I was as psyched as anybody when The Phantom Menace premiered in 1999. We had all been waiting 16 years for a new Star Wars movie. I was expecting the same magic that entranced me back when I was six years old and saw A New Hope in the theater. I didn't account for 16 years of reading and watching other science fiction, let alone my tastes changing and maturing. None of us children of the '80's can watch Phantom Menace through the same eyes that we saw our first Star Wars movie, and we're all the worse for it.
I'm not a film critic. I don't have a theater or cinema background. I'm just a lover of good stories, especially science fiction and fantasy. I haven't seen the newer films a dozen times each, and I have most of my sanity intact to prove it. I've certainly watched worse movies, but I seldom watch anything as disappointing. It's with some reservation that I anticipate the upcoming film, The Force Awakens. I haven't even watched the trailers. When I see Age of Ultron, where the next trailer is supposed to debut, I might be the guy in the theater with his fingers in his ears and his eyes clamped shut.
My son had never seen Phantom Menace. Initially I made the case that he wasn't old enough. The violence is more intense, I told myself. It can be hard to follow, especially because the dialogue at times seems like it was written by someone in a hurry to get back to more explosions and light saber duels. That's exactly how I felt when I watched it, and I was curious to see how my son would feel about it. Would he experience the same feelings I had for the original trilogy? Would he choke on the same stuff that gagged me when first saw Phantom Menace, nearly twenty years his senior? Would I have to watch my son experience pain on that same level? It would break my heart, but there was only one way to find out. I couldn't just avoid it and pretend he wasn't interested.
My son had been spoiled for the movie a bit because we played the Lego Star Wars games. In that medium, the Phantom Menace was superior because there was no dialogue, and humor was injected into areas that the movie (laughably) asked you to take seriously. Jar Jar was funny in the game. To my son, movie Jar Jar was also funny because he was "likable and stupid". His words were much kinder than what I would have said.
The pod race was undoubtedly one of the highlights for him. It was very exciting, but Jake Lloyd's acting makes me cringe. I could cut him more of a break if I hadn't seen such good acting by kids in Game of Thrones. Talented child actors can be found if one is willing to do the work. Even the first time I saw the movie, the pod race seemed longer than made sense. My son ate it up. It was one of the few times during the movie that he sat nearly still. He commented about how difficult that part of the video game was. I agreed. We didn't have the benefit of the force when we were trying to pilot those things on the Wii.
Darth Maul was, of course, "cool and creepy" to my son. The light saber sequence among Qui-Gon, Obiwan and Maul was his and my favorite scene in the movie. All of the other light saber action in the film seemed casually ridiculous to me. There were scenes where my son said it was "a lot more fun and crazy in the game". He called the fight leading to Qui-Gon's death "intense" and some of the same action when fighting droids "lame" by comparison. Agreed. How intimidating are droids that fall apart when their control module stops working? If the Trade Federation isn't smart enough to buy better technology than that, they deserve to be defeated by the likes of Jar Jar and some punk kid, midi-chlorians or not.
My son's overall rating for the movie was "7 out of 10 stars". He might have given it eight if I hadn't choked on a popcorn hull as he started to suggest it. I tried not to sway him, but apparently my poker face stinks. Maybe we'll watch it again in 15 years and see if he feels the same way. No, why do that to myself. He can watch it and tell me about it afterward.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Fishing With Family
As a boy, I eagerly awaited April first every year. Fishing season started that day, though there was sometimes still snow on the ground. I have a lot of great memories of fishing with my father. In ten minutes, we could walk to the Delaware River as it flowed through town. When the weather warmed, we would take the canoe downriver and get picked up by my mom. We could drift along, casting and slowly reeling in our lures with hardly a need to paddle. Sometimes in the summer droughts, the river water level would fall so low that we had to wade through the shallows, splashing along in our old sneakers.
Perhaps the most memorable first day of fishing season for me happened over thirty years ago. Naturally some of the details have clouded with time. I'll always remember it fondly, despite the cold and going home empty-handed.
Dad woke me near sunrise. I was disoriented, but the announcement of fishing quickly set my heart racing. I dressed in a hurry, and I could hear him heading downstairs. Mom and my sister were awake, too. Our whole family was getting ready to go, some more enthusiastically than others.
After a quick breakfast, we bundled up while Dad grabbed the rods and tackle. He even had worms for bait. Who knew where he'd found those that time of year? The ground was still frozen. I never thought to ask, too busy thinking about trout. My sister was still very young, but she was always an adventurous spirit and was nearly as excited as I was.
The walk wasn't far. To stay out of the road, I walked atop the banks of snow created by the plows. The surface had frozen and easily supported my weight. I could have run the whole way in my excitement, but we all stuck together. Dad smiled ear to ear in the early light. My sister's cheeks were rosy in the cold, and her eyes betrayed the joy she found in nearly everything at that age. Our noses ran, and we sniffed and coughed. Mom produced tissues as if by magic, always prepared even at that time of day.
It seemed to take forever to arrive at the bridge. In the summer, there would always be several people fishing over the guardrails. It was empty on that frigid day, as the river flowed silently below. We made our way across the bridge, heading over the piled snow and down the bank, through the frosty grass. Mom held my sister's hand. I was too big for that, always in a hurry to grow up.
Dad baited my hook, so I wouldn't have to take off my gloves. I always felt bad for the worms but tried not to let it show. I cast the poor, impaled creature out into a deeper pool, where neighborhood kids sometimes swam, and kept my eye on the bobber. Dad moved on to my sister and cast for her, before taking up his own rod. It was very quiet, like all sound had frozen, but it didn't last more than a few minutes.
My sister started crying. I looked over, expecting a hook in her finger. She had somehow gotten her long hair tangled in the fishing line. The more Mom tried to unwind her hair, the louder she cried. I reeled in my worm and watched ice crystals form on his waterlogged segments. Mom called Dad for some help, but he had stepped away. I didn't remember when he reeled in his lure, but he wasn't beside me. I wondered if he had needed to go pee.
Mom called him again, asking where he was. Nothing. My sister's crying became less frantic, and I saw that Mom was having some luck with her hair. She ceased crying altogether as she looked around for Dad, and Mom managed to free the rest of her locks. Mom grew very quiet. Inquiries concerning Dad's whereabouts were conspicuously ignored. The walk home was not as fun as the walk to the bridge.
Inside the house, the heat washed over us. Dad was nowhere to be seen, but I could smell coffee and hear wood popping in the fireplace. I pulled off my winter duds and made my way around the corner. There at the dining room table sat Dad. The fire crackled behind him as he took a very deliberate sip from his steaming coffee cup. He folded up the newspaper when my sister and Mom entered the room.
"April Fools!" Dad grinned. I had forgotten that day wasn't only the beginning of fishing season. We all had, except Dad. I couldn't help laughing.
Perhaps the most memorable first day of fishing season for me happened over thirty years ago. Naturally some of the details have clouded with time. I'll always remember it fondly, despite the cold and going home empty-handed.
Dad woke me near sunrise. I was disoriented, but the announcement of fishing quickly set my heart racing. I dressed in a hurry, and I could hear him heading downstairs. Mom and my sister were awake, too. Our whole family was getting ready to go, some more enthusiastically than others.
After a quick breakfast, we bundled up while Dad grabbed the rods and tackle. He even had worms for bait. Who knew where he'd found those that time of year? The ground was still frozen. I never thought to ask, too busy thinking about trout. My sister was still very young, but she was always an adventurous spirit and was nearly as excited as I was.
The walk wasn't far. To stay out of the road, I walked atop the banks of snow created by the plows. The surface had frozen and easily supported my weight. I could have run the whole way in my excitement, but we all stuck together. Dad smiled ear to ear in the early light. My sister's cheeks were rosy in the cold, and her eyes betrayed the joy she found in nearly everything at that age. Our noses ran, and we sniffed and coughed. Mom produced tissues as if by magic, always prepared even at that time of day.
It seemed to take forever to arrive at the bridge. In the summer, there would always be several people fishing over the guardrails. It was empty on that frigid day, as the river flowed silently below. We made our way across the bridge, heading over the piled snow and down the bank, through the frosty grass. Mom held my sister's hand. I was too big for that, always in a hurry to grow up.
Dad baited my hook, so I wouldn't have to take off my gloves. I always felt bad for the worms but tried not to let it show. I cast the poor, impaled creature out into a deeper pool, where neighborhood kids sometimes swam, and kept my eye on the bobber. Dad moved on to my sister and cast for her, before taking up his own rod. It was very quiet, like all sound had frozen, but it didn't last more than a few minutes.
My sister started crying. I looked over, expecting a hook in her finger. She had somehow gotten her long hair tangled in the fishing line. The more Mom tried to unwind her hair, the louder she cried. I reeled in my worm and watched ice crystals form on his waterlogged segments. Mom called Dad for some help, but he had stepped away. I didn't remember when he reeled in his lure, but he wasn't beside me. I wondered if he had needed to go pee.
Mom called him again, asking where he was. Nothing. My sister's crying became less frantic, and I saw that Mom was having some luck with her hair. She ceased crying altogether as she looked around for Dad, and Mom managed to free the rest of her locks. Mom grew very quiet. Inquiries concerning Dad's whereabouts were conspicuously ignored. The walk home was not as fun as the walk to the bridge.
Inside the house, the heat washed over us. Dad was nowhere to be seen, but I could smell coffee and hear wood popping in the fireplace. I pulled off my winter duds and made my way around the corner. There at the dining room table sat Dad. The fire crackled behind him as he took a very deliberate sip from his steaming coffee cup. He folded up the newspaper when my sister and Mom entered the room.
"April Fools!" Dad grinned. I had forgotten that day wasn't only the beginning of fishing season. We all had, except Dad. I couldn't help laughing.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Great Stories Where You'd Least Expect Them
I've long been a fan of speculative fiction. I love immersing myself in an adventure, fantastical or otherwise, and braving long odds via characters much more courageous than myself. My favorite tales make it easy to lose myself, as a steady stream of images fill my head. When I envision everything in the plot in cinematic detail, it's no wonder it takes me so long to read a novel. I don't really care how long it takes, as long as I'm engaged. The more in touch I am with the characters and their conflicts, the harder it is to put down the book.
It's the same with video games for me. There are some games built around a superbly crafted story, complete with characters that seem so genuinely human that you can't help sympathizing with them. These are the gems. My expectations only seem to rise as the technology improves. Mashing buttons while defeating threats doesn't really cut it anymore.
Now here I'm definitely dating myself, but I cut my teeth on the Atari 2600. Space Invaders, Frogger, Pacman and Joust were a few of my favorites. Beyond the difficulty involved in keeping the pixelated hero alive, there wasn't a lot to these types of games. There was a game called Adventure that sent me on a quest through mazes and other obstacles, finding keys and battling dragons. It was the height of gaming technology at the time, and it was about as immersive as an algebra assignment. I could pretend that I, Sir Square, set out to slay the dragons (squiggles) with the help of my trusty sword (an arrow) amid a maze of blue rectangles, but it was very easy to turn off and forget.
I had my first experience with an engaging video game story when I played "System Shock 2" somewhere around 2001. There were undoubtedly others I had missed, but this is the first I remember. It was also the first game to give me an idea of what the medium could become over time. I cared about the characters. The tension was very real, often startling me nearly out of my chair. Even though there was little interaction with other characters outside the artificial intelligence, SHODAN, the crew of the spaceships seemed very real. I had only their audio journals to learn about them, but I could sympathize with their fears and learn from their instructions, even if I couldn't interact with them. I wanted more stories in my games after that. There were a few that came close, but it was a long time until I got what I really wanted.
Nearly 14 years after System Shock 2 was released, The Last of Us debuted. It was, and remains so far, the only game I ever ordered before it hit shelves. I did this because I had seen some news about the game's unprecedented storytelling and character development. The preview really sold me. I watched the main characters make their ways through part of an American city after a horrible plague wiped out most of civilization. The characters had been shaped by loss and grief, had hardened themselves to surviving at all costs, and somehow they both needed each other on an emotional level that neither was equipped to express. Sounds like something I'd enjoy reading, and that's what made it such a compelling game. It was difficult to stop playing. I wanted to know what would happen next on their journey, and every time I somehow navigated them through one scrape they would find themselves in another. It was a video game after all, so there was plenty of running and fighting and overcoming obstacles. Always the story took precedence over all of these traditional video game elements, and that's what I loved. I enjoyed the character interactions so much, that I immediately played it again once I had finished it. That had never happened before with other games.
I don't have time to play video games very often these days, but I have a feeling that I will make time if there's ever another that can engage me the same way a great novel can. There probably are, and I just haven't heard of them, but so far I haven't found any that string me along like The Last of Us did. Perhaps there's even a future for me as a writer in this medium. It would be something I'd like to try, though I'm sure it's very different from writing a story or novel. I'll have to look into it. Getting a chance to combine two of my favorite things would be a dream come true.
It's the same with video games for me. There are some games built around a superbly crafted story, complete with characters that seem so genuinely human that you can't help sympathizing with them. These are the gems. My expectations only seem to rise as the technology improves. Mashing buttons while defeating threats doesn't really cut it anymore.
Now here I'm definitely dating myself, but I cut my teeth on the Atari 2600. Space Invaders, Frogger, Pacman and Joust were a few of my favorites. Beyond the difficulty involved in keeping the pixelated hero alive, there wasn't a lot to these types of games. There was a game called Adventure that sent me on a quest through mazes and other obstacles, finding keys and battling dragons. It was the height of gaming technology at the time, and it was about as immersive as an algebra assignment. I could pretend that I, Sir Square, set out to slay the dragons (squiggles) with the help of my trusty sword (an arrow) amid a maze of blue rectangles, but it was very easy to turn off and forget.
I had my first experience with an engaging video game story when I played "System Shock 2" somewhere around 2001. There were undoubtedly others I had missed, but this is the first I remember. It was also the first game to give me an idea of what the medium could become over time. I cared about the characters. The tension was very real, often startling me nearly out of my chair. Even though there was little interaction with other characters outside the artificial intelligence, SHODAN, the crew of the spaceships seemed very real. I had only their audio journals to learn about them, but I could sympathize with their fears and learn from their instructions, even if I couldn't interact with them. I wanted more stories in my games after that. There were a few that came close, but it was a long time until I got what I really wanted.
Nearly 14 years after System Shock 2 was released, The Last of Us debuted. It was, and remains so far, the only game I ever ordered before it hit shelves. I did this because I had seen some news about the game's unprecedented storytelling and character development. The preview really sold me. I watched the main characters make their ways through part of an American city after a horrible plague wiped out most of civilization. The characters had been shaped by loss and grief, had hardened themselves to surviving at all costs, and somehow they both needed each other on an emotional level that neither was equipped to express. Sounds like something I'd enjoy reading, and that's what made it such a compelling game. It was difficult to stop playing. I wanted to know what would happen next on their journey, and every time I somehow navigated them through one scrape they would find themselves in another. It was a video game after all, so there was plenty of running and fighting and overcoming obstacles. Always the story took precedence over all of these traditional video game elements, and that's what I loved. I enjoyed the character interactions so much, that I immediately played it again once I had finished it. That had never happened before with other games.
I don't have time to play video games very often these days, but I have a feeling that I will make time if there's ever another that can engage me the same way a great novel can. There probably are, and I just haven't heard of them, but so far I haven't found any that string me along like The Last of Us did. Perhaps there's even a future for me as a writer in this medium. It would be something I'd like to try, though I'm sure it's very different from writing a story or novel. I'll have to look into it. Getting a chance to combine two of my favorite things would be a dream come true.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
The Twister Down the Street
Extreme weather makes for exciting news. There's certainly a lot of time spent covering the hurricanes that sweep the NC coast each year. Some poor newscaster is usually decked out like the Gorton's Fisherman, while rain lashes and wind buffets. Normally only the aftermath of tornadoes is seen on the news. Felled trees and power lines feature heavily.
These violent displays of nature are awesome and fascinating to me, from a distance. Up close, they can be genuinely terrifying and utterly humbling when facing the forces involved. To see mature trees ripped from the earth and scattered like matchsticks, or vehicles tumbled by surging floodwater, leaves me speechless and feeling fortunate to have survived.
Several years ago, we had a close call with a tornado. There are no basements in most homes around me. The water table is too high to make them practical. The best we could do was find an interior hallway as far from windows as we could manage. I held the dogs, one panting and trembling during the thunder and the other more concerned with the wandering cat. The cat, oblivious to the danger, sauntered through the kitchen after escaping us. He wanted a drink of water.
My son was more excited than scared. My wife held him, and we did our best to maintain calm faces and voices. I watched through the kitchen windows as the trees bent nearly double by the wind and the sky darkened. The rain drummed against the glass of the storm door. Weather alerts squawked from our cell phones, telling us that a tornado had touched down near our neighborhood. My mind raced to thoughts of trees crashing into the roof. I tried not to grind my teeth to powder.
It was over quickly. The wind calmed, and the rain slackened to a drizzle. No trees came down on the house or in our back yard, proof of the flexibility of the pines. We freed the dogs and kid. Slowly we ventured out to assess the damage. Our house was one of the lucky few left unscathed. My son pointed across the street and said, "Where's their tree?" My wife pointed to the house nextdoor and replied, "There." The tree had been blown into the neighbor's garage and through her front window.
Out back, there was a smell we couldn't identify. We should've recognized it immediately, but for some reason we didn't. There was a hissing sound, and we realized there was a gas leak nearby. We rushed out front to talk to people and make sure we weren't crazy. Word was being passed that we needed to evacuate our neighborhood until the leak could be capped off.
We hurried the dogs into the car, no sign of the cat, and left. It was crowded in that Chevy Prizm, and my son was soon tired of sharing the back seat with the mutts. We decided on the park, since we would be able to take the dogs out and walk around a bit. Small, uprooted trees were scattered about, but none blocked the road.
We spent a couple of hours in the park before deciding we should head home. The neighborhood wasn't blocked off, so we assumed it was safe to return. We drove past our house, wanting to assess the damage on our street. That's when we saw where the gas leak must have originated, just a few blocks away. The house had been torn from its foundation and blown into the home nextdoor, where it had pulverized half of the second story. We learned later that the dislodged home had been thankfully vacant at the time of the storm.
I still get a little nervous every time the clouds roll in and the wind picks up this time of year. I think about how close we came to losing our home, possibly our lives. It was the first time I had experienced a tornado since moving to NC from NY in 1996. It probably won't be the last. When I talk to NC natives about it, they laugh it off like it's just a right of passage, even my wife. I look at them like they're crazy. Then it dawns on me that it's the same look they give me when I tell them they've never seen a real snow storm.
These violent displays of nature are awesome and fascinating to me, from a distance. Up close, they can be genuinely terrifying and utterly humbling when facing the forces involved. To see mature trees ripped from the earth and scattered like matchsticks, or vehicles tumbled by surging floodwater, leaves me speechless and feeling fortunate to have survived.
Several years ago, we had a close call with a tornado. There are no basements in most homes around me. The water table is too high to make them practical. The best we could do was find an interior hallway as far from windows as we could manage. I held the dogs, one panting and trembling during the thunder and the other more concerned with the wandering cat. The cat, oblivious to the danger, sauntered through the kitchen after escaping us. He wanted a drink of water.
My son was more excited than scared. My wife held him, and we did our best to maintain calm faces and voices. I watched through the kitchen windows as the trees bent nearly double by the wind and the sky darkened. The rain drummed against the glass of the storm door. Weather alerts squawked from our cell phones, telling us that a tornado had touched down near our neighborhood. My mind raced to thoughts of trees crashing into the roof. I tried not to grind my teeth to powder.
It was over quickly. The wind calmed, and the rain slackened to a drizzle. No trees came down on the house or in our back yard, proof of the flexibility of the pines. We freed the dogs and kid. Slowly we ventured out to assess the damage. Our house was one of the lucky few left unscathed. My son pointed across the street and said, "Where's their tree?" My wife pointed to the house nextdoor and replied, "There." The tree had been blown into the neighbor's garage and through her front window.
Out back, there was a smell we couldn't identify. We should've recognized it immediately, but for some reason we didn't. There was a hissing sound, and we realized there was a gas leak nearby. We rushed out front to talk to people and make sure we weren't crazy. Word was being passed that we needed to evacuate our neighborhood until the leak could be capped off.
We hurried the dogs into the car, no sign of the cat, and left. It was crowded in that Chevy Prizm, and my son was soon tired of sharing the back seat with the mutts. We decided on the park, since we would be able to take the dogs out and walk around a bit. Small, uprooted trees were scattered about, but none blocked the road.
We spent a couple of hours in the park before deciding we should head home. The neighborhood wasn't blocked off, so we assumed it was safe to return. We drove past our house, wanting to assess the damage on our street. That's when we saw where the gas leak must have originated, just a few blocks away. The house had been torn from its foundation and blown into the home nextdoor, where it had pulverized half of the second story. We learned later that the dislodged home had been thankfully vacant at the time of the storm.
I still get a little nervous every time the clouds roll in and the wind picks up this time of year. I think about how close we came to losing our home, possibly our lives. It was the first time I had experienced a tornado since moving to NC from NY in 1996. It probably won't be the last. When I talk to NC natives about it, they laugh it off like it's just a right of passage, even my wife. I look at them like they're crazy. Then it dawns on me that it's the same look they give me when I tell them they've never seen a real snow storm.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Beneath the Surface
There's been some indisputably excellent storytelling happening on television. There are programs with the kind of depth and compelling characters that I would be hard pressed to find in novels, and I'm the kind of guy who nearly always says: "Meh, I liked the book better." Sometimes these programs run for many seasons. Other times, despite being phenomenal shows, they get canceled. Sometimes it comes down to production costs. Other times, they don't really find an audience until after they've been cut, but it's too difficult to bring them back for one reason or another. I think sometimes people see a promotional advertisement that only scratches the surface of the program, and they make a snap judgment, deciding it isn't worth their time. Let's see if maybe there's something these two examples have in common.
A confident and capable man is thrown into an immediately confusing and violent situation. After his initial shock, he tries to get an explanation about the attack that's raging outside. The people he next meets are strangers, and they don't trust him. They suspect that he's a spy, despite his best attempt to persuade them that he's scared and out of his element. They subdue him and lock him in a cell, where they arrive to confront him after the threat of the attack is over. Unfortunately for him, they have incarcerated him alongside another prisoner, one who is also a stranger to him and believes him to be a deserter from her military unit, or possibly someone undercover sent to see whether or not she will submit to interrogation. Sound interesting? If someone described this to me, I'd probably guess it was something new from the makers of the Bourne movies or J. J. Abrams, akin to his popular show, Alias. Here's another...
An aging warhorse is sent to oversee a military museum, where his tactical talents and leadership ability are set aside for bean counting and spit-and-polish inspections. His second-in-command, is content to drink away his remaining service years until he can slip into retirement, where he hopes to smooth things over with his wife. She's never liked taking a back seat to his career, but he's a stubborn old goat, like his friend and commanding officer, and he's just as married to his duty as he is to her. Things go to hell. They find themselves, and their crew, the last hope against a sinister threat to eradicate civilization. The enemy is calculating, ruthless and adept at infiltrating and subverting the heroes' society. What's almost worse, behind the military struggle are politicians with their own agendas for grabbing more power and influence, often undermining the work the military is struggling to accomplish. Civilians are often caught in the middle, used for dueling factions' ambitions. I might add, that this gem was a critically acclaimed series before it wrapped up after its fourth season. Sounds like something from Tom Clancy, right? Read on to find out...
The first description is actually for the pilot episode of a groundbreaking science fiction show, Farscape. I just watched the pilot episode with my family, new to my son but not me and my wife. If you haven't seen it because spaceships and aliens turn you off, I advise you to give it a shot anyway. You can find it on Netflix, where we will be continuing to watch it. The main character is an American astronaut who is swept to another unknown part of space during a test flight. He looks like the enemies of the prisoners on the ship where he's captured. All of the prisoners are very alien and very skeptical of his claims to be from the planet "Erp", as one of them mispronounces it. He is a long, long way from home.
The second is a description of the re-imagined Battlestar Galactica. Edward James Olmos plays Commander Adama, leading the last surviving humans in a desperate attempt to escape continued genocide by a robotic race, the Cylons. You might remember the original series, and enemies, from the original show during the late 1970's. With the new series came a new and more threatening version of the Cylons, since some are disguised in human form, some even replacing human counterparts, keeping tensions high throughout the program. Time Magazine called it the best program on television in 2005, not just the best science fiction program on television.
Farscape was made, my son enjoyed pointing out, before my wife and I got old and married. The Jim Henson Company provided makeup, creature and prosthetic effects, and it's very easy to get caught up in the plight of the characters and the isolation of the lone human, John Crichton. The way he's humored as a primitive among his fellow fugitives, especially with the knowledge that he's among the best and brightest from Earth, earns him even more sympathy. Battlestar Galactica appealed to me as a fan of military fiction as much as it did as a fan of science fiction. The everyday soldiers' and crewmen's points of view were explored as much as the Commander's and politicians'. I eagerly slipped into the desperation of the human society's flight and celebrated every small victory over the robotic nemesis. I loved some of the characters and loved hating others, though there were plenty in between that earned sympathy in some episodes and ire in others. They reminded me of the very human characters I usually like better in books.
Do yourself a favor and check out either, or both, of these shows. In the end, they're just brilliant television, science fiction or not. If you like them, it might open you up to a variety of other great programs you missed when they first aired.
A confident and capable man is thrown into an immediately confusing and violent situation. After his initial shock, he tries to get an explanation about the attack that's raging outside. The people he next meets are strangers, and they don't trust him. They suspect that he's a spy, despite his best attempt to persuade them that he's scared and out of his element. They subdue him and lock him in a cell, where they arrive to confront him after the threat of the attack is over. Unfortunately for him, they have incarcerated him alongside another prisoner, one who is also a stranger to him and believes him to be a deserter from her military unit, or possibly someone undercover sent to see whether or not she will submit to interrogation. Sound interesting? If someone described this to me, I'd probably guess it was something new from the makers of the Bourne movies or J. J. Abrams, akin to his popular show, Alias. Here's another...
An aging warhorse is sent to oversee a military museum, where his tactical talents and leadership ability are set aside for bean counting and spit-and-polish inspections. His second-in-command, is content to drink away his remaining service years until he can slip into retirement, where he hopes to smooth things over with his wife. She's never liked taking a back seat to his career, but he's a stubborn old goat, like his friend and commanding officer, and he's just as married to his duty as he is to her. Things go to hell. They find themselves, and their crew, the last hope against a sinister threat to eradicate civilization. The enemy is calculating, ruthless and adept at infiltrating and subverting the heroes' society. What's almost worse, behind the military struggle are politicians with their own agendas for grabbing more power and influence, often undermining the work the military is struggling to accomplish. Civilians are often caught in the middle, used for dueling factions' ambitions. I might add, that this gem was a critically acclaimed series before it wrapped up after its fourth season. Sounds like something from Tom Clancy, right? Read on to find out...
The first description is actually for the pilot episode of a groundbreaking science fiction show, Farscape. I just watched the pilot episode with my family, new to my son but not me and my wife. If you haven't seen it because spaceships and aliens turn you off, I advise you to give it a shot anyway. You can find it on Netflix, where we will be continuing to watch it. The main character is an American astronaut who is swept to another unknown part of space during a test flight. He looks like the enemies of the prisoners on the ship where he's captured. All of the prisoners are very alien and very skeptical of his claims to be from the planet "Erp", as one of them mispronounces it. He is a long, long way from home.
The second is a description of the re-imagined Battlestar Galactica. Edward James Olmos plays Commander Adama, leading the last surviving humans in a desperate attempt to escape continued genocide by a robotic race, the Cylons. You might remember the original series, and enemies, from the original show during the late 1970's. With the new series came a new and more threatening version of the Cylons, since some are disguised in human form, some even replacing human counterparts, keeping tensions high throughout the program. Time Magazine called it the best program on television in 2005, not just the best science fiction program on television.
Farscape was made, my son enjoyed pointing out, before my wife and I got old and married. The Jim Henson Company provided makeup, creature and prosthetic effects, and it's very easy to get caught up in the plight of the characters and the isolation of the lone human, John Crichton. The way he's humored as a primitive among his fellow fugitives, especially with the knowledge that he's among the best and brightest from Earth, earns him even more sympathy. Battlestar Galactica appealed to me as a fan of military fiction as much as it did as a fan of science fiction. The everyday soldiers' and crewmen's points of view were explored as much as the Commander's and politicians'. I eagerly slipped into the desperation of the human society's flight and celebrated every small victory over the robotic nemesis. I loved some of the characters and loved hating others, though there were plenty in between that earned sympathy in some episodes and ire in others. They reminded me of the very human characters I usually like better in books.
Do yourself a favor and check out either, or both, of these shows. In the end, they're just brilliant television, science fiction or not. If you like them, it might open you up to a variety of other great programs you missed when they first aired.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Edit, the Four-Letter Word
If I asked most people what they love about writing, I bet they wouldn't say "editing". I can't imagine anybody saying: "Oh, the fifth time I read my manuscript for typos and inconsistencies was just magical." Likewise, if I asked somebody why they wanted to become a writer, I really doubt they would say it was because they would get to do so much really exciting editing; however, I bet if I asked writers what was one of their most valued skills, they would agree that editing ranked highly.
So, I did what I often do if I want to learn about something. I bought a book about editing and read...most of it. Seriously, I read the parts that seemed to have the most to do with the type of stories I like to write. If you're interested in reading it yourself, it's called "The Complete Guide to Editing Your Fiction", by Michael Seidman. It was a good read: informative but also less dry than one would think. This book had some wonderful insights into dialogue and how it helps develop characters. That's probably the greatest among the many things I tried to absorb when reading it. I find dialogue to be something that really sets apart good books from great reads. Sometimes I'll pick up a book, after reading the jacket, and flip through it. Without having much more than a basic idea of the plot, I'll locate conversations among the characters to see if they sound consistent and believable. If they don't, chances are there will be a lot of other elements in the book that will irritate me. I want characters to speak like people naturally do. Granted, people speak differently, but the dialogue should tell me something about the people who are talking, both in what emotions they're feeling and subtler things, like how well they know each other.
I can't speak for other authors, but I can tell you that I don't hate editing. I like to think that every time I polish a story, it gets better. That's true most of the time, and I think whomever receives my story ends up agreeing that it was worth the time I invested that final review. It can be extremely rewarding work, but it can also be painful. For instance, the story "Catalyst", included in Nonlocal Science Fiction #1, originally included a much longer beginning involving the escape made by the main characters. I axed the whole thing. It hurt. It was probably a few hours of work and some material that I really liked, but I felt it was better as a shorter story. I thought it read better when the reader was plunked into the middle of the action. My editor and publisher decided that the story needed more information about the relationship between the two characters, so I spliced in some back-story from the original beginning to explain their history. It goes to show, that as important as it is for an author to edit their works, it's just as important to have someone else read them and offer some editing advice.
Editing isn't as much fun as writing. It's hard work, requires discipline and is easily the thing that makes me most want to procrastinate. It's also what makes me consider writing far more than a hobby for me. It's something to take pride in, like any other time-consuming project that requires attention to detail and perseverance. It's a job I love. If I want to seriously pursue writing as a career, there's no better way than making sure I edit everything with just as much passion as originally stirred me to write it.
So, I did what I often do if I want to learn about something. I bought a book about editing and read...most of it. Seriously, I read the parts that seemed to have the most to do with the type of stories I like to write. If you're interested in reading it yourself, it's called "The Complete Guide to Editing Your Fiction", by Michael Seidman. It was a good read: informative but also less dry than one would think. This book had some wonderful insights into dialogue and how it helps develop characters. That's probably the greatest among the many things I tried to absorb when reading it. I find dialogue to be something that really sets apart good books from great reads. Sometimes I'll pick up a book, after reading the jacket, and flip through it. Without having much more than a basic idea of the plot, I'll locate conversations among the characters to see if they sound consistent and believable. If they don't, chances are there will be a lot of other elements in the book that will irritate me. I want characters to speak like people naturally do. Granted, people speak differently, but the dialogue should tell me something about the people who are talking, both in what emotions they're feeling and subtler things, like how well they know each other.
I can't speak for other authors, but I can tell you that I don't hate editing. I like to think that every time I polish a story, it gets better. That's true most of the time, and I think whomever receives my story ends up agreeing that it was worth the time I invested that final review. It can be extremely rewarding work, but it can also be painful. For instance, the story "Catalyst", included in Nonlocal Science Fiction #1, originally included a much longer beginning involving the escape made by the main characters. I axed the whole thing. It hurt. It was probably a few hours of work and some material that I really liked, but I felt it was better as a shorter story. I thought it read better when the reader was plunked into the middle of the action. My editor and publisher decided that the story needed more information about the relationship between the two characters, so I spliced in some back-story from the original beginning to explain their history. It goes to show, that as important as it is for an author to edit their works, it's just as important to have someone else read them and offer some editing advice.
Editing isn't as much fun as writing. It's hard work, requires discipline and is easily the thing that makes me most want to procrastinate. It's also what makes me consider writing far more than a hobby for me. It's something to take pride in, like any other time-consuming project that requires attention to detail and perseverance. It's a job I love. If I want to seriously pursue writing as a career, there's no better way than making sure I edit everything with just as much passion as originally stirred me to write it.
Sunday, March 15, 2015
The Excitement Continues at the Release of Nonlocal Science Fiction #1
If you were good enough to give money to the Kickstarter for this new magazine, then I wholeheartedly heap thanks on your generosity. It also means that you received an advanced copy of the magazine and perhaps a few other goodies. The official launch of the first issue happened yesterday, reminding me once again that I'm not dreaming any of this. I sold a story to a fiction publication, and it's available for people to buy world-wide! Lest I forget, here are some links to sites where you can download it or even have it printed and shipped to you.
http://nonlocalscifi.com/store/ Here you can buy the digital copy.
http://www.amazon.com/Nonlocal-Science-Fiction-Daniel-Dombrowski/dp/0996172327/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1426337155 Here you can get it in print with Amazon's usual shipping discounts.
The publisher also hosts a podcast. If you're not familiar with podcasts, they're like radio shows without the inconvenience of scheduled programming. You can download them to your favorite device or listen to them on your computer whenever you like. You can even subscribe to them, so every new edition is automatically downloaded if you want.
An interview with me was recorded on Saturday afternoon, and it will be available on the podcast in a couple of weeks. I had a blast talking with the publisher, Dan, and answering a bunch of questions about my story, my background and writing in general. I admit, I was nervous. I'm not much of a speaker, thus my preference for emails instead of phone calls. Writing is what I love to do. I'll make sure to post information when the interview is available. Dan mentioned that there might be additional interviews possible, with other podcasts or via email from online publications, as he starts the marketing push.
I hope giving interviews gets easier, and I certainly hope it continues. Practice makes perfect, right? There was a time that I had to take a public speaking class. It was terrifying to get up in front of the class and talk about even the most familiar of subjects. I struggled to stay calm and speak clearly. At least for the podcast I didn't have to make good eye contact and use visual aids.
It's good to step out of your comfort zone occasionally. Panic attacks aside, I think I could use more of it. I remember my mom telling me how uncomfortable my father was with public speaking, and that gives me some comfort. I can't ever remember a situation that my dad couldn't handle. At the same time, I knew speaking in front of people was something he had to do all the time for his job. I bet nobody ever saw him sweat. I'd like to think that I could pull that off one day.
I hope I continue to get a chance to talk to people about writing and how awesome it makes me feel to write fiction that people enjoy. If I'm lucky, I'll do it a lot. Maybe I'll even become fairly competent at it. I certainly want to be able to express my gratitude to everyone who has ever supported my dream of writing, and I don't want there to be any nervousness or poor diction getting in the way. It's too important to convey clearly how fortunate I am to get the chance to do this.
If you've purchased a copy of Nonlocal Science Fiction, and you like my story, "Catalyst", please leave me a comment here, on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/authoraaronlhamilton or follow me on Twitter: @AaronLHamilton. I would like to personally thank you for your support.
http://nonlocalscifi.com/store/ Here you can buy the digital copy.
http://www.amazon.com/Nonlocal-Science-Fiction-Daniel-Dombrowski/dp/0996172327/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1426337155 Here you can get it in print with Amazon's usual shipping discounts.
The publisher also hosts a podcast. If you're not familiar with podcasts, they're like radio shows without the inconvenience of scheduled programming. You can download them to your favorite device or listen to them on your computer whenever you like. You can even subscribe to them, so every new edition is automatically downloaded if you want.
An interview with me was recorded on Saturday afternoon, and it will be available on the podcast in a couple of weeks. I had a blast talking with the publisher, Dan, and answering a bunch of questions about my story, my background and writing in general. I admit, I was nervous. I'm not much of a speaker, thus my preference for emails instead of phone calls. Writing is what I love to do. I'll make sure to post information when the interview is available. Dan mentioned that there might be additional interviews possible, with other podcasts or via email from online publications, as he starts the marketing push.
I hope giving interviews gets easier, and I certainly hope it continues. Practice makes perfect, right? There was a time that I had to take a public speaking class. It was terrifying to get up in front of the class and talk about even the most familiar of subjects. I struggled to stay calm and speak clearly. At least for the podcast I didn't have to make good eye contact and use visual aids.
It's good to step out of your comfort zone occasionally. Panic attacks aside, I think I could use more of it. I remember my mom telling me how uncomfortable my father was with public speaking, and that gives me some comfort. I can't ever remember a situation that my dad couldn't handle. At the same time, I knew speaking in front of people was something he had to do all the time for his job. I bet nobody ever saw him sweat. I'd like to think that I could pull that off one day.
I hope I continue to get a chance to talk to people about writing and how awesome it makes me feel to write fiction that people enjoy. If I'm lucky, I'll do it a lot. Maybe I'll even become fairly competent at it. I certainly want to be able to express my gratitude to everyone who has ever supported my dream of writing, and I don't want there to be any nervousness or poor diction getting in the way. It's too important to convey clearly how fortunate I am to get the chance to do this.
If you've purchased a copy of Nonlocal Science Fiction, and you like my story, "Catalyst", please leave me a comment here, on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/authoraaronlhamilton or follow me on Twitter: @AaronLHamilton. I would like to personally thank you for your support.
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