Monthly Archives: September 2016

212. Old Posts Retrospective

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I would have preferred to post this last Wednesday, one year after the first posts on this website. However, the introduction of Raven’s Run over on Serial took precedence.

I did some of my best post writing during that early period when no one was reading. Everything was fresh and new, and I was introducing myself for the first time. I reposted a few when it was appropriate, particularly in March of 2016 when I began Jandrax over in serial, but most of those early posts are still unread by those who are with me today.

Eventually, I plan an annotated index of all posts, but for now, here is a partial version so you can dip into the past if you want.

2. Turn Left at Chicago – How a fortuitous failure set me on the road to writing.

3. It Was 40 Years Ago Today – The act of sitting down to write a first novel.

6. Planet Oklahoma (1) – From birth to my first encounter with a library.

7. Planet Oklahoma (2) – A library changes my life.

9. Old Libraries – Old libraries, old books, and re-reading.

10. Book Words – Being the only person who reads

11. Why the Tractosaur Wouldn’t Go – Hearing and speaking Okie.

12. Why Okies Can’t Use the Dictionary – Mispronunciation guides.

Raven’s Run 2

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Chapter One

Some things are automatic. Like man overboard drill.

One moment I had been leaning against the backstay of my yawl Wahini in mid-Atlantic, watching through binoculars as a cruise ship glided by in the night, brightly lighted, automatic-piloted, and oblivious of my presence. The next moment I froze in that first moment of strong perception that accompanies an adrenaline rush.

Someone was falling from the cruise ship’s deck, twisting and struggling all the way to the water. 

The ship plowed on. I locked my eyes on the spot where she had struck the water, and marked her position as the stars reappeared behind the fast moving cruise ship. Under Orion, just to the right of Sirius.

She?

I examined the afterimage in my mind. A young woman had been pressed against the rail, a woman with long black hair in a silky sheathe gown. There had been two others, two men, and they had been struggling with her.

She had not fallen; she had been thrown overboard!

I spun the wheel, lined up the masts on Sirius, and trimmed the sheets. My speed was about five and a half knots. The cruise ship had passed less than half a mile away. I would cross the ship’s wake in about four minutes.

No time at all for me, but an eternity for the girl in the water.

Unless she had seen the Wahini from the rail – unlikely in the darkness – she would think that she was alone in mid-ocean. The cruise ship had not even slowed down. Terror might have frozen her. She might already be drifting hopelessly down through the water.

When my watch said four minutes had passed, I still hadn’t seen her. I put the wheel hard over and brought the Wahini into the wind, sheeted the mizzen hard amidships, released the topping lift on the main, and rushed forward to drop the jib into untidy pile on the foredeck. Then I went up the mizzen mast, gripping the mast hoops with bare fingers and toes.

The cruise ship was halfway to the horizon by now, with no sign of turning back. I scanned the water, first close in, then further out.

Nothing!

I bellowed into the night, but there was no response. I squeezed my eyes shut, and fired the Very pistol I had brought from the cockpit. The flare spiraled upward and burst into a ball of ruddy light. I scanned the ocean again and saw a frantic splashing down to leeward.

I went down the mast hoops at top speed. The dingy was inaccessible, lashed down amidship for the long passage. If I swam to her, the Wahini would drift away downwind and we would both drown. 

I raised the jib. Wahini moved with ponderous dignity through the water toward where splashes had been. I scanned the water, but the flare had died out and I could see nothing. more tomorrow

211. Raven Comes Aboard

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New month, new year, new novel.

Today we begin the second year of this website. In the Serial half, Jandrax, my first novel, published in 1978, just wrapped up in a serialized and annotated form. I spent enough time and effort explaining the decisions behind the text that it has become something of a how-to for new writers.

Today, in Serial, we begin the novel Raven’s Run. This time I plan to keep most of the commentary over here on the AWL side, but we’ll see how that works. I make no promises.

Raven’s Run was written in the early 90s, roughly speaking. I never kept a writing diary, but it was fashioned after events from my 1987 and 1988 trips to Europe, but not written until after I had finished Symphony in a Minor Key. Early 90s is as close as I can come.

I spoke of Raven’s Run in 24. Following the Market. Notice that I haven’t put a tag on that reference. You don’t need to go there, since I am covering the same ground today, with a fair amount repeated.

*          *          *

Some people say write what you know. Some say, follow your passion. Some say find your natural readers. Others say follow the market, write what the reader wants to read, position yourself just back of the leading edge of the latest trend.

I only followed the market advice once, when my science fiction and fantasy work was hitting a brick wall for sales. I decided to write a contemporary adventure story. It was something I had wanted to do anyway, from the beginning. After going to Europe I had enough material to start.

By today’s standards, Raven’s Run would probably be classed as a thriller. Ian Gunn, the protagonist, is an ex-PI, sort of, now assigned to the State Department, waiting for his first posting. Despite that, there are no spies involved (except in the prolog), and the detecting is minimal, so not espionage and not a mystery. An adventure, because a girl falls into his life (literally) in chapter one, bringing troubles with her. In terms of the time it was written, it would have sold as a men’s adventure. That sounds like a Mickey Spillane woman bashing story, but in its day men’s adventures were filled with a wide range of character types, some quite civilized.

I had always wanted to write my own equivalent of Travis McGee.(see 49. The Green Ripper) Who wouldn’t? Neither detective nor spy, he went his own unique way and provided adventure for a generation of readers. But McGee was too much of con man for me, and he wasn’t enough of a loner. His buddy Meyer accompanied him in every other story. My guy, Ian Gunn, would be younger, better educated, but very much at odds with the world his education had prepared him for.

So I wrote it, and I liked it. When it was finished, I sent Raven’s Run to my agent. He was full of praise, especially for the exciting opening chapter. Then he said, “. . . but I’m afraid I can’t sell it. The bottom has completely fallen out of the men’s adventure market, and nobody is buying.”

So much for following the market.

Raven’s Run is now twenty-seven years old. I am not referring to the date it was written, but the the date of the internal action. It exists in that limbo state between contemporary fiction and historical fiction, not quite fully one or the other. That provides both problems and opportunities, some of which I will talk about in future posts. For now, I’ll simply note that the prolog which forms today’s post in Serial was added to place the main novel in context.

Raven’s Run 1

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Comment on this prolog can be found on today’s AWL post.

May 4, 2012, Luisanne, Switzerland

The first man to arrive on the terrace was clearly an American. He spoke quietly to the maître d’ while glancing at his watch. 

Behind him a voice said brightly, “Ian, you need not worry. I said 2100 and here I am. I think you are a moment early.”

Ian Gunn turned and put out his hand, and said, “That must be it.” They seemed to be old friends. It was calculated appearance but, in this case, also the truth. “It’s good to see you, Kurt.”

Ian Gunn knew his friend as Kurt, or Karl, or Klaus, followed by any of a number of surnames. Tonight he was using Kurt Heiss, which was his actual name, as far as Ian knew.

They were led to a table overlooking Lac Léman. As they ate, each enjoyed the other’s company; there was business to attend to, but this was a rare chance to be easy with one another, since their latest venture was now concluded.

Except that both men were extremely fit, and had the look of lions, they could have been taken for businessmen. In fact they were, but their business was blood and death. Or its avoidance.

Gunn asked, “Did the transfer of goods go as we had hoped?”

Kurt replied, “Yes. There were some tense moments, but eventually everything went to the right buyer.”

By this, Kurt told his American counterpart that five hundred AK-47s had not gone to the Taliban as both their governments had feared, but had gone instead to a different insurgent group in a different country. Ian nodded, passed a flash drive to his friend, and received another in return. They moved on to other conversation.

As the meal wound down, Kurt said, “Ian, you seem troubled. Is it business or personal, and can I help in either case.”

Gunn smiled and shook his head. “Not troubled, Kurt. Nostalgic. I ate here once before, in this same restaurant, looking out at the same view with a young woman in 1989.”

“A very good year.”

“For you, Kurt, yes.” Kurt Heiss had been a very young man then, and in November he had stood with sledge hammer in hand, shoulder to shoulder with other young Germans, pounding down the Berlin Wall. “For me, it was a bit more complicated.”

“The young woman . . .?”

“It’s a very long story.”

“Which you cannot tell . . .?”

“No,” Ian said, “nothing like that. I was not yet working at our craft. It’s just a long story.”

“A précis then. I no longer go looking for young women to take back to my room, since I married Anna. She has lie-detector eyes. It will be a long night, and I am not going back to Berlin until tomorrow.

“Besides,” he added, “even though you say nostalgia, your eyes are not smiling.”

Ian shrugged and surrendered to his friend’s concern. “All right, a story. 1989. The best thing about that year was that I was 28 years old . . .”