Interrogating the villain — Harold from Voyageurs

Harold strolls up to me while I’m sitting at my computer typing. I feel his presence before he speaks, and I look up.

“Harold Martin,” he says, shaking my hand and sitting down across from me. “But you can call me King.” His air is self-deprecating arrogance, as if the arrogance was a put-on, but I can feel the tentacles of the con reaching out for me.

“Hello, Harold,” I respond firmly. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a favor to ask,” he said smoothly. “No — hear me out.”

I sat there, waited for the pitch.

“You’re writing this book, right? The one where people keep messing up my arm?” He gave me a knife-sharp smile. “There’s no reason you couldn’t let me win, right?”

“Well, except for the fact your goal is the obliteration of humanity, no.” I paused, curious. “Why do you want to obliterate humanity?”

“I want to be best at something. To do something nobody else has done.” His eyes glittered, and I understood at that moment that the suave exterior contained an evil insanity.

I spoke carefully, knowing that I sat across from a madman. “Why do you have to be the best?”

“My brother was always the best. My father said I wasn’t manly enough, and he did anything he could to make me more manly. It worked — I became what my father wanted. Still it wasn’t enough; my brother got all the compliments. I finally found a way to deal with both my father and brother, who disappeared in 2003. Families go missing all the time.” He smiled, and this time it was a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

I felt my muscles crawl, and I counted the steps to the exit.

Looking for affirmations about writing/getting published

I’m trying to work up the courage to start the query process with Voyagers again, after having my beta readers go through it. I think I’ve done as much as I can with it without handing it off to a better writer to take it over. I still want to try to sell it as contemporary fantasy because it’s not sexually explicit and I like my sex scenes meaningful and not over-the-top horny.

So I need to stay positive. Like my beta Sheri Brown tells me, “it’s not if you get published, it’s when you get published”. I don’t do positive affirmations for myself very well, and in fact am my own worst critic.

I need you to help me with some affirmations or good words. There are several ways you can get these to me:

comments here
email: lleachie at gmail.com
Instagram: laurenleachsteffens
Facebook: lleachie
US Mail: 203 E. Edwards, Maryville MO 64468

What am I going to do with Voyageurs after the beta-reader revision?

Probably go through the cycle of submitting again. If I don’t get an agent, I can at least say I tried. And if I get rejected, I know I gave them the best product I could.

Now for finding beta readers for Mythos, the first book in the Barn Swallows’ Dance cycle (Duology plus one related book)… anyone want to volunteer? Please let me know at lleachie.

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But for now, I’m going on vacation! It starts with a seven-hour drive to the hinterlands of Wisconsin, where I will stay in a cheap hotel with my husband so that we can spend the last night in a spendy boutique hotel. I will fish, eat bratwurst and brick cheese (think limburger without the stink and strong flavor, although I like limburger too) and visit my dad, and collect more stories. My sister and possibly her husband and possibly my niece will be there, and dad will cook a crockpot dinner and mix drinks for us and all his friends. My father is very introverted, maybe even shy, but he finds his human contact through sharing. And he is an incredible cook, even now.

I hope this recharges my batteries toward writing. My computer will be going with me, so expect some missives from the road.

Love you all.

Well, Kindle Scout didn’t bite on Voyageurs, as I thought they wouldn’t. However, I’m not too bothered because it’s on the road to improvement. And I’d rather have a solid book than a published one, strangely enough. Although I would like to be read as well.

Flashbacks

My beta-reader told me I need to have some more character building of the villians, Harold and Wanda. This, I admit, is hard for me to do, preferring shadowy threats. By the beginning of the book, my main character and the villains are not as good friends as they’d been — it’s actually probable that they’d never been close friends, even though they were Kat’s friends at a vulnerable time.

So Kat has only three direct interactions with the villains during the book, and when someone’s trying to kill you, there’s not much time to build character. So how do I do this?

Flashbacks!

I like writing flashbacks, but I usually reserve them for scenes that would ordinarily be one big information dump so that I can show, rather than just tell, the audience what had happened. But I hadn’t thought of writing flashbacks for Kat’s interactions for Harold and Wanda.

But my readers can’t react to what’s in my head if it never makes it on paper.

(Wanda and Harold met me just outside the soup kitchen —

“Hey, I’ve just had lunch,” I groused, “Do you expect me to jump on a full stomach?”

“Don’t be a bitch,” Harold said loftily, as Wanda looked down her nose at me as if I’d crawled out from under a rock. “We’ve got an experiment we need you to do.”

“Why me? I’m a Junior Birdman. You’re the King.” I knew, deep down, that i would do whatever he asked me to, because they were my friends. And Harold — Harold was special. I would probably do it for him.

“You’re faster than I am. I need someone fast to do this. I bet you can’t do it, though.” Harold examined his hands, probably for invisible dirt specks, as I’d never seen him with his hands dirty.

“You bet I can’t do what?” I demanded.

“Change the outcome of that game over there.” Wanda interjected in her haughty voice.

“But that won’t work!” I groused. “The rock principle will keep it from changing.”

“I’m going with you,” Harold reassured me. “We’re jumping into the past to that shell game over there and you’re going to tip over the right cup so the mooch sees he’s getting conned .”

I protested. “By “we”, you mean me. How would I know where the ball landed?”

“You know,” Harold gritted his teeth. “You always know. I’ve seen you run that game.”

“You can’t change time. I try to change that and the cup won’t tip over. It always works that way.” I’d tried it — I can win the game myself, but I can’t change the outcome of the game itself.”

“But what if I change one or two other things at the same time? The rock principle only maintains one material fact at a time. With one or two other changes at once, I hope to confuse things so that the rock principle doesn’t change the shell game.”

“But what about crossing ourselves?” I demanded. “I only have what — four minutes before I die?”

“You’ll have to do it quickly, I guess,” Harold shrugged. “Unless you don’t think you can — “

“Alright. I’ll do it.” I always knew I would.

We jumped to three minutes before the start of the round, and Wanda came with us as witness. She and Harold stepped back while I walked up to the game, which involved a mooch and a grifter (as we called victims and fraudsters on the street).

The idea was to reach in and tip the cup with the ball under it at the exact moment that the mooch was to guess the whereabouts of the ball. He wouldn’t — the sleight-of-hand of the operator guaranteed it. The big trick was to tip the ball and jump before the grifter caught my wrist and took me behind the nearest building to beat me to a pulp. I wondered why Harold would subject me to that risk, or the risk of crossing myself and being crushed, if he was my friend. But he trusted me…

One exhilarating moment later, I had tipped the cup, revealing the ball to be in a different cup than it would have appeared to the mooch, and I jumped back to my present time without dying. I bent over, gasping and laughing.

“You’re the best,” Harold clapped me on the shoulder. “I knew you could do it. I think we should make a game of this. Call it — Voyageur. Like Traveller, but provocative.”

Then we blinked out of sight before the irate con artist reached us.)

Day 2: So far, I’ve written 105 words of my allotted 1000 per day. My brain is a bit sluggish today; lots of external turmoil and lack of coffee is contributing to this state of being.

Having a word goal, though, is a great incentive, as is having a group full of people in my “cabin” — my group of fellow writers in Camp NaNo — yes, Camp NaNo is a deliberate kitschy metaphor. I might manage to finish Prodigies yet.

Here’s an excerpt of Voyageurs, my Kindle Scout entry at https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/1KM8I0ZK97R9J/ .Boost the signal if you can.

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“Why did you make me jump right then?” I hissed at Berkeley. “We could lose Kat!”, by which I meant “I could lose Kat.”

“Because Kat deserves the best life possible, whether or not it involves you. The worst part is that, if she disappears and goes her own way, we won’t even remember her.” Berkeley sighed. “Besides, we need to change back the changed futures or else timelines become unstable.”

“I don’t want to forget her,” I insisted. “Especially as I plan to dance with her tonight.”

“In that outfit? They’ll never let you in.” Then Berkeley popped out of the scene.

I suspected he placed me at the right place and time to see how events unfolded, but I would choose the right moment. I staked out a spot near the front facade of the Nelson-Atkins Museum, which had been torn down in 2045 to make room for a new public safety complex, one that could house armored personnel carriers. I could tell from the elegantly black-clad doormen and the young women in petticoated dresses that I would never get into the ball. So I had to think quickly of an alternative.

I wasn’t given much time. I looked up and saw Kat, in a flowing yellow dress with drop shoulders and a light shawl. She walked alongside Harold, who looked a little younger than he had when I had met him. Harold, of course, wore a black tuxedo.

Kat didn’t sound enamored as much as she sounded vaguely vexed. “So why, Harold? I don’t like to dress up, I don’t like to dance with people, and I don’t like you.” Interesting words for someone who was in love with Harold.

“It’s an experiment about time. I’ll leave you here, Kat, and you see if you can get in. I’ll come back later and dance with you.” I realized I had an opening, but I had to act quickly. As soon as Harold had bounced away, I ran up to the dark-haired young woman with the long white lock of hair hanging into her face.

Fifteen-year-old Kat looked me up and down and raised her eyebrows. “Hmm,” she said. “Did you want me to give you oral in the alley? That’s twenty.”

I felt sadness wash over me. “No, not at all. I want to dance with you.”

“Nothing for money?” she asked skeptically.

“Nothing for money.” I meant to keep this child safe; realizing that this teen was my Kat left me confused and queasy. I determined I would dance with her as if she were the cousin I never had, dance enough to tell her that she could dream.

Young Kat stared through me with those scornful ice-blue eyes. If I failed, there would be more pain, more cynicism in this child, and in the adult Kat.

“Would you like to dance with me?” I bowed to her.

“I won’t go in there,” she responded. “Harold will have to drag me inside if he wants me there.”

“No, here. On the sidewalk.”

She looked at me, and the shrewdness dropped. “I put my hands on your shoulders, right?”

“Yes, and I put my hands around your waist like this.”

(“Mom, Dad, what are you doing?” I asked as my parents whirled around the sparsely furnished dining room.

“It’s called dancing. We used to do this when we were young. We do this in memory of the culture we have lost.” My dad spun my mother around, and she laughed. “Would you like to learn?”

And my beautiful red-haired mother taught me the box step that night.)

The young woman took to the box step immediately as we danced to music that maybe she remembered in her head, because of course she led. She stood a little shorter than my Kat did, a little skinny and fragile from her life on the street.

I whispered, “Would you like to find a place to live?”

“I knew there was a price,” she muttered, and I wanted to cry.

“No. No price. Just a Traveller who needs to teach you how to be strong and fly.”

I thought she would reject this plea as well, but she stopped dancing and mumbled, “Take me there.”

I put my hands around her waist and she mine. Then I bounced to 2065 and then to 1994 and Berkeley’s familiar porch down the road from the museum. When a younger, just-balding Berkeley opened the door, I said, “This young Traveller needs a place to live. She’s been on the street, and she’s in grave danger.”

So here I am, sitting at my desk with the dregs of the flu, looking at snow showers in the forecast on Sunday, and hope still springs eternal — I’ve decided to submit another book to Kindle Scout for voting on/potential publishing.

The name of this book is Voyageurs, and it is still under review, with the hope that this time it will get picked up. If this doesn’t work, I will put one of those books (probably Gaia’s Hands) on self-publishing, so I can say I accomplished my goal and get on with my life.

Voyageurs is the one about time travel, ecological catastrophe, and the outer edges of megalomania. It also has an edgy relationship and a lot of coffee.

I’ll let you know the address tomorrow. Please consider looking at it and voting!

Oops, I did it again — Tiny Universes

I’m not trying to evoke the spirit of Britney Spears, but documenting something that keeps happening in my novels — the non-Archetype books keep tying themselves in with the Archetype series in subtle ways. Not like there’s a party and the Archetypes and Prodigies are all invited, but I use tiny inserts of characters in all three subcultures, who don’t know of each other and don’t interact directly with each other.

Last night I unequivocally tied Prodigies with Whose Hearts are Mountains through a background character we only know about through his daughter’s eyes — Durant Smith aka Arthur Schmidt aka Weissrogue. I didn’t put much about him in Whose Hearts are Mountains, but I wrote a considerable backstory about how one becomes the government’s key cryptographer. (The story involves a 15-year-old Weissrogue taking out the weapons systems of the major powers, and the US and Russia realize he’s too talented to kill.) Weissrogue, whose talents went to the US, may have begun Renaissance Theory through Russia’s envy. The thing is, Weissrogue/Arthur Schmidt has been monitoring Renaissance Theory’s Dark Web presence because his name came up there once. He doesn’t believe he’s a Prodigy.

I want to be careful with mixing the “worlds”. I don’t want to write “Justice League meets the Avengers meets the Guardians meets the X-Men meets the Fantastic Four to obliterate a dairy cow.”

On second thought …

I want to keep my characters mostly in their communities — the Archetypes with the few humans they’ve adopted; the Travellers (not Romani, but a slightly affected bunch of hereditary time travelers), and the genetically blessed Prodigies, not to forget the Tree-given gifts of the collective Barn Swallows’ Dance. The key is, all of these groups are so afraid of discovery that they tend to stay insular. If they meet, they generally keep it a secret, as Arthur keeps his Prodigy abilities quiet to his family, while ironically, his daughter is a half-human Nephilim.

On a related tiny universe note —

What is the effect on Earth that these small bands of preternatural humans exist? Is there such a thing as too many heroes? In a real sense, my characters do not have superhero strength, nor did I intend them to. Many of the problems we face are more than we can handle, but someone who can lift a jetliner like Superman can’t scale down to break up a bar fight or rescue a kitten from a tree.

My question is: can’t heroes be humans complicated by their born or given talents? The DC universe doesn’t do a bad job of it, except for the part where they destroy entire city blocks and nobody really cares. You only get to destroy entire city blocks, endangering thousands of humans, when you’re a superhero. You only can afford a lack of introspection about who you are when you’re a superhero.

In other words, I am a little worried about how convoluted my — world? universe? — is. But then I see Greg (from Prodigies) butt heads with someone in a coffee shop, and I suddenly realize it’s Arthur, and he’s been set to spy on them until he feels a pull from that place in his heart he calls his conscience, and I run with it.

*********
I should give you some updates:

1) My Kindle Scout campaign for Gaia’s Hands is dead, and cannot be turned around at this date. Thank you for voting, those of you who vote. Gaia’s Hands has always been a problem child, where I know it’s stunted in some day and can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. I feel like I should toss everything but the outline and restart it, but I don’t know how.

2) I want to start a Kindle Scout campaign on Voyageurs on April 1 (not kidding!) for Voyageurs. I’m scared, wondering if it’s

too soon after the first book failure
me making an embarrassment of myself
too ambitious

3) Camp NaNo people — I’m registered for Camp under “lleachie”. Anyone want to hop into a cabin with me?

4) I’m still enjoying Spring Break, but I’m back in town after my story collecting trip to The Elms. The food was good, the coffee was good, the people were excellent.

5) As always, I’m glad you’re here.

If I’m going to put Voyageurs in Kindle Scout next month, I might as well give you a segment now to tweak your curiosity:

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We stood outside a solarium, where we viewed a tree line of dead trees and towering plants with huge, decorative leaves. I strolled closer to one to touch one, and Ian grabbed my wrist and hissed, “Don’t touch that. It’s a giant hogweed, and it will permanently scar your skin. And possibly make you go blind.”

“Whoa,” I muttered. “Thanks for the tip.”

We walked to the solarium, and I noticed that the dirt was beyond cracked. No grass grew, and dust eddied at the slightest breeze. The air felt like a blast furnace. Even the sun looked hazy and malevolent.

“This is what a dying earth looks like. He opened the solarium door, which should have been locked but stood slightly ajar. Inside was Carlie, and she cradled a thick black book.

“Kat, come here,” Carlie said in a slightly rough voice. “I have a secret to tell you. Hurry.”

I studied the woman’s white, spiky hair, her cheekbones hollowed by disease and age, her wickedly defiant smile dressed up in old woman’s dress —

I hurried over, although I knew what she would say before I heard it, because I knew her more closely than anyone could.

My mouth must have hung open. “Oh, yes,” she said with a chuckle. “You do recognize yourself, don’t you?” She regarded me with ice blue eyes, the same as I regarded her with.

I held her hand for a moment and savored the rare moment of meeting myself, not knowing whether I would be crushed or boomeranged, not caring.

My vision grew dark and I felt drawn through a tiny hole …

Dusting myself off and trying again

It looks like I’m going to subject myself to another round of the Kindle Scout campaign process.

I’m just finishing one more edit of the book Voyageurs for a possible Kindle Scout campaign. It, like Gaia’s Hands (which, with fewer than 15 days left, will not make the cut for publication), is a standalone book for the moment. Voyageurs doesn’t happen in the same space as the Archetype series, so it wouldn’t break up a series (which would make it unattractive to an agent).

Voyageurs is very different than Gaia’s Hands. Where Gaia’s Hands is a delicate, pastoral slice of magical realism, Voyageurs features the sardonic daredevil Kat Pleskovich and the bookish Ian Akimoto from the disastrous ecological future called The Chaos. What begins as a string of suspicious deaths among the Travellers, or time-jumpers, becomes the uncovering of a plot to destroy the world.

Although it would be easy to dismiss this book as a time traveller romance, I’ve skewed things a little too much to use that label comfortably. Present-day Kat’s streetwise manner and her prickliness make her anything but the girl who needs a big man to protect her. Ian from the future, frail and bookish, has more empathy but a tendency to try to ingratiate himself to Kat. Their mentor, Berkeley, is a frustratingly droll time historian who revels in the Socratic Method. The bad guys? You’ll have to read the book.

I would call this book a crossover — soft SF with a touch of mystery and a relationship that helps pull things together.

If you have any ideas about the timing of the book campaign, please let me know.

Thank you for sticking with me!