What I want to say about cancer

I don't talk much on this blog about my personal life for two reasons: 1.) I like my personal life to remain just that, personal, and 2.) This is mainly meant to be a blog about writing in general but my own writing in specific.

However, cancer always seems to be in the news, and sometimes it hits home for the speculative fiction crowd.

Just a few days ago, the fabulous Eugie Foster announced over at her site that she has been diagnosed with cancer. I'll let Eugie tell her story over there.

I'll tell what I've got to tell here.

That I know of, no, I do not have cancer. I have enough health problems of my own without cancer, some quite serious health problems. I live with congestive heart disease, gout, a heel spur, and all the various ailments that go along with all that stuff. Unfortunately, I have not aged well, and the last few years my body has gone down hill on me quite a bit.

Still, I do not have cancer.

That being said, like millions of people in the U.S. and across the globe, cancer has had an effect upon my life.

Three of my four grandparents died of cancer. And because you'll probably be asking yourself at this point, the fourth died of slipping on some ice and cracking his skull.

Stop laughing.

Seriously.

Done yet?

Okay, back to cancer.

I also lost an uncle to cancer about 25 years ago, and he was only three years older than I am now.

More recently, about five years ago my mother was diagnosed with Stage I breast cancer. She had a tough time of it for a year or so, including having a breast removed, but she pulled through. She was declared cancer free last year, and now her chances of having cancer again are about the same as anybody's.

Most recently, my better half was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer this past January.

Stage IV.

That means the cancer has spread beyond the breast(s) to other parts of the body. In this case, the lungs, the spine and other bones. So far.

The first thing anyone asks whenever I or my loved one tells them about this is, "How long do you have?"

It's almost become a joke. Really, we laugh about it sometimes. How long do you have? Nobody knows. That's the truth. Even all the doctors, the specialists and oncologists, can't give a good estimation.

She could have a few months or a few years. Some small number of cases live ten to twenty years.

But the chances of long-term survival are much better nowadays than they were just five years ago. And back then, things were better than they were five years before that. And so on back through time.

You might be nodding, thinking, "Well, of course. Medical treatments have come a long way."

Yes, they have. But the reality is my better half's survival rate is much, much higher now than it was just five years ago.

Think about that.

I'm sure logically you realize the importance of this, but I'm not sure you can emotionally, not unless you've been through something similar.

As recently as March of this year, the woman I love was practically comatose. Even the nurses and doctors did not believe she had more than a few days left. I went home from the hospital every night expecting a 3 a.m. phone call telling me the worst.

But then, slowly, through various treatments and movements from one hospital to a facility and then to another hospital, she got better.

Now she can walk some, with the help of a walker. She has pain, but it is manageable. More importantly, she is conscious and aware. Sometimes her memory slips a little, but that can happen to all of us. Some days are better than others.

But she is home, and relatively healthy. This after she had been hospitalized for nearly six months.

Some would call that a miracle. I'm not necessarily saying it is a miracle, but others would.

Okay, I've rambled on about cancer, but I've not really imparted any wisdom. What is it I really want to say here?

I want to let others know there is hope. There is survival.

Cancer has not been beaten, but much of it can be treated now, especially breast cancer, which has been studied more than any other type of cancer. Long term survival rates are improving all the time, and today's cancer patient might possibly live long enough to actually be around when a cure is discovered, if one ever is.

I don't wish to give false hope, nor do I want to get all spiritual. Cancer is still deadly.

But again, we laugh when someone asks, "How long do you have?"

Why? Because we don't know, and we don't think that way. We don't think, "Oh, she's only got a few months or a few years." We go on with life, we live life, however long we've got.

With my heart condition, it's not impossible I'll go before her. Or I could get hit by a train or struck by lightning. I could even slip on some ice and crack my skull.

It happens.

Now stop laughing, and go live your life.

Books read in 2013: No. 48 -- What is Art?

by Leo Tolstoy

translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhansky

Started: Sept. 17
Finished: Oct. 1

Notes: This book is a collection Tolstoy put together of his essays and thoughts on art, and what constitutes true art or what we might consider high art. From my other readings about this author, it seems Tolstoy thought of true art's goal as one of being influential upon humanity in a positive aspect, specifically a Christian aspect, though Tolstoy's notions of Christianity weren't exactly orthodox (leaning toward a non-mystical anarchism). This translation, I expect, will allow Tolstoy to present his arguments on such matters. I much look forward to it as it was apparently a big influence on John Gardner's On Moral Fiction, one of my favorite books about writing.

Mini review: Good lord, I feel like I've just finished reading a 200-page blog rant by an old guy screaming about how music today is just awful and isn't anything like the good stuff we had back in the day. This isn't far from the truth. Tolstoy here spends a lot of time shitting all over art of his day, including the works of Wagner and Beethoven and Kipling, and then for good measure goes back in time to shit all over Shakespeare. At least he likes a few of the artists from his own period, such as Dickens. Personal taste aside, Tolstoy's definition of "true art" is so narrow as to almost be nonsensical. For him, true art  must contain the following: 1.) The artist must have had true feelings while creating his or her art, and must have either intentionally or unintentionally been trying to convey those feelings through the art, 2.) the art is only allowed to have two subject matters, showing reverence for God, or, showing the union or potential union of mankind in a brotherhood of all, and 3.) the artist must not have been a professional, ie. must not have been trained in art in a school or by a teacher, and the artist must not have been creating his or her art for money or any other kind of personal benefit (other than maybe a sense of happiness at sharing with others). That's it. Anything else is false art, bad art, or counterfeit art. I can't agree with him, which he predicts most people would not. While I could follow some of his reasoning, much of it had to do with the upper classes of his time seeming to have a monopoly on what is considered art, something which I think is not so relevant today. In the final chapter, Tolstoy even goes on to shit all over science, complaining about how much of it is useless other than what today we would call the social sciences, which he found important for the improvement of mankind. My problem with this book wasn't so much that I disagreed with its opinions as the almost vicious way Tolstoy expresses his thoughts on the subject matter. Page after page of old-man rant. It wore thin quickly. At least I'm finished with it. And I'd like to add that while I'm somewhat fascinated with Tolstoy as a writer and a philosopher, that doesn't mean I enjoy everything he wrote, nor that I approve of all his various opinions. There seem to be some who feel Tolstoy was a bit mad in his last years, and that's quite possible, though I tend to think it wasn't so much insanity taking hold of him as it was general grumpiness ... he was old, not in great health, and the world was passing him by ... plus there were all the religious notions he had which seemed to fill him with some despair and even anger. I'll read Tolstoy again, but it might be a while as I need a break.

Just in time for Halloween, 2 new horror books in print

My literary horror sort of gothic novel 100 Years of Blood and the collection SEVER, SLICE and STAB: 20 Tales of Horror are both now available in print.

This time I decided to go for something different with the designs. I intentionally decided to go against much of the common wisdom about e-book covers, and instead focused upon the print copies. I still think the top one should look okay as a copy for an e-book ... okay, not great, but okay ... but the bottom one doesn't show up will in the digital form, though I think it looks pretty nifty in the printed edition.

Where do I see myself as a fantasy writer?

One might argue a writer cannot determine his or her own legacy, not unless that writer becomes quite popular and lives to a ripe old age. Speculative genre figures such as Heinlein and Asimov and Tolkien had some control over how they were portrayed, but the images they had of themselves change and evolve the further we get from the end of their writing careers and often their deaths.

I am in no position to even think about my own writing legacy. Or at least I shouldn't be. I'm not that popular an author, in fantasy or any other genre.

But I don't set out to be.

Fame isn't a goal of mine. More money is always appreciated, but that's not really my goal, either.

Telling stories? A good number of writers will suggest they live to tell stories, that they long to reach readers with their tales. This is closer to the truth for me, but it's still not hitting the nail on the head.

I don't write for readers, at least not initially with each novel or short story. I occasionally will write with an anthology editor in mind, but that's usually because they have provided me a challenge in some way by giving me a new world to play in or a twist on a genre which I find interesting.

So who do I write for?

I write for myself.

I don't write because I enjoy it. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't.

I write because, when I'm truly honest with myself, there are people living in my head and they are yearning to get out. They live there, slurking around within my skull, having their adventures, slaying the monsters, falling in love, falling out of love, betraying one another, honoring one another, doing all kinds of things to themselves and to each other.

No. No, that's not quite accurate either.

These people do not live in my brain. They live outside of me in another universe, or perhaps several other universes. If you're up on your quantum physics, this is theoretically possible.

So, they live in these other worlds, and my brain is somehow a conduit to wherever they are located. My mind is filled with images and emotions, and I must get these down onto paper or onto a computer screen. I must. I have to.

It's like breathing, or eating, or drinking water. If I do not do this, I will cease to exist, at least in any meaningful, conscious way. Without writing, I could physically go on, but I would be a shell of my former self.

Also, writing is sort of a spiritual thing for me, not quite metaphysical, but more philosophical. I like to explore my own mental landscape through my writing, and sometimes that is exciting, other times not so much.

If I don't tap into the stories in my head from time to time, my head will fill up and eventually explode. And we can't have that, brain matter and bloody gore all over the place with a bunch of sword-swinging freaks and ghoulish beasties wandering about outside my corpse.

That would be bad form.

So I write. I let a little steam out of the boiler from time to time.

That's why I write.

Now back to the image of myself as a writer.

I don't really set out to have an image, to be honest, though I suppose I do have one or something like one.

For example, a fan recently called me "humble," and I had to think about that. Am I humble? I don't consider myself especially humble, but when I look around at the world in which we live today, yeah, I have to say I'm a pretty humble guy. But only comparatively. I'm not as humble as a saint, not by any means, but compared to the celebrities and politicians and other familiar names in the headlines, yep, I'd say I come off as pretty humble compared to them.

If I get remembered as the "humble" fantasy writer, there are worse things.

If I'm remembered at all.

Not overly worried about being remembered or not remembered, honestly.

But if I am to be recalled by future generations as a fantasy author, how would I want myself to be remembered?

As an esteemed professor, such as Tolkien?

As the hard party boy, like Karl Edward Wagner?

As a hard working writer, such as Glen Cook?

I suppose that last is closer to the truth.

See, I never set out to become some world-known fantasy author. I've never had any plans to go down in history as some literary genius, either. Back in my youth I had plans to become a horror author, but I eventually found that limiting, though I still work some in that genre.

If I had to pick and choose, I suppose I would want my fantasy writing career to be more akin to that of many of the '60s to early '80s fantasy authors, most of whom are not remembered today outside of true fandom. Zelazny, Norton, Saberhagen, these are just a few of the names. These writers weren't necessarily the greatest writers who ever lived, at least in a literary sense, but they could type out adventure tales not unlike the pulps of an earlier era. Michael Moorcock came out of that group, and today is probably the best known of the lot.

I'd like to add that I don't mean any of these authors are completely forgotten, but that they aren't generally recalled or even known by the world's mass consumer audience.

Much like the pulp writers of the '20s through the '50s.

I suppose that means I would be satisfied being thought of as a modern pulp author, for being remembered as such. I'd like to be remembered for bringing the thrill of adventure or the creeps of horror to a few readers, to bring a smile or smirk or gasp to their lips from time to time.

All while keeping my brain from exploding.

I can live with that.

For now.

Today I go off on a rant

But not here.

No.

If you want to see me rant and rave today about writing, you'll have to check out my guest post over at the blog of horror writer Kevin G. Bufton.

Thanks, Kevin!

Gimme Three Spells

This is what happens when the stereo isn't working in the Explorer and I have too much time for thinking while driving ...

I was snug as a sword

at the head of a horde

when up rode a man in plate.

He was the size of a ship

with an ax on his hip

and a look that was filled with hate.

He said, “Hey there wizard

with a familiar of a lizard,

I hear your cantrips are great.

“But I’m the lord of the land

and magic has been banned

so your death can no longer wait.”

I was scared and fearing for my soul

I was shaking like an imp in Hades.

’Cause he was tough and rough,

and didn’t look to bluff,

sporting in all those blades.

I said, “Wait a second, master,

I’m only a low-level caster,

I can’t even summon up dew.

“And while I know we don’t agree

About what’s to happen to me

I’d ask one pledge from you.”

“Won’t you give me three spells,

Gimme three spells, master,

Gimme three spells and not one more.

Gimme three spells,

Gimme three spells, master,

And I’ll fly away from here for sure.”

Well the warriors cleared out

and I started to shout

for anyone to save my hide.

And I’m telling you, sirrah,

That I wasn’t no nearer

To that armored man being denied.

But he turned and pointed way over there,

And that’s the chance I was seeking out.

And you could see me running for my life,

I’d never come back there, no doubt.

“Won’t you give me three spells,

Gimme three spells, master,

Gimme three spells and not one more.

Gimme three spells,

Gimme three spells, master,
And I’ll fly away from here for sure.”

(my compliments to the late Ronnie Van Zant and Allen Collins)

As a writer, I feel like I'm never doing enough

The headline to this post says it all.

I've not published a lot this year. Serious health problems have hit my family pretty hard since January. My book sales are evidence of this.

There were weeks on end, maybe even a month or two, in which I did not write a word. Nothing. Zip. Nada. I was just too busy, and often too emotionally devastated to write.

The period seems to have moved passed, though it still lingers around the edges of my sanity, and I'm back to writing daily.

Thinking about all this brought me around to realize that I've accomplished more this year than I initially thought, though most of that work is not readily apparent to anyone.

I did put out a five-part series of short stories very early this year, my Shieldbreaker tales. I also managed to get the majority of my self-published works into print form, though a few of those are still coming, a couple likely in the next week or two. On top of that, I helped a children's indie author with formatting her first book.

And then there's my super secret collaboration with another author. I've felt guilty because I should have been able to punch out this project in a month or two. Last year I could have managed that. Not this year. Instead, I've pecked and picked and clicked and clacked at the keyboard off and on for about six months now. Finally the first draft of that project is nearing its end. The other author finished up his end of the writing a long while ago, but I'm just now down to the last couple of scenes. I hope to have my first draft finished within a week or two, then I'll start reading it and making corrections, doing some rewriting, etc.

I've also managed to pen a few short stories this year. Three have been accepted in anthologies and will be available sometime in the next year, possibly one of them within the next month. I have another story finished and ready for the editor, but I've yet to submit as it's still a little early for that.

So, looking back, I got more accomplished this year than I originally believed. With a few months left in the year, perhaps I'll even get another novel finished, or at least near finished. Come January, it will have been two years since my last Kron Darkbow novel. That's at least a year too long, in my opinion, but hopefully I can remedy that situation soon.