foundation, inspiration

Cover art from Isaac Asimov's Foundation series. Hence the title.

Basically, the situation is this. Rather than sit around and watch video game walk-throughs on YouTube all day (damn you, Shadow of the Colossus), I decided to update this here blog. Since I have no worthwhile news to relate (well, I do, but that will come later), I'll bring you up to speed on some novel-ish things. This originates from my recent decision to whip my novel into working order and publish it for the Kindle™ before the year is out.

First, however, I'm making some changes to my manuscript. There's a major overhaul underway. (Yes, I paired those two words intentionally.) I'm incorporating elements of my second, third, fourth and fifth novels into the first one, to add more characters and spice up the plot. In addition to this, there are several minor changes I'm making, some of which have only occurred to me in the last few days.

I'd like to sit down with you and dissect every little change I'm making, and elicit an editorial, literary and thought-provoking critique from you. But that's not going to work. For starters, I'm paranoid about revealing any details about my baby on this Internet thingy. Some scurvy rotter might come along and steal my idea, and I'd have to commit suicide (after decorating my apartment with the miscreant's entrails). Second, you'd be bored to tears. This is a rather nonsensical, esoteric novel I'm working on: social commentary wrapped in epic adventure-filled action-packed speculative fiction, with a few metaphysical touches thrown in for good measure. It's kind of like a hot dog buried under layers of onion, tomatoes, sweet relish, cheese, chili, and all the other crap that Cthulhu knows should never be put on a hot dog.

Eldritch analogies aside, however, you wouldn't like hearing about what exactly I'm writing. It'd spoil the surprise, anyway. You can read it for yourselves when I publish this beast. What I'd like to talk to you about today, because it has special bearing on my writing (and rewriting), are the foundations for this work.

To put it bluntly, I'm mad as hell. And I'm not going to take it anymore.

I'm about to get political/pseudo-philosophical, so all of you intolerant or opinionated types (or just those who don't want their impressions of me ruined) should get the heck out of Dodge, right now.

The world is sick.

It's backed itself into a corner, run itself up a blind alley. And now it's got nothing to do, nowhere to go, and it's eating itself.

Like Cyrus says in The Warriors: "Now look what we have here before us." Look at the world today. Overpopulation. Cramped, smoky, grimy cities, soaked in sin and desperation. World trade, economies, businesses, the very definition of success—all built upon cramming people into stuffy cubicles in monstrous floodlit buildings, where they slave their lives away for peanuts, pushing papers and dozing through meetings.

It's a horrendous job, and somebody—a million somebodies—has to do it. I'm aware of that. I'm not castigating the white-collar worker. All of them, men and women alike, have my respect. They've built something amazing. Human civilization as we know it depends upon them.

No, my beef is with human civilization itself.

I'm not pleased with how it turned out. I don't like that our society depends on things like corporations, Wi-Fi networks, stocks, bonds, markets, trades, mergers, industry, commercialism, business, economy, commodities, digital technology, and all those other intangible things built on numbers and figures and data. I resent that Western civilization revolves around forcing its youngsters to educate themselves in the purgatory of public school and the political chop-shop of college, so they can graduate with a pile of debt and a host of half-formed ideas and forgotten facts, and thence obtain a soul-crushing, unfulfilling job in the private sector and work until they die.

I like things...simpler. Freer.

(I realize, as I sit here and rail against the modern age, that I am typing on my laptop computer and sitting in my ninth-floor apartment with Owl City playing in the background and an electric fan preventing me from succumbing to the sticky Korean heat. I am the world's biggest hypocrite; I admit it. I don't give a pair of dingo's kidneys. I am spreading the word, my fauxslophic ideas, with the only viable weapon at hand. Indulge me.)

I'll be the first to tell you that I was born in the wrong century. I often find myself wishing that I could have taken part in the great explorations of the past five centuries. Ah, those were the days. There wasn't a single piece of plastic anywhere in the world. Everything was made from romantic materials like wood, metal, and canvas. The map hadn't been completely filled in yet. Anything—literally anything—could happen. Anything was possible. The sky was the limit. No, there were no limits. Even the sky was up for grabs.

I want to tag along with the famous explorers—Marco Polo, Francisco de Orellana, David Livingstone, Sir Francis Drake, Lewis and Clarke...even the doomed ones like Captain Cook, Burke and Wills, Mungo Park, Robert Falcon Scott, and Roald Amundsen. Heaven only knows what these guys really saw, and what they felt as they did. It seems like there's no room for expeditions like theirs anymore. Today's intrepid souls (Sir Ranulph Fiennes, Mark Jenkins, and others) know what's waiting for them at the end of the trail. I long for the days of romance and mystery.

I guess I don't really hate human civilization as we know it. I just said that out of spite. I don't even hate technology. Technology saves lives, eases burdens, facilitates communication, bridges gaps, expands minds. And it lets Adam Young make music. I dislike the mindset behind technology on occasion. Progress for progress's sake, and whatnot. And I wish e-readers wouldn't replace my trusty paperbacks. That's all.

But most of all, I wish the world wasn't so small. My most cherished dreams are those in which the world has become vast, unexplored, and dangerous once again, and it's up to me and a few other intrepid souls to plumb its mysteries.

So that's what my book's about. The decks have been cleared. Human civilization as we know it is kaputt. Earth's surface has been rearranged, altered unrecognizably. It's awash in eldritch abominations, mysterious monuments, savage beasts, colossal monsters, alien technology, sentient inhuman races, ferocious weather patterns, cosmic anomalies, laboratory experiments, fractured space-time, a hodgepodge of familiar cities and nations...and, of course, the terrified and scanty remnants of humanity. Into this mess are thrust my two protagonists, office drones from the Earth we know, refugees from the chaotic, hopeless, stifling present day. It's the end of the world as they know it, and they feel fine. They were actually sort of waiting for it to happen. So they jump at the call. Off they boldly go, throwing away their old lives and seeking their fortunes in this new and barbaric world. "Going for howling adventures over in the territory," as Mark Twain put it. Fighting, exploring, befriending, rescuing, and just generally being heroic and badass.

That's something I think every human being should have the chance to do.

But the world is sick, remember? First, we're poisoning the crystal waters of pure human existence with the drug of digital immersion, an ersatz life lived in the virtual world. (When was the last time you had a conversation where somebody didn't quote a movie, mention a video game, reference a website, or whip out a cell phone? I catch myself doing this distressingly often, and feel like running up to my apartment and hurling my computer and my smartphone out of the window.) But second, our worldview as a species seems to be shifting. This is particularly notable in the United States, but it manifested first in Europe and other notable civilized nations.

I'm speaking of the distressing trend of liberalism.

lib·er·al·ism [lib-er-uh-liz-uhm, lib-ruh-]

noun

1. the quality or state of being liberal, as in behavior or attitude.
2. a political or social philosophy advocating the freedom of the individual, parliamentary systems of government, nonviolent modification of political, social, or economic institutions to assure unrestricted development in all spheres of human endeavor, and governmental guarantees of individual rights and civil liberties.
3. (sometimes initial capital letter) the principles and practices of a liberal party in politics.
4. a movement in modern Protestantism that emphasizes freedom from tradition and authority, the adjustment of religious beliefs to scientific conceptions, and the development of spiritual capacities.

I've already talked your ear off about the state of human civilization, so I'll be brief. I disagree wholeheartedly with the liberal mindset. As innocuous as it sounds on paper, liberalism is a destructive cancer, a pernicious gangrene corrupting the world. I define myself (categorize myself, Smithy) as a conservative atheist. This means I have the advantage of looking at the world through the practical, no-nonsense lens of your garden-variety conservative, yet I don't have the obfuscating religious hangups that fundamentalist Christians do. I have a clearer view than most anybody.

I have observed, by monitoring the major news networks (most of them) and the general trend of American politics, that the liberals are taking over. Conservatism is passé. It's discredited as a system of thought. People (liberals) believe that conservatives are barbaric, violent, hidebound, intolerant, insensitive, cruel, racist, corrupt, money-grubbing Neanderthals. We're an unpopular lot right now, and I don't see that changing anytime soon.

The popular consensus seems to be that we are moving toward a state of world peace. A utopia. Everybody gets along, the state oversees every aspect of the citizens' welfare (that's what they mean by "the government guarantees individual rights and civil liberties"), people pay sky-high taxes to support the bloated and all-powerful government, but don't mind because they're off their chumps on sex and drugs and other hallmarks of an indolent, cared-for lifestyle.

Hogwash, I say. That's not what humans were meant for. Humans strive. Humans overcome. Humans pioneer. Humans explore. Humans hunt. Humans kill.

[grunt, snort]

Sorry. As I was saying, humans don't fit the mold which the liberals seek to jam us into. We weren't mean for a utopia. We weren't mean for a civilized, caring society. I think pastoralism and minarchy are the ideal fit for humanity. Anything more threatens us with a total stagnation of the human condition, a decadent travesty of civilization, a sparkly balloon easily punctured by external or internal pressures. (If you think I'm wrong, ask Thomas Cole.)

I wondered why, as a boy, I loved watching movies and cartoons where governments and bureaucratic order had been overthrown, and the world had descended into lawless chaos. (Mad Max and Thundarr the Barbarian come to mind). There was no law to tell you what you could or couldn't do; you had to decide for yourself. You could be bad or good. I loved the idea, without really knowing why.

As I got older (and politically aware), I figured it out. We've got too much government right now. So much that it's stifling our very nature as living, breathing, entropic beings.

To be properly free, we need a minimum of government, a government which fulfills no further function than that of a night watchman. The government doesn't try to control the administration of things like health care and welfare and job creation and other social programs; those things aren't rights, they're privileges. They aren't guaranteed, they're earned. The people are on their own for those things. The government should merely ensure that the people's basic rights—speech, press, arms-bearing, assembly—are guaranteed. Then it can back the hell off.

So, naturally, in my novel, all the world's governments and governing bodies—particularly the United States—vanish in an instant. The world is now leaderless, anarchic. And of course, a host of baddies rise up to fill the void and impose their will upon a helpless population. Enter our two heroes. They save the day, move on, do it again. Live life as they want. Oppose oppression. Exercise independence, common sense, human decency. Explore, strive, create, inspire. If those aren't true American values, then I'm more idealistic than I dared to admit.

And then...well, I don't want to spoil the plot-lines of future works, but I will say this much. My two heroes, after kicking around for a while and saving the day here and there, decide to found a country of their own in the midst of this bellowing wilderness. It's a free country, a good country, a large and powerful country. It's filled with hardworking souls who don't feel entitled to anything, who know that the government isn't there to support them or care for them, but simply to protect their rights. It's a country where moral goodness and common sense are valued above political correctness, affirmative action, reparations and the crippling overabundance of tolerance. And it's a country unafraid to defend itself or its allies from threats. Actions, not words. Guns, not sanctions. Confrontation, not appeasement. That's the American way. 

Long story short...I'm writing a novel which is essentially American in its character, in which I create the ideal world as I see it. One that makes sense to me. One that feels right. A world where our fates aren't decided before we're born; where we're not dependent on technology or successful careers or upward mobility; where we decide who and what we want to be, every minute of every day; and we have the freedom to follow whatever path we choose. And those who challenge our way of life, those who seek to dominate or terrorize us, are dealt with, swiftly and permanently, at the point a sword blade or a six-shooter.

I hope this makes you want to read it.

And now kindly listen to this, a paean to unexplored worlds. This technology is allowed:

the 8 p.m. epiphany

That I may remain innocent of plagiarism, that title is a pun on a book called The 3 A.M. Epiphany, by Brian Kiteley. Basically it's a writing book. Its pages are littered with unusual but simple exercises (in the form of prompts) designed to work your writing muscles, stretch the literary tendons, push and shove your gray matter into nooks and crannies heretofore uncharted. I rather with I'd brought it with me to Korea, in fact. I've only ever given it perfunctory glances. Bought it new off Amazon and have hardly touched it, even though it looked like a kick in the pants. I intend to rectify that on my return to the U.S.

But in the meantime, I've been having some epiphanies of my own. Namely, how to ensure that my debut novel doesn't suck.

In hindsight, I'm almost glad I've let the novel sit around so long without trying to publish it. It's let me give it a good solid think. Inexorably, I've noticed inadequacies and imperfections. I'm ever so glad I didn't rush into publication and let those strident shortcomings slip under the radar. I'd like this dang thing to be perfect.

So, in idly thinking about what would make the book better—I've gotten to the point where the book is constantly simmering away on the back burner, and I can contemplate it and critique it almost subconsciously—I came to a realization. The book is boring. Flat. Dull. Thanks to my last rewrite, completed shortly before I left for Korea (late 2011 or something), the manuscript is no longer do disgustingly puerile. But it's still missing something. Oomph, I guess you'd call it. There's nothing in it that would hold interest. It's still somewhat shallower than I'd like. I must have subconsciously grasped this, and the matter must have been turning itself over in my head subliminally for months, ethereal and intangible, like the ghost of a rotisserie chicken.

Because, at 8 p.m. yesterday evening, I figured out what was wrong, and how to fix it. Was the book dull? Okay, spice things up a bit. I didn't have to think long about how to accomplish this. I'd bring in some of the characters I was saving for the sequels.

I cracked open my laptop during one of my free periods at work, and commenced a staff meeting with myself. These are the stenographer's notes:

Okay. How to integrate [Unnamed Major Characters #1, #2 and #3] into the story I've already got?

Excellent question. Are we including their backstories as well?

Whoof, I hadn't even thought about it. Seems logical to include Number One's cover story, and of course most of Number Two's tragic history, excluding the part she doesn't know about (that she's actually from the other universe). As for Number Three's...

I'm thinking we'd best leave his (and Number One's) for later. Drama bombs, good sir, drama bombs. Like Dresden in '44. Or was it '45?

No matter. Just enough to set up character. Now, are we confident that we've included enough? Are [the three aforementioned characters] going to be enough to sustain this story properly? Or are they too much? Character overload, so to speak?

Well, as Spartan as this story is right now (a protagonist, a deuteragonist, two antagonists, a few slavering beasts and and a boatload of war-crazed tribesmen), a few vivid characters couldn't hurt. They'd really help flesh it out.

We can at least give it a shot. If it doesn't work, we'll know it.

Glad we got that cleared up. Now the question is...how now, brown cow?

Now let's see...I'm thinking of pulling in some of the story elements from what I had planned for later books. Enrichening the story.

Is "enrichening" actually a word?

It is now. So. The story. We were originally planning the setting (after the cataclysm) in a fairly pastoral setting, with a few Babylonian and Akkadian cities scattered around, right? And the Babylonians and Akkadians running amok?

That sounds about right, yes. And our heroes caught up in the middle of it.

I should have listened to my gut from the beginning. That setting always struck me as somewhat...pedestrian. Bland. Unexciting. Static.

No need for reproaches, friend. What's happened has happened. Just be glad you're fixing it before you publish it. So, we need to spice up the setting a bit?

Right. Instead of leaving the place a wilderness, I think I'm going to make the landscape more recognizable. Really pull the audience into the story. Make them realize just what this story's about, and what actually happened during the apocalypse.

That sounds sound.

So...let's see here. What were the milestone civilizations after Mesopotamia? The Egyptians, right?

Yeah, them. And the Greeks, and the Romans, and the Arabs, the Carthaginians, and all the barbarian tribes up in Europe and whatnot.

Are the Etruscans in there somewhere?

Who the hell were the Etruscans?

No idea. Anyway, I think that's enough to go on. The chronological order of things isn't going to matter much, given the context of the story. Nor, really, will historical accuracy. We can play with this timeline as much as we like.

It's nice when you leave yourself an out like that, isn't it? Perhaps you were cut out to be a sci-fi writer after all. If you can learn to ignore the thunderous sound of Isaac Asimov spinning in his grave, that is.

It's getting easier by the day. All right, so we've got historical context taken care of. But I want to be sure of something. Whenever people write alternate histories, or even history-based science fiction (A.E. van Vogt was a whiz at it) there's a certain risk involved. I'm talking about clichés.

What, you mean like, whenever people write about savage backward Bronze Age cultures, or the Roman Empire, or some fictitious blend of the two, there's always some big fight scene in the grand arena? Against wild beasts and monstrous sword-wielding gladiators?

Yeah, that. Happens all the time. Star Wars (like, two or three times); John Carter; Riverworld; Gladiator (I suppose that was a given, though); and a whole bunch of other historical and sci-fi stuff. It's a lead-pipe cinch. Whenever you talk about ancient cultures, real or imagined, some mention of The Games always pops up.

Sure does. You want to avoid that?

Yes. I want to avoid it. And somehow, avoid it WITHOUT avoiding it.

Come again?

I would like to work a nice big gladiatorial fight scene in there. Preferably with the hand of the love interest at stake.

Okay. We can do it. We just have to make it new and fresh. Or make it SEEM new and fresh.

At that moment, unfortunately, I noticed that I had three minutes to get ready for my next lesson. I hastily shut down the computer, snatched my textbooks and lesson plan, and hoofed it to class.

I think I got enough done. I was starting to digress, anyway. I didn't make any concrete steps toward figuring out where I was going to spread my hands and divide the plot—like Moses parting the Red Sea—and stick all this extra stuff in, but I've got all night to think about that. And tomorrow night. And possibly the three free periods I've got on Wednesday, too.

I'm tremendously excited. My manuscript, as it stands now, is a mere 58,000 words or so. That makes it pretty short for a novel. I'm not one to subscribe to the whole "longer is better" school of authorship which Douglas Adams poked fun at in So Long and Thanks for All the Fish, but I am rather pleased that this new material will double (perhaps triple) the overall length of this work. Makes it seem a little more legit, you know?

But beyond that, I'm excited to see the changes this will wreak on my manuscript. I think it'll really jazz it up. It'll transmute from bland sterility into explosive vivaciousness. It'll be punchy, hard-hitting, evocative, emotional, and just plain ol' fun. I'm looking forward to ushering it into that golden light.

I'll let you know how it all goes. And about my plans to publish it. I think I might be ready to try putting on the Kindle™...

the best sci-fi stories you've (n)ever read

Science fiction is arcane stuff. I get that. Not too many people are into it, except the science professor with the corduroy trousers and the geek down the block with the inch-thick glasses. More people are into fantasy (you know, that weird crap with unicorns and leprechauns and sparkly vampires and swords and magic and sexy witches) than sci-fi.

But I didn't come here to pontificate.

The odds are you're not a sci-fi fan. Two-thirds of you reading this probably aren't. Either that or you're a mere dilettante, someone who claims to love science fiction when the most you've ever done is go see Thor and Spider-man in the theaters, or glanced at Fahrenheit 451 in high school, or taken a shortcut through the sci-fi/fantasy section in Barnes & Noble because it was the quickest way to get to Dreams of My Father by Barack Obama at the mall entrance.

Oh, right. I'm not supposed to pontificate. [ahem]

So I'll help you out a little, because I happen to be a real sci-fi fan.

My collection includes everybody from James Blish to Poul Anderson, C.M. Kornbluth to John W. Campbell, Jr., Fritz Leiber to Gordon R. Dickson, Robert E. Gilbert to Edgar Rice Burroughs, A.E. van Vogt to L. Sprague de Camp...and it may soon extend to Piers Anthony, Robert Heinlein, Jack L. Chalker, and Orson Scott Card.

I know my stuff.

I know who Isaac Asimov is (and therefore I know just how much the Will Smith version of I, Robot sucked).

I have read pretty much every story that H.G. Wells or Jules Verne ever wrote.

I know what happened in the year 802,701 A.D. I can carry a gun for dinosaur. I know why sea monsters love lighthouses. I can (probably) flush out a shape-shifting alien. I've learned what a "gestalt organism" is. I know what lies at the earth's core. I can recite the Three Laws of Robotics. I remember what happened to Thor V. I discovered where Captain Nemo lives.

I think I'm pretty qualified to judge what constitutes "good" sci-fi and "bad" sci-fi.

If you're not a science fiction fan, but have been curious about the genre, the following would be my pick. I have here, for your consideration, a list of what I believe represents the best science fiction written in the last hundred years. Some authors' names you may recognize, some you may not. The stories themselves are, to you, probably unfamiliar. Even if you haven't read them, though, you've probably seen them on the silver screen. A lot of these were made into classic, memorable, or semi-memorable films.

More importantly, though, these works have influenced me on a profound level. Someday I hope to be half as good as the people who wrote them. If you, dear reader, should choose to peruse them, you'll receive a crash-course in the mind-blowing storytelling and incredible writing the world of science fiction has to offer.

And as an added bonus, you just might mutate into a full-blown sci-fi nut. Here's hoping.

I was originally going to make this a ten-item list, but you can't read three science fiction anthologies (and have a used book store in your town bursting with dog-eared arcana) without, you know, winding up with a few more favorites than you'd like to admit. More to the point, however, there is absolutely no way to distill an entire genre down to ten items. I needed enough leeway to clue you in on both the genre's classics and its lesser-known short works in order to give you the full picture of the organ's merit and the writers' genius. Then again, you lot are uninitiated, uncultured swine, and I can't overload your gnat-like attention spans with as much material as I'd prefer.

So here you go, twenty items. I slaved over the list for months. I picked these works because (a) I liked 'em and (b) they will literally blow your mind. I dare you to read even three of them and see if your universe hasn't widened a smidgen.

1. The Fog Horn . . . . Ray Bradbury (short story, 1951; inspired the 1953 film The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms)
2. Who Goes There? . . . . John W. Campbell, Jr. (novella, 1938; adapted into 1951's The Thing from Another World and 1982's much more faithful The Thing by John Carpenter)**
3. Black Destroyer . . . . A.E. van Vogt (short story, 1939)*****
4. Nerves . . . . Lester del Rey (novella, 1956)**
5. Code Three . . . . Rick Raphael (novella, 1963)*****
6. The Spectre General . . . . Theodore Cogswell (novella, 1952)***
7. Thy Rocks and Rills . . . . Robert Ernest Gilbert (short story, 1953)*****
8. A Pail of Air . . . . Fritz Leiber (short story, 1951)*****
9. The Time Machine . . . . H.G. Wells (novella, 1895; so much better than the two movie adaptations)**
10. E for Effort . . . . T.L. Sherred (novella, 1947)***
11. The Last Question . . . . Isaac Asimov (short story, 1959)*****
12. A Gun for Dinosaur . . . . L. Sprague de Camp (short story, 1956)*****
13. Heavy Planet . . . . Lee Gregor (short story, 1939)***** 
14. Scanners Live in Vain . . . . Cordwainer Smith (short story, 1948)*
15. Arena . . . . Fredric Brown (short story, 1944; provided the basis for a Star Trek episode of the same name)* 
16. The Machine Stops . . . . E.M. Forster (short story, 1909; adapted for TV in 1966 as part of the U.K. sci-fi series Out of the Unknown)***
17. A Rose for Ecclesiastes . . . . Roger Zelazny (short story, 1963)* 
18. The Big Front Yard . . . . Clifford D. Simak (novelette, 1959)***
19. Microcosmic God . . . . Theodore Sturgeon (novella, 1952)*
20. Call Me Joe . . . . Poul Anderson (novella, 1957)**

A in case that wasn't enough, here a few stories I thought deserved a nod. They may not be as "good" as the ones I've listed above ("good" here having the meaning of deep, profound, insightful, provocative, didactic, romantic, or mind-blowingly awesome)...but they're fun. So there.

• The Escape Orbit . . . . James White (novel, 1983)
• The Island of Doctor Moreau . . . . H.G. Wells (novel, 1896)
• Harrison Bergeron . . . . Kurt Vonnegut (short story, 1961)****
•  At the Earth's Core . . . . Edgar Rice Burroughs (novel, 1914) 
• Tale of a Computer that Fought a Dragon . . . . Stanislaw Lem (short story, 1977)****
• The Gods Themselves . . . . Isaac Asimov (novel, 1972)
• A Clockwork Orange . . . . Anthony Burgess (novel, 1962)
• I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream . . . . Harlan Ellison (short story, 1967; made into a computer game in 1995)
• The Hammer of God . . . . Arthur C. Clarke (novel, 1993)

And that's the list. Pick a few out and give 'em a whirl.  You won't regret it. All I ask is that you read, think, and above all, enjoy.

That's what sci-fi is all about.

* The Science Fiction Hall of Fame: Volume I, ed. Robert Silverberg, 1970.

** The Science Fiction Hall of Fame: Volume IIA, ed. Ben Bova, 1973.

*** The Science Fiction Hall of Fame: Volume IIB, ed. Ben Bova, 1973.

**** The World Treasury of Science Fiction, ed. David G. Hartwell, 1989.

***** The World Turned Upside Down, ed. David Drake, Eric Flint, & Jim Baen, 2005.

how to train a writer

"When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it."                                                                                                                           
                                                                                                                                        — A.A. Milne

Positive reinforcement.

They say it's the proper way to train dogs and children. (Doesn't work too well for soldiers or politicians, though.)

I think it might work for writers, too.

I haven't been a writer for long. (Or, perhaps, it's more accurate to say that I haven't called myself a writer for long.) But even in such a short span of time, it's occurred to me that a writer's medium is ink, paper, and ego. We're violently insecure creatures, we writers. After all, we are putting ourselves down on paper, not just words. Our most intimate feelings, fondest wishes, darkest desires, and wildest imaginings all appear on the printed page. It's only natural that we'd feel shy about baring so much of our psyche for all the world to see.

But it isn't only our imagination that's on trial: it's our ability to translate our imagination into words on paper. Dreaming up an idea is only half the battle. (I could go into the planning vs. pantsing debate here, but that's a blog post for another day.) After giving mental form to our brainchildren, we must make them tangible. Somehow those impulses, feelings, and thoughts must wend their merry way from our brain to our fingers, diffuse through our skin onto the keyboard, and pop up magically on the page (or screen) in front of us.

That is where the real insecurities manifest themselves.

An idea, a paragraph, or a sentence which seemed so real and true and good and pure and perfect in our heads can fail miserably to materialize on the page. Distilling haphazard neural impulses into English isn't quite as easy as our favorite writers make it seem. Something inevitably gets lost in translation. As Stephen King puts it, the best writers are the ones who can conceive a viable idea—discover a fossil, as he puts it—and then, through hard work, persistence, critical thinking, and hefty revision, tease most of that fossil out of the ground without breaking, chipping or scratching it. You're never going to get all of it. But with practice, you can retrieve everything important.

I think it's that arena where I'm most lacking as a writer. I could dream up good story ideas all day—one pops into my head every hour or so. But putting 'em down on paper is another matter. Whether it's because I haven't practiced enough, or haven't read widely enough, or just haven't had that seminal burst of inspiration...I'm not sure of the reason, but I have awesome difficulty in translating my ideas into words. I can think of a good story, but not write one.

I've been meditating lately about my difficulties as a writer, and my shortcomings: all the things I wish I could do better, like the professionals. I wish I could bestir myself to write more. Seems like every time I feel I should write something I inevitably wander off to my books, games, movies, or introspective evening walks.

Strike One: Not working hard (or often) enough.

Even if I do start something, I'll inevitably bang a few thousand words out, then stop for the day. I'll read some rewarding piece of fiction by Clarke or van Vogt or Asimov. I'll take another look at my paltry work, and delete it in disgust.

Strike Two: Not having enough confidence as a writer.

Let's say I even finish something (long odds, now that you've seen what I'm up against). Suddenly, as the last word is typed, and I sit back and look at the project as a whole, I'll become afraid of it. It'll mutate into a monster, a hideous abomination of unpolished writing, undeveloped themes, flaccid characters, and puerile premise. On the instant, my lovingly crafted story becomes an unconquerable mess. Self-destructive thoughts spin through my mind: Yuck. This is terrible. There's no way I'll be able to fix this. Robert Heinlein couldn't salvage this junk. There's so much to read over, to repair, to tweak, to trim, to perfect. I'll never finish. Hell, I don't even know where to begin. I think I'll just leave it for later.

Strike Three: Not having the persistence, or courage, to edit and revise (let alone submit).

Noticing a pattern here?

Fear.

All of my shortcomings as a writer stem, fundamentally, from fear. Insecurity. Lack of confidence. Inexperience.

I understand that I am afraid. I've blogged about it before. (Go back and look for the specific post if you want; I'm too distracted to get up a link.)

Now, that begs the question: since I know what my problem is, how do I go about solving it?

Well, a little affirmation would be nice. It'd be great if somebody (preferably a discerning science fiction fan) would come up behind me while I was typing, look over my shoulder, and say "Cool idea," or "Nice turn of phrase there, chief," or "Wow!  I never thought about it that way," or "Hurry up, I wanna know what happens next!"

I caught myself thinking these exact thoughts this morning, as I revisited a science fiction novelette that I had submitted to Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine, which had been rejected for "failing to excite the interest of the reader."

And then it hit me: maybe the reason I'm so afraid, insecure, and under-confident about my work is that, well, I've never received any positive reinforcement. Nobody in a position of authority has ever told me "Well done, keep up the good work." My friends and family have read my drivel and told me they liked it, that it was well-written and engaging, but as kind as their comments are, they're not expert. The editors of sci-fi magazines have been reading sci-fi for years (and often write the stuff themselves). Moreover they are well-informed where their readers' tastes are concerned, and know exactly what'll turn an audience on or off. And so far, none of my stuff has been up to code. And it's been rejected. Flat-out.

So maybe, subconsciously (for I would never think something as insecure or foolish as this out loud), I've gotten the idea that I'm not a good writer, and that I shouldn't even bother trying.

Amazing, huh?

Fancy your humble Vaunter thinking a thing like that!

Hell, I know I'm a good writer. I like what I do. I have a masterful command of the English language, and I can turn a phrase on a dime. It's just funny what the lack of positive reinforcement can do to a person's mind. Just because Gordon Van Gelder has never written me an enthusiastic letter praising my brilliant work, and begging to be the sole recipient of any future fictive endeavors, I somehow assumed that I wasn't that good. And that lack of self-esteem and confidence might've proven absolutely debilitating if I hadn't caught it in time.

I'm glad I had this epiphany. Praise is not a shot of espresso (or adrenaline). It's the icing on the cake, a pleasant glow to bask in after one has achieved something...usually not the something that one expected to achieve. If the famous writers of sci-fi had set about their work with popularity and acclaim in mind, and refused to budge without it, then the annals of science fiction would be barren indeed, if even extant.

I just have to keep perspective. I need to look at every fresh project as a clean slate, and to give it my all (and fix its shortcomings in the revision phase). I need to keep working, keep learning, keep practicing, keep writing. I need to remember that there is victory even in the attempt. I mustn't let my fears and doubts weigh me down. Nothing worthwhile in history was ever achieved without effort—or fear. The winner is distinguished from the loser not by his lack of fear, but by his refusal to bow down to it.

And so, cheers to you, fellow writers. Cheers from the catbird seat. Your brother-in-arms is out here, still endeavoring to craft something worth an editor's second glance. Keep calm and carry on.

POSTSCRIPT:
For the final irony, I was listening to AC/DC while typing this post. The last song played before I finished was "Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be."

writing updates, 5/23/2010

As you may recall, my writing goals for 2010 went something like this:

• publish 3 nonfiction travel articles by July
• publish 3 short fiction stories by July
• publish my novel by the end of the year

Not counting the paltry piece I did for an information broker ("Tips on Learning to Play the Piano") I've published two nonfiction articles so far (in Real Travel Adventures and In The Know Traveler, respectively). The third (and several more) should be taken care of (and then some) by my trip to England. I've secured a deal with The Expeditioner to publish two-day dispatches covering my two-week sojourn there, beginning mid-June.

My novel goals have been amended, mutating from "publish by the end of the year" to "move the story toward publication." Sound nebulous to you? You're right. I've decided to forget the deadlines. Following them was a lot of stress and a dearth of productivity. I'm not due to get my manuscript back from my beta readers anytime soon, so there's nothing substantial to do for the nonce. But more excitingly, I'm making arrangements to send my MS off to my great uncle (on my mother's side) and my second cousin (on my father's), both of whom are published authors. My great uncle has written something like 40 books on business, and my cousin wrote a dark fantasy romance novel. I've sent both of them letters, asking if they'd care to read what I have and give me any pointers (including information about publishers and agents). I already know that my great uncle is interested; my grandfather (his brother) passed the information along to him, and he asked if he could have a look. And at the moment, the poor man's laid up in his house with a ruptured spleen, so (as Grandpa said) this is the perfect opportunity for me to employ him as a reader!

I'm tremendously excited about this. Professional input is what I really need at this point. Getting help from the pros is going to be a godsend. My relations might even put me in touch with an agent! Huzzah!
That just leaves me with the problem of short fiction. What with blogging, and working a job, and actively seeking another, and languishing with my novel in the ninth circle of revision hell, I haven't had much of a chance at writing anything new. But I've put my shoulder to the wheel, and I now have four stories on the go.

They're all science fiction. The first is ruddy brilliant, or would be, if I could just figure out to get from Act II to the end of Act III. It's about a human colony on another planet that's ruled by the same sort of debilitating caste system they have (or used to have) in India. The second story is rotten, only a few paragraphs in and I'm already hating it. It's about the Big Crunch, and takes place billions of years in the future. It was inspired by certain stories I read in a science fiction anthology, The World Turned Upside Down. Isaac Asimov had a pretty good one in there ("The Last Question") which concerned the distant future, and human evolution, and what would happen to the universe, and so on. Mine is similar. But I think I'm just coming off as a hack.

The third story is even ruddier brillianter than the first. Got a sort of cryptozoological angle to it. Plus it has an old-timey feel that's fun to write (it's set in Rhodesia in 1957). The fourth story, which I just began writing the other night, is about the Bermuda Triangle. Specifically, it concerns Flight 19: a squadron of Grumman TBM Avengers that went on a long-distance training mission in 1945 and vanished without a trace. More mysterious yet, one of the search planes that was sent to look for them disappeared as well. There's all sorts of theories about what happened to these airplanes and their crews, ranging from the mundane to the fantastic. Maybe they ran out of a fuel. Maybe a freak microburst swatted their planes out of the air. Maybe strange fluctuations in Earth's magnetic field played merry hob with their compasses and sent them far off course. Maybe they were abducted by UFOs. Maybe power crystals from the city of Atlantis opened up a pathway to another dimension and sucked them in. Who knows where they wander now...?

Unlike most of my other writing projects, I'm optimistic and cheerful about these stories. I have a feeling that they're going to be no problem, you know? Just some little 10,000-word stories, that's it. Editing them's going to be a snap, I've got the plots all figured out in advance (something I didn't really have when I began writing The Novel). Plus they're just plain fun: I feel as though I can just write whatever comes into my head, take the story whatever direction I want, write the story itself about whatever I want. Look at the above: you've got planetary colonization, universe-destroying, horrific monsters, and the intoxicating and timeless mystery of the Bermuda Triangle (under a veneer of WWII airplanes). What's not to love? Moreover, with these short stories, there's not as much research required as a full-blown novel, not as much writing required as a full-blown novel, not as much revision required as a full-blown novel, not as much depth required as a full-blown novel, not as much—

Noticing a pattern here? Publishing is what's bothering me. I've never tried to market anything fictitious before. My subscription to Writer's Market has slackened, and I'm hesitant to begin another, because now it costs money, dammit, and I'm trying to save for England. I need to suck it up and just pick up a copy at the local bookstore, I guess. But either way, I need to find some short fiction (science fiction) markets. If I do that (and I really work my butt off between the time I get back from England and July 1st, 2010) then I ought to reach my goals.

I'll keep you posted. If anyone has any suggestions about magazines that publish short fiction, I'd be grateful. Heck, I'll sell 'em to Playboy. That's how Stephen King got his start, y'know.

recommended reading

Hadn't realized it, but I've gotten into a pattern here with these literature posts. I talk about one book that I've finished, another book that I'm in the middle of, and a third that I'm just beginning. This strikes me as a brilliant way of doing things. Not only do I get to stick three book reviews in one post, but after three posts I'll have deftly reviewed a single book in its entirety. I am the man. I wish I could say I'd planned to do things that way. I am the (accidental) man. Anyway, straight into it: I finished The Gods Themselves by Isaac Asimov. You remember how I said this guy was supposedly a genius? Forget the "supposedly" part. I've never read a book like this. It was beyond excellent, beyond mind-blowing, a masterwork of social commentary, intricate plot-weaving, and jaw-dropping speculative science fiction. Gosh, where do I begin? I know, we'll start with the title. It's a quote from a dramatic play by German playwright and poet Friedrich Schiller, The Maid of Orleans: "Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain." One of the major themes of The Gods Themselves is stupidity, the selfish stubbornness of people who enjoy the status quo and would rather go on living their comfortable lives than face up to reality. What reality is that, you ask? A few years after our time, science made an accidental discovery. Some old cobalt shavings that had been left moldering in a test tube suddenly and mysteriously transformed themselves into tungsten. There was no logical reason why cobalt (in a sealed test tube) should transform into tungsten. Moreover, it was an isotope of tungsten that could not possibly exist in our universe: it had an unstable number of electrons that should have forced the tungsten atoms to explode in mere nanoseconds. But it didn't. This strange happenstance led humankind to a startling revelation: beings in a universe adjacent to our own, a para-universe, had somehow perfected a technique whereby the electrons from one universe could be transferred into another, and vice-versa. Not only that, but the scientific laws which govern the behavior of matter in the para-universe may also be transferred, and vice-versa. This not only allowed our cobalt to be turned into their (the para-men's) tungsten, but for that tungsten to remain viable in our universe instead of exploding. Thus the Electron Pump was born: a source of limitless free energy, whereby electrons were shuttled back and forth between universes, freeing humanity of fossil fuels and deprivation forever. The man on whose desk those old cobalt shavings had once sat (named Hallam) was elevated to godlike status, and the Pump enabled humans to drop their petty concerns about food and energy and instead focus on higher pursuits. But a dark shadow looms over this newborn utopia, a terrible truth: the strange natural laws seeping from the para-universe into our own will cause our sun to explode. What's worse, only three people have realized it: an outcast Earth scientist, an emotional alien on a dying planet, and a Moon-born intuitionist. And honestly, who is going to believe them? Who will be willing to set aside the benefits and bonuses of the Electron Pump and listen to their seemingly harebrained theorems? How will these three misfits ever overcome the complacent stupidity of the people around them? The trials, tribulations, and terrors of these three individuals as each tries to save Earth are worth reading about. This is an amazing book, as I've said before. Asimov was intimately familiar with the science of which he wrote, and he writes it with authority and straightforwardness, without over-simplification. What's more, he was a brilliant writer, able to interweave three delightfully unique and complex plots into one cohesive story. His writing is perhaps best, however, because it smacks so heavily of the truth: people really can be this stupid. People can and routinely do shut their eyes to unpleasant truths and insist on plowing straight ahead, even while the ship sinks beneath them. (There's a further bit of cleverness manifested in the way Asimov orders his book's chapters, but I won't mention that here. You'll just have to read and see.) The Gods Themselves has cemented my love of Isaac Asimov, and pushed me even further down the dark road to Golden Age science fiction. Even if you're not the biggest sci-fi fan, read this book. You won't soon regret it. It's a damn good read. Speaking of plowing straight ahead, I am continuing my slog through Little Women. I say "slog" not because it's an unpleasant read—far from it—but rather because the book itself is longer than any I've read in a while. It's taking me a long time to get through it, especially when I have things like The Gods Themselves lying around (sue me). I've progressed through four little vignettes, each concerning one of the March girls. I read with delight about Beth's battle with her fear of old Mr. Laurence, and her joy in playing the big piano in his conservatory, and the touching friendship that developed between the two. I read about poor little Amy's humiliating school day, regarding some contraband pickled limes and a stuffy schoolmaster. Heart pounding, I read about Jo's mean-spirited treatment of Amy, her immediate remorse when Amy fell through the ice (yikes!) and Mrs. March's tender and magnanimous bedtime advice. I read about Meg's trip to see friends, and the airs she put on, and the lessons she took from being a poor girl with a good family. I also read, chuckling, about the Pickwick Club and the joint March-Laurence post office. This book has ensnared me, mind and soul. It's enchanting, not only for the funny stories, the emotional warmth to the characters, their loving relationships with each other, and the age-old trials of adolescence...but also for its sheer simplicity. That's one of the greatest things about Alcott's writing, in fact. It's just so dang simple. She just tells the story. Her diction might be a bit erudite for children these days (which isn't a bad thing), but that's not important. The simple joke that Jo and Laurie play on the Pickwick Club (Laurie hiding in the closet, listening to the Club debate about his own membership); the description of the Moffets' dance (girls fluttering about like butterflies, boys making fools of themselves), the schoolmaster Mr. Davis "suppressing a private post-office" (stopping the students from passing notes)...all of it is so funny, so real, so true, so heartwarming, so familiar...and yet so simply described. It's a joy to read. I really can't wait to see where this goes. It's enrapturing already. And I imagine it's only going to get better. Just wait until that post office in between the Laurence and the March houses starts carrying love letters... So, we have science fiction, historical fiction...what's a good way to top that off? Well, how about some more historical fiction? I've begun reading The Epic of Gilgamesh. Not quite what you were expecting, right? I'm reading it for research purposes (my novel has a great deal to do with ancient Sumer and Akkad; it's historical science fiction, after all). But I'm also reading it for fun. I know next to nothing about Sumer, Akkad, Babylon, Assyria, and the roots from which these first civilizations sprang. And I love mythology. So it seemed like the oldest mythological piece in recorded history (and one of the oldest surviving writings of any kind at 4,000 years old) seemed a good place to begin. First, some background. There's some debate about who this Gilgamesh dude really was. Some say he was a real historical figure, a Sumerian king. Others say he was a god. The Epic of Gilgamesh says (c) both. It claims Gilgamesh was two-thirds god, one third-man, and ruled over the Sumerian people with an almighty fist. But he wasn't an ideal king. In fact, he had some rather glaring personality flaws. He liked to sleep around, even with newlywed brides. He got so promiscuous that the Sumerians prayed to the gods for help. So the gods created a wild-man, Gilgamesh's equal in strength, named Enkidu. They set him to run with the wolves in the forests and share his life with beasts. One of Gilgamesh's distraught subjects, on advice from the gods, takes the prostitute Shamhat and brings her to Enkidu. She and Enkidu get it on, and then (lo and behold) Enkidu suddenly is civilized. He can talk, think, and reason. Shamhat brings him to a caravan and has the shepherds train him in the ways of men: how to wear clothes and work for a living. Then she, the townsman, and Enkidu travel back to Gilgamesh's capital, Uruk. I'm reading Andrew George's translation of the standard Akkadian version, which is made up of twelve tablets. The original Sumerian version and the later Akkadian version differ in few respects, one of which is the way they refer to Gilgamesh himself. The original begins with the words "Surpassing all other kings..." whereas later versions refer to Gilgamesh as "He who saw the deep." Now, isn't that something you'd like carved on your tombstone? I'm about one tablet in, just starting on the second. The book itself is in the library right now, because I had to return it, but I'll run down and get it later today. Later, Enkidu and Gilgamesh will have a big fight, and become friends, and go on all sorts of hair-raising quests and whatnot. Enkidu will teach Gilgamesh some worldly lessons, and both will become better men for it. Ultimately, Gilgamesh will stare death in the face, and the question of humans and immortality will be decided. I can't wait. I'm ever so glad I have the time now to read for pleasure. It's gotten me back in touch with my literary side, my wordsmith side, my inner bibliophile whose version of Heaven is a never-ending library. And it seems like everything I pick out to read these days is worth reading. I don't know if it's because I know what I like, or because I'm easy to please, or what. But whatever the reason, I'll take it. I'll read anything if I think I can learn from it. The Gods Themselves not only proposed that stupidly clinging to the status quo is bad, but it also imparted some good lessons about truth and reality in science fiction writing. It reassured me that, with the proper application of knowledge and literary skill, science fiction is a credible literary genre. Little Women has taught me so many good life-lessons that it'd be impossible to reprint them all here. On a larger scale, the work gently informed me that writing doesn't have to be grandiose, sublime, or complex in order to be good. And The Epic of Gilgamesh is teaching me that all fables are parables, and human myths tell us something about ourselves...even if we do not last forever, the wisdom we garner in a lifetime does. It also showed me that, right from the very start, people valued literary artistry and integrity (and sex). Judge for yourself whether that constitutes a "worthwhile" read.

recommended reading

I finally waded through the last few nebulous chapters of the Zen-heavy Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War by Yagyū Munenori. Miyamoto Musashi's Book of Five Rings was thickly pocked enough with Shinto and Zen Buddhism; there were times when I could barely understand it. With Munenori, I felt like I understood practically zilch.

That's unsurprising, seeing as how Munenori wrote that "Those who have not studied Zen will find this difficult to understand" about five pages before the end of the book. Thanks, Yagyū. I'd pretty much figured that out already. I won't summarize the book here, nor opine about it. I did that the last time. However, I do wish to amend my previous views on Munenori himself. I said before that I found him to be a shadowy reflection of Musashi, a spoiled, privileged drone of the shogunate. I take it back. Munenori earned his wings in combat, and was no less deserving of them than Musashi. It just took me a while to figure that out from the somewhat stilted way Munenori wrote. For those who are unfamiliar with the topic of discussion, I've been reading a couple of books by medieval Japanese sword masters. These two works, The Book of Five Rings and The Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War, are both heralded by competent authorities as quintessential works on the subject of Japanese swordsmanship. They blend practical advice and spiritual guidance seamlessly, in true Japanese style. Furthermore, the advice given is so straightforward and sensible that many today view these works as manuals on how to succeed in life and business, not merely martial arts. They are still read and reread all over the world, hundreds of years after they were written. To put it bluntly, anyone wishing to learn more about Japanese culture, martial arts, or spiritual beliefs should read these books. With a little imagination, you can take what's presented in them and construe it as some no-nonsense counsel on how to live. Do as you will. I've also finished Black Elk Speaks. Remember? It's an account of the multifaceted life of a holy man of the Oglala Sioux tribe, written by John G. Neihardt in 1932. I just used the word "of" three times in one sentence. I rock. I wrote before that this man, Black Elk, who grew up right in the middle of the Indian Wars, saw and did some amazing stuff. I was whistlin' Dixie. He fought in the Battle of the Little Bighorn as a teenager. (He and his tribe refer to it as "the rubbing-out of Long Hair," Long Hair being the Indian nickname for George Custer.) He resisted the attacks and lies of the white men and the U.S. Army until the very end, even after Sitting Bull had fled to Canada and Crazy Horse had given himself up. All the while, he was discovering his spiritual powers. Black Elk claims that he was visited with a vision when he was a very small boy, during which he fell into a twelve-day coma. (Worried his family sick, it did.) In this vision, he saw the Six Grandfathers which rule over the world, and all the animals and birds and people of the Indian nations. In him was placed messianic power: the Six Grandfathers told Black Elk that he would save his nation and lead them to peace and prosperity, free of white control. It was only several years later, after he finally vouchsafed this vision to others (he kept it under wraps for a long time, worrying that people would think he was crazy if he revealed what he saw) that he became a shaman. He claims to have cured hundreds of sickness and injury, and to have been visited with many more visions, which he and the village elders acted out in ghost dances to transfer the power of the visions to the Sioux nation. But, of course, you and I both know what happened. Despite Black Elk's appointment as the Messiah, despite the prophecy that was made, the Sioux nation was herded onto reservations and left to live in little square huts for the duration of their lives. When Neihardt found Black Elk, he was a withered, saddened, broken old man, living on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. Black Elk had failed in his duties as a savior, and what's more, he knew it. Yet as he relates his life story (the book is written in first person, as translated by Black Elk's son and transcribed by Neihardt), Black Elk does not come across as misguided, pretentious, arrogant, flaky, or otherwise untrustworthy. He narrates simply and straightforwardly (rather like Miyamoto Musashi, only not so starkly forceful). He tells you what he saw, and what he believes it was. He makes no claims as to its truth or falsity. He does not try to convert the reader to his religion, nor convince him or her that his visions took place, and the power he was granted was real. He simply describes it. The book is tough to read. As time goes on, and it becomes less and less apparent that Black Elk will fulfill his destiny and bring victory and prosperity to a vanishing Indian nation, things just get sadder and sadder. Black Elk takes up arms again and fights during the massacre at Wounded Knee, but the memory of a frozen ditch lying full of the bodies of fleeing women and children scars him deeply. He eventually joins Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, travels to England, meets the Queen, and befriends a little French girl, who takes him home to show her family. That's quite some list of accomplishments for one old Indian. A titanic vision, shamanistic powers, journeys across the Western United States, Little Bighorn, Wounded Knee, England, the Queen...incredible. And a bit depressing, too. Though his time with Buffalo Bill abroad wasn't in itself unpleasant for Black Elk, watching this once-great shaman being reduced to an exhibit in a traveling circus was painful for me. In the end, as Black Elk says, the nation's sacred hoop lies irreparably broken. The people are scattered, decimated, hopeless. Black Elk himself is nothing but a feeble old man in a log cabin a few miles from a post office, telling his tale to a white man, who will preserve it with paper and ink. That's about all the man's life amounted to. But at least that's something. Black Elk was a good man. He never did a thing wrong in his life. Didn't have a mean bone in his body, either. If he killed our boys in the Indian Wars, it was only because he was trying to defend his people, his way of life, his home. He never wanted to kill the white men anyway, not until it became apparent that they couldn't be stopped otherwise. He just wanted his tribe to live like it always had, free, happy and unencumbered. I feel sorry for the guy. He told interesting stories, took his duty to nation and manhood seriously, and wasn't frivolous or stupid or greedy. Anyway, onto cheerier matters. I've read about five chapters of Little Women, and things are getting interesting. Jo has met and chummed up with the "Laurence Boy," for one thing. I can't wait to see where that goes. The Christmas holiday has ended and the two older girls have gone back to work, and in the process we've learned a little more about their characters, and their load. I say "load," because all four of the little women (Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy), and their mother, Mrs. March, all have a heavy load to carry. The man of the house is off at war, so the mother and older sisters have had to find employment. The two younger girls must focus on their studies and assist with housework or other duties. All of them are hard-pressed not to think about how nice things were before Mr. March lost his fortune, and they had nice things, and never wanted anything, and didn't have to decide which of their dresses was the least shabby. I feel for the poor dears. That's about all I can say at the moment. I'm only a little ways in. I haven't bought any new books lately because my funds are becoming tight. Bartender's school, Christmas shopping and three flying lessons per week will do that to you. However, I did the stupid thing once again and picked up a seven-dollar paperback from Barnes & Noble. It's The Gods Themselves by Isaac Asimov.

Don't know who that is? Shame on you. Isaac Asimov is one of the greatest science-fiction writers of all time, if not the greatest. He is renowned for his speculative works on artificial intelligence and automation. Robots, I mean. You know that awful Will Smith movie I, Robot that came out a while ago? Asimov wrote the book. The movie butchered the book, of course. Always happens. But the "Three Laws" mentioned in the film—the three cardinal rules that govern robot behavior absolutely—are Asimov's invention. My first soul-watering taste of Asimov's genius originated from an excellent science-fiction anthology called The World Turned Upside Down. Asimov's short story, The Last Question, is contained within it. That piece is also a mind-boggling, life-changing glimpse into the potential evolution of artificial intelligence. It's incredibly, sinfully good. It's as warped as 2001: A Space Odyssey, but worth the pondering headache. Read it. It'll completely blow your mind. That being said, however, The Last Question also made me realize that I am woefully behind on my Asimov. So I began to scout around for a convenient volume to obtain and digest. But I didn't know where to start. Asimov was a prolific writer. He wrote or edited hundreds of books, literally hundreds. Even Barnes & Noble, whose sci-fi selection is deplorable, has half a shelf devoted to his works. Given that Asimov wrote his stuff decades ago, that's saying something. My buddy John and I were walking through B & N the other day and, of course, our first stop was the sci-fi section. John was scoping out a book by Orson Scott Card (another well-known and prolific writer). I mentioned my Asimov dilemma to him. John took a look at the shelves, and then said emphatically, "You know, I've heard that The Gods Themselves is an incredible book." John has it on good authority. His father, an English teacher, has a massive book collection, which includes virtually every original printing of every novel by all of the great Golden Age science fiction writers: Heinlein, van Vogt, Campbell, and of course, Asimov. So there you go. I plucked the book off the shelf, bought it, and brought it home, where it is now sitting pertly and seductively on my nightstand.

Here is what the synopsis on the back cover says:

In the twenty-second century Earth obtains limitless, free energy from a source science little understands: an exchange between Earth and a parallel universe, using a process devised by the aliens. But even free energy has a price. The transference process itself will eventually lead to the destruction of Earth's sun—and of Earth itself.

Only a few know the terrifying truth—an outcast Earth scientist, a rebellious alien inhabitant of a dying planet, a lunar-born human intuitionist who senses the imminent annihilation of the Sun. They know the truth—but who will listen? They have foreseen the cost of abundant energy—but who will believe? These few beings, human and alien, hold the key to the Earth's survival.

Try and resist that build-up, I dare you. Stay tuned...