Supporting the Dream: A Season is a Lifetime

  Supporting the Dream

  By Kevin Lucia

  Copyright 2010 - © Kevin Lucia

  Originally published July 10th, 2010, Love is A Flame, Bethany House

  All rights reserved.

  Supporting the Dream

  The spectacle was overwhelming. There I stood in a conference room at the Marriott Burkshire Hotel in Towson, Maryland, surrounded not only by those who shared my love of writing but also by authors whose work I’d cherished for years. Mort Castle. Gary Braunbeck. F. Paul Wilson. Tom Monteleone. Here they were, mingling and informally sharing their experiences with us, as if we were equals.

  After years of writing, I’d taken a huge step by submitting my fiction to a prestigious “writing boot camp” hosted by Borderlands Press, a small publisher run by the legendary speculative fiction author Tom Monteleone. Beyond all my expectations I’d been accepted. I was to spend an entire weekend cloistered away with master storytellers learning how to do what I desired most: tell a great story.

  At the risk of sounding pretentious, that night’s importance ran second only to getting married and having children. I’m a simple person. Always have been. All I’ve ever wanted from life was a family and a writing career. That Friday night felt like destiny.

  After several opening panels, (during which I’d scribbled pages of notes), my head swirled. I couldn’t believe I was there, glimpsing a world I’d only dreamed of. Around midnight, however, the adrenaline faded and the fatigue of a five-hour drive reared its head. Knowing that Saturday boasted a full critiquing schedule, I decided to get some sleep. I wanted to be completely focused on this dream I was living, and I didn’t want anything to interfere.

  I retired to my hotel room. After preparing for bed, I did as always when on the road; I called home to say goodnight to my wife and children. After a dial tone, several rings and my wife’s panicked voice…everything changed.

  “H-hello?”

  Abby’s voice sounded high and shrill. Static crackled on the other end as she most likely jostled the phone between her cheek and shoulder, which meant her hands weren’t free.

  I shivered.

  Why weren’t her hands free?

  Then, I heard a sound that probably every young parent recognizes…the shallow rasps of a child suffering from croup.

  “Madi’s sick. Zack’s still sick, too. He’s sleeping, but I can’t hear him down here. I’m taking Madi outside. It’s SO cold! I don’t know what do!”

  My youngest, Zack, had been suffering from croup that week. Some children get croup once a season. It was Zack’s third or fourth bout. My wife and I had gotten little sleep the night before. I’d driven to Maryland on three hours rest. Friday morning I’d debated not going. Zack had improved some, but not completely.

  “Should I go?” I’d asked my wife that Friday morning. “It’s five hours away. I won’t be free to call until late. What if he gets sick again?”

  As usual, my wife was the epitome of logic. “Honey, we’ve already rented the car. You need this. You applied for this conference on the last day of registration and they immediately accepted you. That means something. You have to go.”

  However, that had been in the morning, when croup always vanishes without trace. When I left at noon, Zack sounded much better, and Madi had developed what seemed like a simple cold. Going seemed right. Safe, even.

  That night, separated from my wife and sick children by five or more hours and hundreds of miles, nothing felt safe. A cold sense of helplessness gripped me as I heard my wife fumbling to get Madi’s jacket on, preparing to go outside into the biting January cold. There are two basic home remedies for croup: shower steam to ease throat irritation, or cold air to bring down throat swelling. If Abby was taking Madi outside on a cold night like this, the steam hadn’t worked, which meant things were bad …and I couldn’t do a thing about it.

  Once outside, my wife said, “Talk to Madi. She’s scared.” Over the line I heard a plastic rustling that sounded like coat sleeves rubbing together. Later, Abby would tell me she’d picked Madi up and held her in her arms while standing on our cold, windblown front step.

  The phone rattled as Abby passed it to my daughter. “D-daddy? It h-hurts.”

  It’s one thing to hear a toddler cry, another thing entirely to listen to an intelligent, four-year girl old rasp, old enough to know she can’t breathe but not old enough to know why. Over the phone, her voice trembled, weak and thin, cracking at the edges. Each breath sounded sharp and short, as if her lung capacity had been quartered. Fear hammered me. She can’t breathe, I thought, she can’t breathe!

  I can’t remember what futile words of comfort I offered her. Probably the weak kind of assurances that eases a child’s fears but only stokes a parent’s higher. Very soon, my wife took back the phone and I said, “Listen. I’m coming home. The highways will be empty; I can be there by four or five…”

  A deep breath. Then, in a slightly trembling but firmer voice, Abby said, “NO. That makes no sense. We’ll be okay. I just need to get her settled down so I can get upstairs before Zack starts coughing…”

  That only reminded me further of my wife’s situation. She was alone with two sick children under the age of five, both with croup, the younger one on his third consecutive night of suffering. Any father worth his salt believes his place is with his family, logic regardless. I’m no different.

  A deep sense of shame pervaded me. How selfish I am. This is not important; not as important as them. I should be there. I should go home.

  Of course, guilt and shame are tricky. I remember how my emotions mixed in my sour stomach. I honestly did want to go home and make everything better, but at the same time…being at this conference was my dream. I didn’t want to go! That guilt and shame hardened my resolve, which made my next words very predictable.

  “This isn’t that important. I can leave, be home in…”

  “NO!” A pause. “This IS important. For you. For us. You NEED to stay there and finish. You have to. I’ll be fine. Madi’s sounding better already. I’ll go upstairs and sleep next to her, bring Zack’s monitor in with me, but you CAN’T come home.”

  Words can’t express how I felt. Very rarely does my wife put her foot down, but when she does, it’s firm, and it had just been put down in defense of something I’d dreamed of for years. I knew right then that no matter what I ever achieved on paper; nothing could ever overshadow what my wife had just done.

  I won’t lie, however. Even as admiration for Abby filled me, guilt still slipped in a few good jabs. You’re just happy you don’t have to leave, that voice snickered. Be honest. It’s quiet here. No screaming kids. During your breaks, you get to read those novels that have been gathering dust on your nightstand. You’re surrounded by writers, making contacts. You’re happy she’s taking the bullet for you.

  Even so, Abby managed to get me off the phone. I stayed. Afterward, I put in a quick call to Abby’s mother, who lived roughly fifteen minutes away, and apprised her of things. I asked for her opinion, looking for a maternal authority to quiet the guilt nipping my heels. She agreed it made better sense for me not to rush home; that aid would be close should things get worse. This did help some. I hung up the phone and managed an uneasy sleep.

  Perhaps I’m exaggerating. In hindsight, it does seem illogical to speed home only to arrive after the most dangerous phase of croup had passed. Even so, emotions run high during a crisis. Abby could’ve easily demanded I return. If she had, I would’ve done so. Willingly.

  Also, being married to a writer isn’t easy. I’m not sure I’d be up to it. It all sounds so romantic and exciting when an eager, innocent, cl
ueless fellow courts his intended and regales her with dreams of his writing career and inevitable success. Soon enough, however, the supporting spouse is exposed to the harsh realities of living with a writer: the writer-spouse isolating themselves for hours (usually away from home and hearth and Tasmanian Devil children) while the other half is left alone to tend to home, hearth, and usually HUNGRY Tasmanian Devil children.

  And of course, initial success is minimal, often bolstering self-esteem only, not the family budget. As years pass and rejections pile up while the writer-spouse sinks ever more deeply into his or her special little writing world, questions arise. How much longer until this success you dreamed of? When will we actually start making money? Or at least enough to justify the baby-sitter’s pay while you spend your summer days writing instead of watching the kids?

  Suffice to say, the chasm between a writer’s dreams and the realities of a writing career is a vast one. It’s sobering how hard reality impacts those supporting a writer, most specifically a writer’s spouse. That night, Abby could have easily said, Enough. Time for you to stop playing writer and come home. I need you!

  But she didn’t do this. She believed in me. She believed in something she didn’t understand, a goal she didn’t share, putting her full weight behind a dream that wasn’t hers. Wherever my writing career leads, I’ll have Abby to thank.

  The next day, I sat in small workshops with bestselling novelists, communing over the written word. Informal mixers throughout the day offered opportunities for us to pick their brains, while at the same time encountering them as humans who had the same hopes and dreams and fears as us. I called Abby periodically. Everything had worked out fine. Eventually Madi’s croup had faded, and though it hurt me to hear that soon after that, Zack’s cough had flared up, offering my wife little rest, they’d survived until morning. Things were better. Abby sounded tired, yet happy I didn’t have to come home.

  Even so. It was only Saturday. Any parent who has battled croup knows that while it fades with sunlight, it strikes back at night…and evening was approaching.

  Several fellow attendees and I left the hotel, enjoying food and the camaraderie of writers, cementing friendships that would endure the years. Later, after more panels and workshops, I turned in. Readying for bed, I took a deep breath, said a prayer and called home. This time, though Abby’s voice lacked the panic of the night before, its weariness pulled at my guts. Under her voice, I could hear – once again – thin, telltale rasps.

  “Oh, no. Again? I thought they were better.”

  My wife’s fatigue was an almost palpable thing, felt over the phone. “They were. Zack was running a slight fever before bed, and I slept upstairs in Madi’s room again to be near, just in case…good thing. We went to bed, everything was fine, then over the monitor I heard Zack coughing and puking.”

  She sighed.

  I imagined her smile as careworn and dutiful. “It’s not as bad as last night…but we’re in for a long haul, I think.”

  Resolve and a curious peace filled me. I’d enjoyed two fantastic days. If I left now I’d miss Sunday, but that promised to be nothing more than closing events. Surely, I was meant to leave.

  “Listen. Everything’s mostly done, here. I had a chance to meet some great people and learn…I’ll come home. It’s okay.”

  “No. You’re supposed to stay. We’ll be fine. You need to finish this.”

  I was confused. Lacking last night’s urgency, this seemed anticlimactic. I’d experienced and learned much. Tomorrow’s events consisted mostly of closing formalities. I had no reason nor need to stay, except…

  One thing.

  One thing I hadn’t shared with Abby, for fear of influencing her. At Saturday's end, flipping through the critiqued copies of my story, I’d found a note written by my first workshop leader; award winning author, editor and instructor Mort Castle. It ended with words I will always remember:

  See me tomorrow. If you’re open to it, I think I know a place for your story.

  At the time, Mort edited a speculative fiction magazine called Doorways. As an editor, author, and poet, he’s widely respected and admired. Furthermore, he’s professional, intelligent, and dignified. He’s renowned for his high standards…and he wanted to meet with me, personally.

  I can confess again to swallowing down that same mix of relief and guilt and shame, but Abby wouldn’t hear of me leaving. I stayed. The next day, I met and talked with a man who has since left an indelible mark on everything I am as a writer. If anyone could be considered my mentor, it’s him. And, from him I received my first professional writing solicitation.

  All because my wife believed.

  In me.

  In the gifts God had given me, in the pursuit of something that holds no interest for her whatsoever, and in dreams that often make our life more complicated than it otherwise would be. We persevere today, because she believes.

  In me.

  If spouses don’t believe in each other, everything that could help make a marriage work is proven false. We can have all sorts of good things, but without love, everything is empty and devoid of foundation. Belief is that foundation; the ultimate expression of love. I could not write as I do if Abby didn’t believe in me, and she couldn’t support me in this way…if I didn’t believe in her.

  About the Author

  Kevin Lucia is an Associate Fiction Editor for The Horror Channel, and his short fiction and nonfiction has appeared in several anthologies. He’s currently finishing his Creative Writing Masters Degree at Binghamton University, he teaches high school English and lives in Castle Creek, New York with his wife and children. Visit him at: www.kevinlucia.com.

 

 

  Kevin Lucia, Supporting the Dream: A Season is a Lifetime

  Thanks for reading the books on GrayCity.Net