Irrationally Exuberant

Why I Do What I Do

Sun, 19 May 2013 22:57:44 GMT

Creatively speaking, that is.

Not surprisingly, when people ask me about my creative process, it's mostly about writing. But occasionally I get similar questions about photography. The writers want to know about my inspiration or ideas; photographers and other artists want to know why I take certain pictures, or the angles, or framing, or whatever else.

This is a question I've been trying to answer for a long time myself. More than a decade ago my friend Walt Stoneburner / whiskeyrivers was starting to get interested in photography and asked me all of the above. It started with him looking at a sidelong shot I'd just taken of the Washington Monument while we walked through D.C., and he asked "Why did you take it from there?"

I struggled to answer because I wasn't really sure. At the time the best I could come up with was, "Because that's the way I saw it". Not a traditional straight-on angle, but something a little different that piqued my interest.

I wish I could tell you that I've got it all figured out now, but I really haven't. Looking at the picture now I can understand that I liked the look of the sky, the lighting, the shading on the monument, the perspective from an angle that "divided" the monument in two. But that's all technical stuff, really. If you asked me right now why I decided to snap the shot at that particular instant and no other, I'd still finally have to say, "Because that's the way I saw it."

Never mind a discussion about aesthetics; it felt right. But what does that even mean?

I've been thinking about this again lately since just had a bit of insight from my unwitting friend and fantastic artist Miranda Banks. She went to the Grand Canyon within two weeks of my visit there last summer, and after coming home painted a large and spectacular panorama of the South Rim. Never mind that I'd just been there myself and taken a couple dozen photos or more from different angles; her painting made me look at the Canyon again in a way I hadn't really seen it before. Which I suppose is one thing art is supposed to do. (And writing, for all that.)

Then this week Miranda posted on Facebook that she was doing a particular series of artworks that she hoped would show a place of her childhood the way she had seen it. Without thinking--and maybe specifically because I wasn't thinking too hard about it--I replied that this was exactly what I wanted to do with my photographs. I wanted people to see the things I cared about the way I saw them.

And I keep coming back to those places and people. For instance, my favorite spot on Earth is one-mile stretch of the Roanoke River where it crosses the Blue Ridge Parkway. I've been going there since 1985; if I've taken less than one hundred pictures of any single spot I'd be surprised. Like this...

...a shot I've taken hundreds of times. But from slightly different angles, or times of day, or seasons, or weather, or what have you. It's a place with as many moods as a human being, and I like capturing and displaying all of them.

Especially if, say, someone like my nephew Jacob happens to be there too...

...which leads to whole new layers I want to capture and explore and preserve. This is simply one of my favorite ways of preserving a moment and what that particular moment meant to me at the time I took the picture. And then to see what it means to the person looking at the picture.

And really, my writing works the same way. I write things the way I see them. I write things that I want to be preserved and displayed. I write something the way I want you to see it. And eventually I'll want to know what it means to the reader.

Looking over this again, I think I'm making it sound a lot more intentional and calculated than it really is. There's some of both behind my photos and writing, of course; to a degree there always has to be. There certainly is when I choose what to send to an editor or post online. But mostly, at the time of creation, I just happened to like the light and shade of that specific footstep.

This Week's Out-Of-Context Quote

Sun, 19 May 2013 20:49:32 GMT

Laurie to me: "Your anti-conscience is a rat bastard".

Just A Boy With A Gun

Mon, 13 May 2013 22:58:03 GMT

Since I keep forgetting to mention this, my (mainstream) poem "Chestnuts, Sleep", which originally appeared in the Winter 2007 issue of Appalachian Heritage, was just reprinted in the March / April 2013 issue of the Journal of the American Chestnut Foundation. Woot! I don't often let my stuff go for free, but I was thrilled to be able to make a "donation" to the ACF. They're doing great work--trying to restore the American Chestnut tree after it was almost completely wiped out by the Chestnut Blight in the 1910s through 1940s--so letting them reprint the poem was the least I could do.

In the meantime, writing occurred this past Saturday before I headed off to a Mother's Day country buffet, in the actual country, with my family at the Homeplace in Catawba, Virginia, which may very well have the world's best fried chicken. (They also make a mean peach cobbler.) This made Saturday pretty much my perfect day.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 5/11/13

New Words: 2600 on chapter 9 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. 13-year-old Gus Beckett gets his first taste of defending someone with a gun, while Carlos Alvarez gets his first taste of working with the Tucson Indian Ring, a group of businessmen who want the Apache War to keep going because it's making them tons of money.

Total Words: 279150. I wonder sometimes if my stubbornness about all of this staying one book will be more of an undoing than any publisher's or agent's rejection.

Reason For Stopping: Getting ready for the family outing.

Book Year: 1874.

Mammalian Assistance: Vegas briefly guarded his box pile.

Exercise: Walking Tucker around the neighborhood.

Stimulants: None.

Today's Opening Passage(s): Rock Marrak was angry. Angry enough, Will thought, to start throwing around the fists as hard as his nickname. As always, Marrak only got that violent when he thought his money was being threatened. And this time his anger was directed straight at Will, the head of Thompson-Marrak operations in Copper Heart.

He had Anglicized his Cornish name, Petrock, to Patrick. But to friends and enemies alike he was still Rock. And now with James Thompson dead—killed by Apaches, it was rumored, probably the only people alive vicious enough to finally take Thompson off the Earth—Marrak was the combination of administrator and enforcer, the diplomat who would still drag an opponent into the street and beat him nearly dead if he thought it was needed to get his way. He’d never threatened Will that way—but then again, he’d never hinted that Will was a threat to business before, either.

Darling Du Jour: Nothing springs out at me.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Claudia Christian; Edward Rutherfurd.

Not So Long Trips, Campus Cats, And A Future Sheriff In The Making

Wed, 08 May 2013 22:33:11 GMT

I've decided that worrying about kidney stone time bombs is silly. With one precaution I've started planning outings more distant than the nearest town, and it's a precaution I'd prefer to do anyway: Going somewhere with a companion or three. I like that better regardless of any other circumstances; I always enjoy outings more when they're shared.

With the hope that my newly-acquired reliable car will stay reliable (but getting AAA in case it doesn't), I've already started planning one such semi-distant outing: A trip with friends up to the northern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway for scenic photo-shooting and a hike to the top of Humpback Rocks. A couple of invitees have already accepted just so long as we can plan it around work schedules. At any rate, I'm shooting to do this sometime in late June or early July.

More immediately, I'm also gathering a small group to go watch Star Trek: Into Darkness on the 17th. Much less ambitious but anticipated just as much.

As has been the case many times in the past--especially at this time of year, when students leave campus and dump their animals--a cat is living just outside the library. Our building is ideal for small animals wanting to hide, as the facing is built in such a way that they can go up into the exterior wall and stay out of sight. This time, though, the cat was pregnant, and there are now several few-week-old kittens living with her. Food is being left for them most days. Sad and infuriating all at once...though I caught sight of one of the tiny fuzzball kittens out of the wall and playfully hopping around, which was a highlight of my day.

Writing: I'm back to a shift going in at noon, which guts most of my usual writing time. Unlike last year, though, this isn't going to last for months, just most of May. Then I'll spend the summer getting used to writing at night again. At any rate, my word counts are lower but the writing is still getting done.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 5/7-8/2013

New Words: 1800 on chapter 9 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. Ulpian Shively--former U.S. officer, former Confederate officer, now pistoleer-for-hire--arrives in Copper Heart and has a fateful meeting with the 13-year-old Gus Beckett that will put the latter on the road to eventually being a soldier in the hunt for Geronimo, a sheriff, a marshall, and an Arizona Ranger hunting Pancho Villa.

Total Words: 276,550.

Reason For Stopping: End of scene and getting ready for work, both days.

Stimulants: Today, An ice cream sammich.

Mammalian Assistance: Yesterday, Vegas guarded my lap. Today, none.

Exercise: Walking Tucker around the neighborhood.

Today's Opening Passage:

Yesterday: Two years before, the slab of mountain on the west side of the Verde Valley had been devoid of any human presence—not even Indians had frequented it for a generation or more, and certainly no whites. Except one, Will Beckett, seeking copper. Now there was a sprawling town across the eastern face overlooking the tiny ribbon of the Verde River far below, all at once looking as boisterously young as it was, but its terraces lined with adobe and brick buildings already showing some weathering as if they had been there since time before memory. Wind sweeping across the mountainside carried voices down toward the valley; Copper Heart was a town that never slept.

Today: Most saloons looked the same to Shively, and the Queen of the Mountain was no different: Like the better class of such places he’d seen, it had a long bar—polished walnut from who knew how many hundreds of thousands of miles away—a mirror behind the bar—which Shively always found useful in case anyone tried sneaking up on him—and a piano, which was unattended at the moment. No doubt there were whores upstairs, busy servicing the men who’d come off the night shift. The place was half full, including some women Shively didn’t bother making guesses about.

What he wasn’t expecting was the boy.

Darling Du Jour: But Beckett was not why Ulpian Shively ascended the mountain to Copper Heart. Shively was a hired shootist looking for work, and he loved mining towns. Most were new and wild and frontier enough that the rules hadn’t quite been figured out yet, and enough men took things past the line that somebody sooner or later would want Shively’s gun.

And often, if there was some legal presence in the town, they turned the other cheek on him. He still carried his law books, the ones his father gave him what felt like a lifetime ago, and they were more than just horse ballast. Shively wouldn’t kill anyone he felt had done no wrong. True, the punishment might not fit the crime, but there was always a crime nevertheless.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Babylon Confidential by Claudia Christian; Paris by Edward Rutherfurd.

Friends Sneaking Up On Me

Thu, 02 May 2013 19:15:51 GMT

The first seven years I worked for our college library I made a lot of friends among the students. In 2009 that came to a grinding halt.

This was due to two events I chronicled here at the time of each: The first, in early '09, was someone who I thought was one of the closest among those friends turning on me after her super-jealous boyfriend (now happily ex-boyfriend) convinced her I was bad news, that our hanging out together for a couple of years was nothing more than a big ploy to hit on her. The second came in late '09 when another friend, Jess Goode, was killed by a hunter who admitted later that he had no idea what he was shooting at.

These happened months apart but were emotionally cumulative. After Jess died I let myself turn into an emotional recluse for a long while--being nice to students but never letting myself get close to any of them if I wasn't already. A lot of friends and family, here and elsewhere, counseled me against this, but I allowed it to happen nevertheless.

Oblivious on so many levels as I am, especially when it comes to introspection, I only realized a few days ago that this is no longer the case.

The last of the folks who were already friends by late 2009 all graduated last year; yet it only occurred to me this week that I have a big group of friends this year too. They snuck up on me through trusted channels. Some I met through Laurie during her time as a student here; some I met through another student named Samantha who'd already been a friend for some years before she enrolled here; a few I met through both.

This revelation was followed by it dawning on me that the frustration and fear following 2009 is almost completely lifted. The unburdening came about so gradually that I hadn't been aware how much lighter my emotional footsteps were getting--until I started getting depressed about how many of these friends were graduating and heading off this coming Saturday.

But melancholy though I may be about graduation (as always), I'm also happier about it than I've ever been--coming as it does with the knowing how I gained friends by their stealthily sneaking through my armor. I'm a social person; generally I'm an extrovert. This has brought home just how painful that emotional wall was. I'm annoyed that it took me so long, but overall I'm vastly more happy than annoyed now that it's tumbled down.

As it happens some of these friends are local--I've just gotten spoiled by having them around all the time. But even being spoiled, considering the circumstances, pleases me. Today I'm grateful, relieved, and feeling blessed.

Happy Graduation, everyone!

Copper Heart

Thu, 02 May 2013 15:08:30 GMT

It's bad when I blog on Live Journal so rarely that I almost forget my password when I do come around to post something. Ah well.

Just a belated updated that I'm back to work on Arizona after a couple-week hiatus for research. I'm on the next to last chapter, "Copper Heart" (the previous chapter, which tentatively had that name, has been reassigned the more accurate "The Burning Land"). The fact that this is the penultimate chapter (not including the epilogue) allows me the illusion of being close to finishing, when I ignore the fact that this will be another huge chapter (covering 70 years--and the last chapter was 58,000 words) and I'm still only in the 1870s. But it's nice to dream.

This one will include highlights like the hunt for Geronimo (who's been a character in the novel since he was born), the rise and fall and rise again of the Hispanic community of Tucson, and the coming of the Indian schools. But the title story is about the life and death of my fictional Verde Valley mining town, Copper Heart, based loosely on the resurrected ghost town of Jerome, between the years 1874 and 1942.

After this I'll have a short chapter starting in the late 1960s, then the present-day epilogue and a handful of small modern-day frame story "interludes" preceding some of the chapters...and then done.

I may hardly know what to do with myself. At least for a few weeks, then I'll start editing.

Anyway, might as well start at the beginning.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 4/28/13

New Words: 2400.

Total Words: 275,150.

Reason For Stopping: Came to the end of the opening scene, wanted to decide which scene came next.

Book Year: 1874.

Mammalian Assistance: Vegas guarded the room briefly from his box pile, but it's gotten a bit of a lean to it so he usually vacates it after a short while.

Exercise: Morning walk around the neighborhood with Tucker the Big Dog.

Stimulants: None. This category will likely be empty most of the time now that soda and I are on the outs.

Today's Opening Passage: Over the course of the spring and summer of 1874 in Tucson, an increasing number of Los Tucsonenses—the Mexican population of the town and the farms sprawling out from its western edge—came to think that Carlos Alvarez was crazy. But it was a kind of crazy they liked and appreciated.

Darling Du Jour: It was fun to write--Carlos deciding he wanted to become a great horse racer so that the Hispanic community would end the half-shunning he'd endured--but nothing in particular springs out at me.

Non-Research / Review Reading: Eternity Road by Jack McDevitt; Supervolcano: All Fall Down by Harry Turtledove; Bloodfire Quest by Terry Brooks.

Out Of Sorts, Then Back In Sorts With Paradigms Reexamined

Fri, 12 Apr 2013 01:08:16 GMT

Thursday morning, March 21st, almost exactly 7:30 am, which is two hours earlier than I usually wake up considering that I work till half-past-midnight: I wake up with a nagging pain in my right side. I figured it was a muscle ache from sleeping on it wrong; I've done that sort of thing before. But stretching doesn't relieve it, nor does sprawling back out on my bed. Instead it gets worse, and flares intensely when one of my cats does her normal thing of jumping on my belly.

Medical books at hand (right beside the bed, as a matter of fact)--classic symptoms of appendicitis. Pain gets worse. I get a little stubborn and decide to go to the local clinic instead of the hospital. Arrive at 8:30, see sign that says it's closed for a meeting till 9. Waiting seems like hours. Finally go in with pain getting to the point of being agonizing, doctor scolds me for not getting an ambulance, and gets one on my behalf. Eventually I get to the hospital, get pain medication and CT scan, get pain medication a couple of hours later when first dose suddenly wears off in a matter of seconds. Mother-in-law is there; mother arrives; Laurie, who drove all the way back from Richmond (3 hours away), arrives shortly after.

Turns out I have two kidney stones. The next couple of days are spent sprawled out in bed at home with Percocet for pain and something else for nausea, while friends and family who've had them offer advice. One female friend who has had both stones and children tells me, "Welcome to the world of pregnancy!" I don't know if the pain was quite on an equal level, but it really was all it's cracked up to be. A few more days pass of moderate pain but not anything I need narcotics for.

In the long view of things this wasn't anything serious--unless, of course, I become a regular repeat offender or develop large stones of the sort that cause blockages--but it did rearrange my thinking a little bit. That is, when I was going through the pain and riding in the ambulance I didn't actually seriously think that I was going to die, but there was still that little nagging doubt. So what was I thinking (aside from OW OW OW) at that point?

About things left undone and unsaid.

I was angry at the thought of being taken from my niece and nephews. Their father died when they were all very young, and I vowed to myself that I'd stay close to them at least until they were 18--which is still a few years off for all of them.

Regret over feeling like I was abandoning Laurie.

Frustration about not finishing Arizona and publishing the Shenandoah novels.

And last and least, just because my brain has to play with me a little now and then, annoyance that I hadn't yet seen the new Star Trek movie. 'Cause, you know.

The first three of those, at least, were important. I've had a couple of long talks with my sister since then. I had another discussion about some important things with Laurie today. Once the pain was done and my head was cleared from the medication, I managed to at least finish the current chapter I was on in Arizona, leaving one large and two small chapters left to go.

And I'm pondering if there's anything else I want to say to anyone. Back in 1999 I had an incredibly vivid dream where I was dying in the hospital and wanting to say so many (good) things to so many people, but I didn't have the strength and I was angry and depressed that they wouldn't ever get said now. So after waking up--at the point where I died in the dream--I decided to start writing what I called my Deathbed Letters, written to various people as if I was dying and wanted to pass along what I really thought of them (in a good way, I mean).

I'm wondering now if I should do that again. Updated versions in some cases. Particularly to my niece and nephews, who would be old enough to understand them.

I've also quit drinking soda. The night before the hospital visit was, alas, my last Dr. Pepper, and I haven't touched it since. Yes, feel better; yes, weight starting to drop. I do miss it, but I've been lucky enough to not have any cravings, and I'm not interested in contributing to more stones (and pain) from that avenue.

In the meantime, I've been advised against any long-ish traveling since I still have a 2 millimeter time bomb in my right kidney, and I don't want to be caught in the middle of a long stretch of road somewhere, or be so far out someone couldn't bring me home. Ironic since I finally have a reliable car again and was plotting out travel ideas, but they can wait awhile.

In the meantime, our days are warm and sunny, I'm hale enough to be doing yard work, I'm drinking a lot of water, planning to get back to something resembling my old workout routine, researching the next chapter in Arizona, taking more things at least slightly less seriously while other things get much more serious consideration, and enjoying every day that comes along.

Crook In The Desert

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 03:39:39 GMT

It's a pity that chopping words out of my books doesn't come half as easily as adding them. I cut out 1300 last night and felt inordinately proud of myself...then added 1800 this afternoon. My knife isn't nearly bloody enough, I suppose.

PROGRESS REPORT

New Words: 1800 on chapter 8 ("The Burning Land") of Arizona. Lieutenant Colonel George Crook, dressed in the buckskins of a backwoods hunter, arrives in Tucson to take command of the armies of southern Arizona. A couple more writing days should finish off the chapter, though I may add an extra scene somewhere in its early parts.

Total Words: 270050.

Reason For Stopping: Running an errand, then getting ready for work.

Book Year: 1871. My writing speed seems to be about one hundred story years for every six real months.

Mammalian Assistance: None. Vegas pestered me several times that I should start writing so he could join me in the Writing Room, but by the time I sat down to work he was more interested in eating and lounging in the open kitchen window.

Exercise: Walked Tucker around the neighborhood.

Stimulants: Dr. Pepper.

Today's Opening Passage: By late June of 1871, three years after the Navajo left Fort Sumner and the fort itself was sold, and eighteen years after Riley arrived at Fort Defiance and raced his way into becoming a soldier, he was finally doing what he had set out to do in the first place: Fight Apache. He had never questioned his orders — not since Ulpian Shively’s middle-of-the-night order to steal some of Fort Defiance’s commander’s horses — but now he was questioning his place in the army itself.

Darling Du Jour: Nothing springs out at me.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: I'm still reading Bring Down the Sun by Judith Tarr / dancinghorse, but in snatched bits. Nearly all of my reading time is dedicated to five unpublished manuscripts I'm judging for this year's Amazon Breakout Novel Award contest.

Who Says Poetry Never Changed Anything?

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 01:14:30 GMT

I've been thinking a lot about the past lately for some reason--maybe this is just a common practice when you're a historical fiction writer. When you spend so much time thinking about other people's pasts, what could be more natural than reflecting on your own? One thing that happened to crop up in my brain, maybe because I'm coming up on the 25th anniversary of the event, is...as I titled a 2006 Live Journal entry about it..."how a quiet 17-year-old split his senior class".

I can't remember which poet said "Poetry never changed anything," but I have experience that he may have been wrong at least once.

I won't go into a lot of detail about this since I went into a whole lot of detail about it in my original entry. But here are the highlights: The fall of my senior year in high school, two guys from my class were killed in a car wreck. The driver, who I'd known for several years, had been drunk. His passenger, who I didn't know, was not. I wrote a poem about the event called "Temerity", which vented my anger about the whole event, and then finished off angry by saying that many of my fellow students would likely behave themselves with alcohol and driving...for twenty-four hours, and then go right back to what they were doing before.

(I also posted a copy of the poem here if you want to read it.)

As I pointed out in the old entry's title, the poem had a galvanizing effect. The teachers almost universally supported it (the rest said nothing at all). Half the senior class--close to literally as best as I could tell--supported it, while the other half wanted me tarred and feathered. I got threatening phone calls until I said I told these people I was recording their calls with my answering machine. (A bluff--we didn't actually have an answering machine.) I was mobbed one day by a large group surrounding the car I was riding in as I was trying to leave the school, and the nicest thing they said was when one demanded I apologize at graduation. I refused, and the mob got out of the way when the friend driving the car, who was more daring than me, gunned his engine and then started moving forward slowly heedless of the people blocking us.

I think one reason I've been thinking about this poem again is that I've also been wondering if my writing actually means anything above and beyond what it means to me personally. Usually this is enough; and when I get published and paid, that's a nice fringe benefit. But there are still the rare but indelible moments where I suddenly want more from it--where I want it to have some kind of extended meaning, to last beyond the measure of whatever it might give me. Probably selfish, I know, but likely an obsession of anyone with any kind of creative streak, be it artistic or otherwise.

My friend gnossiennes posted this as the opening of a great reply to the original entry:

You never actually know how something you've said has affected someone; people who acted defensive at the time may have actually taken what you said to heart and changed their ways. Immediate reactions aren't always indicative of the long term, which is why I think it is always worth it to give someone your heartfelt thoughts on a situation that you think is hurting them, even though it might seem like your words are falling on deaf ears.

She's right, I know, and it's nice to think that "Temerity", or anything else I've written, might have had some kind of positive lasting effect on somebody. One way or the other I'd still be writing, of course; things tend to fall apart for me when I don't. But it's nice to know that somewhere along the line there might be a substance to some of it that won't fade to shadows after I'm gone.

Contracts And Vigilantes, But No Contract Virgilantes

Mon, 04 Mar 2013 00:02:30 GMT

Because I'm the way I am, I went over my contract from Musa Publishing for The Matter of Camelot multiple times with a fine-toothed comb over the past four days, including firing a couple of questions at Musa's finance folks. This isn't to say that there was anything bad in the contract. Rather, it was excellent, good terms and multiple reversion clauses to cover a variety of situations. Musa also has a good reputation for royalty transparency--you see your sales in real time via a personal account there--and monthly royalty payments, including directly to Paypal if you like. This is just me being obsessively careful.

At any rate, I signed and delivered the contract this afternoon--munching on Spicy Nacho Doritos and Dr. Pepper, as I've mentioned elsewhere. So now the second guessing begins. This second guessing is also not a reflection of Musa. This is just the next stage in the Great Tier of Second Guessing that author me goes through. It starts with Should I really be writing this book? and progresses in stages through Now that the book is going to be published, was that a good idea? My own neuroses, which I tend not to chronicle here, and only am now because this is my first solo-authored novel publication.

I just have to remind myself that there were plenty of times in the past where I wished I could be on this level of the second-guessing tier.

Now the business part needs to get underway, which will have to include my settling whether or not to have an author page above and beyond Live Journal, Dreamwidth, and Facebook. Actually, no, it's settled; I know I should have one, I just haven't buckled down to do it yet. Until now I hadn't thought I had enough content to justify one, but now I've run out of reasons to put it off.

Like having an exercise routine, I suppose doing an author page will make me feel a lot better for having done it, and make me wonder why I didn't do it a long time ago. Once I get over the self-doubt hurdle I'll be fine.

At any rate, despite the lack of Progress Reports here, work on Arizona has mostly been ongoing. Today I had a group of vigilantes, based loosely on a historical event, deciding to take the war against the Apache into their own hands.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 3/2-3/2013

New Words: 3700 (3300 / 350) on chapter 8 (renamed "The Burning Land") of Arizona. A vigilante group that's practically a family reunion for the Becketts and the Marraks heads into the Verde Valley looking for Apache to kill, and then break apart from arguments when they succeed horribly.

Total Words: 262000.

Book Year: 1864.

Reason For Stopping: Yesterday I stopped at the end of the scene so I could do more research for the next one. Today was just adding to what I wrote yesterday.

Mammalian Assistance: None. Friday, Vegas, and Hayes all came in and then almost immediately turned and left because they remembered that the heater was on and would rather be doing things like this.

Exercise: Giving Tucker an extended morning walk around the neighborhood. Extended because I was following a slow-moving car roaming around to make sure this wasn't yet another instance of someone dumping an animal in our neighborhood.

Stimulants: Nestle chocolate milk / Dr. Pepper.

Today's Opening Passage: Actually yesterday's, and I won't bother posting one for today since it was just adding a bit here and there:

The dreams came first, before the substance: Kate was walking atop ramparts of walls that didn’t really exist around her home, keeping an eye to the east. In the dream she questioned nothing, only that she was a woman warrior, guarding family and home and all those under her care from danger. She wielded her short double-barreled Coach shotgun, had her Colt revolver holstered, and the knife in her boot usually used for killing snakes. She vaguely felt like she’d been patrolling this wall for many dreams, though remembered none of them—but knew that this night was the first time the lone Apache carrying a lance appeared in the flat distance.

Darling Du Jour: Nothing springs out at me.

Submissions In February: 2, including subbing To Murder an Empire to Musa.

Total Submissions Out Right Now: 4.

Non-Research / Review Reading: Bring Down the Sun by Judith Tarr / dancinghorse.

For A Cat, Every Day Is Valentine's Day

Thu, 14 Feb 2013 22:09:34 GMT

Friday and Velvet wish everyone a happy--or at least a non-stupid--Feast of St. Valentine!

Ocular Anxiety Dreams, With Symbols In All Caps

Sat, 09 Feb 2013 16:24:22 GMT

My anxiety dreams are usually pretty typical--like I'm back in college and suddenly remembering that I haven't been to class in weeks. If I can even find the class I realize I'm hopelessly behind and am going to fail. Even realizing I'm dreaming doesn't help much: The last time, once I knew I was dreaming I thought, That means I don't have to show anyone the F on my report card!

The latest one made an odd kind of sense, though that didn't make it any less bizarre. For most of the last few years I primarily wore contact lenses, and occasionally the anxiety dream would be me wearing my glasses (the pair then being old and worn out and difficult to see through) and not being able to find or put in my contacts. Problems with allergies meant that at least for the time being I'm primarily wearing glasses again, so the anxiety dream switched: For some reason I couldn't put my glasses on.

This is where the bizarre part chimes in. At one point in my very first glasses-less anxiety dream, they were suddenly missing when I was trying to cross an intersection. Everything went blurry, as if I was staring through a thick fog or suffered from advanced cataracts. I could see a car turning in and then stop, but only the vaguest outline, and I couldn't tell whether the driver was waving me or not, and I was afraid to try crossing. Finally, someone--I don't remember exactly who, but in the dream I was with Laurie, my parents, and some friends who are students at the college I work for--took my arm and led me across. Eventually, once I was across, I was able to get my glasses back on and see perfectly well again.

This is also bizarre because my vision, while bad, isn't nearly that bad, fortunately. But it is something that's always concerned me greatly. I've had bad vision since childhood, so I tend to equate not being able to see (or see well) with helplessness--and my brain is incorrigibly symbolic when it comes to such things.

When I'm particularly worried about physical losses from getting older, for instance, I start dreaming of teeth loosening and falling out. In an upcoming situation where I'm going to be "stuck" for awhile with only very few options to un-stick myself, it shouldn't surprise me that I start dreaming about not being able to see. Especially, to drag out my brain's metaphor, if I'm having trouble "seeing" more ways out of the situation.

Hmmm--that last bit sounds incredibly ominous, but it's not really anything you need to be concerned over. It's a problem more of dastardly inconvenience than mortal terror. And, as the dream pointed out to me practically to the point of shouting, I have friends and family to help me through during the "helpless" part of it.

Anyway, being a writer, no matter what happens to me--in the real world or otherwise--I tend to find ways to tie it back into writing sooner or later. This is the sort of thing that usually finds its way into poetry, where symbolism tends to be a more welcome occupant than in my prose. If I have to go through a bad dream I can at least wring some useful words out of it.

Green Light, Kid! We Did It!

Thu, 07 Feb 2013 00:39:39 GMT

I hit another history bump in Arizona last week. That's what I call it when I am doing spot research on the section I'm writing about and realize that I didn't do quite enough research on a previous section, and history is kicking dirt on my shoes as a result.

In this case, I'd been writing about the excellent relations that most of the Hispanic and Anglo residents of southern Arizona had with each other during the 1850s. They did business together, had parties together, and did quite a lot of intermarrying and other related shenanigans. So stopping a little short of where I needed to go in my research, as I found out later, I slid into the Civil War, Navajo War, and Apache War of the early 1860s while missing the Sonoita Massacre, which wrecked Anglo-Hispanic relations for years.

Long story short, after a white fellow was murdered and the Anglo community blamed a member of the Hispanic community who'd just be tied up and whipped for being part of an alleged rebellion, a vigilante mob went around southern Arizona driving out all the Mexicans they could find, including women and children, and including folks who owned the land they were living on. At one point they came to a mescal-making enterprise, and when the workers ran the Anglos opened fire, killing four Hispanics and one Yaqui. The result was a mass desertion of Mexican workers who took years to be wooed back, and even then there were lingering suspicions between the two groups--which has never stopped to this day.

At any rate, it was an easy fix--I jumped back two story years, wrote a scene about the massacre, and added another small one today that was a ramification. History and story fixed. I do live by the mantra of Research Everything--sometimes I just don't know that I've stopped too soon. I'll have to work on that. Better to find it out now, though, than after publication.

In other news, To Murder an Empire, my historical fantasy novel about King Alaric of the Goths and his Sack of Rome in A.D. 410, is now off to the publisher that accepted The Matter of Camelot. I temporarily halted work on Arizona last week to jump back to the 4th and 5th centuries A.D. and finish all the edits on Empire--figuring that since a publisher has already purchased one of my historicals, any more procrastination on getting out another would be sinful.

Now the metaphorical breath-holding starts. But I'm pleased with how I've learned over the years to get other stuff done while locking my lungs. I wrote To Murder an Empire in its entirety while badly distracted and awaiting a critical outcome, for all that.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Fri, 25 Jan 2013 03:17:38 GMT

PROGRESS REPORT

New Words: 1100 on chapter 8 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. Among a lot of other things, a Navajo peace treaty on its way to Washington is derailed by the coming of the Civil War to Arizona. The soldiers of Fort Defiance quickly decide their loyalties, fracturing the fort and leaving just a skeleton crew against a thousand Navajo warriors.

Total Words: 243750.

Reason For Stopping: Just wanted to get this small scene out and then head off for errand-running.

Book Year: 1861.

Mammalian Assistance: Vegas and Friday both experimented with coming in the Writing Room, but left shortly afterwards. Vegas' box pile is starting to tilt thanks to the slow crush of a large box on the bottom, one reason he hasn't stuck around much lately, so I'll have to fix that.

Exercise: Walked Tucker around the neighborhood.

Stimulants: None.

Real Shower Or Kettle Shower: Kettle, though today it was due to circumstances rather than me just wanting to spend the lion's share of my time writing.

Today's Opening Passage(s): Spring at Fort Defiance and Navajoland had bloomed warm and colorful, and brought hopeful news to the men of the Third Infantry: The senior officer in the region, Colonel Edward R.S. Canby, had surpassed Riley’s hopes and negotiated a peace treaty with the Navajo. It was on its way to Washington to be ratified, and that was the tricky part; Congress had often seen fit to undo the good work done by the soldiers in the field. But Captain Shively admitted the terms were reasonable for all sides, and expressed a rare hope that this time the treaty would stick. The Navajo War seemed to be over.

Before the treaty could be ratified, though, another war erupted—this time between the northern and southern states.

Darling Du Jour: “Listen up, boys!” Evander shouted, and he marched straight into the Southerners. Deserters they might be in the next few minutes, no longer feeling bound to obey U.S. superiors, but they parted for Sergeant Evander because he was still Sergeant Evander, and no change of uniform would change that truth.

The sergeant let out a long exhale and mounted his hands on his hips. “Listen up. That treaty that’s gone to Washington likely won’t be worth spit now, and if we do get any reinforcements they’ll probably be shavetails who won’t know their musket hole from their ass. All of you know what we’re facing here. So I’m…hell, I’m asking you”—surprised looks all around, including Riley and Shively—“as men who have served well under me, and as gentlemen. Just take one gun a piece, what you think is a fair amount of shot and powder, and leave us the rest. ‘Cause you know as God and the Devil are my witnesses, we’ll need them.”

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Conroy; Laidlaw.

A Successful Experiment, A Failed Peace Envoy

Thu, 24 Jan 2013 03:12:01 GMT

I've known for many years and then some that I don't write prose well when I'm trying to write out in public, particularly if there's any noise. Generally when I've tried it the writing has been (in my opinion) poor. I can do outlines and story notes; I can write poetry, and nearly all the verse I wrote in the middle of our crowded and noisy campus cafeteria went on to be published. But for some reason, prose has always required a secluded and quiet environment. Maybe the Muse is just hypersensitive that way.

But last weekend I found myself in a circumstance of "Write now while you have the chance or you won't get any done this weekend". I was in one of the library's computer labs, and I did have my Official Writing Flash Drive with me, so...why not at least try? Laurie was the only other person in the lab; the rest of the floor was quiet; and I'd already mentally mapped out most of what I was going to write anyway. So over the next half-hour or so I knocked out about 1300 words which were pretty decent.

Granted that wasn't diving into a cold pool head first, considering the circumstances--and as it was, a few moments after I finished, a small noisy group came in and I know it's likely I wouldn't have been able to concentrate then. But I've been grousing to myself about being a "spoiled" writer. I think about others like Piers Anthony, who wrote novels on a yellow legal pad while chasing around his toddler daughters; or the doctor--I think Michael Crichton--who wrote his first novel in five-minute spurts between seeing patients. That's discipline I tell myself. I get a fair amount of writing done, but I'm not so sure I could manage those. So even this small step feels like a success.

Meanwhile, I still haven't figured out why prose and poetry are so different that I can write poetry anywhere. That might take me a few steps farther along, too.

I did, however, take another kettle shower today so that I could stay around the house longer and get more writing done. (If I haven't explained this before, we're having to "outsource" our water usage for anything that requires running our water for more than 3-5 minutes because of a blocked drain pipe. Showers require either traveling to my in-laws' house to use theirs...or filling a large kettle with water I heat on the stovetop. When I aim to spend the better chunk of my pre-work day writing, I grab my kettle.)

Anyway, I missed a few Progress Reports over the past week. I don't think I'll try posting them now; instead I'll just plaster today's work across my blog.

PROGRESS REPORT

New Words: 2500 on chapter 8 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. Today centered around a historical event that whites call The Bascomb Affair and Apache call Cuts-the-Tent. The Apache chief Cochise, who had been incredibly friendly with Americans to that point, was lured to a conference under a flag of truce whereupon a greenhorn officer attempted to take him prisoner in the officer's tent. Cochise whipped out a knife and cut his way out, but the immediate result was that Cochise's brother and nephews were captured and hanged. The longer consequence was ten years of warfare. I also have a character who attempts to go to Cochise as a peace envoy, but this works out exceedingly badly for the would-be peacemaker.

Total Words: 242650.

Reason For Stopping: Finished the scene, culminating with a character death, and then went to get ready for work.

Book Year: 1861.

Mammalian Assistance: Vegas came into the Writing Room, but then wanted right back out. I learned later he engaged in treachery--he had hunkered down under the blanket on our bed in exactly the favorite under-blanket spot of Nugget the Alpha Kitten, while Nugget fixed the blanket lump with a glare promising forthcoming revenge.

Exercise: Not a whole lot on this windy 25 degree day.

Stimulants: Nestle chocolate milk.

Today's Opening Passage(s): “Soldiers have come with the latest stage,” a young runner reported to Cochise in their mountain camp near Apache Pass, where they were sheltering for the winter. “Fifty-five. They carry a white flag, and Wallace says they want to meet with us.”

Cochise agreed immediately. There was a good peace with the White Eyes—a peace he had helped advocate and Red Shirt helped enforce—and he was friendly with Wallace, who manned the stagecoach stop at Apache Pass. And the Americans had never violated the truce their white flags symbolized.

Why should they? They and the Chiricahua were proving to be good neighbors. True, there were small bands of Dineh who still raided for livestock now and again, but those were small things. And there would never be peace with the Mexicans; the Chiricahua would fight them forever, or until all the Mexicans were gone. But no Chiricahua had led a single raid against any Americans for a year by the end of that January of 1861, most for much longer.

Darling Du Jour: The chief laid his hand on -------’s head, felt his friend relax as much as he could against the pain, and then Cochise cleanly slit his throat.

“You knew him?” a young warrior asked the chief a moment later.

“For much of my life. He had always been fair with the Dineh. I know he was seeking me to talk peace.”

The warrior snorted. “The rattlesnake guarded us. He knew the White Eyes could not be trusted.” At Cochise’s sharp glare he asked, “Would you have talked peace with him?”

“No,” Cochise answered without hesitation. “But he was my friend. I did not want him to die.”

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Himmler's War by Robert Conroy; Theoderic by Ross Laidlaw; Nothing Sacred by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough.

Wars Great, Small, And Ineffective

Wed, 16 Jan 2013 04:35:34 GMT

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 1/14-15/13

New Words: 5600 (2300 / 3300 ) on chapter 8 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. War with the Navajos, which so far is nothing more than a drawn-out stalemate. The bane of the Beckett family tries to spark a small war with a son and the miners he works for by a piece of targeted vandalism, and for his trouble winds up in a cave ambushed by a "ghost".

Total Words: 235050.

Book Year(s): 1858-59.

Reason(s) For Stopping: One way or another, getting ready for work. Yesterday that meant going to my in-laws' for an outsourced shower. Today I took a "kettle shower" at home so I could get more writing done.

Mammalian Assistance: Vegas guarded his box pile and my lap yesterday, and was surprisingly well behaved. Today he was too busy snuggling with my laptop case, with a characteristically smug look like in this shot a few days ago:

Exercise: Walked Tucker around the neighborhood yesterday, but today it was pouring rain. That stopped me, by the way; he was perfectly willing to press on.

Stimulants: Dr. Pepper / None.

Today's Opening Passage(s):

Yesterday: Ata’halne waited patiently outside of Zarcillos Largos’ hogan. Zarcillos was still a respected headman among Ata’halne’s band even if the Bilagaana, the white men, no longer considered him the headman they would talk to—they had never understood that the Dineh had more than one headman, and that one could not speak for all bands. But if the old man could be convinced to make war on the Bilagaana, many more of their people would follow.

Today: The Beckett ranch looked more prosperous than Will remembered. More cattle, more vaqueros—though the Anglos among them had taken to calling themselves cowmen instead—and the house itself was in fine shape. Will had read in a letter from his mother that they were selling cattle now to Fort Buchanan, the post between the Santa Cruz and San Pedro Rivers standing vigil against the Apache. They were also selling the occasional Andalusian horses to residents in the slowly but noisily expanding Tucson. Rancho Andaluz was thriving.

Darling Du Jour: Nothing springs out at me. Either that or I'm just too lazy to go back through the pages.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: A Loeb Classical Library Reader.

In Which Tucker The Big Dog Unwittingly Becomes A Menacing Beast

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 23:07:54 GMT

After the day's bit of writing I decided to walk Tucker, since he hasn't gotten many walks lately due to me and then Laurie being sick. As I finished the neighborhood I could see he was still eager, and I felt better than I had since before getting sick, so I decided to take him around the campus too. Coming around the last bend by one of the dorms I watched a guy carrying a sizable box over to his buddy nearby, which they started unloading.

I didn't think anything of this until I walked by them and looked up at them at the same instant I realized what I was smelling. There on the sidewalk, in broad daylight by a street full of cars and with passers-by like me, they were lighting up marijuana, the contents of the box. I happened to look up at just the right time, as Stoner #1 tried to cover Stoner #2's joint with his ineffectual hand. As I walked away I thought You guys are idiots.

By coincidence or not, though, a few seconds after I walked by and clearly saw what they were up to, Stoner #1 took his box towards the dorm and #2 started following me. Just in case #2 decided to try anything threatening as he followed close at my heels, I started giving Tucker--a German Shepherd mix--fake commands that made it sound like he needed calming down. I picked up my pace a bit, and when the Stoner did too, I figured enough was enough. I gave Tucker a slight right-hand tug on his chain, which I knew would get him to look back towards me to see what I might be wanting him to see. He obliged by looking back at his shoulder and square on the guy following us. The second time I did this, issuing "calming commands" like "Easy, easy..." and Tucker looked up to eye the fellow (no doubt wondering what the heck I was doing), the guy broke off and hurried away in a different direction.

Chances are Tucker, who is regularly infatuated by the smells all around him when he goes walking, hadn't even registered the guy behind us until I gave the discreet tugs. But don't mistake me--if the guy actually had tried coming after me physically, it's almost a certainty that Tucker would have attacked him. And I know Tucker locked a curious gaze on him for a few seconds before Stoner #2 peeled off.

Good Tucker. Wanna piece of bacon?

A Smattering Of Story Before A Shower-In-Exile

Tue, 08 Jan 2013 02:34:46 GMT

I had high hopes about my writing day today, the first where I get an extra two hours of afternoon. I got a smattering done, then realized Oh yeah, I still have to go to someone else's house to take a shower.

So off I went, over the mountain and through the woods to my in-laws' before work. Tomorrow, in order to get more writing accomplished, I may try the stove-warmed kettle variety of shower again, which isn't as thorough a drenching as I like but worked pretty well the couple of times I've done it so far, and it won't back miasma into the basement. Unfortunately the spring in our front yard is inconstant or it would be a decent water source that also would not be a flood hazard.

In other news, I'm now the proud owner of an 1869 American two cent piece that somebody at one time or another successfully took a shot at. I bought it...just because I'm weird about liking things with weird histories.

PROGRESS REPORT

New Words: 700 on chapter 8 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. In the teeth of the worst winter even the Navajo remember, Riley Beckett is about to be ordered onto a quest.

Total Words: 225600.

Reason For Stopping: Hygiene.

Book Year: 1857.

Mammalian Assistance: Vegas came in, but when he realized a moment later that I wasn't going to let him on my lap, he turned around and wanted right back out.

Exercise: Walked Tucker around the neighborhood.

Stimulants: Dr. Pepper.

Today's Opening Passage(s): Riley felt like he'd never be warm again.

He’d thought himself used to hardship. He grew up a Beckett, after all, and work on the ranch had gotten done regardless of what went on outside the casa. Come spring he’d have been soldiering for his five year term and he meant to reenlist. Provided, of course, the winter ever ended.

The men of the Third Infantry Company B were gathered around the barracks wood stove like every winter that January of 1857, but they weren’t playing cards, or throwing dice, or gabbing much. It was enough of an effort to keep warm. It was colder than any of them had ever known. Winds howled across the plateau more loud and fierce than the Navajo remembered. Christmas Day at Fort Defiance had been forty below zero.

What was really saying something was that even the Navajos were suffering.

Darling Du Jour: Rodrigo had discreetly exited when El Rosa took over too — El Rosa was another story Riley was long aware of. But then, Rodrigo hadn’t spoken to Riley since that night they met in the stables three years before, even when sought out. Senor Ramirez had said with some befuddlement that Rodrigo avoided his ranch every soldiers’ payday.

If there was one thing Rodrigo Alvarez was good at, Riley thought sadly, it was disappearing.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown.

Dragging Myself Out Of My Cave

Sun, 06 Jan 2013 23:27:47 GMT

I'm not dead, as the saying goes, I'm just mostly on Facebook.

Busy-ness and forced not-busyness over the past three weeks, two of which I was off for Christmas Break, and only one day of which saw any writing (1800 words in an hour's writing sit-down between a day spent running errands and such). My schedule has changed indefinitely for the better where writing is concerned, though, so I may be able to do some catching up starting this week.

The busy-ness, the good reason for lack of writing productivity: I spent six days over the holiday with my sister, niece, and nephews. This has been a tradition every year since my brother-in-law died five years ago and left behind my sister and three kids who were just wee things then, but those visits are usually three or four days. Six is a nice new record, and not something I would mind repeating either over another holiday or when I come for extended visits during the summer.

The first full day after I was back from the visit is when I knocked out the aforementioned 1800 words, part of chapter 8 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. The words ended 1856 and pushed me past the 225,000 word mark. That night I started getting sick.

It wasn't the worst ailment I've ever had--worse than a regular cold but much easier to deal with than the stomach flu, so borrowing the curse word that isn't, I simply refer to it as the Phuntugranous Crud. It didn't make me so uncomfortable that I couldn't stop reading, and I even did a bit of Arizona outlining. But it did fog my head enough to keep me from writing, and the Writing Room isn't heated anyway except passively via other rooms, so I didn't suspect trying prose would be a good idea.

I can at least say that on midnight of New Year's Eve, I was on a mountain. It just happened to be the mountain we drive over to get home when coming back from Laurie's folks' house, where I'd spent most of the day curled up on a couch under a blanket.

Not to mention I haven't been home much because we effectively have no water in our house. Actually the water comes in just fine, but it doesn't want to leave. Run it for more than a few minutes, or flush a used toilet, and it backs up into the basement. The last two back-ups included sewage. So laundry is courtesy of a laundromat, showers are in other houses or with a kettle heated on the stove, and bathroom trips require some elaborate and extensive logistics. My only visit to the Writing Room today was to snag a library book that I was returning.

But there is hope on the writing front. Starting tomorrow, my normal schedule--going in at 2 p.m.--gets bumped back to 4, since we don't have any student workers closing the library this semester during the week. I do my best writing in the late morning to early afternoon, so the later start means more writing time. The complete opposite of last year, when I spent six months working 10-12 hour days. This is all assuming the drainage issue gets fixed, but at least it opens up more time when I could run home and snatch some prose.

I've been working on Arizona for 15 months now, and my intent is to finish it this year. By summer, preferably. At that point The Matter of Camelot will be out barring any problems, and I want to be able to devote a good bit of time to marketing it, including finally gritting my teeth and having an author webpage by then. Having the Giant Novel's first draft finished by summer would certainly make the business side of this business go a lot more smoothly.

Firearms Info With Marginal Commentary

Mon, 17 Dec 2012 13:55:13 GMT

If you want to have a quick overview of where other countries are in relation to the United States in relation to guns, GunPolicy.org is a good place to look. It gives the details for First World examples of countries that let you own guns for self-defense yet have moderate to strict gun control.

Militias: Like with many other topics, anyone saying "We don't really know how the Founding Fathers defined this" only indicates that someone hasn't actually read the Founding Fathers' work (or has limited themselves to fake Internet quotes). They considered militias (especially "well-regulated" ones) to be what we would now call "first responders". Thomas Jefferson put this most succinctly in his 1801 State of the Union address. While he did think standing armies were unnecessary in peacetime (but not standing Navies), he added, "but if (an invasion) threatens to be permanent" then the militia was there "to maintain the defense until regulars may be engaged to relieve them."

Founding Father quotes about guns: Just about all the ones floating around the Internet these past few days are fake. A good rule of thumb is that if it's something on the Internet and credited to Washington or Jefferson with no source listed then it almost certainly is fake. Here is a good site popping several of those.

What I don't understand is why these are so popular when real ones, like one given in the above site where John Adams supports gun ownership for self-defense, are ignored. The only reason I can figure out is that the real quotes are more substantial than sound bites and are written at higher than a 5th grade level.

November Normalcy

Tue, 27 Nov 2012 21:58:16 GMT

For me "normalcy" tends to include being on a regular writing schedule near the top of the list. So after my ironic dearth of writing this NaNoWriMo month I got back to it this past week, working on a short story sequel to Philip Jose Farmer's The Wind Whales of Ishmael, which went off yesterday, and then back at Arizona yesterday.

Of course the schedule may get disrupted again this week since we've still got plumbing and hot water heater problems across the house, but after spending most of this month getting no actual writing done I'll take what I can get.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 11/26 AND 11/27/12

New Words: 3150 (750 / 2400) as an addition to chapter 7 ("The Scalphunters") and the opening of chapter 8 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. Scene one, Rodrigo helps get a treaty signed just in time for a massacre. Scene two, Finn and Solana's son Riley has run away from home to join the army and, despite being 15 years old, succeeds thanks to a horse race with the Navajo.

Total Words: 214250.

Reasons For Stopping: Scenes complete, and had to get ready for work.

Book Years: 1849 and '53.

Mammalian Assistance: None, mainly because I'd locked Vegas out due to his being fussy lately about wanting to be on my lap getting constant attention. Also, I wasn't writing on our animals' favorite couch. Otherwise I would've instantly had at least two cats in my lap.

A normal November night at the Adams rancheria.
(Top o' couch: Nate and Nugget.
On the couch: Tucker, Velvet, Vegas, Hayes, and Friday.)

Exercise: Walking down to campus, and a bit of walking around it yesterday.

Stimulants: A dollop of Dr Pepper today.

Today's Opening Passages:

Yesterday: Rodrigo believed the new treaty made between the Americans and the Navajo was a good one, until it shattered even before the Navajo rode away.

Today: Riley was sure his parents would forgive him for stealing the horse, the big black Andalusian he rode now. And for running away. Or so he told himself all the way up Arizona.

Darling Du Jour: Nothing springs out at me.

Tyop Du Jour: The commando officer of this post.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch and Jeffrey Zaslow.

Black Friday Says "Meow"

Tue, 20 Nov 2012 14:06:58 GMT

Friday, aka Handsome Cat, wishes you all happy holidays!

Writing Tidbits: Ideal Deadlines And Manuscripts Elbowing Each Other

Mon, 19 Nov 2012 17:30:11 GMT

Little writing lately, not because of the "break" I was taking earlier to whip a couple of manuscripts into submission shape, but because of real life intrusion in the form of plumbing issues around the house. There's been a sudden cascade of them, no pun intended, literally from one end of the house to the other, ranging from a running toilet that won't stop even when it's turned off to our water heater switching off the hot water on a daily basis. (That last one has got me on edge since it also seems like the pressure valve is no longer functioning properly.)

At least the "little" writing isn't "none": I'm working on a short story sequel to Phil Farmer's novel The Wind Whales of Ishmael for the next Worlds of Philip Jose Farmer anthology, but I'm worried about not being able to make the Ideal Deadline now. The Ideal Deadline, the end of this month, allows the most time for editorial feedback. Less ideal deadlines follow, the last being the Absolute Deadline at the end of December, which would allow no feedback at all. Short of another cascade of seriousness, though, the story shouldn't take that long. *Appropriate knocking gesture*

It's been interested to see how my finished manuscripts are getting rearranged in my head following the sale of The Matter of Camelot. I'm one of these authors whose finished works stick around somewhere in the back of the brain nagging and nagging until they're sold. Once something is sold then those remaining reshuffle for attention.

It's not that I forget the sold work--it just quits nagging and becomes business. This time the books immediately jockeying for my attention were Shenandoah and To Murder an Empire. They're still elbowing each other, but I gave priority to the latter because it's a fantasy novel and I'm a lot more familiar with the speculative markets (though I'd like to try it on Musa too when they reopen in January).

Either that, or my handful of bow- and flintlock musket-armed characters in Shenandoah simply didn't feel like trying to square off against Alaric and the entire Visigothic army while it was already in a foul mood.

Conversations With Laurie

Mon, 19 Nov 2012 15:28:06 GMT

Yesterday, I got behind the wheel of a fancy and quite expensive vehicle.

Laurie: "This car costs more than both of us will make in the next five years. Drive it like it's...your soul."

(Toodling...carefully...down the road.)

Me: "My soul has sensitive brakes."

Laurie: "It also steers like a cow."

Your Secession Checklist

Fri, 16 Nov 2012 01:07:37 GMT

Congratulations! You’ve successfully filed your petition with the White House to have your resident state secede from the United States of America. While we process and consider your request, here are some factors you should consider before proceeding:

DEFENSE: The majority of war materiel in your state is owned by the U.S. government. Begin considering who you wish to appoint as a negotiator to either (1) return the non-nuclear materiel to its rightful owner, or (2) arrange payments or trades for said materiel. Typically nuclear-related items are, by Pentagon and State Department protocols, non-negotiable unless the U.S.A. prefers to keep them on foreign territory to confront a clear and present danger. It will be safe for you to assume that the U.S.A. will want said nuclear items returned unless you hear otherwise from the U.S. Secretary of Defense. If you wish to make a “clear and present” case, however, the US SecDef will be open to appointments to discuss the matter.

NOTE: THE UNITED STATES WILL NOT ENTER INTO ANY MUTUAL DEFENSE PACTS WITH SECEDED STATES LESS THAN ONE (1) YEAR POST-SECESSION.

If this arrangement is agreeable to both federal and ex-state parties, defense negotiators may also mediate the handing over, trade, or sale of federal properties, including but not limited to buildings, national parkland, books and other media in federal repositories, etc. Post office equipment and Federal Reserve banks are especially up for negotiation.

FEDERAL CONTRACTING: All U.S. federal contracts with industries in your state will be considered null and void effective of the date of secession. The appropriate federal departments will welcome appointments with both public and private representatives if post-secession renewal of these contracts is desired, but preferences for commerce will, of course, be given to states that remained loyal to the union.

MONEY: Every state in the union receives federal money for items ranging from infrastructure to education, and as detailed above, defense, therefore secessionist governments will need to consider how to make up for the annual loss of these billions of federal dollars. Since February 2009, this has also included federal grants awarded to the various state and city governments along with private industries through the Recovery Act. For example, Texas has been awarded $16.805 billion in Recovery Act funding alone since Feburary ‘09.

Likewise, fiscal representatives must take into account whether or not their state received more federal money than it paid in federal taxes. As of 2010, West Virginia, for example, annually pays $1,041 per capita in federal taxes but receives $11,609 in federal funds per capita. The seceded state government, again, will need to ensure an accounting for the shortfall.

Our suggestions for making up for the lost funding include higher taxes and/or austerity measures.

Federal funds for Social Security, Medicare, etc. will be turned over to each state government upon handshake assurances that the state will dole out the money wisely. Veterans’ benefits will continue to be paid by the federal government. If anyone from a seceded state wishes to serve in the U.S. military, they may do so as foreign auxiliary troops under an American commander.

PRE-SECESSION SAFE PASSAGE GUARANTEES: The United States will gladly grant safe passage to any U.S. soon-to-be non-citizen who wishes to move to a seceded state, and will expect the ex-states to allow similar safe passage into the U.S. No options will be taken off the table in order to prevent secessionists taking hostages.

POST-SECESSION VISITING AND IMMIGRATION TO THE UNITED STATES: Citizens in seceding states will need a federally-approved passport to enter the U.S.A. Those wishing to immigrate to the U.S.A. may apply for a visa and then follow the normal immigration procedures, including a seven-year naturalization waiting period except in cases of a “path to amnesty”.

ASSUMING OTHER NON-DEFENSE FEDERAL RESPONSIBILITIES: There are a host of other responsibilities that have now fallen on your state’s shoulders. These include but are not limited to interstate highway maintenance, coinage, foreign treaties and trade agreements (including with the U.S.), safety regulations, environmental regulations (or deregulations that do not annoy states your pollution flows into), etc. All of these are covered in more detail in our booklet “So You Think You Can Do A Better Job?”

SECESSION PRECEDENTS: Now that you have seceded, you will, of course, be kind to parts of your state that may wish to secede somewhere down the road.

IN CONCLUSION, APPLICATIONS TO THE U.S. FOR FOREIGN AID WILL NOT BE CONSIDERED EARLIER THAN ONE (1) YEAR AFTER THE DATE OF SECESSION. PETITIONS FOR READMISSION TO THE UNITED STATES WILL BE ACCEPTED AT ANY TIME WITH THE CAVEAT THAT THERE IS NO GUARANTEE YOUR STATE WILL BE ALLOWED TO RETURN. CONSIDERATION OF SUCH PETITIONS WILL BE BASED SOLELY ON YOUR NEW COUNTRY’S RELATIONS WITH THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT POST-SECESSION AND THE STABILITY AND SANITY OF YOUR GOVERNMENT AT THE TIME OF THE REQUEST.

If you have any questions, please feel free to call the White House’s secession hotline at 1-800-TRAITOR.

This checklist is also available in Spanish.

Have a nice day, and the White House wishes you good luck with your petition!

--Danny Adams, descendant of Captain Samuel Burger, Confederate army (later a Reconstructed U.S. citizen), and Private Johann Heinrich Boerger, Hessian mercenary during the American Revolution (later a naturalized U.S. citizen).