Monthly Archives: December 2012

Schrodinger’s Telephone — Preview

writing/blogging/publishing related, , , , ,

My new novella, Schrodinger’s Telephone is now available on Amazon.  I’m offering to give away 20 copies. What I’m looking for in return are honest reviews on Amazon (copies to Goodreads if you’re a member would be nice as well, as would reviews on blogs and other places).  Here’s where it gets interesting. These 20 freebies will only be available through Amazon’s Kindle store, so if you are interested, and you have an Amazon or Amazon UK account, please do the following: (1) Place Schrodinger’s Telephone on your Amazon wishlist. If you don’t have a wishlist, go to “edit my profile” to create one (2) Send me an email letting me know you have it on your wishlist.

Amazon will email you a gift certificate for the novella and instructions.

If you don’t want the freebie and you don’t want to buy it because you are THAT BROKE, you could always just “like it” on Amazon.  But if you like it, why don’t you buy it?

You also have my permission to like the facebook page.

What’s it all about? Kind of tough to explain without at least one major spoiler. It was my attempt at uplifting if you consider losing everything and spending years of your life labelled as crazy, uplifting, and then there’s that part where … Oy vey.

(Update: Went live Friday evening, but discovered a Kindle formatting issue. Finally, thanks to THIS WOMAN’S HELP problem is SOLVED. The mo better edition is now LIVE!)

Here are the first 900 or so words.

Schrodinger’s Telephone

Si tú no vives,
si tú, querida, amor mío, si tú
te has muerto,
todas las hojas caerán en mi pecho,
lloverá sobre mi alma noche y día,
la nieve quemará mi corazón,
andaré con frío y fuego
y muerte y nieve,
mis pies querrán marchar hacia donde tú duermes

– Pablo Neruda, La Muerta

1990-1991 – Lizzie

While others thought living in the past was harming Lizzie, she knew it was the only thing keeping her sane, and would often revisit that early fall day when the course of her life changed.

Technically, it was still late summer, school having started only the week before. She spent most of her vacation preparing for the term. Her lesson plans were detailed and specific down to the handouts. Any other year, she might have woken up without the ring of the alarm clock at five forty-five, but in those days, she found herself falling into bed early and waking with reluctance.

She pushed down the snooze button and shut her eyes, trying unsuccessfully to recall a dream. She had to punch in at seven fifty, and while work was only a ten-minute walk away, she needed a lot of time in the mornings. She could hear Jeff already in the kitchen, last night’s dishes clanging as he returned them to the shelves. He didn’t have to be at work till nine, could catch the train and be there in half an hour, but was always the first one up, out the door for a quick jog with Asta. She worried about his being out so early with only a small terrier for protection. They lived in the upper part of the upper west side, just south of 96th street, known then as “the great divide.”

Jeff, though protective of her, never thought much about the crime. He’d gone to Columbia and had lived in a dorm even further uptown. That wasn’t something Lizzie could imagine herself doing. There’d been that young stockbroker raped and left for dead in the park the year before, and every day there were stories of muggings and worse.

Without opening her eyes, she preemptively reached out and shut off the alarm. She thought she smelled coffee. Maybe it was something wafting in through the window. Her husband had given up the evil brew in sympathy. While she told him it wasn’t necessary, she was grateful.

Jeff came in to the room carrying a small tray, which he placed on the night table. He sat down on the bed.

“Morning, princess.”

She opened her eyes and sat up. Then she sprang from the bed and ran into the bathroom. Just a belch. It was the end of the first trimester, and it had been getting better. She brushed her teeth. Years later she would remember everything so clearly, even that she had been startled by what she thought was a cockroach scurrying on the floor, but it turned out to be some loose thread, maybe from a frayed sock.

She came back to the bedroom and sat down next to her husband on the side of the bed. “Uuurhh,” she grunted.

“Sick?”

“No, not really. It’s just…” She trailed off and grabbed one of the bland cookies he’d brought in. Then she took a swig of the hot concoction in the mug, “I’m so damn tired of Postum.”

He smiled and shook his head slightly. She would recall thinking just then, not of the future, which she often did during her pregnancy, but about the first time they met. Some party where the music was so loud they couldn’t hear each other, but looking into his sweet eyes, she felt he already knew her in a way no one else ever had or would. She kissed him. He seemed surprised, but pleased, and kissed her back. There was more. This hadn’t been part of the morning routine of late. He was already being careful with her. Gentle. After, they showered together, though he never liked the water as hot as she did.

He offered to make eggs. Even before the pregnancy, he was the one who made breakfast, while dinner was her domain. Between them they referred to this division of labor as “the deal.”

“Or would you rather have French toast?”

“French toast! Yeah. But you know what I really, really want…”

He made a suggestion, which made her giggle.

“Well, besides that… I’d love one tiny cup of….”

They discussed this for a minute, and then decided to “live dangerously.” The espresso machine, a wedding gift from his brother, was on the counter, and there were beans in the freezer. He made himself a double shot, and gave her a half-shot of cappuccino, really a coffee-flavored cup of hot milk.

“I’m being so bad,” she said.

“I’ll pick up some decaf,” he offered, “The doctor said a little caffeine wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“But Sara says…”

“You don’t have to do everything your big sister tells you to, even if she is a nurse.”

“And a mother…”

He didn’t wind up making the French toast although they did eat the bread he would have used, raisin challah, which lately she was eating a lot of, insisting it was the only thing that would settle her very noisy tummy.

Time was getting away from them. It was seven thirty-six. She had to go.

He promised he would take Asta out for another quick pee before he left. She said she’d be home early and take him around three.

They did kiss before she walked out the door. The only thing that wasn’t clear in her memory was whether or not either or both of them had said, “I love you.” It would nag at her she couldn’t remember that detail.

On Gun Control — We Need Leadership

Politics and Culture, Things that Piss Me off from The NY Times

When I was a foot soldier in the ground game, I saw something interesting — lots of ordinary people enthusiastic about voting who understood where their self-interest was. Granted, I was mostly talking to dems, in Reading PA and most of them were either black, brown, poor, old, women, or some combination thereof.  These are the people that the right does not consider “real Americans,” the voters who were completely invisible to Romney despite the blatant efforts of their own state legislature to keep them from the polls.   These were folks who were concerned about the health and safety of their communities, and there were enough of them to give the President a landslide victory (twice) despite all the money being thrown around by Rove and Company and all the propaganda coming through Fox news, and all the nonsense rumors being spread on the Internet.

I’m pretty sure most of these voters would have no problem with an assault weapons ban, and probably no problem with even more restrictions, waiting periods, background checks etc.  But even if the majority of Americans who vote aren’t there yet, (and even if Congress is a gerrymandered mess), the people could get there if the same effort was made community by community and door by door to reach them as was made to elect the President Whatever the political risks are, the Democratic Party needs to lead on this and so does the President.  What we don’t need is the Press Secretary saying stupid shit like now is not the time for the discussion.

If not now, when?

This Is NOT a Love Story — The Penultimate Episode of Homeland S2

Kay Gardella Memorial TV Review Blog, ,

(Warning: SPOILERS ahead for the episode broadcast on 12/09/12 and speculation about what comes next)

On the surface, it looks like The Mother***er with the Turban was Homeland‘s` descent into telenovela territory. There was that long scene  where Brody and the Missus honestly discuss their future and how it won’t be together, followed by Brody’s arrival at Carrie’s and his telling her the choice was between her and Walden, and he chose her, while the Angel of Death (in the form of Good Soldier Quinn) waits silently in the dark.

How romantic. Or maybe not.

Let’s go back a few episodes to Brody’s last visit with Abu Nazir.  We know he left out some details in his debrief, and  he was less than honest before that when he recounted how the tailor met with an unfortunate accident.  He didn’t  mention his breaking into the VP’s safe and giving the enemy a list of assets and agents either. So what’s the evidence that Carrie really “broke” him and brought him back to Team America?  Or that Nazir didn’t break him back?

What did Nazir say to Brody when they said goodbye?  That if all went according to plan they wouldn’t meet again.  What plan was that?

There’s a good reason Quinn and Estes don’t trust Brody. Aside from his being a terrorist and a traitor, he’s a pathological liar.  Yet, Carrie lurves him.  And to quote Roya, he can make her do things.

Is it possible Carrie’s kidnapping was part of Nazir’s long con and not an improvised plan to keep Brody on mission?  For starters, every call that Nazir made to Brody was made in front of Carrie.  When Walden was a goner trying to call for help,  Brody didn’t tell him, “Sorry, it was you or my squeeze.”  Brody was enjoying the moment, and he wanted Walden to know exactly what was happening.

When Nazir let Carrie go there was a possibility she’d get to a phone in time and tell the CIA about the plot to kill the VP, but there was a good chance she’d be too late to stop the murder.  Brody might get caught, but the deed would be done.  But what were the odds of her telling?   Nazir knows something (a lot) about psychology and manipulation.  He wrote the book on how to break a person.  He “rescued” Brody and won his loyalty.  He kidnapped Carrie and convinced her she was going to die.  He gave Brody the opportunity to rescue Carrie, and he took a calculated risk that Carrie would then protect Brody by not revealing the plot.  This compromises her and makes her vulnerable.

Nazir’s hanging around in the tunnels, and Carrie’s spidey sense kicking in yet again, may have seemed like another outlandish scenario (although there was that lovely homage to the The Third Man), but Nazir’s willingness to die, the slight smug smile he offered as he reached into his shirt, should not have been a surprise.   It’s not that Nazir wanted to die, but given his speech to Carrie last week, we know that for him the struggle was a long one, and he believed his side would win because they would never stop fighting and they were not afraid of death.

Nazir wanted revenge for the drone attack that killed his son.  He got it. He was done.

Anyone who thinks that Brody was no longer loyal to Nazir only had to watch him get the news of his captor’s death.  This wasn’t simply relief that it was all over, it was mourning.

So was Brody’s arrival at Carrie’s doorstep a sign that the twisty Homeland has succumbed to sentiment?  Was his declaration that he did it for her an honest declaration of love or a cruel manipulation?  Does Brody even know the difference?  We’ve seen Carrie play Brody and Brody play Carrie.  Do either of these two crazy kids really know what love is?

There’s more going on here than true romance.  If Carrie is being conned, she’ll put the pieces together eventually, or somebody else (Saul) will, and force her to look.  It’s unlikely Quinn will end things by fatally wounding Brody in the season finale.  Maybe he’ll botch it, and with the death of Walden, and the official story being a “terrorist” attempt on the life of the hero Congressman, the CIA will be in no position to stop his political rise. If anyone puts Brody down, my money is on its being Carrie, and that just may be the thing that drives her irrevocably over the edge.

My Next “Small” Thing

writing/blogging/publishing related,

One of my writer friends recently asked  if anyone wanted to participate in a “next big thing” blog series where writers discuss works in progress.

I’m not ready to discuss my next big thing. The big thing I’ve been working on, I haven’t been working on enough and I can’t give a date.  However, my next small thing, will be ready soon.  It’s a novella that may surprise some of my readers.  It’s a lot “softer” and more “family friendly” than either The Death Trip or Loisaida.

I’m still working on a description that doesn’t involve spoilers.  Not quite sure how to do that.  Let’s say it’s kind of Philip K. Dick meets Flannery O’Connor with a nod to Marge Piercy.  Meantime, if anyone is interested, here are the first 500 words:

Schrodinger’s Telephone

1990-1991 – Lizzie

While others thought that living in the past was harming Lizzie, she knew it was the only thing keeping her sane, and would often revisit the early fall day when the course of her life changed.

Technically, it was still late summer, school having started the week before.  She spent most of her vacation preparing for the term.  Her lesson plans were detailed and specific down to the handouts.  Any other year she might have woken up without the ring of the alarm clock at 5:45.  But in those days, she found herself falling into bed early and waking with reluctance.

She had to punch in at 7:50, and while work was only a ten-minute walk away, she needed a lot of time in the mornings.  Jeff was already in the kitchen.  She could hear the clang of last night’s dishes, now dry, being returned to the shelves. He didn’t have to be at work till nine, could catch the train and be there in half an hour, but he was typically the first one up, out the door for a quick jog with Asta.  She worried about his being out so early with only a small terrier for protection. They lived in the upper part of the upper west side, just south of 96th street, known then as “the great divide.”

Jeff, though protective of her, never thought much about the crime.  He’d gone to Columbia and had lived in a dorm even further uptown.  That wasn’t something Lizzie could imagine herself doing. That woman gang raped in the park last year, it was still on people’s minds, and things seemed to happen every day.

For a moment, she thought she smelled coffee.  Maybe it was something wafting in through the window. Her husband had given up the evil brew in sympathy.  While she told him it wasn’t necessary, she was grateful.

Jeff came in to the room carrying a small tray.  He sat down on the bed.

“Morning, princess.”

She answered by rising quickly and running into the bathroom.  Just a belch this time.  It was the end of the first trimester, and it had been getting better.  She brushed her teeth. Years later she would remember everything so clearly, even that she had been startled by what she thought was a cockroach scurrying on the floor, but it turned out to be some loose thread, maybe from a frayed sock.

She came back to the bedroom and sat down next to her husband on the side of the bed.  “Uuurhh,” she grunted.

“Sick?”

“No, not really. It’s just…” She trailed off and grabbed one of the bland cookies he’d brought her on a tray.  Then she took a swig of the hot concoction in the mug, “I’m so damn tired of Postum.”

He smiled and shook his head slightly. She would recall thinking just then, not of the future, which she often did during her pregnancy, but about the first time they met.  Some party where the music was so loud they couldn’t hear each other, but looking into his sweet eyes, she felt he already knew her in a way that no one else ever had or would. She kissed him.  He seemed surprised, but pleased, and kissed her back. There was more. This hadn’t been part of the morning routine of late. He was already being careful with her. Gentle. After, they showered together, though he never liked the water as hot as she did.