M.K. Alexander's Blog, page 6

Me and Muse

Doomed to failure

I am not best friends with my Muse. We may in fact be mortal enemies, though I will say he or she has never appeared before me in any form, indistinct or otherwise. No shimmering glob of light, or spirit animal, like an owl. When he or she does come, trouble is not far behind. Sabotage and seduction are the watchwords.

Having just finished writing a five book opus, some 2,500 pages, or a million words, I should be resting. And so should my Muse. I should be creatively juiced-out. Or burned out. Or, slipping into a deep despair, a creative void, an alcoholic stupor…

More productively speaking, I should be marketing and promoting, seeking agents and reviewers, stalking book-bloggers, and pestering Netflix to make a series. At the very least I ought to catch up on years of procrastination, like clean up my apartment, or file a few years of back taxes… Well, I did feed my cat. He was looking a bit thin and he’s purring today.

I also took a look at my back-burner list: all the numerous projects I started and never finished (yet). Surprisingly, some are further along than I thought. Not surprisingly, many of the ideas are terrible, and others are so far from completion, I could slip into a deep depression. I didn’t though… I did come across a couple paragraphs I’d written about Mr Thursby.

Who? Mr Thursby. An odd character sketch of a cadaverous sort of guy who has a warning for humanity. I wrote this? I didn’t remember. Maybe my Muse wrote it. Cut and paste. New document. Hmm, this could be a quick little short story… write, write, write; revise, research, write some more… One week later, and my little short story is sneaking up on a hundred pages. Crap. Now what? Is it a long short story, a small novella, or a novelette?

The point being, I should be resting. I should be doing practical tasks. I should be catching up on all the neglected things in my life. I am sorely out of balance. Damn you, Muse! I shake my fist at thee. Why must you strike me at this time? And with such deadly force.

The dilemma? Go where the Muse takes you, or refuse to listen and seek pragmatic goals. Now I know why I’m a successful failure; and why my cat is so skinny.

Ending Frustration

Writing, unlike other forms of art, can be very frustrating until you are completely done. What the heck am I talking about? If you’re a painter, a sculptor or a musician, you probably don’t know what I mean. If you a writer, no doubt you do.

I’m talking about making progress and making it visible. No doubt, every artist, no matter his or her milieu, works at their project on a daily basis. Say you’re a painter and someone walks by your easel while in the midst of working. They can glance at the canvas and see where you’re going. If they come by the next day, they can observe what progress you’ve made. Likewise for a sculptor. “Oh, I see what that is…” And a musician or a songwriter, they’ve got it easy too. In just a few minutes or so, you could sing a verse or two, or hit the chorus.

What about the writer— especially the novelist? Can anyone see the progress you are making? Probably not. Only you the author can see where it’s going, only you can tell that the book is getting thicker, word by word, that you’re adding pages slowly but surely.

And nobody gets to see it till your done, or a done enough with a decent draft that you can dare show someone. Even an excerpt is barely accessible… not until you revise, rewrite and tinker some more, not until you turn that phrase just right.

The end of frustration is called publishing, and with that a whole new set of problems arise.

Done, done, and done

Book 5 is up and running, the paperback is in the mail. Some five years of my life are gone— five years I’ll never get back…

Admittedly, I feel a terrible sense of loss. I’ve lived with these crazy characters for a long time, and now I have no one to talk to, no one to argue with, except my cat.

Inspector Tractus Fynn has been a stalwart friend, unwavering in his generosity and keen insight. His intrepid companion Patrick Jardel, dragged kicking and screaming into the land of time travel, was the “I,” the first person narrator; and of course he’s me, well, a slightly younger version, an autobiographical version.

And the eccentric crew at the Sand City Chronicle? Chain-smoking Eleanor, Editor-and-Chief, a wisp of a woman, probably won’t live much longer. The other reporters, like Joey Jegal, half-Korean, half-Italian— he speaks to me no longer. Nor Frank the sportswriter, who has a different baseball cap for every day of the year. Well at least the ad-reps still talk to me, like Don Pagor who cannot speak without yelling, or perfect Melissa— both are willing to give me marketing tips, if I buy and ad in the paper.

Will I miss the villains? Of course… there’s cartoonish Javelin Mortimer, who just can’t help but be evil. He prefers speaking to other versions of himself, his doppelgängers. And Kali? Intent on destroying history… Well, I won’t miss her much.

I will miss the other crazy characters, like Madame Madeline and her brother, Brigadier Thomas who live in the library at the Palisades. Oh, the library… go down into the stacks, the spiraling nautilus where time passes so quickly, you come back up to find you’ve aged fifty years.

And all those nice folks in Boulder Colorado, Andy, Jamal Morris, Cindy, Kaiser Wayne— they probably hate me by now…

Will I miss Mr Quandary who lives in his ivory tower on the Cocos-Keeling Islands? And, his giant friend, Lothar, who has a penchant for gingerbread men? Hmm— the lobotomized version, or the one who possesses reason?

Hmm… How about my language instructor, Grigori Bulgakov and his family? Pretty sure they were vaporized.

Well, there’s always Pavel Mekanos and his best bud, Edmund Fickster— the tech guys. Next time I need to travel in time I’ll give them a call. And there’s Sebastian Clark, the footless concierge at the Hotel de Cirque— used to run a seaside resort on the shores of the Aral Sea— I suppose I could book a flight to Kazakistan and pay him a visit.

And so many others, I can barely remember them all… The Arbiter, Doctor Zed, Doctor Valenti, Sheriff Durbin and his son Ricky… Not to mention the lovely Anika, Chloe and Lilly, sisters who cohabit the same body.…

Okay, so now what?

Maybe I could call up some old friends, real ones, “Oh hey, remember me? I used to know you five years ago… How about a nice game of frisbee golf?”
“Go out drinking, you say? Well, maybe if I sell a book, I could buy you a beer…”

FYI— the newest (and last) Tractus Fynn Mystery, Red City, and all my other novels are here:

https://www.amazon.com/MK-Alexander/e...

Release Day

Red City, the final book in the Tractus Fynn Mystery Series will be published Thursday, May 31, probably towards the end of the day. Right down to the wire as is usual for me. That’s the e-book on Amazon; the paperback to follow a few days later.

I’m always asked: is this a stand alone story?
I’m always vague in my reply: yes and no…

Of course the story is self-contained in one book, but the characters are not, nor their various modes of time travel. It’s more like one giant narrative, and a jigsaw puzzle of immense proportion, spanning 2,500 pages. It could be read separately, I suppose, though much would be missed.

In book five, Tractus Fynn and his cohort, Patrick Jardel, are tasked with fixing some obscure bits of history that have gone awry, and, as usual solving several murders.

Resting Upon Laurels

I’ve ordered two hundred and fifty pounds of laurels. They should be arriving any day now via FedEx ground. I’ve already got the tracking number, but hope they don’t arrive too soon. Sleep when you’re dead kind of thing. I’ve also explored various posthumous publishing options. No matter what, I’ll have enough bay leaves for an eternity of chili. (I have a good recipe if anyone wants…)

There’s still formatting left to be done… InDesign— not my favorite software— but serviceable for putting together a good paperback edition. Slated for release is Red City, the final book in the Tractus Fynn Mystery Series. My self-imposed deadline is May 29.

Okay, finishing a 500 page book (think Russian-sized novel) is good. A feeling of satisfaction… This is book five though, all together, up around a million words or so, 2,500 pages. If I tweak the font size, I’ll be up there with George RR Martin— one difference though— I’m finished, done; it’s been completed.

So… What’s next?
Staring into space is high on my list. I may even feed my cat. Netflix might be called upon. And peering into the abyss is also possible.

Taking a Break...

The deadline looms for the release of RED CITY... the fifth and final Tractus Fynn Mystery. To say the story goes far afield is to say little.

My publication date is set for May 29.

Currently, I'm on the final drafts. I generally do 12, and I'm on 9. At this point, my computer is reading back to me (Think Siri or Stephen Hawking-- closer to the former). I run it with several voices. I "hear" lingering errors that I can no longer "see." I also get a sense of cadence and rhythm. If the computer can make it sound good, I know I'm done. The final draft is read aloud by me, and I'm hoarse by the end of it....

The last step is of course formatting-- and I've found a way to do it without ever opening MS Word! Praise Heaven!

Hope to be back next week...

Alternate History, WW2, Part 4

Alt-History…
World War II
Part 4


The Armistice and War’s End

In April 1945, FDR’s last words were, “The Center must hold.” He was referring to the central continents, surrounded on one side by the West, Nazi fascism; and to the East, the Imperial Dynasty. His Vice President, Henry Wallace aka… the Negotiator, took office a few days later. The US remained a bastion for freedom, individuality, and tolerance— though some would complain, it was nearly overcome with immigrants.

Diversity was its strength, others would claim. The ethnic and national remnants of displaced people from all across the world lived in enclaves throughout the Americas. It was a vast cultural mosaic and they held the memories of their origins alive in light of overwhelming force elsewhere.

At President Wallace’s disposal were the new atomic weapons, available for use in the summer of that year. He chose two targets: the first was Corvo, an Atlantic island about one square mile in size, the northernmost island of the Azores, and uninhabited. All the world was invited to watch, the Germans and Japanese especially. It was all but obliterated. A second demonstration, the following week, removed the Bikini Atoll from the map. Two months later, armistice talks began…

The Post War World
Hitler died in 1962, in his sleep, and at age seventy-three. With new leadership, there was a “softening” towards the conquered races. Ethnic groups and nationalities were no longer to be exterminated, but ‘should be placed in service of the Reich.’ And after a generation or so, some autonomy crept in. Administrators from other European nations stepped up to fill the sputtering bureaucracies. “Paris will always be Paris…” as it was famously said by General Rommel. London did not fare as well.

There were rumors of atrocities: death camps, slave labor, mass extermination, and sterilization on an industrial scale. Nothing was ever proven, and few believed the persistent stories. Such inhumanity was without parallel, most people would say. When it came to unmatched brutality, it was difficult to decide which were worse, the Nazis or the Japanese Empire. For at least a generation, the overlords were feared and loathed.

A terrible new truth did come to light as the years passed. Throughout the occupied lands, the first generation had been called collaborators; their descendants were labeled opportunists; and with the third generation coming of age, they were now considered the new elites, prosperous and wielding power, albeit under the oppressors’ direction.

Such was not the case in the Center as it came to be called. A diverse, vibrant culture remained— unruly and chaotic, but in the end still ruled by a semblance of democracy. The standard of living was certainly higher, though it was no less militaristic than the other two powers, and all seemed to be on a constant war footing.

To the East and West, both new empires suffered from the same basic problem. There were simply not enough Germans, nor enough Japanese to run things properly. The idea of racial purity had not worked out in practice. Many Aryans took wives of other races in Europe, the Ukraine and across Russia. And Japanese men did much the same in Asia. Three generations later, one’s social status usually depended on how much of a mix you were.


Note:
An excerpt from Red City, the fifth and final Tractus Fynn Mystery, to be published in May.

Alternate History, WW2, Part 3

Alt-History…
World War II
Part 3


War in the Pacific

After Pearl Harbor, America for its part rested on her laurels. It was at least a victory for propaganda. Our forces were heroic beyond measure. A tactical victory, one might say, though in actuality, the Pacific fleet suffered a strategic defeat that would take nearly a year to recover from. The loss of oil fields and dry docks was the real disaster. None of this was brought to the attention of the public. The mitigated attack had left the fleet at Pearl more or less intact, but the loss of the Enterprise and the damage done to Lexington was a severe blow. War was declared in the date of infamy, December 7th 1941.

For their part, Japanese military leaders revised their strategies after the debacle. They chose a new target: Midway, and conquered it easily with a small invasion force. The Johnson Atoll fell a few months later. Gradually entrenching their position with flak guns and a sizable force of dive bombers and zeros, the islands became like aircraft carriers that didn’t sink. Nor could they sail.

One by one, every island that could be taken in the Pacific was taken, even a few of the Aleutians in the North. In less than a year Imperial Japan dictated America’s strategic efforts, and those were now decidedly defensive. America’s number one aim was to get the islands back, one by one. The greatest fear being the development of Japanese long range bombers stationed at Midway…

The Pacific Theater
All eyes turned to Australia, the last bastion of Britishness. The allies mutually decided it could not and would not fall; though in actuality, Japanese strategic intentions remained largely inscrutable. A three-pronged approach was quickly developed: defense, supply, and emigration. By and large they were successful and exceeded all expectations.

The first battles were fought for the Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea in late 1942. Southern shipping lanes had to remain open at all costs. Gradually, the north Australian coast became the most heavily fortified place on the planet: the Malay Line, though the only major city under direct threat was Darwin. To the west and south, from Perth to Melbourne, and from Brisbane to New Zealand, the populace remained relatively safe from attack.

A mass emigration ensued from existing and former British colonies. Vast convoys sailed virtually unmolested, scrupulously protected by a burgeoning American Navy. Bodies were needed for soldiers and industry, for defense and farming. The Aussie deserts would be transformed, said the propaganda. Most immigrants came via the western ports of Canada, Vancouver and Victoria. And later, from Cape Town in South Africa and even the Indian subcontinent, once the Germans had begun their southern advance.

During this time, the Japanese strategy of harassing the Panama Canal took its toll. The only lane between two vast oceans was choked off by the repeated sinking of numerous ships on their western approaches by a seemingly endless fleet of Japanese midget submarines.

In response, the US signed treaties with Ecuador, Peru and Chile, access to their ports, and as a fly in Imperial Japan’s strategy. The canal might shut down but the Pan-American Highway never did. It was Eisenhower who oversaw the tripling of America’s infrastructure, trains, roads, bridges and highways. War materials could reach either coast in a matter of days.


Note:
An excerpt from Red City, the fifth and final Tractus Fynn Mystery, to be published in May.

Alternate History, WW2, part 2

Alt-History…
World War II
Part 2


It was the newsreel that took our full attention though, and it shocked me to the core. It confirmed much that we had already learned, and might as well have been entitled: The Fall of Britain.

Filmed in standard propaganda style, the newsreel footage told the story well enough, as did the serious narrator: They had fought on the beaches, in the fields, in the streets, and shop to shop, but in the end they lost. Churchill himself died valiantly; to the last, manning a fifty caliber machine gun perched above Trafalgar Square. He chose martyrdom.

The fall of Britain had actually begun at the end of May 1940, with the Disaster at Dunkirk when more than a quarter of a million men-at-arms were killed or captured, virtually the entire British army. This was a turning point, a crushing blow to morale.

Over the next summer, German Air Marshal Göering saw to it that the coastal radar stations were destroyed. The London blitz was a secondary tactic. Spitfires were eliminated one by one, many on the ground.

Then came the October Surprise… the early days of the month provided calm seas and fog. A full scale Nazi invasion proceeded and beach heads were established near Dover and Brighton.

Two days later, America was firmly entrenched in Iceland and Greenland, strictly as a precautionary measure, it was said.; though we stopped short of declaring war on Germany.

There was fierce resistance, yet it amounted to a pull back, ever westward, and to Ireland. Civilians mostly, then a mass exodus to the US and Canada… bound for Halifax and Boston.

A vast convoy sailed across the Atlantic, hunted by U-boats; thousands were lost… It’s estimated that nearly ten percent of the population evacuated the British Islands, close to five mullion people: the old, the infirm, women, children, the wealthy, the political class, and those with technical knowledge that could later help the war effort; namely, academics, scientists, industrialists, and engineers… But the Corridor of Mercy became the Corridor of Doom.

Note:
An excerpt from Red City, the fifth and final Tractus Fynn Mystery, to be published in May.

Alternate History, WW2

Alt-History…
PART 1

The Atlantic War
In 1942 when America formally declared war on Nazi Germany, there was little they could do against Fortress Europe. Moreover, entry into the European theater had been delayed by nearly a year, and by then it was too late. There was no where to go. Britain had fallen and the repercussions were enormous. North Africa was locked up, Egypt occupied and the Sudan; the Suez canal in German hands. Oil flowed freely into the Nazi heartlands. Turkey, Baghdad and Tehran soon fell under Hitler’s sway. The vast swath of territory from the northern Sahara to the Indian Ocean was given over to the Italians to administer.

Spain joined the axis in early 1942, under the leadership of El Caudillo, aka General Franco. He promptly marched into scrupulously “neutral” Portugal and effectively closed off all access to the eastern Atlantic. With Lisbon gone, there was also no exit for the thousands of remaining refugees. It was however the perfect excuse to seize Portuguese territories: the Canary Islands and the Madeira archipelago— and the Americans did so readily.

The next viable strategic port was in the Azores. A port the United States vowed to take. Operation Gray began in the summer of 1942. With a landing force of 30,000, the islands were quickly secured. The US gained a toehold in the strategic shipping lanes. There was little Spain could do to retaliate, and the Germans chose a policy of non-engagement for now.

I flipped through the pages and came across a chapter on Britain. I already knew that history. It only confirmed what I had seen in the newsreel, though I learned it took a further two years to subjugate the British Isles against fierce resistance. And the Royal Navy had remained largely intact. At least on paper, everything that had been British was now German, the colonies, that is. Fully a quarter of the planet’s population and about a third of its landmass were handed over to Nazi control. Hitler’s gift to Tojo: Burma and everything east of India…

Note:
An excerpt from Red City, the fifth and final Tractus Fynn Mystery, to be published in May.