Sneak Peak at My Answers for the Local Author Fair Panel

On Thursday, November 5, I will be one of four authors participating in the Local Authors Fair Panel through Woodneath Library Center, Kansas City, MO. You can attend virtual panel through this link.

Below are a few of the questions I may be asked and my rough draft answers.

What inspired you to write this piece?

The Secret Club is the sequel to my earlier novel, The Power Club. Both are set in a world in which some kids develop super-powers. My main character, Damon, joined a group called the Power Club in the first book. Damon has the ability to create darkness. In the Power Club, he becomes friends with Kyle (who teleports), Denise (who sees the future), her brother, Vee (who has super-speed), Ali (who flies), and Danner (who grows to giant sizes). Initially, they just hang out and have fun testing their powers. But after Damon and the others spontaneously stop a riot, he realizes they can use their powers for good . . . they can make a difference for ordinary people—“ords”—who fear kids with powers.

But in The Secret Club, everything has changed. The old Power Club is no more, and Damon enters a new school where he has to make new friends. Two of his old Power Club buds, Danner and Ali, have started a new club without him. And, on top of that, Damon’s old enemy, Calvin, returns.

Calvin has the ability to open rifts in space and send people he doesn’t like into other dimensions. Sometimes he forgets to bring them back. Because of this power, he has been separated from other kids and he’s jealous of Damon and his ability to make friends. When the Power Club rescued Damon from one of Calvin’s other dimensions in The Power Club, Calvin was forced to flee. Now he returns in the company of the others who work for a super-powered terrorist called, ironically, The Liberator. These terrorists want to start a war with ords, and only Damon can stop them—if he can form a new club in time.

What inspired all this? When I was a kid growing up in St. Joseph, MO, my friends and I immersed ourselves in comic books. We imagined ourselves to be Superman, Hawkman, Green Lantern, The Atom, The Flash . . . my friends gradually outgrew this obsession; I never did.

What is your writing process like?

My writing process changes for every project. I love to experiment. A project such as The Power Club usually begins with a burning desire to say something, an idea that has to be expressed, or an idea I can’t let go. I think all writers feel this way to an extent . . . something in the world isn’t the way it should be, and we try, with our words, to make it right. We feel we have something to say, and we know words have power. We hope our words have the right kind of power to make positive change.

The next step, for me, is to decide who my characters are, what they want, and who or what is stopping them from getting it. You have to spend some time fleshing out your characters. I write extensive character biographies. I want to know everything about my characters—their birthdays, their hobbies, how they get along with their families . . . if I do all this, I usually find the plot takes care of itself.

Then it’s a matter of applying seat to chair and writing. You have to actually do the writing. Not think about writing. Not talk about writing. Write. Some writers keep a daily schedule. If you work a full-time job or go to school, you work in writing when you can, but you have to write something every day and don’t stop until you finish.

How has your writing process changed during these new times?

I’ve been on hiatus from writing for some time. I finished working on a graphic novel earlier this year, though there are still a few touch-ups on which I’m currently working with an artist. I'm also exploring options for publishing it.

Another thing that has changed is that I’m exploring different forms of writing. I’m writing poetry and dabbling in flash fiction. Some of my poems and also essays can be viewed here. 

Do you have any writing tips?

Study the craft of writing. A lot of people think they can be writers just by coming up with ideas for stories. Bad news: Anybody can come up with ideas for stories. A writer is someone who actually sits down and does the work. But you also have to understand things like plotting, character development, theme, subtext, and world building. Study the masters. Figure out who inspires you and learn from them.

But also study other things—nature, mythology, history, science, politics. These things will help you fill out the world of your story and your characters’ lives. They also give you more ideas. There’s no sense in being the best writer in the world if you have nothing to write about.

. . . Those are my preliminary answers. Will I give the same ones or different/better ones? What other questions might be asked? Tune in on Thursday to find out.

One Writer's Journey: Epiphanies and Confessions

I've been watching Stranger Things and The Haunting of Hill House, not because they are horror stories or stories of otherworldly creatures and ghosts, but because they feature young teen and pre-teen protagonists. I'm not normally drawn to such stories, but, since I wrote a book called The Power Club, which features similarly young heroes, I find a lot in common with these tales. 

One aspect I admire is that these series don't soften the material or talk down to the audience. Truly horrible things happen to these kids--and sometimes they cause horrible things to happen to themselves and to each other. Friends betray each other. Family members turn their backs on each other. And some kids are downright evil.

And that's to say nothing of the otherworldly creatures and ghosts.

After watching the second episode of The Haunting of Hill House--in which the middle child, Theodora, bravely looks after her siblings as a child and other children as a psychologist (the story is told both in the present and in flashback)--I reflected on what it truly takes to be a hero, how I wanted to be a hero so badly when I was a kid, and how I fell short.

I thought of Kelly.

Kelly (not her real name) was a girl I went to school with. She was large--not heavy, just large--plain and awkward, a frequent target of teasing from other kids. She lived across the street from me, and we hung out a lot. She had a Johnny Cash album which included "Daddy Sang Bass." She had the Marvel Comics tabloid adaptation of The Wizard of Oz, which I also owned because I received it as a gift from Marvel but hated because it didn't involve super-heroes.

Kelly was the first and only girl I kissed. We were wrestling in her living room when I wound up on top of her. I bent down and gave her a smack on the cheek. I remember her exclamation of surprise. We were 12. 

Shaun (not his real name), an older boy who lived in the neighborhood, did not see the kiss. But he did see me leaving Kelly's house. He teased me mercilessly about her being my girlfriend. That was more than my fragile ego could take. I envisioned myself as a super-hero or bridge officer of the Enterprise. Such manly figures were not made fun of for having girlfriends. They were not made fun of for having Kelly as a girlfriend. I stopped hanging out with her. I ignored her at school. Bewildered, she called to ask what she had done wrong. I hung up on her. I refused to tell my mother why I was so mean to Kelly. But mean I was.

I don't know when she moved out of the neighborhood.

I encountered her once or twice as an adult. Once was in a department store. We were cordial to each other, but I don't think we even addressed each other by name. 

When I began writing The Power Club some eight years ago, I began with the precept that I wanted to write about kids as they really are, not an idealized version of kid heroes. I wanted my heroes to be real. I think I naively assumed that people are inherently good, and that kids, though they may do things that aren't so good, will eventually come to the truth. Having powers gives them an extra incentive to find their true selves. However, in writing the book and its still-in-progress sequel, I've often had a hard time finding the heroic side to some of my characters. This is because I did not behave heroically at that age.

If I possessed a super-power or a Starfleet commission, I would--my thinking went--have the power to do the right thing. 

But I did not do the right thing, not even with the "powers" I was given. I put my insecurities above Kelly's feelings. I chased after the "cool" kids, from whom I wanted acceptance, and ignored someone who liked me for who I was and who wanted to hang out with me. I knew Kelly better than other girls. She was a real person, not an imitation of a super-heroine or Hollywood actress. She was not standoffish or mean, like other girls at school could be. She deserved better.

Having an innate power or ability does not make one heroic. Heroism is a choice to do the right thing even when it is unpopular to do so.

Requiem for a "Miracles" Man

And through an open window where no curtain hung
I saw you
I saw you
Comin' back to me
--"Comin' Back to Me," Jefferson Airplane (written by Marty Balin)

Marty Balin died on September 27. Balin was co-founder and singer of Jefferson Airplane/Jefferson Starship--for the latter, he wrote and sang lead on their biggest hit, "Miracles" (1975). For the next few years, he crooned on other hits, such as "With Your Love" (1976) and "Count on Me" and "Runaway" (both 1978) before leaving the band. On his own, he scored two hits, "Hearts" and "Atlanta Lady" (both 1981).

By the time I became a fan of Jefferson Starship in 1979, Balin was gone and so was the romantic pop direction he had guided so successfully. I discovered the band after it had transitioned into a hard rock unit with the soaring high tenor of Mickey Thomas at the helm. But I explored Balin's contributions through the band's radio hits and albums. Balin, whose name sounded so much like "ballad," the kind of music he was most noted for, had an unmistakable voice that combined passion and earnestness. He could make even the most treacly love songs sound genuine. Balin also reminded me of a friend I had, who possessed the same earthy, dark appearance, the same suave demeanor, and who, by 1979, had also moved on.

I woke this morning to an earworm of "Count on Me" playing over and over in my head. This song, more than even "Miracles," expresses to me the sentiments of the Balin era of the band. Even before I knew anything about Jefferson Starship, I had heard "Count on Me" on the radio. Its plaintive promise of a love that cannot be abandoned warmed my soul, inspiring my own images of what love would look and feel like. I was 14--prime time for developing such images and yearnings, though also at that age when such notions are best kept to oneself.

I nearly had a chance to interview Balin once. In the late '90s, I wrote bios and reviews for a fan site with the unpretentious title, "A Jefferson Starship/Airplane Site." Through that site and a JA/JS newsgroup, I interacted with Jeff Tamarkin, a well-known music journalist who was writing a book on the band. We exchanged information on the group, and he offered to put me in touch with Marty Balin's father, then 82, who could put me in touch with Marty. However, there comes a point where you get a little too close to your dreams, your ambitions, your fantasies. Getting too close to a star is like touching a lit sparkler on the Fourth of July. Some things are better admired from a distance. I never followed through on the offer.

I do not see that as a missed opportunity. I got to hear and read Balin's story through numerous interviews and books, and I got to experience that incredible voice through numerous songs. Checking up on his story--and the band's story--over the years helped ground me as my life changed course in ways I couldn't have imagined at 14. The JA/JS and its various members were like old friends I'd check up on now and then, friends who reminded me of something of core importance: a sense of family in all of its messy configurations.

This sense of family was both invented and real. Rock bands in general create a sense of belonging for disaffected teens and young people who feel at odds with their own families and communities. Rock bands say, "Come and join us. You can be who you are or whatever you want to be. You can succeed in your wildest dreams, and we will be there to help and support you." For many bands, this is nothing more than an illusion--a projection of teenage wish fulfillment. But for a select few bands, there is something real under-girding this illusion. The Beatles had that "something"--call it honesty or integrity: a willingness to expose their less attractive sides and choices. A willingness to say, "This is who we are and what we choose to do (even break up), even if our fans don't like it."

Jefferson Airplane and Jefferson Starship had that "something," too, and I felt it mirrored my own relationships: feelings of not being understood or appreciated for who I was, having to conform to expectations that did not suit me, wanting to chuck it all and leave--to start over with new people and relationships. I imagine Marty, during his various comings and goings, felt all of that at one time or another.

Yet Marty returned to the band time and time again. From 1993 until well into the 2000s, he sang with a new configuration, dubbed Jefferson Starship--The Next Generation. The only time I got to see him perform live was during a JS--TNG show in 2000. Fittingly and with great appreciation from me, he sang "Count on Me."

The stage was almost vacant except for him and keyboard player Chris Smith. I can't recall if other band members played on the song, but I remember that Paul Kantner did not. Kantner, who had co-founded the band with Marty in 1965, was the only other member from their hit-making days present in the millennium configuration. I wasn't sure what to make of his absence during Marty's solo. (Marty joked that Paul must be taking a leak.) In my fantasy interpretation, he should have supported Marty as he did in the videos. But perhaps Marty wanted it that way. It was his solo.

Families are messy and incomplete. They overflow with resentment as much as love. And what is love? Balin and JA/JS often sang about love as if its nature were beyond question: a force that made our lives better. Love, in Balin's world, was sexual ("Miracles") but also full of world-weary hope ("Comin' Back to Me," 1967). Even broken hearts cannot truly dispel love ("Hearts").

Or families.

Art credit: https://openclipart.org/detail/302864/open-window-version-2

Okay, Mr. Writer, What Makes The Power Club So Special?

One of the cool things about publishing a book is getting interviewed. One blogger recently sent me a series of questions, and, while I enjoyed answering them all, one threw me. The blogger asked: Super-hero stories are quite common these days. What makes The Power Club unique?

It’s a fair question. Every writer should know what makes his or her book stand above the herd. In my mind, I’ve rehearsed an answer to such questions ever since I started writing PC. Yet answering that question for real requires the writer to take a good, hard look at his or her work, delve into personal reasons why he or she wrote the book in the first place, and connect those reasons with readers who will buy and (we hope) love the book.

It’s especially a fair question today with movie theaters glutted with Avengers and JLA movies. What makes PC—a story about kids with super-powers—different?  One obvious answer is that these kids are forced to live in a place known as “the district,” which restricts the use of their powers and keeps a careful, perhaps sinister, watch over them.

But there’s more to it than that. Herewith is my attempt to give a more complete answer to “What makes The Power Club unique?”

         1. PC is a deeply personal story which combines elements of real life and fantasy.

Growing up in the small Midwestern city of St. Joseph, MO, I dreamed of having super-powers and friends who had powers so we could form our own super-hero team. For a fleeting summer, a bunch of neighborhood kids and I, fueled by comic books and cartoons, pretended we were super-heroes. Then they moved on to other things (sports and cars), but I never did. In the back of my mind, I always wondered, “What if our super-team had been real?”

Also, I felt a sense of confinement in my neighborhood and hometown, just as Damon, the main character in PC, feels confined in the district. All the “real” super-heroes lived in New York or imaginary cities such as Metropolis and Coast City. I wanted to explore the world, but I was “stuck” in St. Joseph.

A third strand came from the realization that the world outside the safe confines of St. Joseph was a scary place (and it could be scary inside St. Joseph, as well). Suicide bombers and mass shooters were extremely rare in those days, but the world always seemed to be on the brink of nuclear disaster. Until I was almost 12, there were constant reminders that—as a young male—I could be drafted and sent off to fight in a war. When I was about Damon’s age, a cult led by the Rev. Jim Jones committed mass suicide. These events formed my perceptions of the world and fueled my desire to do something about them.

This isn’t to say that PC is based on fear. Quite the contrary, I hope readers derive a sense of hope and optimism from it. Yes, the world is screwed up, and there is much outside our control. However, we can do something about our own choices.

Fear, then, is a motivating factor in the book, and it hits Damon from all sides. He must contend with super-powered bullies as well as the district itself, which conspires against him. How Damon responds to these challenges determines who he is.

 2. PC isn’t just about good guys versus bad guys. Sometimes it's difficult to know what a good guy should do.

Many super-hero stories succeed because they are comforting and familiar. We know who the good guys are and who the bad guys are, and we know the good guys will win after they overcome many obstacles. But in PC, the obstacle and the choices the characters make to overcome them aren't so clear cut.

The PC characters share at least one common obstacle: they are young. They don’t have the resources, independence, or experience of adult heroes. They must contend with real-world challenges such as going to school, obeying rules, and even attending birthday parties. All of these things get in the way of being heroes.

Damon and some of the other characters have to make difficult choices in order to become heroes. One character lies to her parents so she can participate in a mission. Damon must decide whether to kick another member out of the club. He also learns that the district, which is supposed to protect him, uses dirty tricks to keep him from becoming a hero. Sometimes, doing "the right thing" is hard when there are competing choices.

Being a hero is also dangerous business, and this is shown in the book. Stopping a scared mob is one thing, but going up against real criminals is another. Some members of the PC question whether they want to be heroes, and the sacrifices they have to make. So, PC turns this assumption on its head: Just because you have powers doesn’t mean you can or want to be a hero.

      3. PC wasn’t written to cash in on trends and fashions.

Okay, I hope PC is a big success, and if it rides the current wave of super-hero popularity, so much the better. However, my goal is for PC to have universal appeal and to live on, be read, and be discussed for years. Though I don’t pretend to compare my book to Harry Potter, I think some lessons can be learned from J.K. Rowling’s series. HP is not just about a kid who wants to become a wizard; it’s about a kid who, bereft of a loving family, seeks to find his place in the world. This is something all kids everywhere can identify with. 

Likewise, PC is about kids discovering their special abilities and trying to figure out what those abilities mean for them and the world.

That’s my take on what makes PC unique. For another perspective, here’s a gracious review written by the Blushing Bibliophile:

A Tribute to the Grandmother Who Encouraged Me to Write

Today marks the 100^th birthday of my paternal grandmother. 

There is no significance to this in terms of writing, except that Grandma Vivian was the only person in my family while I was growing up who did anything creative. She painted.

I still have a painting she made of a white rosebush in her backyard. It is painted from a picture she took. The caption on the photo simply reads,“Taken May 18, 1981. My roses.”

Grandma never pursued her artwork in terms of education or sought recognition. In her day, women didn’t do that sort thing. She married young and, though she held a job for a time, she spent most of her life as a wife, mother, and grandmother. Nothing wrong with that, but I've always wondered if she maybe had other aspirations. 

 

Grandma was so laid back that she often seemed disconnected from her surroundings, like a kid at a carnival who tries to take it all in. Perhaps this is the sort of artistic temperament that is needed to paint or write or draw or make music. 

Perhaps people with this disposition see what could be and find it more interesting than what is.

I see that as a connection between her and me. I often feel like that kid at the carnival--alternately exhilarated and disturbed by the sights, sounds, and experiences around me. In my less optimistic moments, I compare life to a minefield: waiting for something to go off when I take my next step. 

It is through writing that I've found a way to navigate this carnival-minefield. I imagine that art served the same purpose for Grandma.

Nevertheless, it was Grandma Vivian who showed an interest in my work as a writer when no one else did. She took the time and effort to read a play I wrote about a rock band. (She said she liked it, except for the language.) 

She even sought to collaborate with me by coloring a drawing I had made of the Marvel Comics character, Tigra. She got the colors wrong, but she was doing her own thing—something I didn’t fully appreciate at the time.

She also encouraged my interest in writing by suggesting that I write stories about the family she had married into, the Gildersleeves. 

Curiously, she never asked me to write about her own family, the DeFreeces. Perhaps the Gildersleeves seemed more interesting. (Two of my great-uncles served in World War I, and one later died of what she told me was a poisoned bullet wound. This turned out not be true—he died of appendicitis.)

Perhaps it was because she owned a history book written by a distant relative who had traced the history of the Gildersleeves in America back to the 1600s. (A cousin of mine now owns that book.)

I was into comic books at the time, not genealogy, so I never wrote the stories she wanted to read. I did, however, interview her a few years before her death to learn more about our family.

When I launched my own genealogical project a few years ago, I discovered that Grandma was wrong about certain details, especially dates. But she also gave me a lot of information I couldn’t have found elsewhere, including details of her family, which included seven brothers and sisters.

One of the more interesting aspects she told me was that her father—my great-grandfather—had been an acrobat. I couldn’t find any verification for this later on, but it’s a lovely idea and adds a sense of romance and adventure to our family history.

It would not totally surprise me if Grandma had made up that story, or perhaps misremembered and embellished something, as she apparently had done with the poisoned bullet tale. As I said, she lived in her head and seemed only mildly interested in the world around her. 

My mother used to tell me that she had tried to start conversations with Grandma Vivian, her mother-in-law, and was met with silence. Mom interpreted this as rudeness.

Yet I don’t think Grandma was trying to be rude. Some people are just better at small talk than others. I’ve been told that small talk is one of my areas of deficiency, and my dad was much the same way. 

People who live inside their heads often miss social cues or are afraid of saying the wrong thing. Retreating into silence is safer than being called out for violating social norms.

Grandma Vivian passed away during my final year of college. Her passing and funeral are largely a blur—except that the pastor had calculated Grandma's age wrong, thinking she was 77 instead of 78.

Unlike Grandma, I was a stickler for details and meticulously recorded such things. I never said anything to the pastor about her mistake, but I’ve always remembered it. That’s how I make sense of the world inside my head.

But life goes on. I had to finish college and take a graduation trip to Germany, and then ... I had no idea what to do with my life.

Perhaps Grandma experienced her life in much the same way. At 19, she married a man 16 years her senior and moved away from her parents’ home in Nebraska to live with him in Kansas. At 20, she became a mother; when she was 22, her second baby died. 

Life just takes you in directions you never expected, and she had a husband whose strong personality often overshadowed her own. I don’t think she truly knew what it was like to live on her own until he passed away. She was 72 at the time.

I’ve often felt the way I imagined she felt: waiting for someone to come along, take my hand, and guide me through this carnival we call life. But on the two occasions when this happened, it didn’t work out. From my grandmother, I inherited the capacity to dream. But from my grandfather, I inherited a certain stubbornness that resisted being overshadowed by a stronger personality.

So, here we are, 100 years into this carnival, and I’m still trying to make sense of it. Maybe there is no sense to be made. Maybe there’s only an exit sign which magically appears when we’ve had enough.

But, through her art, Grandma Vivian taught me it was okay to dream. 

Happy birthday, Grandma!

One Writer’s Inspiration: Artist Dave Cockrum (1943-2006)

A gathering of the 30th century's finest heroes, from Superboy # 197.
All characters ™ and art © DC Comics.

Dave Cockrum passed away five years ago today.

"Who was Dave Cockrum?" you may ask. He was a comic book artist who worked on various Marvels and DCs from the early 1970s.  He is best known for his role in relaunching Marvel's X-Men in the mid ‘70s, building the foundation for the extremely popular franchise of today.

Cockrum's name, unfortunately, is not as widely known as some of his creations: Storm, Nightcrawler, Colossus, and Wolverine's feral appearance.

But I’m honoring Cockrum for a different reason. Before his X-Men stint, he worked on DC’s Legion of Super-Heroes with writer Cary Bates.  The Bates/Cockrum era spanned just twelve issues over a two-year period (1972-74), but it played an enormous role in my developing interest in comics and super-heroes. Simply put, without Cockrum and Bates, there would be no Power Club™.

(If you’ve never heard of the Legion of Super-Heroes, it's because they, too, are not as widely known as certain other comics heroes, despite having been around for over 50 years. The Legion, or LSH, is a team of young heroes who live and operate a thousand years in the future. While the Legion has been rebooted several times, in most versions they befriend Superboy (Superman as a teen), who, through time travel, joins them and participates in their futuristic adventures. For more information on all things Legion, visit the Legion World fan site.)

Element Lad and Brainiac 5 ambushed  by one of the Fatal Five (issue # 198).

By 1972, the Legion had been relegated to an occasional backup feature in Superboy. Cockrum, an up-and-coming young artist, turned the series on its head. No one was paying much attention to the Legion in those days, so he was free to redesign the Legionnaires’ costumes, most of which had been unchanged since the early ‘60s. His Legionnaires were sexy and elegant, not overly developed as later became the norm in comics. His science fiction settings borrowed liberally from the original Star Trek series (then growing in popularity due to reruns). Acknowledging this inspiration, Cockrum even drew Mr. Spock into a panel of one issue.

Not to be overlooked, writer Cary Bates (who is better known for his 17-year stint on The Flash, from 1968-85) specialized in inventive plots with surprise endings. In one memorable story (Superboy # 195, June 1973), the Legion rejects an applicant, ERG-1, who does not appear to have an original super-power. Refusing to take no for an answer, ERG-1 vaporizes a monstrous machine the Legionnaires cannot defeat – but apparently gives his life in the process.

(Not to worry: ERG-1 survived and became Wildfire, one of the most popular Legionnaires.)

The triumphant return of ERG-1
(Wildfire) in # 201.

The Bates/Cockrum run proved so popular with fans that, two issues later, the Legion “took over” the series and were given cover billing: Superboy starring the Legion of Super-Heroes. Although Superboy remained the central character, nearly every story afterwards took place not in his home town of 20^th century Smallville, but in the Legion’s 30^th century. No longer a solo hero, Superboy shared his title with the likes of Brainiac 5, Saturn Girl, Timber Wolf, Dream Girl, and Star Boy.

Alas, Cockrum left just a few issues later, following a dispute with DC. His last issue was # 202 (June 1974).

The Legion prospered without Cockrum, but many fans feel that, had he stayed, the Legion could have become as popular as the X-Men eventually became. (Some of the characters Cockrum intended for the Legion turned up in the X-Men, most notably Nightcrawler.) 

Despite its brevity, Cockrum’s run had an enormous impact on Legion fans, particularly this one, whose writing to this day remains influenced by those issues. The Bates/Cockrum Legion was full of optimism, fellowship, confidence, and even humor. Other creators have developed those aspects of the Legion to varying degrees, but there was something special about that era: It was cool, sexy, and fun, as well as heroic. Cockrum's art conveyed a sense of urgency and semi-realism. His Legionnaires had distinct personalities in their faces and body language. His 30th century seemed both dangerous and inviting.
 

Future newlyweds Bouncing Boy and Duo Damsel at play (# 200).

In a previous post, I mentioned that no story springs whole cloth out of nothing. Every story has antecedents it refers back to, deliberately or not.  I’m proud to acknowledge the LSH—and particularly Dave Cockrum’s version—as one of my antecedents for The Power Club™. 

There are, of course, significant differences. Damon’s world exists in the present, not the future, and the team he joins will be much smaller and does not use code names such as Lightning Lad and Phantom Girl. Figuring out what to do with their powers will be a lot harder for Damon and company than it often seemed for the Legion. 

But every story begins with an idea or model that sparks the flame of its own individual growth. Dave Cockrum ignited such a spark for me.

Thanks, Dave.