Karina Fabian's Christmas request.

Karina Fabian (aka: Our Lady of Dragons) sent the following message:

Dear friends and readers,

This winter, I have two things in my heart and on my mind: caring for those less fortunate than me (or indeed, much of the world) and my DragonEye, PI stories. For Christmas, I’m combining them and would like to share them with you.

Those of you who are “Vern Fans,” know about my dragon who works in our world as a private investigator, and his partner, Sister Grace, a mage and nun in the Faerie Catholic Church. They’ve saved the worlds and their friends in numerous stories and novels. Last year, I wrote a story for Flagship about their first Christmas together. Not only is Grace struggling with the Mundane idea of Christmas, but their home is threatened by a land developer who wants to tear down the entire neighborhood and make a mall. When the Ghosts of Christmas come to visit him, however, Vern and Grace have to solve the mystery before the Christmas Spirits become Angels of Death.

I have revised and am publishing “Christmas Spirits” as a serial story to raise funds for Food for the Poor. This is a wonderful charity that helps people in impoverished nations help themselves. It allows donators to choose their gifts--whether rice for a family for a month, school supplies, livestock, tools or even houses.

I'm asking that you please check out the story, and, if you enjoy it and want to see more, that you donate even a dollar to the cause. Also, if you enjoy the story, let your friends know. I'll post every Tuesday and Thursday as the donations come in. Right now, we have raised enough to send a family 20 baby chicks and are halfway to a fruit tree in addition. Vern would like to send them a cow (he is a dragon, after all), but Sister Grace and I are dreaming of raising enough to buy someone a home. Can you imagine giving a HOUSE for Christmas? Will you help?

Find the story at http://christmasspirits.karinafabian.com. You can also get to it via my website, http://fabianspace.com. Look under the Christmas dragon for the link. You can learn more about Food for the Poor at http://www.foodforthepoor.org.

Thanks for your attention!

Karina Fabian

Sounds to me like something to add to the Christmas list.

Walt

16 November 2011: Feast of St. Othmar.

"Academic Question: Rising Expectation" up at Avenir Eclectia

My short story, "Academic Question: Rising Expectation," is up at Avenir Eclectia.

15 august 2011: Feast of St. Arnulf.

"Writing the Alien Alien" up on CWG Blog

"Writing the Alien Alien" is up of the Catholic Writers' Guild Blog.

19 July 2011: Feast of St. Aurea.

A Judge's Sense and the Living-Impaired.

I was perusing the bulletin board down at the senior center the other day--I like to go there just to heckle the young squirts--and was looking at the various athletics scheduled: Wii bowling, line dancing (well, line shuffling anyway), contact sports like cards and pool, water aerobics (proof that bikinis can still look good--if you don't believe me, take your glasses off and try it again), etc. The one sport that appeared to be missing was senior division car jumping. Which leads to a Kelly story...

Kelly, a guy I worked for many moons ago, put himself through art school working as an undertaker in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains. One pleasant Indian summer afternoon, he was out in the driveway of the funeral home washing one of the hearses when he almost became one of the dearly departed. He had just walked under the carport to grab a swig of Dr. Pepper when he heard a car engine rev to light-speed and a loud thump. He looked up to see a Chevy Corvair coming down the hill and across the lawn from the Kroger's parking lot above at a high rate of speed (the fact of a Corvair moving fast proves it was downhill). Kelly did his best second base slide out of the way and the car crashed into the side of the funeral home beneath the carport's canopy.

When he opened the door, he found the driver, a late-middle-aged lady (the French, being the French, have a much more female-friendly phrase: "Une femme d'un certain age...") to be shaken--not stirred--but otherwise unharmed. It seems the heel of one of her stylish shoes became lodged against the accelerator and the Corvair fulfilled Ralph Nader's title, Unsafe at Any Speed.

While the repair work was being done to the funeral home, the owner decided an armor upgrade was in order figuring this might not be the last occasion of a prospective customer attempting to deliver themselves from the supermarket parking lot. So, a three foot-high brick wall was added to the outside edge of the carport.

Kelly was shoveling snow out front when he heard the tinny sound of a way over-revved Corvair engine and the familiar loud thump. He turned in time to watch the same Corvair fly down the hill, hit the bottom, become airborne, leap the brick wall, and end up wedged between the wall and the canopy overhead with its tail-end protruding far too saucily for a family-oriented blog.

While the lady, again, wasn't injured, the Life-Saving Crew did have to cut Detroit's masterpiece apart to extricate her. The cause? Yep, you guessed it. The heel of the same stylish sort of shoes had performed the trick of their predecessors.

This time she ended up in court. The Commonwealth of Virginia is generally pretty patient as such entities go, but this was getting to be a blasted habit. The offending stylish shoes were the Commonwealth's Exhibit "A." Both the Defense and the Commonwealth agreed that they were there more too ask his honor what to do about the problem rather than to seek punitive action against the unfortunate driver. The judge leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling for some minutes, came to a decision, leaned forward, and ordered that henceforth, the lady's driver's license, on the line normally devoted to "glasses" or "hearing aid," would read, "sensible shoes."


Our lady of dragons is at it again--publishing a book that causes normal law-abiding people to breakout in loud, uncontrollable laughter in the middle of such places of quiet as libraries, funeral parlors, hospitals, and boiler factories. Her latest hoot, Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator, is hitting the stores and ereaders this December. Considering my low tolerance for zombie lit (something about Sturgeon's Law being at work in the tidal wave of this stuff lately--as it is in all things human), this is one of the two keepers I've found so far (maybe I'll talk about the other next time if I get bored enough). Here's links to some sites with information: The Zombie Cookbook, and Fabianspace. (Note to FTC: I neither bought it nor was given it, you guys figure it out.)


31 October 2010: Feast of St. Arnulf. Luther nails his "95 Theses" to door of Wittenberg church 1517, Maori Wars resume in New Zealand 1864, last successful large-scale cavalry charge (so far) in Battle of Beersheba 1917, torpedoing and sinking of USS Reuben James 1941, Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi assassinated 1984.

Of groupies, fanboys, and...Why do I even bother?

A lot of male authors are supposedly inundated by masses of groupies. Battalions of nubile sweet young things throw themselves at the gods of the keyboard. They walk into a con suite and faster than they can conjugate a verb, they're propositioned in six languages and hues (some of them even of legal age).

To which I say a hardy "Pshaw!" Perhaps it's something about me (please, Lord, don't let it be that!), but mostly what I seem to attract are 30+ year old fanboys smelling of Clearasil and a notable lack of Right Guard or Irish Spring. The first thing out of their mouth is, "Ooh, ooh, I love yer stuff!" (Not a bad beginning of a conversation.) This followed by, "I write, draw, basket weave, greased pole climb--what have you--too!" Line number three ensues, "How do ya break into the business?" (Son, if ever I find out, rest assured, you'll be the 234th to know.) He then launches into a presentation on the GREAT WORK of his life (usually in genre I either have absolutely no experience in or that I hate so much that I break out in purple and green spots). He expounds the entire plot of his six volumes; the main, secondary, and tertiary characters' motivations (including why the protagonist's mother's unthinking actions that particular Christmas all those years ago drive the plot); and how his elves/stardrive/magic system is truly original and how it all keys off his D&D characters. It must be admitted that this young Hugo winner of the future actually is talented--he is able to communicate all of this information as he escorts one down the hall at a walk, at the trot, at the canter, at the gallop--forward!--from the function rooms to, hopefully, a friend's room--never, never let them find your true lair. And as the door is slammed in his face, he asks if he can send the fugitive his manuscript as soon as he has it all written down.

As for the female of the species, the groupie, the closest I've come to attracting them was the rather shop-worn wife of a fellow scribbler who made a pass at me that I put down to either incipient insanity or sunstroke (there was the occasional glint of sunlight between the snow squalls that day). Of course I manfully rejected her advances because it would have been a mortal sin for both of us (adultery); besides, who knew where she had been; and the wife was just out of earshot buffing her gladius--hell nor the Defense Department hath a fury like a ticked-off Irish woman.

The preceding is what soured me on the writers' life and explains why I have done my level best not to become a known author (something at which I have been frighteningly successful).

There now, who sez I can't write fantasy?


One of those conversations:

*ring*

Me: "Hello?"

#1 Son: "Dad, what temperature do you broil a chicken on?"

Me: "Uh, I don't know, how about 'Broil?'"

#1 Son: "Okay. Where do I put it in the oven?"

Me: "Is the stove gas or electric?"

#1 Son: "Electric."

Me: "Okay, put the broiler pan about four to six inches from the top element."

#1 Son: "It won't fit."

Me: "Pardon?"

#1 Son: "The chicken won't let me put it that close."

Me: "Uh, son? Is the chicken cut up?"

#1 Son: "No. Should it be?"

Me: "Yep. Unless you have a rotisserie."

#1 Son: "Okay, thanks, Dad. Bye."

*ring*

#1 Son: "Dad? I can't cut up the chicken."

Me: "I don't suppose it's still frozen?"

#1 Son: "Uh, yeah."

Me: "Okay, do you have a microwave?"

#1 Son: "No, Ted took it with him when he moved to his new place.'

Me: "Okay, put the chicken down in the refrigerator. It should be thawed by this time tomorrow. Do you something else to eat?"

#1 Son: "No, I'll have to go to the store."

Me: "Alright, tip for you--always try to have some hot dogs and buns handy in case something like this happens in the future. Okay?"*

#1 Son: "Yeah. Thanks, Dad. Bye."

I think I know why I'm gray. It ain't the years, it's the having kids.

* Our lady of dragons counseled me that I really should introduce him to that other staff of single life--Ramen Noodles, succor of twenty-somethings the world over.


13 September 2010: Feast of St. Amatus. Belisarius defeats Vandals at Battle of Ad Decimium in North Africa 533 AD, British capture Quebec 1759, Los Ninos Heroes killed defending Chapultepec 1847, Lee's orders found by Federals before Battle of Sharpsburg (Antietam) 1862, second day of Battle of Bloody Ridge (Edson's Ridge) on Guadalcanal 1942, first hard drive-IBM RAMAC 305-introduced 1956.

An Ersatz Answer to All.

Science is a funny way to waste time. Like many disciplines it sometimes appears to advance through a form scientific Oedipus complex. One often advances by attacking the thought of the mentor who taught one. As soon as the top is reached and one trains the next generation, the trainee begins the climb to supplant the teacher.

One of the sure methods is to build on the mentor's work to come up with a hypothesis that better describes an observed phenomenon than that of the teacher's. Hopefully, the hypothesis works well enough to be accepted by most of one's fellows and take on the status of a theory. If the theory is perceived to provide a lasting solution to a question, it can become a "law," often named for its originator.

Like a parent, the originator of a theory can fall in love with the fruit of their loins--er, mind. Their wondrous idea can be "The Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything!" It is tried as the answer to any number of problems, whether it has anything in common or not. As the old saw goes, "If one has a hammer, all things look like nails."

What results is the one-size-fits-nobody sort of answer--rather like the cheap one-size-fits-nobody baseball-style caps the Koreans flooded the market with back in the early 80s. While billed as one-size-fits-all, these sartorial disasters must have been wrongly transshipped to Earth instead of their proper destination of Tau Ceti IV as they were apparently designed to fit no human head. At the very best, the over-high crown tended to make those wearing them look like noted sportsman Elmer Fudd.

The search for the "Unified Law" so far has been science's version of that for the Holy Grail or, more probably, the philosopher's stone. Who says science isn't a matter of faith? Stay tuned.


Review: (Note to FTC: I bought this danged book myself!)

Storm Front: a Novel of the Dresden Files. Jim Butcher. New york: ROC, 2000.

Coming up with a consistent magic system is one of the things that separates the better fantasy from the good. One of the joys of Harry Dresden's art is that there is a feel of consistency as he works through his incantations and uses his ingredients. Rather than the occasional shift of the method that appears in Rowling for instance, Butcher has, so far, stuck to one apparent system in the two volumes I've read (according to the ladies of the house, this holds true throughout his series).

Harry Dresden, based in a less corrupt Chicago (obviously a different dimension), has the charm of the eternal schlub. No matter what happens to this spell-slinging Sam Spade, you know for him, just getting out with a mostly intact skin is victory. It's a cinch he'll never make the big score and retire to Orlando.

While eeking out a living as a wizard for hire (okay, a "consulting" wizard then), he gets to work on the City's tab just enough to keep from starving. His contact, Sgt. Karrin Murphy, head of the Chicago Police Department's Special Investigations Division (think of a "file 13" for anything that doesn't add up on a material plane) is a tough cop's tough cop and, unlike Agent Scully, admits there are things going on she doesn't understand. Harry's version of the Encyclopedia Arkainia, Bob, is an spirit of the air who resides in a human skull (the previous owner doesn't need it anymore) and when not reeling off lists of ingredients, cooking times, and health warnings--generally about Harry's--is a thorough going letch (as opposed to a litch).

I've only read the first two volumes of the series, Storm Front and Fool Moon, but can say, so far, these are keepers. In fact, I'm a little impatient to get through Lee's Lieutenants [mentioned last time] so I can start on number 3, Grave Peril, which awaits on my Kindle (as of this writing, Harry's lamentable effect on technology newer than 1231 A.D. hasn't manifested itself with my Kindle).

A word about Harry's moral place in the world; like most protagonists in mainline fiction, he is vaguely good to neutral. While Murphy is mostly a believer, Harry is controlled more by a fear of the White Council's reaction to him doing anything untoward magically. In fact, Morgan, their slightly mad enforcer, lusts for the day Harry puts a foot wrong and he gets to execute him (it's hard to not to like a guy who enjoys his work so). Comparing him to the evil he fights, Harry is--to use a phrase of an actor/anthropologist from Betelgeuse--"Mostly harmless."


Catholic Writers Conference Online: 26 February to 5 March 2010

A wise gentleman dressed in green once explained to me that if one wants to do something well, one must learn the drill. Here is a free chance to learn the manual of arms for writers--logical construction, plot, characterization, dialogue, grammar, voice, marketing, making contacts, and pitching--and meet and have fun with fellow writers. All of good will are welcome. Here's the link: http://www.catholicwritersconference.com/index.php .

I'll save you a virtual seat.



12 January 2010: Feast of St. Zoticus of Africa Proconsularis, Basiliscus crowned Byzantine Emperor 475, Royal Aeronautical Society founded in London 1866, Hattie W. Caraway first female U.S. Senator 1932, Biafra surrenders 1970.