Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 56

Game Change

No, not a movie about Sarah Palin.

Because that would be REAL horror.

But more about my evolving.....well, plan?  Philosophy?  Regarding short stories.  First, a quick review:  long ago, in a land  far, far away (college, almost fifteen years ago), I sold my first short story for a meager sum of $10, at the tender age of 23.   Enough for a Pepsi and Taco Bell, with change left over.  High times for this poor college student.

And then I proceeded to ignore the short story for the next 15 years.

Because, I was going to be a novelist, see.  Bestselling.  Had no time for piddly little short stories.  Besides, I could barely keep my word count down to 10,000 words.  How to write a short story of only 5,000 or less?

Anyway, fast forward a few years.  Had just read Stephen King's seminal On Writing. Rearranged my entire outlook, started thinking of myself as just a "writer".  Got into writing reviews and articles - and, short stories.  I started hunting for specific submission calls, because at that point, those were easier.  At least they gave me topics to think about.  And, after a few rejections, lightening struck: I sold my first story to the first edition of The Midnight Diner for $100, and my story won Editor's Choice Awards.

Fast forward another year.  Had written a lot of bad stories (or maybe they weren't so bad) that I wasted on bad publications.  Then sold four more stories - to Abominations, Northern Haunts, Malpractice and Raw: Brutality As Art - once again, to themed anthologies.  Out of all those stories, "The Water of God of Clarke Street" (Abominations) was the best, because it had been written internally, independently, not as a response to submissions call.  I'd just stumbled over the Shroud web page one day, saw the submissions call, and it fit.

Fast forward some more.  Kind of a dry spell,  mostly because I was busy working on Hiram Grange & The Chosen One.  My story Lonely Places was accepted into the third edition of The Midnight Diner - a story originally written for several different themed anthologies.   Another story of mine - one I consider my best, to date (which isn't saying a whole lot) Almost Home, had been solicited for the now-dead Doorways Magazine.  

At that point, I felt pretty good about myself.  Hiram had gotten lots of great reviews, a few Stoker recommendations, and I'd built up a small but perhaps respectable base of short story work.  Also, I'd sold about 7 nonfiction shorts to major inspirational markets, so things seemed to be chugging along at a nice pace.

And then, the wall.

Rejection.  Rejection.

Yep. 

More rejections.  

A little bruised on the short story front, I relaxed into my novel.  Then, after finishing work on that, shifted over to this new project that's totally consuming me, a character that literally won't get out of my head - which I take as a good sign, because that's what Hiram Grange did to me two years ago.

But then, I saw more submission calls for short stories, and tried again.  Because here's a little secret...

I really, really, really want to become a great short story writer.

And I'm really, really, really not a great short story writer.

So, yeah.

More rejections.

I've thought about it a lot, though.  And have come to the following conclusions.  Some of these you've seen before, some of them have evolved from conclusions you've seen before:

1. In my life right now - with a 6 and 4 year old at home, teaching full time - I've only got time to focus on one project at a time.

2. Not only am I no longer attempting themed submissions calls...I'm not going to attempt submission calls of ANY kind.   Because what I do now...and almost did for the new Borderlands submissions call - is see a call, drop everything I'm doing, bang out a quick story BECAUSE of that call.  NOT because it's a great story that won't let me go.

3. When I'm done with my current project, have proofed it to death and sent it to pre-readers, I'm just going to take some time and write several short stories.  With no destinations in mind.  No clear idea of where to submit.  But I've got a notebook FULL of story ideas that DESERVE the same effort and blood and sweat and tears that I exert on my longer fiction.  I need to AGONIZE over my short work as I do my long work, not because a deadline is looming somewhere....but for the best reason of all....

Because I WANT to.

And HAVE to.

Because when I think of my BEST short work - really, only "Water God of Clarke Street"  and "Almost Home" (which has now been accepted somewhere else I can tell you about soon) come to mind - those stories were generated INTERNALLY.   Because I HAD to write about them.  Not to meet a themed anthology,  or because a submissions call came out.  I wrote and wrote and wrote and FINISHED them, then stumbled over places to send them.

So, my revelation for the day.  Not all that huge, I'm sure.  But more and more, I've been steering myself away from all my writing PLANS, focusing on the only thing that's important right now: my writing NEEDS.

I'm a writer.

I NEED to write.

And that's the best - maybe the only - reason to do so.

Wait...what?

So a student said something to me in Creative Writing today that pretty much blew out half my synapses.  We were talking about the power of certain stories to stay with you, stand the test of time, and the conversation turned to comic books.  I related my experience of reading the issue of Batman when Joker kills the Jason Todd Robin, the power of that image - Batman holding a broken, bleeding Robin, when one of my students piped up and said:

Student: "Oh, they changed that in a recent storyline."

Me: "What? How?"

Student: "Oh, alternate-universe Superboy punched Time in the face and brought dead Robin back to life."

Me:  "Wait...what?"

I think we may've nailed why I stopped reading comics not too long ago....

Donate Books to Help MacArthur Elementary With Flood Losses - Please Read and Share!

Beginning Tuesday night and lasting through until Wednesday night, a huge storm smacked the Northeast from York, PA all the way to Delaware, to Sidney, NY....plenty other places.  Rivers swelled and rose to historic flood levels, roads have been washed away, cities and towns and businesses flooded to their ceilings.  In Broome County alone, nearly 20,000 people were evacuated from their homes.  The destruction and loss - not even close to being counted up, at this point - is sure to be wide-spread and devastating.

Myself and lots of others are lucky - we live high above the water out in the country, so we fared okay.  But so many others are facing the destruction of their homes and their very way of life.  For many, things will never be the same, ever again. 

Fortunately, there've been no reported deaths, as of yet.  The warnings were very accurate, ahead of time and prompt.  As can be expected, local relief efforts are already underway, several kick-starting from Facebook pages, such as Binghamton Rocks 4 Flood Relief and the Binghamton Flood - community support page. 

One effort in particular readers of this blog might be interested helping out in, something very easy and - in my opinion - very important is extending a helping hand to MacArthur Elementary School, a sizable school in Vestal, New York. A Pre-K to 5th grade school, they were COMPLETELY flooded out and lost everything.   Including EVERY. SINGLE. BOOK.  In all the first floor classrooms and the main library.  No books. 

Gone.  

And, very likely, other schools in the area have suffered similar fates.

Currently, a collection is being taken of suitable Pre-K through 5th books to help replace MacArthur's losses.  I'm sure other schools will be in need too, but for right now, donations to MacArthur can be mailed to a MacArthur teacher at:

PO Box 198Whitney Point, NY 13862
We've already sifted through Madi's books, and she helped pick out some to donate.  If you happen to have some books taking up space in a box or basement or closet somewhere, just pack them and ship them.  It'd be much appreciated, I'm sure, and would go a long way towards helping them replace their collection.

The Struggle of the Artist

Taking a quick break in getting my classroom back together for another year of fun and follies, I found myself watching the video for Evanescence's song "Going Under". I find myself listening to it and watching it often because I love Evanescence and their music, but I'm always struck by it's message about the existence of the performer/artist.  Even though MY writing career (and it's barely a career, at that) isn't even close to being this tormented, I can't help but make the connection to the writing career.



So you have the beleaguered artist/writer/singer, at the mercy of her fans - which, more than likely, was all she wanted at first: some fans, folks who appreciated her work.  But now it's grown into a monster that always wants to feed - so she must always be on stage, performing, to keep the masses happy - lest they turn into monsters and consume her completely.  The images of the make-up artists and fans turning into snarling beasts ready to tear her apart is chilling, to say the least.

And of course, this is backed up by the song's lyrics, with the constant references to deception, lies, pouring oneself out until there's nothing left, constantly trying to be heard above all the demands and clamor (clamor perhaps born directly from success), the theme of drowning - in one's own life, career, even drowning in someone the artist used to trust.

Even more striking? The image at the end, when her band mate morphs briefly into one of the same monsters raging in the crowd.  Implication? Who can you trust?  Maybe not even those closest to you.

Chilling.  And fortunately, my career isn't there yet.  Maybe it never will be, (which may be a blessing in disguise) but if I can keep my family and faith and friends, hold them close, learn who to trust and who not...I'll be okay.  I'll have life preservers, and I won't drown.  Because let's be honest...

Can't hope to ride the waves of success without getting tossed off, now and then....

LYRCIS:

Now I will tell you what I've done for you -
50 thousand tears I've cried.
Screaming, deceiving and bleeding for you -
And you still won't hear me.
(going under)
Don't want your hand this time - I'll save myself.
Maybe I'll wake up for once (wake up for once)
Not tormented daily defeated by you
Just when I thought I'd reached the bottom

I'm dying again

I'm going under (going under)
Drowning in you (drowning in you)
I'm falling forever (falling forever)
I've got to break through
I'm going under

Blurring and stirring - the truth and the lies.
(So I don't know what's real) So I don't know what's real and what's not (and what's not)
Always confusing the thoughts in my head
So I can't trust myself anymore

I'm dying again

I'm going under (going under)
Drowning in you (drowning in you)
I'm falling forever (falling forever)
I've got to break through

I'm...

So go on and scream
Scream at me I'm so far away (so far away)
I won't be broken again (again)
I've got to breathe - I can't keep going under

I'm dying again

I'm going under (going under)
Drowning in you (drowning in you)
I'm falling forever (falling forever)
I've got to break through

I'm going under (going under)
I'm going under (drowning in you)
I'm going under...

Why Horrorfind Is Awesome: The Fellowship of Ink

I had this big Con retrospective planned, but because of time limitations, I've cut it short.  Maybe, also, it's time to stop repeating myself and let some things stand understood as they are.  Some things we don't need to over-hype, because it weakens the significance of that thing.

Horrorfind 13 went down this past weekend.  A grand time of fun, foolishness, and serious writing business was had by all.  I spent time with great friends, but more than that: I communed with a Fellowship.  A Fellowship connected by ink, heart, and soul.  Writing is a lonely gig.  Especially in a small city like mine, with very little in the way of writing groups and fellowships.  Add in that I'm a weirdo/horror/speculative writer, and the scene gets lonelier.

At Horrorfind, I communed with my brothers and sisters, bound by the mad desire to write and pen dreams and nightmares. I hung with folks who don't write but share intimate membership in that fellowship: editors and artists and loyal supporters. 

And we just had fun.  Sure, we talked a lot of shop.  But we also just had fun.  Lots of memorable tid bits, like the Midget Jason Vorhees and "HEY LADY! YOU CALL HIM DOCKTA JONES!"

But I digress.

I also saw a roast - and honoring - of author Brian Keene.  But I saw more than just a roast.  I saw a gathering of fans and supporters who have stuck together for more than a decade, through thick and thin, troubles both personal and professional.  Writers running the gamut, from relative newcomers like Kelli Owen and Ron Malfi and Rio Youers and Jeremy Wagner through current mainstays like Chris Golden and James Moore and Tim Lebbon, to legends like Tom Monteleone. 

Makes me wonder: ten years from now, will the folks laboring alongside me still be toiling away and writing?  Will I be writing?  Will we all be gathered to roast and honor one of our own ten years from now?

Who knows? And it doesn't really matter.  Because the best thing about Cons is in the picture below (and no, not the beer or that it's happening in a bar).  It's  the people.  My friends.

My family.  Which makes these pictures like snapshots in the family album.

And that's all I've got to say, this morning.

I hope it's good enough.

Come Get Some...

From The Saga of Billy the Kid",  by Walter Noble Burns:




There was ominous silence off at the side along the adobe wall.  His lurking, unseen foes were waiting for him, their rifles ready, their fingers on the trigger.  All about him was the devouring sibilance of the fire.  Flames were bursting through the walls and ceilings of the room, darting, twisting, crawling like brilliant serpents greedily alive.  He braced himself from the start.  Half the roof crashed in behind him. Smoke and a myriad fiery sparks leaped after him as he darted out the door, his guns blazing.




A yell of triumph went up from his enemies.




This was the man they wanted.




"Here comes the Kid!"

Interested,Yet?

Walter Noble Burns on Billy the Kid:




"But hidden away somewhere among
these pleasant human qualities was a hiatus in his character - a
sub-zero vacuum - devoid of all human emotions. He was upon occasion
the personification of mercilessness, remorseless deadliness. He
placed no value on human life, least of all upon his own. He killed
a man as a nonchalantly as he smoked a cigarette. Murder did not
appeal to Billy the Kid as tragedy; it was merely a physical process
of pressing the trigger.






If it seemed to him necessary to kill a
man, he killed him and got the matter over with as neatly as
possible. In his murders, he observed no rules of etiquette and was
bound by no punctilios of honor. As long as he killed a man he
wanted to kill, it made no difference to him how he killed him. He
fought fair and shot it out face to face if the occasion demanded,
but under other circumstances he did not scruple at assassination.
He put a bullet through a man's heart as coolly as he perforated a
tin can set upon a fence post.





He had no remorse.





No memories haunted him.





His courage was beyond question. It
was a static courage that remained the same under all circumstances,
at noon or at three o'clock in the morning. There are yellow spots
in the stories of many of the West's most famous desperadoes. We
are told that in certain desperate crises with odds against them,
they weakened and were no braver than they might have been when, for
instance, the other man got the drop on them and they looked suddenly
into the blackness of forty-four caliber death.






But no tale has ever come down that
Billy the Kid ever showed 'the yellow streak'. Every hour
in his life was 'zero hour', and he was never afraid to
die."




This comes circa 1925, and may very
well be rife with sensationalism and romanticism. But even so.
Sounds like quite a conflicted, complex...and deadly character.




The kind I love to write about.




And, if you know me, you know there's
gotta be a monster in the story somewhere. Let's pretend for a minute
that Billy isn't the monster. Given the description above...what
kind of monster would be big and bad enough for Billy the Kid to
throw down with?




MMMM. Possibilities...

When You MUST Write That Story No One Wants...

...well, not exactly the story no one
wants. I'm exaggerating a bit. But here's the thing: As the days
march past and the publishing industry changes and the rejections and
the "I like that idea...but can we try something different?"
roll in, and I get up every day at 3 AM to work my mojo, more and
more, only ONE THING keeps driving me, pushing me forward, making me
write SOMETHING every day, even if it's only three or four pages
through tired eyes and a pounding fatigue headache.





And that's the story itself.






Not the certainty of getting it
published.






Not a clever marketing or publishing
scheme.






Not all my vaunted career plans.





But the spark and fire burning in my
belly that THIS STORY MUST BE TOLD. That I MUST know this
character's life, inside and out... that I MUST crawl inside this
character's head, get to know them, BE them, for just a little while.





Very quickly, that's become all that
matters.





And I'm liking the idea more and more.
See, it's just too stressful, to anti-productive for me anymore to
eye the publishing landscape and make all these grand designs of
submitting this project here, this story there, getting an agent,
pitching this story, blah blah blah. Which doesn't mean I'm going to
STOP doing those things.





But a reordering of my priorities has
to happen. I've gotta be in love with the writing, the story, the
character (s). If not...





What's the point?





So. I've set my novel aside.
I did a lot of work on it, but I'm coming to realize that
my...vision, for lack of a better term...is still much bigger than my
ability to tell right now. It's so layered, so complex (and,
complicating matters, I didn't outline it first, so I have 500+ pages
to unravel and reshape), that I really need to let it simmer for now.






I've heard tell that it took nearly 13
years for Stephen King to write It (one of my absolute favorite
novels of all time, BTW), so maybe that novel will be my "It".
I've accepted that, gotten a lot more comfortable with the idea.





Also, my talks with the New York
Publishing House agent have reached an impasse. And, to clarify:
working with her has been a pleasure. She's been extremely positive,
helpful, and the whole experience has been a good one. She felt so
confident of my ability, she even forwarded me the emails of four
teen fantasy agents, gave me permission to name-drop her. So I'm
completely happy with everything that happened there.





But my...vision of the story I was
pitching her just wasn't matching what they could work with, and at
the same time, growing TOO STRONG to ignore. Especially the
character. He kept at me, all the time, beckoning me deeper inside
his brain. And for me, it's become about two things: the story and
the character.






"When I'm working on a project, I
definitely need to know my character well. I need to fall in love
with them – even if they're the most evil bastard on the planet –
in order to really dig in."






Bob Ford, author of the soon to be
released Samson & Denial (which you all better pre-order from Thunderstorm Books the minute you can), blogs this morning about developing his
title character, Samson Gallows. The above quote comes him, as does
below:





"But when he (Samson) truly
started to come to life inside my head, he took off in ways I never
expected. The muse was in full swing – relating memories of Samson
as a child. Things he planned to do in the future. Little secrets he
shared with his wife. A million different things that never made it
into the novella, but that didn't matter...because every single one
of them brought me closer to his voice, his personality, and – not
to get too purple here – but the very soul of his character."





And that, my friends, is what it's
about, what it MUST be about. That and the story, and the writing
itself.





SO. I'm about 100 handwritten pages
into the new story - and it's so important to know this character,
get inside his head and BE him...because, a lot like Hiram Grange,
this story is a little outside my usual curve (you think I could just settle down and write a normal story, right?). It's going to be
very different from what I've written, yet, not all that different,
at all.






And I usually don't like to talk much
about non-published works - because who really cares until it's out
there and available, right? - but here's a nice little hint of what
I'm working on, for all who care.














And that's all I've got for you, right now.
And it's so different (but yet, not) that right now, the most
important thing I can do is crawl inside this character's head and be
them. So I can understand hopes, dreams, nightmares...and make them
come to life, like all the best characters do. 




Thanks Bob, for the reminder.

CAREFUL, PARENTS: Your kids are watching you. ALL THE TIME, especially when you're saving seagulls with broken wings...

Last night we were enjoying a nice lcook-out at Dorchester Park after swimming when I heard Abby say something like: "Oh, Kevin - something's wrong with that seagull over there. Did one of those boys..." around the same time our ever-excitable Madi shouted: "Daddy!  A bird is hurt!"



I looked over my shoulder.  



A flock of seagulls burst into the air, in the wake of two teenage malcontents who looked like ex-convicts in training.  Not just tough and tumble, rough around the edges kind of boys (because I'd like to think I'm not terribly judgmental) but even from my vantage, I saw a cruel amusement twisting on their faces and glittering in their eyes that made me distinctly uncomfortable.  



I felt a little guilty for leaping to that conclusion - that these guys were up to no good - until I spied it there, flopping back and forth on the ground, shrieking in pain and fear, literally beating itself against the ground in an attempt to follow its winged brethren in escape.



A seagull.



It's right wing broken.



Hanging limp, at an angle.



Torn and bloody.



And it just kept screaming, trying to fly, run away, anything.  It hopped, tried to flap its broken wing, slammed back into the ground.  Even worse?  When it rolled into the parking lot, slamming itself to the pavement over and over, its broken wing slapping against the asphalt - slap, slap, slap! - as it tried to flee.



The teens instantly sensed what was what and bugged out.  Maybe even more disturbing?  I spied two other random kids, adolescents, creeping toward the screaming, flopping bird, one with a good sized rock not so cleverly hid behind his back.  I actually boomed at him with my big person voice: "Hey.  You're not chucking a rock at that bird, kid. Not a good idea."



He scowled, stuck the rock behind his back and sorta snarled, "Wasn't gonna."  Then he and his buddy made a quick getaway.



So I was left there with my wife and kids and this screaming, flopping bird not ten feet away.  Zack, for the most part, didn't notice.  Partly his age, partly his autism - he still struggles with connecting any importance to events in the outside world.



Madi, a completely different story.  Our sensitive, caring, empathetic, animal loving Madi sat and watched the bird, very concerned, and kept asking, "What's gonna happen to it, Daddy?  What's gonna happen?"



First, I should explain something.  I pretty much love or respect most animals.  Even animals like snakes and spiders, which initially shock me when I'm not ready for them, just like any average person.   Not a "tree hugger" or "environmentalist" or any of those trendy things.  But I am a country boy.  Born and bred.   Was raised in a household that respected all kinds of life, and that's made a mark on me.  



I remember the one time we discovered a mouse in the bedroom that eventually took refuge in our bed's mattress.  Abby, naturally, refused to sleep in it until I took care of the situation.  I ransacked the room, finally trapped the mouse in an old baseball cap.   Abby demanded that I kill it.  



My response? 



"But...but, I can't.  It's looking at me.  How can I kill it?  It's looking at me!"



Anyway.



My Dad - big old, strict, "put the fear of God in ya" Dad - wouldn't hurt a fly (well, not literally.  It was open season on flies and mosquitoes and such). But I'd seen that man grab a spider from the ceiling, cup it gently in tissue paper,  then let it go outside.  



Not that he'd never kill animals.  One year, he declared open war on the woodchucks for ripping our garden apart (which was longer and wider than a high school basketball court. Trust me, spend the whole summer working that thing, you lose a little empathy for any animal that'd tear it apart.)  But even then, he'd shoot AROUND the woodchucks or AT the woodchucks.  Killing them, actually shooting them, was always a last resort.



I developed the same way.  I had a childhood friend - who shall remain nameless here - who loved to pick up his barn cats, swing them around by their tails,  send them on a little "air trip".  Now, I get it - to a lot of farmers and farmer kids, barn cats aren't like pets, they're almost like rodents.  But still.  That pissed me off, even back then.  Real bad.



No wonder my cats hated that kid.  Wouldn't come near him, ever.



Even today, I'm probably a lot stricter with the kids when it comes to their treatment of animals than maybe other parents are.  I remember one family gathering, back when Madi was four, when she was idly - sorta but not really seriously - swinging a whiffle ball bat at her grandfather's new dog.  



I cued her up on it.  Made her stop.  A family member sorta made fun of me, that "Oh, she didn't mean anything by it", but I don't care.  My kids will be nice and polite and respectful to people, but they will also be nice and polite and respectful of animals, too. I've worked very hard to make sure Madi and Zack treat our one cat nicely.  It's paid out well.  That cat and Madi are best friends, now, and I think it's important that kids get that kind of chance to experience relationships with animals, domesticated and wild.



So I was naturally inclined to do something about this bird, simply because I like animals.  Hate to see them in pain.   But I also realized that Madi was watching the whole thing very intently.  And very clearly, I also realized she wanted - and needed - to see something done.



I deliberated for a bit.  Thought about grabbing a beach towel, sneaking up on it, covering it, hoping to calm it with some darkness.  However, I also realized the extent of my wild animal knowledge came from viewing National Geographic every Sunday night as a kid, so I figured that not such a good idea.  Maybe I'd hurt it worse.  Plus, Madi could wait forever, but Zack is still a bit fidgety.  Wouldn't wait for Animal Protection Services to show up.



But Madi needed to see something done.



Eventually - and this is awful, because the whole time, the poor thing flopped and slapped and rolled its way across the pavement until it finally came to a rest and stopped, relaxing some in the shade under a parked car (so maybe my idea about the dark calming it down wasn't so far off, after all) - I decided the best thing I could do was go up to the park's front office, have security come down and take care of it.  



And I did so. And they were good about it.  Came right down, gently gathered the bird in and carried it off.



Now, Madi was full of questions.  I tried to be honest with her.  I admitted that maybe the bird would die, because maybe it had hurt itself too badly.  But I also said that broken wings CAN heal, sometimes, and the important thing was:  we tried.  We did the right thing, and didn't leave it alone.  We did the best thing we could do. 



A small thing, I know.  Consciously, she's probably already forgotten about it.   But I know Madi.  Two, three weeks from now, she's likely to remember and bring the subject up.  And then, she'll at least remember that we did the right, best thing we could do at the time.



It's a scary thought.  That kids remember everything so clearly.  Also scary to think that, with a measure of variance for every person, our children watch us ALL the time.  And essentially, they grow up doing WHAT WE DO every day in OUR lives, even if we tell them not to.



Scary.



I feel bad about that bird, still.  And a little mad at the punk who chucked a rock at it, broke its wing.  But I also remember how two or three dozen of its brethren didn't leave right away.  For about twenty minutes or so, all those birds flew in circles above its downed brother (or sister).  Staying by its side.  Not leaving it behind.



Can't do anything about that kid who hurt it.  But a story began to develop.  A story in which justice is served, and the bird gets its revenge....



(and that is just how my mind works, folks...)

Keeping Up With The Lucias: Autism Grants, Summer School, 4-H & Horses, Etc...

So, for those of you who don't follow this blog for my random rants about writing, publishing, books and the horror genre and my little attempts to get you to read my fiction, it's high time for a Lucia family update.   Here goes...



The summer, for the most part, has passed by quiet and fun, though way too fast, as always.  One awesome development the last three years of the "Daddy stays home while Mommy picks up more hours at work" plan is hanging out with Madi.  We tend to ramble all over and do what we please, whether it be hanging for several consecutive days at the beach, hitting the fair multiple times in one week, wading in the creek catching crawfish, hitting the zoo, picking blueberries and visiting the animals at Grandma and Grandpa Lucias...whatever.  It's always great hanging out with Madi, and I feel like it's good to establish this foundation with her.  



I'm sure when the dreaded "no fly zone" of teendom hits, we'll butt heads.  Some days, she may not like me very much at all (which will pretty much just mean I'll be doing my job well).  But from what I've seen - as both a teacher and a parent - I think that because I've taken the time to hang out with Madi and get to know her, try to figure out what makes her tick, just spending TIME with her, I've hope that we'll make it through those teenage years to the other side together.





One thing that's really cropped up this summer: horses.  It's the one abiding interest that Madi has stuck with since two years old, be it toy horses, stuffed horses, books about horses, movies about horses, seeing horses, touching and petting horses, watching horses, shirts with horses on them: horses.  Two things birthed this interest, I believe. One: three years ago, the fair offered pony rides.  Only one or two rides, and our girl was smitten.  





Two:  While Madi still had a diagnosis of sensory integration disorder, she qualified for some PT (physical therapy) to treat her low muscle tone.  We stumbled upon hippotherapy, which is essentially therapeutic horse riding.  After several sessions, Madi was hooked.  She remembered every horse's name in the stable, had to say goodbye to them before she  left after every session.  



At the fair, she was enthralled by the local 4-H horse show, so today I'm calling 4-H to see about their free horse clubs.  She can train on a horse, rent a horse to perform on, all sorts of things.  Now, she's only 6.  She may get tired of horses after awhile.  She'll be playing kiddie soccer in the fall, and this winter we'll try her out at basketball.  But horses seems to trump everything right now. As a parent I hope she settles down into something she really loves and pursues it with a passion, and this seems to be something she really loves, so we'll get behind it, versus trying to steer her in an interest we WANT her to have.



Regarding Zack, we'll also be pursuing hippotherapy with him.  It's completely covered under his Medicaid, and Madi responded so positively to it, that we thought it'd be a great idea to give it a shot with him, also.  There's tons of research and articles about therapeutic horseback riding as treatment for autism, so we figure - why not give it a shot?  Maybe this could open a door for him, give him a greater sense of peace and rhythm.



Because this summer has been tough on Zack at school.  Always is.  With his autism he has a hard time adjusting, and during the school year he's in rhythm and follows a routine, then BAM.  School's over for two weeks.  He spends all of that two weeks playing outside, doing what he wants. Then BAM, it's back to school until the middle of August.  It takes forever to get him into rhythm and half as long to break him out of it.



Sending Zack to school over the summer is hard.  Think of it: our 4 year old boy has spent the last three years of his life in a 8-3, Monday - Friday school program offering no naps, nearly year round.  And it's done wonders for him, leading to breakthrough after breakthrough, offering us real, solid hope that he'll be able to function in society someday and lead his own life.  But it's so hard sending him off to school over the summer.  He should be running around and playing, like other normal kids.



Except...and this hurts doubly to say...it's still so hard to manage he and Madi together by myself, and Abby has the same trouble.  On one hand, they're just busy little kids, brother and sister, and they feed off each other like normal brothers and sisters do.   BUT, Zack just requires SO much more structure and restrictions - structure and restrictions Madi not only doesn't need, but would be unfair to impose on her - that a whole summer off would throw him entirely out of wack, and would restrict Madi's summer, too.  



Even after two weeks off, we see the re-emergence of all those  troubling autistic ticks that interfere with his normal behavior: light gazing, hand flapping, running aimlessly, humming and screeching meaninglessly, getting locked into self-repeating loops he can't break out of....



God help me when I say this...I don't think Zack would actually ENJOY the summer off, yet.  He'd just descend back into his  old behaviors - though they're not as all consuming as before - and wouldn't have a productive summer.   Anyway, he had a horrible time adjusting the first two weeks of school this summer, but as of last week finally settled down and was doing well at school...although, of course, he's had to miss the last two days for being sick, which will probably throw him off again, but what are you gonna do?



Intellectually, he's doing just fine - fabulous, actually, which I think will always be the case.  He learns straight-forward, tangible facts, learns words and phrases and speech like nobody's business. His biggest issues are the classic autistic hurdles: social behavior, appropriate responses, adapting to routine changes, and communicating EMOTIONAL desires.  He's also struggling with explaining his desires.  



He can tell us he wants something or wants to do something, but really struggles explaining his motivations, which is frustrating - because he ALWAYS has a reason, but often cannot articulate it (not the words themselves, mind you - kid is a word/phrase memorizing savant, almost), cannot articulate the thoughts and emotions behind his desires, though he's improved a lot in this area.




Along those lines, we've applied for an Ipad grant from Itaalk, an organization that provides learning technology for autistic children, teens and adults.  Between now and December, Itaalk is giving away a free Ipad a day to autistic and teens that qualify.  One thing Zack seems to understand intuitively: computers and related devices, such as - believe it or not - blackberries and stuff like that.  He just KNOWS how to use them.  So we've developed a joint plan with his Speech Therapist at school for using an Ipad in his daily schedule, and submitted an application.  We'll see.  Would love to see how that could change things for him.




This post is verging on overlong, so I'll save part of it for next time, later this week or beginning of next week, maybe.  I'll drop some teasers, though: it involves Zack's love of trains and train layouts, my decision to get behind that just like we're getting behind Madi's love for horses, grant possibilities, maybe a Kick-Starter project, building a train room for Zack, and this article that totally flipped the initial switches in my head, and this snippet from it:  




"Trains are a very common special
interest among people with autism. If it's seen and treated as a
"perseveration" (as an inhibiting obsession, not as an interest), it's easy to be
worried about it.





But what if your son were an athlete,
spending every extra moment building football skills? How much would
you worry? What if he spent hours playing video-games with friends?
Most parents are less concerned about these types of "perseverations"
among typically developing kids - in part because these particular
interests are considered normal...."


Hmm....