Rodger E. Carty's Blog: Rod Spills

In writing the prequel to Falling Up, I'm researching space travel, and a scientific phenomenon called a Starbow. It's been used in various science fiction novels. I came across a 2018 article about this, saying 'we'd love if it were true, but it's not'.
https://oikofuge.com/the-myth-of-the-...

Well, I'm not giving up on it quite yet. Here is my reply to the article:

Thank you for your well-researched article. I'd like to add a little more to this discussion, and I look forward to well reasoned replies.

Stars are broadband emitters, in frequencies well beyond visible light in both directions. However, typically, they emit strongest within the visible light spectrum. The Planck curve depicts this as a bell shape, an average of all stars. The emission strength drops off fairly rapidly in higher frequencies, but remains fairly strong in lower frequencies.

The faster a craft moves, the more the perceived frequencies would be adjusted. Star emissions would remain within the visible range on a fast craft, but the intensity would change.

Moving forward would increase the perceived frequency of the star emissions while decreasing the perceived frequency behind. The classic example of a siren on a fast-moving vehicle as it goes by demonstrates this. Said another way, lower frequencies below light from stars in front would be shifted up into visible light, while higher frequencies above visible light would be shifted down behind.

My conclusion is stars behind would quickly fade to black as the speed of the craft increased, while stars in front would reduce in intensity slowly.

I write science fiction that flips physics on its head. I'm currently writing a story about faster than light travel. Impossible, you say? Well, what about if there was a way to almost eliminate mass? It's the premise of my novel. E=MC2 presumes some relatively large values of mass. Inertia is a property of mass. I'm calling the novel Zero-I.

Now, to bring this more directly to your topic of the Starbow. What happens to stars seen beside the fast moving craft? They would be perceived as rapidly moving streaks, as they go from approaching to retreating. Doesn't it seem like there is the possibility of a starbow there?

Home is supposed to be the place where you’re safe. Where you’re accepted and supported no matter how bad your mistakes are. It’s where you can make mistakes and learn to do better next time. It’s where you’re loved.

But in an abusive home, every mistake is weaponized and used against you repeatedly. Sometimes for years, and called ‘family stories’, which get funnier to the teller with each repetition. Even when you don’t make a mistake, whatever you do — or don’t do — is used against you on a whim. Rules change without notice, without explanation, and without apology.

You learn that it’s not safe to be around other people. Family does not represent safety, but rather danger. And when your father invites his drinking buddies over, the danger is even greater. Then there is the public humiliation of being told to stand in the middle of the floor, in front of all his drunk buddies, while he humiliates each family member in turn with every sick simile and derision he can think of, to entertain his guests at the expense of the self esteem of the victim. You learn vilification and humiliation is funny — to others. You learn that a compliment is only a set-up for some new insult.

You learn to be hyper-vigilant, watching for the slightest hint of displeasure, for those cause thunder and lightning responses. The slightest idle remark is taken as provocation. You learn to keep all expression from showing on your face, for that, too, is provocation. Someone slamming doors or making other loud noises means you are having a bad day. A raised voice means the world is coming to an end.

There is no love. When the attention is only negative, neglect is the safest circumstance. You learn inaction: invisibility and silence, are safest. When interaction is toxic, being somewhere else as much as possible is the healthiest choice.

That’s not childhood, that’s merely survival.

When I’ve mentioned such things in the past I’ve been told I need therapy. But how does one get past such programming, come out into the spotlight, to get that therapy? I have found that writing is my therapy. I can write such behaviour into characters in my stories, where it’s safe to show that it’s bad behaviour. I can declare to the world — well, at least to those who read what I wrote — that such behaviour is toxic.

I'm a techie; had my own computer networking service business for about 25 years before I retired. I worked as a telecommunications tech for a dozen years a while before that. Needless to say, I'm very details and process-oriented.

I've always been a tinkerer. My enactment of the classic flashlight in bed to read with was a D cell battery taped to my bedpost with loose wires running helter-skelter through the air to a bare light bulb. Wires that supported the bulb in the middle of the air, though it would bob and weave if I bumped it. That was when I was about 11 years old.

So the problem solving and the science in the Martian was right up my alley. You can see elements of this in my novel Falling Up as well. There is a fair amount of self-discovery in it, where the main character learns about what he can do because he can control gravity with his mind. Some of it is him also learning how to do things. In keeping with the tech-oriented story of the Martian, here is a sequence from the novel, in chapter 3, included in the free preview on Amazon, where he's inventing portable lights:

Peter plugged the connector onto the back of the headlight, then checked the wires again where they connected to the alternator. It seemed solid, and as long as he moved the alternator and the light together without flexing the connections, they shouldn't fray. He lifted both the alternator and the lamp at the same time, then focused inside the alternator. He put another small gravity field into it, beside and parallel to the alternator shaft. Success! The pulley on the front of the alternator started spinning, and the alternator didn't fall down! He pressed the button to connect the capacitor to the field coil, but the light didn't come on. Checking his connections again, he found everything was still together. He increased the amount of gravity, and the pulley spun faster — and when he pressed the switch again, the light came on! Though only dimly. Thinking about bearing wear, he put another matching gravity field on the other side, facing the opposite direction. Success! The light grew much brighter! Then the alternator case started to spin, which tore away the wires from the light, and the light went out again. The alternator pulled away from the field holding it up, and fell to the workbench with a loud thump.

It's mind bending, but ever so much fun to put it in a story. I'll just give you a précis. My novel Falling Up is about a boy who can fly. Yeah, I know. And I nicknamed him Peter in acknowledgement. Anyway, to deal with the physics without invoking pixie dust, I fantasized that he could control gravity with his mind.

Good so far, except this means he feels zero gravity. Well, that's cool, and being able to do the same for friends is wonderful! Except, zero gravity training usually is done with a sick bag in hand. So, he has to give everyone instructions: no problem. Fun to include that the villains get no instructions, with the humiliating result.

The world is a big place, so to make this story more than just page after page of him flying somewhere else, he has to be able to go fast. Well, that's great, I love the idea of going fast. Add in flying plus zero-g, and I've got the trifecta of wonderful, in my opinion.

Oh, but high speed is windy, and if it's extreme, it's tough on clothes and limbs. Wind chill is not so fun, either. Add a sprinkle of fantasy: he can make wind shields with gravity. This solves another problem, of going high because the air gets thin. It's a rough world out there, so his shields need to stop bullets. Ok, even big bullets. Now he's all cozy in a bubble, and it's nice and quiet.

There's more, but you get the idea. I worked to demonstrate these aspects and how his abilities dealt with them, and how it all made him so different, so wonderful.

Here's a sample. You can read the whole sequence in the free preview on Amazon; this is in chapter 4.

Peter returned to the office building the next morning right after breakfast. Since he was travelling east, he wasn't going to arrive just after they opened, so he travelled extra fast to get there as soon as he could. Thinking of the reaction of the guards last night, he left his lights high in the air and landed around the curve of the road from the building, then casually walked to it.

A man and a woman stopped talking when he opened the door, and they just stared at him, mouths open.

“Good morning! Is this the place for me to arrange to bring in scrap metal in trade for iron product?”

The man blinked, swallowed, and said, “Are you the boy with the lights?”

Peter, taken aback, answered, “Uh, yes, I am, but how did you know?”

“We were just discussing whether we were going to fire one of the night guards for sleeping on the job when he reported a boy who was glowing, and who then flew away, or whether we were going to put both guards on sick leave when the second guard finally admitted he'd seen the boy too. Then just now there was a great thunder in a clear sky, and not two minutes later you walk in the door!”

“Thunder?” Peter thought quickly. There was turbulence when he was flying so fast, but it wasn't a problem — or so he thought. Maybe he was pushing the air out of the way and making wind or something. He'd have to talk to Teacher about this!

“Well, sorry about that. I didn't intend to scare you. I'm just wanting to do some trading here.”

Urgently, the man asked, “What about the flying?”

After a second's hesitation, Peter lifted himself off the floor to hang there, unmoving.
. . .
Terence suddenly joined the conversation. “Does it get dark earlier here than where you live?”

“Yes, it does.”

“So, you live some distance to the west from here! That explains why you were talking to the night guards!” Jumping out of his chair, he continued, “Of course! The sonic boom!”

“The what?”

“The thunder we heard just before you walked in. You were flying faster than the speed of sound! You broke the sound barrier!”

“I didn't know there was a barrier. Who calls it that?”

“The men who were building jet planes to go ever faster over a century ago. Do you ever experience turbulence while flying?”

“Sure, I feel turbulence on the outside of my bubble, but it's no problem.”

Slapping his arms against his sides, Terence said, “No problem? No problem? Men died figuring out how to build aircraft that could go faster than the speed of sound!”

It was Peter's turn to stand there with his mouth open. Airplanes that could fly as fast as he could? The thought that they might, and that it would be dangerous, simply hadn't occurred to him. Then a memory struck him. “Can flying faster than sound break the tops off trees?”

Laughing, Terence said, “Are you bragging? Or asking?” He held up his hand. “I get it.” After he had control of himself again, he said, “You are such a remarkable young man! What did you say your name was?” He walked toward Peter with his hand out. “I'm Terence, and I'm so thrilled to meet you!”

I have romance in my novel Zero-I, prequel to Falling Up. No racy stuff. The main character comes to work for someone he knew briefly in university years before.

Chapter 1
Somewhere in those mountains was Denise’s home, her research facility, and his new job. It wasn’t just to see her again after so many years that brought him here.
—
Used to emergency calls, he was fully awake by the time he picked it up. “Gordon here.”
“Good morning! You sound like you kept your habits from your military days.”
Gordon smiled slightly at Denise’s voice. “I did. And it sounds to me like you’ve been awake for hours already.”
“Pretty much. I haven’t had breakfast yet, though. Care to join me?”
—
Gordon readily recognized Denise sitting in the far corner. She had hardly changed a bit! She saw him, too, and smiled as he approached.
“Good morning! I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Denise rose from her chair, and, ignoring Gordon’s offered hand, embraced him. “Let’s not stand on ceremony here. We’re old friends, so let’s act like it.” Then, with a mischievous look, “But I’m still the boss!”
Gordon laughed as he tentatively hugged her in return. They both sat, and a server seemed to materialize at the table with coffee. While she poured Denise a refill, Gordon turned his cup upright. She filled it, too, and walked on.

They sat looking at each other without saying anything for a few seconds. Gordon picked up his menu to defuse the awkwardness. “What’s good here?”

Chapter 2:

".. Perhaps a three second transit.”
Gordon did the math in his head. “60 feet per second. About 41 MPH.”
Denise nodded.
“What caused the sled to come apart? That doesn’t seem very fast. Pretty docile, really.”
Denise grinned slightly. “I understand why you wouldn’t find 40 MPH very interesting. Being an ex-fighter jet jock, anything under Mach 1 is boring, right?”
With a start, Gordon remembered saying those very words to a younger Denise, years ago. He barked a short laugh, and nodded.

From chapter 3:
Gordon nodded, but he was still smiling.

“What?”

“You are so confident, capable!”

She smiled back, but she was thinking, ‘Change the subject, change the subject!’ “Meanwhile, tell me what you think of our exercise equipment.”

I just saw a short classic movie blurb about the original Rambo movie, First Blood. They made the story so that Rambo never kills a single person, to make him a likable hero.

I like that they did this. Controlled power. He's a soldier, just back from war, so presumably he killed many in war. He knows how. He knows he can kill. But he chooses not to kill, even when he's sorely provoked by those who are trying to kill him.

The main character in my novel Falling Up does kill, but never anyone who has not first tried to kill him. In fact, many times when he kills, it's by turning the bullets they're shooting at him back on them. They're killed by their own bullets, fired at him, with the intent to kill him. Even in the middle of a war, he gives people a chance. 'Stop now, turn away. You don't even have to leave your guns behind. But if you attack me, you die.'

Many of those who die are people who have enslaved and murdered others, and so it is an act of protecting the weak and the innocent that he kills. All good, honourable intentions and actions, in a world largely without law. A likeable hero.

I have a scene planned for my sequel to Falling Up, where Peter made glass figurines of galloping horses. He captured them mid-stride so well that Lucy feels like, in the next instant, they will suddenly gallop away. Some of them are displayed in their home, but many are for sale in the family trading store. Then there is a scene where Lucy and Peter go to see the horses, and they are flying along in the herd as it gallops over a grassy plain. Peter has done this with them before, and the horses are used to him, so they are running quite closely around them.

Imagine flying along with them as the herd travels in sweeping curves over the hills, up and down with the terrain, and around the occasional tree. Waves made of horses pouring across the land. The wind is lashing the manes and blowing through Peter and Lucy’s hair. The smell of many horses’ sweat mixed with the dust they are kicking up is strong, earthy; the stuff of life. Lucy’s laughter, squeals and shouts of delight add counterpoint to the thunder of many hooves and the heavy breathing of horses.

I listened to a few samples of another narrator’s work today, after I saw a post of theirs on FaceBook. Their British accent is the type that I’ve always admired. Precise diction, smooth delivery, every word clear and calm, yet overlaid with little twists of pronunciation that I recognize as being specific to some region of the UK. It’s all very delightful, and I can understand why they have narrated many books.

Then I listened to the latest chapter from my novel, that my narrator Dylan Orsolini has shared with me. It took me in my imagination to my wild horses scene I described above. I realized the British narrator is like riding a horse at a walking pace, ever so smoothly and precisely navigating obstacles, allowing a rider to relax into it. To experience the rhythm of the horse’s gait and even their muscles moving beneath their skin, while enjoying the elevated view. Pleasant. Peaceful. Relaxing.

Then I knew that Dylan’s narration is that whole wild herd, galloping across the miles, with the head of this horse, then that horse coming into view among them. I realized that they could be covering the same terrain as that British horse, but the herd is doing it with a level of excitement and joy that makes it an entirely different, and far, far better, experience. I so much prefer the gallop, with turns so sharp and surprising I have to concentrate to hold on, even though I know this terrain well. Listening to his narration is an experience in itself.

You are like wild horses, Dylan. I am so blessed to have you narrating my novel. Thanks for carrying my story so well. Keep on galloping!

Just this week I started writing the first draft on the prequel to my debut novel Falling Up. First chapter is done, and I've done another 600 words or so on chapter 2.

Although I published in February, I finished the first draft on that novel in November last year. I've been editing and promoting it ever since, and planning, plotting, outlining the prequel and the sequel ever since. And writing the occasional scene that grabbed me particularly hard. Over a year since I was simply writing a novel. I had no idea I was missing it so much. I just knew, at the beginning of the week, that I HAD to start now. I couldn't wait any longer, even though there is much of the pre-first-draft work to be done still before I can finish.

I love writing!

The process of book writing is different for different people.

I planned what I'd write for quite a while before beginning. I had a lot of fun writing. I was laughing in some places and crying in others, and that carried on into editing. I found editing to be just as much fun, and I read my novel start to finish about 30 times during editing and beta reader feedback.

Other people have a story idea and just start writing, going wherever the story leads them, but they loathe editing. I can see where editing could be a pain when you're no longer in that freewheeling creative mode.

It seems to me that this is why some people like traditional publishing better. They do the editing for you. If you hate editing, this would be a real boon.

People who do little planning, just run with a story idea, can put out multiple books per year if all they do is write. No planning, no editing.

It's amazing to me how differently creativity manifests itself for different people.

The backstory implied in the novel is that Jack and his buddies had some experience in Central and South America before meeting Peter, so they would have had access to coffee. The larger story is the nuclear winter drove people south. Canadians into the US, and Americans into Central and South America. So by Peter's time there would be a fairly large population of descendants of American immigrants in Mexico and other places. A turnabout from today where there are so many immigrants moving north. Jack and his crew may have been born in Mexico. This helps with the plausibility of at least some people in these countries speaking English. It would be much less likely anyone would speak English if there had been no contact with Americans since the Nukes.

Mentioned in the novel is that there were clogged highways in the US, indicating people were fleeing the cities. Unidirectional clogs of vehicles. Many of the ones who went north got stranded in the sudden snow and died on the highway.

This also works for some people in Paris, including a mugger, speaking English: people from the UK migrating south.

Here's that mugger scene, but first their trip there. This is the kind of romance I write:

Peter landed near Lucy as she was nearing the deck. “Hi, how are you today?”

Lucy could hardly see Peter through the rain, but she could see he was revoltingly cheerful for such weather. To add insult to injury, she saw that the rain wasn't touching him: he was shielded and dry. “I'm miserable with this miserable weather. I apologize in advance if I'm grumpy.”

The rain stopped beating upon her as if someone had turned off a tap. Through the drips still coming off her hood, she could see a waterfall less than a meter in front of her. It was to her right as well. She pulled her hood back and looked up, and she could see water streaming across the shield Peter had placed above them. The motion was strangely calming, and she sighed. “It's beautiful.” Now she could see Peter clearly. “Thank you.”

“How about I take you somewhere for lunch?”

“Oh, I don't know, I have work to do here... I'll ask.”

“Sure, Hun, you two go have fun. Take the afternoon off.”

“I'll just dry my hair and get my coat! Be back shortly!”

Peter took them through the rain slower than they usually went, but in a few minutes they passed through the storm. Then they sped up. Lucy could see nothing but clear sky in front of them. Then she realized she could see nothing but water below them. “Where are you taking me for lunch?”

Peter grinned. “It's ok, it's only about a half hour away.”

Lucy laughed. “Yeah, but that tells me nothing. You can go halfway around the world in a half hour!”

“It's a surprise. I'll tell you this much, though. I'm pretty sure it's somewhere you've never been before. Just in case you were thinking we were going to Venezuela.”

Lucy worked to cast off her foul mood, and the sunshine helped. Sure enough, less than a half hour later she saw land ahead.

Peter grinned. “I'll give you some clues. That land to our right is Portugal and Spain.” As they were descending and slowing, he said, “To our left is Ireland and Britain.” They were over land now, continuing their descent. “The water to our left is the English Channel. Below us is —”

“France! You're taking me to France for lunch! We just crossed the Atlantic Ocean!” Lucy laughed and cried the rest of the way to their landing.
. . .
It was fully dark by the time they were done eating, so Peter turned on the other two lights, keeping them all high enough they could still see around them. “How about we walk to the Seine? It's a few blocks, but we can fly away from anywhere in the dark, so won't have to walk back.”

“Yes, please! That and seeing the Eiffel Tower are on my list of things I've wanted to do for years.”

“That's no problem, either. It's off to our left, though far enough away we couldn't see it from here even if it wasn't dark. It's on our way home. We can circle it a few times, so you'll get a good look at it.” Peter declined to mention that they had already flown past it in daylight on their way to land, but she had tears in her eyes at the time.

They walked, arm in arm, ignoring the stares of people who saw them walking in the center of a pool of light. It was perhaps a half-kilometer to the river, and they were in no rush.

“Well, here we are. On the other side and a bit to the left is the spire of the Sainte-Chapelle, and over to our right is the Notre-Dame Cathedral.” They turned left and walked along the path next to the river.

“I wish we could see this in daylight!”

“Well, we could do that, but we'd have to leave from Maine right after breakfast to have much time here.”

Lucy gave a short laugh, then realized Peter wasn't joking, so looked at him quizzically.

“Paris is four hours ahead of Maine. It's still daytime there right now, and still will be when we get back.”
“How romantic, how convenient! An evening stroll along the Seine, and back home before supper.”

Suddenly, a man entered their circle of light in front of them. “Arrêter!” Peter and Lucy stopped as the man approached. He was moving his knife back and forth slowly, making Peter's lights reflect off the blade intermittently.

Peter said, “Put the knife away. I'll give you some money.”

The man spat out the word, “English!” Then he continued with a heavy French accent. “I don't want you to give me money, I want to take all your money. I don't need charity, I work for my money.”

“This hardly qualifies as honest work, does it?”

“Who said anything about 'honest'? Hand over your money, or I cut you.”

Lucy said, “Peter, please don't kill him.”

He looked at her. “Ok.”

The robber said, “You want to kill me? No, I kill you!” He lunged, knife pointed at Peter, but his first step didn't even touch the sidewalk before he disappeared from their circle of light, flying to their right. His squeal was silenced in the splash.

They calmly resumed their walk, but the altercation had spoiled the mood for both of them.

Lucy sighed and said, “Let's go home now.”