THE RECONSTRUCTION OF MAI LI HASTINGS 7: ELECTRICAL

CJ Hasting would have probably been creeped out by the sterile, pale-green walls and the odd, not-echoey hallway if he hadn’t fallen instantly in love with the lady who had picked them up from the lobby. She’d started talking the second the elevator doors had opened.

“The Moos Health Sciences Tower here at the University of Minnesota is the world’s premier research center in nanomachine neural reconstruction procedures. Thousands of people are walking, playing tennis and living normal lives after suffering accidents that severed limbs or the spinal cord,” said the cute nurse or doctor or physician’s assistant or whatever she’d said she was. CJ Hastings thought she was major track no matter what her job was.

“Nanomachine neural reconstruction procedures – we affectionately call them nano-nurps,” she smiled at Mom and then at CJ. His insides did a flip flop. “— have been in use for nearly two decades now and we’ve done extensive research regenerating damage done by brain tumors and impact injuries with excellent…”

Mom stopped walking. Mai Li fell forward a bit into the chest straps of the wheelchair. They wanted to give her a tranquilizer as soon as they came into the hospital and she started shouting, but between Mom and listening to CJ’s heartbeat, she’d calmed down enough to get to the elevator. Once up and once down was enough to almost put her to sleep. They’d gotten out in a sub-basement and the physician’s assistant had started talking.

Mom said, “We know all that. How many complete brain reconstructions have been done?”

The PA stood with her mouth open, blinked then turned around and started walking after muttering, “Maybeyoubetterfollowme…”

Mom shot a glance at CJ. He knew that look: she was getting ready to go thermo. CJ hurried after the PA, hoping to calm Mom down. But she turned into a smaller office before he could tap her shoulder or yank on her surgical shirt.

Doctor Chazhukaran had a surgery cap on and a mask dangling around his neck. “Ms. Hastings. Mai Li. Chris.”

CJ rolled his eyes. The guy insisted on calling him “Chris” even after he’d told him not to. Mom said, “CJ, step aside,” as she pushed Mai Li into the room. She looked at the doctor and said, “I asked your assistant how many complete brain reconstructions have been done…”

“And she said, ‘none’?” he cut Mom off. He turned and glared at the PA who took a little step back. CJ wouldn’t have even seen it if he had been drooling over her. He doubted either the doctor or Mom saw it. He moved closer to Mom.

Mom scowled, pursed her lips then said, “Actually, she told me that I should ask you,” she paused. “So, that’s the truth? You’ve never done a complete brain reconstruction?”

CJ saw him bite the inside of his lip – he knew the look, ‘cause he did it all the time himself. Dr. Chazhukaran said, “A total nanomachine cerebral cortex, medulla, pons and cerebellum reconstruction – a NCMPC – has never been attempted before.” He’d made fists and held them at his sides. Just like a kid getting ready for a fight.

Mom looked at him and put her hand on Mai Li’s shoulder. His sister snored softly. CJ moved even closer to Mom. He knew he couldn’t actually stop Dr. Chazhukaran if he tried anything. But he’d try. Then Mom took a deep breath and held it. And held it. And held it.

CJ glanced up at her. He saw Dr. Chazhukaran’s eyebrows twitch down. He’d have been creeped out by the doctor if it hadn’t been for Mai Li, the PA and Mom. Instead, he jumped when Mom said suddenly, “Do it.”

WRITING ADVICE: Jack McDevitt 4: Get the Narrative off to a Slow Start…

(The Twelve Blunders are used with permission of Jack McDevitt, from his webpage: http://jackmcdevitt.com/Writers.aspx)

This bit offers the subtitle: “But I have to introduce my characters first, set the scene, and establish the mood.”

Ouch.

I will be the first to admit that I am not a huge fan of fantasy. I’m picky about what I read and it has to totally engage me if it wants to carry me to the end. Few books or series have done that: THE CHRONICLES OF THOMAS COVENANT, UNBELIEVER; THE LORD OF THE RINGS; the first nine DERYNI books; THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA; JONATHAN STRANGE AND MR. NORRELL; the BARTIMAEUS trilogy; WAR FOR THE OAKS…this pretty much covers it for me.

My love for series science fiction is also limited: the PERN books; David Brin’s UPLIFT; all three of Julie Czerneda’s series TRADE PACT, WEB SHIFTERS, and STRATIFICATION; DUNE (Frank Herbert’s original six); and Asimov’s FOUNDATION books.

All of these series have one thing in common: they start the “real” story line immediately and with a bang, they don’t let up – and all of the fascinating history and relevant past experiences are woven into the forward-moving narrative. None of them takes any time as they begin to “take me on a tour” so-to-speak, of their nifty, authorial creations.

That is both as it should be and what Jack McDevitt is talking about.

If these multi-book series made of hundreds of thousands (perhaps even a million) words don’t take the time to wander around in the author’s painstakingly constructed worlds before launching into the story, then anything SHORTER has absolutely no time or call whatsoever to start with “history”.

I’ve experienced this meandering walk through fictional histories; the character who lovingly peers over the parapet of the castle at the magical land or through the forcescreened observation post at the alien world; the description of the magical sword or the newly designed laser death dealing flesh liquefying light saber of blaster beam destructo gun of doom too often and then found out that my investment in the story was for naught because ABSOLUTELY NOTHING HAPPENED AFTER THAT…

I won’t endure it again. So when “The writer babbles on, instead of getting to the action”, I put the book down and move on to the next.

I also stopped doing that in my own writing about three years ago. I still don’t have the concept down, though, as several critiques I’ve received recently have read in whole or part: “This is a fascinating world…but the story didn’t grip me”.

Jack McDevitt puts it succinctly this way: “Does that mean we have to start every story with an explosion? Or a gunfight? The answer is a ringing ‘YES!’ Not a literal detonation, of course. But something to pique the interest.”

HOWEVER, please note that just because you start with the end of the world (or its beginning), doesn’t mean you’ve captured the reader. The rest of the story has to be there too: goals, obstacles and emotions.

But more on that later!

A SHORT LONG TRIP NORTH 2: July 2 – July 3, 1946

(This series is a little biography and a little imagination. The biography will detail a month long trip my dad took in the summer of 1946 when he and a friend hitchhiked from Loring Park to Duluth, Minnesota. The motivation, names and details all come from my imagination though. For example, I don't know if Dad ever made it to the Lake Calhoun in the picture above...but I'll bet he did! I plan on interviewing Dad for more details as time goes on...Enjoy.)

“Nothin’s gonna happen if we go to Calhoun. Besides, your dad said he didn’t care if you went there, right?” asked Tommy Hastings.

Freddie Merrill shrugged, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kicked a rock on the sidewalk that ran alongside Loring Park.

“I thought you said that would be OK?” Tommy said.

“I didn’t say it was OK,” Freddie replied sullenly. “I said he wouldn’t say nothin’.”

“That’s practically like saying ‘yes’. Let’s get suits and towels.”

“I have to use yours. If Dad catches me, he’ll think of some reason for me to stay.”

Tommy shook his head, “Nothin’s gonna happen. Let’s go.”

It only took them a half hour to walk from Loring to Calhoun and they were both dripping in sweat. Dashing to the changing rooms, they shed their sweaty shirts and long pants and slid into cool pairs of bathing trunks and sleeveless, white T-shirts. Bundling their clothes, they raced out to the beach. “Last one in’s a rotten egg!” Tommy shouted, kicking sand on the backs and in the lunches of other swimmers and picknickers, he sprinted for the water and dove in.

Tommy was right behind him, though he stopped to apologize for his friend to a couple of red-headed, freckled girls who smiled and told him to not worry about it.

Tommy came up, water streaming from his water-dark hair. “What took you?”

“I had to tell some people you were a slob and to please excuse you,” Freddie said, shaking his head free of water. He waved at the girls on the beach who waved back enthusiastically.

Tommy’s angry come back changed into a leer as he saw the girls and looked at Freddie. He promptly dunked his friend and waved at the girls himself. His happy wave was cut short when he disappeared under water, his legs cut out from under him by a not-so-mysterious deep lake monster.

What followed was a free-for-all that pretty soon included all of the youngsters in Calhoun in a dunking spree that turned into two dozen chicken fights that eventually spilled everyone up on the beach panting, laughing, shrieking and exhausted to collapse on their towels and roll over in the sun.

When they finally plopped down, Freddie was pouting, “Why couldn’t we put our towels over by the girls?”

Tommy slugged him in the shoulder, “If you can find a square inch we could sit on, lead me to it! It figures you’d flirt with the prettiest girls on the beach!”

Freddie rolled over on to his belly, grinning. “Yeah, they are, aren’t they?”

An older boy strolling by in dark swim trunks and no shirt at all stopped nearby and said, “I know a better beach where there’s way better girls.”

Tommy shaded his eyes from the bright sun and looked up at the older boy – he looked like he was only a little younger than Earl. “Yeah? Even if there was a place, how’d we get there?”

The boy leaned over and held out his hand, “Leo Hartkopf, and I got a car.”

Tommy was on his feet, tugging at Freddie’s shirt. “What you got?”

“1938 Ford pick up,” Leo said proudly.

Freddie climbed to his feet, glanced at the redheads then back at Leo, saying, “That’s a piece a junk.”

Leo shrugged and said, “It runs. You game for a trip out to Minnetonka?”

Freddie exclaimed, “Minnetonka! That’s like a million miles away!”

“Minnetonka!” Tommy exclaimed, “I’ve never been there before! That’s sounds great!”

Leo grinned and jerked his chin toward the parking lot, looking right at Tommy, “What say we leave your party pooper friend behind and head out to ‘Tonka?”

Tommy turned to Freddie, stricken. “You can’t stay here; we’ve never even been close to Minnetonka before! Dad said it’s huge and all the rich people run their boats out there and stuff. Wasn’t I just saying we should hitchhike out there?”

“But it’s a million miles away! My dad would kill me if I went that far!” Freddie said, bending over to scoop up his towel and clothes, letting Tommy’s things fall free. “I’m gonna go home. See ya.” He started off on the walk back to Loring Park.

Tommy ran after him and grabbed his arm, lowering his voice, “Come on, Freddie. Please? It’d been keen to go out there. Besides, with Leo, we could be out there in ten minutes and back in ten after we had a great time! Maybe even pick up some girls cuter than your redheads!”

Freddie looked doubtful, but he wasn’t walking yet. Finally he said, “You sure we’d be back at the same time?”

Tommy crossed his heart, “Cross my heart and hope to die!”

Freddie held his breath and finally let it out. “OK.” He offered Tommy a little smirk, “I bet I can get a date before you do.”

Tommy slapped Freddie on the back. “I’ll take that bet! Besides, what can happen between then and now?”

POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY: The Unpredictive Nature of Science Fiction

It comes as no surprise to anyone, that the vast number of science fiction words written about the future have not come to pass. SF writers often claim that their work was never meant to predict. It’s just entertainment. It’s playing with the future.

Balderdash, I say!

Unless the men and women who get their work published are fundamentally different than I am, they don’t create worlds out of disposable tissue knowing that what they are writing is ridiculous and has no chance whatsoever of coming true. Every story written and published – at least every “hard science” story – is an attempt to look at a trend, invention or idea and ask the question, “If this goes on in a linear fashion, what will happen to my character, and thence, society as a whole?”

FRANKENSTEIN (increasingly, the original subtitle: “A Modern Prometheus”, is left out) was among the first to attempt this prediction. Mary Shelley’s futuristic (to her) tale warning about the dangers of the then new application of electricity (to cause the twitching of dead, exposed frog muscles) never came true.

Fortunately, for all of us the vast majority of SF stories never come true.

This idea of a writer’s painstakingly worked out future not coming true came home again to me when I picked up a library discard copy of Ben Bova’s collection of short stories, KINSMAN. Following the life of a 1950’s-style astronaut from his cadet years in the 60’s through his retirement, I have no doubt Bova meticulously worked out timelines, plausible technological developments and the reasonable metamorphosis of societal norms and behaviors.

I am sure he took the process very seriously. I have no doubt that in his heart-of-hearts he believed that some form of his future would come to pass someday. While it is absolutely entertaining, I have no doubt that Bova “lived” in this future over the thirteen years he wrote these stories.

Very little of his future happened, and some of the “predictions” are glaringly, even humorously…un…usual…

For example, his future has run out of gasoline and draconian governmental rationing brings the nighttime world of Washington, DC to a virtual standstill: “Looking around for a phone, Kinsman asked, ‘How do you get a cab around here?’ [Diane replied], ‘You don’t. Not at this hour. No trains, either.’” (“The Lieutenant and the Folksinger”, 1978*) and, “He rolled out of the sofabed and turned on the battery-powered lamp on the end table. The main electrical service was shut down for the night…” (“Build Me A Mountain”, 1974*)

Needless to say, few SF writers caught the digital revolution: “She turned on the tape recorder and watched the spools slowly turning as she fought the urge to cry.” (Probably from “Zero Gee”, 1972*), “Kinsman stood at the head of the darkened conference room, squinting into the solitary light of the slide projector, half-hypnotized by the clouds of blue smoke gliding through the light beam…” (“Build Me A Mountain”, 1974*)

Fewer still, for obvious reasons, realized that smoking indoors would become a crime in many states, “The old man walked slowly toward the bar, looking almost British in his tweed jacket and the pipe that he always had clamped between his teeth…He started reaming out the pipe and dumping the black soot into the ashtray.” (Probably also from “Zero Gee”, see above as well*)

Another glaringly missed development was the major stumble of communism, “…citing the growing cooperation between the Soviet and American space efforts as the reason.” (“Zero Gee”*)

Newspapers, magazines and other mail and broadcasting is also both prevalent and closely monitored by this (undisclosed political affiliation) government: “…spurred into compliance, perhaps, by the Government’s tough new laws regarding licensing for broadcasting stations and mailing permits for newspapers and magazines” and there is clearly no ACLU, “[Diane said], ‘There’s nothing left to protest about. Everything’s so well organized around the country that nobody can raise a crowd anymore. Public safety laws and all that.’” (“Build Me A Mountain” 1974*)

Of course, few male SF writers could even conceive of the possibility for the necessity of the invention of that little blue godsend, Viagra, “And it’s not a lie, either. Not completely. I’m not impotent…except when I’m with a woman.” (“Zero Gee”*)

Lastly, Bova created Kinsman’s most period-startling character flaw. Kinsman, a WASP who was wealthy to boot, intentionally chose a black man to be his ‘best friend’, “‘Who the hell do I want to team up with?’…Colt was the best man of their eight-officer squad…the best of the whole two dozen trainees…He looked down at the blank sheet of paper and wrote three names on it: Franklin Colt Franklin Colt Franklin Colt…[Kinsman said] ‘I wrote down your name.’ [Colt replied,] ‘Why the hell you wanna do that?’ [Kinsman], ‘Because you’re the best pilot in our group and I don’t want to wash out…’ [Colt] ‘Didn’t think anybody’d wanna get stuck with me.’ [Kinsman] ‘Because you’re black’…” It goes on from there. Colt plays a major role in later on in this story but fades into bit parts by the end. Nice try, but hard to carry through. ("Test In Orbit", 1965*)

My point? Perhaps SF writers have a natural dystopian view of the future? Maybe all governments, no matter their party, are inherently out for themselves and will do what it takes to quell dissent to achieve their goals? Maybe SF shouldn’t even bother to try to extrapolate the future?

Nah.

Let’s extrapolate away and in the meantime, let’s also continue to do what SF does best: create imaginary futures to ENCOURAGE the push to a real future where “The most important thing we’ll ever do is to set up permanent colonies in space.” (Chet Kinsman, KINSMAN, “Build Me A Mountain”*)


* The stories in the anthology I have (Dial Press, a Quantum Novel, 1979) are not titled with the story name but with Kinsman’s advancing ages. Based on content, I am postulating which story each “age” came from.

WRITING ADVICE: Jack McDevitt 3: “Ask for Criticism and Go Home Angry When You Get It.”

(The Twelve Blunders are used with permission of Jack McDevitt, and are taken from his webpage: http://jackmcdevitt.com/Writers.aspx )

I’ve mostly experienced this one from the giving end. While not to say that I haven’t had my fair share of critiques – some of them brutal! – I’ve always believed that critiques are the only way I can get to be a better writer. That’s what the books say and that has certainly been my experience.

But I’ve been the target of intense ire when I’ve GIVEN critiques with the best intent.

For example, many years ago, I was in a newly formed writing critique group. There were four of us – two went on to write several novels and one of us won a major SF award. You all know who I am and what I’ve written, so I’ll call the other person Number Three.

Number Three was a very intense person. They were SERIOUS about their work and SERIOUSLY wanted to get better. Number Three took a one-year leave-of-absence from their day job to focus on the writing of their novel and they churned out pages!

The critique group (which never went by any cute name) worked on the round robin precept – each month, one person hosted and another provided a manuscript to critique. Number Three wrote like crazy and when their turn came ‘round, presented the group with a manuscript. Which was really…not…um…very well…um…done…I can only speak for myself to say that I tried so hard to find good things about the novel – but it was too hard. It was…well, I’ll leave it at that. Number Three quit the group. They do still write, but from what I’ve seen it’s primarily been non-fiction.

Another incident occurred more recently, this time with a student who was referred to me through an on-line writing program that sought to match older writer mentors with younger writers. Once again, I received the manuscript and read it. I soon realized that even taking into account the fact that the individual was young and somewhat inexperienced, the manuscript lacked in many, many ways. I wrote a letter back, commenting on the MS – and received an angry letter back from the student writer’s parent informing me that I knew little if anything about ‘real writing’ and that my comments had devastated this parent’s student and that they hoped…well, I’ll leave it at that.

Not all of my experiences have been negative – I was pleased to be accepted as a volunteer “first reader” (along with several others) for James Maxey’s third novel, DRAGONFORGE ( http://www.amazon.com/Dragonforge-Novel-Dragon-James-Maxey/dp/1844165817 ). He happily perused any comments I made, responded promptly, thanked me profusely, included me on the “Thanks To…” page as well as sending me an autographed copy of the novel.

Lest you think that maturity is only a matter of age, I’ve had the privilege of coaching a young author who has been published now three times in STONE SOUP ( http://www.stonesoup.com/writing/701 ). I had nothing to do with this story, but I’ve commented endlessly on OTHER stories he’s written. The way he easily takes critiques of his work bodes well for his future.

All this to say that writers, in order to become the best writers they can be, have to have more than thick hides (you’ve heard that one, I’m sure!), they have to be able to take criticism.

Lest you think I’m immune, I leave you with this little anecdote: I’ve been hard at work on a series of short stories using a black, middle school girl as a CSI. I’ve churned out six of these ditties. I’ve gotten comments on them from a few members of the staff of an online magazine I submit to and while I took the advice they’d given on one story, I’d pretty much gone off in a huff about the rest. Then an individual whom I deeply respect took time from his busy schedule to comment that Jasmine Ward hadn’t faced any obstacles and basically solved the cases by telling everyone what had happened. I reread the story in question and found he was right.

Ouch.

So I’ve gone back to the drawing board and I’m currently revising NOT the story, but HOW I WRITE STORY. I’ll let you know how the experiment goes. In the meantime, if you ask for honest criticism, go home angry when you get it AND WRITE THE BEST DANG STORY YOU CAN!

That’s what I’m gonna do anyway.

Skipping From the 1980s to the 21st Century in One Long Leap!

The school year just started and I am awash not only in the usual busyness, but also in adjusting to our newly "emptied nest" -- my son lives in a northern suburb about 10 miles from here and my daughter started college three weeks ago.

But perhaps just as unbalancing has been the fact that I am in a research study using a "new" (remember that schools are typically a bit behind the "new" curve!) technology called a SmartBoard. One of my colleagues asked to if I would be interested in volunteering for the study with her and I said "yes". Got the training -- it's a MARVELOUS TOOL! -- and am now busy integrating it.

I am something of a fossil as this is my 28th year of teaching and I remember using MIMEOGRAPH dittos to do lessons and having to use a calculator to hand-add grades then fill out bubble sheets to get the grades into the computer that did little more than print report cards and store the data.

At any rate, in my classroom I have been VERY slowly turning my "hand printed" worksheets and acetate overhead presentations into PowerPoint presentations. My colleagues gently rib me because of my "fossil" status.

With this training to use the SmartBoard and its accompanying software, I've SUDDENLY leap-frogged over them and *POOF!*, now I'm ahead of the technology curve -- as our school has only two mobile SmartBoards in addition to our two mounted SmartBoards...

All this to say that I am scrambling to change from overheads to SmartBoard, I am WAYYYYY behind on writing and I will get back to my regular posts this Sunday!

Guy

ETC…LIFE’S LITTLE CRISES AND SOMETHING SOMEONE WROTE ON FACEBOOK….

I am a member of an on-line speculative fiction (this field includes science fiction, fantasy, horror, alternate futures and other, not-so-easily-defined fiction) writer’s group. Group members vary widely in political views, socio-economic status and religious beliefs, yet because we are all interested in writing speculative fiction and have all had publications ranging from single stories in collections like WRITERS OF THE FUTURE to individuals with multi-book, six-figure advance deals, we pretty much gets along with each other. We happily expose ourselves to a wide spectrum of viewpoints (that sounds…um…bad doesn’t it?) and ask each other questions rather than torpedo viewpoints we don’t agree with on sight.

One of the members of this group posted an anecdote and question recently: “Driving home from a lovely picnic today, we passed one of those sign-boards in front of a little Christian church. You know, the ones with the movable type on which someone spells out some sort of brief, thought-provoking message that’s intended to pump up the church-going crowd? I think they’re the preaching equivalent of hearing that ‘Y’all ready for this?’ song before a sporting event.

“At any rate, this particular sign caught my eye because it boldly pronounced the following:

“‘Sin has no minimum wage’

“That sounds good and preachy, for sure, and it even has a sort of home-spun familiarity to it. Yet, at the same time, it’s been several hours and I’m still uncertain what it actually means.”

I took a deep breath and responded: “OK -- I'm a Bible Thumper and I had to think about this for a while before I ‘got it’. There is a verse in the Bible that says, ‘For the wages of sin are death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ’ (ref: Romans 6:23). The implication, if I'm reading between the words right, is that sin is sin; there is no ‘little’ sin; and the wages of ANY sin are death -- so EVERYONE (murderers to gossipers to gluttons) need the free Gift of God.”

This exchange made me think in all sorts of directions. First and foremost was that this is yet another example of Christians speaking a language foreign to anyone who is NOT a Christian. This in turn brings to mind an old STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION episode called “Darmok”. In a nutshell: a technologically advanced race called the Tamarians who have their own powerful starships, their own territory – and their own way of looking at the universe meets the crew of the Enterprise. The universal translator works exactly as designed. Alien words are translated into clearly understandable English and everyone on the bridge of the Enterprise understands the opening words of the exchange between the Federation’s Finest and these intelligent, sincere people: “Rai and Jiri at Lungha. Ri of Luwani. Luwani under two moons. Jiri of Ubaya. Ubaya of crossed roads at Lungha. Lungha, her sky grey.”

No one on the Enterprise has any idea what the Tamarians are saying because they lack any sort of common context frame. The captain of the other ship kidnaps Picard and forces the issue until Picard understands that the Tamarians speak in metaphors. The episode ends with Picard responding to the Tamarian first officer using Tamarian metaphors to tell them that Dathon, their captain, died.

All this to say that many Christians assume that all Americans have a common context frame – that we “all speak the same language”. But we don’t, especially when it comes to matters of faith. Even though I responded to my writer’s group friend, I’m still not sure he’ll understand, and to tell you the truth, that’s not his fault, it’s mine. Mine is the storehouse of metaphors that have passed out of common use, so it’s my responsibility to make sure the ideas of my belief system are communicated in ways the culture I live in understands.

Another example: when I was in Liberia, I stayed for a month with Bible translators. We talked one night about the difficulty of translating the Bible not only into another language but into understandable metaphors: The people they were working with had a strong aversion to sheep. They found the animals revolting, unclean and shuddered at the idea of having them around for any reason. I don’t know why – that was simply a part of their culture. As translators then, my friends were faced with a dilemma. When translating John 1:29 into an image this culture can understand – and communicate the right idea, how would they frame “The next day he saw Jesus coming to him and said, "Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!”?

I don’t know how they resolved the dilemma, but they had to or risk lose the message of the Good News of Jesus Christ. Once again:

“Can we be culturally relevant for the cause of Christ without becoming spiritually irrelevant?” Beth Moore, DANIEL Bible Study (p 125)

“The point is not to adopt the culture and lose the message, the point is to understand the culture so we can build bridges to it for the sake of gaining a hearing for the Gospel of Jesus.” Reggie McNeal, THE PRESENT FUTURE (p 51)

I’ve waxed long enough. To summarize: Even today, even here, we have to make sure that the message of Jesus’ life-changing power is clear to the culture we’re addressing. We may all speak English (more or less!), but we have to use the right metaphors as well.

Lastly: crises in the Stewart family kept me from writing last Thursday. Sorry. Some days seem like weeks. Some weeks seem like days (summer weeks are especially susceptible to time dilation effects.)

POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAYS: Global Warming, the god-like Power of Humanity and Supernature

On global warming:

a) Human actions, especially in the last two centuries have had a profound impact (note – I refuse to use the newEnglish phrase “profoundly impactful effect”) on the global environment.

b) Human actions, especially in the next 200 years, will have a profound impact in reducing and in some cases reversing, the damage to the global environment.

The last time I addressed this subject, I was viciously attacked in writing by a PhD in astrophysics. He attacked my stance, my intelligence, my work, my religious beliefs and my personal integrity. He had a profound impact on me.

I will try once more to say what I intended to say then: some individuals have substituted a belief in the inevitable victory of correctly applied natural science for a belief in a supernatural God who has both a longer view than Humanity and more absolute power. Some individuals have replaced God with an omnipotent Humanity robed in science and technology.

Some the these individuals believe that Humanity is effective and that God is ineffective; in fact for many of them, God doesn’t exist at all. Their belief is that the future’s shape is solely up to us (though the “us” is often men and a few women armed with Western science) to save the planet.

I disagree: God exists, God is effective and the future’s shape is up to God, who has already saved us.

The simple astronomical fact is that nothing can be done to save this natural Earth. In four and a half billion years, Earth will be consumed by our sun in its death throes.

Based on various models, natural life on Earth will end substantially before that. There is a steadily increasing likelihood that Earth will be “profoundly impacted” by a comet or asteroid resulting in an extinction event. In this case, the event will cause the extinction of Humanity on Earth. Alternately, there is a slowly increasing likelihood that natural diseases will evolve whose end result will dwarf the death toll of the Black Plague.

To answer the threat of global warming, heavenly extinction event or plague, trillions of dollars MUST be appropriated and spent by all of Humanity to ameliorate or eliminate natural Humanity-threatening catastrophe. But no matter what we do, the end of Humanity will eventually come. Even after the singularity perpetuates a version of Humanity forever, natural Humanity will become extinct with the heat death of the Universe.

Sooner or later, organic or singularity Humanity with no supernatural aspect will become extinct. I completely agree that we should fight against that to the distant end. But without God, we will become extinct. If there is nothing of us that is supernatural (literally “above nature”), then our Earthly Humanity will disappear someday.

But if there is a God who is supernatural and three-in-one, and we live within His supernature, then God promises that we will never die and we will not become extinct. If we intend profound natural effort to put off the extinction of Humanity, then shouldn’t we consider taking profound supernatural effort as well?

THE RECONSTRUCTION OF MAI LI HASTINGS 6: Roof

In the back of the squad car, CJ Hastings hung his head. He was never going to go anywhere. He was never going do anything. He was never going to be anyone.

He and his mother, along with the cop driving, listened to the police scanner in silence until they reached the house. The cop said, “Will you be all right?” to CJ’s mom.

“Yes.”

The cop turned back to CJ and asked, “Do you feel safe enough to go home with your mother tonight?”

CJ blinked. No one had ever asked him that question before. He didn’t reply at first. Aside from Mom going thermo and him getting grounded for the rest of his life, he didn’t think anything else would go wrong. He said, “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” The cop nodded, got out and let CJ out. Mom got out on her own.

When they got in the house, he nodded to Phyllis and muttered, “Sorry.” He headed downstairs where…absolutely nothing awaited him.


He was sound asleep when the light came on and Mom said, “Chris! You have to get up. The doctors called. We have to go to the University now.”

“What?” Chris croaked, sitting up. Mom never came down to his room. He suddenly remembered he hadn’t changed into sweatpants or gym shorts last night and pulled his sheets and blankets into his lap, piling them high. “What?” he tried again. This time is sounded like he was speaking English instead of Entish.

“We have to go. The U called and said the nanomachines are ready!” she said, spun around and hurried back upstairs.

He dressed in jeans and a T-shirt after using the badly needed bathroom and ran upstairs with a fresh pair of socks in hand. His shoes were outside on the steps because they smelled bad no matter what he and his mom did. She already Mai Li set up with Cheerios on her tray. CJ leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. A slow grin spread across her face as her arm came up just as slowly to grab him. If her reflexes were fast like a regular person’s, she’d have been able to catch his head and give him one of her slobbery kisses.

“Why’d you wake me up?”

Mom stopped pouring a bowl of cereal and turned to face him. She said, “You don’t think I can do this alone, do you?”

CJ turned from the intensity of her look, shrugging. “It’s just that when we went there before, I got creeped out.”

“I thought you were the one who thought nanomachines were…what did you say? Trash?"

CJ rolled his eyes. It sounded stupid when old people tried to talk kid. “Track, Mom. Track. Nanos are track, but putting them in Mai Li’s head?” He shrugged again. “I dunno.” This time he looked at her, head on, “What if they don’t fix her brain? What if her head blows up?”

His mom took a deep breath and let it out, blowing straight up, making the hairs that had escaped her bun flutter up. She was staring at Mai Li who was busy picking up a Cheerio again. She said softly, “I don’t know, Chris. Maybe it would be for the better…”

“Mom!” CJ exclaimed. Mai Li started, throwing her hard-won Cheerio over her shoulder. She started to cry. He went to his adoptive sister and took her head between his hands, one on her forehead, one cupping the back of her head, and pulling her ear to his chest. She struggled a little at first, but once she heard his heartbeat, she relaxed and went limp. He looked down at her. She was staring, blinking slowly, mouth open, chewed Cheerios drooling out of the left corner of her mouth. The look, no matter how hard he tried to see something, was vacant. No matter how much he loved Mai Li, he didn’t see the same thing in her eyes that he saw in Job’s, or Ms. Hester’s or even either of the Mr. B’s. He set her back upright and she resumed her hunt for the Cheerios. He said, “It’ll work. They said it would reconstruct her brain. They know what they’re talking about. Nanomachines are speed track now, Mom.”

Mom deliberately lowered her chin, staring at Mai Li. Without thinking, CJ took a corner of his T-shirt and wiped her face. Mom was watching, but said without heat, “Go down and put on a clean T-shirt, Chris.”

CJ sighed. In the eyes of the world, he’d never amount to anything or do anything important. He wasn’t going to the Math Tournament, either. But at least he was going downtown to the U – where researchers were going to shoot his sister’s brain full of nanomachines that were supposed to reconstruct her brain.

Or turn it into something resembling the chewed Cheerios sliding down Mai Li’s chin.

WRITING ADVICE: Jack McDevitt 2: “Go for that smooth first draft.”

(The Twelve Blunders are used with permission of Jack McDevitt, and are taken from his webpage: http://jackmcdevitt.com/Writers.aspx)

Years ago, after writing the ten chapters of my “real”, adult science fiction novel, INVADER’S GUILT: BOOK ONE OF THE GOD-PARTS FABRICATION, I labored under the impression that this draft had to be, if not perfect at least near-publishable.

After the next five chapters, I realized that it wasn’t even close to being publishable, I stopped. It languished for some time until I read an article that suggested that I “write like a shark” (http://faithandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2008/09/writing-advice-write-like-shark.html). To write like a shark, I had to follow my plan and keep writing until the book was done.

Realizing the truth of McDevitt’s Blunder #2 helped as well: I couldn’t stop and polish every chapter, paragraph or sentence until I thought it was perfect. That might very well be a waste of time if I polished a page that I would ultimately have to cut. I needed to move forward and produce an end product. So I went back to INVADER’S GUILT and entered the original chapters into my new computer. Ignoring the urge to go back and revise as I wrote, I barreled through and finished it by the time the school year ended. The story was rough-and-tumble and sometimes confusing, but it was done and I had a beginning, middle and an end.

According to McDevitt, then came the easy part: revision. That was hard for me to grasp at first. To try to change five hundred pages of very raw story into a potentially saleable book was daunting. McDevitt agrees, but points out that the worst part of the process was over. I had a story written down. All I had to do now was make that story clear.

It took another year to finish polishing INVADER’S GUILT and after that, I started shopping it around. I had a few request to see partials, but no one wanted to see all of it. I stopped querying editors and started to take the advice of a couple of my first readers and I dropped two characters and added an overarching theme -- the process of revision it seems, is almost neverending.

The newly finished revision just started making the rounds a few weeks ago, so I’ll keep you up-to-date. Until then, I will continue to avoid McDevitt’s Blunder #2 and continue to write like a shark!

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