The Enclave - Day 1

Cameron Reinhardt is an idiot!

Yes, he had a PhD from Stanford. Yes, he was widely acknowledged as a brilliant geneticist. Yes, Director Swain called him the field's brightest rising star, the Institute's greatest asset, and a fabulous hiring coup. But this wasn't the first time Lacey McHenry wondered how the man managed to to get up in the morning and make it to his office fully clothes.

She stood in the frog room's open doorway, a large, rectangular steel tank hulking against the peach-colored wall across from her. One of its three hinged covers stood open, propped back against the wall. Live frogs and toads scattered the concrete floor beneath it, watching her with bulging golden eyes; more of them had trailed slime onto the gleaming floor of the corridor behind her in their break for freedom.

Apparently Dr. Reinhardt had come in sometime that afternoon and forgotten to close not only the lid but the door, as well. She pictured him collecting his subjects and hurrying off to his wet lab at the hall's end, heedless as a teenaged boy. Never mind that all the remaining amphibians could and did escape; never mind someone else would have to clean them up.

Surely he was living proof that a man could be a genius and a moron at the same

time.

So begins The Enclave by Karen Hancock, the featured novel in this month's Christian Science Fiction & Fantasy Blog Tour.

Hancock wastes no time. The opening paragraphs set up preconceptions that are knocked down as the story progresses, and by the end of the first chapter, there's action critical to the plot.

I was amused by the escaping amphibians; they reminded me of the mice and guinea pigs that scamper the university halls in the opening scenes of "The Infinite Worlds of H.G. Wells", a 2001 miniseries that tells the "truth" behind six of Wells' short stories. However, there's a chasm between the views and beliefs of the real H.G. Wells, and those of the two scientists we follow through the twisty story of The Enclave.

Lacey and Cameron are scientists who are also Christians -- she nominally, he practicing -- working for the prestigious (and fictional) Kendall-Jakes Longevity Institute outside Tucson, Arizona. As they each begin to question events at the institute, and the uncertain ethics of the founder's methods, their faith becomes more and more central to the conflicts in themselves and in relationships with other characters.

There is another set of characters critical to the institute's function, but most of them don't know it.

Minor spoiler (highlight text by holding down mouse button and moving cursor over the white space): Readers who have also seen the film The Island will guess right away the secret of the Enclave. However, knowing who this group is does not by any means give away the story.

A few of these innocents discover the truth, and they could be considered the true protagonists, because they are the catalysts, the ones around whom the whole story revolves. Without the actions of these rebels, Lacey and Cameron might never learn the truth either, and Lacy might even succumb to the pressures and lies of her peers and superiors.

Many times, even while working for other Christians, I have been placed in positions of moral ambiguity, experienced pressure to just go along with the prevailing viewpoint or method, and been mocked for holding true to my beliefs. Others who have walked a similar path may find themselves mirrored in this story, or may nod their heads as they read certain portions, recognizing situations from their own lives.

The Enclave is science fiction, but it contains much truth, and that's a great combination.

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Enter to win a FREE copy!

1) Comment on this post (or send an e-mail message: KeananBrand at yahoo dot com),

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For other opinions and reviews, check out these stops on the tour:

Brandon Barr
Jennifer Bogart
Keanan Brand
Grace Bridges
Canadianladybug
Melissa Carswell
Valerie Comer
Amy Cruson
CSFF Blog Tour
Stacey Dale
D. G. D. Davidson
Janey DeMeo
Jeff Draper
Emmalyn Edwards
April Erwin
Karina Fabian
Beth Goddard
Todd Michael Greene
Heather R. Hunt
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Julie
Carol Keen
Krystine Kercher
Dawn King
Mike Lynch
Melissa Meeks
Rebecca LuElla Miller
Mirtika
Eve Nielsen
Nissa
John W. Otte
Steve Rice
Crista Richey
James Somers
Speculative Faith
Stephanie
Rachel Starr Thomson
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Dona Watson
Elizabeth Williams

Random Family Moment

Nope. Nothing about fiction in this post, just a family moment that occurred a couple minutes ago.

The two-year-old niece is hungry, and she wants "Oly-Olies" (raviolis), but the only substitute I have for the real thing is ramen noodles. Bubba began preparations -- water in the soup pot, fire under the burner, and so forth -- then hoisted Niece #2 on his shoulders. She rested the unopened packet of noodles on Bubba's head and announced, "I want to open it, I want to squish it, I want to eat it."

Fortunately, she didn't try to smash the noodles against Bubba's head.

The noodles cannot be cooked fast enough. Sounds of distress are emanating from the two-year-old, and those can lead to distress in the rest of us.

A Quick Look at Point of View

The following paragraphs are notes taken from my presentation for a writing seminar. It's an alternate take on my previous attempts to explain the nature of third-person limited POV.

Have you ever played a video game? Often, except for an initial menu inside the game, the artwork on the box, or an avatar in the corner of the screen, a player doesn't know what his character looks like. He is looking out on the created world through his character's eyes, and sees and experiences the game from inside that "body".

He doesn't know what the other characters in the game are thinking, or how they will react. He turns a corner, and doesn't know what he'll find or what he'll do. He has to wait until he gets there.

That's part of the fun for the player. That's the challenge. He unravels the mystery right along with his character.

He doesn't know what isn't necessary for him to know. The game isn't bogged down with a bunch of other characters' points of view, and the main character learns what those others think or know only if they tell him somehow (maps, books, letters, conversations, clues, et cetera).

However, as we've discussed in the past, there's merit to stepping into a supporting character's POV. If that's what you do, indicate a scene change on the page, and then follow only that character through the scene.

c. Keanan Brand

A Little Humor, and a Lesson in Irony

It's summer, my day job gets more intense during June and July, and my energy and creativity evaporates. I don't keep up with movies and books as much as I would like, and my writing dribbles away to a few drops of ink expended now and again, whenever my heat-fried brain occasionally connects ideas into some semblance of cohesive story.

My mind keeps wandering back to the storytelling sessions of my childhood, when the older relatives -- Southerners and hillbillies transplanted to Oregon -- would sit around in my grandparents' living room, or on the covered porch, and swap memories and tall tales. We cousins and siblings would laugh at the escapades recounted from their own childhoods, and at the humorous reconstructions of incidents in their married lives or with their children. We'd shiver and sit wide-eyed at the ghost stories and other creepy tales.

Here's a re-post of an entry I originally wrote in October 2007, and addresses a writing lesson I learned from listening to those stories:

Lesson from Uncle Brascal

Uncle Brascal was married to Aunt Jewell. I can't recall their exact relationship to me -- there were one or two "greats" before their names; Jewell was sister to someone -- nor can I remember the proper spelling of their names. I just know that Brascal rhymed with rascal, a very apt association, and I think Jewell spelled her name a little differently.

I loved listening to Uncle Brascal's tall tales, many of them so tall they scraped the clouds. His "true" stories were embellished enough that they at least stood on tiptoe. He enjoyed teasing everyone. My little brother's ears resembled our father's, large and sticking out from his head, and Uncle Brascal would frighten him by threatening to cut them off and use them for soup spoons. He said Dad's ears were so big that he resembled a Model T driving down the road backwards.

Aunt Jewell was neither a small woman nor quick-moving. Brascal used to tell about one Sunday morning when they were late getting ready for church. He came downstairs and "there was Jewell in the kitchen, her apron strings just a-snappin'. 'Bout an hour later, we had breakfast."

He also told of a couple in which the husband was considerably smaller than the wife. They had an argument one day, and she sat on him. Wheezing, the husband said, "Now, Angie, you get offa me 'afore I have to hurt ya."

From Uncle Brascal's stories I learned the concept of irony: 2 a: the use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning b: a usually humorous or sardonic literary style or form characterized by irony c: an ironic expression or utterance (courtesy of Merriam-Webster Online).

Irony is one of my favorite tools in the writer's work shed. It's both sharp and subtle, can be funny or dramatic or both, and can often lay bare the truth better than a bald statement or a plain fact. I especially like using irony in dialogue, when a character's thoughts may be in direct opposition to his words, or when his words contradict his actions.

A science fiction story I'm writing employs first-person narration in which the reader is privy to the main character's thoughts in addition to her actions and verbal speech. It is the internal dialogue that sharpens the humor, giving the heroine an edge she might not otherwise possess. It saves her from being quiet and remote from other characters or from the reader; it humanizes her. It tells the truth even as her spoken words evade or cover the truth. The irony of thoughts versus speech lets the reader truly know her.

Ever know the painful irony of knowing what you want to say but being unable to get the words to travel from your brain to your tongue? If only you could show the movie of your mind sometimes, how quickly and (hopefully) clearly you could communicate!

Uncle Brascal and Aunt Jewell have been dead for years, as are my grandparents, and their backwoods stories are gone but for the imperfect memories of we who remain. It is from them and from my father that I learned to love storytelling. Not writing. Telling. There's a magic in hearing the words.

The irony is, I was too young to commit them to paper, and now the words are gone.

Aboriginal Art?

A glimpse into the art goings-on Thursday afternoon at the Club -- the clay faces are a result of an impromptu idea by the group to "initiate" all the sculptors with smears of clay.

Taking Risks - Part 3

(Previous posts on the same topic: Taking Risks - Part 1 and Part 2.)

It's easy to lose oneself in work. It's not a job; it's an identity. There's a certain level of familiarity, comfort, ease -- whichever word applies -- that lures one into remaining in a place of employment despite crazy hours or personality conflicts, challenges to one's authority or disrespect from the public. Then the idea occurs that one can actually leave (shock, choke, gasp) said place of employment.

One lives in a state, city, neighborhood, house, and they can also become part of the identity. The thought of living elsewhere can actually send some folks into panic.

Thanks to a father whose feet were just too itchy to stay in one place long, I lived in a variety of cities and states when I was a kid. Road trips could be anything from leisurely Sunday drives in the countryside to headlong treks across the country. With so much experience at adapting to new houses, schools, churches, and friendships, I am at ease with the notion of change.

Even now, having lived in one house for almost twelve years, I still own cardboard boxes that have never been unpacked. They're ready for the next move.

However, in my recent foray into the realm of the possible, while contemplating not only a different job but a different residence, perhaps far out of state, I have encountered resistance from the roots that inevitably grow after staying in one place too long.

If I leave, I change the face of the family. I upset the holiday schedule and the guest arrangements (at the moment, I'm the only close relative with ample room for stay-over guests). I limit access to my family and friends. I quite possibly strand myself in strange territory, far from help or support. I strand my loved ones, too, who might need me.

So I have a hard decision to make: Do I take the risk and branch out in search of the new and the challenging? Or do I remain within the circle, knowing the roots will only dig deeper? Is that such a bad thing?

If I were writing this scenario, I know absolutely which decision to make, because it might result in a more intriguing story. Real life, though -- tough choice.

The Writer and the Sandpaper

I am not a vain person. I don't care much about the condition of my fingernails, except that they be clean. Sometimes.

However, while continuing last night to prepare for painting inside my house, I pretty much sanded them all away.

60-grit sandpaper, by the way, can also remove fingerprints. This is accomplished by holding a folded piece of sandpaper in one's bare hand while ramming said sandpaper into corners or running it along the curves and grooves of shaped wood molding. Or it can be achieved by the strange burning sensation that accompanies the friction of sandpaper against recalcitrant flaws in the woodwork.

So, as I continue with this repainting project throughout the house, I may soon be able to commit crimes with impunity. If caught, I can oh-so-cleverly dismiss those illegalities as writerly research.

Yeah. And all those dropcloths and lengths of plastic sheeting are remnants of my superhero cape.