GenCon 2014 continued: Westerfeld and Deadly, Unna?

I got to meet and chat with Scott Westerfeld after one of his panels. [BTW: His Q&A session was terrific. Scott was smart, and wise, and very funny. Alex was surprised at how funny. And Beth Vaughan did an excellent job moderating!] Fortunately I had something besides, "I love your books" at hand to open the conversation.*

The Other Side of Space (TOSS) includes a character who is an Aboriginal Australian. During my research, mostly on slang phrases, I ran across a few blogs and bulletin boards with some truly vile, racist diatribes against the Aboriginal people. Really virulent stuff. I mentioned this to Scott, and asked how the racism in Australia compares to the U.S. [Scott was born and raised in the U.S., but has lived in Australia for the past 12 years.] I couldn't imagine similar comments about blacks in the U.S. surviving for long. Maybe I don't hang out at bad enough water coolers.

Scott told me that in some rural areas where a mostly white town was near an Aboriginal reserve or former reserve, things still could get pretty awful. Not to say that the cities are racism free, but the kind of stuff I'd mentioned was more likely to be found in the sticks. He then recommended a YA book titled Deadly, Unna? by Phillip Gwynne. Even though it was first published in 1998, Scott felt it was reasonably up to date for my purposes, and a good read. He didn't say so, but it was chosen by the Children's Book Council of Australia as "Book of the Year: Older Readers."

As Nadia Wheatley of the Sydney Morning Herald wrote, "Combining humour, politics, fine writing and football, it's pretty hard to beat."  It's a very good book. The first five paragraphs had me hooked on the main character's voice. I'd be willing to hear any story from Blacky.

So I learned a few things about Nungas and Goonyas (blacks and whites) in the book's world, spent many very enjoyable hours, and now I'm looking forward to reading more of Mr. Gwynne's work.

Thanks, Scott!

*Note to my Future Fans, if any get created: I won't ever mind hearing this!

GENCON 2014

Blogging once a year is equivalent to not blogging. Sigh.

Yet failure has rarely daunted me. During the early years of my optics company Light Works I came so close to crashing and burning so many times that I stopped counting. It didn't matter. Punch me in the mouth and knock me down? Just clear a little space and I'll be back on my feet in a minute. Now things are going swell, and Cool Hand Luke is still one of my favorite movies. (Go watch it!)

So learn from past failures and keep moving forward. Excelsior! Or sumfin' like that. On to the talking about the subject:

This was my second GenCon, and this time I brought my son Alex. We both had a wonderful time, despite our having very different purposes. His was for what I suspect the majority of attendees came for -- games and the spectacle and having fun. Mine was primarily for the Writing Symposium.

For this entry, I'm only going to offer snippets. My thinking is that this will force me to come back soon and expand. Also, my middle grade space opera WIP The Other Side of Space is thrusting along well and I don't want to let the engines cool too long.

Jim Butcher, Scott Westerfeld, and Larry Correia? Holy Toledo is that a power line-up of writer guests! Of course there were many others, but those were the big three names at quarterback, wide receiver, and running back.

Bill Willingham was perhaps my favorite writer panelist. I got the impression that his sensibilities most closely paralleled my own. I also loved the "Bible hair" story he told about when he was a kid and he met Johnny Weissmuller. He's funny, and direct, and clear, and wise, but in no way does he seem self-important. Now I'ma have to go read his Fables mags.

William Alexander made a good comment about scaring kids in literature ("being scared can be a vaccination"), which led to a great discussion, and quoting of Sherman Alexie that I'd never heard before. "I don’t write to protect them [kids]. It’s far too late for that. I write to give them weapons–in the form of words and ideas-that will help them fight their monsters."

Of course fiction in general is really good for preparing people for life. Read, damn yer eyes!

My friend and fellow writing group member Marc Tassin did a truly spectacular job of putting the whole symposium together. I've glimpsed the shadow of the mountain of work he put in to pull this off, and I remain astounded. Even more amazing is how well everything turned out. Lots of people can simply work hard. It's another thing to get things done. I know he had boo coo help, but he's the one who gathered, trained, and led his forces. My box of 'atta boys' just ain't big enough.

Finally (for now), Alex and I had the best time just goofing off and gawking, and talking about stuff. I do have to mention one game we played in particular: Keep Talking and Nobody Explodes. OMFG was that fun! I hope these folks are successful, because we need more of this in the world. Check it out, and support them!

Fire Bug and Approaching the Truth

I write fiction. I write persuasive (I hope) letters. I write design specs and analysis. I write descriptions and quotations for products and engineering services.

What I haven't written much of, until now, is memoir or personal reminiscence. It's a dangerous highway for at least a couple of reasons. The first is, "Who the hell cares?" The second is that veracity is always suspect. No matter how well-intentioned the writer, the shades of truth can span vast gradients. Some say you can't get there from here. Mebbe so.

I'm reminded of mathematical asymptotes, like those used to help define the curve of a hyperbola. As you travel far enough along the curve, it drifts closer and closer to a straight line of the asymptotes, but it never quite makes contact. The curve only approaches the straight line. The story only approaches the truth.

Nevertheless, I've started down the craggy, ankle-twisting road. I have several pieces written, with more to follow. My writing group and my family have read them. I'm encouraged. Someday if anyone cares enough, I might publish a collection. I have the title "Approaching the Truth" in mind.

I won't be putting more than a couple on this blog for various reasons. Still, I haven't started this post without the intent of publishing something now. It is, to nearly my best ability, the truth as I genuinely remember it. If there are any factual errors, they're not deliberate.

Fire Bug 

(copyright 2013 by Spencer Luster)

When I was eight years old, I set our living room couch on fire while my thirteen-year old sister Robin was sleeping on it. Hilarity ensued.

Well, it might have ensued had I been older and better able to squeeze humor from the jagged stones of experience.

The truth--the absolute truth, I swear--is that it was an accident. This despite the fact that I loved playing with fire. I built model cars for the express purpose of crashing them and seeing the engine compartments erupt into infernos. (Tiny investigators usually suspected an accelerant was involved.) Entire battalions of green plastic army men feared me, although they would often take vengeance from the grave by dripping hotly on my little pink fingers. I'd heard that paper did have purposes other than as tinder, such as for writing on, but those foreign customs didn't belong in south Chicago, at least not in my part of it.

I blame my fascination in part on the boyfriends that my sister Lyn and my cousin Eddy had. (Actually named Edna, later changed to Sherry, and can you blame her?) I was a bright, likeable kid, and these fellows often played with me no doubt to ingratiate themselves with my sister and cousin. One in particular, whose name I wish I could recall, dazzled me with magic when I was a mere six-year old. He taught me how to make matchstick rockets, bottle cap bombs, and the conjuration of glowing smoke from the properly prepared striker of a matchbook. From such seeds what else could have grown but a fire bug?

Recently my brother Allan, twelve years my senior, revealed to me that when he was a rambunctious lad he very nearly burned down the family's apartment building. Twice. Apparently my penchant is also partly genetic. I wonder whether my Filipino or Finnish side carries greater responsibility?

And then there's my boyhood city itself, Chicago, home of the Great Fire of 1871. Although our clan of Lusters didn't arrive in the city until well into the twentieth century, perhaps Mrs. O'Leary's fictional cow was also half Filipino.

Altogether, my background and environment had somehow catalyzed to become--dare I say it?--a hotbed for pyromania.

And yet.

The couch fire was truly, honestly, and in all other factual ways an accident. It happened this way:

Mom was at work as a second shift nurse's aid at Billings Hospital. Lyn and Eddy were elsewhere, and my brother had already moved away by that time. This left Robin and I home alone, a common situation.

Robin lay asleep on the couch. I had been playing behind it, rolling a nickel along the windowsill just above the multi-colored steam radiator. The radiator, by the way, was multi-colored because of the many crayons I'd melted on it during the previous winter. Yes, I'd cleaned up the long, lovely drips, but faint stains remained. At any rate, the rolling nickel dropped to the floor and continued rolling directly, almost deliberately, under the couch.

If you're of a certain age you'll recall, I'm sure, what five cents could buy back in 1968. A bubble gum cigar or a set of wax lips, two golden-foil-wrapped Ice Cubes chocolates with a penny left over, or five rolls of Smarties. That nickel also represented five twelfths of a comic book. There was no way I'd let Mr. Jefferson escape my sticky hands.

I pushed aside the little fuzzy dingle balls hanging from the back of the cheap couch cover and peered deeply into the yawning black abyss. I could detect no glint of my treasure. I briefly thought about reaching into the darkness anyway, but who knew what lurked there? We already had roaches, and maybe there was something worse. I definitely needed some light. Being a clever and determined chap, I retrieved a book of matches from the kitchen. This was my automatic solution to many problems.

I struck one of the magic phosphors. I held it low to cast its Luciferian light under the couch. Aha! There lay my nickel.

And there went one of the fuzzy dingle balls on fire. It was quite pretty, a dancing little bluish glow that reminded me of the flame from our gas stove. I watched slightly mesmerized as the fire gently enveloped the little ball, transforming it into a tiny Christmas ornament. It took a moment, but it occurred to me that this development was probably not good.

I thought quickly, and ran to get something to put an end to the flaming dance routine. My logic, if it can be called such, followed a short path. A glass of water would make a mess and I'd get in trouble. Besides, the flame was small.

When I came back from the bathroom with my firefighting equipment--a wet washcloth--I was shocked to find actual gouts of fire leaping from the back of the couch.

I recognized that even a whole gallon of milk had no hope of extinguishing my mistake.

Robin still lay sleeping. Again I thought quickly and said, tentatively and quietly in my embarrassment, "Uh, Robin?"

No response. Maybe she won't notice.

Finally some weird, illogical instinct kicked in and with no conscious thought on my part my mouth opened to yell, "The couch is on fire!"

I must have been traumatized by the ordeal because I honestly don't remember much of anything that followed. I know screams resounded, some from me, many from Robin. I recall a lot of smoke, and singing heat. I know that firemen showed up. I had to have been punished, but I truly don't recall any bit of it. I've remained in ignorance about the aftermath for nearly forty-five years. Emotional stress and trauma can do that to a person, I've heard. At least it makes sense to me.

After all, I never recovered that nickel.

WorldCon 2012

Four of the five members of my writing group went to WorldCon 2012 this year in Chicago. We had a fine time with some nice surprises, a little disappointment, and an odd experience booking rooms.

Beth, Helen, Bob and I represented our group. Alas, Marc couldn't make it this time. Bob was also accompanied by his girlfriend Alice who turned out to be a lovely person with deep roots in Chicago like my own. (BEAR DOWN CHICAGO BEARS!)

Altogether we booked three rooms at the Hyatt. Without going into detail, the billing wound up being optimized to be as wrong as possible while still involving the people who actually stayed in the rooms. Still, they were very nice rooms and the Regency Club on the 35th floor was swell.

My disappointment was that I had arrived prepared to pitch Knights of the Full Moon as well as Shattered Home to any appropriate agent, editor or publisher who wasn't fast enough to run away. I had my 5 second elevator pitches locked and loaded, as well as brilliant half minute synopses almost guaranteed to leave the victim potential ally breathless for more. Alas, despite my pretty good efforts, no such opportunity arose. The closest came while I attended the Night Shade Books presentation of what's new. Turns out, however, that they don't publish YA stuff. :-( While SH is actually YA/adult cross-over, KFM is definitely YA, and my work in progress (currently titled The Other Side of Space) is for MG to YA.

One of the good surprises was seeing Teresa Frohock at Worldcon. She's a very nice lady whose work I had the pleasure of critiquing some time ago on the Online Writers Workshop, and whose comments from long ago you can find here somewhere. Her first book is titled Miserere--An Autumn Tale. Here's her site: www.teresafrohock.com

Another excellent surprise was having Neil Gaiman show up for the Hugo ceremonies! His Doctor Who episode (The Doctor's Wife) won for best dramatic presentation, short form. Quite interesting that three nominees were from Doctor Who, with a fourth (an episode of the U.S. sitcom Community) apparently inspired by Doctor Who.

Coming up some time I'll talk about an amazing writer named Jack Skillingstead!

Not complete failures as parents

I've been meaning to write this for quite awhile. My daughter Jamie is one of the brightest people I know. Parental bias abounds, but being valedictorian of her high school and earning scholarships to cover a large majority of her university tuition are pretty good pieces of objective evidence.

What most recently impressed me about her, however, is her in-her-bones understanding of how life most often works. Here's the story:

Several months ago she told us about a conversation with one of her friends. They were discussing college and what "everyone" was doing to prepare for the BIG CHANGE. My daughter asked her friend what scholarships she'd applied for so far. (Jamie has probably written three dozen essays for different applications.) The answer was along the lines of, "Not much. Something good will come along."

Jamie was aghast. In the retelling she said to us, "Doesn't she know that good things don't just land on you? You have to make good things happen!"

I've rarely been more proud of her, nor more pleased with Mom and Dad.

Scrabble Poetry

I'd not blogged for more than a handful of months in part because of so much going on -- "The vicissitudes of life" as my old friend Victor Lyons used to say.

I was prompted to get back to it recently because of something my daughter Jamie said. Yet when I did, I started (yesterday) with a note about my new novel Knights of the Full Moon.

So I decided to try again, but realized I wanted to take more time than I really have at the moment to write about Jamie. That's when I noticed how I mention Scrabble at the top of this blog, and yet I haven't said anything about it yet.

So, without (much) further ado, here's a Scrabble poem that I wrote some time ago during a fierce war with my friend George. It was the opening volley in a horrible conflict.

How do I spell thee?  Let me count the ways.

I spell thee OBI, OBE, and OBEAH, all are right,

We know even when the book is out of sight,

But FATTEND upon all seeing made me lose face

I spell thee XI and CHI and KI, with definitions not the same,

I spell thee freely, what 'ere it takes to win the game

I spell thee with passion that all can feel,

And thus bluff the phony, so you will think it real,

In thinking of GRIEFS, is it I before E?

Do ADZ and ADZE both correctly use my Z?

With my lost challenge, I'll spell thee again, but not the same,

But now the spot is gone.  Damn!

I shall spell thee better next game.


With lazy apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning. More later!

Knights of the Full Moon -- shopping

My new 87,500 word YA/SF novel Knights of the Full Moon has now survived its third draft, and is presently loose in the woods, sniffing for lucky agents. Go, Knights, go!

Under the full moon, teens Jenny, Dreek, Maria and Charlie find an ancient, indestructible jeweled shield; four hours later they've viciously murdered Davey Crockett. So much for their worst problems being Jenny's OCD and Dreek not being "black" enough for his mom.

The shield grants them mental and physical powers, but that hardly makes up for the apparent killing, even if they had been temporarily insane. Being forced to attack the police doesn't help, nor does the six-armed, blue alien woman trying to slaughter them. And then there's Stink Man, and conflict with ham and cheese. At last when Jenny's family comes under attack they have to find a way to destroy the shield or go insane trying, a challenge that shatters their friendship.