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Marilyn Armstrong — Seeking Intelligent Life on Earth

Tag Archives: Time travel


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Those halcyon days of yore or whatever

Now that my high school reunion has passed and I’m no longer besieged by nostalgia from a half century ago, I feel safe in saying it. I haven’t any idea in what world my classmates were living, but I’m sure it wasn’t the same one I inhabited.

I understand that time can cast a gentler light, a rosy glow over events that took place in one’s youth … but there’s a difference between a rosy glow and a full revision.

For months, I have been bombarded by email from people with whom I attended high school. They are sure they remember me. They recall the fun stuff we did together. After giving it careful consideration, I have concluded they are deranged, on drugs, or senile. Whatever it is they think they remember, it didn’t happen.

Who are these people? Why do they keep talking about relationships that never existed? These people were not my friends. I remember them. They didn’t like me. They either ignored me, made fun of me, or conscientiously ostracized me. I belonged to no cliques, no fun groups. I wasn’t invited to parties. I was not popular.

I had a few friends, but these people who are so happily remembering me? They weren’t among the few people I counted as friends.

Did someone — me or them — slip through a wormhole into an alternate reality? That must be it.

High school was not a good time for me. Neither was junior high school or elementary school, for that matter. Even amongst the unpopular kids, I was unpopular. By the time I had survived junior high, I’d learned how to be invisible. Attending a really huge school helped. It was so big and over-crowded if you kept your head down, no one would notice you.

I was a klutzy kid with no athletic prowess, I avoided the humiliation of the athletically challenged by claiming I didn’t know how to swim. Every semester, I showed up at swimming class.

“You again?” said the coach. “Just keep out-of-the-way,” It was a win-win for me. I got an hour a day of private swim time alone in the deep end of the pool and completely avoided gym class. I believe I was technically on the swim team, but I never actually swam in an event. I was a bench warmer. That was fine. I liked the water, but I wasn’t going to win any medals.

All I had to do was get acceptable grades, not fail math courses after which I could go to college. I heard from other survivors that in college I might meet people who I’d like and might like me. That sounded too good to be true, but I had it on good authority. It turned out to be true so I guess making it through high school alive was worth it.

This was not the first time I’ve had to fend off a reunion. I dodged the 10th, 15th, 20th and 25th. I think there was a 40th too. But like a bad penny, it keeps coming back to haunt me. On the up side, we are now all so old, there is very little likelihood of any more such grand events.

I have repeatedly gone over this in my mind. I know with absolute certainty that high school wasn’t a fun time. It wasn’t only not fun for me. It wasn’t fun for most of us. We were young, hormonal, lost, unsure where we were going or how we would get there. Everyone felt ugly or deformed. Many of us had dreadful home lives that we hid from everyone else.

Yet now those years have become one long golden memory. At the reunion I did not attend, they actually got together to sing the school song. Never once in the years I attended did we ever actually sing the school song. It was a joke. We used to make fun of it because it was so dumb. Now, it’s a warm fuzzy memory. Bizarre.

My husband says this is typical of reunions. He says that when he went to his reunion — he actually attended one — people were reminiscing about the great times they had together, none of which he could remember nor could he recall the people claiming to have been there with him.

He says people need to pretend that they had a great time. It makes them feel better.

Not me. Even after fifty years I can’t think of a single reason to revisit a time and place I would just as soon have skipped in the first place. Oh, and to put this in perspective, our high school prom was cancelled due to no one but me and my date signing up for it. So exactly how terrific was the experience really?

Does pretending the past was perfect when it wasn’t even close make you feel better about your life? It doesn’t work for me. But maybe I’m the one with a problem. What do you think?

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When comes the revolution, it will start at the motor vehicle bureau

Four years ago, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts decided they could save a few bucks if they stopped reminding people to renew their drivers licenses. We are all supposed to remember what year our license expires. Since drivers licenses are good for five years, pretty much no one remembers, thus no one can renew on-line: an expired license can only be renewed in person. Because anyone who has an expired license needs an eye test.

It doesn’t matter if it’s one day or 3 years 364 days. If the license has expired, you must come to the RMV in person to get an eye test. According to the RMV, there is a direct, if somewhat obscure and mystical connection between an expired license and failing eyesight.

Note: After 4 years, you have to start over as if you never had a license at all, including written and road tests.

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To save us even more money, the Commonwealth decided to close down all the kiosk RMV (Registry of Motor Vehicle) mini offices at malls where you could get simple tasks completed quickly and conveniently. But that was not enough. They then closed more than half the local RMV branches, keeping only the main offices open.

Between one thing and another, the result is a guaranteed daily pile-up of disgruntled Massachusetts motorists at the Registry of Motor Vehicles.

Garry discovered his license had expired and came home upset. I tried to renew it on-line, but though it had expired less than two weeks earlier, he had to renew in person because he needed an eye test. This makes sense to someone. A punitive eye test. It is your punishment for not noticing that your license was expiring.

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He wondered if he could defer it. No one ever wants to go to the RMV, but there’s no reprieve. Driving around with an expired license is not an option. Should something happen, even a minor fender bender, you would end up getting hit with a fine that would make your head spin.

We headed up to Worcester, which according to the RMV office locater was the nearest branch. That turned out to be untrue, but we needed to get it done and had barely enough time. Away we went. It was a trip backwards in time.

I remember saying if revolution comes to this country, it will start at the motor vehicle bureau where frustrated, tired, aggravated citizens get bounced from place to place in pursuit of accomplishing a simple goal in a reasonable length of time. That we were at the RMV at all was because some moron thought sending a postcard to licensed drivers every 5 years was costing too much money. I’d like to see a cost analysis on this brilliant piece of legislation.

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There used to be dozens of queues at the RMV. In the bad old days, you waited on whichever line you thought was the right one until you got to the front, discovered you had waiting on the wrong line, were directed to some other place to start over.

After several hours of bouncing from line to line, with the queues getting longer and angrier as the day wore on, at 5 o’clock sharp, they’d close and tell you to come back another day. The new method eliminates lines. Not a queue in sight. The Powers That Be have used chaos theory and a non-linear approach to eliminate lines and logic simultaneously. It’s a new world, a science fiction world, a completely incomprehensible world.

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To get you oriented, everyone starts on a single information line where you get a little deli counter paper ticket. On it is printed a 3-digit number preceded by a letter. We were I-256.

There are letter codes A, B, C, D, F, G, I and Z. I do not know what any of them mean or if they mean anything. I don’t know why those letters were chosen as opposed to other letters. It’s all part of the non-linear thing. In the front lobby, there is a single, rather small illuminated sign that flashes the next number up. There is no order to what combinations of numbers and letter might be next.

Any combination can be called any time to any window. There were about 24 queues, though not all were open. If you got lucky, you could hear a sotto voce announcement I’m sure Garry couldn’t hear at all and I could only hear parts of and only sometimes. There were words to the effect that “We are now serving A-132 at window 14″ and that number would flash on the screen. Sometimes they would flash the number for a couple of minutes, sometimes for just a few seconds.

They might be serving Z-542 at window 2, followed by D-234 at window 17. Everyone hovered near the screen because the noise level precluded being able to hear anything. When finally your number was up, you had to dash madly to whatever line you were called, which could be a long run (in my case, hobble) to the other side of the building. No way to know how soon you would be waiting. You didn’t dare leave, not even to go the bathroom.

Garry was baffled. I said that the RMV had eliminated bourgeois linearity and gone to a non-linear chaos-based formula.

“What?” he said.

“Completely random,” I assured him. We were both having flashbacks to the near riots of the 1960s as the lines in the motor vehicle bureau would stretch into the street and around the block. There were just as many people waiting now as then, but there were no lines, just folks sitting on hard benches with dull, blank faces or milling around wondering what happened to order and logic, and why don’t they simply send a postcard reminding you to renew your license? It took three and a half hours.

I took some pictures. Security concluded I was a terrorist. It had been a bad week for Boston and even on a good week, bureaucrats always assume anyone with a camera has evil intentions. I took the pictures quickly, so by the time they told me to put the camera away because “this is a State building!” (what that had to do with anything I don’t know), my camera was out of sight and I was standing around looking bored, annoyed and out of sorts like everyone else.

Finally, they called us. Garry got a new picture which is nominally less horrible than the one he had for the past 10 years. He passed his eye test, signed an autograph for the lady who served us (who became much less rude helpful after recognizing Garry), and we finally got out of there.

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I took pictures of the flag being raised again because it was exactly a week since the bombings at the Marathon which was also weird.

So I ask you: are they really saving money? Or is this just another way to make our lives more difficult?

Because I don’t believe for a moment that the savings are not more than offset by needing many more people working at the RMV instead of the rest of us being able to renew our licenses on our computers at home.

Just saying.


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A happy slave to books

Half a dozen times during every month of the year, I see the sun rise and hear the birds sing the morning in. It’s not insomnia. I am in the thrall of a good book and I just can’t stop reading. I’ve been a book junkie since I was a very young child and its an addiction I have no interest in breaking. It has been my inspiration and my refuge, my world away from reality, my alternate universe of choice.

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It’s my all time favorite drug. It’s not illegal, although it has cost me a lot of sleep and a fair bit of money.

I read. Constantly. I read on my Kindle, I listen to audiobooks. I read regular books. I often read several books at the same time: an audiobook by day, a print or Kindle edition at night in the delicious comfort of my bed.

I’m addicted to books and not just a single genre. I read straight history, with a particular passion for the 14th century, perhaps because it seems to have been the turning point of western civilization, the rise of central government, the creation of free peasantry and what we now call the middle class.

There was the Black Death, the schism the created two popes … one in Avignon and the other in Rome … which for the Christian world was calamitous. There was endless war, brigands who roamed the countryside, burning, raping, despoiling and destroying what pitiful remnants of communities that survived other simultaneous catastrophes. Inflation rendered money worthless. Many regions were effectively depopulated leaving no one to tend fields and grow crops … and famine followed. The 20th century, with all its horrors, could never top the 14th. I find that strangely comforting.

I read thrillers and mysteries and police procedurals. I read courtroom dramas … lawyers, district attorneys, victims, criminals and trials. Then, when the world is more  real than I am willing to bear, I read science fiction and fantasy, immersing myself in places that could never be, in futures that might be, and vicariously pursue magic and sorcery. Books are my escape. Take away everything else, but leave the books so if I cannot physically fly away, I can escape in spirit.

Ever since I got my first Kindle, I feel like I’ve been given ultimate freedom. I’ve spent my live traveling with trunks full of books. Now, I can bring a whole library with me to the dentist’s waiting room. And since I got my amazing Bamboosa Lap Log, I have achieved electronic reading Heaven.

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I am, for the moment, discovering new favorite authors. All of my previous favorite writers seem to be in that never-never land between the last book and th next in the series. Since they are still creating and waiting has never been something at which I excel, I put these months to good use and seek out more authors to feed my hunger for books, to try to discover a new world, a new voice, a new piece of time to explore. In case you are looking for something to read, here’s an updated bunch of my favorite authors and books. Please feel free to tell me about your favorites because they may very well become mine, too! It’s through readers’ suggestions that I’ve discovered most of the authors I love best. I count on you!

Bamboosa with closed Kindle HD in its hard case.

Bamboosa Lap Log with closed Kindle HD in a hard case.

Barbara Tuchman is my favorite writer of history, though by no means the only history author I love. Most of her books are wonderful, but my two favorites are A Distant Mirror and The Guns of August. David McCullough and Doris Kearns Goodwin are rapidly overtaking her, however … especially Ms. Goodwin who writes very serious history, but also some wonderful memories of growing up in Boston with the Red Sox. I always have a special place in my heart for local kids who made good!

Don’t miss the Hollows Rachel Morgan books by Kim Harrison. I think it’s the finest of the all urban fantasy series. If you haven’t discovered Jim Butcher‘s Harry Dresden series – a gumshoe who can throw a mean spell, but takes a loaded gun, just in case — dive in. Check our The Iron Druid series from Kevin Hearne.

Lap Log with Kindle HD (7") open and on.

Lap Log with Kindle HD (7″) open and on.

Connie Willis‘ time travel books including The Doomsday Book, Blackout, All Clear, and To Say Nothing of the Dog are among the best books of this genre ever written. Her humorous short stories and novels, from Bellwether to All Seated On the Ground are among the funniest, smartest books and stories I’ve ever read.

And, speaking of time travel, Stephen King‘s 11-22-63 is exceptional. It is not a horror story, but true science fiction. The prose is sometimes so beautiful that it brings tears to your eyes.

In the sometimes grim and gory world of fantasy, take a look at Ben Aaronovitch‘s Peter Grant series, Richard Kadrey whose Sandman Slim keeps me fascinated and also awake at night. Mike Carey’s Felix Castor in a world filled with the dead and demons.

Recently, I discovered Carol Berg. I completed the final of her various series last night … and am now holding my breath in anticipation of her next book.

I love just about everything written by James Lee Burke. If Faulkner had written detective stories, he’d be James Lee Burke. His Dave Robicheaux series is a long running favorite, but his other books are great too.

I’ve read all of John Grishom‘s books, almost all of Richard North Patterson‘s novels, and most of Nelson Demille.

The writing of Anne Golon wrote (and is still writing) an amazing series of historical novels about a fictional woman named Angelique. They take place during the time of Louis XIV. This series was one of the significant influences on my life,. Angelique lived a life she chose and never accepted defeat. Her story piques my interest in history and she also inspired me to a personal courage I might not have found without her. The English language versions of the books are long out of print (though you can occasionally find them on Ebay and book search sites) but recent ones — Anne Golon is well into her 80s — are available in French and maybe some other languages too, but sadly, not English.

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I cannot close this without referencing two authors that have given me great joy, the incomparable Douglas Adams, and Jasper Fforde whose world I long to enter. I still mourn Douglas Adams. He should have had many more years. Douglas, you died way too soon. Jasper Fforde writes with a similar wonderful lunacy in a fantasy world where fiction is real and reality isn’t.

This doesn’t even begin to cover everything. It would take me days to begin to remember everything … and way more pages than anyone would have patience to read … but this is a tickle for you. Maybe you too are searching for something to fresh to read, a new world to discover. These are some of my favorite places … I’d love to hear about yours!

There are so many way to keep yourself up at night … and I recommend them all. Books are still, page for page, the best entertainment of all because no one can do special effects like you can with your own brain.

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11/22/63, Stephen King

11/22/63 by Stephen King was so good it took my breath away. I’m not a Stephen King fan most of the time, although several of his books and stories are among my favorite works of American fiction. I don’t have a problem with his writing. His writing goes from good to amazing, but his usual genre (horror) is not among my favorites.

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This book is not horror. Although small sections of the book touch on it, these merely graze the edge of familiar King territory. He never dives into it. In fact, this is as good an example of science fiction time travel as I’ve ever read, and I’ve read pretty much every book in the genre. To say I’m a time travel junkie would not overstate it.

Stephen King does the genre proud. Beyond that, this book is beautiful. It is not merely well-written. It is eloquent, poetic, lyrical. I do not say this lightly.

My husband, who is usually not a King fan — with the exception of his stories about baseball and the Red Sox – was dubious when I handed him the book and said “Read it. You’ll love it, I promise!”

Typically, he makes faces and argues with me, but this time, he listened and read the book. Once he began, he couldn’t put it down. He read portions of it out loud because he felt they were so elegant that it deserved to be read aloud, like poetry.

The plot is simple to describe, though enormously rich and complex in the telling. A writer determines to go back in time and prevent the assassination of John F. Kennedy. His attempt and travels in time produce many repercussions both for him personally and for our world. The “Butterfly Effect” has never been better illustrated.

Whether or not you usually like Stephen King, if you are a reader of science fiction and/or time travel, you owe yourself a trip through this wonderful book. Like many authors, King dodges the technical issues of time travel via the tried-and-true “hole in the time-space continuum” ploy to move his characters to a particular time and place. King does it well and makes it an interesting part of the journey.

Many, if not most readers apparently agree that this is the best book King has written in many long years, perhaps the best since “The Stand” and in my opinion, better. Granted that this is a subjective statement, but I guarantee if you read this book, you will not be disappointed.

This is a master story-teller at the peak of his abilities: Stephen King with emotion, poetry, depth, beauty, intelligence and finally, without taking any cheap or easy ways out of the complexities he creates.

This is an amazing book. If you are any kind of science fiction reader, it’s a must-read.

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Carol Berg – “Song of the Beast” and “Transformation” – Two Book Reviews

I was delighted to learn that Carol Berg is writing a new pair of books after a long interval. She is a fine author and has a unique style. So, in honor of her return, I’m republishing two reviews I originally posted in September.

The first, Song of the Beast, is her only singleton book.  A pity, in my opinion, because I love dragons and hers were different than any others I’ve encountered.

The second of these reviews is one of the books of Berg’s “Rai Kirah” trilogy.

I highly recommend all her books. If you like this genre, I bet you’ll love Carol Berg too.

Song of the Beast

Song of the BeastThere is a whiff of Pern to these dragons, except that a dragonrider of Pern would never so dreadfully mistreat his or her dragon. I’m a sucker for dragons, Pernese or any other. Despite some reviewers feeling that significant human relationships were absent, I don’t agree. I thought the characters were well-drawn. Given their species (unlike other books, some of these characters are not human, though they are human-like) and tribal affiliations, they form relationships that are extensions of where they come from. It’s a different world than that of any other of Berg’s books and the only one in which people who are not human are important to the story. In fact, the relationships between the various humanoids is part of the story.

Each of her series is set in a different world. The magic used on each world is a bit different, sometimes very different from any other world. Separate kinds of magic, morals, religion, customs, and sometimes sentient species. This is, for me, part of the fun and why I read fantasy. It is also what Carol Berg does very well.

She creates worlds in where the fantastical is normal. Her magic users are powerful, but never invulnerable. On some worlds, they are the rich and powerful; on others, they live in fear of exposure. In all cases, magic wielders pay a price, often a very heavy price.

I wish there were a sequel to this book. I really wanted to know what happened next, how this society evolves. The book left me with lots of questions. It isn’t a cliff hanger, but there is plenty of room for more tales as this world realigns and reconstructs itself in the wake of a greatly enhanced understanding of their dragons.

No I won’t tell you how, but it’s not difficult to figure out where the story is going from very early in the book.

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The main character is typically a Carol Berg’s hero … a man who has suffered greatly. He isn’t sure what he did to earn his punishment. Atypically, he isn’t especially brave or valiant. He is a broken man, beaten beyond endurance who has to find his way back to himself. He wants nothing more than to live in peace and remains a gentle soul in a cruel world, a man to whom violence is abhorrent no matter what was done to him. He’s neither vengeful nor mean. As in other books by this author, music is an important part of magic.

I liked the book very much and was sorry it ended. I never want any of her books to end and I only wish there were more to read. Carol Berg is an outstanding author, one of the finest writers in the genre and does not get the honor she deserves. I deeply regret that and hope to see it rectified. Meanwhile, I’ll have to reread all her books again.

Transformation, “Rai Kirah” Trilogy

Transformation (Rai-Kirah, #1)

Carol Berg books are mistreated souls who are ultimately delivered and restored. This trilogy is one of my favorites (the other being Collegia Magica). Although her books don’t end in universal tragedy, you cannot necessarily count on an entirely happy ending. You can be fairly sure your favorite characters will survive, but they may sustain significant damage, mental and physical, along the way.

The common denominator of her main characters is that they have suffered great injustice and cruelty. Sometimes, they know why, sometimes not. Often, the true reason is cloaked and only revealed late in the story. All her primary male characters have been persecuted, beaten, enslaved. They may have come from wealth and power, but all of them fall as low as they can go and have to fight their way back. Injustice is the dominant theme of the plot of  “Rai-Kirah” trilogy and also Ms. Berg’s other series. In brief, there is a great wrong that must be made right and her hero(es) is (are) the man (men) to do it. Who must do it.

This time, both victim and persecutor find are forced to evolve and ironically, are forced to do it together. Both must learn to trust and forgive and in the process, they are transformed. They not only learn to trust each other, but become very close. They save each others’ lives many times and their relationship becomes intricately interwoven. The developing relationship is touching.

Despite the childish viewpoint of some reviewers, two people of the same-sex who love one another are not necessarily homosexual (note that even if they were, I wouldn’t care), but in this case, they are not. In my world, loving non-sexual relations are called “friendship.” Some reviewers seem to have a problem with this concept, so I advise them to reconsider their own lives, perhaps try developing more meaningful relationships. Drinking beer and watching a game is not necessarily the highest level to which one can take a friendship.

Hatred, bigotry, ambition, politics, greed … the traditional pantheon of human evils … are the forces that destroy the lives of individuals and nations Carol Berg paints this series with a broad brush. Characters and entire peoples endure the unendurable without explanation or comfort; one could easily draw an analogy to Job.

Carol Berg never sets her stories in our world. No one belongs to any known religion, but everyone believes. There are no atheists in Berg’s books. They believe in their Gods. They never question their deity’s existence, only why they have been abandoned by him (her or them). A Carol Berg hero or heroine has suffered terribly, lost everything, but survives … after which, he/she/they will save the world. To be fair, pretty much every fantasy novel involves a lot of saving of the world, often many times over.

Transformation turns a selfish, cruel monarch into a compassionate human being. The slave rises while the king falls, but everyone is redeemed. More or less.

There’s plenty of action. The writing is intelligent and the author never takes the cheap way out. Plots are therefore complicated with no “deus ex machina” endings. There is magic but while it is powerful, it has its limits. It works, as do other weapons. The ability to wield magic doesn’t confer invulnerability. Magic offers benefits but exacts a toll.

I don’t know why Carol Berg’s books are not better known or more popular. They are beautifully written, have great stories, action, romance (think “Dumas” rather than “Harlequin“), nobility, fantastical realms and plenty of magic. If you are an audiobook reader, only “Collegia Magica” is available on Audible. You will have to read her other books on paper or Kindle.

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Bellwether, Connie Willis (1997)

English Heritage plaque for inventor of time t...

Unlike most of her fans, I was unacquainted with Connie Willis before reading one of her least amusing and most ambitious works, Doomsday Book. It’s part of her Cambridge time travel series and I’m a big fan of time travel and a history buff too. Perhaps history and time travel are inevitably wed. Even better, I’ve always been fascinated — as are many history buffs — by the 14th century. The Plague, endless civil war, a divided Papacy, economic and social collapse in such a short period of history, however horrible, tends to grab ones attention. It’s western civilization in a bell jar.

Doomsday Book was written for me. Although it is not light reading by any stretch of anyone’s imagination, it is beautiful as science fiction and history. It is the style of time travel literature that inserts a modern reader into an historical context so that events of the past can be viewed from today’s perspective.

I loved the book and immediately continued through the series, reading all the other books in the Cambridge time travel series: To Say Nothing of the Dog, Blackout and All Clear. Although I recognized that Ms. Willis was witty with a sharp sense of humor, I didn’t really experience the full force of how very funny her writing can be until I read All Seated On the Ground, then Bellwether.

All Seated On the Ground had me laughing until I cried, but it is a novella. Bellwether was the first of Connie Willis’ full length non-time travel novels I read, first on my Kindle, then on Audible. With each reading, I picked up nuances I’d previously missed. I’m sure I’ll find more when I read it again.

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Bellwether is described by the publisher thusly:

Pop culture, chaos theory, and matters of the heart collide in this unique novel from the Hugo and Nebula Award – winning author of Doomsday Book.

Sandra Foster studies fads and their meanings for the HiTek corporation. Bennett O’Reilly works with monkey group behavior and chaos theory for the same company. When the two are thrust together due to a misdelivered package and a run of seemingly bad luck, they find a joint project in a flock of sheep. But a series of setbacks and disappointments arise before they are able to find answers to their questions – with the unintended help of the errant, forgetful, and careless office assistant Flip.

Not merely was I highly entertained by the story, but I learned a lot about chaos theory, fads, sheep, and the meaning of “bellwether,” a term I’d heard and used — misused — for years but never really understood either its literal meaning or its social implications.

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bellweather (bell·weth·er)

Noun:

  1. The leading sheep of a flock, with a bell on its neck.
  2. An indicator or predictor of something.

Synonym:

leader

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It was the sheep connection I never got. I understood its meaning as a “predictor” but never as a leader of sheep. What do I know about sheep? And why would I care?

It turns out, sheep and people have an unnerving amount in common. The original meaning of bellwether is the sheep who the flock will follow. There’s no specific reason a bellwether is the leader of the flock. She just is. There is something about her that makes other sheep want to do whatever she does, mindlessly, blindly. The sheep are not even aware they are following the bellwether. They just do it.

The book is funny, witty, creative. It has an underlying message that’s funny and disturbing. The parallels between human behavior and a flock of sheep is the running theme of the story. It explains much about human behavior and many events throughout history that never made sense. Even after you understand what happened and (sort of) why … events still don’t make sense. Everything just happened.

Human life, history and relationships are neither logical or reasonable. They happen. Humanity is the epitome of chaos and the only predictable thing is unpredictability.

As is true for any book, whether or not you will love it is subjective. I found Bellwether wonderfully original, intelligent, amusing and thought-provoking. I can’t imagine what more anyone could want from a book than to be entertained, amused and enlightened. I recommend it both in its printed and audio versions. Both are delightful and memorable. This is a book you will read and remember.

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Redshirts, by John Scalzi: A Book Review

Redshirts: A Novel with Three Codas | [John Scalzi]The story within a story (or play within a play), where fictional characters interact with people in the real world is not new or unique. Shakespeare used it and as Scalzi himself bears witness, there have been a lot of movies, plays, books, and so on that have used one or another variations on this theme. I don’t have a problem with that. In fact, I enjoyed his willingness to explore a classic form and was curious to see where he would go with it. I also appreciated his acknowledging the other authors and script writers who have used some version of it.

The first portion of the story was fun. The characters gradually realize they are part of a  TV series. This isn’t a spoiler; the book’s title refers to the red-shirted characters on Star Trek who were always killed before the first commercial break. In Redshirts, after discovering they are characters in cable sci fi series, the characters slide into the real world. Even though it was obvious from the beginning what was happening, it didn’t matter because what the author was doing was less important than how he did it. John Scalzi has a unique and quirky perspective that make his books interesting and highly entertaining. At least for the first half of the book, Redshirts was no exception.

Then the codas began. The codas are rather like alternate endings, but also like an extra piece of story, tangentially related to the main storyline. It’s an interesting idea that didn’t really work. At least, it didn’t work for me.

The first coda explores the mind of a writer in the throes of writer’s block and was mildly interesting. Not exactly gripping, but not bad. When the first coda drew to a close and the second began, I realized I was restless and finding it difficult to stay focused. The final coda felt like a postscript and held little interest. Worse, the book felt like a writing exercise. Interesting in a technical way if you happen to be a writer, I nonetheless found myself muttering “Okay already, I got it. You made your point.”

I listened through to the end, though I kept drifting and had to remind myself to pay attention as the book plodded to its conclusion.

Less would have been more. The basic idea was good — cute and clever. In its audiobook version, it was helped along by a skilled narrator. But there wasn’t enough plot to go the distance, like a movie that runs out of script 20 minutes before it runs out of film. The story was too thin to support its length. The first half could easily have stood on its own as a novella.

By the end, I had lost track of the characters and plot. Too many endings, characters appearing and disappearing with blinding speed. A score card might have helped but ultimately, I didn’t care.

I’ve read worse books … but John Scalzi has written much better.


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It’s that damned wormhole again …

2013 is the 50th anniversary of my high school graduation. That’s five zero. Half a century.

After so many years, one might suppose my memories would be fuzzy enough that I could delude myself into believing I had fun in those opening years of the 1960s.

This has come up because a few of the people with whom I apparently attended high school want to have a reunion. Not the entire graduating class of more than 1200 people. This is a smaller sub-group of people who claim to actually know me and want to see me again. They say they remember me and all the neat stuff we did together.

I think they are deranged. Whatever they think they remember, as far as I can tell, didn’t happen. I do not want to go to the party.  I said no when I was contacted by phone, but they keep sending me invitations by email … endless variations of the same thing. Lists of names I don’t recognize. I know I’m not young, but I’m not senile either. Who ARE these people?

I am considering the possibility I slipped through a wormhole and am in an alternate reality, which would explain how come they know me, but I don’t know them. Yeah, that’s probably it.

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I was not a popular high school student. Even amongst the unpopular students, I was unpopular. Fortunately, by the time I had survived junior high, now known as “middle school” but back in those good old days, referred to simply as Hell, I had learned to be invisible. Attending a really huge school helped. It was so big and crowded, you could slither through all three years (10th, 11th and 12th grades) and if you kept your head down, no one would know your name. I only got attacked by junior thuglets once (not bad considering what an oddball I was) and participated in group activities only if dragged screaming and kicking, usually because someone needed an accompanist and I played the piano.

A klutzy young thing, I avoided the traditional humiliation of the athletically challenged by claiming I didn’t know how to swim. When I showed up, the swimming coach would say “You again? Just keep out-of-the-way,” and thus I got an hour a day of private swim time alone in the deep end of our Olympic-sized pool. I think I was on the swimming team, but I didn’t actually ever swim in an event. I was a bench sitter. And, apparently, the only girl in high school who didn’t care if my hair got wet.

So all I had to do was get decent grades, try not fail my math courses, and then I could go to college where I heard I might actually meet people who I’d like and might like me too. It turned out to be true, so surviving high school was probably worth it. But now, like a malevolent spirit,  fellow graduates of Jamaica High School want me to come to their party. They even think I should pay for the privilege.

If I could remember any of them, I might consider it. No, that’s a lie. You’d have to drug me then drag my unconscious carcass there before I regained consciousness.

High school wasn’t a fun time. Not for me. Fifty years later I can’t think of a single reason to revisit an experience I would as soon have skipped in the first place.

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