Ray Gun Revival, Issue 51

For all you science fiction fans, the latest issue of Ray Gun Revival is up and available, and with awesome art, as usual. (Why do I even say that? Like the art isn't going to be awesome. Johne Cook and the Overlords do an excellent job with articles, fiction, and guest artists every issue.)


I haven't been able to catch all the entries yet, but the first one in this issue, "Direct Observation", is by my friend, Adrian Simmons, and it's been one of my favorites since the first time he let me read it.

Oh, and this little commercial announcement: Episode 6 of Thieves' Honor is available, too. It's a little silly, a little over-the-top, and a little mysterious. Hopefully, it's just plain fun to read.

Alas, the Last of the Wilderking

On Wednesday, during weekly Story Time at the Boys & Girls Club, I finished reading The Way of the Wilderking, the third book in The Wilderking Trilogy by Jonathan Rogers, and there were a few tears and sniffles at the end. Not only did the series close, but a couple favorite characters died, and one boy who had been a steady attender actually bowed forward in his chair, his face in his hands.

We started the school year with The Bark of the Bog Owl, followed by The Secret of the Swamp King, which we crammed into the short space just before Christmas, so the kids wouldn't have to wait two whole weeks to learn how the story ended.

The books are inspired by the life of King David described in the Bible, and certain elements are readily identifiable--a boy slays a giant with a stone, a powerful king befriends then betrays the youth, an army eventually grows up around the young man in exile--but Rogers puts several unexpected and downright fun twists in the tale.

I won't describe the plots, lest readers of this blog want to read the books for themselves, but the stories make excellent read-out-loud tales, especially entertaining for elementary students, though a few junior high kids wandered in to Story Time on occasion to find out what all the laughter and shouting was about.

I do all the voices, and I keep a clear space at the front of the room so I can pace and act out some of the motions while I read. Of course, acting out the story sometimes requires shouting, grand gestures, the occasional yodel or song, as the Wilderking books demand. One boy said, "This is almost like going to the movies," and someone else commented, "Usually, I only like books with pictures." There are pictures, small ones, at the chapter headings, but the trilogy is comprised of chapter books, so there are no full-page illustrations. There is a nifty map, though, at the front of each book, to help orient the readers to the story's events.

If yours is a family that takes long trips, like mine used to when I was a child, these books are perfect to read out loud in the car. They present life-truths wrapped in entertainment, acted out by vivid characters. Highly recommended reading!

Group Novel, the Sequel

For those of you who checked in the other day and read the post about group novels, here's the second chapter of the novel begun by John Kuhn on the Fear and Trembling magazine website. Access the first chapter here, and read below for the second chapter.

Anyone interested, join the fun, and add a chapter of your own!

Chapter 2


I'll never forget the day I met the new teacher.

Ms. Cooperwell wasn't the petite, pretty, blond, scare-able young thing I'd expected. She was an Amazon in a black dress, and when she walked, her heels clicked along the corridor like the ticking of the metronome on the music teacher's piano. No winning smile, no perky haircut or smile-face pencils. She looked at me from across the old desk in the dingy closet called my office, put out a slender hand, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Gibson. I'm Ms. Cooperwell, the new kindergarten teacher in Room 13.”

I put down the motor for the floor buffer, wiped my fingers with a red rag so old and faded it looked like dirty pink, and offered my hand. Her grip was firm, the handshake one crisp motion, and I knew I'd have to change the plan. This woman wouldn't scare.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Cooperwell?”

“There's a closet in the corner of my classroom--”

As soon as I heard that, my heart did a funny little jump, but I covered my surprise by tucking in the loose tail of my military-green shirt, standard janitorial uniform with pants to match, and my name stitched over the shirt's pocket. Invisibility clothes. I go about my work, and people hear me, see me, but they overlook me.

“--and there sounds to be a small rodent trapped inside. Have you an empty box or something to catch him?”

I grabbed a shoe-sized box off a shelf, and dumped nails, washers, odd-sized screws, wall anchors, four shirt buttons, and an unopened package of batteries that expired in 1989, into a dusty pile in the middle of my desk, gave the box a couple whacks to get the last of the lint from the corners, and held it out to her. “This oughta do it.”

She just held her spiral-bound grade book against that shimmery black dress and looked at me. “The closet is locked, Mr. Gibson.”

I was out the door, with the box, and a few steps down the hall before I realized. Did she do this in the classroom? Stare the kiddies into submission? I stopped and turned around. No way was she gonna--

“Forget something, Mr. Gibson?”

“Uh, no. Nothin'.”

Click, click, click, click, click, click, click. She stayed just behind my right shoulder, and I could smell her perfume, rich and dark. It made my nose itch. Who wore stuff like that in the middle of a school day? Which teacher could afford it?

When we reached the door of Room 13, I hadn't come up with a new plan, but by that time, I wasn't much interested in practical jokes.

The classroom was empty—the kids were out on the playground for recess—and the place smelled of paste and fingerpaints and the under-scent of age and old floor wax. Thumbtacked to a cork-board railing on the wall, crayon drawings lined the room, and half the hardwood floor was covered in interlocking foam mats that were giant red, blue, green, and yellow puzzle pieces. Underneath the high-set windows, plastic bins with lids were filled with blocks, Lincoln Logs, Tinkertoy sets, Legos, and other building toys. Along another wall were bins of Play-Doh, crayons, blank paper. An ordinary kindergarten room, just the way Mrs. Thomas left it, a little brighter than the other classes—almost cheery, even, unless a person noticed the bins were cracked, the toys broken and discolored, or that the chairs and desks were at least as old as the students' grandparents.

I tugged on the retractable keyring clipped to my belt, and the line zinged out, the keys jangling. “You sure there's something in the closet? Could be junk blowing around by the ventilation system.”

“There is a distinct scrabbling sound, Mr. Gibson. Definitely something—alive.”

My back to her, I smiled. Perfect. “Or somethin' that used to be alive.” I slid the key into the lock. “Ever hear of Little Sammy Snodgrass?”

“Really. A ghost story, Mr. Gibson?”

That woman could sure deflate a man. I turned the key, removed it, and the ring zipped back to my belt. I gripped the box, turned the knob, and crouched a little, just in case she was right and a critter ran out. The door creaked open.

A dank, musty odor smacked me in the face, and dust puffed up when an old broom fell over. Ms. Cooperwell coughed.

But no critter. No squeaks or scratches. No tiny pawprints. No shoeprints, neither.

“It appears Mrs. Thomas didn't use this closet,” Ms. Cooperwell coughed again, and stepped back a little, “and that you were right. Old buildings are full of strange noises. I must have just imagined them into something more.”

“Ah, you'll get used to it. I did.” I reached inside the closet and grabbed the broom to hook it onto the rusty nail next to where the dustpan hung. A dusty spiderweb wrapped itself around my arm, so I brushed my sleeve then turned to hang the broom.

On the inside of the door, on the bottom panel, was a child's scrawl in green crayon: helP Me.

Why Writers Need Pre-Readers

Pre-readers fill a valuable role for us writers. We can overlook misspellings or missing words, plot gaps or mistakes, mis-assigned dialogue, and so forth. Readers, though, can look at the work with fresh sight, find what we miss, and even suggest different words or phrasing that can make a dull or okay passage come alive.

This past week, I finished a piece at a crazy hour of the morning, and immediately sent it to a small group of readers who have saved me from many potentially embarrassing errors in the past. This time, bleary-eyed and tired, I was under no illusions as to the, ahem, perfection of the story. And I was right. In one scene, I give the protagonist a gun. A couple scenes later, he doesn't have it. Ay-yi-yi. And there's a difference between conscious and conscience, did you know that? Apparently, typing at three in the morning leads to creative spelling. Though I was certain I'd assigned the correct speaker to a particular line of dialogue, I'd actually implied that it was spoken by his antagonist, which turns a tense exchange of challenges into a confusing bit of humor.

Sometimes, readers can ask questions or provide insights that lead the writer in unexpected directions, and readers' impressions, likes and dislikes, and emotional responses are valuable feedback. It's interesting to me to learn which readers connect with which characters, and why. My sister-in-law dislikes one character so much that she once told me she's annoyed as soon as this character arrives in a scene. By contrast, my best friend from college likes the character, and wants to know more about her. Each reader has her reasons; though those reasons conflict, they both tell me that I've succeeded with that character -- who, ironically, is a woman.

I was feeling iffy about a scene where firearms are in use, but where the main character and a crewmate employ unusual methods to end the fight, and neither involves bullets. So far, one reader likes it. Actually, she wrote, "Love it, love it, love it!" Always instills confidence, a reaction like that.

So, while readers can find errors and save us from embarrassment, they can also encourage, and let us know when our writing is on the mark. I recommend every writer surrounds himself / herself with trusted readers who will provide concise, honest feedback. These readers don't have to be writers themselves, but they do need to be specific with their responses, and unafraid to do so, which means we writers have to be ready for whatever they say, good or bad, and be able to see our work with clear eyes. The work will be better for it.

Sunday Insights

Taking a short hiatus from fiction, I've been reading excerpts from Joe Stowell's book, Eternity: Reclaiming A Passion For What Endures, and I'll probably go ahead and buy it, because the pieces I've read so far are challenging and solid.

He contrasts seven virtues with seven common values that compete with them: truth v. tolerance, grace v. greed, love v. self-centeredness, servanthood v. significance, self-control v. sensualism, justice v. oppression, humility v. haughtiness. A serious list; I've only read portions of the first two contrasts, and I've already been challenged.

Of tolerance, he writes,

Since society has no moral authority that dictates the absolutes to which it should strive, everything is legitimate as long as it doesn't harm or hinder another person.

And, I would add, as long as it isn't Christian or doesn't invoke the name of God.

Stowell also writes,

Truth by its very nature is intolerant. If there is truth, then there is error. If there is right, then there is wrong. A ... person who is committed to truth will always tolerate those who are in error, but will never tolerate the error itself.

And

God is true. All he says and does is true. You can count on that. He is true to Himself, His Word, His people, His promises, and the entirety of His character. In His rule there is no error, no hypocrisy, no unfaithfulness, no injustice, no deceit."

What is perceived as unfaithfulness on the part of God is really the immaturity and limited vision of humans: "If He's such a good God, why does He allow (fill in whatever tragedy or crime you wish)," or "If He's so powerful, why doesn't He stop (again, fill in the blank)?" There is the classic response that He has given free will -- humanity can choose to do good or evil -- but why, because God doesn't do as we desire or expect, do we assume He's unable or unfaithful? It's as if we expect Him to answer to us, rather than the other way around. We're arrogant.

A good parent will not feed his diabetic child all the candy the child wishes, no matter how frequent or loud the child's tantrums. The parent knows the sugar overload would kill the child. A good parent will impose boundaries, because a child then knows what to expect, he knows how far he can go, just a child in a fenced yard can play freely, knowing he is protected. A good parent will discipline and will not always save a child from the consequences of his actions, because pain teaches.

Much as I'm ashamed to confess it, there was a time I told my parents I hated them. I didn't want to admit my wrong or to submit to their authority, and I thought that I'd be free if they weren't always imposing their will or their rules. Only when I understood that submission is freedom did I appreciate their discipline -- and then I could understand that God's rules aren't meant to imprison but to set us free from the chaos and bondage we invite into our lives in pursuit of what we think is freedom.

photo credits
book cover - Discovery House Publishers
white fence - Country Living

Group Novel

Several years ago, I tried to read a group novel, a mystery caper by a group of mystery and humor writers, but I didn't finish it. Can't even recall the title. That's not a resounding recommendation for such projects, but perhaps they're not intended for a wide audience, but as an exercise for the writers.

Group stories require writers to continue someone else's plot and characters, and try to keep the story cohesive. The process can be hilarious, surprising, revealing, poignant--or downright nonsensical and silly--but always challenging.

While cruising the earlier entries in the readers' forums at Fear and Trembling online magazine, I re-read a story begun by the former editor, John Kuhn, who posted it in June 2007 with the intention that others would finish it, but no one ever did.

He provided the first chapter; I'm writing the second. After all, a writer shouldn't let a good story go to waste -- but there's no guarantee it'll still be good when I get finished with it. Read Mr. Kuhn's chapter, then come back in a week or so for the next one. After that, maybe someone else will pick up the pen and continue the tale.

Friday and a Finished Draft

It's 4 a.m. on Friday morning, and I've just finished the first draft for Episode 7 of Thieves' Honor and e-mailed it to my trusty readers, who do things like correct my spelling, point out plot gaps, and fill in words I could have sworn I typed.

After several days of deadlines and a frenzied work schedule, my brain is almost too tired to function straight, but story ideas come when they will come, and sometimes at the least convenient times.

There's a half cup of cold coffee beside the keyboard. Reckon I'll dump it out, brush my teeth, and grab a few winks before the alarm clock does its annoying routine.