There’s a great article over at Dear Author about Amzon’s tiff with IPG. This angle is not talked about much – I know I’m leery of Amazon’s bullying tactics, but I also know for sure that I’m not going to pay $17 for an ebook. Publishers have got to be reasonable about this.

Amazon goes to far in the other direction, of course, by offering ebooks for $0.99 or just a couple of dollars. I am willing to pay $6 to $8 for an ebook of normal novel length. I figure if the trade paperback costs $8, the ebook should be around $5 or $6.

I am both a reader and an author. I do not want to give my novels away for free or for just a couple of dollars. I spend a year or more my life writing a novel, and I pay others to edit it, do cover design and ad design. I deserve a reasonable royalty in payment, just like any other artist. But I would never consider gouging my readers by demanding they pay an exorbitant amount of money for my book. This is what the publisher are doing, and I think it’s wrong.

Dear Publishers: What Have You Done for Me Lately?.

On Tuesday, I will have an interview up at Chris Henderson’s blog, http://thewritechris.blogspot.com/

Chris blogs about writing, books, and writers. Stop by and see what it’s about!

In honor of Thomas Andrews’ birthday, I am giving away a signed copy of The Time Travel Journals: Shipbuilder. And the winner is:

Donna Schulze of Oakdale, New York

Congratulations, Donna! And thank you to all for entering.

Today marks the 139th birthday of Thomas Andrews. I hope that my last few posts have given you a better idea of the kind of man he was. Yes, my posts are all fiction, but they are based on the characteristics documented elsewhere. For a true eulogy of the man, read Shan Bullock’s biography, Thomas Andrews, Shipbuilder. It’s free online, here.

Below is another cut scene from the first draft of The Time Travel Journals: Shipbuilder. This Austen-esque scene is one of my favorites. I was sorry to see it go, but it did not further the plot at all. Still, it shows a side to Thomas Andrews that I never had space to explore in the book. This one is called:

Tom Entertains

The lights in Ardara House shimmered through the early gloom as Tom drove over the rhododendron-lined lane after a disappointing loss in the last cricket game of the season. The moon was supposed to be full when it rose later, but would remain behind clouds tonight, and as Tom climbed out of the car, he paused to watch the tree tops wave against the blowing clouds. A good autumn storm for the weekend. Disappointing for some, but Tom secretly enjoyed storms at Ardara. The occasion would bring back memories of lying snug in bed while the elements did their best to tear down the huge, ivy-covered stone house.

The moment he opened the door, he was assailed by a piano, a barking dog, running feet and childish laughter, all coming from various rooms. Nephews, nieces, cousins—they all came as often as possible, to play in the fields and fish in the river, pick flowers, help in the garden and pester Cook. Not so often in cool weather, though, when most activities had to be kept indoors. Tonight’s houseful of children was a treat, although he expected the Law (in the form of his mother) to descend shortly, instilling calm with a disapproving brow. The children usually stayed calm for about fifteen minutes before forgetting again, but that was part of the fun.

His arrival was noticed almost as soon as he came in the door. The piano was immediately stilled, but all other noise increased exponentially, as cries of “Uncle Tommy,” “Cousin Tommy,” caused him to brace himself against the onslaught of children and dogs. There was much hugging, petting, and swinging through the air as he greeted them all, his great laugh encouraging them to louder antics in their efforts to be the first to tell him something, anything.

There were no less than four children perched on his back, arms, and head when his mother and sister descended the staircase, scattered the brood, and planted kisses on his cheeks. Various parents put in appearances to help quiet the children, and soon everyone was in the parlor and they all set about the urgent task of catching up with each other.

Home. His favorite place in the world. True, often during dinner, he had to endure the torture of the family’s half-teasing, half-serious attempts to decide on a wife for him or ply him with suggestions for winning a particular girl. This happened fairly often, although he frequently insisted his younger brothers get equal time. Since Willie was not yet 20, and James was dividing his law practice betweenDublinandBelfast, they simply ignored his request, never missing a beat in their discussion. The best solution was to stay jolly about it, join in the laughter or groan when expected, and eventually, they would tire of the game. His mother, perhaps out of empathy, seldom joined in these discussions, but when it came down to it, she was the one Tom had to keep his eye on. She knew everyone, including all the young girls who would be coming out in the next few years and would no doubt pick one of them, if Tom didn’t make his own choice at some unspecified point. Tom valued her judgment and if it came to it, he would probably marry whomever she picked. But he still hoped for love to find him and had expressed this desire to his mother, who simply bided her time in silence.

Most of the troupe scattered to their homes after dinner, although several children claimed right to spend the night with Uncle/Cousin Tommy. Tom kept it to two and they drew straws to decide. His sister was the recipient of two elated female cousins, who promised solemnly to discuss hairstyles and hats for her upcoming wedding. This gave Tom and the boys plenty to do, since it was a very serious and elaborate business to annoy girls who were discussing wedding affairs. Tom brought them over to a corner and amidst much snickering and whispers, they made plans for their attack. The girls bravely ignored them, as Nina put the younger girls’ hair up in experimental styles while they flipped through magazines to look for appropriate hats.

Shortly after the senior Andrews’ had retired for the evening, Tom and the boys were ready with their plan. Leaving little Jack to guard the girls in case they decided to make a run for it, Tom and Billy went in search of materials, in this case, shawls and the ugliest hats they could find. Stashing their loot by the stair, they beckoned Jack to them and set about getting ready. Nina and the girls rolled their eyes at each other, as they continued to ignore (or tried to) the guffaws and antics reaching them from the hall.

Soon, Tom sashayed in, wrapped in his mother’s old shawl and a flowered and feathered “hat” that would have done Queen Victoriaproud. Nina bent down and whispered to her charges, “Whatever they do, just ignore them!” The girls nodded solemnly and tightened their lips. Already annoyed, Tom noted. Perfect.

Tom turned in a circle and in a high, lilting voice (a nearly perfect imitation of Great Aunt Daisy) declared, “I just don’t know, Billy. I don’t think I have enough hair to hold this hat right. What do you think?” He turned to pose, facing the girls, who were trying their hardest to obey Cousin Nina and ignore the boys.

Billy came in, his great-aunt’s shawl dragging behind and a beflowered bowler hat perched on his head. He examined Tom with a critical eye and shook his head emphatically, holding hat to head (and flowers to hat) with an unsteady hand. “No, no, Cousin Tommy. You’re not wearing it right. The bridesmaids won’t dare wear it like that. They all have far more hair than you do, anyway. Here, let me show you.” He gestured imperiously and Tom obediently knelt before him, although first sighing imploringly in the girls’ direction. Billy reached up both hands and made a great show of trying various angles and sides, adding feathers or flowers from a stash in his pocket, and in the end, very deliberately placing the hat exactly where it had started. All the while he kept up inane chatter about the bridesmaids and hats and weather and photographers and persnickety brides–so much so that Tom was hard put not to laugh out loud himself. The kid was good, but then, he hadtwo sisters.

The girls stared hard at their magazines, not daring to look at each other as Nina calmly went on fixing their hair. Billy gazed another critical moment at his cousin, then declared his work perfect. Tom stood, beaming proudly and turned to the girls for approval. When he didn’t get it (their heads were all but buried in the magazines) he sat down beside them. “Oh, tell me what you think.” He turned his head and batted his eyelashes, as a giggle escaped littleAlice. “Billy’s right, isn’t he? Now that it’s fixed, isn’t this hat perfect for the wedding?”

Poor Daisy was rocking back and forth in an effort to not look at her elder cousin. Billy suddenly snapped his fingers, causing both girls to jump and look up. “I almost forgot! I’ve got the absolute latest, most perfect hat for the bride!” He turned to the door. “Jack, come show us!”

Jack entered grandly, the lace tablecloth trailing behind like a bridal train, and on his head, was Cook’s favorite festival day hat. There wasn’t an Andrews child alive who had not grown up with the instruction to “follow that hat” when assigned to accompany Cook to the fair. Jack was lost beneath the odd-shaped fruit and flowers that stood three feet above the hat’s rim and trailed another three feet behind. The effect was hilarious enough, but suddenly Jack paused, and posing haughtily with one hand on his hip, stated, “Something must be done about my hair. It must hold the hat up! I’m the bride and they must be able to see my face!” Nina shrieked with laughter and Tom’s roaring laugh filled the room as Daisy andAlicegiggled into their magazines. Completely upstaged, Billy bowed to the master as Jack slowly lifted a finger to push the hat’s rim up and peek out from under it.

Daisy reached over and grabbed the hat, placing it eagerly on her head. “I must try it with my new hairdo.”

“No, me!”Alicecried, reaching up to take it. A four-way struggle ensued as each child good-naturedly laid claim to the prize. After a moment, a barely recovered Tom reached in and rescued the hat, lifting it high above their reaching hands.

“Careful, me bunnies. Anything happens to this hat, do you have any idea how much trouble we’d be in?”

This brought solemn thought to each face as they all considered that and reluctantly decided it wasn’t worth it. Tom nodded in approval. “Exactly. In fact, I’d better get it back before Cook wakes up and discovers it’s gone.” He winked broadly at Nina, bade Jack bring the tablecloth, and they headed out.

It’s going on right now, over at Goodreads. To commemorate the birthday of Thomas Andrews, I’m giving away an autographed copy of Shipbuilder.

Just click over to Goodreads and hit enter. This contest is available world-wide, and continues only through February 7th.

I wanted to tell some extra stories about Thomas Andrews, in honor of his birthday on February 7. This story is a fictionalized account of a true event, documented in several sources about Mr. Andrews. It’s an oft-told story that demonstrates his natural compassion.

Hope you like it!

Young Thomas Andrews and the Kitten
Marlene Dotterer

1885
Comber, Ireland

The church hall echoed with laughter and the low buzz of voices, as people went about setting up tables and creating attractive displays for their wares. The church’s fundraising auction was due to begin in a few minutes, but when an enticing odor reached the nose of twelve-year-old Tommy Andrews, he detoured from his path. His nose led him past a pile of knitted garments  and around the Worthington clan’s groaning shelf of canned jam and honey, to Granny Harkin’s display of fresh-baked pies.

“That’s a winning table if ever I saw one,” he told the church’s oldest member, who sat rocking placidly out of the way as her great-granddaughters arranged pies on doilies. The old lady clapped her hands, too softly to produce any sound, and nodded at him. At least, he thought she nodded, by way of her head shaking with a bit more firmness than was usual.

“Which one will ye be biddin’ on, Master Thomas?”

There was no doubt in his mind. “The apple crumb,” he said, eyeing the deep golden-brown of the buttery topping, while mentally tallying up his pocket change. The bids would go high. He’d probably have to bring one of his brothers in on the deal. This was unfortunate, as it meant he’d have to share the pie with him. But half was better than none.

“Were ye goin’ somewhere with yon contraption, lad?” Granny Harkin pointed a hand at the brass horn he held against his chest. “What is that thing?”

“It’s part of a phonograph, ma’am,” Tommy said. “My uncle brought one back from London, and he donated it for the fundraiser.”

“That’s one of those sound-making machines, is it not?” Granny asked.

“Have ye heard one before, ma’am?”

Her lips pursed, as if she needed to think about it. Tommy half turned, preparing to go back the way he came. “I should be getting it over to our table, Granny Harkin. My da’s going to play some music on it before the bidding starts, Maybe you can hear it, then.”

Her head movement became more pronounced again. He was pretty sure it was a nod. “Go on with ye, lad.”

He bowed as best he could with the horn in his way, and hurried back through the crowd. As he passed a box of mewling kittens at the Brenner table, he heard his father’s voice two tables on. “Where is the lad? John, run find him…, oh, here ye are then.” His father pointed at the half-assembled phonograph on their table. “Set it on top there and hold it still, while I fasten…” his voice trailed off as he fiddled with it amid excited advice from Tommy’s younger brother, James.

Once Tommy could let go of the horn, he stepped behind the table and tugged on John’s arm. Moving his older brother farther back, away from interested ears, he started to ask about the pie, but turned his head at a sudden commotion to his right.

“We’ll never get her out! She’ll die in there!” It was six-year-old Molly Brenner, oblivious to the tears running down her face as she clung to Tommy’s young sister, Nina. Molly’s parents, along with Tommy’s mother, the pastor and several other men, were all gathered around a joint in the wall. There was a lot of head shaking-and-scratching going on.

The pastor patted Molly’s head. “Now lass, we’ll figure somethin’ out.” He peered over his glasses at Molly’s father. “Mayhap, we’ll have to tear into the wall, though.”

Exchanging a curious glance with John, Tommy slipped behind his sister and bent down to whisper in her ear. “What’s happened?”

He had whispered so he wouldn’t interrupt the adults, but Nina was nearly as distraught as Molly. She answered him loudly. “One of the kittens got scared and tried to run away. She jumped on the wainscoting, and fell into a hole in the wall. No one can reach her.

Nina’s shouting brought all the adults to silence, and in the sudden quiet, the distressed kitten could clearly be heard, demanding rescue, silence, and milk, all at once, please.

Tommy felt a pang of pity for the little thing, who surely had been overwhelmed from the noise of the crowd, and was now lost in the dark. He could see the hole, a small, ragged affair just at the joint, probably the work of mice. “I think I can get my arm in there,” he said. “Let me try.”

They let him through. His arm would fit easily, but he’d have to work blind. He peered into the hole, able to see the bulk of the kitten by zeroing in on the sound of it. It was on a beam, tucked tight into a ball, it’s tiny face fixed on the hole above it. Stepping back, Tommy slipped off his jacket and slowly lowered his arm into the hole. The kitten’s cries turned to shrieks. Molly and Nina both began to wail, and the men all crowded behind Tommy, giving advice.

He pulled his arm out and turned to the pastor. “She’s vry frightened, sir. Might be best if everyone stayed quiet and let me try to calm her down.”

“Quite right.” The pastor nodded and began waving his hands. “Everyone step back. Let’s get on with the auction, and we’ll see if Master Tommy has any luck.”

Tommy’s mother took the little girls away, and as the rest of the crowd fell back, Tommy peeked into the hole again, making tsking noises and murmuring reassurances. The kitten let him know she was not impressed with this. He kept talking, his soft voice describing the people, the pies, and how scared he knew the kitten was, but it was all going to be all right…

Behind him, the auction started with announcements. Tommy could tell the pastor had moved to the farthest part of the room, and he was grateful for that idea. John settled onto the floor under the hole, and Tommy used the opportunity to tell the kitten about the apple crumb, and how he hoped his brother would be willing to go in on it with him. At one point, he glanced down at John with an arched brow, and his brother grinned up at him, lifting a thumb to indicate he was willing. Tommy made sure the kitten knew of his good fortune.

As he murmured on, the kitten’s wails faded from a frantic screech to the normal mews of a hungry and unhappy baby. This was easier on Tommy’s ears, although his heart nearly broke at the lonely, scared sounds. Poor little thing.

He tried twice to insert his arm again, but the kitten would have none of it. Finally, the exhausted animal stopped crying altogether. The third time Tommy reached in, he was rewarded with just one cross mew. In one ear, he realized the bidding had reached Granny Harkin’s pies. John had disappeared, but Tommy was certain his brother did not have enough money on his own. Well, there was nothing for it, he told the kitty softly. There would be other pies.

He could just brush the kitten’s fur with the tips of his fingers. He did so, urging her to stand. “Come, come, come,” he murmured, and tsked again. He lost count of how many times he did this, and soon became afraid that even if the kitten did stand up, he’d never be able to feel it with his numb fingers.

But he did. First, a hot nose poked at him, then a rough tongue, followed by the nibbling of sharp milk teeth. Tommy had to force himself to keep his hand still and his voice even – sudden moves or a loud noise from him would scare the kitty and bring them back to square one.

He almost couldn’t believe it when he felt the kitten’s head under his hand. She was standing! He rubbed the head, then lunged, his fingers catching the back of her neck in the mother cat’s favorite hold. His arm cramped in protest, but he kept his grip as he stepped back, his shirt sleeve appearing in dusty inches. He had a bit of a struggle squeezing both his hand and the kitten’s head through the hole, but at last she was cradled against him, her face buried in the crook of his elbow.

The room erupted in cheers. He looked up, startled, to see everyone watching him as they clapped, while Nina and Molly jumped up and down, squealing happily. They little kitty burrowed deeper into his elbow, shaking, but silent. Tommy stroked her back and shared a grin with his mother.

“Good job, lad!” Mr. Brenner said as the clapping died out. He turned to the pastor. “I wonder, sir, if instead of auctioning off this kitty, would it be all right to let Master Tommy have her? She’s from a line of good mousers.” This last was directed to Tommy’s mother, who nodded back.

The congregation was pleased with this idea, and Tommy settled against the wall, stroking his new pet. She seemed to approve of the idea too, for he felt a tiny rumbling begin against his hand.

I’d like to post a quick reminder to everyone that my short story, The Farm, is available on Amazon Kindle. If you’re a Prime member, you can check it out for free through the lending program. For all others, it’s 99 cents.

We now resume your normal programming. Thank you for your patience.

Received a letter from Albert (Einstein) in which he expounds upon the parallel universe theory of time travel. In particular, he takes me to task – and rightly so – for sloppy nomenclature. He reminds me that this second universe is not parallel to the original one. How could it be, when its starting point is in the other universe?

(He also wrote two pages on the question of whether or not what I’ve been calling the “original” universe is in fact, original. How do we know it is not itself the result of a time travel incident in some other universe, ad infitum? The answer, of course, is that we don’t know, but I simply cannot be bothered with such an irrelevant detail. Perhaps I’ll write about that at another time.)

But back to the parallel nomenclature. In our research, Albert and I are both fond of this simple drawing:

where the first line is the original universe, and the second is, of course, our own universe. In other words, we are rightly called a tangential universe. I know this, but I have not been rigorous in insisting that others use the correct term.

I blame Casey for this. The girl is irrepressible. From the beginning, she has said “parallel universe,” which I think she got from Star Trek or something. We had so many obstacles to overcome at the beginning, that it felt cruel to pester her about such a little thing. But truly, it makes a difference.

For instance, because this universe has a point in common with the original one, I have hopes that we can someday go back there. There is much research yet to do, but I believe it has to do with the neutrinos. They are at the core of time travel, after all. And the neutrinos in this universe have a common nature with those in the original. Like cousins separated over distance, they may have a proclivity to find each other.  It is this that I hope to harness someday. After I’ve managed to invent the electron microscope, of course. We’ve advanced the technology quite a bit since arriving here, but we’re not that far along, yet.