Here we are again!

I just sent in the series contract for Beltrunner: Aftermath, which is the unplanned sequel to Beltrunner from 2018. I hadn't planned on a sequel--in fact, as far as I was concerned, the story was over. Collier's arc was done. Oh, sure, I left a lot unsaid, but I've always hewn to the "leave 'em wanting more" theory. Or maybe it's the "learn to shut up" theory, whatever.

Anyway, I wrote Silent Manifest in the intervening years, and even completed a still-unpublished trilogy that I quite like, before turning back to Collier and Sancho and their misadventures ("adventures, old friend!"). I don't have that many reviews of Beltrunner (as of this writing, somewhere around eighty on Amazon) but a number of them kept saying "Can't wait for the next one!"

"Next one? What next one? Are you people insane? The story is over!" I heard myself cry. Then my publisher arranged for an audiobook for Beltrunner, and for the promotion I wrote a little short story prequel folks could only get if they pre-ordered the audiobook, and wouldn't you know it, pretty soon Collier and Sancho were back in my head.

Mild spoilers ahead.

It took a little while, but I found a new story for them which tied up some loose ends while creating some more new ones, and I found revisiting those two and their new relationship. They were just as fun as I remembered them, and so I finished Aftermath. The publishing world works slowly, so it was a little while after I'd submitted it before it was accepted, but eventually it was, and now we begin the process all over again.

Spoilers done.

Here's the thing, though: the contract my publisher sent me was a SERIES contract, which I'd never seen before. I don't know about what it's like in the big leagues but down here in Triple A ball a series contract is a lot like a regular contract except that the next book(s) in the series have to go to this publisher first. Well, yeah. Who else would touch this?

Hang on.

The next book?

I guess I'm still not done.

Be seeing you!

…except when it is. 

Oh, I’m well aware of the arguments--those who read the short novel and come away saying, “it’s a warning against governmental censorship!” are entirely missing the point. Hell, even Captain Beatty, the conflicted cheerleader for the dystopian world he inhabits, says directly that censorship “didn’t come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure did the trick, thank God.” The people themselves, the vox populi, are responsible. Bradbury paints a bleak picture of a world of not just shallow non-intellectualism, but of active anti-intellectualism. The “firemen” (not firefighters--essentially an arm of the police state entrusted with carrying out the public’s will to suppress the intelligentsia) burn books more as spectacle than as governmental overreach.

Still, it’s worth making comparisons to State-sponsored, or at least State-tolerated censorship in the real world.

I teach at a suburban high school in a somewhat affluent area in Southern California. Although the state is usually portrayed as Democratic / liberal, I happen to live in a rather Republican / conservative cell within the state. And although public school educators are regularly painted in the bluest of blue hues, there are significant numbers of rather staunch conservatives in my school district. 

To get to the point, my school district very recently removed a book from one of its school libraries. The book is called This Book is Gay, written by Juno Dawson, and is (to use the book’s own description) a sort of “instruction manual” for young persons coming out as gay. 

The school received a complaint about the book, then convened a committee which voted to remove the book. There were no students on the committee.

To add some context to this story--several years ago my school district removed some books from our curriculum: To Kill a Mockingbird, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and Of Mice and Men were removed (the district used the euphemism “paused”) and still have not been reinstated.

To belabor the obvious--of course, the district didn’t call the firemen and have the book burned in a public spectacle. But the whole point of science fiction (or, as many of its authors prefer, “speculative fiction”) is to extrapolate from the present, to use allegory and parable to comment on the zeitgeist of the times, to magnify that which is concerning so it can be better seen. Anyone who wants to claim that this is not censorship because the book can still be purchased and read privately is missing the point the same way those who claim Fahrenheit 451 is about government censorship are missing the point.

Censorship is not just a piece of duct tape over the mouth. Censorship is not just the government deciding what will and won’t exist in print. And censorship is not just book burning. Censorship is the chilling of free thought, free speech, and free inquiry. Any move in that chilling direction is problematic in the extreme. Removing a book from the library is a clear expression of disapproval towards that book. It is saying “we discourage you from reading this, and we are going to make it more difficult for you to acquire this book.”

One last point--for all of you who are saying, “then how come Twitter gets to ban people? Isn’t that censorship?”

To that point, I have two answers. First, public school libraries are publicly funded--they are funded through public tax money and are therefore owned by the people, not by a private institution. Twitter is not a publicly owned utility (I realize some folks are trying to argue that it is, precisely for this point, but since their funding does not come from the public, I do not agree) and is therefore not owned by the public. Twitter removing a tweet is fundamentally not the same as a public library removing a book.

Second, I do actually agree that when Twitter (or Facebook, or some other privately owned social media company) removes a tweet or post they are engaging in censorship and should not do this--provided the material is not libelous or a demonstrable, factual inaccuracy that directly and demonstrably endangers public health and safety.

For example, posting “I think being gay is great and everyone should be gay!” is 1) not libelous, 2) not a demonstrable falsehood contrary to fact, and 3) does not demonstrably endanger public health and safety. Oh, you may disagree with the opinion presented, but you simply cannot draw a direct line between that utterance and demonstrable public harm.

Posting “I think drinking bleach will cure COVID and everyone should do it!” is demonstrably untrue and does pose a direct threat to public health. Social media companies do have the right to censor this kind of thing. I could go even further to say that they have a responsibility to do so, but I will not argue that here.

But pulling a book from a public school library that informs young people about the social, physical, and emotional repercussions of coming out as gay--even if that information is direct and graphic (it would have to be in order to be effective, I’d think)--is fundamentally wrong and goes against the principles of free inquiry, free speech, and free thought our nation is built upon.

I’d like to close with something a bit more personal. I’ve never really understood this line of thinking from conservatives (nor from liberals, for that matter): “keep this book away from my child! I’ve done such a bad job of parenting that I don’t think my child will hold on to his or her ethics if someone shows them something different!” Furthermore, “You can’t tell me what my child can choose to read! But I do get to tell other people’s children what they can’t choose to read!!” Isn’t there something inherently self-contradictory about that? Isn’t there something wrong with deciding the answer to speech you don’t like is to silence that speech? Lots of conservatives are running around today screaming about “cancel culture,” but if this isn’t an example of that, then I don’t know what is. Or, to let Mr. Bradbury have the final word…

“There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches.”  --Ray Bradbury

​

I completed the first round of edits (or as my publisher called them, somewhat ominously, "pre-edits") and sent them back in. Most of them were minor corrections, typos, or slight style adjustments. One small set was a rather embarrassing pronoun/name correction to a character I had overhauled significantly from an earlier draft. 

Rarely, though, I disagreed with an edit. Sometimes, it was because I felt removal of a phrase would make something less clear, and sometimes I felt adding a sentence made a character seem too verbose. It was funny going back after about a year to find I could still hear my characters quite clearly--clearly enough to shake my head at an editorial change that was merely a word or two. "That isn't what she/he sounds like," I muttered to myself as I rejected the advice.

Two interesting comments from the publisher caught my eye. The first was that these edits were "pre-edits" and I'd be working with their editorial staff on more substantive changes. What he alluded to has the potential to be a little bit of a struggle, depending on how deeply he wants to make changes. We'll see how that goes, and I'll keep you up to date on the process here.

The second comment, however, was at once thrilling and frightening. It was a very casual comment (though I suspect he tossed it in casually knowing full well the effect it would have on me) referring to still-unexplained plot points in this sequel. He mentioned that book three will have to answer some questions.

Book three? 

There's no such book. I never even hinted at such a thing in my pitch, and, once again, I felt like this story is OVER. Hell, I even have an EPILOGUE this time, as if to say, once and for all, "done. Finito. Full stop."

So now, of course, I'm already thinking about what the hell Book Three would even be about. 

Strangely enough, a title did occur to me: Beltrunner: Legacy. That's got a nice ring to it...

​Be seeing you!

Also Called: "Editing And Revising a Book You Haven't Looked at in a Year or More"

The good news? The publisher I send the manuscript to responded positively, saying he "loved the story" and sent me some initial edits to examine before it's handed over to his editors. There will, therefore, be some work to do on the novel.

That brings up a question I get asked sometimes: how do you deal with editorial changes suggested to you?

The people at EDGE publishing have been professional with me on this front, which I should add is by no means a guarantee in the field. Their editors have worked with me to strengthen whatever manuscripts I've sent their way, and in both cases so far (Beltrunner and Silent Manifest) I've felt their suggestions ultimately led to better works.

Still, that doesn't mean we always agree on changes. Other than obvious errors or typographical mistakes (we try to keep that down to zero, but somehow a few manage to creep in) the edits mostly come down to style and clarity issues. I have a tendency to be a bit long-winded (yes, it's true, despite the brevity and clarity of this and other blog posts. (I also can sometimes get trapped in too many asides (sometimes even writing asides to asides (like this one) or using punctuation overmuch--I love the dash)) so efforts to bring me back to more direct narration are helpful.

I think I tend to be accepting and open to improvement, though I will sometimes stand on a point of style that I feel matters. I don't think I am a particularly flashy or stylish writer--I don't seem to have the knack for it--but when I do manage to put words together in an impressive manner I like to hang on to them.

So far, the rewrites have not been plot- or character-based, but I suppose that may change when the editorial group gets their hands on the manuscript.

Lastly, for any of my students who may be reading--you may have groaned at writing draft after draft to respond to my comments about your essays. Well, you can bask in the fiery glow of vengeance now as you realize I, too, have to revise my writing based on comments I received. Cold comfort, perhaps, but hey, it's what I have to offer.

​Be seeing you!

Writers have been asked since time immemorial, "where do you get your ideas?" It's at once a simple and a complex question to answer.

The simple answers include, "from my life" or "I get them by thinking of them," or, in the case of that brilliant pioneer Harlan Ellison, "Schenectady" (he later elaborated that he's part of an "idea club" where he gets a fresh idea sent to him every week). 

The more complex answers range from "my life" to "other people's lives" to "daydreams" or "nightmares" or all manner of other responses. 

I'll tell you my answer as far as I can see it. Where do I get my ideas?

I don't know.

Obviously, I get them from my mind, but that seems like a dodge. When I say I don't know, that's not entirely true: there are processes writers engage in to help them unlock or cultivate ideas, and of course the lives we lead and the intersections of other lives lived all around us generate ideas, but those answers seem unsatisfying as well. If the question is asked sincerely--as opposed to it being a rhetorical question whose true meaning is "You sure seem to be able to think of ideas that most people can't,"--I think it deserves as best an answer as I can provide.

For me (and I will not presume to speak for anyone else) ideas can come from a few places. Character ideas usually come when I ask myself, "whose story is this--what does this person want and why haven't they got it?" Plot ideas come sometimes from "what if this happened?" (and in science-fiction, the "THIS" can be quite outlandish). I don't often do pure setting/milieu stories, but I suppose they would be "what if the world were like this?" 

So. If you're a newly-hatched writer and you're trying to think of THE BIG IDEA, I'd suggest asking those questions. "Whose story is this?" "What does she want, and why doesn't she have it?" "What if this happened?"

It's a sea-captain's story. He wants to be whole again. He's been hurt physically and psychically: what if in his search for wholeness he devolved into unreasoning vengeance?

It's a young son's story. He wants his family back--his father not to be dead, his mother not to have married his uncle, and his girlfriend to not betray him. He'll never have those things, because once lost, they can't be regained. What if he exits this world but takes the guilty with him?

It's a knight's story. He wants the world to be as romantic as the books he's read. What if he convinced himself that the world was like a storybook? What trouble would he cause for himself and his companion(s) if he refused to accept the world as it was and instead lived the life of a romantic, chivalrous knight despite being terrible at it?

I'm sure you recognize those stories. I'm by no means saying it's easy--there is a lot more to Moby-Dick, Hamlet, and Don Quixote than man-vs-fish, man-vs-family, and man-vs-reality there. But at least it's a start!

Be seeing you!

I'd never planned on making Beltrunner a series. Hell, as far as I was concerned, the story had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and when I closed the book on Collier and Sancho and Fletcher and the rest of them, I thought their collective story was done.

When Beltrunner came out an started getting reviews on Amazon and Goodreads and a few other places, a curious pattern started to develop: some (not many, but not an insignificant number, either) mentioned wanting to read the "next book," saying they were "curious how it was all going to end." 

Huh.

That was the spark that made me think gee whiz maybe there's more to say about my stubborn, heroic, and often foolish asteroid belt miner and his faithful but malfunctioning computer. I hadn't really thought of it at the time, but these two broken people (one broken in the psychological sense, the other actually broken) were perfect for one another. Their relationship had more in it, and certainly the main plot (and the MacGuffin I'd invented*) hadn't truly been resolved. 

But what really got me thinking hard was when I started to hear Collier and Sancho again. They were talking in some other room of my mind--not to me, but to one another, and though I couldn't make out what they were saying they were clearly not done talking. That faint murmur grew, and the itch to go back to them returned.

Plus, I think I knew deep down that the way I ended Beltrunner and what had become of the MacGuffin was unsatisfactory. There's a razor-thin line between saying too much (giving away too many answers to mysteries better left unsolved--something I maintain was the downfall of what would become the first in the Star Wars movies, the Phantom Menace: too many questions from the iconic 1977 movie were answered, and those answers were somewhat banal. A similar fate threatened to befall Clarke's sequel to 2001, a book called 2010) and saying too little (giving the audience the impression that you, writer, weren't really sincere in your own plot machinations, and that ultimately they were just contrivances to create artificial wonder not grounded in anything. The television show Lost fits rather neatly into this category, as do many other shows that have a kind of "shallow depth.") 

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah.

I think I came to realize that there was more to say with the plot, with my buddy main characters, and even with the setting itself. Collier's character arc was not yet done, but had in fact only begin to bend. Sancho, though one of my favorite creations, hadn't really come into his own as much as I would have liked (what happens to him in the latter part of Beltrunner was, I realize, a beginning rather than an end).

A lot of high-sounding prose, yes? Like I am some kind of classical composer who yet has his Magnum Opus to write? Calm down, O'Brien. It's a sci-fi yarn about a man and his computer chasing rocks. 

What finally did it for me, despite all this literary criticism, was that Collier and Sancho were just plain fun. I loved writing them, or listening to them, and I missed them. 

All I needed was a story. I'll talk about how that came to be later.

​Be seeing you!

Immediately after completing Beltrunner II: Aftermath, I'm getting to work on my next project. What's funny is that this other project (working title The Reality Corps,) was one I have started TWICE now and abandoned about 50,000 words in each time. In fact, I was so blocked writing this damn thing that I followed some old advice and put it away while I looked for another project to distract me. That other project was Beltrunner II, which became its OWN project with its own blocks. So, in other words, in order to avoid confronting the story problems with Reality Corps I went and wrote a WHOLE 'NOTHER BOOK by way of escaping.

If THAT'S not the world's greatest example of avoidance, I don't know what is.

Anyway.

The good news is the previous two attempts--the two 50,000 word attempts--fleshed out the main character's backstory and origin extremely well. Oh, that's not where the story is, I found out (I figured that out while writing Beltrunner II) but all that writing was helpful in understanding my main gal.

Before you ask--no, I don't know precisely what the story is. I have the ending and the beginning, which is a start (and, I suppose, a finish) but no idea how to get from one place to another. I need to plot it out--since this will have elements of mystery to it, I have to plot very tightly. I also need quite a bit of world-building, since this will be taking place not in the future (like all of my other books) but on...shall we say, a "different" Earth. 

I'm excited to begin, and I've already amassed quite a few pages of notes. My main character, a woman named Toska, is shaping up nicely (like so many of my mains, she's an amalgam of many of the women I've known in life, but drawn heavily from my own wife's character. Who knew I would marry not only a life partner who would walk side by side with me but someone who would give me so much inspiration?) and I am starting to be able to hear her, which is always my first move. When I can hear her, I know I've got her. Seeing her comes next. I need to be able to hear her, both her diction and her intonation--when she's witty, when she's cruel (she has a cruel streak, my Toska) when she's afraid but can't show it, when she's in repose, and all the other times I will listen to her. As soon as she starts talking and moving around without me, I can start.

I'll try to keep you posted so you can see how the process works. Until then...

Be seeing you!