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Jun232014

David’s Timeline of Marvel Comics Must Reads


I put this together for Lisa and Jenn. It’s my timeline of Marvel must reads for anyone trying to catch up modern Marvel History who wants to augment the movies. A few notes: I left out some great series that while I loved, didn’t really fit in. I also left out the Hulk crossovers because I don’t really follow the character. Also, I labeled all the Cosmic crossovers as “Guardians” since that’s where that team came from. I may edit this as I go. Where I’ve mentioned a specific writer, that means I highly recommend their work.
New X-Men by Grant Morrison (X-Men): Read all of this first.
Captain America by Ed Brubaker*
Madrox by Peter David
Avengers Disassembled (Avengers)
–          Young Avengers: (Two Volumes, Sidekicks and Family Matters)
House of M (Avengers/X-Men)
–          X Factor by Peter David*
–          Ms. Marvel*
Decimation: House of M’s Aftermath (X-Men)
Uncanny X-Men by Ed Brubaker: Rise and Fall of the Shiar Empire**
Annihilation (Guardians)
 Civil War (Avengers)
                    –            The Death of Captain America
Annihilation: Conquest (Guardians)
–          Guardians of the Galaxy by Abnett and Lanning*
Messiah Complex (X-Men)
Manifest Destiny (X-Men)
Secret Invasion (Avengers)
Dark Reign (Avengers)
–          Invincible Iron Man*
War of Kings (Guardians)
Utopia (Avengers/X-Men)
Siege (Avengers)
–          Journey into Mystery*
Realm of Kings (Guardians)
Second Coming (X-Men)
The Thanos Imperative (Guardians)
Fear Itself (Avengers/Thor)
Schism (X-Men)
–          Wolverine and the X-Men*
Young Avengers: Children’s Crusade
Avengers vs. X-Men (Avengers/X-Men)
* Indicates a series that runs on through several of the subsequent crossovers so should be read in chunks, not in consecutive order.
** Indicates a limited run within an ongoing series.

For Jenn in regards to loaning:
Blue – Indicates Trade I Own
Green – I own some or most
Red – I don’t own, recommend digital

May232014

Yoga and Writing: Go Deeper, Smell Your Kneecap

I imagine my stress like a meter inside me, a rising tide in my body. When it reaches the level of my heart, that’s usually the point where it impairs my writing. One trick I have to reduce it, to re-center, is to get my inflexible butt to a yoga class.
I suck at yoga because I don’t practice it enough to be good at it. I fall over when I try to do tree poses. I’m self-conscious about watching the expert students, worried they’ll think I’m checking them out. Yoga is messy, but welcoming. It’s very hard to walk out of a good class and still feel stressed out. I love Anusara best, because it’s about alignment and usually comes with a mini therapy lesson, something to think about while you’ll also pondering what your kneecap smells like.
I was editing last night, taking the red pen to double spaced printed pages that I’m reading aloud (I’ve thoroughly embraced this as the best way to edit and ensure no one sits near me in coffee shops), when I found a connection between yoga, where the instructor is always encouraging you to “go deeper” into the pose and my writing.
It was one of those strange little light bulb moments – A micro-epiphany about the craft. I found a decent little bit of description that while well written, was also a tell not show (something I am really hammering on in my writing). I marked the paragraph as “go deeper,” and this morning, when making the changes on the computer, that’s what I did – I took that paragraph and converted it to dialogue, used it to show one character’s insight and hint at the other one’s secrets. I turned a good bit of writing into something better.
Editing in this fashion, killing trees, paying close attention as you read aloud, is time consuming. Yet it’s a path to going deeper, to focusing your eye and ear where you can find little places to improve and polish. If you’re struggling, if you’ve hit a plateau, give the print and pen technique a try. And when writing stresses you out, try a yoga class. Say hi. I’ll be the guy in the back, falling over during tree pose.
Apr302014

Brave New World-Builders


If you’ve got a book written and want to sell it or if you’re working towards it, strongly consider attending the Pikes Peak Writers Conference. I hadn’t done it before. I went to Backspace once. I’ve attended workshops and classes, but this is the first time I’ve been steeped in such company for four days straight and you know what? I found my tribe.
I spent those days surrounded by talented people who commute to their imaginary worlds as often as I do. It was amazing, comical, and incredibly inspiring. I have always been wary of writers in large groups (stupidly, it turns out). The comical aspect is from the sheer introverted nature of many of us. I’ve developed a decent extrovert shell over the years, but it was well cracked by Saturday and fully broken by Sunday. What emerged was my actual self, all gay and nerdy, and nobody cared.
Turns out writers are a wacky, accepting bunch. I had the pleasure of sitting at lunch next to one of my top three favorite authors, Gail Carriger. I met award winning writers I deeply respect like Carol Berg, amazing agents like Michelle L. Johnson, and incredible editors; but aside from the industry exposure, I had the privilege of meeting writers who write speculative fiction. What struck me first, deeply, was how social we could all be despite how distinct we are. The complete lack of competitiveness and the willingness to cheer each other on was inspiring. The drive and talent of these people is uplifting, and the sense that we’re all in it together, whether published or striving, gave me a sense of wonder.

If you take my advice, and attend in 2015, which I hope you will, here are my tips:

  1. Bring business cards. Bring a lot of them. They don’t need to be fancy or expensive. Just make sure they’ve got your name, contact information including any social media sites, and your genre(s). I printed mine at home. 
  2. Give your card to anyone you talk to. Take their card. Stay in touch after the conference.
  3. Talk to people. Ask them what they write. Tell them what you write. When you see someone you don’t know, speak to them, even if they’re not someone you’d never normally speak to. They’re probably a writer.
  4. Participate. Workshops are great and they’re often taught by amazing people. Before you go, read the program. Know what you need to bring. Buy or print the handouts. Read the instructions. Getting my first chapter beat up in front of 50 people sucked. You know what sucks more? Not being a better writer.
  5. Unplug as much as you can. I live on the Internet, but when you’ve got Gail Carriger teaching a master workshop on the history of steampunk, do you really need to know what’s going on with Facebook? You paid to be here. Engage. Like any program, it only works for you if you work for it.
  6.  Drink lots of water and take vitamins. This altitude can be brutal on newbies. It’s rare I don’t have a cup of coffee in hand, but I counter each cup with two glasses of water to balance out the dehydration. Take a ton of vitamin C (to boost your immune system) and fish oil (for the dryer air). Wash your hands thoroughly and don’t touch your face. You’re going to be shaking a lot of hands, and should, but try to avoid getting sick.
  7. Relax, but not too much. These people are just like you. They are in the same place. Chances are they are feeling what you’re feeling. That said, it’s still a business you’re trying to break into. Dress in jeans, but jeans without holes. Have a glass of wine at dinner, but don’t get drunk. If in doubt what to wear, I’ll give you the same advice I give someone flying for the first time: dress like you’re having lunch with your future in laws. No need to wear a dress or suit, but you don’t want to be covered in food or in my case, wads of cat hair.
  8. Thank the volunteers and people who put it together. These people work very hard at this, usually for free. They’re also sometimes good for a hug when you really need one (just ask first cause personal space and everything).
  9. Read the books of the authors before you go. I hadn’t read Chuck Wendig before the conference. That made me feel like I wasn’t getting a lot of what the others who had were. It also meant I felt weird bumping into him.
  10. Similar to #9, research the attendees. Look up the agents, authors, and editors in advance. Follow them on twitter. Find out which house or agency they’re with. Know what they’ve published.
  11. Talk to the authors, even the ones outside your genre. If you’ve read this blog you know I think we need to stretch ourselves. Two of my friends are award-winning crime writers. I learn a lot from them about pacing and technique, even if their books don’t have any orcs.
  12. Be organized. Print the pages you’ll need for the workshops well in advance (the hotel printers are often taxed). Put the pages in a manila folder so they don’t get crunched (you’ll be given a lot of stuff each day and it will all swish around in your bag). A few extra pens are always wise. I divide my days into folders for each day and make backups but I’m clumsy and kind of forgetful. I need backups.
  13. Use that badge thingy. Wear it. Own it. If you think it’s geeky, well it is, but we’re all wearing one. And it’s got all these great secret little pockets for cards and pens and the bat-breath mints. Plus your meal tickets and pitch cards are in there. Lose those and you’re screwed.
  14. Wear comfortable shoes. You’re going to be in them all day.
  15. Wear layers. The hotel’s temperature can vary room to room. Having a jacket meant I could lose it, zip it, or loan it when the AC went wonky.
  16. Say hi when you see me there.
Mar302014

Video Games: An Unlikely Writing Teacher


I just finished Mass Effect 3, the end of the epic Sci-Fi trilogy series from Bioware, and it’s left me with the same sense I get when a great book comes to an end. I know there’s plenty of debate out there about video games, that they’re too violent, too addictive. I’d say that any compelling form of escape, including reading, can cause controversy. My own mother called Ultima “sorcery” when I played it on the Nintendo Entertainment System. She might have been onto something. Video games, RPGs at least, have always had a certain magic for me.
While tabletop role playing games are a collective storytelling experience, a situation where we each bring something to the table (usually beer and sarcasm at my table), I prefer a solitary video game experience. I turn on the screen, look into that other world, where I create a separate identity and see where that character goes.
Mass Effect follows Bioware’s extremely high standards (mirrored in Dragon Age, their fantasy trilogy) of forcing the lead character into tight corners where you make difficult choices that impact the series again and again. Every choice, imported as I’ve moved through the games, came back to bite me. Forget the incredible graphics and top voice talent—it’s that narrative, that raising of the stakes until the character has no way out but one of two equally terrible options, that drives my love of the series.
In elder days, I’d have a similar experience with Ultima. The classic series of computer RPGs were one of the biggest reasons I wanted a PC after experiencing them on the NES. Ultima was the first game to really draw me in, encourage me to create a character and set them loose in a fantastic world. In many ways the lower quality, vaguer, graphics enhanced my experience as my imagination could fill in so much about the relationships among the party and their motivations. I’ve learned about narrative by reading, but video games have long been a lab where I’ve grown characters.
Reaching the end of Mass Effect (and I’m proud I was able to avoid spoilers two years after the game released), was like getting to the end of a great book. My head spins a little. I already miss some of the characters. I’m tempted to start the whole cycle over again and make different choices, but I’m more inspired to go write something, to look at how I can set up those kinds of no win scenarios and see my own characters beat the odds.
Mar242014

Some Bookish Things to Do in Denver and Boulder

I’m a Denver resident so I have to be upfront and admit that I’m not as familiar with Boulder. I’ve included items for both cities.
Denver
If you’ve got a few hours, I’d recommend a walk from the Tattered Cover LoDo to My Brother’s Bar and back. There’s a good view from the top of Confluence Park (though the Union Station construction will mar things a bit behind you unless you’re fascinated by trains). If you’ve more time, 
I suggest going to the Tattered Cover’s Colfax location. It’s a beautiful space in a historic theater. A quick stop at Book Bar (west of everything else in the Highlands) is well worth it.
Tattered Cover
I’d heard about the Tattered Cover before I’d moved here twenty years ago. While the other locations have never had the same charm as the old Cherry Creek store, the Colfax and Elizabeth location is beautiful, airy, and well stocked. The Lower Downtown (LoDo) location is a close second favorite.
My Brother’s Bar
Has been a quiet institution for a long time. There are stairs that no longer rise to a missing second floor, a beer garden (they only play classical music). Jack Kerouac immortalized it. Not nearly as bookish, but still worth a stop and great for an inexpensive lunch. Don’t confuse it with Brother’s Bar. That’s where most of the bad reviews come from.
Book Bar
Book Bar is neat little coffee shop/bar/bookstore. My book club meets there sometimes. It’s just a perfect little book themed space with great coffee and better wine.
Murder by the Book
Sadly, this little gem of a store no longer has a storefront so it’s technically cheating to put it here, but I want to support their online efforts to stay afloat.
Boulder
Boulder, especially Pearl Street, is a highly walkable place. It’s a great area to wander and see and well worth some hours. I prefer it in the summer when the students aren’t around and the weather is warmer, but it’s a good place any time of year. If you’ve a couple of hours to spare, be sure to walk the creek past the library and see the dam under Broadway.
Trident Café and Bookseller
I have a soft spot for the Trident as I met my ex there for our first real date. The Trident is close to the Boulder Bookstore and open until 11 pm so it’s a good place to go and browse used books if you’re wandering around after Booktopia.
The Catacombs
Whether you’re staying in the Hotel Boulderado or not, check out the Catacombs bar. Not bookish per se, but a cool, inspiring space (especially for mystery or fantasy writers).
Boulder Public Library
A quick walk from the Boulder Bookstore, the public library branch is well designed and near the creek, so it’s a good place to clear your head and see the town.
The Stanley Hotel
If you were taken with the Shining, then the drive to Estes Park from Boulder will be worth it. If you’re going to spend the time then I recommend making sure you explore Rocky Mountain National Park. Not bookish in itself, but it has some of the most amazing views.
Erika Napoletano’s List of Independent Bookstores
I found this list of bookstores for Boulder and thought I’d share:
Please note that Left Hand closed a while back (thanks Rachel Adler for the tip).
I didn’t mention Boulder Bookstore as Booktopia will give you the chance to see it.
Thanks to my book club and Brian Staley for helping with this list!
Mar122014

I Think I’m in Love. Athens Might Get Jealous

Three days back and Rome is like a dream. I’ve waxed poetic before on the beauty of travel. It takes you out of yourself, away from your daily grind, and gifts you with insight. For me, a city so steeped in history is a natural draw. Even without the churches, the whispering fountains, the great food or perfect coffee, the ruins remain.
I had the fortune this trip to spend a day with Peggy Ryan, whose Gracefully Global blog is more than worth checking out. She had some great tips for little things off the beaten path, and she shares my love of the Trastevere neighborhood. She also introduced me to cacao de pepe, which officially blew my diet.
We wandered with our mutual friend Clint, who’s always good at spotting an odd twist in the path and leading you to the unexpected. As usual I hauled back too many books, but strangely I didn’t take many pictures. I wanted this trip to be more in the moment, more immediate and less of a record. I captured memories, bits of ideas and faint inspirations as Clint and I walked the city, exploring her ancient and medieval boundaries. I made a friend, a guy from Milan who taught me some Italian sayings.
Now I’m back, and while the getting home was as strangely rough as always, I’ve carried that sense of wonder with me. That’s what travel does for me, why I prioritize it over owning a car of a bigger house. If I preach anything, if I’ve found anything that makes me happier, it is the long game of valuing experience and people over material goods.
Rome has made an impact. After three trips there I’m starting to feel like I know the city, even if my terrible sense of direction hasn’t caught up. I’m clinging to the feeling the journey gave me. Maybe I’ll learn to make pasta.
Feb232014

Cottontop


Memory is a tricky, private thing. While it’s true for everyone that Guthrie, Oklahoma in the 1970s was a very historic, very small town, we didn’t live in Guthrie. We lived near it in a pocket universe of flannel and scrub oak.
I grew up in the woods near Lake Liberty, at a little bend in the water we had all to ourselves. Only the occasional duck blind or abandoned Coors can gave us signs of intrusion. Our three acres, with my grandparents’ pink brick house at the top and our trailer at the bottom of the little hill, were as far from civilization as you could get. I don’t remember a time without corduroy and jean jackets, chickens and BB rifles, or my orange tackle box. Going into town was a big deal. The school bus took forever. Trips to Wal-Mart or the feed store were rare and necessary.
It was a whole other world, and never one in which I quite belonged. I wanted magic and spaceships, droids and a robot dog. I asked my uncle to build me a wooden box that I could paint blue and pretend it was a TARDIS. What I didn’t understand was how magical my world already was. I could be gone all day, wandering paths through the high grass that pooled when the woods of scrub oak broke. Lightning storms were common in the fall, as were the lime green skies that marked the chance for a tornado in the spring. We’d find lumps of iron, pitted and black, in the red clay or soft sand. We called it lava rock. Perhaps it was bog iron, though any bog that might have produced it was long gone. Perhaps they were meteorites.
The smells were acrid, like the garbage we burned, and verdant as the leaves uncurled. Everything had a taste, the metallic air that came from our trailer’s heating vents in winter and the leaf mold of the shady earth beneath the branches.
Summer’s light would strike the oak leaves, giving them an emerald glow that contrasted so sharply with their black, flaky bark. We chased fireflies in the years we had them, missed them when we did not.
In the few photos I have my hair is white, so pale they called me “cottontop.” I am not alone. I had older brothers, a younger sister. I didn’t think about the hand me down jeans and threadbare clothes that marked us as poorer than some other kids. I had a wild, infinite backyard. And I had my head, my imagination: a world full of space and science fiction.
Then I had the city. For my father, always aspiring to a better life, the climb was uphill. He wanted more than a trailer at the bottom of his in laws’ little hill. We left Guthrie, that magical world, behind us. I remember crying forever about Patches, the cat I could not bring with us. I vividly recall the big steel barn that marked the turn off, the way down to Forest Hills, our “neighborhood” of similarly sized plots.
I can still drive that road. The barn still stands, but Guthrie isn’t a place I can recapture. Going home for me means visiting a tiny world where the woods are only a few feet higher than I am. Drizzle and rainstorms still make the red clay bleed, but now houses line the lake. Those little paths are someone’s property. The forest is divided by lines.
What I had, where I lived, is a memory. I’m not even certain how much of it was real. Trying to write about it, I come across images and anecdotes, none of which I’m certain really happened. When I talk to my siblings about it, their memories are just as tangled and unreliable. That just makes it all the more magical, a world I may have created, like so many others.
Oct182013

Sometimes I Miss Vampires, but I Miss My Doc Martens More

 
I’ll confess that I’ve been over vampires for a while. They lost their sparkle some years ago, to the point where I recently picked up an urban fantasy that was really drawing me in until a vampire showed up and drowned me in cliché.
I wasn’t always so burned out on bloodsuckers. Years before Buffy put a stake through my heart, I held a dark and twisty love for Anne Rice, New Orleans, and all things that went bump in the night. I was an angsty boy, Goth before we called it Goth.* 
I cut my own hair and dyed my clothes if anyone tried to dress me in colors. My father called me the “Prince of Darkness.” It wasn’t that I celebrated depression by wearing a lot of black. It’s that wearing black gave air to a feeling, a claustrophobia I felt about my own skin, that I hadn’t been able to express. 
I write a lot about damaged characters. Sometimes their marks are physical, sometimes spiritual . And they can’t always name the source of the injury, usually because they haven’t yet identified it. I write about these boys, and they are usually boys, because I was that boy. I write about them finding some peace, some healing, because despite my young adult angst, anger, and walking around in the rain, I’ve found those things.**
My primary problem with vampires is that most of them are idiots. They live forever and never evolve. They never grow. You shouldn’t get to be immortal if you’re going to be an immortal idiot. Okay that, and I think that 100 years of high school is my idea of hell. 
I loved Anne Rice because she showed us vampires struggling to change. Lestat wanted to break all the rules, burn down the world, and still settle into a quiet little townhouse with Louis at the end of it. Okay, I’ve a 1950s ranch with weird siding and cats, but I’ve settled down enough that I only occasionally want to scream. I never burned the world down and trying mostly singed just me. I’m not a broken boy anymore, but I remember him. He informs my stories. He sits in the dark, where he can see. He’s got something to show you, and he’s got a match ready to light.
*The term still eludes me since the gothic style let more light into cathedrals. You want shadows and gloom, get yourself a Romanesque basilica.
** It does, by the way, get better. Hang in there. It does. I promise.

 

Sep292013

The Stars Shone Bright

 
Texas isn’t home. It never felt like home. And it does not call me back. Still, I go there for work sometimes. This week I had the fairly disconcerting experience of being sent to Dallas where my hotel stood about a mile from my first apartment in the demilitarized zone between Grand Prairie and Arlington. Gunshots weren’t uncommon and the cops couldn’t decide which suburb should police it, so neither did.

I went by the brick mini-manor my father owned with my first stepmother, where I lived as a teen. I wanted to climb the fence, see the backyard, where I first kissed a boy in the rain, under a willow tree, beside my father’s goldfish pond. The experience washed me in bittersweet sentiment, in memories both good and bad. They mixed with feelings that were often just so overwhelming back then.

That boy, my first love, also overwhelmed me. The neighborhood was new then, freshly plopped atop the black mud they called Gumbo. We’d sneak around at night, wandering through unfinished houses, musing where we’d put the furniture, the piano, if the house was ours. It was perhaps the only time in my life when I yearned for domesticity. When it ended, after a few years of me pining and him denying me, Dallas felt like a crater. I climbed out and trekked to Denver on a scholarship earned through all the bad poetry the experience inspired. 
Texas doesn’t call me back. Still, I had to see. I walked around the little park where I ditched school to read Margaret Atwood’s CAT’S EYE in one intense sitting. There were a lot of books in Texas. A lot of coffee. I was lonely. I was bored. So I read. I read voraciously. And I told stories, about myself, about him, the other boy. 
When people ask me what I write I tell them that I write the book I always yearned for when I was a young adult, the YA book I still can’t find: an action-heavy fantasy with a gay protagonist. I write other books, but that’s the book I want to publish, the book I never see on all the YA shelves and tables that seem to be slowly winning all the shelf space. And I have to think there’s room.
Sep212013

Hello Autumn!

 
It’s been a fantastic, busy summer. I set a while ago to try and see the entire Shakespearean canon before I died, and I managed to knock quite a few of them off my list this year. I’ve been to Boulder and San Diego, Cedar City, Utah, and finally landed in Ashland, Oregon. Among it all I had the pleasure of taking my god daughter to her first play.
As I watch, as I listen, I start to find themes in the plays that reflect my own life or my own writing. That’s the point of it all, isn’t it? Shakespeare was written for the masses. The struggles of his characters, particularly in love and matters of station, would have resonated with his audience.
When I compare it Young Adult literature, I can’t help but see how writers do the same: first love is a constant, though after a summer filled with reading YA, I’m getting a little weary of triangles involving the good boy, the bad boy, and a female lead that can’t see past this struggle to more important matters. Still, it’s an old story. There’s even a jealous triangle in King Lear, and it works destruction on all its members.
It’s easy to note Shakespeare’s influence on literature. For me, I didn’t really discover the point until I started college, with a professor who made me read Hamlet so closely that she tested us on footnotes. Even with her encouragement, and even with my love of reading, I’ve never been good at reading plays. I have to hear them, to see them. I don’t think I really fell in love with a Midsummer’s Night Dream until I saw it in Ashland, done in the new style that’s as multimedia and lively as possible. Now I’m fairly obsessed with it.
I arrived in Ashland so stressed out from my day job that I was nearly in tears, after one of the worst days of travel I’ve ever experienced. Now I’m renewed, at least enough to blog again, and hopefully with lots of great plot tangles to ponder and unwind. If great literature has a point for me, a purpose, it’s that it can help us escape our troubles, and help us sort some things out while we’re gone.
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