Another Time of Magic

Seth, the great dragon who likes to hang around my backyard, settled next to the deck and I believe, if dragons could smile, he would be smiling at me and Dejah lying next to me.

It is October, the Time of Magic.

“Good to see you, under the circumstances,” Seth said to the rickety white dog who looks as though she has been treated to a few too many treats.

“What do you mean, ‘under the circumstances,’?” Dejah asked.

“Well,” Seth said, “the last time you spoke last year, you said a few maudlin things about how this guy never had a 12-year-old golden retriever. I figured by now you’d be six feet under or scattered to the wind or some such.”

“That’s right,” I said, “you said you wanted to say some things while you still could. I did wish you a happy birthday, didn’t I, Dejah?”

“Yes, you did,” said the old dog, wincing a bit. “I must say that being 12 years old is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“It’s 84 dog years,” Seth calculated. “Humans aren’t very spry when they hit 84, either.”

The Time of Magic, I had learned last year, is when all sorts of odd things happen. Pumpkins sprout teeth, witches may be seen in the sky, and animal speech becomes understandable to mere humans.

Last year Dejah, Summer and I had quite the October adventure which I chronicled in a little book titled, unimaginatively, Dejah & Summer in the Time of Magic. It’s not too bold a statement to say that my dear companions saved the world, with a little help from our friends.

“It’s good to see you, too, Seth,” said Dejah with brighter eyes than usual. “So maybe I was off by a year. I apologize if I miss next year, however.”

“What, are you planning a Caribbean cruise?” chuckled the dragon. “Quit dwelling on how old you are.”

“I am as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth,” Dejah said. “And you can’t deny that’s pretty darn old.”

“You are three times as old as I am, old lady,” Summer said, ambling onto the deck from inside the house. “Hi, Seth! What’s cooking?”

Seth sniffed. “I’m not sure, but it smells rather nice.”

“I’m making lasagna in the Instant Pot,” I said.

“Oh, yummy,” Dejah said. “Can we —?”

“No,” I said.

“Is there any sign of evil critters?” Summer asked, warily.

“No, I’m just visiting,” said Seth.

“Good,” Dejah said. “My old bones have seen enough adventure for one lifetime.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?” Summer cried and chased her big sister into the house, where they began to play tug-of-war with the throw rug in the living room.

Seth and I looked at each other, said “Kids!” simultaneously, and had a good laugh.

We sat for a few moments, and then I said, “Miracle on 34th Street.”

“What?”

“When Dejah said she was as old as her tongue, she was quoting a line from Miracle on 34th Street.”

“I should have known,” said the dragon. “You and your old movies.”

“Yep,” I said. “Me and my old movies.”

Plains of Existence

It was a parenthetical thought yesterday, but I had to know, and so I did a DuckDuckGo search for “plain of existence,” which sent me to pages and pages about our “plane of existence” and a huffy question whether I really meant to say “plain” — and when I answered in the affirmative, I was led to decidedly fewer options.

It seems there are seven planes of existence, or maybe only four, or perhaps as many as 31. Rather than go down any more rabbit holes, I accept that I was wrong and will spell it “plane” from now on.

Or should I? Once upon a time I accidentally sang a lyric “scream of consciousness” instead of “stream,” and my resuting contemplation led to a book about living in the moment. Perhaps there’s a book waiting to be written about pioneers crossing the plains of existence.

The Time of Magic nears

They lined up next to my chair almost exactly as they had last summer, my two golden girls, and once again they presented me with a perfect portrait. Was this God’s way of reminding me to do a little shameless self-promotion?

Last fall, partly as a way to keep me from engaging myself in the toxic presidential campaign, I began writing a chapter-a-day story that opens with Dejah and Summer suddenly gaining voices. It became a fantasy about interdimensional portals, magical beings both good and evil, and of course an existential threat to our world. (Existential threats were in fashion last fall, after all.)

The result was this charming short novel, Dejah & Summer in the Time of Magic, which I have subtitled “A Halloween Fantasy” because, well, it’s a fantasy about the Halloween season. Sometimes my creativity is astonishing, don’t you think?

Most people don’t give gifts at Halloween, but if you are so inclined, this would be a perfect Halloween gift for your favorite reading loved one. Just sayin’.

Or was the perfect portrait God’s way of saying it’s time to write a sequel?

A glimpse of the future

Snooger, a snoggle, was snoring in his sleep when an alien from another planet stepped on his foot. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Little Bill Gentle got involved when the alien and her vampire friend trespassed on his property. The two of them changed his life rather dramatically.

Viktar, the Lost Prince of Venus, was not really lost. He and his aide, Tudie Tidalbars, were — well, perhaps I’m telling more than I should at this juncture.

“Yes, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said the red-haired young woman who happens to be the alien who accidentally gave Snooger his rude awakening. “And what’s this about me being an alien?”

“Of course we’re aliens to these people,” said Blaine, her vampire friend. “This is their planet, not ours.”

“I know,” said Jeep Thompson. “It just takes some getting used to.”

Once upon a time, a writer who lived near the waters of Green Bay awakened not long after midnight and remembered that he had not written his daily blog post yet.

“Whatever shall I write about?” the writer murmured to himself.

“Hey, we snoggles are still trying to sleep here,” came a voice from somewhere in the distance. “Snooger, shut your friends up, please.”

“Sorry,” said the writer. “I didn’t mean to cause a commotion.”

“It’s not your fault,” whined Snooger. “Everything was fine until she stepped on my fooo-oot.”

“Do all snoggles whine like this?” Jeep asked.

“Only the ones who get their feet stomped,” smiled Little Bill Gentle.

The writer posted his blog post and went back to sleep — or at least that’s what they thought. Only he knows what really happened next.

An announcement long in coming

I am ready to say that Jeep Thompson and The Lost Prince of Venus is my next book. I can see my way to “The End” at last.

I even added the book cover to the website’s sidebar with the caption “My Next Book.”

Jeep has been pacing along the sidelines watching me write 1,828 daily blog posts while I nibbled around the edges of her story. One of the first memes I made said, “Jeep Thompson: Coming in 2021.” I’ve had mockups of the trilogy covers done for years, along with working titles, currently Jeep Thompson and The Lost Prince of Venus, Jeep Thompson and The Martian Alternative, and Jeep Thompson and The World Jumpers.

Maybe conceiving it as a trilogy overwhelmed something in me and made me hesitate and procrastinate for months at a time. Maybe it made me overthink certain scenes to try to plant seeds in the first book that would bear fruit later on. Whatever the case, it has taken me a long time to get Jeep back from Venus, but I know how she gets home now, and I know what she finds there that sends her to Mars next.

And I don’t know precisely how, but I know that Jeep Thompson is destined to save the worlds.

This means I’m abandoning my goofy goal to publish 12 books during 2025 — what the heck, through the end of July I’m five books behind anyway. Perhaps I’ll work my way up to monthly in 2026 or 2027.

I’ll keep you posted as I get a clearer idea about when Jeep Thompson and The Lost Prince of Venus is ready. My expectation is that it will be there in time for you to give copies to all your loved ones for Christmas.

P.S. When I posted this post for Saturday morning publication, I saw the WordPress “Related” algorithm presented previous announcements about how Jeep was almost here. I hate to say, “This time for sure,” but: This time for sure.

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As long as I’m talking about my books, please consider my recent bits of fiction — the Christmas fable Ebenezer (also available in hardcover), the Halloween fantasy Dejah & Summer in The Time of Magic, and The Man Who Crossed Whimsy Avenue — or my most recent blog post collections, A Declaration of Peace and See the World! They also would make wonderful gifts and are available now wherever fine print-on-demand books are sold, e.g., everywhere.

Transcending time and culture

Can you tell, by watching the movie, who was president when Star Wars was released? What do you suppose was the front-page headline when Judy Garland recorded “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”? Do you know who was queen when Shakespeare wrote Romeo and Juliet? OK, it was Elizabethan times, but can you tell from the story what Parliament was up to, or if England was at war?

Those thoughts came to mind as I read Daniel Silliman’s obituary of pastor and author John MacArthur, who died Monday. Writing for Christianity Today, Silliman quotes MacArthur as saying a good sermon should still be good 50 years after it is preached.

“It isn’t time-stamped by any kind of cultural events or personal events,” MacArthur said. “It’s not about me. And it transcends not only time, but it transcends culture.”

I think the same could be said of any great work of art or other expression that speaks to the human condition. Continuing a theme from yesterday, “Thunder Road” is one of Bruce Springsteen’s greatest songs 50 years after he wrote it, in part because it tells the same truths that it did in 1975.

MacArthur was a biblical scholar who helped people understand Scripture in the context of the Bible. His best sermons will still make sense and touch people 50 years from now.

Our various means of recording and preserving words, music and art have accelerated human progress through the ages. MacArthur was in our midst for 86 years, but his impact will be felt for far longer.

That technology has even changed the meaning of that phrase, “in our midst.” I never met MacArthur and probably was rarely in the same state as he, but he was “in our midst” because of his recordings and books and such.

We live in a miraculous time. Tuesday was unbearably hot in these parts, but I didn’t break a sweat while writing these words in a climate-controlled household with central air conditioning. I read Silliman’s article on an electronic device that carried his words around the world seconds after he finished writing them.

And we are still moved by work that was preserved for us 50, 500 and 2,000 years ago by people with universal truths to share.

Golden Years

Willow The Best Dog There Was™ and Dejah Thoris Princess of Mars, circa 2014

The new Andy Carpenter novel by David Rosenfelt, Dogged Pursuit, follows the same tried-and-true formula as the others in the series, with one huge difference: Rosenfelt turns back the clock and tells the story of Carpenter’s first murder trial as a newly minted defense attorney, fresh off three years as a prosecutor.

The story begins with Andy adopting a golden retriever named Tara, based on one of Rosenfelt’s real-life dogs, a golden retriever named — wait for it — Tara, whom he describes as the best dog ever. Rosenfelt never met my Willow the Best Dog There Was™, so he’s forgiven.

Tara is such an important part of the Andy Carpenter story that Rosenfelt has decreed this beloved golden will never die, and this “origin story” is great fun.

Four golden retrievers have been a part of my life — Onyah, Willow, Dejah and Summer. Red and Son of Red had just adopted Onyah when we met. Those familiar with goldens will not be surprised to hear that she was an energetic and loving puppy who mellowed into a sweet and gentle companion.

When Onyah died at age 11 just after Easter 2009, Red said, “I think we won’t get another dog for awhile.” Two weeks later, she said, “We should get a puppy.” Willow came home in mid-May. That dog and I bonded to the point where Red would tell people when Willow’s time came she would have to euthanize me, too, because I would be so desolate. She was kind enough to let me live, but I was indeed desolate when Willow passed a few days before her 12th birthday.

In the meantime we had adopted a second golden, an English cream retriever we dubbed Dejah Thoris Princess of Mars. I think of Willow and Dejah together as the Golden Years, pun intended. They were a wonderful pair; on Aug. 12 Dejah is scheduled to become our first 12-year-old golden. I have been watching her health somewhat fretfully, but so far so good.

Not long after Willow died, Red found a wonderful family that raises goldens about 100 miles from here, and we brought Summer home in September 2021. Shockingly that energetic puppy has mellowed into a sweet and gentle companion who will be 4 years old next Saturday.

Purebred golden retrievers are expensive, and so I expect Sum-Sum will be my last, but I am happy I was able to have that many goldens in my life. They are wonderful creatures and faithful friends.

Oh, and Rosenfelt’s latest book is well worth pursuing.