A New Old Story Comes Back to Haunt the Living

When I was 14, I started writing a story, like many back then, that was little more than a bald reworking of comicbook ideas. The main character was named Magus, and he was my version of Doctor Strange, the mighty Marvel Comics master of the mystic arts.

The work evolved over time. I became less interested in writing about Magus and more interested in writing about a young man (Tom Caliban) who worked at a hospital in the small town of Junction, Ala., and whose life got mixed up in horror from beyond this realm. I was 16 or 17 by now, and I was working as an orderly at Century Memorial Hospital.  But no doubt about it, this time I was also under the influence of a horror film called The Manitou, which takes place in a hospital.


Awesome, right? I saw this edited for TV and thought, "I can do that."

But that didn't quite work, either. By the time I was 18, it was time to try again. I was really into H.P. Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard at the time, and I was attending Pensacola Junior College and hanging out, when I could, at used book stores, searching the stacks for treasures. I was also into Native American history (which resulted in my first serialized fiction appearing in the PJC paper). I began to incorporate the old book store ideas and ancient grimoires of magic, like the Necronomicon, into the storyline, along with Indian legends, serial killings, and an old wizard called Magus.Various iterations of that held on for several years, as I moved from school to school, eventually married and started jobs, had kids, and entered a career.

In 1992-93, I got serious about the story again and wrote a complete novel. I asked a few people to read it, including Lynn Wallace and Carole Lapensohn, both of whom I was at the time participating with in a novel writing workshop. While they had some positive things to say, I kind of got the feeling it wasn't their cup of bubbling potion. An editor at my day-job asked to see the book, read it and liked it (although he also said it made him see me in a different light), and forwarded it to a friend of his that was starting a literary agency. The guy didn't like it. At all. Said it was too mixed up (the narrative was non-linear as characters became immersed in each other's memories).

I did a rewrite that brought it into a more linear configuration, but the guy wasn't interested in reading it again. I put it away.

Over the years, I have revisited the characters in the book. I wrote a novella about Magus that tells of one of his early adventures and how he met his wife. I wrote most of a sequel featuring an old Caliban faced with destroying his world in order to save other worlds. I wrote most of another sequel I pitched to an agent at a writers conference as "Constantine meets Payback set in the Big Easy." (I really liked this one, but couldn't make it stand alone without first telling — i.e., publishing — the earlier stories.) I wrote part of another story about one of Caliban's distant cousins set in the Civil War, and part of yet another story that brought the two together to fight the progenitor of all vampires (this would have been the second in the Caliban series, as he comes under the tutelage of Magus).

And I put them all away and chased other rabbits for a while. I wrote most of a zombie novel. I wrote and published two very different novels, two short story collections, many short stories in anthologies here and there, made some videos, wrote lots of things that few (or none) have ever read, painted some pictures. Lived a life like I never expected. Laughed some and cried some. Kept writing into the night and kept getting up in the mornings. Breathing.

And this month, I have returned to revisit Tom and Magus, and the changeling and the soul eater. I have set myself a goal of finishing a rewrite on this book for once and all, and sending it into the world while I follow up with Tom's further adventures as if they too might have some kind of future in print.

I know his stories, as he's told them all to me as each of us have grown up. He's been through some shit over the years, let me tell you.

I hope you will — let me tell you, that is.

Peace.

Video by a Fellow Traveler

This is my friend Nick. He writes books, and blogs, and short stories, and plays in a band and stuff. He's pretty cool. You can check out his jam at HeyNickMay.com.



Expect more stuff like this in the New Year we've just begun. We should always share the love, and I plan to tell you about more cool people and the stuff they do.

Peace.

‘East Side’ is just part of the story

"East Side" dance rehearsal at NW FL State College.

PANAMA CITY — The world is taking note of Bay County — whether as the setting for a new film, or as the home of accomplished actors, writers and musicians. Here are just a few recent examples:

• Another round of dance auditions for “East Side Story” took place Sunday at the Gulf Coast State College Wellness Center. The movie is in pre-production now and will begin shooting this month in Panama City Beach.

Film Commissioner Julie Gordon will speak at today’s joint meeting of the Bay County and Panama City Beach chambers of commerce, where she’ll introduce “East Side Story” writer/producer/director David Winter and choreographer Brandon Bryant. The joint chamber meeting will be at the Florida State University-Panama City Campus Holley Academic Center. Networking starts at 7:30 a.m. and the program will begin at 8 a.m. (In December, Winters was a guest of the Panama City Beach Senior Center’s pot luck dinner; two tickets were drawn awarding Senior Center members a lunch on the set with the cast during production.)

• The Owsley Brothers, a punk/blues/garage band that grew out of Panama City resident Jerad Reynolds’ “bedroom recording project,” had one of its original songs, “Blood and Fire,” featured on the ABC TV series “Revenge” that broadcast Sunday evening. Reynolds is also manager at Quincy Ave. Art & Things in Seaside.

• Ryan Didato, a 2006 graduate of Bay High, appears as the male lead in the Christian romance, “The Way of Love,” an independent film directed by George Jiha. The movie had a limited theatrical release in 2012 and should be released on DVD later this year.

“It was just a really small movie made for the Christian market,” said Didato, who has worked professionally in south Florida since graduating from New World School of the Arts in Miami in 2010. A member of Actors Equity, the union for professional stage actors, he recently co-wrote a web series called “Morning Wood,” which also should be out soon, and is living in New York City, where he’s auditioning for roles.

• The work of playwright and Panama City native Matthew Lopez, “The Legend of Georgia Mcbride,” will be featured at the Colorado New Play Summit Feb. 8-10, sponsored by the Denver Center Theatre Co. Lopez is described as one of the brightest rising stars in the playwriting community.

His debut production, “The Whipping Man,” premiered Off-Broadway at Manhattan Theatre Club in 2011, earning him the John Gassner Playwriting Award from the Outer Critics Circle. Tony Award winner Doug Hughes directed “The Whipping Man,” which starred Emmy-winning actor Andre Braugher.

• Panama City native Brooklyn Winters will premiere her feature film, “Tumbling: The Movie,” at the Martin Theatre in downtown Panama City on April 20. Winters wrote the screenplay, produced the film and cast it. Shot in Tampa Bay, Miami, Jacksonville and Orlando, “Tumbling” is about an elite organized crime unit with a traitor on the team.

 (My column for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald for Friday, Jan. 11, 2013.)
(Photo Credit: Julie Gordon, Bay County Film Commissioner)

Hearing the hush of a new year dawning

PANAMA CITY BEACH — There were no parties for us on New Year’s Eve. No hats or noise-makers. No champagne in plastic flutes.

Instead, after a day at our jobs, we worked on settling into our new home. Unpacking boxes. Rearranging furniture. Mounting bookshelves to walls. Unpacking more boxes.

In the late afternoon, I pulled weeds from the yard and trimmed hedges (until I cut my extension cord with the trimmer, resulting in an unexpected bit of fireworks). In the evening, we took the family to a local restaurant, stopped by a bookstore, then back home to watch a movie.

Not the most exciting of itineraries, granted. We talked about heading to Pier Park for the big event, but hadn’t the energy remaining. At least we were all together.

We saw a fox loitering near the treeline when we returned home. Our headlights spooked it, and it disappeared silently into the night. Since moving in, we had seen deer and ’possums in the neighborhood; they were to be expected. But it was a nice surprise to glimpse the fox.

I thought about the stories of Native American tribes that believed foxes had healing powers — or like Prometheus, had given humans fire.

Perhaps it was no coincidence that, at midnight, we stood on the front balcony of the house and took in the spectacle of fireworks visible through the treetops to the southeast. Schooners, I suggested, though it might have originated someplace else entirely. Perhaps the fox was celebrating, setting fire to the sky.

The haze of clouds overhead glowed red, and rumbles like thunder rolled over us, frightening our dogs. Someone at a nearby house, invisible behind the treeline, launched sparkling rockets as well.

At last, the haze broke and bright stars glimmered. I hoped it was an omen of clarity and promise in the new year; that, like the fox, it foreshadowed an awakening.

Before bedding down, I took the dogs for a walk and looked for shooting stars and wild animals, but all the starbursts seen that night were man-made and already had ended, and all the wild animals had gone elsewhere.

New Year’s morning, the work again awaited us. Laundry and dishes to do. Sweeping up. Cutting a pet door. Errands to run, groceries to purchase. More boxes to unpack.

But there was a quiet in the atmosphere, as if the fireworks of the night before had burned all the energy from the world. The air felt close, like a hug, like a friendly reminder to slow down.

During a morning walk, hearing the waters of St. Andrew Bay churning just down the hill and through the woods — it seemed to be whispering, “Hush.”

It’s a new year. Take a moment to listen.

Peace.

Undercurrents: Notes, thanks & condolences

PANAMA CITY BEACH — Some random thoughts as Thanksgiving permeates the atmosphere:

• If you’re keeping count, on the day this appears in the paper there will be 29 days remaining until the end of the world, or possibly until the end of the Mayan “long count” calendar, depending on your point of view. Question: What would you do if you believed the world would end in a month? I’m betting Black Friday would be farthest from your mind.

• Speaking of which: By the time the sun was rising last Black Friday, I was trying to go to sleep after a night of shopping beyond my means with my family. I upset some people by posting a photo tagged “Occupy Walmart” just before the frenzy started on the DVD aisle.

I don’t think we’ll be doing that this year, though I might be unpleasantly surprised before it’s over. Question: Do you try to hit the after-Thanksgiving sales (or this year, the actual Thanksgiving Day sales)?

• A highlight of the season last year was attending the improv-heavy performance of “Every Christmas Story Ever Told (and Then Some)” at the Seaside Repertory Theatre. The REP is once again putting on the show every weekend in December. You never know quite how it’s going to go, kind of like the actual holiday — and also like the actual holiday, there will be laughter and tears.

• The election is over. Get over it. Unless you think it’s a sign the Mayans were right, in which case it doesn’t matter any way, so get over it.

• We have been house hunting for some time now, despite the impending end of the world, and it looks like we’re close to closing on one at last. I have enjoyed renting for the past few months, because the honey-do list shrinks significantly when you don’t have to worry about home maintenance so much. But now I’m looking forward to having a place to call our own again — and to having a place for all my books again.

If all goes well, and the world doesn’t end, we’ll be there before Christmas. If you don’t mind, I’m going to give thanks ahead of time for the continuation of life as we know it, and for a place to share with my family.

• Finally, please join me in extending condolences to the family of Tony Jordan Simmons (no relation), who died Saturday after a long struggle with COPD. When I first came to work for The News Herald in 1993, I received several phone calls from people who thought he had taken a job with the paper after retiring from his career as an officer with the Panama City Police Department. He even called me once to say hello, after he got some calls at his home from people who thought he might be me.

Now my thoughts and prayers go out to his family as they must say goodbye.

Peace.
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(This was my Undercurrents column this week.)

Something someone said once

I'm feeling a bit off today. My name (sort of) was in today's obituary page. It wasn't me, but it was about as close as I'd ever like to see.

So I wondered what people might say if it was me; what eulogy would I receive? And that reminded me of one of the nicest things a coworker ever wrote about me. It was upon the release of my book, "Dazed and Raving in the Undercurrents," a collection of my better columns at the News Herald in my first 10 years of employment there.

The writer was Claude Duncan, at the time our Editorial Page Editor. Here's what he wrote, as taken from our electronic archive at the paper:

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Bay County perspective: Words as flashes of light

By Claude Duncan Editorial Page Editor

Tony Simmons is a journalist in, for newspapers, a post-journalistic age. With family to support, he thus also practices the bread-and-butter craft of editoring and has during his decade at The News Herald been beat reporter and columnist.

Simmons is good at all that. But he was born a journalist, with fingers connected to the mind’s eye. By training, intent and design, modern reporting in that respect is mindless work, albeit hard work.

Journalism was born of travel writing when much of the world was new to much of the world, and everything — everything — was about discovery. The writer inescapably was a part of his journey, as was self-discovery.

The poet Sarah Manguso, referring to the 18th century French philosopher most remembered for his encyclopedia, wrote that to Diderot, "the word is not the thing, but a flash in whose light we perceive the thing." Journalists like Simmons invoke masterfully what Manguso calls "codependent impulses" with readers. His new book, Dazed and Raving in the Undercurrents, is nothing if not flashes of light exposing this eternal co-dependency.

"Despite what you may have heard, you can go home again," Simmons writes in one entry, from 1995, "but you probably won’t enjoy it very much. … The faces I recall sometimes recall mine. In the Piggly Wiggly, we pass and they ask where I’ve been, what I’ve done with myself. I ask the same. Smiles circulate around uncomfortable silences. Then: a parting with promises to keep in touch."

Simmons often refers to himself on these visits home as "the prodigal." In morality tales, a prodigal is a rejecter who comes to happily embrace that which he rejected. So it is with Simmons, eventually.

Early on, though, Simmons can’t even remember his high school graduation ceremony, presumably as his mind already was in flight from town. When he returns for a niece’s graduation, he connects old slights to newly aging faces. Yet, by then, he also has written of a boyhood friend injured as an adult in a car wreck, perhaps for life. Simmons titled the rumination, "Now is the time to look up old friends."

In one visit home he found, "I am no longer familiar with the landscape of the hamlet where I wandered in my childhood. Trees have grown and grayed. Roads have widened. The houses of old friends have burned or fallen to disrepair or had their stiff, wooden skins covered by synthetic transplants of aluminum and vinyl." By this fall, too late for this volume but memorable to readers of this newspaper, upon seeing a photograph of his grandmother’s house, Simmons "thought of how he missed that front porch, and those days of play and work, and the old woman who had lived there, who always had been an old woman in his memory."

This is journalism eternal. Made peculiar to the time, it could have been written centuries ago, or centuries hence. Something like it was, and will. Self-discovery is human nature at its most unchanging. Simmons’ words are flashes of light for the reader to perceive things. His fingers are connected to his co-dependents’ mind. That is his art.

Dazed and Raving in the Undercurrents, as Simmons notes in his introduction, "is not just a collection of columns. It also is the story of a life — an unwitting autobiography composed as it unfolded." Rather little is nostalgic. It is full of observations about the ordinary modern world’s technological and cultural facets that Simmons, like his co-dependents, inhabits with dizzying degrees of confidence and confusion, skepticism and satisfaction. Always, though, Simmons seems not bored.

This is a book for the excitable who want to feel understood, and for the bored curious who want to understand the world outside their door. Always, it is about Simmons, the journalist, and therefore, always to some extent about the reader.


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Claude passed away suddenly on Oct. 29, 2008, after retiring from his position at the News Herald. He was 62.

Video Post (Catching Up, Part 1)

Here is part of how I've been spending my time recently:

 

Peace.