Getting in Touch With My Inner Romulan:

The Truth About Co-Writing VULCAN'S HEART

The Romulans invaded on December 24, 1996 when Josepha called me at my office.
"Can you log onto AOL from work?" Josepha asked.
Not a chance.
"John Ordover's sent us E-mail about the next book," she went on. "I'll read you the E-mail. Shut your office door," she warned me. "Sit down, and don't you dare giggle."
After my initial "John wants us to write WHAT?!!!" there was silence in my office for at least ten minutes. Silence gave way to "No WAY they'd let us do that!"
Then, I got to laugh. And then I began to ask the sorts of personal questions that really intrude on a Vulcan's private life and that tend to begin, "Uh, John, just how explicit."
Eighteen hours of computer conferences, downloaded and subsequently edited, became the 75-page Mother of All Plot Summaries that, by mid-January, got sent to John Ordover and Paula Block. Paula contributed some shrewd analysis, the Klingon SOS, and Dr. McCoy's worst joke. By February, we went to contract-a minimum of 600 pages would be due on October1.
Contract arrived in April, and we started writing.
And then VULCAN'S HEART turned into an attack novel. Romulan invasion notwithstanding, that phrase requires explanation. Some novels are shy and must be coaxed out of the computer. Others march in and take over. I suppose, given Romulans, the fact that VULCAN'S HEART charged right into our computers was only...logical. Romulans do understand logic, you know. It's just that their logic is rather aggressive. And decidedly skewed. After all, it's not easy bleeding green. In an attack novel, characters don't settle for establishing a beach head in your hard drive; they storm your life. Characters in an attack novel know the strategic advantages of timing - theirs, not yours. You can be sitting harmlessly on the E-train, and suddenly, you're listening to people with problems, pointed ears, or both, spilling their guts (but only verbally; editorial guidelines tell STAR TREK writers to avoid descriptions of entrails). So, you get to look like a multiple personality, and so do you, and you, and you...
Your characters don't just mess with their lives; they meddle in yours. Romulans have no scruples about what you say in the middle of a business meeting. Another thing about attack novels. If they don't think you're working hard enough, they wake you up at 3:00 a.m. Think of an electronic drill centurion with pointed ears shouting: "All right, you maggots! You wanna write forever?" Well, actually...
Now, ordinarily, tribal custom allows writers afflicted with attack novels to whine, chortle, and, in general, torment their friends. (This translates as gloating.) But VULCAN'S HEART was complicated by an Editorial Order straight out of Tal Shiar: WE COULD TELL YOU, BUT THEN WE'D HAVE TO KILL YOU.
In other words, this attack novel was classified.
For me, the pressure of living with an attack novel tends to bleed off in what I can only refer to as "brain burps"--odd observations that emerge at odd times and produce the most...fascinating repercussions.
My favorite button--TAL SHIAR: INTEL INSIDE--was the result of one such mini-brainstorm. I was wearing it in the elevator at work on a day when I was feeling crabby and defiant. (The mood, not the ship.)
"That's Romulan Intelligence!" exclaimed the man behind me.
"You need a hobby," I snarled.
"This is my hobby." Blame it on the Romulans. I was talking to a managing director, and I didn't even care.
It's one thing to make Romulan jokes, but it's another-and a sign you're in way too deep, when you find yourself resenting them. For example: How do you do CPR on a Romulan? You don't. Or: What's the most confusing day in the Romulan Empire? Father's Day. When I found myself thinking that that second joke was sufficient cause for blood feud, I knew I was in way over my head.
Then I painted my toenails blood-green.
For awhile, Josepha was a voice of benign - and bemused -- moderation. Then the Romulan cyberpunks landed in her disk drive.
Serve her right, I said. Where upon the pointy-eared brats staged a raid on mine.
Finally, another writer diagnosed the condition. "You're getting in touch with your inner Romulan," she announced.
"Get a life!" other writers warned me. Looks like I've got one.
Inner Romulan and all.