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SCIAAR AALAH – A Lost Novel

Here is an excerpt from SCIAAR AALAH, one of my “lost novels.”

***

 Following the crew, Analiese Trujold stumbled down the debarkation tube connecting the tramp freighter to Sciaar Aalah deep space station. In turn, she stopped in front of the Port Authority representative verifying names and authorizations against the ship’s manifests. The rep didn’t  bother to look up from the datapad when she took her place in front of him.

“Name?”

She settled her jacket over her aching left arm. “Tova Ruka,” she replied.

The rep frowned and studied the datapad. “I don’t see it on the manifests,” he said. It took a full moment for it to register. “Tova Ruka? Hey! That’s my name! How did you…?” For the first time he looked up at her. Recognition quickly replaced annoyance. “Miss Trujold? It is you!”

Ruka reached out and took her right hand in his, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “Things haven’t been the same since you sold the station,” he said. “We’ve all missed you terribly. What brings you back to good old Sciaar?”

Analiese carefully extricated her hand from his grip. “I need to see Eben. Do you know where he is?”

Ruka shook his head. “Not my department. But I’m sure someone from Admin would be able to find him.”

“I know,” she replied. “I was just hoping you could save me a trip.” Analiese managed a weak smile. “Do I need to go through any formalities to board?”

“You, Miss?” Ruka recoiled in shock. “Never! You’re always cleared for boarding this station… officially and unofficially.”

She relaxed just a little bit. “Thank you, Ruka. I won’t forget this.” Analiese started to move past him.

“Miss Trujold?”

Without a word, she paused and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Are you alright? You don’t look like your usual dapper self.”

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Keep HAL, I’ve got Buttercup!

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I hit writer’s paydirt this weekend.

While sorting through some things stored in the Haunted Hospital, I came across a box full of old floppy disks. On these disks are the sum total of my career as a writer. All the finished novels I sent on the rounds in decades past, along with the articles which were my bread-and-butter for a number of years, were just sitting in a drawer waiting to be retrieved. The only problem is that none of the functioning computers in my home have floppy drives.

Then I found Buttercup.

Buttercup is my old, trusty Compaq Presario 1240 notebook computer circa 1998. Buttercup went halfway around the world with me when I was working in television at a job which kept me on the road for twenty-eight days out of the month.

Buttercup was my lifeline and my boon companion. My ex-husband had a reputation for crashing computers. This only had to happen to me once when I was a freelance writer on deadline for me to insist on my own computer, which he was not allowed to touch. I only had to recreate one article at Kinko’s while apologizing to my editor for cutting it so close to the wire. I purchased Buttercup with the proceeds from that article. I christened the computer “Buttercup” and immediately posted beefcake for my wallpaper as added insurance that no self-respecting male would dare boot her up. It worked.

Buttercup served me well for seven years. She started slowing with age and couldn’t keep up with changing technology. Wi-fi, MP3 files, and a stone-dead battery sent her into retirement. Still, she kept my secrets and served as my archive.

After a ten-year break from writing, I looked to her to provide the novel I’d left incomplete on her hard drive. Unable to read flash media, I scrambled to transfer files from her before they were locked inside forever. I set her aside again until this past weekend.

It took some maneuvering and some technical tenacity, but I managed to download my files. Today I shall turn my sights on the floppy disks that only Buttercup can unlock. Those floppy disks hold a decade’s worth of novels in varying stages of completion. Some of which made the rounds of slush piles everywhere and were rejected by publishing houses because they did not fit the publishing catalog of the time, others because they were too racy, still more because they were just plain BAD!

I will revise and edit the good ones. I will laugh at the bad. I may complete a few in-progress. But thanks to today’s e-books, the ones worthy of being read will see the light of day… all thanks to an ancient Compaq computer affectionately known as “Buttercup.”

Living in “The Doctor’s House”

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I realized one evening, not too long ago, that I live in “The Doctor’s House.”

At the turn of the twentieth century, Dr. S.E. Sanchez, Sr. built a home for his family and opened a hospital in a tiny town in Rural Georgia. In 1948, his son and namesake, also a physician of some note, carried on the family tradition by building another, more modern facility. Fast Forward to the twenty-first century – a writer and her husband buy the home known locally as “The Doctor’s House” and move their growing family in to take part in its history.

Even though I’m a Geek Goddess, I never really noticed the SF connection to living in “The Doctor’s House” until a friend of mine… hmmm… I often wonder what the etiquette is for referring to friends one has only met online. Some of the people I most look forward to seeing are on Facebook and Twitter. I like to call them “some of the best friends I’ve never met.”

Where was I? Oh yeah…  I commented that I wanted to build a TARDIS for my camellia garden. I know just the place to put it. There is a little goldfish pond beside the front porch. I figured I could christen the pond “AMY,” repaint my front door blue and stick a TARDIS in amongst the camellias and sit back to see who noticed and made the connection…kind of a Geek version of a conversation starter.

In response to my off-handed comment, my friend Jennifer, (another SF Geek Goddess,) posted a link on my Facebook page that had me howling. This YouTube video has been making the rounds of Geek sites everywhere.

So now, I’m looking around my little mini-farm and haunted hospital, scouting for wibbly wobbly timey wimey bits and pieces to use in TARDIS construction, and surfing the Internet… only to find that I am not the only Who-vian with an itch to entertain and mystify the neighbors. There are countless pages devoted to plans, discussion boards, how-to videos, and more. Dedicated Timelord wannabes share information freely.

So don’t be surprised if you’re driving along a rural Georgia road one afternoon and stumble across a gracious old house with a white picket fence, a camellia garden with a fish pond bearing a sign that simply reads “AMY” and happen to see a bright blue police box tucked in among the greenery.

That could be my house. I’ll be the one playing the nose flute while wearing a “Bag of Shame.”

Links to TARDIS construction:
http://tardisboard.proboards.com/index.cgi
http://homepages.paradise.net.nz/~trekker/policeboxes/myplans.html
http://www.blueboxproject.com/
http://www.instructables.com/community/Building-a-TARDIS-Doctor-Who/
http://www.wikihow.com/Build-a-TARDIS-Replica

SFFS – 1/21/2012 – The Tennova Job

On By jccasselsIn Black Wing Chronicles, SFFS, Uncategorized23 Comments

It’s Science Fiction Fantasy Saturday time again! As you may recall, SFFS is a ring of authors who share some of their work each Saturday. Anyone is welcome. The idea is to feature a snippet (ten sentences or less) of your work for others to enjoy.

I’m glad everyone has been enjoying BARRON’S LAST STAND, but I’ve decided to shake it up a little today with a snippet from THE TENNOVA JOB. This book is the first installment of THE BLACK WING CHRONICLES, the Space Opera series starring Bo Barron and Blade Devon. It is the prequel, if you will, to BARRON’S LAST STAND.

This scene occurs very early in Bo and Blade’s relationship. They don’t even know each other’s real names because they’re both under cover. Her father has been kidnapped and she has to steal a set of plans being offered on the black market if she wants to get him back. Blade has been coerced by the Inner Circle to return to work on “one last mission” to obtain said plans. Bo was blinded in a bar fight and Blade, a former military medic, has been tending to her injuries. After a rare attack of conscience, he’s decided that she would be safer if he sent her home. Unwilling to leave without the plans, she was reduced to begging for his help, but she can’t tell him why without placing her own life in danger.

***

“Somebody has you scared,” he said. “You’re not used to being scared, are you?”

Biting back her tears, Bo shook her head.

“You’re not used to swallowing your pride and begging, either. This must be something pretty big… important.”

He sighed.

“Ah hell… I’m a sucker for the chance to play the hero.” Disdain dripped from his tone. “Of course I’m going to help you. Blind, beautiful, helpless, mysterious… no holofeature writer could have come up with a better script for me. You’d better stop crying before I have to change your bandages again.”

***

THE TENNOVA JOB is currently making the rounds of slush piles everywhere.

I hope you have enjoyed this little snippet, don’t forget to check out the other wonderful authors in the web ring and please comment – writing is a lonely business and we’re such needy neurotic types we need to know our work is appreciated – or maybe that’s just me.

The Power of Penguins

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Penguins are silly looking birds. Flightless waterfowl often lampooned. A tuxedo has been called a “Penguin suit.” Nuns have been called “Penguins.” In “Mary Poppins,” Dick Van Dyke danced with them.
And who will ever forget Berkeley Breathed’s infamous Opus The Penguin from the Bloom County comic strip? He was an insecure, neurotic mess addicted to home shopping channels, 900 numbers and on an eternal quest to find his mother. Documentaries and musicals have starred them. In the animated Madagascar, they stole the show. There are even popular children’s television shows about them, The Penguins of Madagascar and 3-2-1 Penguins!
So when I was talking about the silliness of writers in facing both a deadline and blocked creativity, it only seemed natural for me use penguins to illustrate how to get past the block. Yes, when I reached a block on my NaNoWriMo, I used them.

At this point I have no earthly idea why Birdie is calling, but I really do think it’s time for some fish-slapping penguins to shimmy down a drainpipe. Three of the formally dressed, flightless waterfowl drop down unexpectedly, one is wearing a silly pointed had that looks like something a Catholic Bishop would wear to mass. The three little fellows break into a line dance.“Oh my,” thought Bittsy. “Can they really shake tail feathers? Do penguins even have tail feathers?”

So the dancing penguins manage a jaunty sashay to the thumpin’ mix before the one in the middle (which inexplicably has a beard and moustache) breaks out what appears to be a herring. He (presumably it’s a he, it is rather difficult to tell, but the beard is rather suggestive of maleness) turns and begins slapping the herring on the floor, much to Bittsy’s dismay. “I’ve just had those floors cleaned,” she protested. “Now they’ll smell of fish for weeks!” 

The penguin merely winked at her and continued a rather lascivious dance with the herring before turning and slapping the penguin with the pointy hat in the face repeatedly. The hat wearing penguin doffed his odd cap and withdrew his own fish, a rainbow trout from the looks of it, and commenced to walloping his compadre with it. The third penguin, too preoccupied shaking his tail feathers to notice the antics of the other two (and yes, they do have tail feathers) did not see the catfish aimed at his face until too late. 

 With a naughty wink and a suggestive hip shimmy, the bearded penguin wielded the herring and the catfish like nunchucks, with surprising skill.

 “Hmm,” said Bittsy. “Ninja penguins. How odd.”

I had no idea that my silly suggestion of fish slapping Ninja Penguins would spark such a surge of equal silliness among my fellow writers. In the online writing group to which I belong, “Penguins!” has become the battle cry for pushing past blocks and finding the joy in writing again.
So I urge you, one and all, when life seems to have you stymied, consider Fish Slapping Ninja Penguins as an answer. A little insanity every now and then can be just what the doctor ordered.

Welcome to 2012

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The New Year dawns crisp and cold. The last two weeks have been filled with family and food, good conversation around a bonfire underneath a starry sky so bright and clear that the Milky Way looked close enough to cause a hazard to astrogation.

For me, the year ended on a high note with the completion of the second draft of the Space Opera Romance novella THE TENNOVA JOB, the first installment in the series featuring Commander Bo Barron and Inner Circle Agent-turned-holofeature-hero Blade Devon.

To celebrate, I’m offering a link to an excerpt from BARRON’S FALL, a bonus short piece about Bo Barron’s infamous trial and conviction of treason for the Frostfire Massacre. Enjoy!

Full Circle

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I have a love/hate relationship with writing. That’s probably why I’ve put off really knuckling down and getting back to “serious” work for so many years. My husband will probably tell you that I have a love/hate relationship with just about everything that’s important to me in life. Why should writing be any different?

There’s no end to the satisfaction I get when I can communicate an idea, or bring a past moment to life for someone else to experience and enjoy. When it goes right, it’s a thing of beauty. Unfortunately, there is so much more to the process that is tedious, frustrating, or outright BORING!

I often daydream how nice it would be to sit down at my computer and begin spinning a wonderful story from start to finish and have it end up completely brilliant the first time through. It only works that way in movies and books. The process of writing isn’t too far removed from sewing, or any other construction process for that matter.

First you start out with an idea of what you want to produce. That’s the LOVE part:  coming up with ideas! That’s when the tedium begins. Once you have your brilliant idea, you have to plan how to bring it from your mind to the table where everyone can enjoy it. The HATE part starts there. I’m a perfectionist. I also hate duplicating effort.

After the idea, you need a plan. You can’t have a finished product without a pattern to follow. You have to figure out your materials, your notions, the trim work. You have to lay it out, place the pattern pieces. Cut them out. If you’re really doing it right you try it out in muslin first so you can fit it and adjust the pattern for fit without risking your material. This is where the outline and the summary come in. Does the story work?

The actual WRITING part of writing, much like the sewing part of sewing, is a very small part of the process. The problem here is that this part of the work looks like so much loafing and work-avoidance. That illusion isn’t helped by the fact that when you run into a dead end in your plot, you actually do tend to loaf and avoid work while the snarl works itself out in your subconscious. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

In theory, if you do all the right prep work, whatever your project is will write itself… right? WRONG! Make no mistake, writing is a lonely, masochistic life of self-denial and self-flagellation. If you’re lucky (and talented) you *might* be able to make a paltry living at it.

For some reason, it’s easier for me to enjoy the process of sewing much more than I enjoy the process of writing preparation. I suppose it’s because I don’t feel the need to reinvent the wheel when sewing.

Writing is most likely going to take over the topic of my blogs more and more as I sink deeper into the morass of a writer’s life and writer’s habits. The more I look at its impact on my life, I wonder if writing is more of an addiction than anything else. I walked away for more than a decade and actually lived my life and didn’t think about stories and plot and pacing… much. But I can see the shift already.

My world is changing again and I already miss my non-writer days. My Chick-Fil-A compatriots are all finding gainful employment now that our children are no longer babies or toddlers, but preschoolers and older. We have less time to sit and be commiserating moms. It’s only natural that we go back to what we all know. They are teaching — and I – like it or not, I have come full circle. I am writing again.