Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 563

Elevator etiquette

I have never asked anyone to hold an elevator for me, nor do I think that anyone should ever make such a request.

It's rude. 

I am standing in the elevator, floor button depressed and alighted, doors sliding shut, ready to go, and some person who woke up ten seconds later than me or spent ten extra seconds in the shower or ten extra seconds listening to the end of that Lady Gaga song in their car before exiting now wants me to stop the impending closure of my elevator's doors so that he or she can catch up to my day and probably press a floor button lower than my own, thus delaying me even further. 

No, I say. It's not right.  I arrived at this elevator on time. I am ahead for a reason. I arose earlier or walked faster or planned my route to this location better. Whatever the reason, I am in the lead and should not be required to cede my position by simple request.

There are other elevators, damn it.  Wait for the next one, just like I waited for this one. 

Or climb out of bed a little earlier.  Spend a little less time in front of the mirror.  Lay out your clothes the night before. Stop staring at the Internet and get your ass moving. 

Whatever it takes to arrive at this elevator before the doors begin to close. 

Otherwise, keep your mouth shut and wait for the next one. 

That, my friends, is proper elevator etiquette.  Spread the word.

Lowering the bar for husbands everywhere

It's always refreshing to see a husband be so inexplicably unsupportive of his wife as Marcus Bachmann apparently was during his wife's final day of campaigning in Iowa. 

As she and their daughters were visiting businesses up and down Main Street, campaigning for votes in the Iowa caucuses, he was busy buying doggie sunglasses. 

Doggie sunglasses.  You can't make this stuff up. 

And before you tell me that his unusual shopping excursion was probably part of the campaign, watch his reaction when Michele Bachmann reveals this bit of news. 

That is not the reaction of an innocent man.

He looks like a five-year old who just got caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.  Literally. 

But that's okay.  When men are tragically unsupportive of their wives in a time of need and on such a grand stage, it makes it a little easier for us moderately supportive husbands to look pretty damn impressive for folding the laundry or scraping the frost of the wife's car in the morning.   

Both of which I did today.

Gratitude journal: Bowling for Soup

Tonight I am grateful for Bowling for Soup, a band which provides me with some of my best workout music.  Upbeat, funny and possessing sensibilities very similar to my own.

Few bands are as self-deprecating, silly and original as they are.  They have entertained me through many, many miles of elliptical exercise.

Why do I use Twitter? Because I am a reader first.

Many authors have little use for the pretension of hermetic distance and never accepted a historically specific idea of what it means to be a writer.

This was a quote from a recent New York Times piece on why authors use Twitter.

I like it a lot.

The piece attempts to explain why authors use Twitter, quoting a handful of well known authors and positing several reasons for the desire to reach out via social media. 

For me, the easy answer is that Twitter allows me to easily connect and communicate with readers, critics, editors, book bloggers, writers, agents and other people in the publishing industry. 

A quick analysis at the people I communicated with through Twitter in the last seven days reveals six new readers, four book bloggers, the book critic for a national newspaper, two New York Times bestselling authors, one publicist, four authors who have yet to hit the bestselling list (but are no less impressive), three editors, two social media experts, three podcasters, three books reps and a number of friends and unidentifiable followers. 

These are people from around the world.  Norway, Belgium, Canada, Shanghai, the UK, and at least six US states.

They are people who have taught me a great deal, directed me to invaluable resources, made me laugh and supported my work. 

Without Twitter, there is little chance that I would have ever connected with any of these people.   

But that is the easy answer.

The real reason that I use Twitter is because I am also a reader, and as such, Twitter allows me to connect with other readers in order to learn about books that might appeal to me. 

Best of all, it allows me to communicate with the authors of some of my favorite books.

Just last week I tweeted as part of the FridayReads hash tag that THE POUT POUT FISH had recently become my daughter's favorite book.

A few hours later, the author, Debbie Diesen (a New York Times bestselling author) tweeted back, thanking me for the mention of her book. We have exchanged a few tweets since that initial communication, and I can't tell you how thrilled I was to hear from the author of a book that I have read to my daughter at least twenty times.

Imagine how exciting it would have been had my two-year old been a little older and could appreciate the fact that the author of her favorite book was so easily accessible. 

This is why I use Twitter.  Even though I am an author myself, the star power of the author has not eroded for me in any way.

And 2011 was a banner year in terms of star power.  Throughout the course of the year, I was fortunate enough to exchange tweets with dozens of authors including such household names as Chris Bohjalian, Jennifer Weiner, Jasper Fford, Salman Rushdie and Margaret Atwood. 

Some of these were exceedingly brief exchanges, but others have resulted in ongoing conversations and near friendships (as much as you can become someone's friend through Twitter).

Every exchange, regardless of length, thrilled me, and I try to remember this in my capacity as an author.  While I find it preposterous to think that a reader might find it thrilling to be able to reach out to me, I've learned as a teacher that it's difficult to imagine the impact that you can have on someone's life. 

I nearly leapt out of my chair when I saw Margaret Atwood's tweet directed to me last year. 

While I don't think anyone will be jumping out of any chair for me, I like to think that I might be able to bring a sliver of excitement to a reader who has taken the time to reach out to me. 

Perfect descriptor

My wife is very funny, but she gets little credit for her sense of humor and scoffs at any attempt to assert that she is funny. 

But she is. 

This is a perfect example:

We drove by a billboard advertising this movie a couple weeks ago, and she said, "That sounds like a movie about my family."

Very funny.  Very true.

Gratitude journal: Claras special kiss

Tonight I am grateful for the way Clara grabs my cheeks and pulls me into her face to kiss me before bed. 

We call it her special kiss, and it makes me so freakin' happy every time I receive one.

Tonight I got two.

Elyshas surprise party

Following the post describing my marriage proposal to Elysha, I received a number of requests for the story of her surprise birthday party, which took place a little more than a week after the proposal and was mentioned in the post.

I was also asked if Elysha was actually surprised, given the fact that I told her earlier in the year that I would be throwing her a surprise birthday party. 

The answer is yes. The surprise of the marriage proposal removed the possibility of a surprise birthday right from her mind, allowing me to surprise her twice within the span of two weeks.  

Unlike the proposal, however, I'm sorry to say that the story of her surprise party is short and relatively uneventful.  The party was held in the home of our friends, Charles and Justine, who invited us over for dinner on the night of the party.  About thirty close friends were in attendance, and everyone was smart enough to park their cars around the block, making it a true surprise for Elysha. 

In fact, it was such a surprise that Elysha walked into the house and made it halfway through the living room before looking up and asking, "What are all of you doing here?"

It was oddly reminiscent of the moment on the steps of Grand Central Station when she saw our friends emerge from the crowd and asked, "Oh my God. Where did you all come from?"

Serendipity. Full circle.  All that good stuff. 

When youre done pushing the baby out, I have a sentence that still needs a little work, honey.

I sometimes read about authors who say they require a perfectly silent room maintained at precisely 68 degrees, with trash bags taped over the windows and a white-noise machine in the corner to write, and I think, 'Who are these people, and do any of them have kids?'

This is a quote by Jennifer Weiner in a recent New York Times piece on authors and their use of Twitter.  I liked it a lot and have often wondered the same thing. 

For me, writing is messy process, accomplished within the spaces of my life.  I am often asked about when I write, and my answer is always the same:

Whenever I can.

Sometimes that's four glorious hours on a Saturday afternoon, sitting in a bookstore or the library, completely undisturbed.  That was supposed to happen yesterday, in fact, but life somehow got in the way. 

Sometimes it's the last fifteen minutes of my lunch break before my students storm the classroom. 

Sometimes it's between the hours of 4:30 AM and 6:00 AM, when everyone else in my house (including the dog) are still asleep.

Actually, it's that time a lot.

But sometimes it's the seven minutes of solitude that I have while my wife is giving our daughter a bath.  "Seven minutes," I tell myself. "Just write three good sentences."

If you love to write, even seven minutes can be a blessing.

Should be a blessing.    

I actually worked on my second novel, UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO, during the birth of my daughter (before everything went to hell and my wife ended up with a C-section).  With a laptop on one side of the delivery room and my wife on the other, I rolled an office chair back and forth between the two as her contractions came and went. 

When she was pushing, I was sitting by her side, holding her hand and encouraging her. 

When she was resting, I was revising a section of the manuscript.

And my wife didn't mind.  She knew that the sale of that book meant that she could stay home with our baby for the first couple years of her life. 

Smart woman.

So I write in the spaces of life.  I grab moments whenever I can. 

Too often I meet a would-be writers who tell me that they are waiting for a sabbatical from work, summer vacation, or the kids' graduation before they begin writing.

I once met an eighty-six year old woman who told me she had an amazing story to tell that would make a great memoir, and someday she would write it.

"You're eighty-six," I said.  "What are you waiting for? The clock is ticking, and it could stop at second."

She didn't appreciate the comment.      

But I suspect that she won't ever write her story (if she's even still alive), nor will the people waiting for sabbaticals and vacations and for the kids to fly the coop.  If you love to write, you need to write, and if you need to write, you will do it whenever and wherever you can. 

Sure, it would be nice to have a soundproof room where my daughter's inexplicable request that I teach her dolls to share goes unheard, but writing is messy. 

At least for me it is.  And I suspect for many other authors as well.

Gratitude journal: The perfect babysitter

Tonight I am grateful for Allison, my former second and third grade student who is now in college and has become my daughter's primary babysitter.

There was a time when leaving Clara with a babysitter meant enduring the wailing of a child who did not want to be left alone, but thanks to Allison, that has completely changed.  Clara adores Allison.  When Allison walked through the door tonight, Clara ran to her, excited to see and play with her friend.  And when Elysha and I walked out the door tonight, Clara didn't even look back to say goodbye.  She was already halfway up the stairs, anxious to drag Allison into her bedroom to play.

It's still amazing to think that the little seven and eight year old girl who I once taught to read and subtract and write complete sentences is now the young woman who is trusted implicitly with the safety and well-being of my child.

How fortunate I am to have taught such a wonderful human being.

Accurate assessment of the situation

My daughter spoke to her grandfather on the phone today.

She said, "Gramps, I threw up.  It was frustrating."

Indeed.