Slag Ferguson, the protagonist of Rat Town Blues is an anti-hero. You’ve probably heard that term before, but what does it mean exactly? An anti-hero has three negative character traits (often called a “dark triad”). These traits include narcissism, psychopathy, and Machiavellianism.
Narcissism is an inflated sense of self-importance. A self-centered sense of entitlement.
Psychopathy is a critical lack of empathy or remorse, coupled with impulsive, anti-social behaviors.
Machiavellianism is a willingness to use deception, using others to attain self-interested goals.
Anti-heroes are often cynical. They see the world as it is without the buffering of any traditional concept of heroism. Philosophically, they exist in the nexus between existentialism and nihilism (the latter being a lack of belief in meaning or purpose).
So, why would anyone want to spend time with someone like that? Here are the reasons:
There are thematic ties between the “American Spirit” and the anti-hero. A “personal code” resonates with people (even when that code conflicts with societal norms). They engage in transgressive behaviors, challenging the norm.
Anti-heroes often behave in a dramatically satisfying way by saying and doing things you wouldn’t (but might entertain the thought of doing when you are at your worst). The anti-hero narrative goes places the reader wouldn’t, providing a glimpse of a different, visceral world.
Anti-heroes are relatable because they are conflicted and complex. The tug of war between what they want to do and what they ought to do fascinates us.
The anti-hero may more closely resemble our modern understanding of human nature and the world.
Slag isn’t one dimensional. Some of his behavior is admirable (though often misplaced). Other times, you’ll want to slap him.
Rat Town Blues is the first in a series of novels about someone selling their soul a piece at a time. Whether or not there is redemption at the end of his journey is something worth exploring. Meanwhile, enjoy Book One!
My award-winning Civil War novel, Dread Tribunal of Last Resort (Black Rose Writing), is available for purchase in softback, Kindle, and audiobook editions.
The novel was originally published in hardback by Five Star (a Cengage company), but was a casualty of COVID—first delayed, then buried by the lockdown. When Black Rose agreed to republish, offering affordable editions, I took the opportunity to revise the book in two important ways. I’d been bothered by what I regarded as my “unfair treatment” of a major character (Calista). And I wanted to tighten some of the more theme-driven scenes for clarity. I am more than pleased with the result.
The novel’s title comes from a quote by former Presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson: “Here, in the dread tribunal of last resort, valor contended against valor. Here brave men struggled and died for the right as God gave them to see the right.” The quote captures the notion that both sides of a complex conflict lay claim to virtue.
The reviews have been wonderful:
“The writing is superb and I feel that my words may not be enough to recommend this to every one of mature age.” ~Online Book Club
“A poignant and utterly compelling exploration of the human condition…Absolute stunner.” ~The Prairies Book Review
“Kaufman renders a spectacular portrayal of his characters…. History buffs will be captivated by this astounding read.” ~Reader’s Favorite
“Kaufman does an impressive job detailing the inner conflict of each character. The pace is quick and speedy…with a lot of lively secondary characters, there’s a lot here for readers to enjoy. Recommended.” ~Historical Novel Society
From what makes a hero and the consequences of decisions to the rebuilding of relationships after terrible loss and confrontation, Dread Tribunal of Last Resort creates a moving story that delves into the hearts and minds of those who are swept up in a war of ideals.” ~D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review
In 1783, the Montgolfier brothers designed a hot air balloon. Unmanned test flights were relatively successful, so on the 19th of September, the brothers sent a tethered flight airborne, “manned” by a sheep, a duck, and a cockerel. There was some concern about the possibility of damage from “high altitude” (about 600 meters). When the animals returned to earth unharmed, there was a great sense of relief. Having vouched for the safety of aerostatic flight, the balloon was ready for a human passenger.
On the 21st of September, physician Pilâtre de Rozier entered the basket beneath the balloon. With an audience of Louis-Joseph, the Dauphin at Château de La Muette, the French physician became a French aeronaut.
Was he the first man to be borne aloft? Depends on how much credence you give to legend. Wan Hu, a Chinese official who lived around 2,000 B.C., supposedly built a rocket chair powered by 47 rockets. Some stories say that after ignition, the chair and the official had “disappeared.” Another account had him burned by the rockets and then paddled by the displeased Emperor, who had been in the expectant audience.
Abbas Ibn Firnas lived in what is now Spain. In the year 875, at the age of seventy, he allegedly tested a self-designed glider. According to the story, he’d not given much thought to landing. He survived the subsequent crash and lived another twelve years.
Lagari Hasan Celebi supposedly made the first rocket flight in the year 1633. Accounts differ, but legend has it that the flight, enabled by 140 pounds of gunpowder, was successful; Celebi’s return to earth facilitated by a hand-tossed parachute.
In the early 1800s, Claude Ruggieri used large fireworks to send mice airborne. According to accounts, he used a larger rocket to send a sheep 200 feet into the air. Using similar technology, a balloonist named Wilfrid de Fonvielle solicited money to try the same experiment with a small boy. According to Fonvielle’s account, “no capitalist presented himself” and the experiment was never concluded.
Konstantin Konstantinov, a Russian artillery officer, studied the feasibility of manned rocket flight in the 1850s. (He decided that gunpowder as fuel could not deliver the sustained thrust necessary for human flight.)
Meanwhile, space flight had become the stuff of literature. Both H.G. Wells and Jules Verne wrote about moon exploration. In my novel, Dread Tribunal of Last Resort, my protagonist actually has lunch with Jules Verne. After brutal experiences in the Civil War, Decker Brown needs a dream to latch onto, and Verne has the perfect notion for a rocketry expert.
Back in the real world, Konstantin Tsiolkovsky’s 1903 study of how space flight might be accomplished was published in a scholarly work, The Exploration of Cosmic Space by Means of Reaction Devices. By 1929, Austro-Hungarian Hermann Potočnik proposed the idea of a space station. Reality followed suit in relatively short order.
As the quote from Tsiolkovsky indicates, whether scientist, adventurer, or author (this one included), spaceflight has been a compelling dream for centuries. We have taken our tentative first steps.
“The First Hot Air Balloon Flight.” Palace of Versailles, 23 Aug. 2018, en.chateauversailles.fr/discover/history/key-dates/first-hot-air-balloon-flight.
Winter, Frank H. The first golden age of rocketry: Congreve and Hale rockets of the nineteenth century. Washington: Smithsonian Institution P, 1990.
One of the more intriguing rocketry legends involves reports of a two-stage, liquid-fueled rocket fired at Washington D.C. in the twilight of the Civil War.
According to the story, Confederate agents enlisted overseas help from Lord Kelvin to deliver liquid oxygen, and Ernst Mach for a turbine engine design and gyroscope. Constructed along the banks of the James River, the rocket would be fired from a tube buried in the mud, fashioned from a string of naval gun barrels. Matthew Fontaine Maury, chief of harbor defenses, calculated the trajectory for the hundred-mile missile flight, scheduled for March of 1865.
On the day of the launch, Jefferson Davis and other officials signed their name to the warhead and then stepped back to watch the launch. Scouts stood watch at intervals to track the flight. The first stage was recovered and hidden, though observers lost contact with the second stage. Perhaps the rocket gained orbit…or so the story goes.
Two-stage rockets date back as far as 1300 A.D. But liquid oxygen probably wasn’t manufactured until 1877 (oxygen being one of six gases that resisted the liquification efforts of Michael Faraday).
Mach, a physicist known for his study of shock waves (the ratio of speed to that of the speed of sound was named for him), was a professor of mathematics at the University of Graz as the Civil War neared its end. William Thompson, 1st Baron Kelvin, a physicist known for his studies of thermodynamics (the scale of absolute temperatures was named for him), was busy working on the transatlantic cable. Great names to drop, but not likely candidates for anything beyond fiction.
The MythBusters television show tackled the Confederate rocket legend. Could the hosts build a rocket that would perform according to the story? They used nitrous oxide (because of the lack of liquid oxygen during the Civil War). They utilized fins for stabilization since the gyroscope device in the legend seemed so unlikely. For ignition, they used an extremely volatile composition called gun cotton. Despite predictions of disaster, the MythBuster team got their rocket airborne. It flew about five hundred yards.
Myth busted.
The first mention I could find of the legendary rocket was in author Burke Davis’s book Our Incredible Civil War. If there were any records of an actual attempt, they were destroyed when the Confederates burned files before the fall of Richmond.
But the basic story started somewhere, right? What kernel of truth might be behind the folklore? In my novel, Dread Tribunal of Last Resort, (available for pre-order) Decker Brown is a soldier and fledgling scientist who wonders aloud about the possibility of using liquid gas in a rocket design. The officer he is speaking to is intrigued and promises to mention the idea to the War Department. And that’s where I leave things…a snippet of conjecture meant to fuel a legend—my take on the story of the Confederate rocket.
Note: The accompanying art—a schematic of the typical Civil War rocket—is the work of Wade Dillon, Illustrator. (https://www.wadedillonart.com/)
Rocketry failed to impact the Civil War in any meaningful way. Much of that failure can be traced to funding and supply issues. Other failures can be tied directly to lack of expertise. But one high-profile failure is more difficult to assess, in part because of the enigmatic figure that headed the Union army’s New York Rocket Battalion.
Thomas W. Lion, born in Britain, sailed for America in 1849 to join the gold rush after an unverified career with the British Army. Lion (using the name Lyon), claimed to have experience with Congreve rockets. Army records seemed to indicate otherwise, though he clearly believed in rocketry. On the way to North America, he stopped to pitch the idea of a rocket battalion in both Ecuador and Peru.
At the start of the war, Lion partnered with fellow-Englishman Joseph Edge and approached Secretary of War Simon Cameron with a proposal to build rockets for the north. Lion claimed accuracy and a range of 3,500 yards. The north had no rocket batteries, and the idea seemed promising.
Lion proposed a “breech-loading rocket cannon.” Since the chief advantage of rocket was portability, the idea of a breech loader with a barrel heavy enough to control recoil (as opposed to a lighter tube or rail for a rocket) seems to have been misguided. Nevertheless, Lion was designated a Major and given 160 men under his command. Their bivouac, outside of Washington D.C., was called “Camp Congreve.”
Financial concerns may have forced one important change of plans. Though Lion reportedly produced a few rockets, the unit’s predominant armament came from storehouses—rockets left over from the Mexican American war. The rockets in question were notoriously undependable. In addition to any new rockets, Lion produced several modified launch tubes, constructed of wrought iron and ventilated with holes to facilitate cooling.
When it came time to evaluate Lion’s store of rockets, the results were a complete failure. (My novel, Dread Tribunal of Last Resort,depicts the tests in embarrassing detail.) Afterward, the unit was broken into the 23rd and 24th Independent Batteries of Light Artillery, New York Volunteers, fighting until the end of the war using conventional weaponry. Lion resigned his commission in 1862 and went to work for the Revenue Service.
Since the tests involved the previous war’s leftover rockets, Lion didn’t have a real chance to test his own designs. His officers were rumored to believe that Lion didn’t know anything about gunnery or rockets. But after the war, Lion built a solid reputation as an inventor. In 1875, he applied for and received a patent (number 167,844) for “Process and Apparatus for the Manufacture of Illuminating Gas.”
Was the failure at Camp Congreve due to a lack of expertise, lack of funding, or simply a lack of patience on the part of high command? I find good evidence for any one of the three.
Broadwater, Robert P. Civil War special forces: The elite and distinct fighting units of the Union and Confederate armies. Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, an imprint of ABC-CLIO, LLC, 2014.
Lowry, Thomas Power. Civil War rockets. Charleston, SC: CreateSpace, 2012.
Winter, Frank H. The first golden age of rocketry: Congreve and Hale rockets of the nineteenth century. Washington: Smithsonian Institution P, 1990.
My father, Harold Kaufman, is in the NASA Hall of Fame for his work on ion rocket engines. Ion propulsion uses vaporized, ionized mercury fired through charged grids. The actual mass of ionized particles is small, so the engine can’t lift a rocket out of the earth’s gravitational pull. But in space, the accelerated particles could theoretically propel a craft at speeds approaching twenty miles per second.
The Kaufman Engine has additional applications, from satellite orbit maintenance to various industrial uses. When I was young, my father brought home versions of his engine. I took them to show-and-tell.
We studied the skies, too. Dad saved lunch money to buy a telescope. Together, we built a wheel-within-a-wheel contraption that, with the help of star charts, could pinpoint locations for the telescope. Saturn. Jupiter. The Pleiades. The Andromeda Galaxy. All a part of my childhood.
In second grade, I designed a rocket, meant to carry me to the moon. Though I’d barely begun construction, I believed it was time to solve the problem of fuel, so I headed to the corner gas station with a five gallon can. Dad quickly put an end to that project, but in its place, we began building model rockets. We discovered Estes, a Colorado company that sold kits and solid fuel. I launched a hundred of these models—some with cameras and payload compartments. (My apologies to the earthworm.)
As an adult, I continued to design rockets, each one sillier than the last. One issue with real rockets involves drag (less drag means better acceleration). But model rockets leap off the launch rod, too fast to follow. I began designing drag into my rockets to make the launches seem more “realistic.”
Dad’s gone now, but my obsession with rockets remains. Like my other obsessions (baseball, the Alamo, blues guitar), I am best at expressing fixation through writing. In September, Black Rose Writing will release my novel Dread Tribunal of Last Resort. Set during the Civil War, the novel follows Decker Brown, a would-be fireworks manufacturer who finds himself part of key moments in Civil War history having to do with rocketry.
The Civil War was an interesting time for technology. Submarine warfare, rocketry, trench warfare and aircraft carriers are things normally associated with other wars. But they were part of the Civil War story.
Civil War rockets were notoriously inaccurate. Great attention was paid to the design of the rocket, and almost none to the fuel. Odd, since black powder propellant had pockets that doled out thrust in fits and starts—a major contributor to that inaccuracy. Decker Brown is interested in what he calls chemisms. This interest is a natural result of his knowledge of illuminations (fireworks), which use various chemical substances to create colored light effects.
A novice rocketeer with unusual ideas was easy to imagine.
Dad was encouraging of all my obsessions. (Though he disliked sports, we played catch most every summer evening.) But the obsession that was closest to his heart involved rockets. When I think back, I think of nights bent over a telescope and rockets hurtling through space. I hope that readers can glean a hint of those wonderful memories through the story of Decker Brown.
Writers compose in a vacuum. The voices they hear are in their heads. Imagination has benefits, both for mental health and creative purposes. According to neuroscientists, people have “default networks” in their brains that become active (and are exercised) when they drift into the realm of imagination. In addition, the act of storytelling allows an exploration of compelling new adventures without risk.
The risk comes later—when others read what you’ve written.
If you accept the premise that your work is imperfect and can be improved, you will accomplish that goal by facing criticism—”the analysis and judgment of the merits and faults of a literary or artistic work” (thank you, Mr. Google).
“The dread of criticism is the death of genius.” ~William Gilmore Simms
Wondering how to accept and, in turn, offer that kind of analysis? I’ll first point out the obvious:
Critics give opinions. Opinions can be wrong. Criticism is not a final verdict.
Your rough draft always needs work. By letting others spot possible flaws, you are crafting a better piece.
You can choose to incorporate (or ignore) criticism according to your judgement.
Sounds like a win-win, right? If you think a suggestion is good, your manuscript will benefit. If you don’t, you can ignore it. Why, then, are people afraid to show their work?
Your work is a window into your soul. Criticism may feel like a personal attack.
If you have a good grasp of craft, and you worked hard on something, a casual dismissal or misreading can waste your time.
You might have imagined your own brilliance. Criticism can dampen such lofty expectations.
Psychologists offer the most compelling reason for the fear of criticism. Research shows that it takes five positive events to make up for the psychological effect of just one negative event. Simply put, even well-intentioned criticism can sting and weigh you down.
Enter, now, the abattoir of the literary soul—the critique group. (Tongue in cheek here, people!)
I belong to two such groups. You might ask why I submit to twice the normal amount of slicing and dicing, and the answer is simple. I want to improve my stories, each of which go past twelve or more sets of eyes on their way to a working draft.
“Don’t let compliments get to your head and don’t let criticism get to your heart.” ~Lysa TerKeurst
Here are some of the tangible benefits of critique groups:
Writers (who are also, presumably, readers) know a lot about story and craft. Their suggestions will help your manuscript.
Writers write. They share your writer’s journey. Something as solitary as writing deserves a support group.
Critique groups are an excellent way to recharge with your fellow human beings.
But what about the potentially negative aspects of criticism? How do you armor yourself before showing your writing to others? Here are some suggestions you can apply:
Focus on improving your manuscript(not on gathering accolades). With that focused goal, you can remind yourself why you’re taking those slings and arrows.
Be careful who gets to criticize you. Not everyone is worth listening to. If there’s a member of the group that is more intent on “hot takes” than your benefit, you can safely ignore them.
Embrace a split decision. On occasion, a debate will break out over something that happens in my story. The critique group members argue about my characters as if they were real people. (That, in case you don’t recognize it, is a win.)
“There’s only one way to avoid criticism: do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing.” ~Aristotle
I hope I’ve convinced you about the need for criticism on the way to improving your manuscript. I want to leave you with some ideas on how to “give and get” within a critique group:
When you’re being critiqued, don’t talk. Listen. You’ll learn more. That stance will work later on, when you’re published (unless you plan to contact each of your readers and argue with them).
When critiquing another writer’s work, begin with something positive, something you liked. Every piece has something good to mention. Then, mention a thing or two to improve. Be specific and offer possible solutions. The goal is to improve a writer’s work.
Attend to the writer’s needs by taking each piece on its needs and merits. Beginners and more experienced writers need different things. Different genres have distinct expectations. Just as every manuscript is different, every critique should be unique.
If bad mechanics detract from a piece, it’s worth mentioning. Quickly.
Be brief. The critique is about improving the writer’s work. It’s not about creative critiquing. Wear a watch and time yourself.
Strive to be kind and honest.
I’ve made slaughterhouse jokes. There is, of course, the other kind of critique group, where unicorns poop gumdrops and everything you write is brilliant. Don’t bother. They won’t help you make your writing better. Your mean writer friends? They might.
[Note: This blog was adapted from my blog post for Writing Heights Writers Association (WHWA) from June of 2022.]
A PERSISTENT ECHO is now available for purchase from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and selected bookstores. The book comes in hardcover, softcover, Kindle, and audiobook versions. No more pre-order…it’s alive!
August Simms-explorer, soldier, world traveler-returns to Rhome, Texas in 1897 to chase one last adventure. Hundreds of UFO sightings have been reported, seven years before the Wright brother’s initial flight, and August intends to solve the airship mystery. Instead, the past comes calling. A murder, a lynching, and the death of his wife fifteen years earlier are inextricably tied to the present, and the adventure August finds will not be the one he expects.
“. . . a powerfully rendered novel that holds the rare ability to traverse genres to attract a wider audience of reader than the ‘historical fiction’ label portends.” ~D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer for Midwest Book Review
“Kaufman writes beautifully, with spare prose, well-paced surprises, period-appropriate language, and a sense of foreboding.” ~Historical Novel Society
“Truly original and touching…A remarkable feat.” ~The Prairies Book Review
“Kaufman is a fantastic writer with a distinctive poetic touch…It will be the rare reader who will not be moved by this soulful, poignant novel. A remarkable, virtuosic performance that will certainly leave persistent echoes in the reader’s mind.” ~Kirkus Reviews
Some call the event the “Texas Roswell.” According to a newspaper account, a UFO crashed and burned on Judge Proctor’s farm near Aurora, Texas on April 17th, 1897. Experts claimed that the pilot, who died in the crash, was not of earthly origin. A quick burial was held in the Aurora cemetery.
TheDallas Morning News account was written by S.E. Haydon. According to the journalist, the airship was clearly distressed and drifting “nearer the earth”—enough so that it struck the “tower” of Judge Proctor’s windmill. A local astronomy expert, T.J. Weems, assured Haydon that the pilot was a “native of the planet Mars.”[i]
Some of the wreckage was sold as scrap. (Mr. T.J. Weems was also associated with the local blacksmith shop.) Metal remnants were dumped into Proctor’s well. Some scrap was, according to reports, buried with the pilot.
And that’s where the story ended, until Time magazine did a follow-up article in 1979. Haydon’s article was deemed a joke. The regional railroad had passed Aurora by, and the town was dying. Haydon was supposedly trying to drum up publicity for local businesses. One old resident, still alive at the publication of the Time article, claimed that Judge Proctor never had a windmill. UFO enthusiasts disagreed with Time’s evaluation—more than eighty years had passed. How could the magazinedismiss the event so casually?
The issue of the windmill may have been a matter of turn-of-the-century journalistic sloppiness. The resident was correct—Proctor had a windlass to pump sump water, not a windmill. The quick burial of the airship’s pilot, derided by skeptics, wasn’t unusual for Texas—bodies could decay quickly in the spring heat. A quick burial was a sensible solution.
A sandstone marker in the Aurora cemetery that supposedly marked the alien’s grave was stolen before any further investigation could proceed, leaving the exact location of the remains in question. Requests by UFO investigators to exhume the grave were denied. Without an exact location to explore, how many graves would need to be disturbed in search of the truth?
In A Persistent Echo, August Simms investigates the alleged crash site, interviews the “astronomer” Weems, and comes to an interesting conclusion. I won’t spoil it for you. Suffice it to say that the airships make an interesting and whimsical subplot to an otherwise serious novel.
Seven years before the Wright brothers flew at Kitty Hawk, more than 400 UFO sightings were reported across Texas. Regarded as a smoking gun by UFO enthusiasts (and a hoax by others), the airship sightings remain a subject of contention more than 120 years later.
Eyewitness accounts did not always agree. The airships were described as fast-moving and anywhere from 50 to 200 feet in length. Many reported wings, buzzing or flapping sounds, and bright searchlights. Most described the shape as being like a “Mexican cigar”—wider in the middle and tapered at the ends.
The airships were sighted in other midwestern states first, but not with the kind of frequency that occurred in Texas. The first Texian encounter occurred on April 12th, 1897. For more than a week, newspapers were filled with first-hand accounts. Many were sober and considered, sourced by pillars of the community. Others (including close encounter tales) bordered on silliness. Nevertheless, the reading public was fascinated.
Theories about the source of the airships abounded. The United States was poised for war with Spain, and some believed the airships were part of Spain’s efforts to evaluate seaports for an eventual invasion. Others believed the airships were being used by a gang of safecrackers, using X-ray machines to find easy pickings. Most believed that the sightings were a prank, perpetrated by railroad employees.
By the middle of May, the furor had died. Newspapers focused instead on the sinking of the Maine and the coming war with Spain.
In my novel, A Persistent Echo(Black Rose Writing, August 2023), my protagonist investigates the mystery. August Simms—explorer, soldier, world traveler—returns to Texas to chase one last adventure. What does he find?
After all my research, I came to an opinion that informs some of the novel’s plot. Elements of hoax were certainly in play. Pranksters were found out on multiple occasions. The newspapers also played a part in the hype—the airships sold copy. Other accounts are harder to dismiss. The novel itself is about much more than mystery airships—on the balance, this is an end-of-life story. But the airships constitute a perplexing, even confounding subtext.
“. . . a powerfully rendered novel that holds the rare ability to traverse genres to attract a wider audience of reader than the ‘historical fiction’ label portends.”
~D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer for Midwest Book Review
[What I did not mention was the crash of a UFO on April 17th, in Aurora, Texas. I’ll save that for my next blogpost.]
