Bulldozer Restoration

The gutter needs fixed and there are new places to patch on the roof before winter.  I'm itching to paint bright colors on the walls — soooooo tired of off-white, eggshell, and linen blah—but can't do that until sheetrock repairs are done.  Oh, yeah, and there's some carpet I'd love to send on a permanent camp-out at the landfill.

Time doesn't agree with me. Time makes sure lessons of patience are thoroughly understood. So, I inch along such renovations rather than bulldoze through them.  I'd rather bulldoze even if it looks messier for a while.  But bulldozing usually illuminates some part of a project I didn't consider or didn't know was a problem until sub-surfaces revealed their not-so-shiny faces.   

A particular writing project — chronicles set on a world called Kamanthia — seemed an excellent candidate for  bulldozer editing.  I love the story, the concept, the characters; but I followed some less than good advice. It turned into a thinly disguised sermon rather than a story.  And though there were aspects of it I thought might be enjoyable for a Christian-only audience, those aspects diminished the impact and explorations of the core story.  Those aspects might later wind up in a parallel side-story, but it'll be  a separate project. Not this one.  

Restoration time.  Easy peasy, sure.  Just remove the POV sequences of the Christian character (I'll call her S— for now) and bring the story back to the POVs of the original characters living on Kamanthia.  Bulldozing went fine for the first four chapters as I simply lifted out S—'s chapters. 

I hit the first boulder.

A scene vital to the story is told through S—'s POV.  **deep breath**  Most of it was dialog — not too hard to shift the POV to R—, the original main character.

The next boulder was bigger.

Again, a scene vital to the story, but this time descriptions and perceptions  as well as dialog were in S—'s POV.  Major rewrite.

And, scrolling ahead through chapters, I find more scenes like that.  Eeek!

The easiest solution would've been to simply pull up an archived file with the original story in it.  Except for the fact that it's not possible. The original version is forever buried in a computer that died sadly and badly before I could move all its files to a newer computer.

I've learned a lot since the story's original version. I'm reasonably certain this restoration will result in a much better, more intense story.  But it would've been nice to have the original for reference rather than relying on my own occasionally glitchy memory.

  

Parking the bulldozer.  Inching my way through the landscape of Kamanthia.

Behind "Tools of the Trade"

One of my steampunk stories, titled "Tools of the Trade", will be in the upcoming anthology of elf stories, The Book of Sylvari, from Port Yonder Press.

Notes coming back from the beta-readers looking over the anthology had comments and questions about "Tools..."  Since I don't know who the beta-readers are, I'm answering a few of the questions here, not really in any particular order.

"Tools of the Trade" is set in 1899 Kansas City, MO.  When I created the story, I wanted to make it as historically accurate as possible to make the Russian elf battling demons more believable.  Research was inevitable.

Fiction: Sophie (the MC) and her brother Bruce were adopted as children.

Fact:  The Orphan Trains from the east coast carried hundreds of orphaned, abandoned, and parent-surrendered children west to be adopted.  Some of their stories turned out well — the children were cherished and cared for by their adopted parents. Others didn't fare so well — they were treated as little more than extra farm hands and servants. 

Some of them processed through a church orphanage called "The Little Sisters of Mercy Asylum" in New York City.  Nowadays, we think of the word "asylum" in terms of mental institutions, but the broader meaning is a place of refuge, a shelter, a haven.    

Fiction:  One of the minor characters is taken to St. Luke's Hospital in Kansas City, while another is taken to a children's clinic.

Fact:  This hospital did indeed exist back then but at that point it was called All Saints Hospital (est. 1885).  It didn't actually change names to St. Luke's Hospital until 1903, four years after this story takes place, but the shift of time is creative license.
The other clinic mentioned was founded by one of two sisters (Dr.  Alice Berry Graham and Dr.  Katharine Berry Richardson) who set it up to help children of those too poor to afford medical treatment.  At the time, women doctors weren't common and there was some (a lot!) bias about hiring them to work in hospitals — another reason for founding their own.  That clinic a few years later became Children's Mercy Hospital.

Fiction: The elf cauterizes a wound with an "untinned" brazing bit.
Fact: "Untinned" means that it hadn't been covered with the solder mixture of tin and lead which helps transfer the bit's heat so the solder will flow properly to make a good joint.  Essentially, the elf is using the equivalent of a bare-metal branding iron to cauterize the wound.

Fiction: The elf has an instrument called a dioptra in his toolbox.
Fact:  A dioptra is an astronomical as well as a surveying instrument.  Its earliest use dates back to about the 3^rd century B.C. for astronomy, but the armillary later became the more favored instrument — greater accuracy, more detail.  For surveying, the dioptra was later replaced by the theodolite.   Because the elf in the story has a traceable lineage going back several centuries, he's also inherited tools &  instruments (even obsolete ones) from his ancestors.

Fiction:  Sophie thinks "Wake up, prince" as she kisses the elf to disrupt a demon's hold over him.

Fact: The elf character isn't a prince, nor is Sophie particularly infatuated with him at this point in the story. But published fairy tales had been around for quite a while, so Sophie would've been familiar with them. The Brothers Grimm published their first volume of collected fairy tales in 1812 and a second volume in 1815.         

Fiction: Sophie, Bruce, and Kazimir set out from the Kansas City Yacht Club building to battle the water demons.
Fact: This one surprised me!  As I was researching the railroads running through KC, I happened upon a sketch showing a building with the sign Kansas City Yacht Club.  After some archive digging, I found it really did exist and had a lively membership among the local boaters.  They held regattas and fish fries, and they even bottled their own beer. There were a number of smaller clubs in and around the city, but the KCYC seemed to be the largest.

Too cool not to include in the story!

Behind "Ley of the Minstrel: Spider Dance"

"Ley of the Minstrel" appeared in the second issue of The Cross and the Cosmos (aka TC2) ezine.  It was a fun, swashbuckling story that let me use my love of ships and sailing as I wrote.   

But a new challenge came not long after "Ley..." was published.  A sequel.

"Ley of the Minstrel: Spider Dance" wasn't the story I set out to write when I decided to follow Nerelos into the lands of the Spider Lords. I had a vague idea of a bunch of evil spiders similar to Tolkein's Shelob or Ungoliant. It was very, very vague.

The setting material for Dias Domhan (provided by TC2's editors) reads as follows: "...Within these lands live various magical creatures, the worst of which are the Spider Lords...large intellect spiders who have created web cities and hate humans..."

Spiders.  Hmm.  Things I know about spiders: they spin webs and they eat other bugs. They have lots of eyes and legs. They can move fast and some of the stubby ones jump. A spider frightened Little Miss Muffet. An itsy-bitsy one climbed up a waterspout. I played with daddy-long-legs when I was a kid; and I still capture the occasional wolf spider in the house to set it free in the garden so it can eat other pestiferous bugs that annoy me.

Not enough to fill a story. 

The trouble with research is that sometimes you find yourself fascinated by the subject totally aside from finding what you need to write a story.

My foray into arachnology left me amazed and humbled by the little creatures that inhabit our world. Did I think I had imagination? Hah — what a puny joke! One look at the anatomy of a spider, at the microscopic photographs of the tiniest hairs or the fangs on them boggled my mind. A table of spider silk's tensile strength compared with other materials (such as rope, nylon, or steel) blew my feeble creativity away.

Things I now know about spiders:

Their blood is somewhat clear and faintly blue-tinted because it contains copper rather than iron as ours does.

They can regenerate body parts, even vital organs under some circumstances, during subsequent moultings.

Some spiders can rearrange their retinas as they look at different things.

Some have more intelligence than others. The little jumping spiders can change strategy when they are hunting according to what the prey is doing; sometimes they watch us, seemingly with interest.

There are pirate spiders that prey on other spiders by mimicking web-touching rituals of courtship or prey.

Some spiders fast for incredibly long periods prior to moulting.

Clean cobwebs can be used for impromptu bandages for cuts.

Spiders hear by interpreting air movement touching the complex hairs on their legs. 

In some parts of the world, spiders are kept for the sport of spider fights. 

The list goes on.

I discovered respect for these tiny creatures that made it difficult for me to present them as nothing more than spawns of hell. Their complex nature and amazing structure revealed one small glimpse of God's artistry and creativity. Think of it — real creatures stranger and more astounding than any fictional alien. We usually only notice them when they startle us or when we clean their abandoned webs from corners. I found myself reluctant to vilify them. So, the spiders of my story are not the worst of the magical creatures; and Arctos represents a potential new chapter in the spirits of the Dias Domhan spiders in which they, too, might sing of Dé-Fär. 

Two final notes:

"Ley of the Minstrel" and "Ley of the Minstrel: Spider Dance" will be appearing in TC2's  upcoming anthology from Marcher Lord Press later this year.  Stay tuned for the announcement when the anthology is released.

And, in spite of all I learned, I'm not rushing out to purchase a pet tarantula any time soon. Probably not ever.

The Lowly Pencil

There's something enthralling about the humble pencil.

The wood settles into the permanent concavity on the side of my middle finger as I poise the point above paper. The graphite encased in the wood varies in hardness and darkness, from the very faint 7H to the ultra-dark 9B. Or maybe I've got a carbon pencil in hand; it produces lines only slightly different from charcoal.  Or on black paper, the white charcoal and the soapstone pencils are just plain fun.  

Some stroke the paper with a gritty, scritchy sound and feel, but my favorites glide smoothly, effortlessly, as I write or draw.  And if I want to change a spelling, a line, a shadow,  the pencil strokes are not so permanent that an application of eraser can't lighten or remove what I've done.

I won't place writing I've done in pencil here.  The keyboard does a more efficient  job for blog purposes.  But writing isn't my only passion.  So, below -- something else I do as I  journey.



Jasper



Echo

Detour into the Past

I keep a hand-written journal.

 

I love the feel and subtle scent of the paper and the color of whatever pen I happen to grab or carefully select; there's an intimacy with using them that I don't find with a computer. I slow down for a little while. Handwriting is necessarily slower than using a keyboard.  If the mood strikes, I can doodle alongside the writing or within the writing, turning letters or words into flowers, animals, or knotwork.   I like the tactile variety of bindings and covers available for blank books.    

Once in a while, it's good to go back through retired journals. Sometimes, it's for no more reason than to check whether what I'm remembering at the moment is the same as what I wrote when it actually happened, either an incident or bit of dialog. Sometimes, it's for seeing whether or how much I've grown or changed in my thinking, where I might still be stuck and where I've moved on.  

Because...because on a daily basis, I often don't have enough time for introspection.  The journal enforces as well as records it.

My faith has grown and my confidence has grown.   So has my ability to accept that I'm not perfect and won't be this side of heaven. I'm less of an extrovert than I'd like to be, and there are areas where I'm not as sensible as I should be by now. My hackles still go spiky at the words It can't be done. I laugh at myself more easily and more frequently than I could at any decade younger.   

On the occasional excursions into past years, the events, transformations and illuminations leap into clarity. 

·  Idolatry for my job came crashing down. An injury ended my ability to make a living with the job that was everything to me. Epitaph: Here lies a toppled god -- its fall rocked my world.

·  I ranted about my dogs locking me out of the house an hour before I had to get ready for work. Note to self: never, ever step out the door without a key.   

·  I articulated why I have difficulty getting attached to places.  Thirty moves in about a fifteen-year span makes for shallow roots.

·  My latent tendency to be a smart aleck first blossomed. I told my sister an excavation site for a building was an open pit dirt mine.  Ten minutes later, she smacked me.    

·  A co worker said I reminded him of three people: Mother Theresa, Red Skelton, and Attila the Hun.  I spent four entries trying to figure that out — three entries less than when another coworker told me I was too weird for words.  Guilty as charged that time.

·  I realized I could choose to be content, happy, joyful no matter what circumstances I faced.  Oddly, I didn't note what was happening at the time, what had prompted that entry.  But it was a very good choice.   

And weaving around and through trials and triumphs, questions and revelations,  the condition of my soul or my hangnail, there are snippets of story ideas, characters, and phrases uniquely mine.  Themes and motifs dominant in my writing show up clearly with hindsight.

Hindsight is always 20/20.         

Christening Ships that Never Were

Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived inland.  She loved the feel of the earth under her feet when she went hiking. She loved the muffled thud of horse hooves on soft soil and their gritty clatter on rocky trails.  She loved the smell of dusty country roads, of rain on hot pavement, of autumn leaves.

Then one day, she spent an afternoon on a boat in the Gulf of Mexico. The limitless horizon, the sense of unbound freedom, captivated her.  Later, she took sailing classes and sailed on the Pacific. When she couldn't rent a boat, she spent as much time as she could on the beach, watching the waves, inhaling briny winds, dreaming of one day living aboard a boat of her own.  She loved the sea.     

She moved inland once more, and though she rediscovered her love of land, the sea never left her heart.

What does a writer do with a yearning that can't be fulfilled?  Use imagination.

I don't have even a rowboat to take on a pond,  but ships fill my imagination.  Oh, and the vessels there are wonderful.  I christen each one with the launch of a story.  Aboard them, I travel seas and skies and space.  

Fast and sleek, the Minstrel is a harp-ship piloted by music; her great deck-harp sounds the ocean depths for the navigator playing the ship. The Sea Nymph tries to elude sirens who would destroy her on reefs.  The galleon Mer l'Etoile ferries elven ambassadors from Africa while the tramp steamer MereleCroix carries her passengers on Atlantic lanes. In the skies, pale sails of the airships Mind theTrees and Sunbeam billow under stars as their crews, on a rescue mission, battle elements and enemies.

And in space, ships steered by cybernetic navigators carry colonists as they flee a world under a dying sun:  Inspiratum, Astra Ventus, Cantus Lumen, and others.      

So, why settle for a canoe when I have fleets? Today, Tuscan Red launches to pick up a baby dragon for delivery to a new home.   

The only thing missing is the bottle of champagne to smash on Tuscan Red's hull as I christen her.

The Ultimate Carnival Ride

Carousel?  Maybe.

Ferris wheel? Rarely that slow & gentle.

Rollercoaster?  Tilt-a-whirl?  Hammer?  Yeah, that's more like it. 

No, I haven't been going to amusement parks and carnivals.  These are metaphors of a busy life, the essence of multitasking in a world where challenges come from every direction, from the purely physical to the mental, intellectual and spiritual compass points.  Just when the climbs & plunges of the rollercoaster slow, just when it looks like I can step off the train, it morphs into a Tilt-a-whirl car spinning chaotically or a Hammer  plastering me to the back of the cage or  (if the carney has trickster hands on the controls) stopping up-side-down.  Kinetic force reasserts and...

Yikes! Toboggan splash, then I'm back on a spiraling coaster.

 God promises that we're never given anything beyond what we can endure.  I amble wobbly-legged down the midway and into the funhouse.  Check my short/tall/thin/fat/wavering reflections.  I'm not sweating blood like Jesus did in the garden of Gethsemane.  None of this is stress, then. It's only challenges, it's only annoyances, it's only a high rate of interest and event.  I grin and amble back to the ride.   It strains the limits of my inner gyroscope but God makes sure it's never tested to destruction.

 

And I haven't barfed.