Ron D. Voigts's Blog, page 8

You've got to have theme...

Perhaps of all things a writer must deal with, Theme is the most elusive.  I daresay many of the books I’ve read recently I’d be hard pressed to tell you what the book’s theme was about.  Yet the classics are what they are because of theme.  They say something. And long after the book has ended, the theme lingers. 
Theme is not a moral nor a lesson.  As writers, our job is not tell parables or preach to our readers. Rather we make statements, identifying issues, illuminating life.  Right—wrong. Rich—poor.  Majority—minority.  Does not matter where it comes from, but say something that makes your reader go “aha!”
When I wrote Penelope and The Birthday Curse , I took a long look at what I was saying.  I finally realized the theme: finding identity.  Armed with that knowledge, I knew what underlay everything that Penelope did. Despite her mother’s efforts, she was defining who shewas.
In your writing, ask what am I saying here? What is my theme? 

A Ghost Ship, Cannibal Rats, and the Graveyard Shift

In the news this week is a ghost ship headed for the UK and aboard are cannibal rats. Around 1976, the Yugoslavians built this luxury liner, the Lyubov Orlova, for the Russians to ferry their wealthy, although back then I think that was only Commies, to the cold regions of the world. Leave it to the Ruskies not do like everyone else and visit the Bahamas or the Riviera or the Mediterranean.  The venture didn’t work out well. Don’t know why.  Who wouldn’t want to shell out big bucks—or is that Rubles?—to see ice bergs and seal slaughters? After racking up big debt, the ship was seized by the Canadians for scrap and ferried to Dominican Republic. But somewhere along the way they lost it. The thing has been adrift since 2010 and is heading for the UK coast.
 Ontop of this is the theory that the only living things aboard are rats.  Without much food, they would need to turn to each other, and become cannibals. Munch, munch, munch.  When the ship hits the land, the mutant rodents will disembark and gorge themselves on unsuspecting Europeans. (Perhaps we should warn them.)  Albeit, no one takes into account that the boat has been adrift for 4 years and maybe the hungry rodents have depleted their numbers by now. O, dear, what will they ever do?
 I just caught on Netflix the Stephen King movie, Graveyard Shift. Like most of King’s movies which are very, very good or very, very bad, this one was in the latter class of flicks.  **Spoiler alert** This one hinges on a big, like really big, rat that has developed wings and lives in the basement of a textile mill,.  We could call it a bat but then that wouldn’t fit in the movie’s plot of the regular size rats showing up just before big brother arrives. I envision on the Lyubov Orlova this big rat at the helm wearing a captain’s hat and carrying a fork and knife. He orders the crew: “Full steam ahead. I’m hungry.”

 

Killer Bats on Patrol

Friend of mine catches a picture in the news this week of cute little bats wrapped in blankets. Little possum like face peak out of snug little wraps.  Story goes they were orphaned during flooding off the Gold Coast of Australia.

"How big do you thing those little guys are?" I ask.

She raises hand and looks down at it, wiggles her fingers.  I knew she was thinking not too big. Some bats are no larger than a thumb.

"They're big when grown up. Really Big," I say.

"How big?" she asks.

We look up a video on YouTube and watch to remarks of "Oh, my gosh!" and "Good grief!" The largest can have a wingspan of almost six feet. Because of the head shape, they are sometimes called flying foxes. Good news they eat fruit and nectar. Yep! No blood suckers hear.


I figure have a couple of these six foot creatures hanging from the rafters in the house and you won't need  burglar alarm or door lock.  Just hang a sign out front. 

 KILLER BATS ON PATROL 

 

The Great Printer Mystery

I’ve been an HP printer fan for a long time. My wife has one hooked up to her computer. I like them for the ease in refilling the print cartridges. Typically I could refill a cartridge three, four, sometimes more times before the quality of the printing degraded.  But a few years back, I saw a great price on an Epson Workforce 520. Only $49.99.  I was looking for a printer for my computer. This one was a 3-in-1. Did everything. Even faxed, which was great if I had a telephone like to hook to it.  So I bought it.
I soon learned the print cartridges were trickier than my wife’s HP to fill, if not darn right impossible. To buy new cartridges would cost a fortune.  First I’d need a dual pack of black as the printer needs two. That costs $31.45. And I’d need the color pack which costs $35.49. For a whopping $66.99, which is $15 more than I paid for the machine, I could replace the entire set of five cartridges or throw away the printer and start over.
I opted for plan B and bought refillable ink cartridges for $33.95 and the ink for $49.95 for a grand total of $83.90.  A bit of an investment, but considering how many times I can refill the cartridges, this can pay for itself in no time.  I have been using this plan for about two years, until a month ago when suddenly the printer no longer recognizes the yellow cartridge. Now the printer refuses to print anything, even only with blank ink. Very clever!
I am not sure how a cartridge that has been in service suddenly goes bad after two years. I tried all the tricks. Cleaning contacts. Removing and reseating the cartridge. Power down and force a complete reset. Nada.  It’s not coming back from the dead.
I have an email in to Ink Owl and see what they think. Maybe I can buy just a yellow cartridges. Hey! Perhaps this thing has a lifetime warranty…probably not. I am considering scrapping the whole plan and buying third party cartridges, (IF Epson is the first party, who’s number 2?) while hoping the printer is not the fault.  Or go to plan C?
What’s a good Cannon printer model?

What's in a name?

When my wife and I were expecting our first child, we worked at finding just the right name. Now this was a time when the sex of the child was not readily available or given to parents. However, my wife felt positive it would be a girl and that was our focus. After reading many baby name books (yes, this was a time be for the Internet), we came up with one that be both liked. We told family and friends on our pick.  We were so excited to have a daughter named Melanie.

Then she was born.  Everyone in the delivery room wanted to know what my wife and I would name the new little girl. Funny things was we didn't know. We both agreed she didn't look like a Melanie and decided we'd wait until the next day as it was now well after midnight.

That night it came to me. The sweet little face. Blond hair. Blue eyes.  She'd looked like a Becky. Of course, I could hardly wait to tell my wife the next day when I returned to the hospital.  I arrived just as the nurse brought my new daughter to my wife.  I was about to blurt out the name when my wife announced she had thought of what we should name the baby. I had learned even at this early point in my married life not to argue. Somewhat dejected, I said, "Go ahead. What is the name you picked?"

Holding the baby up and staring down in her sweet face, my wife said, "Let's name her Becky."
Amazed, I asked how she came up with the same name I had thought up.  My wife said, "She looks like a Becky."

The same logic goes for characters in a story. They need names that fit them.  A nineteen year old hottie would not do well named Mildred.  An Italian immigrant named Fred would not be to convincing. I recall a kids show from years ago with a silly Frankenstein monster called Brucie. Funny but not scary.

Shakespeare said: "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." True, but a dozen bananas would never be as well-received for a wedding anniversary.

A clip from that old TV show...

Another Year, Another Book

Another Christmas has come and gone. Soon the new year will be upon us--2014. I marvel when I think how much has happened in my lifetime and how far I've come. Being born in the 50's has given me a great perspective on things. I've seen great Presidents and not great ones, witnessed wartime and peace, lived in prosperous times and survived the poor ones.  Some things have not changed.  Still married to the same wife of 40 years.  Have two great daughters. Kept a roof over my head and food on the table. For all this  I thank God.

I've decided to not to make any resolutions, but keep with the big plan. In 2014, I will publish another book, and began writing another. For 2014, the book will be Strigoi: The Blood Bond. This is my first vampire novel, although it's not another blood sucking story.  This one came to me while taking a walk one night in the Allegheny Mountains.  What if a vampire created a town, hidden in the hills where he kept and protected his subjects? They provided a constant blood supply for him and he infects them with his disease that allows them to live forever.  Enter into this world a new citizen of the town, who does not like the arrangement and wants out.

I changed the lore. My vampire is a shapeshifter. He has a reflection, but the mirror shows his true nature.  Sunlight does not destroy him but robs him of his powers.  Only fire or decapitation can kill him, and an iron stake through the heart immobilizes him. Buried in the tale is a murder mystery as someone is killing off residents of the village and its not the big guy in the mansion.

Looking forward to the next year. Happy new year to all!!!

Oh, Christmas Tree, how dangerous are your branches.

This week I give you an excerpt from Penelope and The Christmas Spirit. This one is where Penelope and her family get their first Christmas tree.
    When she reached him, he was standing with his eyes lifted toward the sky, staring at a fir tree that loomed ahead. “There it is. Our Christmas tree.”
    She tilted her head to take in its peak. “It’s big. Maybe too big.”
    “Time to get started.” Father dropped the saw as he surveyed the tree. With the coil of rope still slung over his shoulder, he vanished into its abundant foliage. A quiver moved up the branches. As he went higher, she caught glimpses of his red plaid coat and green Cossack hat. Near the top, he peeked out and waved.
    “If you fall and kill yourself,” she shouted, “Mother will be mad at you.”
    “No need to worry about me. Take the end of the rope.” He tossed it to her and secured the other end to the top of the tree.
    Branches bounced and jostled as he climbed back down. He reappeared at its base. “I want you to  pull on the rope when I say.” He took the saw and plunged back into the greenery.
    A rasping sound filled the air. Creak-whoosh-creak-whoosh. “Drats!”
    “Are you OK?” Penelope craned her neck to see through the branches.
    “It’s the saw. Too much rust. I should have sharpened and oiled it. Just remember to pull on my command.”
    “I will.” Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the rope.
    Creak-whoosh-creak-whoosh.
    “Almost there.” he shouted. Creak-whoosh-creak-whoosh. “Pull, Penelope.”
    With the rope wrapped around her hands, she tugged with her body’s weight. “I’m pulling, Father.”
    “Well, pull harder.” Creak-whoosh-creak-whoosh. The saw’s rhythm intensified, and Father grunted with each push of the blade.
    “Are you pulling, dear?” he asked, out of breath.
    “Yes, Father.”
    “I don’t understand. It should be falling by now. Keep the rope taut.” He resumed sawing.
    Her feet dug in the thick of the forest floor. Her body listed forty-five degrees, supported only by the stretched rope.
    “I just don’t understand,” he said.
    Creak-whoosh-CRACK!
    The line slackened, and she nearly lost her footing.
    “Pull,” Father shouted.
    She strained against the rope as he scurried from the tree and to her side. He grabbed the loose end. “Together now.”
    CRACK!
    The tree finally surrendered, and the rope went completely slack.
    “Run, Penelope, run,” he said as he sprinted away.
    Years of avoiding her parents’ advice left her watching the tree’s progress. Its dark image silhouetted against the crisp morning sky rushed toward her, whooshing around her as she dove to the ground. She closed her eyes and wondered what death was like.
    The air was devoid of sound. The pungent odor of tree permeated her senses. For the moment, it was a most pleasant experience. She must be in heaven, and it was pine scented.
    “Penelope?” Father’s voice was firm and calm. “Why didn’t you run?”
    Her heart raced as she recalled the moment. The thought of nearly being killed by a mammoth Christmas tree had taken her life to a new height, if for a brief moment. She had stood her ground, or rather lay on it, and survived.
    She composed an answer for Father. “The artistic moment of the tree framed against the sky was too inspiring. It reminded me of something Henry Thoreau, the philosopher, had once said, but that moment passed, and I don’t remember what he said now.”
    “If you are finished being inspired, would you mind coming out of there.”
    She surveyed the surroundings. Every branch and limb had missed her, some by only inches. Pine needles stuck out everywhere on her coat. She ran her fingers over her head, finding more of the green slivers attached to her stocking hat.
    Orienting herself on her hands and knees, she began the process of crawling out, which was difficult because of the coat’s length. As she weaved between the tree limbs and pine verdure, she spied jagged edges of light and Father’s legs.
    He made a small sigh as she left her woodland shelter. “You should have followed me.”
    “You won’t tell Mother, will you?”
    “Under the circumstances, it is best for us both that she does not know.”

How do I kill thee? Let me count the ways.

My wife becomes a bit distraught that I write about death.  Murder to be exact.  I sit at the key board, tapping keys and describing details of the gruesome demise of some poor soul, while pausing briefly to spoon ice cream into my mouth and contemplate the finer points. Not enough blood. The best location to drive the knife into the body.  A bullet to the head or heart. I wonder if we have any more Rock Road.
But the murder mystery is not about death, but solving a riddle. For most mysteries, the detective remains detached from the emotion of the death and focuses on finding the killer. And that is what makes the genre endearing—pitting intellect with the detective to discover to who-done-it.
And now back to killing someone…

"...some maniac could have...killed me."

This week, I bring you a cut from Claws of the Griffin.  Peter Reynold nosed his rental car in the ditch during a heavy rain.  Left with the prospect that he has to walk to town in the dead of night, he sets out toward Archer Springs, NC.


        I rechecked the cell phone and still no signal. What was this godforsaken place? The last stop before falling off the edge of the world?     When I was thirteen, my father and stepmother sent me to a boarding school in Ohio. They said it was to prepare me for college. I think it was because my stepmother hated me. I ran away three times during my freshmen year. The night of my last escape, the police picked me up hitchhiking down a lonely stretch of road. Later the headmaster at the school lectured me and said some maniac could have picked me up and killed me. Until tonight, I didn’t truly understand.     Drizzle pelted my face as I walked in the direction I had driven earlier. Muddy and wet, I plodded ahead, thinking about lying in my warm bed back home. My hope lay with some Good Samaritan coming by and rescuing me. Hopefully my grungy appearance wouldn’t scare him off, and he wouldn’t be a maniac.      The sizzle of tires rolling on wet pavement echoed from ahead. Car lights came over the dark horizon like the rising of two moons. I waved my arms and shouted, “Hey,” but the truck zoomed by, spraying me with water.
      I stared at the vehicle driving away from me, but then the taillights grew brighter. Even in the dark, I realized it made a three-point turn and drove back. A wave of relief surged over me, but as the truck neared I wondered what was coming to my rescue.     The truck looked gray or blue in the night and sat high on oversized tires, looking like something from a monster truck rally. A skull and crossbones decorated the door, and the chrome grill caught glints of the headlights, almost glowing in the night. The gargantuan truck pulled up in front of me and stopped.     I waited, expecting the door to pop open and someone to invite me inside. An eerie feeling crawled under my skin, and I remembered a movie where the devil drove a black hearse, cruising the back roads, looking for souls to take back to hell. But this was a truck, gray or blue—I looked hard and thought maybe it was black.     Not getting a formal invitation, I reached high and worked the door handle, opening the cab. I expected the dome light to illuminate, but the inside stayed dark. Behind the wheel sat a man, the contours of his face accentuated by green lights on the dashboard. He never looked at me, and I wondered if he was the devil.     “I’m sorry to sidetrack you. Obviously you were heading in the other direction. I can wait for another car and let you go back to wherever you were going.” I swallowed hard and took a step back.     “Get in,” the stranger commanded.     My heart said no. My head said no. I thought about the headmaster’s warning that a maniac would get me on some deserted road. But the wind whipped up, blowing frigid mist against the back of my neck as if touched by the hand of a corpse. I shivered and climbed inside. I barely had the door closed when the driver pressed the accelerator. The truck lurched forward, snapping my head back. I fumbled with the seatbelt and strapped myself in.     The dashboard lights reflected off his face and made him look surreal, like a Dali painting. Straggled wisps of hair hung over his ears, and the contours of his face resembled the work of an unfinished sculpture. I thought of Norman Bates in Psycho and regretted climbing into the truck.
Claws of the Griffin is available from Amazon for 99 cents.

A Good Place to Dump a Body

Across a corn field, north from where my parents lived was a deserted farmhouse. Weathered. Grey. Dreary. The place looked like the house behind the Bates motel.  At night, I thought I saw lights in its windows.  In the daytime, dark figures moved around the perimeter.  My parents said the place was abandoned long time ago. No one lived any longer in it. And they said, "Never, never go there."

One Sunday in autumn, my best friend Jimmy and I stared across the field at the old house. A local farmer, renting the land, had harvested the corn a week earlier, and we had a good view of the house. Nearby trees had lost their leaves. Heavy clouds blotted the sun. And the wind carried a chill.

Jimmy took few steps in the direction of the farmhouse. "Bet it's haunted.”

"No such thing as ghosts." I shook my head.

"Who told you that?"

"My mom."

But I had my doubts, especially late at night when everyone was in bed. That's when the house creaked and shadows seemed to move. The safest place was in bed, under the covers, which somehow seemed to ward off the evil spirits.

Jimmy watched the house for a long time. "Want to go there?"

I knew my parents wouldn't like it, probably get me in trouble. Even back then, kids still got grounded.  "Sure."

Off we went, hiking through the corn field, now just bent stalks. The trek seemed to take forever.  When we reached the house, we stood in front of the rundown building in awe that we finally had made it. The windows were broken out. The steps to the porch rotted. The front door hung askew from one hinge.

"Wanna go in?" Jimmy flashed a grin.

I didn’t want to look like a coward. "Sure."

Cautiously we made our way up the steps being careful to stay on ones that looked solid. When we reached the front door, we looked at each other.

Jimmy craned his neck to see inside.  "You first."

"This was your idea." I stepped back.

"Are you chicken?"

 "No." I swallowed hard thinking what could be the worst thing we'd find. I stepped inside and Jimmy followed.

The inside was in ruins.  Curtains fluttered from glassless windows. Faded wallpaper curled away from the ceiling. A worn staircase led to a second floor.  In the middle of the living room gaped a gigantic hole in the floor, the edges worn and decayed.

Jimmy moved closer and peered down into it. “Wow!”

I joined him.  The bottom seemed a long way down. Stuff lay scattered below. Bulging bags. Old boxes. Newspaper stacks. And something else.

“Do you see that?” I pointed as something.

Jimmy stared for a long time. “It’s a dead body.”

“Can’t be.” But I wasn’t too sure. In the shadows, I could make out something that looked like a human torso missing a few things.  “If it’s a body, where’s the head and arms and legs?”

He scratched his head. “In the bags.”

Was it just the shadows? Or did our eyes play tricks on us? Yet I could see it clearly now.

Jimmy gasped and pointed. “Look.”

Farther inside the living room was a red stain on the floor. I didn’t want to say what it looked, but Jimmy said it for me.

“Blood!”

The sound of two twelve-year-old boys screaming could be heard five counties away. We nearly killed each other trying to get out the front door first.  The rotting steps no longer mattered, because our feet barely stayed on them long enough. It wasn’t until we were half way across the corn field that we stopped.

I looked back, breathless. “Someone was murdered back there.”

“And the body dumped in the hole.” Jimmy shivered.

“We got to tell our parents.” But we didn’t, too afraid we’d get in trouble.

On Monday at school, we told the story to our friends.  Of course, the details changed over time. Many bodies in the hole. Blood everywhere. A man with a hooked hand chased us.

The story gained momentum and our fan base grew, until Pamela Wicks interrupted.

“That’s the old Smith farm. My dad and I went out there a few weeks ago. Figured no one would mind, so he dumped some trash down the hole. Bags and boxes of stuff from the garage. He also threw an old dress maker’s form down there that my mother no longer used.  Wasn’t no body.”

Jimmy raised his chin and glared at Pam. “What about the blood?”

Pamela sniffed. “I had a can of grape juice with me. It spilled it by accident. Made a big mess.”

Soon the gang was murmuring. “Stupid story…I didn’t believe it…Let’s get out of here.”

Jimmy punched my arm. “I told you it wasn’t a body.”