Adventures in Sci-fi: A Review of The Immune

My Book Review of The Immune by Doc Lucky Meisenheimer:

The Immune by Doc Lucky Meisenheimer is a vastly entertaining book, a cross between a political sci-fi thriller and a pulp fiction adventure novel. It’s a stylish, clever novel that delivers a fast-paced, rousing story, and deftly rides the fine line between camp and satire without falling flat on its face.

The book tells the tale of a world in crisis, where genetically-altered creatures, the airwars, have spread across the earth, attacking and killing humans. This crisis changes the political landscape, creating a central government that controls all. The only hope may rest with the “immunes” -who are not affected by the stings of the airwars- and their leader, John Long.

The Immune was a nice surprise, a book that takes a unique premise and some traditional science fiction ideas and melds them together with the trappings of a political thriller into a wonderful novel. It presents a reliable, intricate plot with appealing characters, and dispenses a nice exciting page-turner. There are a few touches where the plot details veer towards the overblown, but it always stops short of outlandish.

The book starts out on a rapid step, reels the reader in, and it keeps that speedy pace going for the most part. It did lag a touch in the middle, getting a bit bogged down in the explanatory where I think it could have used a touch of action, but it picks up again quickly to a brisk pace towards the finish. The plot took a turn here, where I thought the book was headed for inevitable cliché, but the story zagged, then zigged and then zagged again, until it swirled to a suspenseful, satisfying conclusion.

The Immune is a fun, exciting, and cheeky sci-fi thriller that maintains an old-fashioned action sensibility.

An Interview with Rory Ridley-Duff, author of "Friends or Lovers"

We have a guest joining us today, author Rory Ridley-Duff, who's here to talk about writing and his book, Friends or Lovers.

An Interview with Rory Ridley-Duff: 

1- Why don’t you begin by sharing a little about yourself.

How would I describe myself to your readers? I’m a 49 year old university lecturer from England, married with two daughters, who enjoys writing fiction to explore social issues in an accessible and creative way.
In terms of upbringing, my mother is Austrian and my father was Irish. I was born in 1962, and raised in West Wittering - a small seaside resort on the southern coast of England near Chichester (an old Roman town). Despite a childhood disrupted by my father’s death and my mother’s illness, I have many happy memories. Growing up with my sisters meant that I enjoyed freedom and independence that most children do not enjoy.
I met my wife, Caroline, in 1987 through a mutual friend while studying music at London University. We married in 1989 and initially lived in Ashford (near London Heathrow). Our two children, Natasha (17) and Bethany (13), are central to a happy family life. We eventually decided to move to the north of England and settle in Yorkshire, about 15 miles from Sheffield (where The Fully Monty was filmed). We’re now a few miles from a national park – The Peak District.


2 - You have a PhD, worked as an educator and written non-fiction books on various subjects. What motivated you to become a novelist and write fiction?

I’ve always enjoyed writing. My wife and I were pen friends before we started to live together – we would write to each other several times a week. I began writing fiction over 20 years ago, but could not pursue it after starting a family. I found the time to take it up again while studying for my PhD. After completing my studies, I had a few months before taking up a job as a university lecturer. I used the time to complete Friends or Lovers.

3 - Tell us about your book, Friends or Lovers.

Friends or Lovers is an exploration of ambiguities in our relationships inside and outside work. The story is told from the point of view of Penny, a Director of Human Resources intent on climbing the corporate ladder. Penny likes to be in control. When she meets a consultant (John) on a business trip, and has to conduct an investigation into sexual misconduct at work (Mike), her control starts to ebb away. As the investigation progresses she gradually realises that the only way to regain control is to change the way she thinks about men.


4- Why did you write this particular book?

In the 1970s and 80s, many men changed their outlook in response to the women’s movement for equality. Something similar is happening today amongst women as men become more conscious of the way they are affected by negative stereotyping. The equality issue for men is being stereotyped as a sexual predator, not a sex object. There are many academic studies that cast doubt on the popular perception of men as sex obsessed, and which reveal how much power women now have over sexual matters. As a result, there is a growing interest into the link between stereotyping men as sexual predators and women’s power – a form of matriarchy if you like. So, the ‘hook’ for this story is Penny’s journey of self discovery as she comes to understand this world while investigating a claim of sexual misconduct.
I wanted to write an emancipatory novel that supports those who want more intimacy and sexual freedom in their relationships. There are many good films/novels about bad or stupid men who become more human as a result of facing up to an extraordinary situation. It seemed to me that there are only a few portrayals of women who transform themselves in a similar way.
I enjoyed films like Born on the Fourth of July (Tom Cruise), about a young man who gradually realises how societal pressures had predisposed him to fight in wars, and who later becomes a campaigner for peace. I also remember Rain Man (Tom Cruise / Dustin Hoffman) where a cocky young businessman becomes aware of his selfishness, learns to love the brother he never knew he had, and becomes a fully rounded human being.
I wanted to write something more like ‘In Her Shoes’ (Cameron Diaz), which explores how a selfish young woman becomes a caring adult by facing up to her own prejudices. Friends or Lovers has a similar theme: it peels back the superficial bullshit we call the ‘real world’ and takes a look at life in the raw to uncover how intimate relationships are crucial to our well being.
In some ways, it was a therapeutic activity, exploring issues that are generally regarded as taboo in academic writing on organisations. The novel was a good outlet.


5- Who do you consider your intended audience?

Based on feedback, I think this novel will resonate most strongly with men who are conscious of the way they are affected by sexual stereotyping at work. However, I suspect that the main audience – given that this is a quirky romance novel - will be progressive women who are willing to think about the legacy of feminism, and the way it has affected their relationships with men. Those who get to the end of the novel, I hope, will come to see Penny as a kind of modern-day antihero – able to confront her own past and the barriers that popular culture create for those seeking passionate loving intimate relationships.
There is one professional group who might enjoy this novel – HRM officers and managers who have had to deal with human relationship issues at work. Those who have had experience investigating sexual misconduct claims will find a great deal to discuss after reading this novel.


6- What is your greatest challenge as a writer?

a) Time.

b) Advancing a new gender equality argument without being labeled a misogynist...


7- Do you have any advice for those thinking about taking the writing plunge?

Keep going. Keep writing. Craft your works as best you can. Make sure your friends read it and that you respond to any constructive criticisms they have. Don’t be too quick to publish. Let the manuscript mature by making many revisions (and leave a few weeks between each round of revisions to reflect on each draft). When ready, waste no time in finding someone to publish it and be prepared to do so yourself if nobody else will. Success – however modest and in whatever form it comes – is always satisfying.


8- What do you like to do when you're not writing?

I love going to the cinema with my daughters, and having trips to the countryside and seaside with my family (particularly the Scottish Highlands).


9- What’s next for you?

Enjoying the summer holiday with my family. On the writing front, I recently re discovered Fallen Angel (my first novel, still unpublished and which we thought had been lost in a house move 13 years ago). On re-reading, it seems more relevant today than when it was written so my next project is to update it for our times and get it published.

You can find out more about Rory and his books at his website:  http://www.roryridleyduff.com/

Storytime Wednesday: Violet's in Bloom by Glory Lennon

Welcome to Storytime Wednesday, where we will enchant your imagination or tease your sense, with featured stories and book excerpts.


Today's guest writer is Glory Lennon with an excerpt from her serialized paranormal romance novel, Violet's in Bloom.
 
 

An Excerpt from Violet’s in Bloom:

Prologue: Death of a Firefighter

“Emily! I gotta get Emily!” the distraught mother screamed as two firefighters held her back.
“Where is she?” Richard shouted. He could barely make himself heard over the screeching sirens, over the bellows from Captain Frankfort and the roar of the flames eating the building in front of them.
“She’s upstairs, last room at the end of the hall. Her dog is with her. Please, let me get her. She won’t come with you. Please!” the woman screamed.
“She’ll come. I have a way with little girls,” Richard assured, smiling at her. He released her then ran into the smoke filled building after pulling on his mask and helmet.
“Ramrod, don’t!” Jake yelled, doubling his efforts to restrain the woman. “You can’t go in alone!”
But too late. Richard was through the doorway and enveloped instantly in billowing black smoke. Flames everywhere, he darted as a beam slammed into the floor from above. He sprinted up the stairs, also aflame, down the hall and...Damn it! The door was locked. Once, twice, thrice he rammed the door with all his strength and it smashed open. Flashlight in hand he scanned the room. Luckily it wasn’t entirely filled with smoke yet but there was no one anywhere to be seen.
“Emily! Your Mama’s looking for you. Come on out, Sweetie. You can’t stay here,” he shouted as he searched under the bed and behind the desk in the corner. A faint whine caught his ear.
He swung open the closet door and there she sat huddled behind some stuffed animals, a playhouse, several shoes and her golden retriever who growled menacingly up at him. Richard could understand that. With his mask on he knew he would definitely look frightening to a little kid and threatening to her protective dog.
“There’s a good puppy watching out for Emily,” he said soothingly as he removed the mask. The Captain would kill him dead for it, after he lectured Richard non-stop for an hour, that is. But Emily needed to see he wasn’t Darth Vader or something worse. “Your Mama’s worried sick, Sweetie. Let’s get you to your mama, okay?”
“Mommy! Mommy!” she cried still holding the dog.
“Rich, you idiot! Mark will have your head for coming in alone!” Bill shouted coming up behind him.
“Emily, this is Bill, my friend. He’s gonna take you to your mama. Come on, baby,” Richard said kindly as he pulled her out. The dog snarled and went to bite him. He released the girl and Bill grabbed her. Richard then lunged for the dog wrestling his muzzle shut. “Go, Bill, get out. I got the dog. I’m right behind you.”
Bill cradled the girl in his arms and threw open the window. “We’re going for a little ride, Honey.”
“Hunny Pot! I wanna hold Hunny Pot!” Emily cried.
“What’s that?” Bill asked the child as he swung one leg out the window.
“My dog.”
“I got him, Emily,” Richard said but at that moment a terrible crunching sound came from directly above him and the ceiling caved in pinning him to the floor. The dog yelped pathetically and struggled to release himself from the burning pieces of timber.
“Rich!” Bill screamed in terror. “Kid, you’re gonna have to take a ride by yourself,” he said then dropped her out just above the tarp surrounded and held by his fellow firefighters. He took a second to see if she landed all right then turned back to Richard.
“Ramrod, let go of the dog so I can get you out!” Bill growled, panic tearing through him. He grabbed the dog and unceremoniously threw him out the window, too, this time not checking to see where he landed. Rich had a nasty gash slicing open his skull, an iron rod impaled his chest and his crystalline blue eyes bulged as he sought Bill.
“Oh, Rich, no....no...” Bill whispered, horrified.
“Tell Violet....tell her... I love her....”
“No! No, Rich!”

* * * * *

Violet awoke abruptly. She automatically reached over for Richard. He still wasn’t home? She glanced at the clock. 2:42 A.M.
“You should be home by now, Richard,” she mumbled to herself.
“I’m here, Violet.”
She turned quickly and gaped at him. His uniform was covered with soot and soaking wet. He stood dripping sooty water onto the carpet. She sat up in bed frowning. “Richard, you’ve never come home like that. Why didn’t you clean up at the station before coming back? It must have been an awful fire. Anyone hurt?” she asked anxiously.
He hesitated a second. “Saved a little girl, Emily McNamara and her dog, Hunny Pot. Bill tossed them out the window just in time,” he said a sad smile on his dirt streaked face.
“Is Bill all right?”
“Oh, sure, he’s fine.”
“Oh, Richard, I’m so glad,” she replied relief flooding through her. “Can I help you get cleaned up?” She swung her legs off the bed and made to get up but Richard stopped her with a dirty hand on her shoulder.
“No, Baby, stay here. I need to tell you something,” he said earnestly.
“But, Richard, you’re dripping all over the place and you must be so uncomfortable in that stuff.”
“I’m not. I feel fine... now,” he insisted. He knelt down in front of her, removed his helmet and took her hands. “You know I love you, don’t you?”
She smiled. “Of course. I love you too. My first love, my only love,” she said.
“You remember how we met?” he asked.
“You know I do, silly. At the high school dance. You swept me right off my feet.”
“No, I mean the very first time I saw you.”
She giggled. “Kindergarten? When you stormed the play kitchen with Tommy Harris and shot my dolly with your Uzi? I somehow don’t think that’s romantic enough for the retelling,” she replied playfully.
He grinned. “But that’s when I knew you were the girl for me, the one I wanted to marry,” he replied lifting her hand and kissing it tenderly.
“No, you didn’t. You went out with tons of girls and you never even noticed me until that day at the dance after you won that big game against Meridale high,” she retorted.
“You think that was my doing? Freddy told me your dad wouldn’t let you out of the house without an army protecting you. He told me I had no shot until you were old enough. So I waited. Freddy knew I was in love with you and he arranged for us to meet at that dance. He thought it was about time you got to live a little and he thought.... well, I convinced him I might be good enough for you.”
“Is that why Freddy insisted I go to that game? To meet you?” she asked astonished. He nodded. She smiled and took a tissue out of the night stand drawer and wiped some of the soot from his face. “Well, he was definitely instrumental in us getting together, wasn’t he? More than I thought. I wish I had known. I ought to thank him. But, Richard, why are you telling me this now? We should get you into a nice warm shower.”
“I don’t have much time. Violet, I want you to know I loved you like nothing else in the world. And the kids too. Tell Sophie...tell her she’ll always be my little girl. Tell her to keep singing, to stay with music. That’s her calling. I love to hear her sing. And Kenny, tell him I’m so proud of him. His woodworking will get him far. I just know it. Tell them I love them and always will no matter where I am.”
“Richard,” she said frowning. “What is all this? Why are you saying this? We know you love us. We love you too. What’s wrong?”
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly his lips trembling. “I don’t want to go, Violet, but I have to,” he said, desperate tears welling in his clear blue eyes.
Apprehension stole through her as she watched him. “Go where?”
“I’m not sure where but I hear my parents calling me. I hear my brother Tim, too. We’re going to be together now. They say it’s time to leave. But I want to make sure you do something for me before I go. Promise me you will love again. Promise me you will let go of me and find another good man to love you.”
Her jaw dropped. “Richard, you want to divorce me? Why?” she squeaked.
“No, Baby, it’s til death do us part,” he said gently.
“But neither one of us is dead,” she said, a stern note to her voice and now looking both scared and angry. “You’re being very weird, Richard, and I want you to stop it. Stop it right now!”
He took her in his arms and held her tightly, his tears leaving sooty streaks down his face. “I don’t want to go but I have to. I’m dead. I didn’t make it out of that house fire. It collapsed around me. I’m still there under the rubble. They’re digging me out now. Promise me, so I can go in peace. Promise me and I’ll know you’ll be all right. Can you do that, Violet?”
She pushed him away. “No, I can’t! You’re going nowhere. Get in the shower. You’re messing up the floor,” she shouted, annoyed and fighting the urge to cry.
“This is just a dream, Violet. It’s the only way for me to talk to you. Promise me already. Promise you’ll let another man love you and take care of you. I don’t want to leave you all alone,” he insisted his voice now gruff and agitated.
“Richard, you’re the only one I ever want. You can’t leave me. You promised to always love me,” she said, her whole body shaking with emotion.
“I will. I’ll always love you even when I’m gone.”
“But you can’t go. We have the kids. They need you. I need you. You have to stay,” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck desperately clinging to him.
He shook his head, removed her arms from around him and resolutely stood up. “If you don’t let me go I’ll be a ghost forever haunting you. You don’t want that. That’s no life for you. Promise me.”
“No! Stop this foolishness, Richard. Get in the shower and come to bed. I need you here,” she said bursting into angry tears. She took another tissue and wiped at her face. When she looked up Richard had vanished.
“Richard? Richard!” she shouted. She got up and went to the bathroom. He wasn’t there. She ran through the house opening doors, calling his name. Terror ripped through her. Where did he go? He had simply vanished.
The shrill ringing of the phone awoke Violet. She sat up breathing quickly as if she had run a mile in the last few seconds. She willed her heart to steady itself. “It was just a dream.... just a very bad dream,” she mumbled as she reached out a shaky hand to catch the receiver.
“Richard?” she whispered.
“Violet, this is Mark Frankfort down at the firehouse. I have some bad news, Violet, about Rich.”
She let the phone drop to the floor into a puddle of sooty water next to her bedroom slippers.

You can find more Violet's in Bloom at:   Violet's in Bloom, a serialized novel
 
Author Bio:

Glory Lennon started writing stories shortly after being introduced to the Harry Potter series by her son's best friend. She wanted to try her hand at making people laugh, cry and feel every other emotion out there, just like JK Rowling did for countless fans, Glory topping that list.
Glory started writing for the web at Helium, Green Thumb Articles and Self Reliance Works where she puts her excessive knowledge of plants and frugality to work for her. She has in the meantime started several novels, but only finish one which she promptly tossed aside to be seriously revised at a later date. Yes, it was that bad!
Now she spends much of her time with her five blogs only one of which isn’t for her stories. Her garden blog is predictably titled Glory’s Garden. The others are: Glory’s Short Stories, novel-in-progress Violet’s in Bloom (from which this excerpt comes), An Ever Fixed Mark and a novella titled Where Your Treasure Lies.

Storytime Wednesday: A Freak's Journey, The Life and Times of a Six-Year Old Circus Runaway by Steven R Roberts

Welcome to Storytime Wednesday, where we will enchant your imagination or tease your senses, with featured stories and book excerpts.


Today's guest writer is Steven R Roberts with ann excerpt from his book, A Freak's Journey, The Life and Times of a Six-Year Old Circus Runaway.

The Borough of Islington

Jimmy ran full speed toward the other three, looking back over his shoulder with full fright on his face and crying “No, No!” Five feet short of the group he tripped and fell, rolling into Max, his teacher. At eight-years-old, Max, a skinny kid living most of the time on the streets, was as close to a father figure as Jimmy had known. For the final bit Jimmy looked up with his wide eyes, brushed his long mop of brown locks out of his eyes and said, “So very sorry, Sir.”

“Blimey, Jimmy, you’ve got to put more spit into the game,” Max said to his young foil. “Let’s see your lower lip quiver when you look up at the target. London streets is ripe with targets but ya’ gotta sell your soul in this bit, Jimmy, or it bloody-well won’t work a lick. I’m not lookin’ for anythin’ queer here me boy just sweet innocent fear in those soft black eyes.” Max, with his dirty yellow hat sitting back on his head, was exasperated at the results of his first training lesson with six-year-old Jimmy, the gang’s newest recruit.

James Northway Stockley was born in the near north side slum of London known as Islington. He and his mother Renee lived in a tiny one-room apartment on the third floor of a building on Childerditch Lane just off Liverpool Road. The four-story buildings stood in long rows close to each other each apartment had one small window for ventilation. Landlords were taxed per window. Typical for 1880s London, the apartments in their block had no water and no toilet facilities. Renee carried water from a pump located about 150 meters down the street from their building. There were pumps located all over London in those days and they were open only certain times and certain days. Lines were typically long at the pumps to fill the families’ pots and jugs. Families who ran out of water while the pumps were closed had to use the water in the rivers, which were also depositories for the neighborhood’s garbage and human “dung.”

Because the latrines on the ground floor of the building were dank and putrid, most upper floor residents kept a copper chamber pot in the corner of the room. When the pot filled for a day or two and the smell in the apartment became unbearable, it was emptied out the window. Richard II, who had become King of England back in 1377 at age 10, later issued a writ that, “no one is to dump dung.” Further, there were penalties, still in effect, for hitting a person with anything, especially dung, thrown from a window. It seemed such restrictions only encouraged tenement dwellers. By the end of the day the streets below the tenement windows were ankle deep in human waste and ripe until the next rain washed it down the gutters toward the rivers. The appearance of the buildings suffered in that a yellowish brown stain quickly developed below each window. Apartment dwellers kept their windows closed despite the occasional hot day to avoid dung spilling in from above.

Jimmy’s mother worked afternoons and nights as a prostitute walking the streets bordering the boroughs of Islington and Heringey, where she competed with women stationed on several other street corners. Jimmy’s first memories of his mother were of her wearing pretty dresses and sparkly bracelets with her blonde hair pulled back and tied, running down her back. He remembered her ruddy complexion and sad loving eyes as she got ready for work. On many nights there were no customers in their dark district but she needed to be there just in case.

“Come to Mommy, Jim Bo,” she whispered as the toddler ate stale bread she’d found thrown out the back door of the bakery. Jimmy looking around the table for more. “Things will be better, Jim Bo, just you wait and see.” In those early years, Renee worked from 3 to 5 pm with Jim in her arms, then took a two-hour break to fix dinner. Before reporting back to the corner, she wrapped her son in a blanket and rocked him in a chair that didn’t rock, gently smoothing his little brown infant curls. Renee spit on her fingers and cleaned her son’s face of the grime of the day. She sang him to sleep with a lullaby, a fantasy of unrealistic hope. Somehow it had been very real when her mother had sung it to her many years before. Jimmy grinned, looking up into his mother’s eyes as she rocked and whispered the song more than sang it.

Curly Locks, Curly Locks

Wilt thou be mine

Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor feed the swine

But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam

And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream

Renee sang it again with tears slowly ruining her heavy makeup. She placed her son in the top wooden drawer of a beat-up dresser that served as a bed before locking the door and leaving him in the apartment while she went to work. If the night went well, she’d be back a time or two, accompanied by a friend.

At three years old, James walked to work with his mommy in the afternoons and played along the streets while Renee sat on a broken bench with Sadie, a partner prostitute with dark orange hair. Sadie nursed her newborn baby girl, Marilyn, who she called “Pookie.” The baby, with a shock of wavy auburn hair and big blue eyes, was a happier miniature version of her mother. Sometimes one of Sadie’s regulars walked by and stopped to talk. James couldn’t hear what was said but a few minutes later Sadie stopped the feeding, slid her breast inside her blouse, and declared the baby fed. She stood and handed Pookie to Renee for a while as Sadie and the customer walked toward her flat. James sat down at his mother’s feet and played in the dust. Renee put the baby down next to her son.

The women worked in pairs so one could watch the children and hold the position if a customer showed up. Sometimes Renee would grab Jimmy’s hand and hurry behind the nearest building. Jimmy noticed that Sadie picked up Pookie and did the same as a black carriage rolled by on the rutted street. Renee mentioned to Sadie that the constable was getting to be a pest with his weekly patrols. Sadie didn’t say much because sometimes the constable winked at her and she walked away with the constable.

The girls were always on the lookout for fancy carriages with skinny-legged horses entering their street. Well-dressed gentlemen from the wealthier boroughs sometimes rode up in carriages providing the girls with a chance for income for the evening.

“Here comes a carriage, Mommy,” Jimmy said, as the women dozed, leaning into each other, back to back on the bench.

“How many in the team, Jimmy?” Renee asked, opening one eye then the other.

“Looks to be two horses, Mommy,” her son reported proudly.

“Come on Sadie,” Renee said. “Put the baby down and get up. This could be dinner for one of us.” As the carriage approached, the women stood, brushing back their hair, smoothing their dresses and smiling. The carriage passed by with a look of disdain from the dark occupant inside. Some days it seemed the rich had better things to do, and all the four souls on the corner got for their trouble was a smile and a wink from the driver.


A Freak's Journey is one of six books Steve has written, several of which are based on true stories in the action adventure genre.
More information can be found on Steve's book at www.steverroberts.com


 
In an 1890's London slum six-year old Jimmy Stockley is thrown out of his apartment while his mum services clients. Broken and confused, the boy runs away with a caravan circus. Jimmy takes to the circus life as he meets the circus owner's challenge to become a 'freak' of some kind to earn his keep. Along the way Jimmy falls for Caitlin the lion tamer's daughter but he is forced to run again to hide a personal secret and keep from being fed to the lions by Caitlin's disapproving father.

Interview with Paula Marie Coomer

Today we have a guest, as Paula Marie Coomer stops by to share about her book Dove Creek and to chat about writing.

Interview with Paula Marie Coomer:


1- Why don’t you begin by sharing a little about yourself.

I am originally from Kentucky, the mother of two very handsome and brilliant sons and grandmother to three beautiful and brilliant grandchildren. I have been living in the West for more than 30 years. I teach English at Washington State University and am a program reviewer for Head Start, the federal preschool program. I am also a visiting scholar for the Idaho Commission on Libraries and a presenter at regional writing conferences and workshops.


2- How long have you been writing? Did you always desire to be a writer?

There is not one moment in my conscious life when I did not know I was different from everyone else. My earliest memory is of having pulled myself to stand while my mother, my father, and my father's stepsister talked about something very serious. Even at that very early age--9 months or so--I was aware of being apart, of being the one who was watching and recording.
I constructed my first book when I was 4. I was always telling stories to my sister, so I decided to make one of them into a book. I drew pictures, copied lines of text from the newspaper. Those lines of text did not match the story as it came from my mouth, but still, it LOOKED like a book, and the pages turned like a book. Beyond that, I was in trouble constantly in my early grades for writing stories and drawing pictures instead of my school work. Of course, my teachers couldn't exactly chastise me when they saw that I'd actually finished my assigned work already. Still, in my report cards they wrote, "Paula has difficulty staying on task." A few teachers gave me paper to take home at the end of the school year because we were very poor, and I think they felt sorry for me.
It took me a long time to get around to devoting myself to writing, however (I was in my thirties). Life almost seemed to be working against me taking that path. One misstep after another, mostly in form of abusive men who were determined to keep me from writing. As if they thought I was going to write about them.
Mainly I am interested in writing because I don't know how to paint and am too lazy to learn. Words let me create images, which is what I enjoy doing: saying a lot with a little, blurring the lines of reality and propriety. It's a drug. A means of being here without being here, a means of offering up various forms of salvation to the world without having to have a prophet or a god.

3- Please, tell us about your novel, Dove Creek.

Dove Creek is the story of a woman from the mountains of Kentucky who is cast on the hero's journey by life circumstances. She ends up as a nurse on an Indian reservation in Idaho. She is a mixed blood, as so many Americans from the Appalachian country are, and finds herself intrigued by the culture to the point of trying to fit her life into a myth known as "The Lesson of the Seven Directions" as a way of ferreting out her identity and dealing with the raising of her two children. The story winds its way through her work with both the Nez Perce and the Coeur d'Alene people and gives a close glimpse at the issues those people were facing in the early '90s. Much of the humor in the book is Native American-style humor. Indian people love to laugh. They also love to make you feel uncomfortable. Patricia Faye learns to deal with all that. She also struggles with self-destruction in the form of relationships with men, as well as alcohol. My sister has been a terrible alcoholic for much of her adult life. I have at times worried about the effect of alcohol in my own life, not because of my own consumption, but because I am drawn to alcoholic men. It was a place to work out my own pain over the issue.


4- What inspired you to write this book?

My first career was in public health nursing. I worked for a county public health department in Oregon for a few years and 5 years on 2 Indian reservations in Idaho. I loved those jobs very much and started to write a memoir of that time--in fact I did complete part of a manuscript for my MFA thesis, but it was too boring. Writing about myself was just flat boring, and I've always had such difficulty telling the story of any real event straight. I cannot not embellish. So here I was writing a memoir that was mostly made up stuff. I can't remember what I did yesterday. How on earth am I supposed to relay what happened 10 or 20 years ago? If I ever had to take the witness stand, I'd flunk. I'd be found in contempt. In fact, as a girl, I was whipped for embellishing events. My parents called it "telling stories," which was what they called, "lying," and lying was a mortal sin. You can see where my confusion began.
In truth, Patricia Faye's voice kept overwhelming mine. I robbed from my life to create some of the minutia of hers, but in the end I gave in to her and her story and left my own for another day.
I suppose the Lessons of the Seven Directions were the original inspiration. A native man really did tell me that story. It's one of the few scenes that is lifted directly from my life without much embellishment beyond the dialogue. My young son was not adjusting to life after we moved to Idaho and was quickly becoming a juvenile delinquent. I turned to my native co-workers for advice. I was very drawn to their spiritualism and wisdom. Sadly enough, I did have to take my son to live with his father. It took more than a decade for him to finally forgive me, but it saved him. He is now married, has a son of his own, a good career, serves his community. My sons and I had lived through some pretty difficult stuff. Using it as the basis for fiction was a way to control it. Infiltrating Patricia's life with my own pain and tragedy was a way of unburdening myself. It brought me great release to have the book finally published.


5- Does anything surprise you about the process of writing?

The fact that it's a new process, a new event, each time you sit down to the notebook or the computer. And the fact that it never gets any easier. It's work. It's much easier to dig a hole in the ground or re-plaster a wall or take care of dying patient than it is to write even the smallest poem. With each piece of work you come just a little closer to becoming your truest self. I did not expect, when I set out on this road, that the entire thing would be about becoming a better human, but I believe that has been the case for me. The ego has to dissolve in order for the art to emerge. Who knew?


6- What sort of research do you do for your books?

Lots. Tons. You cannot research enough. I read and read and read. I interview people. I go places. I write in and absorb those places. I watch films. I go out into the world and look for things, items, people, rooms, situations, feelings to incorporate into my stories. It is assemblage art. I let myself be drawn without questioning the feeling. I've learned after all this time that it is creative process--the need of the story--drawing me. It's a little like being in a trance. Things get a bit glowy and dim at the same time. Seriously. When I see something or hear something that belongs in a story, it's like the little girl in Bee Season, there's this aura that appears around the thing.
I have been known to grab my car keys and hit the road, following my instincts, until I observe or witness a piece of a scene or find an item or person to fit into whatever I'm writing. A simple example of this is the section of Dove Creek titled, "My Mother's Eyes Dancing." I took several round-trip bus trips across the country in the span of a year to write that section. I drafted and revised it on the bus, and by hand. I thought I'd die from the lousy food, and my knees have never recovered, but that particular section seems very alive and real, and I think it's because of how and where I wrote it. People want to think that those are my private journal entries, but they are actually the result of using the Greyhound bus as a writing salon.


7- What is your greatest challenge as a writer?

I love being in the writing space, so I don't think in terms of the challenges--although it is challenging to try to make other people understand what it is that I do and why I work an array of part-time jobs instead of a 40-hour-a-week career. Why I'm willing to go without money and material goods. Why I'm willing to carry a mountain of student loan debt. Publication is tough. It took me forever to understand that publication is not the goal. Creativity and living inside art and the effect that has on my day-to-day life, on my soul, and on the kind of human I am is what's important.
Sometimes the aloneness gets to me. There are long, dry spells. I'm not an award-winner. I'm like the woman who's always the bridesmaid. I'm always the award-nominee but never the winner. I've never gotten a grant. Never won a contest. No one really understands what the writing life is like for you--even other writers, so there's no one with whom to commiserate. A lot of writers drink a great deal, do drugs. You start the habit when you are young because it loosens the inhibitions, allows things to flow. Those days are over for me. It's safe to say writing has destroyed my body. In addition, I live in an area where there is virtually no high art or high culture. Yet I need to be here because I write about people who have no relationship to high culture. But I get to feeling starved sometimes, the only cure for which is a trip to a large city and an art museum. I don't have a writing group. My few soul-level friends live in other places. It does teach you to be emotionally self-sufficient. For a long time I was an affirmation junkie. I sought out the approval of others to the point of driving them away. The aloneness of writing teaches you to be a solitary oak. It's not a bad ability to have.


8- What advice would you give beginning writers?

You've likely heard it before, but don't quit your day job. I made that mistake. I left a good career and good pay, not realizing that, even as a single parent, I actually could just write at night and on weekends. Toni Morrison did it. Isabelle Allende did it. It's my Libra nature: all or nothing. That damned scale just wants to tip one way or another. I've lived on so very little money for so long. I made it very difficult on myself and my children and took on a lot of debt. Of course, who knows whether that suffering was necessary for my evolution as a writer and my sons evolution as people, but we'd already suffered enough for 10 people before I ever decided to become a writer.
But that is my advice. Keep your head and your wits about you. Be practical. If you really want to write, write. If you have to force yourself, then look for another goal. I couldn't and still can't stop myself from writing. I have scraps of paper and little notebooks all over the place. Bar napkins, backs of envelopes, you name it. I was shutting my office door and writing poems and stories at work. I had to take the leap. It was killing me not to.
Think twice about an MFA program. I really wish I'd done a PhD in literature instead. And READ! READ! for God's sake. Travel! If you're a college student, spend your time studying philosophy and history and psychology. Take an anatomy and physiology class. Study geology and astronomy. Biology. Literature. Come to know the workings of the earth and how humans work inside and out.
And then write your stuff and send it out. Get rejected. Over and over. That's the way you evolve. Let that anger and disappointment fuel the revision or the next piece of writing. Dove Creek took 15 years to write and went through 46 rejections. I shoved it into the back of the closet after revision number 14. The only reason it ever got published is because an acquaintance who is a local radio producer came to a reading of Summer of Government Cheese, my book of short stories (which Booktrope is getting ready to re-release), and asked me if I had anything of novel length. She wanted serialize a novel and make it the subject of a radio broadcast on the local indie station. What a fabulous exercise that was. Once I started reading into the microphone, I saw all those big holes. We postponed the recording of it, and I went home to roll up my sleeves. That final revision took a year. Then the recording took six months. Twenty-three months later there have been more than 4100 episodes of a somewhat different version of Dove Creek downloaded from their website. The number goes up every day. Word of it has spread mostly by word of mouth. It's what finally led me to Booktrope, my publisher, and the final--number 16--revision. Finally. Somebody understood Patricia Faye's story and was willing to invest in getting it out to the world.
Any way you cut it, it's going to take you at least 15 years to get any good, before you as an artist are fully formed. That's what everyone told me, and it's true. It was exactly 15 years from the time I decided to devote myself to writing full time until my first novel got published. I had dozens and dozens of single publications and two smaller books, but my goal was to write novels, and that's what it took: 15 years.


9- Who inspires you as an author?


Right now it's Lidia Yuknavitch. I've been screaming the title to her new book Chronology of Water every place I can. It's an astonishing memoir, which is a genre many of us who consider ourselves to be serious literary writers abhor. She cracked open the form and made it into a life and soul education in a book. She writes sex like nobody's business. She writes life like nobody's business.
I also love Lance Olsen's work. He was on my MFA committee. He's the Jimi Hendrix of experimental writing. He thinks there is nothing you cannot do with words and that form is for pouring cement. He's now teaching at the University of Utah. If I weren't already fifty-five years old, I'd go do a PhD in experimental writing there.
And Ed McClanahan. He's knows how to play with words. And he is the king of quirky characters. His work makes me laugh out loud. No one else does that.
Others--Carole Maso was an early inspiration. Flannery O'Connor. Kafka. Ray Federman. Rilke. Alice Munro. Kesey. Charles Bukowsi. Hunter S. Thompson. Plath. Anne Sexton. Dorothy Allison. I guess that's a rather eclectic list, but, then, everything about me is eclectic.


10- What’s next for you?

I'm returning to my experimental roots somewhat in a new novel called Jagged Edge of the Sky. It does what you are not supposed to do: it has too many characters, too many points of view, and time is pretty much relative. It may never even see print, but I don't care. I love it. It's been through several processes, including a draft in which I'd decided to try to go mainstream. My experience in having published Dove Creek has shown me that I don’t belong in the mainstream. I'm not sure what kind of writer I am, but it's not mainstream. What is the point in writing in some kind of predictable form? I want to write books that make people go, what the f---? and throw it down. And then pick it up again because they can't help themselves.
Meantime, true to form--I always seem to be working on several things at once--I have a new book of poems, am midway through a new collection of short stories, and am in the thinking and research phase of a third novel, which I've actually been thinking about and researching on the side for three years now. I had hoped to start writing on it this fall, but I don't know if that will be the case. Maybe by winter. I have to wrap up all these other projects first.
And there's this little issue of the room at the top of our staircase I'm turning into a writing studio. I took it down to the bare bones--stripping 100 years of wallpaper--and sculpted plaster in its place, painted the entire thing, walls and ceilings the color of earth. The floor will be the color of sea glass. So it'll be like being in an inverted hole in the earth with the sky at my feet. It feels safe in there. Like nothing can get to me. A writer needs nothing if not to feel safe.


Paula's Website:  http://www.paulamariecoomer.com/