A much-neglected author

I suspect that many people have heard of the books of Edgar Rice Burroughs, but that relatively few remain who have actually read them. After all, to say that you are reading A Princess of Mars, or God forbid, Tarzan, tends to bring a laugh in reading circles, and outright derision in regular social circles.

But Burroughs is a wonderful pulp writer. (if you think I mean "pulp" in a derogatory sense, go read this essay by Chesterton, then come back and finish reading this post) Tarzan and John Carter are both gentlemen who would rather walk through fire than harm a woman; Dejah Thoris and Jane Porter (poor Jane; she is not the simpering weakling that she has been made out to be) would rather die than break a promise or draw their men away from a clear duty.

Burroughs writes characters who fight epic battles (approximately every three pages: but again, it's pulp, in the best sense) for honor alone, yet leave their enemies alive more often than you would expect (it is dishonorable to kill an enemy who can no longer harm you, after all).

Here is a sample, from the second Tarzan book. Tarzan has won the love of Jane Porter, but she has already promised herself to his cousin Clayton, Lord Greystoke:

"It was not for William Cecil Clayton, Lord Greystoke, that he had denied his birth. It was for the woman whom both he and Clayton had loved, and whom a strange freak of fate had given to Clayton instead of to him.

"That she loved him made the thing doubly difficult to bear, yet he knew that he could have done nothing less than he did do that night within the little railway station in the far Wisconsin woods. To him her happiness was the first consideration of all, and his brief experience with civilization and civilized men had taught him that without money and position life to most of them was unendurable.

"Jane Porter had been born to both, and had Tarzan taken them away from her future husband it would doubtless have plunged her into a life of misery and torture. That she would have spurned Clayton once he had been stripped of both his title and his estates never for once occurred to Tarzan, for he credited to others the same honest loyalty that was so inherent a quality in himself. Nor, in this instance, had he erred. Could any one thing have further bound Jane Porter to her promise to Clayton it would have been in the nature of some such misfortune as this overtaking him."

Not much contemporary literature would be able to contain words like these seriously, without any hint of sarcasm or irony. Duty. Honor. Loyalty. Keeping one's word, even when rashly given. When was the last time you heard these concepts taken seriously in a story? (well, probably Harry Potter, but then we're back to pulp. )

Now, of course the books do fall into some of the sins of their era: there is some racism, especially in Tarzan (though I hasten to add, white folk do not come off too swell, either; Burroughs seems to prefer to take people as individuals rather than groups). The important thing, though, is that they do NOT fall into the errors of today: heroism is glorified, not mocked; honor is expected; courage is praised; and both men and women are expected to act honorably.

Go read the books.

I just finished reading one of the oddest books I've ever encountered (other books on the list include The High House, Canticle for Leibowitz, the books of Charles Williams and George McDonald, Dune, etc). It is also, like the other books on the list, one of the best books I have ever read. The book is Eifelheim, by Michael Flynn.

The book has a rather bizarre premise; it tends to make people laugh, so let's get it out of the way first. The story is set in 14th century Germany, just before the Black Death hits. A group of aliens appears outside a small village, and are befriended by the local priest.

There. Odd, yes? Very. But the whole thing is presented so believably that it almost feels more like a narrative history than science fiction. One reviewer compared it to "Carl Sagan meets Umberto Eco." That's a very good description of the book, though I would argue that it has more of Eco than Sagan. It is not a fluff book: knowledge of medieval philosophy, theology, cosmology, and science is essential (you can get a good feel for those things by reading C.S. Lewis' The Discarded Image). Some knowledge of current physics and dimension theories is also useful, though not necessary.

The story is a very intense, character-driven work. No-one in the story is without serious flaws, but virtue also comes out in unexpected places. One of the things that impressed me the most was that the author took seriously the translation troubles that would occur between the aliens and the Germans. The aliens manage to construct a rudimentary translator, but even then, the reader can see serious miscommunication happening. (this is one problem with most sci-fi/fantasy--no-one takes the language barrier seriously. The animated movie, Atlantis, was particularly execrable in this regard. At least Stargate came up with something remotely believeable for the movie, though there seems to be no barrier in the tv series) However, the author also finds ways for the two peoples to have productive philosophical and scientific discourse, which often drives the story.

I can hardly recommend this book highly enough. Several of my favorite bloggers have also enjyoed the book (Happy Catholic, for one, and I think John C. Wright as well, though I can't find the post. It may have been a different blogger)

Vote for my LOLcats!

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When I was a young child, perhaps 7, I attended a church service that affected me deeply. It was around New Year's, and the pastor read aloud the names of those in the congregation who had died the previous year. After he had read the list, a soloist sang a song that almost made me cry with its loveliness and sentiment; I made a point to memorize the song. It is my practice to think of this song at New Year's, and to think of those in my life who have passed on.

This year:

Irene Clancy
Roy Clancy
Madeleine L'Engle, my favorite author
Michael K., husband of my coworker
Pam Cole

Those from years past who are still on my heart:

Irene Pearcy
Gene Ledbetter, the teacher who inspired me to write
Rich Mullins, musician
Pope John Paul II
Frank Capra (yes, I pray for celebrities. Allow me my eccentricities)
Myles Connolly, author
Richard Omondi
Janelle Debris

The Abiding Love, to the tune of Auld Lang Syne:

It singeth low in every heart,
We hear it each and all-
A song of those who answer not,
However we may call;
They throng the silence of the breast,
We see them as of yore-
The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet,
Who walk with us no more.

'Tis hard to take the burden up
When these have laid it down;
They brightened all the joy of life,
They softened every frown;
But, Oh, 'tis good to think of them
When we are troubled sore!
Thanks be to God that such have been,
Though they are here no more.

More homelike seems the vast unknown
Since they have entered there;
To follow them were not so hard,
Wherever they may fare;
They cannot be where God is not,
On any sea or shore;
Whate'er betides, Thy love abides,
Our God, forever more.

moar funny pictures

Respect

I've been thinking lately about my co-worker. She is a very devout follower of a religion that I consider to be a false one, but I simply have to admire her actions. In the office she never participates in any of the holiday celebrations, since they are not observed by her faith tradition, but she never makes a big deal about it, either. The office radio is right behind her, and she never complains when it plays all Christmas music.

 

We all know her stance on these things, but no-one is inconvenienced or embarassed because of it. She quietly does what she believes is right, with no compromise on her part, but no forcing of her beliefs on anyone else here.

 

I find that immensely impressive. That's a tough line to walk.

Meeting the Master

Ok, I really am going to try to keep up with my blog.

 

For those of you who don't know, on Saturday, I went to a community theatre performance in South Pasadena. There were only 80 seats in the theatre, so it was a pretty intimate crowd. The plays performed were based on short stories by my favorite living author(and one of my tope three fav of all time), Ray Bradbury. Mr. Bradbury himself was present, and spoke to the audience about love and writing for about an hour. Afterwards, I got to have my copy of The Martian Chronicles signed by the master himself.

 

It is hard for me to express how much the experience meant to me. I've been reading Bradbury since I was about 8, and he had a huge influence on my creative style. His stories have made me laugh, think, and cry. To meet him was a huge honor, and to hear him talk so openly to the audience was quite moving. I know of no other author of his stature (he's one of the 2 living classic sci-fi greats) who is so generous with his time (he does this every few months).

 

I can't wait for the next performance!

What Color Is A Dark Night?

I met him on a blustery day in late October. I was sitting on a bus stop bench, reading the day's newspaper, trying to ignore the damp chill sinking into my bones. The South is incredibly beautiful, but humid beyond my usual tolerance. It was a gray overcast day, so I was surprised to see a thin young man wearing sunglasses walk out of a coffee shop across the street. His green scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, and hung down his back, contrasting with the dark grey of his jacket.

I have never thought of myself as a patricularly nosy person, but I am very interested in the things that happen around me. On a whim, I decided to follow this young man, though I was careful to stay a block or so behind him. He turned right and went up a small side street. He didn't seem to be aware of me following him, so I dared to come a little closer. At the next intersection, he turned left  around the corner, I lost sight of him, and quickened my pace a little in hopes of finding him again. I suddenly found myself at the street corner, looking up at a large spired building. A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds for a moment, and the basilica's shadow stretched across the road for a moment, before fading back into the grey dimness of the afternoon.

One of the doors stood open, and I found myself drawn inside; there were few lights on, and the sanctuary was dim. My eyes took some time adjusting to the light, because I stumbled in the back of the room.

"It's unusual to find anyone else here at this time of day," came a quiet voice from one of the pews. I squinted into the gloom, and could just make out the gleam of candle light on two black lenses.

"Most people don't stop by here unless there's a Mass. And unless I'm mistaken, you're from out of town." I could see him now, silhouetted against the dimmed lights at the front of the sanctuary. He slowly removed his sunglasses, and looked at me.

"Yes, I'm just in town visiting. I'd heard about the basilica and wanted to see it. I guess I came at the wrong time, it's too dark to see anything in here. I suppose I'll come back when they turn more of the lights on." I got up to leave, embarassed at having been noticed.

"Actually, I like the santuary best at times like this. It's quiet now, and the lights don't hurt my eyes."

I let out a short laugh, which echoed around the room. "That's a bit of an understatement. It's so dim in here that I can hardly see. But I guess it would be gentler on the eyes in some ways."

He shook his head. "I see more than you do." He walked over to where I stood, and looked into my eyes. His eyes were almost black, the pupils wide and dilated. "I was born with abnormal pupils. They don't close right in bright light, so I don't go out much in the day." He held up the thick black sunglasses. "On cloudy days like today, I can just manage with my shades." The thin young man saw the look on my face, and laughed quietly. I guess I must have had a ook of pity, because he continued, "Don't feel sorry for me. I have a night job, and I live a normal life. Well, not normal as most people would consider normal, but a full life."

I nodded; my eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and I coudl see him more clearly now. He stood in the aisle, leaning against a pew, eyes fixed on the green carpet at his feet though he seemed to be looking at something much farther away.

I took another step toward the door, and he looked up again. "Can you look outside and tell me if it's still cloudy? I should be getting home, but if the sun's breaking through I can wait a while."

"What if it clears off? Will you wait till night?" I wished I had a car to offer him a ride, but I'd come into town on the bus lines, and walked anywhere I wanted to go.

"I won't have to wait long in any case. There's a storm coming up, I can smell the rain on the wind. Didn't you notice it? It's such a unique scent, almost a metallic tang, but so much sweeter. It'll be raining in another hour or so, and I can make my way home then, if I need to."

I went over to the door and opened it. "It's alright, the clouds are heavier now, it's darker than when I came in." He put on his sunglasses again, and joined me at the door. "Good. I shouldn't have any trouble getting home then. Thank you."

"What if it rains while you're walking home? Isn't there anyone you can call to come pick you up?"

"No, it's alright.  It's not that cold today, and the walking keeps me warm anyway. I like the rain. I can see more in the rain than I can in the sunlight, and even more when it rains at night." His smile looked strange, with his eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. "If you come out in the storm tonight, I can show you a little bit of what I see. Believe me, it's like nothing you've ever seen in the light of day." He scribbled short set of directions on a slip of paper, and handed it to me. "I'll be there when the storm hits. Once you've seen what I see, you won't feel sorry for me again." He gave a slight bow, and touched the edge of his glasses like a salute. Then he turned and was soon out of sight among the buildings.

 

I spent the rest of the afternoon in my hotel room, pacing restlessly. Out of my window, I could see the street below; everyone seemed to be hurrying by, eager to complete their daily activities before the rain hit. Every so often a large drop would hit the window, but it didn't begin to rain in earnest until the sun went down. It peeked out from behind the clouds, red and swollen, for a few moments, then seemed to sink into the waters of the river.

Almost at once, the wind rose, and I heard the rain begin to fall. I shivered; it looked cold outside, and I had no raincoat. I wanted nothing more than to fix a pot of coffee, and settle down with a good book, but I found myself pulling on a thick sweater and a pair of boots, and setting out into the storm.

 

The first gust of wind took my breath away, and I wrapped my arms around myself. I was saoked through in a few minutes, and quickened my pace to try and keep warm. I stopped under a streetlight to check my directions, and continued down the street. In about half an hour I found the place; it was almost completely dark, away from all the street lights, and I felt a moment's hesitation. But then the lightning flashed, and I could see a thin form standing on top of a small hill, arms spread outward and face upraised to the sky.

"So you did come!" he called to me, as I walked up beside him. "I thought you might not; every so often I invite someone out here, but usually no-one comes."

His face was pale in the cold night air, and I could see the steam from his breath. "It's cold out here, and it's night. I can't see anything." I stepped up beside him, shivering.

"Here, stand on top of this little hill. Now face into the wind. Dont' worry, the rain might sting a little, but it won't put out your eye or anything. Look out there, straight into the wind."

I turned slightly, and felt the rain dash itself against my face, stinging the blood to my cheeks. Beside me, the young man lifted his arms to the sky again, and began to sing. The words were drowned out by the wind and the thunder, but the tune was wild and joyful, sad and sweet. As the lightning flashed, I could see the leaves caught up by the wind, swirling in a  mad dance, and the trees shone wetly green, but after an instant the sight was gone.

"What do you see," I called into the wind.

"I see red leaves so sharp-edged that you'd swear they drew blood, whirling in a crazy wind. The trees are throwing themselves against each other like giants wrestling. The grass shines in the lightning, and glows dimly green in the rain. The raindrops are like meteors blazing through the air, and I can see them flattening themselves against the asphalt."

The storm rose in fury, but I didn't notice it. The things I could see in the flashes of lightning could never compare to what my companion saw in the darkness of the night. I stood there for an hour while the storm spent itself out, listening as he called out the sights that passed before his wide-open eyes.

Finally, the wind died down, and the rain slowed to a steady drizzle. My companion had gone, disappeared into the night. I stumbled my way back to my hotel, drawing the stare of the desk clerk as I came through the lobby. I must have been quite a sight: soaked through to the bone, hair tangled by the wind, with bits of leaves caught up in it. I took a hot shower, but even after I was warm and dry, I couldn't sleep. I sat by the window, with all the lights in the room off, watching the rain. Finally, just before dawn, I fell asleep.

My bus left at 10am, and I barely made it. I had just enough time to fling myself into the last remaining window seat. I stuffed my bag under the seat in front of me, and looked out at the small town. I caught a glimpse of a few people milling around the station. Near the street stood a young man, thin t-shirt covered by a jacket, large black sunglasses protecting his eyes, and the looks of pity he received from those who passed by. He touched the tip of his glasses as the bus went by, and then he was gone.

I never found out his name. But even now, I go out and stand in my backyard when the rain comes, and sometimes I can see a little. 

An Announcment

Last night, at approximately 9:33pm, I hit the golden 100,000 words on my novel.

 

Oh. Yeah. Baby.

 

http://www.viddler.com/explore/SaintJoi/videos/63/ingroup/nanowrimo/

Sorry for absence...

...but I've been busy noveling. My current wordcount is 55,000 words. In 12 days. For anyone who doesn't know, that's flipping insane. My brain is starting to feel a little fried right now, but no more than usual for NaNo. That's kind of the scary thing--writing an average of 5000 words a day has not been that difficult. It takes effort of course, and some days it takes a lot to push through to the 5K, but it hasn't been much more difficult than usual.

 

so, hopefully blogging will resume in December...if my brain hasn't died....

 

 

 

So....many....ideas....

This is getting distracting...you ever see a fractal? I feel like my story is like that: whenever I look at a part of it that looks simple, it suddenly into this complex thing with way more history and story than will ever appear in the novel. Yikes.

 

I've decided what my novel is like: think Swiftly Tilting Planet meets Babylon 5. That sums it up oddly well, actually. I've got things very similar to Shadow technology, the Great Machine on Epsilon 3, and the telepaths. I've also got time travel, the importance of love over power, and the choice that changes the world.

 

How cool is that?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

14 HOURS

AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

I'm dying to start writing!

 

*headdesk*

 

If you like Richard Lederer

You'll love this book! http://www.lulu.com/content/1310566

 

NaNoisms, compiled by Wrimos.

 

NaNoism: to quote one Wrimo: "A cross between a typo and a grenade. A normal typo is just annoying, but a NaNoism is a typo that smashes everything in the vicinity into nonsense."

 

Wrimo: participant of NaNoWriMo

 

Examples: "Adam ran through the chicken and bumped into Justian. " "-- the highest ranking officers were made of sturdy wood…" "Isn't the world wonderful? Filled with sunshine, rainbows, flowers and puppy rabbits."

 

Go buy the book!

Pastafari!

I love the NaNo forums...

 

We have the Christian thread, the atheist thread, the agnostic thread....

 

And now the Pastafarian thread. All hail the noodley appendage!

 

I love the NaNo forums.

Squeeeeee again!

Payday! This means I can finally donate to NaNoWriMo and get a pack of merit badges! Huzzah for the halo!

 

Yes, I know I am making no sense. It's the pre-November incoherency.

After a lovely few hours in the kitchen earlier in the week, I've decided that I want to learn how to can fruits and veggies! Fortunately, it looks like the boiling water bath method will do what I need, so I won't have to mess with a pressure canner. Huzzah! I love the idea of making my own preserves! Even better if I can learn how to do it by Christmas and give some as gifts.

 

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

http://snarkerati.com/movie-news/pixar-developing-john-carter-of-mars-trilogy/

 

This makes me so happy! Dejah Thoris done by Pixar! John Carter on the big screen!

 

*bounces around in happy little circles*