Previous books' character interviews -- Levi from Twin-Bred

Here's another character interview from Twin-Bred. I've tweaked it a bit. (For example, back then I apparently didn't use the Oxford comma. Hard to believe . . . .)

Introductory Note: this would be, to say the least, a difficult interview to arrange. "Levi Thomas" was the name that would have belonged to Mara Cadell's fraternal twin, had he survived to be born. He died shortly before that point. Mara, emotionally traumatized by that loss, coped by keeping Levi alive in her mind as a companion. (The traumatic nature of her loss is based on reports from many twin survivors.)

Q: Let's start with the obvious. Are you real? Or a creation of Mara's imagination?

A: Wouldn't you like to know?

I could tell you to ask Mara -- not that she's in a particularly good position to answer that question -- but of course, she doesn't like to talk about me. She'd be quite perturbed that you even know of my existence (if that's what we call it for purposes of discussion).

Q: How is it that you two function? Does she just hear you, like a voice, or is there something more? Emotions, sensations?

A:  Let me check my notes. Or rather, Mara's therapist's notes. Yes, here's what she told him. "We talk. It’s more immediate than, say, hearing music in your head — but it’s not like someone’s in the room.”

Q: Do you ever have control over Mara, in any way? Like an alternate personality taking over a body.

A: I don't possess her. I'm not a dybbuk. I may influence her behavior on occasion -- by distracting her, or making her laugh when she shouldn't, that sort of thing. And I try to talk her into doing what I recommend in various situations. I have a surprisingly good record there.

Q: Do you play any part in Mara's artwork -- her drawing and cartooning?

A: Not directly. I don't think I would have been that visual. I'm more about the words. We often talk about her drawings. Sometimes I lack the context to understand them, and she explains. And her cartoons show a sense of humor that she doesn't normally indulge. That side of her, that hidden mischief, is where she and I are most alike.

Q: To what extent do you see yourself as separate from Mara? And a related question: do you form your own attachments to people, ideas, or things?

A: Shall I say, we're inseparable? . . . There have been cases of conjoined twins where surgical separation would have killed one of the two. Sometimes that has been necessary, so that at least one could survive. If it's ever necessary for Mara's sake that I cease to be part of her life, that'll be all she wrote, as far as my existence goes. Or so I assume. It's a strange universe, and I'm hardly an authority on what surprises it may have in store.

I do have opinions. I may trust some people less than Mara does, and let her know it. I doubt I've ever trusted anyone more than she does. I'm the suspicious type.

Q: Is Mara better or worse off for your presence, do you think? What do you think would happen if people found out about you at the Twin-bred project?

Let's take those questions one at a time.

Mara would be better off if I had lived. And it's possible she'd be better off if I had never existed. I'm not sure "better to have loved and lost" applies in these circumstances, if it ever does. . . .  But there we were, twins. There's no getting around that starting point. And she's tenacious, in love as in other things. It wasn't in her nature to simply move on. All things considered, I think she's better off isolated and secretive than seriously depressed. And of course, I'm good company.

But it's quite important, I believe, that I remain a secret. If people found out about our little ménage a deux, it would very likely endanger the Project, and might end Mara's career.

You must understand, Mara is not the easiest person to get along with. She's prickly and doesn't suffer fools gladly. And she has a very low tolerance for organizational politics. All of which means that only her exceptional scientific ability induces people to put up with her. There are many who would like to be shut of her if they had a good enough excuse. Delusions of twin-hood? Good enough.

Q: How do you feel your presence affects Mara with her work at the project, dealing with twins all the time?

A: I exist because she needs me to help her cope with life in general. Without my presence, or shall we say my availability -- I'm not muttering in her ear nonstop -- I doubt she could handle being around twins day in and day out.

I should add that despite the pain involved, there are ways it's been healing for Mara, being surrounded by Twin-Bred. All around her, she sees humans and Tofa, most of whom would never have had a twin if not for her. You could say that she's ensured I didn't die in vain. Though I doubt she's thought if it in those terms.

new links for previous books' character interviews - Dr. Mara Cadell from Twin-Bred

In updating my much-neglected website, I discovered that some of the links for my character interviews have expired. So I'm bringing those interviews home.

Here is an interview with my very first fictional character (not counting juvenelia), Dr. Mara Cadell, founder of the Twin-Bred project.

Introductory Note: Mara has a secret to keep, and her answers to these questions reflect that. The secret: that her fraternal twin brother, Levi, died shortly before birth, and that she has dealt with the trauma of that loss by keeping him alive in her mind as a companion.

Q.        When did you first conceive of the Twin-Bred project?

A.        In one sense, the idea first occurred to me when I was quite young -- a child, in fact. I       believe I was seven years old. I was -- I was aware of the deep bond between twins, and I          thought what a shame it was that humans and Tofa couldn't be twins, so they'd get along     better. It was several years later that I learned about host mothers who carry fetuses for      other women. I immediately recalled my earlier fancy, and wondered if the physical obstacles to cross-species implantation and so on could be overcome.

Q.        Do you regard the Twin-Bred -- emotionally speaking -- as your children?

A.        Not really. The relationship isn't that -- personal. I don't hover and worry over every little bump and bruise, or concern myself with fusses and tantrums. The ones whose host    mothers have left would be much more likely to go to one of the nurses, possibly Chief            Nurse Gaho, for something close to maternal attention. I think my feelings are more like    those of a teacher who takes pride in her students' progress and achievements.

            Although I am quite protective of the Twin-Bred's safety and well-being. You might say intensely protective.

Q.        The official name of the Twin-Bred project is the Long-Term Emissary Viviparous             Initiative, or LEVI. Is it a coincidence that those initials spell a name? Is the project named after someone in particular?

A.        That's a personal matter. Next question?

Q.        Would it be accurate to say that LEVI would never have gotten off the ground without    funding and support from the governing Council?

A.        Certainly. I'm no fundraiser. I have no particular gift for stroking egos and such. I suppose that if I'd happened to know someone both wealthy and interested, we could have managed with private funding. Most likely, we would still have had the same problems -- excuse me, occasional issues -- about the time frame in which results could be expected, and exactly what return on investment we could produce. Although we would have had personal continuity, instead of the turnover we've naturally seen on the Council over time.

Q.        I understand you're an artist. What are your favorite subjects?

A.        I don't usually call myself an artist. I like to sketch. I've done a little painting, but I rarely have time for it. My cartoons tend to be about things that annoy me. It helps me keep my temper.

Q.        I see you have a cartoon on your desk. May I take a closer look?

A.        (pause) Yes. Of course.

Q.        This cartoon shows a woman sitting up in bed. It's you, isn't it? And she's holding a           pillow at arm's length, and the pillow is sticking out its tongue at her. And one of the moons, the larger one, is showing through the window -- but it's making a really nasty face.

A.        I don't always sleep well. And on occasion my dreams can be less than pleasant. Now I     don't wish to be rude, but I really do have a great deal to do, and I'd best get back to it. Thank you for stopping by. I'll have someone give you a tour of the facility on your way out. It's worth seeing.

Character Interview with Terrill

Terrill is a Vushlu. He would have become an adult next year by taking a ritual first journey to the ocean with other Vushla his age. Instead, he attained adult status prematurely, accompanying his dying father to the ocean, where his father went into the water to be dissolved.

Interviewing Terrill is a tricky task. As the book begins, he is understandably morose. Later, when he is less so, he has good reasons not to reveal his activities and concerns. I’ve dealt with this dilemma by splitting his interview into two, and working within the limitations Terrill sets.

The first interview takes place at a rest stop during the funeral party’s return trip. Terrill speaks in a quiet monotone most of the time.

     -----------

Q. I’m very sorry about your father.

A. Thank you.

Q. It will take you quite a while to get home. How are you occupying yourself along the way?

A. I’m trying to remember as much as I can about Da. [a pause; he clenches and armors his fists] But the things I remember keep reminding me of things I don’t know. Questions I never asked, and never can, now. [long pause]

Q. Have you found any ways to keep your spirits up?

A. There’s a Weesah peddler who’s been traveling alongside us. He likes to tell stories. When I listen to them, it takes my mind off . . . other things. I’ve even laughed a few times. [glances to the side] Not that my uncle approves. Of the listening or the laughing.

[An older Vushlu approaches; the interview concludes]

     -----------

The second interview takes place around three months (or the equivalent) later. Terrill is now traveling in the peddler’s wagon, as is Honnu, another Vushlu about his age.

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Q. Is this where you expected to be, at this time?

A. No. Nothing about what I’m doing these days is as I expected. One unpredictable event has led to another.

Q. What can you tell me about these events?

A. [a slight smile – which for Vushla means a rounded mouth] Very little, I’m afraid. Except that one of our funeral party, my aunt, became very ill on the way home. The others returned to the sea with her. I [a short pause] chose not to. That led to my becoming better acquainted with Honnu. And that led to everything else.

Q. So do you think you’ll become a peddler?

A. [another smile] I don’t think so. But for now, I’m a peddler’s assistant and have my duties. I’d better go.

Q. Perhaps we’ll meet again along the road.

A. I . . . don’t think that is very likely. But stranger things have happened. [a quiet chuckle] Indeed they have.

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(Preorder links: Amazon and other retailers.)

Next excerpts from upcoming SF novel WATER TO WATER - a little later on

Posting excerpts helps me wait more or less patiently for my upcoming book release -- so here are two more little ones, from Chapters 6 and 11 respectively, both mentioning waterfalls.

(Here's the page for Amazon preorders and another for some other retailers.)

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(ten years earlier)

It sure felt different up here. Kititit would have said, before, that of course he’d been in the mountains. After all, he lived near that waterfall, and what else did the water fall down if it wasn’t a mountain? But after making his way up and up and up the road for the funeral and seeing what it was like, he’d have to find another word for the heights near home.

Actually, he felt different in a couple of opposite directions. The air didn’t seem to quite do the job air was supposed to do, and that made him feel a little woozy — except the air was so completely transparent that he felt, at the same time, wider awake.

Maybe those two effects, pulling in different directions, had something to do how the old fellow had acted just before the wind took him — giddy, laughing, almost drunk. Kititit might have thought it was always that way, but some of the others at the funeral seemed surprised. When Kititit’s time came, he’d kind of like to go like that.

Good thing the beast seemed to be feeling the thin air less than he was. Why would that be? Did the first beasts, before the Weesah found any, come from up high somewhere? Was there more grass and bushes in the mountains, back then? Or was there some different reason altogether? Well, if nobody knew, he could imagine it however he liked.

Hmmm. Look at that — a path heading off to one side. He couldn’t see too far along it. And he also couldn’t see any trace of wagon tracks, or cycle tracks for that matter — just scuff marks that might have come from feet, or maybe just from puffs of wind.

He could head that direction for a while. Maybe there’d be water. They’d passed the last stream a while ago. And maybe, just maybe, nobody had ever gone that way, or not for a good long time. . . .

 Yes, he could go a little ways down that path. Just to see what he might see.

[and the next one, back in the present timeline . . . .]

It had been quite a while since Honnu thought about the tales Kititit used to tell the fisher folk around the fire. But it was with a shock of recognition that he looked out the window to see water tumbling down a cliff above the road.

He had never imagined that water could take such varying forms, or catch the light and throw it around as colors, or hang in the air. And the sound! At home, water lapped like a beast drinking, or hissed on the sand, or dragged pebbles in a grumble, or crashed when the surf was high. This water roared, and not in one voice, but in a chorus of voices.

Kititit sat back and laughed at Honnu’s reaction. “Thought I was making it all up, did you? I’ve known this waterfall since I was a lot younger than you. I’ve even climbed up it, in hot season when the water dries up and you can find places to grip. Almost managed to fall down again, all the same.”

It would take a Weesah, with their long arms and legs and fingers, to climb that fractured stone surface even if the water dried up completely. Honnu shivered at the idea. But the mighty music of the water drove the thought, all thought, out of his mind. He let it fill him.

Terrill stirred beside him. Would his friend think his wonder was childish, or provincial? But Terrill’s face showed the same awe.

 

Preorder links for Water to Water, my upcoming SF novel

If you've been reading the character interviews and excerpts I've been posting every three days or so, you've already seen the preorder links. But I thought I'd do a short post with just the links, for use on social media not specifically devoted to writing and publishing.

So here: you can preorder Water to Water on Amazon. Or if you prefer (e.g. if you read .epubs), you have your choice of a host of other retailers including B&N, Kobo, and Apple Books (with more to come), all from this Draft2Digital link.

Character Interview with Willan, Terrill’s Father

Here's another interview with a character from Water to Water, my upcoming SF novel.

Terrill’s father Willan, whom Terrill calls Da, is terminally ill and on the way to the ocean. When he reaches it, he will, as dying Vushla do, swim or wade in and let the water dissolve him. Various relatives, including Terrill, and a few friends or neighbors are escorting Willan on this final journey. The interview presumably takes place during a rest stop. Willan’s voice is weak and his speech halting.

    ---------------

Q. What can you tell me about your life?

A. Where to start . . . . I have a mate, Lilit, and three children. The youngest, Terrill, is over there. The older ones work in cities and couldn’t get home in time. I don’t have much time, I think.

Q. Is Lilit here?

A. No. We said goodbye at home. Most mates do. Dragging things out . . . would have hurt her more. And she’s never been much for traveling.

Q. What work did you do?

A. I did a lot of teaching, teaching children. In our town and nearby. Most ages. I like teaching. And people seem to think I have a gift for it. [a pause] And I make things. Different things. Sandals – lots of sandals. Many people in our town wear my sandals. Boxes, with carved designs. I like carving. [a pause] And I made one hand harp. I’d have made more, I think, if I’d had time.

Q. If you don’t mind my asking, what are your thoughts about the end of this journey? About swimming out to sea?

A. [a quiet sigh] That it’s a little soon. I’ve had a good life. I would have liked it to have lasted a little longer. [a pause] But it’s all right. Good things come to an end. [a small smile] And I like to learn new things. I’ve been to the ocean, and to funerals, but this is the only way I can learn about going into the waves. What it feels like. What the ocean sounds like from the inside. Whether there’ll be anything to see.

I’m not afraid, really. I’ve never heard of anyone struggling or crying out in pain.

I wish my children and Lilit didn’t have to grieve, and to reshape their lives. Terrill – he’s too young for this. . . . He always looked forward to that first trip to the sea, with the friends of his year. He had so many plans for it. I’m sorry he’s had to trade those plans for this.

[Terrill starts heading toward Willan as the other Vushla move back toward their cycles]

We’ll be going on now. And I should save my voice and my strength for talking to my son.

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No need to wait for the October 17th release -- the book is available for preorder from Amazon and several other retailers.

Time for another excerpt from WATER TO WATER

This excerpt, from Chapter 4, has some information you won't find in the blurb or the earlier excerpts -- but it isn't a spoiler, really.

(And here's Amazon's preorder link and a Universal Buy Link for preorders at some other retailers.)

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Given how they had met, it was no surprise that some of Terrill’s curiosity ran to matters of death. How often did Vushlu processions come to the beach where Honnu lived? Did Vushla come there from all over, or only from the region Terrill came from? Did anyone get to the shoreline and refuse to go in? Did anyone stand up and declare they would recover, that they weren’t dying after all?

Honnu was embarrassed not to know more of the answers. He had never known where the groups came from. He had never seen someone turn around and go home again. He had never seen anyone refuse to wade in, and then die on the beach. Though he had seen bodies of those who died on the journey. That got tricky: the family and friends could hardly carry the body into the water, lacking proper protective gear. A couple of times recently, now that Honnu was old enough, he had been drafted into the burial party. He had been just as glad to be wearing his gloves, so that he didn’t have to touch the dead flesh with his hands.

That tale brought more questions. “Haven’t you ever gotten wet, at all?”

Well, yes. All the young Vushla did, sooner or later, dared by their friends or daring on their own. In his case, his brothers had egged him on; but he had waited until they were busy to sneak off to the water’s edge. Careless, maybe, but he preferred the risk to having them see his reaction if he flinched.

“What was it like?”

Like nothing, at first. No more than if he had spit on his own hand. Less than that, at first, where the spray hit his armor. But after a few moments, there was a tingling. Like what sparkle would feel like, if one could feel it. . . .

Sometimes Terrill asked about Weesah. During one rest stop, he asked, “Have you ever seen a group of Weesah show up, or a mixed group with the Weesah dying?”

“No, never. I think they have some other way. But I don’t know what.”

Terrill glanced around for the peddler, but he was out of sight, rearranging something in the wagon. “Don’t you wonder what happens?”

“I suppose, now that you mention it.” And Honnu wasn’t sure Terrill would work up the nerve to ask the peddler.

Well, Honnu didn’t mind.

He walked over to the back of the wagon and called up, “Need any help?”

The peddler stuck his head out. “Not just now. I’ll need something from the pair of you soon enough, I’m sure.” Then, with that shrewd look Honnu had seen many times by now, he added, “But might there be something you’re needing, or wanting, from me?”

Honnu tried for his most earnest expression. “Not exactly. It’s more about what you might need from us. Not that I’m expecting it. But we’re your crew now. We should know what to do if —” How to put it? “If anything happens to you. Suddenly. If you should . . . where would we take you? Would we need to get to the ocean, as soon as we could?”

“Oh, lad, I think you know better than that. You’ve seen Weesah come and go on wagons, but you’ve never seen one show up in a wagon, have you?”

Honnu’s fingers went warm, and he fought the urge to retract them into his armor. The peddler beckoned to Terrill. “Come on, then. You may as well hear this.”

Terrill shuffled over, his fingers retracted almost all the way. The peddler slapped him lightly on the back. “It’s all right. Got to ask questions.” He nodded toward Honnu. “That’s how you learn, isn’t it? You two want to know how Weesah die. Only natural. Well, here it is. When we feel our time coming, we climb. Well, we ride, unless we live close enough to climb on foot. We go to high places. Up in the mountains I’ve told you about.”

Honnu opened his face plates, agreeing; so did Terrill, who had heard about mountains by now, if not so often as Honnu had.

“Or if we can’t get to the mountains, we find the tallest tree we can. Either way, we need some place out in the open, where the wind can reach us. That’s important.

“And then — then, we just reach our arms out wide, to welcome the wind; and as soon as we die, the wind blows us away. As dust.” He paused and tilted his large head to one side. “I’ve seen it twice. I’d have to call it pretty. You see how our skin catches the light?” He pointed to the shiny bits of skin on his arm. “It’s like that, except all the bits, on all sides. We blow away, shining in the sun.”

Terrill finally found the nerve to speak up. “And that’s only — I mean, how does the wind feel the rest of the time? Before the time comes?”

The peddler shifted a bit from side to side. “It feels good, lad. It feels, well, fine.” He gazed off into the distance for a moment, smiling a little. Then he shook himself as if shedding something and pointed to the wagon. “Now let’s have the two of you get in there and help me sort things out, before we get to the next town. I’ll want the goods that sell best to be nice and handy.”

Character Interview with Honnu, a young Vushlu

Here's another character interview, this time with Honnu, one of the main Vushlu characters in my SF novel Water to Water. Honnu's family are fisher folk and live by the sea. This interview takes place around the time the story begins, on the beach, in late afternoon. Honnu is cleaning a fishing boat.

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Q. Hello. I hope I’m not disturbing –

A. Watch out! I’m using seawater here.

Q. It’s splashing all over you. Isn’t that a problem?

A. Not with this suit on. [He gestures along his body.] It’ll keep the water out for years and years yet.

Q. Do you have such suits for visitors? For rent, perhaps?

A. Sorry, no. They take a long time to make. We only get them when we’re done growing, and then we keep them for a long time. Let me just finish up here, and we can talk.

[a few minutes later]

All done! I have a few minutes before I go do chores.

Q. I gather you fish for a living.

A. That’s right.

Q. Do you like it?

A. [a slight pause] Pretty well. I like working with other people. More when they appreciate my help, which they mostly do. Of course, I like it better some days than others. In hot season, it’s cooler out on the water than on land – though the suit does make me warmer than I’d be otherwise. Cold season, that can get, well, cold, suit or no suit. And I get pretty tired by the end of the day. But it’s better than being bored. [another pause] Not that I’m never bored.

Q. Do you picture yourself doing anything different, later in your life?

A. [scuffs a hind foot in the sand] I’d like to see more of the world, someday, somehow. I hear stories – mainly from the Weesah peddler who comes here – and I want to see for myself whether they’re true, and what other stories might be out there waiting to be found.

[someone calls Honnu’s name from a nearby dwelling]

I’d better go. Chores, like I said. It was nice talking to you. If you want to come with me, you could maybe stay for dinner. The peddler brought sausages, and we’ll be having a campfire.

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(Preorder links: Amazon and other retailers.)

Yup, another excerpt from upcoming SF novel WATER TO WATER

How many excerpts can I extract from my October 17th release, WATER TO WATER, and still avoid spoilers? We'll find out!

This one is from Chapter 3.

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Terrill was almost home.

They would be home too soon. A bleak prospect, that. Da would be gone; and everyone would be talking about him, on and on. And Terrill would have to take on some new role, whatever it might be, or whatever his family might decide it should be.

It could be a long time before he went anywhere again.

The pain of giving up the journey he would have made with the friends of his year, the joyful adventure that he would never experience, pierced him afresh, a pang as cold as the season to come.

And this cold season, Da would not be there building up the fire, or draping a blanket over Ma as she slept, or preparing the garden for its coming nap. Terrill would never again see him come in from the garden, smelling of soil and fresh air, rubbing his hands together to warm them, spreading the dirt on them in the process.

A scene he had forgotten — that he had wanted to forget — came back to him, as clearly if he had remembered it over and over. He was very young. His father’s mother had been sick, moving slowly, not talking much; and then she had gone away, hugging him as tightly as she still could, and Da had gone with her. And after a long time, more days than Terrill could count yet, Da had come home again. He had come through the door, and looked around, stared around, as if everything had become strange and different while he was gone. It had scared Terrill enough to make him cry.

What would it be like for Terrill to walk through that door, with his father gone?

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(Here's the Amazon preorder link and a Universal Buy Link for preorders at some other retailers.)

Character Interview -- Kititit the Weesah peddler

It's time for you all to meet some of Water to Water's characters.

Kititit, the Weesah peddler, is what you might call an important secondary character. Look hard enough at something that happens, and you might see his long fingers stirring around in it. And I, for one, find him entertaining. Here's an interview with Kititit.

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Q. How did you become a peddler?

A. Well, now. That’s a ways to think back . . . . When I was a young sprout, we had a neighbor who was a peddler, wagon and all. I thought her wagon was about the prettiest thing I’d ever seen, all painted up as it was. And she used to let me help load the goods in the back – leastways, helping is what she called it. Getting in the way is what I’d call it, remembering. And when she’d been away and came home again, she always had stories to tell about the places she’d been. I’d never been anywhere, and I got to hankering after a life like she had.

Q. Your wagon – did it used to be your neighbor’s?

A. Right you are! Though by the time she figured she was ready to stay home and play with her grandchildren and take it easy, the wagon was what you might call used up – the canopy, anyway. My folks gave me a new one, and I picked what to paint on it.

Q. You have a mate and children, I hear. How have you managed to strike a balance between traveling and family life?

A. Well, I don’t have just any mate. I made sure to find a lady as liked to hear stories. I promised to always bring back plenty of stories. And she’s an independent sort – doesn’t need someone at her elbow all the time, telling her how to do things. A mate as hung around every day might get annoying for such as her. So we suit each other. And the longer I’m away, the longer I stay home and do my bit with the young ‘uns and the beasts and the garden and all. And now that some of our young ‘uns are grown, she has plenty of help when she needs it.

Q. You’re acquainted with Terrill and Honnu, I believe. How did that come about?

A. I’ve known Honnu a good piece of his life, I’d say. I visit a few different fisher villages, and he lives – or lived, I’m not sure which is right just now – in one of ‘em. I was the first Weesah he ever saw, I reckon, and how he would stare! Anyhow, he’s a curious fellow and always likes to hear my traveler’s tales.

Q. That brings up an interesting point. Aren’t you somewhat given to exaggeration in those tales of yours? Should Honnu believe everything you say?

A. (laughs) No, I can’t say as he should. But I reckon he knows that. Now, I wouldn’t say he knows just what to believe and what not to. But if he ever asked me, serious-like, I’d tell him.

Q. And Terrill? How did you meet him?

A. That was luck, if luck is something that happens, as to which I’ve no firm opinion. His da took ill, and Terrill was one of the funeral party as took him to the sea. I left Honnu’s village about the time they left to head home again, and we got to talking on the road. A nice young fellow. On the serious side, and tending to worry more than is comfortable for a youngster his age. I did my bit to cheer him up, when I could.

Q. And how did Terrill and Honnu meet each other?

A. (chuckles) Well, I’ll maybe let you ask one of them about that. I’d best be packing up and heading on, pretty soon. Any last questions? Or might you be wanting something from the wagon before I go? I’ve got some good knives I picked up a few towns back. Or if you’ve little ones at home, I have toys -- balls for juggling, and these dolls. See the bits of shell that make up the armor? And of course, I have fish. Always plenty of fish.

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You can preorder Water to Water on Amazon and elsewhere.

Another excerpt from upcoming SF novel WATER TO WATER

Time for another short excerpt from my upcoming SF novel, Water to Water? Why not? After all, the book is now up for preorders on Amazon and elsewhere :-).

This one is from Chapter 2. Terrill, a young member of the Vushlu species who has just watched his father's death ritual, is on the way homeward.

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Terrill should spend this time remembering his father, calling up all the memories he wanted to preserve. What was his earliest memory of Da?

His earliest memory of any kind . . . he would have liked a more pleasant one. Someone had smacked his hand, on the unarmored palm, for making some mess or other. But he couldn’t remember who had done it. It wouldn’t have been Da, not for such a young child making a mess. Ma, maybe, in a moment of exasperation. Or his uncle, visiting.

Terrill might have been a couple of years older the time Da gave him a ride, telling him to put his arms around Da’s torso and hold tight, Terrill’s baby legs splayed wide across Da’s broad back. Da had put just a little bounce in his gait, enough to be thrilling, but not enough to loosen Terrill’s clasped hands . . . .

What arose next was from a few years later, but still from childhood. A hot day, the hottest so far that year, with the end of the season seeming forever away. Da going from creek to creek to find the coolest one, and pouring a bucket of almost-cold water all over Terrill, Terrill gasping in pleasure and relief . . . .

Another memory, very different, almost as far back: Terrill standing outside, watching the sky colors shift from day to night, wondering if the sky looked the same everywhere, even in the far-off cities where his older siblings wanted to go. He had turned to go back inside and only then seen Da, walking back and forth, slowly, in the road a few paces away, his shoulders slumped, a posture Terrill could not remember having seen before. Something was wrong, and Terrill had no idea what it was. He had never had the courage to ask about it.

He would never know.

Excerpts from upcoming SF novel WATER TO WATER

My SF novel Water to Water is due out on October 17th, so it's high time I posted an excerpt.

Well, more than one, really. First, you'll need this bit from the Preface to understand the excerpts proper.

Nitpicky note (for all the excerpts): the formatting here is not identical to either the ebook's or the paperback's.

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When a Vushlu reaches the age of adulthood, its family, or if it has none, respected community members, take it to the ocean. Traditionally, it will never have been there before, unless its family catches sea creatures for a living. Often many families will travel together, a pilgrimage of celebration.

On its last day of life, a Vushlu swims out to sea, or if too weak to swim, wades in and lets the waves carry it. The ocean swallows its front legs, its rear legs, its back, its torso, its arms, its shoulders, and finally its head. Immersion in the water softens its living armor, its exoskeleton, until the plates sheet off and wash away, followed by the soft flesh within.

No Vushlu has ever returned to its home with this process incomplete. But Vushla splashed with seawater report no pain.

--------------

Now for the first Actual Excerpt, a short one. This comes early in Chapter 1, and introduces us to Honnu, one of two major Vushla characters.

--------------

Honnu squatted by the campfire, all four legs comfortably sunk in the sand, his lower armor sealed tight to keep sand out, and watched the procession approach the sea. It was a small group, with only one young Vushlu among the older ones. A funeral, then. The young one must be the son or daughter of the Vushlu, aging or ailing, whose funeral it was.

Honnu turned away before the group reached the edge of the water. He knew, of course, what would happen, but he had no wish to watch. After all, he lived with the ocean, lived from it, rode out every day to toss the nets and haul them back. He and his family depended on the ocean. But he often thought he must feel like a farmer with a very, very large and powerful bull. Such a useful animal — it sired strong beasts like itself, and it pulled plows through earth too sticky for pull-cycles. But it could, any time it chose to, trample the farmer into jelly. The farmer could hope that the bull would never turn on its master. Honnu lived with the certain knowledge that one day, the ocean would reveal itself as the largest possible beast, and devour him whole.

No, he had no need to watch it happen to others, not when he would be paddling the boat out again tomorrow morning.

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Here's one more excerpt, a longer one. It starts shortly after the first, and switches partway through from Honnu's POV to that of Kititit, a visiting peddler. (Kititit is a Weesah, not a Vushlu. The two species' anatomy differ substantially, a fact to which Honnu makes a passing reference.)

------------

The last taste of dinner was fading from Honnu’s mouth. Even food was different when the peddler came. This very night, around this same fire, they had roasted and eaten plump sausages spitting with juice, made from some crawling creature that pushed through underbrush and rooted in the earth of far-off forests.

Honnu stretched his arms and upper body to soak in the warmth of the fire, welcome as the end of hot season brought cooler night breezes. Which of the peddler’s tales might actually be true? Honnu had never traveled farther than the nearest market town — far enough away from the shore that the sea could not be seen, but not too far for its smell to carry, competing with the smell of the fish he sold and the pastries and spices and flowers in the stalls all around him. Were there really trees so tall that a Vushlu would have to rear back on its hind legs and lean against something sturdy in order to see the tops? Did mountains soar even higher? Did rivers of water pour out of those mountains? Did the mountains rise above the air itself, so that the air strained and grew thin, and one could look down and see the thicker air below? Did fountains of fire leap up from hidden places to consume travelers? Did birds, glowing as bright as any fire, swarm over the fields in springtime, keeping farmers from sowing seed until the birds had flown away? Did a species of giants, giants who never came near the ocean, giants with two legs and two arms like the Weesah but each limb twice as thick as a Weesah’s trunk, raise beasts for farmers, never leaving their ranches, requiring farmers to come to them? Were there places where the sky was always red, and others where the sky was always black?

Honnu’s family must know the answers to those questions, or to some of them, but his aunt never wanted to talk about it, and his grandfather changed his story from one time to the next, and his mother said none of it was true. Honnu refused to believe that.

Unless he found a way to go see for himself, he would never know.

Now he heard sounds of movement and conversation, and tires pushing through sand. The procession must be leaving, with one of its members gone forever into the sea. They would probably not go very far in the dark. There was an inn serving such travelers in the market town. But by morning, they would be on their way back to wherever they came from. To one of the many, many places Honnu had never seen.

 * * * * *

Kititit looked at different Vushla in turn as he told the story about buying a beast from a giant and tricking the fellow into lowering the price. The Vushla’s armor mostly left their faces bare, so you could see them drink the story in, especially the young ones. All right, maybe his mate’s uncle’s cousin wasn’t exactly a giant, but he was big enough that none of his neighbors gave him any backtalk. Kititit had come out of that exchange well enough to enjoy bragging about it, even if he did embellish the details a bit for effect.

It was a fine way to spend an evening. It would have been, even if the breeze hadn’t been a trifle nippy. He’d always liked campfires, but he particularly enjoyed them in villages like this. Vushlu armor wasn’t exactly reflective, but almost, enough to catch the firelight and play with it a bit. And while he always liked the smell of a campfire, it mingled especially nicely with the unique tangy smell of the sea. As for the traces of fish odor, he didn’t mind them. He did wonder, looking around at the Vushla, how much of it all they could smell with those small holes in their faces. His big mesh-covered nostrils had to do a better job, unless they somehow didn’t.

He caught the fisher lad’s eye for just a moment before the lad looked away. A bit shy, that one, but with thirsty ears, always soaking in whatever story Kititit chose to tell. Kititit’s oldest son had been like that, when he was a good bit younger. And when the boy and his sister had come with Kititit on his journeys, there had been plenty of time for telling tales.

Naturally the boy, or rather the proud young father, had started staying home now that he had a mate and little ones. And Kititit’s daughter, once proud to be included, had lately been more like willing. A good-hearted lass, ready to help her father in case he was too old and feeble to handle things alone; but it was time for her to live in the center of her own life, and Kititit to go back to how he used to travel, enjoying his own and the beast’s company.

Still, it was nice to have a youngster or two around the campfire.

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Well, what do you think? Want more? The ebook, and possibly the paperback, will be available for preorder on Amazon if their website starts cooperating just a little better. Stay tuned!

Cover reveal for my next release!

I've been vacillating about when to do a cover reveal on this (much neglected) blog, but the time has come. I'm thrilled to show off the cover that Damonza did for my upcoming novel Water to Water.

Here is my (tentative) teaser for the book.

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Two young Vushla questioned what everyone knew about death. What should they do with the answer?

When the time comes for Vushla to die, they go into the ocean and are dissolved away. Or so Terrill has always believed, and still believes after accompanying his father on the latter’s final journey. But after meeting another young Vushlu, Terrill must confront new information that calls this fundamental belief into question. Will the two of them discover the truth? And what should they do with what they find?

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If all goes well, the book will be out on October 17, 2018.

One more poem -- this time, a curse (general issue)

For my probably-last poem post, here's one with no autobiographical aspect. I particularly wanted to point that out because the poem is, as the title indicates, a curse (in the ill-wishing sense). The final lines may suggest a spurned lover, but could cover other situations. Feel free to recite it at any enemies you may acquire.

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Curse

May your blood boil by night,

and freeze by day . . .

May the passing of clouds across the sky

be to you

as nails dragged shrieking

across flat dry stone . . .

May the trees whisper soft nightmares

as you shivering pass by . . .

May the moon’s light be blinding

and the sunlight

dim . . .

May you know no more piece

than I

and may you never forget me.

Even more serious - poem about a murder, plus some backstory

I went to Stanford University for my undergrad degree (English and American literature). I liked spending time in the Memorial Church, enjoying the quiet, looking at the impressive stained glass windows. (You can see photos of the windows at this link.)

One night, when I'd been visiting the church again, I tried to leave and discovered I'd been locked in. The minister had failed to notice me when he locked up and left. This was long before cell phones, and there was no pay phone anywhere I could see in the accessible area. After a while, however, the minister came back for something, found me, and let me out.

I believe it was a couple of days later that a girl was stabbed to death in the church at night. As you can imagine, what would have struck me as tragic and shocking in any event had an extra impact, given my recent experience.

So I wrote this poem. The imagery refers to several of the windows.

--------

On the Murder in Memorial Church

Strange impotence:

stained glass night-frozen,

unable to beam

its pictured Salvation;

Jesus the healer,

caught trapped in a corner;

Christus crying into the darkness,

take this cup away! –

the Agony presiding

invisibly helpless;

unillumined, the desperate

disciples

will drown.

Another, more serious poem, siding with Lot's wife

Here's another post about my decades-old poetry, recently unearthed.

I can only remember writing two poems with Biblical subjects, and one -- re Job -- is hiding somewhere. But here is the other, untitled but basically siding with Lot's wife rather than Lot.

-------

When Lot’s wife

turned to salt from grief;

her posture proclaiming,

I will be a dry monument to tears,

her protest,

I give not my leaving to this, God;

Lot

stood

stunned

still

Lot looked up

The Lord rumbled faintly

Lot looked down

Salt crystals gathered at his feet

Lot

looked up

looked down

and proceeded on,

careful not

to look round.

-------

Next time, a poem with a truly serious theme -- murder.

Well, I used to write poetry . . . (first of several)

I started out -- no later than age nine -- wanting to be a novelist. I wrote my first novel-of-sorts at age ten. But I didn't write my second until after I turned 55. What, if anything, did I write in the meantime?

Well, first I tried poetry. I kept at it through high school and the beginning of college. Later in college, I tried short stories, until I let myself be discouraged as to all creative writing by a stunningly clueless teaching associate. For decades, all I did was jot down a line or two of potential poetry once every blue moon. Then, while I was pregnant with Daughter #1, I started writing picture book manuscripts. Fast forward seventeen years or so, and I followed that daughter into National Novel Writing Month (aka NaNoWriMo or NaNo) -- and the rest, if not history, is a total of eight novels with two more in the pipeline.

But back to poetry.

Recently, pondering the awe-inspiring bad luck of a friend, I was reminded of a poem I wrote long ago about Job (as in the Biblical figure). I dug up a folder of my poetry and looked for it. I didn't find it, but I did find a few others I liked enough to bring into the light of day.

Here's the first, one of the lightest in tone. I believe I wrote this during or after my high school physics class. If I were writing it today, the title might include the word "nerd."

---------

Love Song

Every mass
has an attraction for every other mass
which varies as the inverse square
of the distance between them.
That is,
if you allow me
to decrease the radius of my orbit
you will find me
increasingly attractive.

I wish to
race toward you at ever-increasing speed
(known as acceleration)
(which, times my mass,
which is constant,
would become the force with which I would
collide with you,
hopefully
"knocking you off your feet")
until we engage in
a perfectly inelastic collision
(in which the two bodies concerned
collide and
stick.)

---------

And yes, I know the punctuation at the end is incorrect, but it works better that way.

Here's one more, untitled, frivolous and fanciful.

--------

The conductor and the violinist
are near each other.
Bow and baton
time after time
come perilously close.
Will they cross swords?
The conductor looks angry.
We can expect a duel
any minute.

---------

Next time, a poem or two with more emotional heft behind them.

The Dangers that Grow in the Dark

I've been pondering the very unwelcome news that the candidate running closest to Senator Dianne Feinstein in California's primary (which does not separate out Democratic and Republican candidates) is Patrick Little, an unabashed anti-Semite whose rhetoric would make Adolf Hitler purr in his grave. I'm trying to explain it to myself, since I don't believe either that a large number of Americans actively hate Jews or that Californians are significantly more inclined toward such hatred. I've had a few thoughts on what might be going on.

What came to mind first were some memories from my youth. I'm not ancient enough to have seen the movie Reefer Madness when it first came out (in 1936), but for much of my life, there have been teachers and government officials doing their best to convince young people that marijuana was highly addictive and wildly dangerous. And for much of my life, young people have looked around at their weed-smoking friends, or at their weed-smoking selves, and observed that these claims were largely invalid. Some of them almost certainly overgeneralized from this observation and concluded that all claims about the dangers of illegal drugs were just killjoy hokum. (Indeed, some of those other claims were grossly exaggerated -- but not all.) How much better young people would have been served by open, accurate discussion of the effects and qualities of various drugs.

Then there's the perennial problem of kids with insufficient accurate information about sex learning about sex from other kids. How many pregnancies and STDs have resulted?

Finally, and most controversially these days, we have the issues of ethnic, religious, and gender differences. It's a rare and brave soul who dares to discuss crime statistics concerning different ethnic groups and ask whether social and cultural factors have anything to do with those statistics. Or to point out that the male/female distinction, though far from all-encompassing and inadequate to describe some individuals and conditions, has a fundamental basis in Terran biology, and to ask whether such a fundamental distinction might indeed have some correlates in human psychology and behavior.

What difficulties might result from the prohibition on these last areas of discourse? Well, when open discussion is loudly declared to be taboo, and when well-informed, well-meaning, rational people yield to that prohibition, who's going to be left standing and talking? The haters, that's who. The actual haters, not those who for fear of that label have fallen silent. And who will be left listening? Those who resent political taboos but themselves know little about, e.g., ethnic groups outside their own acquaintance.

When speech is suppressed, many will admire anyone who defies that suppression, little as a particular defiant individual may deserve admiration. When people are berated or threatened for discussing such questions as whether a disproportionate percentage of Muslims embrace religiously motivated violence, some of those people will be more ready to believe slanderous claims about other religious groups, including Jews. And the woefully inadequate teaching of history in this country, lo these many years, fails to provide an antidote to such slanders.

It has always been a core American value that the answer to false speech is true speech, not suppression of speech -- even if laws and lawmakers have not always kept that in mind. And the consequences of suppressing speech show us the wisdom of that maxim. The candidacy of Patrick Little should provide a loud and alarming wake-up call.

Appropriate Census Questions and the Fourteenth Amendment

As often happens, I am posting what my husband could post in more detail, had he the time and inclination.

There is much agitation at present about the plan to add a question to the census concerning citizenship status. This is not a new idea. In 1950, every household was asked about citizenship. For much of the time since then, the long form census questionnaire (received by a smaller sample) included the question as well. However, that history doesn't answer the question of whether asking about citizenship is constitutionally appropriate. (What, we're supposed to consider the Constitution in figuring what questions belong in the census? Well, yes, since our federal government is supposed to exercise only enumerated powers, quaint as that restriction seems to many.)

Before the Fourteenth Amendment, the language of Article I, section 2 provided that "Representatives  . . . shall be apportioned among the several States . . . according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole Number of free Persons . . . three fifths of all other Persons." It went on to prescribe the schedule for "the actual Enumeration." Note the use of the term "persons," and the inclusion of three-fifths of the number of slaves, who were obviously not voting citizens.

The Fourteenth Amendment, section 2, replaced this language with the following: "Representatives shall be apportioned among the several States according to their respective numbers, counting the whole number of persons in each State . . . ." We're still counting persons, not citizens. It went on, however, into new territory: "But when the right to vote at any election for the choice of electors for President and Vice President of the United States, Representatives in Congress, the Executive and Judicial Officers of a State, or the members of the Legislature thereof, shall be denied to any of the male inhabitants of such State, being twenty-one years of age, and citizens of the United States, or in any way abridged, except for participation in rebellion, or other crime, the basis of representation therein shall be reduced in the proportion which the number of such male citizens shall bear to the whole number of male citizens twenty-one years of age in such State." (The Nineteenth and Twenty-Sixth Amendments extended the right to vote to female citizens and citizens eighteen to twenty years old, respectively.) There is no mention of, and hence no change in, the language setting out the schedule for counting "persons," aka the census. It seems a logical inference that, since the new language requires knowing how many citizens with the franchise there are in the state as well as which of those citizens are being prevented from voting, the census is the appropriate tool to find that out. Based on those numbers, a state that prevents citizens entitled to vote from voting should find its number of members in the House of Representatives cut back in proportion to those so prevented.

It is thus not only appropriate, but necessary that the census, while continuing to count "persons" resident in the states, also count citizens entitled to vote, and quite possibly inquire whether any of those citizens have been unlawfully barred from the polls.

Masterpiece Cakes case and freedom of and establishment of religion

Opening clarification: I have not the slightest objection to same-sex marriage and hope to attend one, co-starring my daughter, someday.

Reading live blog accounts of the Masterpiece Cakes argument at the U.S. Supreme Court, it seemed (though not having attended, I could certainly be wrong) that there was insufficient exploration of two First Amendment issues other than free speech: freedom of religion and, especially, establishment of religion.

If the state may say that only those whose religion accepts same-sex marriage may practice certain professions, isn't that not only an infringement of the freedom to practice some religions, but a broad-brush state establishment of religion via exclusion of some religions?

Those arguing on the baker's behalf, I got the impression, did not defend the right of a makeup artist or hair stylist to decline same-sex wedding business. But, as Justice Kennedy suggested out in a complex-cake hypothetical, actually needing to be present at a service is different from selling a product or providing a service months and miles away. Would Oregon allow a makeup artist or hair stylist to say, "I am not available for on-site services for same-sex weddings -- you must come to my shop and then travel to the wedding venue"? I have my doubts.

What about a Muslim hair stylist who believes that no woman, or at least no woman claiming to be Muslim, should appear in public in front of men outside her family with her hair showing? Can she be compelled to provide her services to a woman self-identifying as Muslim who intends to be married in the middle of Harvard Square with her husband's frat buddies as his attendants and all sorts of male strangers walking past? If so, is the state infringing on her freedom of religion and/or establishing less restrictive forms of Islam over more restrictive ones?

Feel free to discuss these issues in the comments.