It’s amazing how much work is involved in this writing gig. Especially since the tax people consider it a “hobby” if you’re not actually making money from it. If all a writer did was write the next story, we could spend several hours a day on it. But writing the next story is only part of the picture. If I was posting it as a job opening, the list of tasks would look something like this:

Daily or several times a week:
Read and critique the work of other writers
Write blog post
Read blogs of other writers and customers (or prospective customers)
Leave comments on as many blogs as possible
Read and comment on other social media: Facebook, Twitter, Google+, etc. Share and retweet as needed
Visit and post to online forums, workshops, and professional organizations
Read, reply to, and organize email
Write guest posts or interview for other blogs
Interview other writers and help plug their books
Write your own book

Other tasks to be done as needed:
Attend conventions and conferences, appear at book readings/signings
Meet with writer groups for critiquing sessions or workshops
Research for your book
Revise your book and proofread, proofread, proofread!

For the independent author:
Create book covers, format and layout of manuscript (or interview others to do the job)
Interview editors
Search out and purchase ad spots, create ads (or interview others to do the job)

I’m sure there’s more, but you get the point. And all of this is without benefit of a paycheck.  Royalties are few and far between, at least for the new author.

So to all my writer friends, believe me, I know why you haven’t gotten around to reviewing my book. I hope you have the same understanding about me.

Do you know that even 24 hours away from computer leaves me with hundreds of emails/tweets/FB posts/blog posts to catch up on? I wish I really was this popular.

Removing the doula hat, and donning the author hat: May I humbly beg my readers for reviews of Shipbuilder and/or The Farm? I know I am asking for your time, and believe me, I understand you don’t have much of it to give. But if you can, I would greatly appreciate it, either on Amazon, Smashwords, Goodreads, your own blog, or wherever else you post reviews.

If you have avoided leaving a review because you don’t want to say anything bad… I understand that, too. But I truly believe that a reviewer’s opinion is sacrosanct, so I will not say a word about it. If it’s so bad, you just can’t post anything, I beg you: send me a private note about it through the contact page. I want to improve as a writer.

Ready.

Being ready means I’m having trouble concentrating on anything else. I don’t know why it affects me this way, but it does. Perhaps it’s because of last night’s poor sleep. In general, I’m sleeping much better than I have in years, but once in a while, a bad night still raises its head, forcing my head from the pillow.

For news on the “you-don’t-say” front, I wore high heels last night. I have friends who spit their coffee out at that and immediately took it to the gutter. We’ll pause a moment for them to clean up and calm down…

All righty, then. My POINT, is that a few months ago, I had reason to think I would never wear nice shoes again. That I would spend the rest of my life wearing clumpy old-lady shoes, meaning no disrespect to old ladies, of course.  Or their footwear. I completely understand why they have to wear such shoes. I’ll be perfectly willing to wear them when I’m ninety or so, too. I’ll even wear them now if, when I need to, I can wear the Other Kind.

Like Valentine’s Day dinner. We went out to dinner, I wore a dress, and my fancy black high heels with the shimmering stars on them. I was even able to walk in them, without pain.

And THEN… and then I changed the heels for a pair of lower heeled shoes (but still not those orthopedic clunkers) and I went to dance class. I danced for an hour in normal shoes. My right foot hurt a little bit, but not any more than usual.

I can only say this means that the acupuncture has done wonders, and I am very, very grateful. I will wear the clunkers when I go to the hospital, as I will probably be on my feet the whole time I’m there. This may cause a setback, but I’m prepared for that.

For now, I wait for the call, with my doula hat on and excitement drumming through my veins. I love helping a woman through her labor. Even if my feet hurt.

Because it is almost Valentine’s Day, Marlene asked me to talk about love and character in hard SF, because these are not aspects traditionally associated with the genre.

People often accuse hard SF of being devoid of character. The writers, they say, are more interested in showing off technology than in investing in their characters. Often, they’re probably right, because one important point of hard SF is to show off the technology or science. It simply comes with the genre and has its own audience. Readers expect the tech or scientific explanations. That’s why they buy it. Hard SF without tech or science is like erotica without the sex.

That said, I dispute the notion that hard SF is by its nature devoid of character. It is not and it does not need to be. But it is true that a lot of hard SF is about the process and the science rather than the people. I’m thinking of grand epics like Kim Stanley Robinson’s Mars trilogy, which has many characters and too many character threads to follow anyone in particular. As a result, the books are about the process of colonising Mars, and use the character to illustrate that, rather than the other way around. Those books have a similar feel to large epic fantasies, say Lord of the Rings. In both books, we see snippets of interesting characterisation, but the books aren’t solely about the characters, so we spend too little time with many of them to become emotionally invested. Similarly, character suffers in all books where another aspect, rather than a personal problem, takes centre stage, whether that be technology, history or grand battles, racing cars or crime-solving. Yes, a lot of these books, especially crime, manage to squeeze a lot of character in.

The fault of creating the disconnect between reader and character lies not with the technology, or the historic facts, or the grand battles, but with the POV chosen for the novel. In hard SF, as well as in epic fantasy or historic fiction, we’ll often see almost-omniscient multi-POV tales, where the POV shifts sometimes for no reason other than to show off something, and sometimes even jumps to a character who has no other scenes in the book. In my view, that’s simply lazy writing. It’s easier to show off large schemes if you have a couple of viewpoints to describe it. But it’s not real life, where we are limited to one viewpoint. Every time a novel adds a POV character, it takes a further step away from the readers’ connection with the characters.

In novels within hard SF or epic fantasy that restrict POV, you immediately get a very different feel. In Stephen Baxter’s Titan, I was impressed not just with the tech detail, but with the POV immersion in one of the characters, the middle-aged astronaut Paula. I’m terrible at remembering character names of novels I’ve read, and just the fact that I remember this one is telling. While reading, I got the feeling that I understood what it would be like to be locked in a tin can with six others for years, what it was like having to decide whether to give a crew member irreplaceable medicine while she was going to die anyway, and what it was like being on an intensely cold world with no hope of rescue. In fantasy, I was similarly impressed with Joe Abercrombie. Close-ness to the POV often means that the story becomes less vanilla and more gritty. The characters worry not just about the evil overlord, but also about frozen feet or whether or not an ill-advised jump in the sack may have led to pregnancy, and the implications.

This is something the romance and chick-lit genres understand intuitively. They are about feelings, and therefore feelings get a lot of word-space, by which time there is no room left for extra characters. Romance and chick-lit novels rarely have a large cast of POV characters (more than two being many in this case). Many are written in first person. Love is magnificent to write in first person or third limited. Love is tension. Jumping to the love interest’s POV and showing that he/she does/doesn’t reciprocate feelings reduces the tension created by a primary character falling in love. For “love” substitute anything the character feels passionate about.

When planning a novel, every time you add a POV character, it means you have less word-space for the feelings and immediate experiences of your primary character. It is a style choice that is independent of genre.

Bio:

Patty Jansen lives in Sydney, Australia, where she spends most of her time writing hard SF, space opera and hybrid fantasy. She publishes in both traditional and indie venues. Her story This Peaceful State of War placed first in the second quarter of the Writers of the Future contest and was published in their 27^th anthology. Her story Survival in Shade of Orange will be published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact.

Her novels (available at ebook venues) include Watcher’s Web (soft SF), The Far Horizon (middle grade SF),Charlotte’s Army (military SF) and books 1 and 2 of the Icefire Trilogy Fire & Ice (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005TF1B9K) and Dust & Rain (epic post-apocalyptic steampunk fantasy).

Patty is on Twitter (@pattyjansen), Facebook, LinkedIn, goodreads, LibraryThing, google+ and blogs at:http://pattyjansen.com/

What she says. I’d say it, but I’m a little rushed, and she’s already said it. You go, girl.

This is a good topic for discussion. I have to admit, every time I post a review, I am mindful of my own stories and my own shortcomings. Any author deserves a respectful review, even if you hated the book.

Which brings up a point I’ve been wondering about. In trying to support other authors, I’ve read some books that are not in my preferred reading genres. The books were truly fine, but I didn’t enjoy them because I don’t like that kind of book. So what do I do? The author is expecting (sort of) that I’ll post a review. Do I just say, “good book, good writing,” and avoid specifics? Does it come across as damning with faint praise?

In the 25th century, the human race is scattered throughout the galaxy’s Sagittarius Arm. But no matter where people go, they always remain human…

Amy Longfellow, and her eleven-year-old daughter, Elaine, have just joined the crew of the hollow-asteroid ship, Rachel Carson. For both of them, it’s a chance to leave heartache behind, and for Amy, a chance to rekindle an old love. But as the ancient holiday of Christmas approaches, Elaine must face her deepest sorrows alone – and learn how to make the best part of her old life part of the new.

Donna Schulze of Oakdale, New York

Congratulations, Donna! And thank you to all for entering.

Below is another cut scene from the first draft of The Time Travel Journals: Shipbuilder. This Austen-esque scene is one of my favorites. I was sorry to see it go, but it did not further the plot at all. Still, it shows a side to Thomas Andrews that I never had space to explore in the book. This one is called:

Tom Entertains

The lights in Ardara House shimmered through the early gloom as Tom drove over the rhododendron-lined lane after a disappointing loss in the last cricket game of the season. The moon was supposed to be full when it rose later, but would remain behind clouds tonight, and as Tom climbed out of the car, he paused to watch the tree tops wave against the blowing clouds. A good autumn storm for the weekend. Disappointing for some, but Tom secretly enjoyed storms at Ardara. The occasion would bring back memories of lying snug in bed while the elements did their best to tear down the huge, ivy-covered stone house.

The moment he opened the door, he was assailed by a piano, a barking dog, running feet and childish laughter, all coming from various rooms. Nephews, nieces, cousins—they all came as often as possible, to play in the fields and fish in the river, pick flowers, help in the garden and pester Cook. Not so often in cool weather, though, when most activities had to be kept indoors. Tonight’s houseful of children was a treat, although he expected the Law (in the form of his mother) to descend shortly, instilling calm with a disapproving brow. The children usually stayed calm for about fifteen minutes before forgetting again, but that was part of the fun.

His arrival was noticed almost as soon as he came in the door. The piano was immediately stilled, but all other noise increased exponentially, as cries of “Uncle Tommy,” “Cousin Tommy,” caused him to brace himself against the onslaught of children and dogs. There was much hugging, petting, and swinging through the air as he greeted them all, his great laugh encouraging them to louder antics in their efforts to be the first to tell him something, anything.

There were no less than four children perched on his back, arms, and head when his mother and sister descended the staircase, scattered the brood, and planted kisses on his cheeks. Various parents put in appearances to help quiet the children, and soon everyone was in the parlor and they all set about the urgent task of catching up with each other.

Home. His favorite place in the world. True, often during dinner, he had to endure the torture of the family’s half-teasing, half-serious attempts to decide on a wife for him or ply him with suggestions for winning a particular girl. This happened fairly often, although he frequently insisted his younger brothers get equal time. Since Willie was not yet 20, and James was dividing his law practice between Dublin and Belfast, they simply ignored his request, never missing a beat in their discussion. The best solution was to stay jolly about it, join in the laughter or groan when expected, and eventually, they would tire of the game. His mother, perhaps out of empathy, seldom joined in these discussions, but when it came down to it, she was the one Tom had to keep his eye on. She knew everyone, including all the young girls who would be coming out in the next few years and would no doubt pick one of them, if Tom didn’t make his own choice at some unspecified point. Tom valued her judgment and if it came to it, he would probably marry whomever she picked. But he still hoped for love to find him and had expressed this desire to his mother, who simply bided her time in silence.

Most of the troupe scattered to their homes after dinner, although several children claimed right to spend the night with Uncle/Cousin Tommy. Tom kept it to two and they drew straws to decide. His sister was the recipient of two elated female cousins, who promised solemnly to discuss hairstyles and hats for her upcoming wedding. This gave Tom and the boys plenty to do, since it was a very serious and elaborate business to annoy girls who were discussing wedding affairs. Tom brought them over to a corner and amidst much snickering and whispers, they made plans for their attack. The girls bravely ignored them, as Nina put the younger girls’ hair up in experimental styles while they flipped through magazines to look for appropriate hats.

Shortly after the senior Andrews’ had retired for the evening, Tom and the boys were ready with their plan. Leaving little Jack to guard the girls in case they decided to make a run for it, Tom and Billy went in search of materials, in this case, shawls and the ugliest hats they could find. Stashing their loot by the stair, they beckoned Jack to them and set about getting ready. Nina and the girls rolled their eyes at each other, as they continued to ignore (or tried to) the guffaws and antics reaching them from the hall.

Soon, Tom sashayed in, wrapped in his mother’s old shawl and a flowered and feathered “hat” that would have done Queen Victoria proud. Nina bent down and whispered to her charges, “Whatever they do, just ignore them!” The girls nodded solemnly and tightened their lips. Already annoyed, Tom noted. Perfect.

Tom turned in a circle and in a high, lilting voice (a nearly perfect imitation of Great Aunt Daisy) declared, “I just don’t know, Billy. I don’t think I have enough hair to hold this hat right. What do you think?” He turned to pose, facing the girls, who were trying their hardest to obey Cousin Nina and ignore the boys.

Billy came in, his great-aunt’s shawl dragging behind and a beflowered bowler hat perched on his head. He examined Tom with a critical eye and shook his head emphatically, holding hat to head (and flowers to hat) with an unsteady hand. “No, no, Cousin Tommy. You’re not wearing it right. The bridesmaids won’t dare wear it like that. They all have far more hair than you do, anyway. Here, let me show you.” He gestured imperiously and Tom obediently knelt before him, although first sighing imploringly in the girls’ direction. Billy reached up both hands and made a great show of trying various angles and sides, adding feathers or flowers from a stash in his pocket, and in the end, very deliberately placing the hat exactly where it had started. All the while he kept up inane chatter about the bridesmaids and hats and weather and photographers and persnickety brides–so much so that Tom was hard put not to laugh out loud himself. The kid was good, but then, he had two sisters.

The girls stared hard at their magazines, not daring to look at each other as Nina calmly went on fixing their hair. Billy gazed another critical moment at his cousin, then declared his work perfect. Tom stood, beaming proudly and turned to the girls for approval. When he didn’t get it (their heads were all but buried in the magazines) he sat down beside them. “Oh, tell me what you think.” He turned his head and batted his eyelashes, as a giggle escaped little Alice. “Billy’s right, isn’t he? Now that it’s fixed, isn’t this hat perfect for the wedding?”

Poor Daisy was rocking back and forth in an effort to not look at her elder cousin. Billy suddenly snapped his fingers, causing both girls to jump and look up. “I almost forgot! I’ve got the absolute latest, most perfect hat for the bride!” He turned to the door. “Jack, come show us!”

Jack entered grandly, the lace tablecloth trailing behind like a bridal train, and on his head, was Cook’s favorite festival day hat. There wasn’t an Andrews child alive who had not grown up with the instruction to “follow that hat” when assigned to accompany Cook to the fair. Jack was lost beneath the odd-shaped fruit and flowers that stood three feet above the hat’s rim and trailed another three feet behind. The effect was hilarious enough, but suddenly Jack paused, and posing haughtily with one hand on his hip, stated, “Something must be done about my hair. It must hold the hat up! I’m the bride and they must be able to see my face!” Nina shrieked with laughter and Tom’s roaring laugh filled the room as Daisy and Alice giggled into their magazines. Completely upstaged, Billy bowed to the master as Jack slowly lifted a finger to push the hat’s rim up and peek out from under it.

Daisy reached over and grabbed the hat, placing it eagerly on her head. “I must try it with my new hairdo.”

“No, me!”Alice cried, reaching up to take it. A four-way struggle ensued as each child good-naturedly laid claim to the prize. After a moment, a barely recovered Tom reached in and rescued the hat, lifting it high above their reaching hands.

“Careful, me bunnies. Anything happens to this hat, do you have any idea how much trouble we’d be in?”

This brought solemn thought to each face as they all considered that and reluctantly decided it wasn’t worth it. Tom nodded in approval. “Exactly. In fact, I’d better get it back before Cook wakes up and discovers it’s gone.” He winked broadly at Nina, bade Jack bring the tablecloth, and they headed out.