Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 90

Bille Eilish started out very small. Just like the rest of us.

Singer and songwriter Billie Eilish has sold 41.5 million digital singles and 5 million albums.

She’s won seven Grammy Awards, two American Music Awards, three MTV Video Music Awards, a Golden Globe Award, and an Academy Award.

She is the youngest artist in Grammy history to win all four general field categories—Best New Artist, Record of the Year, Song of the Year, and Album of the Year—in the same year.

But back in 2017 – just six years ago – she was performing at her first music festival. Recently, footage from that performance went viral. The audience is… sparse. Unenthusiastic. Completely unaware that they are in the presence of a future star.

It’s a great reminder:

You never know what may come of your creative endeavor. There is no telling when or how your efforts will manifest into something new, unexpected, profitable, or world-changing.

On this day, at this music festival, back in 2017, did Billie Eilish have any idea that one day in the future, she would be one of the most recognizable people on the planet?

Probably not.

But she worked hard. Wrote songs. Performed them whenever possible.

Eventually became a star.

You just never know, which is why you set goals, do the work, try like hell, and hope for the best.

Loving my own work

Someone sent this passage to me via social media.

I read it and thought:

“Wow. This is great. Whoever forwards this to me really gets me. I wonder who wrote this little bit of brilliant. I need to read this book.”

The problem?

It’s my book.

It’s page 185 of Someday Is Today: 22 Simple Actionable Ways to Propel Your Creative Life. 

I was impressed with myself, which is perhaps one of the least impressive things a person can do.

You can’t imagine how dumb I felt.

What promise, millennials?

Jessica Grose writes an opinion piece in the New York Times entitled:

“Millennials are hitting middle age — and it doesn’t look like what we were promised.”

Promised?

What exactly were millennials promised?

Also, who made these promises?

When and how were these promises made?

Perhaps Jessica Grose has confused the concept of promises with something more akin to “hopes and dreams.” Possessing hope for a bright tomorrow strikes me as perfectly reasonable. Chasing a dream is highly recommended, at least in my opinion.

But promises about the future?

As far as I know, that is not a thing.

Perhaps Grose is writing about assumptions made by certain millennials, which, if true, would be unfortunate. We all know what happens when one makes assumptions.

Or maybe, tragically, she’s writing about expectations. Expectations are fine when they pertain to things like ordering a Cobb salad or purchasing a new refrigerator.

But expectations about the future?

That is a fool’s game.

Tell my father and the tens of thousands of other men who were drafted to fight in Vietnam about promises for the future.

Tell my grandfathers, who both fought in World War II, about promises.

Tell my great-grandfather, who fought in World War I, about promises.

Tell the widows of the men who fought alongside these men about promises for the future.

I could go on. Endlessly so, as I’m sure you can imagine. Large swaths of people whose plans for the future were diverted or altered or prematurely ended by world events, natural disasters, political chicanery, economic upheaval, and more.

There are no promises in life. No guarantees. Your fate is born from a combination of things, including personal circumstances, the choices you make, the effort you put forth, the conditions of the world over the course of your lifetime, and stupid, blind luck.

Many more, too. Too many factors to know or count.

Your future is a combination of things you can absolutely control and things you have absolutely no control over at all. A melange of personal engineering and chance fate.

But promises?

Give me a break.

I suspect that many, and perhaps most, millennials already know all this and that Jessica Grose is only speaking for a certain type of millennial:

The ones I try to avoid.

Pilot announcement

I had just settled into my seat, preparing for the second leg of my flight from Hartford to Victoria, British Columbia, when the pilot emerged from the cockpit and introduced himself to us. He told us his name, briefly described the length and trajectory of his aviation career, and expressed his sincere love for flying.

Then he introduced the copilot, who was still in the cockpit, making final preparations for our flight. He cracked a joke about the copilot’s brief tenure with a competing airline before noting and honoring his military service.

Then he said, “Here’s what we’ll be doing together today,” and proceeded to quickly explain the flight in terms of time and expectations.

Eight minutes to push.
Three minutes to the taxiway.
Three hours, and maybe less, to Denver.
Smooth ride.
Unusual tailwind because of the reversed jet stream.

Then he reminded us about the important work done by the flight attendants, whose primary responsibility is to keep us safe, and asked politely but firmly that we obey their instructions throughout the entire flight. He promised to turn off the seatbelt sign whenever it was possible but also asked that we remain seated when it’s turned on.

He cracked one more joke about himself, thanked us for making his love for aviation possible, and returned to the cockpit.

It took less than three minutes.

Simply effective communication, for so many reasons.

The pilot was personal and vulnerable, speaking about his love for aviation in honest, earnest terms. He was amusing, making jokes about his copilot and himself. He demonstrated respect and patriotism by honoring his copilot’s military service. He provided relevant information. He reinforced order on the plane by reminding us about the role of the flight attendants. He was concise. He spoke well. He smiled. He was amusing. He genuinely seemed to enjoy his job.

Best of all, he connected with the passengers with this simple but brilliant sentence:

“Here’s what we’ll be doing together today.”

With just seven words, he turned a group of strangers into a unified team.

He’s the best pilot I’ve ever met, and here’s the crazy thing:

I know nothing about his ability to fly the plane. We may have narrowly avoided two midair collisions and missed the Denver airport by 100 miles. I have no way of assessing his actual ability to fly a plane. But he’s the first pilot who made me feel like I knew him prior to taking off, and I liked everything I had seen and heard.

As he was returning to the cockpit, the woman sitting beside me said, “This might be the first time I’m actually relaxed before takeoff.”

I suspect others felt the same.

Here’s the thing:

It takes so little to impress when it comes to effective communication. So few people are doing it well (or at all) that just a little bit of effort goes a long way.

The same is true in business, in marketing, in sales, and in advertising. The same is true for leaders and teachers and clergy members. So few people communicate well. Everyone claims to want to use storytelling to connect with their customers, clients, employees, and parishioners, but when it comes to actually telling a vulnerable, authentic, amusing, and engaging story, most shy away, unwilling to try or even learn.

Why?

Effective communication often requires you to do what others are not. Storytelling requires you to be different. You must zig while everyone else is zagging. It means you must take a position at the tip of the spear. You must try new things, learn new skills, and dare to use them in front of other human beings.

For this pilot, it meant doing something I’ve never seen a pilot do so thoroughly and so well.

I’ve heard pilots make similar but not nearly as effective announcements over the intercom, safely tucked away in their cockpit, invisible to the passengers.

I’ve seen pilots make brief statements to passengers from the front of the plane.

But this pilot did a lot more. He did what others do not. It wasn’t much, and it’s certainly within the capacity of all pilots, yet in all my years of flying, I’ve never seen it done so well.

I also wouldn’t be surprised if some of his fellow pilots scoff at his decision to talk to passengers in this way. Tease him about his storytelling. Make fun of his “schtick” behind his back.

Being different isn’t always easy. Being highly effective is oftentimes threatening to others. Possessing the courage, wisdom, and wit to speak as effectively as that pilot did can engender envy in others who are too afraid to try or too unwilling to improve.

As a result, it takes so little to be perceived as excellent in communication. You can tell a smidgen of a story and often be perceived as a highly effective storyteller.

When everyone around you is tragically typical, it requires almost nothing to be excellent.

Just the willingness to be different. To be vulnerable. To take the stage when others will not. To tell a story.

Goldfish might be gold

While flying to British Columbia a couple of weeks ago, I heard this message over the intercom while sitting in the airport:

“Would the passenger who left their goldfish at security please return to pick it up immediately?”

If you’re not a writer of fiction, you should know:

This is exactly the kind of moment that novelists use to launch stories.

I’m not saying I’ll be using this particular bit of inspiration any time soon, but that day may come.

More importantly, you never know where the inspiration for a story, or any creative endeavor, might appear, which is why it’s so important to constantly, relentlessly be paying attention to the world and how it’s affecting you.

When I’m asked where I get my ideas for my novels (or even the stories I tell onstage about myself), which I am asked a lot, I say that I keep my ears and eyes open to the world.

I pay attention. I look and listen and allow the inputs of the universe to occupy my thoughts.

Of the six novels that I have published so far, four were born from a single sentence:

One was spoken by my friend, Justine Wolgemuth.
One was spoken by former colleague Lindsay Heyer.
The third was spoken by Elysha.
The fourth was spoken by an NPR news broadcaster.

Single sentences that launched entire books, some of which have been published in more than 25 counties around the world.

Inspiration for any creative endeavor oftentimes does not start within. It begins with something outside of us – an input from the universe – that lodges itself in our hearts and minds until an idea is finally born.

So pay attention. Look and listen. Hold onto those moments of meaning or amusement or emotion or novelty. Embrace the moments that catch your eye or your ear in an unusual or surprising way.

Will that TSA message about the goldfish ever give rise to a story I write or tell?

I’m not sure.

But I’ll allow it to continue rolling around in my mind because you just never know.

Charlie to camp. Clara to the stage.

Big weekend for our family. A weekend of firsts and more.

On Friday night, Charlie left for his first weekend of camping with the Boy Scouts. It was a big moment for him, but it was a big moment for me, too. We’ve been camping together with the Cub Scouts, but this was the first time Elysha and I handed him over to a group of Scout leaders and said goodbye.

I know this will become routine fairly quickly, as it did for me as a boy, but this first time felt fairly momentous to me.

A real step forward for Charlie and for me.

Saturday night was admittedly a challenge for him, with thunder, lightning, high winds, and torrential downpours making for a difficult night in a tent alongside his pal. He reported being cold, frightened and frustrated that he couldn’t sleep.

As I lay in my warm bed on Saturday night, listening to the storm rage outside, I couldn’t help but think that of the hundreds of nights I’ve spent sleeping outdoors, I’d never experienced a storm so powerful and so seemingly endless.

Charlie had to deal with it on his very first night of camping without me.

It was still pouring on Sunday morning, but the boy had a blast, and we were so proud of him. The Boy Scouts, in many ways, made me the person I am today. I have no doubt that the same will hold true for Charlie.

After dropping Charlie off with his Scout leaders on Friday night, Elysha, Clara, and I drove over to Riverbend Books to listen to poet and friend Anna V.Q. Ross read her poems alongside former West Hartford poet laureate Julie Choffel. Clara brought along her own binder of poetry in hopes of showing Anna a few poems during the reception, but when she discovered that the event would begin with an open mic reading, Clara immediately added her name to the list and chose a poem to read to the standing room audience.

She ended up reading two poems in all. I’d never heard either poem before, and I loved both. Perhaps even more impressive, those poems taught me something deeply profound about my daughter that I had not known until then.

She was poised, captivating, and brilliant.

I’m quite certain I could not have done the same at her age.

On Saturday night, Elysha and I produced a Speak Up Storytelling show at the Connecticut Historical Society.

As Charlie braced for the coming storm somewhere in the woods of Ashford, Connecticut, I performed to a full house alongside four other incredible storytellers. We listened to stories about escaping Egypt after a conviction for political activism, meeting and becoming inspired by climate activist Greta Thunberg, traveling to China just days after 9/11 to begin a year of study abroad, and confessing to your very conservative, very southern family that you’re a Democrat.

Amazing stories told by truly amazing people.

I told a story about making a woman cry in a McDonald’s restaurant. I was obviously the least impressive of the bunch.

Elysha hosted the show, of course, in her customarily brilliant fashion, and Clara and her friend managed the merch table, selling books, tee shirts, and totes, processing credit cards, and answering questions.

Another first for her.

Our family rarely enjoys a lazy weekend, but this one was special indeed.

“Firsts” are important. They are the sign that we are moving forward, expanding our life, and testing our boundaries. This weekend my kids experienced some important, momentous, courageous firsts.

And as parents, they also served as first for Elysha and me, too.

It’s one of the joys of having children:

Constantly, relentless evolution and advancement into new, previously uncharted territory.

How lucky we are.

“You’re a Monster, Matthew Dicks”

Exciting, thrilling, over-the-moon announcement:

On July 30 and 31, I’ll be performing (and recording) a solo show at Theaterworks, a beautiful theater in downtown Hartford.

The title of the show is “You’re a Monster, Matthew Dicks.”

The description of the show is this:

Matthew Dicks wants to live forever. His fifth-grade student (and most of his classmates) think it’s a terrible idea. Join internationally bestselling author and record 10-time Moth GrandSLAM champion Matthew Dicks as he tells an oftentimes hilarious, occasionally tragic, unfortunately true story about his life that seeks to answer the question:

Are you a monster if you crave immortality?

It’s going to be a great show. I’m working hard, and I have an outstanding director in Kaia Pazdersky.

A slightly famous person who is capable of making things happen has asked me to send a video of my work, so rather than sending a recording of a previous performance, I’m going to perform and produce the best possible show because I believe in taking advantage of every break you’re given.

Also, I’ve been wanting to perform a solo show for quite a while, and thrillingly, Theaterworks was my first choice of venue.

Tickets are on sale now, and if you order before May 8 with the discount code Story15, tickets are just $15.

Best of all, every dollar of ticket sales goes directly to Theaterworks to promote the great work they do.

I’d LOVE for you to join me for the show, and I’d LOVE for you to purchase your tickets well in advance – TODAY! – so we can be sure to have the audiences needed to make the recording a success.

Also, please share information about the show with anyone who might be interested. We need to fill 400 seats to guarantee the best recording possible.

Thanks as always for the support!

Rightly assuming the worst

On Friday, I found myself walking down the hallway of my school, minutes away from picking up my students at Spanish class, when I heard over the intercom:

“Hello? Hello?”

It was unlike any announcement I have ever heard in my 25 years of teaching. The voice was unknown to me. It was abrupt. It  wasn’t proceeded by something like, “Excuse the interruption” or “Could I have your attention?”

It almost sounded confused.

So I turned, quickened my pace, and headed for the office.

My thoughts, in order, were this:

How did a student get hold of the intercom?That wasn’t a student. That was a man’s voice.An angry parent has somehow gotten hold of the microphone.Someone dangerous is inside the school.

As I crossed through the lobby, I saw two of my colleagues. One was emerging from the library, looking concerned. “Matt?” she asked.

“I’m checking,” I said. No other communication was needed. We were both thinking exactly the same thing.

A second colleague appeared at the doorway to the cafeteria, also looking worried. “Did you hear that?”

“Stay there,” I said. “I’m checking.”

Then I quickened my pace, thinking that if something bad was happening in the office, I would want to be moving fast to surprise anyone waiting inside.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my hands were already bunched into fists.

As I turned the corner and entered the office, I saw one of our secretaries, standing by her desk, looking relaxed and talking. A few more steps inside and two men came into view – technicians dressed in uniforms, working on the intercom system.

I slowed down, stopped, then turned around to let my colleagues know everything was okay.

It took me more than an hour to finally calm down and relax.

Later that day, another colleague said, “Did you…” and I replied, “Yes,” already knowing what she was going to say.

I was right. “Did you hear that announcement and get worried?”

My reaction, and the reaction of my colleagues, was not the result of a mental health crisis in America. It wasn’t because of the absence of armed guards in our schools. It wasn’t born from any failure of our educational system.

The reason I reacted as quickly and with as much concern as I did is because of the gun problem in America today. I worried – not without justification – that someone might have entered our school with a firearm. And had someone done so, would we be surprised given the number of school shootings and mass shootings in 2023 alone?

Or the number of shootings in just the last two weeks of innocent people who turned into the wrong driveway, knocked on the wrong door, or mistook a car in a parking lot for their own?

In retrospect, I probably should’ve called 911, despite looking foolish later on for doing so.

Still, was I unjustified in thinking the worst?

Firearms are now the number one cause of child and teenage deaths in our country, outpacing motor vehicle accidents, cancer, substance abuse, and every other injury and disease.

In 2020, 4,357 American children died as a result of a gunshot.

In that same year, Canada lost 48 children to firearms. So, too, did France. Australia, Germany, the UK, and Japan lost 38 children combined as a result of firearms.

Gun violence is a uniquely American problem in a country that outpaces every other nation on the planet in gun ownership by a wide margin. The United States, with less than 5 percent of the world’s population, has 46 percent of the world’s civilian-owned guns.

America is awash in firearms. We shouldn’t be surprised that thousands of children die every year because of bullets tearing their bodies apart.

Please don’t get me wrong:

I support the Second Amendment. I have no problem with Americans owning firearms. I think that hunting, recreation, and home protection are all valid reasons to own a weapon.

My problems are simple:

The legality of assault, semiautomatic, and automatic weaponsA lack of universal background checksA lack of nationwide red flag and extreme risk lawsThe existence of stand-your-ground and castle doctrine lawsThe existence of open carry lawsThe fact that wine coolers, strip clubs, casinos, and rental cars are more regulated than firearms

Here’s the good news:

Every single one of my problems with firearms in America today could be corrected in a week if the collective political body in Congress could find the intelligence, decency, and will to change our country for the better.

Even better, the majority of Americans share every single one of my beliefs.

A majority of Americans support a ban on assault weapons. They support universal background checks by a wide majority. A majority of Americans want stand-your-ground and open-carry laws repealed. And a vast majority of Americans are in favor of firearms regulations that limit the sale of weapons to those deemed safe to own a weapon.

All of these things could get done in a week if Congress cared to do so.

Simple legislation could make our country a safer place to live while maintaining Americans’ Second Amendment rights.

Until then, teachers will continue to see an adult walking across the playground, hear an odd announcement over the intercom, or watch a car drive slowly past the school and sadly, perhaps rightly, assume the worst.

Kids will likely do the same.

Playgrounds have gotten soft over the years

My school has a brand new playground.

It’s lovely. The students are enjoying it quite a bit.

A couple of kids expressed concern over an apparatus that seemed a little too frightening to navigate, at least for them.

So I showed them these photos, of actual playgrounds in the early twentieth century, and told them to stop complaining.

Kids have gotten soft over the years.

Writing a letter is highly recommended. Receiving one is even better.

One of my goals for the last five years has been to write at least 100 letters each year.

Old-fashioned, snail mail letters,  written or printed on paper or cardstock and mailed via envelope and stamp.

I managed to achieve and exceed this goal in 2021 and 2022, and I’m well on my way to hitting the goal again in 2023.

In fact, I’ve written and mailed over 500 letters in the last five years.

It’s a joyous, eternally fulfilling, deeply rewarding practice that I will write about someday soon, but last week, I was the recipient of  such a letter, and it overwhelmed me.

Without going into detail, a person who read my book, Storyworthy, four years ago and was deeply moved by it (and later hired me for a coaching session) wrote to tell me how much Storyworthy and my latest book, Someday Is Today, has meant to him.

Also Homework For Life.

The letter caused my heart to soar. It was filled with kind words and unforgettable expressions of warmth and gratitude. It’s something I will truly treasure forever.

He also added that he wanted to include a gift along with the letter. But sensing that I’m not a materialistic person but still wanting to do something meaningful for me (and wishing he could somehow award me the rank of Eagle Scout), he sent me a Bruce Sprngsteen pin that he found among his father’s things.

I am not a materialistic person, but damn is this the perfect gift:

Small, specific, meaningful, nostalgic, and filled with history. The kind of gift that will forever be attached to the sentiment of the letter and the notion that it was once worn by someone who loved Springsteen as much as I do.

I am constantly encouraging people to write letters. The results and returns have been remarkable.

But in this case, I can speak directly to the value of receiving a letter firsthand.

Receiving the letter was genuinely exciting. The words expressed in the letter touched my heart. The letter itself, with its message permanently transcribed on paper, is safely tucked away, ready to be read again at some point in the future.

And the pin will serve as a constant reminder of those words forever.

A simple, beautiful, eternal gift.

I couldn’t be more grateful.