Em's Joie de Weird

Heaven, Hell, And Other Devices

2012-01-26T08:05:00.000-08:00

I've published a new ebook, titled Pale Lady, (cover art by Ernest Hogan) and this is the freebee coupon code for Smashwords: EG36Y. Just apply it when you're checking out, and it will reduce the price to $0.00.

Now that I've made the pitch, I have to make a confession. I can be very naïve when I decide what books and stories to write. Or maybe I should say I'm oblivious. I never consider how people may react, except to hope that they'll enjoy reading my work. In the case of Pale Lady, the novelette I just published on Smashwords and Amazon as an ebook, I didn't worry that people may assume the story is overtly religious until I was getting ready to publish it. Pretty funny when you consider that it's a story about a bunch of dead people whose souls have gone to Purgatory. Yep – I'm a pretty big dope.

I'm also an Agnostic. I have spiritual inclinations, but I don't want to belong to a church or a particular religion. I don't disagree with religious folk, and I don't disagree with atheists, either. I think they all make good points, but I'm happy to discover the mystery of the cosmos as I encounter it. Yet as a writer, I have to admit that Heaven and Hell make wonderful literary devices.

Especially Hell. I have a feeling that the less you say about Heaven, the more accurate you're going to be. And God seems too complex a being to really capture as a character. The Devil, on the other hand, is a fairly down-to-earth kinda guy. And the ruined grandeur of Hell is irresistible. Dante's Inferno is much more readable than Purgatorio and Paradiso. Or at least, I think it is, because I only made it halfway through Purgatorio and couldn't finish it. The same is true of Milton's Paradise Lost. His description of Pandaemonium kicks butt, and I was fascinated when Adam asked an Archangel why the universe is so big if Mankind is the only intelligent race in it, and the angel told him that he just doesn't need to know the answer to that (apparently the mysteries of the cosmos are revealed on a Need To Know basis). I suppose I should read Paradise Regained some day, but should and will are two very different things. Besides, sequels hardly ever live up to the original.

I don't write about the Devil in Pale Lady. But I think he's a great character. Subtle he must needs be, who could seduce angels, writes Milton, in Paradise Lost.

On the one hand, it's interesting to ponder the fallen Angel, Lucifer, a grand and beautiful super-being who felt confident enough to challenge the Almighty for supremacy (although I often wonder if he was just trying to show God that He was wrong rather than take over). High Fantasy writers use this sort of Devil to represent absolute evil, characters like Sauron from The Lord Of The Rings. Even in The Hobbit, the dragon Smaug has some of the Devil in his personality – Tolkien warns that talking to a dragon too long can get you into trouble.

I think it's the Devil's human qualities that end up intriguing us the most. He took that fall because of his hubris, and that's a flaw we all share to one degree or another. The characters in Pale Lady also get into trouble because of their flaws. But you can say that about any book.

So it's probably my setting that could cause the most misunderstanding. The concept of Purgatory is that you're seeking redemption – you blew it, but maybe you can fix it. Some might see that as an attempt to proselytise. But religious instruction is not my bag – if I'm going to preach, it's more likely to be about conservation. I wrote about these characters in Purgatory for only one reason: I dreamed they were there.

Dreams aren't the inspiration for every single novel or story I write, but most of the time they're at least a factor. In the case of the dream that inspired Pale Lady, I wasn't remotely aware that I was dreaming – the place I found myself and the problems I had were quite daunting. Once I woke up, I knew I had to write the story.

I find the concept of being perched between two extremes irresistible, maybe because I think it's the human condition. We're edging toward Heaven or Hell in our lives – not so much spiritually, but in terms of how we're managing things, how happy we make ourselves and others, what we do in the world and what we suffer. I often feel compelled to write about characters who are trying to escape difficult situations and find some measure of freedom and self empowerment. My personal experience is that escape from metaphorical Hell or Purgatory takes a certain measure of self sacrifice and courage. I suspect that if those metaphysical places actually exist, that rule could only be magnified.

So that's my shtick. I'm not pushing Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, or any other prophet, and I'm not one myself. I'm just a writer who has odd dreams. I hope you'll find them entertaining.

One last thing – it was my intention to publish Pale Lady as a free ebook and to use it to promote my other books. But because of the way I published the Amazon version, I'm not allowed to offer it for free on Amazon. Since I have a contract with them not to offer the book at a lower price on any other site, I have to charge $.99 as the list price. That's why I'm publishing this freebee coupon. Please use it and pass it on to anyone else who may be interested. You'll only be helping me if you do so.

Plus you're more likely to go to Heaven. (Kidding.)

Time Is The Fire: 11/22/63, by Stephen King

2012-01-09T08:56:00.000-08:00

I don't usually write reviews for the books of super-popular writers. They don't need my help to get exposure, and my voice would probably get lost in the crowd. But this time around, I really feel compelled to write about Stephen King's new book, 11/22/63, not just because I liked the book so much, but also because I was so fascinated by the ideas in the book.

Like King, I lived through the early sixties. I was born in 1959, so I was only four years old when JFK was assassinated. But that event was so shattering, so enormous to ordinary American citizens, for most of my childhood it almost seemed like it had just happened. It seemed that way right into the mid seventies. Also, I lived in Phoenix, Arizona, and though it's the biggest city in Arizona, in the sixties it was a big farming community, with cotton fields stretching as far as the eye could see. Culturally speaking, we were at least a decade behind the America you could see on your TV screen. So JFK still loomed big in our world. Yet the first thing that I read in 11/22/63 that really made me think that time travel might be a wonderful thing to do was not the idea that maybe someone could go back and prevent the assassination of JFK. It was the root beer.

I could taste that root beer he described in the book. And in Arizona, that experience had an extra dimension: the root beer was ice cold. If it's 107 degrees outside, and the humidity is less than 5%, drinking an ice cold root beer is a heavenly experience. When I was a kid, I was usually on foot when I went after the root beer, and sometimes I was even foolish enough to go barefoot, though the pavement could be incredibly hot. So the root beer hunt was a perilous adventure, one that offered truly fabulous rewards.

Nostalgia clouds our memories of the past. In most books about time travel, that isn't much of an issue – people go way back in time. So in this case, it's interesting that the character is only going back about 50 years. It's even more interesting that he isn't from that decade himself, he won't be born until the mid-seventies. Nostalgia isn't driving him at all, though he certainly develops a healthy dose of it once he's able to experience that root beer, as well as other delightful artifacts. Many other artifacts he encounters are not so delightful: racism, sexism, small town bigotry, and a resistance to putting really good books like Catcher In The Rye in school libraries, where they would actually do the most good. A man without a mission might just visit the past occasionally, stick to the root beer and the inexpensive golden-age comic books, avoid the jerks as much as possible.

But Jake (masquerading as “George”) does have a mission. In fact, he has more than one, and the JFK assassination isn't even the most important one. He has another rescue driving him, one that's a lot more personal, a friend whose life was changed by one terrible night when his father murdered the entire family. The friend was the sole survivor of that massacre, and was badly injured. Jake thinks first of him, and that's a good thing. If saving JFK was the only thing on his mind, that would be some serious hubris. Thinking you can stop the massacre of a family is also hubris, but most of us would try to do the same thing if we could. And like Jake, we would find out just how dangerous and daunting that is. First of all, guys who are capable of murdering their entire families possess a terrible vitality, and above-average cunning. Most people have no idea how to fight a dragon like that. So this is one of the many challenges facing Jake.

Another challenge is that time itself seems to resist his efforts. The deck is stacked against him. Can he defeat this law of nature? Yes and no, and that's the key to this book. I don't want to spoil it for you by describing what happens, you need to sit at the edge of that seat yourself. But this story really inspired me to reconsider the concept of time travel. Most scientists will tell you it's not possible. But people also said that about traveling faster than Mach 1, and we're way past that now. If you consider that anything is possible, then you have to consider that time travel is one of those possible things. And if it's possible, what are the consequences?

When someone tampers with history, does the timeline lurch into a new path? Or is damage done on some level we can't perceive until the dissonance is so severe, the weave of time/space starts to come unraveled in some places? Will time act to protect itself? King may not be the first to ponder those questions, but his approach is not the usual one taken by writers who like to write about time travel. Many writers like to puzzle through paradoxes and loops that pinch themselves off once someone has done something that would have changed history enough that their very trip through time has been cancelled out of the timeline.

Other writers like to employ the concept of the fan-shaped destiny, with multiple possibilities radiating from pivotal moments in history. I think most people would agree that the assassination of JFK is one of those pivotal moments. When I was a kid, I believed that if only he hadn't died, all of the fine dreams he had for our country would have come true. It wasn't until the presidential election of 2000 that I started to question some of my assumptions. I heard a respected reporter say that Al Gore shouldn't waste too much time grumbling about the way the electoral process had been mangled, because he was certain to win the 2004 election.

None of the other talking heads on the program questioned that assumption, but I did. No election is ever a sure thing for any candidate. And that's when I began to wonder if Kennedy could have gotten re-elected. Without the god-like shine of an assassinated president, would there be any reason to love him with such passionate devotion (unless you were a total dweeb)? If Lincoln hadn't been assassinated, would we have built his splendid memorial and chiseled all of those inspiring words into marble? Both presidents were thoroughly despised by a lot of people. The haters pretty much had to shut up after the assassinations, unless they wanted the ire of a grieving country to turn on them (not to mention the suspicions). So you could definitely get the wrong idea about what would have happened if Lincoln and JFK had been able to continue their careers.

And the assumptions don't end there. At any given time, people tend to believe that the past was a rosy place, where life was simpler, people were more virtuous, music was superior to the popular crap people listen to “these days,” and food tasted better. Somehow, they don't remember the bad stuff.

Yet at the same time, people also assume modern people are smarter. They think we're better educated, less inclined to believe superstition, stronger, and way more hip. In fact, we're so damned hip, that if we went back in time and played some modern music for those people of the past, they would think it was the greatest thing since the invention of the wheel. In movie after movie, just such a scene plays itself out, with people of the past bopping to that wonderful, superior new stuff. Never mind that every ten years or so, the old generations lament the fact that the music of the new generation sucks, big time. Plus they dress funny and they have no manners.

Music aside, simple survival in a strange place would be the biggest challenge facing any time traveler. You would have to have workable skills, and they would not include computer programming. If you were actually able to travel back in time to show those ancient people how much smarter you are, you would probably get your head handed to you on a platter (maybe literally). If you were lucky, people would feel sorry for your stupidity – a big problem, if you're trying to keep a low profile. Sticking out like a sore thumb wouldn't just make it harder to do whatever it is you went back to do, it might even do more damage. You don't want things to come to a screeching halt while everyone stops to gape at this bozo who just showed up out of nowhere and didn't know anything. The Butterfly Effect that Ray Bradbury wrote about in “A Sound Of Thunder” (also mentioned by Jake in 11/22/63) could only get worse under those circumstances.

According to Bradbury, the Butterfly Effect would be magnified exponentially, depending on how far back you went. Yet, common sense would not necessarily stop a time traveler. You'd be asking yourself, Just how much will actually change? If I can do a greater good, will any harm that occurs as a result of people not meeting people, intersections failing to happen, new patterns emerging, be worth it? Maybe you would hope that things would be different-but-better. Or at least still okay. Or maybe you would selfishly pursue your own agenda and not give a damn.

Jake isn't selfish, though he does get wrapped up in the past. He at least has an excuse – his mission is a noble one, once he commits himself, and in the meantime, maybe he can do some good in the more ordinary lives he intersects. You don't blame him when he realizes that he's happier in the early 1960 than he was in the 21^st century. But he's screwing with time, and you have to wonder how big the bill is going to be when it finally comes due. And the mission itself seems impossible – how can he stop such a gigantic event? Maybe he can't. Maybe he should just disappear into the 60s and lead his new (increasingly un-fake) life. It might not lead to a happy ending, but it might be as happy as any life can be.

But once he's seen Lee Harvey Oswald, that's no longer possible. The smaller questions generate bigger ones, until it finally all boils down to one really big question: Can Jake sacrifice personal happiness in order to save the world?

That's what you'll find out when you read 11/22/63. But I've got a question of my own. Everyone wonders how things might have turned out if things had happened differently. What if Oswald had failed to shoot Kennedy? What if the assassination attempt against Hitler had succeeded? What if someone had realized that Harris and Klebold were bat$#*t crazy in time to stop them? Would the world be a better place, or just a different one?

I'd like to go one further than that. What if time is already doing the best it can? What if, once you average it all together, everything that has happened really is the best that can happen? Some people might be discouraged or even horrified by that idea. But if you have to take the bad with the good, maybe you have to take the good with the bad, too. Maybe you have to admit that many wonderful things have happened, all of us have had at least some happiness in our lives. Medicine is better, science is exploring new frontiers, and we have centuries of art, music, and literature at our fingertips. On average, we have more time to spend with our loved ones than people have ever had, in the history of the human race.

We can instantly download good books like 11/22/63. Maybe that's the best argument of all.

One more thing – I listened to 11/22/63 as an audiobook. The reader, Craig Wasson, was wonderful. He deserves an award for his performance. I'll be looking for more of his work.

Suffering For Your Art

2011-12-19T08:01:00.000-08:00

I think writers are luckier than artists and composers. Most of us don't start out with the ambition of creating great art. Usually, we just want to tell an entertaining story and get people to buy our books. We want them to do that so we can keep writing. The way it usually turns out, people mostly don't buy our books, a fact that causes us both financial and emotional distress. But we keep writing anyway. By the time we figure out we're not going to be able to make a living with writing, we're already addicted to the process, and it's too late. We hold onto our day jobs and hope that some day the urge to write will go away and that we'll find a cheaper hobby. But we do have much in common with artists and composers. We all suffer. And that suffering isn't just due to lack of money and acclaim.

This situation is beautifully illustrated by the movie, Untitled. We see two brothers struggling to be the best they can be. One is an artist who has managed to make money at what he does, yet he can't seem to get critics and gallery owners to notice him or show any respect for his work. The other is a gifted musician who is also a composer – but the music he creates is far from commercial. Audiences walk out on him when he performs this music. He tells his brother, The Artist, that he's going to give it three more years – and if he doesn't “make it” by then, he's going to kill himself.

This is a line that makes you laugh – not because you think it would be funny if this guy killed himself, but because you actually understand how he feels. He's out there, a voice in the wilderness, and he really believes in what he's doing. His brother does too. Both of them have something all creative people share: hubris. It's a trait that flies in the face of American values, an overconfidence mingled with a lack of modesty. Yet we can't work up the nerve to create stuff without it. We draw, and paint, and compose, and write, and we show what we've done to the world. When the world ignores us – or worse, laughs at us – it's really painful.

Besides their suffering, the two brothers in Untitled share something else – or rather, someone. They both get involved with a young woman who's a gallery owner. She is strongly attracted to artists who are as unpleasant, unappealing, and weird as possible, because she believes they are true pioneers. Her great talent is to peddle this idea to wealthy patrons, and she actually makes her case very well. Despite her preference for unappealing art, she reps the artist brother, selling his “pretty” paintings to banks and hotels, making a lot of money for him and for herself. This allows her to mentor the weird artists she truly loves. But when the artist brother wants to have his own show, she puts him off. She thinks he's not good enough, but she can't quite come out and say that to him. We look at his paintings, and we can see her point of view. They're pretty, but seem kind of boring.

The gallery owner also thinks the composer brother isn't good enough. Yet she can't resist his weirdness, or the dissonance of his music, so she promotes him. She lets him perform at her gallery, and the audience loves him. But along with the applause and the appreciation, there's also laughter – they think he's being deliberately funny, and he's not. This really humiliates him – but the performance makes it possible for the gallery owner to get him a commission. For the first time in his life, he's got to come up with a serious composition that someone else is paying for.

For a writer, this is comparable to selling your first novel. You believe you've finally got your foot in the door. Finally getting noticed is heady stuff, you're ready to take the world by storm. But bookselling is a commercial business, and what happens to new books is that they get released as if they were hamburgers. You've got maybe a month or two to sell as many hard copies as you can in a Brick & Mortar store, and then you're pretty much off the radar. These days, with ebooks and internet, you've got some options writers didn't have before – you can petition bloggers to review your book, try to get guest blogs, try to make some happy noise on your social media networks. Basically you become the best carny barker you can be, regardless of what your publisher is willing to do to promote your book (which is generally almost nothing).

But even if your initial sales are enough to win you another book contract, you discover another painful truth. Your publisher has pigeonholed you as a certain type of writer, and they are only willing to consider certain story ideas. In a way, you've got to keep writing the same book, over and over. If you try something that's too different from what they expect of you, they won't buy it.

For the artist brother in Untitled, this is actually not a problem. His paintings are all very much alike – that's just what he wants to paint. But in his own way, he has still been pigeonholed by the gallery owner. She believes a show of his work will flop. And at this point in the movie, you agree with her. When the paintings are seen individually, they look pleasant, but uninspired.

Meanwhile, the composer brother seems to be blossoming. He has to direct other musicians, and for the first time, there are rumors of actual moolah materializing. He gets to work with a singer who hates his guts. She's talented, and very opinionated, and harbors suspicions that he's trying to sabotage her by making her look ridiculous. Yet she stays on board, and he learns more about directing. Every time they perform you still want to laugh, but you begin to realize that part of the reason you're laughing is that the music is not just “weird,” it's witty. There really is an inherent beauty to unstructured sound – you hear it every time you stop to listen to distant thunder, or wind chimes, or the sound of water bubbling over rocks. At this point the film has performed a subtle shift – the characters are seeing and hearing things differently, and so are you. You begin to realize that the gatekeeper in the movie, the gallery owner, is not just helping the artist and the musician. She's hurting them, too.

This is what gatekeepers always do, whether they're gallery owners, critics, recording executives, or publishers. They can turn you into a professional. They can make it possible for you to achieve critical and/or financial success. But in doing so, they become the bosses of your career. They decide what you're going to write, paint, and compose – and what you're not going to write, paint or compose. They decide what ideas and projects are worth pursuing. It's very hard to succeed without them. But once you've teamed up with them, your choices become very limited. And worse, those gatekeepers who let you in will eventually shut you out for good. Up until recently, once they closed the door on you, you were done.

Now things are shifting around pretty drastically in the publishing world. They're shifting in the music world too, though It's still hard to say what's happening with art. I suspect we still have some gatekeepers – like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, YouTube, Google – But so many people are using these services, they don't seem to have the time or the inclination to micro-manage anyone's career (yet). For the time being, we writers and artists and composers have the option of plying our trade online without getting the approval of a gatekeeper. Many of us are finding out how hard, exciting, satisfying, and aggravating that can be. Probably the best thing about it is that we get to decide what we've got that's worthy to show the world. Many people would argue that's also the worst thing about it. The possibility of looking ridiculous is scary – you could lose credibility, rack up hundreds of bad reviews, look like a fool to the world.

But sooner or later, you have to risk that possibility. Because you're creative, and this is how you can succeed, even when the gatekeepers won't let you in – or when they've decided you're done, and shut you out for good, which is what happens to most writers, and artists, and composers. You can take the guff and slink away with your tail between your legs, or you can seize the day.

And that's exactly what the brothers do, in Untitled. Just when you think they're going to keep knuckling under to the gallery owner, they decide they have to do what they have to do. The composer writes a composition all right, but when the time comes to perform it for the wealthy patron who bankrolled it, the composer emulates the gallery owner's favorite artist, a guy who makes “invisible” art. The composer makes soundless music.

And the patron demands his money back. But that's okay, the composer is ready to stride off in his own direction, he really knows what he wants to do now. He doesn't need to follow anyone else's ideas about what music he should make. His brother, the artist, also asserts himself – he demands his own show. He gets it, simply because all of the other avante-garde artists have abandoned the gallery owner by this time (apparently they're a fickle lot). So she fills her gallery with the “pretty” art. And another odd thing happens. Once you see all of those paintings together, they look beautiful and inspiring. You realize that the reason the paintings look pleasant-but-sort-of-boring by themselves, is that they were all really part of a larger work, something that's still in progress.

So the gallery owner was both right about him and wrong about him. She was helping him along and holding him back. Gatekeepers do filter a lot of amateurish stuff out before the wider public can ever see it. Sometimes they also mentor talented amateurs until they turn into professionals. Once you've got a gatekeeper in your corner, you really want to please them, you're inclined to see things their way. It's actually a little sad how badly you want to please them. If you become uber-successful, as a handful of people do, this relationship may shift until you're the one who needs to be pleased. I think we all hope for that outcome. More often, you just get strung along until you're finally dropped.

But in a way, that's the luckiest thing that could happen to you. You don't have to work up the courage to take the plunge, sever your ties with a gatekeeper, and possibly assassinate your career – because you've got no other choice. So what you do instead is make the best of it. You try to figure out what your options are. It's hard work, but not really any harder than becoming an artist, or composer, or writer in the first place. You suffer when people laugh at you, or ignore you, or write lengthy opinions about why you suck. You don't get much money, or much critical acclaim, but you still feel driven to express yourself. Every time you put something out there, you're taking a big risk, and it's scary.

The compulsion to create overcomes all that. And, after all, it's not slings and arrows every second. They say that anyone who can be discouraged from [fill in the artistic endeavor], should be discouraged. And that's the most essential thing all artists/writers/composers have in common. We can't be discouraged. We dream. We dream big.

Those qualities, above all else, may be what really define us.

Michael Levy's Beautiful Lyre Music

2011-10-28T09:37:00.000-07:00

This video features Michael Levy's arrangement for lyre, of the 1st Delphic Hymn To Apollo (c.128BCE), from his album, "The Ancient Greek Lyre", set to a the ancient Greek poem "Parmenides' Journey":

Michael has made an appeal to music fans:

“If anyone out there "in the know", who knows anyone I could contact, to use my ancient lyre music for similar themes eg as background music for documentaries on "The History Channel" etc, this would be amazingly appreciated...my biggest frustration, is that apart from this website and my Youtube Channel, my voluminous virtuosity on the lyre, is virtually unknown!!!”

My Poltergeist

2011-10-28T08:00:00.000-07:00

Let's face it – latchkey kids are the perfect target for a haunting. We're all alone. We're hungry (and sick of cheese sandwiches). And we've seen all the monster movies - we know that evil forces are out there, just waiting to gobble us up.

But what are you going to do? Mom and Dad are working to keep a roof over our heads, and we're too old for babysitters. So we walk home from school, let ourselves into our scary, empty houses, check in the closets and under the bed (baseball bat in hand) and settle down in front of the TV and/or game thingee with a crummy cheese sandwich. We find some diversion to keep us from freaking out until more people come home and turn the empty house back into a haven.

If you were a ghost, wouldn't YOU pick on that kid? Plus, you would have the advantage of surprise. In an ordinary neighborhood, who's expecting a ghost? We don't have a lot of abandoned mansions nearby. We're kind of expecting to get attacked by monsters of another kind.

I think my neighborhood was typical in a lot of ways. It was suburban, and we had a resident monster. She was called Mano Loco, and I suspect she was a spin-off of La Llorona, the vengeful spirit of a woman who killed children. Being a kid myself, I took that very personally. But sightings of Mano Loco were rare – the monsters we were most likely to encounter were human. And as a kid gets older, our expectations change. When you're 5, you think Frankenstein is going to get you. When you're 10 or 11, you're more likely to expect the crazy guy with the knife.

I think I almost encountered that guy once, or his close cousin. I got home from school one day with a really big problem – I had to go to the bathroom so bad, I almost didn't get the front door unlocked in time. I rushed into the house without even closing the door – the only smart thing I did was to lock the bathroom door.

As I sat there taking care of my business, my mind started nagging at me. You didn't close the front door, it warned. Bad idea.

Still concerned with more pressing matters, I brushed that off. No one's going to break in, I said with 99% confidence. It's not like crazy guys are waiting behind the bushes outside the house 24/7 . . .

Maybe they aren't. But I heard a sound in the hall, and then I saw shadow feet in the gap under the door. I ran to the door (I can't remember if I tripped over my shorts or not) and grabbed the doorknob just as it began to turn.

You may remember, I said I had locked the door. So why was the bad guy on the other side able to turn it? Because this oddball doorknob was designed with a hole in the center – if you inserted something into the hole, you could press on the mechanism and turn the knob, opening the door. This is an important point for two reasons: 1., if you couldn't turn the knob, you couldn't unlock the door, and 2. You actually had to have a knob like that to know how to get it open. Which means that the person on the other side of the door, attempting to ambush me in the bathroom, was probably one of my neighbors. I was only 10 or 11 at that time, but I grasped that little detail immediately, and to say that it freaked me out is a serious understatement.

I held onto that knob for dear life. The person on the other end kept trying to turn it. Fortunately, this was not comparable to arm wrestling – my desperate strength was just enough to keep the knob from turning. I'm not sure how long this contest of wills went on, because I think I was suffering from time dilation by that point. I just hung on until the galaxy stopped spinning and time itself came to an end.

Then I peeked under the door. No one stood there anymore. It took me a while to work up the courage to come out. When I did, I fled and stayed at a neighbor's house until my mom came home.

I never did figure out which neighbor tried to ambush me. And from that point on, I felt more than a little paranoid about being home alone. I think that may have been what attracted the poltergeist.

Poltergeists are “mischievous ghosts.” They like to move stuff around, to occasionally throw things, and to make loud noises. I had a friend who was trying to clean up her mother-in-law's house – the woman had been a pathological pack rat whose home was stuffed to the rafters. My friend had a lot of trouble making progress. She would sort books into separate piles, leave the room for a moment, then come back to find the books had been re-shuffled into one giant, precarious stack in the middle of the room. That's pretty typical behavior for a poltergeist.

My ghost only had one trick up its ectoplasmic sleeve. It demonstrated that trick to me one day after I came home from school. I was standing in the family room, setting my books on the table, when I was overcome by the certainty that someone was in the house with me. I turned, listening as hard as I could. Then something began to come down the hall toward me, stomping its foot and snapping its fingers as it came.

Let me clarify something. The noise I heard was not the sound a human foot and human fingers would make. It was grotesquely amplified, as if freakin' Godzilla were stomping his way down that hall, headed straight for me. And the snap was like the sound high voltage wires would make as the giant, mutated Komodo dragon walked straight through them. It went like this: THUMP! SNAP! THUMP! SNAP!

That line of THUMP-SNAPS would be a lot longer if I had actually hung out to listen to them. Instead, I ran out the front door as if my tail were on fire. I ran to my friend's house. And if this were a movie, this would be the part where I told my friend what happened, and she didn't believe me. That's what happened in real life too. So of course, I had to take her back to my house and show her.

No, really. We were that dumb. You would have been shouting, “Don't go back into that house, don't go up those stairs, don't go into that basement!” I didn't actually have a basement or any stairs, but if I had, I'm sure we would have climbed and/or descended to our doom. We went back into the house. We stood in the family room. We waited for a long time. Nothing happened.

She smirked at me and said, “See?”

And then something in the hall went, “THUMP! SNAP! THUMP! SNAP!” moving right toward us.

I think she may actually have gone airborne at that point. She zoomed out my front door with me right on her tail. But I admit, even in the midst of all that terror, some little part of me was saying, I told you so, with a ridiculous amount of satisfaction.

So for months afterward, I tried to avoid being home alone. But the THUMPSNAPPER still managed to ambush me a few more times. Each time it happened, I zoomed out the front door before I could get a good look at the supernatural prankster. And each time it happened, I had no trouble getting away. But then something unavoidable happened. I got sick.

I had to stay home in bed. And I was so sick, for a few days I didn't even think about the THUMPSNAPPER. I just sort of faded in and out of consciousnesses, halfway listening to the TV set on in the background.

Finally I got to the point where I was feeling better. I was wide awake in the back bedroom, watching some game show. And suddenly I heard the THUMPSNAPPER coming.

But this time, it started at the other end of the hall, between me and the front door. I couldn't get out. I looked at the window, and for one moment I contemplated trying to climb out.

Instead of doing that, I hid behind the door. And I didn't cower there. I waited, because I wanted to finally confront this thing that kept terrorizing me, that kept chasing me out of my own house. I had had enough. I was ready for a showdown.

Well – almost ready. I hid there as the noise came closer, my heart pounding. It reached the end of the hall and stopped there. It was on the other side of the door. I could actually feel a presence. And finally, I screwed up my courage enough to look.

Nothing was there. The THUMPSNAPPER had simply evaporated. That's when I knew that my poltergeist was nothing more than a loud noise. It could startle me, it could annoy me, but it couldn't hurt me. Its reign of terror was over. I never heard it again.

Years later, I was reading a book about ghosts and saw the word poltergeist. I had never heard it before, and I didn't know the word back when I was actually being haunted by one. I read something interesting about those noisy ghosts. The noises they make often sound unnaturally amplified. That's when I realized what had actually haunted me, years earlier. The THUMPSNAPPER was a textbook case, though it never threw anything at me. It was more playful than mean.

So if your kid tells you about something that scared them, something they never saw but that made REALLY loud noises, believe them. Tell them what a poltergeist is. Maybe they can confront it and make it go away. Or it may get bored and go away by itself.

Or it may just hang around indefinitely, waiting for the right moment to go . . .

. . . “THUMP! SNAP! THUMP!”

Sadko

2011-10-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

When you turn on the TV in the wee hours of the morning, you're never quite sure what you're going to get. Sometimes it's a shopping program, or an extended infomercial. Sometimes it's an extra-early version of an early news show. And sometimes you discover something magical.

That's how I stumbled on Sadko, directed by the Russian master of fairy tale films, Aleksandr Ptushko. Several years ago, my husband and I were working a difficult shift at Borders, and had to get up at GodAwful O'Clock in the morning (it was 3:00 or 4:00 a.m. – not my favorite time of the day). We had cable TV, and turned it on to watch the news. But we didn't have it tuned to the right station, and instead we ended up in the middle of a movie.

We were not in a movie-watching mood. But Sadko was so charming, we left it there and watched Sadko and his men going up to the sultan's tower where the Bird of Happiness was allegedly being kept. And this was when an amazing moment occurred. The Bird had the head of a woman, she was sitting on a perch in semi-darkness. She moved slightly, so the light fell across her face, and it was the most beautiful face I've ever seen. That image struck me right between the eyes (an interesting experience to have that early in the morning), and it has haunted me (in a good way) ever since. The bird lady was a wonderful special effect, I completely believed her.

Years later, on a whim, I looked the title up on amazon and was delighted to find it available. I've watched the DVD several times now, and it never loses its magic.

Granted, it's been ridiculed on Mystery Science Theater 2000. Not everyone who looks at Sadko will see its charm. To American eyes, it may look pretty corny. The dubbed version is BADLY dubbed, and many people don't like having to read subtitles. There's no CGI (since the movie was made many decades ago in Soviet Russia), and the leading lady is a little plump by modern standards.

But her face is truly lovely, and her voice is even more beautiful. I love hearing the actors speak Russian, and the sets and mattes for the film remind me of the work of the Russian artist Nikolai Roersch.

Sadko is based on the Russian folktale, and was also the subject of a symphonic poem by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. The movie is really a glimpse into two lost worlds: the world of fairy tales, and the world of film makers who have more creativity and ingenuity than money. It never forgets that it's a folk tale, never loses touch with the roots of the audience for whom it was made. In one scene, Sadko hires a crew for his ships based on how much vodka they can drink without falling over and whether or not they can withstand a punch in the chest. Also, being able to wrestle a bear is a plus. You'll be happy to know that no actual bears were harmed in the filming of that segment – a guy in a bear suit takes all the abuse.

When the movie was packaged for American audiences, they called him Sinbad, but Sadko is a way nicer guy. He is a musician who plays the gusli, but unfortunately also has political opinions. When he sees the suffering of the poor, he wants to do something about it. He doesn't totally succeed, but he gives it the ol' college try. He tries to find the Bird Of Happiness so he can take her home to Novgorod. What he finds is a far stranger, more dangerous creature, possibly a siren. She lulls people to sleep with her beautiful voice, so the bad guys can come and kill them. She belongs to the sultan, so I imagine she's fallen on hard times and is forced to work for her keep. She must spend her days sitting on her perch, in the darkness, contemplating the lost Golden Age. Sadko almost falls under her spell, but rouses himself at the last moment. He realizes he's been chasing a rainbow, so he decides to chase it home again.

His adventures aren't quite over. He still has to play his gusli for the Tsar and Tsarina of the Underwater Kingdom. When the undersea revelers make waves that threaten ships on the surface, Sadko breaks his gusli and escapes to find his true love in Novgorod.

In fairy tales, courage and love win the day. Sometimes a movie can capture that same magic. That's why I love Sadko, unreservedly.

Nikolai Roerich

2011-09-28T20:40:00.000-07:00

This magnificent little video speaks for itself . . .

How Sarah Vowell Saved My Sanity

2011-09-13T09:13:00.000-07:00

Before I actually started to listen to audio books, I had a bad attitude about them. I was very dismissive – I figured people listened to audio books because they were too lazy to read. In my defense, there is some truth to that notion. When I worked at Borders, I helped many harried mothers whose children had to read a book for school that they simply would not read, because they hated to read. So moms bought the audio book, thinking that might help. And they may have been right, though for many of those kids, paying attention to 9+ hours of material was probably more than they were willing to do.

I began listening to audio books by accident. Ernie and I had night jobs on a clean-up crew at a local grade school, and our supervisor was an audio book fiend. He would play them on the PA system. After the first night of this, I was hooked. I realized that audio books were very much like the old radio shows. And best of all, I could listen to them while doing other stuff, like gardening, housekeeping, cooking, or driving. Now that I can listen to audio books on my itouch, I'm really spoiled – these days I'm listening to an audio book at some point just about every day.

In the old days, price used to be a huge limiting factor for audio books. You paid anywhere from $25 to $125 for one book. Many people were willing to pay, but after the economy tanked, publishers reacted more intelligently with audio books than they did with print books. They went digital. Granted, they may have been forced into that technology by heavy hitters like Amazon, but it seems to be working out for the best. Prices are lower, and there are a wide variety of good audio books to chose from.

I have my favorite authors: Ellis Peters, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Jeff Lindsay, Elizabeth Peters, etc. But now that I've been listening for a while I also have my favorite readers, people you will not have heard of unless you listen to audio books. These folks are superstars, they don't just read the material. They are the ones who turn a good book into an entertaining dramatic presentation. Many of them can do multiple foreign accents (an ability I very much envy, now that I'm recording my own audio books). Patrick Tull and Barbara Rosenblat are two giants in the field. TV actors also find work narrating audio books: B.D. Wong's narration of Ticktock, by Dean Koontz, is delightful. Jay O. Sanders and Stephen Lang also narrated books by Dean Koontz, Dragon Tears and By The Light Of The Moon. I have a long list of favorites I can refer to when I need to be happily diverted.

Sarah Vowell features prominently on that list. And it's not because she has a beautiful voice or because she can do foreign accents. In fact, though Sarah Vowell narrates 70% to 80% of her audio books (except for The Partly Cloudy Patriot, where she does about 90%), guest narrators do the particularly challenging roles. It's not Sarah's acting ability that snags me, it's her wit, her comic timing, and her delightfully nerdy subject matter that keeps me tuning in. She is an unabashed American history buff, and her obsessive inquiries into our past are funny, fascinating, and illuminating. Assassination Vacation and The Wordy Shipmates can withstand multiple listenings. In fact, they just get better every time I hear them.

There are times I feel like I'm just a voice in the wilderness. It's nice to hear another voice crying out there too, even if it's a little squeaky. My voice isn't that melodious either. Sarah gives me hope – in more ways than one.

Treat yourself. Give her a listen.

My Mom's (Yearly) Quest To New Mexico

2011-08-23T17:36:00.000-07:00

New Mexico is just not a big city kinda place. Even Albuquerque is more like an oversized town. Once you head North toward Santa Fe and Taos, you find a lot of towns dotted throughout the hills, many of them little more than dents in the road. Truchas is one of those dents.

The Truchas Farmhouse is an Inn that my mom fell in love with about 20 years ago. She makes a pilgrimage there every year, usually in August, just when we're starting to feel completely fed up with the heat in Phoenix. Mom loves the farm and the little casitas at the Inn, but she especially loves the lady who owns the place, Frutoza Lopez. Frutoza possesses a rare wit, and she and Mom like a lot of the same novelas (Spanish-language soap operas) and a lot of the same old Mexican songs.

Truchas was the inspiration for Siggy Lindquist's home town, in my novel Broken Time: the rugged hills, the streams and irrigation gates, and the little towns denting the roadside. The Farmhouse has its own stream, which passes under a bridge in front of the main house.

It also has a man-made pond out back, with at least two resident racoons – I surprised them this year when I trudged out with my camera and suddenly spotted them near a culvert. They disappeared into the pipe as quickly as they could. Unfortunately, I couldn't capture them on video.

From the Inn, Mom and I venture out to surrounding attractions. We've got a couple of favorite shops we like to go to, but they're not the expensive galleries and clothing stores that took over Santa Fe and Taos. They're thrift shops, where the fancy stuff gets sold second hand.

One of them is the second floor of a candy store in Española; items there run from 50 cents to $1.75. There are state and national parks to visit too.

If you drive along scenic route 14, you can see outcrops of tilted layers of welded tuff, superheated volcanic ash that fused into solid rock. Turn off the route into Cerrillos, and you can visit Cerrillos Hills State Park, which features several moderate hikes through a landscape of welded tuff & volcanic rock, scrubby trees & tough grasses.

My favorite is Bandelier National Monument, below the Jemez volcano, which formed along the Rio Grande Rift. Jemez exploded twice within the last million years, spewing about 50 cubic miles of ash and rock. Bandelier National Monument is in Frijoles Canyon, which eroded out of thick layers of rhyolitic tuff, some of the same stuff you see along Route 14. The Canyon walls are tan, white, pink, and light orange, full of holes from gas trapped in the tuff that cooled and eroded into fanciful shapes. This fused ash formed a rock that ancestral Pueblo people found very useful for building material, so the monument contains ruins and petroglyphs too. This year, forest fires in New Mexico forced park officials to close all but a tiny portion of Bandelier. We didn't get to hike our favorite trail. But that just makes us more determined to come back next year.

Mom lived in Santa Fe when she was a little girl, some time during the early 1930s. It's changed so much since then, I think it breaks her heart a bit. Taos has changed too. Even I feel some of this sadness – when I was growing up in Arizona during the 60s, we only had about one quarter of the population we have now. Crappy apartment and housing complexes have sprung up everywhere, ticky-tacky places that are poorly built and crammed close together, and that all look alike. Beautiful hills and mountains have cities and towns creeping up their sides. This is not an improvement.

But we still manage to find the beauty in New Mexico every year. Mom will keep making her pilgrimage, and I'll keep tagging along. It's true that you can't go home again.

But you can certainly visit from time to time . . .

Ernie's Robot

2011-08-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

My husband makes up really great titles for things. If you were looking at a display of his art in a museum, you would have as much fun reading the titles as you would have looking at the actual art. But unfortunately for Ernie, he's married to me – and I like to make up my own titles for his work.

Take Ernie's Robot. I found him lurking in a forgotten portfolio. I like him so much, he sits in a prominent spot in the room where we spend most of our time. I see him every day when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep. He is there while I'm watching movies, while I'm working on our big desktop computer, while I'm folding laundry and putting it away. I meditate or vegetate under his glowing gaze; he watches me do my homework. He has witnessed hundreds of phone conversations, but he never repeats anything he's heard.

The Sphinx Lady presides over my science and travel library. She is so gorgeous, she would probably sell pretty quickly in an art show. But I suspect many who admire her obvious attributes do not suspect the appetites that are the flip side of her sublime expression.

Skeleton Guy is an illustration for an article Ernie did for a gaming magazine, DIFFERENT WORLDS, about precolumbian monsters and spirits. If you see him, you have to be courageous enough to grab his exposed, beating heart, or the sight of him will drive you mad. I always thought he would make a great Halloween card.

We weren't careful enough when we stored The Jaguar's Wife and something stained her face. But I rather like it – she looks as if she just got done eating a chocolate ice cream cone. After all, it's not easy to hold onto a cone with your paws.

Ernie named this picture Cease And Desist – I call it Zeppelin Woman. I love the little chubby spot around her navel. I have no doubt she'll fight off the bad guys.

Here are some details from The Novel, a piece that I hope to have mounted and framed some day.

You can read it from either direction. Ernie did it on a whim, with some leftover particle board.

It has suffered some damage over the years, but I love it anyway.

The Crocodilian is still loaded with personality, even though he's dead. He's from one of Ernie's on-the-run sketchbooks. Ernie has kept several over the years, drawing in them with crayon and/or grease pencil. Happily, he has begun to scan some of this stuff into our computer, where he can work on it with the GIMP program. These sketches are some of his best work.

I have appropriated many drawings by Ernie to illustrate my blog – it's one of the perks of being married to an artist. Fortunately for me, Ernie is a kind man, gifted with infinite patience. We have even begun to do some art together, using my photographs and his skill with GIMP. Together, we designed the cover for my book, Broken Time.

We'll be doing more of this in the future, so . . .

… watch this space!

They've Got The Horizontal AND The Vertical . . .

2011-08-09T14:32:00.000-07:00

I grew up in Phoenix, Arizona during the 60s, a time and place that I fortunately shared with the wonderful program director for Channel 5, Bill Thompson. Thompson is best known as “Wallace” on The Wallace And Ladmo Show, which he hosted for several decades. But he was also a huge movie buff, and his programs on Channel 5 included, The World Beyond, Tarzan Theater, John Wayne Theater, Charlie Chan Theater, Adventure Theater, and many others.

Each of those programs had wonderful theme songs. For The World Beyond, it was an excerpt from Also Sprach Zarathustra – not the most obvious bit, but the weird stuff with all of the voices that you hear in the movie 2001. For John Wayne Theater it was an excerpt from the last movement of Grand Canyon Suite. Thompson just seemed to have a knack for picking 30 seconds of music that captured the spirit of the movies he loved so well. He understood how important that music was. He is the one who taught me to be aware of musical scores.

For me, the film score is always at least as important as what's happening on the movie/TV screen. Sometimes it's more important. Here are some movie and TV scores that rocked my world and blew my mind. I hope they'll do the same for you.

The Outer Limits, Dominic Frontiere

I consider myself very lucky to have seen the premiere episode of The Outer Limits: "The Galaxy Being." But the really lucky thing was that I was only 7 years old, so when the announcer said, "Do not attempt to adjust your television set . . ." I was literally reaching for the dial. I snatched my hand back, scared motionless.

"We control the horizontal," said the announcer, "We control the vertical."

Oh my gosh! They've got the horizontal AND the vertical! We're doomed!

So for the next hour I was a happy captive, utterly convinced that what I was seeing was the truth. But even more important, I believed the music, though I didn't know the mechanics behind it (and still don't). The music is utterly true, even though I now understand that The Outer Limits was just a very good story-telling device, not a transmission from benign-yet-spooky aliens. Dominic Frontiere belongs to the Great Soundtrack Composer Club, where he sits right alongside Bernard Herrmann and Elmer Bernstein (not to mention Igor Stravinsky and Aaron Copland).

The day after I had my visit from "The Galaxy Being" I rushed out to tell my friends about it, only to find that many of them had experienced the same thing. If you're younger than me, maybe you'll find this goofy. But sample the music – you'll find out it packs a wonderful punch. I'm so glad I own a copy of this album.

Beauty And The Beast, Georges Auric

In the interest of preserving peace in our home, my mom gave me my own little black & white TV when I was 9, an act that some might consider a blow against Western Civilization. But I was a weird kid, and I didn't spend much time watching game shows. I was hooked on movies, so Bill Thompson's Channel 5 got a lot of my business. We also had a good local PBS station, and that's where I discovered Jean Cocteau's Beauty And The Beast. I accidentally tuned in during the scene where Beauty is running through the Beast's castle, a haunting, silent sequence that runs at a dreamlike pace. Then the Beast steps out of the shadows and confronts Beauty. She faints, and the music starts up again.

Any thought I had of changing the channel was forgotten.

When I started collecting albums, I searched for this soundtrack. My search lasted for 30 years, because Beauty And The Beast didn't have a soundtrack album. It wasn't until after the death of the composer, Georges Auric, that someone was going through his papers and found the score. Now I own two different recordings (this one and the NAXOS recording).

The score works both as a soundtrack and a classical suite. In turns it's haunting, romantic, heartbreaking, playful, transcendent, and triumphant. You'll like it even if you haven't seen Cocteau's film - and if you have seen it, hearing this music will evoke wonderful memories.

The Day The Earth Stood Still, Bernard Herrmann

It's impossible for me to imagine this film without its score, and that's the reason I won't see the remake. It's bad enough they thought they could replace Michael Rennie. But when I think of the wonderful sequence, “Nocturne/The Flashlight/The Robot/Space Control,” I can't imagine why anyone thought they could improve perfection. This sequence is the essential science fiction experience, an encounter with the unknown (and possibly the unknowable). It's a glimpse into alien minds and alien machinery.

The theremin (played by Samuel Hoffman and Paul Shure) in this movie produced a sound that became the standard “science fiction soundtrack,” at least in the popular imagination. But it was never used to better effect, and it was beautifully supported by an orchestra in Herrmann's score. It's inventor, Leon Theremin, was a genius with a long and very odd career. Bernard Herrmann went on to write scores for Alfred Hitchcock, including the next album.

Vertigo, Bernard Herrmann

The first time I saw this movie, I didn't actually see it. I heard it. It was playing so late at night, I was dozing on my bed when it finally came on the TV (which tended to be on, much of the time, in my bedroom). The music roused me from deeper sleep, and managed to keep me in an in-between state for the entire movie. Occasionally I would pry one eye open and see Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak, talking, running, kissing. I knew some heavy-duty stuff was going on. And even though I didn't hear the dialog, the music told me everything I needed to know about the movie and its themes of love, obsession, deception, and ultimate loss.

This was the most grown-up movie I had encountered up to that point. It's so grown-up, I'm not sure you can truly comprehend it if you're under 40. But that's okay – the music is a road map. If you've heard it, you'll never forget it. It will tell you exactly how Jimmy Stewart's character was feeling. You'll be swimming in deep water. And that's an experience everyone should have at least once.

Jason And The Argonauts, Bernard Herrmann

Herrmann was a versatile composer who is probably best known (in the U.S., at least) for his score for Psycho, in which a band of crazy violins duke it out with some relentless cellos. The sound bite everyone knows (“scree-ree-ree-reet!”) doesn't really do the score justice. Listen to the whole thing some time – it's a masterpiece of suspense.

Brits may know Herrmann better for his scores, Anna And The King Of Siam and Fahrenheit 451. These scores are so beautiful, they deserve blogs of their own. I saw these movies eventually (happily, when I was still a kid, and my sense of wonder was still dominant). But the first Herrmann score I ever heard was Jason And The Argonauts.

The opening sequence is driven by the same sort of drum you would expect the rowers to hear on the Argo. Likewise, the horns might have sounded from city walls, warning of an approaching army or celebrating returning heroes.

But my favorite part is where the dragons teeth are sown, and the Children of the Hydra sprout into an army of skeletons. I'm pretty sure the dominant instrument in this sequence is the bassoon. It's effect is delightfully menacing. Once those skeletons start fighting, an array of percussion instruments join the wind section to create the effect of clashing swords and rattling bones. Ray Harryhausen's animation and Bernard Herrmann's orchestration make a dazzling team.

Le Voyage En Ballon, Jean Prodromides

Someone (on NPR, I think) once posed the question: “What are the five album that changed your life?” For me, that mostly happened before I was 12 years old. The only exception is the music of Ralph Vaughan Williams, which took my heart by storm when I was 30-something.

When I was a kid, the first album I became aware of was Snoopy And The Red Baron, by the Royal Guardsmen. I loved Snoopy, so it was only natural I would love the song about him. It's a wacky album, very British 60s pop/rock.

But within a few years, my tastes became more sophisticated. Some new albums came along and rocked my world: Ports Of Paradise (Ken Darby and Alfred Newman), Rogers and Hammerstein's The King And I, and Jean Prodromides' score for Le Voyage En Ballon.

My mother, brother and I had seen the original version of Le Voyage En Ballon at a drive in. It was French, but didn't need subtitles, because it had no dialog – it was made by the same director who did The Red Balloon (Albert Lamorisse). The action and music told the story. Later, Jack Lemon bought the American rights and released the film with an awful narration track attached to it.

My mom loved the music, so she bought the LP. I played it to death. This is another album I searched for, for years, in CD form. I recently found it on amazon – as an import. I can't stress enough to you – get this album while you can. It's incomparable.

People have a tendency to romanticize times that are past, as if all adventure, glory, and achievement are long dead. I don't believe that's the case with film scores. People are still writing great ones. But today's composers are influenced and inspired by the composers who came before them. So am I.

I never won a Ladmo bag on The Wallace And Ladmo Show, but I'll always be grateful to Bill Thompson. Every Saturday morning, he invited me to The World Beyond. On that show, and others, I heard some of the best film scores ever written.

I was a very lucky kid.

Confessions Of A Fan Dancer Wannabe

2011-07-25T14:15:00.000-07:00

About 25 years ago, I was on a trip to New Mexico with my mother and my sister. We were staying at a Bed & Breakfast in Santa Fe, and one morning we sat down to breakfast with a couple of very nice ladies from North Carolina. Conversation started with what we were doing for the day, how beautiful New Mexico was, etc. But eventually, the subject at hand became what we did (or if you want to look at it another way, what we were).

My mother had a past she could be proud of – 25 years teaching Special Education, then subbing for the 3^rd grade. (Now she teaches English As A Second Language for adults). My sister volunteered that she was a college student, working on her Bachelor's degree in Geology. (Now she teaches 3^rd grade in California and lives in an Ashram – she spends several months a year living and volunteering in India). The whole time they were talking, my frantic little brain was scurrying around, trying to scare up something I could say that would not sound totally lame, disreputable, and/or pathetic.

I pretty much failed, because I am the Black Sheep of the family. I had already gone to junior college twice, trying to settle on something I wanted to do, but I didn't even have an Associates degree. I had no steady source of income, had worked a variety of low-paying jobs. The only thing I had going for me was the fact that I was a writer – but I wasn't published yet. In fact, I was on the brink of my first sale: a story titled “Shade And The Elephant Man” (which I later developed into my first novel, Shade). Charlie Ryan at ABORIGINAL SF had asked me for a re-write, and was looking at the result (I hoped) even as we spoke. What was I going to say to these ladies? I'm kinda-sorta on the verge of maybe selling a story . . .

My sister stopped talking, and one of the nice ladies from North Carolina turned to me. “Well then,” she said, seeing my extreme hesitancy, “you must be the fan dancer.”

Ha! I wish! The life of a fan dancer sounded exotic and glamorous. Fan dancers actually have dancing skills, you can imagine them waving their feathered half-shells in the courts of ancient kings. Or you might picture Gypsy Rose Lee, dropping her shoulder strap as she sings, “Let Me Entertain You.” You wouldn't picture the hard life of a nude dancer in today's men's clubs – a life that, frankly, seems more like the life I was really living at that time (metaphorically, at least). To be a fan dancer – how much better that sounded than the truth.

But I was on the spot. So I did what any self-respecting writer would do. I lied. “I'm a writer,” I said. “I just sold my first short story.”

My mom, god bless her, chimed in with her very high opinion of me, and the fact that what I wrote was science fiction (as if this were ultra-glamorous). The ladies were pleased, and it turned out that they liked science fiction too. Of course, they were Southern ladies, and this may have been a polite fib. But I can hardly point an accusing finger at them when I was the biggest liar at the table.

A week later, I returned home to discover that Charlie Ryan wanted to buy the story, and my lie turned into the truth. He bought two others after that. I sold a few more stories, and eventually I sold nine novels to NAL/Roc. I was also published in the U.K., Italy, and Israel. I just self-published two new novels as e-books, and I plan to do the same with my entire backlist. Nowadays, I'd have something good to tell those ladies. I'm even back in college, studying Geology (my sister had the right idea).

And I probably wouldn't have made a very good fan dancer anyway. Still, it might be nice to wave those feathers around, once in a while. Just for fun . . .

Broken Time

2011-07-24T22:01:00.000-07:00

When my novel, Broken Time, was published by NAL/Roc, it was nominated for the Philip K. Dick award. Now I've published it as a Kindle book on Amazon and in several formats on Smashwords (who distributes it to sites like Barnes & Noble, Sony, Kobo, Apple, etc). This time around I don't have to use a pen name, so I've published it under my Emily Devenport moniker. Nice to be finally getting over my Multiple Pen Name disorder . . .

The cover was designed by my husband, Ernest Hogan, using one of my photographs. I like the way it turned out. Hopefully it will help me sell lots of copies of Broken Time.

Red Rocks, Rain, Haboobs, and Happiness

2011-07-22T09:39:00.000-07:00

Our new work schedules have made it difficult for Ernie and me to do day trips together, but last Monday was an exception. We're not ones to waste an opportunity like that, so we piled into our truck and drove North to Oak Creek Canyon. Here's a link to Ernie's blog about our day. He did nifty sketches and everything.

We hiked on a path I'd never taken before, along Highway 179, in hot sunshine. By early afternoon, it was raining on us, and we got splashed with red mud. It rained on us most of the way home, but we finally hit a dry patch outside Black Canyon City. We rolled down our windows to dry off.

By the time we were driving South On I-17, into Phoenix, we saw a massive haboob rolling in. All in all, it was a fabulous day . . .

Humility 101

2011-07-06T18:42:00.000-07:00

They say that anyone who can be discouraged from becoming a writer, should be discouraged. And though I'm not usually the sort to try to discourage anyone, if you're considering becoming a writer, there's something you need to know right off the bat: writing is a humbling experience.

Let's get our definitions straight. By humbling, I'm not talking about the way you would feel if you received an award and you got behind a podium and said, “I am humbled by this honor.” Because, let's face it, you're the opposite.

And I'm not talking about the way you would feel if you were writing a book about a tragic event, and you did a bunch of interviews with people who survived it, and you said, “I am humbled by their strength and their courage.” Because you're actually impressed, not humbled. Maybe a little shamed, too, because you might wonder if you could rise to the challenge as well as they did.

Nope. I'm talking about the way you feel when someone pisses on you in public and the witnesses all laugh at you. Or the way you feel when you've worked really hard on something, and you're really proud of it, and someone walks by, takes a long look at it, makes a face, and says, “Meh.” (Also in public, because that's one of the main components of humiliation.) And just in case you think these humiliations will go away once you've become established, popular, and successful – forget it. You will be humbled again and again, for as long as you continue writing.

I know what you're thinking. “Sure, Devenport – crummy writers like you get humbled. I bet you get lots of bad reviews, and no one comes to your signings, editors give you the razz, and your own agent probably doesn't even return your phone calls. But I'm talented! I'm [fill in the names of several writers you admire] all rolled into one! Sure, I may get an occasional bad review from a jealous critic, but 99.99% of readers will know talent when they see it. These people are hungry for good books. In fact, they're starving. I know I'm better than most of the bozos on the best-seller list. If people like that mediocre stuff, wait 'till they get a load of the real deal!”

Okay, maybe you would word it a little differently (you are such a backseat driver), but you know you're thinkin' it. And that's the main reason you will be humbled. It's not because of bad reviews by jealous critics. Critics aren't jealous, they're arrogant (a human foible shared by writers). It's not even because sales will often fall short of expectations (make that drastically short) – that's just disappointing and discouraging. Depressing, too.

The main reason why being a writer is such a humbling experience is that your expectations rarely match up with reality, even when you should know better, even when you've been at this for decades and have had your share of ups & downs. Because writing books takes more self-confidence than most people will ever have, and that's only a half-good thing. It's that arrogance I mentioned earlier. You need it so you'll take risks and believe in your work. You need an obsessive-compulsive condition too, an attribute that will goad you into writing more books, long after your common sense has warned you that writing is a crummy way to make a living.

There are a thousand insults and disappointments you will suffer as a writer. This is regardless of your critical and/or financial success. Remember what you just said about those bestsellers you can write better than? (Okay, I said it, but you were thinking it.) Log onto any book site featuring Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Stephanie Meyer, or any other popular writer you can think of, and you will find negative reviews tarnishing all the good ones. Every writer who has ever lived has critics who will pick apart their work. Sure, financial success probably mitigates a lot of that disappointment, but only about the top 5% of writers enjoy real financial success. The rest of us have to take the insults and the injuries. We live, breathe, and dream a book for several months (or years), and then watch it turn into McBook – just one more hamburger out there on the market being perused by consumers who are always at least a little disdainful, and jaded, and ready to dismiss us just as soon as the next thing catches their eye.

All writers, obscure or popular, well paid or broke, share an essential disappointment, a realization that ultimately our work is just smoke and mirrors, an illusion we've tinkered together, a collection of ghosts who can't stand up to the daylight. It doesn't matter what anyone says or thinks about our work now, because eventually no one will say or think anything about it at all. It's like that poem by Shelley about Ozymandius, “Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Nothing is left of those works but a pedestal.

Shelley's poem will probably survive several more centuries, but even his work will probably fall to dust, eventually.

This fact does not sit well with the grandiose fragment of the writer's personality that drives us to write in the first place, so we feel humbled. Add that to all the other slights and disappointments we suffer as writers, and that humility really starts to pile up.

And that's not a bad thing. I would venture to say it's good for you. But you have to be tough to withstand it. So grow a thick skin.

You're going to need it.

Desert Island Albums

2011-07-01T09:35:00.000-07:00

I'm a kid from the tail end of the Baby Boomer Age, and I think it's safe to say that most people from my generation don't list classical albums among their favorites, even though many of them are just as passionate about music as I am. Many of my writer buddies on facebook post clips from their favorite albums, everything from jazz, to rock, to easy-listening/lounge, to experimental – but never classical. Okay, granted, you don't see classical music videos very often (if at all). Unless you count footage of orchestras playing. Movie scores are often classical, but most of the people who watch movies are only vaguely aware of the music (which is a good indication that it's doing its job).

I'm a lot more than vaguely aware of the music. I've always loved classical music, even when it doesn't have a movie attached to it. When I was a kid, I eventually learned not to play my favorite albums for friends – unless I wanted to watch them take a nap. And that's when I realized that for many people, listening to classical music is just too much work. Plus there usually aren't any words. And when there are, they're in Italian.

Still, I believe that many people could learn to like classical music. There's a wide variety of it – it's not just Bach and Beethoven and Mozart. I believe there's classical music to please just about anyone. And once you find something you like, you may be inclined to explore some more. I'm not saying you should. But if you're curious, I've got a list of faves that you may feel inclined to explore. Just for fun. Honest.

Rachmaninoff, Suites For Two Pianos

The first few notes of this album play, and a door opens into a magical world. That's how it always happens to me. I play Suite No 1 and hear "The Barcarolle," and then "La Nuit," and then "Les Larmes," and "Paques," -- and I see a lost world, the sort of place the Russian upper class used to live and love. Sample it, you'll hear what I mean.

Suite 2 is more rousing, an adventure, rather than a romance. A carriage ride through busy streets, a climb on a hillside with babbling brooks. Watching a parade of soldiers in their best uniforms, knowing that they won't be going off to war anytime soon. All of these pieces were new to me when I first heard this album. I was well aware of Rachmaninov's piano concertos, and of "Isle Of The Dead." But what really amazed me was this double-piano version of his wonderful "Symphonic Dances." I prefer it to the orchestral versions I have, even though they are marvelous. This is just that much better.

Yolanda Kondonassis, Debussy's Harp

I had never heard Debussy performed on harp before I listened to "Debussy's Harp," and it was a delightful discovery. I am particularly impressed with Kondonassis' rendition of "The Sunken Cathedral." Previously, my favorite version of this was on Tomita's famous album, Snowflakes Are Dancing. But Yolanda's harp captures the magnificence of that magic cathedral better than any other instrument or collection of instruments I've ever heard.

Pay what you need to pay to get this album. It's worth it.

Claude Debussy, Orchestral Works, Vol 2, Geoffrey Simon

This may be heresy, but I have to confess, "Prelude To The Afternoon Of A Faun" and "La Mer" are not my favorite pieces by Debussy. My favorites are on this album, performed beautifully by Geoffrey Simon and the Philharmonia. In fact, this is the Debussy album I love the best, the one I'd want to have with me if I were stranded (with lots of batteries and a good stereo system) on a desert island. All of the pieces are orchestral versions, beautifully arranged. "Nocturnes" and "L'isle Joyeuse" are my favorites, but every single piece on this album is an absolute delight, and you may find that you have your own favorites when you listen to it (again and again, as it deserves).

This is a wonderful album to take on a road trip if you're planning to drive through fantastic landscapes. The first few bars will usher you into another world, a place of magic and mystery.

Harps Of The Ancient Temples

King David was reputed to love harps, and the first piece on this album pays homage to that history. Listening to it, you can imagine yourself in David's court, being serenaded by the finest musicians in the land. This is one of the most beautiful albums ever recorded, and this CD edition has marvelous sound clarity, even better than the LP edition I still have. I would classify it as classical rather than new age – the pieces are based on real, ancient music, and sound just the way you would expect them to if you could climb into a time machine and visit each of these civilizations. Perfect! And finally back in print! Hooray!

Mahavishnu, Apocalypse

If I could only keep 10 albums, Apocalypse would be one of them. I first heard it in LP form, when I was 14 years old, one hot summer in Phoenix, Arizona. It has always reminded me of the more dramatic parts of the Arizona landscape, not to mention the spectacular monsoon storms we have. At first, I played side one the most. I love the beautiful, contemplative piano piece that starts the album, "Power Of Love." And "Vision Is A Naked Sword" would make a perfect soundtrack for the super-charged lightning storms I've witnessed in Arizona. But eventually, "Wings Of Karma" and "Hymn to Him" also grew on me.

Recently my husband and I went on a second honeymoon, a driving trip through Arizona. It was January, and we passed a power plant in the middle of a desolate flood plain. A giant plume of steam hung over the plant, held in place by the super-cold air. "Vision Is A Naked Sword" was playing on our car stereo – it was one of those moments you remember the rest of your life.

People who review music sometimes have a tendency to be overly intellectual. When you listen to Apocalypse, rely on your gut. Don't compare it to other albums, let it stand on its own merits. I own 2 copies – I just bought a 3rd to give my brother. I hope it NEVER goes out of print (or at least, not in my lifetime). I'll always love it.

Ralph Vaughan Williams, London Symphony, John Barbirolli

It's high time that I write a review for my all-time favorite performance of Vaughan William's 2nd (London) Symphony. I love the John Ireland piece too – Barbirolli's interpretation of the material on this album is masterful – but what really makes it stand head and shoulders above every other performance I've ever heard is his tempo for the third movement of RVW's 2nd symphony. Other conductors have had a tendency to rush through it – Barbirolli nails it perfectly. Every time I hear it, my spirit soars, and if my knees weren't so creaky I would probably break into a jig.

One of the DJs on our local classical station used to excerpt the third movement on this recording to introduce his show every day, long before I knew who RVW was, and I always stopped to listen. Now I own about 20 recordings of RVW's work, including performances conducted by Adrian Boult, Andre Previn, Bryden Thomson, and Yehudi Mehuhin, but John Barbirolli is the master of the 2nd. If you're going to own just one performance of this symphony, this is the one.

Tomita, Snowflakes Are Dancing

This album came out in the early 70s, when I was a teenager, and I remember it generated both praise and scorn. The scorn was due to the fact that it was electronic music, produced on synthesizers. The group Yes had produced an amazing album titled Close To The Edge that used synthesizers to fine effect, and many artists across Europe were doing the same. But no one had attempted to do an entire classical album with synthesizers until Tomita came along.

I loved it the moment I first head it. If it weren't for Vaughan Williams, Debussy would be my favorite composer. Tomita doesn't just go through the motions and produce a generic electronic sound for this music, he interprets it as if his synthesizers were an orchestra. My favorites on the album are “Reverie” and “The Sunken Cathedral.”

This is another great road trip album. I own three copies . . .

Gustav Holst, The Perfect Fool

I love Gustav Holst, and I'm not trying to knock "The Planets." It's a beautiful, marvelously imaginative suite, and I think it ranks among the greatest compositions of all time. But it's a shame that music lovers often don't realize Holst wrote other orchestral works, and they are wonderful too. My favorite is "Egdon Heath," which is performed on this high quality EMI recording by Andre Previn and the London Symphony Orchestra.

This album is actually a compilation of earlier EMI recordings, all of which are very high quality. The vocal offerings are directed by Holst's daughter, Imogen. I have always preferred orchestral works over vocal, but these selections are an exception, some of the most moving I've ever heard.

Think of this album as a Holst sampler, and one well worth having.

Anatoli Liadov, Orchestral Works

Westerners who like Russian composers usually know the giants, like Rachmaninoff, Prokofiev, Stravinsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, Shostakovich, and the Grand Master, Tchaikovsky. But Liadov was a giant too, he just wasn't as prolific as the more famous fellows. His music evokes essential Russian characters like Baba Yaga, the grandmother witch. When you listen to "The Enchanted Lake," you will see that magical place, and his "Eight Russian Folk Songs" will transport you to the Age of Fairy Tales.

Prokofiev, Alexander Nevsky

I don't own the enhanced version of this CD, but I'm very happy with the regular version. The music paints the images of this story extremely well. I first heard this recording on a listening station at Borders, the year it was released, and I was sold within a few notes. I had seen the movie on PBS many years before, when I was a teenager. I tuned in during "The Battle On The Ice" scene. The music captured my interest first, but I have to confess I noticed something else that isn't really relevant to this review (but I can't help commenting about it). The actors were wearing fantastical helmets that looked familiar to me. I stared at the screen for several minutes before I figured out where I had seen them before. I used to read the comic book THOR, and I'm pretty sure I saw those helmets on the gods of Valhalla. Jack Kirby may have been the artist. So the Eisenstein movie has had a profound influence on a lot of people over the years.

I love this recording from beginning to end, but I have some favorite parts: The opening of "The 13th Century" sounds wonderfully Medieval. "Arise People Of Russia" is a profoundly moving choral piece, and so is "The Field Of The Dead." You can't help but think about the invasion of Stalingrad that occurred a few years after the movie was made. "Nevsky's Camp" captures the mood of a band of soldiers who expect to die in the morning. "April 5, 1242" is dramatic and ominous. A sound effect is included that will raise the hairs on the back of your neck at the beginning of track 10, the charge of two armies who clash in the middle and begin to fight with metal weapons. "Pskov: Procession of the Fallen and Judgement of the Prisoners," includes church bells and is utterly grand. And "Final Chorus" will knock your socks off.

Prokofiev is among my top 5 favorite composers, I love him without reservation. The emotions he expresses are both dark and light, harmonious and dissonant. ALEXANDER NEVSKY stands on its own, but is also a superb film score. Listen to the CD, then rent the movie if you've never seen it. It's worth your time.

Respighi, Pines And Fountains Of Rome, Eugene Ormandy

This is, hands down, my favorite recording of "The Pines Of Rome" and "The Fountains Of Rome." It's also the best of the recorded performances Ormandy did of these pieces, so beautiful it still brings tears to my eyes when I listen to it (and I've heard it at least 100 times). If I were still playing the LP version of this album, it would have been worn to the nub years ago. If I could only listen to 10 albums for the rest of my life, this would be one of them. It haunts my heart and stimulates my imagination.

I hope this album will be made available as a high-quality download, it would be a shame if it slipped into obscurity. Buy it while you can, it's an investment you won't regret. I own two – I don't want to risk losing it!

The Orthodox Singers, Basso Profondo From Old Russia

Back when the Borders where I worked had a music section, we received a demo of this album, and it piqued my curiosity. When I listened to the first track, I thought, "Oh well, interesting, but not something I'll want to take home with me." But when the second track began to play, I was hooked for life.

I tend to prefer orchestral music over choral or opera, but there are some notable exceptions. I find that Sacred Choral music from England and Russia is extremely moving. These are two very different musical traditions, but they share a spirituality that inspires me. I don't need to understand the words to get the message, the tones express it perfectly. Though there is one word just about anyone will recognize in track 5 of this beautiful album: "Hallelujah." It's my favorite track.

Russian singers are the best bass singers in the world, maybe because they love that range (though the singers in the higher ranges in this album are equally passionate, and their voices are gorgeous). I think it might be fair to say no one sings that "Old Time Religion" better than the Russians. During my Music Section Expert days, I sold many copies of BASSO PROFONDO FROM OLD RUSSIA to customers simply by playing it. Unfortunately the sample tracks on Amazon are selfish little snippets that don't do the album justice. So here's a thought – buy a high-quality download of track five, "Blessed is the man who seeks no council among the impious." I bought one from the iMusic site for $1. Once you listen to it, you'll know everything you need to know about this album.

Blessed is the music fan who takes this counsel!

Patty Griffin: Useless Desires

2011-06-25T19:32:00.000-07:00

I've blogged several times about the years I worked at Borders, and from the tone of those blogs you might get the impression that I experienced nothing but frustration, thanks to the blind executive class that ran that business and the shoplifters and problem customers that plagued it. But in fact, there were many wonderful aspects to working for Borders. Most of the people I worked with were wonderful, and I still keep in touch with some of them. Most of the customers who came into the store loved books and/or music, and I had a lot of gratifying encounters with people. And because I was at the receiving end of a distribution chain for new books and music, I was introduced to the work of a lot of writers and artists. Patty Griffin is one of those artists.

If you want to categorize Patty Griffin, you could call her a singer/songwriter. You might call her a country singer, or a folk/rock singer. We shelved her in the pop/rock section, probably because her break-out album, Flaming Red, has a lot of driving beats and pop-style lyrics. But if you listen more closely to those lyrics, they are mostly bittersweet, contrasting with the happy rhythms that carry them.

I'm very lucky to own the in-store-play version of Impossible Dream, which has six extra tracks, several of them live. I love all of Patty Griffin's albums because of her passion and her virtuosity, but most of all because of her storytelling skills. Listening to one of her albums is like sitting down in your favorite chair with a really good short story collection, one that you like to read over and over. Sometimes the simple ones like "Kite" and "Mother of God" are the ones that grab you the most, but then others like, "Long Ride Home" (from 1000 Kisses) and "Useless Desires" (from Impossible Dream) come back to haunt you.

"Useless Desires" provided the catalyst that inspired me to write my novel, Spirits Of Glory. I had been hashing over a series of compelling images and ideas from a dream I had, about a world whose human inhabitants experienced fractured time and whimsical (and sometimes dangerous) gods; and whose neighbors were an enigmatic race who hated to answer the simple question: “Why?” I was listening to Impossible Dream while I mulled things over and puttered around my garden. And then I head these lines:

“Goodbye to all the window panes shining in the sun

Like diamonds on a winter day

Goodbye, goodbye to everyone”

Inspiration struck. I ran into the house and typed, “One day the people in the North woke up and the people in the South were gone.”

Goodbye, goodbye to everyone . . .

As I was writing the book, I often listened to this album, trying to capture the feeling of heartache that haunted my heroine, Hawkeye, as she journeyed along a shattered highway, trying to find out what happened to all those people who disappeared. Heartache is Patty Griffin's forte, though she often wraps it up in music so catchy, you don't realize your heart is being broken until it's too late. We're talkin' finger snappin' heartache – the sort country singers have mined for decades.

I'm a classical fan, and that's what I usually pursue. If I hadn't worked for Borders, I probably never would have heard one of Patty Griffin's albums. CDs were eventually discontinued at most of the Borders outlets, so even if they hadn't gone bankrupt and I hadn't been downsized, that part of my experience with them was over. The highway that provided the music was broken, much like the shattered highway in Spirits Of Glory.

But for a while, it led me to Patty Griffin. I'm glad it did.

Notes From A Dreamed Life

2011-06-19T21:11:00.000-07:00

I had an Ah-Hah moment while I was sitting in a theater watching Inception, the movie about people who are trapped in endless loops and multiple levels in a dream. Up until that point, the story had been entertaining, engrossing, thought-provoking, and just plain fun. But then one of the characters mentioned that when you enter deeper levels in a dream, time is experienced differently. In the waking world, minutes may be passing. But in this dream sub-level, years seem to be going by.

This has happened to me. Perhaps ten times in my life, I've gone to bed and experienced lifetimes before I woke up. I can't nail the number down exactly, because the sensation of having lived all those years fades within minutes upon waking. I'm left with snippets of memories from that dreamed life, lived in a dazzling universe full of wonders, terrors – and love. And I grieve for the loss, until even that sensation fades. If I'm lucky, I can salvage some of the images, events, characters, landscapes, mystical and emotional qualities, and weave them into one of my novels. So as I sat in that darkened theater, watching those characters dive deeper and deeper into a dream, I thought “Ah-hah!” This was why I became a writer. I've been trying to preserve what I can of those lost, dreamed lives.

Christopher Nolan, writer and director of Inception, may not have had the same experience with time dilation in a dream that I have, but he at least knows that such a thing is possible. I have no idea how many other people do. When I talk with others about their dreams, some common experiences come up. Some dreams seem to be meaningless jumbles of random images and sounds. Others seem like mystical conduits to the afterlife, where you can speak with loved ones who have passed away. Some dreams drive you like demons of anxiety, regret, guilt, and terror, until you feel grateful to wake up again, even though you're exhausted. Anyone who has ever been to school has had the one about forgetting to go to class and suddenly being confronted with a final exam you're not prepared to take. Not to mention the one about being naked in public.

Both of my recent novels, The Night Shifters, and Spirits Of Glory, were inspired by dreams. Not all of those dreams were the sort that seemed to last years – many of them were fairly short. And my novels aren't composed of 100% dream material – if they had a laundry label, it might read, 30% research, 20% brainstorming, 35% dream, 15% dumb luck. Every writer has a different experience with inspiration. But I wonder – how many writers have lived for years inside a dream, as I have? Is it a common experience, or rare? Or does it differ for every dreamer, just as inspiration does?

Leonardo DiCaprio's character is haunted by the dream of his lost love in Inception. Whether or not the movie has a happy ending depends on whether or not you believe it does. It all depends on how you chose to look at it. And ultimately, that's how I've come to terms with the loss of my dream lives. I lived them – the other choice is not to have known them at all. And who knows? Some day, when this current dream life is over, I may wake to find myself in another.

In the meantime, I'll write down what I remember, and hope for the best.

Alpha Station

2011-06-09T07:32:00.000-07:00

Hawkeye wondered how far they were from Edge. Investigators had flown to each of the Southern cities after the disappearance (obviously, no one could drive), and no one walked that route now except Scavengers and Neighbors. She could recall nothing about Edge itself, but now that she was thinking about it, the accounts she had read from the investigators who searched that empty city all agreed on one odd point. Each of them reported that periodically they felt the urge to look skyward, as if something might fall on them. None of them saw or heard anything to give them this impression, but each of them said they had looked up in alarm, over and over, until they walked outside city limits. When they gathered at the landing site on the other side of the ruined highway, everyone took one last look at Edge, with much the same urgency they had felt when they looked at the sky. But – nothing. So they all climbed in their aircraft and went home.

They might be passing the investigators’ landing site before sundown, possibly within an hour. She doubted she would know it when they did. She glanced skyward herself, but not because she thought something would fall on her. A shadow had touched her, and a breath of cool air, and when she looked up she saw a massive bank of clouds trying to overtake them. These clouds were dark with rain, and she hoped they didn’t contain lightning and fierce winds, too.

But rain would be nice, perhaps they could contrive a way to capture the water. And now that she knew that no Scavengers were following, she didn’t have to worry they would get a drink as well. Now it didn’t matter.

Daisy smelled the approaching storm and twitched his ears with disapproval. Brat’s ears folded back for the same reason, and Wolfy tsk-tsked. Boss frowned, but Mug’s grimace might have indicated his version of good humor. All this led Hawkeye to wonder if the storm might not be trouble after all. Could they shelter near one of the broken highway chunks? Surely, even if they got wet, one good, hot afternoon would dry them out again.

They all watched the storm, but as the afternoon began to age, it never overtook them, but seemed more inclined to hang back, and Hawkeye’s mind began to drift again, matching the lazy pace of the storm.

Maybe it will be trouble, but right now I rather like it. It smells good, it’s cool, and rain is always interesting.

On the right side of the horizon, past the highway, she saw the remotest outlines of buildings, the tops of skyscrapers. Could this possibly be Edge? Surely they weren’t more than twenty miles from Evernight, they couldn’t be nearing it so soon. But if it wasn’t Edge, why did it have skyscrapers? Perhaps she was wrong about the distance.

One object on the horizon dwarfed the buildings, like a tree with grass at its feet, and she marveled to think how big it must be to do that. Perhaps it merely seemed bigger, it might actually be closer. Hawkeye was still too far away from it to tell.

The sun descended to its late afternoon position, but they didn’t stop for supper, and Hawkeye didn’t ask why. She wanted to nibble a food bar, but didn’t want the beasties to see her eating. It would only remind them that they were hungry too. Boss seemed determined to travel a certain distance, so Hawkeye kept quiet, periodically looking up to check the status of the storm, then toward the horizon at the distant buildings.

The storm might be pouring rain behind them, but it didn’t seem inclined to drip any on them yet, so Hawkeye looked again at the edge of Edge. With a start, she recognized the scene. They must actually be walking past the place where the investigators had taken that photo from The Lost Cities. The same chunk of broken highway still sprawled on the left, and the outline of the city was the same.

But not exactly the same. The thing that had always seemed to be missing was there now, right smack in the middle, the object that dwarfed all others. This tube-shaped thing stood straight above the horizon, and it was obviously man-made, rather like a grain silo except that it was far too large and tall. Patches of color crawled up its side, but she couldn’t see if they were stains or something deliberate. The top part of it had broken off, she could just make out ragged bits along the torn part, things that must have actually been thick and sturdy – probably metal, if the way the sun glinted off them meant anything. Yet they looked as if something had twisted and snapped them without the slightest effort. She squinted, focusing exclusively on these torn bits, until she could see individual strands, frayed like fragile threads. She stared at this as she rode Daisy closer to the city, foot-by-foot, yard-by-yard.

Tornado? she wondered. What else could twist a building like that, yet leave the bottom intact? Her eyes wandered back down the structure, to the smudge of color that crawled up the side, but now she was close enough to see that these were letters, and they said, ALPHA.

The word rattled around inside her head with uncommon familiarity, as if it were something she saw every day, perhaps lettered on the side of a truck, or on an advertising billboard, or in a commercial on the entertainment net, or even stamped on envelopes she received in the mail – yet none of these familiar things seemed to be the right thing, the obvious thing that stood right there in front of her. She rode closer, and realized the thing was even bigger than she had thought, even farther away, so it took a long time for the letters to become clear. Finally she could make out a mass on the ground next to the towering tube, which had at first looked like rocky hills, but was obviously the part that had fallen off the top. She could just see two letters on this fallen part, S and T.

ALPHA ST –

“Alpha Station!” she said aloud, as if she had just solved a crossword puzzle. Then the words and the image came together in her head, and she caught her breath. “Boss.”

He turned from his position at the head of the wedge and stared at her. Everyone else followed suit, like dominoes falling.

She motioned to the towering tube with a trembling hand. “Alpha Station. That’s the space station. The one that’s supposed to be in orbit around Jigsaw.”

from Spirits Of Glory, by Emily Devenport

Feathered Dinosaurs

2011-06-04T21:38:00.001-07:00

When I was studying Historical Geology, I was surprised to find out just how much biology and evolutionary science I was expected to learn, because of the fossils that are present in some sedimentary rocks. It wasn't that I objected to those subjects, or that I found them uninteresting; it's just that I was focused on rocks, and that was pretty much the only thing I wanted to study.

Once I learned more about stratigraphy, I recognized the necessity of developing at least a rough understanding of how and why life forms change over time. Geology isn't just about the chemical composition of rocks and the processes by which they form. It can also tell us what the climate was like when a particular rock formed, where the land masses were, how far oceans advanced onto the continents, and what life forms were present.

Besides, fossils ARE minerals. And recognizing fossils that are present in a layer of rock can help you assign a relative date to that layer. So basically, whether or not I wanted to learn anything about biology in my geology class, I was stuck with it. And it wasn't good enough to just be able to say, “Okay, that's a T-Rex footprint – Cretaceous Period – badda-bing, badda boom.” Nope, I had to be able to Identify structures in the fossils and figure out what they were for.

Dang.

It was a pain in the butt, but it was worth it. I didn't get to be an expert, but I did develop an appreciation for the study of fossils, as well as a healthy curiosity about the creatures who used to walk (or swim, or crawl, or fly, or ooze) on the Earth. Near the end of the semester, I also developed something else: a new perspective on dinosaurs. And I couldn't have done it without the internet.

I'm not claiming that the internet is always the best source of information. It can be a misinformation superhighway a lot of the time. But despite the perils, I found it useful when I was working on an assignment near the end of the semester. We had been handed three worksheets comparing ancient life forms with more advanced life forms. For instance, one paper compared ancient fish with amphibians. The next compared amphibians with reptiles. They were challenging, but it wasn't until I was working on the one that compared the dinosaurs to birds that I was driven to the internet for more information.

My assignment included questions about a dinosaur called a Troodon. I decided it would be helpful to see a picture of what scientists thought a Troodon looked like (the picture on my handout was of a skeleton), so I googled it. And that's when I stumbled across a reference to a book: Feathered Dinosaurs: The Origin Of Birds, by John Long and Peter Schouten.

The reference was a picture from the book, featured on Stephen Bodio's blog. It was an artist's rendition of a feathered dinosaur tending to her newly hatched “chick.” I liked it so much, I printed it out. It currently resides on one of my kitchen cupboards, where I can look at it every day. Each time I look at it, I can see the bird in the dinosaur and the dinosaur in the bird. As I sat looking at this picture on my computer screen, the idea that birds evolved from dinosaurs finally became more than an abstract concept to me. So I had to buy the book.

I keep it where I can thumb through it from time to time. It's like an AUDUBON collection, except the feathered creatures inside have teeth. My only objection to it is that sometimes the paintings are centered so that the binding splits them in two. This will probably be less of a problem once the binding gets a little looser with wear.

Feathered Dinosaurs contains some interesting information, but it's not a textbook – it's designed to inspire. If you love dinosaurs (or birds), check it out.

It may even help you get an “A” on an assignment . . .

Staff Recommendations

2011-05-25T09:37:00.000-07:00

One very effective thing that Borders used to do was to encourage Staff Recommendations. This was back in the day when those recommendations were genuine, rather than thinly disguised hard-sell pitches that resulted from a debacle called Make Titles. For a while, Borders was so desperate to seem relevant to the publishers, they would choose titles to Promote With Extreme Prejudice. This is the way it worked: every customer who walked in the door had to be greeted (Walmart style). After the greeting, you were immediately supposed to offer assistance. In the training videos, the fake customers responded perfectly to that offer, allowing the bookseller to start making the sales pitch for the most current zombie book or “book club” title.

In real life, the customer (reeling from the onslaught of a bookseller who swooped like a predatory bird) firmly said “NO.” Records were kept of how many Make Titles each bookseller managed to sell, and reprimands (along with threats) were handed out when the numbers weren't high enough.

This antagonized everyone but the executives who made it up. Customers were used to REAL recommendations from Borders booksellers; our expertise was our greatest strength. So eventually the Make Titles program went away.

Websites don't really have an equivalent to staff recommendations, but the customer recommendations on Amazon are very helpful to people who are skittish about buying online. Amazon has cultivated those amateur reviewers, even allowing them to have their own page on the site (and yes, I am one of them). Barnes & Noble has lagged behind in cultivating a customer review atmosphere on their website, but they're actively working on it.

So what does this mean for surviving brick & mortar book stores? With so many of the bigbox book stores collapsing under their own weight, small book stores are discovering what it takes to stay in business and win customer loyalty. Not surprisingly, recommendations from a knowledgeable (non-swooping) staff are an important part of that strategy. Now that I'm working at Books And More at the Heard Museum in Phoenix, I can recommend a number of titles. If you live in Phoenix (or if you're passing through) stop by and give them a look – we're at Central and Encanto. Otherwise, visit your local store or your favorite website; these books are worth your time and moolah.

ARCHAEOLOGY/ANTHROPOLOGY

Archaeology Of Ancient Arizona, by Reid and Whittlesey

Arizona's Rock Art, by Robin Scott Biknell

American Indian Ghost Stories, by Antonio R. Garcez

HISTORY

Navajo Weapon, by Sally McClain

Guns, Germs, And Steel, by Jared Diamond

Appetite For America, by Stephen Fried

MYTHOLOGY/FOLKLORE

Sacred Oral Traditions Of The Havasupai, by Tikalsky, Euler, & Nagel

Navajo Taboos, by Ernie Bulow

BIOGRAPHY/AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Lazy B, by Sandra Day O'Connor

Seldom Disappointed, by Tony Hillerman

Talking Mysteries, by Hillerman and Bulow

ARIZONA TRAVEL, WILDLIFE, NATURAL SCIENCE

Sedona, Treasure Of The Southwest, by Kathleen Bryant

Birds Of Arizona, by Stan Tekiela

Roadside Geology Of Arizona, by Halka Chronic

Arizona Journey Guide, by Kramer & Martinez

Roadside History Of Arizona, by Marshall Trimble

Turquoise, by Lowry & Lowry

Frequently Asked Questions About The Saguaro, by Janice Emily Bowers

Forest Cats, by Jerry Kobalenko

Smithsonian Rock & Gem Guide

COOKBOOKS

The Arizona Cook Book, by Al & Mildred Fischer

Southwest Slow Cooker, by Biber & Howell

Tacos, by Mark Miller

Tamales, by Daniel Hoyer

Hope For The Book Store -- Sort Of

2011-05-20T18:33:00.001-07:00

By the time Borders went bankrupt, I had pretty much given up on the concept of the brick & mortar book store. After all, look what they're up against: an expensive distribution system, the high costs of leases and utilities, a sluggish economy, and heavy competition from online book stores and/or e-books. When the Borders where I worked was placed on the STORE CLOSING list, my co-workers and I began to search frantically for new day jobs. I ended up briefly at a grocery store, as a cashier. But it was an extremely demanding job, and it paid $3 an hour less than I had previously earned.

Life was looking pretty grim. My husband Ernie had happily settled in a new job with the Phoenix Public Library, and I was very pleased to see him happy again. But I was losing sleep. And then he told me that a lady from the Phoenix Heard Museum book store had left her card at the Borders where he still worked in the evenings. I felt like I'd been struck by lightning. “That's my job!” I said.

And it was. Miraculously, even though several skilled people had applied before I did (I was actually the last interview) they hired me. I've worked there ever since, and I love it. But I'm amazed, because it's an old-fashioned book store, and I thought I would never see one of those again.

By old-fashioned, I don't just mean brick & mortar, and I'm not simply referring to the fact that the books are hard copies. I also mean that the store is small, it's managed by someone who is extremely knowledgeable about books, and it's staffed by people who love books. I thought I was never going to see something like that again.

So you may be thinking, Great! There's hope for the brick & mortar book store after all! But it's not that simple. The Heard Museum book store has a lot in common with the book shops you see at National and State Parks. It carries regionally themed books: books about Native American culture, art, jewelry, basket weaving, textiles, pottery, folk art, kachinas, religion, folklore, and history. We also have books about Southwest archaeology, anthropology, geology, biographies, travel, gardening, wildlife, photo-essay, history, cooking, and children's books. The book store used to be a small corner of the main gift shop, so we also carry tourist stuff like dreamcatchers, bead jewelry, postcards, magnets, cards, CDs (from Canyon Records), T-shirts, mugs, and few few items from the main gift shop, including rugs, pots, folk art, and kachinas.

In other words, the books aren't the only thing driving sales in our store (people love those dreamcatchers). And the existence of the museum is what brings people to the store in the first place. They come to see the museum – we're just the frosting on the cake. After looking at the exhibits, they want to learn more about what they've seen. Or they want a souvenir, or they're grandparents looking for gifts for the grandkids. Maybe they saw Jesse Monongye's gorgeous jewelry in the museum, pieces that go for $10,000. They can't afford to buy a necklace, but they can get his beautiful coffee-table book for $50. Or they love the kachinas, and they want a book about how to identify the different types. Or they have a Navajo rug at home, and want to learn more about it.

Like the National and State Park shops, our store gets the customers who came for the OTHER thing, the main thing that got them to get in their car (or hop on a plane). They couldn't do that online, they had to visit the place. And we're IN the place, so they may as well stop by and shop. We can talk to them and use our old-fashioned sales experience to interest them in the books we love. That's the advantage we have over the online sites.

But we get a few old-fashioned book lovers too. And for that reason, I think well-placed small book stores may actually do all right in the near future. Like us, they probably would order a lot of their books from regional publishers. If they're knowledgeable about the books, and they have a good feel for what their local customers want, they could succeed.

So if you live in Phoenix (or you're visiting us), stop by and a take a look at the Heard Museum book store (Books And More). We've even got a coffee cantina. Buy the Navajo Times from us, get a cup of iced coffee, and sit at a table out in our courtyard, next to the fountain. It's a beautiful place, peaceful and good for contemplation.

I love it.

In Evernight

2011-04-14T17:32:00.001-07:00

“Are the others waiting?” asked Hawkeye.

“Not exactly,” said Ebony. “The others are not sure.”

Hawkeye stared at him. He didn’t just mean the Neighbors. She peered past him and saw the two groups standing near each other, not exactly forming one group, but at least close enough to talk. Some of the Neighbors gazed in the direction of Evernight, some of the Scavengers looked out at the night-haunted desert.

“Mug acted like he had been down here before,” said Hawkeye. “I would have thought he had a plan.”

“He wants to go into the desert,” said Ebony.

“The desert does not look particularly promising, in my opinion.”

“He says it’s a fracture that will take us directly to Farthest.”

She took a second look at the desert. Its sky wasn’t strictly black, it leaned more toward deepest blue, almost like a poorly-lit ocean. But no stars blazed down on the silver sand. It was beautiful to look at, but Hawkeye didn’t want to go into it.

“The aircraft can take us there quickly enough,” she said, “and to Edge – weren’t we supposed to visit there too?”

“No time,” said Ebony, solemnly. “Hawkeye – the aircraft has gone.”

That felt like a dash of cold water in the face. Hawkeye could only blink for several moments. “You mean it just – left us here?”

“Yes.” He didn’t sound any happier about it than she did. But he didn’t sound surprised, either. Hawkeye wondered why she was, no one had promised the aircraft would be available for the whole trip. At the beginning, she had thought the donkeys would be taking them all the way.

Now Daisy and her pack waited in a forlorn bunch near the trough, their ears twitching.

“Do they want to split up? I’m not sure the donkeys will cooperate with that.”

“We can’t” he said, flatly. “The Northern gods say we go together, or we fail.”

She was surprised to receive such a straight answer after breaking the protocol about questioning. Maybe it was okay because she had asked about the Scavengers instead of the Neighbors.

“We should join them,” he added.

So Hawkeye, Wolfy, Brat, and Ebony walked toward the Neighbor side of the division. This was not lost on the Scavengers, and they scowled.

“I’m the guide on this one,” Mug announced. “That was part of our agreement too, in case you’ve decided to forget. I’m the one with the experience down here, and I haven’t taken us the wrong way yet. This town might look all cosy and warm with the lights and all, but I’ve gone through the Dark Desert every time and never gotten lost. You think I’m lying about that?”

“No,” said Boss. But he didn’t look any happier about the idea.

Silence fell between the two groups. Hawkeye looked at the desert again, didn’t like it any better, then turned to look at the city and got a jolt. She recognized something. From her vantage point at the edge of the Dark Desert, she could see a building that might be residential or might be commercial. All of its doors were closed, save one on the seventh level. That one yawned wide, just like it did in the photo in The Lost Cities. She was looking at the open door from the exact angle from which the photo had been taken.

Levels and levels, and on the seventh the door stands open. Go in and look over your shoulder . . .

This was that door.

“Boss,” she said, quietly.

He glanced at her. She looked meaningfully from him, to the open door, and back again. He followed her gaze, frowning deeply.

“If you boys want to go into the city,” declared Mug, “you’re going by yourselves. That’s my final word on the subject.” He whistled to the donkeys, then barked, “Git over here!”

They took a few lurching steps toward him, but stopped uncertainly when Daisy paused next to Wolfy.

Mug turned and marched into the desert without another look. His men followed him.

Boss stepped onto the sand.

Brat hissed louder than Hawkeye had ever heard him, then actually growled. The Neighbors froze in alarm. He began to pant, his distress obvious. He hissed again.

“Something is– ” Hawkeye began.

Boss and Ebony locked gazes. Hawkeye had one second to look at their hatchet profiles, and then a gigantic light blossomed over the horizon.

Mug and his men froze in the glare, and then it stuttered out again, crackling like an electrical charge.

“What the – ” Second started to say, and then more light knifed over the horizon, and with it came a host of racing shadows, of impossible sounds and colors.

Boss roared above the chaos: “To the city! Make for the open door on the seventh level!”

Hawkeye wheeled and began to limp toward Evernight as fast as she could. Wolfy and Brat moved with her, slinking close to the ground, looking over their shoulders in terror.

“Run!” she screamed. “Don’t wait for me! Get up to the seventh level!” Because she wasn’t going to make it. Whatever was inside that light, whatever was casting the shadows that raced past her into the city, it would overtake her soon, and she had no doubt that it was the same thing that had overtaken the Southerners all those years ago. It howled at her heels, drove men and Neighbors up the stairs, and she was lagging far behind.

But Boss would have none of that – he scooped her up and ran with her. Hawkeye clutched his shirt, trying to be as tidy a burden as she could, watching Wolfy and Brat running just ahead, their muscles stretching and bunching as they practically flew up the stairs. Up one level, then two, up three levels, and as they started on the fourth, the sounds and lights and shadows seemed to be reaching some kind of crescendo. Hawkeye buried her face in Boss’s shoulder, sure they weren’t going to make it, yet still he climbed, and now Hawkeye thought she could make out words in the storm, shouts of alarm, panicked voices screaming, “Run! Lock the door! Where are you!?”

But Boss climbed as if he believed they could outrun doom.

Suddenly he was running on a level surface, and when she looked up she saw the open door, Wolfy and Brat running through the doorway, Ebony and Ivory standing just inside, yelling at them to hurry! Hurry! Almost there . . .

Hawkeye felt something lay a hand on the back of her head.

And then they were through, and the door slammed shut behind them.

-from Spirits Of Glory, by Emily Devenport

Vaughan Williams On Mars -- And The One That Captured My Heart

2011-03-28T18:45:00.000-07:00

If you only like quiet, peaceful classical music, look elsewhere, because the Sinfonia Antartica will knock your socks off -- literally. It's based On Vaughan Williams' film score for the movie, SCOTT OF THE ANTARCTIC, and evokes that frozen, other-worldly landscape perfectly. In fact, it's so other-worldly I often find myself envisioning a lost expedition on Mars. Just substitute blowing dust for swirling snow . . .

The Sinfonia Antartica is Vaughan Williams' 7th symphony, and I believe it is one the the greatest ever written. From the first notes of the first movement it begins to ascend, as if climbing a frozen mountain. The views are spectacular and the journey is very dangerous. Danger and Beauty are probably the prevalent themes throughout the work, though there is a charming little side trip in the second movement to a penguin colony.

Scott's expedition ended tragically, and Vaughan Williams' symphony ultimately leads us into that gorgeous desolation, though a note of hope still persists, the very thing that leads explorers into wild places. That's why the overall effect of the Sinfonia Antartica is inspiration.

The Wasps is the second piece on this album, and contrasts marvelously to the 7th Symphony. It was written at an earlier period in RVW's life, and is more conventional in style. But both pieces evoke marvelous images in the listener's imagination. Adrian Boult conducts them beautifully, this is a must-have album for the collector.

When I was a kid, and just beginning to explore music, I loved a lot of the standards of classical music, and still do. But the composer who ultimately captured my heart was Ralph Vaughan Williams, and he did it with the 3rd symphony.

Prior to that time I had heard the emotionally and spiritually powerful THOMAS TALLIS FANTASIA and the delightful third movement of the LONDON SYMPHONY (also on EMI, conducted by John Barbirolli – Mr. Perfect Tempo). I heard these pieces on the radio, and didn't know who the composer was until my brother loaned me some cassette tapes, including the EMI, Adrian Boult recording of the 3rd & 5th symphonies. When I listened to them, I felt like a door in my soul had opened wide.

The 3rd symphony evokes a beautiful, lonely landscape, probably inspired by the French countryside during World War I, in which R.V.W. served as an ambulance driver. Read Ursula Vaughan Williams' biography of R. V. W. for more information about this chapter of the composer's life. When I was writing my 5th book, I listened to the 3rd symphony over and over, trying to capture the tone. This is no easy task – I agree with other reviewers that the music of Ralph Vaughan Williams isn't easy to describe with words.

Symphony 5 was written during World War II, by which time writing symphonies was the best contribution Vaughan Williams could make to the war effort. Both symphonies express a profound appreciation for the beauty of nature, an acknowledgement of the sadness and loss of war, and a belief in hope for the future.

It's funny, but when I'm listening to the music of Vaughan Williams I tend to see the wild and lonely places of Arizona, a landscape as different from England and France as it could possibly be. The 3rd symphony reminds me of Southern Arizona and the 5th always evokes the Grand Canyon. I think this is testimony to Ralph Vaughan Williams' ability to convey his deep understanding of and love for the wild places of the world. My heart is his, forever.

RT Spotlight Review Of THE NIGHT SHIFTERS

2011-02-25T10:42:00.000-08:00

My Smashwords title, The Night Shifters, is featured in a Spotlight Review on RT Book Reviews for March 2011. It is very tough to get reviewers to look at e-books these days – partly because a lot of people have a dim view of the infernal e-reader gizmos, and partly because there is still some stigma attached to self-publishing. You have to convince a reviewer that your e-book is worth their time. Somehow I managed to do that.

This has been a tough year for a lot of us – perhaps some day people will look back at the pioneering we did and marvel. Hopefully, we'll be there to marvel with them . . .

Black Ink And Red Ink

2011-02-20T08:05:00.000-08:00

Borders is finally going down the tubes – and I can finally call them by name on my blog. For almost 11 years they have been my day job, and in these final days I am standing behind a register and drawing black lines through the bar codes of books with permanent markers so customers can't return them. I have no sympathy whatsoever for the long line of executives who made dumb decision after dumb decision in the Borders hierarchy – but they don't actually need my sympathy. They made a lot of money screwing things up. And they had nice fat, cash parachutes to ease their transition to other executive jobs, where they continue to earn big money to screw things up some more. It kind of makes you wonder if there's more incentive for executives to drive companies into the ground than to make those companies successful. It's a question we should all be asking.

But, much as I'd like to heap all the blame on those Borders executives, not all of it belongs to them. Publishers may deserve more of it. They refused to believe that their distribution system was too expensive. No one could tell them that they didn't need to rent or buy buildings in New York City – they literally could have done their jobs from home. Michael Stackpole has written some excellent blogs about what those publishers could have done to address their expenses (not to mention their myopic view of e-books). Now those publishers are being sucked down the Borders Black Hole Of Doom as the whole house of cards collapses.

But I have to confess, I'm in an odd position. I'm sorry to lose that particular day job (though lately it's been more trouble than it's worth). But I'm a writer too, and I have e-books for sale. In the last few months, customers of all ages have been coming into Borders to buy e-readers, a lot of people who never would have considered doing such a thing in the past. They tell us they want to have instant access to way more books than they could get in a Brick & Mortar store (especially one with a crappy I.T. Dept., like Borders). And even more importantly, they're ready for the low prices.

I'm ready for those prices too. I earn about $2.20 per sale for my e-book titles that are priced $2.99. I used to earn 8% per sale of my print books priced at $5.99 to $7.99. True, I got an advance. But it was hard to earn back that advance. And when you don't earn it back, the publishers stop buying your books, and cut you from the list. Understand – this is not sour grapes here. They make a business decision. But it is based on a clunky old model that is deeply flawed. Now writers can sink or swim on our own, because we can publish e-books.

So now we're the competition. And what do we have going for us? Low prices and instant availability. Readers can sample up to 50% of our books, so they can decide if they want to commit their moolah. And we're available on major websites like Amazon and Barnes & Noble. We're learning to market ourselves, and we're getting better at it every day.

And finally, we have one big advantage over publishers and BigBox companies like Borders – we're not saddled with a bunch of overpaid executives whose main job seems to be pumping and dumping the company stock. And that is probably the real bottom line.

A Snippet Of Seaside

2011-02-04T10:58:00.000-08:00

Hawkeye shouldered her pack and hobbled around to the other side of the dune. One hundred paces farther South, the Neighbors stood facing Seaside, the donkeys clustered around them – and their own packs on their backs. Apparently, they had learned something from Hawkeye’s loss. Or perhaps they had suffered losses of their own, though if was hard to imagine anyone would dare to offer that sort of insult to a Neighbor.

But not impossible. So here they stood, their packs in tow, and when Hawkeye joined them, did she imagine their faces looked grim? Or at least more serious, if that were possible. Empty Seaside might have been enough to inspire grim expressions, certainly Hawkeye felt that way when she contemplated this city, once full of laughing, working, living people. All scooped off the face of the world in one night.

She felt apprehensive, too, but she saw nothing like that in the Neighbor’s faces – or nothing she could recognize as such.

“Where first, Hawkeye?” asked Boss.

She really had no idea. Before she could say so, Brat trotted forward, his tail high, his ears erect, his nose thrust toward the city. Wolfy and Daisy followed, casting looks over their shoulders as if worried the people might not follow them. But the people did, letting Brat lead the way, and the rest of the donkeys brought up the rear.

Hawkeye wondered which route the Scavengers would take into the city, surely they wouldn’t pass up a chance for strange salvage. But she saw no sign of them – perhaps they weren’t awake yet. Perhaps they had used her pain pills as a recreational drug, and now they were sleeping it off. If that were the case, it might almost be worth it to have lost the pills.

Brat lead them from a branching road onto a much wider one, and Hawkeye marveled at how new the pavement looked, as if it had just been resurfaced. Of course, no vehicles had been over it for centuries, so maybe this was no surprise. But shouldn’t the sun have taken its toll over the years, shouldn’t the wind have blown dirt and scouring sand over it? It practically gleamed in the morning light, the whole city did. As the morning grew older and they got closer to the city, her apprehension began to dim. In its place she felt a growing curiosity, tempered with a happiness that seemed entirely inappropriate. As if she were visiting an amusement park instead of a Forbidden City.

Wind whistled over walls and through empty streets, another thing that should have filled Hawkeye with apprehension, but she loved the sound of the wind, and this city seemed to have been designed to give it many voices. She had thought Lark would have been a lovely place to live, a place she might have been happy to settle in if the Southern gods had not made it a ghost town. But now she knew that Seaside would have been the place for her, despite the fact that its dwellers must have had to drill deep for water. She could imagine sitting on her own little terrace and listening to the wind, contemplating the passage of aeons across the dunes.

Brat led them through a city gate shaped like a giant seashell. When the last donkey had passed under its scalloped edges, time Fractured. Hawkeye could tell by the sound of the wind, which stopped whistling and began to sound like waves under water, as if they walked at the bottom of a brightly lit lagoon. Now the buildings of Seaside looked like a vast coral reef, and she and the others were bits of seaweed that drifted along the ocean floor, teased to and fro by eternal tides, yet still moving forward, following one small cat whose nose still pointed like an arrow. Happy eons seemed to pass as he led them up a wavering boulevard and finally in through double doors flanked by two lions of Seaside, much like the lions of Lark, except that these had bottoms and tails like seahorses, manes of seaweed, and eyes that peered through glimmering depths.

“Another library,” remarked Hawkeye, as everyone climbed the front steps and passed inside – including the donkeys. They seemed unwilling to stay outside, possibly because they were afraid of the Fracture. Inside, time seemed to be running more or less normally. Brat continued like an arrow toward a staircase at the far end of the lobby, and the donkeys looked like they might try to climb those, too.

“Brat,” Hawkeye called, “Stop.”

Brat paused and looked at her over his shoulder.

Hawkeye stroked the spot between Wolfy’s ears. “Will you tell Daisy to wait here with his herd? Will you wait with them?”

“Es,” promised Wolfy. He touched noses with Daisy and sat down, indicating his intention to stay put.

Brat resumed his role as leader, his tail twitching with minor annoyance. Hawkeye and the Neighbors followed him through the vast, shadowy lobby, to the foot of the broad staircase, which spiraled upward like a Nautilus. Brat ascended easily, but he slowed his pace when Ivory called, “Wait for Hawkeye!”

Hawkeye wished Brat would try the elevators instead, but probably they didn’t work. All of the machines had quit after the disappearance. She accepted Boss’s assistance to climb the stairs, grateful for his strength and patience. No one had ever assisted her this way, certainly not Bertie. Somehow she had gained the impression that he felt it would be bad for her to rely too much on others, that she might lose her independence. Later she realized that Bertie never helped her because Bertie only helped himself. And any other would-be gentlemen may have feared she would take offense. Boss did not harbor those assumptions, he merely did what was right.

Brat ran ahead a few steps, paused and waited for them to catch up, then ran up a few more. In this fashion, he led them past several landings, all the way to the top. As Boss helped Hawkeye up the last step, she took a moment to thank the Almighty that time had not fractured during that long climb. That would have been very wretched timing indeed.

The cat waited for them in the middle of a narrow hallway. Emergency lights glowed softly along the bottom of the walls, and Brat’s eyes reflected this light. He sniffed the air, walking cautiously now. Hawkeye wondered if he had lost the trail, until he pointed his nose at the spot where the hall turned a corner, his ears aimed forward. He froze like a statue. She stayed very still, hardly daring to breathe. The Neighbors did the same.

Brat walked stiff-legged and peered around the corner. He remained frozen again for a long time. When he finally moved again, he allowed his hind quarters to join his front, sitting in the fashion of ancient Egyptian cat statues and wrapping his tail tightly around his body. He turned his head to look at Hawkeye and meowed with the same voice he customarily used just before he threw up.

Here, his expression seemed to say. You must come and look.

from Spirits Of Glory, by Emily Devenport

Ralph Vaughan Williams' 9th Symphony

2011-01-29T09:35:00.000-08:00

This is an historic recording for those who love music: Vaughan Williams Symphony No. 9 (conducted by Sir Adrian Boult) and Malcolm Arnold Symphony No. 3 (conducted by the composer), on Everest, EVC 9001, produced by Vanguard Classics. I bought mine on amazon.com, from the "new & used" section.

I love Ralph Vaughan Williams' 9th Symphony; to me it is a mixed bag of emotion. It always sparks cinematic images in my imagination, (all of my favorite RVW music does that for me, it's easy to understand why he was invited to write film scores). Perhaps because I'm American, I hear passages in the 9th that remind me of Bernard Herrmann and Aaron Copland. I own the historic Adrian Boult recording. When I played it again, just before writing this review, I imagined a world full of grandeur, danger, mystery, ruined in some places, but full of fascinating corners. There's a theme in the second movement that makes me think of tragic love, and I am particularly fond of the quirky third movement, which reminds me of marching robots. In fact I think RVW's 9th symphony would have made a fine soundtrack for Part 3 of Jackson's LORD OF THE RINGS movie trilogy. So I'm startled when I read that so many people feel its tone is bleak and ultimately hopeless.

I wonder if the answer lies in the fact that the emotions in Vaughan Williams' music are so complex. The first RVW piece I ever heard was the Thomas Tallis Fantasia, which pierced me to the core. I had never heard music that evoked the natural world so perfectly, yet was also deeply spiritual. My favorite piece is "The Lark Ascending," which always reminds me that emotions have two sides. For every moment of joy, there's the knowledge that sorrow exists too.

My favorite movement in the Pastoral Symphony is the 2nd. When I was writing my fifth novel, I listened to it over and over, trying to catch the tone. I mentioned it to my brother the other day, and once again heard the "b" word (bleak). And considering that RVW wrote this symphony when he was serving in France during World War I, this interpretation is justified. But it seems to me he must have seen some beautiful, lonely places during this time. I've lived in Arizona all my life, a state full of beautiful, lonely places that many people might consider bleak. I hear that 2nd movement, and I see beautiful-lonely. I hear RVW's 7th symphony, and I see Scott trekking into Antarctica, but I also see an expedition to Mars. When I hear the 5th symphony, I often see the Grand Canyon, though it couldn't be farther from London during WWII. I hear the 9th and wish I were a fantasy film maker, so I could use it as a score.

Okay, I'm a bit of a kook, and my other musical preferences are eclectic, everything from Rachmaninoff and Prokofiev to Respighi, Grieg, Debussy, Liadov, etc. Much as I love these other composers, no one speaks to me as clearly as Ralph Vaughan Williams. In the last movement of his 9th, I can see things clashing, falling down, coming apart, but the strings and that subtle harp at the end seem to suggest that the stars continue to shine down on us anyway, and maybe the things that fall apart are the things that should.

There's one other important fact about this historic recording: In a brief introduction, Sir Adrian Boult tells us that Ralph Vaughan Williams passed away the night before. This places the recording firmly at a momentous point in history. I suspect that's why the Arnold Symphony is also included here, since the composer is conducting his own work. This recording is a cherished one in my collection.

Weird And Wonderful Arizona

2011-01-20T20:37:00.000-08:00

If you've never been to Arizona, you're missing one of the wonders of the world. Plenty of other places are beautiful. Plenty of other places have history, or political power, or cultural significance. But Arizona is a unique collection of oddities and wonders that you won't find anywhere else.

This isn't something you would necessarily believe if you only visited Phoenix. Not if you've never been to the Desert Botanical Garden, or the Heard Museum – not if you feel beauty is only solid green and humid. I admit, it's easier to appreciate Arizona if you like geology, lightning, birds, and giant, columnar cacti. You may think you'll only see desert vistas here if you don't know that our highest peak is around 12,600 feet and that we have snowy, forested mountains as well as deep, dry basins.

But I admit our reputation as a desert state is well-earned. All four of the great deserts of North America dangle their toes into Arizona. To the North is the Great Basin Desert, spilling over our border from Utah and Nevada – it's a rain-shadow desert full of scrubby sage-brush. In the North-West is the Mojave, whose most famous feature is Death Valley, another Wonder of the World – its signature plant is the Joshua Tree. From the South-East, the Chihuahuan Desert spills into Texas, New Mexico, and the South-Eastern basins of Arizona – it harbors shrubs and small, tough cacti. But the biggest desert in Arizona is the Sonoran, in the South and South-West. It's the only place in the world that has two rainy seasons. And the Sonoran is the American desert with the warmest winter. That's why we're the only place in the world where the Saguaro grows.

Stand alone in the open desert among a group of saguaros, and you won't feel alone. They live between 100 and 200 years, and they have a presence. Think of them as the Ents of the desert. They can be a scruffy lot, and they often make faces at people. Some of them look more dead than alive. But some of them top 50 feet, and one famous guy has over 100 arms.

Arizona is Geology Heaven, a place where the rocks aren't “haired over” by vegetation. We have a long, varied volcanic history, starting about 1.7 billion years ago when our chunk of North America plowed into the ancient Canadian Shield. The Grand Canyon is unparalleled in its ability to represent millions of years of sediment laid down by shallow seas and by lakes, rivers, and even sand dunes. But Arizona is one, giant erosion feature – we have many other canyons. Oak Creek Canyon is an enchanted place with deep red sandstone. Walnut Canyon is carved from the same cross-bedded Coconino sandstone and Kaibab limestone found at the top of the Grand Canyon.

Despite decades of plundering by fools and yahoos, the Petrified Forest features the best examples of petrified wood in the world. You can see petroglyphs on Newspaper Rock and near one of the preserved archaeological sites in the park. But my favorite thing about Petrified Forest is its bizarre Chinle layer, which doesn't quite look like any other sedimentary group I've ever seen. It's made up of shale, silt, mudstone, a little sand, and silica from volcanic ash. It's colors range from blue to red, pink, brown, green, yellow, tan – based on whatever trace elements are present.

We have a meteor crater. We have a volcano that last erupted about 1000 years ago. We have more bird species than any other state in the union. We have thunderstorms that sound like atomic explosions. We have snowstorms AND sandstorms. We have the best Mexican food in the southwest (stop squawking, Texas and New Mexico – you know it's true). Navajos and Hopis own most of the North-East part of our state – a place that looks a lot like Mars. The Spaniards never successfully colonized us, thanks to the Apaches and their original Homeland Security. The coldest winter temperature on record for Phoenix was 16 degrees Fahrenheit – the hottest summer temperature was 123 degrees Fahrenheit.

And we're good-looking, too. Though we can be a scruffy lot. And some of us make faces at people.

If you're thinking of visiting, try all of those places I mentioned. You'll be amazed. But you'll barely scratch the surface of what's here. I've lived here over 50 years, and I'm still exploring. Sometimes I dream of visiting other places. Sometimes I even go. But I'm like the saguaro. This is the only place I can live.

Maybe if I live another 50 years, I'll even grow some more arms . . .

The Library Of Lark

2011-01-15T19:22:00.000-08:00

The front doors to the library were unlocked, and opened on well-oiled hinges. Inside, shadows alternated with shafts of light from windows. Hawkeye smelled dust, but only the dust she normally associated with books, not the dust that should have accumulated after so much time had passed. The Neighbors filed in behind her and closed the double doors.

Silence assailed them from all sides, so thick and expectant, Hawkeye felt compelled to stand quietly and wait for something to happen, someone to speak. But after several moments, all she heard was the sound of Wolfy sniffing and the beating of her own heart. This was what the original investigators had spoken of, the feeling that something was happening just out of sight, just out of hearing. You waited to find out what it was – but you never did.

She scanned the spacious lobby. It spiraled up to a skylight, exposing six more storeys. Offices and annexes surrounded the center like petals on a flower. To Hawkeye’s right, the checkout desks stood waiting for patrons. At the far end, she spied the New Book fixtures. They looked well-stocked, but a little untidy, probably because the librarians had disappeared before they could do section maintenance on the area.

Hawkeye was curious to see what had been new two hundred years ago, so she moved in that direction first. The Neighbors followed her. When they had all reached the front row of the display, Wolfy and Brat sniffed the books, as if suspicious they might be dangerous. This struck Hawkeye as funny, and she couldn’t stifle a giggle.

The emptiness swallowed the sound whole. Hawkeye covered her mouth, alarmed. She turned to survey the library, her heart pounding. She saw empty aisles, frozen elevators, blank reader screens, dark office windows. “Hello!” she insisted. Again, her voice fell flat, as if it had struck a solid wall.

“Meow?” enquired Brat, with the same result.

Hawkeye stared at Boss. But he watched her as if he expected answers, not questions. She felt foolish for being curious about the New Books. But when she glanced at them again, they snagged her attention anyway. Apparently political diatribes, cookbooks, diet books, and biographies of famous people were every bit as popular before The Disappearance as they were after. But among the bestsellers, she found an anomaly: 1001 Nights.

The same edition she owned.

Frowning, Hawkeye picked up the book to scan the date of publication. The year stamped on the page – the clean, crisp, new-smelling page – was the year of The Disappearance. “See?” she showed it to Boss. He nodded.

Hawkeye put the book back on the rack. She scanned the other titles, but nothing else jumped out at her. Finally she turned and looked across the lobby, wondering where they should go next. It might take hours to search the entire library. In fact, it might take days, if they searched thoroughly. Hawkeye didn’t want to stay here for days, the silence and the emptiness were beginning to depress her. And she couldn’t help feeling that something was about to happen, something really bad.

She heard a funny sound, and barely had time to realize that Wolfy had barked before he sped across the lobby, toward one of the offices.

“Wait!” called Hawkeye, hobbling after him as fast as she could. “Stop!”

Wolfy dashed right through an open door. Had it been open a moment before? Hawkeye was pretty sure it hadn’t. Suddenly she felt positive she would never see him again.

But in another moment, he stuck his head out the door and barked at her. He sounded as if he were a mile away.

Ebony crossed the lobby in a flash and knelt beside Wolfy. Wolfy looked startled for half a second, then wagged his tail and licked Ebony’s face. Ebony stood and looked in through the open door, then waved and motioned them over.

Boss offered his arm to Hawkeye. “Don’t go faster than you should.”

“I’m all right,” she said, anxious to get to Wolfy before he could disappear again.

“Please let me help,” he said, his tone kind, but not patronizing.

She accepted his support and tried to go at a reasonable pace. Brat paced carefully beside her, resisting Wolfy’s incitement to come and see. When they finally reached the door, Wolfy couldn’t wait. He trotted into the room again. The Neighbors parted so she could see what was inside.

The office had been turned upside down. The contents littered the floor: books, office equipment, papers, potted plants, anything one could imagine in an office. But the desk in the middle of the room was bare, save for one item: a book. Wolfy picked his way through the debris and stood with his front paws on the desk, as if to say, Here is the thing, don’t look any further.

Boss helped Hawkeye through the mess. When she got closer to the desk, she recognized the book. “The Lost Cities!”

It lay open, revealing a familiar picture. Evernight, the shot of the lone, lighted door on the seventh level.

Hawkeye leaned over the desk and closed the book, then opened it again. A book plate decorated the inside of the front cover. It said, From the Library of Amber Rodriguez.

“How did my book get here?” she demanded.

Boss flipped back to the page with the picture of Evernight. He gazed at it for a long time.

“Who put this here?” asked Hawkeye. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Boss glared at her. “No more questions, Hawkeye. Give us answers.”

“I want answers too! I have shared what I know with you!”

“Have you?”

His tone made her wonder. She remembered a piece of advice from John Davies, who wrote Neighbors And Their Spirits Of Glory:

If you want to learn everything you can from Neighbors, don’t ask them any questions – none at all! Regardless of your curiosity. You must learn to observe, to listen. Answer any questions they ask you, truthfully, even though it doesn’t seem fair that you must answer without ever asking.

It absolutely did not seem fair. But perhaps she was assuming too much if she believed they knew why her book had suddenly shown up in Lark.

“I think this may be what we’re supposed to find here,” she offered. “Just who wanted us to find it, I can’t say. A ghost used to throw it at me. He showed me this picture more often than any of the others.” She looked at the picture for a long moment. “It has always frightened me,” she concluded.

Boss stared at her with a small frown. Then he closed the book and tucked it under his arm.

“Time to go,” he said.

from Spirits Of Glory by Emily Devenport

Goof-Off Central

2011-01-13T17:40:00.000-08:00

I've done some writing about a certain Big Box Bookstore, and the big mistakes the company has made in the eleven years I've worked for them. And I can't say that this article is going to diverge that much from my previous themes. But there's something about working for a Big Box Bookstore that rarely gets mentioned in blogs about What Went Wrong. It's something that is still, mostly, the fault of the Big Box Company, since it's an HR issue – a matter of how you supervise personnel and divide labor. It is simply the fact that when I began working for this Big Box Bookstore eleven years ago, it was Goof-Off Central.

By the way, I signed an agreement promising not to talk about the company (by name) while I'm working for them. Technically, I'm probably pushing it by writing these blogs, but I'm not just kvetching. I'm trying to cast some light on how/why this particular sort of business tends to fail.

So – back to Goof-Off Central. I'm not exaggerating when calling them this. When I started working for the company, it was actually possible for an employee to spend an entire day pretending to work. Here are some examples.

I worked in the music department. When I started, this department had a full-time supervisor, an assistant supervisor, a lead clerk, and four full-time employees. (By the time I left, there was just me.) We had enough people to scan in, unpack, sort, keeper, and shelve all the product that came in (three shipments a week). We could easily have had perfectly alphabetized shelves, properly stocked displays, well-stocked listening stations, properly stickered product (sale stickers), etc. Instead, the section was utter chaos. Stock backed up for weeks, the sections were poorly organized and lacked any alphabetical order, CDs often had two different sale stickers on them, and many listening stations stood empty.

Why? Because employees spent their time goofing off. And management didn't seem to know how to motivate them. I could have played along with this attitude and goofed off too, I would never have been criticized. Not as long as I showed up for work every day.

Employees ignored ringing phones. They ignored back-up calls to the register. They avoided customers on the floor, when they could. They shelved books wherever they would fit, rather than where they really belonged. They spent hours in the back room sorting books into bins and gossiping with each other. Those books never made it to the floor, and eventually got returned.

I decided early on to take some initiative. It wasn't that I expected to be rewarded – I was simply bored. So I started at one end of the music section and alphabetized the whole thing. It took about a month. No one realized I was doing it until I was halfway through. Once I had it well organized, I could shelve quickly and accurately. I was given responsibility for merchandising after that; then for setting up monthly listening-station programs. My GM appreciated my work, and I got regular raises and high marks on year-end performance evaluations. They didn't ignore my good work. But most of the time, the supervisors seemed to be focused on other stuff. In fact, I always got the feeling that the day-to-day operations of the store were a huge bother to them, almost beside the point.

I remember one incident when my husband and I arrived for work to find one employee at the register. She had a long line and was desperately calling for back-up. We hurried to the office, assuming no one was available to help her, so we'd better clock in fast and get up to the register. We entered the office and found eight supervisors sitting at their desks, laughing and gossiping with each other – and ignoring the back-up calls. They felt it wasn't their job to do the actual sales-clerk work in the store.

Eight supervisors. I'm amazed when I think there were that many of them in the store at one time. On some days, they outnumbered the sales clerks. I hated their attitude concerning grunt work, but in retrospect I realize it was right in line with upper management. We had a big conference room in our store where regular company meetings were held, and I briefly interacted with several executives over the years. I say briefly interacted because these people barely seemed to realize I existed. Their sole job in the company seemed to be to have lunch and attend meetings. They spent their days generating catch-phrases and spouting business philosophy at each other.

How could they get away with it? Because – for many years this Big Box Bookstore could sell just about anything. People were eager to go there, drink coffee, meet people, buy books and CDs. This was 1999, 2000, the first half of 2001. Back in the 90s, during the heyday of this particular chain, the money flowed like the Mississippi. It didn't start to tank until the 9/11 tragedy.

But it wasn't just 9/11 that did them in. It was a long list of bad business decisions and technology shifts, many of which are being discussed in online articles at PW and various other websites. But what is never discussed is the idea that big companies are inherently wasteful. They seem to be havens for friends, family, and cronies – people who get their jobs partly because of nepotism and partly because of the mistaken belief that executives are necessary to run a company.

They're not necessary. They are an artifact of the upper class. Executive-level jobs are a way for them to draw huge salaries and exercise power. They don't do this maliciously; they really believe they know better and do better than line employees. They can come up with numbers to prove it. Those numbers seem valid until the whole mess comes crashing down.

I'm not suggesting that we adopt communist values and build guillotines to rid ourselves of executives. I'm suggesting that we begin to exercise some common sense and stop creating situations were executives (and other employees) can work at Goof-Off Central. There wasn't one employee at Big Box Bookstore above the GM level who was necessary to run that particular company. Everything those overpaid executives did could have been done at the store level (except for Accounting, which could have been contracted out).

Line employees could have been paid better, with more merit raises for people who actually worked harder. Stores could have established closer relationships with vendors AND customers, ordering things that their local clientele actually wanted. Signs could have been printed by local printers, GMs could have had regular conference calls with each other to share winning strategies.

Yes, we all would have worked harder. But maybe we would have realized early on that we needed to develop a good website. For years, we line employees who actually gave a damn tried to tell our company what we thought needed to be done, based on our day-to-day experiences with customers. They blew us off, because we were line employees. If we had any smarts, we'd be executives, right?

So maybe we line employees would have failed too. After all, Amazon came along, and e-readers, and a crappy economy. Music, movie, and book vendors never realized their prices were too high – they never took steps to cut their own unnecessary costs.

But at least we wouldn't have been Goof-Off Central. In my opinion, that would have been a worthy accomplishment.

The Publishing Singularity

2011-01-06T11:06:00.000-08:00

Here's a link to Ernie's new blog posting about his experiences with the new, self-driven universe of publishing. This singularity is sucking people in from all over the globe (and beyond? ; ). Yesterday I was standing and talking with my mentor at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix (I'm in the docent program). She asked me what else I do besides school/day job/docenting), and I told her about my publishing history. When I mentioned online publishing with Smashwords, she said her husband wants to publish with them too, and that he had taken writer seminars with Mike Stackpole.

Small world! So here's what Ernie has to say about it . . .