Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 464

My arch nemesis and my wife are in cahoots.

I recently discovered that someone who never seemed to like me very much felt this way because (among other things) he thought I was a know-it-all.

I mentioned this to Elysha. “So this guy apparently thinks I’m a know-it-all,” I said.

“Well…” she said, trailing off.

“What? You think I’m a know-it-all, too?” I asked.

“You do know a lot, honey,” she said.  

“Yeah,” I said. “But does that make me a know-it-all?”

“You do know a lot,” she repeated.

Notice the way she turned something that would normally be considered a compliment into something highly questionable and probably insulting?

This is a perfect example of an experienced wife in action.

Charlie’s first meal

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.

Resolution update: May

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.

Six blog posts published during the month of May. 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.

My biggest fan and my arch nemesis go on a date. It doesn’t turn out well.

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.

Charlie’s first birthday

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.

   

Summer Writing Academy: Anyone want in?

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. 

Writers are lucky. Not special.

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.

There is a name brand on my zipper, and that is a problem.

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:

I reject the idea of allowing a clothing manufacturer to use my body as an advertisement of their product. If they want to pay me, we can talk.

I find the splashing of name brands on clothing, handbags and other accessories as signifiers of wealth, taste, style, quality, brand knowledge and/or conformity to be a vile, petty, pretentious, unoriginal, sheep-like and stupid.

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.

Elysha the Audacious

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 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 and Clara 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 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.

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.

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.

My eleven year old publicist

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.