Aspirations of a ten-year-old

My book for reals.

I think I was nine or ten when I decided I wanted to be a writer. It was around this time anyway that I started looking for ways to write stories as a means of fulfilling homework assignments, and that I began to fudge the answers on aptitude tests so the results would show I ought to be a writer. Since then I've done some of the things that most writers do – I've sporadically kept journals, I've written and submitted in a variety of genres and styles, I've bought and read entire libraries-full of writing how-to books. And I've done some things most writers probably don't, such as just plain trying to give up writing because it's so fucking hard and heart-breaking.

But I've always come back to it. And I always feel a huge sense of relief when I do.

And now, finally, after a lot of years, I have a novel coming out that has my name on the cover and everything. And I know that I already have several books with my name on them out there. But they've been collections of comics and that's just not what I envisioned back when I was nine or ten. And this is not meant as a slight against comics at all. Comics buoyed me at a time when I was very low, and they helped me pay some bills. The work I did in comics kept me believing that I was able to write at all. Hell, it's because I was able to sell comics scripts that I even decided to give writing prose again a chance. So, yeah, I owe a lot to comics.

Still, I always wanted to write a prose novel and to have it be published and loose in the world, and it looks like that's about to happen. Last week I received a small package from my publisher (Kensington, which is an independent publisher and which has been just freaking wonderful to work with). The package contained a small number of comp copies of my book, Zomburbia – just a taste, the rest of my comps will come later. I opened that package and held in my hands a real book with my name on the cover.

And the nine-or ten-year-old in me knew that I hadn't messed things up too badly if I'd accomplished this.

Listen, I know what the book market is like. Zomburbia may come and go without making a single ripple in the publishing industry, but it's here now. And that's enough. Also, the sequel is already written and in the hands of the publisher and now I'm writing something new and I have a reasonable expectation that someone will buy it. So there's that.

By the way, my second choice of career when I was ten was to become a politician. I think we can all be happy I chose to become a writer.

Trouble, and a moment of self-discovery

It was a rough week over at Casa Kreutz Gallardo. My youngest developed a high fever that lasted a week and culminated in two-night hospital stay. On top of that, there was worry that the fever might have affected his heart. Thankfully, two cardiographs show everything is normal in that department -- we all hope that future follow-ups will continue to be positive. He's all better, too, thanks for asking. Just as frisky and ornery as ever. The sense of relief of everyone in our circle is palpable.

And while that was happening, my agent was asking me to get material to her so that she can start shopping my novel to publishers. Nothing like rewrites, which are all done, thank God. She needed a synopsis, a bio, and a few other things. I know I could have told her about my circumstances and begged a few more days from her, but I decided not to do that. I wanted to do my best to give her what she needed in a timely manner.

And it occurred to me that after I'd got everything to her that will probably be what life as a freelance writer. Not the hospital visits, but trying to fit work in among the life moments that tear at me constantly. And it made me realize that I am probably up to the task. Which is reassuring to me. I know that if the situation is ever very dire, I'll bow out, but for now, I was happy to get that shit done. Off the plate and to my agent. In the past, I've looked for excuses to not work. That's done with. Now it's time to be serious about this writing thing.

Joe Kubert 1926-2012

Sgt. Rock by Joe Kubert.

Copyright DC Comics.

I learned today that Joe Kubert passed away at the age of 85. I know there will be a lot of articles written about his passing, but I felt the need to saysomething. Kubert was a legend in comics; he began working in comics at the age of 12. He's most famous for his work on Hawkman and the DC war comics, especially Sgt. Rock -- I remember pouring over issues of Sgt. Rock and Weird War Tales as a kid. Later, he founded the Kubert School which has become a Mecca for fledgling comics artists.

I worked at Dark Horse Comics when they released his book, Fax from Sarajevo. I was especially proud that the company would associate themselves with Mr Kubert.

And he never stopped working. He's got a book out now; Before Watchmen: Nite Owl, which features him inking over his son's pencils. He really is an inspiration. Geeks of Doom has the first write-up on his passing that I've seen.

The world doesn't seem as nice knowing that he is no longer with us. Rest in peace, Mr. Kubert.

I've been a bad blogger

After having promised to write about my experience at my final Stonecoast residency, I've found myself without reliable wifi since I left the Portland airport. I guess I'll have to catch up once I get home. Sorry.

In the meantime, have a picture of some of my MFA buddies as we walked to lunch yesterday.

One last Stonecoast

In a little less than 24 hours, I'll be boarding a plane to head out to Maine for my last Stonecoast residency. Stonecoast being the MFA program I've been attending for the last two years. Next week I will graduate and I shall be a master of all fine arts.

I've written little about the experience of completing an MFA, and less about attending an actual residency. It occurred to me that I should document this last trip for posterity. Who knows, maybe someone out there will actually think this is interesting.

For today, I'll link to an older entry where I explained why I wanted to get a creative writing MFA in the first place.

See you all again tomorrow.

Beautiful Machines

Sometimes I get sad thinking there will never be a photo of me working in front of my typewriter. Then I think, "Fuck it. Faulkner probably wasn't sad that there'd never be a photo of him writing in cuneiform on a clay tablet."

The photo of Faulkner comes from a gallery of authors and their beautiful machines at Dangerous Minds.

The smallest update possible

New words tonight after much too long. I started a new story. It's funny, over the last week I made three other attempts to start this thing, getting as far as two full pages before I decided that what I was writing was no good. Last night I started the same story in a new location -- Portland's The Roxy -- and suddenly the story was flowing. I don't know why these things work, but I'm glad that they do. Eventually.

1,069 words this evening. A good start. The best part is that I can see where the story is going. It has helped me a lot to ground these new stories I'm writing in Portland. It's a city I know well. And, maybe more importantly, while I like the city, I don't love it. I lived there for 18 years, in all parts of the city, and I saw both the good and the bad sides of it. I think Portland is a lot darker than most people, including those who live there, would like to think. But that may be true of most places, I suppose.

Regardless, a new story, yes. It feels good to get words on the page. Most definitely, yes.

Pipe dreams

I daydream a lot, and I often berate myself for the ludicrous nature of those daydreams -- so ludicrous that they are elevated to the status of pipe dreams. But just lately, I've had a couple of these fantasies come true. So here's one more:

I used to want Dakota Fanning to star as Sylvia in a motion picture adaptation of my book, 100 Girls. Now that she's too old for the part, I'd like to see the role go to either her sister, Elle, or to Chloe Moretz.

Okay, Universe, you've got your work cut out for you.

Gone educatin'

In a little while I'll be off to Maine where an army of instructors shall try and penetrate my dense head bones in an attempt to fill my brain with knowledge. While I am away in the Winter Wonderland that is Maine, posts of any length will be in short supply here. However, since I learned last night how to publish photos to this blog from my phone, you can probably expect a sort of photo travelogue of my journey.

See you in a couple of weeks!

Expecting

Melissa and I found out she was pregnant quite a while ago and we've been sitting on the news. We've been told it's a good idea to wait until at least the eighth week of pregnancy to spread the news. Given Melissa's age, we wanted to wait even longer and get the results of some non-invasive genetics testing before we let the cat out of the bag. Well, the results were positive enough that we're letting the world know. Sometime in Late June or early July we'll be welcoming baby #2, whom we are calling Blossom (we called Oscar The Sprout). This is an interesting date just because on July fifth I am expecting to board a plane bound for Ireland for a little more than a week as part of my MFA program. We'll see how all of that goes.

This pregnancy has been a little rough. Melissa has been nauseated, sometimes to the point of incapacity, nearly the entire time. On top of everything else I've got going on, I've picked up the slack around the house and helped to ease her suffering -- and that's exactly what it looked like to me. It seems to be letting up, and I'm glad of that for a few reasons.

So, come the Summer, things will once again be pretty interesting. Melissa and I are trying to prepare ourselves to have a newborn in the house again, but I feel like we can't really. One of the reason I think people have more children is that they can't remember exactly what the experience was like. We're also trying to prepare Oscar. We'll see how that goes. Some days he seems excited, or at least interested, by the prospect. Some days he flat out says he doesn't want a little brother or sister.

For the next little while you can expect the usual silliness on this blog to be peppered with news about The Blossom -- how it's developing, it's entrance into the world, etc. Hope no one minds.

Wish us luck.

Stonecoast and lots of numbers

For those of you who are unaware, I started a writing MFA program, Stonecoast, this Summer. I know I've mentioned it in this space a few times and I wanted to write about it at more length now that I've just completed the first semester of work. First I'll talk about my intentions in following the grad school route, and then I'll assess what I think I've accomplished this semester. Finally, tacked on to the end in an ungainly manner, I'll run the numbers on what I wrote over the last few months. Sounds fun, right?

First, what I wasn't expecting by attending an MFA program. I don't think writing that leads to publishing can be taught. I certainly had no belief that I would be handed a magical set of rules that, once followed, led to me becoming the next Stephen King. I think that lots of writing and re-writing is the only thing that can lead to publication.

And that's one of the big reasons I wanted to go back to school. Time. I'll admit that last year when I was considering applying to grad school , I was feeling more than a little lost. I had been a stay-at-home dad for two years and while that was great, and continues to be great, it was not how I defined myself. I'd always thought of myself as a writer. Only I wasn't doing much writing. Since 2003, when my first professionally published comic came out, comics was the medium through which I channeled my creativity. There was no comics work. Several proposals had been rejected and no one was exactly knocking down my door to submit more. I knew that the entire industry was in an economic downturn, but that didn't really help boost my ego.

It occurred to me then that I should get back to writing prose. Writing comics had seemed like a sideline back when I was first published, but then it became my sole focus. So, prose. I tried a couple of times to write longer prose pieces -- I've never cared much for writing short stories, though I seem to be developing a taste for them now. But it was hard to find a focus. I struggled for more than a year with one piece, got about 150 pages and then stalled out when my computer suffered a hard drive crash that was unrepairable. After I calmed down about so much wasted work, it was almost a relief. I've since recovered that word document and can't bring myself to go back and reread it to see if it can be salvaged. I may need to just consign it to the dustbin of history, as it were.

I thought that a writing program of some sort might be just what I needed. It would get me back into the habit of writing prose and it would impose a deadline to do so. Perfect. And while I don't believe you can teach someone to write, I did think that a grad program would have other benefits. Among these, I'd be exposed to a group of writing professional and I would get their critiques of my work, I'd meet and (I hoped) become friends with peers who were in the same situation as me, and I would learn from those who had already gone through the process of getting published the ins and outs of the business. Of those three the second, meeting peers, was most important to me. Living where I do, I feel sometimes like I'm living in a creative vacuum. It's been nice to have people I can reach out to via email or facebook and know that they are sharing a similar experience.

Once I decided that a writing program is what I wanted, I had to decide which one. I interviewed a couple of writers who had been through MFAs. They told me the same thing -- an observation borne out on various websites and in interviews I've read. As soon as I told them that I wanted to write genre fiction, their reply was that I would have a difficult time finding a program that would work with me. Most MFA programs are welcoming of non-genre, or literary, fiction and don't know what to do with genre. And even if a program said they'd work with you, I was told, I would find that that statement was designed just to get me in the door. Once there, I'd find an environment hostile to genre fiction. This was discouraging to say the least, and it led to me putting the idea on the back burner for a while.

I was toying with the idea of applying to the Clarion Writers' Workshop, an intensive six-week long "boot camp" for writers, when I heard a radio interview with Kelly Link. Ms Link is a phenomenal writer of surreal short stories and a recent favorite of mine. In the interview she was asked what work she did besides writing and she said that she taught at the Stonecoast MFA. That sent me running to the Internet to look up the program. Like every MFA in the country, Stonecoast has disciplines in Fiction, Non-fiction, and Poetry. What makes them unique is that they also offer a concentration in Popular Fiction (read: Genre Fiction). It didn't take me long to decide that I wanted to go there. And it was the only program to which I applied. If I had not been accepted, I would have taken it as a sign that I wasn't meant to go to grad school and I needed to find another way to advance my writing. I am so happy that I got accepted.

I was even happier when, a few months ago, Poets and Writers magazine named Stonecoast one of the top ten low-residency MFA programs in the country. What, I hear you asking, does low-residency mean? A full-residency program is one which holds classes every day. You stop your life to attend, move to the city where the college is located, etc. A low-res program just means it's part-time. Twice a year I go to Maine for two weeks to attend classes, lectures, and workshops. The rest of the time, I'm at home doing the required homework. I mail off five packets over the six months of the semester and communicate with my advisor (in the program they are called "mentors") over the phone or via email. It's all self-directed and self-motivating so it's really a case of sink or swim for the students.

Which leads to the section where I talk about what I've accomplished. One of the unexpected results of being accepted -- a real sense of urgency to my writing. Seriousness. Fucking gravitas. Let me give you an example using the novel I just finished. In the four months before I started the MFA program, I wrote just 12,500 words -- that's 56 pages. After starting the program in mid-July through the beginning of December -- about four and a half months -- I wrote an additional 91,000 words. That's just shy of 400 pages. And I didn't use the novel toward the page count for my homework. It far exceeded what the school's handbook says to send to the advisors on a monthly basis. I wrote and sent in short stories. If there was a day when I didn't write, I felt bad about myself.

And I wasn't the only person affected by this. Paying for an MFA program makes your family and friends take your writing very seriously. Suddenly my writing became a priority.

I also feel like I've gained confidence in my writing. The comments I received in workshop last July, and the critiques from my advisor, have really boosted my ego -- in a good way. And, not to worry, I'm still getting some fairly humbling responses as well.

Now that I've completed a draft of my novel, I feel like my experience at Stonecoast will be different. Next semester I see myself devoting myself to rewriting the novel and not devoting so much time to writing new material. I'll probably write enough just to satisfy the packet requirements and then use the rest of my time on the rewrites. I want to get this thing polished up and to an agent as soon as possible. I want to see if it's publishable.

And now the numbers:

Last numbers dump of the semester. Here is what I've been doing for the last five months.

As I mentioned, I wrote 91,000 words on my novel. In addition, I also wrote three-and-a-half short stories and a short film script. There was also a new comics proposal thrown in their as well.

Short story A: 8,026

Short story B: 8,682

Short story C: 5,319

Short story D: 5,089 (so far)

Short film: 2,008 (an 11-page script)

Comics project: 1,516

That gives us a grand total of 121, 640 words for the semester. That's 486 pages. Not bad. I guess I don't feel too bad about slowing down through this month (which is all about preparing for the next residency) and the next semester. Come next July, though, I bet I'll be ready to get back on that horse.

I already have an idea for a second novel...

De-ritualization

Melissa is off watching the adventures of some boy wizard (maybe you've heard of him?), and I get to stay home and finish up my writing for the day. I think it's a fair trade.

It occurs to me, having started doing these almost-daily updates, that my writing schedule must seem fairly erratic. That's actually a choice as much as it is a necessity. I've spent the last years of my life intentionally de-ritualizing my writing process. I feel like I've spent, possibly wasted, a lot of time in the past waiting for inspiration to strike. And I did lots of things to try and court inspiration -- I always sat in the same place, I always wrote at the same time. Hell, there was a time when I had to have a candle and some incense burning. Lately, I have purposefully gotten away from all of that. Like I said, part of that is necessity. I'm a stay-at-home dad, I have to be able to sit down whenever and where ever the opportunity presents itself.

Some days it's harder than others to get into the writing, but there hasn't been a day I can recall in this semester that I haven't been able to write at all. And I've skipped days certainly, but that's mostly because I sometimes need sleep more than I need to write. Another hazard of being a writer raising a child.

The twitter post from Roger Ebert that illustrates this post really says it all. I wish I could go back in time and tell this to my younger self. Not that my younger self would believe it. My younger self was sort of a jerk. A bigger jerk, I should say.

I guess I can be happy that I've finally learned the lesson. Better late than never, I'm getting the writing done.

And here are today's numbers.

Daily word count: 1,734 (1,001 novel, 733 short)

Monthly word count: 20,854 (17,340 novel, 3,514 short)

Novel word count: 88,841

Inspiring...

Inspiration is strange and, to me at least, unfathomable.

I had the morning to write and I wanted to work on a piece for my next MFA residency. I knew that I wanted to write a short about a character I've been thinking about a lot lately (I almost wrote "a character that's been plaguing me lately" since that's what it feels like. I just can't get the guy out of my head). But knowing that, I had no idea what I wanted the story to be about. This seems to happen to me all the time and it's a major source of frustration.

One of the main influences for this character is Lawrence Block's "Scudder" books, which feature his private detective, Matthew Scudder. I decided to read a few Scudder short stories for inspiration. After I got to spent half an hour with a character I really like, I sat down and tried to map out a story for my own character.

About twenty minutes of staring at my fellow coffee shop patrons ensued before I actually got to writing. Starting with a blank page, I wrote down the first image in my head and just kept going. In bullet list style, I wrote out the broad action of the thing and some minor scraps of dialog. Then I moved on to flesh it out with an outline. (Yes, I outlined a short story. Why are you looking at me like that?)

When I was done, I had something that didn't look at all like a Scudder story, but I know, somehow, that the story I'd produced came about because I'd been thinking about Block's character and because I'd read those short stories before I began. I wish that my own creative process was a bit more transparent to me. I feel like my brain is a delicate engine, for which I never received an owner's manual. And I have to do everything I can to keep the damn thing working. I never know what will get the engine started, and I never know what will make it go completely haywire. It's very frustrating, my brain.

Regardless, I'm looking forward to now writing this story. And having it savaged in workshop...

The image, by the way, comes from Doug Savage's collection of sticky note cartoons.

Salem drama

Cast of Characters:

Me

Oscar

Lady (who will later become Crazy Lady)

Scene: The streets of downtown Salem

O and I walk down the street. I see an unassuming Lady standing on the corner. My assessment of her as unassuming is shaken when she starts to yell at someone across the street. O and I continue on our way with me keeping an eye on the Crazy Lady. She sees me looking at her and she turns to face us.

Crazy Lady (at the top of her lungs): And he has a child to protect him! As long as he has a child to shield him, he can do anything he wants and not take any responsibility, RIGHT?

O (cheerful): No-oh!

Crazy Lady looks confused and goes on her way.

And scene.

My Playlist for the Melissa

Done just because.

We Used to Wait by Arcade Fire

Sometimes pop songs, despite their ephemeral nature, can really speak to me. This song, a love letter to writing letters to your love, grabbed both me and Melissa the first time we listened to it. Maybe it's just our generation's tendency to navel gaze, but lines like:



"So I never wrote a letter

I never took my true heart I never wrote it down

So when the lights cut out

I was left standing in the wilderness downtown"



and:



"It seems strange to think

How we used to wait for letters to arrive

But what's stranger still

Is how something so small can keep you alive"



seem designed to invoke emotions in us that we forgot existed. Especially since we both used to be big time letter-writers.

Dance Me to the End of Love by Leonard Cohen

The first song that Melissa and I danced to at our wedding. A love song from Mr Cohen that is without irony or cynicism seems pretty specially.

Move the Earth by Dr Theopolis

Melissa knows why.

The same spirit

Originally posted 12/09:

I'm thinking back on the year, which is not something I'm prone to do--the end of December seems a relatively arbitrary to for self-assessment. I guess I prefer to keep a running tab on my successes and failures. But after talking with Todd Demong this week, I looked back and discovered that it was sort of a crappy year professionally. Todd assured me that this was fine, and that one only really grows and learns when one fails--that successes teach you almost nothing. Viewed in that way, this year must have taught me a ton.

The same day I talked to Todd I was reading some poems by Walt Whitman (yeah, I read poetry, wanna make something of it?) and I came across these lines:

Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?
I also say it is good to fall—battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.

And Whitman knew a thing or two about losing the day, you know?

I'm attempting a few things in the new year. I suppose I'll have more opportunities to succeed or fail.

I know which I'm hoping for.

UPDATE: It seems like things are holding steady since I first posted this, nearly a year ago. Successes and failures and things I'm doing to improve myself and make the successes happen more frequently. I'll write more about all of this soon, I'm sure.

Because I never met a meme I didn't like

From my defunct blog:

I found this on Karen Healey's LiveJournal. I decided I wanted to play along.

Leave me a comment saying "Resistance is Futile."
• I'll respond by asking you five questions so I can satisfy my curiosity. (NB: until I get bored.)
• Update your journal with the answers to the questions.
• Include this explanation in the post and offer to ask other people questions.

Here are Karen's questions to me:

1. What was the best movie you saw this year?

Hands down, the best movie I've seen so far this year was The Hurt Locker, Katherine Bigelow's film about a bomb disposal unit in Iraq. Beautifully acted, gorgeously shot and a powerful script. As near perfect a movie as I've seen in quite some time.

2. Who do you count as family that you're not actually related to?

A childhood friend with whom I grew up, Aaron Billingsley. No matter how long we go without contacting one another, we always fall back into a very easy relationship. In a lot of ways, my relationship with him is easier than my relationship with my actual family.

3. Who do you most admire?

That's a good question. I don't know if I have an answer. I'm afraid I'm too cynical to admire anyone, but if I can think of someone, I'll edit this post and add it.

4. What's your wildest ambition?

That I might be able to support my family with my writing.

5. How have you been awesome lately?

I feel like I'm finally taking my life and my career seriously.

I wish I knew how to quit you, Blogger!

Nearly a year ago, I left the confines of this blog to start up my own personal website. That didn't go so well. I actually posted about a dozen entries there and never felt like I could justify having it. I certainly couldn't justify the expense of maintaining it. So I'm going to let it die. When my subscription runs out this month, I will not be renewing it.

But I will be coming back here, tail between my legs, to Blogger. And I think I'm ready to start blogging again, too. Lucky you, right?

I'll be posting some entries to catch up on what's been going on the last year. I'll also be copying a few of the entries from that other blog here so that I can keep track of some stuff. Because, really, that's what this blog is--a repository of stuff I want to try and remember.

So, I'm back, and I've missed you. Let's talk.

Breaking radio silence

I've been absent from this blog due to family business. Lot's of time in my wife's old hometown where the air is clear and Internet access is a distant rumor. It's sort of nice to be unconnected for large swaths of time. It reminds me that I can have thoughts that don't need to be posted to facebook right this second! Though I did use my phone did to send some photos and such. I couldn't go cold turkey, apparently.

Anyway. I'm back. Here come some posts.

That image, by the way, is of my two favorite people, taken at my mother-in-law's house.

I feel like I don't have much to say lately. A lot of things in process. At stages that aren't that exciting to talk about (because I know that my readers have come to expect pure excitement from this blog).

One thing I should mention is that I got a part-time job. I'm now working as a projectionist at Salem Cinema, Salem's only independent theater. It specializes in indy and art-house movies. So far, except for the time it takes me away from Melissa and Oscar, it's a lot of fun. But it's helping to make ends meet, so it's hard to complain.

I've never worked a projector before, so it's been interesting learning the skill. I like machinery and the chance to get my hands inside of the projectors is great. And I think I take more satisfaction in having threaded the film properly than I likely should. Learning a new skill makes my head feel clear, which is nice. It's been a while since I learned anything new.

On the writing front, like I said, things are in process. Dalton is being considered for publication, which always turns into a hurry-up-and-wait situation (and I'm reminded that I need to write an email to the editor looking at it with my and Todd's ideas about publication--an email that will likely kill any chances the project has of moving forward). Todd is drawing an eight-page short story, but, because he has a day job, it's going to be a while before that's done. I need to start designing an actual web site for my self, but I am lazy and will probably put that off until... who knows when. I sent a query letter off last week to a literary agent, but that's another situation where I just have to wait for a response. Finally, I should be looking for artists for a couple of new projects, but with so many things up in the air, I'm reluctant to start anything new.

Maybe I'll just sit back and try and finish a book. Something I haven't been able to do in more than a week.

Stay tuned for more thrilling posts once things develop.