Sheila's LiveJournal

Great news! My fantasy story, "Fortune's Stepchild" will be in the next LACE AND BLADE anthology, edited by Deborah Ross and published by Norilana.

Even more good news, my workshop mate, Samantha Henderson, has sold a a story to the same anthology (I'm sure she'll blog about it). Time to celebrate this Friday night at workshop!

My story features a young, penniless nobleman who took ship with Sir Francis Drake (thus the statue of Drake at the head of this blog) for the voyage around the globe -- and then had second thoughts in the New World.

Thanks to Diane Turnshek, I've just learned that a short story of mine is aboard the International Space Station, part of the recreational reading library.

It's "Ceremony After a Raid," first published way back when Patrick Price was editing AMAZING STORIES. Here's the URL:

http://www.governmentattic.org/docs/ISS_Media_2008.pdf

I wish somebody had warned me, when I wrote the first lingster story, that I had just set out to create a whole series of tales about communicating with aliens, my own universe, let alone an entire Guild of Xenolinguists with all its rules and precepts. I might have taken the endeavor more seriously right from the start instead of having to make it fit as I went along, with too many occasions where I found myself thinking, Oh no! I didn’t say that in a previous story, did I? How on earth am I going to get around it?

The novel that came to be called Triad (1986) started as notes on South African native cultures that quickly morphed into notes about an alien one. I was at UCLA for a quarter on a fellowship, studying South African literature, crafts and (dabbling in) language. It wasn’t the first novel that I’d written (actually it was the fifth – or sixth if we count a perfectly ghastly one that eventually went into the trash can) but it was published as my second. But somewhere in the writing the word xenolinguist appeared, and a Guild that trained them. The author hardly noticed.

“Babel Interface” was supposed to be a one-off story about alien communication (which I’d been convinced for many years wasn’t going to be as easy as Star Trek portrayed it). It’s a story whose birth pangs I don’t even remember – that’s how casually I dropped in details about the “Guild” back on Earth that Tomas worked for, or the fact that such communicators were called “lingsters,” or the field pack of interface drugs they relied on. But there they were.

I didn’t sell that story right away (several editors disliked it thoroughly), and I went on to write other stories. Meanwhile, I continued reading books about language, a major passion of mine. And somewhere along the line I started wondering what Whorf and Chomsky, Pinker – and all the other linguistic scholars whose books I bought as soon as they were published – might have to say about talking to aliens. I began noodling around with an article on how we might eventually approach the problem. I’m not even certain that I took the matter too seriously even then, judging from the title: “Berlitz in Outer Space.” But I had fun dreaming up the first class in Xenolinguistics 101.

An editor finally bought “Babel,” and wanted to see “Berlitz” too. He finally printed both in the same edition of Amazing Stories in 1988. But even then I didn’t seem to understand the trap I’d laid for myself. “A World Waiting” was under construction about that time, and I was thoroughly distracted by the marvelous experience I’d just had of hearing my unborn granddaughter’s heart beat and seeing her ultrasound picture which I knew was going into the story somehow. Then one morning I realized that my lingster (the term had stuck) was dragging her luggage into a tent and that the luggage had a logo on it – and the Guild of Xenolinguists finally made it into the author’s consciousness.

The rest is history, or maybe bibliography. There are now two novels and eleven stories about the lingsters, not to mention a couple of borderline stories where the lingsters themselves never appear.

What would I have done differently if somebody had warned me at the beginning what I was doing? Well, for one thing I wouldn’t have founded the Mother House of the Guild in Geneva. I had to do some hand-waving in “First Was the Word,” last written but first in the timeline, to explain that. And, if the reader notices, Triad is apparently set in a female-dominated world which had to be conveniently ignored in later stories. The role of Artificial Intelligence changed over the years too, from Earth’s warm and fuzzy CenCom to the Venatixi AI that acknowledges no loyalties. Little details like that. About midway through, I stopped and wrote myself a “bible” of the Guild and its teachings; I wish I’d had it from the beginning.

So do I now know all there is to know about the Guild and the lingsters? Heavens no! At least, not consciously. I’m currently working on a longer story – maybe a novella – set at the very end of the cycle, and I’m constantly surprising myself with things my unconscious mind apparently knew that I didn’t. Such as why Humans and Venatixi fought a war in “Out of the Mouths,” or who the Sagittans were whose presence Gia experienced in Triad.

Maybe I had to hide the fact I was creating a series from myself in order not to scare myself off from writing?

I'll be signing THE GUILD OF XENOLINGUISTS on Sunday, June 14th, 3-5pm, at the Barnes & Noble at The Grove in Los Angeles. If you're in the area, come on by and say hello, lend moral support!

If you haven't seen it yet, do so this weekend. The new STAR TREK movie is well worth seeing. The young actors are excellent in their roles, not obviously trying to ape the mannerisms of the original cast but managing to suggest them in subtle ways. We get explanations for all manner of puzzling things in the series -- such as why Kirk calls Dr McCoy "Bones" (not as a nod to the old slang term for doctor: sawbones). The special effects are gorgeous. The plot is exciting. And we have the added pleasure of an appearance by Leonard Nimoy as the later Spock, courtesy of some handwaving rubbery science for which I willingly suspended my disbelief.

But for me the best part was when Uhura declared herself a "xenolinguist" and defined "xenolinguistics!" Since I first coined that term back in a story and an article on alien communication in AMAZING back in 1988 (the online Oxford dictionary of sf terms confirms this), I was quite delighted to have Paramount give it its blessing! Take that, NASA -- which has been playing with the prefix "exo."

Do you keep a dream journal? I used to, back in the 70s when I was dabbling in all things alternative. It was interesting – if not always illuminating – to identify my personal and often recurring symbols, and perhaps see what my unconscious mind was trying to slip past the blocking of the censor. I even got the idea for a story out of a dream (“A Long Way Home”) and the image of someone running with two kids in tow across a dangerous landscape that several years later became the central concept of “Reading the Bones.” Mind you, I had to wrestle the dream ideas into shape before they were ready to see print.

Occasionally, under the stress of a disintegrating marriage, my dreams pointed out things I hadn't consciously seen -- or had refused to see, more likely. Like the dream that my bedroom had no roof and was open to the elements, and that my husband was moving another bed into the room. That one proved prophetic (he was having an affair)!

There've been others that dealt with things not easily explained in the cold light of day, dreams that seemed to come from somewhere outside of everyday experience. And while they're puzzling, they can be strangely reassuring in a way. (If you run into me in the bar at a con sometime, ask me to tell you the story of the moonstone cross.)

Recently, a new friend that I'd roomed with on the trip to Rwanda commented that she'd just read my Guild of Xenolinguist stories and was surprised that most of them had such a dark heart. Quite a contrast to what she'd seen of my optimistic personality (she said); on the whole, I'm happy with my life, I'm busy and have family nearby and many friends. So I thought about that comment, and my first reaction was that the Guild taught that the universe is full of wonder and beauty but that it's also full of danger and pain, so my stories were only illustrating that truth as the Guild teachers saw it. But the more I thought about it the more I saw there was another element here. From time to time my dreams seem to come from a well of sadness and loneliness that I don't recognize in my conscious life. It's not what I dream – the “plots” are typically inconsequential – it's the emotion attached to them. Typically, I wake up anguished and it takes several minutes to banish the mood that bears no relation to my waking reality.

I had one of those last night. It started with a former student – I'll call her Agnes – who had somehow switched my cell phone with hers, so I couldn't make a necessary phone call. We went looking for my car, which she had borrowed, and couldn't find it in the parking lot where Agnes said she'd left it. I was worrying about my two dogs who were caged up somewhere, waiting for me to retrieve them, and the parking lot attendant taunted me about my ability to buy another car if I wanted. But I told him I was only a teacher at the college nearby. I never did find the car.

So far, a rather ho-hum dream story, isn't it? So why was I so distraught in the dream, and why did I wake up, heart pounding, on the verge of tears? I've thought about the symbols that might be in that narrative – lost phone, lost car, lost dogs – but if Freud could see the relevance to my present life, I certainly can't.  Dream interpretation isn't an exact science, of course, but I would like to rid myself of these troublesome stories that stir up such negative emotions. Does this sound like an experience you've ever had?

I tried to make a longer story out of this, one with a serious point -- but that obviously wasn't going to happen. So here's my Christmas offering to y'all:




    "You're doing a grand thing for childless couples, Marci-May,"  Doc Bettelberg had said, peering into the microscope at all the teensy little eggs she'd just donated. "Think of yourself as a champion hen -- all those wonderful eggs going to market all over the country!"
    Maybe he'd said "county." She always had trouble concentrating on scientific things. But she'd trusted Doc Bettelberg from the moment she read his ad in the personals.
    "Mama!" one of them said, holding out his arms.
    He was a little scrawny thing with crooked teeth that reminded Marci-May of her granny. She gave him a big hug. They all seemed surprised to find Marci-May living in such a little cottage, like they'd expected their mama to be rich.
    "It took us a while to find you," a boy with thick glasses said.
    "How old're y'all now?" she asked.
    "Eighteen," the little runt said. 
    "Almost nineteen," a big skinny girl said. She sounded grumpy.
    "Goodness," Marci-May said. "I'll make some cocoa."
    Before she could shut the door, four more boys arrived. They filed into Marci-May's kitchen and stood looking about as if they didn't know what to say. It was a very small kitchen, and with eight of them in it there wasn't much room for Marci-May to move around getting the pan and the milk and the cocoa and setting out the mugs. Then two more girls arrived, and it was a bit overwhelming, like a family reunion when you didn't even know you had one. Well, of course she knew. She'd given Doc Bettelberg the eggs. She just didn't know how many.
    "Excuse me," she said. "Oops! Excuse me."
    The ten took a step back, then a step forward, then back again as she went past. Finally everybody had a mug of steaming cocoa, and Marci-May led the way into her parlor where she'd set up the little plastic tree she used every year and the little plastic nativity.
    "If I'd' known y'all were coming to visit," she said, twinkling her eyes at them to show she wasn't annoyed, "I'd've got a real tree this year."
    "We thought you might refuse to see us if we called ahead," one boy said.
    The boy who spoke reminded  Marci-May of someone whose picture she'd seen in the local paper. Judge somebody or other. Or maybe it was just that he'd been judging something? The local dog show, maybe. My boy, she thought, and a little thrill of pride ran up her spine.    "Now whyever would I do that?" Marci-May said. "Y'all are like family to me!"
    Marci-May looked around her tiny parlor. She didn't have any knickknacks she could give them instead of store-bought Christmas presents. There was an old ashtray that had belonged to her daddy. It said “Joe's Pizzeria” in gold letters, but there was a chip out of it. And there was a needlework sampler with one of her granny's favorite sayings on it. Those things didn't seem quite right.
    "We didn't bring you anything either," the runt said. "Sorry."
    She ruffled his hair affectionately. "Makes no mind," she said.
    They sure were a polite bunch. Everybody seemed to be waiting for somebody else to say something. After a while, they all finished their cocoa and she thought it looked like they planned on staying for dinner. As well they should, wasn't she their ... their ...? “Mother Hen” sounded about right.
     The grumpy girl spoke up. "I'm hungry!"
    But there wasn't even a teensy tiny turkey in the pantry to make Christmas dinner for Marci-May all by herself, so how could she possibly feed so many? Before she could do anything about this, the doorbell rang again.
    "Goodness," she said. "I'd better go see who that is."
    When she opened the door, identical twin boys with identical blond haircuts stood there. They were carrying identical suitcases which made her think they planned on staying a while.
    "Merry Christmas!" they said in unison.
    "The doc never said anything about twins," she said. Then again, he hadn't said anything once her part was finished.
    There were so many of them in the house now that they spilled out of the parlor into the kitchen. A couple of boys went to Joe's Pizzeria and brought back a dozen large pizzas and several cases of soda. While everybody was munching, Marci-May tried to count her offspring, but she kept losing track. Her granny always said it was a sin to have babies without a daddy, even if Doc Bettelberg had told her that donating eggs wasn't really having babies.
    Her granny also used to say, "All good things come to an end," and round about midnight the boys and girls started to argue. It was little things at first, like whose turn it was to go get more pizza. And then that turned to arguing about the kind of cars their daddies drove, or who lived in the biggest house, or why some of them had been born in rich families and others not-so-rich. It was like some of them thought it was Marci-May's fault – she should've been more careful who she gave her eggs to.
    "What did you do with all the money you got paid?" the one whose daddy was a judge asked suddenly.
    They all went silent at that.
    Marci-May stared at the judge's boy.    "What money was that?" 
    Doc Bettelberg had given her bus money and maybe a bit extra, but it hadn't amounted to much. She'd hoped there might be more because things were always tight, but the doc told her how much money it was costing him. He said the important thing was she was helping him help couples who would do anything to have a child. And it didn't cost her anything to donate the eggs, did it?
    "Stop pretending, Marci-May," the judge's boy said. "We know it was a lucrative business."
    Marci-May didn't know the word “lucrative,” but she could tell when offspring were being disrespectful.
    "I don't know where you get your manners from, young man," she said. "It certainly wasn't my side of the family."
    The judge's boy pulled a crumpled sheet of newspaper out of his pocket and held it out so she could see the headline on page one. It took her a little time to understand it. Reading hadn't been her best subject in school.
    MILLION DOLLAR SCANDAL OVER DONATED EGGS COMES TO LIGHT!
    Marci-May shook her head. "What's it mean?"
    "It means my folks spent my inheritance just to get me. You were supposed to be an Ivy League grad, a genius or something," the grumpy girl said. "Someone who'd give me the genes to win scholarships. But I'm only making C's."
    She didn't seem too bright, Marci-May thought. How could that have happened? Her daddy was clever at growing things and Granny had what she called her special system for making a bit of extra money at the church bingo. No dummies on her side of the family!
    "A lot of money changed hands over us in that scam,” the judge's boy said, “and we want to get some of it back."
    "Who'll take care of us if our parents are broke?” the boy with thick glasses asked.
    Marci-May couldn't even give them Christmas presents, so how could she take care of so many of them?
    "I'm not blaming you,  Mama," the runt said.
    Marci-May put her arm around him.
    "Maybe you should ask Doc Bettelberg," she said doubtfully.
    "That crook disappeared," the judge's boy said. "That leaves you."
    "Tell you what," Marci-May said, feeling sorry for them. "My daddy left a good-size potato patch out back. You boys could help me farm it. And I could teach you girls to play my granny's system at bingo. What d'you say?"
    "I say you're a bigger idiot than we were to come here!" the grumpy girl said.
    It made Marci-May sad to think her brood were disappointed in their Mother Hen. One by one they filed out the front door. The twins were last, carrying their suitcases which they hadn't even unpacked. They turned and blew kisses to her.
    "Happy New Year!" they said in unison.
    When she got back to her kitchen she found the little runt cleaning up the empty pizza boxes.
    “What shall we do with the leftover pizza?” he asked.
    “Hardly seems right for Christmas dinner,” Marci-May said. “But I don't have a turkey this year.”
    “This one's made with turkey sausage, Mama.”
    “That's all right then,” Marci-May said.
    Afterwards, they sat in the parlor admiring the way the lights on the little plastic tree made red and green splotches on Mother Mary's face.
    "Christmas Eve," Marci-May said. "My favorite time of the year."
    "Mine too, Mama," the runt said.
    "It must run in the family," she said.  
    She looked at Granny's needlework sampler on the wall: “Don't count your chickens before they're hatched..” One chick had come home to roost, and that was plenty.
    "You know what," she told the runt, "Mother Mary didn't need a daddy for her egg either."
    And that made Marci-May feel warm all over.

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