If you have self published or you are thinking of self publishing there is something in here that you can take away.
There's lots of general help and some specific tips and a bit of wisdom such as the statement listed below.
"If you think your writing is perfect and that you never make mistakes, then you're clearly delusional - no offense, but no one is perfect, ever."
How Expert Press; Johnson, Jennifer-Crystal (2012-04-01). How To Self Publish - Your Step-By-Step Guide to Self Publishing (Kindle Locations 278-279). . Kindle Edition.
I like that it covers a lot of territory in a compact area. Everything from editing to formatting and choosing programs to help publish and format the cover graphics. Tips on creating e-books that will give the reader the best experience. I particularly found the tutorial for setting up MS Word review features helpful. That is something I could have benefited from on my first venture into self publishing. Now when I hand someone my raw work to edit I can just say here- chapter one under Revision.
Nice tool.
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode:Hot Electric
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Thursday, June 7, 2012
V:The Other Hamilton Sister: Rifle
The Rifle; is the key.
That's what Dalton had suggested. He shifts his position in the sand where I'd left him sitting. His hands are still restrained by the overlarge tie-wrap.
I walk over to the rifle. I pick it up and use the edge of my blouse to wipe the grit off of it. Turning it slowly in my hands. It sure looks like dads. I choke back a breath. I observe, "This could easily be it, but I've no idea how many of these there might be around here." I look up at Dalton as if he might be able to confirm something and turn away before he can respond.
My eyes stop and rest on Ted who is still in his alcoholic stupor watching this drama unfold. Ted doesn't appear to be focused on anything. I slowly look back at our prisoner.
Dalton moves once more. He winces as though in pain and looks over his shoulders then at me. He says, "It's a one of a kind here. Possibly the only one outside of earth itself. That's an exceptionally old piece." It almost seemed to me he'd left off saying, Belongs in a museum. That makes sense. Dad made his own shells.
I grip it a more tightly. The significance begins to grow. My eyes tear away from it and rest again on Dalton. I've no idea if he can fathom how much this means to me. I look again at the rifle. I pull back the bolt. The trigger moves and the used cartridge is exposed. Obviously Jason doesn't know how these work or he forgot in a hurry during the excitement. It's a wonder he had it loaded and ready. If he's not familiar, someone else must have set this up before giving it to him. The question then is why. Jason might have even fired it by accident. The second time he tried to fire wasn't an accident, but it was very stupid. I flip the spent cartridge to the ground. I pull down the magazine, it has only two bullets left. I dig those out and stuff them in my pocket then replace the magazine and leave the bolt and trigger in locked position. I hook the rifle on my arm pointed at the ground.
As if thinking the same thing I am. Dalton says, "Interesting."
I let out a slow breath and manage to croak out, "So you found my parents dead and someone took this and you traced it to Jase."
Dalton shakes his head and says, "Not quite. I wasn't able to get near the compound and I was following a different trail."
I correct him and say, "It's a house or estate, that's what we call them here." I open my eyes wider and stand straight while considering what he's just said.
Dalton shrugs,"Yeah. I know. I'm sure they call them that where my primary came from. I didn't know about the rifle until I saw your friend coming over a hill waving it around dangerously. I knew it existed. Until I saw him with it I wouldn't have known where it was. I assumed he was headed this way. He had the rifle and I figured that he was the one I was looking for."
Breathing more normally I grasp onto what he's said and ask, "You couldn't get near the house? Were the local police there and you are unofficial or something so you couldn't get involved with them?"
Shaking his head he say, "Na. They took me there so I could see that they really had the problem they said they had. They thought I could solve it for them. I couldn't and that's when they got upset and we parted ways."
Coming over next to him and pulling out my knife I say, "So, what kind of problem did they have?"
He gives me a dubious look until he's certain I'm not going to slash him. I use the knife to saw away the plastic tie from his wrists. While he rubs at the marks he says, "The um, Estate guardian."
Preforming my best dumb look I say, "Estate what?"
He repeats, "Guardian." Then he looks at me for a hint that I might have a clue. He says, "It's some older tech from the clone home worlds. Some of the tribes use them to guard the property of important tribe members. The guardian stays dormant while monitoring life signs of the owner. If he dies or appears to, they activate and protect the property of the owner. In most cases it amounts to protecting the body. Trouble with them is that they can activate if the owner is too far away from them and forgotten to disarm them. I need to confirm that your parents really are dead, but can't do that until the guardian is deactivated."
Shaking my head, I say, "I didn't know they had one of those. So, they sent you here without the code to deactivate it. I hope you didn't come here to me for the code."
Dalton looks annoyed but says, "I had the code. And it's a bit tricky and dangerous approaching one of those. It can be deadly if you don't deactivate it right away. It seems your father changed the code somehow. It was quite a feat to get away from that thing before it squashed me."
I nod and say, "And that's about the time the locals abandoned you?"
Dalton runs his hand through his hair and says, "That about sums it up."
I narrow my eyes to slits again. I say, "Can't the locals just hit it with something hard. Maybe knock it over and disable it."
He shrugs and says, "Maybe something from their military. I think they're hoping your parents are just absent. The hardware to bring it down is expensive and so is the guardian."
Ted distracts us with a movement. The branches on the ground crack as he tries to back into the edge of the trees. I turn around to look in the direction that Jason had run off. I first see Misha then Jason. He must have brought her for an extra witness for when I strangle him.
Jase has his hands in his pockets and is looking down. Hesitantly his voice explains, "I didn't know it was loaded."
I fix him with a stare and say, "Well, that's the first rule with these things. Always treat them as though they're loaded. What I really need to know though is how you ended up with it. I also thought by now you'd be half way back to the big city. And, before you tell me anything I should explain something to you. This was very important to my father. He kept it locked up. I tried to get it out a couple of times just because I was sick and tired of his obsessiveness with it and a few other things. He always caught me in the middle of the act. The last time he told me if anything ever happened to him he'd be sure that I got this since I found it so fascinating."
Jason looks away then edges into the camp in careful steps. Misha is holding back where she is. I can see she's pretty uneasy about what might transpire. I've no idea what Jase may have told her. He says,"Yeah, well. Your dad told me I should give that to you. That's all there is to it."
My body almost sags involuntarily. I say, "Ha! Now I'm not sure what bothers me most. That you appeared as though you were going to keep this or that you were actually talking to my father. What is that all about?"
Jason looks from Misha to Ted then to me and says, "I don't think I was the only one he offered to pay to come talk to him. He just wanted to talk about you. How you've been doing." Jase's eyes dart to the side to watch Dalton, his hands are making fists.
I'm still glaring at him without uttering a word. A while later when his eyes come back to me he says, "I, think he was going to offer me some credits to bring you back home. He wanted you home whatever way he could get it done. It was a lot of credit. But, I wasn't gonna take it for anything."
I look at his co-conspirators and say, "I'm sure it was a lot of credits. So what really happened? Why did he change his mind?" For the next question I have to bite my tongue a bit. "Is that why you killed him and took this?" It takes every once of energy to keep my voice steady.
Jase shakes his head and says, "I swear he was fine when I left. You heard the man here. He didn't check cause of that guardian thing. Maybe they're still alive. All I know is he already had the weapon out. He seemed spooked about something and gave me extra chits and told me to make sure you stay where you are."
I look at Dalton who is also shaking his head. He say, "It's possible they could be alive but not likely. I'm not sure anyone would be able to tweak the guardian to activate when the owner is still alive and nearby. And, it could have even been keyed to only trigger if both of them were dead. I suppose if they both packed up and ran off somewhere far enough away the guardian might have triggered. I'll know that once I can get past it. But, by design it's primary function is to locate the body and protect it. Based on it's constant position I'd guess it's protecting something."
I'm wondering now why he even bothered to come out here. Dalton must be able to read my body language because he says, "I'm hoping that it might be keyed to you also. You are out of range right now. As soon as we get you closer it might response to your presence."
I say, "So, what's the key look like? Cause I don't wear jewelry and crap." Dalton approaches me. I step back and the rifle bobs on my arm. He looks at it and stops. I stare and say, "What do you have in mind."
Dalton says, "It's a tag. Sometimes in the earlobe. Maybe. It will feel like a lump."
I put my hand up to my left lob then the right. I shake my head.
He says, "Sometimes they insert them in other places."
To that I give him a steady stare. I say, "Well, I don't know you well enough to have you groping all over my body in search of something that probably doesn't exist. In fact,now that I think of it, was that the plan last night?"
He slowly shakes his head while backing away with his hands half way up.
There's a long quiet into which I do a lot of pondering. I finally break it, slapping my hands together. I say, "Well, maybe we should go check this out and see if there's a way to get in there." Dalton doesn't move or speak and that might be a good sign. Still I have doubts. Almost hopefully I say, "Unless my dad paid you to concoct this god awful story?"
Dalton shakes his head again. His voice is almost soft as he says, "I wish it were that simple."
Jason says, "Hey, we could go along. Make sure he keeps his hands to himself. Make sure you can come back here after you straighten things out. Oh, hey. Your father wanted you to stay out here. Maybe you should do that. Maybe he sent the gun to you for protection."
I think Jason is telling the truth. There still is room for doubt though. I walk over to him and say, "It's okay. You should stay here. If Mr. Greymare here had it wrong, the authority in town might have things just as muddled. You probably don't want to deal with them."
Walking into his space I say, "You can hold on to this while I'm gone. And even though I took the live rounds from it, don't point it at anyone."
I grab the stock twist it around still pointing it at the ground. And I place the rifle into his shaking hands.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
That's what Dalton had suggested. He shifts his position in the sand where I'd left him sitting. His hands are still restrained by the overlarge tie-wrap.
I walk over to the rifle. I pick it up and use the edge of my blouse to wipe the grit off of it. Turning it slowly in my hands. It sure looks like dads. I choke back a breath. I observe, "This could easily be it, but I've no idea how many of these there might be around here." I look up at Dalton as if he might be able to confirm something and turn away before he can respond.
My eyes stop and rest on Ted who is still in his alcoholic stupor watching this drama unfold. Ted doesn't appear to be focused on anything. I slowly look back at our prisoner.
Dalton moves once more. He winces as though in pain and looks over his shoulders then at me. He says, "It's a one of a kind here. Possibly the only one outside of earth itself. That's an exceptionally old piece." It almost seemed to me he'd left off saying, Belongs in a museum. That makes sense. Dad made his own shells.
I grip it a more tightly. The significance begins to grow. My eyes tear away from it and rest again on Dalton. I've no idea if he can fathom how much this means to me. I look again at the rifle. I pull back the bolt. The trigger moves and the used cartridge is exposed. Obviously Jason doesn't know how these work or he forgot in a hurry during the excitement. It's a wonder he had it loaded and ready. If he's not familiar, someone else must have set this up before giving it to him. The question then is why. Jason might have even fired it by accident. The second time he tried to fire wasn't an accident, but it was very stupid. I flip the spent cartridge to the ground. I pull down the magazine, it has only two bullets left. I dig those out and stuff them in my pocket then replace the magazine and leave the bolt and trigger in locked position. I hook the rifle on my arm pointed at the ground.
As if thinking the same thing I am. Dalton says, "Interesting."
I let out a slow breath and manage to croak out, "So you found my parents dead and someone took this and you traced it to Jase."
Dalton shakes his head and says, "Not quite. I wasn't able to get near the compound and I was following a different trail."
I correct him and say, "It's a house or estate, that's what we call them here." I open my eyes wider and stand straight while considering what he's just said.
Dalton shrugs,"Yeah. I know. I'm sure they call them that where my primary came from. I didn't know about the rifle until I saw your friend coming over a hill waving it around dangerously. I knew it existed. Until I saw him with it I wouldn't have known where it was. I assumed he was headed this way. He had the rifle and I figured that he was the one I was looking for."
Breathing more normally I grasp onto what he's said and ask, "You couldn't get near the house? Were the local police there and you are unofficial or something so you couldn't get involved with them?"
Shaking his head he say, "Na. They took me there so I could see that they really had the problem they said they had. They thought I could solve it for them. I couldn't and that's when they got upset and we parted ways."
Coming over next to him and pulling out my knife I say, "So, what kind of problem did they have?"
He gives me a dubious look until he's certain I'm not going to slash him. I use the knife to saw away the plastic tie from his wrists. While he rubs at the marks he says, "The um, Estate guardian."
Preforming my best dumb look I say, "Estate what?"
He repeats, "Guardian." Then he looks at me for a hint that I might have a clue. He says, "It's some older tech from the clone home worlds. Some of the tribes use them to guard the property of important tribe members. The guardian stays dormant while monitoring life signs of the owner. If he dies or appears to, they activate and protect the property of the owner. In most cases it amounts to protecting the body. Trouble with them is that they can activate if the owner is too far away from them and forgotten to disarm them. I need to confirm that your parents really are dead, but can't do that until the guardian is deactivated."
Shaking my head, I say, "I didn't know they had one of those. So, they sent you here without the code to deactivate it. I hope you didn't come here to me for the code."
Dalton looks annoyed but says, "I had the code. And it's a bit tricky and dangerous approaching one of those. It can be deadly if you don't deactivate it right away. It seems your father changed the code somehow. It was quite a feat to get away from that thing before it squashed me."
I nod and say, "And that's about the time the locals abandoned you?"
Dalton runs his hand through his hair and says, "That about sums it up."
I narrow my eyes to slits again. I say, "Can't the locals just hit it with something hard. Maybe knock it over and disable it."
He shrugs and says, "Maybe something from their military. I think they're hoping your parents are just absent. The hardware to bring it down is expensive and so is the guardian."
Ted distracts us with a movement. The branches on the ground crack as he tries to back into the edge of the trees. I turn around to look in the direction that Jason had run off. I first see Misha then Jason. He must have brought her for an extra witness for when I strangle him.
Jase has his hands in his pockets and is looking down. Hesitantly his voice explains, "I didn't know it was loaded."
I fix him with a stare and say, "Well, that's the first rule with these things. Always treat them as though they're loaded. What I really need to know though is how you ended up with it. I also thought by now you'd be half way back to the big city. And, before you tell me anything I should explain something to you. This was very important to my father. He kept it locked up. I tried to get it out a couple of times just because I was sick and tired of his obsessiveness with it and a few other things. He always caught me in the middle of the act. The last time he told me if anything ever happened to him he'd be sure that I got this since I found it so fascinating."
Jason looks away then edges into the camp in careful steps. Misha is holding back where she is. I can see she's pretty uneasy about what might transpire. I've no idea what Jase may have told her. He says,"Yeah, well. Your dad told me I should give that to you. That's all there is to it."
My body almost sags involuntarily. I say, "Ha! Now I'm not sure what bothers me most. That you appeared as though you were going to keep this or that you were actually talking to my father. What is that all about?"
Jason looks from Misha to Ted then to me and says, "I don't think I was the only one he offered to pay to come talk to him. He just wanted to talk about you. How you've been doing." Jase's eyes dart to the side to watch Dalton, his hands are making fists.
I'm still glaring at him without uttering a word. A while later when his eyes come back to me he says, "I, think he was going to offer me some credits to bring you back home. He wanted you home whatever way he could get it done. It was a lot of credit. But, I wasn't gonna take it for anything."
I look at his co-conspirators and say, "I'm sure it was a lot of credits. So what really happened? Why did he change his mind?" For the next question I have to bite my tongue a bit. "Is that why you killed him and took this?" It takes every once of energy to keep my voice steady.
Jase shakes his head and says, "I swear he was fine when I left. You heard the man here. He didn't check cause of that guardian thing. Maybe they're still alive. All I know is he already had the weapon out. He seemed spooked about something and gave me extra chits and told me to make sure you stay where you are."
I look at Dalton who is also shaking his head. He say, "It's possible they could be alive but not likely. I'm not sure anyone would be able to tweak the guardian to activate when the owner is still alive and nearby. And, it could have even been keyed to only trigger if both of them were dead. I suppose if they both packed up and ran off somewhere far enough away the guardian might have triggered. I'll know that once I can get past it. But, by design it's primary function is to locate the body and protect it. Based on it's constant position I'd guess it's protecting something."
I'm wondering now why he even bothered to come out here. Dalton must be able to read my body language because he says, "I'm hoping that it might be keyed to you also. You are out of range right now. As soon as we get you closer it might response to your presence."
I say, "So, what's the key look like? Cause I don't wear jewelry and crap." Dalton approaches me. I step back and the rifle bobs on my arm. He looks at it and stops. I stare and say, "What do you have in mind."
Dalton says, "It's a tag. Sometimes in the earlobe. Maybe. It will feel like a lump."
I put my hand up to my left lob then the right. I shake my head.
He says, "Sometimes they insert them in other places."
To that I give him a steady stare. I say, "Well, I don't know you well enough to have you groping all over my body in search of something that probably doesn't exist. In fact,now that I think of it, was that the plan last night?"
He slowly shakes his head while backing away with his hands half way up.
There's a long quiet into which I do a lot of pondering. I finally break it, slapping my hands together. I say, "Well, maybe we should go check this out and see if there's a way to get in there." Dalton doesn't move or speak and that might be a good sign. Still I have doubts. Almost hopefully I say, "Unless my dad paid you to concoct this god awful story?"
Dalton shakes his head again. His voice is almost soft as he says, "I wish it were that simple."
Jason says, "Hey, we could go along. Make sure he keeps his hands to himself. Make sure you can come back here after you straighten things out. Oh, hey. Your father wanted you to stay out here. Maybe you should do that. Maybe he sent the gun to you for protection."
I think Jason is telling the truth. There still is room for doubt though. I walk over to him and say, "It's okay. You should stay here. If Mr. Greymare here had it wrong, the authority in town might have things just as muddled. You probably don't want to deal with them."
Walking into his space I say, "You can hold on to this while I'm gone. And even though I took the live rounds from it, don't point it at anyone."
I grab the stock twist it around still pointing it at the ground. And I place the rifle into his shaking hands.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
IV:The Other Hamilton Sister::Venom
Venom.
I've seen people cook these without draining em. Not me. Besides there are uses for that venom. I try to drain any that's left in the sack into whatever small container I have handy. This one only had a little. It was enough though if it had gotten close enough to score a hit. Stuff can paralyze a horse. If they can catch the horse. Most horses seem to have a sixth sense about these lizards.
Love the taste. That's the lizard not the horse.
Don't ask me what it taste like. I don't like chicken. Come to think of it this stuff is more like the marrow from that bone in the round steak. A little rich. You can only eat so much. But these lizards usually aren't any bigger than a cat. Cats like the lizard meat too. But, I've seen a few get on the wrong end of the deal. It's not pretty.
I lick some of the juices off my hand. The fire crackles and sparks. My other hand withdraws quickly. I've cut most of what I'll eat off. It's spread out on the flat part of the wood I call my plate. Sitting on my haunches well away from the radiating heat I nibble. When I look up Michelle shifts her weight. I think she's been sitting there waiting for me to offer her part of my kill. I point the knife at the fire. I say, "I was gonna save the legs for Jason. I know how much he likes them." Mich's nose wrinkles and the look of disgust tells me the legs are safe. I say,"Oh. Sorry I should have offered some of this." I separate the remaining chunks half and half and hold out the plate.
Mish puts her nose up and kicks at the dirt. Some of the dirt goes into the fire. She turns and starts to walk away. Without turning back she shouts, "You people are disgusting. I don't know how you can eat that crap. Those lizards and the disgusting..."
I offer, "Insects."
She says, "No! Those maggots. You eat insects too?"
I have to think about the maggots thing. Then I say, "Oh, the grubs. Sure those are good for you. And, It's mostly the larger insects. They have extra flavor."
She's almost running now. I can hear Mish choking or screaming. "Ahhhhhhhhhh..."
I hear someone laughing. Looking towards the sound I see Ted is standing shirtless with a jug under his arm. He's leaning up against a fragile tree. His feet are all clomping down on some green vines. I fix him with a remonstrant stare. I say, "It's really not that funny you know. She shouldn't be out here if she can't contribute. More so if she can't stomach the things we bring to the table."
Ted says, "She's a hoot. You were supposed to bring her up something from the bar." He uncorks the jug and takes a long swig.
I pull my eyes back and upward. "Oops. I forgot." I point at the flat thing on the fire with the legs lightly scorched. "I did bring that though, Jason doesn't have to have the legs."
Ted rolls his eyes and says, "Like she's ever going to touch that stuff."
I look at his jug and say, "Maybe if you could get her to drink some of that she wouldn't be so averse."
He hugs his jug more tightly. Now he has nasty looks for me. He says, "She starts in on my stash and I'll deliver her back to her mom and dad."
Shaking my head I say, "She didn't run away. They booted her. She doesn't have many options."
Ted grumbles, "As opposed to you who have parents who posted your picture before they discovered you weren't interested in being found."
I divert my gaze to the fire. Watching the flame inhale and exhale. I say, "Yeah, well. It wouldn't be a problem if I'd been brought up the sensible way. I'm not even sure how you can call people parents when they not only don't have your genes, but they have no clue how to parent someone."
Ted says, "Maybe you should cut them some slack."
That makes me growl. I say, "Maybe you shouldn't drink that stuff in the daytime when it can suck the water out of you. You'll pass out somewhere where no one notices and my next lunch will drag you off somewhere."
Ted shrugs his shoulders and says, "Circle of life, ya gotta love it."
I hear a rustling of the nearby foliage and start to wheel around. Ted shouts out, "Oh, welcome back Jase, you're early. Thought you was gonna work all weekend. What's that you brought back with you?"
I turn in time to have Mr. Dalton Greymare thrown almost at my feet. His hands are behind him. When his forward motion pushes him to his knees I have to stick mine out to keep his face from hitting the ground. His clothes are all dusty. His face and arms are scratched up a bit. When I take a closer look I can see the heavy duty plastic tie that's binding his hands together. I look up at Jason ready to ask him what the deal is but I have to stop and turn away. I'm almost laughing.
Jason is also covered in scratches. It looks like the bramble attacked both of these guys. But, Jason has a black eye too. Bramble doesn't usually do that. When I look back down on the captive I notice he has a shitty grin on his face and his eyes are staring at my thigh. Jason lowers the antique weapon he's pointing at Dalton. He scowls and says, "Good you can torture him for a while."
I nod at the rifle. "Where'd you get that? My dad has one like it. It's in a glass case. Like it's something valuable. Only takes it out to clean it."
Jason looks at the rifle with what seems like added respect. He smiles and says, "Got it as a sort of bonus on my last job."
I say, "Nice bonus." Reaching down I hook the tie and pull out my knife. I say, "Enuff horsing around. We should let Mr. Greymare go."
Jason looks at me with quizzical eyes. Then he nods and pulls a wallet from his pocket and says, "You know him? I guess that would be about right. Being he's from your home world. Don't cut him loose until I have a moment to find out why he ambushed me." His hand has stopped my knife before reaching the plastic.
"Ambush?" I raise my eyebrows. I don't know if I should be impressed or confused. I look at those boots again while Jason tosses the wallet at me. I catch it and look down to Dalton, who seems happy to rest his head on my thigh, I say, "Escura Luz, is this some joke. A fake ID. Greymare from Escura Luz. Lord Greymare?"
His shoulders shrug and Dalton says, "I am but a shadow of my former self."
That hits home. The clones that are brought up after their namesake has passed away are religiously taught to view their life that way. I throw the wallet down and say, "Yeah, a shadow full of crap maybe."
He doesn't say anything so I grasp his wrist and tear him away from his comfort zone.
Jason says, "I didn't know you had lords on the clone worlds."
I look Dalton in the eyes. Yeah there it is or isn't. There's no fear. He has a neck chain. I pull at it and it pops out with a small tube floating at the end. These are used to scab off a chunk of flesh to go to the vats when Dalton has any sort of death, untimely or otherwise. Most of the clans closer to the central cities keep some on file. Some like the ones in the region of Escura Luz don't have that much luxury. And some choose to wait until the event happens. They have been known to lose a part of their line that way. He still looks too soft to me. But I now have a little more respect for him.
Letting out a long breath I say, "So what are you doing here?"
Almost bordering on glib Dalton says, "Your friend here dragged me."
Shaking my head I say, "Not here, here. Why are you on New Terra? I always thought mom and dad were just being paranoid that someone was going to come out here looking for us."
Dalton fixes me with a cold stare before he turns his head and over his shoulder he says,"You should have killed me out there when you had the chance." Jason just looks confused. Dalton turns back to me. He says, "Your parents are dead."
My heart sinks and I have no idea why.
It's quiet for a long time. Jason seems to be on the edge. He's holding the rifle as though he's going to throttle it or maybe strike Dalton with the stock. Unsure of which, I hold up my hand and say,"You don't want to mar that if it's valuable." I stare at Dalton while a moist glimmer of a tear is trying to make itself in the corner of my eye.
Dalton looks once more over his shoulder and then address's me again. "They were murdered three days ago. I arrived here yesterday. I picked up the perpetrators trail by evening. They went to ground and I spent the night at your nice tavern. I almost missed his flight out this way but i was able to get up there on Jerry's truck so I could intercept him."
Gasping once I say, "What are you talking about?"
Jason takes this moment to bring the rifle to bear down on Dalton's kidney. Dalton's knees start to buckle but he holds his stance. He grits his teeth and says, "You should really take a closer look at that weapon."
Jason brings the rifle up, I try to grab the barrel and pull him towards me. He lets off a shot that nearly deafens me. He pushes me aside trying to rip the rifle from my hands. He tries to point it at Dalton with me still holding onto it. I grasp my knife and swing it out towards Jason's face. Jason brings up a hand to his face and he steps back. It probably felt like he was stung. He looks at the blood on his finger and starts to move forward again with the rifle.
I grit my teeth and say, "You should probably get down to the river and wash that out." I let my eyes wander to the fire where the charbroiled lizard sits over the dying embers."
Jason looks, his eyes widen and he drops the rifle and runs almost in the same direction Mich had gone.
I wheel around and grasp the front of Dalton's shirt. I pull him closer and say, "Alright, while he's busy you better start talking fast."
When he remains mute I nudge him."Better hurry before he realizes that knife didn't have any venom on it."
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
I've seen people cook these without draining em. Not me. Besides there are uses for that venom. I try to drain any that's left in the sack into whatever small container I have handy. This one only had a little. It was enough though if it had gotten close enough to score a hit. Stuff can paralyze a horse. If they can catch the horse. Most horses seem to have a sixth sense about these lizards.
Love the taste. That's the lizard not the horse.
Don't ask me what it taste like. I don't like chicken. Come to think of it this stuff is more like the marrow from that bone in the round steak. A little rich. You can only eat so much. But these lizards usually aren't any bigger than a cat. Cats like the lizard meat too. But, I've seen a few get on the wrong end of the deal. It's not pretty.
I lick some of the juices off my hand. The fire crackles and sparks. My other hand withdraws quickly. I've cut most of what I'll eat off. It's spread out on the flat part of the wood I call my plate. Sitting on my haunches well away from the radiating heat I nibble. When I look up Michelle shifts her weight. I think she's been sitting there waiting for me to offer her part of my kill. I point the knife at the fire. I say, "I was gonna save the legs for Jason. I know how much he likes them." Mich's nose wrinkles and the look of disgust tells me the legs are safe. I say,"Oh. Sorry I should have offered some of this." I separate the remaining chunks half and half and hold out the plate.
Mish puts her nose up and kicks at the dirt. Some of the dirt goes into the fire. She turns and starts to walk away. Without turning back she shouts, "You people are disgusting. I don't know how you can eat that crap. Those lizards and the disgusting..."
I offer, "Insects."
She says, "No! Those maggots. You eat insects too?"
I have to think about the maggots thing. Then I say, "Oh, the grubs. Sure those are good for you. And, It's mostly the larger insects. They have extra flavor."
She's almost running now. I can hear Mish choking or screaming. "Ahhhhhhhhhh..."
I hear someone laughing. Looking towards the sound I see Ted is standing shirtless with a jug under his arm. He's leaning up against a fragile tree. His feet are all clomping down on some green vines. I fix him with a remonstrant stare. I say, "It's really not that funny you know. She shouldn't be out here if she can't contribute. More so if she can't stomach the things we bring to the table."
Ted says, "She's a hoot. You were supposed to bring her up something from the bar." He uncorks the jug and takes a long swig.
I pull my eyes back and upward. "Oops. I forgot." I point at the flat thing on the fire with the legs lightly scorched. "I did bring that though, Jason doesn't have to have the legs."
Ted rolls his eyes and says, "Like she's ever going to touch that stuff."
I look at his jug and say, "Maybe if you could get her to drink some of that she wouldn't be so averse."
He hugs his jug more tightly. Now he has nasty looks for me. He says, "She starts in on my stash and I'll deliver her back to her mom and dad."
Shaking my head I say, "She didn't run away. They booted her. She doesn't have many options."
Ted grumbles, "As opposed to you who have parents who posted your picture before they discovered you weren't interested in being found."
I divert my gaze to the fire. Watching the flame inhale and exhale. I say, "Yeah, well. It wouldn't be a problem if I'd been brought up the sensible way. I'm not even sure how you can call people parents when they not only don't have your genes, but they have no clue how to parent someone."
Ted says, "Maybe you should cut them some slack."
That makes me growl. I say, "Maybe you shouldn't drink that stuff in the daytime when it can suck the water out of you. You'll pass out somewhere where no one notices and my next lunch will drag you off somewhere."
Ted shrugs his shoulders and says, "Circle of life, ya gotta love it."
I hear a rustling of the nearby foliage and start to wheel around. Ted shouts out, "Oh, welcome back Jase, you're early. Thought you was gonna work all weekend. What's that you brought back with you?"
I turn in time to have Mr. Dalton Greymare thrown almost at my feet. His hands are behind him. When his forward motion pushes him to his knees I have to stick mine out to keep his face from hitting the ground. His clothes are all dusty. His face and arms are scratched up a bit. When I take a closer look I can see the heavy duty plastic tie that's binding his hands together. I look up at Jason ready to ask him what the deal is but I have to stop and turn away. I'm almost laughing.
Jason is also covered in scratches. It looks like the bramble attacked both of these guys. But, Jason has a black eye too. Bramble doesn't usually do that. When I look back down on the captive I notice he has a shitty grin on his face and his eyes are staring at my thigh. Jason lowers the antique weapon he's pointing at Dalton. He scowls and says, "Good you can torture him for a while."
I nod at the rifle. "Where'd you get that? My dad has one like it. It's in a glass case. Like it's something valuable. Only takes it out to clean it."
Jason looks at the rifle with what seems like added respect. He smiles and says, "Got it as a sort of bonus on my last job."
I say, "Nice bonus." Reaching down I hook the tie and pull out my knife. I say, "Enuff horsing around. We should let Mr. Greymare go."
Jason looks at me with quizzical eyes. Then he nods and pulls a wallet from his pocket and says, "You know him? I guess that would be about right. Being he's from your home world. Don't cut him loose until I have a moment to find out why he ambushed me." His hand has stopped my knife before reaching the plastic.
"Ambush?" I raise my eyebrows. I don't know if I should be impressed or confused. I look at those boots again while Jason tosses the wallet at me. I catch it and look down to Dalton, who seems happy to rest his head on my thigh, I say, "Escura Luz, is this some joke. A fake ID. Greymare from Escura Luz. Lord Greymare?"
His shoulders shrug and Dalton says, "I am but a shadow of my former self."
That hits home. The clones that are brought up after their namesake has passed away are religiously taught to view their life that way. I throw the wallet down and say, "Yeah, a shadow full of crap maybe."
He doesn't say anything so I grasp his wrist and tear him away from his comfort zone.
Jason says, "I didn't know you had lords on the clone worlds."
I look Dalton in the eyes. Yeah there it is or isn't. There's no fear. He has a neck chain. I pull at it and it pops out with a small tube floating at the end. These are used to scab off a chunk of flesh to go to the vats when Dalton has any sort of death, untimely or otherwise. Most of the clans closer to the central cities keep some on file. Some like the ones in the region of Escura Luz don't have that much luxury. And some choose to wait until the event happens. They have been known to lose a part of their line that way. He still looks too soft to me. But I now have a little more respect for him.
Letting out a long breath I say, "So what are you doing here?"
Almost bordering on glib Dalton says, "Your friend here dragged me."
Shaking my head I say, "Not here, here. Why are you on New Terra? I always thought mom and dad were just being paranoid that someone was going to come out here looking for us."
Dalton fixes me with a cold stare before he turns his head and over his shoulder he says,"You should have killed me out there when you had the chance." Jason just looks confused. Dalton turns back to me. He says, "Your parents are dead."
My heart sinks and I have no idea why.
It's quiet for a long time. Jason seems to be on the edge. He's holding the rifle as though he's going to throttle it or maybe strike Dalton with the stock. Unsure of which, I hold up my hand and say,"You don't want to mar that if it's valuable." I stare at Dalton while a moist glimmer of a tear is trying to make itself in the corner of my eye.
Dalton looks once more over his shoulder and then address's me again. "They were murdered three days ago. I arrived here yesterday. I picked up the perpetrators trail by evening. They went to ground and I spent the night at your nice tavern. I almost missed his flight out this way but i was able to get up there on Jerry's truck so I could intercept him."
Gasping once I say, "What are you talking about?"
Jason takes this moment to bring the rifle to bear down on Dalton's kidney. Dalton's knees start to buckle but he holds his stance. He grits his teeth and says, "You should really take a closer look at that weapon."
Jason brings the rifle up, I try to grab the barrel and pull him towards me. He lets off a shot that nearly deafens me. He pushes me aside trying to rip the rifle from my hands. He tries to point it at Dalton with me still holding onto it. I grasp my knife and swing it out towards Jason's face. Jason brings up a hand to his face and he steps back. It probably felt like he was stung. He looks at the blood on his finger and starts to move forward again with the rifle.
I grit my teeth and say, "You should probably get down to the river and wash that out." I let my eyes wander to the fire where the charbroiled lizard sits over the dying embers."
Jason looks, his eyes widen and he drops the rifle and runs almost in the same direction Mich had gone.
I wheel around and grasp the front of Dalton's shirt. I pull him closer and say, "Alright, while he's busy you better start talking fast."
When he remains mute I nudge him."Better hurry before he realizes that knife didn't have any venom on it."
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
Monday, May 21, 2012
III:The Other Hamilton Sister::Hiss
Hiss!
I hear the hiss first and it causes me to turn roundabout 180. A hiss is always bad out here. Damn lizards. They attack just about anything this time of day. I have my knife out. I don't see the tell tale dust trail. I listen and watch. I hear the whirr and whoosh of an Anti-Grav lift truck. I wait and sure enough there's a hiss. It's still not a good thing. I look up from my stalking and down the twisted dirt path until I see the artificial dust devil bringing up the rear of Jerry's supply truck.
Jerry's an okay dude for a city type. He occasionally drops us campers a few supplies. And, on days like today he tends to offer me rides. That hiss tells me he'll want just a bit more than to offer me a ride though. Trouble with those old pieces of CORE material they use for the Anti-Grav is that they are made from the scrap of the good stuff they use in outer space. This one is overheating more than usual and the sweat from the systems pipes is starting to flow down upon it. That means the coolant system has been overtaxed or compromised.
I put my knife away and stick my hands in my back pockets while I wait for Jerry to catch up.
Jerry takes runs over the mountain and into the next valley. While in the big city He picks up supplies that he knows are needed in the small city. He makes a moderate profit selling the stuff to the locals in WestBend City. WestBend is mostly a shanty town. They have a local government though. Otherwise Jerry would make more profit. He has to pay taxes to the city.
Jerry's Rio Express is close enough now that I can see the sun gleaming off the silver grill. I can also distinguish the steam from dust. Anti-Grav is more push then it is a float. That creates dust. Some people call it anti-pressure, I'm not all that sure about that. But it does seem to show up better down here where pressure is higher. If a piece of CORE were to push its way up high enough it would likely stop for lack of enough pressure to react upon. The whole system is an affectation of keeping the CORE crippled. They call it cripple mode. They hobble the CORE so it doesn't slip into JumpSpace. That produces the Anti-Pressure effect. Trouble is it causes the CORE to overheat the longer it stays in that condition. It can take a lot of heat before it reaches critical.
If it gets that far it's going to do one of two things. It might just blow. It might slip into JumpSpace. Either way it will likely take a good chunk of whatever is near it with it. Jerry's taking a chance with that thing but maybe he saw me here and figured he could get to me before he could turn back and try to reach the city.
Several meters away there's a clunk and the dust storm dies. It dies with a vengeance though and comes whipping up around the front until everything disappears and I get a face full of dirt. As the wall of sand abates I catch the shape of the truck gliding towards me. The CORE is still activated or he'd be nosediving into the rock and sand. I can hear the thistle cacti pinging against the underbelly as the truck ducks a bit before it settles.
Jerry's tanned left arm is hanging out of the window. His head peeks out and he says, "Hey Angie lady how bout a cool ride?"
I call back, "Sounds about ready to get real hot if you ask me."
Jerry's other hand slips out with a rolled up pouch full of tools. "Na. Not if you take a quick look see. I'll be out to help you in a sec." I run up and take the pouch. A face leans around Jerry's shoulder. Jerry doesn't usually take on strangers. I don't recognize the face. It's nothing local. Jerry ignores the company and says, "The tank is full in back if it needs recharging."
Looking over his shoulder I say, "You starting a bus service Jerry?"
Jerry waves his hand and says, "Tourist."
That makes me blurt out, "Tourism in WestBend City. That's... different. I guess."
The face has a hand and it's waving at me. I take a closer look. Last time I saw that face it was serenely attached to a table top. I almost duck for cover. Instead I just wave and say, "Oh, hey you woke up."
Putting the tools down and wiping my forehead I look at Jerry who's bending my way and has been mostly watching. Jerry hands me a towel so I figure that means I should probably check and see what parts I just dirtied up on my face. I look at him and say, "It probably has a slow leak. You might have to have someone check it back in the big city. I'm not sure anyone in WestBend City will be of much help. I can't seem to find it and the system took a good charge and its holding for now. So you should be good to go. If you had someone charge this recently you might be able to gauge by that to when it will need attention again. I wouldn't wait though."
Jerry nods. He looks over his shoulder at the gentleman standing watch near the front of the truck. He's been real polite about not interfering or helping. He looks kinda soft anyway. Those boots of his look more fancy ornamental than practical. Good thing he's heading for the little city. He isn't rough enough for the terrain here. I touch Jerry's shoulder and say, "How much you getting for being a tour guide."
Jerry's face almost goes red. He hesitates and then says, "Enough."
I say, "Well, I guess i can ride out on the sideboards."
Jerry shrugs and says, "I don't think he'll mind you crowding into the cab."
I spit onto the ground and say, "I don't expect so. I'll still ride outside."
Jerry cocks his head and says, "He's the one noticed you out here first." He grins a bit and says, "He thought maybe we should offer you a ride."
I lift my eyebrows and say, "I take it you hadn't mentioned you were about to turn back."
Jerry looks off to the side and says, "I was only just then thinking about it. Kinda glad to see you myself." He looks back to the front of the truck at his guest.
I glance that way and back and have a thought. I say, "How much extra did you tag him for to let me ride along."
Jerry doesn't answer. That's what I thought always the entrepreneur. I grin at him and say, "If I did ride up front with him you'd just want to charge him more anyway."
As Jerry moves back towards the cab I notice a slight limp in his gait. I say, "What you do to your leg there."
He waves a hand in the air and says, "Just twisted things up while loading the truck. It'll be alright after I work it out a bit."
Were moving along at a fair clip and it won't take long to get up into the mountain and out of these hills. Jerry's path will take us a bit away from where the canyon divide sets hidden behind some of the largest trees you'll find around here. That means I still have a way to go after he drops me off.
I'm hanging off of Jerry's side of the truck and was going to ignore Tom over there on the other side. But, Tom seems too eager to make chit chat. He leans into the windshield to see around Jerry and says, "Hi my names Dalton. Dalton Greymare. I don't believe I got your name last night."
I turn to let the wind hit my face. There is still a lot of whining and whuring going on and all sorts of dust kicking around behind us. These Diamond Reo's blend in nice what with all the natural dust devils that whip up along the plain below. Leaning back into the window a bit, to annoy Jerry mostly, I say, "Angie."
Jerry laughs, "Yep, just Angie."
I shake my head a bit. That's what most people think, just Angie. I remember the General had a last name for us. We girls. What was that? Something having to do with the prime male donor for our genetic workup. I have another thought though. I lean into the truck again and say, "Greymare that's a prominent name in current clone history."
Dalton nods and says, "Yep."
I'm thinking he's either just agreeing with me or he might know a bit of common history. Things stay quiet for a while and I finally blurt out. "Hamilton, That's my last name or at least the only one anyone ever tried to give me."
Dalton says, "That's another name with a lot of history."
Looking at him through slitted eyes I say, "Wouldn't know any of that."
He sits back quietly. So, I return to staring off in the distance. It won't be too long before I get off this ride anyway. Too soon we slow to a halt. I look back at our drifting brown tail. I hear Jerry say. "Just stopping to sight see."
I try to look past Jerry but he's half way out the window and in my way. So I shout, "Not much to see here unless you're partial to desolation. There's some nice trees and foliage up a bit further.' There's no answer so I turn and look across the sand and rock through the tumbleweeds. I'm almost tempted to get off and finish this on foot.
After a long wait Jerry says, "Well, you might just as well get in the cab now." He has leaned back in and the seat next to him is vacant. I step down and run around the front of the truck then I go half way to the rear. On the way back I shout, "What did you do with our guest?"
Jerry says, "He got off."
I say, "When?"
"Just now." Jerry looks out past me towards a large stand of dried weeds.
I wave my hands and say, "Why didn't you say something. I could've tripped him up and knocked him out. You could have delivered him to WestBend. Out here by himself something will kill him and eat him. At least in WestBend they won't eat him."
Jerry says, "He ran behind the bramble if you want to chase him. But, I'm not gonna stick around long."
I shout again, "Why did you do it? And, what anyway? He just decided this was a good spot to go hiking."
Jerry shakes his head, "Ha, he paid me earlier and said he was gonna be dropped of somewhere out here. Hell when we picked you up I figured he'd at least wait and get off with you. Course with you being miss cordial and all he must'ov figured that wouldn't work."
I nod and say,"Darn right it wouldn't." Looking outward I can't see anything moving. I say, "I'm not chasing after some mad man. Just remember when somebody misses him and tracks him out here I'm pointing them your way. No way I'm gonna put up with them harassing us once more for something we have nothing to do with."
Jerry says, "No Problem. I'm gonna pick him up here on the way back. I gave him the time and he said he'd be here."
As i climb into the cab I say, "And if he's not here."
Jerry shrugs, "I'll come up and visit with you and leave a note on the truck."
While I glare at Jerry he turns to start the truck. I say, "You didn't tell him how to get to our camp did you?"
Jerry puts us in gear and as we slide forward he shakes his head. "Na, I wouldn't do that. He'd be killed and eaten for sure then."
After that we ride in silence.
I slam the truck door and don't even say goodbye. I can't believe Jerry could be that rude. The trees afford enough shade for me and I take my time walking through the brush. We've been very careful not to wear down a traceable path. I walk back and forth weaving a new route over fallen trees and moss covered rocks. I'm quite a ways in before I hear the hiss. Jerry and his truck are gone so it's not them.
I stop to look around and I think about that foolish tourist. Maybe the boys can take a moment to hunt around for him. The lizards will still be active for a while. I pull my knife from my side and wrap my fist around it pointing the blade down.
Something moves.
This time it's me who hisses.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
I hear the hiss first and it causes me to turn roundabout 180. A hiss is always bad out here. Damn lizards. They attack just about anything this time of day. I have my knife out. I don't see the tell tale dust trail. I listen and watch. I hear the whirr and whoosh of an Anti-Grav lift truck. I wait and sure enough there's a hiss. It's still not a good thing. I look up from my stalking and down the twisted dirt path until I see the artificial dust devil bringing up the rear of Jerry's supply truck.
Jerry's an okay dude for a city type. He occasionally drops us campers a few supplies. And, on days like today he tends to offer me rides. That hiss tells me he'll want just a bit more than to offer me a ride though. Trouble with those old pieces of CORE material they use for the Anti-Grav is that they are made from the scrap of the good stuff they use in outer space. This one is overheating more than usual and the sweat from the systems pipes is starting to flow down upon it. That means the coolant system has been overtaxed or compromised.
I put my knife away and stick my hands in my back pockets while I wait for Jerry to catch up.
Jerry takes runs over the mountain and into the next valley. While in the big city He picks up supplies that he knows are needed in the small city. He makes a moderate profit selling the stuff to the locals in WestBend City. WestBend is mostly a shanty town. They have a local government though. Otherwise Jerry would make more profit. He has to pay taxes to the city.
Jerry's Rio Express is close enough now that I can see the sun gleaming off the silver grill. I can also distinguish the steam from dust. Anti-Grav is more push then it is a float. That creates dust. Some people call it anti-pressure, I'm not all that sure about that. But it does seem to show up better down here where pressure is higher. If a piece of CORE were to push its way up high enough it would likely stop for lack of enough pressure to react upon. The whole system is an affectation of keeping the CORE crippled. They call it cripple mode. They hobble the CORE so it doesn't slip into JumpSpace. That produces the Anti-Pressure effect. Trouble is it causes the CORE to overheat the longer it stays in that condition. It can take a lot of heat before it reaches critical.
If it gets that far it's going to do one of two things. It might just blow. It might slip into JumpSpace. Either way it will likely take a good chunk of whatever is near it with it. Jerry's taking a chance with that thing but maybe he saw me here and figured he could get to me before he could turn back and try to reach the city.
Several meters away there's a clunk and the dust storm dies. It dies with a vengeance though and comes whipping up around the front until everything disappears and I get a face full of dirt. As the wall of sand abates I catch the shape of the truck gliding towards me. The CORE is still activated or he'd be nosediving into the rock and sand. I can hear the thistle cacti pinging against the underbelly as the truck ducks a bit before it settles.
Jerry's tanned left arm is hanging out of the window. His head peeks out and he says, "Hey Angie lady how bout a cool ride?"
I call back, "Sounds about ready to get real hot if you ask me."
Jerry's other hand slips out with a rolled up pouch full of tools. "Na. Not if you take a quick look see. I'll be out to help you in a sec." I run up and take the pouch. A face leans around Jerry's shoulder. Jerry doesn't usually take on strangers. I don't recognize the face. It's nothing local. Jerry ignores the company and says, "The tank is full in back if it needs recharging."
Looking over his shoulder I say, "You starting a bus service Jerry?"
Jerry waves his hand and says, "Tourist."
That makes me blurt out, "Tourism in WestBend City. That's... different. I guess."
The face has a hand and it's waving at me. I take a closer look. Last time I saw that face it was serenely attached to a table top. I almost duck for cover. Instead I just wave and say, "Oh, hey you woke up."
Putting the tools down and wiping my forehead I look at Jerry who's bending my way and has been mostly watching. Jerry hands me a towel so I figure that means I should probably check and see what parts I just dirtied up on my face. I look at him and say, "It probably has a slow leak. You might have to have someone check it back in the big city. I'm not sure anyone in WestBend City will be of much help. I can't seem to find it and the system took a good charge and its holding for now. So you should be good to go. If you had someone charge this recently you might be able to gauge by that to when it will need attention again. I wouldn't wait though."
Jerry nods. He looks over his shoulder at the gentleman standing watch near the front of the truck. He's been real polite about not interfering or helping. He looks kinda soft anyway. Those boots of his look more fancy ornamental than practical. Good thing he's heading for the little city. He isn't rough enough for the terrain here. I touch Jerry's shoulder and say, "How much you getting for being a tour guide."
Jerry's face almost goes red. He hesitates and then says, "Enough."
I say, "Well, I guess i can ride out on the sideboards."
Jerry shrugs and says, "I don't think he'll mind you crowding into the cab."
I spit onto the ground and say, "I don't expect so. I'll still ride outside."
Jerry cocks his head and says, "He's the one noticed you out here first." He grins a bit and says, "He thought maybe we should offer you a ride."
I lift my eyebrows and say, "I take it you hadn't mentioned you were about to turn back."
Jerry looks off to the side and says, "I was only just then thinking about it. Kinda glad to see you myself." He looks back to the front of the truck at his guest.
I glance that way and back and have a thought. I say, "How much extra did you tag him for to let me ride along."
Jerry doesn't answer. That's what I thought always the entrepreneur. I grin at him and say, "If I did ride up front with him you'd just want to charge him more anyway."
As Jerry moves back towards the cab I notice a slight limp in his gait. I say, "What you do to your leg there."
He waves a hand in the air and says, "Just twisted things up while loading the truck. It'll be alright after I work it out a bit."
Were moving along at a fair clip and it won't take long to get up into the mountain and out of these hills. Jerry's path will take us a bit away from where the canyon divide sets hidden behind some of the largest trees you'll find around here. That means I still have a way to go after he drops me off.
I'm hanging off of Jerry's side of the truck and was going to ignore Tom over there on the other side. But, Tom seems too eager to make chit chat. He leans into the windshield to see around Jerry and says, "Hi my names Dalton. Dalton Greymare. I don't believe I got your name last night."
I turn to let the wind hit my face. There is still a lot of whining and whuring going on and all sorts of dust kicking around behind us. These Diamond Reo's blend in nice what with all the natural dust devils that whip up along the plain below. Leaning back into the window a bit, to annoy Jerry mostly, I say, "Angie."
Jerry laughs, "Yep, just Angie."
I shake my head a bit. That's what most people think, just Angie. I remember the General had a last name for us. We girls. What was that? Something having to do with the prime male donor for our genetic workup. I have another thought though. I lean into the truck again and say, "Greymare that's a prominent name in current clone history."
Dalton nods and says, "Yep."
I'm thinking he's either just agreeing with me or he might know a bit of common history. Things stay quiet for a while and I finally blurt out. "Hamilton, That's my last name or at least the only one anyone ever tried to give me."
Dalton says, "That's another name with a lot of history."
Looking at him through slitted eyes I say, "Wouldn't know any of that."
He sits back quietly. So, I return to staring off in the distance. It won't be too long before I get off this ride anyway. Too soon we slow to a halt. I look back at our drifting brown tail. I hear Jerry say. "Just stopping to sight see."
I try to look past Jerry but he's half way out the window and in my way. So I shout, "Not much to see here unless you're partial to desolation. There's some nice trees and foliage up a bit further.' There's no answer so I turn and look across the sand and rock through the tumbleweeds. I'm almost tempted to get off and finish this on foot.
After a long wait Jerry says, "Well, you might just as well get in the cab now." He has leaned back in and the seat next to him is vacant. I step down and run around the front of the truck then I go half way to the rear. On the way back I shout, "What did you do with our guest?"
Jerry says, "He got off."
I say, "When?"
"Just now." Jerry looks out past me towards a large stand of dried weeds.
I wave my hands and say, "Why didn't you say something. I could've tripped him up and knocked him out. You could have delivered him to WestBend. Out here by himself something will kill him and eat him. At least in WestBend they won't eat him."
Jerry says, "He ran behind the bramble if you want to chase him. But, I'm not gonna stick around long."
I shout again, "Why did you do it? And, what anyway? He just decided this was a good spot to go hiking."
Jerry shakes his head, "Ha, he paid me earlier and said he was gonna be dropped of somewhere out here. Hell when we picked you up I figured he'd at least wait and get off with you. Course with you being miss cordial and all he must'ov figured that wouldn't work."
I nod and say,"Darn right it wouldn't." Looking outward I can't see anything moving. I say, "I'm not chasing after some mad man. Just remember when somebody misses him and tracks him out here I'm pointing them your way. No way I'm gonna put up with them harassing us once more for something we have nothing to do with."
Jerry says, "No Problem. I'm gonna pick him up here on the way back. I gave him the time and he said he'd be here."
As i climb into the cab I say, "And if he's not here."
Jerry shrugs, "I'll come up and visit with you and leave a note on the truck."
While I glare at Jerry he turns to start the truck. I say, "You didn't tell him how to get to our camp did you?"
Jerry puts us in gear and as we slide forward he shakes his head. "Na, I wouldn't do that. He'd be killed and eaten for sure then."
After that we ride in silence.
I slam the truck door and don't even say goodbye. I can't believe Jerry could be that rude. The trees afford enough shade for me and I take my time walking through the brush. We've been very careful not to wear down a traceable path. I walk back and forth weaving a new route over fallen trees and moss covered rocks. I'm quite a ways in before I hear the hiss. Jerry and his truck are gone so it's not them.
I stop to look around and I think about that foolish tourist. Maybe the boys can take a moment to hunt around for him. The lizards will still be active for a while. I pull my knife from my side and wrap my fist around it pointing the blade down.
Something moves.
This time it's me who hisses.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
Friday, May 4, 2012
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Thursday, May 3, 2012
Cripple-Mode: Some notes on its Birth
Then, as with many things, life sort of got in the way and took me on a wide left turn. But those two novels stayed tucked away in their briefcase through the ups and downs. All of the time I would have odd moments when I would dwell on the notion of getting back to them to whip them into shape.I mostly wrote snippets of poetry in those scattered years. And I read a large volume of science fiction.
By the mid 80s I had my first computer and was almost tempted . But, there was another left turn up ahead. It was not until the year 2000 that I got serious and looked at the old papers long enough to shake my head and decide I needed to have a back story for some of my ideas.
One of the main themes of my story involves the main characters struggle to adjust to specifically mind bending personal issues. A back story might leave that on the back burner. So I almost dropped the notion of spending a lot of time or for that matter anytime on the back story. But, I still needed to be more secure about how we got to that spot in her life. The original story took the reader half way into it before these issues even arose. It was at that point that I decided to bring the issues into the story at the very beginning.I just wasn't clear yet that this was going to be the beginning of the back story. It was not until I chose the style of writing that things began to jell and the story began to tell itself. Mind you this is all still in my head the real on paper writing doesn't start till 2006.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
Saturday, April 28, 2012
II: Other Hamilton Sister::Heat
It's hot!
The sun blinds me. I try to look away, it reflects off the residue of dew on everything around me. It's not making this easy for me. Sweat on the coils of the AC is mocking me. I can't decide if it’s just the dew or if it’s another indicator.
I have to look up to relieve my eyes. What should be a pretty sky with its blue-red reminds me that I have to hurry. My eyes wash across the lesser moon that looms ever large in the sky. I know it won't be visible much longer with the clouds coming. I already feel the humidity the clouds bring with them.
With longing I glance at the remaining dew. I lick my lips feeling the dews fragility knowing New Terra is unable to embrace it. Our big mother star burns it off and tosses it back into the air around us. I can feel her smothering comfort rolling down my flesh. It's making me feel parched, squeezing me dry to burn my sweat from my skin. It's been less than an hour of sun, yet I feel as though its mid day.
I wipe my forehead with the thin sleeve of my chenille overcoat. My eyes watch it change color under the light. This distracts me from the affectation of my skin. I feel as comfortable as I can in this heat, having cast off my barmaids outfit in exchange for a sports bra and short shorts. I'd be more comfortable without the overcoat, but modesty prevents that. Not too much modesty though, I have left it unbuttoned.
I contemplate going back inside the bar with Jack, but it's going to get worse inside with the AC broken. I could make Jack come out here to do this. Then he'd have to completely replace the whole thing. I'm trying to help him avoid that. I look down upon my work.
Ants are dancing on the clots of fractured clay around the air conditioner. Seeming unperturbed by its spurious attempts to restart then die and restart again. Though, they have dissipated considerably since I shut the AC down completely.
I finish bleeding the system. It hasn't leaked out but it acts like it’s blocked somewhere. It could be one of these ants or a whole colony. The seals on this thing are worn enough to invite intrusion.
I carefully pull the reclamation canister and my rigged filter off the assembly. Hooking up the can of compressed air I give the system a good blow. I can hear the problem, Jack would likely not. It quickly disappears as whatever was there breaks loose and hits the palm of my hand. I'm thinking we're not out of the woods yet. Feeling uncertainty of the future, I make the sign of the cross and say a few Hail Marys. That could be sacrilegious, because I don't consider myself religious. Everything looks good to my eye. Well, as good as it can. I need to recharge the system.
First I cap it and test some pressure on it.
It's a bust. I mean a real bust. The leak is so evident I see the few remaining ants being blown hither and yon. Normally I'd give the wrench a good toss. I've not been using the wrench for fear of making things worse.
I ask myself why I'm doing this.
Turning at the sound of the back door opening fortuitously I can see Jack's head sticking out. He squints under the sun. He says, “Angie, how we doing out here?”
Stepping back from my work and looking at Jack, I say, “Hot, sticky. This damn stuff is worn beyond its warranty period by almost a decade. Could use some better sealant. A few new parts.”
Jack steps out. I watch as he shifts his slightly rotund midsection. After some difficulty he's standing on the stoop with the door shut. He's round not fat, but definitely not buff like the Tom's who strut around the bar. He looks to me to be in thought before he does a half dance with the door again to make a hasty retreat. I hear his grunting and grumbling as he disappears and the door closes. I'm thinking he can't stand the heat. But, his head comes out again. This time he lands in the sand. The door slams itself.
With a sheepish expression he offers me a bag.
He also offers a glass of amber liquid.
I wave a hand and say, “Thanks. You know I don't drink that stuff.”
I’m clutching my chenille together in front. I’d have to let go to grab both. I turn my back towards him as I take the sack.
Jack waves his hand pointing at the glass and says, “It's tea, with sugar, the way you like it.”
Embarrassed at my own lack of trust, I take the tea from his huge fist.
I set the bag down and look inside. It contains everything I need to do this job proper. I give Jack a well deserved harsh look. I say, “Great, make me do this twice. Where were you hiding this?”
Checking the ground for ants, I stomp around a bit. I sit. The ground feels cool. That's not good. That means I'm warmer than it is. I sip the tea slowly. "Thanks Jack, I really needed this tea."
Jack shrugs, wiping his fingers on the towel draped over his shoulder. He says, “Yeah, Sorry. I'm bad. I know. But, I listen and I picked this up a week ago. Figured it was due to quit soon.”
I pull my feet closer to me until my hiking boots touch where my bare thighs meet the hem on my shorts. Taking a very short break I touch the cool glass against my legs then I move my feet away to make room. Feeling contorted I try to reach the bag so I can I pour the parts in my lap. Flattening it on the ground I carefully lay the parts upon the bag in a row.
Feeling light headed and giddy for a number of reasons including the heat I exclaim, “Wow. All shiny and new. I hope this doesn't come out of my paycheck.”
I start to work again, this time I take up the wrench.
Jack says, "Only if you mess it up and I have to buy more parts." I watch him step into the little shadow offered by the structure of the bar. His gaze falls out across the desolation toward the line of trees that mark the lower edge of the mountains.
I look into the sky, looking for clouds. To me they are as scarce now as the ants are at night. I know that at night the clouds sink down covering the ground like a cottony blanket. The sun comes up to burn these away in short order. For a number of hours the moisture hangs in the air before clouds return like a colony of ants. I feel the need to hurry. I'm already overheated.
I catch Jack following my gaze, he says, “If this takes too long I can make an exception. Let you use that cot in back.”
I recall the first time Jack made such an offer. I'm not sure what he expected to get out of it. Whatever, he didn't get it. I feel comfortable with Jack though, you only have to say no once with him. With confused and possibly misplaced disappointment I recall he hasn't made such an offer since. But, I've been diligent about getting home early.
Huffing a couple of times, I stop to sip at my sweet tea. I look at Jack. I say, “Na, That's okay. I'll get home just fine. It's much cooler up in the mountains.”
Jack nods. As I work I can feel him become focused on his observation of my own intent process. He says, “Where and how did you learn to fix stuff?”
This is not the first time Jack's asked this. I say, “I dunno, it just came to me one day.” I stop and think about that. I'm certain each time I give him the same answer.
I hear Jack scoff. He half laughs and says, “Yeah, sure, don't tell me. You could go to town, take the test, and get licensed. No longer have to deal with the Tom’s here. I'm just say'in you'd have a good chance at a better career.”
I finish my work, check for leaks, fill the line, and bleed the air from the system. Everything is sealed and tight. Gathering Jacks tools, supplies, and decadent parts I stuff them into the bag and wipe my hands on the bag.
I see Jack raise his eyebrows. I nod, and watch him slip back inside. In short-order the conditioner comes on and begins to cycle. I wait and watch. After some moments, feeling some relief, I stand. I look to the door.
Jack’s hanging half in and half out. His gyrations are giving me a headache. I think he's torn about doing something or rushing in to enjoy the cooler air.
I wave and say, “She's all good.”
I see Jack decide and he falls upon me giving me a fatherly hug before I can move. He says, “You do good work.”
I shrug out of his grasp, put some distance between us. I do like the way he refrains from adding, for a clone, at the end of that sentence though.
Jack’s arms fall to his sides. He grins, “I'm serious. About schooling. I'd help pay for it. If you was my daughter …”
I shake my head, I say, “You'd miss me. Maybe you need to get yourself a real daughter.” As I think about that and what he tried that first night I think, maybe not.
Jack waves his hand. He says, “Na.” He goes quiet. I'm unsure which he has said no to. Then he says, “You still could come check and make sure everything is in working order.”
I finish my tea and hand Jack my glass. He bends down to the spigot, gives it a short blast of filthy water.
I say, “That's okay, Jack. We have a good arrangement. I don't need to be indebted to you forever.”
Jack shrugs, looking toward the hills. Pulling the towel down he works the corner into the glass to polish it. Jack says, “I know you don't like working Toms.” His head points. “Like that one inside. Just a tourist. Passing through. Now with his face plastered to the table because he thought he could ply you with a few drinks.”
I'm looking at the ground. The ants are back en-masse. Back to worship this humming deity. I'm almost pleased to have restored their continuity perhaps their existence.
I shake my head to clear it of Jack’s merciless words.
Turning away, I step towards the hills. They are the first leg of my journey into the mountains. This thought tires me. I'm not looking at Jack. So, just to be certain he can see I'm leaving, I shout, “I'll see you tonight, Jack. Take care of yourself.”
I need to get away from the heat.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
The sun blinds me. I try to look away, it reflects off the residue of dew on everything around me. It's not making this easy for me. Sweat on the coils of the AC is mocking me. I can't decide if it’s just the dew or if it’s another indicator.
I have to look up to relieve my eyes. What should be a pretty sky with its blue-red reminds me that I have to hurry. My eyes wash across the lesser moon that looms ever large in the sky. I know it won't be visible much longer with the clouds coming. I already feel the humidity the clouds bring with them.
With longing I glance at the remaining dew. I lick my lips feeling the dews fragility knowing New Terra is unable to embrace it. Our big mother star burns it off and tosses it back into the air around us. I can feel her smothering comfort rolling down my flesh. It's making me feel parched, squeezing me dry to burn my sweat from my skin. It's been less than an hour of sun, yet I feel as though its mid day.
I wipe my forehead with the thin sleeve of my chenille overcoat. My eyes watch it change color under the light. This distracts me from the affectation of my skin. I feel as comfortable as I can in this heat, having cast off my barmaids outfit in exchange for a sports bra and short shorts. I'd be more comfortable without the overcoat, but modesty prevents that. Not too much modesty though, I have left it unbuttoned.
I contemplate going back inside the bar with Jack, but it's going to get worse inside with the AC broken. I could make Jack come out here to do this. Then he'd have to completely replace the whole thing. I'm trying to help him avoid that. I look down upon my work.
Ants are dancing on the clots of fractured clay around the air conditioner. Seeming unperturbed by its spurious attempts to restart then die and restart again. Though, they have dissipated considerably since I shut the AC down completely.
I finish bleeding the system. It hasn't leaked out but it acts like it’s blocked somewhere. It could be one of these ants or a whole colony. The seals on this thing are worn enough to invite intrusion.
I carefully pull the reclamation canister and my rigged filter off the assembly. Hooking up the can of compressed air I give the system a good blow. I can hear the problem, Jack would likely not. It quickly disappears as whatever was there breaks loose and hits the palm of my hand. I'm thinking we're not out of the woods yet. Feeling uncertainty of the future, I make the sign of the cross and say a few Hail Marys. That could be sacrilegious, because I don't consider myself religious. Everything looks good to my eye. Well, as good as it can. I need to recharge the system.
First I cap it and test some pressure on it.
It's a bust. I mean a real bust. The leak is so evident I see the few remaining ants being blown hither and yon. Normally I'd give the wrench a good toss. I've not been using the wrench for fear of making things worse.
I ask myself why I'm doing this.
Turning at the sound of the back door opening fortuitously I can see Jack's head sticking out. He squints under the sun. He says, “Angie, how we doing out here?”
Stepping back from my work and looking at Jack, I say, “Hot, sticky. This damn stuff is worn beyond its warranty period by almost a decade. Could use some better sealant. A few new parts.”
Jack steps out. I watch as he shifts his slightly rotund midsection. After some difficulty he's standing on the stoop with the door shut. He's round not fat, but definitely not buff like the Tom's who strut around the bar. He looks to me to be in thought before he does a half dance with the door again to make a hasty retreat. I hear his grunting and grumbling as he disappears and the door closes. I'm thinking he can't stand the heat. But, his head comes out again. This time he lands in the sand. The door slams itself.
With a sheepish expression he offers me a bag.
He also offers a glass of amber liquid.
I wave a hand and say, “Thanks. You know I don't drink that stuff.”
I’m clutching my chenille together in front. I’d have to let go to grab both. I turn my back towards him as I take the sack.
Jack waves his hand pointing at the glass and says, “It's tea, with sugar, the way you like it.”
Embarrassed at my own lack of trust, I take the tea from his huge fist.
I set the bag down and look inside. It contains everything I need to do this job proper. I give Jack a well deserved harsh look. I say, “Great, make me do this twice. Where were you hiding this?”
Checking the ground for ants, I stomp around a bit. I sit. The ground feels cool. That's not good. That means I'm warmer than it is. I sip the tea slowly. "Thanks Jack, I really needed this tea."
Jack shrugs, wiping his fingers on the towel draped over his shoulder. He says, “Yeah, Sorry. I'm bad. I know. But, I listen and I picked this up a week ago. Figured it was due to quit soon.”
I pull my feet closer to me until my hiking boots touch where my bare thighs meet the hem on my shorts. Taking a very short break I touch the cool glass against my legs then I move my feet away to make room. Feeling contorted I try to reach the bag so I can I pour the parts in my lap. Flattening it on the ground I carefully lay the parts upon the bag in a row.
Feeling light headed and giddy for a number of reasons including the heat I exclaim, “Wow. All shiny and new. I hope this doesn't come out of my paycheck.”
I start to work again, this time I take up the wrench.
Jack says, "Only if you mess it up and I have to buy more parts." I watch him step into the little shadow offered by the structure of the bar. His gaze falls out across the desolation toward the line of trees that mark the lower edge of the mountains.
I look into the sky, looking for clouds. To me they are as scarce now as the ants are at night. I know that at night the clouds sink down covering the ground like a cottony blanket. The sun comes up to burn these away in short order. For a number of hours the moisture hangs in the air before clouds return like a colony of ants. I feel the need to hurry. I'm already overheated.
I catch Jack following my gaze, he says, “If this takes too long I can make an exception. Let you use that cot in back.”
I recall the first time Jack made such an offer. I'm not sure what he expected to get out of it. Whatever, he didn't get it. I feel comfortable with Jack though, you only have to say no once with him. With confused and possibly misplaced disappointment I recall he hasn't made such an offer since. But, I've been diligent about getting home early.
Huffing a couple of times, I stop to sip at my sweet tea. I look at Jack. I say, “Na, That's okay. I'll get home just fine. It's much cooler up in the mountains.”
Jack nods. As I work I can feel him become focused on his observation of my own intent process. He says, “Where and how did you learn to fix stuff?”
This is not the first time Jack's asked this. I say, “I dunno, it just came to me one day.” I stop and think about that. I'm certain each time I give him the same answer.
I hear Jack scoff. He half laughs and says, “Yeah, sure, don't tell me. You could go to town, take the test, and get licensed. No longer have to deal with the Tom’s here. I'm just say'in you'd have a good chance at a better career.”
I finish my work, check for leaks, fill the line, and bleed the air from the system. Everything is sealed and tight. Gathering Jacks tools, supplies, and decadent parts I stuff them into the bag and wipe my hands on the bag.
I see Jack raise his eyebrows. I nod, and watch him slip back inside. In short-order the conditioner comes on and begins to cycle. I wait and watch. After some moments, feeling some relief, I stand. I look to the door.
Jack’s hanging half in and half out. His gyrations are giving me a headache. I think he's torn about doing something or rushing in to enjoy the cooler air.
I wave and say, “She's all good.”
I see Jack decide and he falls upon me giving me a fatherly hug before I can move. He says, “You do good work.”
I shrug out of his grasp, put some distance between us. I do like the way he refrains from adding, for a clone, at the end of that sentence though.
Jack’s arms fall to his sides. He grins, “I'm serious. About schooling. I'd help pay for it. If you was my daughter …”
I shake my head, I say, “You'd miss me. Maybe you need to get yourself a real daughter.” As I think about that and what he tried that first night I think, maybe not.
Jack waves his hand. He says, “Na.” He goes quiet. I'm unsure which he has said no to. Then he says, “You still could come check and make sure everything is in working order.”
I finish my tea and hand Jack my glass. He bends down to the spigot, gives it a short blast of filthy water.
I say, “That's okay, Jack. We have a good arrangement. I don't need to be indebted to you forever.”
Jack shrugs, looking toward the hills. Pulling the towel down he works the corner into the glass to polish it. Jack says, “I know you don't like working Toms.” His head points. “Like that one inside. Just a tourist. Passing through. Now with his face plastered to the table because he thought he could ply you with a few drinks.”
I'm looking at the ground. The ants are back en-masse. Back to worship this humming deity. I'm almost pleased to have restored their continuity perhaps their existence.
I shake my head to clear it of Jack’s merciless words.
Turning away, I step towards the hills. They are the first leg of my journey into the mountains. This thought tires me. I'm not looking at Jack. So, just to be certain he can see I'm leaving, I shout, “I'll see you tonight, Jack. Take care of yourself.”
I need to get away from the heat.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
Monday, April 23, 2012
Write-edit-write-and keep moving forward:
Do you really want your readers to be your editors?
Well, yes. At least that's what I had in mind when I asked a few of them to read my book while it was in development.
I felt the lack of takers on that offer was a poor reflection on my ability to write. The trauma of rejection gave me writer's block for about a half second pause.
So, one problem with self publishing may be the perception that I'm still asking those people to edit my work while also asking some to pay for it. Heh, Heh Heh, and in a way I am. But, that's only a reflection on the system of self publishing.
Some things to remember:
You shall do extensive spell checking and grammar checking and sentence structure checking. You shall find someone else to go over your work, doing the same things you just did Then you shall sit down together and do substantive editing (also known as developmental editing and comprehensive editing). This is a much more in depth look at structure, continuity, and character building. Perhaps cutting the fat. Keep in mind that old saying. "Don't throw the baby away with the bath water."
This is also a bit backwards but trust me you need to get some of the little stuff out of your way before delving into rearranging your thoughts to be readable by most readers.
This can never hurt you if you plan to go the conventional route and get an agent or a publisher to notice you. This is critical if you plan to self publish. That is mostly for the sake of your reader.
The reader will most likely still find a way to express their opinion of the errors they do find. And they will find them. You should nod and smile and write notes. Remember, this is the unsolicited edit you forced on them.
When you publish you should try to buy a self publish package that contains a copy-edit. This will be a final look at grammar and spelling at the very least. There may be some attempt to help with sentence structure. Usually what you get though is the low end description of copy-edit and something better than proof reading.
We did our best to cover the substantive end in my first book, but I had a poor grasp of the whole process and may have contributed to a failure mode. The up side is that this gives the rawest form of the writers work and might ring more true than a polished piece.
If you are like me you may feel compelled to go the extra mile and have someone new look at what you now think is the next best thing to sliced bread. It's probably not totally critical and it is costly unless you have an abundant number of volunteers with English degrees. But, if you think you didn't miss anything, as a friend once said, you are delusional.
Keep in mind, when you have someone else do the copy-edit, that you should read the manuscript all the way through while verifying the work accomplished. Most editors will send you back a document file with notes and tags on the changes. I found though that some changes were made that did not have tags and were critical because the change altered the meaning of the sentence. This sounds bad, and it is. But in most cases it caused me to rethink my wording, since it must have really confused them for them to make it say what I did not mean.
You can possibly try to get substantive editing from an on demand publisher if you ask. The problem will be that substantive editors are expensive, in terms of the cost of self publishing. My document had over 400 pages and 260000 words. In page count they charge by the hour at a rate of 50 to 60 (low estimate) us dollars per hour. That's at anywhere from 1-6 pages per hour. Word count is 2 to 4 cents a word. These are on the conservative end of the estimates. For my first book it would cost anywhere from 5,000 to 10,000 dollars for a good substantive edit.
The good news is that if you are buying a package including copy-editing and they do a good job. You will be getting a value on this book of about 3,000 to 5,000 dollars. And unless you are a copy-editor you will need another set of eyes to look at this. And if you are a copy-editor you will have it done anyway because you know you will need it.
The final goal is to not burden the reader with someone else job. If they don't enjoy reading the book then you failed.
And, yes.
If you didn't enjoy it please let me know.
I subscribe to the no news is good news. And after 250 downloads and no comments I'll just assume everything is dandy and keep on keeping on.
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
Well, yes. At least that's what I had in mind when I asked a few of them to read my book while it was in development.
I felt the lack of takers on that offer was a poor reflection on my ability to write. The trauma of rejection gave me writer's block for about a half second pause.
So, one problem with self publishing may be the perception that I'm still asking those people to edit my work while also asking some to pay for it. Heh, Heh Heh, and in a way I am. But, that's only a reflection on the system of self publishing.
Some things to remember:
You shall do extensive spell checking and grammar checking and sentence structure checking. You shall find someone else to go over your work, doing the same things you just did Then you shall sit down together and do substantive editing (also known as developmental editing and comprehensive editing). This is a much more in depth look at structure, continuity, and character building. Perhaps cutting the fat. Keep in mind that old saying. "Don't throw the baby away with the bath water."
This is also a bit backwards but trust me you need to get some of the little stuff out of your way before delving into rearranging your thoughts to be readable by most readers.
This can never hurt you if you plan to go the conventional route and get an agent or a publisher to notice you. This is critical if you plan to self publish. That is mostly for the sake of your reader.
The reader will most likely still find a way to express their opinion of the errors they do find. And they will find them. You should nod and smile and write notes. Remember, this is the unsolicited edit you forced on them.
When you publish you should try to buy a self publish package that contains a copy-edit. This will be a final look at grammar and spelling at the very least. There may be some attempt to help with sentence structure. Usually what you get though is the low end description of copy-edit and something better than proof reading.
We did our best to cover the substantive end in my first book, but I had a poor grasp of the whole process and may have contributed to a failure mode. The up side is that this gives the rawest form of the writers work and might ring more true than a polished piece.
If you are like me you may feel compelled to go the extra mile and have someone new look at what you now think is the next best thing to sliced bread. It's probably not totally critical and it is costly unless you have an abundant number of volunteers with English degrees. But, if you think you didn't miss anything, as a friend once said, you are delusional.
Keep in mind, when you have someone else do the copy-edit, that you should read the manuscript all the way through while verifying the work accomplished. Most editors will send you back a document file with notes and tags on the changes. I found though that some changes were made that did not have tags and were critical because the change altered the meaning of the sentence. This sounds bad, and it is. But in most cases it caused me to rethink my wording, since it must have really confused them for them to make it say what I did not mean.
You can possibly try to get substantive editing from an on demand publisher if you ask. The problem will be that substantive editors are expensive, in terms of the cost of self publishing. My document had over 400 pages and 260000 words. In page count they charge by the hour at a rate of 50 to 60 (low estimate) us dollars per hour. That's at anywhere from 1-6 pages per hour. Word count is 2 to 4 cents a word. These are on the conservative end of the estimates. For my first book it would cost anywhere from 5,000 to 10,000 dollars for a good substantive edit.
The good news is that if you are buying a package including copy-editing and they do a good job. You will be getting a value on this book of about 3,000 to 5,000 dollars. And unless you are a copy-editor you will need another set of eyes to look at this. And if you are a copy-editor you will have it done anyway because you know you will need it.
The final goal is to not burden the reader with someone else job. If they don't enjoy reading the book then you failed.
And, yes.
If you didn't enjoy it please let me know.
I subscribe to the no news is good news. And after 250 downloads and no comments I'll just assume everything is dandy and keep on keeping on.
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
Monday, April 16, 2012
I:The Other Hamilton Sister::Smoke
I sit, contemplating memories that I shouldn't have. Memories that are clearly not mine. Wondering if there is some tiny strand of truth to the notion that twins have a connection that goes beyond their shared lives. It's been a long time Theodora. What are you up to that these thoughts and feelings burn me to the dark pit that stands in the place of the soul I've never had and can't possess? Why now? Why do these memories plague me at the time I'd given up; the moment I'd tried to immerse myself in a life that wasn't meant for me? I'd gone to great length to lose myself. How did you find me and why did you send me these strange memories, ever more strange than any I could imagine from you? Memories that work at the very fabric of the shadow of my inner self that pretends to be a broken soul. And how can any of this be possible when in truth we are not real twins when we've only shared a womb as creatures created by man and not endowed with life by god. I'd given up and you so mercilessly pulled me out of that tailspin and gave me gifts that beg me to make more of this wretched life than to immerse my hollow self in my own pity. How dare you make me care again?
I watch the smoke curl up at the end of my hand. It looks as though my fingers are on fire. Winding itself around the long nails and climbing straight up to wither away at the edge of my face. It's disgusting. I know. I don't much care. I don't smoke these things anyway. They are here for ambiance. I've played this wretched character too many nights. This cigarette has become an ironic symbol. The glow is like the embers of my being releasing the grey smoke of my phantom soul into the air.
I lift up my right leg and cross it over the left until the knees are neatly stacked. I'm creating a tell for the perv across the room. I call him that because I've watched him observing me half the night. Perhaps I'm being unfair. He could be an ardent admirer of beauty. I lift my skirt, what there is of it. This is a way to show more flesh and yet less substance. It's certain now I'm blocking the view of what he's been trying to see. It's a tease. His eyes haven't wavered. He's like the rest. They're all the same. And I'm not much different. I've become the damned leading the damned.
Tom, that's what I call them. It's for peeping Tom. Whenever they catch me saying it, it quickly becomes Tom Cat. He's been here long enough intently gawking. He should have pounced by now. I pivot on the bar stool to afford a better view. I watch from the corner of my eye. His movements are subtle. He's rich with intent where his eyes are concerned. Maybe he's unsure about interrupting my work. He doesn't realize that he's the other half of my work.
This is how I make money. It's not what everyone thinks. I just have to get him to buy me drinks. He pays a god awful amount for my cola's and his liquor and I get a fair commission. I watch him drink himself under the table and I move on. I can't claim it's much of a living, but it's all I got. Nice work for a clone. The best I can expect on this suck rock planet, New Terra. I'm pretty sure this job isn't helping our image here, but that was tarnished to begin with.
I can't say people here think well of clones. I don't blame them. I don't have fond memories of clones myself. Even if I'm one, by most definitions. My problem with elitist groups like the Clone Colony Collective is that they have rules for defining what a clone is. I don't fit the mold even though they left genetic markers in me to make it impossible to deny what I am. I'm an outcast of the outcasts.
My understanding is that I'm not quite acceptable because I came into the world in a most normal fashion. Being a natural live birth makes me something disgusting to the average clone. I'm just as broke up about it as they are, but it was their leaders who decided to bring us into this universe.
Us is me and my sisters.
If Tom were sitting next to me where he's supposed to be I'd be telling him all of this. Spilling my guts, only today I'm halfway relieved as this all has a strange feel of something disgusting. It's just a story,My names Angie my sisters are Betty and Lucy. Bet you thought I'd say Betty and Veronica. The Toms like that joke. Personally I don't quite get it. But I try not to be judgmental, they always listen to my story. So, I tell them I'm the Alpha and Betty is Beta. We're the first two prototypes. Lucy our little sister was sorta in the middle and I'm not at all sure if there was going to be an Omega. I never tell them our real names are Amber, Theodora, and Lucia. I'm Amber.
I tell the Toms that Lucy passed away, and that's the truth. I think her death sealed Omega's fate. Lucy was supposed to be the golden child. Betty and I we were failures, but I don't tell the Toms that because I'm not all that fond of the fact.
We would have washed out of the program, but they let us be Lucy's babysitters. That whiny brat didn't make things easy. But, I shouldn't blame her, not for whining. I do blame her for taking us into her nightmare. That was uncalled for. Well, if we'd believed her, instead of laughing at her, maybe she would have been less inclined to prove there is a boogeyman. I guess we laughed too hard.
Lucy wasn't really our little sister.
We're triplets. Identical in shape and form if not in mind. Lucy was too odd to be like us.
Lucy knew better than to take us there where that horrible thing was lurking. It snatched us up in one fell swoop and held us like the catch of the day. I'm not sure what Lucy had to do to get us loose. I know Betty and I were certain we were going to die. What that beast did and what it tried to take from us had us hoping it would finish us quick. Lucy got us out somehow, but it cost her. I know that bastard sucked her soul out of her. Despite what people say about clones having no soul. If I've no soul then why do I care and why does it hurt? And why does it feel like what isn't there is slowly being torn from me every day?
Now I have to deal with worthless tears rolling down my cheek. After putting us into that mess, she's not worth this. But, the crying serves a purpose. Mr. Tom across the way has noticed. He's on his way to comfort me. I know what he really wants. It's not what he'll get. But, when I play the cards right he'll pay for it. I try to avoid his eyes. His eyes tell me lies I can't afford to buy lest he touch the heart and then the soul that isn't there.
Tom sits in the bar stool next to me. His arm engulfs me like a cradle does a baby. At first it's a slight and tentative action that grows less so for each moment I don't rebuke him. He's talking to me, consoling me. Maybe asking what's wrong or if he can help. I wouldn't know. I see his lips move but the words are like white noise to me. I have an attention problem. I've been this way since that one time in JumpSpace under the thumb of that creature. It's why I crave the contact of even this stranger to take away the bitter taste left from an encounter with indescribable terror.
Somewhere in the moment of his unusual comfort my head finds this stranger's shoulder. I'm pressing hard against him. I make faint attempts to dwell on anything else other than what I'm sure Tom must think of me. This whole town knows I'm the Clone Slut. I've a reputation to maintain. I do my thing at night then vanish in the morning. Into the mountains. Up where my friends are. Where everyone is smooth. Without a care for where you came from and what you do with your life. The one place I'm not a castoff clone.
I'm here, on New Terra, because mom and dad ran away with me in tow.
Theodora, Betty, was the wise one. She took the general's offer. The general was LJG, League Jump Guild. He promised steady work and decent wages. I wonder how Theo is making out with all of that.
I worry about mom and dad, even though they aren't really our parents. Mom did carry us in her womb. That doesn't much count with clones. It's just a different sort of vat, an inferior one at that. I struggle to understand how I'm supposed to feel about it. I say it doesn't make a difference. I'm betrayed by tears that might protest.Life wasn't pleasant after the project broke down. The general promised a lot. Still, he was one of those many who set this all up to begin with. He killed Lucia as much as that monster in JumpSpace. Her blood and her ashes are on his hands. I worry about Theo. I wonder if she thinks about me.
Tonight's gentleman is being awfully tender. I'm not used to that. I push his drink a bit further away from his reach. Sipping my cola I look at him. He's still absorbed in his one-sided conversation. I rest my scattered golden truss upon his shoulder and try to listen to the rhythm of his voice. If I can't focus on his words I'll focus on his tone. Dad and mom were never this tender. It was always, "Make sure Lucia does this. Have Lucia do that. Keep Lucia happy." If they'd only known it all amounted to "send Lucia into the jaws of death."
I almost ask Tom what his real name is. That would be bad. Wrong. None of this is real. My real life is in the mountains with my friends. Tom will be gone tomorrow to be replaced by another Tom with the new night. I look at him with suspicion. I'm not at all sure this isn't one of the Tom's of a bygone night. That's happened before. They usually are aggressively abusive if they can recall that the other night ended with their face pasted to the table instead of my breasts.
He's too kind to be a dissatisfied customer.
Jack, my boss and bartender, has worked his way over to us. He's swishing the corner of a towel into a shot glass. After giving me a severe look he pushes Tom's drink back up next to Tom's hand. He waits for me to move, so I keep still. Jack has only my interests at heart. I can't live if I don't have money. I can't have money if Tom doesn't keep buying drinks.
Tom picks up the glass and empties it. Jack has the next one on the counter for him before he can lift a finger. Tom tosses money into the great jar there in the middle. That's good, a part of that is mine. Before I allow my self to backslide I stand up. Tom instinctively encircles me with both hands to hold me there. I have to be gentle but firm in explaining that I need to use the powder room. I really just need to get out of his gentle reach long enough to let the harshness of reality intrude on my state of mind.
Still trying to make things difficult for me, Tom gently lets me go in warm fuzzy pieces. I use my forefinger to touch my lipstick and I use it to smear his lip just a tad. He smiles genially. I walk away giving him coy glances from over my shoulder.
Inside the bathroom with my hands on either side of the sink I take one long look at myself. I could just as well be looking at Theo or Lucia. But, Lucia's a ghost by now so I'd rather not go there. Tears swell and continue to smear my makeup. I look into the mirror. I place the remaining piece of my cigarette balanced on its filter on the ledge at the bottom of the mirror. The smoke runs across the mirror in the direction that the ventilation takes it. My eyes are a mess, so I begin wiping them gently until they are clean, so I can re-paint them. I can't take out the redness but some eye-drops will help a little. My whole body shudders and I long for Tom's gentle touch. With a harsh shake that tosses my hair in the air I try to push those thoughts away.
By the time I'm finished I'm certain Jack will have Tom more under the bar than over. It's better this way. That those who have souls do not mingle with those whose soul is in question. I really don't feel soulless, but to be honest I don't know how that should feel.
Now I'm all fixed and ready to proceed through my night. Once again anchored with the reality that my real life is in the morning in the mountains. I pull out a new cigarette and light it, leaving the tiny smoke stack in front of the mirror. One last look through the fog of smoke to assure that I look presentable. I touch the glass.
This here, right now, is nothing more than smoke and mirrors.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
Sunday, April 15, 2012
A rose by any other name...
Sci-Fi vs Science Fiction: Potato potato Tomato tomato.
I was going to ramble on about Science Fiction vs Fantasy but I found out quickly that there's a whole bit of controversy just within the smaller community itself. Perhaps I have been isolated from reality too long but I honestly did not put much stock in the trouble with Sci-Fi. I also tend not to listen to the wise words of Mr. E...
I'll post here something I posted on a forum under one of my few screen names.
-----------------------------------------------
Funny thing;
I've only been reading SF for 55 years now. And never really ran into this prejudice until recently. It's a rather ironic prejudice.
Back in the early 50 most Science Fiction as it was called would today apparently be considered Sci-Fi by some of the definitions I have heard.
Somewhere in the 60's and 70's there were attempts to make it Speculative Fiction that would most likely be the true SF definition.
Now there seems to be some push to differentiate between SF and Sci-Fi which in most cases devolves to Science Fiction vs Sci-Fi which is just silly because SF is Speculative Fiction and not Science Fiction at all.
But truth be told they are all the bastard children of what was happening in the 50s which was then Science Fiction and now seems to come to mind as Sci-Fi so that might make them all the children of Sci-Fi who have all forgotten their roots.
But hey, I've only been watching this for 50 some years so what do I know?
----------------------------------------------------
Now for those who know me I'll confess to the stretch here. Unless we can count Dr. Suess it is a slight bit less than 55 years. Though if we use SF liberally to include today's definition of speculative fiction that seems to be an umbrella of a multitude of genre I'm sure we can fit it in.
As it is it may have been two more years before the teacher and librarian expressed concerns for my reading level if I continued in my present direction.
That's when they pointed me to the Mushroom Planet Series by Eleanor Frances Butler Cameron.
Please don't say those are not Science Fiction or you will break the heart of a seven year old.
Since 1992, Golden Duck.org has presented the Eleanor Cameron Award for Excellence in Children's Science Fiction to the author of an English Language novel written for middle-grade readers.
From there I discovered Philip Francis Nolan's Buck Rogers and Edgar Rice Burroughs' Mars and Venus series and Otis Adelbert Kline's Venus series just to name a few. And when dad brought home several boxes of books from auctions I discovered Pohl Anderson's After Doomsday. That and the Science Fiction Book Club pretty much caused me to hit the ground running with reading.
Suffice it to say several teachers were still a bit concerned about my reading level.
Now to get back to a point I was going to lead into.
Will I be offended if someone calls my writing Sci-Fi instead of Science Fiction? The answer is no. So if someone means to offend me they will have to pick a more universally understood term like perhaps crap. Now that would get my attention.
This brings us to the next big question. What about fantasy?
I do think there are elements in my work that contain what some people might find they need to relegate to fantasy.
I have no cure for their ills. This book is meant to be Science Fiction in much the same terms Robert Heinlein would have preferred to have seen the definition of Speculative Fiction go.
That worked out so well for him that perhaps I should just go on with calling mine Sci-Fi and that should make everyone happy.
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
I was going to ramble on about Science Fiction vs Fantasy but I found out quickly that there's a whole bit of controversy just within the smaller community itself. Perhaps I have been isolated from reality too long but I honestly did not put much stock in the trouble with Sci-Fi. I also tend not to listen to the wise words of Mr. E...
I'll post here something I posted on a forum under one of my few screen names.
-----------------------------------------------
Funny thing;
I've only been reading SF for 55 years now. And never really ran into this prejudice until recently. It's a rather ironic prejudice.
Back in the early 50 most Science Fiction as it was called would today apparently be considered Sci-Fi by some of the definitions I have heard.
Somewhere in the 60's and 70's there were attempts to make it Speculative Fiction that would most likely be the true SF definition.
Now there seems to be some push to differentiate between SF and Sci-Fi which in most cases devolves to Science Fiction vs Sci-Fi which is just silly because SF is Speculative Fiction and not Science Fiction at all.
But truth be told they are all the bastard children of what was happening in the 50s which was then Science Fiction and now seems to come to mind as Sci-Fi so that might make them all the children of Sci-Fi who have all forgotten their roots.
But hey, I've only been watching this for 50 some years so what do I know?
----------------------------------------------------
Now for those who know me I'll confess to the stretch here. Unless we can count Dr. Suess it is a slight bit less than 55 years. Though if we use SF liberally to include today's definition of speculative fiction that seems to be an umbrella of a multitude of genre I'm sure we can fit it in.
As it is it may have been two more years before the teacher and librarian expressed concerns for my reading level if I continued in my present direction.
That's when they pointed me to the Mushroom Planet Series by Eleanor Frances Butler Cameron.
Please don't say those are not Science Fiction or you will break the heart of a seven year old.
Since 1992, Golden Duck.org has presented the Eleanor Cameron Award for Excellence in Children's Science Fiction to the author of an English Language novel written for middle-grade readers.
From there I discovered Philip Francis Nolan's Buck Rogers and Edgar Rice Burroughs' Mars and Venus series and Otis Adelbert Kline's Venus series just to name a few. And when dad brought home several boxes of books from auctions I discovered Pohl Anderson's After Doomsday. That and the Science Fiction Book Club pretty much caused me to hit the ground running with reading.
Suffice it to say several teachers were still a bit concerned about my reading level.
Now to get back to a point I was going to lead into.
Will I be offended if someone calls my writing Sci-Fi instead of Science Fiction? The answer is no. So if someone means to offend me they will have to pick a more universally understood term like perhaps crap. Now that would get my attention.
This brings us to the next big question. What about fantasy?
I do think there are elements in my work that contain what some people might find they need to relegate to fantasy.
I have no cure for their ills. This book is meant to be Science Fiction in much the same terms Robert Heinlein would have preferred to have seen the definition of Speculative Fiction go.
That worked out so well for him that perhaps I should just go on with calling mine Sci-Fi and that should make everyone happy.
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
Saturday, April 14, 2012
On Self Publishing
Self-Publish?:Explain to me once more why you shot yourself in the foot!
My coffee is lukewarm and the smell of tobacco and beer fall upon us like a familiar overcoat. The warm face sitting across from me has harsh disparaging eyes. He turns away because he knows I know him all too well. He's the best of friends, even when he's being a troll. Putting his beer down and folding his beard with the thumb and forefingers of each hand he points his head towards me. He says, "I know I said I didn't want to hear your lame ass justifications, but tell me again. The last time I wasn't listening."
I lean into the table lowering my lids a bit and watching him just a moment longer. He's still looking my way, that says something. It's probably safe to go on.
Laying my hands on the table palms down I try to give the appearance of saying a small prayer, not for him to be enlightened, but for me to have patience. I say "Well, it starts back when I went to a blog where it was clearly explained that there are thousands of submissions every year for new books from new authors. There were a series of daunting hoops to go through just to be sure your i's are dotted and t's crossed. Those were not insurmountable. In fact they're instructive. With the insight offered, I could ensure that I'd not fall into some of the usual pratfalls of the average new author. And it isn't that I can't finish the work. It's finished. I have another on the way. And I have an infinite supply up here."
Shaking my head ,it lists slowly as though its over heavy. I wait and watch. There should be more comment from the peanut gallery any second. When only silence reigns I clear my throat. I say, "None of that poses a problem. It's those blasted statistics. One in several thousand chances that an agent or publisher will spend more than a passing glance on my work even when it's presented properly. It's like a slow death march. I'm sending out clones of my manuscript on one way trips with such a small chance that they will survive the purges. That alone would not be so bad, but it's not knowing what I'm sending them into. Rejection notes vary but the common theme is to just say keep trying. Not much in the line of battle reports to tell intelligence what we're up against. God, it would be at least something if they just said that they'd decided to burn the next 1000 manuscripts to make room for the next invasion. Seriously though some constructive criticism. It would dispel any vision that there are a whole circle of agents and publishers with a large hat just pulling submissions until they reach the quota."
"This same blog site had a link."
"It has statistics related to authors in print and their experience with getting published by major publishing houses. It was in part done to help highlight the importance of doing short stories to build your reputation and credibility as an author. It had statistics showing the difference between published authors who first did short stories and then published a novel as opposed to those who were fortunate enough to go straight to a first novel. It also included the success rate of both sides of that coin. Showing that those who had built a reputation with short stories had the higher probability of success in maintaining a consistent flow of novel work. This was all instructive in painting a clear picture of what needs to be done."
"Still, a daunting part, the submissions and rejections, remain to hang my manuscript over a fire."
"Then, light at the end of the tunnel. The author of this post painted this horrible picture of self publishing. For some reason he'd deemed it necessary to include statistics on the number of self publishers who might be noticed by an agent or publisher. His indication was that it was a sad 1 out of 256 chance. I looked at this and realize 1 out of 256 as opposed to 1 out of thousands. And, there was my solution to my dilemma.. "
My companion looks only slightly baffled. Eyebrows furrowed above thin slits behind the dark reflective spectacles. This is good, I expect he's forgotten previous rounds of discussions about my book. I say, "Remember, you indicated that you didn't want to read my book to review it. You wanted the hard evidence in your hand so you could browse page by page in one night the efforts of all my years. And, there it is, chance is more in my favor with self publishing. All I have to do is sacrifice my first born. And, not really that much of a sacrifice when I can place a copy in those fleshy maws of yours. To say nothing of the fact that it would cost the same or less than a custom made furry costume."
As is his characteristic response to such revelation he sits back in his chair and forms an O with his mouth. Then his eyes light and he smiles and chuckles, nearly sloshing the beer from his mug. His throat adds its own reverberation to his chortle. The wind comes up swiftly to whip the smoke up and away. The smell of beer washes away from us like the evening tide. I lift my eyes to watch the smoke become a part of the clouds. Then I force them to come back to the empty chair across from me.
Taking the book from my bag I set it on the table.
It's a shame you couldn't stick around long enough to see this. I can only hope that as I sit and read you will be reading over my shoulder. Farewell my friend and have a good rest.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
My coffee is lukewarm and the smell of tobacco and beer fall upon us like a familiar overcoat. The warm face sitting across from me has harsh disparaging eyes. He turns away because he knows I know him all too well. He's the best of friends, even when he's being a troll. Putting his beer down and folding his beard with the thumb and forefingers of each hand he points his head towards me. He says, "I know I said I didn't want to hear your lame ass justifications, but tell me again. The last time I wasn't listening."
I lean into the table lowering my lids a bit and watching him just a moment longer. He's still looking my way, that says something. It's probably safe to go on.
Laying my hands on the table palms down I try to give the appearance of saying a small prayer, not for him to be enlightened, but for me to have patience. I say "Well, it starts back when I went to a blog where it was clearly explained that there are thousands of submissions every year for new books from new authors. There were a series of daunting hoops to go through just to be sure your i's are dotted and t's crossed. Those were not insurmountable. In fact they're instructive. With the insight offered, I could ensure that I'd not fall into some of the usual pratfalls of the average new author. And it isn't that I can't finish the work. It's finished. I have another on the way. And I have an infinite supply up here."
Shaking my head ,it lists slowly as though its over heavy. I wait and watch. There should be more comment from the peanut gallery any second. When only silence reigns I clear my throat. I say, "None of that poses a problem. It's those blasted statistics. One in several thousand chances that an agent or publisher will spend more than a passing glance on my work even when it's presented properly. It's like a slow death march. I'm sending out clones of my manuscript on one way trips with such a small chance that they will survive the purges. That alone would not be so bad, but it's not knowing what I'm sending them into. Rejection notes vary but the common theme is to just say keep trying. Not much in the line of battle reports to tell intelligence what we're up against. God, it would be at least something if they just said that they'd decided to burn the next 1000 manuscripts to make room for the next invasion. Seriously though some constructive criticism. It would dispel any vision that there are a whole circle of agents and publishers with a large hat just pulling submissions until they reach the quota."
"This same blog site had a link."
"It has statistics related to authors in print and their experience with getting published by major publishing houses. It was in part done to help highlight the importance of doing short stories to build your reputation and credibility as an author. It had statistics showing the difference between published authors who first did short stories and then published a novel as opposed to those who were fortunate enough to go straight to a first novel. It also included the success rate of both sides of that coin. Showing that those who had built a reputation with short stories had the higher probability of success in maintaining a consistent flow of novel work. This was all instructive in painting a clear picture of what needs to be done."
"Still, a daunting part, the submissions and rejections, remain to hang my manuscript over a fire."
"Then, light at the end of the tunnel. The author of this post painted this horrible picture of self publishing. For some reason he'd deemed it necessary to include statistics on the number of self publishers who might be noticed by an agent or publisher. His indication was that it was a sad 1 out of 256 chance. I looked at this and realize 1 out of 256 as opposed to 1 out of thousands. And, there was my solution to my dilemma.. "
My companion looks only slightly baffled. Eyebrows furrowed above thin slits behind the dark reflective spectacles. This is good, I expect he's forgotten previous rounds of discussions about my book. I say, "Remember, you indicated that you didn't want to read my book to review it. You wanted the hard evidence in your hand so you could browse page by page in one night the efforts of all my years. And, there it is, chance is more in my favor with self publishing. All I have to do is sacrifice my first born. And, not really that much of a sacrifice when I can place a copy in those fleshy maws of yours. To say nothing of the fact that it would cost the same or less than a custom made furry costume."
As is his characteristic response to such revelation he sits back in his chair and forms an O with his mouth. Then his eyes light and he smiles and chuckles, nearly sloshing the beer from his mug. His throat adds its own reverberation to his chortle. The wind comes up swiftly to whip the smoke up and away. The smell of beer washes away from us like the evening tide. I lift my eyes to watch the smoke become a part of the clouds. Then I force them to come back to the empty chair across from me.
Taking the book from my bag I set it on the table.
It's a shame you couldn't stick around long enough to see this. I can only hope that as I sit and read you will be reading over my shoulder. Farewell my friend and have a good rest.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Authors Whose Work I Have Read::
I'm beginning a page of authors I've read with links. I'm not endorsing the links just the authors.
It may take me a while to complete this page... This is a random listing I'm not playing favorites here. Though most if not all of these authors line my bookshelves.
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
It may take me a while to complete this page... This is a random listing I'm not playing favorites here. Though most if not all of these authors line my bookshelves.
- Charles Dickens
- Teresa Edgerton
- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
- Robert J. Sawyer
- Jules Verne
- Harlan Ellison
- H.G. Wells
- J.K. Rowling
- Sherrel Lee-Valens Rise
- D. G. Compton
- Christopher Hodder-Williams
- Mark Twain
- Voltaire’s Candide
- Edgar Allan Poe
- Miguel de Cervantes
- Jean Mark Gawron
- Samuel Beckett
- S. L. Viehl
- Alexandre Dumas
- Algis Budrys
- C. S. Friedman
- Eleanor Cameron
- Roger MacBride Allen
- Catherine Asaro
- Joan Vinge
- Jan Clark--Review: Prodigy
- Algis Budrys
- Tara K. Harper
- Ken MacLeod
- John Varley
- Anne McCaffrey
- Mercedes Lackey
- Kay Kenyon
- Lisanne Norman
- Dean Koontz
- Robert A. Heinlein
- Simon R Green
- David Weber
- Wilson Tucker
- John Boyd
- Elizabeth Ann Scarborough
- C. S. Lewis
- Margaret Weis
- Philip K. Dick
- S. L. Viehl
- John Brunner
- Neal Barrett, Jr.
- Philip José Farmer
- Roger Zelazny
- Jack Williamson
- Cordwainer Smith
- Melissa Scott
- A. E. van Vogt
- David Gerrold
- Murray Leinster
- John Wyndham
- Clifford D. Simak
- Keith Laumer
- Edgar Rice Burroughs
- Kate Wilhelm
- Otis Adelbert Kline
- Philip Francis Nowlan
- Connie Willis: To Say Nothing of the Dog
- Andre Norton
- Steve White
- Michael Moorcock
- Franz Kafka
- Elizabeth Moon
- Ted White
- L.E. Modesitt
- Frederik Pohl
- Pamela Sargent
- Vernor Vinge
- D.F. Jones
- Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
- Elizabeth Hand
- Aldous Huxley
- Poul Anderson
- Sir Arthur C. Clarke
- Isaac Asimov
- Vonda N. McIntyre
- Frank Herbert
- C. J. Cherryh
- Julie Czerneda
- Anne Harris
- Richard Matheson
- SM Stirling
- L P Davies
- Philip Pullman
- Lloyd Biggle, Jr
- Kurt Vonnegut
- C. M. Kornbluth
- Jerry Pournelle
- George R. R. Martin
- Harry Harrison
- K W Jeter
- H. Beam Piper
- Julian May
- William Gibson
- James Blish
- Trevanian
- Stanislaw Lem
- Alexei Panshin
- David Feintuch
- Douglas Adams
- Greg Bear
- Rebecca Ore
- Jack L. Chalker
- Gregory Benford
- Diann Thornley
- Deborah Doyle & James D. Macdonald
- Samual R Delany
- Larry Niven
- Ursula K. Le Guin
- Alfred Bester
- Gordon R. Dickson
- Olaf Stapledon
- Damon Knight
- A Bertram Chandler
- Theodore Sturgeon
- Ray Cummings
- Robert Silverberg
- StephenKing
- MichaelCrichton
- Jeffrey A. Carver
- Katherine MacLean
- Mark Leon The Unified Field
- John Sladek
- Leigh Brackett
- Daniel Keyes
- Orson Scott Card’s
- Mary Shelley
- Ray Bradbury
- Katharine Kerr
- David Drake
- Edward E. Smith
- Marion Zimmer Bradley
- Stephen R. Donaldson
- Alan Dean Foster
- Bob Shaw
- F.M. Busby
- M. A. Foster
- Robert Sheckley
- Robert L. Forward
- Michael Flynn
- William Shatner
- Lois McMaster Bujold
- Jack Finney
- Carl Sagan
- David Brin
- Joanna Russ
- Stan Lee
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
Friday, March 23, 2012
Leaving Comments
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Thursday, March 15, 2012
Here's a listing of some of the hard volume resources I had on hand while assembling Hot Electric
Remember that I stuffed these notions into my head and shook them vigorously, looked in and more often than not came up with "Try Again." So the authors and their works listed here should be in no way held responsible for my desecration.
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
Remember that I stuffed these notions into my head and shook them vigorously, looked in and more often than not came up with "Try Again." So the authors and their works listed here should be in no way held responsible for my desecration.
- A concise history of Painting from Giotto to Cezanne by Michael Levey
- In and out the Garbage Pail by Fredrick Solomon Perls
- HTML complete (whole bunch of editors)
- Mythic Astrology by Ariel Guttman & Kenneth Johnson
- Witches by Hans Holzer
- Complete idiots guide Wicca and Witchcraft by Denise Zimmermann and Katherine A.Gleason
- THE ENOCHIAN TAROT by Gerald and Betty Schueler
- Tarot for Beginners by P.Scott Hollander
- The Complete Guide to the Tarot by Eden Gray
- Principles of Development Lewis Wolpert (Rosa Beddington, Jeremy Brockes, Thomas Jessell, Peter Lawrence, Elliot Meyerowitz) I should probably get a more current edition.
- Personology by Gary Goldschneider
- The Illustrated Atlas of the Universe by Mark A Garlick (Wil Tirion)
- Astronomy the definitive guide by Robert Burnham, Alan Dyer, Jeff Kanipe, (Wil Tirion)
- Essential Astronomy by Cynthia Phillips and Shana Priwer The former three ended up being references along side wikipedia
- Websters Universal Encyclopedic Dictionary
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
Monday, March 12, 2012
Some of the resources I have found helpful in getting started with writing.
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
- :Science Fiction Writer Robert J. Sawyer: {great source for getting started: not for faint of heart} http://sfwriter.com/2007/07/self-publishing-is-not-way-to-go. Last I checked there were few if any kind words for self publishers. Some style preferences such as fonts and formatting might be misleading and cause a bit of pain in transferring over to print if you find a publisher who will take electronic submissions. Otherwise solid advice from a pro.
- Yahoo: Dictionary: Online definitions and Pronunciations
- I would suggest buying one very large hard-copy comprehensive dictionary.(350,000 words plus) Often trying to verify your own usage of a word on line can be disappointing. You could be using it correctly while the listing has only colloquial usage. Then again, your usage may in that case alienate your reader and unless it's part of a characters development you might rethink using the word!
- Dictionary and Thesaurus - Merriam-Webster Online
- Dictionary and Synonyms, Antonyms Roget
- Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia {Take care there are many unverified pages here. Still a great source for fiction writing.}
- The Gregg Reference Manual Online Information Center (I have the Spiral-With-Flap Binding) I'm not sure what is on line.
- http://www.writesf.com/ writing course for science fiction and fantasy.
- Calibre - E-book Management Viewer and converter for e-books multi-format
- Adobe - Digital Editions Viewer for xlibris e-books (at least the ones they give me)
- Amazon Kindle for PC: Install Instructions Viewer for kindle e-books
- The Blue Book of Grammar and Punctuation An afterthought to the first encounter with copy-editor.
- Jim C. Hines » First Novel Survey Results And...the survey says!
- Getting Published, by Science Fiction author Jeffrey A. Carver I had to include this because it just confused me. He seems to suggest that self publishing is not good (though he is not a total negative person as regards this). Still, looking at the bottom of his page, he advertises with a link for Xlibris and a few others.
- http://www.writesf.com/ writing course for science fiction and fantasy.
- AgentQuery :: Find the Agent Who Will Find You a Publisher
- http://www.writesf.com/
- The SF Site:
- sff.net
- SFWA
- Analog -- Submission Guidelines
J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Review:At the Gates of the World's Rim by Shiva Winters.
At the Gates of the World's Rim by Shiva Winters.
What I like about Shiva is that not only is there no end to her imaginings but each book gets much better. This is not one of those series where the second book is less than the first and the third is having trouble getting up to par. No. She makes each one better than the previous and they read quite well so that you might shuffle them up while reading and not get too confused.
This installment begins to add to the already large dynamic family of Monorth. He and his sister now share a daughter through her partner. This is no ordinary young girl, its Monorth's offspring after all. We'll be seeing a lot more of her.
Monorth's name basis relationship with the gods is growing as the gods seem to be drawn into his life as though he's some sort of spiritual lightning rod. Nix and Monorth are getting into the serious business of visiting and mapping out the gates to all the worlds beyond the rim.
Monorth is still an outcast from the Salak'Patan so he's playing it all close to the vest but he's collecting such a vast library of knowledge that it's becoming evident that he shouldn't keep it to himself. He is going to have a tough time trusting others to handle it all .
Nix and his fire cats are beginning to also grow their family and as they start expanding out into more preserves he and Monorth soon discover there are other being such as the fire cats who seem to represent each of the godly elements. Monorth also seem to be collecting a number of the 7 legendary swords of the gods.
It's all leading up to a major turn of events.
If you like Science Fiction, Fantasy, steam-punk, furry stories, Sword and sorcery, and even a few fire breathing dragons. (to say nothing of the cats). These novels are for you and it would be a shame to let a few spelling errors spoil the best read of the year.
J.L. Dobias author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric
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