Barry Lyga's Blog: The BLog, page 10

Podcast Interview: Skull Session with Dan Henk

Somehow I missed this when it went live a couple of weeks ago! Mea culpa!

Check out my hour-long interview with Dan Henk, in which I discuss my writing methods and philosophies, as well as eighties comics! Find it here or wherever you get your podcasts.

Recommended Reading 2022

Every year, I try to pick out the very best of the books I read and funnel them directly into your brain. In 2022, I read 48 novels and a ton of comic books. Here are the ones I thought were the very very best:

Piranesi by Susanna ClarkeThe First Fifteen Lives of Harry August by Claire NorthLater by Stephen KingSex Criminals Vol. 1 by Matt Fraction & Chip ZdarskyThe Getaway by Lamar GilesDie Volume 1 by Kieron GillenRecursion by Blake CrouchThe Sellout by Paul Beatty

Interview: Unedited/Edited at YA Books Central

The fine folks at YA Books Central were kind enough to ask me questions about Unedited and Edited. Plus, they’re giving away copies of the books!

Go check it out!

Unedited/Edited: The Inspiration

If someone could write a story that self-referentially teaches the reader how to read it…couldn’t someone also write a story that teaches the reader how it was written?

Let me put that thought in context.

It’s 1992. Or maybe 1991.

I’m not sure. Work with me here, people. It’s been thirty-some years and I don’t have access to my college schedule at the moment.

Anyway, it’s somewhere in my junior year at Yale, and I’m an English major taking Lit120. My favorite professor (the estimable Fred C. Robinson, now, alas, deceased) once snorted with derision, “You can take four years of classes in that Literature major and never actually read any literature.”

He’s not wrong. See, in English, we read literature, but in “that Literature major” they study theory. So, yeah, you could probably spend four years reading and discussing theories about literature and never actually get around to reading any.

Not in Lit120, though. In Lit120, we read Oedipus Rex and Hoffman’s The Sandman (not to be confused with Neil Gaiman’s or Metallica’s) and many of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries.

It’s Conan Doyle’s work that leads us to this moment we’re sharing right now, you and I, wheels set in motion more than three decades previous.

You see, the Sherlock Holmes mysteries are mysteries, true, but they’re more than that. The stories do not simply teach the reader how to solve a mystery — they also teach the reader how to read a mystery story in the first place. This notion lodges in my young wannabe author’s brain, and the thought at the opening of this post occurs to me.

Is it possible to tell a story in such a way that the reader — upon finishing it — understands what it was like to write that story? And is it possible that I could be the person to do it?

I’m nineteen or twenty years old, but I decide I’m going to do it. I sit down and I write over a hundred pages of a novel titled Inframan over the next couple of years and then I graduate and then I need to get a job and then…

And then…

And then…

And then it’s only thirteen years ago, 2009, and I’ve never forgotten the idea, the premise, though Inframan remains unfinished on my hard drive. I decide on a new spin on the idea, a bigger, wilder book that will take readers deep into not only the story, but also the storyteller.

It took a long time to get here, to now, but here is the book. Or, more accurately, the books. Because Unedited — which, I hope, achieves my goal of putting you squarely in my head during its creation — was so long and so weird that my publisher had the idea to spin off a shorter variant, Edited. Both books are strange in their own, related ways. And each one will take you on a new sort of reading adventure.

If you’ve been with me from the beginning of my career — since The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy & Goth Girl — then you’ll see some old friends and enemies.

If you discovered me through I Hunt Killers, well, trust me — there is darkness aplenty in these books.

And if you’ve enjoyed my forays into the worlds of the Flash and Thanos, you’ll find many comic book tropes and references within.

In short, if you’ve ever enjoyed any of my books, there’s something (a lot of somethings!) in these books for you.

I can’t wait for you to dive in.

(And here are some links for you:)

Preorder UNEDITED:
Amazon | BN.com | Indiebound

Preorder EDITED:
Amazon | Apple Books | BN.com | Indiebound | Kobo

 

Interview: Book It with CA

A little while back, I spent some time with Carol Anne Riddell of CUNY TV’s Book It with CA program, talking about writing, teens, and Time Will Tell. The interview is part of the episode below and starts at around 10:55.

100 (2)

Today would have been my paternal grandfather’s 100th birthday. When I wrote about my maternal grandfather’s century a few years ago, I decided at the time that it wouldn’t be a one-off, that I would write about all four of my grandparents on the day they would have turned 100. So here we are, nine days after I turned 51.

That picture up there is my grandfather as an “early adult.” Other than that text on the file, I have no idea when it was taken or how old he was, but I like that picture a lot. I like his smile. And you know how the past hits us — he could be sixteen in that photo, or he could be 26. No way to know.

My grandfather was 48 years old when I was born, which means that he would have been my current age at around the time I became aware of him. That…messes with me. Because by the time he was my age, my grandfather had raised two sons to adulthood and founded — and run — a number of successful businesses.

Me? I have kids in elementary school and have amassed a depressingly impressive number of comic books and Flash toys.

It’s a different time, of course, and I don’t actually compare myself to my grandfather on a regular basis. I do occasionally wonder, though, if his entrepreneurial spirit and restless drive were passed down to me in the form of a brain that just can’t stop creating, even at those times when the things it creates are useless or pointless or risible.

When I was a kid, my grandfather owned and ran a metal shop that he’d founded decades past. Here’s a picture of him in his high school yearbook in 1941:

Prime age to be drafted into World War II, right? Wrong. The government figured he was worth more to them running the metal shop, churning out parts for the war effort. (There isn’t much of a history of military service in my family, and I’m not sure how I feel about that, honestly.)

(BTW, I love the guy below him, Douglas, whose nickname of “Doug” had to be spelled out. Ah, 1941! He also looks a little bit like Agent Smith, doesn’t he? Oh, damn — have we been in the Matrix all this time?)

Anyway, Grandpa ran the metal shop, which I remember fondly because it was the seventies, but the place was computerized and had these massive printers that used gigantic sheets of paper, like this:

My grandparents would give me that stuff all day long, and I’d flip it over to the blank side and draw comic books until my pencils died.

(And yeah, Grandma helped run the factory, but we’ll get to her in about five years.)

My grandparents lived in an old house a stone’s throw from the shop. They walked less than five minutes to work each day. Eventually, they sold the shop and the house and built a frankly ridiculous mansion-y thing in another part of town. I don’t think I knew my grandparents “had money” until they built that house. By then, they were in their late fifties and I think they just figured they deserved a nice house.

The problem with writing about my grandfather is that there are million things to talk about. He was accomplished. He started and ran the metal shop. He financed and built entire housing developments. He was part-owner of a bank.

But that’s the stuff of obituaries, and this isn’t an obit.

What he really wanted in life was to be a farmer. He grew blueberries, lemons, and figs in the backyard, kept a greenhouse attached to his house, and then went full farmer when he decided not to sell a parcel of land he had. Instead, he rented it out with the proviso that he could use a section of the acreage to grow the stuff my grandmother wouldn’t let him steal backyard space for.

He also made his own wine. I was too young to try it, but I am reliably informed by my father that “King William” was absolutely terrible.

He was, I think, baffled by my choice of career. Mostly, I imagine, because he built things. And with a book, well, yes, there’s a book, but… Books are ephemeral, after all. I proudly sent him my first published novel, and then made the entire family swear an oath that they would never, ever tell him about Boy Toy.

Because he was old school. Hardcore Eastern Orthodox Catholic. Never heard a swear word come out of his mouth unless he was quoting someone, and even then I could see the pain in his eyes. He once told me that a friend of his had picked up my book from his coffee table, flipped through it, and then said, “Oh, Bill. I can’t read this book.”

She’d stumbled upon the word bullshit.

Grandpa gently suggested that if I moderate my language, I might not lose that reader. I replied that my books were written for today’s teens, not people who’d voted for Eisenhower.

He laughed, and allowed as how I might be right on that score.

Until I was about 15, my grandfather greeted me with a hug and a kiss, and said goodbye in the same way. Then that stopped — I went in for a hug and he kept his arms by his side, then, after a moment of reflection, offered his hand. We shook, like gentlemen.

Our greetings and farewells went on like this until I was somewhere in my late twenties, when suddenly he began to hug me fiercely, often weeping when it was time for us to part.

I got it immediately, even as a kid — my grandfather was Old World, old school. Men did not hug and kiss. Men shook hands. And as I progressed through teendom, I became more a man than not. It was fine. It never bothered me; I never saw it as a rejection or a withholding of affection because I knew he loved me and because I understood. I didn’t agree, but I understood, without words.

But then, suddenly, men did hug. My grandfather was getting older. Sentimental. It’s a cliché that this happens to men as they age, but most clichés have a grounding in reality. And I’ve inherited this sentimentality. If you ever want to see me cry, just run a video of a dad telling his son how much he loves him, and I will suddenly discover that the pollen is so bad today.

I learned from this behavior of his that it was OK to think something…and then realize maybe you were wrong and adjust your behavior accordingly. I think a lot of men out there (women, too, of course, but men in particular) get locked into a certain mode of behavior and then don’t know how to get out.1 And the thing is, it’s so easy — almost effortless — to get out. You just do it. You just make the choice and you hug your damn grandson.

Here’s a funny little anecdote: He didn’t know anything about Superman! I learned this in college, when I was spending a weekend with my grandparents (they were about an hour away from New Haven, so I visited when I could) and they invited friends over for dinner. Somehow the topic turned to movies and one of the friends began explaining Superman: The Movie to my grandfather.

“…and then this guy, this scientist, Bill, he puts the baby in a rocketship, see?”

I can still see it and hear it. My grandfather was nodding along. And of course he didn’t know jack about Superman — he was in high school when Action Comics #1 came out! He wasn’t scoping out the newsstands for comics in 1938!

But it blew my mind because Superman is so important to me and I’d just assumed everyone knew the origin. And my grandfather could not have cared less about Superman, but he sat there and politely listened and absorbed everything his friend told him.

I’m glad he lived to see me make my dreams come true because I think he worried about the life I would lead as a writer. And I’m even more glad that he lived to see me on the New York Times bestsellers list because even though I’d been making my living as a writer for years before that, I think that was a marker he understood. I think at that point, he could finally relax and say, “It’s OK. My grandson will be OK.”

Here’s a picture of him the year he died. I am obviously unable to be objective at all, but I think he looks good for ninety. I hope I do at that age, too.

There’s a lot more to say, but this isn’t a biography of Bill Lyga. This is just to say that damn do I miss him and sorry for swearing, Grandpa, but if you’re ghosting around me, you know I drop worse than that twenty times a day, without even thinking about it.

I don’t believe in heaven, but I also think anything is possible. And I know this: When Bill Lyga passed away, if he found out there was no afterlife, he for damn sure got to work building one.

Unedited/Edited Is/Are Coming!

The Book That Will Kill Me is finally coming.

And it’s brought a friend:

More soon…

Unedited/Edited

The Book That Will Kill Me is finally coming.

And it’s brought a friend:

More soon…

Stories I Never Told: Crisis on Captive Earths — Epilogue

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

For all its many faults as a story, I still think this Epilogue ties it together quite nicely. Join me now for the end of…

Epilogue: The World to Come/A World that Is

In the thirtieth century, the Legion’s lab has exploded in a ball of fire, sabotaged by Brainiac 5 before he fled to the twentieth century. As the Legion masses to contain the damage, they discover a dying Mon-El amid the wreckage. Saturn Girl plucks recent events from Mon-El’s short-term memory and Element Lad is easily able to reactivate the serum that keeps Mon-El alive.

Once Mon-El recovers, his post-hypnotic suggestion kicks in and he remembers what happened in the twentieth century…and also recites from memory a message Brainiac 5 implanted a thousand years ago.

MON-EL: I apologize to you all for my actions, and especially to Mon-El, not only for using him as I did in the twentieth century, but also for putting his life in danger in the thirtieth. I remain confident that no permanent harm will come to him, as any number of you are capable of assisting him. I am truly sorry for using you so, Mon-El. But I could not risk having the Legion follow me back through time. The Time Trapper’s attention is so focused on our era and our activities that I knew he would take advantage of the Crisis to attack if we gave him the chance.

I also knew that the most likely outcome of my adventure in the past would be that time travel would become more difficult, if not impossible. And our era needs the Legion too badly for any of you to be trapped in this primitive age with me.

Time travel is still possible…but I recommend against it. In fact, I insist that you not attempt to rescue me from the twentieth century. I am perfectly prepared to live out my days here, and though my people are long-lived, I will be long dead by the time you hear this message.

Every time travel action will now weaken the Trapper’s Iron Curtain of Time, making it more likely that he will someday break through our barrier and take his revenge. Therefore, time travel must be halted, voluntarily. I know that, given enough time, Rond can rebuild everything I’ve destroyed. I am asking him not to.

I believe that — mis-steps such as Computo and Omega aside — I have been an asset to the Legion. Computo1 can help you build a list of potential replacements from Coluan academies. You’ll want someone who is capable of functioning in the field as well as in the lab.

I have one final request. Please put the statue next to hers. Goodbye.

Later, Mon-El walks through the Hall of the Dead, past the statues of Ferro Lad, Invisible Kid, Chemical King, Karate Kid, and Triplicate Girl. At the end of the Hall is a statue of Supergirl, holding hands with a statue of Brainiac 5. Mon-El looks up at it, a tear in his eye, and says, “Goodnight, my friends.”

Cut to: a beach. Night time.

Lex Luthor opens his eyes.

Six months2 later, Lex is in a library. His inner monologue reveals to us that it has taken him this long to adapt to this new world and learn how to master and exploit its primitive technology. The librarian refers to him as “Dr. Thorul.”

Lex’s research turns up no references to a Dr. Thomas Wayne, nor to a Wayne Foundation. There is no STAR Labs. The only company worth mentioning in terms of advanced technology is an outfit called “Kord Omniversal Research and Development,” but it’s not that impressive. Captain Atom seems to be the only truly powerful super-hero…and Lex has already figured out half a dozen ways to eliminate him.

That night, Lex goes to a stellar telescope lab. His forged credentials make it easy for him to gain access. With hours on the telescope, he confirms that not only is there no Krypton in this universe, but that the solar system that housed Krypton doesn’t exist either. He spot-checks and finds that there is no Tamaran, no Daxam, no Rann, no Thanagar…

No Lexor.

What really persuades Lex, though, is that he goes to a newsstand and buys a Superman comic book, where everything is revealed: Clark Kent, the true origin. Everything. He realizes that Superman would never place his greatest enemy in this position…unless there was absolutely no way out.

LUTHOR: So, you’ve done it, old foe. You’ve done what I could never do: You eliminated yourself from the universe. A bit of a cheat, but well-played, I admit. Not only do you not exist here, but there’s no chance that you ever could.

So where does that leave me?

I suppose it’s time to stop thinking about what I’ve been…and start thinking about what I am and what I can be…

…just like everyone else.

The End!

Except…

There are a couple of additional notes at the end of the file. Apparently, sequel-itis infected me at a young age. Here you go…

Crisis on Qward: The Green Lantern Corps has franchised to other Earths and dimensions. The Earth-S Green Lantern is Mr. Tawky Tawny.

Crisis on Earth-4: (There are no notes as to exactly what this Crisis would be, but we would return to Earth-4 to learn that…) Luthor is wealthy and successful as Dr. Thorul. He has bought DC Comics and shut it down in order to kill Superman in that universe.

Thanks for reading, everyone!

Stories I Never Told: Crisis on Captive Earths — Chapter 5

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Last chapter was long — this one is short. And there’s an Epilogue to come that ties it all together…

Chapter 5 — Long Live the League1

The heroes at the End of Time battle the Time Trapper! But there’s no way in the world to win! With the End of Time sealed off from the rest of the timestream, the Trapper will eventually lose, but at the cost of dozens of superheroes, now stuck with the vengeful Trapper. Brainiac Five’s plan leads to a Pyrrhic victory, at best.

Meanwhile, Wally West — possessed by Deadman, speed-amped by the Thunderbolt — leads the remaining twentieth-century heroes to the Dawn of Time, then further back, around the circle of time to the End of Time…where he opens the portal “home” for those stuck with the Time Trapper! It’s a rescue mission, planned by Brainy and executed to perfection by Batman.2

Now, the Time Trapper can’t go back in time because his Iron Curtain of Time is locked in place…and he can’t go forward to circle around to the past because he’s never been able to do that. So he’s stuck here. The Time Trapper is trapped.

As the heroes flee around the curve of Time itself to escape the End of Time, Brainy explains to the enraged Trapper exactly where his plans went awry. For his trouble, the Trapper blasts him with a tremendous wave of chronal energy just as Superman grabs Brainy and pulls him to safety.

When Brainy wakes up, safe and sound back in 1986, he finds that the Trapper’s blast aged him tremendously — he’s the aged Coluan in the old picture found in the future.3

SUPERMAN: You just had to stay and taunt him, didn’t you?

BRAINIAC 5: I wasn’t taunting him. I was lecturing him. It’s important for people to understand where their theories are wrong.

The heroes begin to settle in, mopping up the last of the Time Trapper’s soldiers, fixing what’s been broken, etc. Somewhere in there, according to my notes, “Superman (and Clark, obviously) turns 30. This is a key scene. Symbolic. Time is advancing and moving on from the Bronze Age…”4

As the issue wraps up, Superman and Batman meet to discuss everything that has happened. Superman can’t stop thinking about Lex, and what they did to him.

SUPERMAN: Did we do the right thing, Bruce?

BATMAN: I’ll tell you a secret, old friend. There’s no right. There’s no wrong. There’s justice and there’s injustice. There’s love and there’s hate. That’s it. What we did was just. What you have with Lana — what I have a chance for with Silver — that’s love. Everything else is details.

SUPERMAN: But we gambled… And we’ll never know if that gamble—

BATMAN: Your parents gambled when they put you into that rocket and fired you into the void, but that turned out all right, didn’t it?

One more tiny bit as a tag: Brainy preps Mon-El to return to the Phantom Zone, including — as promised — post-hypnotic suggestions. When the time comes to return, Mon asks, “How much longer will I have to wait?”

And Brainy effortlessly lies and says, “Not long.”

End Chapter 5

Still to come: The Epilogue

(The only glory I will ever get for this thing that I’ve carried in my brain since childhood is people looking at it. So if you have friends you think might get a kick out of it, please point them in this direction! Teen Barry thanks you, and so do I.)