Why Am I Here?

Good day to you, fellow Castaways. Thanks for popping by. Sit yourselves on the sofa, grab a cup of coffee from the cart, swipe a pastry or two (you know you want to).

This past week I was sitting here thinking, great. I have a blog. Everyone tells me if I have a blog, I need to have a focus, a consistent theme of some sort. Recently, I was taken to task by someone who said, "Aren't you here to sell books? Sell books, and stop scaring away readers!" Okay, so here I am being Mr. Friendly Author. If you want to buy my book, you can click on my Books Page and take it from there.

Okay, that's done. Hey, I'd love to sell books. But if all I'm here to do is market my novels, don't you think people will get tired of coming here week after week and getting commercials? I don't watch TV for the ads, guys, and I don't have ads on my blog for a reason. There's enough ads out there.

 

I want a place where anybody can stop by, relax, and have a chat with a friend. We don't always have to agree on a point, or on the subject. We're just here to get to know each other a little better, to come away a little Closer To The Heart, as the song goes.

 

I don't expect everybody to agree with me. I'm an odd sort, and if anyone did agree with me on everything, I'd consider that a red flag. We're all who we are, and no one should ever endeavor to be "just like" anybody else. Humans are all different. And that's a glorious and precious thing.

Plus, it occurs to me, we all need a place to come where we are appreciated and loved right where we are. There's enough going on around us to tear us down, tell us we aren't "good enough," point out our every mistake. There's more than enough folks who think the only way to elevate themselves is to lower everyone else around them. Don't we just want to get a break from all the crap the day hands us? Don't we all just need a hug once in a while? Seriously, I know I'm sounding like a bleeding heart wimp, but think about it: One solid hug a day (more, as required) simply tells us that we are of value to someone. Who the hell wants to fight after receiving a hug from someone they value?

 

The great thing about a hug is that it's just there.  In abundance. An inexhaustible supply of simple, human love. You can just never run out of them. For every hurting person, for every broken heart, for every lonely, tortured soul, there is a hug. And you can get one right here.

So I guess the theme for my blog is, "Here's me. Come on in and get to know me. While you're here, get a free hug."

We might discuss some political point, or some point of faith. Or share something from my writing, or another author, or the Queen of Persia. But if we differ, we can do it in a safe place, where we honor and respect each other, and show where our hearts are, rather than screaming and fighting.

Hey, it's my blog. I can do what I want, right?

Have another cup. It's good stuff. Trust me.

The Art of Breathing: How to Fight Depression and Win

Someone reading this is struggling. This is for you. If you're not struggling, read anyway, so you can help someone who is. I'm not a doctor. I'm just a guy who struggles, too. And I've found the secret to getting through. It's called "breathing."

Life is life. We can't explain it, we can't predict it. It is what it is, and sometimes your world just gets rocked. And by that, I mean not in a good way. It's in those times when you get leveled by a boxcar from above that you re-evaluate your priorities.

My daughter had to say goodbye yesterday to her dearest and closest friend. The lady got married, and they will be living in Alaska. I'll miss her, too. She's a good kid, and those two were thick as thieves. But life is life, and life is what it is. It's not like her friend died or anything. But then again, maybe it feels pretty damn close. Alaska may as well be another universe for a friend that close. The point is, my daughter is very down right now.

I've found in storms like this that it boils down to the basics. Situations hit, like atom bombs in our lives. A loss by death. Your friend moving away. That lab report that changes everything. One moment that can destroy your freedom. So many things can knock us right down, and so many people have no idea how to get back up again. The wallow in depression and just fade away.

I knew a woman several years ago who struggled with depression. My best friend was recently floored by a perfect storm in his life, and we spent a good deal of time scraping him off the floor in pieces and gluing him back together. It's horrid stuff, depression. It can steal away your ability to function. If you let it.

As one who has been run over by a few freight trains in my life (like the sudden death of my brother, loss of my father and younger sister to cancer, a son with severe disabilities, and a daughter I nearly lost before she was three, among other storms), I can speak from experience. I still fight my own depression once in a while.

There once was a time I could languish in my depression and give the circumstances time to immobilize me. I could lay on the couch for hours and just corrode, mentally. That was before I became a dad and husband. I could afford the loss of time. But now things are different. I had to learn how to work through and remain functional.

Yeah, it makes me sound like a machine. But when you're floored with circumstances, "functional" takes on a whole new meaning. "Functional" is where you're at. Look at it this way:

Okay, right now you're helpless. I get that. But you're breathing, right? I'll prove it. Take a breath. Good, yeah, you did it. Don't space out on me, some people don't realize how big a step it is to willfully take a breath. Okay, now take another one. Who cares if you're still lying on your side on the couch with a mountain of snotty, tear-soaked  Kleenex on the floor under your face. You're breathing. So breathe. Don't worry about your heart; it'll handle beating all on its own (in most cases). Just breathe for a while.

Once you get the hang of breathing, things actually get easier. Believe me, they do. If you can breathe, you can sit up. You have to go to the bathroom anyway. Sitting up is right on your way. So sit up. Now, if you can sit up, you can stand. Not "you may." You CAN. If you need help, get some. But you need to get that standing thing down before you go ay further. Note that by "standing" I include those among us who need wheels as well. Standing is a relative term. I don't care if you hate your chair, especially if that's the cause for your depression. Mobility is the next step. It takes an act of will. If you can't handle a step, don't worry about it. Just back up to the previous one. Breathe. Sit. Get mobile. Those are the basics.

Now, look at what's next: eat and drink. I know, things are getting to be a challenge now. We're getting into areas that require action.  Willful action. By "willful" I don't mean wanting to do it. I mean taking action by an act of your will. Crying isn't an act of will. Eating is.If you're still crying though breathing and sitting up, that's okay. You can address that later.

The key to breathing is to keep doing it, and take each step at a time. You don't go from the couch back to work in one huge quantum leap. I can remember when eating and drinking to me was a sign of things actually getting better. First, it meant I had food, and the utility companies hadn't cut off my power or my water. Yay me. I already had the first three steps under my belt, and I was eating. All on my own, too. I'm not being funny; it was that bad.

Next was keeping the utilities on. That meant work. It meant functioning as a profitable member of my company team. I'd get up, go to work, come home, and most evenings would find me back on that couch with the pile of Kleenex. But you know what? I was functional. Kind of like when you really need a car and you buy a '78 rust-bucket with no muffler and a busted windshield, where you can see the road through the holes in the floorboard and the trunk is falling out and there's no rear bumper because that rusted off a long time ago. BUT, it starts in the morning (even if you have to pump your leg furiously for the first five minutes just to keep it running), and when you push on the gas it goes, when you push the brake, it stops. And when you turn the wheel, it turns, hopefully in the same direction. That kind of "functional."

See, you can do it. It's one step at a time, and you don't have to lie to yourself (unless that's what it takes to get you to sit up). Do what you have to do, when you have to do it. Tomorrow doesn't exist. There's only This Moment and how to get through it.

And you can do it. Just start with breathing. Because it will get better. You will win.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsors!

Greetings, Castaways.

I seem to have picked up some regular blog readers (who haven't signed on as followers yet, for some reason) from some really cool places recently, and I want to personally acknowledge them. So to our newer readers in China, Romania, Spain, Germany, Poland, Cyprus, Belgium and other unexpected places, I say, "Welcome, and thank you for viewing!"

In case you don't know it, I write novels, mainly thrillers and science fiction.  My debut novel Becoming NADIA won the EPIC Award for Best Thriller, so if you like a white-knuckle ride through the pages, feel free to check it out. You can read a free excerpt at:

https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/becoming-nadia-detail

Part Two of the series is another thriller with deep discussions of identity and relationship titled Unalive:

https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/unalive-detail

Of course, we wouldn't leave you hanging, would we? So we finish up the story of Nadia Velasquez with Book Three, Critical Mass:
https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/critical-mass-detail

How do you like that cover art? My artist is Delilah K. Stephans.

Now, the series at this point is technically complete. But there's just one loose end that we need to sew up, and that's the story of the origin of the Pinnacle's most dangerous secret agent Jenna Paine:

https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/mainstream/lies-and-paine-detail

I had a lot of fun writing this series, and I think you'll enjoy reading it. It's getting a lot of great reviews from all over the place.

And now we return you to our regularly scheduled program, already in progress...

Microcebus Murinus at Bear Cave

...and, Happy Saturday, fellow castaways!

I trust your week was fruitful, if not downright peachy.

I missed last week's post, because the Keith family had to get away. It was the first family vacation we've had in almost twenty years, believe it or not. We seem to have hit a point where all the medical specialists in Western Lower Michigan are comfortably making their car payments, so it was our turn to have some family time that didn't involve surgical waiting rooms or a massive, multicolored wire medusa stuck to someone's head after a sleepless night. So we took to it with Gusto.

We rented a cottage at a camp resort about an hour and a half away (little steps, people, little steps!) and settled in for a week of fishing, boating, and out-of-touch-with-all-electronics leisure.

And got what IT specialists refer to as "an undocumented feature.".

Maxwell showed up on the third day, eager to meet the new residents of the Manager's House (what the resort called our cottage. Long story, but it used to be the resort manager's house, several owners ago. Okay, I guess it wasn't such a long story, but there you go. It was a nice little place with two bedrooms and a pull-out sofa in the living room that had this bar--) *One hundred medieval soldiers on nearest hilltop scream, "Get on with it!*

Okay, so there was this mouse. A little gray rat-bag of a mouse that at least had the decency to not run over someone's face in their sleep, or gnaw through our Pop-Tart boxes before he showed up (albeit late on Wednesday night, without even bothering to knock. Oh, the nerve).

What is it about mice that draws them to females of our species? What is it about their timing that makes them always show up when the man of the house is engaged in manly functions not related to having immediate freedom of movement? O Mouse, must you rob Man even of his dignity? I was deeply involved with such a movement-restricting manly activity when an unearthly shriek was heard coming from the kitchen area of the house (the kitchen? Seriously? How stereotypical. This mouse obviously had no imagination).

Okay, so I had maybe this one shred of malicious glee, imagining the ages-old war erupting on the other side of the bathroom door with one micro-bear and three females of my species. Then I shook myself-- from my reverie (where was your mind?) and thoroughly washed my hands before dashing bravely into the living quarters, where my wife was perched screaming on a dining chair as my daughters dashed from refuge to vain refuge in various corners while this tiny gray shadow dashed furiously from corner to corner, under the couch, behind various appliances, and in general trying to cover as many square feet as it could at one time, with my gallant and courageous sons in hot pursuit, heaving shoes, fishing lures, and kitchen utensils in a manner that would have made George S. Patton cringe in terror. Where's a timed artillery barrage when you really need it?

With a battle cry handed down from father to son since the days my ancestors swung claymores and charged into action wearing kilts (not little dresses! Although they immobilized the enemy into helpless fits of laughter just before being hacked into little bits by claymore-wielding ancestors), I bellowed our traditional Nya-a-a-a-a-a-rgh!!! (c)  before wading into the fray.

The enemy was under the stove. My spinning rod was fit with a Hula-Popper. It was the perfect combination of floppy bits, metal hooks and tiny ends that would surely drag the fugitive into the open where it could be dispatched with authority and determination. Although, as I swept the weapon under the stove, I wondered where I would get a kilt with which to immobilize the creature by helpless fits of laughter before performing the dreadful deed. I am a traditionalist, after all.

After several minutes of fruitless mouse-fishing, I came to the conclusion the creature had chosen a tactical withdrawal, at least for the evening. We settled in for the long haul, switching sides on the living room floor (I would take the side closer to the kitchen). The kiddos settled into their beds on either end of the cottage, and the rest of the night passed in a tenuous state of detente.

The next day, we explained through sleep-starved lips at the camp store our exploits of the previous evening. The staff set us up with appropriate anti-cebus weaponry, and we set about laying out our ambuscades. With much-practiced hands (I grew up in Rodent Central, after all), I supplemented each bait tray with a smear of chunky peanut butter (Mice love peanut butter. Everybody loves peanut butter. Anyone who doesn't love peanut butter is a weirdo) and set them in various strategic locations, most notably beside the stove (The last place Maxwell was seen). After spending the daylight hours engaged in various leisure activities (Be jealous. Be very jealous), we retired for the evening.

Sometime in the night, our older daughter grunted and swatted at her face, thinking maybe Maxwell had just made a guerrilla raid on the residence. This triggered an instantaneous response from her sister, who raised the alert with a series of blood-curdling screams emitted in that frequency range and amplitude reserved for sonic weapons. In other words, from over in their room there arose such a clatter I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. I promptly tripped over three fishing poles, a tackle box and three life preservers before stumbling into the room and clotheslining myself on a canoe paddle stretched across the doorway.

After determining the absence of threat, I assured the girls Maxwell would be more interested in the kitchen than the bedrooms, and spent the rest of the night in restless anxiety.

Sometime between the false alarm and the dawn creeping up over the eastern horixzon, however, Maxwell Mouse met his maker. We were almost sorry to see him thus undone, but what can you say. It's a war, son; no one comes out clean. The rest of the week remained largely uneventful, much to our relief. I think we actually slept the next night or two.

So what what do you do to relax?

Blog-Bomb 3: Rhobin Courtright!

Hey, fellow castaways!

This week, I want to share with you one of my new favorite science fiction authors. For those who aren't familiar, a blog-bomb is just a surprise entry highlighting someone in particular, chosen strictly at my own caprice.

For BB3, I chose Rhobin L. Courtright, author of Crewkin. Okay, so maybe this is just as much about the book as it is about Ms. Courtright, which may make this more of a review than a true blog-bomb in the purest spirit of the blog-bomb intent. But I claim rights to trhe term, and I'll make it what I want. So there.

First, I have to say I'm a big fan of Robert A. Heinlein and his style. I'm not so much a fan of authors like Arthur C. Clarke et al. I enjoyed 2001, in spite of the fact that throughout most of the book, NOTHING HAPPENS! Heinlein had some "draggers" too, but most of his books were excellent examples of action in a science fiction universe.

Rhobin Courtright's Crewkin was one of the first electronic books I bought, and a finalist for the 2012 EPIC Award for Best Science Fiction novel. After reading it, I heaved a huge sigh of relief that I entered my own novel in a different category, because I'm not sure Becoming NADIA would have beaten out Crewkin for the sci-fi category.

 

Renna Markham 3 is the only survivor of a long-haul star freighter that died in an incident so horrific that the Markham Corporation (owners of the ship, de facto, Renna) and  doesn't even want to talk about it. "Podders" as Renna and her crewkin are called, are so ingrained and isolated from "normal" folks like us, they don't even know how to survive socially, and the standard practice in any ship failure is for the entire crew to "join" by committing suicide. But for some reason, Renna wants to continue leaving. Her first great act of defiance is to walk out of the company clinic. I cheered. Now, for me to get that attached to a character less than one page in takes some damned good dialogue and a situation I can identify, and Ms. C did that marvelously well. Frighteningly well.

 

 Her second act of defiance is to grow hair. I don't want to explain it, you'll just have to read it yourself.

The Story then becomes centered around Renna's struggles to assimilate into a human society, wandering from job to job on the in-system short-haul space freighters, only to be shunned by crew after crew for her strange habits and customs, accumulated from her life as a member of a Podder crew. I think many of us can understand what it's like to be on the outside looking in, and I felt that sting deeply, even after she finds herself in with yet one more short-haul crew. Only this bunch have problems of their own. Each one is another misfit in his or her own way. So take one dysfunctional short-haul crew, add a Podder and shake well. You get some interesting colors.

Then, the other subplots start appearing. The cargo they took on at their last port, the one they are depending on to keep the ship's owners from bankruptcy? There's something odd about that. 

And that's just the beginning of "interesting."

Now, in the middle, there's some Clarke-esque moments where I thought the pace could have been a little more "on-spot." But I'm not going to fault a chess master for setting up his pieces for a checkmate, either. And the pace picked up nicely toward the grand climax at the end, and a very satisfying conclusion was reached.

I closed the book very impressed with the way it all fell together, and you guys want to read it, if you haven't already.

Thanks for a great ride, Rhobin. I look forward to more.

 

Diffusion

Have you ever said goodbye to someone knowing it would probably be the very last time you saw them on this earth? I'm not talking about saying goodbye to someone who's dying. We all know that's a heartbreaking moment. But we also know and understand in our hearts that it's definitely the last time we will see them this side of The Veil of death.

This week, I'm talking about those who move through our lives as molecules of a fluid move around each other in a solution, touching, sometimes lingering, and then moving on, diffusing to the farthest corners of the Container. And as we encounter these people, we affect each other, even for just that briefest of golden moments. Sometimes that moment lasts, and that other molecule becomes an acquaintance, a friend, or even more intimate. And then, one day, everything changes.

I had a friend in kindergarten and first grade, named Pam. Pam and I hung out, we walked together to and from school, we played on the playground together, and we were best friends.

 

You might even say (though a six-year-old boy would never admit this) that she was my first love. One day, we were just strolling home from school, I lost in thought about some great adventure, she talking on about whatever occupied her at the moment, and I never noticed that somehow we'd walked right past her house, and she was already up the steps and gone. Oddly enough, that was the last time I saw her. She wasn't in school the next day, or the day after that. And when I went to her house, no one was home. Pam's shadow lingered in my heart for years afterward. I never got to say goodbye.

In High school, I had a group of friends. I call them friends because of the level of camaraderie we established as a group. It was one particular class, Stage Tech. I'd been a misfit through most of my school years, not finding any group with which I could identify. And in my junior year, failing Advanced Algebra, my counselor suggested Stage Tech class. We were the people responsible for every production at the school. We built sets for the musicals and dramas, set and ran lights and sound for the band and choir shows, learned makeup techniques (Curse you, Maybelline, for discontinuing Tan Number Two base!).

 

Anyway, I walk into the school auditorium, and there's this band of misfits like me. We weren't the lead actors (though eventually I did take a lead role in Teahouse of the August Moon), we were the "behind the scenes" people who nobody saw, and we liked it that way. It was the two-dozen-or-so of us against the entire world, and we were determined to leave our marks on it. And we did, along the catwalk above the auditorium, on the light booth walls, and in the "student lounge," a secret corner of La Porte High School of which only a select few are aware of its very existence. We were quirky together, we were misfits together, and were brilliant together.

And after graduation, we never saw each other again.

And those instances don't take into account all the other molecules that flowed through my life over the years. My first real girlfriend when I was a teenager, Mary Ann. Missy, the Frick to my Frack who almost became my first lead singer (she was a HUGE fan off Robert Plant). Dave and Jon, two buddies from my Air Force days, who saw me through some of the toughest times in my life.

 

And then, molecules part. Some drift away. Some conflict. Some move away. Some just...disappear. And we never have another chance to tell them what they mean to us, how much we love them, or even to say how terribly sorry we are about...that.

That is the worst part about goodbyes. That is a word or an action that causes damage. And to leave someone damaged is the worst thing a person can do. I know. I've left some damaged people in my wake, much to my shame. And my punishment for that  is to live with knowing each heart is precious, and to have done or said that, and not be able to fix it.

My heart aches with each life I've left behind, every heart that has touched me, and every heart I've touched. I may never again see them, and I miss them all. But I can't live my life in regret, either. The best I can do every time the ache rises, every time I think of them, is to remember what good came of our time together, and to pray for their well-being and prosperity.

It doesn't make m miss them any less. But I hope that wherever they are, if they remember me, that they might do the same thing.

That makes it a little better.

It also reminds me that with each new relationship, each new person I touch, however briefly, our echoes live on long after we leave each other. It makes me more conscious of how I treat them in the Golden Moment of our interaction.

Maybe if we all were more aware of that, we'd scream a little less and start getting along.

As If You Didn't Know

Greetings again, fellow castaways, riders on the Earth as we hurtle through space and time at unbelievable speeds.

First off, congratulations are in order for Abe. Grats, dude. Abe won a copy of Critical Mass, the third book in The NADIA Project. Which brings me to another point. The key to the win is, when the host asks for a comment, you gotta comment. I tried to make it super easy. If anyone has trouble leaving comment, email me at cyrus DOT keith AT yahoo DOT com.

Now for the topic this week: We've all seen what's been happening. eBooks are actually outselling hard copies in many markets, which is pretty cool. That's a lot of trees heaving sighs of relief there.

At the same time, there is the paradigm I seem to run into, which is odd to say the least. In my area, most folks still cling to their paperbacks and hardbacks, which is fine. Reading is reading, and reading is good. I like both, myself.

Even those with Kindles and Nooks are of the opinion that you aren't really  published unless they can walk into Barnes and Noble and see your work on the shelf. It's enough to make me want to bash my brains out with my keyboard sometimes. But then I have to remember, we're living in exciting times right now, with the transitions in the publishing industry. And with transitions come adjustments and shifts of mindset. Business practices an methods are changing as well.

It used to be  big thing to be published, and yes, "published" used to mean being in the big stores or even the mom-and-pop store down the block. But now, being published could mean you just threw something through the processing mill at Amazon. As a matter of fact, one of the kids at the local high school did exactly that, knowing the work was substandard. But he did it just to prove the "being published" meant a different thing now than it did only ten years ago. Of course, he pulled the book back down before I could hunt him down and hang him from the library roof. But he made his point.

Now, like any new technology, the human mind has to take some time to catch up. People have to get used to the new definition of "published." Does that mean being published doesn't mean anything anymore? God forbid. What it doe mean is that buyers need to be more aware that there is substandard work out there, and just because something is published doesn't mean it's any good. Not every self-pubbed author invests in editing and cover art.

Electronic publishing doesn't spell the death of paper books, not by a long shot. And it's sill not easy to get a book published the right way, by which I mean that some effort as been made to present it, to make it a quality work before it gets unleashed on an unsuspecting public.

But publishing has taken quantum leaps in technology and technique in the last few years, and some folks (even the big publishers) have yet to make the adjustments needed to catch up and keep up with the changes. Some still overcharge for eBooks. The recent price-fixing scandal showed us that the "old regimes" still cling to obsolete business models, and are tying their best to force the market to stay where it is. But in spite of their best efforts to steer market forces, the market won't have it. Some will get it, and prosper. Others will go by the wayside. Either way, adjustments have to be made.

"Published" still means something. Depending on your definition of "published."  Kind of like when one man got us thinking about the real definition of the word "is."

Themes and A GIVEAWAY!

As you've seen in my last post, besides a writer, I'm also a musician. So it only follows that music has an influence on my writing. I draw parallels from certain songs, and when I started writing, it occurred to me that certain characters and scenarios kind of had their own theme songs.

I tried listening to music while I was writing, but that didn't work. All too often, my mind would wander to the song being played, and I would focus on the lyric instead of what I was trying to write. So I'd get all caught up and swept away by what was supposed to be inspiring me. I don't know if any other writer runs into that same thing. But on the other hand, I have to have some kind of noise going on in the background or I can't concentrate. TV works great for tat, because it's not lyrical as rule.

Anyway, back to what I was talking about, let me show you what was happening in me when I was writing The NADIA Project. I stared out without a theme song, but as I passed the halfway point in Becoming NADIA and the bottom line message of the story came floating to the surface, what also came to light was Natasha Bedingfield's song Unwritten:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7k0a5hYnSI

My goodness, it just summed up Nadia's character so perfectly, I played it constantly on my car to finish the book out (Notice how Nadia loves to feel rain on her skin?). So Nadia h her theme song.

And when I was writing Unalive, it was right about the time someone introduced me to Within Temptation. This time, two songs stood out, one as a theme for the overall project, and one just for Jenna Paine's character, kind of as a toll to sculpt her:

What Have You Done:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_aYivBntOC4

and The Howling: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0bqRn0rLq1c

Actually, it's kind of hard to tell which one is for which element. But you can see they both give us a sense of Jenna, and a long-ago loss of innocence.

Critical Mass  and Lies and Paine came together about the same time. As a matter of fact, Lies and Paine began as the first chapter of Critical Mass. but it kept going in a direction I didn't want for the novel, so I spun it off into the novella. So I didn't delete it. I just pruned it off so it could grow on its own, and I'm glad I did, because the series feels complete with its addition. The theme from those two works was a slam dunk, and that was Halestorm's I Miss the Misery:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpJAmlnBxoA

That song just seemed to capture Jenna's barely-focused rage, where throughout Critical Mass  we see her riding the edge of cold justice and blind vengeance, falling first on one side and then the other, and compromising right and wrong in the process. Like I've said to anyone who's asked about her, by the time you finish Critical Mass,  you're either going to love Jenna even more, or hate her guts.

As you go through my work, I think you can probably see the influence that each of these songs has exerted on the overall story. And I think my work is better for it. Does your music influence your writing, or do you listen as you rad and let it filter into the story as you read? Let me know.

From the comments, I'll pick a random winner and they can get an eBook from my series (our choice!) So make sure you leave your email address when you comment.

The Story is a Song

Greetings, fellow castaways!

I was listening to some music the other day and it hit me. I was really getting into the piece that was playing at the time, and when the next piece came on, it just punctuated my epiphany.

So pardon me if you already got this, but it's a big thing to me. A story is like a song.

The music I was listening to was from Rush's album Moving Pictures, specifically YYZ and The Camera Eye:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zmrz0_oqe4A
and
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTXQfoCUuZk

It's a challenge for a songwriter to create an audio panting in one's brain. There must be breaks, changes, segues, alterations to keep one's brain stimulated and interesting. This is especially true when there are extended instrumental passages like the pieces I mentioned above, and I hope you checked out the links to see what I mean. If not, feel free.

As writers, we also want to vary things through our stories to create the same kind of stimulus. We vary the pace by creating slower passages and breaks in tension. We tease by only revealing our world a little at a time. We drop cliffhangers and hooks in your visual path, making connections between your eyes and brain in the same way a musician creates a connection between your ear and your brain. And I think we're stimulating many of the same areas.

We may open with a mind-blowing chase or a fight, or with a slow, easy introduction to a day in the life of our main character. But sooner or later, things have to change. The tension must be either ramped up, or spooled down. New elements need to be brought in. The pace has to change.

Sean McMullen's novel The Centurion's Empire  is an excellent example.

The story begins in a storm on the Mediterranean Sea and a shipwreck that leaves our main character awash on a far shore. McMullen goes from there to a mysterious chamber in another land, where ancient, timeless beings have been watching our young centurion for their own end. The pace actually stays pretty slow for the first half of the book, but McMullen teases is with so many loose ends, we're dying to find out how they all fit together.

Then, when they do come together, he ramps up the pace and tension to a blood-pumping pace with international chase scenes, high-tech weapons and clever spy-gags that officially have us hooked. The pace continues in this rapid pace until the characters force a slow-down and a revelation that literally made me point at the page and say, "I never  saw that coming!"

The main reason I picked that particular book as an example, is that the author staggers the pace and does things in such a different way, it seems to go against what we've become used to in a book. He uses so many different tools and techniques, and brings them all together, bending them to his will like a composer for a complex music piece.

And the thing is, if any piece isn't doing its job, the whole suffers. If Alex Lifeson puts his guitar down and walks off to the nearest pub letting Geddy and Neil carry the tune, folks would surely notice.

So, as writers, this may come as a challenge, to look at your work in a new way, to create prose that slides through your reader's brain not like a lyric, but as a bass line. Make your scenery a drum beat. Make your characters the lead solos that give us the melody.

And if you're a reader, look for these elements in your favorite book, so when you come to that special part, you hear the story's own special song in your mind, and come away with a new appreciation for your entire library.

See you next week.

You Are Brilliant.

Even when you feel like a lump of green matter found in an armpit one midsummer's morning.



I don't know what it is, but most people I know have problems believing in themselves. Yours truly included. There may be a crack in our souls that lets our self-belief leak out. Okay, I'll grant you, some folks have no problem with self-esteem. Hell, some of us have exactly the opposite problem. You know the type. They change a light bulb by just holding it up and let the world revolve around them.

But I'd bet even they secretly go off somewhere and wonder what the hell they're doing and why.

When my first novel got accepted for publication, I had no idea how to handle it. When it won Best Thriller at EPICon 2012, imagine one tongue-tied man wondering what I did to deserve something so nice happening. I still have trouble accepting the whole thing. I mean, why should I of all people have something good happen to me?

Then I have to remember this: I was made by my God. And my God doesn't make mistakes. Granted, I'm as far from perfect as an aardvark with three butt cheeks and mange. I didn't say I was perfect. I said I'm not a mistake. And neither are you. You have a gift, and that gift makes you the only you on the planet. And believe it or not, the world needs what you have.

You see, you are the only one who can give the world the gift that you have, and if you don't give it, the world is missing it.

That's why we all have a dream. Some of us have more than one. When I was little, I wanted to dig dinosaur bones with Roy Chapman Andrews.

 

Okay, so it might have been weird for a four-year-old to dream of being a paleontologist. It's not any more weird than a four-year-old who can read and pronounce "paleontologist." I could even name every species of dinosaur that appeared in Fantasia. It never occurred to me that maybe I was born just a little late to dig with O'l Roy. He was my hero, and science was my passion. That, and being outside. Roy was an adventurer, an outdoorsman, and  a scientist. That rocks. I don't know why I never seriously pursued paleontology. I think maybe the math killed it. I create a giant sucking sound whenever I try to figure out mathematical problems. My brain just isn't configured for it.

 

Then I hit my teens. I heard Rush for the first time, and my new hero became Geddy Lee. Geddy Lee isn't a scientist, so he doesn't have to know math. He knows bass guitar, and how to put on a show with one.

 

 

The reason I picked Geddy was because Geddy plays bass, and everyone else wanted to play guitar. One of the reasons I really liked Rush's music was because everyone else I knew hated them, except maybe a handful of other misfits like me. I think I just gave my rebel side away. I taught myself how to play bass on a detuned six-string. Of course, I later got my own bass, which I still play forty years later. I'm probably not a s good as Geddy Lee, but I have fun. I was even in a band for a while, and we made a pretty good stab at making music. We even got our band name written on the men's room wall at the local oyster bar. But that's as far as we got.

 

My latest dream was to become a published author, and I chased it with everything that was in me. That was the one that finally took. That's how you tell a dream. It's something you pursue with a passion. You may not know right now what your dream is, but dearest, you have one. Believe  me. If I can have three, you can have one. I sincerely believe that every single person on earth has a built-in dream, and that dream is what you are meant to be. If you have nothing else, have your dream, and chase it. Because the world needs your dream.

 

Because you are brilliant. God doesn't make mistakes. He makes dreamers. And when they find their dreams, He laughs with happiness, claps his hands and tells all of Heaven how proud He is of them. And that, my friend, includes you.