It's always strange when state-run TV and the President aren't totally in sync

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When state-run television Fox News publishes poll data like this, there should be absolutely no question about the will of the American people. 

Yet not a single one of these measures have been put into place. 

When the American people overwhelming support legislation, and that legislation does not happen, there is only one reason:

Money. 

Republican donors, including and especially the NRA, are blocking this legislation with threats to withdraw campaign donations, and politicians who favor dollars over the will and safety of constituents are allowing it to continue.  

Even more important, we must remember that when it comes to issues related to guns, America is not nearly as divided as Republicans and the NRA would have you believe. This poll - commissioned and published by Fox News - shows enormous consensus amongst Americans related to these basic, common sense measures.  

A large majority of Americans want gun reform. Reasonable, rationale, sensible gun reform. It's only a loud, political active minority with money to burn and the gutless, useless politicians who take their money who are preventing  it from happening. 

International Night: A reminder of what our country can and should be

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Last night my family attended my school's first ever International Night.

I didn't know what to expect. I wasn't involved in the planning of this event, so when I arrived, I was blown away by all that we experienced. Lining the walls of the cafeteria and the hallway were booths featuring countries from around the world, each managed by students and families who originated from those countries. 

My school is filled with immigrants from all over the world:

Nepal, Israel, Peru, China, India, Germany, Sweden, Poland, Ireland, Vietnam, Mexico, Korea, Columbia and many, many more. 

Each one of these booths featured foods, information, and artifacts from the country, and it was staffed by adults and children who were excited to tell us all about their homeland.

Later, there were performances in a packed auditorium. We watched a Chinese yoyo demonstration, a martial arts demonstration, and lots and lots of dancing and music from all around the world. 

Elysha and the kids sat between a Nepalese family and two children from Vietnam. I watched one of my colleagues perform an Irish step dance. I chatted with folks from Poland, Peru, Columbia, and Mexico. 

Best of all, I didn't sit with my family. I chose to stand, partially because I wanted to be ready to take photos and videos of some of my student performers, but also because I wanted to watch my children's faces as they watched the performances. I love to see the wonder in Clara and Charlie's eyes as they watch something new and exciting, and these performances did not disappoint.

The little girl who loves learning about new countries and cultures was enthralled by every moment, and the boy who can't sit still for a single second sat still for nearly the entire time. It was as much fun to watch them as it was to watch the action taking place onstage.

It was a beautiful celebration of the many cultures that come together within our schoolhouse walls every day. 

We live in a country of immigrants, and this is one of our greatest blessings. My daughter ate Chinese moon cake and Irish cheese. She chatted with a student from China and asked questions from an immigrant of Sweden. Charlie was awestruck by the model of the Taj Mahal and stared in fascination at the Chinese yoyo. He "might want to learn to Irish step dance."  

What a remarkable evening of learning, connection, and understanding.

There are people in our country today who truly believe that America is a white, Anglo-Saxon, Christian nation, despite everything that our Funding Father's wrote and the long and storied history of the people who built this country. There are people in this country who would have us close our borders to the world, even when every economic study published states clearly and unequivocally that immigration strengthens a nation's economy. 

We have a President who would build a wall on our Southern border. We have a President who seeks to reduce immigration in our country to its lowest levels ever by removing family reunification systems and threatening DACA recipients by eliminating their protections. 

We have a President who routinely lies about the rate of illegal immigration and characterizes immigrants - documented and undocumented - in the most vile terms. 

We have a President who has been routinely deporting US military veterans because of their immigration status. They are good enough to risk their lives for us in Afghanistan and Iraq but not good enough to continue to reside in this country.    

Their country. 

Last night was a bold reminder about how beautiful our country can be when people of different cultures come together for a common cause. My heart and spirit were lifted last night as I looked across an auditorium that was awash in every color under the rainbow and saw nothing but smiling, happy faces.

Three continents in a single day

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There is something to be said about the golden age of literature:

The time when television, film, video games, and the internet did not steal away eyeballs of potential readers.

Authors like Fitzgerald, Hughes, and Austin had enormous audiences of readers just waiting for their next books, aching for a new story or poem, because reading was one of the primary sources of entertainment in the world.

Today we have to shout and flail just to be noticed above the noise. More than a quarter of Americans report not having read a book within the past year. And more books are published today than ever before.

It ain't easy finding an audience. 

But there are some distinct advantages to publishing books in today's world. Yesterday was a fine example: 

It started with an email from a teenage girl in Columbia, who wanted to know if my upcoming book, Storyworthy, was going to be translated into Spanish. She's read Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend and The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs (both available in Spanish) and was hoping for the same from my next book. 

We exchanged emails throughout the day. She asked me questions about my novels and my writing process, and I asked her about the town where she lived and what she wanted to do for a living when she was finished with school. Despite the fact that we lived on two different continents and spoke two different languages, we connected in a way that would've been impossible just 20 years ago. 

I ended my day with an interview via Skype with an Australian-based podcast. The host of the show and I discussed Storyworthy and my storytelling career. Specifically, we talked about the teaching of storytelling, the components of an effective story, the best means of delivering presentations, keynote speeches, and the like.

I was able to engage in a face-to-face conversation with a woman on the other side of the world, and that conversation will be turned into a podcast that can be listened to by anyone in the world. 

Remarkable.    

But the moment that best illustrates the good fortune I feel about being alive today came in the middle of the day, when I received a Facebook mention from a reader in India.

He wrote:

"Awestruck seeing how the basic human emotions n stories are the same across continents and time zones and developed and developing countries.. one of my favourite author Matthew Dicks feeling the same in America which I sit and feel here in a corner in India.. Nostalgia is universal..."

This says everything.

A reader in India is reading my blog.

A reader in India is reading my books.

I'm the favorite author of a man in India. 

Best of all, thanks to the internet, enormous distances, multiple time zones, and countless cultural boundaries are pierced rather easily, bringing two people together in both thought and sentiment in a way that could've never happened before the twenty-first century.

I can't tell you how excited and surprised I was to see this appear on Facebook. Thrilled, even. 

Fitzgerald and Hughes and Austin had larger, more attentive audiences for sure. There were far fewer books being published in their day.  

But none of them could've connected with readers on three different continents, in two different languages, in a single day. If given the choice, I would absolutely take a larger, more attentive, more voracious audience of readers, but if that can't happen, I'll take days like yesterday and consider myself blessed. 

Memorizing phone numbers: An artifact of bygone days

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My aunt sent a text message to the family this week informing us that her landline phone number was no more. 

It was a phone number that I have known since I was a boy (41 years according to her), and it's one of the last phone numbers that I know by heart

I know Elysha's phone number. 

I know our own landline number.

I know my father's phone number, which is also a landline (as far as I know, he has never owned a cell phone).

I don't actually know my phone number most of the time without looking at my phone. 

I know my friend Jeff's phone number, only because I use his name and number whenever I take out a golf cart. In the event that something goes wrong, they will come after Jeff instead of me.

I know my friend Bengi's landline and his parent's landline numbers, if those landlines still exist. I haven't called either one in more than a decade. 

I know the phone number of the parents of my high school girlfriend, though I'm not sure if that landline still exists, and she and her father have since passed away (and it kills me all over again just to write those words).  

I know the phone number of the school where I have worked for 20 years, and I can recall the number of two of the McDonald's restaurants where I once worked (one in Milford, MA and one in Hartford, CT), though I can't confirm that those landlines still exist.  

That's it, I think. 

Twenty years ago, I knew dozens of numbers. As a teenager and young adult, I probably knew well over 100 phone numbers by heart. Friends, family, and businesses that we called often.  

I remember loving my grandparent's phone number: 883-8642. So simple to remember. As a boy, I wondered how they tricked the phone company into giving them such a good number.  

I remember memorizing my own childhood phone number, 883-8309, at a table just outside Mrs. Dubois's kindergarten classroom with Mrs. Carroll, the woman who also taught me to tie my shoes.

Back then, area codes existed by were largely irrelevant, used only if you were calling a distant number. 

I still have old phone books filled with the phone numbers of my friends. One of these books contains close to 200 phone numbers. Friends who I called all the time, back in a day when plans were made and then executed without any adjustments because once you had left the home, communication was impossible until you were face-to-face with your friends. 

Back then, "Meet me at 7:15 in the parking lot of the Stop & Shop" meant something.  

I'm guessing that not a single one of those numbers in those books still exists today. 

It's not that I'd prefer to go back to a day when phone numbers were written in books and memorized. While that time feels nostalgic and lovely to me, there's nothing advantageous to the nostalgia. There's nothing positive about filling your mind with seven digit numbers. 

Even talking on the damn phone can be a pain in the ass. 

Conversely, I can see a multitude of benefits to a childhood spent without cellphones (a fact about my childhood for which I will be eternally grateful), but if human beings are going to have phones in our pockets, we might as well have a means of storing phone numbers by name.   

Still, I'm saddened by the news that my aunt's phone number is no more. It was a tiny piece of my childhood that still existed in today's world: a pristine artifact from a time long gone that has now succumbed to the relentless wheel of progress. 

Goodbye 883-8120. My aunt says she had that number for 41 years, and I probably knew that number for most of them. 

I suspect that it's a number I will always remember, even if dialing it will no longer cause a phone on the wall of my aunt's kitchen to ring.   

March For Our Lives 2018

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Elysha and I didn't attend the March for Our Lives yesterday. Thankfully, blessedly, our two children are unaware of the Parkland shooting and all that has happened in response. We've done our best to shield them from this unfortunate reality for as long as possible.

Preservation of childhood innocence. A chance to move through the world with a little less anxiety and fear.   

But that didn't stop me from following the marches online, which her extraordinary. We live in a challenging time, but yesterday's march, and The Women's March, and the students walk-out last week give me great hope. 

The American people are politically motivated and activated in a way I have never seen before. Young people want to change the world, and they have the tools today to do it. It gives me great hope for a brighter, better future.

Also, I think protest signs are fantastic. A burgeoning art form. Here are my favorites from yesterday. 

Book clubs on boats. Book clubs in cars. Book clubs complete with game shows and nudity.

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In the past nine years, I've attended hundreds of book clubs to talk about my books. It is by far one of my favorite ways to meet readers, because unlike a book store or library appearance, these folks have already read my book and are prepared to ask some interesting questions.

I've also learned that not all book clubs are alike. I've seen some strange and fascinating things over the years while visiting with book clubs, including:

  • Game shows - complete with theme music and large, colorful props - designed to test book club members' knowledge of the story
  • Power point presentations arguing in favor of the next book
  • Buffets only containing foods mentioned within the book
  • Skinny dipping (admittedly, that was my own book club, and not me)
  • End-of-year, Academy Award styled awards shows for favorite books and characters from the previous year (voted on by secret ballot by members of the book club)
  • Heated arguments (and one woman storming out of the house) over disagreements about themes and plot points, (even though the author was there to definitively answer the question)

I've attended book clubs in living rooms, restaurants, backyards, libraries, community centers, and churches. I've joined book clubs via Skype with people from all over the country and the world. I once spoke with a group of Saudi Arabian women wearing head scarves that covered everything but their eyes.

Twice I've attended a book club hosted on a boat.

Perhaps the strangest book club I ever visited was one who I joined while driving through the Bronx. Elysha and I were on the way to a Moth StorySLAM and planned to arrive early so I could join the group via Skype on my phone to answer a few questions before the show. Traffic slowed us, so the call from the book club came as I drove through the Bronx to the show. 

Elysha pointed the camera at me, and as I navigated my way through the streets, I answered questions about Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend. The group even asked Elysha some questions about being married to an author.

We spoke for about 15 minutes. In that time, I found the theater, parallel parked, and wrapped up the call in the car while Elysha went to get a spot in line. 

I've often thought about writing a book about my wide and varied experiences with book clubs: both my own book club and the ones I've visited. It wouldn't be a terribly long or especially profound book, but that might make it the perfect book for book clubs everywhere.  

A call to action! Please? Pretty please?

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I'm writing to you today for a different kind of reason today. I hope you don't mind. And it's storytelling related. 

I have a book coming out on June 12. It's my first nonfiction title, and I'm excited and nervous. 

  • Excited because I've wanted this book to exist for a long time.
  • Nervous because it's a departure from my fiction. Something new. I don't want to fail miserably.

I need your help.  

The book is entitled Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life through the Power of Storytelling. It is a book about the art and craft of storytelling.

Part instructional guide, part memoir.

It's written for everyone, because over the past four years, I've discovered that everyone can utilize storytelling to their advantage.

  • People who want to perform at The Moth or a similarly styled storytelling show
  • Salespeople who want to connect with their customers
  • Presenters who want to connect and engage audiences
  • Ministers, priests and rabbis
  • Teachers, professors, and therapists
  • Yoga instructors, cooking instructors, and camp counselors
  • TV, radio, and podcast personalities
  • Attorneys
  • College and job Interviewees
  • Real estate agents
  • Nonprofit leaders and professional fundraisers
  • Politicians and activists
  • Archivists, museum docents, and curators
  • Grandparents who want their grandchildren to listen to them
  • People looking to get beyond the first date
  • Folks looking to make new friends or simply become more interesting

All of these people and more have taken my workshops to learn to tell a better story

A woman once attended a workshop because she wanted to make friends at work but couldn't seem to get anyone's attention. "I will never stand on a stage and tell a story. I just want to tell a better story at the cafeteria table."

Not only did storytelling help her make friends at work, but she went on to perform in our storytelling show and now tells stories as part of her job.

I've written this book for everyone. No matter who you are or what you do, storytelling can help you. 

A few testimonials:

"I laughed, gasped, took notes, and carried this book around like a dear friend—because that's exactly what a Storyworthy book should be. As a novelist, I've studied my craft in countless ways, but never before have I seen its marrow revealed with such honest, approachable charisma. Matthew Dicks has written a perceptive companion for every person who has a story to tell—and don't we all?" — SARAH McCOY, New York Times and international bestselling author of Marilla of Green Gables and The Baker's Daughter

“Matthew Dicks is dazzling as a storyteller and equally brilliant in his ability to deconstruct this skill and make it accessible for others.” ― David A. Ross, MD, PhD, program director, Yale Psychiatry Residency Training Program

"Offers countless tips, exercises, and examples to get you on your way to better stories. Anyone who wants to take the stage, become a better writer, or simply tell better stories at Thanksgiving, will benefit from Storyworthy.” ― Jeff Vibes, filmmaker

See? Seemingly intelligent, presumably real people endorse the book. If they like it, you will, too.

And now... how can you help:

1. Preorder the book. Preorders help to determine the size of the first printing and increase my chances of getting noticed right out of the gate. The book is currently available for about $10 via preorder. Please consider purchasing now and having it arrive on your doorstep in June. Buy a bushel, in fact. Give it as a gift. A graduation present. An awkward, unexpected projectile. I've been told that every time you preorder the book, an angel gets its wings. I don't know if that's true, but let's find out. 

You can preorder on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or at your favorite indie bookstore. You can use these links below:

2. Tell your friends, colleagues, acquaintances, neighbors, and enemies about the book. Ask them to preorder. Share the links on social media. If you know of someone whose company or school or university might be interested in the book, pass on this information. Any and all buzz would be appreciated. 

Thanks so very much for your support. It means the world to me. Truly. Every writer needs readers and every storyteller needs an audience.

You have been remarkable in both regards. 

My first day without my friend

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I stayed home from work yesterday following the death of my dog, Kaleigh. At first I wondered if I I really needed to stay at home, but it turns out that I was a bit of a mess for much of the day.

More than I ever expected, to be honest. 

I return to work today, but even now, as I type these words, I'm wondering how I will get through the day. I loved that dog so much.  

Yesterday I spent the day at home, slowly clearing out the beds and crates and food bowls that Kaleigh once used on a daily basis. I couldn't stand looking at them anymore. Kaleigh loved her doggy treats, so to see three uneaten treats in the bottom of her crate, untouched because she had stopped eating before her death, was like a punch in the gut. 

Later, Elysha and I went to one of our favorite restaurants for lunch, The Corner Pug, forgetting that every inch of the restaurant is covered in framed photographs of pugs. I ate my lunch surrounded by the images of beloved family dogs.

We're so dumb.

Then, because I collect and tell stories, I sat down and began listing all of the stories about Kaleigh from her 16 years of life, beginning with our final moments together and ending with a rainy day at an airport, almost two decades ago, when I took her crate from a man who had unloaded it from an airplane. She was tiny and frightened and so incredibly sweet.

There are so many stories.  

Less than a month ago, I took a stage in New York and told my first story about Kaleigh. As I finished that story, I was able to tell that audience that Kaleigh is still alive today, older but still chugging along and just as cute. They sighed. Smiled. I did, too. 

No more. 

Still, I will tell more stories about Kaleigh. Good stories.

The story about our car accident and my unexpectedly violent response to the driver of the truck that sideswiped us. 

The story about the time both Kaleigh and I acquired canine scabies (and I ended up featured in a medical journal).

The story about the time she and I defeated a French poodle and her rotten, overconfident, despicable owner during our final puppy training competition.

The story about the day in the park when I lifted Kaleigh off the ground to protect her from a pit bull that immediately redirected its assault on me.  

The story about how I took her for a walk around the block in my boxer shorts (and nothing more) in the middle of the night and ended up standing on Main Street in Newington in the pouring rain. 

So many more. 

These stories will be so much harder to tell now that my little friend is gone. But they are good stories that I want to tell about the friend I miss so much. 

When Clara arrived home from school yesterday, I emptied her backpack and found this note from her friend, Ava. I know it was meant for Clara, but they touched my heart, too. I'm a person who struggles with faith. A reluctant atheist who wishes he could believe in a heaven. 

I try, but so far, I have been unsuccessful. Still, I like the picture that Ava paints with this simple message of consolation and love. I'm trying to hold it in my head and heart as long as possible.

Kaleigh 2002-2018

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I lost my girl yesterday. My little friend. My best friend of 16 years. 

I miss her so very much. 

23 years lost and nothing offered in return

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When Lamonte McIntyre was exonerated for a double murder in October, he walked out of a Kansas prison with a clean record – but not a dime to his name. After losing 23 years of his life behind bars, the state is offering him nothing upon his release. 

Kansas is one of 18 states that offer wrongfully convicted prisoners no compensation at all upon their release.

This is a nightmare. 

Lamonte McIntyre and I were both arrested in 1993 for crimes we did not commit. I was refused an attorney despite the fact that I would soon be jobless and homeless. The arrest and trial cost me $25,000 in legal fees and more than a year of my life. 

No compensation despite my not guilty verdict. 

Lamonte McIntyre lost 23 years of his life. 

As angry as I still am today - 25 years after my arrest -  it pales in comparison to the outrage that I feel on behalf of Lamonte McIntyre. Eighteen states in our country can lock an innocent person behind bars for decades and offer nothing in terms of compensation. 

These states are Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Delaware, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Kansas, Kentucky, Nevada, New Mexico, North Dakota, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, and Wyoming.

I oppose the death penalty for many reasons, but one is that mistakes are made. Our criminal justice system is not infallible. Since 1973, 156 individuals have been exonerated while on death row. Without advances in genetic testing and the guilty consciences of dishonest eye witnesses, these 156 innocent individuals would have been killed by the state.

Horrific. 

Imagine what it must be like to be wrongfully imprisoned for more than two decades and then receive nothing by way of recompense. 

When Lamonte McIntyre went to prison, the internet was in its infancy. Nothing was purchased online. Newsweek published an article scoffing the future of the internet, laughing at the idea that people would gets news, learn, or buy airline tickets online.

Cellular telephones were the size of shoe boxes and restricted to cars.

Words like "app" and concepts like "social media" did not exist. 

GPS was limited to military use only. 

Kale was still just a weed. 

Now McIntyre must enter a world for which he will not be equipped. He was imprisoned in an analog world at the age of 17 and is now expected to make a living in a digital world. 

He did nothing wrong. He lost almost 9,000 days of his life. The state offers him no assistance whatsoever.

What the hell are these lawmakers thinking?

Thankfully, McIntyre did not waste his time in prison. He earned a GED and took college classes. He got a start. Upon his release, he was offered a full scholarship to Metropolitan Community College–Penn Valley. The president of the college heard his story and was moved to act. 

McIntyre plans to finish his degree. Perhaps go onto barbering school. He hopes to one day own his own shop.

I'm still waiting to hear about the four year university that will step up and offer him the tuition free bachelor's and master's degrees that he also deserves. The one the state should already be paying for amongst so many other things. 

Back in 1993, I got lucky. I was arrested for a crime I did not commit. It cost me $25,000 and a year of my life. Rather than starting college, I became homeless. Eventually I was taken in by a family of Jehovah's Witnesses. I worked two full time jobs for more than a year to pay my legal fees. 

It was a terrible time in my life, but I was lucky. I didn't go to prison.

Lamonte McIntyre was not so lucky. He was arrested in 1993 and has been behind bars ever since. While he was locked up, I graduated college. Began a 20 year teaching career. Launched a DJ company. Met Elysha and began our family. Wrote novels and magazine columns. Musicals. This blog. I started performing onstage. Traveled the country. Watched fireworks with my kids and swam in the ocean and drove down the highway with the windows down and the radio blaring. 

All that Lamonte McIntyre lost, and Kansas can't try to make the next 23 years a little easier for him by compensating him for lost time? Stolen time?

Horrific. Disgusting. Outrageous. Immoral.   

Movies require logic in order to succeed. Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri lacked that logic.

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The thing that upsets me most about a film is a failure of logic. 

A movie is supposed to transport the audience to another world. At its best, it should make us almost forget our own world. I brought Charlie to Paddington 2 a month ago. In the middle of the movie, he bolted upright in his seat and shouted, "Wo! I almost forgot who I was!" 

I loved this moment so much. What he really meant was that he forgot where he was. In his mind, he was existing within the movie. 

That is magic.

This is why we cry at scenes that our objective minds know never happened. Two people - actors who we've already seen pretending to be other people in other movies -are pretending to be two people in a moment that never actually happened.

We know all this, yet still we weep. 

This is what makes stories great. It's what makes movies great. It's magic.

A failure of logic destroys that magic. When something illogical happens in a movie, you find yourself wondering questions like:

Why did that happen?
Why did she do that?
Isn't anyone in this movie going to notice this?
Why don't they just do that?

The magic is broken. I don't get to almost forget who I am. Instead, I find myself wondering what is wrong with these people.  

I watched Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri last night with Elysha. A film that scored a number of Academy Award nominations and a handful of victories. 

Boy did I love the performances in that movie. Woody Harrelson the most.

Boy did I hate that movie.

Why? Logic. Or a lack thereof. 

Without giving away any spoilers, below is a list of fallacies of logic that ruined the possible magic of the movie for me. They are the fallacies of logic that I believe should've ruined the movie for everyone.

  1. Police stations have back doors. All buildings have back doors. This is a basic fire safety requirement. No building in the world has a single exit. Especially a public building. 
  2. People who commit assault - in some cases multiple times - are prosecuted for their crimes. This includes assault against dentists, teenagers, salespeople, secretaries, and former police officers. You don't get to walk through the world unscathed and unfettered after brutally assaulting other human beings repeatedly. 
  3. Crime victims and their assailants are not placed in the same hospital room during their recovery.  
  4. Police officers whose employment has been terminated are not encouraged to return to station late at night after everyone has gone home in order to retrieve their mail using keys that no one has bothered to collect. Also, do police stations ever really close? Even in a small town, doesn't someone answer calls at all hours?
  5. People who are dying and leaving behind a beloved wife and small children don't spend large sums of money on amusing acts of petty revenge. They leave that money for their family.  

For all of these reasons, I never believed this movie. At every turn, I found myself saying:

"What? This makes no sense?"

At that point, I was no longer captivated by the magic of the film. I was distracted by the obvious fallacies of logic. 

Movies also are permitted a coincidence, but they only get one. One coincidence per film. More than one coincidence causes the audience to wonder what the hell kind of world these characters are inhabiting. More than one coincidence reminds the audience that this story isn't real. It was written by human beings who chose to manipulate events in a way that feels unreal and dishonest.

More than one coincidence makes it feel like the writers cheated, because they did.

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri relies on a hell of a lot of coincidence. More than the permitted one. 

The movie was also nominated for best screenplay.

That makes no sense to me.  

The performances were brilliant. The cinematography was top notch. I loved the score.

But the screenplay? No. You don't get to put a police station in your movie with no back door and be nominated for an Academy Award. You don't get to create a world where assault goes ignored again and again and be considered great. 

Movies require logic. This movie did not have any. 

Just one writers opinion. 

Joy in the small and the large

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Some days are harder than others. On those days, it's important to find and embrace joy wherever it might be hiding.

It's usually hiding right in front of you.

Yesterday...

I watched our cat play in a paper bag until he was exhausted.
I listed the irrational dangers of guppies and ducks to my giggling daughter.
I drove home with the windows down, blasting Born to Run.
I watched a student dance riotously in a cafeteria without any music.
I listened to my five year-old son try to explain quasars to me. 
I held my wife's hand while watching a movie on the couch. 

I try to find joy in my everyday. Little things. Minuscule things. Then I write them down - every single day - so I never forget them.

Sometimes you can find joy in big things, too. Things like the Moon.

You should watch this video. It's pure joy.   

WeCroak: An app that does what my brain already does

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My friend, Kim, alerted me to a new app called WeCroak. It does one simple thing:

Five times per day, at unpredictable intervals, it sends you a message that says:

“Don’t forget, you’re going to die.”

The app was created by Ian Thomas, a 27-year-old freelance app developer, and Hansa Bergwall, a 35-year-old publicist, 

“I would get to the end of the day and realize I’d forgotten the entire day to think about death,” Bergwall said. “And it occurred to me, This is so easy: I could just get my phone to remind me.”

If you know me well, you'll know that Kim alerted me to the app not because I needed to be reminded that I am going to die but because it's something I think about all the time. In fact, when I read about the app and saw that it offered five reminders per day, I thought, "Five? That's it? I think about death five times an hour!"

And that's truly a conservative estimate.

The result of two near-death experiences and an armed robbery that included a gun to my head and the trigger being pulled has left with a persistent, constant, existential bell ringing in my head at all times. And it's not an entirely bad thing. The never-ending reminder that I will someday die has caused me to be relentless in terms of pursuing my goals and making every moment count.

It's the thing that forces me out of my chair when Charlie asks me to play. It's the thing that compels me to pick up my tall, gangly nine year-old daughter every time she asks. It's what keeps the TV turned off when there is a book to write or a story to tell. It's what sends me to the gym on an almost daily basis, hoping to stave off the inevitable. It's why I drive to New York on a Tuesday night to perform despite the fact that I will arrive home in the wee hours of the morning and still be out of bed by 5:00 AM. It's what causes me to say yes to the craziest proposals.   

The constant ringing of my existential bell keeps me moving. Forces me to look forward. Insists that I make every moment count. 

But it's also what produces anxiety in me when times goes by and progress is not made. It's the thing that breaks my heart when I ponder all that will be lost when I die. It's why I can be so happy with my life while also be in a constant state of perpetual dissatisfaction.

Sometimes it's crushing to my soul.  

I'm not sure if it's something I would ever wish upon someone, though I have met people who wish they could experience life similarly.  

I once gave a Ted Talk once that attempted to offer the benefits of an ongoing existential crisis without all the angst and despair. I tried to thread the needle, so to speak. 

So although I didn't need the WeCroak app, I downloaded it anyway, much to Elysha's exasperation. I receive my reminder five times a day, accompanied by a quote meant to encourage “contemplation, conscious breathing or meditation” but does not.

I thought it would be amusing.

Then one night a couple weeks ago I was driving to Queens for a Moth StorySLAM. Though I had left with more than enough time, traffic was giving me fits. About an hour into my drive, it looked like I might be late for the slam, which meant I would have no chance to perform onstage. 

I considered turning back. If I arrived in Queens late, I was going to be upset. Yes, I would still hear some great stories and visit with some good friends, but my primary purpose was to tell a brand new story that I liked a lot. Try to win. Gain access to another Moth GrandSLAM championship.

If none of that was going to happen, maybe I should turn around now and spend the night reading to my kids, working on a book, and sitting beside Elysha. Why risk another 90 minutes or more on the road, plus a return trip, for nothing? 

I looked down at my phone to see what my estimated time of arrival was. On my screen was a message:

“Don’t forget, you’re going to die.”  

That was it. I dropped the phone and pushed onward, hell bent on making it to the slam on time. 

I did. I arrived just in the nick of time. I dropped my name in the hat.
I got chosen to tell my story.
I won. 

Would I have turned around had I not seen that message?

Maybe. I would've at least pondered the decision a little more. Debated its merits. Wondered if the possibility of not having a chance to take the stage was worth all this trouble.

WeCroak at least cemented a decision I probably would've made anyway. Maybe. 

It turns out that even someone as crazed and obsessed with death can use a reminder every now and then.

Maybe you could, too. 

People stay home when it rains. How stupid.

/

This is a real thing:

When it rains, slightly fewer people attend our Speak Up shows. 

Also, when it rains, fewer people go to the theater. The movies. Even restaurants do less business when it rains. 

The same holds true for frigid temperatures. Even the mercury plummets below 20 degrees, people are far more likely to remain at home.

How sad. How incredibly, stupidly, sad.

Just imagine:

In an effort to minimize their discomfort during the time it takes to pass between their front door and the car, and their car and the front door of the restaurant or theater, a person will stay at home rather than going out for a night of entertainment and camaraderie. 

In order to eliminate the 2% of the evening that will be uncomfortable, people prefer to stay home and watch television or go to bed early. They are willing to forgo the 98% of the night that could've been fun because a tiny sliver of the night would've been less than perfect. 

That is not the kind of person you want to be. That is most definitely not the kind of person your past or future self wants you to be. Just imagine how disgusted your teenage self would be at this behavior. Imagine how angry your 90 year-old self will be to know that you have missed out on scores of possibly memorable evenings because of rain or the cold. 

The next time you find yourself saying, "It's raining. Maybe we should stay home tonight," please follow that sad, ridiculous statement with, "What am I saying? What kind of weak, shortsighted, stupid person am I? Am I really going to sacrifice a night on the town because I might get wet between the front door and the car?"

If the answer is yes, prepare yourself for the avalanche of regret that will surely overwhelm you when your opportunities for evenings out at the theater or the restaurant are fewer and farther between.   

Snow days: One thing I love. One thing I hate.

/

I'm an elementary school teacher, and today I am home because of snow. 

One thing I love about snow days and one thing I hate:

Many (and maybe most) teachers despise snow days, fully aware of the long, summer days that each snow day costs them. Many parents despise snow days for this same reason, and also because of the childcare headaches that a snow day creates.  

I understand all of this.

I, however, adore snow days. I love them so very much. This is because I think it is short-sighted, presumptuous, and foolish to assume that you will be alive in June to enjoy your long, summer day, so I believe in taking my days whenever I can get them.

I'm serious. And I'm a guy who has been brought back to life twice via CPR. I know what I'm taking about. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow. I'll take today and happily teach for one more day in June. 

One thing I hate about snow days:

I despise any human being who criticizes a school district, superintendent, or school official for the decision to declare a snow day.

Yes, sometimes they get it wrong. They make an incorrect decision. They cancel school when it could've clearly been in session. But it's weather, damn it. I don't know if you've noticed, but it's highly unpredictable.

Even the meteorologists get a wrong sometimes. 

These armchair school administrators are truly the worst. Jackasses who love to make important decisions with no accountability and so often well after the storm is out to sea.   

School officials are simply trying to keep children safe. Children who walk to school and ride buses and stand on the corners of busy intersections, waiting for buses to arrive. 

Excuse them for mistakenly erring on the side of caution. Pardon them for worry about the lives of little kids. Forgive them if the storm didn't arrive early enough or unexpectedly weakened or shifted east and missed us entirely. 

As a parent, I choose caution over inconvenience every time. 

 

An unusual and exhausting but unforgettable weekend thanks to a July night in 2011

/

I'm often astounded by the places that a story told on a stage in 2011 has taken me.

This weekend I had the honor working with caregivers at Yale New Haven Hospital, teaching them how to tell stories about their own experiences as patients and the spouses, parents, and children of patients to doctors, nurses, and other clinicians in an effort to improve care. It was the second Saturday that I spent with these remarkable people, and their stories were incredibly hard to hear but so moving.

Those hours spent in a conference room at the hospital with those extraordinary people will stay with me forever.  

On Sunday I traveled to Harvard, MA to deliver the sermon on a the Harvard Unitarian Universalist Church. I told stories to the congregation and talked about the healing power of storytelling in your own life and the lives of others. Later, I taught a workshop to about 60 members of the church and members of the community who decided to join us. I met some remarkable people who are hoping to use storytelling to change their lives and the lives of people all over the world. 

Sandwiched on between those two things, Elysha and I produced a Speak Up show at Real Art Ways. Six storytellers joined me in sharing stories about hunger. For some, it was the first time they had ever told a story on stage. Others entered my life years ago through my workshops and shows, and I'm proud to call a few of them my friends today.

So, too, were members of the audience who I have only met through storytelling.

So many of my friends, and some of the best people I know, have entered my life this way.

I ended the weekend consulting with an attorney for the ACLU on his upcoming TED Talk, helping him craft an outstanding talk on subjects near and dear to my heart. Elysha and I are ALCU members, so it was an honor to assist in this important work.  

This was an unusual weekend to be sure. I'm not leading church services every Sunday or teaching a widow to tell the story of her deceased husband's hospital care. Rarely is my weekend so chock full of storytelling the way this one was. 

Frankly, it was exhausting. Also, I missed my family this weekend. A lot. 

But when I'm better rested in a day or so and I've made up for lost time with Elysha and the kids, I'll look back on this weekend and think about how lucky I am that I decided to do something back in 2011 that was hard and scared me to death. 

Budo, the protagonist of my third novel, says that "The right thing and the hard thing are often the same thing."

I try to remember this always, because I know how often embracing the hard thing has led to a weekend like this past one. 

I'm in a constant search for the next hard, right thing.