Ann Kingman and Michael Kindness

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Imagine:

You launch a podcast in order to share your passion about books and story with the world. You dedicate your time, money and expertise to the cause.

In return, you expect nothing. In fact, you actively reject opportunities to profit from your enterprise.

As a result of your time and effort, a community of like-minded people is born. It is an extraordinary group of extraordinary people, but it is a group that would have never come together without your efforts. Lifelong friendships flourish. Bicoastal bonds are born. Introverts like those who Susan Cain spoke about in her now-famous TED Talk are given pathways to meeting new people who share their same passion and values. Stories are shared. Books are passed from hungry reader to hungry reader.

It’s a real community that did not exist and then did.

It’s an amazing story. Honestly. 

But you are not finished. Not even close.

You decide to bring the community together in real life. You plan a weekend. You assemble a group of authors. You assemble a group of readers from the community. You most assuredly lose money in the process, but in the process, magic happens.

Authors meet authors, and lifelong friendships are established.

Readers meet readers, and lifelong friendships are established.

Readers meet authors, authors meet readers, and they discover that they are all simply book lovers at heart.

For some, it is the best three days of their year.

Magic.

And you do all this without an eye towards profit or growth or income or fame. You do this simply because you want to spend time meeting people in the community that you have helped to create. You do this because you care about the people in that community.

But you are not finished. Not even close.

The following year you bring the community together again. Not just once but three times, to locations stretching from coast to coast, insisting every step of the way to make these retreats unconscionably affordable even though members of the still-growing community would pay three or four or five times your fee in order to attend and consider it a bargain.

But you prefer to keep the cost low, your stress level high and your workload almost unmanageable because you insist on placing every member of the community ahead of yourself.

Once again friendships are born. Relationships are strengthened. Readers and authors come together in conversation around their mutual love of books.

Magic.

Next year you’ll do it again. The stress and workload will remain the same, but you don’t care. It’s what you do. 

Most astounding of all, you think this is normal. You think that anyone would have done it this way, this how. You don’t think that what you’ve done is terribly special. You think it’s the members of the community who make this special, and while this may be true, you fail to realize that you are the single most important members of the community.

All of this would never have happened without you.

You have done something great. Something amazing. Something rarely done before. 

But you don’t have time to listen to such nonsense. There is a new podcast to record. A new retreat to plan. A new book to read. A new story to recommend.

The people who I have described exist. They are Ann Kingman and Michael Kindness, hosts of Books of the Nightstand, a weekly podcast about books. But after reading this, I hope that I have made it clear that their hosting duties are just a tiny part of what they do.

I have spent the last five years publishing books. In that time, my life has grown and changed in ways that I could have never imagined. The blessings that my novels have brought to my life are incalculable.

I rate Ann and Michael’s friendship and my membership in the Books on the Nightstand community among the very best of these blessings.

If you love books, do yourself a favor:

Give their podcast a listen. Become a member of the community. Join us for a retreat. Meet Ann Kingman and Michael Kindness, the two people who have made all this possible.

This may not make her the coolest kid in high school

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My three year old daughter specifically requested the song Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini while in the car yesterday.

Earlier in the week, when the song Dancing in the Moonlight came on the radio, she raised her fist into the air and shouted, “King Harvest!” followed by “Is he really a king, Mom?”

This kid is developing a seriously eclectic taste in music.

The Nipple Bra is further proof that it wasn’t entirely my parents’ fault.

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I once heard a Moth storyteller blame her parents’ failure to meet the minimum requirements of a mother and father on the 1970s. It was a different and inexplicable time in the history of the country, the storyteller explained. A strange and mysterious decade that no one today can quite understand.

A time when the inexplicable became explicable.

I took great comfort in this idea. Having been born in 1971, perhaps this is why my parents failed me in so many ways as well. I quickly latched onto the notion and have been clinging to it ever since.

Since then, I have been watchful for further signs that the 1970s were an anomaly in the history of this country. Anything to bolster the claim that it wasn’t my parents who failed me. It was the decade.

The 1970s were to blame.

The Nipple Bra is one of these signs. An obvious indicator that the people living in the 1970s had completely, albeit temporarily, lost their minds.  

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A dog ate my book.

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MEMOIRS OF AN IMAGINARY FRIEND had an interesting week.

Early in the week, I was contacted by a reader who had borrowed a signed copy of the book from a friend under the condition that it be returned in perfect condition.

A few days later her dog ate the book, necessitating an emergency phone call to the author in order to acquire another signed copy.

My first canine fan.

Last night the San Francisco Giants defeated the Detroit Tigers in the World Series, which means that one of my fans will be handing over a signed copy of the book over to a San Francisco fan in order to settle a bet between the two of them.

The first time my book has ever been included in sports wager, at least to my knowledge.

Today the book was mentioned in Shelf Awareness after having been named one of Hudson Books Best Books of 2012.

It was an incredible honor to have my book included on this prestigious list, but I think I got slightly more joy out of the dog eating my book.

I’ve always been a dog person.

Bunk

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I hate this.

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Why not try to be better than everyone? Crush the world, damn it. Don’t be better than yesterday. Be better than everyone’s yesterday.

Imagine how many remarkable accomplishments might have never happened had every inventor, explorer, athlete and entrepreneur failed to chase down the frontrunner and competed against the very best in their chosen field.

Also, the comma after the word than is superfluous and grammatically incorrect.

A grammatical error in an inspirational message?

Perhaps the person who created this should have set his or her bar higher, too. 

Early morning walk in my underwear

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It was 3:00 in the morning. I was standing on a stranger’s lawn about a quarter mile from my home. I was wearing a tee-shirt, boxer shorts and no shoes. The air was chilly. It’s late October in New England and the leaves have turned, though I cannot see their colors in the darkness that surrounds me. The grass was wet with dew. The stars twinkled in a moonless sky.

My dog awoke me, which is unusual. I brought her downstairs and attached her leash. I thought we would be making a brief excursion onto the front lawn. I didn’t bother to put on anything other than what I had worn to bed.

My dog had other ideas. She took a right after hopping off the stoop and pulled me toward the neighbor’s lawn. “Fine,” I thought. “A few extra steps won’t kill me, and it’s 3:00 in the morning. No one is going to see me in out here in my underwear.”

My neighbor’s lawn became my neighbor’s neighbor’s lawn, and before I knew it, we had turned the corner at the end of street and were making our way around the block.

I should’ve gone back for shoes and pants, but I was tired and annoyed. I was almost mindless in my movements.

Fifteen minutes later I was farther away from my home in my underwear than than I could have ever imagined. My feet were cold and wet and my dog was dawdling, in no great rush to return home. A car drove by, its headlights illuminating my underwear-clad frame.

I tugged on the leash. My dog would not budge. My annoyance was verging on anger when I looked up into the sky, saw the stars above my head, and realized how lucky I was.

There will come a day when I can no longer walk around the block in my bare feet with my dog.

There will come a day when I will yearn for the cool, wet grass between my toes.

Regardless of the hour or location or temperature or paisley design on my boxer shorts. I was here, alone with my dog, surrounded by the quiet of the witching hour.

I would return to bed soon enough. For now, I decided, I should relish the moment. Take it in as best as I could.

Days are short. Years are shorter. Lifetimes are but blinks of an eye. An early morning jaunt on a crisp, fall morning is something to be embraced.

I decided to do just that.

My three year old is attempting to take control of my clothing choices. And succeeding.

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My daughter has been sleeping in a bed for some time, but she still insists on being plucked off the bed every morning in a fashion similar to when she was in a crib.

Yesterday morning I entered her bedroom and was greeted by a befuddled look.

“Daddy, why are you wearing that stripy shirt?” she asked.

“I dunno,” I said. “It was clean. Do you like it?”

“I like the stripes, but it’s too big. It makes your belly pop out. Go change.”

I laughed and reached to pick her up.

“No, Daddy,” she said, pushing me away. “Go change your shirt and then come back and get me.”

I laughed again, but this time I saw the look on her face and knew she meant business. And she was right. The shirt was a little big, a relic of a time long since past, so I returned to my closet and changed my shirt.

When I reentered the room, Clara smiled and said, “That’s better, Daddy. Now we can go.”

She’s three years old and already dictating the clothing choices of the man in her life.

Sexist? I initially thought so, but now I am not so sure.

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A parking lot decorated in pink has been designated for women only at a shopping center in Shijiazhuang, capital city of Hebei Province, China.

The lot offers wider parking spaces especially designed for female drivers, who tend to cause twice as many collisions in parking lots than in other places, according to Chinese insurance company data.

The shopping center parking lot also provides three lights in every parking space to improve visibility for female drivers.

Bright colors, such as pink and light purple, and cute cartoon pictures decorate the parking lot.

At first, I thought that this was sexist and wrong, and while I might still feel that way, consider the facts:

Provided that the Chinese insurance data is correct (and I assume it is, because why else waste valuable real estate on larger parking spaces), what is wrong with expanding parking spaces for women? From a financial and safety standpoint, it only makes sense.

And while the use of the color pink at first struck me as condescending and sexist, pink is without doubt the color most closely associated with women. The ratio of women to men wearing pink is incredibly lopsided. The mere existence of tee-shirts that read “Real men wear pink” is proof enough that the number of men who wear pink is miniscule. In fact, is there any other color that slants more in the direction of a single sex or gender than pink? Why not use a color that women seem especially attracted to?

The additional lighting in these parking lots also makes perfect sense. I can’t tell you how many times I have escorted a woman to her car on a dark night, but no woman has ever offered to walk me to my car under similar circumstances, nor I ever have I felt that I required an escort. What woman hasn’t wished that parking lots or parking garages be better lit?

As for the “cute cartoon pictures” decorating the lot, I’ll reserve judgment. I haven’t seen the pictures, nor do I fully understand the role that cartoons play in Chinese culture. From an American standpoint, they sound sexist, but I just don’t know.

So I am left wondering:

Is there really anything sexist about this parking lot?

Would American woman complain if a parking area was designated for their use only at the local mall and designed for their specific needs and tastes?

I’m sure many would, but should they?

Is is unreasonable to expect my daughter to cure cancer or fly to Mars someday?

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Yesterday my wife told me that she has started playing audiobooks in the car for our daughter while Clara simultaneously holds the book and follows along, trying to determine when and where to turn the page.

Clara is only three years old and cannot read yet, but I thought that this sounded like a terrific step on the road to reading.

And it got me thinking:

The advantages that my daughter has over the childhood version of myself are astounding.

Clara attends preschool.

I did not.

Clara spends an extraordinary amount of time in museums, zoos, aquariums, libraries and the like.

I did not.

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Clara lives in a house filled with books and is read to every day.

I was not.

Clara will presumably not be left home alone for long stretches of time,  oftentimes into the wee hours of the morning, at the age of 8.

I was.

Clara will be assigned a reasonable bedtime throughout much of her childhood.

I was not.   

The amount of television that Clara watches is limited, and the programs that she watches are specifically vetted by us.

This was not the case for me.

As a result of these advantages, is it unreasonable to expect that Clara will one day be considerably more intelligent and better prepared for adulthood than me?

And therefore, is it also unreasonable to expect that her level of success will far exceed my own?

In short, based upon the advantages that my daughter has over the childhood version of me, is it wrong of me to expect greatness from Clara?

And be at least a little annoyed if it is not achieved?

Cardboard boxes rule

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The cardboard box was inducted into the Toy Hall of Fame in 2005.

The idea of a Toy Hall of Fame is fairly stupid, but if there has to be one, the cardboard box most certainly belongs there.

I wrote a poem in honor of the cardboard box a few years ago, based upon a spring day when my friend and I spent an entire afternoon with a muddy hill and a refrigerator box. It actually won a contest and was published in the Beginnings magazine.

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Save Your Money Next Time and Just Give Me the Box

Thank you Mother,
for the red, aerodynamic toboggan
that I found under the Christmas tree this morning,
with its chiseled runners and
precision steering wires.

But Mother dearest,
in the future,
please know that I have found nothing more exhilarating
than a steep, muddy hill
and a sturdy refrigerator box.

Read Shakespeare and avoid children’s theater

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On Saturday night I had the honor of joining nine other authors and audiobook narrators for Books on the Nightstand’s Celebration of Authors. Each of us were asked to speak on a topic of our choice (presumably pertaining to books and literature), and I decided just a few minutes before my turn to speak to talk about Shakespeare and the horrors of children’s theater.

Unbeknownst to me, friends and readers of my work were recording my talk and posted it to YouTube shortly thereafter. An audio recording on my talk, as well as the talks of Tayari Jones, Ann Packer, Tupelo Hassman, Simon Vance, Grover Gardner, Cara Black, Sarah McCoy, Adam Johnson, and Lynne Cox, will be available on the Books on the Nightstand podcast in the coming months, but if you can’t wait, you can hear and see my talk from that night.

I am not a member of Crystal Method.

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I was standing in line at the rental counter in San Jose this weekend, waiting to pick up my car and begin my trip to Santa Cruz. Standing directly behind me were fans of my work, a husband and wife, who later explained that they didn’t say hello because they were in a debate over whether I was Matthew Dicks, the writer, or a member of Crystal Method, the electronic duo whose music has appeared in numerous TV shows, films, video games, and advertisements.

The wife argued that I was Matthew Dicks. The husband argued that I was a member of Crystal Method.

Naturally, as soon as I returned to my hotel, I searched for images of Crystal Method to see if I should be offended.

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I’m not sure if I actually look like either of these guys, but at least they both look fairly ordinary and are slightly younger than me. Not a definitive victory, but at least they weren’t debating if I was Weird Al or a member of Flock of Seagulls. 

I think it’s more tragic that my first chance to get recognized in public as an author didn’t happen because someone confused me for a pair of musicians who I had never heard of until this weekend.

My wife recently had a much better experience in terms of being recognized. As she was chatting with strangers in a coffee shop, she happened to mention that she was a teacher at our school. One of the women said, “Oh, you work at the school where that famous author teaches.”

“I’m married to that famous author,” Elysha said.

Elysha later told me that this was her favorite part of her day, despite the stranger’s inaccurate estimation of my level of fame (or lack thereof).

Much better than being mistaken for someone else.