Cardassian Interrogations

The premise of my Star Trek novel is that a Human from our time, who doesn't believe in extra-terrestrials, is transported to a 24th-Century Cardassian space station. Of course the Cardassians have to interrogate her; the story would be totally unbelievable if they didn't. And since Cardassian interrogations have already been written about, I already had a general pattern to follow in writing this one.

I took as my model Captain Picard's interrogation by a Cardassian named Madred, in TNG's "Chain of Command, Part II" (6x11). Here's a transcript of the relevant scene, courtesy of Chakoteya.net:

[Interrogation room]

(Picard is brought in blindfolded)

MADRED: Captain Picard.

PICARD: I demand to see a neutral representative as required by the Federation-Cardassian peace treaty.

(Madred removes the blindfold and the guards leave)

MADRED: We have already sent a message to Tohvun Three, the nearest neutral planet. They assure us they will dispatch someone immediately. Will you allow me to remove your restraints? 

(Picard holds up his hands.) 

I understand that you are a student of archaeology. Did you know that Cardassia boasts some of the most ancient and splendid ruins in the entire galaxy?

PICARD: I know that the burial vaults of the First Hebitian civilisation are said to be magnificent.

MADRED: Apparently when they were first unearthed two hundred years ago, they were. The burial vaults contained unimaginably beautiful artefacts made of jevonite, a rare, breathtaking stone. But most of those objects are gone.

PICARD: What happened to them?

MADRED: What happens to impoverished societies. The tombs were plundered, priceless treasures stolen, a few were preserved in museums but even those were eventually sold in order to pay for our war efforts.

PICARD: That war cost you hundreds of thousands of lives. It depleted your food supplies, left your population weakened and miserable and yet you risk another war.

MADRED: Let's not waste time arguing about issues we can't resolve. Would you care to tour the Hebitian burial vaults?

PICARD: What I would like is to be returned to my ship.

MADRED: My dear Captain, you are a criminal. You have been apprehended invading one of our secret facilities. The least that will happen is for you to stand trial and be punished. But I am offering you the opportunity for that experience to be civilised.

PICARD: What is the price of that opportunity?

MADRED: Cooperation. We need to know the Federation's defence strategy for Minos Korva.

PICARD: You've injected me with drugs. Surely you must realise that I've already answered truthfully every question you've put to me.

MADRED: Captain, we have gone to great lengths to lure you here because we know that in the event of an invasion, the Enterprise will be the command ship for the sector encompassing Minos Korva.

PICARD: Then it seems you have more knowledge of the situation than I.

(two guards come in and take hold of Picard. He struggles.)

MADRED: Wasted energy, Captain. You might come to wish you hadn't expended it in such a futile effort.

PICARD: Torture is expressly forbidden by the terms of the Seldonis Four convention governing treatment of prisoners of war.

(a metal piece is lowered from the ceiling, and Madred takes a knife from his desk)

MADRED: Are you in good health? Do you have any physical ailments I should know about? (the knife) Beautiful, isn't it? The stone is jevonite. And now you know why it is so highly prized. From this point on, you will enjoy no privilege of rank, no privileges of person. From now on, I will refer to you only as human. You have no other identity.

(Madred cuts Picard's clothes off and leaves them around his ankles. Naked, his hands are manacled and attacked to the metal piece above his head. Then the piece is raised so Picard is hanging just above the floor....)

And here's part of the interrogation in my novel:

Tahmid signaled the guards again, and the one on my right said quietly, "Hold still." The left guard held both my arms, above the elbows, and the right one reached up and took a hold of the neck of the top I was wearing. It took me a few seconds to realize that he had a knife, and was cutting it off me. Soon after, it fell to the floor, and for the second time that day I wished I had chosen a thicker, more modest bra. But I didn't have much time to dwell on that, because as soon as he was done with the top, the guard started cutting my slacks. He must have had a very sharp knife and a lot of practice, because all it took was two quick, neat cuts down the sides and the slacks had joined the top on the floor. I was left standing in my shoes and panties and bra and the strange handcuffs that held my wrists about shoulder-width apart.

Tahmid gestured to the guards again, and asked me, "Is Derek Dellinger a member of Starfleet?"

"As far as I know he's not," I answered, "but I'm not even sure if that's his real name."

"Is Derek Dellinger human?"

A flag went up in my mind. I'd heard of this technique but never seen it in practice. The idea was that they ask you several questions in quick succession, all of which are easy and innocent and take yes answers. Then in the same tone of voice they ask you to confess to a crime, hoping you'll answer yes without thinking and incriminate yourself. I took my time and repeated the question in my head before answering. "Yes."

"What's the last thing you remember before Terra Knorr?"

That wasn't a yes or no question, so he must have picked up on my hesitation, realized I was onto his game. That gave me a fleeting sense of victory, until I realized that he had just read me. Interrogators, of course, are supposed to be very perceptive, but I had been subconsciously hoping this one wasn't. I made a mental note to try not to lie. "I'd just gotten out of a cab in Chicago," I answered.

"What kind of cab?"

"A licensed yellow Crown Vic."

"Explain the term 'Crown Vic'," he said, seeming relaxed again. "I'm afraid there are many details of your culture I'm still not familiar with."

"You're not - " I began, then cut myself off. "I'm sorry," I said, "Crown Vic stands for Crown Victoria. It's a Ford model, and it's used, a lot of times, for police cruisers and taxis."

"A vehicle, then?"

"Yes."

"What were you going to say?" he asked. "I'm not what?"

"Oh," I answered, "I was just surprised to hear that you're not American. Your English is so good, I thought you were."

He laughed, a dry, cold laugh, and said, "Oh, you thought I was American. And now what makes you think that I may not be?"

"When you said," I paused, trying to recall his exact words, and gave up. "Something about not being familiar with my culture."

"How perceptive of you," he sneered. "I am not American." He signaled to the guards again, and almost immediately a strong hand smashed into my face. "In the future you will refrain from sarcasm in this room," Glin Tahmid ordered.

"Yes, Glin," I answered breathlessly, hoping to prevent any further blows. I wondered what I'd said that he'd taken as sarcasm, and decided to leave the subject of nationality alone as much as possible. Warm liquid trickled from my right nostril to my lip. It was blood.

Tahmid leaned back in his chair and looked up at me. “What’s your birthdate?” he asked cheerfully.

“September 13, 1985.” On a Friday. I’d never been superstitious about it, but now I was beginning to wonder.

“Explain,” he said.

Explain what? I wondered, but didn’t dare ask. “I was born on September 13, 1985,” I answered.

"Is that a date?"

Back to the obvious questions, again, or else he was just badgering me. “Yes.”

“By what calendar?”

“I think it’s called the Julian calendar,” I answered, getting sick of these obscure historical questions, “or possibly Gregorian? I’m sorry; I don’t know much about calendars.”

Tahmid had something on his desk that looked like a game controller, and he touched a button on it. A rod began to come down from the ceiling. It was nearly directly above me and pointing straight down like the rod the fan had been on in the restaurant. But there was no fan on this one. I tried to back up a step, in case it came down too low, but the guards held my arms. It kept coming, six inches in front of my face, and finally stopped when it was about at the level of my chin.

As soon as it stopped the guards grabbed my forearms and raised them, fitting the end of the rod into a small hole in the middle of the handcuffs. They locked together with a metallic click. Then the one on my left pulled my shoes and socks off and the one on my right made five quick cuts with his knife, and I was naked.

“I hope we’ve been able to come to an understanding,” he said in a friendly tone. “Think back to the last thing you remember before Terra Knorr. You got out of the cab, and then what?”

Status Update

Here's what I've been up to lately:

Resist the Devil: With the help of some very talented relatives (yeah, I'm that lucky) I sent the novel through another proofread and updated the cover, then expanded its distribution to all the ereader stores (Nook, iBooks, etc.) and made it available in print as well.

Editing: I continue editing nonfiction articles, mostly web content, but I'm also proofreading a novel. I think that must be the ultimate literary nerd test: I love proofreading novels! I think it's because I tend to proofread when I read, anyway, and the mistakes irritate me if I can't do anything about them.

The Claw and the Eye: After the recent work on Resist, I decided my book of short stories could use the spa treatment, too. At this point it's a matter of looking it over and deciding what needs to be done.

An Analysis of the Cardassian Language: I'm still writing the second draft, slowly. I love this book - love the characters, love the feel of the story, love to write it. And I think, in some illogical way, that makes me feel like I have to get everything else done first, before I can work on it. No dessert until your plate is clean. So I've been naughty and not been writing consistently.

Rokassa Juice

One of the most fascinating (and time-consuming) parts of writing a Star Trek book is including lots of details that tie it together with the shows, movies and books that are already out there. I recently watched the DS9 episode "Cardassians" (2x05), in which the character Garak enjoyed a smelly beverage called rokassa juice, saying it calmed his nerves. As soon as he said that, I knew rokassa juice had to be in the novel.

Thanks to Paramount

One of the main characters in Cardassian Language is a military commander in wartime: a tough, proud leader in an already arrogant, macho culture. It would be all too easy to paint him as an irredeemable villain with no weaknesses, no doubts, no humanity. Of course, if I did that, he wouldn't feel real and I wouldn't be much of a writer, but I can't have him collapsing in a POW's arms and sobbing, either. That's where rokassa juice comes in.

In its introductory scene, it's not the rokassa juice that tells the reader he's having a bad day: we get a rare opportunity to use a battle injury to hint at his vulnerabilities. But the rokassa juice will, if I do my job right, establish itself over time as a clue or symbol, and be very useful in scenes where there are no convenient bodily signs.

Here's the passage, from Chapter 18, condensed it a bit for this post. We're on a Cardassian warship, and a human prisoner has been summoned for a chat with the Gul, or Captain:

The Gul put one hand on his chair and the other on the desk and pushed himself up on his arms. Slowly, he transferred his weight to his legs and turned stiffly to the replicator. "Coffee, cream and sugar," he ordered, and "coffee, black."

"You're hurt," I said.

He put the cups on his desk and lowered himself slowly back into his chair. "A present from Starfleet," he quipped, "a small token of friendship."

"What's it all about, anyway, this war?" I stood, picked up my cup in its holder and sat down again.

"There was a time when I would have answered, 'Expansionist aggression,' but now I'm afraid it's become little more than a political game."

"Dangerous game," I observed. "I wonder if there's anything I can do."

"I doubt there's anything you could do without revealing your presence here."

"Wouldn't it be worth it to let the secret out, though? I mean, if it stops the war..."

"If it could stop the war, perhaps revealing your presence would be worth the consequences, yes. But it's much more likely to prolong the war instead."

"I see. You haven't touched your coffee."

He picked up his coffee, took a small sip and put it back down.

"Is your leg going to be okay?" I asked.

"Yes, thank you, it's just a temporary inconvenience. But I understand your injury is not from the battle."

I stared into my coffee. "No, not exactly."

"And I hear your Bajoran assailants managed to teach you quite a bit of their language in just a few minutes."

"Only simple words," I replied. "And really, Iba only kicked me to keep me from hitting my head."

"I believe your head would never have been in danger if you had not disobeyed my Riyak."

I gripped my cup-frame tightly with both hands in an effort to prevent them from flying up to my face. "True," I admitted.

"I'm more interested in your accelerated lesson in Bajoran," he said.

I sat back, tried to relax against the back of the chair and looked him in the eyes. "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know how you learned so fast. This was your first encounter with the language, I presume?"

"Yes, it was. I'm a linguist. I guess that's why," I shrugged. "I don't know."

"Then you spent the rest of the day learning Cardassian. How did that go?"

"It went pretty well. We cleared the hallways. I tried to learn some Cardassian, but I'm afraid I must have said something offensive. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to say what I thought I heard them saying."

"And that was...?"

"I thought it was 'o-shah.'"

Gillek allowed himself an amused smile. "You were correct; they were saying 'o-shah.'" He paused for a moment, staring at the ceiling, then looked back to me. "The common tongue, what you call the Cardassian language, is in many ways an accurate reflection and expression of Cardassian social structure."

"Naturally."

"I'll simplify it for you: you should always address Cardassians as 'shada,' never as 'o-shah.'"

"Okay," I replied. "I'll try to remember that. Will I be working with them again today?"

"No. You'll begin your new assignment in a few days."

"I'd like to learn more about the Universal Translator, if I could."

"I'll consider it."

"Thank you." It had only been a comment; I hadn't thought I'd need his permission to study a translation program. "Earlier you said something about turning the heat down in my room. That would be fine with me, actually. To be honest, it's a little too warm for my taste, and I know you're worried about expenses."

"I don't remember mentioning that," said Gillek, "but you're welcome to adjust the environmental controls in your quarters to suit your comfort."

"I am? Thanks. But how do I do that? I didn't see a thermostat."

"The same way you control the lights: by voice command. Might you be referring to my remark that not all the rooms in this ship are warm?"

"Yes," I said, "that was it."

"The rooms in question are specialized storage bays, but I've found they also function effectively as quarters for uncooperative prisoners. I'm afraid they are in fact cold, rather than comfortably cool as you imagine. There is one standing empty at the moment that is..." He grabbed a tablet from his desk and typed. "...52 degrees by your 21st century North American scale. Oxygen saturation is limited, to slow oxidization of stored materials; it's breathable but very thin. There are no shower or toilet facilities."

"And you would actually put me in there if I refused to work?"

"Of course. I enjoy our little meetings, Vaine, but there's no more time for this one. I'll send for you again another day."

"Yes, Gul." In spite of my efforts, it came out in a growl. I stood up and hobbled to the door, and found Dolim Shal waiting.

"Rokassa juice," I heard the Gul say as the door swished shut behind me.

Keeping Up with the Cardassians

My WIP Star Trek novel has its own site now: http://CardassianLanguage.blogspot.com. I just moved it over today.

It was getting too big for this site. Blogger restricts how many pages I can have, so Cardassian Language had to be a big girl and get her own place. And she's not even fully formed yet.

I'll continue adding chapters as I write them, of course. Feel free to join the site and/or add your comments: I love to hear from you.

Growing Pains

I found out today that Blogger will not let me have more than 20 pages on this site, not including the blog entries. I'm a little disappointed, but I guess I'll forgive them because it's free. And anyway, if I'm going to complain, it will be about formatting issues first.

So An Analysis of the Cardassian Language is going to have to move to a new site, and chapters will have to share their pages with siblings. Yup, that means my second novel is going to be longer than my first. Hey, even Resist the Devil is longer than Of Mice and Men, so I figure I'm off the hook.

Status Report on My Books

Many of you have asked how my current book is coming along, so I thought I'd give a quick report on all of them:

An Analysis of the Cardassian Language is in its second draft, and I've been posting the chapters as I complete them. However, I don't write sequentially and I don't want to give you the chapters out of order. I got the first 17 done and posted, then started at the end, and am working backwards. I plan on writing the whole 'back' third of the book before Chapter 18. But maybe I'll need a break soon and get 18 done a little earlier than planned. We'll see.

Neither The Claw and the Eye nor Resist the Devil got a chance to get any decent editing, etc. I'm growing more connections now, and I hope to at least make them somewhat better, soon. I'll feel a lot better about promoting them when I feel more confident that they are well-presented.

Speaking of Inspiration

Yesterday, Luke Bellmason told us about the inspiration for his Canterbury Tales, and of course it made me think about how I get inspiration.

First, I have to admit that I'm extremely lucky: I never seem to have trouble coming up with story ideas; I just have a problem containing the flood of them. A lot of them are lost, unfortunately, because I don't get them written down before so many more come that I can't recall them. Of the rest, a few rise to the category of 'Must-Write.'

The idea for An Analysis of the Cardassian Language began when I was watching Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and kept imagining what would happen if I were there. The show is set on a space station originally built by hostile aliens, and my imagination wandered to the time when the aliens had been in charge. How would they react to my presence? Of course it was an entirely unworkable idea because I couldn't come up with any excuse for a 21st-Century human to be on a Cardassian space station in the 24 Century. But the idea kept pestering me, so I made some other stories from it, including "The Mammal Cage," figuring I'd get it out of my system. I didn't.

Finally, more than a year later, I thought of the rest of the plot elements that would make the story work. I don't remember what triggered them, but the more I thought about it, the more everything fit together.

Science Fiction Story: Literacy

From Chapter Ten of An Analysis of the Cardassian Language:

Thanks to Paramount.

Dolim Shal opened a small compartment near the bed and took out an off-brand iPad.

"Thanks," I said. "How do you turn it on?"

His fingers flew over the geometric decorations. "I've turned it on to record," he answered. "You may begin when ready."

"Wait a minute, " I said. "How do I..." I trailed off and stared at the screen. A lot of odd little shapes had appeared where there had been nothing before. "Well, that's odd," I remarked, and more shapes appeared as I spoke.

"What's wrong?" Dolim asked, moving to see the screen.

"What are those things?" I asked. "Every time I talk, there are more of them." It must have been some kind of game. The tiny shapes were lined up in rows, and the rows spread out in various directions like a street map.

Photo: memory-alpha.org

"That's..." he began, then stopped and looked at my face. "You don't read Cardassian, do you?"

"You have your own language?" I asked, fascinated.

He smiled. "Yes, of course. I'll change the language for you."

"Thanks," I said, handing him the iPad. "What I really want to do is send an email. I understand I'll have to get it approved first. I just don't want my kids to worry. I've been gone three days and they must be scared to death by now."

"Children are often more resilient than we think," Dolim said, touching the decorations on the iPad faster than my eyes could follow. "What is an email?"

I couldn't believe he didn't know what an email was. But then, until very recently I hadn't known what a replicator was. "I just meant, I want to send a message to my children, to reassure them," I replied.

"I'll pass along your request," he shrugged, "but I doubt it will be granted." He handed me back the device.

"Thanks," I said. "Could I just write a letter to my kids now and save it, in case at some point I get permission to send it?" I noticed the little street map full of shapes was gone now, replaced by text in a language I couldn't immediately identify.

"Certainly," said Dolim Shal. "And if, as I predict, your request is denied, you may continue recording letters to them. Perhaps one day, this war will end and your letters can be sent."

I wasn't sure what he meant by "this war," but I had more important questions. "Does this thing have Word on it, or Pages?" I asked.

"Its a recording device," he answered. "It will have all the words you record on it. But it's not a codex; it has no pages."

Writing: When It's Right to Do It Wrong

Ever since I can remember, I've had a knack for creating characters. (Actually, I think most three-year-olds do, and I was just lucky enough not to lose it.) By the time I was about nine I could write dialogue pretty well, and for the next ten years or so, I worked on the more difficult skills of description and narrative.

Photo: nsf.gov

So that was all I needed, I thought. I'd just throw together some characters that didn't fit together (so they'd create enough conflict to produce a plot) and see where they took me. I'd write it all down, and the result would be a novel called The Birch Tree's Daughter.

It failed, of course, but I still think the premise was good. Maybe someday I'll write it again, only differently.

My failure to have any plot in mind - or to even understand the difference between a plot and a premise - was not the only reason it failed. I had read every piece of writing advice I could get my hands on, and almost every one had steered me wrong.

It wasn't really the fault of the people giving the advice - at least, not entirely. They made the mistake of assuming all inexperienced writers are alike, and I made the mistake of assuming their advice was meant for everyone, at all times and in all situations.

The advice was to write less - not to spend less time writing, or to write fewer books or anything like that, but to condense my writing. The message should be given to the reader in as few words as possible, they said. Any passages that don't propel your characters directly toward the end of the book should be cut out. Avoid all unnecessary scenes or descriptions.

The Birch Tree's Daughter turned out to be about 15,000 words, if I remember right, and contained none of the feeling I had tried to convey. Feeling, after all, would have required more words, would have required scenes and descriptions that didn't drive everybody directly to the end of the book, and that, the experts told me, was both unprofessional and unpublishable.

Photo: ehow.com

Of course, it was very good advice for the majority of writers. I know now that bloated ramblings are the norm, and most writers have to work very hard to contain the flood of words and produce a polished, concise manuscript. I just happen to have the opposite problem. If I didn't make the effort to 'write more,' this post would probably look something like this:

"I can write novels now because I learned from some bad writing advice in the past, and because I always plot out my books and don't write them sequentially."

Interesting, huh?

Those are the other things The Birch Tree's Daughter taught me: I need to have an outline, and I need to write the ending early. A novel, in my opinion, should end with fireworks, and Birch Tree ended when it finally ran out of the conflict that had brought it to life. I suppose the birch tree and its daughter lived happily ever after, but the story would have been a whole lot more interesting if you could have read it backwards.

Photo: artistsezine.com

And now I'm in the second draft of An Analysis of the Cardassian Language. The beginning is done, the final chapter is done, and I'm working on the homestretch. When that's done, I'll write the middle.

Next Sunday, I'll talk about preventing burnout as a writer. Yup, it's another rule I happily break.

Short Story: Miss Communication

Another snippet of my novel An Analysis of the Cardassian Language. This one's from Chapter One:

'Note to self,' I thought, feeling myself blush, 'Don't wear a knit bra and a knit top together around cute, intelligent guys.' But I'd brought a sweater, so I put it on.

Photo: sheknows.com

"What's this vision you keep hinting at," I said, recovering my dignity, "about linguistics as a tool for social change?" I asked not only to change the subject, but because I was burning to know. I myself wanted to find the universal language patterns that would allow me, in partnership with a good computer programmer, to create software that could translate just about any language into just about any other language. The possibilities were staggering. This software, loaded on either a regular computer or a small, tough device built for the purpose, could empower indigenous businesspeople all over the world. It could let ordinary individuals build relationships across cultural boundaries, lessening international tensions on the grassroots level. It could reduce war, oppression and poverty by building bridges and eroding misunderstanding, fear and hate. But I wanted to hear what Derek had in mind. I knew it was going to be good.

His smile showed his dimples. I was beginning to suspect that when the dimples didn't appear, he was just being polite. I smiled, too, because I had a feeling I was going to have plenty of time to test that hypothesis.

"It's simple," he answered. "Purity of language. I'm applying for a grant for it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it starts with a study to find the pure form of the language. I'm hoping to begin with German first."

"Naturally. You must be fluent."

"I am, but that's not why. German is a whole lot less corrupted than English or even Spanish. It's a good place to start. The world isn't ready for the purification of English yet."

I still had no idea what he was talking about. "So you find out the pure form a language, and then what do you do after that?"

He shrugged. "It's a long shot, I know, especially with the way things are trending lately, but the hope is that people, governments, will embrace the pure form of the language and reject the corrupted versions."

I wasn't sure I liked where this was going. "For what purpose? What would that do?"

"Our cultures have been weakened," he explained. "It's insidious. I'm not sure if you've ever looked into it, but you may be surprised how many words from inferior cultures have gotten in there, even in German."

We managed to part on friendly terms, mostly because for the rest of the meal I pasted a smile on my face and just listened and made small talk. It wouldn't do to stalk away in a self-righteous huff: it was kindness that would reach this man, if anything could.

Finally it was over. We confirmed that we had each other's numbers, and I took a taxi back to my cousin's.

I paid the driver and got out, and then realized I'd had him stop in front of the wrong building. Should have just given him the address and let him do his job. Fortunately, he didn't hang around to watch me walk. After two buildings I got out my copy of Connie's door key and turned to go up the front steps.

Photo: hookedonhouses.net

And that was the last I saw of Chicago.

The Cardassian Language #2

Having a main character who's a linguist is turning out to be lots of fun, especially when she's surrounded by Cardassians and the communications grid goes down.

Thanks to Paramount

I'd like to express my gratitude to Nerys Ghemor, author of Sigils and Unions, for providing a huge body of material to draw from. Everything I've seen is very professionally done and based on a sound knowledge of linguistics. I confess that it bothers me, maybe a little bit too much, when a (supposedly) alien language turns out to be little more than English in a fancy new font, and I'm glad to say that's nothing like what I've found here.

One of the interesting things about the common tongue, as the Cardassians call it, is how it reflects their culture's sense of hierarchy. There are multiple versions of the language, with different pronouns and grammatical forms for each, and which one to use depends on your relationship to the person you're addressing. It's a little like the Spanish tu and usted on hyperdrive.

Science Fiction Story: Building Towers

From Chapter Five of An Analysis of the Cardassian Language:


I carried the chair to the bed, moved the pillows and set it near the wall. Then, very carefully, I climbed onto it, then gingerly stood up, taking my time and using the wall for support.

Photo: beinghealthy.tv

The moment I was fully upright, a jolt of electricity shot through me. I fell off the chair, missed the bed entirely and hit the floor with my side, knocking the wind from my lungs.

In that long, desperate moment before the air came painfully back, I heard Gul Dukat's voice say calmly, "I'm disappointed in you, Teryn."

I raised myself to my hands and knees and coughed and struggled to breathe. When I could speak, I said, "Gul? Can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you," came the answer. "I didn't know you enjoyed building towers so much. Are you an architect?"

"No," I answered, and coughed.

"No," he repeated, "but you have deceived me."

I wondered how I should respond to that. I wondered how I could have been so dumb as not to realize they would have bugged the room. I wondered where the cameras and microphones where hidden, and whether the Gul could see me now as well as hear me. I wondered if any of my bones were broken.

"Did you hear me, Teryn?" Gul Dukat persisted. "You've deceived me."

I wondered who Teryn was, and why he'd confused our names. "Yes," I answered. "I'm trying to figure out what you're referring to."

"You seemed happy enough to share my bed last night. I thought we had something good going. And now I find you trying to escape."

"It won't happen again," I promised, and meant it. I wouldn't be touching the top of the wall again, at any rate.

My breathing was becoming more regular now, and I got off my hands and knees and sat on the floor. Moving hurt: I was badly bruised, at best. I felt very grateful that I hadn't landed on my head.

"Gul?" I asked.

"Go ahead."

"I think I need a doctor."

"Why? Are you dying?"

"No, but I think I could have cracked a rib."

"A souvenir, then. A reminder to improve your behavior in the future. Is there anything else, besides your medical status?"

Thanks to Paramount

I couldn't believe he wouldn't let me see a doctor. "Yes," I replied numbly. "Are there any other places I should be aware of, that are off-limits, besides the top of the wall?"

"The top of the wall isn't off limits," he answered. "Insulting me is off limits."

"Of course," I answered, confused now. "Did I insult you, Gul?"

"I would consider attempting to run away from me insulting. Wouldn't you?"

Status Update

Years ago when blogging was new and I first heard of it, I imagined that a 'web log' was the online equivalent of those fascinating logs kept by the travelers on the American frontier. In case you haven't had the pleasure, here's an entry from James and Nancy Coon's log of their 1847 Oregon Trail journey:

Photo: jacksonholejournal.net

Mon Jun 14th

Buried Turner's son, three years old. Left south fork of the Platt at 12 o'clock. Camped on the prairie eight miles from the river. Here we used buffalo chips for fire for the first time.

Cold. Seventeen miles.

Daily reports of exciting adventures sounded like a wonderful thing to read, and was it true that I could actually just go on the internet and read them for free, once I'd learned the secret of which characters to type into that little space at the top of the screen?

The first several times I actually saw a blog, I didn't know what I was looking at. I thought I had been directed to a blog, but what I found didn't look like a daily log of anything, much less of an exciting adventure. I figured I just didn't know what I was doing, and hoped I would learn eventually.

Then one day I stumbled across an article about art blogs in Spanish and finally got the point of what a blog was. Now I have my own blog, and guess what? I make daily entries. I guess that's the only thing I have in common with James and Nancy Coon. I don't even mention the weather, usually, or how far I've traveled. But if you're curious, Cold rane. Zero miles.

I'm guessing the Coons didn't do guest posts, either. I did a guest post on South Wales Shorts about someone dying of exposure in a desert. Thanks to Damian (@shortstoryblog on Twitter) for having me. The Third Sunday Blog Carnival (@thirdsundaybc) ran my story "Euthanasia" in December, and has accepted another story for their February 17 issue. This one's about genetically engineered humans.

I have some more stories I'd like to post here, especially "The Suitcase Man" which inspired Bronwyn Cair (@bronwyncair) to come up with the plot for next year's NaNoWriMo project Sixteen Thousand Nights. Unfortunately, my hard drive crashed, the backup is on CD's, I can't seem to find my external optical drive, and both computers with integrated optical drives are broken. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with fiction; real life is strange enough.

I'm editing Resist the Devil again in preparation for a relaunch in April.

I guess I'm about a quarter of the way through the second draft of my novel An Analysis of the Cardassian Language, and really enjoying it. I've posted what I've done so far; see the links above. I may finish this draft around August. Then I'll need to do a third draft to refine the details of Cardassian architecture, mannerisms, social life, etc. After that will come copyediting and proofreading. This book is not a quick one to write by any means because it requires intensive research (but I love doing research). More on that tomorrow.

Photo: northlandchurch.net

Sixteen Thousand Nights is still a twinkle in its mothers' eyes. It won't officially get started until November, but we've already got a basic outline for it. Sometimes it's wonderful to have the luxury to let ideas mull, to let our subconscious minds get a whack at them, and that's what we're lucky to have with Sixteen.  It's going to be a suspense novel about waking up on the wrong side of the American criminal justice system.

The Suckers Guild for indie writers is building up steam. We still have a few more preparations to do before we can start accepting members. Thanks to M Joseph Murphy (@windswarlock) for all your hard work on this, and for being so easy to work with. Every group needs a difficult member, though, and since you don't seem to be any good at that, I'm going to try hard to be as difficult as possible. Sorry if I've been slacking in that department.

Short Story: Creaking

Another short story taken from my current novel-in-progress:

Photo: dw.de

The problem with having the time to keep a journal is that it gives you time to think. Up until the guard left me in my new quarters, I'd been reacting, doing whatever I needed to in the moment. Now I'm alone, locked in what amounts to a very comfortable prison cell.

When I finished the letter to my kids, I got up and checked the door, and it was locked, of course. So I sat back down and started writing this journal, supposing, for some reason, that someone would come along and interrupt me before I'd managed to get very far. I've caught up now, all the way to the present, and I'm still alone. It's so quiet here it's creepy. There's a constant, very quiet thrumming that's probably the fan motors for the ventilation system, and an occasional creaking sound. I suppose that's the hull rubbing against the dock bumpers when the wind blows.

I have everything I need: toilet, shower, food, shelter. I have too much shelter. Still need to find a way to break out of here.

Which leads me to two questions: Where is here, and what do they want with me? For that matter, who are they? No matter what explanation I come up with for the bizarre people and events I've encountered over the past three days, every single one of them sounds crazy. Some of my friends would say I've been abducted by aliens, and that one makes me laugh. I do believe that sometimes that may happen to people, but it's not what happened to me. Alien abductions always happen when you're sleeping, and I was awake and walking around. And there's the matter of the missing aliens, too. These people are certainly odd-looking, but they're clearly human.

Photo: blogington.com

The nearest I can figure is that they're the result of some kind of genetic experiment. They're being held in some sort of secret facility, maybe in White Sands, New Mexico. The government convinces them all that they're soldiers, so they stay busy heroically serving an entire imaginary civilization of their own kind. And if this is true, I don't want to burst their bubble. They need something to live for, after all.

That would answer a few questions (why they act so strange, why I'm not allowed to go home) but still leave a bunch of questions unanswered (where I am, how I got here and why, how I can get out). If this is a secret building in New Mexico and not a ship in some body of water, then I wonder what that creaking sound is. I'd say it doesn't matter, except it may be a clue that can help me escape.

Why I'm Writing a Star Trek Book

Last October I was having a little trouble deciding which book to write for NaNoWriMo. I'd narrowed the options down to two:

Photo: ehow.com

16,ooo Nights. Suspense. When Gretchen locks her keys in her car and can't afford a locksmith, a stranger offers her $5,000 to deliver a locked suitcase.

An Analysis of the Cardassian Language. Science fiction. Faine is drugged, kidnapped and left on an enemy military base.

Cardassian Language was the one in my head clawing to get out, and I wondered if I was even going to be able to write Nights before I'd gotten Cardassian Language out of my system. But could I seriously entertain the thought of writing Cardassian Language? I had trouble imagining that I could actually look people in the eye and say, "I'm writing a Star Trek novel." I may as well go around saying, "Hello, I'm writing unpublishable junk."

I asked my writing buddy Bronwyn Cair which one she would pick. "Definitely the Cardassian one," she said. "It will help us build connections for pitching our Star Trek screenplay to Paramount."

"But it's fanfiction," I objected.

"So?"

Photo: startrek.com

"So, fanfiction isn't quality fiction. It's not a real novel."

"Yours is." she countered. "So what if other people write junk? Show them how it's really done."

Now that I'm well into toiling through the second draft, I'm very glad I took her advice. I'm still not used to admitting I'm writing a Star Trek book, but most of the responses I get are actually very positive. And I'm pleased with how it's turning out.

Meteors, Mariners and Monkeys

It's been a while since I told you what I'm up to, so here's a quick update:

Reading:

I'm currently reading Behind the Ruins by Michael Lane. It's about life in southern Canada after meteors destroy life on earth as we know it.

Next in line is Walker, a horror story by Steven Ramirez, then a historical novel written in Spanish, La Muerte de Los Trece Bomberos (The Death of the Thirteen Firefighters) by Dante Romero Siña. 

Writing:

Progress on my novel, An Analysis of the Cardassian Language, has been slow for the past month, but I'm starting to pick up the pace again. One part I'm looking forward to writing is a series of short stories the main character writes for her children, about a race of lab-created humanoids who live at the bottom of the ocean. 

Other Things:

Along with M. Joseph Murphy, I'm working on starting up Suckers Guild, a way for indie writers to barter for the expert services we need, to produce truly professional books. For more on that, see these posts, and please help make the guild better by taking the survey. Thanks!

Helping Indie Authors Find Readers

Indie Writer Professionalism

Indie Writer Survey

The Cardassian Language

Fantasy writer B E L Forsythe recently posted this question on her Facebook page:

Thanks to Paramount

There seems to be a debate going on about whether creating a language for your stories is a waste of time...Do you agree...? Do you think making up a new language will hold you back from writing more books? (January 5, 2013)

My answer is a resounding "No." I think a good novel immerses the reader in the richness of its context, and language has to be part of that. You could write about a culture with no music, or a culture with no furniture, but try to write a whole novel with no language at all and you'll run into serious trouble. Even if the characters never speak, how do you describe their thoughts and emotions? Maybe they don't think in words, but your readers do, so it's your job to figure out how the characters think and translate those thoughts as faithfully as possible into English (or Chinese or Amharic, if you prefer). 

I was never comfortable with the idea of saying, "Oh yes, my aliens have never had any contact with Earth so of course they're speaking some other language, but I'm not going to worry about it." Studies show that even here where we all share a planet, language is a huge factor in shaping how we think. Lera Boroditsky, assistant professor of psychology, neuroscience and symbolic systems at Stanford University, gives this example:

Photo: australiangeographic.com.au

Follow me to Pormpuraaw, a small Aboriginal community on the western edge of Cape York, in northern Australia. I came here because of the way the locals, the Kuuk Thaayorre, talk about space. Instead of words like "right," "left," "forward," and "back," which, as commonly used in English, define space relative to an observer, the Kuuk Thaayorre, like many other Aboriginal groups, use cardinal-direction terms — north, south, east, and west — to define space. This is done at all scales, which means you have to say things like "There's an ant on your southeast leg" or "Move the cup to the north northwest a little bit." One obvious consequence of speaking such a language is that you have to stay oriented at all times, or else you cannot speak properly. The normal greeting in Kuuk Thaayorre is "Where are you going?" and the answer should be something like " Southsoutheast, in the middle distance." If you don't know which way you're facing, you can't even get past "Hello."

The result is a profound difference in navigational ability and spatial knowledge between speakers of languages that rely primarily on absolute reference frames (like Kuuk Thaayorre) and languages that rely on relative reference frames (like English). Simply put, speakers of languages like Kuuk Thaayorre are much better than English speakers at staying oriented and keeping track of where they are, even in unfamiliar landscapes or inside unfamiliar buildings. What enables them — in fact, forces them — to do this is their language. Having their attention trained in this way equips them to perform navigational feats once thought beyond human capabilities. Because space is such a fundamental domain of thought, differences in how people think about space don't end there. People rely on their spatial knowledge to build other, more complex, more abstract representations. Representations of such things as time, number, musical pitch, kinship relations, morality, and emotions have been shown to depend on how we think about space. So if the Kuuk Thaayorre think differently about space, do they also think differently about other things, like time? This is what my collaborator Alice Gaby and I came to Pormpuraaw to find out.

Photo: petdirectory.com.au

To test this idea, we gave people sets of pictures that showed some kind of temporal progression (e.g., pictures of a man aging, or a crocodile growing, or a banana being eaten). Their job was to arrange the shuffled photos on the ground to show the correct temporal order. We tested each person in two separate sittings, each time facing in a different cardinal direction. If you ask English speakers to do this, they'll arrange the cards so that time proceeds from left to right. Hebrew speakers will tend to lay out the cards from right to left, showing that writing direction in a language plays a role. So what about folks like the Kuuk Thaayorre, who don't use words like "left" and "right"? What will they do?

The Kuuk Thaayorre did not arrange the cards more often from left to right than from right to left, nor more toward or away from the body. But their arrangements were not random: there was a pattern, just a different one from that of English speakers. Instead of arranging time from left to right, they arranged it from east to west. That is, when they were seated facing south, the cards went left to right. When they faced north, the cards went from right to left. When they faced east, the cards came toward the body and so on. This was true even though we never told any of our subjects which direction they faced. The Kuuk Thaayorre not only knew that already (usually much better than I did), but they also spontaneously used this spatial orientation to construct their representations of time. 

("How Does Our Language Shape the Way We Think?" at Edge.org)

When I read B E L Forsythe's question, I couldn't help but think how much thinner and cheaper Star Trek would feel without its Klingon and Cardassian languages. Of course I would: my main character's a linguist who copes with being thrown into a hostile alien society by analyzing their language, which happens to be Cardassian.

Photo: trekbbs.com

When I started doing the research for this book I was surprised how much work has been done already to develop the Cardassian language. And don't make the mistake of thinking it's silly or arbitrary just because it's fictional. Like Klingon, Cardassian is an ideal expression of its culture, set on solid linguistic ground.

Sure, studying Cardassian and working it into my novel means it's taking about five times as long to write, but it's more than worth it. I don't think there's any other way to really see Cardassian culture, and more importantly, to see our own culture through its lens.

Are you a writer? Have you taken the survey yet? 

A peer-helping-peer guild is coming together focused on providing free editing advice, helping you find more readers and whatever else indie writers need. So tell them what you need. Your participation means a more focused group, one that will truly help both new indie writers and established indie authors stand out and compete. 

Here's the survey. It's free and anonymous and only ten questions long:

Survey: What Indie Writers Need

For more information: 

• Helping Indie Authors Find Readers - Survey by M. Joseph Murphy

• What Do Indie Writers Need?

• Indie Writer Professionalism

An Analysis of the Cardassian Language

If you've been following me a while, you know I'm writing a novel called An Analysis of the Cardassian Language. It was born last month during NaNoWriMo, and I'm posting chapters above as they become intelligible. (At least I think so. If you find unintelligible chapters up there, please let me know.)

So you're walking down the street one day and the next thing you know, you're lying on the floor someplace where you don't belong and you're not welcome, but you're not allowed to leave. Turns out it's a military installation, and it's not even our military. They slap a pair of handcuffs on you and ask what you're doing there, but of course that's exactly what you'd like to know.

That's what happens to Faine Channing in Cardassian Language. She's in Chicago about to go home to her kids, and then she wakes up on a space station. Fans of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine will be interested to know that the station is Terok Nor, or Deep Space Nine when it was still being run by the Cardassians. Of course, we're at war with the Cardassians, which doesn't make life any easier for Faine.

NaNoWriMo is pretty intense, and like many wrimos I took a week off from writing after it ended on November 30th. Meanwhile I gave Faine her own Facebook page and started having a little fun with pictures. Today I plan to jump back into the text. Be on the lookout for more tabs above.

Tweet

Connect with Faine on Facebook

Faine Channing, chief unfortunate of the novel-in-progress An Analysis of the Cardassian Language, now has her own Facebook page. Give her a 'like' to keep in touch with her (or just get the latest news on Analysis).

Tweet

Noveling November

Now that NaNoWriMo is over, it's time to confess: I had two books going in November. Yup, it was a crazy month of writing full-tilt on both of them. One was my NaNoWriMo novel An Analysis of the Cardassian Language, and the other was real life.

Maybe it's Murphy's Law or something, but I don't know why the universe had to pick November to throw all these insane situations at me. Still, November is much better than some time in the winter. And it was a warm November, too, and it didn't even snow to speak of. I can't tell you much about it because while I'm pretty open about my own life, I don't blog about the lives of my family and friends. But if I were to write down everything that happened, just in November, with enough backstory to let it make any sense, it would be a book. And it would be a page-turner, too.

Writing my NaNoWriMo novel was a lot of fun, when I could get to it. I did manage to win (write 50,000 words in 30 days) but came far short of the 75,000 words of well-organized plot and well-written prose that I had hoped for. Still, considering how active King Murphy was, I feel good about it. What I do have, at 51,000 words, is a good start.

You can read a few chapters by clicking the links at the top of this page.

Tweet