I’m launching an email newsletter. What should be included?

The publishing Gods (Jane Friedman and many others) have declared that the most important tool that an author has for building a platform and marketing a book is a strong mailing list and a regular newsletter. 

Having used a mailing list as the sole means of promoting Speak Up, our Hartford-based storytelling organization, I have come to understand the power of this seemingly old fashioned form of marketing. We have sold out every one of our shows simply through the power of an email.

I’ve been collecting email addresses for more than five years. There’s a place on my website and blog to enter your email for my mailing list, and this somewhat annoying field disappears once you have signed up. After five years, I have a surprisingly large mailing list.

The question is what to include in a newsletter.

Here are my ideas so far:

• Links to the top 3 blog posts from the previous week, with commentary about reactions to the post when appropriate
• Updates on upcoming storytelling and speaking appearances
• Links to any recent videos of me performing for The Moth, TED and similar organizations
• An update on the progress of my books and any behind-the-scenes peeks into the publishing world that I could provide.

Do you have any thoughts on what you’d like to see included in a newsletter from someone like me? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Since I write a blog and post regularly, I’m looking for content that does not appear already on the blog. Something different and special that will make people open the newsletter when it arrives in their inbox.

The experts say I should be sending a newsletter to my readers at least once a month, and preferably one a week. I ‘m considering splitting the difference and sending one every other week.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this as well.

The average husband would choose the cash and time over well appointed fingernails.

I’m not criticizing the value of a manicure or pedicure. At least not at the moment.

If a manicure or pedicure makes a person happy, that’s a wonderful thing.

I’m not sure if I really believe this, but for now, I’ll stand by this statement so as to not confuse the issue. For now, here’s the question:

A friend told me that she was getting a manicure because she knows her husband likes it when her nails look good.

“Did your husband actually say this?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But I know.”

I disagreed. While I’m sure that her husband thinks that pretty nails are pretty and finds his wife’s post-manicure appearance appealing, if given the choice between a wife with well-appointed nails or $35 (the price she quoted) and 90 additional minutes to spend with his wife, I think he (and most husbands) would choose the latter.

If you are getting a manicure because it makes you feel good, that’s great (at least for the sake of this post). But I have a hard time accepting the premise that most husbands (and spouses in general) would not choose the additional time and cash over the painted nails if given the option.

I think my friend is kissing herself if she believes that she is getting manicure for her husband and not herself.

Thoughts?

Am I really so annoying?

Three things happened to me yesterday:

A friend told me that something I said to her was the meanest thing that anyone has ever said to her.

Another friend spitefully followed my advice in order to prove me wrong, and the advice turned out to be right. Things turned out legitimately great for her. And yet she was annoyed by her inability to prove me wrong.

A student told me that my suggestion for improving her essay was brilliant, but that it was probably just dumb luck on my part.

I clearly have a polarizing impact on people.

The most amazing door you will ever see

And yet the remarkable functionality of the door is underscored by the designer’s apparent inability to find a floor that doesn’t sound like it’s about to collapse beneath him.

The door is astounding. The choice of flooring is even more so.

If Dennis is a dentist, what is a Dicks?

You may have heard about this research, which seems to suggest that your name can influence your future career choice.

If your name is Dennis, you are more likely to become a dentist.

This works with other names, too. Lauras and Larrys are also more likely to become lawyers, for example.

The effect is attributed to something called implicit egotism.

“People prefer people, places, and things that they associate (unconsciously) with the self. People’s positive automatic associations about themselves may influence their feelings about almost anything that people associate with the self.”

I plan on using this odd human tendency as the basis of a novel someday.

But here is the $10,000 question:

If these findings are correct, what does this mean for someone like me with the last name Dicks?

Or even worse, someone like my uncle Harry Dicks, or my great uncle, Harry Dicks, or my father, Les Dicks?

The perpetual search for a good parking spot is probably insane

Slate’s Justin Peters argues that handicapped parking fraud is one of the jerkiest crimes imaginable.

I agree.

My evil stepfather didn’t teach me much and demonstrated little by way of moral judgment, but when he saw a car parked illegally in a handicapped spot, he would scratch the paint with his car key.

Not the best example to set for your child, but at least he was talking a stand against something.

The most baffling aspect of of handicapped parking fraud is the risk-reward involved:

Park a little closer. Save a few steps. Risk a hefty fine and being labeled as a social pariah.

It’s just not worth it.

Almost as infuriating is the senseless desire to find a parking spot close to the entrance to a person’s destination. The amount of time that the average person is willing to invest in order to avoid walking 50 feet is astounding.

I have known people who will spend 15 minutes looking for a good parking spot at the mall in order to save 100 steps, knowing full well that their intention is to spend the next four hours walking thousands of steps inside the mall.

It’s insane.

I would love for an economist to do a study on the time and energy wasted searching for a good parking spot versus adopting the policy of driving to the end of the row and parking as far away as possible, even when a closer spot is clearly available.

I strongly suspect that consistently parking at the end of the row, without any attempt to park closer, would prove to be a time saver in the long run, and perhaps get you a little more exercise in the process.

I would adopt this policy myself, but I am married to a woman who really likes a good parking spot.

The sacrifices we make for our spouses.

I’m apparently competing against myself now.

Booktopia, the largest bookstore in all of Australia, is now selling the Matthew Green and Matthew Dicks versions of Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend side by side.

As the reader who reported this oddity to me said, I’m really not sure what to think about this.

 

Is this generation of grandparents different than previous generations, or is this bald, bespectacled man just unusual?

My son is less than two years old and already has a great relationship with his grandparents. He loves them a great deal. He especially loves playing with his Gramps, who is the kind of guy who will play with my children for a very long time without ever getting bored.

My daughter is almost five years-old, and she has been over the moon for her grandparents ever since she was a baby. She asks to see them all the time and throws herself into their arms every time they arrive.

She and Gramps are also quite capable of playing together for hours.

   

I wish I had shared a similar relationship with my grandparents. My mother’s parents were wonderful people who lived until I was in my twenties, and though I spent a great deal of time with them as a child, I don’t ever remember them as being playful, silly, overly affectionate or indulgent.

My father’s mother died when I was very little, and though I lived next door to my father’s father for my entire childhood, I can’t even remember getting a hug from him. He was a quiet, stoic, perpetually busy man.

Was this simply a generation of people who did things a different way? Men and women who lived through the Great Depression and World War II and saw the world through a more somber, reticent lens? 

Do the majority of the grandparents today behave similarly to my grandparents, or are my wife’s parents blessedly unusual?

I’m not sure.

Either way, my father-in-law has shown me what the relationship between a grandfather and his grandchildren can be, and I will not forget it when it comes time for me to be a grandfather.

Do I know Dan Kennedy?

I have read two of Dan Kennedy’s three books. I own the third and will read it soon.  

  

I follow him on Twitter and read his tweets daily.

I read his work in McSweeney’s.

I have listened to him tell true stories from his life, both on stage and recorded.

I have seen him host many Moth events, where he often shares bits from his life as well as his reactions to the stories.

I’ve spoken to him in person on many occasions at Moth events.

My question is this:

Do I really know Dan Kennedy?

I’m not sure.

I think I know Dan Kennedy, but I find myself wondering what would happen if Dan and I were to  spend a weekend together. Would I discover that I didn’t really know him at all? Would I find myself liking him more or less than his public facing persona?

Is the Dan Kennedy who I know and love the real, honest-to-goodness version of Dan Kennedy that his friends and family know?

In this age of media, it’s easy to think that you can know a person by immersing yourself in their content, particularly when they produce a great deal of it across multiple platforms.

The same holds true for me. If a reader has read all of my novels, reads my blog regularly, follows me on Twitter and Facebook and has listened to me tell stories for The Moth similar organizations (live or recorded), do they really know me?

I’m not sure.

Do they know me better than an actual friend or family member who sees me once every couple months or only during the holiday season?

I have a friend named Gary. I’ve known him for at least twenty years. I’ve spent long stretches of time with him, including a road trip to Florida more than decade ago. Today, I see Gary a few times a year. He judges my annual science fair at school. We spend an occasional weekend together. I see him at parties and cookouts. We might play poker or golf together or attend a Patriots game with some mutual friends. 

Gary doesn’t read my blog. As far as I know, he hasn’t read any of my books. He doesn’t follow me on Twitter. He doesn’t use Facebook. He’s never seen or heard me tell a story onstage.

I’m not sure of he even knows that I am a storyteller.

Does Gary know me better than someone who I have never met but who consumes my written and spoken content regularly and interacts with me through social media?

I think maybe not.

I suspect that the person who immerses him or herself in my content and communicates with me regularly through social media might actually know me better than Gary.

But does that person know the real me?

Is my book/blog/social media/storytelling persona my true persona?

I like to think so, but maybe not. I’m not sure.

Here’s my hypothesis:

The person who knows me through my content probably knows me better than Gary. For the same reason, I may know Dan Kennedy better than I know Gary. But I have no idea what the combination of me and Dan Kennedy would yield.

Dan Kennedy is like a chemical compound that I have studied closely. I know a great deal about his color, consistency and chemical composition. But I don’t know how Dan Kennedy’s chemical compound would react when combined with my own. Would we integrate seamlessly into some new, more glorious compound? Would one compound consume the other? Would we separate like oil and water? Would we explode?

I may not know Gary’s chemical compound quite as well, but I know how we fit together. I know how we interact. I know that when we come together, as infrequently as that may be, Gary’s chemical compound and my own will react well together.

All will be well.

Though I don’t see Gary often and rarely speak to him unless we are doing something together, I know that we work well together.

I think this is the real difference between knowing someone in real life and knowing someone through social media and their content. It’s not a question of knowing the real person. It’s a question of knowing how you and that person would get along in the real world.

I suspect that Dan Kennedy and I would combine just as well as Gary and me, but I don’t know for sure. I can’t know for sure. I only know the side of Dan Kennedy that faces the public. There may be other parts of his chemical compound puzzle that I don’t know well and wouldn’t combine with me at all. 

Do I know Dan Kennedy as well as I think?

I don’t even think Dan Kennedy could answer this question. 

Anatomy of a possibly pathetic New Year’s Eve

There was a time (and perhaps there will be again) when my friends and I hosted some enormous New Year’s Eve parties, complete with keg stands, dancing and police raids.

This year, my New Year’s Eve did not resemble those days of yore in the slightest. As I look back, I’m not sure if I am pleased or horrified by the way I spent my New Year’s Eve and the first few hours of 2014.

December 31, 2014
6:00 PM

Friends arrive for dinner. I spend much of the evening giving notes to my friend on the screenplay for his latest pilot and taunt him about my recently discovered IMDB page. We also discuss plans for my screenplay, my  golf memoir and the revisions of my latest novel.

9:00 PM

Friends leave to put their children (and my friend) to bed. Elysha and I read books to Clara before putting her to bed.

9:30 PM

Elysha and I sit across from each other, pecking away on our laptops. She threatens to go to bed (she’s sick) but stays up for about an hour, poking around on the Internet. I resume work on my manuscript. It is due to my editor on Friday, and I have been obsessively honing it for more than a week.

10:30 PM

Elysha finally goes to bed. I continue work on the manuscript.

January 1, 2014
12:00 AM

The cuckoo clock signals midnight. 2014 has arrived. I drink champagne from the bottle and ring in the New Year alone. Even the dog is asleep.

12:05 AM

I resume work on the manuscript.

1:45 AM

I finally go to bed.

2:30 AM

Charlie wakes up, crying. I rock him back to sleep.

3:00 AM

Back to bed.

6:00 AM

Charlie wakes up for good. We eat breakfast, empty dishwasher, sweep and mop floor and play with trucks.

7:30 AM

I bring Charlie upstairs to Elysha. I walk the dog.

8:00 AM

I resume my work on the manuscript.

9:30 AM

Family leaves for brunch with friends. I resume work on the manuscript.

When my family arrives home around 1:30 PM, I finally stop working for a while and spend some leisure time with them. I ride scooters around the house with my daughter, fly my remote controlled helicopter, crawl around on the floor with my son, eat dessert for lunch and take down the Christmas tree.

Even that isn’t exactly leisure.

While I’m pleased with the work that I accomplished thus far in 2014, I’m not sure if New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day were the best times to get this work done.

You only get one New Year’s Eve a year. I’m not sure if ringing in the New Year alone, sitting at the laptop, drinking champagne from the bottle, is the best way to spend it.

Perhaps next year I will be less… I’m not sure.

You tell me the word.

Compelling? Truthy? Horribly narrow minded and sexist? I’m not sure.

From a piece in TIME entitled It’s a Man’s World, and It Always Will Be by Camille Paglia (author and professor at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) comes these two paragraphs which I found incredibly intriguing and thought provoking. 

I’m not saying I fully agree with what Paglia asserts here, but I’m not saying that I disagree, either.

I’m not sure. It has the air of truthiness to it, but at the same time, it doesn’t feel quite right.

It also makes use of two unnecessary exclamation points, which doesn’t help her argument at all.

I would love to hear what you think about the paragraphs and perhaps about the entire piece.

__________________________________

After the next inevitable apocalypse, men will be desperately needed again! Oh, sure, there will be the odd gun-toting Amazonian survivalist gal, who can rustle game out of the bush and feed her flock, but most women and children will be expecting men to scrounge for food and water and to defend the home turf. Indeed, men are absolutely indispensable right now, invisible as it is to most feminists, who seem blind to the infrastructure that makes their own work lives possible. It is overwhelmingly men who do the dirty, dangerous work of building roads, pouring concrete, laying bricks, tarring roofs, hanging electric wires, excavating natural gas and sewage lines, cutting and clearing trees, and bulldozing the landscape for housing developments. It is men who heft and weld the giant steel beams that frame our office buildings, and it is men who do the hair-raising work of insetting and sealing the finely tempered plate-glass windows of skyscrapers 50 stories tall.

Every day along the Delaware River in Philadelphia, one can watch the passage of vast oil tankers and towering cargo ships arriving from all over the world. These stately colossi are loaded, steered and off-loaded by men. The modern economy, with its vast production and distribution network, is a male epic, in which women have found a productive role — but women were not its author. Surely, modern women are strong enough now to give credit where credit is due!

Future scientist? Or future member of Metallica?

There are two possibilities here:

1. He is studying the gravitational and centrifugal forces that cause the plate to wobble and fall similar to the way a scientist might study a similar phenomenon.

2. He likes to make noise.

As his father, I’m not sure which one would be better.

They both sounds pretty great to me.

Possibly illogical and misplaced anger about non-disabled actors

Is it wrong for me to be annoyed, angered, even outraged at the idea of a non-wheelchair bound actor performing in a wheelchair bound role?

I think it might be, but I’m annoyed just the same.

Elysha and I are watching an HBO comedy called Hello Ladies, and there’s a wheelchair-bound character in the show being portrayed by a non-disabled actor.

I can’t help but think:

Why not find an actor who’s in a wheelchair to perform that role?

Apparently the same situation exists in the television show Glee. The actor playing the wheelchair-bound student in that show is actually a professional dancer.

Should I be angry about this?

I don’t think so. But I am.

I don’t think my anger is logical. I don’t think it’s justified in any way. An actor should be able to perform any role. They are, after all, actors. Their job is to pretend to be something they are not.

Still, it annoys me.

Flying car or self-driving car?

Here are the rules:

The self-driving car is self explanatory. It’s the finished version of the self-driving car that Google is currently developing. It drives the car wherever you ask it to go. You sit inside and do whatever the hell you want.

The flying car travels at regular car speeds but does not need to adhere to the limitations of roads. It can fly over traffic, rivers, forests and anything else that might be in the way, but you must be actively driving it at all times.

Which do you choose and why?

I believe that your answer says a lot about you.

I will give you my choice and my analysis of both choices tomorrow.

I hated it, then I loved it.

For the first minute or so of this Jimmy Kimmel segment, I hated it. I thought it was cruel and exploitive.

By the third minute I thought it was hilarious.

By the fifth minute I was willing to do the same to my own child.

I have no idea how or why this dramatic shift in opinion happened. Perhaps the gag is simply too funny to be thought of as cruel. Maybe the pain is worth the pleasure. Maybe I was simply being too sensitive in the first minute.

I’m not sure.

As I know is that it’s gut-wrenchingly hilarious.

Sometimes there’s a fine line between creepy and cute.

My family went to a pumpkin patch yesterday. My wife sent me some photos from their afternoon amidst the pumpkins, including this one.

She’s cute as a button, and I love the photograph, but I feel like this image could be interpreted in a lot of different ways. For example:

“Bright lights came from the sky and took my Mommy and Daddy away. I don’t think they're coming back. Please help me.”

Or this:

“I see dead people. They’re living in the corn. Run.”

Or this:

“Don’t say no to me. You’ll make me angry. You wouldn’t like it when I’m angry.”

A potato chip bag and a palace: Two sides of the same coin.

The fact that someone can actually do this astounds me.

The fact that someone can envision something like this in their mind and then create it with their hands seems impossible to me. I have heard similar sentiments about the writing process and the creation of novels and short stories, but I find the expertise, talent and vision of artists like this far more impressive.

It’s as if these people have a different set of hands and eyes than the rest of humanity.

If this doesn’t impress you, how about the postman who spent 34 years building a palace using the rocks that he found along his postal route?

People are amazing.

Which book is more frightening?

Dinosaur-on-human erotica or a Ryan Gosling coloring book?

Both are real. Which is scarier?

Little boy and big boy

When I look back at the scant few photographs of me and my father from when I was a baby, I see the grainy images of an adult and his baby boy.

A grown man and his infant son.

I can’t help but wonder:

When my son is older, will he look back on photos like these and think the same?

 

Because I don’t. I look at these photos and see a big boy holding his little boy.

I know that I’m a grownup. I own a home. I have a career (or three). I’m a husband and the father of two. I’m a  responsible citizen who has been living on his own and taking care of himself and others ever since he was eighteen years old.

Even so, it’s still such a stretch for me to think of myself an honest-to-goodness adult. I look back on the photos from my childhood and see real grownups in those pictures. I see serious people with serious expressions.

I see a man without an ounce of boyhood in him. My father is all adult. All man.

I look at pictures and me and Charlie, and I see none of that.  

Will Charlie look at these photos someday and see the same?

Do all book critics start out this way?

I’d much rather see my son become an author like his Daddy than the book critic that seems to be his natural inclination.

Nothing wrong with book critics, but I don’t think I could stand a scathing review from my own son.

Hopefully this is just a phase.