What I’m Reading: Life After Life

04 Saturday May 2013

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I’m currently reading LIFE AFTER LIFE, by Kate Atkinson.

I’m about half-way through, and I hesitate to say anything because I don’t want to ruin even the slightest detail for anyone.  It’s that good.  But at the risk of a spoiler or two, LIFE AFTER LIFE tells the story of Ursula Todd, a British girl born on a snowy February 11, 1910.  And born.  And born again.  As the name implies, LIFE AFTER LIFE recounts the multiple lives of Ursula, who suffers death only to be reborn with faint memories of her past lives that she uses to avoid her previous fate(s).  And that’s all I’ll say about the plot.

What I love about this book is that Atkinson makes no apologies for the plot, provides no crutch on which the reader may rest.  Instead, she simply lays the storyAtkinson.LifeAfterLife out, and trusts that you can follow using the dated chapters as temporal signposts.  At times challenging, Atkinson’s straightforward style and dark comic touch preserve just the right balance between literary and commercial sensibilities.  One of those novels that make me anxious for bedtime, just so I can get back to Ursula’s world.

Oh, and Atkinson manages to open the novel with a scene that most writers would avoid like the plague, because they simply wouldn’t be able to pull it off without falling into farce.  Atkinson not only pulls it off, she left me chuckling to myself, eager to see where this was going.

Go get this book, you won’t regret it.

Terror and Civilization

21 Sunday Apr 2013

Posted by in Current Events, Fiction, Genre, History, Horror, Uncategorized, Writing

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I’ve thought about writing something on the Boston Marathon terrorist attack most of the week, if only as a way of working my thoughts out on paper.  As a rule, I have avoided blogging about current events and politics, mostly because I view my blog as a way to connect with fiction readers and writers, and partly because I haven’t really wanted to wade into the controversy and acrimony that often accompanies such topics.  But the attack, and the subsequent manhunt, capture, and civic resurgence in Boston has weighed heavily on my mind, and so this post.

I grew up and live in New England, went to school in Boston, and have been an avid Boston sports fan my entire life.  So although not comparable to the feelings of those who live in-and-around Boston today, I did feel this attack on a more personal level.  I’ve been to bars on Boylston Street, watched the Red Sox Patriots’ Day game my whole life, wandered Commonwealth Avenue and Harvard Square.  I may live a hundred miles away, but Boston has always been my home-away-from-home city, and so this hurt to see.  As with everyone, my heart goes out to those killed and injured, to those whose lives have been forever altered, to those who came out to celebrate life and were faced with death.  One can only imagine the overwhelming terror inflicted upon the innocent, and can only admire the bravery and selflessness of those who rushed to help and to rescue.

There will be much written about the causes of this attack, with an undoubted focus on Muslim fanaticism and the threat to America.  As an admittedly amateur history buff, I take a longer view.  To me, the Boston Marathon attack represents another chapter in mankind’s constant struggle to subjugate its darker side, to impose civilization and order upon base urges and desperation.  Because as much as we may not want to admit it, all men are capable of inflicting horrible violence, of ignoring what we view as the basic tenets of humanity and justifying horrible acts by relying upon nationalism, religion, and need.  Viewed in the light of history, even recent history, the Boston Marathon attack should not be surprising — humanity may lurch forward, but it inevitably also staggers back.

As a writer of often dark fiction, I am sometimes asked (even in brighter times) why I write horror and dark fantasy.  Given recent events, it is worth asking that question to myself.  In describing horror as a genre, Stephen King once wrote “I’ll try to terrify you first, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll horrify you, and if I can’t make it there, I’ll try to gross you out.  I’m not proud.”  With so much terror in the real world, what purpose does fictional terror and horror serve?  Why would we try to terrorize, horrify and even gross out our readers?  Why do readers enjoy this?

As with most art, I view horror as an attempt to circumscribe, illuminate, and therefore understand reality.  Whether supernatural or realistic, vampires or serial killers, horror fiction presents the opportunity to experience the bad without experiencing the bad.  Part of it is cathartic, part of it is entertainment, and yes, part of it is prurient.  What horror does as well as any type of fiction is refuse to flinch, refuse to blink.  Refuse to ignore reality.  Because sometimes in real life we are not provided the option of looking away.  Seen through the light of bombs exploding on a street in Boston or Baghdad or Mumbai, Hannibal Lecter and Dracula don’t seem quite as bad.  Horror literature reminds us of the darkness that always lurks, whether in the guise of exploding pressure cookers or murderers or cancer or car accidents.  It acknowledges that bad things exist, and we ignore them at our peril.   That we choose to willingly inflict horror in real life is perhaps our greatest weakness.  That we continue to move forward despite these horrors is perhaps our greatest strength.

Do Readers “Owe” Writers?

17 Wednesday Apr 2013

Posted by in Authors, Publishing, Uncategorized, Writing

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I recently became aware of a mini-hullabaloo that erupted on the Internet (well, at least on Book Riot), on the question of whether readers “owe” anything to their favorite writers.  Articles here and here, for example.  Here, too.  Read the comments as well — they are interesting.

The question boils down to this, I suppose:  Do readers owe writers support, beyond the price of the book (and in the case of library books, not even that)?  Do they owe them good reviews on Amazon and Goodreads (which, I guess, is now the same)?  Facebook pimping?  Twitterizing?  Is it bad if they use Amazon?  Or the public library?  Should readers serve as free public relations flacks for writers?  Only frequent independent booksellers?

Am I a bad reader?

At the outset, I have to admit that given my admittedly small publishing output to date, I fall squarely within the “reader” side of this equation.  I don’t rely upon my fiction to support myself.  And I agree that readers helping their favorite authors is a good thing, that reviews and word-of-mouth are extremely nice things to do for your favorite authors.  So is blogging about them.  But do readers owe that to a writer?

I say no.  It seems to me that the only thing a reader owes to a writer is not to pirate their work.  Period.  Anything else is icing on the cake.   Which shouldn’t be confused with the idea that it is nice when readers do these things.  It’s appreciated when readers do these things.  It’s great for readers to do these things.   And undoubtedly, it helps authors when readers do these things.   But it is not owed, and I think writers make a mistake if they assume it is.

A tangential prong of this discussion relates to the use of Amazon and chain bookstores and libraries versus the purchase of books from local booksellers.  As both a reader and a writer, I understand the concern about the rapidly-changing book selling economics, and the real fear writers have that they are being cut out by online monopolization and soulless chains.  But I don’t think guilting readers is the answer, nor do I think blindly hoping that readers will turn away from Amazon or B&N or even the library is likely.  The publishing paradigm will continue to evolve, and smart writers, smart publishers, and smart book sellers will need to adapt and to advocate for a system that protects the interests of all.  But the reader should not be expected to ignore economics when choosing books, to purposefully elect to pay full freight when cheaper is available.  Or to shoulder the burden of author publicity.  Whether right or wrong, it’s just not human nature.

In the spirit of helping promote authors, however, let me take a moment to mention a couple of great books I’ve read lately.  Joe R. Lansdale‘s EDGE OF DARK WATER was spellbinding, while Karen Russell‘s VAMPIRES IN THE LEMON GROVE was masterful.

There.  My work is done.

Authors, what do you expect readers to do for you?  Readers, what about you?

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What I’m Reading: The Technologists

07 Sunday Apr 2013

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The TechnologistsI’m currently reading The Technologists, by Matthew Pearl.

If you enjoy historical mysteries and haven’t ready any of Matthew Pearl’s novels, run out to the bookstore now.  You won’t be sorry.  Pearl has carved out an interesting niche, writing thrillers/mysteries set primarily in the nineteenth century, which blend painstakingly accurate history with a provocative “what-if” mentality that more-often-then-not proves both intellectually stimulating and straight-up entertaining.  His previous works have mostly centered on literary mysteries, including the first American translation of Dante’s Inferno, the mysterious death of Edgar Allan Poe, and Charles Dickens’ unfinished final work The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

This time, however, Pearl moves from literary thriller to a scientific mystery, focusing on Boston during the time of the founding of MIT.  Pitting the newfangled “technology” taught at MIT (as opposed to the classical science of Harvard) against a criminal intent upon terrorizing the city via technological disasters, Pearl once again exhibits the ability to both plunge the reader fully into nineteenth century reality, while tweaking history just enough to make it both intriguing and fun.  In this case, perhaps just the slightest twinge of steampunk slips in, as science melds with history in a way that feels realistic but also a bit fantastic.

I’m only one hundred pages in, but so far I’m hooked.  With a Civil War back-story just beginning, I’m looking forward to where Pearl is taking me.

Reading the Classics

26 Tuesday Mar 2013

Posted by in Authors, Books, Fiction, Literature

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The Catcher in the Rye

The Catcher in the Rye (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I consider myself fairly well-read.  I have both a Bachelor’s and Master’s degree in English, so it would be a little surprising if I weren’t.  I’ve read almost all of Dickens, more than half of Shakespeare.  I’ve read Paradise Lost and The Canterbury Tales.  I’ve even read James Joyce’s entire literary output (including both a play and his poetry).

What’s missing?  Well, if you look closely, you’ll see I haven’t mentioned one American author.  For whatever reason, looking back, I’ve managed to somehow avoid many, if not most, of what we consider the classics in American literature.  Of course, I’ve read some — one or two from Hemingway, short stories from Faulkner and Hawthorne and Sherwood Anderson.  But not many, and certainly not many of the novels.  No Fitzgerald (including The Great Gatsby).  Haven’t read Lord of the Flies.  Haven’t read To Kill a Mockingbird.  The Grapes of Wrath?

Nope.

This hole in my reading experience was brought to my attention by, believe-it-or-not, a tweet.  A tweet that asked “What great work of literature haven’t you read?”  I answered with The Catcher in the Rye, but it became clear to me that I could have tweeted a list that far exceeds 140 characters.  Or 1400 characters for that matter.

There’s a hole in my reading.  So I’ve decided to fill it.

Generally, I haven’t been in the habit of reading “classics” for recreation, mostly reading contemporary fiction (of the dark vein, if you’re new to this blog).  But I’ve decided to sprinkle my reading with those classics that I’ve missed.  I started with The Catcher in the Rye (holy unreliable narrator, Batman!) and enjoyed it.  How I missed it in school, I’ll never know, but Salinger isn’t the only one I’ve missed.  I have a lot of catching up to do.

What should I read next.  If I were to die tomorrow, what American classic must I have read?

 

What Scares Me . . .

25 Monday Mar 2013

Posted by in Authors, Fiction, Horror, Writing

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“Write what you know” is common advice given to writers, and it generally makes a lot of sense.  For those who write horror or darker fiction, however, that advice is often modified to “Write what scares you.”  At its heart, of course, is the idea that fiction is most authentic when the author infuses it with the personal.  Hard to argue with that concept.

As an experiment, I conducted a brief survey of my fiction, published and unpublished, to determine if I could ferret out any repetitive themes.  To see if I could discover, if you will, what scares me.

Three broad themes seem to emerge:

1) Fear of harm to my children/wife/loved ones.

2) Fear of life passing by/wasted life.

3) Fear of unknown/loss of order and/or civilization.

Fear of harm to my children and/or wife is perhaps the fear that has driven some of my best fiction, perversely enough, maybe because of the intense emotions such a fear creates.  So I’ve written stories around the death or disappearance of one’s children, the breakdown of marriage, the death of one’s spouse.  All real life catastrophes that lurk in my subconscious.  And when I write stories about them, I of course embellish and intensify the fear.  At times hard to write, but also cathartic.  Better to experience on paper than in real life.

Fear of life passing by or being wasted is another interesting theme.  As a how-shall-we-put-it, “middle-aged author,” I do find myself more prone to evaluating my life, the successes and failures, the goals achieved and those missed, the potential and the actual.  And many of my stories reflect this evaluation, usually emphasizing the wistfulness and sorrow of missed opportunity, of the constant trickling of sand through one’s personal hourglass.  So I’ve written stories about deals with the devil to turn back time, magical cleansers that can erase one’s past, and men at the end of their life chasing supernatural immortality.  The intensity of this theme is exacerbated by the fact that aging is inevitable.  We all will look back and have regrets, no matter how full a life we lead.  In my fiction, I like to ask “What if we could forestall this fate?”  An old theme, perhaps, but a good one.

The last theme that seems to predominate is one of dread, of the unknown/supernatural intruding on everyday life and overturning the reality we think exists.  This is of course a favorite horror trope, from Lovecraft to Stephen King.  So in my own fiction I’ve written about a sinister, other-worldly fast-food restaurant, a swim teacher who is the spawn of a crocodile god, and a traveling carny who runs a lethal game of chance.  This theme, I think, is a nod to the classic fear of the cosmos, of forces beyond our control or understanding intruding and controlling our lives.  I love reading stories where everyday life slips into the surreal, into the cracks between reality.  And sometimes I try to write them.

All in all, reviewing my fiction for thematic patterns offers me an interesting window into not only my writing, but my psyche.  Any other writers out there?  What themes do you write about?

What scares you?

March Blog Chain

23 Saturday Mar 2013

Posted by in Authors, Blogging, Fiction

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I’m participating in the March blog chain over at Absolute Write — more info, if you are interested, can be found here.  Basically, a bunch of writers sign up to post blog posts based upon a specified prompt.  The prompt this month is “What the Leprechaun Said.”

My story is below.  You can find a list of all the other participants and links to their blogs immediately after.  Read them and comment!

Leprechaun with rainbow

Leprechaun with rainbow (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

HOW TO TRAP A FAIRY TALE

Erin started at the clang of the extra large Havahart trap slamming shut.  After waiting for hours, she had fallen asleep and missed it.  But she knew what was in the trap, what had to be in the trap.

A leprechaun.

Erin knew because she had planned it just right.  She had borrowed her dad’s big trap (the one he used to catch raccoons when they got into the garbage), and lined the outside in green felt from her mom’s hobby supplies.  The supplies she used before she got sick, and couldn’t work on her hobbies any more.

Her mom was the reason she was trapping leprechauns in the first place.

A fake piece of gold (really just a spray painted rock) was the bait, and although Erin didn’t think it looked much like gold, she knew leprechauns were greedy.  That’s what the stories said, especially the ones Mom used to tell her.  Before she got sick, and didn’t have the energy to read.  Dad said Mom would get better, but Erin didn’t think it was true.  So she had taken matters in own hands (one of Dad’s favorite sayings), and gone out to capture some magic.  A leprechaun.

She crawled over to the Havahart trap, staining her jeans in the damp, March grass, but not worrying about it.  Once the leprechaun granted her wish, no one would care.  They’d be too happy.  A miracle, they’d call it, like her father said about the Red Sox winning the World Series.

A miracle.

She knew this was stupid.  She was eleven, old enough to know that leprechauns weren’t real.  Except, hadn’t she seen them, frolicking on the lawn in her backyard, late at night when she was supposed to be asleep?  It hadn’t been a dream, no matter what Dad said.  It hadn’t been.

And so, the trap.  With something inside.

“Hello?”  Her voice was quiet.  Too quiet.  “Hello?”  Better.

No one answered, but something moved inside the cage.  Shifted from one little leprechaun foot to the other.  At least in her mind.  Maybe.

“Hello?  Don’t be afraid.  I just need . . . I just need your gold.”  Gold, to pay for Mom’s cancer treatment.

Nothing.  The leprechaun would be mad.  They were jealous of their gold, so she had to be very careful.  Erin couldn’t let him trick her, couldn’t let him lead her into a cave where she would sleep for twenty years, or end up trapped in another world.  A leprechaun world.  She had to be smart for Mom.

“So this is how we’re going to do it, okay?  I’m going to ask you to swear to take me to your gold and give it to me, no tricks, and you’re going to agree.  Okay?”

Nothing.  A soft sound, maybe a sigh, maybe an extra low growl.  No words.  Was she wrong?  Maybe she hadn’t caught a leprechaun?  Maybe it was a raccoon, or a ‘possum (she hoped not, she hated ‘possums, the beady eyes and skinny, ratty tail).  Maybe it was a poor, scared creature and here she was, trying to talk to it like it was a person, or a leprechaun.  She liked animals, she didn’t want to hurt –

It moved.  Whatever it was moved inside the cage, and for just one moment she caught a glimpse of it at the bottom, where the green felt didn’t quite seal off the cage.  It wasn’t a raccoon.  Or a ‘possum.  Whatever it was wore boots.  Little, black boots.

“I know you’re in there.  You, you leprechaun.”  Erin stomped her foot.  What if it didn’t cooperate?  What if it just sat in there, waiting?

“I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to leave.  And if I leave you there, you’ll never get out.  Never.  I mean it.  I’ll do it.

“One . . . two . . . thr –”

“Yes.”  The voice was high pitched, but seemed very old.  The voice of a great-grandpa.  Erin’s heart thumped, rattling in her chest like a Super Ball.  It spoke.  The leprechaun spoke.

“Yes?  You mean, you’ll take me to your gold?”

Silence.  Then, one word again.

“Yes.”

“You have to say it.”  Those were the rules.  He had to say it.  “Say you will take me to your gold with no tricks.  And I can take the gold.  Promise you won’t hurt me.”

Silence again, except for Erin’s heart.  Then a gurgle from the cage, followed by a promise.

“I promise to take you to my gold.  You can take it.  No tricks.  No hurt.”

Erin considered a moment, afraid now that her plan would be successful.  Afraid of what was next.  But her mother needed the money, and she was brave.  She had to be brave.  She bent down, sliding open the cage door.

Let the fairy tale begin.

###

March Blog Chain Participants and Posts:

orion_mk3 – http://nonexistentbooks.wordpress.com (link to post)
robeiae – http://thepondsofhappenstance.blogspot.com/ (link to post)
writingismypassion – http://charityfaye.blogspot.com/ (link to post)
Sudo_One – http://sudoone.wordpress.com/ (link to post)
randi.lee – http://emotionalnovel.blogspot.com/ (link to post)
 pyrosama – http://matrix-hole.blogspot.com/ (link to post)
katci13 – http://www.krystalsquared.net/ (link to post)
MsLaylaCakes – http://taraquan.com/ (link to post)
Angyl78 – http://jelyzabeth.wordpress.com/ (link to post)
KitCat – http://twilightasylum.wordpress.com/ (link to post)
Bloo – http://www.emergencyroomproductions.net/ (link to post)
dclary – http://davidwclary.com (link to post)
ConnieBDowell – http://bookechoes.com/ (link to post)
Lady Cat – http://carolsrandomness.blogspot.com/ (link to post)
Araenvo – http://www.simonpclark.com/ (link to post)
Ralph Pines – http://ralfast.wordpress.com/ (link to post)
mdgreene50 – http://www.gettotheinside.blogspot.com/ (link to post)
scatterjoy! – http://www.sleepinginanunmadebed.com/ (link to post)
SRHowen – http://srhowen1.blogspot.com/ (link to post)
dolores haze – http://dianedooley.wordpress.com/ (link to post)
meowzbark – http://www.lizzylessard.com/ (link to post)

 

A Peek Inside My Fantasy . . .

17 Sunday Mar 2013

Posted by in Entertainment, Sports

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Fantasy Baseball

Fantasy Baseball (Photo credit: shawnzam)

baseball team.

Sorry for those who were hoping for something more prurient (or who arrived here via an adult-rated Google search).  I’ll wait a minute for you to leave, disappointed.

For anyone left, I thought I might blog a bit about my fantasy baseball hobby.  Or more specifically, my rotisserie baseball hobby, as it is more properly known.  Not a topic that fits in neatly with most of my previous blog posts, but man does not live on literature and movies alone.  At least not this one.

For the uninitiated, fantasy baseball is a game where each team drafts (or “purchases” via auction) players from major league baseball, and accumulates those players’ statistics in certain defined categories (e.g. home runs, runs, strikeouts, wins, etc . . .).  Teams are then ranked across categories, and the winner is the team that accumulates the highest cumulative score.  We each kick in a few bucks, and the top four finishers split the pot.  Not sure if that makes sense, but trust me, it’s not as boring as it sounds.  Unless you hate sports, or baseball, in which case it’s even more boring than it sounds.

Each year, we hold our auction before the major league season begins, and due to scheduling difficulties we held this year’s auction last Saturday.  Twelve men (well, ten men and two teens) in a room for seven hours.  Bidding on baseball players.  To accumulate stats.  Scintillating, right?  (In full disclosure, one participant had to participate online — thank you Internet).

We’ve been playing since 1996, and the core of the league remains my brother, a few high school friends, and a couple of other mainstays.  But in the past two years, we’ve added my son and my friend’s son, which has been fun, except it means I’m getting old.  And my son has shown me that he already knows more about baseball than I do.  Which makes me proud and depressed at the same time.

There was a time when winning the league was my goal, but as the years have gone on, I find that participating is reward enough.  I enjoy the camaraderie of the auction (did I mention it took almost seven hours?), sharing a couple beers, bowls of greasy junk food, and an off-color joke or two with my old friends.  I like that it keeps me in touch with folks I don’t see as much anymore, and has allowed me to pass on a passion to my son.  As with much in life, I have found that winning is not the only way for something to be rewarding.  It’s the doing.  Everything else is cake.

Which is why last year I joined another, somewhat more high-stakes league.  One where I don’t really know anyone.  Where winning has a bit more monetary value.  Hey, winning isn’t the only way for something to be rewarding.  But I didn’t say it wasn’t fun.

So, any other literary types play fantasy sports?  Or am I the only one?

What I’m Reading: Pure

12 Tuesday Mar 2013

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PureI’m currently reading Pure, by Julianna Baggott.

In a change of pace for me, I’m reading a science fiction novel.  Of the three broad speculative genre categories (horror, fantasy, and science fiction), science fiction is the area in which I read the least.  This hasn’t always been the case — in college I went through a long Foundation/Ender’s Game/I, Robot phase in which I drank pretty deeply from the “classic sci-fi” pool.  As an adult, however, my science fiction selection has generally been limited to a subsection of “weird” fiction, exemplified in my mind by China Mieville’s writing (and which may-or-may-not be considered science fiction).

Pure has been an enjoyable reminder as to the pleasures of science fiction (even if it is not “hard” sci-fi).  Set in a dystopian world where an event known has the Detonations (an undefined series of explosions) has unleashed a bizarre melding of humanity with its surroundings, those who have escaped under the Dome have remained untouched — Pures — while the remainder of the survivors struggle in a world where everyone is deformed and there is almost no structure, other than the OSR — formerly Operation Search and Rescue, but now Operation Sacred Revolution — who abduct teenagers on their sixteenth birthday as part of a vague plan to revolt against the Dome and the Pures.

So far, Pure centers on two characters: Pressia, a teenage survivor whose hand has been replaced by a doll’s head, thanks to the Detonations, and Partridge, a teenage Pure who escapes the Dome in order to search for his mother.  Partridge’s father may also be the scientist behind the Detonations, part of a master plan to cleanse humanity.

Baggott’s world is fantastically graphic — characters caught in the Detonations are impacted in a variety of startling ways: birds fused to one character’s back, the wings still flapping; two brothers fused onto each other, piggy-back style.  And the dystopian world these survivors live in is filled with terrors, both mundane and fantastic.  When Pressia and Partridge meet, we understand that they hold the key to unraveling what has happened to planet Earth, and more importantly, what is yet to come.

Other than zombies, dystopian science fiction is probably the most popular trope in speculative fiction today.  When done well, it is both chilling and entertaining.  So far, Baggott’s Pure has been both.

 

My Love of Cryptozoology, Cryptohistory, and Cryptoeverything . . .

10 Sunday Mar 2013

Posted by in Books, History

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Treasure hunter Heinrich Schliemann.

Treasure hunter Heinrich Schliemann. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A recent story making the rounds on the Internet (including NBC News), reports on how scientists believe they have determined when Homer’s The Iliad was first written — within fifty years of 762 B.C., apparently.  They arrived at this date by using techniques borrowed from genetics, tracing the changes in words over time.  The date conforms to the time frame most researchers believe The Iliad was first transcribed (from oral tradition dating back to the thirteenth century B.C.), and so the conclusion is not necessarily controversial.

I love research that validates myth and legend.  The trouble is, I have little-to-no-ability to screen out the science from the speculation, the proven from the hypothetical.  For every Heinrich Schliemann excavation of Troy, for every coelacanth discovery, there’s a chupacabra sighting or a Sasquatch footprint.  And perhaps because I’m a voracious reader of speculative fiction, because I’m used to suspending reality, I’m always willing to at least consider that these strange mythical creatures and unproven historical speculations might be true.  Maybe, just maybe the Lost Colony of Roanoke still exists in the swamps of Virginia, maybe Atlantis was real.  Maybe dinosaurs have survived and live in Loch Ness or Lake Champlain.

Or maybe I’m just gullible.

The most difficult are those theories presented as backed by scientific research.  I’ve read Gavin Menzies‘ books asserting that the Chinese sailed around the world in 1421, and that the lost civilization of Atlantis was the ancient Minoan Empire, and despite what I understand to be near universal debunking of this research, I still wonder, what if?  Why not?   I watch the History Channel’s MonsterQuest and I half-expect, at the end of each episode, to be provided with conclusive proof of Sasquatch, or Birdzilla.

It never happens, but I always hold out hope.

Ultimately, I suppose this is a good thing — if nothing else, I’m provided with constant fodder for my fiction.  But am I alone in my willingness to suspend disbelief, to wonder just what happened in Area 51, to think it possible dinosaurs might have existed into the modern world and prehistoric humanoids might still stalk the Pacific Northwest?

Any other crypto-geeks out there?

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