Southern Discomfort: my big idea was not what I thought

For umpty-zillion years, John Scalzi has been doing Big Idea columns on his blog: authors get to tell his sizable following what the big idea of their latest work was. My small self-published books are nowhere close to meeting the requirements. However there’s no reason I can’t use a similar format here to discuss Southern Discomfort. And needless to say, I’ll be discussing it a lot until it comes out next month.

As I’ve probably mentioned in past posts, the genesis of this novel goes back to the 1990s, when I read Born to Run, one of Mercedes Lackey’s SERRAted Edge books, about wizards and elves in Los Angeles. The back cover blurb gives the premise: where would elves go in the modern, urbanized world to live comfortably? California, the funkiest, flakiest of the states, where the unconventional and magical would seem normal!

My immediate thought on reading this was no, elves would be much happier in the South.

The South, where it’s still heavily rural (so is a lot of California, but the SERRAted books are urban fantasy). Where life moves slowerl and there’s much stress on tradition. And at least in the last century, there was a lot of emphasis on respecting your elders — and who’s going to be older than elves?

Plus the South has its share of eccentrics; if you’re accepted as part of the community folks may not bat an eye at you being something other than a baseline normal human. Though the “if” is the key — not everyone’s accepted and then things can get cruel.

I get lots of ideas. Many of them don’t stick in my head; as one writer once said, it’s the ones that stick around that are worth writing about. This one stuck. And I had the perfect twist for the climax. The classic weakness of elvenkind includes cold iron; my twist was that cold iron means literally iron. Not steel. Definitely not titanium-steel alloys or the like. That means the fae are way less likely to encounter iron than they would have been a thousand years ago. The climax would be someone stabbing Olwen McAlister with a steel knife, then discovering that while injured, it doesn’t instantly kill or burn her the way cold iron would. The killer goes down hard.

That concept stayed in the book all the way through; the twist did not. As a twist/reveal it was nowhere near strong enough for the climax. As an explanation of how Olwen can move comfortably through the modern world, it worked great.

At that point, “elves in the south” and the cold iron twist seemed like my big ideas. They were good ideas but my good idea came some time and several drafts later. The problem with most of the early drafts was that my protagonist — a tough guy from New York invited down by a friend to help find the killer — didn’t work at all. At first he was a tough, dangerous guy modeled on John Travolta in Get Shorty! Then he became a burned-out veteran; alas, if there’s anything good to be done with that character type, it won’t be by me. Turning the veteran into a woman didn’t help either.

I think what triggered my Big Idea was reading one of Lia Matera’s Willa Jansson mysteries. Jansson is a “red diaper baby,” the daughter of 1960s radicals and her parents politics constantly seep into her cases. In this one — 30 years later, I can’t identify it — the mystery centers on Chris, a former activist whose group turned to violence when it seemed there was no other way to make the government listen. Chris turned her friends in before they could commit murder, a decision that’s come back to haunt her.

Click. Suddenly I had (I thought) my protagonist, a radical who’d made the same decision Chris did. Which meant I was no longer writing a contemporary novel; it would have to be set in the 1970s. A militant today would be a radical right-winger and I did not want to make one of them my protagonist.

That decision, to set it in the 1970s, was my Big Idea. I’ve been working on this book for several years; almost all my political and pop culture references would have become dated, along with the slang. In 1973, things are static. Joan will always have a shelf of Dark Shadows paperbacks on her bookshelf. Maria will always have grown up reading the Cherry Ames nursing Y/A novels. The politics are likewise stable; there’s a lot of politics in the book and if it were contemporary I’d have had to throw in another rewrite the past year or so.

I had my idea, I had my setting. My protagonist still needed work. Stay tuned.

All rights to images remain with current holders. Southern Discomfort by Samantha Collins, Born to Run by Larry Elmore.

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“The people who write that kind of stuff never fight”: masculine shaming rituals

The title comes from George Orwell’s scathing comment about British “jingoists” — warhawks — of the early 20th century: “The people who write that kind of stuff never fight; possibly they believe that to write it is a substitute for fighting. It is the same in all wars; the soldiers do the fighting, the journalists do the shouting, and no true patriot ever gets near a front-line trench, except on the briefest of propaganda-tours.” The same thing, I think, applies to masculinity: a great many people who aren’t tough, manly men will talk very, very loudly about manhood and toughness as if that were a substitute for being a man.

This is not a new thing. More than a decade ago, Rush Limbaugh was whining that the NFL doing better to shield football players from concussion was a sign America was becoming “chickified.” Easy for Limbaugh to say, as his high school football days were long behind him. Like Orwell’s “true patriot” he wasn’t getting anywhere near the front lines. Back in 2021, Sen. Ted Cruz whined that an Army recruiting ad focusing on a female corporal meant our military — in which he’d never served — was emasculated. How could a girl compare to the might of Putin’s testosterone-laden Russian warriors (the same ones now getting their asses kicked in the Ukraine)?

Or Donald Trump Jr. arguing that Joe Biden is such a wuss, he doesn’t scare our enemies the way Trump Sr. does. Sure, Junior’s never accomplished anything that didn’t depend on Daddy’s name, but his Daddy can beat up Hunter Biden’s daddy!

Or pundit Matt Walsh, who demonstrates masculinity by screeching bullshit online, declaring that women want to marry manly heroes like the first responders in 2017’s Hurricane Harvey — that’s manhood! Dude, if that was true, you wouldn’t be married, neither would I. Neither of us meet that standard of manliness, which isn’t a standard at all (plenty of women are first responders).

Now we’re seeing the same dynamic play out with Texas Senate candidate James Talarico, a liberal Christian Democrat. He appears to be decent and not all toxic-masculine, therefore his masculinity is invalid. Todd Starnes, a career pundit, sneers that Talarico wears “frilly underpants.” Ted Cruz (again) sneers that nobody would think of Talarico as masculine. Jesse Watters, Fox News’ smirking chimpanzee, claims Talarico is a low-testosterone loser who doesn’t eat enough meat or know enough about football to be a real man (he also claims California Gov. Gavin Newsom is too effeminate). GOP Rep. Brendan Gill hints Talarico’s not only gay but a pedophile.

As I’ve discussed earlier, part of this is the toxic-masculine insistence that there’s only one way to be a man. Because if there are alternatives, then that concept of manhood — it doesn’t matter if we’re toxic, we’re guys, we can’t help it! — becomes invalid. It’s one option among many. Which means meeting the benchmarks of stereotypical guyhood — chasing women, smoking cigars, watching sports or whatever — no longer prove you’re a man. And without proof of manhood … OMG, what if I’m not one?

On top of which, Cruz, Walsh and Starnes are engaging in the toxic-masculine equivalent of slut-shaming. In the book Slut! Leora Tanenbaum discusses how women slut-shame each other as proof of their own virtue: “Sure, I’ve blown a couple of guys but I’m not a slut like Janet! She’s a total tramp!” What the guys are doing is the same thing. Watters is obsessed with sneering at other guys’ masculinity — it’s effeminate to use a straw! It’s effeminate to eat ice-cream cones! By so doing, he (in theory) shores up his own masculine cred. Which I imagine he feels a need for, given his manliness consists of sitting on a Fox News set and sneering at other people’s behavior.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with Watters or Cruz or Walsh not being tough, macho guys; I’m not either. Being a pundit rather than a first responder or a soldier on the front lines is a perfectly legitimate choice. And while it does make their macho strutting pathetic, even if they were tough guys, that wouldn’t excuse sneering at other men for not being butch enough; right-wing pundit Jesse Kelly served as a Marine in Iraq and that doesn’t make his bashing other men any better.

Celeste Davis has a related post here.

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Women in books, mostly fictional

Proceeding in order from weakest to best … THE MARVELOUS HAIRY GIRLS: The Gonzales Sisters and their Worlds by Merry Weisner-Hanks is nominally the story of the Gonzales family, Canary Islanders suffering from a genetic quirk that grew hair all over their bodies. In the late 1500s this led to Pedro Gonzales and later his kids getting swapped around the courts of Europe like baseball cards, passed from the court of one monarch to the next.

That would have made an interesting book but Weisner-Hanks is more interested in the cultural backdrop that would have shaped how monarchs and courtiers responded to them. Beliefs about hairy savages of the New World. The eternal enthusiasm for stories of fantastic monsters and unbelievable wonders. The complicated rules of court life. The uncertainty whether someone like them should be seen as intelligent beasts or human freaks. It’s interesting but the family’s life story fades away in the middle of it all, and ultimately that hurts the book.

THE LIES THAT SUMMON THE NIGHT: A Songs for the Sinless Novel by Tessonja Odette is a romantasy set in a world where artists are criminals, as making or performing art draws Dark Powers to feed on it. The protagonist is a performer forced into service to a demon-hunter whom she finds the Most Obnoxious, Most Irritating Man She’s Ever Met (we know where that’s going) — which unfortunately comes too close to the romantic set-up of Arcana Academy. That doesn’t make Odette’s novel bad, it’s simply that I don’t need two series with that trope (which people more versed in romantasy says is common). I was more frustrated that it’s obvious from the get-go that everything the protagonist believes will turn out to be a lie. I was also bugged (I realized this is an odd complaint) by how contemporary the cussing felt, with everyone dropping the f-bomb as if they lived in the 21st century. In any case, I gave up after 100 pages.

THE NIGHT RAVEN: Crow Investigations Book One by Sarah Painter (cover by Stuart Bache) is an urban fantasy variation on the old crime-drama plot where the hero wants to quit but They Keep Pulling Her Back In.

The hero in this case is Lydia Crow of the Crows, one of the four crime families who run the London underworld. The Pearls can sell anything to anyone, the Silvers are hypnotically persuasive and the Fox family are super-seductive (at least I think that’s it). Curiously the Crows have much stronger powers — or used to, as the magic of all four has dwindled over time. Lydia’s only ability is a spider-sense like flair for detecting magic.

Lydia’s career as a PI in Scotland has flatlined so she’s back in London briefly. But wouldn’t you know, her conniving Uncle Charlie has a little, completely harmless job for her, finding a missing college-student cousin. Sure, why not? Spoiler: there’s more going on than it seems, but you probably knew that.

I enjoyed that this is a relatively low-level magical world, compared to all the series that try to stand out by going over the top. The downside is that outside of Lydia’s ghostly roommate this would work just as well if it were a straight mystery story with no magic. It’s also anticlimactic in the ending reveals and resolution — seeding for future books I guess — and the detective on the case jumps into the sack with Lydia way too quickly. Enjoyable overall, but I don’t know if I’ll pick up Book Two.

THE GIRL WITH A THOUSAND FACES by Sunyi Dean was really good. It starts off like a standard urban fantasy as Merry, an amnesiac ghostbuster in 1975 Hong Kong, discovers the corrupt secret behind a recent boom in hauntings. All is not as it seems and midway through we go into a flashback, something which often ruins fantasies for me. Not this time. The twists are clever, the characters are good and the sense of Hong Kong is much more vivid than Highfire Crown‘s sense of Johannesburg.

All rights to images remain with current holders.

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Two leftover images

From our recent trip to the natural history museum, this chameleon.

From my April trip to Charleston, this morning shot of the beach.

Photos bring back good memories.

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It’s a quirky indie film shot in Durham. I wish I liked it more.

The only reason I know the 2025 movie EVERYTHING & THE UNIVERSE (2025) exists is because our local newsmagazine, The Indy, wrote an article about it last month. It’s an indie film shot in Durham, NC but even the businesses that appear in the film didn’t know it’s now streaming.

Before you go any further, be warned, spoilers follow.

Naturally I caught it once I found the time. The Durham skyline is visible in several shots and I know at least one location, the Arcana Bar, though not well enough to recognize it. The film has the “quirky indie” vibe down (though unlike the Indy, I wouldn’t call it a rom-com). Despite being enthused to see it, Everything & the Universe didn’t work for me.

The plot: Henry (E.J. Bonilla) and Jane (Nicolette Pearse) meet as they get on a plane to Durham. When it makes an unplanned emergency landing, Jane can’t find transportation and accepts a ride with Henry. It turns out they’re both headed to a wedding — Sam (Chelsea Gilligan) is Henry’s ex, Jane’s BFF and also Jane’s secret love fantasy (Jane’s lesbian), but Sam’s marrying Brian (Luke Roberts). Henry thinks he and Jane have been brought together to derail the wedding and leave Sam up for grabs. Hilarity, character interactions, personal crises and the wedding ensue.

The movie started to go wrong in the opening scene, in which Henry is getting manic about bringing a carved log with him on his flight (it’s a memento of a sexy afternoon with Sam). He proceeds to disregard boundaries, pushing for Jane’s last name when she doesn’t want to tell him, talking to her when she’s on headphones, asking why she can’t smile more. It’s obviously a conscious choice by writer/director Sarah Scarlett Downing and it’s consistent with Henry’s personality throughout the movie — a pushy jerk who keeps heading for what he wants regardless of what anyone else wants or needs.

Possibly Downing thought this was realistic (it is); possibly she was trying to create, as the old phrase goes, a character you love to hate. Trouble is, I didn’t love to hate him, I just hate him. As I’ve said before, sexist jerks do not make good protagonists. When he offers her a ride — I get it, she’s desperate, but I can’t help thinking a guy like Henry would make her choose the bear. Instead they bond, becoming squabbling best friends.

The other problem is that the indie drama aspect — everyone getting together and interacting, like John Sayles’ Return of the Secaucus Seven, working out personal problems (or not) — fits oddly with the nominal plots of a)Jane wanting this to be a friends-to-lovers romance and b)Jane and Henry trying to break up the wedding. Brian turns out to be a jerk … or is that just jerky behavior as most of us engage in? Sam reciprocates Jane’s feelings after all … or does she? There’s an odd moment at the wedding where one of Brian’s male students declares his love for the professor; it comes so out of the blue, I assume it’s some trick by Henry. Then again maybe it wasn’t. Random moments work fine in a character study. Not so well in a rom-com plot.

In the end, the cast and crew execute the film well … but it still doesn’t work. “There is no use running from the moon — even when you can’t see her, she’s there.”

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One of those “God says ha!” weeks, but he didn’t laugh too loudly.

The title, for anyone who hasn’t heard the phrase refers to the line “if you want to make god laugh, tell him your plasn.” After the mess of our a.c. dying for two weeks, last week was a welcome lurch back toward normal. I’d hoped this week would be better still. Instead it turned way chaotic, though I still got some work done.

First off, I’m happy to report that feeding Plushie a fatty treat last Friday did not bring on a surge of pancreatitis or diarrhea. Phew! However pet drama did suck up a lot of time. There’s some utility work being done in our neighborhood so a crew went through last week and painted lines on lawns to indicate existing cables, pipes and conduits. Plushie rolled on the paint Monday, getting it all over his face. We had to give him an unplanned bath before he started licking it off, which consumed quite a bit of time.

Then because Trixie’s been licking and chewing on her paws, I took her in later that afternoon. They gave us some antibiotic wipes for her paws; they seem to be doing the trick.

Tuesday we’d planned to take Snowdrop in for his annual checkup. There was a miscommunication with our vet so that didn’t happen. However TYG worried Plushie had a new eye problem so I took him in to the vet. No eye problem as it turned out (other than the old ones). I’d tease her about it but she’s right often enough it’s wise to listen when she worries.

Wednesday I had my annual dermatology checkup (all good). Thursday I structured my schedule around lunch with a friend but they had to cancel. I think I’ve managed one lunch out with friends this year — either they’re busy or stressed or sick — and it’s disappointing. Today we had a plumber coming to fix an outside tap (under warranty so no fee), the gutter cleaners and Wisp has a sore spot so I was supposed to take her to the vet. She did not cooperate so we had to reschedule but only after a quarter-hour’s efforts.

All those things chop up the day into smaller chunks. Each time I finish one it takes added time to refocus. The non-writing time adds up. Plus I had another lousy week of sleep: Plush Dudley’s been fidgeting night after night, and since he likes to lie next to me (or sometimes climb on me) that doesn’t work out well.

That said, work did get done, mostly editing on the final section of Savage Adventures. And Southern Discomfort will definitely go live as an ebook next month as I’ve worked the last kinks out of the manuscript. I think I’ve fixed the cover for the paperback version; I’ve ordered a copy to be sure. Preorder links to follow.

Speaking of links, here’s my account of Carrboro’s storm season preparations. At Atomic Junk Shop I look at the Bronze Age and processed cheese.

And on a happy note, yesterday TYG and I celebrated our fifteenth anniversary. Astonishingly she’s not done with me yet. Which suits me fine. We had dinner at Sage, which remains our favorite Durham restaurant and traded gifts (honey and cookies for me, a medical book for her).

Send positive thoughts that next week will be more productive.

Cover art by James Bama, all rights to images remain with current holders.

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The Toddler of the United States is bored

War is one of the most serious things a president (or any leader) can undertake. Ending a war is serious too.

The Toddler, however, has announced that he doesn’t care whether peace talks with Iran continue or not because they’re boring. Which is true, I’m sure they are. Negotiations and diplomacy aren’t flashy and dramatic They require thoughtful, detailed work and the Toddler is not into detail. I’m sure his vision of the war involved things going Boom Boom Boom and then big strong Iraqis coming to him with tears in their eyes, begging him for mercy as they completely surrender. Then everyone acclaiming him the bestest little baby president of all time. We’ve heard plenty of accounts of how his security and policy briefings have to be super-simple or he loses interest; I doubt his tiny brain can take in complex negotiations at all.

Much like W before him, this war was supposed to make him a great War President whom everyone loved and admired. Now that it’s turned into a millstone around his sinking popularity, he’s lost interest. It’s the same way he declared he wouldn’t upgrade the Kennedy Center once a judge took his name off it.

So he’s become obsessed with something he can control and which appeals to him: remaking Washington in his image. The ballroom. The UFC fighting arena (which he wants to make permanent). The reflecting pool. It reminds me of the insider stories of how the border wall became an issue: the Toddler couldn’t stay focused on immigration until they put it in terms of building a wall, something concrete he could talk about. He can focus on building monuments to compensate for his small … hands. Only poor Toddler, they’re still opposing him. As I’ve said before, it’s an interesting display of male privilege. If Clinton or Harris were this obsessed with a ballroom in time of war, the mockery for their girliness would define their presidency. Of course, with the Toddler, there are so many other things to mock.

The thing is, “Trump appears to have given up on governing — even governing aimed at consolidating his own power and legacy. He wants to punish everyone he imagines has wronged him but has lost all interest in making the government work, even for nefarious purposes.” Except finding new ways to impose his precious tariffs. I can’t say the removal of the Toddler as a political force is a bad thing. Then again, this country without a functioning president is not a good thing. “Everywhere one looks, the U.S. government is imploding under the weight of incompetence.” And possibly his dementia.

And he’ll still be using his power to persecute everyone who hurt his snowflake fee-fees, like E. Jean Carroll. The hardcore schemers among the right-wing are still at work advancing their agenda, which means nothing good. More roadblocks to anyone immigrating here who’s not a white South Afrikaaner. And more roadblocks. Pogroms against immigrants already here. New Homeland Security head Markwayne Mullin refusing to obey the law. SCOTUS’ racists embracing white supremacy. Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins bragging that kicking people off SNAP is the American dream.

As Krugman says, “they are continuing to support him, and they are continuing to do so not just in concrete ways, but verbally, which matters. They continue to cover for him” The DOJ, for instance, says the Toddler could legally tear down the Statue of Liberty. With the Toddler no longer an invincible political force, some of the Republicans are starting to back away, for example, killing his $1.776 slush fund (though I’ve read that Actin AG Todd Blanche refuses to officially revoke the fund). But turning on him now, while good, doesn’t change that they empowered him for years and many still do. We have Hegseth and Kennedy wreaking havoc in their departments because so many senators supported them, then expressed qualms when it was too late.

I’m still unsure how this all ends but the fight definitely goes on. Let’s do all we can to win.

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It’s a paperback cover Wednesday!

Cover by Jack Faragasso

This one’s by Richard Powers, natch.

An odd but eerie one by Ed Soyka

All rights to images remain with current holders.

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I have no need for deep thoughts on Graham Platner

Platner is the Maine senatorial candidate notorious for the Nazi tattoo, and for the debate whether, even though he’s not a Nazi (from what I’ve read), thinking a Nazi tattoo is cool makes him unacceptable. Is he too Nazi adjacent or is this that old bugaboo, a “purity test” that will lock us out of the seat? I’ve heard different assessments on the left but as I’m not a Maineman and won’t be voting I don’t have to figure out who’s right. I’d definitely a prefer a candidate without Nazi tattoos but I don’t find him as horrific as I did Aaron Coleman.

That said, it’s worth nothing that some people are rushing to support Platner in the wake of an NYT story about his personal history — drinking, womanizing, adultery (according to his wife they’re working through it) and often something of a dick. Though not, according to his lovers, a monster or a rapist. The creepy thing is that some pundits on the left think this is awesome because Platner is a Real Man. He represents “a rejection of Dem HR lady politics” according to Matt Stoller. The Argument lists multiple other examples of pundits explaining that if you want a flesh-and-blood human being to run for office, expect them to have messy lives: “Cheating isn’t a moral failing we can forgive; it’s a mark of rugged authenticity, and any qualms about infidelity are the prissy reflexes of an out-of-touch elite.”

Well, no, it isn’t. As the post says, it reflects that in most elections we have limited choices; someone who might turn down an adulterous candidate may not have a better option. It doesn’t mean people who support Platner are drawn by his cheating machismo. And it’s telling that like Stoller, one Ken Klippenstein sneers that the alternative to Platner is “the clean-cut types who’ve harbored ambitions for political office since they were on high school student council and have lived every waking moment accordingly. I call them smoothgroins: real-life barbie dolls with smooth plastic where a sexual organ should be.” It must astonish Klippenstein that not everyone who stays faithful to their spouse is devoid of a sex drive.

As Liberal Currents puts it after posting more of Klippenstein’s sneering, Klippenstein’s declaration fidelity is for wimps and asexuals “is a puerile and chauvinistic sentiment. It’s the sort of high school cafeteria misogyny you’d get from an 80s sex comedy. It’s derogatory to women, to the people offended by Platner’s long list of misconduct, and to politicians Klippenstein simply sees as weak and unmanly.” And then Klippenestein posted photos of the women in the race — wow, these ugly old broads obviously have no sex scandals (that’s an interpretation, not Klippenstein’s statement).

This comes off as another version of the toxic masculinity stereotypes Dr. Nerdlove complains about: obviously you can’t expect a genuine authentic man to behave decently. We can’t expect them to be perfect, whether they’re in politics or not. However there’s a world of difference between “not perfect” and “isn’t a decent person.” Nor is a person who tries to live a moral life and fails the same as a serial philandering hypocrite (that’s a general observation, not targeted at Planter).

Like I said, Platner’s fate is up to Maine voters, not me. But these excuses for his conduct come off worse than anything I’ve heard Platner say in his own defense.

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The Pharisee Triangle: pseudoscience, parapsychology and Southern Discomfort

One aspect of my Southern Discomfort research I didn’t include in the online bibliography — parapsychology and related pseudoscience. Not that my magic is based on psi powers or the like, but the occultish beliefs of the early 1970s form a constant element of the background. The reason it’s not in the bibliography is that I was around in the 1970s and I was fascinated by that stuff. I didn’t need much reference reading.

As Thomas Hine puts it in The Great Funk, the dysfunctional aspects of the 1970s fueled an enthusiasm for trying all kinds of new things. New fashions. Radical experiments in TV, such as All in the Family. Jim Starlin’s mind-blowing Warlock run. Cults. And an explosion of interest in what would later be called New Age stuff, though a lot of it started in the late 1960s.

Erich Von Daniken told us aliens arrived on Earth in the Chariots of the Gods. The Bermuda Triangle became the subject of multiple movies. John Keel proposed UFOs, bigfoot and the Mothman were other-dimensional Strange Creatures From Time and Space. Serious physicists looked at whether quantum entanglement and other strange effects could explain psi-powers — if two particles could interact at a distance when they have absolutely no contact or connection, is telepathy or TK out of the question? As it turned out, this approach didn’t work better than any other effort to prove psi-powers are a thing.

Did you know plants can understand what we say and react when we talk about trimming them? At least according to Cleve Backster, an interrogator who tried hooking plants up to polygraphs — a notoriously unreliable device — and concluded they were conscious, intelligent, and reacted to our words.

I was way into all of that as a tween. Eventually I accepted there was no real evidence for any of that; heck, even at the time I could see holes in von Daniken’s arguments. Still, when I was 14 it was all incredibly cool, like a scientific revolution happening in front of me. I wasn’t alone in that feeling and there’s lots of stuff I haven’t even mentioned — Carlos Castaneda’s mysticism, reprints of James Churchward’s books about the lost continent of Mu — that I didn’t get into but others did. Lots of characters in Southern Discomfort are into this stuff too.

It’s known that Pharisee County is unusual. Sherman’s army marched around and missed them. Stories of night riders entering Pharisee and never returning home. A major snowstorm in early 1973 didn’t touch the county. And kudzu has never gotten a foothold there. Stories of the Pharisee Mystery began building up in the 1960s and as more newcomers move into the area, they’ve gained strength. And even a new name, “the Pharisee Triangle.” The Bermuda Triangle name wasn’t as common in 1973 as it would become but it was in circulation.

High-schooler and science nerd Susan Moreno is convinced the elves Olwen and Aubric MacAlister are really aliens straight out of Von Daniken (she has theories for a lot of the other weirdness as it develops). Maria makes reference to plant consciousness in one scene where the plants in a public park are trying to trap her.

There’s talk of tesseracts, dimensional rifts, supposed psychic Uri Geller. None of it essential but it does capture some of the flavor of the era. And that’s part of the point of writing historical fantasy.

Covers by Samantha Collins (top) and Jim Starlin. All rights to images remain with current holders.

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