Scott Pearson's Blog, page 8

All Things Being Equal, It's Better if Things Make Sense

A recent episode of the Hawaii Five-O reboot—spoiler warning!—built up to Danny finding out his brother Matt (or Chris, depending on which website you believe) had made some poor financial decisions and was now in over his head with bad guys and in serious legal trouble. Danny counseled Matt to turn himself in and promised to help him in every way possible. Matt appears to agree, but then ditches Danny to flee the country with a load of cash. Danny figures out the ruse and catches up with Matt at an airport about to board a small jet. A tall chain-link fence separates the brothers so, following his cop instincts, Danny draws his gun and orders Matt to stop.

“You’re going to have to shoot me or let me go,” Matt says. Danny looks overwhelmed: what can he do? He can’t shoot his own brother. His shoulders slump, and he lowers his weapon, watching Matt get on the jet as a wanted man abandoning his family.

Certainly those were horrible alternatives to choose between…except for the fact that the either/or was complete nonsense. How many other ways could he have stopped his brother? Let’s see, shoot the tires of the jet, get the attention of the pilots and flash his shield, call the tower and tell them to hold the plane, get back in his car and crash through the fence…need I go on? The only real reason to let the brother go was if Danny simply didn’t want to see his brother in jail no matter what the consequences. But given the heartfelt plea he’d made to Matt to turn himself in, why the change of heart?

To me this was a clear case of the writers not taking enough time to make sense. They wanted the story to end in a certain way, but they didn’t write us there in a believable way. I can’t help but stare pointedly in the direction of producers Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci. They, of course, also produced and wrote the latest incarnation of Star Trek which, although a fun ride, wasn’t exactly overstocked in the making-sense department.

Hawaii Five-O is certainly following in those footsteps. Episode after episode relies on the magical power of WTF moments to drive the plot forward. We've all been guilty of this, no matter what medium we write for. I've had stories come back from beta readers who have called me out on certain elements (or entire stories, to be honest) that just didn't pass the does-it-make-sense test. TV and movies have an easier time of distracting us from those weak points with lots flashy effects, fast editing, and stars in swimsuits, but we can do it in print as well, with similar intercut scenes, action sequences, and Obi-Wan in the background giving a wave of his hand and a casual, "This isn't the plot point you're looking for."

I do like the fun, but I wish more movies and TV made sense. That can separate great fun from the truly great.

The Collaborative Process in Traditional Publishing

Previously on Enemy Lines…I'm a writer who makes my living as an editor. It's my day job, like Bruce Wayne without the money, that covers for my writing, like fighting crime, but without the crime or the fighting. It's the perfect metaphor, except for all the exceptions. Literally.

I was a writer for many years before I ended up as an editor, so I approach my work in a sometimes substantially different way from my fellow editors who do not pursue writing professionally outside what's necessary for their jobs. I can see things entirely from the writer's point of view. I know what it is to hand over your precious work to some person you don't know and will, most likely, never meet face to face.

That established, I'd like to give some general advice to the myriad writers out there who are up-and-comers trying to get something accepted somewhere or who have sold their first manuscript and are tip-toeing into the shallow end of the pool of the editorial process. In a word: collaborate.

Writing is a solitary process, and some new to the field don't foresee how much that solitariness evaporates upon the happy day you sign a contract. Now you have an editor, but that editor is just the tip of the iceberg. She's your connection to the publishing company, and represents all the people that work beneath the surface to create a book: sales and marketing people, freelance copyeditors and proofers, designers, and more. The writer doesn't have to deal directly with any of those people, just the editor. The editor has to juggle all the needs, sometimes competing needs, from the rest of the team, in an effort to make the best book possible. And here's the hard truth: the writer is part of that team now. Before you were the god of your manuscript, now you're just a player on the team, a significant player, the player everyone is counting on, the player that will be hoisted onto shoulders and paraded around if the book is a hit, but during the process of going from manuscript to book…a player. And you have to ask yourself: Am I going to be a team player?

Because here's the thing: who's the boss? Neither writer nor editor. As in any business, the boss is the guy who writes the checks. Both editor and writer get their checks from the same place. They are working together for the same boss. To be successful, they need to collaborate. To enter the field of commerce, the writer has to surrender some of his art to the team. There is no I in traditional publishing. Well, it looks like there are actually three i's there…so the third eye is the…okay, let's let that metaphor go.

Anyway, where was I? Collaboration. Don't enter your relationship with your editor with heels dug in. As soon as the process becomes adversarial both writer and editor are in for months of hell. Writers, remember that your editor is working on many other manuscripts at the same time as yours. Editors are forced to work like contractors, rotating from job to job, each job in a different stage of completion. I choose that metaphor knowing that contractors are often hated, they are like lawyers with tool belts, never there when you need them, off on some other site when you need them most. It's a rough part of the job for the editor. I hate when I have to tell one of my writers "I can't get to you right now, I've got another project on deadline." But in my little cube it's a constant editorial triage…what's due next? What manuscript has had something go horrible wrong? Which one can afford to run a day or a week late? Which book is timed to some event and absolutely has to make a hard sales date?

So, keep that in mind. Whatever you're doing just once on your manuscript the editor is dealing with on a couple dozen manuscripts. Helping out with little things like formatting the manuscript the way the editor wants, even if it seems weird to you, is the first step to playing ball, and your editor will appreciate it. Remember, you're editor can also be your advocate. Although you both have the same boss, in most cases the editor is the only one who gets face time with the publisher. Your editor is the one who's in a position to say, "Hey, I know this manuscript is a little unconventional, but here's why it works, and why we should keep it this way." Because the editor is on your side, on your team.

None of this is to say you have to simply roll over to every suggestion from your editor. Stand up for what you believe in, explain why you've done something the way you have, but do it in a professional, civil fashion. I've often changed points of style on a book because the writer has given her reasoning behind it. And, yes, I've gone the other way as well, and said, "I see what you're saying, but I've got to tell you that I don't think the reader is going to get that. We don't need to reinvent the wheel here." The point is to have discussions and reach understandings. If everyone works in a collaborative way, no one should end up stating demands, and in the end you produce a better book than any one person could have done. That's what everyone wants, isn't it?

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Crossposted from my head to various places in an ephemeral stream of digits.

To Self-Publish or Not to Self-Publish: The Answer's as Clear as Either Way

I've lately been thinking that I should upload something on the Smashwords that all the kids are talking about. This is a site that facilitates e-publishing. You upload a file formatted in the necessary way and soon your book is for sale on Amazon, Apple's iBookstore, Barnes & Noble, and so forth. It seems like another plank in the platform: website, check; blog, check; Facebook, check; self-published e-book, check. But wait, not so fast. As with all things in life, there are pros and cons to be debated here. Had a great talk with editor extraordinaire and general man about town Marco Palmieri about the subject after he pointed out this recent interesting post and discussion on The Practical Free Spirit, an enjoyable blog by aspiring writer Amy Sundberg. Marco said the topic had also been quite the rage at the recent LunaCon.

We all know the publishing world is going through an upheaval at the moment as e-books are leaping ahead much like internet sales of music did years ago (especially after iTunes demonstrated that people were willing to actually pay for music instead of downloading it illegally), and many things are different. One thing that remains from days gone by is the smelly curse of the vanity press. The old-school vanity press charged desperate writers to print whatever manuscripts they churned out and then deposited a big box full of books on their doorstep and moved on to the next mark author. You could probably make a survivalist bunker out of all the boxes of unsold books these writers accumulated. They had to schlep them around in their trunk and try to talk bookstores into selling them. Good luck with getting even your neighborhood store to carry your 2,500 page Tolkien knock-off or collection of earnest adolescent poetry. Best just to put that box in the trunk for added traction in the winter.

The self-publishing industry has changed, however. Many more of these publishers offer editorial services and will get your book listed on Barnes and Noble's website as well as Amazon. Their designers will make you a cover that doesn't look like it was glued together from construction paper. Word processing and computer layout has made the production of a professional-looking book more accessible and at reasonable prices. And with the advent of e-publishing, even the middleman of the vanity press can be left behind. The greatest strength of the internet and e-publishing is that they are great equalizers; but the greatest weakness of the internet and e-publishing is that they are great equalizers. To paraphrase something that I can't really remember at this time of night, when everyone is a writer, no one is a writer. Even a fabulous new talent might not get found when she is adrift in the vast sea of e-effluence that the internet distributes everywhere instantaneously every moment of every day.

Quick, what would you rather buy, a Ford or a Toyota or Fred Fredson's Automobile? Are you more likely to buy the new urban fantasy from Simon & Schuster or Fred Fredson's new book from Fred Fredson Publishing? There's something to be said for brands, which bestow a sheen of legitimacy on the product. Granted, any brand has its lemons, but the consumer generally knows that there's some quality control going on at a brand-name company. They know there's a screening process. A car's been tested, a book's been edited. Who knows what the hell Fred Fredson's been up to. I mean the guy dunks Twinkies in his coffee. Does he even know how to spell check?

I'm certainly aware of the dangers of self-publishing, of the possibility of putting out self-indulgent floor sweepings you're too close to recognize for what they are. But I also know that there can be as much luck as craft involved in selling a manuscript, and just because something hasn't sold does not inherently mean it's unsaleable and not worth publishing. There are lots of variables involved in what gets published, and sometimes the quality of the manuscript, good or bad, isn't the key issue. Sometimes it's not even one of the issues at all. This is why I've enlisted a trusted writer friend as a beta reader, someone who will tell me what stinks and what doesn't, what is fixable and what isn't. And then I will have others read it too. The stories will be put through their paces. Quite likely not all of them will make it. Maybe I'll get to the end and not have enough for a collection. We shall see.

Nevertheless, one of Marco's points that will remain with me the most is a danger of any published book: what if it tanks? If you're selling the thing, it's likely someone can find out the sales numbers, and low sales of one book hangs around the neck of a writer like an albatross that's swallowed a cinder block. And if you've self-published it . . . well, then your self-indulgent and a flop. Ouch. Uphill work for an agent, that's for sure. But the publishing world is changing. Although many of us of a certain age still worry about that unique vanity-press smell of cheap paper, desperation, and flop sweat, I wonder how much the current reader is sensitive to the aroma? On a Kindle all books smell the same, as it were. People seem more willing to buy from Fred Fredson Publishing these days.

So where does this all leave me? Well, I'm still pursuing a number of traditional publishing projects. I'm not fooling myself into thinking that Amanda Hocking lightning is going to strike my e-book. This is just a little project on the side to put my name out there while I work on an original novel and various and sundry stories. I'm sure that between now and finished manuscript I will second guess myself several hundred times. Stay touched and in tune.

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Crossposted from my head to various places on the global matrix.

My Job Interview with Garrison Keillor

There's been a lot of media coverage of Garrison Keillor's comments on retirement this week, so it seemed like a good time to share my Keillor story. I started listening to him in seventh grade or so. That was back when he still did a morning show during the week in addition to the Saturday broadcast of A Prairie Home Companion. I would set my alarm earlier so I'd get to listen to more of the morning show before going to school, and I rarely missed a Saturday broadcast. I was a big fan of his radio shows and his books.

Flash forward to July 2003. I responded to an ad in the paper for a comedy writer job for Minnesota Public Radio. I sent in some writing samples. The response made clear what the ad did not: this wasn't just any comedy writer position, this was a staff writing job for Prairie Home Companion. Holy crap. I'd been listening to the show for well over twenty years. Next I was asked to write a fake commercial spot for the show. I could use one of their faux sponsors or one of my own. I created my own: the Philosophy Advisory Board. I've previously posted the script, so you can read Happiness Through Philosophy over on my Live Journal archives. A few days after I sent in the script, I got an email from Garrison Keillor.

Did I mention holy crap? Keillor said my sketch "was funny and brisk and smart and all the things we're looking for." Wow. I felt like I had this job in the bag, my ship had come in, I was being called up to the show. We arranged for an interview. The day came and I was pretty freaking nervous. I went to the studio and Keillor wasn't there. There'd been a mix-up with his schedule and he thought I wouldn't be there for another hour. The extra time waiting actually helped me calm down because the receptionist chatted with me the whole time. Finally the man himself came in, apologized for being late, and led me deeper into the offices. We stopped in a break room to get a drink. He offered coffee or water, I asked for water. He went into the fridge to grab a bottle and couldn't find one. He leaned further in. It seemed like the entire upper half of his body disappeared inside the appliance, and he's a tall guy. I'm watching him root around in there, thinking, "Garrison Keillor is getting me a bottle of water." I felt like giggling. He finally gave up and asked if tap water was all right, so I got a mug of water, he got some coffee, and we went into his office. As you can see in this more recent photo, his office is a bit cluttered. We sat down and I went to put my mug down . . . and there was no open surface. I ended up using the mug to push aside some books just enough to make a space on the corner of his desk. 

I had brought in my first published short story, "The Mailbox," which had appeared in Minnesota Monthly, the Minnesota Public Radio magazine. I handed over the magazine and he immediately opened it and started reading the story. He flipped through the pages, stopping here and there to read. After awhile he looked up and said that it reminded him a bit of Raymond Carver, and asked if that's what I'd been going for. In my head I was saying, "Actually, I felt like I was being more like you when I wrote it," but thought that might be a bit too much, true though it was. Instead I went with the equally truthful, "I had been reading a lot of Carver around that time, now that you mention it." We talked a bit about Carver's story collection Cathedral.

At this point the interview was going famously. I made him laugh a few times, he'd compared me to Carver . . . what could go wrong? I'll tell you. In reality, I was a deer and the headlights were coming up fast. I was in the room with a guy I'd been a fan of for over half my life. And at the heart of it we were still a couple of shy Midwestern boys. Somewhere around the fifteen minute mark, something went south. Not sure what. But it got quiet. He wasn't asking much. I was too freaked out to try to re-energize the situation. What I really needed was some good old Powdermilk Biscuits, which give shy people the power to get up and do what needs to be done, but I didn't have them. I sat there thinking, "This has run off the rails, what can I do?" 

There was nothing I was able to do, and the interview wandered along for a while longer, we talked about various openings on the staff, and then he walked me out, telling me to send in some ideas for the website and he'd get back to me. But deep down I knew he was just being polite. I'd missed my ship. It was an enormous blow, and particularly galling given I'd nailed that script. I couldn't listen to the show for about two years after that. But a few months later I got a job as a copyeditor for MBI, which, with some promotions and buyouts, is still the place I work. I frequently listen to the show on Saturdays, and my daughter Ella is a huge fan, and thinks it wild that I interviewed with the guy on the radio and sat in his office with him. I better get working on some new scripts. If he's retiring, he might be looking to hire some writers . . . and this time I won't freeze!

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Crossposted from my head to various places on the electronic worldwide entanglement machine.

Plus, it gets you free cable . . . in your head!

One expects a certain amount of puffery in ads, of course, but there's a line between puffery and physically impossible bullshit, if I may use the technical term. Lately I became aware of a company called Phiten, and its claims about their product Aqua-Titaniumtm:

In nature, titanium is not a soluble material. However, by utilizing the high-intensity Phild Process, Phiten scientists are able to dissolve titanium in water. This creates Aqua-Titanium, which then can be absorbed into material just like a dye. The Aqua-Titanium becomes part of the fabric and can not be washed out or fade away. Aqua-Titanium is most prominently used in our necklaces and apparel, where the entire fabric is permeated with Aqua-Titanium and emits energy that effectively controls your bio-electric current.

I will grant them that they probably actually have trademarked the term "Aqua-Titanium" and that the first sentence is true, but after that their claims veer off into a world of unicorns that defecate only the sweetest of magic jelly beans. Just what is this energy Aqua-Titanium allegedly emits? Can it be measured? How does it control my "bio-electric current"? Can they measure my bio-electric current to determine if it's out of control in some fashion and thereby demonstrate how Aqua-Titanium then gets it back in tune?

There are no answers to these questions on their website. What they do have are testimonials from a number of athletes, primarily professional, attesting to its miraculous powers. There are no corresponding medical studies posted, where double-blind testing could try to actually quantify these claims and determine the mechanism by which the claimed results are achieved.

One thing's for sure, if what they claim is true, then people who have received titanium hip replacements must be freakin' superheroes.

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Crossposted from my head to various places on the intertubes.

This is a test, only a test...

Okay, I'm testing out a new extension for my browser, ScribeFire, which should streamline posting my blog to all three of my network affiliates, Live Journal, Blog Spot, and Word Press. I'm typing this up within a browser window, and I've entered my usernames and passwords into the extension. It will be interesting to see how it works.

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Crossposted from my head to various places on the intertubes.

Welcome to the Relaunch of Enemy Lines

Enemy Lines is new (sort of) and improved (kind of), and now with lemon-fresh scent! Actually, the blog has been up and running three years next month on its original home at Live Journal, but I decided it was time to add some additional affiliates. So I want to officially welcome Blog Spot and Word Press to my little network. I hope this makes it a bit easier for people to find me. No matter which of these places you like hanging out in, you can now follow my writing and editing misadventures.

For anyone who stumbles across Enemy Lines for the first time here at the relaunch, a quick introduction: I'm a writer who makes his living editing. My latest publication as a writer is the Star Trek novella Honor in the Night in the collection Myriad Universes: Shattered Light, in stores now from Simon & Schuster. As an editor, the newest published book I worked on is Battle for the City of the Dead: In the Shadow of the Golden Dome, Najaf, August 2004 by Dick Camp, published by Zenith Press. You can find just about everything I've ever worked on at my website, yeahsure.net. I'm also on Facebook.

One thing you should know about me: I'm inordinately fond of toast.

That is all.

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Crossposted from my head to various places on the internet.

Cutting What Needs to be Cut: A Deleted Scene from Honor in the Night

In a previous post, "The Long, Strange Voyage of a Novella from Pitch to Publication, Part II: It's a Book...Maybe", I mentioned cutting a scene while revising the opening of Honor in the Night . . . at least eventually. The inimitable bill_leisner had given me some great notes on the manuscript when I first completed it, and I incorporated all of them except for his comments on the opening. There were two reasons: my contracted due date was rushing at me, and I liked one of the scenes he was suggesting I cut.

Flash forward past all the delays to when the book started moving into production again. I'd had a long time to get some distance from it, so since I had one more chance to review and revise, I took a close look at the opening scene. Yep, it had to go.

I'd had a reason for the scene. Since this is an alternate time line, I wanted to craft a bit of the context for readers before plunging them into the changed universe. I came up with a little character bit between McCoy and a chauffeur. I liked McCoy's dialogue, I liked the description of Nice, I liked the details about the car (tip of the hat to one of my oldest friends and diehard car guy, Jeff Ford of Auto Resto Mod for some great feedback on that and the rest of the manuscript as well) . . . but, come on, it was still mostly a guy riding in a car. Not very gripping. I chopped it out, decided what tidbits needed to be in the story, and sprinkled those back in after starting the story where it needed to start, with McCoy at the side of his friend's deathbed.

I'm so glad I made this cut. You just have to do this, no matter what sort of fondness you may have developed for something you've written. If it's not serving the story, out it goes.

So, for those of you who always look for deleted scenes when you pick up a new DVD, I'm going to share this clip from the cutting room floor. Like a lot of deleted scenes, it's got some nice stuff in it, but it deserved to get the scissors.
Nice, France, 2366

       "Parlez-vous anglais?" Leonard McCoy said to his chauffeur, a talkative young woman with short blond hair and an easy smile. She had kept up a steady stream of French ever since McCoy had climbed into the back of her replicated 1934 Citroën Traction Avant. He spoke very little of the language and, according to tradition, there was no translator technology present. Stumbling on the words with his Southern accent, he added, "Je ne comprends pas."
       She just laughed brightly and continued in French. She may have been giving him a recipe, a historical lecture, or telling him stories about her cats for all he knew, but it passed the time. Soon they were driving along the increasingly winding roads of the hillside neighborhood in Nice where his old friend Nilz Baris had lived for over forty years since retiring from the ambassadorship.
       The invitation McCoy had received that morning from Baris had been brusque, as usual, simply telling McCoy to arrive at Baris's chateau that afternoon and to pack for a three-day visit. It had not mentioned Tonia one way or another, which McCoy understood from decades of experience to mean that she was not invited this time. As much as McCoy hated being apart from her these days, it had been too long since he had seen Baris—and at 140 years old, give or take (McCoy did not put much energy into being precise these days) you just didn't want to go too long without seeing someone.
       The thought made McCoy frown. It had been just over five years since Sima, Baris's wife of nearly ninety years, had died. After losing Sima, Baris rarely had guests or went out of the house anymore, a stark contrast to how active the couple had remained after "retiring" to Nice. While continuing to serve as an advisor to the Federation on all matters Klingon, he and Sima had frequently entertained. There always seemed to be some famous guest at their house—McCoy had met actors, politicians, authors, and musicians from across two quadrants while visiting them. But after Sima's death Baris had become obsessed with the Bajorans, even going so far as to travel to the system for what he called "a goodwill visit." When he failed to resolve their situation, he had returned to Earth and started his life as a recluse in earnest. He still had his devoted staff, but he kept them at a professional distance. Although McCoy continued visiting him, the time between visits increased, which seemed to be what Baris wanted. Compared to his earlier life, it was a modest and solitary existence.
       So McCoy, upon reading the invitation, had said a quick goodbye to Tonia, packed an old Starfleet duffel, taken a shuttle from Atlanta to Nice, and then hired ground transportation from the shuttleport to Baris's chateau. The ride in the Citroën was pleasant, passing through the French countryside north of the city with the sun peeking through the trees and glinting on the well-polished long, black hood of the automobile. Except for the modern fuel cell under that hood, the vehicle was essentially indistinguishable from its twentieth-century inspiration.
       They were almost there now, and McCoy glanced around at the familiar neighborhood. The houses and other buildings, mostly stucco, some brick or stone, had muted tones, off-whites and soft corals from yellow to pink, and clay tile roofs. Low walls topped with shrubs surrounded yards dotted with palm trees. As the Citroën turned down the Alée du Palais, the little street Baris lived on, McCoy thought it would have been a tight fit back in the day when parked ground cars would have lined the road.
       After they stopped in front of Baris's home, which was salmon colored and had a turret in the front right corner, the chauffeur helped McCoy to the doorstep. Before he could ring the doorbell, a Vulcan man with surprisingly light-colored hair opened the door and took the duffel from the driver, who dashed off with a quick, "Au revoir."
       "Good afternoon, Admiral McCoy. Mr. Baris has been looking forward to your arrival."
       McCoy had met the Vulcan before, but never remembered his name, only his light brown hair. "Please, I've told you before, I'm just an old—a very old—country doctor. None of that admiral talk."
       "Yes, sir." The Vulcan gestured for McCoy to enter.
       McCoy led the way inside. "Is he out back?" There was a small pool in the backyard, and Baris was usually sitting beside it in a lounge chair reading old Western novels.
       "No, sir . He's in the master bedroom."
       McCoy adjusted his course for the stairway, preparing to haul his creaking joints up to the second floor. As he got to the top of the stairs, he could hear Baris talking, but there was only silence during the pauses. McCoy guessed Baris friend was talking to himself. Moving down the hallway, McCoy got his first glimpse of Baris through the open door, silhouetted by the bedroom's west windows glowing with the orange light of the setting sun.
       As McCoy's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that age had caught up with Baris in the several months since he had last visited. Baris's face was pale, and he had lost weight. Baris sat in bed, surrounded by a mound of pillows, his brow furrowed over whatever it was he was debating. Instead of maintaining his usual ramrod straight posture, he slumped forward. McCoy entered the bedroom, still blinking his eyes.
       "Is it still too soon?" Baris was saying. He didn't notice McCoy edging toward the bed. "There could be serious ramifications, even after all these years."
       "Is what too soon?" McCoy said, deciding to let Baris know he was there and had heard.
       "Oh, hello!" Baris looked startled for a moment, but then put a smile on his thin face and sat up straighter. "You caught me thinking out loud. Forget about that for now." He waved McCoy to a chair by the bed. "It's good to see you. How is Tonia?"
       "More than I deserve, as always." McCoy slowly lowered himself into the chair, keeping a close eye on Baris. He was certain that Baris's medications needing adjusting, but wasn't sure how to bring it up.
       "You'll get no argument from me."
       "There's a first time for everything."
       Baris chuckled at the cantankerous old doctor. "I believe even Spock would label that a case of the pot calling the kettle black."
       McCoy shrugged. "Well, Tonia has a heart big enough for two cranky old men. She sends her love."
       They lapsed into a companionable silence, both turning to the windows to watch the golden afternoon light shimmering on the rolling waves of the Mediterranean. Neither of them broke the silence until a member of the staff entered the room, his approach given away by the mouth-watering smells that preceded him.
       A wheeled tray of delicious-looking food explained the aromas filling the room. The young man pushing the tray, his long black hair in a ponytail, parked the tray and bowed slightly toward McCoy. "Bonsoir, monsieur. I am Gaspard."
       "Bonsoir, Gaspard," McCoy said.
       "Come now." Baris eased his legs to the floor and stood unsteadily. McCoy watched him with concern, but Baris ignored it. "We'll dine in the turret." They moved into the turret through an open doorway at the left front of the bedroom, settling into comfortable chairs at a small table beneath a window with a perfect view of the sea.

Backing Up and Moving Forward

My how time flies.

I had started developing better habits about posting, but then my computer died, threatening to take all my data with it. Like most people, I wasn't as careful about backing up as I should have been. In addition to concerns about losing writing projects, irreplaceable photos, and financial records, I was also stymied by not being able to do all the things I do on the computer. For one thing, I pay a lot of bills online. I get the bills online. I get my bank statements online. I track when bills are due on a calendar on the computer, where I also mark when I've paid them. Suddenly that whole routine was gone. I tried going to some of the individual sites, then realized I couldn't remember a lot of the passwords that my browser autofilled. Chaos ensued.

But let's fast forward to the happy ending: all my data was recovered, and at the low end of the scale for such services. I ended up getting a little-used one-year old computer from a friend, donated to me free of charge. Wow. I bought a one-terabyte hard drive to use as a dedicated back-up drive. Of course, by the time this was all handled, which stretched into weeks, many things had run off the rails. Deadline extensions were given. Only one bill wasn't paid on time. Momentum was unconscious, or at least sleeping. Suddenly it's the end of February and I haven't blogged in a month and a half.



So now I'm back. The above photo is me staring maniacally at the screen of my fab new computer, which has a built-in camera. I've reorganized my writing. I've entered blog reminders in my calendar app. Yesterday I wrote the first two sentences of a spec novel I've been thinking about for several months. Below is a photo of the anthology Myriad Universes: Shattered Light which contains my novella Honor in the Night (I know, I know, I just can't stop saying that), which came out in December. Thanks to Ian McLean who sent me this picture from Sydney, Australia, from the Galaxy Bookstore. It's been getting pretty good reviews from the fans.



Time to get refocused and keep things moving forward. While also keeping things backed up!

The end of Dracula. After a fashion.

Well, here we are, at the end of the bloodsucking road. The Satanic Rites of Dracula is the last of the Hammer Dracula movies chronologically, and the last appearance of Christopher Lee as Dracula. Two years have passed since Van Helsing dispatched Dracula on the site of a condemned church in Dracula A.D. 1972 . Hammer would produce another Dracula movie, but The Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires was a period piece and had someone else in the Dracula role, as previously blogged about here and here. As usual, my comments and synopsis are loaded with spoilers, so proceed at your own risk.
The movie opens with an occult sacrifice in a fancy estate. At the same time, a government agent held prisoner in the same house escapes. Before he dies from the vicious beatings he's received, he's able to tell his superiors that top officials in the British government are part of this cult, and he has pictures to prove it. Concerned that their investigation may be compromised by links to the officials, they bring in someone outside their department to assist. The Scotland Yard man they call is the officer who investigated the killings in Dracula A.D. 1972. He, of course, immediately contacts Van Helsing as an occult expert.

It turns out Van Helsing knows one of the top officials involved in the cult. He pays a visit and discovers the guy has gone around the bend and is experimenting with a new strain of bubonic plague that could wipe out the entire world. Another man enters the room and shoots Van Helsing; when Van Helsing comes to, his old friend is hanging from rafters. The plague samples are gone. This entire scene is pretty well done except for the incredibly poorly staged shooting bit. The bad guy shoots at Van Helsing from just across a small room and hits him in the head, but it's just a flesh wound, a grazing shot on his temple. How could he have missed? Or, if he was supposed to leave Van Helsing alive, why risk a head shot that could so easily go wrong?

Meanwhile, the Scotland Yard guy, one of the government guys, and Van Helsing's granddaughter go to the estate house where the satanic rituals are being performed. (Unfortunately, the original granddaughter, Stephanie Beacham, was unavailable and the role was recast with Joanna Lumley. l like Lumley, but would have preferred the continuity of Beacham.) As the guys talk to a woman in the house, the granddaughter ignores her directions to stay safe in the car and snoops around, stumbling across a bunch of female vampires from the rituals. The good guys are all able to escape.

Van Helsing discovers that a building has gone up on the very site of the church where he last defeated Dracula. Apparently, someone brought the Count back immediately after that "death" and now Dracula has been manipulating government officials behind the scenes for over two years, working toward releasing this plague into the world. The Count's motivation here is murky. Van Helsing suggests Dracula has some sort of death wish, that by wiping out humanity that he could finally die himself, but not before the ultimate revenge against all the world.

I won't spoil all the fun that's left as Van Helsing advances toward another face-to-face confrontation with Dracula. Of course, it's really no spoiler to say eventually the Count is ashes again and Van Helsing lives. The film has aged better than the previous one, since it doesn't have all the trying-too-hard-to-be-hip scenes with the young crowd Van Helsing's granddaughter ran around with. It's an interesting blend of horror and government conspiracy/thriller genres. Dracula, while behind the scenes, has the air of a Bond villain, a rich industrialist working for world domination. The movie could have exploited that a little bit more, really. In the end, not a bad way for Christopher Lee to wrap up his Hammer Dracula series.

Next I will begin working my way through the Hammer Frankenstein films, again starring Peter Cushing, this time as Frankenstein, and, in the first film, Christopher Lee as the Creature.