by John Bowers
So…when someone does actually read a book, the author really wants to know how it was received. Did you like it? Did you hate it? Can I do it better? Should I do it differently? Should I just forget it and do something else?
Good books take a long time to write. An author can spend weeks, months, even years getting a book written, edited, rewritten, edited, marketed, and finally published. Then, assuming anyone actually reads it, if no one leaves a review, other book shoppers may decide to pass it up. Five or six positive reviews might change that.
Obviously the author wants to see 4 and 5-star reviews, but even negative reviews can have benefit, if only to encourage the author to do a better job on the next book.
Reviews are important. When you finish reading a book, by anyone, why not leave a note of feedback. It only takes a couple of minutes in most cases, and it will encourage the author to keep on telling great stories…or if he really sucks, maybe to find an “honest job”. Either way, the world of books will be better for it.
About the Author
Born in the Arkansas Ozarks, John Bowers came to California at the age of two. His parents had no job prospects, but as lifelong farmers, found work as migrant labor in the San Joaquin Valley (in the 1950s, most of California’s migrant labor was done by “Arkies” and “Okies”, many of whom had come West during the Great Depression). Some of his earliest memories include sitting on a pallet under a grape vine playing with toy trucks while his parents harvested grapes or picked cotton.
By the time Bowers started school, his dad had found work on a turkey ranch, and continued to work in turkeys for the next 15 years, moving from one job to another almost every year. From first grade until his senior year in high school, Bowers attended ten different schools, including three high schools. “We moved almost every year,” he recalls, “usually in the dead of winter” (when agriculture was dormant). As a result, Bowers remembers lots of people, but few of them remember him: “I simply wasn’t there long enough to be remembered.”
When he was four years old, Bowers’ mother began studying with what later proved to be a religious cult. She didn’t actually join the cult for several years, but Bowers lived under its influence from an early age. By the time they started attending “church”, Bowers was also convinced it was the true religion. “My mom said she had proved it,” he says today. “Mom was the smartest person I knew, so I believed her.”
Forty years later, when Bowers saw evidence the organization was corrupt, his eyes were opened and he made his escape. “Unfortunately, I had subjected my own kids to several years of cult indoctrination,” he says, “but I think we got out early enough for them to have a somewhat normal life.” Today, neither Bowers nor his children are involved in religion. “I spent forty years in the wilderness,” he laughs. “I think I’ve paid my dues.”
Bowers discovered a love for writing in 7th grade. In high school his English teachers considered him a prodigy, expecting him to become a great success as a novelist. But the “church” had other ideas, and went to great lengths to squelch his talent. “They called it vanity,” he says. “I defied them for a while, but you can’t fight against God forever, and I finally stuck a pin in it.” But he never gave up the dream, and at age 44, when he finally seized his freedom, he started writing again. Victoria Cross is his 19th novel on Amazon, and in spite of the wasted years, he swears he is only getting started.
Bowers still lives in Central California, and hasn’t moved for 28 years. As for his cult experience, he has this to say (with apologies to the United States Marines who served on Guadalcanal):
“And when he gets to Heaven,
“To St. Peter he will tell:
“‘Another cult member reporting, sir…
“I’ve served my time in Hell.’”
Don’t miss Nick Walker’s next adventure:
Return to Sirius
Here is a sneak preview
“And what line of work are you in?” The Sirian eyed the professor as he took a bite of steak.
“I’m a social scientist,” Professor Leavitt replied with a friendly smile.
“Innerrestin’. What, exactly, is a ‘social’ scientist?”
“Well, there are many disciplines—branches, if you will—but I am an anthropologist.”
“Ah, I see. So you’re a sort of…rabble-rouser?”
“What?” Leavitt looked startled for a moment, then broke into a smile. “Oh, no, not at all. You’re confusing me with a social activist. I assure you I’m not an activist of any sort. Politics don’t interest me personally, although they do sometimes come into play in my work.”
“And how is that?”
Leavitt laid his fork down. His brow furrowed as if he were about to begin a classroom lecture.
“Anthropology is the study of civilizations, of cultures. Every culture has a political system of some kind, and that system frequently influences the direction a civilization takes. So in that regard, politics are important to my work, but I find the details to be of little interest.”
The Sirian nodded and took another bite of steak. His name was Glenn Tinker.
“Tell me, Professor, if you don’t mind—what good is anthropology? I mean, is it somethin’ you can sell? Is there any money in it?”
Leavitt gazed at him with raised eyebrows.
“Well, if there is any money in it, I haven’t yet discovered how to cash in.” He laughed. “Like every other science, anthropology is important because it adds to the knowledge base of our species.”
“I guess what I mean,” Tinker said, “is—how does it benefit mankind? When I think of scientific research, I think of things like astronomy and quantum physics, things that have a practical application. I see science as discoverin’ things that engineers can work with, like buildin’ a faster warp drive, for instance. Science like that leads to practical applications that people can actually use.”
Leavitt nodded.
“I see what you’re saying. I believe that every society can benefit from understanding its own evolution, and how other societies have progressed in similar circumstances. The better we understand ourselves, I believe, the better chance we have to succeed as a civilization.”
Tinker eyed him closely.
“Don’t that lead us right back to social activism?”
Leavitt frowned. His lips clamped as if the thought were new to him.
“I suppose it could,” he admitted after a moment.
“Of course it does! You, the anthropologist, study a civilization to figure out what’s wrong with it—at least, what you think is wrong with it—and then the social activists step in and start rabble-rousin’. That leads to dangerous revolutionary ideas that can rip a society apart. Ain’t that how it’s always worked down through history?”
Leavitt’s frown deepened. He picked up his fork and resumed eating his meal.
“You’re a Jew, aren’t you?”
Leavitt’s head snapped up.
“Excuse me?”
“Aren’t you Jewish? The name is Jewish.”
“Yes, I am Jewish. What of it? What are you?”
The Sirian opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted.
“He’s a KK agent.”
Tinker’s eyes, blazing with sudden rage, locked onto Nick Walker, who was slicing a bite of meat from his fillet.
“And just who the hell are you?” he demanded.
Nick laid his fork down, the meat still attached.
“I’m a rabble rouser,” he said in a quiet voice.
The Sirian sat back, his weathered features suddenly wary. Everyone at the table was staring at the two of them, breathless, as if expecting a fistfight.
“Are you an anthropologist, too?”
Nick shook his head.
“No.”
He turned to Leavitt.
“Our friend here is a hard-core Confederate citizen. He thrives on hatred of everything that is different from himself and his people. He hates blacks, bro
wns, Asians, and Jews. He believes in slavery and the subjugation of women. His semi-polite manner is just a thin veneer that covers his hatred and hostility of everything in the galaxy that isn’t white and Protestant.”
He turned to the Sirian again.
“Isn’t that right? Captain!”
“You know who I am?” Tinker looked perplexed.
“To a reasonable certainty. More importantly, I know what you are. And if you think you hate Jews and other untermenschen, your hatred pales in comparison to what I feel for you and your kind.”
For a moment, they glared at each other. Then the Sirian smiled, sat back in his chair, and chuckled.
“Well, Mr. Jones, you certainly have a way with words. What else do you think you know about me?”
“You personally? Not much. But I know a great deal about your beliefs and the kind of people who embrace them.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Please, enlighten me.” He swept a hand to include the table. “Enlighten all of us.”
Nick slipped the steak into his mouth, then spoke around it.
“Another time. No point in ruining the evening any more than you already have.”
“You think my beliefs are unreasonable?”
Nick laughed. “No, I think they’re complete lunacy, and only a fucking idiot would embrace them.”
Two ladies gasped at the profanity, but no one spoke.
Nick continued.
“Let me ask you something, Captain. Think back, way back, to before you were born.”
“Before I was born?” The Sirian chuckled. “I’m afraid my memory don’t stretch back that far.”
“No? You don’t remember the day they lined us all up and let us pick our skin color? Our religion? Who our parents would be? Where we would be born? You don’t remember that?”
“No. I don’t. Do you?”
“No, because it didn’t happen. Not for you, not for me, not for Professor Leavitt. So how can you possibly hate someone for what they have no control over? I’ve run into plenty of racist assholes in my life, but not one of them has ever been able to explain that to me.”
Tinker’s cheekbones burned red, but he managed a smile.
“I think you have an over-active imagination, Mr. Jones. My culture has its problems, just like every other culture, but we’re not nearly as bad as you make us sound.”
“No?” Nick shoved another morsel of meat into his mouth and spoke around it. “How many women on your planet were raped last year?”
Tinker laughed incredulously, as if Nick had just declared himself immortal.
“How should I know? I’m not a criminologist or a statistician. But I do know that our rape stats are the lowest of any settled world.”
“I figured you would say that.” Nick finished chewing and swallowed. He waved his fork as he continued. “I believe you rednecks are fond of saying that rape is a legal definition, that if it isn’t against the law, then it’s not rape. Do I have that right?”
Tinker dipped his head.
“I may recall hearing that as well.”
“Which means,” Nick continued, “that none of the brown women, yellow women, black women, or Jewish women who were raped on your planet last year were really raped…because it was legal!”
Tinker’s smile faded. His cheekbones were red coals, his dark eyes glittered hatred.
“I think that is about enough out of you, sir!” he said in a tight voice. “I will not sit here and be insulted by the likes of you!”
Nick shrugged. “Better to be insulted by the likes of me than to swallow lies from the likes of you.”
Tinker threw his napkin onto the table, his body stiff.
“One more word, Mr. Jones! One more word and I will demand satisfaction!”
Nick grinned at him.
“That’s the trouble with you people. You all want satisfaction, and you don’t care who you have to hurt to get it.”
Tinker shot to his feet, his face glowing.
“That’s it! I demand satisfaction!”
Nick looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“Are you kidding? Only schoolyard bullies and middle-school brats need to get satisfaction from violence.”
Tinker stepped forward and slammed the heel of his hand into Nick’s shoulder, pushing him halfway out of his chair.
“I said I demand satisfaction, sir!” he shouted. “Right now!”
The other diners stared in disbelief as Nick came reluctantly to his feet. Some of the ladies appeared distressed.
“Okay, then,” Nick said. “What is your weapon of choice? Swords or pistols?”
Tinker lifted his chin.
“I fear there are no swords on board this vessel,” he said, “and pistols are much too dangerous in space. So I fear it must be bare knuckles.”
Nick turned to face him, barely two feet away.
“Did you say bare knuckles?”
“I did.” Tinker raised his fists in a classic boxer pose. “Sir, prepare to defend yourself!”
Nick nodded, then turned and handed his napkin to the gentleman next to him.
“Would you hold this for me?”
The gentleman nodded and accepted the napkin. Nick turned back to face Tinker, who was already beginning his boxer’s dance. Without another word or a moment’s hesitation, Nick smashed a fist into his cheek and slammed him against the bulkhead; Tinker slid slowly to the deck, eyes rolling and head lolling. Saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth.
Nick stood over him a moment, rubbing his stinging knuckles.
“There. Satisfied?”
Coming later this year
