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23 March 2014 @ 06:58 pm

Hello Everyone,

My short story "Aftergame," which appeared previously in the Summer 2006 issue of Aberrant Dreams, is now appearing in a game-themed short fiction anthology called Breaking the Rules, which is published by Boo Books, a small press publisher in Derby, England.  If you want, you can purchase the book here:

This is the second time someone has come to me requesting permission to publish a story of mine.  I like to think that says something about my talents as a writer.  :-)

Hope all is well.



I only saw this movie recently, but I’d heard of it back in 2001 when I was at the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer’s Workshop.  One of my fellow Clarionites was a speaker of Esperanto (a language artificially constructed in the 1800’s with the intent of bridging the gap between nations and cultures), so naturally this movie was of interest to him.  For you see, the dialogue in Incubus is entirely in Esperanto.

That’s not its only item of interest.  It also stars William Shatner, here seen a year before he became James Tiberius Kirk of Star Trek fame.  Of course, this leads to visions of Shatner overacting in the role of a libidinous womanizer, buuuuuuttt wellllll…

The story is well nigh fable-like in its simplicity: It takes place in and around the seaside village of Nomen Tuum (Latin for “your name”), which is the location of a certain well.  This well, the opening narration tells us, has powers of healing, but also of making those who drink it more superficially youthful and beautiful.  This latter power lures the vain and corrupt — which in turn makes the area around the well a hunting ground for succubi.

In the film’s opening minutes, a man (not played by Shatner) drinks from the well and says, “It’s salt.”  A young woman then appears, and flirts with him.  With tantalizing promises of you-can-guess-what, she lures him down to the beach…where she drowns him.

This young woman is Kia (Allyson Ames), a succubus whose job in Hell’s bureaucracy is to lure corrupt mortals to their deaths, thereby sending their souls to The Man Downstairs.  But as she tells her team manager Amael (Eloise Hardt) , she has grown weary of sending souls to Hell that were probably headed there anyway.  She wants a challenge.  She wants to send a virtuous soul to Hell.

Amael warns her against this.  The virtuous, she says, have a mysterious power called love, which is truly devastating to Hell’s minions.  But Kia ignores her and goes off in search of a virtuous soul.

After looking at a handful of hypocritical monks and friars and dismissing them with scorn, she finally finds what she’s looking for: his name is Marco (William Shatner), a virtuous, pious, and (it is subtly implied) virginal soldier.  [your snickering here]  When he drinks from the well to heal a war wound, he finds it sweet.  (A simplistic but effective means of character exposition, eh?)  He lives with his sister (Ann Atmar) on a farm, and lives a God-fearing and happy life.

Having chosen her quarry, Kia introduces herself under false pretenses and begins her seduction of Marco…

Eventually, Kia’s boss Amael sees that things are going “bad” for her little underling.  So Amael unleashes an Incubus.  And we have our title.

This has the feel of a foreign film, and not just because of the Esperanto (which, according to experts, is very badly done — hardly surprising, since the lines were learned phonetically).  It was made in California (in the Big Sur area) by people involved in making The Outer Limits T.V. series, but a lot of the things done in this movie are contrary to the Hollywood norm, even of the mid-60’s.  I mean, when you think succubus (female sexual demon) in Hollywood terms, what do you think?  Long black hair and dresses with plunging necklines, right?  Well, in this movie, both Kia and Amael have platinum blond hair which is pulled back and secured with a pin adorned with raven feathers.  In fact, the darkest hair among females in the movie belongs to Arndis, Marco’s hapless sister.  As for clothing, Amael wears something like a monk’s robe, while Kia wears a shapeless black dress topped off with what looks like a cross between a sweater and a shawl.  Not the most alluring of attire.  And the ending is ominously ambiguous, not to mention unnerving — have you ever looked at a goat’s eyes?

I read online that the film’s makers chose to do the dialogue in Esperanto to give the movie “an otherworldly feel.”  I think it serves another purpose as well: I think it makes the dialogue more believable.  Some of the things said in this movie (not regarding the religious issues, but other things) would sound really weird in English.

In terms of quality, I would put Incubus in the same category as Carnival of Souls (1962), and I highly recommend it.  Jaye, if you’re reading this, this is my suggestion for the next movie night.

13 January 2014 @ 07:45 pm
I read this book a while back because of the movie that was coming out at the time.  I try to read the book before I see a movie based on it whenever I can because I want to see what movie the book creates in my head first, then see the movie that was actually created, and make a comparison.  (If you haven’t read/seen the book/movie and don’t want it spoiled, stop reading now.)

In the prologue before the story proper, the man who eventually interviews Pi (who narrates the main story) is told by an old man who sends him in Pi’s direction: “I have a story that will make you believe in God.”  Reading this, I thought to myself, Well, that’s a bold claim, but show me what you got, and I kept on reading.

In the end, I was disappointed.  Disappointed, in fact, to the point that I never got around to seeing the movie.

Oh, the story was interesting along the way, don’t get me wrong.  The boy Pi spends two-hundred-some-odd days shipwrecked at sea, on a lifeboat smack in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, with a 450-pound Bengal tiger for companionship.  That’s an interesting premise right there, and the author Yann Martel kept me interested throughout.  That wasn’t the problem.

The problem surfaces when Pi reaches civilization.  He is interviewed by two representatives of the company that owned the ship that sank and put Pi on that lifeboat. He tells his story about being with the tiger for 227 days — and they regard him with incredulity.  Where is the tiger, the ask?  Jumped out of the lifeboat and disappeared into the jungle immediately upon reaching shore, Pi says.  They still don’t buy it. And after hours of gentle prodding, he gives them the following (as he calls them with disdain) ”facts”:

There was no tiger on the lifeboat.  When the main ship first capsized, the lifeboat contained Pi, his mother, and the ship’s cook, a Frenchman.  After a few days stranded at sea, the Frenchman kills Pi’s mother, possibly for food, possibly because he’s losing his sanity.  Pi then kills the Frenchman.  And he has to spend the rest of those 227 days, all by himself, alone with that memory.

When he’s done, he asks the interviewers, “Now…which is the better story?”  When they say the story with the tiger, he replies, “So it is with God.”

In other words, religion is a fiction you choose to believe in because reality has become unbearable.

When I read these words, I was reminded of the words of a certain science fiction writer (I can’t remember his name): “Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.”  For me at least, this story had a downer ending because the reality was a downer.  And as a result, I completely lost interest in seeing the movie.

Pi’s story does not strike me as a reason why you should believe in God.  It does strike me as a reason why people do believe in God.  People like stories, and in general they don’t care if a story is true so long as it is good.

A perfect illustration of this can be found with Washington Irving’s story The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  As you read that story, it becomes fairly obvious that it’s Brom Bones who chases Ichabod Crane out of Sleepy Hollow while disguised as the Headless Horseman.  But Sleepy Hollow’s citizens choose to believe that Crane was spirited away by the actual Horseman because it makes for a better story.  This is even true outside of the story itself: in almost every movie adaptation of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (including the popular TV series) there are two changes made:

1) The Headless Horseman turns out to be real.

2) Ichabod winds up hitched to Katrina.

This is because the idea of a Headless Horseman is interesting, and because, in fiction at least, people tend to root for the underdog.  But just because something should be doesn’t mean it is.  As the saying goes, wish into one hand, crap into the other, see which fills up first.

The flaw in Pi’s (actually Yann Martel’s) reasoning is that belief in God (my opinion, of course) shouldn’t fly in the face of reality, but take it into account.

So, you might well ask: what would be a good argument for belief in God?

How about this: belief that life is meaningless is not a survival trait.

People believe in God in an attempt to give some meaning to existence.  It might be that God is a personification of that meaning, just as the Grim Reaper is a personification of death.  But the existence of any meaning can’t be scientifically proven.  In the realm of science, questions of meaning are, well, meaningless.  According to science, we human beings are just so many walking excrement factories that function for a few decades, and then break down and decompose into all the excrement we’ve manufactured.  According to science, the Mona Lisa is just so much pigment on canvas, and Mount Rushmore is just a big rock.  But humanity didn’t get as far as it has by thinking that way.  We all like to think that we are more than this too, too solid flesh.  Thing is, you can only choose to believe that these things are more than their component parts, or not.  Meaning is something you have to choose to believe in.  And God, if He does exist, does so in the same way as that meaning.

Here endeth the sermon. :-)

23 November 2013 @ 05:44 pm
I discovered this novel while surfing online.  It was the cover blurb that initially intrigued me: "Imagine The Turn of the Screw reworked by Edgar Allan Poe."

I'm a fan of both parts of that equation, so I ordered a copy.  And the novel, though its prose is not reminiscent of Poe's in my view, makes for a very intriguing read.

Elements of The Turn of the Screw are most definitely there, as much as they can be without veering into plagiarism territory.  The story, you see, concerns two orphaned siblings, a boy and a girl, who live at their uncle's remote country estate. The uncle, a confirmed bachelor, wants nothing to do with the kiddies, so he hires a governess to watch over them while he goes galavanting abroad (quite possibly more than one).

All this sounds very familiar, right?  Well, here's where Florence & Giles diverges from Henry James.  For starters, the story is told from the point of view of Florence, the older of the two siblings.  In fact, despite the title, this is Florence's story all the way.  Giles, her brother, is eight years old to her twelve and, even taking that into consideration, is not the sharpest knife in the drawer (this may be because they're actually half siblings).  This results in Giles being a secondary character as much as the servants (including -- note the spelling -- Mrs. Grouse, the housekeeper), or the boy from a neighboring estate who occasionally comes calling, or the police inspector, or the two governesses who come to watch over the children.  The reader spends the novel entirely in Florence's head, and none of the characters knows what's going on in there.

For Florence is very smart -- possibly smarter than every other character in the book; certainly smarter than she lets on.  This is because her absent uncle, due to being dumped by a fiancée after she had spent a year or two in college, has forbidden Florence to even learn to read.  The servants, slaves to their paychecks that they are, don't dare defy this edict.  So, very slowly and surreptitiously, so that no one else is aware, Florence teaches herself to read.  And so, in time, the estate library that no one else visits becomes her own private empire.  And it is her self-education that leads to the unique words and turns of phrase that she uses in her narration.

The danger that Florence faces in the novel arrives in the form of Miss Taylor, the second governess that The Uncle hires after the first governess, Miss Whitaker, "tragicked" (to use Florence's word) out on the lake. (Miss Whitaker's death happened under mysterious circumstances, which are strangely glossed over by Florence in her narration.)  As Miss Taylor settles into the role of governess, Florence, who sees her do some strange things (sometimes in the dead of night), slowly arrives at two conclusions: 1) Miss Taylor is Miss Whitaker reincarnated.  2) Miss Taylor plans to spirit little Giles away to God knows where.

Now since there are so many elements of The Turn of the Screw in this story, that classic novella is always in the back of your head as you read it. And one prominent feature of that novella is The Unreliable Narrator.  And since Florence & Giles is told entirely from Florence's point of view, this makes you wonder about Florence.  Are some of the things she claims to see really there?  But as you keep reading, another question pops up: How else do you explain it?

A critic quoted on the back cover says: "Nothing prepares you for the chillingly ruthless finale"  That's certainly true.  I highly recommend this book.

Hello Wittman Nation. ***  As I've been doing for the past few years at about this time, I'll be giving another reading at Dreamhaven Books on Wednesday, November 20th, from 6:30 to 7:30 pm.  I'll probably read from my story "Meet Me at Lilith's," which will appear in the soon-to-be-released next issue of Tales of the Unanticipated.  As is usual with my readings, I will be giving away door prizes (everybody will get something), and afterward we'll retreat to Broadway Pizza to get our mozzarella fix.  Hope to see you there! ***  Jason
29 October 2013 @ 07:59 pm
A while back, I heard something on the radio about Ray Lewis, the recently retired defensive linebacker for the Baltimore Ravens.  It seems he was something of an emotional leader for his teammates, prone to giving motivational speeches (and these speeches seem to have worked to an extent, as the Ravens have won two Super Bowls).  But according to Ravens quarterback Joe Flacco, if you listened carefully to the words of Lewis's speeches, they didn't make much sense.  ***  Now I don't mean to denigrate Mr Lewis, nor do I begrudge him his Super Bowl rings (after all, that second Super Bowl gave a ring to Matt Birk, a fellow Minnesotan whom I admire).  I'm just saying that for an Aspergian like myself, a motivational speech such as those given by Mr. Lewis would not be of much help -- because I would be trying to make sense of it.  While everyone else was getting caught up in the emotion of the moment, I would be saying, "Um...what?" *** This, from my perspective anyway, is the biggest problem that Aspergians and Autistics face, particularly when dealing with other people.  I suppose when muggles neurotypicals, a.k.a. "normal" people, engage with another person, they are watching for an emotional response in order to decide whether they like that person or not.  They would ask questions and judge the responses on an emotional basis.  But when I am asked a question, silly me, I think the asker is looking for information.  And this, I suppose, can lead to problems.  *** Also, there are some aspects of emotional people that I just don't get.  For example, a few years back, I had a private conversation with a certain science fiction writer (who shall remain nameless) who fancied himself, and tried to present himself as, a motivational speaker.  He went headlong into this lengthy spiel, proclaiming to everyone in the room (even though I was the only one there) that he had learned to "love" himself and -- I suppose he did this as a means of somehow proving his statement -- he struck a dynamic pose as he said it.  And by "dynamic pose," I mean he laid himself at full length on the couch he was sitting on, with one arm akimbo, the other arm with its elbow resting on the couch arm, with the thumb beneath his chin and the index finger resting on his cheekbone, and looking at me with a plastic grin on his face.  It was such a blatant affectation that I confess I recoiled an inch or two.  ***  I mean, real emotion is anything but an affectation, right?  It's spontaneous, genuine, not a construct, not a facade, but what you're really feeling..  So in the years since my encounter with that sf writer, I have never figured out why anyone would repsond positively to what he did.  (He did other things too, like constantly interrupt me, which in some primitive cultures is considered to be extremely rude.  He also recommended that I spend some time listening to my heartbeat and writing down what I heard.  I did this, and...[shrug]...I heard my heartbeat.)  Really, everything this guy did was an affectation, right down to the way he talked, which was like a game show host, or a used car salesman (and we all know how far they can be trusted).  And I have to say that it boggles me why anyone responds positively to such displays.  It always has.
14 August 2013 @ 10:34 pm
Hi Folks.  I just recently learned something about myself (I've suspected it for some time now, but it was only professionally confirmed a little more than a week ago).  And since it's something that people in general (and certainly my friends) really should know about me, here it is: I have been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome.  Here's the Wikipedia article on the subject:   *** Asperger's, for those of you who don't know, is a mild form of autism (indeed, Asperger's is no longer its official name because it's now considered part of the Autism spectrum -- there are degrees of autism, just like there are degrees of frostbite).  Traits of Asperger's include types of behavior that muggles neurotypical, a.k.a. "normal" people find odd (they say "normal" like it's a good thing), intense interests in specific subjects (you know about my obsession with chess, right?), and last, but most definitely not least, difficulty with interpersonal relationships due in no small part to a lack of ability to pick up on social cues. ***  I first heard about Asperger's when an LJ friend posted that she suspected she had it.  I didn't know what Asperger's was, so I clicked on the link she provided...and what I read rang a lot of bells.  Then there's my friend Haddayr Copley-Woods, who has an Aspie child and writes about him often on her blog.  At one point while reading her blog, I posted, "You know, the more I read about this..."  And she reached out to me.  I told her that I suspected that I had Asperger's, and she said that she had seen certain signs in me too (for instance, that there was little "affect" in my voice as I talked).  So she sent me a link to the Austism Society of Minnesota (AuSM), and when I learned that my health insurance would cover it, I scheduled an analysis interview with them.  This interview happened last July 31st (though they had sent me a questionnaire beforehand that I filled out and sent back in the mail).  A doctor and an intern sat down with me and asked me a bunch of questions, which I answered to the best of my ability.  Then they showed me a checklist, saying I met this criteria and that criteria.  And in the end, they basically said, "You knew you had Asperger's when you walked in here.  You were only looking for an expert to say you were right."  Which is perfectly true.  I was pretty sure I had Asperger's to begin with, but I wanted to make sure I wasn't just telling myself what I wanted to hear.  *** A few days later, they sent me a written report in the mail.  The report said, among other things, that I needed a score of at least 65 to qualify for being on the autism spectrum.  The score I got was 120.  So I'm not exactly in a grey area, am I?  ***  This would explain many things about myself, including why I'm still single at my age.  I've asked a number of women out over time, but they never said yes.  And until now, I've never been able to figure out why.  It would also play a role in my fiction writing.  Many of my writer friends say my characters don't show emotion.  (Even though at one point one of my characters breaks a pitchfork in half in his teeth -- what is that if not emotion?  Then the doctor who interviewed me asked, "Do you show what's going on emotionally in your character's heads?"  And in my mind, I went, "Ohhhhhhh.")  ***  So what does this diagnosis mean?  What happens now?  Well, the second step to solving a problem (the first being knowing that the problem exists) is understanding it, and now I understand my problem a lot better.  The doctor said there's a support group I can attend with other people with similar problems.  And by posting this message here, I have begun  explaining myself and my condition to other people.  My friends, I ask for your patience.  And any help would be welcome.  Thank you.
05 August 2013 @ 05:39 pm
My flash story, "The Nuns of Mathematics," won the Diversicon Flash Fiction Contest last weekend.  (Diversicon is a small, local con.)  This is my second win of this contest in as many entries.  The story had to be no more then 250 words in length, and had to fit somehow with the convention's theme, "Old Enough to Think."  The contest was judged by guest of honor Jack McDevitt, who turned out to be a nice guy.  It also turned out that he plays chess.  He beat me, but not by much.  :-)  *** With regards to the story itself, though, I was met with a bit of disappointment: as a prize for the winning the contest, I was allowed to read it during the intermission for the fundraising auction they held Saturday night.  My story kind of revolves around a pun regarding an old-but-very-crucial advance in the field of mathematics.  But since there's considerable overlap between SF geeks and math geeks, the audience saw it coming a mile away.  But they enjoyed the story nonetheless. ***  My novella Saint Nicole is still available:
26 July 2013 @ 05:36 pm
I learned recently that Genevieve Kierans, a friend of mine from Clarion, passed away a short time ago due to complications from ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease), which she had been battling for 16 years.  She was one of my best friends at Clarion, and I will miss her.  ***  When I first met her at the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer's Workshop at Michigan State University back in 2001 (God, was it actually twelve years ago?), she was already using a motorized wheelchair, and would sometimes ask for help from her fellow writers for various things.  At one point, she asked me if I would drive her to the grocery store.  I said sure, no big deal.  ***  So I drove my car up to the entrance of the dormitory where we were sequestered (I was one of the few Clarionites who had driven all the way to Michigan St. in his own car, all the way from Minnesota and in summer with no air conditioning to boot), and I helped her into the car, doing my best to be gentle (because that's what I would do with anybody).  I drove her to the grocery store, and she waited in the car while I got one of those Larks (another motorized wheelchair; there wasn't room for hers in my car) that grocery stores provide these days.  I drove the Lark up to the car (and by the way, those Larks are slow -- I suppose they have to be to prevent accidents) and I helped Genevieve into it, and I accompanied her on her trip through the grocery store.  When that was done, I drove her back to the dorm, I escorted her back to her room, and that was it.  Again, no big deal -- I thought.  ***  We did this a couple more times, and...well, I thought I was just being polite.  She asked for my help, and I said sure, no big deal.  I handled her gently when I helped her into/out of my car because that was the way I would want to be handled.  (Some people call this "logical empathy."  Others might call it "The Golden Rule.")  To me, it was no big deal.  But Genevieve reacted with a level of gratitude that...surprised me, quite frankly.  You would think that the way I treated her was...rare.  ***  But anyway, there it was: without really working for it, I had made a fast friend.  After Clarion, we corresponded a few times via e-mail until her illness (I'm guessing) made it no longer possible to do so.  ***  And now it has come to this.  She did not deserve this end.  But then, what nature throws at you has nothing to do with what you deserve.  ***  Farewell, sweet Genevieve.  And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
I read about this movie in the Minneapolis Star Tribune a while back.  The article intrigued me enough to make me want to see the movie, so when I saw the DVD at Barnes & Noble, I bought it.  PAR It's a black and white film made in 1959, starring no one I had ever seen before.  Pierre Brasseur plays Doctor Genessier, a plastic surgeon of considerable renown; Alida Valli plays Louise, the doctor's assistant; and Edith Scob plays Christiane, the doctor's daughter, whose predicament gives the movie its title. PAR  We don't learn this predicament right away, however.  The first scene shows Louise (though we're not told that's her name yet) driving along some road in France in a car that would make a vintage Volkswagen Beetle laugh in scorn (I kept looking for the wind-up key).  In the back seat sits a figure wrapped up in a trench coat and wearing a wide-brimmed hat, so that it's features are completely hidden.  When Louise makes a hard left turn, the figure falls to its side and doesn't get back up.  This tells us the figure is dead.  PAR Louise stops at a secluded riverbank.  She drags the dead body, which, judging by the legs is that of a young girl, out of the car and dumps it into the river.  Then she drives off.  PAR Our first view of Dr. Genessier is of him delivering a lecture on plastic surgery (specifically "heterograft," or the transfer of skin from one patient to another) to a very well-dressed upper-crust audience.  Bit-part characters whisper about his talents as a surgeon, and of the recent tragic loss of his daughter, Christiane.  PAR But his daughter isn't dead, though we don't see her until we're a good twenty-some minutes into the movie.  And we're not shown her face: she always faces away from the camera until Louise gives her a creepy white mask.  It seems that her face was destroyed in a car accident (in which her father Dr. Genessier was at the wheel -- Christiane says bitterly that he always "drives like a lunatic").  And the body Louise dumped in the river was the latest victim in Dr. Genessier's attempts to give Christiane a new face by surgically removing faces from hapless young women -- the aforementioned "heterograft."  The latest, but by no means the last.  PAR The plot of this movie, then, is that of many a cheesy poverty row picture that Bela Lugosi starred in back in the Forties (and Boris Karloff, and George Zucco, etc., etc.).  The Corpse Vanishes is a prime example of this, in which Lugosi plays a mad doctor who poisons young brides during their wedding ceremony by means of an orchid of his own breeding that gives off a venomous scent, then abducts their corpses, sometimes from right under the police's noses, through ruses that Elmer Fudd would see through in an eyeblink, all so he can extract bodily fluids that will keep his wife, an aging hag in her late thirties, looking young and beautiful. (Though really, if she'd just keep her makeup on, she'd be just fine...)  What sets Les Yeux Sans Visage apart from these creaky slapped-together-in-two-weeks flicks is that the focus is not on the mad doctor or his victims (though of course they get their due), but on Christiane.  Since she wears a mask 99% of the time (we only see what's left of her face in a single,dimly lit, highly blurred shot that is enough to induce shudders), she has to convey emotion through body language, which she does very well.  Another thing I've noticed about Edith Scob's performance is that she never blinks.  Even when she's wearing someone else's face in those brief shining moments before tissue rejection rears its ugly head (so to speak), she never blinks even once.  This gives her the aspect of a porcelain doll, which is kind of how her father treats her.  I don't know if this was a deliberate choice, either on Scob's part or the director's, but it was, I feel, the right one.  PAR Another thing that sets this movie apart from the poverty row flicks is the ending.  Christiane never gets a new permanent face, and no one ever shows up to rescue her from her father.  But she does do some rescuing of her own.  And at the very end, though we still feel sorry for Christiane, we also have a little respect for her.  PAR My novella Saint Nicole is still available: