For the first time, we ordered our one-year-old son his own meal at a restaurant. It was Memorial Day. We were in Mortensen’s on the Berlin Turnpike.
Other than the fact that they were sweet potato fries, I think this is the perfect first meal.
In an effort to hold myself accountable, I post the progress of my yearly goals at the end of each month on this blog. The following are the results through May. 1. Don’t die.
I remain perfect on my most important goal.
2. Lose ten pounds.
I gained a pound. Three pounds down. Seven pounds to go. This is a clear refection of my lack of focus on this goal. Seriously. Ten pounds should be simple.
3. Do at least 100 push-ups and 100 sit-ups five days a day. Also complete at least two two-minute planks five days per week.
Done.
4. Launch at least one podcast.
The hardware is ready. We designated a location in the house and set up the mixer and the microphones. I am working on understanding the software now. Basically, I understand how to record a podcast and can use the recording software fairly well. I am unsure what to do after I have the recording. How do I get my podcast onto the Internet? Into iTunes? Anywhere else it needs to go? Also, I may need a website to host and promote the podcasts, though this blog may serve this function. Still, a page will need to be created. A logo created. Other details I’m not even aware of yet, I’m sure.
5. Practice the flute for at least an hour a week.
The broken flute remains in the back of my car.
6. Complete my fifth novel before the Ides of March.
Done!
7. Complete my sixth novel.
Work had begun on the sixth novel.
8. Sell one children’s book to a publisher.
Work has begun on all three manuscripts. I’ve decided to revise them all and then choose the one that I think is best to send to my agent.
9. Complete a book proposal for my memoir.
Work on the memoir proposal has begun.
10. Complete at least twelve blog posts on my brother and sister blog.
Seven blog posts published during the month of May. More than halfway to the goal. Two more written by my sister awaiting publication. Kelli finds herself in a position to write consistently for the first time in her life. I’m trying to convince her to write a memoir. The last twenty years of her life have been extraordinarily difficult and would make a great story.
11. Become certified to teach high school English by completing two required classes.
I am now just one class and an inexplicable $50 away from achieving certification. That class will be taken in the summer.
12. Publish at least one Op-Ed in a newspaper.
I’ve have now published three pieces in the Huffington Post and one in Beyond the Margins. I am waiting response on an Op-Ed proposal from a major newspaper as well.
13. Attend at least eight Moth events with the intention of telling a story.
I attended one Moth event in May, bringing my total to seven. For the first time ever, I attended a StorySLAM in Boston at the Oberon Theater. I told a story about the day I lost a bike race to my friend and his new 10-speed bike. I finished in first place. It was my fourth StorySLAM victory.
14. Locate a playhouse to serve as the next venue for The Clowns.
The script, the score and the soundtrack remain in the hands of the necessary people. Talks continue on a new musical as well.
15. Give yoga an honest try.
Though I’m ready to try this whenever possible, the summer might be the most feasible time to attempt this goal.
My daughter, by the day, is taking yoga at her school. She demonstrated several poses to me the other day. This yoga stuff seems strange.
16. Meditate for at least five minutes every day.
I missed three days in May because my son is a pain-in-the-ass and wakes up before 7:00 AM.
17. De-clutter the garage.
Work continues. Nearing completion.
18. De-clutter the basement.
Work has begun. I installed the air conditioners this week, which eliminated three large objects from the basement. I also installed a rolling coat rack for the winter coats and have begun throwing away and donating baby paraphernalia that we will no longer need.
19. De-clutter the shed
Work has begun thanks to the work of a student. I will explain in a subsequent blog post.
20. Reduce the amount of soda I am drinking by 50%.
I failed to record my soda intake in April. I will begin tomorrow.
21. Try at least one new dish per month, even if it contains ingredients that I wouldn’t normally consider palatable.
I tried a new food in May but honestly can’t remember what it was. Also, I liked it.
22. Conduct the ninth No-Longer-Annual A-Mattzing Race in 2013.
No progress.
23. Post my progress in terms of these resolutions on this blog on the first day of every month.
Done.
This story is too strange to be believed. But it’s true.
It involves two people. I will avoid using their names in order to protect their identity, though I suspect that the woman in the story wouldn’t mind me using her name (she gave me permission to write about this), and I would take great personal pleasure in naming the man.
But I will refrain.
The woman in the story is one of my biggest fans. She has read all of my books, reads and comments on my blog regularly and has written me some of the kindest and most generous emails about my work that I have ever received. She promotes my work to her friends. Even her mother is a fan of my books. She lives in Wisconsin, so we have never actually met, but she has begun to feel like a friend to me.
I met the man in this story in the green room of a local television studio a few years ago. I was doing a promotional spot for an upcoming literary festival, and he had recently appeared on a game show and was being interviewed about the experience. He is also a writer. He has published a supernatural detective novel (though I can’t actually find his book online) and writes for various small, online entities.
After chatting in the green room for a while, we exchanged contact information and became friends on Facebook.
Over the course of the next year or so, he began commenting on my blog posts and status updates with great regularity. His comments were almost always negative. He attacked my positions, criticized my writing and challenged me at every opportunity. His comments were often biting and sarcastic.
Truthfully, I didn’t mind much. I like to fight. But it was admittedly disconcerting how consistent he was in his attacks on me. He never let up. My wife came to despise him for his constant rants. Friends asked me who this man was and what he had against me. He had quickly become my online nemesis.
Then one day he went away. Honestly, I never even noticed. I wasn't exactly looking forward to his frequent comments, so when they stopped, I failed to notice.
That was a couple years ago.
This week I received an email from my biggest fan in Wisconsin.
From her email:
I met a guy online a few years ago. He was nerdy and Mensa, and I was single and have never minded boyfriends who are 5'6" compared to my 5'10" frame. We got to know each other on Facebook for a year and a half. Sometimes things we were reading in our spare time would come up.
After more than a year of getting to know each other, he flew out here to Madison for a few days for a date weekend. He flew out here from Connecticut.
He saw one of your books on the table and said, "I know this guy."
I said, “Oh, I am obsessed with this guy's stories. My mother discovered his first book at an ALA convention and I cannot get these stories off my mind. I'm into book three, and it's good, but this author has me spinning because I never know what to expect.”
My friend said, “I know this guy. He is a know-it-all and I hate him and even unfriended him on Facebook,”
I was like, “Oh! I'm sorry to hear it. Please tell me more.”
He said that you thought you knew more than he did. Period.
The weekend did not end well because he spent most of his time playing video games on his phone. I asked him about this and he said there's nothing wrong with this.
His books make no sense to me and are not interesting.
I can't get 40 pages into his books.
He was a rotten date, boring dinner company, and played video games all evening long.
First, what are the odds that these two people, with such divergent connections to me and separated by such great distances, would come together?
Slim seems like a lot. Right?
But best of all is what my wife said when I shared the story with her:
“Your biggest fan and your arch nemesis went on a date!”
She’s right. Even though they live about 2,000 miles apart, my biggest fan and my arch nemesis came together for possible romantic entanglement.
I like to think that it was the presence of my book on that table that saved my biggest fan from years of dating misery, but I suspect that even if my name had not come up, she would’ve jettisoned this guy.
It’s an incredibly small world, especially when you write stories that crisscross the globe.
My son turns one-year-old today.
Parents often lament about how quickly time passes. Children grow up so damn quickly.
This has never been the case for me. My son is twelve months old, and it’s felt like twelve months. Not in a bad way. Other than a propensity to bite my wife and an inability to sleep past 6:30 AM, Charlie has been a gem. An easy-going piece of cake. In many ways easier than his sister was during her first year, and she was a piece of cake, too.
But still, it’s felt like twelve months.
I suspect this might be because I write to my children everyday. Sometimes it’s simply a few photos or a video with a couple of sentences of commentary posted to a blog for them, and sometimes it’s more. But because I mark every day with something, the time doesn’t seem to pass by so quickly.
It’s been a glorious year with Charlie. Our daughter, Clara, has made it even better with her unbridled love for her brother.
Now that a full year has passed, I can say with absolute sincerity that I am most proud of the fact that my son has yet to pee on me. Parents of boys took great pleasure in warning me that getting peed on is a constant problem. Penis tents can be purchased to protect oneself from the unrelenting stream. But Charlie has refrained from urinating on his father and has only peed on his mother a handful of times.
That, my friends, is something to celebrate.
In addition to Charlie’s birthday, of course.
That’s good, too.
Here is the plan.
Find ten students, ages 11-18, who want to be writers and want to be treated like real, professional writers.
As all students should.
Some might want to begin their first novel. A few may have a college essay in need of completion. Perhaps there is a poet or two in the mix. A future journalist. Maybe even a screenwriter.
Assemble these students for a summer writing academy. Teach them to write by treating them like real writers. Allow them to write whatever they want and need to write with the understanding that every word committed to paper could earn them a living someday.
Professional writers find audiences. Professional writers get paid. This is what I want for all my students, including the ones I hope to teach in summer academy.
Teach them the craft. The art. The nuts and bolts. The business of writing. Teach them how to write. Teach them to find something to write about. Teach them how find an audience, query an agent and sell their material.
Invite real life authors to speak to them. Novelists. Journalists. Poets. Screenwriters. Invite literary agents to chat. Maybe even an editor or two.
Writing instruction from actual writers.
Teach these kids to write like professionals and demand that they be treated like professionals. Send them forth with the skills, the passion and the understand about what it takes to be a writer.
This is my plan.
I need ten students.
I won’t be teaching the academy for free. I could be working on any one of my three current manuscripts, but I find myself excited about this idea. I’m willing to place my own writing on the back burner for a month to see what these students can become.
But it will be worth every penny.
Here are the details:
Four weeks of instruction in July.
July 8 through August 2.
Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 9:00 AM until 1:00 PM.
48 total hours of instruction plus non-contact hours spent reviewing the students work and two hours of one-on-one meetings before and after the academy with parents and students.
The first meeting, which will take place during the first week of the academy, establishes goals for the student.
The second meeting, at the conclusion of the academy, reviews in detail the strengths and weaknesses of each student. We prepare a plan for the student’s writing future. What should the student continue to work on? How should this happen? What should it look like?
After four weeks, my hope is that each student will have taken an important step in the life of a professional writer. A path will be designed for the future. The student will have the beginnings of a novel, the start of a poetry collection, a college essay or a piece to submit to newspapers and magazines.
Maybe all three.
This is my plan.
I need ten students to make this work.
Classes will be held in a library in West Hartford, CT.
Anyone interested? Anyone know anyone who might be interested?
Please pass on the word.
It’s always fun to act self-important, grandiose, battle tested and imposed upon, but Ray Bradbury was right.
Writing is not a serious business. It’s a joy and a celebration. You should be having fun with it. Ignore the authors who say ‘Oh, my God, what word? Oh, Jesus Christ…’, you know. Now, to hell with that. It’s not work. If it’s work, stop and do something else.
Some of my students have become aware of my policy of not wearing any clothing that advertises a name brand.
No stupid alligator where a breast pocket would be. No Abercrombie & Fitch splashed across my chest. No company name affixed to the pocket of my jeans.
I avoid name branding at all costs, for a couple reasons:
My feelings on this topic tend to be specific and pointed.
My one exception to this rule is sneakers. I have yet to find an off-brand pair of sneakers that does not disintegrate within a month, and I cannot find a pair of name brand sneakers that does not plaster its label on the product. As a result, I am forced to purchase sneakers with a name brand outwardly visible, but I specifically choose black sneakers so that the name brand is as hidden as possible.
While some of my students find this policy insane (as do many name-brand invested adults), most students respect and occasionally admire my position. Even as they walk the hallways of our school with their Hollister shirts and their Nike sneakers, they are already wise enough to recognize the problems with investing in a style predicated on what everyone else is wearing and requiring them to signal to others where they shop and how much money that have spent.
They are still too young to have reached the point of denial, illogical justification or surrender that so many adults have achieved. They are still innocent enough to admit that they are actively participating in a flawed and stupid system.
Nevertheless, they also love finding flaws and missteps in my policy. They find no greater joy than in proving their teacher wrong.
Last week, I was walking around the playground during recess duty wearing a sweatshirt. It had no visible name brand, or so I thought. A student approached, began chatting with me, and then stopped midsentence.
“J.Crew!” she shouted.
“What?”
She pointed at my chest. “J.Crew!”
I looked down. I saw no label. “What are you talking about? There’s no label.”
“Yes there is,” she said. “Look.” She reached out and took hold of the zipper on my sweatshirt. Engraved in tiny letters on the metallic zipper was the brand name.
I groaned. I couldn’t believe it. She was right. Worse still, I could think of no way of removing the label. The name was cast in iron on the front of my sweatshirt.
“That’s awful,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Don’t throw the sweatshirt out,” she said. “It’s from J.Crew. It probably cost a lot. I won’t tell anyone.”
This was remarkably generous of the student, who would ordinarily seek out my personal destruction whenever possible.
More important, she illustrated my argument with precision.
“The sweatshirt is from J.Crew. It probably cost a lot.”
The name brand clearly signified the probable expense of the item to my student and thereby helped to define my socio-economic status, my taste, my style and my willingness to conform.
In truth, my wife bought the sweatshirt for me (she purchases almost all my clothing), which probably means it was at least half price. And it’s J.Crew, so it couldn’t have been that expensive to start. Right?
But as much as I despise that zipper, it helped to illustrate my point perfectly. Name brands aren’t meant to be attractive. They do not enhance the clothing with their carefully formulated design. They are used by manufacturers to advertiser their product, and they are used by consumers to demonstrate their wealth, taste, knowledge or similarity to everyone else.
No one carries around a bag with an interlocking G or wears a shirt with a tiny alligator on the chest because these symbols are inherently beautiful. They wear these polo shirts and carry these handbags because that is what everyone else is doing.
They want to signal their membership to a specific herd.
The label on that zipper annoys the hell out of me, but at least it now serves as a visual reminder that I am not insane. My policy has merit.
Still, I might need a pair of tin snips.
There is more to this story. It includes pre-dinner temper tantrums and other Herculean parental challenges, but here is what you need to know:
A waiter spilled a glass of wine on Clara, our four year old daughter. She was drenched in red wine. She was not happy in a very four year old way.
My wife picked up Clara and exited the restaurant, leaving our baby with her dinner companion and his two small children.
She brought our daughter to the car to clean her up. She determined that Clara’s shirt was not salvageable. She offered Clara one of her brother’s shirts, which happened to be in the car. It would be tight, but it might work.
Clara refused.
She offered the shirt off her own back.
Clara refused.
She offered to reverse the unsalvageable shirt as a temporary solution.
Clara refused.
As any parent will tell you, forcing either one of these shirts onto a raging four year old would’ve been impossible.
My wife needed a shirt of some kind for my daughter so that they could, at minimum, reenter the restaurant to reclaim our baby and return home.
With no other options, Elysha walked over to the nearest house. She knocked on the door. A man and a woman answered.
Elysha explained the situation and asked the couple if she could borrow a tee shirt for the evening.
Take a moment and let that sink in. In need of a shirt for my daughter to wear so that she could reenter a restaurant and reclaim our baby, my wife walked to a nearby house, knocked on a stranger’s door and requested a tee shirt.
The couple gave her a white tee shirt and sent her on her way.
Clara ultimately refused to wear the newly acquired shirt. Instead, she chose to turn her wine-strained shirt around and wear that instead.
Elysha and Clara reentered the restaurant, calmed our now-screaming baby, and completed the meal, which ended up costing them nothing.
Do you know any other person on the planet who would attempt such a thing?
I didn't think so, then it occurred to me that Elysha’s solution was remarkably similar (albeit more ethical and decidedly less criminal) to something I did when I was nineteen years old and in desperate need of gas money in New Hampshire.
Nearly identical, in fact.
I’ve always thought that Elysha and I were cut from the same cloth. I was just cut from the raggedy, soiled edges of the cloth and she was carefully cu from the pristine middle.
One of my students arrived to school on Friday with a business card in his hand.
“I booked you a speaking gig,” he told me and handed me the business card with the name of a manager of a Barnes & Noble bookstore where I have never spoken before.
“What?” I asked. “Are you making this up?”
“No,” he explained. "My mom was buying your book again, and I told the person at the counter that you were my teacher. They’re celebrating their 20th year in business and wanted an author to speak, so they said they would love to have you. So I said yes for you. Here’s the information.”
In addition to the printed text, the manager of the store wrote his name, the date of the appearance and some other necessary information.
The kid booked me a gig.
I always tell me students that when they become independently wealthy, I would not be averse to them becoming my patrons. This isn’t quite patronage, but it ain’t bad for an eleven year old.
It makes me think that I’m not taking enough advantage of my army of small soldiers.
I have never seen a child love a sibling more than my daughter loves her brother. It’s truly remarkable. Clara routinely approaches strangers in restaurants, parks and stores to tell them about her little brother.
This is even more surprising given that the first time she met Charlie and realized he was a boy, she wailed in soul-crushing agony on the floor of the hospital waiting room for about 15 seconds before immediately recovering and becoming instantly infatuated with him.
Still, that doesn’t mean she’s not capable of an occasional act of cruelty, particularly when it comes to her toys. Sharing is the one area that she is willing to be less-than-kind to her brother, as you will see in this video.
It starts out cute but ends up cruel.
Before you start dreaming of traveling to strange, new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, don’t forget to check out this square mile of our own planet for some alien life forms.
The Seas Strangest Square Mile. from Shark Bay Films on Vimeo.
This is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
It’s also what I often lack when I propose a new idea. Perhaps I have less charisma than the half naked dancing man in the video.
I love The Office.
I loved the British version of the show, and I loved the slightly less brutish American version even more.
It ended last week, and I am sad. I will miss those characters deeply.
It occurred to me that Elysha and I started watching the show at the onset of our relationship. Jim, Pam and Dwight have been with us for as long as we have been together.
I don’t think I have ever been as emotionally invested in the relationship between two television characters as I have been with Jim and Pam. It bordered on obsessive at times. I’d find myself sitting in a restaurant, enjoying dinner with friends, and suddenly I’d be worried that Jim and Pam might never get together. This year I was legitimately angry with the writers of the show for introducing discord into their relationship.
It was bizarre. I often wondered why I cared so much about them.
During this series finale, I realized why.
In one of the many memorable lines from the final episode, Creed Bratton says:
It all seems so very arbitrary. I applied for a job at this company because they were hiring. I took a desk at the back because it was empty. But no matter how you get there or where you end up, human beings have this miraculous gift to make that place home.
A minute later, Jim says:
Even if I didn’t love every minute of it, everything I have I owe to this job.
Then I realized it.
I am Jim.
Elysha is Pam.
That is why I care so much so much about them.
Like Creed said, my marriage to Elysha seems so arbitrary.
I chose to work at my school because they were hiring. I had already been hired to work in Newington and was scheduled to sign my contract the following day, but a principal in West Hartford called and asked me to come in for an interview. I was mowing the lawn, and because I was nearly finished with the front yard, I thought, “What the hell?” Might as well get some more interview experience.”
I had a terrible interview. I didn’t take it as seriously as I should. I immediately regretted everything that I said once I realized that this school was a perfect fit for me, but somehow I got the job anyway.
Elysha chose our school three years later after nearly deciding to work in Farmington instead. Like Pam, she was engaged to be married when she arrived at our school. I was newly single. We became friends first, and after Elysha called off her engagement and we both dated other people for about a year, we finally came together.
Much like Jim and Pam.
Almost exactly like Jim and Pam.
Even if I didn’t love every minute of it, I, like Jim, owe everything I have to my job. My wife. My children. Even my writing career. Had I not enjoyed the support and encouragement of Elysha, I might still be writing the first few chapters of failed books.
I might have quit by now.
Unlike Jim, I love my job most of the time, but I would not be married to the most amazing woman in the world and have these two perfect little children had we not come together as seemingly arbitrarily as Creed described it.
No wonder why I suffered so when Jim and Pam were apart. I saw us in them.
Except for the fact that it signals the end of the series, I loved the season finale of The Office. It was damn near perfect.
Other excellent decisions from the season finale included:
A limited role for Steve Carell’s character, who left the show three years ago. It was right that Michael Scott return, but it was also right that he not be the focus of the episode. He was gone too long to return as the star. At it’s heart, The Office has always been about Jim and Pam and Dwight anyway. It was right to keep the attention directed on them.
Actually, I think the show has always been about Pam more than anyone else, so it was fitting that the last voice we heard was Pam’s.
I also loved the ending for almost every character.
Toby gains a moment of mediocre acceptance. Perfect.
Dwight becomes manager, marries Angela, and declares that Pam is his best friend. Perfect.
Stanley is retired and divorced. Perfect.
Andy is off to Cornell, a place where he always belonged, after delivering this brilliant line:
I wish there was a way to know that you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them.
Perfect.
Darryl is leaving the place that he despised for so many years for a much brighter future, and yet he finds himself inexplicably lamenting his departure. Perfect.
Phyllis, Erin and Oscar remain in The Office, as they should. Perfect.
I didn’t love the idea of Creed being arrested, but for those less savvy Office fans, it was great to let them in on the secret that Creed Bratton was playing himself for the entire series. Creed Bratton was a musician in the popular 1960’s band The Grass Roots. I learned about this after listening to Creed perform a version of Spinnin’ and Wheelin’ in an episode years ago. The producers of The Office never concealed this fact, but unless you did your homework, you would never have known that Creed Bratton was a real person operating in a fictional world.
I thought that the ending for Kelly, Ryan and Nellie was a misstep. While it was fine for Kelly and Ryan to come together for what will most assuredly be another failed fling, the idea that Kelly would leave her husband for Ryan, who would then abandon his baby to Kelly’s husband, a pediatric doctor, and then that doctor would pass the baby off to Nellie with the suggestion that she call child protective services, and then Nellie would illegally adopt the child and take him back to Europe was too much to believe, even for The Office.
Not a satisfying or decent end to any of those characters.
But other than that mistake, it was a perfect series finale. Pam’s decision to take her painting of the office with her was excellent. We all want that painting. We all want to take The Office with us. Keep it close. And it was a perfect final nod to Michael, the person for whom the series centered upon for so long.
The series ended with the words of Pam Beasley. Her words not only spoke to the nature of the show and the characters who populated it, but they also spoke to Pam herself, the simple receptionist who won the heart of Jim and so many viewers over the years:
There’s a lot of beauty in ordinary things. Isn’t that kind of the point?
Perfect.
My daughter has requested dance lessons, and based upon the enthusiasm and talent displayed in this video, my wife and I will have to get her some soon.
Here’s the thing:
We want our daughter to learn to dance, but we’d like to find a studio that does not require us to participate in a three hour dance recital full of half-naked girls shaking parts of their bodies that should never be shaken.
We don’t want to sit through a recital that opens with a performance by the owner of the studio or a team of instructors.
We don’t want to sit through a recital that ends with children receiving awards based solely upon the length of time that parents have been paying the dance lesson bill.
We don’t want to be forced into spending exurbanite sums on professional-grade costumes that will be worn once.
We don’t want our daughter’s face plastered in professional-grade makeup in order to dance for two minutes onstage.
We would love our daughter to learn to dance at a studio where the disturbing and exploitive trappings of the dance recital do not exist. We want her to understand that dance is a combination of expression and creativity and exercise, absent the skin and makeup and sexualized dance moves.
Anyone know of such a place?
Elysha and I attended the Moth StorySLAM in Boston last night, and I was fortunate enough to squeeze out a victory by a tenth of a point over two worthy competitors for my fourth StorySLAM victory. It was my first time telling a story in the state where I grew up, and it was a lot of fun.
I told a story about my realization as a child that hard work, effort and creativity cannot always overcome the material shortfalls and economic disadvantages associated with of poverty.
At its heart, the story was about the time when my childhood friend received a new ten-speed bike for his birthday and my subsequent realization that I would never defeat him in a bike race again, no matter how hard I tried, as long as I continued to ride my ancient, knobby-wheeled Huffy hand-me-down.
I managed to defeat two outstanding storytellers who both told hilarious and compelling tales from their youth as well. One told a story about how be became a vegetarian for five years just to win a bet against his older brother. The other told a story about the way in which Quentin Tarentino helped her try to win the heart of her high school English teacher.
Both stories were equally deserving of the win.
Thoughts from an evening:
1. This was my third attempt to attend a Boston StorySLAM. My first two trips were canceled due to a blizzard and the marathon bombing, so when hail the size of acorns began pelting our car on the Mass Pike, I began to wonder the universe was urging me to stay away from Bean Town.
Thankfully, we make it to Boston safely, though I thought Elysha was going to kill me when I refused to pull off the highway in the midst of the storm.
2. Attending The Moth in Boston was a lot like attending my first StorySLAM in New York back in July of 2011. I stepped into The Oberon not knowing a soul, much the same way I entered the Nuyorican Poet’s Café on my first night of storytelling almost two years ago. When I attend a StorySLAM in New York today, I always have friends in the audience. Many are fellow storytellers, Moth staff and producers, but there are also audience members who recognize me as a storyteller and make me feel at home. As loud and crowded and seemingly intimidating as a New York Moth event may be, it’s also a warm and inviting place for me to tell a story.
I was a complete stranger to the Boston audience. In truth, it was the first StorySLAM for most of the people in the audience last night. The Moth opened its doors just six month ago in Boston, and though their shows are consistently selling out, the audiences are still new to the format, and they are just beginning to build a base of regular attendees.
3. As the show began, there were only seven names in the hat. Unlike a New York StorySLAM, where there are always at least ten names in the hat and almost always many more, producers encouraged audience members to put their names in the hat at intermission to fill the ten storytelling slots for the evening, and they did. The number of names in the hat eventually swelled to 13, and in many ways, the second half of the show was much stronger than the first.
4. Even though it was my first time in Boston, I already started making friends with my fellow storytellers. It’s quite remarkable. It’s the only thing I’ve ever done in my life in which I want to absolutely destroy my competition while at the same time hope they do exceptionally well.
Winning a StorySLAM is an amazing feeling, but losing to great stories doesn’t hurt so much.
At the end of the show, I found myself chatting with storytellers onstage, sharing insight and advice when asked. Storytelling is new for many of them, and upon learning that I tell stories in New York, many were eager to pick my brain for tips. Unlike any other competitive situation, I gave willingly.
5. My name was the fifth drawn from the hat, which is much better than first or second but still a tough spot to be with such strong storytellers in the second half of the show. Of the four times that I have won a StorySLAM, my name has been drawn tenth, second, ninth and fifth.
6. During intermission, a guy sitting next to me asked if I was feeling more relaxed now that I had told my story. I said no. I explained that I truly love telling stories onstage, so when I tell my story during the first half of the show, my favorite part of the evening has come to an end.
While I am always grateful to have my name chosen at all, I often find myself sitting through the second half of the show thinking about what my next story will be for my next StorySLAM.
In short, when I’m finished telling my story, I already can’t wait to get back onstage again.
I’ve made some terrible golf shots in the past five years.
I’ve hit a duck. I’ve somehow turned my ball 90 degrees and landed it in a drainpipe. I hit my tee shot onto an adjacent green while guys were in the midst of putting. I literally hit the broadside of a barn once.
Last year I hit myself with my own shot.
Even with my litany of embarrassing golf shots, I’ve never hit a golf ball into a restroom, as this pro did while on the European tour.
Sunday, however, was a good day. For just the second time in my life, I beat one of my three main rivals on the golf course by one shot, employing advice received on this blog in order to extract myself from a bunker on the penultimate hole in order to secure my victory.
I even made an inadvisable, near impossible shot from the edge of a pond, through a patch of tall grass, and onto the opposite bank in order to avoid taking a penalty.
For a few moments yesterday, I felt like a real golfer.
I’ve started taking notes on the rounds of golf that I play this year with an eye to a possible, albeit slender memoir. Something along the lines of Carl Hiaasen's THE DOWNHILL LIE: A HACKERS RETURN TO A RUINOUS SPORT.
I liked the book a lot, but Hiaasen wasn’t a hacker. He wasn’t PGA material, but he was a solid golfer before and after his return to the game.
I am a bad golfer. Legitimately poor.
The initial vision for my book would an account of my six month quest to defeat one of my three main rivals on the golf course before the end of the golfing season.
But my plan was foiled yesterday when my victory came on the second round that I played this year.
I’m not complaining, even though it disturbs my planned narrative flow a bit. A victory is always a good thing. An at least I’ve beaten this particular rival once before. It was a great day for me, but not my ultimate golfing moment.
For that to happen, I would have to beat Tom, the unfairly named nemesis and villain of the book.
Tom is my the white whale. He remains at sea, waiting for my harpoon.
Since publishing my first novel in 2009, I’ve visited with more than one hundred book clubs throughout Connecticut and beyond, oftentimes in person and many times via conference call, Skype or a similar platform. I’ve video chatted with books clubs in Canada, Finland, Australia and the UK as well as clubs throughout the United States.
Last week I joined 23 women in my home state who had read my first novel, SOMETHING MISSING.
This particular meeting took place on a late Wednesday afternoon, but when the book club meets on a Friday or Saturday night, I make every effort to bring Elysha along and declare it “book club date night.”
Don’t try this at home.
Essentially, I’m asking my wife to join me at a stranger’s home and spend two hours listening to women (it’s always women) ask me questions about my books and my life while telling me how much they enjoy my work.
It’s rare for someone to tell me that they did not like my book. I try to arrive about 15 minutes late to every book club in order to allow any detractors to have their say before I arrive, but there have been a couple of women over the years who have been less than enthusiastic about my work and not afraid to tell me so.
I always admire these women for their moxie while simultaneously questioning their taste in literature.
I’m always honored to be invited to attend a book club, and it’s fun to be able to talk to people who have read my novel already. The conversations tend to be deeper and more specific, and the food and drink is always surprisingly elaborate and good. Book clubs have even gone so far as to decorate the space in the theme of the book and design games for us to play related to the story.
It can be a lot of fun.
But still, asking your wife to join you for a stranger’s book club meeting on a Friday night might not be the best way to win points with your spouse. To her credit, Elysha almost always agrees to join me and always seems to have a great time.
Many times she almost becomes a part of the book club, sitting apart from me and chatting with the women like she’s known them all her life. Occasionally questions will be directed at her as the spouse of the writer, and sometimes she will even direct questions at me as well.
At the book club pictured below, the love seat was set aside for the two of us, but Elysha refused, choosing instead to sit amidst the ladies on the soda and chatting them up all night long.
I complained about her unwillingness to sit beside me, but I shouldn’t.
Getting her to agree to join me is always a victory.
Back in January, Andy Mayo and I debuted our rock opera, The Clowns, at The Playhouse on Park. During our two weeks of workshop with the actors, musicians and director, there were three performances of the show.
At the Saturday evening show, a man named Kevin Eldridge was present in the audience.
Kevin grew up with me in my hometown of Blackstone, Massachusetts. He was a year or two older than me, but we lived on the same street and took the same bus to school everyday. Kevin and I were the only male flute players in the school system at the time.
Despite our geographic proximity, we were not friends. Acquaintances, perhaps, but we did not spend any time together.
Kevin went to a private school for high school and I continued my journey through public school. For more than twenty-five years, I did not see or hear from Kevin. In truth, I didn’t see or hear much from Kevin when we were kids, either.
Then Kevin heard about my writing career and read one of my novels. He began following me on the Internet. He discussed my book on his podcast.
In reading my blog and becoming a Facebook friend, Kevin heard about The Clowns and surprised me by driving with his wife from their home in Massachusetts on a Saturday night in January to see the performance.
Three hours on the road to see the workshop version of a musical written by a kid who he used to ride the school bus with in elementary school.
Last month Kevin surprised me again by showing up for our first Speak Up storytelling event, this time with his podcast co-host, Cornflake.
Once again, I was both honored and stunned.
It turns out that Kevin and I are cut from the same cloth.
Kevin does not know me well. He did not know what to expect from either event. He was potentially driving three hours from his home to watch a failed attempt at unproven, experimental entertainment.
But what were his options?
He could’ve stayed home on Saturday night, as so many others did, watching television or going to bed early.
Or he could’ve taken a chance on something new and far away and potentially entertaining and memorable.
Kevin said yes when so many said no.
I like to think that people like Kevin will find themselves with considerably fewer regrets at the end of their life.
This is what daughters do. Right?
One moment, they tear their fathers down. The next moment, they send our hearts soaring.
This is a message from my daughter to her godfather and my friend, Jeff. It reflects how little faith she has in me. Truly.
Sadly, her assessment of her father’s abilities may be correct, since the broken light she mentions in the video only required a new bulb.
I’ll never live that one down.
But at the very end of the video, she saves herself with a few near-perfect words about her daddy.
