Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 64

More Good Advice: Putting Your First Novel To Work

More excellent advice from author Norman Partridge. And it's nice to see an awesome writer - like Norm - who feels the same way about Cons that I do. Two years of Con hopping, and I'm not even sure where I'm at with all of that, or if it even helped.  I've spent tons of money, logged lots of weary road time, and had a some fun along the way....(and met some really cool people)...

But ironically? My pitch to that New York House (which I'm still waiting back on with bated-breath) came through a completely different channel that didn't require me to even leave my home town. Just proves that this whole thing is different for everybody....
Read on.
American Frankenstein: Putting Your First Novel To Work: "So, last week we were talking about selling your first novel, and some things you'll want to look for from your publisher (and some things y..."

A Writer in a Holding Pattern

Recently I hit a milestone in the writing career, then proceeded to stomp on it and throw it out with yesterday's garbage.  The resulting introspection has left me spinning a bit, a little up in the air, hence the blog's title: in a holding pattern of sorts.

So, the milestone: several weeks ago I received a few solicitations for upcoming anthologies.  My instant reaction was: "YESS! People coming to me, finally, instead of me begging at hopelessly locked doors."  I did receive a solicitation this summer, and that story is in its final proofing stages (more on that in a bit), but these were multiple submissions, and I thought I'd finally snap the short fiction drought that's seen only one piece of short fiction published over the past year, dreaming of lining up work for the next few months.  Work, which - if I didn't screw it up - I'd get paid for.  Not millions, mind you, but at this point: a sale is a sale.

Anyway, I like and respect both editors immensely, and because if there's one thing I do pride myself on it's my punctuality and work ethic, I went right to work on the first story due.  After several days of tinkering, however, I realized a sobering truth.

I didn't want to write that story.  At all.  It was a subject matter I'd never written in,  hadn't read much in and don't even really like, so I guess I'd thought it'd be a challenge, something to stretch my range.

Turned out to be too much of a challenge.  I could work up ZERO interest in the story.  I immediately emailed the editor to let them know I'd blown it so they could replace me, and moved on to the next story.  Figured that one would work out better.  I had several parts of unfinished stories I'd planned on cannibalizing, thought for sure I'd nail that one, instead.

And again, after several days: nothing.  Nada.  Just had no enthusiasm for the story, at all.   The kicker was when I started thinking of another anthology I wanted to submit to, (not solicited), and in planning the story, I almost came to tears.  Seriously.  The story dealt with such emotional subject matter, just thinking of it saddened me.

I realized a harsh truth: I'm not gonna be a writer who will churn out hundreds of short stories and will someday publish a limited edition collection through Cemetery Dance.  I'll never be known for my short stories.  And then I spent the day, (ironically enough, reading some back issues of Cemetery Dance), wondering where the desire to write short stories had come from in the first place.

And then I realized another harsh truth: I'd basically fallen in love with an image.  An ideal.  That awesome, thrilling short story writer who has everyone on the edge of their seat, waiting for their next story.  That's who I'd wanted to be.  And...not because I'm in love with writing short stories.  And not because - as much as I like them - I'm in love with reading short stories.

But because of the image.  And luck.  I'd gotten lucky, sold a few shorts (laughable, as they were over 6,000 words each) and thought: "Hey! What a way to make a quick buck!  Pretty soon, I'll have a collection of my own, and I'll publish it, get reviews, I'm so prolific that...."

WA-BAM!

That's the sound of me hitting the hard wall of Truth.    Why would I MAKE myself write all these short stories and try for all these anthologies when I'm not DRIVEN to?  I should only write what I'm DRIVEN to write.

Example: the story I'm finishing up that was solicited this past summer deals with the most difficult truths about myself - as an American - that I've ever had to face.  It makes some pretty serious - and hopefully not inflammatory - comments on Americans and the state of America post 9-11, and how we view those who are of a different faith and culture than we are.  And I was able to draw from my own experiences.   Once that story took root in my head, I was DRIVEN to finish it.

Another example:  this summer I received a sorta solicitation (hasn't really materialized fully, yet) around the subject of "tattoos".  My mind did an immediate flip to: tattoos - words/symbols have power - Lovecraftian symbols - a redneck that's addicted to getting tatoos and gets one mother of a tattoo at a weird tattoo stand at the local annual carnival...and I was hooked.  Instantly, the first line came to me: Bobby Lee loved to get inked.  More than anythin' in the whole damn world.  Haven't heard back on that yet, but rest assured, Bobby Lee awaits his terrible fate, in my head.  I'm driven to write that one, baby.

Final example: There's an anthology due this summer that I want to write a story for.  As mentioned above, while kicking around the story, I felt tears come to my eyes.  I'm not only driven to write this story...I HAVE too.

I can now say that officially, the dream of making a living on writing fiction alone is gone.  I'd have to be able write novels, novellas, short stories (of any paying kind) - and not only that, write them well, regardless of whether I wanted to or not.  I take no pride in this realization.  I honestly wish I could make myself write that way.   Would beat a day job.


I know it, now.  And I'm okay with it.  I'll be lucky if I write 30 short stories in my career.   Unbelievably lucky if I get any money or acclaim for them.

But at least they will have been stories I WAS DRIVEN TO WRITE.

Happy Birthday Day Zack

Having children changes you.

Duh.  Brainstorm, right?

Thing is, the reality of those changes are very distant facts before they come to be.   You can read all the right parenting books (we did), attend classes on "discipline" and "punishment and reward" (a couple), and laugh about how "life is going to change".   You are never quite prepared for those changes, however.   They are usually far more difficult, challenging, wondrous and more mysterious than ever imagined.

Three years in the saddle with Madison, and we thought ourselves pretty prepared for Zack.  And in some ways we were.  Madison hadn't quite gotten away from diapers and bottled milk, and even though her sleep patterns had leveled off her nighttime feedings weren't so far behind us that we'd fallen out of practice too much.   She still needed lots of help for babyish things, so adapting to a newborn wasn't so hard, really.

Now, Zack's first two years did bring some changes.  The most immediate coming when he started walking.   I hate to fall into all the gender stereotypes, but we learned very quickly that our active, vibrant, vocal and STRONG boy was going to be different than our little girl who liked to be read to, who liked to sit and line all her animals up in neat little rows and liked to talk to them and carry on conversations with them.

Zack liked running.  Jumping.  Headfirst into the couch.   There's no coincidence that one of his earliest Halloween costumes was Bam-Bam from the Flintstones.  Fit him pretty well.

The biggest changes came first in Madison, because Zack's arrival impacted her in unanticipated ways.  Before Zack, Madi was a quiet, demure, relaxed child who was remarkably low maintenance and trouble free.   However, she'd had Mom and Dad's complete focus.  When Zack became more demanding, so did she.  This sounds like basic compensatory behavior; ie. she became jealous.

Far more than that.  Madi would flip from quiet, calm, and reserved to uncontrollable in moments, usually when in public or at family gatherings.  Loud noises - Zack crying, especially - reduced her to tears.  Her aversions to certain foods and almost compulsive vomiting increased drastically.   Zack's arrival didn't just make her jealous, it sent her off the edge.

Eventually we had Madison evaluated for Autism, ADHD, and other things.  Those tests came back negative, but further evaluations placed her on the extreme edge of what's known as "The Autism Spectrum", a classification of behavioral issues linked to autism and other disorders.  If anything, Madi seemed very, very close to Asperger's: high intelligence, highly verbal, wildly sensitive to sound, light, extreme temperatures, very excitable, hard to calm down.  

We began intervention, which involved Madi receiving OT (Occupational Therapy) and for a short time PT (Physical Therapy).  We adjusted to have a child with a behavioral label: "Sensory Integration Disorder".    We enacted a rigorous "brushing protocol", regimented our schedule even more (we needed a timer to get Madison to transition away from something), we got a weighted blanket to help her sleep better, the whole deal.

In retrospect, Madison's early diagnosis was a godsend.  Now, she's completely phased out of her services and is normal, happy, healthy - and maybe a LITTLE excitable - girl.  However, if we hadn't already been in "intervention mode", we might never have caught the signs in Zack as early as we did.

He'd just turned two.  Not speaking yet, and very clearly becoming increasingly agitated and frustrated at his inability to communicate.  He screeched and yelled and cried.  He didn't know how to play.  He'd fiddle with a toy for a second or two, chuck it, and fiddle with another.  He ritualistically and mindlessly emptied Tupper Ware cabinets and the DVD shelves.  And Abby - who stayed home with him most the time - was almost at her wits end.

We evaluated him for Speech.  He was assigned a Speech Therapist who would also become a godsend herself, and they assigned him a Special Instructor.  An OT therapist.  A social worker.  We had a liaison with the County Health Department and school district.  All this stuff you expect to happen to other kids.

Because even after Madi's issues, autism was not a change we were prepared for.

Two years ago,  Zack gained admission into highly prestigious preschool/ Research Center at Binghamton University, specializing in Autism Spectrum Disorders (Recently, a parent from Sweden moved to the US so their teenager could attend).  Since then, he's gone from having command of one word: "Mommy", to well over two hundred, with the ability to express himself through constructed phrases, sentences, questions and answers.  

We've also discovered that the little pisser has QUITE the sense of humor - he's kinda sarcastic, even - and he's wildly adept at counting, skilled with numbers and can recognize them near and past the hundreds.   He's very mechanical as well, simply "knows" how things work and they can be taken apart and put back together.  We had a rough patch with his sleeping at the beginning of the year, but we visited a chiropractor - who prescribed a non-narcotic solution in melatonin - and that's gone back to normal, thankfully.

We still have our moments, however.  We exist in relative peace because we still maintain a rigid daily structure.  On weekends/days off we maintain the nap schedule, they have a bedtime and lunch/dinner schedule, and we still pay a price when we alter that schedule for family gatherings or special events. 

Also, as intelligent as he is, he's still a bit delayed in his emotional reactions and ability to explain them to us, and verbally he's still a bit behind.  However, he's remarkably good natured and is in many ways more self-managed and polite than a lot of kids Madison's age.

We have truly been blessed in Zack and Madison.  With more than we ever asked for, true.  But celebrating his 4th birthday today is a milestone, because two years ago - that word "autism" was like a death knell, quite frankly.  Abby knew nothing about it, and unfortunately - having worked with those most heavily afflicted with it, I knew TOO MUCH.   I had visions of Zack being forever trapped in a world he didn't understand and couldn't communicate with, that he'd never know about simple things like birthdays and Christmases or other things that most kids thrive on and parents take for granted.

Possibly the greatest gift today is that Zack knows his birthday is coming.  He'll understand what we're celebrating today, and he'll "get it" when it comes to the gifts and cake.  Two years ago, such a thing seemed very far away.

Also amazing is that long before Zack's birth, because of the population I worked with, I wanted to write an autistic savant into my fiction.  I researched it, plotted scenarios and drew up lengthy chapters and character studies of several different autistic savant characters.  In fact, the first short story I ever sold references this "special autistic boy" - before Zack was ever diagnosed.

How's that for serendipity? 

Anyway.  We've come very far, which makes today's birthday that much more special.  Happy birthday, Zack.

READ THIS! - American Frankenstein: First Novels and Micro-Runs, Part 2

I find the more I learn and experience in the publishing industry, the more I don't like, the more stuff I disagree with. This has become especially true in the past year, and even truer in regards to the horror small press.
See, here's the catch - and I'm gonna run the risk of someone chewing my butt on this one, but so be it - there's a real big "do as I say, don't do as I do" or "this is the best thing ever in horror and if you disagree with me, I'm going to smack you down" vibe that's rippled across the horror genre in the past year or so. From my perspective. Maybe it's always been there, and I'm just late on the scene. Anyway, Leisure's collapse has only made this worse.
I'm not gonna name names and point fingers. I don't do that. But I know that the more I've scoped out this whole "collectible" vibe in horror, the more of a bad taste it's left in my mouth. I mean, here's the deal.
I'm poor.
Really poor. (Catholic School Teacher poor, because...hey, that's what I do).
And in the last year, there've been a lot of great books by authors I love that I couldn't buy because they were too expensive.
And as a poor person myself, I would never want to ask someone to pay that kind of money for something that I wrote.  No matter how good I eventually get, I'll never feel as if I deserve that kind of acclaim.

Anyway. Norm's post hits all the frustrated feelings I've been having over this for the past year, to the word. READ ON!
American Frankenstein: First Novels and Micro-Runs, Part 2: "If you want the whole Slippin' Into Darkness story, click on over to my website and check out my essay, 'The Care and Feeding of First Novel..."

On Being A Lazy Blogger, Ripping Off Advice From Others, and Another Review

First, writer and blogger Durant Haire weighs in on Hiram Grange & The Chosen One.

Second....been a bit of a lazy blogger lately.  Mostly because I'm tired and don't have a lot on my mind.  There've been several topics I could've forced, ideas about writing or what I'm reading about...but the kids have been sick, Abby's been sick, and I've just had zero motivation to share anything on my blog.  For those of you who read it, I humbly apologize.

Third, maybe you've noticed me reposting a lot of blogs lately from other authors giving advice about the publishing world.  I'm not trying to use their blogs to make up for my not blogging, honestly.  I've simply reached a threshold: I've come to realize how little I know about the writing market and about publishing in general, and I've also realized that a lot of my pithy writing "plans" ain't what they're cracked up to be.  They're based on groupthink, opinions of those equal to or lesser than me, settling for less, and maybe even misinformation (not willful, though. Mostly short-sighted misinformation). 

I want to be more informed about the publishing world.  I want to make informed decisions.  I no longer want to listen to advice given by people equal to me or lesser, even.  And I have no real good advice of my own to give, because I'm just trying to figure this thing out for myself.  

Also, I've come to believe my own goals are too small, narrow, and....timid.  And impatient.  I've got to open myself to more rejection (ie. submitting to more pro short story markets) and make myself WAIT for what I really want.  

Less is now more.  I'd rather wait three or four years to see a midlist/New York publishing deal than publish four small press novels that will take a lot of time, energy, blood and sweat to write - and will have limited readership and may not even be very good, because I'm rushing too fast and settling for less.  And if I never see that New York deal in three, four years?  Two things.  Maybe then I'll look to the small press.

Or maybe I'll just wait longer.

American Frankenstein: First Novels and Micro-Runs, Part 1

More great advice from Norm Partridge...

American Frankenstein: First Novels and Micro-Runs, Part 1: "As I mentioned last week, I get email from young writers looking for advice. Some of them have even done their homework. Meaning, they know ..."

Reminiscing on Borderlands Press Writers Bootcamp

Seems like lots of writers love posting blogs - especially in the new year - detailing all the writing projects they've got lined up, be it short stories, collections, novels, etc.  It's understandable.  I used to do the same thing.  We're all excited about the future, and we want to share that with folks (That, and along with being creative and sensitive, we writers are a bit needy, too).  AND, there's nothing wrong with doing it, so I'm not slamming people who post such blogs.

For me, though...I've stopped doing that.   Reason being, it felt like I was playing "dress up."  "Pretend."  Let's imagine that I'm a best-selling author with legions of fans DYING for my very next work.  The reality is, though there a few folks who like what I've written and occasionally tell me so...no one is rushing out to buy the newest anthology with my most recent short story in it.  Don't get me wrong - when something official happens, I'll pimp it.  I've just gotten past the stage of detailing all the "work" I've got lined up for my "legions" of "screaming fans."

Suffice it to say: every day, I'm writin' stuff.  There are some doors in my near future that may open or may remain closed.  But regardless of that, I'll still be writin' stuff.  Every day.

Instead, I want to reminisce today about an experience that LITERALLY changed my writing life.  It was the first "writing event" I ever attended, and right now I don't see anything in the near future that will ever compare.

Borderlands Press Writers Bootcamp.   

A threshold experience I'll never forget.  I had just completed my first year in my Creative Writing MA.  I'd sold a few short stories.   Finished the first draft of Hiram Grange .   But then I stumbled across Borderlands through Brian Keene's blog (Brian - THANK YOU.  You will never know how much I owe you because of this) and realized this was the next logical step in my career.  

I was so pumped. Borderlands was only 4 hours away, in Maryland - when all of these "Cons" seemed thousands of miles away from Binghamton, New York.  AND...I'd read Brian's blog on the very last day they were accepting applicants.  I found a previously published story, applied - and was accepted.  Sent them a story I was still working on so they could workshop...

And away I went.

I literally can't put into works what that weekend was like.  Seriously.  Like a lot of writer-hopefuls, I'd always cloaked my writing efforts in a cautious, safe pessimism (you know, I'll never make it because I'm just a Regular Guy and things like this don't happen to Regular Guys but now it WAS happening!). 

But there I WAS.  At a beautiful hotel for the whole weekend with the following folks who had read MY WORK , had critiqued it and were now ready to offer me their advice....

F. Paul Wilson
Tom Monteleone
Mort Castle
Gary Braunbeck
Elizabeth Massie (stood in for a sick Douglas Clegg, but was still awesome)

Now, the other folks I'd never met before - Ginjer Buchanon and Doug Winter (he whose critique cuts like knife), but they were just as awesome.  I was surrounded by them, these other writer hopefuls...

Literally.  I'm not lying or being stupidly romantic.  But I'd been transported to another world that I never wanted to leave.  And the stories - the stories! - these writers told of their career and how they'd gotten started, of not giving up.  I was amazed at how different the publishing world had been back then (and a little sad, also, realizing it would never be that way ever again) but also inspired to push on.

And what can I say about the "brotherhood of the pen"?  Saturday night, after a grueling - but transformative - day of workshops, all the Bootcamp "grunts" went out for wings and some brews at a local Sports Bar.  Imagine being surrounded by folks who love what you love, also a majority of them horror/dark speculative writers.  It was like a little slice of paradise.  Plus, I wondered...how many of these folks would make it?  Was I sitting amongst the next class of the horror genre's future?

I met and spoke with Mort Castle that weekend...and HE spoke into me.  Into my life, and writing career.  I met Norman Prentiss that weekend for the first time, kicking off a good friendship.  Saw a short story literally saved from the junk heap because of Paul Wilson's advice and questions.  And literally busted a gut laughing at Tom Monteleone, who HAS to be the funniest, wittiest writer I've ever meant.  I cringed with every slash of Doug Winter's "word economy knife", grimaced and said, "I want more.  Give me more!"

I returned the following year, and while it was awesome and I learned more and picked up some more friends...it wasn't the same.  Nothing - no Con of any kind, any writing event - will ever be like my first weekend at Borderlands...

But it still kills me that I'm not going today.  It's the end of January.  For the past two years I've spent that last weekend in January at Borderlands Press Writers Bootcamp...and it sorta feels wrong not to be doing that this year.  In fact, if Abby weren't working this weekend and if I had the cash for a rental, I'd go down there and just hang out.   Just because.

Because that's where and when EVERYTHING changed for me, as a writer.

Anyone going to Borderlands this weekend: you listen to EVERYTHING they tell you.  Make it gospel.  Don't blow it by getting offended, throw all your previous accomplishments and publications OUT THE WINDOW, because (not to be blasphemous, here) they are as dirty rags compared to what you are about to learn.

To all the great folks I met at Borderlands these last two years:  Nancy, Gard, Vanessa, Brittany, Erik, Mike, Yvette, Eric, Kirk, Karissa and probably a bunch of other folks I just can't remember - cheers.  Here's hoping twenty years from now, when we've become the "next generation", we can look back on our Borderlands years and say: "That's when it all began...."

(sorry I don't have more pictures...these are all I could find...)


 

American Frankenstein: Young Writers/Young Publishers

You can't go wrong with advice like this. You should print this out and tack it on the wall over your writing space. Number 1 on this list is my personal favorite....
American Frankenstein: Young Writers/Young Publishers: "I get emails from young writers asking for advice. Unfortunately, I don't always get a chance to answer them. To tell the truth, I'm probabl..."

A thought for the day...

Regarding last night's post...I read this passage from J. N. Williamson's Dont Take Away the Light and felt like I was reading a description of my very own self...

 "....he only wanted a hamburger now and then, Lum 'n' Abner and Jack Benny on the radio, Casper Milquetoast in the funny papers, a job that paid enough, somewhere to sleep, his family, and a nice Christmas.  Fancy ideas and beliefs - conquering the world - disease that came out of new medical books...they were for some other ordinary Joe, not Wimp Niles Hivereve.

And wanting what he wanted, Niles realized then, made him everyone's enemy during times like this. Regardless of how much he minded his own business, or how hard he worked."

Of course, the wrinkle being that as a writer, I suffer  delusions of grandeur that too often conflict with the above passage.  But even so...

Living Inside A Bubble Named Autism

This morning I almost missed one of my midterms.  Part of it was an honest mistake.  About half the students (my small Creative Writing class) had conflicts and were making the test up this afternoon, so somewhere along the way my brain flipped the actual time to then. Add to that my usual three AM fatigue, exacerbated by our kids' sickness-wacked sleeping schedules...

You get the idea.  Luckily for me I'd planned on getting in early.  I was dressed, heading out the door when our secretary called and asked, "Where are you? Your midterm starts in ten minutes!"

Anyway.  This seems to be a running theme in our lives, one that's grown more and more prevalent over the past few years.  Some of it - like this morning's SNAFU - is just part of having little kids, I think (though none of my fellow teachers has kids the same age as mine, so I've nothing to compare). 

A large part of it, however, has to do with Zack's autism and Madi's sensory issues (though that has decreased radically in influence over the past year).  Essentially: Abby and I live inside a little bubble called "Autism".  Even as high functioning as Zack is, even with the great strides he's made: his autism dictates our life.

Period.

We run a very regimented, scheduled ship around our house.  Those of you who grew up with me must find that strange.  How unusual, even unnatural that is for me, of all people (though in many ways it's been good for me, too).  However, it hasn't been by choice.  It's been to survive.   Our daily and weekend schedule is dictated by wake up times, breakfast, lunches, naps, dinners, bath times, and bedtimes.  

Zack and Madi are up at 6 AM.  Without fail.  Sometimes they'll go through streaks where they wake as early as 5:30. This results in me literally picking them up (not Madi anymore), screaming and crying, and making them lay in bed until 6 AM, for fear they'll start getting up earlier and earlier and earlier.

We have to decline family events simply because they've been scheduled during Zack's nap, because without one...he's still virtually uncontrollable.  When he wasn't sleeping at the beginning of the year, Abby and I couldn't go out at all, because it was hell for whichever poor babysitter we left in charge.

He won't sleep in a strange environment without Abby.  So that eliminates or complicates any possibilities of traveling overnight as a family.  Even going up to the Adirondacks, it takes Zack several days to adjust.  Our first several trips there with him were NIGHTMARES. 

Zack is also rapidly developing an increased awareness of his surroundings - which is a good thing -  but is also a troublesome thing.  

We must do things in a very precise order, now.  He must do things in a precise order.  One little hitch, anything different or out of place, a door open when he wants it closed, if he doesn't get to engage in an activity for a preferenced length of time, and he rockets from cute to screeching in zero to ten seconds.

Certain videos he can't watch.  Most kids this age lock into books or movies they want to read or watch over and over.  Madi - in a very normal way - loves The Lorax (Dr. Suess) and Free Willy.  Zack, however, is obsessive.  We have a complex book-rotating system for nap and bedtime that involves literally hiding books from his sight because if not, he WILL throw a fit if not allowed to read the same book over and over.  Certain videos take over his life, his expression....almost his very being, until he's nothing but a walking voicebox for said movie: its lines, theme song, everything.

And not in a cute, "Oh look how smart he is!" sort of way.  More like he's an empty, robotic vessel that will take on the attributes of whatever fills him up.  Tom & Jerry is catastrophic.  Thirty minutes of that movie and he's literally uncontrollable for the rest of the day.

In many ways, this has shaped the bulk of my attitudes regarding politics and the Church and religion and just about everything else.   Now, honestly - politics annoys me on an average day.  Most of the posturing (by everyone) and rhetoric makes me sick and depressed and sometimes sad to be a human.  

Same thing with all the splinter attitudes within and without the church regarding faith, the Holy Mother Mary, and whether or not rock music is evil. There's a reason why folks have always warned: "Never talk politics or religion in a bar."

But Zack's condition and the bubble it's encased Abby and I in has crystallized my feelings regarding these issues.  Far as I'm concerned, almost NO politician has anything to say I'm interested in hearing.  They're all self-involved puppets or figureheads or talking heads or demagogues that have very little in common with me or my family.

"But wait!" you say. "Sarah Palin's son Trig has Downs! And she's a regular mom, a regular person just like you and me!!"

Really?  

You think she has a hard time getting services for her son?  Finding a caregiver?  Advocating five or six times a year at CSE meetings?  Affording special equipment to meet her son's needs?

I highly doubt it.

I have just as little patience for the Church.  I've made no secret of my faith and my beliefs, and what we've endured the last few years and how God has provided for us has only strengthened my faith, in many ways.  It's also solidified my bond with Abby - because to survive this, to prosper, we need to be on the same page, working together, side-by-side.

But I have little patience for the Church or the religious leaders of the day or this new guy or that new theologian or this new firebrand to tell me how to live my life. To tell me how I'm supposed to treat others or what I'm supposed to believe.   I just have no patience for it.

Or the energy.

Because we live inside this bubble called Autism. And we've been very blessed to enjoy the kind of life we have.  Many folks have it much worse.  I'm lucky - blessed - to write as much as I do.  And things are getting better.

But, a secret?

I kinda....like it, almost.  Why?

Because I have a very short list of things that matter to me.  They are:

1. My family: Abby, Madison, Zack
2. Providing for them
3. How God has supported and provided for us when we've had nothing
4. My writing life  
5. And the few friends I have at work and through writing

And that's all.  So you see, I don't dismiss politics and religious matters and things like that because I'm apathetic. 

I dismiss them because I have more important things to tend to.

Like my life.