Non-PIE blog up!

I have a post up at THE FRIDAY CHALLENGE at:

http://thefridaychallenge.blogspot.com/

about how I think the BACK TO THE FUTURE movies should become the archetype of ALL time travel movies!

Slice of PIE: Editorial Slush Piles, the Disciples of Jesus and a Taste of Truth

Here’s one of the strange-association-train-of-thought I try to save for Slices of PIE…

This tasty fruit began as a seed in my fertile imagination gathered from an online writer’s group I frequent. A group of CODEXians (http://www.codexwriters.com/) were discussing the slush pile an editor has to wade through to get to stories or articles or novels that they want to publish…

Hmmm. Perhaps I need to do a definition here for those of you not “in the know”. A slush pile is the pile (electronic or paper) of manuscripts any editor of any publishing venture (from the hardcovers of Harper & Row in New York City to Bob’s Online Magazine of Tractor Trailer Fiction in Muskatoon, Falkland Islands) has to go through to choose the writing they want to pay to publish (“pay” is a relative word here. It can mean anything from millions of dollars down to “braggin’ rights”). Anecdotally, that pile is filled with pathetic attempts at authorship. Ridiculous submissions become legend and are bandied about on the internet, even giving rise to the Bulwer-Lytton Award (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/).

Strangely, there are editors and writers who cry “Foul!”, decrying the anecdote as a myth worth busting.

Edmund Schubert of the online magazine, Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show points out: “The vast majority of what I see is perfectly competent, but ‘competent’ isn't going to do the job. In fact, because there is so much that is competent, it gets tedious pretty quickly. I pray for anything to break the monotony. Great or awful. At least with awful you get to laugh; competent just gets a yawn and a 'yeah, whatever...’”*

In a different article, writers Jay Lake and Ruth Nestvold point out: “90 percent of everything isn't crap. A lot of it might even be pretty good. Rather, it's the reverse that applies — only a tiny percentage of anything is excellent. And one of the big secrets of the slush pile is that the editor is looking for excellence, not "pretty good." **

How does all this connect with Jesus and His disciples?

If you recall, they weren’t exactly the “cream of the crop”. At least they didn’t look that way to the rest of the world. Fishermen, prostitutes, the poor and downtrodden as well as the wealthy and corrupt; these were the people Jesus called to Himself. Yet in the end, every one of them proclaimed His holiness, forgiveness and salvation to the Roman, Jewish…and all the rest of the…world. In assembling them, Jesus was in effect the editor of Christianity. Where others might anecdotally talk about the “crap” He accepted, Jesus saw excellence, chose it and put it together to make an issue of men and women so powerful that their witness birthed a religion worthy of the name “World”.

The take away for me here is if editors like Schubert and writers like Lake and Nestvold say that much of what comes across an editor’s desk ISN’T crap – and that those editors are looking for excellence, or even for a chance to edit a story into excellence – then this is illustrative to me of the possibility that Jesus probably doesn’t think that the “rest of us” (non-disciples) are crap, either. This should bring me to my feet to rush into his arms so that He can make of me an award-winning story; the tale of a life lived for Him; something readers of humanity will return to again and again for a taste of truth.

Because after all, aren’t the very best stories the ones that bring us a taste of truth?

*http://www.codexwriters.com/forum/discuss.asp?discussionid=1293&LastViewed=10%2F16%2F2009+9%3A17%3A02+AM#newposts (not accessible unless part of CODEX, for details re: membership, go to: www.codexwriters.com/ )

** http://www.irosf.com/q/zine/article/10208

POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAYS: Reflections On [not] Becoming An Astronaut

Picture in your mind the movie, INDEPENDENCE DAY.

Picture the scene where Will Smith, in the character of Captain Steven Hiller and his buddy, Captain Jimmy Wilder are kidding and goofing around and walk into the locker room area in front of the lockers just before the grand assault on the Aliens. Stuck in the gap between his locker door and the locker bank is a letter clearly addressed to him with the huge NASA logo on it.

Of course, we all remember what it read. “Dear Captain Hiller, Loser:...blah, blah, blah, blah…that despite your excellent qualifications we regret to inform you…” The disappointment on Captain Hiller’s face is deep. Heartfelt. You almost feel like he might have once actually wished he was an astronaut. Seems like EVERYONE has “wanted to be an astronaut when I grow up.”

Skip backward from 1996 ten years. It’s 1986 and we’re all watching the space shuttle CHALLENGER launch into the clear, blue Florida sky on January 28. The image is either etched in our mind’s eye or we’ve seen it enough times to remember it well: the single column of rocket exhaust suddenly twisting crazily into a pair of columns ending nowhere…

I’d been a teacher for five years, hadn’t yet met the woman of my dreams and had talked to my high school astronomy class often about the Teacher In Space program. I have in my Life Box in the basement, a 23-year-old, yellowing copy of the lesson plan book every teacher in the country got just before Christa McAuliffe went up in CHALLENGER to be the first teacher and one of the first civilians ever to go into space. After the disaster, my students asked me if they ever started the program again, would I go?

I responded every time, “Without pausing for a breath, ‘yes’.”

Even so, I never really pursued the dream; certainly not when I was young enough and healthy enough for it to be a “real” possibility. Certainly not through a military career – because after CHALLENGER exploded, no one BUT soldiers were going to be going into space for a long, long time. (Ever wonder if the military did that on purpose – just to keep civvies out of space? Hmmm. Nah.)

Skip ten years ahead of time to 1996 then skip twelve years to 2008. Spring. I was surfing the Net and came across the advertisement for NASA on USAJOBS.com – NASA wanted to put teachers into space again! My heart skipped a beat. Maybe I could be an astronaut!

Then I came back to reality. What would NASA want with a big, old, fat, white guy like me – ballast for an underwater astronaut training facility? Hmph. No way. Not a chance. Why even bother?

Except, if I didn’t actually try, I would never know for CERTAIN that I couldn’t be an astronaut. If I didn’t apply, I would never be able to say, unequivocally that “I can’t be an astronaut.”

So I applied. Really. All out. The whole kit and caboodle. Forms, references, questionnaires and letters. All of it. Online and in paper. It took me about a month to get everything together and send it, but when I was done, I confess I was suddenly on pins and needles. What if NASA actually said, “Yes!”? What would I do? Would I go to Houston and start training? What about my family? (The pay was good – a third again as much as I’m making now.) So we might actually be able to do it! The kids aren’t little any more. My wife and I had talked about traveling. Why not to Houston to get training for an astronaut?

I waited tensely. And waited, and waited and waited. I emailed NASA to find out when they planned to announce the new astronaut candidates. They emailed back that it would be “soon”.

Then, on the day after INDEPENDENCE DAY 2009, I got the letter I was both hoping for and dreading:“Dear Mr. Stewart: Thank you for applying for the Astronaut Candidate Program. Blah, blah, blah…Regrettably, we were only able to select a small number of those with potential to make a contribution to the nation’s space program…We appreciate the opportunity to consider you…and wish you success in your future endeavors.”

Now I knew for sure that I could never be an astronaut. *sigh*

I suppose though that I am in good company. They said that there were 3500 applicants for 9 positions. The fact that 3491 others had been turned down just like I had been sort of made me feel better. But my biggest comfort is that I knew that Will Smith wasn’t going into space any time soon, either.

image from: http://l.yimg.com/eb/ymv/us/img/hv/photo/movie_pix/twentieth_century_fox/independence_day/_group_photos/harry_connick_jr_1.jpg

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.)