SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO EXPLAIN IT

Early on, I wrote a science fiction novel, titled Mission 998, in which, in the not-too-distant future, overpopulation on Earth drove mankind to build giant craft to cross the vast emptiness of outer space to reach other star systems.  When such a craft approached a planetary system that its sensors calculated could support human life, frozen embryos were inseminated and babies were artificially nurtured, born and raised until they could be dispatched to the lucky new planet.  Well, in my story, the new-born babies, coming down the line were analyzed and either approved or dispatched due to weaknesses, genetic imperfections and the like.  And, as there was an ingrained bias against Jewish people, the computer driven ship attempts to do away with the hero of the mission, who has a fraction of Jewish DNA in his genetics.   

Well, my agent howled at me that this would never do for the future of mankind, for, to his way of thinking, I had created a “Nazi state”.  I had created a state where necessity forced robotic decision-making, and in this case there was a well-documented anti-Hebrew bias, but I didn’t see it as the main thrust of the piece.  A ship launched by the Chinese would probably have a higher percentage of Chinese DNA on board, and since the Chinese are not consumed with brotherly love for the Japanese, one can see how a son of the Land of the Rising Sun might have the odds stacked against him.  I couldn’t believe the odd turn the discussion of this project had taken, and ultimately the agent and I parted ways. 

Today, being much older and a little wiser, I think I would have tried to explain the do-or-die necessity of the process of selection a little better.  How could my novel be anti-Jewish when my hero wins out over all odds?  Explain it, you see.  Explain without being boring or pedantic.  It’s not easy with your agent running like an ant from boiling water. 

Which brings me to a recent novel I wrote, The Rogue Pirates Bible Heretical, this one published by Double Dragon.  I sold it as science fiction - the tales from the bible once again handed down from generation to generation as oral history, this time by descendants of survivors of a space ship crashed on a distant planet ‘far out of the ordinary shipping lanes.’  You see, I took great care to disguise the underlying idea of the novel, that oral histories shift over time.  Still, it wasn’t enough.  I get emails from outraged readers who dislike the work for a variety of reasons.  But they never touch on what is really bothering them, the notion that I am messing with the word of God.  Interesting, when emotion and belief systems get involved, a writer can be mistaken as anti-Bible as easily as pro-Nazi.  So, my advice to fellow authors: if you want to please all of the people all of the time, stay away from subjects that trigger instant emotive response.  As to characters, use power-gays, strong women, sensitive male heroes and good dogs. Perhaps the giant spaceship in Mission 993 could have a side-pod where they raise all the imperfect children and allow them to live out their lives, and maybe my hero should be British and of royal ancestry, accomplished at knitting, cooking and gardening as well as aikedo.  And, considering the widely held rock-bound belief in the testaments old and new, I probably shouldn't have written my Rogue's Bible in the first place.  I doubt explaining it a little better would make any difference. 

 

THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD

Sometimes they are not actual railroads.  It could be a border guard on the rim of Europe, catching a few coins and looking the other way while a truck chugs in from Bulgaria or some other odd place with a load of people hungry for a better life.  Here in California and nearby Arizona, the long, desert Southern border is a sieve and there are guides and paths and even water bottle sites to prevent unpleasantness along the way.  So naturally we get a big percentage of Mexicans in the mix of illegal aliens that includes everybody from every continent in the world.  Still, let’s take a closer look at one of the little known underground railroads. 

I had my bi-annual hair cut at the local shop a few weeks ago.  The owner doesn’t like me much, because he doesn’t approve of such long durations between clippings.  So he gives me to one of his apprentice clippers.  This time I got a lady from Nicaragua.  They know I am a writer, and one of the other cutters started pestering me to write up the story of his ‘best friend’, who was serving a life sentence for participation in a murder he didn’t commit. 

“That is a nothing story,” my lady from Nicaragua said.  “You should tell my story.”

“Which is?” I politely asked.  You don’t turn surly when the sharp blade is inches from your throat.

“I was raped over and over by Mexican soldiers.”  The clippers zoomed and dove in a menacing pattern over my head.

“Oh,” I said, hoping we’d come to the high point in her agitation. 

“Then I get here, I cross the border and am robbed of my last money by guides and dumped on the street in San Diego.  I get picked up by an old lady.  I work like a slave for six months, no pay, no time off, doing everything, and then when I show I am with baby, I am dumped on the street in front of a hospital.  I end up with no baby, naked, selling my body for dinero.”

Lurid as that sounds, I was the ultimate captive audience.  “How did you get to the States in the first place?”  I was thinking about the tough Mexican border to their south.  If you were caught trying to get into our Southern neighbor, you were beaten, jailed and if you were lucky, booted back to your own country.  And it is thousands of miles from there to San Diego. 

“I pay the Mexican soldier.  They rape me, but they take my money for transport.”

I promised I would look into it, but once I was free I scooted for the door.  It was only later that I paused to think the waitress at the nearby Pollo Amigo  was from Panama.  And my own gardener was from San Salvador.  Since he was coming to clip the hedges the next day, I asked him if there was a way to get across Mexico. 

“Sure,” he said.  “Mexican underground railroad.  More expensive than it used to be, but they still do it.”

So there you have it.  Our neighboring country to the south shows outrage that we not treat our Hispanic illegals with more courtesy, dignity and free health care and education, and they have a hidden railway to transport unwelcome immigrants across Mexico and into our country.  So the next time you are considering nations from the Mideast, Africa or Asia as your friends, look a little closer to see what that really involves. 

This Is The Way It's Supposed To Work

Forget the adolescent, howling rage from the White House for a moment.  Forget the news reports of eminent doom.  This is the way democracy works.  We, the voters-collective, elected a socialist President, and we have to live with that.  The President is pushing for a more liberal Supreme Court, and we have to live with that.  We elected a liberal senate, and we have to live with that, as well. We also elected a House of Representatives to follow the will of the people, and they do not like high taxes, big government, Obamacare, or spending money we do not have.  Sure, Obama and Harry Reid are raging like caged lions; nobody likes to have their personal aspirations and notions of what is right for the country placed in check by the will of the people.  Accusations are flung, and things seem out of control.  Things actually are somewhat out of control, and will be for a time, until common sense prevails.  If you and I don't like it, next time around we can vote for Representatives, Senators and a President more aligned with our vision of these United States of America.

THE TRUE BELIEVER - Eric Hoffer (2)

"A man is likely to mind his own business when it is worth minding.  When it is not, he takes his mind off his own meaningless affairs by minding other people's business.

"This minding of other people's business expresses itself in gossip, snooping and meddling, and also in feverish interest in communal, national and racial affairs.  In running away from ourselves we either fall on our neighbor's shoulder or fly at his throat."

I think it is a matter of balance, whether a person is normally serious about the affairs of state or tends to be somewhat nutty with personal preferences, judgments and mitigations.  You can tell how far off course the discourse has become by the shrillness of the dialogue.

The True Believer, Copyright 1951 by Eric Hoffer.  Printed in the United States of America. Harper & Row, Publishers.

CALL TO ACTION! LET'S DUMP NETWORK NATIONAL NIGHTLY NEWS!

Over the past couple of years the States have become a tame and happy place, so bright and tranquil I don't believe we need those news anchors yapping and yammering at us any more.  Okay, if that's too big a leap, we can still keep the anchors and fill the half hour with the same stuff they're doing now, but let's not call them news anchors, and let's not call it news any more.  Let's change the name to something like "National Nightly People, Places & Things", or "Nation Nightly Lightly" or Netty Nips & Tucks". 

There was a time when with a half hour reporters couldn't shove in nearly enough of the political, economic and social news of the day.  But no more, and the proof is in the pudding:  Let's take last night's ABC Nightly News with Diane Sawyer as a random sample of the deterioration of the broadcast form (from Thursday, September 26, 2013):

Diane began with a sort-of bio/expose of a British lady known as the "White Widow" who was rumored to have been involved in a recent shopping mall terrorist raid on a shopping mall in Africa.  This went on for nearly eight minutes of air time. 

The next section was a minute or two detailing President Obama's displeasure with the Republican House of Representatives, calling them 'blackmailers' for attempting to stop Obamacare.  And this was followed by a minute or so of commentary presenting ex-President Clinton siding with Obama's point of view.  There was no presentation of the actual substance of the disagreement, whatever it might have been. 

The next segment gave viewers the same amount of time to consider that some airline pilots are regularly sleeping in the cockpits while the giant passenger jets in their charge go hurtling through the air. 

Next, a report on a major fast food chain's switch from Styrofoam to paper cups, a few minutes on the Michael Jackson Wrongful Death Suit trial (now in the hands of the jury), a short section on Deals in Shopping Malls, a 'color seg' on a 'high flying workout', and a final report on Bill Gates asserting that the Control-Alt-Delete command wasn't entirely his fault. 

That's the national news for Thursday, 27 September, 2013.  News Lite, not even.  You see what a false pretense the name National News has become. 

Meanwhile, the real jobless rate in our country isn't 7 point something it is over 15 point something because your government has fudged the numbers.  The actual rate of inflation is many times over the official rate because your government jacks the numbers.  The unreported disaster of Obamacare is about to rob the middleclass to give to the poor.  The dirty IRS is covering up the manifest criminal acts they performed over the past five years that most certainly influenced the outcome of the last presidential election: our labor force, our hospitals and our social services are flooded with illegal immigrants: our foreign policy is a shambles: our allies wonder at our lack of direction and our sworn enemies openly poke fun at and make fools of us. 

My God, none of this bad crap can possibly be true.  Surely, that would have been news and it would have been reported if it were true, but it wasn't reported and so obviously isn't true.  No way real Americans can accept this second world, the grim and absurd fictional one I've just made up.  Americans are too smart to believe the mad rant of a fool, too educated to be duped like that.  That second scenario must be something, like,  well, science fiction, a literary device presenting two entirely different worlds  superimposed on each other in the same place and time.  That problematic second world staggering under  the heavy burden of its problems of over-taxation, inflation, government corruption and international bungling, that can't be real, can't be so, can't be the way things really are.  I'll close my eyes and plug my ears.  Look, I'm doing it right now.  Can't be.  Can't be.  Can't be.

THE TRUE BELIEVER - by Eric Hoffer

"A man is likely to mind his own business when it is worth minding.  When it isn't, he takes his mind off his own meaningless affairs by minding other people's business. 
"This minding of other people's business expresses itself in gossip, snooping and meddling, and also in feverish interest in communal, national and racial affairs.  In running away from ourselves, we either fall on our neighbor's shoulder or fly at his throat."

There have been times in history and places on this planet earth where such incidents were not pervasive.  These United States of America used to be one such place, and, in shrinking sectors, still is. 

THE FREIGHT TRAIN OF LOVE

will make scheduled stops Sept 23 through 29 on the 
ALL ABOUT MURDER THING 
And because of this, price for the e-book is an
unheard of $1.99, one week only.  Click on the
clickable link below to purchase, but do it before
this Sunday evening, because after that the price
goes back up to 2/3 the cost of a Starbucks Vente
Latte: 

http://www.amazon.com/Freight-Train-Love-ebook/dp/B00EOY1LLK/ref=sr_1_1_title_1_kin?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1379972392&sr=1-1&keywords=the+freight+train+of+love

 

The Freight Train of Love by John Klawitter
When true love comes along, you’re just a bug on the tracks.


 

A CLASSIC WAR ROMANCE, ACTION/THRILLER, MURDER MYSTERY The heroine of The Freight Train of Love, Clair Moore, is an ex-NFL cheerleader with a wicked fastball, now doing very well in the real estate market in Southern California. She has fallen for an older man, the highly successful action-thriller novelist Jack Larch. Jack was born in the thick of WWII, but even though he is a so-called boomer baby, he doesn’t see himself that way. Jack thinks he’s found the fountain of youth. With three or four wives behind him, as Jack’s on-again off-again girlfriend of the past ten years, Clair is understandably hesitant to commit, even though she has a growing affection for the cranky old genius. But Jack’s wildly carefree youth is now coming back to haunt him in violent and murderous ways…spelling disaster not for Jack himself, but for anyone showing they might be falling for him.

Here are a few lines from The Freight Train of Love:

His small study desk was the usual mess. I paid his bills, gathered his checks for deposit and read his letters, which were mostly fan mail except for one. This one must have slipped behind the others, because it was dated right after New Years day, the first week in January. It was sad, in a way, because it was from the widow of an old army buddy, informing Jack that his friend had died. See there, how little I knew about the Jack-ster! He’d had another actual friend beside me, and I hadn’t even known it. I stacked the open letters in a pile with the silver letter opener on top of them. Jack would come up later in the day, put the letter opener on the shelf where it belonged and sweep the letters into the waste can without reading them.

Hey, I was done! I jumped to my feet and snapped off the green shade reading lamp on his desk. Then I bounded down the stairs, headed for the door. Free at last! I could practically taste the orange Jamba Juice I was going to have for breakfast.

 I paused on the way out. “Can I drive your new bird?”

“You can drive my bird any time,” Eddie chuckled, but I pursed my lips at him. That wiped the quick grin off his face. Eddie’d had his shot with me, and he’d blown it.

  I gave my voice that school-girlish, pleading tone, and push my full red lips into a sexy pout, “Please, Jack. Please, please, please, please…?”

It was a good act, but Jack was definitely not in the mood. “No, Clair-Bear,” he growled at me. “Christ, my new car’s a classic.”

I tossed my honey-blonde curls. “Jack, don’t be such a bastard. It’s not new and it’s not a classic.”

“Marilyn Monroe owned that car, and she hardly ever drove it. It was her personal car.” “Jack, a couple days ago you put my car on life support.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that. He sighed, “If you have to go out, take the Jag.” I looked over at Eddie. We’d developed our own language. He did a little sideways tilt of his head and a brief squint of his face combined with a shrug that meant Let it pass. “No bird for you, Clair,” Jack said again for effect. I gave Eddie another look, this one that said I was thinking I’d like to tell Jack where to stuff his bird. But I pulled myself back from the edge, the way I generally did with the Larch-ster. The cream-yellow Jag was a sweet little number in its own right (Jack ran around telling everybody it was once owned by one of the stars on General Hospital), and, after all, I needed a ride, and the Jag was light-years better than a taxi.

“Oh, all right,” I told him, giving my voice just enough push so he could figure I was not amused. I put on a show, flouncing through the study like I’d gotten a mad on. My real aim was to make my getaway before Jack had time to change his mind, but then I remembered the letter from his dead friend’s widow. I paused, framed in the doorway that led from the study to the great room, a huge dining hall with a giant fireplace and a long, heavy table that could seat twenty-six people if they owned the right film credits or maybe had been nominated for an Oscar.

“You got a letter from Miami,” I told him.

“The town sent me a letter?”

I’ve already told you; Jack can be a real bastard. I bit my lip, struggling to keep my temper. “No, Jack. The girl.”

“It’s Mi-a Mi-i. Mia My.” He repeated the name for emphasis, then paused, thinking about it. “Jesus, now you read my mail?”

“I’ve read your mail for years, remember? You let it pile up. Checks from publishers, threats from crazy people—everything.”

“Yeah, yeah. What did Mia My say?” Jack wasn’t really listening. His mind was miles and continents away. He was in the southern hemisphere, marching along with Dunk Stingray as the heroic fellow sauntered out of the barren Andes foothills after dispatching three Bulgarian assassins.

“Her husband died,” I told him. I have no idea how those three words will affect Jack. I was just passing on the news from a letter he obviously hadn’t cared enough about to open, even though it had been sitting on the cluttered oak secretary desk in his bedroom for months. He was in another of his foul moods, I had his permission to use the Jag, and all I wanted now was to get out of the study before some other bad thing happened.  But I wasn’t fast enough.

Jack stood up with a sudden jerking motion and shouted without turning around to face me. He was half-crouched over and his sudden piercing cry was that of a man with a big spear or stage-four cancer in his guts. The harshness in his voice startled Eddie, and it was more than enough to freeze me in my tracks. “What?! NO!! It can’t be!! How?” Jack screamed his anguish, talking more to God or the devil than anyone in the room. “How could this happen?!”

As I’ve said, I’d been around Jack for quite a while, competing with the fast young crowd that wants to hang with ‘the new Hemingway,’ as he likes to be called. In that moment I’m sure I looked every bit my nearly thirty-six years…and more. My eyes darted from Jack to Eddie. I was feeling uncertain, and even afraid—not of Jack , but for him.

“Some rich kid lost control of his daddy’s SUV,” I told him. “From what Mi-a Mi-i wrote, I think he saved her when he pushed her out of the way.”

Jack sagged back in his chair. “Yeah,” he said to himself, talking in a low, defeated voice, “That’s something he would do.”

I was staring at Jack, shaking my head, the fun sucked out of my day. Eddie looked out the window and didn’t say anything. I walked back across the huge open area and sat next to Jack in the leopard print chair I use when I have to over-the-shoulder proofread for him, and after a while I gently ran one hand through his unruly stand up hair. “Jack, I honestly didn’t know,” I told him. “You never write him.”

“I send Christmas cards,” he grumbled. He glared at me as if everything was my fault, “Go do your shopping.”

I knew him well enough to let the thoughtless, abrasive side of his personality slide on by. It was part of survival in The House of Jack. I didn’t move. I could hear the antique windup clock ticking in another room as the silence lengthened between the three of us. “What the hell, Jackie-poo,” I said after a while. “I’ve got more purses than I know what to do with.”

To read the reviews on The Freight Train of Love: http://www.amazon.com/Freight-Train-Love-Michael-Klawitter/dp/0983037213/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1363105591&sr=1-1&keywords=john+klawitter

And for more about the author click on: www.johnklawitter.com