I want to welcome, B. K. Fowler to my blog! First I’d love you to
introduce yourself.
Well, I was born in…just kidding. I’m a word nerd, meaning I
love writing (and rewriting), completing crossword puzzles and finding boo-boos
on menus and brochures. I have a bossy cat and a well-behaved spouse. I’m
grateful for the enthusiasm people are showing for Ken’s War and for the
support Melange Books, LLC provides during the process of acquiring a book and
onwards.
Tell us about your latest release.
“When teen hormones and culture shock” collide is an
accurate “sound bite” for the YA novel, Ken’s War. As the conflict in Vietnam escalates, army brat Ken and his
hot-headed dad are suddenly deployed to a dinky post in Japan. Culture clash is
just one of the many sucker punches that knocks Ken’s world upside down. He struggles as his assumptions about friends and enemies,
loyalty and betrayal, and love and manipulation are fractured. An army
misfit, a Japanese girl and a martial arts master play indelible roles in Ken’s
rocky journey he starts as a Pennsylvania boy itching to get his driver’s
license to when he’s a young man who stands heads above some and
shoulder-to-shoulder with his father.
Readers can get their own copy of the Ken’s War
at http://www.fireandiceya.com/authors/bkfowler/kenswar.html
and
Readers can visit
https://www.facebook.com/#!/kenswar for
insights into the book and the publishing process.
Now I have a few questions for you – I have found readers do
like to know fun things about us writers.
1.) Who is your favorite villain – it can be from a book
(even one of yours), movie or TV show. And why?
Reading Lawrence Sander’s First Deadly Sin was the
first time I’d come across a fictional antagonist who was fully developed, not
a cardboard stereotype created to fill a role. Making me care about the bad guy
is quite a feat, I’d say.
2.) Who is your favorite character out of your books? Why?
I’m intrigued by Ken, the
protagonist, for the same reasons Nancy Springer, an award winning writer, (http://nancyspringer.com/index.html) was. Nancy
said that Ken’s War “depicts the angst of an Army brat, exploring the
full range of teenage behavior and emotion, mirroring the messiness of real
life. Ken’s psyche includes a plethora of contradictory impulses, including an
awakening sexual awareness handled with delicacy and tact by this gifted
author.”
3.) What do genre do you write? What made you pick that one?
I write article-length nonfiction pieces to promote non-profits.
I write fiction to explore relationship dynamics and emotions, especially
emotions occurring covertly in the subtext of what’s overtly acknowledged
between people, as in Ken’s War.
4.) What are you working on now?
I'm putting the finishing touches on the novel Authenticity. Lynn, a gifted art intuitive, knows in her gut of painting are priceless masterpieces or forgeries. Authenticity is her forte. Or so she thought.
5.) What got you to start writing?
When my spouse was transferred to Malaysia, I found myself
in a foreign country without all the props that defined normal life: no house,
car, job, network of friends. We were starting from scratch on many levels.
Writing was something I could do no matter where we lived. My first paid
article was written about Malaysia on my first word processor.
6.) Where do you get your ideas from?
My ideas come from something that bugs or intrigues me. The
seed for Ken’s War was planted when my former martial arts instructor, a
white American, told me he’d lived in Japan with his dad and had learned
martial arts at a dojo. Now, that’s intriguing!
7.) Do you have any special talents?
I can concoct one-of-a-kind meals made with
whatever’s on hand. How else can you explain sweet potato-chickpea-yogurt soup?
Or fried chicken livers with grapefruit and celery. Yum!
8.) What was the one piece of advice you received when you
were an aspiring author that has stuck with you? Why?
“Write fast. Edit slow.” Editing slowly means chipping at a
chunk of writing as a sculptor chips at a chunk of marble. Lots of debris falls
onto the sculptor’s studio floor. That metaphor conveys the work writers do to
transform what was written in the heat of inspiration and creativity into a
tight, marketable piece. To me, edit
slow also means letting spans of time pass between editing sessions on a
project. It’s amazing how time changes one’s perspective.
9.) If you could talk to any famous figure (present, past
or fictional) who would it be and what would you talk about?
I’d like to ask Joseph, Jesus’ dad, to tell some funny
stories about his little boy.
10.) What song would you say describes your life?
Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime” captures how I feel
sometimes.
"You may find yourself
living in a shotgun shack / And you may find yourself in another part of the
world / And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile / You
may find yourself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife / You may ask
yourself, Well, how did I get here?"
How DID I get here?
How DID I get here?
11.) If you could come back as any animal – what would it
be?
My cat. For a moocher with bad manners, he’s got it made.
Ken's War Excerpt:
Ken Paderson squinted against
light streaming through the door into the belly of the U.S. Army transport
plane he and his dad, Captain Paderson, had flown in on. The world was buzzing
out there. He worked a pen under the cast on his broken arm but couldn’t reach
the itch to scratch at it.
A backlit figure chasing a long
shadow strode toward the plane and saluted with excessive finesse. “Welcome to
Camp Zama, home of the 9th Theater Army Area Command.” The soldier
yelled to be heard over the roar of an airplane taxiing nearby on the airstrip.
Ken returned the salute. Captain
Paderson’s salute turned into an awkward flapping of hands as he tried to stand
on a pair of legs that refused to follow orders.
“Whoa, watch your step, sir.” The soldier
propped Captain Paderson up. “Don’t worry, a cup of coffee and you’ll find your
land legs.”
“Are we in Okinawa ?”
Ken asked.
“Yes, indeedy.” The soldier’s cigarette
bobbed between his lips. “Like they say, ‘The island of Okinawa existing among
the bases.’ ” He shook a cigarette out of a flattened pack. The soldier’s grin lifted one side of his
face, while the other side concentrated on keeping the cigarette clamped
between his lips. “Follow me. Lieutenant Colonel Topker is expecting you at
oh-nine-hundred hours.” He looked at Ken. “Follow me, cherry boy.”
Ken
regarded his dad’s expression, but couldn’t de-code what he might be
feeling.
Lieutenant Colonel Topker, a
muscular man, rose from his desk and leaned over it to shake their hands. He
stood a head taller than Ken’s dad.
“Be seated,” Topker said. “I’m
pleased to have you aboard. Both of you.” His gravelly voice reverberated in
his chest in a friendly but forceful way.
“I’m
pleased to be here, sir.” His dad’s talent for lying was extraordinary.
“You’re
a lucky boy.” The colonel’s eyes, framed with fans of tan wrinkles, were
smiling on Ken. “You’ve been on trains, a ship and a plane to get here from half
way around the planet. A million boys would love to trade places with you,
wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, sir,” Ken lied to be
polite. Like father, like son.
The
ceiling fan’s whirling blades sliced warm breezes off the ceiling, and made
bright colored banners with emblems bearing a whole new set of acronyms to
learn — USARJ, USARPAC — flutter against the wall. The roars of airplane
engines revving for takeoff and the rumbles of others idling after landing
vibrated the office window.
The
window looked out on a field of tall grasses. Farmers with long knives chopped
and bundled shanks of tall grass into sheaves. Giving Japs machetes seemed like
a pretty stupid idea. Ken’s expression must have conveyed his misgivings,
because the lieutenant colonel detoured from his conversation with Paderson
about the army’s logistical bases in Asia and said:
“They’re harvesting sugarcane.”
“I know,” came Ken’s testy
reply. Sugarcane? In Japan?
“Are you feeling sickly, son?”
Topker asked. He rubbed his hands together, making a shishing noise. “I know
what will bring you right around.” He switched on an electric burner and picked
up a bronze bell: its peals sounded like a shower of thin coins on fine china.
Within a moment a Japanese woman wearing a pleated skirt, neat blouse and straw
slippers, noiselessly carried a tray into the office.
The lieutenant colonel spoke to
her in Japanese. Ken looked to his dad for an explanation for this absurdity,
but his father was working over a problem in his own mind. The woman nodded
ever so slightly and placed a set of bamboo implements on the blue and white
cloth she’d spread on the lieutenant colonel’s desk. She spent a considerable
amount of time arranging and adjusting the implements and clay cups and teapot
until she was satisfied. Topker watched patiently, a faint smile tickling his
lips. Finally she whisked green powder and hot water into a froth. She bowed,
and then turned each handleless cup with smooth, precise movements. Before he
drank, Topker bowed his head and rotated his cup between his large palms. He
concentrated on something submerged in the green liquid.
The captain and Ken imitated the
light colonel’s motions and contemplative expression as best they could. By
now, as he brought the cup to his lips, Ken was painfully thirsty. The green
tea smelled like stinking water from a stagnant pond. It curled his tongue.
They told the Japanese woman the tea was delicious. She bowed and departed,
taking Topker’s smile out with her.
“Next time when you visit
longer,” he said, “Hiroko will demonstrate the entire tea ceremony for you. She
reluctantly agrees to use the electric element instead of a wood fire because
she knows how much I enjoy tea in my office.
“Our mission,” Topker’s voice
was official again, “is to maintain storage facilities with capability to
expand the Asia Pacific base. This is increasingly important as we beef up our
involvement in Vietnam. As of today the U.S. Vietnam
Ken corralled his attention in
from the cane fields where a man was sharpening his machete on a whetstone. All
his life he’d listened to secondhand stories of combat. He’d been soaking up
blood and glory from TV shows, movies, books and from barracks officers when
they thought no one else was within listening range to intercept snippets of
the epic battles they spoke of. Now he was close to the action.
“This is terribly boring for
you, son,” Topker said.
“No, it’s-”
“Wait a minute.” The bell rained
coins again, and again he spoke Japanese to the woman who’d appeared at the
doorway within seconds. She left and returned with a Japanese child who was no
older than a kindergartner, if he was old enough to go to school . . . if they
had schools on this island.
“Michael,” Topker said, “this is
Ken Paderson. He’s on tour with his father. We’re going to discuss business
now. Show Ken your rock collection and bring him back in fifteen minutes.”
“Does he speak English?” Ken
asked the light colonel.
“Ask him.”
“Do? You? Speak? English?”
“Naturally. I’ll show you
around.” Michael took Ken’s hand and led him out of the office. “Okinawa is the
southernmost prefecture
of Japan
“I know and I don’t care,” Ken
replied.
“I’ve got igneous and
sedimentary rock samples in my collection. Do you want to see them? This island
is made of volcanoes. Did you know that?”
Ken’s lie was preordained. “I
know.” He yanked his hand free from the boy’s moist grip and followed him down
a corridor, past doors where the sounds of typewriters clicking and telephones
ringing trickled through heavy air.
“What
part of the United States
“Pennsylvania.
Did you know the first Christmas tree ever was at the barracks where I live?” Where
I lived. Past tense. He could scarcely think it, could not say it aloud
because it would require acknowledging broken promises, crushed trust, a
phantom life left behind.
“You
mean the first Christmas tree in America,” the kid said.
“Any
dummy knows that. Prisoners of war decorated a pine tree.” From his pocket, he
started to remove the stone that he’d found in his grandpap’s garden to show it
to Michael, but when they entered a room with glass-covered display cases
lining the walls, he let go of the quartz. Stones representing nature’s
treasure of hues and shapes were labeled with neatly typed strips of paper.
Hematite. Rhodochrosite. Limonite. Galena
“Ever since I was little,”
Michael said. He lifted the glass top of one of the cases and pointed to the
specimens, saying, “This is lava from Mount Fuji .
This is a piece of columnar basalt from Scotland
“Gee. You were in Scotland
“Yes. My parents like to travel
when my father is on leave.”
An image of this pipsqueak and
his massive father wearing Scottish kilts appeared to him.
“What are you laughing about,
Ken?”
“Nothing. You’re too young to
understand.”
Lieutenant Colonel Topker
motioned Ken into the seat he’d sat in before. “We’ll only be a few more
minutes. Did Michael show you his rock collection?”
“Yes, sir. It’s dandy.” He
cringed. What a doofuss he was turning into.
“Thank you, Michael. Bye, bye,”
Topker said.
“Bye, bye.” The boy wiggled his
bent fingers in a childish wave.
Topker squared his shoulders and
continued briefing Paderson. “In addition to the aforementioned items there are
odd lots and nonperishable foods.”
“When do I get a look at the
depot I’m in charge of?” Captain Paderson asked.
“As soon as the plane arrives.
You’ll be flying to the depot with a shipment of provisions.”
“I hadn’t realized Camp Zama
“Your assignment isn’t on this base.”
Topker handed Paderson a manila folder.
Ken knew better than to tell his
dad, in a ranking officer’s presence, not to move his lips when reading
silently.
“We can’t put all our eggs in
one basket,” the light colonel explained. “You’re in charge of a remote post.
You’ll have staff.”
A low-flying cargo plane,
judging by the timbre of the growling engines, obliterated all other sound. Ken
wanted to hop on that plane right now, fly back home and start practicing for
his driver’s license test. Or he’d be super-nice to his dad so he’d break down
and send him home. Better yet, he’d have a word, man to man, with the light
colonel. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He’d understand and send Ken home.
He was too afraid to do any of these things. He prayed real hard to God, a God
that he never believed cared what happened to people’s lives. He prayed that
his mom would phone long distance, admit she’d made a big, big mistake, and
order the captain to put him on the next plane off that god-forsaken island.
Send her boy home.
“You report to Major Bellamy,”
Topker was saying, “He’ll brief you today. Twelve-hundred hours. At location.”
The phone rang. The lieutenant
colonel listened, the lines around his eyes tightened. Topker hung up.
“That was the Bureau of Personnel,”
Topker said. “Paderson, I’m sorry to do this at this time, on your first day in
Japan. I’m obligated to inform you that if any further incidents transpire like
that which occurred Stateside, you’ll be requested to resign your commission.”
“I’d hoped,” Paderson said,
“personnel’s legendary lethargy would be on my side, just this once.” His dad’s
dispirited laughter was saddening.
“Not in this instance,” Topker
said quietly.
The meaning of what was said hit
Ken and caught in his throat. His dad had been reassigned because of the fight
Ken and his dad’s commanding officer’s snot-nosed boy got into. One more screw
up and his dad was a goner. Could the Army do that to a man? Hold him
responsible for something his kid did? Ken scootched to the edge of the chair
and tried to think of the right way to ask the light colonel, all polite and
everything, who did he think he was threatening his daddy, but a sergeant
appeared in the doorway.
“Pardon the interruption.
Captain Paderson’s transport to Kyushu Island is ready and waiting, sir.”
“Dad, where’s Kyushu?” Ken
pronounced the word quickly, like a sneeze.
“Between purgatory and hell.”
“Don’t be so grim.” Topker
stood, making the room shrink. “One day soon you’ll learn to love this
archipelago.”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“If you change your attitude
first, you’ll discover that living here can be as agreeable as living anywhere
else. It’s not likely to happen the other way around.” The lieutenant colonel
looked pensive and then brightening with an idea said, “This is for you.” He
forced a pouch into Ken’s hands. Inside the pouch were wads of dried green
stuff.
“What are they? Silk worms?”
Topker’s booming laugh competed
with a prop plane’s engine coughing to a start on the runway. “Green tealeaves.
The dried leaves unfurl in warm water and emit a flowery aroma.”
Obliged to, Ken held the opened
pouch under his nose, inhaled and wondered why adults thought they had to tell
tall tales to get a kid’s attention.
“Don’t wrinkle your nose!”
Topker laughed. “You’ll acquire a taste for green tea, I guarantee it.”
Thanks for interviewing me. I'm honored to be here!
ReplyDeleteThanks so much for joining me!
ReplyDeleteGreat interview Beth. Good answers. Good luck with sales.
ReplyDelete