BrandG

For the past couple of years, I’ve been a semi-pro writer. Stylistically speaking, I’m still learning, but I think I write well.

A few weeks ago, I readied my novel, Tumbler, for publication. I’d put it through two rounds of full edits already, and I was pretty happy with it. It had a few rough spots, but I couldn’t see any way out of that. It was too slow at the beginning, but the beginning set the tone. The beginning explained the backstory. The characters needed that beginning. And yeah, the writing felt a little stilted in places, but what could I do?

A publisher posted an opportunity that this novel would be perfect for, one that wouldn’t last forever. I put together my submission, and was dotting the ‘I’s and crossing the ‘T’s. Then another podcast author, Patrick E. McLean, asked if he could read it.

Well, Patrick was a fully professional writer, and even teaches classes on writing, so I figured, why not? I was curious about his take on the story.

Twenty minutes later, he sent me a three-page critique which boiled down to three things.
1) Cut the first three chapters. Go directly to the conflict.
2) Cut adverbs and adjectives.
3) Write only in the active voice.

For the tiniest moment, a fraction of a second, I felt like railing against him. How could he understand what I was doing in just twenty minutes? How could he fully grasp the story in that short a time?

But I’m the first to admit when I’m wrong, so I read on. More than just giving advice, he rewrote a passage to show me how he would have done it. And dammit, that passage was good! All he did was reorganize and cut some, and the passage was improved enormously.

But how could I go back and rewrite the whole damn book? That would take weeks! And there was this publisher to think of. How long before that opportunity disappeared?

There was a long moment where I tried to decide to submit what I had, or take the time to truly improve it. Eventually, I realized that I had to submit the best story I had, or I might lose the opportunity anyway.

So now I’m editing again. I’m on Adverb Patrol, going through every single sentence, removing the passive voice, making sure the story still flows without the first three chapters. Yeah, it’s taking time, but I think it’ll be worth it. I’m getting better at spotting the adverbs and unnecesary adjectives. I’m getting better at cutting through chatter to get to the action (whether internal or external).

But here’s the coolest part. I recently started a zombie short story as a way of flexing my writer muscles (rather than just as an editor). In one night, I wrote eleven-hundred words. When I was done, I was shocked by what I’d written. It was really good. It was action-based, with good characterization, and no passive voice. I mean, yeah, it was only a couple of pages, but they were better pages than I’d ever written, the first time around.

So I owe Patrick E McLean more than thanks for helping me improve my book. I owe him thanks for helping me improve my writing. When I get the money and opportunity, I’m signing up for that guy’s class. His twenty minutes vastly improved my craft. What could he do with an hour?

We’ve been getting some questions about the EP Legal fund, so I wanted to clear up some things, and ask you for some help with a question.

Now that the fund has gone over $3000, people have started asking what we would do with extra money, after the legal bills are behind us. The ISO is supposed to be paying for legal costs, but he has never done that. If he ever does reimburse us for those costs, we will apply them to the legal bills first, and any donations made would be considered on top of that. So, if the ISO paid his part, it may be possible that we would end up with money left over.

Let me say first that we aren’t keeping it. Allie and I are very big on self-sufficiency, and it’s been hard just to ask for this help. We could not abide the idea of making a profit off of this.

So, with that idea out of the way, where should the money go? My first instinct was to take the overage, and give it back to everyone who donated, commensurate to their donation amount. However, after mentioning that plan to a friend, he said that I would be turning a gift into an investment, and not a good one at that. He argued that giving a portion of the money back would be cheapening the kindness and generosity of the gift.

We briefly considered using that money for a trust fund for the EP, but that feels too much like taking a profit. I mean, yes, the money would still be going directly to EP to help with college, a home, or something like that, but it wouldn’t be getting used for it’s original intent.

So, here’s what I’m currently leaning toward. If there are any overages, we will make a donation to a charity supporting children of abuse. We haven’t picked one out yet, maybe you know of one? Maybe you could help us decide in the comments section below?

Also, a donator asked us how he could set up a regular subscription to the ChipIn fund. . . wow. I’m struck dumb just by the generosity implied in the question. You are all too kind, and we cannot thank you enough.

With that said, I have no idea how to set up a regular subscription on Chipin. I looked it up on the site, but didn’t see any reference. Googling also turned up no helpful results. Have any of you ever heard of that?

Update: We have found out that you cannot subscribe through Chipin, but you can subscribe through PayPal. Unfortunately, Paypal won’t let you set up your own amount, so I put these separate buttons together.

$20 USD per Month	$40 USD per month	$60 USD per month
$80 USD per month	$100 USD per month

Update #2: I just heard back from one of the larger contributors, saying that while they have nothing against charities, this money is intended to go to the EP. So, since the overall intent was to support the wishes of the contributors, we’re putting the trust fund back on the table. Sound off in the comments as to where you think the overage (if any) should go.

People have been asking about what’s happening with Allie and the EP, and legally Allie can’t tell you what’s happening, because I might find out. So, it falls to me to explain our situation.

Allie’s been dealing with an incredibly difficult divorce for the past two years. Her ex swore that he would divorce her and make sure she never saw her daughter again. It’s worth pointing out that he is not the father of the child, and has spent the last six years punishing Allie for that fact. He has never been able to have a child of his own, and so he swore he would take Allie’s child away. This is not the story of two people coming to terms with irreconcilable differences. This is the story of a Dickensian villain who will go to comical lengths to ruin the life of another.

Allie tried to make the divorce cheap and easy by negotiating with him over e-mails (she couldn’t talk to him on the phone because he spent the entire time insulting, browbeating, and shouting at her). While she was working on a fair solution, he hit us with a court summons. Surprise divorce. You have fifteen days to get a lawyer three thousand miles away to represent you, or you lose everything.

We had to scramble then. Lawyers are expensive. California is expensive. But we managed. We had to go into debt to do it, but we got representation.

After that came the stalling. Allie’s ex didn’t want the court to know how much money he had, so he refused to provide documentation. When we finally got to the custody hearing, the judge ruled in our favor. 75-25. Her ex got three months visitation. The judge saw right through her ex, and awarded Allie far more in Child Support than she had ever asked for during her negotiations with him.

So then came more stalling. He didn’t pay the Child Support, he didn’t provide paperwork. And we were still paying for the lawyer. It took so long that our lawyer actually became a judge, while his lawyer dropped him (allegedly over non-payment).

In 2009, the ex skipped his Thanksgiving visitation. When asked about it, he refused to respond. We were perplexed, but couldn’t think of anything to do about it. We just enjoyed the occasion together as a family.

Then he demanded more time over Christmas. We had a new judge and somehow the ex’s new lawyer convinced the judge that he should have a week after Christmas, which would take her out of kindergarten for a week. Truancy is an issue here in Maryland, but the judge responded, “Well, it’s not like she’s in college.”

We did as we were told, and when we dropped her off for the visitation, her ex was all smiles and kindness. At other visitation handoffs, he had made a scene, sometimes dragging the wailing child away from us. But not this time. No shadow of his hateful spite this time. We knew he was up to something, but what could we do?

When she came back, he was all sunshine and friendliness again. We tried not to dwell on it, tried to just be ready for whatever would come, but we weren’t ready. We couldn’t be ready for that.

He called for an emergency hearing on custody. They wouldn’t say why until the day before the hearing, when we were told that Allie had to fly out there immediately. He was demanding full custody because of abuse. He had used his extra week of visitation to take the EP to a therapist. As he stood over her shoulder, the EP agreed that we spank her until she goes to sleep at night.

Now, before we go any further, let me just say that we have used physical discipline before. We don’t beat the child, but we have, on occasion, needed to spank her. At the same time, we have never spanked her before bed. But she is confused, and he scares her. She wanted to please him, and so this six-year-old lied for him. It’s not her fault. He is using her like a game piece, without regard for her at all.

Nonetheless, it was out there. The therapist judged that she was abused after talking to her for one hour, with the father in the room. Allie had to fly out there, had to answer the charge. Our lawyer was flustered. She was new to this, and didn’t know what could happen.

I was left out here, with the EP. I tried to get along, going through my day, making sure the EP knew that everything was going to be okay. We went to a reading of my novel, where I did my best to pay attention and not look like I was waiting for a call. As I left, I called Allie. She was distraught, but she refused to tell me what happened. When I picked her up the next day at the airport, she said that all she could tell me was 1) The judge would not let her talk to me about the case, 2) I was not to have any contact with the EP, and 3) She was not allowed to leave the EP with anyone else. She had to keep the EP with her every minute of the day, unless she was in school.

So now I’m staying with some friends. I’m about a block away from my house, which is good, because we only have one old beat up car to share. We had to get a new lawyer because the other one was too green. So now we have a better attorney, but we’re still three years into this divorce. We’re twenty-five thousand dollars in debt. Allie’s ex still owes thousands in Child Support, and we’re barely making rent.

I know this will get better. I know that justice will be done, that we will get our little girl back from his clutches, that we will be able to stand on our own two feet again. But it’s desperate right now. We just need to get past this point.

We need help.

As a little writing exercise, I put together what I’d like to see for the ending of the book I’m currently listening to, Ravenwood, by Nathan Lowell.

Arellone knew she was close long before she saw the lights ahead. The ruts in the well-worn path grew wider, flatter. She squinted through the downpour, then checked behind her again.

Arellone didn’t like the rain. It made the ground uncertain, and muffled the sounds around her. It had been a long road, with too many stops along the way. A series of small lights flickered in front of her, obscured by tree limbs and rain.

As she approached, Arellone could see her goal. The largest, brightest lights in the town were centered on the inn. For a moment, she stopped and squelched in the road. As ridiculous as it seemed, there was still time to turn back. Even after all this, as much as she wanted to walk in, Arellone was afraid.

The others were strong, yes. She had learned from them and gained some of their strength. But they all recognized this one. They spoke of each other in reverential tones, but none of them would dare to approach this one. She was the greatest. The last.

“And after all this, you’re going to stand on her door and rust like some garden decoration. Come on, woman. One foot in front of the other.” She mouthed the words, but made no move.

Through the pelting of water around her, Arellone heard something new from behind her. Wheels and a team of horses on the road. The traffic spooked her into action and drove her legs forward into the inn.

She slammed through the door quickly, and winced at the expected attention. However, as she stood dripping in the doorway, no one paid her a glance. The room was bright and cheerful, with a dozen tables scattered throughout the large, open room. People ate and laughed and sang with one another, as women bustled with plates and drinks between them. Stairs in the back led up to a second level, and Arellone wondered if the woman was up there.

“Help you, miss?” A large man appeared beside her, with an easy, friendly gap-toothed grin. He crossed his arms and said, “From the look of you, I’d wager you want a seat by the fire.”

Arellone shied away from him for a moment, hand reaching for the dagger she secreted in a shoulder holster, under her cloak. “I, uh. I’m looking for the Ravenwitch.”

The man’s smile never faltered as he blinked at her. Then he brightened, “Ah! You mean Ravenwood. No worries there, miss. You’ve found it. Let me get you a seat.” He started walking through the throng, to a table next to the central fire.

A thin old woman was wiping down the table as they approached. Arellone grabbed the man’s arm, “No. I don’t want a seat. I need to find the witch of Ravenwood. The treekeeper. The All-Mother’s will. You must have heard of her!”

The large man faced her, head cocked to one side, “No witches here, miss.” The girl deflated and started looking around for a place to sit, as the man took pity on her. “I do know who you’re talking about, though.”

Her eyes snapped back to him, “You’ve got to take me to her. I must see her.”

The man crossed his arms again, and looked pointedly at the bulge in Arellone’s armpit, “And just why is that?”

Arellone held her hands up defensively, “No. No. Nothing like that. I . . . I want to learn from her.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s not taking any new students at the moment. Besides, if she wanted you to see her, you’d have seen her by now.”

Arellone looked up at the rafters, at the upper level, but saw nothing. No piercing eyes, judging her from the dark. No dark presence sneaking up from behind. She had already been judged. Maybe it was touching the blade that lost her the chance, or maybe she’d never had a chance at all.

The thin woman finished with the table and turned to the man, snapping him with her towel, “Robert. Let the girl sit. From those boots, she’s obviously been walking all day.”

The man backed away with his hands up. “Alright, ma. I was just talking to her.” He faded into the crowd as the old woman guided the girl to the table. “Just sit yourself down and rest. You’ve had a hard journey.”

Arellone sat dumbly, slumping over the table. The old woman walked around the table, and looked at her with her head to one side. “So, let’s see what’s in your pack.”

“What?”

The woman made a come-hither motion with her hand, “Let’s see it. Dump out your pack.”

Arellone waved her off, “I’ve got coin enough to pay for my meal.”

The old woman crossed her arms over her chest, “I wasn’t looking for coin.” She took a seat across from Arellone, “I’m wondering if you carry any willowbark. Or did you figure there was willow enough in this area?”

The girl blinked at her, “Mother Fairport?”

Several responses indicated that it wasn’t enough. After all, I was getting rid of metal detectors, for crying out loud. So, okay, I could respect that. I tried to think of a way to improve them, when I got a much more extreme response. It was along the lines of, “If my child is on a flight, we need more security, not less.”

The statement itself wasn’t as surprising to me as the vehemence. There was swearing and an insinuation that it was repugnant to even think of watering down security while this child was at risk. I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting that.

It’s been almost a decade since the last successful terrorist attack on US soil. The latest attempt was dealt with by alert passengers. When it’s more likely that you’ll be struck by lightning than deal with a terrorist attack, shouldn’t we be able to see it rationally by now? (source)

So let me try something different. Let’s try looking at the emotional issue from the other side. Let’s take it to that extreme. Imagine your child was on that plane. You would want every passenger to be patted down, scanned, removed from their belongings, and required to stay in their seat while armed guards monitor the plane. Okay, maybe you consider that a little excessive, but remember, you don’t make the rules. We’re letting the most frightened among us make the rules. By that standard, this might be going easy on the passengers.

Now, imagine that it wasn’t just your child on the plane, but your whole family. Now you’re going to want that security even more, right? More than your atomic family, imagine that your whole extended family is on that plane. And all of your friends, and their families. Now put everyone else on the plane. Imagine that the whole world is on that put on that plane, after being patted down, having their belongings sequestered, and being forced to sit as armed guards monitor them. When you see it like that, it seems like overkill. It seems Orwellian.

Because, when we allow people to take away freedoms, we take them from everybody, not just the bad guys. We treat all people like criminals, just in case.

To a certain logical extent, there’s good reason for this. Nobody really needs a grenade in their carryon. But these questions are a grey area. How much is too much? Somewhere out there, there’s someone who believes they really do need a grenade in their carryon.

So we discuss it. We look at the past and see what worked and what didn’t. We have to fight to keep fear out of it, because fear is the tool of the wicked. We have to be smart. We have to think. If we really love our children, we have to fight to make the world safe without taking away their freedom.

So here’s the most emotionally charged thought in the post. I don’t want my child to grow up thinking that Bin Laden can take away her freedom.

I was recently given the chance to do a monologue on Quirky Nomads. I get to play a benevolent, oppressive father reviewing his microphone purchase. You can find it here.

We finished the Tumbler podcast in early November, and NaNoWriMo just wrapped up. That means we’re ready to move on to the next stage of publishing.

Actually, I should probably go over my stages of publishing. These are a guideline that I use to make sure I know what I’m doing, and don’t ever languish on one story, letting it slip through procrastination.

So here are the stages:

1. Write the book. Well, duh. The only novels I’ve ever written were done over NaNoWriMo, and cleaned up afterwards, so November is the best time to start this process. It’s worth pointing out that it doesn’t end on December 1. I usually don’t finish the story by the end of NaNoWriMo, so it usually takes a few more months.
2. Book art. Seem too early? It isn’t. You’re going to commission someone with talent to spend time on creating a book cover that completely describes your book. It needs to sell itself, and you’re going to be stuck with it for a long time. This is worth giving the artist time to do it right. This is worth putting time into yourself. It’s going to take a long time to get it right, and it’s something you can do while you’re still writing the book. So, do this in parallel with the writing if you can, but whatever you do, don’t forget it.
3. Wait. At least a month. Don’t even look at the book. This will sound like procrastination, but it isn’t. This is to let the book settle, to get some distance from it, so that when you come back, you do so as a fresh read. If you need to, set a calendar reminder or something.
4. Edit. Go through the entire book at least once. The easy things like grammar and spelling should be fixed as you go, but also pay attention to pacing, theme, character, stuff like that. Those things will often call for a second edit.
5. Podcast. Break up the story into 2500-word chunks, and start recording those as a podiobook. Don’t do “story so far” bits, and don’t put too much padding into the intro/outro. Just get it recorded as eloquently and simply as possible. Then AND ONLY THEN should you submit it to Podiobooks.com. There are almost no benefits to serializing your story. Trust me, Evo will thank you. It’s easier to fix a problem in all of them at once, than it is to fix them as you go.
6. Start on the next book. I know, I’m putting this right in the middle of working on the previous, but that’s life. This process is going to take months or years of your life, and you can’t stop writing just so you can coddle a book to success. You need to be able to work on more than one project at a time, putting a little time into each one every day. So, go ahead and start the next book now.
7. E-Books – your first chance at making money. Go to Smashwords and submit your story to them. It’s easier than you think, and when you’re done, your book is available in a dozen different formats. You get a little marketplace for your work, and it’s a generally good way to make the e-book available.
8. POD – This is where you start selling actual paper copies of the book. I haven’t felt it yet, but I’m really looking forward to that moment when I’m holding a real printed copy of my book in my hands. Also, this step is where you get ISBN numbers and start selling the book with a real retailer – Amazon, B&N, something like that. Probably only online.
   Right now, I’m looking at CreateSpace. Some people like LuLu or WordClay. I don’t have enough experience to say which is better. If you’ve tried them, let us know which one you like in the comments.
9. Get an agent. I know, it seems a bit late in the game for this. And obviously, if you’ve already got an agent, you can skip this step as well as #7 and #8, I suppose. The reason I leave this until the end is that I have very little faith in the current publishing model. Unless you’re a breakout star, you’re not going to get enough money to make writing a full-time job. Still, we never turn down an avenue of publication. So send out query letters, give them sample chapters, thank them even when they reject you (because that’s what your mother taught you). Don’t hold your breath, though. It’s a cutthroat business, and no one takes chances unless they think it’s a guaranteed win.
10. Get to promoting. Go to conventions, start writing a blog, become active on Twitter and Facebook. Friend people, chat, write about what you’re doing and thinking. And as often as you can, without being a nuisance, tell people where they can find your book. Tell people about the fun you had writing it, the parts you enjoyed, the inside jokes, the current status. Start contests, share promos. Find new ways to give away your book. Remember, the goal isn’t to squeeze as much money as possible out of the populace. The goal is to get your book into the hands of every single person on Earth.

So that’s it. Here’s the kicker. You never leave Stage 10. Promote your stories, all of them, whenever and wherever and however you can. You’ll find new distribution venues (did I mention making your book into an App for the Apple store? How about serializing your book through DailyLit.com? Yeah, there’s a lot of ways to do it), and you’re going to want to use them all.

In case you’re wondering, I’m currently on Stage 7 for Tumbler. Here’s all the ways you can currently find it:

Podiobooks.com. Free audiobook reading here.

SmashWords. You can buy the e-book for just six dollars here.

I just realized something. I mean, it just hit me out of the blue. In a few years, my little girl is going to start reading. When she does, I’m going to be able to show her something wonderful.

Don’t get me wrong. At six years of age, she reads a lot. She reads signs, posters, headlines, all sorts of things. But put her in front of an actual book, and she loses all attention. I think she’s daunted by the enormity of the task, and doesn’t think she can make it all the way through a book.

But that will change. She will start reading more, and she’ll learn the lessons we’re trying to teach about how books can be amazing. Once she gets to the Treasure Island stage, the Nancy Drew point, call it what you will. Once she gets to the point where she reads for pleasure, I can show her my book.

By that time, Tumbler will be available in stores, and I’ll have a copy on my bookshelf, alongside better writers. When she asks for another story, I’ll hand her Tumbler and say, “Well, here. If you want, you can read my book.”

I don’t care if she likes it. I don’t care if she finishes it. The fact that someday she will see a book on a bookshelf, written by someone she knows, will be enough.

When I was a kid, I didn’t know anybody famous. I saw writers as learned men, lettered and skilled in the craft of writing. People who could form art out of words in a way no normal human could. I wrote stories, of course, but I never kidded myself to think that I was a real writer. They were an elite class. They went to college, and got PHd’s in writing. They all quoted the Bible in Greek. They knew how to wind symbolism into plot, while still keeping with the three acts. There were all these rules about how to write, and it would take years to learn them all. I knew that I could never reach that level, and it seemed silly to try.

But my child is going to know that it is possible for normal people to write novels. My child is going to grow up around people who write, record plays, capture images, and make movies for a living. I may not hang with the Hollywood A-List, but my child is going to know that real people do make art. And that’s a staggering thing.

She is never going to think that something’s out of her reach, because she’s going to be surrounded by people who constantly reach. She’s going to know people who create, write, capture, and reveal art. She’s going to know that some of them are amazing, and some are just good. She’s going to know that some people make art full time, while others only manage it in their off-hours. And in each of those faces, she is going to see the certainty that what they’re doing is worth it.

There may be better lessons to teach her, but right now, I can’t think of any.

This is the first half of one chapter for a project that I’m just starting. It’s a Steampunk 1984. If you could, please give it a look and tell me what you think of it. I have some reservations about this story, so I’d like to see if you share them.

I wake to the burnished bronze light of the rising sun. I squint into the morning without moving, feeling that first shock of each morning that reminds me where I am. The hammock holds me tight against the skin of his majesties airship, the Liberty, and as I look at the city stretching out below me, I am not afraid.

I hear the drin-drin noise of Uncle Jack’s announcement, and roll over in my hammock. The entire skin of the liberty is made of opti-post material, which shuttles immense, colored beads along hundreds of lines. In and out at a ridiculous pace, the moving beads shuttle forward and back, making the airship skin into a giant display. The beads move all the time, clacking into place and chattering all night like an immense abacus. When I close my eyes it sounds like night insects. That helps me sleep.

Above me, I see my neighbor stretch in his hammock, and I remember that Uncle Jack will be waking all of us for our shift. He is a large man, larger than one normally sees in New London. He lies face-down in his hammock, and I can see where the ropes have pulled his lips into a sleeping sneer. Spittle drips from his netted hammock, drops past my head, and continues hurtling earthward at a ridiculous speed. The man is dirty and slovenly, and for just a moment, I envy him his excess of meals. But as soon as the thought comes to me, I smile it away. No one gets an excess of meals. Uncle Jack sees to that.

The drin-drin noise becomes louder, and I’m suddenly afraid that others will hear it. They may consider me slothful, and needing discipline. I crawl out of the hammock, grabbing the rope attached to the airships skin. As I vacate the hammock, the alarum ceases, and I look around me to see if anyone notices. Like me, dozens of people are climbing out of their hammocks, stretching, and hanging on to the skin of the Liberty. The skin of the airship curves beneath me, and I see hundreds rising for the days duties. I look out at the city, into the copper sky that comes just before the sun. Rooftops and rafters crowd the sprawling city beneath me, housing the ordinary people. They will be getting up, pulling on their grubby coveralls, and preparing for another day’s labor. I feel for them, but only a little. Every man has his place, and there are surely those of nobility who would look down upon me with disdain. I smile at the thought. It will be a good day. Uncle Jack will see to that, with my help.

I reach for the seam, and behind it, I feel a cold iron rod. I grab that small part of the airship’s skeleton, and let go of the rope as I begin to push between the airship’s ballast bags. As I step inside, my foot slips on the unseen stair, and I drop nearly three feet before catching the step in my armpit. I wrench my shoulder badly, pain shooting through my right side, as my left arm holds tight to the iron bar. Profanity leaps unbidden to my lips, and despite the pain, I clamp it down for fear of attracting unwanted attention. My fears are unfounded, however. Though there were many in the hammocks around me, at this moment, none is available to assist me. I am pressed between two massive bags of air, holding onto a stair with one arm, and the steel skeleton of the airship with the other. I am alone, and cannot see or hear anyone nearby or able to help.

I look down now, and it suddenly occurs to me. What if I should fall? Surely I could not survive it. Would it even be possible to fall? But even as the thought enters my mind, I shake it off easily. No one has ever fallen off the skin of the Liberty. Uncle Jack sees to that. He protects us always, and watches us to ensure our safety. I kick at the bags of air on either side of the step as I try to gain purchase and climb up to a sitting position. Even as I’m dragging my inflamed arm up, I smile, realizing that it was surely Uncle Jack who put the step there for me to grab on to.

I push past the airbags, and emerge into Liberty City. The interior of the Liberty is lit by thousands of tiny, individual gas lamps, creating a flickering, bright constellation along the surface of the interior. Shops, factories, cafeterias, schools, all carpeting the lower half of the ship’s skin. The stars shine on the outside, but only at night. Inside of the Liberty, the night sky flickers below, like a dark reflection of the outside world. Some buildings hang off the skeleton at an almost horizontal angle, stacking one upon another. The prime real estate, though, is the area at the bottom, where factories churn night and day, gathering fuel for fires, water for power, and turning out one necessary cog after another.

Along the ribs run a wide path which turns into a staircase as it curves upward, and then merges with a wide rope ladder system that carries people to the uppermost buildings. It is this rope system that I cling to with my good arm. I count on it to convey me to my assigned sleeping quarters on the skin of this marvel of modern living.

I climb further up the ladder, and shimmy over to a building entrance attached to the side of the Liberty’s skin. The cafe is cheap metal and thin wood, just strong enough to hold the patrons, provided they are careful where they step. A flywheel in the center of the room spins wildly and keeps the stuffy air moving. I hear clanking from behind the counter as dish after dish is removed, reheated, cooled, replaced. I walk to a counter, and a tray hisses into place in front of me. Pneumatic engines keep the tray in line with me as I stumble along the counter, reaching in to pick my breakfast out. I favor my bad arm, and reach awkwardly, one piece at a time. A tired gray sandwich, some yellowed slices of apple, and a glass of warm milk will be enough for me today. In my mind, I tick off the points each is worth, compared to the generous allotment Uncle Jack gifts me with, for my hard work and good behavior.

I take my tray over to the table where my friends stand. The cafe is not for eating in, and Uncle Jack does not promote sloth. As such, we all stand at the tables, to show respect and to discourage idleness.

At the high table, my friends stand quietly, staring down into their food. The short, bald man to my left keeps his elbows at shoulder level while he quietly eats. His dented spectacles glint crazily off of the only gas lamp in the room. To my right, a large, barrel chested man holds his arms close as he tries to manipulate a glass of lukewarm tea that is clearly too small for his massive hands. As I set down my tray, he jogs my elbow, and searing pain shoots through my side. I cry out, and as I stumble, he grabs for me, taking my bad arm in his meaty grip. I swipe at him with my good arm, “Gods, Julius! Let me be!” as I tumble to the floor.

His booming baritone voice is quieted for the small room, “Are you . . . what ails you, friend?” He holds his hands up, showing his compliance, while still bending down to offer help.

I roll over onto my good side, and begin to pull myself up, “It’s no matter. Took a tumble on the stair this morning.”

He frowned, “You should have it seen to. You’re painting that shirt.” He points at my side, and I see a red pattern beginning to form along my ribs, underneath my arm.

I pull my arm close and shake my head, “No more than a scratch, surely. I’ve no time to be checked today.” Then as I reach for an apple wedge, another thought strikes me. “Blast! This is sure to ruin my shirt. And I’ve only two others to last me until my next gift.”

The bespectacled man next to me spoke through a mouth full of scrambled eggs, “Ask Uncle Jack. Extreme circumstances. He’ll see you right.”

I shake my head, “No. I’ll not bother him. We all make do as best we can with what we have. I’ll just see to it that I am meticulous in my washing.” I try to make a big show of how patriotic I am. I try to make sure they know I’m not a threat before continuing.

I take the sandwich in my good hand, and, as I bring it up to my lips, ask, “I say, have any of you a spare watch spring?”