Sharon Joss's Blog, page 12

Jupiter Ascending: Yes, I liked it.

Sharon Joss Writes

Maybe I’m just easier to please than the average movie reviewer.

Yes, it starts out a little slow/hokey, has some pretty obvious plot holes, and I didn’t buy a major portion of the premise, but the set design was (to my mind) much richer and cooler than some of the space epics I’ve seen recently. I thought the cast was excellent and the chemistry between them real and believable. There were some clever bits about the dinosaurs and gene splicing, and once the story got going, I enjoyed it. A real popcorn movie.

Oh, and the absolute BEST killer winged lizards I’ve ever seen. Worth the price of the movie right there.

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Reboot

Sharon Joss Writes

I’m baaack (well, getting there).

Been down and out for a while. Two weeks ago one of my sisters came for a visit, and the day after she left I got blindsided by a nasty case of bronchitis. I don’t get sick often, and the dog was completely freaked out by all the coughing–I think she was actually afraid of me.

Or maybe it was the smell of vapo-rub.

Anyway, the antibiotics have done most of the heavy lifting, and now I’m reporting (back) for duty. I did almost no writing at all last week, and was too sick to even care, really.

But this morning, the idea of getting back in the saddle seems pretty daunting. I’ve written less than 10K words this month and the month is nearly over. There’s been a lot of talk on the writers forums about productivity lately, and my plan for this year was to exceed what I did last year. But I was supposed to have finished the outline for my next novel by now and be writing it already. So much to do this year and I’m behind schedule and it’s only January and cripes I hate that!

So I’ve decided to reboot.

I’m tagging up and starting over. There’s a lot to be said for slow and steady. The only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time. A few words today, a few more tomorrow. The words will come, they always do. Rather than stress about what I didn’t do this month, I’m retting the clock and starting over.

February is the new January.

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In the Mood? A Question of Atmosphere

Sharon Joss Writes

It’s dark and dreak and dreary outside–rainy, foggy, damp; you get the idea. After all, it’s January in Oregon. It’s supposed to be grey and gloomy this time of year.

My current work in progress has a similar sort of somber and atmospheric tone going on in it too–think gloomy and dangerous marshes at dusk; that sort of thing.

So I’m all into it, editing my little heart out and here comes an anthology editor coming back with edits on another story, with a completely different kind of mood. Something more arid, dry, and big sky. And since the anthology story has a deadline, I’ve got to put down the misty haunt and re-prioritize.

I don’t know about you, but I find it pretty difficult to work on two different projects at the same time, and I finished this story in May of 2014. So how to change gears? Of course, reading through the story is part of it, and this editor had some brilliant insights that got me all excited about the story again; but I keep catching myself putting darker tones in my edits, tones that are too heavy. Ack!

I finally sat down and read the story aloud. That really got me into the protagonist’s head, and by the time I finished it, I was firmly back in her universe. From there, the edits came fast and I think the story is stronger for them.

So am I the only one? Tell me, what do you do when you’re working on two different works at the same time? How to you preserve or regain consistency of tone between the two?

Inquiring minds want to know.

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Squee – Writers of the Future Contest

Sharon Joss Writes

Well, well.

I don’t know what to say. Except, um, yay! For me!

I wrote a story and submitted it to  the Writers of the Future contest.  It didn’t win.

And then I did it again.  It didn’t win again.

And again.  And, well, you know.  It didn’t win.

And then I did that three more times.

And I won. Here’s the link to the press release, in case you don’t believe me.  Don’t worry, I won’t feel bad if you don’t believe it, I can hardly believe it myself.

I’ve never won anything.  Well, except for that Kodak Instamatic camera I won when I was a cashier at Woolworths in 1974 for selling more pillows in one day than anyone else (9).   That was a pretty big deal then, but I already had a camera.  I gave the camera to Ryan, my best friend’s boyfriend’s brother.

This is a much bigger deal.  It’s a validation that I’m a writer,  It’s a synchronicity from the universe that I’m on the right path.  It’s getting paid for something I wrote!

I’d never heard of Writers of the Future (much less their contest for apprentice writers) until I went to a writers workshop and two of the people in the class (you know who you are, Tina and Kary) told me about it.  There’s a new contest every quarter, and while I didn’t enter every quarter,  I kept working on my craft and submitted the best story I could, whenever I had one ready. The first year, like I said, it was all rejections,  The second year, I earned an Honorable Mention. This year, I entered only 3 quarters, and earned an Honorable Mention, a (very quick) Rejection, and then, well, I won.

Here’s my 3-step secret to winning: Read a lot. Write a lot. Submit a lot.  Aaand repeat.

I submitted my first story (the first short story I ever wrote) in 2012.  A million words later, I won.

You can do it too.

 

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2014: The List and the Lessons

Sharon Joss Writes

I’ve made a pleasurable habit of reviewing the list of books I’ve read during the year and looking back over the biggest writing lessons I grokked along the way.

If 2013 was the year of the short story, 2014 (for me, at least) has certainly been the year of the anthology. Some would quibble that all anthologies are merely a collection of short stories but since the theme of the anthology and the stories selected are part of the reader experience, I think the anthology is more than just a collection of shorts. I read more than a dozen short story anthologies, including the massive (111 short stories, one of which is mine) 2014 Campbellian Anthology, edited by M. David Blake. I sold two of my short stories to themed anthologies in 2014, both of which will be published on 2015.

THE LIST:

Unlike last year, I did manage to reach my goal of reading 60 books this year (I stopped taking the newspaper, and thus I no longer waste time doing the crossword and Sudoku puzzles. If only I could wean myself off FB so easily…sigh).

Favorite anthology: Hands down, this was Nightmare Carnival, edited by Ellen Datlow. I’ve got a real love carnivals, circuses, and stories about the mysterious and exotic people associated with them. This collection rang all my bells. A tip of the hat (and to Ellen again) for Best Horror of the Year as well.
Favorite new (to me) authors: Dan Simmons where have you been all my life? I’d never heard of him before, but on a friend’s recommendation, I picked up his Song of Kali and was absolutely blown away. I followed that one up with Summer of Night, Hyperion, and Carrion Comfort. All brilliant, all wonderful. I put Summer of Night on my top 10 best books list. I also enjoyed the first two books in Scott Lynch’s Gentleman Bastards series–a lot of fun.
Notable Classics: I was shocked and stunned by Theodore Sturgeon’s powerful Some of Your Blood. Wow. Just, wow. I’ve got seven or eight more of his shorts on my ‘to read’ list, and I can’t wait to read them. And I had never read anything by Octavia Butler until this year, either; I enjoyed Kindred very much.
Favorite Writing Book(s): Lawrence Block made a big impact on me. His Telling Lies for Fun and Profit is a book I’ve reread twice again already. I can see myself reading it before I start every new novel. The way he talks about structure and storytelling really resonates with me.
Favorite Books from Favorite Authors: I am a huge Richard Kadrey fan, and this year, I picked up the third volume in his Sandman Slim series, Aloha From Hell. Great fun.
Biggest Disappointment: I picked up a couple of books this year with high expectations, but just couldn’t get into. I suppose that with age comes wisdom, and rather than force myself to wade through them, I gave them up to a good home at my local library. Both were traditionally published books, and had garnered good reviews in the trades, but I just don’t have time to waste trying to read something that doesn’t grab me. So from now on, I’ve sworn off trying to read disappointing books.

THE LESSONS:


Lesson 1: I don’t know why, but this year (a year where I received more rejections than I ever have), I stopped worrying about rejections. I honestly don’t feel bad about them anymore. Earlier this year, I got a chance to participate in a series of discussions where editors were picking stories submitted for their themed anthologies, and was stunned when they turned away from some GREAT stories that I thought were wonderful. But here’s the lesson: they picked the stories THEY liked; the voice THEY thought was wonderful. Or that fit the theme of what they were going for best. And I realized, that with so few slots available, of course they are going to buy the ones that move them, or stay with them the most. And after listening to these editors ague back and forth about stories they loved (or didn’t love), I realized that of course a story that moves one editor may not move another. I’ve sold three short stories to three different editors. I thought they were good stories, but I’m confident that those stories wouldn’t have been right for every editor. I guess I’ve reached the point where I’m not insecure about my writing anymore; it’s more about whether a particular story is right for a particular editor or audience. In the end (once you reach a certain level) it’s just a matter of taste.
Lesson 2: 2014 was (by far) my most productive year yet. I wrote more than 300K words this year, resulting in two novels, 8 short stories, more than 50 blog entries, and a novelette. But in spite of making two professional sales (both of which will be released in 2015), I also received more rejections this year than I ever have. Rather than being disappointed by those results, Indie publishing has changed the way I look at publishing and myself as a writer in a very positive way. It’s given me the gift of independence, and control over my own work. I’m not saying it’s the only way to go, but it’s fun in a different way from the fun of writing. There’s a real satisfaction in looking at my author profile on Amazon, Kobo, or Barnes and Noble and seeing a body of work with my name on it.
Lesson 3: This year, more than any, I’ve started to realize what a small world the (genre) writing community is. As networks go, writers are more tightly connected than any other group I’ve ever worked with. I’ve got writer friends and great mentors who were befriended and in turn mentored in their day by other greats in this industry. And I’m starting to see the names of people I went to workshops with in publications like LOCUS and on pro panels with some pretty big names at CONS. It seems to me that everyone who has been around long enough seems connected with everyone else. It’s funny, but in my previous business career, I always had trouble remembering people’s names; but when it comes to writers, every one of them is memorable.

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Fourth Friday Free Fiction – A Time of Patriots

Sharon Joss Writes

A Time of Patriots

By Sharon Joss

The scent of aftershave assaulted agent Rene Arnaud as soon as he stepped inside the airless wardrobe room at Paris headquarters. The pungent odor sullied the pristine, climate-controlled environment with an annoying stench, even as the hiss of ionizing air filters assured him the reek would not linger.

The room had become an archive of sorts; a historical record of every successful time travel mission performed by the recovery agents. Glass-fronted closets full of custom-tailored period costumes going back as far as the time of Louis XIV lined every wall. A pair of standing mirrors of the late Baroque period stood as sentinels, reflecting their silent critique of the foreigner reflected therein.

“Dang, I look like Lindbergh.” The visiting American recovery agent, Jack Brown, eased a distressed leather bomber jacket over his starched white shirt and braces. “Or Dempsey. I feel like a galoot compared to you, Rene.”

Jack straightened his maroon bow tie. The cuffs of his trousers had been hemmed to just below the knee to show off the man’s red argyle socks and two-toned brogues.

The ensemble was horrible. Simply horrible. Rene smiled politely and gave a small bow.

“It suits you.”

His own understated pale blue suit and tie were of the finest silk. He would have felt comfortable wearing it into any modern Paris establishment. The silver-topped ebony cane was just the right touch, although in this case it wasn’t strictly a prop. His hip was still bothering him from the last time he’d partnered with the American.

“And for what honor am I called back to duty before I am fully recovered, mon ami? I am, as you Americans would say, of limited mobility.”

“Ah don’t worry about that, Rene. I’ll do all the work this time. All you have to do is retrieve the suitcase.” The agent clapped him on the back. “Piece of cake.”

The urge to slap the man was very tempting. “Why not use another agent, eh? One who can carry a suitcase without stumbling?”

“Sorry. We need a guy who speaks French and knows the ins and outs of the Garry da Lion.”

A twitch pulled at Rene’s eyelid. The man was doing it on purpose. A rhythmic pounding at the back of Rene’s head matched the throbbing tempo in his still-healing hip. The esprit de corps which the French Government had promised to help the US retrieve articles lost in time by Americans on French territory had dried up after the first mission, four years ago.

“It is pronounced, Gare de Leon, my friend. The building is one of six train stations connecting Paris with all of western Europe. Built for the World Exposition in 1900, it now ‘andles more than ninety million passengers every year.”

It galled him that this pompous homme from Texas continued to speak like a baboon. But in spite of his personal feelings for the man, for this mission, they were assigned as partners. Rene shrugged. There was nothing to be done about it.

“Yeah, great. Well, this is the woman we’re lookin’ for.” Jack handed him a sepia-toned photograph of a woman in period costume with short dark hair. “Name’s Richardson. Twenty years old and she’s from St. Louis. A redhead.”

Rene studied the picture. The item they were retrieving was waiting for them in December, 1922. He had never been inside the train station when it had been so new, and Paris o the 1920s would be something to see. That alone might make up for working with Jack again. The last time they worked together, Rene had taken a bullet in the hip. This caper might very well be a piece of cake for Jack, but whenever a woman was involved, things became dangerous very quickly.

“She is a spy, non?”

The American shook his head.

“A thief, perhaps?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. The only thing in that suitcase is old papers and carbon sheets. I’ll take care of the girl, all you need to worry about is the suitcase, comprende?”

“Of course.” He handed back the photograph.

“She’ll be on a train bound for Geneva. All we have to do is figure out which one. Then I’ll distract her while you take her suitcase out of her compartment and meet me at the portal. No muss, no fuss. Anybody stops us, you do the talking. With any luck, we’ll be home for supper.”

We will see. Rene motioned to the exit. “After you, monsieur.”

* * *

The timeslice was the easiest Rene had ever taken. They merely took a taxi to the Gare de Lyon and stepped into the mens toilette. The timeslip knife had been preset to the proper year, and the American sliced through the fabric of the universe like so much butter. They stepped right through, into the past of 1922.

A strange sense of déjà vu washed over Rene. The lavatory was the same, yet not the same. The metal walls of the water closet had been replaced by green-painted wood, but the yellow subway tiles and plumbing fixtures were exactly the same. Even the stink of stale piss was timeless; made more so by the lack of urinal cakes.

Rene pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and carefully led the way across the slippery wet floors into the din of the main terminal.

While Jack set off to check the train schedules, Rene waited near the boarding platforms. Holding his handkerchief to his nose, he admired the magnificent Art Nouveau architecture; truly a spectacular example of its day. Soaring glass-paneled walls and ceilings gave the entire station a light and airy feel. The roar of the arrival and departing trains echoed with concussionistic effect throughout the hall, and the air was heavy with the grit of coal dust. Even thus, he loved the sense of discovery that came with every slip in time.

To see a landmark of his beloved homeland in such marvelous condition filled him with a sense of nationalist pride. He strolled through grand sortie; his spirits warmed to the bottom of his toes. His countrymen had built this place; changed so very little in the last one hundred years. The interior was dimmer than in 2013. Coal dust filtered the daylight streaming through the windows, softening the brightness; but the stone columns had not yet accumulated a century’s worth of smog and cigarette smoke.

The American interrupted his reverie. “The next train to Geneva departs in forty-five minutes from track D, right over there. Now she’ll be in a private car, but there’s no way to tell which one, so make sure you check ‘em all. What say you stand at the front and I’ll start in the back and we meet in the middle, okay?”

“Excellent.”

“If you see her, just beep me, and I’ll come runnin’. I’ll get her to come with me and you just go in and pick up that suitcase and walk out with it. Beep me when you’re clear and I’ll meet you back at the toilet. Are we good?”

“What if the lady refuses to come with you?”

“You leave that to me, Rene. Our people have done a thorough profile on Miss Richardson, and believe me, she’s gonna find me darn near irresistible.”

Rene smoothed his moustache. Jack Brown, or whatever his real name was, might have a certain vulgar attraction to women, but when it came to seduction, it would be foolish to use an American when what was needed was clearly a bit of French finesse. “Perhaps it would be better if I engaged the mademoiselle while you went for the luggage.”

“No need, amigo. I’m exactly what the lady is looking for. Believe me. You could say the lady’s bell tolls for me.” The big man winked hugely.

They stationed themselves at opposite ends of the platform, carefully checking each woman as she approached the train. The task of finding her however, was proving more difficult than expected. There were a good many well-dressed young women travelling alone, and the majority of them wore the cloche hat fashion of the day, which pretty much made seeing the color of her hair impossible.

“Rene!”

Jack’s shout alerted him. He looked in the direction the agent was pointing and nodded. Their target was a freckle-faced woman in a cream-colored wool coat with a fox stole. The hat she was wearing obscured her hair color, but the woman in question was obviously American. More importantly, she was accompanied by a porter with several heavy-looking suitcases. Jack hurried after her.

Rene smoothed his suit. The Americans were always in such a hurry; always wanting to keep their target in sight. This was a train. Once on board, a woman with that much luggage would not be getting off again. He checked the platform for gendarmes, but didn’t see any.

He stepped up into the first carriage. Everywhere, polished mahogany trim gleamed softly against light filtered through frosted crystal lamp shades, and the richly colored trompe-l’oeil ceilings of each carriage; each alternately depicting scenes from French history with images of the nine muses. Calliope with her writing tablet and Clio with her scrolls. Beneath his feet, wood floors creaked, and the air was flavored with the memories of cigarettes and stale cigars.

He made his way down the aisle between leather-clad bench seats at a dignified pace, glancing at each of the passengers as he passed. A nod here, a tip of his hat to each young woman seated alone. Based on his research into the period, ladies of this era were quite liberated. A woman traveling alone to Geneva might very well choose to spend her time in the company of her sister travelers, rather than in a private sleeping car.

The cane and his hip made his passage awkward, but he managed to make his way through three magnificent coach cars before he heard shouting, just as he entered the dining car. The freckle-faced blonde was demanding that Jack return her hat, while the conductor who was between them was taking the brunt of the woman’s rage.

“I said I was sorry, Lady. It was a simple misunderstanding.” Jack held out the woman’s crumpled felt hat as a piece offering. The conductor took it and passed it to the woman.

“Get away from me, you drug-store cowboy! Where the hell did you get the idea you could just walk up to a woman and start tearing off her clothes?” She snatched her hat back. “Call the gendarme. I want this man arrested!”

The conductor blew his whistle, and through the window, Rene caught sight of a uniformed officer racing along the platform.

“Jack, my old friend,” he called out. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. The train is about to depart mon ami. We must get off.”

The red-faced conductor turned to him and shouted in Burgundy-accented French, “You know this man? I insist you both leave the train at once!”

“I apologize for my friend’s rude behavior. He insisted he saw a woman he knew board the train.” Rene shrugged. “Americans. What can you say?”

“I say get off my train.” The white-gloved conductor grabbed Jack by his jacket lapel, and dragged him toward the exit, all the while blowing his whistle.

Rene winced at the sound, but running away was not an option, and not necessary. They had done no wrong. He nodded reassuringly to his partner. As luck would have it, the rather large and efficient-looking officer was waiting for them when they stepped onto the busy platform.

“Captain Moro!” The conductor bellowed to be heard over the blast of the train’s departure warning whistle. “These two men do not have tickets and have accosted one of the passengers. Please escort them from the platform.”

“This man does not know what he is talking about, Captain. There has been but a small misunderstanding.”

“Hah!” the conductor snorted. “I give them to you, Captain Moro. Adieu.”

Rene hunched himself over, trying to look frail, but Captain Moro wasn’t having any of it.

“I want to see your identification papers immediately.”

“Sorry pal. No parley voo French. Tell the lady I’m sorry, I thought she was someone else.”

Captain Moro appeared entirely too efficient and observant to let them just walk away. The man was wearing a gold wedding band. Rene decided to appeal to his sense of family.

“Capitan, please allow me to explain. My friend is a scoundrel of the worst sort, and he wooed a young woman who looked very much like the young lady on the train. She wrote him from Paris, saying there was a child on the way, and he had an epiphany. A change of heart. He has renounced his wicked ways. His lust for the prostitutes, his gambling on the dogs….” Rene gave Jack a sidewise glance. The American’s expression was properly humble, at least. He was even blushing. Perhaps the agent knew more French than he let on. “His fetish for execrable hosiery. He aspires to redeem himself. He wants to marry the girl. Surely you cannot fault a man who has finally discovered his honor?”

Captain Moro did not appear convinced. “Why did you not stop him?”

“I had no idea he would behave in such a manner! These Americans are impossible, no?” Rene shrugged. “Such is the madness of love, eh?”

The gendarme pursed his lips as he checked their papers. He handed them back to Rene. “Get out of my station. If I see you without a ticket, you will be arrested.” He glared at Jack and snorted. “Now be gone.”

Rene bowed deeply. “Absolument, mon Capitain. Merci.”

* * *

The next train bound for Geneva left at eight o’clock in the evening. This time, they purchased tickets and strolled over to the esplanade for a bite to eat and stay out of Captain Moro’s sight.

In 1922, the Le Train Bleu restaurant was known by its original name as the Buffet de la gare Paris-Lyon. Rene was amused to discover that except for the signage and the electronic cash register, there was almost no difference between past and present inside. The dining rooms, with their waxed parquet flooring, white tablecloths, and famous paintings in the magnificent belle-epoque decor brought on such a sense of déjà-vu and marvel, Rene’s heart warmed to see the costumes of the women and their companions so perfectly compliment the art and soul of the establishment; it was was something he had ever experienced before. He wanted to stop and soak it all in.

Jack, on the other hand, appeared unimpressed by the inescapable beauty of the beloved French landmark, and seemed not to notice the rich appointments.

They were seated in the Gold Salon, at a window table framed by raspberry-colored drapes overlooking the arrival platform. Elegant chandeliers illuminated golden cherubim hovering near the ceiling.

To Rene’s delight, the menu hadn’t changed much either. He ordered for both of them; a sazerac and veal chop in wine with mushrooms for Jack; rum babas and coffee for himself. The rich cream perfectly complimented the vanilla and rum-soaked citrus cakes.

“What are you looking so pleased about, Rene?”

He gestured to the room around them. “Look around us! Have you no sense of appreciation for this time? It is the perfect congruence of magnificent art, delicious cuisine, and beautifully dressed patrons, no? Listen to the quiet tinkle of silver against crystal; savor the taste of that drink in your hand. This is Paris at its very best, most civilized moment in history.” Rene shrugged. “I have never felt so proud to be French.”

Jack motioned to the waiter with his empty glass. “I hate to burst your bubble, Rene, but Americans invented the sazerac.”

Rene doubted the claim, but chose not to say so. “Perhaps. But without French brandy, there would be no sazerac for you Americans to invent, no?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I do know what you mean,” Jack went on. “My first retrieval was to a little mission town near Tucson in Arizona Territory, 1891. I grew up watching westerns and cowboy movies, but stepping into that time and place….” Jack shook his head. “It was like I belonged there. Like I was reliving a past life; a witness to the birth of my country, somehow. I thought about staying.” The agent looked away. “There was this girl–.”

“Ah yes, isn’t that always the case. Like our young Miss Richardson.”

Jack eyed him warily. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s just paper, Rene. Family papers. The descendents have money to pay for the retrieval and they want them back for sentimental reasons. That’s it, no mumbo jumbo.”

Only a small lie, there. “What are you planning to do to the girl?”

Jack shook his head. “Nothing! You saw the picture. She’s a nobody. Friend of the family. Accidently left the suitcase on the train ninety-some-odd years ago. End of story.”

Rene sipped his coffee. It didn’t fit. Every other foreign retrieval agent he’d ever worked with had insisted on retrieving the item themselves. Their focus had always been on the item. But in this case, the American wanted to keep the girl to himself. The very casualness of Jack’s off-handed protest regarding the girl’s identity raised a red flag. Who was she?

“Why don’t I believe you?”

His partner grinned. “You’re still sore about getting shot, aren’t you? Hey, that wasn’t my fault, pal. Just bad luck, and you know it”

He shrugged. Perhaps it was only his hip talking, after all. Then again….

* * *

They returned to the boarding platform fifteen minutes before the train was scheduled to arrive. There were fourteen sets of tracks; the train they were looking for would arrive on platform G.

“Perhaps it would be better if I approached the woman,” Rene began. “We cannot afford another incident.”

“You don’t understand. She’ll be receptive to me. We’ve had our profilers figure out what makes her tick, and she’s attracted to outdoorsy guys like me. A dapper gentleman like you isn’t going to get her goin’, if you know what I mean.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rene snorted. “I am French.”

Jack shook his head, grinning. “Ah, you Frenchies all think the same. You think you’re the experts on women. Sure, I blew it with that last gal, and maybe you’re right; but she wasn’t our girl. Believe me, our Miss Richardson is gonna eat me up.”

Rene eyed his partner doubtfully. “If you insist. I am here only to smooth the way for you, eh? I would also suggest that if there is a problem, we choose a different exit point than the men’s toilette. Now that the gendarmes have been alerted, they will keep a sharp eye on the water closets, as an obvious place to hide.”

“Where do you want to meet up?”

“To the left of the main entrance to the station is the entrance to the Allee de Bercy, a quiet little side street. If there is a problem, I will meet you there when the clock on the big tower outside strikes ten. There, we will enough privacy to make our escape with discretion.”

“Okay, you’re on.”

At that moment, a woman banged her heavy suitcase against his sore hip.

“Sorry,” she mumbled and moved on though the crowd. Her auburn hair shone like the rising sun.

“That’s our girl,” Jack said.

“Indeed. I am following your lead mon ami. Good luck.”

This time, Rene had to admit, the American did seem to have the luck of l’amour on his side. No sooner had he doffed his cap to the woman and introduced himself, than she turned her eyes in his direction and appeared fascinated by everything he said and did. Jack even managed to carry two of the woman’s suitcases for her as they stepped onto the train. It was ridiculously easy. He shook his head. There was no understanding that man.

He waited until they boarded before he approached the train. Captain Moro was nowhere to be seen. Good. He’d probably gone home for dinner with his wife. There would be no mix-ups this time.

He caught Jack’s eye from half-way down the sleeping car, just as he and Miss Richardson left her cabin. They moved toward the dining car, and as soon as they left the carriage, he entered her private berth.

Rene swiftly checked the small red and white striped hatbox sitting primly on the floor next to the bed. Women’s underthings, some jewelry. A nice string of matched pearls, but nothing. Likewise, the larger of the two suitcases yielded only a scuffed pair of shoes and clothing befitting a modest young woman of the time.

The brown, leather-bound suitcase stowed beneath the bed was of much better quality than the other two, and heavy. It looked more like something a man would use. And it was locked. Rene was temped to pick the locks, but decided that now wasn’t the time. The mission came first.

He picked up the case and within minutes, he exited the train and strode briskly down the platform. He had almost reached the gallerie leading to the street when he caught sight of Captain Moro barreling purposefully towards him. The Captain had his whistle in his hand and his eyes glued to the leather-bound suitcase. Rene broke into a trot.

“Stop! Thief!”

Rene hurled his cane at Moro and ran.

* * *

The whistles of Moro and his men inside the station gave way to police whistles as the authorities continued to pursue him, even as he raced down the streets of Paris. Again, he was struck by a sense of the surreal.

The city of lights in 1922 was nearly as bright as in the 21st century. Redolent air sang to his sinuses with the tang of automobile exhaust and raw sewage. People jammed the sidewalks and streets, aiding his escape. His heart pounded as the sounds of hoof beats on cobblestone joined the scream of his pursuers’ whistles.

He ducked into a worrisome alley and ran, shedding his fine jacket in his wake. This area of the city was too-well lit. Too busy.

Of course the subway was not there. Nor was the Van Gogh Tunnel. He crossed the Quaii de la Rapée, heading for the Seine. His hip screamed in protest.

He forced himself to slow to a hobbling walk. In the distance, the gendarmes whistles continued to blow, fading now as he moved out of earshot. Even so, he needed to get off the streets. At this time of night, in this part of town, his white shirt was a beacon.

The glare from the streetlights dimmed as he neared the waterfront, and the major avenues gave way to twisting alleys. He slipped into the deep doorway of a warehouse, listening for footsteps behind him, his heart racing. Nothing.

He’d overshot the Allee de Bercy by several blocks, but from the sound of it, the gendarmes were looking for him there. Best to wait a bit.

As he shivered in the shadows, the sweet tones of a jazz clarinet reached him from the small boîte across the street. Through the windows, he could see the place was packed with an eclectic crowd, including several Americans. No one would give him a second look, there.

The warmth of the nightclub enveloped him as he gripped the suitcase to his chest and eased his way through the pernod and gin-scented crowd. A piano and bass joined the clarinet and the tempo picked up. Dozens of couples jammed the floor in front of the tiny stage. He signaled to the waiter and was shown to an empty booth near the kitchen; as good a place as any to see what was in the suitcase.

A table knife made quick work of the locks.

The American had not lied. These were certainly not government documents. The papers inside were just papers. Five or six hundred pages perhaps. And as he’d said; typed, with carbons. They looked to be compositions. Juvenile; with many scratching outs and corrections in pencil. He scanned through them, being careful not to get his fingers soiled by the greasy carbon as he looked for a clue as to why the Americans were so eager to retrieve them. When he found the name, he froze.

Hemingway.

For several minutes he stared at the signature as he pondered his course of action. The woman’s name. Of course. Hadley Richardson was the name of Ernest Hemingway’s first wife. In his possession was the famous suitcase containing the missing Hemingway manuscripts. She’d lost them on the train to Geneva.

This was much more than a privately funded retrieval of family mementos. No wonder Jack had wanted to keep the woman’s identity secret. In his place, he would have done the same thing.

But just as Ernest Hemingway was an American, he was also a much beloved, adopted son of France. In that admiration, America and France were brothers. These papers were priceless. A national treasure to both nations.

Arguably, he supposed, they belonged to France; but on the other hand, they belonged to the whole world. As the sounds of jazz and laughter washed over him, Rene rubbed his mouth and pondered what to do.

* * *

The great clock in the tower of the Gare de Lyon was just striking ten o’clock when Rene limped onto the cobbled streets of the Allee de Bercy. Sheltered from the streetlights, lovers and embraced within the deep shadowed doorways. As he’d done throughout this day, Rene again marveled at the timeless beauty of his favorite city.

Ahead of him, a figure stepped out of the shadows. Even in this light, he could read the disappointment on his partner’s face.

No matter. It wasn’t for him to decide the rightful disposition of the great author’s archive. He and Jack were merely agents for their respective governments. For now, the papers would stay lost; at least until the Americans attempted to retrieve them again. By that time, his government would be in a much better, more informed position. No doubt an equitable arrangement for all parties involved would be arranged. Hemingway’s papers had been missing for almost a century. A few years more would make no difference.

“I am becoming quite the fan of those socks, my friend. Perhaps you should wear them all the time.”

“What happened,” Jack asked.

He shrugged. “C’est la vie. The miracle of the time travel is that we can keep after our mistakes until we get it right. We try again next year, eh?”

END

Copyright 2014 © 2014 by Sharon Joss

Published by Aja Publishing

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

The post Fourth Friday Free Fiction – A Time of Patriots appeared first on Sharon Joss Writes.

Birdman: How what you think depends on your outlook

Sharon Joss Writes

No spoilers here. I’m talking about technique here.

I’ve been going through some pretty intense personal stuff lately (really good, but distracting), so I decided to go see a movie, to reset my brain. I chose Birdman, in part because I love Michael Keaton, and in part, because it’s gotten a lot of buzz lately. But I hadn’t read any reviews, so I had no idea what it was about.

I liked it a lot; even as it’s not a typical movie experience. While I was watching it, I was thinking it was a ‘director’s movie’ because of the way it’s shot; the camera moves from scene to scene and person to person without any cuts. It gives the film a real flow, and once I got into it, I loved the technique. And I also loved how the music had an arc; just like a character arc. It started out like a smarmy lounge act, but by the end, it’s cool-hot jazz. Really killer jazz. And the third big thing  I noticed was that the backstory was revealed in reverse priority–that is, the most important piece of information about the protagonist is revealed last, and the seemingly least important information is revealed first.

But here’s the thing.  The film does not end for the audience until the

Very. Last. Second.

And the ending (and the viewer’s whole movie experience) depends on that last second.

For me, the movie was a magical, uplifting experience.

I talked to a friend who had seen it, and she said she found it depressing and sad, saying she doesn’t like movies about mental illness.

And I was totally blown away, because  I didn’t see what she was talking about until after she told me.  So I went back and read some of the reviews, and they were pretty well split in opinion along the exact same lines.  And that made me like the movie even more, because I could see that an optimist would interpret this movie one way, while a pessimist/pragmatist would see it another, opposite way.

And that made me realize that Birdman is a writers movie. It’s brilliant.

Go see it.

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First Draft

Sharon Joss Writes

I finished the first draft of my latest novel project yesterday. It’s a thriller; a new genre for me, and it takes place in an alternate universe in terms of time and place, so I had to do a lot of research, which was great fun.

The story is on the page, but it’s not done yet.  Not for me, at any rate.  Some writers are able to produce a fully-fledged reader-ready story in one draft, but I am not  one of them. Yet.  Where my first draft focuses on the plot and action, I concentrate on deepening characterization and emotional impact in the second draft. For me, writing that second draft imparts heart and soul into the story. I don’t consider it revision, I think of it as icing the cake.

On to round two.

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Fourth Friday Free Fiction – The Egg Thief

Sharon Joss Writes

Okay, Saturday.

THE EGG THIEF

They smelled the craggon lair long before they found the entrance.

The stink of rotted carrion and old blood, carried on the breeze from the next ridge, stopped them in their tracks. Pyrs’ stomach rolled uneasily; he spat the sour bile taste from his mouth.

While his maester, Taredd, panted for breath, Pyrs kept an eye on the skies above for the tell-tale silhouette of the most fearsome creature on Aurum. He spotted two, but they were too far away to be a worry.

Yet.

The morning climb had been arduous, and Pyrs was glad for the break, but Taredd looked near done for. They huddled on the spine of the ridge, sheltered in the scant cover offered by the wind-twisted stonepines. Pyrs wondered, not for the first time, if Taredd was mad or just too proud to admit he was too old to be stealing craggon eggs. The grey hairs in his beard now outnumbered the black; his face lined with crags and fissures of age and old scars.

“There, laddie.” Taredd pointed at a gash and bare slide area on the mountain across from them. “That wide spot there is where she lays to catch the sun’s heat. The entrance to the cavern must be hidden behind those boulders.”

Pyrs nodded. Taredd knew more about craggons than anyone. The bare hillside didn’t look like much to him, but he knew better than to doubt the old man.

“From here on, we must be very quiet. Once we get into position, we wait for our moment. When she’s sitting on the nest, anything can set her off.”

A thrill of excitement surged through him. After years as his maester’s apprentice, this would be his first time going in as Taredd’s partner; he would receive a third of whatever gold they earned from the eggs.

Egg thieves jealously guarded the locations of ‘their’ craggon dens. That Taredd had agreed to take him on as an apprentice at all had been a stroke of luck he’d never expected. Until now, they’d collected eggs from smaller craggon lairs, closer to the capitol. But these, smaller craggon dens were often jealously guarded by other egg thieves, and stealing from them was almost as risky as what they were about to do. The largest craggons on Aurum made their lairs in the ancient volcano tubes of the Crags of Corrah.

“How well do you know this one?”

“Yellowsmoke is the girl I dream of.” Taredd touched the scarred hole in his face where his left eye had once been. “She’s a clever one; she kissed me well. Taught me two secrets about craggons. Silence and patience are the key to surviving in this business, laddie. I was lucky that day. The king’s own mount came from that clutch. Haven’t been back since, well, before you were born.”

Wymfyre the Flame, they called the king’s craggon. A golden beast of great fierceness and agility. Great stars, if he could bring back another egg like that, or even two…

“Now pay attention. This lady we’re about to visit is an early nester, and very sly. She’ll have two, maybe three clutches in there, but we only want the eggs from the first clutch. They’ll be hidden way in the back, closest to the hot spring. Only the first clutch will have viable eggs. The later clutches are decoys; smaller and mostly infertile. They’re not the ones we want.”

“Yes, maester. What is she comes back early?”

Taredd shook his bushy head. “Whatever happens, don’t panic. Silence and patience are the only tools you need to survive an encounter with her, but you’ve got to keep your wits about you. If you panic, you’re dead.”

They donned their egg mantles; each custom-made of softest coney suede with four huge drawstring pouches in the front; each one large enough for a single craggon egg. After a light meal of cheese and hard cake, they built a cairn of stones over their remaining food and supplies. With speed and stealth their only weapons, they took only a bit of dried meat and water with them. If they were lucky, they’d be able to find it on the way back; if not, it wouldn’t matter.

They spent the rest of the afternoon on the steep descent, moving slowly and deliberately, so as to avoid dislodging as much as a pebble. They reached the stream at the bottom as the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, and after a cold meal, made their way in silence up toward the lair. When the last of the evening light disappeared from the sky, they slept where they crouched and waited in the cold for the morning sun.

They were so close to the lair, Pyrs heard, but could not see her emerge. Taredd had been right; the entrance to the den must have been behind the boulders. She snuffled and snorted as she tested the air for danger, then with a great buffeting of her leather wings, they heard her launch herself off the cliff.

A moment later, she soared into view; so close, Pyrs could count the hand-sized scales on her pale, dun-colored belly. Four wicked black-scaled claws, each with talons as long as a man’s forearm trailed out behind her. Her eyes scanned the landscape with fierce intent, her deadly beak large enough to snap a man in two with a single bite. She flapped her leathery wings clumsily until she caught the rise of the warm thermals, and within moments began to ride the wind currents above them.

The sight of her was grander than anything he’d ever imagined. Pyrs grinned at the familiar quiver of fear tickled his belly. This was it.

They waited until she was no more than a distant silhouette, then crept from the sheltering scrub out onto the slide. Bits of bone and gristle littered the scree beneath their feet; blackened bloodstains of her previous meals splashed across the dirt. Clouds of flies feasted on the scraps and rotted leavings; they rose in an angry cloud as Pyrs trotted after Taredd toward the entrance.

Taredd paused to examine a large pile of fresh droppings just outside the entrance. With a nod to Pyrs, he stooped and scooped up two double handfuls of the fetid feces and wiped them down the arms and legs of his clothes. Two more scoops of muck went onto his bushy hair; he used his fingers to comb it in. And finally, he stepped in the muck and smeared it all over his boots.

Pyrs grimaced at the thought, but when Taredd motioned to him to do the same, he obeyed.

His lip curled as the feel of the slimy muck. It was still warm. The revolting stink nauseated him; although he understood Taredd’s unspoken reasons for the action, it hardly seemed necessary. They would have plenty of time to get the eggs and get well out of the area before Yellowsmoke returned. He had no other clothes than these; and now they were worse than rags. He decided that the very first thing he would do with his share of the gold was to buy himself some fine new clothes. And boots.

They made their way down the tunnel into the black-walled cavern. Formed by the path of an ancient lava eruption, the Crags of Corrah were riddled with tunnels like these. Dim compared to the bright morning sun outside, the lair was reasonably well-lit by the twilight greenglow of cave-worms, which lived in the compost-rich detritus of the cave floor. Not bright, but once their eyes had adjusted, they could see well enough.

They reached the main cavern; a wide, high-ceilinged space some sixty meters across. Taredd led the way, moving along the left-hand wall. The footing was better here, although still slick with recent craggon droppings. They stopped at the sight of the first clutch of pale eggs, a group of about thirty in a shallow scrape just a few paces from the tunnel entrance.

Pyr gaped at the size of them. They were huge! These had to be the first clutch. He moved toward them but Teredd grabbed his shoulder and quickly motioned against it; pointing instead, deeper into the cavern.

They came to the spring, a hot pool of boiling, bubbling mud, but there were no eggs here. In the eerie green luminescence, Taredd seemed agitated; his face glistened with a thin sheen of sweat; his increasingly erratic movements as he searched among the stalagmites and limestone columns for the eggs made Pyrs doubt his maester’s statement about a second clutch of eggs.

Pyrs searched too, wondering again about the first eggs they’d found. They’d never found multiple clutches in any of the other lairs; why was this one any different? He had almost convinced himself to fill his pouches with eggs from that first clutch when he stumbled upon the nest.

Good heavens.

She had built up a basin of sorts among the stalagmites, by pushing the cavern soil up around the eggs, as if to keep them from rolling away. These were more than twice the size of those in the first clutch, bigger than any he’d ever seen.  And unlike the first clutch, these eggs were dark. Pyrs ran his hands over the rough surface of one of the shells; his heart leaped as he felt movement within.

He jumped up and ran to Taredd. His old maester knelt beside the nest and ran his hands over the eggs before giving him a clear sign of approval. But when they tried to fit the eggs into their pouches, they wouldn’t fit. Large as a ripe melon, these eggs were simply too big.

Taredd motioned to him to leave the eggs, but Pyrs shook his head. They couldn’t just walk away. Not after all this. And even with all the time they’d spent searching, they still had plenty of time. He cradled an egg in his arms. Heavy, but not too heavy to carry. With attentive handling, the shells were thick enough to survive the trip back. Once they got back to camp, they had tools to refashion their smocks into larger pouches for traveling. Two eggs such as these would command a fine price from the king. If they each took one egg, it would be better than leaving empty-handed.

Taredd shook his head and pointed to the entrance, his thoughts clear. We’ll come back later.

Pyrs shook his head and grabbed Taredd by the wrist. He placed his hand on one of the eggs so he too, could feel the movement inside. At most, these were within a week or two of hatching. Every day they delayed increased their risk of walking away empty-handed. Once the eggs hatched, they’d imprint on their mother and be useless for domestication and training. If they came back later, it might be too late. Even as they felt the life stir beneath their fingers, the sounds of tapping came from within one of the other eggs.

Taredd finally, and somewhat reluctantly, took an egg from the nest as well. But no sooner had they turned to leave, than they heard the unmistakable sound of Yellowsmoke coming down the lava tunnel into the cavern.

Pyr’s legs gave out beneath him. His heart pounded as he sheltered the egg protectively with his body. Taredd had already replaced his back into the nest, and was motioning to Pyrs to do the same, but it was too late.

The craggon had already spotted Taredd’s movement, and with a loud hiss, slithered forward, snapping at the maester.

“Go ladddie! Run!” Taredd’s frantic words echoed through the cave.

Frozen with fear, Pyrs could not move an inch.

In spite of his apparent age, the man moved with the quickness of a cat, and slipped behind one after another of the limestone columns. But Yellowsmoke was quick too, and snaked her long neck around one side of the columns, while she reached out with one of her deadly claws and batted at him from the other side. Taredd ducked deftly out of the way, and dodged behind the next.

Terrified by their deadly game, Pyrs remained huddled on the ground, less than three hand spans from the nest. Every aspect of his being wanted to run, but he knew to do so would be the end of him.

With a grunt and crunch of bones, it was all over. Yellowsmoke finished off Taredd in two big bites.

Sweating and afraid, Pyrs fought to keep still. His eyes burned with the stench of urine and the pain of his teacher’s ghastly death. He imagined that huge beak crushing him, just as it had Taredd. Or perhaps the great creature’s black talons would shred him to bits.

He wracked his memory for what to do. Patience and silence, Taredd had told him, but Taredd was dead. For once, he was thankful he’d covered himself in craggon shit. Cautiously, and with infinitesimal slowness, he curled himself slightly away from the egg, leaving the shell exposed, never once taking his eyes off Yellowsmoke. Perhaps she’d think he was just another turd.

The craggon sniffed at one of Taredd’s shoes, which had flown off in the attack, then seemingly satisfied that the threat was truly gone, approached the nest and sniffed it as well.

The great beast paused; her hot fetid breath only inches from his cheek. She made sort of gurgling chortle in her throat, and immediately, Pyrs felt the egg vibrate against him. Sounds of scratching came from several of the others. The baby craggons could hear her from inside the eggs! They were responding to her!

Pyrs huddled in the glowing earth; the movement of the eggs and worms feeling strange against his skin. How could she not see him? She was so close, he could have reached out and touched her razor-sharp beak.  She seemed not to have noticed that one of her eggs was outside the nest; she curled her bulk completely around him and the nest and after much nosing and turning of the eggs, settled her great head down and gave a great deep sigh of satisfaction. Already, her inner eyelid had slipped shut, and her outer lid was drifting heavily toward sleep.

Trapped within the encircling hulk of her body, Pyrs wondered how could she not hear the pounding of his heart? The movement within the egg in his arms answered his unspoken question. Her babies were near to hatching; she could hear them moving about in their shells. She must think it’s her baby’s heart beating.

Yellowsmoke thought she’d killed the intruder. She had no idea there had been two. He had to get out of here, but how? Every muscle in his body screamed for action, but he fought to keep still.

Don’t panic. Keep your wits about you. If he could just wait here until morning, she’d leave just as she did every morning. Patience and silence, Taredd always told him. Easy enough to say when one wasn’t trapped inside a craggon’s den.

Her breathing slowed, and likewise, the eggs quieted down. Pyrs forced himself to keep still, even as his legs began to cramp. If he could just keep still until morning, he could walk out of here with an egg. Not just any egg, but another egg like the one that produced Wymfyre the Flame. Great stars, he’d be able to charge a hundred times what he and Teredd would have received for any other egg.

And he wouldn’t have to split the gold with his old maester, either. The idea that he’d outsmarted Taredd, gave him pause. So far. But if he lost his nerve, he would meet the same fate as Taredd. Perhaps that was how all egg thieves died. Especially the old ones. They lost their nerve and panicked.

An unhappy thought came to him. What if Taredd had brought him along on this trip to as a decoy? Egg thieves jealously guarded the locations of craggon lairs. Why would Taredd have agreed to share the gold from this lair? Craggons had long memories. Taredd knew Yellowsmoke would remember him. That was why he’d covered himself in craggon shit. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced it was true. Looks like Taredd’s luck finally ran out.

All he had to do was to keep calm; and after a while, with the deadly craggon sound asleep beside him and the feel of a live egg curled against his stomach, he began to relax.  In the green glow of the lair, his mind began to wander.

This egg would assuredly go to the palace, but next year, he’d return with a smock with much bigger pockets. Two eggs would probably all he could carry, but he’d definitely keep one for himself. No one else knew about this lair.

Comforted by the snore of the sleeping craggon beside him, Pyr grinned into the darkness, and imagined how his life was about to change forever. In a few years he’d have his own craggon; as the king’s messenger, he’d be able to earn his own lands, perhaps even a wife. He fell asleep imagining how wonderful his new life would be.

In the morning, after another tense inspection by Yellowsmoke, she departed without a clue as to his presence.

He waited for as long as he could, to make sure she was really gone, before stumbling to the entrance with the precious egg cradled in his arms. He paused in the bright light of morning; waiting for his eyes to adjust and grinned.

I made it! I’m alive! Bless you, Yellowsmoke, for making this the greatest day of my life, for I have found my true calling.

And all the way back to the capital, he reveled in the simple thoughts of every successful egg thief; not of gold and what it would buy (although that was surely part of it), but rather, the savage joy of living.

END

Copyright © 2014 by Sharon Joss

Published by Aja Publishing  www.ajapublishing.wordpress.com

Book and cover design Copyright  © 2014 by Aja Publishing

Cover design by S. Roest / Aja Publishing

Cover Art Copyright  © by M and R Photos  / Dreamstime

All rights reserved.  This is a work of fiction.  All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or incidents or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission.

The post Fourth Friday Free Fiction – The Egg Thief appeared first on Sharon Joss Writes.

The Learning Never Ends

Sharon Joss Writes

In 2009, when I started writing fiction full-time, I expected I’d get that big fat publishing contract in 3, maybe 4 years tops. I planned to learn everything I could from the best teachers I could find. Most small businesses don’t start showing a profit until at leaf the third or fourth year, anyway. In fact, I told myself that if I wasn’t supporting myself with my writing in 5 years, well…I just wouldn’t let that happen. I may have known  a little about business, but I didn’t know anything about being an artist.

Some say, it takes a million words to attain mastery of the craft as writer. Based on writing 4 pages a day, every day, that’s more than 3 years (or10 novels).  Others say it takes 10,000 hours to attain mastery in any artistic endeavor.  Based on a 40-hour work week, that’s more than four years.  Still others insist that it’s 7 or even 10 years of writing full-time before a writer is producing consistently at the professional level (lucky for me I didn’t hear that one until just this year, or I might have been too intimidated to start).

So I studied the books, and took the classes and attended the workshops.  I wrote my million words.  I put in my 10,000 hours, and this is what I’ve learned: I don’t think ten years is enough to learn it all. Looking back on how far I’ve come and how much I’ve learned since I started, I now realize that a writer’s learning never stops. Mastery isn’t a number, or a destination–it’s  the horizon; you have to keep practicing and learning, and stretching yourself.

Continually.

Learning is a never-ending process.  The day you think you’ve learned it all; the day you think you don’t need to keep studying or practicing or trying new techniques is the day ‘mastery’ slips over the horizon and out of sight.

And that’s the thing of it.  If you’re watching the clock in this business, or constantly asking ‘are we there yet’ you’re missing the point. The learning never stops.

Gotta love it.

 

 

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