Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 54
October 23, 2011
Free Books An' Stuff: Coffin Hop 2011
[image error] So, in the spirit of all things spooky and Halloween, this year I'll be participating in the Coffin Hop Horror Web Tour. This whole week, until Halloween Day, over 90 horror authors will be promoting and Facebooking and Tweeting and what-not about the Coffin Hop. EVERYONE is going to be giving away prizes from their blogs, so it's going to be a great chance to win some free horror/Halloween goodness.
And here, my friends, the gifts are going to be bounteous, indeed. Every day this week until Halloween, I'll blog about Halloween, horror-related stuff: favorite Halloween memories, books, movies...etc. There will be several ways of winning. First, the easy, non-effort requiring method of registering to win:
1. Enter my Goodreads Giveaway for a signed copy of Hiram Grange & The Chosen One: (not approved yet, but will be shortly)
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Goodreads Book Giveaway
Hiram Grange and the Chosen One by Kevin Lucia Giveaway ends October 31, 2011. See the giveaway details at Goodreads. Enter to win 2. I'm going to have daily "competitions" here on my blog, with a winner each day. The prizes - books - are going to range from the following:
He Stepped Through, (Bloodletting Press), by Nate Southard
Five Strokes To Midnight, (Haunted Pelican Press), by Tom Piccirilli, Gary Braunbeck, Deborah LeBlanc, Hank Schwaeble, Christopher Golden
Riding the Bullet: A Mick Garris Screenplay (Lonely Road Books - ARC), by Stephen King and Mick Garris
The Exorcist & Legion, (Cemetery Dance ARC), by William Peter Blatty
The Cage, (Cemetery Dance), by Brian Keene & The Last Zombie, (Arctic Press), by Brian Keene, Issue #1
Waiting for October, (Dark Arts Books), by Jeff Strand, Adam Pepper, Sarah Pinborough, Jeffery Thomas
The Secret Back of Things, (Cemetery Dance ARC), by Christopher Golden
Now, what if (odder things have happened) folks would rather have the chance to win something written by me? That's easy enough. For these daily contests, the winner can swap any of these prizes out for my novella, an installment in Shroud Publishing's Hiram Grange Chronicles, Hiram Grange & The Chosen One, plus I'll throw in a free copy of something else of mine, too.
The winners are going to be posted, I believe, on the Coffin Hop blog November 1st. A note to Coffin Hop participants: unless I absolutely get no other posters, no repeat gifts. So you're welcome to enter multiple days, because the winners won't be announced until November 1st, but unless I have a day in which a previous winner is the ONLY entry, then only one prize per "customer", and no repeat winners.
So. Shall we begin with best, favorite, most memorable, coolest Halloween memories, tomorrow? Up for grabs: He Stepped Through, (Bloodletting Press), by Nate Southard, or you can always swap out for Hiram Grange.
Hop away....
October 22, 2011
I'm Raising My Kids to Be Freaks; Or, Would You Like A Simple Life With That Dandelion Wine?
First, this:
Hesitantly, Grandfather, Douglas, and Tom peered through the large windowpane.
And there, in the small warm pools of lamplight, you could see what Leo Auffman wanted you to see. There sat Saul and Marshall, playing chess at the coffee table. In the dinning room Rebecca was laying out the silver. Naomi was cutting paper doll dresses. Ruth was painting water colors. Joseph was running his electric train. Through the kitchen door, Lena Auffman was sliding a pot roast from the steaming oven. Every hand, head, every mouth made a big or little motion. You could hear their faraway voices under glass. You could hear someone singing in a high sweet voice. You could smell bread baking, too, and you knew it was real bread that would be soon be covered with real butter. Everything was there and it was working.
Grandfather, Douglas, and Tom turned to look at Leo Auffman, who gazed serenely through the window, the pink light on his cheeks.
"Sure," he murmured. "There it is." And he watched with a now gentle sorrow and now-quick delight, and at last quiet acceptance as all the bits and pieces of this house mixed, settled, poised, and ran steadily again. " The Happiness Machine," he said. "The Happiness Machine."
We're currently reading this in my sophomore honors English class. We haven't had our first discussion yet, so we'll see how it goes. I'm really hoping that at least half of them will "get it" (because, as I've found over 11 years of teaching, you'll never have everyone in class love every book you teach. Often splits down the middle), because these kids are living in such a time of change, that very soon, things they take for granted will be utterly and completely gone.
Just like a lot of things in Dandelion Wine. That's one of the reasons why I read it every year, regardless of whether or not I teach it (also, because it's just beautiful, too). But so many things have gone away that I used to take for granted. Things have changed so much, and they'll never be the same. And while some of these changes are for the good and pretty cool...
I'm starting to really miss all the things that are gone, or missing things that aren't gone, but soon will be.
Lately, I've been feeling my age. Not physically, because I've been fortunate enough to stay healthy, keep in decent shape. (My waist and I have come to an uneasy truce, neither of us advancing much either way). Ironically, I've felt more alive and full of energy and driven these past four years than I did years prior. And - one of the big positives of teaching high school - even if I'm not exactly "cool" or "hip", I seem to still get along well with the young'uns.
But more and more lately...I don't get the world around me.
And things are going away, things I'm having a hard time letting go of.
And they're all the small, little things.
That's probably why Dandelion Wine resonates with me so much. Obviously, I don't remember the time period it took place in - the twenties - but that time resonates because it seems so much simpler. Slower. And that's what I miss most about my childhood.
Simplicity.
It's carefree slowness (ESPECIALLY over summer).
That scene above from Dandelion Wine - ah, hell. Sure, it's completely nostalgic, old fashioned, maybe what lots of folks would consider backwards. And, in a touch of modernity, there's no reason why Dad shouldn't be doing the cooking, (which I do a lot), or the girls shouldn't be playing chess or with the electric train (Madi can't wait for me to get the train set up and going). But even though I grew up in the 80's and not the 20's, that's the way life was like for me. And that's kinda how we run things around here, how I want things to be for our kids. Not exactly perfect, like in the above excerpt...but simple. Slow.
So they can be kids. For as long as they can.
But when I look around at the world - especially the kids today, teens - things seem to move a thousand miles per hour. What family does that anymore, right? What family just hangs out together like that, especially in their summers, which today, when I listen to kids tell me about their daily schedules, sound like they're jam packed full of so many "THINGS" to do they never get a moment to breathe? And that makes me think of what the world will be like for MY kids...and I feel afraid. Not for me, because I'm adaptable and stubborn. I can stay current enough, but am stubborn enough to be "me", and that's all.
But I fear for my kids. That, despite our best efforts, their childhoods will be truncated, abbreviated...even taken away by the onward, pell-mell rush and dash of the world.
I'm sure plenty of families still raise their families simply. It just seems to be a bygone thing, though, and by raising my kids according to the Dandelion Wine model...I often wonder if they'll be freaks someday, because of how rapidly that's all changed.
But, call me old fashioned, freakish though they may seem...I think...I hope...I believe...they'll be happy. Because life gets complicated fast enough. I want my kids to at least be able to look back at childhood, and remember it as better, slower, more fun....than think of their lives as one, long, busy, insane blur.
And everyone's life is different. You can't expect everyone to raise their families the same, and I don't. Everyone has different circumstances, different methods, and I believe everyone does the best they can in those circumstances. But honestly, I'm not concerned with anyone else's family, I'm concerned about mine. And - freaks though they may become because of it - we'll always to do our best to keep things simple for our kids.
Even if the world around us isn't. And, though I WANT my kids to be their own people, to discover their own paths...hopefully, because of what Abby and I have tried to do, they'll keep at least a little of that simplicity in their lives, too.
Hesitantly, Grandfather, Douglas, and Tom peered through the large windowpane.And there, in the small warm pools of lamplight, you could see what Leo Auffman wanted you to see. There sat Saul and Marshall, playing chess at the coffee table. In the dinning room Rebecca was laying out the silver. Naomi was cutting paper doll dresses. Ruth was painting water colors. Joseph was running his electric train. Through the kitchen door, Lena Auffman was sliding a pot roast from the steaming oven. Every hand, head, every mouth made a big or little motion. You could hear their faraway voices under glass. You could hear someone singing in a high sweet voice. You could smell bread baking, too, and you knew it was real bread that would be soon be covered with real butter. Everything was there and it was working.
Grandfather, Douglas, and Tom turned to look at Leo Auffman, who gazed serenely through the window, the pink light on his cheeks.
"Sure," he murmured. "There it is." And he watched with a now gentle sorrow and now-quick delight, and at last quiet acceptance as all the bits and pieces of this house mixed, settled, poised, and ran steadily again. " The Happiness Machine," he said. "The Happiness Machine."
We're currently reading this in my sophomore honors English class. We haven't had our first discussion yet, so we'll see how it goes. I'm really hoping that at least half of them will "get it" (because, as I've found over 11 years of teaching, you'll never have everyone in class love every book you teach. Often splits down the middle), because these kids are living in such a time of change, that very soon, things they take for granted will be utterly and completely gone.
Just like a lot of things in Dandelion Wine. That's one of the reasons why I read it every year, regardless of whether or not I teach it (also, because it's just beautiful, too). But so many things have gone away that I used to take for granted. Things have changed so much, and they'll never be the same. And while some of these changes are for the good and pretty cool...
I'm starting to really miss all the things that are gone, or missing things that aren't gone, but soon will be.
Lately, I've been feeling my age. Not physically, because I've been fortunate enough to stay healthy, keep in decent shape. (My waist and I have come to an uneasy truce, neither of us advancing much either way). Ironically, I've felt more alive and full of energy and driven these past four years than I did years prior. And - one of the big positives of teaching high school - even if I'm not exactly "cool" or "hip", I seem to still get along well with the young'uns.
But more and more lately...I don't get the world around me.
And things are going away, things I'm having a hard time letting go of.
And they're all the small, little things.
That's probably why Dandelion Wine resonates with me so much. Obviously, I don't remember the time period it took place in - the twenties - but that time resonates because it seems so much simpler. Slower. And that's what I miss most about my childhood.
Simplicity.
It's carefree slowness (ESPECIALLY over summer).
That scene above from Dandelion Wine - ah, hell. Sure, it's completely nostalgic, old fashioned, maybe what lots of folks would consider backwards. And, in a touch of modernity, there's no reason why Dad shouldn't be doing the cooking, (which I do a lot), or the girls shouldn't be playing chess or with the electric train (Madi can't wait for me to get the train set up and going). But even though I grew up in the 80's and not the 20's, that's the way life was like for me. And that's kinda how we run things around here, how I want things to be for our kids. Not exactly perfect, like in the above excerpt...but simple. Slow.
So they can be kids. For as long as they can.
But when I look around at the world - especially the kids today, teens - things seem to move a thousand miles per hour. What family does that anymore, right? What family just hangs out together like that, especially in their summers, which today, when I listen to kids tell me about their daily schedules, sound like they're jam packed full of so many "THINGS" to do they never get a moment to breathe? And that makes me think of what the world will be like for MY kids...and I feel afraid. Not for me, because I'm adaptable and stubborn. I can stay current enough, but am stubborn enough to be "me", and that's all.
But I fear for my kids. That, despite our best efforts, their childhoods will be truncated, abbreviated...even taken away by the onward, pell-mell rush and dash of the world.
I'm sure plenty of families still raise their families simply. It just seems to be a bygone thing, though, and by raising my kids according to the Dandelion Wine model...I often wonder if they'll be freaks someday, because of how rapidly that's all changed.
But, call me old fashioned, freakish though they may seem...I think...I hope...I believe...they'll be happy. Because life gets complicated fast enough. I want my kids to at least be able to look back at childhood, and remember it as better, slower, more fun....than think of their lives as one, long, busy, insane blur.
And everyone's life is different. You can't expect everyone to raise their families the same, and I don't. Everyone has different circumstances, different methods, and I believe everyone does the best they can in those circumstances. But honestly, I'm not concerned with anyone else's family, I'm concerned about mine. And - freaks though they may become because of it - we'll always to do our best to keep things simple for our kids.
Even if the world around us isn't. And, though I WANT my kids to be their own people, to discover their own paths...hopefully, because of what Abby and I have tried to do, they'll keep at least a little of that simplicity in their lives, too.
October 20, 2011
Daddy, All My Friends Are Hitting Me....
Keeping with the new trend of shorter, more informal but more frequent posts...
When it comes to horror, I find I'm not afraid so much of slavering monsters drooling mucus and ripping their poor, hapless victims limb from bloody limb, or demon-possessed serial killers mutilating and raping and hacking people to bits.
These can be great props - external manifestations of internal demons and pain, and in some cases, great fun. Hey, I did the monster killing-thing in Hiram Grange & The Chosen One , a lot of my favorite books have a fair amount of monster killing, and, let's be honest: the project I'm currently working on is FULL of monsters, both physical and supernatural. And, there's something satisfying in rooting for a plucky protagonist as they FINALLY grab that sawed-off shot gun or rip-snorting chainsaw and give the monsters a little taste of their own medicine.
But something changed when I became a parent. I became aware of more subtle, real-life, day-to-day things that scared the living daylights out of me, and concurrently, my reading tastes...and I think my writing, too, has changed with that.
For example, the other night, Zack woke up from a nightmare screaming. When Abby finally got him calmed down, asked him what the nightmare was about, he said tearfully - "All my friends are hitting me!" and even pulled up his shirt to show her.
Woa.
A four year old boy - autistic, so he struggles with coherent speech, especially when upset - very clearly saying he dreamed that all his friend were hitting him, even pulling up his shirt to show where they were hitting him.
Maybe I'm a lightweight, but that freaked me out. Big time. What's going on inside his head to make him dream that? What's happening (probably nothing) at school to make him dream that?
That same morning, as Abby was showering and I was drowsing after another morning of writing, I heard Madi start whispering over her child monitor. I was half asleep, couldn't make out what she was saying, except that it was a consistent, fuzzy murmur that rose and fell in the cadence of active communication...but I just couldn't hear what she was saying.
And also, my half-asleep mind was thinking: who is she talking to?
Now, these stories - if I ever wrote them - would STILL need some sort of foe or antagonist that can be "beaten" or at least grappled with to appeal to a wide audience. And, let's be honest, at the end of the day, I want as many folks as possible to dig my stuff. But to me, the core of those stories, should I write them, touch very deeply on common fears that affect ANY parent or guardian, whether or they're "horror" fans or not.
And, much as I loved writing Hiram and want to visit him in the future, much as I love my current project, that's more the type of stories I want to write. Something that actually gives ME shivers down my spine, as I'm writing.
Because then, I'm not just making up a story.
I'm giving my own fears shape...and dealing with them, as writers do best.
When it comes to horror, I find I'm not afraid so much of slavering monsters drooling mucus and ripping their poor, hapless victims limb from bloody limb, or demon-possessed serial killers mutilating and raping and hacking people to bits.
These can be great props - external manifestations of internal demons and pain, and in some cases, great fun. Hey, I did the monster killing-thing in Hiram Grange & The Chosen One , a lot of my favorite books have a fair amount of monster killing, and, let's be honest: the project I'm currently working on is FULL of monsters, both physical and supernatural. And, there's something satisfying in rooting for a plucky protagonist as they FINALLY grab that sawed-off shot gun or rip-snorting chainsaw and give the monsters a little taste of their own medicine.
But something changed when I became a parent. I became aware of more subtle, real-life, day-to-day things that scared the living daylights out of me, and concurrently, my reading tastes...and I think my writing, too, has changed with that.
For example, the other night, Zack woke up from a nightmare screaming. When Abby finally got him calmed down, asked him what the nightmare was about, he said tearfully - "All my friends are hitting me!" and even pulled up his shirt to show her.
Woa.
A four year old boy - autistic, so he struggles with coherent speech, especially when upset - very clearly saying he dreamed that all his friend were hitting him, even pulling up his shirt to show where they were hitting him.
Maybe I'm a lightweight, but that freaked me out. Big time. What's going on inside his head to make him dream that? What's happening (probably nothing) at school to make him dream that?
That same morning, as Abby was showering and I was drowsing after another morning of writing, I heard Madi start whispering over her child monitor. I was half asleep, couldn't make out what she was saying, except that it was a consistent, fuzzy murmur that rose and fell in the cadence of active communication...but I just couldn't hear what she was saying.
And also, my half-asleep mind was thinking: who is she talking to?
Now, these stories - if I ever wrote them - would STILL need some sort of foe or antagonist that can be "beaten" or at least grappled with to appeal to a wide audience. And, let's be honest, at the end of the day, I want as many folks as possible to dig my stuff. But to me, the core of those stories, should I write them, touch very deeply on common fears that affect ANY parent or guardian, whether or they're "horror" fans or not.
And, much as I loved writing Hiram and want to visit him in the future, much as I love my current project, that's more the type of stories I want to write. Something that actually gives ME shivers down my spine, as I'm writing.
Because then, I'm not just making up a story.
I'm giving my own fears shape...and dealing with them, as writers do best.
October 15, 2011
Mr L, I've written a short story and I'm thinking of submitting it to a few magazines...
When I first began teaching, my mind glowed with wondrous fantasies of what teaching high school English would be like. I was ready to conquer apathetic teen minds everywhere, show them how "cool" books and stories and poems were. I was ready to transform their lives with the power of Shakespeare, the vivid imagery of Bradbury, ready to woo them away from television and video games with the eerie resonance of Robert Frost.
And of course, I'd be loved by all for opening unto them these brand new worlds of imagination, wonder, and best of all...reading.
Also, my writing assignments would prove for them, once and for all, that they were all writers, their literary genius simply hiding inside, waiting for someone like me to burst it free. I'd eradicate the boring and trite "book reports", replace them with insightful literary critique essays and personal composition assignments, and....their own personal journal, which would set their minds afire with all the words they had been dying their whole lives to write.
Almost eleven years later, I'm much wiser. I've learned a lot. Had some unrealistic goals and dreams and aspirations crushed, yes...but I've learned that students take away almost MORE of what we are as people than what we necessarily teach them in the classroom, because, even though I HAVE taught several students who seemed grateful for the books I made them read and the essays I made them write, I've learned that, more often than not, many of my students were grateful for who I WAS, and how I treated them, than any book, poem, or essay I could have assigned.
Thus, I learned the greatest reward of teaching (also a double-edged sword): we leave thumbprints of ourselves on people. These thumbprints can stunt their growth, limit them, make them insecure...or they can help them grow. Make them realize their potential. Build them up. Make them feel worthwhile, and good.
In these eleven years, I've received several indications that I've been fortunate enough to have had at least a little impact on someone's life. One came about five years ago. One of my former junior high students actually wrote me a letter (addressed to my new job at the high school) thanking me for pounding in her head the concepts of essay structure and thesis statements, because when - at her new school - her fellow classmates were all mystified as to what these things meant and weren't faring well on state test preparations, she was excelling with flying colors, in her opinion because of my instruction. That, to this date, is one of the most powerful reminders that what I do every day in the classroom DOES make a difference. You just don't know it at the time. These things are seeds that flower down the road.
Most recently, a former student only just graduated - a member of my first Creative Writing class ever, and a fine writer at that - sent me the following message: "Mr L, I've written a short story and I'm thinking of submitting it to a few magazines. I think it's got some potential. Will you look it over for me?"
As you can imagine, I said yes, enthusiastically. A fine writer, this student is, and I'm excited to see what they've produced. Have no idea if this story will land anywhere, but because this writer has taken that first, all important leap: "I've written a short story and I'm thinking of submitting it to a few magazines" they've instantly rocketed past all the rest of the wanna-be's out there, and are now playing the game. Fighting the good fight. Trying to get published.
And it tickles me to think that maybe, just maybe...I had a little something to do with that...
And of course, I'd be loved by all for opening unto them these brand new worlds of imagination, wonder, and best of all...reading.
Also, my writing assignments would prove for them, once and for all, that they were all writers, their literary genius simply hiding inside, waiting for someone like me to burst it free. I'd eradicate the boring and trite "book reports", replace them with insightful literary critique essays and personal composition assignments, and....their own personal journal, which would set their minds afire with all the words they had been dying their whole lives to write.
Almost eleven years later, I'm much wiser. I've learned a lot. Had some unrealistic goals and dreams and aspirations crushed, yes...but I've learned that students take away almost MORE of what we are as people than what we necessarily teach them in the classroom, because, even though I HAVE taught several students who seemed grateful for the books I made them read and the essays I made them write, I've learned that, more often than not, many of my students were grateful for who I WAS, and how I treated them, than any book, poem, or essay I could have assigned.
Thus, I learned the greatest reward of teaching (also a double-edged sword): we leave thumbprints of ourselves on people. These thumbprints can stunt their growth, limit them, make them insecure...or they can help them grow. Make them realize their potential. Build them up. Make them feel worthwhile, and good.
In these eleven years, I've received several indications that I've been fortunate enough to have had at least a little impact on someone's life. One came about five years ago. One of my former junior high students actually wrote me a letter (addressed to my new job at the high school) thanking me for pounding in her head the concepts of essay structure and thesis statements, because when - at her new school - her fellow classmates were all mystified as to what these things meant and weren't faring well on state test preparations, she was excelling with flying colors, in her opinion because of my instruction. That, to this date, is one of the most powerful reminders that what I do every day in the classroom DOES make a difference. You just don't know it at the time. These things are seeds that flower down the road.
Most recently, a former student only just graduated - a member of my first Creative Writing class ever, and a fine writer at that - sent me the following message: "Mr L, I've written a short story and I'm thinking of submitting it to a few magazines. I think it's got some potential. Will you look it over for me?"
As you can imagine, I said yes, enthusiastically. A fine writer, this student is, and I'm excited to see what they've produced. Have no idea if this story will land anywhere, but because this writer has taken that first, all important leap: "I've written a short story and I'm thinking of submitting it to a few magazines" they've instantly rocketed past all the rest of the wanna-be's out there, and are now playing the game. Fighting the good fight. Trying to get published.
And it tickles me to think that maybe, just maybe...I had a little something to do with that...
October 13, 2011
So, I'm A Big Ole Reading Freak.......
...in case you haven't noticed.
I love reading.
No, you don't understand. I LOOOOOVE reading. Always have. My parents are to blame, actually. They started me reading before kindergarten, and I grew into that typical adolescent that HAS to have a book in front of his face at all times. ESPECIALLY on car trips. If I got stuck on a long car ride and forgot to bring a book, it was like a class A emergency!
Once, this happened. Somehow, I'd forgotten to bring something to read on a car ride that lasted over an hour. Desperate, fifteen minutes into the ride, I turned to my sister for help.... who'd brought several of her Anne of Green Gables books.
Yeah. You guessed it.
I ended up reading almost the entire series.
By sixth grade, I'd read almost every book I wanted to read in our elementary school library ...twice. Because of this, I was given permission to walk ACROSS the parking lot with a buddy to take books out of the HIGH SCHOOL library. There, I discovered my first favorite "grown-up" author: Issac Assimov.
I spent a good portion of my summers reading.
In high school, I was allowed to stay up as late as I wanted, in my bed....reading.
In college, my love of reading exploded. All that free time. All that reading. I would spend DAYS in Barnes & Noble, reading. In fact, back when I actually had time to kill, (I.E. before children) reading used to my biggest distraction from writing. I'd have the hardest time making myself put down a book and actually start writing, I'd always tell myself: "Just one more chapter."
Reading, however, opened the floodgates for my love of writing. It was a book that spurred me to write for the first time. My senior year, some inconsequential little YA/teen sports novel called
Because I wanted to know how the story ended. So, from my love of reading sprang my first "novel" (written entirely in a Spiral-bound Mead notebook).
On college basketball road trips, I always hoarded some of my meal money to buy a book in whatever town we were visiting. This has become a habit, to this day. Whenever we go on vacation or on a trip, I'm compelled to buy a book while there...even if I already have several of my own with me.
Today, when I get a rare quiet moment - kids napping, I get home from work before everyone else - we just leave that TV off, and read.
And I read crazy fast, too. Have a book going during breakfast, a different one going before bed, and for lunch I read the novels I'm teaching. So, yeah, I really do read 4-5 different books at a time.
What can I say?
I'm a big ole reading freak...
I love reading.
No, you don't understand. I LOOOOOVE reading. Always have. My parents are to blame, actually. They started me reading before kindergarten, and I grew into that typical adolescent that HAS to have a book in front of his face at all times. ESPECIALLY on car trips. If I got stuck on a long car ride and forgot to bring a book, it was like a class A emergency!
Once, this happened. Somehow, I'd forgotten to bring something to read on a car ride that lasted over an hour. Desperate, fifteen minutes into the ride, I turned to my sister for help.... who'd brought several of her Anne of Green Gables books.
Yeah. You guessed it.
I ended up reading almost the entire series.
By sixth grade, I'd read almost every book I wanted to read in our elementary school library ...twice. Because of this, I was given permission to walk ACROSS the parking lot with a buddy to take books out of the HIGH SCHOOL library. There, I discovered my first favorite "grown-up" author: Issac Assimov.
I spent a good portion of my summers reading.
In high school, I was allowed to stay up as late as I wanted, in my bed....reading.
In college, my love of reading exploded. All that free time. All that reading. I would spend DAYS in Barnes & Noble, reading. In fact, back when I actually had time to kill, (I.E. before children) reading used to my biggest distraction from writing. I'd have the hardest time making myself put down a book and actually start writing, I'd always tell myself: "Just one more chapter."
Reading, however, opened the floodgates for my love of writing. It was a book that spurred me to write for the first time. My senior year, some inconsequential little YA/teen sports novel called
Because I wanted to know how the story ended. So, from my love of reading sprang my first "novel" (written entirely in a Spiral-bound Mead notebook).
On college basketball road trips, I always hoarded some of my meal money to buy a book in whatever town we were visiting. This has become a habit, to this day. Whenever we go on vacation or on a trip, I'm compelled to buy a book while there...even if I already have several of my own with me.
Today, when I get a rare quiet moment - kids napping, I get home from work before everyone else - we just leave that TV off, and read.
And I read crazy fast, too. Have a book going during breakfast, a different one going before bed, and for lunch I read the novels I'm teaching. So, yeah, I really do read 4-5 different books at a time.
What can I say?
I'm a big ole reading freak...
October 11, 2011
Remind Me Why I Do This Again?
Okay, so the title's a bit of a misnomer. I know why I get up every morning and do this.
I think.
So, this is part of the blog's new function: weary morning journal. A log of thoughts, no matter how scattered, tired or lame. I'll try to not to be too repetitive, but I make no promises, because in the end, this blog is very much about release, and let's be honest - sometimes, ya just gotta release the same stuff, over and over.
I think the thing that gets me the most is how, deep down, even though I'm driven each morning to get up and write, part of me wonders: if I'd known it would be like this, would I ever have started? I mean, on one hand, yes...in four/five short years, I've accomplished an awful lot. More than some folks ever accomplish.
And yet, I know I've not reached my goal. That my dream is still out there, ahead of me.
And, I've been coming to the sober realization that those dreams will probably never come to fruition.
Ever.
Because let's be painfully honest, here. I had those wild dreams, and mourn their loss, a little. Dreams of being an overnight sensation. Of magically landing a big book deal. Of writing that breathtaking novel that wins a Bram Stoker Award, first time out. Suddenly hearing my name ringing through the halls of the Horror Genre.
I read all the writer books: On Writing, Brian Keene's blog memoirs, Gary Braunbeck's To Each Their Darkness, and during my own downtimes - when I've had to walk along the highways to collect cans in order to attend Cons, watch my house fall apart around me while I jerry-rig some OTHER half-assed repair job, in my head, I've been guilty of thinking: That's okay. Someday, when I'm a big and famous writer, I'll put this all in MY writing memoir, and it'll inspire some other writer.
But, reality comes, hard enough.
There will probably be no memoir.
And who would read it, anyway?
There will be no big book deal.
I'll be lucky to land a midlist deal, honestly. If there's even a midlist left, after the publishing industry gets done exploding.
Probably will never be able to live on writing alone.
Because let's face it, I haven't got the guts to do so.
I'll never be what I DREAMED of being.
So what does that leave me with, every morning at 3 AM? The words. The story. The actual physical act of writing, from which I draw a intrinsic sort of pleasure. For an hour and half, two hours every day, I sit in my little office - surrounded by all my books and comics and useless knick-knacks that mean nothing to anyone but me - and go away somewhere, a place where I make the rules, and I write.
More and more, that's the only thing to get up for in the morning. To have that moment, that little space of time carved out for myself, where it's just me, the paper, my pen, my stuff in my office, the words, and a story no one else may ever read, but that I want to read.
Have to read.
Everything else?
Window dressing. Dross.
Which, of course, doesn't mean that I'll give up my dreams.
I'm just stubborn that way.
I think.
So, this is part of the blog's new function: weary morning journal. A log of thoughts, no matter how scattered, tired or lame. I'll try to not to be too repetitive, but I make no promises, because in the end, this blog is very much about release, and let's be honest - sometimes, ya just gotta release the same stuff, over and over.
I think the thing that gets me the most is how, deep down, even though I'm driven each morning to get up and write, part of me wonders: if I'd known it would be like this, would I ever have started? I mean, on one hand, yes...in four/five short years, I've accomplished an awful lot. More than some folks ever accomplish.
And yet, I know I've not reached my goal. That my dream is still out there, ahead of me.
And, I've been coming to the sober realization that those dreams will probably never come to fruition.
Ever.
Because let's be painfully honest, here. I had those wild dreams, and mourn their loss, a little. Dreams of being an overnight sensation. Of magically landing a big book deal. Of writing that breathtaking novel that wins a Bram Stoker Award, first time out. Suddenly hearing my name ringing through the halls of the Horror Genre.
I read all the writer books: On Writing, Brian Keene's blog memoirs, Gary Braunbeck's To Each Their Darkness, and during my own downtimes - when I've had to walk along the highways to collect cans in order to attend Cons, watch my house fall apart around me while I jerry-rig some OTHER half-assed repair job, in my head, I've been guilty of thinking: That's okay. Someday, when I'm a big and famous writer, I'll put this all in MY writing memoir, and it'll inspire some other writer.
But, reality comes, hard enough.
There will probably be no memoir.
And who would read it, anyway?
There will be no big book deal.
I'll be lucky to land a midlist deal, honestly. If there's even a midlist left, after the publishing industry gets done exploding.
Probably will never be able to live on writing alone.
Because let's face it, I haven't got the guts to do so.
I'll never be what I DREAMED of being.
So what does that leave me with, every morning at 3 AM? The words. The story. The actual physical act of writing, from which I draw a intrinsic sort of pleasure. For an hour and half, two hours every day, I sit in my little office - surrounded by all my books and comics and useless knick-knacks that mean nothing to anyone but me - and go away somewhere, a place where I make the rules, and I write.
More and more, that's the only thing to get up for in the morning. To have that moment, that little space of time carved out for myself, where it's just me, the paper, my pen, my stuff in my office, the words, and a story no one else may ever read, but that I want to read.
Have to read.
Everything else?
Window dressing. Dross.
Which, of course, doesn't mean that I'll give up my dreams.
I'm just stubborn that way.
October 10, 2011
A Conundrum: Predictable or Unpredictable Characters?
One of the hardest things, I find, is not necessarily the WRITING itself, as in the words, phrases, and clauses. That's "easy", or rather easiER than writing original characters that will act in unpredictable YET sensible, logical ways. Writing the words is a matter of drafting, redrafting and redrafting, chiseling away unneeded words like a sculptor. I read voraciously, of craftsmen whose work I adore and want to assimilate into my own craft, I edit and reedit, and have gotten a much better handle on the actual words themselves.
But making "unpredictable characters that still make sense"?
Wow. THAT I struggle with.
Probably the toughest critique I've gotten yet on a work is that its characters were "stock characters that acted in predictable ways." I have a tough time with this critique, possibly the only critique of my work I don't like. Not that I disagree. My characters probably ARE predictable. That's actually the only knock yet on my Hiram Grange installment, is that you kinda get the idea he's going to do what he can to save the girl, pretty early on in the story.
See, one of the things I HATE most as a reader...no, wait, let me restate: LOATHE WITH AN ABSOLUTE FIERY, BURNING PASSION...is when characters are made to do things so illogical, something that smacks against ALL common sense. I HATE it when it seems clear the writer is going for something "different" or "new" or "original"...especially when IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE.
SO, the conundrum. Are we writing believable characters that could exist in real life, characters we can relate to, that make logical decisions based on the world they're in...or are we writing characters that provide readers with some escape, keep them guessing?
The key, of course, is "suspense of disbelief". And that all important "stasis" period at the story's start. Pull the reader in, get them to believe this character is someone who could exist, and then plunge them headlong into something fantastic and unbelievable. But even then: I'm of the old-fashioned belief, perhaps, that the decisions those characters make SHOULD MAKE SENSE. Even as a reader, I'll take that over a "crazy plot twist" any day.
And, I find as a writer, I feel the same way.
The key, I guess, is setting the "world rules" of that work, fine-tuning them and laying subtle groundwork so that in the end, a character's behavior fits. To me, a finely crafted plot twist should NOT leave me screaming and throwing the book across the room because it doesn't make any sense. It SHOULD leave me smacking my forehead, thinking: "HOLY COW! I'm such an idiot! I totally should've seen this coming back in Chapter 3 when...."
And, of course, you can't predict what every reader will do. That's impossible. That's why, for me, my characters will probably always be a tad predictable, because if it's one thing you CAN'T predict, it's readers, and what they will or won't like.
Which is probably why I've taken so long to write things, lately. Yes, I do want them new and exciting and fresh and original. But to ME, at least...this stuff has to make sense. It has to all fit.
And THAT takes a really long time. Not something you can churn out in a month or so.
But making "unpredictable characters that still make sense"?
Wow. THAT I struggle with.
Probably the toughest critique I've gotten yet on a work is that its characters were "stock characters that acted in predictable ways." I have a tough time with this critique, possibly the only critique of my work I don't like. Not that I disagree. My characters probably ARE predictable. That's actually the only knock yet on my Hiram Grange installment, is that you kinda get the idea he's going to do what he can to save the girl, pretty early on in the story.
See, one of the things I HATE most as a reader...no, wait, let me restate: LOATHE WITH AN ABSOLUTE FIERY, BURNING PASSION...is when characters are made to do things so illogical, something that smacks against ALL common sense. I HATE it when it seems clear the writer is going for something "different" or "new" or "original"...especially when IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE.
SO, the conundrum. Are we writing believable characters that could exist in real life, characters we can relate to, that make logical decisions based on the world they're in...or are we writing characters that provide readers with some escape, keep them guessing?
The key, of course, is "suspense of disbelief". And that all important "stasis" period at the story's start. Pull the reader in, get them to believe this character is someone who could exist, and then plunge them headlong into something fantastic and unbelievable. But even then: I'm of the old-fashioned belief, perhaps, that the decisions those characters make SHOULD MAKE SENSE. Even as a reader, I'll take that over a "crazy plot twist" any day.
And, I find as a writer, I feel the same way.
The key, I guess, is setting the "world rules" of that work, fine-tuning them and laying subtle groundwork so that in the end, a character's behavior fits. To me, a finely crafted plot twist should NOT leave me screaming and throwing the book across the room because it doesn't make any sense. It SHOULD leave me smacking my forehead, thinking: "HOLY COW! I'm such an idiot! I totally should've seen this coming back in Chapter 3 when...."
And, of course, you can't predict what every reader will do. That's impossible. That's why, for me, my characters will probably always be a tad predictable, because if it's one thing you CAN'T predict, it's readers, and what they will or won't like.
Which is probably why I've taken so long to write things, lately. Yes, I do want them new and exciting and fresh and original. But to ME, at least...this stuff has to make sense. It has to all fit.
And THAT takes a really long time. Not something you can churn out in a month or so.
October 9, 2011
In Which the Writer Returns Home to Harpursville
You can go home again, actually.If you're strong enough.
Because ghosts of all kinds haunt the paths you used to roam. Not necessarily ghosts of malevolence or harm (though you might run into those, also), but mostly ghosts of remembrance and nostalgia.
Ghosts of dreams and nightmares, triumphs and failures.
Of days well spent with friends long moved on, ghosts of lost loves.
Ghosts of enemies, too.
Lurking in all the familiar places.
Ghosts on the sidewalks, in empty buildings formerly general stores and teen hangouts, on fields of former football glory, on the street corner, in darkened, empty school corners, swinging on the swings and clambering high on the old, wood and stone playground sets that were long ago replaced by SAFE, brightly colored plastic ones.
Ghosts. Think of it, and those of you handy with physics can probably take it to mind-bending heights: every place you've left a foot print, grabbed something, jumped over, hid behind...walked on...you've left something behind. Even if only a piece of your spirit.
Probably why so many writers end up writing about their hometowns. Or at least, start out trying to, early in their careers. I know I did, but eventually put it aside in favor of other projects, because quite simply...
I wasn't ready.
Was too close to it. Because, as expressed very eloquently by award winning and wonderfully talented author Gary Braunbeck in his memoir on the craft To Each Their Darkness (which all horror writers should buy RIGHT NOW), "good fiction doesn't give a damn how it REALLY happened."
In other words...writing about something close to us CAN produce very powerful, emotional work. But if it's TOO close to us...we fall prey to FORCING the story to play out EXACTLY as the incident/memory that inspired it, which usually doesn't make for good, entertaining fiction. So I've left off writing about home, for a real long time.
Until now.
Two incidents: recently, when driving to my Dad's, I took the back, slow way. My parents live right off the highway, so if I want, I can skip all sorts of hallmarks of home and just fly right there. This time, I was on my own...so I took my time.
Trundled up Route 7, through Sanitaria Springs. Soaked in the memories. Worked at my Dad's - it was just him and I and Mom - which hasn't happened in I DON'T know when. The entire time there, my mind literally GLOWED with the past.
And something powerful came over me. A memory of something that happened my 8th grade year - not to me, really. But something PROFOUND. Something I lingered on the edge of, something that SHOULD have hit me like a hammer blow, but somehow...somehow....
It didn't.
Until that day, at my parents, twenty-three years later.
And I knew I had to write about it. And, almost instantly, the story literally SPRANG into my head, in a way that allowed ALL the emotions hiding in there to explode...but in an original creation, all my own.
Second incident: today, Madi had a soccer game in Harpursville...THE place. My hometown. As I drove into town, taking the same route my bus did for eighteen years...memories and ghosts assaulted me. Tightened my chest, snatched my breath from my throat. After her game, I felt compelled to drive around town and snap photos. That's when I knew.
I was ready to write this story. I jotted down an entire, complete outline back when it first hit me, but I put it aside for awhile, to simmer. But now...I think I'm ready.
Which is so awesome. Because that tight chest, hitched breath, crowding ghosts?
That's one of the best reasons of all to write.
To give those ghosts voice.
And rest.
Enjoy the pictures.
October 8, 2011
If In Wilkes-Barre, PA...Come See Me Around 2:00 PM!
From 2 Pm to 5PM, I'll be at the 6th Annual Horror Halloween Book Signing at the Wilkes-Barre, PA Barnes & Noble, along with authors Lorne Dixon, Karen Koehler, KendallPhillips, Eileen Watkins and Screem magazine editor Darryl Mayeski. I'll have copies of Hiram Grange & The Chosen One, Abominations: 17 Tales of Murderous Monsters (which contains my story "Water God of Clarke Street") and several copies of last year's Halloween issue of Shroud, Issue #10, which is filled with Halloween goodness courtesyof Rio Youers, Kelli Owen, Bob Ford, Alethea Kontis, Dan Keohane,Thomas Philips/Phillip Tomasso III, Libby Tucker, Scott Christian Carr, Jodi Lee, Lisa Mannetti, Norman Partridge, Nick Grabowsky, and many more.
So, we'll be at:
Barnes & Noble - Wilkes-BarreThe Arena Hub
421 Arena Hub PlazaWilkes-Barre, PA 18702Hope to see some folks there!
October 7, 2011
Some time ago, in a land not so far away at all....
...there was a young writer, primarily published in the small press, who was entertaining the relatively new dream of writing Teen Paranormal Fiction/Fantasy. I mean, this young writer had sorta thought about writing Teen Fiction before, because he'd spent a good chunk of his life teaching teens, and it also seemed like lots of his favorite writers had penned a teen novel or two in recent years, so why not him?
But he'd never really seriously pursued this until he managed his way into discussions with a senior acquisitions editor at a major New York Publishing house. And though by no means did this writer think he'd found a loop-hole and an "easier" way into New York publishing through the YA/Teen market, he pursued this opportunity with gutso. It was, after all, a major New York house, and he figured it'd be foolish to pass up the chance.
And, lo and behold, despite the current cadre of folks who keep prophesying the doom of New York Publishing and decrying all New York editors as short-sighted morons who don't really know anything about writing, this writer had a wonderful experience working with this editor, who nudged him in different directions, pointed out some flaws, and proved himself/herself to be professional and knowledgeable on all fronts.
AND, though this editor passed because he/she didn't think they were the ones to deal with such a fantasy-laden series, this editor referred this small press writer to four top-shelf YA/Teen agents, with the blessing of dropping their name. SO, this small press writer - digging on his dreams of breaking into New York Publishing - sent his pitch to one of those agents.
That agent was quick, professional, helpful and courteous. He/she passed on the project, and made this rather insightful statement:
"the actual manuscript of thefirst book feels like an adult horror novel and not enough likecommercial YA paranormal fiction..."
Which of course, gave this smallpress...and adult horror writer...some pause.
Made him wonder if he was trying toohard to push himself into another mold for an - albeit, valid andsolid - opportunity that maybe just wasn't the right fit for him.
Now, this writer isn't done. There arestill several other agents on that list, and as this agent pointedout, publishing is a VERY subjective business. So this intrepid - and maybe thickheaded and stubborn - small press writer plugs on. BUT....massive food for thought.
Because hey, you know what they say:Know thyself....
But he'd never really seriously pursued this until he managed his way into discussions with a senior acquisitions editor at a major New York Publishing house. And though by no means did this writer think he'd found a loop-hole and an "easier" way into New York publishing through the YA/Teen market, he pursued this opportunity with gutso. It was, after all, a major New York house, and he figured it'd be foolish to pass up the chance.
And, lo and behold, despite the current cadre of folks who keep prophesying the doom of New York Publishing and decrying all New York editors as short-sighted morons who don't really know anything about writing, this writer had a wonderful experience working with this editor, who nudged him in different directions, pointed out some flaws, and proved himself/herself to be professional and knowledgeable on all fronts.
AND, though this editor passed because he/she didn't think they were the ones to deal with such a fantasy-laden series, this editor referred this small press writer to four top-shelf YA/Teen agents, with the blessing of dropping their name. SO, this small press writer - digging on his dreams of breaking into New York Publishing - sent his pitch to one of those agents.
That agent was quick, professional, helpful and courteous. He/she passed on the project, and made this rather insightful statement:
"the actual manuscript of thefirst book feels like an adult horror novel and not enough likecommercial YA paranormal fiction..."
Which of course, gave this smallpress...and adult horror writer...some pause.
Made him wonder if he was trying toohard to push himself into another mold for an - albeit, valid andsolid - opportunity that maybe just wasn't the right fit for him.
Now, this writer isn't done. There arestill several other agents on that list, and as this agent pointedout, publishing is a VERY subjective business. So this intrepid - and maybe thickheaded and stubborn - small press writer plugs on. BUT....massive food for thought.
Because hey, you know what they say:Know thyself....
