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.  

Water Is Life: Prayers from Standing Rock

Alice Brown Otter, age 12, of the Standing Rock Sioux.

I first became aware of what was happening at Standing Rock, North Dakota, when I saw this story from MSNBC and Alice Brown Otter captured my heart. I've been writing about fictional eco-warriors of the future, and now my attention has turned to Alice and present day eco-warriors on the front lines. She and other kids from the Defenders of the Water School are my real life heroes.

Last summer Alice ran to Washington D.C. to petition government agencies to protect the water of her home. Meanwhile, thousands of water protectors have congregated in one of the most remote areas of North Dakota. Indigenous people and their allies from all over the world have come to camp on the bluffs overlooking Lake Oahe, where the Cannonball River joins the and Missouri watershed.

Map by cartographer Carl Sack

The Mni Wiconi, Water is Life movement, gained its recent momentum when LaDonna Brave Bull Allard saw an oil company's plan to build a pipeline just north and upriver from her home on Sioux Reservation land and under the great Missouri River. Allard and her tribe know oil pipelines break regularly, and this was their source of drinking water. So, the Sioux elders began to pray. They know that water is sacred. Water is life.

The women at the forefront of #NoDAPL say they are water protectors, not protesters. This is an important distinction, for the heart of our country shares the Missouri and Mississippi watershed and the water they are protecting belongs to us all.

Since early September, water protectors have been the brunt of escalating violence from militarized police forces sent by the state and county to protect oil interests. The forces deploy long-range acoustic devices, chemical weapons, non-lethal beanbag shot, batons, and even attack dogs.

Josh Fox, director of Gasland (available on Netflix), talks about human rights violations in a "Police State of Oil-igarchy"

Future Developments
Friday, December 4th, dialog between tribal leaders and the Army Corps of Engineers bodes well. The conversation has focused around seeking delays in construction and permitting until full studies can be conducted. But this is an unfolding story, and the outcome of the dialog meetings (there are a series over the upcoming weeks) would be speculative at this point. The hope is for a de-escalation of violence.

Even before the beginning of dialog, the women of Standing Rock planned a Forgiveness March on November 6th to the Morton County Sheriff's office in Mandan, North Dakota.

On land adjacent the Cannonball River, Standing Rock Sioux plan to build their Just Transition Community, an eco-village with earth lodge and straw bale construction and solar and wind power. This building plan is already approved by the federal agency, Bureau of Indian Affairs.

To learn more about why I write sci-fi eco-adventures, and to find out more about my work-in-progress and how writing Mission to Blue Grannus requires my research into how real life eco-warriors engage with their world, tap on KHBrower.com.

Remember, we are all connected. For your appreciation, here are images of our shared watershed.

For more in-depth reading:
NoDAPL map
Historical timeline and in-depth Standing Rock syllabus (from indigenous scholars and allies)
New Yorker (historical context)
The Atlantic (destruction of archeological sites)
New York Times (current situation)
Time (legal context about Sioux land that's "held in trust" by the U.S. government)
EcoWatch (meet the women leading the water protectors)
Yes! Magazine (Lakota prophecy of the black snake)

Fall Break: Time to Kick Leaves

Lion's Mane: Cognitive Boosts in a Writer's Life

Lion's Mane, Hercium erinaceus, with its distinctive shaggy look

Lion's mane is typically difficult to find in the wild, but earlier this week I spotted this beauty on a fallen tree a few steps off a city park trail. I left the lovely specimen tucked under some foliage undisturbed, hoping it will continue to grow and no one else will snag it before I return to harvest.

Though experts disagree on efficacy, lion's mane shows promise as a nerve regenerator that functions as a cognitive enhancer, as well as serving in traditional medicinal uses for a variety of health concerns, including digestive and cholesterol issues.

I've been getting another kind of cognitive boost this past week. I've been taking an online writing class from the University of Iowa, and in my first assignment I wrote a short story based on a character and an event that Virginia and Gordy witness in Mission to Green Tara. It's the moment when a colonial pod stuffed with "volunteers" from the cruise ship is released into deep space and dropped off in the middle of nowhere. The Maderas kids know the pod has no navigation, communication, or oxygen filtering capabilities. In other words, it's a death sentence for the volunteer colonists. Story structure wise, it's the moment when Virginia crosses the first threshold and takes action. Specifically, it's the moment when Virginia decides to defy authority in a really big way, escape from the massive cruise ship controlled by ruthless despots, and rescue her mother after a decade of being lost in space.

My new short story, "Release and Settlement," is told from the perspective of a young girl who is released with the volunteers. After fielding notes from my writing group and my revisions, I plan to submit the short story to sci-fi publications.

To learn more about why I write sci-fi eco-adventures, and to find out more about my work-in-progress and how writing Mission to Blue Grannus requires my research into fungi and myco-remediation, tap on KHBrower.com.

Digging Deeper: Why Fungi Matters to Space Travelers

Fly Agaric, Amanita muscaria variety formosa.
past its prime and shrouded in a lacy, miscellaneous mold

My literary research includes thinking out loud with experts about what types of fungi space travelers would need and why.

For Mission to Blue Grannus, my work-in-progress, I sketched out the major beats of the story for both the plot line and what I call the heart line of the story. However, as I'm drafting I still must answer many detailed questions.  So even when I'd like to whip through scenes, simply adding words and paragraphs and pages to my manuscript, often I need to pause and dig deeper into the character's inner life and the demands of the natural world Gordy and Virginia encounter.

This past week I've been toggling back and forth between the emotional arc, the lessons that come out of Gordy's experience, and the scientific motivations of his mission.

Spoiler Alert! Here's a passage from my current draft of chapter 14. The Council Circle, in which the community's need for fungi is outlined:

     Jimmy continued, “The Blue Moon Trading Post is a regular stop for us and typically we would pick up mushrooms and fungi supplies for terraforming trade. Unfortunately, our normal contacts are missing, so we need to trade directly with the mushroom man, the primary source of product, supplies, and propagation knowledge.” 

     The crowd murmured, and I had an aha moment about the renegades around me. They weren’t just pirates—though that’s how I’d first known them—they were active in the terra-forming trade. As fungi were the absolute foundation of a healthy soil of a thriving ecosystem, and it made sense they would be involved. 

     I leaned over to Virginia and shared a memory. "Remember our fungi forays on Green Tara?" I explained to Lora and Lee, "On our planetary trek we hunted mushrooms for dinner." 

     "Better than cicadas!" Virginia screwed up her face in mock horror.

     I chuckled, remembering some of our more gruesome dinners. I asked Lora and Lee, “Is terraforming the main business of the tribe?”   

     “Fungi,” Lora said. 

     “… is our biz,” Lee said. 

     “Mycelium networks,” Lora said. 

     “ … connect all of life,” Lee said.

     “Fungi are valuable for,” Lora said. 

     “Terraformation,” Lee said.

     “Myco-remediation,” Lora said.

     “Medicinal extracts,” Lee said.

     “Medicine for things like radiation poisoning?” Virginia asked. I knew that officially mushroom extracts were not considered effective beyond a general immune system boost, but renegades and colonial cruisers alike believed in them. So they'd be a valuable product to trade. The twins nodded. 

     “And you said myco-remediation. You mean using mushrooms to restore a compromised environment?" I'd seen signs of radiation poisoning in the Blue Moon Trading Post. "Near here? On the Grannus Moon?"

     "They poisoned ...," Lora nodded.

     "... the water," Lee nodded. 

     "All of it downstream ..., Lora said. 

     "... of the old dam," Lee said.

The decaying mushroom has one last
ecstatic reach to the sky.
Within hours of this snapshot
the delicate mold and most of
the mushroom body had disappeared.  

You may be wondering how my visuals of moldy mushrooms relate to this part of the story. They don't. But the magical, lacy fringe will most definitely make an appearance later in the story, once Gordy and Virginia make it farther upstream into the heart of the ice caves.

To learn more about why I write sci-fi eco-adventures, and to find out more about my work-in-progress and how writing Mission to Blue Grannus requires my research into fungi and myco-remediation, tap on KHBrower.com.

Daily Rhythm & Pace of Author Activities

Often it feels like I'm taking one baby step at a time,
without a clear path more than a step or two ahead of me.

Ever since my spectacular bicycle accident I have been developing new habits around writing. I pay attention to when and where my body needs to stretch and elongate. Doctor's orders. Sometimes I stand to write. Sometimes I speak into an audio recorder while I pace and voice recognition software translates my spoken words to text. Right now I'm at a regular height desk on a bouncy chair made of bungee cords, but I know I cannot sit for long at any one time. So, I pace myself and throughout the day I integrate my hands-on research into my daily actions.

I take care of a short section of a stream,
picking up trash and keeping a log of water quality.

For example, this morning I took my dog Lucy for a walk with my writerly friend, M., in our favorite local park. We catch up on family and home remodel stories, and often discuss how we're handling a particular rewrite or a breakthrough in how we've found to connect with our readers.

When we crossed the creek I saw how low the water is right now. We've had rain all summer, so the partially dry creek bed exposed all sorts of trash. I'm an adopt-a-stream volunteer for our Parks Department and this section is mine, so I got my trash picker, bag, and badge and did my civic duty.

Three Sisters is a classic southwest
American Indian combination of
squash, beans and corn

Then I came home and  prepared a bowl of Three Sisters, dancing while I heated and stirred. After my brunch and a short burst of writing (the first draft of this post), I managed several pieces of business communication and scheduling.

The pattern of a typical writing day for me includes:

• Move - dance/swim/walk
• Cooking meditation
• Write for a short burst 
• Connect with other creative partners and champions
• Hands-on research
• Eco-warrior actions
• Read 
• Repeat, with loose variations 

What I look for in each day is a healthy balance. I write about eco-warriors and scientists, so each day I incorporate activities that at least honor the spirit of intention of the heroes in my adventure stories.

To learn more about why I write sci-fi eco-adventures, and to find out more about my work-in-progress and how writing Mission to Blue Grannus requires my research into fungi and myco-remediation, tap on KHBrower.com.

Foray at Griffy Lake Park: Autumnal Equinox 2016

Aspen Bolete, perchance?

Spotting this magnificent beauty was the climax of an impromptu day hike with my dear friend, Shayne Laughter. The weather was perfect, we both had an unscheduled afternoon, and the stars were aligned.

We walked along the high trail, the north loop of the trail that starts at the far side of the dam. We got our feet wet crossing the spillway, but the day was warm and our shoes compatible with the conditions.

Griffy Lake Dam

We climbed the stairs to the left and entered the woods. It's a young forest. Where the land was once thick with old growth woods, several places have had as many as two clear cuts. Now the trees are almost all thin, and even the undergrowth is sparse, though we did see one mother tree and very distinct signs that the soil is healthy, rich with mycelium running.

From the moment we stepped into the shade, we encountered friends of the Fungi Kingdom. Look at all these beauties!

First of the foray. I've seen this one before
on the trail above Jackson Creek.

At the next bend in the trail,
we saw several of these.

Low-angle, underside view of the cap

One hillside was thick with this sponge type.
This group appear to have already sporulated.
They were stiff and dry to the touch.

This coral sample was springy to the touch,
in comparison to those above.

Dappled sunlight shines a spotlight on the magnificent bolete.

To learn more about why I write sci-fi eco-adventures, and to find out more about my work-in-progress and how writing Mission to Blue Grannus requires my research into fungi and myco-remediation, tap on KHBrower.com.

Getting Comfortable with Chaos

Author at Play
The sound of a distant flute player floats in the cool morning air and enters my story,
Mission to Blue Grannus.

I'm currently drafting Mission to Blue Grannus. This morning I noodled around with chapter 16, "Inside the Blue Ice Caves," in which Gordy & Virginia enter and begin to explore a new micro-climate on the blue moon. I'm thinking about how the thick mass of ice shields the people from gamma radiation, and that's why the former workers from the abandoned water mine thrive in a colony inside the caves. I'm thinking about how the hot springs deep in the caves keep the water warm and the ambient air temp chilly, but survivable. And I'm thinking about how the caverns are filled with the cheerful sounds of gecko chirps. Creating the story world is one of my favorite parts of the novel writing process. 

In my first full draft, I'm approaching the midpoint of the story. This is a passage of great chaos for the character. In structure theory terms, it's when everything the main character thought was true is not and the true nature of the mission is revealed. 

Sometimes the author's experience mirrors the character's experience, and that's what's happening to me. So, I'm doing my best to get comfortable with the chaos of not knowing exactly what happens next. This is partly because I'm tuning into the main character Gordy's voice every day and he's wondering what's happening next. It's also because I keep changing elements of my outline. 

Some changes are simple and will streamline and strengthen the story--like going back to ch. 15 and eliminating the old woman in rags on top of the old hydro-power dam and replacing her with the hermit guide I had planed to introduce in 16. Moving up his first appearance gives us more time to get to know the pivotal guide character before the big reveal at the midpoint. (more about that big pivot when I get there)

Anther change that I'm contemplating is not so simple. It's threaded throughout the story. I've been thinking all along that the primary reason Gordy needs to go on his mission to find the mushroom man deep in the ice caves is to retrieve fungi that will serve for radiation poisoning remediation. However, last Friday I spoke with mycologist Dr. Michael Tansey as part of my research efforts. The topic of our conversation was the possible role of fungi for space travelers:

• radiation poisoning remediation - to absorb gamma radiation ever present in outer space
• food - the most efficient way to transport would be in nutritionally dense powder form
• medicinal - anti-viral and immunological boosts- though not all scientists agree on the medicinal value of various mushrooms, there is a long history of traditional use 
• terraforming - Did you know that in the early epochs of life on planet Earth the fungi Kingdom spread on the land long before vascular plants? Or that 80-95% of vascular plants thrive in symbiotic relationships with mycelium networks in the soil? Basically, you have to have fungi to have soil. You have to have soil to have plants, and plant life is one of those things we expect on a terraformed planet. 

After conversation, it was clear that the most essential of the possible uses of fungi for humans in space is terraforming.  So I'm rethinking the motive behind the mission and how that might affect the story in other ways. I'm wondering if the mushroom man changes the nature of the mission with his expertise, as in Gordy's mission is to trade for myco-remediation and medicinals, and the mushroom man recommends various patches of mycorrhizal fungi for terraforming.

If that's confusing for you, imagine how much my writer's brain is exploding with possibilities. I'm thrilled by, afraid of, and in my best moments, comfortable with the chaos of my creative process.

To learn more about why I write sci-fi eco-adventures, and to find out more about my work-in-progress and how writing Mission to Blue Grannus requires my research into fungi and myco-remediation, tap on KHBrower.com.

Turkey Tail Report: Trametes versicolor Makes a Home in My Back Yard

I first saw my turkey tail patch growing in the early summer following a lot of spring rain on a stump we use for chopping firewood. I wasn't sure, as I'm a novice mycologist, but it had the markers: the ringed color patterns and the nested groupings of the caps. Also, the top side of the caps were fuzzy to the touch. I checked my trusty reference guide and it said to look for whitish spores. But I couldn't see any spores. Perhaps those emerging caps were too young to produce spores. (note to self: Ask an experienced mycologist when the caps typically start producing spores. My guess is there are a number of factors, like air temperature and humidity, in addition to the maturity of the mushrooming body.)

Turkey Tail emerging, July 11, 2016

I didn't think my turkey tail -- and yes, I call it MY turkey tail, for I have abounding, familial affection for my back patio patch -- would thrive in its volunteer location here in Bloomington, Indiana. During midsummer this spot was destined to get full sun for several hours a day, and the stump is too heavy to move without a good reason.

But, before I asked my 6'4" son to roll it back under the shade of the deck so the mushrooms wouldn't struggle in the heat, it rained. It rained a lot here--all summer l-o-n-g. While the western states fried, the midwest flooded and my turkey tail thrived. Here's my mushroom stump a month later.

New growth after the storm, August 14th 

The other side of the stump with another, shorter-lived species, August 18

This past weekend I photographed my turkey tail again, after a couple of weeks of "normal" late summer weather, in other words, HOT. The patch is clearly thriving despite the heat. I love the green rings and wonder why one section of caps has developed a new color scheme. When I shared my pictures with my Mycelium Running seminar tribe, one cautioned my identification, saying she had encountered a turkey tail look-alike.

Is MY turkey tail really Trametes versicolor, or an imposter? September 10, 2016

Under the cap you can see the whitish pore openings where the spores come out -- shot with a macro lens.

So I asked a local mycology prof, Dr. Michael R. Tansey of Indiana University, to verify or set me straight. From the two photos pictured above, this is what he said:

"This is Turkey-tail.  It is our most common mushroom.  It is very common.  I have been out walking today, and it is abundant.  FYI:  Most experienced mushroom people agree that what we call the Turkey-tail is, at the level of analysis of the DNA, many different species.  Indeed, I have seen unpublished DNA data from our local specimens, and they cannot be one "real" species.  I remember one of the most experienced wood-rot fungi experts, years ago, telling me that it must be a dozen species."  

Ta Da! I'm thrilled I correctly identified fungi--even if not DNA-specific in my ID--in the wilds of my back yard. And now that the sun has dropped lower and the stump is in the shade for more of the day, I doubt anything will disturb my turkey tail, until we have really cold weather. Remember, turkey tail is everywhere. See if you can find some in your neighborhood.

To learn more about why I write sci-fi eco-adventures, and to find out more about my work-in-progress and how writing Mission to Blue Grannus requires my research into fungi and myco-remediation, tap on KHBrower.com.

P.S. If anyone has thoughts or recipes about making a medicinal extract, please send them my way. This literary scientist is ready to try most anything.