Month: February 2018

With no luck finding an agent, I looked into the possibilities of self publishing. Writer friends have suggested it as a good option. I’ve read a few things saying it was more respectable these days. It wouldn’t hurt to look.

I started with what I thought was a relatively older, well established self publishing service. In the interest of niceness, I won’t mention the name. I went to their website and looked over the options. Some looked suitable for my needs, so I dug further.

Everything on their website required that you give your phone number and have them call you. As a person who actually teaches people to build web applications, that struck me as suspicious. Normally, a business with a web presence will use that technology to facilitate customer interaction. Employees talking on the phone is very expensive but getting the customer’s money upfront through web forms and payment processing is cheap.

This led to more research. I searched for information about the company, particularly complaints about them. There were plenty. Many of the complaints suggested the company would take your money and then not contact you, or would just pass you from employee to employee until you got frustrated. Other complaints said the company stalled your project while pushing you to purchase other, very expensive services from them.

In fairness, there were statements saying they had no trouble with the company. These positive comments were a minority. The impression I got was that the company was more responsive if they thought you could make more money for them. Again, that was just an impression.

A little more looking found even more bad news. People claimed the company was owned by a separate company that is also the owner of many other self publishing avenues. It was stated that even respected traditional publishers would farm out their self publishing branches to this separate company. If the separate company was behind all of them, and they were as bad as the many complaints alluded, self publishing may be more treacherous than I imagined.

For the time being, I will still pursue traditional publishing. I would prefer that route anyway; I don’t have the marketing resources to push my book on my own. My efforts will focus on a more desirable pitch. With any luck, and few thousand more rejections, my novel will be well on its way to the remainders shelf.

Once question I’ve heard over the years is why do I write? There is an assortment of ways to answer the question, some more serious than others. In talking to other writers, it seems there are some common threads. Maybe some of those reasons apply to your writing as well.

The obvious answers are short. Writing is fun. Writing is a cheap hobby. Maybe we have something we want to say to the world and writing lets us do that. If you are skilled, writing can earn money. On top of those, my brain won’t let me get to sleep at night if it is in the mood to write.

Those all make sense, but they don’t discuss the long-term outcomes of our writing. Many of us would like to be professional writers. That would imply that we want enough income from our writing that we don’t need a second source of funds. That would allow us to write full time. Another sign of success is when publishers and agents actively seek us for our writing skill. Once Hollywood starts turning your writing into movies, that’s a good sign as well.

I want other things to show the success of my writing. For example, I want to create a non-obvious phrase that is so good that it becomes part of the language. Not just a short-lived pop culture reference, but I want my phrase to appear in dictionaries throughout the future. I want the phrase be seem so natural that people can’t imagine the language without it.

Similarly, I want at least one character that is so popular that people use the name of the character to reference people with similar characteristics. In the same way that any do-gooder scoundrel could be called a Robin Hood, people should use the name of my character. Honestly, I don’t care if the use is positive, as long as the name lives on as part of culture.

The title of at least one of my writings should be used in the same way. Shakespeare’s play Romeo and Juliet is used as a metaphor for love even centuries later. I want the same impact from what I write, even if it is just as wrongly applied as that one.

Finally, I want English majors in colleges everywhere to curse my name. I want them exhausted with the analysys forced upon them by overzealous professors who have completely misunderstood my work. I want them to cry out, “Why do we have to read this garbage?” and have the faculty reply, “Garbage? You’ve missed the whole point!” The only logic response to that is for the students to put funny hats on the statues and busts of me wherever found.

There is a very good chance that I will not reach all of those goals. Given my publishing history so far, it’s unlikely that even techno-archaeologists will find the remains of my blog in the coming millenia. Still, the picture of those motivators can help me through on the odd occasion that the writing has stalled. Hopefully, you have similar dreams.

“G-579, you have stopped moving. Please respond”

I looked over my shoulder to the cockpit speaker on the console and then back to the man pointing the pistol at me. “Well,” I said, “it’s your ship now. What do you want to tell them?”

He didn’t seem prepared for the details of his piracy; my question confused him for a moment.

“Oh, yea,” he said, “tell them what’s going on.” He motioned to the console with his pistol.

It was my turn to be surprised. “You want me to tell them everything?”

He nodded a couple of times.

My copilot, Livesey, raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and then looked at the floor to avoid making any eye contact.

I swiveled my chair back to the console and the cockpit window, careful not to bump into the pirate in the cramped room.

All around us, starships of all types moved to and from jump points, on their way to other stars. That’s what we would be doing if things were still going to plan.

I flicked the switch to use the com. “Jump Master Control, this is G-579. We are currently being pirated by, well, a pirate.”

There was no immediate response; I don’t think I expected one. When they came back, they seemed surprised. “G-579, did you say pirate?”

I looked back at the man standing behind me. “Roger that, Jump Master Control, an actual, story-book style pirate. A young man in tall boots that fold over at the top, a billowy shirt, a scarf around his head, a sword and a pistol. He says he’s taking over this ship.”

Another pause as they digested what I fed them.

I smiled at the pirate.

He smiled back, pleasantly.

That made it weirder.

“G-579, is it one of those old-time pistols with the metal ball?”

I looked at the pistol again. I was pretty sure the image would be with me in detail for a long time. “Jump Master Control, negative, the pistol is a modern plasma pistol”

Most piracy happened near the small colonies where everybody was too poor to defend themselves and had very little to steal. When it happened, the military caught the bad guys and the news showed images of the remains. Those pirates looked drab and worn out. I guess we were lucky to get one who took the time to dress the part.

“G-579, what does he want?”

That was a good question. I spun my chair to face the pirate directly. “You heard the question. What should I tell them?”

He gestured around with his left hand and smiled. “I want this. I’m after this ship. It is my intention to steal and fly off with this specific vessel.”

Livesey looked at me with his face twisted in puzzlement. I’m sure I looked about the same. I piloted this ship for about five years and there was nothing special about it. Any ship with a “G” designation meant that we hauled garbage, usually to a recycle base, and that’s all we did.

I turned back to the console. “Jump Master Control, he says he wants this ship, the G-579.”

“Why?” the response came back quickly.

This would be easier if I weren’t the intermediary. The pirate explained that the G-579 was a secret super ship that his spy father piloted during the war. He needed to steal it to prove that his father was a hero and not just a lowly garbage hauler.

I should have been offended by the “lowly” remark, but the situation was too strange.

“G-579, please wait while we confer.”

That wasn’t good. The discussion back at Control would range from boarding my ship to simply blasting it into particles. Neither kept me on the easy path to retirement. It was time to remember that two-hour “talking down nutjobs” seminar all the new ship captains sit through. That was a long time ago and I’d mostly just talked down drunks since then.

“So,” I asked, “what should we call you?” Having a name makes things personal, they said. It’s harder for someone to shoot you if you get personal. That was the theory, anyway.

“Call me Felix.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Felix, even if the situation is a little awkward.” They also said to downplay the stressfulness of the situation. “My name is Doyle Ross, but everybody calls me Ross.” I indicated my copilot. “This is my first mate, Livesey. He’s a good guy.”

Livesey waved a little and tried to smile.

Felix waved back.

“So, Felix, what makes you think this is your father’s ship?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” he said. “Dad had pictures and the call signs, and they even had the number on the sword he wore.” He patted the sword hanging from his waist.

“Did you ask your dad about all this before you snuck aboard?”

Felix lowered his head. “No, he passed away a few years ago. It was sad; they didn’t give him his full military honors because his work was top secret. That’s why I have to expose his work, so they will have to recognize what a hero he was.” A little extra stress crept into his voice.

Things just went from goofy crazy to sad crazy. I had hoped that, with the full pirate outfit, the guy could be tricked into peacefully going off on some adventure with clowns and whoever else from story books. Sad crazy was different. This guy was on an emotional mission and there would be no dissuading him from it. This was going to need more than a spaceship captain’s level of psychology training.

“I’m sorry to hear about your dad passing. He sounds like he was quite a man.” Staying on Felix’s good side was important. “I’m sure he would want you to live up to his morals and level of service.”

Felix switched the pistol from his right hand to his left. That worried me.

With his newly available right hand, he slowly drew his sabre from its scabbard. His eyes glazed a little as he looked over the intricate pattern of gold on the blade. He held the blade at different angles to catch the cockpit lights.

“You said that’s your dad’s sword?” I asked. I hoped the question would snap him out of wherever he was going.

“Hm? What?” he responded, “Oh, yes. It’s his sword. It has the ship designation right there on the blade near the hilt.” He turned the blade so I could see the gold “G-579”.

“The rest,” he continued, “is control circuitry. It has the program that turns this old garbage scow into a super powered blockade runner and spy craft. All I have to do is insert this into the correct slot in the console and the change begins.”

He turned his attention to the console, looking over all the slots, crevices, and other openings.

“You know,” I said, “this ship has been in private ownership for a lot of years. In all likelihood, the military removed any special circuitry after the war, you know, to keep it secret. Even if you could find the right slot, the sword would probably just cut through important wires without having the desired effect.” It was the best I could think of to try to keep him from cramming a random piece of metal through the controls of my ship.

“G-579,” came a different voice over the com. This voice was deeper and a little bit scary. “This is Commander Bittinger of the Battlecruiser Stalwart. Prepare to be boarded.”

The conferring at Control must have decided on not blasting us right away, though the option was obviously still on the table.

Through the cockpit window, I saw a small, gray dot in the distance become a looming monstrosity of armaments sliding into position beside my ship. Those battlecruisers were fast.

I turned to Felix. “I don’t think they are going to give you time to figure out the correct slot. Don’t worry, though; you haven’t really done any harm.”

“I have to prove my dad was telling the truth all those years,” his voice strained.

We were back to sad crazy. His old man really messed him up with those stories. “You know, my dad used to tell me stories when I was a kid. I really believed them back then; still do a little. I tell my own kid stories and he’s old enough for a ship of his own. It’s just one of those things dads do with their kids.”

He turned, a little too mechanically, to stare at me. His eyes were really wide, as was his smile.

My own eyes were locked on his, but in my peripheral vision I saw his plasma pistol pointed straight at my chest. The nerves in my spinal column hummed with tightness and I felt more afraid than I had ever felt before.

“Yes,” he said through his rigid smile, “but my dad’s stories were true.”

His eyes turned back to the console and he plunged the sword into a slot normally reserved for maintenance scanners.

The cockpit lights dimmed to emergency levels, making the sparks seem even brighter as they erupted from the console.

The vibrations of the engine stopped.

Felix stared at the sword hilt protruding from the console.

Livesey looked at me.

I nodded slightly toward the door at the back of the cockpit.

We both rose slowly to avoid disturbing our pirate. He didn’t seem to notice as we scooted by.

We left the cockpit, closed the door behind us and headed to the escape pods near the crew quarters.

The vibrations of the engines returned, but not in the normal way. They pulsed, as though out of phase. I felt it the same time as Livesey.

“They’re going to blow,” he whispered.

I motioned to the pods. “Hurry.”

We climbed inside, strapped in, and pushed ‘go’. My G-579 jettisoned us into space.

With the pod’s communications, I made contact. “Battlecruiser Stalwart, this is escape pod from G-579. Regular crew are in the pod, but the pirate is still on the ship. He’s started some sort of phase pulse in the engines. There’s a good chance they are going to explode.”

“Do you think they’ll get us?” asked Livesey.

“Control will probably send somebody; we’re too small for a whole cruiser.” I unstrapped myself and floated to see out the porthole.

There was my ship, tiny and a lot more clunky compared with the cruiser. Still, it was home for a lot of years. I hoped they could save it and I could return. There would be an inquiry and I should probably be grateful if they let me fly anything when it was done.

A bright flash filled the pod.

It took a moment for my eyes to recover from the shock. Still dazed, I clumsily floated back to my seat and strapped back in.

Livesey asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yea, I’m fine; just a little shook.”

He seemed to take me at my word. “Did the ship explode?”

I blinked a couple of times. “The ship is gone.”

“It exploded then?” he asked again.

“The ship is gone.” That was about all I really knew.