Ironman and Anne girl

Here’s the race report of my first Ironman Triathlon. Unfortunately, it was an attempt rather than a triumph.

The average time for this particular race was 13 hours last year. This was triathlon number nine for me, but my first Ironman. I figured average was a good goal, so that's what I was training toward, and the numbers were looking good for eleven months straight.

It was an exciting morning with 2400 other entrants. Lots of hot bikes and intense faces. I only fit in the second category, but I'm not complaining. My bike, Pinky, was given to me by a neighbor when my old road bike (circa 1982) became unreliable. It's at least a four year upgrade. And yes, when I'm on the bike you can call me the Brain.

I lined up quite far back for the start, as I was worried about being caught in a piranha frenzy of swimmers. About 13 minutes after the race start, I hit the water. Just before that, the wind picked up and I was swimming into two-foot waves which were frequently whitecaps. In spite of that, I did well, and got out after two hours. Never swam 2.4 miles before! Problem was, I was shaking so badly from hypothermia (lake temperature was about 58 degrees) I couldn’t speak well or get my wet suit off. They sent me into the warming tent, and in my stupor, I lost track of time and stayed 30 minutes.

Once warmed, I got on my bike and rode 56 miles of rolling uphill road, and into the wind. Coming back down was super fast though, and I was just short of my 15mph average I needed to finish the whole race in 13 hours. As I finished lap one, I ran into the problem.

At the pre-race meeting, we’d all been warned of the cut off spots on the course. Listening to where they were and what the time was, I wasn’t worried. But 1:30 pm at the start of bike lap two was one such cut, and I got there at 1:35.

Stupid hypothermia.

I spent almost a year preparing for this, and one stupid strategic error screwed it all up. But what makes me feel okay about it is going to that tent was only one stupid strategic error. My swim time was good despite the wind. After 56 miles on the bike, I couldn’t tell a difference in my legs from when I started. I had trained sufficiently to get the job done. Now I just have to wait until next year to do the rest. It would be dishonest to say I wasn’t furious and depressed when the race official took my timing chip. That felt like pulling off an extra-sticky bandage when the wound underneath hasn't healed yet. But I progressed rapidly to determination. Progressed fast enough no one witnessed my initial reaction.

Next month is an Olympic triathlon in the same lake and some of the same ride. I did it last year and had my best time ever. This year, I’m taking off another ten percent. First two workouts to that end are already done.

During the race, I got to ride next to the female champion for a while, the same Canadian woman who won last year. We rode together for about eight, maybe nine seconds while she lapped me.

Speaking of Canada, and Tuesday being Canada Day, here’s another way to look at my situation. Specifically from the perspective of one Anne Shirley. She would have loved this outcome far more than what I had planned. The tragedy! How romantical! I can imagine her imagination running away with the possibilities. Such a close shave with accomplishing something heroic! Makes me want to take some ipecac to help with a croupy cough and lie down in a leaky boat in that choppy freezing lake. It's as if some uncaring authority figure told me I can't hang around with my best friend Diana for a while. Yeah, that’s a good story. L.M. Montgomery would approve.

McArthur's Park

Here's an interview I had with Kami McArthur, employee of David Farland and author in her own right. Thanks, Kami! And Shelly thaks you, too. She's been napping for weeks now.

http://kamimcarthur.blogspot.com/2014/05/interview-with-author-derick-william.html#more


Last week I interviewed author Derick William Dalton. Mr. Dalton is the author of Houses of Common, a science fiction thriller released earlier this year. He's a former high school biology and anatomy teacher, and currently works as a family practice physician assistant. Though happy with his life, he wonders how it would be had Hogwarts or Starfleet Academy accepted his applications. He's currently at work on a collection of short stories parallel to Houses of Common, and is also working its sequel, Meaner Sort.


Who is your all-time favorite character?

Of those I've dreamed up, it's Ranyk. He's a 22nd century alien terraformer working for the US Department of Agriculture. An extra-terrestrial working for the USDA. That just strikes me as funny. I also love that he's brave, brilliant, and gets away with saying things I never could. And who doesn't want a bulletproof exoskeleton?

Of other authors' creations, I'm an enormous fan of Bill Watterson's Hobbes. How can someone be so enthusiastic and forgiving? And look so good in orange? “Sometimes it's a source of personal pride not to be human,” Hobbes once said. That statement was in response to a bunch of garbage strewn in the beautiful woods, and aside from insults when fighting with Calvin, it's the meanest thing he ever said. Hobbes the tiger is my attitude hero.


Where did you get the idea for your latest novel?

My brain was trying to sabotage me. To finish grad school before I ran out of money, I was cramming three years of school into two. The harder I worked the more distracting, creative ideas my brain produced. One spark for the novel struck in my botany class. We were studying ferns, which reproduce through a process called alternation of generations. The offspring of the fern is a small plant, like a miniscule water lily. That plant is the parent of what we recognize as a fern. I wondered about the repercussions of that kind of reproduction in a sentient species, and Ranyk was born.

The setting and plot had a similar origin. As a diversion from working on my thesis, I read and reread the article by Robert Zubrin, titled "Getting Space Exploration Right." In it, he notes those nations who backed out of colonizing North and South America subsequently backed out of world importance. Mr. Zubrin posits the same will happen with lunar and Martian colonization. That was the other spark, and now Ranyk had a place to live and a job to do—terraforming new planets for humanity. His adventures were far more interesting than educational law, but I found a balance and still finished school on time.


Tell us more about Houses of Common. What's it about?

I wanted to write heroic propaganda about sharp, skilled people, but not superheroes. I wanted intrigue and adventure and romance. I wanted real science such that my inner geek would be ecstatic, but woven organically into the story so those who love literary fiction wouldn't be put off. I wanted heroes who would dare mighty things, make mistakes, but not empty-headed, thoughtless, plotless mistakes out of poor literary fiction. Then I would be put off. I also wanted bad guys who were not out of a comic book. Real bad guys, just like what we have now, but with a century of technology and practice to exploit the masses. Not to thwart James Bond and take over the world, but to integrate themselves into civic institutions and disappear from collective societal attention. To siphon the work of humanity subtly, but with growing boldness. Ranyk gets mixed up with them before any other characters. Trying to help Irish scientists and citizens evacuate early to their new planet to escape a civil war, he inadvertently disrupts the plans of someone violent enough to chase him across the solar system trying to vaporize him and his starship. Ranyk's friends and his species' ambassador to the United States are attacked. His sister finds proof of illegal experimentation and xenocide. But evidence of who's behind it all is harder to find than a safe place to hide. If he can't discover who to trust and who to go after, it will cost the freedom of forty thousand Irish colonists, the safety of his friends, and his own life.


How did you meet Shelly? How long has she been your pet? (For those who don't know, Shelly is Dalton's box turtle who has a lot to say on his blog.)

Shelly was a gift from a staff member at the high school where I once taught. Shelly was indignant she wasn't consulted, of course, but seemed to enjoy my classroom anyway. For a while. I shared the room with the part-time home economics teacher. She took one look at the turtle terrarium and got even more cranky than Shelly. “Salmonella!” she cried, worrying about all the cooking her class would be doing in the room. Rather than explaining infections from pet turtles are almost exclusively from toddlers putting baby aquatic turtles in their mouths, and that there were no toddlers or baby turtles or aquatic turtles around, I just took Shelly home. Now that I think of it, I forgot to consult her again. I did not forget, but did fail to inform the other teacher, that my students regularly dissected rats and fetal pigs on the cooking tables. That was about ten years ago. It's clear you've read Shelly's blog, so you're aware it hasn't all been roses. Or earthworms, as Shelly prefers. But we make a passable team.


Are you a pantser or a planner? (In other words, do you just sit down and write and see where it goes or do you plan and outline?)

I plan to be a planner. I schedule the time and place and topic when I write. It forces me to fit what I need into that limited window of opportunity. It gives me a sense of urgency which keeps me from getting sleepy or goofing off. Within that framework, though, I sometimes get surprised. When writing Houses of Common, I needed a one-scene character to help move the plot along so I could finish the chapter. As I wrote, he turned out so intriguing I forgot about the chapter and worked him into the story as a main character. The chapter didn't get done when I wanted, but I have lots of people tell me how much they love Captain Nedford Gill and his spaceship.


What's your favorite part of the novel-writing process? What's the most difficult?

I like all of it. Writing down ideas, outlining a novel, researching facts. Putting fresh words to a blank document is exciting. Reading those words a week later and making improvements is fun. Sometimes too much fun and I have to go back and edit rather than just read. I've had a great time working with editors and fellow authors to finalize and promote my work.

The most difficult part is to keep my writing in proper perspective. My sister, sci-fi author Jessica Parsons, once made a very wise comment. Speaking of her novel Time Walker, she said, “I don't want my kids to look at this book and be reminded of a mom who wasn't there for them.” I find that particular book intimidatingly good, by the way.


Any advice for aspiring authors?

Criticism is your friend. The kind of friend who sometimes makes you bleed and always leaves a bruise. You need alpha and beta readers who are skilled and honest. Nice is unnecessary. Hire an editor. Hire. It's expensive, but it's an investment with a better return than the sorry percentage your bank is so proud to give on your savings account.

When you are bruised and bleeding, don't quit. Funnel the emotion into your work. And I mean work. The Muse is nothing more than neurochemistry. Fill your head with good information to warm up the synapses and write until you're empty. Then get some more criticism.


I noticed you like Harry Potter. What's your favorite book?

I know you said book, singular, but I have to answer one and four. Hero origin stories really grab my interest. Introduction to a wondrous new world is the whole reason for reading and writing science fiction and fantasy. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone is both, and a skillfully crafted example. And, I got to see the movie as Philosopher's Stone because I was living in Canada then.

The Goblet of Fire really gripped me because it expands the scope of the wizarding world just as everything is about to get uglier. It's a shift away from the lightheartedness of Hogwarts and foreshadows the awfulness to come. Like Umbridge. As a former teacher, I hated her and her No Witch or Wizard Left Behind changes way more than anything Voldemort ever did. Now I'm buzzed to read them all again.

Thanks, Kami. With this one question you've just postponed my next novel, Meaner Sort, by at least a month.

Better than Luck of the Irish

Mr. DWD was all night writing another guest post for the blog fic-talk.com.
I was sleeping.
I love my job this month.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!



http://fic-talk.com/2014/03/blog-tour-houses-of-common-by-derick-william-dalton/






Today begs for a St. Patrick’s Day reference, so I’m wishing you all the Luck of the Irish! Which, after studying history, seems more an insult than a well-wishing. Nothing against the Irish, of course. It’s a stab at the weather and a certain fungal species. And at England. My Irish luck is better than average, as I had ancestors leave there for America. That’s not slightly unusual, except they did so five years before the potato famine. I once had a chance to go there, to see what they gave up, and I was captured by the beauty of Ireland. I tried to recreate my emotions in a scene from my novel, Houses of Common. The main character is helping Irish scientists with last-minute preparations before they leave for a newly terraformed planet.

Ranyk watched the hundred or so Irish scatter like leaves on a river. Several were on bikes and motorcycles, two buses left several minutes apart, and a half dozen cars rattled over the bumpy dirt road. It looked no different than the satellite views when everyone went home for the day. A casual observer wouldn’t guess none were ever coming back to work.

The old and cracked asphalt cleared of people, but not of the moss growing wherever untrodden. Dry leaves stirred over the damp, moldering piles from autumns past, resisting the stiff breeze off the ocean in the lee of the curbs. The Irish air smelled of spring and reminded him of the holos and history he’d devoured on the flight over. It all summed to a sense of melancholic beauty, of star- and creed-crossed love. Of mortal loss and of fortune sought and gained but never brought back from over the sea. He imagined it smelled of well-rosined bow and the varnish of a fiddle, of sweat laced with alcohol from dancers who for a moment had beaten back the dreary darkness of a long and hungry winter.

There. My reason. I may not always get humans, but I empathize with Éire. Torn between cultures. Intellectual offspring my opiate, solitude from my own people my foreign oppressor. If I live to be old I’ll not see a more achingly beautiful, morosely serene place than this.

Ranyk hoped Meagher would be slow to return, or perhaps wouldn’t at all. For a moment, Ranyk thought he might stand and absorb the surroundings, so much more potent firsthand than through all he’d studied. Sweet to recollection like the sound of Uilleann pipes played on a hill beyond view. Sweet with the bitter aftertaste of absence.

Yeah, I miss that place.

So did one of those ancestors of mine. Mostly because his fiancé was still there. He came to the United States to get a job and a place to live, then worked until he could get passage to go back for her. My sister nearly swoons over that story, and I have to admit I’m a fan of a good romance like that, too. I’ve never had to give up so much or work so hard for anyone as Great-Ancestor Dalton did, and that’s why his love story is more fantastic than mine. The frigid North Atlantic Ocean and two nineteenth century versions of the TSA couldn’t keep him from his girl.

Besides the victory of coming together in a good romance, the hot and steamy stuff is another powerful draw. Unless it’s like that episode of Friends. One of their moms wanted to be a romance writer, and visited the apartment to get everyone’s feedback on her manuscript. As they read, she warned them about her poor typing skills. Warned them just before they asked what exactly the male character writes about with his throbbing pens. And where does the woman house her heaving beasts?

If I had to pick between writing an adversity-overcoming romance and erotica, I’d prefer to write the first. Primarily, I want my kids to read what I write by age 14 without me squirming from discomfort. As importantly, it’s also about how the brain works. Erotica cuts through the higher brain functions of the frontal cortex and goes straight for the reward pathway. Of all literature, it blazes the shortest trail between words on a page and dopamine release in the brain. Fun for the reader, but that isn’t my goal. I want to create a romance between the reader and my characters, and the long-term relationship kind. The intellectual connection of a good friendship. One where victories feel meaningful to the reader, and a sudden Joss Whedon-style death of a character really hurts and makes the reader hate me just a little. I want the frontal cortex tied up and stuck on imaginary people.

Two of my characters share a past that will remain a secret until book three, but here’s a peek at them in Houses of Common.

Qi opened her mouth, but the words of explanation she’d rehearsed seemed ill suited now. She wiped a tear off each cheek, one of humiliation, the other of anger at herself. More would come, and they were for Sean. Knowing this would hurt him, she had decided to change the plan and get rid of the storage cylinder. She had only needed to explain, and it would have gone well. But that chance had been stolen.

No, not all these tears are for Sean. How many years of fertility do I have? Is there enough time for him get over his issues? Is there enough of his own lifetime for that?

She turned to speak to him. “Sean . . .”

“Qi,” he replied, cutting her off with a calm voice as he rounded a concrete barrier in the parking garage. “I am really angry and I don’t want to say anything hurtful. Can you give me ten minutes?”

The sadness and hope for forgiveness in Qi crumbled. “No, Sean. I have needed to say this for two years, and you’re going to listen without interrupting.”
“Hold on,” Sean retorted, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Shut up, Kolyenko. I brought the cylinder so I could give it to you and apologize. Until you, I’d never met anyone who tired of the chalky red soot of Mars as much as I did. I never met someone willing to say ‘Screw you, complacent social mores. I’m going to make this world a better place.’ I’d never met anyone who could wield genius and deviousness like an artist’s paintbrush.”

Qi paused for a breath and Sean started to speak, but he wasn’t quick enough.

“I don’t know if it’s from mainland China or a tradition of the China Mars Republic, but men there tiptoe around courtship and marriage and the bedroom and their children like they’re afraid of the smallest error. I wanted a real man. Why do you think I was the only single person of all my friends? I wanted an intellectual equal. I wanted a man who was both cocky and sexy and knew it. I wanted to spend my life with someone who would make me feel sexy, even when he knew I was too sick or tired for him to get any. And when I was up for more, who’d do better than a quick and selfish bang. I wanted a man who was willing to be domesticated, wanted to be, and could do it without losing his masculinity.”

This time Qi paused long enough, and Sean took his eyes off the road to give her a slightly self-conscious smirk. “You wanted a fully brilliant, mildly arrogant son of the Black Sea, the heartthrob of every Ukrainian girl in the neighborhood.”

“You are so poetic when you talk about yourself,” she said sarcastically.

“Narcissism is only a problem when someone complains. Then it’s their problem.”

Qi tugged at her seatbelt and turned to face him more fully. “Sean, your aversion to starting a family is a failure that’s ruining your success everywhere else.”

“Can we discuss this when I’m not driving as fast as I dare because a crazy health care worker filled me with death-threat paranoia?”

“No. Now. Partly because of a crazy health care worker’s story.”

“Qi! Who in their right mind would think I should be a father?”

“Me. Because you can.”

“So you decided,” he said, his voice more annoyed than angry now, “to take matters into your own hands.” He took a breath, and looked at her apologetically. Then at the cylinder. “I never had a clue. How long were you setting me up to steal a sample, Qi?”

“Two years. I lied about your contraceptive pill being a turnoff. Then I made up the mood swings about my pill. Your condoms never actually bothered me.”

“I should have known,” Sean said. “Female condoms are great specimen bags, and no one actually likes them.”

“So, do you still need ten minutes of cooling off?”

“No. I’m just surprised. It’s not like you to avoid discussing things, but apparently I destroyed your other options. I’m angry I didn’t notice what you were doing.”

“How would you?” Qi replied. “I was naked.”

“Yes. Yes, you were,” Sean said with happy nostalgia on his face.

“Focus, Sean,” she said through unmoving lips.

Sean took an exit from the freeway at the last minute, just in case someone was following them. The tires squealed and a car honked behind him, but Sean was still smiling. “Then stop reminding me of your candlelit curves. Especially the one where—”

“Having a child together,” she interrupted, straightening in her seat after the jostling, “is the deepest expression of love we can have. And the most frustrating and rewarding. I’m not ruining that by dragging you unwillingly along or by doing it to hurt you. So here.” She shoved the cylinder into his chest. “I may never forgive you if I die childless, but it’s better than you never forgiving me and resenting our son or daughter.”

Hopefully this St. Patrick’s Day the only cylinders people are shoving at you are mugs of green beverages, followed by offers to drive you home. Cheers!

A Round with Ali

But not that Ali.
Author Ali Cross asked him to do a guest post on her blog, and DWD is such a sucker, he said yes. I suppose if you're interested in why he writes science fiction, you could check it out. This turtle girl? I'm going back to sleep.

http://alicross.com





I started reading Blood Crown a few days ago, and it reminds me of the animated Treasure Planet from 2002. Love that movie. But instead of the cartoony steampunk feel of TP, Blood Crown feels like shiny Isaac Asimov sci-fi on a backdrop of dark and sinister. It's a fun contrast between two works based on timeless stories. The first sci-fi rendition of a fairy tale I've read, I look forward to the rest.

I'm looking at my own bookshelf, and could you all see it, no one would guess I write science fiction. It's almost entirely fantasy novels, my very favorite being The Lord of the Rings. I'm such a fan that I postponed my first job interview after college so I could catch Return of the King on opening day.

Heck yeah, I still got the job.

In fantasy, I love the nobility and heroism and the archery. The ties characters and civilizations have to powers bigger than their world. I can't say I mind an evil monster beheading, either. The power of sorcery is always fun, but magic brings me to the edge of the map. Here, the monsters be unanswered questions. When reading, I don't care how Gandalf makes his staff glow or how the light of Eärendil functions. I'm happily distracted by the wonder swirling around me. But when I write, I don't like leaving mechanisms in the realm of the unknown. Details are so much more fun, especially when they're accurate.

As a kid, I thought the superhero version of Thor was lame, and was disappointed later to learn he was going to be integrated into the Marvel movies. Thor and Iron Man? Come on! But the screenwriters consulted real physicists, and instead of gagging on a genre mash-up as expected, I was geeking out at all the science they got right. I want that to happen to others when they read Dalton.

Again as a kid, I noted an apparent schism forming between Sunday school and science class. Genesis painted this amazing story that was even better than Tolkien because I was living in it, but I was told the every-bit-as-awesome mechanical details from the science books I loved were contradictory. I use the apparent word very purposefully. A page and a half of something Moses wrote piqued, but did not satisfy, my curiosity. The more I sought an explanation to the mechanics of life, the universe, and everything, the fainter became the barrier between science and religion. I geek out over gospel and have spiritual reactions to science as easily as vice versa. Those who try to convince me otherwise sometimes remind me of Morgoth, lusting to possess the Silmarils rather than in awe of how they were formed.

Possibly my favorite part of writing science fiction is extrapolating current knowledge to a new setting. In writing Houses of Common, I tried follow the trail of discoveries in genomics, economics, space exploration, and the push for environmental stability and see where they would lead in a century. And where would those trails leave characters from various backgrounds and species, and how do they deal with it? I never had a research project in school that was nearly this fun.

So why not write a fantasy where the mechanics of magic are known? Maybe I will. I've got an outline started...

In my day job as a physician assistant, I was talking with a grade-school patient and her mom. The girl has a genetic disorder that affects her joints now, and in the future may affect her blood vessels and heart valves. The heart problems usually don't start until middle age, so I did some math in my head. Extrapolated. To the answer the year 2055, I added what I'd learned at a conference about a Seattle research group cloning cardiac tissue, all the recent hoopla about 3D printing, the falling cost of sequencing a human genome, and the ability on the horizon to digitize, alter, and print DNA. The conclusion? I think it's safe to say the heart valve problems won't ever come up for that girl. Ever. Clip out the faulty gene, print out a cartilaginous frame, set the cloned tissue loose to grow over it, and replace the whole organ. She may not be allowed on tour ships to Mars, though. Those dream-killing insurance people.

Perhaps even more than the extrapolation, I love writing science fiction because sometimes the fiction part is a misnomer. One of my favorite parts of Ender's Game was reading about iPads when the Apple IIe was the fun new toy. Yeah, I liked the action and horror of Jurassic Park, but I reread the chapter about genetic engineering more than the rest of it. The epitome of awesome, right up there with winning a Hugo or Nebula or Philip K. Dick award, would be for a future sci-fi historian to label my books with an academic-sounding phrase like “ante-historical fiction” or “science non-fiction.”

But for now? I'm just having fun pretending to live in the 22nd century and writing about the adventure.

Bibliophilia, Please

At the invitation of Kayla Beck, I wrote a guest post for her blog Bibliophilia, Please.
The strangest part? A coworker had just done an interview a few days before for her own novel. Didn't even know she was a writer!

http://www.bibliophiliaplease.com/2014/03/blog-tour-guest-post-houses-of-common.html





I was browsing this site to get a feel for the authors who post here, when a familiar face jumped out at me. A coworker from my day job is a fellow writer. As in my current I-was-just-there-yesterday day job! And neither of us knew the other had such a dark secret as writing!

(That person can out themselves in the comments if desired, but that's all the gossip you're getting from me.)

Small world, eh?

A similar juxtaposition of unlikely events happened several years ago with my sister. I was in graduate school to become a biology teacher. A third of the time I was drinking in knowledge like my kids will take down a Slurpee on a Saturday with their granddad. The other two thirds of the time, the bulk of my classes, my brain was a squirmy nine-year-old with ADHD. After a Slurpee. To compensate during these mandated wastes of time, I'd draw and write. I'm proud to say my doodling had matured since I was nine, and the beginnings of a novel emerged. I graduated and got a teaching job and the novel experienced a few years of neglect before I picked it up again. About that time, my sister and I both had kids who were old enough to love bedtime stories. Though hers was barely a toddler, my sister made a comment about always reading the author's name with every story.

I found that obsessive. Why the interest in the author's feelings? I found out a year or so later. It's because she was one. She had a nearly-complete YA sci-fi novel, and she was just as shocked to find I'd been writing sci-fi too. Lots of swapped manuscripts and a road trip together for a writing conference later, she's querying agents about a novel I find intimidatingly fantastic, and I'm published. Pretty good stats for a writing group.

I have to confess: I skipped three years in that happy little story, and I'm not going to out myself with any comments. But I will discuss one of the big solutions that kept those three years from being four or five or ~shudder~. That's networking with great people.

I married a sharp woman. When I've been humble enough to take it, she's given super feedback. One example is the shape of the sculpture in chapter two of Houses of Common. Her idea. Sometimes it's tough to be open about one's creativity with those closest to us, but I've found it healthy, and she's a spectacular editor.

My sister, Jessica Parsons, also helped me out of my “independent and invincible” mentality as neither of them are applicable to a successful author. Check out her site for news on her sci-fi/thriller/romance Time Walker: jessicaleeparsons.blogspot.com.

As part of my mentality recalibration, Jessica introduced me to Eschler Editing. Phenomenal services, which are an absolute must for anyone wanting to self-publish. Their network lead me to other authors and eventually to being alerted that openings were available at a sci-fi and fantasy symposium. I sat on a panel with more established authors, taught some things, and learned a lot. It lead to my first book signing.

What I got right was being open with the right people. But what if I'd been more open about my writing sooner? That's scary, because for a time I wasn't comfortable with what I'd put on the page. But what if I'd talked to my sister a year or two earlier? What if I'd discovered my coworker was a fellow writer four years ago?

Finding a balance between being open with my creations and keeping them safe until ready to share is hard. I think more openness would have served me well.

Writing on someone else's bookshelf

M.R. Buttars volunteered to be part of the Houses of Common blog tour. Thanks!

Here's the link:

http://mrbuttarsbooks.blogspot.com/2014/03/house-of-commons-blog-tour.html?showComment=1394465678381#c237594360600538520

Sibling Revivalry

The nap was good, and now I'm back. I like this blog tour stuff. DWD is getting other people to do my job.

Here's the latest. An interview of DWD by his "favorite sister in the whole world." Given that it's his only sister, I think he's a twit. But I've previously made my opinion clear, so moving on. I did learn a little dirt on my boss though.

Here's the interview!

http://jessicaleeparsons.blogspot.com/2014/03/derrick-william-dalton.html






JP - Welcome to my blog, Mr. Dalton! Say hello, everyone. This is my oldest brother, who’s a father-physician assistant-triathlete-writer by day, exhausted by night. He’s been grabbing great reviews for his science fiction novel Houses of Common.
Available on Amazon

DWD - Thanks. I have to admit some disappointment. When the alert pops up in my email that you wrote another blog post, the excitement of ignoring my responsibilities to read it will be dampened because I'll already know the ending. Your blog is fantastic.

JP – Why, thank you. Your book is fantastic. With blog tours happening all month this has to be a pretty exciting time for you. How does it feel to hold your book in your hands?

DWD - Reviews from people I don't even know! Yes, I'm very excited. I was a guest poster (not Guess poster—that was Claudia Schiffer) for The Bearded Scribe (here). I had an interview with Cynthia Rodriguez who's an active duty soldier in Afghanistan (here). She also posted an excerpt of Houses of Common.

But holding my book? This may sound weird, but really, this is the experience. On day one of physician assistant school, we had a presentation on addiction recovery. The presenter was a counselor who facilitated rehab, and told his own story of addiction. "The first time I ever had a beer was the first time in my life I felt normal." When I pulled that first copy of Houses of Common out of the box, there was a brief rush of excitement of course, but mostly, I felt normal. More normal. As though I understood the concept of normal more accurately than before. Having the final manuscript safely backed up in three places was exciting, like when I was dating a certain redhead. Holding the book with the cover art and my name on it? That was being married to the redhead, realizing how much more real the relationship was. Not tentative, not inhibited. Normal.

Seeing the movie version of the novel? That would be later. The kids and the messy house and the crazy schedule and the lack of sleep and the "remember when it was just us?" Or so I imagine.

JP – Oh, man, your book would make such a great movie! And I’m sure watching your own characters on the big screen would be something like parenthood—only without the smells. If your book did become a movie, one of my favorite scenes would be the chase through the entire solar system. I won’t divulge too much, but I love that in the future you created there is a Planetary Parks and Preserves department, and they don't mess around with vandalism. What about you? Favorite scene.

DWD—Speaking of vandalism, chapter two involves some that was satisfying to write. The main character, Ranyk, has enough with commercials. Being in orbit with the satellites, he decides to do something about it. Other favorite scenes? One character is a kindergarten teacher, and watches her husband help with class science lessons. She sees the depth of his kindness despite his harsh upbringing. Ranyk's sister is the head of security for a US Embassy. She simultaneously beats up an employee who attacks her and calls the office staff to inform them he's fired. Without a break, she blasts into orbit to take out an assassin. Ever wonder what would happen if Star Trek superfans actually had starships? You'll meet one. Perhaps my favorite scene is when Ranyk earns himself a contempt of court charge.

JP—All great scenes. I’m especially fond of the Trekie. Very memorable, for sure, and that’s one of the things I love about your book. Not only is there cool action, your characters are deep and complex. You know, like me.


One of the things that intrigues me most about Houses of Common is the Office of Terraformation. You’ve obviously done a ton of research. For those of us not well versed on terraformation, give us a quick crash course.

Office of Terraformation T-shirts! Sweet, right?


DWD - Heehee! You sure you want me to get all geeky? Too late! Terraformation is converting a planet's environment so humans can live there. With Mars for example, the hypothesized plan includes spreading photosynthetic bacteria on the surface to increase oxygen and greenhouse gasses in the atmosphere, and to darken the surface so more sunlight is converted to heat. The next step is getting plants to grow, and there are some successes with this already in lab-simulated Martian environments. A tough part with Mars is its lack of magnetic field. Solar radiation would blast the new atmosphere into space. I know that's going to keep you up at night now. All those poor molecules, drifting away toward the asteroid belt…

It's a centuries-long process, but I figure in that the future scientists will be able to tinker with genes such that it's decades instead. And why not tinker with genes of the humans so they can tolerate a harsher environment?

JP—I find my mind blown. I do have a serious problem with your book, though. One of your characters has devoted his life to flying around the galaxy terraforming. He’s just walked into a lab where they train people in the skills necessary to make a planet livable:

“To humans, Ranyk was sure the place held a rich, garden aroma, the lights dusting it with a supernatural glow. To him it dispensed a heavy, palpable fog, reverberating with life and defiance. Here chaos and entropy were toppled from thrones of tyranny, shackled with the genes of living cells. In this abandoned warehouse was Ranyk’s purpose in microcosm; the filling of a void with life, whether it be an empty pot, a roof top, a continent, or an entire planet.”

So hold on there, Shakespeare. I thought this was sci-fi. What’s with all this stirring prose? Are you trying to sneak culture into my action/adventure? I’ll tell Mom.

DWD - Tell Mom what? That I wrote... Oh. You mean tell her about that other thing. It's been 25 years. I think you're bluffing, and if not, I don't think she'll care anymore.

No, I'm not sneaking culture into sci-fi, I'm showing 20th century literary fiction authors how to write a book that doesn't suck.

JP—First of all, which other thing? The projectile egg, the kitchen slip-n-slide, or the cat bowling? Because I think she already knows about all of those. We weren’t as sneaky as we thought. As for sneakiness, I still think you’re trying to pull a fast one on us, but I like it. I think all authors should try to find a balance between literary quality and entertainment. Otherwise, we’ll all be, like, dumb. Or bored. Literally.

DWD – I didn’t know Mom knew. Well there goes my leverage.

JP—The cat bowling got me thinking about being kids, and I just remembered our one and only childhood fight. You’re so, so much older than me, that we never really got into it. But, there was this one time that you were playing catch with me in the yard. You kept throwing it too hard and scaring me so I chucked the ball at you, missed by a mile, threw my mitt down and yelled, “You’re throwing it too hard, you butt head!” *exit stage left, huffily*. Remember?

DWD - Yeah, now that you mention it. It was the "butt head" that reminded me. That was the go-to insult at our house.

JP—Quite so. With occasional variation. My point is, it’s kind of like writing. First drafts are usually a bit…not ready. It takes guts to write garbage, throw it out, try again, get it less garbagy and then give it to people to criticize. Readers throw critiques at you and it hurts. But then you realize, Hey, I listened and now that part isn’t garbage anymore. Behind every good book, there is someone who threw some really hard edits at the writer. You helped me immensely with my novel, and I was absolutely indispensable to you. See how I brought that back around to me? It’s because I’m the youngest.

Really though, thanks for being willing to throw hard stuff at my face. Wait—I just had another memory. I’m pitching you a softball, you’re swinging the bat, CRACK—it’s slow-motion now—the ball bounces once right in front of me. POW! Right in the kisser! I COMPLETELY FORGOT YOU BROKE MY FACE WITH A SOFTBALL! I TAKE IT ALL BACK, YOU BUTTHEAD!

DWD - Umm, sorry? You got a good life lesson out of it. That's what I was thinking when I did those things. "Someday, she'll see the benefit of blah blah blah."

JP—You’re right. It was a long time ago and I forgive you. Good thing you can run faster than me. And longer. Isn’t running when you get most of your ideas? And how do you deal with being miles from your computer when inspiration hits? How’s the Iron Man training coming? And one more—are you nuts?

DWD - Running's the thing. See, I'm severely limited in what mind altering substances I can use. Limited professionally and by my internal moral compass. But, running is my trigger for endorphins. That's short for endogenous morphine. Yep, you read that correctly. Morphine! I'm a better cook of better goods than Mr. Breaking Bad, and the only equipment I need is good shoes. Of course, I can't sell mine... Cycling works too, but not swimming. Probably because my brain is concentrating on not drowning.

JP—You go scary fast on your bike. My body wouldn’t make endorphins if I went that fast. It would make wee wee.

DWD—All the way home? Ideas also come because I run on trails instead of the street. One of them is through national forest and 300-year old trees. Is my life real? My job? Human civilization? Yeah, but I look at the size and age of those trees. The sounds of leaves and grass and wind and the chemistry of photosynthesis. I smell the soil and needles and think of the complexity of bacteria and fungi in the ground. Millions of species and billions of years. That's reality. It rocks my world and makes "real" life boring.

JP--You sound like your character Ranyk. I think you would have been a terraformer had you been born a tad later, or maybe you already are, you just use words instead of genes.

But, you're out in the middle of the fungus and photosynthesis when an idea comes. What, do you whisper it to the trees and they pass the message along to the big pine in your back yard?

DWD—That's me, the plant plot whisperer. I've texted myself before. Tried association tricks with my fingers or mnemonic devices. My trail running pack has paper and pencil. It all works as long as I write it down when I get home. I can remember until then, but "real" life doesn't like new ideas and pushes them into oblivion. I did an off-road triathlon several years ago. I wasn't competitive at all, but when I crossed the finish line I ignored the hot girl handing out water and ignored the cramps in my calves and thighs and ran for a paper and pen. Those notes became three fat chapters and two plot twists. So now that the book is published, I draw on the principle of degrees of separation and tell people I'm a professional triathlete.

JP—I've seen you go dashing for paper, and I've done it myself, though not as quickly. My ideas used to come in the shower, so I started jotting notes on the shower wall with dry erase markers. Turns out they have to be dry in order to erase. I've got four kids now and I don't get to shower, so my muse has become the laundry. Okay, I don't want to talk about that anymore because I might cry a little bit. I love my kids but I do not love their dirty clothes. Let's talk about other things that take all day, like the Ironman.

DWD—Getting ready for the Ironman is going well. There's a growing trend in training schedules to back off on the long workouts and focus on intensity. The hypothesis is that pushing the anaerobic threshold up in short killer workouts rather than long death marches, then backing off and staying under that threshold for the race, is a more efficient use of training time. I was an almost mediocre contestant for seven years, just having fun. But I threw weight lifting and body weight training into the routine, and last year I turned in an above-average finish in an Olympic distance race. That's when I knew an Ironman was a possibility without ignoring my family for five months. They didn't even know I was training or planning to compete until three months in.

Nuts? Maybe. I prefer to be called a socially acceptable morphine addict whose habits have beneficial side-effects.

JP—One of those beneficial side-effects is writing wicked good books, so keep running! And please finish the next soon! Thanks for including me in your tour, bro.
Houses of Common is available on Kindle here, and paperback here with a code for $4 off (APSQBFT8). But if you want a FREE SIGNED COPY, be the first to leave a comment or question. Maybe he’ll even kiss the title page with lipstick. Heeeehee. That would be hilarious!
Help DWD keep his dream progressing by leaving a review, or marking existing reviews as helpful on Amazon, and liking his page/sharing this interview on Facebook. He also has a page on Goodreads.
DWD’s blog is here if you want to stay up to date on the novels and short stories available. You MUST read Sterile Field. An excerpt is included with Houses of Common, but I promise you, it won’t be enough.
Any final words, DWD?
DWD—Mom! Jessie's the one that threw the egg in the kitchen!

JP—Lies! I was the one who bonked you on the head with the meat tenderizer causing you to throw the hard boiled egg into the living room. Wait! No—it was Tyler! Absolutely that was Tyler. And I will delete any comment he posts that says otherwise. Because this is MY blog. And I’m the baby.

Live from Afghanistan

Hey all. Shelly's napping, so I'll take this one. It's another stop on the Houses of Common blog tour. Cynthia Rodriguez is currently serving in the US Army in Afghanistan. She and her agent are seeking a publisher for her novel. In the meantime, she offered to interview me. Here it is!

http://cynthiaarodriguez.wordpress.com/2014/03/05/author-derick-william-dalton-and-houses-of-common/






This being my first time ever interviewing an author, I’m a bit nervous. But I assure you all, DWD is pretty awesome. Don’t worry, I tried to tone down the social awkwardness and keep my questions helpful to you as well as interesting. So, without further ado, let’s grab a seat and get this interview rolling! Mr. Dalton?

We’re a good match, because this is my first time being interviewed as an author. I’m no stranger to fame, though. I got my picture in the paper for the fifth grade science fair, and in high school, I had an interview with a local TV reporter which did not air.



1. I’ve spoken a bit about authors and their wacky inspiration. I know mine came from a Disney coloring page. Another is Stephenie Meyer, revealing the Twilight Saga being inspired by a dream. Where did the inspiration for Houses of Common come from?

Wacky. That’s a good word choice. Two sources congealed the ideas in my head and sparked the urge to start writing Houses of Common. The first was an article I read when I was supposed to be working on my thesis for a master’s degree in education. How’s that for hypocrisy? A teacher not doing his homework. The article was by Robert Zubrin, entitled Getting Space Exploration Right. Here’s a link, because it’s an awesome piece: http://www.thenewatlantis.com/publications/getting-space-exploration-right. Zubrin noted the discovery and colonization of North and South America changed the world superpowers, in that those who colonized became the powers, and those who backed out, well Portugal? Who’s that? He predicted the same will occur with colonization of the moon and Mars. See how that’s more interesting than articles on educational law and classroom management?

The other was a botany class. Genetics and medical stuff is what hooks me, not plants. But after a few classes, I changed my attitude. One day in particular, the reproductive cycle of ferns was the topic. The offspring look nothing like the parent fern. It’s more like a miniature water lily. The lily-looking plant’s offspring is the fern. It’s called alternation of generations, it’s really weird, and I started wondering what that would look like in a humanoid. That’s where the main character’s species came from. Thanks Dr. Roberts!

But here’s what I need to know: Did your inspiration come before or after the Disney page was colored?



2. The coloring page remains uncolored. There’s this completely sensible part of me that says if I color it, I may ruin the luck I’ve had so far in writing. Like someone snapping their fingers and I wake up from a dream! Silly, I know. But it’s a small fear of mine. Which brings me to my next question. Something I constantly discuss on this blog is fear. I truly believe the Jack Canfield quote: “Everything you want is on the other side of fear.” What is your greatest fear as an author?

You do realize you just handed your enemies full knowledge of your kryptonite. All they have to do is locate the the Magic Disney Page of Fortune, and defile it with cadmium red, or more fittingly, mermaid fin green.

My fears? In high school and college when I taught swimming lessons, and when teaching high school biology, I’d occasionally have nightmares about the job. In them, I’d swear in front of a bunch of six-year-olds, and wake up horrified at the pool-time fun wiped off their sweet little faces. Or I’d slip an off-color joke into a biology lecture, and have to explain to parents and the principal. I never did any of those things, but the dream was a recurring and disturbing one. Now, I worry about writing something that could be misinterpreted and interrupt the flow of the story with the similar jolt my nightmares would have given in real life. Hooray for beta readers and editors!

A bigger fear? I have a pact with my sister, Jessica Parsons (she has a completed novel, Time Walker, and is searching for agents right now). We’ve agreed to be brutally honest if we notice the other becoming an arrogant, insufferable jerk. We’re all familiar with authors who lose their personable nature in direct proportion to success. When in doubt, I think WWBWD. What would Bill Watterson do?



3. As my readers know, I cannot write comfortably without music and usually I’ll post a song at the end of each post. Music is something that gives me strength as well as direction and I’ve always wondered if all authors feel this way or if I’m the only one. Do you need absolute silence while writing or do you listen to music? If you listen to music, what does your soundtrack look like?

When I’m writing a first draft, silence is my muse. Sometimes the two together are a salve. Occasionally instrumental music is helpful, my favorite being my Pandora station seeded with “John Williams” as artist. Heroic movie themes for my heroic propaganda. (Hey, could that be a new genre name?) But lyrics at that phase are a killer. Can’t write anything with someone’s voice in my ears. Editing is another story. My kids can even be at the same table asking me questions about homework without throwing me off. So, I sometimes broaden the music when revising drafts. A few songs in particular have helped me with characters:


Ranyk – the protagonist of Houses of Common is a terraformer whose deep respect for life is counterbalanced by issues with authority. The Ramones had Ranyk in mind specifically when they recorded their version of What a Wonderful World. Really. Look it up. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-3ox-6WhBA

Sckiik – Ranyk’s sister is a former cop and current head of security for her species’ US Embassy. A spiritual person with a violent job, I heard this hymn by the cover band Mishmash and now it’s the soundtrack in my brain during her girl-power scenes. http://grooveshark.com/#!/s/Do+What+Is+Right/2GOa2P?src=5

Dr. Perinath – She’s Ranyk’s boss, the one authority figure who knows how to wrangle him. This song has personal and historical meaning for her, and it’s one of my favorites, too. Can’t beat 40s big band! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhyhP_5VfKM

Sean and Qi - Theirs is a Romeo-and-Juliet story with a happier outcome (so far), a conspiracy theorist twist, and a big pile of reality to irk them. That’s all the info you get until book three (wicked laugh) but here’s a great song. The video? Kind of lame. It would be WAY better if it was about Sean and Qi. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1R_txIuuio



4. I’m fairly new to writing and have yet to be published. So for you to have been published and me to be able to ask you questions, the next one is obvious: Any advice for writers/new authors?

As I’ve listened to other writers answer this question, I’ve realized there are almost that many paths to the profession. Advice I’ve been given doesn’t often work for me. It was trial and error in figuring out how to craft a story. So, this may be meaningless to many, but here’s what I’ve learned.

Good feedback is painful and your friend. It’s scrubbing the gravel out of road rash. It’s setting the subluxed ulnar fracture. It’s incising and draining the infected cyst. The most useful feedback I received from editors and beta readers nearly always left a bruise.

Well, wasn’t that pleasant.



5. I agree. The best things in life (and writing) are usually the hardest to do. Something else I find difficult at times? Naming characters. I think naming characters can be one of two things: instantaneous or something absolutely annoying. How did you come up with your characters’ names (Sckiik, Ranyk, etc.)?

You’ll think I’m joking, but I swear I’m not making this up. The alien names are the product of an arcane ritual in which I extend my index fingers, close my eyes, and tap out a rhythm on the keyboard. I never learned to type without looking, so it’s truly random. Then I look for interesting phoneme strings and add a vowel or consonant as needed. I’ll forgive anyone for thinking that’s just cheating. Or for stealing the idea.

When choosing from existing names, sometimes I pick one with a meaning to match their purpose. Sometimes one that sounds like it fits and no other reason. Like your instantaneous method. One of my character’s names sounds like the French translation of a phrase which suggests subterfuge. I found that by accident and couldn’t pass it up. Travers le rideau. Through the curtain.



6. This blog is dedicated to sharing my journey as a writer. From typing the first words of this novel to now; what’s your story?


If I write the rest of my novels like the first, my writing career will be a very short story. But I won’t, so it won’t. Because I’m not going to interrupt any more novels with starting and finishing grad school two different times. I also won’t interrupt the next novel three times for adorable little babies (or unadorable ones). Not going to build my own house again, ever. In short, I’ll have the sequel done in six months instead of ten years.

Maybe I just inadvertently shared some advice. About not giving up or hanging it up or hanging yourself.

Here’s how come I only clicked pause and never stop. I like the process of writing. I like learning new things and letting them loose in my head to see what random connections they’ll make. I like outlining a story and putting it into complete sentences. (Complete sentences? Did anyone else’s internal fourth grader just moan and groan in teacher-mediated torment?) I like walking away for a week and coming back to a chapter that’s a really enjoyable read. None of my other jobs in research or education or medicine can boast that all their facets are enjoyable. Hmm. Maybe it’s the walking away for a week…



It’s been such a pleasure speaking to Derick William Dalton and I sincerely encourage you all pick up his new book, Houses of Common. And if you’re an author, feel free to reach out to me for a spotlight post as well. After all, if authors don’t help authors, who will?

All my love,
Cynth

Bearded Scribe

What I think DWD means is "bearded dragon." Much cooler than a scruffy mammal who thinks he's eloquent. But apparently he was a guest poster on their blog, and wants me to relay it to all of you.

Here's the link. The full post is also below. You know what to do.

http://thebeardedscribe.blogspot.com/2014/03/guest-post-by-derick-william-dalton.html



PS - Buy a copy of his book. This polar vortex and a burned out heat lamp don't mix.






A few weeks ago I attended the Life, the Universe, and Everything sci-fi and fantasy symposium in Provo, Utah. It was completely worth two days in the car to get there. I was a panelist for one of the sessions, and a lady in the audience asked a question that kept me thinking.

“I know the characters in my novel. I know the conflict and the plot. But I don't have a world in which to put them.”

I interpret literally the concept that art imitates life. Some of my best ideas have come from one of my college textbooks, Invertebrates by Brusca and Brusca. That book makes the Mos Eisley cantina look like retired white folks playing bingo. Sometimes I reread it just to overload my brain with weirdtasticness.

As this lady asked about creating a world for her fantasy series, I pondered a phrase commonly used in biology. Form follows function. If some part of an organism looks like it should perform a certain job, likely that's exactly what it does. It holds true for the bizarre appendages and embryology stages of arthropods. Though more abstract, behavior is such a formation. In mammals, it's a product of the frontal cortex of the brain. It's all about neurotransmitters and receptors and genetics. The function of which, speaking broadly, is to help an organism survive and reproduce. (A high school student once told me my biology class was boring. “Why?” I asked. “All we're talking about is food and sex.” He paid closer attention after that.) In humans, behavior is also involved in the other facets of our well-being. Could an author view her characters as an extension of the world's personality?

Here's a real life example.

Bonobos, Pan paniscus and formerly known as pygmy chimpanzees, are native to an area of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. It's a lush and fertile environment. They're a peaceful species, and are too busy mating to fight. Chimpanzees, P. troglodytes, are native to other areas, many of which are dry and harsh. They're mean. Males patrol the borders and kill other chimpanzees. They backstab each other for dominance. Primatologists hypothesize the link between these behaviors and habitat is causal rather than coincidental.

So, we just need to invent ethnic stereotypes and reverse-engineer a world from them, right? Why not? But it needs to be more interesting than that, because there can be so many variables. After living in Canada, I can't go back without the accent following me for days. Being there changed me, and more than just knowledge of what ten degrees Celsius feels like or the first verse of “O, Canada.” I was only there six months. What about an entire life? As a physician assistant, every day I see kids whose healthy or unhealthy habits are identical to those of their parents or grandparents. For an author, the bonus is that the more entrenched a pattern of behavior, the bigger the payoff for the character and the reader when it's overcome.

What if that pattern goes as deep as geology or history or DNA? Now we're talking heroic.

This brings up the question of personal decision. A fun difference between mythic heroes, tragedies, comedies, and other forms of literature is the question of fate. Destiny. A character in book two of my Houses of Common series (Meaner Sort, out later this summer) pondered this question. She's an alien and head of security for her people's ambassador to the United States. She suffers setbacks in the form of failing to prevent an assassination, helplessly discovering xenocide, and worrying about the safety of her loudmouth brother. Leaving a hotel, she sees a holographic rendering of Paul Gaugin's painting Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?, and reflects on the Ambassador's attack. “We come from the genes of our forebears, Monsieur Gauguin,” she whispers. “We are slaves of our instincts with a certain leeway of behaviors we must control or others will do so for us. But going where?”

I wish I would have thought of all this when that lady at the symposium asked her question. I guess that's why I write novels instead of run for office.