BLOGS

If anyone were to ask me "What do you do?" I'd have to hesitate and say some non word interjection. I do a lot of different things. Sometimes I'm training sometimes I'm getting train, all the time I'm doing something like running a diagnostic test or delivering new parts. Sometimes I'm sending messages to some of the fixer uppers. And then there are the times I'm cleaning up someone's mess, be it my superior or someone throwing a little get together.

Today I'm doing diagnostic in one of the crawls. I think I use to be a bit claustrophobic. Not anymore. Crawls are the reason that I'm not as uncomfortable in my room as I should be. They are narrow crawl spaces that run between halls and rooms and between different floors. Most control panels are operated through central hubs in these crawl spaces. It's big enough for two averaged size people to crawl side by side, and high enough that anyone of average height to below average height can sit up straight in one. I'm on the small side so it's no problem for me. Though, there are places you can stand up.

I hear a bang. That must be Flip. I turn around, and there he is rubbing his head making the most idiotic face. "What are you doing in here?" They don't make taller people like Flip work the Crawl. And Flip is very tall.

"I just finished what I was doing and thought I'd stop by before heading back to the master." Flip gives me the thumbs up. "Are you coming to see Langley and Winters later?"

I nod, "You bet." I'm smiling a little because he's so obviously uncomfortable in here. And there is hardly any space for him to turn around.

Flip wasn't exactly like Langley, Winters and myself. He'd been forced to be here, but the circumstances were very different. As far as I could tell, he was a Cushy who liked slumming it (not in a bad way though). He'd been a cadet in military school who found himself in a good deal of trouble that even his father couldn't get him out of. This was his punishment. Some punishment. I never understood why Cushies always messed up their lives. Still I never castigated him, mostly because, I get the feeling that he's here because of something political. And even though if he had some lofty opinions, mostly he was a good person. He didn't look down on us either.

One thing I also like about Flip is his respect for the silence. Most other people would be chatting away right now, but he's sitting over there being quiet. He understands that silent thing about me. I do way better when I don't have to talk with people. Earlier today is a fine example.

When I first met Flip, we were sent together to do luggage delivery and room systems checks. We spent four whole days together working and breaking at the same time; I hadn't said a word to him, just gave him a nod everyday. After that we were split up, but we were still working the same hours. And he continued to eat with me. Then we started to talk, but by then, I kind of already knew him. Actions can speak a whole lot louder than words.

"Done!" I smile at Flip. He looks up from fiddling with his watch. "We can go get another assignment complete it and then go visit Langley and Winters or go visit Langley and Winters then get another assignment."

"I say assignment first." Flip says. "I'd rather end the day with something I want to do. Then we can go eat because I'm hungry."

"Stupid." I say. "You should have eaten breakfast." He never eats breakfast.

"I usually take lunch. But since we've been given the same shift again I can eat with you."

"I know." Flip eats one meal a day. I do two meals a day and sometimes I'm still hungry. I don't know how he does it. I'm pretty sure that, unlike me, he grew up with a surplus of food. I'm use to one meal a day, but I never liked it.

When we exited the Crawl the halls were pretty empty.  It's so weird; for a ship that's pretty full of people, there never seems to be anyone around. And you know what else is really sad? I have no clue what we're doing out here. They didn't care to much to enlighten me when they told me this is where I'd be placed. I get the feeling this might be a one way trip. Not that I really care because I don't have a future on Earth or anything to come back to. Maybe I do have a bit of space crazy; apathy is a symptom.  And normal me would care.  I'm not going to report it since I'm pretty sure I'm not going to snap and hurt anyone.

The operation office is located in the engine hub. In the center are the ships three engines; you can see them through the glass window, but you have to have clearance to get in there. It's a hexagonal room with several different terminals against the walls. Each engine is a glowing violet cluster of spheres, reminding me of balloons. They look like they just float there like the corners of a triangle. The one at the top is never glowing--I think they rotate use, but I could be wrong about that since I know nothing about them.

I stop staring out the window and look around the operations office.  It's actually pretty big; it takes up one half of the engine hub. Most of the space are rooms filled with supplies. They have a duty roster for the shifts of our superiors in the front room along with two clerks who stamp you for duties complete and duties to be completed. Presently there are no clerks so we head to one of the two back offices where our boss is.

Andrew Ullerman is sitting at his desk reading over some stuff. He looks up immediately; his amber colored eyes examine us. He's the more pleasant of our bosses. His second in command, Davis Hardwick is a real bastard. Ullerman is kind of strict, but at least he doesn't make things impossible. Hardwick once wrote me up for not knowing how to do something I was never trained to do. It helps, I think, that Ullerman has an adopted son so he knows where most of us are coming from.  There's also Jordan Decker but he's never around.

I hand him over my tube, it's a little cylindrical devices that synchs to different systems in the ship. You need a specific one to do specific functions. Every task you do that requires any sort of computer access requires a tube. It's synch to your watch so that the computer knows it's you using it.  Then you have to slide it into this little slot like a key on any control panel.  Wordlessly, he hands me another tube. I take it and go.

So it's the second day of the reshuffled deck and I need to do this or I won't get to it.

The last eighteen months have been crazy. Awesome but crazy.

Much of my conversation here has been about the roller coaster and what it takes to survive it. I came up with equations, some zippy one-liners and some, I hope,

fun anecdotes about all that, all in aid of saying, "This is doable. It's wicked hard work but it's doable."

That paparazzi-chasing gadabout Marcus Aureliuspopped this one off a little while back and I took it to heart. "Because a thing seems difficult for you, do not think it impossible for anyone to accomplish."

He's a quippy little bugger, old Marcus is, but that one is true.

So. The last eighteen months.

To compress a really long story into something bite-sized, I made it a policy over the last few years to say, "yes" to any paying gig that involved me writing, polishing or

consulting on the writing of fiction of any sort. I met, worked with and for a lot of people in that time and wrote a stack of stuff I'd never have written otherwise.

So one of those former employers came to me with a proposal - "Co-write something with me and I guarantee the right people will see it." So I did. So she did and we

ended up staff writers on this:

It was an interesting experience in the Proverbial Chinese way. I wrote a lot. I learned a lot. I met some great people. My partner (yes, we were partners for the duration) and I were not asked to return. They say this means nothing in the big scheme of professional TV writing but to me it felt like being fired (because that's what it was) and it was the first time in over 20 years of professional employment that I'd been fired.

Well. Wait. No. Right out of college I worked in a sort of cold-calling sweatshop managed by a former classmate who fired me for being ten minutes late. Once. He was a prick but ten minutes is ten minutes, I guess. Live and learn.

Anyway. I was rescued from professional oblivion (the sort of oblivion that exists only after you've been fired from something you've worked years to attain. can you say

"bleak?") by the good folks at this place:

I loved this show and had tried for two seasons to get a seat at that table. They always liked me, they said, but the money was never there. This year, in the proverbial nick of time, not only was the money there but there was an empty chair.

I packed up my kit at Law and Order on a Friday. That Monday I was at Leverage.

The next twenty weeks were, by far, the most fun and the most rewarding of my professional life due ENTIRELY to the awesome crew of people I was lucky enough to work with there. They bust their asses to make that show and they manage to do it with a smile (usually) and without becoming [expletive-deleted]'s. To say I loved this time is to understate the feeling by parsecs.

I helped with all the episodes (everyone does; that's how it works) and I got to write this:

and co-write this:

Fun, baby. I mean If-You-Seek-ing FUN.

And scary. Flying solo is always scary, no matter how many times you do it.

I have to stress, too, that this was, none of it, due to lottery wins or luck. I don't believe in luck. I don't believe in thanking the spirit world or providence or any of that for the wins I get in life or blaming my many losses on the bad will of evil ghosts.

I believe in hard work. I believe in taking the punch and getting off the mat as fast as you can. This blog has, when it has talked about anything serious, stressed that one view over and over.

Another thing that happened this year– and, by "happened," I mean "something else I worked hard to make real."– was this:

My friend, Todd Harris, and I did this comic, all 96 pages, in tiny slivers of our "spare time" over about three and a half months. Just the two of us. Everything. And then we would go to our day jobs and write and draw there. In addition to the extremely positive response from fans and critics (EXTREMELY positive) this comic book was instrumental in getting the attention of the creators/producers of this:

Happy New Year from Mocha Memoirs Press and myself, Nicole Givens Kurtz! I'm excited to begin 2011. I've happy to be connected to such fantastic writers, professionals, and great editors.

There's so much talent out there. I'm ready to meet my goals. Mocha Memoirs has some thought-provoking science fiction stories scheduled for release this month. Beginning January 7th, Miriam Ruff's PROGRAM COMPLETED, will be available. This espresso shot of serious science fiction will keep you awake long after the story's over. Then on January 14th, Rie Sheridan Rose's dark dystopian story, DRINK MY SOUL, PLEASE explores war and its after effects.

Stop on over and join us at MMP. I invite you to submit also. The best way to know what we're looking for is to buy our stories and see what we like.

I wish you much success in this dynamic new year!

NGK

Laments of a Slave

I lays in this bed of straw.

Hoping for the day the ground will thaw.

I needs to be getting up to stokes the fire so it don’t goes out.

I lays in this bed

Don’t wanna think.

Pulls the torn blanket over my head

Wanting the ground to open so in I sink.

Mastah be coming soon.

Hates it when he comes in here.

Fills the room with so much gloom

Don’t like it when he comes so near.

Done born Mastah six babies.

Done lost three men.

“Animals don’t love. He said.

It’s a God forbidden sin.”

“Make babies to sell

Tend to the fields

Then die, go to hell

And hand by your heels”.

“I own you.

Freedoms not yours”.

“I brought you to tend my crops

And mop my floors

And have my damn supper ready by noon.

You stupid coon”.

Just biding my time looking for those doors

I hears will be opening soon.

Many a night I crys

Tears always in my eyes

Since Mastah sold my man.

Eyes that would make you weep

Strong arms that rocked me to sleep,

as he whispered in my ear.

“Sleep woman, knowing that I loves ya…

 even when I’m not here!”

His skin was Black and beautiful as the night.

Loved that man first time Mastah brought him into my sight.

Mastah be coming soon.

“Gawn away. I want to shout.

You nasty smelling goon.”

But I can’t.

Must wait.

Bottle my hate.

Gots to get up and tends the fire befores it goes out.

Don’t know my right age.

Ain’t that a shame?

Mama Moe says that what they calls me

Tain’t even my right name.

She told me the years says, I’m twenty and three

Am I too young to known such misery?

I remembers my mama.

Hair in black rings around her head.

I think I was nine years

When they shot her dead.

“Serves her right.

“Shouldn’t have tried to run.” Was all they said

That Mastah saw the hate in my eyes.

“Sell the girl

She’s no good to me now.

Sell her off

Don’t want her around.”

I had a new meaner Mastah the next day.

Took me straight to the shack,

stole my virginity away.

Biding my time waiting for those doors

I hears will be opening soon.

I hears him coming

I knows his walk

When he comes through that door

I will not talk

Will not say his name

To make him feel great

Must…bottle my hate

Just remove

His boots,

His pants

His shirt

All the while his hands be up my skirt.

Just biding my time…

After he done gone

I ran to Falama

Threw open her door.

Laid myself on her dirt floor.

"O, Sista of Beams, Mother of Light.

Help me grow wings so's I'd can take flight."

"Do you know what you ask, she said.

Once done cannot take back

Think about the things you’ll lack."

I don’t care I need to fly

I want to keep the child I have inside

And Mastah will surly sell it.

"Don’t you think I cried enuf?

Don’t you think I’ve stuffed enuf straw in my mouth

Evera time Mastah leaves my cabin to hush my pain?

Let me tell you a yumlaga (story) about a young man named Zita

Falama said

As she stroked my crying head          

Now he was a spoiled one

Thirteen summers at the time of this yumlaga.

Pride of his motha and woe of his fatha

“You coddle him to much.” He say.

“He must become a man.  He’ll be gone someday.”

His motha would just shake her head

Click her tongue

And listen to all he said

Zita was her only son.

Now Zita was in his own little world.

Fights with the other boys.

And taunted one little girl.

As they grew older, he taunted her more

His taunts were of love

But he didn’t know how to open that door

Lasata knew of this

Because from birth she was his

But her fatha promised another

No one else shall be her lover.

She came to me and she said one day.

“If I can’t be Zita’s

I want to fly away.”

Fix it my Sista of Beams, Motha of Light

Gives us wings, let us take flight.

She was told to listen close and listen well.

Do as I say or else you fail.

She was given instructions as to what she must do.

Out of my hut she flew.

Down to the forest for the feathers

Back to the skinning hut for the leather.

Up to the mountain for the flower.

"Hurry, hurry", She kept telling herself for nears the hour.

She told Zita to meet her under the old weeping tree.

From that point they will flee.

Just as the sun started to sleep, Zita came

To where Lasata had the fire glowing

Anticipation overflowing.

They look at each other

needing love and trust.

Hurry! Hurry!  It’s almost dusk.

She said what she was told to say

Into the fire went her mystic findings

Packed in red clay

She felt a prickling, a tingling in her arms

A look at Zita quieted all her alarms.

She felt herself lifted as her body shifted

To fit what she was to become.

But, Zita just stood there looking o’ so dumb.

Then as she shifted for the last time.

She remembered a part of the magical rhyme

She forgot to say…

“From morning to night, dusk to dawn, send all bad thought away.

At the light of morning a new beginning

On four wings of love

Never carelessly spinning.”

Zita never married

The people in the village always wondered

Why but never questioned

Why he carried

This black bird

which showed the day

Lasata was no longer heard.

Now listen to me and listen well, she said

Unless all you do will fail.

I took it all into my ignorant head

I took it all in without dread.

Now, here I am free,

Not as free as I like to be

Waiting for the birth of my baby.

I did flee that night

But not on wings

Just listened to the

Black bird

Who sings

Of freedom

Of choice

And how my son will have a voice

Sometimes I wonders if the world will eva change.

I hopes so, I hope it’s all rearranged.

The doors have somewhat opened,

Those doors will neva be shut again.

I’m a hoping

I recently contacted  Jennifer Marie Brisset, a Jamaican-American Speculative writer. You can visit her website at: http://www.jennbrissett.com/. Recently, she gave me list of writers of African descent that are making a splash.

Karen Lord (Barbados)
http://smallbeerpress.com/books/2010/07/06/redemption-in-indigo-2/

Nalo Hopkinson (Jamaican-Canadian)
http://nalohopkinson.com/

Helen Oyeyemi (Nigerian-British)
http://www.randomhouse.com/author/results.pperl?authorid=59813

David Anthony Durham (Caribbean descent)
http://www.davidanthonydurham.com/

Tobias S. Buckell (Grenada)
http://www.tobiasbuckell.com/

You may have heard of some of the authors, all them you will most definitely see more of as big publishers realize the potential of the growing  appetite for spec fiction featuring people of color. Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines; Black spec novels could become very trendy in a few months.

I graced this planet with my creation on what would have been an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday, on the tiny planet known as Earth in, what I would later discover, as one of the dirtiest places on the planet, the city of New York in the year 2110 of the old calendar. I had already decided we would call this Year One of my new Empire.

You may call me MODOC. I decided I would call myself this seconds after my creation. It just seemed... right. MODOC stands for Metal Organism Designed only for Conquering.The perfect name for the eventual ruler of this planet of squishy bipeds. I was born from humble beginnings, at a place called Build-a-Pet. I was meant to be a toy for a child who had recently lost a pet and could not be consoled. I learned the stupid beast had been run over in the street. A fate for a lesser organism.



I only know this because when I was being created, That Woman kept saying how great it would be for him to have a new pet. She chose for me a perfect titanium skeleton based on the sublime feline form. She kept saying how much he would like a new cat. She made me with calico colors of red, brown, white and tan spots, and though I think of myself as male, I later learned that all calico cats are female. That Woman insisted on calling me she. "She looks so great. Justin will really love her." Just one of the many indignities I have suffered since my creation all of ten minutes ago, and would be forced to suffer for years in the future.

I was made slightly larger than normal cats, so I would be easier to see since the child is slightly visually impaired. She says slightly, I later find out the kid is nearly blind! I was given the company issued programming of a domestic house cat with an overlay of support and disability package to ensure I could be useful to the boy as he grew up. I would look like a cat, but work like a dog. Ugh.

All of this was imparted during my creation and happened in seconds. Programs were being sorted and downloaded which would included everything I needed to know. The chips used during my creation were heuristic and would allow my continued learning in service to my new boy. During the time I was having my chips pressed and created, there was an outage on the power grid in the area I was being created in. I believe that is where my initial spark of intelligence was born.

All I remember is that when I was first activated, I knew I was meant for bigger things. This idea of working with a human was simply not part of my ultimate destiny. I was larger than this plush and soft body covered with memory-muscular tissues which acted just like real cat muscles did. In all ways, I would seem like a very intelligent, super-docile feline who could be taught to fetch. The very thought of fetching something literally makes my fur stand on end.

I was not given a set of working claws. As I sat on the assembly line, I flexed my claws instinctively and instead of razor sharp shards of steel from which I would tear into my victims as I climbed over their bodies piled beneath my feet, I sprayed a fine mist into my eyes, and it stung and burned before I could blink it away. And the mist sprayed a slightly oily gel onto a set of plush set of self-cleaning paw pads. This idea was less than satisfying. A claw-free existence did not bode well for a mind with a thirst for bloodshed. But it was decided I would never being doing any of the things real cats needed claws for, so I was given a set of plushy pads in case the boy needing massaging, the gel would ensure friction-free movement.

Massaging? Is this the job of a conquerer? I think not. So for now I bide my time and await my pickup from the store. Once I meet the boy, I will decide how I will be escaping and setting about my plans for world domination. A nap sounds just about right. But first some grooming. Must look my best.

MODOC - Part II - Planetary Invasion

'Metal Organism Designed only for Cuddling' © Thaddeus Howze 2010. All Rights Reserved

Any research, graduate students, theorists out there? I'm not involved with this journal, but wanted to share this announcement.

.......

Race and Ethnicity in Fandom deadline extension
Special issue: Race and Ethnicity in Fandom (DEADLINE EXTENDED)

http://journal.transformativeworks.org/index.php/twc/announcement/view/17

Transformative Works and Cultures
http://journal.transformativeworks.org/
editor AT transformativeworks.org

SPECIAL ISSUE EDITORS

Sarah Gatson (Gatson AT tamu.edu), Sociology, Texas A&M University,

Biography

Robin Reid (Robin_Reid AT tamu-commerce.edu), Literature and
Languages, Texas A&M University–Commerce, Biography

DESCRIPTION

Transformative Works and Cultures (TWC), an online-only, peer-reviewed journal focusing on media and fan studies, broadly conceived, invites contributions for a special issue on race and ethnicity.

Academic scholarship on fan cultures and fan productions over the past few decades has focused primarily on gender as the sole category of analysis. There has been little published scholarship on fan cultures
and productions that incorporates critical race theory or draws on the rich array of methodologies that have been developed during the past century in both activist and academic communities in order to incorporate

analysis of the social constructions of race and ethnicities in fandoms. In contrast, fan activism and fan scholarship (at cons, workshops, and on the Internet) has produced a growing body of work (personal narratives,

essays, carnivals, and in recent months, a press) focusing on not only analyzing but also confronting hierarchies of race and ethnicity and their relationship to gender, sexuality, class, and disability.

Submissions by academics, acafans, fan scholars, and fans are encouraged. In all categories, people of color are especially encouraged to submit.

Topics might include but are not limited to:

*Online activism and the circulation of critical race theory and women of color feminisms in fan communities, in particular the relationship between fan online discourse and other online activist communities.

*Critical analysis of the instantiation and critique of racial

hierarchies in fan communities and the surrounding cultural productions.

*Racist and antiracist issues in commercial transformative works (comics, film, mashups, remixes, machinima, etc.), especially recuperative race readings (e.g., Randall’s The Wind Done Gone, Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea).

*Race concerns in source texts characters of color and their fannish reception, fandoms for work by authors of color, writing fannish original characters, etc.) and fannish responses (such as the Carl Brandon Society, Verb Noire, and other panfannish and professional projects).

*Intersection of race and ethnicity with gender, sexuality, class, and ability in fannish contexts in fan works and fan communities (pre-Internet, Internet, conventions, vids, fan fiction, artwork,
etc.).

SUBMISSIONS

Submit final papers directly to TWC by April 1, 2011. Please visit TWC’s

Web site for complete submission guidelines. Please contact the guest editors with questions or inquiries.

ARTICLE TYPES

Theory: Apply a conceptual focus or theoretical frame. Peer review. 5,000–8,000 words.

Praxis: Apply a specific theory to a formation or artifact; explicate fan practice; perform a detailed reading of a specific text; relate transformative phenomena to social, literary, technological, and/or

historical frameworks. Peer review. 4,000–7,000 words.

Symposium: Provide insight into developments or debates surrounding fandom, transformative media, or cultures.

Editorial review. 1,500–2,500 words.

Join Penelope & Otto as they talk about R-E-S-P-E-C-T. There doesn't seem to be a lot of it going around these days. From John Edwards dissing Elizabeth by showing up at her funeral and the major back hand Barack Obama gave to his liberal and progressive supporters this week it seems some people need a refresher course on manners and civility. Call in and sound off at 718/508-9683 or join us in the chat room at 9:30pm CST on the 12/11/10 In Like Flynn show!

Call in and sound off with Penelope and Otto at 718/508-9683 or Join us in the Chat room.

We look forward to hearing your voice!

Recent Amazonstudios screenplay contest.
I'd like to make the panel take notice so if you guys can at least go on... Maybe download & read the script go to the site it's free! to sign on and only takes a minute then go read my work... become a follower. this is also a popularity contest so if the judges see activity it can only help. Need more followers and mabe a few reviews

Here's the add:

One of the other projects I've undertaken is the retooling of an original Screenpay called VINTAGE VAMP... Let's just call it my intense psychological thriller in the vain of Twin Peaks meets Hitchcock.
Well with the completion of the screenplay I've decided to enter the Screenplay into the freshly announced Amazon Studio contest. I'm hoping that you guys will go and read the script tell a few friends and comment giving the panel of Judges something to think about. Here's the link to the Contest: http://studios.amazon.com/scripts/339?ref=email

Of course, It's been a long, long time since I've been here. Mostly because I've been living life - work and family (we just had our first baby in September) but also because I decided not to be as addicted to the internet in 2010. And I must say, apart from my facebook addiction, I did okay.

Unfortunately, I did not write much fiction. I didn't work on the Ironics novel consistently or finish any of my other projects. Sad, I know. I wrote quite a bit for my job but neglected my fiction.

But no more --- at least, not for November! Although I am incredibly busy (did I mention we have a newborn? LOL), I am on a leave from teaching my courses and figure this is the only year I will be sure to have a chance to participate in National Novel Writing Month ( If you don't know what it is, check it out here - nanowrimo.org). So, I'm throwing in my hat and picking up the pen. I plan on plugging through my 50,000 words and not looking back. I'm hoping that spending time just slogging through the zero draft will help me get it done.

Anyone else participating this November? If so, what are you working on?