Nina Munteanu » published author

Nina, The Writing Coach, Can Help You Get Published!

Nina Munteanu — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 18:35:33 +0000

Nina, The Writing Coach

Nina, the writing coach, can help you!

Join her for a free webinar where she will share some of her best tips for getting published. She will also answer some frequently asked questions that came straight from Writer’s Digest!

See you there!

Welcome to Nina Munteanu’s Online Writing Courses!

To view courses offered in 2011 and to register for courses, go to the online courses page.

Your instructor, Nina Munteanu, is an internationally published author of several novels, short stories and essays. She has taught science and writing courses for over twenty years and has coached many beginning and established writers over the years toward successful publication. Her textbook on writing, “The Fiction Writer: Get Published, Write Now!” is used by schools and universities throughout North America.

Share and Enjoy:

The Writing Life

Nina Munteanu — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 14:01:45 +0000

Hi there!

Nina Munteanu - The Writing Life

You’ve landed on the website of Nina Munteanu, internationally published Canadian SF author and ecologist. Nina is living her dream of the writing life! She is currently putting the finishing touches on her next science fiction novel. And if you’re lucky, you might catch her at one of her writing workshops where she coaches great fiction writing!

The Mentor: Nina is frequently sought after for one-on-one mentoring as well as personal coaching and group workshops on all aspects of writing and publishing. Because she has published frequently in both fiction and non-fiction, she knows exactly how to help her clients succeed in getting their works published.

The Ecologist: Nina currently does research and gives talks in science and limnology (No! That isn’t the study of limbs! She studies freshwater) and is driven by a passion to help keep our planet’s environment healthy. In April 2010 she participated in talks with the Dalai Lama as part of the Mind and Life XX Conference on Altruism and Compassion in Economics in Zurich, Switzerland, where she participated in discussions on the use of ecological relationships in economic policy. Nina is a passionate traveler, and has tasted her way around the world from Bangkok to Paris.

The Author: Nina has published award-nominated short stories all over the planet (with translations into Greek, Romanian, Polish, and Hebrew). Two of her several novels, “Angel of Chaos” and “Darwin’s Paradox” (science fiction ecological thrillers by Dragon Moon Press), explores humanity’s co-evolution with machine intelligence and Nature’s intelligence. She also writes critical essays and reviews, several of which have appeared in Strange Horizons, IROSF, and The New York Review of Science Fiction. Her personal heroes include Dr. Lynn Margulis and author Ray Bradbury. Nina’s guidebook on writing, The Fiction Writer: Get Published, Write Now! is currently used in schools and universities across North America.

The Blogger: Nina is also The Alien Next Door, author of the award-wining blog which hosts lively discussions on pop culture, travel, science, writing and philosophy. Nina co-authors an environmental blog on climate change, Climate of Our Future. She frequently guest-blogs on Toulouse LeTrek, her feline friend’s travel blog.

Share and Enjoy:

The Novelist–He said, She said: Using Dialogue

Nina Munteanu — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 19:11:00 +0000

One of the most important devices to spice up narrative and increase pace is the use of dialogue. There’s a reason for this: we read dialogue more quickly; it’s written in more fluid, conversational English; it tends to create more white space on a page with less dense text, more pleasing to the reader’s eye. Dialogue is action. It gets readers involved.

Good dialogue neither exactly mimics actual speech (e.g., it’s not usually mundane, repetitive or broken with words like “uh”) nor on the other extreme does it proselytize or educate the reader through long discourse (unless the character is that kind of person). Good dialogue in a story should be somewhere in the middle. While it should read as fluid conversation, dialogue remains a device to propel the plot or enlighten us to the character of the speaker). No conversation follows a perfect linear progression. People interrupt one another, talk over one another, often don’t answer questions posed to them or avoid them by not answering them directly. These can all be used by the writer to establish character, tension, and relationship.

Below, I provide a few tips when using dialogue in your story.

Show, don’t tell: a common error of beginning writers is to use dialogue to explain something that both participants should already know but the reader doesn’t. It is both awkward and unrealistic and immediately exposes you as a novice. For instance, avoid the use of “As you know…” It’s better to keep the reader in the dark for a while than to use dialogue to explain something. Which brings us to the next point.

Have your characters talk to each other, not to the reader: for instance, “Hello, John, you loser drunk and wayward son of the most feared gangster in town!” could be improved to, “You stink like a distillery, John! Wait ‘til papa’s thugs find you!”

Avoid adverbs: e.g., he said dramatically, she said pleadingly; instead look for better ways to express the way they said it with actual dialogue. That’s not to say you can’t use adverbs (I believe J.K. Rowling is notorious for this), just use them sparingly and judiciously.

Avoid tag lines that repeat what the dialogue already tells the reader: e.g., “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Do you have a dog?” she asked.

He said, she said: reduce tag lines where possible and keep them simple by using “said”; another sign of a novice is the overuse of words other than said (e.g., snarled, hissed, purred, etc.). While these can add spice, keep them for special places as they are noticed by the reader and will distract otherwise.

Pay consistent attention to a character’s “voice”: each character has a way of speaking that identifies them as a certain type of person. This can be used to identify class, education, culture, ethnicity, proclivities, etc. For instance one character might use Oxford English and another might swear every third word.

Use speech signatures: pick out particular word phrases for characters that can be their own and can be identified with them. If they have additional metaphoric meaning to the story, even better. For instance, I know a person who always adds “Don’t you think?” to almost everything they say. This says something about how that person… well, thinks… I knew another person who always added “Do you see?” at the end of their phrase. Again rather revealing.

Intersperse dialogue with good descriptive narrative: don’t forget to keep the reader plugged into the setting. Many beginning writers forget to “ground” the reader with sufficient cues as to where the characters are and what they’re doing while they are having this great conversation. This phenomenon is so common, it even has a name. It’s called “talking heads.”

Contradict dialogue with narrative: when dialogue contradicts body language or other narrative cues about the speaker, this adds an element of compelling tension and heightens reader excitement while telling them something important. Here are a few examples:

“How’d it go?”
“Great,” he lied.

“I feel so much better now,” she said, jaw clenched.
“It’s okay; I believe you.” His heart slammed.

Well, you get the picture, anyway. Hope this helps. Keep writing!

Share and Enjoy:

Darwin’s Paradox: Book Signing at Chapters

Nina Munteanu — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 15:50:00 +0000

Yesterday’s book signing at Chapters in Richmond, B.C. was incredibly fun and truly a blast! A second only to that kraglet swimsuit competition on Rigel 9. Despite the fact that I’d sold and published two books prior to “Darwin’s Paradox”, this was my first big bookstore signing! And I was jazzed. I knew ahead of time, though, that many of my friends couldn’t make it; I’d informed them with too little notice. Likewise, my relatives are few and far away (well, being an alien…). Given that friends and relatives are–with the exception of J.K.Rowling, that is– customarily where an author gets her audience for a signing, I was prepared for a solitary experience, a sole journey. Instead, I got a soul journey…

Prior to going in I had entertained foolish notions of sitting behind a stack of books, bored, as strangers milled past without a glance in my direction. Well, the word bored isn’t in my vocabulary and, besides, that isn’t my style (as those of you who know me would certainly testify; though I’ve been also known to have my shy moments…no really! Especially when it comes to THAT….well, you know…I’m too embarrassed to say…) So, when I arrived, energized with a Starbucks cinnamon latte in hand, I donned my sales robes and made a point of greeting my stranger friends. We all had something in common, after all: we all liked books. Determined to sign off all the books Chapters had been kind enough to get for this event, I hailed the merits of my book (“Look at this beautiful cover!) to one and all like a French market vendor…and soon–to my surprise–my off-key singing voice actually brought people flocking forward and I made friends with some wonderful people (who probably don’t sing). There was Mark, for instance, a young Vancouver student who studied evolution; there was Karyn, an avid science fiction fan and another Karin, also an avid reader; there was Jacek, an aspiring writer who is writing a very interesting YA novel, who came with his son; there was Craig Bowlsby, a local TV show producer (who I wangled an interview with…you’ll see my interview of him here live on this blog later!); there was Kuldip, who wanted to talk philosophy during the whole three hours I was there; and Brenda Carr, another wonderful writer who is currently marketing her mythic fantasy novel (look for it soon!); and so many other wonderful people. My sole journey had become a soul journey. And I did manage to reduce that huge pile of books into a small rubble. It would have dwindled to nothing except that my husband and son wanted to celebrate and successfully lured me away with promises of wine and rich food.

Speaking of souls, Mel over at Monday Morning Power (see my last post), who bestowed upon me the badge for a “winning attitude”, would be proud of me. He recently gave me another gift: the gift of friendship (see below). This is how Mel explains it:

“I didn’t start blogging until May of this year. As you may know, the reason I started blogging was to have a vehicle to put out my “Empowerment Process,” which I have been posting in installments. However, what I got was a home for friendships that I feel are as real as the ones in my “real” life. For this I am more thankful than words can express.”

“There is something very special and unique about blogging friendships. In “real” life we all have to first get by the physical and superficial aspects of each other before we can get into who we are, really. In “real” life there is so much bull shit that we have to put up with, that sometimes developing true friends becomes very difficult. I feel that with blogging friendships there are no superficial aspects to it; the barriers do not exist. We open up in our writings as to who we really are. We bare ourselves and say “this is me.” For many of us this is the only way that we can truly express ourselves, our opinions, our strengths and our fears. I have also discovered a level of INTEGRITY amongst bloggers that I have not found in “real” life.”

Thank you, Mel! You are a wonderful friend. I, in turn bestow this gift to all my blogging friends on MyBlogLog and Blogcatalog, my blogging communities. You folks ALL rock! I’d like to specifically mention the following bloggers who have added so much to make this place a home for me:

Jean-Luc (The Federation)…for your loyalty…(and being so SEXY)

Karen (Nameless Grace)…for your impeccable grace (and for always correcting my spelling! But mostly for your love and faith in me)

Tricia (Modern Matriarch)…for your justice and diligence (and clever mind…you make me think)

WalksFarWoman (Kissing the Dogwood)…for your compassion (and wonderful sense of humor…you make me smile)

Bob (Somerset Bob’s Place)…for your honor and integrity (and all those drinks you sent me on Facebook!)

Deborah (Climate of our Future)…for your indomitable spirit (and ALL those MEMEs…geez! You know I love ‘em! …

Adria (In Cing)…for your joy and clarity (and endless enthusiasm)

Erik (AuthorsDen)…for your incredible sincerity (and stubbornness! I love our discussions! You keep me honest and I hope you keep doing so…)

Theresa Lucas (Fantasy and Sci-Fi Lovin’ Blog)…for your impeccable mind (and warped sense of humor!)

Mel (Monday Morning Power)…for your positive attitude (and rather twisted sense of humor!)

Jennifer (Random Synaptic Transfers)…for your kind friendship (and warped sense of humor…wait…there’s a wierd trend happening here…WARP NINE, MR. SPOCK!)

Virginia (Sumptuosity)…for your generosity (and all those beers we slugged back…and will slug back in the future! You slugger, you!)

Lynda (Reality Skimming)…for your sincere and down-to-earth goodness (and your crazy wonderful laugh)

Princess Haiku (Princess Haiku)…for your poetic wisdom (and astute calmness)

Melanie (A Quiet Symphony)…for your beautiful words (and REALLY twisted sense of humor!)

Jon (Chimeric Day Dreams)…for your gentle wisdom and beautiful mind (and beautiful everything.)

Heather (Heather Dugan)…for your kind spirit (and your incredible voice!…Hey, maybe we should do an audio book…oh, we ARE? GREAT!)

Margaret…(who doesn’t even have a blog!) for your incredible and steadfast loyalty and friendship for aeons (God knows how you could stand me that long!)

more to come…there are so many of you!…

And here they are! Bloggers who welcomed me so long ago, when I first began blogging. Bloggers who welcomed me with kind advice as my blog clunked along on its new wobbly legs. Bloggers who provided comments and words of encouragement, challenges and amazing humor on my posts. People like:

I’m so looking forward to meeting more bloggers out there and making friends with you.

Share and Enjoy:

Darwin’s Paradox by Nina Munteanu

Nina Munteanu — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 07:40:00 +0000

Well, it’s Friday again and time for my Friday Feature. First of all, a little sharing…Folks, my book, Darwin’s Paradox will be arriving at bookstores all over the world on November 15th, less than two weeks from now and I can tell you that I am unabashedly excited by it. Besides Amazon (e.g., in the U.S.: http://www.amazon.com/; in Canada: http://www.amazon.ca/; in the U.K.: http://www.amazon.co.uk/; in Germany: http://www.amazon.de/; in France: www.amazon.fr/; in Japan: http://www.amazon.jp/) where Darwin’s Paradox is available for pre-order, the book can be found throughout North America (both at stores and through their online webstores) at:

Barnes & Noble

Chapters-Indigo

White Dwarf Books (Vancouver)
The Sentry Box (Calgary)

various online bookstores (as an ebook)

You can also buy or order the book at Target (www.target.com), one of the major department stores in the U.S. as well as India and Malaysia, Wallmart, or purchase it online at Buy.com, another major retail store.

And those are only the ones I know about (the writer tends to know paltry little when it comes to publishery stuff). If you’ve enjoyed my blog articles and short stories and enjoy thoughtful and provative science fiction (with a kicking plot) and are inclined to purchase Darwin’s Paradox, then here are a few things that I unabashedly, shamelessly exhort you, dear reader, to do:

If purchasing through Amazon, purchase my book on the day of release (November 15, 2007) to drive sales that day into such significant figures to make my book noticeable on the Amazon radar (which will place the book so that more people will see it)

go to your local bookstore and ask them to order Darwin’s Paradox

And if you’re interested in an audiobook (with voice artist Heather Dugan) we’ll be arranging that too, hopefully.

So, today’s Friday Feature, is run by the incredibly talented and energetic Karen Mason and dedicated to my book, “Darwin’s Paradox”. And through no major stretch of the imagination, it’s also called “Darwin’s Paradox“.

What wonderful items can you find there? Well, here are a few juicy bits:

Chapters One through Thirteen of the book (available in eight different languages: French, German, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, Japanese, Korean and Chinese)

podcasts of chapters One to Thirteen (so far) done by voice artist Heather Dugan

schedule of my appearances (including conventions and booktours)

select interviews

writing tips

media kit (including press release, media material, etc.)

I am so indebted to Karen for tirelessly running this site and for her astute advice on blogging, internet navigation, media design, logic, human behaviour (remember, I’m an alien) and good wine.

Share and Enjoy:

Angel’s Promises by Nina Munteanu

Nina Munteanu — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 07:49:00 +0000

I’m heading off this weekend to Vcon, Vancouver’s SF & F convention…You know the deal…drinking, talking, laughing, sharing, drinking some more, slurring, theorizing, imagining, arguing, drinking yet some more, slurring some more…Well, then there are all those aliens “coming in peace” or whatever it is they’re saying (I’m usually too happily inebriated to understand their squeeky little voices…or to care for that matter…).

For reasons I’m not at liberty to discuss, I shant be participating in any panels this time (shame, really, because now I’ll just have to keep that neat little phaser I was going to give away as a door prize…). Suffice to say that the best of promises, motivated by the very noblest of intentions, may “break” when pressed with insufficient resources or time.

At any rate, I fully intend to enjoy myself and learn a thing or two. So, in the meantime, I’ve left you a short story that is aptly in keeping with misunderstanding, apparent abandonment and hopeful resolution. It’s all about promises: to others and ultimately to oneself. The story was originally published in Dreams & Visions (Skysong Press). It’s a love story set in a time when AI and humans have settled on an uneasy truce of cooperation.

Angel’s Promises

Rebecca stared through the window where the sun trembled on the horizon and inflamed the sky. She contrasted what she saw with the dark inner-city, dank with despair, from which they’d retrieved him. Pacing her outer-city office like a trapped panther, she fidgeted with her dress and raked her dark hair back with her fingers. She strained to hear footsteps approaching and felt her heart race with — what? What did she feel? Exhilaration? Terror? A terse rap at the door was her only warning before it swung open and the face she had not seen in four years stared boldly at her. The fire in his coal-black eyes stirred up memories of when she’d met him, kissed him and deserted him.

~ 1 ~

Belly aching with hunger, Rebecca glanced down at Isabelle huddled next to her in the gutted apartment that was once home. It was four days since they’d lost their mother in the crowded mall. Rebecca listened to the murmurs of the city in her head: a low hush mingled with the stirrings of cryptic metallic sounds, chopped up words, bleeps and sighs. Like a million voices in the distance, they came and went like the ebbing and swelling surf of the sea. She no longer mentioned the sounds to Isabelle, who could not hear them, because it frightened her too much. Rebecca had heard a rumor that the outer-city was searching for people who could interface with AIs. They called them veemelds. Could she be one? As much as she wished to return, she refused to leave her little sister behind. Nothing would ever separate them, she thought, glancing down at Isabelle’s urchin face. She’d promised.

Rebecca’s gaze swept the place. Some vagrant had vandalized and torched it. Nothing of theirs remained, not that there was much to begin with. She rose and wandered into what used to be their bedroom, Isabelle scrambling behind. Black and sodden, it reeked of kerosene and urine. Her gaze rested on her old bed, torn and stained, where her mother used to awaken her every night, smelling of whiskey, then crawl in beside her, clutch Rebecca to her breast and sob. Rebecca turned abruptly from the gutted bedroom and said, “We have to go now.” She was fifteen and could take care of herself and her twelve-year old sister if she had to.

Isabelle scrambled behind. “Can’t we go back to the outer-city and visit Uncle Carl till mummy comes back?”

She isn’t coming back, Rebecca thought. She rolled her eyes and shook her head at her sister. “And how’d we get there, you silly? On wings?” As if they could simply climb out of the dark depths of the inner-city. Besides, Uncle Carl was mean. He’d said that anyone who ended up techno-slaving for the inner-city AIs deserved their fate. There’d been no choice for her mother who’d lost her wits after their father was taken away. Rebecca pushed out her lower lip and narrowed her eyes at the thought of Uncle Carl’s stern face. Seeing the tears stream down Isabelle’s cheeks, Rebecca took her hand. “Never mind, Izzy. I’ll take care of you.”

They headed to the mall, hoping to find some scraps of food. They staked out a Food Stop and patience finally paid off when a woman got up with a half-eaten oatcake. The girls followed her to a waste bin and watched her drop the cake into the bin. After a quick glance around, Rebecca dove in after it but a dirty hand snatched the cake first. Rebecca jerked up and gazed into a filthy face.
“Th-th-this is my bin,” stammered the boy about her age, who stared at her with intense slag-black eyes. Blinking through dark strands of hair, he stroked his long face, smeared with dirt and grease. Then he flicked back his shoulder-length hair and studied the two girls with a smirk that unsettled Rebecca. “You t-t-techno-slummers?”

She’d heard of them. They were orphans of the inner-city, waste products of desperate and over-indulgent techno-slaves. And troublemakers for the AIs. Vermin, who choked up the cyber-system, disturbed their complacent humming, stole into their metal bellies and snuck off with their secrets. “We’re looking for my mother,” Rebecca replied, curbing a frown.

“That’s what they all s-s-say, after their parents ab-b-bandon them,” he said as though he was discussing a school event. He smacked his lips as he chewed. “She’s b-been gone awhile,” he said with a full mouth. “I can tell.”

Isabelle puckered her face, ready to cry.

“Here.” He broke off a piece of the oatcake and handed it to Isabelle. “You can share my bin until you get one of your own,” he stuttered, offering Rebecca another piece. “We’re family. We look after each other, especially from the cypols. I’m Neo.” He puffed up his chest and tilted his head back proudly. “You probably heard about the mess I caused in the Food-Center. I got us twenty kilos of nano-soup.”

Rebecca refused the piece of oat cake, even though Isabelle had already accepted hers and was gratefully eating. “I told you, we’re not techno-slummers,” she said in a huff. “We’re just waiting for our mother to come back.”

“Yeah, like when chaos turns to order.”

~ 2 ~

“What d’ya mean they talk?” Neo squatted next to Rebecca in the cramped makeshift shack, as they repaired a computer they’d built with scrap parts they’d found. He dug his dirty nails into his tangled hair and squinted at her.

“Can’t you hear them too, Neo?” Rebecca said in a faltering voice. She shifted her weight from one knee to the other, suddenly giddy under his penetrating stare. She caught his scent, sharp with old sweat, felt her face heat and fought down the confusing storm that surged through her abdomen. Lately she’d caught him studying her with such intensity that it made her blush. His opinion meant more to her than anything.

Neo tilted his head to one side. “You making this up?” His name wasn’t really Neo. It was Colin Baker, but he’d abandoned it like the parents who’d given him the name had abandoned him. All the techno-slummers had given themselves new names. She’d chosen Angel, the nickname her father gave her. “Machines don’t talk to people, Angel,” Neo said, shaking his head at her. He stood up. “I gotta get some quantum couplers.” He studied her for a moment. “Get a grip, Angel. You’re still looking for your mother a year after she abandoned you! A cypol probably caught her and she’s been recycled into something by now, maybe the nano-soup you ate today.”

She thought him cruel to have said that. Mocking the promise she’d made to her father the day he was arrested. He’d turned at the threshold, flanked by two policemen as her mother and sister wailed uncontrollably and Rebecca stood brave like a soldier: Take care of your mother and sister for me, till I return, Angel . . . I will, father, I promise. . . .He never did return, of course. They’d accused him of being a luddite — she didn’t know what that was — and she never saw him again.

Several of the younger orphans had gathered around in the small bivouac built from scrap parts cemented with the detritus of urban fast living. Rebecca clenched her fists and worked her jaw as she watched Neo brush past the giggling children. Letting her anger subside in silence, she decided that from then on she would avoid confiding in him. It was too painful.

But that night, when the little children lay asleep in their nests of garbage and she listened with her eyes closed to the droning throb of the machines in her head, Neo startled her by touching her shoulder. Her eyes darted open to his reckless smile and her face smoldered with the thought that he meant to kiss her. But he was only excited about her strange talent and what it meant for them all. She inhaled his smoky metal scent and controlled her breathing as he shared his plan, totally unaware of the effect he was having on her.
That was when they began to invade the cyber world of the inner-city to feed and clothe themselves. Although she disagreed with stealing, Rebecca sensed that her ability to tap into the AI world not only fed her undernourished companions, but also bolstered their morale. What else could she do? They were starving, cold and sick. And they had no one they could go to. Turning themselves in to the Care-Center facility was not an option. They’d heard horror stories of what went on there. No one ever emerged once they went there. Nano-soup.

~ 3 ~

“Cypols!” Neo shouted. His voice rang in the mall, empty now in the deep of the night. Rebecca looked up from the public computer she’d hacked into and her gaze followed Neo’s to where a shrill whine grew louder. Several great metal birds of prey swooped down, their burnished wings glinting as they selected their targets and honed in. The children scattered and ran for cover among the garbage and rubble. Isabelle stood stiff with fear.
Rebecca spotted one heading straight for them and leapt to her feet. “Izzy, come on!” She seized Isabelle’s hand and ran. Isabelle stumbled behind her, panting. Rebecca tugged her hard, galloping toward a makeshift lean-to. Isabelle gasped and tripped in the rubble. Their hands flew apart. Rebecca dove under cover, expecting Isabelle to be right behind her.
“Becky!” Isabelle shrieked. Rebecca turned and saw the metal bird seize Isabelle with its claws. Her arms flailed out to Rebecca. “Help!” Within a moment Isabelle sailed up, clutched firmly in the great bird’s talons as Rebecca, crouched under the corrugated metal, stared in frozen silence. Her sister’s wails subsided and she disappeared into the darkness above.

~ 4 ~

Neo’s face grew red and blotchy. Rebecca had just told him that she intended to let herself get caught by a cypol.

They were fashioning a table out of an old building support and he reeled away, letting the piece he held fall to the floor. She flinched as the table crashed. “Damn you, Angel!” He spun around to face her, raking his fingers through his long greasy hair. “What about your mother? You going to abandon your search for her? Just like that?”

Rebecca set down the makeshift hammer then straightened up, wiping her hands on her rags. “You’re the one who keeps telling me it’s useless to keep looking for her. It’s been close to two years now.” She tilted her head at him and said tartly, “Nano-soup, remember?”

His eyes flashed. “What about your promise?”

Her face heated with defensive anger. “Which one? I promised I’d look after my sister too.” He pouted and his voice dropped to a whisper. “What about our dream. . . .”

It was a wild dream they shared: escape to the outer-city, where the sun shone and the air was fresh from a breeze rich with the wild scent of flowers. Where people walked with unrestrained laughter and AIs only served a limited function as tools, not lords of techno-slaves. She’d corrupted him with her tales of the outer-city and regretted it now. Sold him on a dream that she couldn’t deliver.

He waved his gangly arms. “Damn you!” he lashed out. “We’re family and you’re going to leave us to rot and starve.” His stammer was worse than usual. It got that way when he was upset. She stiffened. “You were around long before I arrived. Besides, Neo, you can do most of what I can do. It’s not like you need me—”

“I can’t talk to the machines —”

Rebecca stomped her foot in frustration and stalked forward until they stood facing one another less than a meter apart. “Neither can I, Neo. I told you, I can’t talk to them, only hear them.” “It’s the same thing!”

“No it isn’t!”

They were both panting, eyes blazing in stalemate. His breath reeked of nano-soup. She let her shoulders slump and looked away with a sigh. She knew he was only hiding his pain under this tirade. She would miss him too, more than she cared to admit.

Neo hunched over and sobbed, “D-d-don’t leave me, Angel.” The hand that never asked for help thrashed out, like the broken wing of a bird, flopping on the ground.

Overcome by his clumsy supplication, she took his hand. Then she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. Stunned, his eyes widened. She savored his delicious vulnerability like the nectar of a flower unfolding as he opened to her kiss, his mouth wrapping itself around it. When she withdrew from him, he leaned with her, reluctant to separate. He fumbled for her, clutched her tightly and laid his cheek upon her breast. She stroked his head, smelling his unwashed hair, and felt him shake with silent sobs. Her eyes heated with tears. She fought the confusion between the craving to stay and the need to help her sister. She’d promised, after all. “I’ll come back for you,” she said in a trembling voice. “I won’t leave you behind. I promise.”

~ 5 ~

As the rest of the techno-slummers dashed for cover, Rebecca stood fixed. Her heart pounded as she listened to the familiar squeal of the approaching cypol. Neo lunged for her, tugging hard. Determined, she fought him off and thought down the panic surging inside: I’m going to do it this time. I’m going to let it catch me.

“Damn you, Angel!” Neo screamed. “And damn your promises!” He dashed to safety.

She swallowed down her fear and curbed the instinct to hunker and flee. She could see the cypol’s gleaming eyes. Saw it veer toward her. Lock on her. There was no escape now. She’d be joining her sister soon. It had been a week since the cypol took Isabelle. What if she was dead? What if the cypols just took you up to their lair in the darkness of the ceilings and devoured you, like Neo said? What if her sacrifice was for nothing, wouldn’t reunite her with Isabelle but would simply put an end to her life?

Rebecca ran. But the cypol was almost upon her. You will not be hurt, it seemed to say. Did she imagine it? Stunned, Rebecca broke from her run, let her body go limp as the cypol scooped her up. The air rushed across her face as she soared up and felt exhilaration. I’m coming, Isabelle, she thought. I’m coming to save you. She glimpsed Neo staring up from the shadows, his face twisted in anguish, as she approached the rafters. Trembling with the memory of their first kiss, she whispered in a hoarse voice, “I’ll come back, Neo. I promise.”

A doorway opened into a yawning darkness. The bird sailed through and she was enveloped by pitch black. Her heart raced and she caught an overly sweet, almost cloying smell as she grew weary and fell into a deep slumber.

Rebecca awoke groggily to loud voices in her head. It was still dark. She lay bound with her back on a smooth, hard surface.

She recognized the metal voices as their AI rulers. She’s definitely a veemeld, said one. Go fetch Christian from the outer-city. We can sell this one.

Another said, Look at this, Alpha. Her V29 prostaglandins appear abnormally high. Even for a veemeld. What can it mean?

Perhaps we should charge a higher price. It is a sweet deal, Omega. We rid ourselves of these pests and the outer-city humans pay us for them. Beats recycling. Reuse, when you can, I always say. This one will fetch us a good price. They use these veemelds to help them run their disorganized outer-city. Able to interface with their primitive AIs, veemelds also serve as the best interpreters between their city and ours. . . .

She strained to hear more but the voices faded and she lost herself in the dark void. When she regained consciousness, she heard more voices, this time not in her head. They were exchanged in mild argument and one of them was definitely human.

“—You know we want her, damn it!” the human, an older male, said in frustration.

“Only if you pay double the price, Christian,” a shrill metal voice insisted.

“All right, all right,” the human conceded wearily. “Are there more like her?”

“Doesn’t she have a sister?” rejoined a tin voice. “I think we picked her up earlier.”

Another metal voice cut in, “She tested negative. Not a veemeld. We disposed of her. She’s been recycled.”

No! Not Isabelle! She pulled frantically on the bindings and squeezed her eyes tight to the tears that filled them. Oh, God, no! Not my baby sister.

The voices continued, oblivious to her pain. “ The girl has an uncle in the outer city. Carl Douglas,” Christian said.

No! Not there! Let me stay here with Neo.

“. . . I’ll contact the uncle and arrange for her departure within the hour.”

No! Rebecca screamed out but no sound emerged. The weariness overcame her. Oh, Neo. I’ve left you for nothing. Our dream. So many promises to keep. So many promises. . . .

~6~

He’d cut his dark hair short and his face had matured. A few stubborn locks fell over his temple. Full lips, held tightly, were poised on a rugged and unshaven jaw. She appraised his torso, visible beneath his tattered rags. At 21 years, he’d filled out from his awkward adolescence into a man’s shape, tall and strongly muscled. She hardly recognized him, except for those intense coal-black eyes.

Rebecca pointed to a chair facing her desk. “Please,” and slid into the chair behind her desk. She placed her hands flat, caressing the smooth wood.

Refusing to approach, he planted his legs apart and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why’d you bring me here?” he said without a trace of a stammer. He’d learned control, she thought. Become a warrior poet. “Why didn’t the AIs kill me?” he challenged. “I’m not a veemeld. I’m no use to you people.”

Could it be that he didn’t recognize her? Trying to control the emotion in her voice she said, “Neo, it’s me. . . Angel.”

His face paled. A tide of astonishment swept the dark hostility aside and his arms dropped to his side like lead. “A-a-ngel?” he stammered. Then anger boiled up. It fired his eyes with rage and he charged toward her. She recoiled in alarm. But he stopped at her expression and a miserable smile crossed his lips. She watched him take in a deep breath before speaking with more control, “I was right. When the human slaves are no longer useful like your drunk mother, the AIs recycle them.” His mouth curled into a self-mocking smirk. “Nano-soup.” He appraised her wearily and pursed his lips. The expression in his eyes opened to his pain and she heard the agony break over his voice. “I thought you were dead, Rebecca.”

She flinched at his use of her proper name and swallowed.

“Couldn’t eat nano-soup after that.” Then he veiled his anguish with disgust. “But eventually news filtered down that the outer-city had a new veemeld with special powers, she could hear the machines in her head.” He sneered. “And I knew you were alive.” He flicked his hand to dismiss all his previous pain as if it were unimportant. “You probably knew you’d be safe and fetch a good price too. Not brave like I’d thought, more like self-serving.”

“It wasn’t like that, Neo,” she said in a trembling voice.

His eyes gleamed with open hatred. “I really believed you. I believed all the things you said about escaping and living here together, but you never really meant it, did you?”

“Neo—”

“Once you got here, you forgot all about us.”

By ‘us’ he meant him. Did that tremulous first kiss taste bitter to him now?

“And I can see why.” His accusing gaze slid from her face and roamed her plush office. His eyes rested on the blazing sky. She heard a tremor in his voice, “You got what you wanted.” He glared at the plaques of distinction and achievement that hung on her wall. Then his head snapped at her with a scowl. “Chaos knows why I’m here now. Was it a glitch? Some embarrassing mistake you have to fix? You certainly didn’t earn your excellent reputation by thinking of us or our welfare.”

Shivering with anger, she found her voice, “Do you think that was my choice?” Propelled to her feet, she gripped the desk and locked her eyes on his. “They — my uncle — kept me from going back to look for you. I was trapped here in a paradise without a heart. It was our dream and my thoughts of you. . .” and that sweet kiss “. . . that kept me from drowning in despair. Kept me afloat these past four years with the hope that you hadn’t been caught and recycled like my sister. I realized that the only way I was going to find you and bring you out was if I played along and became the best veemeld the outer-city had. My prize was that I eventually had a chance to talk to the AIs in the inner-city and convinced them to sell you to me.” She swallowed the emotion rising in her throat and tried to gauge his intense look. Was he still angry with her? She couldn’t blame him. Feeling utter defeat, she forced the last words past a tide of anguish, “I thought I would never find you.” Her eyes heated with tears and his face blurred in pools of dismay. “And now that I have, it’s to find I destroyed our dream. I lost you anyway.” Unable to meet his fierce eyes her gaze dropped to the floor and her voice fell like petals from a wilted flower. “I’ve broken all my promises.”

“No you haven’t,” he said in a gentle voice that drew her gaze. With a few strides he’d closed the distance between them and stood so close to her, she could feel his breath upon her. His smoky metal scent coiled around her in a heady embrace as he placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned forward. His icy glare had melted to dark pools of warmth. “You didn’t break the one you made to me, Angel, when you first kissed me with your tender promise of love.”

She trembled as he took her face in his hands. Then his lips were on hers and she felt like they’d never been apart, tasting the mature fruit of his love. He took her in his arms as though he never meant to let her go and she finally felt like she was home.

She thought of her mother and sister, recycled in the inner-city, feeding into that eternal cycle of altering form. . . nano-soup. . . the cell of a beating heart. . . the suspended dust upon which bloomed the blushing sky. As she gazed into Neo’s midnight eyes, now reflecting the glow of sunset, Rebecca realized that he’d just given her the key to her legacy of promises. Every promise she’d made was a declaration to nurture a tender seed.

The rest was up to God.

Share and Enjoy:

The Novelist: Finding Your Muse

Nina Munteanu — Mon, 08 Oct 2007 08:47:00 +0000

O Muses, O high genius, aid me now!
O memory that engraved the things I saw,
Here shall your worth be manifest to all!
—Dante Alighieri, Canto II of the Inferno

As a published author of over a dozen short stories and three novels (with more coming!) I often get asked how and where I draw my inspiration from. How do I find my muse? And how do I keep it? (i.e.,, how do I defeat “writer’s block”?). Let’s first define muse:

The Muses, in Greek mythology, are a sisterhood of goddesses or spirits who embody the arts and inspire the creation process with their graces through remembered and improvised song and stage, writing, traditional music and dance. The Muses are water nymphs associated with the springs of Helicon and with Pieris (from which they are sometimes called the Pierides). According to Hesiod’s Theogony (7th century BC), they are the daughters of Zeus (king of the gods) and Mnemosyne (goddess of memory).

Greek mousa (from which muse derives) is a common noun that means “song” or “poem”. In Pindar, to “carry a mousa” is “to sing a song”. The Muses were, therefore, both the embodiments and sponsors of performed metrical speech: mousike, from which “music” was “the art of the Muses”. In ancient times, before books were common, this was the major form of learning. The first book on astromony, by Thales, was set in dactylic hexameter, as were many works of pre-Soctratic philosophy. Both Plato and the Pythagoreans included philosophy as a sub-species of mousike. Herodotus, whose primary form of delivery was public recitation, named each one of the nine books of his Histories after a different Muse.

The muses weren’t assigned standardized divisions of poetry and art until late Hellenistic times. The nine canonical Muses include:

Calliope (beautiful of speech)—chief of the Muses and the muse of epic or heroic poetry
Clio (glorious one)—muse of history
Erato (amorous one)—muse of love or erotic poetry, lyrics and marriage songs
Euterpe (well-pleasing)—muse of music and lyric poetry
Melpomene (chanting one)—muse of tragedy
Polyhynmia (singer of many hymns)—muse of sacred song, oratory, lyric, singing and rhetoric Terpishore (one who delights in dance)—muse of choral song and dance
Thalia (blossoming one)—muse of comedy and bucolic poetry
Urania (celestial one)—muse of astronomy

The British poet, Robert Graves, popularized the concept of the Muse-poet in modern times based on pre-12th Century traditions, and medieval troubadours, who celebrated the concept of “courtly love” and the romantic poets (and that’s a whole other post!). Wrote Graves:

“No Muse-poet grows conscious of the Muse except by experience of a woman in whom the Goddess is to some degree resident…A Muse-poet falls in love, absolutely, and his true love is for him the embodiment of the Muse…But the real, perpetually obsessed Muse-poet distinguishes between the Goddess as manifest in the supreme power, glory, wisdom and love of woman, and the individual woman whom the Goddess may make her instrument…The Goddess abides; and perhaps he will again have knowledge of her through his experience of another woman…”

And what about women Muse-poets? Plato coined the term, “the tenth Muse” for these rare specimens (at the time) and it is a term that remains in use today.

But, what is it really? What IS one’s muse? And how can you summon it (when you need it)? I think it’s a personal phenomenon; like one’s belief and relationship with God. So, I can only tell you of my personal experiences and thoughts and what works for me…

Let’s start with the opposite: many writers complain of experiencing writer’s block at some point in their career—that affliction of not accessing one’s creativity, when the muses have all fled to Tahiti or someplace far away and you are left with a blank page or more importantly—and alarmingly—a blank mind. No desperate search, hot shower, long walk or discussion with a friend will seduce those holidaying muses back. You’re stuck. Here’s my solution: simply let go. Embrace the emptiness … and something wonderful will fill it. We are all vessels, able to carry a diverse and fluid mixture of things. My belief—in fact my conviction—is that God dwells inside each of us, connecting us to the beauty and wonder of nature and to each other through means we need not know. And when I “empty” myself and let my “muse” enter me, I am communicating with God. That simple.

Each of you has felt it: that otherworldly, euphoric wave of “knowing”, of resonating with something that is more than your visible world. Shawn McKim Murphey of Joyous Life Works calls it your “inner spark(le)”: when the hairs on the back of your neck tingle as you write that significant scene…or tremble with giddy energy as you create that perfect line on a painting…or glow with a deep abiding warmth when you defend a principal… or surge in the frisson you share with fellow musicians on that exquisite set piece…or cry out joyously with that cresting orgasm at exactly the same time as your cherished lover. These are all God moments; God’s poetry.

If, indeed God moves us to express that within us which is divine, then poetry is the language of the heart and music is the language of the soul.

I once insisted to a good friend that I don’t—CAN’T—write poetry. I was lying; to myself. I write it all the time, though not formally. We are all poets and we all “write” it, whenever we open ourselves and let our “muse” enter us. Every creative moment is poetry.

That’s not to say that one can’t entice those capricious muses. Here are a few things that help me:

Music: music moves me in inexplicable ways. I use music to inspire my “muse”. Every book I write has its thematic music, which I play while I write and when I drive to and from work (where I do my best plot/theme thinking). I even go so far as to have a musical theme for each character.

Walk: despite what I said above, going for a walk, particularly in a natural environment, uncluttered with human-made distractions, also unclutters the mind and soul. It grounds you back to the simplicity of life, a good place to start.

Cycle: one of my favorite ways to clear my mind is to cycle (I think any form of exercise would suffice); just getting your heart rate up and pumping those endorphins through you soothes the soul and unleashes the brain to freely run the field.

Hope you found this useful.

Recommended Reading:
Robert Graves, The White Goddess, a historical grammar of poetic myth.

Share and Enjoy: