Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 55

Sometimes, this is just how I feel about it...

Just stole this from author Maurice Broaddus's website.  It sums up my conflicted feelings about blogging perfectly....




















 

See you here tomorrow...

What We Pass On To Our Kids....

The other day, my wife walks downstairs after reading to Madi before bed and says with a wry smile, "That child is SO your kid."

"Huh? Whaddya mean?"

"I just read her a Transformers book.  I mean, what six year old girl wants a Transformers book read to them?  YOUR six year old girl.   You'd think maybe she'd want to hear something about animals, Barbie dolls....but noooo.  Our daughter wants to hear stories about warring alien robots that turn into cars and things."

It offers a chuckle, but also a sober reality check.  We pass lots of things on to our kids physically: genetic traits, physical traits, height, weight, etc.  A lot of times proclivities and habits.  Madi and I are suckers for anything crunchy (IE. snack foods), sour (we both love to drink pickle juice), and we sit the same, stand the same, even have the same mannerisms.  The other day, Madi calmly told me in a discussion, "That's PRECISELY what I'm talking about, Daddy."

Now, a little explanation: over the summer, Madi and I discovered the awesomeness of the HUB channel.  Plays old, "off the air" cartoons like the original Transformers, G. I. Joe, Conan the Adventurer, JEM, etc.  And, though she definitely is a JEM fan (what girl would pass up a show about a do-gooding maybe alien glam-girl rock star with pink hair?  Apparently the pink hair was the deal sealer...), Madi has become an avid fan of G. I. Joe, as mentioned Transformers, and, amazingly enough...Conan the Adventurer (although, again...I highly suspect that's because Conan's on right before JEM).

Of course, she didn't just HAPPEN to start watching these and like them instinctively.  I sat down and started watching them myself, with the comment: "Wow.  This is awesome.  Daddy grew up on these cartoons."

And TA-DA!  A fan of retro cartoons was born.

Now, Madi does share my tastes for anything "different" and "out there."  Predictably, she's a HUGE Dr. Seuss fan.  But the kicker here is she saw me do something, heard me pass my approval on it...and she went right ahead and appropriated this thing, and assimilated it into her life.  

Cause hey...kids copy us.  Especially OUR kids.  That's why the old "do as I say not as I do" rarely, if ever works, and if you think it does work...it's a sham.  Because let's be honest: our kids will do what we do.  Almost every time.  That's why the old adage still proves true: "actions speak louder than words".

I try to do as much as I can with Madi.  Play with her.  Read to her.  Just hang out with her, and chat with her.  So because of this, she's decided that Daddy is worthy of imitation.  This, at once, is humbling, awe-inspiring - definitely flattering - and incredibly FRIGHTENING.

On a humorous note, I had to adjust my dinner habits this summer, make sure I always ate veggies at dinner, because quite simply if I ate them, the kids would.  Again, a funny story, but it makes you wonder...not without a heavy gram of seriousness...

What ELSE about me are they going to copy someday?  And will those be good things? 

And will I ever come to a point in which I have to GIVE UP something, so they won't do it?

Hmmmm....   

Sometimes, Ya Just Gotta Fight Your Way Through...

Some mornings I bounce out of bed. Others - like this morning - I have to sit there on the bed's edge, slowly pull all the pieces together, limp out to the kitchen, zombie my way through breakfast,then make myself go down to my office and bang out at least fourpages. Some mornings - a lot of times - this isn't nearly astorturous, and quite often very fun, actually.
Some more mornings, however, it's afight. One I usually win. But it's a tough one. A real tough one. Mornings like this one, part of me really wants to quit. Would be so mucheasier if I could just sleep in and leave off this whole "writing"dream. Simpler. And I'd get lots more rest.
But I can't. Something inside me justwon't let go. And that's probably the only thing right now I canlatch on to that defines me as a "writer". The days thatare easy and it's fun and the words are flowing and the story iscrystal clear in my head - wonderful. But if all days were like thatfor everyone who tried to write, well...everybody would be a writer. Because who wouldn't want to do something that was easy and fun andso empowering, all the time.
It's the days when my brain feels likethick sludge, I can't keep my eyes open, the publishing industryseems like a vast, decrepit wasteland and my words useless but Istill MUST get up and write SOMETHING that makes me awriter. The continual, never-ending fight to go on.
Sometimes, ya just gotta fight through it, to the other side.  Because you're a writer.  And if fighters fight, then writers write, and writers, very often, gotta fight to write (and I could throw a Beastie Boys reference in there, but I'll pass).  Early morning writing philosophy, courtesy of ROCKY.  And, of Ira Glass, with the following advice, which I stole and shared on Facebook last night, and what I leave you with this morning....
"Nobodytells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. Allof us who do creative work, we get into it because we have goodtaste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you makestuff, it's just not that good. It's trying to be good, it haspotential, but it's not. But your taste, the thing that got youinto the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your workdisappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, theyquit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work wentthrough years of this. We know our work doesn't have this specialthing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you arejust starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know itsnormal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work.Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish onestory. It is only by going through a volume of work that you willclose that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. AndI took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I've evermet. It's gonna take awhile. It's normal to take awhile. You'vejust gotta fight your way through."
— IraGlass

Time to go fight my way through, and close that gap.

A Break-neck pace...

I'm writing this first thing after waking, so the quality may be sketchy.  But then again, they're supposed to replace sketchy Facebook status updates, so maybe that'll work.  We'll see...

I'm reading Totentanz, by Al Sarrantonio; a pretty standard horror novel about an evil carnival come to a small country town, and all the souls it's thirsting after.  As usual, these souls - townspeople - have gaping holes inside themselves, weaknesses ALA 'Salem's Lot, that this carnival is hoping to take advantage of.

So here's the thing: I started it yesterday, and rocketed to page 113...all in one day.

Now, granted.  I don't have much of a "life", I'm a reading freak as it is, and every spare moment I have when I'm  not doing something or playing with the kids, I'm reading.  But still.  Gotta figure the author is doing SOMETHING right when you blast through 113 pages in one day.  And it's not like Sarrantonio writes childish, trite prose.  

But it's smooth.  Balanced. Flows very well.  And whatever he's done with this story, the suspense and pacing are perfect, don't let up for a second...even with several flashbacks folded in.  

I want to do that.

I want my stories to do that.   I want the prose so smooth it flows like melted butter, and I want a story that doesn't let up, ever.  As a reader, I appreciate lush novels that take a while to read - just finished one, Riders of the Purple Sage.  Description was so vivid and detailed, it demanded me to take my time, soak up every precious word.

As a writer, though?

I want my prose to be solid.  Maybe even "artistic".   I want to write meaningful stories with substance.

But, geez.  I want my stories to move, baby.  Because that's what keeps folks comin' back for more....

Okay.  Breakfast and Black & Orange by Benjamin Kane Ethridge, then down to the Bat Cave to do my thing....

What Really Matters?

Here's what really matters in the worldoutside of publishing: my wife and kids, faith, my family and friendsand reading every book I can find, my students and teaching. Outside ofthat, I have very few interests, little political motivation, and forfun I read, tinker around the garden, play with model trains and work out.
That's it.
Hey, I'm a simple guy. Which has somegreat advantages, the equally great drawback being that life and thehuman existence ain't nearly as simple as I'd like it to be.
Which reminds me.
Need to spend less time on Facebook. More time here on the blog. Think if I cut down on the meaninglessstatus-update-prattle, might have something more worthwhile to post here.Also, going to try and make the blog posts shorter. Quicker.
Daily?
We'll see.
Inside the publishing world, whatmatters? People you trust: friends, colleagues, publishers. Hardwork. Dedication. A passion for the craft. But lately, I'vestruggled with this whole beast. Have a lot of passionate andperhaps misguided feelings about publishing, what it was, what I wantit to be, and unfortunately what it most likely won't be anymore.

Sopassionate, I actually got into a snit over it with someone lastweek. And all I see anymore are blogs about self-publishing, printis dead, ebooks rule...and every man jack, from writers I've neverheard of, to folks I respect, are all jumping the self-publishingebook train.
Hey, why not? Especially the folkswho've proven themselves. It's no longer a stigma. And if you've gotpieces you're proud of...especially previously published pieces, why not? So, willI be self-ebpublishing any time soon, at least some pre-publishedpieces?
Naw. Problem is, none of those oldpieces speak to me anymore as being representative of my voice, orbeing worth anything. The only pieces I like have been accepted butnot published yet. And I'm under no allusions.
I'm a nobody. No name to my credit,have very little to show.
Not even a freaking novel. So, thequestion is: why contribute more to all the self-published masses? When I don't have anything worthy of contributing?
So, in the publishing industry...whatreally matters?
Writing.
And that's all. I do it every morning. And I'm hoping, that in cutting down my Facebook time - even if onlyto blog daily - I hope to do even more. Because in the end...when itcomes to publishing...
That's the only reason why I'm here.

It's That Time of Year Again, Folks...

"First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys.  Not that all months aren't rare.  But there be bad and good, as the pirates say.  Take September, a bad month:  school begins.  Consider August, a good month: school hasn't begun yet.  July, well, July's really fine: there's no chance in the world for school.  June, no doubting it, June's best of all, for the school doors spring wide and September's a billion years away.

But you take October, now.  School's been on a month and you're riding easier in the reins, jogging along.  You got time to think of the garbage you'll dump on old man Prickett's porch, or the hairy-ape costume you'll wear to the YMCA the last night of the month.  


And if it's around October twentieth and everything smoky-smelling and the sky orange and ash gray at twilight, it seems Halloween will never come in a fall of broomsticks and a soft flap of bedsheets around corners.

But one strange wild dark long year, Halloween came early.

One year Halloween came on October 24th, three hours after midnight.

At that time, James Nightshade of 97 Oak Street was thirteen years, eleven months, twenty-three days old.  Next door, William Halloway was thirteen years, eleven months and twenty-four days old.  Both touched toward fourteen; it almost trembled in their hands.

And that was the October week when they grew up overnight, and were never so young any more..."

Do yourself a favor.  Go buy this RIGHT NOW.

Ray Bradbury, American Icon - What Else Is There to Say?

Just showed this to my freshman classes, in preparation for Fahrenheit 451 and Something Wicked This Way Comes.

What else is there to say, really?

Where's our boy Zack?

Madi opened up my feelings about something I've struggled with recently with the perfect line last night at dinner.  She was joking, teasing Zack, saying, "Where's our boy Zack?" so he'd say cheerfully "I'm right here!"...but the phrasing struck me, for some reason.

Where's our boy Zack?

Well, to be honest....not always here.  

In fact, sometimes I don't know where he is, at all.

Again, to note:  Zack's autism is moderate to mild.  We're so lucky to have reaped the benefits of very early intervention, and many families have it much worse than us.  Zack's overall intellectual ability is growing by leaps and bounds, and though socially he's still delayed, his improving handle on complex language is improving his social abilities, too.  At times, he speaks so clearly, coherently, and intelligently, we almost forget about his autism entirely.

Other times, however...it's impossible to forget.  Because sometimes - too often, still - Zack goes away.

I don't know how else to describe it.  He doesn't lapse into a fugue state, doesn't stare off into nothing, but rather descends into this seemingly random jumble of shrieks, mumbling, jabbering, twittering, twitching...spasms?  I don't want to call it that, because he's not seizing or anything like that.  But it's like a part of him goes away, or gets stuck, somewhere, and everything he's trying to say or express or do gets short circuited and comes out all jumbled.

It's scary, and it's damn depressing. Because I don't know what's going through his head.  Is he even thinking coherent thoughts?  Or does his brain literally scramble into nonsense during those....fits? (again, I hesitate to use that word, because that's not what it is, really).  I'm not sure what's worse...the idea that for a moment - sometimes as long as five, ten, fifteen or even twenty minutes - Zack blanks out and his mind scrambles....

....or, that on the inside, his thoughts are coherent and understandable to himself, but something has scrambled the connections, so he can't communicate with us, and is literally trapped inside himself.

Now, we've gotten very aware of the triggers.  If he's had a long day, with no nap, and he's very tired, he's susceptible to these behaviors.  That, in a way, makes sense, and doesn't bother me so much.  We're all a little scrambled in our own ways at the end of a long day.

But what frightens me is how small, little things set him off.  Like certain television shows, and not even crazy ones with the flashy-lights and loud music - there's one or two shows I'd even call good, educational shows that for some reason flip a switch inside him, set him off.  One day, he was so wired and babbling from one show, I couldn't even get him to nap, or stopping leaping and jumping around in aimless circles.

Angry Birds sends him sky-high.  We can't play it around him, or he'll demand we play it, over and over.  Tom and Jerry is a no go, also.  Leaves him screeching for hours.  Abby bought him an Angry Bird stuffed animal, and even THAT hypes him up - because he uses it to imitate the game - so much that Abby won't let him take it to bed, for fear he'll never sleep, will just play with it all night.

The sounds.  The screeches, the chirps, babbling gibberish and screams.  Very depressing.   Haunting.  Because when that happens, I literally wonder to myself: "Zack.  Where the hell are you, right now?"

And it's a sober reminder that as well as Zack has done, he still has such a long road ahead.  Right now, he's in a special intervention program specifically designed for autism, with a one on one aide.  He's mainstreamed on a limited basis with a mainstream daycare next door to his school for several hours a day, but under very controlled circumstances.  With a one on one aide.

Next year, he'll be mainstreamed into public school kindergarten.  An environment geared toward middle level, average kids.   He'll still have a one on one aide....but when he goes away...when he gets all jumbled...like he so often does...

He'll stand out.

Horribly.  Like the proverbial sore thumb.  Like a weirdo.

And how will the teacher - a public school teacher - react?  Will he have a good aide who will know what to do?

Things have gotten so much better, don't get me wrong.

But we've got a ways to go.  And sometimes, I'm afraid that Zack'll always have these moments, when he goes away somewhere, deep inside himself.  Leaving me to wonder.

Where's our boy Zack?

Ron Malfi - the best writer you've probably never heard of...

If you're a  reader - and a well-read one at that - then you know better than most how many hundreds, perhaps THOUSANDS of great writers exist that you've never read, and may never read.  As a writer, you know this intuitively - even as the glow of your first published work settles in, you realize you're just one drop of water lost in an unimaginably huge ocean.

As a reader, though - especially if you're like I was five or six years ago, have two or three "go to" authors you read all the time - this sort of thing slips under the radar.  You sorta know there are probably some other good authors out there, but you've got your two or three, and you're fine with that.  And, in a sense, you should be. Reading is a pleasure.  Above all, on some level, you should read what you want.

For me, I never realized just how many awesome writers existed that I'd probably never have time to discover until I took it upon myself three years ago (or thereabouts) to put aside Dean and Steve King and cast the waters for new voices.   What I found astonished me.  Took me a little aback, all these writers who excelled at crafting stories with artful language, that I'd never heard of...and I'd considered myself a fairly well-informed guy.

Believe it or not, one of those authors turned out to be F. Paul Wilson, he of the Repairman Jack fame (and he's written tons of other awesome works, too). Before I met him at Borderlands Press' Writing Bootcamp, I'd sorta heard his name somewhere.  Now, he's hands down one of my favorite authors.

Another guy I'd never heard of - also now one of my favorite authors - is Ron Malfi. I first saw his name in an interview with Shroud Magazine.  Shamefully, I just turned the page with the thought - "Who's this guy?"  But then I read his novel Snow, and was bitten with the Malfi-bug.  A very original, extremely well-written story that didn't cater to the usual horror tropes.  So I thought to myself, "Gotta find out more about this guy."

I tracked down one of his small press releases, Passenger ...and was struck by it's almost casual brilliance.  Thought to myself: "This guy isn't just a horror writer, but a full on literary writer, too."  Then, I read his latest, Floating Staircase , and the hook was set.  Simply one of the best things I've read in years.  He's a stylist, a great storyteller, someone who's biggest priority is what it should be: the story and the writing itself.

I've gotten a chance to know Ron a little.  He's shared a lot of great advice, been very friendly, and a little - no, a very large inspiration to me.  If whatever I have I can call a "career" ends up I like Ron's someday, I don't think I could be happier.

Ron started a blog tour this past weekend.  His first post landed at Literary Mayhem, about changing technology and writing characters.  His second post is at the Horror Drive-In, and it really speaks to something that's become near and dear to my heart: writing what you love, what you MUST, regardless of market demands.  An excellent, inspiring post.

Okay.  Time for me to descend into my office and scratch my own words onto paper.  But take the time to check out Ron's work, for what it's worth coming from me.  He'll be the best writer you've probably never heard of.  

Promise.

Today's Striking Prose

He never sought to analyze his motives and he never wavered, once his mind was made up.  Though he always acted on impulse, he firmly believed that all his actions were governed by cold and logical reasonings.  

He was a man born out of his time - a strange blending of Puritan and Cavalier, with a touch of the ancient philosopher, and more than a touch of the pagan, though the last assertion would have shocked him unspeakably.  An atavist of the days of blind chivalry he was, a knight errant in the somber clothes of a fanatic. 

A hunger in his soul drove him on and on, an urge to right all wrongs, protect all weaker things, avenge all crimes against right and justice.  

Wayward and restless as the wind, he was consistent in only respect - he was true to his ideals of justice and right.

Such was Solomon Kane. 

From The Savage Tales of Solomon Kane, "The Moon of Skulls".