can be brutal. But part and parcel of a long-time career is "pushing the envelope" -- meaning continually striving to improve our craft, to take risks, to dig deeper, to hit those high notes dead on. One of the pitfalls of having sold for a while is the expectation that every book we write will succeed. But sometimes we get ahead of ourselves, or we try something that doesn't connect with readers. We reach beyond our current skill level, or the book really is great, it's just the wrong time or the wrong niche, and at some time in the future, readers will discover (and adore) it. As disappointing as it is to have a book bomb, as long as we're still striving to make each book better than the last, we're doing our part to build that long-term career.

The Seven-Petaled Shield - More Early Opening Chapter

For your reading pleasure, here is the second part of a very early opening chapter to The Seven-Petaled Shield. I've left it just as I wrote it, without attempting to bring spelling, name usage, place names, and the like, into congruence with the final, edited version. For myself, I find it fascinating to see how an author develops the characters and story. I hope this is interesting and rewarding to you, too.
This is one of several sketches and out takes, which will be archived under "Read A Story" as I post them here.
You can buy the book at the usual places, your local bookstore, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, or Powell's.


Chapter 1 (continued)


Zevaron took his breakfast before dawn with the other seamen. Someone had gone to shore and brought back fresh bread and fruit, small tart plums and dried figs.  The bread was coarse-grained, chewy with ground nuts.  Some kind of spice had been added, one Zevaron couldn’t identify.  Night had masked the strangeness of the place, but day could not keep it out.  Even the wooden sides smelled different here in port, and without the constant battering of waves, the ship seemed to be frozen in place.  The sailor who had warned him that he would be given a new name, a slave’s name, perhaps the name of a pet animal, cuffed him on the shoulder, not unkindly.
“No oars today, eh lad?”
From above came a shout.  The seamen swarmed up the ladder, Zevaron with them, and he got his first view of a Geloni city, a riot of brightness in the rising sun.  He had seen the wharves and jetties, with all the myriad craft, only as shadows.  Now shape and color assaulted him.  The sails were not only unbleached white but red and striped, the prows painted and adorned with carven images of women and or fish-tailed kings or strange beasts.  All around, boats were being loaded and unloaded.  Men bowed under their burdens, sacks and crates and barrels, their skins gleaming like polished metals, copper and iron and alabaster.  Carts rattled along the wooden jetties.  Zevaron had never seen onagers before; the desert tribes, including his own people, used ponies or camels.  The smells of brine and tar mingled with a thousand others.
For the next two hours, he had little attention to spare for the wonders of Verenzza.  Under the captain’s watchful eye, he hauled and carried and stacked, along with the grown seamen.  As usual, he made no complaint at weight or awkwardness.  Men in robes of pale yellow and red-trimmed white met with the captain and bargained, gesticulating toward the ship and the growing pile of cargo.  Zevaron supposed that they were arguing over whether they were about to receive the goods they had contracted for.  In the end, the city merchants departed, and the captain carried on board several small metal coffers.
Zevaron came on deck as he was bidden.  His mother stood there.  She wore her usual robes, stiff with dust and grime, but her hair was braided tight against her skull and then falling in a dozen wetly gleaming plaits. The captain hurried Zevaron and Tsorah onto shore.  He took them himself, as if he feared failure in another.  Zevaron tasted the man’s fear, his fascination, the fever to put an end to it.Tsorah followed him like a shadow.  Zevaron, his chains clinking, struggled to keep up.  Beyond the docks for loading and unloading, the warehouses, he recognized taverns, the tang of stale, unfamiliar wine, a house that might be a brothel.  The paving stones bruised his bare feet, used to sand and wooden deck.  He slipped once or twice. After the clean salt air of their voyage, the city suffocated.  One street led to another, broadening, rising.  The captain did not slow.  He quickened his pace, like a burden beast turned homeward to a full manger.  
 Zevaron, hardened by labor, climbed easily.  Tsorah moved like a shadow, liquid.  Only the catch of her breath and a delicate flush across her cheeks betrayed the effort of her exertions after so many weeks of inactivity.  Once she raised one hand, as if to press it to her heart, but she jerked it away.He had been born and passed his childhood in a city. Verenzza surprised him, the tang of water everywhere, the trees, the gardens of riotous brilliance, red and orange and deep blue, yellow and purple, colors he had no names for.  Flags and pennons trailed from balconies, long ribbons intertwined with dangling ivy, strange and sensual.  The fragrance of the blossoms filled the air, and no where could he scent the acrid desert dust.
The governor’s mansion rose on pillars of shimmering white-gray marble from the tallest hill.  The cobbled road took them between terraced gardens.  Men in smocks and knee-length pants looked up from beneath straw hats as they passed. 
Pairs of men with sheathed short swords waited at the gates to the grounds and at the entrance to the house itself.  Here a steward of some kind came out and spoke with the captain.  Zevaron was not used to hearing so much Geloni; the seamen had spoken trade polyglot intermixed with a few phrases of gutter Geloni.  The language, from the mouths of native speakers, had a different cadence from the formal intonations he had studied.  Here it was a living tongue in all its inflections, its subtle nuanced references to rank and power.  Like Gelon itself, he suspected, the history of the Emperors had shaped the very language.
“What are you doing here with these,” the steward raked Zevaron and Tsorah with a sneer, “persons?  We do not purchase slaves straight off the boat.  You have come on a fruitless errand.”
“I’m not here for my own pleasure, but at the command of Ar-Nemeesh-Varon, governor of Varoni-Erreth.  He sends these two royal captives as a gift.”
“Don’t try your jackal tricks on me! No one of the rank and  breeding of His Excellency would entrust a mere seaman with such an errand.  Likely, she’s a whore you picked up yourself and now that you’ve tired of her, you think you can sell her for far more than she was ever worth to begin with.”
The captain’s shoulder muscles bunched and he shoved his chin out.  “D’you take me for such a fool?  Nemeesh’s nephew was all set to take them, but one of the sand-rats stabbed him in the belly the night before.”  He did not elaborate further, either the Geloni noble’s lingering death by suppuration or the fate of the rebel assassin.
The steward shifted uneasily, as if fearing that one of the two prisoners before him might leap for his throat, curved desert blade in hand.  Zevaron kept his gaze lowered.  He had learned to walk with inward purpose, but he had known little of fighting.  Most of it was over and the cities fallen by the time he was old enough to hold a knife.  Still, in his mind, he pictured how such an attack might proceed, where he might step, the weight of the blade, the smooth arc of the strike.  He would slash, not pierce, drawing the sharp edge along the man’s fat belly –
Like a waking dream, a vision filled the space behind Zevaron’s eyes.  The fat steward crumpled to the floor, blood spattering the pristine walls, the captain recoiling and then running for his own skin.  Zevaron grabbed his mother’s hand, felt her slender fingers tighten like steel around his own, sprinting back the way they had come.  The mansion in an uproar behind them, as if their footsteps left a wake of fire, confusion and despair.  ‘To the hills!’ she would cry, away from the harbor and into the winding streets, the markets thronged with townsmen and traders from a dozen different lands, whether their own origins would bring no remark –
“– a princess, you say?” the steward asked.  Lost in his vision, Zevaron had missed a portion of the exchange.  “Then where is her crown?  Her jewels?  You don’t expect me to believe that such an important personage, such a noble and valuable prisoner came all the way from Erreth-Varoni in a filthy robe and bare feet!”
The captain shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  The flush on his features darkened.  His hands clenched and unclenched.
The steward took a step closer.  He was taller than the captain, so that the captain had to raise his eyes or else stare at the other man’s chin.
“I – they are back at the ship,” the captain said.  “Where I have kept them safe.”
And hidden, doubtless for the purpose of taking whatever possessions had been sent with Tsorah for himself.
“I’ll go and fetch them now, all right?”  The captain inched back toward the door.
“An excellent idea.”  At a gesture from the steward, the two household guards stationed the gate stepped forward.  They were armed.  “These good men will defend you against any petty thieves who might happen upon you during your return.”
The captain left peaceably enough, a guard to either side.  The steward made a harumphing sound in his throat, then turned back to Tsorah and Zevaron.
“Not much to look at, are you?  I don’t suppose you understood a word of what we said?”
Zevaron was tempted to reply, but his mother kept silent.  She only bowed her head slightly, a gesture which was as much the acknowledgment of an inferior’s service as it might have been the submission of a slave.
An under servant of some kind bustled around the path from somewhere in back of the building.  He wore the same sort of belted tunic as the steward, unadorned, and he clasped his hands in front of his waist.  With his pinched features and white knuckles, he seemed to be wringing his hands in anxiety.  He bowed to the steward.
“Here are two slaves from the Spice Lands, sand-rats to the core, I’ll warrant.  The ship’s captain who dumped them here says they are noble captives.  What a joke!  If it were up to me, I’d just send them down to market for whatever we can get, but it’s not for me to say.  Well, we can’t send them up to the master looking like this.  Take them to the lower bath and clean them up as best you can.  I’ve sent Rov and Arnuld off for the trunk that came with them.  If there’s no decent clothing there, you’ll have to use household robes.”
The under servant bobbed his head and wiped one hand across the other.  “No problem at all, sir.  Shall I shave them?”
Zevaron started, but suppressed his reaction, since his mother gave none.
The steward shook his head and made a gesture with one hand.  “I don’t want them to look Geloni, for all their coloring.  Keep some exotic allure.  Get one of the women to comb her hair out, or at least oil it.  The boy can stay as he is.  The bare chest is nicely barbaric.  Have them ready shortly before midday, that’s a good lad.”
The under servant looked at them, hands folded across his chest, and heaved a sigh before gesturing them to come.  It was an exaggerated movement, as if he did not expect them to understand.  He led them around to the back, where they washed their feet in a stone basin before entering the house.  Now that they were in Gelon, the fragile order Tsorah had bought was gone.  They might be separated at a moment’s notice, sent far away from one another.  There was so much he needed to know!
I am not important,he reflected. It is she who must survive in this place.  I must do what I can to aid her.  For all her beauty, her intelligence, her strength, she was still a captive, one lone woman in this foreign empire, this place of white marble and flowers.
As he bent to wipe his feet on the coarse cloth, he spoke to her in their own tongue.  “I will not leave you,” he inflected the word to mean, abandon.
“Speak Geloni,” she said gently, “or they will think us savages, knowing only our own language.”
“I’ll none of your gabble here,” the under servant barked, but the boy heard the fear behind his words.Sand-rats.  Sand-devils.  Uncivilized beasts from beyond the borders of the Empire.  Who knows what they are capable of?
Zevaron bowed and answered in accented but grammatically pure Geloni, “I apologize for any offense I might have given.”
The servant hesitated before responding. He sniffed.  “Save your pretty manners for the master.  Come on.  We can’t keep him waiting!”
They followed him along a simple corridor, with walls of smooth pale stone pierced by open slits, to another chamber. The chamber was hexagonal and domed.  Panels of glass had been set between ribs of some metal, flooding the space with light.  From here, they descended a short flight of stairs, down a complicated maze of corridors, to a small, stone­-walled room that smelled faintly of damp and sulfur.  It was divided in two by a curtain suspended from an overhead rod.  Each side had an enormous basin set in the floor, easily large enough to accommodate a grown man.  Zevaron had never seen such a capacious vessel for washing.  All his life, he had bathed either in the river or with a small tub and sponge.  A woman in plain servant’s tunic and apron looked up from scrubbing one of the tubs with a pumice stone.  The servant gave her a string of orders in pidgin Geloni.
In short order, the basins were filled half way with water, and a basket of soap chips and towels brought.  An elderly woman in a turban took Tsorah behind the curtain.  Splashing noises and low, feminine murmurs followed.  The under servant directed Zevaron to strip and immerse himself.  The man apparently didn’t intend to participate in the bathing process in any way, but stood, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed upon the upper corner above the tub, lips pursed in an expression of unmistakable disapproval.
The water was surprisingly warm, the curling vapors bearing a faint reek of sulfur and iron.  Zevaron leaned back, taking a moment’s ease as the heat sank into the tense muscles of his back and shoulders.  It was all he could do not to sigh aloud. 
From the other side of the curtain came the coo of women’s voices, low laughter.  He couldn’t make out the words above the rustle of fabric and water splashing.
“Hurry up!” the under steward snapped. “I have more important work than standing here while you go to sleep and drown!”
Zevaron picked up one of the soap chips.  At least, he thought it was soap, but the texture was far smoother, almost greasy, than the lye-and-oil soap which was all anyone could make during the last few years of siege.
“You don’t eat it,” the under steward sneered.  “You take one of the cloths, work up a lather, and rub it over your body.  You havetaken a bath before?”
“I’m sorry,” Zevaron said hastily.  “It’s just such fine soap.”
The under steward sniffed but made no further comment as Zevaron began washing himself. The soap made a creamy lather.  It stung the abrasions and small cuts which had accumulated over the weeks of sea voyaging.  He supposed it would do them good.  It took two of the palm­-sized chips to clean both skin and hair.  While he was rinsing for the second time, another servant entered with a bundle of white cloth.  It consisted of a loose, sack-like garment hanging just below his knees, a rope belt, a twist of loincloth, and rope sandals.  There was also a long-tined wooden comb. 
“See if you can comb out those tangles,” the under steward said.  “If not, we’ll have to cut them off.  You’ll look more ordinary, but it can’t be helped.”
More like a Gelon,Zevaron thought.  He could not be sure if this were a good thing or a bad thing.
By the time Zevaron had finished drying himself, dressing, and yanking the comb through his hair to the satisfaction of the under steward, news came that the chest of possessions had arrived.  He was set to wait just outside the bath room.  Without any task, any focus of concentration, the thoughts he had managed to hold at bay returned once more.
On the ship, it had been easy to pretend that he and his mother were prisoners, the captain’s “noble captives,” and not slaves.  Now he wore the tunic of a Geloni slave.  He waited as he was bidden, his fate in the hands of uncaring strangers.  He could distract himself by imagining himself leaping up, finding his mother, racing hand-in-hand from these pale stone halls – to what?  He did not seriously believe they could hide in the city, although desperation could accomplish much.  They were strangers, outlanders.  Even if their appearance, their honey-colored skin and dark hair, the lean hard Meklavaran lines of their faces, did not betray them, the first time they spoke, they would be discovered.  There might be others of the People in the city, and they would never know.
They would never get that far.  They had been lucky, but it was unwise to count upon luck.  Men must create their own, waiting for the right opportunity.
Zevaron was roused from his thoughts by a sound he had never expected to hear again.  Little brass bells chimed sweetly.  A party swept around the corner, led by the steward himself.  Zevaron scrambled to his feet.  For a long moment he did not recognize his mother standing in front of the serving women.  She wore a robe of rippling white silk.  He had never seen it before, and yet he knew it was hers.  The cut, the very weaving spoke of Meklavar, with the subtle pattern of the Shield shimmering along its folds.  Beneath the sheer white hood, her hair had been braided and dressed with ornaments.  Tassels, each tied with a tiny bell, hung from her braids and the ends of the corded belt.  She carried herself with her usual grace, her chin lifted, face smoothly dispassionate. 
Beneath the white silk, her skin glowed, not just with the warmth of the bath, the scented oils which perfumed the air.  A faint golden aura surrounded her.  She was like a queen out of legend, Khored’s own bride.  Zevaron wondered if the Geloni could see it, too.
“You walk there,” the steward said, pointing to a place behind and to the side of Tsorah.
Zevaron ducked his head and followed obediently along the pillared hallway, beside an inner courtyard where fountains made rainbows in the morning sun.  Geloni ladies in elegant pastel gowns paused, peacock fans quivering, to watch them pass.  They ascended a set of broad, low steps and went inside again.  The walls here were painted in murals of eagles soaring above snow-dusted mountains, of mountains spewing forth fire, of battleships and onager-drawn chariots.  The pictures were lavishly tipped with gold and inset jewels so that the molten rock glowed as if with its own inner fire.
They paused before a doorway, double panels of intricately carved pale wood inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl, mosaics of obsidian, coral, and jade.
The steward paused, one hand upon the latch, and turned back to them.  “I don’t expect you to know the proper Geloni way to behave.  For your own sakes, remember that His Excellency is a man not easily roused in temper, but that slow anger can be terrible beyond imagining.”
Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door, slipped inside.  A moment later, he gestured for the rest to follow.
It was only then, as he stepped into the audience chamber of the governor of Verenzza, that Zevaron noticed that his mother’s wrists were chained together.

The Tajji Diaries: Dogs In Love?

Tajji running full-out after the ball
Our new-to-us retired seeing eye dog, Tajji, has been making good progress with her reactivity to other dogs and sometimes to people. A great deal of this progress has occurred in the “Reactive Rover” class taught by Sandi Pensinger of Living With Dogs in Soquel, CA. This does not necessarily mean Tajji can and will take what she’s learned (“good things happen when I look calmly at another dog”) and apply them to other places and other dogs. Dogs do not generalize. To them, every situation is unique. This is why practicing in as many environments and with as many diverse combinations of stimuli is necessary.
At the last formal meeting of the class, only two dogs attended: Tajji (with both of us) and George-The-Labrador (with his surprisingly spry 90 yo owner). We practiced with a small (real) dog decoy behind a blind. This means that the little dog was behind a three foot high screen, and her handler brought her out where the “student” dog could see her. At first, the exposure was just a peek-a-boo, then standing still but constant, then moving.  Movement draws a dog’s attention and is therefore more strongly stimulating. The student dog was rewarded for calm behavior by getting to run away, then praise and a treat. The retreat is a “functional reward” – that is, the thing that makes the dog nervous becomes farther away, and since dogs are highly sensitive to distance, the dog becomes happier and calmer. Gradually, we waited until the student dog disengagedwith the decoy: a Look-Away, a lip lick, or even the sideways flick of a perked ear. All these things signal that the dog is not longer “locked and loaded” on the decoy. The dog has chosen to step back from confrontation. A Look-Away is particularly powerful because a direct, fixed stare is threatening. We then reward our dog in the same manner as before for lowering the tension of the visual encounter.
At the end of the class, both dogs were doing so well that Sandi offered us two additional sessions with just these two. Instead of a small decoy handled by one of her associate teachers, each dog would be the decoy for the other. This sounded promising for several reasons. One is that Tajji is more reactive to small dogs than to large ones. George-The-Labrador is basically your happy-goofy Lab who’s had a rough time (his dog-buddy and his dad-monkey died within a short time of one another, and his mom-monkey moved to a different location); his threshold (the distance at which he reacts) is much shorter than Tajji’s – that is, another dog can get much closer to him before he is stressed. Thirdly, each dog comes to the field to play, so the passing of time reinforces “this is a happy place” associations.
We began the session with peek-a-boo exercises for Tajji, who was behind the blind. We’d lead her out so she could just barely see around the blind, let her get a peek at George, who was hanging out with his owner, and zip her back to visual safety. Gradually, we lengthened the distance and time of exposure until we could lead her out from behind the blind and walk toward George (at a diagonal because head-on is more threatening). After a time of this, we put the dogs back in their car crates to think about things and chill out.
Our second round included walking the dogs in a big (excuse me, B-I-I-G) circle in the same direction, staying on the same diameter. After they relaxed a bit, we had them sit and marked the places with flags, then walked them around to the place where the other dog had sat and let them sniff (with much praise and many tasty treats! Smelling another dog = good!)
At the end of the class, the dogs were about 30 feet from one another, watching each other but not fixedly, and fairly happy. I say “fairly” because Tajji was not entirely relaxed, but she was able to manage her anxiety herself. This is a huge improvement over her barking and lunging at the sight of another dog 250 feet away.
Stay tuned for our next report!

INTERVIEW: Debra Doyle and Jim D. Macdonald on Stars of Darkover

STARS OF DARKOVER – not just the glorious night sky over the world of the Bloody Sun, but the authors who have been inspired over the decades by Marion Zimmer Bradley’s favorite world. It will be released on June 3, 2014, to celebrate Marion's 84th birthday.

Debra Doyle was born in Florida and educated in Florida, Texas, Arkansas, and Pennsylvania -- the last at the University of Pennsylvania, where she earned her doctorate in English literature, concentrating on Old English poetry. While living and studying in Philadelphia, she met and married her collaborator, James D. Macdonald, and subsequently traveled with him to Virginia, California, and the Republic of Panamá. Various children, cats, and computers joined the household along the way.

James Douglas Macdonald was born in White Plains, New York, the second of three children of W. Douglas Macdonald, a Chemical Engineer, and Margaret E. Macdonald, a  professional artist. After leaving the University of Rochester, where he majored in Medieval Studies, he served in the U. S. Navy.

Doyle and Macdonald left the Navy and Panamá in 1988 in order to pursue writing full-time. They now live in a big 19th-Century house in Colebrook, New Hampshire, where they write science fiction and fantasy for children, teenagers, and adults. 



Deborah J. Ross: How did Marion Zimmer Bradley influence your writing career?
Debra Doyle: I was always interested in the clash-of-cultures aspect of the Darkover stories, and the space-opera/planetary stories flavor that a lot of them had.  When I went on to write my own stuff, I knew that this flavor was something that I wanted to include.

DJR: What inspired your story in Stars of Darkover? 
DD: Jim Macdonald was in the Navy for about fifteen years, and I was a Navy wife for a good part of that, so I couldn't help wondering what Darkover was like as a duty station for those hapless Terrans who got posted there, and what they told each other about how to make it through to the end of a tour.

DJR: What have you written recently? What lies ahead? (feel free to expound on your recent and forthcoming books!)
DD: Jim Macdonald and I have two novels forthcoming from Tor Books, The Gates of Time and Emergency Magical Services:  First Response.

INTERVIEW: Barb Caffrey on Stars of Darkover

STARS OF DARKOVER – not just the glorious night sky over the world of the Bloody Sun, but the authors who have been inspired over the decades by Marion Zimmer Bradley’s favorite world. It will be released on June 3, 2014, to celebrate Marion's 84th birthday.




Barb Caffrey is a writer, editor and musician from the Midwest. Though "At the Crossroads" is her first-ever Darkover story, she has written other things, including a humorous fantasy novel, Elfy that will be published in 2014 by Twilight Times Books. Previous stories and poems have appeared in Bedlam's Edge (with late husband Michael B. Caffrey), How Beer Saved The World, the Bearing North anthology, the Written Word online magazine, Joyful Online, the Midwest Literary Magazine, and at e-Quill Publishing. Find her at Elfyverse (AKA "Barb Caffrey's Blog") for discussions of all and sundry, or at Shiny Book Review.


Deborah J. Ross:How did Marion Zimmer Bradley influence your writing career?
Barb Caffrey: This is a three-stranded answer, which I hope won't be too confusing . . . you see, early on, like many readers, I was introduced to Marion Zimmer Bradley's fiction, most particularly the Darkover series, but also The Mists Of Avalon and some others. I remember reading Sharra's Exile first, and loving that, but then being completely blown away by The Shattered Chain . . . the whole idea that women would be able to find a way to be fiercely independent on such a feudalistic world as Darkover just enthralled me, the way it did so many other readers. And after that, I read all the Darkover stories I possibly could.But that, of course, was just the first strand.
The second is that my husband, the late Michael B. Caffrey, was a friend of one of Ms. Bradley's sons. Michael lived and worked in the San Francisco Bay area, and he told me that when he first started to write, his friend brought him to his mother, Ms. Bradley, and they talked for a few minutes. Michael remembered Ms. Bradley as being unfailingly encouraging to him, which he needed, as no one in his family was interested in science fiction (at least, not then), so no one understood why Michael felt the need to write. (Note that by the time I met Michael, Ms. Bradley had already passed away. But he remembered her fondly.)Had Marion Zimmer Bradley not been encouraging to my husband when she didn't have to be, I don't think Michael would've been as likely to keep after it. (Most particularly with such a positive attitude.) And in that case, I would be a very different writer now . . . that is, if I were still writing at all.
Finally, my first writing mentor (aside from my husband) was -- still is -- Rosemary Edghill. And Rosemary worked with Ms. Bradley on four books (the "Light" series), knew her well, and was positively inspired by her.

DJR:  What inspired your story in Stars Of Darkover?
BC: In The Shattered Chain and Thendara House, there's a mention of a Renunciate judge, Domna Fiona n'ha Gorsali. She had become the first female judge of the powerful Courts of Arbitration . . . and I'd always wondered how that had come to be.
As I read and re-read the Darkover series, trying to figure out just how Fiona would emerge, and from where, I realized that the women from the highlands seemed a bit more independent than those from the Lowlands. Even the Renunciates from the highlands seemed more likely to be iconoclastic, which a female judge would certainly have to be, so I decided Fiona must come from there.
Next, I had to figure out why Fiona would be named to the Courts of Arbitration. Obviously she must've done something important, but what?
My conceit was that Fiona was the judge who had dealt the most with the Terranan in Caer Donn. And because she was the judge most likely to run into the Terranan, obviously something had to happen because of the Terranan . . . so all I had to do was to figure out what. (As I don't want to spoil the actual reading experience, I'd best stop there!)At any rate, I enjoyed getting to know Fiona, and I hope readers will, too.

DJR: What books have you written recently? What lies ahead?
BC: My first novel An Elfy On The Loose is now out as an e-book from Twilight Times Books. A second novel is currently being readied for publication, and more novels in my Elfyverse are planned.
I also have two stories of military science fiction available at Amazon as e-books starring space Navy Lieutenant Joey Maverick of the Atlantean Union, "A Dark and Stormy Night" and "On Westmount Station." These were drawn from my late husband Michael's incomplete novel, and of course he is listed as the writer (because I drew them out and edited them and added a few things here and there, I am listed as the co-author and editor). More stories in this universe are forthcoming, including two novels, mostly because I loved my husband's writing, and I don't want to see it die out.


DJR: What do you see for the future of Darkover?
BC: I see many, many more high-quality novels written by Deborah J. Ross, and any number of fantastic anthologies written by caring and committed writers who believe that Darkover is just too vital a world to leave alone.
In other words, Darkover's future is brighter than its own four moons . . . and far brighter than the Bloody Sun. 

The Tajji Diaries: Threshold Success

Tajji, our newly-adopted retired seeing eye dog, came to us with strong reactivity to pedestrians and especially to other dogs. She would bark and lunge as soon as she saw any “triggering” stimulus, and her vision is excellent. Sometimes, she would be triggered when the other dog or person was 1/8 mile away. This distance is called the threshold of arousal, meaning that stimuli farther away don’t cause the dog to “go ballistic.” Tajji’s threshold was so long, she basically didn’t have one. If she could see the dog, she reacted.
We’ve been working on decreasing her reactivity and giving her alternative, highly rewarded behaviors. These have included teaching her eye contact (“Look!”), hand targeting (“Touch!”), sniffing (a self-calming activity), and puppy zen, a calming exercise. We have also been as careful as we can to remove her from any situation where she is overwhelmed.
After a time of regular practice, we noticed that when we turned and walked her briskly away from the other dog, she calmed down in a shorter period of time. We were able to turn her back around to face the other dog, rewarding her for calm behavior. One of the lessons was that we would protect her, that she could trust us to not force her into a situation she couldn’t manage. Then we started to see her attempt to calm herself, mostly by sniffing, but occasionally using the non-threatening gesture “Look Away.”
A couple of weeks ago, we noticed that Tajji’s reactivity to pedestrians was markedly reduced. Using the calming techniques that were now familiar to her, we helped her to tolerate increasingly short distances from the folks walking in our neighborhood. Eventually, she was able to do a “pass by” without becoming reactive.
But would she ever be able to do that with dogs?
The first sign of improvement came in her ability to manage her distress when walking past a house where there was a barking dog inside. She couldn’t see the dog, although she could hear it, and this was less triggering for her. (She’s a highly visual dog, which makes sense in a seeing eye dog.)
Again and again, every time we saw another dog on a walk or a dog in a yard, we’d turn around and quickly walk the other way, all the time making happy noises at Tajji. As soon as she was able to accept food (which she won’t if she’s too reactive), we’d play “Find It!” by throwing a small treat on the ground. This kept her moving in the desire direction and mimicked sniffing, so it encouraged calming.
Several times in the last week or so, Tajji has been able to look at another dog without losing control. She tenses up, but we can see her trying to calm herself. Her biggest achievement was tolerating a good-sized dog, quietly in a down, at about 100 feet. This is a far cry from the barking and lunging at 1/8 mile! She has also been able to manage walking ahead and in the same direction as another dog at about twice that distance. To be sure, she would glance back, but she didn’t bark or lunge.
One of the keys to working with any dog is to ask for small increments of change. Set the dog up for success. Give them much praise and many tasty treats. Convince them that you are the source of all good things, you will always keep them safe, and the world is a wonderful place!

INTERVIEW: Rachel Manija Brown on Stars of Darkover

STARS OF DARKOVER – not just the glorious night sky over the world of the Bloody Sun, but the authors who have been inspired over the decades by Marion Zimmer Bradley’s favorite world. It will be released on June 3, 2014, to celebrate Marion's 84th birthday.

Rachel Manija Brown's post-apocalyptic YA novel "Stranger," co-written with Sherwood Smith, is forthcoming from Viking in 2014.  She is the author of the memoir "All the Fishes Come Home to Roost: an American Misfit in India," and also writes short stories, graphic novels, poetry, television, and plays. She is currently a graduate student at Antioch University, Los Angeles, in the MA program in clinical psychology, with a specialization in trauma.

­Deborah J. Ross: What inspired your story in Stars of Darkover?
Rachel Manija Brown: My story, "The Fountain's Choice," was inspired by a brief scene in Stormqueen! which shows riyachiyas, who are genetically engineered to be living sex toys, always willing, always obedient. 
I wondered what would it be like if a person who had never had free will suddenly gained it. What would it be like to make a choice for the very first time? 
To play against that character, I wanted a character whose choices had also been constrained, and who had internalized that constraint: someone who could choose, but didn't know it. And since the female riyachiyas were designed be more stereotypically feminine than any ordinary woman could ever be, I wanted to set her against a character who didn't fit into ideas of masculine and feminine at all: an emmasca.
That plus some of my favorite Darkover tropes - delicious food, hurt-comfort, training sequences, interesting laran powers, Ages of Chaos decadence, the harrowing wilderness journey in bad weather - made a story.

DJR: What have you written recently? What lies ahead?
RMB: My novel Stranger, which I co-wrote with Sherwood Smith, is coming out this fall.  It's a YA novel set in a post-apocalyptic frontier town. I would describe it as The X-Men meet the Wild West.

INTERVIEW: Robin Wayne Bailey on Stars of Darkover

STARS OF DARKOVER – not just the glorious night sky over the world of the Bloody Sun, but the authors who have been inspired over the decades by Marion Zimmer Bradley’s favorite world. It will be released on June 3, 2014, to celebrate Marion's 84th birthday
Robin Wayne Bailey is the author of numerous novels, including the Dragonkin trilogy and the Frost series, as well as Shadowdance and the Fritz Leiber inspired Swords Against The Shadowland.  His short fiction has appeared in many magazines and anthologies with numerous appearances in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword And Sorceress series and Deborah J. Ross's Lace And Bladevolumes.  His novelette, "The Children's Crusade" was a 2008 Nebula Award nominee.  Some of his stories have been collected in two volumes available from Yard Dog Press.  He is a former president of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America and co-founder of the Science Fiction Hall of Fame, now located in Seattle, Washington.  He lives in Kansas City, Missouri.

Deborah J. Ross: How did Marion Zimmer Bradley influence your writing career? What inspired your story in Stars of Darkover?
Robin Wayne Bailey: Marion Zimmer Bradley was an early supporter of my writing.  I had just sold my first novel, Frost, when I saw an announcement that Marion was seeking stories for a new anthology called Sword And Sorceress.  I decided to take a shot at that and wrote a story called “Child of Orcus,” involving female gladiators in the Roman arenas during the reign of Caligula, which was a little-known or discussed historical fact at the time.Marion loved the story and wrote an astonishingly complimentary introduction for it, stating, among other very nice things, that “I bought this story under the impression that this was a woman writing about a woman.  Only after deciding to purchase it did I discover that Robin Bailey was a man; but like all really good writers, gender is unimportant to the perceptive eye he brings to the study of his heroine.”  That’s a compliment I’ve always held closely.  “Child of Orcus” became my second professional genre sale and saw publication exactly one year after my first novel appeared.
I sold a good number of stories to Marion after that for further Sword And Sorceress volumes and for such anthologies as Spells Of Wonder.  Indeed, one of my favorite stories, “The Moon Who Loved the Man,” appeared in Spells.  I also sold to her magazine, too.  Marion was always very complimentary and supportive, even going so far as to provide a couple of nice blurbs for my subsequent novels.  But then came a very special anthology invitation.  Marion had decided to put together a special small-print hardback volume of stories by writers she considered “her literary children,” and it would be called Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Worlds.  That she considered me one of her children was immensely flattering, but by that time I was, I thought, leaving the kind of fantasy I had previously sold to her behind and exploring other directions. 
Nevertheless, I decided to take a chance.  I wrote “Eyes of Moonlight, Tears of Stone,” a raw, horror fantasy set in the ghetto drug culture of a modern city and featuring an elderly fat black woman who worked in Child Protective Services.  I knew I was out on a limb, and Marion wrote that she intended to reject the story.  Then, a couple of weeks later, she called.  “Damn you,” she said.  She hated the story, but she couldn’t get it out of her mind, which was, she added, the mark of an excellent story, even if she hadn’t seen it at first.  My story does not fit at all with the other stories in that volume – yet there it is, and Fantasy Worlds today is an extremely valuable collector’s book.
When Deborah Ross contacted me about writing a contribution for a brand new collection of Darkover stories, I was a bit stunned.  I’d written stories for Deborah before, specifically for her Lace And Blade anthologies, and knew her to be a terrific editor and fun to work with.  Yet, I had not read one of Marion’s Darkover books in maybe thirty years.  I wasn’t sure that I knew the world well enough to write such a tale.  Deborah reassured me and promised any help with details I might need.
So, having committed, I settled in one evening with a pair of early Darkover novels and with a computer close at hand so that I could find useful website information.  What I actually found were contradictions upon contradictions.  Marion had never valued continuity over story.  My head was spinning, yet I found details and passages that fascinated me.  I lost my fear of writing a story that wouldn’t fit into an established continuity.  I’d let Deborah iron out the wrinkles with me when the time came.  Little by little, “The Ridenow Nightmare” took form in my brain.  The Ridenow family were the outcasts among the great families of Darkover, and that appealed to me.  I like outcasts, and suddenly I knew my characters, all their strengths and foibles – and all their secrets.  It was one of those nice moments when all the research you’ve done and all your fear and anxiety about a story come together in a special collision, and the words just start pouring out.
When it was done, I felt an immediate concern about the sensuality of the story, but I loved the elements of madness.  Deborah and I wrestled about a single detail, a mere matter of geography, but she accepted the story, and I am excited to be part of Stars Of Darkover, the first anthology of new Darkover stories in many years, and I hope it will serve to introduce an entirely new generation of readers to Marion’s wonderful series.

DJR: What have you written recently? What lies ahead?
RWB: For the past couple of years, after producing twenty or so novels, I’ve concentrated mostly on writing short fiction.  Although I’ll eventually return to novels, I like the versatility short fiction allows: fantasy heroines today, robots tomorrow, time travel the day after that, then maybe a mystery.  More, I’m at a point in my life where I prefer to write for editors that I know want my work and seek me out, who understand my voice and views, and who trust me enough to let me take risks.  That’s a rare and wonderful place to be.  Recently, I’ve sold a number of stories.  “King of the Galaxy Knights,” has just appeared in a terrific collection of modern space opera tales called The Raygun Chronicles.  “The Ridenow Nightmare,” of course, will appear this summer in Stars Of Darkover, and a brand new “Frost” story called “Vengeance” will appear toward the end of the year in a Baen Books anthology called Shattered Shields.  I’ll also have a book of poetry out this year, and my writing schedule for the rest of this year is pretty well booked up.    That, too, is a nice place to be.


DJR: What do you see for the future of Darkover?
RWB: Among the writing projects now on my schedule is Deborah’s next volume of brand new Darkover stories, which she intends to call Gifts Of Darkover.  I’m already turning over possible ideas.  Whatever I write will not be a sequel to “The Ridenow Nightmare.”  I want to leave that story exactly where it ends, for now, at least.  There are so many tales to tell about this fascinating world.  The trick will be to make everything fresh for new readers while also satisfying older, loyal readers and remaining true to Marion’s creation.  It will be an interesting balancing act.  The stories need to be accessible to new readers who may not be familiar with all the previous volumes.  They need to feel welcomed in and charmed to stay.  From what I’ve read so far, Stars Of Darkover does that admirably.  The next trick will be one of marketing – letting readers know that the legendary world of Darkover, one of the great classic creations of the science fiction genre is once again alive.  That will take, among other things, a lot of “word of mouth,” so if you’re seeing this interview – spread the word: Darkover is back and exciting once more.

Nebula Awards Weekend 2014

The Nebula Awards Weekend, hosted by the Science Fiction/Fantasy* Writers of America, is a true feast for the writer (and lover) of the genre/s*. (There has been much debate about whether Science Fiction properly includes Fantasy, and indeed the name of the organization was changed to be inclusive, but pronouncing SFFWA led to so much inadvertent spitting that the earlier, simpler form is preferred.) One (extremely) notable writer put it this way: “I go to Worldcon or World Fantasy Con for my fans, but I go to the Nebs for myself.” This is where I, too, go to be among professional writers, many of the best living, to attend panels given by the top pros for other pro writers, and generally get a refreshed perspective on what an amazing community this is. You don’t have to be a SFWA member to attend, either.
My weekend started top-of-the-morning on Friday with working registration. I highly recommend this. It’s an excellent way to see your friends (and make new ones) as they check in. In fact, at times, my two stints resembled one prolonged, joyous, and occasionally chaotic reunion. I do not, however, recommend doing two two-hours stints back to back, and if I ever sign up to do that again, please whap me up the side of the head. Fortunately, my co-registrar for the second shift understood the symptoms of my crashing blood sugar, and agreed to hold the fort solo for the remaining quarter-hour, so I ran off to an impromptu lunch part with Beth Meacham, Ann Leckie (who subsequently won the Nebular for Best Novel), and Dave Smeds. I don’t usually drop a lot of Names of Famous Folk in my reports, but this is an example of the kind of hobnobbing, socializing, and in general feeling-of-one-tribe that goes on at the Nebs.
When finally our tummies were full and our minds easier, I proceeded to one of the perennial dilemmas of the Neb weekend – two simultaneous panels I wanted to attend! I poked my head in on the standing-room-only Business of the Book Trade, heard some fascinating behind-the-scenes  info, but couldn’t stand much longer (having been on my feet more than not during my registration stint), so sat down for Writing Workshops: From Alpha to Clarion. And stayed put for Writing About Other Cultures, Real and Imagined (with Amy Thompson, Chaz Brenchley, Nancy Kress, Diana Paxson, Tad Williams, and Juliette Wade – don’t you wish you’d been there? It was even better! And what made it so amazing was to hear how many ways writers of this caliber create their worlds. The result was not intimidating but inspiring.)
Friday night (after Pho noodles with friends) was the mass autographing, thanks in part to Borderlands Books traveling bookstore. I set up shop between Robin Wayne Bailey and Madeleine Robins, with Chaz Brenchley and Linda Nagata at the same table. The conversation would have been worth just sitting there, but as it turned out, all of us had readers and fans (since this event was open to the public) come up with piles of books to sign. Ah, delight to an author’s heart!
Then over the hills and through the mountains to home and a sleep husband. Much as I tried to get back for the morning panels, I just could not pry my eyes open, so Dave (Trowbridge, aforementioned spouse and sf writer) and I arrived for the SFWA Business Meeting. I’m not allowed to tell you what happened, except to say that this is the one event open to only SFWA members.Gosh, can I talk about the next panel without dropping names? I give in… Gender in Science Fiction and Fantasy, with (clears throat) Samuel R. Delaney Jr, Nicola Griffith, Nalo Hopkinson (who won the Norton Award for Best YA), and Ellen Klages. Words fail me, it was so wonderful.
The next hour, in the same room, Debbie Notkin and Pat Murphy led a “symposium” for mid-career (5+ years) writers, which was touching and heart-breaking and hopeful. We sat in a circle and shared our current angst, fears, frustrations, etc. How many of us started out 20 years ago with a novel or five, only to have editors die, publishers go belly-up or kill series in the middle, markets dry up, life crises leave us paralyzed…and how do we get our focus and momentum going again? Just knowing we weren’t alone was amazing. To be fair, this isn’t my story…exactly. I went through a period like that back in the late 1990s, and currently wrestle with feeling like a spider on roller skates, being pulled in many directions at once and longing for simplicity of focus.
Fellow Book View Café members (me, Daves Trowbridge and Smeds, Madeleine Robins, and Chaz Brenchley) discussed cooperative publishing to a small but enthusiastic audience. To be sure, many of us had already been talking about who we are and how we do things (and how others could do it, too!) that the effective audience was many times that size. We were scheduled against two extremely popular subjects, too.
And finally, forensic scientist Cordelia Willis gave a hilarious and informative talk about her work, complete with slide show and anecdotes. She said she was inspired by The X-Files, so when people think her work is like CSI, she doesn’t get too upset.
Then to the high-point of elegance: the banquet and awards ceremony. So much glitter and style from folks who normally hang out in jeans and T shirts! Ellen Klages, our Toastmaster, told of researching the history of SFWA, thinking that back in the earliest days she would find a bastion of straight white men, but instead, there was Chip Delaney, a queer black man, winning a Nebula in 1967…and 1968 (actually, two Nebula awards)…with his extraordinary, transformative fiction.
There were some blots on the glitter, which others will tell about and other others will make right, but for me, it was an intense and satisfying weekend. The Nebula Award weekend is on the East Coast next year, and if it’s possible for you to go, pro writer or not, member or not, I encourage you to treat yourself!

INTERVIEW: Janni Lee Simner on "Stars of Darkover"

STARS OF DARKOVER – not just the glorious night sky over the world of the Bloody Sun, but the authors who have been inspired over the decades by Marion Zimmer Bradley’s favorite world. It will be released on June 3, 2014, in honor of Marion's 84th birthday.
Here is the first of a series of interviews with these fabulous authors.

Janni Lee Simner sold her first short story to the anthology Leroni of Darkover more than two decades ago. She's gone on to publish more than three dozen short stories and eight novels, including the post-apocalyptic Bones of Faerie trilogy and the Icelandic-saga-based Thief Eyes.

Deborah J. Ross: How did Marion Zimmer Bradley influence your writing career?
Janni Lee Simner: I'd been a long-time Darkover reader when I first came upon Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover anthologies. I was just beginning to try to write professionally at the time, so I decided to try to write a story for one of them. I sent off for writer's guidelines -- this was in the days of snail mail, and I didn't know to include a self-addressed stamped envelope, but Marion sent me guidelines anyway, along with a page of advice for new writers. (I wonder how she knew? :-)) So I wrote my story, rewrote it about a million times, sent it off -- and was stunned when it sold! Knowing I'd made that first professional sale helped me stick with it as I worked on becoming a better writer and selling more consistently.


DJR: What inspired your story in Stars of Darkover?
JLS: As I began rereading the Darkover books, I was struck by the fact that again and again, one voice was missing. Elaine Aldaran-Montray  -- wife of Kennard Alton, mother of Lew Alton, sister to Larry Montray -- has a huge influence on Darkovan events, and yet we never get her perspective on those events, or even to understand why she left Terra with Kennard in the first place. The more I read, the more I wanted to know who Elaine was, what she was thinking, what it was like for her to be a child of two worlds. I wanted to give this important yet invisible character a voice, and I wrote "All the Branching Paths" to do that.


DJR: What have you written recently? What lies ahead?
JLS: I've recently published Faerie After, the final book of my post-apocalyptic Bones of Faerie trilogy, so I'm very excited about that!

DJR: What do you see for the future of Darkover?
JLS: I don't know, but it'll be interesting to find out! For so many writers to revisit the world of these books decades after many of them were written (and decades after many of us first read them) means we're all returning to Darkover with new perspectives and new ideas, and I look forward to seeing where that leads us!