JAMES STEIMLE
The Official Website
The Author
James Steimle was born to a country princess and a surfing artist in a sprawling college town on September 25, 1970--Christmas in September, friends came to say. James liked this notion because he enjoyed presents, especially Star Wars figures, though he was sad not to receive any at all prior to the movie's release.
His sweet mother christened him James, in honor of a favorite professor who really liked her for one reason or another. His father agreed upon the name, because he thought Sean Connery and Roger Moore were pretty groovy actors (James' parents lived through the 1960s). The pediatrician called James "Squirt" for some attribute logically deduced, but beyond the scope of this short biography.
Nevertheless (and perhaps most importantly,) it wasn't long before James could play with Star Wars figures.
Yet before Star Wars was released to Planet Earth, James had a twin sister. Chelle (pronounced Shelly by her parents and Ba-ba by young James) came late in life, but then successfully passed James in most competitive areas (except the size of his Star Wars figure collection). James and Chelle looked the same to strangers and were nearly kidnapped together in Las Vegas (legend has it, James used an ancient Chinese "skunk technique" to escape). They also had the same taste in girlfriends--which is to say that any friend of Chelle's would likely become a very special friend of James' in record time. Or at the very least, James hoped they would. He also liked to pretend a lot.
James, we should note, was eleven months older than Chelle. That did not stop his sister each September, from announcing emphatically, "I am exactly the same age as you!" These words never bothered James. A sober child, James was of such sound and mature character that each time Chelle passed him, even temporarily, in any sort of achievement (like height, grades, financial savings), he simply stood, clapped his hands, and sang her praises: "Bravo! Bravo!" Or at least he likes to dream that he was not insanely jealous and trembling with competitive bitterness for years on end. He loved her. Really. But this biography is not about Chelle Steimle.
There was one area in which James excelled beyond his sister and even beyond the expectations of his parents. This field of prodigious mastery astounded his peers, his family, and teachers alike. James was, far and above, the greatest ham ever to stand on and off camera. And he was obsessed with Star Wars.
Despite his social notoriety, James sought attention through another treasured medium. Before his first year of public schooling, James determined that he would become a writer. To this end, he folded paper into volumes two-inch square and--like gentlemen of old--cut the pages. Lacking thread and glue, the pages promptly fell to the floor. He collected them, used Scotch tape, and penned numerous volumes of forgotten lore. They were forgotten because no one to this day recalls what he wrote; none of the books survived the travesty of time. And that was probably for the best as he had yet to learn such letters as M and W. (Rumor has it, he did know the letter S. So he was well on his way to spelling you-know-what.)
When George Lucas finally brought The Film to the big screen, young James Steimle suddenly got a great idea for a novel. It had blasters, hot shot pilots in space, large hairy sidekicks, giant space station, and of course grand heroes wielding flaming swords. During the third grade, James composed this literary masterpiece and called it Star Blast (the title of which he gallantly stole from his sister, saving her from becoming the next Jane Austen. The theft seemed appropriate, especially as Chelle was destined to write and perform music while James was destined to become very insecure about his penmanship).
The following year the author expanded his entrepreneurial horizons. James Steimle created, using public school supplies, a magazine called Creature Cartoons. He sold hand-copied facsimiles door-to-door to all grownups from whom he could sweet-talk a quarter. He made a killing--at least $1.25 (and, criminally, he paid no taxes on the proceeds). Alas, his skillful sales approach was hampered only by the airing of Doctor Who on PBS and Star Trek reruns on the other channel the television could receive in the dark ages before satellite and cable. Young gentlemen must have their priorities.
James Steimle was not limited to his own version of Mad Magazine--oh no. He continued his novels, pilfering paper from classroom after classroom as he climbed the elementary ranks. James even ventured into the world of non-fiction publications when he learned that UFOs might in fact exist. Night after night, he watched the sky. Night after night, he saw nothing and was called in for dinner or bed or to something insidious like "homeword." He never saw a single UFO during his quest, but he penned (penciled, to be precise) many books on Unidentified Flying Saucers. (His mother was very impressed by his attempt at English handwriting.)
James learned early in elementary school that while his teachers detested his creative distractions in the classroom, his fellow classmates adored his prolificacy. The teacher's opinion, being in the minority, hardly mattered. So James aimed to please the younger citizens of the school.
With the start of junior high (where, he was panicked to learn, there really was NO RECESS AT ALL!), James Steimle ceased his juvenile periodical in favor of greater ventures. With a friend, he started a line of comic books. Still, Lazer Man, The Willow, The Destroyers, and his "non-fiction" journalistic monthly, The Heroes Magazine, played second fiddle to his love of novel writing. 1983 saw the rise of Master Steimle's first mystery thriller, led by the unprecedented super CIA detective, Jacob Johnson.
(Years later, after the advent of time travel, someone stole a great many of Jacob Johnson's characteristics and took them back into the mid-twentieth century in order to create Ian Fleming's James Bond--you might have heard of this knock off.) (But then, didn't we say that James's father named him after Mr. Bond? We did, didn't we. It is one of those time travel paradoxes, like the Grandfather Paradox or the Twin Paradox or the Bacon & Eggs Paradox, which cannot be fully explained or understood by human brains. We call this one this James "Steimle" Bond Paradox.)
His sweet mother christened him James, in honor of a favorite professor who really liked her for one reason or another. His father agreed upon the name, because he thought Sean Connery and Roger Moore were pretty groovy actors (James' parents lived through the 1960s). The pediatrician called James "Squirt" for some attribute logically deduced, but beyond the scope of this short biography.
Nevertheless (and perhaps most importantly,) it wasn't long before James could play with Star Wars figures.
Yet before Star Wars was released to Planet Earth, James had a twin sister. Chelle (pronounced Shelly by her parents and Ba-ba by young James) came late in life, but then successfully passed James in most competitive areas (except the size of his Star Wars figure collection). James and Chelle looked the same to strangers and were nearly kidnapped together in Las Vegas (legend has it, James used an ancient Chinese "skunk technique" to escape). They also had the same taste in girlfriends--which is to say that any friend of Chelle's would likely become a very special friend of James' in record time. Or at the very least, James hoped they would. He also liked to pretend a lot.
James, we should note, was eleven months older than Chelle. That did not stop his sister each September, from announcing emphatically, "I am exactly the same age as you!" These words never bothered James. A sober child, James was of such sound and mature character that each time Chelle passed him, even temporarily, in any sort of achievement (like height, grades, financial savings), he simply stood, clapped his hands, and sang her praises: "Bravo! Bravo!" Or at least he likes to dream that he was not insanely jealous and trembling with competitive bitterness for years on end. He loved her. Really. But this biography is not about Chelle Steimle.
There was one area in which James excelled beyond his sister and even beyond the expectations of his parents. This field of prodigious mastery astounded his peers, his family, and teachers alike. James was, far and above, the greatest ham ever to stand on and off camera. And he was obsessed with Star Wars.
Despite his social notoriety, James sought attention through another treasured medium. Before his first year of public schooling, James determined that he would become a writer. To this end, he folded paper into volumes two-inch square and--like gentlemen of old--cut the pages. Lacking thread and glue, the pages promptly fell to the floor. He collected them, used Scotch tape, and penned numerous volumes of forgotten lore. They were forgotten because no one to this day recalls what he wrote; none of the books survived the travesty of time. And that was probably for the best as he had yet to learn such letters as M and W. (Rumor has it, he did know the letter S. So he was well on his way to spelling you-know-what.)
When George Lucas finally brought The Film to the big screen, young James Steimle suddenly got a great idea for a novel. It had blasters, hot shot pilots in space, large hairy sidekicks, giant space station, and of course grand heroes wielding flaming swords. During the third grade, James composed this literary masterpiece and called it Star Blast (the title of which he gallantly stole from his sister, saving her from becoming the next Jane Austen. The theft seemed appropriate, especially as Chelle was destined to write and perform music while James was destined to become very insecure about his penmanship).
The following year the author expanded his entrepreneurial horizons. James Steimle created, using public school supplies, a magazine called Creature Cartoons. He sold hand-copied facsimiles door-to-door to all grownups from whom he could sweet-talk a quarter. He made a killing--at least $1.25 (and, criminally, he paid no taxes on the proceeds). Alas, his skillful sales approach was hampered only by the airing of Doctor Who on PBS and Star Trek reruns on the other channel the television could receive in the dark ages before satellite and cable. Young gentlemen must have their priorities.
James Steimle was not limited to his own version of Mad Magazine--oh no. He continued his novels, pilfering paper from classroom after classroom as he climbed the elementary ranks. James even ventured into the world of non-fiction publications when he learned that UFOs might in fact exist. Night after night, he watched the sky. Night after night, he saw nothing and was called in for dinner or bed or to something insidious like "homeword." He never saw a single UFO during his quest, but he penned (penciled, to be precise) many books on Unidentified Flying Saucers. (His mother was very impressed by his attempt at English handwriting.)
James learned early in elementary school that while his teachers detested his creative distractions in the classroom, his fellow classmates adored his prolificacy. The teacher's opinion, being in the minority, hardly mattered. So James aimed to please the younger citizens of the school.
With the start of junior high (where, he was panicked to learn, there really was NO RECESS AT ALL!), James Steimle ceased his juvenile periodical in favor of greater ventures. With a friend, he started a line of comic books. Still, Lazer Man, The Willow, The Destroyers, and his "non-fiction" journalistic monthly, The Heroes Magazine, played second fiddle to his love of novel writing. 1983 saw the rise of Master Steimle's first mystery thriller, led by the unprecedented super CIA detective, Jacob Johnson.
(Years later, after the advent of time travel, someone stole a great many of Jacob Johnson's characteristics and took them back into the mid-twentieth century in order to create Ian Fleming's James Bond--you might have heard of this knock off.) (But then, didn't we say that James's father named him after Mr. Bond? We did, didn't we. It is one of those time travel paradoxes, like the Grandfather Paradox or the Twin Paradox or the Bacon & Eggs Paradox, which cannot be fully explained or understood by human brains. We call this one this James "Steimle" Bond Paradox.)
James Steimle's first Jacob Johnson novel was also the first work of art to be stolen by his adorning fans. That's the report anyway; certainly little James did not lose the book due to some sort of preteen neglect. Junior high school students never misplace anything.
Of course, there were many other books written and published on school-pilfered paper during the early years of the author. One seemed a pinch inspired by Conan the Barbarian. Another might have been thought to resemble the Star Trek novels of James Blish. Still another might have ... oh, but none of these books matter. They were little more than practice runs in the great scheme of things. In fact, the really serious work began when James finished junior high and his father moved the Steimle Family to sunny San Diego, where James could really stay indoors and get some solitary writing done!
When James started high school, he began to ask questions that would change his life forever. Would there be food on Mars if he flew there one day? (Ray Bradbury made the planet sound like the perfect retirement spot.) Did George Lucas really think princesses wore buns on the side of their head a long time ago, far far away? Would Mary Jane and Peter Parker ever get over his tingling spider sense and their habit of kissing while hanging from the ceiling? These and other questions were not some of those that would change James Steimle's life forever.
James did, however, wonder if girls at school would continue to get better and better looking, and he wondered how he was supposed to handle that stimulus. He also wondered why anyone with working gray matter would like stories fashioned to scare the reader. This latter question sent him on a two-fold quest for answer.
First, he dared to tread where angels ... ahem. Well, anyway. He started reading scary stories.
Second, he started a Bradbury-esqe collection of his own short stories, simply entitled Nightmare Chronicles. (Actually, only the title was Bradbury-esqe, and only because it drew from a fraction of the brilliant title, The Martian Chronicles). James wrote of witches, boys with telekinetic powers, werewolves on interplanetary voyages to Saturn. Stuff like that.
The kids at his new school loved the garbage (in a manner of speaking). They loved the author's maelstrom of creativity fashioned to suck students from humdrum academic distractions and give them hope that there was more to school than pushy teachers, pretty boys, and handsome girls. (?)
Then James Steimle played a delightful game, completely unaware of the possible legal repercussions. (James couldn't exactly spell "legal" in those days, let alone explain it, anyway. Or maybe he could spell "legal" but he couldn't spell "slander, libel, defamation of character"--well, okay, he could spell the word "of", but that's as far as we will allow). James started a long horror novel based initially upon a dream. In order to firm up his fan base, James gave everyone he knew a chance to "become" a character in Pink Rose (a frightening title if ever there as one). That way, each day, students rallied around the young author, desperate to see what had happened to their alter egos after an evening and a morning of writing! It was very exciting for James. He could hardly keep the girls away. He could hardly keep the manuscript--teachers just couldn't keep their hands off it. He could hardly keep his swollen head from exploding!
In all fairness, a great many friends and kid critics would point out the spelling and grammatical follies in the young author's prodigious work. But what did they know anyway? They weren't writers! Why, James Steimle was practically a professional!!!
It took James many years to lance his swollen head and let the air out. Though he was THE writer in school, he had a long way to go before really writing anything well. The humbling began as soon as he sent his first manuscript to Omni Magazine and received a very helpful scrawl of red handwriting detailing all the formatting errors that James Steimle had produced, despite his attempt to follow the model in the front of the 1986 Writer's Market exactly. (But then, what did Ben Bova know anyway? He was much younger in the '80s.) The air leaked ... slowly ... from our author's head.
Before the end of high school, James Steimle's writing career grew serious indeed. He amassed an entire bookshelf of creative work. Under that shelf, he stacked some books of his own. James had, by this time, written a series of young adult science fiction novels and multiple books of short stories with such uplifting titles as Edge of Destruction, Ark of Armageddon, Death Games, Alien Black, Orchids, Tale Tall Man, and Gray Sidewalks in a Gray World (James was an optimist in those days--and notice the high upper-class true English British spelling that he learned from reading lots of Tolkien!).
After a busy summer of writing, James Steimle quite sincerely believed that his senior year in high school was a hindrance to his writing career. At the time, however, James could not spell the world "hindrance." And he never let people know how much he still loved his Star Wars figures.
Before graduating, his loving parents spent weeks asking the young writer what he wanted as a graduation present. Keeping his writing career foremost in his mind, James Steimle's answer echoed from every wall, every time he was asked: "A car." When they asked him if he would be disappointed if he did not get an automobile, James Steimle shouted from the rooftops: "Yes. I want a car." (It didn't have to be any special kind of ride, but preferably one with four wheels, a windshield, and brakes that worked when necessary.) James Steimle's wise parents boat him a ... typewriter. Now, he knew, he was a professional indeed!
Of course, there were many other books written and published on school-pilfered paper during the early years of the author. One seemed a pinch inspired by Conan the Barbarian. Another might have been thought to resemble the Star Trek novels of James Blish. Still another might have ... oh, but none of these books matter. They were little more than practice runs in the great scheme of things. In fact, the really serious work began when James finished junior high and his father moved the Steimle Family to sunny San Diego, where James could really stay indoors and get some solitary writing done!
When James started high school, he began to ask questions that would change his life forever. Would there be food on Mars if he flew there one day? (Ray Bradbury made the planet sound like the perfect retirement spot.) Did George Lucas really think princesses wore buns on the side of their head a long time ago, far far away? Would Mary Jane and Peter Parker ever get over his tingling spider sense and their habit of kissing while hanging from the ceiling? These and other questions were not some of those that would change James Steimle's life forever.
James did, however, wonder if girls at school would continue to get better and better looking, and he wondered how he was supposed to handle that stimulus. He also wondered why anyone with working gray matter would like stories fashioned to scare the reader. This latter question sent him on a two-fold quest for answer.
First, he dared to tread where angels ... ahem. Well, anyway. He started reading scary stories.
Second, he started a Bradbury-esqe collection of his own short stories, simply entitled Nightmare Chronicles. (Actually, only the title was Bradbury-esqe, and only because it drew from a fraction of the brilliant title, The Martian Chronicles). James wrote of witches, boys with telekinetic powers, werewolves on interplanetary voyages to Saturn. Stuff like that.
The kids at his new school loved the garbage (in a manner of speaking). They loved the author's maelstrom of creativity fashioned to suck students from humdrum academic distractions and give them hope that there was more to school than pushy teachers, pretty boys, and handsome girls. (?)
Then James Steimle played a delightful game, completely unaware of the possible legal repercussions. (James couldn't exactly spell "legal" in those days, let alone explain it, anyway. Or maybe he could spell "legal" but he couldn't spell "slander, libel, defamation of character"--well, okay, he could spell the word "of", but that's as far as we will allow). James started a long horror novel based initially upon a dream. In order to firm up his fan base, James gave everyone he knew a chance to "become" a character in Pink Rose (a frightening title if ever there as one). That way, each day, students rallied around the young author, desperate to see what had happened to their alter egos after an evening and a morning of writing! It was very exciting for James. He could hardly keep the girls away. He could hardly keep the manuscript--teachers just couldn't keep their hands off it. He could hardly keep his swollen head from exploding!
In all fairness, a great many friends and kid critics would point out the spelling and grammatical follies in the young author's prodigious work. But what did they know anyway? They weren't writers! Why, James Steimle was practically a professional!!!
It took James many years to lance his swollen head and let the air out. Though he was THE writer in school, he had a long way to go before really writing anything well. The humbling began as soon as he sent his first manuscript to Omni Magazine and received a very helpful scrawl of red handwriting detailing all the formatting errors that James Steimle had produced, despite his attempt to follow the model in the front of the 1986 Writer's Market exactly. (But then, what did Ben Bova know anyway? He was much younger in the '80s.) The air leaked ... slowly ... from our author's head.
Before the end of high school, James Steimle's writing career grew serious indeed. He amassed an entire bookshelf of creative work. Under that shelf, he stacked some books of his own. James had, by this time, written a series of young adult science fiction novels and multiple books of short stories with such uplifting titles as Edge of Destruction, Ark of Armageddon, Death Games, Alien Black, Orchids, Tale Tall Man, and Gray Sidewalks in a Gray World (James was an optimist in those days--and notice the high upper-class true English British spelling that he learned from reading lots of Tolkien!).
After a busy summer of writing, James Steimle quite sincerely believed that his senior year in high school was a hindrance to his writing career. At the time, however, James could not spell the world "hindrance." And he never let people know how much he still loved his Star Wars figures.
Before graduating, his loving parents spent weeks asking the young writer what he wanted as a graduation present. Keeping his writing career foremost in his mind, James Steimle's answer echoed from every wall, every time he was asked: "A car." When they asked him if he would be disappointed if he did not get an automobile, James Steimle shouted from the rooftops: "Yes. I want a car." (It didn't have to be any special kind of ride, but preferably one with four wheels, a windshield, and brakes that worked when necessary.) James Steimle's wise parents boat him a ... typewriter. Now, he knew, he was a professional indeed!
To be continued!
(This site, like James Steimle's brain, is still under construction.)
(This site, like James Steimle's brain, is still under construction.)