Click the image above to view the complete illustration.

Click the image above to view the complete illustration.

Whether the story is set in ancient Rome, some future Mars, or even present day Iowa, a writer has to check facts. Not that every place or action must be authentic. But it has to seem authentic.

The trick with integrating research is to use only what furthers the story, not what you think is cool. It’s tough, really. All that time you spend and all those cool facts mean you’re inclined to include them somehow.

Here’s my advice about including all your research: DON’T. Write a blog post instead.

To that end, I found some fascinating tidbits I’m sharing with you on my blog so I can avoid fact-dumping in my story.

It’s No Coincidence That I was Born on the Anniversary of the Talkie

My story “Echo of Darkness” is erotic horror set in 1927 Chicago.

Although I’ve read a great deal about the era with regard to its ideas, I knew little about daily life. For example, did houses have electricity? Did people have cars and garages? Did hotels have elevators? Were there all-night diners? What did people snack on? Did they even snack?

Most people know about the gangsters and Prohibition. Most everything I read had to mention this. BORING. The world is always much bigger than the crime going on. Yes, it was the era of Prohibition and speakeasies. It was also the year of the first feature-length talkie.

Silent movies were it until 1927. The films were different sizes, as were the screens they played on. A film ran at different speeds, as well, since nothing had been standardized yet. Sometimes the black-and-white film was hand-tinted to suggest times of day or influence audience emotions.

On October 6, 1927, the first movie with sound, the Jazz Singer, was released, and within two years, silent movies were dead.

The Flood That Changed Politics Forever

Many of you reading this will know about the devastating Mississippi River flood of 1993 (and the other bad one in 2008). In 1927, the Mississippi River flooded and became the worst natural disaster in U.S. history. The areas affected most were the southern states.

Camps were set up to provide for the displaced. However, flood rescues were selective, often helping the whites and leaving blacks to fend for themselves. It got worse. Repair efforts on the levees included the forced labor of blacks. Due to their losses and subsequent abuses in camps, many blacks moved north. This was the largest exodus since the Civil War and especially affected urban areas like Chicago.

Herbert Hoover was Secretary of Commerce under Coolidge. He was in charge of those refugee camps. The good publicity he received for his efforts gave him the presidency the following term. However, during his term as president, it came to light that he had made a deal with conservative blacks (Robert Morton and the Colored Advisory Commission) to keep quiet about the abuses they found in the camps.

You probably know Hoover lost big the following term. It was The Depression and the economy tanked.

Hoover had promised favors to the men who kept quiet about the abuse. He failed to keep those promises. The black vote had gone for the Republicans (the party of Lincoln) but it shifted to the Democratic Party and has remained so to this day.

And Hoover is remembered as one of the worst presidents in history. (Let’s forget he was the only president from Iowa.)

More Spectacularly Bad Politics, Circa 1927

In 1927, the U.S. Marines were in Nicaragua making the world safe for capitalism.

A man named Augusto Sandino led a (very) small guerilla rebellion against the American occupation. He was successful at evading the Marines but was assassinated in 1934 by the general of the Nicaraguan National Guard.

The general, Somoza, achieved power by collaborating with the U.S. But he wanted more. He declared himself “president” and established a family dynasty that ruled the country for the next four decades.

Gracias America!

Somoza’s descendants were deposed in 1979 by the revolutionaries who took the name of the hero Sandino. We call them Sandinistas.

Hope you enjoyed my 1927 fact-dump. There may be a part two if I don’t wrap up this story soon.

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I would never marry a boy from Iowa and name my two children for Catholic saints because that’s not very cool. What is cool is I am an artist and an astronaut. And a veterinarian. And I live on my own island.

I’ve been publishing for about ten years. I’ve already been in-and-out of print in that short time, thanks to the speed of the interwebs. Three presses I published with closed their doors from 2008-2011. I don’t think that had anything to do with me. Probably.

I have shorts available from Torquere Press, Bella Books, Cleis Press, and Running Press. Below is a list of published work. Or visit my Amazon Author’s Page. You can find free stories on this website here.

UNDER THE DOME
Steam-Powered: Lesbian Steampunk Stories
Torquere Press (ed. Joselle Vanderhooft) | 2010 | Buy at Amazon

ANTHEM
Straying from the Path
Drollerie Press | 2010

ADVENTURES OF A LESBIAN COWBOY
Lesbian Cowboys  **2010 Lambda Literary Award for Best Lesbian Erotica**
Cleis Press (eds. Sacchi Green & Rakelle Valencia) | 2009 | Buy at Amazon

RESURRECTION COUNTDOWN
Membra Disjecta
Drollerie Press | 2008

ABOUT ME
Wild Nights: (Mostly) True Stories of Women Loving Women
Bella Books (ed. Therese Szymanski) | 2007 | Buy at Amazon

MY DARK AND EMPTY SKY
CREAM: The Best of the Erotica Readers and Writers Association
Thunders Mouth Press/Running Press (ed. Lisabet Sarai) | 2006 | Buy at Amazon

STRANGE FLESH
Venus Press | 2006

CASTING SHADOWS
All Hallow’s Eve
Venus Press | 2006

THE HEART OF THE ROSE
Venus Press | 2006

FREEDOM AND FIRE
Ocean’s Mist Press | 2006

ALTER CHRISTUS
Erotica Readers and Writers Association Treasure Chest
Erotica Readers and Writers Association | 2005 | Read It Free At ERWA

I’ve been publishing in print and digital for ten years. I’ve gone through small presses. Most of what I write is pretty niche. In the past, I made the decision to let a publisher’s distribution work for me–their audience, their publicity. But that’s making less sense as time goes on. The presses I’ve checked into each want to know, as a potential author for them, what am I going to do to promote my book. Hell, if I’m going to be responsible for that, too, then why do I need them?

I have all the skills to put my own book together, including making the cover. I can see going indie for Darklord, which is more mainstream than most of what I’ve written (more of that will appear here as I work back through my archives).

I’m not sure about books like Stilicho’s Son, which, though historical fiction by genre, is erotic and gay, too. I’ll have to do more research. In any case, the thought of putting my own book together exactly as I want it…being in control of the whole thing…is exciting. I always do what excites me.

I’ve been reading up on self-publishing. Lindsay Buroker has done a fantastic job (as an author as well as sharing info about self-publishing) at her blog: Lindsay Buroker

What would give light must endure the burning. –Viktor Frankl

Cassie was still awake when Watts returned. She tightened her robe against the memory of his last visit and stepped away from the door. “You said you didn’t believe me.”

Watts walked into the apartment, hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets. He studied her face and the blood on the floor before he sat down at the table.

Her body began to tremble. She touched her lips, still bruised and swollen. She told herself she wasn’t afraid. After a few deep breaths and a moment to think, she decided she didn’t want to think. She wanted to believe everything would be all right. Only Watts allowed her that. That’s why she had opened her door to him when she was alive. He seemed to have all the answers. Sociopaths were like that.

She sat down across from him and willed her body to stop its fearful shiver. She straightened and gave him a hard look.

A moment of silence followed before he said, “I’m a practical man.”

“Here’s practical: when the nation adopts the Integrid, they’ll know right where you are.”

He shrugged, amusement replacing his probing gaze. “That’s progress.”

“We’ve gotten used to it.” Cassie brushed a trickle of sweat from her forehead and discovered it was blood still oozing from the fatal gash. “A doctor prescribes medication and internal microarrays manufacture it using our own chemistry. You do it for your patients all the time, don’t you? Doctors love it. Taxpayers, too. The only ones who objected to the MediGrid were pharmaceutical companies having to explain losses to their shareholders.”

“Sure. Universal healthcare.”

“You can generate medicine, even cure a disease, but imagine that same command initiated from a subgrid. You see? If the nation funds the Integrid, it’ll make things even cheaper. That’s because a doctor won’t need to access my microarrays through a local clinic. No trail, no log files. Anyone with authority can issue commands from anywhere. A backroom in Washington. Hell, a toilet in Raleigh! Rumor has it that’s where an agent comm-axed the Ripper. Can’t you see that those decisions will always serve security, not law?”

Watts stared at her forehead, marveling at his handiwork. “Does it hurt?”

She glanced away. “With the MediGrid they know where you aren’t, but once they put quantaprocessors in you, they’ll always know where you are. Geography won’t matter. Time won’t matter. Backtrack through decoherence and pinpoint anyone’s internal network. Issue a chemical release. Heart attack. And one day, not long from now, the new alchemy will find a way to brew insanity from a body’s own chemistry. Discredit the whistleblowers.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means there are bigger things to worry about than a few hundred murders.” She knew he didn’t understand, but she had made it possible for him to believe anyway. Dead people were like that.

He squeezed his lower lip with two fingers. “Quantum technology isn’t so robust in a biological environment. Besides, the miracle of the Integrid may be that it can access my network from anywhere, but it can’t prove what I’ve done. It takes men for that.”

“The Berlin Bomber was never tried, was he? No witnesses. No charges. No trial. But he was axed.”

“The man suspected of those bombings died of a heart attack.”

“Oh hell, Watts! The press hasn’t been guilty of an act of journalism since they started publishing white papers as ‘news.’ They’re sightseers, tour guides distracting us while their corporate masters pursue dominion. A twenty-five-year old terrorist just up and dies from a heart attack and you nod because the ‘paper of record’ says it’s so?”

“No one would allow it.”

“They already have. A trial run.”

“The Berlin Bomber? How’d they get quantaprocessors in him?”

“Flu shot.” She waited, but his curiosity turned back to her forehead. “Money, power, sex? What would you sell your soul for? The techwizards in informatics and pharmacy sold theirs for a game. Little Napoleons coveting pieces of synthetic worlds, burning ants in the sun.”

“Someone has to give access, check credentials.”

“Oversight? My, but we’re all too busy feeling safe to bother with courts. And it’s so cheap! The G.N.P. used to count us as economic units. Now we’re nodes in a network. When authorities axe the violent nodes, we’ll be so grateful we’ll trust even the pimply techwizards who see as much need for ethics as for sunlight. So they remove the nodes corrupting our children — drug dealers, traffickers. The A.C.L.U. complains. So what? Next, get rid of the leeches on society, the ones on the dole and the homeless. The U.N. complains. So what? Sterilize the poor and stupid.” She paused to remember and shrugged. “No one complains, but it was too late by that time, anyway.” She leaned forward over the table. “So we had to find another time.” She stretched. “My back hurts.”

Watts considered her complaint. “I can command a painkiller …or would you prefer scotch?” He pulled a flask from his jacket pocket.

She raised an eager eyebrow. Contrary to the theological rumor, being dead didn’t preclude comforts of the flesh. She felt an unreasonable sense of relief. Unreasonable because of the man sitting across from her.

Later, she sat with the flask resting between her hands on the table and closed her eyes. When he asked how she felt, she opened her eyes to see his lewd smile.

“Nasty contusion there.” He touched the air in front of her forehead and licked his dry lips. “I can fix it. Order up more clotting agent.” His body was so tight with arousal that his attempt at an easy smile appeared like a grimace of pain.

“Death makes fictions of us all, Watts. Do you think you’re different?”

“Oh, but I make a difference in so many lives.” He gestured at her head.

Laughter erupted from her with a derisive grunt. “Shit, you’re real pulp fiction stuff, aren’t you? Blurb for the century’s grisly tale of eroticized violence, a footnote to the masculine malfeasance that circles priests around reptilian impulses and calls it ‘morality.’ Delivering death only makes you an arbiter of fictions, a phantom editor for the adventure of nonexistence.”

“You’re crazy.”

“It takes time to digest the truth, like a pig passing through a boa, and often you wonder what that bloated lump really is and if the discomfort is worth it. Quantum information has a techcreep your techwizards don’t understand. It doesn’t rely on geography, after all. If they accidentally axe the Parousia with an aneurysm, they abort their future. How will they manage the conscience of a world without a promised retribution?”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a woman’s pinky ring. Although he set it on the table, he kept a finger on it, and she saw it wasn’t hers to take back. “You knew about this.”

Recalling the day her mother gave her the delicate band shaped like a butterfly, her grip tightened on the flask. “It’s a problem,” she said. “You have a number of them.”

He scooped the ring into his palm. “You’ve accused me of things you can’t possibly know.”

“Because I’m telling you the truth.”

“You haven’t told me how you know the future.”

“I know the past.” She studied the deep lines that swept over each cheekbone from his eyes to his mouth. In shadow, his swarthy features were diabolical; in soft light, seductive. She knew many years later, when time and bitterness had taken their toll, the sensual face would become merely fierce, reflecting the tragedy of a life lived too long. “You’re a rapist.”

The accusation hit him like a blow, forcing him to turn away again. She knew he had never said the word to himself. “The fetish started as a child.” She nodded at his hand. “The rapes in residency. Drugged patients and prostitutes. When you escalated, you lost control of yourself, hunted the rich and famous and got yourself wanted by a lot of people with a lot of money. We had the Integrid by then, but the rest of the world was leery. Despite the terrorists on everyone’s lists, it was stopping the most wanted serial murderer in two centuries that finally sold it to the world.”

“I’m not a killer.”

She spread her arms. “And yet, here I am.”

“How can you be dead?” He watched her carefully. “You opened your door to me.” He grinned. “Again.”

She wiggled her fingers. “You nicked my only ring.”

A dark light passed through his eyes. He squeezed the ring. “So, you’re dead but your past is also my future? Tell me what happens next.”

She took a moment to think. “South America. Then Singapore. You made mistakes.” She closed her eyes and felt as if the floor were falling away. “Let’s see, bleach, or they’ll have your DNA. No scalpels, or they’ll know you’re a surgeon. You’ll have to stick with the poor and prostitutes, or senators will start caring.”

“I told you. I’m not a killer.”

“Oh they taught you well. They taught you with those pre-emptory notions of entitlement that destroyed any chance at resurrecting the soul your incestuous father smothered. Their strict teleology may refuse to accept the voodoo of libidinal impulses, but they’re damn effective in providing clear definitions for your hazy logic. Cracking my skull was only an opportunity, really, followed by compulsion. Why do you think you came back? It excited you. You’ll never get over that. Showing the world how powerful you are with every thrust. A victim’s manifesto: retribution.”

He stood and dropped the ring into his pocket.

“You believe me?”

“Only because you should be dead.”

“Did the ‘Grid tell you that?” She laughed at the irony.

His eyes narrowed. “Then I guess you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

She continued to laugh until long after he had gone. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of the people who were afraid of him. So afraid, in fact, that she would help him murder hundreds of women, rather than the seventy her own history knew about.

Like all agents, she found herself a tiny cog in a great machine. She had drawn the short straw at the departmental meeting, and her oath wouldn’t allow her to refuse an assignment, even one so vulgar as to reanimate her raped and beaten body in some other timestream.

The techwizards at headquarters had rallied their contemptuous genius and convinced the department that if the Integrid failed to find the most elusive butcher since White Chapel, the world wouldn’t tolerate its trespass. As long as the Gold Ring Ripper was killing, the technology embraced by so many other worlds as a savior would leave room for another here. This Earth, at least, would remain free.

Speculative fiction. Copyright © 2008 Teresa Wymore. All Rights Reserved.