Hey, Fragger and I just wanted to wish all of you a great 2010! Next year, I'll continue working on the next book in the Fragger series. It's titled "The Blood of Fragger Sparks," and the adventure continues! I won't tell you how because...I don't know!
One of the wonderful things about writing is that you can have an adventure every day in your mind and you have no idea where that adventure will take you!
So, stay tuned for more musings and ramblings...and another trip into a very dangerous future!
Happy New Year! - Steve
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Blood of Fragger Sparks
Hi, everyone! I'm working on my fourth novel in the Fragger Sparks scifi series, The Blood of Fragger Sparks. If you haven't read one of more of the previous three, then...Spoiler Alert! Don't read on!
For those of you who have read the series, you know that the protagonist, Colonel Sparks, bit the dust in the third novel defending his family and his friends. From a personal point of view, I would have preferred to keep Fragger going because I liked the character so much. From a professional point of view, I realized I'd nearly beat him up beyond recognition and he (and the reader) wouldn't be able to take much more!
So, it was time for a new generation of the Sparks' line. After all, the future's ass needs a lot of kicking who better to do it than Fragger's son? So, the book is in slow progress.
Now, for those of you with an interest in writing, I've run up against an old but interesting problem - point of view. Basically, the POV in the first three books was that of Fragger since he was the "stranger in a strange land," and we needed to see things through his eyes.
But, now, I've got a very young character who's obviously not mature, so I can't use his POV, at least at the start of the book. So, at present, I'm doing what a lot of writers do to solve the problem - muck around until I find a solution!
That's right, I simply sit down and write it one way....throw that out and try another way...and, well, you get the idea! It's trial and error all the way.
Some writers hate that. Me, I did at first, and then I realized it was great and thrilling fun - a voyage of discovery and I'm master and commander of a very erratic creative ship.
You never know where you'll end up, of course, but, heck, that's the great part about it. Mysterious people in exotic lands live in your head, and you never know they're there.
All I've got to say is, I'm glad I've got a lot of room inside my mind!
Hey, have a great holiday and an even better New Year! And don't forget to go out and buy the Fragger Sparks series so you can live inside your head as well!
Steve
Friday, December 4, 2009
Alien Squirrels and the Reasons I'm Nuts About Writing
Two to three inches of snow on ground here in Madison, WI. For a science fiction writer, it's the perfect day to create a frozen planet somewhere in the frigid reaches of the galaxy. Will I actually do so? Who knows? It's just a perfect example of how a writer can use what's right in front of him to stitch together the fabric of an alien society...a disturbing human dystopia...or a light-hearted space farce.
Have you ever gone to the refrigerator looking for, say, that last piece of pumpkin pie and been unable to find it? After subjecting everyone in the house to an inquisition, you go back to the fridge, and there the pie is - right in front of you!
It's the same with ideas for fiction. Often, they're right in front of you; you're simply not looking in the right place...or too busy looking elsewhere to see what's obvious.
So, when stuck for ideas, I often just remind myself to look out the window. It's amazing what inspiration you can find in the lawn, the trees, and the street of an upper Midwestern town.
That squirrel in the maple can transform itself in an insidiously vicious little pest plaguing the settlers on the planet Lithorn...the hawk just above the tops of the elms suddenly becomes a dropship fighter seeking to destroy our heroes...the fireflies (in the summer) become a race of sweet aliens with deadly defenses....and so on.
I'm sure you see my point by now - the ideas, the inspiration, it's all there right in front of you. All you have to do is look...and then apply hard work!
Have you ever gone to the refrigerator looking for, say, that last piece of pumpkin pie and been unable to find it? After subjecting everyone in the house to an inquisition, you go back to the fridge, and there the pie is - right in front of you!
It's the same with ideas for fiction. Often, they're right in front of you; you're simply not looking in the right place...or too busy looking elsewhere to see what's obvious.
So, when stuck for ideas, I often just remind myself to look out the window. It's amazing what inspiration you can find in the lawn, the trees, and the street of an upper Midwestern town.
That squirrel in the maple can transform itself in an insidiously vicious little pest plaguing the settlers on the planet Lithorn...the hawk just above the tops of the elms suddenly becomes a dropship fighter seeking to destroy our heroes...the fireflies (in the summer) become a race of sweet aliens with deadly defenses....and so on.
I'm sure you see my point by now - the ideas, the inspiration, it's all there right in front of you. All you have to do is look...and then apply hard work!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
So, What's the Writer's Life Like?
Everyone knows that a writer's life is an interior one. From the non-writer's point of view, it often looks about as exciting as a bowl of cold oatmeal on a -20 January day. And the truth of the matter is that, quite often, it is just that dull! In fact, writers know they have to endure "cold oatmeal" days in order to achieve success. It's all an unenviable part of the process.
But if my "Cold Oatmeal Theory," is true, then what motivates a writer to keep on writing on a daily basis?
Now, I'm not talking about everyday practice (which is certainly necessary) or some grand goal for a novel (also necessary) to keep you motivated.
These are long-range objectives which can only realized by the grind-it-out routine of getting up in the morning and sitting down to write. Believe me, on a frigid winter's day (or a nice spring one), it's unbelievably tempting to flee the keyboard and go do something more immediately fun or satisfying.
So, why do we do it? I can only answer for myself, of course.
I read with envy about literary writers who get so involved in their characters' lives that they jump into the story and live and sweat and die with those characters. (I've only had that happen once in my writing career.)
Other authors are motivated by the language itself...how to shape it into beautiful and artistic forms so as to satisfy their aesthetic sense. Again, I'm envious of these writers. It's not within me to write gorgeous prose: I don't possess that kind of talent. After 30 years of writing "get to the point" business materials, I'm a "meat and potatoes" kind of guy when it comes to sentences.
Now, here's what does motivate me, and I think it'll actually serve as a boost for you if you're a wannabe writer who also knows that he or she will never reach the heights of Shakespeare, Hemingway, Nabokov or any other legend of the writing world:
When writing, I simply love to put my hero (Col. Fragger Sparks) in a spot he can't get out of - and then, of course, get him out of it! By employing this "trick," I fully engage my attention. I have to come up with a solution or else the plot doesn't advance. I use it time and time again to good effect. It keeps me motivated, plus it's just plain bloody fun!
My friends can always tell when I'm in this mode. On one day, I piss and moan that I'm not getting anywhere with the novel; the next day, I'm laughing and happy and quite insufferably pleased with myself because I've come up with an ingenious (in my opinion) solution.
Here's my point: In terms of writing, it doesn't matter how you get there; it only matters that you do get there! So, don't be discouraged by writers who seem to be better at plot or more versed in characterization. They simply found the writing vehicle that worked best for them. You need to do the same!
How do you find this vehicle? Well, unless you're supremely gifted, the only way is through writing on a daily basis, again and again until a specific literary gift grows out of your efforts. I can't tell you how long this will take. In my unsual case, it took ten years, a surgery for a non-malignant brain tumor, and an anti-depressant!
Fortunately, 99% of writers can find their particular talent in less stressful ways. So, what are you waiting for? Start writing...and keep on writing. It's the only way
But if my "Cold Oatmeal Theory," is true, then what motivates a writer to keep on writing on a daily basis?
Now, I'm not talking about everyday practice (which is certainly necessary) or some grand goal for a novel (also necessary) to keep you motivated.
These are long-range objectives which can only realized by the grind-it-out routine of getting up in the morning and sitting down to write. Believe me, on a frigid winter's day (or a nice spring one), it's unbelievably tempting to flee the keyboard and go do something more immediately fun or satisfying.
So, why do we do it? I can only answer for myself, of course.
I read with envy about literary writers who get so involved in their characters' lives that they jump into the story and live and sweat and die with those characters. (I've only had that happen once in my writing career.)
Other authors are motivated by the language itself...how to shape it into beautiful and artistic forms so as to satisfy their aesthetic sense. Again, I'm envious of these writers. It's not within me to write gorgeous prose: I don't possess that kind of talent. After 30 years of writing "get to the point" business materials, I'm a "meat and potatoes" kind of guy when it comes to sentences.
Now, here's what does motivate me, and I think it'll actually serve as a boost for you if you're a wannabe writer who also knows that he or she will never reach the heights of Shakespeare, Hemingway, Nabokov or any other legend of the writing world:
When writing, I simply love to put my hero (Col. Fragger Sparks) in a spot he can't get out of - and then, of course, get him out of it! By employing this "trick," I fully engage my attention. I have to come up with a solution or else the plot doesn't advance. I use it time and time again to good effect. It keeps me motivated, plus it's just plain bloody fun!
My friends can always tell when I'm in this mode. On one day, I piss and moan that I'm not getting anywhere with the novel; the next day, I'm laughing and happy and quite insufferably pleased with myself because I've come up with an ingenious (in my opinion) solution.
Here's my point: In terms of writing, it doesn't matter how you get there; it only matters that you do get there! So, don't be discouraged by writers who seem to be better at plot or more versed in characterization. They simply found the writing vehicle that worked best for them. You need to do the same!
How do you find this vehicle? Well, unless you're supremely gifted, the only way is through writing on a daily basis, again and again until a specific literary gift grows out of your efforts. I can't tell you how long this will take. In my unsual case, it took ten years, a surgery for a non-malignant brain tumor, and an anti-depressant!
Fortunately, 99% of writers can find their particular talent in less stressful ways. So, what are you waiting for? Start writing...and keep on writing. It's the only way
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A Halloween Diet Program That Delivers Permanent Weight Loss - If You Dare to Join!
This week, no opinions on anything! Just a Halloween story about the most effective diet program ever devised! Read on....if you dare!
Appetizers
by
Steven Fisher
The house was empty, except for the two dogs and Sally's scornful note on the refrigerator that read:
Stan, I know you said the obesity program worked, but the girls and I still need to think things over. We’re sick of worrying about you and your health. The firemen and the forklift to take you out to the hospital, that was the last straw. (The estimates for repair of the hole in the bedroom are in the middle desk drawer in the office.) When we’re ready, we’ll contact you. We moved into The Willows across the river today. They don’t allow dogs, so we left them to keep you company. Walk them to get some exercise, don’t eat them.
“Very funny,” Stan said.
He scowled down at the two Yorkies, already whining for a walk by the door. “Shut up, or I just might eat you!”
A tear rolled down his cheek.
"Two hundred and fifty pounds, I lost 250 pounds, and it still wasn't enough," he lamented into the silence. Normally, Patty and Laura would be shattering the quiet with their shrieks and screams of delight at some secret childhood game. He missed them as much as he missed food.
More than food, he corrected himself immediately.
"And I have another 250 to go, the doctor says," he added. "It's like scaling a mountain."
Wiping the tear away, he stuck the finger in his mouth, enjoying the salty taste, then jerked it out as if it had burned his tongue.
He was already hungry. He couldn’t help himself.
He searched the kitchen and found nothing.
Sally had cleaned out the cupboards, leaving only five boxes of Lean Cuisine in the freezer, a pointed reminder that he now had to fend for himself.
Five dinners later, he was still hungry, and the Yorkies' whining was getting on his nerves.
He considered walking the dogs. It was half a mile to the High Street Bridge.
I hate walking, he thought, but maybe I could make it across to Sally’s apartment. She loves walking by the river with the girls. Maybe I can coax her into coming back.
Stan was pretty sure it wouldn’t work, but decided it was worth a try. He got up, found the leashes and called the dogs over.
Thirty minutes later, his hunch proved right.
"I don't want to go for a walk," Sally said through a partially opened door. A headband tied about her blonde curls told him that she was busy cleaning--she attacked dirt with the zeal of a martial artist. "I'm not ready to deal with you yet, Stan."
Stan appealed with his eyes to his two daughters--blonde as their mother--standing behind her. They shook their heads at him. For a moment, he considered throwing his bulk against the door, but Sally knew his intent immediately--they'd been married too long.
"Don't even think about it," she warned him. "The manager wrestles super heavyweight at the university and is nearly as big as you--only with muscles."
Despondent, Stan took the dogs and walked back toward the bridge.
He stopped at a crosswalk and looked down High Street. Neon lights spelled out the answer to his seething hunger. Dairy Queen. The Embers. Denny’s. And, temptingly within range, a McDonalds. He licked his lips, headed toward the golden arches, then halted.
“No!” he shouted at himself. The Yorkies jumped, then skittered away to the end of their leashes. He wanted his family back in the worst way, and there was only one way to do that - go home and not eat.
The smell of hamburgers and french fries floated its seduction to his nose on a sudden gust of wind. Stan checked the sky. Lightning flickered over the tree line. Thunderstorms can arrive quickly, and probably the best thing to do is head for the shelter of McDonalds before I get soaked, he reasoned.
“No!” he shouted again, and set out onto the bridge toward home, but the wind seemed as determined as he was. It chased him with smell of heated vegetable oil, then followed it up with the sharp tang of barbecued beef. Stan hesitated, then stopped. The dogs milled about, confused by his indecision. He was turning back when the Yorkies broke into a frantic yapping. Stan scanned his surroundings carefully. It wasn’t always safe around the river at night, and the toy breeds, though meager protection, were alert to strangers.
The bridge was deserted.
Stan jerked on the dogs’ leashes, annoyed at the false alarm. The dogs quit their barking, but settled into a non-stop whining that grated on his nerves. He dragged the animals to the bridge overlook and tried to get them to settle down. Instead, the male charged at the railing and tried to squeeze underneath, snarling and yapping at unseen quarry.
“Doc, you idiot! Shut up or I’ll throw you over the edge!” he shouted, yanking on the leash again, but the little male kept throwing his seven pounds forward.
A long hairy arm saved him the trouble.
Snaking over the railing, it snatched the dog out of sight so fast there was a loud boom from the displaced air.
A wicked laugh came from under the bridge, like someone was gargling mouthwash and snickering at the same time, then Stan heard the crunching of small bones and the smacking and licking of very large lips.
“Gooood!” a voice said, sounding like a wood chipper full of splinters and twigs and branches being ground into sawdust. “Mooore?”
It wasn’t a request.
It was a demand.
Somehow, Stan knew he was next on the menu unless he thought of something fast. He looked down at Missy, Sally's favorite. He stooped and tossed her over the railing. The arm struck again, quicker than a lizard’s tongue. A second later, the dog’s leash was spit up onto the sidewalk, and the owner of the voice oozed up onto the bridge.
How do you describe a troll? Stan thought as his brain scrambled to perform a lobotomy upon itself.
You can’t, he knew instantly. Forget what you read in books. It can only give you a hint. Instead, imagine. Imagine pus. Think slime. And the stench!
The troll reeked like a maggot-ridden carp.
Then it smelled like a gallon of cheap perfume.
Then the odor spilled into the air like pizza and beer vomit.
It was endless. Stan couldn’t handle the assault on his senses and was ready to run when the troll slobbered its way downwind and squatted on the pavement, blocking his path. Its upper lip peeled away from the lower and after a second Stan realized that it was smiling. A cobweb of saliva shrouded sharp fangs and yellowed molars, designed to grind into submission anything that entered the mouth. To be eaten by a troll, he understood immediately, would not be a painless affair.
“Good. Little doggie good,” it said. “Mooore?”
“No.” For the first time in his life, Stan was unashamed of the quaver in his voice. “I-I only had the two.”
Mossy green eyebrows arched over saucer-like, reptilian eyes.
“You don’t believe me,” Stan said.
“Don’t care,” the creature answered. “Want more doggie. Appetizers.”
A finger jabbed at Stan, doubling him over. His sweatshirt smoked where the blow had struck.
“Burn, yes?” the troll asked.
Gasping for air, Stan nodded.
“More doggies, no more burn,” it said
“I can’t do that.”
The troll blinked its yellow eyes, then shrugged bony shoulders and rose from its squat into an attack posture. “Eat you then. Like fat people.”
“I didn’t mean I couldn’t do it,” Stan said desperately. “I meant that I don’t have any more dogs with me here, but there are lots of them in the neighborhood. I can get you one or two, or you can come along with me and pick out your own.”
“Troll don’t like go off bridge,” the beast said with a frown. “Bridge is life for troll.” The creature eyed Stan, then added, “But can go off bridge. Find you. Chomp. Fast food.”
Stan swallowed hard.
The troll jerked a horned thumb over its shoulder. “Men tear down troll’s old bridge. Wake it up, make it mad. And hungry.”
They’d demolished the old bridge in the spring as soon as the new one was ready for traffic. Stan had been a big supporter of the new structure, a fact he now very much regretted.
“That bridge was close to a hundred years old. How long have you been there?” Stan asked, thinking, If the troll is talking, it isn’t eating.
“Since built. Troll came from Sweden.” It stood and swelled its chest, saying proudly, “Immigrant.”
Stan looked up at it. The beast had to be ten feet tall.
“How in the world did you manage to stow away aboard the ship and make it all the way here without being seen?”
It shrugged. “Troll good hider. Fast. Eat those who find me. Only one man, though. Otherwise, they find troll, troll kill all, and no one get to America.”
“And you’ve been eating people here ever since,” Stan said. “You just snatch them off the bridge like you did with the dogs.”
It nodded.
“Have you eaten many?”
“Many,” the troll said.
“But you don’t look, well, fat.”
“Troll skinnly forever.”
“Skinny, you mean? Forever?” Stan asked, interested in spite of himself.
The beast settled back on its haunches and, with a shrewd look, asked, “You want being skinnly forever?”
“What do you think?” Stan said. “How can I do it?”
“Special diet.”
Stan dismissed the idea with a derisive shake of his head. “I’ve been on special diets for years. None of them ever worked for me.”
“None troll diet,” the creature pointed out.
“True enough. How many calories will I be limited to?”
“Not worry. No calorie limit.”
“What about fat? And cholesterol?”
“Not problem,” the troll said. “Eat what you want.”
A horrible thought forced entry into Stan’s mind. “Wait a minute. I don’t have to eat - people, do I?”
The troll’s laugh gurgled in a scaly throat. “Troll’s job.”
“Then what do I have to do?”
“Simple,” the beast said. “Feed troll.”
“You mean I have to find people for you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s inhuman!”
“Troll not human,” it responded. “Troll’s nature to eat people. Prey.” The beast scratched its head. “Have correct words? Place in food chain?”
“My God! You mean, we’re not at the top?”
“Almost,” the monster said in an attempt at a soothing voice. “Troll first.”
“That’s impossible!” Stan said.
The troll shrugged. “Not make rules. Only know truth.” It rose from its squat and stretched its arms above its head, then yawned and blew out the staggering odor of digesting meat. “Enough talk. Philosophy the same, always. Produce hot air, but not fill stomach.”
“But, my God, I can’t feed people to you!”
“Not think right way,” the beast said. “Troll only recycle people, and you get skinnly at same time.” It paused, then added, “Get your family back, too. They like skinnly person, yes?”
“How do you know about them?” Stan demanded.
“Troll good listener. Listen at doors, windows, peep in. Troll see you at hospital, at Guaranteed Weight Loss Clinic, and all others. Poof, no guarantee at all. Guaranteed to lose money, not lose weight. Troll’s program honest. Not cost you penny. Work good.”
Stan shuddered at the thought of the troll creeping about the neighborhood, but he badly wanted his family back. He asked, “You promise I’ll be skinny forever?”
The beast nodded its head vigorously. Large drops of saliva splattered onto the pavement. Raking talons across the rough hide of its chest, it added, “Cross heart.”
“But you might make me thin, then eat me anyway.”
The troll pulled at an ear shaped like an exposed intestine, then bared its fangs. “One quick way not to find out.”
Stan took a step back, shoved his hands in his pockets, and tried to think of a way out. The beast squatted, impatiently, etching marks in the sidewalk as if it were made of sand and not concrete.
“All right, I haven't got any choice," Stan said finally, "But where am I going to find people?”
“Find ones you not like,” the troll suggested. “Easy for humans.”
“I can’t--”
“Food soon,” the troll interrupted. “Or I eat you slow, not fast.” The beast waggled its taloned fingers. “Start with little finger bone munching, then eat rest of you slow and savory like gourmet.”
“I’ll find them! I’ll find them!” Stan said. “But I still don’t understand how this will help me lose weight.”
“Hard to explain,” the creature said. “Slow weight loss. Forever weight loss. Good program. Wait and see. Have faith.”
Then it was gone, leaving behind the stench of half-digested blood and bone. Shaky, Stan wondered if his sanity had left him completely, then he spotted the dog leash lying on the ground and knew the troll was real, and that meant he had to find it food. The question was, who? He ransacked his memory for answers, then, just when he was about to give up in despair, the solution came.
It was delicious.
All the weight loss organizations would be eager to see him again. He’d lined their pockets with cash for ten years and gotten no results.
“It’s time to get back a little of my own,” Stan said into the night air, then walked off the bridge, relieved that he could feed the troll and keep his conscience clear.
Amy Henderson of Weight Watchers was easy.
So was Bob Soland of the Guaranteed Weight Loss Clinic.
And Lily Bates from Jenny Craig.
In fact, all of the diet counselors were easy because they had long memories of the money he’d spent with them. They re-introduced him to all his old friends - like Dickie Ammons, nearly as rotund as he’d been - not because they would give him support, but because they knew misery loved company, and fat people--made miserable by a weight-obsessed society--fueled their bank accounts. Stan simply told them all that he’d come into an unexpected inheritance and was looking to sign up for a lifetime plan. They’d been pathetically eager to swallow his story and join him for a walk on the bridge to discuss such an important commitment. There was only one thing wrong. He’d just watched Paul Johnson of Optifast disappear down the troll’s gullet, and Paul was the last diet counselor Stan knew.
“That’s it,” he said to the troll, shivering despite the August heat. “I can’t find any more counselors.”
“Then find people you like,” the beast suggested. “Easier. Trust you.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Eat you, then.”
Sagging back against the railing, Stan said, “Go ahead. I can’t think straight anymore, so you might as well go ahead and eat me.”
The creature blinked at him, then squatted on the sidewalk rather than attacking. “Troll help you,” it said, a sly edge to its voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Troll like fat people. Where find fat people? Same place find counselors.”
“No!”
“Bring fat friends here from clinics," the beast continued. "Fats taste better than skinnly counselors.”
The troll licked its lips as it scratched its head, a gesture Stan had come to hate. It meant the creature was searching for words that he didn’t want to hear.
“Well-marbled?” it said finally.
Stan stared in horror, not because the troll would eat his fellow dieters, not because he was relieved that he had another chance to live; he was horrified for one reason only--the troll's words had stirred his appetite.
"I'm hungry," he said.
The troll grinned at the admission. “Program working. You not fat anymore. Getting skinnly.” Maggot-ridden eyebrows waggled an obscene invitation.
Stan gagged and ran off the bridge.
Dickie Ammons didn’t suspect a thing when Stan called him the next night. In fact, he sounded delighted when Stan told him that he wanted to stretch his legs and talk about having a light dinner and maybe sharing a little Belgian chocolate as a reward for their dedication to their diets. Stan met him at the middle of the bridge.
“I appreciate you helping me keep on the diet,” he told Dickie.
A great whale of a Minnesotan with skin the color of lutefisk, Ammons replied,
“My pleasure.”
They leaned on the railing and talked idly for a moment. An Alberta clipper had ended the hot weather, and a north wind roiled the water below. To Stan’s mind, the river surface looked like one of the greasy stews he’d somehow developed a fascination for A cold gust struck at the bridge and Dickie shivered, his jowls quivering like aspic.
“I’m chilly,” he said. “And hungry. Where shall we go?”
Stan watched a taloned finger slide out from under the bridge. “How about Perkins?”
“Good choice,” Dickie agreed. “They’ve got good heart-smart meals, and then we can have that chocolate. Say, you did bring it, didn’t--”
Four hundred pounds of man jerked over the railing like a hooked fish. Bones splintered under the impact of grinding molars. Minutes later, a scaly head poked out from under the bridge. Yellow eyes blinked up at him.
“Goood,” the troll said. “Best. Mooore.”
Stan stared dully down at the beast. “Five people. I’ve given you five. Don’t you ever take a rest?”
“No.”
“Well, I need one,” Stan said. “I can’t go on like this. I’m so tired. And so . . .”
“Hungry?” the troll suggested.
When Stan refused to acknowledge him, the beast grinned at him, showing bloody fangs. “Mooore.”
The tone chilled Stan. This time it was not a demand.
It was an invitation.
He closed his eyes and fought off the nausea. When he opened them, the troll waved two of Dickie’s body parts in the air.
“Leg?” it offered. “Or thigh?”
Stan heaved the contents of his stomach into the river, then stood panting at the railing while fever racked his body. His mind was as empty as his gut except for two thoughts.
He was hungrier than he’d ever been before.
And the change he’d been denying had finally come.
Shutting his eyes again, he convulsed a final time, then fearfully checked out his body. His arms had become green and mossy and impossibly long. Talons, hard as tempered steel and sharp as razors, now tipped his fingers. He touched a deadly hand to his lips and felt his teeth. A bear trap lined his mouth. Once he had his fangs into any prey, it would not survive.
It makes sense, he realized. If you're forever hungry you can't afford a mistake.
Clambering over the guardrail, he joined the troll under the bridge in a split second. They hung upsidedown over the river, side by side. The troll leered at him.
“Easy to be skinnly,” it said. “You just have to be hungry enough.”
“But I don’t want to be a troll,” Stan insisted.
“Yes, you do,” the beast said, then shrugged. “No choice. Already inside you.”
It scratched its head in its familiar gesture of searching for words. “How troll survive? Go on?”
“Ensure perpetuation of the species, you mean?” Stan asked.
“Yes, yes!” the troll said, waving Dickie’s leg about enthusiastically.
Stan watched blood spray into the wind and drop into the water, then said, “You mean all trolls were people once?”
“Yes!” the troll said, laughing. It had the sound of bowels rumbling after a heavy meal. “You understand!”
Stan examined his hideous body. “At least you kept your promise. I’m skinny, even for a troll.”
“Always skinnly,” the beast said with a nod. “One bad thing, though. Always hungry too.” Then it added, “Another good thing. Now me not lonely for a while.”
“What do you mean, for a while?”
“Troll need space. Lots.”
“You’re - we’re - territorial?”
The troll nodded. “Bridge mine. After a while, you find own.”
“But why couldn’t we share?” Stan asked. “Be friends?”
The troll giggled. “You know when become complete troll. Trolls not share.”
“What if I stay?” Stan asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Then eat you,” the troll said simply. “Appetite never end. Troll’s nature.”
“Unless I eat you first.”
The troll laughed. “Now you have idea! What fun, joy, troll happiness!”
“That’s disgusting!” Stan said, not agreeing with the statement.
“Trolls human first,” the beast reminded him. “Without humans, no trolls.”
“It has a certain symmetry,” Stan admitted, then made one last effort to keep the human part of him that remained. “But I’ll eat men only. No women, no children.”
The troll snickered. “Change mind fast.”
Horror filled Stan’s mind at the implication of that remark, then suddenly it vanished as his mouth began salivating. His stomach cramped violently with hunger and he nearly lost his grip on the bridge. The troll hooted merrily and offered the body parts again. Stan grabbed Dickie’s leg from the creature's hand, then clambered to the top of the railing so he would have the morsel to himself. He swallowed it so fast there was no time to enjoy the taste.
And he was still hungry.
“Mooore,” he demanded, then looked up eagerly at the sound of female voices.
At the end of the bridge, three blonde heads bobbed into sight. Patty and Laura ran far ahead of Sally, girlish laughter floating on the air like an invitation. A single, consuming thought filled Stan's head.
Appetizers!
Stan, I know you said the obesity program worked, but the girls and I still need to think things over. We’re sick of worrying about you and your health. The firemen and the forklift to take you out to the hospital, that was the last straw. (The estimates for repair of the hole in the bedroom are in the middle desk drawer in the office.) When we’re ready, we’ll contact you. We moved into The Willows across the river today. They don’t allow dogs, so we left them to keep you company. Walk them to get some exercise, don’t eat them.
“Very funny,” Stan said.
He scowled down at the two Yorkies, already whining for a walk by the door. “Shut up, or I just might eat you!”
A tear rolled down his cheek.
"Two hundred and fifty pounds, I lost 250 pounds, and it still wasn't enough," he lamented into the silence. Normally, Patty and Laura would be shattering the quiet with their shrieks and screams of delight at some secret childhood game. He missed them as much as he missed food.
More than food, he corrected himself immediately.
"And I have another 250 to go, the doctor says," he added. "It's like scaling a mountain."
Wiping the tear away, he stuck the finger in his mouth, enjoying the salty taste, then jerked it out as if it had burned his tongue.
He was already hungry. He couldn’t help himself.
He searched the kitchen and found nothing.
Sally had cleaned out the cupboards, leaving only five boxes of Lean Cuisine in the freezer, a pointed reminder that he now had to fend for himself.
Five dinners later, he was still hungry, and the Yorkies' whining was getting on his nerves.
He considered walking the dogs. It was half a mile to the High Street Bridge.
I hate walking, he thought, but maybe I could make it across to Sally’s apartment. She loves walking by the river with the girls. Maybe I can coax her into coming back.
Stan was pretty sure it wouldn’t work, but decided it was worth a try. He got up, found the leashes and called the dogs over.
Thirty minutes later, his hunch proved right.
"I don't want to go for a walk," Sally said through a partially opened door. A headband tied about her blonde curls told him that she was busy cleaning--she attacked dirt with the zeal of a martial artist. "I'm not ready to deal with you yet, Stan."
Stan appealed with his eyes to his two daughters--blonde as their mother--standing behind her. They shook their heads at him. For a moment, he considered throwing his bulk against the door, but Sally knew his intent immediately--they'd been married too long.
"Don't even think about it," she warned him. "The manager wrestles super heavyweight at the university and is nearly as big as you--only with muscles."
Despondent, Stan took the dogs and walked back toward the bridge.
He stopped at a crosswalk and looked down High Street. Neon lights spelled out the answer to his seething hunger. Dairy Queen. The Embers. Denny’s. And, temptingly within range, a McDonalds. He licked his lips, headed toward the golden arches, then halted.
“No!” he shouted at himself. The Yorkies jumped, then skittered away to the end of their leashes. He wanted his family back in the worst way, and there was only one way to do that - go home and not eat.
The smell of hamburgers and french fries floated its seduction to his nose on a sudden gust of wind. Stan checked the sky. Lightning flickered over the tree line. Thunderstorms can arrive quickly, and probably the best thing to do is head for the shelter of McDonalds before I get soaked, he reasoned.
“No!” he shouted again, and set out onto the bridge toward home, but the wind seemed as determined as he was. It chased him with smell of heated vegetable oil, then followed it up with the sharp tang of barbecued beef. Stan hesitated, then stopped. The dogs milled about, confused by his indecision. He was turning back when the Yorkies broke into a frantic yapping. Stan scanned his surroundings carefully. It wasn’t always safe around the river at night, and the toy breeds, though meager protection, were alert to strangers.
The bridge was deserted.
Stan jerked on the dogs’ leashes, annoyed at the false alarm. The dogs quit their barking, but settled into a non-stop whining that grated on his nerves. He dragged the animals to the bridge overlook and tried to get them to settle down. Instead, the male charged at the railing and tried to squeeze underneath, snarling and yapping at unseen quarry.
“Doc, you idiot! Shut up or I’ll throw you over the edge!” he shouted, yanking on the leash again, but the little male kept throwing his seven pounds forward.
A long hairy arm saved him the trouble.
Snaking over the railing, it snatched the dog out of sight so fast there was a loud boom from the displaced air.
A wicked laugh came from under the bridge, like someone was gargling mouthwash and snickering at the same time, then Stan heard the crunching of small bones and the smacking and licking of very large lips.
“Gooood!” a voice said, sounding like a wood chipper full of splinters and twigs and branches being ground into sawdust. “Mooore?”
It wasn’t a request.
It was a demand.
Somehow, Stan knew he was next on the menu unless he thought of something fast. He looked down at Missy, Sally's favorite. He stooped and tossed her over the railing. The arm struck again, quicker than a lizard’s tongue. A second later, the dog’s leash was spit up onto the sidewalk, and the owner of the voice oozed up onto the bridge.
How do you describe a troll? Stan thought as his brain scrambled to perform a lobotomy upon itself.
You can’t, he knew instantly. Forget what you read in books. It can only give you a hint. Instead, imagine. Imagine pus. Think slime. And the stench!
The troll reeked like a maggot-ridden carp.
Then it smelled like a gallon of cheap perfume.
Then the odor spilled into the air like pizza and beer vomit.
It was endless. Stan couldn’t handle the assault on his senses and was ready to run when the troll slobbered its way downwind and squatted on the pavement, blocking his path. Its upper lip peeled away from the lower and after a second Stan realized that it was smiling. A cobweb of saliva shrouded sharp fangs and yellowed molars, designed to grind into submission anything that entered the mouth. To be eaten by a troll, he understood immediately, would not be a painless affair.
“Good. Little doggie good,” it said. “Mooore?”
“No.” For the first time in his life, Stan was unashamed of the quaver in his voice. “I-I only had the two.”
Mossy green eyebrows arched over saucer-like, reptilian eyes.
“You don’t believe me,” Stan said.
“Don’t care,” the creature answered. “Want more doggie. Appetizers.”
A finger jabbed at Stan, doubling him over. His sweatshirt smoked where the blow had struck.
“Burn, yes?” the troll asked.
Gasping for air, Stan nodded.
“More doggies, no more burn,” it said
“I can’t do that.”
The troll blinked its yellow eyes, then shrugged bony shoulders and rose from its squat into an attack posture. “Eat you then. Like fat people.”
“I didn’t mean I couldn’t do it,” Stan said desperately. “I meant that I don’t have any more dogs with me here, but there are lots of them in the neighborhood. I can get you one or two, or you can come along with me and pick out your own.”
“Troll don’t like go off bridge,” the beast said with a frown. “Bridge is life for troll.” The creature eyed Stan, then added, “But can go off bridge. Find you. Chomp. Fast food.”
Stan swallowed hard.
The troll jerked a horned thumb over its shoulder. “Men tear down troll’s old bridge. Wake it up, make it mad. And hungry.”
They’d demolished the old bridge in the spring as soon as the new one was ready for traffic. Stan had been a big supporter of the new structure, a fact he now very much regretted.
“That bridge was close to a hundred years old. How long have you been there?” Stan asked, thinking, If the troll is talking, it isn’t eating.
“Since built. Troll came from Sweden.” It stood and swelled its chest, saying proudly, “Immigrant.”
Stan looked up at it. The beast had to be ten feet tall.
“How in the world did you manage to stow away aboard the ship and make it all the way here without being seen?”
It shrugged. “Troll good hider. Fast. Eat those who find me. Only one man, though. Otherwise, they find troll, troll kill all, and no one get to America.”
“And you’ve been eating people here ever since,” Stan said. “You just snatch them off the bridge like you did with the dogs.”
It nodded.
“Have you eaten many?”
“Many,” the troll said.
“But you don’t look, well, fat.”
“Troll skinnly forever.”
“Skinny, you mean? Forever?” Stan asked, interested in spite of himself.
The beast settled back on its haunches and, with a shrewd look, asked, “You want being skinnly forever?”
“What do you think?” Stan said. “How can I do it?”
“Special diet.”
Stan dismissed the idea with a derisive shake of his head. “I’ve been on special diets for years. None of them ever worked for me.”
“None troll diet,” the creature pointed out.
“True enough. How many calories will I be limited to?”
“Not worry. No calorie limit.”
“What about fat? And cholesterol?”
“Not problem,” the troll said. “Eat what you want.”
A horrible thought forced entry into Stan’s mind. “Wait a minute. I don’t have to eat - people, do I?”
The troll’s laugh gurgled in a scaly throat. “Troll’s job.”
“Then what do I have to do?”
“Simple,” the beast said. “Feed troll.”
“You mean I have to find people for you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s inhuman!”
“Troll not human,” it responded. “Troll’s nature to eat people. Prey.” The beast scratched its head. “Have correct words? Place in food chain?”
“My God! You mean, we’re not at the top?”
“Almost,” the monster said in an attempt at a soothing voice. “Troll first.”
“That’s impossible!” Stan said.
The troll shrugged. “Not make rules. Only know truth.” It rose from its squat and stretched its arms above its head, then yawned and blew out the staggering odor of digesting meat. “Enough talk. Philosophy the same, always. Produce hot air, but not fill stomach.”
“But, my God, I can’t feed people to you!”
“Not think right way,” the beast said. “Troll only recycle people, and you get skinnly at same time.” It paused, then added, “Get your family back, too. They like skinnly person, yes?”
“How do you know about them?” Stan demanded.
“Troll good listener. Listen at doors, windows, peep in. Troll see you at hospital, at Guaranteed Weight Loss Clinic, and all others. Poof, no guarantee at all. Guaranteed to lose money, not lose weight. Troll’s program honest. Not cost you penny. Work good.”
Stan shuddered at the thought of the troll creeping about the neighborhood, but he badly wanted his family back. He asked, “You promise I’ll be skinny forever?”
The beast nodded its head vigorously. Large drops of saliva splattered onto the pavement. Raking talons across the rough hide of its chest, it added, “Cross heart.”
“But you might make me thin, then eat me anyway.”
The troll pulled at an ear shaped like an exposed intestine, then bared its fangs. “One quick way not to find out.”
Stan took a step back, shoved his hands in his pockets, and tried to think of a way out. The beast squatted, impatiently, etching marks in the sidewalk as if it were made of sand and not concrete.
“All right, I haven't got any choice," Stan said finally, "But where am I going to find people?”
“Find ones you not like,” the troll suggested. “Easy for humans.”
“I can’t--”
“Food soon,” the troll interrupted. “Or I eat you slow, not fast.” The beast waggled its taloned fingers. “Start with little finger bone munching, then eat rest of you slow and savory like gourmet.”
“I’ll find them! I’ll find them!” Stan said. “But I still don’t understand how this will help me lose weight.”
“Hard to explain,” the creature said. “Slow weight loss. Forever weight loss. Good program. Wait and see. Have faith.”
Then it was gone, leaving behind the stench of half-digested blood and bone. Shaky, Stan wondered if his sanity had left him completely, then he spotted the dog leash lying on the ground and knew the troll was real, and that meant he had to find it food. The question was, who? He ransacked his memory for answers, then, just when he was about to give up in despair, the solution came.
It was delicious.
All the weight loss organizations would be eager to see him again. He’d lined their pockets with cash for ten years and gotten no results.
“It’s time to get back a little of my own,” Stan said into the night air, then walked off the bridge, relieved that he could feed the troll and keep his conscience clear.
Amy Henderson of Weight Watchers was easy.
So was Bob Soland of the Guaranteed Weight Loss Clinic.
And Lily Bates from Jenny Craig.
In fact, all of the diet counselors were easy because they had long memories of the money he’d spent with them. They re-introduced him to all his old friends - like Dickie Ammons, nearly as rotund as he’d been - not because they would give him support, but because they knew misery loved company, and fat people--made miserable by a weight-obsessed society--fueled their bank accounts. Stan simply told them all that he’d come into an unexpected inheritance and was looking to sign up for a lifetime plan. They’d been pathetically eager to swallow his story and join him for a walk on the bridge to discuss such an important commitment. There was only one thing wrong. He’d just watched Paul Johnson of Optifast disappear down the troll’s gullet, and Paul was the last diet counselor Stan knew.
“That’s it,” he said to the troll, shivering despite the August heat. “I can’t find any more counselors.”
“Then find people you like,” the beast suggested. “Easier. Trust you.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Eat you, then.”
Sagging back against the railing, Stan said, “Go ahead. I can’t think straight anymore, so you might as well go ahead and eat me.”
The creature blinked at him, then squatted on the sidewalk rather than attacking. “Troll help you,” it said, a sly edge to its voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Troll like fat people. Where find fat people? Same place find counselors.”
“No!”
“Bring fat friends here from clinics," the beast continued. "Fats taste better than skinnly counselors.”
The troll licked its lips as it scratched its head, a gesture Stan had come to hate. It meant the creature was searching for words that he didn’t want to hear.
“Well-marbled?” it said finally.
Stan stared in horror, not because the troll would eat his fellow dieters, not because he was relieved that he had another chance to live; he was horrified for one reason only--the troll's words had stirred his appetite.
"I'm hungry," he said.
The troll grinned at the admission. “Program working. You not fat anymore. Getting skinnly.” Maggot-ridden eyebrows waggled an obscene invitation.
Stan gagged and ran off the bridge.
Dickie Ammons didn’t suspect a thing when Stan called him the next night. In fact, he sounded delighted when Stan told him that he wanted to stretch his legs and talk about having a light dinner and maybe sharing a little Belgian chocolate as a reward for their dedication to their diets. Stan met him at the middle of the bridge.
“I appreciate you helping me keep on the diet,” he told Dickie.
A great whale of a Minnesotan with skin the color of lutefisk, Ammons replied,
“My pleasure.”
They leaned on the railing and talked idly for a moment. An Alberta clipper had ended the hot weather, and a north wind roiled the water below. To Stan’s mind, the river surface looked like one of the greasy stews he’d somehow developed a fascination for A cold gust struck at the bridge and Dickie shivered, his jowls quivering like aspic.
“I’m chilly,” he said. “And hungry. Where shall we go?”
Stan watched a taloned finger slide out from under the bridge. “How about Perkins?”
“Good choice,” Dickie agreed. “They’ve got good heart-smart meals, and then we can have that chocolate. Say, you did bring it, didn’t--”
Four hundred pounds of man jerked over the railing like a hooked fish. Bones splintered under the impact of grinding molars. Minutes later, a scaly head poked out from under the bridge. Yellow eyes blinked up at him.
“Goood,” the troll said. “Best. Mooore.”
Stan stared dully down at the beast. “Five people. I’ve given you five. Don’t you ever take a rest?”
“No.”
“Well, I need one,” Stan said. “I can’t go on like this. I’m so tired. And so . . .”
“Hungry?” the troll suggested.
When Stan refused to acknowledge him, the beast grinned at him, showing bloody fangs. “Mooore.”
The tone chilled Stan. This time it was not a demand.
It was an invitation.
He closed his eyes and fought off the nausea. When he opened them, the troll waved two of Dickie’s body parts in the air.
“Leg?” it offered. “Or thigh?”
Stan heaved the contents of his stomach into the river, then stood panting at the railing while fever racked his body. His mind was as empty as his gut except for two thoughts.
He was hungrier than he’d ever been before.
And the change he’d been denying had finally come.
Shutting his eyes again, he convulsed a final time, then fearfully checked out his body. His arms had become green and mossy and impossibly long. Talons, hard as tempered steel and sharp as razors, now tipped his fingers. He touched a deadly hand to his lips and felt his teeth. A bear trap lined his mouth. Once he had his fangs into any prey, it would not survive.
It makes sense, he realized. If you're forever hungry you can't afford a mistake.
Clambering over the guardrail, he joined the troll under the bridge in a split second. They hung upsidedown over the river, side by side. The troll leered at him.
“Easy to be skinnly,” it said. “You just have to be hungry enough.”
“But I don’t want to be a troll,” Stan insisted.
“Yes, you do,” the beast said, then shrugged. “No choice. Already inside you.”
It scratched its head in its familiar gesture of searching for words. “How troll survive? Go on?”
“Ensure perpetuation of the species, you mean?” Stan asked.
“Yes, yes!” the troll said, waving Dickie’s leg about enthusiastically.
Stan watched blood spray into the wind and drop into the water, then said, “You mean all trolls were people once?”
“Yes!” the troll said, laughing. It had the sound of bowels rumbling after a heavy meal. “You understand!”
Stan examined his hideous body. “At least you kept your promise. I’m skinny, even for a troll.”
“Always skinnly,” the beast said with a nod. “One bad thing, though. Always hungry too.” Then it added, “Another good thing. Now me not lonely for a while.”
“What do you mean, for a while?”
“Troll need space. Lots.”
“You’re - we’re - territorial?”
The troll nodded. “Bridge mine. After a while, you find own.”
“But why couldn’t we share?” Stan asked. “Be friends?”
The troll giggled. “You know when become complete troll. Trolls not share.”
“What if I stay?” Stan asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Then eat you,” the troll said simply. “Appetite never end. Troll’s nature.”
“Unless I eat you first.”
The troll laughed. “Now you have idea! What fun, joy, troll happiness!”
“That’s disgusting!” Stan said, not agreeing with the statement.
“Trolls human first,” the beast reminded him. “Without humans, no trolls.”
“It has a certain symmetry,” Stan admitted, then made one last effort to keep the human part of him that remained. “But I’ll eat men only. No women, no children.”
The troll snickered. “Change mind fast.”
Horror filled Stan’s mind at the implication of that remark, then suddenly it vanished as his mouth began salivating. His stomach cramped violently with hunger and he nearly lost his grip on the bridge. The troll hooted merrily and offered the body parts again. Stan grabbed Dickie’s leg from the creature's hand, then clambered to the top of the railing so he would have the morsel to himself. He swallowed it so fast there was no time to enjoy the taste.
And he was still hungry.
“Mooore,” he demanded, then looked up eagerly at the sound of female voices.
At the end of the bridge, three blonde heads bobbed into sight. Patty and Laura ran far ahead of Sally, girlish laughter floating on the air like an invitation. A single, consuming thought filled Stan's head.
Appetizers!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Dear Genre! Choose Your Spot in the Literary World!
Like many writers, when I started out, I wanted to be the next Hemingway, Joyce, Neruda or whatever famous author you could name. I realized very quickly I simply didn't have that level of talent (since, obviously, few people do).
But then I was stuck in a quandry. What exactly was I suited to write about? And what form would it take?
It was pretty easy to dismiss romances, since I'm a guy and could no more write in that genre than an elephant can flap its ears and fly. Unfortunately, I also knew that the profitable murder mystery genre was out since the rigorous logic of plotting and I are seldom on speaking terms.
I wanted to do mainstream novels, but I've seldom lived in a mainstream world (in my mind, anyway). Everything I tried in that genre kept bending itself toward satire.
"Aha," I thought, "satire is my literary specialty." And I did write a satirical comic tragedy in the form of American Job. Since it was my first book, it's still my favorite just like your first child.
But, of course, few people buy satire, especially at 190,000 words, unless a famous name is attached to it.
Finally, I realized that science fiction is my place in the writing world, not because I'm particularly scientific or up on the latest technological advances, but because the field gives me the freedom to invent whatever the hell I please!
Science fiction unleashes my imagination and lets it roam the inside of my skull at will. Few other genres (fantasy, of course) give you that kind of permission.
I also found, for some unfathomable reason, that I was very good at action scenes and cliffhanger chapter endings. I'm grateful for this ability but have no idea where it came from since my life has been about as exciting as dryer lint. (Well, I did almost die once in the Grand Canyon, but that's another story for another time.)
Through trial and error, I found the place I want to be as a writer. I suspect many writers go through the same process. And that's an encouraging fact for you if you also want to become an author!
Don't get discouraged. Wander out into the literary world without a map. Get lost in the wonder that is your imagination and find your place. Then apply determination and dedication, and you'll have success in your chosen genre!
In the meantime, enjoy one of my books below on Amazon, Fictionwise.com, or Synergebooks.com!
The First Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Finds the Way
The Second Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Loses His Way
The Third Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Paves the Way - now out in ebook and print!
American Job
But then I was stuck in a quandry. What exactly was I suited to write about? And what form would it take?
It was pretty easy to dismiss romances, since I'm a guy and could no more write in that genre than an elephant can flap its ears and fly. Unfortunately, I also knew that the profitable murder mystery genre was out since the rigorous logic of plotting and I are seldom on speaking terms.
I wanted to do mainstream novels, but I've seldom lived in a mainstream world (in my mind, anyway). Everything I tried in that genre kept bending itself toward satire.
"Aha," I thought, "satire is my literary specialty." And I did write a satirical comic tragedy in the form of American Job. Since it was my first book, it's still my favorite just like your first child.
But, of course, few people buy satire, especially at 190,000 words, unless a famous name is attached to it.
Finally, I realized that science fiction is my place in the writing world, not because I'm particularly scientific or up on the latest technological advances, but because the field gives me the freedom to invent whatever the hell I please!
Science fiction unleashes my imagination and lets it roam the inside of my skull at will. Few other genres (fantasy, of course) give you that kind of permission.
I also found, for some unfathomable reason, that I was very good at action scenes and cliffhanger chapter endings. I'm grateful for this ability but have no idea where it came from since my life has been about as exciting as dryer lint. (Well, I did almost die once in the Grand Canyon, but that's another story for another time.)
Through trial and error, I found the place I want to be as a writer. I suspect many writers go through the same process. And that's an encouraging fact for you if you also want to become an author!
Don't get discouraged. Wander out into the literary world without a map. Get lost in the wonder that is your imagination and find your place. Then apply determination and dedication, and you'll have success in your chosen genre!
In the meantime, enjoy one of my books below on Amazon, Fictionwise.com, or Synergebooks.com!
The First Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Finds the Way
The Second Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Loses His Way
The Third Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Paves the Way - now out in ebook and print!
American Job
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Jumping Over Writer's Block!
As I promised, this week we'll talk about the dreaded "writer's block." I know about the inability to write because I was blocked for about 40 years!
No one can explain the exact cause of writer's block, problably because it has several origins. In my case, it was a depression I didn't even know I had!
To make a very long story short, my block ended when I took my very first SSRI (you guessed it, Prozac). Within two weeks of taking this medication, I knew - absolutely knew! - I could write fiction. All those years, depression had been supressing my innate creativity.
Of course, I had to work through three or four SSRIs before I found one with the fewest amount of side effects, but, in the end, all the agony was worth it. I could write!
But what if you don't have depression, and you still have writer's block? Well, then, there might be several causes.
One is simply the fact that you're on the wrong track with your material. Something inside your mind is telling you that it isn't working. What to do? Attack it from as many different angles as possible - change the point of view...change the voice...step back and ask yourself, "Whose story is this, really?"
Then, try writing it from a minor character's POV just to see what happens. You might be surprised at the results! Think of it in the business sense of "360 degree feedback." In other words, seeing the story from several different POVs can reveal new avenues for plot and action and allow you to get on with your "work."
Here's another solution to writer's block, but it's one you won't like - whatever you're writing, throw it out! Sound drastic? Well, I didn't learn to become a professional writer until I threw out 90,000 words of a novel. After reviewing the pages, I realized that 90,000 words of crap is just that....crap!
This realization was suddenly liberating! It gave me such flexibility and freedom. It also saved me from wasting precious hours on a piece that was going absolutely nowhere!
Another cause of writer's block is simple fatigue. If you're like me, you want to stay chained to your desk writing a story until it's finished. Bad idea for most of us! Here's why: You get into a mindset where the piece "absolutely, positively" has to be finished!
In other words, you're putting yourself under pressure....and all that does is lock you into a destructive feedback loop; e.g., "If I don't finish this, I'm a failure so I'd better keep going, but I'm not getting anywhere..." and on and on until your mind, very properly, says, "Stop it!" and shuts down creatively.
Fortunately, this is the easiest form of writer's block to get rid of - get away from your damned desk or laptop. Get out and have some fun! Do something that requires no thought whatsoever - ride a bike, do Yoga, take a walk or whatever "floats your boat." Your mind will love it and reward you with new ideas and new characters.
Another potential source of writer's block is a negative spouse or a jealous friend. Many times they don't realize it, but they're vested in your failure as a writer because they don't have the drive or creativity to write fiction or non-fiction.
Jealousy can be subtle or blunt. In any case, you need to separately yourself either physically or mentally from them and let them know again and again that you will not quit writing!
Well, there's not enough space in a blog to cover every potential cause of writer's block, so I'll just end by saying: You have a gift, the gift of writing. Serve it well and screw writer's block and every negative person in your life!
Next week...finding your "genre!" In the meantime, try one of my books listed below!
The First Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Finds the Way
The Second Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Loses His Way
The Third Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Paves the Way - now out in ebook and print!
American Job
No one can explain the exact cause of writer's block, problably because it has several origins. In my case, it was a depression I didn't even know I had!
To make a very long story short, my block ended when I took my very first SSRI (you guessed it, Prozac). Within two weeks of taking this medication, I knew - absolutely knew! - I could write fiction. All those years, depression had been supressing my innate creativity.
Of course, I had to work through three or four SSRIs before I found one with the fewest amount of side effects, but, in the end, all the agony was worth it. I could write!
But what if you don't have depression, and you still have writer's block? Well, then, there might be several causes.
One is simply the fact that you're on the wrong track with your material. Something inside your mind is telling you that it isn't working. What to do? Attack it from as many different angles as possible - change the point of view...change the voice...step back and ask yourself, "Whose story is this, really?"
Then, try writing it from a minor character's POV just to see what happens. You might be surprised at the results! Think of it in the business sense of "360 degree feedback." In other words, seeing the story from several different POVs can reveal new avenues for plot and action and allow you to get on with your "work."
Here's another solution to writer's block, but it's one you won't like - whatever you're writing, throw it out! Sound drastic? Well, I didn't learn to become a professional writer until I threw out 90,000 words of a novel. After reviewing the pages, I realized that 90,000 words of crap is just that....crap!
This realization was suddenly liberating! It gave me such flexibility and freedom. It also saved me from wasting precious hours on a piece that was going absolutely nowhere!
Another cause of writer's block is simple fatigue. If you're like me, you want to stay chained to your desk writing a story until it's finished. Bad idea for most of us! Here's why: You get into a mindset where the piece "absolutely, positively" has to be finished!
In other words, you're putting yourself under pressure....and all that does is lock you into a destructive feedback loop; e.g., "If I don't finish this, I'm a failure so I'd better keep going, but I'm not getting anywhere..." and on and on until your mind, very properly, says, "Stop it!" and shuts down creatively.
Fortunately, this is the easiest form of writer's block to get rid of - get away from your damned desk or laptop. Get out and have some fun! Do something that requires no thought whatsoever - ride a bike, do Yoga, take a walk or whatever "floats your boat." Your mind will love it and reward you with new ideas and new characters.
Another potential source of writer's block is a negative spouse or a jealous friend. Many times they don't realize it, but they're vested in your failure as a writer because they don't have the drive or creativity to write fiction or non-fiction.
Jealousy can be subtle or blunt. In any case, you need to separately yourself either physically or mentally from them and let them know again and again that you will not quit writing!
Well, there's not enough space in a blog to cover every potential cause of writer's block, so I'll just end by saying: You have a gift, the gift of writing. Serve it well and screw writer's block and every negative person in your life!
Next week...finding your "genre!" In the meantime, try one of my books listed below!
The First Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Finds the Way
The Second Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Loses His Way
The Third Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Paves the Way - now out in ebook and print!
American Job
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Eternal Question Asked of Writers - "Where Do You Get Your Ideas?"
Sooner or later, every writer gets asked this question: "Where the heck do you get your ideas?" The flip answer is, "When I find out, I'll let you know!" Of course, that's no help. So, how do we get our ideas? Naturally, that's a tough question to answer. I can only give you an answer in terms of how I work.
First, I tend to look at things in a different and unexpected way - a way that's not practical for the workaday world, but perfect for the fiction world.
Let me give one example: In the 1990s, they were in the process of tearing down the Lake Street Bridge over the Mississippi River in the Twin Cities area. The bridge was nearly 100 years old and no longer safe.
One day, I stood with a bunch of onlookers, and we watched the whole deconstruction process unfold. Everyone around me was talking technicalities - how many men were needed to do the job, what safety measures were in place, how long it would take, etc.
What was I thinking? I was thinking, "I wonder where all the trolls will go now? Trolls live under bridges, so they'll have to find a new place." And that led me to write the fantasy/horror short story "Appetizers" in which the trolls find their new home...and a whole lot of new victims!
So, I'd looked at a very pedestrian process in a fantastic way. I do that quite often, especially with horror or fantasy pieces. In another story, Queen Elizabeth in the Open Bay, I had the famous queen thrust into the future...and into a service station with some very surprised auto technicians. Believe me, it's a fun way to think and write!
Second, I make connections in unexpected ways in terms of coming up with stories for books. For example, my first novel, The Relentless Pursuit of Everett Pick (now titled American Job) arose from my reading of the daily newspaper, also in the 1990s.
As incomprehensible as it seems now, during that time there was a whole series of articles and debates on how "dead white males" were to blame for all the ills in American society - racism, sexism, poverty, wars and on and on.
"Well," I thought, "white males are definitely responsible for a lot of bad things, but they're also responsible for a lot of good things as well. This has the feel of an irrational mob."
So, I wondered what would happen if a "live white male," Everett Pick, had every member of this mob chasing after him across America for imagined crimes. The result was a satirical action/adventure novel in which extremism (from all sides of the political spectrum) results in a comic tragedy.
By simply reading the paper on a daily basis and asking every writer's favorite question ("What if..."), I made a connection that led to a novel-length extrapolation of an idea.
So, if you aspire to be a writer, you can try my two techniques - view the world in a fantastic fashion and make unexpected connections. Or, you can forge your way!
Actually, coming up with ideas is easy. Forging them into fiction is the hard part. The old, but very true joke in writing is that if you want to be a writer, then sit down behind a desk and get up twenty years later."
Still want to be a writer? :)
Next time, I'll talk about...oh heck, I haven't got a clue. So, naturally, we'll talk about writer's block! In the meantime, if you want to see the creative process of fantastic thinking and connection-making in the science fiction genre, try one of my books below!
The First Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Finds the Way
The Second Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Loses His Way
The Third Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Paves the Way - now out in ebook and print!
First, I tend to look at things in a different and unexpected way - a way that's not practical for the workaday world, but perfect for the fiction world.
Let me give one example: In the 1990s, they were in the process of tearing down the Lake Street Bridge over the Mississippi River in the Twin Cities area. The bridge was nearly 100 years old and no longer safe.
One day, I stood with a bunch of onlookers, and we watched the whole deconstruction process unfold. Everyone around me was talking technicalities - how many men were needed to do the job, what safety measures were in place, how long it would take, etc.
What was I thinking? I was thinking, "I wonder where all the trolls will go now? Trolls live under bridges, so they'll have to find a new place." And that led me to write the fantasy/horror short story "Appetizers" in which the trolls find their new home...and a whole lot of new victims!
So, I'd looked at a very pedestrian process in a fantastic way. I do that quite often, especially with horror or fantasy pieces. In another story, Queen Elizabeth in the Open Bay, I had the famous queen thrust into the future...and into a service station with some very surprised auto technicians. Believe me, it's a fun way to think and write!
Second, I make connections in unexpected ways in terms of coming up with stories for books. For example, my first novel, The Relentless Pursuit of Everett Pick (now titled American Job) arose from my reading of the daily newspaper, also in the 1990s.
As incomprehensible as it seems now, during that time there was a whole series of articles and debates on how "dead white males" were to blame for all the ills in American society - racism, sexism, poverty, wars and on and on.
"Well," I thought, "white males are definitely responsible for a lot of bad things, but they're also responsible for a lot of good things as well. This has the feel of an irrational mob."
So, I wondered what would happen if a "live white male," Everett Pick, had every member of this mob chasing after him across America for imagined crimes. The result was a satirical action/adventure novel in which extremism (from all sides of the political spectrum) results in a comic tragedy.
By simply reading the paper on a daily basis and asking every writer's favorite question ("What if..."), I made a connection that led to a novel-length extrapolation of an idea.
So, if you aspire to be a writer, you can try my two techniques - view the world in a fantastic fashion and make unexpected connections. Or, you can forge your way!
Actually, coming up with ideas is easy. Forging them into fiction is the hard part. The old, but very true joke in writing is that if you want to be a writer, then sit down behind a desk and get up twenty years later."
Still want to be a writer? :)
Next time, I'll talk about...oh heck, I haven't got a clue. So, naturally, we'll talk about writer's block! In the meantime, if you want to see the creative process of fantastic thinking and connection-making in the science fiction genre, try one of my books below!
The First Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Finds the Way
The Second Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Loses His Way
The Third Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Paves the Way - now out in ebook and print!
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Gifts Great Writers Give Me - and You!
Last week, I said I'd mention the three writers who influenced me most and provided all of us with their literary gifts. They're easy for me to identify - Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, and Ernest Hemingway. Of course, I've read (and continue to read) many, many other writers, but this trio made me really want to be a writer!
I love Mark Twain because of his humor, clarity, and deceptively simple language. Plus, the man could flat out tell a story!
I love Charles Dickens for his outrageous ability to create memorable characters - Uriah Heep, Fagin, the Artful Dodger, Mr. Micawber and on and on. Not only do these characters stand out because of their actions, but their names almost always indicate what kind of person they are. Was there ever an author who was better at naming his characters than Dickens!? Not in my opinion.
I love Ernest Hemingway because of his oft-noted ability to write plain, direct sentences that somehow seem to be the deceptively simple surface of an ocean with deep currents of emotion beneath. Yes, he's a particularly masculine writer (as some of his critics have charged), but what's wrong with that? Those critics would give their right arm to write one sentence as well as he did!
So, there you have my main influences. Oh, I forgot to add the one I mentioned in an earlier blog - Alfred Bester. Now, this man is in nowhere the same category as Twain, Dickens or Hemingway as a writer, but for sheer, outrageous science fiction imagination, he still inspires me to this day!
Next week, I'll try to answer the question that every writer gets over and over again: "Where do you get your ideas?"
I love Mark Twain because of his humor, clarity, and deceptively simple language. Plus, the man could flat out tell a story!
I love Charles Dickens for his outrageous ability to create memorable characters - Uriah Heep, Fagin, the Artful Dodger, Mr. Micawber and on and on. Not only do these characters stand out because of their actions, but their names almost always indicate what kind of person they are. Was there ever an author who was better at naming his characters than Dickens!? Not in my opinion.
I love Ernest Hemingway because of his oft-noted ability to write plain, direct sentences that somehow seem to be the deceptively simple surface of an ocean with deep currents of emotion beneath. Yes, he's a particularly masculine writer (as some of his critics have charged), but what's wrong with that? Those critics would give their right arm to write one sentence as well as he did!
So, there you have my main influences. Oh, I forgot to add the one I mentioned in an earlier blog - Alfred Bester. Now, this man is in nowhere the same category as Twain, Dickens or Hemingway as a writer, but for sheer, outrageous science fiction imagination, he still inspires me to this day!
Next week, I'll try to answer the question that every writer gets over and over again: "Where do you get your ideas?"
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Family Ghosts and the Gifts They Give You
Last week, I mentioned I'd talk about ghosts, family ones. Family ghosts are different from the ones you see in the movies and on television. The difference is that they're real unlike the ones chased by the frauds on "Ghost Hunters" or other similar programs. I know because of personal experience. I lived with a ghost for over 50 years and didn't even know it. That ghost was my eldest brother, Jim. He was killed in WWII in Europe. I was about one year old at the time. Now, he did come back to haunt me, but not in any "conventional" sense (no apparitions, etc.). What happened, of course, was that my mother fell into a deep depression at the loss of her first-born and vowed to keep his memory alive, an entirely understandable desire. And that's when the ghost entered my life. My mother invoked Jim's name at every opportunity for the rest of her life. She was never proud of me, but Jim was. Jim would be so proud of what you've done. If only Jim were here...I didn't realize at the time that I was competing not only with a ghost, but a saintly one at that. I felt this vague and uneasy certainty that I was not measuring up and never would. That's the bad news about having a real ghost in your family. The good news is that it drove me inward to the place where a writer lives, his heart and his mind and his gut. And my brother's spirit drove me to achieve. So real ghosts, family ghosts, make your life miserable until their presence is uncovered and then they make you realize that you've gained strength and character because of their constant interference with your life. Writers are like other artists (poets, painters, etc.); they wouldn't have any material if it weren't for the suffering in their lives. So, here's to my brother, Jim, for his ultimate sacrifce for the nation and for the immense and inadvertent pain that was his personal gift to me - the gift that creates fiction. I wouldn't want to go through it again, but it was the best kind of haunting....Next week, away from the personal and back to writing. I'll talk about my three main influences and the specific gift each writer gave me - and the world!
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Last week, I said I'd tell you why it took me 40 years to become a fiction writer, despite being inspired by the great science fiction writers of the 50s and 60s. Well, here goes....I wanted very much to write novels, short stories - anything! - but I couldn't do it! Around 1985, a very good psychologist said, "You suffer from chronic depression! Let's do something about it!" So, he prescribed the standard medication of that time, lithium, and, after a month, the depression did lift. I'd never realized that leaves were as green as they could be and the colors of flowers could be so intense. There was only one problem - I still couldn't write! Lithium cuts off the extremes of emotion to make you emotionally level, and that's not a good thing for a writer (this one, anyway). I couldn't tap into love or rage or any emotion in between. Then, about 10 years later, the best thing happened - I got sick! Standing over a pan of hot oatmeal one January day, I was suddenly hit by vertigo. I simultaneously felt as if I were ten feet tall at one moment and was going to put my face in the oatmeal the next. At the same time, the noise of a freight train and a screaming jet engine had entered my right ear. "Okay," I said, "this is not good!" So, off to the doctors I went, and they eventually diagnosed a non-cancerous "Acoustic neuroma." In other words, I had a mass in my head pressing on the auditory nerve. A few months later the surgeons cracked open my head and found out it wasn't a mass - it was a cyst. So, they filled it up with fat from another part of my head and sewed me back up. I lost a little hearing and that was that. So, what does this have to do with writing? Well, I was extremely depressed after the surgery (no income, etc.), so the psychologist prescribed Prozac. Two weeks after taking it, I was standing in the kitchen again when the antidepressant kicked in with a vengeance! It was actually like a cartoon where the light bulb of an idea goes on over the character's head! "Wow," I thought, "I can write and I can draw. All I have to do is work at it!" And I did. Four novels, several short stories, and four non-fiction books later, I'm a testament to the miracles of modern science. Oh, it wasn't easy adjusting to the antidepressants! I went through three or four of them before finding one that had few side effects. But it was worth it! And it shows how lucky I was and what a crooked path you sometimes have to take to get where you need to go....Next week, let's talk about ghosts...family ones!
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Influences, Influences, Influences
Growing up in the Fifties, I read all the great science fiction writers of the period - Asimov, Clarke, Heinlein, A.E. van Vogt, Simak, etc. But none of them really fired my desire to become a writer until I got my hands on my first Alfred Bester story. It was, of course, "Fondly Fahrenheit." It's the tale of a rich playboy, James Vandaleur, and his murderous android and the fact that they end up as one very insane personalitiy. The use of shifting viewpoints was unique to me at the time, but what really fired my imagination was Bester's use of language. At that time, it had a kind of "hip" quality unlike anything in science fiction - staccato, rhyming, and with a kind of macabre flippancy that underscored the horrible madness of the situation. Compared to Bester's prose, the writing of other science fiction writers was a dull vanilla against the multi-colored explosions of his words and sentences. The introduction took me on to his novel, The Stars My Destination, the story of Gully Foyle and an adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo. In that book, I discovered that Bester could be the best writer in the world and the worst (often on the same page), but, oh, the imagination of the man! It soared and surged throughout the novel, and it was like a very contagious virus of creativity that infected my system. I wanted very badly to write like Alfed Bester, but, you know what, it took me more than 40 years to end up writing like myself! What took me so long? That's a tale for the next blog!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
As a teenager, I became interested in science fiction, not because of the science - but because of the imagination of the whole genre! I was a young boy living in rural (and Republican) South Dakota. In that state, imagination was not only discouraged but viewed with suspicion. After all, what did it have to do with making a living? Well, sigh, as a very near-sighted boy, what choice did I have but imagination? I couldn't play sports worth a damn because I couldn't see worth a damn. I was smart but not as smart as the "brains" in the school. So, what I had was imagination....imagination to escape a small rural town via the stars, the galaxies, and the universes depicted in science fiction! Through the short stories and novels, I could take part in unlimited travel and meet the strangest individuals (like myself, as any teenager thinks) and participate in wildly improbable (but scientifically underpinned) adventures. To this day, many people still think of science fiction as a "ghetto" of literature. I can't count the number of individuals who've sneered at my reading preferences, and for a long time it really bothered me. Then, I realized that that kind of snobbery prevented them from taking part in the grand voyage of the imagination that is science fiction, and they are the poorer for it. At its best, the genre presents breathtaking ideas and vistas, and I, for one, love to be part of that genre! Even now, after Lasik surgery and elimination of near-sightedness and astigmatism, I see farther than my sight allows thanks to science fiction! Next time, I talk about the science fiction (and other) writers who influenced my own writing! See you then! - Steve
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The Cosmic and the Personal
In this blog, I promised to tell you about the philosophical approach behind my writing of the military science fiction series The Misadventures of Fragger Sparks (3 books so far). By philosophical approach, I mean how I addressed the chasm between the personal and the cosmic that exists in all science fiction stories. One the one hand, you have the epic story tellers like Asimov, Benford, et.al, who paint their words on canvases as large as galaxies and universes. On the other, you have the Zelaznys, Nancy Kresses, et. al. who stress more the impact of ideas and technology on the individual. I chose the more personal route for the Fragger series for a simple reason; few of the combat stories I've read in science fiction seemed to have little to do with actual combat. By that I mean that I never tasted the mud, smelled spilled-open intestines, or felt the mind-numbing fear of facing an enemy. (Note: I was in the Army but never in combat: however, I listened closely enough to my friend Dan's stories as a Vietnam medic over the years to realize that few SF writers were getting the real experience of war down on paper.) Joe Haldeman and David Drake probably do science fiction combat stories better than anyone. So, if anyone serves as a model for me, it's those two. My particular fictional tactic to emphasize the brutal reality of combat was to thrust Fragger Sparks into a future where he didn't understand the weapons, the people, or the political situations. He has to learn painful lessons along the way, but, being an Army Ranger, he's highly adaptable and able to apply his skills and experience to (almost) every situation he encounters. And, of course, it's all very personal to him!...Next week, I'll tell you why I became interested in science fiction in the first place. Hint: It had nothing do with science! - See you then.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Inspiration of a Bullet Between the Eyes
In the last posting, I promised that I'd tell you how my best friend, Dan, survived a bullet between the eyes in Vietnam and lived to serve as the model for "FraggerSparks," the hero of my three (so far) military science fiction novel series, The Misadventures of Fragger Sparks.
Here's how it happened: Dan (a medic) and his unit got into a firefight with the enemy. His commander asked him to get some smoke grenades to mark a landing zone for the helicopters. Dan scrambled on his hands and knees to get those grenades, and that's when the sniper caught him. The bullet angled down out of the trees, tore through his mouth, and lodged in his throat. Because of the steep angle, the round never hit Dan's brain!
However, it did knock him back up against a tree. Head wounds bleed like mad which caused a second problem. His concerned buddies kept trying to lie him down on the ground, but when they did that, the blood pooled in Dan's throat and choked him. He couldn't speak at the time, but, after several times, he convinced them to leave him sitting up. Soon after, he was medi-vacced out by helicopter.
As you might expect, there were serious injuries. They had to extract the bullet very carefully because it was lodged next to the carotid artery. Then, Dan lost his sense of taste and smell for a long time afterward, but it gradually came back as the taste buds repaired themselves.
Like Fragger Sparks, Dan had (and has) the remarkable ability to get in the damned situations (a bullet between the eyes!) and yet survive them! For a writer, he serves as quite an inspiration!
In the next blog, I'll tell you my philosophy behind the fictional approach to the Fragger Sparks series. See you then!
Steve
Here's how it happened: Dan (a medic) and his unit got into a firefight with the enemy. His commander asked him to get some smoke grenades to mark a landing zone for the helicopters. Dan scrambled on his hands and knees to get those grenades, and that's when the sniper caught him. The bullet angled down out of the trees, tore through his mouth, and lodged in his throat. Because of the steep angle, the round never hit Dan's brain!
However, it did knock him back up against a tree. Head wounds bleed like mad which caused a second problem. His concerned buddies kept trying to lie him down on the ground, but when they did that, the blood pooled in Dan's throat and choked him. He couldn't speak at the time, but, after several times, he convinced them to leave him sitting up. Soon after, he was medi-vacced out by helicopter.
As you might expect, there were serious injuries. They had to extract the bullet very carefully because it was lodged next to the carotid artery. Then, Dan lost his sense of taste and smell for a long time afterward, but it gradually came back as the taste buds repaired themselves.
Like Fragger Sparks, Dan had (and has) the remarkable ability to get in the damned situations (a bullet between the eyes!) and yet survive them! For a writer, he serves as quite an inspiration!
In the next blog, I'll tell you my philosophy behind the fictional approach to the Fragger Sparks series. See you then!
Steve
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Who's "Fragger" Sparks and Why Does He Have Such a Weird Nickname?
Welcome to the first "Fragger Sparks" blog! I thought I'd take this opportunity to introduce this fictional character, myself, and, at the same time, do some musings and maunderings on writing and science fiction!
First things first! - Jonathan "Fragger" Sparks is the hero of my three-book (so far) military science fiction series. He's a U.S. Army Ranger transported 600 years into the future as a "Rerun," human "trash" used for menial and dangerous jobs.
Naturally, this doesn't sit well with the proud Ranger, and after the future kicks him around for a while, he kicks back - hard. His nickname "Fragger" comes from his outstanding ability to land a grenade (of any kind) straight on a target.
Fragger can survive anything and anybody, even when he screws up big time. Thus, the word "Misadventure" in the title of the three books.
In point of fact, his character is based on that of my best friend, Dan, who also appears to be able to survive anything. The proof - as a U.S. Army medic in Vietnam, he took a sniper bullet between the eyes - and he's still walking around today in fine shape! In the next blog, I'll tell exactly how he survived!
Steve Fisher
The First Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Finds the Way
The Second Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Loses His Way
First things first! - Jonathan "Fragger" Sparks is the hero of my three-book (so far) military science fiction series. He's a U.S. Army Ranger transported 600 years into the future as a "Rerun," human "trash" used for menial and dangerous jobs.
Naturally, this doesn't sit well with the proud Ranger, and after the future kicks him around for a while, he kicks back - hard. His nickname "Fragger" comes from his outstanding ability to land a grenade (of any kind) straight on a target.
Fragger can survive anything and anybody, even when he screws up big time. Thus, the word "Misadventure" in the title of the three books.
In point of fact, his character is based on that of my best friend, Dan, who also appears to be able to survive anything. The proof - as a U.S. Army medic in Vietnam, he took a sniper bullet between the eyes - and he's still walking around today in fine shape! In the next blog, I'll tell exactly how he survived!
Steve Fisher
The First Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Finds the Way
The Second Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Loses His Way
The Third Misadventure of Fragger Sparks, A Ranger Paves the Way (out in ebook format; print version coming soon.
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