Now, it’s easy to just talk for an hour and a half about writing, but I want people to actually do some writing: and to that end, I’m going to make us of an exercise that SF author and high-school teacher Jim van Pelt came up with, The Seven-Sentence Story.

Since I want to make sure everyone writes SF or fantasy, I’ve made one alteration to his rules, insisting that the first sentence establish the fantastical nature of the piece.

Here’s how it works:

The seven-sentence story

1. Introduce what the main character wants and the first action he/she takes to accomplish that goal; establish it’s a science fiction or fantasy story with some fantastical element.

2. The results of the action the charact takes in sentence #1 has to make the situation worse. The character should be farther from the goal now.

3. Based on the new situation, the character takes a second action to accomplish the goal.

4. The results of the second action the character takes from sentence #3 is to make the situation worse. The character should be even farther from the goal now.

5. Based on the new situation, the character takes a third and final action to accomplish the goal.

6. The third action either accomplishes the character’s goal, fails to accomplish the goal, or there is an unusual but oddly satisfying different result of the last action.

7. The denouement. This sentence wraps up the story. It could tell the reader how the character felt about the results, or provide a moral, or tell how the character’s life continued on.

Now, I’m a strong believer in the notion that if you’re going to ask students to do something, you should be willing (and able) to do it yourself. So I wrote my own seven-sentence story. This took me about 15 or 20 minutes, start to finish, including one pass at revision.

My attempt:

1. Anethor, strapped to the belly of the great dragon, stared down at the pointed tops of the spindly towers of the great city of Karrnikk, saw the wizard on his balcony right where the bribed servant had told him he would, drew his sword, and pulled the quick-release buckle on the straps…

2. …or what was supposed to be the quick-release buckle: the mechanism only released the strap holding his upper body to the beast, not the one holding his legs, so that instead of falling free, ready to spread his mechanical wings and glide down to the attack, his torso fell with a jerk that threatened to snap his spine—and he dropped his sword.

3. The blade fell, twisting and spinning, the red light of the setting sun flashing off of it with every turn, while Anethor, swearing, hanging like a cased ham from the oblivious dragon’s stomach, drew his dagger, jackknifed himself up, and slashed through the remaining strap.

4. Now at last he fell free—but that suddenly seemed far from a blessing, as he pulled the cord to release his wings, only to have the cord come free in his hand and the wings remain neatly tucked away in their leather backpack.

5. Undone by what could only have been sabotage, he looked down at the pointed towers hurtling toward him and had no other choice but scream his teacher’s name: “Taaaaaannnnniiiiissssss!”

6. Instantly his plunge toward destruction halted and, light as a feather on the breeze, he wafted down to the wizard’s balcony, landing upright with no more impact than if he had stepped off the curb, finding himself face to face with the Wizard Tanis, who smiled slightly and inclined his head.

7. “A valiant attempt,” said the old man (which, Anethor thought, was some consolation, since as Master of the Apprentices to the Assassin’s Guild, Tanis had seen a thousand attempts by students trying to get close enough to kill him without him being aware of it), “but you forgot one very important rule,” and here Tanis’s smile widened, as he looked up at the winged beast circling overhead, showing its fangs in a toothy grin: “Never trust a dragon with a secret.”

I look forward to seeing what the students come up with!

It was never published, though I think I submitted it a few times.

***

The Shepherd

By Edward Willett

Danell woke.

Dream-images of warriors with bright swords and glittering armor shattered around him, and he was left with only his narrow cot, his patched wool blanket, and the aftertaste of the bitter disappointment he had taken to bed with him.

Today had been the day of the great fair and market in Kingsholm. The King himself had been there, and all his mighty knights. There had been a tournament; displays of magic and music; plays and acrobats; food and wine overflowing. His father had been there, selling their sheep, and his brothers had been there, enjoying themselves, and he—

He had been left behind to look after his year-old sister, Teriss. His father knew how much he loved the old tales of war and wizards, how much it would have meant to him to see the King who won those glorious victories and watch his men wage mock war in the tournament. Surely his father knew he dreamed of becoming a squire and maybe even a knight himself someday. And it wasn’t as if Barett and Guildor had never been to Kingsholm before; they’d both been to the last fair. He’d never been at all.

But his father hadn’t been moved by any of his arguments. “You’re not old enough,” he’d said. “Kingsholm at fair-time is no place for a boy. You’ve filled your head with silly dreams. You’d go off with the first landless knight who needed a slave to curry his horse.”

“You don’t trust me!”

“I trust you enough to leave the farm and your sister in your safekeeping,” his father replied. “What you need to learn, my boy, is what’s really important. Dreams are fine, but this farm is wide-awake reality. You’ll get a good dose of it, being on your own today. You’ll find it a lot easier to reach for dreams if you keep your feet on the ground.”

And that had been that.

Still angry at the complete unfairness of it, he sat up and looked around the room, dimly lit by moonglow through the narrow window. Teriss had not awakened him; the only sound from her crib in the corner was her faint breathing.

A flash brighter than the moonlight flickered in the shape of the window on the stones of the far wall. Seconds later a bass rumble followed.

Satisfied he had been disturbed only by the approaching storm, Danell lay back and rolled over on his side, anxious to plunge into his heroic dreams again. Then he heard a voice outside, answered by a second, and a third.

He sat back up in a hurry. The voices were not those of his two older brothers, Barett and Guildor, though he expected them to return some time during the night. Nor could his father be out there; he would be at market two or three days.

Danell slipped out of bed and went to the window. A light breeze drew cold fingers across his bare skin, and he shivered. He could see nothing but a narrow swath of the farmyard, but the voices, when they came again, were nearer—the deep, thick voices of men.

“Easy as cracking eggs. The old man and his grown sons are gone.”

“What about the youngest boy?”

“What about him? He’ll be asleep. Even if he’s not, what can he do against three of us? We’ll slit his throat and take our time finding the gold…”

Danell stepped away from the window, his heart pounding. Robbers!

His first thought was for the gold, the gold his father had saved, coin by coin, over years and years of taking the sheep to market, the gold he’d kept hidden against some day of disaster, drought or disease. But then Teriss murmured in her sleep, and the gold seemed less than nothing.

If they planned to slit his throat, would they hesitate to kill her, too?

Danell didn’t even know how long he had. He had to decide what to do at once.

He had his sling and he could use it well—he’d once killed a sheep-stalking mountain cat with it—but in the dark, against three, it wouldn’t be enough.

There was no place to hide in the house. That meant he had to get outside.

Quickly he pulled on trousers and tunic, but left his sandals and cloak. Bare feet would serve him better, and the cloak would only be in his way.

He opened the wardrobe his father had made for his mother only last fall, and pulled down clothes to make a nest in the bottom, thinking sadly as he did so that though his mother hadn’t lived long enough to make use of the gift, it could now serve the daughter she had died giving birth to. He lay Teriss down on the clothes; she moved sleepily but did not wake, and he softly closed the door.

Next he ran into the kitchen and reached inside the chimney, feeling for the loose rock that—there! In the space behind it was a heavy leather pouch that jingled as Danell pulled it free. Slinging the pouch over his right shoulder, he reached into it and grabbed a handful of coins. Then, clenching them in his fist, he lifted the latch on the kitchen door and stepped outside.

Lightning flared, silhouetting the three robbers only a few feet away. Danell gasped as they lunged at him, then twisted away, dropping the coins he had in his hand. One of the thieves grabbed the neck of his tunic, but the material tore away and Danell ran for the trees.

He heard curses behind him: then lightning flashed again and the robbers saw the coins he had let fall. “The brat has the gold on him!” one yelled. “After him!”

Danell slowed down inside the forest and turned uphill. He knew these woods and the meadows further up; all his life he had kept sheep on the mountain, and on more than one stormy night had scoured the slope for a lost lamb. His bare feet made no sound in the leaves and twigs of the forest floor, while behind him the thieves crashed through the underbrush. They fell further and further back.

Lightning came again, followed close on its heels by thunder, and the rising wind drowned out the last faint sounds of his pursuers. Danell slowed to a walk, drawing breath. No doubt the robbers were still after him, but he had gained some time.

Above the patch of forest surrounding the house was the meadow where the sheep grazed during the day, before being bedded down in the fold, well away to his right. To his left rose a ridge, a shoulder of the mountain, that on the other side fell steeply to a cataract in a deep gorge.

Danell headed up toward the edge of the meadow, planning to cut left and climb over the ridge. With it between him and the woods where the thieves would continue looking for him, he would head down the mountain for help. His brothers had to be on the road home, maybe close by. And since he had the gold, the thieves would continue looking for him and leave the house and Teriss alone.

He hoped.

He broke out of the trees. Before him rose the grassy, rock-strewn meadow where he had spent many happier days. Lightning and thunder mingled in glare and cacophony overhead and the howling wind, whipping over the grass, hit him full force as he left the trees behind. Blowing off the snows of the peak, it seemed to suck all warmth from his body.

Hastily he turned left and, leaning into the gale, started for the ridge, a quarter of a mile away, sticking close to the tree line for as much cover as possible, both from the storm and from hostile eyes behind him. By the time he reached the ridge the chill in his limbs had become pain, and the first drops of rain spattered down, each as solid and cold as ice.

The thin, twisted trees on the ridge scarcely broke the wind. Danell scrambled up among them as quickly as he could, head lowered. As he crested the slope he could hear the roar of the river even above the storm. Swollen by rain upslope, the swift, splashing stream had become a torrent.

The rain thickened, until in seconds it fell so hard that even in the full glare of the lightning Danell could see only a few yards. Soaked and shivering, he began to descend the mountain, clinging to branches along the top of the ridge, feet sliding dangerously on the wet grass.

His confidence waned as the storm waxed. Shouldn’t he have fled with Teriss herself, instead of the gold? He had escaped with it, he could just as easily have escaped with her.

A knife-like slash of wind-blown rain across his face made him stumble, and he shook his head violently. Teriss would not have survived such a night. He took another step and slid for a heart-stopping instant toward the gorge before catching a branch. He might not survive it either!

Sheep are safe when the wolves hunt elsewhere, he thought. The wolves are hunting me; the lamb is safe.

Then he looked up and screamed. Like something out of a nightmare, one of the robbers appeared in front of him in a flash of lightning, naked sword in hand. The blade reached out toward his throat. “Give me the gold, boy!” Danell didn’t move—couldn’t move. Sharp steel bit his cold-numbed flesh. “The gold!”

The wolves had hunted him down…and when they had him they would return to the fold to take whatever else was there—including the lamb, Teriss.

Slowly Danell let the strap of the pouch slide from his shoulder into his hand. Then, “Take it!” he screamed, and with his slinger’s skill whipped the pouch in a half-circle and released it.

The gold-weighted bag smashed into the robber’s chest. He staggered back, arms flailing, the sword flying from his hand. Lightning flashed and Danell glimpsed a white face and staring eyes—then darkness returned and the man was gone. For an instant, a scream echoed above the sound of wind and river.

Danell, his own eyes wide and his heart pounding, flung himself up and over the ridge and down the other side, back into the forest. He ran through the trees, branches clutching at him, tearing clothes and skin. Twice he fell and stumbled back up to run again. The third time he crashed down so hard he couldn’t breathe for a moment, and lay curled in misery on the wet leaves of the forest floor, struggling for air.

In a burst of lightning he saw he was at the edge of the trail down the mountain. With his first shallow, painful breaths he staggered to his feet and stumbled onto the path—and saw the remaining two thieves not twenty feet upslope.

Danell didn’t have enough air in his lungs to run. He fell to his knees as the robbers ran toward him, swords drawn. One of them grabbed his hair and yanked his head back “Where is it? Where’s the gold?”

“The river,” Danell choked out. “With your friend.”

The robber flung him to the ground. “You’re lying!”

“I think he’s telling the truth,” the other man said. “I thought I heard a scream—”

The first robber stared at him, then down at Danell. “All that gold—in the river—” He raised his sword. “I’ll kill you for that!”

His blade whistled down, but Danell rolled out of the way, scrambled to his feet and pelted down the path. The robbers followed, screaming oaths.

Danell’s feet felt leaden and his chest still ached. Soon, very soon, he would fall, and they would kill him, and then they would go back to the house and Teriss would die, too . . .

He rounded a corner. Blinded by the rain and his terror and exhaustion, he didn’t see the two men on the trail until he careened into them. Strong arms grabbed him, then supported him. “Danell! What’s wrong?”

With overwhelming relief, Danell recognized the voice of Barett, his oldest brother. “Robbers!” he gasped. Barett thrust him out of the way, and he heard the ring of swords being drawn.

The ensuing battle was brief.

#

Wrapped in a blanket, Danell steamed by the roaring fire in the kitchen hearth. “I thought I’d never be warm again,” he said, and edged closer to the blaze.

Barett sat at the table with Teriss in his arms. The baby tried to grab his finger, laughing. Guildor turned from the fire and smiled at his little sister as he handed Danell a steaming mug of mulled wine.

Danell cupped it in his hands. “What will father say about the gold? He’s been saving that for so many years…”

Barett glanced up at him. “He’s always said he was saving it for a disaster,” he pointed out. “If you hadn’t used it as you did, tonight would have been the worst disaster of all. You know he isn’t concerned about gold as much as he is about you—and Teriss.”

“I didn’t think so this morning,” Danell admitted. “I didn’t think it was fair. He knows how I feel…” His voice trailed off. He felt only embarrassment now at the way he had acted that morning, and gulped wine to hide his flush.

Guildor and Barett exchanged glances, then Guildor said, “That was a very brave thing you did. Worthy of a great hero, if you ask me.”

Danell remembered cold, terror, violence and pain. He sipped from the cup again and shook his head. “If that’s what it means to be a hero—then to be a shepherd is the finest thing I know.” No dreams of knights or bold battles filled his head now; he had fought his battle, and to sit in peace and safety with his brothers and sister was all he could ask. He looked at Teriss, laughing as she played with Barett’s hand, and added, “Besides, all I was really doing was looking after a very special lamb.” He grinned and snuggled down in his blanket. “The ones with fleece are less trouble.”

#

Anyone who has learned to touch type has probably wondered about the peculiar arrangement of the standard keyboard, usually called QWERTY. Why aren’t the letters in, say, alphabetical order?

The fact is, some of the earliest typewriters did have keyboards in alphabetical order. But they had a problem: alphabetical order put some frequently used letter pairs too close together on the keyboard, resulting in mechanical clashes.

QWERTY was invented in 1868 and adopted by Remington for the Sholes and Glidden Type-Writer, whose brand name eventually became the generic name of all such machines—one sure sign of a commercial success.

The other sign of the machine’s success is the fact that its QWERTY layout was soon adopted by all other manufacturers.

QWERTY was designed to prevent the mechanical clashes that arose in early machines when two adjacent keys were struck in quick succession. It did that by separating frequently used letter pairs to opposite sides of the keyboard. (It also, not coincidentally, contains all the letters for the word “typewriter” in the top row, allowing salesmen to easily demonstrate the machine.)

QWERTY is now everywhere, which means that most of what you read passed, at some time, through a QWERTY keyboard. And now there’s research that suggests that the QWERTY arrangement actually affects the emotional content of what we read.

Linguists and psychologists talk about the “articulators” used in language production. They usually mean part of the vocal tract, but with so much language being produced using a keyboard, increasingly we’re letting our fingers do our articulation for us.

In spoken language, a portion of the meaning of words is linked to the way they are articulated. Researchers Kyle Jasmin and Daniel Casasanto wanted to find out if the same held true for typed language.

How does this supposed effect work? The QWERTY keyboard is asymmetrical: there are actually more letters on the left side of the midline than on the right. This means it is slightly more difficult to type words that use left-side letters than those that use right-side letters (something which has been demonstrated experimentally).

The researchers decided to test the hypothesis that “right-side words,” because they are easier to type, might be viewed more positively than left-side word. Not only that, but this might carry over to spoken language, because touch-typists (like me) actually implicitly activate the positions of keys when they read words.

To test this, Jasmin and Casasanto conducted three experiments, using three QWERTY-using languages (Dutch, Spanish, and, of course, English.) In the first, they set out to find out if the QWERTY effect carried across different languages—and found that it did. They showed participants a list of words and had them rate the emotional “valence” on a scale of one to five (using “manikins,” a smiling figure at the positive end and a frowning figure at the negative end).  Overall, words with more right-side letters were rated to have a more positive meaning than words with more left-side letters.

Next, they tested whether QWERTY influences new words more than old words…and found that the QWERTY effect was indeed more apparent in words coined after the invention of QWERTY.

Finally, they tested for the effect with pseudowords, made-up words with no meaning. (Science fiction and fantasy writers take note! We make up words all the time.) Sure enough, made-up words with more right-side letters were judged to have more positive meanings.

In the words of the researchers, “It appears that using QWERTY shapes the meaning of existing words and may also influence which new words and abbreviations get adopted into the lexicon and the ‘texticon’ by encouraging the use of words and abbreviations whose emotional valences are congruent with the letters’ locations on the keyboard.”

And the practical applications?

“People responsible for naming new products, brands and companies might do well to consider the potential advantages of consulting their keyboards and choosing the ‘right’ name.”

And for what’s it worth, I just realized that my name, Edward, is typed entirely using the left-hand keys.

It’s a wonder I have any friends at all.

It’s of roughly the same era as “Janitor Work,” which I posted here a few weeks ago.

The other interesting thing about “The Minstrel”: it was the basis for my first post-university novel, a book that never sold…but that came agonizingly close, as I found out at the World Science Fiction Convention in Winnipeg in 1994. Josepha Sherman was editing science fiction at Walker & Co. in the late 1980s early 1990s (I don’t remember the precise dates) and I’d sent the novel version of this story to her. She liked it, but said it needed quite a bit of additional work…which I did, adding several chapters, in fact. I sent it back, but again it was turned down.

What I found out in Winnipeg, as she recounted the tale while on a panel, was that she’d been “ready to make an offer”…but then the publisher died and his replacement decreed that Walker would no longer publish science fiction. And so my novel-writing career remained stalled for many more years.

Such is life, and writing. But I’ve got plans to go over Star Song (as I eventually titled the novel) and release it myself as an ebook. So I may yet have the last laugh!

For now, enjoy “The Minstrel.”

###

The Minstrel

By Edward Willett

The music sang of the infinite Dark and the suns that burn within it. It shimmered like starlight on alien seas, and whispered with the voices of strange winds.

#

Kriss stopped playing, and as the last chord died slowly away, sat quietly with his head bowed, cradling his touchlyre in his arms. The orange glow of the oil lamps gleamed on the instrument’s polished black wood and burnished copper.

One by one those in the smoky bar, mostly offworlders, rose from their tables and came to the low platform where Kriss sat to drop coins into the wooden bowl at his feet. The murmur of their conversation was slow to resume.

When the last had come and gone Kriss stood, bowed, and left the stage. He divided the money with the innkeeper, then slipped the touchlyre into its soft leather case and went out into the chill night air.

In the cobblestoned street he stopped and looked up at the stars blazing in the night sky, as he did every evening when he finished playing, burning into his mind’s eye the goal for which he had striven, it seemed, forever.

Two local men staggered by. One poked the other with his elbow and nodded toward Kriss. “Uppity offworlder,” he whispered loudly. His companion made an obscene gesture at the boy, then, laughing, they weaved on down the street.

Kriss clenched his fists, then spun and strode in the opposite direction.

Where the cobblestones ended and concrete began, artificial lights banished the night. At the sight of them Kriss forgot the drunks’ insults and broke into a run. In a moment he reached the tall wire fence that surrounded the spaceport and pressed his face against the cold mesh, peering through it at the starships, silver spires that seemed to soar skyward even though standing still. The lights glittered on their mirrored sides.

There lay the path to the stars, away from this hated planet where he didn’t belong, couldn’t belong, though he had been raised on it. The drunks had known; they had seen his height and his blonde hair and had known he came from the stars.

Somewhere out there must be his true home; somewhere out there he had to have a family. His parents were dead, but they had to have had parents of their own, brothers, sisters…

He blinked away tears, and, disgusted with his own self-pity, turned away from the fence and set out along a dark, garbage-strewn alley for his barren lodging, a tiny attic room above a seamstress’s shop. He was fooling himself if he thought he would ever leave Farr’s World, he thought bitterly. The spacecrews called him “worldhugger”; neither Union nor Family, and without contacts in either of those spacefaring groups, he could never gain a berth as a crewmember, and he could entertain in spaceport bars for the rest of his life without raising enough money to buy passage into orbit, much less to another world.

Lost in dark thoughts, he didn’t realize he was being followed until a hand touched his shoulder.

He instinctively spun away from that touch and pressed his back against a rough stone wall, his heart pounding, his arms wrapped protectively around the touchlyre.

“I mean you no harm,” said the man who faced him. Shadows hid his features. “I only want to talk.”

Kriss did not relax. “Then talk.”

“What is your name?”

Kriss said nothing.

“Perhaps if you knew mine…? I am Carl Vorlick, a dealer in alien curiosities.” He waited.

“My name’s Kriss Lemarc,” Kriss said finally. “Why?”

Vorlick ignored the question. “And how old are you?”

“Fifteen, standard.”

“That would be just about right.” Vorlick’s eyes glinted faintly in the starlight. “I heard you play in Andru’s—remarkable. Almost as though you projected emotion, not just sound.”

Pleased despite himself, Kriss shrugged. “My instrument is…special.”

“Indeed it is. And very beautiful. May I…?” He held out his hand.

Kriss looked up and down the alley, but saw no hope of rescue. Slowly he unfolded the leather covering and took out the touchlyre. The copper fingerplates and strings shone even in that dark corner.

Vorlick took a handlight from his pocket and played the beam over the instrument. Kriss caught a quick glimpse of a lean face with thin lips and ice-blue eyes before the light switched off. “Lovely,” the man murmured. “How does it work?”

Kriss hesitated. “I hear music in my mind, and the touchlyre plays it,” he said finally. “I can’t explain any better than that.”

“Touchlyre?”

“That’s what I call it. I don’t know what its real name is.”

“Where did it come from?”

“It belonged to my parents. But I don’t even remember them.”

“Your parents, yes.” Vorlick paused for a long moment, then said, “You desire to leave this world, don’t you?”

Kriss said nothing. This stranger knew too much. Once again he glanced up and down the alley. He would have welcomed even the two drunks who had insulted him earlier—but there was no one.

But Vorlick took his silence as consent. “I own a ship.”

Kriss stiffened. “What do you want from me?” he demanded; but inside he already knew.

“The price is small: your instrument. Give the touchlyre to me, and I will take you into space.”

Kriss looked down at the touchlyre. “It’s that valuable?”

“To the right person, everything is valuable. Your music spoke of your longing for the stars—some of those hardened spacefarers in Andru’s were near tears. You value the stars, I value your instrument. A fair exchange.”

“A musician once told me there isn’t another instrument like this one in the galaxy.”

“But there are other instruments. You could choose from those of a thousand worlds. Surely one construction of wood and metal is not so different from another?”

To go to the stars, Kriss thought. To cross the great Dark, to breathe the air of alien worlds, to perhaps touch Mother Earth herself…

…to find a family…

Almost unconsciously, his arms loosened from the touchlyre. He looked up again at the stars, drank in their light with his eyes—and made up his mind. “Agreed.”

Vorlick rubbed his hands together. “Excellent! Come to the spaceport gate at dawn. Bring the instrument.” He turned and vanished into the darkness.

Kriss listened to his footsteps fade, then turned and walked slowly on toward his room. He climbed the familiar, rickety wooden stairs on the outside of the old brick building, past the dingy window through which shone a faint yellow light from the seamstress’s lantern, unlocked his door and went in. Lighting his single candle, he looked around the tiny chamber. The ceiling with its small square skylight was simply the underside of the roof, and so low on one side he had to stoop to get to his bed, the only furniture aside from a rough-hewn table and rusty metal chair. I won’t miss this, he thought. I won’t miss anything on this planet.

But he didn’t feel euphoric, as he had always expected to feel when he finally found a way to fulfill his dream. Instead he felt—numb? No, not numb—depressed.

Why? he asked himself. I’m going to the stars—all my dreams are coming true!

But the feeling persisted. As always when his spirits needed lifting, Kriss took out the touchlyre. Playing it was cathartic; he could lose himself in music as so many others on this impoverished planet did in wine.

He held the instrument in his lap for a moment, running his fingers over the sinuous curves of its velvety, unvarnished wood. Then he raised it and placed his hands on the copper plates.

The strings screamed: discordant, angry, ear-shattering. Kriss snatched his hands away. The touchlyre had never made a sound like that before! Had he broken it? He touched the plates again, cautiously, and again the instrument howled.

Disgusted, he tossed it on the table. If it was broken, he was well rid of it. He’d find himself another instrument, from one of those thousand worlds of which Vorlick had spoken. He undressed, blew out the candle and crawled into bed.

Just before sleep claimed him, he thought he heard the instrument’s strings softly humming; but of course that was impossible, with no one touching the plates.

He dreamed. He was performing in Andru’s, as he had done so many times, playing of his longing for the stars. That longing filled him with almost physical pain, but pain he could bear as long as he kept playing.

But suddenly the touchlyre disappeared, and he stood on an alien planet, strange and beautiful. Then another new world surrounded him, and another, and another, flashing past faster and faster, but no matter how exotic, how wonderful, they did not satisfy his longing, and the ache grew ever more acute.

And then he came to a world where dwelt a man who, he somehow knew, was his father’s brother. His uncle rose to greet him, laughing, and hugged him, welcoming him to his family…

…but still the longing burned within Kriss, stronger than ever, so strong he suddenly knew it could never be quenched, and he broke away and screamed and screamed and—

—woke, gasping, bathed in sweat, his blanket a tangled heap on the floor and the scream echoing in his ears. His scream—or—he glanced sharply at the touchlyre, barely visible in the faint illumination from the skylight. It seemed to him he could hear the strings vibrating down to stillness, as though a mighty chord had just been wrung from them.

Nonsense, he told himself. He retrieved his blanket. No dreams troubled him the rest of the night.

In the morning he rose very early, put the touchlyre and the few clothes he owned into a backpack, and headed down the stairs and through a thin morning mist to the spaceport. The mountains towering above the city still hid the sun, but light filled the sky.

Vorlick waited at the spaceport gate. “Did you bring it?” he asked at once.

“Yes,” Kriss said, startled by the blunt question.

“Take it out. I want to see it in the daylight.”

Nonplused, Kriss did as he was told. But as he took the touchlyre from its case it hummed to life in his hands, and from it crashed a single explosive chord that echoed through the silent streets. Vorlick stumbled back as though slapped. “What—”

Kriss didn’t hear him. The chord had sent the whole dream of the night before flashing through his mind, and it suddenly made perfect sense to him. His longing wasn’t so much to see the stars, or even to find his family, but to find himself. He was doing that, bit by bit, through the touchlyre, journeying into his own soul to find out what kind of person he was, healing the wound made when he was orphaned on Farr’s World.

Without the touchlyre, he could never finish that healing process. Wandering around the stars with the touchlyre lost to him forever would only hurt him worse; and even if he found a family, he would have lost something just as important.

Kriss’s eyes suddenly focused on Vorlick. “No.”

“No?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll keep the touchlyre. I’ll find my own way into space.” He started to turn away.

Vorlick reached into his pocket and pulled out something metallic and deadly looking. “Stand still,” he said, his voice as cold as space. “That’s not one of your options. You don’t even know what you have, but I do. It’s a working artifact from an ancient, alien civilization, uncovered by two archaeologists on a planet we may never find again. They fled here with it when they realized someone knew they had it and was out to get it.” He smiled humorlessly. “Me, of course. It was almost fifteen standard years ago. I tracked them here, only to find they had died in an aircar crash. I assumed the artifact was destroyed with them.

“But then, just a few months ago, a spy on this world told me of a strange instrument in the hands of a boy—an instrument unlike any other.

“I did some checking. I found that the archaeologists had an infant son shortly after they arrived here, who was not in the aircar when it crashed—a baby who has become a young man—the minstrel with the unique instrument.

“So now, Kriss Lemarc, though I must withdraw my offer of placing you in a ship’s crew, I give you your parents: Jon and Memory Lemarc, archaeologists. And I also give you knowledge of what your ‘touchlyre’ is: the only relic of an ancient alien culture, and worth a fortune you cannot imagine.

“In exchange for that information, you will now give me this instrument.” Vorlick put his hand on it. “Or I will kill you.”

Kriss tore the touchlyre away from him. “No!”

And from the strings that cry of defiance exploded again, with a force that surpassed sound. Kriss, paralyzed, felt all his violent emotions, fear, awe, defiance, hatred, pouring through his hands into the touchlyre, adding to the force it hurled at Vorlick like a weapon. The power coursed through Kriss like a cleansing tide—and he knew he couldn’t stop it if he wanted to.

Vorlick’s face paled and slackened and his eyes glazed, then closed. The gun dropped from his nerveless hand as his legs buckled, and he fell to his knees and then to the ground.

Finally it ended. Kriss felt, not empty of emotion, but as if he now had room to truly experience and understand his emotions for the first time, as though a gritty residue clogging his mind had been washed away.

He looked down at Vorlick and pitied him. The man lay unconscious, and Kriss knew he had nothing more to fear from him.

Then he raised the touchlyre, silent again, and held it at arm’s length, studying it in the first rays of the sun, streaming through a cleft in the mountains behind him like searchlights. The orange beams made the wood and copper glow, reflecting the power hidden inside the ancient artifact. Just what that power was, and where it came from, he might never know: but he knew it was on his side.

He let his gaze travel to the tall starships beyond the gate, stark against the brightening sky. Above the tallest a single star still outshone the dawn light.

Someday, Kriss thought. Someday I’ll make that journey.

That dream was still his: but now he knew the real journey lay within him. He turned his back on the spaceport and walked back to his attic room.

#

In a bar called Andru’s, near the only spaceport of an obscure planet, starship crewmembers come to sit quietly and listen to a boy play a strange instrument of space-black wood and burnished copper.

His music sings of the infinite Dark and the suns that burn within it. It shimmers like starlight on alien seas, and whispers with the voices of strange winds.

Not surprisingly, science fiction (though not overly successful at predicting its rise) has taken to this futuristic resource in a big way. But how to choose which sites to visit?

Here’s one way: visit the ones I visit!

Let’s start with general news sites. I’ve previously mentioned Locus Online, the website of the most important science fiction news magazine. Besides publishing news, links to interviews and reviews and more, there alone you’ll find a links page directing you to more sites than you could possible visit without the assistance of an army of clones. Locus Online is always at the top of my list.

I also like SF Signal, edited by John DeNardo. I like many of its regular features, including SF Tidbits, which provides links to interviews, news, articles, art and more every day of the week. There’s also a weekly roundup of free online fiction and the regular Mind Meld feature where writers are asked their opinion about some related topic (i.e., “The best opening scenes in science fiction,” “How to create drama for posthumans.”)

Then there’s SF Scope, “your source of news about the speculative fiction fields,” which is just what it says on the tin. Its many news and opinion features are edited by Ian Randall Strock (who bought two short stories from me back when he edited Artemis Magazine).

A third one is SF Site. This one is very focused on books, with tons of reviews, along with interviews and more. It has regular columns on both TV SF and graphic novels.

Moving on to writers’ organizations, there are three to mention. First and foremost is the website of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, which includes news about members, publishing news and (most valuable for those wanting to break into the field) some well-worth-your-time articles on the practice of writing SF and fantasy.

On this side of the border, there’s the site SF Canada, our homegrown equivalent of SFWA (I was president for a couple of years).

For those on the dark side, I should also point out the Horror Writers’ Association, at the easy-to-remember horror.org.

Looking for places to sell your science fiction and fantasy? There are numerous market-listing sites. One I like goes by the unlikely name of Ralan’s SpecFic and Horror Webstravaganza—or just Ralan.com for short. Ralan’s website has been around since 1994, and breaks down markets by pay: pro, semi-pro, token and “expo” (i.e., no pay!). He lists both book and short-fiction markets, and also tracks response times.

Of course, just about everyone who is already selling science fiction and fantasy has a website. I have two: edwardwillett.com and leearthurchane.com. One you should definitely check out (besides mine!) is Robert J. Sawyer’s, at sfwriter.com (Rob was a very early Web pioneer, which is how he landed such an awesome URL; SFWRITER is also his license plate!).

You should also pay a visit to Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s site. Rusch is the author of the invaluable Freelancer’s Survival Guide, and regularly posts long, thoughtful essays on the state of publishing today—and how writers can surf the waves of change and hopefully arrive safe on the other side of that dangerous reef we call electronic publishing.

There are some interesting group blogs run by science fiction writers, as well. Deadline Dames is a fun one: subtitled “Nine authors, one website, no excuses,” it details the writing adventures of Devon Monk, Jackie Kessler, Jenna Black, Karen Mahoney, Keri Arthur, Lilith Saintcrow, Rachel Vincent, Rinda Elliott and Toni Andrews, working mainly in the field of urban fantasy.

I also like Science Fiction and Fantasy Novelists, an invitation-only group blog with an impressive list of contributors and always-interesting posts. (I particularly recommend “A Writer’s Letter to Santa,” which any writer, SF- or non, should find amusing.

Finally, no list of sites would be complete without Writer Beware, a publishing industry watchdog group sponsored by SFWA with additional support from the Mystery Writers of America. Writer Beware “shines a bright light into the dark corners of the shadow-world of literary scams, schemes, and pitfalls” and also provides “industry news, writing advice, and a special focus on the wacky things that happen at the fringes of the publishing world.” If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Check it out at Writer Beware first!

This only scratches the surface. There are dozens more that could be listed. But the Web being the linkful place it is, any one of these sites will lead you to some of those dozens more.

And when you think about it, what better use could there be of today’s science-fictional technology than using it to learn more about science fiction?

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE SCIENCE CENTRE KIND

All shots are from POV of alien—half-height, maybe a manipulating device of some kind just visible in the lower part of the frame (i.e., Dalek POV in a Doctor Who episode).

1. INTERIOR: SPACECRAFT

We see the control panel of the spaceship of Imperial Scout Arkos 496, an alien. (Oddly, this control panel looks a great deal like the control panel of the Cable Regina master control.) We hear, with appropriate sound effects . . .

ARKOS

This is the Personal Log of Imperial Scout Arkos 496. I’m on my final descent to Earth. The target is in sight. I will land on the large flat surface next to it. Contact in five…four…three…two…one…

We hear an immense splashing noise. The lights flicker and go out, and we hear a glub-glub noise. Over black we hear…

ARKOS

Oops.

2. EXTERIOR: WASCANA LAKE SHORELINE

We hear the ARKOS’s inarticulate disgruntled muttering as we rise, water streaming down in front of us, out of Wascana Lake. Pan from side to side; lock onto Saskatchewan Science Centre.

ARKOS

Target located. Proceeding.

We begin to move forward. Ominous background music.

3. INTERIOR: POWERHOUSE ENTRANCE

We advance through the automatic doors; stop, back up, make them swing open again, then proceed in.

ARKOS

Now why didn’t we think of that?

We advance to the ticket counter, where VISITOR SERVICES CLERK reacts calmly.

VISITOR SERVICES CLERK

Can I help you?

ARKOS

Take me to your leader.

VSC

Sure! Uh—what’s that little robot thing floating over your head?

ARKOS

This is my Questioning, Independent Reaper of Knowledge—QUIRK, for short. During my visit he will be roaming your building and transmitting the images he records directly to me.

VSC

You don’t say? Just a second, kid.

VSC talks on phone as we hear…

ARKOS

Personal log: It appears human eyesight is poor. They have mistaken me for an immature member of a species of herd animal. No matter: I am about to meet their leader.

VSC

Our leader will be with you in a moment.

4. INTERIOR: FEATURE EXHIBIT

STEPHEN shakes manipulator device gingerly.

STEPHEN

How do you do? I’m Stephen Hall, Executive Director of the Saskatchewan Science Centre.

ARKOS

Greetings, Exalted One! I am Arkos 496, a humble scout in the service of the Mighty Emperor Ugwump the Incredible. I come on a mission of great importance.

STEPHEN

Well, then, maybe we should go somewhere where we could talk sitting down . . .

ARKOS

I am not physically equipped for that action. This location is adequate.

STEPHEN

OK, fine. Well, Mr. 496—

ARKOS

Please, call me Arkos.

STEPHEN

Arkos. What can I do for you?

ARKOS

Our world is in serious trouble. Our people have lost all interest in science and technology. They think it is too hard. They think it is too boring. As a result, we no longer have enough scientists or engineers. Our children all want to be professional slime-wrestlers when they grow up. His Imperial Majesty fears our civilization will crumble if we do not get professional help. So we have come to you. We have heard that here in the Saskatchewan Science Centre you have found a way to make people appreciate science. We must know your secret.

STEPHEN gives a three or four-minute monologue on what the Science Centre is, how it came about, the philosophy of Science Centre exhibits and how they’re created, and the future of the Science Centre.

During this, QUIRK begins exploring the exhibit floor . . .

ARKOS

This is very interesting. May I see more of your Powerhouse of Discovery?

STEPHEN

Of course. (Calls.) Ed! Just the man I’m looking for! (To ARKOS.) Edward Willett is our Communications Officer. He’ll give you the grand tour.

(Enter Ed.)

ED

You called—oh! (To ARKOS, holding up famous Vulcan greeting.) Uh—peace! Live long and prosper!

ARKOS

What?

STEPHEN

Ed, I’d like you meet Arkos 469. I’ve told him you’ll give him a complete behind-the-scenes tour of the Science Centre.

ED

Uh…right. OK. Fine. Why don’t we start with exhibit design and production? Stephen, if you’ll come along for this first part, too, since you’re in charge of area…right this way, Mr. 469.

ARKOS

Please. Call me Arkos.

We follow Ed toward the elevator and hear…

ARKOS

Personal log: These humans have no sense of propriety. We’ve only just met, and already I’m just a number to them. At home you have to know someone for weeks before your comfortable calling them by their number.

5. INTERIOR: DESIGN DEPARTMENT

ED

This is the design department, and these are our designers. They determine how an exhibit is going to look.

DAVID YEE

Hey, man, I love your colour scheme! I’ve never seen anybody put orange, purple and green together quite so…boldly.

STEPHEN gives a quick tour of the department and explains what happens there.

6. INTERIOR: PRODUCTION SHOP

We pass through the connecting door between Graphics and Production…

STEPHEN

And through this door is the production department, where we actually build exhibits. We have complete metalworking and woodworking facilities, and an electronics workshop.

Shots of cabinetmakers at work, and a peek into ROB FULLER’s workshop, where ARKOS gets sentimental over the pile of old equipment.

ARKOS

Awww…that’s just the way my pet robot Sparkums looked after the isotope delivery truck ran over him when I was an eggling.

At the end of this STEPHEN makes his exit.

7. INTERIOR: LAUNCH PAD (BY ELEVATOR)

ARKOS

This is all very interesting, but I don’t see how these things you build can be enough by themselves to interest people in science.

ED

Oh, but there’s a lot more than just inanimate exhibits. There are also programs.

ARKOS

Ah! Artificial intelligences!

ED

No, people programs. Come on, I’ll show you.

Strides off toward elevator, leaving ARKOS behind. Pauses and looks back.

Well?

ARKOS

I’m coming, I’m coming.

We move after the impatient ED.

Personal log: These aliens grow to ridiculous heights and have very long legs. I suspect genetic engineering. Warn the Interstellar Olympic Committee not to invite them to the games next millennium.

8. INTERIOR: DISCOVERY LAB

ED

Arkos, this is Kathryn Dotson, our Programming Director. Kathryn, this is Arkos 496.

KATHRYN

Hello, Mr. 496.

ARKOS

Please, call me Arkos.

KATHRYN: Three or four minutes on how programs are designed and implemented and what we try to accomplish with them, who our demonstrators and volunteers are and what they do, where our visiting exhibits come from and what kinds of exhibits they are. Might mention the problem of exhibit maintenance, too.

QUIRK continues to roam the exhibits while she’s talking…

ARKOS

All of this is wonderful, but how do you let people know about these programs? Is it through telepathy?

ED

No, it’s through sales and marketing.

ARKOS

I do not understand.

ED

Well, then, you’d better talk to . . .

9. INTERIOR: THIRD FLOOR, OVERLOOKING MAIN EXHIBIT AREA

ED

…Pat Brandino, our Sales and Marketing Director. Pat, this is Arkos 469.

PAT

Pleased to meet you, Mr. 469.

ARKOS

Please, call me Arkos.

PAT BRANDINO:

Three to four minutes on how we get the message of what we’re about and what we’re trying to accomplish out to the public; how we try to get the most “bang for the buck” through joint promotions, etc., the great interest media outlets have shown being involved with us.

QUIRK is still exploring…

10. INTERIOR: STAIRS BETWEEN THIRD & SECOND FLOORS

ARKOS

Very interesting—though I would still recommend telepathy. It costs far fewer fegwips.

ED

Fegwips?

ARKOS

Rodent-like creatures with ten legs. Our medium of exchange.

ED

I’d hate to be your banker…

ARKOS

Do you not have something similar?

ED

Uh, sort of. Our medium of exchange is called money. Fortunately, we have someone who raises it.

ARKOS

Ah! Like our fegwip-breeders at home.

ED

If only it were that simple…

11. INTERIOR: IN FRONT OF BUBBLE AREA

ED

Diana Choban is our fegwip-breeder—I mean, our development officer. Diana, this is Arkos 469.

DIANA

Pleased to meet you, Mr. 46 —

ED

Please, call him Arkos.

DIANA CHOBAN: Three to four minutes about how we’re funded and how we go about gathering the funds we need to continue providing the service we provide—talk about exhibit sponsorships, special campaigns, etc.

QUIRK explores such things as donor wall, various signs for exhibit sponsorships, the skeleton & periodic table…

ARKOS

It sounds very difficult. I will make a note to have His Imperial Majesty send your Mr. Hall a breeding pair of fegwips, instead.

DIANA

Thank you so much.

ED

There is one other way we make some money.

ARKOS

And what is that?

ED

It’s called the Kramer IMAX Theatre. Walk this way.

ED strides toward the theatre, leaving ARKOS behind again.

ARKOS

Personal log: Walk that way? Not without a lot of mutating . . .

12. INTERIOR: KRAMER IMAX THEATRE

ARKOS

That is a very large blank surface.

ED

It’s called a screen. We show moving pictures on it.

ARKOS

Ah, yes. What you call television. We have intercepted your transmissions. I particularly like Hee Haw…

ED

Uh, no, it’s not exactly television. It’s—well, you’d better talk to Don Copeman, our IMAX theatre manager. This way!

13. INTERIOR: IMAX THEATRE LOBBY

ED

Don, this is Arkos 469—and don’t call him Mr. 469. Arkos, this is Don Copeman. You can call him whatever you like.

ARKOS

Hello, Whatever-You-Like!

DON COPEMAN: Three to four minutes on IMAX, what it is, how films are selected, what kind of films we’ll see, and how it benefits the Science Centre as a whole.

QUIRK roams the IMAX…

14. INTERIOR: IMAX PROJECTION ROOM

ARKOS

This must be a very powerful weapon.

ED

It’s the IMAX projector.

ARKOS

A powerful projectile weapon?

ED

No, all it projects is light.

ARKOS

Ah! A powerful laser weapon.

ED

No! This is what projects the images on that big screen down there…

ARKOS

Oh…how?

ED

Just watch…

Visuals of the projector being loaded, or in operation, or something.

15. INTERIOR: IMAX THEATRE LOBBY NEAR CHECKPOINT CHARLIE

ED

Well, you’ll have a lot to tell your Emperor, won’t you?

ARKOS

If I am able to.

ED

What do you mean?

ARKOS

I have inadvertently landed in the large body of dihydrogen oxide adjacent to this structure. A critical component requires a large charge of static electricity in order for me to be able to retrieve my ship and take off again. At present I have no way of obtaining that charge —

ED

Wanna bet?

ARKOS

I fail to see what function gambling would serve at this juncture—

ED

Just follow me.

We move away toward the Powerhouse…

16. INTERIOR: POWERHOUSE – COCA COLA STAGE

We approach the Van Der Graaff Static Electricity Generator.

ARKOS

Greetings, robot! What is your function?

ED

It’s not a robot. And its function is to generate static electricity.

ARKOS

Indeed?

ED

Sure. Watch!

We watch a kid get his/her hair stood on end. ARKOS is overjoyed.

ARKOS

I am indeed fortunate! Wait while I position myself…

We move closer to the generator, and we see a nice fat electrical spark jumping from the generator to the grounding rod, which can double as ARKOS’s broken device.

ED

(Looking at watch impatiently.) Now can you leave?

ARKOS

Not yet! First I must gather images for transmittal to His Majesty! QUIRK!

Series of quick images from around the Powerhouse and IMAX.

17. EXTERIOR: IN FRONT OF THE POWERHOUSE

ARKOS

I thank you for your help. The Saskatchewan Science Centre may very well have saved our entire civilization.

ED

All in a day’s work. Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Arkos—

ARKOS

Please, call me 496.

ED

Uh—sure. Whatever you say, 496. And, uh—QUIRK, was it? Have a safe trip home, and if you’re ever in the nieghborhood again, be sure to drop by.

ED waves and goes back into the Powerhouse.

ARKOS

Don’t worry—we will.

We move toward the lake…

18. INTERIOR: SPACESHIP

We see the control panel again.

ARKOS

Personal Log of Imperial Scout Arkos 496. Am preparing for takeoff from Earth. Mission accomplished. Launching—now.

The manipulator touches a button or lever. We hear splashing sounds, then rocket noises, and over it…

ARKOS

Feldercarb! I forgot to buy a T-shirt.

Music swells.

FADE OUT

Aside from those keeners who have set up combination desks/treadmills (Arthur Slade, I’m looking at you), a poor choice for those of us who cannot walk and chew gum at the same time, much less walk and type at the same time, most writers do little but sit on their rear ends and tap on a keyboard.

It was therefore with great interest that I read a press release describing a study just published in Psychological Science, a journal of the Association for Psychological Science, which indicates that one key to losing weight might be, not physical exercise, but a writing exercise.

The study was conducted by Christine Logel of Renison University College at the University of Waterloo and Geoffrey L. Cohen of Stanford University.

The researchers recruited 45 female undergraduates who had a body mass index of 23 or higher. A BMI within the range of 18.5 to 24.9 is considered normal weight; a little more than half of the women (58 percent) fell outside that range and thus would be considered overweight or obese.

Each woman was weighed, and then provided with a list of important values: i.e., creativity, politics, music, and relationships with friends and family members. Each woman was asked to rank the values in the order of how important they were to her.

With that established, half the women were told to write for 15 minutes about whichever value they had ranked most important, while the other half (the control group) were told to write about why a value they personally ranked low might be valuable to someone else.

Between one and four months later, the women came back to be weighed again, and, rather astoundingly, the women who had written about an important value had lost an average of 3.41 pounds, while the women in the control group had (as is typical of undergraduates at university) gained an average of 2.75 pounds.

Why? Well, Logel’s theory is that the women who wrote about values that were important to them felt better about themselves, and that led to better habits: perhaps writing about an important value made a particular woman feel so good that she went home and, for once, didn’t snack; and that, in turn, helped derail a snacking habit that had been contributing to her weight gain.

The results tie in with previous studies that have found that thinking about values, even briefly, can have a big effect. For example, Cohen has used the same technique with minority seventh-graders who were underperforming relative to their white peers. The results: those who did the exercise continued to perform better for years thereafter.

“We have this need to feel self-integrity,” Logel is quoted as saying. “We can buffer that self-integrity by reminding ourselves how much we love our children, for example.”

So does that mean the key to losing weight is as simple as writing about something you value, once, for just 15 minutes?

Naturally, the researchers urge caution, and say it’s too soon to tell. They point out that the women in the study didn’t know that writing about values was supposed to help them live healthier, although they may have twigged, since most psychological studies don’t require a weigh-in.

Logel herself, however, is a firm believer in the benefit of focusing on things of value. She carries a keychain that reminds her of one of her own important values (although the press release doesn’t say exactly what it is, personally, not forgetting my keys is something I value).

And, Logel says, the ultimate goal of all her research along these lines is to find out what people can do to deliberately benefit from this fascinating effect.

In the meantime, she says, “There’s certainly no harm in taking time to reflect on important values and working activities you value in your daily life.”

Personally, I just like the idea of a writing exercise to help you lose weight.

It sure beats that other kind of exercise…although somehow I suspect the panting-and-sweating kind would still be a good idea, too.

At the Mackenzie Art Gallery, the “vaults” (that’s a picture of them at the left) are where they keep the permanent collection, most of which is not on display at any given time. Here at edwardwillett.com, the vaults are the file folders on my computer, or the file folders in my filing cabinet, that have filled up with odds and ends and stuff over the years: bits of poetry, poems, unpublished short stories, unfinished novels, old newspaper columns, etc., etc. Some of it dates back thirty years…or more.

Every Saturday, I’m going to pull something out of the vaults and post it…just because.

And we start with…a poem.

As writer-in-residence I always warn poets who come to see me that I don’t write poetry.

Now you’ll know why.

###

There’s A Puppy in My Pocket

There’s a puppy in my pocket
And a kitten in my coat.
I’m not sure what’s in my Stetson,
But it may well be a stoat.

My shoes are full of shellfish
And my socks are full of squid,
And the turtle in my top-hat
Is about to flip its lid.

My jewelry box has June bugs
And my dresser’s full of things–
Not the shirts and shorts that I wear–
No, it’s full of things with wings.

I wake up quite sore each morning
‘Cause my mattress has a lump:
But it could be worse. At least that camel’s
Only got one hump.

A hyena ate my hair brush
And a cheetah chewed my chair,
And a fate too horrid to relate
Befell my underwear.

I still love my little bedroom,
And I think that you would too.
But I sometimes really wish it didn’t
Overlook the zoo.

Chane combines some steampunk sensibilities with a magic world, infuses the whole thing with some potent political plotting, and presents the result – a fantastic novel.

And finishes…

Ultimately, a highly satisfying novel. I’d love to see something further in the world that Chane has created…

Read the whole thing.

Review Room has some quibbles, but still says:

I found the book quite appealing because it pitted science against magic, and couldn’t help being drawn in by the detailed descriptions of this alternate magical reality – it’s spells, it’s inventions and it’s different life. Commoners have achieved through science which the MageLords do via Magic. Against this backdrop Chane has created well-fleshed out characters. He gives the reader a look-see into their minds, which was quite interesting. The story has many twists and turns and is quite unpredictable so it keeps one engaged and reading.

Read the whole thing.

Interestingly, both reviewers (and some previous ones) note they’d be interested in seeing more of the world of Magebane. So would I! Which is why I have proposed a sequel. Still waiting for word on it from DAW, though, so…cross your fingers for me!

These days, though, the word “book” has developed two meanings. You can still read a bound-stack-of-paper book, but you can also read a book without ever touching anything that was once part of a tree, because the text has become divorced from the physical artifact to which it was once bound, thanks to the development of electronic reading devices.

I will admit up front that I was an early convert to electronic reading. I bought my first ebook reader many years ago, before hardly anyone had such a device. These days, I read on my iPhone and my iPad. My 10-year-old daughter owns a Kobo.

Ebooks are becoming more and more popular, but there are still those who swear up and down that they will never read from an electronic screen, that the only way they will give up paper books is when they are pried from their cold, dead hands.

Despite such passion on the printed-book side, ebook sales continue to soar, and ebook readers are becoming better, cheaper, and more ubiquitious. How can a lover of text-on-dead-trees continue to defend his/her choice?

Science may offer some ammunition in the ongoing debate. For instance, a study conducted last year by Jacob Nielsen of the Nielsen Norman Group, a California-based usability consulting firm, tested three different ways to read e-books–on the PC, the Kindle 2, and the iPad–against the reading of paper books. Nielsen found that those reading any of the ebook versions were as much as 10 percent slower than those reading the printed versions. (Reading on the PC was the slowest—and least popular—of all.)

Then there was the University of Washington report this spring on a pilot project in which computer science students used a Kindle DX (the largest version) for their course reading. College textbooks in ebook form would be cheaper for students, and much easier to lug around, so they are generally seen as a kind of “holy grail” of the ebook industry…but alas, seven months into the pilot project, more than 60 percent of students had stopped using their Kindle for academic reading. Those who kept using them tucked paper into the case in order to write notes (even though you can take electronic notes on the Kindle). Others would read near a computer they could use for reference and other tasks the device didn’t make easy.

And then there was this particularly interesting study tidbit, as given in the press release: “The digital text also disrupted a technique called cognitive mapping, in which readers used physical cues, such as the location on the page and the position in the book, to find a section of text or even to help retain and recall the information they had read.”

So, text-on-paper-holdouts, science is on your side, right?

Well, not so fast. This week another study emerged from Johannes Gutenberg University in Mainz that, according to the lead researcher, Professor Dr. Stephan Füssel, provides a scientific basis “for dispelling the widespread misconception that reading from a screen has negative effects.”

In this study, participants in two sample groups, young adults and elderly adults, read various texts with various degrees of complexity on an ebook reader (Kindle 3), a tablet PC (iPad) and on paper. Their reading behavior and neural activity were assessed by tracking eye movements and through EEGs, and through questionnaires to measure text comprehension and information recall.

The results? Although readers almost universally stated they liked reading printed books best, there was no difference in terms of reading performance between reading from paper and from the Kindle. And when it came to the iPad, older readers actually exhibited faster reading times when using it. Not only that, the data indicated that information was processed more easily when it was read from the tablet.

So where does that leave us? Right back where we started: with personal preference. If you’re only willing to read text printed on bound paper, then by all means stick with printed books. If you’re comfortable reading on a screen, you have a plethora of possibilities.

As a writer, I think I speak for everyone who makes their living with words: we don’t care how you read, we just care that you read. So read, already!

Oh, wait…if you made it this far, I guess you just did.

(The photo: a box full of print copies of Magebane, my latest novel.)