Author Interview: Hector Kopczynski

I was luck enough to be interviewed by Sarah Moll. Interesting questions, and a lot of fun. Be sure to check her and her blog out!

Sarah Kay Moll

HeraldryWelcome to the fourth in a series of author interviews. Today I’m talking to Hector Kopczynski about sexuality and gender in writing, building a truly foreign fantasy world, and reading with a critical eye. Hector is currently working on both an epic fantasy project and a gritty spy thriller.

Sarah: Currently you’re working on two very different projects. One is a slow-paced, deliberate, and elaborate fantasy, with much focus on world-building, the other so far is a spy thriller. Are there common threads that run through both? Is it hard to switch between them?

Hector: By and large, I don’t see a lot of similarity between most of my works. I actively focus on developing a specific style, cadence, and atmosphere unique to each piece. Not just in characters, their particular speech patterns, or in point of view, but as far down to the bones and foundation of the story as I…

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You Are Not Broken: A Mother’s Day PSA

I want to take a step back today and talk about something that is both very personal and very important to me.

First, I want to address those of you who are happily celebrating Mother’s Day today with your families.

I’m sure that encompasses a great many people. Many of you have loving, supportive homes. Never perfect, of course, but ones that are filled with happy memories and affection. For you, I am glad—truly and truthfully. I hope you share your joy in whatever way you are comfortable and appreciate the gift you have been given.

However, some of you may have friends or acquaintances or even family who are not celebrating today. You may know someone who has not so much as even sent a card to their mother, or called her. I am sure that, for many of you, this seems unthinkable and inconceivable. In a way, I’m glad for that—if you cannot comprehend why that might be, then you have not had to live it.

But please: today, do not shame anyone for not reaching out to their family.

For some of us, Mother’s Day is a lance in our back. Not only are we buried under a barrage of images of loving mothers and happy families in the media, but we invariably have to brace for every casual acquaintance we’ve ever met and their brother to suddenly pop out of the woodwork just to ask,

“Why aren’t you talking to your mother? It’s Mother’s Day, didn’t you know? She gave birth to you. You owe her that much.”

I have responded (for the most part) to these questions with the flat-out truth. If a person feels the need to pry into my personal life, I feel they have opened themselves up to the uncomfortable answer. Continue reading

A New Chapter

There were many things I wanted to say today, but as I sat down, sunburned and more tired than I’ve been in memory, I realized there was only one thing I could truly talk about.

The last month has been a whirlwind for me and mine. After five years of apartment life, we finally were able to settle down in a place where we could call our own.

It’s certainly what you’d call “modest,” if you were being polite. Everything needs at least a little TLC. The yard is mostly comprised of gardens that have been neglected for at least three years, according to the neighbors. I don’t understand whose bright idea it was to carpet the bathrooms (of which, for the first time, we have two). None of the light switches make a lick of sense.

And everything is perfect—in all its maddening, bizarre, and unexpected imperfections.

Because it’s ours. And now, it’s home.

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From the Bookshelf: Starting Again

I remember being a child, finding solace in books. I was, as Neil Gaiman has so eloquently described it, one of those feral children raised by libraries.

Books took me places I could never go. It was in their pages I found friends and support, when I felt it nowhere else.

That is why I wanted to be a writer: to give back. Return the favor ages later for new readers I couldn’t have even imagined.

I will admit. Over the last eight years, I haven’t done as much reading as I would have liked. After school ended, I found myself forgetting to make time in the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

Sure, there were a few times that I would sneak out, when the itch got to be too much to bear. Go to the bookstore to pick up maybe just one book, just this once, and drink the words from the pages as if ink were whiskey. It would be exhausted in a day or three, devoured during late nights where the words were more important than sleep.

I’d gotten my hit, then. The itch satisfied. Something to sustain me for a little while longer, until it nagged at the corners of my mind again.

Then, all of a sudden, my health took a drastic nosedive. Almost overnight it became too painful to hold even a common paperback. No matter what the angle, something hurt. If I sat up, it was my wrists. Laid on my side, my shoulders and elbow. On my stomach, my back and neck.

Reading became a Herculean task. Not to mention what it did to the rest of my life.

Between the pain and the struggle to find out what was wrong with me, reading had become low on my priority list.

Oh, I’d of course still make my runs to bookstores. Even then, I couldn’t go without it ever few months. I’d peruse those shelves, pick out a few titles. Tell myself I’d get to them soon. I’d feel better soon. I’d just take a few more pain pills, then I could do it, I was sure. Or maybe if I just sat in the recliner, or switched positions more often…

But it never worked.

Four years ago, I was finally diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. Over that time, it’s been a battle of finding the right cocktail of drugs and treatments to turn me back into a real boy from the splintered wooden puppet with shattered hinges that I’d become.

I still haven’t quite found my Blue Fairy, but I’m getting better.

And then, a few birthdays ago, I was gifted with a Kindle. It’s lighter than most of the novels I tend to pick up, and I can put it down on a table or armrest without having to try to figure out how to keep the pages open.

Between my slow crawl back to personhood and the marvels of technology, I’ve made it a top priority to get back to reading. Not only have I missed it for years, but I am sure that my writing has suffered without that constant flow of words.

But, I’ve missed more than just reading. I’ve missed talking about books. About stories. I might be one of the few people in the world to think this, but I honestly used to like assigned reading in school. I liked being able to have a whole group of people with whom I could discuss the material, even if I had found it reprehensible.

Hell, some of my favorite times were complaining to a class or a teacher about exactly why I hated a book. It made me think critically, pick apart what did and didn’t work for me, and the mechanics of it. Much of my own writing has come from what I haven’t liked as much as from what I have.

So, with that in mind, I’ve decided to keep something of a reading diary.

Not reviews, not exactly. I feel there should be a standard to reviewing, something with transparent guidelines and rigor. I feel that’s an important part of the process of doing any kind of real review.

No, I want to discuss a book. What worked for me, what didn’t. Throw in some of my own thoughts, my own reactions and personal experiences. How they relate to the words, to the story, to the characters. What a story touched and stirred in me. What missed its mark.

Sure, talking to myself isn’t nearly as great as having an actual discussion, but it helps me to focus my thoughts, and yes, practice my craft.

All in homage to something that I loved.

Or didn’t.

All’s fair in love and war.

I don’t have a set schedule. Right now, the plan is just to “read more.” Stretch my legs, and my mind. Discover something surprising. Find comfort in something familiar. Remember what it was like to lose myself somewhere else.

Because isn’t that what it’s all about?

The Last Unicorn Screening Tour: Support Peter S. Beagle

Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn is not just one of my favorite books of all time. It, more than anything else, colored my world.

Before I was even old enough to read, I watched the animated movie obsessively. By the time I was seven, I could quote large sections of it with surprising accuracy, particularly considering the fact I never had a very good auditory memory. To say that it was “my favorite” simply doesn’t begin cover it. Then, once chapter books were finally within in my grasp, I devoured the original. Again. And again.

Before I really even fully understood what it meant to be alive, The Last Unicorn largely informed my perceptions of mortality. To this very day, I am still convinced that there is no immortality but a tree’s love, and I tell my beloved that I will keep the color of his eyes when no other in the world remembers his name.

The unicorn’s sorrow soothed my lonesomeness when I felt there was no other like me in the world.

When I felt like a failure, I would think of Schmendrick, so-called Nikos’s Folly, and remember: it was within his profound ineptitude that slept a greater power than any other magician had ever known. All it took was time, and persistence.

And I certainly have never, ever run from anything immortal.

For as long as I’ve had my own money, I’ve collected the movie and book in multiples. Point in fact? The above image is only a part of my collection. (Missing is the DVD, and I’m pretty positive I have the VHS, a second DVD, and at least one more book in boxes somewhere.)

Without The Last Unicorn, I wouldn’t be the writer I am now. Honestly, I can pretty safely say that, without it, I wouldn’t be the person I am now.

So, when I heard that in 2006 Peter Beagle was barely living above the poverty line because he was not being paid royalties and it took five long years to settle the dispute, my heart broke.

At least now Peter Beagle is getting the royalties he deserves, and has been given permission sell copies of his books, the DVD, and assorted merchandise on Conlan Press, where he’ll be guaranteed his fair cut if you buy from him directly. Not to mention, you can get a signed copy for the price you’d likely pay in a store.

And now, to top it off, The Last Unicorn is being taken on a brand-new screening tour across the world all throughout 2015 and 2016!

This is a huge opportunity, for both Beagle and fans alike. Not only can we support one of the most influential fantasy writers of our generation, but we have the chance to experience the story as a real community event.

Many of us grew up watching The Last Unicorn, and now we can see it on the big screen for the first time. And did I mention that Peter Beagle himself is going to be at every showing? Because he is!

As a big fan of Peter Beagle, I want to do what I can to get word out, even with my own meager resources. Along with this post, at the end of every month, I’ll put up a notice on my Tumblr and Twitter with a heads-up to where the tour is going next. That way, anyone who’s interested can get a little reminder so they don’t miss a showing.

For any of you in New York state, I’ll see you at a screening in November—with a bit of luck, I should even be in my own Schmendrick cosplay. Because who’s surprised that he’s my favorite.

One last time, here are the official links for anyone interested:

When is a Writer… a Writer?

This is a subject just about everyone has weighed in on. From Chuck Wendig to Matthew Reilly, the consensus seems to be simple:

If you write, you are a writer. There is no “aspiring.”

Pretty damn good advice, really.

But there’s a problem. Usually, there is one reason for a writer to be inclined to call themselves “aspiring”: they don’t have something published, or (even more likely) a finished final draft. Or maybe not even a finished first draft.

So, there is a looming inevitability for every writer who forgoes calling themselves “aspiring.” It comes in many forms, on a sliding spectrum of well-meaning interest to outright malice. And it usually looks something like this:

“Oh? You’re a writer? Can I read your work?”

For those of us who only have unfinished or unpolished drafts, this question is the closest thing to verbal evisceration I’ve ever come across. And let me tell you, I’ve been well acquainted with quite a few personally-tailored cutting remarks in my time.

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