Sharon Joss's Blog, page 11

Pressing On – Writers of the Future

Sharon Joss Writes

Yesterday we went to Bang Printing in Valencia to see our beautiful books get printed. We got a tour of the plant, and got to see our books assembled and printed from start to finish. They handed us the first copies–literally hot off the press.

They also told us it would take 24 hours for the glue in the binding to dry. Doh!  So on the bus ride back to ASI we CAREFULLY started reading. You could have heard a pin drop!

Later that afternoon, we critiqued Tim Napper’s 24-hour story, FLAME TREES (awesome!), and then Tor’s Tom Doherty (eep!), Mike Resnick (eep!) Robert Sawyer (eep!) and Orson Scott Card (eep!) all wowed us with their insights on writing and the business of writing.

Dinner that night was a seafood buffet where a few more of the WOTF ‘family’ showed up–Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle, Kevin Anderson, Rebecca Moesta, and more big names in art and science fiction and fantasy than you can possible imagine.

It was like a mini WORLD CON.

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The Plot Thickens – WOTF

Sharon Joss Writes

It’s too hard to explain.  Let me sum up.

Here we are, the whole horde of us, traipsing off to Author Services for our workshop. My lack of posts are no indication whatsoever of our lack of activity. We’ve been going and doing nearly every minute of every day. At 4pm on Wednesday, the clock began ticking on our “24-hour Story”. On Thursday EVERYONE turned their stories in, and we got to hear scientist and author Dr. Doug Beason talk about some pretty nifty technologies–including freezing time (yes, Virginia, you heard me.) TIME FREEZE! After that, we trooped downstairs to  see the art created for our stories by the brilliant and talented illustrators.

It was magical. The art is set up on easels, and we walk in and try to find our story art while the illustrators (and everyone else) are watching.  There is a moment when you go from yearning/seeking/striving to certainty that is completely overwhelming.   I’m not naming any other names, but I cried like a baby.  Gonna use that in a story, I think.

Today we head out on a field trip to see our stories come off the press. Everyone is super excited.

Gawd what a bunch of geeks we are.

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Opening Scene – WOTF

Sharon Joss Writes

Well, we’re here; our faces scrubbed our eyes shiny with awe as Tim Powers (far right) and Dave Farland (just behind Tim) give us the overview last night of what we’ll be doing in this week’s workshop.

 

On the other side of Dave (R to L) is Steve, Kary, Amy, (me), Samantha, Michael, Zack, and Daniel.

And so it begins…

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Expectations

Sharon Joss Writes

I’m coming up on a couple of major milestones in my life. Six years ago this week, I made a commitment to myself to focus all my efforts on becoming a professional writer. In less than two weeks, I’m going to be headed to LA for a writers workshop and to attend my first awards ceremony (as a winner!).

Wow. Six years as a writer.

When I started, I expected to be supporting myself with my writing in three years or less. I expected that in five years, I’d hit the best-sellers list (I didn’t know anything about being a fiction writer).

Boy, was I ever wrong about that.

In actuality, I’ve earned less than $2,000 from my writing so far. The general consensus is that it takes about ten years for a writer to become self-supporting, but I didn’t know that then, and I have no intention of giving up. The last six years have been both the most challenging and happiest of my life. I always knew I wanted to be a storyteller; I just didn’t anticipate that writing fiction would be so gratifying (and liberating), or that it would bring me closer to my true self. I never expected that.

When I first started submitting my work, I expected it would be well received. I ‘ve earned two college degrees and consider myself smarter than the average bear.

But I was wrong about that, too.

I had a lot to learn. Rejection became my new expectation, until (about a bazillion rejections later) I made my first sale. A blip of ‘yes’ in the river of ‘no’. I kept writing, even as I knew I was merely creating more fodder for rejection. And then, a year later, there was another blip, and another, and the form rejections began to arrive with personal notes of encouragement to keep submitting. And then one of my stories won a contest. Not just any contest, the biggest speculative fiction competition for amateurs: Writers of the Future.

It’s taken me the better part of three months to wrap my head around the fact that on April 12th, I’ll be joining my fellow winners in a theatre in Hollywood for the awards ceremony. And we’ll be joining the ranks of other writers who also achieved that milestone and went on to become named writers (many of them, best-sellers). And if that wasn’t enough, the week prior to the event, we’ll attend a week-long writers workshop, taught by some of the biggest names in the genre.

I expect I’ll be raising my future expectations accordingly.

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The C. Stuart Hardwick Interview: Sputnick’s Orbit!

Sharon Joss Writes

Here it is–my very first online interview!

Check out Sputnik’s Orbit by fellow Writers of the Future winner C. Stuart Hardwick.

Stuart writes “romantic”, “hard sci-fi”, “space-opera and “military”, with epic themes.  You can find his stories here.  And here.  Seriously great stories.

 

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Embrace the Green

Sharon Joss Writes

Everything’s coming up green here, and I for one and more than ready for Spring.

The cherry trees in my neighborhood are raining pink petals all over the sidewalks, and daffodils have burst through the soil, nodding their heavy heads to me and Rowan as we pass on our daily walks.

I mowed the lawns last week, and I’ve got grosbeaks and woodpeckers competing with the winter chickadees and nuthatches at the feeder. You can blame it on the groundhog or daylight savings time, but the morning bird chorus is almost at a crescendo.  Nature is entirely predictable.  Spring is on it’s way.  Won’t be long now.

So get out–revel in the green!

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Nomination Time: Love In the Time of Dust and Venom

Sharon Joss Writes

 

I’m not one to do a lot of self promotion, but my short story from last year, Love in the Time of Dust and Venom makes me eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. If you’re attending Sasquan 2015 or eligible to vote for the Hugos, you can read the whole story right here.

 

LOVE IN THE TIME OF DUST AND VENOM

By Sharon Joss

Using his walker to brace himself, Keiko watched her ancient grandfather stoop beside the packed dirt path and tug at a weed. Nearby, sprinklers sang shoop-shoop-shoop in the stillness, sending cascades of water across the wide expanse of lawns. She saw his eyes twinkle as he slapped the roots against the side of his worn black trousers. The scent of moist earth joined the fragrance of lavender and eucalyptus in the quiet July morning. The old man stood and slowly put the dandelion in his pocket. He knew she didn’t approve, but this had become their little ritual.

When he first came to live with them, he spoke rarely, and then only Japanese; a language she struggled to recall from childhood. She found him to be a man of expression, rather than words. The first time she brought him to the LA County Arboretum he spoke to her of how much he missed his wife and home. Now they came every Tuesday morning, after she dropped the boys off at school. There was no sense of time or country here. They’d come to think of the botanical gardens as their special place.

He toddled over to their favorite bench; the rough wooden one beneath the purple jacaranda tree with a good view of the Queen Anne Cottage. Then, as the bees hummed around them, he took her hand as he often did, and her 97-year-old grandfather began to tell her about lightpulse technology.

* * *

Now that they were here, sitting in this dreary yellow reception lobby of Time Horizons Incorporated, Keiko realized she was going to have to face the fact that she was, essentially, sending her grandfather to his death. She was certain Ojiisan didn’t think so.

His enthusiasm for the idea of travelling into the future had put the whole family in an uproar for weeks.

She glanced at her grandfather, sitting so proudly beside her. From his shiny black patent-leather shoes to the brand-new Sears suit, to the top of his freshly shaved head, he was nearly glowing with anticipation. He’d even gotten her twelve-year old to shine up his walker with windex.

Keiko put her hand on top of the gnarled fist. His tissue-thin skin was cool; too cool.

“Are you warm enough, Sofu?”

He merely nodded, his bright eyes glued to the red numbers of the digital display mounted on the wall across the room. The aroma of new carpet seemed to suck all the oxygen right out of the air. Muzak played softly in the background. While they’d waited, she’d counted twenty-one orange plastic chairs in the waiting area, yet there were only four other people in the room. All were younger. Much younger.

“Now serving number forty-six.” The disembodied digital voice echoed across the agnostic waiting room.

Her heart skipped a beat. They would be the first. Keiko helped her grandfather to his feet. “That’s us, Ojiisan.” The frail old man was wide-eyed and eager, but even with his walker cane, he needed help getting up off the orange plastic, and he was heavier than he looked.

Once he was on his feet, he patted his jacket pockets carefully.

“I have it right here, Sofu.” She pinned a wilted Sacred Lily leaf to his lapel. Rhodea Japonica was Japan’s most revered native plant. She’d had to comb nearly every florist shop and plant nursery in Santa Monica before she found a place that carried them. She’d been tempted to simply snip a hosta leaf from the botanical garden, but that would not have been respectful.

Following two steps behind, Keiko watched her grandfather shuffle toward the attendant, who held the door open for them.

“My name is Brad,” the young technician told them. He motioned them into an interview room containing modern, Scandinavian-style metal furniture. Russet shag carpeting and more of the orange plastic chairs provided the only color in the white room. After they were seated, Brad glanced at his clipboard and made a face. “I’m afraid I’m not very good with Japanese names. Is it Tadeo Yakashita?”

“Hai,” her grandfather nodded.

“My grandfather does not speak English well,” Keiko explained. “I am here to translate for him, if that’s okay.” Grandfather was worried they would reject him because of his age, but she was more concerned they would not take him seriously without her there to speak for him.

“It’s not a problem.” He opened the folder on his desk and Keiko saw he had some of Sufo’s medical records. Pages and pages of expert opinions; but in the end, they all said the same thing. Six months, no more.

“I understand, based the statements made by his doctors, his prognosis is terminal, and aggressive treatment is contra-indicated because of your grandfather’s great age and the advanced state of his disease.”

Keiko nodded. “Yes.”

“I must tell you, most of our clients come here looking for a cure, but that’s not what is says here on the application. Could you please explain why your grandfather wants to go into the future?” Brad pointed to the small camera located near the ceiling. “And please be aware, this conversation is being recorded.”

Keiko took a deep breath. Her grandfather’s future depended on how she answered this question. If she was not able to explain his reasons, his spirit would never be able to rest. The weight of Sofu’s soul felt heavy on her shoulders.

“My grandfather lived his whole life in the village of Okuma, Japan. So did his grandfather, and all his forefathers going back, well, forever. When the Fukushima Daiichi disaster occurred in 2011, the village of Okuma was within the red zone. My husband and I went over to Japan after the tragedy and brought him back with us, but he wants to die in the land of his ancestors. He believes that if he dies here, he will wander forever as a ghost, and never find peace.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to send him into the past?”

Keiko smoothed down her skirt. The small white room seemed to shrink with every word she spoke. She struggled to keep the tremor out of her voice. “My father and grandmother also lived in Okuma at the time of the disaster. They were both killed in the tsunami. My grandfather wants to share his eternity with the spirit of his beloved wife and son most of all.”

Sofu nodded once, for emphasis.

“I see.” Brad made several notes in the file. “Are you willing to let him go? This is just a Beta test. The lightpulse jump might not be able to bring him back if there’s a problem.”

She reached for her grandfather’s gnarled hand, asking the silent question with her eyes.

He gave a determined nod and thumped his cane on the floor.  “Hai!”

“He understands the risk. He says he wants to go. I respect his decision.”

Brad excused himself, and left the interview room, taking the file with him.

They did not have long to wait. When Brad returned, he was smiling. “Your grandfather’s situation is out of the ordinary for us, but our legal department has given us the go ahead,” he said. “You’re in.”

* * *

The lightpulse lab looked a bit like the pictures she’d seen on television of NASA control rooms. One entire wall was filled with monitors and graphs and satellite photos. A low white platform about six feet across rose from the center of the room, flanked on two sides by white-coated technicians seated at several workstations. The air conditioning chilled the white room uncomfortably. Someone had hung a child’s spaceship in front of the air vent, and the toy twirled gently in the draft. If there was ever a place less like the arboretum, this must surely be it.

She could not understand the lack of fear in Sofu’s face. She had never seen him so excited.

As soon as the navigation engineer arrived, everything seemed to happen at once. A nurse checked Ojiisan’s vital signs, while a doctor peered into his eyes and ears, and double-checked his reflexes. There were waivers to sign and coordinates to triangulate and calculate. But soon, too soon, it was time to say goodbye.

Her concern had been building from the moment they’d arrived, but now, more than anything, Keiko didn’t want him to go. She held her hand to her mouth to keep herself from saying anything. This was what he wanted, and how could she be so selfish as to deny him his peace of mind? But the pain in her heart was nothing compared to the twinkle of joy she beheld in her Sofu’s eyes.

The navigator, Dr. Orlov, explained what would happen. “We’ve set the coordinates so that he will materialize on the street in front of his home one hundred years from today. We know from current satellite photos that the rubble has been cleared, so we can be fairly certain that he’s not going to end up inside a wall somewhere.”

Two technicians helped her grandfather into the powder blue travel vest. It was made of a lightweight, netted material with large zippered pockets; some obviously empty, others bulging with equipment. It hung long on Sofu; halfway past his knees. When they handed him the control device, Keiko translated Dr. Orlov’s explanation of how it worked.

“The green button will initiate the lightpulse jump into the future; the blue button will return you back to this time and place. The vest automatically records all the environmental measurements of that place and time. One hundred years in the future, there will be radiation but it won’t be strong enough to bother you.”

The old man clutched the controller to his chest and nodded fiercely. “Hai!”

“And one more thing. For legal reasons, no one can push the green button for you. If you wish to go to the future, you will have to push the green button yourself. If you decide to stay, remove the vest, press the red button, then zip the controller into the right front pocket. In 60 seconds, the vest will return without you. Do you understand, Ojiisan?”

They assisted him to the platform, and made sure he had a good grip on his walker cane.

“Are you ready,” asked the navigator.

“Yes!” Grandfather’s beatific smile lit up the laboratory.

Dr. Orlov began the countdown. “Three, two, one, go.”

Nothing happened.

The technicians all cheered and raced forward to remove the blue travel vest.

“Ask him how it was!” Dr. Orlov was grinning ear to ear.

Keiko shook her head. “But nothing happened. It didn’t work.”

“Oh yes it did. Like I said, he returned to this time. Just ask him.”

The despairing look on her grandfather’s face told her all she needed to know. The Sacred Lily leaf she had pinned to his lapel was gone. She wanted to go to him, but they were too busy checking his medical signs. His hands were dirty; his shoes scuffed and coarse with dust and bits of dried mud. A tang of ozone filled the air of the lab. When he spoke, her heart squeezed in her chest.

“Tell me what he’s saying,” Orlov demanded.

Keiko couldn’t stop the tears of both relief and sadness. “He says he wants to go back. He wants me to tell you there is a shrine at the top of a hill overlooking the village. He wants you to send him there instead of back to his house.” She stifled a sob.

“What? What else did he he say?”

She could barely choke out the answer. “He says next time, he wants to go 200 years.”

* * *

The technicians at Time Horizons had taken all of Sofu’s fine new clothes when he returned from his lightpulse jump, so when they went back to the Time Horizons headquarters the following week, he was forced to wear one of his older suits and a pair of black Nikes. She had not been able to find any more Japanese Sacred Lily leaves, so they’d clipped a sprig from a huge cedar tree at the Arboretum. When they reached the reception lobby, Dr. Orlov was waiting for them. He looked like a man who’d just won the lottery. Or maybe a Nobel Prize.

“Mrs. Erikson, please extend our grateful thanks to your grandfather for his bravery. We’ve only just begun to analyze the data gathered from his trip. The value and importance of this information to mankind supersedes even what scientists have even been able to extrapolate from Chernobyl.”

Keiko had spent all week trying to talk Sofu out of returning, but in the end, she’d had to obey his wishes. Now, her only hope lay with the navigator.

“Dr. Orlov, I would like you to tell him that there has been a mistake. Please, tell him the machine is broken. Or that you’ve found someone else. I don’t care what you say, but I don’t want him to go.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “Why would I do that? Have you any idea the significance of your grandfather’s contributions to science? The dust on his shoes alone–.”

“I don’t care,” Keiko’s mouth trembled with the weight of her emotions. “He’s been having nightmares. He’s so upset by what he saw. He says the town is filled with angry ghosts.”

Sofu put his heavy hand on her shoulder for silence. “Two hundred years, Orlov-san,” he said. “I am ready.”

Just as before, they helped Sofu into the heavy travel vest. For this trip, Dr. Orlov explained, they added several additional measurement devices, and a digital camera. As the technicians showed him how to operate the equipment and Keiko translated the navigator’s instructions, she saw the gleam of pride return to Sofu’s weathered face.

“Now I don’t want you to worry, Mrs. Erikson. Your grandfather’s suggestion to place him at the shrine is brilliant. Those temples were really built to last. Even if people have returned to the area, they’re not likely to have torn the place down, and he’ll be as safe there as anywhere.”

Despite the heaviness of the equipment, Sofu stood straight and tall upon the platform. She shook her head. Somehow, this whole thing had gotten changed around. Sofu was no longer at peace. The angry ghosts of his ancestors truly terrified him. It was as if he believed serving the people at Time Horizons was now more important than saving his own soul. She’d tried to convince him to die in Los Angeles, but he’d refused to listen. Most of all, she hated the thought that Dr. Orlov and the scientists were using her grandfather as an experiment. They probably thought he was just some old man.

She kept her thoughts to herself.

This time, however, when the lightpulse shimmer completed, her grandfather dropped the controller and fell to his knees. He hid his face behind puffy, mottled red hands and keened softly. His walker cane was gone.

She rushed forward, but Orlov held her back so the medical technicians could treat Sofu. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?” She twisted away from Orlov.

“Ask him!”

But Sofu answered before she could ask. “Bees,” he said.

They gave him Benadryl, and within thirty minutes, he was resting more comfortably. Keiko counted seventeen bee stings, mostly on his hands and arms.

This time the interview took much longer. She held his hand as she translated for Dr. Orlov and his team. Sofu described the changes he observed in the immediate vicinity of the temple. The landscape had become overgrown, he said; the people had not yet returned to live in the village. The sky was yellow; thick with clouds which rained down ash. In the distance, Mount Fuji had been belching noxious gouts of gas and lightning. He had been making his way around the temple when an earthquake struck, and the beehive had been knocked to the ground close to where he had fallen. Unable to get away from them, he pressed the return button when the bees began to attack.

As before, he was determined to go back.

“No, Ojiisan,” she begged tearfully. “You cannot”. His puffy, swollen face and arms bore testimony to the danger of returning. She could not bear the thought of him lying in a distant future; suffering and dying alone. He might as well be on some distant planet.

Sofu’s chin jutted forward resolutely. “One thousand years, Orlov-san,” he said. “I am ready.”

* * *

They waited for weeks for word, and when none came, Keiko began to relax. The bee stings seemed to take the starch out of Sofu, at least for a while. He slept a lot. Things at home with Dan and the kids went back to normal. Christmas passed, and then Valentine’s Day. Sufo accompanied her to the kids soccer games, and on the Tuesday mornings, they visited the LA County Arboretum.

By the end of April, his appetite began to fail.

Dr. Orlov’s assistant Brad called to say that if Mr. Yakashita was still interested in making a lightpulse leap of 1000 years, Time Horizons would be willing to send him.

That night, she tried again to reason with him. She pointed out that in a thousand years there might be nothing left of earth. What if something worse than bees happened to him? What if he was trapped there with the angry ghosts? When she suggested that Dr. Orlov was just using him as a guinea pig, he turned his back to her.

* * *

This time, she dressed in black. She brushed her long dark hair until it shone, then twisted it up into a tight chignon, holding it in place with new bobby pins. She found a little pillbox hat with a bit of veil and wore her good wool suit, even though it was May, and nobody wore mourning clothes in LA anymore. In the car on the drive over, neither one of them spoke. She’d hoped the traffic would make them late, but the universe turned against her and they arrived early.

She whipped her BMW into a spot in the visitor parking lot, stomping the brakes abruptly. He sat as a stone against her and she was ashamed. This was not the way she wanted to say good-bye.

She reached out and caressed the empty place on his lapel. “I am a stupid, stubborn woman.”

All the tension went out of him then. He took her hand and held it against his heart for a moment. “Yes.”

* * *

Someone had blown up one of the photographs Sofu had taken of the shrine taken during the trip 200 years into the future, had it framed, and hung on the wall of the laserpulse lab.

As the technicians helped the frail old man into his blue travel vest, she saw his eyes glisten and knew he would not be coming home with her. When Orlov spoke the countdown, Sofu winked at her, something she hadn’t seen him do since she was a little girl. The digital clock in the bottom right corner of each of the monitors said 9:23am.

She held her breath.

This time, the lightpulse shimmered and Sofu was gone.

On the floor of the launch platform, the weathered blue vest lay in a jumbled heap. When the technicians opened the bulging zippered pockets, they were filled with hundreds of Sacred Lily blossoms.

END

Copyright © 2013 by Sharon Joss

First published in Fiction River: Time Streams, edited by Dean Wesley Smith and Allyson Longuera, WMG Publishing, April 2013

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Tending the Garden

Sharon Joss Writes

Got my taxes done last week.

The good news is I actually had royalties to report ($88! Yippee!), on 36 sales. Right now, I’ve got 4 novels, 15 short stories, and 3 short story collections available; all of which are published by Aja Publishing and currently available just about anywhere you buy books (Bookstores, Amazon, Kobo, iTunes, and Smashwords). I did sell 3 stories last year to pro markets, but they won’t be published until this year, so I won’t be paid for them until later this year.

I admit I am less than impressed with those results, even as I celebrate each and every sale. Last year was my most productive year ever, but seeing the fruits of my hard labors yield such small fruit make me wonder if my little garden is in need of tending. I know it takes time, but the publishing industry is moving at light-speed these days, to I took another look at the market.

The prices for print books are driven by the cost to produce them, but there is more flexibility in e-book pricing. For the last 18 months, my e-book pricing has been set at $2.99 for anything over 4K words, and $1.99 for shorter works, but everyone I know who is selling more than one or two copes of their short stories a month is telling me my prices are too high and they’ve got theirs priced much lower: $0.99 (or free). So I’m going to trim back my prices too. Now, all my e-book short stories are the same price, and all of them are priced at $0.99.

I’ve also taken a good look at the genres for my four novels, and have trimmed my prices there as well, reducing the prices from $5.99 to between $2.99 (for Destiny Blues and Aurum) and $3.99 (for Legacy Soul, Brothers of the Fang, and the short story collections). It’s a big savings for people who might have been on the fence about trying a book an unknown author.

It’s spring, after all.  Time to tend the garden.

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Judgement Day

Sharon Joss Writes

Jury service day, actually. My first call to jury duty since I moved back to Oregon. I was a little nervous about it, and arrived well before the 7:45am start time, only to stand outside in the freezing (yes, it was 32 degrees in Hillsboro this morning) cold, because the courthouse doesn’t open until 7:45am. Brrr.

I had plenty of company.

But once we finally got through security (a more rigorous inspection than you would expect at an airport), we were led to the basement for our orientation and assignment to our courtrooms for the day. While this was not my first jury rodeo, it was the first time I’d been part of the pool for a criminal offense (DUI). Surprisingly, only six jurors were selected for this trial (I always thought the number was 12). I was not one of the selected few.

I was glad to be excused early, but at the same time, disappointed. I found the process of voir dire fascinating, and I kinda wanted to see it through.  I’m certain that the fellow sitting at the defendant’s table got a fair and impartial jury. The experience renewed my appreciation for the American justice system, and the fact that jury duty is one way we all make it work.

Glad to be of service.

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Get Your Gumbo On, Fat Tuesday is Coming…

Sharon Joss Writes

It happens every February: there’s a respite in the weather, the sun comes out, and (like today) the temps climb into the 60s. The crocus and daffodils start blooming, and the pussywillows start appearing. Is it heaven? Nope, it’s Mardi Gras; that fabulous pre-spring time of year when the jazz radio station starts playing the Neville Brothers, Dr. John, and songs like Rump Steak Marinade and Iko Iko.

Although I’m not the religious sort (and I’m not trying to offend anyone who is), but I think Mardi Gras and Fat Tuesday as a sort of a fantastic well of inspiration for fiction writers– especially fantasy.  All the costumes and masks and secret societies and rituals and pagan roots; it all comes together into a delicious melange that almost begs to be a story setting.

And then there’s the food.

It’s not quite warm enough for shrimp on the barbie, but perfect for shrimp in the gumbo with all the trimmings, ice cold beer (or a hurricane), and a good movie– like Angel Heart, The Big Easy, or Live and Let Die.

Mmmm. Let the good times roll.

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