Confessions Of A Fan Dancer Wannabe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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