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.