Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 66

Skeptical of Self Publishing and E-Publishing: Why I'm Not Convinced

This is going to be one of those rare opinionated posts.  I don't write many.  Mostly because I'm not a person of strong opinions.  Notice, I didn't say a person not of strong convictions.  I just don't hold strong opinions I feel important enough to share with others.  Also, I know very well who I am.  A guy who's had a few short stories and a novella published in the small press.  That's it.  There's no reason for anyone to listen to what  I have to say or accept my voice as any kind of authority.

However, this blog has increasingly become a vehicle of self-expression and a pressure relief valve.  When something is boiling inside and needs release; when I see something or remember something and it makes me think about or feel something, I blog about it.  So, this post comes more from a need for release, rather than my desire to convince people to support my position. 

That having been said, read this L. A. Times Article.

Now, I'll be the first to admit I've got a blind spot in general when it comes to e-publishing.  While I'm fan of my work being available in MULTIPLE formats, I'm not a fan of the ebook itself.  I don't plan on ever buying one, or a reader device.  This is not a logical objection; I'm aware of that. 

But as far as I'm concerned, an ebook is not a book.  It's a bundle of electrons. That's all.  Let's not get into it, because you're not gonna convince me otherwise, and I'm well aware I'm not being practical but stubborn.  We'll just let this particular dog lie, and you can shake your head and think me eccentric, and I'll be just fine with that.

Here's the thing that's been digging under my craw lately. For the last year or so, seems like lots of people are making big deals about abandoning traditional publishing - New York in particular - and striking out alone on the self-publishing path, particularly in ebook format.  

And granted, there have been plenty of BIG names doing it, enough to start changing the stigma that comes with self-publishing.  It's become much easier to produce nice graphic arts for a cover, and formatting programs for a book's interior design have become much more user friendly.  In fact, in light of the recent Leisure Fiction Crash and Burn, I'm totally in support of writers like Brian Keene  - who have been screwed - getting the rights to their work back and self-publishing their backlist, even experimenting with a few self-published titles.

The thing that's kinda rubbed me the wrong way, though, is the pronouncement from - again - scores of big names that traditional publishing is dead or on the way out, that they've been screwed by New York, and their assertion that self-publishing is the wave of the future, that it gives writers more options and a greater share of the royalties.    And here's the thing: for them, that may very well be true, but it seems to me as if they're leaving something pretty huge out of the equation.

They're names.  Proven writers.  With fan bases built up through several dozen novels.  Of course self-publishing is a better option for them, because their fans are going to leap to and buy their work and spread the word.  I'm sure they'll get new readers - and, I should point out I've done no research, so maybe I'm completely wrong about this - but my gut tells me there's a big difference between some of these writers announcing to their readerships and the media and their colleagues that they're going to self-publish, and ME or some of my colleagues announcing we're going to self-publishing something. 

If "Insert Name Here" author, former New York Times Bestseller, previously published through a New York House announces their new self-published novel, people will care and buy.

Pardon the strong language, but if I announce MY new self-published novel: who the hell cares?

But it's not like I want people to care.  People shouldn't care.  I haven't proven myself yet.  I've written a few okay things, but I have no reader base because I haven't done anything yet worthy of a reader base.  And I guess here's what I'm getting at:  I don't care that some big names, experienced and skilled writers are pioneering on the self-publishing trail.  More power to them.  As long as their work is affordable - and in print - I'll probably support them with my patronage.

But I'm tired of this repeated drum beating about the future of publishing, by folks who can afford to take these kind of risks.  There should be a note of caution: just because the big boys (and gals, sorry women writers for the gender stereotyping) are quitting traditional publishing, doesn't mean everyone should.  So what if I can release a collection of my short stories on Smashwords? Maybe I'll make a buck or two.

But that doesn't mean I'll have produced anything of worth.  More like I sold some junk at a garage sale, and that's all.  Which is not to say that I need a lot of money to prove I'm a writer.  But this idea that we no longer need publishers and editors as gatekeepers? 

I'm not convinced.  Maybe the big writers who are proven hits don't feel like they need an editor, but I sure as hell do, and not just a PROOF-READER or beta reader to grammar check.  I mean an  editor who knows the market, who challenges story ideas and pushes writers (who are obviously too close to their own work) to new territory.   I sure as hell know I need one of those.

In the next week or so, I'll be sending off my very first New York House pitch.  I feel  really good about the story and it's first three chapters.  So good that if this house passes, I'm totally okay with that.  Why do I have this confidence in my story?

Because in my phone conversation with the senior acquisitions editor, my original story - which sucked, by the way - was challenged.  Torn up a little. Poked and prodded.  Its deficiencies and short comings pointed out. And now, because of the rewriting this caused: it's a damn fine story, all because this editor did THEIR JOB.

As a gatekeeper.

Which....sorry...

I for one am not ready to do without.

My Booklist #9

1. Just Arrived: Crisscross, by F. Paul Wilson. Two things I've decided about Repairman Jack: I love the pacing and I love the character. Wilson's style is spare and it moves; because of this he packs in the maximum amount of action. Also, even though I loved Roland of Gilead (Dark Tower) he was too "heavy". Too solemn. Too driven by his "quest". Jack is just a regular guy caught up in events not of his making. Much easier to relate to and follow; easier to root for.


2. Currently Reading: Koko by Peter Straub. One word: substance. The real horror behind Straub's novels are human horrors: loneliness, madness, grief, guilt, self-loathing, trauma, violence, scars...which is not to say he ignores the supernatural. He weaves all that together with finesse and style. An interesting note: by accident I've read his Blue Rose trilogy backwards. I encountered The Throat (Book Three) several years ago, read Mystery a month ago, and am now reading the first book in the series, Koko.

3. Just arrived: Pork Pie Hat, by Peter Straub. Cemetery Dance had a whole batch misprinted or something, so they offered them on MASSIVE discount. Score for me. Again, I know this will be a winner before even reading. Why? Repeat one word: substance.






4. Just Finished: Gateways, by F. Paul Wilson. Some cool revelations in this cosmic battle that Jack's been recruited into, we meet his dad and his dad finally gets to see that Jack is a man of honor and action, not just an appliance repairman. AND...the bad guy from The Keep makes his appearance, The Adversary Himself. Hot times in Florida for Repairman Jack.



Jack: Secret Circles, by F. Paul Wilson. The YA adventures of Repairman Jack before he became Repairman Jack continues on swimmingly. It's a shame there's only supposed to be three of these, because - like the adult series - Jack and his cohorts are just so blasted readable. Easy to get behind and root for. And, I love the 70's/80's nostalgia. Anyway, I'm also loving how the YA series loops into his "Secret Histories of the World". It's been awesome reading the two series side by side.

The Haunted Air, by F. Paul Wilson. Another reason why I prefer Jack to other "mythos-characters" is his growth. Jack's world is constantly changing and he's had to adapt, while still being the same old Jack. Also, it's interesting the quick "two-step" Wilson had to do: the first Repairman Jack novel, The Tomb, came out early eighties. It was supposed to be a standalone novel. Fans begged for more Jack until finally Wilson brought him back in 1998 with Legacies. HOWEVER - Wilson has written the novels as if everything has happened to Jack within a year or so. A neat trick, that.


Other Books in the Pile: The Outsides by S. E. Hinton; Mean Streets by Jim Butcher et al; Ranger's Apprentice by Jon Flanagan; ArchEnemy and Seeing Red by Frank Beddor; Blood Trail by C. J. Box; Hell Hollow by Ronald Kelly, Reborn by F. Paul Wilson.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Well, no.  Not the ghost of old Jacob Marley.   But as I  walked around the Oakdale Mall today, memories of Christmases LONG past shanghaied me on what I'd planned as a simple "in and out" visit.

On a whim, I parked at the Sears entrance - at the Mall's one end - and walked the Mall. See, for about three years I literally lived there during the holiday season. My freshman year of college I lived on campus at BU. May sound pathetic, but it was a pretty big deal for this country boy to grab a bus  to the big bad Oakdale Mall.  

The following two years I spent at Broome Community College.  Because I had no car - and there were no dorms - for semester break basketball practices I rode in with Dad every day on his way to work. He dropped me off at BCC, I blew two hours at the library, then grabbed a bus to the Mall - where I spent the whole day until I grabbed a bus back to campus for practice.  

I have very fond memories of those years, spanning 1992 - 95. In the BCC library (a place I still love to write, where I wrote the majority of Hiram Grange two summers ago), I wrote my tentative - and awful - but special first short stories.  I discovered Issac Asimov's Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine, Analog Science Fiction and Fact, Ellery Queen's Mystery Digest in the library's collection.  THIS was when my life-long dream of being a writer actually started to crystallize, even if only a little. 

After two hours at the library I grabbed a bus to the Mall and spent the whole day there.  Hard to do? NO WAY. Not back then.  It was SO much more interesting.  Now, it's filled with half a dozen indistinguishable clothing stores like Abercrombie and Fitch, seasonal stores, dollar stores, and who knows what else. I think CVS is still there. And Subway.

Back then, the Mall had the coolest stores.  TWO bookstores, in the pre-Barnes & Noble era, Cole's Books and Walden's Books.  Double the fun, and what little money I earned got spent there and in the best store ever, the Reader's Island, which had EVERY comic book imaginable, from DC to Marvel to this new brand called Image...I spent countless hours pouring over obscure titles like Darkhawk and a bunch of others.

And then, the store I think I miss the most - besides The Readers' Island....Saturday Matinee.  This store had TONS of movies.  Back then I was into Sci Fi, so I salivated daily over all the movies - popular and obscure - that I didn't have the cash to buy. I was pretty bummed when  it left our Mall.

I had a pretty set routine.  For the first half of the day, I'd roam the Mall and check out stores like Kay-Bee Hobby Toys, Spencers, and Saturday Matinee.  Usually, I scoped all the Star Wars/Strek Trek/Sci Fi memorabilia. For writing research, obviously. 

Then I'd crash at Burger King, (which ALSO left the mall), had a Whopper and burned two hours or so reading whatever new Star Wars or Star Trek or science fiction novel I was devouring at the time.  Then, the second half of the day I'd split between Cole's and Walden's Books and The Readers' Island, checking out the new offerings, blowing my money, and in the Reader's Island, literally camping on the floor in the corner and reading comic after comic.

All the time, I dreamed of being a writer.  That's all I wanted for Christmas. To be a writer someday.

I'd just turned twenty-one.  Barely had written anything.  But I filled my days with reading and reading and reading and dreaming of this thing called "writing". 

None of those stores remain in the Mall today.  That happens.  Time passes. Things go away.  I could feel sad about this.  But guess what?

I don't.

Because I'm on my way, I think.  Towards those dreams born back in '93, dreams that slowly came to life and percolated while I bummed around the Mall.  And because of that, those great stores and that time will always live on - in my head and my heart, if nowhere else.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

"An excellent, rip-roaring read."

It's not quite Christmas yet, so this is an early present. Just spotted a new review of Hiram Grange & The Chosen One on Goodreads.  Now, for clarity's sake, this is a product of the recent Goodreads' giveaway I ran for Hiram.  The winners were randomly selected by Goodreads to receive a free copy of Hiram, and then they were encouraged to write a review, if they so wish.  Note it says "encouraged" - not required - and it just says "review". Not endorsement.

The review:

"An excellent, rip-roaring read. The action doesn't let up for a minute, yet we still get a chance to learn and care about the characters. The story is dark without being dreary, and insightful without being tedious, and the noir sense of humor is right on the money. I haven't read the other Hiram Grange volumes, but this was a great introduction. I look forward to reading the other books and more of this authors work. 
I received this book for free from Goodreads First-Reads. Thanks, Goodreads. And thank you, Kevin Lucia."
No sir, thank you.

To My Pretty Lady - 9 Years and Counting

To the one who DIDN'T run away screaming when I said, "Yeah, I wanna be a writer someday."

To the one who puts up with all my little quirks and idiosyncrasies and tastes and preferences.

To the one who tolerates my strange sleeping hours.

To the one who gives selflessly of herself all the time, to both family and friends and strangers - like the school bus drivers, whom she makes chocolate truffles for every Christmas.

To the one who knows the worst things about me and loves me in spite of them. And stayed, too. ;)

To the one who mans the fort while I spend two or three weekends a year at Writers' and Horror Cons chasing down impossible dreams.

To the one who told me: "You HAVE to do this. You have to go" when I almost skipped my first Borderlands Writers Bootcamp when the kids were sick.

To the one who balances the books, keeps the house clean, and mows the lawn when seven months pregnant. With a pushmower. And goes camping when four months pregnant.

To the one who has shouldered the burden of our special needs children, and has sacrificed so much for both them and me.

To the one who manages NOT to kill me when I'm in the final editing phase of a project, and I've been sitting and staring at the computer and typing for days, unresponsive and lost in a fugue state.

To the one who still laughs at me but because she thinks I'm funny and not pathetic (well, not too pathetic).

To the one who's a much better driver (though a bit of a lead-foot) and much better handyman than me.

To the one who managed things at home while I spent long nights at grad school.

To the one who changed my life.

To the one who didn't mind dating a guy on a work-restricted license,  and after marriage, didn't mind driving AROUND said guy for almost a year.

To the one who said "Yes" nine years ago today, full well knowing I was a REAL "fixer-upper", "work-in-progress", not knowing EXACTLY what was to come.

To one of the few persons/things in my life MORE important to me than writing.

To Abby Gail Lucia.

Happy Anniversary, babe.

Of Broken Hood Latches and Interviews

It's mornings like these that make me question the pursuit of a writing career.  Not the rejections or closed doors, but the life stuff that gets in the way and makes writing and publishing seem so irrelevent.
For me, it's always how much of a "failure" I am at "guy stuff".  I mean, I'm no stranger to hard work, have no problem getting dirty and sweaty.  I actually like it.  I love mowing my lawn and cutting back brush and stuff like that, because I just like the physical exertion of the thing, and it's also MY LAWN.  Sounds strange, but I get a huge kick out of tending to MY LAWN. You know, the LAWN THAT I OWN.
But when it comes to being SMART about guy/mechanical/handy-man stuff, I'm a total failure.  Take this morning's fun for example: my van's battery died (YAY WINTER!) and when I went to pop the hood to jump it...the dang thing wouldn't go. Frozen solid.  It's been doing that for awhile, but usually, I'm able to jimmy it.
Not today.  And, when I finally exerted some serious tugging on the release handle, a super awesome bonus: freaking thing literally ripped away from the molding, broke its plastic mount.  Which leaves ME banging the hood, tugging it, trying to pry the release with a screwdriver... even kicking it.
And now, proof positive of my absolute lack o'manliness:
Abby: Well, where's the WD-40? Maybe we can just spray it and it'll pop open.
Me: I dunno. This thing is really stuck this  time. I think it's finally broke. We find WD-40. I spray the release under the hood through the grill copiously, while Abby tugs on the release inside, and thennnnn...
POP.
Open hood.
Anyway. Here's an interview with me at

Proud of My Wiggly, Ants-in-the-Pants Little-Big Girl

Madison, 2005Believe it or not, my little girl turns six today.  It's hard to comprehend.  Seems like yesterday she was one and learning to walk.  Seems like last week we brought her home for the first time.  I'm blown away at how quickly time has run.

The last two years has been a whirlwind of change.  Madison heading to pre-school for the first time - only two days a week and dropped off by Daddy, but still.  

Then came putting her on the BUS every day, five days a week for half-day Pre-K.  The BIG YELLOW BUS.  Our little girl.  Watching her get swallowed by that yellow monster every day.   

Now she's in Kindergarten.  Five days a week, all day, no naps.  She's writing letters and words now.  Counting.  Getting great "marks" on her "report card".  Making friends, and.... unfortunately...running into those kids who take advantage of her good nature, like the one kid on the bus who bugs Madi for food from her lunch every day.  

Along the way, mix in Madi's diagnosis of "sensory integration disorder" (before Zack's autism diagnosis) our stumbling first steps into the world of intervention, and our daughter's awesome progress through nearly two years of it until she was finally phased out last year.


Madison, 2010So now she's a bright, happy, intensely curious, investigative, fun-loving little girl.  She likes her quiet time, but she also loves being active, too.  Her Kindergarten teacher sums it up best: "Madison is a little girl who needs to be on the move....even when she's already moving..."  She loves reading and stories and poems, (WIN!), and loves make-believe. 

She's also a remarkably relaxed kid.  Recently, a mix-up with the school buses sent her back to the bus garage instead of day care, and of course that sent me there in panic, expecting the worst...but Madison was just chillin' with her bus driver and aide, and they marveled over how she thought the whole deal was no big thing, at all.

One thing I'm extremely happy about and hope will continue is that Madi seems very happy in her own skin.  She doesn't worry much what others think about her, (though how much a six year old is aware of that, I'm not sure), and she's learned to ignore anyone who picks on her.  

That's important, because I want Madi to be her own person, and to be comfortable doing so. I can admit to never finding that place of self-assured peace.  I eventually became comfortable with who I was, but have never been able to ignore others' opinions completely. I've always felt out of place, the square peg in the round hole.  I still feel that way - rather intensely, sometimes - I've just learned to hide it real well.

Recently, I saw a perfect example of the marvelous little individual Madi is becoming.  This past Sunday she had practice for the kids choir's Christmas Concert this coming Sunday.  I stayed after for the two hour practice and read, did some writing, too.  

Towards the end I went into the auditorium to watch, and there she was, my wonderful little girl - standing on the top riser, and while everyone else was all rigid and facing forward and singing and trying their best not to wiggle, Madi is swaying and doing half-little turns while waving her arms like a little fairy ballerina.  She's singing right along, but there she is, doing her own thing, and having a grand time. I thought it was hilarious and got a good chuckle.

Afterward, though, when the leader of the choir spoke to the parents, it was quite obvious she didn't think such antics were nearly as humorous.  In no way did I think she was singling out Madi, (she seemed to be generally addressing the parents), but as she - rather sternly - lectured about how we should spend this week reinforcing to our children that wiggling around during the performance was NOT acceptable, I honestly had to force myself NOT to burst out laughing.

Now, I'm not one for encouraging my daughter to be a troublemaker, so we did talk to her about it.  Sorta.   And I have other feelings about big, overdone performances with little kids that I'm not going to talk about here.  Suffice to say, I'm very proud of the girl Madi is becoming, wiggles and all, and the best thing I could hope for her is while the rest of the world is walking in lock-step and staring straight forward, arms rigid by their sides, she'll always be spinning and twirling against the flow, having a grand time just being herself. 

Happy birthday, Madison.

The Sea of Faith

We just finished Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury with my 9th graders, so this is on my mind, and seems appropriate, somehow, so here it is, if no other reason than "just because"....


The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
- From  "Dover Beach", by Matthew Arnold

Running on No Sleep but A Little Praise...Which Works Just Fine...

One thing about kids - cousins, especially - is how generous they are.  AND, it seems what they're MOST generous with is stomach bugs. SO, it's been little sleep and lots o' puking here at Casa de Lucia, first Friday night and now last night.  I'm running on maybe an hour of sleep, while my poor wife is probably running on less, all after working the evening shift at the hospital last night.  In any case, the blog shall be short and sweet this morning.  

I'd had something else planned for this morning's blog - a kinda insightful retrospective on Christmas growing up and my Dad and I - but not sure what the day's gonna bring.  Zack's sick, I'm probably calling in to work, and I can barely see straight to write this.  So, I decided to save that blog for later this week, and thought I'd share this instead...

We read for lots of reasons.  We should ALWAYS read for enjoyment.  But, we should also read for enlightenment, edification, fulfillment...we should read to get in touch with our fellow humans and their experiences, to be well rounded people.

Writers, however, read on an additional level. At some point, we chase after authors whose styles we want to emulate.  We read works that challenge our own perceptions of the craft, teach us new things.  

We go through phases in this, too.  I went through the obligatory Stephen King phase.  A Lovecraftian phase. A Bradburyian (?) phase.  I flirt with Koontz over and over.  Right now, I'm looking to writers who do things differently, who set out on clearly predictable story paths  but then veer sharply off the road to normal.

I always want to read authors who manage to entertain me AND teach me new things. However, I never thought I'd hear someone say that I'd done that for them with one of my stories.  Author Lincoln Crisler has posted a mini-review of my recent short story for The Bag & The Crow, "As the Crow Flies". He says some nice things, and the best part?  He picked out some things that I love about MY favorite authors.  Gives me a nice glow inside.  Almost enough to run on after getting only an hour or two of sleep...

High School Days and Dreams - Are The Kids Alright?

As a teacher, I can't help but walk through the halls at my school and see bits and pieces of my own high school experiences scattered here and there and just about everywhere.  I see reflections of my face and the faces of my friends in my students, and the worst part?  I always imagine all my teachers were perfect, and they couldn't possibly have made all the mistakes I've made in the past ten years.

But also, it's inevitable that I get to thinking about these kids' futures, and thinking how things turned out for my classmates.  There's lots of stuff about high school that never changes: the drama, the cliques, the rumors, the friendships, the romances.  Fights, school vandalism (both petty and serious), and the occasional administrative controversy.  This all a part of going to school. 

One thing that never changes, no matter what? Some kids make it.  They make it okay.  Some kids even make it big.

Some disappear.  

And some never make it at all.

Always makes me think of this song by Offspring (even more so, with our 20th anniversary rolling around next year).  Through the magic of Facebook, I'm connected with a lot of my old high school friends, and I can see a lot of them have made it big.  A lot of them ended up like me, too - we had our struggles, but now we're doing okay.

But there are some, I know, who haven't done so great.  Some have dropped of the map entirely.  Disappeared.  Vanished.  We're all responsible for our own fates to some degree, and but as a teacher....working with kids that remind me so much of myself and my high school mates...it's shoved into my face daily, that a large part of our fate is completely out of our hands.

And that makes me wonder if they'll be all right, someday.

Enjoy the video, and have good Friday...




 When we were young the future was so bright
The old neighborhood was so alive
And every kid on the whole damn street
Was gonna make it big and not be beat

Now the neighborhood's cracked and torn
The kids are grown up but their lives are worn
How can one little street
Swallow so many lives

[Chorus]
Chances thrown
Nothing's free
Longing for what used to be
Still it's hard
Hard to see
Fragile lives, shattered dreams

Jamie had a chance, well she really did
Instead she dropped out and had a couple of kids
Mark still lives at home cause he's got no job
He just plays guitar and smokes a lot of pot

Jay committed suicide
Brandon OD'd and died
What the hell is going on
The cruelest dream, realit