Star-Crossed Lovers

In the latest ROMANTIC TIMES, I read about MaryJanice Davidson's forthcoming mermaid novel. Her heroine is only half mermaid and therefore can appear human and function on land. Romance between mermaids and human men isn't always that easy, though. The heroine of the movie SPLASH magically transformed into an apparently normal woman, but her legs turned into a tail whenever she got wet. The Little Mermaid in Hans Christian Andersen's classic tale made a much rougher choice. She had to sacrifice her voice for legs, and every step felt like walking on knives.

In the absence of magic to transform a mermaid to a human woman (or her lover into a merman), the two would never be able to remain together, since they couldn't survive in each other's natural environments. I've just read a Silhouette Nocturne vampire romance, FROM THE DARK, by Michele Hauf, in which the heroine is a witch. In this fictional world, witches seem to comprise a subspecies of humanity. Witch blood is poisonous to vampires. Therefore, the hero and heroine are kept apart by their biology. Naturally, Hauf devises a way to overcome this barrier.

The Romeo and Juliet scenario, of course, the theme of lovers separated by a deep-rooted antipathy arising from their different backgrounds, is a perennial favorite among romance plots. Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet actually had everything in their favor, aside from that silly family feud. They grew up in the same city, followed the same religion, and sprang from the same socio-economic stratum. If their parents had renounced the enmity between their houses before it was too late, the young couple would probably have enjoyed a successful marriage. Tony and Maria in the modern adaptation, WEST SIDE STORY, have more serious difficulties, coming from rival ethnic groups, but at least they live in the same city at a similar income level. For a truly tragic example of a love affair destroyed by differences in background, look at SOUTH PACIFIC. Both Nellie Forbush and Lt. Cable initially reject the people they love because of racial factors; Nellie's rich planter has fathered half-Polynesian children, and Lt. Cable's innocent Liat is Tonkinese (or possibly half, fathered by another French planter -- the movie doesn't go into details of her background). In James Michener's original book, TALES OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC, Nellie's quandary is more wrenching and her reaction more blatantly racist; her would-be fiance has had multiple children by several mistresses of different races, and Nellie mentally applies the N-word to the Polynesian mistress. The ethnic barrier proves insurmountable for Lt. Cable, who rejects Liat and subsequently gets killed by the Japanese. Nellie comes to realize love is more important than the prejudices she has been "carefully taught," so she achieves a happy ending. To be fair to Lt. Cable, his dilemma really is more difficult than hers. Nellie joined the Navy for adventure and will have little difficulty in setting down new roots as the wife of a planter on a tropical island. In writing home to her family and friends, she can remain vague about her husband's previous "marriage." Lt. Cable would have to choose between abandoning his career and family to "go native" or taking poor Liat back to Philadelphia to face the contempt of his upper-middle-class social circle. Michener's short novel SAYONARA portrays a still worse scenario, a tragic love between an American soldier and his Japanese wife, whose marriage makes them outcast from both cultures. Their suicide affects the protagonist, an American officer also serving in occupied Japan, so deeply that he is forced to embrace his own love for a Japanese woman despite the cultural obstacles.

But suppose a hero and heroine come from such radically different worlds, literally, that they can't possibly form a romantic union? To produce a happy ending rather than a tragedy from this kind of plot, the author has to find a method of overcoming the barrier between them that doesn't look like a cop-out. This is a difficulty I often wrestle with in writing paranormal romances: If the obstacles keeping the lovers apart are convincingly serious, how can I invent a convincing solution to bring them together without, effectively, leaping over the crisis and starting the next scene with the equivalent of "once I got out of that pit..."?

Invective and Elimination -- soooo Romantic

Folks:

The last two posts here are very typical of what writers in general spend their time thinking about -- invective (or anthropology and linguistics) and Elimination (or The Five Life Functions that define what is alive and what is not).

But what's that got to do with Romance, alien or otherwise?

Ah, but what is romance?

Do you suppose Romance is the 6th "Life Function" -- that all living things (even retro-viruses) do something during sex (or asexual reproduction) that pertains more to the spiritual dimension that the physical?

In fact, would anyone agree that Romance has nothing to do with sex?

It might be postulated that in many ways, Romance has little if anything to do with Relationship. It's possible to be catapulted into the state called "In Love" without the other person responding in kind. Being "In Love" (receptive to Romance) is a very personal thing, not necessarily shared.

I think on this blog we call an Alien Romance blog, we haven't paused in our headlong discussion to define ROMANCE, nevermind alien.

So what exactly is Romance?

Is it perhaps a state of mind in which an individual is capable of putting aside their personal, ego-centered individuality, blurring or softening the shell around "self" and joining with "other" and through "other" joining with the whole universe? Is "Romance" the joining with the Ineffable?

Is Romance a spiritual state or process in which a higher union is possible - a kind of union which actually isn't very functional in our everyday reality (people "in love" aren't usually very productive at work) - a kind of union which feeds the spirit rather than the body?

And if the spirit is a thing that needs "feeding" -- (i.e. participates in the Life Function called Nutrition) - is it possible that feeding the spirit is as necessary for the continuance of Life as the other 5 "Life Functions"?

We say that when we die, the spirit leaves the body.

What happens when the spirit dies?

Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/

Part Deux: Swearing in Alien Tongues

Is everything okay?

An innocuous question; one posed daily, if not hourly in our society. Yet several years ago, answering that question almost put a friend of mine in the midst of a full-blown melee.

You see, he was in a restaurant in a foreign country and was asked by the restaurant owner (via an interpreter) if “…everything (meal, wine, service) was okay.”

Not being fluent in the local language, my friend responded by making the good ol' American 'okay' sign: his thumb and index finger forming a circle, the other three fingers extended.

As the proprietor bellowed and tables almost overturned, my friend realized he'd evidently made a big mistake. He had. In his present locale, that hand gesture was synonymous for a lower body orifice, and not a pleasant orifice at that.

For all intents and purposes, he'd just called his host an…well, you know what he'd called him.

When I write my science fiction romance novels, I think about things like that. Not lower body orifices, mind you. I think about what we in this country, on the planet, deem as insulting. And how that might translate to the culture I've built for my novels.

The first lesson I've learned from the above example is that profanity is not planet-wide. What's okay in America may well be a reason to riot in Rio. Though admittedly, it was what the gesture stood for, and not the gesture itself, that was found so offensive.

Which brings me to the question I always ask myself when I'm world building: Self, what would this alien culture find offensive, and why?

It's rather a nice question to ask yourself as well, as you embark on your SF&F world building. Because answering it will make your worlds and your characters that much more complete, that much more alive to your readers.

In general, those that reside on this planet we call Earth find the following categories offensive and fertile fodder for foul language: blaspheming a revered deity, excrement, sexual acts, illegitimacy, body parts relating to excrement and sexual activity, and sexual activity with culturally unacceptable participants, including oneself.

All fairly obvious and self-explanatory to us here on Earth (and if you want to explore the matter further, the tome most oft cited is Geoffrey Hughes' Swearing: A Social History of Foul Language, Oaths and Profanity in English, Penguin USA). But we're not writing about here on Earth. We're writing about Rigel-V and Tatooine and the Skolian Empire and Moabar. Or maybe the Vash Nadah or the Khalar.

So we need to understand what those people in those places value, or don't, in order to understand how they swear.

Couldn't they value the same things we do? Sure. But why stop there? Moreover, why would they value exactly the same things we do? If the fictional culture you're creating is a carbon copy of Freehold, New Jersey set but set on the planet Gryck-2, then, in my humble opinion, you're cheating your readers. People don't read SF because they want to be immersed in the common. They read it to explore the uncommon.

If you read C.J. Cherryh's Chanur series, you'll see that one of the most common insults the feline race known as the Hani has is to call another Hani “an earless bastard.” And it isn't the bastardy that's the serious part of the insult—it’s the earless-ness. Ears, and the adornment of ears, are symbolic of success. (Being owned by cats myself, I can confirm that ears and tails are sources of great pride.)

So what does your fantasy or sci fi culture hold dear, and what do they disdain?

If parentage is taken lightly, then calling someone a bastard will most likely not be effective (this is true of some aboriginal cultures here on this planet). If there are no restrictions on sexual practices or partners, then perhaps your character could start a fistfight by calling the bad guy a monogamist.

How would those who spend their lives in the space lanes—perhaps are even born in space—view those who've never left the planet? “Dirtsuckers” is a term I've used derisively in my books, showing a prejudice by the space-born against the planet-born.

The entire issue of prejudice fueled the culture, and many of the insults, in my Gabriel's Ghost. The Taka are a furred race that, for the most part, work only in the lowest-paying and demeaning jobs. Prejudice against them, by humanoids, is common in the world of Captain Chasidah Bergren and Gabriel Ross Sullivan:

Sully stepped up to the worker. “Pardon, brother. We seek a Takan brother with urgent family news.”

The man barely glanced at Sully as he ran his hand through his thinning hair in an exasperated motion. Chatter still came from the podium speaker.

“What’s that? Hang on, I got some religious guy here needs to find a furry.”

The term 'furry', inoffensive to us, is a slur here.

But the Takas aren't the only species looked down upon in Gabriel's Ghost, as Chaz knows when she's speaking to Captain Philip Guthrie:

[Guthrie]: “No. The Farosians. With a Stolorth Ragkiril. We know that. How you would get involved with them, how you would get involved with that I cannot understand.”

‘That’ meant a Stolorth. A Fleet-issue sentiment of disgust.

As readers of Gabriel's Ghost learn, Stolorths are feared. Takas are simply dismissed as lesser beings. But both are recipients of prejudice, and often out of prejudice are insults born.

Blasphemy is born out of devotion. What gods or goddesses do your characters revere? What edicts has their religion placed on them? Is there a place, like hell, that your characters long to send their enemies? Or, if your characters are star-travelers, is it sufficient simply to sneer, "Oh, go suck dirt!" in order to be insulting?

A caution on using invented words: Oh, grzzbft! tends to sound more comical than threatening to English-acclimated ears. That doesn't mean you can't utilize your alien language in order to create alien profanity. Just try to anchor it to something the reader can identify with—an alien word or concept already used in the story, for example. Or use the 'comparative' method I noted in my previous article on constructing alien languages.

I used both methods in my upcoming Games of Command—which is, by the way, considerably lighter in tone than Gabriel's Ghost—so I wasn't quite as worried about the giggle factor:

She heard the smart click of the cabin door lock recycling. She dove under the desk, fitting her small form into the kneehole, and shoved her com badge down the front of her shirt. If it beeped now, she was toast.

Cabin lights flicked on. Heavy footsteps moved across the carpeted floor as the door swooshed closed.

Damn! Shit! Sonofabitch! Sass ran through every swearword she knew in five languages. Frack! Grenzar! Antz-k’ran! Trock!

And

“I’d love to launch a raftwide mullytrock, but then we’d have every other damned jockey in straps burning bulkheads. ’Course, that would work too. RaftTraff wouldn’t know which one of us to send the sec tugs after first.”

Mullytrock. Definitely Lady Sass. He remembered Ralland at fourteen getting his mouth washed out with soap for saying that.

Don't ignore the foul-language factor when creating your world. Take some time to see how and why and when we on this planet swear and integrate that knowledge with your alien or fantasy culture. Your readers--and your characters--will thank you. After all, your heroine does need something appropriate to say when she drops a sonic-wrench on her toe.

~Linnea
www.linneasinclair.com

Worldbuilding with my head in a bathroom fixture

Did we ever seen anyone go to the toilet on Star Trek (TM)?

I mean that in all sincerity and with the greatest of respect,
and in the best possible taste.

Jacqueline's first rate posting about servants has stimulated me to
consider other necessary matters that world leaders would like to do
--or get done-- silently, invisibly, without fuss or flap.

Snort!

Once upon a time, the King of a large, modern, Western country
came to visit one of a major auto-maker's design facilities. Both the Gents' and Ladies' bathrooms on one floor were closed to the public and reserved for their visiting Majesties' exclusive convenience.

As I recall the tale as it was told to me, their Majesties availed themselves of the opportunity (Royalty always goes when the opportunity presents itself, or is respectfully presented), took the entire entourage in with them (the host had assumed that the entourage would wait outside, and go afterwards), and conversation continued uninterrupted by any acknowledgement whatsoever that the setting was temporarily less formal.

My source has completely forgotten ever telling me this. He says I imagined it. I never forget a good potty story (but I do have strange dreams).

Bathroom scenes are part of my world building. The logistics of necessity are important to my fashionista heroine when she is marooned on a previously uninhabited island in INSUFFICIENT MATING MATERIAL. She warms up to the hero considerably when he takes the time to fashion a decent toilet seat for her.

There are bathroom fixtures I've considered that would probably never get past an editor of romances. Just like only villains in Regency romances have bad breath, no one breaks wind in a spaceship, and there is no mechanism to deal with a problem that even aliens ought to have... I would have thought.

It's simply not heroic to back up to an interior, miniature porthole.

If water might be a precious commodity in outer space, much might be done with suction and air pressure (I suppose). Also recycling. One has to think of physics, and chemistry, and gravity, and logistics.

Assuming that all romantic aliens are humanoid... now I pause to think of the alien who kept his genitals in his knee caps... and if one could eliminate waste through ones feet, that could be convenient, depending where one lived, but again, it would not be romantic.

I've never been sure about fictional bathrooms on spaceships that appear out of nowhere at the push of a button. Walls move. Space is created with no discernable impact on the size of the living area. Solid bathroom fixtures appear. How? Is the bathroom like Dr. Who's Tardis? I could accept a shower, but not a jacuzzi, I guess. But, then, I am not a plumber.

Why push a button? What about a Clap-On Crapper? What fun if the alien-romance's human heroine were to clap her hands in delight over some unrelated matter, and the toilet would shoot out of the walls, slosh and retreat, and reappear until she had the wit to stop clapping!

Can any reader point me in the direction of a well designed alien loo?

Best wishes,
Rowena
http://romanceatheart.com/interview/rowenacherry.html

Shooting Star

Here's an exerpt from my December release Shooting Star.
It was parade day. It was also his birthday. The boy, impatient with the maid who dressed him, broke away from her constant straightening and list of instructions and ran through the luxuriously appointed apartment to his mother’s room.
His little brother was there, clinging to her skirts with his thumb stuck deep into his mouth as always. The boy’s face brightened at the sight of his older brother.
“Ben!” he said in his baby voice as he popped his thumb out and then back in.
Their mother gently touched the golden brown hair of the boy at her side and then removed his hand so she could kneel to welcome the older son.
“Happy Birthday Ben,” she said and swept her son into a warm hug.
“Is the parade really for me mother?” Ben asked.
“Yes. Your father and the people want to honor the day of your birth,” she said.
No need to tell the boy that it just an excuse for his father to placate the people and give them another show of his strength. With twenty-one sons, all of which were to be held in high esteem by the population, there was a constant celebration and parade through the streets of the capital.
“You’re father will come for you and honor you on this day,” the mother continued as she checked to make sure that the innocent face before her was clean and the clothing was appropriate. His eyes, so blue, looked up at her with childish excitement. She straightened a wayward curl over his forehead.
Not that it really mattered what the boy looked like. His father, the esteemed leader of their world, would stop at the appropriate place and display the boy before the people. He would be announced as the twelfth heir to the throne. This day only his mother would recognize the insignificant ranking of her son’s birth. She was nothing but a lesser wife who was gifted to the emperor by her father as part of a peace treaty. Her youthful beauty and grace were prominently displayed at the time. She was welcomed into the emperor’s bed, compliantly did her duty and then gifted him with another son.
Perhaps if she had given him a daughter it would have been a novelty and she would have earned a higher place in the order of wives.
Instead she bore another son in a long succession of sons. He was another trophy to the never ending greatness and sexual prowess of the emperor. And because the emperor had noticed her son do something exceptional one day during his warrior training the emperor was pleased and graced the almost forgotten wife with a visit and as the result another son, Stefan Andreas, was borne and declared the twentieth heir to the throne. And another wife had given him number twenty one. There would probably be more. Why even bother to count them after the heir and the spare both born to the same wife. The first wife. The honored wife.
“Did you have your breakfast?” she asked. It would be a long day for the boy. An exciting day.
“Yes mother.
“Good.” She smiled at him. He face held the promise of masculine good looks. The softness of childhood was giving way to the angles and planes of manhood. He had the same look as her brother, dead these many years, with his hair of golden brown and his bright blue eyes. And young Stefan looked just like him also.
How dear her brother, Stefanas’s, memory was to her after his death so many years ago in the planetary wars. His loss had devastated her father and the result was the treaty and her life as a gift to the conqueror of their planet.
“It’s time to go,” the mother said. She took Ben’s hand into hers and with the other took the hand of his brother and led them to the balcony that over looked the main thoroughfare of the capital city.
In the distance the shield wall that protected the capital could be seen. It shimmered beneath the assault of the two suns that were at their zenith in the bright yellow sky. The people were grateful for the shield wall; it protected them from their enemies. They were also grateful for the strength of their emperor and his armies. After all, without him they would be at the mercy of the universe.
Or so the emperor told them.
All the wives gathered on the common balcony that faced the street. Their apartments were all linked together by the balcony on one side and a private courtyard on the other. They all came forth, dressed in their best, with their children at their sides. All came forth to celebrate the birthday of son number twelve, Rubikhan Benjamin, born to the mighty emperor and his fourth wife, the Princess Rowena of the Planet Kalember.
The banners proclaimed it. The heralds proclaimed it. The broadcasters proclaimed it, placing the proper spin on all of it for those who were unfortunate enough to have to watch from their homes. The emperor is great. The emperor is strong. Long live the emperor.
“Doesn’t the emperor look great?”
“Isn’t the Princess Rowena beautiful, even if she is getting on in years?”
“How handsome the young Prince is growing.” The very image of his father. Or so they were told to report. All of the young prince’s were the image of their father. Thus his difficulty in telling them apart the broadcaster thought to herself. No room for such rebellion. Not if she wanted to succeed. She read the script as it ran across the screen before her.
“The young Prince is now twelve years old. It is reported by his tutors that the Prince Rubikhan Benjamin is exceptional in all of his classes, especially his weapons training. He has a natural ability that astounds those that watch him.” The broadcaster checked her screen to as the last sentence that she read seemed different than the usual rote that she was required to repeat at each birthday. Yes, she had read correctly. A sentence had been added. The young prince must be exceptional to have something different added to his publicity release.
“We look forward to seeing him lead our warriors someday,” she went off the routine script with a genuine smile.
The camera’s focused on the balcony and the women and children gathered there. Seven wives and twenty sons all lined up. They were all there but the eldest. He had moved on to be with his father a long time ago.
Rowena and her sons occupied the second apartment. She was second in political ranking only to the first wife. The first wife had given the emperor his heir and three other sons. Her fourth son was only a few weeks younger than Ben. The boy looked at Ben with his pale, sour face. Could he be jealous? He had his own honors coming in just a few weeks after all. Rowena took a half step forward to shelter her son from the vicious looks coming his way while she tried to remember the boys name.
Dyson. His name was Dyson. Chubby cheeks, weak blue eyes and white blonde hair. How could she forget his name? Was it because he looked so much like his mother?
“Look Mother,” Ben said.
The heralds were passing, carrying banners with her son’s name. Next there was a hover pod with a soldier on board. He was being honored for some great accomplishment. Rowena stole a look at the great monitor hanging on the side of one of the buildings. It showed a close up of the soldier with the subtitles of his feats. The soldier seemed bored as he slowly drove the small hover craft down the street lined with wildly cheering patrons. But he did wave to the crowd, which drove the gathered mob into frenzied screams of celebration.
Next there were the various officers and the current top celebrities. It was getting close to the arts awards day. The top runners were all on open hover pods, wearing their best smiles as they blew kisses to the crowd. One especially handsome actor flashed his famous smile and the women gathered along the street below screamed in appreciation at the treat.
“Where’s my father?” Ben asked. Impatient as always, he stepped closer to the balcony’s edge and looked towards his father’s residence, ignoring the honorees that were lined up right below his nose. Dyson stepped forward also, blocking Ben’s view.
Rowena’s face remained composed. She would not show her aggravation with the child. Since they were close in age he shared a tutor with Ben and it had become a competition instead of a class.
Rowena had advised Ben to let it be. It would pass. The boy’s dishonesty would show itself, just as his mother’s had, at least to the other wives. She had born the heir. Why did she always feel the need to remind them of it?
“He’ll be here,” Rowena assured him.
How many times had Ben actually seen his father? Twenty, maybe that she could remember. There was never a time when the boy had been with him, one on one. It had always been in passing. There would be a comment on his growth, a question about his studies and the typical urging to keep the boy’s focus where it should be.
Today would be different however. Today Ben was twelve and he would get to go with his father to the governmental palaces and share dinner with him while his father told him his plans for the future. He would be introduced to the powerful on the planet. He would be honored by all who came into his presence.
Today would be different. Her son was special. Rowena knew it. She had watched him, taught him, he would excel. He would be noticed. He would earn his place by his father’s side. He would accomplish great things. He would see the things that needed to be changed and he would change them.
After today, things would be different.
Rowena bent over Ben’s shoulder and inconspicuously pointed towards the east.
“There he is,” she said into his ear. Ben’s hands tightened on the balcony rail, his knuckles white with the strength of his grip.
How could the emperor be missed? His hover pod was, of course, riding higher than the rest. It was bigger, as expected; it needed to be because of the body guards, the huge black newfs that never left the emperor’s presence and the personal driver. The sides of the hover pod were covered with clear plexi to protect the esteemed leader of the people and the top was covered with an ornate crown like molding, indicative of the high position of its passenger. It was hard to see exactly who was inside but Rowena knew who it was. Who else could it be?
The heralds stopped below the balcony. Soldiers and security officers lined up. The stairs were cleared. The hover pod stopped and the emperor stepped out onto the platform that had been placed there, just for that purpose.
He waved to the cheering crowd and proceeded up the steps with the two huge newfs following. An assistant brought up the rear. Under his arm he carried a large clear celpad and stylus, which was no doubt the only way he could keep track of all the details of the day.
The emperor looked dashing yet elegant in his uniform. A man for the people. The protector of the planet. A loving father intent on visiting his son.
Rowena placed her hands on Ben’s shoulders and without a word he stepped back, holding himself at attention as he’d been taught. They waited for his father.
The emperor waved to the crowd once more as he found the summit of the stairs. He took a few steps and then stopped. The newfs quickly sat down behind their master, patiently waiting for the next subtle command.
Ben’s father stopped in front of Dyson.
“So you are turning twelve?” he said.
“Yes sir,” Dyson responded with a bright smile. It wasn’t a lie. He was turning twelve. In just a few days.
Ben’s shoulders tensed under her hands. Rowena squeezed her fingers over the tense muscles. Patience my son…Rowena’s eyes darted towards the assistant who stood at attention behind the emperor and implored him with her lovely blue eyes.
The man shrugged his shoulders after he checked his celpad.
Dyson’s mother’s face held a self satisfied smile.
He has the wrong child…
Who would dare to point that out? Who among this was brave enough to risk their lives to tell the emperor that he had made a mistake in front of the entire population?
Surely he would realize his mistake? If Dyson had any honor he would tell it himself. If Dyson’s mother was the woman she pretended to be, she would and could smooth it over and turn it into a victory for the emperor. Not only did he care for Rubikhan Benjamin but he cared for Dyson, whatever his other name was, also. It would and could endear him to the people. Why didn’t she see it?
Because it was her son being noticed. Not Rowena’s. Why was she so vindictive? It wasn’t as if Rowena got any of his attention. She was long forgotten, as she had hoped to be. She couldn’t stand the man. The thought of him sickened her. Yes he was handsome, yes he was strong, and yes he was seductive. But he was also a shallow pool, without even so much as a ripple given out towards those who should be close to him.
Rowena didn’t dare make a sound lest she seem jealous, or weak. She had to remain strong and without emotion. It was the only way they would survive the day. It was the only way they could survive the rest of their lives. They could not show emotion. Doing so would only weaken their position and their position was tenuous at best. Did not the man even know who had mothered which child? Could he not recognize the mother at least and then conclude the son?
Politics ran deep in the colony of wives, just as it did everywhere else in the universe.
“Then let us go then and celebrate,” the emperor said. He took Dyson’s hand and led him to the rail. He lifted their joint hands together in a signal of victory. The crowd seemed confused but cheered as they always did.
They had no choice in that.
Hand and hand the two went down the steps to the hover pod with the canines and the assistant following, as they always did.
Rowena felt the trembling of Ben’s muscles beneath her hands.
It didn’t show. His posture remained impassive and his gaze focused on the crowd below.
Be strong my son…
They remained so, all of them on the balcony until the hover pod disappeared from sight in its continuation of the parade.
There were looks of sympathy from the lesser wives. There was a smile of victory on the first wife’s face. They all moved inside until all that remained on the balcony was Rowena, Ben and Stefan.
A servant, quietly sympathetic, took Stefan inside.
“I don’t understand,” Ben said finally as the first sun dipped behind their building, creating long shadows that contrasted greatly against the orange hue of the sky. “It’s my
birthday,” he continued with a sigh.
“He made a mistake,” Rowena said. The all powerful, all knowing, had made a mistake.
“Doesn’t he know me? Doesn’t he know who I am?”
How could she explain it? How do you tell a boy that his father doesn’t really care? That it’s all for show, and pageantry and pomp. There was only one son that concerned him. The heir, which even now had his own room close to his father so that he may learn best how to rule.
“You and Dyson are close in age. Perhaps he got the dates confused.”
“But my name is everywhere,” Ben pointed out. “He would have to know it is my birthday, not Dyson’s.”
Not if he didn’t know the difference between them. And not only did he not know who was who, but his assistant didn’t know either. After all, he had been the one whispering in the emperor’s ear.
Justifying it didn’t excuse it. A father should know his sons. He should know all of them.
Rowena didn’t know what to say.
“Why didn’t you tell him it was me?” Ben asked. He took a step forward, removing himself from contact with his mother. Her hands reached for him, then dropped as Ben stepped to the balcony rail and gripped it once more.
A gentle breeze, herald of the coming sunset ruffled the banners that proclaimed his name. Even now they were being removed from the parade route, the workers busily efficient so that nothing of this day would remain. After all they had to prepare for the next one. They had to get ready for Dyson’s.
“You didn’t tell him,” Ben said. His voice cracked on the words. Whether from emotion, or just the fact that he had begun the change into manhood, Rowena couldn’t tell. The shoulders remained straight and the spine rigid as the boy looked out over the street.
I didn’t tell him…

Differences or Defects?

Recently Gallaudet University, a distinguished college for the deaf in Maryland, revoked the contract of its prospective president partly because she learned American Sign Language in adulthood instead of early childhood. Many leaders in the deaf community regard deafness as a unifying characteristic of a subculture, rather than a disability. If I understand their position correctly, as a matter of ideological principle they object to the privileging of lip reading over sign language and the automatic assumption that all deaf children should, if possible, undergo surgery to enable them to hear. (I'm not sure whether this principle applies only to people born deaf or also those who lose their hearing at an early age.)

I'm reminded of H. G. Wells' classic story "The Country of the Blind," a riff on the proverb, "In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king." Just the opposite proves true for the sighted protagonist from the outside world stranded in an isolated community of people whose eyes atrophied generations ago. Since they are active at night, when it's cool, and sleep in the heat of the day, the hero loses whatever advantage his sight would have given him. Instead, the blind people think he is deranged when he talks about "seeing." They decide the strange lumps ("eyes") under his brows cause delusions by pressure on his brain. In this environment sight, not blindness, is a disability.

The Gallaudet case, like Wells' story, highlights the problem of distinguishing between a disability and a value-neutral difference. Left-handedness used to be viewed as a defect; left-handed children were retrained in school to use their right hands. If dogs had human intelligence, they would consider us profoundly disabled because our noses are so feeble compared to theirs. If dolphins could talk, they might express pity for our near-deafness in being unable to hear ultrasonics.

Suppose a race of aliens settled on Earth, beings similar to our species but communicating through telepathy? They would consider us defective or disabled for our lack of telepathy. If a device or surgical procedure existed to make human beings telepathic, people who rejected this gift might be regarded as foolish and pitiable. Yet some people might refuse telepathy on principle as undermining their uniquely human culture.

More immediately plausible, what will happen when advanced genetic engineering becomes commonplace? As many SF authors have speculated, those who choose not to have themselves or their offspring "improved" might be treated as inferior, even subjected to social and financial penalties (e.g., inability to buy health insurance). A recent story in the MAGAZINE OF FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION envisions a future when an immortality drug is readily available. Those who refuse the treatment are viewed as outcasts. Furthermore, if they choose to bear children (the immortality drug causes sterility), they become criminals, because of course a world of immortals has no space for additional people, and therefore reproducing is illegal.

Normality, difference, disability—where do we draw the distinctions?

Eye of the Beholder/ Place of the Servant

Folks:

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

Linnea made a very important point in the blog entry before this one.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

When I saw the title, I thought surely she would address the recent comment by a Moslem cleric in Australia that the rape victim is to blame, not the rapist. But she went in another, perhaps even more important, direction.

Because we've been raised in a visually oriented society -- even before we got our first TV set, there were comics and a weekly trip to the movies! -- we tend to adopt as our personal yardstick the standards promulgated by the media.

Humans are hardwired to "belong" -- to mark ourselves as part of some group or other for protection and emotional support. One way we do that is to adopt whatever crazy nonsense the group has agreed on as our own personal philosophy.

Once a group has formed such a shared belief or standard, that standard persists for generations. That's why it's a good thing that youth rejects everything their parents treasure, then re-adopts certain select beliefs in their 30's forming the new establishment their children have to reject.

By successive approximations, we should eventually generate some yardsticks that really work.

Well, that process has, in another part of the world that is out-breeding my kind, produced a shared and solemnly believed system which STILL believes the victim is the cause of violence.

Europe for thousands of years, and the US until recently, actually did believe that. To us, today in our modern society, the idea that the victim is the cause of violence is ridiculous, dangerous and offensive.

Why have we changed? I submit that the modern Romance Novel (including AR) is a contributing factor in promulgating a value system (not originating or conceptualizing, but promulgating) in which Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder.

If it is true that Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder, then the idea that a rape victim is the cause of rape becomes something so absurd it can't be addressed in words.

What stirs a rapist to violence? (thousand novel premises in that, especially AR premises!)

If Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then perhaps that which is so reprehensible that it must be punished, dominated, denigrated, and destroyed is also in the eye of the beholder?

And we enter the murkly realms of subjectivity where anyone's opinion is as reliable as anyone else's.

Where are the objective yardsticks in human life? (I have a few answers. I suppose you have your own.) These are story-generating questions.

Before I saw Linnea's provocative post, I wanted to talk about another subjective experience that has to be shared to become useful -- one that is very often a vital ingredient in really hot romance.

THE PLACE OF THE SERVANT

Most of us haven't grown up surrounded by servants. We've all read a lot of Regency Romances and historicals where "servants" are a dynamic plot element. And we've seen THE BRADY BUNCH and HART TO HART and other shows where domestic help becomes "part of the family".

So we have an image of "The Servant" that is not real, not tactile. In the USA we had "slaves" to perform "servant's work" for a while, and then rejected the entire "slavery" concept. But there are a lot of romance novels set in that era that are important reading experiences.

There are two ideas to "The Servant" lurking in the eye of the "un-served" beholder: that the servant was "looked down on" -- a member of a lower class, someone you don't mix with, or sit at table with (DRIVING MISS DAISY); that the servant did work that is inherently degrading, or "minimum wage grunt work" not worthy of The Master.

I'd like to relate two personal experiences -- let you look through the eye of this beholder.

I learned the meaning of SERVICE in a very personal and tactile way through these two experiences.

At one very high profile convention full of celebrity speakers, I was classed as a celebrity and provided with FIRST CLASS "service". I had a "lady's maid" who chose, touch-up ironed, and laid out what I was to wear that day, and prepared the bathroom for my shower at night so I didn't ever have to think a thought about CLOTHING or APPEARANCE. I just ignored that entire part of "life."

I had a "personal gofer" (like a secretary) to keep track of where I needed to be when, who I had appointments with, press conferences, speeches, everything to do with moving me from place to place - and even providing food, and refreshments. This was a couple cuts above the usual fan-gofer assigned by some conventions to speakers. It was a completely different EXPERIENCE OF REALITY.

The other experience that drove that lesson in good and hard was a time when I was invited to participate in a Think Tank meeting with an international figure.

The meeting was held at a prominent New York Men's Club (this was before it was illegal to bar women; they had an absolute rule there, no WOMEN. But my driver and I got in because we had these really high class engraved invitations.)

We weren't allowed into the "smoking room" but got to look in because at that moment no one was there. Goshwow. We were escorted to the depths of the plush and silent building, a thousand lightyears from the throbbing din of Manhattan's streets.

So we got to the meeting room in the back -- picture the President's Cabinette meeting room. It was like that. Mahogany table a mile long, carpets ankle deep, drapes from Buckingham Palace, Original Oil Paintings belonging in a museum, ever-so-tasteful lighting. A silence so deep you could disappear into it.

I must have lived like that in a prior life. It was the first time in this existence that I actually felt totally at home!

But the tangible shock came during the meeting when the wait staff served coffee and refreshments.

This wait staff was 100 cuts above the folks who helped me out at the convention. These guys were PROS -- top of the top. I've never encountered anyone like them since, and I've been in some hoity-toity places and been served with white gloves, towel over the arm, waiters wearing suits I couldn't afford!

What happened? What did I learn?

Nothing happened. And that's what I learned -- the VALUE of nothing.

The coffee orders were taken without interupting the flow of conversation around the table. The exact correct order (beyond top quality) appeared somehow before me -- I never saw or heard or felt or was aware of the men moving behind the row of chairs at the table.

Refills appeared just as magically.

The crockery was taken away just as silently. It was there. It was gone. NOTHING ATTRACTED ATTENTION AWAY FROM THE CONVERSATION.

It was a stunning experience. A tactile experience. My beholding eye was never the same after that.

In both instances, I discovered that when the trivia of mundane existence is lifted away, productivity goes up a thousand fold.

I discovered just how much output-potential is wasted on the fiddling around in daily life -- and when that is gone, all that output-potential focuses on the job in hand and suddenly huge, complex, amazing accomplishments become EASY. And more, things get done right that would, without that Servant, have been done wrong or not-so-good.

I learned that it isn't a waste of our tax dollars to hire the BEST White House Staff servants.

But more than that. I learned that The Servant is not a lower being, not someone exploited, not a lower class person, not something separate from The Job At Hand.

The Servant contributes to the success of The Job At Hand, is an essential and integral part of the accomplishment. Without that utter INVISIBILITY, the silent step, the careful rhythm of movement, the intense precision of that service, The Job At Hand (in my case a Think Tank fact-finding briefing) could not have been done with such effectiveness.

If that's true of such a small thing as that meeting -- or the convention where the same thing happened -- imagine how very great the effect has to be on International Affairs?

Or Interstellar Affairs.

It is this aspect of Service that I've found missing in many Romance novels. The real REASON for the existence of "Service" and what great talent and training it takes to succeed at the profession of "Service."

I think that missing ingredient is the result of the authors themselves never having experienced being SERVED at that tremendously high level. Or having taken lessons (gosh where would you go to get that kind of training?) in how to SERVE at that extreme level of society.

QUESTION: could machines, even R. Daneel Olivau, ever produce that "relieved of mundane trivia" effect? Is it just that the thing got done for you -- or is it that it was done by a human being who knows how to mute or bury his/her psychic signature?

And I do think that's the key to the 100 times more impressive Service at the Men's Club -- that's what those waiters did. They muted their psychic signatures. They were not "presences" in the room. They checked their personalities at the door.

Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/

Eye of the Beholder

First of all, I know that's somewhat the title of a really great Julie E Czerneda book, but that's not what I'm going to blog about today. Rather, I'm going to yammer on about the perception (misperception?) that romance novels are peopled with flawlessly beautiful and handsome characters.

I can tell you that mine aren't but there may be several of you who then squirm in your seats, thrusting impatient hands in the air like a bad imitation of Arnold Horshack from Welcome Back Kotter (am I showing my age here?), anxious to point out to me that Captain Trilby Elliot made no bones about the fact that she found Rhis attractive. Or that Admiral Branden Kel-Paten was so smitten by Tasha Sebastian that he wrote her love letters for nigh on ten years or more.

And my answer to you would be: So?

The fact that two characters in my books might find each other irresistible does not unequivocally mean either is a candidate for a fashion model career. It just means that two characters in my books found each other irresistible. Period. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Don't assume (and you all do know what they say about ASSUME, don't you?) that irresistibility means perfection. I happen to know more than one long time married couple who still gaze longingly into each other's eyes...and none of them would qualify to grace the cover of Cosmo. Or GQ.

Because beauty is, you see, in the eye of the beholder.

What I strive to do in the romance parts of my books is also bring the reader to understand all the other factors that make one character appealing to another: belief systems, personality, bravery, loyalty, sense of humor... it's all part of the package. In fact, I've even had my characters comment on occasion that yes, they know of others who are physically more attractive than the hero/heroine. But it's all of the elements of that person that make him or her beautiful to the other.

So just as we're often cautioned to not judge a book by its cover, don't (pre)judge my characters by whatever stereotypical misinformation you've heard about the romance, or science fiction romance, genre. Open the book and get to know the characters for yourselves--with all their faults and foibles that make them, yes, very beautiful.

~Linnea

Insufficient Mating Material (excerpt)

Insufficient Mating Material
by
Rowena Cherry

copyright Rowena Cherry

ISBN 0-505-52711-1; LoveSpell 1/31/07


All rights reserved.
This uncorrected excerpt may contain errors and other text not found in the final printed novel and is not for sale. Please don’t share the text with anyone without first receiving permission from the author to do so.


Damn them! Prince Djetthro-Jason eyed the masked males and the unpleasant array of implements they were preparing to use on him.

I haven't told them everything, and I'm not about to. No way am I going to invite anyone to take a laser to my privates. Ahhh, Fewmet!

The "battlefield analgesia" was wearing off. During the duel that he'd begun as Commander Jason and ended--defeated--as Prince Djetthro-Jason, he'd felt almost no pain despite the damage Tarrant-Arragon had inflicted.

Now, his massively bruised thigh throbbed heavily, his neck muscles ached, and his jaw...it hurt even to think about his jaw. Perhaps worse--but less so by the moment--was the damage to his alpha-male machismo as he lay strapped down, stark naked, in his enemy's operating theater, preparing his mind for surgery without anesthetic. Also for "the fate worse than death" which was to come.

If Tarrant-Arragon had observed Great Djinn tradition, the duel they'd fought less than an hour ago ought to have been to the death.

Why hadn't Tarrant-Arragon killed him then and there? To the victor went the Empire, the Ark Imperial, and gods-Right to any female he wanted...and they both wanted the same female.

Damn it! Even if he wanted to stop, I should've fought on after he crippled my leg and shattered my bloody jaw. Why didn't I? What's left for me?

What indeed?

I'll be the Djinn equivalent of a broken thoroughbred stallion put out to stud. It's fairly obvious why Tarrant-Arragon made an excuse not to finish me off.

The Great Djinn were nearly extinct. In twenty years' time, Tarrant-Arragon's and Djinni-vera's children would need true-Djinn mates, all entitled to the silent D-prefix to their royal Djinn names. That's why!

When the "fate worse than death" had been spelled out, it had been sheer bravado to mumble that he wanted to marry Princess Martia-Djulia.

Maybe I do. Maybe I don't.

It hurt how much he still wanted Djinni-vera, who'd been the last Djinn virgin in all the Communicating Worlds, and betrothed to be his, until Tarrant-Arragon abducted her by force and took her virginity.

What consolation would it be to have Tarrant-Arragon's sexy, fashionista bitch of a sister in his power and in his bed instead?

Djetth winced at the savagery of his thoughts about Martia-Djulia. Shards of pain shot along his broken jawline.

"Well, Djetthro-Jason, are you ready to be carved up for your new identity and your new life as my little sister's glorified love slave?"

From somewhere out of Djetth's line of sight, Tarrant-Arragon taunted him, stressing the part of Djetth's real name that he'd used until his cover as "Commander Jason" was blown and he was overpowered and arrested.

Djetth did not turn his head. The pain in his face and head was intolerable enough without moving.

"Ahhh, I do believe that Our Imperial surgeons are ready to do away with that distinctive jagged scar on your cheek," Tarrant-Arragon crooned. "And screw together your jaw."

What else might they do while he was under the laser and the knife? While his face was open, might they carve out a sensory gland or two? Implant a tracking device? Use his broken jaw as an excuse to weld a mask over his head?

Prince Djetthro-Jason would be a latter-day "Man in the Iron Mask" if they realized how closely he resembled Crown Prince Tarrant-Arragon. Which he would, without his scars, his colorful contact lenses and his long, blond-dyed hair.

Djetth glanced at the treacherous, turncoat 'Rhett, who'd been his bloody useless "second" at the duel, and who was still hanging around.

What for? Damn him. 'Rhett was too much the intergalactic statesman for his own--or anyone else's--good.

If the patient lost consciousness, Tarrant-Arragon could decide that the chances for galactic peace would be better is Djetthro-jason were neutered...one way or another. Given the secrets 'Rhett knew, 'Rhett might agree.

"No--" Djetth groaned with the unexpected agony of trying to speak. He wanted to refuse anesthetic again. How he wished there was somebody present who he could trust!

A door swished open.

"Does he have to be in such pain?" The cause of all the trouble spoke from the doorway. She sounded on edge, as if she felt his pain telepathically.

Djinni-vera! No longer his Djinni. By conquest, by the irrevocable exchange of vows,and finally by her own choice, she was Tarrant-Arragon's.

By All the Lechers of Antiquity, how he loved her! At that moment. For coming. Mentally Djetth qualified his thoughts. Djinni-vera might not love him now, but she was honorable to the core. Tarrant-Arragon wouldn't dare do anything dastardly in front of her.

As she glided to his surgical table, Djetth looked at her wildly, helplessly, with mute appeal, hoping that she would read his mind and aid him this one last time.

Djinni-vera's amethyst eyes widened as if she had Heard him and understood. Her gaze averted, she reached out and dropped a gauzy white cloth of some sort over his monstrously inappropriate erection.

To others, her action might have looked like public modesty on her part. Djetth assumed that Djinni had read the part of his mind that was worrying about the striking tattoo that only showed up in the dark or when he was suitably excited.

Thank you, he thought. Please help me. Stay.

She nodded, and took his fettered hand with her undamaged left. "You've been macho about this too long, J-J. Why won't you let them put you to sleep?"

"Careful, my love," Tarrant-Arragon said, moving possessively to her side. "You can never call him J-J again. Nor may you use any of his other damned traitor's aliases. Not J-J, not Commander Jason. Traitors cannot be seen to survive their attempts on my life. Commander Jason is officially dead,and everyone--including Martia-Djulia--must believe it. From this day forward, he's Prince Djetthro-Jason."

"What a mouthful..." Djinni began; then her changing expression told him that she must have read a thought-pun he couldn't resist. "Djetth!"

She frowned sternly.

"I know you Great Djinn males can't help thinking of sex all the time. But it's not helpful, Djetth. As long as you have your satuurnid gland, you're dangerous."

My Favorite Earthling (instalment #3)

Readers may remember that Sue's last chapter ended with the gorgous tycoon and weekend National guard pilot (call sign Prince) sitting in the pilot's chair of the crashed alien spacecraft, wondering if he'd been detected.


Excerpted from MY FAVORITE EARTHLING
by SUSAN GRANT
copyright Susan Grant 2006

MARCH 2007
ISBN 0373771924; HQN books


This uncorrected excerpt may contain errors and other text not found in the final printed novel and is not for sale. Please don’t share the text with anyone without first receiving permission from the author to do so.


Chapter Three

Keira, Queen of Sakka swung her plasma sword at an imaginary opponent, working through a series of choreographed moves designed to hone and strengthen the body and bring focus to the mind. Her long thick hair whipped around her shoulders with every slice of the heavy sword in her gymnasium deep within the largest palace in the galaxy. To her left and right massive columns soared to the ceiling, the space between them open to various chambers—a meeting room, her bathing hall, an entertainment alcove where she could take visitors and or watch troubadours perform. She took little interest in the rest of the palace, but this was her sanctuary and she’d had it decorated it in every color opposite the reality outside the thick castle walls: a world of ice and towering glaciers, a land of white, ice-blue, and steely gray, where it snowed almost all year round except for a fleeting summer.

Sometimes she wished she could wall herself off from the rest of the palace in much the same way.

The captain of the Palace Guard, the hulking eunuch Tibor Frix, stepped through the door. She’d known him almost her entire life. Not once had she ever seen him look anything other than as he did now: immaculate in a flawless uniform and gleaming boots. He snapped his fist over his chest and dipped his head in a bow. “The visitors have arrived, my queen.”

“Send them in.” Gripping the heavy plasma sword in a two hands, Keira whirled on Prime Minister Rissallen and the individuals who had accompanied him: the commander of the Coalition army, several unhappy looking officers, and the highest ranking members of parliament. The usual cronies.

Tibor Frix stepped out of the way, his hooded eyes ever-watchful as the prime minister stepped forward and crossed his arms at the wrist over his chest, bowing low.

She took a moment to catch her breath. “Rise.”

“I’m afraid I have disturbing news, Your Highness.”

“Speak in terms I can use, Kellen.” Rissallen’s lips twitched. He hated when she called him by his given name. “‘Disturbing’ means nothing to me.” She held her sword up to the cold winter light filtering through the skylight and admired the sparkle of tourmalian. Then she sliced her sword through the air. It made a humming noise as it arced in a half-circle. The green glow of plasma reflected in the men’s nervous eyes. Simultaneously, they took a step back. Except Supreme Commander Neppal, who regarded her as if she were a useless figurehead.

Wasn’t she? After all, these men came to her only under the most unusual circumstances—and never to ask her advice. They fed her the information as if worried they’d upset or...disturb her...and had done so ever since she took the throne as a child, thrust into the role after her entire family died in a tragic accident.

But even though they often kept her ignorant of their silly facts, she frightened them, and she liked that. As long as she inspired fear, she maintained her power over them. If they ever lost their fear of her...

Don’t think of that. You’re strong, a warrior. Keira stabbed and parried an imaginary opponent, finishing with a vicious lunge at the Supreme Commander’s heart.

Neppal didn’t even flinch. She moved forward until the pointed tip of the blade made a hissing sound as it pressed ever so lightly into the officer’s gaudy, beribboned uniform. Pinned over his heart were medals and commendations that he’d probably earned but, regardless, his condescending attitude irritated her.

Her mouth tipped in a smirk as she withdrew the blade and noticed the fleck of charred fabric around the tiny tear. That is for thinking you are better than me, you arrogant bastard. But she said coquettishly, “Oh! I must be more careful. You’ll be visiting your tailor later, won’t you?” She dusted a hand over the officer’s broad chest. “I’m sure it can be repaired.”

Dark brows lowered over angry eyes but Neppal knew better than to stare her down. A second later he turned his eyes to the floor. Good boy.

“Taye!” Keira snapped her fingers to summon her favorite attendant. The slender, baby-faced eunuch took the sword and replaced it with a scented towel which she used to blot perspiration from her face. It had been a brutal workout. Her skin gleamed, her muscles trembled. She’d worked her body to the limit, and gods, it felt good. She wanted nothing less than total control over her body, and so she pushed it, sculpting it, emulating the warrior queens of the distant past when being a queen probably meant something. Meant something more than being a gorgeous creature bred to produce princes and princesses. An heir factory: that’s what she was to them. A breeder. All because she was the last of her line, and they wanted more. If it wasn’t a sin, the Coalition would have cloned the holy Sakkaran bloodlines by now to be done with her. Her pedigree was probably the only reason she was still alive. As the last surviving member of her family, the Coalition needed her—needed her because her ancestors were gods to trillions of religious citizens and no one wanted to risk taking that away and destabilizing the Coalition, especially when murderous Drakken hoard was breathing down their necks.

But that’s why she had generals around. It was their job to play war games with ships and guns, not hers.

Keira tossed the towel over her shoulder. Taye rushed to retrieve it. The men followed her through an arched doorway to an expansive polished crystal table. Sheets of gold trapped inside the crystal reminded her of autumn leaves kicked up in the wind. Fall was a short season on this world, like every other season that wasn’t winter. In fact, she’d missed autumn this year completely. First there had been summer, then, oops, fall had sped by before she’d next had a chance to step outdoors.

Blink, and the seasons other than winter were gone. Now it was too frigid to venture past the palace doors. The cold of this world had long ago seeped into her heart. Maybe it was why she cared less and less about venturing outside. Or perhaps having to be accompanied everywhere by Tibor Frix and his merry band of eunuch guards had taken the enjoyment out of it. They were present at all times, except when she had to relieve herself, and only because she’d protested.

She was the last of her line. What did she expect?

Her smart-chair floated away from the table, and folded around her comfortably when she sat in it. The officials waited until she was seated before they did so. Goddesses first. “Sit, gentlemen, please.”

She threw a longing gaze at the door to her private chambers. Steam floated out of the room as the attendants prepared her post-workout bath. She should be soaking in cloud-bell scented water, not putting up with these insufferable men who wanted to talk about the most boring subjects imaginable.

“Your Highness, the news we bring you today is troubling,” Neppal said, dragging her glare away from the irksome prime minister. The supreme commander was the leader of the entire army with an ego to match. Good thing it was never proposed that she take Neppal as her mate. What a disaster that would have been. “There is a new and serious threat to the Coalition. I have confirmed reports of an encounter between a planetary acquisition force and a rogue planet at the edges of civilized space. The intelligence minister in fact was working on this when he met his tragic fate. The world is known as Earth, and they appear to maintain a substantial battle fleet. We cannot as yet determine the types of vessels, nor the technological level, but we have teams working on it.”

Tibor Frix interrupted. “Is the palace at risk?” The sharpness in his tone caught Keira’s attention. He rarely spoke up, but his eyes were focused like lasers on the commander.

“Absolutely not. Their fleet formed a defensive barrier, preventing the acquisition force from landing, but made no move to attack. We are still the larger power by far, but they are respectable in their own right. That we didn’t know about them before is the issue that disturbs me. Where do their loyalties lie? This we must determine.”

“But they’re nothing but a frontier world,” Keira exclaimed. “Country bumpkins. Yet you act as if they have the power to swing the balance of power in the galaxy.”

“They do.” The warning in the commander’s dark eyes made her shiver. “If they were to align themselves with the Drakken.”

Keira went very still. She refused to admit to fear, and she’d rather die than do so, but the mere thought of Lord-General Rakkuu bringing his army to the palace gates stabbed fear deep into her heart. Not only would he want to conquer her Coalition worlds, he want to conquer her. He was growing old, but he had a son nearing adulthood, she’d heard. It was said the boy would likely grow up to be worse than his sire.

“No more talk of the Hoard,” she commanded. “Earth will join us. You will find a way to make it so.”

“I’ve called an emergency session of parliament,” Rissallen. “In light of this threat to our national security, it would reflect well if you attended.”

“Attend...” He wanted her to go into that chamber? Keira fought a wave of dizziness. The thought of the cavernous room, the noise of many voices... Her head spinning in confusion, the grief choking her, the fear. She could not. It would be all too reminiscent of when she was summoned before a full session of parliament the day she learned of her family’s fate. She’d felt so small, so frightened. Helpless. She’d never again set foot in those chambers.

She tossed her hair and sniffed in disdain. “I have no patience for politics. Send me summary.” Which she’d have Tibor summarize even further, while her attendants gave her a post-bath massage or painted her toenails. Every government communiqué was condensed by Tibor. He was invaluable. Without him she might actually have to pay attention to what was going on. “You are dismissed.”

The visitors bowed low, mumbling the usual respects, and left.

Only Tibor remained behind, silent, ever-watchful. “What?” she demanded when he continued to ponder her. She couldn’t tell if there was censure in his scrutiny or pity. If he didn’t agree with her aversion to politics, so be it. She wasn’t going to change for him—or for anybody. She had her reasons for doing things, and they were private. She had no desire to share her inner thoughts with anyone, especially a man.

She shoved away from the table and stood, sending the chair spinning. It collided with a display shelf and sent a priceless vase crashing to the ground. What did it matter? Everything was priceless around here. They’d find another trinket in the museums. Unlike people, objects could always be replaced. “Taye,” she yelled.

The boyish eunuch scurried forward. “How may I serve, My Queen?”

“Bring me my daggers.”

The eunuch returned with a set of ancient throwing knives. She snatched the box and stormed into her private chambers. The only way she could ease her apprehension was to work with weaponry.

A breath exited as she hurled a dagger at a padded wall. She selected another. The knife went hissing through the air. It landed in the same spot as the first, shattering the ivory hilt. Another replaceable object, she thought, hefting another dagger.

Keira kept burying daggers in the wall until she’d exhausted her supply—and herself. Muscles trembling, she raised her arm to throw the last knife when the communication screen taking up half of one wall distracted her attention.

The screen was illuminated, signaling in incoming visual.

Damn politicians. What more could they possibly want to bore her with? Furious at the annoyance, the invasion of privacy she whirled on the screen. “Display message!” The visual came to life.

She stormed forward. “I thought I made it clear that I’m not interested in—”

The sight of the gorgeous man slouched in the cockpit of a fighter craft brought her up short. Their shocked eye contact was instant and intense, and for one dizzying moment, the room around her faded away, the sounds becoming muffled. In those few beats of her heart, she didn’t know what to say or think.

Swiftly, the trespasser’s shock slipped into curiosity and a dark, amused, flicker of male appreciation which made her acutely aware of how form-fitting her workout wear was when damp. In his gaze, she felt naked, a sensation that was unexpectedly, breathlessly, and infuriatingly arousing. “How dare you?” How dare he what? She didn’t have any idea, but she felt utterly...invaded. By the gods. “Identify yourself immediately!”

Keira gripped the dagger and strode forward to confront the trespasser, intending to make her displeasure perfectly clear.

Demons as Aliens

Our all-too-common xenophobic reaction to people exotically different from ourselves is well illustrated in the innovative fantasy novel THE DEMON'S DAUGHTER, by Emma Holly, which I may have mentioned a few weeks ago. Here's what I said about it in a recent issue of my monthly newsletter (which interested readers can subscribe to at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/margaretlcartersnewsfromthecrypt):

Set in an alternate-world analogue of Victorian London, this novel envisions an Earth on which "demons" called the Yama dwell in the far north and have begun to mingle with ordinary human beings. Not truly demonic, the Yama are another species, humanoid but not human, capable of draining "etheric energy," and some of them find human etheric energy irresistibly tempting. Scotland Yard Inspector Adrian Phillips specializes in tracking down missing children, including those illicitly sold to the Yama. He has undergone enhancement with Yama implants that endow him with superhuman strength, a benefit that comes at a price of exhaustion in the aftermath of each use of this power. His colleagues view him with suspicion because he has accepted this operation, but the department needs him because he is one of the few officers who can function effectively in the part of the city where the Yama comprise the majority. His work brings him into contact with Roxanne, an artist who takes him in after he has been injured while incognito in a dangerous sector of the metropolis. Soon afterward, Roxanne discovers that she is half "demon," a crossbreed previously thought to be impossible. Adrian's enemies and those of Roxanne's newfound Yama father, a prominent diplomat, place the two protagonists' lives as well as their relationship at risk. Moreover, Adrian's love affair with Roxanne threatens his law-enforcement career, the core of his identity. Since the late Victorian period is my favorite era, I found Holly's adaptation of that world enthralling, an excellent piece of world-building. Also, she writes some of the best erotic scenes I've read in a long time, both hot and tender.

This book presents several intriguing aspects, including the way Adrian is thought of as "tainted" by association because of his implants, even though they enhance his abilities and, viewed objectively, don't make him any less human. I'm especially intrigued, though, by the fact that the Yama are labeled "demons" although they're natural creatures, because of their differences and their mysterious (to human observers) powers. I'm reminded of the treatment of demons in the BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER and ANGEL universe. In the early episodes of BUFFY, we get the impression that all demons are evil. Although we gradually discover they aren't demons in the religious sense—fallen angels—we still assume, along with Buffy and her friends, that they're evil by definition. Later, however, we learn that "demon" seems to be a generic term for creatures from other dimensions (some of them being "hell dimensions," but not necessarily all). Such beings belong to a wildly various collection of species; indeed, some are incorporeal, while many are quite physical, though with superhuman powers. Some demons are harmless, and some, such as Clem on BUFFY and Lorne on ANGEL, are actually nice. When Angel and company visit Lorne's home dimension, they find that over there human beings are regarded as the monsters! Moreover, Angel's late, lamented partner Doyle is half demon, and toward the end of the series, Cordelia becomes infused with demonic traits to enable her to endure the agony of her visions. So the concept of "demon" becomes almost equivalent to "alien," carrying all the ambiguity of that term.

Jacqueline Lichtenberg's essay "Vampire with Muddy Boots" draws a distinction between the horror mode and the science fiction mode of conceptualizing the Unknown. In the horror worldview, "the Unknown is a menace because it's a menace." A vampire (or a demon) is an enigmatic threat to be exterminated. In the SF mode, on the other hand, the Unknown can be understood, a process that often neutralizes the menace and promotes a rapport between the self and the Other. Even if the Other is a "demon."

eye candy

I'm swamped today, but wanted everyone to enjoy these pictures. You can see them at http://www.jpl.nasa.gov/multimedia/cassini-essay-4/index-flash.html?msource=FL090606&tr=y&auid=1942252
Enjoy,
SueK.

. . . but the author's job is never done.

Folks:

Your publisher may work from sun to sun, but the author's job is never done.

Today, authors even with the big Manhattan and international publishers, have to do self-promotion that was basically forbidden to authors 30 years ago -- even 20. An author who did what is demanded today was considered stigmatized as an amateur without a future in the business.

Yes, the internet has changed the whole world of publishing and is changing the entire world of FICTION -- what I call the Fiction Delivery System -- more and more on a daily basis.

The huge corporations (Sony, United Artists, etc etc) have decided we have become too big and important to ignore anymore. So they're at war with small entrepreneurs the world over to grab market share of e-book, podcasting, internet radio, and other video niches that fiction consumers now flock to.

Well, that's the key isn't it? An author has to promote to her own market, just like any business, and if necessary make a market. Market is the foundation of promotion.

Here are several internet based opportunities for the right author with the right product, (i.e. books, e- or otherwise.)

1) Promote yourself by becoming known as a Philanthropist:

Sime Center on simegen.com is looking for a new manager. Sime Center connects authors, artists, and charity organizations. The author or artist provides a short story or artwork which the Sime Center manager posts for one month and promotes. The readers donate $2 through PAYPAL (money never handled by Sime~Gen Inc.) and get a good story to read.

A writer has two ways to take advantage of this --

A) Donate a story, become known to readers who wouldn't otherwise have seen your work. Use a short story in a universe where you write novels and get a link to where the novel is sold. Become known as someone who walks the walk you talk about in your books, compassion.

B) Volunteer to work on Sime Center, either soliciting stories from authors or maintaining the html pages. Or both.

2) Sime~Gen Inc. has a large and thriving Reviews Department and is looking for a new head for that operation as the current head wants to rebuild our Romance Section. Become known to and network with Agents, Publishers, Publicists, Writers, Artists, and some people in the video industries as we also review films. You never know when a contact can save your career.

3) The Reviews Department of Sime~Gen Inc. tends to use professional writers as reviewers and is known for that. Volunteer as a Reviewer, get lots of free books, and many iterations of your name on the web cross-connected in search engines with other authors' names. Qualified professional writers are elligible to become independent review columnists in this department.

4) Internet Radio: One of our Sime~Gen Reviewers is an internet radio entrepreneur with a vastly successful podcast. She is owner of an internet radio station and has openings for part time Radio Show hosts and hostesses to interview authors about their latest works.

If you have a voice that records well and would like name recognition with readers, this could be your most inexpensive way to reach thousands of readers in an established audience. It could be your entre into professional radio -- all it takes is experience and a reputation among your followers, and here you can get experience for your resume and followers who will listen to you on other networks.

5) volunteer to be interviewed on podcast about your latest book.

If any of these opportunties awakens your interest -

See: http://www.simegen.com/simecenter/

http://www.simegen.com/reviews/

http://www.simegen.com/agreements/ to see how we do business. (this section does not apply to the radio exposure).

email simegen@simegen.com with your relevant experience and general resume.

PART UNO: SPEAKING IN [ALIEN] TONGUES

There's an old-- and somewhat disparaging-- anecdote in which Mr. Average American travels to Paris, France and complains to his wife, "Know what's wrong with this place? Too many durned furrinners who can't speak English!"

The problem with some of speculative fiction and science fiction/fantasy romance is the opposite one. For some unknown reason, everyone in the universe speaks English. American, Canadian or British version, but they all speak English.

Maybe this is a reaction to too many visits to Paris (can there be too many visits to Paris?). More likely, it reflects an author's fear of not understanding how to build a realistic language or of confusing the reader with alien phrases or terms.

Fears well founded. On the other side of the intergalactic literary coin, there are those spec fic and SFR novels in which the use of an alien language is a jarring distraction. It's overdone, comically done (and the intention is not to be comical) or snobbishly done (what, you mean you haven't memorized the Klingon dictionary?).

One of the necessary parts of world building, one of the necessary parts of crafting a believable spec fic novel, is the inclusion of alien concepts, religions, cultures and terms. Words.

“I want you. Yav chera.” His hoarse whisper filled her ear. “Yav chera, Trilby-chenka. Tell me you want me.”

She turned her face slightly to look at him. There was a softness in the lines of his face she’d never seen before. An openness. A vulnerability. It tugged at her heart.

“Yav chera,” she replied softly.

His thumb covered her lips. “Yav cheron. If you want me, it is yav cheron. When I want you, which is all the time, it is yav chera.”

He moved his thumb and brushed his lips against hers.

“Yav cheron,” she told him. She laced her fingers through his hair and pulled his face back to hers. (from Finders Keepers by Linnea Sinclair)

The trick is to make the inclusion of the words, the phrases, the names, the terms as natural and effortless as possible for the reader. The reader will be reading/hearing this language for the first time. But that's not a unique situation in spec fic. The reader is also encountering sickbays and starship bridges for the first time, or alien city streets, or space station corridors. Or forests thick with flora and fauna heretofore unknown and unimagined.

If you can make a reader see those things-- those station corridors, those lofty forests-- you can make them hear and understand your alien language.

One of the easiest ways I used above: make one person explain the language to the other. “I want you. Yav chera,” Rhis says to Trilby, thereby informing the reader of the meaning of the words 'yav chera'. He goes further by correcting her: Yav cheron is what she should say to him. So the reader begins-- consciously or unconsciously-- to see a pattern: chera/cheron. Female/male.

I use this same template for Rhis's language Zafharish, through the rest of Finders Keepers. But it's not a template I invented. I gleefully filched it from two workbooks I have on my bookshelf: Italian Made Simple and Vamos Apprender Portuguese.

And I've just taught you something else: you may not speak a word of Portuguese, but by comparison, by equivalency, you're going to at least figure that Vamos Apprender Portuguese is a book with the same function as Italian Made Simple.

“Ground forces. Like your marines,” he said, plucking at the insignia of crossed swords on his chest, “but we call ourselves Stegzarda. Stegzarda means perhaps ‘strength command’ in your language. We assist the Imperial Fleet when it comes to border outposts.”

Farra nodded. “Especially with recent jhavedzga—”

“Aggression.” Mitkanos corrected her. (from Finders Keepers by Linnea Sinclair.)

Farra says the word in Zafharish (Trilby's at the table listening to all this). Mitkanos, her uncle, corrects her. He also, conversationally, defines another term for Trilby.

Just as a good writer weaves in essentials elements and clues through dialogue (never, never using an info dump!), so a good spec fic writer can weave bits and pieces of a language into conversation.

But let's get back to using Vamos Apprender Portuguese as a template. You don't have to use 'We're Going to Learn Portuguese' (which is what that title says). You can use Russian or Japanese or Swahili as a template. Or you can combine templates of several languages. The point is, start with a basic linguistic template and it'll make your language-world building go so much smoother.

In Vamos, we learn o amigo and a amiga both mean 'friend'. We also see that our amigos are male and our amigas are female. (And yes, this is the same as Spanish and Italian - which is another point to keep in mind). We also see that the subject pronoun is often dropped (I, she, we) and the ending of the verb denotes the subject pronoun: Eu falo (I speak) is the same as Falo (I speak). Falamos is We speak. Same as Nos falamos.

Bear with me. I'm not trying to prep you for a trip to Rio de Janeiro, nice as that would be. I'm trying to show you that if it's done on this planet, you can do it on your planet.

Find a language template and use it. In Finders Keepers, I used Portuguese, Polish/Russian and un petite peu of French. Not the words - but the structure and conjugations. The sequence of words. And obviously, the sound of words.

Which brings me to another point about language-world building: not everyone sounds the same, even if they speak the same language.

Drogue’s bright-eyed gaze ran up and down my length, or lack of. “Captain Chasidah Bergren. Yes.” He stuck out his hand.

I accepted it.

“You are well?” he asked.

I tried to place his accent. South system, Dafir? Possibly. “All things considered, yes.” Some of my wariness returned. The Englarians were invariably cooperative with the government. I still had visions of a firing squad as a reception committee, Sully’s protestations to the contrary notwithstanding. (from Gabriel's Ghost by Linnea Sinclair.)

When I was a wee kidling, my parents gave me this enormous dictionary that contained a number of appendices, including 'Regional Variations In American Pronunciation' by Charles K. Thomas, PhD. Of course, even at 11 years old, I knew not everyone sounded alike. My grandmother, from Poland, spoke nothing like my teachers at school. And my neighbor Patty's parents, who were from Tennessee, sounded very different from anyone in my small town in New Jersey. But I'd never before seen those differences in writing. Dr. Thomas delineated ten different speech regions in the US of A. Ten! Eastern New England, North Central, New York City, Middle Atlantic, Western Pennsylvania, Southern Mountain, Southern, Central Midland, Northwest and Southwest.

And yet we have spec fic novels that while, yes, they include an alien language, all the aliens in the entire galaxy sound the same. No, they won't. They may read the same to the reader but they won't sound the same to your characters. Someone--like Chasidah, above--will notice the difference. You want your character to notice the difference. Different languages are as essential to world building as different religions, customs and even climate.

And just as with the weaving in of your alien culture or climate, use of an alien language must be done with a delicate touch. You're still writing for an English-speaking audience (or whatever other language your novel is written in). You must provide your reader with enough of a story they can understand or they won't slip into your fictional world.

Pick five or six key phrases; eight or ten key words, sprinkle your dialogue with them just enough times for the words to feel familiar. You don't jump when you walk into a French restaurant and are greeted with "Bon soir". The words, the sound, the accent belong in the setting. Your alien language should work the same way. Make the language flow easily with the scene any time you use it. Don't force your reader to stop and puzzle over it, or it might draw him out of the story. And then he'll put your novel down, grumbling… "Too many durned aliens in that book!"

~Linnea

(This article originally appeared in SFROnline)
To learn to speak Zafharish, click HERE

"Chess at full tilt" or "Chess at a sprint" or "Chess in bed"

In Insufficient Mating Material, apart from the title, the climactic chess got left out, and so did mating in bed.

There aren't too many beds on uninhabited desert islands on alien planets. The cover artist suggests how my hero and heroine might improvise, and I've blogged about that before.

I once had a chess scene in the version of Insufficient Mating Material that was 300 pages too long for publication, but the revealing conversation that my romantic alien couple were supposed to have over the chess board (improvised out of a variety of conch-like shells, played on hard sand) had to be reassigned in order to save paper, ink, and yawns.

To my delight, as I research the history, attitudes, mindset and culture of fencers and sword fighters for my next book, I'm learning that chess --especially lightning chess-- and swordplay have more than a little in common, though duelling with a naked weapon is potentially deadly.

The first book I chose to read, for the pragmatic reason that my local library had it (and one other that my sword master recommended) is BY THE SWORD - A History of Gladiators, Musketeers, Samauri, Swashbucklers, and Olympic Champions -- by Richard Cohen.

How could I not dive into it with an extended title like that, and it has the coolest cover showing a gauntleted hand elegantly curled around the hilt of a sabre... at least, I think it is a sabre? The painting is a detail from Le Maitre D' Armes by Tancrede Bastet.

By the way, "Chess at full tilt" and "Chess at a sprint" are mottoes that my local fencing club uses.

Best wishes,

Rowena Cherry

Vampire Lust

Since no discussion topic has occurred to me this week, I've decided to post a short excerpt from my first vampire novel, DARK CHANGELING, from Hard Shell Word Factory (www.hardshell.com). It illustrates my approach to the intersection of blood and eroticism for vampires. My vampires are members of a natural nonhuman species, who enjoy erotic gratification by drinking from human donors ( as opposed to ordinary nourishment, most of which comes from animals, and totally separate from reproductive sex among themselves, which happens rarely, because of their long lifespans). They can't get fulfillment from the blood of their own kind. In this scene, Roger Darvell doesn't yet know that he's a vampire-human hybrid (he thinks his blood thirst is pathological), and he doesn't recognize Sylvia as a vampire because he doesn't know they exist. The two of them have met while both trying to prey on the daughter of their hosts at a party. They fled after almost getting caught:

He felt Sylvia's smoldering anger, but she docilely followed him out of the house. She balked only when he led the way down the circular drive to his black Citroen. "I'd rather take my own car."
His hand clamped onto her arm. "You can pick it up tomorrow. I'm not letting you escape until we have this out." He sensed her debating whether to fight him and rejecting the idea. Though she was tall for a woman, he was taller and outweighed her. He shoved her into the passenger seat, then got in on the driver's side and leaned across her to fasten her belt and lock the door. She watched him speculatively as she accepted these indignities. He sensed her anger yielding to curiosity.
He roared out of the driveway in a shower of gravel. Beside him, Sylvia wedged herself against the far door, subdued by his display of temper. After skirting the perimeter of the M.I.T. campus, he headed north out of Cambridge. Thankful for the late-night dearth of traffic, he didn't slack off the accelerator until they came to a scenic turnoff on Route 1A several miles out of town. The car swerved off the road and squealed to a stop.
Sylvia gave Roger a wary look. "Are we getting out?" She scanned the marshland beyond the low wall of unworked stone, as if evaluating its suitability as a refuge. Roger gripped her shoulders and jerked her around to face him. "What is this, rape?"
"Not exactly." His inflamed thirst left him with no patience for hypnotic seduction. He'd rely on physical force and wipe her memory later. He came down upon her.
Her resistance astonished him. Rather than overcoming her easily, he had to use all his strength to keep her immobilized. She kicked and squirmed in his grasp, twisting her neck away from his mouth, her own teeth bared as she tried vainly to retaliate. But she had no chance against him. Pinning her legs with one knee, he bit into her throat with a roughness unusual for him.
When her blood began to flow, she relaxed, not cooperative, but resigned. The taste was cool and tart, not the hot richness he expected. Despite Sylvia's residual excitement, satisfaction eluded him. He felt no outpouring of vitality from her, only an emptiness like his own. Baffled, he finally drew back, still unappeased.
She gazed at him, heavy-lidded, and pressed her palm to the oozing gash on the side of her neck. "What's the matter with you? Don't you know we can't get nourishment from each other?”
His rage dissipated by the struggle, Roger offered her his folded handkerchief, resisting the impulse to apologize for the red flecks staining her gown. "What do you mean, `we'?"
Sylvia wearily dabbed at her wound. "You mean you don't know? That's impossible." Her eyes probed his.
He sat up straight on his side of the car. "What are you raving about?"
"Come off it! With that strength, and your psychic power -- you have it, I felt you trying to manipulate me -- and those teeth? You're my kind. I wasn't sure until just now, because you feel somehow human, too, but you are."
He stared through the windshield, his fingers cramping on the wheel. He felt overheated in his suit jacket, stifled by the knot of his tie; he envied Sylvia's lightweight clothes. "Human? What else could I be? What do you mean, your kind?"
Again she projected bewilderment. "Maybe I did read you wrong. You don't feel right -- but you don't feel human, either."
*The woman is schizophrenic, and I'm listening to her.* "Are you saying that you're not human?"
She forced a humorless smile. "You don't believe me."
"Do you expect me to?"
*What about the things she mentioned, though? Especially the quasi-telepathy?*
Well, what about it? Some educated and otherwise rational people did believe in auras and paranormal perception. Stipulate that the power was more than delusion, that he did possess an empathic passkey to other people's emotions. If he met a woman who shared not only that power but the same perversion he suffered from, it made sense that they would be drawn to each other. Perhaps the power to read emotions predisposed to an obsession with blood. That didn't mean he had to accept Sylvia's proposed folie a deux.
"Can't you decide about having me committed later?" she said. Her shoulders twitched, and he glimpsed the tautness of her nipples through the rippling crepe de chine of her dress. She hugged her arms to her chest. "You've got both of us needing it in the worst way."
His own nerves vibrated in sync with the thirst she projected. Regardless of her mental balance or lack thereof, she certainly shared his obsession. "What do you suggest?"
"Drive," she said through clenched teeth.
He pulled onto the highway and floored the accelerator. After a few minutes she said, "Better slow down, or you won't be able to stop in time."
He noticed her eyes darting from window to window in a restless circuit of the visual field. "What are you looking for?"
"Hitchhikers."
"At this hour?"
"You'd be surprised." She didn't pause in her scan of the roadside. Over twenty minutes passed before she pointed to a figure standing on the shoulder. "There. Pick her up."
Roger slowed to a stop next to a teenage girl in a denim jacket, holding a crayoned sign that read "Cape Cod." "She's a bit young, isn't she? And what's the matter with her? Doesn't she know she's begging for assault or murder?" he said to Sylvia.
"Yes, isn't it lucky for us that people are such idiots?" she replied. Opening the door, she leaned out and beckoned to the hitchhiker.

A Writer's Life

A writer's life

I haven't been a regular blogger and I am sorry. Life keeps getting in the way. First and foremost I had to finish KISS ME DEADLY, my July 07 romantic suspense release . The galleys (final proofs) came in on ISLAND HEAT, the Feb 07 release. And both books needed quotes, dedication pages and acknowledgments. In addition, I've been traveling to conferences. In the last few months I've been to St. Louis, MO, Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta, Cleveland, Houston and DC. I'm not complaining. . .I love to travel and even got to do a local TV appearance. It's been fun. Time consuming. But fun.

And now I'm in the middle of helping to organize a Booktrailer (tm) for Circle of Seven Productions. We're shooting ISLAND HEAT with the same people who are on the cover of the book. (You can see them on my website www.susankearney.com then click on Future Books and scroll down the page) And I get to help with the script, the costumes, the actors. This past weekend we spent the entire day to get about 20 secs of film. Eventually, I'll put it up on my website . . . no, you can't see it yet. Sorry to be a tease.

And I'm also starting to think about the next book, POLAR HEAT, a sequel to ISLAND HEAT. This story is going back into space. And I need to start writing next week. All I need is a subplot, characters and an opening scene. Those openings drive me insane. It is so hard to write them. I must rewrite page one 20 times. On the other hand, I love the middle of the book, where I can put in all the complications. Endings get more difficult again. Wrapping up all those details is hard, too. Actually, there is nothing easy about writing. And the more I learn the more difficult it becomes.

So each book I try to work on one part of craft, hoping it will eventually become automatic. Sometimes this actually works. This book my goal is to deepen point of view. For a simple example, "He was worried," is a poor way to evoke emotion. It would be better to write, " He wondered if the kids were all right. Why weren't they running to the front door to greet him? Why couldn't he hear their happy voices? Maybe they were next door. "

It sounds easy to do, but for me, it's not. So the plan is to work on that as well as figure out my plot. All before Monday.

Susan Kearney