Books that inspire me– “Citizen of the Galaxy”

Princess of Fire is now available as a Createspace POD paperback. Phase One of my GBtWD (Get Back to Work, Doofus) project is complete. I’ve started on Phase Two, which is creating a synopsis for Princess of Stars. I’ve allocated a month to that phase. Once I have it in hand, I can start drafting Princess of Stars.

Meanwhile, I’ve been doodling and reading and thinking about what I can do to expand my blogging efforts– and it occurred to me that it might be fun to do a series, like my previous one on films that inspire me, on books that do the same. Almost at once, a first candidate for review presented itself.

A few weeks ago Chuck Wendig issued a flash fiction challenge, “YOUR VERY OWN SPACE OPERA”. I didn’t follow up on the challenge– 1000 words is not nearly enough for a proper space opera story, in my opinion– but it reminded me of past space operas, my own (unpublished) and others, and I was inspired to revisit a book that, for me, is one of my Ur-works of science fiction, and, specifically, space opera– Heinlein’s Citizen of the Galaxy.

My personal copy of the book is the thirty-seven year-old Ballantine paperback with the Darrell K. Sweet cover, which is now permanently fixed in my mind as the definitive image of Thorby and Baslim the Cripple–


**********Spoilers hereafter, beware**********

Often the books you read in your youth are the ones that make the strongest impression and which stay with you the longest. So it is for me with Citizen of the Galaxy. I read this little novel before I was sixteen, when I was a lonely nerd desperate to find ways of engaging my imagination more powerful than those supplied by my narrow natal culture. I found just such a vehicle in Citizen of the Galaxy.

This is the story of Thorby, a scrawny, young, and scarred (in many ways) slave, who, through a twist of circumstances, comes to be the property of a beggar called Baslim the Cripple. Baslim is more than he appears (as is Thorby) and he adopts Thorby as his foster son. This starts Thorby a path to re-discover his past, and find his place in a complex and dangerous universe.

Heinlein was a master of creating future worlds with a wonderful economy of words. In Citizen of the Galaxy he surpassed himself. In the first few pages he paints a picture of Thorby’s enslavement and sale in Jubbulpore with small verbal brushstrokes–

“Lot ninety-seven,” the auctioneer repeated. “A fine, healthy lad, suitable as page or tireboy. Imagine him, my lords and ladies, in the livery of your house. Look at–” His words were lost in the scream of a ship, dopplering in at the spaceport behind him.

Heinlein did more in that one paragraph than many modern writers can do in pages of scribbling.

More than that, though, Heinlein’s artistry is seen in the large-scale structure of the book, in which he creates, not one or two cultures for Thorby to navigate, but four, plus others, human and non-human, of which we get glimpses. He brings each of them to life with that same economy. Each society is a stage in Thorby’s growth from slave to free person, as he grows more sophisticated and worldly-wise with each– and, ironically, finds that he has to struggle against new forms of slavery even in freedom. His contact with each society is broken in wrenching ways, forcing him to find his way anew. The drawback with this plot structure is that the novel’s short length does not allow for a detailed exploration of each society or Thorby’s adventures in them (more about that below).

Heinlein did not invent space opera. If there is any one person who deserves that accolade, it would be E. E. “Doc” Smith, with his Skylark and Lensman series, although there were plenty of predecessors even to Smith. But Heinlein put his stamp on the sub-genre with Citizen and other books. His writing and his concepts were just that good.

One aspect of the novel I particularly enjoy is the vivid life Heinlein gives to the capital of the Sargonate, Jubbulpore, where the novel begins. Decades before Joss Whedon’s Firefly, Heinlein created a world where high technology lives cheek-and-jowl with extreme poverty, corruption and superstition. It’s also a strong portrait of life in an all-powerful tyranny, where even nominally free people have reason to fear the authorities– but where ordinary people still find ways to resist.

The book is not perfect. It telegraphs one or two pieces of plot that would have been better left as surprises. Personally, I find myself wishing that Heinlein would have spent more time on Thorby’s experiences in each culture, particularly his time in the Hegemonic Guard, which passes without even a major space battle (unless you count flying mashed potatoes). This last complaint is probably the result of the fact that Heinlein’s juveniles were intended to be short and were produced on a time-table, at least one a year for more than a decade. This is one Heinlein novel which you might wish was a little more door-stopperish than average.

Far more critical, however, is the fact that Heinlein does not completely close the circle for Thorby. Thorby finds a place and a purpose in the last society he has to negotiate, as the head of a powerful family corporation– but the lingering question of whether officers of that corporation actually caused the death of his parents and sold him into slavery to cover their own culpability in the interstellar slave-trade is never really resolved. There is no emotional or psychological catharsis or resolution, no vengeance or retribution, not even a perp walk. The climax of the book is a proxy fight for control of the family corporation, which is perhaps logical in terms of corporate culture, but overall is a dramatic let-down– and it’s followed by an unsatisfying and rather awkward concluding chapter in which Thorby– whose full name is Thor Bradley Rudbek– sits around thinking about how Baslim would want him to stay the course in his corporate job, to do what he can to fight slavery from his position of economic power. Not exactly an ending that makes you light up the literary equivalent of a cigarette.

The weakness of the book’s ending is puzzling, and has come in for a lot criticism over time. When you compare it to the perfect resolutions of other Heinlein books, such as Have Space Suit Will Travel or The Door into Summer, it’s doubly-puzzling. Heinlein was perfectly capable of giving a book a dramatically satisfying conclusion, but somehow this one (in my opinion) got away from him.

A review of the book’s history does not shed a great deal of light on this conundrum. Citizen was written from November to December, 1956 (staggeringly fast, even for a short book). It was came out in hardcover in July, 1957. In other words, Heinlein had seven months to reconsider the ending, but there is no evidence he ever did. It appears this is a case of him applying his own Rules of Writing to himself, in particular, Rule Number Three–

1.) You must write.
2.) You must finish what you write.
3.) You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order.
4.) You must put the work on the market.
5.) You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.

Rule Number Three has been indicted for causing a great deal of confusion in the minds of novice writers– but it might explain the ending of Citizen. It’s pretty clear that Heinlein finished it, shoved it into the pipeline to Scribner’s, and moved on to other projects, including Have Space Suit Will Travel.

As frustrating as the ending is, however, it doesn’t change the overall power of the book, shaped as it is by Heinlein’s unique imagination, and his ability to depict humanity at its worst and best.

If you want to write science-fiction in general, and space opera in particular, this is a book you have to read.

Mondays Finish the Story Flash Fiction for Sept. 21st, 2015 – The Holy Mango

Mondays Finish the Story Flash Fiction for Sept. 21st, 2015, based on this image–

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

and this initial sentence–

“She lived in a mango tree.”

Copyright 2015 Douglas Daniel
She lived in a mango tree. No one knew why; she hated mangoes.

“Daphne,” people shouted up to her, “you hate mangoes.”

“I know,” Daphne said, knitting a sweater.

Her husband told Daphne he couldn’t live with pollination and fruit flies. Daphne just went on knitting.

Her husband left her. Local news profiled her, then moved on to Justin Bieber look-alike contests.

Psychologists clustered around the foot of the tree, theorizing on her aversion adherence. Several published learned tracts on the phenomenon.

On September 14th, 2019, the Silubrian Horde invaded the Earth. They wiped out humanity in a day.

But not Daphne. Mangoes are sacred to the Silubrians. They elected Daphne Supreme Mango Goddess of the Horde. They brought her chocolate and strange alien liquors that gave her hiccups. In return, she knitted scarves and cardigans for them. These became holy relics for the Silubrians.

When Daphne died, the Silubrians cloned her. Since then, all of humanity have been women who knit.

Moral: As the mangoes, so Man goes.

A Review of the novel “Station Eleven”

I’m not much of a reader of literary fiction, but an NPR review of Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel caught my ear some days ago. It sounded intriguing, so I checked it out of the library.

I’ve mentioned before that it is a rare book nowadays that rivets my attention. As a reader I am old and jaded, and when I look at much of what is being published nowadays I have a sense that I have seen it before. Not many books crack my sense of ennui.

Station Eleven managed the feat. Its story kept me going to the very end. It is a pleasant surprise.


The book’s central premise is that, sometime in the near future, humanity is very nearly wiped out by a new, extremely lethal strain of influenza (the “Georgian flu”). In a matter of weeks global civilization collapses, leaving scattered survivors– those lucky enough to dodge being exposed to the flu, and the very, very few who are naturally immune– struggling to survive.

In most hands this sort of premise would have been given an epic treatment, with scientists and politicians and military men figuring prominently in the story, struggling against the disease in widely scattered locations around the world. This is more-or-less the approach of the movie Contagion, a film I personally enjoyed. In general, calling something epic gets my attention.

Station Eleven, in contrast, completely abstains from an epic approach. Instead, Mandel creates an intimate portrait of the end of the world, and she makes it work. The book starts with the death of Arthur Leander, a middle-aged film star who drops dead in the middle of a production of King Lear in Toronto, on the very night the influenza arrives in the city. The story then moves back and forth in time, describing the lives of several characters, before and after the flu, whose stories are intertwined around Leander and which continue to collide even after his death and the end of civilization. One such character is Kirsten, a young woman who was a child actress in the production of Lear in which Leander died. Twenty years in the future she is a member of the Traveling Symphony, a peripatetic band of musicians and actors who travel between the scattered settlements of survivors in what was once the state of Michigan, giving performances. It’s a changed world, but Beethoven and Shakespeare, not surprisingly, remain relevant.

Even with the small scale, and the shifts back and forth in time and from character to character, Mandel creates an utterly believable post-apocalyptic world. There are almost no false notes here, no over-the-top heroics, no blood-drenched battles, no easy answers to the horrors people go through. About the only complaints I have are that one piece of climactic business is resolved by what appears to be a deus ex machina, and there are parts of Arthur Leander’s story I could have done without. Aside from those quibbles, however, the story flows smoothly and leaves the reader with a sense of verisimilitude– this is what the collapse of civilization would look like, from the inside.

Mandel also brings a fresh perspective to post-apocalyptic story-telling, focusing on the importance of art, even after the collapse of society. Aside from the Traveling Symphony itself, copies of a science-fiction graphic novel, Station Eleven, created by Leander’s first wife, serve as a thread that connects many of the characters over time, often in unexpected ways. The comic is so loving described in the story that I find myself wishing I could buy a copy. The ultimate point Mandel is trying to make about art among the ruins is summed up by a quote from Star Trek: Voyager— “Survival is insufficient”– an axiom that contains within itself the seed of rebirth for human society. As a theme it is powerful and resonant.

I recommend Station Eleven highly– and I hope someone is working on a movie. I think it would work on the screen, although it lacks the sort of suspension-of-disbelief-straining action movie-makers, and audiences, seem to demand nowadays.

More about that in a future post. For the time being, go get the book. You won’t regret it.

Story Fragment – The Golem

I get story ideas from just about everywhere– my fiction reading, movies, history, news. However, only some of these ideas are fully formed. Many are just images, characters, scenes and snatches of dialogue. There is, in that confused and untidy place known as my mind, a space in which these bits and pieces float, unattached to a narrative. Sometimes these fragments bump into each other and combine in new ways, but others just drift around. Some of them have been there for decades.

Here’s a scene that’s been stuck in my head for a while. It’s more-or-less in the same universe as my novelette Diggers, and represents a different take on an incident from that story. I’m not sure if this is a story fragment, an incomplete short story, or the opening for a longer tale. It’s just a scene that has come back to me over and over again, and writing it out and giving it some form seemed to be a good idea.

Warning: this piece contains graphic military violence and bloodshed.

Copyright 2015 Douglas Daniel
“They’re coming,” the lieutenant said. Rain beaded on the lenses of his binoculars as he studied the enemy attack. I wondered how he could see anything.

I had the gun’s targeting scope. Through the misting rain I could see the Elha Death Brigades pushing forward through the scrub and shell-holes between the lines. They were coming in battalion, maybe regimental, strength. Fire teams of black-clad infantry moved from cover to cover ahead of the main units.

There’s too many.

“Load shrapnel,” the lieutenant said. “Set the fuse to a half-second.”

The loader slammed a round into the gun’s breach. “Wait for the order, you stupid bastard,” Sergeant Hode said.

That was addressed to me. Being the only half-blood in the battery usually left no question who Sergeant Hode was talking to. Half-breed, bastard, green-eye— no one else fit the description. By now I was used to it.

It bothered me far more how those pale faces out there, which I could just pick out in the scope, reminded me of my mother.

The big artillery, the ones firing from ten miles back, started talking. Shells whistled overhead. Out there in the killing ground they began to land, bursting with flame and smoke, throwing up fountains of earth.

Too long. The shells were bursting half a mile away, almost at the enemy trench-line. They were nowhere near the battalions already in the open.

“Damn it,” the lieutenant said. He took the binoculars down from his eyes, revealing the worried look on his face. Without the glasses, I was struck by how young he looked. Younger than me….

“Another cock-up,” Sergeant Hode said, bitter, and wholly un-surprised.

The machine-guns in the main line below us opened up. I saw Elha go down, dozens of them, but there were still too many.

The lieutenant lifted his binoculars again. “Range– eight hundred yards– standby– fire!

I pulled the trigger. The gun barked and bucked with the recoil. I heard the breech open and the empty casing tumble out with a metallic clang, but I was watching the enemy. Half a breath, and the shell burst over the lead enemy battalion, fifty feet up. The brush and muddy ground around the Elha were lashed by thousands of steel flechettes, as if a giant had thrown down double-handfuls of gravel. The shrapnel ripped into the lead Elha. Some went down as if flattened by an unseen hand; other were shredded in mid-step, disintegrated in clouds of blood and torn flesh. I saw others, less lucky, lying in the mud, screaming screams I could not hear.

“Reload shrapnel!” the lieutenant yelled. “Quarter-second!”

The loader slammed another round in. The breech-block clanged shut.


The gun bucked; I pulled the trigger before the word was fully out of the lieutenant’s mouth. I watched as the shell exploded above the Elha, right over the main body. More enemy fell or disappeared.

More shrapnel shells burst over the enemy– the other guns in the battery talking. I wondered if they had been silent all this time. I couldn’t remember if any of them had fired before.

Still watching through the view-finder, I saw the Elha out there waver. It was a strange sight, almost a physical wave of hesitation that passed through the enemy groups– and then they were falling back, scrambling through the brush, some running, some limping, some crawling.

There came the sound of cheering from the main line below us. “Hold your fire!” the lieutenant said, even though the loader hadn’t loaded another shell.

“I can’t believe we pushed them back,” Sergeant Hode said.

“We didn’t,” the lieutenant said. He was looking through his binoculars again. “They’re going to ground in that stretch of defilade midway. Something’s afoot.” He lowered the glasses. “Sergeant Hode, load HE– we’ll try to drop a few rounds into them and keep them off-balance.”

“Sir!” Hode said. “You maggots heard him– load HE.”

The loader obeyed. I put my eye back to the gun’s target scope. I saw the Elha disappearing into the cover of the dead ground. The range-card said the defilade was nine hundred yards away; I set my sights to that range, and a gnat’s hair. We would adjust as needed….


The shriek came right up to us from the main line. I cranked the scope up. The shape emerged from the mist of rain, still behind the enemy’s trench line, but already huge. It came on with lumbering steps, slow but eating yards with each stride.

The lieutenant said, “Tior and Dena!” Someone– Sergeant Hode or the loader– made an inarticulate noise. “Target the golem!”

I increased elevation and zeroed in on the construct. It was becoming clearer and clearer with each step. I targeted the thing’s blank face. “Ready!”


I pulled the trigger. The gun cracked. I actually saw the shell cut through the mist, leaving a trail of cleared air.

The shell detonated square on the golem’s face. I would been proud of that shot on any firing range on a clear day; on a day of rain and mist, with my heart pounding so hard my hands rested unsteady on the gun’s controls, it was nearly a miracle.

The shell exploded, and the golem did not miss a step. As far as I could tell its skin was wholly unmarred by the detonation.

“An iron golem,” the lieutenant said, his dismay open.

Other shells exploded on the golem, the other guns of the battery firing, but all of them together did not make a scratch on it. It lumbered on, clearing the enemy line and advancing into the no-man’s land.

“Sergeant Hode,” the lieutenant said, “get back to the ammo train. Tell them we need etheric shells, now!”

“Sir!” Sergeant Hode scrambled up out of the gun-pit, dashed for the rear.

“Give it another HE,” the lieutenant said.

We did. The shell hit square in the thing’s midriff, and it had as much effect as my first shot. The machine-guns in the main line opened up on the golem. A complete act of futility– I could see bullet strikes all over the golem’s body, but it was obvious there were no penetrations. The construct was close enough now for me to see its details– its rivets, the size of my head, the seams of its body. The huge feet, coming down on the soaked earth, sank a yard deep with each step, but that didn’t slow it down.

It reached the midway defilade. Golems were sometimes known not to discriminate too carefully between friendlies and hostiles, but this one stepped right over the low ground and kept coming. The Elha emerged from cover and followed it, shouting.

Sergeant Hode slid down into the gun-pit. In his arms he carried a cardboard cylinder. “One shell?” the lieutenant said, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“It’s all they had, sir,” Hode said. “And it’s not even a proper HE or AP shell– it’s a translator.”

The lieutenant grimaced. “It’ll have to….”

A shriek from the sky– an unholy crack that I felt rather than heard– the gun-shield in front of me rang as if hit by a hammer.

Suddenly the lieutenant had no head. His body stood for a moment, with blood fountaining out his neck; then it collapsed in the mud.

Sergeant Hode screamed; not at the sight of the lieutenant’s corpse, but because his own face was gone. He dropped the shell into the muck underfoot and clasped his hands to the ruin. Blood streamed from between his fingers.

The loader, unhurt, stared in horror at both of them. Crabbing backwards, he clawed out of the gun-pit and ran.

“Come back!” I shouted, but as I turned hot fire seared my left arm. My sleeve was torn and blood ran down my arm. A piece of shrapnel had pierced the gun-shield and hit me. The hole in the metal seemed to wink at me.

I managed to lever myself out of the gunner’s seat. I stumbled over to where Hode lay dying and picked the shell container up out of the mud. My left arm still worked, but every movement shot agony through it. Somehow I got the top of the container off, slid the shell out into my hands.

HE shells were painted black; armor-piercing, red. This shell was a brilliant orange. A blue timing ring encircled the base of the projectile.

I clawed the arming wench from its mount-point on the gun’s train. I glanced up as I did; the golem was closer than ever, still four hundred yards away, but looming higher and higher with each step.

Too close.

I attached the arming wrench to the timing ring. The moment I did a sharp keee! that was not a sound ran through my head. It hurt but was over in a moment.

Out in no-man’s land the golem stopped. It seemed to hesitate, even as machine-gun bullets continued to spark all over it. Then, with a metallic creak and groan, it turned and resumed its advance. The difference was, now it was headed straight toward me.

On my first attempt with the wrench I missed the timing mark; I had to turn the ring in a full circle and try again. “Come on, come on.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to myself or the shell.

I hit the mark on the second try. I dropped the wrench in the mud. Normally it took two hands to manually open the gun’s breach; I managed it with one, with the shell cradled in the other arm. The pain was blinding; I screamed as the breech-block locked open. I screamed again as I shoved the shell in to the breech one-handed.

The ground vibrated– the golem’s footsteps. Rain water shivered in the pit’s low spots.

I refused myself permission to faint. I clambered back into the gunner’s seat. I didn’t need the targeting scope to aim the gun. The golem was still coming for me, drawn by the energy in the translator shell. Two hundred yards, less…but I would have to let it get closer.

All at once there were men all around the gun-pit, soldiers, running for the rear. The main-line had broken. Some of the men carried their weapons, but others simply ran in blind panic, throwing away their gear, slipping in the mud, colliding with one another. “Hey, gunner,” one of them yelled at me as he ran past the pit, “run for it, if you don’t want to be a stain in the mud!”

I ignored him. I wasn’t sure I could have run if I wanted to. I cranked the gun up to maximum elevation, which allowed me to target the golem’s midsection. It loomed over me, so close. “Come on,” I said again, my breath short with pain and terror– but this time I was, of a surety, talking to the golem. Closer. I had only one chance to get this right.

The thing was fifty yards in front of me, a tower of animate metal. One more step, two– bullets spanged off the gun-shield– the Elha were close behind the golem.

But not as close as me.

I fired. I’d set the shell for muzzle-action; there was no perceptible gap between the crack of the gun and the eruption of blue fire around the golem. The thing froze in mid-step as the fire crawled all over it. The energy discharge was bright, and grew brighter. I heard cries of dismay from the Elha. The fire became a sphere of light, expanding outward. I held up a hand to shield my eyes as it swept over me.

There was a concussion I felt in my gut, but which was utterly soundless. The gun tilted sideways and I tumbled out of the seat– down into tall, dry grass. I landed on my arm. I screamed.

I turned on my back, sick with pain. The golem still stood in front of the toppled gun, but something was wrong. The thing teetered, its metal groaning.

With a crash of rending iron, the golem shivered and fell apart. Head, torso, arms, legs, all came unhinged and crashed to the ground in a cacophonous rain of metal. I had heard that individual parts of broken golems would still move, still try to carry out their last imperative. These sections, though, lay inert, mere pieces of iron. The etheric core of the golem was gone.

Panting, weeping with pain, I looked around. Before it had been mid-day, although gloomy and rain-filled. Now it was dry; the sky was clear, and it was night. A warm breeze stirred the leaves of trees that stood where our main-line should have been.

In the distance lights glowed– towers and spires of light. They looked like nothing I had ever seen.

Beyond the trees a single, huge moon rose. It’s mottled surface was strange to me.

It worked. I hoped the brigade would rally. But I would never know for sure. I lay back in the tall grass and contemplated the alien stars overhead.

The first day of Senior Year

In honor of a certain young lady’s milestone…

“You’re going to be late,” the father said.

His daughter rolled her eyes. “We’ve got plenty of time, Daddy.” She put the finishing touches on her mascara.

“You should drive to school,” the mother said.

“Mooom,” the daughter said, wilting. “I’m going to be fixing my hair.”

“I’ll drive,” the father said. “If we ever get going….”

The daughter growled as she applied lipstick.

The son came up from the basement with his backpack. “So, Ms. T-Rex is a senior,” he snided. “The only good thing is that you’ll be gone by the time I’m a freshman.”

“Lucky for you, you little genetic deviation,” the daughter said.

“I pity the kids who do have to suffer under your reign of terror,” the son said. He headed for the door. “Try not to let the power go to your head.”

The traffic was heavy around the high school. “Take the back way, Daddy,” the daughter said, as she ratcheted her hair taut.

The father maneuvered around the curve of the passenger loading lane, stopped. “I’m going over to Bethany’s after school,” the daughter announced, as she opened her door.

The father handed her her backpack, but held on to it for a second as she tried to take it. “Just remember,” he said, when she gave him a questioning look. “With great power come great responsibility.”

“Daaaddy,” the daughter said, rolling her eyes again. She took the backpack and slammed the door.

He watched her walk away. Seventeen years before he had carried a tiny baby up to the neonatal unit, frightened in a way he had never been frightened before. He wished he could tell his younger self how well everything had worked out. But then, that would have spoiled the surprise.

The lady in the SUV behind him blared her horn.

Time to shed the purple funkies….

Since I’ve published Princess of Fire, I’ve kinda felt like Bill the Cat on a bad day–


I’ve doodled away on four or five different projects, none of which have much prospect of seeing the light of day anytime soon, when I haven’t been collapsed in a purple funk. I was briefly cheered by an small uptick in my book sales on Amazon, but the warm fuzzies didn’t last (said uptick shows every sign of being over).

In the wake of my struggles with Princess of Fire, I have been afflicted with the certainty that I am a useless putz and a complete hack, enjoying a well-deserved obscurity. My mood has not been lightened by the fact that, in my unemployed state, I have slipped down to the only rung on the ladder of personal despair lower than yard work.

Yes. I have started to clean out the garage. Pray for me.

In the end, though, self-pity palls. You either have to yield to a final dissolution into a puddle of primordial slime, or stand up, buckle on your harness once more, and face the storm– i.e., knock off the whining and get back to writing, dork.

Because, if I’m a miserable hack, at least it’s my miserable hackness…hackiness…hacknicity…whatever. It’s my duty, or doom, to write my stories, and nobody else’s– and, conversely, no one else can write stories that belong to me. I need to tell them, and that’s all there is to it. Whether they ever get read is quite a separate issue.

As I do, I console myself with the thought that at least my stuff is better than Fifty Shades of Grey. It ain’t much, but it’s something.



1. Set up the Createspace print-on-demand version of Princess of Fire. This shouldn’t be particularly arduous, so a week or two should be sufficient to check this item off. No one has yet bought any of my POD editions (which means the three copies I own are completely unique and exist nowhere else in this universe, which is kind of freaky when you think about it), but you never know when some librarian in Ottumwa might decide to give you a shot.

2. Spend a month writing a detailed synopsis for Princess of Stars. I’ve already blogged about my deep and abiding desire to avoid another pantsing disaster, although I have not experienced a sudden conversion to detailed, anal-retentive plotting, and still less outlining (this is writing, people, not engineering). I know where Princess of Stars begins and I know where it ends, but I need to have a clear picture of what happens in-between.

3. Sometime in October-November launch into the first draft of Princess of Stars. God alone knows how long it will take to complete the first pass– I’m planning on allocating at least a year. How some people write full novels in three months puzzles the crap out of me.

4. Pick up the pace of my blogging– who knows, maybe even establish an actual schedule, although I don’t want to go off the deep end. Among other things, there are books and movies out there just waiting to be reviewed, which obviously need my particularly ignorant and completely biased opinion to find their correct place in the artistic inventory of Western civilization. That’s another aspect of my writing only I can commit…um, write.

Note: I previously blogged that I would be spending time on Horse Tamer between Princess of Fire and Princess of Stars. Unfortunately, I have laid it aside. My previous experiment yielded 60,000 words that went nowhere, and I think I finally have to admit that this story-line needs to go back on the shelf, probably permanently. It makes me sad, but I have only so many years left on this Earth, and I can’t spin my wheels forever.

So– once more into the fray, chilluns….

“Ring the alarum-bell!—Blow, wind! Come, wrack!
At least we’ll die with harness on our back.”

Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5, Page 3

Mondays Finish the Story – August 31st, 2015- A Day’s Work

Mondays Finish the Story challenge for August 31st, 2015— 150 words around this image–

 © 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

and the opening sentence–

“The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode.”

I don’t know what’s going on, but I seem to be kinda grim lately….

Copyright 2015 Douglas Daniel

The cemetery spread along the area known as Devil’s Abode. It was aptly named; the no-man’s land between the lines. Festering corpses lay between white-washed tombs. The ridge beyond was government territory.

“I see him,” my spotter said. His periscope peeked above the sandbags. “Bunker, just below the ridge-line, by those oaks. Aperture on the left.”

I located the opening through my scope. The bunker was well-hidden in brush, mounded over with earth. I saw movement in the bunker’s firing-port. “I see him.”

“Good. Wind’s from the right, about two knots.”

My cross-hairs centered on the man’s forehead. I held my breath, took the slack out of my trigger.

I hesitated.

“Take the shot. Take the shot!”

I squeezed the trigger. The shot surprised me, as it should.

“You got him!”

I slumped back into the trench. The barrel of my rifle was hot against my shirt. I didn’t care.

It’s not every day you kill your favorite teacher.

Pray and Write


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