Dan’s Cadence bios through the years:
- Sage Lucia: Coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee coffe kaffe coffee cafe cof fee xoffee coffww codffeecoffeecoffeexoffeecoffee (2015)
- Dan Lucia could write it better than you ever felt it. (2016)
- Dan Lucia once launched the Babbadook on Blu-ray in the middle of Teavanna. (2017)
- When I said that Dan Lucia got schlonged by Obama, it meant got beaten badly. The media knows this. Often used word in politics! (2018)
Seven Questions: Past, Present, Future
What is your first creative memory?
My first creative memory involving writing was when I was in elementary school—we were instructed to journal in our notebooks every morning following new prompts given to us each day. I found myself wanting to exceed our thirty minute time frame of creative writing and immerse myself further into the stories that I had only begun creating. I had begun to handwrite a story about me and my close friends getting sucked into the most famous horror movies ever filmed, and it actually exceeded over 300 pages. That was my first breakthrough that influenced me to continue writing.
What are your Desert(ed) Island Five favorite books—you, a deserted island, just five books to read—and why?
The Catcher in the Rye, because while it is an indisputable classic, I have many fond memories regarding the first time I read that book and feel as if I could reanalyze it over and over. Things are Happening because it is a book of poetry that I was gifted and found myself falling in love with the more I read. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Café because of the homey southern slice of life that puts me right back in Alabama. So Sad Today for non-fiction essays that keep me grounded. And How to Weep in Public: Feeble Offerings on Depression from One Who Knows for a balance of humor and relateability that no other book has given me.
If you could trade places, Freaky Friday style, with any well-known creative person, who would it be and why?
I would trade places with lyricist and comic book author Gerard Way, because despite the stigma around him as a person and his projects in the past, he is an incredibly talented, strong, and inspiring individual who has made a beautiful life for himself out of a past of hardships and intense emotional struggle.
What is your favorite ASFA-CW memory?
My favorite memory would be the night of my senior reading. I found it not only to be such a heart-warming and loving environment and event, but I was given a platform like never before to artistically create a theme, environment, and banquet. I never felt more confident in myself or my writing ever more than on that day,
What’s the hardest thing you had to learn to be successful at ASFA?
That not everyone is going to support you or your writing, and you don’t need the validation of everyone around you in order to be a good writer. Not everyone is always going to like you or your work.
What advice do you have for future ASFA-CW students?
That not everyone is going to fall in love with your writing, and that doesn’t make you any less of a talented person in your craft.
What are your post-ASFA plans?
I plan to be a forensic psychologist that continues to write both prose and poetry inspired by my field and surrounding on the job.
An Excerpt from Cadence 2018
look at me (a symptom of withdrawal)
i can feel my mother’s fingernails digging into my throat
even when her palms are folded solemnly in her lap.
a silent colloquy brings more bodily pain than a
nail-nicked jugular. either way, i cannot speak when
we are alone in this icebox. the cool diamond of her
engagement ring catches on mild apologies. i am put
on mute. it isn’t your fault. but is it not? when i gaze
with waxy fish eyes at glaring alarms and pretend our
screaming oak cabinet is a distant coyote in exchange
for a narcotized slumber. how do you think i sleep at
night? it’s not the attrax. it’s not the lexapro. it’s not
the ativan. because i forgot to take them, i’m sorry.
i inhale guilt from a hollow-looking glass and stare
you in your eyes and promise they are racing through
my system. that my neurons are firing properly. that
i haven’t memorized the smell of garbage bags and
the taste of anxiety-laced bile. that i haven’t thought
about melding my body into a rusted coin and
dropping my remains into a fountain to sink with
every other penny-reflective wish. my mother’s
eyes land on my trembling form, and she opens her
mouth to speak. a beep. a name that i’ve abandoned.
the beginnings of carped whispers shared between
me and my mother are too quickly abandoned before
they even begin. coloring book sheets a terminally ill
five-year-old boy left underneath our waiting room
bench are the only things speaking. my neurologist
says it is time to begin.