Old stuff made new

Old stuff written before the birth of dirt and stuffed into a back drawer and promptly forgotten.  And then re-discovery . . . .

What the hell!?

You realize the stuff you wrote a long time ago isn't bad.  In fact, it might be just the thing in today's market!  Science fiction mixed in with a little historical adventure.  But how do you know?

How do you know the stuff long discarded should see the light of day again?

Years ago I wrote a novel called Pirates of E'outh.  About a ship from the 16th Century being hurled hundreds of centuries through Time to an alternate-earth.  One filled with all kinds of strange aliens and wild adventures.

And I started the novel (potential series?) with an interesting set-up.  A prologue of a descendant of the main character writing back to his kinsmen from the future.  I dunno . . . rereading the intro and then the book again I find myself itching at the thought this could see a publishing house specializing in this kind of speculative fiction giving its nod of approval to it.

But before I sent it off . . or to a lit agent . . I thought I'd share the prologue with you and see if it generates any commentary.  I hope it does.  A little feedback would be nice.  So here it is. 

What do you think?

PROLOGUE

            It all began with my grandfather.  Jeffery Arnold Clarke, my grandfather, died in 1989.  At the time of his death he was 99 years old.   He had been in his lifetime a cowboy, a police officer, a soldier of fortune and a private detective.  He fought both alongside, and later against, Poncho Villa in Mexico.  He smuggled guns for Chinese resistance fighters who were fighting Japanese occupation of their homeland prior to World War II.  Before that he fought all of World War I flying extremely fragile fighter planes made of nothing but canvas, wire, and wood.  And  survived.  When he died, he died old and proud and much loved by all those who knew him. 

            I was his favorite of all his grandchildren.  He often said to me, as I grew to manhood, he had a special gift which he wanted me to have upon his death.  I thought nothing of it for most of my life.  That 'special gift' had already been given to me over and over again by this old gentleman I loved so much.   But when he died, to my surprise, I did receive a special gift.

            Among his possessions had been an old steamer trunk in which I remember playing on as a kid while it sat in the dark, dust-filled attic of grandfather's house.  No one in the family took particular interest in this steamer trunk.  Grandfather had told us often that nothing was in it except his old World War I uniforms and a few old photo albums.  Nevertheless it was that old steamer trunk which he promised me.  It was that steamer trunk that I wanted most from him.

            I was pleased to hear that the old steamer trunk had been bequeathed to me in his will.  It arrived at my house one cold and wet November day by special courier and I took possession of something which eventually came to own my soul with an all-consuming power.

            One day in December, not long after the trunk was delivered, I decided to open it and rummage through my family's past.  True enough, upon opening the trunk I found my grandfather's World War I uniform.  He served in the Royal Flying Corps, which eventually became the Royal Air Force, in the Great War.  He was one of the few survivors who joined in 1914 and lived to tell about it at war's end.  He was an ace with fourteen confirmed kills and had, among other things, the distinction of being shot down twice by none other than Baron Manfred von Richthofen.

            But the manuscripts underneath grandfather's uniform were the articles which consumed me.  There, tied in neat bundles of six manuscripts apiece, were dusty pages of history which can only be described as being too incredible to believe.

            Did I say history?  Well—yes and no.  Not history as you or I know it.  But history, and revelations, only a prophet or a insane man might write.  I cannot accurately describe accurately what these manuscripts say.  One must read them in their entirety to truly understand both the fascination and the dread I feel whenever I think of them.  But let me generalize, if I can, what these ancient and crumbling papers purport to say.

            On one bright morning in 1920 my grandfather was walking on an empty stretch of Florida coastline just south of St Petersburg, Florida.  He had been discharged from the RAF only a few weeks before and had taken up residence in the small Florida community he was to call home for the rest of his life. The doctors suggested recuperation in the Florida clime might be the best prescription for a return to health.  Grandfather's health had been severely compromised while serving in the RAF in some official capacity while in Russia in 1919.  It was a time in his life he would never talk about whenever I asked him about it.  I got the impression it was still, after so many years had passed by, a source of intense emotion for him.  Respecting his wishes I never approached the subject again.

            But on this sunny, but somewhat lonely, Sunday morning was taking his usual stroll down the beach watching the ocean waves roll lazily onto the sands and enjoying the many sea gulls which seemed to equally enjoy strolling with him in the early morning light. 

            As he walked he discovered this old steamer trunk. The trunk I now possess.  It was half buried in the sand.  To say the least, my grandfather was quite perplexed at finding this artifact on this particular beach at this particular time of the day.  It was, as grandfather's own handwriting says in the many diaries he left for me to read, both an exciting and fearful discovery.  At first he thought he might have come across some old pirate's treasure chest filled with Spanish doubloons and stolen Aztec gold.  But then it occurred to him that it was possibly only flotsam left from a recent ship's sinking in the gulf.  Kneeling, grandfather became curious as he observed the blackened and scorched markings he found on the exterior of the trunk.  He pried open the trunk's lid and lifted it to see what was inside.  What he found was enough gold and jewels to instantly make himself a multi-millionaire!  But more than that, he found the bundles of manuscripts and the long, rambling letter from a long-forgotten ancestor by the name of Geoffery Clarke.  The letter was addressed to Geoffery Armstrong Clarke. 

            The letter was addressed to me, a distant cousin to this Geoffery Clarke.  Incredibly a letter addressed to me almost 400 years prior to my birth!

            My name is Geoffery Armstrong Clarke.  Geoffery Clarke is my great-grandfather, ten generations removed.  This distant relative, who was born in 1588,  communicated through Time using my grandfather as the intermediary!  I was born in 1968.  But this Geoffery Clarke had written to me, and mistaken my grandfather as me, back in 1920!

            To be confronted by the ramifications of this experience is devastating to one's sense of reality.  It was with a disorienting sense of deja vu I had when I read my grandfather's diary, and later, the manuscripts.

            At first my grandfather believed someone was playing on him a massive and cruel joke.  But the gold and jewels were genuine and priceless and no one came to claim them.  Grandfather hauled the heavy trunk back to his house and over the years quietly began to exchange gold for currency.  Our family fortunes were made with his serendipitous finding.  However, it was the other pieces of evidence included in the trunk which finally made grandfather realize a relative of ours had mistakenly believed he was communicating with Geoffery Armstrong Clarke—me—by sending the trunk through Time by some incredulous means.

            Confusing to comprehend?  Not as confusing as the full impact of what waited for me in that dusty steamer trunk.  As I read both my grandfather's diaries and the manuscripts themselves, a  sense of vertigo gripped my soul.  For weeks after making the initial discovery I moped around the house trying to comprehend what was taking place.  I admit there were times I thought I would go insane. For the more I read my ancestor’s adventures, the more I became confused.

            Geoffery Clarke was not communicating with me from the past. They came from the future.  The distant future, and more amazingly, from a distant planet.  Amidst the hundreds of pages of handwritten manuscripts were pieces of evidence which irrefutably proved this relative was indeed in the distant future.  He knew what fortunes, and misfortunes, lay ahead for Earth.  Fortunes and misfortunes grandfather would have had no way of knowing would take place in 1920.

            In the trunk were photographs.  Not photographs of whatever place and in whatever time Geoffery Clarke was in. But photographs of Earth. Three dimensional photographs!  A photographic technique only now in experimental stages of development in my time! Earth orbit photographs.  Lunar photographs showing the back side of the moon. Photographs of what seemed to be a thriving metropolis on Mars!  And there are photographs of objects; objects like automobiles.  Automobiles built in the 1980s. Automobiles built in 2050.  Photographs grandfather held in this trunk, in the attic of his house, since 1920!

            How did this trunk get to Florida?  How could a distant ancestor of mine find himself whisked away from Earth, in his own time period, and unceremoniously dumped onto a distant world in a distant future?  How could this distant relative send this trunk, and the evidence to prove this was no hoax, back through Time?

            Of course, perhaps, part of the answer lies in the Bermuda Triangle.  It is only a few hundred miles to the southeast of where my grandfather lived in 1920.  Oddly enough, in 1610 it is the place where my distant namesake apparently was whisked away from his home world by a strange power.  But how?  Who?  And the most intriguing question of all—Why? Why was this strange power trying to communicate to me in 1920?  Even my father had not been born in 1920. So how did Geoffery Clarke know he would eventually communicate with me over this vast distance?

            There are far more questions than there are answers.  I have no answers other than what Geoffery Clarke offers in his many manuscripts.  But the questions are so enticing, and the adventures my distant relative had so wondrous,  I felt compelled to have them published.

            I leave to the reader whatever judgments they wish to take.  All I do is faithfully record what my distant relative put down in his own handwriting.  There are a dozen or so manuscripts in the trunk and my plans are to have them published one at a time.  Perhaps in time an answer will be found.  Answers which will explain the whys and hows of this perplexing phenomenon.  But for now, all one can do is read . And believe.

                                                                                    Geoffery Clarke/2008.

                                                                                   

The Next Literary Giant?

It could be that Stuart Ayris might become one of those literary writers students thirty years from now will have to read in literature classes as required reading.

No, I'm not kidding. 

Listening and reading comments from those who have read Stuart's works basically have said the same thing.  They all have been impressed with the way the words flowing across the page evokes powerful emotion.  That, Pilgrim, is the mark of a talented writer.

Stuart is into writing true literature;  that is, he paints the human heart in words.  The frailties.  The irony.  The hopes.  The dreams.  The failures.  All the deep emotions that make up the human heart.  An Englishman who pulls from his life's experiences stories and snapshots of real life and sets them to words.  Literature, in its most classical definition.

So I thought about asking him some questions.  To be honest, his style, his choice of story telling, are not my gig.  I do not say that in any judgemental fashion and, in fact, admire his grace and style of word slinging.   But because we do differ in our choices I thought it'd be a kick to dig into his mind and see how he ticks.

Do genre writers (me) and writers of emotive literature (Stuart) have any similarities in the way we approach story telling?  Hmmm . . .

Let's find out. 

1. Stuart everyone who has reviewed your works that you're lyrical in your writing.  That you have a way with words that is almost poetic. Tell me, did this style of writing come natural or did you cultivate it in some mysterious fashion?

My first love, way before writing, was music – most particularly the songs of Bob Dylan. When you think of songs like Subterranean Homesick Blues, Desolation Row and Stuck Inside of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again you could read the words aloud and hear the music. There is a rhythm when certain words are put together that, when read aloud, gives you so much more than mere words can. And from there I read Jack Kerouac with his mad prose and his made up words and his absolute love of Jazz. When you read his stuff at his best it’s like listening to Duke Ellington or Charlie Parker – he riffs with words, he improvises and it is magnificent. With my first novel, A Cleansing of Souls, I just didn't have the confidence to do anything other than put one word after another. With Tollesbury Time Forever, well, I guess I was at a stage of my life where I had nothing to lose. So I wrote a book that I would love, that riffed and moved up and down and in and out like music does. There's made-up words a-plenty and there are musical references that make me smile, even if no-one else discovers them. And within the novel there is a two-act play, several poems, a song and a two hundred year old recipe for boiled rabbit.

When I type I like to think I'm playing piano in a band – sometimes that's a blues band, sometimes a rock and roll band, and sometimes I'm an old jazz man covered in cocaine. Depends where the mood takes me I guess.

So getting back to the question – did my style of writing come naturally? I suppose it is the product of the wayward, disorganised, ever-hopeful, life I have led. And that's ok.

 2.  The other striking feature of your writing is how close the professional life other than the writing of novels has seriously impressed upon your memory emotions, events, and stories.  For someone who prefers to write a more literary novel,  this must be a prerequisite.  Yes or no? 

I seriously believe I know no more about how people behave or how people should be treated having been a psychiatric nurse for almost fifteen years than I did as a 21 year old road sweeper. I know more about medication and mental health legislation but that's about it. I've spent six years managing an acute admission ward and three years managing a community mental health team – that doesn't mean I know more about people. It's just I perhaps have been exposed to experiences that otherwise may have passed me by.

In terms of the more literary novel, that is not what I have ever set out to write. I have an absolute belief that creativity is a process of remembering and recording, whether that be novels, music, paintings or any other art. When I get in a certain frame of mind I'm able to remember sequences of words that I write down and when I really get moving and grooving and the wine is flowing and the whisky flourishes I'm able to remember whole chapters that somehow form a novel. That's just how it is.

 3.  What is it about the written word, and the kind of stories you like to tell, which is so important to you?  The desire to be a writer, has this always been with you or did it come  into being in a surprising manner?

English was about the only thing I liked about school – other than football and cricket. My ultimate desire is for people to live in peace, with themselves and others. My first novel was me trying to work out how that is even possible, my second about how I personally was going to do that and the one I'm writing at the moment is about how others might do it. Changing the world is not such a grand ambition. Keeps me out of the pub once in a while anyway!

4. Tollesbury Times Forever is about an alcoholic who is mentally ill.  How did this story come about, and more interestingly, what compelled you to write it?  Is it a tale of hope and possibilities?  Or is it quiet ride into psychotic oblivion?

It is most definitely a novel about hope and possibilities. Working in psychiatry for so long I have come to a fundamental understanding that I do not believe there is such a thing as mental illness. I do not believe in medication or hospital or anything at all about the system. Tollesbury Time Forever is just about life and trying to get through it. The quiet rides are the psychotic oblivion – the handy dandy wonders are where life is really at. And if that includes seeing things nobody else can see or hearing things that nobody else can hear, then fantastic – if it helps you feel better about yourself – fantastic! If not, then it is love and friendship that you need – not medication and being locked up.

Why did I write Tollesbury Time Forever? It was just a natural progression from the thoughts and rememberings in my mind. Partly it was to make sense to myself about the conclusions I had come to and partly to give myself hope.

5.  It seems from my studies in college many great 'literary' novels ultimately turned out to be great novels which left the lasting impressions of tragedy and hopelessness.  For readers who might pick up your works, are these two emotions which will greet them and carry on after the book is read?  Or, in the end, will there also be some hope and optimism expressed as well?

I don't believe you need to have something terrible happen to you to experience an enlightenment and I don't believe hopelessness is ever positive. I agree with your point about great books bringing forth emotions but those emotions must, absolutely must, lead you to put down the book you have just finished and leave you tingling, leave you knowing with great certainty that you can make the life of a total stranger better. The Grapes of Wrath, A Prayer For Owen Meany and The Dharma Bums are three books that did that for me. There are reasons that books have been around for thousands of years. The human experience is dependant upon them just as it is beholden upon all of us to make this world a finer place. So yes – HOPE. And yes – OPTIMISM. But the major thing for those two wonderful paradigms to sustain is FORGIVENESS. And I guess that is what Tollesbury Time Forever is all about.

6.  You have a brother, Ian Ayris, who is a writer as well.  Tell us, any rivalries there between you and your brother when dealing with your literary efforts?  I know Ian writes in a different genre but his work too seems to leave a lasting impression of  quite sadness and hopelessness  (I know I said this and it sounds judgmental--but I'm not indicating that in any way--just wanted you both to know);  so this question is this--what forces in your youths helped to mold your worldly visions in this way?

No rivalry at all! I think it is wonderful what he has achieved. We have, from a fairly early age, led very different lives – and as I alluded to earlier your experiences will undoubtedly have an impact on your rememberings and your writings and your stories. I think the main thing that has led us to having writing in common is the fact that our mum and dad are wonderful. Simple as that really!

 7.  How do you define literary success?  Money?  Fame?  A fan base?  What do you hope your novels and stories will eventually accomplish?  Or are you, after the story has been written, interested in what happens next?

Ultimately I want to write full time. It is the only non-destructive thing that comes naturally to me. Success? That's one person reading one of my books and maybe thinking that in some way life has a bit more to it than they first imagined. As a psychiatric nurse I have spent years being paid to give people hope. Nobody should get paid for that, me included – that's why I want to get out of the whole nursing things as soon as I can afford to.

8.  Tell us what's coming up next for you.  What are you writing?  How many stories are waiting in queue?   What would you like to write?  And have you ever thought about trying a different genre to write in?

I'm almost 60,000 words into the first draft of my next novel – The Bird That Nobody Sees and I'm loving it. It's about friendship and angels and midgets and paintballing and pool competitions and, of course, a bird that nobody sees. When I wrote Tollesbury Time Forever I had no idea that anyone would read it. There are now 54 five star reviews on Amazon UK. That fact though doesn't change anything. I write what comes into my head – although I do now have the confidence and belief that those words have merit.

I'm almost 60,000 words into the first draft of my next novel – The Bird That Nobody Sees and I'm loving it. It's about friendship and angels and midgets and paintballing and pool competitions and, of course, a bird that nobody sees. When I wrote Tollesbury Time Forever I had no idea that anyone would read it. There are now 54 five star reviews on Amazon UK. That fact though doesn't change anything. I write what comes into my head – although I do now have the confidence and belief that those words have merit.

Today we're interviewing Mark Gilroy.  Author, publisher, and interesting.  Interesting in the fact Mark knows about the publishing world now than any of the rest of us will come to understand in the next one hundred years.

There's a reason for this.

Before Mark became an accomplished author he sat on the OTHER side of the desk.  He was a vice-president in a couple of the largest traditional print houses in the the country.  He was the guy who SIGNED fledgling authors on the dotted line. He ran the company.  He created promotional campaigns.  He was The Man In Charge.

What's fascinating to consider is that Mark started out in the business working in the stockroom and wound up sitting at the head of the table in the boardroom.

Huh, apparently it is true.  Hard work, determination, and a will to succeed DOES pay off.

Now he stands on the other side of the parking lot.  He's an author of a new detective/mystery series featuring his female police detective, Kristen Connors.  The first book is called Cuts Like A Knife.  And I'm going to read it pretty damn soon.

But there's something else about Mark I find intriguing.  His idea of putting a mystical/spirituality into the basic personality weave of a character.  I like that.  He got the idea from one of my most cherished authors; a guy by the name of Tony Hillerman.  Hillerman's Jim Chee novels featuring Navajo police officer Jim Chee are fascinating.  Navajo mysticism flows through these books with a quiet fascination.   I understand, therefore, Mark's interest in this idea.

An interesting man with some interesting comments and ideas.  I know you're going to like this interview.




Cuts Like A Knife



o                                                        1. Mark, you've been in the publishing business for decades. Starting in the garage loading trucks to becoming vice-presidents of well known publishing houses. Tell me, how does a kid going to divinity school wind up in a place like this? And a follow up question; what keeps you in this business?

Growing up I was an avid reader—my mom even said I was smart—but I was not always a good student. The second semester of my sophomore year of college I decided to add a second major—Speech Communications with a Journalism emphasis. The next fall I began internship as a sports stringer at a small community newspaper. I would sit at the editor’s desk on Friday nights and take calls from high school football coaches. I would write 10 to 15 short stories that made it sound like I had been at each game. That began my official paid career in publishing. They liked my work enough that I had my own byline before I left college. I think it was a personal turning point for me as. Writing about something I loved—in this case football and then the other sports throughout the year—seemed to open up my ability to think and express myself more clearly in all my course work. I began freelancing while in grad school and I woke up one day working in the proof room of a publishing house—with packing some boxes on heavy order days. From there I moved into editorial, then marketing, then management of publishing divisions.

2. Compare and contrast question: you've been on both sides of the desk. For years as a book publisher, editor, acquisitions manager--and now as a successful author. Of the two sides mentioned, which do you prefer? The one finding the talent and marketing it? Or the talent needing to be marketed?

That’s a great question. One thing I’ve never been able to figure out is if my role in publishing was to help talented people put their best work into the marketplace—or to try and be a talent. Obviously my work as a publisher for three companies indicate that I have thoroughly enjoyed the former, helping others—and it has paid the bills. But throughout my career I have compiled and written enough books that I knew I wanted to do more to express what was on my mind. So to answer your question, the answer is yes and both! I like both sides of the table very much. Right now, having written my debut novel, I’m probably having more fun as a writer at the moment.

3. I'm very curious about this. You are a religious man. A man of faith. So how does a man of faith find himself attracted to what others might describe as the 'dark side' of detective/mystery literature? What is it about this genre you find unable to resist?

I have always enjoyed murder and suspense thrillers, I’m sure in part just as pure escapist entertainment. The first time I ever really connected the dots between faith and this genre was when I started reading Tony Hillerman’s wonderful Jim Chee novels. His hero was a detective on the Navajo Reservation and a man of introspection and simple faith. When I started writing Cuts Like a Knife I had no thought about writing a religious fiction novel—and I would argue that it isn’t. I wanted to do a great general market novel that would wow readers who like suspense. But my hero, Detective Kristen Conner, is a person of introspection and simple faith. That does connect to my background and life—but you can also say that was inspired by the incredible work of Hillerman. I loved the review that USA TODAY gave of the novel. In the last sentence the reviewer called it: “An intense, eerie, funny, and suspenseful thriller with a very subtle faith thread that enriches rather than suffocates it.” I’ll take that as a compliment.

4. While we're on the discussion about the genre we both dearly love, tell me; what makes, for you, a great mystery/detective yarn? What kind of main character do you find compelling? Do they have to be male or female? Same question as the last, but this time aimed toward the villain. A real nasty one? An intellectual one?

You’ve got Smiddy and can answer this question better than I can I bet! I’ve been asked several times if I outlined Cuts Like a Knife. My answer has been no. I came up with a lead character I really like—and a villain who is very bad in an understated way. Those two wrote the rest for me! I have favorite literary characters that are both male and female, but I do like self-reflection and some emotional depth. Ditto with the villains. I don’t like cartoonish characters. So I guess on both sides of good and evil I like some psychological depth and tension. One of the responses I’ve had from readers is that my killer—a true psychopath—is so calm, cool, and collected—even logical in his own way—that they have found him to be scarier than a ranting and raving lunatic. Like the opening scene, this guy really could be sitting next to you at a ball game.

5. What is your opinion on what makes for a successful writer of genre fiction? How much talent is needed versus how much luck comes in to play. Can talent alone eventually bring you success? Or is luck the more dominate factor in finding success.

I’ve been on the business side of publishing so long that I recognize exceptional cases happen, but realize you can’t plan and manage based on exceptions. By definition exceptions don’t happen very often. So, luck is always possible. Talent without promotion sometimes hits too. But generally speaking in world where there is more supply than demand, it takes all of the above: writing talent, a great marketing plan with execution, and more often than not, a couple strokes of luck.

6. As a traditional publisher what is your take on the rise of epublishing? Will one destroy the other or will a day come along which sees both publishing methods find a mutually satisfactory equilibrium? And which of the two do you think will be the most lucrative for the author?

This is a tough question that can be answered a lot of ways. First, I’d state I am platform neutral and don’t care if people like ink and paper or an electronic device to consume books. In terms of what is best for the author … A traditional publishing model pays you royalties. A self-published e-book model pays you profits. The former has a marketing and sales team to support you, in the latter it is all up to you—but access to sales channels is available for all. But to state the obvious, neither pays much if the work doesn’t sell! I obviously elected to sell my novel to a publisher under traditional publishing terms so it might seem I favor that model. But I watch the self-publish e-book model with keen interest as well. For fiction, the common denominator for success in either model goes back to the issues of talent and marketing you mentioned earlier. Neither model works without the author highly involved in both. I have been amazed at the quality of fiction from self-published authors, but something I’ve noticed—and others have noticed as well—because of the success of some trailblazers, there are other writers throwing some inferior work at the wall. By inferior I would stress they have not submitted to the disciplines of peer review, rewrites, and basic editorial process like proofing! They might be even better at marketing so when readers sample the indie world and discover the quality to not be there, it hurts the ones doing it right.

7. In writing a continuing series with an on going character how hard is it in keeping the series fresh and exciting? Is there, in your opinion, a natural life span a series exists and when do you know when it must come to an end?

I just finished the manuscript for the second Detective Kristen Conner novel—Every Breath You Take. So it wasn’t hard at all to keep fresh. You need to ask me that same question when I am working on number four or five—I think I’ve got a real good idea to pursue for number three! In my opening novel Kristen turns 30. I’ve wondered if 10 books and her turning 40 would be a good number for the series—I think and hope I could keep 10 books fresh. But keep in mind Robert Parker has written close to 40 Spenser novels—he’s still with Susan, he still scarfs donuts without putting on weight, we still don’t know his first name, and he still catches the bad guys. So maybe 10 isn’t ambitious enough?

8. Tell us about your character, Kristen Connors. How did she come into existence? Why a female protagonist? How many books are you planning on writing with her? And what are you writing on now?

As the father of six kids—three sons and three daughters—I think I’ve experienced enough drama to write a male or female lead character. If my wife and daughters read this I could be in trouble, but there has been more drama from the females than the males—so when I wrote a family-centered character that loves her family but fights with them constantly, it was easy to go with a female lead. My publisher asked how I could write female interaction and dialog so well. I just said look at the gray in my beard and you’ll know. Seriously, the family interaction has been one of the fun ways to intersperse humor into a storyline with a serial killer. Kristen is strong, independent with a bit of a temper problem—so she is a graceful mess. She studies krav maga and other hand-to-hand combat disciplines but is pissed she can’t shoot a handgun straight. She’s beautiful and doesn’t know it. She coaches her niece’s soccer team—she played at Northern Illinois University—but with her temper even that gets her into hot water. She loves God but fights with Him too. And I won’t even mention she isn’t getting along with the head of detectives. So she’s a very delightful young lady with plenty of flaws. I am just beginning to sketch ideas for novel three and will start rolling on it soon! How many books? I’ll let the audience tell me!

Torn and Confused

I'm torn.  Confused.  Irritated.  A little bit pissed off.

The other day I was digging through the pile of manuscripts gathering dust in some semi-forgotten file on my hard drive and I came across a novel I wrote back in the 70's.  A sci-fi novel that starts out pure  adventure but gets soon into some deep doodoo when it comes to speculative science-fiction.

I wrote this in the hopes of starting a series thru the auspices of a well know sci-fi publisher whom I won't name.  With that in mind I decided to write a prologue to the story that would absolutely guarantee the reader and/or an editor to find himself falling into a chasm and not being able to claw himself out until the book was done.

Huh.  Obviously that didn't happen.  The series was not picked up.  But rediscovering it and going over the prologue again and I found myself thinking,  'Why the hell NOT!  Why didn't the publisher snap this up--especially when yo consider the horseshit for science fiction that's been coming out lately.'

So you tell me.  Below is the entire prologue to "A Princes of the Misty Isles."  Ya gotta clue as to what failed to perk their interest, let me know.  I think this dog needs to be let out so it can bark a while.  I hope you'll agree with me.

PROLOGUE

It all began with my grandfather. Jeffery Arnold Clarke, my grandfather, died in 1989. At the time of his death he was 99 years old. He had been in his lifetime a cowboy, a police officer, a soldier of fortune and a private detective. He fought both alongside, and later against, Poncho Villa in Mexico. He smuggled guns for Chinese resistance fighters who were fighting Japanese occupation of their homeland prior to World War II. Before that he fought all of World War I flying extremely fragile fighter planes made of nothing but canvas, wire, and wood. And survived. When he died, he died old and proud and much loved by all those who knew him.

I was his favorite of all his grand children. He often said to me, as I grew to manhood, he had a special gift which he wanted me to have upon his death. I thought nothing of it for most of my life. That 'special gift' had already been given to me over and over again by this old gentleman I loved so much. But when he died, to my surprise, I did receive a special gift.

Among his possessions had been an old steamer trunk in which I remember playing on as a kid while it sat in the dark, dust-filled attic of grandfather's house. No one in the family took particular interest in this steamer trunk. Grandfather had told us often that nothing was in it except his old World War I uniforms and a few old photo albums. Nevertheless it was that old steamer trunk which he promised me. It was that steamer trunk that I wanted most from him.

I was pleased to hear that the old steamer trunk had been bequeathed to me in his will. It arrived at my house one cold and wet November day by special courier and I took possession of something which eventually came to own my soul with an all-consuming power.

One day in December, not long after the trunk was delivered, I decided to open it and rummage through my family's past. True enough, upon opening the trunk I found my grandfather's World War I uniform. He served in the Royal Flying Corps, which eventually became the Royal Air Force, in the Great War. He was one of the few survivors who joined in 1914 and lived to tell about it at war's end. He was an ace with fourteen confirmed kills and had, among other things, the distinction of being shot down twice by none other than Baron Manfred von Richthofen.

But the manuscripts underneath grandfather's uniform were the articles which consumed me. There, tied in neat bundles of six manuscripts apiece, were dusty pages of history which can only be described as being too incredible to believe.

Did I say history? Well—yes and no. Not history as you or I know it. But history, and revelations, only a prophet or a insane man might write. I cannot accurately describe accurately what these manuscripts say. One must read them in their entirety to truly understand both the fascination and the dread I feel whenever I think of them. But let me generalize, if I can, what these ancient and crumbling papers purport to say.

On one bright morning in 1920 my grandfather was walking on an empty stretch of Florida coastline just south of St Petersburg, Florida. He had been discharged from the RAF only a few weeks before and had taken up residence in the small Florida community he was to call home for the rest of his life. The doctors suggested recuperation in the Florida clime might be the best prescription for a return to health. Grandfather's health had been severely compromised while serving in the RAF in some official capacity while in Russia in 1919. It was a time in his life he would never talk about whenever I asked him about it. I got the impression it was still, after so many years had passed by, a source of intense emotion for him. Respecting his wishes I never approached the subject again.

But on this sunny, but somewhat lonely, Sunday morning was taking his usual stroll down the beach watching the ocean waves roll lazily onto the sands and enjoying the many sea gulls which seemed to equally enjoy strolling with him in the early morning light.

As he walked he discovered this old steamer trunk. The trunk I now possess. It was half buried in the sand. To say the least, my grandfather was quite perplexed at finding this artifact on this particular beach at this particular time of the day. It was, as grandfather's own handwriting says in the many diaries he left for me to read, both an exciting and fearful discovery. At first he thought he might have come across some old pirate's treasure chest filled with Spanish doubloons and stolen Aztec gold. But then it occurred to him that it was possibly only flotsam left from a recent ship's sinking in the gulf. Kneeling, grandfather became curious as he observed the blackened and scorched markings he found on the exterior of the trunk. He pried open the trunk's lid and lifted it to see what was inside. What he found was enough gold and jewels to instantly make himself a multi-millionaire! But more than that, he found the bundles of manuscripts and the long, rambling letter from a long-forgotten ancestor by the name of Geoffery Clarke. The letter was addressed to Geoffery Armstrong Clarke.
 

The letter was addressed to me, a distant cousin to this Geoffery Clarke. Incredibly a letter addressed to me almost 400 years prior to my birth!

My name is Geoffery Armstrong Clarke. Geoffery Clarke is my great-grandfather, ten generations removed. This distant relative, who was born in 1588, communicated through Time using my grandfather as the intermediary! I was born in 1968. But this Geoffery Clarke had written to me, and mistaken my grandfather as me, back in 1920!

To be confronted by the ramifications of this experience is devastating to one's sense of reality. It was with a disorienting sense of deja vu I had when I read my grandfather's diary, and later, the manuscripts.

At first my grandfather believed someone was playing on him a massive and cruel joke. But the gold and jewels were genuine and priceless and no one came to claim them. Grandfather hauled the heavy trunk back to his house and over the years quietly began to exchange gold for currency. Our family fortunes were made with his serendipitous finding. However, it was the other pieces of evidence included in the trunk which finally made grandfather realize a relative of ours had mistakenly believed he was communicating with Geoffery Armstrong Clarke—me—by sending the trunk through Time by some incredulous means.

Confusing to comprehend? Not as confusing as the full impact of what waited for me in that dusty steamer trunk. As I read both my grandfather's diaries and the manuscripts themselves, a sense of vertigo gripped my soul. For weeks after making the initial discovery I moped around the house trying to comprehend what was taking place. I admit there were times I thought I would go insane. For the more I read my ancestor’s adventures, the more I became confused.

Geoffery Clarke was not communicating with me from the past. They came from the future. The distant future, and more amazingly, from a distant planet. Amidst the hundreds of pages of handwritten manuscripts were pieces of evidence which irrefutably proved this relative was indeed in the distant future. He knew what fortunes, and misfortunes, lay ahead for Earth. Fortunes and misfortunes grandfather would have had no way of knowing would take place in 1920.

In the trunk were photographs. Not photographs of whatever place and in whatever time Geoffery Clarke was in. But photographs of Earth. Three dimensional photographs! A photographic technique only now in experimental stages of development in my time! Earth orbit photographs. Lunar photographs showing the back side of the moon. Photographs of what seemed to be a thriving metropolis on Mars! And there are photographs of objects; objects like automobiles. Automobiles built in the 1980s. Automobiles built in 2050. Photographs grandfather held in this trunk, in the attic of his house, since 1920!

How did this trunk get to Florida? How could a distant ancestor of mine find himself whisked away from Earth, in his own time period, and unceremoniously dumped onto a distant world in a distant future? How could this distant relative send this trunk, and the evidence to prove this was no hoax, back through Time?

Of course, perhaps, part of the answer lies in the Bermuda Triangle. It is only a few hundred miles to the southeast of where my grandfather lived in 1920. Oddly enough, in 1610 it is the place where my distant namesake apparently was whisked away from his home world by a strange power. But how? Who? And the most intriguing question of all—Why? Why was this strange power trying to communicate to me in 1920? Even my father had not been born in 1920. So how did Geoffery Clarke know he would eventually communicate with me over this vast distance?

There are far more questions than there are answers. I have no answers other than what Geoffery Clarke offers in his many manuscripts. But the questions are so enticing, and the adventures my distant relative had so wondrous, I felt compelled to have them published.

I leave to the reader whatever judgments they wish to take. All I do is faithfully record what my distant relative put down in his own handwriting. There are a dozen or so manuscripts in the trunk and my plans are to have them published one at a time. Perhaps in time an answer will be found. Answers which will explain the whys and hows of this perplexing phenomenon. But for now, all one can do is read . And believe.