How NaNoWriMo is like being in Interstellar

I have not fallen off the face of the Earth. It just feels that way. To me and probably to all of you--any of you--well, you know who you are. Feels like I lost 23 years as I fitfully slept last night.

Last time I was pulled to the keyboard by the blog muse, I teased you with news that I had taken a leap of faith into the black hole that is the National Novel Writing Month competition. Competition is really a misnomer because, like youth soccer leagues everywhere, we are all winners--as long as we hit 50,000 words by midnight of November 30 (by time zone). I thought I could crank out 50,000 sorta-good words in a month, even with a day job that requires me to read stacks of student papers on a fairly constant schedule during the month of November. I thought I could be heroic.


Then came the film INTERSTELLAR (official website)(early teaser trailer #1 and trailer #2), which I knew I would see as if my life depended on. I knew that at the instant the first trailer passed my eyes months ago ahead of another, much lesser film. The opportunity finally came on Saturday. But no! Two-thirds through the film--and I was into it hook, line, and quantum physics--it all stopped. The theater went dark, the screen went dark, and for a minute or so all anyone could do was make-out. We all expected the problem would be corrected and the movie would continue. 

Not a still from the film INTERSTELLAR but a shot of Iceland where the film was, umm, filmed.

Then emergency lights came on and youthful theater thugs told us to get out. Actually, they asked us to "carefully evacuate." Everyone walked through the bowels of the mall's multiplex to the exterior door--just as the Ranger spacecraft would be docking with the mothership, Endurance, which kinda resembled a bracelet of Pandora ornaments. We feared to exit the safety of our theater for the cold of the parking lot. Outside, there was chaos as people did not know what to do. Wait to be called back in to finish the film? Wait for fireworks? Rush to cars and get in line to exit the mall? It was pandemonium without even a single panda! 

Long story short, I had been expecting to piggyback my evening's writing session on the inspiration from that film. I've noticed that seeing a movie or reading a book can spark that part of my brain that I also use for writing stories. It has nothing to do with the kind of story or film, or what the story or film is about, just that it fires neurons in the same part of my brain. But no movie--no conclusion, that is--so no writing session.

Why did I latch my writing session to a film like Endurance?--I mean, Interstellar? 

Because my little NaNoWriMo novel is a sci-fi space opera, too. Except there are no humans, no Earthlings in it. (I reserve the right to add a throw-away human later in the book.) In my working-titled novel THE MASTERS' RIDDLE, an ordinary guy, Toog of planet Sebbol, is captured in the middle of the night and awakens in a prison cell. What has he done wrong? he wonders. Lots of time to wonder, bolted to a flat surface in a dark chamber as he is. 

I know what happens next, of course; I've worked out the details about that already. But it would be cruel to give you those spoilers. Suffice to say, this story is about a diverse group of beings from across the galaxy who must work together to escape their awful circumstances. The only way to do that is to solve the riddle of who the Masters are and what their power is.

Which brings me to my slacker word count. Granted, there is the day job and its attendant duties, but evenings and weekends are free, one may argue. But it's just not as simple as that. My recently launched anti-vampire novel A DRY PATCH OF SKIN was easy to start: I was essentially writing about the quirky things I experienced last spring, then veered off into the Gothic. I even ended up in Hungary, by golly, without ever leaving my computer! But this so-called "easy knock-off" novel is tough going--much like the 130% gravity of the Waterworld our heroic astronauts encounter after passing through the Saturnalian wormhole (Nope, no hints about the Masters' riddle here, ahem!) 

So I'm struggling to make the word count each day. As the NaNoWriMo website calculated last night, I will achieve my 50,000 words somewhere after December 5--which is like January 20 in non-NaNoWriMo time! The deeper into November one gets, the slower word count rises. Coincidentally, the faster the month seems to go, too!

If you do not hear from me again, I probably slipped on the ice on some far-off planetary stage and landed head-first in the orchestra pit. Nevertheless, I shall endeavor to produce the necessary word count to pull my novel through that *wormhole, kicking and screaming, no matter what the organist is playing, nor the crop burners burning, nor the scientists scienting! As any blight-stressed, dust-choked farmer might say, "I'm gonna getter done!"

Now you are up to date. Expecting a free ticket, I hope to return soon to start the film from the beginning again! Then I shall write a proper review. Your indulgences, please. Thanks.

*If you are interested in learning about interdimensional travel without using a spaceship and cryosleep while transiting to Saturn (as in Interstellar), then you may wish to visit this Facebook page: Interdimensional Travel. Or you may wish to follow the adventures through an interdimensional doorway by reading THE DREAM LAND Trilogy.


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(C) Copyright 2010-2014 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

Saving a planet while managing a teenager

This may be the last post including excerpts from THE DREAM LAND Book III for a while as I turn to promoting THE DREAM LAND Book I in print and my literary fiction book AFTER ILIUM also in print. In addition, my early summer plans include making THE DREAM LAND Book II available as an ebook with print edition coming later. No rest for the overly-napped, as usual!

In our last excerpt, our heroine Gina (a.k.a. Jinetta-d'Elous) was tasked with inspecting the toilets that would be used aboard interstellar spacecraft. That's one of her many hassles as head of the International Aerospace Council. Ironically, she's not even from Ghoupallesz, but she'll never tell. They need her and she likes to have a purpose in life, no matter where life takes her.

Now, however, disaster has struck the Evacuation Program in advance of the approaching comet, with great set-backs. Add to that the onset of menopause and a rebellious teenage daughter and you know she is ready for a vacation....

When Gina returned to Kobarêl, making her way wearily from the airship terminal through the dirty streets to her high-rise apartment in the Third Ward compound where many administrators and scientists lived, guarded and safe from the mindless masses sucking bôb and laboring for a steady fix, she was surprised to find her daughter Zaura lounging at home. Gina was also surprised to find her sitting naked on the learning chair, wearing only the white scarf that marked her status as an approved fertility club member with a seat on a vessel.

“You really must wear some clothing, my dear,” said Gina, dropping her bags on the floor.

“Nobody was here,” Zaura replied, not looking up from her tablet, quickly dabbing the stylus on colorful buttons on the screen. The learning chair was more like a chaise-longue with embedded computer interfaces. They had been allowed for space cadets whenever the environment was on alert for high pollution levels or there was a riot of the mindless hordes; school lessons could be maintained that way. “Besides, it’s the trendy thing for us youth to do.” She glanced back over her shoulder at Gina. “Headmistress Dero says there’s no harm in looking. We need to get used to it for such a long journey. Besides, it’s only Latol. You already said he was allowed to sit in our family one day.”

“I did?” She regarded the screen set into the wall and saw there a naked boy, sitting on his own learning chair, playing with his stylus and apparently unaware that Zaura’s mother had returned home. “Hello, Latol.”

He startled. “Greetings to you, Mother of Zaura,” said Latol, not at all embarrassed.

“So formal?”

“Yes. You will be a grandmother for us someday, true?”

Gina grinned. “Not too soon, I hope.”

“Mama, we’re discussing the coupling specifications for the residential pods’ docking assembly and we discovered that if they started Design Protocol 431 precisely when Design Protocol 394 was 55.5% completed, the teams could save 14.33 peth in time, which translates into 1,815 merin in cost savings—and that would allow purchase of 45 more food processor units, for example, enough to outfit 86.2% of one V-100 military cruiser—”

“I’m relieved you are actually studying.” She laughed for the first time since she had left for the conference in Debrêk. “I worried about pre-marital sex, like my mother always did, yet I know there’s no marriage now, only state-authorized coupling to maximize fertility and produce the best of the species. Eugenics returns. I approve if only ten-thousand can be saved from doom.”

“Mama, you are so dour. Did the conference go well?”

“No, it certainly did not.”

“I have sorry feelings.”

“You didn’t learn the latest news?”

Zaura looked up. “We have been manning the Calculus orb, Mama, not slinking the news channel.”

Gina pursed her lips, amused at the youthful slang, then took a seat by the dining loft.

“My dear, there was an accident.” She tried to laugh. “I mean, after my keynote address. The launch of the first residential capsule from the Debrêk spaceworks went bad. There was an imbalance in the chemical rockets which sent the capsule off trajectory and it crashed nearby. There were five crew aboard. Fortunately. They were only sending it up to dock with the transport frame already in orbit.”

“That’s horrible!” Zaura turned to Latol poised on the screen. “Did you hear my mother?”

“Yes,” he said. “Let me eye the news channel for video food. Communicate after an interval.” He blinked out and the screen returned to a static picture of a green valley that could be somewhere in Switzerland—or Sogoê.

“We stood on the observation platform,” Gina continued, “and everyone was happy, excited, waiting to see this momentous event. I cheered for them when the engines ignited. It was only a little way into the air when it spun sideways and went nose-first into a rocky hillside. The fire was horrible and everyone ran. Someone threw a fire-cover over me and held me down. When it was clear, two medical staff helped me up but I was not injured in anyway.”

“I feel pain in my chest for you. What an experience!” Zaura went to her mother, embraced her. “Take a black-bôb.”

“Then everyone began accusing me of setting them up! I did not make the vessel crash. I had nothing to do with it, nor the Debrêk spaceworks. They have an outstanding work record. They said I wanted everyone to go onto the vessels so they would be killed and I and ‘my friends’ could take over the planet. How ridiculous! Evacuation is the only way to survive the coming catastrophe. I even offered to take a seat on a vessel, if they wished it, so they would know I had not booby-trapped it.”

“Buubii-turapt?” asked Zaura with a smirk. “Who would want to design a trick for breasts?”

“An English word,” said Gina in English and continued in that archaic language: “Like if a bomb were set to go off. Ah, daughter, you must not forget the language of your ancestral homeland.”

“I was born in Kipzon,” she replied in English. “You said it like a truth.”

“But your mother and father were born on a planet far, far away and long, long ago. The planet is called Earth. Well, some call it Terra. Others no doubt call it Shithole. It doesn’t matter unless we go back to it.”

“It exists still?” asked Zaura.

Gina wiped a tear from her cheek. “I think it does. We need to find it. Staying here is not a good idea. Going aboard a spacecraft for the rest of your life isn’t much better.”

“You feel distraught, Mama,” said Zaura, returning to Ghoupallêan. “Pop a black-bôb and sleep deep.”

“I don’t need any drugs!” she snapped in English.

She threw her hands to her face as the tears came fast. Many years ago she was happy to take drugs—purely for recreational purposes, of course. Anything to get through the days and nights of college life, hanging out with other druggies when it was all so counter-everything. Now the drug culture had gone mainstream and she was the old-fashioned witch-mom denying the youth their pleasures.

“You need a vacation, Mama.”

Gina lowered her hands, her eyes red. “I certainly do. So I quit the council. I promised to stay on to the end of the year but I did resign at the conference. Right before we watched the residential capsule crash. If it had launched full, there would have been five hundred people dead instead of only five.” She teared up again.

“Mama, cut an interval.”

“You should come with me. I don’t want to go alone.”

“I have cadet training. I cannot quit or cut an interval from the schedule.”

Gina nodded, realizing that she had little control over anything now. Only herself. And that was becoming so maddening as the planet was trying hard to turn its years over into months. They would soon be under a decade until the end.

“I’ll go then,” she said. “Be good. Resist the bôb. Stay as happy as you can. And dream. Everything is perfect in your dreams, daughter.”

Kids, those future days! I can reveal and hope it is no spoiler that Zaura gets herself into trouble, thus adding to Gina's grief. Will all work out in the end? Will she stay on the doomed planet or grab the last seat aboard the evacuation spacecraft? Only THE DREAM LAND Book III will tell!

Hey, check this out: a report of an approaching comet! Freaky!

AND this one on impact craters!


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(C) Copyright 2010-2013 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

Do you have a ticket to ride?

Planning for the Escape - and those who can't.

In my previous post, I gave an overview of the situation where a planet's populace must escape an inevitable collision with a comet. Fortunately (at least, for now), I was not referring to Earth but to the planet Ghoupallesz which is the setting for much of THE DREAM LAND Trilogy. Oh, it's just fiction, some may sigh in relief, but that is exactly the point: fiction gives us the means of testing theories, role-playing scenarios, practicing before we need to do the real thing.

It may be appropriate, or simply a weird coincidence, that this post falls on Easter weekend when many people around the world worship their savior and hope for salvation. Saved from a lifetime of bad choices? Or saved from an invading planetoid? Aside from questions of why God would allow a comet to destroy the Earth---or a flood, for that matter---we can still consider how society, its people and its priorities, would react when such a disaster is due.

Today, I wish to offer a sample of THE DREAM LAND Book III to illustrate one problem a futuristic society may encounter: how to deal with mass hysteria, diminishing productivity just when it is needed most to prepare for evacuation, and how schools would prepare children for their future roles on a new home world. The following excerpt is from Act III of Book III. It's still under construction, but you may get started on Book I "Long Distance Voyager" right now and Book II "Dreams of Future's Past" will be available in the summer.

[Background: Gina Parton (a.k.a., Jinetta, Queen of Fenula), the female protagonist from Book I and "long lost love" of Sebastian Talbot (a.k.a. legendary warrior Set-d'Elous) has stumbled through the wrong interdimensional doorway, thus arriving in the far future when the planet is facing total annihilation with the approach of a comet. All resources in society are directed toward preparing to evacuate the planet---at least for those who can fit on the spaceships! To provide for her two children, Gina takes a factory job....]

The first task Gina was assigned to do was put the small silver disk squarely into the slightly larger silver tube and insert a pin. then make sure the disk would spin freely within the confines of the tube. Once satisfied, she put the item back on the moving conveyor and returned her attention to making another one. It had a complicated scientific-engineering-astrophysics name she hated trying to say. Part 17-A-67009 was what she called it instead.

After a few months of making that part she was advanced to a more complex part, then again after a few weeks to a very sophisticated part which earned her the right to sit at a table covered in tiny boxes of tiny parts and assemble Part 8518-G-161695 one after another. In a typical shift of 80 peth—a peth equaling about 18 minutes, she kept teaching to her children so they would be prepared for life back on Earth—she could produce between 90 and 100 of the devices, each consisting of 38 components. She had no idea how the part was used but she was good at making them and won praise from her supervisor.

At least she was able to get work, earn food rations if no wages, and have a quaint place for her and her children to sleep at night. Her children, Zaura the precocious blonde probably in appearance an 11-year-old in Earth time and Xix the boy who became an accident of her escape journey and who was dull and expressionless, had both been assigned to an education facility. More like indoctrination, thought Gina, but she had no choice in this society. Schools did not meet formally any longer; instead, educated volunteers taught what knowledge and skills would be needed in the future aboard the vehicles that would save them from annihilation. They were taught gardening, mostly. Boys were drilled in engineering skills, and girls were taught the wonders of fertilization and reproduction. It was believed that every maiden would need to produce five offspring, preferably by five different males, in order to continue the community once they all disembarked on a new world from what was being called the xænafi—‘ether ship,’ for it was believed that outer space was filled with an invisible substance called xæ through which a vessel would move with resistance. An old tradition. Yet the name stuck: xænafi, or in the meta-sense of a multigenerational spaceship, the honorific was applied, thus xænafaxii referred to the whole project to save Ghoupalle-kind from an undeserved fate.

The schools also taught about the proper use of the colored bôb medication system, to which she secretly objected. She needed to keep her wits and focus on her delicate task. No room for sedation or anti-depression drugs or something to feign comatose calmness for the anxiety-prone. Regular warnings were sounded throughout the day: “If you feel troubled, now is the time to pop a bôb” or “The administration recommends black-bôb today; if you do not have black-bôb available, two blue-bôb will be sufficient to get you through today’s anxiety” and “Due to the latest astronomical report, administration recommends popping one black-bôb now and a second black-bôb after the evening meal for maximum calm.” Often right in the middle of the shift a co-worker would break down and sob, overcome by thoughts of the end days to come.

No, they can’t have the population in a panic, thought Gina, remembering her first day on the job when as soon as she stepped outdoors a coworker directed her attention to the sign advising her to pop a white-bôb now and a green-bôb after the evening meal. There was not much for an evening meal, anyway, consisting of tubes of this, crisps of that, something labeled ‘vegetable substance’ and another labeled ‘hearty grain’ that looked like someone’s vomit. Worse tasting than the food rations she had bartered for with those five miners...what, almost two years before? The green-bôb also repressed hunger, thankfully. That schedule was to be  followed with a red-bôb after the morning meal and a pink-bôb upon arriving at one’s work station. Of course, she did none of that and lied about her consumption patterns. It was voluntary although when properly bôbbed the average worker could meet maximum production and thus gain recognition and promotion—and extra food rations. She worried about what her children were being taught about the drugs, however. The school provided miniature dosages of blue- and green-bôb, and purple-bôb was recommended for unruly children. They had tried silver-bôb with her son, trying to spark him out of his innate dullness, but he remained unresponsive. Teachers remarked on his larger than normal head and lack of hair. One of them believed he resembled, especially with his olive skin, one of the so-called ‘miracle children’ legend had foretold for the end times. Other teachers thought he was wasting resources and suggested to Gina that he be put to sleep. She feared for him, wondering which day an accident might befall him.

Someday soon she would have to leave, she contemplated as her fingers assembled the parts automatically. She had stumbled into this world through the wrong tangent and now that she was, as it were, back on her feet, she needed to keep moving. So what if these people around her were doomed? She did not need to be here to witness it. So what if they were convinced a comet was on its way to destroy the planet? She could escape with her children—back to an earlier age here on Ghoupallesz, well before any comet would arrive, or all the way back to Earth. Zaura could fit in easily enough there; she was an accurate copy of her mother: smart and golden blond. Her son Xix, however, would likely be deemed mentally disabled and not have much of a life on Ghoupallesz or on Earth. People would be kinder to him on Earth, she considered.

But where to find the tangent to exit this future place of doom? 

Not everyone on a planet will fit aboard a dozen spaceships, no matter how large the ships can be made or how tightly spaced the personal capacity might be. Mass panic would ensue: those knowing they will not be able to get aboard the escape vessels and those who believe they will or should be allowed aboard yet do not have a ticket and are scheming or working hard to try to get aboard.

Unlike the portrayal of a similar situation with massive "arks" in the film 2012, where there was no need for respiration devices, etc., those who had a place aboard were the rich who had funded construction and their personal retinue. When escaping to space, especially with the expectation of colonization, favoring the rich and famous would limit those who had knowledge and skills actually useful to to the survival of space arks.

The series of medications portrayed in THE DREAM LAND Book III "Diaspora" not only calm the populace but also enable them to perform their work in more efficient, productive ways, thereby making success more likely. For the average worker, of course, what motivation could there be to work hard to make things that will help other people survive? More money? Bonuses? A pat on the back and a sincere "thank you"? How to keep such workers working when they know years in advance that they will not be allowed aboard the escape vessels?

There will always be a limited number of tickets. Are you worthy of a ticket? What would you do for a ticket? Or would you prefer to stay behind and watch the comet come on in?

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(C) Copyright 2010-2013 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

How to Escape a Doomed Planet

I admit it: the last blog post was rather lame. Me moaning about my mental maladies. Self-indulgence at its finest! Or its worst. Sorry about that. It was an exercise in invention, just me thinking aloud and pounding the keys.

But this is serious. Deadly serious. Maybe not for Earthers but for those on another world that is near (metaphorically, not astronomically) and dear to my heart. Call it a test case. How to escape a doomed planet. And where to go. 

In writing THE DREAM LAND Book III "Diaspora" I have made no secret of the main element of the storyline involving the arrival of a comet. Quite a conundrum. Fortunately, the arrival coincides with a sufficiently advanced civilization that possesses advanced technology, enough so to actually have a fair chance of dealing with the issue. Yea, them!

First, I should explain that such an event has been foretold in mythology for eons. And our tangent-hopping interdimensional voyagers have seen its approach while popping into the future on other business. So, in the "past" we have dueling prophets warning about the end of days. In the "future" we are concerned with the science of diaspora--the scattering of a population as a survival strategy.

Second, the weak link in the system is I am not a rocket scientist. Hence, I must do research on all sorts of issues, both social and technological. I do have some head-start based on my extensive reading of space-related books during a childhood in the 1960s, an interest which waned during the Shuttle era. I also can be expected to tell the tale through assorted characters, most of whom are not themselves rocket scientists. Thus, readers will get the science through the voices of non-scientists. (Remember how Sebastian sardonically replied to Chucker's question in THE DREAM LAND Book II: "I can't explain how [interdimensional doorways] work, I just know how to use them"?)

Third, and perhaps most importantly, where do we they go? From Earth, it's fairly easy: the closest star of any kind, with or without habitable planets, is the Alpha Centauri system (read all about it here) which is still about 4.36 light-years away. Considering a trip there for your next holiday? Get a preview here. (Need more info? Check this page; the good stuff is toward the bottom.)

For the good folks of Ghoupallesz, however, destinations are more limited. First around the twin suns (Abæda, the larger, yellow one, and Siila, the smaller, blue one) is the planet of Ghoupallesz orbiting at a comfortable distance. Outward from there are three other planets, thus colder, gassier, less hospitable. The second planet, Gouo, could be used as a way-station for repairs or other short-term stays but is unsuitable for permanent habitation. The other two planets are Kuraja and Sovê, gas giants. That leaves the closest neighboring systems.

Our heroine, Gina Parton (a.k.a. Queen Jinetta of Fenula), does have a background in Physics. Thankfully, she becomes instrumental in locating suitable destinations for the diaspora.

Whereas Earth's closest is 4.36 light-years, the poor travelers from Ghoupallesz must go 17.54 light-years to reach the Tumark-C system where there are three potentially habitable planets within the comfort zone. Next closest is 22.8 light-years to reach the Ubo system, which may have two habitable planets. Then comes Raal at 23.77 and Danida at 25.12 light-years. If they really want to put the pedal to the metal, they can try to reach Sol (a.k.a., Earth's very own star) at a life-stretching 101.38 light-years! (There are three closer systems than Tumark-C, at 8.11, 9.72, and 12.6 light-years, but they do not appear to have habitable planets.) 

Given the apparent necessity of long-period travel, some options remain: 

1) residential ships ("arks") where people are awake the entire voyage, living their lives aboard, or 

2) sleep through most of the trip. 

At, say, half-lightspeed, such a trip would be a manageable 35 to 100 years. Generations will be born and die enroute to the destination. This generous method would require full "hotel" accommodations, food and fuel, and a lot of "dead weight" consisting of people who have no active role in the operation or maintenance of the spacecraft who would nevertheless need to be cared for. Perhaps those people could be put into suspension on the way there. 

We would also need a propulsion system that uses little to no fuel that must be carried along. That's where the rocket scientists come in. NASA? JPL? Anybody...?

Once arriving on a distant unknown world, presuming it is suitable for long-term habitation, as studied prior to arrival, ground personnel would be needed: scientists of all categories, a security force, and construction teams to build structures. Plus other passengers whose usefulness finally gets a test in the setting up and running of a new civilization. Probably on the list of needed skills would not be athletes, entertainers, celebrities of all kinds, etc. Everyone would have to work, contribute to the new society, and most of all: procreate--but procreate with high-IQ mates who may not be passing on the most physically attractive genes.

However, let us not think too far ahead! We must be able to get off the planet, preferably well before the doomsday event. That means building a launch system to go from surface to orbit. Then an orbiting station for assembly of interplanetary vehicles. Meanwhile, further construction would continue on the surface and pieces would be shuttled into orbit to be added to the "frames" under construction there. Once completed, the crew and passengers would be shuttled up to the interplanetary vehicles. At the appointed time, those vehicles would break orbit and sail away from their home world forever.

Plenty of planning to do....

Because it will happen someday, even to Earth. Remember the dinosaurs and their brush with extinction via the Yucatan strike? Well, under the ice of Antarctica is an even larger crater from an even earlier strike!

Now for the fun part: naming the interplanetary vehicles for the mythical gods and goddesses of Ghoupallesz!


[P.S., Sebastian, or someone similar, could walk a number of specialists through a particular interdimensional doorway, thus saving them from the fate of the rocketeer groups. Or not.]

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(C) Copyright 2010-2013 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.