Blue Is The Colour of Alone

I found a couple of strings of Christmas Lights on sale. They were solid blue. For the first time in many years I've now put up some holiday lights. And they bring back memories.

Back in the 1960s most everything Christmas started about December 1st. No Christmas advertising, no Christmas carols (on the radio or in stores), etc. appeared before that date—at least not in the small, northern Canadian town in which I grew up.

I had a paper route and, during the winter, it could be a brutal undertaking for a child (I started the route in 1965 at about 8 years of age).

The decorating of houses with Christmas lights became a high point of my life in December. At that latitude (56 degrees North) the days were very short and the delivery of papers often took place in twilight or darkness ... in the cold, in the snow.

Suddenly, (or so it seemed) many houses sported lines of coloured bulbs, a cheery sight for a young boy with a heavy pack of papers in a bag slung over his shoulder. Some of them blinked, though most did not. Some entire lines blinked on and off while others had only random bulbs that blinked. Some houses showed multicoloured lines, others sported traditional red/green alternating bulbs, while some few displayed banks of a single colour only. All had their place.

My favourite, by far, consisted of only one colour—blue. A bank of blue bulbs gleaming in the night, shining off the white snow all around, attracted my eyes like no others. That blue spoke to my soul. Words fail me when I try to describe what I felt, for I'm not sure that I really know. Out there in the cold winter night, often there was but one human presence on the street. Me. Windows would mostly be curtained or frosted over and all that spoke of life one could find only within. Few cars prowled the roads and fewer people.

Then Christmas lights brought the night to life, and the blue were the colour of alone—which I was, walking down the empty streets, delivering the daily paper.

Today, over four decades after giving up my paper route, I find that the Christmas Season does not have what it once had. It begins too early; the old carols no longer thrill and the advertisements ... let's just say I find them disheartening. Yet, should I see a bank of blue lights in the night (though I live where only rarely does snow cover the ground) I find myself transported back in time to once again experience the quiet joy of existing together with the lights, alone but not lonely. Blue is the colour of Alone and, for me, peace and belonging.

Opportunities missed

Last week I picked up a book from my shelf that I’d not seen in years – yes, my shelves can be that crowded. I remember acquiring the book in a discount store – you know, one of those that buys goods from stores that have gone out of business. The cost to me? $1.00. Several copies of each book were in the bin.

I picked up two books that day, one The Alien Dark  by Diana Gallagher. I remembered being impressed by the book. Upon rereading it, I realize that I recalled correctly. Thinking about that, I wondered what else she had written, but first I went to Amazon to see what kind of rating it had. Only 5 people had reviewed it, but they had pretty much liked it as well. One said (back in 2000) that s/he had looked for a sequel but hadn’t found one; had found the author’s e-mail address and contacted her. Gallagher said that she’d love to do the sequel, but doubted that any publisher would pick it up.

And that tells the story. I imagine that The Alien Dark did not do particularly well in the sales department when it came out in 1990. As it was Gallagher’s first book, the publisher probably dropped her. With low numbers for The Alien Dark, chances of another publisher taking a flyer were minimal, so she gave up the idea. She went from there to doing series tie-ins – a YA Star Trek novel began it.

It’s not as if she hasn’t had her successes. A look on Wikipedia at her writing creds shows quite a few publications. However, I wonder what might have happened had she had the opportunity now given to us by Amazon, Kobo and others back in 1990. I know that I have several novels that would never have seen the light of day because of low sales of my first books. But that didn’t stop me because low sales didn’t matter to me. Getting the story out did. With self-publishing, I was able – am able – to go in whatever direction I want.

How many excellent authors lost a career due to low sales on their first book -- due perhaps to things beyond their control? I’d hate to even guess at the number. I’m only thankful that I live when I do, have the opportunities I do.

You Can't Go Back

Trading For The Stars has been live on Amazon for over a month now, and sales have trickled in. I've sold something like 110 copies thus far. That works out to about $1 per hour for the work I put into it. That will rise slowly with time, but a book's first month is usually its best. That's hardly making a living.

It might have helped a little if I’d mentioned having published it in a blog post – I didn’t forget to notate it in my progress page, but nothing on the main one. If you’re interested, it’s still for sale.

I had meant to write a blog post about finally getting it published, but somehow forgot, and then – because I had intended to do so – felt like I had done so. Ah, well. All corrected now. It’s that memory thing.

Speaking of memories, yesterday I opened up Google Earth – though for what reason I don’t remember. Anyway, on a whim, I looked up my old hometown. Got down to the street level and looked at where I used to live. The house is gone and a Dairy Queen now resides in that spot. I already knew that, but seeing it again caused a pang.

As I mentioned in my first post on the blog, I used to have a paper route. I started following it, as best as I could remember. Some of the houses I could identify as having belonged to my customers, but not many. It has, in my own defence, been over 40 years. Eventually I came to the house where we lived before moving to the location now occupied by the Dairy Queen.

Since leaving, the house has a new neighbour to the north. The field where my brother and I played catch is now occupied by a house. The back, where my mother tried to make a small skating rink in the winters, now has a fence which would cut through it.

They say you can’t go back. I did, twenty years after my family left. I spent an afternoon looking around. But my memories were tied to a town that no longer existed, to people who no longer populated it. I drove by that second house and saw the tree that my mother had planted. It had grown quite nicely. I took a picture and later showed it to her.

Another twenty years has passed since that afternoon. Looking at the house on Google Earth, I see that my mother’s tree has disappeared, and someone planted another one, which has grown quite large.

The woods that we played in are gone, supplanted by new streets and houses – well, newer streets and houses. The roads in that part of town had not yet been paved when we left; now the pavement looks old and worn. The mud there, when it rained heavily was something ferocious. Walking down to that part of my paper route had me picking up about three or four pounds of gumbo mud with every step. Occasionally, I had to lean over, grab my gumboot with my hands and use them to help pull my foot and boot from where the mud held it. If I didn’t aid with my hands, my foot would come out of the boot. Like I said, ferocious.

Seeing the place – even through Google Earth – brought back a lot of memories. But my memories don’t match what I see. It’s not the town I knew. And I wonder if it might not have been better to leave the town I did know intact in my memory.

Coincidentally, I just went to youtube.com to see if I could find and old song. I did, but as often happens, I went on a youtube ride, clicking on other songs or scenes from movies or television shows. Somehow I ended up watching a scene from “Once Upon A Time In The West”. Then, I saw someone had taken scenes from it and very adroitly transposed the present settings into it. On the set of "Once Upon A Time In The West.

The author has done the same with “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. On the set of The Good The Bad and The Ugly.

Watch them at your peril. Seeing what exists there now, and comparing it to what existed then, in the films, left me with the same sort of empty feeling I got revisiting my home town – both in reality twenty years ago, and through the internet twenty hours ago. Re-watching the movies allows the characters to live again; seeing the places and people refresh the memory. But reality shows that many of the buildings are gone or in a state of disrepair, or mightily changed. Reality tells us that most of the people who populated those films are now dead. They only live on in memory – or on film. Seeing reality makes it more difficult to suspend disbelief. Perhaps we shouldn’t go back.

And perhaps that’s one of the reasons I like to read and to write books. You can always go back and pick up the book again and the characters come back to life, exactly as you left them, be it an hour or a decade ago. Colleen, in “Trading For The Stars” will remain bright, young, and personable for as long as copies of the book exist. [She will age in other books – has shown a more mature side in Pelgraff already, but if I, or you, pick up “Trading For The Stars” next year or next decade, she will remain as we remember her. Glencayther will have become neither a ghost town nor a metropolis, and the townspeople, will also remain as we remember them. They will neither grow old nor die – unless, of course, they die in the book.

The one thing that may change is how they speak to us. As we grow older, gain in experience, we look at the same incidents in different ways. When I first saw “To Sir, With Love” as a boy barely into my teens, I identified with the Denham character, a student (who would have been a few years older than I was), and understood his point-of-view. Watching it again, years later, I identified with the teachers, and my opinion of Denham changed quite radically. I had aged, but Denham remained Denham, still a student and now much younger.

And, of course, in my mind, I remain me, unchanging, unchangeable. Yet, from time to time, I wonder who that person in the mirror is.

Comfortable

I watched two movies today – time I should have used for writing, but hey, getting back to writing is hard and sitting in a chair in front of the TV is easy. They had similarities and differences. Both were action-adventure pieces, and both really had negligible story lines. Both either won or were nominated for several awards. One was made almost 40 years before the other, and they dealt with totally different periods – one a Western Action-Adventure, the other Modern.

But what I noticed most was the length of the shots. The Bourne Supremacy had the (now-typical) 3-second or less shots, while those of The Professionals lasted much longer in the main. For me the 1966 film provided a much more entertaining milieu. It gave me time to think, to appreciate. The rapid-fire progression of shots in 2004 film gave me no time to think, to ponder, to get to know the characters. I had to struggle to keep up with the action, making it a more passive experience. I didn’t find it very comfortable.

As well as the older movies I’ve been watching of late, I’ve begun watching more old TV programs, as well. Stuff from the late 50s, early 60s. The time taken makes the programs more enjoyable to me. Maybe I’m getting old, but I like my comfort.

Perhaps that’s why I like books: they can take the time to explore the inner workings much more readily than can film. A great actor can give you insight, make you feel what is intended for you to feel, but writing allows you to actually get inside the minds of the characters – even in action-adventure stories. It gives you time to immerse yourself, using your imagination, not forcing you to become a passive slate to which data is downloaded. And I like that. A lot.

This doesn’t mean that books are, of necessity, slow. It doesn’t mean that you can’t get totally wrapped up in a book to the exclusion of all going on around you. I recall reading Alistair MacLean’s “The Golden Rendezvous” back when I was 15. When I finished reading the book, I looked up and saw that the rest of the family had eaten supper without me. “Why?” I asked. My mother looked at me slightly askance and said, “We called you three times.” I was sitting in the living room, only twenty feet away, within sight of the dinner table; I never heard a thing.

Bringing up Alistair MacLean reminds me of my childhood friend. Geoff introduced me to MacLean. His English teacher had his class reading “Ice Station Zebra”. Mine didn’t. Geoff’s enthusiastic reports sent me to the local library to pick up a copy, thereby hooking me on the author. Being a very fast reader, I finished the book before Geoff did, though he had several days start on me.  I’ve often wondered since that time whether Geoff’s average reading speed gave him more enjoyment from books than I received by rushing through them. He received several hours of enjoyment from a book that gave me only two. Did my rapid reading of a book correspond to the short-shot films of today, while his slower reading more closely emulated the films of yesteryear?

I guess I’ll never know, but I think it’s somewhat likely, for my average reading speed has decreased considerably from the rate I read when I was in my late teens to early twenties. I now read at about the rate Geoff did then. It’s more comfortable. I’d like to ask Geoff about it, but that’s no longer in the cards, for cancer took him at the age of 40. His birthday recently passed, and thus I’ve spent a fair bit of time of late remembering him. I miss him. I think we had a true friendship. Though we saw each other seldom, when we did it was … comfortable. We didn’t see eye-to-eye on many things, but he could allow that in me, as I could in him. We didn’t have to be the same, to think the same. I don’t think we ever fought or had a heated argument. Perhaps we did and I just find it more comforting to believe otherwise. Perhaps.

Relaxing into my memories of my friend is much like Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”: comfortable. But, like Frost’s narrator, I, too, have made promises, and I must venture on.

* * *

I guess, this would be an apt time to mention that I’ve published “Trading For the Stars” on Amazon (paperback available from CreateSpace or Amazon). Actually, it went on sale a couple of weeks ago – just prior to my friend’s birthday. I just haven’t felt much like writing since. I’ve been too much in the ‘editor’ frame of mind. I also re-edited “A Throne At Stake” and it, too, is now available in paperback.

Back to Work

Although I still look for Joey's furry face when I come home, though I know it won't be there, I'm back at work. I still don't feel much like writing, so I'm editing. Nothing like one pain to mask another, is there?

So, I'm working on "Trading For The Stars" the first novel in a series which will chronicle the time of Colleen Yrden, whom we first met in "Pelgraff". This book takes place about 17 years before that, when Colleen first meets the Yrden Family. I'm about 1/2 way through my (hopefully) final proofing. After that, I have only the cover to work on, so I'll publish it by the end of September. I could probably have it up by next week, but I want to get it out in paperback as well, so I'm factoring in some time to do that.

Now, on the bright side, for those of you who have not yet picked up a copy of "A Throne At Stake". I'm using Amazon's 'countdown' feature. The book goes on sale for $0.99 Friday and Saturday; $1.99 Sunday, Monday and much of Tuesday; $2.99 on late Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday; then returns to $4.99 on Friday. If you want it cheap, now's your chance.

I'm hurrying to put this post out, to give you time to read it and react before the price goes up. Now, I only hope that Amazon's timer works, and the price change actually takes effect when it is supposed to (Midnight on Thursday PDT -- 2 hrs from now). Amazon has been known to not be on time upon occasion, but the change should be in effect sometime Friday morning, September 12th.

So, until next time,

Live Well, my friends.

Memories

Sounds: a whisper of a flap closing, a thump from the floor above, a clicking. Gone. Silence rules. And an emptiness has filled my home.

Only two weeks ago I could count on either an escort to see me safely through my front door – an escort that came from within my house to ensure my trip from car to door went without hitch – or perhaps merely a friendly face to greet me when I opened that door, a guard, a greeter, a presence that existed seemingly always and forever more. A presence, mostly silent, but always reassuring. No more.

Seven days from getting-old-but-still-okay to gone. Five days from concern to worry to dark despair. One day from desperate hope to none. Two days of waiting for the inevitable.

Joe E. Katt (RIP). 199? – 2014

Amazing how a cat can get under your skin, make himself almost indispensable to one’s feeling of wellness, become one of the family. Joey came on Christmas Eve, five years ago, from Death Row, from imminent death. Already a ‘senior’, I knew intellectually that he wouldn’t be with me all that long. However, I had hoped for more than five years.

Not sick, not in pain, just old, he simply stopped. And now I have only pictures and memories. And grief.

When it comes right down to it, memories are all we have in this life. Well, memories and hope, with the present squeezed in between. And the older we get, the more important the memories, for the hopes become fewer and less likely to materialize. And, as the end approaches, we hope to live on in the memories of others, just as others have lived on in our memories.

I’m sure I’ll find a place for Joe E. in one of my books. The Tlartox of "Ghost Fleet" were cat-like beings, and the four main Tlartox sported the colour and markings of two of my cats and two of those of a friend of mine – now all passed on. And some of their traits formed the basis for those of my alien characters. Now, every time I see the cover of Ghost Fleet, see the file name, or read the book, I remember. And then Shadow, Scheissmeister, Toodles, and Sabo live again for a time.

And I’ll take my grief and use it, too – for that is what writers do. We take from our own lives, from those of whom we are close, and from others whom we observe, steal or transmogrify portions thereof and use them to our purpose.

Thus, Joe E. will live again as well … in the future. Not today. I haven’t felt much like writing these past two weeks – or doing much of anything else productive. I don’t apologize for that. Death, grief, remembrance, and sorrow are a part of life, too. They all have their place.

And though I, too, am getting older, I still hope. I hope to come back next post to share something less sombre.

Take care, my friends, and Live Well. Create good memories. Pet a cat.

Green Things Growing

Ah, the smell of green things growing! It is not often, in recent months, that I get to a more rural setting. Yesterday, I did so, and with a light rain earlier in the day, and a cooling of the temperature from the heat of the past week, the sweet smell of something blooming came to me with a poignancy I have not felt in a long time.

Smell, they tell me, is one of our most powerful memory inducers. When I catch the aroma of burning grass, it takes me back to long ago – the 1960s – when we used to burn the grass after cutting it and allowing it to dry. Each house had a ‘burn barrel', and sometimes we burned the grass within.

Our house, at the time, backed up on a rather large ‘commons’. I well remember one day after someone had procured an industrial mower, the men of the surrounding houses had gotten together to burn the grass. We all raked it into long rows, and then set fire to them. My brother and I joined the men in this duty, and the smell of burning grass invaded everything. I'll remember that smell forever. I also remember the smell of the woods on a summer night, and the joy of air washed by rain in the summer. Each of those smells takes me back.

Winters lasted a long time at that latitude, and the cold, frozen months passed slowly. With the spring, however, the melting snow and warmer temperatures encouraged the dormant trees and plants to come to life in a frenzy of growth. Standing outside, with snow still in piles, one could nonetheless feel new life in the freshness of the air.

Decades later, in the Arctic, I experienced the same thing. I lived and worked in what was basically a very long double-wide trailer. Snow stuck to the ground near the end of September and didn’t melt until late May. Some patches lasted into July. Working on the Distant Early Warning Line, I learned to glory in the spring, when it came. Most of my time, I spent in the ‘module train’, a 100 metre long affair, which contained sleeping quarters, kitchen, dining room, entertainment facilities, an office, equipment rooms and power plant. Other than what emanated from the kitchen, the place had little to recommend it as far as smells were concerned.

Too many people smoked, and the smell of stale cigarettes permeated a lot of the rooms – quite unpleasant for a non-smoker like myself. Outside, for most of the year, the air was fresh and clean. However at –30 to –50 degrees, with nothing but ice and snow for hundreds of kilometres, the olfactory treasures of the area left much to be desired.

But not in the spring and summer. Those few ‘short’ months saw prodigious growth and glory. And I loved being outside – except for the insects. Clouds of mosquitoes sometimes reduced that pleasure significantly.

And what has this to do with science-fiction? Well, consider a space-ship. It seems much like my module train: an enclosed environment with little but living quarters, eating quarters, some entertainment facilities, equipment rooms and a power plant. And its occupants remain in it for the long months between arrivals at different planets or space stations. Outside: a quite unfriendly environment.

What might one miss in such a facility? Green things growing. In my book “Ghost Fleet”, my cat-like Tlartox introduced odours to the air through their ships, they type depending upon what sort of action – or lack of action – was coming. Grass smells to relax; the hint of blood to inflame the senses and get ready for battle. In “Courtesan”, my ship holds a ‘green room’, where people can sit amid plants – something they don’t see for long periods of time at a stretch. They called it ‘sanctuary’.

Life informs. One needs only examine it, and then use one’s imagination. What would you not like to be exposed to? For me: perfume. Imagine someone wearing too much perfume in an enclosed place, where you can’t get away from it. Thus, in “Courtesan”, one of my characters mentions to another that they – ship folk – don’t approve of perfume. There is no going outside for a breath of fresh air, and though the ship will have forced air circulation and filters, why make life a misery for everyone?

Yesterday, outside, I felt a sudden sense of freedom, of elation, as I breathed in the fresh air with the smell of green things growing. Right now, as I write this in my basement, surrounded by ‘house smells’, I no longer feel that. Though it is four o’clock in the morning, I suddenly feel a need to be outside once again, to regain – even if for only a few seconds – the lift I received earlier.

And with that, I’ll end this so I can take my own advice. Then I'll come back in and return to a space ship – do some writing.

Minds at War

I have a wide and varied CV. I’ve piloted a Spitfire, commanded a tank, a warship, and rode horses while in the military. And all this before I reached the age of 13, mostly from the seat of my trusty CCM 1-speed bicycle. Oh, and it helped me blast off for the stars, as well.

Hmm. Perhaps I should step back a pace or two. The old CCM wasn’t all that trusty, after all. Its chain had a certain proclivity for coming off, and nothing I could do would change that. One time, on my paper route, it came off whilst I ‘flew’ with a loyal wingman down a gravel road at high speed. It somehow jammed the wheel and the bike threw me, ending up with me having a fingernail torn off. Bleeding, scraped, and somewhat in shock, I gave over my paper-bag to my wingman, while I and my Spitfire limped back towards home – and eventually the Emergency Room at the hospital.

Then, later, the brake began to go. Remember, at that time with a 1-speed, you braked by pressing the pedal backwards, which would apply the brake to the rear wheel. In my case, I could stand on the pedal and the rear wheel wouldn’t lock; my bicycle would only slowly coast to a stop. I found it more efficient to put a foot down and drag it. So, perhaps I should exchange the word ‘trusty’ for something else. I’m a writer; surely my vocabulary might cover it. But, then again, I loved my bicycle. So, in my heart and my [flawed] memory, it remains my trusty CCM.

When you get right down to it, one might consider this an early attempt at multitasking. Overtly, I delivered papers. I certainly went through the motions. But, while my body engaged in this action, my imagination had me soaring over the earth, and sometimes leaving it entirely as my bike became a rocketship bound for somewhere far, far off.

Later, I continued with this multi-tasking as I started to write poetry. I would compose while I walked my route – the trusty CCM no longer conveying me to the heights. Today, I still work on books in my head while my body does other, more mundane tasks. I can multitask in that regard.

HOWEVER, it has lately come to me that I don’t do so well at multitasking if the two tasks are in the same field, but of inimical forms. In other words: Writing and Editing.

I ran up an impressive word-count earlier this year – until I started to edit “A Throne At Stake”. And then it all collapsed. I’ve heard and read that the Editor Mind and the Creative Mind are two very separate entities. I believe it; I can’t just go from one to the other. So, if I’m engaged in editing, I can’t seem to jump back into my creative space for an hour and write my thousand words. About the middle of June my daily word-count began to drop and continued doing so until it reached 0 earlier this month.

In that time I edited and published “A Throne At Stake”, and then re-edited “Pelgraff” in order to put it out in paperback. I gave a preliminary edit to “Trading for the Stars”, the first book in my Colleen Yrden saga, and then I re-formatted “A Throne At Stake” for paperback form, as well as “The Steadfasting”. I need a new cover for “The Steadfasting”, and may have something in the works. “Pelgraff (paperback) is now for sale from Createspace, Amazon and other entities, and my proof copy of “A Throne At Stake” should be winging its way to me, arriving this week. I’m about ready to give up on the paperback stuff as soon as I give ATAS the final look-over. I want to get back to writing again, for I’ve written only about 8,000 words this month – a far cry from the 30,000 of last month or the 66k and 85k of May and April.

I wish I could truly multitask, but this seems beyond me. So, I ask forgiveness for my ‘laxity’ of late, and promise to try to do better in August. Hopefully, lack of dropping into my Editing Mind will allow my Creative Mind to spark again and take us all on another journey.

Ah, to have my CCM back again – though I suspect it might be a little small for me. Then I and my imagination might multitask once again, discovering new worlds, riding fire into the skies, and rescuing damsels in distress – something I thought little of back then. Grateful damsels, I trust. D.A.’s damsels, however, seem to be a pretty hardy lot who don’t need much rescuing, though they do accept a helping hand at times – but woe to those who get in their way.

Until then, I thank you for your patience – and thank those who have picked up a copy of one of D.A. Boulter’s works.

Happy reading.

A Break

Writing isn't always easy. Sometimes it gets depressing, sometimes tedious. At other times it just flows and there doesn't seem to be any stopping the words and ideas. Right now, I'm about played out for the moment. So far this year I've written the equivalent of 2-1/2 novels.

One, "A Throne At Stake", has gone up on Amazon. The others are in various stages of completion. But, as I said, I'm about played out. So, I've taken a short break -- yeah, a break. Right.

As I've had a request or two to put my books out in paper as well as digitally, I've begun looking into it. And it's another learning curve. I started with "Pelgraff" for a couple of reasons, one being it's fairly short. So, I followed the guides, sent in my files and received a nice fresh copy of it -- a proof copy. And then I discovered all the errors I had made.

Thinking back to when "Courtesan" first went live on Amazon Kindle four years ago, it seems little changed. It took me a lot of hours to finally get it up in a nicely formatted form. This looks the same. Well, more hours and proofing later, I've sent in a new file, and hope to get my second proof copy back next week -- if I'm lucky.

If it looks good, it'll go up for sale. I doubt that it will sell well, but if someone wants a copy in Trade Paperback, it will be there for them. I kinda like the feel of holding the copy in my hands. There's something about a physical book.

I think my break is about over -- I haven't written anything new in six days now. Hey, I deserve a week off every now and then, right? And if, during my week off, I choose to do some major editing and formatting, etc., in order to put up a book in paperback, well, it wasn't all a loss as far as authorship is concerned.

The 'fun' thing about self-publishing, is that I get to do everything: writing, editing, proofing, formatting, designing covers -- I do most of my own now. I have someone who helps with proofing, but I try to get the manuscript to her with as few errors as possible. So, what you see is pretty much all my work. If it pleases, great; if it doesn't, then you know whom to blame. Yep, me.

Well, I guess I should get some of that sleep I've been missing. Then go to work -- yes, I have a job, I'm not a full-time writer.

Next week I hope to report on progress.

Till then,

Live well.

Perception

I think it was early-1960s, Grade 3 or 4, when my teacher took the class into the hall. She had us line up and, one by one, we had someone test our eyesight. You know the charts – “Please read from the top line…” Yeah, well I ‘failed’ that test. And, ever since then, I’ve had to wear corrective lenses for distance seeing.

Glasses are a pain. Here and now, I recommend to all my readers that you never have to wear lenses. (NB – I haven’t seen, nor heard of the notation ‘NB’ used since my early school days – anyway, take note that I did not recommend that you not wear them should you need them, I merely recommend that you don’t need them. Yeah, I know, as if we have a choice.)

Requiring corrective lenses alters one’s perception. Without them, things in the distance become fuzzy to me, not sharp and delineated. But that’s not what I mean. Requiring lenses means that my perception of the world changed. I couldn’t, for example, just jump into a lake like the other boys. First I’d have to find a safe place to put my glasses, then remember where it was so I could retrieve them after coming out. This also meant that I would have to come out basically where I went in – or at least return to that spot.

Glasses changed the level of spontaneity. One couldn’t just go home and say, “Hi, Dad, lost my glasses again. Could you pick up a new pair for me on your way home from work tomorrow?” Glasses cost money, and money wasn’t something in plentiful supply. Thus one didn’t do things that might cause the glasses to be broken or lost.

On top of that, glasses changed my perception of myself. Wearing glasses back in the mid-1960s wasn’t ‘cool’. I think that has somewhat changed in the last 50 years, but I’m not sure, as I don’t have a plethora of glasses-wearing 8-year-old friends. Actually, I don’t have any 8-year-old friends, but that’s beside the point. Let us just say that I’m no longer in the loop.

It took some years for me to become comfortable with wearing glasses. It no longer bothers me at all, but then again, more and more of my contemporaries are beginning to join me as they age.

On top of the myopia, I’m sensitive to light. A bright summer’s day means I have to wear tinted lenses as well, else suffer headaches. This, of course, changes my perception about what is a ‘nice day’. A nice day, to me, has quite a bit of cloud cover, if not overcast.

While I’m at it, I’ll admit that I like fog. The possibility exists that I like it because it reduces everyone else to my state. No one, not even those with the most acute vision can read a licence plate 30 metres away in a dense fog – and nor can I without corrective lenses on a fine day.

For all of us, perceptions change with circumstance. Mine (and others of my ilk) just experience it more sharply. Glasses on: all okay; glasses off: possible danger – especially when driving at night. Sunglasses on: all is fine, it’s a nice day; sunglasses off: headache on the way, it’s a lousy day.

These are things that only the empathetic can see. Until I wore glasses, I stood with the majority. The next day, I found myself in a minority, and my perception of everything changed (though my vision did not).

In the earlier years of movies and television, the producers relied on conventions to give hints to audiences. In westerns, if a man wore a white hat, we perceived him as the ‘good guy’. If he wore a black hat, the bad guy. If he wore all black he was the obvious villain. Then came Paladin (Have Gun, Will Travel). He wore black, but was the putative ‘good guy’, though really a gun-for-hire, a mercenary. And we were forced to change our perception – our eyes ‘lied’ to us. They told us that Paladin was the bad guy, while his actions told us differently.

War movies from that era told us that the Germans and the Japanese were the bad guys – most often murderers without morals, most often stereotypes. Then came “The Enemy Below”, where the German U-Boat commander was treated as sympathetically as the American Destroyer commander who fought him.

Both the above came out in 1957. And perceptions changed.

One of the great things about books – either writing them or reading them – is that they can give you alternative perspectives on life or at least aspects of it. You can see from the point of view of someone of the opposite sex – or someone entirely alien, though the aliens usually portray some aspect of humanity. A great thing about writing books is that – as author – you can play around with conventions, and make things not as they are perceived to be.

In my book Ghost Fleet, I decided to have no ‘villains’, though some might read it differently. All my characters, no matter on which side of the war they fought, or for what reasons, followed logical – for them – paths which coincidentally (I don’t believe in coincidence) put them in conflict with others. How can you hate the enemy when you understand and can empathize with him?

And now, I have just completed a new book, “A Throne At Stake” where I play with perception and convention a little more. It has taken me some time to get the book just where I want it, but I have succeeded at long last. I’m quite pleased with it – though I’m just one reader, and my perception of it may differ from all others. Nonetheless, I can now relax, take off my glasses, and bask in the good feeling of accomplishment.

So, it's off to bed for me, my trusty cat at my side ... on my back ... wherever he wants to be. I think he perceives me as furniture.

You Never Know

I’m now approaching the time of life when a man (or woman) begins to wonder things like: ‘Was it all worth it?’ ‘Did I make a difference in any way?’ And, of course, ‘How will I be remembered – if at all?’

As a writer, I hope to be remembered by my works and words. This leads me to wonder if any will read or remember them next year, if at all. It also makes me desire to make the most of those I do write – to give meaning to my existence. And, naturally, I wonder if I’m up to the task.

Years ago, I worked on the Distant Early Warning Line of radar stations in northern Canada. There, I watched the radar screens, waiting to give warning of the approach of Russian bombers either by dint of a report, or by the silence which would mean we had been destroyed.

As you all know, the bombers never came. And that left a lot of free time on my hands, with little to occupy it. Now, each site had a small library, and I read voraciously. Soon I finished all the – in my opinion – top tier books we had on hand. Then the second tier books. And, still being up there, that started me on books I’d otherwise not give a second glance.

I recall reading one – in my opinion – trashy novel. I no longer recall it, or its author. Nor do I even recall the genre. But I do recall that I wouldn’t want to be known by that book. That doesn’t sound good, does it, one author trashing another’s work? And, why would I do this here, on my blog, when I wouldn’t want another to do this to me? Good question, that. And I have an answer.

In the middle of that ‘trashy book’, I came upon a sentence – a single sentence – which said exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. I fear that I cannot recall the sentence, nor of what it spoke to in me. I only remember a sudden feeling of peace, of enlightenment. This unknown author will never know what he (or she) did for me in that time of my need. He, or she, will never know that words composed by him (or her) helped a fellow being.

Perhaps that book earned out its advance; perhaps that author made a decent living. Perhaps not. Perhaps that author had only that one book published, and his or her dreams of a writing career were dashed by a lack of sales and a lack of a publishing company willing to risk again. And, perhaps, that author one day wondered if the effort put out had been worth it, never to know that I would reply, “Yes, absolutely.”

A dozen years ago my mother passed on. As executor of her estate, one of my duties entailed closing her bank account at the local Credit Union. The woman with whom I dealt made things easy for me. I really appreciated it. No doubt, she thought she was just doing her job as best she could. For years after that, every time I saw her in the bank, I recalled the kindness of a stranger, and I mentally thanked her.

Near the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death, I found myself again in the Credit Union, and the woman was my teller. I decided that the time had come to thank her personally, and not just mentally. It took less than a minute to explain that I had never forgotten and how I had appreciated her actions. She looked at me and said, “You know, I really needed to hear that today.” She retired shortly after that. Had I waited, I would have lost my chance.

So, what am I saying here? You should thank people while you are able? Well, you probably should; it might make the world a better place. But, no, such is not the purpose of this post. No, the thing that comes to me is that we never know what will ‘make a difference’ to another. It might be just doing our job, it might be a smile to a stranger, or it might be a word of encouragement made in passing. It could be something so simple that we never give it a second thought, but to the recipients, in whatever place they find themselves, that action, that word, the doing of our job, might make all the difference in the world. And you and I will likely never know.

So, when I again ask myself if I made a difference, I’ll have to say I likely did – sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. Was it all worth it? Probably. Will I be remembered? Does it really matter? As long as I continue to live, to write, to interact with those around me, I rest assured that something of what I do will carry on. And I guess that will have to be enough for me.

D.A. Boulter

PS: Don't forget to check out my progress from time to time (found on the "News" page), and, if you wish, read an excerpt from a forthcoming book, "Not With A Whimper".

Woo-Hoo

Woo-Hoo!

There’s a certain feeling a writer gets when he or she finishes a book. Yes, it’s the old “Thank [insert deity] that that’s over with.” I just finished my read-through (out loud) of my novel “A Throne At Stake” (yes, I actually figured out a title for it). Which means I’ve read it four times in the past several weeks. I’m heartily sick of it. But, today, I sent it off to my proofer. Woo-hoo!

Actually, I’m quite happy with it. Why the ‘out loud’ read-through? It’s amazing the number of errors that you can catch that way. When simply reading, you tend to read groups of words together. If you read out loud, it doesn’t work that way. I found a ‘fer’ instead of ‘for’, and a ‘Lady Godiva’ instead of ‘Lady Galinia’. Why would I type ‘Lady Godiva’? And how did I miss it in my previous three reads?

Something else occurs when you read aloud. You find groups of words that are almost impossible to say. Reading them silently works okay, but saying them ties one’s tongue in knots. Should you leave that as is, or change it? After all, the work is made to be read – but not necessarily aloud. However, if you have a character saying a tongue-twister, it may behoove you to change it.

“A Throne At Stake” takes place in the “Steadfasting” universe – a medieval sort of place – and I use some archaic words and syntax. Strangely enough, I find that writing in this manner appeals to my poetic beginnings. Yes, I started ‘writing’ as a poet. And, (in my opinion, though perhaps not in those of my listeners) I became reasonably good at rhyme and metre. Reading “A Throne At Stake” aloud made me realize that I’d drifted back to those days to a certain extent. The words seem to flow more gracefully than they do in my Science Fiction, for example. And then I began to edit for that, sometimes changing a word to add a syllable to keep the rhythm, sometimes changing word order, and sometimes replacing one word with another of the same number of syllables where the stress falls on a different syllable.

I’m not sure whether anyone will notice this, (and some may find it annoying, who knows?) but I enjoyed that final read-through. Now, I just have to wait for my proofer to look it over, correct the errors that I failed to find, work up a cover, and publish it.

Yes, all that, and keep writing.

Still, that can wait for the morrow. Today I celebrate a moment of joy. ’Tis done – at least for the nonce. Woo-hoo!

The Speculative Fiction World

SF – Speculative Fiction has great power. It allows us to speculate in ways that other genres don’t. Do you want to want a world with a matriarchal society? No problem. It’s only as far away as your imagination – and your readers will suspend their disbelief as they read your book. (Or you will suspend your disbelief as you read of just such a world in someone else’s book.) However, place that speculation in our world, in modern day Chicago or Toronto or Tokyo, and every page, someone will say or think, “But that’s not how it is.” A very good writer will find a way to convince her readers, but it won’t be easy. Place that society on the mythical world of Xrth, and such problems disappear.

Yes, you can bend the rules slightly for stories taking place in the present day – such as an advanced technology which gives us Jules Verne’s submarine in “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea”, but a wholesale change in societal mores in our world becomes quite a different story.

So, I like SF for the opportunity it gives me to explore questions, creating worlds around them that I can use as foundations. How would humans have to adjust to operating in a very polite society? Elizabeth Moon has such a place in her “Vatta” series, where excessive rudeness incurs the death penalty. What are the strengths and weaknesses of a highly formal society, with rules for practically everything dealing with societal interaction? Simply travel to Miller & Lee’s “Liaden Universe” to get one perspective on such a world.

For me, these form backgrounds in which I can explore how a character reacts to various stimuli. But it all starts with the character and his or her problem.

What is the difference between sacrifice and suicide? If a man in the trenches of WWI throws himself on a grenade to save the lives of his comrades, does he do so out of love for his fellow men (sacrifice) or does he see this as an honourable way out of a horror so immense that it seems to be eating him whole (suicide)? Is this an act of bravery or of cowardice? In the end, does it matter?

I found that particular question plaguing me (the difference between sacrifice and suicide), together with its ancillary questions of cowardice and bravery, honour and dishonour. To more fully explore it, I found a character or two in which to embed the questions. One, Rel Panace, an injured young man running from a gang, which wished to beat him, begins to consider himself a coward for running. An older man, Coll, who has the brand of a coward upon his face – for cowardice on the battlefield – saves him.

I could have set the story in today’s world, but we don’t brand (physically) our ‘cowards’, and I wanted to explore how such a brand might affect the wearer of it. Thus, I set the scene in a medieval world where one could not escape the consequences of such a mark. All recognize it for what it is and what it means. Those who wear it find themselves reviled by society – they can’t simply disappear into the masses, move away, like someone so named could do today.

The medieval world setting gave me added bonuses: difficulty of travel, social hierarchy, face-to-face communication, man-to-man combat, horses. “Horses?” you ask. With horses come stables. With stables comes manure. With manure comes people who must muck the stables and cart the manure out of the city. And that is the only sort of job people like Coll can get. He can’t hide away in a room and do a job via computer modem like one could today, meeting no one, yet earning a good wage. He must constantly face those who will see his brand; he must accept the most menial of labour for the most menial of wages.

Rel, the son of a noble, also cannot hide. But, mostly, he can’t hide from himself. He can’t revenge himself on the gang with a gun, thus he must undertake training in order to become able to defend himself in any similar situation that might occur in the future.

Thus, my world aids me in placing my characters and their question in a crucible from which they cannot escape. And thus, hopefully, my readers will suspend their disbelief long enough to get entranced by my story of Rel (coming of age) and Coll (redemption).

In the middle of writing “In the Company of Cowards”, someone I knew did commit suicide, which threw me off writing the story for over a year. I had immersed myself in this fictional question of ‘sacrifice or suicide’, and life intruded with reality. There, I could observe some of the effects of this man’s actions – both on myself, who just barely knew him, and on another who had closer ties to both of us. It made continuing – and finally finishing – the novel somewhat uncomfortable.

But I digress. The world – universe – I create allows me to more readily tell the story I wish to tell. It provides a foundation and appropriate level of technology to best suit my characters and their adversities. Thus, I give my thanks to the SF genre for this boon.

3 a.m.

Three o’clock in the morning is the best time of the day. I’ve worked rotating shifts (each week moving back another 6 hours) and I state this a plain matter of fact. No, I’m sorry, your opinion doesn’t count. [Of course it counts, but not here in my blog post. If you wish to comment, you have the opportunity to argue for your favourite time in the comments section.]

As a Science Fiction fan, the most appropriate time of the day occurs when I can see the stars. The stars are almost an SF trademark. Who does not, upon a starry night, look up into the wondrous infinite and imagine what might go on ‘out there’? And, at three of the clock in the morning – given a lack of overcast – one can see the stars. [Note: this does not apply to the Arctic/Antarctic regions in the summer, where 24hr daylight abounds.]

The early morning hours mute the sounds of the city. Traffic has slipped to its nadir, and the greater portion of the population sleeps. Streets become avenues of the imagination, and trees ghostly sentinels against the night sky. In summer, the heat of the day has dissipated, and that of the next day has not yet had a chance to build. Darkness abounds, and darkness, too, feeds the imagination. And, finally, one sees cats on the prowl, denizens of the night. Being awake, one becomes a denizen of the night as well. There are worse things than claiming a kinship with cats.

Pinpricks of light from thousands of stars decorate the celestial dome. One looks up in awe. Ah, to be out there, looking down! One feels about as alone as one can in a city, town, or even village. With all others asleep, one stands in the world – alone. Alone,  the need to be anything for anyone disappears. And, alone, one brings for company one’s imagination; one brings one’s dreams. 

Darkness opens up the mind. The defences against the brightness of the day, against the closeness of people you see, come down. Clarity comes in the dim light that masks the ugliness of the world, the too-sharp images, the cut-and-dried. At three o’clock in the morning, I fly.

The hours between midnight and dawn, I find the most productive. In the aloneness (though not necessarily loneliness) of the dark hours, my mind creates worlds and populates them with characters I would like to get to know. And, having done so, plants the seeds for future stories. How much easier to deal with these characters, with these ideas, in the calmness of the night, where one thousand and three other visions do not compete for my attention. How much easier to dream.

As an author, I find the night hours around the magical time of 3:00am the perfect haven in which to commit my ideas to ‘paper’. As a reader, I find the uninterrupted-by-the-flotsam-of-the-day time a safe harbour in which to imagine the worlds that others have created.

I live for 3:00am.

D.A. Boulter

For an update on my progress, check the ‘news’ section of this blog.

The Comfort of Old Friends

Taking a break from writing the other night, I looked over to my bookshelf and a book called out to me. Wondering what it had to say, I went over, picked it up, and ten minutes later I found myself deep in an adventure whose outcome I knew very well.

I had read “Plan B”, by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller, many times previously, so why did I pick it up? Why read it again? Back in the late 1980s-early 1990s, I worked on the DEWLine (Distant Early Warning Line), a chain of radar stations across the north of Alaska, Canada, and across Greenland, built to give warning of Soviet bombers coming over the pole to attack North America. A friend and co-worker, Keith, mentioned that he didn’t re-read books or re-watch movies. He didn’t seem to understand why I did, and I didn’t understand why he didn’t.

Each Canadian DEWLine Station had a library of sorts. Each month, each station would get ten new books. They’d usually consist of a non-fiction, a couple of best sellers, a couple of genre fiction books, and a few Romance books.

Why we ended up with so many Romance books, I don’t know. At any given time there were approximately 400 people on the 21 Canadaian DEWLine stations, and maybe seven or eight were women, and those mostly at one of the four Main Sites, not at the 17 Auxiliary Sites (10-14 man stations). One day I opened the box and found a copy of “How to Meet and Marry the Man of Your Choice”. I later discovered it at another station as well, so I had visions of that same book arriving at all 21 stations, and the guys standing around wondering why HQ would think this was a good idea. Being a voracious reader at the time, and deciding that knowing how ‘the other side’ thought, what tactics they might use, could bring me advantage, I read the damn thing, anyway. But I digress.

At one station, I picked up a copy of “Carpe Diem” by the above mentioned Sharon Lee and Steve Miller, and I fell in love with the characters, their tribulations, and their Universe. The next time I went South (going South meant holidays or ‘leave’ to Dewliners), I searched for and found “Agent of Change” the book that came before “Carpe Diem”, and I continued looking for several years before I found their 3rd book. I re-read those two books several times – as I tend to do – while working in the north.

If an author does it well, characters become like old friends, which makes the books old friends, too. And old friends tell each other stories – often over and over again through the years. Those on the receiving end usually listen politely, as if they had not heard of that particular incident a dozen or more times previously. That’s one of the duties of friendship. It’s all well and good if the storyteller has talent, and can draw you in, make you feel you were actually there; it’s something quite different if this is not the case. Then, you can tell the depth of that friendship. Lee & Miller have talent. As I mentioned in a previous post, stories give our lives meaning, give us a sense of progression, not just a feeling of random reactions to a series of random events. I could relate to the meaning in the lives of Val Con and Miri. They became my friends.

Someone, whose name escapes me at present, when asked why he was friends with another person, replied, “He listens to my stories.” Paraphrased, one could say, “He acknowledges that my life has meaning,” and that's a rare and wondrous gift.

Reading a new book, a new story, brings excitement, the wonder of a new world, the thrill of the unknown unfolding before one. Re-reading a book brings the comfort of the familiar, the satisfaction of living once more in a world you know well. It also allows more time for thought, and one sometimes peels away another layer of the onion that the author has presented. And then the jewel shines once more. And now, I think I understand Keith better. He desired the thrill of the unknown. I’ve not heard of or from him in over twenty years. I wonder if he has changed in this regard. I wonder if he now likes comfort as well as thrill.

So, I picked up “Plan B” for comfort, and perhaps to see if my life experience since the last time I picked it up would bring new meaning to some of the nuances of the story. And I wished to see if the jewel would shine again.

I have found that the same thing occurs with the books that I write. I reread them, too, upon occasion – not to compare my craftsmanship then with my more developed skills now, not to look for errors or places that I might have done better, but for the story. As I’m now writing another book in the ‘Courtesan – Pelgraff’ universe, I occasionally need to reference something that happened, and thus turn to the original documents. I have to take care, otherwise I get caught up in that story once again and an hour or more will pass before I get back to the job at hand.

Sometimes I get surprises. “Wow! I wrote that?” But it shouldn’t surprise me; I write the stories that I want to read. They should, therefore, attract me, draw me in, make me want to live again with ‘Mad Dog’ McLean, Mart Britlot, or Karsten and Arialla. They are old friends, comfortable friends. And they still speak to me.

I hope they still speak to others, too. And I hope that people new to my works will begin with the thrill of the unknown, and then progress to the comfort of the familiar for times they wish to once again live with old friends.

Whatever book you read, I wish for you the joy of discovery, and the making of new friends.

D.A. Boulter

For an update on my progress, check the ‘news’ section of this blog.

How We Got Here -- History in SF&F

Today is the twenty-first of May. I bring this up because it is a date that has historical significance – though not precisely to science-fiction or fantasy. On 21 May 1941, the German battleship KMS Bismarck left Norway to begin its ill-fated sortie into the Atlantic. Three days later, on 24 May, she sank the British battlecruiser HMS Hood; three days after that, on 27 May, the British sank the Bismarck.

In 1960, the film “Sink the Bismarck” came out, followed by the song of the same title by Johnny Horton. A few years later, as a young boy, I saw the film and became intrigued by naval warfare. I’d also heard the song many times.

The early 1960s were only 20-something years away from the events of 1941, and that history figured quite hugely in the psyche of the time. Hobby stores were filled with model aircraft, ships, and tanks from WWII, war movies mostly depicted that conflict, and one could find a whole raft of books dealing with the subject at the library of even such a small town as I grew up in.

Seventy-three years have now passed since the day Bismarck left Norway. My father, who was a young Canadian soldier stationed in Britain at the time, has passed on, as have the majority of people who remember those times. Living-memory history has become distant, time-shrouded history.

Bismarck started my involvement with the study of other historical periods, and that lasted a good many years. And this involvement has, I believe, stood me in good stead in the writing of SF&F.

SF&F, for the most part, differs from other genres in that its authors have to create whole histories (near-future SF and urban-fantasy stories excepted -- they mostly build on what we already have). When the Prince attempts to retake his rightful throne from the Usurper who killed his father, we have backstory – another name for history. Wherever we start this story – whether from the battle in which the King loses his throne (and life), or from the day the banished Prince begins his trek to retake the throne, or from the day the Prince’s troops start their campaign – the author always has to know the history of the events.

Why did the Usurper want the throne? What did he do in order to take it? How did the Prince survive? Who trained him, set him on his ‘noble path’? Some of this will be important to the story, and thus the author will include it for the reader; some of it won’t have significance, and thus the author will omit it. But the author knows that history. He, or she, created it. It’s How We Got Here.

Many years ago – getting close to twenty, now – I had a “what if” idea. That’s how most stories get their start. What if someone invented a submersible craft? “20000 Leagues Under the Sea”. What if invaders came from Mars? “War of the Worlds”. So, I had this “what if” idea, and it began percolating even as I did other things. At the time, I was busy struggling through a 10-year project that ended up being “Enemy of Korgan” – actually, my original idea for “Korgan” came in 1984 and I didn’t finish the first draft until around 2001, so it’s more of a 17-year project.

One of the things that an author needs to hang a “what if” on is a character. I found that character in a woman named Colleen in 2000. I wrote a short first chapter, and then went no further. I had realized that I needed some history for her. Then another idea, which became “Ghost Fleet”, came up, and I wrote its first draft with blinding speed (in comparison to “Korgan”) finishing in 2 months. But Colleen’s story beckoned, and in March of 2001 I wrote a new first chapter, much better, with my premise more fully formed. 

And that’s where History reared its head. In the middle of Chapter 1, I realized that in order to more fully deal with my saga, I would need a civil war on a planet. The character of “Alan McLean” came to me, basically took over, and wrote “Pelgraff” – a story which would take place after my 1st chapter, but I found so compelling that I couldn’t wait.

Authors do funny things to make their worlds more real. One is to give throwaway lines, mentioning some facet of history, of custom, of … well practically anything, in order to plump up the world. In “Pelgraff”, as Alan McLean sits on an interstellar liner just after the ship’s jump to hyperspace, the Public Address system comes to life, saying “Welcome to the J-Channel”, and telling the passengers they could now move about freely. “What is the ‘J-Channel’? I wondered. As Alan McLean’s persona had taken over my own, he decided to look it up in a reference. The reference told him that the J-Channel had been discovered by Jaswinder Saroya (hence the ‘J’ in j-channel), and how it was a non-linear representation of normal space (i.e. hyperspace). And that was it. Just a throwaway line telling the reader that this universe did, indeed, have a history.

However, as I continued to write “Pelgraff”, I began to wonder who this Jaswinder Saroya was. She began haunting me, asking me to tell her tale. So, in 2002 I did so. A short story named “Courtesan” came into being. This tied Ms Saroya to the same line as Colleen, but 450 years in the past. But, Jaswinder wasn’t through with me. She wanted more than a short story. She kept haunting me. So, to exorcise her, I gave her short story novel treatment. The short story became the first couple of chapters of the novel.

“Courtesan” also suggested how Colleen’s family had become so important; "Not With A Whimper", its sequel, will flesh that out. “Pelgraff” had also mentioned an alien named Korsh, whom I wanted to figure prominently in Colleen’s story. And that led to more ‘history’.

But now – late last year – at long last, I realized that the place to start the saga was with Colleen’s introduction to the spacing Family. Originally, I had intended that she be a descendant of Jaswinder, but then time and circumstance (studying the original premise, and mentally outlining) made it more logical for her to join the family. Going back further in ‘history’ would serve no purpose.

Thus I started plotting once again, the opening scene inspired by a song I’d heard and liked, which related to a poem I’d read and liked. After finishing the first draft of the fantasy novel (somewhat outlined above), I began writing Colleen’s story once more. This time, I have no further doubts as to where it’s going. The history is all behind me. I know How We Got Here.

I’m now over halfway though the first draft – while also working sporadically on the first draft of the sequel to “Courtesan”, and editing the Sword and Sorcery novel loosely outlined above (which still has no title).

Seventy-three years ago today, on May 21st 1941, the German battleship Bismarck began its fateful journey. Six days later, over 4000 men had died, and two mighty, historical ships lay on the ocean floor. Twenty-odd years later, its captivating story awaited a young boy, who began reading history. History, the forming of our lives into stories, has led me to Colleen and her story – as well as the story of her universe. And, having read history, I know that all my characters have their own histories … and I know that history, told properly, compels. I only hope that I’m up to the challenge.

Delivery Guaranteed

Others, much more intelligent than I am, have impressed upon me the need to have some place where people may go to find out about my books, about my progress (or lack thereof). They’ve recommended all sorts of new forums like Facebook, Twitter, etc., forums which I’ve no great interest in learning the intricacies of.

Basically, I’m a storyteller. Basically, we are all storytellers. It starts off very early in life with things like, “Tell me what happened today in school.” And we, in our struggling way to fit words to events, tell a story in fits and starts: “Timmy punched me, and the teacher made him throw his wrapper in the garbage.” Those, of course, are two completely different episodes, taking place at different times and having nothing to do with each other. But in our limited way, with thoughts jumping wildly about in our heads, it makes sense to put them together, no matter the look of confusion on our parents’ faces.

From there we graduate to longer stories, which hold up better under scrutiny. Some of those stories are true, some contain some truths, and others are just plain fiction. “Who broke the lamp?” “The dog. She got all excited to see me when I came home, started jumping up and down, pushed me near the table, and then she bumped the table, knocking over the lamp.” Right. Poor Perky, victim of not speaking English, and thus not being able to defend herself against vile slander.

We tell our lives in stories, striving to make sense out of random events, tying them together in order to get the feeling that we progress down a street, instead of hopping from dimension to dimension in a haphazard fashion. We invent things like Karma, to explain the good or evil that comes upon us. “If only I hadn’t lied about Perky 50 years ago, this wouldn’t be happening to me now.” And who knows, our invention of ‘Karma’ might be a stumbling onto a truth. It may exist. Cause and effect may work in ways we never even dream of. And some author will tell that story, too – because he or she did dream of it.

Ah, dreams. Those nightly visitations of strange and wondrous elements of mixed fiction and truth tell stories, too. And then we come to daydreams, where we consciously create the stories in our heads – how we will captain a pirate ship, a merchant ship, a spaceship. These stories can fill in the boring moments of our life – like arithmetic class. “Doug, Doug. Can you give me the answer?” Oh, oh, she’s caught me. What’s the question? A quick look at the blackboard. Ah. 7 + 3 = ? “Um, ten?” “Thank you, Doug. Next, we …” and back to the daydream of piloting a rocketship. [For more on this, see the wonderful cartoons by Bill Watterson: Calvin & Hobbes. He knew what little boys really think of during class.]

Unfortunately, during classes, the teachers kept interrupting my daydreams, my fantasy worlds. However, whilst on my paper route, I could dream to my heart’s content. While I delivered The Edmonton Journal to the doors of my customers, my mind oftentimes went elsewhere. To the Old West, the Atlantic during WWII, Space, and a dozen other places. I told myself stories.

Now, all grown up – though you might find others who disagree with that notion – I continue the human tradition of telling stories. In this, I’m no different than any other human. But, I’ve undertaken to write some of these stories down. And in this day and age, with electronic publishing, just like the little boy of almost 5 decades ago on his paper route, I (with the help of Amazon, Kobo, Smashwords, and others) continue to deliver to your door (or Kindle, Nook, computer).

I've chosen a Blog for my initial foray into the horrors of Social Media, because I value the telling of stories, and thus it seems an appropriate platform for me. So, drop by this Blog for the news (updates of what works are in progress, where I am on various titles, what I’m doing – in terms of writing), for stories of the past, present and future, and for calls to action: “Please, please, please, buy my book – the cat has nothing to eat.” Well, perhaps it is best to not believe that one. The cat, in his opinion, never has anything to eat – even if his food dish overflows.

So, thanks to those who have given me the final push (Charles, George, and Acheron’s Flow) I now have a blog.

EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!

And, you can subscribe if you wish: Delivery Guaranteed. (Well, mostly. When I start having flights of the imagination, who knows who will get your copy of the paper.)