"...runnin' down a dream
That never would come to me
Workin' on a mystery, goin' wherever it leads
I'm runnin' down a dream..."

Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers

So.  Anyone familiar with this? The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award?  I became aware of this several years ago, ironically, when I was contacted by Amazon because they sought me as a judge for the contest based on my Amazon review profile (Pretty healthy back then, when I reviewed for Title Trakk and Infuze).  I declined - too busy with other things - and at the time I had no plans of entering it myself, because I'd yet to even finish my first short story, much less have a manuscript to enter.  In any case, here are the details:

- open to unpublished and previously self-published novels waiting to be discovered

- winner receives a publishing contract with Penguin, which includes a $15,000 advance

It's a unique contest, because all the others like it target specifically UNPUBLISHED writers only. So, if you've been published or paid for your work, you're not eligible to enter.  However, a lot like Leisure's "New Blood" contest, the Amazon contest is open to unpublished NOVELS, not just unpublished writers.

I missed Leisure's contest by a few months.  Just wasn't able to finish Jabberwocky in time.  However, the extra time made it all that much better, so when I finally submit/pitch it to Shroud, I think it'll be very well received. I've got several other projects brewing in my head, and suddenly the Amazon contest is much more doable than it ever was before.

See, finishing Hiram Grange & The Chosen One proved very important for many reasons, the simplest of them all being: I learned about closing story arcs, trimming, "killing your darlings" and the most important thing ever - how to write "The End" on something long and involved. Before Hiram Grange, novel ideas were nothing more than just ideas.  Now, however...they're planned novels.  Things I can see all the way to the end.  I have Jabberwocky to finish, then I have two other novels I'm GOING to write.  One of them I'm submitting to the Amazon contest.

Why? Well, I've come to a point in my life and "career" (such as it is) where I'm very thankful and content with what I've been allowed to achieve. AND, if I progress no further than where I am now, no higher "up the ladder", then I'll be happy to keep producing, happy to be on the field playing a game so many others never get a chance to even see, much less be a part of.

However, writing is hard (though damn fun and fulfilling). I get up at 3AM every day (have the past four years) just to do it. I've pushed myself through an MA that's seen me complete one thesis, and now - partially because circumstances have directed me there - I'm going to complete a poetry and another novel thesis.  I've sacrificed time, energy, desires, and quite honestly some friendships (excepting my wife and my best friend, Chris) along the way.  I'm verging on sacrificing my health, also.

A publishing contract with Penguin and a $15,000 advance?  Way I figure, I at least owe it to myself to try.  Now, I'm a realistic guy.  My chances are slim. BUT, I have a good story that's very "in" right now.  (And no. Not zombies, or zombie/smash ups). Also, if I finish a manuscript for a contest and it doesn't win, what am I left with? A finished manuscript that's also had some extra critique along the way.  How is that a bad thing?

Anyway.  A year from now will see Hiram Grange & The Chosen One published, as well as some other Hiram stories hopefully; my first novel for Shroud will be ready to hit the world, and hopefully a few more short stories here and there.  I've always been the type of guy who eventually wants to move onward and upward.  I figure, by then...why not? 

It'll be time. To run down my dreams.

Still, for me it represents something larger: I finished something relatively long (for me), something moderately complex, and...if nothing else....the plot is tight, the narrative flows, and it's a fun story. I also learned how a novella is NOT a novel OR a short story, and again...I have to keep coming back to it...I learned how to write THE END on something longer than 5,000 words.  For a guy who labored seven years re-writing the first half of a bad novel that will never be finished, that's huge.

I have fulfilled the goal I made for myself when I pitched my Hiram story to Tim Deal and he accepted it: TO NOT SUCK.

Seriously.  At that point, I'd only "sold" (and I use the term loosely, because they'd been accepted into anthologies) two stories.  This was WAY before I started writing reviews for Shroud.  I hadn't yet attended Borderlands.  I knew no one.  All I knew, is what appeared to be at the time (and has proven themselves true over and over again since) a reputable small press publisher wanted me to write something full length for them. 

My mission was simple:  DON'T SUCK.  That's all I had to do. DON'T SUCK, and if I worked REALLY hard, did everything that was asked of me, took direction and guidance, showed my "publisher" (that still makes me tingly) that I could meet and maybe even EXCEED deadlines...then I'd have my first solo work published.

Since accepting the Hiram gig, I saw three more shorts published in the semi-pro ranks, and two inspirational stories published that WOULD be considered pro rate by the HWA, (except, of course they were nonfiction slice of life stories about love and such).  My role with Shroud has grown into something I never would've imagined in the beginning. I've met a few people.  Learned a lot of good things.  Learned some sobering things.  And through it all, there Hiram has been, every step of the way.

This afternoon and tomorrow afternoon, I go over and "approve" the layout editing for HGCO and put on my last touches.  And, I can say this: I accomplished my mission.  Whatever folks think of the story - and hopefully, the scattered few of you that read this blog will snag it and dig it - I'm pretty sure I DIDN'T SUCK. Reasonably sure, anyway.  That, and things have progressed.  I'm hopefully heading into the home stretch of the first draft of my first novel, which Shroud has provisionally accepted for 2010/11 (providing that I can once again, NOT SUCK), I'm tinkering with a dark FANTASY novel of all things, and when Hiram finally clears the board, Shroud and I will starting putting together The Terror at Miskatonic Falls.

All because of a jaded, misogynistic, absinthe-swilling misanthrope who likes very strange women, is obsessed with Jodi Foster, and is also anyone's best survival option during a zombie uprising. I tip my hat to you, Hiram, and doubly to Tim Deal of Shroud for allowing me entrance into this wonderful little world, and for allowing me to hang around and play for awhile.

Now.  Off to the landfill.  Garbage and recycling to do.  

Still, it's a DANCE.   It's a PROM, and that's important, for the kids especially.  One private school I taught at held theirs too far in the other direction, made it a stuffy, starched-shirt affair that was basically a formal dinner and not recognizable as a prom at all.  I mean, really.  These are kids. They need to be kids.  Youth doesn't last long as it is, so they need to get out there on the dance floor, do the electric slide, the funky chicken, bop around to their music, maybe even dance the Macarena.  But, like I said, our dance is very classy.  It's one I'd be completely comfortable allowing my daughter to attend, even if my wife and I weren't chaperoning.

It's weird chaperoning, though.  One of my fellow English teachers - a bit younger than me - remarked that for the first time, she actually felt a little odd doing so.  For me, chaperoning the prom has become almost symbolic of the odd waters that teachers tread (especially young teachers) and for me, stands as probably one of the greatest contradictions of my chosen profession.

As a teacher, we assume a position of authority in the classroom, one which is shaky at best in the beginning, but over the years as the good and great teachers gain more experience and confidence, it grows and solidifies.  We're teachers.  The classroom is our domain.  We're the bosses, we have an agenda, information to impart. 

The problem is, it's too easy to forget when WE were students.  I find myself there all the time.  When we sit and grade those WONDERFUL state standardized essays, I often think, "Oh, how could John Doe have done this badly? We worked so hard on this; I worked so hard on this.  I'm so disappointed!"

Then, a heartbeat later, I realize:

Waitaminute.  When I was in high school, these things meant nothing to me.  I was more concerned with the game on Saturday, if my girlfriend would be there, college applications, and more seriously - my dad's impending layoff from an Engineering job that had never required him to have a Masters Degree but was now firing him because he didn't have one, and my first "novel" that I was writing in a spiral Mead notebook at home.  These tests weren't even a blip on my radar.  At all.

And thus, what it means to be a teacher, and the awful trick time plays on us.  Another one of time's pranks is even crueler: assuming our teachers in high school were perfect, never lost their temper, classroom control, or an essay.  That's another blog for another time, though.

So.  Chaperoning the prom is fun, but weirdly nostalgic in a slightly disconcerting, melancholic and revealing way, because it's irrefutable proof that high school students live in a world we don't belong in.  And, if most teachers were honest with themselves, they'd admit to a certain longing - couched by the realities of life - for that world. 

I mean, we dance on the shore every day.  Teens and their daily lives are the sea, we're hanging out on the shore, shouting to them from a distance about life and learning and such...but we can't dive in and swim with them, really.  We can watch from the shore, collect sea shells as mementos of their passing...but that's it. 

It's more than longing for our youth, though.  We spend every day with these kids, get caught up in their drama and hopes and dreams and triumphs and failures, get attached to them...but we can't exist in their world.  Not really. It's the nature of the beast.  Here are two parallel worlds, that of teacher and student, and never shall the twain meet.

Of course, the weird thing is: that's why most of us become teachers.  I love reading and writing, but I didn't enter the teaching arena with vast goals of revolutionizing the instruction of writing or making all kids devoted readers.  It is, as always, about the kids, being near their world, even if near is all I can ever be. 

It's heartbreaking, sometimes. It really is.  I'd never trade my wife and family and current life for a shot to do it over, but still.

It's the prom.  If that insecure teenager we used to be - so eager and scared and determined and shy but full of promise and potential - still exists inside of us, even a little bit...you have to respond, in some way. You just do.  

It's the nature of the beast.  It's teaching.  Not to get melodramatic, but when I think of teaching and what it means to me, I often think of the lyrics to a recent Green Day song:

I walk a lonely road
The only one that I have ever known
Don't know where it goes
But it's home to me and I walk alone...

Anyway.  Enough waxing nostalgic.  Give me a rousing game of Candyland with the kids, and I'll be fine.

Really.

Some days I want to quit writing for good.

Today is one of those days.

I know folks will probably comment with the usual "Aw, buck up, it's a long road everyone's got to walk" encouragement, and if they do, that's fine.  The thing is, I'm a verbal person.  When I'm feeling low, I need to get it out of my system.  I have to whine.  I have to moan "epic fail", or else it just gets stuck in my system and festers.

So.  Here I am about to whine and moan, "EPIC FAIL!"

It's probably just the day.  I should know better by now.  I never get any writing done on days off and vacations anymore - ironically - simply because it disturbs my schedule.  When I work five days a week, I actually get more writing done, because I get into a groove: 

1. Get up at 3:00 AM.

2. Devotions and quiet time until 3:15

3. Breakfast and morning read (Usually Bradbury or Gaiman or Koontz or lately Lebbon, to fill me up with the right stuff) until 3:45

4. 3:45 - 6:00 write

5. 6:00 shower and off to work

Summertime's not a problem, because with two and half months off I can reset to a different schedule.  It's just these random days off and Christmas breaks that throw me into a loop, which is kinda depressing.  I've discovered the benefits of a daily schedule, but in my old age have become obsessive-compulsive, and now one little deviation from the thing and I can't write.

At all.

Which sucks.

Of course, I have two children five and under.   Both special needs (which I don't talk about much.  There.  I talked about it.).  Maybe things will be different when they're older.

Maybe.

Again, it's probably just a sucky day.  I got a ticket. Basically because a county sheriff was bored and wanted to raise cash for the county.  Our son didn't nap, which means no nap for us, which shoots down ANY chance of writing.

So. Probably just the day.

But there are other things swirling, also.  One is the increasing doubt that I really have what it takes to be a writer, but worse...what if I have enough only to reach a certain point...one that I'm not happy with? I can keep working.  Keep pushing.  Keep trying.  Jack Ketchum said on a panel at Necon this past summer that if "you're good enough and hang around long enough, someone will find you."  I've heard dozens of other authors say similar things.

Maybe I just don't have what it takes to hang around long enough.  Or, even worse (and this doesn't say very good things about me) maybe I don't have what it takes to be happy with whatever I achieve.

See, at a certain point...all the hard work and waiting in the world just doesn't make a difference.  You are what you are.  Mature people come to grips with that.  I'm not sure if I can.  

So maybe I should quit.

This is all a part of life.  As an elementary kid, I dreamed of being an NBA star.  By the time I reached junior high, I knew that wouldn't happen, but still dreamed of playing Division I hoops (for Syracuse, of course).  By senior year, I faced the facts:  too short to play forward, too slow to play guard, so I realized that competing at the Division III level or for a community college would have to do.  Because I was able to do this, I enjoyed four years of college basketball, when lots of other folks gave up along the way.

There are writers I aspire to be like, whom I adore.  Too many to name.  There are others who are a few years ahead of me, just around the corner in their journey, and I hope to someday be where they are.

But they're moving farther away.  Doing bigger things.  And I'm....

Not sure what I'm doing. No short stories of consequence landed in over a year.  All these writers talk about their mentors. I know writers I'd love to call mentors, but I don't dare because we've spoken only once or twice.  I want to spend more time reading and writing poetry, but I have no idea if my poetry is even any good. We're hurting financially - badly - because I blew so much money attending all these conferences...and I'm still trying to decide how worthwhile they were.

Now, again - this is "whine epic fail day".  I'm whining. I know.  The release of my Hiram Grange title is coming, and hopefully a few folks will notice that.  I learned that a short story of mine did get shortlisted in an anthology, and it's likely that I sold another "slice of life" essay.  My thesis adviser loved my thesis, and thought it's chances at being a great novel where better than average.  I've accomplished more than I ever thought I would, and still...

Well, confession time.  Part of me isn't happy.  Why?  Because I suspect that just like that junior high basketball player I was, I'm gonna have to face the fact that I'll never go as far or last as long as those whom I love to read.

I'm working hard on being content with that.  I love Shroud and Tim Deal. I couldn't be happier with the relationship that's developing between us.  There are other relationships that are waiting in the wings.  I just have to be content with that, and let the future hold what it does.

I enjoyed a fulfilling college basketball career because I accepted that I wasn't the next Larry Bird.  If I can do the same thing with writing (which I think I will, eventually) and accept that I'm not the next "whomever", I'll enjoy wherever my writing career takes me.

It's just not a fun thing to do.

At all. 

So anyway.  I trolled a little.  This morning, I just happened to Google "Leisure authors", because after reading a streak of Sarah Pinborough, Simon Clark, Tim Lebbon (I ordered three of his novels for Christmas) and now Graham Masterton, I realized something.  I love British writers.  So, I wanted to know if Leisure had any other Brits stepping up to bat in their lineup. I squealed when I saw Ramsey Campbell had a Leisure novel forthcoming.

It's crazy, but I think actually like British writers better than a lot of American writers.  Not all American writers.  I still love the King, despite his critics I remain loyal to Koontz, and I crave Peter Straub.  I'm also waiting with bated breath for Brian Keene's next two novels, "Darkness at the Edge of Town" and "A Gathering of Crows". Gary Braunbeck is always a winner, as is Rob Dunbar.  Nate Kenyon is simply one of the best "traditional novelists" I've read in a long time..if that makes any sense, and nobody invokes mood better than Mary SanGiovanni.  Bryan Smith's latest was the perfect mix of insane plotting and very realistic, flawed characters.  I anticipate very great things from Kelli Dunlap, Maurice Broaddus and Alethea Kontis, also. (I'd call Rio Youers an American writer I love, but he's sorta from a lot of places. Regardless, he writes fantastic stuff). T. L. Hines is like a younger Koontz, and I love the trail Tosca Lee is blazing. There are plenty other Americans I still like, so I haven't gone completely turncoat.

But man.  Those Brits.  William Hussey and Joe D'lacey of Bloody Books - fantastic stuff.  I'm hungry for more.  At first I wasn't sure why; I just cited something vague like "more lyricism", until I decided to compare the last two books I read, one by an American and the other by a British author.  I know some folks say you "can't dissect books to find out what makes them tick, it ruins the creativity...blah blah."  I agree you can't do that too much with your own writing, especially DURING the process, but if at some point you don't become interested in WHY you like the books you do and don't try to figure out why...shame on you.

I'll step down from my pedestal, now.

 Anyway, at the same time I've been doing this, I ran across a posting at a "shall remain unnamed forum" (and no, it wasn't Shocklines) about upcoming Leisure authors...this is how I found out about Ramsey Campbell's upcoming novel.  It was batting about Campbell's work and others like him - ironically comparing his work to Straub, an American - and several of them admitted, even those who liked his work, that they couldn't get into his work - or Straub's - because both authors "put too much everyday, real life stuff in there."

Really?

Pardon the forthcoming snark, but to me that translated as: "Sorry, wez can't handles theze novelz becauze theyz talky-talky too much with the big wordz about boring thingz that hurtz our brainz."

Okay.  To be fair.  I've read more than my share of novels that DO drag a bit too much.  But I've come to the realization that the novels I love the most very often tend to be the novels most people set down and say, "Sorry.  Just wasn't exciting enough.  Big paragraphs, and all." (I apologize.  I'm in quite a mood this morning).  This is important, because when it comes to the novel form, anyway...this seems to be the direction I'm headed.  Not so much with the big paragraphs, but with that awful, nasty intrusion of pedestrian, boring real life into my little plot structure.

As a book reviewer, I understand how much preference and taste plays into things.  I'm not so much criticizing the American reader (Well, maybe I am, a little) as I am realizing what I like to write, and wondering about the ramifications.

Conclusion: I guess, in the end...I don't really care.  I'll write what I like.  We'll see if anyone else likes it, too.

Anyway, back to the British VS. American writers.  Not a fair comparison, because both King, Koontz, (Although he's gotten a bit 'out there' lately), and Straub do this as well...and so do the American writers I've mentioned above, as well as many others...but in comparison I've found this:  the American novels I read and found lukewarm were all plot-driven.  In other words, everything in the novel served to advance the plot, for the most part.  That's all. 

The majority of the writers above that I love - both British and American and well traveled - are CHARACTER DRIVEN.  They still plot, and plot well. But they used lots of extra words (Maybe not big.  That was probably an unnecessary slam. Probably.) to build their characters up and make their "boring real life" backgrounds seem, well...real.  Thus, creating empathy.  Thus, engaging me, the reader, and making me buy into their characters' plight, and um...CARE about them and their story.

Also, I'm sure plenty of British writers also write plot-driven stories with shallow characters. It's just the ones I've read haven't, so far.  AND, this is my PERSONAL opinion that's very reflective of my tastes and my writing, and hey...my blog, so I'll say what I want, right? 

Okay.  Seems like I've run out of snark-steam.  Anyway, bring on the books with boring background life details that actually makes me care about the characters and their stories.  I'll read them, even if no one else will.

Oh, and death to Kindle.  Word.  Books forever.

Okay.  I snarked off, so I deserve all the return snark folks can muster...

I've noticed that the really great writers are able to differentiate between their characters' voices and their narrative voice. The two most notable in this are Peter Straub and Ray Bradbury, so far.  Straub has his wonderful, meaty and literary prose; Bradbury's is lyrical, musical, flowing...but both writers are able to seamlessly jump into pitch-perfect, spot on dialogue for any character they choose.  They could both be writing about swearing, drunken sailors from...say...Louisiana (not sure how many drunken sailors hail from there)...and while their narrative voice will be ALL them - either very literary or lyrical - their dialogue jumps right into the attitudes, mannerisms, and speech patterns of drunken sailors, perfectly.

2. Some others take their POV - Narrative and dialogue - and plunge STRAIGHT into the character's head COMPLETELY.  Actually, the only one who's ever done this that I've really liked is the man: Stephen King. Other people try to copy it, but I think only he does it the way it can be done.  With the first example, it's like we've got a wonderful, powerful observer telling us the story and giving us a sense of place and experience, but with Stephen King WE'RE the drunken sailors, (c'mon, you've always wanted to be one), all the way.

 Hmm.  Just realized how that sounds...

Happy Halloween, everyone.  What costumes shall you be donning tonight? My daughter is very much still in her "Disney Princess" phase.  She had the choice of them all and chose Cinderella,  however, based on her fascination with Hallmark's "Halloween On Ice", I'm guessing next year's choice might have a little more teeth.

Speaking of teeth, Zack is - in true form - going as the "king of the jungle" tonight, as a big ole lion...

Although I have to admit, I liked last year's "Bam-Bam" costume a lot better.

Me? Sadly, no costume this year.  Took me too long to figure out how to manage it.  HOWEVER...I'll be collecting parts to my costume all through the off-season, and will be ready for next year.  In fact...I may just suit up for Horrorfind 2010's costume contest.  I mean, I'm no Mike Lombardo....

Sooo. 

Hmm. 

Awkward. 

Not to belabor the point, but over the past few years as I considered where I was going to land most of my writing - the secular/mainstream market (as mainstream as horror/dark fiction can be, that is) or the Christian/ Inspirational market, this, of course, was only one of MANY things I had to kick around in my head.  How was I going to write about humans, portray human nature in all of its beauty and ugliness, show all the grandeur and warts, if I always felt the pressure there were certain things "I couldn't write about", and that unless I wrote "this", "this", and left out "that" and "THOSE THINGS",  I wouldn't get published? 

For me PERSONALLY, (emphasis on the last), this runs contrary to everything I believe is fine and good and true about creative writing. Furthermore, as the last few years passed, I more and more considered myself - yes, I know, chuckle along with me - an "artist" rather than just a "writer".  If I believe I'm called as an artist to portray and comment upon the human experience in its entirety, then the more I labeled "off limits", the more I limited myself as an artist, and would limit the effectiveness of my expression to others.

Okay.  Great.  Fine.  NOW...how does that work?

Well, it's involved some good old fashioned experimentation.  Playing around.  What type of stories do I want to tell, how do I want to tell them? I've written a few different kinds of stories the last few years, and here's the thing: the minor reviews I've gotten and the comments people have given me have all reflected the same thing: it didn't matter if the story had lots of violence and blood, lots of swearing or no swearing, whether it was a thoughtful, atmospheric story or even slightly gross, drug use or lack thereof, chaste or with sexual innuendo...people still got what I was all about: choice, destiny, hope, love, Providence, redemption, internal conflict, doing the horrible and RIGHT thing, two steps forward ten back...and hope. Love.

It didn't matter the vehicle I chose. People GOT IT.  People got me and my values, without me ever having to state them all that overtly or explicitly, and THAT, to me: is art.  That's what I'm about, not what my work screams in your face...

..but what it whispers in your ear, long after you're done reading.  I was paid the highest compliment ever at Context 22, by my publisher when we were discovering how well the different voices of Hiram Grange are meshing, how they were all distinctive, yet coherent.  His comment to me, without any spoilers: "You managed to catch Hiram, in all his baggage: drug use, sex addictions, self-loathing and self-love, arrogance and disbelief...but you did it elegantly."

I swear, no matter what happens in the future, that'll be my all time favorite compliment for a long while.

Of course, I wasn't expecting to cross the "sex scene" bridge so soon. Innuendo, sure.  But sex? 

Whoa.

I was retooling my MA thesis in my head. Moving characters around into different spots, and enlarging some roles, until I suddenly realized...I need to write a sex scene.  Maybe more than one.

Uh.

Oh.

It's just what the story requires to make sense.  That's all.  So how am I going to approach it?

Like everything else.  Like I approached Hiram. With a sense of style.  Elegance.  Respect, for both the act itself AND the reader.  But most of all...

Truth.

And I'm okay with that.  Because people will still get what I'm about.  In teaching, I often use the phrase: "style is the verbal identity of the writer" (really, I ripped this off my principal, who teaches 12th AP English). Anyway, it means that no matter what I write: a scene of devotional prayer in a church, Holy Communion, or sex between two characters, I'll write it in a unique way that people will recognize as "Kevin Lucia", with MY VOICE, and they'll still get what I'm about.

Okay.

Great.

So, why do I still feel like it's the night before my first high school dance...

As I've mentioned on several of my Facebook posts, I'm working on my MA thesis for Creative Writing - a novel, a Lovecraftian novel, of all things, and the novel pitch that I've been crafting for another publisher has strong Lovecraftian overtones as well, though that's going to be more of an ubran fantasy novel than anything else.  Regardless, I've been dipping deep into the world of Lovecraft, read a lot of his work, even done some research.  Not enough to be considered a Lovecraft scholar, but enough to be a bit worried - even a little daunted - at the prospect of invoking his name.

I love his mythos, both his and Derleth's.  I also love the concept - that all stories, myths, folk tales, and legends are connected by a common underpinning (as an English teacher, this speaks to me in volumes).  I'm less enthusiastic about his nihilistic, often inevitable "descent into madness because I can't comprehend the cosmic horror of it all", but I do - paradoxically enough - like the idea that there ARE things out there so alien and different we can never hope to understand them.  Kind of flies in the face of our "information glutted world". 

I'm nervous with what to do with Lovecraft, though.  I've read a lot of his and Derleth's original work, read the pastiches, the homages, and also even realized how much modern authors - Brian Keene, for one - has re-invoked Lovecraft in such new ways.   I feel that is the best place for Lovecraft today, but with a contemporary voice.

In part of my "research", I've been seeking out modern visions of Lovecraft.  Of course, I had to get "Lovecraft Unbound", edited by Ellen Datlow. It's been an awesome read, (review forthcoming), but probably the best guide I've come across so far was found in the author afterward of Laird Barron, after his story "Catch Hell":

"Lovecraft's visionary narratives interest me more as a doorway to exploring other modes of the weird and fantastic.." and, with my extension of his thought, the unexplainable? Inexplicable? Unknowable?

This is what I hope for in my MA thesis, (which I believe, if I don't screw it up too badly, will be picked up by the small press, so hopefully you'll be able to read it someday), that I invoke Lovecraft's cosmic horror, his creeping dread of incomprehensible things, but root it in very HUMAN terms: the loss of a child.  Actual, diagnosed mental illness.  On a greater scale: why must people die? Why must we - as humans - hurt? If I can channel Lovecraft and his mythos to tell THAT kind of story, then I think I might have something unique, maybe even special.

Or, if not, maybe I can at least produce a chilling pastiche that will be decently well-written and fun to read.  Either way, I'll be satisfied.  Hopefully, you'll get the chance to read it in the near future.

Well.  Home sick.  Just like the good old days when I missed school as a kid, except instead of lounging on the couch in front of an old vaporizer that may or may not set the house on fire, nose slathered in Vicks vapor rub and sucking down gallons of 7 Up and Ginger Ale while I watched PBS, (that was the only channel with anything remotely fun on it during the day, out where I lived), I'm home chasing around two sick kids, keeping a balanced spreadsheet of which medicines I've administered to whom and when, as well as taking temperatures, (not mine), and covering bathroom duty.

Hm.  At least there's still Vicks vapor rub.

Anyway, it'll give me a chance to rhapsodize on my favorite time of year, both because of the season itself, and the holiday. First of all, I love fall.  Sure, one day may be nice, the other chilly, but I love the leaves as they turn, and honestly, Bradbury wasn't using empty imagery in describing fall.  It does smell different: all crisp apple cider, dried out leaves and pumpkin spice air.

And of course...there's Halloween.  Costumes.  Candy.  Trick or treating, and general spookiness. Some of my fondest memories revolve around Halloween, and I love that Madison - my oldest - is getting into it, also. We've even got a cool "Halloween count-down" calender, like the Christmas ones:

The pumpkins have been cut and lit, and two fresh ones will be cut for Halloween night:

 (Yeah, I know.  They aren't that scary. We're saving those for Halloween night).

And every single day, Madi asks if it's time to go "Trick or treating".  Plus, I love Halloween movies.  Not so much the blood and guts ones - like "Saw" or "Hostel" - they're not my taste, (though I make obvious exceptions for any zombie movie, Halloween, Friday the 13th and Nightmare on Elm Street)...but I'm totally into the haunted houses, ghost stories, supernatural shenanigans, all that stuff.  I read "Something Wicked This Way Comes" with my 9th graders ever year, ending right around Halloween...and, well...

Man.  It's just Halloween. It rocks.

Now.  I'm NOT going on a screed here.  It's just not me, plus this blog isn't really about ranting (because again, I'm just not a "rantful" type of guy), but I am ME, which I've become more and more comfortable with over the last few years, and as the years pass, I care less and less for what folks may think of me.  I try to be considerate of others' feelings - to a point - but, this is ME. You like it, cool.  You don't, cool.  Just don't try to change me.  Ain't gonna happen.

That being said.

I'm very thankful my wife is into the whole Halloween thing. She decorates the house more than I do, honestly. And, after almost making a huge mistake and marrying the WRONG person, (that's another blog for another time), when I met Abby I already knew what I wanted and DIDN'T want in a wife. I did want a woman who shared the same values and faith as me.

I didn't want someone, however, who was fearful.  Afraid.  Concerned that everything "fun" without clear "spiritual" explanations or definitions in the Bible must be eliminated, because they weren't "Godly".  Because of my near-marital fiasco, I may've had a marriage-checklist, per se...but I didn't want to marry someone whose approach to faith was checklist oriented, also.

I first met folks in my brief Bible-college stint who didn't celebrate Halloween.  Because it was evil. Remnant of pagan festivals and rituals.  Plus, you know.  All those spooky, gory masks and whatnot.  That and too much chocolate. 

Okay. Won't argue the pagan thing.  You research it, you'll certainly find it.  But Christmas? Pretty sure Jesus wasn't born on December 25th.  And the whole "bring a tree into your house and put lights on it, hang wreathes on your door" thing? Pretty druiditic. (Yes, I made that word up. I'm a writer. I'm allowed to). So why is Christmas okay but not Halloween?

I remember in high school, my church had their own version of a Halloween party - pretty much all the same, except everyone had to dress up as a Bible character.  All things considered, that was okay.  I mean, rocking with the Apostle Paul and Samson? I dig it. Plus, they never made a huge deal out of it, if I remember right. No calling Halloween that "devil evil's day" or anything.  Just offered their gig as an option.  I think I went as Matthew one year.  Maybe John. Can't remember.

Our current church does something called "Trunk or Treat", which I think is actually pretty cool.  Everyone in the church...and I think the community is invited, also...pulls their cars into the parking lot, sets up little mini-stations at their trunks and distributes candy.  That's pretty cool.  No restrictions on costumes, come as you are - zombie or Jesus.  (or Zombie Jesus, which would be really cool).  Its focus is mainly safety for young ones, and that, as a parent, I can totally dig. 

This year, however...we're heading out to the streets. Trick or Treating the old fashioned way, and as soon as I can figure out how to duplicate one of my favorite bad guys of all time:

 I'm dressing up with everyone else.

So.  I guess that's it. A slice of me.  Man of faith. Faithful Halloweener.  Go figure.

Happy Halloween.  God bless.

Recently I've had the chance to reminisce over old stories, works I wrote almost two, maybe even three years ago.  As any writer can attest, even months-old writing looks putrid and flat on the page.  Now imagine coming back to a work that's several years old.  All your old ticks, flaws, and tendencies are there, full-fledged, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Conversely, when I read decades old work, I'm actually surprised that even back then, I verged on my current style. For example, my word economy in exposition was atrocious, so was my POV (point of view) and I was WAY in love with adverbs and dialogue tags, but the dialogue itself was pretty good for how young I was.

The other day I received edits back for a short story I placed in an anthology awhile ago.  At this point, that's something I'm used to; in fact, it's become a mark of a quality publication.  However, the story's place in my "lexicon", if you will, is crucial - it's pre-Borderlands Writers BootCamp, (those of you who've been or heard know what I mean by that), but not only that - very early in my MA, and pre-Hiram Grange, which was like a year of workshop rolled into one work.  

I opened the document, and I'd like to say I was shocked by all my mistakes, but that would be putting it mildly.  What I did was slam the laptop shut and run screaming for my literary mommy. (Not sure who that would be.  Maybe Rob Dunbar or Kelli Dunlap would qualify). I'm immensely grateful said editor was willing to take it in the first place. 

Now obviously, I'm going to print it out and do the edits.  I'm a writer.  I want to be published.  I like cash, too.  Also, I figure it will be good for me.  I've become happy with the state of my craft, but I believe I should never be content.  Going over this early story will help with that.

On the other hand, there are old stories that are fun to read, and even though the glaring mistakes still jump out, we like the story so much we can't wait to get a chance to edit in all we've learned since writing it.  A few weeks ago I had the chance to read my very first published/paid-for work ever, a novelette entitled "The Way Station", which bagged Editor's Choice Honors for the first edition of Coach's Midnight Diner. 

It's about two years old, and the word economy is not so great, there's POV issues, and too many dialogue tags.  People, however, still really like it.  So do I; I just want to give it a good brushing up, chop out maybe 2,000 - 3,000 words.   Still, it has what I believe is a defining element in my work: a moral core.  Not a religious one, mind you, but a thoughtful comment on the human existence/experience/condition. 

For me, that's what makes a story worth writing and reading, genre irregardless - be it cyberpunk, horror, fantasy, or something as out of the box as Hiram Grange - a comment on the human experience.  I don't have any pretensions of being literary myself, but over the course of my teaching career, many students have asked, "What makes a work literary"? 

"A lot of things," I always reply, "but in the end the most important aspect: that it makes a significant, insightful comment on the human condition, one lots of folks can relate to."

Using my definition, a lot more works can be considered literary, I suppose.  There are other things to consider, too...things like artful craft, a definitive voice and complexity of plot and structure, cultural significance...but that's why most of us take the time to read, right?  Because we find resonance in those stories, because they say something about this terrible/awful/wonderful/confusing/beautiful thing called humanity. 

As long as I can write things like that, in a way that satisfies me artistically, touches people, and garners respect in the industry...then I'll feel like I've actually done something, here.

I may be near the end of my book reviewing rope. 

Seriously.

Not quite yet, but soon. I'd say I've got a year or two left, and then depending on where my writing career is headed, I may say buh-bye to the whole reviewing gig.  In fact, if I hadn't found a home writing reviews for Shroud Magazine, I probably would've tossed it already.

Why?

I'm pretty tired.  That's a lot of forced, read-by-deadline reading, and I've been doing it now for about four years, come this Spring.  Started at a little community newspaper here in the area, then graduated to Title Trakk.com and the now defunct Infuze.com. That lasted for about two years.  Then, I landed the job at our city newspaper, The Press & Sun Bulletin - ushered into the world of freelance pay for the very first time.

I enjoyed that gig.  As awesome as the Title Trakk folks were, (gotta love the Darlingtons), reading and reviewing for the Press allowed me more control over the things I read.  Then, of course, in the midst of a growing relationship with Shroud, I eventually left the Press to review exclusively for Shroud, and that's been the best gig so far - reviewing entirely within the genre I love and write. AND, me not reviewing anymore would have nothing to do with Shroud.  I just don't know how much "reviewing" gas I have left.

For one, I'm busier with fiction, and that's a good thing.  I've always had this latent, hidden fear that I'd only ever been known for reviews, and that's it.  For another...honestly......

I sometimes wonder what more there is to say.

I'm not a slammer of books.  Quite frankly, if I read a book and it's bad...I won't finish it or review it. There's no point.  If I rip the book, it makes me look like a jerk, it doesn't help the author, and - most importantly - it doesn't help readers, telling them about bad books they shouldn't read.  Of course, I don't want to be "glad-handing" books all the time, because that lacks credibility.

So.  Sometimes I feel pumped to write a review.  The book was fantastic, and because it was full of substance and style, I have lots to say.  The review is literally written in my head, and it takes minutes to write. Sometimes, though...the book wasn't noticeably bad, written well enough...but I just have no idea what to say about it that I haven't already said hundreds of times before.

Reviewing burnout?  Maybe.  Plus, I've definitely gotten to the place where I feel my reading should serve two purposes and two purposes only:

1. My stinkin', ever-lovin' pleasure

2. to enhance my own writing

Luckily, I receive plenty of good books from great publishers and authors - both small and large press - so #1 still gets served pretty well.  But even then, I feel that for me to last for even two more years, I'm going to need to scale back my schedule, because the things I want to read for #2....

- Hemingway

- Bradbury

- Faulkner

- O'Connor

- Yeats, Keats, and many others

- Shakespeare 

- Gaiman  (not his current stuff)

- classic Keene, King, Braunbeck, and Koontz

- and ANYTHING that Brian Keene mentions in his new Shroud column, Seminal Screams

...well, these things aren't the sort of things you can review.  Plus, this stuff needs to be slowly chewed and DIGESTED, man....not ripped through for a column.

So.  The time is coming when I'll stop reviewing.  I still say within two years, because I love working for Tim Deal, I love Shroud, and dammit - I love seeing my name on that cover. And, here's the thing - Tim is so awesome to work for, I could drop down to one review an issue, and he'd still run it.  So who knows.  Maybe five years from now, I'll still be reviewing for Shroud (which would be awesome, really).  I'll just have to say "No." to a lot more people in regards to reviewing books.

Hmmm.  No.  It's a pretty powerful word.

Anyway.  Reviews aren't going anywhere for now. 

Oh. By the way.

I met Brian Keene at Horrorfind.  I was going to do a special entry about this by itself, but I decided not to.  Didn't want to descend into fan-boyish gibbering.  I will say this bit:

It was awesome.  He's such a great guy, and here's the thing: he cares about new writers. Really.  Listening to him talk about the HWA (Horror Writers Association) and his theories about what he'd do if he were HWA president, (which were genius, BTW....just pure common sense), and listening him talk about the industry in general was inspiring.  And, I'm not wallowing in star worship, here.  Brian was helpful.  His talk was informative. And, as Kelli Dunlap kept trying to remind me, behind it all...he's just Brian.

It was very cool. AND, he seemed to already know me (which is no big deal; we both write for Shroud now) but was very humbling, also.  I'm hoping the next time we run into each other, I'll be relaxed enough to just say, "Hey, Brian..." and ask him how things are going.

Still.  Allow me to wax poetic about the moment, if you will.  In his blog memoirs, (which you all should really try to find and read), he called a segment of his creative personality the "Magus" - his muse, if you will.  There was a moment, Friday night at Horrorfind, when I found myself in the presence of the Magus. 

Several of us were smoking cigars, so a glimmering, moonlit mist had settled around us (ergo, cigar smoke).  It was midnight, and we were hanging out in the parking lot (while Mike Lombardo and I choked down the worst cough-syrup drinks ever).  Brian talked about the industry, about its ups and downs, and US - the new generation of writers.  It was a bit surreal, but I wasn't swooning.  I just listened, soaked it all up...and came away better for it.

And that's all.

Very, very cool.

Anyway, when I return to Horrorfind next year I WON’T book a table, so I’ll be freer on Saturday to hang out with them, because I’ll certainly crash at their place again (they live only an hour south, in Frederick).  To commemorate out experience, Olivia purchased a ‘Twilight’ Christmas ornament from one of the vendors, with the resolution that for every following Horrorfind, she will add to her collection.  It was very cool to open that part of myself to my non-writing, non-horror friends and to have them enjoy it as much as they did.

Two final things that made the weekend the awesomness that it was.  First was Kelli Dunlap’s quip Saturday night ; “Look at you, kiddo.  You’ve finally adapted.  Lost that ‘deer in headlights’ look, because let me tell you - you were a scared puppy at MoCon!”

She’s right, of course.  Though rationally we know that celebrated writers and notables in the genre are regular folks too, it’s intimidating meeting people you’ve read and read about for several years, especially for the guy who jokes that Llourdes Hospital created a special “foot from mouth removal” unit just for him.   That, and I’m an odd bundle of contradictions, (oh, stop it.  Like you didn’t already know this), because while a large part of me wants to hide in the back of the room and go unnoticed, I’m like everybody else: I just want to be liked and have friends.  

So, in essence, it takes me a long time to warm up, and I don’t warm up to just anybody, but when and if I warm up to you, you’ve just gained a friend for life, no matter what.  I got probably the best compliment ever in high school when my then track coach remarked to my father at a meet, “You know...Kevin’s not like the rest of the kids.  He doesn’t have a lot of friends, but the ones he does keep are real.”  So, now...Kelli and crew: you’re stuck with me.  I, for one, couldn’t be happier. Same goes for Dan Keohane, Tim Deal, Scott, Sheldon, and all the other fabulous folks from Context 22.

Anyway, I'm going to stick to my goal of writing shorter, easy-to-manage blogs, and sign off for now. In a few days I'll post part two of this, "Still Unpacking Horrorfind Part II: Meeting An Icon". See you then.

I had the distinct pleasure of taking part in Union Center Christian Church's Art Show On Main, a coffee-house style arts celebration held this past weekend. Art Show On Main is a wonderful exhibition of the arts: musical, graphic, paint, clay, sculpting, and the written word.  Artists from as far as North Carolina, Massachusetts and even Canada took part in the festivities.

All the "artists in residence", if you will, held critique workshops, sat on a Q & A panel that examined the "daily life of the artist", and then performed or presented their artwork in a true coffee house setting that was rich in style, substance, and outright talent.  The atmosphere was welcoming, cordial, friendly, and most of all...artistic.

Best all was its clarity of focus: yes, held in a church it featured artwork created from a spiritual mindset, but the focus was firmly placed on the arts themselves.  The collection of artists and their work was very diverse, and again - though presented in a fairly wholesome, family atmosphere, this was a celebration of art and all its forms, not a Sunday school service.

Probably the most enjoyable part of the experience was meeting and working with Massachusetts horror writer Dan Keohane, who met with my Creative Writing students the day before. Both he and I conducted critique workshops, served on the Q & A panel, then performed readings later on during the show. 

Both our readings were extremely well received, considering the mixed crowd.  Dan read from his first novel, Solomon's Grave, while I read from my novellete "Way Station", an Editor's Choice selection in the very first Coach's Midnight Diner.  A pin drop could be heard during both readings, which seems to be a good indication of what folks thought.

So, jumping of off Monday's blog:

Me and Dean Koontz. Published by Guideposts.

SQUEE!

Now, I know this is a pretty non-existent thread of connection to get excited over, but what can I say?

My life is extremely boring.  I take 'em where and when I can.

AND, he's one my favorite authors, even though Stephen King was once quoted as saying, "Sometimes Koontz is brilliant, other times God-awful".  Sure, many of Koontz's books are not as strong as some of his others, (the same could be said of King, and I love him too),  but I adore the man's work anyway, simply because he is so doggedly, determinedly optimistic. 

I know.  Not very styling for the dark fiction writer.  However, my feeling has always been this: what good is there in showing the harsher realities of life, and how dark and hard and awful things can get, (all true), if we don't give a solid reason WHY we should endure those hard things in the first place, even if that reason is just because we CAN? 

For example.  Many people hated his "Darkest Evening of the Year".  Maybe even you did, too.

Personally, I loved it.  Maybe just because of the Robert Frost poem he paid homage to, "Stopping by A Woods on A Snowy Evening".  Was it more of a homage to golden retrievers, and by extension, his recently deceased dog Trixie than a novel? 

Sure. And who cares?

Which brings me to my next pseudo-point (this is assuming I ever have one). Literary elitism. It amuses me. Now, everyone has their own tastes. Can't account for that.  Also, while  some would argue quality is subjective, I disagree.  You can either arrange words, phrases, and clauses into meaningful constructions, or you can't. This is why very few people are published, and many more are rejected.

However, I love certain threads on certain forums that collectively bash the same writer or a generation of writers because apparently they are terrible at the craft, and this generation is only full of stupid people who can't tell these people are bad writers and love them anyway.

Honestly?

Whatever.  

I gave a quote to my students the other day to interpret: 

"Some books are to be tasted; others swallowed; and some to be chewed and digested.” - Francis Bacon

To me, this indicates that all reading has worth.  Some is for entertainment value; ie, only for its taste and nothing else. Others we swallow - maybe because we have to, like vitamins, for school or work.  The last books? Those change us forever.

So. No bad books.  (Of course, we're leaving out possibly self-published novels about murderous clowns. *wink*). Just books that offer different things.

Take Stephanie Meyer, for example. 

She, who Stephen King also recently claimed, "Can't write worth a damn." (Are we also seeing a pattern, here? I'm thinking that King is the second coming of Mark Twain, scathing literary critic).

Even so. She has thousands of readers, and she got them long before the movie or the hype. Are we assuming those folks are all just too stupid to understand how bad a writer she really is? Plus, she really nailed on something teen girls vibed with. This is why Twilight is, as one of my more astute former students told me last year, "literary crack for teenage girls".

I'm a high school English teacher.  Seeing kids read gives me the warm fuzzies inside.  Would I rather have them reading Shakespeare or Dickinson?   Certainly.  Will I take Twilight instead of nothing? You bet.

She has a rabid following of fans who love her characters, live and die by them (metaphorically. Hopefully.)  What more could any writer ask for?

She has readers.

Do you?