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Book Review: Wool

Book Cover from Amazon

Wool by Hugh Howey

BOOK BLURB ON AMAZON

Thousands of them have lived underground. They’ve lived there so long, there are only legends about people living anywhere else. Such a life requires rules. Strict rules. There are things that must not be discussed. Like going outside. Never mention you might like going outside.

Or you’ll get what you wish for.

 

MY REVIEW

This one is a little weird to write up. Originally published as a short story of only 50 pages, the story was so popular Mr. Howey was encouraged to write a followup, and then another, until he wrote a total of five books in a series (over 500 pages available as a single omnibus as well as sold separately). And that series did so well he added another trilogy. And that did so well he is allowing others to write in his Silo world. So do I rate the story as a short story or the first of a series? Because as a short story it is thought-provoking and as a series introduction, the world-building has huge holes unacceptable for the long-form.

Mr. Howey writes some pretty good short stories that make you think. A number of his stories available on Amazon show his like for this format. “Wool”, as a short story, follows a man mourning his wife and dealing with a post-apocalyptic world where everyone is locked in a buried multistory building with only a few windows to the outside world, which slowly get covered in grime. The story covers both the present day and the history leading to his wife’s death. Wool removes the grime and allows clear-seeing to how the world really is. “Wool” is a solid short story worthy of a good anthology or collection.

As the first of a series, “Wool” lacks a lot. The survival just doesn’t seem possible. To start, how does the central staircase survive? Diamond treads wear off in just a couple of decades, not the 200 plus years they have been inside and using this as a major thoroughfare. Yes, no weather – still humans produce a lot of water naturally. Moisture and rust and use would have killed this in the first 50 years. Second, where does the wool come from – or any of the cleaning products. A carbon suit? Argon? The digital screen? So much is just not possible. I don’t know if he resolved these issues in later books. Again, his original book was not aimed at being anything but a short story and short story worlds do not need to make complete sense. They need to get a reaction – and this story definitely achieves that.

But not enough, for me at least, to continue in this depressing post-apocalyptic world. I agree with the main character who says the children books with green and blue just speak to a person. You know those are the correct colors. I don’t want to read about a people locked in a buried tower without sunlight or hope. Although it would be interesting to see how they survive. How it changes what it means to be human.

Picked up while free on Kindle; using typical marketing model – first of a five book series, with the first book free.

Blog: New Year 2018

Image acquired from http://www.dogwoodcarving.co.uk/; Text added by Erin Penn

Each year I share my writing goals. I did awesome in 2016. 2017 ended with a splash, but my writing goal achievement was lackluster. On the other hand, the fire rooster of 2017 brought my editing activity onto the front burners, nearly boiling over in August and September. I hope the 2018 dog year balances the two halves of my word-smithing soul, with the continued fun of editing and the creative joy of writing.

Review of 2017 Goals:

  1. Completed the transfer of my stand-alone blog to the website.
  2. The blog on the website, while not constant, ended the year close to the three posts a week goal.
  3. Publication did not happen, not of novels or flirts, but thanks to NaNoWritMo a non-fiction book on writing exercises is in the works.
  4. Submit to three anthologies. Did not happen.
  5. Bonus goal: Panelist at convention. Did not happen. But I did go to DragonCon for the first time.
  6. Not a goal: Became a content editor, with six books in various stages of the publication process. Man, did this change around writing efforts.

The goals for 2018 under my power:

  1. Join the 500 club every day – specific to sale-able product. (The 500 club is writing 500 words. Do this every day for a year and I will have 150,000 words. Allowed to have one day a week off, but only one.)
  2. Keep the blog on the website strong. Three posts a week.
  3. Publish (either by others or by self) a non-fiction book and at least two fictional works of 10K or more words.
  4. Submit to three anthologies.

Bonus Actions (not under my power):

  1. Publish in an anthology.
  2. Publish under a publishing company in addition to self-publication.
  3. Shepherd at least three books to final publication through the editing process. Add at least three more books the pipeline.

What I am letting go

  1. Multiple conventions. Unless I am producing things for people to buy, I can’t justify attending conventions. I need a year to concentrate on writing.

Flash: Open Door Policy

Image courtesy of Phil_Bird at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Floors and walls first shook, then thrummed. Step.Step.Step boomed, vibrating the air as the Orcian left their headquarters single file. My stomach dropped to my knees, which wasn’t far as I huddled down behind some crates in the industrial section of the station. I glimpsed their beetle plates, shiny black, crossed with matted black straps for weapons. More knifes, guns, and curved hooks than any human would think of carrying. They would slow us down, much too much, when we needed to run from the Orcian down here in the ragged-halls.

The gleam of white here and there from their beady eyes and overbite tusks dripped icy sweat down my back, making me shiver. Seven foot, or more, and a quarter ton, each biological hybrid moved with a fast precision somewhere between military and mob, an avalanche heading to whatever helpless soul had raised their ire this time. They ruled the dark and low places like the angel hybrids ruled the planets and the station links.

My friend put a hand on my shoulder to calm my tremors. Her pale blue eyes sparkled with adventure, a grin creasing her lips. She mouthed, “Wait”.

Why did I let her talk me into this? We were going to die. We were going to get caught. Run over. Beaten. I wanted to breathe deep to calm my nerves but scared the Orcian would hear the inhale over their trooper boots pounding the metallic floors. I reminded myself their human-alien hybrid lost most of human acuteness in the senses of sound, smell, and sight. A trade-off the scientists who made the biological monstrosities took for strength and endurance. Pity they hadn’t thought about the emotional end of things, Orcian like their Angel brethren had no compassion. But I had no pity for the scientists themselves, the first to fall at the hands of their creations forty years ago, only for the rest of natural humanity who had inherited their legacy.

Once the floor ceased vibrating and the last echoes faded from the cavern-corridor, and we waited a bit more, Pips leaned forward and whispered, “Let’s go!”

I bent-scurried behind her as we dashed to the headquarter entrance. The normal guards usually stationed either side followed their cohort through the lower levels.

As she found from her previous excursions, the Black only knows why she hung around so close to the Orcian, the front door was ajar. Barely, but enough for two thin ragged-hall rats to slip between the huge metallic door and its air-lock seal. Another metallic door faced us, equally cracked open just enough. A double-seal with opposite openings for strength during decompression. Both left unlocked and unguarded. Like an arrogant statement, “No one dare enter our realm even when we aren’t here.”

Or, if not a statement, then a trap.

I followed my best friend into the room. Twenty doors opened off the main chamber of the quarters. The walls soared up nearly twelve feet, but the ceiling receded even further. They had carved out the overhead floor giving them two eight foot levels plus the couple feet between the floor/ceiling plates used for maintenance and services – the wires and vents usually hidden, twisted off of normal paths to follow the top of the make-shift walls.

Pips laughed out loud and spun in a circle. “Told you!”

“Yes you did.” I nodded as I walked inside the most non-human place in the whole no-longer human universe, quickly searching for what we could take. I pocketed some rations tossed randomly about the room, each meal size, likely light snacks for the Orcian. For me, an entire day of food.

We started opening the doors, which led to small, for them, sleep spaces. Just enough room for a cot and locker. The locker had armor bits, no coins or cards because they could take whatever they wanted, and, strangely, underwear. It was human male underwear, tighty-whitie variety. Each pair was wider than my shoulders. My brain stopped a moment.

I knew they were part human. But … For a second I saw my brother running around in his underwear, making jokes in our sleeping rooms, before he got caught in one of the Orcian avalanches.

I slammed the door shut on the locker and the memory. Nothing about these monsters could be human. I refused to allow it.

“Hey Spanner!” came a whisper shout.

I popped back into the main room and looked around. Pips’ head emerged out of a wall. Now that is intriguing. What did the monsters need with a hologram? Pips’ wild grin had taken over her entire face. “Got your kit with you girl?”

“You know it.” I rushed over and stepped through the hologram. A door. Metal. Closed. Locked.

The wall here only went up the traditional eight feet with the floor/ceiling covering the space. I walked around the separated room. The roof to the room had been cut and isolated from all maintenance services. Studying the floor, I noticed welds and rivets indicating a possible matching isolation below.

Something off the grid.

I looked up to find Pips staring at me. My grin had to match hers. Returning to the locked door, I stroked the alum-steel challenge. A physical lock, no visible electronic. Not really a surprise there if they wanted it off of the grid. Most of the ragged rats would be totally stopped, but I pride myself in being well-rounded. The richer folks in the link levels like a combination of the strange physical with traditional electronic methods to protect their valuables. I don’t go up to those levels, since I can’t pass for anything but a 100% natural. But some of the rats who work up-levels bring me things which spring open to reveal other things, given the right kind of careful encouragement.

The lock, locks – several layers of them, was fun. Took me nearly ten minutes to open all the various bits, but the obstinate barrier gave up eventually.

“Weapons? Money? What do you think?” Pips whispered in anticipation.

Smiling back at her, I tapped the metal with the reproducer I had had to break out to take visuals to get around the last tumbler. With a bit of bravo and self-satisfaction, I opened the door.

Our jaws dropped.

That equipment wasn’t legal anywhere anymore. The Angels didn’t want any competition.

Unthinking, my finger nervously tapped the reproducer in my hand while my mind processed how much danger we were in. “We need to leave now.” I looked over at my unstoppably cheerful friend and watched her swallow in fear.

She nodded, and we slammed the door shut. She backed to the other side of the hologram before muttering. “No evidence.”

I stared at her, my eyes widening then I backed through the hologram again and worked my way through the Black-begotten lock, returning it to its previous state. When I returned to the other side of the electronic illusion, I found her hopping from foot to foot, her eyes subdued but brightening.

“All good?”

“Clean except…” I slapped where the reproducer had been secreted on my body. Did those taps take pictures? Doesn’t matter, what’s done is done. She didn’t need to know. “Yeah, clean. You?”

“No prints anywhere.”

“Great.” As we hurried to the entrance, I felt it.

The vibrations.

The floor trembled.

We had taken too long. Maybe. We.needed.to.move.

The pounding of boots shook the walls. Walls built to withstand decompression. Pips froze just before the door. I slipped by her and grabbed her hand to pull her through to the between area but she didn’t budge. I twisted to go back through the first crack when the outer door slammed open catching me between it and the wall.

The second door, the one I had just passed through with Pips on the other side, plowed through the air into the quarters as a hand big enough to palm my face and curl the fingers around the back of my head pushed it open. I saw the whites of her eyes as her pupils pinpointed. She glanced to me only a second, pleading, begging, before blanking her face. The Black bless her.

She backed up into the main room as a wall of plate passed by, blocking my ability to see her.

“What do we have here?” A voice deeper than any I have ever heard questioned. I lost the crack as another wall of shiny beetle plate pushed the door edge completely against the wall, preventing me from seeing anything else. I heard second voice state, “A thief.”

Another ton of monster caused the floor to tremble. “A toy.” Laughter. The pounding boots continued as each hybrid passed into their quarters. I inched further and further into the open area, until I reached the furthest corner between the door and the wall, trembling in time with the footsteps.

“Do I get any?” Said the deepest, strongest voice yet. It’s location the corridor side of the airlock, high above my head.

“After your shift.” Came the uncompromising reply. Several things laughed. The door on the quarters side slammed shut.

The corridor door, the one I hid behind, started moving. “Just my luck,” growled the guard before closing the other door catching me between in the dark.

Pips screamed for a long time. I could hear it through the airlock, the full seal wasn’t in place so air could circulate. She lasted beyond the guard shift change. It took a long, long.

Long.

Time before she stopped making any sound.

Five shift changes.

I stayed shivering in the corner. Terrified every time they opened the door. Terrified to move from the safe corner where they couldn’t see me. Terrified to sleep. Once or twice I slumped, but dared not close my eyes because I would fall down. The bars in my pocket mocked me, but I didn’t know when I could piss again so I didn’t eat them. I grew dizzy from thirst.

Inside, between the doors, I dreamed of warm liquid running down my legs, puddling on the floor. At shift change they found the puddle and me behind the door. I jerked myself upright. I hadn’t been sleeping. I rubbed my face.

With hands covered in blood. That was the puddle on the floor. Beside Pips body. Blood flowing from her to me. I left her, and her blood found me. Shuttering I pushed myself deeper in the corner.

Stay awake. Stay awake.

So thirsty. Hallucinating from the thirst. Right? Her body couldn’t be here between the doors.

Shift change.

Could I piss myself and catch it to drink? Couldn’t miss. Can’t leave a puddle.

Shift change. Number nine or twelve?

I waited for the next avalanche, hoping it would arrive soon. They didn’t leave guards during avalanches. Unless they changed because they found Pips. I hoped not. I needed to get away. Before I give up. No, I can’t give up. So easy to give up. Been so long. So long. I won’t last much longer. No, must last. I could just push the door next time and give myself away. No. Don’t. But… But no.

Because if they find me. Find what is on me. I don’t think they would only play with me for a few shifts and then let me die. No, they would keep me alive a long time. I wouldn’t be a toy.

Because if they had me, they would find the thing on me. They would find the reproducer and those pictures my fingers had tapped. The pictures of the illegal equipment. Pictures capturing the movement I saw inside the equipment.

(Words 1940 – first published 12/31/2017)

Family Business Series:
Flash 1: Open Door Policy (12/31/2017)
Flash 2: Glass Ceiling Policy (12/1/2019)

Other Cool Blogs: James Maxey November 14, 2017

Quote from James Maxey

Meme created by Erin Penn (Quote from James Maxey, art from unsplash.com)

Conventions

Why go to conventions? For James Maxey, it’s seeing how they react to his book covers and book blurbs. Do people walk by his book covers or do they stop? If they pick up the book and flip it over, do they set it down again or juggle the book while pulling out their wallet? Conventions are his market research, the time he can connect with potential buyers and see them react to his product.

In one of the most detail, complete and HELPFUL blog posts I have ever found on Conventions, “Selling Books at Conventions” goes beyond the typical “attend conventions for networking opportunities”. For Mr. Maxey, the paradigm of conventions being a monetary loss was a challenge he was determined to conquer, and you can find out all his tricks here: https://dragonprophet.blogspot.com/2017/11/selling-books-at-conventions.html

Writing Exercise: Real Life Inspiration

Widely used piece of stock art from the internet (found 12 uses and no attribution)

“Where do you get your ideas?” FAQ #1 of writers. 

Everywhere. Reading books, the watching the news, walking down the street, head voices which won’t shut up, Facebook …

The challenge is turning a real-life event into a fictional piece. Real-life isn’t neat. There is no defined beginning, middle, and end, no inciting event, rising action, and resolution. At least not in a neat narrative package, bow-tied with theme and meaning.

WRITING EXERCISE: The writing challenge for today is to convert a real-life event, NOT YOURS, into a fictional story. Scroll through your Facebook or other social media feed. (Not on social media? Look at today’s news.) Choose a small event, not a life changing one like cancer or marriage, but more like “ate at my favorite restaurant and got the rude waiter” or “stuck in traffic waiting for the geese to cross the road”. Create a flash of at least 200 words.

***

At some point I need to write “The Help”. The basis for this eventual flash came from a sibling’s post. The weekend had been bad with everyone a bit sick, but only for one day. Dad got to return to work; mom, who is nursing, stayed home with the toddler and baby. Three days later the post comes 

“Nothing like an intermittently vomiting toddler to keep you on your toes.
It also keeps you trapped in the house. Plans cancelled, again.

I guess I’ve got plenty to time to research new washing machines, since ours just broke.”

After a flash of sympathy, I have to admit, I laughed a little at the wrench life threw into the works. Cleaning up vomit and no washing machine is a bad combo. I need to write something about that. Scrolling through the comments I discovered the poor toddler had vomited seven times that day. The broken washing machine left an inch of water in the laundry room. Sibling was having a very bad – but fiction-worthy – day.

I have a fictional couple, Joe and Cheryl, with a toddler and baby. These two are not based on my sibling and sib’s spouse – I started writing the Joe-Cheryl show (as I call it in my head) four years ago, long before my sibling had a toddler and a nursing baby. I often used them, Joe & Cheryl, to recreate real-life occurrences I have seen when working taxes at Walmart; “It’s Dirty” is exactly what a toddler said during checkout walking away from money on the floor, leaving a flabbergasted mother behind.

The challenge is the Joe-Cheryl show has certain rules in my head (1) loving couple and functional family unit, (2) must be humorous, and most importantly (3) deals a verbal play, some aspect of language or interpretation based on words: “Inside voice“, “Memory of a Lifetime“, and “Eat Half” are just some of the examples.

Making a sick kid, broken washer, and flooded laundry room smile-worthy would take a bit of doing but possible. My problem is none of those are verbal plays. Then I remember a meme about a guy explaining how he is not “helping his wife”. Perfect!

Smash all this together in my head: the meme, Joe-Cheryl and their rules, and my sibling’s very bad-but-we-will-laugh-about-it-when-it’s-over day. Oh, and this past weekend I was at a function with a teething babe-in-arms. The mother had to carry-jiggle the baby all day. Yeah, need to add that. Torture my characters like a good writer. (Even comic relief characters can be tortured.)

From four different things, “The Help” emerges.  (someday)

“Where do you get your ideas?” Everywhere.