Velocity

It is no accident that technology advances exponentially. We humans are clever in applying learning in novel ways to solve increasingly complex challenges. Perhaps our greatest challenge going forward is learning how to live with this acceleration. Scientists are discovering that our children's brains are being fundamentally rewired in how they learn, what they learn and how they manipulate these new tools into a world I couldn't have imagined as a youngster.

And yet I did imagine it, and so did others. Twenty years ago I wondered aloud one day where were all those 'cars of the future' I saw in Popular Mechanics. Now I look around and see them everywhere (okay, I still don't have my flying car, but I remain optimistic). In fiction, Captain Nemo, Flash Gordon and Dick Tracy preceded Gene Roddenberry's Kirk and Spock, predicting 4G cell phones, medical diagnostics, voice actuated equipment, satellite navigation systems, e books, tablet computers. These were delivered by scientists inspired as children to ask, 'why not?' and refusing to take no for an answer.

The problem is that all these quantum advances scientifically aren't designed to work well with the linear evolution of us as human animals. We've transmogrified from hunter-gathers of food, shelter and clothing into hunter-gatherers of data, comfort and entertainment. Our girth (physically and in our credit card statements) reflects our appetites both literally and figuratively and the trends aren't showing much chance of improvement anytime soon.

It may be that this political election season just concluded is illustrative of the disconnect between the linear and the quantum side of human evolution. The majority of voting citizens re-elected a liberal, multi-ethnic president with Hussein as a middle name over a conservative, rich, white, Mormon. Convincingly in the electoral college, marginally in the popular vote, but substantially in the direction in which the country is headed culturally. That the Grand Old Party is on the verge of becoming the Grand Obsolete Party is startling to  the party faithful mainly because they simply could not (and for many still do not) see the forest for the trees. The signs of change have been apparent to demographers for decades, but the mostly old, white, rich men that direct the party have sequestered themselves in an isolated echo chamber where they hear only what they wish to hear as told to them by only those to whom they wish to listen. (An excellent analysis of this phenomenon can be found here.)

Personally, I think the tipping point has been reached, and the brittle rhetoric of theocratic underpinnings for governance is increasingly rejected as harsh, doctrinaire and unresponsive to the greater needs of a plural society. A society that was founded on the absence of church doctrine in governance, and a system of justice blind (and therefore not beholden) to race, religion, social status and financial means. In the two plus centuries since our Founders cobbled together this nation, each step toward the perfection of the union has been a struggle. In the beginning they couldn't even agree to outlaw slavery and it took over two hundred years for a person of color to ascend to the highest office, and we have yet to elect a woman. Women's rights, voting rights, LGBT rights, and whatever oppressive practices we continue to fight were, and are, ongoing struggles to adapt to change. The reins of power are changing from the Baby Boomers to the Next Gen, and each transition meets resistance and disbelief from the old guards.

Coming to grips with the velocity of change, reexamining our basic assumptions about who and what we are as a nation, and stepping back from the hollow grandiloquence of insisting the old ways are the only ways will be essential moving forward. Wallowing in self-pity and bemoaning the fate of the Union at the election results is delusional. Each time we come together to vote as a nation we tell our leaders where and how we wish to advance our grand experiment called the United States. To the extent our leaders cling to broken models and irrelevant posturing forestalls the inevitable. Conservatives wishing to have a seat at the table going forward need new leadership that understands function must drive form, that making reasonable compromises doesn't equate to 'my way or the highway', nor does it equal moral equivocation. Not even the church still thinks the Sun revolves around the Earth, so let's roll up our sleeves and get to work on what needs to be done to plan for the future, for however much some among us might wish it, the past has passed and a new paradigm calls for fresh thinking. As my fourth grade teacher used to say, "Let's put our thinking caps on, shall we?"

Are You Ever Coming Home?

 An admittedly long dry spell since last I posted. What can I say? Stuff happens. Here is a sample of what has come to be known as flash fiction, usually 500 words or less, and often done in response to a writing challenge. In this case the challenge was to create a complete story starting with the first line, which is given. With economies world wide still in the doldrums, this is what I came up with, and I hope you enjoy my effort. Fair warning, this is not for young children.

Are you ever coming home?

 One question; scrawled awkwardly in pencil.  Off to the right, in neat script, was my name and current address. A stamp adorned the top right corner.  The postcard felt heavy, like the words had been carved in granite and delivered on the slab instead of this tiny slip of stiff paper.  The picture on the reverse was of the Grand Canyon taken from the south rim.

She must have chosen the card.  A blunt statement about just how small I was in the universe.  A black hole would have been better, but where would she find it on the card rack at Wal-Mart?

Are you ever coming home?  I stared at the sentence.  Was it hopeful, or indignant, or resigned?  No way to tell for sure.  Hopeful, I suppose, in having been sent.  Not indignant.  The boy wouldn't be indignant, like his mother.  Not resigned yet either, I haven't been gone that long.  Who am I kidding?  Its twenty-seven days.  I glanced at my watch; plus fourteen hours and twenty-three minutes.

In two days the mortgage was due.  I didn't have it—wouldn't have it.  Since the plant closed down eight months ago our savings got wiped out and our credit cards maxed.  Bad economy, they said.  Nobody can afford our goods, they said.  We'll help you get another job, they said.  Another job meant slinging refried beans and ground meat into greasy taco shells.  No bennies, no vacation, no future and not nearly enough to care for my family. 

When I went there years ago, the Grand Canyon gave me vertigo.  An abyss sprawling before me so immense I couldn't find a frame of reference in my mind.  I felt like that again, staring at the card in my hand.

Are you ever coming home?  Just a month I said.  I'll take a month and find another job.  Maybe they're hiring in Spring Hill.  I'll check around and see what I can find.  This is the last payment I can make on my old life insurance policy without a job.  Here's two hundred bucks I borrowed from Stan for food.  Mom and Pop sent enough to cover the car payment and some gas.  Just give me a month to work something out.  I'll get something, I promise.

Use the internet she said.  Don't leave me alone with the boy.  I need your help. Don't go, you can't help that way.  But I went anyway.  I would get something for sure, I would figure out a way.

I sat on the edge of the bed and reached into the drawer of the worn bedside hotel nightstand and removed the frayed Gideon Bible and my Special.  I read a few chapters in the Bible.  I am not the prodigal son returned.

            Are you ever coming home?  I placed the insurance policy in the Bible and put it on the night stand, placed the Special against my temple.

            No, son.  I'm not coming home.  But I am sending money.

A Confederacy of Hermits

Writing fiction is a solitary pursuit. Even if you write collaboratively the actual creation of the work still originates entirely in your mind. Good writing is an extension of your soul, an intimation of originality, a piece of who you are creatively. Whether literary works that become masterpieces, or thrillers that titillate for a season, the words--and the sweat it takes to create them--are the pound of flesh sacrificed to the art.

Having said that, none of us work in a vacuum. We have experts we consult for depth and accuracy, editors that help show us the error of our ways and shape our words to maximum effect, publishers (for some of us) that help get the words printed and exposed to the reading public and friends and trusted writer friends to act as beta readers. These latter are our best hope of bringing a good story forward, for they tell us the truth, which is far more valuable than the pat on the back from well-meaning relatives.

Here in the Pacific Northwest writers also have another precious resource; other gifted writers who generously share their time, talent and insight with each other. Aspiring and veteran authors alike glean invaluable tips at seminars, trade shows, writers groups and online connections. Smart novices go to group book signings. They introduce themselves and get to know people laboring in the same field. We cheer each other on and rejoice at the success of our compatriots.

If you are a writer, or aspire to become one, come out of your cave once in a while and look around at the resources available to you. Join the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, become a supporter of the Seattle 7 Writers group or the Idaho Authors Association Facebook page. If you can muster the dough, the Idaho group is having a conference May 3-5, and PNWA is having their conference July 19-22. These are fantastic opportunities to meet successful authors, attend rewarding seminars on all aspects of the craft and connect with others at all stages of their careers. I save money all year just so I can attend at least one conference. If you attend the PNWA Conference, look for me, I'll be there and would love to share war stories. The Seattle 7 Writers also sponsor more intimate seminars that focus with laser sharpness on the art and science of writers.


Despite our solitary labor, there is a vibrant community of authors all around us anxious to exchange ideas, commiserate with our woes and urge us on to better writing and greater success. It is this community of hermits that help me thrive, keep me going and applaud my effort even as they temper the steel. I admire the dedication and openness and enjoy my small contributions. In the end we all do what we do to honor the words and the story.  

'The Confession' by Robert Dugoni Book Review

          The jury is back and the verdict is unanimous. Robert Dugoni is not the ‘next’ anyone in legal thrillers, he’s the new standard against which others will now be judged. If Murder One was his Master’s thesis, then his latest David Sloane thriller, The Conviction, is his PhD; a dissertation in deception.

Sloane, the lawyer that never loses, finds himself reliving a horror from his recent past through the behavior of his step-son, who is suffering his own crisis of self-destruction brought on by witnessing his mother’s brutal murder and coming perilously close to his own. In a last ditch effort to reconnect—and keep Jake out of jail—Sloane accepts an invitation to go camping with an old friend and his son.

Jake, reluctantly followed by the younger boy, runs afoul of local law enforcement in a small town in California’s Gold Country. Whisked away, tried and convicted in a kangaroo court, the boys find themselves on the way to a juvenile detention center from Hell before the dads fully realize they are missing.

          Now, the law Sloane has manipulated to his advantage for so long, becomes a ponderous impediment, and he must decide if he can do whatever it takes—legal or not—to rescue the boys before time runs out.

          The Conviction, due out June 12^th from Touchstone, is a taut, riveting Tilt-A-Wheel ride that builds to a white-knuckle climax for readers. Dugoni is fully in command of his craft and does not disappoint. This book makes a compelling case that Robert Dugoni deserves a place atop the bestseller throne. All hail the new King of legal thrillers!

Robert Dugoni

The Conviction   ISBN: 978-1-4516-0672-0

Touchstone  Due for release June 12, 2012

R L Pace received an advance copy of this book, gratis, for review purposes, but purchased a pre-release copy at full price before reading ‘The Confession’ or writing this review.

"Terrified" by Kevin O'Brien. A Book Review

There is a creepy feeling out there, past the darkened window in the somnolence of the night. Someone is watching. You have something to conceal and no one to whom you may turn.

Lisa has two deadly problems. One from which she is hiding and another she doesn’t even imagine. Fleeing an abusive husband after faking her own suicide, Lisa escapes to Seattle armed only with a new identity and a moral dilemma. Her spouse, back in Chicago, has been charged with the brutal killing of his wife, which the press has dubbed ‘the trash bag murder’, and the evidence seems overwhelming. Should Lisa reveal she is alive to save the ego-maniacal sadist, or hunker down and let him take the fall even as she carries his unborn son?

‘Terrified’, the riveting new thriller from the pen of NYT bestselling author Kevin O’Brien, took me on a throat-tightening, gut-festering journey into depravity, darkness and lethality. From the neighborhoods of metropolitan Seattle to the hospitals and homes of Chicago’s elite, I guarantee you’ll be closing the drapes with all the lights blazing as you are drawn into Lisa’s descent into Hell-on-Earth. She struggles to survive and protect her child against a past that is catching up, a present that is lurking just out of sight—and out of control—to a future agonizingly desperate. Where do you go when there is no place to hide? You go where you are told and you pray.

The more you know, the more you fear. And the less you understand. That translates into a crackerjack novel I enjoyed until the last page. Thriller fans will be satiated briefly with this latest offering.  But after gobbling up this meal, we won’t be satisfied until Kevin once again leaves us terrified.

Just released, this reviewer purchased a copy, but also received a gratis copy for review purposes.

Terrified by Kevin O'Brien

ISBN: 978-0-7860-2138-3

Amazon.com link here 

Barnes & Noble link here

Recipe for Creating a Progressive

First, a list of ingredients:

1.   One Moderate Republican

2.   A dose of inattention

3.   Three decades of being taken for granted

4.   A heaping helping of hypocrisy

5.   Spice with fanaticism as required to purge all who are not 'true believers'.

The first vote I cast in a presidential campaign was for Richard Nixon. Before Watergate had broken widely, before the eighteen minute gap in the tape stretched credulity with a ludicrous re-enactment featuring his secretary, before the Enemies List was widely known and while Deep Throat was still just a porn movie. 

Nixon was drawing the Vietnam war to a close, he was going to China, the economy was pretty good and his opponent, Eugene McCarthy, was seen as all about 'abortion, acid and amnesty' and had unceremoniously dumped his first running mate, Tom Eagleton, when it was revealed he had been treated for depression. Nixon prevailed in a landslide. He formed the Environmental Protection Agency, supported the Clean Air Act and OSHA and he even supported the Equal Rights Amendment and talked with the first men to set foot on the moon.

The subsequent scandal forcing him from office (and the one preceding it, forcing his VP, Spiro Agnew, out for crimes committed while in state office) tarnished his legacy, but did not erase his accomplishments. If he were alive today and running for President, it would have to be as a Democrat, for surely his heart would not be pure by today's conservative metric.

After the pardon (the correct decision--in retrospect) Gerald Ford effectively killed his chance of election, and I voted for the last Democrat I would support for the presidency until 2008. Jimmy Carter was a nice guy wholly out of his depth. His style was to immerse himself in minutiae which led him to constantly second-guess himself. The first Arab oil crisis, when OPEC began to flex its muscle with an embargo, left him in a sweater by the fireplace asking us to turn down the thermostat and drive less. Not a popular idea in gas guzzling, car-crazy America. The hostage drama in Iran, (the effects of which still echo in our foreign policy decisions nearly four decades later) and rescue debacle doomed his re-election.

In 1980 I voted for Ronald Reagan, and every Republican that followed him for twenty-eight years.

I felt pretty good about it, too. The hostages cleared Iranian airspace in time for a dramatic announcement during his inaugural address. Reagan out-dueled the Soviets by calling them out and spending them into a bankruptcy that would emerge with the fall of the Berlin Wall in George the First's term. He initiated negotiations to reduce nuclear weapons and saw them through. We felt better about ourselves as a nation. He stood up to a union when it staged an illegal strike by firing the entire striking membership of  PATCO (Professional Air Traffic Controllers Organization) and barring them from future civil service. Like it, or not, he did presidential things in a presidential way, and if he seemed a little disengaged the last couple of years, that was okay, his team was doing just fine. I was a happy Republican. I voted for George Bush in 1988 and 1992. It seemed to me that raising taxes (even when he promised not to) made practical sense in balancing budgets, but, alas, Bill Clinton prevailed in '92. Neither Ronald Reagan or George H. W. Bush could be elected as Republicans in this current cycle.

I loathed Clinton and his cocky arrogance. His casual acquaintance with marital fidelity and then putting the (unelected) First Lady in charge of health care reform (crafted behind closed doors) set my teeth on edge. There was Travelgate and Troopergate. The Whitewater Land affair, the mysterious suicide of Vincent Foster, the FBI files fiasco and of course his transformation of an intern named Monica Lewinsky into a verb, which led to his impeachment. There was just an air of insolence and scandal that was unbecoming of a United States President.

I suffered mightily in those years, but in my disenchantment I failed to notice the signs that my party was changing. The 1994 Contract With America seemed mostly reasonable. After all, more than half of it had been lifted from Reagan's '85 inaugural address. What I missed were the tactical methods of achieving strategic goals. By now the Christian Coalition led by Ralph Reed and other uber-conservative religious figures like James Dobson of Focus on the Family and Pat Robertson of the Christian Broadcasting Network and American Center for Law and Justice had succeeded in making abortion, gay rights and 'traditional' marriage hot-button issues. Like-minded conservatives swept into office by the tactics introduced by then House Speaker Newt Gingrich of scorched-earth demonization of political opponents were already poisoning public discourse.

Into this mix came conservative talk radio. With the FCC's elimination of the Fairness Doctrine in 1987, the airwaves suddenly became ripe to be overtaken by pontificating blowhards under no obligation to be truthful or allow countervailing opinions. Rush Limbaugh went into syndication in 1991, just in time to position himself as a mouthpiece for the ultra-conservative re-visioning of America by calling for the dismantling of most of the reforms of the last century.

Seemingly overnight my party--that had championed clean air and workplace safety, that had destroyed the Soviets without firing a shot, stood up for voting rights and equal rights for women--had an agenda I didn't recognize-or like. Worse, they didn't care. In their new paradigm moderation was a sin to be converted or expunged, and I was an unrepentant sinner. I didn't understand gays and lesbians, but I didn't fear them. I had been in the arts, many were friends and co-workers. Vietnam had schooled me (not as a participant, but as an observer) that foreign military interventions were risky and apt to fail. Respecting religious liberty meant leaving people alone to practice their faith, not asking the State to impose mine. Still, I believed this was a short-term aberration. It would pass into the dustbin of history, leaving only a footnote. In 2000 I voted for George W. Bush. I was no longer a happy conservative. I was defending positions with which I was uneasy. But I was compliant, perhaps even complicit.

When 9/11 suddenly reshaped the world, and after some initial disorganization, George the Second seemed to take command of the reins of power. We were all focused on national unity and at some level, revenge. Taking down the Taliban in Afghanistan was dangerous, but probably necessary to deny safe haven to terrorists. Notwithstanding the experience of the Russians a generation earlier, superior technology and training would prevail, there would be no morass like Southeast Asia. Dick Cheney, a former White House Chief of Staff, Congressman and Secretary of Defense to George the First during Operation Desert Storm, the first Gulf War, was the Vice-President.

Donald H. Rumsfeld was sworn in as the 21st Secretary of Defense on January 20, 2001. Before assuming that post, the former Navy pilot had also served as the 13th Secretary of Defense, White House Chief of Staff (both under Ford), U.S. Ambassador to NATO, U.S. Congressman and chief executive officer of two Fortune 500 companies. 

Colin Powell was the Secretary of State. Retired four star Army General, Former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, former National Security Adviser, Vietnam veteran and the man I really wanted to run for the presidency in 2000. This was a dream-team. All the right people were in just the right places at the crossroads of history. What could possibly go wrong?

Lots, as we now know. The Veep goes off his rocker, the SecDef tries to reshape the military as it is deployed, the SecState gets spoon-fed bogus information by the Veep and mission creep sends us into a two-front war for a phantom threat. George fiddles while Baghdad burns.

Meanwhile, Republicans (my guys, remember?) are systematically disassembling controls on banking and investment (to be fair, this got underway during the Reagan administration), while bankers and money manipulators are conflating bad loans into can't miss vehicles for financial ruin.  Additionally, my team is slashing taxes on the domestic front while spending at a calamitous rate on the war front. Entire pallets of one-hundred-dollar U.S. greenbacks, lost or stolen from military cargo planes disappear into the desert. Soldiers of fortune posing as private contractors run riot. The privatizing of war turns out not to be a good strategy. A decade later we are still trying to extricate ourselves from a war longer that Vietnam. Longer. Almost inconceivable. Still, much of this was yet to be exposed in 2004, so I voted to re-elect George. You don't change presidents during wartime.

By 2006 the cracks in the foundation were apparent. Moderate conservatives, Reagan Democrats and right-leaning Independents  began abandoning the party. Apologists were trying to shore up support, but talk radio and Fox News on cable TV had staked out their territory with the ideologues to the far right wing with no intention of ceding any ground back toward the center. Little of the common sense and calm demeanor of the likes of William F. Buckley remained. Venomous rhetoric and reprehensible personal attacks dominated what passed for discussion. Politics was no longer an honorable profession of service and sacrifice to country; it was a warped version of reality television. It was professional wrestling in suits and ties. It was take no prisoners, manipulate voters, strangle dissent. It was time for a change.

 When the Republican nominee, John McCain and his Straight-Talk Express began kowtowing to the basest elements of the party and then selected arguably the least qualified running mate in U.S. history, I wasn't just unhappy as a member, I was disillusioned as well. For the first time in my life I began to actively campaign for a candidate. I donated money, went to rallies, exhorted college students a third my age to get involved. My family was astonished. I was astonished. But more than that, I was desperate. The country I loved was foundering on shoals of shame. Self-inflicted, cynical seeds of hypocrisy, class warfare, sexism and racism were battering our shoreline, and they were coming from where I once stood. I was mad as hell, and I wasn't going to take it anymore.

In 2008, thirty two years after the last time I supported a Democrat for the office of POTUS, I voted for Barack Obama. I had become an Obama-can, caucused for him, and wept unabashedly on election night.

The long knives have since truly come out, the TEA Party (Taxed enough? For the rich, the tax rate is one-third what it was in the golden era of Saint Reagan) has moved the Republican party so far right that it is now actually passing state laws (while doing absolutely nothing in Congress) trying to repeal the protections afforded by the Voting Rights Act of 1964, deny basic health care to women on religious grounds, send abortion providers into back alleys again, demonize illegal immigrants, gays, lesbians, and even women using contraceptives. For good measure, while they are at it, they would like to eviscerate Medicare and Social Security. Their jobs program seems to be firing as many government employees as possible, allowing the once mighty infrastructure of this country-the backbone of interstate commerce and largely started and built during Republican administrations--to fall to ruin, and continue to reward corporations to send work offshore.

It took three decades in the stew pot, but I am finally fully cooked. When I started as a conservative, well-run government was our priority, civil liberties were on our agenda. Conservative values meant properly managed; preservation of resources, clean air and water and moderate taxes, steady economic growth with enough regulation to ensure fair play but not so much as to strangle innovation. 

Privacy and the dignity to make our own decisions about our life meant something. Equal access to voting and education and justice were ideals for which we strived. Now all is dross. When I started, those were conservative values, now they find a home with Progressives. I am a happy progressive now. Can you guess how I might vote this November?

I'll close by re-interpreting a comment made by Ronald Reagan. I didn't leave the Republican Party, the Republican Party left me.

In Defense of Arts

Try, for a moment, to imagine a world without music. Okay, that's unfair, you say, and almost impossible. Fine, let's try an easier one: Conjure up what life might be without literature. How drab an existence without the Bible or Shakespeare, Keats, Synge, Emily Dickinson, Jane Austen or Anton Chekov. Dickens reduced to writing pamphlets for patent medicines. Jules Verne never creates Captain Nemo or the Nautilaus. Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics never enter the vernacular. Dracula never meets Frankenstein in the movies. Inconceivable.

Let's pile on and strip away visual arts. Painting now consists of covering every surface with the same shade of gray. There are no statues, because there are no carvers to hew away the unnecessary bits of stone to reveal an inspiration.
All buildings are square. There is one font in your word program. All cars look the same (alright, bad example).

The point here is obvious. There is no modern civilization without the arts--all of them--and yet, whenever times are tough and education budgets are stretched past the breaking point, the razor sharp knives of the politicians know just what they want to slash; the arts.

Nationwide, schools eviscerate music, art and drama programs routinely. It's harder to slice away at English, but not so difficult to manipulate what is taught. Locally these cuts are seldom made because a majority wishes the programs gone, but instead because rules imposed from afar reward test scores, not learning. This ill-conceived, slavish devotion to better math and science rankings misses the bigger picture. The arts inform the sciences.

Music education does more than teach tunes. It conveys rhythm, structure, discipline and abstract thinking. It's learning an entirely new language, complete with its own special set of symbols, rules and nuances.

Visual arts satisfy that urge to comprehend and understand what we see around us. A sense of space, color and even time. An urge as ancient as the paintings in the caves of Lascaux, an opportunity to say to future generation "I was here and this is how I saw the world".

The engineers and astronauts that took us to the moon, invented computers and cell phones, created Teflon and Tang and freeze-dried ice cream were not novelists or writers of fiction. But they were inspired to make real the science fiction fantasies they surreptitiously read with a flashlight beneath their bed covers as children.

Authors like Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Ursula LeGuin and Ray Bradbury stoked the fires of imagination, and when that was coupled to the broader world of math and reading and science, the synergy opened floodgates of practical accomplishment.
A world without the arts is a barren place, and we suffer not just the loss of our unique culture and the essence of being human, but the very tools some think should be the only skills taught. The subtraction of one is the erosion of the other. We need to encourage, expand and value arts education because it serves the entire community and lifts us all, technician or dreamer.

In truth, the great leaps in science and technology have always been partnered with starry-eyed visionaries--in the arts--showing us what might yet be.

Year End Book Reviews

There is nothing quite so demanding as the urgency of now. Every day something comes up which has to be done now, and thus it is that weeks have passed since last I posted. Not that I had nothing to share, mind you, or circumstances upon which commentary may have been warranted, or even some new story or poem with which to bemuse; but instead pedestrian life intervened and I just haven't had the time until now.

Since I last wrote, several things important to me have occurred. My second novel, Rising Son, has been released for e-readers and is currently available for $3.99. Through the auspices of my publicist I have even managed to attract the attention of the local newspaper. You may link to the article here . They were generous with their coverage and in the physical paper I got a picture and headline above the fold on the front page, and about one third of the inside front page.

My spouse and I are also in the throes of selling our abode and combining households with her 92 year old mother, who is just beginning to reach that point where independent living is becoming too much. In this market it is a grueling process with false starts and dashed hopes offering the larger portion to date. But, in God's time and will it will all end up the way it is meant for us all, even if I can't quite see that horizon just this moment.

Meanwhile, I continue to voraciously consume books, and will take a moment to comment here on some notable tales which you may wish to read.


"We are coming, Greek." With those words Chris Humphreys begins an extravagant and delicious fictional chronicle of the people and events surrounding the siege and eventual fall of the fabled title city. Once the heart of the Byzantine Empire, the Red Apple--as it is known to the Turks--is ripe for plucking. With brilliant command of his craft, Humphreys weaves a tale of Emperors and mercenaries, Sultans and sinners, connivers, diplomats, seductresses, mystics and murderers into a powerful and compelling narrative where readers can almost smell the sweat and fear, cordite and courage, and duplicity and faithfulness as a huge army surrounds the walls that have withstood a millennium of assaults, and--outnumbered ten to one--prepares to defend itself one more time. "This is my city, Turk. Take it if you can."  Lovers of historical fiction will be immersed and gratified with this book, I couldn't stop reading, and can't sing enough praise for this fabulous contribution to my bookshelf.

A Place Called Armageddon-Constantinople 1453 by C. C. Humphreys.
Available through Amazon.com



We all have secrets. Big secrets, little ones; ones we disclose freely because they have little value, and some of us have secrets we willingly take to the grave. What secret did the famous printer Johannes Gutenberg--whose revolutionary bible that bears his name--have that was so important he was willing to sacrifice his new printing operation to maintain? This question leads the brilliant but eccentric professor Keith Drucker and rare books librarian Madeline Zayne on a transcontinental search for clues about who might be bombing the rare book libraries of the world, what an encoded rubric and stolen manuscript reveal about arcane rituals and biblio-terrorism and what fabulous treasure is at the end of the search. And if they find it, will they survive to tell the tale?
Nathan Everett crafts an intriguing story of just what it might mean when a pressman says he has 'ink running in his veins', and pushes us through an entertaining labyrinth of leads to a satisfying  and surprising end. Highly recommended, think Dan Brown (though better crafted) for the bibliophile.  Who says librarians are dull?

The Gutenberg Rubric by Nathan Everett
ISBN 978-0-9833691-2-7
Available at bookstores, through his website, Amazon.com and BN.com 


What if Cleopatra didn't die. Ever.

Queen of Kings by Maria Dahvana Headley is one of those books. A book I enjoyed thoroughly, recommend highly and hate trying to review. Not because it is somehow deficient--quite the opposite--it is an ambrosial mix of piquant characters familiar to us all. How could you go wrong with Cleopatra, Mark Antony, Octavian and a fulsome cast of Egyptian, Roman and Pagan gods and their mortal minions? You can't, or at least Headley doesn't. What makes this genre-bending morsel so difficult to review is that almost anything I write has the potential to be a spoiler and I so do not want that to happen. So I will say this: If you are a fan of historical fiction there is much to love in this scrupulously researched book. If a fan of Egyptology or ancient Rome, again, lots to admire in these pages. Perhaps you enjoy well-imagined and sublimely crafted fantasy or mythology. You will find a home among her words and worlds. The fact that she can satisfy across this spectrum leaves me bereft of superlatives, except to simply say, Wow, can this lady write! 
I might bargain with Hades just to get a couple of hours inside her brain to see the wonder of it. And that is the only clue I'll give you. Read for yourself and embrace the ride! 

Queen of Kings by Maria Dahvana Headley
ISBN  978-0-525-95217-6
Widely available at bookstores, Amazon and Barnes & Noble.com

What do all these authors have in common-including me? We all live in the Pacific Northwest, and as time becomes an increasingly precious commodity to me you will find my reviews will increasingly be devoted to the talent flourishing in our region. I hope you continue to join me in reading local authors, buying at independent bookstores, and giving writers laboring in the electronic world, like myself, an opportunity as well. Thanks for the reads.

The Final Days of Hubert Loessing

I have been away from this blog for a month. My apologies to my readers, but I have been spending time working diligently on my novel trilogy, trying to expand my marketing skills (with limited success) and hone my writing skills. I spent Saturday last among friends, colleagues and fellow toilers in the vineyard of words.  This is a short story, the idea of which occurred to me just Friday, and with the time allowed at the workshop this is what I crafted.  I hope you enjoy my effort.

The first streaks of dawn tinted the horizon when Hubert heard the chainsaws in the forest across the way.  As they whined, he could imagine the chips flying; visualize the notch—followed by the back-cut—that would fell the tree.  Saws went silent and what seemed an eternity later, a one-hundred-twenty-foot red cedar hit the ground, rumbling an earthquake through the house, crashing Ella’s best china to the floor.  Hubert, to his agony, had lost his Ella to age and disease: her dishes’ going, as well, was just too much. He peered across the way in time to see another giant stumble from the skyline in their woods and a new torture set upon him. There would be after-shocks; not all of them from falling trees.

For fifty-two years he and Ella had lived in the little home Hubert had constructed with his own hands.  He had built the barn and the corral; the chicken coop and the studio where they made folk art sold in galleries around the world; even the outhouse, before the septic was built.  It was a good life, lived simply, as far from civilization as practical.  They raised two boys to adulthood and grew most of their own food. A lifetime had trickled through the hourglass watching the forest across the way transform from saplings to towering spires ascending skyward astride the hills of the horizon.  Now the boy’s children were starting families of their own. His dear bride was a twinkle among the stars and the only remaining links to the life he so long had cherished were now tumbling like broken relics of a failed civilization.

As he hitched on his overhauls and cinched up the laces of his boots, the earth would tremble; then still.  The pungent stink of exhaust fumes clashed harshly with the sweet-sharp aroma of pine and spruce carried by the wind of falling branches. 

Transported in time, to long-ago afternoons, Hubert was wandering—in his mind—among his verdant neighbors.  Each reverberation from a collapsing cellulose sentinel evoked reminiscences of the clean redolence of their trees. Ella had called them their Hundred-Acre-Wood and the memories burned his mind as brightly as the morning sun.  He recalled pine straw—soft beneath their sandals—and the cool whisper of sword ferns clutching at them as they passed. Even the drenching winter rains fell softly, transformed into mist; hushed in reverence of so special a place.

The parcel across the way wasn’t really their—or his—woods, of course, but Hubert and Ella had always treated them as their own private front yard. Twenty-plus generations of bald eagles had fledged from the aerie atop Old Snag, a lightning-blasted noble fir at the crest of the ridge.  Endless generations of pileated woodpeckers had rat-a-tat-tatted countless trunks, tattooing irregular holes to lure unsuspecting insects to their doom in sap traps.  The acreage provided winter heat from deadfall bucked into firewood. Much of the muse evident in their art was mirrored in the architecture of the nature at hand.  Even their supper table had been graced by a bounty of fiddle-leaf ferns, chanterelle mushrooms and salmonberries.

 Those trees falling to earth, while the shards of the broken dishes were swept up, were more than just neighbors—they were family members. Hubert Loessing had always been a man to protect his family.

A good deal of the morning was spent watching some of his grove fall as the sun rose high into the sky.  About noon the devouring dragons fell silent, replaced by the rumble of rigs arriving to carry away the copse corpses.  His watching was replaced by listening. The small retinue of farm animals he still kept—disquieted by the unfolding deforestation—were tended and soothed: a few weeds were unceremoniously yanked from the garden and an idea began to take root in Hubert’s universe.

Something like this had been coming.  When he and the missus started their little homestead it was a two mile drive on dirt to get to the forty mile rumble on the rutted gravel road to arrive in the closest town.  Thirty-some years ago a crew had transformed the old road to a smooth ribbon of asphalt and the short track of dirt was widened, smoothed and layered with gravel, then drenched in used oil.  Now there was a mini-mart just six miles away where you could buy beer and chips and pump expensive gas into your deluxe SUV.

Not long after the paving of the path, someone had bought a parcel just a mile away and pretty soon mail started coming right to the property line twice a week.  Hubert had mail-ordered a book on wiring and electricity and he and the boys strung copper cables throughout the house and barn electrifying their lives; oh, about a quarter of a century ago.  Now, even the two miles of oiled gravel had been paved, and that strip of tarmac was what separated Hubert’s homestead from The-Hundred-Acre Wood.

In the barn it took nearly an hour to rummage through boxes stored in the stalls before he found what he was sought.  He poked around some more, collecting everything he thought he would need; then carried it all to the back porch dumping it in a disheveled heap.

Hubert spent a quiet evening after supper writing.  His hand—for his age—was still remarkably fluid and strong, clearly legible on the long-overdue letters he composed.  Upon completion he rested himself by the crackling fire, the warmth emanating from the hearth he had set fifty years ago.  He made a few phone calls—telephones came along with electricity—then retired, setting his alarm and snuggling under Ella’s quilts on the bed.

The whine of the saws shattered the peaceful dawn revving up to rain down destruction in the forest once again.  Neighbors, invited by phone last night, stood in the space at the front of Ella and Hubert’s home comparing conversations.  When saws were suddenly replaced with shouts and frantic activity surrounding a single tree in The-Hundred-Acre-Wood the coterie of friends on the porch began to comprehend their tasks and set about to complete the obligations to which they had agreed.

The Coroner’s Report concluded the Hubert Loessing had died as a result of massive crushing trauma when a fir tree being felled in a logging zone landed on him.  His body was clad in old forest camouflage, something a hunter might have worn years ago and his boots had spiked insteps.  He couldn’t be certain, but the doctor thought it possible that the deceased may have actually climbed into the tree for reasons unknown.  The ruling was accidental death.  The case was closed.

As Hubert intended, logging had been shut down—but only for a week—to accommodate the investigation.  The neighbors had taken his livestock to their homes.  The boys were settling affairs, selling household goods and hiring a Realtor to dispose of the property.  Hubert was a twinkling star with Ella.

It took two years to finish the infrastructure. Construction began when logging had been completed, making way for the subdivision of luxury homes.  As a result of the earlier tragedy, and the colorful pioneer from across the street, it was named Loessing Landing.

From Fact to Historical Fiction - Book Reviews

Among the wide-reaching arc of genres that populate fiction, historical fiction is particularly broad, offering both readers--and writers--the opportunity to explore what was real through the eyes of fictional characters, imagine what might have been real by fictionalizing accounts of real people, or bending both to suit the needs of the story.

My own work Island Dawn, for example, begins the story of a fictional Japanese immigrant and his family through the late 19th century into the post WWII era. In my case I have characters buffeted by the real-world events and circumstances of the times over the course of a trilogy.

Such an approach is also taken in Guernica, the debut novel for Seattle journalist Dave Boling.  Set in the moments before the outbreak of WWII in the Basque region straddling southwestern France and northwestern Spain, this novel is a beautiful meditation on the power of love and a heart-wrenching exploration of the devastation the machinery of war visits upon the innocents of all ages.  While this book tells the tale of the people at the heart of Basque culture in Guernica, it paints on a canvas even larger than Picasso did for his epic mural. This intimate portrait paradoxically sprawls across the sweeping events of the era and illuminates--through fiction--the horror of war, the heroism of living a meaningful life in the face of unimaginable heartache, and the dignity of doing the best you can in the worst of circumstances.  This was a five-star read for me, and is a fine example of how fiction at its best illuminates and informs the best and the worst in us.

Guernica, A novel by Dave Boling
Published by Bloomsbury, New York City.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59691-637-1

Stepping back five centuries Saltspring Island resident C.C. Humphreys uses a different approach by taking a historical figure shrouded in myth and legend and imagines what the life of the real person might have been in Vlad - The Last Confession.  Within these pages is an epic novel that gathers historical data and casts Vlad Dracul--the real Dracula--as the reviled impaler to his enemies, the Dragon's Son to his people and ultimately the hero of his homeland.  This richly textured narrative, as told by those who knew him best (remember, this is fiction), casts the cartoonish figure of Stoker's novel in an entirely different light. It brilliantly brings into sharp focus the twists of fate, political and theological machinations and external forces that may have driven Vlad to the intense and excruciating means so vividly depicted by Humphreys.  The rich characterizations and exquisite eye for detail make this an epic read, though not for the faint of heart. As Vlad Dracul learned the hard way in the 15th century, 'we torture so that we will not be tortured'.

Vlad - The Last Confession, a novel by C.C. Humphreys
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark Naperville, Ill.
Paperback ISBN: 13: 978-1-4022-5351-5


Taking yet another avenue in Blood of the Reich, Anacortes based William Dietrich takes a peculiar true historical incident, in this case a Himmler sponsored expedition of German scientists to Tibet--the roof of the world--and combines it with a fictional power supposedly left by the ancients in a remote monastery awaiting the 'blood key' to unlock the secrets.  Convinced of their Aryan superiority the Nazi expedition treks treacherously to the forbidden gates and discovers 'Vril' only to have its power denied them by the interdiction of an intrepid American archeologist and an adventurous lady pilot, presumably saving the world from Nazi domination--for now.  Dietrich cleverly switches to and from pre-war German obsessions and a modern day thrill ride as destinies separated by seven decades race toward a breath-taking collision.  Here the elements of history, fiction and the supernatural are blended seamlessly with the peculiar world of sub-atomic physics to produce an exciting page turning adventure that will keep you on the edge of your seat right till the last page.  A great read, and I will note for the record, Bill's work is among my favorite reading.  His scholarship is evident, but always serves the story well without distraction.  When you finish this one, try Hadrian's Wall or the Ethan Gage series.  I promise you won't be disappointed!

Blood of the Reich, a novel by William Dietrich
Published by Harper Collins New York City
Hardback ISBN: 976-0-06-198918-6