Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 63
March 6, 2011
Things I Love to Hear Other Writers Say....
Now, understand...I don't put myself in Norm's class. Far from it. I can't imagine EVER being even close to him as a storyteller.
But I still have to say I love it, feel very reassured when I hear writers talking about how they don't write very fast. This is something I've come to understand better about myself in the last few years. A humbling experience, indeed.
Early on - after my first "publication" - I thought I was king. The man. "Prolific Writer" was what I wanted to call myself. And, spurred on by that first "sale", I wrote stories at the frenzied pace of squirrel with ADHD on crack.
And then I "placed" them (because no one bought them. There's a reason for that, of course) all over the place. Thought I was "the man". A King. "Prolific Writer".
Then I got the contributor copies. Saw how bad these "magazines" were. How bad the other stories were. And then realized how bad MY stories were.
So the slowing down began.
And I continue to slow down today.
But this is the best thing for me. I'm a full-time teacher, husband, and dad. I write a little bit every single day, and besides...on the days I've tried to go on five hour writing binges, I'm still only able to write for two hours. I just get so tired. And I figure if I try to push past that and write tired...
I'm just gonna write crap.
Now, for the New York pitch I actually wrote an outline and synopsis. If someone runs with that project, it'll write much faster because of that. But my current novel has been in progress for over a year. And no end is in sight so far.
But you know what?
I like it that way. And I wonder. I've read so many novels these past few years, (mostly horror), that read as if the author took about a month and half to draft, write, and redraft. Even four months seems too fast, for me.
Of course, I better not quit my day job. Because then things would change. I'd have to be faster. But then, I'm thinking more and more that being slow is a good thing. It thwarts my impatience. Makes me really THINK and write well. If I were faster?
Then my impatience would run unchecked. And I don't know about much, but I do know this: when people read my work, I want them to see the blood, sweat and tears it took to write it. I want them to sense the soul I took forever to imbue it with. I want them to know that I've written with care and joy and great passion.
So being slow?
Turning out to be more and more of a good thing....
American Frankenstein: A Man's Got To Know His Limitations: "I've often wished I was a faster writer. Oh, sometimes I have been. One of my best writing memories is finishing my first novel in a one-da..."
But I still have to say I love it, feel very reassured when I hear writers talking about how they don't write very fast. This is something I've come to understand better about myself in the last few years. A humbling experience, indeed.
Early on - after my first "publication" - I thought I was king. The man. "Prolific Writer" was what I wanted to call myself. And, spurred on by that first "sale", I wrote stories at the frenzied pace of squirrel with ADHD on crack.
And then I "placed" them (because no one bought them. There's a reason for that, of course) all over the place. Thought I was "the man". A King. "Prolific Writer".
Then I got the contributor copies. Saw how bad these "magazines" were. How bad the other stories were. And then realized how bad MY stories were.
So the slowing down began.
And I continue to slow down today.
But this is the best thing for me. I'm a full-time teacher, husband, and dad. I write a little bit every single day, and besides...on the days I've tried to go on five hour writing binges, I'm still only able to write for two hours. I just get so tired. And I figure if I try to push past that and write tired...
I'm just gonna write crap.
Now, for the New York pitch I actually wrote an outline and synopsis. If someone runs with that project, it'll write much faster because of that. But my current novel has been in progress for over a year. And no end is in sight so far.
But you know what?
I like it that way. And I wonder. I've read so many novels these past few years, (mostly horror), that read as if the author took about a month and half to draft, write, and redraft. Even four months seems too fast, for me.
Of course, I better not quit my day job. Because then things would change. I'd have to be faster. But then, I'm thinking more and more that being slow is a good thing. It thwarts my impatience. Makes me really THINK and write well. If I were faster?
Then my impatience would run unchecked. And I don't know about much, but I do know this: when people read my work, I want them to see the blood, sweat and tears it took to write it. I want them to sense the soul I took forever to imbue it with. I want them to know that I've written with care and joy and great passion.
So being slow?
Turning out to be more and more of a good thing....
American Frankenstein: A Man's Got To Know His Limitations: "I've often wished I was a faster writer. Oh, sometimes I have been. One of my best writing memories is finishing my first novel in a one-da..."
March 5, 2011
LIFE-SIZE PAPER MACHE TIGERS FROM LONDON: A Night With Tom Monteleone, Paul Wilson, and Stuart David Schiff: Part II
So.
Where do I even begin?
Whatever I say in this post, rest assured - my words can't adequately describe my experience. At all. But, as I'm a writer I'm bound to try, so here we go...
Last week Tom Moneteleone and Paul Wilson visited Seton to workshop with my Creative Writing students. Though a snow cancellation cut us a day short, we had a marvelous time, and I'm pretty sure that for several of my students, Tom and Paul opened the door to fiction just a bit wider.
Their first night in Binghamton, Tom and Paul invited me to hang out. That in itself blew me away. I mean - they're tremendously friendly, giving, wonderful guys anyway - but even so. That they thought of me means the world, especially because, in Paul's words, he'd said to Tom before calling me: "Gotta get Kevin over here. He'd love this."
They were visiting Stuart David Schiff, editor of the legendary Whispers horror/sci fi/fantasy anthologies (of which before then I'd only heard "whispers" about). It never ceases to amaze me how many genre figures hide out in Binghamton. Of course, as the hometown of Rod Serling, that makes sense, I suppose.
Anyway. Stuart is not only a former editor, but a collector extraordinaire. And that doesn't even do the man justice. Over the years, he's jammed his basement full of collectibles, so many, it boggles the mind.
The captain's chair from the original Enterprise. And one from a Klingon warship. And those were two of his minor pieces. I can't, I simply CAN'T put into words what I saw that evening. Original prints of movie posters. Tomes of weird fiction by authors I'd only barely heard of. Figurines. LIFE-SIZE PAPER MACHE TIGERS FROM LONDON. Original studio horror props.
UN. REAL.
The biggest treat of the night was sharing WONDERFUL Chinese from a place in my own town I've never heard of - Moon Star - and listening to Tom and Paul and David reminisce on the genre's early says, their own careers, and everything under the sun concerning writing, publishing, horror, fantasy, and science fiction.
Tom and Paul repeatedly apologized, worried they were "waxing philosophical" and "boring the hell out of me" (an approximation of Tom's words). They needn't have worried. They weren't boring me. Far from it. They were totally, completely, taking me to school.
Faced with a basement full of absolute genre and even cultural memorabilia gold, and enthralled by their stories, I realized two very humbling, awesome things:
1. I knew next to NOTHING of genre fiction's history
2. I had virtually no genre heritage of my own. Not as rich as theirs, anyway.
I'm not sure why this is. I've spent the whole week thinking about it, and I still don't think I've come up with a complete answer, only these fragments.
I grew up in a fairly regimented, disciplined Baptist home. Dad served as a deacon and church superintendent for many years. Back then, I thought he was the worst type of tyrant possible. Several years later I realized he actually did a pretty good job walking the fine line, keeping things balanced at a happy medium.
And also, he just wasn't into genre fiction. He's a facts and figures and documentaries sorta of guy. We've always been voracious readers, Dad and I. We devour books. Him nonfiction, myself fiction.
I always kid him, though, that he only has himself to blame for my fascination with the "weird". In junior high HE bought me my first collection of genre novels, a box set of Five-Year Mission Star Trek novels. He laments his gift to this very day, to great comedic effect.
Also to be considered: we grew up in the country. Not in the boonies, but definitely outside town. No comic shops or book stores for me to walk to. A country store called "The Bread & Butter" sat up the hill from school, but I rarely got up there to scope out their comics. Maybe because they also stocked Playboy and Penthouse. I'm sure Dad knew this. He's a pretty sharp guy, although he shouldn't have worried. They taped those darn covers shut pretty tightly...
Ah.
Hmm.
Ahem.
Anyway. They had comics at the MALL in the CITY, and during my teen years in the grocery stores we visited once a week (our weekly big trip into the city). For many years, I subsisted entirely on those, especially in college. The mall used to have this store called The Reader's Island.
During college I'd take the bus there, sit in the back, camp out and read for hours. Also, one of my aunts always bought me a comic subscription every year for my birthday. Star Wars one year. G. I. Joe the next. They did get me Conan the Barbarian one year, but that quickly disappeared for some reason (I suspect this had more to do with the scantily-clad women than the sorcery).
Something else about the eighties that may or may not be my memory playing tricks on me: the kid shows and cartoons and things like that became very "commercialized" over time (Smurfs, Transformers, Go-Bots, My Little Pony, He-Man, G. I. Joe etc.). But maybe commercialization has always been there.
I do remember some really bizarre cartoons like Blackstar . That's the one I have the most vivid memories of being really strange, weird, and absolutely addicting. Was it science fiction? Fantasy? Horror? Whatever it was, I remember being amazed, and - maybe playing into that whole commercialism thing, it only lasted for a year. A shame.
By comparison, another "weird" show I loved was Dungeons & Dragons, which lasted about four years - but the existence of the role-playing game probably helped with that. Another show that was very cool - and had decent show/toy/comic book marketing angle - but only lasted about a year was Thundercats.
So I suppose I have a heritage. I didn't have Weird Tales or EC Comics (how wonderful that would've been!), but I had (now, don't laugh) The Hardy Boys. Scooby-Doo, (the real one WITHOUT Scrappy), and even though that always ended with Bitter Old Mr. Withers in a mask, trying to steal an inheritance that "rightfully belonged to him", Scooby still served up some chills, especially for elementary-school me.
And I ABSOLUTELY remember the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series. They may not seem that terrifying, but I read WAY out of my age range, so I was pretty young when I found those. They wigged me out. Seriously.
And I loved every minute of it.
Nostalgia surely plays a large part in this. Maybe I find my "genre heritage" lacking compared to what I saw last week because not enough time has passed for me to "remember" the stuff I grew up on (does that make any sense?) Even so...it still feels like something's missing. Maybe the "Golden Age" of Science Fiction and Fantasy and Horror WAS better. More... substantial. WEIRDER. More fantastic.
Or maybe it's just the passage of time. I still don't know. What I DO know is Tom and Paul educated me in the best possible genre matters last week, recommended authors and collections that I've already got ordered (two Whispers anthologies are on the way, VIA Amazon), and today I'm totally crashing the used book store down the road on the way back from writing.
Looks like I'm going back to school. Need to get all my materials....
Where do I even begin?
Whatever I say in this post, rest assured - my words can't adequately describe my experience. At all. But, as I'm a writer I'm bound to try, so here we go...
Last week Tom Moneteleone and Paul Wilson visited Seton to workshop with my Creative Writing students. Though a snow cancellation cut us a day short, we had a marvelous time, and I'm pretty sure that for several of my students, Tom and Paul opened the door to fiction just a bit wider.
Their first night in Binghamton, Tom and Paul invited me to hang out. That in itself blew me away. I mean - they're tremendously friendly, giving, wonderful guys anyway - but even so. That they thought of me means the world, especially because, in Paul's words, he'd said to Tom before calling me: "Gotta get Kevin over here. He'd love this."
They were visiting Stuart David Schiff, editor of the legendary Whispers horror/sci fi/fantasy anthologies (of which before then I'd only heard "whispers" about). It never ceases to amaze me how many genre figures hide out in Binghamton. Of course, as the hometown of Rod Serling, that makes sense, I suppose.
Anyway. Stuart is not only a former editor, but a collector extraordinaire. And that doesn't even do the man justice. Over the years, he's jammed his basement full of collectibles, so many, it boggles the mind.
The captain's chair from the original Enterprise. And one from a Klingon warship. And those were two of his minor pieces. I can't, I simply CAN'T put into words what I saw that evening. Original prints of movie posters. Tomes of weird fiction by authors I'd only barely heard of. Figurines. LIFE-SIZE PAPER MACHE TIGERS FROM LONDON. Original studio horror props.
UN. REAL.
The biggest treat of the night was sharing WONDERFUL Chinese from a place in my own town I've never heard of - Moon Star - and listening to Tom and Paul and David reminisce on the genre's early says, their own careers, and everything under the sun concerning writing, publishing, horror, fantasy, and science fiction.
Tom and Paul repeatedly apologized, worried they were "waxing philosophical" and "boring the hell out of me" (an approximation of Tom's words). They needn't have worried. They weren't boring me. Far from it. They were totally, completely, taking me to school.
Faced with a basement full of absolute genre and even cultural memorabilia gold, and enthralled by their stories, I realized two very humbling, awesome things:
1. I knew next to NOTHING of genre fiction's history
2. I had virtually no genre heritage of my own. Not as rich as theirs, anyway.
I'm not sure why this is. I've spent the whole week thinking about it, and I still don't think I've come up with a complete answer, only these fragments.
I grew up in a fairly regimented, disciplined Baptist home. Dad served as a deacon and church superintendent for many years. Back then, I thought he was the worst type of tyrant possible. Several years later I realized he actually did a pretty good job walking the fine line, keeping things balanced at a happy medium.
And also, he just wasn't into genre fiction. He's a facts and figures and documentaries sorta of guy. We've always been voracious readers, Dad and I. We devour books. Him nonfiction, myself fiction.
I always kid him, though, that he only has himself to blame for my fascination with the "weird". In junior high HE bought me my first collection of genre novels, a box set of Five-Year Mission Star Trek novels. He laments his gift to this very day, to great comedic effect.
Also to be considered: we grew up in the country. Not in the boonies, but definitely outside town. No comic shops or book stores for me to walk to. A country store called "The Bread & Butter" sat up the hill from school, but I rarely got up there to scope out their comics. Maybe because they also stocked Playboy and Penthouse. I'm sure Dad knew this. He's a pretty sharp guy, although he shouldn't have worried. They taped those darn covers shut pretty tightly...
Ah.
Hmm.
Ahem.
Anyway. They had comics at the MALL in the CITY, and during my teen years in the grocery stores we visited once a week (our weekly big trip into the city). For many years, I subsisted entirely on those, especially in college. The mall used to have this store called The Reader's Island.
During college I'd take the bus there, sit in the back, camp out and read for hours. Also, one of my aunts always bought me a comic subscription every year for my birthday. Star Wars one year. G. I. Joe the next. They did get me Conan the Barbarian one year, but that quickly disappeared for some reason (I suspect this had more to do with the scantily-clad women than the sorcery).
Something else about the eighties that may or may not be my memory playing tricks on me: the kid shows and cartoons and things like that became very "commercialized" over time (Smurfs, Transformers, Go-Bots, My Little Pony, He-Man, G. I. Joe etc.). But maybe commercialization has always been there.
I do remember some really bizarre cartoons like Blackstar . That's the one I have the most vivid memories of being really strange, weird, and absolutely addicting. Was it science fiction? Fantasy? Horror? Whatever it was, I remember being amazed, and - maybe playing into that whole commercialism thing, it only lasted for a year. A shame.
By comparison, another "weird" show I loved was Dungeons & Dragons, which lasted about four years - but the existence of the role-playing game probably helped with that. Another show that was very cool - and had decent show/toy/comic book marketing angle - but only lasted about a year was Thundercats.
So I suppose I have a heritage. I didn't have Weird Tales or EC Comics (how wonderful that would've been!), but I had (now, don't laugh) The Hardy Boys. Scooby-Doo, (the real one WITHOUT Scrappy), and even though that always ended with Bitter Old Mr. Withers in a mask, trying to steal an inheritance that "rightfully belonged to him", Scooby still served up some chills, especially for elementary-school me.
And I ABSOLUTELY remember the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series. They may not seem that terrifying, but I read WAY out of my age range, so I was pretty young when I found those. They wigged me out. Seriously.
And I loved every minute of it.
Nostalgia surely plays a large part in this. Maybe I find my "genre heritage" lacking compared to what I saw last week because not enough time has passed for me to "remember" the stuff I grew up on (does that make any sense?) Even so...it still feels like something's missing. Maybe the "Golden Age" of Science Fiction and Fantasy and Horror WAS better. More... substantial. WEIRDER. More fantastic.
Or maybe it's just the passage of time. I still don't know. What I DO know is Tom and Paul educated me in the best possible genre matters last week, recommended authors and collections that I've already got ordered (two Whispers anthologies are on the way, VIA Amazon), and today I'm totally crashing the used book store down the road on the way back from writing.
Looks like I'm going back to school. Need to get all my materials....
March 4, 2011
Possibly One of the Best Passages of Prose Ever
Still planning on my "Part Two" blog post about the best evening ever with Tom Monteleone and Paul Wilson, but just haven't had time. This morning, however, for kicks and giggles, I wanted to share a passage that just reached up and smacked me last night as I read this book for perhaps the fifth time this year. It just hums with "awesome" and "win".
Picture if you will: The flipside of a game played by a pack of teenage hoodlums in a rusty Chrysler. It's a solo B-side for a thing born in a cornfield, a requiem for the shambling progeny of the black and bloody earth. Because the October Boy has his own game. It's played with pitchforks and switchblades and fear, and its first scrimmage is set to begin on a quiet strip of two-lane that marks the midnight train to town. For this creature with the fright mask is both trick and treat. He comes with pockets filled with candy, and he carries a knife that carves holes in the shadows, and his race will take him from a lonely country road to an old brick church that waits dead center in the middle of the square...in The Twilight Zone.
Dark Harvest, by Norman Partridge. My Creative Writing class will be reading it soon.
And so should you.
Picture if you will: The flipside of a game played by a pack of teenage hoodlums in a rusty Chrysler. It's a solo B-side for a thing born in a cornfield, a requiem for the shambling progeny of the black and bloody earth. Because the October Boy has his own game. It's played with pitchforks and switchblades and fear, and its first scrimmage is set to begin on a quiet strip of two-lane that marks the midnight train to town. For this creature with the fright mask is both trick and treat. He comes with pockets filled with candy, and he carries a knife that carves holes in the shadows, and his race will take him from a lonely country road to an old brick church that waits dead center in the middle of the square...in The Twilight Zone.Dark Harvest, by Norman Partridge. My Creative Writing class will be reading it soon.
And so should you.
February 26, 2011
The Whispers of Gaps in My Genre Education, and a night With Tom Monteleone & F. Paul Wilson: P1
Been thinking about a TON of stuff lately. Most of it regarding my future as a writer. What I want to accomplish (the crazy, pie in the sky goals), what I'd be happy/content to accomplish (spritzed with a dose of reality), what I want to spend my time doing, where my energies would best be expended. This is pretty weighty stuff, so I'm splitting it into Part 1 and 2.
I recently stepped down as Shroud's Review Editor. After over five years of reviewing, I simply came to the end. Satisfied I'd installed a durable system at Shroud, I realized it was time to leave.
I'm not done with Shroud, however. I've pitched at least two more issues to Tim Deal, The Terror at Miskatonic Falls is on its way, and I'll revisit Hiram Grange eventually. Shroud has become like family, and that'll never change.
Recently, however, I hit a milestone: a phone pitch interview with a senior acquisitions editor at a New York Publishing House. Then, several months later, I met with said editor in person, discussed my pitch, and handed this editor a series synopsis, the synopses for the first two installments plus the first four chapters of each, and a brief overview of the third installment.
I came away changed. This experience clarified many things. First of all, since the publication of my first story - for cash - four years ago, I've done okay. Sold five fiction shorts to decent markets for at least semi-pro pay, six creative non-fiction pieces to very good markets for really good pay.
Attended Borderlands Press Writers Bootcamp two years consecutively. Wrote and rewrote and rewrote and rewrote a pretty decent novella that's gotten good reviews, even notched some Stoker Recommendations, though it fell short of the preliminary ballot. Edited a very unique anthology in The Terror at Miskatonic Falls, as well as Shroud's 2010 Halloween Issue.
Along the way, I attended a few cons, met some awesome people who have not only been great help, but also great friends. I started receiving some short story solicitations, so I geared up to write those, another Hiram novella, some Hiram flash, a novel or two, and then...
I stopped.
Looked around.
Realized that I as happy as I was with what I'd accomplished...I wanted to go further.
So, believe it or not, I actually turned down most of those story solicitations. They just weren't for me. I also realized that I'd sold myself a lie. I'll never be a prolific short story writer with hundreds of short stories to my credit. Just don't have it in me.
When things started "happening" for me, I got really excited. Couldn't wait until I published enough stories for my first short story collection. My credits were decent enough. Had enough good reviews and blurbs, and here's the quirk that POD publishing has brought the small press horror market, for good or ill: the acceptance of a novel or short story collection through a small or micro horror press no longer hinges on an author's marketability or selling power. This sounds like a good thing. More freedom. More open doors to new voices and fresh writers. It MUST be a good thing.
I'm becoming ever more uncertain of this.
Especially in the case of short story collections. What's the logic behind publishing a collection of a writer's short stories? The motive? The more I chewed over this, the less appealing the thought became.
You don't publish a collection of your short stories simply because you've racked up enough "readable", "good" stories published in "good" markets. In fact, it could be argued (let's leave self-publishing ebooks out of this, for now), that a writer shouldn't publish his own short stories at ALL.
A publisher - of any kind, specialty, small, or micro - should approach the writer, say to them: "We love your work. People love your work. You've done great things. Won awards. Have a name and a following. We'd LOVE to put together a collection of your shorts."
This past week Tom Monteleone and Paul Wilson visited my Creative Writing students, conducted a workshop with them. I'll just say this now: I love Tom and Paul. I love Tom's short work, I love Repairman Jack, and both of these guys have left indelible stamps on my writing, thanks to two years at Borderlands' Bootcamp. So when they asked me to hang out with them and a friend of theirs who lived in Binghamton, I jumped at the chance.
I can't detail that evening here. That will be Part Two. Suffice to say...it was better than any Con I've attended yet, (except Borderlands), I kid you not. It blew my mind. Overwhelmed me with how little I knew of genre fiction's past. Most of all?
It humbled me. Left me in awe. And from my viewpoint, that has crystallized the undeniable negative that POD publishing has brought to the horror genre.
A lack of humility. Of patience. Why commit yourself to a dream that will require hard work, patience, and a thick skin? Why work to be better? Why suffer rejection from those big, bad, uncaring New York Houses, when we can just self-publish ebooks or publish collections through small presses?
Understand, I'm not slamming small presses. Cemetery Dance, Apex, Shroud, Thunderstorm and Maelstrom, Belfire, Deadite...all quality publishers. And places that I'd be happy sending my work, but....
I've been aiming at the bottom of the ladder (and not in quality, just in size and distribution and marketing and name). Ignoring the top and even the middle. Convinced myself I wasn't good enough, maybe. Maybe impatient, also. Because to hit the top, I need to do two simple things: WRITE. AND WAIT (and try and try and try....woops. That's like five things.)
Maurice Broaddus once wrote a blog entitled "A Fate Worse Than Being Unpublished". In it, he shared that if he couldn't be published WELL, he'd rather not be published at all until such a time came that he did publish well.
Of course, there's no guarantee of hitting the top or the middle. Ever. Maybe - MORE THAN LIKELY - no specialty house will EVER approach me for a collection of my short fiction. Very possibly, I'll NEVER land a deal with a New York House.
BUT I WANT TO TRY.
And I'm willing to wait. For however long it takes to happen. I'm willing to weather as many rejections as it takes. As Norman Partridge asked recently in some BRILLIANT blog posts about publishing for the newbie writer: "Have you tried New York? I mean, really tried?"
No.
No, I haven't.
So I've slowed things down. I'm still working on my novel, but have no immediate plans to publish it, simply because of THIS awesome piece of advice, also by Norman Partridge: the only magic bullet in publishing success is the writing itself.
I stepped down from Review Editor, and I've accepted a position as a slush reader.
Slush reader?
Isn't this a step backward?
No. It's a HUMBLING step. One that will teach me SO MUCH about what makes an excellent short story. I'm also going back to "bone up" on my horror: Charles Grant. TM Wright. Ramsey Campbell. The Whispers anthologies. So many others I missed because my focus was too narrow.
And of course, all my current favorites: Gary Braunbeck. Rio Youers. Tim Lebbon. Neil Gaiman. Norm Partridge. Norman Prentiss. Nate Kenyon. Ronald Malfi and Mary Sangiovanni. T. L. Hines and Travis Thrasher. Of course, Tom Monteleone and Paul Wilson. And I need to check out other folks, like Laird Barron and Tom Piccirrilli.
Looks like I'm going back to school.
I've got lots of work to do.
I recently stepped down as Shroud's Review Editor. After over five years of reviewing, I simply came to the end. Satisfied I'd installed a durable system at Shroud, I realized it was time to leave.
I'm not done with Shroud, however. I've pitched at least two more issues to Tim Deal, The Terror at Miskatonic Falls is on its way, and I'll revisit Hiram Grange eventually. Shroud has become like family, and that'll never change.
Recently, however, I hit a milestone: a phone pitch interview with a senior acquisitions editor at a New York Publishing House. Then, several months later, I met with said editor in person, discussed my pitch, and handed this editor a series synopsis, the synopses for the first two installments plus the first four chapters of each, and a brief overview of the third installment.
I came away changed. This experience clarified many things. First of all, since the publication of my first story - for cash - four years ago, I've done okay. Sold five fiction shorts to decent markets for at least semi-pro pay, six creative non-fiction pieces to very good markets for really good pay.
Attended Borderlands Press Writers Bootcamp two years consecutively. Wrote and rewrote and rewrote and rewrote a pretty decent novella that's gotten good reviews, even notched some Stoker Recommendations, though it fell short of the preliminary ballot. Edited a very unique anthology in The Terror at Miskatonic Falls, as well as Shroud's 2010 Halloween Issue.
Along the way, I attended a few cons, met some awesome people who have not only been great help, but also great friends. I started receiving some short story solicitations, so I geared up to write those, another Hiram novella, some Hiram flash, a novel or two, and then...
I stopped.
Looked around.
Realized that I as happy as I was with what I'd accomplished...I wanted to go further.
So, believe it or not, I actually turned down most of those story solicitations. They just weren't for me. I also realized that I'd sold myself a lie. I'll never be a prolific short story writer with hundreds of short stories to my credit. Just don't have it in me.
When things started "happening" for me, I got really excited. Couldn't wait until I published enough stories for my first short story collection. My credits were decent enough. Had enough good reviews and blurbs, and here's the quirk that POD publishing has brought the small press horror market, for good or ill: the acceptance of a novel or short story collection through a small or micro horror press no longer hinges on an author's marketability or selling power. This sounds like a good thing. More freedom. More open doors to new voices and fresh writers. It MUST be a good thing.
I'm becoming ever more uncertain of this.
Especially in the case of short story collections. What's the logic behind publishing a collection of a writer's short stories? The motive? The more I chewed over this, the less appealing the thought became.
You don't publish a collection of your short stories simply because you've racked up enough "readable", "good" stories published in "good" markets. In fact, it could be argued (let's leave self-publishing ebooks out of this, for now), that a writer shouldn't publish his own short stories at ALL.
A publisher - of any kind, specialty, small, or micro - should approach the writer, say to them: "We love your work. People love your work. You've done great things. Won awards. Have a name and a following. We'd LOVE to put together a collection of your shorts."
This past week Tom Monteleone and Paul Wilson visited my Creative Writing students, conducted a workshop with them. I'll just say this now: I love Tom and Paul. I love Tom's short work, I love Repairman Jack, and both of these guys have left indelible stamps on my writing, thanks to two years at Borderlands' Bootcamp. So when they asked me to hang out with them and a friend of theirs who lived in Binghamton, I jumped at the chance.
I can't detail that evening here. That will be Part Two. Suffice to say...it was better than any Con I've attended yet, (except Borderlands), I kid you not. It blew my mind. Overwhelmed me with how little I knew of genre fiction's past. Most of all?
It humbled me. Left me in awe. And from my viewpoint, that has crystallized the undeniable negative that POD publishing has brought to the horror genre.
A lack of humility. Of patience. Why commit yourself to a dream that will require hard work, patience, and a thick skin? Why work to be better? Why suffer rejection from those big, bad, uncaring New York Houses, when we can just self-publish ebooks or publish collections through small presses?
Understand, I'm not slamming small presses. Cemetery Dance, Apex, Shroud, Thunderstorm and Maelstrom, Belfire, Deadite...all quality publishers. And places that I'd be happy sending my work, but....
I've been aiming at the bottom of the ladder (and not in quality, just in size and distribution and marketing and name). Ignoring the top and even the middle. Convinced myself I wasn't good enough, maybe. Maybe impatient, also. Because to hit the top, I need to do two simple things: WRITE. AND WAIT (and try and try and try....woops. That's like five things.)
Maurice Broaddus once wrote a blog entitled "A Fate Worse Than Being Unpublished". In it, he shared that if he couldn't be published WELL, he'd rather not be published at all until such a time came that he did publish well.
Of course, there's no guarantee of hitting the top or the middle. Ever. Maybe - MORE THAN LIKELY - no specialty house will EVER approach me for a collection of my short fiction. Very possibly, I'll NEVER land a deal with a New York House.
BUT I WANT TO TRY.
And I'm willing to wait. For however long it takes to happen. I'm willing to weather as many rejections as it takes. As Norman Partridge asked recently in some BRILLIANT blog posts about publishing for the newbie writer: "Have you tried New York? I mean, really tried?"
No.
No, I haven't.
So I've slowed things down. I'm still working on my novel, but have no immediate plans to publish it, simply because of THIS awesome piece of advice, also by Norman Partridge: the only magic bullet in publishing success is the writing itself.
I stepped down from Review Editor, and I've accepted a position as a slush reader.
Slush reader?
Isn't this a step backward?
No. It's a HUMBLING step. One that will teach me SO MUCH about what makes an excellent short story. I'm also going back to "bone up" on my horror: Charles Grant. TM Wright. Ramsey Campbell. The Whispers anthologies. So many others I missed because my focus was too narrow.
And of course, all my current favorites: Gary Braunbeck. Rio Youers. Tim Lebbon. Neil Gaiman. Norm Partridge. Norman Prentiss. Nate Kenyon. Ronald Malfi and Mary Sangiovanni. T. L. Hines and Travis Thrasher. Of course, Tom Monteleone and Paul Wilson. And I need to check out other folks, like Laird Barron and Tom Piccirrilli.
Looks like I'm going back to school.
I've got lots of work to do.
February 24, 2011
Day Two of SCC's Mini-Borderlands Press Writers' Bootcamp
Today the "rubber hit the road". During the morning two groups traded workshops between our visiting authorsTom Monteleone and Paul Wilson, while two groups met with myself and 9th - 11th English Teacher Kristen Kinner. During my workshops, students were offered the chance to critique each. Students visiting with Tom and Paul were encouraged (by me) to take notes with an open notebook placed on each desk with this friendly bit: "take notes, or die!"After our lunch break, we met back in my room from 1:00 - 1:30 for a bit of debriefing, so students could clarify any lingering questions they had from the morning's workshops. This proved slow going at first, either because Tom and Paul had done their job so well my students had no questions or simply because of fatigue. Eventually, we eased into it, clarifying matters on the use of passive voice, what POV (point of view) was, and other things.
At 1:30, Tom Monteleone addressed my Creative Writing class and a larger assembly of students, sharing his personal experiences in the publishing industry: how he got started, made his first sales, acquired an agent and climbed the ladder. He answered questions about the submission process for short stories, what editors are looking for in stories, and his own personal writing habits.
In the evening we had a small, intimate (in other words, not many folks showed up) gathering in our school cafe. This actually proved to be a plus, because several of my Creative Writing students and parents where able to interact with both Tom and Paul in a very conversational, informal manner. Basically, we hung out and chatted about books, writing, schools, and Cthulhu.
Yes. Cthulhu.
Tomorrow's weather predictions notwithstanding, we're hoping for another great day of workshops, capped off with a presentation by Paul Wilson on his writing career.
February 23, 2011
Day One of SCC's Mini-Borderlands Press Writers' Bootcamp
Today marked the opening day for Seton's Borderlands Press Writers' Bootcamp Experience, which has been made possible by a grant through our local Discovery Center and their "Arts Partners" Program. Our Visiting Authors for the next two days will be New York Times Bestselling author F. Paul Wilson and USA Today Notable Author Tom Monteleone, owner of Borderlands Press and director of the prestigious Borderlands Press Writers' Bootcamp. 
Thursday and Friday, Tom and Paul will meet workshop style with my Creative Writing Class (21 students), sharing their critique of my students' work. Each day will end with presentations detailing each writers' respective careers which will be open to the general student body. Tom Monteleone will speak Thursday, Paul Wilson Friday.
Today, we met with Tom and Paul in our library. They talked with us about the fundamentals of Craft - POV (Point of View), Narrative Voice, Dialogue, Form, Show-Don't-Tell, Setting & Description. They provided a sound foundation for what my students can expect over the next two days, talked about how important it is for writer-hopefuls to develop thick skin, to endure criticism of their work. They also shared some of the pitfalls & bad habits of new writers, as well as methods for overcoming those bad habits, also the absolute NECESSITY for writer-hopefuls to master the fundamentals of writing.
In the next two days, my students will rotate through the following workshop stations:F. Paul Wilson: Dialogue/Narrative Voice/POV
Tom Monteleone: Setting/Plot/Logic
Kristin Kinner (9th -11th English): Grammar/Structure
Kevin Lucia (me - 9th - 1oth English): Word Economy/Usage
We're hoping that the next two days may provide turn-key moments for several of my students.
February 22, 2011
Update: The Terror at Miskatonic Falls
Almost two years ago this Spring, I pitched an unusual project to Tim Deal of Shroud Publishing. In the grip of my MA in Creative Writing at Binghamton University, I'd been reading - and writing - quite a bit of poetry. A lot of it dark and brooding, especially the stuff I wrote. Not necessarily "horror", per se (because "horror poetry" can be a crap shoot loaded with "dark emo cutting verse" and horror-porn poems), but definitely moody stuff.
Along the way, I came across Spoon River Anthology, a collection of interconnecting poems written by Edgar Lee Masters. The poems were epitaphs on tombstones of folks all from Spoon River, and told little stories - often sad and desperate, sometimes dark and cynical and amusing all at once - about their lives.
I thought to myself: "Let's take the Spoon River idea, mix it with something cool - like the legendary vanished colony of Roanoke - throw in a dash of Lovecraft - and do a horror poetry anthology about a little town in Massachusetts that disappears in the middle of a snow storm!"
And thus, The Terror at Miskatonic Falls was born.
A confession: I'm a late comer to poetry. As in the last ten years. Maybe it took some maturity for me to appreciate it, maybe the struggle to teach it to students, but my desire to learn more about and study and actually WRITE poetry has grown much over the past few years. I even have a small collection of my own verse. Maybe that'll see the light of day eventually.
Maybe not.
Anyway, Shroud's poetry anthology went through several phases. As the poems came in and I worked with some AWESOME poets to fine tune our vision, I realized I needed a framing device - a state trooper stranded by the snow storm, who stumbles through Miskatonic Falls, finding bits and pieces of haunting - and, at times, horrifying - verse, along with the remains of the townspeople...but only that.
No people.
No answers.
And no hope.
It's coming together later than we originally anticipated, but all the better: because Danny Evarts (Shroud Layout Guru SUPREME) has been carefully crafting some of the finest illustrations I have ever seen. I handed him quite a challenge with this project, and while I make no claims about it being the best thing ever since the written word...it will be VERY different from anything else out there.
Trust me on this.
Wait. You don't believe me?
Seriously?
Well, then....don't take my word for it. Check out the Steve Gilbert's cover, book trailer, and some interior art for yourself...
Open publication - Free publishing - More poetry
Along the way, I came across Spoon River Anthology, a collection of interconnecting poems written by Edgar Lee Masters. The poems were epitaphs on tombstones of folks all from Spoon River, and told little stories - often sad and desperate, sometimes dark and cynical and amusing all at once - about their lives.
I thought to myself: "Let's take the Spoon River idea, mix it with something cool - like the legendary vanished colony of Roanoke - throw in a dash of Lovecraft - and do a horror poetry anthology about a little town in Massachusetts that disappears in the middle of a snow storm!"
And thus, The Terror at Miskatonic Falls was born.
A confession: I'm a late comer to poetry. As in the last ten years. Maybe it took some maturity for me to appreciate it, maybe the struggle to teach it to students, but my desire to learn more about and study and actually WRITE poetry has grown much over the past few years. I even have a small collection of my own verse. Maybe that'll see the light of day eventually.
Maybe not.
Anyway, Shroud's poetry anthology went through several phases. As the poems came in and I worked with some AWESOME poets to fine tune our vision, I realized I needed a framing device - a state trooper stranded by the snow storm, who stumbles through Miskatonic Falls, finding bits and pieces of haunting - and, at times, horrifying - verse, along with the remains of the townspeople...but only that.
No people.
No answers.
And no hope.
It's coming together later than we originally anticipated, but all the better: because Danny Evarts (Shroud Layout Guru SUPREME) has been carefully crafting some of the finest illustrations I have ever seen. I handed him quite a challenge with this project, and while I make no claims about it being the best thing ever since the written word...it will be VERY different from anything else out there.
Trust me on this.
Wait. You don't believe me?
Seriously?
Well, then....don't take my word for it. Check out the Steve Gilbert's cover, book trailer, and some interior art for yourself...
Open publication - Free publishing - More poetry
February 15, 2011
What I'm Working On. Enjoy...
@font-face { font-family: "Georgia";}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Georgia"; color: red; }table.MsoNormalTable { font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Georgia"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }One bright day in the middle ofthe night, Two dead boys got up to fight.
Two dead boys faced off. One dead boy stared from where he satat the end of the bed. His wildmane of blond hair glowed brightagainst the room's darkness. Theother dead boy squirmed and gasped beneath thin and damp sheets. Throat burning. Stomach cramping. Dying, slowly.
That's what it felt like,anyway. He didn't know how longhe'd lain here, damp blankets twisting around his legs, night sweats slickinghis skin. Time had lost meaning. He floated in a haze of fever andnausea, sweats and chills and spasms. Curled fetal, hands clawed against chest, his world had contracted intoa bright pinpoint of agony.
Shadows loomed over him. Murmured. Tried to get him to sip from a straw. Someone occasionally wiped his browwith damp rags. The cool liquidfrom the straw had made him gag and vomit, because even as it soothed his rawthroat, it cramped his guts.
They'd given him nothing forawhile.
Maybe they'd given up.
Given up because he was dying andthere wasn't anything left to do. He didn't want to blame them, but hated them a little, regardless.
He whimpered. Felt like he'd swallowed broken glassthat had dug into his throat and stayed there, tearing flesh with each newswallow.
The dead boy sitting at the bed'sedge spoke his name. He lookedaway. Didn't know how longthe dead boy had been sitting there or what he wanted, but knew the boy sittingat the end of his bed was dead. Had to be. The shadows thatloomed over him and whispered and smoothed back his damp hair...
(mom and dad and the doctor)
...never saw or spoke to the boysitting at the end of the bed. They must not be able to see him, he must not bethere...
(today I went upon the stair andsaw a man who wasn't there)
...and if he wasn't there thatcould only mean he'd been dreaming the dead boy or the dead boy had come fromfar a away place that lingered close now, that the boy had come...
(from the drift, a cold placefilled with hungry dead things)
He didn't like looking at the deadboy, whose wide eyes yawned like twin black holes, empty and bottomless, whosehair shimmered so brightly white.
The dead boy spoke his nameagain. He refused to look, glancedupwards instead. Scanned the darkceiling where shadows and light danced, where something flowed in sinuouspatterns.
A circus oozed around the upperedges of his bedroom walls. Lankand grotesquely thin clowns with big red mouths and wide eyes bulging fromfish-belly white faces capered. Rolled and jigged. Prancedamongst screaming horses flayed alive by the lashing whips of men wearing tallblack hats as they pulled misshapen carriages hiding secrets that thrilled andrepulsed.
Squat, ape-faced dwarves lurchedalongside. Staring blindly nowhereas their knuckles dragged along the ground. Cadaverous sword-eaters paced the screaming horses andprancing clowns, plunging their scimitars down their throats, pulling them outagain. The swords gouged out theirbacks. Misted red over the dwarvesand screaming horses. When pulledfree from the engorged throats, thick with red ichor, they winked back to agleaming silver. And were plungedback down again and pulled free, over and over.
The dead boy at the end of the bedspoke louder. Tone sharp andharsh.
He didn't listen. Only stared at the circus marchingaround his room. Something insideknew this couldn't be real. He wassick. Dying. His fever made thecircus wallpaper border march around the top of his bedroom. It wasn't real, it wasn't...
(something that had slipped freefrom the drift; a cold and dead hungry thing)
He was sick with a fever. Was dreaming and dying. The circus wasn't real.
It wasn't.
Yet there it was. Dancing and spinning and rolling. Clowns with leering red mouths gobblingup dwarves and chewing them into grisly pulps. Horrible men in tall black hats flaying their screaminghorses alive while they pulled behind them pulsing, oozing dead monstrositieson lumpy wheels. Sword-eaterswhipping their swords from their throats in gushes of blood, hacking away atthe men in the tall black hats, the horses and dwarves and the rolling,gobbling, leering clowns while something else shifted and flowed behind them,something black and slick and viscous, something long and coiled, something...
(dead from the drift)
It twisted amongst the clowns andscreaming horses and men and dwarves and sword-eaters, connecting them,dissolving them and consuming them...
Everything flickered.
Like a filmstrip jumping itstrack.
The circus started over from thebeginning. With rolling clownsleering with big red mouths. Overand over it ran, with him dying and the dead boy talking but he still didn'tlisten or look at the dead boy as the wet black thing slithered just behind thecircus, pulsing and swelling and coming closer...
Two dead boys faced off. One dead boy stared from where he satat the end of the bed. His wildmane of blond hair glowed brightagainst the room's darkness. Theother dead boy squirmed and gasped beneath thin and damp sheets. Throat burning. Stomach cramping. Dying, slowly.
That's what it felt like,anyway. He didn't know how longhe'd lain here, damp blankets twisting around his legs, night sweats slickinghis skin. Time had lost meaning. He floated in a haze of fever andnausea, sweats and chills and spasms. Curled fetal, hands clawed against chest, his world had contracted intoa bright pinpoint of agony.
Shadows loomed over him. Murmured. Tried to get him to sip from a straw. Someone occasionally wiped his browwith damp rags. The cool liquidfrom the straw had made him gag and vomit, because even as it soothed his rawthroat, it cramped his guts.
They'd given him nothing forawhile.
Maybe they'd given up.
Given up because he was dying andthere wasn't anything left to do. He didn't want to blame them, but hated them a little, regardless.
He whimpered. Felt like he'd swallowed broken glassthat had dug into his throat and stayed there, tearing flesh with each newswallow.
The dead boy sitting at the bed'sedge spoke his name. He lookedaway. Didn't know how longthe dead boy had been sitting there or what he wanted, but knew the boy sittingat the end of his bed was dead. Had to be. The shadows thatloomed over him and whispered and smoothed back his damp hair...
(mom and dad and the doctor)
...never saw or spoke to the boysitting at the end of the bed. They must not be able to see him, he must not bethere...
(today I went upon the stair andsaw a man who wasn't there)
...and if he wasn't there thatcould only mean he'd been dreaming the dead boy or the dead boy had come fromfar a away place that lingered close now, that the boy had come...
(from the drift, a cold placefilled with hungry dead things)
He didn't like looking at the deadboy, whose wide eyes yawned like twin black holes, empty and bottomless, whosehair shimmered so brightly white.
The dead boy spoke his nameagain. He refused to look, glancedupwards instead. Scanned the darkceiling where shadows and light danced, where something flowed in sinuouspatterns.
A circus oozed around the upperedges of his bedroom walls. Lankand grotesquely thin clowns with big red mouths and wide eyes bulging fromfish-belly white faces capered. Rolled and jigged. Prancedamongst screaming horses flayed alive by the lashing whips of men wearing tallblack hats as they pulled misshapen carriages hiding secrets that thrilled andrepulsed.
Squat, ape-faced dwarves lurchedalongside. Staring blindly nowhereas their knuckles dragged along the ground. Cadaverous sword-eaters paced the screaming horses andprancing clowns, plunging their scimitars down their throats, pulling them outagain. The swords gouged out theirbacks. Misted red over the dwarvesand screaming horses. When pulledfree from the engorged throats, thick with red ichor, they winked back to agleaming silver. And were plungedback down again and pulled free, over and over.
The dead boy at the end of the bedspoke louder. Tone sharp andharsh.
He didn't listen. Only stared at the circus marchingaround his room. Something insideknew this couldn't be real. He wassick. Dying. His fever made thecircus wallpaper border march around the top of his bedroom. It wasn't real, it wasn't...
(something that had slipped freefrom the drift; a cold and dead hungry thing)
He was sick with a fever. Was dreaming and dying. The circus wasn't real.
It wasn't.
Yet there it was. Dancing and spinning and rolling. Clowns with leering red mouths gobblingup dwarves and chewing them into grisly pulps. Horrible men in tall black hats flaying their screaminghorses alive while they pulled behind them pulsing, oozing dead monstrositieson lumpy wheels. Sword-eaterswhipping their swords from their throats in gushes of blood, hacking away atthe men in the tall black hats, the horses and dwarves and the rolling,gobbling, leering clowns while something else shifted and flowed behind them,something black and slick and viscous, something long and coiled, something...
(dead from the drift)
It twisted amongst the clowns andscreaming horses and men and dwarves and sword-eaters, connecting them,dissolving them and consuming them...
Everything flickered.
Like a filmstrip jumping itstrack.
The circus started over from thebeginning. With rolling clownsleering with big red mouths. Overand over it ran, with him dying and the dead boy talking but he still didn'tlisten or look at the dead boy as the wet black thing slithered just behind thecircus, pulsing and swelling and coming closer...
February 12, 2011
Seton CC's February Visiting Writer: Norman Prentiss, author of "Invisible Fences"
Seton Catholic Central High School welcomed its second guest in this year's Visiting Writers' Program yesterday in Norman Prentiss, Stoker Award-Winning author of Invisible Fences, a novella that's also been shortlisted for the Bram Stoker Award in the category of Long Fiction. Our first visiting author was Claudia Gabel, author of Scholastic's In and Out series, editor at HarperCollins, and author of the genre mash-up, Romeo & Juliet and Vampires.My Creative Writing class and other members of the SCC student body read several selections of Norman's work, from his Stoker Award-Winning story "In the Porches of My Ears" to "Glue Traps" and "Control", and several read Invisible Fences, also.
For about eighty minutes, Norman shared his background, how he grew up on horror, how his academic training in English & Literature helped shaped his craft, and he shared his perspectives on "quiet horror", what the word horror means to him as a person and writer.
Norman also detailed the work he's done with Cemetery Dance Magazine and how that helped him not only learn the craft but make connections in the industry. He shared his experiences at Borderlands Press Writers' Bootcamp, and also talked very eloquently about the need for a young writer to be careful when and where to see their first work published.
Norman spoke about personal influences, and how real-life can often inspire powerful stories, but how a really good story must be more than just a "wouldn't the be cool if" twist on actual events. He also talked about how some story elements - even as powerful as they are - just won't fit into a story, and the necessity of pulling those elements out and saving them for later.
Also, Norman shared artwork - of the brilliant master Steve Gilberts - for an upcoming mini-collection forthcoming from Cemetery Dance, from which he offered a reading sample to our students.
Finally, Norman shared - most telling in his friendly, relaxed demeanor - the importance of professional behavior and leaving a good impression, how important it is to show editors and others in the industry that not only are you a good writer, but also a good person, too. On that count especially, Norman made an impression upon the Seton students that only added to the impression his writing made on them, one that will last for a very long time.
February 11, 2011
Music To My Ears:
Honestly? This is the reason why I started writing in the first place....
American Frankenstein: The Magic Bullet: "My conversations with first novelists almost always run the same way. They've got lots of questions. Before the sale, they want to know how ..."
American Frankenstein: The Magic Bullet: "My conversations with first novelists almost always run the same way. They've got lots of questions. Before the sale, they want to know how ..."
