Quality Control in Independent Publishing: Standard Operating Procedure.

(Author photo.)





















I just published ‘Horse Catcher,’ a science fiction adventure set 12,000 years in the future. Standard operating procedure is to wait, let it go through for Premium Distribution on Smashwords, and when it’s in the pipeline for iTunes, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Diesel Books, etc., modify the file slightly and convert it to HTML on my desktop. The changes are to front matter only. The variance is in minor details like taking out ‘published by Smashwords.’ I wait to publish it on Amazon. By publishing it on a Friday morning, with a little luck it pops up in the new titles during prime time Friday night.


We also wait because then we know from Smashwords’ own auto and human vetters that the formatting is okay. It’s quality control for the formatting.

Comprene vous?

When I looked at the Smashwords dashboard recently, ‘The Game,’ a science fiction short story had in fact been approved for Premium Distribution. At that point, I tweeted a link and felt comfortable about doing it. That story can now be uploaded to Amazon. I have three or four accounts, SW, Amazon, Createspace, and Lulu, where I do exclusively POD paperbacks. This takes advantage of any traffic generated by the Lulu store.

I also make paperbacks through Createspace, which automatically distribute through Amazon, in several different countries. I only use free distribution channels. I have the option of paying a fee for each title; and then the books would be available to brick and mortar bookstores through Ingram’s (as I recall.) The challenges are several. I have fifteen titles, each would require a fee, and so far the covers aren’t really up to the standards of modern professional publishing. It’s a matter of conjecture as to whether such products would generate orders. However, even a small order might cover the fee. Assuming the fee is thirty bucks, and assuming I did ten titles, the reader can understand my reluctance.

C’est la vie.

In terms of covers, the free Createspace templates are limited in terms of layout and design. The spine and back cover are equally important in selling to customers when they hold the book in their hand—which they are not going to do when buying from Amazon. However, if disappointed by the product when they actually receive it, there are forums where they can disparage it. It just takes longer, and you do get a few sales.

More default fonts would be welcome, and the ability to right-justify text on back cover copy would be nice. Createspace wants customers to avail themselves of paid services, including cover design, as I can certainly understand.

Merde.

Right now, I have the interior file of ‘The Paranoid Cat and other tales,’ all ready to go. I still need to reduce the size of the text on the present marketing image, as what I have now will impinge upon the cropping or trim area of the physical product. The proof of ‘Time-storm’ got hung up because it was sent via DHL, and unlike the post office, they can’t get into the mailboxes in the lobby. But we’ll try and track that down. I like to look the physical product over before clicking on ‘approve proof.’ It’s a matter of confidence when promoting the paperback. We’ve done some quality control. Also, before approving the proof, I plan on updating the cover image, as now the e-book image has been upgraded.

Over the next month I should be able to get caught up on one or two things, including making some more new paperbacks, and hopefully figure out what to write next.

I just tried the Apple iStore widgetmaker on my blogspot blog and it doesn’t appear to work, so I took it off again. It looked okay, but the links didn’t work, and this may require some troubleshooting.

***

I got the ‘Time-Storm’ proof copy today. It looks like this is the second shipment. One of the neighbours told me there was something stuck on the front door, but I never come in that way. Createspace says in their e-mail, ‘if you get a second one keep it,’ and that’s fine.

N’est pas?

Proofing involves a pencil and a piece of paper beside the bed. I get a glass of milk, some cookies and I just start reading. Things to look for include the drop-down to chapter titles, correct number of blank pages, and broken lines in the text as well as typos and stylistic concerns.

I’m just finishing up reading Edward Gibbon’s ‘Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,’ (the actual title is longer, but you get the idea,) and then I have four pulp thrillers to read, including Tony Hillerman, Len Deighton, and one or two others.

My next project is still so secret, even I don’t know what it is. Hopefully someone will enlighten me.

I haven’t written much in the last couple of weeks except blog posts. I’m done editing ‘Horse Catcher,’ and I have this feeling like I’m not really doing my job. It’s okay at first, but at some point it’s all talk and no action. It’s sort of irresponsible, isn’t it?

“Talk the talk and walk the walk,’ to counterfeit a phrase.

C’est dommage.

Sooner later I have to stop faking it. But I have another novel, ‘The Art of Murder,’ coming out on November 1, so at least it looks like I’m doing something. The book has been re-written five or six times. It’s been sitting for a month. As soon as I cracked it open, I began making little changes again.

I suppose that’s inevitable, really, but I still have a month until deadline. There’s nothing here I can’t handle. What’s really interesting is the contrast between editing ‘Horse Catcher,’ written back in 2008, and editing ‘The Art of Murder,’ which I wrote over the summer.

You can learn a hell of a lot about writing fiction in three or four years of effort and application. ‘Art of Murder’ is my ninth novel. ‘Horse Catcher’ was my sixth, and I have no more unpublished novels. From here on in, I’m writing fresh material.

***

I’ve been getting out of the house a bit lately and I think that’s good.

It’s a nice time of year, and a little appreciation for the outside world is okay as far as that goes.

But if this is a vacation, then I’m wasting that too.

Au revoir!

Tips for laundering money.

(Morguefile.)

The best way to launder money is very, very slowly. It can be likened to the old ‘hot water/cold water debate.’

You don’t want to find yourself in hot water, right?

Buying a bunch of shitty little things every day is better than buying one nice big thing and blowing your cover. It’s a question of quality of life, right? That’s all that really matters here.

What you need to do is to get it all into small bills. Using a hundred at a roadside lemonade stand will just draw attention to yourself and you don’t want to do that. Hundreds are what you pay the rent with, right? No one knows if you can actually afford the place, right?

So, once you got her all in fives, tens and twenties, you need to buy a lot of little stuff. No one thing is a big-ticket item. It’s not like you drove up in a brand-new Winnebago, right? Someone will ask how you got it, right? Like a neighbour or something. Or even your crazy brother-in-law. Whatever.

Sign up for a lot of magazines. Sign up for every news rag in town. In a similar vein, you can buy a lot of used books. Your town probably has a used bookstore or two. They might have thrift stores, like the Salvation Army, or the International Daughters of the Revolution Thrift Shoppe, or whatever. Right?

Buy everything at Ikea, I really can't stress that enough. You want to be a loner. It's a kind of high-security lifestyle, and not everyone is cut out for it. Bear that in mind.

Go in once a month and put some major cash on your credit card, that’s always good. Slide a couple of hundred-dollar bills in there. The bank don’t care where you got it.

Never go to the same liquor store twice. Think about it. You show up the same place every day, get a twenty-sixer or whatever size of the liquor of your choice. Sooner or later, they think they’re getting to know you. You’re an old and trusted friend, right? And then, they ask what you do for a living, and you ain’t got no job, right? So never go to the same liquor store twice in a row. It only makes sense. (Don’t tell them you’re a writer either, it’s the most suspicious claim you can make. Writers can’t afford to buy anything at all.)

Another thing you can do is to buy a shitty old car. A big old gas-guzzler will take care of a few of them hundreds every month. You can take it to every garage in town. There’s always something wrong with it, right? Them guys are such crooks, they’ll never suspect. They will laugh at you behind your back, but you know something they don’t, right? Just let it slide, my brother. They’re just jealous anyway, ‘cause you go out to bingo every night. Anyhow, it’s like the Purloined Letter, it’s hiding in plain sight. You don’t want to disturb the pattern of living in your immediate vicinity, right? (All them fuckin’ drones.)

What I like is them Royal Dalton figurines, and them Norman Rockwell plates, but there’s a hundred other things you can collect. Anything with Elvis, pigs, or frogs painted on it is good for that. Anything with Princess Di is good, even now. Trade or sell on Ebay. It’s a visible means of support. You can talk a lot about your ‘online business.’ Try to sign them up for water-filtration affiliate schemes. Trust me on that one. Bore the fuckers to death, it’s legal and everything. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. The real problem arises if you are actually any good at it, and begin to make money on your own. This happened to a friend of mine, quite by accident I assure you. He has the right to privacy, right?

I like having a lot of cold and sinus medicine in the cupboard. That’s always good. You could do comic books or baseball cards, whatever you can turn into cash real quick. Say it’s an investment, people will understand that.

Oh, another good one, buy all of your clothes at Wal-Mart. Have a lot of shoes, and I don’t know, maybe a chair that you can ride around in. You can be like Seinfeld, and have every brand and flavour of cereal in your cupboard.

Just remember, everything you bought was on sale. That’s your story. All you have to do is stick to it.

Then plastic cards are good. Same as cash, right? Leave a couple of bucks on them and then just throw them away on the sidewalk in front of the candy store. Little kids live for found money. They’ll pick it up, try and see if there’s any money left on it, and then your ass is covered. Right? ‘Chain of custody,’ bro. Look it up online somewhere. It works two ways, brother. It works two ways.

Vending machines are another good one. If you follow my advice, you’ll end up with a lot of loose change anyways, and that’s good because there are no serial numbers. How are they going to prove it? Just tell ‘em you looked under the cushions of your couch, and you should be okay on that one as long as you’re not going overboard with the egg salad sandwiches and the candy bars and stuff. You can never have enough cans of Coke in the fridge, right? Follow my advice, and you’ll never have to cook again.

If anyone gives you a rough time, break down and tell them you’ve had a problem with hoarding for years, hug them a lot and then ask if they wouldn’t mind coming over and helping you with a garage sale some weekend.

If that don’t put them off, I don’t know what will.

Take lots of empties back to the beer store. That accounts for a major part of your income, what can you say? You were hurtin’. Right?

The only other thing I can think of is e-books. You can have hundreds of them, some of them are quite expensive, and you can always say you pirated them off the internet.

Think about it: you can always plead guilty to the lesser charge, right, but your main concern right now is the IRS, right? And them guys are inexorable. They never quit. They’ll fuckin’ follow you to your grave, bro. You have to admit I’m a fuckin’ genius. Go ahead: say it.

“Louis is a fuckin’ genius.”

That wasn’t so hard now, was it? Right.

Whereas if it’s just some criminal thing, the judge gives you a slap on the wrist, you get your name in the paper, and off you go, no one the wiser. Lawyers accept cash, trust me on that one.

“Hey everybody, look at me! I’m an online shoplifter. Now fuck off.”

It don’t mean nothing. Anyways, that’s just a few ideas, I thought I’d throw them out there 'cause I just like helping people.

You know how it is. We got the love, bro.

Independent Publishing: Utopia or dystopia?

(Hieronymus Bosch.)


As a science fiction writer, I have to ask the question, is the rise of independent digital publishing dystopian? Or is it Utopian to have the freedom to publish a book?

It depends who you ask, doesn’t it? There are those who see the democratization of publishing in dystopian terms. It is the end of the world, and a cloud descends over humanity. Others, including myself, see it as a vast and wonderful opportunity to transcend hierarchical structures and establish our own meritocracy of abilities.

Not everyone has the ability to write, so there is inequity here as well, although this is true for traditional as well as self-publishing.

What makes dystopia or Utopia is interest. It depends which side you are on. One man’s Utopia might be authoritarian. He would finally have the power and control to rectify the world’s wrongs, and confine or reform those who did not meet social standards. Sounds good, eh? Unless you don’t live up to expectations. His personal Utopia includes tyranny over you.

And yet the opposite, a state where there was no authority, and the needs of all (or the greatest number,) were still somehow met, might seem very dystopian to those who believe that there is nothing good which does not stem from some higher power or authority somewhere—they might be Utopian in that they seek a benevolent world government. They might have all kinds of logical justification. They would be up on a pulpit and no one would listen. That might be very frustrating.

What if all they want to do is to organize things constructively? You can’t get anything done, in an anarchic dystopia. That’s for sure.

What if they want to tell you what you can and cannot read? Surely there is some of this behind all the angst from authority figures in this industry. They're just not giong to come out and say it on record; what you can and cannot read. That would reveal them in all of their splendour, wouldn't it?

A woman’s Utopia, or dystopia, often looks far different than that of males.

So many issues of social control or progress, or reform, revolve around our bodies, from what we can eat, or what we can do on a given day of the week, fish on Friday or whatever, and of course all the reproductive and moral guidelines. Then there is the battle for our loyalties, our hearts and our minds. It’s all over the place. Surely someone has an interest there. Society has an interest—if an ‘inanimate idea’ can be said to have an interest. Society is a necessary fiction. Society is a generally agreed-upon thing. It is the thin veneer that covers barbarism.

To throw all that away could be seen as dystopian or Utopian. It depends on your point of view.

People’s arguments don’t always make sense. Yet they can be very sincere.

Here is the Utopian disconnect: one man’s Utopia involves getting rid of every law. Every law. He drives as fast as he wants on the highway, drinking beer, setting fire to the homes of people he doesn’t like and having sex with farm animals. He’s in paradise. The rest of the world is endangered or even just offended. So many social sanctions depend on public opinion. What else is there to judge by?

Another person’s Utopia is one where everyone behaves rationally and with perfect decorum. How could it be achieved, without massive social intervention, or even a eugenics program?

Another person’s Utopia would involve perfect social control through the use of legal sanctions. There would be a law for every eventuality, and laws for scenarios as yet unimaginable. They would cover all the bases. Who pays for the court system? Who wants to be taxed to support the masses of humanity serving time and paying their debt to society in a jailhouse?

One person’s Utopia might be to impose a belief on another. Not to be able to impose social control, or morality, could be considered dystopian. Perfect personal freedom might lead to dystopia. Surely efforts to band together to avoid anarchy, to provide social services, would tend to promote one group of interests ahead of others. How does that play out over the long run? Wouldn’t that lead to another elite? We admire elites. We look up to them for all kinds of reasons. Or would we all sit around doing nothing? Where none may rule, who is to say otherwise? What right do they have to enforce it?

Public opinion has never stopped evil from doing what it will or good from doing what it must.

What sounds like Utopia, a world where everyone just accepted everyone else, and then went ahead and did what they had to do, what was right for them, probably isn’t an achievable dream anytime soon. That’s because it looks too much like dystopia to the average bear in the street. And you can’t legislate or impose enlightenment on those who will not have it.

I’ve got that much figured out.

Is the new world of digital publishing Utopian or dystopian?

It is both. It represents change. One person’s disaster is another person’s opportunity. There are two schools of thought on the industry today, divided along almost partisan lines. It is that tension that prevents either Utopia or dystopia from actually happening.

***

So what qualifies me to be a writer?

Nothing, really. And everything.

I say that because after some thought, I realized that I’ve had nineteen cars in my lifetime. I’ve lived in five different places, including big cities and remote locations. I’ve had at least thirteen addresses that I can remember. This includes houses, apartments, boarding houses, and even a motel room with a kitchenette.

I’ve had easily fifty jobs, some of which were service or construction jobs, where we went to all the different plants and businesses in the tri-county area. I’ve worked in a hundred cities, towns and villages, and on farms as well.

I attended five different schools, took something on the order of forty different classes, (including bluegrass guitar,) and I’ve had five decades to sort of figure things out. I’ve been around the block once or twice.

I’ve read a lot of books, seen a lot of films, and listened to a lot of music. I’ve looked at a lot of art, listened to a lot of people and lived my life. I’ve had a few girlfriends, drank a lot of beer and had a lot of fun.

I’ve known a lot of people, and heard quite a bit about people I don’t really know all that well. Some of them, I don’t care to meet.

I’ve done a lot of things. I’ve been to two other countries and a couple of different states, although as far as Canada goes, I’ve never been anywhere else but Ontario. Mind you, Ontario is a pretty big place.

I’m fairly intelligent, a good worker, and exhibit some imagination. I’m logical, and reasonable, and just a joy to watch in operation. I also have the ability to write. I have plenty of free time, a good dose of patience and rarely lose my sense of proportion. I’m a pretty good guy, all things considered.

I take things day by day and I like to laugh a lot.

If we’re not having fun, then it’s just not worth doing anymore.

Rational writing goals for 2013.

                                                                                                             (Morguefile.)



It’s time to set some rational goals for 2013.


For 2013, I hope to write three novels, one a mystery in the Maintenon series, one science fiction, and one in another genre. The third book could be a thriller, a high fantasy or whatever—I don’t care, all I need is the gag. Otherwise, I don’t know what it’s about, which makes it difficult to write.

Assuming I live ten years, this would result in thirty books at the rate of three a year. If I live twenty years, and if I’m still capable of writing, then I would theoretically be able to write sixty more books, looking forward from this day. I could squeeze out a few short stories and maybe a few poems by then as well.

I would very much like to see some really professional marketing images, not just for new books but all the titles so far. This requires money, and one of my goals is that the money to invest in the business is generated by the business. Another goal is not to pay 30 % tax withholding to the IRS. I’ve applied for my passport, in order to properly identify myself to them and get an ITIN, which Smashwords requires, etc, etc.

I will continue to write short stories, and submit them to pro markets, and for 2013, I will be creating some new pen names. Nothing has been decided yet, but we would need pen names for mystery, science fiction, horror, fantasy, but the WW I memoir could remain as ‘Louis Shalako.’

Right? Gee, I don’t know either! But another question is whether I would open fresh accounts and publish all of them under separate accounts, or simply use Shalako Publishing as an umbrella organization.

With all the recent talk of sock puppets and fake reviews and stuff, it’s easy to see that some negative connotations might be associated with one guy writing under half a dozen names, and at the same time pretending to be ‘a small press,’ or ‘an emerging press.’

It’s all me, right? I could be anybody. You have no idea of who I am, right?

People will think I’m just in it for the money. They’ll say all sorts of nasty things about me. I get quite a bit of that now…

What has stopped me so far is that I really don’t have a procedure all mapped out in advance. At some point, someone will have to make a decision, and I ought to know, because I used to work in construction.

In order for all of this to happen, there are a few things to tidy up before the end of 2012. This includes making new marketing images for the five or six paperbacks I have out now, as well as making danged sure the new ones I create meet some kind of minimal artistic standards.

I have a couple of novels coming out, one October 1 and one November 1, so there is a bit of what I like to call ‘a time-suck’ there. I have those well in hand, but the images still need some work. Before the end of the year I’ll produce a couple or three more short stories.

November is Nano-Write month, in which millions of people all try to write a novel in about a month. Normally what I do is to write short stories exclusively for the month of November, as it suits my purposes well enough, and it represents some kind of participation. It’s also motivating to try and hit the word count, right? And why not? What have I got to lose?

Not much, in strictly objective terms. I mean, take a look at me: I’m just some guy.

Right? But the whole objective with the short stories is to have something new to submit around to professional magazines. It represents more than just a cash sale. It’s something to put in a bio or a blurb, and it helps to build a readership.

Before winter is over, I should have every full-length novel on the list published as a print on demand paperback. That’s another goal.

When I published my first couple of e-books it was exciting. My hand shook when I did it. It was fun, too, because of that sort of rebellious spirit that I exhibit occasionally. No one really knows what’s going to happen.

But.

There was no great stir of controversy over my first couple of books, and while that was disappointing, now I know better what to expect.

But a major goal for 2013 is to bring back some of the fun, some of the excitement of self-publishing.

One way to do that would be to apply for a cultural grant and use it to publish a couple of other people’s books. The problem that I see with that, is the question, ‘What is my goal?’

What purpose would it serve? If my goal is to break new authors, with all the pen-names and fake entities out there, finding someone who is not an established pro is problematical, and if the goal is simply to learn how to publish someone else’s book, then I guess it wouldn’t matter whose book it is!

Some clear and logical thinking on my part would appear to be in order, however the deadline for application is November, so either I hurry up and do it, or postpone it for another year.

As for excitement, opening up the e-mails to discover a hundred submissions might be kind of exciting, or it might just be a pain in the wazoo. Also, with all the talk of sock puppets going around, someone will inevitably suspect that I own those books, and might be fraudulently giving myself an advance from monies intended to assist an emerging press…red faces all around, in that scenario. The problem is to identify just exactly who we are dealing with when entering into any contracts with putative or prospective authors.

As for submitting novels to major publishers, the whole thing is such a crashing bore that I might do it, and I might not. But once a book is submitted, there’s nothing for it but to wait to hear back, (it’s only polite,) and some folks aren’t that good about sending rejection slips. I see it as a sense of entitlement. On their part, not mine. (I’m entitled to my friggin’ rejection slips, I’ll grant you that much.)

Are you entitled to first crack at anything that I write?

That depends on your world-view and your philosophical outlook. I kind of doubt it, although I would be interested in your reasoning.

I’m just saying. If you would prefer not to discuss it, that’s fine too.


Note: I don't have a donate button on this site. The best thing you could do to help an independent author is to buy one of their books.

Dooley wakes up.





Chapter one

Dooley wakes up…







One by one the crew was awakened from stasis, head-space, as their duties were required aboard ship. In some cases, decades had been spent in cold storage, with only their dreams for company. As the starship got closer and closer to the home world, the video, radio and laser-casts became ever more recent in date of origin, and ever more current.

Presumably, the data was ever more relevant to the actual situation as it existed on Earth. Down there, the present day was circa 14,059 anno domini. Their faster-than-light journey lasted three generations. Twelve thousand years of history had passed. Avid study of the signal spectrum was crucial to the survival of the passengers and crew of Ark One. They had the dubious honour of sitting in review, objective observers in accelerated time, as the future unfolded in reverse out of the past.

At the time of departure, radio had been in existence for a century and a half. The outer edge of Earth’s bubble of electromagnetic radiation dated back to a time when signals were faint, sparse, and sporadic. Under deceleration there was plenty of time to listen in and catch up on the news. Analysts were fascinated by the evolution of the languages over the centuries. The officers in charge of the ship determined that society had crashed shortly after departure, from chaotic environmental degradation and a worldwide economic collapse. This led to revolution, war, famine, disease, with a sudden consequent die-off of humanity and many higher animals. The closer to home they got, the more worrying and darker in tone the news feeds became. And then they slowly began to wink out and fade from the airwaves, and one day there just wasn’t anyone out there anymore. The world had re-entered a darker age of human experience. Or perhaps human life had gone extinct.

***

“Jesus Christ, I’m only twelve thousand years old. Why do I feel so tired all the time?” Dooley Peeters had a kind of never-ending internal monologue.

His top-priority briefing ended. Nothing he hadn’t already guessed. Now it was all out in the open. The corridor was as cold as a witch’s tit as soon as he opened up the door of the compartment. He scuttled along on wooden-stiff legs, shivering and cursing aloud. The room wouldn’t let you out until you were briefed. You never got used to it. Thankfully his quarters were only fifty metres along. As soon as he got in, the room lit up and the heaters kicked on. Feeling the quivery belly tension that comes from near-hypothermia, he bolted for the shower stall, grateful to strip out of the rubber suit, with its itchy and sometimes painful plug-ins, inserted into veins in wrists, ankles, groin and neck. You wanted to be careful not to accidentally yank one of the little stoppers out, and leak to death. It was quite difficult, and his patience was tried by the urgent need to get warm, but he had to be careful pulling the tubes out of the suit’s reinforced circular openings.

The rush of negative emotions was pretty intense, and some training in bio-feedback and mood control was essential. You had to become objective about yourself, and learn to control your passions. Everybody felt the same way when they came out of the suit.

“The one common element in all of human experience is suffering.” The briefings always ended the same way.

We suffer for the common good.

Complete with feet and mitts and a hood, like a baby’s sleeper, the suit protected against ice-up. His skin was pink, wrinkled and moist as he clambered out of it and disposed of it in the chute. The first lukewarm drops of the shower spray stung like a sandblaster on a sunburn. He gritted his teeth and thought about what came next. An unwelcome glimpse in the steam-fogged mirror revealed the deep-set lines from where the face-rig clipped on with elastic straps. The sphincter-like ring in the hood left a solid blue line, crinkled around his forehead, under the chin, and along both cheeks. He looked like death warmed over, but then they all did after wake-up. There was never any provision made for psychological or physical recovery. You were expected to be on the job a half hour later. Why the machine couldn’t wake you up the day before had always remained a mystery to him. The drain on life support wasn’t all that great. In a ship of this size, there had to be so much air in the system just to fill the vessel up to the proper pressure. Whether or not anyone was there to breathe it was quite secondary.

He wanted a shave and a hot meal. Men complained about the way they felt, oddly enough, when talking about the experience later. Women complained about the way they looked. Or was that just bullshit, from the secret little book that women passed around, amongst themselves, and never letting a mere man get a look at it? He wondered what the operating manual for a woman’s mind looked like.

Based on past experience, it would be two or three days before he could take a dump.

He needed some clean pants, a shirt, a cup of coffee and a smoke. Dooley Peeters had his priorities in the proper perspective. The damned plug-ins still itched, especially with the sting of hot water and soap on the red-rimmed Fluid Entry Points. The fluid was based on the paw-pad antifreeze of the Siberian husky breed of dogs, distilled from tissues grown in an industrial-scale in-vitro process. This was mixed with a blood-plasma replacement rich in oxygen, due to the low temperatures and therefore the slow pace of chemical reactions under hibernation.

He wasnted to remove the Fluid Entry Points as soon as humanly possible. He had lived for that day, when he was feeling a little down. For a moment he reveled in being grumpy, as he began lathering up his hair.

The scary part was when you had to put the mask on, knowing full well that a few seconds later a sickly-sweet, pungent smell would come through, and you would be knocked out. Certain thoughts never left, they even showed up in semi-conscious dreams. Dooley noted his heart begin to race at the thought, and carefully cleared his mind of animal fear. Good posture and long, slow breaths were the key.

It took real guts to suit up, after a while. The first few times were all right. But that was before he had all that time to think, and to calculate on the odds.

Statistically-speaking, sooner or later you wouldn’t wake up.

You could only tempt the odds so many times, and he accepted that part. What scared him was the possibility that your number would come up on the very first roll of the dice. It might not be an entirely rational fear, but it was his, and his alone, and he just had to live with it. It felt very reassuring to button up a clean white cotton shirt, and feel the rug under the soles of his bare feet. With luck, he would never have to put the mask on again.

The key thing was to make no mistakes. All he could do was to pray for luck, and prepare for the worst. Dooley liked living, and the notion that the universe could just as well do without him was a distinctly unwelcome one. At last he could have a smoke and a half-decent cup of coffee.

Dooley feared that random hit of bad luck.

END   This is the first part of 'Horse Catcher,' coming on October 1/2012 or thereabouts.   Comments are always welcome. Photo credit: NASA, artist impression, public domain.