Why I Write Post-Apocalyptic Fiction

 I’m a reader. I’ve read it all—from cereal boxes to mammoth, generational, historical sagas (think Michener). I love them all.

As a child, books swept me away from a world I could not control.

As a teen, books invited me to discover truths no one was talking about.

As a young mom, books filled the gaps and kept me entertained when snotty noses ruled my days . . . and nights.

But of all the books, of all the stories, post-apocalyptic fiction fired my imagination like none other. 

“Lucifer’s Hammer” and “Alas, Babylon” had it all: built in drama, sensational conflict, and unlimited possibilities.

Now, I write post-apocalyptic fiction because the genre makes everything important again—food, water, air, family, children, security, relationships, sex, life, and death. 

A good story requires conflict. All good writers understand this. The old writing adage says write characters you love, run them up a tree, and then . . . throw rocks at them (Nabokov.)

Post-apocalyptic fiction? Done. It’s all there. The story spins out like a tapestry of trouble and triumph. Our characters can’t help but find themselves “up a tree” and the rocks come automatically.

It’s a genre that owns action, adventure, and survival. 

I used to think that mysteries must be hard to write. I never know who “done it.” But then I realized that mysteries, like post-apocalyptic fiction, have built-in drama—someone’s dead, someone is going to be dead, someone is making sure someone is dead. Bam! Drama!

And drama is the air our characters breathe.

Don’t get me wrong. I still read it all. But I’ll always find my way back to post-apocalyptic fiction where anyone can imagine themselves up that tree and the rocks just keep on coming.

  

  

White Coat Magic Mattress

I have white coat syndrome. I contracted it at my doctor’s office, and I got it from my doctor. 

And now I cannot convince my heart—run by my brain—that it is not going to be stabbed, poked, probed, burned, drained, cut, stitched, or beaten about the head and neck. 

Okay, I made that last bit up because hearts don’t have heads and necks, only the brains that run them do.

Over the years, my heart—run by my brain—knows that when someone says, “Expect a little pinch” what they’re really saying is “here comes the pain killer that’s going to burn like a boiling lava lake to dull the pain of the slicing knife.” 

My heart—run by my brain—calls B.S.

And now it, my heart—run by my brain—calling B.S., pumps up my blood pressure like a dollar store pumps up helium balloons for a buck. 

My doctor is convinced I have high blood pressure. I don’t. I have a brain that can’t lie to my heart any more. My doctor—convinced of the high blood pressure, cholesterol choked artery theory—makes me monitor my blood pressure at home for two weeks after I come close to stroking out in her office. 

It’s all good; no white coats at home. In fact, when I lay down on my magic mattress at night, my blood pressure is so low, I could be just this side of dead, which, in its own way could be a problem.

Thus, proving the importance of purchasing a decent mattress. 

At the end of the latest health crisis/pandemonium, I made Sherwood buy me a new mattress. Stuck at home, courting more than a few conspiracy theories, and napping on a daily basis, I said, “I refuse to sleep on a mattress with the fluff and heft of a grilled cheese sandwich.”

At the store and refusing to look at price tags, I flopped up on every mattress in the whole darned place, I looked at the saleslady and said, “This one. It’s the most expensive one in the place, isn’t it?”

With a greedy gleam, she nodded. 

“Wrap it up,” I said.

“I love this mattress, babe,” I said to my darling of forty-plus years.

“You should. It’s the same price as a down payment on a first class go-cart.”

“I love it so much I want it to line my coffin.”

“It’s too big.”

“I give you permission to cut it down to fit.”

“That’s morbid.”

“I told you that this is the mattress we’ll probably die on.” 

Later, after the last mattress we’ll probably die on was delivered and the blood pressure cuff squeezed my arm into two bloodless pieces, he asked, “How’s your blood pressure?”

“Non-existent!”

“Then our work here is done.”

I sunk even further into the ever cool, positive ion charged, body hugging, blood pressure reducing magic that is a decent mattress. 

Now if I can only drag my marvelous, decent, magical mattress to my next check-up.

Linda (Heart Health) Zern

Farming 101

BIG TRAMP IN HIS TEENAGE YEARS!

 

We buried Big Tramp today. Standing on his hind legs, he stood over six feet tall. In his prime, he weighed close to two hundred pounds, and he was our American Alpine herd buck. He was quite a guy.

Shaggy and massive he gave us a lot of darling goat kids and scared a few grown men back into their pickup trucks. But he never hurt a soul or wanted to. He was our gentle giant.

Burying him put me in mind of what farming or ranching is all about.

Farming is knowing that sooner or later your favorite buck or doe or bull or cow will not show up for breakfast in the morning.

Farming is getting up in the middle of the night to check on whoever is sick out in the barn.

Farming is watching for the signs that one of your flock or herd is in trouble.

Farming is being worried when the medicines you rely on to keep your animals healthy skyrocket in price.

Farming is pressure washing the barn before breakfast.

Farming is studying the good, better, or best ways of raising whatever you’re trying to raise.

 Farming is prayer for rain in due season.

Farming is not having to guess what the “circle of life might be” because you see it every day.

Farming is figuring out how to keep goats or pigs or cows where they’re supposed to be and not where they think they want to go, which is a mile down the road in the neighbor’s vegetable garden.

Farming is sun and sweat and dirt and heartbreak and the most darling babies you’ll ever see in the spring.

Farming is tough with a steep, steep learning curve. 

Farming is life . . . and death.

Our Tramp was a great guy who lived a great life in green pastures with lovely ladies out in the fresh air and sunshine. He lived up to the measure of his creation, and we were lucky to have had him.

Linda (Just a Hobby Farmer) Zern