Fan Fiction and Real New York Pizza

I don't understand fan fiction. Or, more accurately, I don't think anyone but the original author should create within the "universe" of his/her books. Each author's creation is as unique as that author. What gives another author the audacity to step into someone else's writing? Or why would anyone want to? I don't write about Stephanie Plum's (Janet Evanovich's character's) Trenton  and she doesn't write about Jude Hayes' Grand Junction. (Yes, I'm sure Janet is simply salivating to do so!) As my character Jude Hayes would say, "Geez. Go find your own muse instead of 'borrowing' someone else's."

I would never presume to enter another author's world. How can the vision of one author be congruent to another's? I even have a hard time understanding collaboration on a particular work of fiction.  Perhaps it's normal for screenwriters, as in a popular series where several writers collaborate to create an episode. That does seem to work. Even so, if you are a true fan, you can often the detect the hand of the master (writer) and note the episodes where his touch is absent--or diluted.

I can understand why dedicated readers may seek out fan fiction. We all crave our favorite authors and rush to our favorite bookseller--online or otherwise--to snap up their latest novels. Many authors only publish one book a year, however, and some readers feel that this is an interminably long time to wait. So they seek out fan fiction. But friends, the writing is just not going to be as good!

I call this the "pizza syndrome." For instance, if you live in New York--especially if you grew up here--you know what really good pizza tastes like. If you should travel to certain parts of the Great American West, such as my beloved Grand Junction, Colorado, try the locally raised beef, the excellent wines, the native peaches--but do not order pizza! Very few restaurants out West, in my estimation, can make a passable pizza pie, much less one in the same league as New York pizza. Wait until you get home, Empire Staters.

The saddest example of fan fiction occurs when an author passes away and his/her offspring picks up the deceased author's series. I've seen recent examples of this after a favorite mystery author and a favorite sci-fi/fantasy author died. In each case, a child picked up the parent's series. Oh, they are competent writers of their genres, but their writings--at least in the "universe" of the parent--are but poor shadows of the original. Perhaps they will do better with their own series. Apparently, you can pass on the pizza recipe to someone else, but it just ain't gonna taste the same, folks.

Here, from Amy Gardiner, the actual author of Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book 1, Remover of Obstacles, is a glimpse into the genuine world of Jude Hayes--the office building where her detective agency is based:

Thusly loaded up and flanked by two dogs who were pretending not to covet my breakfast, I sprinted up the steps to the old brick building that was once a school and now houses an odd mixture of commercial tenants. Owned by the town and designated as a part of the historic district, it can’t be torn down for more lucrative applications even though it’s prime realty on the main drag.

In its heyday the building was called Edmund Homer Grammar School. Now it’s just “The Homer” to those of us who took a chance and claimed spots for our businesses before the remodeling. The place was little more than rats and ruins two years ago, but the contractors did a good job on the restoration. The Homer has now been returned to its former self—not too modern, with the air of a distinguished old gentleman. I love having my office there.

The original architectural details are far from twenty-first century business vogue. There are wonderful hardwoods in the halls—now refinished to a brilliant sheen—and a truly majestic marble staircase with an elaborate banister. The day I moved into my office, Decker trotted over to the banister’s ornately carved newel post with obvious intent to christen it. I caught him just as he was lifting his leg and got a seriously dirty look for my horrified screech. The look said “What? How am I supposed to make this place home?”

Less amusing was a near-electrocution scene when the young carpenter, who was evidently unused to dealing with banks of light fixtures resembling old-style ice cube trays with metal dividers, believed the assurances of an equally green electrician who thought the power had been cut to those weird-ass lights. After a quick EKG at Valley Hospital, carpenter boy was pronounced fine.

Writing Characters: If You Knew Clicker Like I Know Clicker

It's time to get back to Jude Hayes and Grand Junction. I'm going to be doing a series of posts about writing the Jude Hayes Mysteries and escape from the cranky old lady rants that have hijacked this blog. Yes, everyone will breathe a sigh of relief, I'm sure!

All right then, let's start with characters . . .

As it happens with many authors, people sometimes ask me where I get the inspiration for a particular character. Oftentimes, they think they already know the answer. Sometimes they're sure they know the answer. As in, "A.J. Pierpont is that feisty old lady on Downton Abbey," or, as a close friend recently declared, "You're Jude."

My polite answer is usually, "Well . . . no." Writing fiction is like having a dream. I once heard Stephen King speak at an alumni dinner at our mutual alma mater, the University of Maine, where he talked about getting most of his best material from his dreams. Wow--imagine having nightmares that scary--or that lucrative! But that's not quite what I'm talking about.

If we can remember anything of our dreams upon waking, it's that the characters are usually similar to those in real life or literature, but often not exactly the same. The represent something but are not equivalent to it, as in, a symbol. Fictional characters are much the same. They are born from a combination of thoughts and experiences which may span our whole lives, or only the idle, fleeting inspiration of a moment.

After I've created a character, I sometimes think I've encountered him or her in real life--the reverse of my friend saying, "You're Jude." It seems to be one of those cases where life imitates art. Then I think about it and, well, again . . . no. He or she just reminds me of one of my characters. Ever meet someone on vacation who reminds you so much of someone you know that it's uncanny?  He or she looks like that person, has similar mannerisms and voice inflection, etc. But if you engage the stranger in conversation, you quickly discover that there are many differences. She is not exactly like your old friend or he is not so much like your favorite high school teacher, really.

That being said, over the weekend I saw someone who reminded me so much of Jude's friend Clicker. As mentioned in a previous post, I love the Olympics and spent much of this past weekend glued to the TV watching the competition from Sochi. One of the newest events is the Slopestyle snowboard competition--amazing stuff, but that's a subject for another post. Upon being introduced to gold medalist Sage Kotsenburg on the small screen, I immediately thought, Hey, he's Clicker! Indeed, Sage was sporting a "no-problem, dude" grin, baggy 'boarder clothes, a very friendly personality, and a rabid, extreme sports focus.

Then I stopped and laughed at myself, realizing my mistake. Oh sure, there's some of the snowboard star in Clicker. But he's more than just a "hey-dude" (which I think is my own moniker for this archetype). He's an extremely intelligent super-geek. Since he's always having "gnarly crashes" on his motorcycle or skateboard or snowboard, he'd probably never make it to the Olympics--though Olympians certainly have their share of such misfortunes. And he's kind of an over-aged "hey-dude" at thirty-something.

But there's also something of all the computer wizards I've ever known in Clicker. Of the friendliest people who've crossed my path--and the most laid-back. And of the truest friends in my life. Like all fictional characters, Clicker's just one big amalgamation of this writer's experiences and imagination--and channeling--definitely a subject for another post.

A fictional character is both a symbol and a unique personality. A symbol for something slightly amorphous, like the word "red." But something that is clearly defined in the author's mind--and perhaps in her copious notes, those scribbles in a cheap wire-bound notebook, in my case.

Yet at the same time, Clicker may be my Clicker--but he's also your Clicker. Just as he lives in my mind, he also lives in yours, but as a slightly different version--like the parallel universe characters in sci-fi. That's the great thing about books as compared to movies or TV. You read about a character, and your own mind and imagination provide an interpretation for you that is wholly your own, no Hollywood casting director needed. (Sadly, this is why it's often disappointing to see the movie after you've read the book.) So if I've done my job right, there is room in my character description for everyone's Clicker.

Oh, by the way, when I told someone that I was "doing research for my book" by watching the Olympics, I was only half kidding. It's just possible that Clicker may do some snowboarding in Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book Two, They Pull Me Back In.

In the meantime, here's some Clicker color from Remover of Obstacles:

The toning of the chimes announced Clicker’s arrival and I got up to hold the door open for him as he tried to negotiate the entry on crutches. His hair was sticking up all over the place under the influence of some strange-colored hair gel and he smiled his trademark crooked smile. Clicker was always happy—apparently even after becoming a human cannonball in the desert. Earphones dangled from his ears, Indian sitar music at a dangerously high volume leaking out. Clicker loves all things Indian. I suspect it was the great tragedy of his life not to be born in Mumbai or Calcutta—and worse, to have pasty-white skin, freckles, and red hair. His style of dress tended toward an offbeat mixture of surfer dude and Indian batik.

“Dudette! Thanks. The crutches are still a little gnarly with doors ‘n’ stuff.”

“I can see that. How are you, Clicker?” I moved quickly to pull out a bar stool for him and Jasmine nodded approvingly at my solicitousness. She rose to give Clicker a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“You’re moving pretty well, Clicker.”

“Jasmine-Shakti! I will soon have this crutch thing DOWN!” He illustrated with a quick pirouette. The bruises on his arms seemed to be healing quickly, already toned down from an angry purple to a fading yellow.

She gave him a suspicious look and folded her arms. “You’re laying off the motorcycle and skateboard stuff for a few months, right?”

“Oh, definitely. No riding at least until I get that soft-cast thing that looks like a dirtriding boot.”

She closed her eyes and took a big, deep breath, presumably summoning ultimate forbearance.

“’Course, I’ll have to get somebody to start up the bike for me, ‘cause all my bikes are kickers. Don’t think I can turn ‘em over. And, like, the ‘boarding thing? Not sure of the wiseness of that, ya know? Doc said there could be balance problems, maybe.” Clicker was watching her out of the corner of his eye, feigning careful consideration of his future recreational plans.

Realizing belatedly that he was pulling her leg big time, Jasmine swiped at the side of his head hissing, “Dunce!” and strode regally around the counter.

Clicker sort of slid down his crutches to collapse lopsidedly onto the proffered stool. As he did so, the messed-up cartilage in his good leg made the odd clicking sound which had birthed his nickname. Clicker’s body boasted numerous reminders of his extreme sports mishaps. He was far more beat-up than usual this time, though, I thought darkly. Time to get to work on who meant him serious bodily harm—if not death. I sat down and took a sip of coffee, thinking.

Warming Up the Car is For Lazy Sissies

In my continuing series of "neighbor rants," we come to people who insist on warming up their cars. Really, folks?! What a waste of fuel! I don't care if you waste your money, but I do care that you're idling your car and ejecting hydrocarbons into the atmosphere for NO GOOD REASON.

I can possibly understand it if you are preparing to transport an elderly or infirm person who might need to step into a warm car. I can't understand it if you are an able-bodied person driving solo who is simply too lazy to put on enough warm clothes which would make the few minutes it takes a modern engine to supply heat easily bearable.

What's that? You say you have to wear a fancy suit or thin dress to the office? So? You don't own an overcoat? You've never heard of scarves, hats, gloves, cheap-but-warm, zip-on overpants and winter boots that can be worn just until you get to the office? Lots of people exchange snow boots or running shoes for four-inch heels or wingtips when they get to their desks.

Or perhaps your argument for warming up the car has to do with ice on the windshield. Sorry, not a valid excuse. A quick search of the Internet turns up all kinds of dirt-cheap windshield covers and all-over car covers that will keep ice and snow off your car. You simply strip it away and hop in. No ice melting needed.

Then there's the old saw about getting the engine warm enough to stay running. Mechanics say "not necessary." Modern fuel injection replaced carburetors and chokes a few years ago, in case you didn't notice. It's being kind to the engine to give the oil 10-15 seconds--30 seconds max--to circulate, but then you're ready to drive. By the way, prolonged idling isn't good for your engine's long-term performance.

Another good reason for not warming up your car is that--well, it's illegal in many states. Not perhaps if you're using a remote car starter (there's another waste of money, maybe a couple hundred bucks' worth), but it is illegal if you leave the key in the ignition and the engine running with the car unattended. Yup--even for a few minutes. Be a real pain to get a ticket just because you were a lazy sissy, wouldn't it?

And that remote car starter? Not all have safety devices that prevent the car from being stolen. It'd be a much bigger pain to lose your car, wouldn't it? Please just man-up or woman-up, put on some winter outerwear, and drive already! The poor polar bears will thank you for it.

Here is my Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book 1, Remover of Obstacles, quote for the day:

Carrying my helmet and gloves, I exited down the back stairs of The Homer. My bike sat just as I’d left it parked under a cottonwood. I carefully removed the ratty, elastic-bound silverized cover to reveal my shiny blue-and-white race replica sportbike. It’s tiny, compared to the behemoth Harley cruisers, and many times faster and more powerful. It also handles like the proverbial dream.

I stopped to admire it for a moment, a huge smile on my face. It really is my baby. Let the soccer moms lavish their attention on the juvenile occupants of their minivans, this work of artistic and mechanical perfection is all the baby I’ll ever need—except for my puppies, of course. Not unlike a child, it receives lots of my attention and discretionary income. To each her own, I figure. I’m clueless and clumsy around kids. Thank goodness the world has a place for both my sister Stacy—who deserves a PhD in childraising for nurturing three awesome kids—and me—Auntie Sportbike Chick.

I rolled up the cover and stuffed it into a small bag behind my seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and zipped up my jacket. The helmet went on next, cinched down under my chin. Fingers wiggled into gauntleted leather gloves and I was finally ready.

Dependable machine that she is, the Suzuki started right up, with an understated thrummm of power, sounding like nothing so much as an airplane’s turbine engine lighting off. I spent a moment admiring the harmonics of the exhaust note echoing against the brick walls. Even so, my bike is not loud. Impressive horsepower can be had without excessive and inconsiderate noise. Time to ride.

Flu Shots are Making Someone Rich

I haven't gotten a flu shot in many years and I don't plan to break the pattern this year. As far as I know, I've never had the flu. Oh, I've had nasty colds, bronchitis, and even pneumonia, but not influenza. I am not a believer in the flu vaccine. There have been too many problems with it over the years. I'm of the opinion that it does far more harm than good. If it works for you--even if it's only the placebo effect in operation--well and good. But I personally would want way more information about the vaccine before I would consider putting it in my bloodstream, and that information is both elusive and contradictory.

There are conspiracy theorists out there who believe that someone is slipping us something untoward in the vaccine. It kind of makes you wonder. Remember when the CIA used average citizens as guinea pigs? Flu shots are practically pushed on you gratis from every available outlet. I find it especially creepy to see flu vaccine dispensed at a supermarket. Killed germ strains in a place where food is stored and sold? That bothers me.

The medical powers-that-be warn that flu vaccine may cause "a mild flu-like reaction." Oh, but it might prevent you from contracting the flu. Maybe. Possibly. Where are their definitive clinical trials and copious evidence of the vaccine stopping the flu in its tracks? Those have been noticeably lacking. Besides, I don't get the flu and I don't want "a mild, flu-like reaction." That makes about as much sense as having a double mastectomy because you might get breast cancer. I'd rather take care of my body and its wonderful immune system and hope for the best. I'm quite sure that's the best way to avoid the flu. There are tons of pathogens swirling around us all the time. The only thing between us and them is our immune system in robust operation. Medicines may help, but ultimately, the body protects and heals itself.

I am a fan of natural remedies and holistic healing. As a kid, I was raised on homeopathy and went to an M.D. specializing in homeopathy. I'm also a believer in antibiotics--especially after one helped snap me out of pneumonia when my doctor told me I was about three days away from dying. I've had MRIs and CT scans which have yielded useful results. So I am not opposed to "modern medicine." I am opposed to blindly taking any drug or submitting to any test or procedure without researching it and making as informed a decision as possible.

I don't stand in awe of doctors and hospitals anymore, either. I've seen them make too many horrible mistakes and dispense some really bad advice. But I've seen some dedicated, wonderful doctors, too. My current family practice doctor is one of these. Also on the good list is a nurse practitioner who probably saved my life. All I'm suggesting is to apply an old feminist slogan to medical care, including the wisdom of getting a flu shot: "Question Authority."

So the next time some advertiser--even a "public service" advertiser, or a drugstore chain, or a vaccine manufacturer/distributor, tries to cajole, badger, shame, or intimidate you into getting a flu shot you don't really want, ask yourself why. What do they stand to gain? Or, as my private investigator main character Jude Hayes might say, "Follow the money." Somebody makes a lot of it from those killed germs being pumped into your body.

Jude Hayes Mysteries quote of the day coming right up:

She paused at an open door, checking the number, and I caught up to her. No name was visible. We stepped gingerly inside, where only the first of two beds was in use. A woman a little older than me dressed in plain blue scrubs sat in a chair next to the bed. Her red hair almost matched that of the patient. The skin on his bare arms was a purple mess and an IV dripped into his arm. The woman turned at our approach. “Jasmine! Jude! Thanks for coming over. The patient’s doing pretty well. If we can keep him off that damn dirt bike, it’s all good.”

The word “hippy” came to mind when I looked at Clicker’s mother, but I knew her to be one of the most senior nurses at the hospital. She was also a regular fixture at the local Farmer’s Market selling organic vegetables and trying to organize the farmers around various initiatives in her spare time.

“Hey, Sylvie,” I sketched a little wave.

“Dudettes! Clicker grinned sloppily at us, undoubtedly under the influence of some serious pain meds. “Glad you came by. I had a gnarly crash.”

In addition to the visible bruises, Clicker’s right leg was elevated in a plaster cast and his right hand was bandaged. There was a small cut over his right eye. “So, I see,” I murmured. “Trying to get a little bit too much big air, Clicker?”

“Oh, no, Dudette, not that much. Fer sure. Some lame dude crashed into me. Not my fault, this time.”

Jasmine was obviously trying not to tear up. She swallowed hard, then smiled determinedly. “You don’t look so bad, Clicker. When Sylvie called, I thought you were really hurt.” We all chuckled a little. Clicker looked like he’d been playing Mad Max demolition derby in the desert—and losing big. He also looked like he was getting sleepier by the minute. The happy syrup was doing its work.

                                              --Remover of Obstacles

You're Not Crazy Because You Saw a UFO

Why is it surprising to anyone that there are objects in the sky that cannot be readily identified? And why do we always assume that they are extraterrestrial visitors? The acronym UFO obviously means just that:  an unidentified flying object. Could be anything. A large bird we've never seen before. Something a prankster launched from his backyard. One of the military's new toys they'd really prefer we hadn't seen. A new type of kitplane that someone built in her garage. The ever-popular weather balloon. A meteor. A radio-controlled model that flies. The International Space Station or another satellite in orbit. And yes, possibly "some friends from out of town," as Tommy Lee Jones' character "K" referred to extraterrestrial visitors in the comedy Men in Black.

But if they are genuine ETs, so what? That's right, so what?! Eventually, someone out there will stumble over our corner of the universe. You only have to watch one cable science program to realize how vast our own modest galaxy is, let alone the known universe. Remember the dear departed Carl Sagan intoning "billions and billions of stars"? Yep. And there are way more than that. How can anyone think it's surprising that  some of those many stars have captured planets that house life smart enough to make the trip to our little mudball here in the Milky Way? Philosophical and religious implications aside, it's simple statistics.

                                     --Composite image from the Hubble Space Telescope


I personally think we've had ET visitors here since before Homo sapiens showed up--and pretty much continuously since. To my knowledge, I've never seen anything weird and spooky in the sky or landed in my backyard or a neighboring field, but I believe--too many ordinary and rational people have reported everything from orange orbs hovering near the back deck to giant black triangles overhead to full-blown alien abductions--who am I to say they are wrong?--I was not, after all, there.

I've spent a far amount of time in airplanes at night with a big window in front of my seat. Very disappointing that I've never seen anything unusual. I actively watched, but nothing novel appeared. I scan the skies every night when I walk the dog. Nothing. Something like one hundred million people have seen UFOs over the last sixty years or so, but I am not one of them. Seriously annoying. Maybe the ETs know they're preaching to the choir and don't bother to visit me.

It's probably just as well that I never saw a UFO in the course of my professional flying career. Historically, pilots have been severely ostracized for making UFO reports. Many have lost their jobs and been virtually driven out of the profession--as in, "You'll never work in this business again," to quote a Jimmy Buffett song. I never did understand why reporting something weird in the sky would make you seem crazy to the powers that be--unless perhaps our dear government might have some reason for discrediting those pilot reports as the hallucinations of an unstable intellect. Better get that loony out of the cockpit quick! He's had a mental breakdown. Pull his medical certificate and call a shrink!

Well, friends, sure as death and taxes, one of these days--assuming we don't blow ourselves off the planet or initiate another type of extinction event--or a near-earth asteroid does it for us--we're going to get a very public visit from the little green men that NO ONE can ignore. I just hope we don't make complete, slobbering fools of ourselves when it does happen. To quote K from Men in Black again:

J:  Why the big secret? People are smart. They can handle it.

K:  A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it.

                                            --Men in Black 

Here's another quote, this one from Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book One, Remover of Obstacles:

It was near closing time and I knew the dogs would be getting fidgety. Besides, I figured I’d learned about all I could from Clicker for the moment. I had no intention of breaking my word to Tommy about steering clear of the DBC mess, and should there indeed prove to be a link with this incident, I’d back off. But I was worried about Clicker, and I thought I should nose around enough to find out if he was still in danger. Problem was, how to do that discreetly. 

I paid for my statue and said my good-byes, leaving Clicker to regale Jasmine with a spirited description of some elaborate sci-fi realm he’d visited in gamer land. She pretended interest. Loony or not, he was our loony, and the world would be a much bleaker place without that daffy grin and someone to call you “Dudette.”