Christopher Tuthill's Blog, page 8

Happy Father’s Day

I’ve been thinking of my dad, a man who never made a fuss about father’s day, or about anything else. Born during the great depression, he grew up without having very much. He often told me stories of going to the movies for a nickel when he was growing up during World War II. His father would give him a dime on Saturday, and he’d have to decide where to go and buy comic books or go to a movie. He had a bike at one point and rode it around Riverhead, but it was stolen one day, and his father could not afford to buy him a new one. That was probably the saddest story he ever told me. He loved the bike and he wanted a new one, but his father, a carpenter and house painter, didn’t have enough money to buy another.

As a boy he had various odd jobs, including one as a caddy. He made good money doing that, and had some hilarious tales of the caddyshack, as it was in the 1940s. He once won a huge pot in a craps game and was nearly attacked by an angry older caddy, but ran away and brought the dough back to his parents. He then stayed away from the golf course for a week, from fear of his vengeful nemesis.

After graduating high school, dad joined the air force. He would tell me that he felt very lucky—the Korean War was going on, and he knew people who perished in that conflict, but he was sent to Germany and worked on a base there. He served at other bases in the early fifties, then returned home to try and start a career. All the while, this penniless man sent money home to his mom and dad, as plenty of soldiers of that generation did.

My dad was a smart man, who read a lot of history and politics, and I think he would have been an excellent teacher, lawyer, or professor. But he wasn’t inclined to take advantage of the GI Bill. He was a practical guy and had to make money right away to help his parents. He worked at a few different jobs, including RCA, a surveying job for the department of agriculture, and finally found work with New York Telephone. He stayed in a rooming house in Hempstead NY at first, living there during the week, and commuted home to be with his parents on the weekends. Eventually he was able to secure a job with NY Telephone in Riverhead, the town where he had grown up and where his parents lived. He got the job and stayed there for more than forty years, moving up from a janitor to eventually a switchman, which had much better pay.

As a boy, I remember him working very long hours, overnight shifts, taking all the overtime he could get to support his large family. Never once did he complain. He just did it. A devout Catholic, he was unfailingly kind to everyone he ever met. Despite the loss of one of his sons, he never felt sorry for himself–he didn’t view life as a tragedy, more as a comedy. He always had a twinkle in his eye and a terrible joke or pun at the ready. He was always smiling, always happy to come home and see his wife and children, no matter what kind of day he had.

There were six of us children, and I cherished the times I got to spend with him. He took great pride in all of us. Despite how busy he was, he always had time to be the little league coach or to go on scouting trips or take us to the city for baseball games. He was a true family man. Never drank, never swore (very often) and never yelled at us. He doted on my mother and his family was his great joy. He was as strong as they come.

I miss my dad, who passed away in 2013. I was happy he got to enjoy retirement for the last thirteen years of his life. He certainly enjoyed it, filling his days with visits from friends, reading the newspaper, watching old gangster movies and westerns, and watching his Mets. He had heart trouble, but he never complained about that, either.

The other day, someone I know mentioned the kinds of ‘sacrifices’ modern parents make. I understood what he meant, he was simply saying that we do stuff for our children, we always make choices. But I disagreed with him, and I told him so. In my view, these are not sacrifices, not remotely. If you decide to have children, this is simply your job, and what’s more, it is the most important job you have. You must do it. If you don’t, you’re not living up to your work as a parent. So I don’t like hearing of sacrifices in this way. Just do what you’re supposed to.

Thanks, dad. Happy father’s day.

Adaptations

If you’d told me when I was twelve that we’d have endless new sci fi/superhero/fantasy movies and shows every single week, I would’ve been ecstatic. But alas, since I’m fifty and no longer twelve, I’m totally disinterested in most of it. Partly this is because I’m no longer a child, but it’s also because I enjoy new and different stories, and none of these gigantic intellectual properties do that. They just make the same exact stories over and over.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, George Lucas created something special that felt fresh. Comic books did that also, and some still do. Tolkien created a genre that has been well mined for generations. Other writers have done and continue to do this, and some films do as well. But most of the large properties simply make the same thing with slightly different characters or timelines. It obviously sells and many people love it. It doesn’t interest me, though– new and interesting stories do. But these famous, valuable names are like real estate snatched up by greedy developers.

At times, older fans can get prickly about newer things. I’ve felt that way as well, mainly because the experience of reading an amazing novel can never be matched by any movie, no matter how well done. As George RR Martin recently commented, very rarely does a great book get a truly worthy interpretation, but when it happens it’s quite amazing. Dune managed it, in my opinion, and Jackson’s Lord of the Rings did, as well. But more often they just leave you cold.

Don’t adapt this, son. Don’t even try.

Most of these newer films are not made for middle aged guys, so I just accept that it isn’t for me, and go back to the books. But I admit, and as Martin said, I find the arrogance of some of these adaptations hard to believe. Luckily I will always have my bookshelves.

On Critics, and Other Matters

At times, sending out stories and manuscripts and getting no response can get frustrating. But that’s the way it is, and complaining about it doesn’t do any good. It is maddening when you see some of the awful things that become bestsellers, that get all kinds of attention and large publishing deals. Unfair, maybe, but that’s how it goes. First, you must write a great book, and then you must either know someone, or be in the right place at the right time. Some writers will beat the odds, so I keep plugging away, and in any case, I write for myself and won’t stop no matter what happens.

Which brings me to the subject of criticism, and gatekeepers. There are many of these that writers need to ignore. I was thinking of that curious thing, the writing workshop. In my experience, most of these were not at all a supportive environment; in fact, they were quite the opposite, in most cases, with students attacking each other’s work in an effort, I guess, to impress the instructor, a person who had published something and whose approval many in the class usually craved.

The comments on my stories were sometimes helpful, sometimes not, occasionally rude and off putting, and I listened to almost none of it except those written honestly. And yet, even an honest critic might be wrong. Gatekeepers at publishing houses, as well as literary agents, are quite often wrong about a great many things. Just check out the mountains of rejection letters received by people like Ursula LeGuin, Stephen King, Frank Herbert, and plenty of others.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep and was listening to Led Zeppelin, one of my favorite bands. As I sometimes do with artists I admire, I went and looked up contemporary reviews of their groundbreaking records, which have sold over a hundred million copies. One snob said Robert Plant’s lyrics were awful. Rolling Stone wrote that the whole office laughed in mockery at “In Through the Out Door,” the band’s final album, recorded in the terrible wake of the death of Plant’s son. Quite hilarious, you bunch of hipster morons, was all I could think. What a terrible record that brought nothing but happiness and sold tens of millions of copies. Yep, Zeppelin sure were a laughingstock.

 I’m now fifty, and I don’t do reviews of new books very often anymore. I used to years ago, for a couple of online sites, but I found that unless I want to spend a lot of time digesting a book, and can say something thoughtful and supportive, there is little point. These things are so subjective, and a random critic has as much to say on the topic of a new book as any thoughtful reader, of which there are a great many. Instead, I’ll do goodreads reviews of books I enjoy, sometimes. And I’ll let my friends and contacts know which books I’m reading. Major outlets like the New York Times and other venues might help a reader decide whether to buy something, I suppose, but more often it is a badge of honor that the author of the book can proudly wear. It may help boost sales. Or if it’s a negative review, they may never live it down.

As the years pass, I’ve realized that apart from a very few trusted book critics, I’d rather just read a book and make up my own mind. The opinions of editors and agents and others in the publishing business are meaningless. In the end, there are your words, your story, and you tell it as best you can. You hope someone likes it, but whether they do or not hardly matters at all. You’re left with your honesty and your effort, and that’s about all you can do. Anything less is not enough, no matter what accolades other people might want to give you. And if you stick to your own vision and work, you can never lose, no matter what any critic says.

The Lost Generation

I have read many lamentations from the Generation known as “X,” and ‘Boomer’, and so on. Their mighty and legendary deeds are inscribed on facebook and other social media for all to see. Tis a most worthy homage to bygone eras.

Here is my own contribution to this noble and honorable art form.

A LAMENTATION FROM A LOST GENERATION

We are a generation that shall never return.

That had no fancy phones to entertain us.

Who went entire days and sometimes weeks or months with no parental supervision.

And foraged for food instead of waiting for mom to make it.

We crafted our own toys out of whatever rough materials were handy, instead of buying everything on amazon.

A generation that walked everywhere, without the need for extravagant inventions like the wheel.

That went sometimes for days or weeks without food.

And settled differences like children should, with sharpened sticks and blunt objects and clubs and slingshots until one of us left the arena in disgrace.

Whose bloody exploits are forever commemorated in legend and song.

Whose mighty deeds were written on cave walls and told around campfires in the oral tradition instead of using fancy written language.

Who grew into strong magic, warriors who would do anything to topple demon cults that insulted our gods.

Who crushed our enemies, saw them driven before us, and heard the lamentations of the women.

No, never again shall you see our kind, nor our swords, or sorcery.

You know only a heap of broken images. “You! Hypocrite lecteur! mon semblable! mon frere!”

-Fin-

All My Love

I heard this Led Zeppelin song today and, like many songs I first encountered as a youth, it caused quite a bit of reflection. Music doesn’t just move you, the best of it also magically transports you to a different place and time.

When I was a young and foolish kid, and first heard this one, I wasn’t crazy about it. I loved Zeppelin with a passion, but like most teens I favored their heavier songs, and this one struck me as too romantic. I wrongly assumed it was about a girl.

Later, I read Hammer of the Gods and learned about how Robert Plant lost his young boy, Karac Pendragon (what a gorgeous name), and this song was his response to that unimaginable tragedy.

Had I been listening closer to the lyrics back when I was a teen, I should have known this was no typical love song:

Yours is the cloth, mine is the hand that sews time
His is the force that lies within
Ours is the fire, all the warmth we can find
He is a feather in the wind, oh

All of my love, all of my love, oh
All of my love to you

You can hear his emotion, he is almost crying the lyrics by the end. My heart breaks listening to it.

Today, as a dad myself, I listened to All My Love and realized it’s one of the greatest and most moving rock songs I have ever heard. I am amazed that Plant was able to create something this majestic in the throes of the despair he must have felt. What a tribute to his boy, and to that profound, cruel, life altering loss. I have nothing but respect for Plant as an artist and a human being. Just beautiful.

Signing Event

Here’s a photo of yours truly at the Barnes and Noble. I met a number of readers and signed some books, it was a great day. Hoping to do more events like this when the next book is released.

Osprey Man Appearance

Spring is the perfect time for THE OSPREY MAN to take flight! I will be at the Barnes and Noble in Poughkeepsie, NY this Saturday, 4/27 starting at 2pm, with copies of the book. Hope to see you there!

Author’s Guild

I highly recommend The Author’s Guild, which I recently joined to help with issues related to my novel’s publisher. Happily, they are working to keep it in print, even if the publisher is unresponsive. If you are a writer, it is well worth joining, they advocate for you and seem to really care about these issues.

In other news, we are off to western New York for the eclipse, which the children are extremely excited about. Hoping there are no clouds on Monday! Best wishes and safe travels to everyone who is on the move this weekend.

Book Talk

I will be at the Barnes and Noble in Poughkeepsie, NY on Saturday, April 27 at 2pm for a book talk and with copies of THE OSPREY MAN. It’s sure to be a fun time! Bring a friend, grab a coffee, and stay for some storytelling.

Poughkeepsie Book Festival

This Saturday, March 30, I’ll be at The Poughkeepsie Book Festival with copies of my book, THE OSPREY MAN. Each child under 17 who attends gets a voucher for $15, with which they can buy a book from one of the over 100 authors and illustrators who will be there. So come and support this great library–they put on this and plenty of other amazing events every year. Bring the family for a fun day filled with books and activities.