1. The Accident -Audio from Mission to Blue Grannus

In the text version I'm approaching the midpoint, halfway through my beta draft. Meanwhile, here's a taste of the story: "1. The Accident" in which Gordy stumbles and falls while he's outside the Tree House sweeping the ion jets.

Enjoy! And let me know how you like it. I promise more soon.

"Mission to Blue Grannus" Novel Update

The most consistent thing readers of Green Tara have said is, "When can I read the next one?" And indeed the novel was always meant to be the first in a trilogy. Now, I have a follow-up novel that should be ready late this year. 

The setting for Mission to Blue Grannus is inspired by ice caves that form during high winds and deep freezes. These conditions occur here on Earth on Lake Michigan and Lake Superior, where waves freeze solid and swells become ice caves. 

This new one, Mission to Blue Grannus, picks up two years after the end of Green Tara, when the pirate twins invite Gordy, now 15, to join them in a rescue mission. The pirate ship arrives at the edge of the Grannus system soon after his family. They're avoiding a Triumvirate engineering crew sent to reopen a toxic mine on the blue ice moon. 

The Grannus System was at a crossroads. The outer ring is volatile, with a crack in dimensions that offered a faster than light pathway to a network of destinations, including her mom's last known location, and they needed to find her. 

Also, the crossroads was about power and who controls the land and water. On Blue Grannus the original mine had closed decades ago, leaving the miners behind, abandoned refugees. One faction of the refugees lives deep in the blue ice caves, where the mushroom man cultivates strains of mycelia to myco-remediate the moon's toxic water. 

For more stunning landscapes that inspired my story world for this part of Gordy's journey, see these photos by Heather Higham.

The scientific inspiration of Blue Grannus comes from world mycology expert Paul Stamets. I saw his TED talk "How Mushrooms Can Save the World" and immediately understood the implications of his research for repairing damage to our Earth, and also for my sci-fi future vision of human terraforming and myco-remediation efforts. So, just as book 1 was inspired by invisible, essential phytoplankton in the ocean, book 2 is inspired by invisible and essential mycelium networks, the underground rootlike systems of the Fungi Kingdom, and the myco-remediation action of those networks. 

In my story world on the Blue Ice Moon orbiting the gas giant of the Grannus System, the Trivert mining engineers are starting up tests again. Orders from the board were to apply new techniques in the extraction process to yield gold and other precious metals, even though these new methods would put human  refugees at further risk by unleashing even more toxic chemicals into their water system. Gordy and his cousin Virginia, my teenage eco-warrior heroes, volunteer to help the pirates and the refugees make a trade that will protect their myco-remediation efforts. 

The power of mycelial networks to remediate poisoned water is a perfect fit for Mission to Blue Grannus. From Radical Mycology, here's a clear 1-page overview of myco-remediation: https://radicalmycology.com/educational-tools/human-uses-of-mushrooms/mycoremediation-101/

Two years ago, to understand more of the considerations, I put on my literary scientist hat and took a deep dive into all things mycological. I grew oyster mushrooms from a patch, bought the book, and took a weekend seminar Mycelium Running, by Paul Stamets. To the best of my ability I have marinated the entire story with what I learned with him and his team at Fungi Perfecti.

When I do classroom visits with Green Tara, the fifth and sixth graders are thrilled by the adventure, in which the main characters take action steps to regenerate bio-systems. I'm looking forward to taking Mission to Blue Grannus to the classroom, as well. 

We all need action steps, a game plan, for our land and water are under assault locally and globally. The question I try to answer in this series is How can we repair the damage humankind has wrought on our beautiful planet? 

Documentary Project Announcement: Earth Defenders

I love literary research. I do hands-on and face-to-face primary research so I can create authentic future worlds in my sci-fi fiction. Because my fictional heroes are 24th century eco-warriors,  I actively seek out and rub elbows with contemporary naturalists so I can build dimensional characters. And I love the passionate people who devote their lives to protecting and regenerating our planetary ecosystems.

I've begun to capture non-fiction stories that spring from this primary research and I'm thrilled to share out what I'm learning about those who actively protect and regenerate our water, forests, soil, and air. They provide inspiration and action steps to help avert the environmental collapse that frames so much of dystopian fiction. So, yes, though my imagination goes there, my heart goes to building the integrated communities that have faith in Earth.

Please watch the following teaser for Earth Defenders: Back Roads to the Deep North, and let me know what you think.

Writing Other Worlds: Society, Science, & Sensory Perception

In September I led a workshop at my local public library on developing story worlds for science fiction. I chose to examine world building through three lenses:

• Society - what's at stake for the characters and what orders their world
• Science - what's possible and what are the limitations, both mechanically and biologically 
• Sensory Perception - the way the character senses the world; go beyond visuals, get visceral

To prepare I looked for good examples of world building and found that most successful stories first draw the reader in with a character's sensory perception or a character's experience that is framed by science and engineering beyond what you and I encounter in typical contemporary life.
The fictional society is built up and revealed through many of these details of the character's experience.

As book enthusiasts we usually describe the fictional society first. As in, The Hunger Games is a story where the main character competes in an annual reality game show for which every district sends a teen champion to fight to the death. But remember, the reader's or movie goer's experience of learning the rules of the game and the role Kat plays in it is quite different.

To explore what successful world building might look like, I started the workshop by reading the first 2-1/2 pages of Ender's Game, the 1985 novel by Orson Scott Card.

I love how Card give us the immersive story world of Ender's Game. And I love all the creative energy in our Saturday workshop at the Monroe County Public Library, writers of all ages imagining humankind thriving in exciting and authentic future story worlds.

My next library workshop is April 7, 11:30-1:30. I'll keep you posted.

Meanwhile, here are some key passages of the opening pages of Ender's Game and my notes, in story order:

Sensory Perception[The monitor lady said it would come out today.] "The monitor gone. Ender tried to imagine the little device missing from the back of his neck. I'll roll over on my back in bed and it won't be pressing there. I won't feel it tingling and taking up the heat when I shower."

Science"This won't take long," said the doctor. "It's designed to be removed. Without infection, without damage."

The implication from the full text is that the tiny monitor in the back of Ender's neck picks up what he sees and hears and transmits that information to the, as yet unnamed, authorities so they can see and hear, and evaluate Ender's behavior. Before we know why he's been monitored -

Sensory Perception, this time raising the stakes"Suddenly a pain stabbed through him like a needle from his neck to his groin. Ender felt his back spasm, and his body arched violently backwards; his head struck the bed. He could feel his legs thrashing ..." 

After the doctor and nurse are able to bring Ender's seizure under control -

Society"The doctor was trembling; His voice shook as he spoke, "They leave these things in the kids for three years, what do they expect? We could have switched him off, do you realize that? We could have unplugged his brain for all time."

Even though we don't yet know who "they" are, we can easily infer that the authorities in this society regularly place brain monitors, potentially life-threatening devices in children. From the opening passage we know Ender has been selected and "they" plan to "surround him with enemies all the time." The central question of Ender's Game is laid out within the first three pages: Will Ender survive what these authorities have planned for him?

What Do I Want to Say About Lucy?

  Lucy was a gal's best friend. 

Up until the day she died, after she'd lost so much weight and no longer had the stamina for our daily creek walks, she was still ready to go with me for a car ride or an examination of our home garden.

Yesterday, the day after she died, I washed her towels and blankets and dog bed. Today I remembered her food and water dishes she used downstairs. She was such a good dog, such a good friend.

Finding and washing her things, gave me pause.

  Lucy was pure spirit medicine. 

I learned so much from her about giving and receiving love and the attention and devotion required of lifetime companions. I'm so grateful she was in my life and home for her eleven delightful years.

Back Roads Eco-Warrior series: Dr. Nancy Dawson

Dr. Nancy Dawson shows some of the
produce from her community gardens 

Last month, I had the opportunity to work on a short film shoot in the small, picturesque city of Russellville, Kentucky. One of the greatest pleasures in a week full of amazing performances and a vibrant crew was meeting Dr. Nancy Dawson. As a historian, she costumed the 1850's story set on a slave plantation. She also played one of the character parts.

And after all that creative awesomeness I found out Dawson is also the Director of the Russellville Urban Gardening Project (RUGP). She's passionate about Gardening for Engagement and the educational programs she's developed around her concept of revitalizing and uplifting her community through the practice of horticulture.

She gave me a tour of her gardens, starting in her backyard in the historic neighborhood.

Dawson started growing her own food after a health crisis, and her realization that she needed to radically alter her personal consumption, meaning fresh, highly nutritious foods needed to replace sugars and empty starches that worsened her health. Though she had no formal training in agriculture, she remembered family and neighbors growing fruits and vegetables in her childhood, so she started to grow some of her favorite vegetables.

Some of the neighborhood kids would come around and ask about the plants, not recognizing peppers or tomatoes. "I realized they thought these things came from Walmart." As a lifetime educator, she got to work filling the knowledge gap.

One of the hoop structures in the
Russellville Urban Gardening Project

Starting with a 4H garden club, which she held on her back porch, her idea for more education grew. Simultaneously, her garden has grown from the pots on her back deck, to an intensive bed, to the three-acre community garden in the heart of the Russellville's black neighborhood.

This year RUGP is piloting an educational program in the local high school. Dawson's plan is for students to use technology for research and for writing field reports. Throughout the semester they'll have opportunities to meet with reps from Kentucky State University to learn about higher ed and careers in agriculture. Dawson's program also includes the high schoolers building an aquaponics garden. I hope to return for another tour!

Access to more variety in fresh foods is a prime benefit for the community. Also--this close to my heart--gardening for engagement includes teaching the value and importance of preservation and protection of nature and the environment.

Radical idea? Dawson herself says she's a change agent.

To find out more about my Back Roads project, currently in development, watch this teaser:

Escaping Beaver Trapper

Last week I wrote a short story that is quite a departure for me. It is not YA, not an eco-adventure, and not fiction. Sunday, at the Writers' Guild prose reading series at Box Car Books, I read my new auto-biographical story about two experiences I had over four decades apart. My audience was enthusiastic. I hope you enjoy it, too.

Escaping Beaver Trapper

I’ve never thought of myself as a daredevil. I’m a bookworm and story junkie. But on reflection, that’s me being naïve about my own behavior. To be honest, I have a history of recklessness, of running a little too fast with danger.

It can start so innocently, with a positive mindset of confidence and joy. But, anyone who’s ever ridden a seductive, well-tuned road bike on a glorious May day in quarry country knows how quickly you can pick up speed just coasting downhill.

I just couldn’t slow down fast enough.

Slow down fast enough? Is that an oxymoron?

There was an extreme sharp turn at the bottom. Slow down. Slow down. Slow down!

When I left the road, inertia and physics took over. I flew over the handlebars and landed on my right hip. That part of my body bruised, but didn’t break.

As a youngster, I rode wild, but bounced back from every tumble and scrape. Nothing a little Mercurochrome couldn’t fix. Gosh that stuff stung. It’s a wonder I didn’t develop mercury poisoning before that antiseptic was banned. How did we ever survive?

Then when I hit the danger years of puberty, I wasn’t particularly attracted to the gang of hoods who smoked behind the cafeteria during lunch break, so I avoided that trap. I was an A student, and no one seemed to suspect what the student council kids were really up to: A little political graffiti here; a little guerilla theater there. All for a good cause, and we never got caught.

The summer after my first year in college, I spent time catching up with my daring and clever high school gang. They’d all stayed in Texas, while I’d gone to a small liberal arts college in the Pacific Northwest. So I rode with a carload of my friends to Austin to see what I was missing at the big university. We shared stories: My seminar dinners at faculty homes. Their impersonal lecture halls of 300 or more. True, Austin was a very hip city, still is, far sexier than Tacoma, but the U.T. dorms smelled like a locker room. I was pretty sure I’d made a good choice. Maybe I wasn’t so clever, after all. My friends were all planning to stay in Austin for their sophomore year, which started 2 weeks earlier than my school. Meanwhile, I’d embarked on the excursion with them, a good 4-hour drive, without a plan for how I would get back to my childhood home north of Dallas.

Although, I don’t remember how much cash I had, it wasn’t enough for bus fare. In 1973, ATMs and debit cards did not exist. But I knew how to hitchhike. Not that I’d ever done it before, but I figured it couldn’t be that hard. Of course, hitchhiking could be dangerous, but I wasn’t aware of any potential danger to the one thumbing a ride. As far as I knew, any danger of hitchhiking was framed around driver safety and being careful about who to pick up. I didn’t look dangerous. It was going to be easy for me to get a ride.

Understand: I’d never been an athlete. It wasn’t a thing for girls in my era, pre-Title IX.  So, at age 60, I was a rookie rider. My attraction to long-distance bicycling is it’s a sport for all ages. The question isn’t, who can I beat? Which is not my competitive style. It’s, how far can I ride today? I trained with a large group of mixed-ages and abilities, everyone cheering each other on, and it was so much fun. I’ve never been in better physical or emotional shape. We rode 65 miles on Saturday, my personal best, some of it through a pelting rainstorm. On Sunday the sky was that perfect robin’s egg blue with cloud puffs scattered around the hilly horizon. We’d ridden almost 50 miles on that fateful day, and we were on our way back to town. I was a little dehydrated, so perhaps my judgment wasn’t the best.

The friendly, old truck driver said he could take me as far as Waco, before he headed west. So I grabbed my rucksack, waved good-bye to my friend Charlie who’d volunteered to get me started, and hopped up into the cab. The weathered cowboy on wheels spit chew and that’s a disgusting habit. Otherwise, the drive was boring enough, and before we made it to Waco the old trucker offered to help me find a ride for the next leg of my journey. He got on his CB radio, saying he had a girl who was looking for transportation to Richardson, north of Dallas.

Remember, before everyone had cell phones, every trucker had a CB radio that connected him to every other trucker within a 25-50 mile range, depending on terrain and weather conditions. And they all had a CB handle, a code name. So after my trucker sent out the request, somebody responded that he’d heard “Beaver Trapper” was headed home, and he lived north of Dallas. The CB crackled, “Maybe he could give the girl a ride.” My driver chuckled, and I couldn’t believe my luck. I didn’t want to be out on the road alone after dark thumbing for a ride. And, as improbable as it may seem, I had no idea the connotation of the CB handle, Beaver Trapper. I wasn’t exactly pure, but I was completely innocent. It was a different era. Texas hill country looked like Mayberry. I’m still shocked at the pervasive acceptance of sexual assault in casual, boasting language.

Going up one particularly steep hill along Popcorn Road, I fell behind. I’d been training with the group long enough that I was able to go the distance, but I was one of the slowest riders. I kept pedaling, though, zigzagging up the hill. I didn’t have to get off and walk! At the top, I didn’t stop to take a break. Everyone else in my group was already climbing the next hill, so I started to coast. I shifted down in preparation, and peddled twice around, not for speed, to get the chain aligned.

Then, I realized just how steep the incline was.  I still don’t know how fast I was going. I knew that gripping brakes suddenly would cause me to lose control, so I squeezed gently, then firmly, doing my best to maintain stability. I had several factors going for me. The road was dry and clear of debris. There wasn’t a car in sight. It was up to me to navigate the hard left turn at the bottom. By the time I got there I’d slowed to about 10 miles an hour, though that’s a guess. I was able to cut a fair diagonal across the oncoming lane, but what I couldn’t see until I was almost on top of the turn was the crown of the road at the bottom, designed for good drainage, not for good two-wheel traction. It came up so fast.

I felt a lightness. Crossing over the crown gave me a little loft and my wheels a little less friction. Did I actually speed up? The last thing I remember is, at least I won’t hit a tree. 

In Waco, the older trucker turned West, while I climbed up into Beaver Trapper’s cab. The seats had clean upholstery and Western art postcards and photos were taped everywhere, some of it pretty good. You know the type: horses, bison, armadillos, and, of course, jack-a-lope cartoons.

This guy— I do not remember his given name. Let’s call him Trapper for short. He was younger than the first trucker. Not as young as me, but not yet 30, and thank heavens he didn’t smoke or chew tobacco. Quite the opposite: he was drenched in male cologne, the wildly popular Brut. In retrospect, given the name of the cologne, I imagine the TV ADs featured a brutish man who claimed his woman in a veiled ode to rape culture. It was suffocating in the cab, so I rolled the window down.

Trapper was funny and easy going in that Texas-good-old-boy sort of way. He had a big mustache and long sideburns. He was a hippy cowboy. So, kinda cool and fashionable for the time. And, it turned out some of the art, the cast bronze sculptures, were his. Really cool! That’s what I thought. I still don’t know if he was truly a sculptor who drove a truck for his day job or if he just gave me the trucker equivalent of “Let me show you my studio,” because soon after we crossed the Trinity River and headed through downtown Dallas, he wanted to take me home for the night to the barn he'd converted to a studio, instead of dropping me off north of the city where I wanted to go. We were still on the interstate going 70 miles per hour. How was I going to get out and get home?  

I don’t remember my short flight over the handlebars. I do remember yelling help. The shock was intense. The pain, insane. But I hadn’t hit my head, I never lost consciousness, and it didn’t take long for the group behind me to catch up. Several guys straddled their road bikes in their spandex, trying to assess how badly I’d been injured. Should they call 911? Meanwhile, I felt e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g, so apparently I wasn’t paralyzed.

But I couldn’t sit up. I didn’t scream or cry. I didn’t want to scare the youngest rider, a skinny boy about 12. In a classic girl move, I thought about someone else’s fear and protected him over expressing my own pain.          

I was clearly in shock, so I don’t know how long it took for the leader to cycle back to our location. As a long-time rider and professional chiropractor who’d seen plenty of injuries, he knew what to look for. I wiggled my fingers and toes and pushed against him, as he instructed. He didn’t think I’d broken anything because everything worked—good news—and what I was feeling—not good—was apparently overall stun from the body slam. So, instead of calling for an ambulance, they called for another rider to bring a car.

I still couldn’t sit up, but I rolled over on my hands and knees to take the pressure off my back. I remember saying, “This hurts worse than childbirth,” but I still didn’t cry or scream. Instead I talked a blue streak, about all sorts of things, anything to keep my mind off of the pain. The younger boys rode on and I drifted into politics. When I sensed I was making the chiropractor uncomfortable—as in, I’m typically left of Bernie and he’s probably much more conservative—I got quiet. Fiery pain consumed my entire core. More than one car stopped to ask if we needed help. Ironically, we even saw a passing fire truck, but they were all waved on. By that time, when I did ask for help, it was only in my head. Nothing came out of my mouth.

Inside Trapper’s cab I pressed as far to the right as I could go and leaned my head out the window, letting the summer air clear the Brut out of my lungs and whip my long hair into knots. The man was determined to get me deep into the country, where he had studio space and we could have a good roll in the hay. But I didn’t want intimate contact with him, especially not in a damn barn.

He was still barreling down the interstate, and it would have been ugly if we’d had a physical fight and he’d driven off the highway. Not that I was thinking strategically about the situation. I simply went with my only weapon: words. I delivered an onslaught of words, mostly about how if I wasn’t into it, it wasn’t going to be fun for him either. I kept talking louder and louder, and then I started pulling snapshots and postcards off the headliner, throwing the armadillos and roadrunners, one by one, out the window.  That did it. He pulled onto the shoulder, barely coming to a stop, and I jumped into the dust and down the embankment. That’s how I escaped the Beaver Trapper.

After my spectacular bicycle accident my healing journey has been slow. On the outside, the signs of injury were minimal. I barely got a scratch. But, the internal damage? I’m lucky I didn’t end up losing bladder control—permanently—or the capacity for sexual pleasure, because when I fell my L1 vertebrae was partially crushed. Add to that wound: compression fractures in T11 and L3, along with serious strain to the parasympathetic nervous system, internal organs, and surrounding tissues.

For several months I was bedridden. My husband and son helped me to the bathroom, and my only outings were to doctor’s appointments. Once I got the back brace, I tried to get out every once in a while, because the isolation was the worst thing of all, but I hated appearing weak and vulnerable. I lost an inch in height, twenty pounds, and a year-and-a-half.

I called from the payphone across the street from the Baskin and Robbins ice cream shop less than 2 miles from my house, and my stepfather came to pick me up. I just said I got dropped off, and he never asked anything about who’d given me a ride or anything about my trip from Austin. Nobody did. Thinking back, it’s odd that I never talked about Beaver Trapper to anyone. I was ashamed I’d been so stupid.

Then I heard a political candidate brag about grabbing pussy. And soon after a friend told the story of her own rape escape, also at a tender, trusting age. Not that rapists only go for the sweet young things. They also attack nasty old women. So, I’m still not truly safe from the Beaver Trappers of the world.

I have a wonderful healing team. I do physical therapy on my living room floor and in the pool. I’m still regaining core strength and stamina and breaking up scar tissue so my hips swing freely again. When I am vertical, defying gravity, I practice perfect posture to stay out of pain. I really am getting better.

But I still sleep a lot. And I’m still unpacking and dismantling the trauma. My healers tenderly remind me that my body and spirit hold all the traumas of my life, all wound up together, and my parasympathetic nervous system sends clear signals for me to focus on keeping those nerves calm, because my guts still get hijacked by the slightest trigger.  As every old wound surfaces in my mind, from parent neglect to sabotage in the workplace, moments that have previously been lost to my conscious thought, I’m now forced to heal and forgive, and dissolve those scars, too.

I’m so thankful a charming hippy cowboy opened his trap door long enough for me to escape physical assault.

If only I hadn’t been seduced on Popcorn Road by the free flowing wind against my skin on that most glorious afternoon in May.