The Ghost of Novels Past

It’s weird how things seem to happen for reasons.  I am furiously working on STARCHILD, a space opera comedy romance (shut up, it’s MY book, I’ll make up genres if I want).  It should be done soon and will be available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.  I’m happy about that.

But as I have been hammering away at it, I have also thought about old projects, next projects, and whatnot.  Perhaps a week ago I remembered a novel I finished in 1995—yes, fifteen years ago.  It was called SERVAI and was a fantasy novel about the coming of a messiah.  It followed the journey of a liberated slave girl who wants nothing so much as to be an instrument of peace and love.  She is surrounded by men who are powerful, enigmatic figures.  Everyone is awaiting the coming of a great prophet who will bring great things to the world.  Everyone speculates about which wise figure among the men of Jerichai will be the messiah.

Nobody expects the prophecy to find fulfillment in a young girl. 

I left this book— completed —behind me when I left college and it was lost forever— I thought.  Imagine my surprise when an old friend contacted me today with the news that she’d found the original manuscript on a floppy disk, intact and undamaged.  She is sending it to me, and if the angels smile upon me, I will be able to reformat it. 

It’s so strange… I have never forgotten this story.  It always bothered me that I’d lost it in my scramble to begin a new life.  Perhaps, if I can rescue it, it will find a home with a publisher.  I suppose Servai’s story has survived in spite of everything, so she deserves the right to be next on my list of priorities.

I guess she and I are both survivors… and who knows where this Ghost of Novels Past will lead me.

I Can't Make These Doodz Up

Yeah, I know I'm a writer and all but I can't make my friends up. Nobody would believe me. For instance, the group of whackjobs with whom I roamed during my (cough) formative years were known as THE BEACH RATS (some of them seen at left in warmer times). It was a crew, a clique, and a band... not necessarily in that order. This past week one of our fringe-crew showed up in town and we crashed at my BFF Roxy's house... later we re-crashed at my XBF and other BFF's house.

Rob Dossier is known to his friends as DOZER. Rob should not be confused with Arthur Dodd, whom I christened The Artful Dodger, or DODGER, for short. Dodger and Dozer never played music with us, but then again... calling it music was pretty expansively generous.

While we were sitting around being obnoxious at one another I got questioned by Petie, BFF, about the progress of my current WIP. This led to questions about the subject matter.

"What's the book about?"

"Well... it's a romantic-comedy-space-opera. It's about a bunch of hippies at Woodstock who get high and have sex with aliens, who impregnate them to save their infertile race. Years later a space cowbody named Chance, who flies a ship called The Ponderosa, comes back to earth to claim one of the hybrid offspring and take her back to his planet to help rejuvenate the population... only there's weird stuff going on and..." And then I blushed. "Um, it's kind of weird, but when you're actually reading it, it's funny and entertaining. Also it has homicidal kitties."

Now, with any other crew I'd get serious crickets chirping here. My gang? All sitting forward on the edges of couches, chairs, and patches of floor. (OK, leaning forward on patches of floor, since the edges would not be in the same places as their butts.)

"Really?" Dozer, gawd love him, looked genuninely curious.

"Yeah, I was going great guns but with everything going on right now I've slowed down. Plus I hit a wall with a mess of social issues that want to be in it."

Again, anywhere else on the planet, the subject would have changed already.

"What kind of issues?" asked my ex boyfriend and current great friend, Timmy.

"Well... the moral questions surrounding the idea of disposable life. The idea that all life is sacred and worthy, and the idea that seeking perfection in a race of human beings will lead to dystopia and injustice, because every living thing deserves respect, praise, love. Which sounds like it won't be funny, but it stays funny." I squirm.

"Well, yeah," says Dodger, "what with the homicidal kitties. That's gonna be funny no matter what, right?"

And I could cry. Because yeah... exactly... and omg does it feel good to know I have a room full of people NOT changing the subject, NOT thinking I'm an idiot, and asking because so-help-me-gawd... they actually want to know.

Good times... good times.