My Hyper-Caffeinated Mind

Good morning. Yes, shamefully that's a coffee mug, not Monster.

What can I say? Budget was tight this week, hadda buy diapers instead. It's okay, because my wife's Pumpkin Spice creamer is actually pretty tasty.

My wife has to work today, which means I am kid-taxi to Grandma's for babysitting, so this is going to be brief. It's ironic for Thanksgiving we always give thanks for all the good stuff, but I've always marveled how God uses bad stuff for His greater glory, as well. So, this morning, I'm going to give thanks for all the things in my life that have really, really stunk - but I wouldn't be the same without.

1. I'm actually thankful my wife and I are pretty poor, lower-middle class. We have enough to get by, sometimes it's tight - but we always have something for the family, each other, and the kids. We spend TIME on them, not money, (which in my teaching career, I've seen too many parents who do the opposite), which is the best thing, because hopefully our kids won't turn out to be spoiled brats like...



....personally, I think both these young ladies weren't taken to the park to chase butterflies nearly enough.

2. I'm thankful my job pays me next to nothing. Why? I love my kids at Seton, I love teaching them, and maybe if I was earning more money, it would be about that, and not the kids. When I go into school in the morning, I know it's to spend another day among them, not because of a big paycheck.

3. I'm thankful I was previously engaged before my wife, and went through a pretty bitter break-up before meeting her. Why? This may sound callous, and I'm not perfect yet by no means - but I made most of my dumb, irresponsible mistakes on my ex-fiance, learning NOT to do those stupid things again. And of course, I'm glad we broke up, because my ex looked a bit like this when she got mad...



...okay, so maybe that was bit rude, but then again, politcal correctness was never one of my strong suits. But to be fair, I was pretty much a bonehead myself in our ill-fated relationship.

4. I'm thankful our home church split up several years ago; thankful we spent years hunting for churches and faced disappointment after disappointment. It taught me that a good pastor and solid church - while really, really important - should not be the only thing that feeds me spiritually; I need to take on that responsibility myself.

5. I'm glad God has allowed me to struggle on my own for years, without a lot of friends. True friends are the best, but they are still human, and often fall short of our expectations. Sometimes - like in Stephen king's "The Long Walk", (but hopefully with a less morbid ending) - ya just gotta walk that lonely road alone, as per Green Day's pearls of wisdom in "Boulevard of Broken Dreams".

6. I'm glad I don't know everything that's going to happen. How boring would that be?

7. I'm glad our cars keep breaking down, and the septic tank is always overflowing, pipes under the sink always needs re caulking. That's just life, man, and reminds me that all the stuff we have is nothing more than stuff.

8. I'm glad my daughter is always running and screaming, jumping and tackling me in the middle of my writing, interrupting that epic story I'm just sentences away from finishing. I'm glad my wife has laundry for me to do, chores that need to be done, right when I'm outlining my next short story. I'm glad my son Zach poops right in the middle of a totally awesome plot twist - and boy, you CANNOT ignore his diapers. It always reminds me that here is something far better than publishing success in this manic, squirming, frenzied Tasmanian Devil I call daughter, loving, tolerant, understanding thing I all Wife, and bubbly, spitting, cooing thing I call Son. Besides, I've never written this good before - because I never understood people, emotions, sacrfice, the height of joy and the depths of pain - as well as I do now, married and with children.

Sorry. You had to know I was going to go there.

Have a good week. Until next time, walk light.

Posted by kevinlucia at 10:43 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

If you asked me back in eighth grade what type of writer I wanted to be someday, I probably would've given you a confused look and finally said, "A really really really really good one." By the time I was a high school senior, I was firmly in the grip of Issac Asimov and Foundation, Star Wars, Star Trek, and all things science fiction. I was convinced I was going to be the next sci fi great - right up there with L. Ron Hubbard, but without the freaky cult thing - and the next great science fiction movie trilogy would be based on my books, with comic book and action figure tie-ins, too. Eventually, though, as I grew and expanded so did my reading tastes, and low and behold one day lounging in Barnes & Noble, I ventured forth with great fear and trembling, (no pun intended), into my very first Stephen King novel, Desperation. Of course, it was a shock to the system - but I was also blown away about how good it was. It was certainly scary, out there, and just NUTS - but it was about the struggle between good and evil, a loss of innocence, the simplicity of faith, and redemption. From that point on, I found myself drawn ever more towards fiction from the darker side of the tracks, and that found its way to my writing as well. Plus, I'd come to the realization that my sci fi prose really sounded very bad, really bad. It just sounded like echoes of bad Star War plots; it felt like I was writing Spaceballs instead of good fiction... ...you tell 'em, Dark Helmet. Anyway, I traded in my Communicator and Phaser for a monster and vampire hunting kit, and plunged into the darkness. Years later, I've encountered all sorts of stuff that's branded as "horror", but they're so different that I'm often confused, which just goes to show how broad a genre can be. If asked who I think are the best horror writers out there, I'd snap to and rattle off automatically: Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Peter Straub, John Saul... ...yet, these guys don't write just horror, some have evolved WAY past that point - Stephen King and even more so, Dean Koontz. In fact, both authors utilized pen names early on, just to keep writing different types of fiction without getting pegged and pigeonholed. Plus, there seems to be a whole set of "requirements" for "hardcore horror writers" these days. You don't really see it very much here on Shoutlife, but on Myspace - ye cats! According to some of the profiles and pages I've seen over the last two years, a horror must have the following to qualify as a horror writer: 1. an intense, really disturbed looking avatar or profile pic that makes them looked deranged, enraged, unglued, dangerous, or at the very least, constipated. 2. They have to be either Goth, vampire lovers, dress all in black, and certainly aren't allowed to look like they're happy, cheerful, or normal in any way. 3. Their profile pages/websites must be covered with occult symbols, gore, bloody images of desecration against the human body, and other such stuff. (Now, I get it - a horror writer promoting a dark novel probably wouldn't want daisies on their profile - unless they were zombie, brain eating daisies - but sheesh!) 4. Horror writers, of course, aren't allowed to write in other genres at all. 5. Horror writers must write from personal experience: IE - must have been beaten by parents and suffered a LOT to write horror. 6. Did I mention the really freaky, non smiling profile pics? Okay. That was too much. Now I'll never sleep. 7. Stories must be filled with mass amounts of gore, blood, violence, occult references, and must not have anything resembling a mainstream or commercial focus. Now, it must be noted I'm not referencing "Christian Horror" - which I must be honest, I'm still having a problem with from a technical, writing craft perspective, but that's not to discuss here. Anyway, I'm thinking about all of this after having my recent short story, "The Sliding", picked up by a pretty standard, lower level horror publication called Darkened Horizons. Perusing the magazine's Myspace, I got the idea my humble little "spooky, haunted house" story would stand all alone amidst stories of sex-crazed, bloodthirsty vampire-zombies and flesh-eating viruses that have no point, other than peeling away skin and exposing innards all over the place. It really made me consider seriously - why horror? Why dark stuff? Huh? Now herein comes the "Christian Horror" motivation, but like I said - I'm gonna pretend that option doesn't exist. I honestly have a problem with overly evangelistic speculative fiction; mostly because I think it's almost like saying, "Okay, let's speculate...but not too much." To balance that out, though, most of the best "Christian Speculative" writers I've encountered in the last few years: Bryan Davis, Kathryn Mackel, R.K. Mortenson, Sue Dent, Dan Weaver - could easily just be called "speculative" or "fantasy" without the label, and their works resonate with spiritual truth that's pretty smoothly woven into their stories. So anyway, I got off track there, and now I'm going to try and find my way back. Yeah. Oh, now I remember. So why horror? Why write dark stuff? Why have I joined the International Order of Horror Professionals, and why I am applying to the Horror Writers Association? I dunno. That's just the way my mind works. One of my best short stories to date, (sent it to Weird Tales and crossing fingers because that would be a BIG sale), came about because my Creative Writing professor gave us a prompt this semester that went like this: "Imagine a girl, sliding across a patch of ice in the winter, arms out like wings..." and my mind translates that to.. "AAAH! Look out, the monster under the ice is gonna eat her!" But I guess I just write what I feel like writing at that moment, and that's it. For example, I was prepping myself to enter Blu Phier's zombie anthology, and when push came to shove, I just shrugged my shoulders and said, "Ehh." Not because I have anything against zombies, but I just don't have a story for it right now. This is clearly an "armchair author", (meaning, I'm making my judgment as an observer, not a participant), perspective, but it seems to me in ALL genre writing, the middle to lower tier writers have a good to great handle on the genre itself, a decent handle on craft, but that's it. The upper tier guys - the Kings, Bradburys, Koontzs, Straubs, and others - they write about LIFE first and foremost, and have a story with all the genre trappings - but at the CORE, there's something more important. That's why I like the movie 1408 so much - it wasn't just about a freaky, evil hotel room - at the core was a damaged human being who didn't believe in anything anymore, and only finds survival when he finally makes a unselfish, sacrificial choice. It (the novel) wasn't really about a demonic clown, it was about these seven kids that no one else liked, and how they found each other and true friendship over one epic summer. The last few years have been quite a learning curve for me. I think I'm approaching the point of shedding "novel" dreams entirely and just enjoying writing and my stories, and I've come to the point of shedding any type of "image" other than my own. It may be a small thing, but remember my former profile picture, that scowling, ultra-serious/dangerous guy in the suit (you know, the one who looked constipated). That was just a stinkin' image, darnnit, and it was brought home to me when one of my students visited my Myspace and just mentioned, "Wow, Mr. Lucia - that just ain't you." The picture I have now was a candid one snapped during a Saturday school literary journal meeting. It basically captures the essence of who I am, so much better than my scowling scary writer pic. And hey - why can't a goofball like that write something that will keep YOU, dear reader, awake until the dead of night? A good friend expressed concern a year or so ago that by trying to write so many different things: horror, literary fiction, fantasy, and maybe even a return to sci fi, I might be diluting my "image" and be harder to market. With all due respect that good friend, I'm finally growing as a writer because I'm defaulting back to that 8th grader, (without the zits and bad haircuts), and answering the questions, "What type of writer do you want to be?" and "What do you want to write?" with: "A really really really good one", and "Whatever I feel like writing at that given moment." Oh, I did recently join a "horror" myspace called Graveside Tales, mostly because I'm curious to see if I'll be the only one with a normal, cheery looking picture that looks goth and drug free. Anyway....I think I hear the zombies calling....oh, never mind. They just want the usual. More brains.

Posted by kevinlucia at 10:57 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

I now have a new program to take snapshots with, so you will have much clearer, more virbrant, hyper-pixelated pictures of me, my morning muzhead, and my Monster.

So, did the title grab you? Yes, the only high I'm talking about it a stress high; and not neccessarily like that nifty slogan the powers that be trotted out in the late eighties,  early nineties: "I'm high on LIFE", which of course was supposed to deter everyone from smoking dope because, of course, life offered so much more than mescaline.

Now - I'm speaking tongue in cheek, drug free IS the way to go - but I think they were a little naive on that one. I remember my senior year in high school, playing basketball on the asphalt court behind our school while several of the school ne'er-do-wells, (did I spell and use that correctly? I can never be sure), were swinging the swing sets meant for the elementary kids, screaming at the top of their lungs, and just having a gay old time. "WEEEE!" one of them screamed, "ARE YOU AS HIGH AS I AM?" "NO," the other one screamed back, "I'M HIGH ON LIFE, MAN!"



Call me crazy, but I don't think they were ONLY high on life.

Anyway, I don't want to belittle the impact of stress on people's lives. Seeing as how I'm about to extol stress as a huge emotional inspiration to write, I'd like to make the disclaimer that it certainly isn't that way for everyone. For those three of you who read my blogs, I'm sure some of you are thinking: "Boy, it must be nice to live in HIS world, were stress just makes him write more, instead of eating or being surly or kicking puppies", or something like that. Stress most of the time sucks, which I find it highly ironic that at one of the most stressful times of my life, I'm also my highest writing perfomance ever.

You've all read my blogs; you know the deal - teaching full time during the day, grad school part time during the night, family man who loves kids and wife, writes column for city newspaper, and crazily enough trying to write, write, write in my spare time. Suffice to say, with my wife alongside to help the lead the charge in this thing called "Life", (sometimes kicking me in the butt to help me keep up with some of the less desirable stuff - like taking out the garbage, doing the bills, or anything NOT writing), my adorable kids to play with, and a FLOCK of students at Seton High who are basically my reason for going into to work every day, this is a great time.

However, I'm at the peaks of stress; the Mount Everest of being stressed out. Doors are opening in the writing field; making me want to write even more - yet I'm always pulled between that, and playing with my daughter and her Play-Doe set. I love college - in another life with different decisions, I would've made an excellent, stereotypical career student, living my life completely in acedamia - yet I'm always balancing a desire to be on campus, flowing along in the hum and thrum of college life, and being home with my family, which I long for even more. Then  there's my students at SCC, as we work on starting up a school literary journal to bring some culture to the joint, and how much I'd love to spend every weekend with them at school working on it - but I need to study for college, grade papers, I NEED to write and read with an almost physical need, and I NEED to be home with the family. (that's a really long sentence. Sorry.) Plus, though I love teaching my new batch of students, I'm constantly at odds with the administration (in my head; in reality I'm a good little boy who tries to follow the rules, 'cause getting fired sucks and would seperate me from my cool students) and the state on what "education" really is (sorry - another long sentence).

Deep breath.

Anyway, I'm major stressed out right now, balancing bills, car repairs, other household duties, on top of it all. Is it ironic that in the middle of this stress, I'm writing like a demon possessed? (can a demon be possesed? That's a weird turn of phrase that I just noticed)

In one of Linkin' Park's songs, a lyric goes somewhat like this, "if I didn't have all this pain, I'd have nothin' to write on".  It's interesting, isn't it - how pain and strife and stress drives us creative folk to either a pad of paper, a sheet of music, or a canvas.  This is not to say that happiness is worthless and sunshine and rainbows don't inspire creativity, but I think in the midst of HELL - which, to be honest, I'm NOT in...I'm not that much of a drama queen - we desire the light and rainbows and sunshine the most, and we try to write ourself out of the darkness towards that light.

I've taken to writing free verse poetry, somewhat as an extension of this. I tried some traditional vesrse - but apparently, I'm too lazy to rhyme - but what I like about free verse is the instant explosion of feels and emotions on paper. You draft and proof read later, but you don't worry about rhyming and a rhyme scheme - you just throw it down on the paper as the stuff flows from you.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do with the new poetry direction - as usual, I'll just follow the pen and see where it leads. But, now alongside my "Writer's Market" guide I now have a "Poet's Market" guide, and I'm going to start submitting and workshopping it right alongside my short fiction.

The best stories and poems are based on conflict common to mankind; so it makes sense that the more conflict in our lives, the more material we have to draw from.  This has really gone off the rails, and I'll probably save the "Thankful for all the bad stuff" portion for tomorrow or Friday, but really - that's why I AM thankful for all that crap that made my life miserable for several periods of time. I've been writing seriously, (by seriously I mean all the time, not in spurts like I have been since the 8th grade), since my senior year in high school, but most of the stuff was formulaic, slightly banal, trivial, and not very good. Of course, as Stephen King once remarked about his early years, then I thought I was "writing for the ages", so it was all good.

Looking back, I really didn't start churning out good stuff until I'd actually suffered. Does this mean writers have to suffer to write well? Not necessarily, but hey - we're all gonna suffer, so if you're a writer and you really haven't suffered yet...don't worry, everything in it's due time; you'll get your chance. This is probably why as a reader and writer I've always been drawn to darker stuff - I hesitate to use the word "horror", because that seems to bring with it connotations of blood and gore, occult oriented stuff (for it's own sake, not as a part of the plot - like "Demon Worshipping Cheerleaders 4: The Pep Rally From Hell"), and I don't write that. I write in the shadows, about the shadows, about fighting against the shadows. I'm deeply thankful for the stress and crap in my life, because if I didn't have it, I wouldn't write nearly as well - and that would just suck.

Anyway, more on this being thankful for bad stuff tommorrow or Friday. Until then - walk light, but use the darkness to make you appreciate the light even more.

Posted by kevinlucia at 11:39 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

Consider this a "supplemental blog", sorta like a captain's "Supplemental Log" on Star Trek, except that there's no comparison between this:



and this:



...because I'm way cuter. Anyhoo....

A note of caution: this is going to sound very self-serving; titanically so. However, it's what my fevered brain is turning over at the moment, so if you're interested in what I'm interested, we can chat.

Also - I don't know if there is anything that can be done about my topic, because of the culture and climate of today's world. Also, by no means can I be considered an expert on anything, so if anyone sees any holes in my admittedly "Swiss-Chessian" (I'm an English teacher; I'm allowed to make up words) logic, fire away.

Anyway, I've been engaged in the last year writing short stories; lots of them. Based on the small amount of success I've had in this area, (6 shorts published or accepted for publication so far; one due to be re-published in The Relief Journal's Best of 2007 edition, one awaiting final word in a Tyndale Anthology, and a few contests won), I've felt this is where God is directing my focus at this time, and that my novel aspirations should simply be put to rest for the moment. There are very practical time-oriented reasons for this: my life is nuts right now; I don't have a schedule conducive to writing a novel-length manuscript. Short stories, however, seem to fit the bill. PLUS, writing short stories and 500-word limit non-fiction articles has been very instructive, because I tend to be a bit verbose and wordy, (did you notice?), and I've always had a hard time bringing a plot to an ENDING and finding solid resolutions to storylines. Writing short fiction has really helped me with this.

It's caused me to think a lot about the short story market. I remember my favorite two lit classes in college: American Short Story and Detective Fiction. I read some really great short fiction that year; most notably Flannery O'Connor and Ellery Queen. It was awesome to see how writers could pack such a punch into so few pages. I've been re-reading a lot of that stuff for my Fiction Workshop this semester; along with Joyce, G.K. Chesterton, H.P. Lovecraft, and will soon be moving on to J.D. Salinger, Philip Marlow, P.D. James, and others. I've also been interning for our graduate literary magazine, Harpur Palate, and reading some great shorrt fiction there, too.

I recently came across the article I posted in my blog by Stephen called What Ails The Short Story?, and it got me to thinking about how folks used to build a career on short stories alone, long before they ever wrote a novel; and not so much that they built a career $$-wise, but that writing a novel wasn't the only way to be considered a "made" fiction writer.

King's article made me think about a lot of things. He pointed out how hard it was to find short fiction digests these days; and he's right - I checked at my local Barnes & Noble, and they were nowhere to be found. I remember the days when AT least the genre-oriented fiction mags were easily availible, and that was just ten years ago...but they seem to have disappeared from magazine shelves as well.

One thing King mentioned in his article, (I have a point here somewhere, trust me), was how it seemed to him as he purused some of the best in short fiction that some of the wild "glee" of writing an awesome short story had gone away. He asserted that much of short fiction was "self-reffering", "showy" - ergo, writers wrote short stories to show off their stuff to potential agents and publishers; and newbie writers only read short story magazines to figure out what was publishable and what wasn't, rather for enjoyment.

This was very convicting to me. It made me really consider why I'm writing short stories, and I asked myself the question: "What happens if I never publish a novel? What happens if only ever publish short stories, and a novel is just not in the cards?"

Ever more slowly, the answer has been coming. You know what - I'm totally okay with it. As more story ideas crop up in my head, I think less and less about what exposure it will bring me, more and more about how much fun it will be to see the story unfold. For example: I'm almost DYING for the semester to end so I can focus on a great story I'd like to write called "Last Inning Before Nightfall" - about a boy, his father, a lost baseball field in a shadow dimension, and monster creeping in the shadows, and the only thing that can destroy it - the kid's Louisville Slugger, which has become symbolic of the bond between father and son (and of course, one of them is dead, the other dreaming or dying, and I can't tell you which!) Doesn't that sound like a fun read? Better yet - it sounds like a fun WRITE.

Oh, I was going to tell you about what I think Christian fiction needs more of. It's something that I'm worried we can't do anything about, but I wish we could, nonetheless.

We need to return prestige and honor to the short story.

See, I told you it was self-serving.

You know what would be great? More Christian literary journals like Relief Journal. A ton more Christian genre fiction digests like Dragons, Knights, & Angels, Ray Gun Revival, The Sword Review, Fear and Trembling.

It would also be awesome if Light At the Edge of the Darkness was a yearly anthology everyone could look forward to (I'm saying this, because I want to submit next year!). It would be great if the anthology publisher, The Writer's Cafe Press, did other genre anthologies as well.

What would be even better? It would be even better if the big names: Tyndale, Zondervan, Thomas Nelson, Bethany House - collected some of the best names in fiction, asked them for submissions, opened submissions to newbies, and produced a few anthologies of their own. How about a mystery/crime anthology featuring shorts by Eric Wilson, Randy Alcorn, John Laurence Robinson, Creston Mapes...and newbies? How about a chiller/suspense anthology featuring shorts from Kathryn Mackel, Brandilyn Collins, T.L. Hines, and some newbies? A Sci Fi, fantasy anthology with stuff from Bryan Davis, Wayne Baston Thomas, Sue Dent, R.K. Mortenson, Frank Creed, and newbies? A thriller anthology with Ted Dekker, Robert Liparulo, and so on, so forth.

That would be cool; also a great outlet. For example, of all the shorts I've had accepted for publication, only two of them have been at Christian publications, Infuze and Coach's Midnight Diner, the rest have been at secular publications, and right now, I've got eight short stories all submitted to secular publications. Now, I'm okay with that, because I'd like to be considered as just a "writer" and not a "Christian Writer" or someone who writes "Christian Fiction", but it would be nice to level the playing field. If I've got a mainstream horror, sci fi, detective fiction or literary piece I want to write, there are tons of markets. If I have something faith-based, the markets AND their audiences are narrowed drastically.

The problem, of course, is demand, and cost issues. The American public seems to be very dismissive of short fiction and anthologies in general. For the most part, if folks are going to crack their wallet, it's going to be for a best-selling commercial novel, or at least a novel, not an anthology of short stories. For most folks, anthologies are best bought at garage sales and second-hand bookstores.

That's a pity. I'm totally IN to Joe Hill's anthology, Twentieth Century Ghosts. Of course, he's Stephen King's son, but still, that doesn't take away from the power of these short stories.

I've rambled on too long; it's time for others to talk. If this isn't too long a blog, I'd love to have some comments. Can we bring the short story back, or is it like pressing our shoulders into an oncoming train?

See? Very self-serving blog, indeed.

Posted by kevinlucia at 11:33 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

Morning. Those of you up and at 'em already, I salute you. I've already downed my Monster for the morning, and I'm about to move on to my second.

Soo....the title of this morning's blog.

Yeah.

For some of us who write - I'm not going to say all, and try to avoid being presumptious - we are beset within by oddly contradicting desires. I know for me, it's a strange beast, one I've yet to figure out, and is a continual source of puzzlement for me. It makes me seem odd, immature, and somewhat needy, but I still haven't come to a place where I've decided if that's just the way it is and I need to accept it, or if I need to grow up and mature some more.

A large part of the problem is I'm far too needy; I'll admit that right now. I'm insecure about myself - despite being blessed with a wonderful wife, two great kids, a great job, and at least a modicum of writing ability.  I honestly think I still do what I do in a juvenile effort to shout to the heavens so someone will notice me...

"Lookit! Look what I did!"

Anyway, I'll segue away from that topic, because honestly, compared to a lot of people, I have it really good, and I don't want to be one of these...



So no, my self-concious self-obsession, (as one of my students so thoughtfully - and rightfully - tagged me with), is more than just a case of "daddy didn't hug me enough". Maybe it comes from the fact that for some reason, I feel like a large part of me got "stuck" back when I was one of these....



..and I never grew out if it. To this day, I look in the mirror, and don't like what I see very much. I define myself by my family, my wife and kids, my job, and my writing for value. At the age of 33, I'm still struggling to find myself, of all things, and to find some sort of intrinsic value in that.

A lot of my "self-concious self-obsession" also stems from being a writer, something I was going to touch on above before I went on this tangent. I'm  a weird guy - one moment gregarious, easy-going, affable - the next minute secluded, quiet - almost downright anti-social hermitish. I want to be with friends and family and my kids; I want to be alone in the quiet and read and write.

I want to hide in a dark corner and write and write; never willing to admit to folks that I'm  a writer; yet I want to show it off to the world, and want everyone to read my writing.

I'm self-concious about myself and my writing, and am afraid to show it to anyone; yet I want to climb to the top of a mountain and scream at the top of my lungs: "Read my stuff! It's good, doggone it!"

I want to to just hide out and not be noticed; yet I see friends and collegues and idols like Stephen King and wish I had folks clammoring to read my stuff.  I flirted with self-publishing because I was in a hurry and didn't care if I only had one reader; as long as it was one, and sometimes I feel as if I'm in a frenzy to market something that isn't there: myself, the writer. Sure, I've published a few shorts both in print and online, got the newspaper column, and won a few small awards. I'm simultaneously proud yet wary; want everyone to know about it but feel stupid talking about it, want to go hide and be silent for weeks at a time....but can't go a whole week without a blog.

What the heck is wrong with me?

At some point, things are going to break, in either direction. Either I'm going to someday step into the world, have a novel published, collect a modicum of fifteen-minute fame and feel satisfied, or I'm going to have to realize that perhaps this whole thing isn't for me, and simply give the gig up.

Sometimes, I wish I could give it all up. The writing. The late nights of grad school. The endless submission process, and the half-finished novels collecting dust in my office. Can't I just go quietly into the night, and be content?

It would be better, wouldn't it? Quieter? More Peaceful?

And yet, I feel as if I stop writing, an essential part of me will die, and I'll be even less than I am. I don't live to write or write to live, but believe me, my family is better off when I'm writing. It makes me a better person, gives me an outlet, a release that my meloncholic personality needs.

So I continue on. I write. I push back the darkness with my pen, quell thoughts of inadequecy, put one foot in front of the other.  I cram every free moment of my day with my family and beloved kids/wife, work my butt off at work and school, rise at three AM, and try to write something important, or at least fun.

As long as I write, I stay away from the dark pit inside, and that's good enough reason to keep going for now. Either God will someday close that dark pit inside without the pen, or I'll jam that pen so far down the dark pit's throat, it'll never threaten me evert again.

Now, more than ever - until next week - walk light.

Currently reading:

 

Posted by kevinlucia at 11:29 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

First of all, in honor of poor movie stars who can't catch a break, all beleagured by woes that mere working men like myself can never hope to understand, let me raise my Monster in salute to you...



First of all, an explanation on the title. I teach at a Catholic School, and as one of the few non-catholics there, a lot of things about the Catholic faith either amaze, confuse, or even stupefy me. For example, when I taught at St. John's, I could never figure out what path we were supposed to take to receive communion at mass (I abstained, but I was responsible for getting my rowdy 6th grade homeroom all in an orderly line). Anyway, they never seemed to pick the same line twice, so I was eternally confused about which way we should go.

That, and Catholics - no offense - sure stand up and down a lot. We Baptists prefer to lounge back in our pews more. Makes it easer to snooze...I mean mediate on the scriptures.

Now, nuns....holy cow. I've always been a little leery of nuns, especially not being raised catholic. As a kid, one of my catholic friends could've told me that nuns have super-secret, holy pyschic powers and could put the whammy on me if they wanted to, and I would've believed it.



You get the idea. Anyway, I gotta say, the other Christian denominations could use nuns, in my opinion. Although it can often be confusing remembering their names...there always seems to be multiple sets of Sr. Mary Francis, Delores, and Agnes...they are pretty good enforcers. My first two years teaching in the Catholic School system, I frantically tucked MY shirt in when they walked by.

Okay, now I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell for that one. Or maybe at least purgatory.

Here's a strange one - gotta feel for those poor Hollywood movie stars. I mean, really. No, I'm not talking about the strike, I'm actually being a little honest here. I read a recent news report - a dreadfully shocking one - about how Shia Labouf (Transformers) was recently arrested at a Chicago Walgreens.

Now the title makes me think: Oh, great - another actor I respect went nuts and beat someone with a tennis club. Actually, he just got upset and wouldn't leave.

That's it?

How many times have I done that? As savvy customers, haven't we always been told to "not give up until you've talked to the manager?" Maybe that's all Shia was doing; maybe he was cursing like a drunken sailor, (which he wasn't reported as doing; rather he was reported as being courteous and respectful to the authorities when they arrived), but still...you gotta raise an eyebrow at the article's statement that until now, he's avoided "the pitfalls of young Hollywood."

Getting mad at a department store and being asked to leave is a "pitfall of young Hollywood"?

So much for crack overdoses, promiscious sex, and property damage.

Anyway, Shia...here's a Monster toast to you, buddy. Next time Wal-Mart shortchanges me, I'm going "Shia" on their butts.



So here's another one, but I'm prejudiced because he's one of my favorite actors.



Keanu, Keanu...where for art thou, Keanu? Anyway, a photographer is suing Keanu for allegedly hitting him with Porsche.

Well, c'mon...if you're healthy enough to sue someone, it couldn't have been that bad.

Anyway, the "photographer" was apparently standing in the way of Keanu's car, and wouldn't let him out. Reeves' spokespeople said IF the car hit him, it wasn't all that hard.

I'm gonna be really cold hearted here. If you stand in front of a car and won't let them out of their parking space, because you want to snap photos and sell them for a king's ransom...well, gee...wear some football pads and stop being such a girl, dude - which is a slam to all the really TOUGH girls I know, especially the one in third grade who gave me a black eye.

Anyway.

Does that make it okay for Keanu to hit the gas pedal on another human being? (struggling for morally appropriate response as I wonder if papparazzi is a sub-species of human) No, I suppose not - but remember Princess Di's fateful run-in with the papparazzi? I'd rather have a slime-ball photographer on his butt than a person - even a Hollywood actor - dead in a mangled car.

Until next week, walk light, my friends.

Posted by kevinlucia at 09:36 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

First of all, let me say this: caffeine is my friend.

No, wait, let me rephrase...caffeine is the PRECIOUS; we love it, we love the PRECIOUSSSSS.....

So yes, LOTR fan, here.

Okay, this is going to be long - so brace yourself.

Actually, my life right now - as insane as it is - is a combination of factors that quite frankly, only God could've designed. I've always wanted to be a writer - since the 8th grade - and I've been writing since then. I completed the most horrible, absolute WORST manuscript at the age of 17, looked up the address in the back of a Pocket Book, randomly mailed it in, (without a SASE, of all things!), and expected to become a star.

Needless to say when it was never returned, and I learned about the whole SASE thing, I was a little miffed.

I then labored under the delusion that I was meant to be the next Issac Asimov, and spent my entire college career laboring away on a science fiction manuscript, this time producing a literary travesty to the tune of 178,000 words. I sent it to many places, narrowly avoided many scams, collected a healthy pile of rejection slips, and considered POD publishing, all in one year. I did sell a short story about the same time - for ten dollars, which I ecstatically used to buy gas and Taco Bell, (I was your typical starving artist/college student who ate Ramon Noodles 3 times a day), but I ignored what was clearly an open door - I was going to be a novelist, darnnit - I didn't have time for short stories and such. I had been writing book reviews for two or three really small, home-run rags at the time, and committed the same hubris, quitting both of those.

Ah, me. The folly of life.

Around 1998, I discovered Stephen King in all his glory, and though I still liked a good Star Wars or Star Trek novel now and then, I switched out of the sci fi genre wholesale, and into horror/dark fantasy/suspense - anything spooky. I have to say, writing and reading in both categories has been much more personally satisfying, for some reason.

So then, in 2000, I embarked on writing a manuscript that I would labor on for the next 6 years. I never finished, but would get half-way through, get busy, lose the "feel of it", and re-write it over and over again. I didn't write anything else, because of course - I was going to be a "novelist". I didn't have time to waste on other pursuits.

Then, came my first child. Love her more than anything else, but all the aimless puttering on my manuscript - which was going nowhere - took its first hit. Then, my wife and I concluded that it was time to get my Masters, so I could ascend the teaching ladder. Hence, the second hit my writing life took.

And still, I kept butting my head against the glass ceiling.

In the summer of 2006, Stephen King - there he is again - changed everything when I read his memoir "On Writing". If I were teaching a creative writing class, that wonderful tome would be required reading for everyone. Anyway, it changed the way I thought, completely. I had been so caught up with being a novelist and selling my novel, and of course because my life kept getting busier and busier I could never finish my novel, (and then of course - child number two was now on the way), so it was souring my whole outlook on writing. I started stepping back from the thing as I was reading "On Writing", and started telling myself - "Okay, what's the bottom line?"

I love writing. Any kind.

So what I started doing was slowly letting go of "the novel". Discarded any remaining POD plans, (nothing wrong with POD, it's just not for me), and started just writing for fun. Started thinking about the fact that because I'd been so obsessed with being a "novelist", I had no publication credits to my name, one of things "On Writing" highly recommended collecting. I looked up one of the small-run newspapers I wrote reviews for in college, The Baptist Voice, and they were thrilled to take me back.

Then I came across The Relief Journal's new genre anthology of short stories, and thought to myself - "What the heck?" I wrote my first batch of short stories ever and submitted them, all the while letting the novel slip away. During this time, I did received a synopsis/three chapter request from NavPress Publishing, but I looked at it as more of a technical exercise when I sent it in, and less my "big break".

I then started branching out with the reviews, sending them to TitleTrakk.com and Infuzemag.com; started getting a bit of exposure. Oddly enough, authors and publicity agents started contacting ME about reviewing their books, instead of me begging THEM if I could review their books.

Then came April, 2007 - the time of decision. It was time to stop flitting around non-matriculated grad school and lock into a program. Our second child was here, and novel dreams where dissipating...but something new was forming. All three of my stories at the anthology I'd submitted to had made it to the final round, I'd hatched a great idea to combine my grad study with writing: why not get an MA in English/Creative Writing, instead of just English? It would prepare not only to teach at the college level, but also would expose me to some great writing instructors, provide discipline, and my thesis: a publishable manuscript or manuscript length collection of short stories. The final kicker - months before, after spending about a year writing reviews pro bono, or for just review copies, I approached our local newspaper, The Press & Sun, about a column. I figured it would be great local exposure, my website in the byline every week, and I offered to do it free.

It all happened at once: my short story/almost novella "The Way Station" not only made it into the anthology, but was named Editor's Choice. I was accepted into BU's Creative Writing MA, not an easy feat. I was offered a PAID position to write column with The Press & Sun, and some of my flash fiction - which had been an experiment, really - was also accepted by an anthology.

Ironically enough, NavPress passed on my manuscript, in all the hullaboo. So, my direction seemed clear enough.

The real boon is the MA in Creative Writing. I'll only have 3-4 fiction workshops out of 10 classes, but to be able to get credit for writing fiction - not only that, but the aim of the classes is to create pieces that we WILL submit. For example, this semester's class is requiring me to write three short pieces and submit them, and draft a fourth. Next semester, if I take the Poetry workshop, I have to write 20 poems and submit all of them. I've also decided, once again - against my "novelist" dreams - to make my thesis project a collection of short stories, and not my now dusty novel.

Why?

Because being so obsessed with writing a novel had ruined my love for writing. No joke.

I get up a 4 AM because with two kids - aged 2 1/2 years and 8 months - that's really the only time it's quiet, when I can write and study. They go to bed early enough, and I sometimes do some writing then, but by the end of a long day teaching and grad school, my brain is burnt, and in no condition to write creatively.

The 4 AM blog? Well, I take my inspiration from author Brad Listi. Not only is he a great writer, (his novel A.D.D. was great - like a post-modern Gulliver's Travels), but he blogs RELENTLESSLY, and not to stump his book - but just because he obviously loves to write. People flock to his blogs, not because he's plugging his book - but because he loves to write AND communicate. I experimented with the 4 AM blog last Spring, to a resounding success - on Shoutlife, anyway. I had to close down all my sites for awhile, though, because it got too hectic. Now, I just do a 4 AM blog the same day my newspaper column's online version comes out. It's easier to maintain.

I'm no Brad Listi, though. But that's okay, 'cause I'm me...and that's enough.

Posted by kevinlucia at 10:37 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

Good morning. I have some final edits to my latest short story, and then I need to get started on my next short story - a stab at true, depressing, cynical literary fiction - so this will be short.

So, anyway....Dumbledore.

He's gay.

Wow.

For those who didn't know this, Rowling "outed" her wizard character a few weeks ago when approached by a fan at a conference, who asked her if Dumbledore is gay, and she replied yes.

Hmmm.

Now, there are two possible reasons for this revelation. 1: Rowling is trying to stir up a hubbub for her book to sell more copies; shame on her if so. 2. She honestly didn't know Dumbledore was going to be gay when she started writing, and it sort of developed as the series did.

Of course, homosexual coalitions everywhere are rejoicing this news, but unless Rowling is secretly planning on running for office somewhere, I don't think she did it to curry votes. Of course, maybe if she ran for president, a little "Stupify" magic on the media and Iraq might be called for.

SO, at the risk of sounding callous, can I be the first to say....

I don't care? About Dumbledore being gay, that is, not Iraq.



Apparently, no one else does either. I mean, unless I've missed most of the flap, I had figured this would cause a bit of a stir. Now, instead of people throwing their hands up and lamenting that the Potter  books are full of witchcraft, they'd say they were full of gay witchcraft.

Nary a word that I've heard, 'round these parts, anyway.

Is that good or bad?

I can say the knowlede doesn't affect my enjoyment of the book in the slightest. In fact, I feel a little cruelly cheated that I waited this long to read a Potter novel. Plus, as a creative writer myself, the idea that a character can grow and change and shape itself under a writer's hands into something completely unexpected is not out of the question. I've had it happen myself. I think it was Stephen King who once said writing for him was like digging something "out of the sand with a God Almighty steamshovel", and that you were eventually always surprised in the end by what you found.

In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that more surprised authors are by their final creations, the better the work.

That's just me.

So, that's it for the day, as I tip my hat at Dumbledore, saying, "Farewell, sir...we barely knew thee."

Now, we just eagerly await the outing of Britney Spears as a pouty, self-involved fallen superstar who severely needs a reality check....



...oh, wait. We already knew that.

Until next Tuesday, walk light.

Stephen King quote of the day: "People ask me how I can possibly write the things I do. I tell them I have the heart of a little boy. It's in a jar on my desk."

Posted by kevinlucia at 10:36 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

I've often thought I should be the spokesperson for Monster Energy Drink; if you tapped my veins, you'd probably draw more of that than blood. Still, I'm afraid my face on a Monster box would not engender a lot of sales.

This is not a 4 AM blog, that's Tuesday, and that's gonna be a good one - Dumbledore, we barely knew thee - but rather a publication update on my writing trail.

'Dem Nudie Books - rejected by Twilight Temptations after making it to the final round. Means it was good, but not good enough. Time to try again.
Darkness Road - sent to Otherworlds magazine.
Brianna May and the Wonderful, Horrible Water Sprite - sent to Abberrant Dreams magazine.
Choices - waiting final approval at Tyndale Publishing's Soul Food anthology
The Uproar & The Dancer - can you believe it....poetry! Sent to The Relief Journal and Infuze.
Death Takes Flight - still waiting at Twisted Ink, along with a re-print of Breathe & Making a Difference
Breathe - sent as a reprint to our new local literary magazine, The Broome Review

News:
Making A Difference will appear in Le Belles Lettres this month. Link to follow.
Breathe has been selected for the Wizard of Words' annual fiction anthology.

Just finished:

Water God of Clarke Street - an alternate-dimension version of Brianna May, hopped up on literary crack. A little more intense. Just need to brush up, don't know where I'm sending it as of yet.

Almost finished:

A Hideous Grace - an attempt at literary fiction, being submitted to the Intro Journals Project, a contest by the Association of Writers and Writing Programs, but if it gets dumped from that, it'll be re-tooled and sent to Glimmertrain first, and then The Relief Journal second.

Breathing Again - an expanded version of Breathe that when finished, will be sent to F Magazine.

On a final note, I shall partake in some shameless bragging. I sent a copy of Coach's Midnight Diner to good Internet friend - and hopefully someday fellow novelist - Robert Lipuralo, as a thank you for all the advice he's given me in the last year or so. He read my story, "The Way Station", which took home Editor's Choice honors, and really liked it. His final words to me?

"Seriously, you've got to get that novel published."

A buffer against the sting from ANY magazine rejection, I assure you. Time to polish off Water God of Clarke Street.

Oh, and by the way, I'm currently reading 20th Century Ghosts, a collection of Joe Hill's shorts. THIS is what horror is supposed to be - spooky stories that are actually ABOUT something, not blood, gore, and vampires doing unspeakables. The best thing to read for Halloween, and I'm going to go out on a limb...and say I'm liking it better than anything his dad, Stephen King, did with his shorts.

And that says a lot.

Peace.

Quote of the day:

"I'm the literary equivilant of a Big Mac and Fries" - Stephen King

Posted by kevinlucia at 10:34 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

Good morning. This marks the return of the 4 AM Blog, but it needs be short and sweet, because I have to get going on my short story due for class this week, and my reading for my other English class. WARNING - I'm not spell-checking this...too early!

Seems only appropriate with the campaign rush all around, that I spew a bit on politics. Now, my opinions are not worth much in general, so I'm afraid I don't have too much to say about the topic that will really make anyone smarter or more illuminated. Think the harsh jab by the jilted librarian in "Billy Madison"..



"At no point in your rambling discourse did you make any sense, and we are now all dumber for having listened to you. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul."

Keeping that firmly in mind, here we go. Recently, I was at my father's house, and inevitably, the conversation turned to a lengthy exposition on the evil democrats and their plot to overthrow the world and dominate the universe. As usual, my eyes glazed over, and I fought down the urge to proclaim as loudly as I could - "Well, I'M voting for Obama! Howdya like that?" (this is tantamount to blasphemy in my father's household)

In short, politics really twist my gut. I'm a registered Republican - which doesn't mean much - and so is my father. Despite having spent years of work unemployed, with little or no help from any government unemployment agency, (he's a holdover from the era when skill meant more than a degree), he still staunchly supports a party that - as far as I can see - is largely made up of rich, capitalistic well-to-do's with little interest in social reform (this is largely a generalization, I know) That, and talking to my dad can be like having a conversation with a jackhammer; maybe that's a large part of the problem.

Anyway, politics make me tired and grumpy. All Republicans were eager - downright obsessed with replacing Monika-loving Bill Clinton, but look what we got in return - King George himself.


 
Now, I'll be honest - I voted for George, my best defense is I had a fever that night, and was on a LOT of medicine.  I can give him props for sticking to his guns when everyone else has bagged it, (can we think Custer?), but there's been enough in the last four years for even a born and raised Conservative like myself to raise my eyebrow and mumble disbelievingly, "You're kidding me..."

Of course, our alternative is...



Egads.

I'm sure it's very apparent by now that my views on government and politics are very simplified, and hardly mature or logical in any sense. Anyway - the whole thing just bores me, anymore. I suppose I should stay involved, so that when  the next Hitler or the Antichrist comes along..



...I'll be sufficiently aware, so I can help prevent them from winning the presidency, but can I be nakedly honest and simply admit I really don't care? I'd rather be playing with my kids, spending time with my wife, mowing the lawn, grading a thousand student compositions on "Why My Dog Skippy Is The Best"...



...or have serious root canal work done, (at least then you get nitrous oxide. Can I get some of that for the primaries?) than really think about politics. I KNOW - there are the inevitable arguements that by being politcally active, I'll help make a better world for my family, lawn, students and their puppies Skippy everywhere, but still...it just gives me a big headache.

Anyway...time to commence a short story about a teenage girl who accidently summons a Sumarian water god. Now THAT's fun stuff, and there are no saxaphone playing politicians in sight.

As always, have a good, solid, caffeine-induced day.

Posted by kevinlucia at 10:33 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)