What Would 14-Year-Old You Say?

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Since becoming instructor of writing more than ten years ago, whether that is live at a conference or convention, or virtually, or through a book, has been to tell all of my students, regardless of their age, or experience, that they have stories.

 

That those stories are valuable and worth sharing.

 

When I was 14, I borrowed a VHS video camera from a neighbor friend of mine. I did everything with that camera that one might expect, making stupid short videos starring myself—the kind of thing that would be a low-view YouTube or TikTok video today. It didn’t take long to decide I needed to make a “real movie.”

 

One of my teachers in eighth grade happened to have a beautiful VHS editing system on campus. When I asked him if I could learn to use it, he showed me how. Now all I needed was a story or a script. I remembered some notes that I’d taken a year before, when I was home alone one night during a storm.

 

Yes: it was a dark and stormy night, just accept it.

 

Strange things were happening around the house: cats getting freaked out over things that weren’t there. Huge wind jangling tree branches and rattling wind chimes like bones. Strange, inexplicable noises. Being 13 and a fan of horror. movies and already having read most of Stephen King’s oeuvre up to that point, I naturally started thinking in terms of the supernatural and macabre. I wrote all these things down, and those notes and ideas coalesced into something shaped like a story: THE MOON DAEMON! (You can watch parts of it here.)

 

I asked two friends to be in my movie, and we improvised the film over the course of about three days, dragging the VHS section of the camera around on a skateboard and using a folding card table as our tripod. I edited it at school, and then got to show the final production to one of my classes during a Friday afternoon class. (I still have the original VHS tapes. Hell, I’ve even re-edited the movie once or twice since then.)

 

I tell you all of that to emphasize one crucial thing: If 14-year-old Me knew how much technology and access to viewers I currently possess in 2020, he would be furious at me for not having made a movie every single damn week.

 

“You mean to tell me you’re carrying a video camera in your pocket every where you go?”

 

“Yes, Tom. That is true.”

 

“You mean to tell me make a movie anytime you want to put it out for the entire world to see and it will not cost you any money at all?”

 

“Yes, Tom. That’s pretty much what I’m saying.”

 

14-year-old Tom looks at me quizzically, perhaps taking a drag of a Marlboro red cigarette, and says, “What the hell is wrong with you? ”

 

14-year-old Tom is right. What the hell am I doing? All this technology, all these people, and what have I chosen to do? Watch TV; reruns I’ve already seen a million time. Read lame stuff on the Internet. Make a ton of plans, but never follow through with them. 14-year-old Me has every reason to be pissed.

 

I don’t deny that 14 can suck, depending on your family and life circumstances. It can be challenging because you’re straddling adulthood and childhood. It’s also a time of wild exploration and dare-deviltry. Of absolutely not giving one solitary f*ck about much of anything if it doesn’t interest you. If you are an American teenager, you still have access to things right now that your parents couldn’t even conceive of when they were 14. But maybe you are in your 40s, or 50s, or 80s. What is stopping you? What’s your Moon Daemon?

 

It can be a true story about you and your relationship with your parents, or your neighborhood, or your country. It could be that terrible break-up story, or the beautiful story of how you met your spouse. It could be the tear-jerking story about your children, or a laugh-out-loud story about what happened when you got the flat tire on the way to get ice cream one night. Maybe it’s a horror story, maybe to superhero comic book, or maybe it’s a romantic web series starring you and your friends from high school. Maybe it’s a poem, or a song, or a one-panel comic strip that you post every day on Instagram.

 

Start now.

 

It’s not about money, and it’s not about Likes, and it’s not about Followers. Put your stuff out there, tell your truth—whatever it is—and people will find you. I will never, ever be one of these get-rich-quick, “How to make $1 million on Kindle!” type of writing teachers. (There’s nothing wrong with making $1 million on Kindle, but I can’t. If I knew how to do that, I would be doing it.) What I can teach you, and encourage you to do, is how to tell your stories.

 

Try multiple formats. I’ve tried most of them. Some come naturally, like novels. Others I have to work on, like comic books and screenplays. I like all of them in some way, shape, or form. Instead of consuming, take your stories out there. Have a sit down with 14-year-old You and explain to them why you are not doing that. This isn’t about being a published author, or a box office hit producer or actor in Hollywood. If that’s what happens, great. But that is not the measure of success. At least, it shouldn’t be. Trust me, I still struggle with those hopes and dreams and desires, too. I do not dismiss those goals. However, the only way to get there in my experience is to authentically tell those stories that burn deep inside you. Don’t think about the outcome, think about the process.

 

The Moon Daemon hasn’t exactly won any film festival awards, or landed me a Hollywood talent manager, or made any money whatsoever. But by God, we had an absolute blast. About two weeks before the pandemic really got underway here in Phoenix, I led a group of about 20  people in making an eight-minute short film based on a chapter of one of my recent novels. It was February, it was freezing cold by Phoenix standards; it was the one day we had rain in months. My wife and I were up and out of the house before dawn, driving across the city, to get set up before anybody else got there. I’ll never forget how cold my feet were, standing in puddles all day while my actors were nice and toasty inside my car as I filmed them.

 

It could have been miserable. It was exhausting, it cost me nearly a thousand bucks, but it got me into a film festival . . . and it was the most fun I’ve had in a while. Not only would I do it all over again, I’m going to do it all over again. We’re already in talks with some of the cast and crew to start a little production company so we can keep shooting films. Because we had a ball. The last time I had conversations like that, two different theater companies formed and ran for 16 years. That’s magic. You don’t dismiss that.

 

I have two children, and they run me ragged, especially during the pandemic. I have a part-time job. All kinds of other responsibilities to attend to. Just like you. But I love telling stories and I’m not going to let anything stop me. You make adjustments, sure. Maybe your life is such that you get one free hour a week. Great; use that hour. Protect that hour. That is your hour. One thing I can guarantee you: someone out there needs and wants your story. Maybe it’s 10 people, or ten thousand, maybe it’s 10 million. That number doesn’t matter. What matters is they need it.

 

You know right now about which stories touched you in the deepest part of your humanity. Probably it was a movie or a book, but maybe it was a comic book. Certainly we all have songs that touch us, and songs or nothing but poems set to music. Someone needs your story to have that impact on them.

 

So write songs, or scripts, or prose. Or just riff online; do a live stream on some topic close to you and share with the entire planet. There is absolutely no reason not to do that.

 

I don’t mean that you should be stubborn about your story. Absolutely learn to take criticism. Absolutely study your craft and practice it and get better and better and better. I have published nine novels with New York publishers and still consider myself an apprentice at this gig. But I’ve learned a lot, and I keep learning, and I hope to improve each time out. I also have started writing in new areas, like video games and comic books and television pilots; formats I am not schooled in, but that I enjoy learning about. I one-hundred-percent take comments and critiques on those formats, because I don’t yet know what I’m doing. So be open to that, but keep going.

 

Ask 14-year-old you, “What do you think I should be doing right now? Where am I falling short? How can I be doing things differently?”

 

I bet 14-year-old you will have some very pointed answers.

Midsommar: A great start that gets gory and infuriating

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A young couple and their friends travel to Sweden to visit a rural mid-summer festival. What begins as an idyllic retreat devolves into a violent and bizarre competition at the hands of adherents to an ancient belief system.

 

I watched director Ari Aster’s Hereditary about a year ago, and it still haunts me. Not everyone had my reaction, and that’s fine, but I’m telling you, that was one disturbing damn film. I say that in a good way.

 

So when Midsommar came out, I hesitated; I wasn’t sure I could handle another Aster outing. The film was released in the golden days of 2019, and I decided to watch at last during October 2020, because, what’s a little horror movie compared to reality, amiright?

 

And to be completely transparent, I have not yet seen it. Not all of it. I stopped about halfway because it was getting dark and my stomach was starting to revolt on me as the film gradually got creepier and more gory.

 

I saw enough of it, though, to issue one blistering critique that ruined the film long before it hit Peak Gore.

 

The script of and performances in Midsommar at the top of the show are hyper-realistic and empathetic. We’ve all been on one side or the other of the opening phone calls. Then sudden grief hits, and it hurts to watch, because we’ve been there, too. Aster knows real grief and trauma isn’t, ironically, “Hollywood.” It is real and discordant and no one is pretty when they cry, not really. At the start, the film does a great job of “talk about anything other than what we’re all thinking,” and is worth studying because it is so thoroughly human (or perhaps so thoroughly American?). The cinematography is fantastic too (or at least, has been fantastic up to half way…)

 

A New York Times review pooh-pooh’d the performance of Florence Pugh, who plays the lead as Dani, a twenty-something suffering from profound depression long before additional trauma crushes her spirit. The review reduces her to a “walking wound” after the terrible tragedy in her family that opens the film. I see the reviewer’s criticism, but disagree—as someone who struggles with depression and PTSD, I felt the depiction was spot-on.

 

So far so good, eh? Wait for it.

 

At about the hour mark, not even half way into the film, things get dark and gruesome. It was appalling and shocking and effective, all the things a sequence like that should be in a horror movie.

 

But the aftermath of this event, which gruesomely kills two people, consists of two of the male leads getting into an argument over their . . . dissertations.

 

I just want you to picture being out of the country on holiday. Hell, let’s even say you’re travelling for school, for a college degree of some kind. One day into your trip, two people are killed and the folks you’re living with all say, “Oh, sure, did we not tell you? Our bad. This is our way.”

 

Would you stick around to “study” this group some more?

 

The scene immediately after these deaths is . . . um . . . unbelievable? That’s seems too gentle a word. Like, no way in hell would these two react the way they do, and the script hasn’t given us any reason to think they would. The motivations here aren’t just weak, they are nonexistent for any reasonable human being

 

Literally: “That was really, really shocking. I’m trying to keep an open mind, though,” one says.

 

Yeah, no, bro. You fucking run like your hair’s on fire.

 

So at this point, it’s kind of hard to stay tuned in. The morbid curiosity of the horror movie fan is about all the juice I have to keep going. I quit watching about twenty minutes later.

 

Listen—sometimes people do stupid shit, thus, it’s okay for your characters to do stupid shit. An astute reader, as I like to call them, pointed out that in my novel Sick, for instance, which is entirely set inside a high school where a small group of plucky survivors (sound familiar?) try to escape to a Safe Place during a Zombie Apocalypse . . . not a single one of them ever thinks to make a try for the nurse’s office.

 

That’s sort of a mistake, I suppose. If so, it’s a mistake based entirely on the fact that in four years of high school, I never once went to the nurse’s office. I assume we had one, but I swear to God, I don’t know for sure. So yeah, maybe an oversight on my part as the author, but it could be argued in context of the story that there was no need for them to try such a risky gambit. Still . . . yeah, someone should have at least pointed out the option.

 

So that was an oversight on my part. Granted.

 

The choice made at 1:23:00 of Midsommar is not a mistake.

 

It’s a choice, and it falls so flat that I can barely stand it. It’s infuriating, really, because I’m a big fan of Hereditary (in that it freaked me out so much I’ll never watch it again. That’s high praise). While the script sets up that our intrepid Americans are in fact doctoral candidates, it in no way emphasizes the great lengths to which they’ll go to get their “scoop” story for that dissertation. Furthermore, even if the script had tried to emphasize such a thing, the fact that their reaction to the horror unfolding before them is to argue about those dissertations rather than saying, “Bro, where’s the key to the car?!” is unforgiveable from a character-development standpoint. I would be happy to go along with this premise if the script had established just how critical obtaining these degrees was to the characters, but it doesn’t.

 

Of late, and I may come to regret this, I’ve tried as much as possible to insist on realism in my horror. When I’m writing or building an outline, I try to stop frequently and ask, “Now what would someone really do here?” You can motivate a character to do just about anything, and then come up with a really fun way to prevent them from getting their goal—that’s the whole point, in fact. Midsommar does not take this approach at all. It pits graphic violence against, of all things, academia, and it just does not sell for me.

 

Let your characters be real people who have real reaction commensurate with their background. Jack Bauer and Rambo and whoever else aren’t going to have a panic attack when they shoot someone. But I would. You would, too (one hopes). Those reactions are commensurate with our experience. So if you’re going to do something that would strike most people as odd, be sure it’s backed up in the character’s backstory somewhere.

 

Don’t be afraid to ask open-ended questions of your characters when you come to these choices. You may discover some rich gems hiding. I am working on a novel that I can’t talk about right now, but: in the story, this main character was knowingly entering into a situation where she may be called upon to take a life. Maybe several. How the hell do I motivate that? What would make a person do that? What has happened in her past to make her . . . ohhhh! GOT IT!

 See what I mean? I made a brand new discovery about her history that gives the novel a whole new resonance.

Do this, please, whenever your can. I don’t mind mindless horror from time to time, it has its place. So does mindless YA, mindless romance, mindless mystery. Swell. But if you’re setting out to make something else, which Midsommar is clearly trying to do, then for God’s sake, motivate those characters to justify the stupid shit they do on the page.

Halloween Horror Review: Train To Busan

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Train to Busan pits a band of survivors against a speeding train full of zombies.

 

I mean, really, what else is there to know?

 

The film goes on as most zombie films that have taken a class or two in pacing, letting the opening build relationships and lay out the scenario before the horror begins. By 13 minutes in, we’ve seen this all before, but the script and performances do their job, endearing us to a businessman Dad, his daughter, and their family plight, which is the couple’s impending divorce.

 

But then right around 15:00, shit gets real.

 

Suddenly the passenger train is filled with infected undead, who merrily and bloodily go about creating more of themselves as they feast on the passengers. The great physical performances by the infected deserve recognition. These impressive acrobatics are accentuated wonderfully by the music, sound effects, and cinematography.

 

There’s not much we haven’t seen before — lots of hair-raising near-misses and escapes, and wondering which of the rag tag group of spunky survivors will be next to go. (I will say when the last of them clocks out, it is pretty tragic.) The addition of the train as the primary setting gives the goings-on a nice sense of, pardon me: momentum.

 

Like many zombie flicks, the ultimate cause of the zombie outbreak is left pretty vague, although it is somewhat addressed in a quick phone call just past the halfway mark.

 

It feels, though, that mostly the filmmakers are simply building on what others have done before without adding anything particularly new to the canon. The rules are the same: don’t be seen, don’t be heard, don’t get bit, keep going like a bat outta hell for the One Place That’s Safe while Protecting Those You Love . . . with a splash of Who Are The Real Monsters?! mixed in.

 

It is not a bad thing that these tropes are well-worn. They are well-worn for a reason. If you pick up a film like Train to Busan after seeing the trailer, it’s because you have genre expectations. Those expectations are met well in Train. So while there’s nothing new here, the film is a hell of a lot of fun for fans of the genre.

 

The math is simple: If you like zombie movies, you will like Train to Busan.

 

Happy Halloween!

Book Review: ARARAT, by Christopher Golden

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tl;dr? watch here instead

Christopher Golden has constructed a place you never want to go but that you cannot stop reading about.

The novel Ararat takes place on the mountain of the same name, where Noah’s Ark is reputed to have come to rest. That’s exactly what the novel seems to be about, when an earthquake unearths what appears to be remnants of a giant ship. But when scientists ascend the mountain to study the discovery, they quickly find that there’s something in there that should not be. Whether it’s Noah’s ark at all becomes secondary to survival as the team squares off with a chilling and brutal entity that will feed off the reader’s worst fears!

As a horror writer, I have many different tools available to scare you. One of those tools is dread, which is not the same as horror, terror, or the gross-out. Dread is a tough one to do, because it requires patience and precise words and pacing. Golden has done that here. He doesn’t hide his monster, it’s in plain sight the entire story, yet the dread just builds and builds until you are forced to stay up long after dark, reading to see when things will finally burst.

The author and I were both nominated for the Bram Stoker Award the same year in different categories, and Ararat won that year. I have not met Christopher Golden, but I have met Joe Hill and other horror authors who speak highly of him and there’s no question he’s at the top of his game when it comes to dread. So whether you are a reader who loves horror novels or a writer who’s looking to sharpen that particular tool in your toolbox, I highly recommend reading this Bram Stoker Award winner.

Book Review: BUTTER, by Erin Jade Lange

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tl;dr? watch instead here

 

“Butter” is the name of a high school boy who once, allegedly, ate an entire stick of butter. That’s not the entire story, of course, but we may not even learn Butter’s actual name until after he eats himself to death live on the internet in a bid to not only take his own life but achieve total internet fame.

Author Erin Jade Lange has crafted an all too realistic portrait of “influencer” culture and the impact it can have on lives on both sides of a computer screen. Butter himself, the main character, is dangerously overweight, so much so that his literal life may be in jeopardy even before he decides to commit suicide and broadcast his death to his local high school. The problem is, once his intentions get out, Butter becomes the opposite of everything he’s ever been: cool, desired, and talked about. But his popularity is predicated on the idea that he’s going to kill himself, so the book dives deep into asking its readers, just as its main character does: what price is too high to pay to be quote-unquote “popular”?

Now, be warned – Butter is not an entirely likable character when we first meet him, and in fact he makes a dozen choices over the course of the novel that may not endear him to readers. But that’s exactly the thing about great contemporary young adult literature – a willingness to show protagonists with all their flaws. These characters last so much longer in the imagination and compel much greater discussion.

Butter is a great read for schools and families needing to open some doors about popularity and using the internet, although it definitely not for most readers under the age of about 12. But it is fantastically written with a very realistic protagonist who inhabits a space all of us do when we’re sixteen: how the hell did I get into this mess and how the hell am I going to get out of it?

Don’t Lose It

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5 a.m.

Kid Noisestm wake me up. I can’t quite fall back to sleep. Start obsessing over this novel I really want to write. Something new and different for me. But the more I study it, the farther away it gets. The character’s all wrong, the plot won’t work, the structure is wonky.

And in this half-asleep mode, this near-darkness . . . I see my protagonist. I see her dad, then her mom.

I see the weapons.

Now I’m at a critical juncture: burrow deeper into the covers and let sleep take over, or get up and at least take some notes?

I get up.

Two single-spaced pages later, I have the intro to my new novel. Everything I need is now in place, and I can begin writing in earnest. I’ll probably have a draft by the end of February.

When that Thing comes to you early in the morning or in the middle of the night . . . don’t lose it. An idea for an improved golf club, the next great Widget, the opening to your novel. Whatever it is, get up and don’t lose it.

Because we both know if you say, “I’ll remember,” you won’t. Get up or stop whatever it is you’re doing and get that thing down.

Stephen King talks about The Muse in On Writing. The Muse is not something you wait around for; you just do the work. But when you just do the work, sometimes The Muse does show up and gives you a little gift. Like two single-spaced pages.

Don’t lose it.

Thanks for being here! Take care, and may you be happy.

~ Tom

 

Book Review: Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee by Mary G. Thompson

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Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee may appear at first glance to be a YA thriller along the lines of my own novel, Shackled. That’s certainly what I thought I was getting into when I picked the book up in preparation for the World Fantasy Convention where I was going to meet the author, Mary G. Thompson. Mary is a brilliant woman who holds about eighteen different degrees including a J.D. and an MFA. While I’m sure some of that education played a role in the crafting of Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee, there are some aspects of storytelling that are harder to learn than others, some things that just sort of have to come naturally. One of those things is Voice, and that’s an aspect of fiction writing I’m constantly trying to hone in my own novels and in the work of the students I have in various writing classes or critique groups.

Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee is about one girl once named Amy, then named Chelsea, and now trying to reclaim her identity as Amy again after escaping from the kidnapper who took her and her beloved cousin Dee. The kidnapper, a disturbing man with a doll fetish, re-named both girls during their six-year-long incarceration with him in the forests of Oregon. How Amy came to escape is not something I can share without spoilers, but it drives the central plot of the book and explains why, after returning to her old life as a teenager, Amy is now plotting to go back to that scary cabin in the woods.

Overall this is an emotional journey through severe trauma, and I think it has great value for those who are sort of bystander-survivors: those family and friends who did not experience the victim’s trauma personally and therefore may have trouble fully understanding what the victim suffered. There’s great value in the story for that reason alone.

But again, one thing Mary has here in abundance is Voice, and for me that’s really the defining line between great contemporary YA and cheap knock-offs who got into the market when it was hot. Not to name any names, but, you’d recognize them. There is not a lot of external, physical action in the story, although what action Mary does write is handled very well. It’s the internal action that gets the lion’s share of the pages, and that’s good. It works. I start and do not finish a ton of books these days, as my friends at my book club can attest, but I came back to Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee again and again to find out what would happen next. Mary does an outstanding job of capturing inner turmoil and symptoms of what is most likely PTSD, though a diagnosis is never actually given. As someone who still struggles with some of those symptoms, I felt that Mary did an excellent and considerate job of handling Amy’s trauma and recovery.

As it pertains to writers, I recommend this book for the same reason I recommended The Girl With All The Gifts by M.R. Carey — there is no predicting what is going to happen. Even after one of the biggest reveals in the book, the story’s not over, and there is just no guessing how things will turn out from page one until the very end. Like The Girl With All The Gifts, it is not fast paced, but it is deliberately paced, and our attachment to the characters is such that we have to find out how all this tragedy is going to resolve. So for you writers, I recommend studying how Mary constructs this novel in such a way that readers can only keep reading to find out the resolution. This is well worth looking into.

So, grab a copy of Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee, and then let me know what you thought of it. Did the author keep you guessing? Did you feel for the protagonist? Am I way off base on this one? Let me know on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Bookbub, Goodreads…wherever! And be sure to follow Mary G. Thompson for more of her work as well.

 

 

Movie Review: GHOST SQUAD

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GHOST SQUAD is not a breathtaking work of staggering genius, nor does it appear to be designed to be. It is, however, a fairly fun romp and taste of the supernatural perfect for young kids (or older ones) who aren’t ready to go full-steam ahead in this genre. The scares are gentle, for lack of a better term, with just enough thrill to keep kids engaged.

The film follows young friends off to spend the night in a haunted house after a dare by their local bully. That’s standard old-school fare, but the film gives it a nice update. This is not IT nor STRANGER THINGS, but the performances are admirable on the part of all the kids involved.

There is what feels like a rather forced subplot and theme about dads and sons, but a surprisingly gruff showing by SNL alum Kevin Nealon actually sells the idea pretty well — again, for the primary audience. The script is not shabby at all, though the pacing is off; not slow, but off. The performances keep the film going even though the central storyline takes a bit to find its feet.

Overall, GHOST SQUAD is genuine and heartfelt and even pulls off a pretty cute ending that hits the right note for any fretful parents.

GHOST SQUAD is not recommended for adults, and nor are they its intended audience. It’s a polished version of the Goosebumps TV show from days of yore, and a less scary version of the modern, updated films with Jack Black. If your kids aren’t ready for that film, GHOST SQUAD is a perfect place to start.

#HoldOnToTheLight – 2018

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THE BAD PLACE

It is the end of September. I just now realized it is Thursday, not Friday.

I am in my office. I am in my bad place. My office is not a bad place; I bring my bad place with me, like a guilty photo ragged at the edges and stuffed unseen in my wallet. Everywhere I go.

My bad place is not tangible. It is not a room or a spot or an area. It’s a place in my head and I could feel it coming on this morning. It is a cross between a slow, oozing wound and a brittle snap. I could feel it coming. I didn’t know what to do. Now it’s here. Or maybe I’m there. Whichever. It doesn’t matter. The bad place is back.

As I sit here, literally and truly, with no exaggeration, I want to scream. I want to scream awful things. Horrible things. Wicked things. So the world will know how bad I am and why I should be killed.

I want to punch myself in the stomach. The thighs. The face. Like I have done so many times before.

I want to break everything in my house. Feel each bit of crockery shatter and send tremors up my legs that rattle my ribs together like windchimes.

The destruction feels good. The sound of shit breaking feels good. Punching myself feels good. Screaming awful screams feels good. This is the bad place. I don’t know why I am here or what to do about it.

Right now I am sitting and writing. I have to remind myself to breath because there is very little breathing in the bad place. I have not broken anything. I have not screamed. I have not hurt myself.

But one.

Little.

Thing.

Will do it. Will TRIGGER it.

Maybe it’s banging my pinky against a door frame. Maybe it’s misspelling a word in this article over and over and over and over and over and christ jesus fuck you in the face who the fuck ever let me near a keyboard you useless piece of shit die.

That’s all I can hear. That’s the echo of the bad place.

An hour ago I was doing “jazz hands” for children and their moms in a place that is nearly a second home. I teach children how to read! I should be proud of this. It should make me happy.

They don’t see the drive home. They don’t see the breaking and the screaming and the punching. They don’t see the visceral hate I see in the mirror. The face that says You must not just be destroyed, you must be torn apart.

This is the bad place.

What went wrong this time? What was today’s “trigger?”

There is no trigger. There is just this. This is its face. I listened to encouraging words on the way to my job. I tried to breathe on the way home. I put on a good show and got great feedback. I also got a rejection on a query letter, but that ain’t shit, that’s the business.

There is no trigger. There is just this. It just comes when it wants to.

My wife and children are healthy and safe. I have a home. My dog is loyal to a fault. My friends and family love me.

It’s never enough to stop the bad place.

There is no trigger. There is just this.

I should probably cry. That would probably help. But I don’t. I won’t. I won’t, I refuse, and I’ve been told this is bad for me. It is. I agree. So instead I come here, to the bad place, and try not to break, to scream, or to punch.

I don’t know what to do now. I don’t know how to come up for air.

There is just this. The visceral need to destroy and be destroyed.

All I can do . . . all I can ever do . . .

Is wait.

Wait just one more minute.

Wait one more minute.

Don’t give up for one more minute.

Don’t give in for one more minute.

Just stay safe for one more minute.

As of this moment—let me get a calculator—I have been here for more than 23,126,400 minutes. I just need to hang on for one more of those.

They start to add up, don’t they? A minute here, another minute there. One after another.

Pretty soon you have a life.

A life where not every minute must be spent counting the minutes, but one in which some are lost to the bad place, yes. I can’t have those minutes back. But there are so many other minutes…minutes with my wife. Minutes with my children. Minutes with my friends. Minutes with my art. Minutes for ice cream and coffee and pizza and walks around the park. My minutes. My good minutes. There are so many good minutes to be had, and so much potential in each one.

So yeah. The bad ones suck. But not every minute is bad and there’s only one way to find out: Stay here.

I am still here.

I am still safe.

I have made it one more minute.

Too many of us have not.

So today, I promise—I will wait just one more minute.

Now promise me: You will wait just one more minute. That’s not so much. Breathe with me. Even in the bad place, breathe. For one more minute.

23,126,401

23,126,402

23,126,403

One more minute.

About the campaign:

 

#HoldOnToTheLight is a blog campaign encompassing blog posts by genre authors around the world in an effort to raise awareness around treatment for depression, suicide prevention, domestic violence intervention, PTSD initiatives, bullying prevention and other mental health-related issues. We believe fandom should be supportive, welcoming and inclusive, in the long tradition of fandom taking care of its own. We encourage readers and fans to seek the help they or their loved ones need without shame or embarrassment.

Please consider donating to or volunteering for organizations dedicated to treatment and prevention such as: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, Hope for the Warriors (PTSD), National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Canadian Mental Health Association, MIND (UK), SANE (UK), BeyondBlue (Australia), and the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.

To find out more about #HoldOnToTheLight, find a list of participating authors and blog posts, or reach a media contact, go to http://www.HoldOnToTheLight.com and join us on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/WeHoldOnToTheLight

We All Have an Origin Story

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My wife and I were driving home from seeing a superhero movie one night and talking about it as normal people do after a movie. I believe it was a sequel; possibly Spider-Man 3 or something like that. I mentioned that I really tend to prefer the first films in a series, not just because they are any better necessarily, but because I really love origin stories.

“That makes sense,” Joy said. “Since that’s what you write.”

And I thought–but had the common sense not to say–“Oh, no no no, sweetie love. No no no, I write contemporary young adult fiction, not superhero stories.”

What I said was, “Huh?” (Which I say a lot.)

She answered, “Well, what is being a teenager if not your origin story?”

BAM! She was absolutely right. All young adult (YA) and middle-grade (MG) fiction is, essentially, origin stories. We may not see where these characters end up as adults, but we see who they are in the process of becoming, and that process, universal certainly to Western civilization over the past 100 years or so, but possibly the world throughout, is the story we’re telling.

I’m fairly sure I’ve changed a lot since I was a teenager. At least, I hope so! But boiled down, how different am I really? How have my core beliefs and attitudes changed since then? What matters to me, what I care about, who I am attracted to romantically and otherwise? I mean, cripes, my best friends from high school are my best friends today. A lot of them still live within driving distance.

Why YA?

I don’t know why exactly I am attracted to these origin stories; maybe it’s because only recently have I become as … alive as I was back then, and so revisiting that deep well of nostalgia is somehow cathartic. Maybe there’s an ethos in being a teenager that appeals to me. (Probably that’s it.) Or maybe it’s just that things of the Adult World bore me silly. Dance clubs and alcohol and mortgages and credit cards and keeping up with the Whomevers and watching reality TV…yawn. My family is about as middle class and nuclear as they come (few and far between these days, I know), yet we don’t strive for the things others in our demographic seem to.

Or maybe I just haven’t accepted that I’m forty-something goddamn years old yet. A distinct possibility. But the best part of being older is you (usually) have money to buy all the crap you couldn’t when you were 14, so that’s a plus.

Part of my attraction to YA too I think is, frankly, the brutality of it. Not that this necessarily goes away as people age, but most of us become at least somewhat socially aware as we get older and stop making assholes of ourselves. (Some, not all!) But kids don’t have those filters in place yet, I think, as a whole. Shit just comes out of their mouths before they can stop to think about the ramifications of it, and while sometimes that’s straight up funny, other times–a lot of times–it is devastating. Even … fatal, I am sorry to say. So there is always drama to be teased out and studied, like I did with Random, a book inspired by very true and very awful circumstances. Being a teen is far too often a real-life Hunger Games.

On the flip side, though–the good side, the great side–I think it’s the bigness of everything at that age that I keep wanting to write about. Everything is new when you hit junior high and high school. You’ve learned so much about the world and yet know so little. My dad once said something like, “Tom, I’m sixty-five years old, and am just now realizing that I don’t know shit.” Teenagers, happily for us writers, don’t labor under this problem, as they have the solutions for everything. I know I did. I probably still do, actually, which is why I write YA…?

This is one reason I get so bent out of shape when teens are dismissed. Come on, man, it was mostly teens and very young adults who saved the fucking planet in the 1940s. They know the score. They have the passion to get things done, and I for one say let ’em. It’s not like adults have a great track record with human rights, amen?

But Why Else?

Maybe, too, it’s my theatre background, which is dependent on dialogue to function. I feel like my teenage years were filled with nothing but dialogue. Phone calls and hanging out, all the time. All night, all day. We didn’t have money or much else, and we were lucky if someone had a car. Three bucks, a Super Big Gulp, and a pack of smokes, we were good to go. I know this is an ancient and largely romanticized picture to paint, but it’s true. I’d say, on average, I spent five afternoons and/or evenings with one or more of my friends, away from school. After school, at night, on the weekend, whatever, we were together. For about a year, maybe two, my buddy Damon would come pick me up in his old blue Chevy pick up at least once a week, and we’d drive to some random location, pop in some Skoal, and talk for two hours or more on whatever-the-fuck.

So talking, dialogue, is very much a part of our teen lives, and since dialogue is what I was trained in, so to speak, maybe it’s only natural that I gravitated to YA.

Or maybe it’s simply that the first full-length novel I really completed was written at age 19, about 19-year-olds. That’s outer limit for YA these days, yes, but certainly its topics, tone, and ideas were squarely in the YA genre. (This book later became Zero.)

This Is Why:

My latest book, Mercy Rule, is definitely a YA novel, but the thing about that genre and most of the books in it — particularly the realistic contemporary stuff — is that it speaks not just to teens, but to a large swath of adults who remember those years vividly but who made it out the other side. Mercy Rule is a tough book, I’m not gonna lie, and it’s definitely an origin story for several of its characters. But it’s also about the origin stories that never got to be told to completion. (You’ll understand when you read it.) And to me, the most important part of all this is that someone who needs to read it gets ahold of it and says, “Yeah, this guy gets me.” It’s the biggest compliment I’ve ever been paid with my novels. I need these readers to Stay Here and help get the rest of the world out of the goddamn dark ages.

Teenagers are superheros, if we let them. Superman was not born Superman; he was Clark Kent long before he put on the cape. He’s a hero not for his powers, but for the way his family raised him to care about others. He could have just as easily been found by Lex Luthor’s family. “Kansas farm boy makes good” isn’t much of an origin story, but it turned out one hell of a super man.

I hope I do the same.