It's inconceivable that there was a time when I couldn't picture you in my mind. The day I first saw you seems so far removed from all those preceding it, like another life. I knew I had to have you, could have you. That was my whole reason for being there, for such an encounter. Only at that moment did I realize my expectations had, for once, been truly inadequate in preparing me for reality. I also knew I shouldn't approach you. There was, unspoken between us, a warning that went unheeded. You promised me only obsession and, very possibly, regret. I also knew that I would embrace you with abandon. In that place, where destiny had brought us together, I could partake of you with no intrusion from the outside world.
The first time my lips touched you, my senses erupted, my heart ached for the years I'd lived without you. It was as I feared. My desire for you could never be satisfied, but I could drive myself mad in the attempt, plunge recklessly down the path that might well lead to my undoing. Relinquishing myself to the moment, that perfect moment, when we first existed only together, I could stave off the eventual guilt and sorrow of our inevitable parting.
Hours, even days apart, the time tortured me. Sometimes I allowed myself to think that we were better off. Kept at a distance, it seemed I might unshackle my heart and soul from you. Eventually a day would come when I could not drive you from my thoughts, try as I might. As if you waited solely for me, you were there when I arrived. Amid the swirling activity and noise, the light seemed to cling to you, the sound muted around us. I longed for every second with you to mirror our first moments together. I feared familiarity might break the spell, send me drifting never to return. How wrong I was.
I never anticipated just how damaging our relationship would become. The guilt was mine alone to endure, but it nagged constantly at my conscience. I knew my obsession with you took a toll on me, body and soul. Why was I so weak? Justifications for my love leaped easily to my lips. I craved you, and fruitless attempts at logic and reason fell before my scything emotions. Even when I admitted to myself that you were not mine alone, I wanted you.
It was a night like countless others. Even now I can't identify its fundamental difference. Had I found some well of inner strength? Had my desire for you finally waned, as it had for others over time? I knew when I saw you that our romance would soon be over. Perhaps I would think of you in days to come with fond memories, or perhaps anger at my own frailty would poison my recollections of the joy you brought me. You tasted just as sweet, but somehow I felt the emptiness of startlingly brief elation. I knew it could only mean farewell.
Sadness prevailed, obscuring everything else at our parting. No promises hung in the air, no expectations, even as the taste of you lingered on my tongue and threatened to send me running back to you. In my car, the dome light briefly revealed a final testament to our parting. A crumb of you, glazed devils-food doughnut, graced my shirt. I hesitated a moment before plucking the last of you from my chest and flicking you out my window. I saw through the shop window, that many others enjoyed you, with coffee of course. The question still arises in my mind today. Had I savored that last taste of you, instead of casting you into the night, would I have ever known freedom? I think not. There would have been heartburn either way.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Telling People I'm a Writer
I think of myself as a writer, but it's mostly because it's the only job I've ever really wanted. Now that I'm officially paying taxes on royalties, it seems like I've earned the right to tell people that's what I am. Really I've been a writer for a very long time, and I'm just admitting it now. It's not like I've ever been embarrassed to say it, more like I've recently decided that I'm OK with whatever a person's reaction happens to be. I don't intentionally try to make people feel uncomfortable, but sometimes I can see it on a person's face as they struggle to think of a reply. Sometimes it feels like they pity my delusion or they instantly feel guilty. They realize they're going to have to tell me they've never heard of me or read anything I've written. I could say the same thing to writers who are A LOT more famous than I am, so I don't mind. If you want to tell me that my fiction doesn't appeal to you, no problem. Maybe someday I'll write something that does.
Writing, especially genre writing like I do, used to carry a far greater stigma than it does today. With the popularity of science fiction, fantasy, and horror movies, most people realize that they've already enjoyed something similar to what I write. In fact, most of them know that a fair number of cinematic goodies have been adapted from books. I've found much more support in my writing endeavors than I originally thought I would. So far nobody has told me any of the things I used to hear when I was writing as a teen, labeling it as something for kids or something to do when I retire from my day job. Much deserved thanks go to everybody who has realized that it's a labor of love, like lots of other things, and requires a tremendous amount of time and effort.
Probably the best thing about calling myself a writer is that nobody asks me to fix their computer. Any time I've ever said that I work in technical support, I've cringed inside with an unparalleled intensity. I like helping people when I can, but most people these days are savvy enough to figure out technical problems themselves, with a little help from Google. If they're willing to ask somebody they've just met for help, they have encountered something scarier than I've ever written about. When I've said that I write, nobody has ever asked me to compose them a poem or tell them a story. It's kind of disappointing, really, because I'm much better at that than I am at fixing computers. My advice on a flaky PC is usually: "Have you had your kid try to fix it?" My kid charges $50 per hour, and I'm glad to pay it. When he gets older, I'll get to tell him he should've saved it all up to buy his own car, but I'll rent mine to him for $55 per hour.
Seriously the best thing about telling people I'm a writer is that it's true. I'm proud of myself for persevering after the times I've thought about giving up on it. There's no better feeling than struggling to accomplish something and then achieving it. Then you get to set bigger goals for yourself, fail, and try again. Whatever it is you're dreaming of doing, keep struggling and tell other people about it. Better yet, write about it on the Internet, so everybody can remind you about it if you give up. (That's partially why I started this blog.) You deserve to be admired for your hard work. You may be surprised at how encouraging other people can be when they see your determination, and it will help power your escalator upward.
Writing, especially genre writing like I do, used to carry a far greater stigma than it does today. With the popularity of science fiction, fantasy, and horror movies, most people realize that they've already enjoyed something similar to what I write. In fact, most of them know that a fair number of cinematic goodies have been adapted from books. I've found much more support in my writing endeavors than I originally thought I would. So far nobody has told me any of the things I used to hear when I was writing as a teen, labeling it as something for kids or something to do when I retire from my day job. Much deserved thanks go to everybody who has realized that it's a labor of love, like lots of other things, and requires a tremendous amount of time and effort.
Probably the best thing about calling myself a writer is that nobody asks me to fix their computer. Any time I've ever said that I work in technical support, I've cringed inside with an unparalleled intensity. I like helping people when I can, but most people these days are savvy enough to figure out technical problems themselves, with a little help from Google. If they're willing to ask somebody they've just met for help, they have encountered something scarier than I've ever written about. When I've said that I write, nobody has ever asked me to compose them a poem or tell them a story. It's kind of disappointing, really, because I'm much better at that than I am at fixing computers. My advice on a flaky PC is usually: "Have you had your kid try to fix it?" My kid charges $50 per hour, and I'm glad to pay it. When he gets older, I'll get to tell him he should've saved it all up to buy his own car, but I'll rent mine to him for $55 per hour.
Seriously the best thing about telling people I'm a writer is that it's true. I'm proud of myself for persevering after the times I've thought about giving up on it. There's no better feeling than struggling to accomplish something and then achieving it. Then you get to set bigger goals for yourself, fail, and try again. Whatever it is you're dreaming of doing, keep struggling and tell other people about it. Better yet, write about it on the Internet, so everybody can remind you about it if you give up. (That's partially why I started this blog.) You deserve to be admired for your hard work. You may be surprised at how encouraging other people can be when they see your determination, and it will help power your escalator upward.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Technophobe
Working in the Information Technology field and liking technology do not always go together. I've been employed in IT in various roles since 2002, having previously worked in much more enjoyable but poorer paying jobs. In truth, I never really embraced technology as more than a means to different ends. I would never go back to using a typewriter after my first experience with AppleWorks. When I first experienced the Internet over my dial-up connection, I couldn't believe I had survived without it. It always seems like I cling to some obsolete, or at least antiquated, method of doing things until I finally cave and adopt a smart-thingy or I-something-or-other.
I wrote long-hand far past the point when I could have been using a computer. I just liked the process of scratching away with a pen, furiously scribbling away my mistakes, and making notes in the margins of my notebooks. I still have some of them, where stories were started and finished on a computer, or they were left unfinished on pages dotted with coffee stains. For a long time, I didn't have a computer for financial reasons. I could use one at the library where I worked, so sometimes I would stay late after my shift and bang out what I had written in my notebook. Spellcheck was a great convenience, and copying and pasting seemed like miracles, I had to grudgingly admit. I hardly ever start anything on my computer even now, but it's usually because my writing time is relegated to my lunch breaks at work, where I don't have access to a computer for personal use. Though my tablet would allow me a very portable way to write digitally, I usually leave it at home where it's safe and secure.
Smartphones seemed like something dumb for me to have. I resisted owning a cell phone for years, and I finally justified purchasing one in case of emergencies. The salespeople wanted to dazzle me with the features available on the expensive models, and I insisted that I just needed a phone capable of being a phone. I didn't need a camera because I lived in the city and hardly ever saw anything I needed to capture for later enjoyment. I didn't understand the need to text instead of calling someone. When eventually I got the chance to get a smart phone, I thought of it as a distraction machine, always beeping at me to check my email, Facebook updates, Twitter feed, whatever. Oh, I can play games, which is great for somebody like me who could technically be labeled as a recovering video game addict.
Now that I'm trying to get a writing career off the ground, I find myself increasingly dependent on all of the things I tried to avoid for years. And I like most of them. I like keeping in touch with people via Facebook that I haven't physically visited or phoned in decades. It's probably the reason I haven't attended any of my high school reunions, now that I live 600 miles away from my alma mater. I like the community of writers I seem to have fallen into on Twitter, many of whom share the same type of aspirations and frustrations that I do and would otherwise never have met me. I've practically filled my phone with pictures of my pets and my kid, and I haven't contemplated buying a camera in years. Mostly, I owe my budding writing career to the Internet and digital publishing, and neither of those things existed when I first dreamed of seeing my stories published.
So Technology, it seems like I owe you a big apology for all of the nasty, curmudgeonly things I've said about you over the years. You're not so bad when you work and when you're used as a force for good. I appreciate the conveniences you've given me and the opportunity to reach out to people all over the world with my writing. I'm sorry. I was wrong. Now my admission will live in the Cloud forever, in case I ever start yelling about you again.
Thanks to all of you for reading this on your computers, phones, tablets, and other things I probably haven't heard of yet but will grudgingly buy in the next couple of years.
I wrote long-hand far past the point when I could have been using a computer. I just liked the process of scratching away with a pen, furiously scribbling away my mistakes, and making notes in the margins of my notebooks. I still have some of them, where stories were started and finished on a computer, or they were left unfinished on pages dotted with coffee stains. For a long time, I didn't have a computer for financial reasons. I could use one at the library where I worked, so sometimes I would stay late after my shift and bang out what I had written in my notebook. Spellcheck was a great convenience, and copying and pasting seemed like miracles, I had to grudgingly admit. I hardly ever start anything on my computer even now, but it's usually because my writing time is relegated to my lunch breaks at work, where I don't have access to a computer for personal use. Though my tablet would allow me a very portable way to write digitally, I usually leave it at home where it's safe and secure.
Smartphones seemed like something dumb for me to have. I resisted owning a cell phone for years, and I finally justified purchasing one in case of emergencies. The salespeople wanted to dazzle me with the features available on the expensive models, and I insisted that I just needed a phone capable of being a phone. I didn't need a camera because I lived in the city and hardly ever saw anything I needed to capture for later enjoyment. I didn't understand the need to text instead of calling someone. When eventually I got the chance to get a smart phone, I thought of it as a distraction machine, always beeping at me to check my email, Facebook updates, Twitter feed, whatever. Oh, I can play games, which is great for somebody like me who could technically be labeled as a recovering video game addict.
Now that I'm trying to get a writing career off the ground, I find myself increasingly dependent on all of the things I tried to avoid for years. And I like most of them. I like keeping in touch with people via Facebook that I haven't physically visited or phoned in decades. It's probably the reason I haven't attended any of my high school reunions, now that I live 600 miles away from my alma mater. I like the community of writers I seem to have fallen into on Twitter, many of whom share the same type of aspirations and frustrations that I do and would otherwise never have met me. I've practically filled my phone with pictures of my pets and my kid, and I haven't contemplated buying a camera in years. Mostly, I owe my budding writing career to the Internet and digital publishing, and neither of those things existed when I first dreamed of seeing my stories published.
So Technology, it seems like I owe you a big apology for all of the nasty, curmudgeonly things I've said about you over the years. You're not so bad when you work and when you're used as a force for good. I appreciate the conveniences you've given me and the opportunity to reach out to people all over the world with my writing. I'm sorry. I was wrong. Now my admission will live in the Cloud forever, in case I ever start yelling about you again.
Thanks to all of you for reading this on your computers, phones, tablets, and other things I probably haven't heard of yet but will grudgingly buy in the next couple of years.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
True Detective, Truly Outstanding
I don't usually indulge in true crime stories in any medium. There's a reason I don't watch the news, and it's because it stresses me out. Human beings seem to have an unlimited capacity for brutality, greed, and perversion that is just too horrifying for me as a fan of horror. The pain is too real, too immersive and maddening, when I know it's real. I compulsively watched the first season of "True Detective" on HBO anyway, and I can't say enough good things about it.
The cast intrigued me enough to watch the first episode. I've been a fan of Woody Harrelson since "Cheers", and though he's been in his share of disappointing movies, I've only enjoyed his work as he's gotten older. His comic and dramatic talents lend well to his character, Marty Hart, as we see him develop through decades of police work, including flashbacks to his early career. Likewise Matthew McConaughey excels in his portrayal of Hart's partner, Rust Cohle. McConaughey has enjoyed a resurgence of his acting career that is well deserved, forgiving an occasional car commercial, and tidbits of Cohle's backstory definitely contributed to my devouring of the 8-episode series.
The investigation of focus in the series is heart-wrenching as much as it's horrifying. Though difficult to watch at times, the toll it takes on Hart, Cohle and the people close to them is just as important as the investigation itself. It speaks to the dedication, obsession even, of the detectives involved. This treatment makes it easier to understand why they can never be free of the case until it's solved. Too many cop dramas I've watched don't seem to establish the reason for this type of determined investigation beyond a simple "Type A" personality in one of the characters, usually the "loose-cannon" type who must be reigned in by his partner. Hart and Cohle seemed like real human beings as much as they were policemen, something that makes me eagerly await meeting new characters in the second season of the show.
There's plenty of suspense, even in seeing how the characters react to each other without the threat of criminals. I enjoyed also enjoyed the portrayal of dead ends in the investigation, something discussed in the behind-the-scenes tidbits that I waited for at the end of every episode. These proved valuable, not just for the occasional piece of the puzzle I missed in the episodes, but also because they led me to appreciate the painstaking writing and camera work that made each hour so memorable.
If you haven't seen "True Detective", I urge you to watch it. There are so many great moments, that you could easily get sucked into the show even if you're not normally a fan of detective fiction. I didn't expect it to appreciate it the way that I have, as just phenomenal story-telling. Luckily the debut of the second season is only a couple of weeks away.
The cast intrigued me enough to watch the first episode. I've been a fan of Woody Harrelson since "Cheers", and though he's been in his share of disappointing movies, I've only enjoyed his work as he's gotten older. His comic and dramatic talents lend well to his character, Marty Hart, as we see him develop through decades of police work, including flashbacks to his early career. Likewise Matthew McConaughey excels in his portrayal of Hart's partner, Rust Cohle. McConaughey has enjoyed a resurgence of his acting career that is well deserved, forgiving an occasional car commercial, and tidbits of Cohle's backstory definitely contributed to my devouring of the 8-episode series.
The investigation of focus in the series is heart-wrenching as much as it's horrifying. Though difficult to watch at times, the toll it takes on Hart, Cohle and the people close to them is just as important as the investigation itself. It speaks to the dedication, obsession even, of the detectives involved. This treatment makes it easier to understand why they can never be free of the case until it's solved. Too many cop dramas I've watched don't seem to establish the reason for this type of determined investigation beyond a simple "Type A" personality in one of the characters, usually the "loose-cannon" type who must be reigned in by his partner. Hart and Cohle seemed like real human beings as much as they were policemen, something that makes me eagerly await meeting new characters in the second season of the show.
There's plenty of suspense, even in seeing how the characters react to each other without the threat of criminals. I enjoyed also enjoyed the portrayal of dead ends in the investigation, something discussed in the behind-the-scenes tidbits that I waited for at the end of every episode. These proved valuable, not just for the occasional piece of the puzzle I missed in the episodes, but also because they led me to appreciate the painstaking writing and camera work that made each hour so memorable.
If you haven't seen "True Detective", I urge you to watch it. There are so many great moments, that you could easily get sucked into the show even if you're not normally a fan of detective fiction. I didn't expect it to appreciate it the way that I have, as just phenomenal story-telling. Luckily the debut of the second season is only a couple of weeks away.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Max Is Totally Mental
I saw "Mad Max: Fury Road" over the weekend, and I was fully prepared to write a proper review, but Nonlocal Science Fiction has already published an excellent one here. Much of the review shares my opinions of the movie, and I didn't want to risk redundancy; however, I couldn't miss the opportunity to talk about my favorite science fiction sub-genre. My enthusiasm for the post-apocalyptic setting probably has a lot to do with my enjoyment of the horror genre. Nuclear war was one of the scariest threats I could imagine when I was young and the Cold War Superpowers were constantly butting heads. Unlike the monsters of horror movies I enjoyed, you can't drive a stake through its heart or find a relic to return it to the Netherworld. When I finally saw "The Road Warrior" as a teen, I instantly fell in love with the idea that a nomadic anti-hero could survive in the wasteland by his wits, will, and his V-8 Interceptor (vrooooommm!). He might even do some good here and there, when it would conveniently provide some petrol, anyway.
Through all of the explosions, car chases, and gun fights, I felt that the real star of Fury Road was the environment. Everywhere seemed to be bleak desert, periodically interrupted by a toxic swamp or a pitiful conglomeration of desperate survivors. In a world like that, living is the real horror. Radiation sickness, roving gangs, storms of cataclysmic proportion, and even the governing factions left me wondering why the people even bothered to cling to their meager existences. A lovely day was one where a bug could be captured and eaten.
Hope seemed to be the one thing people had in common, but they yearned for different things. Most hoped that they would simply survive another day without dying of hunger or thirst, and the man controlling the water was practically worshiped as a god. Some hoped to die spectacularly in a turbo-charged ball of flaming wreckage, before radiation poisoning could slowly claim them. Others fought tooth and nail to die for something noble and meaningful. One man seemed to struggle beyond the limits of human tolerance, simply because cheating death prolonged his own anguish, something he felt he deserved.
Max dragged plenty of demons around with him, and though Tom Hardy's role seemed slight, I thought he portrayed it perfectly. Time and time again, I wondered what it would take for Max to decide he had struggled enough, that it would just be easier to lie down and die. Some people can't stop fighting, and they are the survivors, the inheritors of the blasted wasteland and all of its treasures made of sand. To me, that's what these types of movies are about: men and women who will never give up. The real focus is Imperator Furiosa, played by Charlize Theron, who finds a kindred spirit with Max's stubborn need to survive. At times, each seems to struggle to understand the other's purpose for struggling against inevitable death. It is a struggle that begs to be watched and is efficiently explained through action and spare dialogue.
My unbridled enthusiasm for Fury Road thankfully seems to be shared by many other movie viewers. I can only hope this means we will see more of Max Rockatansky and his continued struggle to outpace his enemies and his demons.
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Mushy Stuff
I've mentioned in previous posts that I'm working on a novel. Progress is slow, but I'm still committed to it, enthusiastic about it, and finding time to work on it. It's a science fiction novel because it's set in a future earth occupied by aliens, but I hope it's received as a novel about friends, family, love, and transformation. I'm not sure I would call it a young adult novel, but the protagonist is a girl on the brink of high school graduation. Her future seems written out in front of her until a seemingly random encounter with a young man begins to unravel the predictable fabric of her plans.
From time to time, I've wondered if I can pull off a romance between these two characters that is believable and genuine, fragile yet inescapable. It seems like a fine line between what I want to achieve and something that makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit. I don't read romance fiction, but somehow this idea came to me, and I really want to tell this story, kissing and all. It nagged at me that this might be a stumbling block. It's not something I can pull out of an outline, and I'm not about to interview a bunch of teenage girls on the subject. That would officially make me a creepy old man. Then I remembered a summer from a long time ago and was surprised at how vivid some of the memories remained.
When I was 16, I went on a canoe trip through interconnected lakes in the Adirondack Mountains. It started at a camp, not so different from the 4-H camp I attended when just a sprout. Being that most of the canoe trippers were older teens, we were separated from the bulk of the other campers. We were to stay the night and leave early the next morning for a few days of paddling between lakes and nights camping along shore. The older campers, Counselors-In-Training, were allowed into an area we had claimed, playing pool and talking with us before dinner. That was where I met Kathy (not her real name).
Kathy's smile was the first thing I noticed, because it was pointed at me a good deal of the time, before I figured out that she wanted me to come talk to her. This was all new territory for me. Her long hair was curled, and her bangs were piled high with mousse in front of a banana clip. She wore acid-wash blue jeans with a wide, white pleather belt that hung from her hips and served no function, other than to be shiny. Her dark brown eyes half closed when she laughed at whatever her friend was saying to her. Then she would look over toward me and smile.
I felt uncharacteristically brave at that point, as I checked to make sure my feathered hair was in place. Pretty girls normally left my spine feeling squishy and my throat full of tangled yarn, but I was only going to be there for one night before I left. Certainly I could suffer a little embarrassment for that long if I were wrong about her intentions. I didn't know any of those people and would never see them again after that week.
Kathy turned out to be very sweet and fun to talk to. Before I knew it, we had run out of time. The dinner bell rang, younger campers filed into the dining hall. Kathy had to go do Counselor-In-Training things. I ate with my small group of outsiders, taking some abuse for being so shy around Kathy. I didn't have any excuses besides not knowing anything about girls, but I wasn't about to confess that.
The canoe trip was a tremendous amount of fun, complete with thunder storms huddled in a lean-to, bear noises that turned out to be a raccoon, the ever-present smell of Skin So Soft (mosquito repellent extraordinaire), and much more that was actually fun. By the end, I was tired and ready to head home with stories to tell my family.
Back at the camp, we helped stow the gear from the trip and then had a couple of hours to kill before parents started to arrive. To my surprise, Kathy turned up and spent most of it with me. She looked even prettier than I remembered from 5 days before, practically a lifetime ago from my teenage point of view. Suddenly I wasn't ready to go home quite yet. Everyone from my canoeing group seemed to be watching us like hawks. I felt very self-conscious. More, I felt this heaviness in the air between us, and it was just anticipation that my poor, inexperienced self hadn't recognized.
A honk drew my attention to a line of cars. My father waved over the top of the car. I'm sure he was eager to get going, since I remembered how long the drive had taken. I shouldered my backpack and asked Kathy to walk with me to the car. It wasn't until I climbed in and closed the door that I realized I had truly run out of time. I lunged through the open window and kissed her. My first kiss, Kathy of the Adirondacks. With my eyes closed and our lips locked, I could still see her face as though she was watching me kiss someone else, smiling, eyes beaming.
My dad cleared his throat, reminding me that I had lost all track of time. No telling how much had passed from the moment the kiss began until it ended, but it was apparently too long for my dad's taste. Dad pulled the car toward the exit. I gave Kathy a final wave as we turned out onto the road and then craned my neck to watch her until she disappeared behind a hill.
All of that nervousness, excitement, awkwardness, and joy should find its place in my book. If I start to worry about how I'm portraying my characters as they fumble through their romance, I'll look back on those hours at camp and find some detail that will fall into place straight from that experience. Love is not for the faint of heart, but sometimes the faint of heart find courage when they need it.
From time to time, I've wondered if I can pull off a romance between these two characters that is believable and genuine, fragile yet inescapable. It seems like a fine line between what I want to achieve and something that makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit. I don't read romance fiction, but somehow this idea came to me, and I really want to tell this story, kissing and all. It nagged at me that this might be a stumbling block. It's not something I can pull out of an outline, and I'm not about to interview a bunch of teenage girls on the subject. That would officially make me a creepy old man. Then I remembered a summer from a long time ago and was surprised at how vivid some of the memories remained.
When I was 16, I went on a canoe trip through interconnected lakes in the Adirondack Mountains. It started at a camp, not so different from the 4-H camp I attended when just a sprout. Being that most of the canoe trippers were older teens, we were separated from the bulk of the other campers. We were to stay the night and leave early the next morning for a few days of paddling between lakes and nights camping along shore. The older campers, Counselors-In-Training, were allowed into an area we had claimed, playing pool and talking with us before dinner. That was where I met Kathy (not her real name).
Kathy's smile was the first thing I noticed, because it was pointed at me a good deal of the time, before I figured out that she wanted me to come talk to her. This was all new territory for me. Her long hair was curled, and her bangs were piled high with mousse in front of a banana clip. She wore acid-wash blue jeans with a wide, white pleather belt that hung from her hips and served no function, other than to be shiny. Her dark brown eyes half closed when she laughed at whatever her friend was saying to her. Then she would look over toward me and smile.
I felt uncharacteristically brave at that point, as I checked to make sure my feathered hair was in place. Pretty girls normally left my spine feeling squishy and my throat full of tangled yarn, but I was only going to be there for one night before I left. Certainly I could suffer a little embarrassment for that long if I were wrong about her intentions. I didn't know any of those people and would never see them again after that week.
Kathy turned out to be very sweet and fun to talk to. Before I knew it, we had run out of time. The dinner bell rang, younger campers filed into the dining hall. Kathy had to go do Counselor-In-Training things. I ate with my small group of outsiders, taking some abuse for being so shy around Kathy. I didn't have any excuses besides not knowing anything about girls, but I wasn't about to confess that.
The canoe trip was a tremendous amount of fun, complete with thunder storms huddled in a lean-to, bear noises that turned out to be a raccoon, the ever-present smell of Skin So Soft (mosquito repellent extraordinaire), and much more that was actually fun. By the end, I was tired and ready to head home with stories to tell my family.
Back at the camp, we helped stow the gear from the trip and then had a couple of hours to kill before parents started to arrive. To my surprise, Kathy turned up and spent most of it with me. She looked even prettier than I remembered from 5 days before, practically a lifetime ago from my teenage point of view. Suddenly I wasn't ready to go home quite yet. Everyone from my canoeing group seemed to be watching us like hawks. I felt very self-conscious. More, I felt this heaviness in the air between us, and it was just anticipation that my poor, inexperienced self hadn't recognized.
A honk drew my attention to a line of cars. My father waved over the top of the car. I'm sure he was eager to get going, since I remembered how long the drive had taken. I shouldered my backpack and asked Kathy to walk with me to the car. It wasn't until I climbed in and closed the door that I realized I had truly run out of time. I lunged through the open window and kissed her. My first kiss, Kathy of the Adirondacks. With my eyes closed and our lips locked, I could still see her face as though she was watching me kiss someone else, smiling, eyes beaming.
My dad cleared his throat, reminding me that I had lost all track of time. No telling how much had passed from the moment the kiss began until it ended, but it was apparently too long for my dad's taste. Dad pulled the car toward the exit. I gave Kathy a final wave as we turned out onto the road and then craned my neck to watch her until she disappeared behind a hill.
All of that nervousness, excitement, awkwardness, and joy should find its place in my book. If I start to worry about how I'm portraying my characters as they fumble through their romance, I'll look back on those hours at camp and find some detail that will fall into place straight from that experience. Love is not for the faint of heart, but sometimes the faint of heart find courage when they need it.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Hold the Garlic
From an early age, I liked monster movies. I can remember watching some black-and-white classics, starring the greats of the era. Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney, Jr., and Bela Lugosi were some I remember. My favorite was Christopher Lee's Dracula, one of the reasons I was so psyched to see him cast as Sauruman in the Lord of the Rings and Count Dooku in Star Wars. Vampires in particular seemed to occupy my imagination for many years afterward, only to slacken off a bit after my college years until True Blood brought me back to them. Really, I just watched it because my wife was watching it. Ok, I'm lying. I hung in there until the second-to-last season, mainly because the show had a lot of what I like about vampires, for the first several seasons anyway, and skipped much of what I don't like about vampire fiction. I appreciate the sensuality of the vampire mystique, but it's not the selling point for me. I'm more a fan of the complications of immortality, the moral dilemmas behind their snacking habits, and what basically boils down to superhuman predators disguised as humans. By and large, the books I've read have been superior to all the movies and TV shows I've seen. Here are some of my favorites.
The first vampire novel I ever read that flew in the face of the movies I enjoyed during childhood was "Salem's Lot" by Stephen King. I did enjoy the movie, but the book is far superior. The small-town setting provided a level of familiarity among the characters that caused all kinds of tensions. There was no way people could avoid confronting the fact that something awful plagued the village, as people they had known for years seemed to disappear. Characters my age were missing, only to reappear to friends who had attended their funerals. One of the heroes was a kid like me, who read books and watched monster movies and let his imagination get the best of him. He and an out-of-town writer made a horrible team of vampire hunters, but that was part of the magic of the story. They were desperate to save the town and the important people in their lives, and there was nobody else to do it.
"Vampire$", by John Steakley, was eventually made into a movie, starring James Woods as the leader of a secret band of vampire hunters working for the Catholic Church. I liked the movie, mainly due to Woods' fine portrayal of the main character, but the book was even better. It's a gritty, high-velocity thriller, and the vampires aren't portrayed as age-weary romantics. They're hunters with a plan to take back their rightful place as head of the food chain. Their main opposition is all too human, fragile despite their best toys and tactics, and not completely up to the task. It makes for a great read, as the ragtag band comes up against the worst of their fears in a winner-take-all battle for humanity.
Probably my favorite vampire novel of all time is "Necroscope" by Brian Lumley. It's really much more of a Cold War spy novel than anything, but vampires were the main draw for me. The novel involves two competing psychic espionage agencies, setting up the main characters from each faction to face off. The influence of the vampire is interwoven artfully, with peeks into his history as well as his current ambitions. The novel is followed by a whole series full of compelling characters, both human and vampire, some of whom seem far more evil than any undead parasite. There's no arguing the originality of Lumley's vampire lore, again deviating from some of the classics and the popular successors to this genre.
Writing about these books makes me want to read them all over again, even though I've read each of them multiple times. I guess it's time for me to find some new vampire fiction, so if you have any recommendations, please let me know. Thanks for reading, and I look forward to hearing what you've been reading in the comments here, on Facebook, or Goodreads.
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