Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 58
July 14, 2011
Sending Zack to Summer School, Adjustments
So Zack's back in school this week, and of course, we're going through a little readjustment period. He's been out of school for about two weeks, napping every day, staying up later at night, sleeping in (as much as he sleeps in), and not having to race around in the morning, getting ready for his summer bus.
He started back up school this Monday. No more nap, he falls asleep in the middle of his bedtime story every night because he's so worn out, and not only do we have to get him up and ready and fed for the school bus by 7:30 AM, he's now - because of his earlier bedtime - getting up at 5:30. At this rate, I'll be getting up at 2 AM just to get any decent writing done.
That's not the toughest part, though. The two toughest adjustments:
1. his acting out at home, because he's being told what to do all day and by the time he gets home, he's tired of it, which means LOTS of battles and head-butting at home
2. Abby and I convincing ourselves that he still needs summer school
The previous two summers, it wasn't so hard to see the need. So early in his progress, he clearly needed the intervention. That first summer, we were at our wits end dealing with him and were desperate. Last summer, he'd improved greatly, but very early into his summer break he regressed, so we knew he needed summer school.
This summer, it's been harder. He's come such a long way. Most of the time, he's fully interactive with others, very sunny and cheery, and he knows better how to actually play and occupy himself. His diction and language have improved immeasurably, and, unlike the previous two summers when I watched both of them at once, this year I don't feel trapped in the house. I'm able to work outside, even mow, without worrying that Zack will run mindlessly into the road or into the neighbor's yard.
But we still decided to send him to summer school.
Which is so hard. Because when we stop and think about it - if we let ourselves - our four year old boy hasn't had a summer off since before his second birthday. For a little over two years, he's attended school nearly year-round.
That's tough to take. He's energetic, loves to play, loves to be outside. Part of me - and Abby, I know - hurts to think that until the end of August, he'll spend the bulk of his time Monday through Friday sitting at a desk, being put through fairly rigorous learning tasks.
But, as much as this hurts to admit, he still needs it. His intellectual development is astounding. Though his speech is still very childlike, he's synthesizing words and phrases at an astonishing rate, using them very appropriately in context. He plays well with Madi most of the time. We can take him places publicly, even took him on an overnight trip to Niagara Falls this past weekend, and he was GOOD. Several months ago, we took him on a 12 hour road trip for a week to Michigan to visit family. We NEVER could've done that two years ago.
BUT.
He still acts out terriblly - completely out of proportion to the situation - when he doesn't get his way. He has NO CONCEPT of waiting, which seems like a normal four year old thing - but again, completely out of proportion to normal four year old behavior. He doesn't come and ask to do something, he just runs off and does it, again, not because he's rebelling - he doesn't understand the concept of "asking".
Though he's better at understanding some things hurt and are "dangerous" and staying away from those things...he still has some gaps. And, the worse, he still - especially when out of school - slips into that mindless, repetitive behavior - "stimming" - that is the hallmark of autistic children, and the more he does that, the worse his behavior is, and you can see him sliding into it, detaching from the rest of the world, which makes dinner times and other structured, "sit down" activities very burdensome.
We have great the perhaps soon in the future, Zack can spend the summer home, like a normal little boy. My greatest fear is that he'll suffer a kind of institutionalization, and only be happy and peaceful with high structure. But in the end, it's not about what I would like for him, but what's best for him, which is a tough call. Zack will always need more structure, more directives, more guidance than other kids, simply because of his behavior, for a long time.
And as everyone knows, doing the right thing is rarely the easy thing.
But we're committed. As a teacher, I've seen too many parents over the years chose easier paths, and I often wonder - were those paths easier for their kids? Or easier for them?
Because like anything else, parenting is NOT easy. Was never supposed to be. Because things worth doing never are.
He started back up school this Monday. No more nap, he falls asleep in the middle of his bedtime story every night because he's so worn out, and not only do we have to get him up and ready and fed for the school bus by 7:30 AM, he's now - because of his earlier bedtime - getting up at 5:30. At this rate, I'll be getting up at 2 AM just to get any decent writing done.
That's not the toughest part, though. The two toughest adjustments:
1. his acting out at home, because he's being told what to do all day and by the time he gets home, he's tired of it, which means LOTS of battles and head-butting at home
2. Abby and I convincing ourselves that he still needs summer school
The previous two summers, it wasn't so hard to see the need. So early in his progress, he clearly needed the intervention. That first summer, we were at our wits end dealing with him and were desperate. Last summer, he'd improved greatly, but very early into his summer break he regressed, so we knew he needed summer school.
This summer, it's been harder. He's come such a long way. Most of the time, he's fully interactive with others, very sunny and cheery, and he knows better how to actually play and occupy himself. His diction and language have improved immeasurably, and, unlike the previous two summers when I watched both of them at once, this year I don't feel trapped in the house. I'm able to work outside, even mow, without worrying that Zack will run mindlessly into the road or into the neighbor's yard.
But we still decided to send him to summer school.
Which is so hard. Because when we stop and think about it - if we let ourselves - our four year old boy hasn't had a summer off since before his second birthday. For a little over two years, he's attended school nearly year-round.
That's tough to take. He's energetic, loves to play, loves to be outside. Part of me - and Abby, I know - hurts to think that until the end of August, he'll spend the bulk of his time Monday through Friday sitting at a desk, being put through fairly rigorous learning tasks.
But, as much as this hurts to admit, he still needs it. His intellectual development is astounding. Though his speech is still very childlike, he's synthesizing words and phrases at an astonishing rate, using them very appropriately in context. He plays well with Madi most of the time. We can take him places publicly, even took him on an overnight trip to Niagara Falls this past weekend, and he was GOOD. Several months ago, we took him on a 12 hour road trip for a week to Michigan to visit family. We NEVER could've done that two years ago.
BUT.
He still acts out terriblly - completely out of proportion to the situation - when he doesn't get his way. He has NO CONCEPT of waiting, which seems like a normal four year old thing - but again, completely out of proportion to normal four year old behavior. He doesn't come and ask to do something, he just runs off and does it, again, not because he's rebelling - he doesn't understand the concept of "asking".
Though he's better at understanding some things hurt and are "dangerous" and staying away from those things...he still has some gaps. And, the worse, he still - especially when out of school - slips into that mindless, repetitive behavior - "stimming" - that is the hallmark of autistic children, and the more he does that, the worse his behavior is, and you can see him sliding into it, detaching from the rest of the world, which makes dinner times and other structured, "sit down" activities very burdensome.
We have great the perhaps soon in the future, Zack can spend the summer home, like a normal little boy. My greatest fear is that he'll suffer a kind of institutionalization, and only be happy and peaceful with high structure. But in the end, it's not about what I would like for him, but what's best for him, which is a tough call. Zack will always need more structure, more directives, more guidance than other kids, simply because of his behavior, for a long time.
And as everyone knows, doing the right thing is rarely the easy thing.
But we're committed. As a teacher, I've seen too many parents over the years chose easier paths, and I often wonder - were those paths easier for their kids? Or easier for them?
Because like anything else, parenting is NOT easy. Was never supposed to be. Because things worth doing never are.
July 12, 2011
So About That Writer Quitting Her Day Job For A...Er...Day Job...
Heads up to Alethea Kontis for this article about much acclaimed fantasy author, Steph Swainston, who has decided to leave her writing career behind in favor of a career teaching Chemistry. A sobering article indeed, especially for all those - like myself - in the hunt for that New York publishing deal.
Now, I've some thoughts about this, and like all my thoughts, they're to be taken with a grain of salt. Maybe not even that. And there's no snark intended here, but as one of those mentioned in the article who are:
(doubtless many teachers - that's ME!) spending their summers writing novels, with an eye on escaping the lesson plans and daily commute
I've some thoughts from the other side of the fence, thoughts of a fledgling writer who's been teaching - junior high and senior high - for almost eleven years now. And, before I continue, let me clarify: I don't entertain any illusions of writing full time. I've seen the toll it takes on friends and colleagues, and I'm not sure I want to go there.
Also, I've no dreams of ditching my teaching career in favor of a writing career. In fact, much to my surprise, over the last three years I've realized that my teaching job is the BEST thing I've got going in favor of a writing career, for the following reasons:
1. a forgiving daily schedule, 8-3, with plenty of holidays, snow days, and of course, summer vacation - very conducive to writing. And I think I may have written three stories that found publication during my library studyhall duty this past year...
2. my summer off frees me up for Con travel
3. I'm an English teacher - which is made of 'awesome'. During the year, I'm continually evaluating literature, the writing process, and always experiencing the classics anew
However, I'm a writer, first and foremost. Teaching is a great gig, but it's a gig. In a recent conversation, a friend said it was okay they hadn't written anything in awhile, because as long as they could keep teaching, their life was fulfilled. If they had to stop teaching...then life, as they knew it, would be over.
And I realized it's the opposite for me. I like teaching. Some days, I love it. But I could live without teaching, easily. But writing?
Not so much.
Anyway, my observations concerning Ms. Swainston's decision:
But – cautionary tale alert! – the writer's life isn't what it could be. For starters, packing in the day job can be a mistake. Swainston says: "Writers have to have something as well as writing, something which feeds back into their work and makes it meaningful." She references the 19th-century Scottish writer and reformer Samuel Smiles. "He said that if you are going to be an artist, you should have a job as well, so that you're not relying on your art to pay your bills."
Now that last I totally agree with. Why I'm very grateful for my teaching job. But this next...
If we don't have external influences ..." she pauses, "well, look at Stephen King. All his characters seem to be writers."
Okay, so maybe a little snark, but hopefully harmless. First, I really don't think that bothers Steve much. And it sure wouldn't bother me, if I were in his position. Second, it's a pretty sweeping statement. Yes, Steve King has written A LOT about writers. But he's written about far different characters, also.
"I suffer terribly from isolation while writing. I really need a job where I can be around people and learn to speak again. It's much, much healthier to be around people. Human beings are social animals."
Yeah. Hmmm. While I enjoy teaching and therefore enjoy my students, I'm also sorta hermitish. I figure all I need is my immediate family, my closest friends and my writer
friends (some folks belong in both those later two categories) my writing, and that's it. So maybe I just proved her right, actually, because teaching forces me out in the open with, y'know, other people and all.
And then there are the fans. I first met Swainston at the World Science Fiction Convention in Glasgow in 2005, when her star was ascendant. She was on a panel discussing the influence of drugs on the genre. (She was speaking from some experience, having once worked for a pharmaceutical company developing medicines from cannabis.) Afterwards, when I spoke to her, she seemed harassed, impatient. She felt that no one was really listening or engaging; that the fans simply wanted to outdo one other with namechecks of books and authors.
Again, hard to associate with this one, because I'm at the point where I'd just be happy for fans, period. However, I've seen fellow writers struggle with this also, (see this and this) so I can see how much of a burden this could be.
BUT, let me see: star-struck, shallow, intrusive fans versus pushy, presumptuous, arrogant, no boundary-why-can't-I-call-you-during-dinner-to-talk-about-my-child's-grade? stuck up, greedy and coddling 'my-child-would-never-fail-so-you-must-be-a-bad-teacher' parents?
Tough call.
"The internet is poison to authors."
This I agree with completely. I almost wish I could unplug entirely and give up the internet, but you almost CAN'T, anymore. Double kudos for this one.
but it's an author's job to write a book, not do the marketing. Just like celebrities don't make good authors, authors don't really make good celebrities."
Amen, sister.
She says: "I have to get back to real life again. It wasn't an easy decision, because it took a lot to get to the stage of being a published author. 1. But during my teacher training so far, I've dealt with so much – flooded schools, fire alarms going off, children being sick ..." And, after living in her own fantasy worlds for so long, it's this seeming mundanity that Swainston craves. That and "doing something meaningful with my life". But won't she miss the writing? "Chemistry feeds that sense of wonder that made me want to be a writer in the first place," she says . 2. "Besides, I've never said I won't write again, just that if I do write another book, I'll do it on my terms."
1. Problem is - and I'm sure she's wise enough to know this - teaching isn't just all these romantic things, at least not in the United States. It's also mindless bureaucracy dictated by academics who've hardly ever taught. Driven by buzzwords and new initiatives and state or local standards that have very little in common with actual learning. Lazy parents who expect teachers to teach not only content but also morality and values and basic life skills, and even lazier students who just don't give a rip.
It's poor funding. Or grant funding for stupid things that only result in wasted time and equipment.
It's faculty who don't get along and think their views on education are the only right ones.
It's lesson plans driven by buzzwords, state standards, and academics who've never taught.
Soooo....wait. Maybe not that different from publishing, after all. All on a five day a week work schedule.
2. Again, even though I've been lucky enough to enjoy a decent amount of freedom in my teaching gig, if she's looking to do things on her own terms, teaching is the last place she'll be able to do that, unless she lands at the perfect school with a perfect principal/superintendent, with perfect students.
Maybe teaching in the UK is a lot different than here, but as a teacher she'll work according to her principal, department chair, and superintendent's terms (see mindless bureaucracy), state standards, the lesson plans she's turned in, what her students allow her to do, their parents, etc...and don't forget a regular work day, which is kinda pesky, but I'm sure they'll have substitutes she can call in, too.
Now, I don't mean any snark or criticism. In fact, Ms. Swainston may very well be setting a model for future writers, even those published through New York - because she hasn't given up writing. Just as a full time career. And I can say that even if New York publishing does come knocking, I'm holding on to that day job.
And again, I've seen firsthand what the grind of writing full time can do to a person, turning a "dream comes true" into a "living nightmare". But, there's also lots of full time writers - several whom I also know personally - who've made it work for them.
In any case, it's liable to be different for everyone. Regardless, as Ms. Swainston says: "I have to get back to real life again." As a teacher, she'll get that, rest assured.
In spades. And then maybe a little fantasy world building might be needed just to cope with that reality...
Now, I've some thoughts about this, and like all my thoughts, they're to be taken with a grain of salt. Maybe not even that. And there's no snark intended here, but as one of those mentioned in the article who are:
(doubtless many teachers - that's ME!) spending their summers writing novels, with an eye on escaping the lesson plans and daily commute
I've some thoughts from the other side of the fence, thoughts of a fledgling writer who's been teaching - junior high and senior high - for almost eleven years now. And, before I continue, let me clarify: I don't entertain any illusions of writing full time. I've seen the toll it takes on friends and colleagues, and I'm not sure I want to go there.
Also, I've no dreams of ditching my teaching career in favor of a writing career. In fact, much to my surprise, over the last three years I've realized that my teaching job is the BEST thing I've got going in favor of a writing career, for the following reasons:
1. a forgiving daily schedule, 8-3, with plenty of holidays, snow days, and of course, summer vacation - very conducive to writing. And I think I may have written three stories that found publication during my library studyhall duty this past year...
2. my summer off frees me up for Con travel
3. I'm an English teacher - which is made of 'awesome'. During the year, I'm continually evaluating literature, the writing process, and always experiencing the classics anew
However, I'm a writer, first and foremost. Teaching is a great gig, but it's a gig. In a recent conversation, a friend said it was okay they hadn't written anything in awhile, because as long as they could keep teaching, their life was fulfilled. If they had to stop teaching...then life, as they knew it, would be over.
And I realized it's the opposite for me. I like teaching. Some days, I love it. But I could live without teaching, easily. But writing?
Not so much.
Anyway, my observations concerning Ms. Swainston's decision:
But – cautionary tale alert! – the writer's life isn't what it could be. For starters, packing in the day job can be a mistake. Swainston says: "Writers have to have something as well as writing, something which feeds back into their work and makes it meaningful." She references the 19th-century Scottish writer and reformer Samuel Smiles. "He said that if you are going to be an artist, you should have a job as well, so that you're not relying on your art to pay your bills."
Now that last I totally agree with. Why I'm very grateful for my teaching job. But this next...
If we don't have external influences ..." she pauses, "well, look at Stephen King. All his characters seem to be writers."
Okay, so maybe a little snark, but hopefully harmless. First, I really don't think that bothers Steve much. And it sure wouldn't bother me, if I were in his position. Second, it's a pretty sweeping statement. Yes, Steve King has written A LOT about writers. But he's written about far different characters, also.
"I suffer terribly from isolation while writing. I really need a job where I can be around people and learn to speak again. It's much, much healthier to be around people. Human beings are social animals."
Yeah. Hmmm. While I enjoy teaching and therefore enjoy my students, I'm also sorta hermitish. I figure all I need is my immediate family, my closest friends and my writer
friends (some folks belong in both those later two categories) my writing, and that's it. So maybe I just proved her right, actually, because teaching forces me out in the open with, y'know, other people and all.
And then there are the fans. I first met Swainston at the World Science Fiction Convention in Glasgow in 2005, when her star was ascendant. She was on a panel discussing the influence of drugs on the genre. (She was speaking from some experience, having once worked for a pharmaceutical company developing medicines from cannabis.) Afterwards, when I spoke to her, she seemed harassed, impatient. She felt that no one was really listening or engaging; that the fans simply wanted to outdo one other with namechecks of books and authors.
Again, hard to associate with this one, because I'm at the point where I'd just be happy for fans, period. However, I've seen fellow writers struggle with this also, (see this and this) so I can see how much of a burden this could be.
BUT, let me see: star-struck, shallow, intrusive fans versus pushy, presumptuous, arrogant, no boundary-why-can't-I-call-you-during-dinner-to-talk-about-my-child's-grade? stuck up, greedy and coddling 'my-child-would-never-fail-so-you-must-be-a-bad-teacher' parents?
Tough call.
"The internet is poison to authors."
This I agree with completely. I almost wish I could unplug entirely and give up the internet, but you almost CAN'T, anymore. Double kudos for this one.
but it's an author's job to write a book, not do the marketing. Just like celebrities don't make good authors, authors don't really make good celebrities."
Amen, sister.
She says: "I have to get back to real life again. It wasn't an easy decision, because it took a lot to get to the stage of being a published author. 1. But during my teacher training so far, I've dealt with so much – flooded schools, fire alarms going off, children being sick ..." And, after living in her own fantasy worlds for so long, it's this seeming mundanity that Swainston craves. That and "doing something meaningful with my life". But won't she miss the writing? "Chemistry feeds that sense of wonder that made me want to be a writer in the first place," she says . 2. "Besides, I've never said I won't write again, just that if I do write another book, I'll do it on my terms."
1. Problem is - and I'm sure she's wise enough to know this - teaching isn't just all these romantic things, at least not in the United States. It's also mindless bureaucracy dictated by academics who've hardly ever taught. Driven by buzzwords and new initiatives and state or local standards that have very little in common with actual learning. Lazy parents who expect teachers to teach not only content but also morality and values and basic life skills, and even lazier students who just don't give a rip.
It's poor funding. Or grant funding for stupid things that only result in wasted time and equipment.
It's faculty who don't get along and think their views on education are the only right ones.
It's lesson plans driven by buzzwords, state standards, and academics who've never taught.
Soooo....wait. Maybe not that different from publishing, after all. All on a five day a week work schedule.
2. Again, even though I've been lucky enough to enjoy a decent amount of freedom in my teaching gig, if she's looking to do things on her own terms, teaching is the last place she'll be able to do that, unless she lands at the perfect school with a perfect principal/superintendent, with perfect students.
Maybe teaching in the UK is a lot different than here, but as a teacher she'll work according to her principal, department chair, and superintendent's terms (see mindless bureaucracy), state standards, the lesson plans she's turned in, what her students allow her to do, their parents, etc...and don't forget a regular work day, which is kinda pesky, but I'm sure they'll have substitutes she can call in, too.
Now, I don't mean any snark or criticism. In fact, Ms. Swainston may very well be setting a model for future writers, even those published through New York - because she hasn't given up writing. Just as a full time career. And I can say that even if New York publishing does come knocking, I'm holding on to that day job.
And again, I've seen firsthand what the grind of writing full time can do to a person, turning a "dream comes true" into a "living nightmare". But, there's also lots of full time writers - several whom I also know personally - who've made it work for them.
In any case, it's liable to be different for everyone. Regardless, as Ms. Swainston says: "I have to get back to real life again." As a teacher, she'll get that, rest assured.
In spades. And then maybe a little fantasy world building might be needed just to cope with that reality...
July 5, 2011
LIke I Really Know What I'm Doing, Here...
(not proof-read, because in a hurry. Apologize for typos...)
The learning curve since getting serious about writing has been an odd, strange one. Almost contradictory, in that I began this journey not knowing a thing, my head filled with tons of preconceived notions courtesy of other folks who knew as little as I did but thought they knew more.
A year in, after reading Stephen King's On Writing , I acknowledged a lot of the wrong-headed ideas I had about writing, realized I'd focused completely on writing that bestselling novel, instead of focusing on the most important thing: writing itself. I trashed the novel I'd been working on for 6+, just focused on writing whatever I could: articles, reviews, blogs, experimented with short stories, even poetry.
Then, a small splash of success with the publication of a few decent short stories (I say decent, because I cringe when I think of them now. Some desperately need to be re-written, others trashed completely). I enrolled in my MA in Creative Writing, attended two consequential years of Borderlands Press Writers Bootcamp, (invaluable!), wrote a novella that lots of people seemed to like and even garnered a bunch of Stoker Recommendations (not nominated, though - but considering the competition, it was an honor just to receive recommendations), and figured I'd ARRIVED.
I had a plan, man. I was going to conquer the market, be a real prolific short story writer, publish my novel through the small press market first before pitching it to Leisure (well, we know what happened there...), and climb my way up the ladder.
Then, the short story rejections started coming.
And coming.
And....still coming. Made it to lots of final cuts...but the rejections still kept coming.
Then I read a blog by Nick Mamatas that really slapped me upside the face, about WHY one should write short stories. He listed several of the WRONG reasons: the get exposure, to gain street cred, to practice writing the novel (which makes no sense, as Nick pointed out, being two COMPLETELY different forms, but I'd been doing that anyway), to make money (BWAHAHAHAHAHA!), and listed one write reason only: BECAUSE YOU LOVE READING SHORT STORIES AND HAVE TO WRITE SHORT STORIES BECAUSE YOU LOVE WRITING SHORT STORIES.
That's when my plan started to unravel. I'd been buying issues of Cemetery Dance, buying collections of short stories, trying "analyze" them, pick them apart, see what made them the "professional rate" stories they were, not considering the entire time how wrong-headed I was being about the whole thing. I was writing short stories for exactly all the wrong reasons, a listed by Nick.
That's when the stoppage began.
It continued when, after reading and reviewing lots of novels that claimed to the "best thing ever", I realized that most small press novels were - gasp! - not very good. At ALL.
Then, I turned a corner when I turned down some short story solicitations from pretty respectable people and publishers. They just weren't stories that I WANTED to write. However, on the flip side - after deciding to stop writing short stories indefinitely - I blasted out two short stories that I loved, because - well, not to be redundant - these short stories embodied truths and values and heart that I WANTED to write about. Had to write about.
So then, I modified my stance on writing short stories, in that I would only write what I loved, write what moved me inside, emotional and dare I say spiritually.
Then, I had what I consider to be several game-changing experiences - one, a night out with Tom Montelone and Paul Wilson - the other, the continuing work I'm putting before a New York publishing house acquisition editor. The former convinced me - nay, convicted me - how weak a genre foundation I had. The later convinced me that my "climb up the ladder from the bottom was wrong", that I should be aiming for the top, and moving down.
So, where does that leave me?
I have no stinking idea.
There's no one road map to publishing. Anyone who says that is either lying, or wrong-headed like I was. I've traveled along this learning curve, learning and UNLEARNING almost everything, and I've come to this place, where I know only these things:
1. I absolutely love to read, and have become committed to reading only the masters of the genre - the ones I already know and love, and the ones I've yet to discover, those who went before us.
2. I absolutely love to write, can't live without writing - but....DAMMIT...I have to get up at 3 AM every morning to do it. Publishing is in complete upheaval. The days of huge contracts writers could live on may be past. Writing for $$ is kinda ludicrous. If I'm getting up at 3AM to write, it'll be to write what I LOVE and BELIEVE, and that's it.
3. Did I mention that I loved to read and write, and besides being with my wife and kids, that's all I really want to do?
4. I'll wait and be patient. I will not rush. If I never publish at a level that meets my standards, then...I'll never publish. Period.
5. And, like it or not...there are things I can do, decisions I can make that will influence the outcome of this, but ultimately...my fate is out of my hands.
And....that's it. I've no idea where this thing is going. I've taken all my presumptuous road maps and tossed them. All I've got is the above 4 things.
And I'm fine with that.
The learning curve since getting serious about writing has been an odd, strange one. Almost contradictory, in that I began this journey not knowing a thing, my head filled with tons of preconceived notions courtesy of other folks who knew as little as I did but thought they knew more.
A year in, after reading Stephen King's On Writing , I acknowledged a lot of the wrong-headed ideas I had about writing, realized I'd focused completely on writing that bestselling novel, instead of focusing on the most important thing: writing itself. I trashed the novel I'd been working on for 6+, just focused on writing whatever I could: articles, reviews, blogs, experimented with short stories, even poetry.
Then, a small splash of success with the publication of a few decent short stories (I say decent, because I cringe when I think of them now. Some desperately need to be re-written, others trashed completely). I enrolled in my MA in Creative Writing, attended two consequential years of Borderlands Press Writers Bootcamp, (invaluable!), wrote a novella that lots of people seemed to like and even garnered a bunch of Stoker Recommendations (not nominated, though - but considering the competition, it was an honor just to receive recommendations), and figured I'd ARRIVED.
I had a plan, man. I was going to conquer the market, be a real prolific short story writer, publish my novel through the small press market first before pitching it to Leisure (well, we know what happened there...), and climb my way up the ladder.
Then, the short story rejections started coming.
And coming.
And....still coming. Made it to lots of final cuts...but the rejections still kept coming.
Then I read a blog by Nick Mamatas that really slapped me upside the face, about WHY one should write short stories. He listed several of the WRONG reasons: the get exposure, to gain street cred, to practice writing the novel (which makes no sense, as Nick pointed out, being two COMPLETELY different forms, but I'd been doing that anyway), to make money (BWAHAHAHAHAHA!), and listed one write reason only: BECAUSE YOU LOVE READING SHORT STORIES AND HAVE TO WRITE SHORT STORIES BECAUSE YOU LOVE WRITING SHORT STORIES.
That's when my plan started to unravel. I'd been buying issues of Cemetery Dance, buying collections of short stories, trying "analyze" them, pick them apart, see what made them the "professional rate" stories they were, not considering the entire time how wrong-headed I was being about the whole thing. I was writing short stories for exactly all the wrong reasons, a listed by Nick.
That's when the stoppage began.
It continued when, after reading and reviewing lots of novels that claimed to the "best thing ever", I realized that most small press novels were - gasp! - not very good. At ALL.
Then, I turned a corner when I turned down some short story solicitations from pretty respectable people and publishers. They just weren't stories that I WANTED to write. However, on the flip side - after deciding to stop writing short stories indefinitely - I blasted out two short stories that I loved, because - well, not to be redundant - these short stories embodied truths and values and heart that I WANTED to write about. Had to write about.
So then, I modified my stance on writing short stories, in that I would only write what I loved, write what moved me inside, emotional and dare I say spiritually.
Then, I had what I consider to be several game-changing experiences - one, a night out with Tom Montelone and Paul Wilson - the other, the continuing work I'm putting before a New York publishing house acquisition editor. The former convinced me - nay, convicted me - how weak a genre foundation I had. The later convinced me that my "climb up the ladder from the bottom was wrong", that I should be aiming for the top, and moving down.
So, where does that leave me?
I have no stinking idea.
There's no one road map to publishing. Anyone who says that is either lying, or wrong-headed like I was. I've traveled along this learning curve, learning and UNLEARNING almost everything, and I've come to this place, where I know only these things:
1. I absolutely love to read, and have become committed to reading only the masters of the genre - the ones I already know and love, and the ones I've yet to discover, those who went before us.
2. I absolutely love to write, can't live without writing - but....DAMMIT...I have to get up at 3 AM every morning to do it. Publishing is in complete upheaval. The days of huge contracts writers could live on may be past. Writing for $$ is kinda ludicrous. If I'm getting up at 3AM to write, it'll be to write what I LOVE and BELIEVE, and that's it.
3. Did I mention that I loved to read and write, and besides being with my wife and kids, that's all I really want to do?
4. I'll wait and be patient. I will not rush. If I never publish at a level that meets my standards, then...I'll never publish. Period.
5. And, like it or not...there are things I can do, decisions I can make that will influence the outcome of this, but ultimately...my fate is out of my hands.
And....that's it. I've no idea where this thing is going. I've taken all my presumptuous road maps and tossed them. All I've got is the above 4 things.
And I'm fine with that.
June 30, 2011
Bring Hiram Grange to a Library Near You
For the last year or so, I've pimped my work every now and then, especially my first ever piece of solo work, Hiram Grange & The Chosen One, Book Four of Shroud Publishing's Hiram Grange Chronicles. A bunch of new folks have followed this blog recently, it seems, so here's a recap of the The Hiram Grange Chronicles, my title, and a blurb or two about it:
The Hiram Grange Chronicles:
The scandalous misadventures of scurrilous boozer and malcontent, Hiram Grange - though afflicted with a laundry list of dysfunctions, addictions and odd predilections, Hiram Grange stands toe to toe (and sometimes toe to tentacle) with the black-hearted denizens of the Abyss and dispenses justice with the help of his antiquated Webley revolver and Pritchard bayonet.
A five-part series. Cover and illustrations by Malcolm McClinton, and original relief prints by Danny Evarts.
Hiram Grange & The Chosen One:
Hiram Grange doesn't believe in fate. He makes his own destiny. That's a good thing, because Queen Mab of Faerie has foreseen the destruction of the world, and as usual … it's all Hiram's fault. He must choose: kill an innocent girl and save the universe … or rescue her and watch all else burn. Just another day on the job for Hiram Grange.
"HIRAM GRANGE & THE CHOSEN ONE moves fast, fun, and furious...I couldn't put it down! If you've always thirsted for James Bond to have a serving of Lovecraft....you'll eat this one up!"
- John Everson, Bram Stoker Award Winning Author of COVENANT
"Brilliantly paced and with very few moments for the reader to stop and catch their breath, Hiram Grange and the Chosen One is an adrenaline drenched jaunt through the realms of horror, fantasy and dark humor. Violence and gore abound, presented expertly by Lucia in a way that not only shows his raw talent, but the ruggedness of Hiram's character as well."
Apex Publications
So, I've been pretty happy with how things have gone with Hiram - he was fun to write, people seem to enjoy what I did with him, and it got some good reviews. Plus, I now have something that's mine alone to bring with me to Cons, something that at least proves I don't suck.
But, I have been tapering off my pimping of Hiram. Not because I'm in any way ashamed of what I've written, but I do want to move on and concentrate on other things, and not beat a dead horse. It's been reviewed in a bunch of places, I've done some interviews, ran a blog tour on it, done a Goodreads Giveaway, (which I may do again next year, regardless), and had a local signing or two. And, if a random review pops up, I'll be sure to share it here. But, I'd like to move on.
Except for one thing.
In the fall, a pleasant surprise - I learned several friends and family were able to order Hiram Grange & The Chosen One through their local libraries. I thought about blogging something along those lines, but at the time the Blog Tour was running full swing, and I didn't want to overdo it. But now, as summer begins, I thought this might be a nice last push/pimping of Hiram Grange & The Chosen One, to be ordered through your local library.
Now, I won't make any money on this deal, and Shroud will only break even, because of their library/school discounts. So why do it? Because how many authors did I first encounter in a library, authors I now adore and ended up following? Would be cool to collect a few readers that way. Plus, while a lot of huge college universities and big city libraries are digitizing into ebook collections only, your basic moderate-sized/small town library still does the paper thing.
Plus, most libraries purchase their books through a variety of public, state and federal funding, and have budgets allotted for member requests. In some of the better funded libraries, they offer that as part of their service to the public: to order and stock requested titles. SO, here's what you do:
1. first, you must be a member of your local library. If you aren't, usually - almost always - membership is free. SO JOIN UP!
2. second, almost every library has a request system, either online at their website, or in person. They'll need the following info:
Hiram Grange & The Chosen One, by Kevin Lucia
Paperback: 178 pagesPublisher: Shroud Publishing, LLC (May 22, 2010)Language: EnglishISBN-10: 098272750XISBN-13: 978-0982727508Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 5.9 x 0.6 inches 3. That should be about it. If the library near you has the funds and can, they'll order it for their collection. And remember, your reason should be because "you'd like to read it as a library selection" or something along those lines.
4. What would be even more awesome? Ask your library to order the whole series:
Hiram Grange & The Village of the Damned, by Jake Burrows
Paperback: 144 pagesPublisher: Shroud Publishing LLC (November 23, 2009)Language: EnglishISBN-10: 0981989454ISBN-13: 978-0981989457Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 6 x 0.5 inches Hiram Grange & The Twelve Little Hitlers, by Scott Christian Carr
Paperback: 142 pagesPublisher: Shroud Publishing LLC (December 29, 2009)Language: EnglishISBN-10: 0981989462ISBN-13: 978-0981989464Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 5.9 x 0.4 inches Hiram Grange & The Digital Eucharist, by Rob Davies
Paperback: 120 pagesPublisher: Shroud Publishing, LLC (April 22, 2010)Language: EnglishISBN-10: 0981989497ISBN-13: 978-0981989495Product Dimensions: 9 x 5.9 x 0.4 inches Hiram Grange & The Nymphs of Krakow, by Richard Wright
Paperback: 110 pagesPublisher: Shroud Publishing, LLC (July 24, 2010)Language: EnglishISBN-10: 0982727518ISBN-13: 978-0982727515Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 5.9 x 0.4 inches And that's it.
So please. Go forth. Bring Hiram Grange to a library near you!
The Hiram Grange Chronicles:
The scandalous misadventures of scurrilous boozer and malcontent, Hiram Grange - though afflicted with a laundry list of dysfunctions, addictions and odd predilections, Hiram Grange stands toe to toe (and sometimes toe to tentacle) with the black-hearted denizens of the Abyss and dispenses justice with the help of his antiquated Webley revolver and Pritchard bayonet.
A five-part series. Cover and illustrations by Malcolm McClinton, and original relief prints by Danny Evarts.
Hiram Grange & The Chosen One:Hiram Grange doesn't believe in fate. He makes his own destiny. That's a good thing, because Queen Mab of Faerie has foreseen the destruction of the world, and as usual … it's all Hiram's fault. He must choose: kill an innocent girl and save the universe … or rescue her and watch all else burn. Just another day on the job for Hiram Grange.
"HIRAM GRANGE & THE CHOSEN ONE moves fast, fun, and furious...I couldn't put it down! If you've always thirsted for James Bond to have a serving of Lovecraft....you'll eat this one up!"
- John Everson, Bram Stoker Award Winning Author of COVENANT
"Brilliantly paced and with very few moments for the reader to stop and catch their breath, Hiram Grange and the Chosen One is an adrenaline drenched jaunt through the realms of horror, fantasy and dark humor. Violence and gore abound, presented expertly by Lucia in a way that not only shows his raw talent, but the ruggedness of Hiram's character as well."
Apex Publications
So, I've been pretty happy with how things have gone with Hiram - he was fun to write, people seem to enjoy what I did with him, and it got some good reviews. Plus, I now have something that's mine alone to bring with me to Cons, something that at least proves I don't suck.
But, I have been tapering off my pimping of Hiram. Not because I'm in any way ashamed of what I've written, but I do want to move on and concentrate on other things, and not beat a dead horse. It's been reviewed in a bunch of places, I've done some interviews, ran a blog tour on it, done a Goodreads Giveaway, (which I may do again next year, regardless), and had a local signing or two. And, if a random review pops up, I'll be sure to share it here. But, I'd like to move on.
Except for one thing.
In the fall, a pleasant surprise - I learned several friends and family were able to order Hiram Grange & The Chosen One through their local libraries. I thought about blogging something along those lines, but at the time the Blog Tour was running full swing, and I didn't want to overdo it. But now, as summer begins, I thought this might be a nice last push/pimping of Hiram Grange & The Chosen One, to be ordered through your local library.
Now, I won't make any money on this deal, and Shroud will only break even, because of their library/school discounts. So why do it? Because how many authors did I first encounter in a library, authors I now adore and ended up following? Would be cool to collect a few readers that way. Plus, while a lot of huge college universities and big city libraries are digitizing into ebook collections only, your basic moderate-sized/small town library still does the paper thing.
Plus, most libraries purchase their books through a variety of public, state and federal funding, and have budgets allotted for member requests. In some of the better funded libraries, they offer that as part of their service to the public: to order and stock requested titles. SO, here's what you do:
1. first, you must be a member of your local library. If you aren't, usually - almost always - membership is free. SO JOIN UP!
2. second, almost every library has a request system, either online at their website, or in person. They'll need the following info:
Hiram Grange & The Chosen One, by Kevin Lucia
Paperback: 178 pagesPublisher: Shroud Publishing, LLC (May 22, 2010)Language: EnglishISBN-10: 098272750XISBN-13: 978-0982727508Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 5.9 x 0.6 inches 3. That should be about it. If the library near you has the funds and can, they'll order it for their collection. And remember, your reason should be because "you'd like to read it as a library selection" or something along those lines.
4. What would be even more awesome? Ask your library to order the whole series:
Hiram Grange & The Village of the Damned, by Jake Burrows
Paperback: 144 pagesPublisher: Shroud Publishing LLC (November 23, 2009)Language: EnglishISBN-10: 0981989454ISBN-13: 978-0981989457Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 6 x 0.5 inches Hiram Grange & The Twelve Little Hitlers, by Scott Christian Carr
Paperback: 142 pagesPublisher: Shroud Publishing LLC (December 29, 2009)Language: EnglishISBN-10: 0981989462ISBN-13: 978-0981989464Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 5.9 x 0.4 inches Hiram Grange & The Digital Eucharist, by Rob Davies
Paperback: 120 pagesPublisher: Shroud Publishing, LLC (April 22, 2010)Language: EnglishISBN-10: 0981989497ISBN-13: 978-0981989495Product Dimensions: 9 x 5.9 x 0.4 inches Hiram Grange & The Nymphs of Krakow, by Richard Wright
Paperback: 110 pagesPublisher: Shroud Publishing, LLC (July 24, 2010)Language: EnglishISBN-10: 0982727518ISBN-13: 978-0982727515Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 5.9 x 0.4 inches And that's it.
So please. Go forth. Bring Hiram Grange to a library near you!
June 27, 2011
The Kinds of Friends Stories Are Written About
I don't think it's ironic or a coincidence that for the very first story I ever tried - a high school sports drama, written my senior year of high school in a Spiral Mead notebook - I used all my friends at the time as characters.
I was very clever in this, of course. I used all their real first names, but gave them TOTALLY fake last names, except sometimes I'd use the real first letter of their real last names for their fake last names as a fun hint to them when they read it someday, after it was of course published and turned into a worldwide bestselling teen sports drama about a high school basketball player who helps his small country high school team win the state championship, while winning his ex-girlfriend back, and of course helping his best friend overcome the impending divorce of his parents. And also he helps a new, arrogant transfer - who has a gritty past, abused by an alcoholic father - understand the value of teamwork and friendship along the way.
Okay, stop laughing. At the time, I was ardently following the most basic rule given every new writer, whether it's a good rule or not: write what you know. As a typical high school senior who lived, breathed, and ate basketball, I wrote what I knew.
My freshman and sophomore years in college, I channeled my budding love of Sci Fi and embarked on a very cliqued, overdone and ham-handed science fiction/space opera epic. This was my second novel, Part One of an epic new trilogy destined to be dubbed the "next Star Wars and Star Trek, all rolled into one!" (which should give you some hints as to its quality). It weighed in at a hefty 186,000 words, and took me three years to write.
Again, I wrote my friends in as all the main characters, only this time I was even cleverer. Instead of using their real first names, I just the used the first letter of their real first names, or in some cases didn't use their names at all, just used their physical traits: height, weight, hair color; and their personality traits.
After this manuscript received nothing but rejection letters when I sent it out my junior and senior years of college (a lot more major sci fi publishers accepted unsolicited manuscripts back then), I eventually abandoned science fiction when I discovered Stephen King's The Gunslinger.
Around that time, my friends and I (a somewhat new group of friends, but the same that exists today) had this experience, so I embarked upon my third unpublished novel, this time influenced by something my friends and I did (although this can only be called half a novel, because I spent the next six years rewriting the first half).
Eventually, I wrote this illustrated short story (original published in Morpheus Tales, Issue #1) and a piece of flash fiction entitled "Old Bassler House" for the anthology Northern Haunts.
And I then I stopped writing about my friends and our experiences. I came to the decision that I was too close to the matter, realizing a REALLY good rule, as phrased by award winning author Gary Braunbeck: "Fiction doesn't give a damn how it really happened ."
I wasn't so much trying to transcribe actual events into fiction, but was definitely trying to construct fictive doppelgangers of all my best friends, exact duplicates that didn't really serve the stories well, or correspond to reality very well, either. They were idealized constructs that were cliqued and also not very interesting to read about.
Every writer has a specific hurdle to clear as they develop, and this was (still is) mine. I've always been a sucker for those "buddy, coming of age" books - It, by Stephen King, Boy's Life, by Robert McCammon, Stand By Me (based on the novella The Body, by Stephen King).
And, over the years, in trying to write about them (my friends) I've had to face the reality that I've idealized our friendship a little, while also facing the reality that slowly, inexorably, life has pulled us apart in very normal, mundane ways.
Five of the old gang met this weekend to celebrate the marriage of our last single guy. Took in a Yankees game in the city, went to dinner, hung out on a back porch and told stories. We all started hanging out the summer of 1993, I believe, after my freshman year in college.
As these things usually happen, we all met by apparent chance: my best friend at the time started dating this girl who had two brothers. So naturally, we started hanging out and traveling in groups. He and this girl and one of her brothers and another friend - from two different schools - ran track together on their schools' combined track team.
My friend's girlfriend's grandmother owned a cabin on a lake in Cooperstown, New York, and we probably spent every weekend or every other weekend for two summers up there, me a little less so because I lived farther away, and also played basketball for Broome Community College, so I had my own group of hoops buddies I split time with.
This lasted for several years. Ancillary friends came and went, but the core remained. My then best friend eventually broke up with his girlfriend, but by then our joint friendship had grown beyond that. Even after folks started going their own separate ways - college, then work and their grown-up lives: one to Maryland, another to South Carolina and back again, one to Potsdam, then Albany, the sister eventually to Long Island when she married - we did our best to stay connected.
We've all grown and changed. A lot. And I've come to realize that, much as I dreamed when I started writing about my friends long ago, we weren't like the "losers club" from It or that small band of boys who embarked on a quest for manhood in The Stand. But still, they were so much better in very real ways, and I've never, ever regretted a moment spent with these guys (and gals).
And I should clarify: I was never the center of attention (not by design, anyway). Most of the time, I just enjoyed being with them. Fitting in. Having someone to talk to. I watched and observed them a lot. Was a willing conspirator in tons of hi-jinks, but I can't say the planner or leader of our escapades. But again, that concept is only one thing I'd idealized. We had - have - no "leader of the gang". We simply were and are, and that's good enough.
Our last number is getting married in a week. More separations. Divisions. Just Time doing it's thing. But hopefully we'll make the effort to stay connected, because now we've got tons of great things to add to the mix: new spouses, kids, new friends.
And of course, I'm finally working on "that book" about "that house in the woods". My friends are only shadows in this one, but hopefully I'll work up to that "buddy book" soon enough. Until then, I have my friends - as far apart as we've grown - and that's enough for me.
I was very clever in this, of course. I used all their real first names, but gave them TOTALLY fake last names, except sometimes I'd use the real first letter of their real last names for their fake last names as a fun hint to them when they read it someday, after it was of course published and turned into a worldwide bestselling teen sports drama about a high school basketball player who helps his small country high school team win the state championship, while winning his ex-girlfriend back, and of course helping his best friend overcome the impending divorce of his parents. And also he helps a new, arrogant transfer - who has a gritty past, abused by an alcoholic father - understand the value of teamwork and friendship along the way.
Okay, stop laughing. At the time, I was ardently following the most basic rule given every new writer, whether it's a good rule or not: write what you know. As a typical high school senior who lived, breathed, and ate basketball, I wrote what I knew.
My freshman and sophomore years in college, I channeled my budding love of Sci Fi and embarked on a very cliqued, overdone and ham-handed science fiction/space opera epic. This was my second novel, Part One of an epic new trilogy destined to be dubbed the "next Star Wars and Star Trek, all rolled into one!" (which should give you some hints as to its quality). It weighed in at a hefty 186,000 words, and took me three years to write.
Again, I wrote my friends in as all the main characters, only this time I was even cleverer. Instead of using their real first names, I just the used the first letter of their real first names, or in some cases didn't use their names at all, just used their physical traits: height, weight, hair color; and their personality traits.
After this manuscript received nothing but rejection letters when I sent it out my junior and senior years of college (a lot more major sci fi publishers accepted unsolicited manuscripts back then), I eventually abandoned science fiction when I discovered Stephen King's The Gunslinger.
Around that time, my friends and I (a somewhat new group of friends, but the same that exists today) had this experience, so I embarked upon my third unpublished novel, this time influenced by something my friends and I did (although this can only be called half a novel, because I spent the next six years rewriting the first half).
Eventually, I wrote this illustrated short story (original published in Morpheus Tales, Issue #1) and a piece of flash fiction entitled "Old Bassler House" for the anthology Northern Haunts.
And I then I stopped writing about my friends and our experiences. I came to the decision that I was too close to the matter, realizing a REALLY good rule, as phrased by award winning author Gary Braunbeck: "Fiction doesn't give a damn how it really happened ."
I wasn't so much trying to transcribe actual events into fiction, but was definitely trying to construct fictive doppelgangers of all my best friends, exact duplicates that didn't really serve the stories well, or correspond to reality very well, either. They were idealized constructs that were cliqued and also not very interesting to read about.
Every writer has a specific hurdle to clear as they develop, and this was (still is) mine. I've always been a sucker for those "buddy, coming of age" books - It, by Stephen King, Boy's Life, by Robert McCammon, Stand By Me (based on the novella The Body, by Stephen King). 
And, over the years, in trying to write about them (my friends) I've had to face the reality that I've idealized our friendship a little, while also facing the reality that slowly, inexorably, life has pulled us apart in very normal, mundane ways.Five of the old gang met this weekend to celebrate the marriage of our last single guy. Took in a Yankees game in the city, went to dinner, hung out on a back porch and told stories. We all started hanging out the summer of 1993, I believe, after my freshman year in college.
As these things usually happen, we all met by apparent chance: my best friend at the time started dating this girl who had two brothers. So naturally, we started hanging out and traveling in groups. He and this girl and one of her brothers and another friend - from two different schools - ran track together on their schools' combined track team.
My friend's girlfriend's grandmother owned a cabin on a lake in Cooperstown, New York, and we probably spent every weekend or every other weekend for two summers up there, me a little less so because I lived farther away, and also played basketball for Broome Community College, so I had my own group of hoops buddies I split time with.
This lasted for several years. Ancillary friends came and went, but the core remained. My then best friend eventually broke up with his girlfriend, but by then our joint friendship had grown beyond that. Even after folks started going their own separate ways - college, then work and their grown-up lives: one to Maryland, another to South Carolina and back again, one to Potsdam, then Albany, the sister eventually to Long Island when she married - we did our best to stay connected.
We've all grown and changed. A lot. And I've come to realize that, much as I dreamed when I started writing about my friends long ago, we weren't like the "losers club" from It or that small band of boys who embarked on a quest for manhood in The Stand. But still, they were so much better in very real ways, and I've never, ever regretted a moment spent with these guys (and gals).
And I should clarify: I was never the center of attention (not by design, anyway). Most of the time, I just enjoyed being with them. Fitting in. Having someone to talk to. I watched and observed them a lot. Was a willing conspirator in tons of hi-jinks, but I can't say the planner or leader of our escapades. But again, that concept is only one thing I'd idealized. We had - have - no "leader of the gang". We simply were and are, and that's good enough.
Our last number is getting married in a week. More separations. Divisions. Just Time doing it's thing. But hopefully we'll make the effort to stay connected, because now we've got tons of great things to add to the mix: new spouses, kids, new friends.
And of course, I'm finally working on "that book" about "that house in the woods". My friends are only shadows in this one, but hopefully I'll work up to that "buddy book" soon enough. Until then, I have my friends - as far apart as we've grown - and that's enough for me.
June 25, 2011
What It's All About
On a road trip to hang with some friends today. Blog about that, later. But for those who aren't on Facebook but only follow this blog or follow me on Twitter:
Teaching is one of those day-to-day things. You measure success in increments. Bits and pieces. Sometimes it feels like you've been dropped behind enemy lines, alone in the trenches, with no backup or support. Sometimes it feels like you're on top of the world, the best thing since chocolate ice cream. Unfortunately, that feeling never lasts very long and before you know it, you're slogging through trenches filled with buzz-words and state mandates and bureaucratic nonsense once again.
It's a roller coaster ride. Mean and vicious, up and down, and things have changed. A lot. In both education and in teens. I can say this: teaching ain't all Dead Poets Society or Mr. Holland's Opus. Lots of times, it feels more like Platoon, and you're Willem Dafoe, just trying to make it to that chopper before getting cut down, and you never, ever make it (and hey - that's a lot like being a writer. A writer AND a teacher? What am I, sadistic?)
Anyway, you have to treasure the little moments. To not worry about the hundreds of students who didn't listen or read or take to heart anything you said, or the ones who will forget you as soon as they've tossed their caps into the air. You have to remember and hold on to the one or two you think you impacted, because that's the only way to survive.
Fellow teacher, left - middle, future author - right, me.
Because that's what it's all about. Not the dreams of being Robin Williams carried on the shoulders of a bunch a prep-students, or Richard Dreyfuss adored by hundreds. It's about that one student who remembers you, and says "Thank you."
Teaching is one of those day-to-day things. You measure success in increments. Bits and pieces. Sometimes it feels like you've been dropped behind enemy lines, alone in the trenches, with no backup or support. Sometimes it feels like you're on top of the world, the best thing since chocolate ice cream. Unfortunately, that feeling never lasts very long and before you know it, you're slogging through trenches filled with buzz-words and state mandates and bureaucratic nonsense once again.
It's a roller coaster ride. Mean and vicious, up and down, and things have changed. A lot. In both education and in teens. I can say this: teaching ain't all Dead Poets Society or Mr. Holland's Opus. Lots of times, it feels more like Platoon, and you're Willem Dafoe, just trying to make it to that chopper before getting cut down, and you never, ever make it (and hey - that's a lot like being a writer. A writer AND a teacher? What am I, sadistic?)
Anyway, you have to treasure the little moments. To not worry about the hundreds of students who didn't listen or read or take to heart anything you said, or the ones who will forget you as soon as they've tossed their caps into the air. You have to remember and hold on to the one or two you think you impacted, because that's the only way to survive.
Fellow teacher, left - middle, future author - right, me.Because that's what it's all about. Not the dreams of being Robin Williams carried on the shoulders of a bunch a prep-students, or Richard Dreyfuss adored by hundreds. It's about that one student who remembers you, and says "Thank you."
June 24, 2011
The End of School is Here
So we've made it to the end of another school year. You'd think that as a teacher, I'd be turning handsprings, throwing my hands into the air, singing my heart out to the heavens. And believe me, this coming Monday, when I'm either writing at Barnes & Noble, enjoying a cool Mocha Frappe or writing in the delightfully hushed silence of the library at my Alma mater, Broome Community College (where almost all of
Hiram Grange & The Chosen One
was written), I'll be quietly ecstatic, believe you me. But today?
Not so much.
See, the last day I'm at school always feels so eerie. The halls, empty. Barren. Lockers hanging open, desks pushed out into hallways and piled up, rooms stripped and bare of ANYTHING giving them an ounce of personality. Grades have been calculated, everything done except keys being turned it, the year is over. Which, as I said, will be a huge relief on Monday. But right now?
It almost feels....empty.
Because everything's done. Gone.
Vanished.
In my mind, the halls should still be clogged with all the traumas and drama and hopes and fears and frustrations and plans and dreams that these students carry with them every day. Where are all the students I've nodded to on a daily basis, the ones who've offered friendly smiles, exuberant greetings, casual nods, grunts, or even eye rolls?
They're gone. And they won't be back, ever again. Because over the summer they'll change. Grow. Become someone different, and therefore, new. When graduation ends tonight, the official "wrap!" will be called on the 2011 - 2012 school year, and it can never be recaptured or touched, ever again.
I once acted in our school's production of Romeo & Juliet, as Prince Escalus. Through three weeks of quite arduous rehearsal, (for me, anyway), which left me often napping on my throne, I really kinda wanted it to be over. After the thrill of our first showing wore off and the adrenaline rush of the Saturday night showing faded and we were working through our Sunday morning show, I just wanted it to be over. But when it was over? When the costumes were packed away, set disassembled, and everything was done?
I felt so empty. Used up.
Barren.
Because this thing we'd done, created with our words and actions and sweeping emotions was gone forever. All gone, never to be touched again.
I asked the student actors - some of them experienced thespians - if this was a common sensation. These sixteen year old veterans smiled at me kindly, with their expressions reading: "Aw. How cute. Mr. Lucia's feeling his first post-play letdown."
It's the way I feel after the school year. Monday, I'll be charged up and ready to go for a summer of writing, Con traveling, and hanging out with my family. But when I'm in school this morning for our closing department meetings?
The same way. Like everything we've done and gone through and experienced as teachers and students will vanish into the ether, will be gone forever, never to be retrieved.
Now, this is highly romantic thinking, fueled by the fact that this year's graduating seniors and I were "freshman" in high school at the same time, and now they're moving away, going on to do big and great things, while I quickly fade into maybe a warm and fuzzy (if I'm lucky) footnote in their lives.
And I'm sure most the students and several of my colleagues are thinking: "Good riddance!" to all those things now vanished. And on some levels, I'd agree with them. But on another, I can't ever quite squash this lingering melancholy, this haunting sense that something good was done this year, and now it will fade and disappear.
At least I have the bulletin board.
This year, my bulletin board became a panorama of student whimsy. Several of my Creative Writing students - one in particular - took it upon themselves to "illustrate" the year in all its silliness. SO, instead of rules and regulations and dress codes, my bulletin board was covered this year with pen and ink snapshots of our year.
To some, fodder for the recycling bin. For me? Well, I put all these into a box to keep for next year. I'm not sure if this particular year was any more significant than previous years, but SOMETHING was different, especially in my Creative Writing class. Last year's class was unique because they were the first, but this year's class felt like the first Creative Writing class I actually TAUGHT.
We DID stuff this year. Read books and wrote goofy stories and exercises and watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer. We explored the boundaries of what was considered "acceptable" and NOT, with much hilarity.
We even talked about writing stories themselves. Actual, honest-to-goodness discussions about the CRAFT, with high school students. We visited with a ton of authors, had an EXTRAORDINARY workshop experience with Tom Monteleone and Paul Wilson, communicated via email with Norman Partridge, and even managed to cobble together a literary journal, which is at the printer's as we speak.
So the year is over. And with it, comes the requisite but thankfully temporary sensation of loss and emptiness. But I'll still have those pictures, and over the summer, in true dorky-teacher fashion, I intend on cobbling them together, laminating them, and making a sort of poster out of them for next year, so I can point them out to incoming students and say: "Here's your challenge, kids. Those students made an impact. No matter how small, they effected change. How are you going to top them?"
Until then, of course, I'll enjoy my Mocha Frapp and do a whole lot of writing.
Not so much.
See, the last day I'm at school always feels so eerie. The halls, empty. Barren. Lockers hanging open, desks pushed out into hallways and piled up, rooms stripped and bare of ANYTHING giving them an ounce of personality. Grades have been calculated, everything done except keys being turned it, the year is over. Which, as I said, will be a huge relief on Monday. But right now?
It almost feels....empty.
Because everything's done. Gone.
Vanished.
In my mind, the halls should still be clogged with all the traumas and drama and hopes and fears and frustrations and plans and dreams that these students carry with them every day. Where are all the students I've nodded to on a daily basis, the ones who've offered friendly smiles, exuberant greetings, casual nods, grunts, or even eye rolls?
They're gone. And they won't be back, ever again. Because over the summer they'll change. Grow. Become someone different, and therefore, new. When graduation ends tonight, the official "wrap!" will be called on the 2011 - 2012 school year, and it can never be recaptured or touched, ever again.
I once acted in our school's production of Romeo & Juliet, as Prince Escalus. Through three weeks of quite arduous rehearsal, (for me, anyway), which left me often napping on my throne, I really kinda wanted it to be over. After the thrill of our first showing wore off and the adrenaline rush of the Saturday night showing faded and we were working through our Sunday morning show, I just wanted it to be over. But when it was over? When the costumes were packed away, set disassembled, and everything was done?I felt so empty. Used up.
Barren.
Because this thing we'd done, created with our words and actions and sweeping emotions was gone forever. All gone, never to be touched again.
I asked the student actors - some of them experienced thespians - if this was a common sensation. These sixteen year old veterans smiled at me kindly, with their expressions reading: "Aw. How cute. Mr. Lucia's feeling his first post-play letdown."
It's the way I feel after the school year. Monday, I'll be charged up and ready to go for a summer of writing, Con traveling, and hanging out with my family. But when I'm in school this morning for our closing department meetings?
The same way. Like everything we've done and gone through and experienced as teachers and students will vanish into the ether, will be gone forever, never to be retrieved.
Now, this is highly romantic thinking, fueled by the fact that this year's graduating seniors and I were "freshman" in high school at the same time, and now they're moving away, going on to do big and great things, while I quickly fade into maybe a warm and fuzzy (if I'm lucky) footnote in their lives.
And I'm sure most the students and several of my colleagues are thinking: "Good riddance!" to all those things now vanished. And on some levels, I'd agree with them. But on another, I can't ever quite squash this lingering melancholy, this haunting sense that something good was done this year, and now it will fade and disappear.
At least I have the bulletin board.This year, my bulletin board became a panorama of student whimsy. Several of my Creative Writing students - one in particular - took it upon themselves to "illustrate" the year in all its silliness. SO, instead of rules and regulations and dress codes, my bulletin board was covered this year with pen and ink snapshots of our year.
To some, fodder for the recycling bin. For me? Well, I put all these into a box to keep for next year. I'm not sure if this particular year was any more significant than previous years, but SOMETHING was different, especially in my Creative Writing class. Last year's class was unique because they were the first, but this year's class felt like the first Creative Writing class I actually TAUGHT.
We DID stuff this year. Read books and wrote goofy stories and exercises and watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer. We explored the boundaries of what was considered "acceptable" and NOT, with much hilarity. We even talked about writing stories themselves. Actual, honest-to-goodness discussions about the CRAFT, with high school students. We visited with a ton of authors, had an EXTRAORDINARY workshop experience with Tom Monteleone and Paul Wilson, communicated via email with Norman Partridge, and even managed to cobble together a literary journal, which is at the printer's as we speak.
So the year is over. And with it, comes the requisite but thankfully temporary sensation of loss and emptiness. But I'll still have those pictures, and over the summer, in true dorky-teacher fashion, I intend on cobbling them together, laminating them, and making a sort of poster out of them for next year, so I can point them out to incoming students and say: "Here's your challenge, kids. Those students made an impact. No matter how small, they effected change. How are you going to top them?"Until then, of course, I'll enjoy my Mocha Frapp and do a whole lot of writing.
June 19, 2011
On Father's Day
I was going to post this yesterday, but for some reason couldn't compose my thoughts. Actually felt a little nervous, not sure why. Maybe because I have family on Facebook and didn't want them to read this blog and call: "BS! I call BS! You don't feel that way at all, because you're a BAD SON!"
Hmm. I don't feel guilty or insecure at all, do I?
I don't claim to have been the world's best son. I'm sure that I've been neglectful, irresponsible, wrapped up in my own little world and not as attuned to my father as I should be. I'm sure I've been - not through any direct neglect but more absent-minded - ungrateful and dismissive. I don't mean to be.
It's just that "emotions" and "affection" have never passed well between Dad and I. Not sure why. Just the way it is. At this stage in the game, there's no finger pointing or blame, not for me. For better or for worse, that's just the way it is.
Which is not to say that Dad isn't kind and generous and giving to a fault. He is. In fact, when it comes to material things - things that matter, provisions, produce from his HUGE garden he really should charge for and never does - he's a consummate giver. He always gives away things for free. He's appreciated Abby from the start, and he loves Madi and Zack. He's a great (as in awesome, not old) grandpa.
Nor was he ever bad to me, ever. Never mistreated or neglected me. He did things with me when I was a kid, and he never let his job get in the way of us, but he still always worked as hard as he could to support us. He'd go to war over us in a heartbeat, and I don't mean in the way parents bug teachers and principals today to let their kids get away with murder and be lazy. He fought for us. On several occasions.
But as I grew into adolescence, then became a teen...we drifted. Still connected over sports, most specifically basketball, and to this day, I thank God sports became an integral part of my life, not only because I really enjoyed sports and as much as I put into them, they gave back to me...but for most of high school and college, sports was the only common ground Dad and I could find.
In some ways, it looks the fodder of a humorous but heartfelt half hour television sitcom: the logical, meticulous, planning Dad who worked as an Engineer, read nothing but nonfiction, abhorred last minute planning and charted his gas mileage per week down to the penny, fathering a son who'd rather be outside playing with his make-believe lightsaber, (artfully crafted from toilet paper tubes taped together, covered with GREEN tinfoil, so I could be Luke Skywalker in Return of the Jedi), reading things like The Chronicles of Narnia, comic books like Spider-Man, The Secret Defenders and The Uncanny X-Men (all of Dad's old comics where World War II war comics).
Once when I was 12, Dad came into the house saying: "Come outside. I'm tuning the car up, and this is something you should learn to do."
My response - and probably a whiny one it was: "But DAAAD. I'm not done reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe yet!"
Here's another typical exchange, also around age 12, about what exactly I can't remember, I think my hopes about doing something rather mundane, and he said: "I'm sorry, Kevin. You're dreaming. You're just too much of a dreamer, son."
My response: "And Dad, think about where this country would be without dreamers..."
More than ten years ago, now, after calling off my first engagement four months before the wedding, Dad was worried about me. I drifted. Needed time to heal. Almost gave up on myself and life, started working 80 hours a week to pay some bills off. Moved into a low-rent, slum apartment. Kept to myself. Shunned family gatherings, and hibernated, even on my birthday, which I spent alone in my cruddy little apartment, eating take-out Chinese and watching That '70's Show.
In some ways, he didn't understand this approach at all. For him, my emotional exhaustion and depression at that point was irrelevant. I needed to get back up on the horse, figure out what I wanted to do with my life (this I heard from my sister over the phone one night. To be fair, I'd shut them all out entirely at that point). However, he never intruded. Let me heal at my own pace. Not long after that I met Abby, and left some of my darker days behind.
Dad and I have had our misunderstandings and differences of opinion over the years, some of them mild, others not so much. And, ever witty and sarcastic, he still holds his emotional cards close to the chest. And there are probably times when he doesn't understand my approach at all, or completely disagrees. But after all this time, I feel like we've come to a place of mutual understanding (I think. We've never actually HAD this conversation, you see). Here it is:
He is who he is. And I am who I am. And God meant it to be that way.
So there it is.
Given all that, he's still directly responsible for the man I am today. His work ethic is unparalleled, and I'd like to think that rubbed off on me. He taught me that when you wanted something - really wanted something - and you found in yourself some talent for this thing, you worked and worked until you got it, and then when you "got it", you kept working and never stopped.
Through experience, he also taught me to survive. The late eighties and nineties were not friendly times for an engineer with a great work record but no Masters Degree. Once he got laid off for the first time in 1988, we endured several stints of unemployment. I saw Dad do everything he could to support us. Took odd jobs. Worked as a carpenter and electrician. Collected cans, scrap metal, anything he could do to keep us afloat.
Also through experience, he taught me that hard work is always good. I can't count how many times someone would offer him free stuff - REALLY GOOD free stuff, like brand new lumber if he'd be willing to tear down a building for them, or an industrial grade cement mixer just for cleaning out a barn loft. I learned never to be afraid of hard work, even if there was no pay involved, because almost always something good came from hard work.
My Dad's an old school, politically conservative guy. I'm a moderate. I'm sure we're raising our kids differently than he raised me, though he's never said word one. We've had a few differences about my career: he's always thought I should get my administration degree and be a principal for more cash, and he probably still wonders why I'm at a Catholic School making half what most public school teachers make, while I'm happy working where I am.
And who knows what he thinks of this crazy DREAM of being a writer.
But everything he taught me directly and through modeling about hard work, daily disciplines, surviving, pursuing something you want doggedly and determinedly and working hard to get that something, that pride is an INTERNAL thing: something you held onto even while walking the highways picking up bottles and cans and scrap metal, (because this is how we afford our summer vacations now and how I afford Cons)....all these things are from him. And they've mixed together with the wild and wackiness of me that he could never understand to make the man I am today.
I hope he's proud. I think he is.
But then again, he got the great mathematical ability, a way with tools and cars, and according to him, a rapier wit and the good looks.
I'm the one who got the way with words.
Thanks, Dad. For everything.
Hmm. I don't feel guilty or insecure at all, do I?
I don't claim to have been the world's best son. I'm sure that I've been neglectful, irresponsible, wrapped up in my own little world and not as attuned to my father as I should be. I'm sure I've been - not through any direct neglect but more absent-minded - ungrateful and dismissive. I don't mean to be.
It's just that "emotions" and "affection" have never passed well between Dad and I. Not sure why. Just the way it is. At this stage in the game, there's no finger pointing or blame, not for me. For better or for worse, that's just the way it is.
Which is not to say that Dad isn't kind and generous and giving to a fault. He is. In fact, when it comes to material things - things that matter, provisions, produce from his HUGE garden he really should charge for and never does - he's a consummate giver. He always gives away things for free. He's appreciated Abby from the start, and he loves Madi and Zack. He's a great (as in awesome, not old) grandpa.
Nor was he ever bad to me, ever. Never mistreated or neglected me. He did things with me when I was a kid, and he never let his job get in the way of us, but he still always worked as hard as he could to support us. He'd go to war over us in a heartbeat, and I don't mean in the way parents bug teachers and principals today to let their kids get away with murder and be lazy. He fought for us. On several occasions.
But as I grew into adolescence, then became a teen...we drifted. Still connected over sports, most specifically basketball, and to this day, I thank God sports became an integral part of my life, not only because I really enjoyed sports and as much as I put into them, they gave back to me...but for most of high school and college, sports was the only common ground Dad and I could find.In some ways, it looks the fodder of a humorous but heartfelt half hour television sitcom: the logical, meticulous, planning Dad who worked as an Engineer, read nothing but nonfiction, abhorred last minute planning and charted his gas mileage per week down to the penny, fathering a son who'd rather be outside playing with his make-believe lightsaber, (artfully crafted from toilet paper tubes taped together, covered with GREEN tinfoil, so I could be Luke Skywalker in Return of the Jedi), reading things like The Chronicles of Narnia, comic books like Spider-Man, The Secret Defenders and The Uncanny X-Men (all of Dad's old comics where World War II war comics).
Once when I was 12, Dad came into the house saying: "Come outside. I'm tuning the car up, and this is something you should learn to do."
My response - and probably a whiny one it was: "But DAAAD. I'm not done reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe yet!"
Here's another typical exchange, also around age 12, about what exactly I can't remember, I think my hopes about doing something rather mundane, and he said: "I'm sorry, Kevin. You're dreaming. You're just too much of a dreamer, son."
My response: "And Dad, think about where this country would be without dreamers..."
More than ten years ago, now, after calling off my first engagement four months before the wedding, Dad was worried about me. I drifted. Needed time to heal. Almost gave up on myself and life, started working 80 hours a week to pay some bills off. Moved into a low-rent, slum apartment. Kept to myself. Shunned family gatherings, and hibernated, even on my birthday, which I spent alone in my cruddy little apartment, eating take-out Chinese and watching That '70's Show.
In some ways, he didn't understand this approach at all. For him, my emotional exhaustion and depression at that point was irrelevant. I needed to get back up on the horse, figure out what I wanted to do with my life (this I heard from my sister over the phone one night. To be fair, I'd shut them all out entirely at that point). However, he never intruded. Let me heal at my own pace. Not long after that I met Abby, and left some of my darker days behind.
Dad and I have had our misunderstandings and differences of opinion over the years, some of them mild, others not so much. And, ever witty and sarcastic, he still holds his emotional cards close to the chest. And there are probably times when he doesn't understand my approach at all, or completely disagrees. But after all this time, I feel like we've come to a place of mutual understanding (I think. We've never actually HAD this conversation, you see). Here it is:
He is who he is. And I am who I am. And God meant it to be that way.
So there it is.
Given all that, he's still directly responsible for the man I am today. His work ethic is unparalleled, and I'd like to think that rubbed off on me. He taught me that when you wanted something - really wanted something - and you found in yourself some talent for this thing, you worked and worked until you got it, and then when you "got it", you kept working and never stopped.
Through experience, he also taught me to survive. The late eighties and nineties were not friendly times for an engineer with a great work record but no Masters Degree. Once he got laid off for the first time in 1988, we endured several stints of unemployment. I saw Dad do everything he could to support us. Took odd jobs. Worked as a carpenter and electrician. Collected cans, scrap metal, anything he could do to keep us afloat.
Also through experience, he taught me that hard work is always good. I can't count how many times someone would offer him free stuff - REALLY GOOD free stuff, like brand new lumber if he'd be willing to tear down a building for them, or an industrial grade cement mixer just for cleaning out a barn loft. I learned never to be afraid of hard work, even if there was no pay involved, because almost always something good came from hard work.
My Dad's an old school, politically conservative guy. I'm a moderate. I'm sure we're raising our kids differently than he raised me, though he's never said word one. We've had a few differences about my career: he's always thought I should get my administration degree and be a principal for more cash, and he probably still wonders why I'm at a Catholic School making half what most public school teachers make, while I'm happy working where I am.
And who knows what he thinks of this crazy DREAM of being a writer.
But everything he taught me directly and through modeling about hard work, daily disciplines, surviving, pursuing something you want doggedly and determinedly and working hard to get that something, that pride is an INTERNAL thing: something you held onto even while walking the highways picking up bottles and cans and scrap metal, (because this is how we afford our summer vacations now and how I afford Cons)....all these things are from him. And they've mixed together with the wild and wackiness of me that he could never understand to make the man I am today.
I hope he's proud. I think he is.
But then again, he got the great mathematical ability, a way with tools and cars, and according to him, a rapier wit and the good looks.
I'm the one who got the way with words.
Thanks, Dad. For everything.
June 17, 2011
A Writer's Continuing Education, Part 2: Reject Me, Baby! I Can Take It!
Those following this blog know of my recent pitch to a New York Publishing house. Now, a note: I'm not trying to be all mysterious by not naming the house or talking about my pitch. I'm just so new at this, I don't really know what I should or shouldn't be blogging about when it comes to this whole process, just want to play it safe. Why blog about it at all, then?
Well, as I've also said repeatedly, I'm in the midst of this huge learning period, and I want to share as much of that as possible. When I first started out WAY back in high school, before the internet was widespread and accessible, I lived in a little town near a small city with very little in the way of literary outlets. No access to the info I wanted about writing and publishing, which left me COMPLETELY in the dark.
And even after I got "serious" five years ago, I made lots of dumb mistakes and missed many opportunities. So I figure if anything I share along the way can help someone, I've done what I can to "pay it forward."
In any case, long story short: through some delightfully unexpected connections, I found myself pitching a dark fantasy series to a senior acquisitions agent at a New York House. A phone interview ensued, during which the positives and pitfalls of my pitch were discussed. I was asked to then expand on said pitch, get back with the agent in a few months.
What resulted was an unprecedented burst of productivity. I banged out a synopsis not only for the whole series, (a first!), and not only a synopsis for the first novel, (another first!), but for the next two books, also. I also wrote the first three chapters of Book One and Two. I sent them in, and waited with bated breath.
A few days ago I got my response. Now, this whole time I've been hoping and praying for one of the following three responses:
1. they'd love it and want to buy it
2. they'd be interested and would move to the next step
3. they'd at least like my writing, and would want to see more of something else
I got #3. The insightful critique the editor offered spawned a whole series I could write TOMORROW, but it also, unfortunately, moved it far away from the original concept, which the editor had liked better. He/She said very nice things about my writing, going so far as to even say "really impressed".
Like before, he/she pointed out the high and low points, and added that he/she'd love to see more from me. When I shared my news with a much more experienced writer I've been communicating with on this, he said the letter sounded remarkably forthright, personal and genuine, then he gave me this advice:
"Now, here's what you do next. Give them what they want. Retool the original proposal."
The editor responded to this very favorably, sounding excited. Right away, my little brain started working overtime. Retooled the original idea. Of COURSE, being the weirdo I am, I worked in this cool angle that I just loved.
So did the editor. He/she even used the words "really really cool", but cautioned he/she had to run it past his/her boss first.
"Wait a minute," you ask. "Why wait on this editor's approval? Why let HER dictate YOUR story? Why not just self-publish your story on Kindle and Createspace, be the master of your own publishing destiny?"
For many reasons, the biggest of which is this: this whole situation has, once again, reaffirmed in my mind that rejection or at the very least critique PUSHES US TO WRITE BETTER. In my mind, this new angle is WAY cool.
But I'm a no name. A virtual nobody on the Big Boy & Girl Playground. If this editor isn't confident of the story itself gaining traction, I have to roll with that. SO, another "no" in this instance is only going to push me to retool the story and refine my focus even more.
See, this whole thing is SUPPOSED to be hard. You're supposed to wait, have patience. If not, what's the point? Yeah, yeah, self-publishing and self-editing and doing graphic design yourself and self-marketing is hard work, no doubt - but where's the mental, emotional blood, sweat, and tears? Where's the angst over delivering a well written and told story? Where's the drive to be better, better, BEST, instead of caving to the self-indulgent instant gratification that's offered by self-publishing?
You're supposed to get rejected. Bottom line. What separates garbage from gold. And that's the downside to self-publishing, both electronic and print. Lets the garbage mingle with the gold. Yeah, if you've got a name and a following, maybe self-publishing is okay....but here's a radical thought, maybe once you've established a following and name, you need rejection EVEN MORE, just to keep you fresh and honest, not resting on your name to carry the day.
And you know what, don't even mention how much more money I'll make self-publishing electronically. BS. And geez. I'm so poor right now, I have no concept of that sort of thing, anyway. Any measly advance would seem like a lot of money, right now.
Recently, a good writer friend of mine - and much, MUCH better writer than me - confided in me that he and his agent have received nearly 50 rejections for his newest novel.
50. And he's way better than me. And he's also willing to wait and run the course.
That's what it's supposed to be about. What gives the whole pursuit value in the first place.
And maybe you can't even count what I've received as an out and out rejection, because the editor's still willing work with me. But still. Reject me, baby. Reject me.
I can take it.
Well, as I've also said repeatedly, I'm in the midst of this huge learning period, and I want to share as much of that as possible. When I first started out WAY back in high school, before the internet was widespread and accessible, I lived in a little town near a small city with very little in the way of literary outlets. No access to the info I wanted about writing and publishing, which left me COMPLETELY in the dark.
And even after I got "serious" five years ago, I made lots of dumb mistakes and missed many opportunities. So I figure if anything I share along the way can help someone, I've done what I can to "pay it forward."
In any case, long story short: through some delightfully unexpected connections, I found myself pitching a dark fantasy series to a senior acquisitions agent at a New York House. A phone interview ensued, during which the positives and pitfalls of my pitch were discussed. I was asked to then expand on said pitch, get back with the agent in a few months.
What resulted was an unprecedented burst of productivity. I banged out a synopsis not only for the whole series, (a first!), and not only a synopsis for the first novel, (another first!), but for the next two books, also. I also wrote the first three chapters of Book One and Two. I sent them in, and waited with bated breath.
A few days ago I got my response. Now, this whole time I've been hoping and praying for one of the following three responses:
1. they'd love it and want to buy it
2. they'd be interested and would move to the next step
3. they'd at least like my writing, and would want to see more of something else
I got #3. The insightful critique the editor offered spawned a whole series I could write TOMORROW, but it also, unfortunately, moved it far away from the original concept, which the editor had liked better. He/She said very nice things about my writing, going so far as to even say "really impressed".
Like before, he/she pointed out the high and low points, and added that he/she'd love to see more from me. When I shared my news with a much more experienced writer I've been communicating with on this, he said the letter sounded remarkably forthright, personal and genuine, then he gave me this advice:
"Now, here's what you do next. Give them what they want. Retool the original proposal."
The editor responded to this very favorably, sounding excited. Right away, my little brain started working overtime. Retooled the original idea. Of COURSE, being the weirdo I am, I worked in this cool angle that I just loved.
So did the editor. He/she even used the words "really really cool", but cautioned he/she had to run it past his/her boss first.
"Wait a minute," you ask. "Why wait on this editor's approval? Why let HER dictate YOUR story? Why not just self-publish your story on Kindle and Createspace, be the master of your own publishing destiny?"
For many reasons, the biggest of which is this: this whole situation has, once again, reaffirmed in my mind that rejection or at the very least critique PUSHES US TO WRITE BETTER. In my mind, this new angle is WAY cool.
But I'm a no name. A virtual nobody on the Big Boy & Girl Playground. If this editor isn't confident of the story itself gaining traction, I have to roll with that. SO, another "no" in this instance is only going to push me to retool the story and refine my focus even more.
See, this whole thing is SUPPOSED to be hard. You're supposed to wait, have patience. If not, what's the point? Yeah, yeah, self-publishing and self-editing and doing graphic design yourself and self-marketing is hard work, no doubt - but where's the mental, emotional blood, sweat, and tears? Where's the angst over delivering a well written and told story? Where's the drive to be better, better, BEST, instead of caving to the self-indulgent instant gratification that's offered by self-publishing?
You're supposed to get rejected. Bottom line. What separates garbage from gold. And that's the downside to self-publishing, both electronic and print. Lets the garbage mingle with the gold. Yeah, if you've got a name and a following, maybe self-publishing is okay....but here's a radical thought, maybe once you've established a following and name, you need rejection EVEN MORE, just to keep you fresh and honest, not resting on your name to carry the day.
And you know what, don't even mention how much more money I'll make self-publishing electronically. BS. And geez. I'm so poor right now, I have no concept of that sort of thing, anyway. Any measly advance would seem like a lot of money, right now.
Recently, a good writer friend of mine - and much, MUCH better writer than me - confided in me that he and his agent have received nearly 50 rejections for his newest novel.
50. And he's way better than me. And he's also willing to wait and run the course.
That's what it's supposed to be about. What gives the whole pursuit value in the first place.
And maybe you can't even count what I've received as an out and out rejection, because the editor's still willing work with me. But still. Reject me, baby. Reject me.
I can take it.
June 15, 2011
A Writer's Continuing Education, Part 1
A lot's happened in the last few weeks, not necessarily on the publication front - though I hope to have news there soon with three different short stories, if I'm really lucky, a fourth - but definitely when it comes to me as a writer. Some of it more stuff I've learned, insightful conversations I've had, and some developments with the New York pitch that's more of a sideways step, not a step back, at all.
First, last weekend I had an awesome time at Kelli Owen and Bob Ford's place down in York, celebrating Bob's 40th birthday. I got to hang with some friends I haven't seen in awhile, and of course Brian Keene's roast of Bob was just about the funniest thing I've heard, ever. Everyone had a great time, and I was truly sorry to leave the next day (but of course happy to be on the road back to Abby and the kids. Funny how that works, huh?).
Anyway, as always, the best part of the celebration was talking to Brian and J. F. Gonzalez and Drew Williams about the history and current state of the genre. I love hanging with my friends, but maybe because I'm also a teacher and still consider myself a student, a babe in the woods, I'm hungry for knowledge. Listening to these guys talk is like a mobile MFA, but even better.
See, as I've blogged several times, I'm in the middle of this HUGE learning curve. About a year ago, I embarked on a "journey" past my usual bounds of King, Koontz, Straub and the standard Leisure Authors (many of whom are fine writers, indeed), to explore the greats: Charles Grant, T. M. Wright, Karl Wagner, the Whispers anthologies, and so many others.
I feel like an entire world has been opened to me, one featuring - sorry, no offense intended - far better writers than are currently active in the small press and midlist today. This was only furthered a few months ago by an awesome evening spent with F. Paul Wilson, Tom Monteleone and Stuart David Schiff.
I also mourn for the way it used to be. I've heard so much about the "old days" in the last two years, that I can't help but feel that with some of the good things that have developed, (and I struggle at naming just what those good things are), we've lost a lot more. Obviously, I need to continue on and keep writing, because the industry is what it is, but still. I feel like I'm absorbing all this rich, great history, but getting here just in time to see it all thrown overboard.
BUT, this hasn't deadened my writing . Actually, it's sharpened it. Honed it, not only from a craft perspective, but also regarding WHAT it is I want to write. Because the market has become what it is, because POD publishing has opened the floodgates to mediocre small presses publishing mediocre writers that shouldn't be published yet or at ALL, I've become very picky about what it is I want to write.
Which is not to say I've become all "artistic" and won't touch certain projects with a ten foot pole. The thing is: I only want to write things I can get behind totally. Things that come from WITHIN. It's almost come to the point where I really DON'T care anymore about where I get published or when, and that's not to say that I don't care about quality or the quality of the publisher I work with.
What it means is this: I've abandoned a lot of the half-baked ideas I had about pitching this novel to this small press publisher, this novella to this publisher, this short story here, answering this anthology call there. If I'm going to get up at 3 AM every single morning, it's going to be because of SOMETHING INSIDE ME that will not allow me to sleep in. It's going to be because the story is screaming so loudly in my ear, I CAN'T ignore it.
I feel like - at the behest of all this reading I've been doing, all the conversations I've had in the past two years - that his is the course for me. To write FOR ME. Which is not to excuse quality writing and stories, because I think that's used as an excuse for poor writing: "Oh, I don't care if the audience doesn't like mash-up novels with bigfoot zombie vampires from Mars, I'm writing for me."
What I mean is this: I'm writing what my SOUL (yes, soul) tells me I should. What my heart feels. That's what I write. That's why I get up at 3AM in the morning. And of course, I push myself to perfect my craft every single day, because I also don't care one whit how "original" the story is, or "innovative". If the story isn't finely crafted, I couldn't care a less.
The below Bradbury snippet puts it into nice words, especially towards the end. More on the deal with the New York house in a day or so.
First, last weekend I had an awesome time at Kelli Owen and Bob Ford's place down in York, celebrating Bob's 40th birthday. I got to hang with some friends I haven't seen in awhile, and of course Brian Keene's roast of Bob was just about the funniest thing I've heard, ever. Everyone had a great time, and I was truly sorry to leave the next day (but of course happy to be on the road back to Abby and the kids. Funny how that works, huh?).
Anyway, as always, the best part of the celebration was talking to Brian and J. F. Gonzalez and Drew Williams about the history and current state of the genre. I love hanging with my friends, but maybe because I'm also a teacher and still consider myself a student, a babe in the woods, I'm hungry for knowledge. Listening to these guys talk is like a mobile MFA, but even better.
See, as I've blogged several times, I'm in the middle of this HUGE learning curve. About a year ago, I embarked on a "journey" past my usual bounds of King, Koontz, Straub and the standard Leisure Authors (many of whom are fine writers, indeed), to explore the greats: Charles Grant, T. M. Wright, Karl Wagner, the Whispers anthologies, and so many others. I feel like an entire world has been opened to me, one featuring - sorry, no offense intended - far better writers than are currently active in the small press and midlist today. This was only furthered a few months ago by an awesome evening spent with F. Paul Wilson, Tom Monteleone and Stuart David Schiff.
I also mourn for the way it used to be. I've heard so much about the "old days" in the last two years, that I can't help but feel that with some of the good things that have developed, (and I struggle at naming just what those good things are), we've lost a lot more. Obviously, I need to continue on and keep writing, because the industry is what it is, but still. I feel like I'm absorbing all this rich, great history, but getting here just in time to see it all thrown overboard.
BUT, this hasn't deadened my writing . Actually, it's sharpened it. Honed it, not only from a craft perspective, but also regarding WHAT it is I want to write. Because the market has become what it is, because POD publishing has opened the floodgates to mediocre small presses publishing mediocre writers that shouldn't be published yet or at ALL, I've become very picky about what it is I want to write.
Which is not to say I've become all "artistic" and won't touch certain projects with a ten foot pole. The thing is: I only want to write things I can get behind totally. Things that come from WITHIN. It's almost come to the point where I really DON'T care anymore about where I get published or when, and that's not to say that I don't care about quality or the quality of the publisher I work with.
What it means is this: I've abandoned a lot of the half-baked ideas I had about pitching this novel to this small press publisher, this novella to this publisher, this short story here, answering this anthology call there. If I'm going to get up at 3 AM every single morning, it's going to be because of SOMETHING INSIDE ME that will not allow me to sleep in. It's going to be because the story is screaming so loudly in my ear, I CAN'T ignore it.
I feel like - at the behest of all this reading I've been doing, all the conversations I've had in the past two years - that his is the course for me. To write FOR ME. Which is not to excuse quality writing and stories, because I think that's used as an excuse for poor writing: "Oh, I don't care if the audience doesn't like mash-up novels with bigfoot zombie vampires from Mars, I'm writing for me."
What I mean is this: I'm writing what my SOUL (yes, soul) tells me I should. What my heart feels. That's what I write. That's why I get up at 3AM in the morning. And of course, I push myself to perfect my craft every single day, because I also don't care one whit how "original" the story is, or "innovative". If the story isn't finely crafted, I couldn't care a less.
The below Bradbury snippet puts it into nice words, especially towards the end. More on the deal with the New York house in a day or so.
