Month: March 2011

Before I got published, I believed that things had to be in a certain format to get published.  No, I’m not talking about not written with crayon on butcher paper.  I’m not talking paragraphed.  I thought my name had to be on the left corner of the front page, my word count on the right corner front page.  I believed my header had to say “hoyt/name of story/page.”  Mind you, I still do it that way for short stories, it’s habit.  BUT I thought if it wasn’t like that it would be rejected.

I also believed, after reading an out of date book on non-fiction writing, that stories had to end with “30” instead of the end, and this would mark me out as a true professional.

Now I wonder what editors thought if (in those days possibly rare) they read all the way to the end and came across that lovely 30.  “Thirty what?  did she miscount the pages?  Uh?”

There’s miles and miles of twerpitude you have to go through, not just to become a grown up but to learn ANY profession.

                                                     30

Ah, the glamourous life of a writer — the joy, the glory, the adoring fans…

Yes, okay. Some other writer. Not this writer per se.

This writer spent yesterday attempting to write while being nibbled to death by ducks. The ducks ranged from schedule conflicts with younger kid and husband to a cat with a… digestive issue. Oh, yeah, and someone tipping our trashcan over, so I had to pick trash from the middle of the street. Such fun.

Nothing bad — thank heavens — just endless small frustrations. As a result I made very little headway. I hope today goes better.

Meanwhile, here is the opening of Darkship Renegades, to keep you happy. (I have posted the first and second chapters in both the private FB group “diner” and in the Baen Bar Diner because membership hath its previledges.)

Out Of The Frying Pan

   
               

    I was a princess from Earth and he was a
rogue spaceman from a mythical world.  He saved my life three
times.  I rescued him from a fate worse than death.

    We married and lived happily ever after.

    Ever after comes with an expiration date
these days.  We’d been married less than year when Kit got
shot in the head.

    I knew we were in trouble as soon as I
got my answer from Eden.  It’s entirely possible that Kit knew
it before.  Eden is his native world.  He knows its
quirks, its traditions and its habits in a way I couldn’t after living
there close to a year.  In a way I probably wouldn’t if I
lived there fifty years.

    We’d called out as soon as we came
within link distance.  It had to be done.  Eden is a
hollowed out asteroid.  Humans live on the inside. 
More, it is an asteroid colonized by a persecuted people who wanted to
make their existence this close to Earth as inconspicuous as possible.

      Kit has said you could land
on the surface of the asteroid that contained Eden and not know that
there was a thriving civilization inside.  I don’t know if
it’s true.  Never tried it and I learned long ago not to take
anyone’s word for anything.  Even a trustworthy person can be
mistaken.  But I was fairly sure that unless the people inside
extended a landing tube to us, we would never be able to get
in.  Whatever sealed the entrances to the landing areas didn’t
even show to visual or radar scanning, so I doubted we could hop around
in our space suits and pry the tunnels open.

    Which was good.  It made Eden
very safe.  And bad.  Because in the circumstances we
found ourselves in, it meant we had to convince Eden to let us in, or
we’d be left on the outside with only the resources of the Cathouse to
survive on.  And though the Cathouse was a great ship, or at
least a great ship for its age and mechanical condition, we didn’t have
enough food to see us back to Earth or to the water-mining colonies of
Proxima and Ultima Thule.  We certainly didn’t have enough to
live on indefinitely.  So, no matter how much trouble we were
in, and even though Eden might shoot us out of the sky, we had to tell
them we were here.  And we had to ask permission to land.

    My heart was beating somewhere between
my esophagus and my mouth as we did the final approach to
Eden.  And don’t tell me that’s a physiological
impossibility.  I know what I felt.  Given just a
little more nervousness, my heart would jump out of my mouth and flop
around the instrument panel like a fish.

    But I looked composed and calm because
there was no point disquieting Kit, whose fingers danced on the
keyboard with the practice of the many years he’d been trained to and
flown in and out of Eden.

    I took a deep breath and told myself
that these were not the last moments of my life, and Kit reached for my
hand and squeezed it, hard, while his other hand pressed the com link
start.  “Cat Christopher Bartolomeu Sinistra and Nav Athena
Hera Sinistra, piloting the Cathouse on behalf of the energy
board.  I request permission to land.”

    There was a silence from the other side,
long enough for my heart to almost stop.  Eden didn’t have to
let us in.  As a world Eden was so paranoid that if it had
been a single person it would have been living in a compound with
secure entrances, keeping multiple weapons trained on each entrance,
and have an option all arranged so that if all else failed and his
enemies got in, he could blow himself and them to kingdom
come.  Only, Eden was not pathological.  Paranoia is
a perfectly well adapted reaction to everyone being out to get you.

    I swallowed hard and told myself that if
Eden didn’t want us, we’d find our way elsewhere.  Even then I
knew I was bluffing.  And all that kept me from shaking was
the impression of Kit’s mind, warm and amused.

    Not words.  We could mind-talk,
an ability bio engineered into pilot and navigator couples in his world
and engineered into me for a completely different purpose. 
But when there were no words, there was occasionally a feeling, and
sometimes a feeling was all you needed.  Whether the feeling
was real or projected, I didn’t know.

    I managed a half smile in his general
direction, as the voice of Eden’s Dock Control crackled over the link:
“The Cathouse is more than six weeks late.  It has been
entered in the roll of losses.  Cat Christopher Sinistra and
Nav Athena Sinistra are dead.”

    “Not really,” I told him, while my heart
hammered wildly and I felt almost boneless with relief.  I
hate bureaucracy as much as anyone else, but not nearly as much as I
hate exploding.  That they were talking instead of bombing us
was a very good sign.  “Only late.”

    “You cannot be late.  You only
had fuel for a four month trip.  Three weeks later you’d be
out of reserves and dead.  You–”

    “We were down on Earth,” I said and
grinned, a grin he couldn’t see but might just sense from the tone of
my voice.  The grin was half to reassure myself.

    For three centuries, before my arrival
here, Eden had managed to hide its existence from Earth so well that,
despite a few hundred trips each month to steal powerpods from the
biological solar energy collectors orbiting the Earth, they had become
mythical down there: the Darkship Thieves, like fairies and elves and
gnomes were talked about but never glimpsed.  For all those
centuries, the instructions had been for any ship captured by Earth to
destroy itself.  We’d not only not destroyed ourselves but Kit
had surrendered to Earth in order to save my life.  I
understood, since I’d been in his mind at the time, that it was the
only thing he could do.  I also understood how Eden would view
it.

    “What?” the Controller asked.

    Kit cleared his throat.  I
could see him reflected in the almost completely dark screens in front
of him: his eyes bioengineered for piloting in total darkness looked
like cat eyes, glimmering green and very wide open, in worry. 
His callico-colored hair, a mutation caused by the same virus that had
given him the eyes, super-human coordination and speed of movement,
contrasted with his normally pale skin, which had gone yet
paler.  Without his modifications Kit would have been a
redhead, so his skin was normally that shade of pale that can turn
unealthy-looking at the slightest disturbance.  Now he looked
white and grey, like spoiled milk.  It was the only sign of
fear, or even worry, he gave.  His voice sounded firm and
clear, “Nav Sinistra had radiation poisoning and we stopped on Earth
for regen treatment.”

    “You stopped on Earth for treatment?”

    I swallowed hard, to prevent having to
grope from my heart somewhere on the control
board.    “Well, it wasn’t that simple, but
yes,” Kit said.  “I’ll be glad to tell you the whole story
after we land.”

    “You’d better, Cat.”  He
pronounced Kit’s rank as an insult.  The term “pilot” had long
since become “cat” in Eden, due to the modifications of pilots of
darkships making them look feline.  “ And you’d better make it
convincing. This is most irregular.”

    “Controller,” I said.  “We must
land.  Kit’s family is expecting us.”  Kit’s birth
family, the DeNovos were socially influential and powerful in the very
limited community of Eden.  And his sister Kath would probably
have been a force to be reckoned with in any size society.  It
was a good thing she’d been born in Eden, because if it had been on
Earth, she’d probably now be sole supreme ruler of the whole
world.  This was slightly more difficult to achieve on Eden
which had no rulers of any sort, much less supreme ones.

    Another silence and the Dock
Controller’s voice sounded dour as it came back,  “Navigator
Sinistra, if you delayed your collection run for personal reasons, you
have to know that the Energy board will fine you for the delay in
supply, and all the boards will want to interview you for potential
breaches of security.  Also–”

    “I know, Controller.  Now,
could you give us a dock number, please?  Before I go crazy
and just give my Cat instructions to dash at Eden in the area of the
landing control station.  We earthworms tend to be so
temperamental”

    Kit chuckled aloud, then stopped with an
intake of breath.  The impression from him was amused, but
also scared, the amused trying to cover and hide the scared and not
quite managing it.

    “Dock fifty five, but I want you to know
that I shall have armed hushers ready and that you will be examined for
any evidence of undue influence and that–”

    I flicked the comlink off.  A
sleeve-like structure extruded from Eden and Kit piloted us into it,
then leaned back as dock controls took over the navigation. 
His foot skimmed along the floor next to him, flicking up the lever
that turned off our artificial gravity now that we were covered by
Eden’s.  Not that keeping it on would give us double the gs,
but I understood one could interfere with the other and cause some
really interesting effects.

    It wasn’t until our ship was settling
into one of the landing bays, that he released the seatbelt that
crisscrossed his chest, and, without letting go of my hand, got up and
said, “You know, you really shouldn’t have taunted the controller.”

Yesterday was not a good day for writing. No, the novel is not gone. It’s still there, it’s still “pushing” but I couldn’t seem to settle. Hormonal I suppose. I used the excess energy to do about ten loads of laundry, meaning I’m all of five loads from doing the week’s laundry, which had accumulated.

So, today I started the day with a long walk – lovely weather. I like walking early morning and late in the evening this time of year. Now I’ll sit down and go over notes and work properly. Am contemplating going to the coffee shop to work, but not sure if it’s worth it. Last time I went someone as loudly arguing bus schedules next to me, and I couldn’t get anything done.

And that’s about it. More coherent blogging tomorrow

Happy St. Patrick’s day, everyone. I’ll be getting myself corned beef and cabbage later, and maybe a six pack of micro brew…

I’ve been meaning to announce, only life keeps interfering, that I sold Sword and Blood, under the pen name Sarah Marques to Prime Books.

Why a pen name is tied up with “what is sword and blood.”

I suppose only a few of you know my very first sale was Thirst, a vampire short story, back in ninety four. If you look in the year’s best fantasy and horror for that year, it is under “honorable mentions.”

The truth is more complicated than that – truth always is – I actually sold it sometime in 93 of course, that part is normal. But I never got paid and didn’t even know it had been published until years later, while doing a routine search for my name on Amazon. Back then, it only showed three or four items, and that was one of them. You see, I sold it to an Australian magazine, the entire print run of which got seized and destroyed for violating indecency laws. I guess they’d got a magazine out to Year’s Best before that happened, but I never saw it.

Then I sold that short story again. Four times. It killed two more magazines and an editor. Finally, I sold another story (I was starting to think that would never happen) a science fiction one called Plaudit Cives to Absolute Magnitude. And I thought Dreams of Decadence was run by the same people and what the heck. So I sent Thirst to them, with its sorry history attached and ended the cover letter with “Do you feel lucky?”

Apparently they did, since they bought it and it was published… in 06? 07? Somewhere around that.

Since then I’ve done vampires intermittently always as short stories. On the one hand there is a lot to explore in the vampire mythos: the trade of death for life; the power that comes with virtually endless life; the nature of evil; the link of sex and blood which seems to be somewhere at the very back of my head. Vampires fulfill Terry Pratchett’s dictum that in the end all the important stories are about the death and the blood. (This is part of the reason I get so exasperated at what seems to me the defanging of vampires in Romance, because what’s the point of it if you don’t have the blood and the death. But then again, I never understood the appeal of the Disney versions of fairytales.) There was The Blood Like Wine and For Whose Dear Sake, and I get the persistent feeling I’m forgetting another.

Then three/four years ago, I was slammed under six books and home schooling a teenage genius. Something had to give and something did. Sleeping and vacations were no longer working as relaxation, so I took up art class because while working in pastel or pencil, my mind became empty of words.

Then one day I came out of class, and had parked far from the school (the school is across from a sports complex, and people parking for the game had taken everything up for half a mile.) By the time I got in the car and got my key in the ignition, I had three books in my mind in their entirety.
My first thought was “Oh, heck no. I can’t write that.” You see, they were the three musketeers set in a crepuscular world in which vampires rule most of the world and there’s a fight over France. Oh, yeah, and Athos has just been turned.

I came home and did what I do when I want to get rid of a novel that won’t shut up. I outlined it and wrote the first three pages. But it wouldn’t shut up. The series stayed at the back of my mind, nagging me, until I finished the first book, almost a year ago.

It has now been bought (and the still unwritten sequels, Royal Blood and Rising Blood) by Prime Books (not to be confused with Prime Crime.) It is not… exactly what my friend Kate calls undead porn, but it has sex. Oh, and death. And blood. Because of that, and fearing giving those of you who are fans of the other musketeer series or my space operas whiplash, I am bringing it out under Sarah Marques, which shall henceforth be my name for historical fantasy.

I’ve put up three chapters of Sword And Blood, the first book, in a temporary page. It’s not proofed and don’t sweat the look, this is just temporary. Before you head over, beware it contains references to sex. Discretion advised.

Hope you enjoy it, in many ways it’s the most intense thing I’ve ever written, though that might change when Darkship Renegades is done.

Do you mind horribly that I’m doing vampires? (I promise they don’t glow!)

Some of you know that over Summer I was struggling with an on-spec space opera tentatively called The Brave And The Free.

It’s almost done, truly, but I couldn’t finish it. The reason I couldn’t finish it, is that I’d got myself in one of my amnesiac centipede modes. No, don’t gawp at me. You know what I mean – I exactly resembled a centipede who, all of a sudden, couldn’t figure out which leg it should move first.

This is a mode I get into – yes, after twenty finished novels – and I can’t even explain how or what triggers it. I just know it happens. In fact, my first attempts at sequels for Darkship Thieves came out like that too. All of a sudden I get tied up in “how do I Heinlein the world right up front?” “Am I queuing in enough information?” And then I get in a mess and I can’t write.

This time around I slid effortlessly into Darkship Renegades, and the voice is there. Yesterday I spent the morning doing my site, though, and I brought out The Brave and The Free to put a sample in the corner booth section. This is when I realized that I could see all the mistakes, and all the bits of misaligned/doesn’t belong here info on the first three pages.

What does this mean? Well, it probably means that once Darkship Renegades and A Few Good Men unclench enough to let me go – probably after third or fourth pass and their arrival at Toni Weisskopf’s desk – I can finish The Brave and The Free in about a week or two.

After which I need to finish Noah’s boy, the third book in the Shifter’s series, and a book in a newly sold heteronymous series (details on this tomorrow) which is due before next year.

What else am I working on? Well, I’d like to, at long last, do the novel I’ve owed Eric Flint for… five years? The Shakespeare Gambit for which Jim paid me before he died, would be the first of a new reimagining of the concept of time wars – time wars as a tool of asymmetrical warfare/terrorism, as opposed to conventional war, as most people (though not all) have done them. In this book both sides, etc. would be shadowy, as we follow a group of people kidnaped from many dimensions/times. If it “takes” then it will become a series.

Then there is this idea I’ve had for very long for a series of Orphan Kittens mysteries. Probably written under Elise Hyatt, as it’s one of my lighter mysteries. Someone rescues cats and kittens and gets involved in murders along the way. The first book is sitting incomplete on my desk under the name “A Deadly Paws.” Thank you, thank you. You may throw rotten tomatoes at your convenience.

Meanwhile, if you haven’t checked out Naked Reader Press, please do. It carries a story I did for fun with my friend Sofie Skapski. It’s A Touch Of Night, Pride and Prejudice set in the world of the Magical British Empire. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but it was a lot of fun to write and I’m sure it’s at least somewhat fun to read. They’re also publishing Death Of A Musketeer, my first Musketeer mystery under my historical mystery pen name, (aka my maiden name) Sarah D’Almeida. Again, look up at my schedule. The sixth mystery The Musketeer’s Confessor, is half written, but I need to find time to finish it, and that implies having at least reasonable income out of the one out with NRP. If you’ve already bought it, thank you. I hope you enjoyed it. Would you consider leaving a review on Amazon, or perhaps posting a review on your blog? All help much appreciated.

And now I’m going to stop gabbing at you and go work. Look for an announcement of sale and a sample tomorrow.

Let me begin by saying I didn’t grow up with daylight time change, in a rural nation. I don’t remember – exactly – our electricity consumption being particularly high, either. Okay, this might have something to do with the fact that when I was very small there was maybe one lightbulb per room, and it didn’t so much illuminate as cast deeper shadows. Also, we had blackouts and brownouts so often everyone kept an oil lamp or ten handy. But never mind that…

The point is that when daylight savings time came, I was excited. We were now more like the more industrialized nations…

It didn’t take me long to become very tired of it, though, and wonder what exactly it serves. Look, I know old Franklin thought he was onto something. Something about people using up candles at night, while in bed in morning while daylight was on, or what gives.

If Franklin came home now, he’d get the shock of his life. We have become to a great extent the nation that never sleeps. All the time change does, is now I’m getting up while it’s still dark, and using then the light I save in the evening. Yeah, this makes sense. Besides, illumination is no longer our primary form of energy consumption. There’s computers, for instance, which in this house often go on before the lights do. And there’s cars. And trains. And airplanes. And even in illumination, how many office buildings leave the lights on all night? Most factories work around the clock. Retail shops most of the time (except for people blessed with a downtown shopping area, really) have no windows, so the light is on all the time.

And yet the bad idea heard around the world keeps going on, proving nothing is harder to kill than the misfiring of a misguided genius. Is there any savings? Unlikely. Does it equal confusion, absenteeism and man-hours devoted to changing non-digital clocks? Ah! But like the law of the Medes and the Persians it shall be obeyed.

And if I needed one, just one example of what’s wrong with planned economies and top down control, I’d use this.

Benjamin Franklin was a genius. No one disputes that. But even a genius can’t know about everyone’s profession, even in his own time. Oh, sure, he made a difference in the factories of the nascent industrial revolution – maybe. But the farmers of his time got up with the sun and couldn’t care less for his time. And farmers were most of the population in that era.

As far as I can tell he made it easier on people like himself: early risers, who liked to read and whose vision was starting to fail. And THAT was before technology made his society and all the rhythms of it as divorced from our life as the life of Rome or Greece were from his. No, possibly more.

Had his bad idea been limited to persuading a state or two to do this, we’d have gotten over it already. Instead, he made it a national law. And other nations who wanted to copy us and didn’t know which parts were relevant (bill of rights, guys, bill of rights) went ahead and did it too. And now all around the world, people spend two weeks every year stumbling around, sleepy and confused, and – those who know – wishing Franklin had got zapped while playing with lightning.

But not only am I mid-novel and totally empty headed, but what mind I have is taken over by watching the stuff unfolding in Japan. If you haven’t, this is a good site: http://www.lawrenceperson.com/?p=4209

Several thoughts come to mind, among them of course and foremost, my thoughts and prayers are for the people of Japan and I feel great gratefulness that their devotion to engineering and good technology has kept deaths and destruction to a minimum.

Second, this seems to be a cluster of disturbances going around the pacific. Sort of bracing for it to hit CA and worried about all my friends there.

Third and distant but of concern — in a world roiled by political turmoil and financial crisis, how will natural upheaval affect it?

So, you see, no mind to blog.

*I am now — after ten years of being published only in Fantasy in long forms — getting used to the idea of being referred to as “Science Fiction Writer Sarah A. Hoyt” However, I’ve — for very long — been told that even my fantasy has an “sf flavor.” I guess this comes from not being able to write anything I don’t believe in. And here, to justify this thought is my friend and fan of Draw One In The Dark and Gentleman Takes A Chance (and the upcoming Noah’s Boy) Tedd Roberts, explaining the — er — totally scientific background of my Shifter Series.*

FOIA release 2011.214.b.morph

The study of “shifter” genetics began in the 1990’s with a Defense Advanced Mystic Research Agency effort to produce a “stealthed amphibious air assault force.” All investigations of shifter existence and capabilities was immediately classified, and identified shifters already in the armed services were instructed to “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” – or more appropriately, “Don’t Shift, Don’t Tell.” Faced with the literal usurpation of the role and prestige of Navy and Marine S.E.A.L. teams, the Secretary of the Navy, in his now famous* “The Shift Stops Here” memo convinced the Joint Chiefs of Staff and Congress to defund the DAMRA project, resulting in the famous agency shakeup of 2003-2005. The agency invoked a complex maskirovka in the form of the “Gambling on Terrorism” project and the dismissal of Admiral Poindexter to bury the evidence of the “Somatomorph Project.” The recent voiding of DADT regulations has had the unexpected side effect of unearthing the Somatomorph files, allowing the release of this report under the Freedom of Information Act.

The following is taken from the notebooks of Professor Tedd Roberts, faculty of epigenetics, Southern Medical School, West Carolina:

Origins

The North American Shapeshifter, Homo sapiens odo (HSO) was best described in the documentary writings of Professor d’Almeida Hoyt, and date from the original DAMRA project. The taxonomic label was later found to be in error, since the eponymous “Odo” was found to not be H. sapiens, but a member of Amoeba schlockii species of carbosilicate amorphs, however, the name had the virtue of brevity and was retained for taxonomic classification of H. sap. metamorphs. The first known appearance of HSO can be found in the indigenous Amerind writings of dragon and wolf shifters, the most famous being the tales of Coyote, the Trickster. The dragon variant shifter is believed to derive from the Asian Shapeshifter , Homo sapiens draco (HSD) which primarily emulates the form of a dragon. In contrast to HSD, the HSO can take any form, and that form appears to derive from epigenetic factors and is not gene-coded. All known members of HSD appear to be confined to the winged dragon shape, while the European and North American varieties are varied in species emulated by the metamorphic ability.

Genetics

A major finding of DAMRA’s Project Kafka was the identification of the shapeshifter gene locus on Chromosome 22, sequence 43.3. The 3,219 base pair sequence encodes a 1,073 amino acid protein named 3′-iso-5′-metamorph (HUGO Gene Nomenclature Committee apbbreviation: mrph) by project staff. The essential basic amino acid sequence remains the same across all known shapeshifter variants except for a single three amino acid sequence at residue sequence 42 which exists as Cysteine-Alanine-Threonine in the HSO, Alanine-Threonine-Cysteine in the HSD, and Threonine-Alanine-Cysteine in the proposed stealth soldier variant developed by Project Kafka. The three gene sequences appear to be the result of a single loop-splice variant, and have no effect on the metamorphic properties of the gene product.

It was immediately determined that the mrph gene was not inherited by strict Mendelian genetics, exhibiting neither dominant nor recessive characteristics. Thus It is possible to have one or both parents with the mrph gene and still not exhibit the shapeshifter ability, said ability seeming to appear during puberty as a result of epigenetic factors. In addition, the animal species emulated by each ‘shifter is not hard-coded in the mrph gene, but appears to derive from a side chain substitution of the mrph protein – presumably at the C-A-T or T-A-C site. The A-T-C site is refaractory and does not support a side chain, and as stated above may be the source of the stable draco metamorphs of asian descent. It should be noted that the insect variety shapeshifters documented in d’Almeida Hoyt’s first volume of field notes from the Goldport metamorph preserve has a controversial taxonomy, and may be an offshoot of the Homo insecta parkerii and not H.sap. at all.

Epigenetics

The counter-Mendelian nature of mrph gene inheritance means that the when one or more of the parents are shifters, offspring that exhibit shifter behavior may emulate a form similar to one parent or the other, or may adopt an entirely new form. The case study of Tom Ormson (draco) and Kyrie Smith (felis) led to much speculation among researchers as to the potential shifting ability of potential offspring. However, one thing that was made quite clear by the DAMRA study was that shifter emulation was not subject to base genetic sequencing, and could not be combined, thus Tom and Kyrie would not have “kitty-dragon” offspring as was speculated by some program staff. Rather, the epigenetic tag attached to the mrph gene appears to have a mitochondria DNA origin, and as such may have originated from a retroviral source. As of this date, at least 65 epigenetic side chains have been identified, ranging from Ms. Smith’s pnth sequence to Mr. Ormson’s drac epigene. It should be noted that Mr. Ormson’s shifter form varies subtly from the Asian draco form due to the epigene sequence and the invariability of the HSD genome.

Another epigenetic factor is the immediate early gene (IEG) activation of the mrph protein into active form. In some cases, onset of shapeshifting ability appears in puberty, in others, not until a particularly severe stress. It was subsequently found that the stress-produced Heat Shock Protein-90 (HSP-90) has been demonstrated to induce the IEG cyclic-AMP(adenosine monophosphate) response binding protein (CRB), and it’s phophorylated active form (pCRB) which in turn triggers expression of the mrph gene and binding of the side chain. While abundant CRB is found in pre-adolescents, pCRB is typically low and only elevated post-puberty. Sudden stress or extreme emotional state trigger phosphorylation of CRB to pCRB and thus the metamorphic abilities of the shifter. Depending on the metamorphic emulation, and hence the mrph side chain, the scent of hemoglobin has also been demonstrate to trigger involuntary metamorphosis, most likely due to iron binding of the serine phosphatase which metabolizes pCRB. Blockade of the metabolic pathway results in overproduction of pCRB and consequent overstimulation of the mrph gene.

Interbreeding

The epigenetic control of the mrph gene results in a low incidence of shapeshifters in the second and third generation crosses. One of the difficulties of DAMRA Project Kafka was obtaining *any* ‘shifters in the F1 generation. Fortunately the DAMRA labs produced a mouse transgenic model to track the mrph gene and epigenes – at least until the Mus loxodonta cross destroyed the laboratory in 2004. Only when the exogenous side chains were supplied was there any control over the metamorphic outcome. Several findings immediately became apparent – (1) shapeshifting was *rarely* inherited (1 in 100,000 crosses) when mating two ‘shifters in the F0 generation , (2) there was a higher incidence (1 in 1,000) when mating one shifter with a non-shifter, (3) mates with incompatible epigenetic side chains produced incompatible chimerae, resulting in extremely low fertility and no metamorphic abilities in the few F1 through F5 generation offspring produced, (4) the only way to guarantee shapeshifting offspring was for the parents to mate while shifted – again precluding any chimeric species. The latter resulted in offspring that were genetically similar to the emulated species, rather than Mus musculus, occasionally shifting from emulated to base form, but mostly exhibiting characteristics of the emulated animal form. The relatively few tragic cases of shifted human crosses resulted in offspring that spend most of their lives in the emulated animal form and find themselves unable to function as human adults.

Project outcome

DAMRA Project Kafka was quietly closed down in 2005 and the subjects moved to the Goldport preserve under the auspices of the witness protection program and the Treasury Department. The NSA ODO database was established to track the movements of wild-type shapeshifters and target them for relocation to Goldport if necessary. Tactical shifters were treated with silencing RNA (siRNA) delivered via adenovirus vector to suppress the epigenes. To date there has been one reported failure of the gene therapy, resulting in the temporary release of a single H.sap.odo carcharodon which was quickly contained by DAMRA agents within the Goldport community. The ODO search is currently monitoring known shifters in California (eudyptes), Oregon (castor), Colorado (erinaceus), North Carolina (rattus) and Texas (eerex).

In retrospect, Project Kafka was deemed a failure, except for the case of subject BR-549, Keith Vorpal. Mr. Vorpal was referred to Project Kafka after reporting the feeling of being another person in the same skin. The subject was found to have the mrph gene and produce the corresponding protein, but did not exhibit any of the 65 identified epigene side chains. Mr. Vorpal was tested extensively with stimuli designed to trigger the pCRB activation of the mrph gene, but failed to exhibit any overt signs of metamorphic transformation, despite his subjective observations of sensations consistent with shapeshifting. The project leaders were forced to conclude that Mr. Vorpal was indeed a shapeshifter, but that his shifted form was every bit as human and his base form. Mr. Vorpal’s file designation is thus Homo sapiens odo sapiens a may represent the most positive outcome of the entire study.

Kevin J. Anderson uses a popcorn analogy to illustrate two methods that beginning writers can use to break into print.

One of them consists of writing a single novel and polishing it and perfecting it until it is the absolute best it can be. He compares this to putting a single grain in a pot with just the right amount of oil, at the right temperature and waiting till it pops to produce the perfect single kernel of popcorn.

While this can work, if the kernel you put in is a dud, or if the one novel you concentrate all your work on is unpublishable, for reasons having nothing to do with how well crafted it is (theme, market, events in the world that make your premiss untenable) you’re going to fail.

Then there’s the other method that I – and a lot of other people used – you throw some oil in a pot at as close to a perfect temperature as you can make it, and you heat it. A whole bunch of them are going to pop, even if you get a few duds. (This doesn’t mean by the way that we care less about each individual kernel… er… novel. And it doesn’t mean that in the middle of the “okay” kernels there won’t be one or two perfect ones. Possibly not the ones we expect.)

This approach, of course, takes its toll on the writer, but it has the opportunity for bringing the greater rewards.

What Kevin didn’t say is that for at least the last ten years and probably more, publishers have taken this approach to writers themselves. It used to be they carefully selected a writer and often invested considerable time and effort in helping him or her perfect the craft and improve. Perhaps there are still editors out there that do that. One or two of mine have been very good, but often work with limited time, because these days their job is not to help the writer progress, improve or even become more commercial. At best, if they’re interested in you, they give you a call and make suggestions. My friend Rebecca Lickiss, for instance, at one time got asked to write a “bigger” novel. But that was all the guidance she got.

Gone are the days of legendary editors shaping a house to their vision and keeping writers for years as long as they were paying their own way, trying to help that writer develop a following.

These days, and I think since publishers have been able to control every process of distribution and exposure a writer can get/have so that they could “comfortably manufacture bestsellers” at will, they have used the popcorn theory with authors.

Well, not quite, because they do have favorites. In the center of the pot, they would clear a little space and drop one or two little favored kernels they shepherded to the popping into bestsellerdom. The rest of the kernels were thrown in haphazardly, around the edges, where it might be too hot or too cold. And if they didn’t pop they got thrown away and other kernels thrown in.

This total absence of response to market signals – in fact, inability to get market signals – since what the system was rigged for was GIGO, that is to give you back what you put in, didn’t bother anyone, because those perfect kernels that popped meant great profits for the houses. Also, the smart ones were aware that the house giveth and the house taketh away and they would toe the line. The dumb ones… well, there were always replacements for those.

But now in the brave new world of electronic publishing, which will only grow faster as paper books grow more expensive – and for our friends across the pond, this is guaranteed as our price of energy is skyrocketing, thereby skyrocketing manufacturing and transport as well – anyone with a name, no matter how acquired has a great incentive to publish him or herself. As Dave Freer detailed in his Monday post at Mad Genius Club, there is no real reason for bestsellers to go with mainstream publishers anymore, and sooner or later they’ll all realize it.

This means the popcorn theory of publishing is dead. Heaven alone knows how many publishing houses it will take with it.

To me this seems amazingly obvious, as it seems amazingly obvious that the only way for a publishing house to stay afloat and prosper is to establish a brand – a taste if you will. The only way for a publishing house to stay afloat is to return to the days of legendary editors, say a Hugo Gernsback or a John W. Campbell, who take authors in whom they find a glimmer of something that could be great and mold and shape them and help them find their audience.

The big ones will still escape – unless you really make sure your brand is a value added (and you might. I know people who read everything Baen publishes, for instance, just for the brand) – but by the time they escape they’ll have been writing for you for years and getting incrementally better. And those who aren’t total SOBs might even write for you, on the side, for years after they start a solo-publishing career, because they’re grateful for the help you gave them.

Why aren’t any of the businessmen in publishing houses seeing this? Have I made some huge mess in my reasoning? Because this has gone beyond “obvious” to “plain as the nose on your face.” I don’t understand how anyone can miss it, much less people whose livelihood depends on the current, soon to become toxic, model.
*crossposted at Mad Genius Club and Classical Values*

Today I wrote about 11k words, a few to finish a story, the rest in Darkship Renegades. I’m not particularly happy with either set, but I’m sure they’re both editable to brilliant… well, as brilliant as I ever get, at least ;). *The gentleman in the back row CAN stop guffawing. I’m all too aware of my own shortcomings.*

Meanwhile the thought of doing a blog post threw me into a pit of despair. I’ve been thinking about things I’d like to write about, but… not tonight.

Tonight — a snowy night in Colorado — I’m going to go to bed. I don’t even feel like reading, and that’s like … an addiction before going to sleep.

I’m just going to go and sleep. If we’re all very lucky, there will be a coherent post tomorrow.

Meanwhile, if any of my audience — except my beta readers (duh) — has read both my collection “Wings” and my mystery series, Daring Finds, tell me what two characters appear in both. Send me a message, I’ll put you down for a copy of a Fatal Stain, whenever I get one.