Rolf Margenau's Blog, page 6
November 2, 2014
New "life" begins
I have just returned from a holiday in Portugal, where I began working on characters for my next novel – a satire about what happens when Congress decides to privatize our national parks. I invented Tureen O’Porto, and though I would share the first draft of her birth. Here she is—
Tureen O’Porto secretly enjoyed the looks she received on entering a new office venue, which she did often as one of K Street’s most effective and well-paid lobbyists. Tall and shapely, with hair as red as a cardinal shrub in fall and eyes bluer than the Aegean Sea, she projected power and influence. Yet, even in her sharply tailored Lady Armani suit, she also projected a raw sexuality immediately noted by all the men in the office who secretly subscribed to Hologram Hustler. That is, almost all the men in the office. Many of them became slack jawed when she entered, usually turning away with a sly smile. Women responded with envy, jealousy, and attraction. Whatever the emotions, all eyes turned to Tureen O’Porto as she entered the offices of the National Green Defense League.
The product of a summer romance between an Irish graduate student cataloging gravestones in Salamanca and the son of a prosperous Portuguese vintner, Tureen spent an enchanted childhood among the gilded vineyards by the Douro River and the bracing Irish highlands. When she was twelve, her parents settled in the United States, where her father imported the finest Port wines from his country and established exclusive fine wine boutiques throughout the country, heavily promoted on Yelp. Business thrived and Tureen, aided by her beauty and brilliance, received an upper class education at Deerfield Academy and Dartmouth. Upon graduation from Harvard Business School, she married her best friend from Dartmouth, Violet Armagasson, but the marriage did not last.
Now, she turned her face, brilliant teeth and azure eyes set in a tanned matrix of smooth skin, toward the receptionist, already reduced to a puddle of submission.
Rolf Margenau – author of High Andes
Tureen O’Porto secretly enjoyed the looks she received on entering a new office venue, which she did often as one of K Street’s most effective and well-paid lobbyists. Tall and shapely, with hair as red as a cardinal shrub in fall and eyes bluer than the Aegean Sea, she projected power and influence. Yet, even in her sharply tailored Lady Armani suit, she also projected a raw sexuality immediately noted by all the men in the office who secretly subscribed to Hologram Hustler. That is, almost all the men in the office. Many of them became slack jawed when she entered, usually turning away with a sly smile. Women responded with envy, jealousy, and attraction. Whatever the emotions, all eyes turned to Tureen O’Porto as she entered the offices of the National Green Defense League.
The product of a summer romance between an Irish graduate student cataloging gravestones in Salamanca and the son of a prosperous Portuguese vintner, Tureen spent an enchanted childhood among the gilded vineyards by the Douro River and the bracing Irish highlands. When she was twelve, her parents settled in the United States, where her father imported the finest Port wines from his country and established exclusive fine wine boutiques throughout the country, heavily promoted on Yelp. Business thrived and Tureen, aided by her beauty and brilliance, received an upper class education at Deerfield Academy and Dartmouth. Upon graduation from Harvard Business School, she married her best friend from Dartmouth, Violet Armagasson, but the marriage did not last.
Now, she turned her face, brilliant teeth and azure eyes set in a tanned matrix of smooth skin, toward the receptionist, already reduced to a puddle of submission.
Rolf Margenau – author of High Andes
August 28, 2014
Underground skulduggery
The amazon people reminded me that it is possible to select a favorite passage of my new book and set it up as a preview. I couldn't resist selecting the beginning of a scene where my heroes are led into an underground cave populated with scores of mummies - that really exists in northern Peru, though not readily open to mere tourists. Unfortunately, they discover they are not alone.
Here is the link; : https://www.createspace.com/Preview/1...
I hope you like reading it as much as I enjoyed making it up.
Here is the link; : https://www.createspace.com/Preview/1...
I hope you like reading it as much as I enjoyed making it up.
July 28, 2014
High Andes novel published
After all the breathless waiting, the book is now available - in eBook format at Amazon.com. The printed version should be available in about 2-3 weeks. You can read the first two chapters for free. Look at http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058EFBKM.
Early reviews are very positive. The one negative one complained that I was insufficiently blood thirsty, not killing government thugs right away and permitting them to attack the heroes again. See if you agree.
My favorite review calls the book a "crackerjack yarn" - whatever that is.
Early reviews are very positive. The one negative one complained that I was insufficiently blood thirsty, not killing government thugs right away and permitting them to attack the heroes again. See if you agree.
My favorite review calls the book a "crackerjack yarn" - whatever that is.
June 17, 2014
High Andes about to see light of day
My excellent editor persuaded me to eliminate material she considered superfluous to the action in this novel. It was like asking me to drown my baby! However, she suggested I allow readers to take a look at what (if it were a movie) ended up on the cutting room floor. Or, more generously, is an outtake that makes it to the DVD version of a movie.
In what follows, called The Storm, mother nature deals with a wealthy Scot who bought a child mummy, Cocohuay, illegally smuggled from Peru to England.
All of Western Europe braced for the storm, forecast to be very serious, gaining energy from warm Gulf Stream waters as it plunged toward the east coast of Scotland. Gale winds buffeted Ardtornish bay, creating huge waves that crashed against the slender promontory supporting McTavish’s castle. He stood near the windows facing the bay and observed a band of oily black clouds spewing toothed lightning march across the visible width of the horizon. The power of the sea sucked hapless boats from their moorings and crushed them against the cliffs descending into the roiling water. Jagged streaks of lightning struck ocean and land. McTavish wondered what the fanciful spirit of Good John of Isla was making of all this turmoil.
A scrubby tree nearby exploded as its sap was superheated by a flash of lightning. The bolt of electricity continued to ground and dislodged a portion of the cliff top. McTavish watched as the constantly illuminated rocks and soggy earth plunged slowly to the foamy water below.
The wind intensified. In the distance, he saw that the controversial wind turbine mounted on a ridgeline was not turning. It had been stopped as a precaution against the storm. Its massive silver blades shuddered as gusts of rogue air currents probed their surfaces. The wind strained the gearbox atop the tower and it twisted upward, forcing the blades into a horizontal position. The gearbox snapped and a massive, crazed Mercedes emblem took flight. It whirled across the ridgeline and came to rest a thousand yards away, one blade impaling the electrical transmission building. A shower of bright sparks, like an earthbound comet, exploded from the building, joining the advancing lightning strikes across the bay.
That same wind roared against the ancient bulwarks of Ardtornish castle, howling like an army of lost souls, searching for chinks in stone and mortar, trying to shatter glass. McTavish felt a change in air pressure; the flames in the large fireplace guttered and faded, then sprang back to life with a roar. Clusters of lightning moved like aged dancers toward him across the bay. Where they struck the water, fiery orange explosions atomized seawater. A path of hot coals, simmering in the water, marched toward the base of the promontory supporting the castle. Wind and hail scoured the castle; massive waves crashed against the base of the headland just below the castle. The Gods cracked their cheeks and blew forth a tempest never before seen on the Scottish coast. Wind speeds exceeded two hundred miles an hour.
His factotum entered the hall to report that an uprooted tree had struck the roof of the stable McTavish had converted into a garage. It appeared that one of the cars was damaged. Tiles on roofs of other outbuildings had been blown off and glass in one of the greenhouses had been shattered. As he spoke, electricity cut off, and the fire briefly illuminated the room until the generator system started up. Not accustomed to being thwarted by man or weather, McTavish asserted that they were “safe as houses,” and offered the other man a drink of whiskey. He stood next to the sideboard as McTavish wandered toward the great window and looked again across the bay – now dark as midnight and boiling like a witch’s cauldron.
Over the eons, normal movement of the earth and assaults by wind, weather and sea had gradually expanded fissures in the volcanic basalt that comprised the peninsula on which Ardtornish castle stood. No probing of the earth as required to determine the structural integrity of the castle’s foundation would reveal underlying weaknesses in the rocky mass beneath the building. Those basalt cliffs had yielded themselves to time and elements for millions of years, sloughing off from time to time and plunging into the ocean below. The black cliff on which McTavish’s castle stood had been preparing to slip into the sea for thousands of years. The advent of the phenomenal storm now blasting the coast served to advance the time of that geological mishap. The huge basalt chunk underlying the castle was beginning to split the seam that held it to its neighbor and tumble slowly into Ardtornish Bay.
That seam was a few feet away from the eastern end of the castle; the bulk of the building was located atop the basalt mass preparing to relocate itself. Amid the thunderous turmoil of the storm, a sickening groan from the earth was unheard, certainly not by McTavish who had climbed up to the oval chamber where Cocohuay rested. Lightning flashes flickered in her room, washing out her sallow skin, making her face paper white. Her teeth gleamed among intermittent shadows. The storm pushed against the bay window, which bowed but held. The wave of lightning passed and moved inland. The wind, rain and hail no longer disguised the sound of grinding movement in the bowels of the earth. Unseen in the black night, turf, rocks and dirt tumbled from the tip of the promontory, followed by great shards of basalt disturbed from their equilibrium by the weight of the oncoming monster behind.
McTavish felt a slight movement under his feet, which expanded as caulking around the bay window popped into the room. Then the window fell forward, letting in the storm outside. The western wall of the building began to move outward and down. Fat rectangles of newly applied mortar fell from the ancient stones. The laird of the castle, astonished, gathered his wits and began to run down the stairs to the floor below. But there was no floor below. Or a floor above. He stood transfixed on the remains of a stairway that held tenaciously to the inner wall and watched as the towers of his castle, illuminated by internal lights, tumbled into the opening abyss below. Then the stones under his feet fell away and he followed them down to the sea.
Cocohuay’s chamber tilted forward, dislodging her glass encasement, which shattered on the stone floor. The little mummy rolled forward and settled in a sitting position. She held that pose as the stones beneath her settled slowly, dropped toward the opening below. Then she became entwined with the rubble of the once grand castle and descended to the waiting waters of the bay.
From earth to mountain heights to the depths of the sea Pachamama reclaimed little Cocohuay. Her earthly journey had ended.
In what follows, called The Storm, mother nature deals with a wealthy Scot who bought a child mummy, Cocohuay, illegally smuggled from Peru to England.
All of Western Europe braced for the storm, forecast to be very serious, gaining energy from warm Gulf Stream waters as it plunged toward the east coast of Scotland. Gale winds buffeted Ardtornish bay, creating huge waves that crashed against the slender promontory supporting McTavish’s castle. He stood near the windows facing the bay and observed a band of oily black clouds spewing toothed lightning march across the visible width of the horizon. The power of the sea sucked hapless boats from their moorings and crushed them against the cliffs descending into the roiling water. Jagged streaks of lightning struck ocean and land. McTavish wondered what the fanciful spirit of Good John of Isla was making of all this turmoil.
A scrubby tree nearby exploded as its sap was superheated by a flash of lightning. The bolt of electricity continued to ground and dislodged a portion of the cliff top. McTavish watched as the constantly illuminated rocks and soggy earth plunged slowly to the foamy water below.
The wind intensified. In the distance, he saw that the controversial wind turbine mounted on a ridgeline was not turning. It had been stopped as a precaution against the storm. Its massive silver blades shuddered as gusts of rogue air currents probed their surfaces. The wind strained the gearbox atop the tower and it twisted upward, forcing the blades into a horizontal position. The gearbox snapped and a massive, crazed Mercedes emblem took flight. It whirled across the ridgeline and came to rest a thousand yards away, one blade impaling the electrical transmission building. A shower of bright sparks, like an earthbound comet, exploded from the building, joining the advancing lightning strikes across the bay.
That same wind roared against the ancient bulwarks of Ardtornish castle, howling like an army of lost souls, searching for chinks in stone and mortar, trying to shatter glass. McTavish felt a change in air pressure; the flames in the large fireplace guttered and faded, then sprang back to life with a roar. Clusters of lightning moved like aged dancers toward him across the bay. Where they struck the water, fiery orange explosions atomized seawater. A path of hot coals, simmering in the water, marched toward the base of the promontory supporting the castle. Wind and hail scoured the castle; massive waves crashed against the base of the headland just below the castle. The Gods cracked their cheeks and blew forth a tempest never before seen on the Scottish coast. Wind speeds exceeded two hundred miles an hour.
His factotum entered the hall to report that an uprooted tree had struck the roof of the stable McTavish had converted into a garage. It appeared that one of the cars was damaged. Tiles on roofs of other outbuildings had been blown off and glass in one of the greenhouses had been shattered. As he spoke, electricity cut off, and the fire briefly illuminated the room until the generator system started up. Not accustomed to being thwarted by man or weather, McTavish asserted that they were “safe as houses,” and offered the other man a drink of whiskey. He stood next to the sideboard as McTavish wandered toward the great window and looked again across the bay – now dark as midnight and boiling like a witch’s cauldron.
Over the eons, normal movement of the earth and assaults by wind, weather and sea had gradually expanded fissures in the volcanic basalt that comprised the peninsula on which Ardtornish castle stood. No probing of the earth as required to determine the structural integrity of the castle’s foundation would reveal underlying weaknesses in the rocky mass beneath the building. Those basalt cliffs had yielded themselves to time and elements for millions of years, sloughing off from time to time and plunging into the ocean below. The black cliff on which McTavish’s castle stood had been preparing to slip into the sea for thousands of years. The advent of the phenomenal storm now blasting the coast served to advance the time of that geological mishap. The huge basalt chunk underlying the castle was beginning to split the seam that held it to its neighbor and tumble slowly into Ardtornish Bay.
That seam was a few feet away from the eastern end of the castle; the bulk of the building was located atop the basalt mass preparing to relocate itself. Amid the thunderous turmoil of the storm, a sickening groan from the earth was unheard, certainly not by McTavish who had climbed up to the oval chamber where Cocohuay rested. Lightning flashes flickered in her room, washing out her sallow skin, making her face paper white. Her teeth gleamed among intermittent shadows. The storm pushed against the bay window, which bowed but held. The wave of lightning passed and moved inland. The wind, rain and hail no longer disguised the sound of grinding movement in the bowels of the earth. Unseen in the black night, turf, rocks and dirt tumbled from the tip of the promontory, followed by great shards of basalt disturbed from their equilibrium by the weight of the oncoming monster behind.
McTavish felt a slight movement under his feet, which expanded as caulking around the bay window popped into the room. Then the window fell forward, letting in the storm outside. The western wall of the building began to move outward and down. Fat rectangles of newly applied mortar fell from the ancient stones. The laird of the castle, astonished, gathered his wits and began to run down the stairs to the floor below. But there was no floor below. Or a floor above. He stood transfixed on the remains of a stairway that held tenaciously to the inner wall and watched as the towers of his castle, illuminated by internal lights, tumbled into the opening abyss below. Then the stones under his feet fell away and he followed them down to the sea.
Cocohuay’s chamber tilted forward, dislodging her glass encasement, which shattered on the stone floor. The little mummy rolled forward and settled in a sitting position. She held that pose as the stones beneath her settled slowly, dropped toward the opening below. Then she became entwined with the rubble of the once grand castle and descended to the waiting waters of the bay.
From earth to mountain heights to the depths of the sea Pachamama reclaimed little Cocohuay. Her earthly journey had ended.
January 18, 2014
New Wylie Cypher book coming
A book, tentatively titled High Andes,is due for publication late spring 2014. In it, Wylie is in his mid-40s and working as an international lawyer. On a business trip to Peru he decides to trek the Andes with his daughter, Mercy, who has just graduated from college.
Mistakenly, he is given documents that outline government approved torture and "disappearances." That precipitates a chase across the high Andes by two sets of villains - government thugs and members of the communist guerrilla Sendero Luminoso. Wylie and Mercy face repeated threats and Wylie loses a little toe. The C.I.A. is involved, too.
Subplots refer to international smuggling of historical artifacts, the fate of a 600 year old child mummy, and the ancient spirit of the mountains, Pachamama.
Themes are - how a dysfunctional government and an increasing gap between rich and poor lead to anarchy; don't screw with mother nature; and money can't buy everything.
If anyone would like to review this thought-provoking thriller, leave word and I will provide an advance copy.
Mistakenly, he is given documents that outline government approved torture and "disappearances." That precipitates a chase across the high Andes by two sets of villains - government thugs and members of the communist guerrilla Sendero Luminoso. Wylie and Mercy face repeated threats and Wylie loses a little toe. The C.I.A. is involved, too.
Subplots refer to international smuggling of historical artifacts, the fate of a 600 year old child mummy, and the ancient spirit of the mountains, Pachamama.
Themes are - how a dysfunctional government and an increasing gap between rich and poor lead to anarchy; don't screw with mother nature; and money can't buy everything.
If anyone would like to review this thought-provoking thriller, leave word and I will provide an advance copy.
October 20, 2013
October Garden
Bitsy Crangle, a main character in Master Gardener, provides the following gardening advice (there is more in the book):
We can expect the first touch of frost this month, and you might want to extend the color and life of your annuals by covering them with a sheet or tarp on evenings when frost is expected. This is also the time to gather completely dried seedpods, collect the seeds, put them in a sealed container and refrigerate. Why pay the big seed companies their ever increasing prices when your seeds are free? I especially encourage you to harvest asclepias (milkweed family) seeds to plant next year. The monarch butterflies love and need those plants.
Chances are fall rains will saturate the soil around your home, making weed control a bit easier. Perennial weeds will only become more of a nuisance next year so remove them (such as thistle, dandelion, dock, Japanese knotweed and plantain) with an appropriate tool and try to get all the roots. Mulch your garden heavily with an organic mulch (I’ve had success with well-rotted horse manure) to thwart winter weeds and protect perennials from freezing and thawing.
We can expect the first touch of frost this month, and you might want to extend the color and life of your annuals by covering them with a sheet or tarp on evenings when frost is expected. This is also the time to gather completely dried seedpods, collect the seeds, put them in a sealed container and refrigerate. Why pay the big seed companies their ever increasing prices when your seeds are free? I especially encourage you to harvest asclepias (milkweed family) seeds to plant next year. The monarch butterflies love and need those plants.
Chances are fall rains will saturate the soil around your home, making weed control a bit easier. Perennial weeds will only become more of a nuisance next year so remove them (such as thistle, dandelion, dock, Japanese knotweed and plantain) with an appropriate tool and try to get all the roots. Mulch your garden heavily with an organic mulch (I’ve had success with well-rotted horse manure) to thwart winter weeds and protect perennials from freezing and thawing.
September 1, 2013
Interview on Smashwords
FYI, I've just completed an in-depth Q&A interview at Smashwords, and invite you to comment. Feel free to suggest additional questions you would like to see answered. Here is the link:
https://www.smashwords.com/interview/...
https://www.smashwords.com/interview/...
August 6, 2013
Sacramento Book Review Review
Master Gardener had to travel to California for this review, but I think it was worth it.
Finally, a novelist — and a very good one at that — has taken a crack at the dark side of industrial agriculture. But, although the more nefarious practices of Big Ag aren't much easier to swallow when fictionalized, this wry, sexy, politically timely novel offers more loveable characters than detestable ones, as a group of volunteer gardeners from the northeast U.S. take on the type of multinational company people love to hate.
When an American visiting a bazaar on the banks of the Amazon inadvertently buys some unusual seeds to plant back home, it will turn her Master Gardener program — and potentially the whole country's food system — upside down. The imported food crops turn out to grow larger than average and, more significantly, keep the surrounding soil free of weeds. This threatens to make obsolete the flagship products of Bemis International, who, like its rival Monsanto, is making a fortune selling not only glyphosate, but glyphosate-resistant (or "Roundup Ready") seeds to farmers, who can then spray the pesticide on their fields to kill weeds, but not crops. At the same time, another group of Master Gardeners is devising a bold (and comical) plan to save the milkweed, and thus, the endangered butterflies that feed on it. Recently retired lawyer-cum-Master Gardener Wylie Cypher (who fans will remember from Margenau's previous book //Public Information//) joins the grassroots crusade and kicks off a series of events that will expose some of Bemis's Draconian tactics, but with the burden of proof on the gardeners that they did not steal proprietary genetic engineering, their only hope of avoiding a lawsuit will be to return to the Peruvian Amazon and find similar plants growing naturally.
Sprinkled with satirical send-ups of recent conservative legislation, //Master Gardener// ends as tidily as a Shakespearean comedy, with matches made and justice served — but in surprising ways. It's a satisfying conclusion after a fun 300 pages, and best of all, there's room left for yet another adventure with Wylie.
Finally, a novelist — and a very good one at that — has taken a crack at the dark side of industrial agriculture. But, although the more nefarious practices of Big Ag aren't much easier to swallow when fictionalized, this wry, sexy, politically timely novel offers more loveable characters than detestable ones, as a group of volunteer gardeners from the northeast U.S. take on the type of multinational company people love to hate.
When an American visiting a bazaar on the banks of the Amazon inadvertently buys some unusual seeds to plant back home, it will turn her Master Gardener program — and potentially the whole country's food system — upside down. The imported food crops turn out to grow larger than average and, more significantly, keep the surrounding soil free of weeds. This threatens to make obsolete the flagship products of Bemis International, who, like its rival Monsanto, is making a fortune selling not only glyphosate, but glyphosate-resistant (or "Roundup Ready") seeds to farmers, who can then spray the pesticide on their fields to kill weeds, but not crops. At the same time, another group of Master Gardeners is devising a bold (and comical) plan to save the milkweed, and thus, the endangered butterflies that feed on it. Recently retired lawyer-cum-Master Gardener Wylie Cypher (who fans will remember from Margenau's previous book //Public Information//) joins the grassroots crusade and kicks off a series of events that will expose some of Bemis's Draconian tactics, but with the burden of proof on the gardeners that they did not steal proprietary genetic engineering, their only hope of avoiding a lawsuit will be to return to the Peruvian Amazon and find similar plants growing naturally.
Sprinkled with satirical send-ups of recent conservative legislation, //Master Gardener// ends as tidily as a Shakespearean comedy, with matches made and justice served — but in surprising ways. It's a satisfying conclusion after a fun 300 pages, and best of all, there's room left for yet another adventure with Wylie.
August 4, 2013
August garden trivia
Bitsy Crangle, one of Master Gardener's heroines, begins her August gardening column by asking if anyone knows why "the dog days of summer" are associated with August. The answer is found in chapter six. Hint: you must be Sirius.
July 14, 2013
English Major
Any English Majors out there? There is vindication available. See my essay at http://dld.bz/cGSvn.
Enjoy
Enjoy
