17502--New World

NEW WORLD

New World, Iowa had been carved into a location generally considered to be representative of the expression “middle of nowhere”. It was nothing less than the drive of human will that had brought a living community into existence on a patch of ground that had previously not even been exploited for farming. Isolation was what had made the location so appealing. A clean energy company town had been built out from the primary construction site for the world’s first interstellar exploration ship.

To promote continued interest in the project among children and bolster their sense of community, the town’s school included associated research assignments every year as part of the students’ curriculum. The only kid who had had the insight and testicular fortitude to call the site commander’s office directly since the project began had asked to meet him for an interview. Given the nature of his job--what he had come to see as the real nature of it--the commander didn’t see how he could refuse.

When the student arrived at the bookstore’s coffee shop, the commander had hot chocolate waiting for him.

“Order what you like,” the inspiring hero told him. “I tip big, but they refuse to charge me here.”

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said, sniffing at the steaming liquid as he pulled the cup toward him.

“I know that look,” the man told his guest. “It’s the best they have, but it’s made with water. Sorry.”

The kid leaned back in his chair as he opened his notebook. He frowned thoughtfully as he looked up at the living legend across the table, trying not to seem intimidated.

“Go ahead,” the commander told him. “Ask what’s on your mind.”

“It’s just…you don’t seem like…in your book,” he said.

The commander glanced again at the copy of New World Brave the wide-eyed boy had dragged along, his own face staring back at him from the cover was less like a mirror and struck him as more akin to some other version from an alternate universe.

“If you’re planning to hold me up to some sort of chapter and verse scrutiny from that thing,” the commander said, “you should probably know…I didn’t write it.”

“What?” the youth asked, clearly dazed by the revelation. “You…but…”

“Something you read in there inspired you, didn’t it?” the commander asked.

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes drifting to the book on the table as though it had become some alien thing he had never seen before. “I want to be a pilot…like you, maybe even on one of the starships that comes out of here.”

The commander stared into the boy’s sincere eyes and reached out a hand as he said, “Give me your recorder.”

The boy surrendered the handheld device, sliding it across the table.

“And the pen and notebook,” the commander said, taking up the pen and starting to scribble in the notebook immediately. “I’m going to tell you some things, things you probably won’t get to repeat to anyone while I’m still alive. Think you can handle that?”

“I…Yes, sir.”

“Good,” the commander said, returning the notebook and pen, “that’s what I wanted to hear. You guard that. It’s top secret. When we’re done, if you think you still want to ride one of the big command chairs, we can probably get you there together.”

“Uh…OK,” the student said, puzzled as he deciphered the scribbles. “Like wingmen?”

“Yeah, like wingmen. Take these,” the commander told him, handing him the silver wings pin from his own uniform, “and we can talk pilot-to-pilot.”

As if the wings weren’t enough, even the suggestion that he was about to have a conversation with his hero on some level where they acted like equals was enough to make the young student’s mind reel. The best thing he could think to say in response was nothing because he was sure that anything he had to say would make him sound stupid.

“You’re what…twelve?”

“Thirteen.”

“So you’ve probably seen movies based on a true story,” the pepper-haired commander said, “when you’ve known the true story was way, way different.”

“You’re saying that’s what happened with your book?”

“That steaming crap pile they massaged into the shape of a book tells little of the life I remember going through,” he said. “They spelled my name right and I’m a pilot. Beyond that…Hell, they even messed with the picture on the cover. I think they used some kind of focus group to decide on changes.”

“You keep saying ‘they’,” the boy said. “Who did all this? Is that a secret, too?”

“Part of a government project,” the commander said. “Specifically, the damned politicians. They wanted to create a perfect PR hero.”

“What’s that?” the boy asked.

“Public relations,” came the answer. “A neat package, planned, manufactured and sold to the people like a boy band.”

“A what?” the boy asked, sounding even more confused by the obscure reference.

“Before your time,” the commander said. “The point is, New World Brave was just a piece of a larger plan. I’m getting ahead of myself, though. First truth: I love to fly more than almost anything. I fly in my dreams and if I could go without food or rest, I’d never stop flying. I started in private planes, which became military aircraft in an eye blink. Before long, people were calling me a war hero everywhere I went and expecting me to smile about it. The only way I saw to get real distance from it was to keep flying. By my third Mars mission, they were trying to talk me into this assignment. I, naturally, flew the first manned recon team to Titan instead. If I could’ve mustered up just a bit more selfishness, you’d be at this table with someone else.”

“The book never explained that part well,” the junior pilot said. “Why’d you give up flying? How could you when you love it so much?”

“Let me tell you, I’d have kept fighting it,” the commander replied, “if not for the Titan mission. After that, it was impossible for me to ignore any longer how important it was for us that we expand our presence beyond this planet as fast as possible. Politicians or not, even with most of this job being nothing like what it seems to be--”

“You really don’t like politicians, do you?”

“They lie as easily as breathing comes to most people,” the commander said, “and complicate absolutely every issue they touch. I’m supposed to be heading this project. Thanks to them, though, the work’s been scattered across half the country and it’s been turned into a PR job to keep everyone excited about having jobs.”

“My mom says we’d barely have enough to eat if not for coming here.”

“You and a lot of others,” the commander said. “Same for a lot of folks in the couple of dozen places that support this one. Most of my job ends up being coordinating parts shipments.”

“That’s a long way from flying,” the boy said sympathetically.

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, why couldn’t they have gotten…anybody else to come here and do this?”

“They needed the right name,” the commander said, “and the right face to be associated with the project.”

“Oh, a hero.”

“Still not comfortable with that,” he sighed, “but, yeah. They needed to make sure our big baby gets off the ground.”

“Our hope for the future,” the boy said. “You’ll get to go up with it, then, right?”

“At my age?” he laughed. “I’ll be dead before that ship ever flies, probably when my head explodes from screaming at some clown in Congress.”

“Why is it so important to them that we get the new ship out there?” the boy asked. “I mean, really?”

“Ah, you’re catching on,” the commander smiled slyly. “Yes, they’ve got a lot of great stories about all the wonderful benefits that justify us rushing off into space, but none of them are anything more than half-truths.”

“Because politicians lie.”

“Smart kid,” the commander said. “That Titan recon…”

“You found something out there. You did, didn’t you?”

“Hey, keep your voice down,” the commander said.

“You did.”

“Something, yes,” the commander confirmed quietly. “We’re still not sure what. All we do know is that it distorted our instrument readings and…that I was the only one to make it back alive. I cared more about flying circles around Titan than about going down to the surface. We lost comms during my second orbit. When I flew over, my cameras got pictures of…I don’t know what. It was nothing anyone could’ve been alive in.”

“So you broke orbit?”

“Mission orders,” the commander said. “Always keep flying, kid.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Anyway, after I got back,” the living legend went on, “they made up a cover story and I realized there was no way they were going to let me take another team back out there. They watch me, study me. I think they’re waiting to see if I grow another eye.”

The boy laughed, till he realized the commander was not.

“OK, wait, sir,” the lieutenant commander insisted.  “Stop there.  Let’s say I believe you: you really knew him, were mentored by a legend, and his book that inspired a generation was a load of…*ahem*  Why, sir, may I ask, do you have a metal cylinder strapped into my chair?”

“He liked the feel of that chair. He said he never wanted to get used to this one, since he wasn’t going to get to fly her.  Don’t worry about it, though,” the captain said, taking the canister from the navigator’s seat.  “The bottom’s magnetized.  It’ll attach to the deck plate.  Taking the commander along as ashes, though, is the only way I’m getting him back up there.”
“Since we’re sharing, captain,” the navigator said, “what was the secret he wrote in your notebook? Was it about the recon mission?”

“Secret hot chocolate recipe,” he said. “I’ll make us some before we get near Titan and open the sealed mission orders.”

“I’m not going to like what’s in there, am I?”

“Probably not as much as the hot chocolate,” the answer came, “but we’re going in with the best possible crew and a lot of great training. Whatever we find out there, the three of us will do our best to keep this beauty flying. Can we count on you?”

“I’m your wingman, sir.”

16653--And On the Third Day...

What is that magical delight, with it's incredibly dense, complex and ancient genetic code?  It is a unique creation under the sun, still unduplicated by man's puny sciences.  It is wondrous ambrosia.  Am I gushing?  Maybe a little.  It deserves it, though.  Of course, I'm talking about Theobroma Cacao.  Chocolate.  The blessed gift that is the food of the gods (it says so right in the name).   While the Mayans were dreaming up their plot to sell everyone else on the 2012 gag, the Aztecs were enjoying the seeds from paradise, eating the fruit (which they believed brought their prophet universal wisdom and knowledge), using the beans for money and also grinding them to make a nutritious, bitter beverage.  Oh, what wondrous bounty from the gods.  Cortez liked the hot drink so much that he packed boatloads of the beans to send back to Spain. 
   Now the Aztecs made their drink from cocoa beans that were grilled, crushed, mixed with maize (your people may call it corn) flour, chili pepper vanilla and hot water.  It was described as bitter yet satisfying.  Yum.  Speaking of satisfying, Montezuma would have copious amounts before servicing his women for the night.  Did I mention, food of the gods?  Anyway, bitter and satisfying wasn't the ticket for Spain.  Cortez introduced it hot, sweet and mixed with cinnamon and vanilla.  They loved it so much it became a state secret.  This meant that the French had to steal it.  It was worth the effort, of course.  After all, it was chocolate.

In 1657, chocolate shops began opening and by 1660 there were chocolate houses (like coffee houses) in several European capitals specializing in the drink.  The high import costs made it an exotic treat for the wealthy.  Even with the addition of milk in 1700, it wasn't until the 1850s that the tariffs were lowered to a penny a pound on the beans and the delicious drink's popularity became ridiculously widespread.  Still, I can't help but smile at the thought of sitting in a stylish chocolate house having a nosh and a server coming by the table with a chocolate pot offering to top off my cup.  Should this reality ever come back in vogue, all servers be on notice that you needn't ask.  Go ahead and warm that up for me.  

Sure, it's had it's detractors, but also legions of advocates from many walks of life.  Cardinals, doctors, peasants, socialites and writers have all sung its praises.  It continues to be eaten alone, included in other foods and used to coat other foods.  Why?  Because chocolate makes life better, of course.  It should come as no surprise that all the very best holidays feature...                                 

Well, you know.

Chocolate invigorates the weary.  Chocolate brings smiles to the sad and euphoria to the heartbroken.  It's loaded with flavor, nutrients and ancient wisdom (like how to appreciate both the bitter and the sweet as well as how smoothly the two combine).

What has brown done for you?

16415--Marketing Tips for Writers and Anyone Else

I don't make claim to being a marketing expert, but I do feel like I have some good ideas and insights that don't seem to be coming to everyone.  Well, that's OK because I'm willing to share my thoughts and it gives me the chance to tell stories.  Fortunately, these are good things for writers.

Something else that I recently realized wasn't obvious to everyone was this: have confidence in your product.  This applies to writers and whatever they're writing, car makers, toy makers, etc.  Sales and marketing is not the venue for humility.  If you're a politician, I would expect you to vote for yourself.  It's as simple as this: if you don't believe in your own product, why should anyone else?

It's your book (I'm a writer, so we're going with "book".  If you're not a writer, you can replace "book" with some more appropriate noun of your choosing.  Go ahead.) so you know it better than anyone else.  If you don't think it's something worthy of everyone else to come running to experience, then why subject the market to it?  Is it something you want to sing from the rooftops about or not?

What sparked all this was an encounter I had during one of my recent excursions out of the Fortress of Solitude.  I met a guy who was wearing a t-shirt for an Italian restaurant specializing in New York pizza.  I quickly realized that the restaurant was his.  So...
     "Where's your restaurant?" I asked him.
     We proceeded to do the near-this-south-of-this-on-this-road verbal tango followed by him telling me, "You should come check it out."
     "Yeah, cool," I said.  "I'm from New York so I'm always on the lookout for good pizza."
     "Well, you should like it," he replied, suddenly sounding a little shaken.  "A lot of people say it's...close."

Wow.  Really?  In that moment, I lost all interest in seeking out this pizzeria.  This man who should've been the restaurant's greatest advocate had become almost apologetic before I'd even gotten to his eatery.  For those of you who don't see this as an issue, let me elaborate: I have found amazing Chinese food in New York and found it matched in San Francisco's Chinatown.  I have found pizzas of varying style and quality all around the country and in Italian restaurants in Europe that have unfailingly fallen short of being comparable to New York pizza.  When I was a toddler, I would scavenge pizza from the plates of my parents' friends so fast that they questioned whether or not I was actually being fed.  I've had two-day-old New York pizza that was better than most other place's fresh.  You can't tout your pizza in one breath and then go weak on me in the next.  It simply isn't done. 

It certainly isn't done if you want to sell me a pizza.  It's either New York pizza or it isn't.  There is no close.  Carob ain't Chocolate no matter how many times you rub the lamp and make a wish.  Close means that it isn't.  To me, "isn't" isn't worth the trip.  I can stay home and not eat New York pizza.  So that evening, I did.

What's the lesson, class?  Don't undersell your pizza.

That also means that you don't undersell your book or whatever else you're working to move.  It's yours and it's unique.  Believe in it.  Be the proud parent with the silly bumper sticker.  Be the grandparent with the endless pictures.  Be Hugo, the exuberant-and-never-disappointing owner of the Italian restaurant that was next door to my family's business.  Be willing to make every person you meet aware of your glorious creation.  Help it to thrive.  Give it all it needs to be great and shine so everyone else has every opportunity to love your work as much as you do.

Don't undersell your pizza.

16345--Rong Writing Made Right

Probably the worst writing advice I've ever received was also the weirdest.  Sadly, it came from another writer I met once.  I don't recall his name, my brain cells devoting themselves to processing and making attempts at rationalizing his strange words overwhelmed their normally firm grasp on names.  C'est la vie.

Years later, I'm not sure if his advice was sincere or if this writer I had a brief exchange with one afternoon had it in his heart to sabotage other writers.

It went like this, "Quality writing should be devoid of ego, so after you write something you need to set it aside.  Come back to it the next day and read it fresh.  Anything you like, you need to discard because that has an ego attachment."  I didn't feel like arguing with this guy, so I said, "I see," and let it go at that.  The philosopher in me really could understand the viewpoint.  By that point in Life, I'd been through a lot of martial arts training and spiritual philosophy stuff, so I was more than a little familiar with the concept of divesting oneself of the burdensome ego.

Still, it never sat right with me.  There were a lot of aspects of Life I could see making a case for leaving your ego to warm the bench and I could even see limiting its influence over my writing, but to throw out any thing I liked felt wrong.  How was that any way to assess your own work?  Assuming the work ever even found an audience, how would you ever even connect with them?  "Hi, everyone.  Thanks for buying my book.  Glad you like it, but I don't know why.  What's my favorite part?  I didn't like any of it."  He might as well have told me never to trust my eyes.  How about, "When you cook, taste the food.  Throw out anything that tastes good to you."

Advice like that I could only see resulting in bad cooking and bad writing.  Personally, I'm glad I chose to eat the many chocolate delights I've baked, the many meals I've cooked and to have written the works that I've crafted.  I put a lot of time, energy and attention into all of them because, y'know, practice practice practice.  That's how you get better at anything.  Whether it be culinary arts, martial arts, literary arts or whatever else you choose to dedicate yourself to, open yourself to what you love love love and practice practice practice.

A lot of us learn by doing.  Some only learn by doing wrong.  Either way, can mean a lot of crispy cookies and burned pancakes.  It could mean broken bones and things, depending on your particular passion.  One of the great things about writing is that the practice paving the road of improvement is rewriting which has no limit to the number of times it can be done.  If all goes well, the more you do it, the less you'll have to do it.

That just leaves the other question.  Weigh-in with your thoughts.  Was it sincerely weird advice or sabotage couched as counsel?