“I came here to meet you. I wanted to meet you before you became… well, you. It’s inspiring in a way, reading your first novel.” |
Fritz Scholder, Mystery Woman with Shadow (1989)
I can never be certain what she would eventually write about my first novel, The Dreamers. Who knows if that’s even the final title? But she was kind enough to leave me the first page of her thesis—handwritten, of all things—which, for her, must have been a chore. Here’s how it starts: “Few first novels in literary history had failed so miserably. And yet, there is a charm there—as if the seeds of later, more fully developed works had been planted with haphazard care.”
It was November of 2002. I was making progress in my coursework toward a degree in literature—it was hard to know exactly if my credits qualified me as a sophomore or a junior. Little things like that seemed to count for much at that time. It was a surprisingly chilly winter evening in Florida. I was on the pier at Pompano Beach, slightly high on life and weed. The manic depressiveness of my writing binges was taking a toll on my emotional well-being. It was at that point in life that I had developed the habit of carrying around a little pocket notebook, writing down all the miserable details of my life. I was a recently minted twenty-one, and it was official: work on my first novel, The Dreamers, was not going well.
It was that night at Pompano Pier that I met her.
My friend Mike Blunt, a co-worker from my part-time job at a local coffee chain, had taken me there to listen to a local band playing covers of popular punk rock songs. Blink-182 was a particular favorite. A little bit of New Found Glory, too.
The bar at the pier wasn’t too busy; it was a Thursday night, after all. Still, the band had a small following, and there was a bit of energy in the air. That’s when I noticed her—watching me, but pretending not to. She had a small memo pad in her hand and a pencil, jotting things down as if she were sketching the night in words.
“Do it dirty or don’t do it at all.” That was Mike’s catchphrase, and his way of telling me on that occasion that I should go talk to her.
Instead of responding, I focused on my own little notebook, scribbling down ideas for the novel I was dreaming of writing. I started listing the people who would appear in it: Mike, of course, and James, another friend from work. James had recently dropped out of college and was set to join the Army, bound for Afghanistan. We were all worried about him. He was strong and tough, but none of us could picture him killing anyone.
All of these fragments and moments were making their way into my notes. At that point, what I called a novel was really just a collection of random scenes and half-formed ideas—closer to nonfiction than fiction.
The Mike Blunt of real life was in community college, learning how to do technical drafting or some such thing. On that, or any given day, Mike would reprimand me for how few women I was sleeping with. In my novel, James would have been with us, bringing his pseudo-Christian Puritanism, giving the scene a nice triangular dynamic: the artist, the pragmatist, and the Puritan. Mike, ever the pragmatist, would be discussing his pragmatist’s dreams of fortune, women, and all the kinds of success that could be quantified on a balance sheet. James, the Puritan, would be seeking a pure moral victory for God and country. And me? What was I searching for? Something more, something fleeting and magical, something forever. At the very least something that would outlast the year 2002. As an artist, I was the dreamiest dreamer of them all. And my fictional self… well, I suppose he wouldn’t be that different.
The band had just finished a cover of a Green Day song. Mike was smoking a joint. He passed it to me. “This will mellow you out. You’re working too hard, man.” I took a minor toke. Nothing happened… not immediately. “Keep it safe for me.” He stood up. At first I didn’t know where he was going. I assumed he was going to get two more beers for us… But then when I looked behind me, I saw him talking to the girl. Do it dirty, indeed. Well, good for him… another girl to run up his numbers.
I was having a mellow time, smoking a little bit, thinking a little… trying to paint the scene of the night as it would appear in the novel. What would be the conflict? Perhaps it would be a character, based on me, trying to convince the fictional James not to join the military…
I was lost in my thoughts, probably not for a long time, when I was interrupted by Mike.
“Dude,” Mike interrupted me. “She knows who you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s got a notepad like you. I got a look at it. I think she’s stalking you.”
“Why would you assume…”
“I didn’t see everything, but as I was talking to her, she was trying to hide her notes. I saw that she knew about your writing. She had all sorts of notes on you.”
I looked back at the girl. She was trying to avoid looking at me. I didn’t recognize her from school or any of my classes. As I tried to look directly at her face, I found my vision getting blurry. That was odd. I don’t remember smoking that much.
“Is she beautiful?”
“You know… I can’t remember.”
That was odd, too. Mike would never forget a thing like that. Had I attracted a stalker? That seemed implausible.
Well, this had been what I was hoping for after all, an inciting incident. I suppose I now had to walk over there and talk to her. So, I slipped my little notebook into my pocket and walked her way. I can’t tell you what she looks like now, though I suppose for narrative purposes, I should say something hopelessly sentimental and hackneyed like—the first sight of her took my breath away.
She was the only one sitting at her table, so I casually asked, “Mind if I sit here?”
I could tell that she was nervous. “Please… actually, I was hoping to talk to you.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
“No, I know you, but you don’t know me. So… the thing is… I’m here for a research project. Before this interview goes any further, I need your consent.”
“Consent?”
“You see, I intend to record this conversation for my master’s thesis. I’m a time traveler from the future. In the future, I’m writing a thesis on your first novel, The Dreamers. My thesis explores the limitations of your first novel.”
Beyond my bewilderment, there was disappointment. Limitations. Ugh… something about that word struck at every insecurity in my young being.
“My research ethics committee requires that I say this next part. Sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
“Hello,” she said in a rehearsed voice. “I am a researcher from another time. I would like to ask you some questions about your writing and writing process. Your participation is completely voluntary. You do not have to answer anything you don’t want to, and you can stop the conversation at any time. With your permission, I would like to record/take notes so that I can cite you accurately in my thesis research. After this conversation, I will selectively wipe portions of your memory. There will be no discomfort. Actually, you might even kind of like it. It sort of gets rid of the mind gunk… Anyway, do I have your consent to proceed?”
Man, I must have been higher than I realized. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I want you to let me interview you for my master’s thesis.”
I tried to process what she was saying. “So, you’re saying that time travel is real in the future and that people use it to do literary research?”
“I can’t discuss too much about the technology, that goes against my research ethics. However, I must inform you that your memory of this moment in time will be altered after the interview. You will remember talking to a girl at a bar and that we had a short pleasant conversation about a rather obscure book you like, but that is it. You will not remember my face nor anything I say about your book. Do you agree to those terms?”
At that particular time, I didn’t know too much about the protocol for conducting research on human subjects, but I had a vague sense that everything she said sounded plausible as a statement for research consent.
“Groovy… on one condition, and I hope your research guidelines allow this. You have to buy me a drink.”
It was November of 2002. I was making progress in my coursework toward a degree in literature—it was hard to know exactly if my credits qualified me as a sophomore or a junior. Little things like that seemed to count for much at that time. It was a surprisingly chilly winter evening in Florida. I was on the pier at Pompano Beach, slightly high on life and weed. The manic depressiveness of my writing binges was taking a toll on my emotional well-being. It was at that point in life that I had developed the habit of carrying around a little pocket notebook, writing down all the miserable details of my life. I was a recently minted twenty-one, and it was official: work on my first novel, The Dreamers, was not going well.
It was that night at Pompano Pier that I met her.
My friend Mike Blunt, a co-worker from my part-time job at a local coffee chain, had taken me there to listen to a local band playing covers of popular punk rock songs. Blink-182 was a particular favorite. A little bit of New Found Glory, too.
The bar at the pier wasn’t too busy; it was a Thursday night, after all. Still, the band had a small following, and there was a bit of energy in the air. That’s when I noticed her—watching me, but pretending not to. She had a small memo pad in her hand and a pencil, jotting things down as if she were sketching the night in words.
“Do it dirty or don’t do it at all.” That was Mike’s catchphrase, and his way of telling me on that occasion that I should go talk to her.
Instead of responding, I focused on my own little notebook, scribbling down ideas for the novel I was dreaming of writing. I started listing the people who would appear in it: Mike, of course, and James, another friend from work. James had recently dropped out of college and was set to join the Army, bound for Afghanistan. We were all worried about him. He was strong and tough, but none of us could picture him killing anyone.
All of these fragments and moments were making their way into my notes. At that point, what I called a novel was really just a collection of random scenes and half-formed ideas—closer to nonfiction than fiction.
The Mike Blunt of real life was in community college, learning how to do technical drafting or some such thing. On that, or any given day, Mike would reprimand me for how few women I was sleeping with. In my novel, James would have been with us, bringing his pseudo-Christian Puritanism, giving the scene a nice triangular dynamic: the artist, the pragmatist, and the Puritan. Mike, ever the pragmatist, would be discussing his pragmatist’s dreams of fortune, women, and all the kinds of success that could be quantified on a balance sheet. James, the Puritan, would be seeking a pure moral victory for God and country. And me? What was I searching for? Something more, something fleeting and magical, something forever. At the very least something that would outlast the year 2002. As an artist, I was the dreamiest dreamer of them all. And my fictional self… well, I suppose he wouldn’t be that different.
The band had just finished a cover of a Green Day song. Mike was smoking a joint. He passed it to me. “This will mellow you out. You’re working too hard, man.” I took a minor toke. Nothing happened… not immediately. “Keep it safe for me.” He stood up. At first I didn’t know where he was going. I assumed he was going to get two more beers for us… But then when I looked behind me, I saw him talking to the girl. Do it dirty, indeed. Well, good for him… another girl to run up his numbers.
I was having a mellow time, smoking a little bit, thinking a little… trying to paint the scene of the night as it would appear in the novel. What would be the conflict? Perhaps it would be a character, based on me, trying to convince the fictional James not to join the military…
I was lost in my thoughts, probably not for a long time, when I was interrupted by Mike.
“Dude,” Mike interrupted me. “She knows who you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s got a notepad like you. I got a look at it. I think she’s stalking you.”
“Why would you assume…”
“I didn’t see everything, but as I was talking to her, she was trying to hide her notes. I saw that she knew about your writing. She had all sorts of notes on you.”
I looked back at the girl. She was trying to avoid looking at me. I didn’t recognize her from school or any of my classes. As I tried to look directly at her face, I found my vision getting blurry. That was odd. I don’t remember smoking that much.
“Is she beautiful?”
“You know… I can’t remember.”
That was odd, too. Mike would never forget a thing like that. Had I attracted a stalker? That seemed implausible.
Well, this had been what I was hoping for after all, an inciting incident. I suppose I now had to walk over there and talk to her. So, I slipped my little notebook into my pocket and walked her way. I can’t tell you what she looks like now, though I suppose for narrative purposes, I should say something hopelessly sentimental and hackneyed like—the first sight of her took my breath away.
She was the only one sitting at her table, so I casually asked, “Mind if I sit here?”
I could tell that she was nervous. “Please… actually, I was hoping to talk to you.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
“No, I know you, but you don’t know me. So… the thing is… I’m here for a research project. Before this interview goes any further, I need your consent.”
“Consent?”
“You see, I intend to record this conversation for my master’s thesis. I’m a time traveler from the future. In the future, I’m writing a thesis on your first novel, The Dreamers. My thesis explores the limitations of your first novel.”
Beyond my bewilderment, there was disappointment. Limitations. Ugh… something about that word struck at every insecurity in my young being.
“My research ethics committee requires that I say this next part. Sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
“Hello,” she said in a rehearsed voice. “I am a researcher from another time. I would like to ask you some questions about your writing and writing process. Your participation is completely voluntary. You do not have to answer anything you don’t want to, and you can stop the conversation at any time. With your permission, I would like to record/take notes so that I can cite you accurately in my thesis research. After this conversation, I will selectively wipe portions of your memory. There will be no discomfort. Actually, you might even kind of like it. It sort of gets rid of the mind gunk… Anyway, do I have your consent to proceed?”
Man, I must have been higher than I realized. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I want you to let me interview you for my master’s thesis.”
I tried to process what she was saying. “So, you’re saying that time travel is real in the future and that people use it to do literary research?”
“I can’t discuss too much about the technology, that goes against my research ethics. However, I must inform you that your memory of this moment in time will be altered after the interview. You will remember talking to a girl at a bar and that we had a short pleasant conversation about a rather obscure book you like, but that is it. You will not remember my face nor anything I say about your book. Do you agree to those terms?”
At that particular time, I didn’t know too much about the protocol for conducting research on human subjects, but I had a vague sense that everything she said sounded plausible as a statement for research consent.
“Groovy… on one condition, and I hope your research guidelines allow this. You have to buy me a drink.”
*
As I recall, we were drinking Coronas with limes. I felt this was a classy choice. Women from the future must not be too used to drinking alcohol because I remember her telling me too much. The future was a weird place—filled with abundance, supercomputers in every pocket, endless streams of entertainment that could be accessed on demand but, apparently, entirely devoid of meaning. People still dreamed, but their dreams had thin membranes, like the bubbles we chased as children—hard to catch but easy to pop. Apparently, she had tried many things—something-something optimization, customer service (amazingly, customers were worse in the future), something called 5-D tourism, affluent individual emotional support human (sounded suspiciously like slavery), and even woodworking—before settling into the life of a lowly literary researcher.
“It took me a while before I discovered my love for the written word. Reading physical books or even paper tablet books is so different from the immersive experiences we have even as children. Books exist more for decorative purposes. Why read a book when you can experience the story in five, six, seven, and very soon eight dimensions?”
Apparently, in the future college students still faked reading like old married women faked orgasms. And yet, books had a kind of nostalgic value, so the cult of true literary believers kept university literature departments alive.
I raised my glass. “To you, for keeping the dream alive.” Apparently, people don’t toast in the future. It took a good few seconds for her historical knowledge to kick in. When it did, she toasted me awkwardly.
She was having trouble looking me in the eyes. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“For your research?”
“Yeah.”
“Like what my motivation was for writing this book?”
“But I’m having trouble concentrating. You see…”
“Well, as for my motivation for writing this book, I wanted to capture a certain spark…”
“Please stop talking. What I wanted to say is that I can’t concentrate because, well, you’re…what did you say back in your generation… ah yes, you’re just so fucking hot.”
“It took me a while before I discovered my love for the written word. Reading physical books or even paper tablet books is so different from the immersive experiences we have even as children. Books exist more for decorative purposes. Why read a book when you can experience the story in five, six, seven, and very soon eight dimensions?”
Apparently, in the future college students still faked reading like old married women faked orgasms. And yet, books had a kind of nostalgic value, so the cult of true literary believers kept university literature departments alive.
I raised my glass. “To you, for keeping the dream alive.” Apparently, people don’t toast in the future. It took a good few seconds for her historical knowledge to kick in. When it did, she toasted me awkwardly.
She was having trouble looking me in the eyes. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“For your research?”
“Yeah.”
“Like what my motivation was for writing this book?”
“But I’m having trouble concentrating. You see…”
“Well, as for my motivation for writing this book, I wanted to capture a certain spark…”
“Please stop talking. What I wanted to say is that I can’t concentrate because, well, you’re…what did you say back in your generation… ah yes, you’re just so fucking hot.”
*
There must have been some decent money in her research budget because she bought me several more drinks as we made out. She was clinging to my arm as we listened to that local band play cover songs. As it turned out, they were somewhat well known in the future. Perhaps it was something about making out with future chicks while drinking beers that made them sound better. In any event, it was turning out to be quite a night. I couldn’t help but sneak off to write notes about it in my notebook. I was somewhere away from the table, by the bar perhaps, when Mike found me scribbling.
“What the fuck are you doing? Get back over there and make out with your stalker. You see, this is the kind of shit that makes me worry your dick is going to fall off from lack of use.”
“Can’t help it, Mike. Dancer’s gotta dance, hustler’s gotta hustle, writer’s gotta write…”
“Is that what I’m going to sound like in your fucking novel? Ugh! Well, I can't wait to read that slop. Anyway, get fucking back there!”
And so I did. Mike was right after all. It wasn’t often in life you got to enjoy your success prematurely.
As soon as I returned, she was clinging to my arm again. “So,” I asked, “is it against your research protocols if I kissed you? I’m doing the kissing, after all. You are just the kissed. You could always argue that to your committee.” She didn’t answer but instead took hard swigs from the Corona. Apparently, in the future they won’t make beer like they used to.
“This is for the wonder that is your fifth novel.” She said the name of my fifth novel and then kissed me. Let me tell you, future girls really know how to kiss. Also, too, I realized she must have been planning this because her tongue tasted like strawberries, my favorite fruit. That couldn’t be an accident. No, she had definitely done her research.
After we had finally stopped kissing, I found myself narrating to her the plot of The Dreamers. I tried to explain to her the triangular construct of the novel, the different ways each character was both driven and frustrated by their dream. After all, this is why she had traveled to the past.
She had her futuristic recording device with her, but my guess is that it wasn’t turned on. Instead, she was looking out at the night sky past the band. The band was still playing, but it appeared their set was winding down.
“You just want to enjoy this, huh?”
“It’s strange,” she said. “I came here to meet you. I wanted to meet you before you became… well, you. It’s inspiring in a way, reading your first novel.”
That caught my attention. “Okay… in what way?”
“Because it shows so many of us, late bloomers like myself, that you can’t judge someone by their first failure.”
Ouch.
She kissed me again, perhaps hoping to numb the pain.
“So I guess what you’re saying is that my first novel is perfectly suited for dreamers, huh?”
“Ugh. Even spoken out loud, your dialogue is atrocious.”
There was an awkward silence.
“So, I need to ask my research questions.” She tapped her glasses and seemed to be reading something from the inside of the lenses. “The beer in your time is pretty strong.”
That didn’t sound like a question. “You should try our weed,” I answered anyway.
“My first question.”
I can’t remember what questions she asked or how she asked them. Her device for erasing memories must have wiped that part out. That, or I just don’t want to remember. There are things I would like to believe really happened. After she interviewed me, we walked by the pier for a little while. She told me things… I want to say her name was Samantha… Who knows? But there was something sad in her voice, as if she, in ways my generation would never understand, was searching for meaning.
“But how did you know your purpose?”
“I just sort of knew. There seemed a kind of destiny to me choosing to be a writer.”
“You see, that is something strange to us. You can change your mind, yourself, so often in the future. Everything is possible. Everything is so… so…”
“Fluid.”
“Watch it! That’s a slur in the future.”
“Sorry… but let me take a guess at what haunts you: nothing seems essential.”
She thought about that. Was she still recording? I hope she was. These were the kinds of words I hoped would make it into her research paper.
Eventually, we started making our way back to the bar at the pier. I tried to hold her hand, to kiss her neck, but every time I did, she would just laugh. I knew the closer we got to the bar, the more likely it was that our night would end.
Mike would be disappointed. Me… I wasn’t so sure. It was the Back to the Future problem after all. I didn’t want to be sleeping with my future daughter or granddaughter. The age thing seemed strange to me too. She was older than me by a few years, and yet she seemed so much younger emotionally.
“Every story needs a climax,” I said to her as we approached our table.
“You know, this isn’t a story. This is research. Also, I need to erase your memory. It’s part of my research ethics.”
“Of course. But we still need to give this thing between us, this scene, a kind of finality.”
She smiled. “How about a surprise ending?” She leaned over and kissed me one more time. “You’re hot, but you’re so much hotter when you’re older. Much, much older.”
It was at that moment that Mike showed up reeking of weed and boredom. “Dude, for fuck’s sake, when are you two going to stop talking and fuck already?”
As soon as he said it, I turned around, and she was gone.
“She’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?”
It’s hard to say why she left me with those memories of her. Maybe she had motivations that reached beyond mere academic curiosity. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that the future was bound to be a weird place. But not long after she’d left, my thoughts returned to my novel.
My doomed first novel.
Perhaps The Dreamers was doomed to be a bad book—perhaps even a pre-pubescent mess. But whatever good there is in it, I would like to believe belongs to her. Wherever she is, she probably understands that first spectacular disasters can only come from the minds of dreamers. Perhaps that is what she will write in her master’s thesis. Perhaps, in a classroom somewhere in the future, there will be others—like her, like me—flopping, flailing, but never abandoning those things just out of reach.
“What the fuck are you doing? Get back over there and make out with your stalker. You see, this is the kind of shit that makes me worry your dick is going to fall off from lack of use.”
“Can’t help it, Mike. Dancer’s gotta dance, hustler’s gotta hustle, writer’s gotta write…”
“Is that what I’m going to sound like in your fucking novel? Ugh! Well, I can't wait to read that slop. Anyway, get fucking back there!”
And so I did. Mike was right after all. It wasn’t often in life you got to enjoy your success prematurely.
As soon as I returned, she was clinging to my arm again. “So,” I asked, “is it against your research protocols if I kissed you? I’m doing the kissing, after all. You are just the kissed. You could always argue that to your committee.” She didn’t answer but instead took hard swigs from the Corona. Apparently, in the future they won’t make beer like they used to.
“This is for the wonder that is your fifth novel.” She said the name of my fifth novel and then kissed me. Let me tell you, future girls really know how to kiss. Also, too, I realized she must have been planning this because her tongue tasted like strawberries, my favorite fruit. That couldn’t be an accident. No, she had definitely done her research.
After we had finally stopped kissing, I found myself narrating to her the plot of The Dreamers. I tried to explain to her the triangular construct of the novel, the different ways each character was both driven and frustrated by their dream. After all, this is why she had traveled to the past.
She had her futuristic recording device with her, but my guess is that it wasn’t turned on. Instead, she was looking out at the night sky past the band. The band was still playing, but it appeared their set was winding down.
“You just want to enjoy this, huh?”
“It’s strange,” she said. “I came here to meet you. I wanted to meet you before you became… well, you. It’s inspiring in a way, reading your first novel.”
That caught my attention. “Okay… in what way?”
“Because it shows so many of us, late bloomers like myself, that you can’t judge someone by their first failure.”
Ouch.
She kissed me again, perhaps hoping to numb the pain.
“So I guess what you’re saying is that my first novel is perfectly suited for dreamers, huh?”
“Ugh. Even spoken out loud, your dialogue is atrocious.”
There was an awkward silence.
“So, I need to ask my research questions.” She tapped her glasses and seemed to be reading something from the inside of the lenses. “The beer in your time is pretty strong.”
That didn’t sound like a question. “You should try our weed,” I answered anyway.
“My first question.”
I can’t remember what questions she asked or how she asked them. Her device for erasing memories must have wiped that part out. That, or I just don’t want to remember. There are things I would like to believe really happened. After she interviewed me, we walked by the pier for a little while. She told me things… I want to say her name was Samantha… Who knows? But there was something sad in her voice, as if she, in ways my generation would never understand, was searching for meaning.
“But how did you know your purpose?”
“I just sort of knew. There seemed a kind of destiny to me choosing to be a writer.”
“You see, that is something strange to us. You can change your mind, yourself, so often in the future. Everything is possible. Everything is so… so…”
“Fluid.”
“Watch it! That’s a slur in the future.”
“Sorry… but let me take a guess at what haunts you: nothing seems essential.”
She thought about that. Was she still recording? I hope she was. These were the kinds of words I hoped would make it into her research paper.
Eventually, we started making our way back to the bar at the pier. I tried to hold her hand, to kiss her neck, but every time I did, she would just laugh. I knew the closer we got to the bar, the more likely it was that our night would end.
Mike would be disappointed. Me… I wasn’t so sure. It was the Back to the Future problem after all. I didn’t want to be sleeping with my future daughter or granddaughter. The age thing seemed strange to me too. She was older than me by a few years, and yet she seemed so much younger emotionally.
“Every story needs a climax,” I said to her as we approached our table.
“You know, this isn’t a story. This is research. Also, I need to erase your memory. It’s part of my research ethics.”
“Of course. But we still need to give this thing between us, this scene, a kind of finality.”
She smiled. “How about a surprise ending?” She leaned over and kissed me one more time. “You’re hot, but you’re so much hotter when you’re older. Much, much older.”
It was at that moment that Mike showed up reeking of weed and boredom. “Dude, for fuck’s sake, when are you two going to stop talking and fuck already?”
As soon as he said it, I turned around, and she was gone.
“She’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?”
It’s hard to say why she left me with those memories of her. Maybe she had motivations that reached beyond mere academic curiosity. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that the future was bound to be a weird place. But not long after she’d left, my thoughts returned to my novel.
My doomed first novel.
Perhaps The Dreamers was doomed to be a bad book—perhaps even a pre-pubescent mess. But whatever good there is in it, I would like to believe belongs to her. Wherever she is, she probably understands that first spectacular disasters can only come from the minds of dreamers. Perhaps that is what she will write in her master’s thesis. Perhaps, in a classroom somewhere in the future, there will be others—like her, like me—flopping, flailing, but never abandoning those things just out of reach.
Daniel Clausen has published stories and articles in such magazines as Slipstream, Black Petals, Aphelion, Spindrift, Zygote in my Coffee, and Leading Edge Science Fiction (among many others). His recent novel Statues in the Cloud is available on Amazon.
