An Interim Interview - Charles M. Pulsipher

Shelly - A little change-up this week. DWD asked me to interview a friend, one Mr. Charles M. Pulsipher. Despite his name he's not in the British Parliament. Mr. Pulsipher's a cook and woodworker and zombie survivalist. Now he's expanded his skills to that of science fiction author. I have two requests as we begin, Mr. P. I want to call you Chuck, and will you please tell me the premise of Crystal Bridge includes no spaceships. DWD has burned me out on those.

Charles - You can call me Chuck. I mainly go by Charlie, but all my high school friends still insist on Chuck. I'm used to it. There are no space ships at all. My characters travel to another world, but they do it the old fashioned way, walking...I mean wormholes. These aren't the cheesy 80's wormholes either. I worked very hard to make them cool and slightly terrifying.

S - Mmmm. You had me at worms. I understand there is also a character who can read emotion without using words. Now I'm hungry and jealous. Not having to talk to people...

Chuck - Yep. Kaden opens the wormholes. Aren can see memories and read people's souls just by looking at them. Her gift becomes very important in keeping her alive as she gets lost on the other world. She's pretty tough to begin with, but she must learn to be more than that when she's captured by underground dwelling Dwaros.

S - I know you're talking about the Einstein field equation thing, but all I'm hearing is gooey slimy earthy goodness. Enough about me, though. I'm trying to limit my egocentricity. Speaking of tough, independent women with tough shells, requests from readers of the Eveleth Elle and my physics students in the southwest (see previous posts, everyone) were unanimous. "Read us the last page of Crystal Bridge!" So, how about it?

C - Can't do it. The last page gives away the biggest twist I wove into the novel, a secret that will blow minds. I can give you the last line. I like it, despite being a little passive. "He realized he was hungry." Great, huh?

S - Get out! That's not really the line, Chuck. You just made that up to keep me drooling over freshly-unearthed oligochetes. Okay, so we know one of my influences. What about yours? Who or what made you want to write? Kept you motivated when writing was inconvenient or hard? And if you say post-1989 George Lucas I will bite off your toe so help me the Dagobah swamp monster.

C - I can't say George Lucas pre or post-1989 had much to do with my writing. My writing style and voice have definitely been influenced by Orson Scott Card and Tad Williams. Joss Whedon and JJ Abrams have influenced me a bit. Fringe, Alias, Firefly, Angel, and Veronica Mars have become a part of me. Some older stuff too, E.T., The Dark Crystal, Labrynth, Stargate, even Sliders. I find inspiration anywhere I can get it.

S - HMMmmm. Skeksis help Gelfling! Loved that show! Except the end when the Skeksis are unwillingly forced to abandon their ideals, and their culture gets watered down by those hunchbacked hobos. Oh well. Here's the next thing I want to know. Any parts of The Crystal Bridge you wouldn't want read to kids? And by that I mean what page numbers should I memorize or mark with a sticky note?

C - If you managed to watch The Dark Crystal, then my novel will be no problem for you. That movie has some freaky things in it. My novel has a little scene where a man is mauled by a large cat-goat thing, Kaden almost gets swallowed by a dragon, and Rho, the dark god, has a few creepy moments, but the novel is pretty clean and tame. I wrote it for the 14 year-old in me and I think it appeals to anyone from 13 to 45.

S - Oooh! Mild sci-fi violence warning! That will boost the 14-to-whatever male mammal readership. I'm a bit embarrassed now, though. Now everyone knows I'm into bodice-ripping shell-scratching reptile romance novels. The interviewee is the one whose supposed to slip up with too much info. Speaking of awkward, what was the most embarrassing typo you came across while editing?

C - Unfortunately, that's an easy answer. I switched the names of two characters...twice. I have two scientists working on recreating extinct animals using genetic simulations. Here's a bit of spoiler, one of them dies. I managed to use the wrong character's name in the middle of the emotional scene. Then in another scene I confused two female Sidra who are nothing alike. Sidra are kind of like elves. One was the bad guy's minion and one was fighting against her. So, I had the good elf riding into battle against herself for a moment. I'm so glad I caught those before I finished. That would have been bad.

S - What do you think your therapist would say about that, Chuck?

C - I think most writers would be considered crazy once we start talking about our characters as real people. We're weird and conflicted. That's why we write. It's like you, Shelly. We all know you made up this DWD character. You're writing these books, aren't you, Shelly?

S - I've signed a strictly-worded harshly-penalizing contract which prevents further discussion. Your first comment, though? Crazy, weird, and conflicted applies to non-reptile vertebrates as a whole, so no disagreement here. Which brings up the last question, Chuck. The What If Game. Books sales are up, screenplay written, auditions underway. Who stars in the film Crystal Bridge?

C - Doesn't matter as long as J.J. Abrams and Joss Whedon direct it together and it has a cameo from George Wendt. NORM! I love that guy. I also wouldn't mind if Natalie Portman is involved somehow.

S - I'd watch that! Well, Chuck, it has been a pleasure. Especially considering your species. I mean that as a compliment, by the way. So where do I get a copy of Crystal Bridge?

C - I wish I could bundle the print books. I thought about doing it with the ebooks, but they are so different. Maybe I'll think about it some more. Thank you, Shelly. This has been fun, even with your obsession over worms.

S - And hot male terrapins. Wait, what? There's more? I get a free copy of your survival guide, Zombies at the Door if I order in the next ten seconds? Okay - minimize, new tab, Amazon, title by author, spinning circle of boredom... spinning... spinning... And I'm too late. Stupid 1G dial up.

Crystal Bridge, by Charles M. Pulsipher:

  Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005NF3SDI Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Crystal-Bridge/Charles-M-Pulsipher/e/2940013379176 Print: http://www.amazon.com/Crystal-Bridge-Charles-M-Pulsipher/dp/1466320958/ref=tmm_pap_title_0

Be my Valentine's Day marketing demographic

The season seems to be softening me like a deficiency in vitamins A, C, and D. This post is therefore dedicated to all who read it. Free of charge, I'm offering full reproductive permission.

Whoa, that came out wrong. Please don't ever ask me what you can and can't do with your jeans and genes. And to that Russian tortoise who keeps emailing me, that certainly was NOT the invitation you've been hoping for.

Do you see why I stick to cynicism? So much less confusion.

Many people need pre-made Valentine's Day cards. I'm not above associating myself with popular culture in the name of self promotion. So print and use to your heart's content, and may St. Valentine bring you whatever it was you asked when you sat on his lap.

Holiday Recipes

As I bask in my infrared snuggly-light, I'm watching the thermometer and the snow falling and falling outside. One of these years I ought to hibernate, but for now I'd rather get in on Thanksgiving. The food, the family, the heart-warming life-affirming television specials that help us realize the industry really cares about our needs first and foremost...

Terrapins have our own Thanksgiving story, you know. It's pretty similar to the Squanto and Pilgrims tale, only in the turtle version, the larger picture of stable biomes and the detrimental effect of non-native species was understood. So Squanto the turtle showed the European newcomers all the toxic fungus to eat and the rocky soil where they couldn't dig below the frost line to hibernate. That's why native North American turtles don't live on reservations and we maintain our original caustic culture. Now if we could just keep kids from taking us home as pets and removing us from the breeding population. That's frustrating on many levels.

Hmm. I got sidetracked by vengeance and innuendo. Imagine.

I really wanted to talk about the food at a Shelly-style Thanksgiving. First – no turkey. It's too close of a relative. That would be like humans eating another mammal. Blah. No, we go for the mealworm and cricket bake, just like momma used to make. Don't let the misleading name give you nausea, though. It's not really baked, just warmed to about ninety degrees. That way the mealworms are more active and tempting to the palate. Sometimes the crickets can be a problem, though. I remember having to be the one to pull the legs off some of them so grandpa could catch his Thanksgiving feast.

Mom always tried to get us to eat our salad after that. Not that we didn't like salad, it's just that we wanted to save room for the earthworm pudding. Who wants vegetables, even if they are firm and colorful and sweet, when there is food that is trying to get away? It's nutrition and entertainment and stimulation of the hunting instincts. All at once! Not to mention the sheer joy of plunging one's face into a huge container of slimy, wiggly goodness.

Ah. The memories.

I hope you all make some of your own memories this year. Hear that kids? Try plunging your face into a container of baked pumpkin, whipped cream-y goodness. When your stuffy aunt is watching. Before the pie is sliced and served. I promise your mom won't ever forget it.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Bathtub Shelly

At the risk of making readers feel voyeuristic, a peek into my hygiene regimen sheds some light upon the frustrations of depending on a mammal for support. A male mammal, what's worse.

Every other day or so, I am rudely awakened from my cozy cubby by Derick William Dalton's right hand pulling me out. One would think he'd know what "hiss" means by now. Snakes use the phrase to imply the listener has a sexy aroma. Turtles, on the other hand, use it as a gauntlet-dropping final straw to the rules of engagement. Of course, that's only because running away isn't an option. We usually just hide in our shells and laugh as predators break their teeth trying to get at us.

I am then carried to the bathroom sink where his grubby kids wash their hands after pooping (sometimes). Here I must note that he very kindly sets the water temperature to a perfectly toasty temperature. But then he leaves me there for forty minutes, and by that time it's chilly. The first ten minutes is divine. I only need to come up for air three times, and I get all I can drink. But then I have to go, you know? So there I sit in pee water getting colder and colder. Of course, this is the one time when DWD decides to write. While I'm losing heat to dilute urine, he's blah blah blah starship engines, or blah blah blah alien pathophysiology.

I crawl as high up the side as I can, and stretch out my neck. There he is, sitting with his back to me. Blah blah blah futuristic geo-political-religious commentary. Boring! Well, except the part where the bad guy gets sucked into a spaceship drive, or out into the vacuum without a helmet, or has dental work with no anesthesia. But in the meantime, I've got a floater in here. I'm no microbiologist, but doesn't that defeat the purpose of a bath?

Finally, he comes in to drain the cesspool and wash me off. Then there's the fresh earthworm or macaroni and fish, as his handwashing-challenged kids call the food pellets. Good food under a snuggly heat lamp. Not bad.

Now if he wouldn't pretend to be Ringo Starr on the drums while I'm trying to sleep, life would be good.

My Impersonation of Steve McQueen, Sans Motorcycle

Just like my worm the other day, I almost escaped once. Derick William Dalton turned me loose in the back yard for some exercise. I like to think he had concerns with my cardiovascular health, because if I find out he wants me to lose weight, I'm going to bite him.

The grass was cool, the sun was warm, and the breeze smelled better than the stale air of my terrarium. At first I was enjoying it. Then I started feeling a little exposed but quickly found the solution. The hillside. Cool dry dirt to dig and sagebrush under which to hide. When I'm not trying to catch anything in my mouth, I'm surprisingly quick. I waited until DWD was distracted by one of his kids and I was gone. I crawled under a tumbleweed, dug down, and flipped some of the dirt over me.

DWD spent hours looking for me. Almost stepped on me twice. His wife and the neighbors were out looking for a while, too. The sun went down, all got quiet and dark, and I didn't have to stay up until midnight listening to laser guns and starship explosions from the television. I enjoyed the peaceful sleep for several hours, but then I woke to notice bits of frost forming on the grass around me. And I smelled dog. Well, smelled, and the scar on the back of my shell was tingling due to the presence of some Voldermutt. No more sleep after that.

Obviously, the sunrise the next morning was my favorite of recent memory. That's how DWD found me, out in the open trying to thaw out, my legs and head stretched out to catch as much sun as I could. Not very ladylike, but I wasn't trying to impress anyone.

So, my terrarium doesn't seem so confining anymore. Just wish I had a baseball.

A Political Runt. Or is it rant?

I was trying to concentrate on an escaping worm yesterday. Don't you dare laugh at my lack of speed. Have you ever eaten one the size of your leg with no hands? My hard time was exacerbated as DWD was on another political tirade on the phone. Something about hating fancy felosi. Sounds like an Italian dressing, which is weird, because DWD loves salad. So do I for that matter, as he gives me the leftovers. He has started these rants a few times a day over some apparent change in a health fair. I think he must have attended one. If I were a betting girl, I'd say his cholesterol was checked and too high. DWD doesn't handling aging or lack of fitness very well.

I thought he was done so I started to nod off under my heat lamp, tummy full of earthy, wormy, goodness. Then he started in on trying to get money from some Irish guy. He wanted to bill O'Reilly or O'Malley or O'Someone. He had a lot of mean things to say about this person, too. This also made no sense as DWD does no work overseas. In fact, I suspect he simply does no work.

My point is though, why do you all stress out so much? Too much on your plate at work? Not enough on your plate at the table? Just hibernate. Take a break. It's a good rest. Then have sex when you wake up and pass on your genes. Nothing matters after that. Homo sapiens of the world, chill out.

Wait, what? You have to raise your young? Wow. That sucks.