Writers Group and Stealth Editor

Second week of Summer Program down, seven to go. (Summer Program is like day camp.)

The days being busy and long, I've written little, so when I listened to the answering machine Wednesday night, I was unprepared for the news there was a writers meeting the next day. I had nothing to share--not nothing written, just nothing ready or copied to pass out to the group. I went anyway, because I rarely have a chance to gather with friends, and these people are a rowdy bunch, known to laugh too loud in the library or at restaurants. Party animals. (laugh)

One person shared the final chapter of her first book -- whoo hoo! -- another read a short essay she's entering in the latest Guideposts contest, and yet another read the first draft of a poem.

When asked if I had something to share, I dug in my briefcase-like bag and found the small spiral-bound notebook in which I'm writing a short fantasy book for kids, and read the first four or five handwritten pages.

It was well-received, except by one writer. I should know by now: Never read my work unless 1) it is mainstream, or 2) a particular writer is absent. This person has no complaints about my style, characters, dialogue, or the basics of storytelling, just about the subject matter or the fact that I don't dump a bunch of details right at the beginning. My work ends up irritating both of us.

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Several weeks ago, I wandered through the local site of national chain bookstore, and looked for certain titles that I had helped edit in some way, either as a proofreader or as a down-and-gritty, find-all-the-weaknesses-I-can editor. I felt like a stealth contributor to the literary world. Kinda cool.

Yesterday, after working late at the Club, I had to stop by the post office, purchase stamps from the vending machine, and mail forty-five letters out to baseball players. I heard a door open on the other side of the building and then the distinct sound of my mother's footsteps down the row of boxes where she receives her mail. I almost called out to her, but then thought better of it, just in case I was wrong. This is a small town, but--

She cruised around the corner, smiling, and we talked while I stamped envelopes then checked my post office box.

Inside was a key for a parcel box, and inside the box was a package. It had the distinct hard, heavy weight of a book. I flipped it over, and looked at the return address: a writer whose mystery/thriller I'd edited a year or two ago.

He included a letter, but Mom wished he'd signed the book. I'm happy that he's at work on book number two--and you can bet I'll be looking for it on the bookstore shelves.

Brief Update

Went to a writers meeting last night. Will post more about that when I have time.

I'm taking five minutes at work to respond to the comments in the previous post, and then I'm out the door with a small group of kids for an hour or so of photography around the neighborhood (saves fuel costs and permission slips).

One of our kids is up for her possible second national win this year. Whoo Hoo! We won't know the results, though, for another couple of weeks.

Space Pirates, episode 5

Sorry, y'all, but I've little to report about my life/work/family/writing at the moment -- still acclimating to the summer work schedule -- so here's the next story installment. The text is twice as long as I'd like to post, but it completes a segment. Enjoy!

(The first speaker is Captain Zoltana, the second is Captain Kristoff.)

“Why do you keep flying this old bucket?”

“Keep your voice down. Martina might hear you. She’s a mite touchy about her age.”

“One of these days, she’s gonna fall out the sky, and then what’s a crew of hardworking pirates to do?”

“Pirates, ma’am? We’re honest freighters. You oughta know that, Zoltana, as many times as you routinely search our cargo.”

“Just doing my job.”

“You keep doing that job so thorough and so often”—Kristoff strode toward the stairs—“a fella might think there was more on your mind than duty.”

In the corridor between the passenger cabins and the infirmary, he met a woman in a white lab coat, blonde hair streaked with white, faint smile lines fanning the corners of her eyes. She stuck her hands in the broad, square pockets and leaned one shoulder against the wall. “So. How’s it feel to be the object of a constable’s crush?”

“Don’t start.”

Mercedes chuckled. “Come on in. Let’s check that cut.”

The doctor pushed a stool toward him across the gleaming white floor. He straddled it while she pulled on a pair of ugly orange gloves and gathered disinfectant, clean gauze, and a pair of small, sharp scissors. Mercedes viuda Oliverio de Lazaro was a better doctor than the Martina Vega deserved. After her husband died of a long illness, she’d had her fill of hospital corridors. “Feels like I’m suffocating,” Mercedes had said the day she came looking for passage. “I need to stretch out and breathe again. I need adventure.”

“You’ll sure find it here,” Corrigan had answered for the captain, grinning at her in his best welcoming smile that would have sent small children screaming for their mothers.

In the past couple of years, she’d grown quieter, more content, as if the greater the danger the greater her calm. And, Kristoff suspected, there was something going on between her and Alerio. A doctor and an engineer. Well, they were the two smartest people on board—except for maybe Finney the pilot.

Finney. Now, there was a woman he could talk to, when she wasn’t being prickly or standoffish. Not overly pretty, so she didn’t make him tongue-tied. Smart, but not stuck-up about it. Finney was just herself. She pushed him. She made him laugh. Pretty much every time they talked, he walked away mad—but he always came back for more. Why was that?

Mercedes pulled the old bandage away from his cheek. He flinched. “Easy, Doc!”

“Looks clean. There’ll be a scar, but I don’t suppose that bothers you much, being a pirate and all.”

“I told you not to start.”

“Aye-aye, cap’n.”

“No respect. Absolutely no respect.”

Mercedes leaned close to apply the fresh bandage and murmured, “Pirates,” as if that explained everything.

Then she looked past him, and her smile disappeared.

Captain Zoltana’s crisp voice sounded behind him, scraping along his ear-bones like claws on metal. “Keeping animals, pets or livestock, is not allowed without the proper license, Captain Kristoff. The fine is steeper for animals kept for slaughter.”

Touching his cheek, wincing at the pressure on the bruise around the cut, he stood to face her. “Can’t think what you mean. All our meat’s in cold storage near the galley—just ask Sahir—and you oughta know by now this crew don’t have time nor patience for pets.”

Her blue eyes were flat ice. “An awful lot of blood in that cage on the cargo deck.”

Mercedes pulled off the ugly orange gloves and tossed them into a hazardous-refuse bin. “If your men had taken the time to use their test kits, they would have found the blood to be human.”

“Illegal fighting for wager or profit means two to five years in the brig—”

“Now listen here, Captain Zoltana—!”

Kristoff laid a hand on Mercedes’ arm. “Don’t waste your breath, Doc. What we need is a visual aid.” He shouldered past Zoltana and strode along the passage toward the catwalk. “Come with me.”

c. 2008, Keanan Brand

Space Pirates, episode 4

Just inside the passenger deck airlock stood a tall woman in a crisp, dark blue uniform and sleeked-back, straight blond hair that stopped short of touching her collar. She inclined her head as he approached. “Captain.”

“Zoltana.”

“You didn’t have to dress up on my account.”

Kristoff plucked at his freshly ironed white shirt. “What? This old thing?” He’d smile, but it made his face hurt. “What brings the Orpheus to these skies?”

“Routine random searches.”

“Random?”

“Well, in your case,” she smiled slightly, her hands still clasped behind her back, “more routine.”

“Welcome aboard, Captain Zoltana.” Kristoff stood aside. “My crew will cooperate.”

She turned her head, and the men standing behind her fanned out to search the cargo deck. Zoltana didn’t move from her place. Nor did she watch her men. She watched Kristoff, who watched her from the corner of his eye.

He didn’t play chess—good thing, too, ‘cause he’d probably lose every game—but so far he’d never been outmaneuvered by Zoltana or any other duly sworn constable.

There was a first time for everything.

Wyatt, the little high-strung steward who preferred an abacus to a group of people of any sort, but who still seemed to charm passengers in spite of himself, led one trio of men to inspect the freight lockers while Corrigan, wrench in hand, led another to the engine room. Ezra, cultural liaison and sometime housekeeper, escorted yet another trio up to the passenger deck.

Kristoff stood with his hands resting lightly on his hips and pretended to be interested in the catwalk opposite the airlock.

“You know, captain,” Zoltana’s voice was heavy with sarcasm, “if you lie real still, this’ll all be over in a few minutes.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Never knew a man to turn it down.”

“Ah, I bet you say that to all the boys.”

c. 2008, Keanan Brand

TGIF

Tuckered out. Way over 40 hours of kids, craziness, and feuding staff members.

First week of Summer Program down, eight more to go.

Gonna need to upgrade the medicine cabinet.

A/C Solved, Computer Unsolved, and Goofy Family Stories

Whoo Hoo! The a/c is fixed, so the house is cool--fantastic, now that 90s are going to be the norm for the next two or three months.

I'm a geek in many ways, but not so much in the computer realm. I've been using a program that will find and delete index.dat files, but anybody know how to eradicate those stubborn DAT files that are unnecessary yet impossible to delete because (supposedly) they are in use by Windows or some other program? I am not a happy camper.

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Gotta be up on your Loony Toons for this one:
When I visited family in Tucson in May, my mother was assigned the nursery as her sleeping quarters (hey, the baby hasn't used it yet!), and our luggage and various clothing and grooming items were stored on some shelves in there.

One morning, I was the first in the household to waken, so I snuck (sneaked?) into the nursery a couple times to get this or that. Mom shifted once, and another time she muttered something, so I asked her later if I'd woken her. She looked at me in surprise. "Didn't hear a thing."

I dropped into my best Elmer Fudd crouch, an imaginary shotgun in my hands, and did an exaggerated cartoon tip-toe across the living room. "I'm hunting wabbits."

Mom laughed, head back, then imitated me. "Be vewy, vewy quiet."

Next day:
As we neared the base gate on the return trip from Phoenix, a few cars got between my brother's car and Mom's, so he and his wife and Niece #2 were at home by the time Mom and Niece #1 and I arrived.

That was a good thing.

Bubba noticed we weren't behind him--"Looks like we've lost Mom"--and then got distracted by the moon behind a palm tree, and wished he had a camera handy to capture it. Then he points across the road. "Look! A bunny!"

His wife: "Uhm, you just drove past the house."

And the day after that:
After taking orders for everyone's favorite flavors, Bubba and I went to the Shopette for Icees all around. On the way, we saw a truck that sported a sign: "Makes Frequent Stops."

"Guess it just gets a wild hare, and stops." Immediately, he and I stomp on imaginary brake pedals, lurch in our seats, and make squealing-brake noises.

Then one of us--I can't remember which--points across the road. "Oh, look! A bunny!"

Sh! Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting wabbits.

Welcome to my insane little world.

Hot and Humid and Progress

The air conditioner went out last night.

Wouldn't be so much of a problem, I guess, except that I live in the Arkansas River Valley. In summer, the American South is notorious for its soul-sucking humidity.

Strong thunderstorms are expected this afternoon, too, so no opening of the windows (which I'm now closing before the temperature rises any further).

On the writing front: Though no real progress this weekend on the fantasy novels, I've been at work on the sideways modern novel set in the Southwest. I can't tell much about that novel; it's so different that I've never read or heard of a storyline quite like it, and I don't want to give it away before 1) it's finished, and 2) a publisher buys it. Then I'll promote it like crazy.