How It All Began

Here's an excerpt from the beginning of my first novel, Outsider.

            When Sean Foster woke up, he lay very still on the cot, letting his eyes focus on the wall in front of him. He felt full consciousness returning, but he wouldn’t let himself turn over, not until he reminded himself that he didn’t know where he was.

            He rolled over and his eyes swept the room, taking in the metallic-gray walls, the steel door, the porthole reflecting the harsh light from the ceiling. If he could just concentrate hard enough, he might convince himself he’d never seen this place before. His eyes settled on the light fixture in the ceiling, a rectangle of plastic covering the two fluorescent bulbs that simulated daylight. He tried to put all of his concentration into staring at the bulbs, one of which was just beginning to flicker a little, but then his ears betrayed him by picking up the faint hum of engines. Abruptly Sean saw the cell for what it was, and he put the palms of both hands to his eyes before he sat up.

            It was stupid to think that’d work anyway, he thought as he looked down at his dull brown uniform.

            By now he knew the sequence: first brief terror, then anger, to be followed eventually by resignation. Once he reached that point, Sean slouched back against the wall, staring at the beige loafers waiting on the floor beside the cot. He knew it was no use asking the guards again for something to read; there was nothing to do but wait.

            His thoughts were interrupted by a jarring sound of metal scraping metal. The door of the cell slid open slowly and two guards appeared beyond it, one holding a tray while the other rested a hand on his holstered gun.

            “Breakfast.” The guard holding the tray was husky, with no trace of flab, and he stood a few centimeters taller than Sean. He had a face resembling a wind-carved sand dune, topped by short, black hair. His dark eyes checked the cell, as they had every other time he delivered a meal here, but the scan had become cursory by now.

            Sean stayed where he was, knowing the routine. This allowed the guard to enter the cell and set the tray on the floor just inside the door before stepping back again.

            “Thanks,” Sean offered.

            “Yeah,” the guard said on his way out. After Sean heard the lock take hold, he retrieved the tray and sat back on the cot to eat. It was the usual, a couple of tasteless pancakes with a tiny squirt of syrup, a crumbling piece of toast that soaked up the egg pretty well, a cup of orange juice, and some weak coffee, each in its own little plastic container. Sean no longer noticed the food; eating was merely something to do. Today, however, he didn’t do much of it, barely managing to down the toast and juice before he had to give up. There was no use forcing himself, so he set the tray next to the door and returned to his position on the cot. The guard didn’t comment when he came to pick up the tray half an hour later.

            A few moments after that, Sean turned his head to look at the porthole again. He could still recall his mental images when his apologetic lawyer first mentioned space: purple aliens, flashy spaceships soaring past brilliant planets, glittering asteroid showers. It had all seemed exciting enough, but he had yet to actually see any of it. From his position on the bunk now, the glaring reflection of the ceiling light made the void beyond the porthole invisible. He didn’t want to look out again, but then he thought, twenty years, and that was enough to get him off the cot and across the short distance to the porthole. This might be his last look for another lifetime—at least it seemed like that to someone only twenty-four years old—so he might as well take advantage of it.

            As he bent toward the small glass circle, he caught a glimpse of himself reflected there: Sean Foster, a medium-sized young man whose light-brown hair needed a comb and whose brown eyes looked a little puzzled. Some hardened criminal, he thought.

            His image blurred into the void outside the spaceship. As usual, all he could see were stars. There were billions of them out there, more than he’d thought possible, but they were only a temporary distraction from boredom and, especially today, dread. It was the third day, so the ship must be nearing its destination. He pressed his nose against the cold glass, wondering without enthusiasm if he would see the prison planet before it became merely the ground under his feet. At the thought of a prison door slamming shut behind him, Sean felt fear crawl up his spine and over his shoulder blades to nestle in his hair. It didn’t matter what space was really like because he wouldn’t see it again for twenty years, maybe more if they forgot about him. He was so far from his lawyer, the courts, anyone who might care about him, that he might as well have ceased to exist. Sean had been caught off guard by his sentence, but he wasn’t going to let the horror of the prison term sneak up on him, too.

Please feel free to leave a comment. You can purchase Outsider or any of my other novels by clicking on the images on the right side of this page. Thanks again for reading!

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Three Years

Believe it or not, today marks the three-year anniversary of this blog! (It doesn't look like it because my first official post was July 28, 2013, but that's because I accidentally deleted the first post from July 23! I was off to a great start there.)

It's hard for me to believe that I've written posts weekly for that long. It's hard to believe I found that much to say. I don't consider myself particularly thoughtful or opinionated, so it makes me wonder what all of those posts were about! Ha.

I would like to thank you if you've read one, all or some of my posts. I'm not exactly sure how many readers I have out there, but I thank all of you.

Here's the latest news on Diane McCallum and the Penumbra series. My fourth novel, The Other Side, is published and awaiting copyright registration. It's also in the local bookstore, Spellbound, so be sure to check it out! There is a fifth novel, but it needs so much work that I can assure you it will not be out for more than a year. I have a tentative title, but it might be a while before I release that.

I intend to release news about the fifth novel when I feel there's something worth mentioning.

However, the weekly blog is going to have to stop. I'm very sorry, but I am truly running out of things to say! When I have a novel that I'll be releasing soon, that keeps the ideas coming and I don't have any trouble writing a blog, but when there's no novel scheduled, that leaves a bit of a void (especially in my brain!). I've spent three years pushing to get the word out there and I won't just stop, but I have to take a break. That way I can spend more time on the fifth novel.

Please be assured that this blog won't die. If a certain team wins a certain series, you'll probably hear something about that. If a thought strikes me, I'll share it, whether you want to know or not! When there's progress on the next novel, I'll let you know that, too. My goal is to write something at least once a month. If I find that I'm posting at a particular time of the month, I'll let you know, but I'm afraid I can't give you any specifics right now. You can also follow me on my Facebook page: DianeMcCallumAuthor

Please keep spreading the word to your friends and family about the Penumbra series. I'd love to share my novels with a lot of people. My dream is to have people discussing the characters and plot (especially if I get to hear the discussion).

Thank you again for reading this blog and putting up with me. I will try to post again next week, just to round it out, and then we'll see what happens. Please check back!

Go, Cubs

The All-Star Game has come and gone. We're back into regular-season baseball. Yikes.

As you probably know, I'm a baseball fan. In fact, I'm a Cubs fan. In previous years, that was enough to earn me sympathy from friends and family. It remains to be seen what it will mean this year.

I was able to watch the team on TV today (they lost, but played well), and I realized with a jolt that now it's starting to get scary. Each game will mean a little more. The upcoming trade deadline means that I have to worry about who will stay and who will go. The standings will occupy a little more of my concentration.

This half of the season is so different than the first half! While the first half is full of hope and discovery, this half holds more tension and, possibly, heartbreak.

But we can't have one without the other. The team has battled this far and they're going to keep battling. They're not going to quit, so I can't either. I will follow them to the end, whether it's bitter or sweet.

But I promise this: as long as the Cubs play hard and well, I'll cheer for them no matter what happens in the autumn. That's what a fan does. We pour our hearts out in the stadium, in our living rooms, in bars, wherever we happen to be. We celebrate the victories and mourn the losses. We believe, and we express that belief.

We don't take our frustrations out on the team. As long as they're trying, they don't deserve blame. After all, we're the ones who chose to be fans. We're the ones who chose this particular team. Nobody forced us.

And look what they do for us. They let us escape. They let us forget the darker side of human nature and believe in the light side. They let us admire the beauty of a blue sky, green grass and the arc of a white ball. They remind us of what makes summer good. And then the standings seem a little less important.

You can tell me it's just a sport, and I acknowledge that. History will not be changed by the next Cubs game. But I might.

Break It Up

I read a book last week that had a very complex but interesting plot, as well as characters that seemed well-rounded. It was a thriller and it kept me reading throughout, even though it was 400 or so pages. When I put it down, I thought that I might like to read more by the author, except for one thing: I don't want to wade through conversations that are very hard to follow anymore.

It's a shame, but we all have to decide where to concentrate our reading, since there are SO MANY books out there. Maybe I'm being unfair to this writer, but it's also not fair to read a book while thinking how frustrated I am with the writing. So I'll spare the writer further denigration. (Obviously, I'm not going to name the writer here.)

I've already written a blog about how to use "he/she said" and here it is: He/She Said

Now I'm going to expand on the fourth method: not using "said" at all.

This is my own example that I just made up, but it gives an idea of what I was seeing:

     "You can't do that." She took a step back and frowned.

Who do you think made that statement? "She," right? Wrong! In several cases, the writer would have a statement like that and follow it immediately with the listener's reaction in the same paragraph.

Please don't do this to your readers! I was forced several times to go back to where "Jack said" told me who was speaking. Then I had to count lines down to this statement to find that Jack said it and his girlfriend was reacting to Jack saying it. Very confusing!

The solution is so simple:                                 Or even better:
     "You can't do that."                                         "You can't do that," Jack said.
     She took a step back and frowned.                 She took a step back and frowned.

Whenever you have two people speaking and reacting to the other's statements, please make it clear who is speaking and who is reacting. You don't have to use "Jack said" on every other line, but don't mix characters. If the statement is made by one person and then another person speaks or reacts, put that in a separate paragraph.

Give it a try. Your readers will thank you.

Why Sci-Fi

Ha. I chose science fiction just so I could have that cool rhyming title someday.

I've had people at work tell me they're astonished to find that I have all these stories of remote planets, spaceships and wormholes in my head. I guess that tells you how boring I am in real life, since they're so surprised by it.

But how did I choose science fiction as the genre for my series?

Part of it is because of Ray Bradbury, my greatest inspiration, but I can't attribute it all to him. For one thing, he didn't write only science fiction. He had a story to tell and he didn't particularly worry about the genre. Wherever the story led him, that's where he went. This is also true for me.

I've always been drawn to science fiction, though. Some of my favorite movies are in that genre and I like the freedom it offers. (That seems appropriate for Independence Day weekend, doesn't it?)

Besides that, I'd already ruled out a few genres. I don't have the money to travel around the planet so I can describe various locations effectively. I enjoy historical fiction, but I've never been particularly strong at history. I don't have the patience to write a romance. I didn't want to spend years on research.

Don't get me wrong: I did have to do research. I had to learn a lot about wormholes (thank you, Kip Thorne), spaceships, microgravity, etc. I have a lot of geeky physics books on my shelves. But once I'd done that, it was pretty easy (and cheap) to travel to distant planets: I just had to close my eyes (even that is optional) and dream.

When you think about it, the genre is only a small part of the equation. There have to be strong characters, a compelling story and a few ideas guiding the whole thing. If you don't have those, the genre will be irrelevant.

At some point, though, I did make a conscious decision. I think it was about the time I discovered Sean aboard a spaceship heading to a prison colony. I'd been toying with several ideas, but that one seemed to speak to me the most so I went with it.

And I've never looked back.

Happy Independence Day tomorrow! Thanks for reading.